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patrons angels downtown optimist club staff members 2010 editor in chief jennifer liu benefactors roger and mary ann baumgarner bud bell mark and lynn mcintosh pat and monica mcmurry hickman ptsa production editor shawna burhans art editor carlyn hadusek sponsors richard and cynthia cotner sheron van doren kevin guevara abdol h jafari and manijeh heidari michaela and kathleen wagner assistant art editor zophia mcdougal manuscript editor pari jafari assistant manuscript editor anna mcmurry muses dirk burhans susan burpo mark and anne chambers charles chau george frissell tim and linda harlan vivian nimmo bill and jean trae charles taylor publicity and events coordinator morgan buscher business manager kevin guevara staff katie bell john brooks chelsea chambers rodney dixon gaby lopez mariah miranda larissa owen marina steinhauer kristi stringer maya terrell avery wagner annemarie van doren cover advisors carolyn chipley nancy white 1 strange carlyn hadusek oil[close]
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poetry saturday alesha pisciotta 6 required avery wagner 9 the tribe mayumi marzolf 16 carousel allison bader 19 the cleansing of the tree brian willcox 21 up lizzie germann 26 taming the unknown bo brendel 28 bus buddies chelsea chambers 32 romance pari jafari 34 the unrequited love of a nerd daniel hwang 36 odyssey anna mcmurry 38 a marsh a bird a mind shawna burhans 42 four walls avery wagner 43 reddish-brown recliner alesha pisciotta 45 dog control nick terrell 47 more than a walk alesha pisciotta 54 because i could not fall asleep joey williams 56 lies of closed eyes lee acton 59 time alex robinson slush kristen carranza 4 59 ap lit ben levin consequences carter datz aspirations of a tree t.i atkins words annemarie van doren 63 broken melody john miles faaborg 65 lost `n found chelsea chambers 5 two dimensional 99 degrees michael sun 7 thing t thing katie bell 8 retro marie brink 10 drain mica lopez 17 self portrait tess montgomery 18 makeshift campfire katie bell 20 the sands of time ella bourgeois 24 light and color carlyn hadusek 27 still life diana durrant 29 portrait sara mantooth 31 pinhole bicycle morgan atteberry 33 typewriter morgan buscher 36 self portrait tess montgomery 39 sun straw and self katie bell 40-41 self portraits danielle gard 43 sunflowers dana murdock 45 toody zophia mcdougal 46 self portrait sarah clayton 49 perspective shawna burhans 55 cityscape diana durrant 60 please dear lord save me from the light of day ella bourgeois 63 elle faisait un bol zophia mcdougal 64 going green anna mcmurry 67 mandy 23 there s a snake in my boot morgan atteberry clockwork 69 reach lexie dickes carlyn hadusek and laura lindsey 71 f-stop 35 motif thief morgan buscher josh white 73 beauty 57 seepage christina eubanks ella bourgeois 75 abstract 58 amarillo sky avery wagner lexie dickes 79 downtown 77 chimera zophia mcdougal laura lindsey three dimensional 66 they are making love in the grass kristen carranza 69 the ballad of peanut butter jelly adam sperber and matt baker 72 mother earth s revenge annemarie van doren 77 from the break of day 75 white elixir jeffrey grant kevin guevara 11 twitch ben levin 18 second star to the right jennifer liu 22 black tie funeral nick terrell bowl brian willcox wood prose music 12-15 maelstrom john miles faaborg interview 50-53 ray ronci hr staff hand ella bourgeois ceramic 25 shit storm chelsea chambers 30 the all-star special drew gieseke 48 what would martha do jennifer liu 61 vive la différence shawna burhans 70 the baseball i missed john brooks 76 seeking sustenance pari jafari 78 entschuldigung lizzie germann dresses jennifer liu fiber art 2[close]
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saturday alesha pisciotta on the table in front of my blank paper is a pile of mysteriously dry pens pencils sharpened down to the pink erasers at the end and an empty state university coffee mug a clock in the other room is ticking the second hand sounds heavy as i put my pencil to the paper softly only enough to leave the residue of a gray mark as it makes contact the lead snaps and shoots a few feet away the beige carpet around me is buried under millions of fragments of broken lead from when i tried to write the answer but failed when i stand up to refill my coffee they crunch under my weight like the sound of a crack traveling in the layer of ice over a pond the pieces of lead get pushed further into the carpet with each step i take lodging themselves between each fiber and i know that i ll never be able to get them completely out again my coffee mug will be full but my carpet will have permanent gray footsteps a permanent reminder i might as well take a red marker and write failure on all the walls my vision blurs a little as i imagine it what have i done to the carpet i look back at the blank page again the horizontal blue lines stare up at me so i turn around go back to my chair crumple the paper and push it down into the coffee mug i shove it then and it slides across the wooden table and sits there on the other side watching me i wipe my eyes and stare at the carpet trying to ignore the coffee cup s glare listening for the sound of the heater kicking off or the second hand to drop its ten pound weight until i ve forgotten whether it s day or night 44 99 degrees michael sun watercolor 55[close]
