Stuck

in the
Elevator
(No Subtitle (Shocking, Isn’t It?)
(Although, the Mere Fact that We Allude
to a Subtitle, by Saying There Is
No Subtitle, May, Legally, Constitute a Subti-
tle, (Which is, Admittedly, Considerably Less
Shocking))

Cover Illustration by Violet Pena

 Stuck in the Elevator

Anthology of Poetry and Prose

Volume XV

Western New York Writing Project

Writing Workshop for Teens
July 10th - 21st, 2006

WNYWP Director....................................Dr. Suzanne Borowicz

Writing Camp Director..............................Jenn Meka Ratka
Lead Teacher..............................................Joel Malley
Mentor Teachers........................................Franklin Aquilina
Frank Flis
Matt Pavlovich
Assistant Teacher......................................Alixandra Krzemien
Anthology Design and Layout..................Joel Malley
Audio Anthology Engineer.........................Joel Malley

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

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.

Copyright 2006 by Western New York Writing Project. All rights re-
served. Individual authors and artists retain all ownership rights to
their respective works. Printed in the United States of America.
Writing Camp Staff
Jennifer Metka Ratka teaches at Canisius College
and works for prominent educator Ruby Payne.
She has been involved in the Writing Project since
the age of seven when she attended the young
writer’s camp.

Joel Malley teaches English at McKinley High

School. As new father, he hopes to help his son
develop a similar passion for sun drying tomatoes.
Joel’s other interests include dirt, 3-D movies, and
songs about heartbreak.

Franklin Aquilina teaches English and Theater at Clarence

Central High School. He is honored to sit on the Execu-
tive Board at the Western New York Writing Project, and
returns to its Summer Writing Camp for a second year.
A graduate of both Syracuse University and Canisius Col-
lege, Franklin also teaches playwriting, directing and act-
ing at The Studio Arena Theater School.

Frank Flis teaches Senior English at Lackawanna

High School. As a newly married man, he now be-
lieves in the immortal power of love.

Matt Pavlovich is a St. Bonaventure graduate and

teaches at Lancaster Middle School. He has at-
tended 24 Dave Matthews Concerts and is an avid
New York Yankees fan, even though it has been
mathematically proven that both of these entities
are corrupt to the core. Matt fancies the quote
“We’re on a mission from God” from the film, The
Blues Brothers.

Alix Krzemien is an alumna of the Teen Writing Work-

shop. She is a junior at Canisius College and majors in
English. She is also the poetry editor of The Quadran-
gle—the Canisius literary magazine—for this coming year.
Alix loves the countryside and spending time on the lake
Ontario shore—it is from such places that she draws the
most inspiration for her poetry and songs. She is cur-
rently working on a paper through the Canisius Earning
Excellence Program exploring reader response theory
and the role of the reader in five pieces of literature by
women writers.
Introduction
A woman sits alone on a trolley
in San Francisco. Around her the city
hums and sways as the cable car works
its way up the steep hill. The woman
sits quietly contemplating a recently
plucked cherry branch. She rubs a
blossom between her thumb and fore-
finger. No passengers look her way.
No one questions. No one disturbs.
This image was shared with this
year’s WNYWP Teen Writing Work-
shop by the poet Celia White of the
Just Buffalo Literacy Center. It sub-
tly demonstrates much of the writing
life. It shows the isolation, the quiet
contemplation, and the recognition
of transcendent beauty in every day
objects. It also quietly celebrates
the role of the writer as the lone
voice in the wilderness of our world.
This year we managed to
gather many of these voices to-
gether for a two week period. Some
of our area’s finest middle and high
school poets, storytellers, and es-
sayists gathered together on the Ca-
nisius campus in order to share tales,
offer and receive constructive criti-
cism, explore new genres and writing
modes, and open minds to new ideas.
There were many highlights
to this year’s camp. Mick Cochrane,
author of the novels Sport and Flesh
Wounds, shared a short story and a
memoir with the group. He stressed
the importance of writers creat-
ing from what they already know,
and shared helpful exercises to help
students develop inventories of per-
sonal knowledge. Genevieve Web-
ster led a clinic on public speaking
skills. Celia White shared her poetry,
and, amongst other things, shared
her wisdom about self-publishing.
This year we also took our yearly
jaunt to witness the beauty of the For-
est Lawn Cemetery, and Derek again
regaled us with a clever poem which
would not be out of place outside of Dis-
ney’s Haunted Mansion. This poem ti-
tled “Cemetary Symphony Movement
Two” appears on page 30. We also
produced an audio anthology (which
you will find glued to the rear cover, )
to give people a chance to hear these
stories from the lips of the students.
On a lighter note, there were
many other unrelated yet momen-
tous events. We escaped phantom
elevators. we travled alot, and fi-
nally escaped the ubiquitous sweaty
gym sock smell that hung like death
in room 203 of the Churchill tow-
er. It was enough to make anyone
“cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” (ahem).
The pages that follow are a col-
lection of our efforts over the past
two weeks as we have all worked hard
developing our ideas. Inside you will
find students celebrating personal mo-
ments of truth and beauty, weaving
magical tales of honor and glory, and
exploring elemental questions of in-
dividual existence and responsibility.
We hope you enjoy the sto-
ries that these students tell so well.
We hope that you gain from their
insight. We know that we have.
- Joel C. Malley
Lead Teacher
6
2006 Western New York Writing Project
Teen Writing Workshop

7
 Patricia Burdukov is a thirteen-year-old student in Starpoint Middle
School. Born in Sisters Hospital on May 21,1993 she adores koalas,
tiger cubs, raccoons, puppies, kittens, birds, panda bears, fox, dear,
cheetahs,wolfs and jaguars. She loves singing, reading, making web
sites, writing, and playing on the piano. She believes that “she has not
lived in vain, who leaves behind her ... a child better educated morally,
intellectually, and physically than herself.”

The Fiesta

Sarah Montatello, a 20 year old has blonde hair, purple eyed, went to Ellicott Creek
Park to set up the building that she reserved. As Sarah drove up on her Porsche Carrera GT
she seen a beauty full statue of a women holding a child is her hand. As soon a shereached
the building she unpacked all her stuff and started to set everything up for the Mexican fi-
esta. She put spoons, knives, forks, cheeseburgers, cakes,hot dogs, subs, pop, and more. As
she peered out side she seen yellow, pink, and white flowers with fluffy bumble bees col-
lecting there pollen, and huge oak trees. Then she seen expensive Convertibles, Hum-
mers, Saturns, and Ferraris. They all sounded like a heard of elephants. As they all entered
the building the aroma of cake, deserts,hot dos, cheeseburgers, and soup filled the air. The air
broke in to silence. Then every one laughter from disbelief. The party was over after 5 hours.

Patricia putting the finishing touches on her story. 8

 Meredith Jones is a Sophomore at Hamburg High School, and
has, over the summer, played the flute in the Erie County Fair
Marching Band. She enjoys writing and acting, music, art, and any
type of theatre. Her dream is to one day be on a Broadway stage, or
have her work be acted out in New York City by professional actors.
She is an editor of her school’s literary magazine, MindSpeak and is
a member of the Writer’s Guild, has been in many school theatre
productions, and writes on FanFiction.net and FictionPress.com. She will be attending
the Honors English class offered at her high school this coming year.

The Boards

Raining. Does it not seem The curtain

It is raining outside. That the concept Is prominent
But once I enter, the rain Of a fine contour, Solely illuminated
Stops A complex It calls for
The light Melody My attention
From the superior Is being And I gladly give it to it.
Chandeliers
Make the warm, red velvet Lost? It is anticipant
On the old worn chairs Restless
Glow. We are the preservers Eager
And we are not ashamed. It has a secret
It smells We are proud to be Something to give to me.
Like an old book Who and what
Stuck on a shelf We are. A gift.
For decades
Unopened The chairs It now wastes no time
Untouched Are smooth In sharing its secret
Disregarded Though they are so Now that it knows that I
Since it was Incredibly Have arrived.
Abandoned Ancient. I am here
There. Like silk To receive it.
Like running your hands
It does not rain in here Through clear water. The curtain lifts
As it does outdoors. And I unwrap from it
Voices The paintings With unworthy
Are the rain. On the ceiling and walls Fingers
Sophisticated These do not hang My most delicate
Polite In an art gallery Touch,
Cautious Yet they are
Seemingly embarrassed Beauty.
Chatter. Art.
The best kind. - Meredith Jones
Though they are not em- The lights gradually fade.
barrassed.
The Jester

The blank page He thinks that I am shy I have thought.

Beneath my fingertips He thinks that I have no soul
Taunts me. He thinks that I feel nothing I must provide this page
Have lived nothing With thought.
He is certainly See nothing.
More powerful Without me, it cannot think.
More intimidating He thinks that he will remain It cannot jest.
Than the dentist In his horrid Without him, I cannot ex-
Hovering over me Pitiful state press
Clad in blue Forever. I cannot recoil
Or the stern man I cannot become stronger.
Before me He is wrong. We are interdependent
Tapping his pen on his chin On each other
Or the man I will defeat him To Live.
Behind me Sometime
Poised to quietly I shall break him I am the more intelligent
Slyly I shall write on him. party...
Push me off of the edge Until I write on him.
Of the Earth. I sit back to ponder Then, and only then, will we
Our bittersweet relationship be
This leaf Tapping my own pen Equal.
This incomplete On my own chin.
Being There is, after all, one advan- I conquer him
Claims that he knows tage And give him thought.
Why he is blank I have over this blank piece of
He tells me that it is because paper. - Meredith Jones
I have nothing to say.

Blake Holmes jotting down ideas in the Quad. 10

 Monica Disare is an eight grader at Frontier Middle School. She always
has a great time playing all sports and playing outside, and is the type of
person who can’t sit inside for too long on a sunny day. She is involved
in Destination Imagination and chorus at her
school. Monica loves to travel and experience new things, which is
where some of her ideas for writing originate. She sums things up with
this quote, “the more things change the more things remain... insane.”
- Michael Fri and T. Lewis.

the snow falling and the wind shield wipers

Sunday at the Game
I t’s funny how some of your fondest mem-
ories can come from the dreariest of days. You
know the kind I’m talking about. Those snowy,
heart of winter days, where you just want to
curl up by the fire. Those days where the
sides of the road are all slushed up and brown
because the plows have already been by so
many times. It is then, that true Buffalonians
show their spirit. It is those Sundays when my
grandpa and I would flock with thousands of
other dedicated crazies to Ralph Wilson Stadi-
um to cheer on our beloved BUFFALO BILLS!
Grandpa would show up at my house
around noon with his worn out sweatshirt that
read: B-UFF-AL- B-LLS, and his pale blue
winter cap. ( He bought it at a garage sale for
50cents, it was probably dark blue.) “Monica
your grandpa’s here!” my mom would shout.
I would come bounding down the stairs with
the latest Bills face paint styling, courtesy of
my brother, and a message slapped and glued
onto a cardboard box cut in half. Always hop-
ing that maybe, just once, I could be on T.V.
I would run to give my grandpa a big
hug. The guy was 72 but you wouldn’t have
guessed it. He insisted on being called 29, so
if anyone asks, you didn’t hear that he was
72 from me! He was in great shape, running
5k races, and even helping my dad out with
gardening. He kept his own garden, pool and
cherry tree, which made for a classic summer
visit. Scrounging up every warm piece of
clothing the house had to offer we hopped
in his car and sped off down the road. With
rolling, we flicked on the radio and listened
to the pre game show. My excitement was
rising, Bills games were a special event for
me. The only way I got to go, was when the
weather was so bad my grandma chickened
out! I was about to see the team I dutifully
studied and watched every Sunday in person!
When we got there, we said hello to the lady
whose house we always parked at, and lugged
the big bag of clothes from the trunk. Stand-
ing outside I felt naked with the mere shirt,
sweater, pants, and double socks I had on. It
was bone chilling, my breath dancing and crys-
talizing in the air. Quickly, grandpa and I got
dressed. Shoving on an additional boots, win-
ter jacket, mittens, snow pants, hats, scarfs,
and anything else you can possibly imagine.
By the time we were finished we
probably could have rolled to the sta-
dium faster than we walked, being the
half man, half bowling ball that we were!
As soon as we entered the stadium
the sheer size of it threw me off every time.
I would glance around at the thousands of
people, enormous jumbotron flashing: It’s not
the chip it’s the dip, it’s Bison dip! And boom-
ing a jingle at decibels I didn’t think existed.
I would cower at the number of seats,
the number of people in our small town able
and willing to come and watch football. (Al-
though, when I think about it, it’s one of the
only things Buffalo is holding onto.) And the
energy. The energy in the stadium before the
ball dropped was simply electrifying! Every-
one was on their feet screaming, clapping,
whistling, and certainly drinking beer. The
sights, smells, sounds, there is only one way to
describe the atmosphere...I loved it! security guard. I always remember them try-
As the game progressed, several things ing to make jokes and I just stood there pre-
would generally happen. At some point, I al- tending to smile while they cackled away at
ways hoped that someone would get the guts what they believed was their comic genius.
to chuck a snowball at a Ref, after a particu- Grandpa and I loved the Bills games.
larly bad call. Question: What’s black and Whether the Bills won or lost, I always re-
white and red all over? Answer: A short, fat, member the great times we had. Perhaps
cold, and extremely angry referee. The whole that’s why my grandpas minister made a sug-
scene was both quite comical and quite ille- gestion. At my grandpas funeral service, he
gal, and so the brave soul was taken away in suggested that the reason grandpa left us, was
handcuffs. Also, sometimes it had to happen to go somewhere where he could actually do
that the Bills scored. Just in case that hap- something about his beloved Buffalo Bills.
pened, they were always ready to blare: The
Bills make me want to shout! Grandpa and I - Monica Disare
would dance with everyone else, one of the
few times I saw grandpa dance. We would
stomp our feet, clap and sing when appropri-
ate. I was even allowed to stand on my seat!
Whenever I had to go to the bathroom,
grandpa would send a security guard in with
me. And likewise, whenever he went to the
bathroom, he would make me stand with the

Why?
Why?
Why, you ask.
Because.
Because I want to
Because I can
Because, I’m a free man
Dave Heinz is 17 and attends Am- Free.
herst Central High. He will be a Free to roam where I please
senior this upcoming year. In his Free to say whatever I want, when-
free time he likes to ride his dirt- ever I want.
bike and ATV. He also likes to read Why. One word with an infinite num-
on his downtime. His two favorite ber of answers.
authors at the time would be Jack
Kerouac and Dan Brown. Dave also Why?
plays the guitar and bass guitar and Because.
the violin for about 9 years. Music
is a huge facotor in his life. - Dave Heinz
12
 Blake Holmes is an eighth grade student at Transit Middle School. He
obviously loves to write, but his other hobbies are playing video games
and watching movies. He gets most of his ideas for stories in his dreams.
He claims that although they are very random, this is what makes the
stories interesting to write. Blake likes action, horror, and mystery
stories, but he doesn’t like to write mystery stories. He also doesn’t like
poems. He thinks he likes writing so much because of the fact that he
can put his thoughts down on paper.

