poetry…

Jeanette Beletsis and Sabrina Sarkiso

Writing

The scrawling of ebony blacknessAs if possessed by an unknown force

A force of darknessDragging my hand along its course

PassionAngerLove

Feelings that stagger me speechlessWalking the floors restless, sleepless

The words slowly creeping from behindTaking over every thought in my mind

Until the pure white page isBlack

Samantha ChildsRepaired

Sitting at that this tablethinking about stapleshow they keep the pages togetheruntil they’re yanked outfraying the edges

destroying the foundation

Tape is a temporary fix until the adhesive dries up and the relationship falls apart bring most if the other half right along with itleaving one half forever bruised

Glue, on the other hand, is usefulit repairs what is broken it’s a long-lasting stickinessbut a scar is left behind reminding us that what seems to be

fixed permanentlywhat was once broken still remains

Allison LawsonStand

A young fragile girl cannot stand,She is constantly stricken down by the force from her father's hand.She wants to leave her home because of the way he treats her,But she has nowhere to go,The streets too, will beat her.She would go to her mother is she knew her name.She thinks to herself when will life ever change.She tries to imagine someday she'll escape.Someday she'll stand on her own,But until then, she'll wait.

A troubled teen boy cannot stand.Life gave him cards, but he doesn't want to play his hand.His mom's on drugs and his daddy left them.He tries to get help, but everyone rejects him.He dreams of a way out and being on his own.Sometimes he even dreams of just being alone.He once dreamt of being a king but awoke in confusion.Reality struck in, it was all an illusion.

We cannot stand, they tell us no.So our remarkable stories remain untold.We'll continue on hand in hand.With one hope that one day we'll stand.

Remember her, him and we?She now stands, she stands for she.The teen whose reality oppressed him is finally free.

He now stands, he stands for he.And for all of those unheard voices?They finally speak.We now stand, we stand for we.I was touched by each individual's story.So I now stand, I stand for me.

Lillian RodriguezWhere I’m From

Abandoned and kidnappedfrom where they left me

is where I’m from.But when you hear those words

you think,“My god poor child!”

But actually,It’s the greatest thing

they’ve ever done for me.The first ten years of my life spent with culture.

From all the different types of dishesyou can make with one type of meat.Where all the music sounds the same

but it will still make you urge to dance.From a place where no matter how tight money was

I always felt spoiled.Where you bike down a hill with no breaks

into moving traffic.And if you live,she’ll kill you.

Enjoying the feeling I gotyear after year,

that the taller I grew,the smaller my sweet little old lady got.

I’m from where my parents abandoned meevery morning before work

at my grandmother’s door step.And ever since they’ve kidnapped me back,

I’ve been dying to be abandonedback home.

Ryan SchmidtChange

Each day new doors open,

while others are shut tight.

In both Stormy Weather and Calm Seas,

We hope everything will end up all right.

Some still try to believe,

all that glimmers is gold.

Mistakes must be made for one to know,

that there is a lot that still remains untold.

There will come some good,

and there will come some bad.

Some things may happen for a reason,

and some may leave you shaken and sad.

But bright days there will be,

don’t stay caught up with dread.

There is much time to fill and don’t forget,

many joyful experiences that still lie ahead.

Mustn’t fret change,

For it both comes and it goes

“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows”

(Bob Dylan – Subterranean Homesick Blues)

Joseph Lagalante, Jr.W.H.

She said the world would have suffered

The loss of some of the greatest poetry ever written;

If she simply gave into his desire.

Auden knew, as I do to

The words will change the World at Large

Far less than her presence would to his own perception.

We’d trade them all, my friend and I—just for her attention.

Lyudmila YadegarInjustice

A dream that is all too realBus, stuck - not moving...I will not follow their rules!Equally, is how I will be treated

Cold, Dark, Dreary roomwaking up in a bed with cement floors,staring at the ceiling - so gray,waiting for the gates to open

Breakfast- Refusing to eatMaking a statementhaving this familiar feeling of oppression.God, why don't you hear my cries?

You can't take my soulforUnited we will stand and,fight for change - our freedom, our rights

Sara KohanimEverything starts somewhere

Whether it be a toddler who can’t use a trike,But then years later learns how to do stunts on a bike.Or a little kid who doesn’t know how to tie shoes,But then ends up a Captain tying knots to dock boats for a cruise.Everything starts somewhere. Whether it be an employee working at Burger King,And then becomes an entrepreneur and ends up owning the whole thing.Or a young teen who suffers from deep depression,But then becomes a musician to relieve aggression.Everything starts somewhere. Whether it be Babe Ruth who struck out while becoming a pro,Or Einstein who was always thought to develop very slow.Or Michael Jordan who got cut from his high school basketball team because of a weak throw,Or Dr. Seuss’ first book… 27 publishers said “no”Everything starts somewhere. The hotter the Fe, the harder the X.So please… never be afraid to fail.But be afraid to not even bother trying.Because everything starts somewhere.Everything always starts somewhere.

