2010

I
looked
down,
feeling
ashamed.
I
could
see
the
utter
disappointment
in
her
face.
A
simple


joy
in
life
with
one
she
loved
has
been
destroyed
and
replaced
with
the
drink
in
his
hand.
He


doesn’t
even
realize
the
hurt
he
has
placed
in
her
heart,
let
alone
mine.




 I
give
her
a
hug.
As
my
head
rests
on
her
shoulders,
she
lets
out
a
sigh.
I
spot
the
picture
of


me,
Ma
and
Dad.
I
take
it
down
and
whisper
in
her
ear,
“We
don’t
need
him.”










Oh
Sister,
Oh
Sister






















































































Sultan
Alsafadi





A
dark,
dark
presence
of
evil,

engulfs
me

in
a
pit
of
madness.




The
Speaker
of
Fate,

with
his
sharp
tongue
and
sleek
frame,

crafted
to
kill,
covered
in
blood,

plunges
into
the
flesh
that
pained
me
for
so
many
years.



Unremorseful
celebration,

To
the
death
of
my
madness.

Oh
sister,
oh
sister.





 
 Forever
Tree



 
 Tessa
Stathis



Clocks
are
eternal

They
are
the
keepers
of
time

They
sit
together,
drink
coffee

Debate
the
essence
of
life

In
quietly
musical
voices

Which
attract
all
manner
of
fish

A
strange
blocks
that
float


From
the
future
they
originate

And
the
past
never
strays

far

In
the
red
mountains
of
old

Beneath
the
cliffs
the
present
stirs

A
sea
too
large
to
behold

And
all
the
clocks
of
the
world

Meet
beneath
the
forever
tree


To
discuss
the
balance
of
life

And
its
eternity






51




Mind
Games



 
 Aliyah
Green




Trapped
in
the
blue,
black,
red
and
gold

Trying
to
escape

Into
the
outer
ended
of
the
painting

Trying
to
bring
some
contrast
to
the
pain


You
live
in

But
the
thick/thin
line
of
the
black
keeps
you
from

The
new
state
of
mind




The
Pessimist



 
 Tessa
Stathis




In
the
lines
of

A
beautiful
illusion

An

unrealistic
view

Dares
me
to
fill

My
half
empty
glass




Shuffle


Leah
Chamberlin


Thoughts‐
 


Filing


Blurry

Like
papers


Flapping,


Crinkling,


Ink
bleeding,


Unreadable
text.
 





Thoughts‐



Scattered



Like
spiders
on


The
water’s
surface.


Stop
them.
Stop
them.



52





Thoughts‐


A
type
writer



Tap
tack
tack‐
Bing!


Slide


Tap
tack
tack‐
Bing!


Slide


Words
behind
and


Words
ahead


Finger
bones
see‐sawing


On
keys





Thoughts‐



These
words
cannot


Tell
a
lie


As
well


As
my
own
mind.





Dear
Lyndy



 
 Joseph
Hall




Dear
Lyndy,




 I’ve
heard
from
Barbara
that
you
and
your
husband
were
thinking
a
family.
That’s
really

wonderful.
Giving
birth
to
those
tiny
toes
and
those
little
red
noses
is
truly
a
miraculous
and

heartwarming
experience.
That
is
of
course,
after
the
hours
of
pain
from
shoving

a
living
breathing

human
being
out
of
one
place
you’d
really
rather
not
have
painfully
stretched
and
torn
apart.
Don’t

worry,
though,
because
it
gets
easier
with
each
child.
Unless
you
end
up
like
my
friend
Patricia

from
work.
Patricia
ended
up
having
her
twins
forcibly
removed
through
an
emergency
caesarean

section.
She
still
has
the
scar
on
her
stomach
from
when
the
doctors
sliced
it
open
with
those

violent
scalpels.
I
guess
the
scar
isn’t
that
bad;
it
just
sort
of
blends
in
with
all
of
the
stretch
marks

from
carrying
a
set
of
multiples.