Now as the leader, he forced the FBI

The Greedy Man
agents to attack and kill the President.
Sometimes Having Everything Is Nothing
The FBI reluctantly did their job, and

T here was a greedy son of a devil who

lived on a hill. He was the greediest organism
that had ever lived in the universe. He was the
richest man ever. He was even richer than Bill
Gates. The greedy man’s parents had spoiled
him ever since he was born. If he was bad he
was not spanked. He was praised. If he threw
food on the floor, he was praised. If he whined
and talked back, there was no discipline. His
parents spoiled him so much, that when he
broke a toy, the parents would go buy the same
toy for him. If the store didn’t have the toy in
stock, or it was discontinued, then they sued.
Now the greedy man was grown and in
his thirties. Do you know why he had so much
money? He stole from people. He stole from
babies, children, adults, even cripple old peo-
ple. He tricked people into giving him money.
And, he made fake money that everyone
believed was real. He had a money making
factory in the back of his mansion. The man
was receiving so much money that he figured
that he could buy everything in the world.
He bought little things at first such as
cell phones, a surplus amount of beer, and
100-inch wide TV’s. The greedy man adored
all of his treasures, but now he didn’t have
enough room to fit it all. So, he decided to
buy the White House, which he did, and
offered to buy the role as President of the
United States. President Bush refused, claim-
ing the man was a terrorist. The greedy man
then decided to buy the United States FBI.
the greedy man became the President.
Unfortunately, now everyone hated
him, and they tried to throw him out of business.
The greedy man was about to buy the USA
army, navy, and air force, but they had teamed
up with Iraq. Bin Laden and surviving govern-
ment officials attacked the White House and
caught the man. Fortunately for the greedy
man, he had already bought all US Prisons. He
couldn’t go to jail anywhere in the USA since
he had bought all of the jail cells, so they sent
him off to another country. It seemed as if the
greedy man’s rampage was finally put to end.
What Bin Laden and the govern-
ment officials didn’t know, was that the
greedy man had bought all of Japan. They
taught him the best martial arts possible.
The greedy man managed to use karate on
the guards that were holding him prisoner on
a boat. He swam away. He ended up in Af-
rica. He met a bunch of black women strug-
gling to find food in the forest. He thought
they were hot and asked to marry them.
Of course they rejected him. He
smelled like fish since he had swam away
from the boat. But those Africans loved and
needed money. They were paid one mil-
lion dollars to be his wife. They all accept-
ed. The greedy man had a baby with each
one, but he got even greedier. He had 100
more babies with each woman. The wom-
an had given birth so much that they died.
The greedy man figured that his chil-
dren would ruin his image if they didn’t have
money. He gave all his babies, consisting of
1,000 babies total, one million dollars each.
Tension was building in the world. Everyone
was out to kill the greedy man. In a last ef-
fort to save his life, the greedy man bought
the company Microsoft and worked with Bill
Gates to make evil robots using Xbox 360
technology. They could store twenty GB of
information, play CD’s, and had a TV in their
chest that supported high definition quality.
The robots were released, and the greedy
man began a war against all of humanity. He
succeeded, but he almost lost with most of the
robots because of technical difficulties. They
had problems with reading targets and they’d
freeze in the middle of battle. Bill Gates cursed
himself out complaining that the flaws of the
360 were transferred into the robots. This led
Gates to work hard on another project bet-
ter than the 360. At the world’s end, only the
greedy man, his children, Bill Gates, and the
companies that had been bought survived.
Later in life, the greedy man was old
and near death. He sent his 1,000 grown up
kids to find a way to preserve his life. His kids
were his only hope. His companies couldn’t re-
ally help, and Bill Gates was too busy working
on another Xbox console. The greedy man’s
children traveled the world in hopes of finding
a way to make their father live forever. They
never found a cure, and the greedy man died
an angry man. Of course he went to hell. He
tried to make a deal with the devil. He paid the
devil a lot of money in order to convince him
into sending him to God. When the bargain
worked and he went off to see God, he asked
God a stupid and regretful question. He asked
if he could buy heaven. God got pretty pissed
off, and made his angels shoot nuclear arrows
at the greedy man. The greedy man couldn’t
die for he was already dead, so he blew up and
returned to hell. By now everyone else was in
hell with him. All his companies were there,
and his 1,000 children were having a gay old
time playing Halo 4 with Bill Gate’s Xbox 360
2. The greedy man was broke, and he couldn’t
get back up to heaven for revenge. He burned
forever and ever in hell. All the things he
once had were gone. The greedy man had
went from having everything to nothing.
Now despite how bad or good this sto-
ry was, one thing is perfectly clear. Don’t be
greedy. It may be good in the beginning, but
in the end something horrible always happens.
The Truth About Music
Music is a collaboration of
unique sounds, sometimes with lyr-
ics, and heart. When music is played
it generates a feeling to the curious
listener. It seems as if the varieties of
music are endless, but what is truly
endless is the feeling, as said earlier.
To me, jazz music creates a complex
and creative multitude of sounds that
is soothing like a cool smoothie. Rap
music gets my legs and arms active as
I dance around to the great beats. And
metal music makes me feel powerful
as the guitar blasts and drums bang.
But even the same forms of music can
make the opposite feeling one would
expect. It all depends on how the
music is played. Music can be played
slowly, quietly, quickly, loudly, crazily,
and other ways indescribable. Music
has been here for years and years, and
it isn’t departing anywhere anytime
soon. It has a job to do. It needs to fill
the world with sound, and not vile si-
lence. It needs to help people come up
with ideas. And finally, most obvious-
ly, it needs to please the listener’s ear.
- Blake Holmes
14
 Gabriel Alejandro Fontanez was born on December 7th, 1992.
He lived in Amherst most of his life.. He was born in Amherst.
He then moved into the West Side for a short time before return-
ing to Amherst. He attends Amherst Central and is moving into
9th grade. He is 13 and has no brothers or sisters. He lives with his
parents and his dog, Punkin. He writes prose and poetry and has a

Who Am I?

Like Langston Hughes

I question is it really
That simple. It’s never
That easy
Who am I?
Who am I?
I could say that
I am 13, born and
Raised in Amherst
I could tell you that my name
Isn’t Gabe or Gabriel
But Gabriel Alejandro Fontanez
I could tell you
That my entire family is Boriquen
I could tell you that who I am
Is what stands before you
Not as a writer
Not as a Musician
Not as a Martial Artist
But as a person
No different
But so different
Just as you are
I am Gabriel
And see it isn’t so easy
I still fell as if the question
Is not answered but how
Could a question be answered
If the answer is so infinite
That it is as almost if
There was no answer at all

Drawing by Lindsay Warnes

15
 Kelsey Rice is a devoted vegetarian who will be attending Kenmore
West next year. Her hobbies include drawing, swimming, and apolo-
gizing excessively for no reason at all. She is very talented at zoning
and making random comments. Her pet peeves include exposed
tags on clothing, frizz, insect cruelty and overconfident mallet per-
cussionists.

anywhere. It even seemed like the familiar

I
rustling of the trees had been silenced.
t had seemed as if the place had But no matter how hard anyone tried, they
been forgotten. Vines had crept up the never solved the mystery.
brick walls of houses that had once stood Traveling to the city only seemed to
proudly against the sky. But they did no create more mysteries- mysteries of silence,
longer. Once carefully-pruned bushes now rain, and scarlet flowers.
grew unkempt, in
scattered, haphazard ways. Windows had
cracked. Stone had crumbled. What had
happened to this little town? Many people
had sought to find out.
They would enter the town in
search of clues about the disappearance of
what
had once been a cheerful group of people.
But all they had found were scarlet
flowers. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny
flowers that grew inside the houses.
They spilled out of cupboards and
wound around banisters. They twisted
their way up chimneys and squeezed inside
new cracks in the walls. No one had ever
seen flowers quite like them. And there Above: Drawing by Kelsey Rice.
had been the rain. The town was nestled Below: Kelsey recording
in between two mountains. It had never
been a dry city, but recently torrents of rain
would come down with an unnatural fury
and
beat down relentlessly on the abandoned
city every day. Drops of water lingered on
the strange flowers after the rain ceased and
glistened like liquid rubies. No one under-
stood why the town was like this. Some
even
tried to take flowers home. But only min-
utes after they were picked, they would
crumble to a fine gray dust. Something else
seemed unnatural about this little town.
Maybe it was the silence. No birds chirped
 Met pratinc ipsustie exerci blandreet lobor sequam dunt la facilis modolorem quisl eum nul-
la acillaore do odit lummy nonulla feuis alit aut accum ver aliquatinisi bla con utem iuscid-
unt am, vero ero et ip et, sum quat. Ut nullums andrem venim dionsed tionseq uamcon utem ilisse-
quis ea consequam vullam, consequam iriurem digna aliqui blaore tet niat. Ut nos dolut ea cor
sum venisci tet irit luptat erostrud etue consenim illan utpatin vel ullam iniscillaore consequat.
Rud erilisim duisi blamcor iusci tate dolobor alis euipsum ex ex-
erit autpat wisl in heniametuero dio delestrud endit nibh eugiam nisi.
Ortio dolorper inibh exer sed do con henibh el iure doloree tummod del ute fac-
idunt at. Rostism odolortin hendrem vero od magnit vendre coreet iliquis-
cip ex et prat. Rostrud min eum ip ex ea feugait, volenim verilit, quissit luptat.
Mincin vercilit prat. Accum at elit illandrem duis dolessecte do odolor in vel dip eu facin eu feu-
guerit utpat, consectem iustrud dit autet la feumsandit, commy nim dunt am dolut lan ute tat
er autet ea feuis ad molut dolore do dit dolorem dolore feu facin utpatem zzril iliscil iquisi.
Raesequate coreetuero odipit iril do consequip eu faciniam, se ercincip ercilla feuis au-
guer sectem alit niscipit luptat iuscilla augait nis dunt lam zzrilit atet numsand reriuscip-
it prat, corperci blaor aliquis augiamcon hent nis nim numsandiatin henis adio dolor si.
Ibh eliqui blandreet at wisis deleniam aci bla consectet adiam illaor sit ent volorero enibh erci tem zzrilit iriliquat.
Facipsum nim zzriure tinisit et adiat, veriusc ipissed del exeriure eugait alit aciliquam zzrillametum esto
ex et lan utatue ex exeratue eu feugait veliquat nosto eriure ex erit nonsecte magniam vent ver se dolen-
diamet do consed magnim vulla commodiam vel utem dolobor erostrud minim duis nosto odionsecte
tet la augiat, commodignisl ute mod molobor periliquat, quipisl ent acidunt adip ent utpatum am vero
odip er se et ute magnisl euisit ulputpat la commy non vulla core tat am, con er si blam alit prat. Ut ut
utatin hent irillaorting ex etum zzrit nulluptatum iure magna facipis nulla alis alisim qui tin ullan vel ulla
feuipsusci tet lutat. Adigna feuismo loreraestie faci blaor iliquatue faci eratin volore duis am, sequisisi.
Os nonulpu tpationse Drawing
dolessim by Lindsay am Warnes
exer sus-
ci erit ilisl utat lorperaesto consequatie velismodit lor alismodit velessi.
Dunt aut dolorperos ad magnim veliquatem ero consed eum zzriureet, quis ad tat lute mag-
na feum volor sent luptat dolumsan vel iril dolorting ercil ut iustrud tatummod mo-
dip erci ex er sisl ulla conse dunt amcore consed etum zzrit, volent vulput aliquisl dit ute tat.
Facilis dionull uptate feu faci te dolenim iuscil-
it praese dignisi smodole ssendre facillam irit iriure tion volor il ipit alisi.
Ignim iriurem deliquisim illam, vulla feummy nonse faccummy nulla facidunt nis duis num inciduis nis adiam
diatem el irit ulluptat luptat dunt nonsequisl utetuer iustion sequate magnim zzrit atum quamet ipisisl eratem
zzrilit iriliscidunt in hendion ullam, qui bla consed modipis modolore et vero ea feu feum velessequam nul-
laor ilis dolent inim illandionum vulla facil ing et inciliq uismoloreet autpat lore molorem vel dignibh euisi.
Agnim delendit num vulla feuis nit el iureriuscip et, vel duisl iure tat lumsand reetuer ostrud eratem
zzrit dolore modiam zzrit amcommodigna faccum zzrit accum vel illuptat. Ut laore cor inim in er sit ut
dolore magnim inisim veratem quis non venim quissequam, commy nit ad do eugue tio odigna alit wis
dolortion venim dolestrud dolor seniamc onullummod molenibh ero do do dolenit del doloboreet, velent
iliquam, sit nulpute mod tat, quatuerci bla facin exero er alismol endipis modipit, consed elessi eu fac-
cum in hendigna feugait vent utat, veniam zzrit laore eril dunt wis niscill uptate consed do consequ atisi.
Obore faccums andigna consed tisisi.
Delit in hent velesecte molum augue mod do od eumsandre dit praesed do-
lut ex eniat venit nos del iureetum velese conse ming euip exer si.
Bor suscin heniam, commoluptat aci esectetum duipit irit ing erat nonullutat dip erat. Lut-
pate tat dip euiscip el utat praessed miniam, sit loreet velit amcor sit, quat, sum dolor augait ip-
suscilissi enibh eum ver amet, vullamc onsequi tem ipis nos ating exero el dolor incipit alit, si.
Metumsan utpat. Borer sequis nulla consecte tat, quisim zzriurero dolutat.Ectetuer aesequis erit lor
irilit ipsustinis augiamet wisi eros adiam ip enibh er aliquam, Drawing
vel ut velby irit Alex
nit am elBommer
in veros exeros
17
et et del iureetum nulla faccum zzrit nullam, vel ex ea atis ea feugait la faci blandre tat vel utpat-
 Amelia Colon is currently a freshman at Sacred Heart Academy. She
is 14 years old but has only recently taken an interest in writing. In her
spare time, she studies violin and piano and is a part of the Western
New York Children’s Choir. In school, Amelia is always involved in the
drama productions and other artistic extra curricular activities such as
Chamber Orchestra and Select Choir. Through practice and inspiration,
hopefully my writing will take me somewhere someday and being apart
of the Western New York Writing Project has only positively affected
me by increasing my self-esteem and writing capabilities.

Anguish on the Front Comfort

T he frozen air in the dense rug-

ged jungle fills my lungs as I tally the total
number of lifeless bodies. My regiment had
arrived here only two weeks before, but
never in my life have I witnessed such an epi-
demic. The once humid air now feels dry and
the once refreshing daily rain now feels like
torturous hail on my saddened and corpse-
like body. “53 deaths”, I say to
myself as I walk into the musty old health
lodge, “Twelve more than Wednesday.” It’s
unconceivable. I laugh at myself for thinking
I could make a difference in the war effort.
I now understand why women have
always been frowned upon when registering
during a draft. The average arrogant man
would believe that a woman couldn’t han-
dle the effects of war but anyone who isn’t
negatively affected by such waves of despair
is merciless and inhuman. War doesn’t usu-
ally solve anything useful because prejudice
and other unnecessary evils will always ex-
ist after thousands of men have already died.
Even with all of these thoughts stream-
ing through my fatigued and drowsy mind, I
know I have some purpose in this wasteland.
I must continue to carry out my duties, de-
spite my own feelings of hate. I can only pray
that one day there will be no need for my
position any longer. My eyes still burn from
looking into the opaque eyes of diseased sol-
diers, but I hold my head erect and only show
the splotches of dirt and mud on my face.
The sounds of laughter and joy
put my ears at ease.
The smell of sweet chocolate chip cookies
impatiently waiting in the oven
pleases my anxious nose.
The taste and soothing effect of hot milk
and honey streams down my frozen throat
and revives my taste buds.
The sight of the rising sun brings
hope and relief to my wide and weary pupils.
- Amelia Colon
Prejudice
What’s the difference between you and me
We both like sports, and we watch T.V
We like to watch movies, and like to swim
We both enjoying the activities we play in gym
So, what’s the difference?
Why is one better than the other?
Why do people treat us differently?
Is it our style?
Is it our culture?
I know why
It’s because of our skin
He’s black and I am white
Why does he have to get the short end of the
stick
So, I will let you figure out the rest
While I leave you to go fix this mess
- Mike Burke
19 “One Peaceful Spot” by Violet Pena
Drawing by Alex Bommer 20
 Amanda Feldman attends Lake Shore High School. She is going into
10th grade. She enjoys reading, writing (obviously), and her music.
(Editor’s Note: Amanda is camera shy, and that is why there is a
picture of her beagle where her picture should be. We begged. We
pleaded. We attempted to bribe. She would not relent.)

