Roars and Whispers 2010-11

Providence Senior High Schoolvolume XVI

$12.00 per issue

1800 Pineville Matthews RoadCharlotte, NC 28270

Phone: 980-343-5390Fax: 980-343-3956

Printer: Jostens

2010 Awards:

CSPA - Gold Medalist and Columbia Crown WinnerNSPA - All-American Rating

NCSMA - All North Carolina and Tar Heel AwardNCTE - Highest Award

NSPA - 2007 Pacemaker Winner

Cover Image:Jennifer Waldkirch

roars whispersand

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Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Copyright © Jostens Inc, 2011

Bete Noire, Tony Zanghi

Mechanized, Henry Leavitt 14

We Are the Boring, Resistance is Futile, Brynn Claypoole

The Beginner's Guide to World Domination, Madelyn Usher

The Skate, Lauren Burnham

It was Tuesday, and we couldn't remember how we got there.,Lauren Burnham

54Wires, Brynn Claypoole

48423820

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table contents

06 poetry

fiction

60

50

62

Playing Pretend, Erin Gallagher

Of Ava, Emily Aspinwall

Home on the Range, Blake Taylor

Frostbite, Lindsey Rosenbaum

Six Word Storybook, Misc. Authors

From the Inside Out, Eunice Lee

of

Substitute, Madelyn Usher

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16non-fiction

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Tourist Trap, Stuart Schrader

Tomorrow, Today, Brynn Claypoole

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The Conversation Starter, Lauren Burnham

Snow Night, Carol Abken

Ascent, Erin Gallagher

On Youth and Ignorance, Wesley Jacobs

And Nothing but the Truth..., Kenzie Sauders

Jaws, Sarah Kinney

All I Needed to Say, Sarah Chaney

Beneath Cities, Sasha Freger

A Message to Those Still Here, Sarah Chaney

One Drop at a Time, Blake Taylor

Embroidered Landscape, Sarah Fewell

An Insubstantial Face, Chris Ragon

Love Handles, Lauren Burnham

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Kenzie Saunders 70696258565251

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colo- 2011 was printed byJostens of Clarksville, Tennessee, on 100#matte paper. Body text is Helvetica 10. Titles are printedusing one of the following fonts: AntiqueOlive Light, Antique Olive Roman, Ashley,Avalon, Cursive Hand, Goudy Sans,Grotesk, Grotesk Sm Caps, Helvetica,Jackson, Kabel Light, Kaufmann Script,

Letter Gothic, Maximo, Memphis Light,Modern 216, News Gothic, Olive Oil,Rundschrift, Times, Typemaker. ChickenScratch and Inkburrow are used for themagazine title. All graphic editing was done using AdobePhotoshop CS3. The magazine was createdthrough the use of Jostens’ YearbookAvenue on Hewlett-Packard computers

Sarah Kinney

Rachel Voorhis

Josh Richardson

Natalie Kelton

Sarah Kinney

Natalie Kelton

Sasha Freger

Meagan Barger

Thorys Stensrud

photo-graphy

phon

Melissa Murphy

Thorys Stensrud

Natalie Kelton 06

40Melissa Murphy

Lauren Burnham

Melissa Murphy

Sarah Kinney

Sarah Kinney

Natalie Kelton

Natalie Kelton

Natalie Kelton

Natalie Kelton

table contentsof

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is an open forumfor all students’ opinions; the ideaspresented in the magazine do not reflectthose of the Providence High School faculty.However, as a school publication, reserves the right to denypublication to submissions that are deemedinappropriate for a high school audience. is the poetic andartistic voice of the students at ProvidenceHigh School. Whether through the strengthof our roars or the softness of our whispers,we will be heard

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policy

20181616 36

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art

is a publicationcreated by the literary magazine students atProvidence High School. Poetry, prose,artwork and photography are submitted bymembers of the student body. Eachsubmission is assigned a number and issubsequently judged anonymously by everymember of the staff. The magazinepublishes those poetry and prose piecesthat are of the highest quality and receivethe highest scores, as well as the artworkand photography that is most relevant to themagazine.

Sarah Chaney

Sarah Claypoole

Agnes Kim

Sarah Kinney

Sarah Kinney

Sarah Kinney

Aryn Leach

Janie Warstler

Liz Wickham

Halley Freger

Sarah Kinney

Sarah Kinney

Sarah Kinney

64 Blake Taylor

( )continued

Sarah Kinney25

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Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 006 (313744509) 03/10/2011 12:25 PM



got there.

I once heard somewherethat Tuesday was named after

some Norse god named Tew(or was it Ty?)

but could not remember for the life of mewhere I had heard it.

I remember I had imagined himforged in the womb of some sooty storm cloud,

hurling bolts at innocent passersbyjust for sport.

He would eat kids like us for breakfast,and for lunch, a mountain

salted with snow.He would lick the bones of trees,

sucking out the sappy-sweet marrow.I could not remember where I had

heard of him, but I recallthat I was sorry,

perhaps that I had never heard of him before,or that this swallower of mountains

was confined to some forgotten day.I can’t remember exactly

what I thought next, or

how we

cou

ldn

't rem

em

be

r

and weTuesday,

It was

where Ihad heard ofhim.(Perhaps an article?A teacher?)There is a spot on the rugthat I know was inked in blood,though Ican’t quiterecallwhether it was my ownor if it came from someone else, and there is ablank scar on my knee that once reflected somestinging memory,dark clouds anddevoured mountains, butnow just conjures afaint feeling of loss.

It is pale, foreign.

- Lauren Burnham

Natalie K

elton

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Mel

issa

Mur

phy

sinking feeling radiating from myabdomen to my arms and thighs, thecavern forming in my chest as it empties.My body tells me that I’m sad, but thesadness is so deep and has so manylayers that I can’t see the label on myemotional state. I can’t identify the feeling;now this incident will only blur its name sothat the next time I have to strain my eyeseven more. A door slams. There’s a dead something in the road;I think it’s a rabbit. I shudder. None of thecars stop to mourn. I speed by as well,going too fast to extend my hand or offersome comfort. The cavern cracks, andthe rest of my contents fall. Now myemotions, the ones I’ve been juggling sowell up until now, spill over, and I’m leftwith what I really feel, a reflection of whatI really feel, a shadow of what I really feel,until I feel nothing but nameless hurt. Therabbit is still back there. Someone’scrying. The worst lie I told you wasn’t that I wasdriving when I was really in my room—itwas that line, the one about coming toterms

like to drive around and think. There’ssomething soothing about it: Gettingaway from that place, going anywhere—just you, the car, and the roads—puttingmore dangerous thoughts somewhereelse. It’s funny, but leaving a place for awhile sometimes helps soften edges.That absence makes me think about thatphrase, “I’ve been there,” like theseemotions are a tangible place, like I couldfind them on a map and drive by them. I sit back and regard the traffic, examinethe sky as it turns a paler blue and thetrees become dark silhouettes, justoutlines of themselves. I watch thestreetlights turn on, though the horizon’snot yet dark. I watch the wheels of the herdof cars speeding by me, tires spinning somuch that they look like they’re notmoving at all. While I observe, I let mythoughts ramble. I surrender myself totheir patterns, designed to occupy mymind like the zig-zagging lines on a rugentertain complacent eyes. My thoughtsramble like conversations do, going fromtopic to topic, using links from phrases,stretching the previous idea to fit what the

speaker really wants to say. I drive, Iwatch, I notice, I linger. I come to terms. Of course, I’m just playing pretend. Idon’t really drive. Wake up, I say to myselfwhen the imagining’s done. Someone’syelling. I’m at my house, in my room. Safe,but not safe from myself. I pause at the light, pulling my tremblingthoughts on evening skies and car tiresinto line so that I can decide which wayto turn. Something needs to happen tospur the decision, to make one of the twochoices feel right. I don’t feel anything, butit’s too soon to tell. The car behind mevoices its displeasure at my stillness, soI pull the car to the right without believing.If I go this way, I’ll get to the highway.Sure, I will go there. They’re yelling. I listen to hear whatroom they’re in. I’ve gotten good at that,sensing where people are, stayingunseen but keeping tabs. Somethingcrashes—I think I hear a small voice. I tryto fight the feeling that I know will spreadin my stomach, but it’s already here. NowI check the other things off the list: theshallow heartbeat speeding up, the

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Bête NoireI do not praise your existence,chorus room door handle.You make simple exits awkwardand heated exits uncomfortable.Subtle entries are never successful.The multitude of head bumpsI’ve received at your leisure,the various moments of entrapment,enrage my bête noire for youand your fickle functioning. Yourshrewdness for others astounds me.You humiliate me, lower myself-esteem, make me feel incompetent.But know this: One day I will openyou with great ease, and all the worldwill witness my success. It shall beepic, and my name shall be spoken offor eons thereafter. Mark my words,door handle, I will be availed!

- Tony Zanghi

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the skate lauren burnham

Natalie K

elton

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The door swung open, letting in gustsof snow and wind. Two of the candlesexhaled a stream of smoke. How fitting. Istabbed one of the pieces in the pan,flipping it over. My hands had begun toshake again. “Well, are you going to take my coat?”boomed a caustic voice. “Of course.” I hurried over, but he had alreadydumped the snow-covered woolen thingon the floor for me to hang up. “I see dinner’s not ready,” he mutteredas he eased into a chair and kicked offhis snow-caked boots, releasing odorouswafts into the tiny room. “I got back late from the laundry. It’snearly done.” Returning to the stove, I saw that theskate had already blackened. When I set it before him on one of ourchipped plates, he wrinkled his ugly nose,which sat perched upon a curly blackmoustache. “How’s a man supposed to eat in thisGod-forsaken house? Honestly, woman,I’m at work all day while you laze aroundat the laundry, and I come home to this?” I didn’t answer. It was this same thingnight after night. I washed and dried myown cracked hands and sat down acrossfrom him, where he sat radiating stenchand spitefulness. These hands of minehad once been the color of eggshell, andsilky soft. I had imagined that they wouldforever be clothed in silk gloves, warmand smooth, not cold as fish and peelingwith lye. But here they sat, mute anddemure in my lap, across from the pair ofhands that dropped coats on the floor,that ungratefully stuffed food into acomplaining mouth, that hit when theytouched alcohol. But what I could never get over was thesmell. He did not wear it like clothing,but was entirely composed of it, as if ithad worked its way between each cell ofhis wretched and porcine body, holdinghim together. Each drop of food that

spattered across his beard and clothingseemed to trickle into his skin, where itwould sit, fermenting and decomposing,forming an aura of stench around him.His breath, however, was entirely differ-ent. Added to the reeking of his naturalbreath was the pungent and bitter fetor ofalcohol which traveled through his putridarms, forming his hands into fists. For a while, I fought back. But afternearly a decade, my hands ceased theirincessant flopping—ceased their wild,desperate breathing. They were guttedof all their life, cut up, washed clean, andcoated in grit and inhumanity until theywere no longer hands at all. I stared at my plate, my pieces ofblackened flesh, and watched him downhis cheap wine gluttonously. “Here, dear, let me pour you somemore.” My voice escaped before I want-ed it to, and I rose from my seat, graceful-ly snatched away his cup, and saunter-ed over to the counter. The tiny whitepackage was waiting within the folds ofmy sleeve, the package I had picked upwith the fish at the market earlier thatday. Innocently, I slipped the powder intohis cup, pouring the nonchalant wine ontop of it, swirling it before I brought it backto the table. He was blissfully unaware, gulpingdown his wine—wine that I myself had solovingly poured. I concentrated on theskate, gracefully slicing it and poppingfeminine nibbles into my mouth. Soon,across the table from me, a coughescaped his fat lips—then another. Ilooked up calmly, daintily dabbing at mymouth with my napkin and smoothing itback into place on my lap. His coughingincreased—he clutched his heart andgasped for air as his chair toppledbeneath him, bringing his plate and glasscrashing down. I took another sip of wineas he hit the floor. “Hello, little skate,” I said merrily, pickingup my paring knife and striding toward theupturned chair

