1.
THE BOY LAY IN HIS ROOM, STUCK IN HIS USUAL STATE OF ESCAPISM. EACH NOTE...
2.
THE COLOR’S OF THE SUN’S APPROACH/ CRIMSON, MARIGOLD, INDIGO, BLUE;/ I...
3.
HE LOVED LOS ANGELES/ THE ROMANTIC NIGHTLIFE OF NEW YORK/ IT’S WHAT KEEPS...
4.
WE WERE THE REGULARS!/ WE NO LONGER HAD THAT NEW SMELL./ WE WERE WORN...
5.
THE EARLY MORNING SUN SPLINTERED THROUGH THE FROST ON THE WINDSHIELD. I...
6.
I PROMISED MYSELF I’D BE DIFFERENT/ I WOULDN’T BE ANOTHER STATISTIC/ I KNOW...
7.
THE MAN WAS HE/ YET THE FOOL WAS I/ AND WHERE FOOLS GO/ WISE MEN COME...
8.
THERE WAS SILENCE FOR A MOMENT.
9.
YOU SPILLED CHORDS OF UNTAMED/ MUSIC OVER THE EMPTY SPACES/ OF OUR...
THE MOMENT ENDED ABRUPTLY.
TEN BUCKS FOR FOUR OUNCES OF CERAMIC PAINT?”
TOO...
10.
“THAT’S INSANE.
JO...
11.
THE WARM BREATH OF THE LATENT HOUSES CONDENSED AND CRYSTALLIZED AGAINST...
12.
SHE SAT AND GRACEFULLY SIPPED SHOTS OF WATER AND ICE, HER BONY LITTLE...
GRYPHON
OKAY, TONY, HONEY, THIS ONE IS FOR YOU…FROM ME! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!...
14.
SITTING AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE, I OBVIOUSLY DON’T FIT IN. AT DINNER, TOO. OH...
15.
THERE IN FRONT OF ME LIES A DOOR. A GRAY DOOR, BUT LIGHT ENOUGH THAT IT...
16.
CHOKING IN SILENCE, NO MEANING IS EXPELLED/ THE EMOTION HAS SINCE GONE...
17.
CASCADING DOWN, WATER SLOWLY BEATS ROCKS INTO A DESIRED PATH./ TREES OPEN...
18.
IN THE GARDEN THERE IS MANY A BEAUTIFUL FLOWER/ THOSE THAT BLOOM AND...
19.
HE LOOKS A LITTLE SILLY AS HE WALKS IN WITH HIS WHITE-CHECKERED HAIR...
20.
THE NEIGHBORHOOD SLEPT IN DARKNESS.
21.
WE’RE THE RIGHT!/ AND THEY CALL US THE RIGHT FOR A REA-SON!/ WHEN YOU’RE...
22.
I’M DREAMING, OF A WHITE…CONGRESS,/ JUST LIKE THE ONES I USED TO KNOW...
23.
GREEN TEA LEAVES, ANTEBELLUM STOPWATCHES./ A PERPLEXED PONDERER...
24.
A SHEEP GRAZES SILENTLY AMONG THE FLOCK/ GRASS COATS THE PLAIN AS FAR AS...
25.
I CAN’T SAY I EXPECTED IT TO END ANY BETTER. THE WEEK HAD BEEN HOLLOW THAT...
26.
I RECEIVED A CALL FROM MY NEW YORK APARTMENT LAST SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I...
27.
JACK WAKES UP EVERY MORNING ONE HOUR EARLIER THAN EVERYBODY ELSE...
28.
TWO WEEKS AGO, I WAS ALMOST CONVINCED I’D BE WATCHING MYSELF ON THE LATE...
29.
I TOO CAN WRITE FUNKY FREEFORM POETRY,/ TAKE A BUNCH OF RANDOM WORDS...
30.
SILENCE IS MY ONLY FRIEND, WEAVING ITS SOLEMN VOWS INTO EVERYDAY SPEECH...
2 0 0 4
13.
THEN A PHONE RANG.
IT’S SHRILL...
2004
GRYPHON
The Penncrest High School Literary Magazine 2004
134 Barren Road
Media, PA 19063
Volume 24
1
gryphon
Within us all, there lies a desire to breathe life into those beautiful memories and painful truths which paint
our perplexed souls. We long for this opportunity of expression. We strive to splatter the unknown and
indescribable onto this messy canvas called reality. We spend each second subconsciously searching to give
voice to the voiceless and reshape the shapeless. We live our lives expressing the artist deep within ourselves.
While we may be young and inexperienced, we are the artists of this generation. We are the lines of
written word that cover these pages and the scribbles of imagination dispersed in between. We are the thoughts,
ideas, and creativity of the century, and no one can take this away.
The Gryphon displays a small taste of the young artists of Penncrest High School. After sorting
through hundreds of submissions, we narrowed it down to what you see here today— a diverse mix of everything
from short stories to selected songs from musicals. Thanks to the student body for providing us with such a
wide array of submissions, our options were endless.
Of course, this year’s Gryphon would not have been possible without the many dedicated individuals
behind the scenes. First, I’d like to offer my sincere appreciation to our wonderfully “productive” staff and my
extremely patient editing assistants, a crazy group of students that somehow always seemed to get the job done
during our chaotic, Wednesday afternoon meetings. Secondly, I’d like to more than thank Mr. Dan Rottenberk,
the publishing genius of the century who can transform the most abstract dreams into reality—please allow me
to bow down and kiss the ground you walk on. Finally, an equally huge thanks to our faculty advisor, Mr. James
Zervanos, whose wacky ideas, unbelievable creativity, and endless humor have inspired us all to create the best
of the best. Words simply aren’t strong enough to thank you for sharing your millions of ideas, giving up
weeknights, tolerating my eleventh-hour insanity, and just for being you. And if I ever do find the words, I’ll let
you know.
And so, with great pride, I bring to you this year’s Gryphon—a showcase of some of the most talented,
adolescent artists of Penncrest High School. Without their willingness to share their experiences, this magazine
would simply be just another typical title lining the shelf.
— Emily Schu
GRYPHON 2004
Volume 24
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Justin Chen 2004
Emily Schu 2004
STAFF
Maggie Bohara 2006
Julia DeFulvio 2006
Mike Franchi 2004
David Hulford 2004
Sam Laye 2004
Patrick Minot 2005
Mike Myers 2004
Sam Schmidt 2006
Eli Stoughton 2005
FACULTY ADVISOR
Mr. James Zervanos
PUBLISHER
Mr. Dan Rottenberk
Penncrest High School
134 Barren Road
Media, PA 19063
Member, PSPA
The Gryphon serves as a window to the creative talents of the students of Penncrest High School. Work from
all students, regardless of age, is welcomed by the Gryphon for publication. Writing and art are selected
based on artistic merit. The staff reserves the right to edit manuscripts for spelling, punctuation and grammar.
Works represent the ideas and opinions of their creators, not those of the Rose Tree Media School District,
Penncrest High School, or the Gryphon staff. All works are the property of their respective owners and are
protected by all applicable copyright laws.
2
2004
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Vivid Imagination ...............................................
2. Graced by the Sun .............................................
3. One Man ...........................................................
4. Regulars ............................................................
5. Anticipating .......................................................
6. Junkie ...............................................................
7. Journey of a Foolish Sage and His Master ..........
8. Temptation ........................................................
9. Dinner Music .....................................................
10. When She Thinks ..............................................
11. In Snow .............................................................
12. Elegy .................................................................
13. Christmas Memory #1 .......................................
14. Madam, I’m Adam .............................................
15. Gray Area .........................................................
16. Hollow ..............................................................
17. Cobalt ...............................................................
18. The Garden .......................................................
19. Emotion ............................................................
20. Breath ...............................................................
21. They Call Us the Right for A Reason .................
22. Trent Lott: I’m Dreaming (Of a White Congress) ....
23. Green Tea Leaves, Antebellum Stopwatches .......
24. Time .................................................................
25. Share the Darkness............................................
26. Marcel Duchamp: Potty Mouth ...........................
27. A Day in the Life of Jack ....................................
28. Cynical Girl .......................................................
29. Groovy ..............................................................
30. .........................................................................
Julia DeFulvio 2006 ............................... 4
Sarah Evans 2007 .................................. 6
Pat Anderson 2007................................ 6
Christine Farra 2004 .............................. 7
Morgan Tuohy 2004 .............................. 8
Shaneese Holland 2004 ....................... 12
Sam Schmidt 2006 .............................. 13
Parker Moffat 2004 ............................. 14
Emily Schu 2004 .................................. 15
Kim Ladenheim 2004 .......................... 16
Justin Chen 2004 ................................ 20
Sarah Lu 2005 ..................................... 21
Jackie Baker 2005 ............................... 22
Maggie Bohara 2006 ........................... 26
Tori Kennedy 2007 .............................. 30
Julia DeFulvio 2006 ............................. 32
Jeff Rubesin 2004 ................................ 33
Kristen Humbert 2005 ......................... 34
Jon Wightman 2004 ............................ 35
Paul Scherer 2004 ............................... 36
David Hulford 2004.............................. 42
David Hulford 2004.............................. 43
Mike Myers 2004 ................................. 44
Tim Graham 2005 ............................... 45
Pat Shubert 2004 ................................ 46
Emily Flynn 2004 ................................ 50
John Windsor 2004 ............................. 52
Rachael Elliott 2004 ............................. 54
Mike Myers 2004 ................................. 59
Justin Chen 2004 ................................ 60
ARTWORK AND PHOTOGRAPHY
Mason Hipp 2004 ................................................................................... Cover, 14, 35 ,49, 51
Zack Streich 2005 ................................................................................................................... 2
Julia Mead 2004 ............................................................................................................... 5, 41
Christine Kaneda 2006 ................................................................................... 6, 31, 38, 39, 59
Allison Koechig 2004 ................................................................... 7, 20, 22, 23, 25, 26, 28, 29
Morgan Tuohy 2004 ......................................................................................................... 8, 11
Julia Kim 2006 ......................................................................................................... 12, 21, 32
Angela Rosenberg 2005 ....................................................................................................... 13
Ryan Potako 2006 ............................................................................................................... 15
Jennifer Kim 2004 ......................................................................................................... 17, 19
Kelly Neary 2005 ................................................................................................................. 34
David Hulford 2004 ........................................................................................................ 42, 43
Derek Street 2006 ................................................................................................................ 53
Laura Marta 2004 ................................................................................................................. 58
3
gryphon
Vivid Imagination
Julia DeFulvio
The boy lay in his room, stuck in his usual state of
escapism. Each note blaring from the stereo treaded
lightly on his heart, and each word sung made sweet
surrenders to his eardrums, sinking endlessly into the
crevices of his brain. With the window open and his
eyes closed, the light pierced through his eyelids,
painting his vision red. He would have liked to close
the shades, but the windows were bare. The backyard
was like an inactive reality TV show, always turned
on. He didn’t like it out there very much.
He lived inside this idea that he was better off from
being exclusive from everyone and everything. A
hurricane of ideas ripped through his mind at every
waking second, even in his dream world. His only
problem was his completely chaotic thought process.
His skull was so full to the brim, yet there was always
a void that needed to be filled. Getting the thoughts
that came from unknown corners of his universe to
pass his lips was more wearisome than anyone else
would ever know.
So he lay still. One track followed after the next,
the CD spinning endlessly in its prison. The music
kept his room alive. A loud rapping attacked his door
and he was yanked out of his dormancy. Orders were
barked at him, but he had become skillful at making
them background noise. The responsibility only made
his eyelids heavier. As soon as the general felt her
orders were set in stone, footsteps faded away, leaving
the boy’s consciousness untouched.
A few moments passed, or a few hours. Time really
had no meaning anymore. The boy’s sister passed
his room unnoticed. He didn’t even hear her come up
the stairs. She stared at him in disgust from the
doorway. Every day she greeted him in vain, because
he never cared to give her more than a grunt in
response. Today she decided not to say hello, knowing
that he would never open his mouth or use his muscles
to do anything other than to satisfy his vanity. So she
just stood there squinting at him, even though he would
never notice her behind those closed eyes. Those eyes
were always closed.
In a sudden impulse she threw up her hands and
threw out her voice. “DO YOU EVEN HAVE THE
MOTIVATION TO WIPE THE DUST OFF YOUR
FACE, YOU FROZEN PIECE OF CRAP! WHY DON’T
YOU GO DO SOMETHING!”
He opened one eye and studied her face wearily.
In a voice people rarely heard, the boy replied in a
sarcastic tone that you had to strain your to hear:
“Why don’t you go look out the window? I think I saw
a blue kangaroo eating cotton candy. Go take a
gander.”
She rolled her eyes and deserted the hopeless
scene. The realist in her wouldn’t allow her to argue
with the fact that words wouldn’t affect her brother.
The boy turned his head to look out the window.
His sister had evoked a sudden jolt of curiosity in him.
He’d conjured the idea himself, of course, but it was
only an idea. A meaningless, random idea. But it left
him with a feeling, like when you need to scratch an
itch. This feeling was nothing more than a memory
to him until now.
He still tries to convince himself that what he saw
next was not real.
Outside the window, he watched a kangaroo of a
slight, blue tint hop around in his backyard. It was
eating a ball of cotton candy.
The boy blinked and almost choked on his tongue.
He stared at the creature until it finally stopped in front
of a nearby tree. The kangaroo looked straight into
the boy’s eyes with what seemed like an unconscious
effort to stop the beating of his heart. Tripping over
his words, he cried out to his sister in the next room
that it was staring at him, “devouring pink cotton
candy!”
Instead of rushing into his room to see this
mysterious thing, she spat sarcasm at him. “Grab a
camera and send it into National Geographic.”
He stared after the kangaroo as it disappeared
behind the trees. Had he imagined it, like everything
else in his life? Maybe he couldn’t draw the line
between his imagination and reality anymore. Maybe
it was nothing more than wishful thinking. After a
while, he was talking to himself. Yeah, that would’ve
been cool if there was a blue kangaroo in my
backyard eating cotton candy.
He just keeps telling himself that...
4
2004
5
gryphon
Graced by the Sun
Sarah Evans
The colors of the sun’s approach,
Crimson, marigold, indigo, blue;
I hail his coming from afar,
As he paints the sky in beauteous hue.
He bows his fiery head to me,
And illuminates the sky of blue.
He seems to whisper in my ear,
He says, “A wonderful morn to you.”
As he ascends to his mighty throne,
The pale hues fade and disappear,
And I stand upon the dewy grass,
With a smile at the whisper in my ear.
One Man
Pat Anderson
He loved Los Angeles,
The romantic nightlife of New York;
It’s what keeps him away from his dream:
A sublime melody through his mental encyclopedia
And the crow grinning
At the Café Carlyle,
Enough glow to illuminate him
With all the zsa zsa zsu zipping back and forth
The true romance started when he was a seventy-five-year-old man.
The chemistry was with him and a nine-piece band.
6
2004
Regulars
Christine Farra
We were the regulars!
We no longer had that new smell.
We were worn and beaten
Broken and bent
The favorites, the safety
The old friends, once new
Used, to useless
Kept for the memories
Worth nothing
Yet, we were the regulars.
7
gryphon
Anticipating
Morgan Tuohy
the appointment time. Finally I raised my hand and
clumsily turned the key in the ignition.
The early morning sun splintered through the frost
on the windshield. I was too numb to raise a hand to
cover my eyes. A combination of my exhaustion and
the biting cold. I just let the light hit my eyes and force
water to the surface. I’m not really much of a blinker.
I was in my car, still parked right outside my house.
The keys were still clanking in the ignition, swinging
side to side. They made a sound like the ticking of a
clock. It had been 6:13 when I left the house. I had
no idea how long I’d been sitting in the car. I didn’t
want to look at my watch; my arm felt so comfortable
where it was.
I was supposed to be on my way to Alyson’s, but
for the moment I couldn’t get myself to start the car
and leave. It felt nice to sit in the cold, and to be up
with the sunrise. I used to see many sunrises, but
lately I’d lay awake all night only to fall asleep finally
around four a.m. I hadn’t slept at all the night before.
It was a strange feeling; everything seemed blurred and
yet I was wide awake. At first it felt heavy, but after
a while my head got light. I’d spent all night
thinking about Alyson, about today. That night
I experienced a kind of wakefulness in which
I could detect every minuscule sound in
the room: the ticking of the watch on
my dresser, the house settling, the
moths fluttering against my window.
Too much was coming into my ears and
out of my thoughts at the same time.
My eyes refused to close; they kept
shifting to the clock, watching the hours
go by. I didn’t know what time it was
now, but I knew it was still early. We
wouldn’t be late if I just sat there for a
little while longer. A neighbor got into
the car in front of mine and drove off.
I continued to sit there, not moving
my head. I didn’t want to look back at
my house, I didn’t want to be tempted
to run right back inside. I stared at the
empty parking space in front of me,
tensing and relaxing all of my muscles.
This made me warmer; I could feel the
blood moving in my veins now. I did this
for maybe five minutes, getting even closer to
I know that when she told me, I’d sat in front of
the wheel much as I had this morning before leaving.
There had been a long silence, in which I stared at the
dashboard, my mouth drying as I fumbled for something
to say. Alyson sat as close to the passenger side door
as she could, leaning her head against the window,
pressing the side of her forehead against the cold glass.
I was almost afraid she might push her way out through
it, shatter the glass and crawl out away from me. I
could hear her breathing, and I wished that she would
say something more. I wished I didn’t have to be the
one to speak next. I was afraid of saying something
negative, even hurtful. I knew that would be ridiculous,
completely unjustified, but I felt something that made
me want to burst out. I had to push it down.
“Aren’t you gonna say anything?”
she asked without looking at me. Her
voice was heavy, exhausted. It
sounded as if she’d been up for nights
waiting for this conversation.
“Well,” I began, my voice scratchy
inside my throat, “what are you
expecting me to say? How upset I
am? Or whether I agree that this is
the right way to handle it?” How I
can’t believe that this is happening?
When I looked at her, I realized that
this wasn’t the right approach. She
looked hurt. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I
really just don’t know exactly how to
react right now. I wasn’t expecting
this. It’s a little...disconcerting. Well,
a lot, actually.”
“I know.” She turned to face me
finally. “I was thrown off too. But
it’s something we have to deal with. I
really wish we didn’t have to deal with
it but we have no choice.” Her voice
was shaking and she looked ready to
collapse. I put my hand on her cheek;
she was unresponsive. I pulled it back.