Black and White

T he dreaded day arrives Julie has received

the call she most feared. The police have phoned
her to give her the news of her daughter being ar-
rested. It was 4 am. The phone rings violently.
Julie, a middle aged woman with auburn hair and
hazel eyes awakes suddenly. She had waited until
around 2am hoping Amber would call. Julie was
no longer able to fight of the fatigue that filled her.
Amber is only sixteen years old but thinks she is
twenty five. Amber went to a party last night
around nine and was to be home by twelve. Julie
had no reason not to trust her. Amber was a B stu-
dent, no behavior problems at school or home. So
the news that Julie will be receiving would devas-
tate her. The phone call had awakened Jillie with
a start. She picked up the phone as
quickly as she could open her eyes.
“Ms. Bonaz, we have your daughter Amber
downtown at the station. She was brought in due
to the fact that broke a windshield. We proceeded
to search her and found illegal drugs in her bag.”
Julie’s mouth went dry. Her eyes became moist.
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” Ju-
lie stated in a state of shock and disbelief.
As Julie returned the phone to the receiver, she felt
as if her black and white world had turned to shades
of gray. As Julie looked around her living room her
leather couch no longer felt the same. The pale blue
walls had an eerie sense about them. The hard wood
floor that she once adored now just annoyed her.
Julie fumbled clumsily to find her glasses and
keys. Once she had her glasses on remotely right,
she held tight to the keys for these were the tools
to get to her daughter quickly. Julie walked swift-
ly across her maple hard wood floor to her similar
door that also happened to be maple as well. She
proceeded down her stairs and across her sidewalk
that cut through her suburban lawn to her drive-
way. As she started her car she realized the sever
ity of trouble that her once innocent her daughter
was in. Drugs? Amber? How could this be going
on without her knowledge of this condition. It was
only 4:10in the morning and her mind wasn’t able
to process all this in the wee hours of the day. As
she arrived at the police station, she debated with
herself whether or not she should leave Amber
there to learn her lesson. She decided that she
wanted to hear what amber had to say for her-
self. She proceeded into the police station where
an officer introduced himself as officer Marleneo.
Officer Marleneo explained the Amber is still high
off LSD or better known as acid. He goes on to
explain when someone is using acid they may be-
come paranoid. Hence breaking the windshield.
“Hold on,” started Julie, “If Amber was para-
noid, why would she call attention to herself by
breaking a windshield?” asked Julie promptly.
“When someone is high on acid the may also hal-
lucinate. Amber claims to have had a figure follow-
ing her and that figure jumped onto the windshield
and in an attempt to free herself from this figure she
tried to kill it with a baseball bat and broke the wind-
shield in the process.” At this time Julie was crying
profusely. As Julie opened her eyes and looked to-
wards her daughter again, she saw her daughters
head fall suddenly. Julie panicked and in desperate at-
tempts ran full speed into the room at which Amber
was located. Julie screamed “Amber!” There were
no movements. Not even the opening of an eye.
Julie repeated this hopeless attempt.
“Amber!” still nothing. Julie began to shake
Amber and there was no response. Julie’s
mind was reeling. She reached down for Am-
ber’s wrist searching for a pulse, although her
findings were dismal. Amber had no pulse.
 Mike is an outgoing, funny 14 year old who en-
joys playing sports, mostly baseball and hockey.
He attends school in Amherst. When asked
about his audio anthology piece which professes
a hatred for all genres of music, he admits that
he had a difficult time developing rhymes for lik-
ing music, so he went in the opposite direction.

Learning from the Dead Then a year flew by

You can learn a lot from the dead
That’s what my grandfather said
When I was thirteen he died
My dad started to cry
He was placed in his wooden bed
My grandfather was a true Irish man
He always lent a hand
He had no fears
Didn’t show his tears
He enjoyed drinking beer
He was married for 50 years
They call that the golden year
Through ups and downs
Smile and frowns
Even through tears
They made it 50 years
But then he was diagnosed with cancer
That gave us all a fright
He battled it for days and nights, nights and
days
But he was the winner of the fight
He lived to see tomorrow
We lost all our sorrow
He went back to his house looked brand
new like a gift
Then he kissed his wife, the one he was go-
ing to spend the rest of his life with
There was no reason to cry
The year was great
There was love not hate
I was glad he was alive to share it
He was smoking in his den
When it made its way back again
CANCER
We rushed him to the hospital I knew he
was going to win
I knew what we were going to do when he
got out I had I stuck in my head
But then the phone rang, I picked it up and
it was my dad
He said ìyou grandfather has lost the battle,
you grandfather is deadî
After that I ran
Ended up in a shed
So I left him with one more gift
A place to rest his head
I wanted to see him, one more time, we
would share one last feast
But I knew that was impossible because he
was resting in peace
Mike’s poem “Prejudice” appears on page 18
Seven Days of Revolution
Little bits of broken life
Scattered everywhere I go
And in everything I see I can
See life and its glow
Seven days of walking
Where do I find myself?
Where will I go
Who will I meet
Who will I find
Who will I know
A little adventure so I can
See what it is I’ve been missing
From this life of mine
So I can stretch the boundaries of
My thoughts and balance the
Equilibrium of my mind
Now tell me as the saxophone plays
What it that my life says to you
And I’ll tell you what I can do
Cause I can go places you’ve never seen
I’ve met people that you never knew
I heard that you can lose your money
You can lose your gold
But you can’t lose your heart
And they can’t take your soul
Maybe that’s right
Maybe that’s the rule
But what rule is there
To not follow like a fool
And a fool I am to see you
In the way that no one else does
But maybe that makes me unique
Like I always will be
Like I always was
A revolution in your mind
Can free your soul to places you’ve
Never believed to be alive
And in these places I hope
You find what you’re searching for
For what it is that you strive
As that saxophone plays I’ll tell you
What it is I see
What it is I know
Cause these seven days of walking
Still haven’t showed me where I’m going to go
They showed something though
Something I didn’t expect to see
They showed me where I came from
And who I’ll always be
These seven days of revolution
All up inside my mind
Is still running forever with
A never ending bind
The revolution will never stop
And I’ll live and love it till I die
And I’ll see to it that it’s still
Alive when I say good-bye
I pass this revolution onto you
Cause that’s what I have to do
To make sure that saxophone
Still plays in the hands of you
You can keep the revolution
And it’s inane insane song
Cause people in this world are crazy
And you better hold on
That song, that melody will
Eventually be gone from the night
Cause this revolution in your hands
Is the only thing in this world that’s right
So good night, good-bye I’ll
See you in the morning with
What’s in your mind
And then tell about your
Miraculous find
These seven of walking with the
Broken bits of life has shown me
What a revolution really can do
Cause beautiful people in this world
Just need inspiration to see a revolution
In gorgeous beautiful you
 My name is Cliff Cawthon and
I attend Amherst Central High School,
I am seventeen years old and I’m going
to be senior this upcoming school year,
which I must say will be an interesting
year. I have no real hobbies to speak
of, but I am a huge sci-fi fan. My fa-
vorite sci-fi programs are Stargate sg1,
Stargate Atlantis, Battlestar Galac-
tica (modern version), Star Trek (most
specifically Enterprise) and of course
you have to love Star Wars, especially
episode 3 and 6 (return of the Jedi).
One of the aspects of my life
that I am particularly proud of is my
Activist life; I am a peace activist and
I am also interested in government re-
form but, I think that we must believe
in concepts of justice, liberty, equality
and fairness and that we should apply
them to our government and if we can,
our lives. In regard to my travel history
I have mostly vacationed in the states
but I have been to Canada many times
in fact because of our location I have
been to Canada about over 12 times.
When I write, I’m expressing my
feelings at the moment and things in
my life and in my world inspire me; for
example, when I write a poem about
icicles I write down my observations
and them I dig a bit deeper in what
the icicle is and what it means to me.
I’m generally a poet but im willing to
write short stories and article but for
the record I do my best work in the
realm of poetry. I have many thoughts
about life but in regards to my new
experiences in this writing project I
will say, “turn me on to anything.”
That Ragged Table
I love my old chemistry reference table
It has two loose sheets and it has been
through rain and wind
The footnotes are blurred
Hell I cant even read half of the text any-
more!
But I love my old reference table
I love my old things.
If I wanted to I could get a new one in a
snap.
Never
NEVER!!!!!
Do you think I would throw something away
because it’s old?
Man, are you stoned?
Flying with the birds in the open blue skies!
It would be irrational and ridiculous to get a
new reference table
My reference table is always there for me.
Those new packets rip too easily
The ink blots and runs when touched by a
single hydrogen dioxide molecule
I don’t have time for these little kids
I can’t throw away my reference table-
Because it has more experience than all
those young reference tables combined
I have used that packet all the time
Through every test and all my rhymes
And above all, the number one motive for
my bond with my ragged table is.......
I have to take a test in five minutes.
- Cliff Cawthon
24
 Matt Schillinger is a sophomore at Amherst High School.
The Flames
L amed considered his hand; com-
posed of tiny motors and circuits orchestrated
in such a manner as to mimic his human pre-
decessors. It was a relatively calm night in the
mountains of the Golan Heights, Lamed and
Detachment 458 knew their mission: prevent
a man named Abdul Habass from rallying a re-
sistance in the North, even if it meant killing a
few more faceless insurrectionists. His metal-
lic skin was designed to be virtually undetect-
able; it had to be constantly kept at 34 degrees
Celsius, the outside air temperature, to avoid
detection from an enemy soldier’s thermal vi-
sion equipment. Lamed was accompanied by
three others: Samech, Fey, and Ayin. They
were about 200 meters below their target
and would have to ascent the steep slopes
to reach their goal. Lamed signaled that it
was time to move on and, just then, four
dark figures disappeared up the mountains.
Lamed and his platoon were the per-
fect soldiers: obedient, strategic, powerful,
completely manufacturable, and most cru-
cially, they could think. They never got hun-
gry, and they never needed to sleep. Ever
since the Israeli Department of Defense made
the decision to push out any and all opposing
military forces in 2136, it has deployed IPFU,
or Independent Positronic Fighting Units to
accomplish this task. Although used primar-
ily as infantry, divisions in the navy and air
force were deployed as well. Whether to
deny them an identity or for lack of creativ-
ity, each IPFU was designated a letter of
the Hebrew alphabet. However, as there
were only 26 letters in the alphabet, each
robot was also assigned a number, but since
Lamed and his company were the elite, they
had the honor of keeping the lone letters as
their title. Presently, in the year 2141, the only
insurgents left were the remnants of a group
called Hamass, loosely organized in the Golan
Heights, Northwest of a city called Tiberias.
This area was dangerously close to the bor-
ders of hostile nation of Syria. To the South,
fighting had quelled nearly to the point of non-
existence due largely to the help of the IPFU.
Israel’s borders now stretched into Egypt, as
far as Cairo, which gave the Israeli economy
the boost it needed to put IPFU production
into full swing. All around its borders, Israeli
IPFU platoons patrolled, and deep within
neighboring countries. Their sheer numbers
alone literally diffuses the would-be nucle-
ar war once threatening Zion’s existence.
Each IPFU was exactly like the other, each
one caste from a perfect mold. If God created
man in His image, and man created machine
in his image, the cycle continued. Every one
of them stands exactly 195 centimeters (6.5
feet) tall, and has a frame composed of Tita-
nium to ensure maximum durability in com-
bat, weighing in at a modest 568 kilograms.
Unlike their human counterparts, they com-
pletely lack the need for rest or nourishment.
As such, IFPU’s are powered by a tiny mass
of Plutonium 239 located in the chest cav-
ity. As the Plutonium decays, the radioactive
energy is harnessed and used to operate the
mechanical soldier. Since as long as the Pluto-
nium supply was sufficient, the IFPU’s would
still be able to function, in theory, an individual
unit could operate for as long as 24,000 years.
Each “soldier” was armed with a Bar-
etta M-5290 assault rifle that fired depleted
Uranium shells for maximum effect, but could
also use any other ammunition for any rifle in
its class. This weapon was just as important
as the mechanical soldiers themselves, both in
practice and as a psychological weapon. The
rifle was known in some enemy circles to cut
a man in half at close range and, coupled with
the destructive nature of the robots, put a big
dent in the actual frequency of rebellious activi-
ties. The long range attachment was could be
used for quiet assassination objectives and was
accurate from up to 6 kilometers. In addition to
the M-5290, each unit carried a pistol that fired
similar rounds, and a dozen grenades designed
to incinerate by means of a highly explosive gas
contained within. As a means of communication,
each mech could broadcast a broken signal on
an undetectable frequency to avoid interception
by the enemy rebels. In addition to radio signals,
each IPFU was linked every other member of
the company via digital visual and audio trans-
mitions. They all shared. Finally, the IPFU were
best suited for urban warfare because of the
KM-2 Sound Cannon. This was primarily used
for breaching the walls of structures that contain
potentially dangerous targets. The only thing a
given IPFU had to do was calculate the building’s
Structural Resonance Frequency, and a few sec-
onds later, it’s company would have an entrance.
At about 600 meters above sea level, they
arrived at the point of interest. The structure in
question was a two-story, dilapidated residential
home. To avoid detection, each arrived on the
scene via separate routes, quickly, silently. There
were three doors: one in front to the south, one
on the western side, and another in back. Lamed
took the side, Samech the rear, and Fey was left
to the front. Ayin made a jump whose trajecto-
ry landed him squarely on the roof, he planned
to enter through the second floor window
and meet the other three on the ground floor.
Lamed then transmitted a message through all
members of the platoon that boomed through the
mountains in perfect Arabic. “You are all prisoners
of war under the Israeli government. Submit and
you shall be treated humanely!” Just as Lamed sig-
naled to commence the operation by broadcasting
on a frequency undetectable to anyone but them-
selves, a sudden explosion and flash of red light
ripped through the night. Fey lay in the threshold
of the house, crippled and broken. Habass knew
what was coming. A quake was suddenly sent
through Detachment 458. They were all togeth-
er in this, not just as a team but as one mind, as
a singularity. It was like having a limb amputated.
Lamed kicked in the door, which slammed into
an unlucky militant, like being hit by a truck. Two
others sat at a table, in what appeared to be a
kitchen, and reached for their weapons. They
barely had enough time to stand up before they
were both torn asunder by the M-5290. Mak-
ing his way into the foyer, Lamed met up with
Samech who promptly made an entrance with
his sound cannon at the rear, knocking out four
insurrectionists with the sheer concussion of the
blast. Samech was ordered upstairs to help Ayin
while Lamed made his way into the basement.
Upon reaching the basement floor, it was seized,
from behind by a rather large Arab man. Lamed
quickly negotiated his release by channeling about
45,000 volts through its metallic skin and into the
assailant. Though the ordeal only lasted three sec-
onds, it would prove to be fatal for the mutineer.
It was there, fallen to his knees before the
triumphant Lamed, the notorious Abdul Habass.
“You monsters will never stop us all,” the man
growled in broken Hebrew. Lamed seized the
man, closing one hand around his face and lifting
him off the ground, feet dangling. It brought Ha-
bass face to face with it and, very softly, “Only a
monster can destroy a monster.” With that, Ha-
bass’ face was crushed by a grip that could have
bent railroad tracks and was thrown to the ground.
Lamed then signaled to the rest that the
deed had been done and they rendezvoused out-
side. Apparently, on its way upstairs, Samech
had to clear away some mercenaries with an in-
cineration grenade and by now the house was
ablaze. Crowding around their fallen comrade,
Fey, they realized that their ally was no more.
It was the closest that any of them could ever
come to dying. Lamed then ordered the group
to evacuate the area via the separate routes they
had used to arrive. Before departing, Lamed
looked back at the house and, in the flames;
it saw the beginning of something glorious.
- Matt Schillinger
26
 Violet Peña will be a junior at Amherst Central High School this fall.
She enjoys reading, writing, and observing and creating art. She also
enjoys listening to music and playing it on her violin. Her favorite mu-
sic includes works by Beck, Gorillaz, The Clash, The Flaming Lips,
The Verve, The Pillows, Bach, Vivaldi, and Nadja Salerno-Sonnen-
burg’s original works. Her favorite graphic artists are Remedio Varas,
Nanamirio, Shunpei, and Hikaru Nakano. She believes that “High
School Musical” is a bane to humanity and should be illegalized.