53





 It
is
really
exciting
when
you
find
out
you’re
pregnant.
It’s
a
terrific
feeling
knowing
that


there
is
a
tiny
embryo
growing
inside
your
body.
Everyone
probably
warns
you
about
morning


sickness.
You
actually
get
used
to
all
the
vomiting
and
the
constant
nausea.
The
heart
burn,
too,


you
should
look
out
for.
I’m
not
sure
if
all
the
acid
in
your
throat
is
caused
by
a
change
in


hormones
or
all
the
up‐chucking.
Or
maybe
it
has
to
do
with
all
the
chimichangas,
the
General


Tso’s,
and
the
sauerkraut
that
you
will
begin
to
crave.
Either
way,
the
feeling
passes.
I
mean,
unless


you
end
up
like
my
friend
Sue,
from
the
hair
salon.
Sue
had
nausea
problems
into
her
seventh


month
of
pregnancy.
Her
doctor
had
to
put
her
on
bed
rest
for
the
remainder
of
the
pregnancy


because
she
was
so
sick
all
the
time.



 Raising
a
child
is
such
a
joy.
Once
you
get
through
the
new
born
stage.
I
mean,
with
all
of


that
crying,
the
lack
of
sleep,
and
the
constant
diaper
changes.
You
can
say
goodbye
to
your
social


life,
not
to
mention
your
love
life.
That’s
why
it’s
hard
to
lose
the
baby
weight.
I
guess
you
need


some
fat,
though,
to
fill
all
the
stretched
skin
that
remains
after
labor.
Anyway,
the
“Terrible


Two’s”
stage
is
pretty
tough
also.
All
the
screaming
and
the
tantrums.
It
gets
a
little
easier
when


the
kids
start
school.
By
this
time,
you
will
probably
have
more
than
one,
and
so
it
will
be
good
to


just
have
at
least
the
first
one
out
of
the
house.
You
know,
out
of
the
house
until
it’s
time
to
drive


them
to
cub‐scouts,
or
T‐ball,
or
Karate.
And
you’d
be
joking
if
you
think
you’ll
ever
get
time
to


yourself.
Not
with
all
the
birthday
party
planning,
the
PTG
meetings,
the
house
cleaning,
the
bills
to


pay,
and
you
know
your
husband’s
going
to
want
dinner
on
the
table
as
soon
as
he
gets
home.


That
is
unless
you
end
up
like
my
friend
Pami,
from
the
bank.
She
had
just
given
birth
to
her
third,


and
her
husband
couldn’t
take
the
stress.
He
just
jumped
and
ran,
leaving
Pami
all
by
herself


raising
three
kids.



 The
teenage
years
are
the
best,
though.
You
really
start
to
know
your
own
children
as


young
adults.
I
mean,
looking
past
the
acne,
the
baggy
pants,
the
mood
swings,
the
fear
of
drug


and
alcohol
use,
the
fights
at
school,
the
bad
report
cards,
the
first
car
accidents,
etc.
I
think
it
gets


a
little
better
after
puberty.
That
is
if
your
kids
aren’t
already
making
kids
of
their
own.
The


designer
clothes,
the
laptops,
the
Wii,
the
car.
Try
to
limit
those
expenses,
though.
I
mean,
you


have
to
start
saving
for
college,
you
know?
It’s
definitely
worth
it.
Unless
you
end
up
like
my
Aunt


Ruby.
She
foreclosed
on
her
house
so
she
could
afford
to
send
my
cousin
Jack
to
community


college.
He
ended
up
dropping
out
after
the
final
tuition
payments
were
made.
I
think
he
sells


marijuana
down
in
San
Francisco
now.



 So,
as
I
was
saying,
congratulations
to
you
and
your
husband.
That’s
really
wonderful.






Sincerely,


 Mary‐Ellen


















54




Madly


Madeline
Schepis





The
shadow
of
each
soul

Haunts
the
backdrop

Each
note
resonating
fear

Petrified
of
the
beast
within

Hands
grasp
for
composure


Scattered
notes
searching
for
a
melody

To
rest
upon

As
the
beast
sways
to
the
cool
tones

The
man
of
three
rhythms

Knowing
no
more
than
to
satisfy
the
beast

No
less
than
to
please

A
sanity
begging
within



For
a
tune


To
disappoint
the
beast
within

Is
to
touch
the
untouchable





Father
First


Lucas
Phillips




"You
can't
go
back.
Don't
you
see
that
we
need
you?"
my
wife
scolded
me.


 "Yeah,
I
realize
that,
but
we
need
the
money."