w ide-mouthed, the wriggling silverskate suffocated slowly on the counter-top. He kept time with his soft and gaspingbreaths, his gray and eerily human skindrying quickly in the stifling heat of theshack. Knife to flesh was a strangesensation that I never could get used to,so strange to feel, to think about. Helooked up at me with the first touch of theparing knife. I wanted to think his smalleyes, like two drops of onyx beadingup on his fishy face, held some pro-found intelligence, some semblance ofunderstanding. I wanted him to look upat me pleadingly, to beg for his life or askme what I would feel if I were floppingaway on a countertop, but he did not.His eyes were distinctly flat, the brainbehind them small and hollow as awalnut. Soon, they glazed over with amatte finish. The impatient and erraticrhythm of his wheezing simply ceased,leaving the room silent as I workedaway. I split him down the spine, filletedhim and smoothly sliced away thecartilage. This process simply removed theunpleasantness, all the rich viscera thatgave him life; I cast it aside, washing theremaining scraps until they were sterile.I glanced at the clock—6 p.m. already.He would be home any minute. My handbegan to shake, but I steadied it andhastily sliced the skate into pieces,marring the flesh which had once beenso like my own. I coated the bits inbreadcrumbs until they were no longerskate but something blander, more pal-atable. Just minutes ago, this had been aliving, breathing thing. It had, at one point,roamed the ocean floor just off the coastof this shoddy New England city, until itwas wrenched up from the bottom andthrown in water to keep it fresh. Now, itlooked nothing like skate. It was mollified,less repulsive, less alive. It crackled in ahot skillet upon an iron stove, swimmingin rancid butter.

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MECHANIZ

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When all the free souls die,grinding gearsreplace the heart.Pistons pump outall our blood.When the women arecast asideand no children can be seen,steel ravenscircle the sky andblack ash tumbles like the weeds.Flowers never bloom,only fray.And to what do we pray?When the iron casts from which we are madeare ordered to answer our prayer,more of us this worldshallbear.

- Henry Leavitt

ED

Josh Richardson

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T looming man with a whispering voicewho, despite his fame, prefers a quiet,nondescript desk in the corner. Even withhis soft voice, Tomlinson’s words carry aprofound wisdom, much of which heattributes to his past. Tommy Tomlinson was raised in Bruns-wick, Georgia, the son of Depression-erasharecroppers. His father dropped out ofschool in the sixth grade, his mother inthe fourth, to pick cotton. However, bothparents devoutly loved to read, uniting thefamily over the love of the newspaper. “Itwas a big event at our house, when thenewspaper came,” recollects Tomlinson.“So by the time I was really little, I realizedthat the newspaper was really important.”He says it was how his parents found outwhat was going on in the world. It was thisimportance placed on learning andknowledge that spurred Tomlinson to bethe second in his entire family to go tocollege. It was at the University of Georgia thatTomlinson got his start with journalism. “Iwas always training to be a journalist,”says Tomlinson, “but I didn’t know it at thetime.” As a young man, Tomlinson held avariety of occupations, from department-store-floor cleaner to convenience-store-cooler loader to drive-in-movie attendant.But in college Tomlinson found his placeat the campus newspaper, and it stuck.“Just the idea of taking that natural

ake a look at today’s news-paper. There are probably ahundred articles within its pages

concerning Internet privacy, politicaldecisions, or the latest sports victory.These articles and editorials are writtento inform us of recent events, or to makeus reflect on the material. But how oftendo we consider the writers behind it all,the “material” behind the material?Rarely do we think of the masses oftalented people who venture out into thefield and return to the office to beautifullycraft an article that is ready for you toperuse alongside your morning coffee. Tommy Tomlinson is one of thosepeople. For over two decades, or around 7,660newspapers, Tomlinson has been awriter and a columnist with the CharlotteObserver. In this time, he has receivednumerous honors, including becoming afinalist for the Pulitzer Prize incommentary and applying for andreceiving the Niemann JournalismFellowship at Harvard in 2008. Despite his many achievements,Tomlinson is modest and surprisinglyquiet. From his sometimes-humorouswriting and stock photo, one wouldexpect Tomlinson to be a hearty, stoutman with a vocabulary like Shakespeareand a booming voice perfect for crackingjokes over coffee. Instead, he is a tall,

The Conversation Starter

Lauren Burnham

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be curious about the world. You want towant to know… How does that happen?How does that work?” With these twocharacteristics, anything is possible.Reading voraciously, asking questions,“taking the long route home or eventrying to get lost,” all aid creativethinking. “Because that all helps shapeyou,” he explains. Talking to Tomlinson,one cannot help but feel inspired. Hisenthusiasm and love for writing andwords are contagious and come acrossin every word he says, even in his mostmodest comments. Someday, Tomlinson will retire from thepaper altogether, though he plans tocontinue writing. He hopes to fish andread on the beach, returning to theAtlantic coast on which he grew up. Hewill leave behind him a legacy of articlesand musings that expose us to thedeepest human aspects of what mayseem inhuman situations, or that takenew perspectives on the rescue of theChilean miners or on a woman whose carbreaks down in the middle of the road.Someday, the space his column often fillswill be replaced by someone else'smusings, and his desk will bear thescratches of someone else's pen. In themeantime, he will continue to churn outarticles that make us pause over ourmorning waffles, that get us thinking, thatget a conversation started

curiosity and my love of writing things andputting those things together, that feltreally natural to me,” reflects Tomlinson.“So that’s when I figured out that waswhat I wanted to do.” Following a job in Augusta, Tomlinsongot a job with the Charlotte Observer,eventually becoming a music writer andgeneral feature writer for the paper,during which time he covered events asdiverse as concerts, the Super Bowl, andthe National Spelling Bee. For the last thirteen years, however, hehas been a columnist, writing about“anything you could think of.” His favoritetopics currently are human-intereststories, which he defines as stories“about ordinary people who do somethinginteresting or extraordinary.” He says helikes to think that people have more incommon than they have differences andthat his stories embody that commonthread. Recently, he has begun printingarticles in which he publishes the bestreader responses to questions posed inprevious columns. A recent article askedhigh school seniors to write to incomingfirst-graders about what to expect fromschool, which had an enormous re-sponse. “I’m looking for something thatmoves me personally,” says Tomlinsonof choosing topics for his stories. Thearticle written on his wedding day perhapsbest exemplifies that idea, meriting

hundreds of phone calls and emailresponses from people who feltemotionally connected to his experience. Despite his mass of well-receivedarticles, a few flop. In one particulararticle, Tomlinson mocked a teenagerwho caused a ruckus by wearing aConfederate flag T-shirt to school. Thenegative messages poured in. In the nextcolumn, Tomlinson wrote an apology tothe girl, standing by his disagreementwith her actions but apologizing formaking fun of her. “I realized I’d madefun of somebody with less power thanme, who didn’t have the voice that I hadto reach people,” Tomlinson explains.However, he went on to say that suchmistakes are all part of the jobdescription. “In a given year, I might writeninety to a hundred thousand words…Somewhere in there, I’m going to screwup. So being wrong, from time to time, isjust a part of what we do… My main jobis not necessarily to make you agree withme or disagree with me, but just to get aconversation started.” For aspiring journalists or writers of anykind, Tomlinson has two simple piecesof advice. The first: “You have to lovewords; you have to read, you have to loveto write.” He suggests reading anything,from books and magazines to blogs andbathroom graffiti, “even a cereal box.”The second requirement: “You have to

Sarah Chaney, Sarah Claypoole,Collage

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embroideredlandscapeThrough the eye of a needle, a river of cobalt flows.He’s yanked, pulled,creating pools upon the blank cloth.Summertime-yellow meets the oceanwhile envious green whirs silently in the hills.Seductive rouge sings, her voice a deep crimson wave.Somewhere off in the distance, mysterious purple sits, licking the sugar from violet blackberry skins.These are the colors, blended and entwined, overlapping as the picture is born from the embroiderer’s hand.

- Sarah Fewell

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Agnes Kimdigital painting

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Emily Aspinwall

Of Ava

Sarah Kinneywatercolor

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New Jersey, August 12, 2003, 4:35 PMEST “Ava?” Ava? Who said that? I haven’t heard thatname spoken in a long time. I opened mycrusted eyelids. I moved my witheredhand with its yellow, cracked nails tobrush off my eyes. I had left Ava in Ger-many. I hadn’t allowed myself to think ofher in years. My neck ached; I strained toturn my head on my pillow. The voice isso familiar—but no, it can’t be.

* “Alfonse! Look, someone’s here!” criedErik from atop the haystack. I was nine,staring up at my twin from the ground. Helooked down at me. “Come up! You haveto see!” He lowered his arm, and I grabbed hishand. I was scared. What if I fall? “Erik,please don’t let me go!” He smirked; he knew that he wouldn’tdrop me and how much I idolized him forbeing so strong. Erik hoisted me up thehaystack, and at the top I clenched thehay as hard as I could in my fists, knowingthat, in the end, gravity would have itsway. I looked out and saw the strangerswalking toward a house. “C’mon, Alfonse.I‘ll race you there!” laughed Erik as hegracefully leapt to the ground. I looked at

be proud of, I loved it. It was the only thingin the world I had that my twin did not. “Who? Who are they?” I shouted overto Erik. “There were four of them, a woman andthree children,” he replied as he took thelead. “Is there a man?” I was catching up; talking made Erikslower. “No. I didn’t see one, but don’t be stupid,Alfonse! Father says a lot of men died inthe war and that we’re lucky he didn’t. Oh,look! They stopped at Frau Lichstien’shouse. Alfonse, why did they stop there?”