Untitled (Vertigo)-Part One would be a chain of this. He would just pause

He was standing on the sidewalk,
watching the traffic pass. Standing very still
on the side of main street during dusk was not
a generally accepted behavior, though, and
he was starting to attract strange stares from
people. He wasn’t a hitchhiker. He wasn’t even
really looking for a ride. He was waiting for
someone. Someone who he had never met,
and never heard of him. But someone would
stop eventually, and he hoped that he would
get the right person the first time. He knew
that someone would. It wasn’t a question of
whether or not a car would be stopped, it was
a question of when. The car wouldn’t stop it-
self; fate would stop the car. He hadn’t believed
in fate until afternoon, when he stopped as he
was walking down the street, and realized that
so much was moving around him with abso-
lutely no purpose. This city was crazed, the
whole place going through a midlife crisis. Hell,
the whole country. World. The world was on
crack. Bright, bleeding colors blurring quickly
past and through everyone, with no ultimate
purpose. Everything was futile, but damn could
futility be fun when you made a point of not
dwelling on it. Oh, sure, he had had his share
of that life. He had loved it, but during every
party, every lay, he would snap out of the mood
he was in and into one of utter alienation. Look
around at all the movement and wonder why
the hell he was there. This would come on
almost without warning; he would suddenly fall
into melancholy, and he would be able to force
himself out of it in a
matter of seconds. Shame that he was act-
ing like such a primate and enjoying it mind-
lessly, guilt that he wasn’t doing anything really
worth remembering, fear that his whole life
for a moment, unable to say anything, because
he didn’t trust himself to. If he did speak, he
knew that he would start shouting at the bas-
tards around him, how low they were, he was
done with this, wasn’t there more to life, the
universe, anything and everything?
He had realized that there wasn’t.
There simply wasn’t. Poverty, abuse, war:
permanent parts of the world. Never to be
eliminated, not in this Age or the next. Wars
fought over religion, land, money: three arti-
ficial things. Ownership of the land, anyway.
Maybe at first it had come in handy, but, as
with all good things in the world, it had been
taken to extremes by both well-meaning and
villainous people. Not that there were real
villains in the world. No Batman and Robin,
either. No heroes. Altruism was as fake as
modesty, only real when the person was young
or stupid enough not to know better. No black
and white, but that was a given. There weren’t
even shades of grey anymore. No, there was
the whole f-cking spectrum out there by now.
That wasn’t going to change, either.
If life had some purpose, he had yet
to find it. Save the earth so other people can
screw her? Learn about the universe and space
so we know just how alone we are when the
world dies? How we might be the only sen-
tient planet in the universe at this moment in
time? Learn about the fabric of spacetime, of
subatomic particles, so we know what we’re
made out of: the same things as supernovae
and stones, porcelain and peaches? Make the
world beautiful so others can be happy, prob-
ably leading to the happy ones reproducing
more, thereby bringing up the total number of
humans and therefore the number of unhappy,
malcontent, and stupid ones up as well. No,
there was nothing worth fighting for anymore,
not even one’s survival. It took no work now,
and everyone was happy. The unhappy ones
vented this unhappiness on others, determined
to spread misery and get money for it. Ah, the
modern music industry. Ah, modern America.
Gotta love it.
An old Honda stopped, and a girl got
out. Late teens, early twenties. Very pale skin
and black hair cut in a bob that somehow man-
aged not to look completely absurd; quite tall.
An urban vampire. She wore a black raincoat
even though it was a clear day and a purple sa-
rai with silvery birds on it. She approached him
slowly but confidently. Raised her head to look
directly in his eyes when she was six inches
away.
“How long you been standing here for?”
She asked in an offhand way that was very
peculiar considering her approach to a complete
stranger.
“Since four,” he responded without
missing a beat.
“Wanna ride?”
“Not really.”
“Where you wanna go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Liar.”
A pause, like in a fencing match. Wait-
ing for the round of blows to begin. He was
a bit put-off by how certain she had seemed
when she had called him a liar. She wasn’t open
for discussion or dissent. It wasn’t debatable:
he just was, and he knew it. Not a trace of
doubt in her voice. Just the conviction that she
completely understood him. And even though
in anyone else it would have just pissed him off,
for some reason, he trusted her.
“Okay, fine.” He said at last. “How’s
your car for getting into other universes?”
She turned away, looking over the grey
Honda for a minute. “She’s pretty good,” The
girl said. “Anyplace in particular?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“That makes two of us. Ride?” She
asked, jerking her head slightly in the Honda’s
direction.
“Sure.” They got in the Honda and the
girl started to drive down main street, towards
the junction with the highways.
She had been driving for an hour or so
in complete silence on a westbound route. The
sky was beginning to cloud over, and it was
going to rain. The wind that blew through the
open window was heavy with moisture, but
after such a long time in the city, he was enjoy-
ing it.
“So,” The girl asked, jerking him out of
his trance, “You got a name?”
“Not really. I’m called Dane.”
She nodded. “I’m Amelia. Amelia Day.”
“Want me to call you something else?”
“Naaah...” She said, shaking her head
slightly. Not pissed off at all, even though he
had just not-so-subtley hinted that she had a
cumbersome name. “If I wanted to change my
name, I could have a long time ago. I’m Ame-
lia Day until universe’s end, and I really don’t
mind.”
“I somehow doubt you’ll be around that
long.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Maybe I would.”
“Or maybe, by the time the universe’s
end got here, you wouldn’t be.”
“Okay, I know I won’t be around then.”
“You could be...” She said slowly.
“Want eternal life?”
A pause.
“You’re mad,” he said, sinking deeper
in his seat and turning his head to look out the
window. I’m leaving at the first city we come
to.”
“I don’t think there are any cities on the
plane I’m trying to get to.”
“Um...what?”
“I said, I’m trying to get to a certain
plane, and I don’t think it has any cities. I’ve
never seen one there, anyway.”
“Where?”
“Where I’m trying to go. Plane...” She
thought for a moment. “Plane 0000834055,
sub-plane 34.”
(continued on page 29)

Untitled (Vertigo) Part One (cont.)
“Plane?” Dane, although not overly
enthusiastic about it, had taken a basic physics
course. He had heard of planes. “Levels outside
the universe? Outside of the local spacetime?”
He was joking, but Amelia didn’t respond to
the sarcasm.
She smiled. “Exactly! And the plane I
want to get to doesn’t really have cities.”
“And the planes are numbered?”
“Yeah. There was a system assigned...
oh, say three millennia ago, give or take a
couple centuries.”
“In one thousand B.C., people had
found planes and numbered them?”
“If you want to think of it that way,
yes. Obviously, the system didn’t originate on
Earth—part of plane 0001547210, but we ad-
opted it easily enough.”
“How do you memorize these plane
numbers?”
“Same way you memorize locker com-
binations or addresses. These plane and sub-
plane numbers are addresses. Just for bigger
places. And for ones that I don’t remember, I
can retrieve the number through a multiverse-
wide database-type thing. Just sample the local
spacetime, stick it in the analyzer, and violà, it
tells you the location.”
“Um. Is this part of a computer?”
“Naah...part of Vertigo.”
“Vertigo?”
“My car,” Amelia said, patting the steer-
ing wheel fondly. “Her name is Vertigo. When
we try to Transcend quickly, you’ll know why.”
Dane didn’t trust himself to speak. Fi-
nally, he managed to.
“If we’re trying to get to another plane,
how will driving westward help us?”
“Vertigo works better near freshwater.
There’s a lake around here. A few exits from
now.”
“Why?”
“Why does Vertigo work better? Water
can bend the local spacetime in some pretty
cool ways. Fresh water. Too much salt screws
it up. Has to do with the way the elements
are bonded. Sodium upsets the bonds that are
manipulated to Transcend. Understand?”
“To a point.”
“Well, you don’t need to. All that was
part of a required course I had to take to be
able to Transcend. That’s when I had to memo-
rize my native plane and sub-plane, in case I
got lost or something, and got separated from
Vertigo.”
“ ‘Required course’? Who’s in charge of
this?”
“Well, I’ve never really met him. He’s
from a different plane, a hard one to get to. We
have a rough equivalent for it in some religions
here. Heaven. Although Nirvana is in some
ways closer to the reality.”
“So this guy is God? What does that
make you, Saint Amelia?”
“One, he’s not God. Just a Godlike...
figure. There is a difference. And I’m no saint.
Actually, some saints could manage a sort of
quasi-Transcending. Jesus Christ was pretty
good at it, for someone with almost no training
in this area. A natural. But that’s not the point.
I’m more like what you, if you were Christian,
would call an angel.” She paused to let this sink
in. “You already know, though, that I’m not a
stereotype. I don’t have a lyre and wings—al-
though I do have a robe from last Halloween. I
drive a car, have to pay for food and clothes and
gas, and I enjoy getting laid. Religion plays no
part in this. This plays a part in religion.”
“You are mad.”
“Sorry.”
- Violet Pena

Derek Schultz, a junior at
Clarence High School, is a
fencer, sculptor, cellist and
writer. But let’s get to the
cool stuff. He enjoys blast-
ing the ever loving heck out
of his guitar, getting himself
hopelessly lost on the open
road, reciting whole Monty
Python sketches and wan-
dering through tough terrain
in forests and quarries. The
essentials of life according
to him are AC/DC, Monty
Python, German food and
insanity. Even better, he
owns a top hat. Enough said.
Derek’s other
piece, an excerpt
from a Clarence trav-
elouge, appears on
page 32
Cemetery Symphony
Movement II
(A Morbid comedy )
Beneath the earth it makes its Marks
His coffin lying cold and dark.
Heaven smiles upon this mound
the mason Bury underground.
The pig turned Butcher’s blade around
that’s why she is underground.
The fallen never rise again
to leave the Fell and shadowed den.
None like to wait for sleep and stone
yet he will Wait with worms and loam.
Something in his life went wrong
and so he had to say “so Long.”
I hope she’s having quite a Ball
hanging out in heaven’s hall.
The Brewer tried his homemade beer
and that is why he’s buried here.
The Greek the Roman gods of old
the Betz are cast in vaults not gold.
The family traveled to distant shores
the ones who lingered live no More.
A Lotta Beebe’s pierced her head
I think it’s obvious why she’s dead.
The fine young gentleman buried here
sipped his fancy sherry.
Alas, when he was fencing
he forgot to Perry.
Death was price for men he’d rob
in court he should have shut his Gobb.
Half in light, half in dark
unlucky Fisher hooked a shark.
My heart goes out to her or him
who met a fate that turned out Grimm.
The Reading stones are in two rows
I’m writing as they decompose.
The two of them are Dunn with life
six feet under husband and wife.
The second time I quake in fear
for mocking our departed dear.
Good riddance.
30
 Ellen Weisenburger is going to be a sophomore at
Maryvale High School.

Should I die for my country?

Sounds like a good cause
but the leader is not so good

Not a Hero And I’m crying and I’m losing

And I’m flying and I’m losing
Stormy skies mornings fly by
I am not a hero
It’s spread its wings now it’s my turn
That’s just not who I am
I am not a zero
I choose to die for what I believe in
I’ve got my own plans
If I get sick I’ll fight on ‘till I lose it
Hey don’t expect me to be the perfect one
Others tell me there are things worth dying for
Hey just respect me because I am human
Not choosing which ones I ask myself
Is that the way I’m supposed to die?
And I’m crying and I’m losing
And I’m flying and I’m losing
Should I die not saying something deep?
Stormy skies mornings fly by
Knights died for honor and glory
It’s spread its wings now it’s my turn
Reveling in chivalry
Waiting for the prize on the table
I see you fall I see you cry
Waiting for the eyes of his lord
I see you bawl under black skies
I help you out also others
And I’m crying and I’m losing
I help out sisters and brothers
And I’m flying and I’m losing
Stormy skies mornings fly by
And I’m crying and I’m losing
It’s spread its wings now it’s my turn
And I’m flying and I’m losing
Stormy skies mornings fly by
Should I die for you just because you want me to?
It’s spread its wings now it’s my turn

My life doesn’t consist of self-less

feeling all the time
I’m going to live my century
going to save in my own time
I know that you think that I’m the future
Don’t rush me I will become the future
I’m not a hero
I’m not a zero
From here I go
On To die

The leader in the house of white

One liar with a load of might
Wants me to go and join the fight
I his war on another land
It’s like I’m lying to my friends
I’m lying to myself that I’m for everything he says
If I fight and die with that lie
Poet Celia White shares her poetry.
People won’t believe the truth
 Kassie Maser is going into 9th grade at
Kenmore West High School. She likes Ameri-
can Idol, swimming, and changing the TV vol-
ume when it is on a prime number. She is plan-
ning to be a criminal defense lawyer, or a fashion
designer, but will probably be on American Idol
first.

Falling Up Precipitation as a Self-Portrait

Standing here next to you, I am the rain.
I feel something happening. I am the steady rhythm on the ground that
Something that’s completely out of our con- never seems to end.
trol, I am the gloomy grey cover that masks the
Almost like falling. sky and hides the sun.
I am the clean smell of the air, the dirt washed
But we aren’t falling down. away.
This thing going on between us, I am the drops that pour over your fingers.
It feels like we’re falling up. I am the taste of water on your tongue, mild,
but still there.
I am the rain.
The rain is me.

Excerpt from “The Wanderer’s Guide to Clarence”

(Please read with an upper class British accent.)

It is a well known fact among the small children of Clarence Center that a goblin
lives in the woods of Ransom Creek. This green and scaly apparition seems extraor-
dinarily bad-tempered and violent in nature. According to the little people, this goblin
is responsible for the disappearance of younger siblings and for the recent destruction
of some build sites near the creek. This so called “goblin” is said to be seen at the very
late hours of the night ripping out nails and beams from these build sites, causing beams
to fall and crush innocent redneck construction workers. Curiously, the lush forest
seems to be creeping steadily outward over these destroyed sites. Small fuzzy crea-
tures have begun to make their homes in the new forest. This superstition has been
regarded by the old people of the neighborhood as complete rubbish because, accord-
ing to them, “These kids have seen nothing but a woodchuck.”

- Derek Schultz
 Dan Kukura is heading off to Alfred State College next year.
This is Dan’s third consecutive year at this writing camp, and,
unless he returns in some administrative capacity, will be sorely
missed. Good luck Dan. Ahh....the memories. Good luck
Dan!
CHAPTER II (segment:past)
“Knock, knock... Guess”
Excerpt from “At Gunpoint with a Demon”
“Listen son, what’s your name?”
“Henkel.”
“Henkel, I can see that you are on edge right
now, and I would like to know...” he hesitated,
“There are some weird things I just saw out-
side and I would like to know what exactly
happened here... an attack of some kind I’m
guessing? -I’m not asking you to taddle tale,
but I would like to know who did it.”
Henkel opened his mouth but no words left his
lips.
“Look can I call your parents or something?
Give me your phone number, let’s go to my car
outside and -”
“NO!” Henkel protested strongly, staring out
the door. He gripped the edge of the table so
tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Why not now? Did a person do it, are they
still around,” the officer rested his palm on the
grip of his gun.
“That monster,” he stopped.
“I see... was it a bear? A group of wolves?” the
officer looked sideways at him questioningly,
however trying not to make the boy feel as if he
was being interrogated.
“Neither... I-it, it took both of em. Me, my
uncle and my dad were out hunting for three
days , and well... we couldn’t find anything so
we headed back today –no, yesterday and were
going to leave but my dad disappeared and
then this morning my uncle opened the door to
scare away some raccoons a-a-and... I saw him
pulled around the side of the cabin so I closed
the door and... I hid myself, and got my grand-
pa’s gun...” his words began to pick up speed as
the police officer held up his hand to say that
was enough for now.
“Okay I’m sure whatever was out there is
gone now. So let’s go to my car so I can call for
some more of my people and I’ll have you home
soon, okay? How does that sound?” He smiled
comfortingly.
“Thanks, but I’d like to have my mom come get
me,” The policeman pulled out his cell phone
and handed it to him.
“Call your mom, while I get some more of
my friends over here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He turned to leave, “I’m assuming you wont
runaway, but don’t runaway if I’m wrong about
that.” He walked out of the door and bounced
with each step he took out the door to his car.
Henkel looked down at the cell phone in his
hands, his thumb shaking over the buttons.
He finally managed to pull himself together to
punch in his home phone number. “Mom,” he
began.
“Yes? Henkel, honey, how are you? Are you
having fun with your father and Uncle Leon”?
She stopped, “Henkel, what’s wrong? What’s
the matter? Do you want me to come and
bring you home? -put your father on hon.”
“H-h-he can’t.”
“Oh-my-god,” she stopped for a moment, “Is
Leon there”? She asked desperately.
“He,” Henkel paused, “he can’t either.”
The policeman turned from his car and headed
back to the cabin.
“Who’s there with you?” she asked trying not
to cry.
“A police officer,” he gulped.
“Put him on hon.”
Henkel handed the phone to the policeman.
“Ma’am, this is Officer Michael Palco of the
NJPD, I think it would be best if you head
down here and pick up our son,” he looked at
Henkel then turned to face outside the door.
“Yes, when you- yes, when you get here I will
try and explain everything as best I can. No
Ma’am, I wont let him out of my sight.”
“Henkel Grade, I believe my son James knows
you from school. You two get along?” asked
Officer Palco.
“Yea, we’re pretty good friends, I mostly
know him from the cub scouts, we were work-
ing on a group project together,” Henkel was
starting to feel better.
“Well that’s neat, keeping your marks
up in school?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” replied Henkel.
“That’s good,” Michael couldn’t think of
anything to say, he’d dealt with these situations
before but not with kids.
“How long till my mom gets here?”
“I say about any time now. Henkel, I’m
not sure if you’re feeling up to it, but I need to
know some things. Can you tell me anymore
about what happened here last night?” He
took a fallen chair and stood it upright then sat
down.
Henkel stared at the wall, then made
a quick glance at the window over the kitchen
sink and shuddered, “It was a monster, Uncle
Leon, my dad and me all came back to the
cabin. Well my dad didn’t come back. Uncle
Leon opened the door to scare away some
raccoons, then.” Henkel closed his eyes and
curled up against the wall trying to shake the
fear away, instead it grew. “He went outside
and didn’t come back, and then it was on the
outside of the window,” Henkel hid his face and
pointed to the end of the cabin. “And then it
started banging on the door.”
“When did you first notice something
was wrong?”
“My dad went missing, we were on the
trail.”
The Officer looked out the door. “The
one to the left?”
“Yes sir.”
A truck pulled up followed by an am-
bulance. Two police officers stepped out of
the truck they walked towards Henkel and the
officer. “Alright now I’m going to leave you
with a paramedic and he’ll keep you company
until your mom comes. I gotta work with these
other guys for now. You’ll be okay.” A Para-
medic came through the door,
“Hello officer, does he appear to be injured?”
he asked looking Henkel over.
“No he’s doing pretty well. But, not entirely
adjusted to the situation quite yet.” Michael
replied stepping out.
“Officer Palco,” another policeman
called to him.
“Yes sir,” Michael approached them
around the body.
“What happened here as far as you
know? That boy the only witness?” asked Of-
ficer Jenkins.
“He’s our only witness, and he told me
that he was walking back to the cabin from
down that trail to the left. On their way back
his father disappeared and later that nigh his
uncle, apparently this poor guy, opened the
door to frighten away what he thought was
raccoons. –Now the door was pretty beat
up when I got here but there were a load of
scratch marks at the base, and I’d safely gamble
that they were fresh from last night. I asked
him if he saw who did it, and he says it wasn’t a
man. I asked him if it was a pack of wolves or
a bear, but he said it wasn’t any of those. But
whatever it was it scared the crap out of the
kid.”
Officer Range crouched down next to
the body and looked it over carefully. “Those
are defiantly bite marks. They aren’t numer-
ous enough to be from a group of wolves, but
a bear doesn’t just leave its prey out like this.
I’d like to say a man did this because a predator
doesn’t just leave its victims like this, but I can’t
find anything to actually indicate a man. There
are some organs missing.”
“So it’s not a bear or wolf, but a man is
in question. A Cannibalistic maniac persay?”
inquired Jenkins.
“It was an animal of some kind, not a
man in my opinion,” stated Palco.
“Well we still got no evidence of any-
thing. You take Range and check down that
path to find the other body. Is the boy’s mother
here?”
“Not yet, she said she was going to
come down as quickly as possible, I don’t know
how far they live from here. Her name is Mrs.
Grade.”
34
 Anna Guzda is a sophmore at Amherst High School. Anna first started
writing when she and her cousin composed a family news letter to in-
form herAunt in Virginia about family events. She enjoys softball, tennis
and horseback riding. Her inspirations for writing come from her grand-
parents Mildred and Siegurd Waldheim and her Aunt Sue (a.k.a. Tanta)
who first informed her of this writing camp. Also her brother John and
mom and dad are very supportive, and her cousin Kate who she started
the family news with.

