THE GINGKO

THE AMERICAN SCHOOL OF PARIS 2006-2007

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Victoria Aton Alixe Turner

EDITORIAL STAFF Alex Bringmann Molly Bradley

Celeste Classon Hannah Clayton Allanah Steen

Zosia Ulatowski SUPERVISOR Duncan McEachern

gingko the

Copyright © 2007 American School of Paris

41 Rue Pasteur 92216 Saint Cloud

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Readers,

Thanks for taking forever to submit. Or not submitting at all. No-

tice the bitterness. And rage.

Oop-sheesh. Make joke. Perhaps not funny.

You may have noticed the seemingly senile (alliteration!) tone of

our ranting. But that is only because we are in the midst of preparing a

magnificent, gorgeous, spectacular, super-cali-fragilistic Gingko. No, it

is not edible, but instead is for lecture, a leisure activity perhaps still un-

known amongst you high school students, Neanderthal-like (simile!)

creatures roaming the hall.

Do not worry. We partake in this as well, even as the English

Higher Level geeks that we are. Please don’t be offended.

This year’s Gingko is grand (see staff letter). Within it you shall

embark on an intellectual voyage through the inter-galactic depths of the

non-average high school student mind. Bravo for those who have dared

suck from the teat of courage and have submitted to the Yujin, our

magical mascot.

Thanks to you submitters.

Thanks to our fabulous staff.

Thanks Tattoo-man. Keep ‘em regular.

Enjoy.

LETTER FROM THE STAFF

Dear Readers,

As the third year of Lit Mag ends, we present to you The Gingko.

It’s taken a long time, and some hard and sticky work. Scooping ice

cream and baking countless yummy treats brought us finally to our long

awaited product. Posters hanging in the bathroom stalls boldly stating,

“Submit or Die!” brought us the supporters we needed to produce such a

fine literary magazine.

Each year the Literary Magazine has a specific flavor. This year

has been a long haul for us, after losing several key members of the

group to college. In addition to this, we have come under new manage-

ment: the tall man on campus is now our leader. While we miss Ms.

Lah, Mr. McEachern has added a whole new dynamic to the group, and

has been one of the great minds behind favorites such as “The Birthday

Cake Sale” and the “BYOB Sale”. The Lit Mag is an ongoing process

that has captured our hearts and souls. During long hours of reading,

editing, and campaigning, the Lit Mag team has pulled together. We

prepare to say a tearful goodbye to our seniors, with many thanks to

Victoria for her Publisher expertise, Alixe for her critical direction, and

Zosia for her smiles and support. Each member of the Lit Mag brings

something to the mix, whether it is endless opinions on the color of the

cover or the integrity of the submissions. As the bright lights leave at the

end of this year, the new editors want to welcome any new members

with a sense of humor and a love for literature.

The Gingko Staff

Ginkgo Staff: Alex Bringmann, Victoria Aton, Molly Bradley,

Mr. McEachern, Allanah Steen, Zosia Ulatowski, Alixe Turner.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Doyeun Kim: Eating Grapes

Kelly Houck: September Allanah Steen: Do-It-Yourself Grieving

David Wang: Shanghai’s Nightlife Will Change Owen Melhado: Home

Will Fox: The Hour Kelly Houck: Untitled Jailee Chung: Blackout

Anonymous: Stars Cybele Safadi: Peacock Spring

Mia Bodet: An Old Young Mind (4 Haiku) Hannah Weisser: Oh Friend of Mine

Alie Plump: An Unwritten History Allanah Steen: Untitled

Anonymous: Hurricane Walk Anonymous: Alone, Watching, Silent, Waiting

Molly Bradley: Untitled Jailee Chung: ecoute:in_reverbe

Allanah Steen: Untitled Emily Kjos: The Lost and Found for Dreams

Celeste Classon: Untitled Dominic Tremblay: The Nine-ish Minute Essay

Celeste Classon: Untitled Heather Murdock: Love in Space in Time

Christian Melhado: Sonnets Anonymous: Flames

Doyeun Kim: Untitled Jailee Chung: Morose Morphinomaniac Roman Voytko-Barosse: Chapter One

Margaux Malyshev: Memoirs of the Past

Eating Grapes

Stains of magenta blossoming on white summer dress You were always so difficult. Sometimes the reddish purple would Blend quite perfectly into flower patterns on the dress But still, Mommy would not be pleased. Bursting you between my pearly teeth You would cushion the spaces Where the tooth fairy had her harvest. Flitting delight. Juice and sour tingling. But if I bit too quickly Your bitter seeds Would make the juice foul. So I would carefully sift them out, Savoring the juice as best I could, And gently spit them out, Like a lady, Into my sticky, cupped hands. I never understood how Bacchus did it. At the museum, In his graceful hands the grapes Became simply pretty toys

DOYEUN KIM

KELLY HOUCK

September Flashing lights and a burst of sound from the mouth of my best friend. Your shouts of unintelligible madness echoed into the night, Bouncing off buildings and bridges, looking for a place to rest. Our bodies were warm and our faces were flushed, As we gave silent acknowledgment of what we’d known all along. You shivered when I felt your neck, And I gave a laugh that told a secret about the wine we’d been sharing. Your shoulder had never seemed more comfortable, And as we all sang the same tune again and again, I felt your hand in mine and the world was perfect.

