It’s Always Quarter to Eleven on That Clock

(This Has Nothing to Do With Your Poem)

An anthology of the
Western New York Writing Project
Teen Writing Workshop
thehearth.ning.com
It’s Always Quarter to Eleven on That Clock
(This Has Nothing to Do With Your Poem)

Anthology of Poetry and Prose

Volume XVIII

Western New York Writing Project

Writing Workshop for Teens
July 13th to July 24th, 2009

Entrepreneurial Owner..............................................Dr. Suzanne Borowicz

Executive Chef...........................................................Genevieve Webster
Head Dishwasher........................................................Joel Malley
Grill Master.................................................................Franklin Aquilina
Desert Specialist..........................................................Nicole Lesinski
Soups and Salads.........................................................Matt Pavlovich

*********************

Published by The Western New York Writing Project

at Canisius College in Buffalo, NY.

For more information about the WNY Writing Project, enrichment opportunities for
students, and professional development for teachers, call (716) 888-3134 or go to
www.canisius.edu/wnywp. See our community at thehearth.ning.com.

Copyright 2009 by Western New York Writing Project. All rights reserved. Individual
authors and artists retain all ownership rights to their respective works. We are fairly
confident this anthology has been printed in the United States of America.

Anthology Design and Layout - Joel Malley

 Foreword
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK

Fellowship
By Victoria Licata

Brought together through a multitude of reasons,

We are like the grains of sand The only quest that binds
In the center of an hourglass. this fellowship is to find
A small group is more than enough of us, beauty, to find truth, to
Because a small group is all we really are.
There is no magic ring to bind us,
find ourselves in each
Only passion for the rare and wondrous gift other.
Made manifest in each of us so differently. Aside from the two weeks when we are all together.

Every summer we draw together,
The smiling eyes of the veterans
Who know what is to come,
And the virginal expectation in the eyes of
Those who've never yet entered our ranks
Yet are brothers and sisters with all
By the time our gathering is finished.
They find, as everyone finds,
Something that, being as we are
We cannot always find, much less feel.
Acceptance.
And the knowledge that there are others
Who share this blessing and curse,
That they are not alone, only scattered.
Two short weeks, seemingly not enough time
To fully explore the mysteries that are each other;
Yet two weeks can and will forge
Friendships to last for years.
The memories made here
Amongst every understanding smile
And every outstretched hand
Cannot be forgotten, nor should they be.
And every year for two short weeks
This band of teens and adults comes together
To share our dreams and champion our
passion incarnate:
Our inescapable love affair with the written word.

Katie, Alisa,
Sofiya, and
Gaelen
compare
notes out in
the quad.
8
The Kitchen Staff

Broiling and reducing writing exercises

in a hot and steamy kitchen near you.
(Clockwise, from upper left) Franklin Aquilina, Grill Master, Genevieve
Federick, Executive Chef, Joel Malley, Head Dishwasher, Matt Pavlovich, Soups
and Salads, Nicole Lesinski, Desert Specialist

Tip your waitresses. Try the quiche. And

remember, employees must wash hands before
returning to work.

9
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
China Girl
By Stephanie Kong

They see me from afar.

China Girl.
They smirk.
Little do they know.
How much it really hurts

To be singled out as different

To be scorned and raked by stares
They perceive what isn’t
Making judgments that aren’t fair.

“I’ll bet she’s a straight-A student”

“Teacher’s Pet”
Overly Prudent.

Ni hao.
They mimic
As I walk past
Whatsamatter girly?
Afraid we’ll kick your a**?
Besides writing, Stephanie's next greatest passion is
swimming. She is also an expert doodler and is currently
Stare straight ahead
perfecting her technique. Her favorite thing to doodle is
Don’t turn around
flowers because they almost always turn out decent-
Shoulders slumped
looking.
looking down.
Most people would agree that artsy folk usually aren't into
the more structured aspects of life, such as math and
Hurled insults whiz past my head
science. In Stephanie's case, she actually finds these
Heart bleeding
subjects rather interesting, and is looking to become a
Torn to shreds
biochemical engineer (who of course, writes on the side).
Stephanie is also involved in music to some level. She has
Yet still I walk on
been playing the cello for 4 years now. Perhaps one of her
Draped in a cloak of shame
biggest pet peeves is when people mistake her for playing
Who knew simple heritage
the violin (due to her small size). If you don't know what a
Could bring so much pain?
cello looks like, it typically tends to be around 5 feet in
height, (which also happens to be Stephanie at her tallest).
Suddenly a foot shoots out
Stephanie has thoroughly enjoyed her first year at the
Startled
Canisus Summer Writing Camp and is looking forward to
Shocked
seeing everyone next year. (Hopefully the clock will be fixed
I fall.
by then.)
The concrete rushes up.
A hard, spit-stained wall.

I feel the tears welling

As pain shoots through my chin.
I feel my body swelling
With hurt penned up within

Quietly I get up
And with my head held high
I ignore the growing tears.
I will never cry.

10
KELSEY RICE
Kelsey Rice is a “hip and
happenin’”pescatarian who will be a senior
this fall at Kenmore West High School. This
lifeguard can balance broomsticks on her
fingers, swim butterfly, eat some pretty
scary looking vegetarian food, and make a
mean grilled cheese. She has attended this
camp for long enough to be considered an
old fart, and would like to say that it is
“sherbet”, not “sherbert”.

11
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
A Peek Into Their World
By Kelsey Rice
“Who are you?” I asked as I lowered
my Gucci sunglasses, looking at him in
disgust. His long black hair. His huge
T-shirt featuring a band I’d never
heard of before. His beat up, black
high tops and centuries-old jeans.
“Is this your dog?” he asked, ignoring
my question. He held up my little
Bichon Frise with a disgusted look on
his face. “I found it walking around
outside.”
“Poochie!” I cooed. “Did you miss me,
my favwite little puppy? I told you
what would happen if you left
mommy’s purse!”
The boy stood there awkwardly.
“You’re welcome,” he mumbled as he
started to walk away.
“Wait just one minute,” I said. He
stopped. “I bet I know what you’re up
to. You took my Poochie, didn’t you?
You just wanted an excuse to talk to me
– to be the hero! How do you know
where I live, anyway? Were you
stalking me?”
“I’m your next door neighbor,” he
murmured.
“Oh, you’re the kid who plays that
foreign techno crap all the time with
your little friends, aren’t you? What do
you guys do, anyway? Drugs?”
“Jeez,” he mumbled. “I just thought
you’d want your dog back.”
“And what, win my admiration?” I
asked, rolling my eyes.
“Actually, no.” he said. “I wouldn’t be
paid to live like you.”
His words stung, but I felt a little bad
for dissing him so hard. “Thanks for
the dog,” I said.
“Whatever,” the boy muttered as he
walked away.
I squished Poochie in a bone-crushing
hug. “I missed you so much,” I said.
“You need a bath, though. After all, you
touched him.” I shuddered. Poochie
whimpered, pawing at the door as the
boy made his way back home.
The doorbell rang. It was Brittany, my
best friend.
“I like your purse,” I said.
“Prada.”
“What else?”
We sat there on my couch, nibbling
carrots and poring over Cosmo.
I looked out my window, and glanced
over at the boy and his friends who were
sitting on the roof of his house, having a
picnic and listening to music. They
looked like they were having way more
fun than I had experienced in a long
time. Brittany, curious at what I was
watching, looked in their direction and
wrinkled her nose.
“What freaks,” she said.
“Totally.”
Racing Darkness
By Kelsey Rice
Miriam walked across the sand, her eyes
fixed on the horizon ahead of her. Green
rays shot across the night sky, bathing her
face in cold light. She held, in her right
hand, a white lily that sparkled in her
trembling hands. A red slash crossed her
face, a memory of what had happened, a
memory that plagued her body no more.
Puddles of icy water, out of place in this
harsh desert, dotted the ground, calming
her tired feet in a sensation that she could
no longer feel. Miriam continued to
walk, emotionless, fearless of what lay
ahead - for her body felt no fear.
Inside the flower, trapped, her soul cried
to get out, watching her shell of a body
walk to where there was no turning back.
And the sky continued to pulse in shades
of green, flashing and flickering in the
eternal night.
12
Miriam finally reached her destination –
a black lake. She held out her hand,
freeing the lily from her grasp. The
flower trembled as her soul cried out in
fear. But her body feared not, and her
body was in control. She watched as the
flower floated through the air towards the
great lake, to be lost forever in its frigid
depths.
She stood among others, expressionless,
holding their flowers out to the water.
One by one, the blooms dropped into
oblivion. Green light burst from every
splash, sending flashes of green into the
dark sky.
Miriam held up her hands, watching as
the water started to run off her fingertips.
Her body slowly lost its color, cell by cell,
as she looked blankly ahead, feeling the
coldness enter her bones. And with a
splash, she was gone, with only a puddle
of ice-cold water in her place, reflecting
the green lights in the sky.
Energy
By Kelsey Rice
Have you ever felt like something was
coming? As a child I would try to find
my way through my house without
opening my eyes. I could feel when I
approached a wall, or a chair, or a
bookshelf in a way that is very hard to
describe. It was like I could feel its
energy surrounding it – I could sense the
firm coldness preventing me from
advancing further.
This energy is more real than it sounds.
Tadpoles, as scientists found, have this
energy around them – not in the shape of
a tadpole, but in the shape of a frog; the
shape of what they will become. But
what if this energy shapes what is not
tangible? Sometimes we feel a sense of
something coming; a sense of fear, or
confidence, like how birds sense a coming
storm.
Then comes the real question – does this
“energy” shape us, or do we shape it?
Are we confined to a destiny or can we
map out our lives as we please? Or
maybe that is up to us to decide. Perhaps
we have a choice - to control our lives, or
let life control us.
13
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Suburban Death
By Jen Adcock
The death of society begins in the suburbs.
The insulated safety of suburbia blocks out
all mental freedoms and keeps in all poison
thoughts. Suburbs are barriers against
change, letting old customs stagnate, no
matter how wrong or crude. The
sprawling, neatly lined streets eat into
nature, leeching away any and all spirit
from the place, trading life for so-called
safety. Identical houses make clean blocks
on the manicured lawns, destroying any
possible sense of self.
As teenagers long to rebel, to find
themselves in the city, they are told by their
parents that cities are too dangerous, too big
and busy. Yes, there is crime, but it's there
that you can find life, the life that's been
sucked dry in suburbia. Cities are catalysts
of change, whether for better or worse is
irrelevant. It is there that things happen,
that ideas take form, that people come to
life. After the graying death of suburbs, the
romance of the city is an infinite
improvement. Where once everything was By Jen Adcock
set and predestined, now it twists and turns,
fighting the rigors of routine.
This change, this fight, this color and noise Outlawed
is what keeps society from collapsing. The Warriors of the city.
death of humanity begins in the suburbs.
"They who would give up an essential liberty for
temporary security, deserve neither and will lose
both." - Benjamin Franklin
Jen is an avid reader who loves
listening to outlandish music,
learning foreign languages, and
watching the nerdiest
documentaries she can find.
She enjoys being busy, and
would love to learn to paint.
She is a self-proclaimed advice
column for her friends, although
that advice isn't always
recommended. You can find
her hanging out with her friends
at cafes and bookstores or
anywhere surrounded by
"artistic chaos".
Quixotic
By Jen Adock
The warm vanilla fills the air
Bringing life to all that's there.
It calls to mind the foreign lands
Of rivers deep and desert sands
Where I traveled in my younger years
Before my mind was filled with fears.
I traveled far and traveled wide
When I found myself past the deepest tide.
Alone, my mind began to fail;
The wind took charge of where I sailed.
There was a place I'd learned, supposed
unreal
That even in madness I could feel.
I lost myself there for twenty years,
Living in the imaginary, far but near.
When I returned to my home place,
There wasn't but the slightest trace
Of my journeys to this distant shore;
All was as it was before.
No one believed the tale I told
So now I'm stuck here growing old
In the locked up manor, locked away.
Urban Guerrilla
We are the urban guerrilla,
We are the urban guerrilla
The forbidden,
Fighting it out in the streets,
In the alleys,
In the secret Chinatown government.
We lack the honor
We undermine your rule,
Of your pomp and circumstance armies.
Taking your skyscrapers
We hide,
From under your feet.
We steal,
We cheat,
We're making this city our own -
We lie.
As if it was ever yours to begin with.
And we don't care.
We infect
Your clean, pristine cities
And make them our own.
We are
The dirty, abandoned buildings
That mar your pretty skyline.
We are the conmen,
The petty thieves,
So you don't get complacent.
There is no complacency here,
Not for you.
We are the underworld,
The rats,
The roots,
The foot-thick layer of grime
In your sparkling, perfect city.
14
 War Games
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
By Emily Schutte