A Life Without Love
An old lady with wrinkles and gray hair
walks the streets at night who has a myste-
rious secret that only her companion, and
only living friend know about. This secret she
hopes never gets out, or her dreams of leaving
the city and having a family will only remain
dreams and never become reality. Is being a
mean and tough old lady just to cover up what
she longs for? To be loved, and innocent? This
ladies life is just like the soap operas that she
loves to watch, but the one who passes her on
the street would never suspect that this short
woman with big black boots, a fur coat, an old
hat with a feather and a huge purse would lead
a life lead by lies and the pursuit of blood. Is
there more to Ms. Jones that meets the eye?
Is there more then the old muscles replaced
with portly skin? Her big dark eyes act as a
window into her deep dark soul, a soul that
contains a past full of lies, deception and mur-
der. Murder so grusome, not even a life time
of church going could redeem. Never the less,
she silently humms the hymns sung in church
as she walks down the dark cobble street to
the front door of her five story walk up in the
city. There her male companion waits for her
with golden brown cookies filled with mouth
watering chocolate morsels. She takes a cook-
ie and gazes into his eyes as he askes how her
day was. She simply answers “Fine”, trying
so hard not to reveal the horrific day she had.
She walks into her room and empties
her large carpet bag purse out onto her bed. A
dagger wrapped in a blood saturated cloth falls
out, followed by a bag of money and priceless
gems and jewels. She throws the valuables into
her dresser drawer as her suspicious compan-
ion pokes his head through the door. She yells
at him to go away, and like an obedient dog he
obeys, but not before he gets a good look at
the bloody cloth wrapped around the dagger
first. He slowly backs away from his girlfriends
bedroom door and debates with himself if he
should call the police. Not tonight, he said to
himself as he falls asleep on the couch. Mean-
while in Ms. Jones’ master bathroom, she
wipes the thick red blood off of the minature
sword as she thinks to herself once again, Why
am I doing this? When did it all go wrong? She
thought of happier and more innocent times
when she was a little girl. She was a lonely
girl who was deprived of the love her mother
and father couldn’t give to her, or each other.
Was it her state of loneliness and emotionless
childhood that made her crave destruction?
Or was it the fact that she could never show
love to anyone or anything that made her
crazy? She tucked the dagger underneath her
bed then made her way out to the living room.
Her companion was slumbering on the
tattered couch. Poor man, he deserves better,
she whispered to herself. She stuffed another
cookie into her mouth and went to bed, where
she dreamed of herself walking down the isle
at her wedding. The man was not revealed to
her, but he became clearer as she approached
him. Closer and closer she came to him, but her
dream turned into a nightmare of sorrow and
death. She realized that she was awake, and
not dreaming of remorse. She fell back to sleep
never to awaken again. Her grim secrets would
never be told, and her crimes would go unpun-
ished. But to her, she was punished enough. A
life with out love was a life not worth living.
No More Time Wasted
I’m tired of myself just going with the flow,
Always agreeing and always saying no.
Judging others and them judging me,
Is not the way I want to be.
I’ll put up a fight and yell and cry,
Before I let my life pass by.
I don’t want to make excuses and live a lie,
That would make me want to curl up and die.
For fifteen years I’ve been on this earth,
Am I living up to all its worth?
Shooting for a birdie instead of a par
Is what I’m doing to make me go far.
No more time wasted on drying my tears,
No more time wasted avoiding my fears.
Go ahead and say what you want,
At least you give the time to tease and taunt.
But I won’t waste my time caring about what
you say,
After all, tomorrow is another day.
Frank Flis reads while Dan and Cliff listen intently (somewhat).
Friends Forever
Our blissful memories over come me
and make me forget you are far away.
Knowing our friendship won’t halt or faulter
gets me through the longest of days.
Always remember our bond is deathless,
it shall never come to an end.
For all those times my life was filled with glum,
you always helped my heart re-mend.
Don’t ever forget me, but if you do,
think of me as the breeze that spans your
cheek.
Think of me as the clash of thunder
and the suns rays passing you by the creek.
You are the nicest guy a friend could have,
your right there when I get into a fight.
And now its my turn to be there for you
during your days and through your darkest
nights.
Friends forever is what we said,
I will keep that promise even after I’m dead.
more poems by Anna Guzda
36
 I am a philosopher, Despair
a writer, a poet, a
rider, an actor, a It’s coming again
Crawling up my body
musician, a run-
Creeping over me
ner...I can do this Like a dark shadow
all day. I guess I Damn the evil spirit
should be more Which consumes and sucks
specific of who I am so let me start All my hopes and dreams
over. My name is Lydia Seidler and It’s coming
my writing consists of me writing one Soon there will be
word down and then I write a mil- Nothing left of me
lion more words down that have sud- Only a dark form
denly popped into my head. A brief Staring out the window
Quietly being consumed
biography is extremely difficult for By a shadow that
me to write down (I am long winded Grows inside
when it comes to writing); instead I
will tell of my journey here. I will be a It’s coming
My mood falls gloomy
sophomore at Williamsville South High
Eyes become vacant
school in the fall; however, that was Looking and watching
not always known to me. I was born in Contented faces pass
Pittsburgh and then my parents moved Never knowing or
us to Philadelphia due to my father’s Seeing
The sorrowful shape
return to school. Next we moved to That huddles alone
Vermont where I struggled to find the
real me and to get used to the fact that It’s coming
people will always watch me because Thoughts turning to death and sadness
The evil spirit has
my father is a rabbi and I am a depress-
Begun to
ing writer. I began to bury myself in Take over
books and music, I even picked up the I don’t know
trumpet to help get out my feelings. If I can recover this time
Now that I am here in Buffalo I have Maybe the darkness
Will finally
found that writing has helped keep me Consume all that’s left
sane and to explain how I feel about Of the figure that was once
life. I think it’s not who I am that is Me
important, but how I got here (even
though my explanation doesn’t even
hit all the important things like how I
used to despise writing and breaking
my arm by carrying my trumpet...that
would take for ever and this is after all
a brief biography).
Ritual Escape
The day is beautiful Running running
A crowed gathers Heart beating faster
Walking across a small happy creek Deep breath in the chest
Each person carrying mixed emotions Push harder
Don’t let the pain take over
A crowed gathers
Full of foreboding laughter Keep going
Each person carrying mixed emotions Finish the journey
As they walk along Don’t allow the legs to slowdown

Full of foreboding laughter Where am I going?

Hangs the heavy mist I’m not sure
As they walk along I’m running
Battling thick air near the stake Feeling the wind in my hair
And the cement at my feet
Hangs the heavy mist Faces and homes pass by
As gloom steps forward Waving or watching as I go
Battling thick air near the stake
Come the superstitious ones Why am I running?
I can’t answer for sure
As gloom steps forward Feeling silence and solitude
Surrounding the stake Going somewhere far away
Come the superstitious ones Pushing through the pain
With reverence for the place Until I collapse

Surrounding the stake Running through life

People stand and wait Running from pain
With reverence for the place Running from people
An innocent body is bound and held fast
Running running
People stand and wait Heart beating faster
The girl struggles Deep breath in the chest
An innocent body is bound and held fast Push harder
Her anguished scream rings out Don’t let the pain take over

The girl struggles - Lydia Seidler

Watched in horror by a woman
Her anguished scream rings out
Engulfed in convulsive sobs

Watched in horror by a woman

Walking across a small happy creek
Engulfed in convulsive sobs
The day is beautiful

- Lydia Seidler
38
 Marwa Eltagouri is a freshman at Grand Island High School. She
enjoys art, making fun of cheesy soap operas and drama films, play-
ing soccer, Nickelback, writing, arguing, hanging out with friends,
and trying to perfect the art of comedy. She would like to learn how
to speak Italian, play the Persian guitar, learn to surf, and somehow
manage to scrape up the position of U.S Supreme Court Justice. She
despises earth science, strawberries, John Steinbeck’s works, road
trips across the country and fish fry. This pessimist plans to live past
the age of thirty and cannot write poetry to save her life.

Brazil believe we may own well over a hundred

Brazilian flags, three 17 ft. banners, and a zillion
T he annoying buzz of my cheap and
very obnoxious alarm clock went off at pre-
posters of Brazilian soccer players. Come to
think of it, our furniture consists of mostly light
shades of mint green and naplels yellow, as well
cisely 6:03 am on a warm day in late June, and
as our walls. We own two life-size cardboard
I had no idea why.
figures of Ronaldihno and Ronaldo, who hap-
I screamed. I always scream when my
pen to be Brazilian soccer players.
alarm clock goes off, and yet again I have no
If it isn’t Brazil that my family loves, it
idea why. It just, sort of, well, is very sudden
would be soccer itself. We own about twelve
and abrupt.
soccer nets, and maybe fifty soccer balls, of
I could not fall back asleep, so I grudg-
which 70% of them are dead. We have a heap
ingly got up and made my bed. I opened my
of different sized shin guards, a bookshelf of
bedroom door, making my way to the bath-
playbooks and players’ biographies, and a closet
room, but just as I opened the door I was
full of cleats. I was born knowing what a mid-
blinded by a swarm of bright, blinding shades of
fielder was and was sung soccer chants to bed
yellow, blue, and green. These alarming colors
instead of lullabies as a child. I can tell you the
had taken over the entire upstairs, yet they had
life story of most soccer players, from their first
not passed the safe boundaries of my room. At
word to their seasonal record twelve years ago.
that moment I remembered that a terrible and
Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents
wretched event was taking place today-- The
have already arranged my marriage to some
World Cup Quarter-Finals.
crazy celebrity soccer player’s son.
France vs. Brazil.
After I got dressed, I went downstairs
I groaned.
and was not surprised to see Brazilian flags
If you haven’t figured it out yet, my
everywhere. Ignoring the decorations, I walked
family is literally obsessed with the Brazilian
straight up to my mother, who happened to be
Soccer Team.
making pancakes over the griddle.
Why?
“Hey, mom?” I questioned as I stuck
No idea.
my finger into the batter and licked it. My mom
I am not Brazilian, I have no relatives in
gave me her infamous “stop-what-you’re-do-
Brazil, and I’ve never been to Brazil.
ing-right-now-or-you’re-grounded” look, so
So why Brazil?
I went over to the sink and washed my fin-
I’m not sure, but it could be because
ger, and then continued. “Can I go to Sarah’s
they are soccer fanatics, and all international
house?”
soccer fans love Brazil, which is apparently a
Yet just as I finished asking her some-
rather talented team.
thing whizzed by my head and landed straight
Back to my family.
into the pancake batter. My mom and I looked
These soccer lunatics are insane. Par-
at each other, and then I went over to the bowl
don me, I meant “football” instead of soccer. I
and peered into it. I stuck my hand into the
bowl and pulled out a gross-looking toy figure
of Brazil’s captain, Cafu, who happened to be
laced with an evenly spread coat of pancake
batter.
“Ugggghhhhh,” I exclaimed, disgusted,
holding the toy out for everyone to see. My
brother Matt, who had been celebrating in
honor of today’s match and was apparently the
culprit, came over and laughed at the sight of
it. My mom gave him the look she had given me
earlier.
“Sorry?” my brother said with a hint
of questioning in his tone, as if he didn’t know
what to say. He then grabbed the toy out of
my hand, and when my mother looked away,
popped it into his mouth and ran off. My mom
turned her attention back on me.
“Are you going to Sarah’s to watch the
game?” she asked.
“Errrr.....” I stuttered, “not really, no.”
“But honey, you’ll miss the game,”
“So.............?” I asked, not seeing that
as a valid excuse not to send me.
“So you’ll have to stay home,” my
mother replied calmly.
“Mom!” I cried, making my mom jump,
nearly burning herself, “I ......I....Do I have to?”
I exhaled desperately.
“Well, honey, you really should be sup-
porting the team--”
“Mom!” I interrupted angrily, exploding,
“Just because you and Dad and Matt and Josh
and Dave are all obsessed with stupid Brazil
doesn’t mean I am too!” I stomped my foot
furiously. “I’m sick of this insane, well, insanity!
I have my own life, too! Face it, I hate soccer!
It might have been fun at one point of my life,
but know it’s just dreadful—because of you,
and you, and you!” I pointed at each member
of my family, from my appalled mother to my
father and brothers, whom were true Brazil
fans, dressed in team colors and face paint,
waving flags, doing flips, and clucking like tur-
keys. Now, however, they briefly paused their
celebration, and turned their attention on me.
Glad to have an audience, I continued. “Guess
what? You’ll never believe this but your beloved
daughter dislikes soccer!” (My father winced,
not because of this last statement, but because
of the fact that I had said soccer instead of
“football”.) Again, I continued. “And you know
what? I HATE BRAZIL, TOO! As a matter
of a fact, I HOPE THEY LOSE AGAINST
FRANCE!”
As I concluded my speech, tension filled
the room. After what seemed like hours, my
mother quietly said, “You’re not going any-
where, young lady.”
“FINE!” I bellowed and stormed off. I
stomped up to my room, and slammed the door
shut., and if that wasn’t enough, I opened it
back up and slammed it twice more. I collapsed
onto my bed, feeling hot tears flow down my
cheeks. I then cried myself to sleep.
Two hours later I woke up, still filled
with fury. I got off my bed, and walked over
to my closet. I immediately began to strip my
closet of anything that had to do with soccer.
This took me twenty-three minutes -– no lie.
When I finished, I scooped everything up and
headed outside to throw it in the trash. As I
made my way outside, however, I came upon
many long frowns, and eyes sparkling with
tears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, astounded
that my high-on-life family could be so miser-
able.
After a long moment of silence, my
brother Josh said somberly, “Brazil lost, and it’s
all because of you, you selfish little traitor,”
I gasped, absolutely stunned. I watched as
each of my brothers violently brushed their
shoulders against mine as they walked by. How
could I be so conceited, so cruel? Sure, I never
truly believed that France would defeat Brazil,
for as far as I was concerned I knew for a fact
that France didn’t have a chance. Yet could it
be that because of those hateful words that
had escaped my mouth willingly without a
trace of thought, that my beloved family, no
matter how crazy, were completely torn and
shattered? I dropped everything I was carry-
ing and left it to lie on the floor, and shamefully
made my way up to my room. As I sat on my
bed, however, something florescent lying in my
closet caught my eye. I went over to investi-
gate, and realized that I had missed something
earlier. I pulled out a pair of shiny, bright yellow
(continued on page 41)
(Brazil cont.) whizzing into the net.
“Goal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
cleats with cobalt and emerald stripes along I heard someone shout behind me. I turned
the sides, accented with soft, smooth cobalt around.
laces. My mind flashed back to when I had It was my brother Josh. He was smil-
received them, not more than a year ago. My ing.
grandmother was visiting from England, and “Glad to have you back, sis,” he said.
being a soccer addict herself, she had gotten us With that, he lunged toward me, trying to steal
all soccer-related gifts, such as jerseys, posters, the ball. I laughed, for I hadn’t remembered
etc. However, when she approached me, she ever having so much fun playing soccer. One by
handed me an azure, shimmery, box with the one the other members of my family came out,
Nike label on it. and we were all diving this way and that, strug-
“For you,” she said softly, her eyes shin- gling to keep the ball. About an hour and a half
ing with love. I opened the box, and pulled out later, we all collapsed, laughing as we caught
those shiny, yellow cleats. our breaths. My mother came over and hugged
“Oh, grandma,” I exclaimed, “they’re me.
beautiful.” “I’m proud of you, dear,” she said, a
“They sure are, aren’t they?” she an- tear running down her face.
swered, “I paid seventy pounds for them.” “I am too, mom,” I answered.
“What! Oh, grandma, I.....that’s so At that moment, I didn’t feel a single
much money! You really shouldn’t have.” spurge of embarrassment of my family’s “pas-
“No, no dear, you’re much too young to sion”, as I was taught to call it later. I was
be thinking about prices. Besides, you deserve happy to realize that soccer was not just some
them.” crazy obsession of my family, but simply a way
“No, grandma, I don’t. You see, I don’t to bring us closer together, no matter how
play soccer anymore. I quit a couple months intense it may get.
ago.”
“But why? You were so good, so tal- - Marwa Eltagouri
ented! Soccer could have given you so many
opportunities in life!”
“Yes, but you’ve always told me you
need two things two succeed in something: tal-
ent and integrity. Sure, I might have had talent,
but not the integrity.”
My grandmother looked at me for a long
time. I could tell she was disappointed, for I was
the first of her grandchildren to reject soccer.
“Well, keep the shoes,” she said after a while,
“They may come in handy.”
She was right. Almost a year later, I sat
their staring at them. Then I had this crazy urge
to try them on. So there I was, lacing the shoes
up, trying them on for the first time. They fit
perfectly. I decided to go outside. As I stepped
into the garage, I caught my eye on a soccer
ball. I grabbed it and headed outside, despite
the fact that it was raining. I started to dribble
the ball, feeling free as my feet played with it.
It had been so long since I had last touched it.
I went up to the goal and shot. The ball went
 Victoria Licata is thirteen years old and an eighth grader at Heim
Middle School in Williamsville, NY. She enjoys fencing, swimming,
reading and writing books, hanging out with friends, jumping on
trampolines and watching movies. She gets her inspirations from
oceans, movies, other authors, and animals. She says, “If I could visit
one place in the world I’d go to Australia.”

