HOMAGE TO HEMINGWAY
A Clean, Well-Organized Kitchen
Sierra Bravo
She slammed her book bag in the kitchen counter and headed to the fridge and
took a carton of milk, let out a big sigh and said, “Mom, this milk is old.”
“It’s organic, only a day old, and has always been in the fridge. It’s not gonna kill
ya.”
“So how was school today?”
“Okay I guess. The fire alarm went off twice.”
“Was there a fire?”
“No, someone set the garbage on fire in the boy’s second floor bathroom.”
“And the second one?”
“Someone pulled the fire alarm.”
Her mom raised her eyebrows
“Yeah, they probably had tests and didn’t want to take it.”
“That’s interesting. Seems like they’re not facing the consequences for their
irresponsible actions.”
“Am I right, Ar?”
Arlene reached over the cupboard to get the cookie jar and slammed the
cupboard just above her mother’s head. Her mother was 5 foot 2 and she was 5 foot 8;
her dad was a professional swimmer.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. She took out the first two cookies, ate them in two bites,
and took a gulp of her milk.
“Jesus Ar, slow down with those cookies! Mark is still at school. Nobody is going
to take them away from you.”
Arlene shrugged and continued to eat.
“I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten in hours. I hung out with Eric today after school.
We did homework together.”
“Oh, homework…”
“Yes, mom. Homework.”
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
Her mother shook her head
“What isn’t working?”
She took a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese from the fridge and let out a huge
sigh.
“What are you cooking?” Arlene asked.
“Dinner.”
“Can you be more specific?”
She gave a long pause.
“I’ve been thinking and I’m sorry, I’m going to have to tell your father,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“No mom, you promised. You said when he gets back in town.”
1
“I don’t think I can handle this anymore. It’s too much pressure on a single
parent.”
She held her tears tightly.
“It’s just…too unfair.”
“Does Mark know?”
“No, the last thing I want is for him to know.”
“Well, he has to know eventually.”
“You tell him then.”
Frustrated, she let out a grunt and headed upstairs to her room and slammed her
door.
Liqueur à Bas Prix pour des Ivrognes
Danica Borgatti
It was a nice, cool evening with the wind picking up a bit as the moon rose higher
in the sky. I was waiting for a nice friend, Jorge, at the Liqueur à bas prix pour des
Ivrognes. A nice-looking couple walked by, the man short, the woman tall; she was
wearing nice heels and still shown taller than the man, unlucky man, with a woman who
is taller, more sophisticated, more broad, with long legs moving lithely under stockings
and a short plaid skirt, a woman who shows more character than he in a simple outfit
that ought to catch every other man’s eye who goes by the nice couple. Poor man, as this
woman who may be his wife and looked at more than he, thought of more than he,
desired more than he, and when he cannot pick up any other woman for a date that
evening, he must be stuck with this one whom all other men are looking at and thinking,
“What a nice looking woman, she truly mustn’t be with him, what woman would want a
man shorter, fatter, less nice-looking than she?”
That has nothing to do with the story. This story is about Jorge. No, it’s about
me; no it’s about Jorge, no I think it’s about me, Okay, I shall make it about Jorge, no it’s
really about me. Anyway, I was waiting for Jorge at the bar, but enjoying the cool
breeze that was whispering off the top of the river. As Jorge walked up to my table, I
ordered a drink for each of us.
“Nice hat.”
“Yes. Five francs from a tourist shop.”
“Looks something a darb would wear,” I said.
“Lively it is, more than your tight self.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Take that back.”
“Don’t get sore about it.”
“Take it back.”
“I take it back, sit down.”
“Cut a chap a break.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Take that back.”
“Garçon, a pernod for me and three for the chap.”
2
The waiter brought us four pernods and we finished them off by eleven. He
brought us next a bottle of champagne.
“I say Lorence, that girl over there, she is nice. Isn’t she nice? She is nice,” Jorge
said.
“I’ll ask her to dance.”
“You will do no such thing, cut a chap a break.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I will bet you 50 francs that nice girl will dance with me,” he said. “She has a
nice hat.”
By the end of the night he had danced with her four times and we each finished
off two bottles of champagne. I paid the waiter and walked back to my flat after waving
Jorge a good-night and went to bed.
The Tailor
Janmilly Campbell
In that unusual winter the sun was high and the ground was lightly covered with
snow. A cold breeze started to blow and I could feel my skin burning. He finally arrived.
Timothy Tenor was a well-known tailor. He made a fortune selling men’s clothing.
We got in the car. The car went down large avenues where skyscrapers formed
walls around us and the sunlight shocked the glass windows. We kept going towards
the light to the Central Plaza. The car stopped in front of the Café Luz. We got out and
sat outside at a small table. I ordered two cups of coffee.
“How was it?” I asked.
“It was a success,” he said.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Great time.”
“When are going away?”
He was often quiet. I knew. During his travels around the fashion world he had
many romances. Parties all night long with beautiful girls yet he was in love with
Julliane Canella. That last trip changed something in his life. He looked at me cockeyed
and took a sip of coffee. I sat there. As his friend I waited for his words and he said
nothing. I asked: “What can I do?”
“Well, I have plenty of money. You know I did not believe it at first,” he sadly
smiled.
“That’s rotten,” I said.
Tenor took an envelope from his pocket and put it on the table. He rose up and
shook my hand. He started walking along the avenue. While I sat there I saw him
disappear into the middle of the crowd.
3
A Proper Woman
Jordan Cravens
Autumn rain came in from the coast, swept against shop windows by the gusts
with leaves and litter, and I turned up my collar and ducked into the first café on the
block, and sat at a table in the corner by the street, and watched the girls run with their
hats pressed to their heads, and the old men in trenches hunch their shoulders against
the wind. The menu stood on the table and no waiter came to greet me. From outside
came barking, and I looked over to see a dog standing by the street. He barked at
nothing in view, low on the street between the old men. I reached into my coat and
brought out a flask, tipped it back, and felt it warm my throat.
“Eli!”
A woman’s voice came, and she entered the dining room and stared at me,
“Eli, oh, it’s so good to see you!”
“How are you?”
“Oh, fine. Came in from Harley just for this weather.”
“It’s been quiet these past few days.”
“Quite.”
She sat at my table and set her purse under it, crossing her legs and adjusting her
hat. Her hair was short and brown, and curled at the bottom. She wore a thin black
sweater, black Capri pants and ballet shoes, with a thin white coat which dripped on the
floor. The dog barked and she looked to the window to see him.
“What a dreadful creature. Strays run the streets these days.”
“He might be waiting for someone.”
“Oh, don’t be so sentimental, dear.”
She lit a cigarette and found the waiter, hidden behind the long wooden bar.
“Waiter, a coffee, please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Of course.”
He set to work at the grinder. The sound echoed in the corner. She continued
talking,
“Well, Jonathon, you know Jonathon, he’s having his second youth.”
“It’s good that he’s preoccupied himself.”
“No shame at all, that man.”
“He must be happy.”
“A man only thinks he’s happy.”
“He doesn’t seem the type to keep on when it’s not good for him.”
“Quite.”
The waiter set a cup and saucer on the table, and a tray holding the cream and
sugar.
“As I was saying, he hasn’t any sense.” She said.
I took a deep swig from the flask. The dog was silent on the street and the rain
came harder, blowing water through the street. His fur hung in rags and flapped against
his chest. Facing the building, teeth bared, he howled again, rising and rolling his
shoulders. No one else dared brave the storm. Rosalie cringed and touched her temple.
“Animals have no place among the civilized. It’s a wonder Jonathon can’t
recognize that.”
4
“What a fool.”
“So I think. A truly Gentile man has sense, a man like you.”
For a moment, her hand brushed over mine on the table, and then she drew
away to sip her coffee just loudly enough. A crack began at the rim, barely reaching her
lip before she brought the cup down to the saucer. The cup was plain and white, with a
white saucer and a thick handle.
“Harley isn’t as big as this, but people have common sense. Being proper is a
lifestyle.” She sipped her coffee again,
“Don’t get me wrong, it is lovely here. But this place attracts flies. And what come
with flies?”
“Maggots.” She said.
She flit her hand by the window and toward the bar,
“This entire place is infected.”
“It’s not so bad once you’ve lived here.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Half the city scares the living daylights out of me. And the
other half doesn’t seem to mind.”