8
2004
gently as I could, not making an accusation but just
trying to keep her attention.
“I’m still with you,” she said, “it’s just the light’s
giving me a headache.” She looked as if she were
meditating, and the urge to keep her with me conflicted
with a desire not to bother her; maybe she would be
happier if she could tune me out along with everything
else. I decided just to wait for her to come out of it; it
would do no good to push her.
I took my time as I climbed the stairs to her
apartment. It’s only one flight of stairs to get to her
hallway, eleven steps. The building was quiet. It felt
deserted, dusty. The walls seemed a duller gray than
usual; I thought maybe they needed to be cleaned. The
steps creaked under me, so I softened my footing. I
wanted to apologize to someone for being so noisy,
but there was no one. I stopped at the top of the
stairs and sat down. A few more minutes wouldn’t
make a difference. It wasn’t much warmer inside than
it had been in my car, so I put my hands in my coat
pocket. I realized then that I hadn’t checked to make
sure I had my wallet before I left; I always checked.
Having my hand in my pocket I confirmed that it was
there, and then finally looked at my watch. 6:57. I
got up and walked the length of the hallway to the last
door on the left.
She must have unlocked the door after she buzzed
me in. I walked in, entering the living room. Alyson
was sitting cross-legged on the couch, immobile. When
I looked at her face, I thought that mine must have
looked just like it twenty minutes ago in the car. No
furrowed brow, no grimace, just wide-eyed and tight.
She turned her head just slightly and watched me move
to the couch. When I sat down next to her, she turned
back to her original position. I fought the urge to take
up the same posture and instead sat sideways so that
I could look at her. If she felt my stare she didn’t show
it. I saw that her sandy blonde hair was still wet and
tangled from the shower. There was a wet spot on
the back of the couch behind her onto which it had
been dripping. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt
and I thought she must have been cold, but she looked
indifferent.
We hadn’t talked since Wednesday. It was now
Saturday. We were alone in the apartment because
Alyson’s parents were up in New York for the weekend,
again. I wanted to say something, something that
would make it easier somehow. At least something to
get a reply from her. I waited for anything to come to
me, but she spoke first.
“Brian?” she said, seemingly unsure that it was me
beside her.
“Yeah,” I replied reassuringly, as if this were a
completely normal way to greet each other. I looked
at her more intently, hoping to force her wordlessly
to look at me. Instead, she closed her eyes. This
reaction stirred something in me. I felt as if she had
just taken a blow to the head and I had to keep her
awake in case she had a concussion. “Hey,” I said as
It was almost hard to believe that Alyson and I
had known each other since we were fourteen. Not
that we’re so much older now, but things were just
very different then, simpler. We’d met in an art class
freshman year. To my fourteen-year-old eyes, she was
the most beautiful thing that walked the earth. But I
had to wait for months before she noticed me. It was
understandable; I bore really no distinction. My
artwork was bland, and I was never very outgoing. She
was talented, beloved, smart, opinionated. I had
dreams about saving her from some peril, sweeping
her off her feet. Dreams that never came true. Our
relationship was never so dramatic. When she finally
began to take notice of me it was only expressed in
small, polite smiles. Other than that, she didn’t seem
to have a thought for me.
After a while, the smiles turned into hellos, and
eventually I got up the nerve to ask for her opinion on
a project or two. We’d get to talking and discovered
we had a lot in common, and finally started talking
outside of class, too. In the spring there was a big
dance, a Sadie Hawkins thing. For days I dreaded the
thought that I might have to see Alyson ask someone
else. Every time she talked to another guy I got a
sinking feeling in my stomach. But it never happened.
Two days before the dance, she came over to my
drawing table and looked over my shoulder. The
nearness of her made me nervous. I started thinking
that what I was working on was horrible and that she
was probably laughing to herself about it.
“That looks pretty good,” she said, surprising me.
“You’ve gotten better, you know.”
“Thanks,” I spit out meekly. “Actually, though,
you showed me how to plot out these lines last week.”
I pointed to the contour of a chalice. “That was a big
help.”
“I only gave you a little nudge. You would have
done fine without me.” I looked at her for the first
time since she’d come over to me; she smiled and
turned her head down slightly, almost shyly. I became
9
gryphon
I saw down there was a blanket of brown with a few
white and crystal patches. I looked at my watch and
figured Alyson had only been gone about ten minutes.
I decided to get some air.
Out in the parking lot, I instinctively headed for
my car. Halfway there I stopped short, forced myself
to stand still and breathe. I stood in an empty spot,
looking around for something, anything, to occupy
myself. What I saw was a small flower shop across
the street. I checked my wallet. Definitely not enough
for roses. Maybe a cheap bunch of whatever wild
flowers they might have at this time of year. I jogged
over to the store and asked the guy at the counter for
something small, but nice. I was happy enough with
what he gave me and walked back, at a slower pace so
as to shelter the flowers a bit. As I did, I thought about
the money I needed. I’d have to sell some things.
Putting my free hand in my pocket, I hoped I wouldn’t
have to sell my new leather gloves, which I had
forgotten to put on. I wanted to get back inside where
it was warm.
Instead of going right back to the waiting room, I
went to the tiny cafeteria to get some coffee. I knew I
had some time. I put the flowers on a chair at the
table I took in the corner. I tried not to think of much.
I wanted a clear mind when I greeted Alyson. I decided
that we should talk, have a real conversation like we
used to. I resolved to bring it up with her. When I
returned to the waiting room, she hadn’t come out
yet. I sat with my back facing the door she’d gone
through earlier, and I just looked ahead of me. At this
point the dazed effect of my exhaustion finally gave
way to an actual will to sleep, and I nodded off in my
chair. I woke up after about an hour with a painfully
stiff neck. I knew she would be out soon, so I tried to
make myself look more relaxed, happier even. I guess
I ended up looking surprised, because Alyson came
up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. I got
up and hugged her, and she seemed really glad to see
me, as if reassured of something by my presence. She
pulled my hand and we headed out.
very anxious then, very aware of my posture. I
straightened up in the second or two that she wasn’t
looking at me, then smiled back when she did. “So,”
she began casually, “you going to that dance this
weekend?”
“Uh, no. You know, with that whole girls-ask-theguys thing... Nobody’s asked me yet.”
There was an awkward pause, and for a moment I
became terrified that she was playing a cruel joke on
me, getting my hopes up that she was about to ask
me and then humiliating me by walking away, leaving
me hanging there. She seemed to notice, and hurried
to correct the situation. “Well, would you go with me?”
I smiled, too quickly I thought, and too broadly. But
apparently that didn’t make her think any less of me
because she asked, “Is that a yes?” I was elated.
“Yeah,” I replied, composing myself, “I’ll go with
you.”
There was no ceremony the night of the dance.
No confessions of affection. We acted as if we’d been
together for a long time already. It went without
saying. It wouldn’t have been strange to either of us
then to expect that we would still be together today. It
also wasn’t strange that we hadn’t gotten together
earlier. Everything just seemed to flow from then on,
as if it always had and always would—a river that pours
cyclically into and out of a vast blue ocean.
The waiting room was brutally white. We sat in
stiff-backed chairs diagonal to each other. Out of the
corner of my eye I watched her flipping languidly
through an old magazine with a picture of a baby in it.
I wasn’t about to pretend that I was interested in
reading anything. I tried to think of a way to start
some conversation. But what could I say that wasn’t
already clear to both of us, that wouldn’t make it seem
like I was trying too hard? It didn’t matter though,
because a nurse or some other assistant came out and
called her name. Alyson turned to me, expressionless.
“You want me to come in with you?” I asked,
without much hope that she would say yes.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She took my hand and
squeezed it gently. “Just be here when I get back.” I
nodded and managed a little smile, which I kept until
the door closed behind her.
I sat there for a few minutes, picked up a magazine
twice, threw it back down twice. I switched chairs,
then just got up altogether. I walked to the window
and looked out onto a small garden below. At least, it
had been a garden once. But in the dead of winter all
I thought of last summer, a day we’d gone to the
beach. We had a picnic and sprawled out together on
a straw mat. I hadn’t brought towels because I hadn’t
expected that we would go into the water. I was happy
just to lie there with Alyson under the sun, but she
wanted to swim. She got up and ran to the water,
turning around every few feet to call to me. I stayed
on the mat until she was standing at the water’s edge.
10
2004
farther out. For a while, we stayed close, swimming
hand in hand. When another wave came, we were
pulled apart. Instead of being pushed back to the sand,
we just went in opposite directions, parallel with the
shore. I didn’t fight the current, but I waited for it to
bring us back.
I couldn’t see her face clearly from that distance, but I
could imagine her expression: trying to hide a laugh
under a pout, opening her eyes wide like an innocent
little girl.
I walked out to her slowly, deliberately stalling. I
knew that when I reached her she would raise one
eyebrow and tighten her mouth, trying not to smile at
me. By taking my time I would make it harder for her
to keep a straight face when I finally got there. She
tried, of course, and then finally laughed and put her
arms around me. She grabbed hold of my hand and
pulled me farther into the water. When we were in up
to our necks, she stopped. I looked back at the sand,
and thought it seemed farther than it really was. When
I turned back to her again, we kissed. The kiss was
not particularly special in any way, not passionate, not
long, just warm. Her mouth tasted like the salty air.
After we’d let go of each other, she ducked under the
water, letting me know with a glance that I was
supposed to come after her. I dove forward and swam
a few yards before reaching her. When we both came
to the surface, it was just for long enough to take a
breath and be knocked back under by a wave. I tumbled
for a few seconds, and then I felt Alyson’s hand find
mine. She pulled me toward her, and we had gone a
few strokes before I realized that we were heading
Now we’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch,
taking up again that familiar staring position. I’m
listening to the murmurings coming from the kitchen,
where Alyson’s parents are deliberating. I wish they
would hurry up and get it over with. I don’t want to
wait any longer for their reactions, their charges. I
don’t want to be here at all, where there will soon be
crying, harsh words, disbelief. They’ve saved all of it
for now.
As the weeks went by, Alyson seemed to them to
be changed. She’d begun eating less, staying in her
room more. We were supposed to tell them together.
We thought it would help them to recognize the blame
as equal. But they got concerned too early, and she
couldn’t keep it up in front of them any longer. So
she broke down and told them herself, two days before
we were going to do it together. That’s why we’re
here now, like this. Anticipating the conversation.
11
gryphon
Junkie
Shaneese Holland
I promised myself I’d be different
I wouldn’t be another statistic
I know it only takes one hit to get addicted
The stories I’ve heard
The sadness I’ve seen
Of people who are now fiends
No is what they told me to say
But I was curious
And it wouldn’t go away
I tried to block it out
But it kept calling me
It was everywhere
I seemed to be
It was in my face
I tried to run
But there was no hiding place
I knew this race I wasn’t going to win
So I gave in to temptation
I thought it was just my imagination
Because my mind was blown
Suspended in the unknown
My body was here
But my mind was there
About anything else I didn’t care
But every night I cry
Because now I will spend
The rest of my life
Searching for that high
There are no rehabs or support groups for this
Because who would believe you could be addicted to
A kiss
12
2004
Journey of a Foolish Sage
and His Master
Sam Schmidt
Turning the fire escape over,
carrying the case,
falling up
as he
running, falling, as I,
seeing as he goes
the case close behind.
The man was he
Yet the fool was I;
And where fools go
Wise men come behind
to watch over
and, as most often is the
case,
clean up.
As I fall behind
My apprenticeship over,
watching the escaping case,
As you fly up,
I do not know you, he
has been left behind, like I,
watching you go.
Running up
Chasing he
who sees my eye
watching as he goes,
following him behind,
leaping from walls over
to the deserted case.
Up you go,
Leaving me behind,
Throwing over
the false case
as the truth rises up
following him,
I lost the case,
my eyes following he
who would teach I,
the trailing tyro who goes
and follows, close behind,
his lead the world over.
As I, the wise man left behind, rue
the day I met your mind.
13
gryphon
Temptation
Parker Moffat
There was silence for a moment. The
moment ended abruptly. Too abruptly, Josiah
felt. However, just like the moment, the thought
passed abruptly. After glaring at the cow that had
abruptly ended the silence by mooing, Josiah
returned his gaze to the beauty before him—the
scintillating yet carnal and unorthodox Venus that
haunted Josiah’s every dream. It could have been
Paris exhumed.
The car.
Automobiles
were not allowed
in the Amish
faith; in fact,
abstaining from
modern
technology was at the
crux
of
the
religion.
Ye t ,
Josiah possessed
a 1980 Ford
Prefect. How he
longed to drive it,
to even sit in the
seat of such a potent device. But he knew that
no matter how many lines he had already
crossed, this would be the last straw. Josiah was
a rebellious Mennonite, leaving services five
minutes early on Sunday to milk the cow. He
had once played a game of soccer. Josiah had
even gone into town and purchased a hammer
to help reconstruct the roof of the church when
it had collapsed during a blizzard. But Josiah
couldn’t ignore the excruciating humiliation that
he knew would follow being excommunicated for
driving.
But the car was here, and the congregation
was elsewhere. He ran his hand over the sleek
surface. Amish adjudication aside, Josiah would
turn the ignition without hesitation. The Prefect
seemed to say, affably even, “Come on, Josiah.
Submit to my seats. My steering wheel. My
speed. My windshield.” The turmoil Josiah felt
was ineffable. The car was teasing Josiah with
the one thing he just couldn’t have.
14
Ye t h e m u s t h a v e i t . B u t t h r o u g h t h e
chronicles of time, no Amish man had submitted
to this temptation. The mental energy expended
by the typical American in starting a car was
nominal, but for Josiah, languishing in his
resistance, the pain was unbearable. Josiah
suddenly realized that his hand had wandered to
the car door. Surely it would be no sin to open
the door? Didn’t
his house have a
door?
Josiah
opened that door
all the time. Just
turn and pull. In
this case it was
even easier; all
he had to do was
pull. He pulled.
J u d i c i o u s
behavior gave
way to impulse.
Humility was for
others. He must
gain
biblical
knowledge of the workings of this machine.
But again, the superego fluttered into Josiah’s
head. An eternal fear of the omnipotent God
placed a stranglehold on Josiah’s body. Fatuous
though they may have seemed to others, the
stories of the Bible were real to Josiah, and he
could now envision himself suffering potentially
the most painful damnation possible. Hellfire and
brimstone notwithstanding, the cushioned seats
prevailed. Leave Bible stories for the
anthropologists, thought Josiah. I’m starting the
car. But he hesitated. This was too good to be
true, but his doubts lingered. His thoughts then
returned to his hands gripping the steering wheel
as one might hold onto a bird. It was sheer
ecstasy. The leather steering wheel teased
Josiah’s fingers. He reveled at the mere thought
of starting the car. Then, in an action that was
destined to happen once he had opened the door,
he gripped the key, already in the ignition, and
turned it forward.
2004
Dinner Music
Emily Schu
you spilled chords of untamed
music over the empty spaces
of our
endless
silence
ech ech ech oes oes oes
between tied-up tongues
(((resound)))
pitter patter pitter patter
be-be-be-beating on the drums
over a muffled moan—
the strum strum strum
of plucked guitar strings
you always hated the
sound of
silence
staring into blank stares
over a kitchen countertop—
two mugs of black with three drops of cream
we listen to late-night lullabies
of this singer’s symphony
th-ud-ud-uding up the staircase
a soft goodnight
departs these lips
but you pretend
to be entangled in the
clef of incomprehensible melodies
but I believe
you never even escaped
our awkward
silence
15
gryphon
When She Thinks
Kim Ladenheim
“That’s insane. Ten bucks for four ounces of
ceramic paint?” Jo complained out loud. She
reached down to pick up another one of her art
m a g a z i n e s a s To m p u l l e d o n h e r p a n t l e g .
“What’s the matter?” she asked with an
obnoxiously nasal voice.
“Mommy, you never...” he started.
“What? I never what, Tom?” she nearly yelled.
“You never made me eggs and bacon this
morning,” he sulked.
Her face expressed a bit of agitation as she
scrambled for a valid excuse. After all, she had
promised him. “We ran out of bacon,” she lied.
The boy gave a sigh as he resumed his toy-car
smashing and exploding session.
“Stop with the exploding, Tom! The doctor
will call us in anytime now. Put those cars
down.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Jo Peterson?” the secretary
interrupted. “Doctor Malone is ready to see your
son.” She led the two back to Malone’s office
and left them amidst the newly-furnished Care
Bear wallpaper covered with neat and delicately
framed plaques exhibiting the physician’s college
merits. The young doctor shortly entered the
room, wearing a pale-green lab coat covered with
Disney characters, and gave a nonchalant smile
to the toddler as she lifted her eyes from her
clipboard.
“Well, who do we have here?” Malone
squeaked as she bent down to the level of the
boy. “How old are you, Thomas?”
The three-year-old just peered into the
doctor’s lab coat, dazed and bemused.
“He’ll be four in a few months,” Jo replied.
Talking for her son was second nature to her by
now, as she had become so impatient with his
lack of communication skills that she’d acquired
the habit of speaking for him.
After sitting through some painfully
monotonous small talk, Jo dozed through her
son’s check-up and was finally informed that his
bone mineral density was not at an optimal level,
and his heart had a beating pace that was
abnormally fast.
Jo walked her son out to the car with a face
16
that mirrored the gloom of the blanketed sky. She
carelessly took long strides, with Tom desperately
trying to keep up with her. As she approached
her outdated Chevy Corsica, she observed
another woman physician entering the parking
spot next to hers, and watched as she proudly
parked her fresh new hunter-green 2003 BMW
525.
That same afternoon, Jo’s husband had
entered a flower shop before returning home from
work.
“She might like those over there,” he
suggested again as he sprawled over the counter
and pointed to the bouquet of white roses. “No,
not the poinsettias!”
That was the last straw. He stumbled past
the sunflower arrangements as he rebelliously
crossed the “employees only” line to march past
the helpless florist and pick out the bouquet for
himself.
As he paid for the flowers, he thought about
the drama that took place the other night between
Jo and him. He forgot where he was for a
moment as he recalled all that he had said to her:
first, she is a horrible mother, and, second, she
should stop her childish complaining about her
job as a housewife when he is the one who brings
home the bacon.
“I said, will that be all, sir?” the florist
demanded for the third time.
“It should do,” Chris replied.
The faint scent of tuna aroused Chris’s senses
as he discreetly entered his quaint stone house.