* “Grandpa? Are you awake?” asked thevoice. What? Why is Erik calling me Grandpa?I stretched my neck and finally turned myhead. The room was bleak. A second hospitalbed was next to mine; the inhabitant wasa permanent vegetable. A salmon-col-ored curtain hung between us, but it waspartially open, exposing the lower half ofthe occupant’s bed. Did his foot justtwitch? No, vegetables didn’t move, but Icould have sworn I saw something. “Grandpa? I’m down here!” said thevoice again.

the grass; it seemed so much farther awaythan it had before. I took a breath; I haveto get down somehow. Sighing, I just letmyself fall backward. The ground knockedthe air out of me. “It has to be a fair race,”Erik said as he helped me to my feet. Even at such a young age I knew that,though we were twins, there were vastdifferences between us. Maybe the gaphad formed because he had been bornfirst, but I thought I was just born a cow-ard. He had courage—courage and rawconfidence. I had my literature and mycuriosity. I abhorred his ability to do any-thing and take risks. I tried to be like him.Wherever Erik led I would follow—meek-ly, but follow nonetheless. We had the same dark blue eyes, thesame auburn hair and the same array offreckles splattered on our identical noses.But Erik had a spark, a fire in his gaze thatI could never obtain. You could tell howpassionate Erik was about something bythe way he stared at it. It was an intensitythat I could never achieve. I did have one trait Erik never had,though—a birthmark. On my left arm, justabove my elbow there was a dark brownmark. It resembled a lopsided L, but nomatter how ugly it was, or how many timesmy mother told me that it was nothing to

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bons in hand, and asked, “Who are you?” “Me?” I meekly stuttered. “Who on Earth else?” Erik stepped forward, “That’s my twin.His name is Alfonse. He can be a bit shysometimes.” I asked her years later what her firstimpression of me had been. “Of you, Alfonse?” she had mocked. “Ithought I was dreaming,” she laughed. I was confused. Had she meant I wasthe man of her dreams? “I really thought a trick was being playedon me. I’d never seen a twin before, andyou looked like a muddy version of Erik.It was a bit of a shock.” She turned awayfrom my gaze with a smirk on her lips. I remember that moment so well. Be-cause I’d always thought she saw me theway I saw her, as a magic being, someonetoo good for Earth. But I was just mybrother—the dirty, other brother. I laughedit off at the time, but that night in bed Icouldn’t sleep. Why couldn’t I have beenmy own person? Why was I trapped in thebody of someone else? “A twin? I’ve never met one in real life;we didn’t have any in our town.” “Well, we’ve met some before, but theywere just babies, and they didn’t look a-like at all, not like us.” “Anyway, Alfonse, it’s ever so nice tomeet you. Oh no, please don’t touch myhand; you are very dirty.” The girl gave acoy little smile and said, “It was socharming to meet you, but I’m afraid I have

I looked down. A small boy with blueeyes and blonde hair looked back up atme. My grandson, how could I forget? OhGod, what’s his name? Could I really bethis old? Samuel? No. Scott? Sawyer. Hisname is Sawyer. “Hey there, Sawyer, what was it you weresaying?” I croaked. It seemed time wastaking a toll on my entire being and notjust my body. “Grandpa, Mommy told me I had aGrandma once, and her name was Ava.That’s a weird name. Do you know howmany weird names I know?” Sawyer prat-tled on about the kids in his class that hadstrange names.

* We were racing toward Frau Lichstein’splace. Erik was still in the lead, but I wasnot far behind—charging through ourfarm, sprinting past the pond. Then I wasfalling forward, tripping over my own twofeet that would someday save my life. Myhands moved too slowly for me to catchmyself, and I fell face-first in the dirt. For the rest of my life I would wonder ifI hadn’t tripped, if I had won that race, ifmy nine-year-old self had just pushed alittle harder—would my life have beeneverything I had hoped for? But I did fall; I did not win the foot racethat day or any other for that matter. Erikhad won, as usual, and I was laying face-down on the ground. Sighing and push-ing myself up, I made direct eye contact. A pretty girl walked right up to me, rib-

to go now. Mama wants me to help herunpack.” And with that she winked atErik, turned around and left. I hadn’t evensaid a word.

* “Walter and Clementine. Did you knowthat’s a fruit, Grandpa? Her name is afruit!” squealed Sawyer. “Humph. Those names were fine in myday,” I growled, peering at the ceiling. Itwas white, so plain. A nurse walked in, hercurly brown hair in her face. “Mr.Herlich, Mr. Herlich,” she said asshe shook my shoulder. “Yes, Christina?” “How are you feeling today? Is thatabdominal pain still there?” She held upher clipboard, preparing to take notes. Myeyes lolled to the back of my head. Ofcourse it still hurt, it always hurt. “I’m feeling much better, Christina.” Ididn’t feel like wasting her time or mine. Christina scrunched her nose at me andsaid, “If you say so, Mr. Herlich. By theway, was that your grandson I just sawrunning down the hall?” I shook my headand pointed over to where I thought Saw-yer was, but of course was not. She smiled knowingly, “I’ll go get him;don’t want anyone getting lost!” Sherushed out, closing the door behind her. Isat up in my bed. That boy sure isadventurous.

* The school year had just resumed. Erikand I were walking to the schoolhouse

Of Ava

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A year later Ava finally began to payattention to me. I was young; I convincedmyself she loved me for the person I was,not because I was identical to the man shehad loved before. When we married, shecried through the whole ceremony. I toldeveryone they must have been tears ofjoy. I began to see the truth. I tried to make her love me as Alfonse,as I loved her for being Ava. I thoughtmaybe children would make her happy.We had three, and still she would have aslip of the tongue and call me Erik. That’show I knew she still loved him.

* “Wake up, Grandpa!” screeched Sawyerinto my bad left ear. “You never told mewhere she went!” I felt my eyes well up with tears. It hadbeen so long, but I still hated to think ofhow she left us. I had imagined the painwould go away with time, but it still re-mained welded to my heart. I cracked myback while attempting to sit upright. Iclasped Sawyer’s small, strong hand inmy old, fragile one. “She’s dead, my boy.She’s dead,” I whispered. His face formed a frown. “How?” I closed my eyes and took a few deepbreaths. The memory was still painful. “She chose to die, Sawyer. Sometimespeople do that.” I reclined back onto the rough pillow.Unblinking, I stared at the ceiling, lost inmy memories. Ava, Ava, Ava, you hadsuch a beautiful name

loved each other. It was always Erik; Inever thought I’d stand a chance.

* I watched from my bed as Christinastruggled to bring Sawyer back into theroom. “Where is your mother, child?” she ask-ed sternly. He didn’t reply; instead he ran back overto my bed. “Grandpa, please! Where’d she go?” heasked, opening his eyes wide. I couldn’t answer; my memories of herflooded too quickly into my mind.

* I was twenty-three in 1939, when theSecond World War broke out. Erik ran offto join Hitler. I stayed to help Mama withthe farm. Ava spoke of Erik all of the time.She was so proud of her brave soldier,protecting our sacred land. She would runto our house every day to see if we hadreceived a letter from him. When we had,she’d braid her long, golden hair in worry.We never knew if news would be good orbad. It usually was good, until one daywe stopped receiving letters. After twomonths with no word, she cried on myshoulder. Not long after that we learnedhe was dead. My dear, sweet Ava was never thesame. I was too naïve to understand thatshe had lost herself the day I lost mybrother. We were all heartbroken, but inmy own way, I was glad. I was finally theindividual I had always wanted to be.

when I saw her for a second time. She waswalking on the opposite side of the road.Erik spotted her first, “Look, Alfonse,there’s that girl again!” I turned, and yes, there she was.“Should we walk with her? Does she evenknow where she’s going?” Before I turned back to Erik, he wasalready galloping over to her. I followedhim across the road. She looked at us andsmiled her sweet, captivating smile. “Helloagain, Erik One and Erik Two.” Shegiggled in spite of herself. “Very funny,” mocked Erik. “Are yougoing to the same school as us?” hequestioned. “Obviously,” I answered for her. “He speaks! The second Erik speaks!”exclaimed the girl. I blushed deeply. Didshe even remember my name? As ifreading my mind, she continued walkingand said, “Oh, dear. Alfonse, I know yourname. I’m only teasing!” she winked. I wastaken aback by the wink. How could thislittle girl squeeze my heart so? It was Erik who finally asked her whather name was. “You’ve never told us your name, youknow.” “That’s because I don’t like it! Ava. Myname is Ava.” Those were the first two times I saw her,and the memories have remained uncha-nged, untouched in my mind ever since. Age happened. As we got older, Avaand Erik became closer. I loved her, they

Why couldn’t I have been myown person, why was I trapped

in the body of someone else?

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NOTHING

tend to avoid moviesbased on real events;movies serve as anescape from reality, and

one can’t escape reality in reality. But thetemptation of CIA agents, governmentscandal and Sean Penn was too much. Igave in. And, to say the least, Fair Gamewas well worth the risk. The struggle fortruth and justice evokes high feelings ofoutrage and disbelief in the audience asthey watch the journey of Valerie PlameWilson (Naomi Watts) and her husbandJoseph Wilson (Sean Penn) unfold.Director Doug Liman only took necessaryliberties to fill in gaps left by the need tomaintain agency security. Plame, a covert CIA agent, is workinga difficult case—she’s searching forevidence of weapons of mass destructionin Iraq. During her search, the CIA comesacross documents leading them to believeIraq may be retrieving yellow cakeuranium from Niger, Africa. Of course,Plame’s fellow agents suggest JoeWilson, former US ambassador andValerie’s husband, for an intelligencemission in Africa because of his strongrelationship with the prime minister ofNiger and the Nigerian government. Upon

returning to the US, Wilson concludes thata deal between Iraq and Niger would be“highly unlikely,” so when the Bushadministration releases information to thepress saying otherwise and later justifiesa call to war based on this information,Wilson knows something is wrong. Hedoes what any concerned American mightdo in his place: He writes an article andsubmits it to the New York Times. But whatJoe doesn’t expect is the government’sretaliation, printing his wife’s name in anewspaper article, exposing her as acovert CIA operative. The film highlights the relationshipbetween Plame and Wilson who, amidstthe government allegations, deaththreats, and public accusations, struggleto maintain their marriage. The tension isreinforced by the superb acting of Pennand Watts, who make their marriage,including their arguments, believable.Scenes of Plame and Wilson quarrelingback and forth in the car stand in contrastto scenes that show Wilson’s concern forPlame as she travels to another unknownlocation for the CIA, but all are believable.With a true story, it’s important for theactors to nail their characters’ emotionsfor accuracy and potency—the love and

frustration is evident in each scene. Another success is the film’s fluidorganization. As the movie progresses,the audience’s focus shifts from the CIAto the government and to the couple’spersonal struggles. Fair Game opens inOctober of 2001, a month after 9/11. Itchronicles Plame’s role in the CIA, as wellas her resulting missions in Baghdad,Cairo, and Amman, as she searches forWMDs. Later, as the press releases moreand more information concerning Iraq,attention moves from the CIA to thegovernment. And after the horrific leakingof Plame’s name to the press, audienceslearn how the Wilsons will fare under thetrauma. The writers, Jez and John-HenryButterworth, effectively maneuver thestory line to follow the audience’s naturalline of inquiry. Perhaps the smartest decision bydirector Liman was to include actual newsclips of President George W. Bush andhis administration. The viewer is re-minded of Bush’s sixteen calamitouswords, “The British government haslearned that Saddam Hussein recentlysought significant quantities of uraniumfrom Africa,” as well as of the toughsituation that America was in from 2001

&but the truth

I

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to 2003. The clips also emphasize thereality and the emotions of thepredicament. The videos range fromBush’s State of the Union speech toCondoleezza Rice reporting on theimminent war. Fair Game would havelikely failed without the archives, whichbring clarity to an otherwise hazy andtouchy time for Americans. Unfortunately, Fair Game doesn’t es-cape without faults, and these faults inhibitthe audience’s ability to fully comprehendthe story. With all the information packedinto the film, it’s nearly impossible to recallany particular character besides the leads.Other characters are forgettable and lostin the mill of facts and footage. In a moviewith a complicated plot, characters areimportant. This flaw results in a major let-down for an audience struggling tounderstand the story. Despite the comprehensive hurdle, FairGame is an excellent movie that aggres-sively tackles the ideas of truth and ethicsin a society where the government has thelast word, leaving the audience with abitter taste of government scandal. FairGame holds all the emotional power of atrue story and all the cinematic elementsof a five-star movie

Kenzie Saunders

Sarah Kinney,pen and marker

25

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Sarah Kinney,digital painting

26

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Love HandlesBacon,apple of my eye andside dish of my breakfast,crackling and popping sotemptinglyin the pan,almost sensualwith your warm, salty andsultry aroma—I want you—and your friends, too.You seduce mewith your thin, wavy silhouette,though I know you areno good for me.When we get together, I knowI will put on weight.I can never show you off tomy Jewish grandparents, andwhen Hanukkah comes around,we’ll have to tell them you’rejust chicken.Oh, bacon,sweet, sweet bacon,I think we should seeother people.