 "It's
not
that
we
need
the
money,
John.
It's
about
you
and
your
dream
of
still
being
a

Marine.
You
still
want
to
be
a
hero."


 "You
say
that
like
it's
a
bad
thing,
Joann.
Do
you
know
how
important
it
is
to
me?"


 "I
do,
John,
but
you
need
to
think
about
what
else
is
important
to
you
and
how
much

you're
missing.
You
have
a
six‐year‐old
daughter
who
barely
even
knows
you.
These
past
few

months
have
been
the
best
that
you
two
have
ever
had
together."


 "Yeah,
for
her
maybe,
but
I'm
the
one
who
is
stuck
in
a
chair.
I'm
the
one
who
can't
pick

her
up
and
throw
her
in
the
air
anymore.
I
can't
even
go
for
a
walk
with
her."


 "John,
that
doesn't
matter
to
her.
You
complain
about
all
of
those
things,
but
isn't
it
better

than
not
spending
time
with
her
at
all?"



 "Look,
just
let
me
give
the
job
a
try,
alright?
If
it
doesn't
work
out,
then
I'll
stop."


 After
about
twenty
more
minutes
of
arguing,
we
decided
that
I'd
give
the
job
a
try.
Four

months
ago,
I
was
a
Marine
in
Iraq.
I
was
a
big
shot,
captain
of
my
squad
and
everything.
That
all

changed
after
one
of
my
men
made
a
very
small
mistake
out
in
the
field.
Now
I'm
in
a
wheelchair

and
I
may
never
walk
again;
however,
the
U.S.
Army
wants
to
bring
me
back
and
allow
me
to

supervise
some
of
their
operations.
I
would
be
transported
away
tomorrow
to
a
training
camp.
It

was
a
very
difficult
adjustment
for
me
at
home.
We
had
to
put
in
a
wheelchair
ramp
on
the
front

porch.
Luckily,
we
live
in
a
small,
one‐story
house.
Joann
understood
what
I
was
going
through,
but

she
wasn't
happy
with
my
decisions.
My
wife
and
young
daughter,
Lucy,
have
sacrificed
so
much

already.
I'm
not
sure
if
they
can
handle
any
more
loses
than
they
already
have.



55





 It
was
nearly
time
for
dinner,
and
I
could
smell
the
hamburgers
my
wife
was
cooking

outside
on
the
grill.
I
wheeled
through
the
living
room
and
out
an
open
screen
door
the
backyard.

The
warm
Florida
sun
forced
me
to
close
my
eyes
as
I
went
outside.
I
looked
down
at
the
ground
to

block
the
sun's
rays
and
felt
pathetic.
I
stared
blankly
at
my
limp
legs
and
how
thin
they
have

become.
My
upper
body
strength
has
increased
since
the
accident,
but
my
legs
are
disappointing

to
look
at.
Every
once
in
a
while,
I
try
to
move
my
legs,
but
the
only
result
is
a
slight
tingling.

 


I
looked
around
at
the
bright
green
yard.
We
have
a
tall
wooden
fence
surrounding
it
with

a
small
swing
set
inside
for
Lucy
to
play
on.
It
reminded
me
of
a
playground
we'd
gone
by
at
a

school
in
Iraq;
however,
the
school
had
been
overrun
by
men
with
guns
over
there.
That

playground
was
one
of
the
last
things
I
saw
before
my
whole
life
had
completely
changed.



 "John,
come
inside.
It's
time
to
eat,"
Joann
said
without
a
smile.


 "Yeah,
come
on,
Daddy!"
Lucy
exclaimed.
She
was
small
and
skinny
with
bleach
blonde

hair.
She's
the
most
beautiful
girl
I
have
ever
seen.



 We
went
inside
and
ate
dinner.
My
arms
had
grown
tired
by
the
time
it
was
dark
out

because
of
the
wheel
chair.
I
refuse
to
let
anybody
push
me,
though,
because
I
don't
want
people

to
pity
me.
It's
almost
unbearable
to
deal
with
some
of
the
other
daily
help,
so
if
I
have
to
suffer

just
a
little
bit
for
some
more
pride,
then
I'm
going
to
suffer.