The dog barked again, almost to rattle the silverware.
“Oh, I do hate mutts. This city is crawling with them. Jonathon would be a natural
attraction.”
“Perhaps you’re being a little unfair?”
“Unfair? I am jealous, I suppose. Women can be a little silly, sometimes.”
“He seems quite happy.”
“Quite.”
Rosalie looked out toward the dog, who continued barking. Her attention was
captive and her shoulders narrowed like the old men. The storm blew against him, but
he did not move from his spot. She closed her eyes and sighed, and reached for more
coffee to find the cup emptied. Her head shook and she hid her face for a moment,
“Oh, that sound gives me such a headache.”
“The waiter might know the owner.”
“It wouldn’t do, he’s a mutt, if I’ve ever seen one. This town is full of them.”
She called for another coffee to calm her nerves and the clanking sound of the
grinder began again. The dog changed his approach, and whined and yipped, still aiming
at a window above the ground floor. The flask emerged slowly from my coat. Her words
came more quietly amid the noise, if not gently.
“Jonathon must be in a rut. A man going on like that certainly can’t know what’s
good for him.”
“I’ve known many men to do so in strange times.”
“Such a dreadful situation, and I thought men had the sense to avoid that.”
The grinder ceased and the dog’s bark came more clearly than ever. Her eyes
darted about in alarm and she shouted,
“Would someone shut that dog up?!”
The waiter ran in from the kitchen.
“Did you need something, ma’am?”
She put her hand over his as she had mine, the other back at her temple,
“I’m getting a terrible migraine from that beast outside, would you kindly
remove him?”
5
She took her hand away, and then he gave a small bow, and walked briskly
toward the entrance. The torrent beat against it with all the force of nature, and his face
grew wet as he forced the door closed with a creak. Bent, and apron quickly soaking
through, he barreled toward the dog, who leapt away at first. He caught a lock of its
tattered coat and yanked it back, avoiding a bite. Getting a good hold on the back of its
neck, and shouting at it to stop barking, he dragged it up the street. A yelp came,
followed by another over the rain beating the window, and within thirty seconds he
returned to view, wiping his hands on his apron, and taking it off as he tugged on the
door handle and stepped inside. The dog had run away.
Rosalie hid her mouth for some time behind the rim of the cup, and the waiter
balled up his apron and walked toward the restroom. Her coffee was gone by the time
he came back.
“I’m so glad that awful noise is gone. I can’t stand such disorder. It’s an insult to
the customer.”
“He might come back.”
“I’ve someone to deal with him.”
When the waiter came from the bathroom wearing a pristine apron, hair slicked
with water, she gestured toward him and he tended to her,
“Another cup of coffee, please.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
The grinder started in, sound grating.
“As you said, Jonathon is a fool. Doing that, he’ll never be able to be around polite
people. It’s insulting.” She said.
The waiter brought the coffee to her as I pulled my flask out again.
“I suppose eventually he’ll find the right route, with the proper guidance. He’s
sure to be cured of this disease once removed from the tumour.” I said.
He left, and she sipped loudly over the storm,
“Quite.”
A Farewell to Barnes
Kai Daly
I walked into the saloon. Dark men gambled in corners, while the rest watched
as setting sun’s shadows crawled further and further along the floor. A woman sat at the
table nearest to the bartender, and many men had walked up to her, and asked what
she was drinking, and she had politely turned them down, and I walked up to her.
“What are you drinking?”
“Soda. Sprite.”
The bartender waddled over, and pulled out a ratty notepad, with a ratty pencil
to match.
“I’ll have the same, but with absinthe mixed in.”
“Will do.”
The bartender walked away and left us to talk.
“Why are you leaving?”
“Who wouldn’t want to leave this place? I’m adventurous, I need to get out.”
“Don’t go.”
6
“I must, darling.”
“Let me come with you.”
“I’ll write you. Come visit if you can.”
I looked down my crooked nose into her deep blue eyes, and I thought of when I
told her I loved her in San Marcos, when we were young, and before the Comanche
drove us from our farm. We followed the war party to Mexico, and eventually found this
saloon to be to our liking, and found a house for cheaper than we’d dreamed not thirty
feet away. We live there. The saloon is not for weak men, as my crooked nose is all
thanks to the wirey man in the corner, who smirks as I pass, and tells his friends our
story and they howl and throw cans at me. Christina keeps me here. She’s leaving today;
heading back across the border to Texas. Her father wants her. She could never say no
to her damned father.
Intricacy
Yemsrach Getahun
“If it means that much to you, I’ll stop. I’ll just stop.”
“You’ll thank me one day, trust me.” Sabrina walked away from me with a cheery
smile. I sipped my water and got up and began to walk to class. A crowd jostled me from
side to side, and the florescent lights flickered ominously as they entered their classes. I
passed more of the white asylum like halls before I reached my class and sat down,
where I should. Then more classmates began to enter the room, and that was when I
spotted him and he spotted me. I took a sip of my water. He walked over towards me in
all his exquisite glory. I took another sip of my water.
“Hello Beyla,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Hello Onan,” I breathed. “I was thinking of what to say to you.”
“If you have to think of what to say, you shouldn’t say it at all, it wouldn’t be
honest.”
“It’s not always that simple.”
“Oh but it is.”
I gave him a cheery smile, “Onan, we should stop, we need to stop.”
“Now you know very well that we couldn’t stop now if we tried, it’s too late.”
“I know, I know that very well.” I took a sip of my water
“I can’t quit you, it’s too late.” His hand began to reach for mine, then he noticed
Sabrina across the room. I dragged my hand away.
“Don’t be a fool, we never had a chance. We could never just be!”
“But we could try, we can always try, isn’t this worth it?” His forehead scrunched
and his eyes glistened as he pointed at the air between us.
“Don’t make this harder, I can’t bear it.”
“Then don’t . . .”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But it is.”
I took a sip of my water.
7
The Man Also Cries
Hong-Ha Hoang
The stage across from the rows of seats in the small theater was red and gold.
There were no spotlights and no curtains and the cabinet full of paints. Close against the
cabinet was a pink rabbit. The Latino man was arched over a ball in the corner
mumbling to him. He was mumbling and a feeling suddenly appeared. The feeling hit
the young man, a firm shot at his sense. It was a mannish feeling, a masculine feeling, a
feeling that spoke to the young man. It was the feeling of victory.
For days he had struggled, strained, kicked and fought. For days he pushed and
worked his body in the utmost effort, sometimes he worked overtime for hours,
sometimes he worked hard like a bull pulling a cart full of onions. His body had moved
with effort, as now it moved with relief.
It was done. Finally it was done. He was both sad and relieved, like a boy who
killed his first prey, his father saying, “Good job, young man. Good job.” He thought to
himself, “This was truly the right thing to do.” Of course it was the right thing to do,
sometimes.
Director Santiago stood in front of him and said, “Amazing! We were afraid we
would have to fire you from being the lead and we would have to find a new star. But
with this amount of tears, I don’t think we need to worry about that. You have emotion!”
She waved the tissue in the air. His prize taken from him, the young man bawled.
He yelled out, “I want my apple juice. Where is my apple juice?”
“There is no apple juice”, Director Santiago said
“But I want my apple juice.”
“There is only wine.”
“No . . . fine.”
“Two glasses of wine, please,” the director yelled into the darkness.
Imitation Hemingway
William Howerton
It was a typical fall day. The air was cool, and a slight wind blew through the
café, bringing the scent of the near ocean. The cafe was empty. As I sat by the window
drinking tea, I stared out the window watching the clouds come pouring. Crowds of
people came and went like waves, and the traffic was heavy all day, never ceasing
stream of red lights. Most people were heading south for the winter. I too was on my
way down. The cold weather did not treat me well, but I had made up my mind to meet
her once more before leaving.
At the same moment, I heard a brass bell above the entrance letting out a soft
ring, alerting those inside to a new guest. A young woman of twenty-six entered the
cafe, swiftly making her way through the rows of cedar tables closing in on the table the
window. She was quite the sight to behold, a stark contrast to myself.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked.
"Looks empty to me."
"As cynical as always I see, Rick."
"It truly is a pleasure to see you again Sharon."
8
The waiter came over and set down another cup, white steam rose from its
contents.
"I didn't order this." Sharon asserted.