- Lauren Burnham

27

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Face

Sas

ha F

rege

r,N

atal

ie K

elto

n

An

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Cast across the lawn under the blazing orange sun,the umbra silently pivots around your feet,growing and shrinking and fading away.Keeping pace behind you,it acknowledges your passing temperamentswhile embodying your darkest desires.Distorted by the rainwater in the gutter,it bends across the stone outcroppings of a cliff faceburned into the walls by a nuclear sunrise.The unfaltering comparison of every stone, tree and animalis an insubstantial faceforever hidden behind a darkened veil—your shadow.

- Chris Ragon

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I

messagea to

Sarah K

inney

t was Halloween night, and I wascertain that I would leave the movietheatre haunted by visions of disaster,loss and death. However, I did not expectHereafter to approach mankind’s ongo-ing debate about the afterlife in such anunusual fashion. Clint Eastwood’s latestfilm is not dominated by destructive forcesor ghostlike beings. The quiet, ponderousscenes, at the same time strange andbeautiful, are what give Hereafter its eeriequality. What happens after death? I stillmay not know the answer, but watchingHereafter was a transcendent experiencethat left me mystified by the inquiry. Eastwood chooses to develop threeindependent narratives of people who aretroubled by mortality in different ways.George Lonegan (Matt Damon) is anAmerican clairvoyant who views his giftas more of a curse. His psychic abilitiesonce earned him a decent living but,

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 030 (314222225) 03/10/2011 12:33 PM



vivid versions of the afterlife. The blurryimages and lack of human faces create asort of mysticism that cannot clearly bedefined, only felt. Such simplicity contrib-utes to Eastwood’s purpose: He leavesthe audience pondering the afterlife,instead of distracting viewers with awe-inspiring 3-D effects. Hereafter is yet another reminder ofEastwood’s skill for directing his char-acters to high emotional intensities. Hisunderstanding that movies can be thebest means for exposing certain subjectmatter is evident; the ideas and images inthis movie are more geared towards theteenage and adult audiences. Those whoare skeptical, strong believers, or unsureof death and the afterlife will all find aconnection to Hereafter because it leavesthe viewers wondering, or at least con-templating. The here and now is all wehave to be certain of

still heresarah chaney

those

determined to have a normal life, Georgeturned to manual labor. Across the oceanin Paris, French journalist Marie Lelay(Cecile de France) survives the 2004tsunami only to be emotionally shaken byher near-death experience. And in Lon-don a young schoolboy named Marcus(Frankie McLaren) suffers the loss of histwin brother and seems to have no choicebut to search for answers. When theirpaths eventually intersect, they eachhave new perspectives on what theybelieve could exist in the hereafter. The most gripping of the three accountsfeatures Matt Damon. Damon establish-ed his name in the action-packed Bournemovies, jumping from European-stylerooftops and embarking on explosion-filled chases. He surprises his viewerswith his ability to play such an emotionallycomplex character. Damon’s range ismost evident in an adult cooking class,

where he meets the bright and peppyMelanie (Bryce Dallas Howard). The cou-ple feed one another appetizers whileblindfolded, and you’d never guess thatLonegan normally spends his nights athome, listening to Charles Dickens audiotapes. It is certainly impressive that Da-mon can pull off such a vulnerable andhuman character, given his previousmovie appearances. Throughout the film, a prevailing senseof darkness is created by the cinema-tographer, Tom Stern. Hazy shadows andintensely saturated shades of bluecharacterize our glimpses into the after-life. This effect is notable not for a glumdepiction of the characters’ lives but forthe portrayal of a rich gorgeousness ofexistence. It might surprise viewers thatwhile Eastwood creates such a realisticand mind-blowing-computer-generatedtsunami, he chooses not to detail more

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Sarah Kinney,pen

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OnYouthI once believed Republicanswere the cause of ozone gapes,and I used to think guerillaswere rather hardcore apes.

Now the shroud of ignorance has been removed,and my first belief has stayed—but on the matter of guerillas,I know they’re renegades.

I once believed that Plutowas a planet far away,but Neil Degrasse Tysonhas shown this “fact” is gray.

I thought that Saddamwas a dictator with nukes,but now I think the waris just a Bush-Cheney fluke.

Well, I don’t know what insightthe coming days will bring,but the things I think I know right nowmy children will find sickening.

- Wesley Jacobs

and Ignorance

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Stuart SchraderTourist Trap

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seems better fit for a film with only oneprotagonist. When both the actors sharethe screen, their competing perfor-mances leave the audience polarizedinstead of collectively swooning as in-tended. In fact, both performers seem tobehave in a way that comes across aseither extremely cliché or rigid andinsipid. Instead of appearing cunningand witty, Elise seems superficial andBarbie-like. Rather than utilizing Jolie’scaptivating personality and gorgeouslooks, director von Dommersmark re-sorted to portraying Jolie as a witlesssupermodel who’s keen to bat an eye-lash every now and again instead ofdelivering a satisfying line of dialogue.Johnny Depp’s role is uncharacteris-tically devoid of eye-shadow and dis-appointingly pedantic. He was the thirdchoice for the character, behind bothSam Worthington and Tom Cruise, andit’s safe to say that this “third-string”complex clearly carries through to thebig screen. While these two A-list actorsmay have starred in a number of box-office hits, this miss is one that they’llsoon want to forget. The Tourist does a handful of thingsright; most of these things would bemore appropriate in a travel brochure.The setting and scenery are undeniablygorgeous but do little to complement themuddled narrative. The wide shots ofItalian cities and interconnecting canalswill assuredly make any viewer want togo visit Italy, but the story itself will, atany rate, have any movie-goer headedfor the door. Aside from the visuals, thismovie feels like a regurgitated clichébeing driven into the ground for what willhopefully be the final time. A tired and lifeless film, The Touristis a box-office flop that you’ll certainlywant to steer clear of. The acting is sec-ond-rate, and the story is better fitted fora daytime soap opera or a Lifetime mov-ie-special. While the visuals may be in-spired, the fact that they are the movie’sone highlight is truly disappointing. De-spite having an A-list cast and a criticallyacclaimed director, The Tourist is a filmthat will be lucky to receive that ever-so-prestigious Kid’s Choice nomination

W

Meagan B

arger

hen you hear the names Ange-lina Jolie, Johnny Depp and FlorianHenckel von Donnersmarck, you maythink that there’s a Best Picture nomina-tion in the works. However, despite 2010being such a cinematically-uninspiringyear, The Tourist is a stretch even for theKid’s Choice Awards. The Tourist is, at its core, an aesthet-ically-pleasing guilty pleasure. The filmfocuses on two characters, Elise (Jolie),a British secret agent motivated by love,and Frank (Depp), a seemingly run-of-the-mill American tourist caught up in anextraordinarily unfortunate series of e-vents. The Tourist opens with a ratherdull chase scene filled with breathtakingvisuals but lacking any narrative core.This scene sets the tone for the rest of thefilm—it’s a motion picture as beautiful asit is shallow. The audience discovers that Elise’slover, Alexander Pearce, has instructedher to find a man that resembles him, thento convince the federal agencies follow-ing her that this man is, in fact, Pearce.Elise blindly follows these orders andselects none other than Frank to be thelook-a-like required for the part. Eliseaccompanies Frank on a night of ro-mance that feels forced and unnaturalfrom the very beginning. The nextmorning, Frank is ambushed by anintimidating group of men and barelymanages to escape. At this point, theaudience learns that Frank has beenframed for Pearce’s crimes, which rangefrom cheating a powerful gangster to taxevasion. The rest of this severely con-voluted story revolves around Frank andElise’s attempt to escape the very messthey’ve created and the romance that,rather unfortunately, builds around thischaos. The Tourist’s most glaring and inex-cusable flaw is the lack of chemistrybetween its two leads. Since the entireplot is more or less built upon this crucialrelationship, the two actors filling theseroles need to complement each other.However, Jolie and Depp behave like atwo-headed chef trapped in an unfea-sibly small kitchen. Each actor has apowerful and commanding presence that

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e b b a n d

Collages, left to right:Aryn Leach, Janie Warstler, Liz Wickham, Janie Warstler, Halley Freger

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 036 (313496513) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM



f l o w . . .

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 037 (313496514) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM



SubstituteMadelyn Usher

""

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 038 (313705148) 03/10/2011 12:35 PM



e comes in the night, a giantlumbering monster who’s

turned as stealth-like as a cat. He comes in the dark, through the gapsbetween the trees, buildings, window-panes. He comes like a ghost, visible for a briefmoment, then nothing more than ashadow of a doubt. He comes for the child.

* “Make sure you tuck in the blanket tight.The cold will wake him.” With two kisses on the forehead, theproud artists of a slumbering master-piece beam down at their accom-plishment. “Should we open the window? It’sa beautiful night.” “Why not? It’s a safe area. Letthe starlight in; it’ll bring him sweetdreams.”

* The week’s routine is carried out toperfection—no awakened inhabitants, nodisturbed strays, no overturned cans ofgarbage. Such precision is unexpectedfrom such a large animal. Huge, silent, he moves to the window.Tonight not only the drapes but the tinyglass doors with their dainty filigreelatches are open. He looks in at theslumbering boy and remembers his owncub, nestled close to his mother after along day of playing in the forest, learningto fish. That was before they took him, beforethey took them both. It would only be fair, child for cub. Hemay have no fur or claws or sharp teeth,but he could learn anyway. He would stillbe someone to look after, to care about,to share memories with. He would still bea son.

Thorys Stensrud

The window is open. Temptation over-whelms. It would be so easy to reach outand take him, to cuddle him in thoseburly arms, warmer than any blanket.With time he would adjust. With time hewould forget. But he could never forget. Just as hecould never forget the morning they hadcome, the men with their guns and theircages. “What perfect specimen for the show,”they had said. But their tranquilizers weren’t enough tobring down the mightiest of the forest,filled with paternal rage. The men barely escaped with their lives,but they took his family. What emptiness—what utter, terribledesperation. He drew back his paw. He could never do that to someone. He could never sink that low

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Melissa M

urphy

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Remember the shard of moonlight gazing through your windowas we looked out at the midnight snow—silver and shining and otherworldly.I wore your pajamasand grabbed my car keys as an afterthought.We dashed out with no shoes,skidding like puppies and yelping with the cold.The hapless old gray Volvo throbbed with the heavy beat.What could be better than coffee when the snow falls?Amélie’s is open all night,serving heavy chocolate mousse enclosed in a miniature pie crust,dark and heavy as mud but much more delicious.We treasured them out on the veranda as our noses frozeand turned delicately pink—feeling love as tangible as skin.

- Carol Abken

snow night

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frostbite

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s(lindsey rosenbaum)

olitude had always been a fitting color for him. Even in the days of marriage and fatherhood, he could

never quite escape the feeling that he’d be much better off if his family left. There was nothing lonely about

isolation. It was peaceful.

Only now did he wish for company. The snow had piled around his house, and there was no escape. The

heater had broken sometime in the night, and he was running low on logs for the fire. He paced slowly around

the frozen floor, gripping a cooling coffee mug in his hands. Someone would come get him soon. It was just

a matter of waiting.