the handle, it is icy cold , and has known

The Wall no human touch since it was built. He
hesitates, fishes the piece of parchment
At the edge of the city, there out of his pocket once again, and looks
at it, brows furrowed. He looks up at the
was a wall. It was old, so old that ivy
coated and recoated it until the original door and pulls out a silver glass key from a
gray stone was swallowed up in the sea chain around his neck. He takes a breath,
of green. No one, man, woman, or child, removes the chain, fits the key in the key-
had come near it in ten years. No one hole, turns it, and pushes. Haltingly, but
approached it because everyone was without creaking the door swings open,
afraid. Afraid of what? The wall? The and music seems to come from inside,
mortar chipped, the stones were cracked, so alien and yet so familiar. His face lights
worn down, and well in need of repair. up, he smiles, and he glances at the parch-
Then what? The ivy? It was not poison- ment in delight. He takes a step inside,
ous, it was not dangerous. Then what and the music seems to get slightly louder
was everyone so afraid of? The mythical and sweeter. In a flash of white light, he
gateway and the land beyond. Ancient is enveloped and disappears. The door
legends had rumored of a hidden door swings slowly shut, the music fades, and
in the wall, a portal of starlight into the the ivy falls back over the door in vines
Otherlands. No one dared find the door, and ringlets. All is silent, it is as if nothing
it was the Otherlands and the fear of the had taken place. But something has, the
unknown that kept everyone away. But little boy has vanished.
now a child is walking, his eyes scrutiniz-
ing every inch of the wall. He removes a
dirty scrap of parchment from the pocket
from his worn and patched blue trousers,
consults it, and flicks a piece of hair out of
his eyes. He takes a step towards the wall
and lifts his hand to push aside the teem-
ing masses of ivy; it takes a long time to
push it all aside. When he does, he finds a
golden door, elaborately wrought, with a
carving of a star, and unreadable runes in
sweeping patterns underneath. He traces
the runes lightly with a fingertip, looks
up at the star, then puts his hands against
42
 Zoe Obstarczyk is a funny and outgoing 13 year old. She goes to Cheek-
towaga Central Middle School and will be entering the 8th grade. Zoe’s
hobbies include: playing on the computer; writing stories and songs,
reading, and watching TV shows like Big Brother. Her interests are:
dance, playing basketball, hanging out with friends, and having fun! She
professes to have enjoyed being a part of the WNY young writer’s proj-
ect and looks forward to coming back next year.

“If I didn’t have a pen on hand I would stop breathing and if I had no pa-
per my heart would stop beating.”

Pain is Something I Never Fear at Night Lost Love

P ain is something I go through a Separated, devastated

lot, like cars going through the tolls and Lost
paying a price for just going a long for a We loved each other no matter at what
ride. I feel as if this quote was made for Cost
me just like peanut butter is for jelly. I How long again until we meet
feel pain in different ways, but at night Again
I feel as if the darkness hides the pain
My husband and my dear old
from my eyes and heart. At night when
Friend
I dream, I almost totally forget where I I’m coming, soon, here I
am in life. And what pain I go through as Am
almost a routine. Once more we walk hand in
Hand
Born Again
We were lost and now we are
I see a dead, gray, gloomy, city. Found
And when the guitar starts the city Our love has no
crumbles and falls down to rubble. And Bounds
then the guitar takes it slow and then
speeds it up again. Right away when Sense Bravery
the speed picked up I saw a bright, new,
colorful city take its place. And people I see bravery as a rock of heroism.
formed too. All of the people come and I smell fear a mile away.
watch the band. Then the band disap- I hear the cries of pain as if a building ex-
ploded in my face.
pears and the people look for them. Then
I taste hatred as if it was always on my
the song is over.
tongue.
I am touched with anger until I am weak.
Nightmare And I am still searching for the rock that

Time ticking away. As I walk and will help me face it all.

search. Lonely, empty, blank. There’s

nothing worth finding. Hoping I can get
out. Maybe. Wait!. It’s just a dream.
 Erica McCallie is a 13 year old who attends Saint Alouyious school.
She is in the 8th grade and loves school. Her favorite hobbies in and
out school are basketball, football, cheerlanding, volleyball and base-
ball. She is interested in becoming a doctor when she gets older
and would also like to see the world. She has visited Orlando, Utah,
Virginia Beach, Atlanta, Washington D.C., and Rochester.
She is very funny and outgoing, and is creative when she isalone.
She professes to have had a great time in the WNYWP camp.

Outside
Outside is something that we do.
When we’re gone we wonder who.
Sit down on concrete and have a blast.
While we see other people walking fast.
We feel the air that blows the trees.
When we sit the grass, yeah that’s me.
Bugs fly, bees get chased
Barbeque grills smell so great.
Flowers look so beautiful
Now its time to end with an outside card.
Family
Family is everything I love.
My mom, dad, brother, sister.
They may do stupid things
but they are still loved.
They’re my family so they have to be loved.
It’s not about the money or how they act.
It’s about the love they give back.

Lindsay Warnes is senior at Hamburg High School who hopes to

become either an Art teacher or an Art therapist. During her free time
she enjoys taking walks, drinking coffee, playing dress up, listening to
music, drawing and writing. She also likes to be around her family, of
five brothers and one sister, along with 6 nephews and a nice. Her
favorite holiday is Halloween and, even though she admits the season is
crazy, really likes the lights on the houses around Christmas.

Hearts made out of plastic
Snap and break so easily
I’d take the gun from your
Most cherished spot to point
It at the one you love the
most.
To make the crimson
Stain my white, do you
Realize just how holy that is?
When the silver hits the floor
Only to make a sound of
Silence and Shock,
The look on your face will tell
it all.
When anatomy pours out
Of the temple revealing And watching the clear liquid
The garbage that truly it is Form in your eyes after
Stumbling out of the torn and You hear the Heart- wrench-
Worthless bag. ing news;
The red pieces that fall Would still equal
From the most sacred Happiness
Treasure will represent In your blood pumping muscle.
Your life in the biggest
Form.
4th of July explosions bare
No Comparison
To witnessing the
Blood splatter the wall.
Even Pollack’s greatest
Pieces fall short of meaning.
44
 Grace Emily Kreher is a thirteen year old student at Clarence Middle School.
She enjoys writing, reading, dancing, playing field hockey, and hanging out
with her friends. She plays the flute in her school band, and takes eight dance
classes a week during the school year. Her favorite time of year is summer
because she loathes being forced to learn math, read annoying books that she
hates, and wasting time in music class. Also, during the summer, her favorite
T.V. show, Big Brother, is on. This summer she wants Kaysar to win. Her
favorite book is The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen and her favorite
movie is Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. She lives with her mom,
dad, older brother Aaron, younger brother Nathan, her adorable dog Maggie, and her malicious cat
Arthur. She is thrilled to be a part of the Western New York Writing Project.

Sky Flower in the Wind Fighters

I see blue friendship dances The people who will

blue it breathes and sways fight
blue in the breeze that is life and fight
blue its roots need to be and fight
blue strong until their end
blue its stem needs to be hardy, don’t realize
sky yet it needs to be that they have forgot-
clear blue flexible ten
perfect blue to live,
blue that goes on sometimes the breeze turns
and on to wind for fighting
blindingly bright and the stem of friendship is not living,
blue is tested it is simply existing
impossibly dark but then the wind settles and they will be re-
blue down membered
blue and the sun comes as ones who fought,
blue out
blue and the beautiful petals and not as ones who
blue of friendship did any good
sky open
never- ending blue
blue that won’t stop friendship is a flower
the sky Hope

is perfect I live
through the idea that
maybe
if I hang on
hard enough
I’ll get somewhere
good
45
 Lauren
Carlson
goes Untitled
to City
Honors
School A nondescript man walks along an old dirt
and will road, carrying an old black umbrella and wear-
be entering eighth grade in ing a brown bowler hat that has certainly seen
the fall. She loves snow- better days. He walks slowly, as though he has
boarding, dancing, play- nowhere to go but is walking to get somewhere.
ing the piano and violin, He enters a town and stands under the glowing
and playing tennis. This letters that read “Wallgreens.”
is her second summer at He lights a cigarette, inhales deeply and con-
the young writer’s work- tinues to walk. The only sign of life in this little
shop. She says that she town is the occasional light in the closely packed
had a great time and thinks apartments and small homes. The man checks
her writing has definitely his old leather banded watch and reads 2:30 am.
improved. She has an ap- As he walks past an alley he sees a fight, and
preciation for the following probably a robbery taking place in the shadows,
quote from Woody Allen; he hurries past. As he reaches a street he turns
“My education was dismal. left, a light mist begins to fall but he does not put
I went to a series of schools up the umbrella. After another left he finds him-
for mentally disturbed self standing at the bottom step of an apartment
teachers.” building that is very dilapidated and seems as if
to be sagging or crying, it is as though the entire
building is grieving.
As he enters the apartment building and pushes the little arrow point-
ing up by the elevator, the concierge murmurs something about a gloomy night
and the man just gives a half nod in reply. The creaky elevator comes with a
dusty BING and the doors slowly part. As the man pushes the #6 button for
floor six he sighs. BING goes the elevator and the man walks down a hall that
has a horrible paint job and a carpet that reaks. He opens the creaky door of
apartment 6C and hangs the bowler hat that has seen better days and the black
umbrella on a rusty hook by the door.
As he walks through the room he notices the pipes on the ceiling and the
stain on the carpet. He sits in a ripped, overstuffed armchair with his head in
his hands and cries. Little does anyone know, this forty-six year old man has
just lost his job as a delivery boy, lost his wife and his young daughter. Along
with all of this he has lost his reason to live.

46
 Jason Silverstein will be a sophomore at Williamsville North. He is
writer for the Next section of the Buffalo News and appears in it al-
most weekly. He is a music geek, citing his favorite bands as Nine Inch
Nails, Mushroomhead, The Strokes, Radiohead, Foo Fighters, People
In Planes, and many, many more. He is also a movie geek; his favorite
movies are Magnolia, Fight Club, Punch Drunk Love, Pulp Fiction,
and Eyes Wide Shut. Some of his other hobbies include tennis, fic-
tion writing, and playing guitar. His favorite writer at the time is Bret
Easton Ellis, who he credits as influencing his writing style greatly.

Paranoid Pat mine is going to be the death of me, he thought

The phone rang for the first time that to himself.