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required avery wagner i can feel my rising skin crawl as water trickles down my back all this flesh is white my cheeks are red hair stringy and face tilted upward into the raw heavens i think the world has really stopped this time in absence of noise all this quiet is heavy as the sky and i can t stop recalling how today was worse nothing is fair things always changing life is impermanence and the universe with all its ebb and flow slips away despite the stitches i sew the rain is falling here onto this earth so carpe noctem the clouds hang low 6 6 thing t thing katie bell digital photography 7 7[close]
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the tribe mayumi marzolf adrenaline pumps through dark hollowed veins carnal brutality on the field reigns guttural war cries rip from each player soul s trembling tension seeps down deep layers eyes shift warily marking each woman postures crouched for the onslaught of runnin sticks cocked tight the only goal is winning a high shrill sound signals the beginning bodies colliding from dashing too fast flesh pounding flesh you can hear the tribe gasp searing pain flashes beyond lightning hot my turbulent insides twist in a knot lunge for the ball it sets in my cradle the other tribe can t steal from my ladle checks left and right metal clashing i hear its only mimic is a shattered spear the echoing sound of gunfire cracks mind numbing pain then my world flickers black retro marie brink mixed media 8 9[close]
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twitch ben levin i stood in front of the class as an olive pit lodged itself in my throat panning across the classroom friends and teachers squelched their conversation and zeroed in on my frame i gulped and the pit budged an inch downward i let loose with my opening salvo s-s-s-sometimes when i talk i t-t-t-twitch but don t make fun of m-m-me you bitch no i was not launching a profanity-laden tirade this was the annual poetry slam in my ap language and american literature class every year ms rahm would summon back former students to judge her pupils every year three winners are selected each receiving a book of verse the competition was the capstone event of our junior year and each collection from tamerlane by edgar allan poe to where the sidewalk ends by shel silverstein was coveted as a symbol of excellence in the notoriously competitive class since i have been able to speak my stutter has skulked between my syllables sometimes like a snake it reaches and swallows my words at the most unexpected moments other times like a gorilla it rises up and pounds me into defeated muteness when i was little i lacked the control and self-awareness to regulate it i would stammer through unintelligible sentences that could take minutes to finish leaving the listener if they hadn t walked away already confounded repeating syllables hundreds of times a day with a speech pathologist the stammer became manageable as i learned strategies to contain it but talking slowly pulling out of words and enunciating with more breath could only take me so far public speaking remained my bane who could forget in 5th grade when i fled in terror from my missouri history presentation after lingering a second too long on the huck in huckleberry or in 3rd grade when i broke down in front of the microphone at the school spelling bee on the b in the word built so standing in front of forty people and reciting an original poem presented me with some unique challenges my friends were concerned with the content of their poems while i fretted about the presentation itself i was sprawled out in my nook at ellis library half-seriously brooding over possible escape plans from the classroom when i realized something forcing my listeners to see me enact something approaching a seizure was the worst part of the ordeal why don t i let them in on the cosmic joke that is my speech why don t i make my poem about my stuttering speech i frantically drafted verses in the days before the competition even sending an outline to my grandfather a creative writing teacher at umass who shares my stutter for revisions the night before the competition i had rhymed my last word and reflected that if nothing else the poem would be amusing after the laughter died down from my opening line the poem shifted focus from the profane to the profound so please i urge you don your coats and embark with me and my choking throat if i could participate in class on a regular basis i