Cheryl AcevedoThat Day Will Come

That day will come,the sweet fragrance of flowers

will covet the air, the birds will singthe most beautiful love song

you’ve ever heard.My boys will walk down the aisle

to meet their father, carrying with themthe symbol of their existence.

But as I walk down that very same aisle,the flowers wont smell as sweet,

the song will slowly fade,each step I take will be harder to make.

Our eyes will meet, both filled with tears,his, because of happiness,

my own, happiness poisoned by bitterness.I will walk to one love of my life without the other.

He won’t be there to guide me, to hold me,to kiss my cheek and give me away.

That day will come,where all my childhood dreams will be

bittersweet.

Pamela A. Goldstein Time Passing By

Forever the sand slips through the glass.Love is the thing that eternally lasts.We're fresh when we're young,      we wither with age.Live life without borders,      and write on your page. 'Cause even the stars fall from the sky.They burn as they flame,     they blaze as they die. 

Matthew Brennan

CadYou ain't never crossed a damned street,cemented in pine.Tarred and stuffed at your own doorstep,where the wall meets the vine.

I bought some books abroad.They all say the same thing.I saw some sick boots on the sidewalk,but they weren't mysize.I like to jam into those cruel shoes.I sort of hunch around as long as I can.

I look both ways twice,and say an our fatherat the face of a strange driveway.I'm pale as a puritan,but my skin is starting to peel.

My blistered boys build their own rooms,carrying what they need to where it needs to be.They strap on and packlightly.

Big time space invasions, or god's own name in lights?Just get to a place where you can see it alright.

I bought some books abroad,a bunch of bricks over my head.

Rina BerriosInjustice

When I was a teenager I lived a life that was filled with oppression into my adulthood.

A life that was filled with tears, negativity, and hope that was drowning.

Every path I took was surrounded by darkness. Everyone to whom I seek for help, I was denied.

I felt like I had no choice in life expect to drown myself in my emotions, until my king came.

When I was united with my king I was pulled away from my frowns and was given a crown.

When I was receiving darkness during the day, he gave me light that brought brightness into my

new life.

A life was filled with laughter, smiles, memories, romance and ask me to be his wife.

When I change, everything else did.I was given a second chance to live again.

I was finally unchained.No more cracks.

I was given my freedom back.Now it was time to bring out the champagne and forget

the past.

A new life.A new direction.A new definition.

Shana RosenwaldNothing

 

Unexpected rage lingers,Source unknown yet scars show, 

Like tiny vents to let the steam rise and release,Uncaring of whom they hurt or burn in the process.

I bit my lip from screaming out...close my eyes and bleed out, 

opening up for the pain I don't deserve, rounding it all up into a sweet embrace,

calling my tears ...to brand my fears. Wishing there was an OFF switch,

so I could be what I wish to feel......Nothing.

Nataki RobinsonMakeupThe phrase "Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder" is all well and good, but as I live my life day by day no one seems to uphold that obviously outdated standard. Society labels women like me as chicks with bad skin, so as a retort we'll all clump any assortment of makeup on our faces to disguise our so called flaws. The body is the first thing that appeals to a man; their fascination with beautiful women that are dressed partially clad is what my mind’s accustomed. I'm tired of the double standards; my money being spend on 2oz's of product all the while all they'll have to do is buy one bomb ass outfit. As Janet Jackson says "what have you done for me lately?" It's time to stop investing so Much time and effort into things that mean so little. Forget what society says, I'm fully embracing me.

Denise Rivera The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes

Aromatic moonflowers and lilac perfume

Lost fixation, serene insanitySoothing voice with dark intentsEcstasy bliss with extreme menace. Hypnosis is freedomAnd spells are unboundedLost souls captivatedBlinded by beauty. Inviting hips and sensuous lipsDeath is lurking, anxious for one kissMisguided yet excited, uncertain yet fascinated. Fierce words and haunting sighsCold smiles and playful paradiseEmbracing moonlight kisses the sweet dark sky. Delightful quivers and frozen time. No more pain. Hypnotized victim succumbed to meI toyed with this mindSo I will never set it free.

Kiarra WeathersbyEmpowering Darkness

Love everlasting sinister yet embracing

Evil spirits around your love yet I'm still intrigued by you

glued to your heart wondering what I did to have this demonic presence surrounding

me and my heart 

ready to turn it black the pureness of my love, losing its edge 

the light being covered in darkness shadows with figures touched my heart 

just one touch and a gasp. a hold I can't withstand. I fall and you're in sight. 

the only thing I can see in this darkness. it's you. 

no light coming from you just, I know it's you 

so no you're not my savior. you're the reason for the fall 

and the reason the darkness returned. not to escape again, I'm trapped. the love of hate

everlasting no more light in my life. 

no superman. no savior. 

no light, no light.