Gretchen was running. It felt like all

she’d ever known was the steady rhythm
of her feet slapping the ground, her
lungs and throat burning in time. Trees
were illuminated by short bursts of light
from the neighboring thruway as they
flashed by. There were no sounds of
pursuit but she knew they were there.
She knew. Somewhere behind her their
inhuman speed was carrying them to
her. Tricks could slow them down but
they would catch up.

They always caught her.

She stumbled, her arms pin wheeling as

she leaned forward dangerously. If she
fell she was done, it would all be over.
Her feet tangled together as she
overbalanced and the ground rushed up
to meet her, slapping the air from her
lungs. Her eyes widened as she rolled
over, staring up at the stars. She was
desperate for a breath, she rolled onto
her hands and knees, she couldn’t
breathe, she couldn’t defend herself.

She couldn’t run.

Gretchen was running. She was always

running, running away and they ran to
catch her. She was fast and they were
faster, but she was smart and had three
years, five months and 14 days of
experience on her side. The ones
behind her had nothing but inhuman
advantages and bloodlust.
She slowed to a halt, tears welling up and
blurring her vision. It was that or wait for
the sobs to force her to stop.
They would get her despite that. They
would overtake her and she would be
done until they needed another fox for
the dogs to chase, and things never ended
well for the fox. The difference between
the girl and the fox was that the fox could
stay blissfully dead while Gretchen had to
go through the ordeal again and again
and again. It never ended. She could
never outrun them. She would never
break free of the cycle. She could run,
dodge, weave, shake them off in traffic or
crowds. She could go as far as she could,
Illustration by Ilona Dragos
close enough to taste freedom, but it was
never enough. It would never be enough.
What was the point?
***********
Gretchen was running. She was going to
leave all of this behind her; she wouldn’t
be the fox any more. Her feet were sure
as they hit the ground, carrying her to a
specific location instead of just guiding
her away from the danger. How or why
she didn’t know, but just when she had
given up a new will to escape the hunt
had been sparked. Her plan was sound in
theory. It could work. It had to work.
Ahead of her was a large, one story
building. When she saw it Gretchen did
her best to control her wild emotions and
made a beeline for the wide opening near
the end. A lit sign above it blazed, quietly
buzzing into the night: ‘The Graceon
Garage.’
If her breathing hadn’t been labored she
would have smiled. Freedom was in sight,
and as she skidded into the building it
assaulted her nose with the pungent
smells of gas and motor oil. She had to
stop and study the layout for a moment
before she was moving again, grabbing a
dirty rag from a table and swiping it
across her face and hair. She looked back
at the entrance and saw her pursues as

15
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK stalking shadows outside, slow and noses. It was why they hesitated before against the even dirtier concrete and
calculating as they assessed the situation. entering the garage. listening.

Gretchen paused again to tear off the
simple t-shirt she wore, rubbing more oil
onto her chest and arms. As her eyes
roamed the space for something else to
disguise her scent with they fell on a
button-down shirt, thrown casually over a
chair by the wall. It was filthy even by the
standards of the rest of the garage; she
could almost smell it from where she
stood. This time Gretchen allowed
herself to smile as she threw her old t-
shirt as far as she could toward the back
door, donning the new one and diving
into the pit beneath a crushed sedan.
The overwhelming reek of oil, soaked
into the concrete and dripping down
from the car above, made her lungs burn
even worse, but it was the thing that
would hopefully save her life. She had
noticed in her many runs that traveling in
areas of high traffic would sometimes
throw the hunters behind her off the
scent. Gas, emissions, oil, brake fluid;
something in cars messed with their
Could it be that Gretchen, merely
human, had finally out witted them? It
wasn’t over yet, she reminded herself,
stilling her heartbeat with deep breathing
though it made her head spin with the
fumes. Someone entered the garage from
the adjoining office, laughing at a friend
in the other room. His footsteps were
getting louder, closer.
“That’s funny,” he muttered, coming to a
stop by the front of the car Gretchen
crouched under. She barely dared to
breathe as the mechanic shouted, “Hey,
TJ! You seen my workin’ shirt?”
“No. Why, did ya lose it again?” More
laughter followed the words.
“Ha, ha,” he retorted sarcastically before
saying to himself, “I coulda sworn I left it
right here... Can I help you?” The man
was walking away from her in the
direction of the garage door. Gretchen
closed her eyes, resting her dirty forehead
The hunters didn’t answer him. She
couldn’t hear them but she knew they
must be trying to pinpoint her scent.
“Can I help you,” the mechanic repeated
firmly, again ignored.
“There!” One of them exclaimed in low
growl. They must have found her shirt.
There was a rush of footsteps past her
hiding spot as they swept out the back,
which was a lot for spare parts and cars
waiting for the junk yard. If all went well
they wouldn’t realize she hadn’t gone that
way until they had searched the whole
lot.
Without waiting for the mechanic to
leave she scrambled out of the pit,
ignoring his startled exclamation as she
rushed past and into the open air.

Emily is
16 and,
before
you ask,
she has
not yet
gotten
her
driver's
license.
She
enjoys
dancing,
quoting
things
no one
has
heard
of, and
of
course
writing.

16
17
 Him
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK

By Autumn Ababurko

When your around

my mind goes blank.
In just second,
my thoughts
begin racing
with fake scenes
of us.

You make me feel accepted,

wanted;
loved.

But is that what you want,

or are you
just nice?

I always have this wondering

thought in
the back of my head,
of if fate would ever meet us
or if it was buried
deep into the abyss,
never able to rise Illustration by Victoria Licata
to the surface.

I guess that wonder

will always be there, Lost & Found
creeping in the back By Autumn Ababurko
of my mind;
waiting for the TRUTH As they stared deeply
Until now, there had always been a hole.
to be into each others eyes,
A blank spot somewhere in each of their
revealed. a feeling of attachment emerged.
lives.
Each had felt like a puzzle
This moment was the end of the hint for
missing its final piece,
the missing puzzle piece,
but this moment,
and the beginning of a new, full life.
this moment right here,
would change everything.

Unknown Love
By Autumn Ababurko

The cool breeze played with her dirty
blonde hair, tugging it in every direction.
The thought of him would not escape
her mind,
but stayed only to urge on questions of
the unknown.
The images of cheris hed moments spent
with him were set on replay
in her head, bring remembrance of her
love fer him.
For him to be in her life for so long, it is
utterly impossible
that he hadn't realized the unmerged
feelings she had for him.
This mere thought brought a new idea to
the surface,
and a scary one at that.
Had he?
Had he realized the truth, but just
continued his life,
playing the game of ignorance?

18
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Christoper Bayati is an LHS student
interested in English and Literature, he has
an interest in drawing, creative writing, and
dramatics. He also greatly appreciates the
opportunity to have been in the Writers
Camp and shared with people like him.

The Phoenix
By Christopher Bayati

'Vinter!' a frantic voice rang out from behind a sullen man the trio of gunmen who burst into the room from the other
hunched over his desk. side...