ALLANAH STEEN

Do It Yourself Grieving I wish there was emotional spackle. I’m talking about the stuff they use to fill in holes left by nails in the wall, after a painting has been taken down. We just took down a portrait of my grandfather this summer. In the gloomy hallway in my grandparent’s house, along the wall with all the other family pictures, there is a small hole where the nail used to be and the wallpaper is darker around the edges, tracing its absence. That space is an empty reminder of the picture that used to hang there, bring-ing to mind the details of the painting, the tiny details caught so per-fectly. My mother saw the many flaws in those details, in the way the painter thinned my grandfather’s mouth, and obscured the eyes behind the thick glasses. She had often spoken of the portrait, complained of its flaws, but as the colors faded, her criticisms quieted. She regained her appreciation of the art, and the portrait gained a vague preciousness, an importance that had formerly been hidden. When it was finally taken down, it left a hole in her heart. The portrait had changed so many times over the years, with different details becoming prominent, as formerly clear details grew fuzzy. Her understanding of the picture changed as her understanding of herself and her family changed. These transformations sat strangely in her heart, and so the hole was constantly changing. When they took down the portrait, the hole in her heart was ragged around the edges. We were in the States, land of Do-It-Yourself and Home Depot, but I couldn’t find any spackle for her. I couldn’t do anything to fill the hole, couldn’t add a premade substance and smooth the ragged edges, then let it dry. Nonetheless, I looked for spackle, in cups of tea and warm hugs, in long talks and good meals with rich red wine. But Home Depot doesn’t sell emotional spackle and I couldn’t fill that hole for my mother. The summer passed, the autumn passed, and we finally arrived at spring. The hole had finally stopped occupying my mind, when someone asked her about her father at a dinner. I watched her reaction closely, but with a sad smile and steady voice she answered. It was at the point that I real-ized that her search for spackle was a personal one, and all I could do was look on. My grandfather’s portrait got taken down this summer, and I finally understood that I cannot find a ready-made to fix the fabric of a heart.

DAVID WANG

Shanghai’s Nightlife Will Change

Soot lying on the streets The walls blackened by chronology Old women in wheelchairs, begging for wealth Children picking rancid meat from foul bags of garbage Desperate faces appealing for sympathy The multitudes of vehicles ebbing away at their own patience Bikes progressing slowly in traffic Fumes blowing into their faces Workers barely smiling, their hours slowly becoming their family’s meals But the comfort of knowing they’re still alive Gives leave for another day of life The lights of skyscrapers slowly giving life to the sky Students letting their troubles away in dances Despair slowly scattering away, wine glasses clashing Shadows of the day’s gloom brightened by joys of the night The light is best noticed when everything else is dark

OWEN MELHADO Home

This place is where I grew up and spoke my first words, Where I learned of the sun, the moon, and the bees and the birds, When everything was so simple And all that mattered was that I was alive. The long green grass and the cool crisp air Were my companions and would whisper in my ear Whatever it was I wanted to hear. But now it is gone, or rather I am, And the place where I used to live Holds only the potent aroma of nostalgia. The grass is now cut, and the air no longer crisp. If I close my eyes I see this place where I used to live, But when they open, I see something else. I see the place where someone else has spoken his first words.

WILL FOX

The Hour

Howard Hershey was an hour late for dinner, but didn’t know. He walked slowly with his eyebrows bent, a scale weighing his thoughts. The wind made his eyes water. His hands dug deep into his pockets in fists as if he were holding something special. He was holding nothing. March was coming to an end, but it was still as cold as any winter’s day. Mothers were still bundling up their children like delicate gifts and peo-ple were still drinking cheap coffee for the sake of holding something hot. The prevalent mood in the Boston area was short-tempered because yesterday was the day everyone lost an hour of sleep, or would end up showing up an hour late for work. To the dismay of his mother, Howard has kept his job as a writer for a local magazine called The Boston Red Sox Magazine into his early thirties and is quick to inform anyone who asks, that he was in fact not the genius to come up with the name. When he meets new people he avoids giving his last name, never listens to their first names and hopes he will never have to engage in small-talk in the event of running into them. He meets women occasionally but cringes at the idea of marriage. To most people he is a stranger. He stays home mostly, watching the weather change through the windows, letting the phone ring, and listen-ing to the Red Sox games on his transistor radio. He thinks little about himself, and little about others. He considers himself clever because he reads for fun and suave because he can play a few chords on his dusty guitar. His mother, Mrs. Hershey, is keen on intervening in his life, claiming, on the phone, that “he is like an echo, the kind of sound that floats around and then back down like a feather,” a line she stole from her favorite novel as if literature would prove her argument that he is list-less, secondary, rarely committed to things. She constantly condemns his natural indifference to family matters. She speaks like a queen and pauses rarely in conversation as if the hands of time have only given her the art of divine intervention. Her husband, his father, is dying slowly and comfortably in bed, in hospital. Howard visits him when he remem-bers to, and does so alone. Twenty years ago they would go to Fenway to commiserate about the losing season. At that age Mr. Hershey talked lit-