"Compliments of the house." the waiter responded. He quickly turned and went
to his post by the entrance.
"It has been far too long since we've last seen each other, wouldn't you agree?"
Sharon asked.
"Far too long indeed. I truly didn't expect to see you again."
"How was the wedding ceremony?"
"Oh, truly splendid, there must have been at least a hundred guests . . . mostly
her relatives of course."
"It sounds wonderful. I only wish I could have attended."
Sharon spoke softly and her gaze began to drift to the window, so we sat there in
silence for some time, only broken by the sound of a sip now and then. Night had come
on quickly. Darkness had fallen over the landscape, and the reflection of the moon
spread across the ocean outside.
"It truly is beautiful here during the fall," she said.
"Yes, quite."
"Do you think we could have been married?"
The question caught me off guard as I took a moment to think of a proper
response.
"Maybe years ago, but no longer. That time has come and passed."
I suddenly felt as if the room had become smaller; an uneasy feeling permeated
the cool night air within the cafe. We both sat staring out the window, nothing more
was said, nothing more needed to be said. We sat and watched the waves crash against
the shore. It truly is beautiful here during the fall.
Technology Imitation
Brendan McMullen
The next day at 7:00 AM, I entered the computer store to run diagnostic tests on
the new office computer. Behind the counter were standing three college-aged men all
wearing what appeared to be the same brand of glasses. The ventilation system was
very loud.
"I have a seven o'clock appointment to get this computer tested for errors," I
said.
"What's the problem with it?" said one of the workers.
"All I get is a blue screen."
"Have you opened any strange emails?"
"This is a business computer. Multiple people use it for CATIA design software,
but it is not used for emails."
I placed the computer on the counter. The technician took out a red firewire
cable. He connected the red plug and turned on the computer.
I said, "You'll probably get the blue screen,"
"I'm going to network it to my computer," he said.
"Can you pass the blue screen?"
9
"Maybe."
"I do need the computer working by Thursday."
"I'll see what I can do, but if there are any blown capacitors on the motherboard
you may need a new computer. You may leave while we finish the tests."
I walked out the door of the store. It was around eight o'clock. It was already
sunny. I could tell it would be a warm day
The Sun Never Rises
James Nguyen
In the midst of the seasonal change, each day begins and simmers down like a
song put on repeat. Unchanged days are part of a repulsive routine that seemed to
never stop nor become any brighter. Even sunny days feel like dreary autumn days with
no hope that the sun will crawl out from the thick massive clouds. Thoughts, emotions,
senses, motivation—all numb and constantly being washed away like soil eroding from
a hill, losing its foundation” life’s meaning and inspirational drive. People walk by
casually with every intention of swinging by the café at the end of 55th St., hoping to
escape from reality for just a split moment. Buses and trains routinely drop riders off
one block away, knowing where a person is guaranteed to go if they get off at this
specific stop. Many days he knows he has to head home for phone teleconferences, but
avoiding reality seems to always be much more satisfying with the delicious
heartwarming white chocolate mocha in his hand as he sits across the fireplace.
Wesley, who always brews his coffee, grabs the seat next to him right before the
shop closes to show support and comfort in any way possible. There’s always a
lingering thought on his mind that’s either been troubling him all week or just recently
has, but Wesley can never quite grasp the right words of advice for him.
“Strangers, again. That’s what every love of my life and I end up becoming.”
“You’re being ridiculous again. Stop with the nonsense,” Wesley pointed out.
“It can be avoided, though. You have to make the effort to avoid it.”
“After the first date, you fall in love. But once storms and hurricanes hit,
everything tumbles and then it’s over. If you’re lucky, you get married,” mumbled Ted.
“And if luck is not on your side?”
“Then you split ways and become . . . strangers, again.”
“Blasphemy! No one ever told you staying friends was an option?”
Ted sighed. “The person who was once the most important thing to you—your
top priority, is now just a faded memory.”
“Everyone hopes for the best, but we can’t avoid the inevitable,” Wesley
whispered.
“Refill on that white mocha?”
“Even with a refill, the warm temporary satisfaction will soon fade and vanish.”
Ted hesitantly sipped on the drink.
10
A Page From a Book
Mamura Oltieva
On a warm summer evening the American man came home. He and the girl went
for a walk to Monte Carlos beach. The sand was warm and pleasant, and the beach was
crowded; kids were playing and building sand castles, some people were tanning, even
though it was six o’clock in the afternoon, couples were kissing, and surfers were
surfing in the Atlantic Ocean.
“Look, they do whatever they want, the surfers.”
“You are beautiful; you also can do whatever you want.”
“They seem to be so careless among the waves . . . Sigh.”
The American man kissed the girl and said, “Let’s sit in the closest bar,” and the
girl wrinkled the corners of her eyes and followed him.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Does not matter . . .”
“Do you want a pomegranate liqueur martini with freshly muddled limes and
mint leaves as you like?”
“Yes, as you like!”
“I love you.”
The girl wrinkled the corners of her eyes and continued, “I like how they are
enjoying the surfing”.
“They are doing a great job.”
“I am only few months away from it.”
“The time will pass quickly like it has so far.”
“Yes, indeed like it did so far.” She wrinkles the corners of her eyes.
“I am looking forward into it.”
“Then, I can start looking for a job.”
“Do you want another martini?”
“I don’t know!”
The man ordered another round of drinks without even looking, like every other
man did, at a hot bartender in bikini.
“I will start looking for a job in the city next month.”
“You know that you are more that welcome to work for my company and remain
living in the house. I love you.”
“I love you too, “she says, wrinkling the corner of her eyes, “but I need to build
MY future . . .”
Garden of Cal Andersen Park
Kristina Rose
The streets on the Hill were shiny after a night of rain. Henry had not slept and
was still quite drunk. He walked carefully down the sidewalk with his hands in his
pockets, avoiding the eye of the passing bike cop.
He came onto Pike street and followed it along until he passed Poquitos and he
remembered the night before. His head hurt badly. Around the corner and set back
11
away from the main boulevard was a café he knew, it opened earlier than the others.
William waited at the front for the barista to unlock the doors. Fucking William.
“Henry! Hello there old bastard!”
“William.”
“My God, you look like shit.”
“I got rather tight last night.”
“You’re still rather tight!”
The doors swung open and Henry walked in and sat at a table in the back.
William followed.
“Americano,” Henry said to the barista. She smiled at him and walked away.
“Café au lait,” called William after the barista cheerfully. “So, have you seen
anybody? I’ve been traveling myself. Spent a great deal of time in Belltown. Beautiful
country. Beautiful! That is culture I tell you!”
“I’ve been writing recently. Keeping to myself.”
“You mean you’re broke.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Aw, hell! Don’t be so damn serious. It’s just that I saw Kate last night at Chapel
and she mentioned you.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, said you’d lost a great deal of money gambling.”
“Yes, well. I’ve taken up a liking for Ultimate Frisbee.”
“That can be quite lucrative.”
“Yes, well. The players aren’t what they were. The sport is gone. There is no
beauty in it anymore.”
The coffee came.
“How is Kate?”
“Oh, splendid like always. You should have been at Havana last night. She was
there. That was a time!”
“Don’t let’s talk about last night.”
“Why?”
“I feel rather good right now and I don’t want to talk about last night.”
“I’m so curious now, though!”
“God, can’t you just stop being such an ass!”
“You‘re being pleasantly rough this morning Henry,” said William cheerfully.
“Don’t be sore though. I’m not sore.” He picked up his bag and finished off his café au
lait. “I’m off then. Trivia night at Twilight this evening. I‘m attending a pre-trivia, prebar brunch this morning so I‘ll be needing a quick nap. Isn‘t it all so taxing?”
He sighed and left.
Henry pulled out his iPhone and checked his email. The bicycle crocket races
started at noon. He’d need to nap as well, afterwards.
It was karaoke night at the Comet. Kate would be there.
12
Mojito
Elsbeth Royster
He opened the door and I walked inside. There was a little man smiling at me. I
could smell cigars and scotch, but couldn’t see inside the club; there was a thick,
burgundy red velvet curtain. The man checked my coat and gave me a yellow ticket
with my name on it. I handed him a $20 bill and walked through the curtain. The walls
were covered with red French toile wallpaper that had turned brown from many years
of smoke. An exotic woman who smelled of jerk chicken smiled and led me to a table. As
I looked around, I noticed the room was almost full. The stage was dark, but I could hear
the band setting up behind the curtain. A gorgeous waiter smiled and walked towards
me. He had long dreads, wore a linen shirt and shorts with burnt orange wallabies. I
could smell fresh mango as he got closer to me.