argued those silent in class had no excuse although the rest of my presentation was as ridden with chokes and interruptions as that first line they only enhanced the final point for whatever your problems with verbal `orate rs i can assure you mine are far greater at the end of the class i gripped my prize of walt whitman s leaves of grass tightly i was not overly proud of my stutter or the cutesy rhyming poem but for once i had found a way to translate my weakness into strength as i perused the book that night in bed i felt myself returning to whitman s line a man is a summons and challenge when i flipped off my reading light and burrowed beneath my sheets it was only fitting that for the first time i considered my stutter not a hindrance but something that might yet challenge me to become a better man 11 drain mica lopez photography 10[close]
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14 to view and listen to the composition in its entirety please visit our website to listen/view this piece in its entirety please visit our webite 15[close]
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carousel allison bader i can t think straight all the world s a blur colors sounds laughter spinning past me in a whirl my stomach churns but the carousel won t stop then suddenly the ride lurches and i ve landed with a bang thrown to the ruddy ground a stinging a different kind of pain now i can t stand up can t seem to catch my grip all i want to do is get back on but when my head is right side up i look around it s gone i blink searching the open sky as though from behind a puffy cloud or a patch of blue it will appear again my incredulous eyes land on a pair of children in a nearby sandbox a boy building and destroying empires with his purple plastic pail a girl her admiration apparent in her widened melted chocolate brown eyes i ask them that carousel you saw it disappear having no patience for inane fantasies they merely shook their heads since then i ve searched the earth the sky and minds both near and far yet no one can seem to tell me why that magnificent ride seems to have crumbled into atoms invisible to the naked human eye what s more and far more curious is that when asked to recall that carousel the sir or lady in question claims heck they don t remember it at all wandering through the park at dusk i agonize that i alone must remember how it shone how it blazed and beckoned and called my name those endless afternoons of laughter that dizzying delightful craze all ended with a halt a jolt in motion as i was thrown flat on my face i suppose someday this endless searching will inevitably cease but before i grow too old i d like to have just one more day before i grow too old i d like to say it s not too late 16 self portrait tess montgomery mixed media 17[close]
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second star to the right jennifer liu i thought she had already fallen asleep when her whispered voice called me back to consciousness do wishes made on shooting stars really come true nadia questioned under a blackened sky she turned her head away from the stars and looked to me in silent anticipation i had seen the same look from her before the wondering child had come over as she often did so her mother could tend to her second job in the city it was the girl s eighth birthday and instead of being lavished with gifts of pink plush and glitter she shared a blanket with me outstretched under a sky masked with a different type of ornamentation i didn t get any candles on my cake this year she said in a voice more understanding than disappointed but you know she started again there are so many wishes in the sky and if just one would fall it could come true right this time she turned her head back upward looking for a response in the celestial orbs themselves i started to tell her that yes of course her wish would come true if she tried hard enough but she already had her eyes shut tight making a wish on a descending jet plane the cleansing of the tree brian willcox the autumn comes and with its whisp ring breeze the tree limbs shiver on its mind unease the time is come when all the leaves have gone and nude it stands upon the icy lawn the wint ry day came sooner than was thought and with it calm and cool acceptance brought upon the cold and barren land solo the boughed tree is drooping from the snow but with each breath of warm spring air it melts from hoary shackles and the icy belts which dragged it downward to the abyss the tree is greed and now can bask amidst the greener pastures and the sunny hours released by the cleansing springtime show rs the summer spreads its warm and even coat and the holy sun it soon will dote as blossoms transition to golden fruit the tree is warmed to the lowest root 18 makeshift campfire katie bell digital photography 19[close]