'VINTER! We have to get out!' Two things were clearly audible in Vinter's mind as he ran
through the dusty hallways of the facility - the beating of his
'What?!' Vinter replied, suddenly awoken from his daze. own heart, and the heavy footsteps of innumerable soldiers. For
the first few minutes, Vinter was able to go down the first two
'They're after us,' the assistant cried. 'The Service, they are floors with no problem, but there were still four to go till he
inside and armed. They're headed here as we speak!' could exit the building. Next up was the lounge, and what he
saw there completely crushed his spirit.
'How did they-'
He thought that the woman was simply resting, but the stains
'No time. You gotta get outta here. Take the blueprints. Take all on her shirt proved otherwise. All Vinter could do was kneel
your works...Make sure you are not seen!' and hold up the head of the girl he once loved. The mourning
was all too short, for the noisy footsteps forced him to get back
With those parting words, Vinter took the documents with him on his feet.
and scurried out of the room, leaving his assistant alone to face

19
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
This time around, though, Vinter felt hopeless. There
was no way he could evade the Sercret Service
forever, he thought. They would eventually reach
him...And burn his research, his philosophical
writings. The thoughts came to a pause as Vinter
stopped at two paths. He could either continue down
the stairs or try the balcony. He took a right and
entered the balcony, stacking up several pieces of
furniture in case the service would try entering.
A saving grace sat atop the rims of the balcony in the
form of a silky white species of bird Vinter had only
dreamed of seeing. An idea formed in his head. He
took out his scrapbook and showed it to the bird. To
his amazement, the creature grasped the tome, eyeing
it nonchalantly. It seemed to comprehend, to his
amazement.

The bliss of discovering this elusive speciment was

short lived, as a brutal knocking manifested themselves
in the man's mind.
'Go,' he motioned to the bird. 'Be free from this place.
Please, carry my words with you.'
Despite the man's please, the white avian stood still.
The knocking grew louder and was paired with
hollering.
'Please, quickly now,' he cried. The bird then put the
book in its beak and spread its wings. With one final
glance at the professor, the Pheonix took off.
Tears rolled down Vinter's face as he saw the majestic
creature disappear into the clouds. Turning his
attention to the door, which was close to being broken
open, he realised that he could not allow himself to be
captured, for only torture would follow. Vinter took a
step onto the rims himself and spread his arms - it was
now his turn to take to the skies.
The heavily armed guards in black were able to enter
the balcony in the next instant. The general cursed
when he realised Vinter's intention to jump, and
decided to let loose a few bullets as Vinter fell
forward...
The facility was searched high and low, but the works
of Gerald A. Vinter were never found, and the final
hope of revolution instead flew under the wings of the
snow white Pheonix, whose desination, like the fate of
the world Vinter left behind, remained uncertain.
The Creeper
By Christopher Bayati
They call me the creeper, 'cause I seldom talk.
I stay in the corner, I have a strange walk.
Don't speak 'less I'm spoken to - that lets me know
That you actually want my attention - but no...
My gaze is unwanted, my presence is feared.
I just want to talk, but her face is steered
The opposite way
Like every day...
They call me a creep. Well, I've never learned
How to make the friends for which I have yearned
I blame my past life, for my old town was rough
'been bullied and jeered at so one friend's enough.
The saying is true, the one used for beasts
'It's more afraid of you than you are of it' - at least,
With me 'cause I'm 'fraid, to talk and to ask...
But come on, how big and painful a task
Must it truely be for her to smile back...?
They call me a Stalker, but I'm not to blame.
I'm weak and I fear that she is the same
As everyone else, and she'll push me aside
Dismiss me as worthless and kill me inside.
Oh how I wish I could, somehow prove myself to her.
I'd take a beating, a bullet, to somehow impress her.
But alas I am a Creeper, and I just don't know how
To show my emotions, and not have her doubt.
'Cause she'd think I'm a freak, she would run away
She would to anything to keep me at bay.

It's a Creeper's life as the bane of the school

I may be crazy, but they are just cruel
So for now I can do naught but wish on a star
Illustration by Kelsey Rice
Envision in my dreams, and adore from afar.

20
9:41

HEY!
IT’S
FRANKLIN!

FRANKLIN CLEANED
OUT THE BASEMENT OF
HIS TURN OF THE
CENTURY HOME AND
BROUGHT IN A TRUNK
LOAD OF WRITING
PROMPTS...
 Alisa Machina lives in NYC
(Brooklyn). She's here
because Sofiya Semenova is
her cool friend (that actually
lives by here) and said that
the writing camp thing was
awesome, so Alisa decided to
come and go to it too. She
likes to eat (apple) pie, and
has written a large amount of
sasquatch/cheerio pass-along
stories this summer with
Sofiya, Sarah, Paula, Katie,
and Gaelen. She likes grapes
and grapefruits and is sorta
weird if you didn't already
know that :D
The Cheerios
By Alisa Machina and Paula Lazatin
This here is a Cheerio. This here is also
the story of how a box of cheerios saved
my life.
Now everyone knows that cheerios have
the amazing ability to lower people’s
cholesterol, but little do they know,
however, that they can do even more.
So I was walking down the street one day
and saw a car that was coming my way; it
was about to hit me! I panicked, not
knowing what to do. I picked up my box
of cheerios, which happened to be in my
back pocket, and threw them as hard as I
could at the car driver. He was caught by
surprise. His eyes wild, he hit the brakes,
and the car came to a screeching stop two
inches away from my body. The people
standing around gave their usual “ooh”s
and “ahh”s, but I didn’t care, as long as I
was safe.
But that wasn’t the only time a box of
cheerios had saved me! Like once, I
accidentally tripped into the river. As I
struggled to stay afloat, my friend
desperately searched for something that
wouldn’t sink. Luckily, my box of cheerios
was lying around. She threw the box into
the water and I safely swam to shore.
When I got out, I stuffed the whole box in
my mouth, (I was very hungry). Trying not
to drown was really hard and it raised my
cholesterol. I needed to lower it. My friend
scowled at me when she realized I didn’t
save any cheerios for her, but they were so
good! I couldn’t possibly save any for her.
She’d just have to suck it up and get her
own box of cheerios.
Those two times were nothing though. I
have to tell you the real good story. So one
day as I was running around my roof, I
tripped and almost fell off. As I was about
to fall, I threw a bag of cheerios to the
ground to cushion my landing. Who knew
that a bag of cheerios was so soft after
falling from the second story of a house?
Or maybe it was the third story, I never
quite counted the amount of floors in my
house, and plus I’m still kind of dizzy
from the incident (Even though it
happened last year). Nothing has been the
same since that day. I think I’ll eat my
favorite cereal to try to regain my
memory. . .Cheerios, of course. They are
the BEST. Better than ‘life savers’.
Cheerios save lives without having to
advertise it in their names, and Cheerios
actually decrease cholesterol. Beat that,
other loser cereals.
So, to conclude all of this, all I have to say
is that Cheerios are the best no matter
WHAT you say. Give them a try, and
maybe they’ll save your life too!
22
Dreams
by Alisa Machina
I doubt anyone really thinks about
this, but have any of you ever
wondered if we actually exist? I’ve
always thought (or wondered) that
Earth might be a small marble in
some kid’s collection of marbles,
other marbles being other planets.
The stars might just be lights in his
house or something. Another thing
I’ve thought of was that maybe
we’re all just imagining everything
around us, or better yet, maybe
someone’s imagining us.
How do we know that we’re not
just characters in someone’s
dream? The dream might be long
lasting, but if they’re much larger
than us, I guess it’s a shorter dream
for them. Let’s say… every time
this person shakes in their sleep,
people die, natural disasters occur,
trees get cut down. When the
person thinks of pleasant things,
the sun brightens; it becomes a lot
nicer outside, people fall in love,
and most importantly, Tim
Horton’s stock up on more donuts
and sandwiches. All of the usual
amazing things happen then.
When the person is scared, or has
a nightmare, a war begins, people
disappear, Tim Horton’s runs out
of croissant dough and can’t make
any more for you.
How DO we really know that we
exist? I guess we don’t. But then
again, maybe we ARE living our
lives in so-called reality, and
dreaming someone else’s.
Photograph by Alisa
Machina
TRUTH FOR THE DEAD
By AJ Ryan
And if you gaze for long into an abyss,
the abyss gazes also into you. -Friedrich
Nietzsche
Two days in the hole and a man
comes out different , broken,
humbled and scared. It`s a room
where the only punishment is a
man`s own conscience and the
only men who don`t come out
screaming are the ones who are
already dead. Reilly said I
couldn`t last in there for an hour
much less my full sentence of
three weeks, it`s week two. Alone
with my mind I feel the fear that
everyone of my victims had felt,
were there a mirror my eyes
probably would be frozen in that
same mask of death
Whispering to the darkness I
recall Voltaire he once said " To
the living we owe respect, but to
the dead we owe only truth" and
what a debt I have. A small blue
flame burst from the obsidian
mire little more than three feet
from my face. The pale glow of a
cigarette seared the black and
gaunt features of a pale man
turned toward me. Removing the
cigarette from his mouth a stream
of bitter smoke hit my face.
" What truth do you owe me
Charles?"
" Who are you, how did you get in
here!" I shouted. The cigarette
burnt lower and the gaunt man
opened his mouth, yellowed
cracked teeth stood as sentries to a
gored maw.
He produced a roofing nail from
his mouth and leaned in closer "
23
you surely remember your most
inventive technique Charles, a
high power nail gun."
I crawl back from the gaunt man ,
I know him, I know him, my god
his face I can`t see it again! He
rises and leans in o ver me
flipping open his lighter and I
look upon a face of grotesquerie.
From his left cheek across his
pointed nose to his temple is a line
of nails driven deep into his skull.
" What truth do you me, Charles!"
he shouted his green eyes with
burst pupils blaze in the flicker.
He lifted high the lighter and as I
gazed up wards I saw the twisted
masks of death gaze back into me.
They stood silent hovering against
the high rectangular walls. "We
have come to collect what is
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK owed!" the gaunt man shouted and the
hovering ones echoed filling the chamber AJ Ryan is
with an impossible fury. going to be
a senior at
"I owe my repentance!" I sob and feel the
Hamburg
eyes of the vengeful kill me in a thousand
High
ways. The gaunt man smiled and smoke
crept from the cracks in his teeth. School. He
enjoys
"Penance is indeed owed Charles and it fedoras
will be exacted!" reaching with the still and DIY
burning cigarette he burnt my forehead. I bandaging.
felt heat unlike any before and felt the
bone fingers of the dead tearing at me
and I couldn’t scream through their
worm eaten hands.