Matthew BrennanTaila Taila Taila(For Petty and Hobby)Here you come.I see you down the hallway with a hammer above your head, poking holes like modern art...three feet

up the wall.Here I am.You see me in the kitchen with a marker up to my eyes, painting my cityscape...I'm green down to mythighs.Here she comes.We see her in the living room. She's crawling up on the shelf, reaching for a Barbie doll, but there's noone around...ain't no help.Here he is,a tiny gut hanging over underwear. He'll smash a town of lincoln logs. Godzilla's on theloose...nobody cares.

The hardest part is stitched into our spleens, hashed out in dust, both star and saw. Five hundredtrillion precious imprints fashioned after fathers and mothers just doing what was fashionable. Theyboth wore the right pants, and eventually they wound up on the floor.

In our soft, secret souls we are being impossible, reflecting what we've been till it becomes anecdotal.We become something to tell at parties, an ice breaker, something someone may laugh at, or nodimpatiently along with.

In our soft, secret souls, we are being impossible. Carrying out the instructions monogrammed inmankind. Nature's nervous ticks are constantly renamed into something that churns up a chuckle, orcauses the shaking of a head.

I want to talk to you about scope, but it gives me the willies.

Shantese WilkinsonNo Time for Time

No time for timeNo time for these linesI have exactly 6 hours to write3 if I go in early tonight

Make up for hours that beautiful snow whiteTook from me these passed three nightsSo no, I have no time to writeAnd no, this isn’t for your eyesDon’t sit there with that knowing smileOffering words that I don’t find worthwhileI don’t need you appreciating my guileI don’t give a damn how strong I lookI am worn through and shookUnsettled in knowing we can’t meet cuz I am bookedTo the sky or the edge of the Earth, take a lookAt my planner, at my textbooksAt my calendar and my broken footI admit that’s in there just to rhymeBut the truth is I don’t know how I’ve survivedMy body is worn, including my feetAnd all that is pushing me is a nice degreeBut after the congrats and “I knew it”s from familyI still have to live in this hectic societyWhere the more accomplished you wish to beThen the more time you seem to leaveTo others to enjoy a Sunday eveningIt may seem trivial or discerning

That I’ve worked this hard and only sound like I’m complainingI’m not, I’m tired, I’m allowed to be.For six years I’ve pushed for meAnd for six more I’d push to beIn this position, facing this victorySo don’t mistake my tire for lack of significance

I need this degree as much as sleepI want extra minutes as much as this featAnd I love finished assignments as much as my sanityI just want to start living for meHow will I taste the flavor of victoryBefore being handed my next dutyWhat if I can’t accept this realityThat time consumes money consumes what’s left of meIs there an end to this seriesOr am I just left wonderingIn the spare time I don’t keepIt’s fair enough to believeThat these questions could keep repeatingThat is, until 6 hours turns to 3In which case my time is completeThe time I didn’t have to wonder these thingsHas been taken from me repeatedlyDue to a conflict in my schedulingI apologize for stirring your interest in meI am simply a student with a few inquiriesSadly, for an answer, you’ll have to see me next Spring.

Ronald OttPockets of snow

Every time there's a large snowstormThere's always a period of timeDays sometimes weeks after the initial snowfallAnd the sun makes the world too warm for even the thinnest blanketThere are still pockets of snow.We don't search for themBut they are thereWe don't care about themBut they are thereWe don't understand what it is like to be themAnd yet there they remainOn the outskirts of parking lots, mansions, golf courses, sidewalksAnd the outskirts of our conscience.Pockets of snow take their shape

Starting with the initial snowfallAnd the joy that comes with a fresh beginningAll children free from the confines of the academic worldSome adults free from the confines of the working worldThough many others just keep plowing throughLike the snow doesn't matter at all.All they have to do is put on a pair of black bootsAnd they can just walk through the snowWithout even the slightest discomfort.They walk through the snowTheir boots attracting the waste of the working worldDirt,Grime,Sludge,And god only knows what elseOnly for all it to be absorbed by the snow.And while the workman's boots stay black and cleanThe snow must suffer at the expense of its purityTaking the dirtTaking the grimeTaking the sludgeAnd could you imagine if snow could feel?Taking the worst of what the working world has to offerDays even weeks after the initial snowfallFar beyond when anybody gives a(Insert Ron Simmons voice) DAMN!Or...It becomes an inconvenienceIn that case it gets shoveled by the working worldUsing a device (in a surprise to no one)Called a shovelIt gets compacted and, pushed asideWhere it can't affect anyoneThat's how pockets of snow of formed.The working world compacting all the snow before themSnow that should be used to make objects of enjoyment such asSnowballs, snowmen, snow angels, and to help us push an inner tube down a hillAnd off a ramp made out of even more snowThat sure sounds like a better way to spend your sabbathThen shoveling the dirt, grime, and sludgeThat you caused onto the once pure snow.WHO IN THE ZOOBIE DOOBIES DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!Just because you belong to the working worldGives you the right to desecrate the pure white snowWith your dirty black bootsOnly to shovel it away when it can no longer be avoidedWhen it can't be trampled any fartherWhen it no longer cleans your black boots