day, snapping Paranoid Pat out of his state of
spacing out. Immediately, he panicked. His
mind raced with thoughts of who it could pos-
sibly be on the other line. What if it’s someone
out to get me? he wondered. I know who it is.
It’s the Illuminati! They know that I know too
much. They’re calling...they’re calling to get
me! I figured them out and they need to wipe
me out before I can say anything!
No, what if it’s a sniper? And this is a
kind of Phone Booth thing? I saw that movie, I
know what’ll happen! I pick it up and from then
on any sudden movement I make could get my
head blasted right off my shoulders!
What if it’s the terrorist? Oh god, it’s
the terrorist, I know it! There’s bomb in the
phone! They put a goddamn bomb in my god-
damn phone! Reluctantly, he snatched the
phone, and the instant the phone was off the
receiver he started running for the kitchen to
grab his gun in case he needed to defend him-
self.
“Hello?!” he screamed into the phone.
“Hello. This is Sam calling from Mas-
tercard. Did you know that Mastercard now
offers-”
“Damn!” Paranoid Pat screamed,
throwing the phone back on the receiver, still
tightly grasping the knife. Sam from Master-
card...right. Like I’m going to believe that, he
thought to himself. Then, before he even had
a chance to go on to anything else, the phone
rang again, causing him to repeat his process
of insane thoughts as to who could be on the
other line. Again, though, curiosity got the bet-
ter of him and he picked up. This curiosity of
“What the hell do you want!” he yelled
into the phone. People five blocks away prob-
ably heard him.
“Paranoid Pat?” said the voice. It was
Fred, a good friend of Paranoid Pat.
“Fred?” said Paranoid Pat.
“Yes-um.” He answered.
“Is this actually Fred, or is this a double?
A double, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Paranoid Pat. You’re so paranoid.”
He chuckled to himself.
“Ok...assuming you actually are who
you claim to be...why are you bothering me
today?”
“Paranoid Pat...well, frankly, I’m
corcerned with you. I know you’re cautious and
everything, but you haven’t been out of your
house in months. It’s time you get out there
and take advantage of the world around you!
It’s a beautiful place out here!” Fred made a
loud inhaling noise, as if he was deeply breath-
ing in the nice, clean, fresh air of the outside
world.
“No, never again.” answered Paranoid
Pat. “There’s too many people out there that
are out to get me and too much other shit to
worry about, too.”
“Oh, come on, Paranoid Pat. Don’t be
like that that. It’s a beautiful day today! I mean,
just look out your window.”
“I can’t.” answered Paranoid Pat. “I
had a thick sheet of titanium placed over all
the windows. Windows are the next place an
intruder is going to try after the door, which is
also safely secured.”
“Oh, come on Paranoid Pat. Just once.
Listen, we can go out for lunch, go to a base-
ball game...whatever you want! I’ll be there
in just a few minutes to pick you up.” Before
Paranoid Pat could protest, Fred hung up.
After a few minutes, Fred arrived at the
house and rang the doorbell. Paranoid Pat con-
sulted one of the many video cameras he had
set up to make sure that it was in fact Fred. For
the first time in month, he set foot out of the
house. He was obviously very reluctant to do
so and his mind instantly filled with worries, but
he figured it could do him some good. After all,
Fred was right: It was a beautiful day outside.
“It’s good to finally see you again.” said
Fred once they finally got settled into Fred’s
luxurious new car. “I almost forgot what you
looked like!” Fred opened up his glove compart-
ment and pulled out two gas masks. He put
one on himself and handed the other to Para-
noid Pat.
“What’s this for?” Paranoid Pat asked,
taking the mask with confusion.
“Jeez, didn’t you hear?” Fred said,
adjusting the strap on the back of his mask.
“There was some kind of hoopla at the nuclear
power plant just outside of town and they’re
afraid that some kind of deadly gas may have
been released. So they’re telling everyone to
wear these for the time being, you know, just
to be safe.” Paranoid Pat took the mask and put
it on. “Alright, we’re all set to go.” They set off.
They eventually pulled up to Lou’s, a
bar at which Fred was a regular. Paranoid Pat
slowly got out of the car and started walking
into the bar with Fred. Suddenly, Fred stopped.
“Did I lock the car?” he frantically
asked.
“What?” said Paranoid Pat.
“Did I lock the car?!” Fred started run-
ning to his car while continuously pressing the
lock button on his key. After pressing it about
twenty times, Fred finally calmed down with
reassurance that the door was, in fact, locked.
“Sorry.” said Fred, catching his breath. “This is
a bad neighborhood, you know? Lots of car-
jackings and robberies and all that noise. Can’t
be too safe in this neighborhood, man, can’t be
too safe...” And with that, they entered the bar.
Once in the bar, both of them were
loudly greeted with hellos! and mugs being
raised in the air. Fellow regulars, Paranoid Pat
assumed. Paranoid Pat and Fred took a seat
at the bar and were almost instantly given a
nice, cold glass of beer. Paranoid Pat smelled it
first to make sure there was nothing added to
the beer, nothing....”suspicious”...in it. Once
he was sure it was ok, he took a small sip. He
glanced up at the TV above the bar, turned
to the news, and it was all the same old stuff:
Murder, rapes, threats of terrorism, kidnap-
pings, Big Foot sightings, etc. etc.
“Nice place, huh?” said Fred. Paranoid
Pat mindlessly nodded. “See, this place used to-
”
All of the sudden, a loud alarm went off.
The lights in the bar went off and a red light on
the wall started glowing. Everybody screamed
and ducked under tables. Paranoid Pat looked
around in fear and confusion.
“What’s going on!” he screamed par-
tially to himself. No one answered, as no one
probably heard over the screaming and yelling.
“Just get down, get down!” Fred called out
from under a nearby table, yanking Paranoid
Pat off his stool and below the table with him.
“What is this?” Paranoid Pat said with
his head on the ground and his hands on the
back of his head, trembling.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Fred said
half calmly, half panicked. “If this is what I think
it is, don’t worry. But-” He cut himself off to
look behind him at the sound of a loud scream
from the woman behind him.
“Just stay calm, people, stay calm!”
somebody, Paranoid Pat couldn’t see who,
called to the patrons. The lights were all still off
with the exception of the bright red light flash-
ing on and off on the wall. The alarm was still
going off at a deafening volume. Paranoid Pat
couldn’t take the fear, felt like he was going to
piss himself for the first time since fourth grade,
couldn’t breathe. Right when he felt like he was
about scream or just black out from the terror,
continuously thinking to himself “I shouldn’t
have done this, I shouldn’t have done this,”
possibly crying but not even focused enough to
know...the lights came back on, the
(continued on page 49)
 ing limber. Still scares the sh-t out everybody,
(Paranoid Pat cont.) though. But you know, it’s just a drill. Like the
fire drills we had back in school. Just to keep
alarm stopped, and the people stopped scream- us on our toes, ready for anything, you know?
ing. Slowly, everybody eventually got up from Better safe than in a nuclear holocaust.” He
under the tables they were hiding under and sipped his beer again.
went back to where they were. People wiped Paranoid Pat sort of relaxed back into
their tears, hugged the people they were with his chair, just barely any calmer, accepting the
whether or not they even knew them, but explanation even if not completely understand-
eventually just went back to their beer and ing it. He looked around again, hoping he’d
casual conversation. be sane by now, but no. Everybody in the bar
“Haha, man, get up!” Fred said, smiling still looked exactly like him, the same worried
widely, patting Paranoid Pat on the back, sitting face, the same body. It just wouldn’t go away.
on his barstool and patting the empty barstool Weird, he thought to himself. I haven’t done
next to him to encourage Paranoid Pat to take mushrooms in a while. But with his confusion,
his seat. Eventually, when his face was mostly he just leaned forward and took a big sip of his
dry and he regained feeling in his limbs, he care- beer.
fully got out from under the table sat down on “How’s the beer?” Fred asked him.
the stool with the gracefulness of a zombie. Paranoid Pat looked at him...it was as if he was
But Paranoid Pat noticed something looking right in a mirror.
weird once he was seated. Everybody in the “It’s....good.” Paranoid Pat said, gripping
bar, from Fred to the bartender to the old bat the cup tightly. “Real good, actually. Best I’ve
sitting alone in the corner, looked exactly like had in a while, I must say.”
him. They were him. He shook his head, closed “See?” said Fred, leaning back in his
his eyes, over and over, thinking that maybe it chair with a smug sense of accomplishment,
was just paranoid delusion. But no matter what “Aren’t you happy you got out today?
he did, everybody still looked exactly like him.
The same terrified expression. Everyone in the
bar was him. Fred just sat there, still smiling,
sipping his beer, as if nothing had just happened,
even though he was now a reflection of Para-
noid Pat.
“Ok, what the f-ck just happened?”
Paranoid Pat finally yelled once he realized
that Fred wasn’t going to offer any explana-
tion. Most people in the bar looked over at him
with mild interest in his outburst, but eventu-
ally they all turned back. Fred looked around to
make sure no one was paying attention.
“Keep your voice down, jeez.” he said,
putting his beer down. “Look, nothing major.
No cause for concern. This is a regular thing
everywhere, not just here. All restaurants, bars,
offices, even hospitals. Happens all the time,
and yet I can never get used to it.” He snapped
his fingers in mild disappointment. “Well, you
know, with the terrorism and all that jazz going
on, they just have these bomb drills on a regu-
lar basis. Here, they do it....oh, I’d say....once,
twice a week. Maybe three times if they’re feel-
 Mike Holmes is going into his junior year at Williamsville
East.

Palm Trees and Power Lines. A Good Song.

If palm trees and power lines can cross with A good song can take
no connection A teenage mind further
Then why not our paths intertwine Than any drug could ever
To crease and crack Than any love could ever
Like dotted lines on paper Than any other could ever
To press nice and neatly
To tear only from the hands of god A good song will make
A teenage mind move
If cold tears can last the night And twist to make the fingers tap
Then why not you stay the night The head bob
To keep those tears in there place And foot stomp
Like rewinding the faucet The body move
To take away all the, miss-you’s The language shape
To lie in the hands of god The mood to something good
Something bad
Something great
Something gloomy
Something deeper.
Reality.
Real physical
Up, down
Side to side
Forward and backwards
Breath in breath out
Drip drop
Reality falls to me
One at a time
It washes the color out of jeans
And weighs hair down
Polishes the horse
Tap Tap Tap
As reality hits green
I cant find anything more real.

Drawing by Lindsay Warnes

 Hello. My name is Kaitlyn McNamara, I am going to be a freshman at
Clarence High School. I have a rather large family, which consists of
two sisters and younger brother. I’m the typical teenage girl that loves
to do nothing but hang out with her friends and talk on the phone. I
absolutely adore shopping and love lip gloss and make up and all sorts
of girly stuff! I’m not really the sporty type but I do have some hob-
bies. Such as dance. I dance three to four times a week at David De
Marie Dance Studios in Clarence. This is going to be my first year in
high school and I can’t wait to see how different things are.

Our Beloved Fred Miller and son and daughter-in-laws surrounded

Born: 1930 Died: 2003
Tall, white hair, warm heart, caring
soul, sense of humor, loving personality. A
man with the biggest heart in the world, a
man who was always on-the-go, a man who
always put his family and friends first, a man
who became a dad to my mother and her
siblings, a man who became a husband to my
grandma, a man who became a grandfather
to my cousins and I, a man who left before I
barely got to know him.
I was eleven years old when Valen-
tines Day of 2o03 came around. My grand-
ma’s birthday is February 13th. Now my papa
was a rather caring, warm-hearted man.
Papa Fred had a whole surprise party planned
for her. He reserved my Uncle’s clubhouse,
ordered food and had the whole thing deco-
rated! Mama Shelia had no idea!
A few days prior to the party, Papa
took Grandma out for a special dinner to cel-
ebrate both her birthday and Valentines Day.
Now let me remind you that my grandpa
was one of the healthiest people I knew, but
something changed that. During the night,
papa started throwing up blood. Mama Shelia
immediately took him to the hospital. They
did tests on him and discovered that he had a
major blood clot in his intestine. The doctors
then had to have almost three feet removed!
After the surgery, they thought he’d be okay.
Everyone had faith in God and “knew” he’d
make it. Well they were wrong, it turned out
with him getting so sick that he couldn’t fight
it off any longer. With his wife, stepchildren
around him, my Aunt Chris said a very
moving prayer, in which he passed through.
Unfortunately I was not present to hear the
prayer and there was not much I could find
out about it. Besides the fact that it was ex-
tremely moving!
He passed peacefully. But I am rather
disappointed, no not only disappointed- frus-
trated, irritated-but most of all I’m miserable.
Papa Fred had been in the hospital for a good
week now, my mom would go everyday to
visit him, and would stay for hours at a time!
Every morning I’d literally beg and plead for
her to take me with her. She always re-
sponded with, “No, you’re too young, maybe
next time, when you are older.” (sorry mom)
But that had be the dumbest excuse I’ve ever
heard! Ya know why, because there wasn’t a
next time!
Papa Fred passed away at the age of
seventy-three, which is a shame! Yes he died
peacefully surrounded by his loved ones, but
what about me? Did I not love him enough to
see him before his life ended? Was I not wor-
thy enough? I was his granddaughter! My real
grandpa had died before any of my siblings
or I were born; my grandma had then gotten
remarried. So he was my grandpa! I would
beg and beg my mom to allow me to go see
him! Did she ever give in; take a wild guess,
of course not! Yes I was only eleven, but I
wasn’t an idiot! I still hold a grudge against
my mom for not allowing me to go to the
hospital to see him. That could have been my
chance! My chance to show him how much
he meant to me, my chance to show him
how much I love him, my chance to show my
emotions!
To this day I have anxiety, for I never
really got close to Papa Fred. We were close,
in a grandpa and granddaughter way, but that
was about it. I wanted to be more of a friend
with papa rather than just his granddaugh-
ter, but I never got that chance. Papa was
always making jokes, the big one between us
was my nickname, Jo-far-dutch. He would
always call me that, in fact that’s all he would
ever call me I’d be surprised if he even knew
my real name. I have a few other memories,
but that seems to be the one that sticks out
the most. I am in total shame, for I cannot
remember why he called me Jo-far-dutch, let
alone the story behind my nickname. Each
and every time I think of my grandfather I put
myself through depression, guilt, and sorrow.
He was my own grandpa, and I couldn’t even
remember the meanings of my memories,
how terrible is that?
They say, “Take every chance you get,
and do with it well”. That was my chance.
That one chance is all I needed. I could have
got everything I wanted in that one moment.
I could have got the back round of my nick-
name, shown him my feelings!
My grandma never got her surprise
party and I never got my connection. My one
wish would have been to be granted that one
moment to devote my heart out to Papa. I
never got the chance. We didn’t know when
Grandpa was going to leave us, and I never
know when my grandma is either. The days
will fly by and we’ll never know when grand-
ma’s will end. So now’s my chance to get
close with her, be more than just her grand-
daughter, get my connection, my moment,
before its all too late.
I love you and miss you dearly Papa Fred.
Love always, Jo-far-dutch.
There’s a certain poem that reminds me
of Papa Fred and I’d like to share it with
you.
My Pop
I remember him just like I saw him yesterday,
Sitting on his bed with a rollie in his hand,
Looking out his window and watching the cars go by.
He was my favorite Pop of all,
it was hard to say goodbye.
This man was taken away from me,
my very own Pop had died.
He was a quiet timid man all of 71 years,
Who had been through war and heartbreak
and then to slowly die.
He watched his son go through it too,
it was very hard on his eyes.
I wish you were here with me now
and your two great-gran kids too.
To have them sit on your knee and annoy you just like
me.
I miss you very much Pop and your calm
and gentle ways,
To kiss and hug you once again I know
would be too much to say.
I hope you are very happy now sitting
by your window high,
Looking down on all of us
and not asking questions why.
I will remember you always
until it’s my turn to fly.
-You’ll always be a part of me Papa Fred. I
love you-
52
 Lisa DiMatteo is a senior at Hamburg High School. She loves
to read and hang out with her friends. She plays the trumpet
and enjoys singing. Outside of school she participates in lots
of cool activites such as Hunger Action.

Lisa’s poem “The Beach” appears on the page 55.

determined not to let go of the tow rope as

Almost There
Twenty minutes left on the eight-
hour, marathon road trip. As the van pulls off
the Indiana toll road, I feel the usual excite-
ment and adrenaline course through me.
This marks the true start of our annual Inde-
pendence Day trip to the Stevenson Lakeside
Resort.
Resort... I think the better phrase for
this would be a vacation spot for chaos and
fun. When most people go on a family vaca-
tion they envision that ritzy five-star hotel,
with an equally ritzy price. That ritzy price,
often upwards of five-hundred dollars per
night, is outrageous; you never know exactly
what you are getting. I, however, know ex-
actly what I am getting. I’m getting a good,
family-filled, guaranteed chaotic week at my
Granddad’s simple home on Jimmerson Lake.
This is where fifty of my favorite relatives
pour in for their summer vacations. The idea
of cramming all those bodies into a three-
bedroom home may sound insane, but for us
it is simply part of the exciting annual adven-
ture we embark on each summer.
Ten minutes and counting. My broth-
ers and I are counting the seconds until we
can burst from the van, which is now so
messy it could easily be mistaken for that
pig-sty room of mine. The enticing ideas of
water skiing, tubing, boating, and swimming
have us pushing at our seat belts, as if our
will power can make Dad drive faster. Ski-
ing is the most anticipated, as it is a first time
experience for some, and a favorite hobby
for others. We hold countless memories of
cousin after cousin learning to ski. My per-
sonnel favorite is when one unlucky soul was
they wiped out. The feeling of being hauled
across the water at top speeds makes me
cringe. I can only think of being tied to the
back of the family minivan and dragged along
the unforgiving pavement until the driver
takes mercy on me. That would definitely
prove to be an unforgettable experience.
Five minutes remaining. Mom realizes
we’ve forgotten numerous items: beach tow-
els, sunscreen, and that Chiavetta’s barbeque
sauce we bring every year. Too bad it is a
little late in the trip to do much about that.
We must be thankful it isn’t like the year one
suitcase was left behind at our home. I still
hold the vivid memory of my parents faces as
they realize one son has no clothing for the
week. Lucky for him, among the masses of
people at the house, plenty of odd, I-will-not-
be-seen-in-public outfits were quickly offered
to him. I distinctly remember feeling sorry
for him for about two minutes. After that I
could not contain my laughter.
Thirty seconds. I can see our destina-
tion from here. I remember that we do not
all fit into that house very well, so somehow
it always ends with the children being shipped
outside to sleep in tents. Lucky for our fam-
ily the kids find no arguments with this idea.
We are moments away from spending every
day-lit second out on the water. Great sum-
mer days can not be spent in any better way.
We’ve already forgotten about the items left
at home, all we truly need is our family to
have a great time. We pull in the driveway to
shouts of “the Buffalo crew is here!” We’re
all happy to finally arrive here, the place
which shelters us with love, our idea of fun...
the Stevenson Lakeside Resort.
Definition
As I sit here, attempting to try to define myself, to try to say
who and what I am
What I stand for and my beliefs,
It would be too bold of me to attempt this,
Is not my place, simply because I do not own myself
Perhaps this is what allows me to change, to shift at such a rate
That when I look in the mirror I cannot say that I recognize my-
self
At times I do not even know or remember what has occurred in
the past, my past
But this allows me to retain some functioning normalcy, some inkling of a reality that we