 I
ended
up
sleeping
on
the
couch
that
night.
I
knew
that
Joann
didn't
want
to
sleep
alone,

but
she
wanted
to
punish
me
for
my
actions.
It
was
a
bit
of
a
struggle
to
get
onto
the
couch
myself.

I
had
to
lift
myself
out
of
the
chair
and
throw
myself
onto
the
couch
without
falling
onto
the

ground.
I
got
into
a
comfortable
position
and
looked
up
at
the
darkness
above
me.
As
I
drifted
to

sleep,
I
began
to
dream
about
the
job.


 I
gazed
around
at
a
sandy
base.
Young
men
and
women
swarmed
the
area,
running
drills,

eating
food,
and
working
like
there
was
no
tomorrow.
It
felt
like
only
yesterday
that
I
was
in
their

positions.
I
turned
to
my
right
to
see
a
few
men
playing
basketball
and
others
running
races
while

they
had
their
breaks.
I
went
to
join
the
basketball
players,
but
there
was
something
wrong
with

me.
I
couldn't
move.
I
looked
down
to
see
my
stupid
wheelchair,
and
a
rush
of
sadness
broke
over

me.
All
of
the
things
I
saw
there,
I
could
no
longer
do.
I
loved
being
a
soldier,
playing
sports,
all
of
it.

But
that
was
gone
now,
and
it
may
never
come
back.



 Suddenly,
I
awoke.
I
sat
up
on
the
couch
and
grabbed
the
handle
of
my
wheelchair.
I
then

threw
myself
into
the
seat.
I
wheeled
myself
into
the
kitchen
where
my
wife
and
daughter
were

eating
breakfast.
I
looked
to
see
if
a
plate
of
food
was
already
made
for
me.
Instead
of
the
usual

eggs
and
bacon,
there
was
a
card
that
said
"Daddy"
with
a
backwards
'D'
on
the
front.



 "It's
a
goodbye
card
from
Lucy,"
Joanna
said
with
a
sad
tone.


 "Why
would
she
give
me
a
goodbye
card?"
I
smirked.


 "What
do
you
mean?
Your
daughter
is
going
to
miss
you."


 "Yeah,
but
what
if
I
told
her
I
was
here
to
stay!"



 My
wife's
eyes
illuminated
with
excitement.
"That's
great!"
she
exclaimed.
Lucy
jumped

out
of
the
chair
and
hugged
me.
We
all
sat
at
the
table
and
embraced
each
other
for
what
felt
like

a
lifetime.













56




FACULTY


57




Belgian
Bakery


Matthew
Phillips
(from
Spring
1987,
11th
grade)

I
walked
into
the
corner
bakery.

The
baker
was
from
Belgium.

His
wife
was
polish.

My
father
knew
them—


 Friends
of
the
family.



I
sat
in
the
red
stool

At
the
red
booth.



The
building
had
once
been


 Popular

As
a
high
school
hangout.

It
sold
hamburgers
and
Cokes

For
a
quarter.

The
boys
showed
their
cars.

The
girls
showed
themselves—


 burning
for
a
brief
stolen
kiss


 
 from
a


 high
school
hero

Like
my
father
was.

Like
he
thinks
I
should
be.



I
ordered
my
food—

A
powdery
pastry
from
the
rack


 facing
me

From
behind
the
booth
I
was
seated
in
front
of.



Their
daughter
was
pretty.



I
knew
her
from
school.

She
sat
across
from
me


 in
lunch

At
a
table
of
rugged
individuals


 too
proud
to
join
a
group


 too
scared
to
play.



She
walked
into
the
dining
area

And
took
a
seat
behind
me.

She
had
her
books
I
her
hand.



I
pretended
not
to
notice

Trying
to
be
cool

Maybe
a
little
shy



58





 or
bashful
because
of
 
59


 
 my
inexperience.



I
could
see
her
blurred
figure


 in
the
reflective
glass


 behind
the
pastry
rack


 
 facing
me.

She
was
wearing
white

Contrasting
against
the
dark
skin

From
her
father’s
side.



She
was
beautiful.



She
turned
around.

Maybe
to
catch
a
glimpse
of


 her
high
school
hero.

Maybe
to
look
for
her
mother.



Her
mother
was
not
around.

Neither
was
her
father.

We
were
alone.



I
told
myself
to
say
something.

We
were
acquainted.