Kenzie Saunders

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 043 (314229217) 03/10/2011 12:36 PM



frostbite (continued) From the door came a faint tapping. Itwas soft, almost like the wind, and hewasn’t sure that he had heard it at all.Then it came again, louder. And again.He set down his now lukewarm coffee,wrapped the wool blanket tighter ar-ound his shoulders, and hurried to thebolt. Beyond the door stood a solid wall ofcondensed snow. A powdery plain wasjust visible against the grey sky, and thewind blew loose flakes into a torrent.Between this immense wall of white andthe door stood a young girl, dressedin nothing but a white shift. He wasn’t even taken aback by thesight of her. “Come in,” he said. The girlsmiled politely and stepped inside. Herskin radiated the chill. “I knew you were coming,” the mansaid, closing the door. “Did you really?” the girl asked softly.Her voice was surprisingly low andwarm, soothing in a way. She wanderedover to his bookshelf and ran her fingersover the spines. Her skin dampenedand rotted the pages instantaneously.

“I really did,” the man said. “I knewwhen the phone lines went out. I figuredit was only a matter of time.” “Were you able to reach anyone beforethen?” “No, the lines were busy.” She looked at him, her eyes—what darkeyes she had for skin so white—heldnothing but pity. “I’m sorry.” “What’s there to be sorry about?” theman asked gruffly. “They all know I’mhere. They’ll come for me.” She was silent. The pity in her eyeswas both hurtful and maddening. Hepretended he didn’t see them at all. “I won’t lie. I’m not thrilled to see you.But you’re here, so what can I do?” Hetook a sip of coffee and made a face.“Cold.” “Here,” the girl reached for the cup. Thecold grew stronger as she approached.She was careful not to touch his handsas she grasped the cup. The momentthe man let go, the mug slipped thoughthe girl’s fingers and shattered on thefloor. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“That’s all right,” the man said quickly.“It was undrinkable anyways.” The girl nodded. She walked aroundthe room slowly, her two braids swing-ing softly against her back. It struck theman how young she was. “Is this your family?” the girl asked.She held a framed photo in her hand.The glass had frosted over and cracked. “My daughters,” the man said. “When did you last see them?” Tired, the man rubbed his face. “Yearsago.” “Your wife?” “Left me before the girls did.” “Oh.” The wind howled over the roof,shaking the shingles. The window panesshuddered in their frames. The fire with-ered in its grate as tiny flakes of snowfell, dusting the hearth. “Do you think your family will beworried?” the girl asked. The man shook his head, tighteningthe wool blanket around his narrowshoulders. How delightfully warm it wasunder there. “They probably think I left

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before the storm hit.” “Are you worried?” “Should I be?” The wind shrieked under the doorframe. The foundation of the small cot-tage creaked and groaned. He stared atthe girl. Her hair, which he had initiallytaken to be light blonde, was silvery greyand wispy. Maybe she was older thanhe’d originally thought. “I’m really not,” the man said withdifficulty. His jaw had begun to ache. “Ishould be worried, what with you beinghere, but I just can’t be. Someone willcome. They know I’m here. Theywouldn’t forget.” “I’m sorry, I really am,” the girl mur-mured. “You know I wouldn’t be here ifthey knew.” Her face was smooth as ice,but her eyes burned with something else—tears maybe—or maybe he justimagined them there. Something broke inside of him. A pan-icked cry escaped his lips, somethingbase and animalistic. His legs shook. Heslipped, grasping at the frozen counterfor support. The girl stood still, undis-

turbed by the scene before her. “Please,” the man begged. “I don’twant—I can’t—please—please—” “Sit down,” the girl said, ignoring hispleas. She took his arm and helped him.She led him slowly to the chair by thedwindling fire. Her skin was frozen, andit burned to touch. But he couldn’tresist her urgings. His neck unex-pectedly stiffened, and his limbs wentloose as jelly. “You’re tired,” the girl said as shehelped the man ease into the chair. “I am tired,” the man said. It was true.His eyelids felt heavy and hot. The girlcovered him with another blanket. Thefibers froze under her fingers. “Sleep,” she murmured. He could barely keep his eyes open—how warm he now felt. “Did my daugh-ters send you? They must’ve,” he mum-bled. “Yes, they must’ve—they wouldn’tforget about me—I’m their father afterall. Did they? Send you?” He staredpleadingly into the girl’s eyes. Shelooked back, bemused. The fire flick-ered.

“Who do you think I am?” The fire flickered again. “I—I—” Another flicker. Reality went with it. Thevisage of the girl trembled. He blinked.She was gone. He blinked again. Thefire was out, molded logs strewn aboutthe floor. His coffee mug was shatteredand frozen to the carpet. His books werecovered with frost, lying under theremnants of his broken shelf. Ice andsnow carpeted the floorboards. With difficulty, he raised his head.Breath swirled around his face in a thickcloud. His arm was black with frostbite,his legs numb. Strength escaped him, and his headfell against the chair. His eyelids flutteredshut. And, even after the breath froze inhis lungs and his blood congealed in hisveins, the snow continued to fall and thewind continued to howl. And somewhere in the frozen world, apale girl in white danced without leavinga footprint, glorying in the cold andsmiling her chilly smile, her warm eyessparkling all the while

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T here is a single light in the room, the glarefrom a screen. A lone man dwells in hisdark cave, spending his days peckingaway at the keys on an ergonomickeyboard. The myth is that every bright-eyed student seeking to learn about com-puters will end up like this man, writingprograms in a small, enclosed space formany long hours. However, computing isa dynamic field. Today it includes a widerange of disciplines and affects nearlyevery aspect of our lives. In the modern world, technology isliterally everywhere—in our classroomsand homes, kitchens and bedrooms, ourpockets and even our bodies. Thoughmany of us don’t remember life before allof these gadgets, there was a frighteningtime when none of them existed. Ad-vances in technology during the past fewdecades have caused an evolution fromsimplistic computers the size of an entireroom to sleek iPads with hundreds of

applications. Thirty to forty years ago,computing was about programming, orwriting the directions that make a com-puter work through distinct languages thatcomputers can understand. Now pro-gramming is “by no means the whole part,not even the majority of the part” of thefield, says Dr. Yi Deng, the Dean of theCollege of Computing and Informatics atthe University of North Carolina atCharlotte (UNCC). He stresses that pro-grammers who sit in dark rooms all dayare being replaced by worldly people whounderstand technology and work in thefield to improve it. As the role of technology has changedover the past few decades, so has UNCC’sapproach to teaching it. UNCC, locatedjust north-east of uptown Charlotte, is “oneof a small group of research universitieswhich has a stand-alone College ofComputing and Informatics,” explains Dr.Deng. The college was founded nearly ten

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Brynn Claypoole

todayLauren B

urnham

years ago. At the time, the insightfulintellects in charge of UNCC looked intothe future and saw a world run bymachines. They established the com-puting college to get ahead of otheruniversities, long before most other uni-versities had considered the future oftechnology. Now UNCC has one of themost well-developed and largest com-puting programs in the nation, an at-traction that draws students from aroundthe world. At the College of Computing and Infor-matics, learning is based on the needs ofsociety. The College is divided into fivemajor sections. Analytics is the study ofhow to process large quantities of data likethe “fifteen petabytes [or one with fifteenzeroes] of data” produced every day.Security includes the methods for keepingsuch massive amounts of data safe. Thegaming section trains students to makegames like Call of Duty: Black Ops and

Super Mario Brothers more realistic andto adapt such games for practical pur-poses, like training soldiers who practiceescaping from giant, fire-breathing tur-tles. Another section is devoted tointerface, or improving the interaction be-tween humans and computers to maketechnology more useful and accessible.Finally there is bioinformatics, the inter-section between computers and bio-logical fields like genetics, the study ofDNA. These fields represent the practicalapplications of computing and thus makeup the majority of the departments of thecollege. The UNCC approach to teachingcomputing and informatics is just asdynamic as the field itself, changing day-by-day to accommodate the needs andproblems of the global community. Forexample, there is an internship programfor students at UNCC to work at localbanks. The students organize electronicfiles, improve the security of the banking

system, and get experience making bankcomputers process massive amounts ofinformation faster. The banks get freshminds with creative solutions to old prob-lems and potential future employees. Computing is no longer about makingcomputers smaller or more efficient. Thechallenge now is to figure out how to bestuse technology to solve problems—to usebioinformatics to cure diseases, to usegaming to teach children in more fun andeffective ways, and to improve interfaceso computers can be used by everyperson, even those with severe disabil-ities. As Dr. Deng said, the new role ofcomputer-enthusiasts is “not sitting in theback rooms doing programming but inter-acting with people” to solve their uniqueissues. Technology and technology ed-ucation don’t rely on the blunt objectsalready in humankind’s vision. The goalof both is to foresee where technologycan be best applied tomorrow

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Kara DeFilippisI was told there’d be cake.

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Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 049 (314224051) 03/10/2011 12:37 PM



ever before have I laid eyes onsuch magical telephone wires.

I’ve sat in this particular spot hundreds oftimes and stared out the window to myleft, exactly as I am now. I noted theovergrown bushes leaning over the topof the brick wall, adding a little adventureto their otherwise dull lives. I stared atmy neighbors’ angular house with theroof that juts out over the edge of thesunroom like the brim of a top hat. Istudied the lanky green-furred creaturesthat block the horizon. Somehow I nevereven glimpsed the thin black lines thatrun horizontally, right through the centerof my vision. These telephone wires are my suddenfascination. I ask aloud, “Am I the onlyone who hasn’t noticed the telephonewires before?” My younger sister Ana is restingcomfortably on the couch three feet awaywith her overused laptop dutifully at herside. She slowly rips her eyes away fromthe computer screen to see what I’mmaking such a ruckus about. Her ex-

pression is blank for a second beforerecognition hits her. “Oh, my God! When did those appear?”she exclaims. “I know! Right? Isn’t it strange?” “Have those always been there?” shequestions as her head turns back to itsnatural position. “I guess,” I reply. Silence is a dense gasforced under intense pressure, dis-persing throughout the air. Ana can’tsense the lack of sound. She hears herfriends’ gossip through her Facebookchat window. I hear nothing but hersighing and giggling. She is glowing—both in a metaphor-ical and a literal sense. The sun gleamsoff her light skin. Her fair complexion ishighlighted by her violet nails and themascara that coats her eyelashes in amysterious darkness. I once heard that pale skin was con-sidered beautiful in China. The womenused whitening procedures and creams,expensive and very risky treatments, butmy sister groaned over her light com-

plexion—all of this done in the name ofbeauty. Lately people tell Ana and me that welook alike. I cannot imagine a morepleasant compliment to receive, beingphysically compared to a beautifulperson. I wonder if she feels the op-posite, like every comparison to me is awhack on the skull with the infamous uglystick. Perhaps I’m not the most gorgeous girlin the world, but I am foolishly confidentthat I can find love some day. A certainboy suddenly waltzes into my mind,uninvited, and engulfs my thoughts. Hedoesn’t have particularly pale or tan skin,but he is still beautiful. I snort, my eyesflashing up to check that Ana didn’t notice. Me, with a boy—it’s foreign, like a scarthat I can’t remember acquiring. It doesn’tmatter how many compliments or kissesI received in the past. Each time the ideais novel. Suddenly all of the glimpses I gatheredof him throughout the day surface in mymind. I recall a conversation—it was short

N

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Sarah Kinney, Rachel Voorhis

and awkward, something about a teacheror a class or the weather—but it made meoddly chipper for the duration of day. Iwas so easily controlled by suchinsignificant dialogue. It gnaws at me, this feeling. It doesn’thave sharp teeth—it could feast on mefor all of eternity in this manner, nevermaking progress but never ceasing tobother me. When its flawless whitechoppers did grow, I would be defense-less. “Ana, do you think I’ll ever fall in love?” Fall in love, I say—not live blissfully witha partner that I deeply care for always bymy side. Fall. She looks up, assesses the situation,deems me harmless, and speaks. “There are three things in this worldthat I don’t believe in: God, love, andWyoming.” Her eyes return to the screen. I blink. “Wyoming?” “I’ve only seen it in pictures. I have noreal proof of its existence.” A chuckle forces itself from between

my lips. Ana sits before me young,gorgeous, amicable, and admits that shedoesn’t believe in love. She’s a parent,giving the final goodbye at her child’sfuneral. I am overwhelmed with grief. I sit before her, older, average-looking,awkward, and know that I do believe inlove. I just called a classmate by thewrong name. I want to apologize pro-fusely for my ignorance. Regrettably, I did experience true lovebefore. I exchanged words with Him eve-ry day for five years. I never grew tired ofHim. We argued, but I always felt like Irandomly had the winning numbersprinted on a scrap of paper in my pocket. One day I looked down as I was pass-ing by and found His numbers in a trashcan, patiently awaiting His return. I dugthem out and placed them in my ownpocket—more for me. I didn’t know whereHe went, but I knew He wouldn’t bereturning to look for them. Now the prospect of new love cracklesbefore me like a campfire—warm anddangerous.