“Mojito?”
“No”
“What is your desire?” His tone was smooth.
“Haven’t decided, where’s Samuel?”
“In the back setting up. You okay, love?”
I smiled and looked at the clock, it was 9:15.
“Are you okay?” I turned to see my brother Seth standing beside the table.
“Yes, just looking for Samuel.”
“Let him be. You know how he gets before a show.”
“Get me a drink, please. I feel . . .”
Before I could finish he grabbed the Hennessy and poured a shot. The cognac
went down smooth.
He smiled at me, “That will guarantee neither of you get nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. This is child’s play, dear brother.”
“Child’s play?” he smiled and poured another shot.
Out of Summer
Alex Sanchez-Stern
All year round, the Dolomites sit on the Italian landscape and the people look up
at them, and the men say “I’ve climbed that” to impress the women, and the women
walk on. In the spring time the plants grow, and the flowers begin to gain color again. In
the summer time the men who had been boys but are not anymore climb the mountains
in groups. The valleys are green, and the mountains are steep, and as I climbed them the
sun beat at my back. I saw a man sitting on a log. I got closer. As I approached he turned
around, he got up quickly, and called my name.
“Hello Aldo,” I replied, and the dust crunched under my boots as I stopped.
Aldo was a tall fellow, and he liked to tell the Americans that he was born in
Italy, and the Italians that he had spent time in America. He had brought me to Italy and
introduced me to each of his friends, and he told them that he had spent time in
America.
“Hello,” said Aldo. “Shall we go?”
He said this as if he had been waiting for me.
13
backs.
“Sure,” I said, and we continued up the steep hill, and the sun was beat at our
The brush rustled as we moved through it, and the sun was bright. The mountain
grew smaller in front of us, and Aldo turned to me.
“Was Cecilio with you?”
“We parted ways three miles back, but he is fast.”
“What about Isabella?”
“I have not seen her since we set out.”
“Poor Cecilio.”
The mountain had disappeared underneath us, and the deep valleys lay all
around, and Aldo’s breath was bright and wet in the mountain air.
“There is an inn near,” he said.
We walked down the mountain, and we went to the inn, and we walked in. At the
bar was Cecilio. We walked over and sat down next to him, and he looked up at me, and
Aldo ordered three beers from the waitress who sat in the back staring at the ceiling.
“How long have you been here?” I asked Cecilio.
“Not long.”
“Hello,” said Aldo.
“Hello,” replied Cecilio.
The waitress walked over with our beers, and she set them down at the table,
and Aldo smiled at her, and she left. Cecilio opened his beer and took a long drink, and
stared at the bar table.
“You are certainly the picture of happiness,” said Aldo.
“Come off it,” replied Cecilio.
“Let’s go to the next peak.”
“I feel swell right here.”
“Oh, do come with us,” I said.
He sat there for a moment, and after a moment he said, “Alright.”
And so we paid the waitress and took our beers and left the bar and we climbed
the mountain and the sun beat down on our backs. Down below in the villages and
towns the people went about their daily business, and they walked back and forth, but
up here in the mountain we were alone and walked only forward. There was silence in
the air and our boots crunched on the dry dirt, and the brush rustled as we moved
through it.
A voice called out from behind us. We stopped, and turned around. Isabella was
walking towards us up the steep mountain.
“Hello.”
Aldo said hello, and I said hello, and Cecilio took a drink of his beer. The four of
us continued to walk up the mountain. Aldo is in front, and Isabella is behind him. I walk
behind her, and in front of Cecilio, who walked rather slowly. The air around us began
to become cold and thin layers of snow coated the ground, and the ground became
slippery under my boots.
“It sure is cold now,” said Isabella.
“Here, we have beer to warm the stomach” I said.
I handed her my unopened bottle of beer, and she opened it, and she took a long
drink, and she put the cap back on the bottle. We reached the peak of the mountain, and
Aldo looked at me to make sure that it was understood, and it was.
14
“Me and Aldo had better go prepare the rooms,” I said.
“I’ll come with you,” said Cecilio.
“There’s no need,” replied Aldo.
We set off quickly, and we walked until Cecilio and Isabella were out of sight. We
walked down the mountain towards the inn, and the air became warmer, and we saw
the small children playing in the village. And as we walked the sun beat on our backs.
The Sun Also Sets
Viola Runkel-Naziri
It was a hot summer afternoon. Shops and businesses were just starting to reopen after the traditional midday rest. I had sat down at a table in the café just across
from the bank. The waiter came and I ordered a Greek coffee. I sipped my coffee slowly
and watched the crowed go , a bunch of happy teenagers with their iPods, groups of
elegant old ladies on their way to an episkepsi, fashionably dressed women with their
children enjoying an afternoon volta, and a group of loud, wildly gesturing men arguing
passionately about the economic downfall of the country, the unfair demands of the EU,
and the corruption of their politicians. I watched the security guard of the bank unlock
the gate, the employees go in one--one, and then watched the bank director drive up,
park his Lexus, and get out of his car. I caught his eye, and he waved to me. I paid for my
coffee and walked over to the bank and went inside. I greeted the secretary as I walked
her desk, and she greeted me back smilingly.
“Hey what’s up you bum?” I greeted Anatolis in a friendly manner.
“Hey Aristotelis, how is it going?”
“Not bad at all. Yourself?”
“Can’t complain.”
“What brings you here?”
“Well, I thought I pay a visit and see how my money is doing?” I said.
“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”
“No doubt.”
“Maria! Call for two medium sweet coffees!”
“No thanks, I just had coffee. Another time,” I said.
“Come on, we have to drink something. What about an Ouzo? Have an Ouzo!
Maria, forget the coffees; call for two Ouzos and two mezedakia.”
“All right then. Why not? How is the family?” I asked.
“Real well.”
“The Kids have grown up now, I suppose?”
“Oh yea, they have grown up all right. They grow up and we grow old,” he
laughed. “Eleni is studying in Paris, and Kosmas is an investment banker in London,” he
said proudly.
“Bravo! Bravo! Well done!”
The boy from the taverna next door walked in with the Ouzos and the mezedakia
and put them down on the table we were sitting at. Anatolis paid him, and the boy left.
“Here utilize a little Ouzo; it’ll do you good,” he said as he was handing me one of
the glasses filled to the two third mark.
“To what should we drink?” I asked.
15
“To our kids, and their lives,” Anatolis said.
“Ok, to their life. Yiamas!”
“How is your brother and his family?” He asked.
“Huuhh, he is a little depressed lately. If he weren’t depressed, everything would
be just fine.”
“You don’t say! Why?”
“His oldest daughter. She is sitting at home all day long and watching TV, without
a job. Can you imagine living with three women? It’s driving him crazy.”
“You don’t say! Aw the hell with it; what can you do?”
“Yea, what can you do? We are just lucky that we have boys. But you could do
something, by the way.”
“Me?” he asked laughingly.
“I am sure you could use some help here.”
“How do you mean?”
“A little job for her.”
“We are all filled up here at the moment.”
“I am sure you could find a place for her.”
“Does she have a degree?”
“Nope. High School Diploma.”
“My hands are tied. They require a degree.”
“She is a real swell girl, very smart.”
“You don’t understand! My hands are tight.”
“Who has the last word?”
“I.”
“So, who can say anything?”
“Nobody.”
“So?”
“You don’t understand! It’s not right.”
“Look, a lot of things are not right. The wars being fought all over the place is not
right. Having people starve to death in Africa is not right. I am not asking you to wage a
war or starve anyone to death. I am just asking you to help me out here a little bit.”
“You are asking me to go against policy.”
“It’s very simple. I am just asking for a little appreciation, for being a good and
loyal customer all these years. That’s all. It’s very simple. I know it is.”
“You are asking me to do something that is very difficult for me.”
“Look, I know her. She is a good girl. And she is smart. You’ll like her. Fuck the
degree. It’s really simple.”
“Don’t make me do this!”
“It’s simple, man.”
“It’s simple? It’s simple for you!”
“OK, I don’t want to pressure you, if you don’t wanna do it. What time is it?”
“Why?” He asked.