tle about the future and urged his sons to get autographs. Howard would get up, walk until he was out of sight and return with an unautographed glove. His brother James wouldn’t return without one. When Howard first visited his father in the hospital he brought his glove and kept it there, joking that it would give him reason to visit. Mr. Hershey smiled sadly, an old, old man who thought at his age that he would be braver in the face of death. Instead he was afraid and lay in fear like a child. James visited more frequently. Although James lived only an hours drive away, Howard had not seen his brother in three years; his mother in four. After college there was a mutual separation in the family that wasn’t only physical, especially between Howard and James. Mr. And Mrs. Hershey traveled often, simply as a retired couple. The further away from home they were, the less in love they fell, but stayed to-gether, more afraid of being alone than being with a stranger. Yesterday Mrs. Hershey called Howard and told him that his fa-ther had died and that they were going to meet for dinner and discus-sion. He was brushing his teeth when she called and said nothing. How-ard hadn’t visited his father in months. He sat slumped, sinking into his chair staring vacantly and paying little attention to his thoughts. He put his hand to his face and in the delicacy of silence he heard the ticking hand of his wristwatch. At this moment he realized, for the first time, how slow time passes when you watch it closely. He had done very little the past few months and was struck with great regret at not visitng his dying father. He was becoming a stranger to his own dying father, a poor old man afraid of the end. He closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly in realization of his apathy and selfishness. It was the first time he had been brushed with sadness since before he could remember. He forgot to set the clocks forward and showed up an hour late for dinner the next night. Howard entered the apartment quietly in the face of a man he remembered as his brother. He tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. James and his mother sat silently on either side of an empty chair. They had already finished dinner, their bowls clouded with rem-nants of soup. Howard sat; his breathing was loud from the cold and the apartment stairs. He wasn’t hungry but he didn’t feel like speaking, he hadn’t spoken in days, so he ate quietly, so quietly that he heard, again, the ticking hand of his watch. He paused in acknowledgement of his mistake, closing his eyes to be somewhere else. He reached his watch with his other hand and set the time one hour ahead. He thought at first

of saying sorry but hesitated, knowing there are some things a sin-gle word cannot redeem. But then again, life was unexpected; an hour had just passed in a matter of seconds.

KELLY HOUCK

JAILEE CHUNG

Blackout with filthy intentions and honeyed words it has been keeping you hidden, deep down inside the sea of rotting concrete corpses. and nightmares you have come to love, and tar-fed lungs are all you have left. the murder-scene is rising up again: your bleeding fists – your steaming anger – you plead, please just shut up and kill me, OR ELSE i might turn you into a butchery. i have heard fresh chops are quite a delicacy… . . . but like a neglected cauldron, the fury puts itself to sleep again, and you are going, going back to sleep to be comforted by your nightmares.

ANONYMOUS Stars

I gaze into the heavens And wonder where they are All the stars I see at night They’re always just so far What if I could hold one Take it in my palm Shrink the enormous size To a marble just as calm How many are there Which take up a night sky With so many wonders Which make you want to fly There are so many questions About these things, so big What about the tiny things Like a tiny fig What if a grain of sand Held a galaxy so big Or the biggest question Of the chicken or the egg Such big things out there Make all these things so small I’m just a tiny speck In the master piece of all

CYBELE SAFADI

Peacock Spring

MIA BODET

An Old Young Mind (4 Haiku) My eyes drowned in his As he coughed and then spluttered And smiled in my arms Suddenly the wave Of uncertainty sweeps by There I strongly feel

Fear drifts slowly by I resurface from his mind Alone he won’t be I watch in his eyes The scars that may be engraved From a darker past

HANNAH WEISSER

Oh Friend of Mine

Heavy is the heart of those Whose lives slide roughly down

Passing doors about to close All they hear is the sound

Of aesthetic concern

You are the center of the universe They never learn

Why I am the only one to curse

Your affected smiles Effervescent laughter, makes me sick Your sincere lies continue to beguile

Blank faces asking for no conflict

Alone in the dark you rake your wrists Crying to later tell the tale

In your mind you make your lists Of sympathy for sale

It leaks like poison from my chest

It leaks like poison from my chest My contempt for you is profound Your contradiction lingers around

While you whore and try to confess

Yet I find the strength to hate While your nature teeters my sanity Your forced apologies are too late

Due to thinly veiled vanity

So I will do what you cannot And cut a little deeper

Until the red ribbons of life Emerge and you feel the fever

ALIE PLUMP

An Unwritten History Living a life that she was given by chance Curious about what could have been Yet lucky to be alive. Growing up always wondering, where are they now? Bittersweet birthdays, surrounded by love. Yet there’s an absence, an emptiness, unable to be filled. Endless questions and a desire to know the truth Yet a strange fear of her history. Playing the hand she was dealt, in its entirety, graceful and complex. Yet always wondering, what are they doing? Her mind fills with abstract ideas Unable to capture a single one long enough to give it a chance. Yet she keeps an open mind. She knows no boundaries. Trapped in her own thoughts, fighting with her inability

Yet she keeps an open mind. She knows no boundaries. Trapped in her own thoughts, fighting with her inability to under-stand. Yet she insists on finding answers, some sort of closure. Fatigued from her un-written history and ready to settle Yet she never gives up.