Knowledge
CH. 4
The girl came towards my bed, her eyes
slightly tinged with a milky red, glistening under
the harsh fluorescent lights. Inching closer
to me, her joints seemed to crack with every
forced step, her jawbone convulsing. Sweat
trickled down my temples.
“My sister.” She growled. “You had me,
she was not yours to rightfully take! Give her
back to me!”
“You want her back?” Veilleur roared.
Suddenly, my mouth swung open, hanging
there helplessly, growing wider and wider, sa-
liva oozing from under my tongue. I could feel
something begin to form in the pit of my stom-
ach. Something long and soft began to squirm
up my throat. It was crawling, like five tiny fin-
gers up into my mouth, pressing up against my
throat. I couldn’t breath. Every muscle in my
body violently twitching. I could feel my stom-
ach begin to thin with the sheer weight of the
thing, as though it would pop and spill onto the
floor at any second. My body, my veins burned
underneath my flesh. Suddenly, a white arm
protruded from my mouth, my body coughing
and sputtering for air. It’s fingers twisted, the
nails scratching my lower lip, drawing a warm
liquid from my gums, the blood coating the tiny
maggots festering within the oozing blackened
flakes of skin. A stringy head of hair slowly
heaved it’s way from my cracking windpipe.
Gagging as my heart pounded within my chest,
it finally slid out, splattering onto the cold floor.
Trilogy of Thought
Part One: Pasts
My inability to accept the past and move on,
My desire to never go back, as I continue to relive
the past
With each passing moment I can feel myself slip-
ping further and further, a distant thought Within
their bustling lives
Memories come, coaxing the thin streams of
water from my willing soul, my eyes beginning to
Burn, drowning me
Part Two: Written World
Somehow, I had come to an understanding of
what had become of me
My entire life, being nothing more than a lost
time, a memory land where only certain things
Remained visible to me
The beginning of a life I could not avoid, a reality
that consumed my entire world
Years had slipped away like seconds leaving me to
gaze inside myself forever
And now I was lost, lost within the one place I
could not bring myself to see
Part Three: Reality
Each day you look death in the face, as they pass
you, one on the right and one on the left
Most of them wouldn’t think twice
They do it so easily, so impatiently
Death is simply not calculated into their busy
work schedule
But let me live a little longer and fear death’s cold
grip lingering just outside the car door
The Beach

The fresh air swirls,

like the whirling waters of the ocean,
engulfing you as you walk.

The joyous laughter rings,

bubbling up like a soda machine,
echoing throughout the air.

The warm sand comforts,

like that favorite teddy bear,
as you sit and watch the waves.

The chaos of children,

like ants scurrying about,
splash within the water.

The salt-water taste, Above: Jordan poses for his bio shot. Below:
bitter like that of coffee, Jordan recording for theaudio anthology.
consumes you as you swim.

- Lisa DiMatteo

Ant Corpses

I would just sit and watch them

Scurrying around and around
Watching as they slowly deep-fried them-
selves within the harsh fluorescent Light
Their delicate, shiny black skin would shrivel
up as their thin legs became Crumpled, tens-
ing and convulsing into a tight little ball
What a ritual it was to witness this process
With each circle they completed around the
light bulb, they grew more Frantic, desperate
Afterwards, I would empty their scrawny
corpses onto the wooden floor of my Bed-
room
Each new addition to my collection,
Each new struggling body that had given in
to me, gave me strength to go on
Strength within the struggling

- Alex Bommer
 Above: Anna, Lydia, Lindsay, and Lisa relaxing at Forest Lawn Cemetary.
Below: Joel anxiously awaits new audio anthology recording victims.

56
 Susan Head will be attending Grand Island High School as freshman
this fall. She enjoys reading, writing, having fun with friends, and watch-
ing classic Audrey Hepburn movies in her spare time. She wishes that
she was born a hundred years earlier, but since time travels seems to
be impossible at the moment, she mostly writes stories that take place
during the Victorian and Edwardian eras. Being the romantic that she is,
she is mostly attracted to writing romance pieces. Do not mistake her
type of romantic writing for the cheap paperback romance novel kind.
She hopes to one day be a bestselling novelist in the area of non-smutty
romance and young adult fiction.

Love is Love for Evermore-Tennyson glided-towards the window. She drew back
- Susan J. Widley
the curtains to reveal an almost unearth-like
(Pseudonym)
vision of Lake Como. Blue, turquoise-blue,
The pain made her numb. The she thought, the same blue as his eyes. She
had not seen the lake before. She had re-
incident, the memory persisted to play over
mained in bed almost completely since she
and over again in her mind. She felt as if she
had checked into this villa. The villa that
were suffering from a headache at times-
had been reserved months ago for her hon-
rather than a heartache.She made no effort
eymoon. But now her weeding, her honey-
to get dressed that day. She had been wear-
moon, were all a distant dream.
ing that same nightshirt for days now. She
She sighed deeply as she began to
had only taken the time to pull her hair into a
recall his face. The face that she had so often
loose ponytail because her naturally curly hair
stared upon with girlhood infatuation. Ev-
bothered her too much when it was in her
ery crease, line, freckle, contour of his face
face. Her face, though, was pale and her eyes
appeared. She muttered a curse. It would be
red and swollen.
so much easier if she could forget him. If she
Her lip was bloody from biting it con-
could simply banish all thoughts of him from
stantly, even in her sleep. She lifted herself
her mind forever. But it would never be that
from the bed, the same bed that she should
simple for she had loved him; she really had,
have been sharing with him by now, and
and love does not just disappear like a rab-
forced her legs to stand without buckling.
bit in a magician’s hat. It lingers ever so long,
She raised the loose-fitted sleeve of the
even love that she be dead.
nightshirt to her nose and breathed in the
It would be so much easier if she had
deep scent of it. In actuality, the sleeve now
been thwarted in love. If she had discovered
only smelled of her sweat and had required
that he was carrying an affair with one of
a pungent odor within her week of wearing
hr dear friends behind her back. If only that
that shirt and only that shirt. But she was not
were the reason why she was not wed. But
really smelling the sleeve, rather reliving
no.The gunshot echoed throughout her ears.
a sweet memory that that(Italics) shirt, that
That bullet had been meant as a warning
sleeve, brought upon her. She was remem-
sign, not as a death bullet.
bering the times of her courtship with him
Pieces of the night flooded back into
when he had often worn this same shirt.
her memory. They had been out for a stroll
Back then, it smelled of him, of masculinity,
on the beaches of Maine, their real home.
with a touch of a man’s aftershave.
Only two days remained before the wedding
Now, dimly realizing that her legs did
and the young lovers’ anxieties all fell away
indeed support her thin frame, she walked-no
once they saw each other that evening. No
one else was on the beach; no one was there
to spoil their realm of happiness. Thus, no
one was there to help them in the approach-
ing moments or to hear her screams.
“Give me your purse, wallets, watch-
es. Everything of value.,” shouted a darkly-
clothed villain who had been covering himself
in the dunes moments before.
“Where did you, I mean who are
you?” she had stuttered.
“No time for that. Now give me your
money.”
“Never,” he had said, her loving,
chivalrous, knight-like fiancé. The villain des-
perate for the money, and he, her fiancé, so
young, with the idea of being able to save the
damsel in distress fresh in his mind, refused
to surrender his money. They were at a
standstill. Then just as the villain himself had
appeared, a gun appeared in his hands. The
darkly-clothed man had only meant to fire
a warning shot. He may have been a man
seeking money in desperate circumstances, a
villain in her mind, but certainly no murderer.
But her love was so certain that the bullet
was meant to kiss her, so bent on saving her
life that he interceded the bullet and as a
result the bullet hit him no other spot but his
heart.
Without a moment to let the thought
of her beloved being struck with possible
death to sink in, she flung herself on the vil-
lain. She pounded his chest. Screamed. But it
did no good. The villain was at last able to
pull her clenched fists away from him and ran
away without a single cent. He had come to
take money and valuables, but failed, and in
their place he had taken an innocent life.
She collapsed the instant the man had
released her hands. Her legs, her whole body
was weak. With every ounce of strength she
had left she attempted to get up and go to his
side. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring
herself to go to him. She could not face such
pain, such suffering.
“Liza, my dear, my kitten.”
She still could not bring herself to look
at him. He was dying. She could tell by the
weak strain in his usual strong and vibrant
voice.
“I’ll go-I’ll go get help.” She had left
him there. Left him calling for her. She was
getting help. She was doing the right thing, or
at least that is what she kept telling herself.
Then she was back in the present. She closed
off her mind, her memory, if only for a few
minutes.
Her once well-manicured hand half-
rubbed half-played with the curtain. The
chiffon felt material so smooth against her
skin.
His life may be dead, but mine isn’t.
Oh I shouldn’t think like that. If my love is
dead, then I should be too.
But somehow after looking at the
water below and the sun that she had not
seen in weeks, she ached, longed for more
than the four walls of the villa bedroom and
the old shirt now saturated with her sweat.
Trusting her legs completely, she walked over
to the large full-length mirror and saw the girl
it reflected. She really was attractive. Even
with tangled hair, sullen eyes, and a bloody lip
she continued to retain at least a semblance
of her beauty.
I have been here for nearly three
months and have seen nothing but the un-
changed sheets of the bed. I am in one of the
most beautiful places in the world and here I
am sulking over something I cannot change. I
need to at least sightsee a little.
She walked towards the bathroom to
take a long needed shower and prepare to for
the first time experience life.
58
Students were each
asked to bring three
words to the afternoon
meeting on day two.
The following five to six
line poems were con-
structed using words
from this pool of words.
“Paying a Price”
Pain is something
Overcoming our mind
you first expected
a wave of darkness
A violent mood
like a small helpless fish
until you remain deprived
forever
- Lindsay Warnes
You first expected
The biblical evils or
Foxtrotting ballroom ghouls
Paying a price and
A violent mood
Remains deprived forever
- Dan Kukura
Here’s three words
Pain is something
It can overcome our mind
These biblical evils
We’re paying a price
We’ll remain deprived forever
- Susan Head
One thousand miles of helpless
fish, Waves of darkness from
biblical evils,
Fingers jammed and twisted in
pale pink hoodies, and
Foxtrotting bathroom ghouls
with dirty cat smells,
Overcome my mind.
- Amelia Colón
Pain is something that
Overcomes our mind
but it is a positive learning
experience. You first expected
heart on paper. A wave
of darkness really paid
off.
- Amanda Feldman
A violent mood,
And paying a price
My mark of shame
Will remain deprived forever
A wave of darkness,
Will overcome our minds
- Zoe Obstarczyk
Extremely misunderstood
people
Remain deprived forever
Small helpless fish
paying a price
really paid off
and my brain hurts.
- Anonymous
Extremely misunderstood
people
They got hungry
For small helpless fish
Fingers jammed and twisted
Probably dinner too
I don’t know
- Anonymous
The biblical evils
Small helpless Fish
Foxtrotting ballroom ghouls
Overcome my mind
My brain hurts
- Blake Holmes
A violent mood
My brain hurts
Fingers jammed and twisted
Pain is something
And a mark of shame
- Lydia Seidler
You first expected
Small helpless fish
Or extremely misunderstood
people
Remaining deprived forever
Of His astounding brilliance
Paying a price to overcome
their minds
Of the biblical evils.
- Anonymous
“Arcana”
one thousand miles:
deprived forever,
jammed and twisted,
misunderstood and hungry.
My mark of shame,
Your heart on paper.
- Violet Pena
“Puberty”
The small, helpless fish
Were extremely misunder-
stood
In a wave of darkness
Foxtrotting ballroom ghouls
Got hungry.
The small, helpless fish
Are probably dinner, too.
- Kelsey Rice
I don’t know of a violent
Mood, then peace not war.
The biblical evils or (?) wave
of Darkness. A small helpless
fished Person with Fingers
Jammed and twisted.
Here’s three words,
I don’t know.
- Amanda Maxey
pain is something
One thousand miles,
Really paid off.
pain is something,
heart on paper
overcome our mind.
pain is something,
a positive learning experience.
- Alex Bommer
Pain is something
Our minds don’t overcome.
As Waves of darkness
mark our shame.
We pay the price
forever.
- Lisa DiMatteo
Here’s three words
That remain deprived forever
And overcome our minds
That really paid off
extremely misunderstood
people
- Mike Holmes
He breathes and sways
among his fellow foxtrotting
ballroom ghouls
Their fingers jammed and
twisted
Into a mark of shame
They remain deprived forever
Of something like
a violent mood
- Ellen Weisenburger
I didn’t know
That paying the price
Is remaining deprived forever
The mark of shame,
of Biblical evils,
Overcomes our minds.
- Kassie Maser
My foxtrotting ballroom ghouls
Expected me dinner too
a swaying cat
Delicious (?) that!
Paid off their hungry moods
- Jordan Baker
Dirty cats smell and probably
their dinner too. It is plastic
perfect solid small helpless fish.
They got hungry and will re-
main deprived forever
Their violent mood is a mark of
shame Did paying their price
really pay off?
Their fingers jammed and
twisted Extremely misunder-
stood cats.
- Anonymous
Ghouls
You first expected ghouls re-
mained biblical evils.
Ghouls are extremely misun-
derstood people,
Shrieking three words,
Creativity, Liberté, Fraternité.
Peace with ghouls remains one
thousand miles off.
In our minds ghouls remain
deprived forever.
- Monica Disare
“Pain”
Pain is something that I never
fear.
Pain is just like a bottle of beer.
If you fear pain don’t be shy
Because one day your pain will
fly
So that’s the end.
- Erica McCallie
My heart on paper
is something astounding
and brilliant
but not perfect,
as you first expected
- Grace Kreher
Paying the price
Really paid off
Small helpless fish
Overcame our mind
The Biblical Evil
Is Peace Not War
When you First expected
A positive Learning Experience
- Matt Schillinger
A Mark of shame
Breathes and sways
Peace not War
But I don’t know
If his astounding brilliance
Really paid off
- G.A. Fontanez
You first expected heart on
paper,
extremely misunderstood
people remain deprived forever,
wave of darkness and positive
learning experience,
Here’s three words that over-
come our mind that I
don’t know, foxtrotting ball-
room ghouls.
- Patricia Burdukov
My mind hurts if it’s deprived
of creativity A perfect solid
extremely brilliant wave.
Our hearts hurt if it’s deprived
of fraternité Our biblical peace.
Our people hurt if deprived of
Liberté.
A mark of shame for finger
Why I want to know
In one thousand miles
I don’t know.
- Anonymous

60
 Print Anthology Shy
Students who, because of unforeseen circumstances
such as email problems, natural disasters, or hungry dogs, do
not have anything appearing in the print anthology, but were
indeed active and valuable members of our writing camp.

Alex Holt - Attends Williamsville East Jordan Baker - Attends St. Mary’s and
and is our resident music critic and historian writes high fantasy.

Not Pictured

Deanna Arthur is going to be a fresh-

Amanda Maxey - Attends Starpoint Mid- men at Nichols. She did not attend
dle and enjoys playing Nintendo Gamboy. week two of the camp.
Clockwise: Mike working on a poem; Jason reciting
his story at open mic, Patricia sharing a poem

62
 (from left)Mike, Dan, Cliff, Alex, Violet, Der-
ek, and Blake hanging at the student center

63
 Audio Anthology Track Listing
1. Alex Bommer - Ant Corpses
2. Alex Holt - Trying to Get Over
3. Clifford Cawthorn - Revolution
4. Dan Kukura - Phrase One
5. Derek Schultz - Excerpt from “The Wanderer’s
Guide...”
6. Erica McCallie - Outside
7. Frank Flis Group Joke
8. Gabriel Fontanez - Who Am I
9. Dan Kukura - Phrase Two
10. Grace Kreher - Sky
11. Jason Silverstein - Six
12. Jordan Baker - The Sheep of Death
13. Kassie Maser - Precipitation as a Self Portrait
14. Kelsey Rice - A Curious Incident Involving a
Marshmallow
15. Meredith - I Escape You
16. Mike Burke - A Tribute to Music
17. Monica Disare - Sunsets & Flower
18. Violet - Untitled (Vertigo)
19. Zoe Obstarczyk - Pain is Something I Never
Fear at Night

Drawing by Lindsay Warnes