But it becomes the very thing that you made it out to beDirtGrimeSludgeThe bottom of the barrelWhat does the working world do then?Shovel it away from all directions into a single pileWhere the sun comes in and finishes the jobEvaporating every ounce of purity that snow can muster.It's not a pretty sightWatching a pocket of snows' purity evaporateThat why we don't lookAt the pockets of snowWhat the working world has made of themThese pockets of snowOnce so pure on their initial snowfallHave been reducedTo DirtTo GrimeTo Sludge

Crystal DavisSpying, Prying Eyes

There's something in the waterIn the air

Attacking us through the atmosphereTangible; intangible; stalking our existence

With spying, prying eyesThrough trying times

Eliminate the threat to our successResistance is futile;

Fear only what can ruin youSuccumb to the pain that envelops you

Cave into the pressure of thoseSpying, prying eyes

They bore into your soulKnow every move you're going to make

Before you even consider itThey know the "you" that you are

The one you try to hideAttempt to disguise

The you that comes out at nightThe version not even darkness could hide

Those lies you try to hideBehind your disbelieving eyes

Practiced all those unrelenting timesUnwelcome underlying factorsPathologically lying bastardsThese spying, prying eyes!Latching onto my psyche

Refusing to release my mentalityLet me be not who I am!

Allow me to become a figmentA partial truth amidst the immense lies

Carry me above the restLike a tangible God in your hands

Hold be above the dangerDon't let those

Spying, prying eyesHold me down

I yearn to escape their glareYet I know not how to

Everything undermined by those eyesThose eyes that know the real me

Honestly I don't know who I amDay to day I drift away

Bit by bitMore and more

I am not the me I'm supposed to beIf not only for those unrelenting

Spying, prying, lying eyes Who I am pretending not to be

I am through those eyesWith that vision, I am the me I run from

Lying to myselfAs if I cannot see the reality

I know what I amWho I've become

If not for these damnSpying, prying eyes

I wouldn't be running from my truthJust as those eyes can see the

Real lies in my realitiesI am the one who those eyes belong to

My eyes,Spying, prying, and mostly lying,

Want me to see what's realBut my heart won't let me face the truth

About this version of "me"That I've been trying to hide

From mySpying, prying eyes.

Jasmyn CooperOut There The light of the sun disturbs my dreamsForcing my eyelids apart, preparing meFor another day in here, wishing I could beOut there, with the rest of the world Through the blinds of my windowI see the beauty out thereTrees dancing with the wind and the pure blue skyNot a freckle of a cloud in sight My only little friend has things to do out thereFor a brief moment I am caught up in the scentsOf morning dew and fresh cut grassToo soon he has done his deed I return to seclusion in here, where the walls are pale and bland

I long to go back out there and surround myself with colorWith the flowers on the groundOr the birds in the sky But there is work to be done in here, for I am chained to a screenOf artificial light and color, until these pages are writtenIn here is where I make a livingBut out there is LIFE

short stories…

.

Lindsey Polin Factory Farming

Crying, the lady pleaded with the man:“Please, sir, why would you work here? How could

you do such a thing? Don’t you see how horrible it is? How can you stand to be here!” Tears poured from her eyes as the animal loving lady begged the man. The two of them were standing inside a factory farm with thousands and thousands of neglected animals ready to be butchered and served on a plate for all to eat. The man glared at her and said:

“Listen lady, I have to hear about this every single day, a hundred times a day about how horrible the conditions are for the animals and how could I do such a thing. This is not my fault, this is my job. This is what I do for a living because I cannot find any other jobs. But don’t you dare stand there and tell me that this is my fault! You want to blame someone for fault? Well, go talk to the rest of America and tell all of them how horrible it is. I don’t eat any meat because of this job, this job makes me sick, but you know what? A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Now bug off and go complain[whine] to all of them who enjoy eating all of this meat so much. When all have stopped eating meat and I lose my job, that will be the day I beg God for forgiveness.” The man spat on the ground and gave her a dirty glare and turned his heel to leave her there, standing, stunned.

He was right. This was not his fault. She was left all alone in this factory with these animals around her, staring at her. Those eyes had no life. They knew of no

life. These animals had lost their characters, their personality. No longer were they animals but numbers, ready to be eaten. Since birth these animals were being prepared to be served on a platter. They were bred to be killed. Their life was only served for death. It was almost as if these animals knew their fate. The only question was, why did they continue to live? It is because we forced them to keep living, and injected them with steroids to get their money’s worth. They were no longer animals but walking dollar bills, thousands of pre-made dollars crammed next to each other waiting to be slaughtered to become real dollar bills. They were not animals. They were concentration camp victims. They were walking burgers and franks ready to be made into money. They were the numbers stapled on their ears. They were the walking dead.

The lady felt helpless. What could she do to get America’s attention?