He tiptoed to the edge of the foyer wall, and in a
suave motion, spun himself around and into the
kitchen where he would present his wife with the
bouquet. He stood there for a moment and
watched her maneuvering about the kitchen
oblivious to the man’s presence. He was glad to
see her preparing a homemade tuna-noodle
casserole instead of the frozen dinners she so
often made. Suddenly reminding himself of the
spirit of their interactions the night before, he
decided not to raise his voice again, even if it was
2004
understand? In order to find a solution, we need
to stop repeating the same basic argument over
and over.” The energy he had possessed while
arguing with Jo in the early stages of their
marriage and parenthood had diminished in these
more recent disputes.
“All right, no problem,” she said with a fake
tone of levity. “Let’s sit down and resolve what
we fought about the other night.”
This wasn’t the right time to do
this; she was obviously caught up
in the moment and just wanted
to watch another one of his
suggestions fail miserably.
But okay, he thought. A
mutual agreement to try and
reach a peace might not
present itself again.
They each pulled up a
chair
and
situated
themselves at opposite
sides of the kitchen table.
The bouquet that had held
so much significance and
promise just a few minutes
ago was carelessly flung
t o t h e f l o o r.
Jo
sophisticatedly sat up
straight with one leg
neatly crossed over the
other; Chris placed an
elbow on the table and
cupped his chin in his
hand. He peered up at
h e r, e y e b r o w s r a i s e d ,
resembling a timid
s t u d e n t experiencing his first disciplinary
lecture.
Jo sat pensively for a moment, setting her
attention on a glitch in the ceiling paint; she
slowly closed her eyes and opened them as a
new woman. She set her gaze back down onto
her husband and began to speak.
A “so,” exited her mouth with a confident
tone. “Let’s get to the center of it. If my
memory serves me correctly, you called me a...
What was it? A repulsive mother?”
“No. I called you horrible,” he muttered.
“Yes, of course. Horrible. Well, that’s just a
tad bit less offensive. Thanks for clarifying that.”
“Listen, Jo, are we trying to resolve this or
just to yell a positive “Surprise!” with roses and
a rehearsed apology.
With this in mind, he resorted to a simple and
innocent “Hey.” Jo reacted with a mere raising
of her head, and kept her back to him as she
once again directed her attention to the garlic she
was chopping. Did tuna-noodle casserole even
call for garlic? Although she hadn’t taken the
time to figure out just how a tuna-noodle
casserole was supposed to be prepared,
he honored her for the effort,
however minimal, that she put
forth.
He approached her with
caution, but knew from
the
start
that
approaching her at all
was not the brightest
idea.
He couldn’t
resist, as his desire to
instantly resolve last
night’s conflict out-ruled
his rationality. But before he
even had the chance to place
his hand on her shoulder, she
spoke.
“Chris, I know you all too
well. You’re going to apologize,
shower me with either flowers
or chocolates or both, which is
extremely cliché, by the way.
And I won’t give a damn because
flowers can’t make up for what
you said to me.”
“Jo—”
“No,” she said firmly,
turning around. “You’re definitely not sorry. We
fight about the same thing all the time, and it’s
really getting old and boring. Why don’t we add
some variation to spruce up our lives? That would
be nice. Let’s argue about our sex life. We
haven’t discussed that in quite some time.”
“Well if we could resolve what we fight about
all the time, we might just be able to move on to
other topics such as that,” he said, giving her a
taste of the dripping sarcasm she used with him.
“God, you make things so difficult,”he said in a
dreary, defeated tone. “Why can’t you learn to
sit down and talk things out instead of blowing
up and cursing me off when you’re faced with
something you don’t want to confront? Can’t you
17
gryphon
“It is her job,” he chuckled. “I don’t see what
you have against this woman. She’s a fine
physician and nationally known at only thirtyfive.”
“So why don’t you just have an affair with
her?” she said quite casually.
There was a pause. “I wish you would just
grow up,” Chris murmured, staring down at the
multitude of salt and slush beside his leather
business shoes.
A silence swept over the two as each decided
to let the other sit and feel blameworthy. Jo
raised her gaze to the houses on her street. She
noticed that each home was already spruced up
for the holidays, the decorations ranging from
overdone icicle lights to tacky nativity scenes. Her
house was the only one that had not been
adorned with such holiday paraphernalia. Why
spend money and risk falling off a ladder, she
thought, when it only benefits random passersby?
“Hey, Jo?”
“What?” she answered sternly.
“About what you were saying before... If I
only knew what?”
Jo cast her head back with a soft sigh and a
rolling of her eyes, as she knew this question was
coming. She inhaled deeply and shut her eyes,
her mind lost in an eddy of thoughts that didn’t
make sense. She tried desperately to come up
with a possible explanation for what she wanted
him to know in a way that he would understand.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, defeated. “I just wish
you could have known how rude and arrogant this
doctor was to me. That’s why I wasn’t really
listening to her.”
“Whatever,” he muttered. “I’m going back
inside.”
“If you only knew how much of a hell my life
is,” she mumbled once her husband had left her
to gain relief from the brutal winter wind.
what?” he asked. “I’m already holding onto my
patience by a thread.”
“Well that’s that, I guess,” she stated.
“That’s what?”
“That’s all the solution-searching I can do for
one day without you losing your patience.”
“I never lost my patience! I was just warning
you—”
“Well you just did, didn’t you?”
“God, I can never win with you,” he sighed
as he stood up and got himself a beer. He felt
slightly relieved as he took a long, satisfying gulp
of his Black & Tan. “Enough of this talk. Tell
me about Thomas’s check-up. Everything okay?”
Jo rose and resumed her garlic chopping. She
merely shrugged and answered with a “sure.”
“So everything is fine? Is he normal and
healthy? Nothing to worry about?”
“Yes, I said. Except he needs more milk in
his diet or something.”
“Don’t raise your voice. Tom’s asleep,” he
commanded. “So...everything’s not fine, then,”
he said, knowing all too well . “What else did the
doctor say?” he asked in a tone that would
otherwise be used with a child.
“All she said was that he doesn’t have enough
minerals in his bones. Something like that. I
don’t know. He needs more calcium, I guess.”
She shrugged again.
“You guess, Jo? This is our son. Didn’t you
listen to the doctor when she went out of her
way to tell you what we need to do to help him?
Jesus, sometimes I think you don’t even care.”
She raised her face in a sharp, quick
movement; the overly chopped garlic was now
relieved of her attention as she looked sternly at
Chris. “If you only knew,” she said with clenched
teeth. Jo immediately left him to walk into the
foyer, grab her coat and scarf, and exit the house
through the front door.
Chris obediently followed her out the door
and saw her already seated on the front stone
step with a thin cloud of smoke dispersing above
her head. He sat beside her, restraining himself
from telling her about the dangers of smoking.
“X-rays,” she said.
“Huh?”
“We need to take Tom back to get x-rays...of
his bones. Get ready for another outrageous
doctor’s bill. This woman charges like it’s her
job.”
That night, Jo tiptoed into bed after closing
her blinds to shield her room from the myriad of
lights. She lay on her back and, as always, found
a way to block out Chris’s snoring. Instead of
instantly falling asleep, however, she closed her
eyes and envisioned her past.
The first thing she thought of was her senior
year in high school. God, she wished she could
go back and relive that year. She recalled the
18
2004
the front door and closed it behind her to once
again sit outside in the frigid winter air on the
smooth stone step to smoke and to think.
many parents, peers, and teachers who had told
her that she would “find herself.” Everyone did
somehow, they said. Bullshit, she thought. By
the time she’d had to make a final decision about
where to head after high school, she hadn’t the
slightest clue as to “who she was” or what, if any,
occupation she might enjoy. It wasn’t that she
was trying to avoid the process of discovering her
niche; it was that she had thought about it too
much, had dug herself into a deep hole of mixed
feelings and confusion. She had always got good
grades in science, but then again she had also
been interested in history.
Jo thought about how it wasn’t until the
summer after her first year as a local community
college student that she uncovered her passion
for art. What a shame, she thought. By the time
she had declared her primary interest and
had been accepted into Berkley, her
f a t h e r h a d already decided i t w a s n ’ t
worth the extravagant tuition.
She opened her
e y e s , recalling t h e
money her father
had squandered on
booze.
Maybe
even drugs. Who
knew?
“That dirty
son-of-a-bitch,”
she whispered.
The sound of
the
man’s
snoring brought
Jo back to reality;
she immediately
and forcefully
threw the covers
off herself, yet
still making sure
that she did not
disturb
the
portion
that
covered Chris.
She crept out
of the room and scurried down the hall past Tom’s
quarters, her eyes undoubtedly showing proof of
the long-term sleep deprivation that she had been
suffering through for years now.
Her movements, however, did not display her
exhaustion, as she tactfully and silently opened
An odd scent found its way into Tom’s room the
next morning. It was a distinct smell he believed he
had never witnessed before. Interestingly, the boy had
in the past experienced such potent scents from the
kitchen only when the house was heavy with
controversy. Tom identified these instances during two
different situations: one, when his mother would
prepare her infamous tuna-noodle casseroles. He
would verify this time not only by the fish scent that
crept into his room but also by hearing the laborious
and tension-driven pace at which she would repeatedly
pound the steel and metal into the cutting board. The
second was when she was smoking.
Slightly baffled, the boy shoved himself out
of bed to track down the mysterious smell.
He had not yet decided if the scent was
welcoming or if it would be placed
amongst the other two that held such
negative connotations. He reached
the kitchen where his father’s
back faced him. The man in
his apron worked the skillet
and the pots and pans
with ease, carefully
flipping over each
piece of bacon so the
grease
wouldn’t
splatter. He checked
on the oatmeal and
the pancakes and
then grabbed a few
raw eggs in one hand,
swiftly cracking them
on the edge of a bowl
and letting the
contents spill out.
Tom stood there for a
moment and watched
his father beat the
eggs, oblivious to the
boy’s presence.
“Hey Daddy?” the boy called sweetly.
“Where’s Mommy?” he asked.
Chris wiped his hands on the dishtowel,
walked over to his son, and bent down. “I would
think by now, son, she’s somewhere making art,”
he said.
19
gryphon
In Snow
Justin Chen
The warm breath of the latent house condensed
and crystallized against its frozen windowpanes. The
view from our upstairs window had always been
breathtaking, like a living landscape—Monet’s most
beautiful works brought to life. There is such a simple
grace in the gentle roll of our hill as it lazily cascades
into the street; the two picturesque houses across the
way in their silent slumber; and the forest of ancient
trees just beyond the borders of our development, their
outstretched limbs reaching for the sky.
But as I stand at four a.m., wrapped in a down
comforter, frozen by crepuscular revelation, I see the
landscape’s true beauty for the first time. It had begun
snowing during the evening; right after Peter Jennings
had recounted the latest tale of fratricidal hatred, but
now, only a few hours later, the
world seems so different. The
individual greens, browns, reds,
and blues that fight for our
attention during that day have
united into one, indiscriminate
blanket of white under the
cover of tranquility. Puffs of
snow seamlessly navigate the
skies, falling like old feathers
from passing angels’ wings.
Curls of smoke rising beyond
the surreal stillness of a
temporarily content world,
carrying a promising hope
towards an indeterminable sky.
I watch as the two demure
houses turn amidst their midJanuary slumber and the snow
contorts and conforms around their tired bodies like
wrinkles in a bed sheet. Never has the world been this
silent, where I can hear the sounds of snow falling
against the soft ground and the sound of dreams as
they float perilously close to the edge of reality. I can’t
imagine that, in mere hours, this world will slowly rub
its eyes and fade back into the distant memories of
existence. In mere hours, the scent of beautiful
isolation and fresh powdered snow will mix with those
of hazelnut coffee and early morning car exhaust, as
people race mindlessly to beat eight a.m. trains and
20
the traffic jams that they themselves create. Radios
will blare the latest news, with societal death topping
the hour, while soup kitchens procure single scraps
for innumerable hungry mouths, and widowers kiss
the pale cheeks of their lovers one final time before
leaving them to their glacial peace.
But this is all after the fact. Presently there are a
few precious hours standing between the rest of the
waking world and me. And in this seemingly endless
span of hurrying, waiting and worrying, a few hours
of thoughtless observation is a lifetime. I sit down
upon our frigid wood floor and my comforter rustles
in reticent protest. My legs give way to the icy chill
of the floor tiles and my sleep-deprived muscles jump
at the shocking temperature change. Their
resistance, however, is only
momentary as fatigue settles
itself back into the empty halls
of my body. My gaze returns
to the frostbitten window and
the beautiful painting held
within its frame. The endless
stretches of white and gray
become vague blurs in the
midst of the strengthening
storm. The winds pick up and
whistle their melancholy song
past my lone window, my eye
to the world. This is surely
what the first man must have
felt as he watched the white
powder settle upon Earth’s
virgin soil from the huddled
confines of his cave. How
many thousands of years, lives, autumns, and
winters separate him from me, yet here we are in a
parallel time, amazed by the same phenomena, the
beauty of nature. My eyelids droop as I lay myself
upon this dry piece of earth; if only I could bottle
this moment, like a cherry-flavored panacea, to be
drunk when life returns to agony, and my soul finds
itself replete with sickness; if only... My mind drops
that last thought because, in the end, there is no
place for words in silence and barely enough space
for silence among ourselves.
2004
Elegy
Sarah Lu
She sat and gracefully sipped shots of water and ice, her bony little stomach trying hard to be seen, trying
hard to defy those thousands of dollars worth of psychiatrist theories and muffled conversations with the doctor.
The extravagant platters before her remained untouched, and she smiled weakly as the courses came and went
and as her plate remained full each time. Her dark-ringed eyes drew down, away from the polite yet curious
glances that were being aroused more and more as the meal wore on. A toast was raised. She lifted her glass
reluctantly, and the clink of the crystal pounded her head. She turned away.
A worried face. A gentle, concerned question. Another fake smile but this time accompanied by a true
utterance, “I wasn’t hungry.” She was never hungry anymore. The thought of food in her mouth made her
sick. She would never be hungry again.
But she was tired, always tired. She could
never get enough rest; even in sleep the
dreams kept her heart pounding and her
mouth dry and desperate. When she
woke she would beg for slumber;
while asleep she only wanted to be
awake. And her head ached
constantly, terribly. She was
very weak.
“You look sick. You should
eat something.” It played over
and over again in her head.
Food would cure her, but food
would break her too. Her
stomach pulled and trembled
at the thought of being forced
to eat. It would be better to
die.
And then everything began
to spin as she fell out of
consciousness. The glass of
water slid from her hand onto the
carpet, leaving a dark trail of
something dizzyingly close to
tears. A call was made, hands
were held tightly. A slight
shake of the head, a cry,
another wet shoulder.
Her body had won,
it was over. Nothing
could change it now.
She died a mistaken martyr.
Her eyes were as empty as
her smile.
It echoed around the silent room. “I wasn’t hungry.”
21
gryphon
Christmas Memory #1
Jackie Baker
Characters:
GINA - A twenty-eight-year-old dental hygienist
who lives in Chicago with her thirty-one-year-old,
electrician husband TONY. They are currently renting
space to their friend JACK, who is a social worker
and has been living with them for two months.
ASHLEY - A twenty-seven-year-old woman, who
owns her own store where she sells everything from
clothing to kitchen appliances. She is married to
DANIEL, who is a quiet teacher and somewhat afraid
of his very successful wife.
SANDRA - Jack’s ex-fiancé. They broke up two
months ago, and she has not taken the break-up well.
The characters are in GINA and TONY’S
apartment around Christmas time. They are
opening presents near the tree.
GINA
Okay, Tony, honey, this one is for you...from me!
I hope you like it!
TONY
Thanks, hun. I needed a new coffee mug, (aside)
and this is nothing like the one you bought me last
Christmas or the one for my birthday.
GINA
Well, if you don’t like it, I’m sure someone else
could find some sort of use for it! (She grabs the coffee
mug from her husband.)
22
TONY
I swear! If ya want something for Christmas,
then all ya have to do is ASK! Why do ya always
gotta take my presents?
GINA
Oh, Tony, be quiet! Here, Jack, this one is for
you...from Ashley and Daniel.
JACK
(Opens the present and smiles) Aw, thanks,
Ash. I need all the new clothes I can get. After the
break-up and the fire and all...
ASHLEY
It’s no problem, really. I took Daniel out for
some new clothes. His were just hideous, weren’t
they, dear?
DANIEL
Umm...well...I guess...yeah.
ASHLEY
YES, they were! So we went to Strawbridge’s,
and I saw these and thought they would look just
wonderful on you! By the way, how have you been
holding up lately? You okay?
JACK
I’ve been fine, really. It’s been almost two
months, and a better part of the house is rebuilt. I
should move back in pretty soon. The experience
was awful though...
2004
ASHLEY
(Not paying attention, and wiping something off
of DANIEL’S sweater) I’m sure, just awful...
GINA
Tony, get the door... DO SOMETHING for a
change!
JACK
Yeah, Gina and Tony have been great though,
letting me stay here for so cheap. At least she’s out
of my life now... Sandra, that is. Yep, she’s out of
my life...legally!
TONY
Yeah, yeah. I’ll do something!
GINA
What’s that?
TONY
Yeah, you don’t need any of that distraction!
You’re young still! Don’t make any mistakes like gettin’
married or anything!
TONY
I said I’ll do anything for you dear. (aside) Who is
this? Everyone’s already here I thought...
(Tony opens the door to a strange-looking
woman wearing an obnoxious Santa suit and hat.
She is carrying a large red box with green ribbon
and a tag that says “JACK.” Tears mixed with
mascara are streaming down her face from her eyes,
which are red and crunched together from the fake
smile she is wearing.)
GINA
(Slapping her husband on the arm) Tony! SHUT
UP!
TONY
(Rubbing his arm) OW! What?
GINA
Oh, you’re such a baby! Well, Jack, whenever you
need anything, anything at all, you just let me know.
Okay?
SANDRA
Well...well...well! Hello again, Tony. How are you?
TONY
Fine. What are you doing here?
JACK
Yeah, I know. But I’m fine. As long as she never
comes back I’ll be just great.
SANDRA
I just came by to drop off Jack’s present.
(KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK at the door)
23
gryphon
if you can’t love me anymore, at least take this gift as
a way to remember me...
TONY
I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
JACK
What is it? If it blows up or ignites into flames as I
open it, I swear to God, Sandra...
GINA
(From the other room) Tony, who is it? Is it Mrs.
Kent from next door? I was supposed to lend her a
pan. It’s right there on the stove. Give it to her for
me, will ya?