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lizzie germann to say we climbed would be an insult to st stephen s we ascended the stairs went up so far and there were so many and it took so long i was sure we would be deposited directly into heaven itself but there were no heavenly host only a gift shop and eventually sweating and swearing we reached the top top top of the spire and there was vienna laid out before us like an enormous flawless magnificent patchwork quilt with checks made of buildings and statues cars and busses people and pigeons and street signs a quilt like a map all perfect geometrical shapes looking like the world does when you re staring out the window of a plane ascending up up up into heaven the sands of time ella bourgeois acrylic up 20 21[close]
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black tie funeral nick terrell in fifth grade a friend of mine told me that here in the temperate rainforest of the santa cruz mountains he had found a great old black piano it was waiting for us in his garage i smiled and said that i would be over on thursday not knowing that what awaited me there was self-revelation on thursday we walked to his house and stood in front of the garage crows screaming in the background waiting for something he made me wait in front of the dim grey garage door then finally pressed on the door opener a sly smile was on his face as the ancient analog machine rumbled open little bits of dust and leaves falling the piano was stunning a three legged ebony and ivory gentleman that deserved to be in a museum of beautiful things that should never be lit on fire even with the complete anarchy of the garage bicycles half hanging off the wall colonies of dust bunnies in the corners boxes labeled pictures `86 the piano stood out as one of a kind the shimmer of the sole yellow light above the piano told me that elegance existed my friend declared isn t it beautiful do you want the first hit or can i have it here let me get the hammers my mouth instantly gaped i could only watch as he grabbed a plaster-stained sledgehammer and swung like wile e coyote blowing away one of the midnight-black carved legs the piano stood there like it had walked off a cliff then crashed into the floor sending splintering wood and a bone chilling harmony of dissonance towards me never before had i seen something as beautiful as the piano and never before had i allowed something i loved to be destroyed even worse in a perverted way i wanted to help in the destruction and my friend could tell his same sly smile returned he handed me a hatchet and signaled to go serial murderer on the wounded gazelle i made a pitiful crack the width of a pencil in the music book stand i was standing there the pale yellow light sending my grey shadow to stare back at me from the wall the hatchet shaking a little in my hand for what seemed to be an hour i lifted my head from staring down at my own corpse and that of my accomplice i gazed around finally realizing that no one was waiting in the junk to condemn me my fear was lifted and i started playing chinese fingers on the piano strings themselves having to move up a tone every once and a while my friend amused himself by drilling giant holes in the side to spell out his name it sounded monstrous it looked monstrous it was honestly the most fun i had ever had in my entire life chords springing from the ghoul of an instrument at every hammer s blow after nightfall we looked back we were masons that pile of wood chips ebony wires and the skeleton of cast iron was our masterpiece to rival david we argued about what to do with it finally deciding on an impromptu viking funeral we swept the pile outside on to the driveway and doused the wood in gasoline lighter fluid and some spilt tang drink i wrote an elegy for the piano before it was sent off to valhalla it went oh piano your time on this earth has passed your piano family will remember you fondly not as the smoking rubble you will be in but four minutes but as the gentleman you were before we got to you amen the matches were dropped and a plume of fire lifted the piano and our eyebrows up to the heavens we jumped over the embers argued about what kind of soda was best and i walked home to do homework i drew pianos wearing viking helmets and wielding swords on my math 22 there s a snake in my boot clock work lexie dickes and laura lindsey cardboard 23[close]