I
knew
she
was
Lisa.

She
knew
I
was
Tom.



We
ate
lunch
together


 in
high
school



I
was
nervous.

I
tried
not
to
swallow
too
loud


 on
my
powdery
pastry.

My
hands
were
sweating.



I
thought
to
myself—




 “She
is
a
high
school
girl


 longing
for
a
high
school
hero


 
 like
my
father


 
 maybe
like
myself.


 She
is
burning
for
my
touch.


 She
is
wanting
a
kiss


 
 From
my
mouth.


 All
I
have
to
do
is






 Move
to
her.”
 
60

I
laid
down
my
pastry


 and
stood.




 
 
 She
turned
to
me



 
 
 
 and
smiled.

I
coughed
and
left.



I’m
just
not
a
hero.

I’m
not
my
father.

I’m
not
anything
but
one—




One
of
those
fresh
pastries
on
the
back
of
the
rack

Seeing
a
blurred
reflection

As
a
reality


To
be
gazed
at
but
not
to
be
bought

to
be
thrown
away

Uneaten.

















































Road
Weary
 
61



 
 Joe
DeChick




“Carnies,”
they
called
us,

Tilt‐a‐Whirling
ceaselessly
on
the
circuit.

Cleveland
to
Pittsburgh
to
Scranton,

Elkton
to
Raleigh
to
Macon…



Stepping
out,
but
never
stepping
off,

The
carousel.

Selling.

Barking,

“Winner’s
choice!”

Regulation‐sized
bball,

But
hoop
wide
as
a
bean
can
top.



Rollercoasting
up
before
the
sun,

down
before
dawn.

Set
‘em
up
and
tear
‘em
apart.

Lug‐wrenching.

Grease‐gunning.

Bulb‐replacing.

Vagabond‐gypsying

paycheck
to
paycheck.

A
life
rented,
never
owned.



Now,
no
nest
egg—never
was.

Only
emphysema
and
saggy
tattoos;

pores
bleeding
life’s‐
blood
fried‐dough
essence,

dirt
tamped
permanently
beneath
fingernails

here
in

Dayton
or
Lexington
or
Burlington…



My
carnie
kingdom
for
a
pension,

or
a
hot
shower.
























Ella
Fehr
 
62


Joe
DeChick

It's
finished
now,

8½
months
of
waiiting,
wishing,
hoping.

“You
hoping
for
a
boy
or
girl?”

“Don't
care
–
we
want
a
happyhealthy.”

So
blessedly
modest
of
us.
So
blissfully
undemanding.


So
here
it
is:
It's
a
girl!


But
there
is
no
happiness

as
I
cradle
my
baby
daughter
in
my
arms,

hair
black
and
a
tiny
bit
tousled,

still
warm
from
Mommy's
womb,

but
growing
cooler
each
second,


in
a
hospital
room
frosted
with
pain
and
shock,

grieving
relatives
fumbling
words
of
comfort.



I
sense
I'll
never
forget,


the
should‐be‐comforting
sheer
weight
of
her,

the
sleeping,
sack‐o'‐flour,
content‐bundle
feeling,

the
healthy
warmth
belying
death.

And
somewhat
numb
but
wondering:

How
will
I
tell
our
3‐year
old
son,

“Mommy's
coming
home,

but
your
baby
sister's
not?”

How
will
I
tell
my
wife,

It'll
be
alright
–
it's
OK,”

but
it's
not?

Her
Caesarian
airlift
finished,

perfunctory,
a
mere
formality,

a
joyless
clearing
away,

leaving
scars
of
all
shapes
and
sizes,

holes
in
hearts
and
souls,

and
purple‐flowery
memory
box

cobbled
together
by
well‐meaning
nurses,

professional
grief
absorbers
and
deflectors.

Not
supposed
to
be
this
way,

especially
not
this
close,

to
the
finish.


And
it
is
finished.

The
waiting,
wishing,
hoping,

now
is
suddenly,
cruelly,

for
healing.





Paradise
 
63



 
 Ms.
Mathis

In
paradise

the
moon
always
gets
tired
of
hanging
by
its
corners,


always
suspended.


The
gnarled
trees,


with
knuckling
branches
and
crew
cut
foliage


lean
over
the
sun
saturated
tombstones


and
listen
to
the
lazy
whispers
of
the
dead.