SANDRA
No, I promise! Just open it.
SANDRA
(Walking in past TONY. Goes right to JACK)
Merry Christmas, everyone! Jackie, how have you
been? You’re looking well.
JACK
(Opens the present to find a large doll baby with
an odd resemblance to both himself and SANDRA.
On the outside of the doll is the name, Jack Anthony
Grant III) What the hell is this, Sandra?
JACK
What are you doing here?
SANDRA
It’s our child! He’s a boy, just like you always
wanted! And I even gave him your dimples... but I
drew the line at my eye color. Who wants a baby with
brown eyes? My blue ones are much prettier than
yours...
SANDRA
What am I doing here? You make it sound like
you don’t want me here!
JACK
Well, that’s because I don’t... WE don’t! You’re
not supposed to be within a hundred miles of me just
like the restraining order says!
JACK
Are you serious? I don’t want this...thing! This is
worse than if the box blew up! I want this thing to
burst into flames. You’re a head case!
SANDRA
Look, Jack, I know we’ve had our differences, but
I think we can work them out. I mean, we were meant
to be together, right?
SANDRA
Jack, calm down! You’ll upset the baby! You don’t
want his first memory of us to be fighting, do you?
JACK
Differences? Work them out? NO! Differences
would be like disagreeing on music... I could work
that out. Or, like, not liking the same foods... We
might be able to work that out. But lashing out after
you’ve been dumped and setting fire to all of my worldly
possessions is not something I’m prepared to just
WORK OUT!!!
JACK
It’s a plastic doll baby! It can’t remember anything!
It’s not real!!! Plus, I don’t want to have that creepy
thing looking at me... I’ll want to kill it...
SANDRA
Creepy thing? Want to kill it? Well, if I had any
idea you would be an abusive father, I would have most
definitely kept Jack Anthony Grant III away from you!
You know, if you aren’t careful, Jack, you’re going to
lose us... FOR GOOD! (SANDRA storms towards the
door with JACK calling after her and the baby)
SANDRA
Well, Jack, I thought you were a better person than
this! Sure, I’ve made mistakes...
JACK
(Cutting her off) MISTAKES? Try catastrophes!
I was really happy with the idea that I would never see
you again!
JACK
Finally! You get it! I don’t want you or Jack
Anthony Grant III anywhere near me! In fact, I want
you as far away from me as possible!
SANDRA
(Fighting back tears) Okay, I understand. Well,
24
2004
(The door slams and Jack is left at the apartment
door screaming. GINA comes from behind him.)
TONY
What’s new?
GINA
You know, I never really liked her...
ASHLEY
Poor Jack...having his life controlled by one
woman who he probably loved once but can’t stand
now. (Sighs) Pity.
JACK
(Aggravated) Thanks. Thanks a lot for the heads
up-
DANIEL
(Glaring at ASHLEY) Must be awful...
GINA
(Cutting him off) Well it’s true! Ever since the
first time I saw her, I thought, Oh, she’s trouble. Don’t
get involved with her, Jack. Nothing but heartache
that one—
TONY
It’s a shame too. It was all for nothing. They
were gonna have one of the ugliest kids I’ve ever seen!
JACK
(Cutting off Gina) OKAY! I get it! She was trouble!
I know!!! Just wish I knew what the hell she’s gonna
do next. I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me...ever.
(He walks off stage into the bedroom)
GINA
(Hitting her husband) TONY, SHUT UP!!!
(Lights out and curtains close)
GINA
(Walking back to the kitchen to join the others)
Well, at least I was right.
25
gryphon
Madam, I’m Adam
Maggie Bohara
Sitting at the breakfast table, I obviously don’t fit
in. At dinner, too. Oh, and right before bed—when
everyone’s brushing their teeth. My father grunts when
I express my feelings. My brother growls. And my
mother. She tells me I’ll fit in someday—whatever
that means.
Beside my bowl of Cheerios I have a glass of
orange juice, pulp-free, of course, and a shiny, silver
spoon that laughs at me. Well, if spoons could laugh,
I suppose. My mother’s cereal is accompanied by a
mug of green tea and a bottle of white pills. My father’s
pills are a light-green shade, and they’re friends with
his coffee. The blue pills are my brother’s. They carry
a guise of innocence, not unlike his own.
The three open their pill bottles in unison, though
my mother has trouble with the rebellious child-safe
lid. They tilt back their heads and place the pills upon
their tongues. In the blink of an eye, they’re swallowed.
“Mom, do I hafta go to school today?” my brother
asks, spinning the corn puffs around in his cereal milk.
“I hate it.”
“Yes, you have to go to school, Gene,” Mom
answers, sipping from her mug of green tea.
“But I don’t want to,” Gene pouts, crossing his
arms and puffing his cheeks. His hair falls across his
face.
“How old are you, Gene?” my mother asks,
dipping her spoon into her tea.
“Twelve? I think two is more
like it. Now, I want you to get
your act together. Take your
shower and get ready to go.
You’ve got thirty minutes.”
“Talk about going, I’ve got
to go,” I tell my mom, planting
a kiss upon her sleep-curled
hair. “See ya, Dad,” I call as I
slip into my dirty old sneakers.
They flap their laces at me and
stick out their tongues. My dad
just grunts some more and
straightens his tie again. “Have
a nice day, Gene,” I yell,
slapping on my schoolbag and
sliding out the screen door.
26
“Adam, you forgot your hat!” my mom calls, but
I’m already out of the driveway. I pretend not to hear
her, just like everyday.
It’s hard being the odd one out in a family like
mine. They all have chemical disorders in their
brains—the type that Zoloft—the “bouncy ball pill” of
TV fame—helps to correct.
Waiting for the bus, I feel my ears go numb. The
wind drags its icy fingers down my neck. My body
can’t help but shiver, and my hands soon find their
way into my jean pockets. Where’s the freaking bus,
anyway? Maybe it will be here soon. My backpack is
getting heavier by the minute, and my eyelashes
freeze. Maybe I should have worn my hat.
When the bus finally comes, I’m a human popsicle
just waiting for the vehicle to take a bite out of my
frozen head.
The bus is crowded, too crowded, just like every
morning. My eyes won’t listen to my brain; they scan
the bus, trying to find her, Christie—my only reason
to survive this school day’s agony. But once they see
her, they’re satisfied and allow my body to plop down
next to the private-school boy. He probably thinks
I’m gay. I sit next to him everyday. Or maybe he just
knows that my feet are too lazy to walk towards
another seat. One day I’ll talk with him. I’ll show him
that I’m really a normal person...kind of. But my
mouth doesn’t like conversing
this early in the morning.
The bus bounces my
knees against the seat in
front. This causes a laugh to
emerge from my mouth.
The Catholic schoolboy
edges closer to the window.
I laugh some more, though I
can’t really tell what’s so
funny.
Soon the bus approaches
the school, where it spits its
prey from its bowels. It’s the
yellow monster’s fault that I
fall clumsily down the steps
and scrape my hands. The
beast has it in for me.
2004
“Oh, I was waiting for you, obviously,” she answers
matter-of-factly. She drapes an arm over my schoolbag.
“But why?” My combination doesn’t seem to be
agreeable today.
“I dunno... Oh yeah, I need notes. Um, science
notes. Yeah...that’s it, science notes. Can I borrow
them?” She wipes her glasses on her black t-shirt.
“Can you wait a minute?” I snap. I’m getting pretty
angry at my locker.
“Well, I’m sorry about your male PMS,” she snarls
back, crossing her arms in front of her chest—not that
I’m looking there. Instead, I’m examining her face.
Her hair is starting to curl around her ears, and her
glasses are making her huge brown eyes look even
larger.
“Oh, just wait a minute, Zoe. I’m sorry, it’s just...”
I try to explain.
“It’s okay,” she answers. “I’ll just get them later,
at lunch.”
As I listen to her shuffling feet retreat, my locker
finally grinds open, spitting pencils onto the floor for
my shoes to feast upon.
“Hey, man.” A hand slaps my shoulder hard.
My body isn’t braced for the impact and I fall, a dead
weight against the girl standing behind me. I know
that my face is all red as we untangle from the ground.
“S’rry, s’rry,” I mumble, trying not to look at her
face or any part of her for that matter.
“It’s okay,” she laughs, picking her school bag off
the floor. I flinch, hoping she won’t notice the dirt
smeared across the bottom. “Still sleeping, eh, Adam?”
she asks, brushing dust from her jeans.
“Uh huh, yeah. Very, very tired. My body is still
asleep. My legs say that they are very tired and very
sorry.” I stare down at my shoes, my teeth stumbling
over my words.
“Well, have you guys seen Jon? I thought I saw
him over here. No? Well, I’ve gotta go and find him.
See you later.” I watch her walk charismatically down
the hallway, shining beneath the florescent lights.
“Christie is a nice girl,” my friend states, pulling
his hat over his ears.
“I guess so, James,” I answer, my eyebrows rising
in a defensive measure, but his are already up. I give
him a scowl and reach down to tame my shoes’
recalcitrant laces.
“You know the way Jon talks about her. It’s like
she’s an angel or something. He’s so totally headover-heels,” James states, running a hand through his
chin-length blond hair. He winks a bright blue eye.
“Yeah. Whatever. I have to go to homeroom,” I
tell him. “I still have Latin homework to do.”
James gives me a smile and saunters to join a pack
of boys, more of his friends. He doesn’t know it, but
they don’t like me; they don’t like my clothes, or my
hair, or even my face.
I straighten my back and knock a few freshmen
down with a swing of my schoolbag. I tell them that
I’m sorry, that my backpack is clumsy. My feet hurry
down the hall, away from the freshmen slaughter zone.
Latin class comes fast, too fast. So fast that I don’t
have any time to remember that I forgot to do my
Latin homework. How come my brain doesn’t work
faster in the morning? If it did, I’d probably have a
reasonable grade in this class.
I know that my cheeks are starting to redden again.
Stupid cheeks, why can’t they just contain themselves
this once. The blush is a dead giveaway that I don’t
have my homework.
“Adam?” the teacher asks, tapping his fingers
against my desk. “Your translation?” He glares at me
through his bifocals.
“I, um, left it on the bus, Mr. Van Betove,” I
stammer. My feet decide to be bad and place
themselves upon the desk in front of me.
“What was your translation doing on the bus? And
get those feet down!” He slams his fist upon my
textbook.
“I was reading it to a boy. He goes to Catholic
school and...” I try to untangle my feet from the desk
in front, but it’s no good. They won’t come out.
They’ve latched onto the rungs in front of me.
Struggling with my feet, I hardly notice when my desk
starts to tip until I’m in a heap upon the floor, a prisoner
of my untamed chair.
“Out!” Mr. Van Betove yells, his red suspenders
yelling alongside him. “No one will upset my
classroom! First no homework, then no respect. You
The hallways are too long, and the radiators are
too hot, and my face is too red. It’s bad enough being
a walking disaster. But a walking disaster who blushes
is even worse. When I reach my locker, I notice a
small female asleep against the metal door. She looks
so innocent, with her eyes shut and her glasses
clouded over. When I reach her, my fingers pull upon
her CD player’s wire to wake her from her reverie.
“Wha— what?” she murmurs, pulling off her
headphones. “Oh, hey, Adam.”
“Zoe, why are you leaning against my locker?” I
ask her, spinning the lock.
27
gryphon
“You’re such a spaz!” James laughs, banging his
hand against the table.
“Look who’s talking,” Jon states as James’s fist
makes contact with his soda can, sending diet
carbonated fizz in a shower all over me.
My hands are very sticky now; they are not happy
hands. They are making me very unhappy. Along
with my once white t-shirt. It is now a soppy brown. I
guess I could wear my pea-green gym shirt, but even a
soda-stained shirt is better than that. Just imagining
the gym shirt draped against my shoulders, causes
them to sweat. It’s some form of behavior
conditioning, I guess. I can wash my hands though.
Well, I could if I didn’t have to
enter the bathroom to do so.
No one knows what goes on
in the school bathrooms.
There’s the smoking and cursing
and beating up and drug dealing
—not that I would know or
anything. I’ve just heard.
Sometimes there are even
females in the boys bathroom.
It’s almost as scary as the gym
locker room. I hate gym.
Whenever I pass the gymnasium,
my whole body flinches. When
I enter the gym, the flinch comes
with me.
And the teacher—er, coach.
Whenever Coach sees me, he
smirks. His eyes squint, and the
left side of his mouth raises
slightly. Sometimes Coach even
pulls his hairy finger across his
throat as a threat. The horrors
of the hairy homicide head. He
has a hairy eyebrow across his
forehead, which joins his hairy
beard, creating a very hairy face.
His legs have an inch of fur over
the skin. He doesn’t even have to wear a jacket in the
winter; his arms are that woolly. The only cold-weather
garment he dons would be his hat. That’s because
the top of his head shines as if it were the sun’s little
brother.
He wears orange hiking shorts, the neon kind, and
a green and yellow polo shirt. Sometimes he even
wears purple and black knee-highs.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind his apparel.
shall mangle Latin no longer!”
“Wait, is it true that Mr. Van Betove kicked you
out?” Zoe asks, sliding a carrot stick into her mouth.
“First you don’t do your homework. How could you
not have done your homework with that huge sign in
front of his door? The one that says ‘No Homework,
No Admittance.’ I mean, God, how dumb are you?
And then you go loony and throw a row of desks.”
“Well, actually the sign says, ‘No Homework, No
Book, No Admittance.’ And I had my textbook. And
it wasn’t a whole row of desks, just two. And I didn’t
even throw them.”
“You are such a goon,” James
states from my other side,
skillfully swiping one of my french
fries.
“Am not,” I answer, grabbing
for his slick fingers.
“Are too. James is right.”
“Shut up, Zoe,” I reply, giving
her what I mean to be a scalding
glance.
“Ha,” Zoe laughs at me. Her
canine teeth seem to grow as I
watch. “You’re a clumsy, badmannered goon. And that’s the
worst kind.” She takes another
bite of the carrot stick. With
orange mush grinding between
her teeth, she greets the boy
approaching our table, “Hey,
Jon!”
Next to James, Jon slams his
lunch tray onto the table. “You
guys don’t act up, ‘kay?” Jon tells
us, taking a bite of pizza.
“Why?” Zoe replies.
Her
eyes squint through her fogging
glasses. “Is Christie Whistie
coming over? Oh, how cute.”
Soon, I am staring at Christie. She’s establishing
herself upon the seat across the table. She can turn
even an ugly plastic chair into a jeweled throne.
“Hey, kiddo,” Zoe greets. “Wanna carrot stick?”
In a swift wrist twitch, she sends a blur of orange over
the table.
A scream erupts from a frenzy of frivolous
freshmen at the next table as the carrot stick of doom
slices through their blond-streaked hair.
28
2004
talk. Her eyes twinkle, and my cheeks turn red again.
She twirls a stray hair into a curl. My chest heaves as
I watch. I don’t know what I’m saying, but I make her
laugh. Her white teeth gleam in the afternoon light
shining through the windows. Her shoe brushes
against mine. A patch of warmth forms in my stomach
and spreads throughout my body. She winks at me
and reaches a hand into her schoolbag.
If this is heaven, I promise I’ll be the best saint
there ever was.
Kudos for his confidence. He just likes to touch our
shoulders and stuff. I heard he even slapped some
poor guy’s rear. If that’s how he swings, well then
fine. It’s just...no hitting on students. If he had
smacked a girl’s butt, would it be any different?
It’s a good thing I don’t have gym today. I’m not
really up for the torture. I do have music, though.
General music—a.k.a.: the dumb kids that don’t play
a band instrument and got kicked out of chorus.
Actually, I’m a pianist. The music teacher eventually
figured it out. Sitting in front of the horrific, cheap
keyboard and learning middle C, I pretended to be piano
ignorant. I’m enough of a freak already; I don’t need
to make it any worse. Eventually I couldn’t take the
piano torture anymore. During a keyboard test, as the
teacher had us play “Twinkle, Twinkle” with one hand,
I burst out with a little bit of Mozart.
Now I get to practice on the baby grand in the
auditorium during music class.
I really enjoy playing actually. I love the feeling of
the ivory beneath my fingers. I love controlling the
sound, layering the melody and harmony. I love
tapping my feet against the pedals. I love how the
notes cause the hair upon my neck to rise.
Sometimes I imagine Christie listening to me play.
She’d stand in the back of the auditorium. When I
end my tune, she’d clap her hands in a flutter of joy.
She’d approach my piano. Her arms would wrap
themselves around my shoulders and, well, yeah.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
Christie sits next to me on the bus ride home. We
My mother still insists of granting me a bedtime
kiss. She plants one on me. It’s the only kiss I’ve
ever had. Pity, eh? My lips are wasting away a little
more everyday. I stare at the star chart plastered upon
my ceiling. It’s from when I was a kid. I remember
saving the ten box tops from the Kellogg’s boxes. I
sent the box tops in a giant manila envelope but forgot
the stamp. When I never got my poster, my father
bought me this one. He even pasted it on the ceiling
for me. He didn’t even complain about ruining the
paint job.
The first night it was up I tried to find the Dippers.
The second night I tried to find Orion. The third night
was the Seven Sisters. Actually, I still haven’t found
any of them. It’s been six whole years.
That’s a pretty long time. Maybe I have
concentration problems—I’m sure there’s some drug
that can cure that.
Then I’ll fit in.
29
gryphon
Gray Area
Tori Kennedy
There in front of me lies a door. A gray door, but light enough that it blends
into the white walls around it. I cannot take my eyes off this plain gray obstacle,
yet it does not bother me. Something makes me feel that opening the door
would bring whatever lies beyond it—an evil perhaps—upon me, and in doing
so, I would regret my decision. I falter.
How do I know what lies or does not lie beyond the door?
I open it.
And as I step through the doorway, this gray threshold that in my mind both
interests and confuses me, it is as if the door has disappeared. I find myself
within what feels like a vast room, though once again I am compelled to keep
from looking around. I am surrounded by this room. Plain and gray.
And a girl.
A girl that stands alone in the center of this vast room, watching and waiting
for me. She is surrounded by various objects that give off a feeling that this
room is a home, though if I try to concentrate on them, they blur from vision
and thought. They do not want to be seen. All that can clearly be seen is that
girl.
She stands there, gazing purposefully at me. A plain, yet beautiful, lonely,
indescribable girl. And somehow, familiar.
Was she expecting me?
Yes.