The door flung open and blinding light

poured in. Guards scrambled into the cell
expecting to greet a man half mad and
dying but they met only with an empty
room. A smoldering cigarette lay on the
floor. The hole changes a man and the
ones who don`t come out screaming are
already dead.

Sean enjoys Immured

long walks By Sean Dulles
on the Immured by the organic life
beaches The sunlight projects a blinding light
and other That originates at such a heavenly height
Later snuffed out by the succeeding night
generic and
cliche The flowers lay motionless, their beds
things that grassless
members of Their presence pure, their faces mask less
Their jobs simple, almost task less
online are interrupted by death, their beds now
dating caskets
services
usually fill The grass in such tedious lanes
Waiting upon the delayed rain
in for their bios. He's also fun loving person, although The clouds like to tease and feign
he has never met any moral being that did like to have They spectate the blades wither up in pain
fun. Sean also loves filling in bios with sarcastic,
snide comments that don’t pertain to what he should All the creations, they attempt to fend
Off the process that shall send
be filling out. Them away from their kind and friend
Unfortunately, all has its end.

24
 Sofiya Semenova likes
grapefruits and Wicked the
Musical. She does not
believe in the magical
powers of the Sasquatch
and his delicious apple pie,
and because of it, her living
room was run over (by
none other than the
Sasquatch). And for the
record, Nathaniel (the
character in her book) is
horribly one-dimensional
and she would never date
him. FOR NARNIA!

The Forest
By Sofiya Semenova
The snow crunched beneath my feet. My
footstep was now embedded into the
ground, a couple lines and creases
stamped onto the snow; temporary, never
permanent, for nothing was ever
permanent in a landscape of ever-
changing snowfall, of blistering cold and
howling winds. Tomorrow it would be
gone, like all the other footprints in the
snow, like all the other people whose
traces were removed. That is, if anyone
ever stepped foot into this forest, but
nobody did. It was barren, absolutely
desolate, deserted, the ghosts of the
people who could be here hiding behind
every snow-covered tree and bush with
gleaming red berries. They called out,
saying illegible things. Indiscernible
murmurings floated around the forest,
and who was there but I to listen to them?
The sky was blue, light blue, and streaked
with wispy clouds that stood still, finding
it too tiring to move across the vast
expanse of endless sky. The forest was
bare, the trees thin, sticking out of the
ground like long white reeds. An
unraveling thread at the mercy to the
powers of time. But a clock couldn't be
ticking, not here, where everything lay
still and quiet and at peace with itself.
Was it fighting, the forest? Rebelliously
fighting for its survival, as the days grew
longer and more tedious, as flakes of
snow drizzled from the clouds themselves
and threatened to envelope the trees.
Rebelliously fighting for its right to be
seen, to be heard, for people to walk upon
the ground and exclaim how beautiful it
was, how they had never seen anything
like it before. But nobody came here.
Why would they? There was nothing, for
this forest was dead, dead and gone.
Sometimes it cried out at night, but its
cries were drowned by the howling of the
wind, and carried far away to the sea,
where nobody would hear them.
Sometimes it wept, and the land flooded
with a shower of glistening raindrops, but
the clouds smiled maliciously and moved
in. Sometimes it was furious, angry at the
world, and how they let it become this
way, how they let it fall apart, and then
forgotten about it, but the clouds grinned
and moved in once again, and the people
passed it off as another thunderstorm.
But sometimes, only sometimes, it smiled,
and the forest lit up with a million
sparkling lights and colors, twinkling and
glowing bright, and the green hiding
beneath the frost of the white snow took
it’s turn to show itself. It shook off the
cold and gleamed with the radiance of a
thousand suns, and the people couldn't
help but look at the forest this time.
In the end, the forest would win. It
happened every year, again and again.
Winter comes, and every year, again and
again, life triumphs, the ruin and dismay
blossoming into something beautiful.

25
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Leather Bound Books
By Sofiya Semenova
Sneakers bouncing on the dirt,
kids shouting, screaming.
"Don't get hurt!"
a mother yells, leaning
over the windowsill,
before returning back inside,
while kids gather on the hill,
trampling the flowers like a tide,
a mighty wave eating the days away.
Older, older, year by year,
stories forgotten, generations sway.
It doesn't come - a tear,
though I know it should.
They've lived their life,
and on the brink of dying, I would
feel envious, for all I've had is strife,
and it comes - the tear;
but not because of that.
Their stories are recorded, on dear
paged, leather bound books, old and fat
and dripping with adventure and sorrow.
And what of me -
just an old woman who'll never see
tommorow.
Two Brothers
By Sofiya Semenova
Two children by the stream,
Two trees to shade the ground.
Two fishes swimming here and there,
Two children never found.
Two days they took to run away,
Two months before it crumbles.
The spell of solitude is grand.
The magic never fumbles.
Two secrets they will share,
one leading to the other.
Comfortable together as they are -
a brother and a brother.
Two months they eagerly planned.
Two months have quickly passed.
Confident together as they are,
they knew this wouldn't last.
Two hours left of peace.
Two brothers drop from flight.
And if they would've wished it -
the sky two stars would light.
Treason and
His Silver Bow
By Sofiya Semenova
A scream, a shout
from beyond the door.
Fire dancing about,
fire engulfing the floor.
Excitement flows
throughout the corridor.
Heaven knows,
this day we've been waiting for.
But what is the reason
we fight alongside Treason,
with his shining silver bow?
The excitement will only grow,
but soon after we understand
why our actions the others will
reprimand.
The fire overpowered us,
the fire devoured us.
We have but one mission,
but helping humanity is our submission.

“Lorem Ipsum Dolor Set

Ahmet In Condinmentum.
Nullam Wisi Acru Suscpit
Consectetuer viviamus
Lorem Ipsum Dolor Set
Ahmet. Lorem Ipsum Dolor
Set Ahmet In Wisi.”
Leo Praesen

In mi Proin accumsan
Purus, in consectetuer Proin in sapien. Donec
feugiat tempor libero. Fusce urna magna,neque
eget lacus. Maecenas felis nunc, aliquam ac,
consequat vitae.