ALLANAH STEEN

ANONYMOUS

Hurricane Walk

With the light breaking upon my FACE And the rain dripping upon my hands Open arms. With the storm cascade upon the hill, And the wind serenade upon the land Open eyes. My heart beating, onward I’ll march Until the hurricane blocks my path Away from this, away from tears And closer to your laugh. Open arms, open eyes Beating heart.

ANONYMOUS Alone, Watching, Silent, Waiting

Alone Watching Silent Waiting Clouds passing overhead Silently in grey monotone Only a slight breeze helping To them nothing else is known Birds gliding above slowly One passes in solitude like me Two, another alone on the wind A flock, together the world they will see

Trees bending under the slight pressure Each one unable to tell its tale Locked into its world of silence The only contact from a temporary gale Me a stranger in their world My back to the hoarding masses Waiting for my turn to relinquish But for now I’m doomed with classes

MOLLY BRADLEY

I’d been on the bus for only a few stops one early evening when a man and a woman got on, only prominent among the other passengers boarding because of the luggage they had with them. It was clearly the woman’s, but the man lugged it onto the bus for her, dragging it to a cor-ner out of the way, then turning to her and wrapping her in a warm hug. The woman looked fairly young, and the man roughly middle-aged. They chatted away quietly as they found their seats near the bags. The man showed no signs of balding and seemed fairly agile, but the lines on his face betrayed his youthful character. The girl could have been any-where in her twenties, with long but styled hair and a bubbly air – she smiled so often at the man it seemed not quite normal. The man was dressed modestly and casually but with a tie that looked brand new; she was dressed regularly enough but sported excessive jewelry. He wore a wedding ring; she did not. As she smiled up at him a ringtone sounded from somewhere in his jacket. He pulled a mobile phone from the left pocket, flipped it open and put it to his ear. “Hello?... Oh-hi, honey. …Yes, I’ll be home in a minute; I’m just taking a-a cab straight home.” The volume on the phone was turned up high: the tinny sound of a woman’s voice was audible, sounding indignant. The girl besides him looked at him somewhat questioningly, but

said nothing. “What? Yes, that means I’m not stopping along the way… no, I can’t drop them off for you… I’m sorry, I just don’t have the time!” His tone was slightly impatient now; his eyes shifted back and forth from the girl with him to out the window. “Listen-where are you now?... Okay-when will you be out? …Alright…” He moved the mouthpiece of the phone to below his chin and placed a finger lightly over it, turning to the girl and half-mouthing, half-whispering “we have time”. She nodded, trying to suppress a giddy smile. She looked anx-ious but excited and, like the man, she kept an eye on the window op-posite her. The man brought the phone back to his lips. “Alright, well-what? …No, there’s no one with me, why? …Oh, that was the, ah, driver. Windows are open. …Yeah. …See you at home, then.” He flipped the phone shut. The girl turned to him then, babbling nervously in a fluttery manner, a big cheesy grin still plastered to her face. He replied just as enthusiastically but in an undertone, as though afraid someone else on the bus might hear him. They stayed on the bus a while longer, gradually lapsing into silence and casting more nervous glances out the window. As the bus pulled up to another stop (my stop), they got up, gathering their bags and buttoning up their jackets, once again exchanging swift glances and shrewd smiles before stepping off the bus. They stepped up on the curb, walked quietly down the sidewalk and stopped in front of a gro-cery store. I began to continue my way down the street, but didn’t get far before a shrill mix of a shriek and a squeal of surprise and delight met my ears. Turning, I saw the man and the girl from the bus greeting an-other woman, older than the first. She pulled the girl into a tight hug and kissed her cheek, then grinned at the man and kissed him too, laughing, “I thought you were really taking a cab straight home!” Then, to the girl: “Honey, you said you had to study over break!... Oh, I can’t believe-tell me all about college life!”

ecoute in:_reverb the silver threat whispered lovingly by promising voices, an “f followed by a vowel, the sea, and an okay.” a touch of overwhelming tendresse, and the vine that crawled & coiled: around dead hearts and faint beats. silicon tongues that darted in and out, motley demeanors, crimes that go beyond denunciation: a want to taste myriad ways, a want to devour breath bubbles, a want to s l i d e in, j u i c e out. hinted schizophrenia threatening: to kill you the way i look at you a mental note of angry terror, as the darkness e x p l o d e d, d

r i p p e d, and stained the sheets in a

shimmery faint glow. easy slumber a soleil levant, fingers of chipped, red manicure find their path to a barren chest.

JAILEE CHUNG

ALLANAH STEEN

EMILY KJOS The Lost and Found for Dreams

Dreams are found in teardrops, lost on Life’s worn path, Splashes of color, once cherished, left behind as we move on. But if once they’re found, and laced with hope and tender care They’ll grow again, and spread their leaves, as belief creates their es-sence. When finally they are a tree, firmly rooted in your heart and soul, They will fill your being with that same hopefulness, as you draw faith from them. Soon they bear the fruit of your labor, and you can taste your sweet Suc-cess. But if before you taste the fruit of your labor, you leave old dreams be-hind, Your waning trees will cry teardrop seeds, who shall wait for a new dreamer to come along.