The realization that this instant of communication has passed through us
without either of us moving somehow did not strike me as odd.
I think I will tell you in memory.
She sits in thin air, and right on cue a classroom forms around her, finishing
with the desk where she is seated. The dull slur of noise breaks through the air,
symbolizing the presence of students and a teacher somewhere far off.
The girl sits, and her eyes fix upon a subject across the room. Her hand
creates a cup for her chin to rest in as she looks on. I follow her gaze, and a boy
across the room, the one she gazes at, catches it and smiles.
She smiles back, and I can almost feel the connection between the two.
Love, I think to myself. Pure love, not a crush, but one that their peers will not
come across for years to come.
Yet, something else catches my eye. An angry face that stands out from the
crowd. He glares at the star-crossed lovers, focusing on the boy. Suddenly,
time itself freezes. The girl stands, separating herself from what has become an
image of her long gaze at the boy. Separated from the frozen room, she strides
over to the first boy. A pure and simple kiss rests upon his lips, and she moves
on. She walks over towards the angry boy with hatred that thickens the very air
of the room. Her eyes grow cold as they shift from his face to mine.
Pointing at his face, she says simply, as though no anger was ever there,
him.
Once again, the room changes. Events flash by quickly as if I am watching a
movie, but I am standing in the corner watching. The girl, laughing and hugging,
30
2004
kissing and holding hands with that first boy. The scenes change faster and
faster, but all are of those two.
And then they stop.
The girl, standing in a room of a house somewhere, sobs and drops a
newspaper to the floor. On it, two pictures of boys about the same age. Her
boy and the angry face of the other.
And then, one last scene.
The girl lies by a grave in the rain. She looks like a soaked, huddled mass of
nothingness—solitude, despair, loss, pain. Pictures are strewn about her and
the grave, water droplets blurring their surfaces. Swirling faces of the girl and
her beloved look up unchanging at the cloudy sky. She weeps openly, and tears
merge with rain upon her dirtied face. A great pity wells up within me, and the
gray room returns.
She stands again, gazing at me as before.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Who was this boy?”
This boy I loved. This boy meant the world and everything in it to me.
This boy I gave my life to see again.
She walks towards me, and suddenly I feel the pity rise. The faces in the
pictures, the familiar presence of this girl, that cold, cold grave in the rain...
Me.
31
gryphon
Hollow
Julia DeFulvio
choking in silence, no meaning is expelled
the emotion has since gone from our
endless conversations
for every word i cannot swallow
the single word “hollow” shoves itself
down my throat
the taste of repression lingers on my tongue;
a semi-permanent side effect of our last kiss
oceans of blood prune my hands and
i close my eyes to a stained reflection
images of euphoria flood my brain
as i painfully resurrect your
smiling face
32
2004
Cobalt
Jeff Rubesin
Cascading down, water slowly beats rocks into a desired path.
Trees open up at the base of the falls, unveiling the hallowed pond.
The sonorous drip of water becomes synchronized with the sounds of native wildlife.
A lizard lounging on a nearby log attempts to exhume his midday snack.
He fails.
The redundant drip of the waterfall creates a baseline for nature’s emerging symphony.
The sun’s excruciating heat beams down upon the lizard’s dark blue belly.
He stares.
His daunting eyes ravage the landscape in search of food.
Snatch.
Rapaciously, an unexpecting fly is lassoed by a whip-like tongue.
He’s satisfied.
The acrid taste soothes the lizard’s biting hunger.
His dark, cobalt body becomes more translucent as he eases in temperament and color.
A once intense gaze lightens.
Eyelids loosen and drop.
Sleep.
Falling from the heavens, a raindrop glances off his brow.
Sweating profusely, he glides into the pond.
This sentient creature returns to his throne.
Relief comes.
The sun quietly ducks behind a palm that overhangs the pond’s edge.
Verdant plants appear shrouded in ugliness due to the sun’s absence.
Mother Nature, feeling stripped of her prerogative, begins to cry.
Looking down, a raindrop shudders at its fate.
Splitting as it falls to the sullen earth.
Seemingly omnipotent clouds threaten to predict the late afternoon.
Tiny whitecaps form, as a wisp of wind superficially crosses the pond.
Large gusts follow, undulating in manner.
Palms swaying back and forth mimic flames on the wicks of candles.
A low, chronic rumble resonates in the distance.
Crash!
A luminous beam of lightning severs a nearby palm.
Water is emitted like a shock wave as the palm strikes the central pond.
Animals cringe and scatter for shelter.
Whoosh!
Wind surges and strips shrubs of their foliage.
The storm continues to pillage and plunder the once pristine society.
Nothing...
As quickly as the storm begins, it ends.
The storm travels onward to a cadence of thunder.
Sun peeks through anvil-like clouds, bringing happiness to gregarious shrubs.
Returning to the crux of their day, animals continue to feed at pond’s edge.
The lizard (unaffected by Mother Nature’s temper tantrum) licks at the water, which has formed a puddle in a
crevice in his rock.
The superfluous amount of water created by the storm fills the pond.
Wallow, bathe, drink, and frolic.
(Repeat.)
33
gryphon
The Garden
Kristen Humbert
In the garden there is many a beautiful flower
those that bloom and tease the sun with bold flesh
are often sought by men
who search for nothing that takes work
and thus pluck the flower from its leafy stem
to enjoy its beauty and flirtation a moment...
there are other flowers in the garden
whose petals mimic the darkness of a shadow
one must hunt for the glory of this rose
a worthy man doth take the time
once found she is left to grow
a majesty ever living, never hungering for
the light.
34
2004
Emotion
Jon Wightman
He looks a little silly as he walks in with his white-checkered hair,
Shaking out the snow, he locks the door and throws off his jacket
He’s quite a sight, bare chest glimmering with melted snow
Flexing all his muscles as he stretches out on the couch
The wind screeches outside as the snow falls heavily
He was growling seductively as I straddled his hips
Still purring as his mouth closed against my neck
The symphony continued; our growls, purrs, and moans
The smell of the woods still clung to him, despite the season
That musky smell that the snow can’t quite hide
The fresh smell of the fallen powder
Even lust, a warm smell, like love, but headier
Softly, my hand makes its way across his whole body
The nearly invisible stubble tickles my palm
His chest is still just cold enough to be noticeable
The hilly landscape of his jeans is rather suggestive
The snow up here is pure and tastes just a little sweet
It was still as sweet on his neck where I kissed
And the taste of raspberries still lingered on his tongue
And a tangy taste of his strawberry body lotion
35
gryphon
Breath
Paul Scherer
The neighborhood slept in the darkness.
Then a phone rang. Its shrill cries echoed through
the house of David Hallsley. Slow to react and still
dazed with lack of sleep, David reached groggily for
the phone, his hand stumbling over his bed table like a
newborn animal struggling to find its footing. David
had only begun to rest in the last hour, to let the
darkness surround him. As he picked up the phone,
David heard the first telltale whimpers of a waking
baby. With the receiver to his ear, David turned to face
the crib. He had just transferred it to the alcove of his
bedroom. “Hello?” He heard a sharp intake of breath,
a quick sniffle, and the click of the other receiver
hanging up. His eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness
of bare illumination by a light in the hall, David sat up
and quickly ran his hands through his hair, as though
making sure that it was there. The baby had started
to cry in earnest. His wails, bouncing off the walls,
carried through the empty house, searching for a
response. He’s hungry, David thought, climbing out
of bed and stepping onto a wet towel. He put his
hands under the child, hesitating only slightly with
impractice, and carefully walked down the carpeted
stairs. His fingers tripped over the bottle as he warmed
it; he felt only slightly ridiculous pouring a few drops
onto his arm. It took only a short time for the baby to
be fed, burped, changed, and sleeping again. Back in
bed, David resisted the urge to reach out to the empty
space next to him, knowing who would not be there.
He had not slept soundly since the night the sheriff
woke him up. While slipping into his worn, brown
robe, he had staggered down the steps, cursing at
whoever was pounding at the door. He prayed that
Michael would sleep through the disturbance. Staring
at a pair of wrinkled eyes, disproportionate through
the glass hole in the door, David swung the oak barrier
out of place and saw three officers standing there.
They had asked to enter...but they never looked at
his eyes, he later realized. That should have been the
first clue. David ushered the men to sit and then sat
himself. It had been quick, they told him. His wife,
Julia, had died in a car wreck. Their words had rolled
around in his head since that night, marbles too large
to be flushed out with tears. The sheriff had stared at
36
David’s feet while he filled in the details. There had
been a drunk driver...and a dangerous intersection...
David nodded and soon let the uncomfortable men
leave the house of mourning. They had knocked on
the door and come and gone.
He was no longer in disbelief. He knew. Their
knock had shattered his house of glass and sent the
world he had created spinning off its axis, just slightly.
How could he have known?
Caroline came alone a few weeks later, when the
commotion surrounding the funeral had died down.
Her sunglasses veiled her eyes; her hands shook. She
had rung the doorbell with the incessant urgency of a
tortured and chased soul. The sunlight was harsh in
the afternoon; its intensity rushed her through the door
and into the cooling shade of David’s drawn windows.
She held her arms about her shoulders, shuddering
with each breath; it had taken everything for her to
come. David closed the door behind her, hesitating to
shut it as his eyes took in the situation. He murmured
a slight, unanswered “Hello” that she may not even
have heard. David peered into the kitchen, watched
the baby in its electric swing for an instant, the gentle
tick-tock-tock that had permeated through the house
interrupted by this strange sensation of desperation.
Caroline sat on the edge of the couch, uneasily,
wringing her hands and eventually removing her
sunglasses. David sat near her but did not touch her.
She had become drawn into herself. “It began two
years ago,” her quavering voice cracked with strain,
desperately struggling to keep a steady flow of
syllables. “My sister said she couldn’t stand being
chained down. Then the baby...” She made a slight
gesture toward the child in the other room. Unable to
say anymore, she leaned into David and pressed her
mascara-stained cheeks to his shoulder. She had said
enough. Her tears spilled onto his blue shirt and crept
outward to form a deep-blue stain. More tears came.
They ran down his arm, trickling down the side of
granite cliffs. He had hardened in those instants of
betrayal. His wife had not been coming home from
buying groceries at all, nor had she been running any
other late-night errands. She had come, flushed with
excitement, from a man of whom David had never
2004
pressed the cold, metal handle to his now ungloved
hand and turned it. The waiting room was quiet. A
woman sat beside a window, tears at the corners of
her eyes, her hands limp, a scrap of paper in her lap.
The ruffles of her skirt stirred just slightly, the loss of a
dream seeping out of her. It was only his fear that
kept David from looking on her with pity.
David brushed by much of the sparse room, building
up enough courage to plow forward to the receptionist.
She spoke into a receiver in muted tones, her eyes
glued to a computer monitor, utterly withdrawn from
the plight of others. Her voice was soothing, but her
hands were constantly in action; her feet tapped and
her leg swung in barely perceptible arcs of utter
boredom. Her hips, widened from sitting for hours,
were glued to the chair. A Diet
Coke with a plastic straw was
David’s
stomach
not far from reach. She flicked
dropped as he pulled into the
Their knock had shattered his
a pencil to-and-fro between her
lot and parked his car. Taking
house of glass and sent the
fattened fingers.
a deep breath, he pressed his
world he had created spinning
He walked to the desk in a
palms to his eyelids, the
off its axis...
quiet way, his shoulders
force causing a burst of stars
stooped low.
His eyes
and colored ribbons to shoot
scanned her face, searching
out of some part of his brain
for any sign indicating that she
and strike his consciousness.
knew his secret. She looked squarely at David and
The car’s soft idling sounds did nothing to soothe him.
then brushed him off with a wave of her hand, as
The gently blowing heat at his feet still left him chilled.
though shooing away an impertinent waiter. His
Turning off the ignition had taken on an eternal
momentary hesitation, his manifest uncertainty,
significance; for David, it symbolized the point of no
delayed his retreat for a fraction of a second. Reaching
return. He opened the door and stiffly swung himself
to close a glass partition, the receptionist sealed herself
out of the car, supporting his frame with a hand on
off, as if she were not already. David walked to a chair
the car roof. A chill passed over his skin and hit into
and sat on its edge, the uncomfortable lip of the vinyl
his quivering stomach as he stood and read the metallic,
pressing against him. As if hiding from some
silver sign on the building, Wilson Medical Laboratory.
omnipotent truth, David closed his eyes, his hands
He had come here a few weeks earlier, that time with
covering them. Slowly, he reached behind his head,
his son. He felt his shoes grip the pavement.
lowered his torso, and shielded himself. He exhaled,
Glistening in the sun, the glass door’s stainless-steel
not having realized that he had been holding his breath.
handle beckoned him forward.
A moment later he inhaled, held his breath and waited
Suddenly, he felt naked, standing motionless at the
for a sound from the secretary. He gradually began to
threshold of the building. He could hardly open the
think that he would never be called. The seeds of hope
door, much less cope with the information he would
grew in his chest, as the receptionist’s suddenly harsh,
soon hear. He pressed his forehead to the glass,
hard voice startled him even more. “May I help you,
suddenly feeling its coldness as the glass absorbed his
sir?”
body heat. Suddenly, gripping the door with his gloved
Pressing his hands to his knees and lifting, he stood
hand, David pulled himself inside. The dark, stoneup and walked over to her. “I would like the results for
polished floor reflected his image back up at him. The
David Hallsley.” His plea was uncertain on the first
tempered lights shone behind frosted glass plates. The
syllable but soon fell back onto the safety of the phrase
walls, white save splotches of muffled, seemingly
that he had practiced the previous night when unable
bleached, modern art, were barren. He felt his stomach
to sleep.
drop as he came to Dr. Heisen’ s office door. He
heard and of whom David had known nothing. Julia
had not found happiness or satisfaction with him. David
felt himself crumbling from within. He led his sisterin-law to her car, the wheels screeching as she fled the
scene. He walked back inside, his son beginning to
gurgle and awaken. He had promised at his first
glance that he would never abandon his child as he
himself had been abandoned. He had made the
promises his father had never kept. He would love
the child. He could not let him go.
He swept his son into his arms, flattening his wisps
of hair against his head. His tears hit Michael and ran
down the back of his head. Hearing the child’s slight
whimper, David pressed his son more closely to his
body.
37
gryphon
another affirmation of the presence of the stiff paper,
he inserted the keys and left.
“Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he stuttered, pausing, then continued, “I
came in a week ago.”
“Do you know that your results have been in for
days? You paid extra to have them rushed.” It was a
statement, devoid of sympathy.
“Yes.” He stared back at the receptionist, ready
to leave.
She swiveled in her chair, reaching into a low filing
cabinet. Her hand reached into a file, its black cover
momentarily blocking her fingers. She extracted an
otherwise ordinary, plain, white envelope. “Is there
anything else you need?”
“That’s all. Thanks.” David put the envelope into
his upper, left-hand jacket pocket and buttoned his coat.
He pressed the envelope with his right hand and felt
it. Without looking at the receptionist again, he turned
around. As he heaved the door open again, he knew
that he had crossed a threshold that he could never
return through.
The sun shone in shifts; the rapid swirling of clouds
above him mixed sunlight with shade. He opened the
car door and lowered himself to the driver’s seat. With
The hours of brooding in his car as he waited had
not prepared David for the sight of his wife’s lover.
From Caroline, he had learned the man’s name.
James Hugo. It seemed sudden when James emerged
from his office building, unaware of being watched.
James affected an air of happiness and success, but
David thought he saw, or at least he hoped, that
James’s carefree attitude masked his pain. The sight
of his wife’s lover was neither a shock nor a push to
deny the truth. The man’s existence was simply a
confirmation of a horrible truth that David had not
wanted to believe. James made everything that David
had taken as truth a possible lie, another possible
fallacy. A part of David wanted to lash out at the man
who had taken his wife from her rightful pedestal, the
man who inspired David to question his son’s identity.
Another side of David made him want to shame the
lying bastard, to heap society’s wrath on his head.
As he continued to watch the man eating in the
deli next to his office, the pounding blood in David’s
38
2004
But that isn’t Julia, he told himself. There had to be
something else. Perhaps she was trying to escape
the normalcy that had begun to encircle their lives.
The arrival of the baby had toned down their time for
each other, but neither had had much more time for
the other before. Maybe it was for the danger, maybe
for the escape, maybe... David’s mind had gone blank.
I’ll never know.
David softly rubbed his temple with his fingers, his
eyes open and staring unfocused in the direction of
the speedometer. He raised his head and glanced once
more at James. His chest raised with the intake of a
breath, and his eyes shut for several seconds. He
opened them again. David’s car came to life quickly,
then disappeared, driving away from the cafés and the
bustle of commerce and into the endless blocks of the
suburbs.
ears slowed. David could see how James would tempt
a woman. He had sleek black hair and deep-blue eyes;
his chin and cheeks were slightly dimpled. His frame
showed regular exercise, but the way that he carried
himself suggested that he had seen the world. His
swagger had taken him through the Italian alps; his
crossed arms had gazed on the great matadors of
Spain. Julia had always understood people; she would
have recognized the man’s worldliness. David could
almost visualize her approach, a demure glance cast
across busy tables. She had sat with him, chatting in
her charming way, throwing her head back to let the
wind catch her hair. David saw her first almost daring
herself to stay and then gradually letting herself be
swept away in his charm. They must have met secretly.
James would have known about David. When they
were close, would either have ever thought of that
which they were destroying?
David looked out his side mirror as if averting his
gaze from the picture that had begun to form in his
mind. But the question lingered: What was it that he
gave her that I couldn’t give? The simplest answer
would have been affection, doting, and physical love.
When David arrived back home it was around two
o’clock; his mind was scattered. He entered to find
the babysitter ogling over the baby, her blond hair
forming a tent around the baby’s head. The child was
laughing in the soft, almost soundless way that babies
39
gryphon
do. She left after a few more quick glances and funny
faces in the baby’s direction. David went into the
kitchen and stirred up a bottle. Sitting on the coach,
he fed his son, no longer unsure of how to act or what
to do. His meal over, the baby was changed. He fussed
when David tried to put him down for a nap. In the
end, David lay down on the couch with Michael, softly
cooing the baby to sleep. When Michael’s breathing
had become light and even, David looked down the
length of the couch, the only noises the slight breaths
of air. David imagined their future, the coming years
passing as a rush of memories, here then gone, like
wisps of smoke in the wind. He saw Michael, growing,
learning how to ride a bike...asking him about girls a
few years later...shaving for the first time, father and
son playing with lather...high school graduation, his
son accepting his diploma...