26
Open Mic This Friday!

27
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Misanthrope
By Melanie Frazier
I. A Misanthrope’s Paradise
“Jane, there will forever be a fraction of
humanity reserved for those who hate
their race’s nature from the deepest
innermost. These people are secluded
from agreeable nature with so many
others, yet their misanthropic ways do
not shelter them from subjection to their
own emotions and mental capacities that
wander.” A lanky elderly man leaned,
hunched and grappling with the metal
eagle’s beak atop his mahogany cane.
Attempting to speak in an endearing
fashion to his precocious, yet disinterested
granddaughter, he attempted to explain
her question of the difference between
why people dislike themselves and why
people dislike others.
“Do these people find solace in
paradise?” She fumbled with her
fingernail, digging out the sticky marrow
of a dandelion stem.
Solemnly her elder replied, glasses falling
to the ball distinguishing his nose.
“Heaven is an objectification of
humanity’s belief that they deserve
something for their turmoil.”
Jane, discouraged from further
questioning, retired to rolling the weed’s
seeds along the crevices of her
fingerprints.
“But they do find solace. I once met a
misanthrope who imagined himself with
the head of a dandelion and neck of
storms. He ultimately believed that as life
wore him on, he was as inevitably aging
as any other. Just as nature decides the
final dates of a weed, people will destroy
themselves, and the truth of these both is
just as profound as the clock’s
obligation.”
Preparing herself for her grandfather’s
polite, wisdom driven disagreement, she
uttered, “I’ll rebuild myself, innermost to
the outermost” as her breath made the
still seeds come unstuck.
The elderly man grinned that contented
mouth with teeth un-cracked, and
allowed the understanding that people
see what they see exhale peacefully into
the atmosphere.
II. The Phantasms of a
Misanthrope
“In what month did Jane conceive?”
Harris eyed his patient.
“In the love embedded month of frigid
February.”
“How did Jane feel about the
pregnancy?”
“As any misanthrope would, Jane was
conflicted. She was succumbing to these
emotions and feelings that she is
tortured by, and bringing another
creature of the nature she despised into
the world. But she had oppositions to Melanie has the self
abortion and also loved the unborn. awareness that deems her
She just… took it against herself.” capable to write, create
artwork, and by some
“I see. How does Jane reflect on herself
means... verbally
as a misanthrope?”
communicate. She is an alien
“She is a phantasm of her very own to the human race, gracefully
self.” never to come unstuck from
the mechanisms that commit
her to humanity. She once
III. The Miscarriage of a
Misanthrope jumped off a cliff, enjoys
romantics in mathematics,
“Smith, you do not deny a word of the and is poor at these
state Jane resides in. Let us move on to introductory deals where one
where Jane passes the unborn.” He is expected to know what to
angled his aquiline face, expecting the say to represent themselves
best and worst of Smith all at once. within three sentences.
“It never happened. My wife will be at
home, and I’ll catch a glimpse of her The door hinges creaked, sliding past the
glowing face in the hallway mirror as she fastenings above and below each other,
cooks bacon and eggs for dinner, and and Smith grinned wide as he set his ring
notices the hinges squeak as I open the of keys down on a half table in the foyer.
front door, as happens every Tuesday Smith glimpsed in the mirror, air smiling
night.” between faded teeth of the ebony wind
chime hanging and streak of light
Harris glanced at the clock, taking in reflected diagonally in view on the
breath and lids shutting, nodding. “If you kitchen floor.
say so, Smith. It is Tuesday indeed.”
“Lovely day today was, Jane.” Contented
The two men shook hands and Harris with the vacant reply, Smith smooched
gave Smith a thumping meant gentle pat his wife’s lips and fell to a restful sleep
on the back as he led his patient from the indeed.
private room.
28
 Sarah is a math enthusiast, writes excessively,
Writing, To Me
reads way too much, has self-diagnosed
by Sarah Pozzuto
obsessive compulsive disorder, and is a
member of the marching band. So yes, she's Writing, to me is
Forgetting who I am
what you'd call a dork. However, she likes to
In order to become
think of herself as the coolest dork you'll ever
Someone else.
meet. She is absolutely obsessed with music Writing is the sunshine
(but only the good kind, which, no, is not On a rainy day
whiny boy bands, girl bands, pop music, or And not only the dreary
Form of communication
any combination of the three). She has played
That becomes so often
the piano for eleven years and mostly always Forgotten.
wears converse. She very much enjoys Writing, to me, is
random hats, writing depressing things where Creating a world to disappear
Inside of
mostly everyone dies, and dancing wildly
On those
when no one is watching. Her favorite color is Once-upon-a-melancholy-day
o-r-a-n-g-e orange and greatly dislikes most Days.
cheeses. Writing, to me, is
A chance to describe
My darkest thoughts
The ones that keep you awake
Yours Truly, Anonymous Through the darkest hours of the
by Sarah Pozzuto night
Writhing in mental pain
I am quiet, introspective, calm. As you silently scream
I am wild, always moving, outgoing. "Help me, my thoughts
I am calm in crowds of voices with no faces. Are scary, and
I am still where there is silence. Quite frankly,
I am an endless thinker, dabbling in soft light and I need to write them down."
Darkness. Writing, to me, is
I am the coffee-drinker, novel-reader. An intangible concept
I am incessantly panicked about Dancing unbearably out of reach
sometimes I don't Until finally, at long last,
even I can grab it
know Never let go
what. And take it for a ride.
I am forever writing, music playing through my soul. Writing, to me,
I am the outside winds whipping through my hair. Is my life.
I am the distorted thoughts of twisted minds.
I am the hopeless romantic that never ceases dreaming.
I am the daredevil, thrill seeker, searching for that rush.
I am afraid of futures just barely visible
Against a city skyline.
I am different because I am categorized that way.
I am different because I choose to be.
I am different because I've never known anything else.
I am polar opposites intertwined.
I am forgotten because
I am
Nobody.
I will be remembered because I am
Everything.

29
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
The Question of
Defiance
By Kate Light
Who am I to defy the universe?
It expands -
A magnitude
Beyond my comprehension.
It reaches out -
Into nothing -
And fills the space with something -
Anything,
The possibilities too numerous
For our mortal calculations.
And I,
The dust upon the puzzle box,
Am not even a piece -
To this grand elaboration;
What happens will happen,
Regardless of me.
Who am I to think my being
Is any extra from the ordinary?
If I gave way to facts and figures -
Completely superior
To my own limitations -
And simply - ceased - to exist -
The universe -
Would hardly suffer heartache
At my loss.
So I must question,
When Death is one of two mutual
disasters -
With Birth as his partner in crime,
Who equalize men
With beginning and end -
The purpose in living at all?
Did we crawl,
Naked, and raw from the seas,
To breathe
And to be,
Merely to question if we should?
Or is existence -
More -
Than scientific theories?
Could something deeper than the ocean
Give birth to human life?
I am
The equivalence of nothing
In this fathomless creation;
And yet,
I too was brought into this world
This speck,
Among trillions of specks -
This dust of astronomical proportions.
Who am I to deny
The miraculousness of life?
The fact
That out of everything -
So much greater than myself,
I too was great enough
To be conceived?
Who am I to measure
The worth of my existence -
When it is so phenomenal
That I exist at all?
Who am I to lay defeated,
And waste the life breathed into me -
By questioning the lungs
Who gave me air?
If the world is worth defying -
Who am I to play along?
Turning blinded eyes away
From humanity’s mistakes?
I ask;
Who am I to defy the universe?
And I answer myself;
Who am I not to try?
21st Century Screams
By Kate Light
Cut the cable
Cut the cord –
I can’t break the
Within this world –
The static fumes
The buzzing news
Streamlining in the air.
Cue the curtains
Cue the lights –
Shut down this
Massacre of life –
Screaming phone lines
Screaming answers,
Either end
The flesh of anger.
The city nev er sleeps,
Only creeps –
It’s throbbing engines
Always churning
Always lurching –
My ears run through
With copper tubes –
30
An intrusion in my mind
An illusion to blind eyes,
It’s thumping –
Pumping metal in my veins.
Machines, machines –
Spewing calculated themes –
Mathematical emotions,
Programmed plots
Into routine, routine –
We can’t exist without routine.
The comfort in the knowledge
Our lives revolve around routine.
I scream –
My outburst of aggression
Drowned in the
Mundane, mundane –
Too busy roaring
Through the norm
To take a stop and hear
The pain, the pain.
Colors seep and
Colors bleed
Into dreams, into dreams –
I can’t escape the circus ring –
Of media and camera’s
Reams, camera’s reams –
They strangle creativity
And leave me hung for mockery –
Overwhelmed with someone else’s eyes
My own long for black and white.
The city never sleeps,
Only weeps –
The operators overpowered
By the engines
By the metal
The sound pollution
They conceived.
I can’t believe, I can’t believe –
We let this slip
Into routine.
Kate dislikes writing in the thirdperson. She is feeling quite
irritated as she writes this biography, and therefore will
make it short and sweet. Kate practices a wide range of arts
including photography, music, theatre, pen and ink
drawings, painting, and of course, writing. Her favorite
series is Harry Potter, but she aims to be the next C.S.Lewis
rather than the next
J.K.Rowling because she
loves allegorical literature.
She also enjoys playing
soccer, where she usually,
but not always, plays the
defensive position of
sweeper. Kate strongly
believes that converse are
the greatest shoe ever
concieved.
Just Add Color
By Nancy Sweeney
She walks along a dusty, forest path. The
brisk, autumn air tangles her hair. She
comes to a pond. She dips her thin, pale
fingers in the water. She lightly stirs the
perfect stillness. The moon light catches
the ripples, causing a glow. The girl
laughs, and pushes her ebony hair out
of her eyes. The blues, pinks, and
yellows, in addition to her reflection,
amuse the girl. Her skin is pale, with
MY MIDDLE NAME IS ELAINE. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS
GARNET GREEN. MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM IS BLACK
BERRY. I COLLECT CARDS (NOT BASEBALL CARDS.
CHRISTMAS, BIRTHDAYS, ETC.)I HAVE A CAT NAMED
MOLLYBOB. MY FRIEND MADDY CAME UP WITH MOLLY,
AND MY FRIEND ROSIE CAME UP WITH BOB. AND, I HAVE
1 STEP-BROTHER.
short, dark hair framing her face. Her
eyes are a bright blue. She wears jeans
and a white, Abercrombie t-shirt. But, TH E G ANG
add color to her reflection, and she
now considers herself beautiful. She sits
back on her thin, but strong, haunches,
and watches the tadpoles do back flips
and circus things. After a moment, she
stands to leave. As she walks away, she
realizes something. Adding pastel colors
to a very neutral face is very close to
magic. And even though they say magic
isn't real, it is sometimes the only way
to discover your true potential.
31
Recording the Audio Anthology

32
Ballerina Girl Ode 2 Miley Cement
by Ashley Whiteside by Ashley Whiteside by Ashley Whiteside
From the scuffing sounds
Little balerina Girl dances arouns the Your ugly from my flops
studio. your Fugly
to the ruff-rugged feel
She improvs to the Classical music. What happen 2 your clothes
little diamonds looking up
As I watch this little girl elegently dance Did ur cat and smiling tward me
around the studio the fat one cut apart into blocks
she turns froma little girl to a beautiful get into your closet separated from each other this poor lifeless
young woman whats up with your glove piece of rock
As she does her last final twirl she turns Your not MJ wish to have a mother
back into that anyways don't get me started about her as the cement crumbles and falls apart
sweet innocent little girl we all know singing this poor lifeless piece of rock
If i have to listen to another one of her wish to have a heart, only a heart
songs
I WILL kill her myself
Love is like Magic
by Ashley Whiteside

Love is like Magic Untilted

It looks good on paper by Ashley Whiteside
Ashley Whiteside grew up in
But difficult in reality
Sometimes its a scary good Do you see this shell Buffalo,New York. She lovessssss*over
Sometimes its a scary bad Of outer clothes exaggerates* hip hop and r&b. she
people say its cool this fake-plastic-smile considers herself extremly silly. she
people say its awsome if you strip me of my clothes
this skin always procastinates when it comes to
love is like magic
but sometimes magic this life school work. (Just ask her mom) She
is only an illusion this smile likes books but, none specific. Lastly
what is left but not least she absolulty positivly
is nothing more than
You think You know Me what lies within doesn't like Hannah Montana. Peace.
by Ashley Whiteside within in my heart
within in soul
You may think You Know me how deep is the rabbit hole?
But I don't \You may think I'm you don't know
nice, innocent, Sweet Nor do i
but you don't know what lies underneath let's jump in and try to fly
you know not of my past
you know not of my wrath
" " " " " of my pain
" " " what I gain
You think you know me but i don't

33
 Remember Counting by Three
RANDOM by Erik West by Erik West

His face is forever set. His expression
won't ever change. He's a statue.
Remembrance frozen in a moment that
may or may not have ever existed.
Or is it remembrance?
Because truthfully? A cross, a cape, and a
frown. A hand held high with a chipped
finger is all I'll ever remember about the
man. My ignorance begs the question,
can you ever truly be remembered by those
who never knew you to begin with?
You can be respected. You can certainly be
given a plaque and have your likeness
stuck into the side of a building,
but can you be remembered once everyone
who knows you is gone?
It took them three months to get pregnant.
Their child was born after nine.
Twenty-one hours of labor,
And the kid only made it to five.
Twelve months later they adopted.
Six months and the child turned three.
Dad couldn't make the party,
His car wrecked on the I-19.
Mom's a single mom now.
She moves home to her family.
And three women, three generations,
raised her son until he was eighteen.
Today he leaves for college,
Mom's gone, dead at thirty-two.
He leaves town on the bus.
Counting by three, keeping his eyes on his
shoes.