CELESTE CLASSON

DOMINIC TREMBLAY

The Nine-ish Minute Essay

In my bathtub, Some time between Kennedy’s assassination and the creation of the Ma-carena. The Nine-ish Minute Essay was a task given onto Dominic Tremblay by himself. Its manifest stipulates that the period of writing this essay must be no more –but more importantly– no less than nine Earth minutes, roughly. What is the point? This question has been posed many a time, and its answer is as valid as the question. The only error source pos-sible in posing such a problem onto the recipient is that it reflects the moral stature of the self. I am certain that you weren’t expecting such a dignified response to such a ghastly proposal. Oh certainly not! Nay one must realize that such is the deed that has been committed by various postal workers. Digression is a necessary aspect in life. It allows us to di-gress, in the form of digression, in a way that reveals one’s true thoughts at that particular moment. Why, even now, I am realizing things that would have taken years to decipher, taking into account the modern age of civilization in which we stand to this very day. The numerous conse-quences are foul. Game has been shot, plays on words have been laughed at, but I say to you, and hear me now, do not let these petty fools influence your creativity. The mind is a big thing, yet everyone knows it is just a slimy piece of meat that does not fry up very well, and tastes acceptable only pan-roasted and with white wine. The very fact of the matter is, la-dies and gentlemen of the jury, I stand here today to propose you a plan. This plan, I name it the You Can Do It Yourself Plan. Simply put, this plan allows people to do things for themselves. And if their need is so great, help will be provided. This defies the principle of the Plan no doubt, yet the results will be devastatingly delicious, particularly for those af-fected. Oh NO, the nine minutes have all but expired. Let’s all jump into the safety pool with our goggles and hair nets. Mock if you will, but it is a very little known fact that modern cell phones provide enough energy to support the mass of an atomic vehicle in full acceleration: it is the dichot-

omy of natural existence, and its heights are astounding! Marvelous, splendid, extremely good, nice, good, nice, very good, fairly nice, above average– such are the ploys they use to trick us into thinking we are worthy, Bah! We all know they are for gambling purposes of a se-quential nature. Poker chips are essential to the survival of our econ-omy, especially those made of plastic. Recycling is another issue I’d like to bring up. Seriously. I would. (rhyme) But I am out of time! I must draw the line somewhere, or else, it would go on forever! We could never draw lines! This inevitably suggest that chalk produces would go bankrupt, and make the switch into the pave-ment industry, because the road would be a cash cow for this industry, or a canary fiddler at least. ‘Tis a shame, but reality nonetheless (Yes! Three words in one! What an efficient age we live in!).

CELESTE CLASSON

HEATHER MURDOCK

Love in Space in Time I need to believe that there is a plan to the Universe. We are but a pale blue dot In a quiet young suburb of the Milky Way, But like the stars of the Little Dipper, We’re part of something bigger than ourselves. This perfect solitary night, Where the stars shine brighter than the city, Where we have come together, Couldn’t possibly be the product of chaos. We are but two in billions, Billions and counting, Lost is love, lost in space, lost in time. Part of what’s seemingly too vast to comprehend. So we must believe There is a plan There is a design It’s holding us together. Love in Space in Time.

CHRISTIAN MELHADO

Sonnets Sonnet #1 Lady Carthage lies here on tattered shores. In misty time her memory lingers; Along her battered walls and gaping doors She reaches out with her ancient fingers To a distant time when fate was kind. Great Hannibal answered her siren's call, Lead her to triumph with ambition blind, She saw her kingdom rise and saw it fall And now no great hero answers her plea. 2000 years have not erased her scars, She saw her people thrive and her people flee. Her lifeless form lies under countless stars. And here she lies stranded forever to sigh "I lived and triumphed and time passed me by." Sonnet #2 In the remote town, known as Daralhave, Which perches on the hills of a great sea, A man can hear the crashing of the waves Or hordes of travelers will line ships to see Webs of narrow streets lined by countless shops, Whose walls and roofs are made of white and teal. And there are times when one's heart just stops When the women wail and the faithful kneel While the chimes of minaret's pierce one's soul. The fragrances of exotic flowers worm their way into every crevice and hole. Intoxicating scenes exert their power. A Sage sits next to a wall of steel rust To exclaim "This place will turn to bones and dust."

Sonnet #3 Wallets slip from pockets to thieving hands, Destitute beggars wail their wail of woes, Men hawk wares ranging from rugs to Korans. Through the medina the throng weaves and flows, The market throbs with the pulse of the crowds. No matter the tongue you happen to speak; Money's the language that's always allowed, Though Vendors yell till their voices are weak. Despite the ugliness of this lovely place One dodges grasping claws and strident cries, The people match the markets hectic pace, To seek out where hidden treasure may lie. Along with the eternal haggling dance There's always the splendid allure of chance. Sonnet #4 Past the orange water a white beach stands. White blue cottages linger in the sun, Men and children gather in small bands To dance and sing until the day is done, While women wash the clothes and braid their hair And little girls do cartwheels in the sand. The stealthy swallows fly from here to there, Exhausted camels stalk across the land. Gaunt cats from the souk slink along the walls, The sun battered dogs start heading towards home. The orange waters dib as darkness falls And in this twig light darkness fireflies roam. As the blazing ball sinks and the moon will rise, To make a white night where the small town lies.