Father and son soon slept silently on the couch.
synchronizing his breathing... But he couldn’t. There
was something different. Some discordant element
was destroying the harmony of their lives. David rolled
over. His eyes flicked involuntarily to his closet. He
knew what was there. David got up.
Moonlight streamed into the bedroom through the
uncurtained window. The infant was bathed in the
pale glow. David could hardly bear to reach down and
feel his son’s soft skin under his callused hands.
Michael’s innocence glowed from within, a hidden
quantity held just below the surface. David turned
around, faced his closet, and threw the door open. It
slid noiselessly. David’s hand plunged into the darkness
of the closet; it sensed where the shoebox was and
grasped it firmly. David could not bear to open the
box in front of his son; he would not know how to live
with himself if he built another wall between them.
David stalked into the kitchen, found a pair of
kitchen shears and a box of matches, and ripped open
the bonds holding the box together. He found the
letter sitting on top of a pile of joyful memories and
extracted it. The feeling of the cool, smooth paper
against his skin sent tingles up his arm. Walking
outside, David found himself only slightly chilled. He
stepped out onto his driveway and saw the moon
shining brightly. It was almost full. A light breeze
played games in the treetops, its footsteps the slight
indentations in the line of leaves. He lit a match. The
yellow warmth heated his skin. He slowly brought the
flames closer to the letter. The charcoal-black color
that always precedes a flame had just begun appear
on one corner of the envelope when the breeze
extinguished the flame. David stared at the letter. The
thoughts of an unsatisfied wife and other careless lover
flooded David’s mind. He had questioned his ability to
connect to his son. He lit another match and cupped
it against his body, tightly. The fire burned steadily.
He again tried to light the letter. The flames grew
closer to his fingertips, singeing them. David hardly
felt it. Finally, the letter began to burn. David dropped
the match. He watched the black ash dash ahead of
the engulfing flame as the barrier between his son and
himself slowly disintegrated into a pile of grey dust.
David released the envelope just before it reached his
fingertips. He watched the breeze carry it away, waiting
till the moonlight no longer illuminated the remaining
scrap of paper.
The light that had been gone for weeks rekindled
in his eyes. He turned away from the scrap of paper
and headed back towards his house, his son, his future.
He was free.
In the farthest corner of his closet, David hid a
shoebox. He stayed awake that night, filling the box
with everything that he wanted his son to know
someday. David had put inside a few of his love letters
from Julia, his will, a stream of thought put to paper
of how he felt when Michael was born, a few things
about fatherhood, a letter to his son of his regrets to
date, and the letter he had never opened. The box
was sealed with a mass of tape, never to be opened
accidentally.
The next day, whenever he opened his closet door,
David would surreptitiously glance into the corner.
David was and always would be a good father. He
knew it. After Michael was born, while he waited
outside of the room where Julia and her newly born
son slept, he had glanced through one magazine after
another. One line had struck him and came back with
stunning clarity: “In every breath we take, we breathe
the atoms of each and of every other living creature
with the exception of those of the very young.” David
knew that Michael was breathing now the breath of
his father, using and expelling it, without ever being
able to know if it was David or James. David had that
day promised to himself that he would love Michael as
he deserved to be loved.
David could not fall asleep the next night. The
soft breathing sounds of his young son did not comfort
him, but rather made just enough noise to keep David
awake. He rolled over and faced Michael. His son felt
distant. David reached out to his son and tried to dowse,
40
2004
41
gryphon
“They Call Us the Right for A Reason”
From Right Wing Conservatism: The Musical!
David Hulford
We’re the Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
When you’re Right, you’re never, ever left behind!
Because we’re Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
We’re Right in heart and soul and money and mind!
We’re the Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
When you’re Right, you’re never, ever left behind!
Because we’re Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
We’re Right in heart and soul and money and mind!
And when you’re Right, you’re nevvver evvver Left
behiiiind!
You’ll neeever see our hearts bleeding...
All over our expensive carpeted floors!
We’re the Riiight... And we’re Right!
And of that we’re surely, surely, surely, sure!
We’re the Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
When you’re Right, you’re never, ever left behind!
Because we’re Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
We’re Right in heart and soul and money and mind!
Our gaaaaas guzzling Es You Vees...
Will run the Left right off the side of the road!
We’re the Riiight... And we’re Right!
We’re Right even if what we say is a load!
We’re the Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
When you’re Right, you’re never, ever left behind!
Because we’re Right!
And they call us the Right for a rea–son!
We’re Right in heart and soul and money and mind!
We dooon’t like unfair taaaaaxes...
To take more just because we can afford it! How rude!
We’re the Riiight... And we’re Right!
And we don’t want any Left Wing attitude!
42
2004
“Trent Lott: I’m Dreaming (Of a White Congress)”
From Right Wing Conservatism: The Musical!
David Hulford
Music originally by Irving Berlin (“White Christmas,” 1942)
I’m dreaming, of a white...Congress,
Just like the ones I used to know.
With old, white, Christians,
With the sole mission
To keep white men running the show!
I’m dreaming of a white Congress,
With every Right wing bill I write.
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Congresses be white!
I’m dreaming of a white Congress,
With every progressive thought I fight.
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all...your...Cong...gres...ses...be Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite,
White...Congreeeessssssssssssss...(Hold for applause)
43
gryphon
Green Tea Leaves,
Antebellum Stopwatches
Mike Myers
Green tea leaves, antebellum stopwatches.
A perplexed ponderer pondering what is to be,
balancing on a stepping stone in a pond of empty thoughts.
The pond of thoughts is deep, as deep as the ponderer and his poem.
About six inches in terms of height, shallow brainwaves.
Washing machine lint trap. Post-menopausal conundrums.
Happy anesthesia in an age of cell phone brain tumors.
The brain is a paint can filled to the brim with existentialism.
Society needs a dictionary, for the big words in neo-classical masterpieces.
Creative thinkers never know what they say.
High speed car chase, cubism running rampant in the streets.
Electronic cords like tentacles violate our personal space.
Big brother watching like a voyeur monkey puppet.
Vapid, empty-headed geniuses come close to making points.
They fall short, more on this story at eleven.
Freeform jazz artists, modern-day robot dandelions,
still pondering the ponderer pondering the meaning of life.
One foot forward, left hand on the red. You sunk my battleship.
Cities crumbling like a cracker in the rain.
We sit back and ask ourselves, “What did I just read?”
44
2004
Time
Tim Graham
A sheep grazes silently among the flock
Grass coats the plain as far as the eye can see.
An occasional wildflower towers above the radiant grass.
The air is clear and fresh.
An ant meanders around aimlessly.
A barren wasteland stretches in miles;
Cleared of all vegetation by artillery bombardments and trudging boots.
The atmosphere is tense and uncertain.
A train races through a corridor between crowded skyscrapers.
A network of systematic tracks and roads grid the area.
Cars and trucks blast their horns in frustration.
The vibe is hurried and urgent.
Nothing exists.
Winds whip around unhindered.
The heat is still severely intense, yet it has nothing more to affect.
Silence exists...except the drone of a single aircraft.
A small stem tests the surface.
The sun shines magnificently in the warm breeze.
A bleak landscape lies ready for occupation.
The situation feels promising.
Such is the passing of time...
45
gryphon
Share the Darkness
Patrick Shubert
I can’t say I expected it to end any better. The
week had been hollow that way. Predictably enough,
things that seem too good to be true slip away under
the slightest inspection. I allowed myself to be drowned
and stirred in the moment.
Lying out under these stars, it’s all so simple again.
The sky spreads out above my head with an omnipotent
grace, touching the four corners of the world in an
indefinite moment. It can see through me, through
my antics, my intentions, my mistake. She must have
seen my world this way too. The road lies cool against
my back, and it holds me here in this hopeful eternal
moment. So much has happened, and so much has
yet to happen. I am here. Even now in a frozen silent
frame, which I manage to inhabit, headlights approach,
taillights recede. The world seems moist and real,
seeping through me. There was no way to know
better, no “right” answer that could have prevented
this. It just was.
I had been tired but happy. It was a feeling that
had become the standard mode of high school
existence. The grass was fresh under my bare feet,
and my muscles, though sore, were still alive. The
moment was familiar; the players exhausted and
content to retreat.
“Aw, hell, Mack, we have an optics test tomorrow,
don’t we?”
“Tuesday morning test, yup.” It sounded right at
the time. Why would anyone think I knew? I didn’t
care. I opened my trunk, pulled out my socks, and
stashed the ball away. The sky had begun to feign
death, only to be awakened again at some point in the
uncertain future. I had best set home. Already a dozen
friends had piled into various cars across the lot, with
diversified destinations in mind. A few hung by the
gate to the field, preaching in boastful voices of plans
for the Friday dance. I had little taste for the public
debates of girls’ merits, which would soon follow. It
wasn’t that I found it offensive but that I had very little
to say on the subject traditionally and added little to
the weekly post-game conversations. Pulling on a light
jacket and tennis shoes, I usually would head home
after my game and stop by a coffee shop on the way.
After spiking my tank with a necessary cup of caffeine
Java, I could head home and face the tedious reality of
my evening homework. I slipped into my car unnoticed
46
by the remaining crowd and pulled out of the parking
lot at sunset as the remaining boys cast long, lazy
shadows on the field in the remaining daylight.
The shop was a small comfortable one, bathed in
earth tones, but it did little to calm my pre-work
anxieties. At any given time I felt I carried the weight
of my unscheduled appointments. I made my way out
onto the street, coffee in hand, half dazed by the mental
manifesto of work to be completed later in the night.
A call from across the street woke me.
“Mack! What are you up to?” My eyes crawled
the sidewalk for the familiar voice of my friend Andrew.
“Coffee...alone?” he continued. “You goon. A bunch
of us are coming back here tonight, grabbin’ coffee
and studyin’ optics. You want in?” I thought for a
moment. I knew the chapter fine but the session would
be a necessary escape from my house.
“Sure, what time?”
Andrew paused for a moment, as if to think before
speaking, “Eight, I’ll see ya there.”
I found myself back at the shop a little after eight
that night, physics book tucked uncomfortably under
my arm. A dozen people had already arrived and were
milling about, insulator cups in hand. The class’s top
students were gathered around a medium-sized table,
paging through unnecessary tomes of notes as top
students tend to do. In a corner opposite them were
some juniors, studying for their own physics test the
next morning. The air caught my throat as I worked
my way into the room. It was thick with thought.
I made my way over to an empty table between
the seniors and juniors and sat down. I was already
exhausted. It wasn’t a bad day by any measure, but it
was tainted. Every day had lost its joy to me, wrapped
in a heavy veil of college anxieties. I wondered over
where I’d be in a year, without any answer. I wondered
how I would pay for it all. A light guitar strummed in
the background of the dimly lit cafe. I wanted more
than anything to be that guitar player. I wondered
what it would be like to be a gentle undercurrent of
contentment under the overtones of everyone else’s
professionally driven lives. I was slipping into sleep
while waiting for Andrew, and the idea of doing any
work at all was unpleasant. I hoped no one would
approach me at the table. Andy found me quickly.
2004
fields of corn and alfalfa. I remember thinking, I’m
She didn’t seem anything special, but that was my
not alone tonight.
fault. Rachel had sat behind me in class the prior years.
We had never talked. I didn’t even know she took
That night I lay in bed awake. I wanted to show
physics. Now she stood there next to Andrew, her
her. My ceiling spun above me as I reconsidered my
neighbor.
few hours awake. I could see through the ceiling,
“These seats taken?” Andrew sat down before
through those hours of light, where suns burned
waiting for an answer. “Rachel’s gonna study with us.
overhead invisibly. I had been missing something. As
You don’t mind, Mack.”
I walked down the cold sidewalk and worried over my
“Yeah ... no.” There it was, undeniable work sitting
colder future, life spun out around me unseen. How
in front of me; there was no way for me to slip out of
was I so blind? It was always there, all around me and
it now.
without her I held myself close to it. What she said to
The night is somewhat of a blur. Andrew circulated
make it clear remains a mystery. I didn’t remember a
tables while Rachel and I tried to get a grasp on our
deeply philosophical conversation or any revelation.
tests. She was younger, but I was no help. Less work
It just had been there. I wondered if she felt it too.
got done as an unexpected conversation grew slowly.
If you ask me now what she said to me, I couldn’t tell
The next day, school passed before I realized it
you. It’s not that I wasn’t listening; it just seemed
had begun. The physics test seemed practical, nothing
unreal. I had never talked to her before, but it seemed
outstandingly hard or easy, and a bunch of kids decided
full and familiar. Our physics books sat open between
to stay after school to finish up a take-home portion
us, lonely and unstated. We procrastinated and were
of the exam. I hoped Rachel would be there. I found
distracted by a conversation that ebbed lightly with
Andrew instead.
guitar in the background. It seems like a dream, and
“Yo, Mack, what do you have on problem seven?”
perhaps it was. Slowly the room emptied, but we were
Andy inquired. I looked down at my pages of work.
unaware. I was still surrounded by the thoughtful
Number seven was blank.
ghosts of those who had been present hours ago, but
“Um, I haven’t gotten to it yet...” Andrew
I only saw her eyes. It was the perfect time of day,
continued his work, not giving me so much as a
until closing time.
disappointed glare. Finally, he looked up at me with a
We said our goodbye as we moved into the street.
half-crooked grin.
It was a shy unwelcome goodbye. It was a pleasantry
“Maybe you’d have finished...if you hadn’t had
after a conversation to which we had both wished there
such a good time last night.”
would be no end. I
“Aw, go to hell, man. You’re kidding
climbed back into my
me. I was just helping her with Physics.” I
small car on the
paused a moment. “And stuff...”
opposite side of the
“And stuff...and stuff...” Andy laughed.
street and threw it in
“... You’re kidding me.
My face filled with blood as I tried to defend
gear for home. The
I was just helping
myself against Andrew’s unwarranted
back roads were dark,
her with Physics.”
romantic attacks. Luckily, the subject herself
with
very
little
I paused a moment.
chose to interrupt our conversation. I
moonlight to cut
“And stuff...”
noticed Rachel as she walked through the
through the crisp
door. “ ...and stuff... You two are cute,”
November air. The
Andrew laughed, unaware that she had
stars pierced the
entered the room. I shot him a dirty look
blanket above me.
and threw my eyes towards the door. He
They were innuturned to see her nearby and then sent me
merably large and
back an embarrassed shrug. My eyes returned to
inexpressibly small all at the same time. The darkness
Rachel; I wanted to say something.
was interrupted by delicately powerful points of light.
“Hey, Mack,” Rachel called to me.
I had never seen them before. Not like this. Perhaps
“Hey, Rach, how’d you make out on your test?” I
the conversation had dipped into a dream, and I had
asked with a sincere notion in mind.
now been returned to reality with a quiet celestial key.
“Well, I probably would have been better prepared
The stars were cast east over me as I drove west past
47
gryphon
before we said goodbye, and she reached for the door
handle of her car. In truth, that moment couldn’t be
long enough.
That night, I lay in bed awake once again. I could
see through my ceiling; it had practically melted away
from my room. I could see our star. I felt the stars
pierce my mind, cold and distant, warm and ever
present. I wondered how I had never seen them
before, such beautiful things gone by unnoticed. It
made me wonder what else I had been missing. I felt
as if I had been admitted into a new corner of life, a
niche that felt more right for me than anything I had
ever known.
The rest of the week passed in the same ether as
Monday and Tuesday nights. I saw Rachel each
evening up until Friday. We talked about everything.
Religion, goals, and music fell victim to our evening
conversations. I didn’t ask her about Friday’s dance;
it was all going too well.
if I actually spent some time studying last night,” she
laughed. I felt accountable.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I talked your ear off didn’t...” I
managed to mumble a short apology before she
interrupted me.
“No, no really, it’s fine. I just didn’t see it coming.
Had we ever even talked before?” I didn’t know.
Suddenly I realized I had probably seen this girl every
day in classes the previous year, and never taken the
chance to look deeper.
“I don’t know,” I chuckled awkwardly. “Hey, if
you’re not too busy tonight, how about I be a distraction
again? Want to grab some coffee?” If my question
was awkward, her response was even more so.
“Sure, I’d like that.” She forced the words out.
“Look, I’ve got to head over to play practice but take
my cell number and call me around sixish?”
I took the instructions as if they were a holy quest.
That night I called Rachel at 6:01—fashionably
I wandered into the school lobby about an hour
late. We decided to meet again at the café that had
late, as upperclassmen
been so kind to us. I found her about a half
tend to do. Music leaked
hour later sitting at our table from the night
from the closed cafeteria
before. I had never realized how beautiful
as freshmen ran across
she was. It was that quiet understated
I felt as if I had been
the hallway screaming and
beauty, the type that just seemed to lie
admitted into a new
carrying on over the social
asleep under everyday life until you manage
corner of life, a niche that
event of their naïve
to awaken it, and then there’s no way out.
felt more right for me
adolescent existence. I
Our words trumped those from the night
than anything I had ever
just wanted to find her. I
before. Everything seemed familiar and
known.
pushed my way through
comfortable; she seemed familiar and
the crowd of toddlers in
comfortable. Again we lost track of time,
make-up and grown-up
and when we realized it was almost nine,
clothes, into the cafeteria.
we hurried out onto the sidewalk. It was
The music and lights
another cold November night, with not a
were mildly disorienting, and I felt congested as crazed
single cloud to blanket us. As I walked her back to her
dancers surrounded me. I spat words at casual
car, we both looked towards the sky. There were
acquaintances and friends as I pushed my way through
countless stars, all hanging just above our heads. I
the crowd of dancing ninnies towards the front of the
watched her watching them. I didn’t need to show her;
room. I saw her through the crowd; she was more
she just seemed to know.
beautiful than ever. Surrounded by friends I didn’t
“Let’s pick one,” I asserted.
know, she laughed and shouted over the music at an
“What?”
unfamiliar guy. She leaned over and kissed him.