“I’ve got to go to see the director at the Emboriki bank. Maybe he can help out.”
There was a long pause. None of us said anything for at least thirty seconds. I
could hear him breathing. Then he took a deep breath and let the air out slowly through
his rounded lips and said, “If I help you out, what happens after?”
“It’ll be just the same as before.”
16
“You’ll be happy and everything will be the same as before?”
“Guaranteed.”
“No changes?”
“None whatsoever.”
“What’s the girl’s name?” he asked.
Young Men and the Butterfly
Mitchell Tokuoka
Outside the Rose and Crown I saw my friend, Bertram Collins, poking his head
into a storm drain and prodding his closed umbrella into it. I went up to him and
noticed that he was not in a good mood. Today was Wednesday and Bertram was
supposed to go to Trinity College and deliver a parcel to Sir Percival’s office at the
Biology Department.
"Hello Bert, what did you get yourself into this time?" I said.
"Oh bother. Good day to you, Alistair. Won't you be a chap and help me out here?
I dropped the butterfly specimen for Sir Percival's exhibit and he'll be frightfully upset."
I looked into the storm drain and saw the brown packaged parcel with red lace,
and it was near the flowing water. It was raining and the water was going very fast.
"It’s too deep to go down. Have you tried lifting up the sewer cover?" I asked
Bertram.
"Oh, must I get my clothes dirty? You know how I detest filth!"
"It's worth a try."
"Oh, all right. For the sake of science I suppose. Hold the brolly will you?"
Bertram kneeled down and tried to lift up the cover. It didn't budge.
“Come on, Bert, give it some stick.” I said. I nudged Bertram to and tried to pry
the cover open, but to no avail.
"Oh, to hell with that butterfly. You should know that Sir Percival had that
specimen sent here all the way from Spain and it only appears seasonally in Basque
Country." said Bertram, now getting up and smoothing out his khakis, brushing away
nothing from them. Bertram always dressed nicely and often fussed about his
appearance. He recently had a tweed coat sent from Edinburgh and during the first
week of his wearing it would not even hang it on a coat rack for fear of it getting dirty
the coat next to his. Today he was wearing an immaculate mackintosh.
"Too bad about that bug. I say, let's have some breakfast and it's on me." I said.
"If you insist."
I opened the door and we walked in. It was not very crowded because classes
were still in session, but heavy smoke from the regulars wafted around me. We hanged
our coats on the dark wooden rack, with Bertram carefully folding his mackintosh so as
not to create any wrinkles. We then walked to the counter and I motioned to the
bartender.
"Tonic water and a toad in the hole for me please" I said.
"I'll just have a stout and some toast with marmite." Bertram said.
"Isn't it early for a hard drink?" I said.
"What do you care? I lost that specimen and Sir Percival shall have my hide for
it."
17
"Well then let us mutually partake in the sorrow. Fred, make that two stouts
please."
The bartender went to fetch an extra glass. I rather liked the idea of getting a bite
to eat, for I was quite famished and even if I had eaten breakfast, the chance to converse
with Bertram was impossible to miss.
"How did you drop it anyways?" I asked, “the parcel?”
"Well, if you must know. First, I picked it up at the post office and then started
running to the College when I saw her riding her bicycle."
"A girl?"
"She's not just any girl, Alistair."
I grew impatient and said, “Oh, out with it Bert!”
“It was Liesl Werner from King’s.”
Our drinks and food arrived. The toad in the hole was fantastic while Bertram's
toast looked rather dull. The stout was the usual, a warm and strong brew.
"Werner," I said, "a German name. You do know it won't be long before we go to
war with Jerry."
"Your plate is getting cold" he said.
"To hell with this mash when we have this girl you're crazy about. Does she
know you like her?"
"No, I only see her on her bicycle when I walk to classes. I hear her father is a
bloke at the German Consulate.”
"Well, then you should learn to ride a bicycle."
We both ordered another stout. I looked outside. London was warming up now
and there were more people in the street. A girl and her male companion parked their
bicycles in front of the window and the girl picked up a parcel from the front basket of
her bicycle. They entered the pub and made their way through some tables before
deciding on a table at a corner, facing away from us.
“Good God” said Bertram, “They’re both here.” I looked over cautiously and saw
the girl of about 20 years of age conversing with a man of about 30 years her senior.
“Stone the crows!” I said, “You don’t think—”
“It cannot be so!” Bertram replied, “Sir Percival, of all the bloody people she
could have gone with.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Why it’s plain as a pike! I’ll show that bloke a piece of my mind!”
Bertram drank the last of his stout and started to proceed towards the couple,
but he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. He shifted back towards me and had a look
of bewilderment on his face.
“She has it! That’s the parcel, it is! It’s got the bloody Spanish postage stamps on
it!” he loudly whispered.
“Wait, wait,” I said, “It could just be a matter of coincidence.”
“But that is the parcel!”
“Then what is your parcel doing at that table, and who’s parcel is in the storm
drain?” I asked.
I paid the bill and we got our coats from the wooden rack and then hurried to the
gutter. The parcel was still there. I studied the parcel carefully from what I could see.
“It’s definitely for our Liesl. Sent from a Heinrich Werner in Nuremberg.” I said.
“Oh bullocks,” Bertram said, “We must have switched parcels at the post office.”
18
“Hand me your brolly will you, Bert?” I asked.
Bertram handed the umbrella to me and I turned it around so that I was now
grasping the pointed end of the umbrella. The curved handle went through the grills of
the cover. I tried to hook the parcel sliding the handle through the red lace, but the
handle was much too thick. I pulled the umbrella out.
“No use Bert.” I said.
“Hold on a tick,” Bertram replied. He took back the umbrella and holding it like a
normal umbrella, slid it through the grills and extended his arm so that the end of the
umbrella extended about a couple inches below the parcel into the water. He opened up
the umbrella and scooped up the parcel and brought it up. I quickly grabbed the parcel
from the side and we hurried back to the Rose and Crown.
“Wait,” Bertram said, “If they’re going to open our parcel, then do we not have a
legitimate reason to open theirs?”
“But think of the ethics!” I replied.
“Now is not the time for ethics, Alistair! Sir Percival will get his butterfly, but we
can get something extraordinary!”
“But don’t you love Liesl?” I asked, “Is it not gentlemanly for a proper British
man to return a damsel her glove?”
Bertram paused and looked down at the parcel. “You’re right, Alistair. You’re
always right. You have been my close companion and because of that, I’ll take your
word.” He began to turn the knob on the door, but before he could start to push the
door open I put my hand on the shoulder of his mackintosh.
“But then again, it could be some secret German documents,” I jested, “It is also
the duty of a British man to defend the Crown.
Bertram chortled, “Let’s go to my flat.”
We arrived at his flat quite early for we had maintained a quick pace. I placed the
parcel down on Bertram’s coffee table. Bertram carefully untied the lace and put it in
his pocket.
“I still have my affections,” he protested. I didn’t say anything ,but I nodded.
Bertram then meticulously cut the brown paper so as not to overly damage it.
“This paper could find some use.” Bertram said as he folded the paper and set it
to the side, but all of my attention was now focused on the exposed gift. Nestled
between a medley of paper stuffing was a bottle of Chateau Margaux and of very good
vintage.
“Well this definitely beats the butterfly,” I said.
“I’ll go fetch the glasses,” Bertram replied. I stared at the bottle until Bertram
came back. Bertram opened the bottle and poured it in two glasses and gave one to me.
“I’d like to give a toast to Liesl, our dear Sir Percival, and their butterfly.”
Bertram said.
“To Liesl, Sir Percival, and their butterfly.” I answered.
I drank the wine and while doing so looked outside the window of Bertram’s flat
and into the London weather that yielded once again to grey skies and rain. While I
drank the wine, I thought about how Liesl would open her parcel to find a dead insect
staring back at her and Sir Percival’s face of awe. I thought about how Sir Percival
would become flabbergasted and ask Liesl how she managed to get her hands on the
rare specimen. Then I pictured Sir Percival reading the recipient’s address and figuring
out that it was Bertram who confused the parcels and took the good wine. He would
19
then leave Liesl in the pub and race towards Bertram’s flat in a fit of rage and kick down
the door. Then yet again I could see Sir Percival enamored with his rare butterfly,
oblivious to his female companion’s pleas to go to a better restaurant. Liesl would take
the parcel paper with the address and leave Sir Percival to his butterfly. She would then
walk to Bertram’s flat to inquire on the condition of her own parcel, but delicately
knocking on the door. I thought these things over and over until my mind was jolted a
heavy rap on the door.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice.