Flames Slowly licking at the tinder As the flame begins to grow Biting softly at the branches Used to fuel our beauty show Eating hungrily at the wood Placed upon the fire frame Taking time to devour Putting every bit of wood to shame Devouring each shred of bark Of each log before it burns Cleansing each before it’s taken To soot and ashes it turns Giant logs can be consumed By the flames of this great fire Many come to see this work They watch and admire Slowly however the flames diminish As the pile runs out of wood Shrinking to a petty coal Then out of life for good All that now remains is ashes The soft remains of life Burnt out, complete exhaustion An answer to all strife

ANONYMOUS

DOYEUN KIM

JAILEE CHUNG Morose morphinomaniac

touch the bullet or carry the gun; but what good will it summon upon you? what gate will it open, that leads you towards the eightfold path? of busted lips and fist-fed bruises: she reeks of. those cuss infected lies that rolled, slid, and tumbled, down and off of your tongue. good for nothing bitch but like cannibalism on a starved winter night, surely it will come; as in addiction, as in obliteration. look over the horizon; do you see the dust-laden sea of doubtful faces? the hyperventilating skulls of omniscience, and the victims of the fed up angels? when you tried to break the mortise lock of the mortuary haunted you were by that genuine smile of the graveyard ghost can you sleep some more for me? sleep until my scent of poppies wears off your delicately exposed, so intricately displayed, pumping, luscious, lungs.

ROMAN VOYTKO-BAROSSE

Chapter 1

“So, Laura, tell me everything!” said Luke Harden as he sat down. “How’re this week’s passengers looking?” He and Laura Wood, the cruise director, relaxed for a moment in the Officer’s Lounge of the Zodiac, decorated in the Art Deco style. The day was bright with prom-ise and sun, and the latest group of passenger had just finished boarding about twenty minutes ago, and they were relishing the few minutes of downtime they had before the cruise began with the lifeboat drill and free time would be a thing of the past. Some of the other crew were in there too, but it was mostly only members of the band and a few of the top stewards. Everyone else on the ship was buzzing away, making sure the ship was up and running, and that the passengers had everything they needed. Laura gave him a look. A typical Aries, she was very im-patient, and didn’t like dragging things out. The fiery redhead loved pre-cision and details, not the general picture. Luke thought, then rephrased his question. “Okay, fine. Superlatives?” “Alright….Um…” Luke thought for a few seconds and sighed. “Richest passenger,” he said, challenging her. She smiled. Luke could see the cogs of her mind working at the speed of light. Laura was in Mensa, and wasn’t too modest to let it show. He often wished he could have her memory; she often bragged that she remembered every passen-ger that’d ever sailed under her. Luke wasn’t hesitant to believe his good friend. They did, after all, share everything. “That would be Natalie White.” Luke cocked his head. “Never heard of her…” “Probably cause she’s ten years old,” she explained with a chuckle. “She’s the daughter of Rebecca White,” Luke seemed to recog-nize the name. “She… She runs some big law firm in New York, right?” Laura nodded. “One of the richest people in America,” she continued. “Natalie’s on her way to meet her father in Jamaica. He’s a cultural atta-ché down there.” “Wait, isn’t her mom on board?”

“No.. Natalie’s traveling with a governess.” “Oh.” Laura just knew what he was thinking with that ‘Oh.’ He had never been really close to his own mother, and he tended to be very critical of other parents when he felt they weren’t doing everything they could for their children. Laura could see where he was coming from to some extent, but she thought Luke took it too far sometimes, and she wished he wouldn’t let it get him so upset. “What next?” she ventured, trying to change the subject. “Okay.,” he mumbled, “hm… Cutest couple?” “Definitely James and Ethel Grover. They’re adorable together! And– get this– they’re here on their fiftieth wedding anniversary!” Luke whistled loudly, sitting back on the black leather couch and spreading his arms back. “Imagine…” Luke stopped and looked out the port win-dows, out into the bay and the ocean, off into infinity. “Imagine spending fifty years with one person…” The door suddenly opened and in glided a vision in a blindingly white uniform. It was Captain Michael Harrison. He was in his early for-ties, and had those faint lines around his eyes (dark green in color) from smiling so much. He carried his hat under his right arm, large and muscu-lar: strong, even under his jacket. With his free hand he tried to fix his thick black curls into their natural places. His hat always seemed to mess them up. Michael was a Gemini, and his duplicity was pretty obvious to most who knew him. When it came to work, he was always on task, he was confident; he knew what to do and how to do it. But the second he went off duty, he seemed to change instantly. He became timid, awk-ward, a great big push-over. Which was probably why so many people found him irresistible: he wasn’t arrogant like you might think. He was sweet and gentle. Luke and Laura followed Captain Harrison over their eyes as he made his way to the kitchenette on the far side of the lounge. He took a soda from the refrigerator, and took a long sip. “You guys better start heading out on deck- the departure party is about to start.” He said it very quietly and partly into the still-open refrig-erator, so neither of them responded. He turned to face them. “Guys?” Luke and Laura snapped out of their longing trance, and looked away, avoiding eye contact and mumbling things like “Right away,” and “Yes, Sir.” Michael scratched his head in awkward silence that followed. Some of the others in the room had stopped their conversations and were looking over, very badly feigning disinterest. The fridge door closed with