Wangtaolue GuoMaster Chu

When tidying up my room in the New Year’s Eve, I accidentally found a dusty package, in which was a clay tiger. Dull and dismal was its color, with a curved flaw on its back, however, the tiger still had a fierce and animated look.

This was an art piece by Master Chu. I had a lot of his clay figurines when I was a kid, but couldn’t find most of them anymore. Yet at this moment, the old days flashed across my mind.

Master Chu was an artisan making clay crafts. His gaunt, sallow face was like the trunk of the camphor trees along the street, conveying a mixture of perseverance and composure to the vicissitudes of daily life. The glasses he wore looked large and heavy, one earpiece of which was bound with endless tape. Later I came to know that however long the tape was, it could never mend his broken past. Always in a dark blue Chinese tunic spattered with paint, he remained at the same corner every day, with an attentive look and handicraft work.

Clay figurines were not a specialty of my hometown. Therefore, Master Chu’s works were quite unique among a bunch of handicraft on the street; moreover, taciturn as he was, he could carry on his work even in the spotlight of crowds of twittering kids. I remembered clearly that he had a picture album, in which various patterns and images were put in order, and down below were prices. You pointing at a preferred picture, he would simply give a nod for confirmation. And a simple deal was successfully made.

Perhaps it was his serious look and silent characteristic that eliminated kids’ curiosity. Many of them did not pay much attention to him. However, I was one of the exceptions, and thus the two of us started a few talks every time I went to his booth.

It was from our conversations that I knew he came from Huishan, a small town which was well-known for clay figurines. Making those little gadgets was his profession, which according to him, had several “grades.” He said “Da Ah Fu”, a kind of short and stout clay figure, was merely a crudity. “It was just for money-making,” once he told me. What really distinguished excellence from mediocrity was the artisan’s mastery of making opera characters. It demanded years of practice and careful observation. Master Chu had a whole set of tools, sized from small to large. The smallest of them, to my surprise, was a fishbone.

That day, my father and I went past Master Chu’s booth. Turning a few pages of his album, my father praised: “Excellent work!” At that time, I thought Father did mean so because he was a professor teaching Chinese painting in an art college and seldom made a compliment to others.

Even without raising his head, Master Chu whispered: “Making real clay figurines needs years of design and work. These are — these are just gadgets.”

Father said: “No, they are art.”After a moment of silence, Chu said: “You’re flattering me.

As an itinerant artisan, I know nothing about art. I’m here just to make ends meet.”

His voice indicated slight indifference.

A few days later, an accident took place. And for master Chu, itinerancy was not a good thing.

There, Master Chu was standing by his stall, his head hanging down and hands at his sides. The working plank was overturned, weighing down the branches of an ilex. Down there, stuck on the ground, were several clay blocks. Two officers surrounded him, hurling abuses. Master Chu blushed, for the torrent of invective, and I guessed, for the fact that he couldn’t pay the three hundred yuan fine. Father came forward, paid for him, and put up the stall with him together. Master Chu took out his tool bag and began to examine everything one by one. Clearly I could see that fishbone had been broken. But he said nothing, arranging them painstakingly in the bag, and sighed: “Men are not what they were in times past; the general moves are getting worse.”

The crowd scattering in all directions, Father said: “Master, it’s quite hot outside. You see, we live around here. Just come and have a cup of tea with us.”

He didn’t speak, but remained still. I knew he was trying to find an excuse. So, I pulled him by the sleeves: “Come on, Master.”

When we were having tea together, Master Chu glanced over the room and his sight stayed on a scroll of landscape painting. “Ni Hongbao,” a name escaped his lips.

Father was flabbergasted, as if he had found a bosom friend: “You know anything about Chinese painting?”

“Excuse my nonsense, but I know that Ni’s style and handwriting are difficult to imitate.”

“That’s exactly the point. You are really an expert.”

I was not sure what it was that set up and strengthened the friendship between Master Chu and my family. But since then, my father would pay a regular visit to his booth every week and chatted with him for a while. At that moment, Master Chu would take on a vivid look, as if rain soaked a piece of dry land.

Later, we got the news from the hospital that Master Chu had liver cancer. The nurse told us he wouldn’t survive another week and the other contact, his sister, had arrived.

In Master Chu’s ward, I saw an old lady feeding porridge to Chu. I didn’t speak much, sitting silently beside his bed. It seemed someone next-door had turned on a recorder. Dimly and intermittently came the sound of Buddhist sutra, which filled the room with dreariness. “Autumn has come eventually,” I thought.Outside the ward, the old lady began to tell us Master Chu’s broken life. Strangely enough, for the first time, the unfamiliar side of Master Chu became clearer and clearer in her hoarse voice.

Master Chu was persecuted in the time of the Cultural Revolution. Overnight, dazibao[1] filled the small town and so did people’s fanatical minds. In that damp summer, he caught sight of his name crossed off with a vicious title down below, Inveterate Capitalist. When his master was trying to figure out what a capitalist was, the Red Guards violently broke into the house, clamoring that the artisans should break completely with decadent ideas and hand in the “capitalistic tools.”