The man's name is Isaac.

For now he stays frozen, with his chipped
finger and his cross.
And it's a nice thought that someone,
somewhere, remembers him.

Erik is what dreams

are made of.

No, not really,but

if he were, your
dreams would
probably be a whole
lot more Erik West
interesting.

34
 5TH ANNUAL DEREK SCHULTZ MEMORIAL

OFFBEAT HAT DAY

35
Offbeat and Eccentric Headpieces

36
Time
Time passes.
What a revolutionary concept.
From age to age people live and breathe,
Ruling the world as it subtly changes beneath their fingertips.
Yet I believe it was not so different then from now,
Though all the proof lies six feet underground.
The only things left are things
That remind us of how different we are,
Yet I wonder
What dreams the woman clutching the parasol dreamed,
Could they bear any resemblance to those I harbor?
How did the man--now needless of his top hat--face the world?
With determination and pride, or fear and awe?
They have been gone for almost a century now,
Even their lamenters have passed into the void.
Only I am left to wonder
What were their stories?
What did they think about?
What did they even look like?
But I cannot know.
Time has all but obliterated them,
Like a hand wiping away chalk dust from a blackboard. Victoria Licata is trying
All that is left are tokens,
to think of something
Old, wrinkled things with pieces of souls stuck on them,
Each a silent carrier of its former owner's story. witty to say about
As Time continues to pass. herself in the bio and
can't really think of
anything in particular.

Another of Victoria’s
Victoria Licata poems, “Fellowship,”
appears in the
foreword of this
anthology.
Maecenas aliquam maecenas
Sociis mauris in integer,
a dolor netus non dui
aliquet, sagittis felis
sodales, dolor sociis
mauris, vel eu libero
cras. Interdum at. Eget
habitasse elementum est,
ipsum purus pede class.
Sodales nulla ante auctor
excepturi wisi, dolor eros
condimentum dis, sodales
lacus nunc, at. In orci
ligula suscipit.

37
Seeing Spring A Gift to My
Stephanie loves
By - Stephanie Parwulski
reading, writing Grandma
poetry, singing,
A little girl grasped her mother’s hand, and learning. She By - Stephanie Parwulski
As they strolled through a beautiful garden. especially enjoys
Her eyes were veiled by a curtain of darkness, A plentiful amount of peach iced tea,
spending quality Is present within a pitcher on the kitchen table.
But her gentle spirit never did harden.
She heard the morning song of the spring robin,
time with her Fresh fruits, such as strawberries and blueberries,
And felt the soft petals of petunias and roses. family and Sit in decorated bowls, free from their labels.
She inhaled the fresh breeze passing through, friends who make Old Maid and Go Fish are card games,
And listened to water sprinkling from garden her days That give me much pleasure to play.
hoses. brighter. In The hearty laughter that is generated,
“Mama, what do you see?” the little girl inquired. Sincerely brightens my day.
addition, she Refreshing vanilla ice cream,
“Beauty,” she responded while looking at her
finds pleasure in Leaves its freezer home,
daughter’s face.
The young child smiled and said, playing the To be generously scooped into my awaiting bowl,
“This is the most magical place! keyboard, Silencing my stomach’s persistent groan.
I may not have the gift of sight, scrapbooking, and My younger brother and I tend to the garden,
To observe all that stirs around me, helping others. Trimming grown bushes of hostas and Lamb’s
But I am determined to live to the fullest extent, Ear,
She is inspired
Because kindness I can always see.” Potting pearl-white daisies beside the outdoor
by the beauty and swing,
She paused to bring her small, youthful hands,
To her mother’s face and touch,
tranquility of And waving to airplanes as they fly by over here.
The happiness preserved within Mama’s cheeks, nature. She loves This special house with sky-blue siding,
A sensation that delighted her very much. to use her Belongs to my Grandma Parwulski,
“My imagination keeps me strong,” the young girl imagination Whose happiness is always glowing,
continued, creatively in With a spirit flowing with never-ending
“I do have one special prayer, though. generosity.
order to explore The memories that we create and share,
I wish I could see for the length of a day,
To see you, Mama, to whom I would never let
the world around Will never leave my soul,
go.” her. Because a visit to my grandma’s house,
Mama embraced her daughter, Makes me feel jubilant and whole.
And spoke softly in her little ear, I want to thank you, Grandma,
“You are able to see me, In each and every way,
For I am right inside here.” For filling my life with joy,
Mama pointed to her daughter’s heart, By encouraging me to learn, grow, and play.
As she concluded her collection of words. It has truly meant the world to me,
“You have the greatest capacity for love, To be greeted by your smiling face,
Similar to that of a mother bird’s. And your abundance of love and kindness,
Believing is seeing, Little One. I will forever embrace.
Simply open your mind to the skies,
And you will soon come to find,
The magic you have within your eyes.”

38
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Goodbye, Buddy
By Morgan Paladino
“Good afternoon, Ms. Karin,” I
greeted, as calmly as possible (which
wasn’t very calmly at all because of
the anxiety built up inside of me). My
heart pounded uncontrollably,
probably at a rate of one hundred
fifty beats per minute. I was trembling
all over. My hands shook under the
weight of my thirteen year old
beagle.
“Hello, Ms. Lyndon,” the nurse
cheerfully responded, looking down
at my dog’s medical documents, not
actually reading them. She was a
woman in her twenties with bouncy
blonde curls and pale turquoise eyes.
She wore a tee shirt with neon-
colored cats all over it.
“You here for a checkup, I presume,
Mary?” Ms. Karin asked, smiling.
She looked up at me. Her amiable
grin immediately disappeared. She
studied my red nose and tear-stained
face.
“You okay Ms. Lyndon?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Why
don’t you ch-check B-buddy’s
statistics, ok-k-kay?”
“Oh. Okay,” she agreed. “You sure
you’re alright?”
I nodded.
She took Buddy from my arms, all
warmth disappearing from me. She
transferred Buddy to her left arm and
one-handedly grabbed a crate from
under the reception desk. Crouching
down, she gently pushed Buddy into
the crate. Her high-tops made a
clacking noise against the floor as she
walked toward the examination
room.
“Eighteen inches tall, “she recorded,”
twenty point two pounds… (Gasp)
Oh my stars! This is the dog who…”
She rushed back to the reception heaven? Suffering or dog heaven? Suffering or
desk. dog heaven? I couldn’t decide on my own. It
was just too hard.
“I’m so sorry, Mary!” she cried to me.
“So, do you want to put him down?
“I completely forgot about-“ Dr. Salute asked. “All you need to do
is fill this form out.” He smiled for a
“It’s okay,” I interrupted forgivingly. second, but quickly put on a serious
expression.
“How are Buddy’s, you know,
statistics?” I stared down at Buddy. “Are you
ready for it?” I softly whispered in his
“Not too good,” she admitted frankly. hear.
I looked over at Buddy, who was lying
in the crate on top of the reception He noticeably nodded.
desk. He seemed extremely
melancholy, his ears pressed to his
neck and his muzzle sagging.
“I’ll get your main doctor right Morgan enjoys
away!” Ms. Karin promised. Her writing(well, of course or
shoes were clacking rapidly as she she wouldn't be at writing
raced down the corridor. I sluggishly camp), reading, walking
walked over to the reception desk to
her dog (Tigger), playing
release Buddy from his cage. I
with her cats (Winfred
grabbed him delicately and rocked
him like a baby in my arms. I sat and Meadow), doing
gymnastics, running,
down on a blue, plastic waiting room
chair, Buddy on my lap. Ever so bicycling, hanging out
sweetly, he gave me a thorough with friends, baking,
tongue licking on my cheek. I’ll never drawing,taking care of a
wash my face again, I thought to myself. vegetable garden, and
Buddy lowered his head and nuzzled learning. Her favorite
his nose under his tail. I stroked animal is the red panda,
behind his ears, Buddy’s most favorite but she really loves all
spot to be scratched animals. She hopes to
maybe become a
Momentarily, the veterinarian walked
veterinarian, some kind
in. “Good afternoon,” Dr. Salute
of doctor, a teacher, or a
greeted, her somber face looking
down at Buddy. published author
someday.
“So he’s getting worse, huh?” Dr.
Salute asked.
“Yes,” I sighed. “Is there any more
chemo we can do?” I was hopeful for
a second.
“The doctor shook her head.”I’m
sorry.” She paused for a few seconds.
“It might be his time.”
I began to tear up. Anesthesia, I
thought, should I or shouldn’t I? Should I
let him suffer, or should I release him to dog
39
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Metamorphosis of the
Mind
By Paula Lazatin

Inspired by Teargas and Plateglass

Footsteps echo in the hallway, the flesh of

bare feet against the cold hardwood floor.
It’s two in the morning. The house is
silent except for the murmur of breathing
and the constant pounding of rain on the
roof.