Luke sighed once he was out of sight. “Fifty years with him wouldn’t be too bad…” “I do!” They both laughed. “He does too, apparently,” said Luke slickly. “What? No!” “Did you see the way he acted when you started talking?” he in-sisted “He’s crazy about you! Why else would he turn as red as a tomato every time he sees you? Trust me. I’ve been there each time.” Laura seemed to contemplate it for awhile. “Mrs. Laura Harrison…” she stroked her ring finger. “What am I doing?” she said suddenly. “We’re not ten years old anymore, Luke. Love doesn’t work that way…” He didn’t answer. “Why is he so gor-geous?” She continued after a time, disregarding her own comment. “It just shouldn’t be legal to have such attractive co-workers. It’s so distract-ing sometimes.” They both laughed. “When he smiles I melt!” chuckled Luke. “And his voice! I swear! I’m putty in his hands!” “I just find it so hard not to stare sometimes…” “Oh! Speaking of staring– and couples– there’s a really cute les-bian couple onboard!” “You are so random sometimes! I’ll pretend those two topics are related,” he teased. She gave him a dirty look. “Maria Dominguez and Vanessa Blackwell,” she announced. Luke considered it briefly. “I wouldn’t have expected that…” “Me neither, but anyway, I introduced them as friends, and as they walked into the lobby, some guys started wolf whistling at them. Then they kissed!” She laughed. “The look on those guys’ faces was priceless!” Luke laughed as well. “Anyway, go on!” “What shall I divulge next, dear?” “Um…how about…” He stopped for a moment. “Brattiest chil-dren!” The gears were turning again. “I’ll have to say the Parker family. Two kids: a young daughter, about eighteen or so (Brooke), and a son (Dominic), about ten – the lucky parents (Tyra and Daniel) looking ready to strangle them both. The daughter seemed the typical pouting, sullen teenager type, never happy with anything her parents do – not that I blame her; I was the same way.

Dominic was the real terror. You know that rock-wall display thing out-side the excursion office?” “Yeah…” he winced. “For the rock-climbing excursion in Barba-dos?” “Exactly! Well, he started climbing the fake one downstairs! It fell over and broke in half.” They both laughed again. “I never liked that thing anyway,” said Luke, sticking out his tongue. “What an eyesore!” “I’m pretty sure none of the excursion staff were all that sad to see it go either.” They laughed again. “Okay, next item is probably…cutest guy.” This was the one field Laura always had trouble with…and the gears were turning again. “Well…this is hard. There are three main nominees…” Laura picked up her laptop from the coffee table and went to sit next to Luke on the sofa. The familiar Windows startup music blared loudly. Laura ad-justed the volume. “Look,” she said as she opened the folder that con-tained the passengers’ boarding photographs – courtesy of Julie in the Photo Shop. She double-clicked on two pictures, and they both were in-stantly enlarged to full-screen versions. “Here are the two first candi-dates: Chris Douglas and Bill Stoker; college students – friends of Maria and Vanessa, actually – and both incredibly handsome.” Luke looked over the pictures, studying them: the typical jocks. Laura always seemed to go for them. “Who’s the third candidate?” he said when he had seen enough. She clicked on the other picture, bringing it to the front of the screen. “Mr. Nathan Green,” she announced. “Laura!” said Luke in mock horror. “He’s married!” “To Victoria Green. They’re on their honeymoon. But, hey, isn’t the forbidden fruit always the most tempting?” she teased back.

Laura’s eyes fell upon the clock as they both laughed. “Oh! Crap! We need to get upstairs!”

“Jeez! You’re right! I should have been there five minutes ago!”Laura closed her laptop and they both sprinted out the door.

MARGAUX MALYSHEV

Memoirs of the Past

I never thought I would visit it again. After everything I went through after the war, to actually go back to the land which took over two years of my life and scarred the rest.

My heart was the only thing I could feel when I saw the letter, I could feel the veins in my head throbbing. I felt that twitch in my arm creep up to haunt me again like it used to. All the memories flashed back into my head. I couldn’t read it so I left it on the counter for my wife or grandchildren to find it and dispose of it. The letter disappeared the next day and after that my twitch calmed down and those awful flashbacks started to go away. This always happened whenever something regarding the war would come up.

About two months later I found myself in the car with Louise on my way there. The long drive kept becoming shorter, and every time we passed a sign my arm would begin to twitch. Louise understood. She knew better than anyone. She had explained to me that it would help it if we came to visit. Visit where the battle was. Visit the place which would remain in my nightmares forever. Louise didn’t want the doctors to try and cure it by electrifying me; she was always a believer in the natural remedies, which later she told me the letter was suggesting. So there I was sitting in the car waiting for the memories to flood my mind. I woke up and the car was still. I was afraid to open my eyes, afraid of the feelings that were rising within me. When I opened them what I saw was a place I did not recognize. Vast hills covered in mud and old shells that seemed to go on for miles surrounded me. I stepped out of the car and onto the muddy earth; I felt its tug when I lifted my foot, like it was pulling me back into those caves where I spent endless nights awaiting news from fellow runners. Having to cover my head when the walls began to shake because of grenades being thrown above us. The never-ending cries of “POISONOUS GAS! PUT ON YOUR GAS MASKS!” being shouted. The vast green hills seemed so empty from where I stood.