In his impetuousness, Master Chu shouted back to the Red Guards: “You ignorant! My tools are nothing but this pair of hands!”

“Then, we will destroy them!” the Red Guards encircled him; one of them held a giant mallet.

Swung up and down, the mallet made a muffled sound. Meanwhile, an old man’s body fell to the ground slowly and softly. It was Chu’s master rushing up to protect his apprentice.

After Master Chu had been in prison for three years, officers from the Revolutionary Committee offered him a chance to be a “literary and art worker” for the People’s Republic Association, to make portraits of Chairman Mao. Master Chu stuck his hands into the clay, overwhelmed by a sense of strangeness and cowardice.

He felt as if he had been on an isolated island for centuries, waiting for nothing, or been in the infinite limbo, where there was bitter happiness and lost satisfactions. In the dim sunlight, he saw his master making clay figurines again, right beside him. Strange warmth passed from his fingertips to the bottom of his heart.

Everyone thought highly of the portraits he made. And his portraits of Chairman Mao were enshrined in each and every family.

Things went peacefully until the day his son had a serious fever. When Master Chu took him to the hospital in town, the child had already been in a coma, never coming to himself again. What was worse, the Revolutionary Committee gave an instruction again, ordering him to make a giant portrait overnight, which would be given as a present to another town the next morning. Pocketing the extreme sadness of losing his son, Master Chu kept working until very late at night. At dawn, the portrait was finally finished. Possessing a mild and benevolent countenance, “The Chairman” was still that magnanimous great man.

But at noon, in rushed a group of Red Guards, claiming that they were to arrest a counterrevolutionist. It was Master Chu. Accidentally making an error, he put Chairman’s mole on the right of the lower jaw. This detail, to the Red Guards, obviously showed that Master Chu was trying to propagandize for the Right Wing. “Sinister and cunning is the guy,” they thought.

Another nine years went by when he was released from Reform-Through-Labor Farm. Time had already left its trace on him. However, he said he would earn his own living, and therefore, he refused his sister’s invitation to live with her and went to Hangzhou alone.

Silence prevailed in the corridor. Master Chu’s sister took out an envelope and handed it to Father: “Sir, my brother left a key and hoped you could open his chest when he knew he couldn’t survive any longer.”

The chest lay still beside Master Chu’s sickbed, timeworn but spotlessly clean.

The next moment, I saw a whole chest of Chairman Mao’s portraits. And Mao’s mole was exactly in the middle of each portrait’s lower jaw.

Notes[1]. A wall-mounted newspaper or similar, as a popular form of communication and political propaganda during the Cultural Revolution in China.

Melody Beth TomlinsonSe Réveiller et Vivre

We were sitting at an outdoor café going over the shopping list, when I saw someone from the corner of my eye. It was an old, forgotten friend of mine, rounding the bend until he disappeared out of view, and I was suddenly filled with the desire to meet him. Frantically pushing away from the table, I rushed past the fenced enclosure hoping to catch up with him.

I could hear my wife calling after me, but it was as distant as the moon from Earth as I was swept up with memories of days I’d long buried. I caught a glimpse of him down the street in a crowd of busy people all headed the other direction, so that when I tried to pursue him I met unyielding opposition. My jostling and turning did nothing for me. When looked up, I could just barely see him take another bend in the road when he vanished

again. He was walking so effortlessly, to my chagrin, as if the world itself parted for him.

After nothing short of assaulting my way through, I saw him again. He was looking at the sky, as if thinking sure looks sunny or I wonder what tomorrow will bring or maybe today’s the day. I was closer to him now than ever before—he and I both at opposite ends of the crosswalk—when the light turned, and cars severed the way between us.

Of course, I thought right then just to yell to get his attention, but my mind drew a blank. What was his name? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.

Some time ago that would’ve given me some sort of petty satisfaction, but as I saw him walking away, with my shouts of hey, you falling on deaf ears, I was inwardly beating myself up for it.

Feeling panicked—and without really thinking—I dashed into traffic. I got past two lanes before I heard such a foreboding horn that I froze and watched as a large truck came close, closer, then barreled past me not three feet away. The horn was echoed from pesky cars around me, but I planted myself firmly on the median, refusing to go back, daring to catch a moment I could run to the other side.

During this, I looked for him again but couldn’t see him. I scanned beyond the lights to the sidewalk down the way but couldn’t see my friend in the crowd. He wasn’t in the store windows or faces by the street vendors—not by the telephone booth near the guitarist playing Que Sera, Sera—so it was not long before my face flushed and eyes burned from shame.

I realized I failed him again. Once again I saw him leaving, but I didn’t have the courtesy to see him out. Well, no, this time was different; I had tried this time to

see him. I just failed to. It hit me then how much I truly missed him. I felt a black hole form in my chest, pulling so my insides felt displaced, and my head grew heavy from the weighty things I remembered.