A spark of lightning illuminates the figure

of a boy making a right turn into the
kitchen. There is the tinkling of glass and
the rushing sound of tap water escaping
from the faucet. The boy notices a faint
glowing coming from the computer
room. With calculating steps, trying not
to rouse his family, he takes the water in
his hand makes his way towards it. The
boy is Conrad Cunningham. At
seventeen—he is fearless, invincible, and
in his eyes, a man.

Upon arriving at his destination, Conrad

takes a seat facing the desktop and sets his
glass down on the table. The computer is
A billowing cloud transforms itself into engulfed in the beating, throbbing, and
running, humming the gentle hum of a
the mirroring silhouettes of unnamed pulsing of sound. In a climax of blinding
PC. The room is dark except for the light
beings, severed from life and death by a white light against the shadowing clouds
emitting from the screen. Conrad flexes
thin black line. Serpents hiss and dance of electric blue, he screams. The screen
his fingers and proceeds to strike the keys
among the kaleidoscopic background of goes black. Enveloped in a sea of
of the keyboard with knowledge,
humans gyrating in white-hot flames. obscurity, Conrad returns to reality.
precision, and familiarity. There is an
The metamorphosis unravels the mind
unbreakable bond between man and
into a million tiny pieces. Captivated, The torrential rain grows louder, mated
machine.
with gusts of wind pounding on the
house. The rumble of thunder shocks
Conrad’s eardrums. Still mentally
incapacitated from the video, he
unintentionally knocks his water off the
table. The water erupts from its container
as the transparent glass collides with the
floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces.
The individual shards drown in a mass
suicide in the fresh puddle of water.

A blind man and swearing under his

breath, Conrad steps right into the
broken glass. The fragments embed
themselves into the bottoms of his feet, a
hundred microscopic knives stabbing and
cutting him open. Conrad screams as
jolts of unendurable pain radiated
throughout his body. Feeling the
Paula is a sophomore at Niagara Falls Conrad
Highplunges
School.deeper
Sheand deeper
is an avidinto warmness of blood steadily pooling from
The screenand
reader flickers. Thunder
enjoys rumbles
traveling, in climbing,
rock the darkness
andand mystery.
going The ethereal
for walks under him, he breaks down completely.
thearound
distance.Elmwood
Conrad’s pulse
Ave. rises,
whilethe sippingimages are intoxicating,
on a Cinco shake fromand become
Spot
contracting and expanding of his lungs consumed by over stimulated
Coffee. She currently lives with her family and their cat, Spencer, retinasin Conrad collapses in the crimson labyrinth
quicken. The title of the video reads, without a pause. The intangible of glass and water-diluted blood. There
Niagara Falls, New York. Where she will go with her writing is
“Plague Burial.” Conrad braces himself. constituents of the video burrow he wept, until dawn broke and he was no
anyone's guess. themselves into Conrad’s soul. He is longer alone.

40
 The Golden Haired Girl

SPACEMAN By Hanna Cipriani

The golden haired girl sat there;

By Jen Adcock Pressing ink to the paper,
Letting the wind tangle her hair,
Being on the other side. And the sun warm her face.
She sat amongst the white and yellow flowers,
I imagine it’s what Head bent over her work,
astronauts feel in Not caring if her cotton dress got soiled.
The sunlight filtered through the foliage,
space. Totally alone. Casting light to her paper,
You become the Drying the ink as it met her notebook.
Spaceman, orbiting on At that moment,
It seemed to the golden haired girl,
the outside. Sure, the Sitting in harmony with all life had to offer,
Spaceman is Was as good as it got.
connected, hearing
what’s said. But he’s
connected by such a
thin tether that even the
Hanna is a ninth grader at OPHS. Her lifelong dream is to rid
tiniest shift of pressure society of their rules so she will be allowed to have hair like Bill
could leave him even from Tokio Hotel, (which stands up at least a foot tall), and to
more desolate. But wear absurdly eccentric clothing. In her spare time, Hanna enjoys
listening to dark and strange music that oddly doesn't reflect her
maybe when the personality. Although she has a disease that induces unnecessary
Spaceman is out there and frequent sarcasm, Hanna is a overall pretty cool person (in
her opinion). Lastly, Hanna has an undying love for all things
all alone, he sees the purple and concerts that allow people to flail around with wild
things that no one else abandon.
can. He discovers
those things that only
someone on the outside
can. Different
perspectives. And
maybe that’s better
than being on the
inside, seeing the same
things as everyone else.

Hannah Cipriani

41
 Illustration by Melanie Frazier

42
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
The Slave’s Desire
By Ilona Dragos
Forcefully dragged through
knotted hair, fingers itched with a
fierce desire, grasping, clawing.
To the ordinary soul, it appeared
like nothing, just a bit of bound
parchment, yellowed with age. It
was maddening to see how little
they cared. To him, it was a
history long lost, a life he wished
to live. However, they didn’t
care for his opinions. He was the
lowest of society, a slave by
circumstance, never meant to
learn. Yet, secretly, he had
already had some knowledge, and
slowly expanded it over the years
into the arcane arts.
With pain, he watched them stuff
the ancient tome into the ratty
burlap sack. He couldn’t help
from crying out as junk was
mercilessly stuffed in after, almost
certainly crushing the tome.
Choking back sobs, the leader of
the expedition turned on him.
“Whatcha bein’ a wuss for, boy?
Don’ tell me I got me self a baby
for good money…” he growled.
“N-no, sir,” Ivan stuttered,
looking at his feet in the
customary fashion. “I just
thought-” The slave master
silenced him, holding up a hand.
Sitting down on his haunches and
apparently trying to scold yet
seem friendly, the slave master
sighed. “Now, boy, what have I
told you?”
“N-not to th-think, sir. It’s an
unhealthy habit.” The slave
master smiled.
“There’s a good lad. Now,
whatcha been cryin’ bout?”
“The book, sir, the one that was
tossed in the bag. It… It looked
old, sir, very old. An’ it got me
think- I mean, it seemed valuable,
more valuable than this slave’s
life, sir. It looked like it could
have been from the times before.”
Ivan hoped he sounded as he
should, interested, but not overly
so.
43
An avid reader, Ilona
Dragos loves the
supernatural. Her hobbies
include writing and
drawing, her specialty
being dragons. Loving
anime and manga, some
people may consider her
an oddity, but she doesn't
care. She hopes to find a
career in art or writing,
preferably both.
Her illustration appears
below.
“Time before what, lad?”
“Before the skills were lost, sir. It
seemed like a wizard’s tome, sir.”
“A wizard’s tome? You mean like
one of the lost spellbooks? From
before the Purge?” Ivan nodded,
still staring at the ground. “Well,
that’s sommat special then, ain’t
it? Which bag was it stuffed in,
boy?”
Ivan led the slave master, hoping
to get a better glance at the book
himself. As his master tore open
the bag, he watched carefully as
its contents spilled out. There it
was, surprisingly undamaged.
The slave master, being a
superstitious man, motioned for
Ivan to pick up the book instead
and open the binding. Hesitating
only a moment, curiosity
overwhelming, he flipped open the
cover, wondering what secrets laid
beyond the flaky leather binding.
 Painting by Kelsey Rice

44
DREAMER
By Faith Caldiero He sets me free to run. He stands there
watching me. He looks very depressed. I look back
I shut my eyes and lay my head down and slowly and scream sorry. Not taking my chances of
fall asleep. When I see his face in my eyes. Blood stopping. I just keep repeating I am free! My eyes
rushing down his face, staining it red. The blink open and sit up and every thing is forgotten.
pounding of his voice permanently in my head.
I see myself running at a speed not known
to man. He jumps and starts hovering over me. His
deep breathing seems like he is right in my ear.
The sound makes me shiver in pain. As he comes
down invading my path. I shriek, there is no
turning back and he is stopping me from moving
forward.
His yellow teeth clenched together. His
voice I finally hear spoken. Takes my breath away.
I forget his hideous appearance. As he is now
showing me what is on the inside. He was saying
with a smooth voice “ Stop! Why are you scared
of me?”
I stumble on the words I scrambled
together. “ I thought you were going to hurt me?”

BRICKS
Day by day, hour by hour they stomp
and tip toe and run all over me. The
mud, leaving my surface dirty. Their
high heel shoes poking me. I am a
brick on a college campus. No say, no
life, but I’m here. Not often noticed
but always here. Seasons come and go
and people leave their mark. The snow
piles on me, the rain is my shower and
the sun makes me warm. I live forever.
Often cracked and broken down, but
it doesn’t hurt. Moss pushes up from
the ground filling in the cracks. Gum
sticking to me like I am a worthless
nothing. My red tint will fade, and the
gum will wither away, but I will always
be here, stomped on and have no say.
By Faith Caldiero

Faith Caldiero is a very unique person. From her curly hair to her one of a kind personality. She
grew up in a close knit community South Buffalo. She has 4 older brothers and is the only girl. She
enjoys spending time with her family and friends. Adventures and new experiences are just some
things she likes.

45
Final Reception

46
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
Strength
By Gaelen Owens
I am an average teen
without the average. I
There once was a kid
Who hid what he did
do just about everything
Because a meaner kid thought I ride horses play
his name was funny soccer, hockey, track,
And made everyone laugh
Even some teachers thought it and whatever else I can
was funny at that given time.
Then one day this kid didn’t
care Oh and I hate Mac's.
He told them to get out of his
hair
But they didn’t and tore out his
page
Which triggered his rage
He broke all the rules
And gave them the clues
He couldn’t take it any longer
Because he had grown
stronger
Then the next year
One by one
The kids started changing their
tune
And th
s once lost kid
Finally found himself
With a few friends to join.