“Here we are, dear,” Louise said, “Le Chemin Des Dames.” I was sent to Le Chemin Des Dames just when the battles had be-

gun around 1916. On the very first day of the attacks we lost 40,000 men.

Every day the number of dead men just kept rising. I remember all the dead bodies that would be piled outside our camp, we would have to wake up to the smell of their rotting corpses and pray that we wouldn’t end up in that pile at the end of the day. While we were waiting, the bat-tles continued, and during those months I was at Le Chemin Des Dames I can assure you that there was never a time when there was just pure silence. All the shellings were endless. I could almost hear them again if I listened really closely.

Louise took my hand and stood with me as we looked over the fields in peace. She then said very softly, “I need to tell you something Jean, something from that letter you received. It’s about your good friend Pierre.” My stomach dropped. “Pierre?” I heard myself say his name and it hurt me even more. “Pierre,” I repeated. I hadn’t said that name in so long. She looked at me and I waited for the words I knew she was going to say. “I’m so sorry Jean, he passed away two weeks ago. In the letter his wife wrote that they were spreading the ashes over these fields tomorrow. She said that she wanted and needed you to be here, and you would be the only one to understand why.” There was a long pause after Louise told me this. I didn’t know what to say, what I was feeling, or what I should do. Pierre was like my older brother during those years at war, he was the one who saved my life…

Pierre and I were sitting where we normally did when it got dark outside and we were waiting for our orders. Oddly enough it was just us in the room which made me rather uncomfortable. Suddenly an officer darted in the room covered in sweat. He looked around the empty room, then at us in astonishment. “Are you the only two?” he grunted. We nodded. “Fine. I need you two to go across the border. You will be my runners for tonight.” My heart dropped. This was the news every solider in the force was dreading. Of course Pierre and I kept our heads high and nodded for a second time. “Follow me.” The officer commanded, and we darted after him towards what we called “the exit of death”. This was a small door that lead onto the battlefield; it was also the closest entry to the German caves. “I know this will be difficult considering you are only two but you need to get this done. We are all counting on you,” barked the officer. This line was fed to us almost every hour. “I want you to get inside their small east trench and kill everyone inside. They have left that one with only 15 solders so it shouldn’t be that hard be-

cause we are now putting more pressure on their west trenches now.” He looked at us and immediately saw the confusion in our eyes but chose to ignore it.

When we got outside the sound of shelling grew louder. We fol-lowed the directions that the officer had given us and managed to get there without getting shot. Amazingly there weren’t many Germans around so it was easy to get into the east trench. We crouched down near the entrance and listened to where the Germans were. We could hear Germans laugh-ing deep in the trench and decided in silence to sneak deeper in the cave and grenade them. Of course Pierre was the one to throw it and when he did he shoved me against the trench wall for protection. I stood there stunned. There was screaming and firing from inside the trench, then si-lence. Pierre released me and walked further on into the trench, I fol-lowed. When we get deeper we saw several Germans sprawled across the floor, all dead- except one. He was standing there blood spattering and shaking. I too was shaking. He had his hands in the air whimpering. Fran-tic now to get out, the Pierre, me, and the German scrambled solider out of the trench, the bloody solider was whimpering. Pierre shouted at him to stop, but he was only making it worse. When we arrived at the top we started to run in the direction of our trenches but suddenly a flare went up and we were caught in broad daylight. I hurled myself to the ground and buried my head in the snow. The German flares lasted so much longer than ours, they shone so much brighter. I pressed myself to the ground, eyes closed.

I remember praying and thinking of Louise and our new little baby at home that she had written so much to me about. If I died I wanted them to be my last thought. A machine gun opened behinds us and then rifle fire. There was nowhere to hide so we lay there and pretended to be dead. We waited for what seemed like hours. When the barrage stopped, smoke drifted over us and down to where we were lying, filling our nostrils with the stench of cordite. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the German solider. He lay there with his eyes open and a smile on his face, at least he died happy I thought. Pierre then spoke, “We need to move now.” We both sat up and agreed to make a run for it. When we got out of the pit we found that our camp wasn’t that far away and we could make it back

rather quickly. We both stated sprinting towards our trenches when we saw two German soldiers come out from a ditch near us with rifles. Pi-erre and I had left ours back in the ditch to run faster and we had nothing to protect ourselves with except batons. One of them then shot me in the leg. The pain shot through my whole body and I collapsed on the icy floor screaming out to Pierre. Before I even finished screaming his name he was already beating the German’s with his baton. Another shot was fired and a yell came from Pierre. “Mon bras!” He had been shot in the arm but continued to fight. I lay there helplessly on the ground while my partner fought and managed to kill the two Germans with a bullet in his arm. He helped me walk back to camp and on the way I said, “Why did-n’t you just leave me?” He almost dropped me. “Live together die alone? That’s not how it should be, my friend.” Tears came to my eyes and covered my face. I was so glad that Pierre wanted me to be here at the spreading of his ashes. We were going to spread them at the place that had taken both of our lives away.