The cars sped past me, still sounding their horns, but though their power startled me, it could not overtake the vastness of my loss. I curled my arms into themselves, thinking deeply about my next move. To find him now may be impossible, but to lose him again was unthinkable. The next break I saw, I ran across another lane. The man occupying the last lane both leaned on his horn and slowed down, swearing loudly as I unflinchingly raced before him.

The crowds here were drifting to the sides—both the windows and street vendors were cluttered with people—but the middle was largely empty. I dashed through haphazardly, thinking sometimes I caught sight of him in a store or at the corner of another sidewalk. I would slow my steps around particularly large groupings hoping to see him, but he wasn’t there.

Think, idiot! Didn’t he look like he was headed somewhere? Didn’t he walk like a man who didn’t care to look around, as if he knew where he was going? Looking around, and still experiencing every memory of him, it occurred to me I didn’t need to search for him, but where he was going.

I turned on my heels, making every effort to bypass pedestrians and cars as I weaved through the streets. Somehow, I knew exactly where he was heading; the memories of us walking together down this very route gave me chills and made me feel very young. I crossed the street to the other side just as the lights turned in my favor, and I strode through the high walls of the school over to the playground.

There, sitting on the swing, was my dearest childhood friend. Walking over to him, I could see his face—first melancholy, then hopeful. I was so bent on catching his eyes that I did not see the smile as it crept across his face until his snicker shook his whole body.

“I told you I’d see you again.”I wanted to smack him almost as much as I wanted

to laugh with him; it was just like old times. Feeling sheepish and very sad, I replied, “Yeah, okay, you won.”

“I knew you’d miss me.” He said, frowning.“I do.” I said, “I tried to forget. I tried to pretend you

didn’t matter to me, but I miss you so much.”The edge in his face softened, and his eyes flickered

up to me for the first time, giving me a long look. Standing up, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t. I’m always with you.”

“I’m so sorry—”“Is that what this is all about?” He said with a faint

smile, “Don’t you know? I’ve already forgiven you.”And before I registered my wife calling for me, he

faded away.

Stephania BonnetJob #28

I was standing in a highly decorated living room waiting to meet Mr. and Mrs. Leblanc. I had to admit that my clients had an exquisite taste in paintings and a particular interest is Monet and Van Gogh because their living room walls were bursting with paintings.

Our appointment was at three o’clock; however, they were fifteen minutes late. I thought maybe they weren't satisfied with my work or they simply didn't want to pay. I had asked for a handsome price, but it was worth my reputation, the nature of the work, and the quality that I offered. Why

wouldn't they pay? I questioned myself as I revised my work in my clients’ mansion…

Ten o’clock in morning, on a hot summer day, a dreadful silence filled a small boutique situated at the corner of Jay Street, only a few blocks away from the neighborhood’s vast supermarket. On an old square poster outside the store, “Lafleur’s Boutique” was painted in navy blue and under it, the slogan “Unique And Different Is What We Sell You to Make You Standout!” written in a smaller font. Rose Lafleur was drawing imaginary circles with her small index finger on the surface of the thick wooden counter she was standing behind. She was smiling. Her head was tilted on one side and her eyes were gazing at the ceiling. I knew exactly what and whom she was thinking of. She had in mind the young son of Leblanc’s family, Mr. Alexander Leblanc.

It had been six months since Mr. Alexander Leblanc and Rose Lafleur had been going out. How did they meet? I will never know because Mr. Alexander and Rose were from two different worlds. Mr. Leblanc came from the wealthiest family on this island while Rose came from the poorest family in her village. And yet, they loved each other. A day wouldn’t go by without calling or spend three days without seeing each other. They would go to joyous balls, the movies, parks, and restaurants. They would walk hand in hand, whispering things to one another and laughing out loud. They were what society identified as real lovers.

Rose Lafleur’s family loved Mr. Alexander. He was twenty, honest, rather handsome, and above all rich. He would occasionally bring expensive gifts to Lafleur’s family and even for neighbors that were close friends. In the real world, this heavenly story belonged to fiction only. I was seventeen at that time and I knew that, but Lafleur's family didn’t.

Mr. Leblanc’s family despised Rose. Mr. and Mrs. Leblanc interpreted Rose as a threat to the family’s name and wealth. They resented her every movement, from her naïve smile to her weak voice. They found the way Rose walked, the sound her outfit made, the way her beady brown eyes looked at their son disgraceful. Leblanc’s family lived in a world full of darkness where innocence was a common weapon used to achieve evilness. They didn’t know any guileless people like Rose nor could they accept her. It was the first time I was assigned to an innocent person like her, but I didn’t mind.

Many times Leblanc’s family asked their son to end his relationship with Rose. They explained to him how Rose was just taking advantage of him. However, the son didn’t listen. His family’s opinion hardened his will. He became more determined to commit to Rose. Little did the young Alexander know about the real colors of his family.