“Let’s pick a star, our star.” I hung back about five
I don’t remember forcing my way out of the
feet out of my skin, watching myself. What are you
cramped cage of teenagers, fighting fiercely for space.
saying? It was that kind of sentimental bullshit you
I don’t remember storming out of the school to my
might see in a 1950’s romance B film, but I liked it.
convertible in the parking lot. I don’t remember
She hesitated for a moment and looked up at the
throwing my car in gear and peeling out of the parking
sky. “That one, just below the other three in the line.”
lot, no sound destination in mind. I couldn’t go home;
I found the star without trouble. It was ours. “It’s
my parents would only fill my night with inquiries and
amazing. I think you picked the best one.” We paused
concerns; they wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t even
and looked at each other. It seemed as if hours passed
48
2004
faded into the distance. The road pushed against my
back, cool and solid beneath me. I wonder how it
could have all been such a sham. I wonder what I
saw, if it was ever really there. How had it all faded
away, like my ceiling? I’m tired now. As I push my
eyelids apart, a familiar sight descends. I peer into
the sky, my body spread across the road, and a single
star falls on me. All the beauty is still there. The
heavens glow, cutting through an inexpressible
darkness. It swallows my world, and I feel no alarm
now. The innumerable specks of light sit over my head,
ever present, unaffected by my joy and my tears. They
had always been there, the constants of my life,
unstated and unrealized beauty. Only now is the
darkness so warm, as my body’s heat dissipates into
the cold earth. I can feel my life seep away into wet
pavement. No questions, no answers reach me now,
as I watch the sky and sleep.
understand. It had all seemed so right. It had all been
so fake. I felt my heart pounding against the back of
my bucket seat, my car sliding across country road past
fields and livestock. A clearing was familiar. I saw my
Monday night field. I pulled my car into the vacant
lot, and threw my door open, slamming it a moment
thereafter. The field was empty, given a second life by
the night, and I made my way up the short
embankment between the parking lot and the road. I
took a step onto the cool pavement, still looking across
the street into the open field. I didn’t even see it
coming. Thinking back now, I realize it was a small
black car that must have whipped around the turn as
kids like to do.
The collision felt light. I felt my body tossed by the
force of the car, a final physics question left
unanswered. The car paused for a moment, quivered,
and then peeled out, leaving me behind. The taillights
49
gryphon
Marcel Duchamp: Potty Mouth
Emily Flynn
I received a call from my New York apartment last Saturday afternoon. I was shocked
to hear it was my dear, old friend, Marcel Duchamp. After a lengthy conversation
concerning his view on the break-up of Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck (he thinks they
should stay together), he invited me over to his home in New Jersey.
Upon arriving in New Jersey, a place I commonly avoid, I was surprised to find
myself standing in front of a row of well-to-do homes. I was looking for number fourteen,
the address Duchamp informed me was his own, and was unable to find it. I had to find
his house through process of elimination. I was walking through the door of the house in
between numbers twelve and sixteen when I heard a raucous noise. It was Duchamp in
the shower, singing “Don’t Rain on My Parade” by Barbara Streisand. He excused himself
and asked me to sit for a bit while he changed. I decided to snoop around his house for
a bit. Not one wall was left blank. He had numerous reprints of Cezannes, Monets,
Picassos, and Matisses. I found a rather unusual-looking door (a large wooden one) and
decided to let myself in. I must have stumbled upon his studio. It was covered with
litter…excuse me, “art.” There were urinals, disassembled chairs, etc. One thing that
really struck me was a canvas with a giant picture of J.Lo with a mustache. Written just
below it was “elle a chaud au cul.”*
Hmm I don’t particularly like J.Lo, but that seems a bit acerbic, I thought to myself.
Just as I was about to continue snooping, Duchamp appeared in the doorway.
“You ready?” he asked in a high-pitched, womanly voice—heavily laden with a French
accent.
I acrimoniously snapped my head and was surprised to see Duchamp in a bleachedblonde wig, a translucent shirt which allowed his black lace bra to show, a tight purple
skirt, and fishnets which allowed his profuse leg hair to protrude from the tiny squares. I
must have been staring because Duchamp asked me what was the matter.
“No…nothing,” I stammered.
“Oh good then. Are we ready?”
“Yes. Yes I’m ready. Are you ready?”
“Why yes, of course. Oh and by the way, you can call me Rrose Selavy while we’re
out,” he said with a wink. He quickly exited the room, his high heels clinking and hips
swaying. Well, I’m not one to pass judgment.
We proceeded to leave his house and walk down the row of homes. We generated
innumerous stares from passerbies. At first I was impressed by Duchamp’s prominence
in this town, and then I remembered he was dressed as a rather unconvincing woman. I
began to interrogate Rrose as to why he…she behaved like this. What I got in response
was his…her normal superfluous babbling about beauty and being unconventional. This
only stopped when Duchamp bent over to exhume a Styrofoam cup from the soil.
He seemed to study it for a good while before saying, “I just like trash, and, well, rich
people have better trash. Take this cup, for example. What a fine piece of litter. That is
why I choose to live here. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of my art.”
* “L.H.O.O.Q.” is a title of Duchamp’s famous spoof on the Mona Lisa. The title, when said in French, sounds
like “elle a chaud au cul,” which means, “she has a hot ass.”
50
2004
We walked another few blocks. I was still unaware of where we were heading so I
attempted to ask Duchamp but got cut off. Suddenly a dog peed on the tree next to us.
Duchamp proceeded to grab the bark rapaciously off the tree. I asked him, “What will
you call this piece?”
He replied, “The Acrid Soul of Modern Nature.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. Personally, it seemed a tribute to the potent smell
undulating up into my face.
“Whatever you want it to mean, my boy. Whatever you want. I think we should
explore time and space and what is beauty…” He rambled on for another twenty minutes
on the matter of beauty. I didn’t pay much attention; I was staring at a woman in a
horribly ugly dress. I returned to the conversation a few blocks later. “...Take Fountain,
for example. Genius. Pure Genius,” he was saying. I still find it hard to believe that a
urinal, or a cup for that matter—an object people normally throw away—could be
considered genius, or beautiful. That is Duchamp’s way, though. He thinks the viewer
would bring in his own sentimental feelings and that is what would make his works art.
He has quite a way of making you think.
We finally reached our destination—a fountain (a real fountain, not a urinal). As I
watched the water cascade from the metal figures displaying carnal lust, I thought about
the artist next to me. I realized that he and his unorthodox works are no less beautiful
than this sculpture.
51
gryphon
A Day in the Life of Jack
John Windsor
Jack wakes up every morning one hour earlier
than everybody else. When asked why, he simply
says, “You never know when things are gonna
happen, so I like to give them a little extra time.”
Now as far as I’m concerned, nothing much happens
at five in the morning. Nothing ever has, and nothing
ever will. However, Jack likes to make every second
count. He doesn’t waste his time with sleep. The
way he sees it, every human on this planet spends at
least one third of their lives asleep and, to Jack, that
is a complete waste of time. This is why I decided to
follow Jack around for a full day...
Jack was a little uncomfortable about the idea at
first. He questioned whether I had a life of my own
and told me that I should stay out of other people’s
business. I told him that it was all in the name of
science. He then said to me, “If you wanna do some
science, you gotta send a robot.” I made sure to
quote Jack on this, and the day went on.
Jack enjoys simple pleasures. For example, he
eats his cereal in sections, making a half-moon shape
around the bowl. When the half-moon starts to fall
apart, Jack destroys it and starts over.
“Why did you do that?” I asked Jack.
“Because it was beautiful,” he replied.
“Something so beautiful doesn’t deserve to just fall
apart. It needs to go out with a bang. Take the story
of Achilles for example. Achilles was given a choice
as a child: to lead either a long and peaceful life or a
short and famous life. He chose the short life...as
did my Frosted Flakes.”
Jack had just compared his Frosted Flakes to an
ancient Greek warrior. However, Jack’s sincerity on
the subject made me question whether I should laugh
or not. Was Jack just being sarcastic, or did he
actually believe that his breakfast cereal was truly a
beautiful thing? Throughout the course of the day,
Jack put me through many of these uncomfortable
situations in which I never knew if he was joking or if
he actually had a point. I’d like to think that Jack did
have a point and that Frosted Flakes truly are a
beautiful thing when looked at through the eyes of
someone as enlightened as Jack.
I don’t think that Jack is crazy. I think that Jack
is truly a unique person and that the word normal
52
has no meaning to him. However, I did find it odd
how Jack would sit quietly in all of his classes, not
talking to anybody at all. Just in sort of a trance where
he lays his head on his arms and stares directly ahead
of him. The other students converse with each other
and don’t even realize that, out of all of them, it is
Jack who makes the most noise. You see, Jack imitates
the school heating systems. If the heater is on, it
makes a low humming noise that people become
rather accustomed to and, in most cases, disregard
entirely. Jack finds these humming noises oddly
soothing and takes them a pitch higher, adding his own
humming into the mix. Some students become aware
of the changes in the overall sound of the room but
have no idea that the problem isn’t with the heater at
all.
“I like to mess with people’s heads,” Jack says to
me in a low mumble. “If you make a steady humming
noise long enough, people will think it’s just a part of
their surrounding environment. However, if you
suddenly stop making the noise, it becomes eerily quiet.
People begin to get uncomfortable because they feel
that there has been a change in the environment, and
they get uneasy. What these people don’t know is
that they need me to get through the rest of the class
without throwing themselves into a paranoiac fit. So
in a way, I have these students under some sort of
hypnotic spell. I am their leader, and they don’t even
know it. They are my sheep, and I am their shepherd.
It really is a beautiful thing.”
Jack has many friends, but he doesn’t feel that
many of them understand him, and he kind of likes to
keep it that way. His friend Paul once asked him
exactly what he does with his life. Jack replied, “I am
a gypsy.” He then changed the subject. Jack also
explained to me how he hates when teenagers go
through “who am I” phases. He explained to me how
teenagers shouldn’t waste their time trying to find the
meaning of their lives when their lives are really just
beginning.
“It’s disgusting,” Jack says. “Kids these days just
aren’t smart enough to go making dramatic changes
to their lives all of a sudden. When they go out and
try to find ‘who they are,’ they are in a way changing
who they are. They become different people. They
2004
moon as if he’s looking at it for the first time. I
suddenly realize that the moon looks very similar to
the shape Jack carved into his Frosted Flakes that very
morning. With only a few minutes left, I try to fit in
some more questions.
“What are your thoughts on the moon, Jack?” I
ask.
“Don’t even go there,” Jack says, still looking up
into the night sky. “Many poets have wasted their
lives trying to come up with the perfect words about
the moon, and none have succeeded so far. The moon
cannot be put into words, and I don’t think it was meant
to be. It is a poem in itself. It just is.”
Just before I leave Jack, I ask him one more
question. “Do you think you can save the world, Jack?”
Jack gives me an awkward stare before speaking.
“Don’t insult me with questions like that,” he says.
“We’re too far into the game for the world to be saved.
I’ll just be happy if I’m not around to see it all go to
hell.”
Jack looks up into the sky once more and then
back at me. “So the answer is no,” he says. “I do not
want to save the world... I just want to enjoy what’s
left of it.”
start hanging out with different groups of people and
suddenly think they have the answers to all of life’s
mysteries. Eventually, they all lose faith in their religion
and in everything else they once believed to find that
they just complicated things for themselves even more
so than before. I have never tried to find myself. I
already know who I am. I am Jack.”
Jack talks to nobody on the bus ride home. He
curls himself into his seat and stares out the window.
I would love to know what Jack is thinking at times
like these. When Jack goes home, he takes a nap for
a little while. Then, he either listens to music or
watches movies. Jack likes music, but he hates where
it’s going. Jack likes movies, but he hates when there
is no thought put into them, like teen movies put out
by MTV or Nickelodeon. An easy way to make a few
million bucks.
“I call these cookie-cutter movies,” says Jack.
“Movies that we’ve all seen before but with some other
fake-looking celebrity in place of the last. Movies like
‘Lizzie Maguire’ and ‘Agent Cody Banks… Frankie
Muniz is My Mortal Enemy.’”
Before Jack goes to bed, he walks outside to his
backyard and looks up into the sky. He stares at the
53
gryphon
Cynical Girl
Rachael Elliott
Two weeks ago, I was almost convinced I’d be
watching myself on the late-night Ricky Lake Show
as one of those trashy, teenage moms that ends up
being booed off stage by the next commercial break. I
kept having this horrible recurring nightmare. I walk
past a herd of Pro-Life protesters who seem to all
resemble my grandma and open the door to what will
be the most painful and disturbing experience of my
life. I’m thinking, I’m lucky I turned eighteen two weeks
ago or I’d be screwed. A preemptive abortion is what
I am about to have. A narrow tube called a cannula
will be inserted through my cervix into my uterus. It
will be attached to a syringe where the fetus will be
extracted. Thank you Roe vs. Wade. The doctor looks
at me and shakes his head in disappointment. My
other two kids are outside on the playground. I can
see them from my window. I turn to the nurse who
strikingly resembles Nurse Ratched from Cuckoo’s
Nest. I start shaking and convulsing. That’s when I
wake up.
Last Thursday, I was late for school, but managed
to sneak in the back of my homeroom without the
teacher seeing me. I was tired as always from staying
up late watching Conan, not that I could sleep anyway.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the clinic
had closed at three o’clock that afternoon. I’d gone
right after school and didn’t make it there on time.
What do they expect high school females in need of
reproductive health care services to do? It’s not like I
could’ve asked my dad to write me an early dismissal
note so I could go get some morning-after pills and
condoms. I woke up late and didn’t have time to put
make-up on, so basically I looked like shit. As much
as I didn’t want to care what I looked like, I did. I did
a lot. Unfortunately, it’s always been hard for me not
to care about those things. The day was going all right
until my classmates reminded me that I had an English
paper due fifth period—an English paper I thought was
due later in the week. Luckily, I had just dropped math
and had second period study hall. Second period study
hall has been saving me a lot. It sucks that Mrs. Stern
is a stickler for grammar and detail. I’ve never been
too good at either one of them. I remember this
54
obnoxious kid next to me saying I should make up a
lie to my teacher about how I work late or a family
member died and that was why I couldn’t finish the
paper. What a douche bag. I would never do that. I
hate excuses and even though I always have a good
one, I never use them. And anyway I had bigger things
to worry about than a stupid English paper. I could’ve
been pregnant for Chrissakes.
First period I have Earth and Space class. Since
my teacher just plays film strips the whole time, I snuck
out of the room without him even noticing. I went to
the bathroom and sat in my favorite stall. The
sentence, Tracey McGavin is a U.T.S. (USED
TAMPON SUCKER!!!), has been written in permanent
marker on the door of the stall. Ah, the creativity of
my fellow female high school students. Tracey
supposedly is my friend, but she’s also a huge slut. I
never minded the comment about her and actually still
find it quite humorous. As I sat in the stall, I hoped to
Jesus that I’d get my period. I sat there for a good ten
minutes when I decided that, if I kept sitting there
waiting for it, it was never going to come. I went back
to class and concentrated on writing my English paper.
By the second period bell, I had finished my English
paper. It was absolutely horrible but not that bad for
doing it in forty-five minutes. The day slowly dragged
on and all I could think about was that goddamn
nightmare. I couldn’t even imagine having to decide
whether to have a baby or to abort it. This was a
major distraction and because of it, by last period I
had failed one test, a pop quiz, and the paper. I didn’t
give a shit though. At least I wouldn’t until report cards
came out. Standing in front of my locker packing my
bag, Josh approached me. He questioned me about
how everything went the day before, and I explained
to him how I was in a hurry. He was pissed but still
asked to come along for the ride.
I parked my ’84 Volvo station wagon two blocks
away from Planned Parenthood. My mom works at a
beauty salon in town, and I didn’t want her to know I
was going there. I shouldn’t have even cared. She
probably wouldn’t have cared. Actually, I really don’t
know how she would have reacted. But still, I put the
hood of my sweatshirt up to stay incognito. I
2004
remember Josh gently kissed my cheek when I opened
the car door to get out, but I resisted him and pushed
my head away. I headed towards the clinic while Josh
stayed in the car.
too fat to have a guy make love to her. I’m such a
bitch sometimes. As my mind drifted away from my
fellow females in need, I returned to filling out the form.
I put my real Social Security number but changed my
name. I wrote my name as Phoebe Caulfield—named
Josh is my best friend. Well, basically, my
after my favorite fictional character’s younger sister. I
boyfriend, but we decided not to call it that so it would
filled out all the other pointless questions: Have you
be easier when we break up. I always thought he was
ever used a condom? How many times have you
too cool for me. When he first kissed me I thought it
had sex? And
was a bet with his friends. It wasn’t. It
then I handed in
turned out he really liked me. He is not
the form. About
the best looker in the world but easy on
fifteen minutes
the eyes. All that really doesn’t matter to
later, they called
He doesn’t keep a senior
me. He won me over, which is not easy
my alias.
portrait or a school picture of
to do, with his humor. He is the funniest
I went into
me; he keeps my embarrassing
person I ever met. Making me laugh is
an office in the
YMCA membership card.
quite the challenge, but it’s always easy for
back where I
Josh. I was looking through his wallet once
started talking to
when I found my YMCA membership card
this enormously
from the previous year. He must have picked it up in
fat Spanish woman. I was extremely embarrassed to
my room or something. It was taken after one of my
have to talk about something so intimate with a
sporadic once-a-month workouts. My acne is thriving,
complete stranger, but I put my head up and got
not to mention my hair is slicked back, sweat is dripping
through it. She asked me when I had unprotected
down my forehead and I am cracking up laughing in
sex, and I told her Saturday. I was almost too late to
the picture; I don’t remember what at, but it must have
use the emergency contraceptive pills because it was
been pretty funny. I always tell him I hate that he
five days ago. I totally bullshitted my way through the
keeps that picture of me, but really I love it. For once
conversation with the lady.
something I can’t criticize. He doesn’t keep a senior
“We were drunk, it was a huge mistake, never
portrait or a school picture of me; he keeps my
again,” I convincingly said. She lectured me about how
embarrassing YMCA membership card. Soon after
it’s necessary to always use a condom. I really don’t
the day I found that picture we started having sex.
know why he forgot, or why I forgot to remind him.
It was definitely a stupid mistake. Angry with myself, I
So there I was, biting my nails in this scheisty-ass
stayed silent. Tears began to stir up in my eyes, but I
waiting room of Planned Parenthood. I would have
held them in. She gave me morning-after pills anyway.
been there the day before, but it was closed. Just my
It cost me seven dollars. I was to take two pills that
luck. It was my first trip there and I couldn’t seem to
night and then the other two twelve hours later. I left
grasp how comfortable the skanks were that sat in the
the “P-Squared,” as called by the girls in the waiting
waiting room with me. They talked loud, chomped
room, with an information pamphlet about sex, a
on their gum, and laughed at each other’s lame jokes.
dosage of emergency contraceptive pills, and a paper
It’s like an errand for them. Like a trip to the 7-11. I
bag of condoms. Planned Parenthood helped me out.
could never imagine being like, “Pick me up some
I really like what they do there and I’m glad to know if
bread, milk, eggs, and, oh yeah, and some emergency
I ever need help from them again, they’re there.
contraception pills.”