The boy’s flaws are leaves to me. Theyblow around my nice little flame, invisibleat night, but I can always hear them. Theleaves can’t alter my warmth. Sometimesthey fall into the fire, glowing magnif-icently as they combust. I am a caveman, content to watch fireand leaves. I imagine the other people inthe world chasing true love asmillionaires, with all of the happiness inthe universe at their fingertips. Ana is acollege graduate, her Ph.D. in loveproudly hanging above her dusty fire-place. She can disprove love with amultivariable calculus equation or areference to a poem from sixteenth-century England. I am backward, stupid,fascinated with my miniscule flame. I don’tfeel like a millionaire, even with the twowinning lottery tickets in my pocket. Mysister knows one thing, people in loveknow one thing, but I think of a thousanduncertain things. Perhaps the truth is sitting right in frontof me, large and obvious and invisible, likethe telephone wires

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Natalie K

elton

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Blue—The sky and the sea merged;I stepped forward and dived in.Peace soaked my skin,and I felt the other meweaken.I sensed her shallow heartbeats,frail pulses like soft reminders.I closed my eyes and tasted salt.I was swimming through clouds and waves,pulling myself higher through the stratosphere.

Yellow—I was scaling the sun,a steep celestial cliff.I heard the other me draw a hoarse breath.The sound was faint,the connection strained over the distance.I closed my eyes and tasted citrus.Just let go, stay here forever—but this wasn’t the right time.

Violet—I jumped from star to star,connecting the bright dots.I touched each planet as I went along,sat down on one of Saturn’s ringsand felt the other mefade.There was my permission.It was here that I stopped, here that I let go.

I lay on my stomachand watchedthe skyand the oceanand the old merest.

- Erin Gallagher

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Brynn Claypoole

Resist

We Are The

ance

he shale disintegrated under thelean figure’s feet. Even so, hecontinued to take micro-steps back

toward the rock’s edge. He was likely tomeet his end no matter which way he fled.Behind him the seemingly bottomlesscanyon waited; before his eyes the mostdangerous foe approached. At a distancehe could tell that the creature was foam-ing at the mouth—white froth oozed fromthe corners of the beast’s cracked lips.The louder the monster snarled andgrowled, the less hesitant the man was tostep back. Nearly two meters from theedge, he froze. He recalled a weapon, alast line of defense, stashed in his backpocket. “With this I shall defeat you, scum!Resistance is futile!” he frantically yelled. He took a bold step forward, whippingout the object. The pencil he grasped inhis thin fingers was sharp, far pointier thanthe average pencil, but hardly the size ofhis hand. The fiend looked upon the object withits coal-black eyes. For a full minute, itglared intently. The man dared not movefarther. Soon the being scoffed, lifting hishead and balancing on his two feeblelegs. He wiped the foam from his lips. “Such an object has no true power.Behold! I will give you a taste of a realweapon!” The half-man-half-beast drew a cylin-

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assignment for tomorrow—you reallyshould be writing this down—” “Wait, wait!” exclaimed Bheathcliff,digging through his many large pockets.“I can’t find my pencil!” “—is to write a thousand-word essay onthe significance of this dream. What doesthe pencil represent? Is the pen reallymightier than the sword? What can be saidabout the phrase time flies?” “Huh?” “This is an analysis paper, so it must beyour own original thoughts. If any sen-tence even vaguely resembles that ofanother student’s—” “What other students?” “—then you will be suspended—suspended forever in this state of freefall.Also, you must calculate your currentvelocity and the time it will take you to hitthe bottom before you ‘leave’ using thebasic kinematics equations.” “But, I—” A blond head shot up. The desk aroundthe barely-conscious boy was coveredwith various sheets of paper. The alarmon the other end of the room erupted everysecond, but the exhausted teenagercouldn’t move that far. While slowly pillingtogether the crumpled worksheets andhalf-completed essays, he couldn’t helpbut miss the Jedi with rabies and thebothersome fairy that annoyed him as heplummeted in that bottomless pit

drical black object from his pocket. At thepush of a button, a beam of light shot forth. This creature was no ordinary monster.It was a Jedi who seemed to suffer froma most frightening case of rabies. The Jedi sprang forward. In an instant,his opponent dropped the measly pieceof wood-encased graphite and leapt ontothe ground to avoid a direct hit. “Pathetic!” screeched the Jedi, his fierceeyes honing in on the cowering man. “Areyou not the one named Bheathcliff, theman who controls and manipulates wordswith his cunning and vast intelligence?” “Aye, that is I,” whispered Bheathcliff,“though it’s generally pronounced as‘Heathcliff’ because the ‘B’ is sile—” “Enough! Your words may have de-stroyed my reputation, but they have nopower over me!” “Actually, you seem to be reacting ratherviolently to my words—” The Jedi angrily thrust his light saberdownward. Bheathcliff rolled out of theweapon’s path but began to plummetwhen the crumbling rock beneath himgave way. “Nooooo!” shouted Bheathcliff ever-so-dramatically as he fell. He stupidlyreached out his hand, his fingers graspingat the air. Following an über-conspicuous “Poof!”a tiny, winged woman appeared besidehim, somehow matching his downward

velocity. “Hello, Bheathcliff. I am the sleep fairy,the spirit of your dreams.” “Yes, yes, hello. I believe we wereacquainted last night when I was fallingin this very same manner.” “Ah, so you do remember! With amemory so sharp, did you still forget to doas I instructed?” “Well,” began Bheathcliff, “that fiend didcome at me again. I took out the objectthat you so kindly bestowed upon me, butI could not put it to use.” “Why so?” “I could not remember your exact words.I was to write out the formula in the airwith the pencil—that much I know. Youtold me to write out a reaction with coppersulfate, correct? Yet when you specificallyexplained the resulting solution, sulfatewas not mentioned once.” “Sulfate is a spectator ion in this case,so it is unnecessary to actually write outin your equation. I wanted you to knowthat it was there, but you didn’t need toexplicitly state it on either side of theequation. Your solubility rules have to bememor—” At that instant, clocks shot down likemeteors in the space surroundingBheathcliff, buzzing at a cacophonousfrequency. “I apologize,” stated the fairy, curtsey-ing, “but I really must leave you now. Your

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Rachel Voorhis

Sarah Chaney

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I wanted to leave, but I knew that I couldn’tkeep repeating this cycle, so at thatmoment I decided to tell her. I told mysister that I wished I were more like her—I wished I could stop worrying everysecond about what was going to happento me and stop devouring food every timeI had those worries. I told her I was striv-ing so hard for perfection that every timeI made a mistake, no matter how small, Iwas demoralized and tormented for days.Then I told her that all I wanted was to bedone with these emotions and desiresand move on. When I finished, the anxiety that hadclung to me for so long seemed to dropaway like a cast-off cloak. Rachel re-mained silent for a moment, and I wasn’tsure why. Did she not know how torespond? Was she so shocked that Iwould come to her for this emotionrelease? Or was I acting just plain crazy?Soon enough she started talking though—to release me from this moment ofambiguity—and I learned that she under-stood me more than I had thought. Rachelasked me how I could feel so negativetoward life when “everything was goingmy way.” For once I was able to respond,my silent whispers finally heard. Later when I returned to my room, Icurled up under my warm plaid quilt andstared out the window into an emptybackyard for many minutes. I didn’t thinkabout the depression or my mother or thehurt. My mind was numbed to suchthoughts. Instead, I saw myself as a child,running in the plush grass and soaring offthe wooden swing into the air, completelycarefree. Only when I noticed the jeanscrumpled up near the door did I feel thedesire to get up. I walked over to thosejeans and folded them, careful to get ridof every last wrinkle, and laid them in thecloset. I knew that those blue jeans wouldremain there for awhile, but slowly, Istarted to ease back into them

he blue button snapped andbounded across the carpetfloor, finally free. I threw offmy jeans and dropped to

the ground as they slammed against thedoor. I knew that this wasn’t just someform of physical catharsis; I was out ofcontrol. My pants no longer fit, and it wasclear that all of the afternoons of bingeeating had caught up with me. At thispoint I didn’t even consider the fact thatmaybe my fifteen-pound weight gain wasnot the real issue here, but I liked to thinkthat if a few pounds were shed, all mightreturn to normal. A personality, though,could not be as easily fixed. Moments passed, and then Momentered the room. Her purple-floweredpajamas and bare feet are the only thingsthat I remember, maybe because I re-fused to even glance at her face. After all,looking at her face would mean letting hersee mine, and I was too proud for that.She knelt down to where I was balled upat the foot of my bed and placed her handon my knee. I pulled away. My eyes wereswelling with hatred—hatred not directedat her but at everything I had broughtupon myself. The constant eating, theobsessive weight training, the refusal toeven greet my siblings were all my ownfaults. For minutes my mother tried to consoleme, but I wouldn’t listen. My toenails duginto the floor as my shoulders curled overmy heart, and my mind blurred withphantasmal images of a lamentable past.Every time she mentioned what a hard-working person I was or how my lovingpersonality was all that really mattered, Inever felt the slightest urge to utter,“Thank you.” I sat wishing I could tell hershe was wrong and hoping that everycrude emotion, every mortal sin, everyregret would melt away. But I didn’t speak.I just bit my lip so hard that it turned ahypothermic blue.

Still, a part of me wanted to explain it all—the late-night thrashings upstairs, theperiods of silence; they weren’t part ofsome teenage stage. They were littleparts that had always sculpted my per-sonality and were just now being chippedaway. I was depressed. I just couldn’tadmit this fact to her; I couldn’t put her inthat position. No, not now when she wasworking sixty-hour weeks and devotingevery spare moment to us, her kids. Itseemed selfish to ask her for help. I wasyoung and immature then, unable torealize that help could be the only way out. She left after I pretended to be okay. Imoved to the center of the floor where Isunk into the coarse fibers of an old rug.A few minutes passed before I decidedthat I would resort to meditation as a wayto soothe my unbalanced emotions. Theonly position I remembered from the yogavideo we’d watched at school was the HalfLotus, so I paid careful attention to keep-ing my spine straight as I placed one footon top of the opposite thigh. I closed myeyes, trying to relax, yet I was unable toreach any sort of nirvana or to even“cleanse my mind.” All I could see was theblue button taunting me from across theroom. After an hour of successive breathingexercises, I thought of how I would ratherbe somewhere else, with someone else.I often had this desire, but this time Idecided to act upon it. I ended up in mysister’s shockingly bright bedroom. Theyellow walls, adorned with knickknacksfrom her travels and self-made artwork,were the last things I wanted to look at.They seemed to close in on me and shout,“Hey, don’t you wish your life was likethis?” I did. I tried so hard to ignore thisjealousy, searching instead for some waythat I resembled her. I looked at her face,round and naturally smooth, strandsof silky blond hair tucked behind herears. My brown hair felt stringy and dead.