Winter
Muhammed Saleh
The snow began in the night, coating the town in a sheet of white. In the
morning, the weather slowed to a light dusting as early risers began to shovel their
driveways and go about the other sorts of work that a fresh snow demands. In the
center of the town, a young woman entered a park. She shuffled through the snow to a
bench and sat down, surrounded by pine trees.
"I was hoping this park would cheer me up," she said to herself, "It would always
cheer me up before."
She sighed, leaning back against the cold park bench and looked up into the
frozen sky. As she gazed at the clouds above, a stray cat swaggered out from behind a
tree and shook its orange coat free of cold powder. The woman looked over,
"Hello there," she said.
"Salutations," replied the cat.
"Well then, a talking cat. You don't see that every day."
"Yes well, I've seen my fair share of crazy people."
"Oh, I see."
The woman resumed her observations of the clouds and the cat began licking his
paws.
"Have you any food?," inquired the cat, jumping onto the bench beside her.
"Just this." The woman pulled a green and white candy cane out from her purse.
"Goodness, I’ll have none of that. A fine feline such as myself has standards, you
know!"
"Well that's too bad, it's all I have."
"Yes, it's very unfortunate. This leaves us only one option then. You'll have to
take me to your home and feed me properly."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you are alone now, and I am the only friend you have."
"Yes," replied the woman. "I am alone now."
The woman smiled, picked up the meowing cat, and left the park as quietly as
she arrived.
20
Romance in the Air
Hieu Tran
Lying on the soft bed, I wrap my arms around Snooki. Face to face, I can feel the
air rushing furiously along my face at four o’clock on the dot. I want to wake her and tell
her to fucking breathe calmly, but instead, I slowly let my body loose from hers and
walk towards the balcony. Even though I am moving as slowly and quietly as I can, the
sound of the creaking floor could be heard from a mile away with every step that I take.
On the balcony, I sip on a glass of Alsace wine that was given to me, Ichiro, by a close
friend of mine in high school. Looking into the misty night sky, I can see as far as the
horizon extends. It was a view that could only be spotted late at night. Looking down, I
see the Café de Montalles, where Snooki and I spent the early evening sipping on a cup
of coffee while looking out over the crowded streets of Paris. Curious to what was
making that creaking sound, I turned back and saw Snooki lifting up her body and
walking towards me.
“Will you take a glass of wine?”
“Sure, make it a full glass.”
“Did you enjoy your sleep, or did my unnecessary mumbling disturb your
dream?”
“No, I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Why was that?”
“Oh nothing, just this awful stomach ache that has been a bother since early
tonight.”
“Was that the inevitable cause of the heavy-duty breathing early in the night?”
“What do you mean?” Snooki asked with a face that seemed as if it was lost
somewhere far away.
“Oh never mind.”
We stood there and stared into the horizon as if we were two strangers. It was a
quiet night with nothing but the sound of crickets and rat squeaking in the wall on the
other side of my room.
I Think I’ll Have the Chili
Samuel Wahbeh
As I sit down I can feel the warmth radiating from the metal rungs on the chair
against my feet. The umbrella that shades the table is slightly off tilt so that the sun's
glare just hits my face. I look around and see a group of four people entering the cafe
talking to each other, two guys and two girls.
"That was pretty tiring."
"It was four hours long."
"It did have its moments."
I notice the waiter walking towards my table. As he arrives he puts a glass of
water on the table and hands me the menu. As he sets the menu on the table I notice
that his ring finger was longer than his middle finger which disturbed me slightly. As I
browse the menu, deciding what to eat, I can’t help but listen to their conversation
again.
21
"That show was so cool."
"I know. It had a dancing bear and everything."
"I didn't get the part with the monkey."
"That was the whole point. That why it was funny."
"I still don't get the part with the monkey."
"The monkey was so-so. I liked the drunk lion tamer."
"Ya, he was awesome. I thought for sure that he was done for when he fell
down."
"Can someone please explain the monkey."
"Sir, have are you ready to order?" the waiter asked.
"I'll have the chili."
"Will you have anything else?"
"Hmm. I also want a side of cornbread."
"The total will be $8.95."
"So that’s why the monkey was funny! I get it now."
In Another World
Wilson Yuwanto
It was a starry night in New York and Jack stood outside a bar with a cigarette,
reminiscing about his deceased wife, and cars barely moving in traffic as the lights were
stuck on red, and the homeless begging for money, and couples walking up and down
the streets, and street vendors yelling for people to buy their products. As Jack walked
inside the bar, a beautiful woman caught the corners of his eyes, sitting alone at a table.
He took a quick glance at her, and she caught him. She stood up and approached him as
they sat down together. The bartender approached them.
“Anything to drink?” the bartender asked.
“Just beer and anything she wants.”
“That’s quite lovely of you” she said. “Vodka please.”
“What’s a woman like you doing alone at a bar? Going to a party?”
“Yes. Just going to a party.”
“You’re looking quite attractive tonight.”
“Well, thank you! You don’t look half bad either.”
“May I know your name young lady?”
“Jillian. Call me Jill.”
“Oh what a lovely name. I must say, you are an attractive woman.”
“I get that a lot, and you’re probably married.”
“Why do you assume so?” Jack asked.
“Because I get this a lot, and most were married scumbags.”
“Assumptions are just assumptions. You don’t even know me.”
“And men are men. They are all unfaithful as they come home to their wives.”
“If only I had a wife to come home to. Maybe in another world.”
22
BLUES POEMS
Blues Poem
Nick Allred
Sleepy Blues
Erika Jacobsen
I am too old to stand
And I’m worn from my conviction.
I am too old to stand.
I’m worn from my conviction.
I will not move as this too is my land
This sad country is needin’ a fixin’.
Her head nods to and fro
To the slow and drowsy beat
Swaying like a tree
Swaying like a tree
Sleep dances in front of her eyes
To the slow and drowsy beat
Cold, dreary is this place
From the world it contains me.
Cold and dreary is this place.
From the world it contains me.
No struggle seen on my face
One day you will set us free.
Swaying like a tree
Swaying like a tree
Her head nods to and fro
To the slow and drowsy beat
O’ she got them Sleepy Blues, them
Sleepy Blues
The Joy of Hot Chocolate
Hovhannes Avagyan
Staring out at the dark lamp-lit street
Her homework shuffled and ruffled
To the slow and drowsy beat
I want Grande Hot Chocolate,
So Grande and so hot.
I need my sweet Hot Chocolate,
So Grande and so hot.
Can I please have it?
No way! You cannot!
Swaying like a tree
Swaying like a tree
The dog curls up all warm and tight
His feet thump as he runs away in his
dream
Bump bump bump
And she hummed into the night
Them sad Sleepy Blues
They gave me Tall Hot Chocolate,
So yummy, but so small.
Just a Tall Hot Chocolate,
Tasty, but quite small.
How can I even drink this?
Just hurry up and drink it all.
I finished the entire cup,
It took me just one sip.
How could I enjoy hot chocolate,
Just with one little sip?
Though I can never forget . . .
The taste of chocolate on my lip.
23
Blues Poem
Michael Bennett
Talk To Me
Kelsey Packwood
The children are hungry
The road is tough.
At night I wonder
If it’s ever enough.
(What do I do, what do I do)
I can tell change is near
Things are gettin' brighter.
I’ve found another smoke
All I need is a lighter.
(What do I do, what do I do)
Workin’ all day,
Without a minute to spare.
Workin’ all day,
Who says I don't care?
What about you, you got nothin’ to say?
Come on honey, why don't you share.
I know it's been tough
Please don't cry.
I said I know its been tough
Tell me why.
Rough times are rough.
Darlin’ it's gonna be a while before you
die.
24
HOW TO BECOME A _______________
(with thanks to Lorrie Moore)
How to Become an Artist
Lauren Anderson
This must be one of the easiest and most freeing feelings, when you make
something that truly expresses who you are. An early start is always the best thing for
the mind. Practice, patience, and persistence are good ways to become a successful
artist. You will need persistence when others tell you that your ideas, style or piece of
art is weird or disturbing. It should be fun for you to be unconventional. It should be fun
for you to make something that no one has seen before. Make something to cause those
other people to scrunch their noses like little piggies. Make them question, and feel
unsettled all week.