Just like a teenager rebelling against his parents, Mr. Alexander naively revealed his plans to run away with Rose and marry her later on. The eighteen-year -old Rose and Leblanc made arrangements to pack a few clothes and leave the country. They thought that they would escape their fate by fleeing.

I liked studying my targets closely, so I followed the couple for almost a week.

“Tonight”, had said Mr. Alexander, “you will meet me at eight in front of the village entrance.”

“But I have to close my parents’ boutique at nine.” Rose explained.“No problem. Invent something like you are on your period or whatever

and close early. So we could meet at eight! I have a feeling that my parents are up to something.” Great intuition Mr. Alexander, I thought, but not enough to predict what was coming.

As I watched Rose daydreaming in the boutique, I cautiously approached closer. The most important thing about this job is to keep my identity a secret. I didn’t want to leave any witness behind. The police would have a perfect target and jobs would become harder. Even though Rose was a defenseless target, I still had to proceed carefully. Because of Rose’s friendly character, she was well known in her town. Any suspicious actions would have been easily noticed. I entered the boutique and walked slowly toward the counter. The boutique seemed even smaller when I was inside. My gun was well hidden behind my back under my shirt. I took off my sunglasses as I looked at Rose who finally came back to earth.

“Yes sir. How may I help you?” She asked. I knew how she could help me. Be a good girl and die by my hand! I said in my head.

I wanted her to leave the counter because she was five foot tall, apparently. I could barely see her shoulders, even though I was five feet and ten inches tall.

“Do you have male T-shirts?” Good excuse.“Yes we do. Follow me.”She was wearing long blue dress and a sleeveless kaki jacket which I

found odd. It was eighty degrees on this island, hot enough to sweat even in your birthday suit. I examined her body as she pulled out the T-shirts behind three layers of shelves. For a professional like me, it was easy to figure out what is the best distance to shoot without making a mess. I was particularly sensitive about how my victims looked like when they died. I loved placing my victims in the center of a room; if I had the luxury to kill them in one and I always used a single bullet.

Rose showed me the T-shirts that she piled up on a table. I allowed her to turn and walk toward the counter, until she stepped where I wanted her to stand.

“Rose” I called pulling my gun out.As soon as she turned to face me, my finger pulled the trigger. In an

instant, those brown eyes rolled behind Rose’s head and she silently collapsed on the floor. I watched darkish red liquid arching and circling her. I kicked her legs to confirm her death. I knew a bullet straight to the heart would kill anyone but checking was part of the job, although I never missed. I stepped back to admire my work. An art: Rose lay on her side, her knees half in and one arm along her body and the other one curved. Her dark hair tied in a bun left her round face undisturbed as if she was sleeping. LeBlanc’s’

family would find their contract with me worth every penny. I opened my notebook and in the empty box in front of Job #28 I previously wrote, I drew a check sign.

Mr. and Mrs. Leblanc arrived twenty minutes late and they didn’t seem happy. The middle-age couple didn’t appear as sophisticated as they were the first day I met them. Mrs. Leblanc was not wearing her expensive glasses or one of her designer’s suits that made her stand as an intellectual and independent woman she was. She was instead wrapped with white cloth and glued at her husband’s arm. Mr. Leblanc had his suit and glasses but he looked exhausted as if he had spent the night awaken. His dark eyes like his wife’s were filled with defeat.

“Where is my son?” Mrs. Leblanc inquired on the verge of tears.Raising my eyebrow underlined nonverbally the question “How should I

know?” I proceeded ignoring the unprofessional interrogation.“I have done my work. Rose Lafleur is now history.”“If you had killed her then, who on earth my son came here with last

night to say goodbye?” Mr. Leblanc angrily asked, filling the room with his grave loud voice.

I was confused. I killed Rose Lafleur with my own gun. Then I slowly replayed back the killing scene in my head to find a logical explanation. Rose must have faked her death, but how? Even if she was wearing a bullet proof vest the gun was too close… She did walk at a certain pace and a distance before I shot her. My pattern was always a bullet straight to the heart so they could have been specially prepared… Her boyfriend spent three years studying psychology.

Even so, it takes geniuses to prepare such a brilliant scheme and mock a genius like me in such a small amount of time. Twenty-seven out of twenty-eight of my work had been beyond success. They made look like a fool in front of Mr. and Mrs. Leblanc. I was infuriated. I understood clearly how they both planned it. They must have known me; no, they must have studied me and my works very closely. Alexander loved his girlfriend, and that is why he went through all this trouble to save her. On the other hand, he also wanted to play with me before leaving the country. The idea of breaking my no-refund policy, returning the amount I received in advance and killing both Rose and Alexander dominated my mind for a moment. But I rejected it. I promised myself that wherever they went, I would follow them and finish my job. I wouldn’t kill Alexander. After all, I still had a favor to return for not selling me out to the police.

I opened my notebook, erased the check sign that I drew next to “Job #28” and wrote down “incomplete”. I walked out of Leblanc’s property without a word leaving the owners perplexed.