Sarah K

inney

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Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 058 (313540146) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM



BEN

EATH

CITI

ES Bodies,all elbows and kneesin a mobile sardine can,are forced to breathe each other’ssweat and detergent.The human aromathat clings to clothesmerges with the toxic dust motesof aerosol cans.Swirls and patternsdress sandpaper-brickin Krylon attire.Quiescent on pillows of concrete,the lonely lie is buriedunder yesterday’s news.Cement is scoured to a shineby strangers’ feetand mottled by acid runoff,worn to pockmarksand potholes.Electricity flowsthrough the third footof this subterranean metal monster,raging through Earth’s coreas fast as an insult from a pedestrian’s mouth.It’s a molten Hell,heavy with foreign exhalationand damp perspiration.The air is thick with sulfur,rustand danger.The ground shakeswith preternatural tremors.A crescendo of thunder reverberates,causing the Richter scale platformto tremble in harmonious discord.Silence.The Doppler effect finished,darkness swallows the creaturein a fleeting hushthat makes the tunnela tomb.

- Sasha FregerNatalie Kelton

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Sarah Kinney, digital painting

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 060 (314631068) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM



“Um, yes, well, I suppose a more seri-ous shot will suffice. Mrs. Cotton, if youcould, just look into the camera. Mrs.Cotton? Hello? Mrs. Cotton? Is she allright?” “She’s fine. She’s just giving her stareof death to that cow over there. She thinksthat if she keeps it up long enough, thecow will move off of the crops.” “But the cow’s not going anywhere.” “Nope. I’d give her at least ‘til sunrise.” “You mean sunset?” “No, sunrise. Tomorrow. Maybe the dayafter that.” “She stays like that for days at a time?” “Last time I had to bring the meals outhere and spoon-feed them to her.” “But can’t you try to get her to—” “Are you going to keep blabbering, orare you going to take our picture already?” “But sir—” “I can go ahead and get that call to myllama lawyer out of the way right now ifyou’d like.” “No, no, that isn’t necessary. If you’resure you don’t want to smile?” “I think I’ve already addressed that,thank you.” “And you’re positive that Mrs. Cottonisn’t going to move?” “Nope, she’s stuck.” “Very well, then—” Snap. Inspired by American Gothic by GrantWood

ill you please shut up and hurrythis along, Mr. Reporter Man? I’d like toresume giving my llama a tick bath if youdon’t mind. It’s tick season, you know.” “Yes, Mr. Cotton, I completely under-stand. Just a few quick snapshots of youand Mrs. Cotton and I’ll be on my way. Itwon’t take but a minute.” “Ha! As if I believe that. That’s what yousaid before you interviewed us. I couldhave repainted the governor’s mansion inthe time it took you to ask your endlessquestions.” “Well, this time I promise to make itquick.” “You’d better! If Lammybaa gets ticks,I’ll sue.” “George! Be polite.” “Don’t you tell me what to do, Candace.” “Not to worry, sir. If you’ll just stand withMrs. Cotton right in front of your house, Ican take your picture and leave.” “The house? I thought this story of yourswas about the field.” “Well, it is, but the house will make fora more appropriate background for theportrait.” “So you have me yap for an hour abouthow successful the field has been anddon’t even photograph the darn thing.Yeah, this’ll make a great story.” “George, please, he’s only doin’ hisjob.” “Shut it, Candace. Hey, Mr. Reporter,why does she have to be in the picture,

anyway? It’s my field. All she does is stayinside and pretend to be Lucille Ball.” “George! Hush your trap! You promisedyou’d never tell.” “Well here I am a-tellin’! Did you get that,Mr. Reporter? Her favorite episode to actout is ‘Vitameatavegamin.’” “George!” “Settle down now, everything’s okay.Not to worry, ma’am, that informationwon’t be published. Now if you would bothstand side-by-side—a little to your left,Mrs. Cotton—wonderful. Uh, Mr. Cotton,you can put down your pitchfork. It won’tbe needed for the photograph.” “She stays.” “But it doesn’t really—” “Petunia stays.” “Sir, it’s not very—” “You will address Petunia by name!” “Well, all right, Petunia can remain inthe picture. Okay, here we go. Time forthe action! Smile!” “No.” “Just a little one.” “No.” “Let’s see those pearly whites!” “No.” “Mr. Cotton, don’t you care that this isgoing on the front page of the news-paper?” “Who do I look like, Alan Arkin? Ofcourse I don’t care. ‘Sides, the news-paper is for squares. Romance novels arewhere it’s at.”

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Fromthe

Inside

Eunice LeeOut sit, swinging my legs and thumpingmy heels on the dark oak footboard of myparents’ king-sized bed. I watch Momleaning over her marble dressing table,carefully coating her face with layers offoundation and powder. For some oddreason, I always become entrancedwatching her turn her face into an un-blemished mask of beauty. I wonderwhat she’s trying to hide behind thatcover. Without turning she says, “Stop makingthat noise and go get dressed. And tellAddison to come here.” I sigh and slide off her bed. How couldI have forgotten about dinner with theHamiltons at the luxurious Chez Jac-queline restaurant? The idea of eating anappetizer worth more than Mom’s newheels and with the most obnoxious snobI know, Blair Hamilton, of all people,makes me nauseous. I find Addie, mylittle sister, sitting in my room, staringwide-eyed at a glittery silver dress withmatching shiny pumps hanging from mydoor. I grunt with disgust and glance at

the attached price tags. The only thingworse than having Mom buy clothes forme is wasting hundreds of dollars on yetanother pointless outfit. Addie asks me something, but I ignoreher. I kick off my flats and bounce ontomy bed, pushing piles of dirty jeans andshirts onto the floor. I let my long, wavyhair tumble across my back, and I closemy eyes while I smooth out the tangles.I love my hair. It’s the only thing I inherit-ed from my mom that I actually like. WhenI was younger, Mom would let me braidher hair and weave the silky strands intoa smooth, plaited mane. We would sit onthe couch munching on cheap stalecookies, giggling for no reason. Maybethe mere fact that we were together,basking in love and happiness, made itso cheerful. Tucking me into bed, shewould stroke my hair until I fell asleep.The feeling of her gentle soft fingerscaressing my head was so peaceful andsacred. I wanted to hold on to her touch,her hand, her heart, forever. I thoughtthat she was my best friend and nothing

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yelps when she sees Addie sprawledacross my floor, playing with the shoes. She sighs and sternly says, “AddisonWoodsen, stop playing with the shoesand go find your own.” Addie shrugs then skips out of myroom with Mom following her. “Please hurry and get dressed. Oh, andcan you put your hair up today? It’s get-ting awfully messy and long. Maybe weshould get a haircut soon, sweetie.” I stare at her, wanting to tell her my hairis fine the way it is and that I’m nevercutting it, but she’s already down the hall,scolding Addie for getting her shoesdirty. I grumble and close my door. Pullingthe dress off the hanger, I wonder if Momremembers our shared moments of braid-ing hair. I wonder if she knows how muchI loved spending time with her, eatingstale cookies. I wonder if she knows howmuch I want life to go back the way itused to be. I slip on the heels and stareat my reflection in the mirror. I wonder ifshe knows that, if I cut my hair, I wouldlook exactly like her

could separate us. That was before Dad got the promo-tion and everything changed. We movedinto a huge estate on the upper east sideof New York and bought expensive carsand even more expensive accessories. Ihad felt like I was stepping into a differ-ent world, a world full of elite parties,prestigious schools and pricey clothes.There was no more trying to fit in with thein-crowd; my family became the defi-nition of the exclusive social class. WhileMom adored, craved and clung to it, Ihated it. Of course, strutting down Man-hattan’s finest streets with fifty shoppingbags in tow was somewhat exciting, butI quickly noticed the fading happiness.One day Mom came home with a shorthighlighted bob. She had cut off herbeautiful hair and replaced it with the lat-est hairstyle in Vogue magazine. Al-though she looked even more elegantand gorgeous, I couldn’t give her a com-pliment. That night I cried myself to sleep. Addie pokes my cheeks. I open one eyeand squint to see that her face is two

centimeters from mine. “Why aren’t you answering me, sissy?I asked if I can wear your pretty shoestoday.” I yawn, stretching out my arms, thenburst out laughing when I notice Addieclunking around in my new shiny pumps. “I’m a pretty, pretty princess, andyou’re gonna be my prince. ‘Kay?” I giggle and pick her up in my armsand give her a twirl. “Why, I would be so honored to be yourprince today, Miss Addie,” I say, huggingher. She laughs gleefully and wraps herarms tightly around my neck. I give heranother spin but stop abruptly. Momstands in my doorway with her hands onher hip and an exasperated look on herface. Her hair is fluffed, her makeup isflawless, and her perfectly slim figure iswrapped in a silky black dress. “Clara, I told you to get dressed fifteenminutes ago. Why are you still notready?” She steps into my room, eyes wideningwhen she sees my heap of laundry. She

Natalie Kelton

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WorldThe Begin

ner's Guide

to

Domination

Madelyn Usher

as Earl

Fomchaile

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elcome to The Beginner’s Guide to World Domination! The fact that you

have decided to purchase this tome of priceless information is proof enough

that you are already on the fast track to ruling the world. With some expert advice and

guidance from me, you will soon find yourself in control of the entire human race.

Section 1: Appearance

In the business of domination, appearance is everything. I’ve found several key

components of a forceful look that have worked wonders for me and will guarantee

success for you, too.

1. Hair: A simple, yet chic, look will serve you best here. Start by combing your hair

into a deep side-part (Donald Trump style). This hair-do nicely accentuates thin,

straight hair while showing off comb skills.* However, wind and particularly strong

air conditioning units can be a danger to this pristine style. In order to preserve its orig-

inal splendor, you must apply liberal amounts of hair gel from root to tip.

*Don’t Forget! A single hair out of place can make all the difference between chang-

ing Canada to Spockanada (my one true aspiration) and being stuck with Canada as it

is—full of Canadians.