I was embarrassed to be sitting around such trash.
People would be surprised about how common
But still, I deserved to be sitting with them. Meanwhile,
girls take morning-after pills (emergency contraceptive
this poor chubby redhead girl sat in the corner covering
pills) and have abortions. I can understand the
up her freckled face with a pair of sunglasses and a
morning-after pills because they are taken right away
bucket hat. I sympathized with her—I automatically
and the only effects are, well it feels like a huge
assumed she got raped. Then I felt bad because the
hangover—drowsiness and the spins. But an abortion
only reason I thought that is because she looked way
scares the living shit out of me. I can’t even imagine!
55
gryphon
lame bitches had to look it up on the credits because
they didn’t believe me. I really don’t even like my
friends. They’re just kind of there.
It’s so painful too. Megan Siwiki had one back in the
tenth grade. She never talked about it, but
unfortunately in high school the whole school ends up
knowing everything you try to hide. I remember
sympathizing for her. My friends all trashed her and
said how they would keep the baby and all this gay
shit. It is so much bull. You don’t know what you’d
do until you are in the situation yourself. I always try
reminding people when debating about abortion that
it’s not like getting a shot; it’s a painful, disturbing
experience. The woman goes through a lot of physical
and mental baggage. I always try to stick up for the
underdog. Megan Siwiki was one of them.
I stopped at the Shelbyville Mall before I went
home. A man was lying limp on the floor. Securitytype people surrounded him. They weren’t doing
anything but staring at him. If he was injured, they
weren’t even helping him, and if he was dead, they
were not trying to revive him for sure. After I lost
interest in what I figured to be a cry for attention, a
guy came up to me and asked, “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said. The guy told me they
were taking him away in handcuffs. I felt bad. No
one likes to be handcuffed, not even criminals.
The whole car ride home was silent. Before Josh
Sometimes I wish I had the balls to steal stuff, but I’m
got out of the car to go home, I comforted him by
always stopped by the thought of being handcuffed. I
saying, “There’s only like less than a one-percent
didn’t want to end up like the guy that the whole mall
chance. It’s nothing to worry about.”
was staring at. While shopping for a new CD, all that
Then, I drove over to my friend Tracey’s. My
I could think about was how I wished I would get my
friends observed my frustration and decided that we
period. I looked through numerous CDs but couldn’t
all needed to rent a chick flick and watch it together.
find anything I liked. That always seems to be a
They rented “Ten Ways to Dump a Guy,” or something
problem with me. There were huge posters of different
retarded like that. All I thought of while watching that
musicians hanging up all over the Sam Goody. A huge
movie was ten ways to kill myself. I could only come
poster of Janis Joplin was right above me.
up with eight. I couldn’t believe that people actually
Unfortunately, I am named after her.
paid money to
Joplin Breckin is my full name. Pretty
make that movie.
much everyone calls me Lin. I hate my
The only good it
name. Especially when kids would call me
did was take my
I thought about how if I was
Joppy in elementary school. That has
mind off the fact
pregnant, I’d name my kid 50
to be the most not cool nickname of all
that we forgot to
Cent or maybe J-Lo to keep the
time. My whole family is named after
use a freaking
tradition alive.
musicians. My older brother’s name is
condom. At the
Reinhardt and my older sister’s name is
end of the movie,
Lennon. I would prefer either one of
there was a girl
them to my name. Joplin is just—it’s
singing a song
just
not
a
first
name. People always tell me how cool
called “Feels Like Home.” My friends all raved about
it
is
to
be
named
after Janis Joplin, but I really don’t
it. I know this song very well; it’s written by one of
even
like
her
music
at all. And then there is the fact
my favorite musicians, Randy Newman. My friends
that
she
is
one
of
the
most famous alcoholics and
cut me up so much all the time for listening to Randy.
people
to
die
from
a
drug
overdose of all time. I guess
I’ll be jamming out in the car, and they’ll all be like,
it
could
be
said
that
I
was
destined for greatness from
“Dude, this sucks. Put on Buffet!”
my
birth.
Or
maybe
it
is
just
that my parents were on
Jimmy Buffet and his fans would probably be rated
a sick acid trip during the birth of all of their children. I
number two and three on my list of top ten things I
thought about how if I was pregnant, I’d name my kid
hate. Right up there with hangovers, homework, and
50 Cent or maybe J-Lo to keep the tradition alive.
that ridiculously stupid Kate Hudson movie. I guess
I was only in the Sam Goody for about a half an
that means I hate my friends too. Well, anyway, the
hour.
I ended up getting nothing, nothing except for
mockery of my liking for Randy ended when I told my
more
frustration from my indecisiveness about
friends the song they liked so much was his. It felt
purchasing
a CD. I had to go home.
good telling them that he wrote that song. But the
56
2004
I was disappointed with our conversation. It’s not
like it mattered; Lennon would be gone in a week or
two anyway. She never hung around long enough to
help me through my problems. She kissed me
goodbye. She put her clove out in a flowerpot on the
windowsill, slung on her tote bag, and disappeared out
the back door. Goddamn pothead.
I read a note on the fridge. My mom was
bartending, so she wouldn’t be home until three a.m.
I wished she were home. I would have told her, I would.
I inherited my sarcasm from my mom, so she’d
probably have just thought I was joking and told me I
needed an enema. An enema was Mom’s cure for
everything. Thursday nights are insane where she
works. I knew she wouldn’t be up until the next
afternoon. My dad was down at the local dive, Finley’s
Pub. That’s where he always is. I could never talk to
him about it; he’d call up Reinhardt and his buddies
and they’d all beat the shit out of Josh with their bare
fists. My family’s useless in helping me cope with my
problems.
The cell phone has to be the most annoying
invention of all time. Josh called three or four times,
but I ignored every one of his calls. I made myself
Bagel Bites for dinner and accompanied them with a
can of Pepsi and some channel surfing. Before I could
choose between criticizing Friends or Seventh
Heaven, Josh knocked at my back door. I let him in;
I was going to have to face him sooner or later. He
sat across the kitchen table from me and dug in on the
bagel bites.
“I don’t even know why I am so worried. Think
about how long it takes for some women to get
pregnant. I can’t be.”
He kept chewing and stared down at the table for
a while, nodding his head like he was really
comprehending something deep. He suddenly looked
up. He used his sleeve to wipe his mouth off instead
of grabbing one of the napkins two inches away from
him on the table.
“I love you and no matter what you want to do, I’ll
support you one hundred and ten percent.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m serious. I want you to know I’m there for
you,” he continued.
I turned my eyes to the thirteen-inch television set.
The pastor dad was combing his daughter’s hair.
“Give me a break,” I muttered.
Josh was immediately offended.
“Jesus Christ, Lin. You know you’re the most
pessimistic person I’ve ever met. All I want is for you
I pushed my back door open and entered my quaint
row home. Surprisingly, my sister was home.
Unsurprisingly, her eyes were beat and she was
smoking a clove. She just is too damn cultured to
smoke cigarettes. I was glad she was home. I thought
it could be my only hope to find some reality; she’d at
least comfort me.
“Baby girrrl!” She elongated my household
nickname in her scratchy voice that fits her vagabond
lifestyle perfectly. Lennon has to be one of the coolest
people I know. Carefree and optimistic, she is the
complete opposite of me. The last time we’d heard
from her she was braiding hair from a street cart in
Florence. That was three months ago. I never really
did get the point of her going to Europe. Lennon
always talks about the museums there. I bet she hasn’t
even seen the majority of the museums in our city.
Ah, I still love her. I hugged her more tightly than I
ever had; despite our six-year age difference and the
fact that she first left home when I was eleven, we are
extremely close. She offered me some weed but I
refused it. Smoking weed never did much for me,
except make me paranoid about, well, paranoid about
everything. Before I got two words in, she broke out
her picture book. I was flipping through her
photographs of Florence, Milan, and London, when I
stopped cold. My eyes were wandering from the
pages, and my sister was well aware. She blew a ring
of smoke out the kitchen window and told me to talk
to her. The thing I love most about Lennon is the way
she listens. Listening is a quality not many behold,
but Lennon, she has it. I wish I had her patience. I
went on and told her everything—me failing my test,
Planned Parenthood, the shitty movie, and the guy in
handcuffs. Lennon listened, but I couldn’t help thinking
that all she was focusing on was the fact that her
younger sister had grown up. I wanted her to be
worried for me.
“It happens to the best us. It’s really nothing. I’ve
taken plenty of morning-after pills in my day,” she
said as I poured a glass of water and swallowed the
pills. It was 6:48 PM. I shoved the other two in the
pocket of my jeans. I’d take them in the morning. I
thought her reaction was ridiculous. It shouldn’t
happen to the best of us, and I really don’t think it
does.
“Don’t worry, you’re not pregnant,” she continued
while blowing another ring of smoke in the air.
The fact is, I really didn’t think I was. That wasn’t
necessarily the problem.
“I don’t know,” I abruptly responded.
57
gryphon
to know how much I care about you and that isn’t
even good enough. Nothing is good enough for you.
I try so hard and all I get is your cynicism.”
I was so easily torn apart. I wanted to cry. I
wanted to punch a wall. I wanted to just run away. I
kept my eye on the pastor dad who was now hugging
his daughter. From the corner of my eye I could see
Josh’s wrists holding his tilted head up out of distress.
He lifted his head up and stared at me. I couldn’t look
back. He said, “I have to go,” and made his exit. Still
staring at the television I whispered, “I’m sorry,” but
just like with everything else, I was too late.
funny it would be if someone from school saw me right
then. With my oversized white tee shirt on that has
armpit stains. Not to mention, my large polka-dot
underwear that looked like a pair my grandmother
would wear. I don’t even recall where they came from
or even if they were mine, but what I do know is they
were worth looking ridiculous because they were
comfortable. I began laughing out loud at myself. I
stared up at the stars and begin to wonder about my
life and what was to happen in it. I began thinking
about the slight chance that I could be pregnant. I
would’ve loved to receive my menstrual cramping at
that time. The tears now began to roll down my cheeks
and like always I tried my best to hold them in. Of
course that just made it harder for me to breathe and
made me cry even more dramatically.
Josh was right. I really can be a bitch. My own
cry drowned out Josh’s voice that had been haunting
my head as well as the harmonized sound created by
my surroundings. My head began to feel heavier
because I was crying so much. I could taste the salt of
my tears and the unusual comfort of warm snot on
the top of my lip that I oddly enjoy so much. The
stars and moon had now flooded into one bright white
light conceived by my tears. Licking the top of my lip
I thought about going back to my bedroom and calling
Josh. I’d apologize for being so pessimistic all the
time. I eventually got down and went straight to bed.
Before I went to bed I climbed up on the roof of
my house. It’s easily accessible from the window of
my attic bedroom. As I lay down on my rooftop I
attempted to light a Marbolo Menthol cigarette. The
breeze was too rough to light the cigarette, yet it felt
so smooth when it brushed my long straight hair
against my face. Finally as the breeze calmed down I
lit the cigarette, lay back on my Little Mermaid sleeping
bag, and gazed into the sky. The stars and the moon
all fit together perfectly like a postcard that night. The
moon reminded me of a fingernail after I would bite
one off, or what I wanted it to look like. Biting my
nails was a habit I never seemed to be able to shake
off. My mom constantly attacks me for the habit, but
still never enough to make me rid of it. All I wanted in
that moment was to name the constellations, but I
couldn’t. It made me regret never making it to school
in time for my Earth and Space class. The sounds of
cars speeding down the nearby highway, crickets
chirping, and a backyard barbecue down the block all
harmonized into a perfect song for me on that hot
and breezy evening. I blew a ring of smoke into the
sky. From where I was positioned it looked like a cloud
floating over the moon. For some reason I was quite
amused by this and repeated it consistently, until the
cigarette was nothing but a bud to flick off the edge of
the roof. I then thought about how embarrassing and
The next morning I woke up in a small puddle
of blood. For once, I didn’t mind washing a period
stain out of my sheets. Along with them, I threw in
my regular laundry. I picked out my jeans from the
day before and reached into the pocket. I went to the
sink, cupped water in my hand and swallowed the
remaining pills, along with my pride. I wanted to let
Josh know as soon as possible. It felt good to know
that my biggest worry was to admit to him that he’d
been right about me.
58
2004
GROOVY
Mike Myers
I too can write funky freeform poetry,
Take a bunch of random words and phrases,
Each “embedded” with some deep philosophical meaning,
Or symbolism.
Call it artwork.
Be the pretentious groovy asshole
In the coffeehouse in a black beret
Quoting Kerouac.
I feel like a teacup in a volcano about to erupt (BOOM!),
Supporting the weight of American consumerism
In the form of a brand new alarm clock radio (beep beep beep.)
With a built in CD player,
Man.
I’ve given up rhyme, rhythm, and reason.
I say I find my influence in the words and the world of Walt Whitman.
Namtihw ni ecneulfni ym dnif I.
I also do avant-garde things like create some lines in my poem backwards.
I’m the mainstream oddity. I’m the outcast outnumbering the norm.
I’m the artist who submits a small dot on a giant blank canvas to an art museum.
I too can be loved by a bunch of high school potheads,
Who talk about trekking across America
With their four hundred dollar L.L. Bean backpacks.
I too can be void of structure and talk with my hands.
I too can write freeform poetry,
While saying I can dig it.
You dig, daddy-o?
You dig?
You can.
Dig it...man.
59
gryphon
Silence is my only friend, weaving its solemn vows into everyday speech like stitches in a quilt. Hardness of
heart builds up and explodes, their shattered fragments piercing the surroundings with such forced vengeance
that the sidewalks bend and crack. Those pieces lost only years ago—I could have sworn it would be okay, that
it was a storybook, and you were all that mattered. I could have sworn it all meant something, that when we
spoke I lost my shadow and lightyears meandered at an ant’s pace as they carried crumbs upon their backs,
trying to make their way back home.
Years have passed, but somehow our lives have crossed again and it feels like old times. Conversational
laughter mixed in with strands of hair and sincere eyes. I almost forget the years of silence, almost, until that
one, anti-climatic moment when I look into your eyes and realize that hope is dead, that your words will
never match mine, that I will always carry a shadow, and that with the mercy of untraceable gods this is the
last time we will ever meet again.
Justin Chen
60
...IN MY BACKYARD EATING COTTON CANDY.
HE JUST KEEPS TELLING HIMSELF THAT…
...AND I STAND UPON THE DEWY GRASS,/ WITH A SMILE AT THE WHISPER IN MY EAR.
...A SEVENTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MAN./ THE CHEMISTRY WAS WITH HIM AND A NINE-PIECE BAND.
...TO USELESS/ KEPT FOR THE MEMORIES/ WORTH NOTHING/ YET, WE WERE THE REGULARS.
...TOGETHER. THAT’S WHY WE’RE HERE NOW, LIKE THIS. ANTICIPATING THE CONVERSATION.
...FOR THIS/ BECAUSE WHO WOULD BELIEVE YOU COULD BE ADDICTED TO/ A KISS
...FOLLOWING HIM,/ AS I, THE WISE MAN LEFT BEHIND, RUE/ THE DAY I MET YOUR MIND.
...THE DOOR, HE GRIPPED THE KEY, ALREADY IN THE IGNITION, AND TURNED IT FORWARD.
...MELODIES/ BUT I BELIEVE/ YOU NEVER EVEN ESCAPED/ OUR AWKWARD/ SILENCE
...DOWN.
“I WOULD THINK, BY NOW, SON, SHE’S SOMEWHERE MAKING ART,” HE SAID.
...FOR WORDS IN SILENCE, AND BARELY ENOUGH SPACE FOR SILENCE AMONG OURSELVES
...AS EMPTY AS HER SMILE. IT ECHOED AROUND THE SILENT ROOM. “I WASN’T HUNGRY.”
...SEEN!/ (HITTING HER HUSBAND) TONY, SHUT UP!!!/ (LIGHTS OUT AND CURTAINS CLOSE)
GRYPHON
...THE FAMILIAR PRESENCE OF THIS GIRL, THAT COLD, COLD GRAVE IN THE RAIN…
2 0 0 4
...PROBLEMS—I’M SURE THERE’S SOME DRUG THAT CAN CURE THAT. THEN I’LL FIT IN.
ME.
...OF EUPHORIA FLOOD MY BRAIN/ AS I PAINFULLY RESURRECT YOUR/ SMILING FACE
...BY THE STORM FILLS THE POND./ WALLOW, BATHE, DRINK, AND FROLIC./ (REPEAT.)
...SHE IS LEFT TO GROW/ A MAJESTY EVER LIVING, NEVER HUNGERING FOR THE LIGHT.
...STILL LINGERED ON HIS TONGUE/ AND A TANGY TASTE OF HIS STRAWBERRY BODY LOTION
...OF PAPER AND HEADED TOWARDS HIS HOUSE, HIS SON, HIS FUTURE.
HE WAS FREE.
...MONEY AND MIND!/ AND WHEN YOU’RE RIGHT, YOU’RE NEVVVER EVVVER LEFT BEHIIIIND!
...SES…BE WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE,/ WHITE…CONGREEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS...(HOLD FOR APPLAUSE)
...A CRACKER IN THE RAIN./ WE SIT BACK AND ASK OURSELVES, “WHAT DID I JUST READ?”
...FOR OCCUPATION./ THE SITUATION FEELS PROMISING./ SUCH IS THE PASSING OF TIME…
...NO QUESTIONS, NO ANSWERS REACH ME NOW, AS I WATCH THE SKY AND SLEEP.
...THAT HE AND HIS UNORTHODOX WORKS ARE NO LESS BEAUTIFUL THAN THIS SCULPTURE.
...“I DO NOT WANT TO SAVE THE WORLD…I JUST WANT TO ENJOY WHAT’S LEFT OF IT.”
...THAT MY BIGGEST WORRY WAS TO ADMIT TO HIM THAT HE’D BEEN RIGHT ABOUT ME.
...WHILE SAYING I CAN DIG IT./ YOU DIG, DADDY-O?/ YOU DIG?/ YOU CAN./ DIG IT…MAN.
...THE MERCY OF UNTRACEABLE GODS THIS IS THE LAST TIME WE WILL EVER MEET AGAIN.