You work quietly and solemnly in your high school art class. You would rather
focus on the task at hand and lose yourself in the creation than talk to the people
around you. They have nothing interesting to say anyways. In the end your silence
results in personal reward. You put hours and days, sometimes months into a piece.
There is no other feeling, like the feeling of when you are finally finished and happy
with the way a piece you have created looks. It’s everything to you. It’s your thoughts,
ideas, and brain out in the open, a real physical piece. It doesn’t matter what others
think. As long as you are happy with it, as long as it expresses how you feel, that’s all
that you really need. You can never truly rely too much on anyone else to make you
happy anyways.
How to Become a Doctor
Hovhannes Avagyan
Relax. Just take a very deep breath. You have always dreamed of being a doctor, a
good one. You know you are very kind and helping people is what you like the most.
Four years in college… plus six or more years in medical school… plus several years of
residency… No! Stop counting! Why were you even searching "How to Become a
Doctor" on Google? Be ready to work as hard as you can or maybe harder and don’t
think about all the sleepless nights ahead of you. Of course it is going to be tough…
nothing is easy in this world. Realize that you sacrifice your own time, energy and
health to make others healthy and happy. Imagine how proud your family will be when
they see you as a doctor, a good one. And yes… soon you will start thinking about
money and how being a doctor might be financially beneficial. But what is the point? It
totally contradicts with your dream of being a good doctor. So stop! Take a deeper
breath. It is better to think about the hundreds or maybe even thousands of people that
will thank you for saving their family member or friend. Relax. Take it easy. No, not that
song! Focus and study!
How to be a Teenager/High School Student
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Mattea Cavagnaro
So first, I assume you will have to go to elementary school and pass all of those
grades. After that point, unless you're a complete genius, you will have to go to middle
school, also known as junior high school. Do your homework and work hard in order to
get good grades. Make some friends if you want to. Listen to your parents because they
know what's good for you.
Once you're done with middle school, take a leap! Now you're in high school. For
the first few months, you'll do all your work and get good grades. You'll make new
friends (hopefully) and keep some old ones. You'll feel older and more responsible.
After those sweet few months of hard work and responsibility, you'll stop doing
all of your work on time. You'll disobey your parents (a little bit?) and you will not get
enough sleep!
But halfway through your junior year of high school, you'll look up and realize,
"Crap! My grades are bad and college is just around the corner." So you'll start working.
Challenge yourself. Improve your grades. Then bam! You're ready.
How to be Paranoid
Jordan Cravens
Know that you’re never alone. Sure, there are over 7 billion people in the world,
and we can’t support them, and what if there’s a war over water, and what if people
starve, and they demand to eat your dog? But that’s too advanced for the moment.
When your phone rings, jump. Who is it? Take a moment to pick it up. Is it them? Who’s
them? Answer it.
“Hi, mom.”
“Are you eating right?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Your father was always stupid, that way.”
“Yes, mom.”
“You sure you’re eating right?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Alright, well your brother’s calling, I gotta go. Love you Bye.”
“Bye, mom.”
Know when you walk into class that everyone’s staring at you. Sit down in the
front corner so the teacher will protect you. Ask yourself why should they stare? You’re
not important. Don’t be a narcissist. You don’t have problems. Other people have
problems. Other people are more important. Thousands upon thousands of problems.
Day in, day out, millions deciding the lives of millions. Who solves them? Is there a God
or are we alone?
We’re never alone when we have you.
Jerk your head to the white wall in your apartment. Drop your fork and stare at
the plaster in fear. You didn’t say anything, did you? Your apartment’s too small for
your voice to distort so hoarsely. It wasn’t your thought, either. Go back to eating and
avoid the TV. Go to bed without brushing your teeth because mirrors suddenly frighten
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you. What if they’re behind it? Remember a movie you once saw. Play through the
scariest parts because you can and pretend there’s nothing in the room. Sleep and wake
up in a dream. Wake up for real and know the dream shakes you. Get up. It torments
you, this thing you haven’t really seen. Freeze on your way to the kitchen. Something
isn’t right.
They were here. Know it.
How to Become a Teenage Girl
Anita Earng
First, go through your closet and toss out of all those knitted sweaters and knee
length skits. They’re not in style, at least not in this century. Make sure that everything
you keep in your closet screams “OMG, THAT IS SOO CUTEEE!” You’re going to have to
brag about it; you’ve got to be the trendsetter. Make sure you NEVER wear the same
outfit twice, and don’t forget pink. That’s the color you always have to wear. Next, pile
on the make-up. No one wants to see those wrinkles and dark bags under your eyes.
Concealer and foundation will do the trick. You’re only going to get noticed if you have
flawless skin, your eye make-up is amazing, or if you have the cutest outfit. Oh, and
don’t forget about the tanning salon, you’ve got to look orange all year long. Leave your
hair down; nice messy wavy hair is a must. With that type of hair, you’ll definitely
attract everyone, especially the guys. Remember; always carry a small make-up bag in
your backpack. You never know when you’ll have to touch up. Walk with an attitude
and show them whose boss; confidence is the key. And no, you’re not being cocky.
How to Become a Super-Rich-and-Spoiled Daddy's Little Girl
Felicita Lie
The first and most important rule is you have to be a girl, female. Has long hair;
to be preferred. Like to play with your hair, no flicking, just play with it with your finger
and don’t forget to bend your head a little bit to the side where you use your hand to
play with your hair. Always try your best to look cute as possible. Practice your
speaking tone. Use high notes and drag your words out while speaking, bend your head.
Eyes wide open when you’re asking something, puppy eyes to be precise. Use your
‘special’ tone when you call your mommy and daddy; sometimes you can also use that
tone to call your nanny. “Mooooommmm . . .” or “Daaadddyyyy . . . .” And if you’re about
to ask something from them don’t forget this list of gestures: bend head, make puppy
eyes, twirl you hair with your finger, ba’s talk. I almost forget about this ba’s talk. Don’t
use it too often or too ‘cute’. If you use it too often, people will get sick of it; too ‘cute,’
and people might not understand what you’re saying. Use it to say no, like “Nyoooo . . .”
It will make it hard for them to refuse. With your puppy’s eyes comes your sad face
mouth.
Another important rule is you have to have a super rich dad to fulfill your
wishes. It’ll be easier if you don’t have any siblings or at least if you’re the youngest
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child. As a mainstream spoiled girl, you have to be addicted to one color. Usually the
color is pink, just because it is identical for girls. You can start with your room. Decorate
it with all pink wallpaper, a pink bed, and a white carpet just to tone it down a little bit.
It’s still incomplete without dolls. Fluffy plush furry dolls with a cute expression in their
eyes. Put some on your bed and the rest in your collection rack against the wall. Don’t
forget a big walking closet full of your clothing and some whole-body mirrors, also in
pink theme. That’s your bedroom. About your appearance—wrap yourself up with
head-to-toe fabulous high-end fashion brands. (I really want to mention some of the
brands, but I think it’s gonna be inappropriate.) And this is why you need to have a
super-rich daddy. For this purpose, you need to be a shopaholic. To fulfill this ultimate
shopping desire, usually you’ll have some ‘friends’ to go out with. I won’t call them real
friends because usually they hang out with you for your money; I’d rather call them
‘peeps.’ You don’t have real friends, but you always have your beloved nanny. To
complete your ‘unique personality,’ always have the latest gadget decorated with your
favorite color, pink. Those are just some of the ‘rules’ to be THAT kind of girl.
Interested?
How To Become A Song Writer
Alina Ly
The first step to becoming a successful songwriter is to be inspired by
something, or open your mind to the point where there are no limits to your
imagination. This can easily be done. Once you’ve accomplished this, do the things you
love the most or the things that relax you. Then when in your most comfortable state,
let yourself loose and begin to explore different rhythms or tunes by humming them
out. This is a usual thing to do so it shouldn’t be difficult. If so, start with a song you
know and then try and use the notes from that particular song, or in other words
rearrange them, and create your own. Then slowly add words that first come to mind
deriving from any feelings you have at that time. Try to remember as much as you can.