W

Sarah Kinney, Blake Taylor,

graphics

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2. Complexion: Can you ever takeSnooki seriously? How about a vampire?Vampires are always more intimidating.Why? Skin tone! Snooki is tan; vampiresare not. Vampires win. You must learn tohighlight your natural albino tones inorder to succeed. Sunscreen and shad-ows are your new—and probably only—best friends. Paleness of skin denoteshard, indoor, non-athletic, smart-people-type work. And non-athletic work is theonly work worth mentioning. (If you are anathlete, I apologize, but you have wastedyour money. You will never dominate theworld. Go pump some iron or whatever.) 3. Attire: Stick to the classically ele-gant: a checkered shirt paired with a bowtie, suspenders and very short khakishorts. Always keep your shirt tucked inas tightly as you can manage, and top offthe whole look with knee-high argylesocks and bowling shoes. Not only willthis look practically secure your place atthe very top of the world-ruler food chain,but you will have girls chasing you downthe streets, begging you for a date. I speakfrom personal experience, of course. 4. Braces: The more metal you haveon your body, the more physically intim-idating you are. That’s a simple fact of life. *Bonus tip! Headgear makes you looklike you can bend metal with your mind,like Magneto from X-Men. You will haveno opposition. 5. Accessories: Rolling a large, over-stuffed book bag around with you at alltimes is one hundred percent necessary.It should be big enough to easily ac-commodate thirteen textbooks, four com-ic books, your collector’s edition Lord ofthe Rings lunchbox and four changes of

(continued)

WorldDomination

Beginner's Guideto

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P.S. Check out all myother great books!- The Intermediate’s Guide to

World Domination- The Expert’s Guide to

World Domination- The Master’s Guide to

World Domination- The Children’s Guide to

World DominationComing Next Summer!The Senior Citizen’s Guide to

World Domination

elf, dragon or sword fight. 2. Condescension: By definition, be-ing condescending is treating people asif they are beneath you. If you treateveryone in such a manner, everyone willbe beneath you. It’s simple logic but flaw-less nonetheless. 3. Cool: You are cool. Everyone al-ready knows that you are. However, nowyou have to push it to new levels, becooler than you’ve ever been before—beYoda cool. Speaking in inverse and car-rying around a light saber will elevate youto new levels of coolness so quickly thatno one will even dare to speak to you.

Section 3: Aggression Aggression is the level-ninety-sevenpower boost to the World of Warcrafttournament that is the path to your worlddomination—with it, anything is possible.You must channel the aggression youfeel whenever you’re about to check-mate someone in chess. Picture the wayyour king will trap your opponent in asquare of death, the way his glasses willfog up when he cries, and then crush him.This method is the same one you mustuse to take over the world—visualize,then actualize. In order to be successful,though, you must practice. Aggression Exercises: 1. Try to physically abuse siblings orinanimate objects such as doors as muchas possible. 2. While walking down the street, cho-ose an innocent bystander and verballylash out at him or her before retreatingwithout explanation. 3. Think of the nicest, most cheerfulperson you know. Say something mean

to that individual whenever possible. 4.Spend hours upon hours alone onthe Internet; the lack of social interactionwill make you a ticking time bomb forviolence.

The Next Step Congratulations! Now you’re no longerjust a beginner in the game of worlddomination; you’re an intermediate. Thatis one-fourth of the way to total worldcontrol! The time has come for you totake the next step. Drive down to yourlocal bookstore and pick up a copy ofThe Intermediate’s Guide to World Dom-ination by Earl Fomchaile. This book hasalmost everything you need to know tobecome an expert in world domination.Soon, you won’t know what to do with allyour power. You’re halfway to being half-way finished! Keep up the good work!

-Earl Fomchaile

clothes. However, reserve a large mathtextbook and calculator to carry in yourhands, as well as three to four pensthat you can nestle safely inside therequired pocket protector. Also, attachseveral large mysterious Tupperware-like containers on the outside of yourbook bag. This statement is both practi-cal and fashionable. (No one will knowone of them is your pet tarantula’svacation home!) 6. PEPS: Portable Electric Pencil Sharp-ener. Carry one with you always. Always.The one day I didn’t have mine was theworst day of my entire life.

Section 2: Attitude Now that you look like a take-no-prisoners world ruler, you need the at-titude to match. Attitude comes fromhaving the right motivation, and findingthe right motivation is the easiest thingsince calculus. Remember how you feltwhen you first saw Battlestar Galactica?Let that exhilaration and excitement fillyou up until you’re ready to go out andstart conquering. All that’s left to do islearn the “Three C’s of Domination,” andyou’re ready for the takeover. 1. Confidence: If you walk out of yourhouse and mount your bike with theconfidence that you will return home asthe dominator of the world (and that yourtraining wheels won’t fail while you’repedaling down the highway), you willreturn as the king of the world! *Extra Practice! Watch the scene inTitanic where Leonardo DiCaprio yells,“I’m the king of the world!” Rehearse thisline. Don’t waste your time on the rest ofthe movie, though; there’s not a single

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Tho

rys

Ste

nsru

d

Jagged and dripping jawsprotect me in this world I’ve known for so long.Storms rage, masking the roar and ache in my mind.With the canopy of night comes the dreamless sleep andthe questions with no answersthat last until the morning fog.

A tunnel of sky opens,revealing a wall of storm cloudsstretching up for miles.Birds chirp and flutter about,content,if only for a few minutes.

By mid-morningrain ricochets off the granite and dirt,rapidly swelling streams and rivers.Thunder and lightning pry open the sky,sending shocks down my spine.The jagged and dripping jaws run with water,while the torrent flows away from me.

The menacing and dark jawskeep me dry.

- Sarah Kinney

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one

at a

drop

time

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raising the money for myself or I won’t beable to [reach my goal],” he remarks. “Idon’t really care if people don’t like whatI’m doing because I’m not looking forpeople’s approval.” He views his positionas Droplets’ leader as an opportunity toprovide for those who are truly in need ofhelp, not as a vehicle for his ego. The support of friends and family helpsSimons move forward with confidenceand passion. “Knowing that my friendsand family are there to support me is adriving force to keep me going.” He alsostresses that a vital component of keep-ing Droplets’ wheels turning is having afund completion deadline for the firstwell, which is currently slated as Decem-ber 31, 2011. “If you don’t have a deadline,you procrastinate. If you have a deadline,it creates a sense of urgency,” he says.“This [project] needs to have a sense ofurgency attached to it because every dayKenyans are dying due to water-relateddiseases.” Droplets is well on its way to making alife-changing impact on the less fortunatewho, without Droplets’ assistance, wouldnot have easily-accessible sources ofclean drinking water. For Simons, over-seeing the project is a fulfilling andgratifying role that he’s joyful to take on.“It’s made me more passionate abouteverything I believe in,” he discloses. “If Iknow something needs to be done, I’ll puteverything I have in doing it.” Being led bya student, the organization’s very exis-tence defies what normally qualifies as aglobally-impacting charity. Its progressserves as an encouraging example oftoday’s generation leading the way ininitiative, even when obstacles seem end-less and impossible to overcome. In es-sence Droplets is an inkling of hope, anexpression of goodwill, proof that the onlything needed to make a difference is oneperson willing to take the first step

water-related diseases,” Simons ex-plains. “I couldn’t sit back and not doanything about it when I knew I could.”Not wanting to let the cause become justa noble idea that never materialized intoanything, Simons took action. Simons investigated the situation fur-ther and got the gears turning for Dropletswith help from committed friends andmentors. He decided to raise funds forthe construction of a well that will give aKenyan community local access tohealthy water. Simons then launched afund-raising webpage through The 410Bridge fundraising network. The page hassince expanded into ProjectDroplets.org.The initiative’s ultimate goal is to raise the$30,000 needed to dig a clean-water wellin Kenya: $20,000 for the borehole and anadditional $10,000 for plumbing andmaintenance necessities. Simons is col-lecting online and in-person contributionswhile selling cause bracelets to promoteawareness and inspire donations. Oncethe $30,000 goal is completely met,construction will progress at a rapid paceto complete the well. To some this goal might seem dauntingand unattainable, but Simons embracesthe challenge. Although there is still a longway to go, Simons’s enthusiasm forDroplets is evident. “When we dig thewell, we’ll be giving clean water to a wholecommunity for a lifetime,” he says with asmile. Without having to travel daily toretrieve water, women will be able toinstead spend more time caring for theirchildren and their village, while childrenwill be able to attend school. “They’ll seethat they’re not a forgotten culture, thatpeople actually care about them.” Simons says his life as a student is oneof the biggest hindrances to gettingDroplets off the ground. “As a sixteen-year-old kid trying to raise $30,000, youalways run into people saying I’m only

t’s never a good idea to be late,especially when you’re interview-ing the head of an international

charity organization. I have an appoint-ment with Kevin Simons, the founder ofDroplets, an ambitious initiative that pro-vides clean water to underprivilegedKenyans. Simons arrives before me andwaits in his car. Ordinarily I would fumblemy words and become nearly schizo-phrenic from the anxiety of keeping a pro-fessional charity executive waiting. How-ever, Simons is an understanding person,and thankfully not at all upset that I ar-rived after our scheduled meeting time.That’s part of what makes him the perfectleader for Droplets; he’s innately kind andcontinually puts others before himself.He’s also my classmate in high school. While Simons still maintains a focus onimproving his SAT scores and searchingfor the right college like his fellow high-school juniors, he does not let theclassroom encapsulate him in a never-ending workload bubble. Instead, he hasa global perspective on making an impacton others’ lives, an outlook that mostpeople don’t attain until a much later age,if ever. Simons was inspired to start Droplets inthe summer of 2009 during a youth con-ference. There he learned about the un-fortunate lack of clean drinking water inKenya and the lengths that Kenyans mustgo to in order to get the water they need.A mere sixty-one percent of Kenyanshave clean water available to them; therest have no choice but to make a dailyfive-mile trek (each way) to seek thenearest water source. Simons says thatthe most potent emotion he experiencedwhile watching video footage of theseharsh conditions was despair. “We, asAmericans, go about our daily lives doingnothing about the water crisis when thereare people in Africa dying every day of

e yatkalor

bl

Natalie K

elton

I

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theHelen Mun, StaffKenzie Saunders, StaffStuart Schrader, StaffBlake Taylor, Feature EditorMadelyn Usher, Design EditorMs. Marva Hutchinson, Advisor

Aurora Bellard, StaffAshley Boles, StaffLauren Burnham, Design EditorSarah Chaney, Art EditorBrynn Claypoole, Copy Editor

Sarah Claypoole, StaffChris Disser, StaffSarah Fewell, Financial EditorNatalie Kelton, StaffSarah Kinney, Publicity Editor

our thankssincerest

In compliance with federal law, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools administers all educational programs, employment activities andadmissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age or disability.

PatronsBank of America*Burrow and Case OrthodonticsCharlottetowne Insurance GroupKaren CummingsDonna and Nathan KeltonLorinna Lowrance1 Stop Mail ShopThe Schrader FamilySunset Slush of MatthewsSunTrust BankWomble, Carlyle, Sandridge and Rice

BenefactorsAndy Hines, D.D.S.

ContributorsPatricia BrettDiane BurnhamChris and Marianne ChaneyAnn ClaypooleFire Creek DentalAnn Kinney

Rosemary SchraderStarr OrthodonticsJohn and Pat TaylorDavid and Miriam WilsonRoxanne Wilson

FriendsAnn M. BeezupLorenzo BellardMary BellardAshley BolesLisa BolesPeter BolesBrooks FamilyBrian BurnhamCraig BurnhamRobert and Nada BurnhamDr. and Mrs. Joseph Cefalu and FamilyDr. and Mrs. Sal CefaluRachel ChaneyThe Claypoole FamilyTheodore and Amy Claypoole

Opal B. ClontzDakota and Lady, PuppiesLinda DisserThe Falero FamilyMichael FaleroGene FitzpatrickFranklin American MortgageSimira FreemanBurl and Lyn GrigsbyJulie HillEun Ah “Agnes” KimCarol LewisJuana F. LugoMacDonald FamilyLaura MaddoxRon MakeeRose MunNolen FamilyMrs. Deborah PriceEmma RainearAlicia M. SaundersTaylor TurnbullGary and Kathy Usher

*Matching Grant Program

indicates former staff member

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Documents

Roars and Whispers 2010-11