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shit storm chelsea chambers you are a very kind soul i utter as alex the drum major sprints toward me with a wad of kleenex it s no problem happens all the time she lies graciously to spare the feelings my fellow guard members haven t already obliterated with their howling laughter as crimson heat floods my face i tilt my head stare at the astroturf and remain motionless as she attempts to wipe the pasty poo from my hair tuesday night band is the definition of a vicious cycle from 5:30 to 8:30 band members spend so much time playing our chosen instrument marching around the field and dying of thirst that after practice all we can think of is the cushy comfort of our beds there s a two hour window in which to cram whatever homework we can but with six fast food restaurants within spitting distance and tons of teens to hang with homework is rarely done by wednesday we re cranky overworked under-loved sore and about twenty other uncomfortable adjectives but we still drag our sorry butts out of bed for you guessed it another 6:25 early morning practice on the field we left only ten hours ago since this happens every week everyone has a schedule mine generally doesn t include coursework i can t believe we spent an hour in dairy queen and sonic all because of you and your stupid motorcycle toy i reprimand as i seize the toy from betsy s hands luckily she comprehends she s merely a sophomore scapegoat and i m just peeved with myself for being sucked into the tomfoolery of dinner break snatching the toy she drives it up my forearm and pops a wheelie on my hand i jostle the door open and as she hunts for a friend less weighed down by assignments i smile and plop down on the tile floor to face the schoolwork i ve been neglecting lugging my flag bag down the steep hill to the field i can only think of the many practice hours we have all put in the early mornings late nights and two weeks of summer band members secretly adore yet the absurdity of the spectacle is not lost on me the thought of the judges and parents we perform for at contests picking up a flag and marching is absolutely ludicrous flailing around in one of the crushed velvet unisuits sported by the color guard smacking into the tuba players because they forgot their drill would certainly be a sight to see they don t understand what it means to be a guard girl we grasp that flag in our hands knowing full well we have a fifty-fifty chance of dropping it not because of lack of practice but wind conditions miscalculations or nerves cause your flag to flutter and everyone in the audience knows we walk tall in those white and black unsuits that have no sleeves and little room for embarrassment it s a sisterhood the girls become your family we comfort one another dry mascara tears and seeing as we re teenage girls there are quite a few shed in our little hidden hallway in the fine arts building shut up and get to work maggie the loudest color guard section leader hollers her gentle reminder that guard girls don t slack off no matter what dwelling on the ap homework i hadn t gotten to yet i half-heartedly flip my six foot flag and ponder how i ll ever get it all done the flag flies from my hand and lands on the turf with an inaudible thud i reach over and rescue it i feel a chilly wet raindrop plummet on the upper right side of my head but it was just the one raindrops don t usually fall by themselves i reach up in classic slow motion and touch my right index finger to the mushy glob when i pull back the finger for examination it has a white coating i tilt my head skyward and spy the culprit as giggling erupts light and color carlyn hadusek mixed media as my dad drives me home after practice i can t bring myself to speak this is what i get after all my hard work when we drive into the garage i rush inside and drown my sorrows in the shower running the water for the fourth shower of the night i wonder if i ll ever be able to feel truly clean again you re gonna die in the bathroom if you don t come out soon my vociferous father teases from the lower level of the house looking at my curls still sopping from shower number three i reach over and shut off the water i let it go i forgot the snickering feeling of utter humiliation about the poo in my ponytail suddenly the blush leaves my cheeks and the skip reenters my step sitting myself on my cozy couch i hoist my ap binder from my bag as it turns out i ve got to let something go and learn to chuckle at life s inevitable epic fails or i ll perish pretending to be perfect let go of something or the shit will continue to pour down 24[close]
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taming the unknown bo brendel its blank white spaces beckoned as the west to lewis and clark i could foray into it in a second yet was wary to avoid a stray mark uncharted wilderness lay contained in its college-ruled expanses waiting to be freed unchained or harnessed for my advances all the splendor of the rockies soaring under clear-blue heavens were captured fleetingly within eight inches by eleven explore i must this treach rous territ try with only pen and ill-hatched thoughts no map compass nor trusty machete however of fear i have naught conquering my trepidation i battle through tangle and thicket taming wild syntax and diction amongst i find treasures my face alit emerging from the dark unknown bearing trophies from strange new lands my daring will be in the his tries shown now i have sheer genius in hand still life diana durrant graphite 26 27[close]
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