Revolution
By Gaelen Owens

Everyone is expected to
conform
To defy you are scorned
Then you’re called a rebel
And you own not even a
pebble
But if you do it secretly
It can be revolutionary Who Am I?
Then someone new By Gaelen Owens
Has a different view
Then they are patronized
Because they want to I am a musician. I am there for people.
revolutionize. I am kind. I am obedient.
Again I am a hypocrite. I am rebellious.
I am thoughtful. I am lost.
I am smart. I am found.
I am dumb. I am a “nerd”.
I am inconsiderate. I am a “jock”.
I am pensive. I am a leader.
I am irrational. I am a follower.
But more than anything
I am human.

47
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK
YEAH, OK LIKE I REALLY WANNA TELL MY LIFE STORY( SO WHAT IF I
REALLY DO.LOL ), OR AS IF SOMEONE REALLY CARES TO LISTEN .
BUT YOU KNOW ITS TRUE. THATS THE PROBLEM WITH PEOPLE
TODAY. THERE IS NO LOVE IN THIS DARK WORLD. IS IT SO HARD TO
GIVE SOMEONE A COMPLIMENT, OR CALL JUST TO SAY HI. THAT
CAN REALLY MAKE SOMEONE’S DAY. NOWWWW THATS MY
PROBLEM I CARE TOO MUCH ABOUT THIS WORLD, THAT DOESN’T
GIVE A DARN ABOUT ME. PEOPLE GIVE ME FUNNY LOOK WHEN I
RANDOMLY THROW PEACE SIGNS, THINK IM 'FAKE' BECAUSE I LIKE
TO TELL PEOPLE WHO ARE BEAUTIFUL, THAT THEY ARE
BEAUTIFUL!!! I WANNA GIVE EVERYONE A HUG, BUT THERE MITE BE
LAWSUITS. PEOPLE THINK I’M WEAK BECAUSE I ACTUALLY CARE,
BUT YOU WOULD HATE ME IF I WALKED AROUND WITH AN
ADDITUDE, AND THAT PACKAGE OF RUDENESS. LIKE ME OR HATE
ME ( THATS A SONG), BUT I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU

HAHAHA IM NOT DONE,I'LL LISTEN IF YOU NEED SOMEONE, GIVE

ADVICE IF ASK FOR IT, OR JUST A RANDOM STRANGER TO BLOG
ON. NO JUGEMENT!!! ( WE ALREADY HAVE TOOMUCH OF THAT)
"CALL ME IF YOU NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TOO, CALL ME
SATIFACTION GURENTEED "
MR.JOEL WHEN YOU READ TIS I HOPE YOU SING THE SONG RIGHT :)
OKAY, OKAY IM DONE. BUT IM GOIN TO FINISH THIS NOT SO
BIOGRAPHY, LIKE BIOGRAPHY. I GOT SOME ADVICE.

1. SMILE IT HELPS YOU LIVE LONGER

2. VALUE EVERYONE IN YOUR LIFE, AND LET THEM KNOW YOU
VALUE THEM
3. LOOK AT THE POSITIVES, LOVE EVERYONE., FORGIVE EVERYONE.
DONT LIVE LIFE LIKE THERES NO TOMMROW, OR LIKE ITS ENDLESS,
LIVE IT LIKE GOD. INSERT SMILY FACE HERE.

PEACE AND LOVE- DEJA CHERESE

MIRROR FREEDOM
By Deja Cherese By Deja Cherese

I CANT LOOK IN THE MIRROR TO LONG TO BE A BIRD

NOT WITHOUT BEING DISGUSTED TO FLY IN THE HEAVENS
THE THING THAT STARES BACK AT ME IS A TO SOAR IN THE SUNS RAYS
LIAR.HYPOCRITE.DECIVING.REPUSLIVE TO REST ON THE COTTON CLOUDS
THAT THING STARING BACK AT ME IS A MURDER TO SING OF HARMONY AND PEACE
A DESTROYER. A MISTAKE TO LOOK DOWN ON THE EARTH
I CANT LOOK IN THE MIRROR TO LONG TO TRAVEL THE WORLD, FRREELY
NOT WITHOUT HATING THE STRANGER I SEE TO RACE THE WINDS
NOT WITHOUT HATING THE FLESH THAT IS TYING ME TO BE A BIRD
DOWN TO THIS EARTH TO BE FREE
DRAGING ME TO HELL, INSTEAD OF SOARING IN HEAVEN
THE MIRROR IS A LIAR
THIS BEAUTIFUL GIRL YOU SEE, WITH A PLASTERED SMILE
THE ONE WHO SEEMS TO HAVE EVERYTHING
ISNT SO BEAUTIFUL ON THE INSIDE
AND DOSENT HAVE TOO MUCH TO SMILE ABOUT

48
Deja has poems on the Ning.

Illustration by Mike Sciandra

49
Spinning Still Slideshow Bob
By Miike Sciandra By Mike Sciandra

Is it possible a year could leave you behind, A slideshow can be a wonderful thing,
instead of the other way around? a place where memories are fortunate enough to be
While the heart and soul grow larger than life could know, frozen in time, and fragments of heart and mind
the being on the outside sits quietly to gather dust, can re-surface years after,
the same as it has been for so long. images of simple, beautiful life.
Unmoved, untouched, but in more ways than one, Yet, in every slideshow, there is a Slideshow Bob.
conflicted, a storm tossing inside of you,
until you are left spinning, but also sitting still. Like a fantasy of another person’s memory, everybody
has their Slideshow Bob, a person who might
Spinning still, so hard to keep quiet and collected appear insignificant at first sight, a stranger unseen
while so much beneath the skin is searing hot, until rediscovered in your memories on the screen.
screaming madly for a way out, wanting to be seen and heard.
All the things you think and feel, longing one day to be what you do, A Slideshow Bob will time and time
but for a year or two, they sit in silence, spinning still. again go unnoticed, ignored
and discarded, sometimes lost
I am spinning still, tossing and turning in place, if you will, forever in the albums and filmstrip
All the little things in life gathering, and pushing outward every minute. until found by a glance of fate, or a wandering eye.
I act untouched and unchanged, the same as I was Even when you find a Slideshow Bob,
yesterday, a face of stone, even in the face of a storm. their being remains
I hide emotions that know better than I do, a mystery, a chapter never truly
waiting quietly, all for reasons I never really understood. captured in the book of your life.
Inside and out, I want to be as strong as I can act
each day, or as strong as everything kept inside. Yet what all Slideshow Bobs have in common
is that they can be anybody, even nobody, all at once.
I fear in thought of a day that I might run out of room The old man slouched on the bench beside
to suppress the spirits that haunt me to my core, a tree on which children hang and climb.
and all their fury will send cracks through my eyes and ears The somber, lonely teenaged boy
breaking my shell until it is no more, and I burst into flames, staring from a distance
a supernova all at once, the fall from life, of what could’ve been a star. in envy of a couple,
I long for the day when I no longer feel the need to act strong, but embracing their love in the flash of a photograph.
instead gain the will to be strong,
and gain strength from the inside stretching out, Some of the most trivial times
until thoughts and feelings become words and actions. in the slideshow of your life
can be precious and everlasting
Maybe the day will come when I can learn, and grow like to the Slideshow Bobs, the few
all the little things that spin inside me have been growing who live to be a part of a still frame
all year long, until we can be one and the same, united. or picture-book, a volume
Until then I’ll be spinning still, moving without moving, however small in some distant life where they
feeling and thinking behind closed eyes and sealed lips, themselves may feel alive
not waiting for a reason, only waiting for a chance to for such a short time on the screens,
stop spinning, and start moving. and possibly in the
hearts and minds of the people
they will never see again.
Every memory has a Slideshow Bob, but all that
every Slideshow Bob wants is a memory of his own.

****************************************
Mike's number one passion is writing, and this is his first year
of the Western New York Writing Project. Mike loves writing
Poetry, Short Stories, and other works. Mike plans to pursue
being a Writer as Career to be a Journalist, write books
(authorship), plays, and his dream is to write Movies and
sketches for Saturday Night Live (no joke). Mike loves to play
guitar and write songs in multiple bands, and also is a black
belt in Tae-Kwon-Do (haha don't mess with me). Mike hates
little nothing except Monday's, Monday people, and people
who talk in the third person, regardless of the fact that Mike
himself wrote this biography. haha, WRITE ON!

50
Don’t forget. Visit thehearth.ning.com regularly. I’ll be posting
biweekly writing exercises. You may feel to post writing
exercises of your own. Post things you’re working on. This
community will continue to thrive through your participation.

Until next year. Write and be well.

 Anthology Tracklist
IT’S ALWAYS QUARTER TO ELEVEN ON THAT CLOCK

1. Pencil Pushing - D’eja Stevens

2. The Aftermath of Empathy -Kate Light
3. Nightmare - Kelsey Rice
4. Truth for the Dead - AJ Ryan
5. Windsong Radiology - Sarah Pozzuto
6. Time - Victoria Licata
7. Seeing Spring - Stephanie Parwulski
8. Stars - Sofiya Semenova
9. Machine - Melanie Frazier
10. Eradicated - Jennifer Adcock
11. Slideshow Bob - Mike Sciandra
12. Cement - Ashley Whiteside
13. Lost and Found - Autumn Ababurko
14. Childhood - Stephanie Kong
15. Blocks - Emily Schutte
16. Pay Attention - Erik West
17. You See Me - Faith Caldiero
18. The Ferris Wheel - Alisa Machina
19. Golden Haired Girl - Hanna Cipriani
20. Whispers - Ilona Dragos
21. Wishing, Wishing on Every Star - K8e
Baker
22. Liberation - Paula Lazatin
23. Untitled - Morgan Paladino
24. Carpet - Nancy Sweeney
25. An Extremely Short Story - Norman Yu
26. Ode to Mac Hatred - Gaelen Owens
27. The Brief Tale of the Misfortunate One -
Sean Delles
28. The Frozen Wood - Connor Sonnenberger
29. The Lonely Wolf - Varun Chahal
30. Marionette - Rachael Krajna