This is a very important step because forgetting what you’ve started with that got you
into a consistent flow can easily frustrate you and cause writer’s block. If you feel you
might have difficulty in remembering, use a recorder or write it down. From this point,
once you’re in “the zone,” it’s rather easy as words and tunes will start to roll off of your
tongue and that will soon create a song, or at least something to start with. On the other
hand, it’s not always as easy as it sounds because if you think about it, anyone can hum
a tune and find words to go with it and call it a somewhat decent “song.” However, to
ensure that you can write a successful song, simply practice. Find what type of melodies
best suits you and agrees with all of which you desire to put in a song. Trial and error is
the key to succeeding at almost anything, especially if you wish for perfection.
How to Become a Composer
Brendan McMullen
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To become a composer, you must first accept that you will probably not. Most
people who attempt to make a career in composition do not succeed. The reality is that
there are very few opportunities available for composers in the world. However, unless
you make a strong attempt you have no chance of success at all.
You must understand that most people will hate most of the music you write. If
you do not keep this in mind, then you are being too easy on yourself. You will not
succeed unless you ruthlessly and continuously revise your work. The way you will
truly learn is by studying your successes and failures, but most importantly the failures.
You must also understand that unless you are John Williams or Danny Elfman,
writing music to make money is a waste of time. For this reason, you must learn to
teach composition. Nearly every composer in history has taught composition. So how
can composition be taught? The problem is that if a mentor were to tell a student how
to write music, then the student would not be making musical decisions for himself or
herself. One of the best ways of dealing with this problem is to show the student
possible ways of improving the student's music, but let the student make the decisions.
People are not born great composers. The people who succeed in composition
are the most determined and self-disciplined. They study hard and constantly revise.
Inspiration alone is not enough.
How to Become a Bad High School Student and Succeed
Jake Larson
The first thing you need to do is graduate from middle school. This is fairly easy
as there isn't much work, late credit is full credit, and tests are easy enough that you
never need to learn how to study. Get used to these habits, you'll need them later. Make
sure you play videogames with friends every day after school. This is good practice for
playing videogames alone in your basement later on.
Once you're fully immersed in this world, go to your first year of high school. Try
talking to everyone you meet and gain their friendship. It's important to do this early on
before you find out how much most of them suck two years down the road. But the
social aspect your life doesn't really figure in yet. So you're now taking high school
classes. The best strategy is to choose two classes in which to pay attention, one in
which to doodle/sleep, and another to talk to your friends the whole time. Feel free to
mix and match these choices, vary it up from day to day, and apply every single strategy
if you have a substitute teacher that day. Remember that reading the textbook, studying
for tests, and starting assignments before the eve of their due date are for the birds. Try
to keep a planner, but never look at it once you get home.
On the subject of homework: Remember the videogames? Those are way more
important than homework. Make sure you stop working at least two hours before
bedtime so you can get a few Call of Duty games in before you are obligated to pretend
to go to sleep. Another general rule is that you can't start your homework until you've
checked at least three of your favorite websites and consumed all new content.
Remember that if you have a class later in the day, you don't have to do any work for it
at home, ever. Do the work in the class period before it is due. This will help maximize
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your video game time. Now be sure that in your first year you can do well enough on
tests and papers to coast with passable grades, mostly As with a few Bs. Disregard all
worksheets and busy work. Those are also for the birds. You already understand the
material, so why waste your time doing work and not learning? When you finish all
these steps, congratulations! You've now laid the groundwork for being a bad high
school student. Look forward to three more years of being called lazy, told you have
ADD (gaining a prescription for amphetamines), labeled as disorganized, and accused of
coasting. Listen well, because you're probably a little bit of all those things!
Better hurry up and fix yourself before college.
How to Become a Marvelous Saxophonist
James Nguyen
Picking up on the alto saxophone requires working on your breathing. Playing a
wind instrument takes a lot of energy to blow and get a full rich sound to come out, so
don’t go on a five mile jog before you decide to sit down and practice. Keep yourself
healthy and fit so you don’t run out of breath while playing. As you work on your
breathing, you naturally hear the difference between a rich warm sound versus one that
sounds like a cat squealing. The sketchy and bland sound you produce will earn you
extra time with the music teacher after school, instead of being set free after the bell
rings.
Next, you learn your music theory and the fingering on the sax. Music theory
helps you understand the rhythm and style of how a music piece is written. Learning
the fingerings for a sax is essential. 26 keys are quite a lot to memorize, so you cannot
whine about how you have absolutely nothing to do during the day. Be productive! Give
yourself a few weeks to be familiar with every key. As a beginner, you want to know the
basic notes first, then later on learn how to play flats and sharps.
Finally, becoming a marvelous saxophonist requires practice every day outside
of school. Not every other day, but every day. Give procrastination a bad name and
overcome it! If you truly have a passion for music, every day should not be a problem.
Working on your long tones, scales, and rhythm and creating a rich full sound will
indeed lead you to success. The more you practice, the more you will learn how to blend
in with the rest of the band and earn yourselves a standing ovation. Don’t slack, do
work, and blow as if you’re taking your last breath.
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How To Become A Programmer
Alex Sanchez-Stern
Enter Kindergarten early. You will be a little proud of this for the rest of your life,
which is good. You’re going to need it. You’ll also always be the youngest because of
this, which will help you with the next part. Don’t fit in. This is important. You will,
however, make a best friend, who you’ll be friends with for the rest of your life. You’ll
need him too. Switch schools.
At your new school, you like math. You’ll get A’s on all of the tests, except the
teachers will have to talk to your parents, because you won’t show your work. Meet a
nice teacher who gives you more advanced math. Graduate middle school.
Don’t meet another programmer. It would discourage you too early, although he
will be a nice guy. Your few friends are all dating now, so start programming from
tutorials online. It’s not too hard, but there’s still a lot to learn. This is how you will feel
for the rest of your life. At school the kid who sits behind you gets better scores on all of
the math tests. Try, for a while, to do better than him. Fail. Throw yourself into your
programming.
After high school, get a summer job as a “technical consultant” for some paper
company because it sounds cushy. Spend a few days drinking soda and reading
magazines, and brag to anyone who’ll listen about how easy your job is. Then, your boss
will walk into your cubicle on Wednesday, and ask you to set up a database for the
website “real quick”. He’ll ask you if you’ve done this before. Nod and say yes, even
though you haven’t. Spend all of your free time working on it. Eventually, hours of
google searching and experimenting will bring you sleep deprived but smiling in front
of your boss with a solution. He’ll distractedly say “good”, and return to the papers on
his desk, his face as uncaring as a printer. This will be the most disappointing moment
of your life, so it’s best to get it out of the way early. Repeat this for a couple of weeks.
Get fired.
Invite your best friend over, and pretend not to be disappointed when he brings
his girlfriend.
“So,” she’ll say in an awkward moment when he is in the bathroom, “Andy tells
me you’re a programmer.”
Nod and say “yep.”
“That must be, uh, interesting I guess,” she’ll say half-heartedly.
Go to a college on the other side of the country.
//To Do: add more here
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How to become a Kindergarten Teacher
Silvia Sukir
If you want to be a kindergarten teacher, first try another profession. An athlete
for instance, a runner. A cake decorator. A pageant princess, heck, marry a royal prince
a become a real princess. It is okay to dream big at an early age. You will most likely fail,
but it's a good experience. Try babysitting, preferably kids age 5 and under. Tell Ms.
Chang you want to babysit their sweetheart Angela who can't seem to listen to anyone.
If you want a challenge, this is the type of kids you go to for your experience. Angela will
run around the house alternating high pitch quick-to-deaf screams and cries that last a
lifetime. When she cries, you try to soothe her, bribing her with sweets complimented
with your best smile. You will find yourself continuously checking the clock every five
seconds, just waiting for the long night to end.
You get stuck with the age group of 5-years-olds because your co-worker
decided that she has better things to do that day. Tell yourself, "I love kids"; this will
prevent you from strangling any of them. Enter the classroom knowing hell awaits you.
You tell the kids, with the sweetest voice, to listen to you tell them a story. They will tell
you "No." Then they will give everything they have to annoy you, heck, make you cry.
Patience here is a virtue. You know they win when you lose it. You give every ounce of
your patience to make it through the day. When the bell finally rings, you let out a huge
sigh. You are proud of yourself. In the back of your head you tell yourself that if you can
deal with these 5-year-olds, you can deal with any man.
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