Brilliant
fuchsia
and
crimson
flowers


wave
in
the
streams
of
conversation


greeting
the
return
of
the
surf.

Pieces
of
a
gate
stick
out
at
odd
angles,


but
the
dead
have
outgrown
their
enclosures.

The
gravedigger
is
skin
and
bones
the
color
of
a
Mars
Bar,


with
their
eyes
that
speak
of
his
caramel
center.

He
sits
in
the
shanty
cut
from
aluminum
foil,


his
arms
crisscrossed
with
cushioning
scars


from
his
previous
scraps
against
the
sill,


so
he
squats
in
comfort
now.

he
stares
off
into
space,


the
white
and
gray
sponge
on
his
head
absorbing


the
murmurs
of
his
former
patrons,


but
he
does
not
decide
to
listen.

Occasionally,
he
picks
at
the
growing
hole


in
the
teal
t‐shirt
he
liberated


from
the
wormy
demise
of
its
former
owner


some
time
ago.


He
will
soon
have
to
unfetter
another,


though
the
rate
of
immaterial
death
in
Paradise
is
slow


compared
to
the
unraveling
of
material
possessions


in
the
sweltering
sun.































Shirt
Off
His
Back

or


God
Bless
Eddie











 
 
 
 
 
 
 Marilyn
Shelton






You’ve
heard
them
say,
“He’ll
give
you
the
shirt
off
his
back”
about
Eddie.
You
say
Big
Deal.
He’s

got
a
lot
of
shirts.
What’s
this
talk
about
shirts
anyway?
And
so
called
generosity?.
What’s
wrong

with
royal
selfish
greedy‐greedy
every
once
in
a
while?
Let’s
keep
the
shirt
people
honest.






You’ve
heard
them
say
“He’s
the
salt
of
the
earth”
about
Eddie.
What’s
so
special
about
that?

There’s
plenty
of
salt
to
go
around.
A
few
cents
anywhere
will
pretty
much
get
you
a
full
shaker.
Is

Eddie
some
kind
of
unique
salt?
Saltier
salt?
Ask
Lot’s
wife.
She’s
the
expert.






You
know
they
say
“He’s
the
guy
you’d
want
to
be
next
to
on
a
sinking
ship”
about
Eddie.
Why

would
this
be
a
compliment?
Take
the
obvious
example
–
the
Titanic.
What
would
Eddie
have
been

able
to
do
for
you?
Pull
a
woman
and
child
out
of
the
lifeboat
so
you
could
lower
your
corpulent

self
into
it?
Eddie
is
a
puny
guy.
He
wouldn’t
have
the
strength.
What
good
is
a
puny
guy
on
a

sinking
ship?
Did
Eddie
tell
jokes
while
on
deck?
Maybe
he
could
have
kept
you
in
stitches
while

you
waited
for
Davy
Jones
to
arrive
and
perpendicularize
the
ship.
Trust
me‐
the
shoe
buckles,

menus
and
doll’s
heads
in
the
briny
wreckage
hung
on
longer
than
Eddie
would
have.
And
longer

than,
subsequently,
you.





You
know
they
say
“happy
as
a
clam”
about
Eddie.
What
the
hell
do
clams
have
to
be
happy

about?
And
how
do
you
know
they
are?
Did
some
little
microbe
hear
jazz
and
the
clinking
of

martini
glasses
in
there
and
spread
the
word?
You’ve
read
that
the
“happy
clam”
expression
comes

from
the
fact
that
the
black
space
between
the
two
halves
looks
like
a
grin.
To
me
it
looks
like
a

flying
saucer
with
a
hull
breach,
but
what
do
I
know?





“He’s
good
people”
they
say
about
Eddie.
Don’t
look
now,
but
is
Eddie
pulling
a
fast
one
on
us
in

his
clever
disguise
as
a
single
hominid?



64







“Comfortable
in
his
own
skin”,
they
say
about
Eddie.
You
ask,
do
they
think
he’d
be
more

comfortable
in
someone
else’s
skin?
Would
someone
else
be
more
comfy
in
Eddie’s
skin?
Isn’t

skin

a
custom
fit
in
every
case?
Is
there
a
hidden
zipper?
Did
Eddie’s
skin
shrink
when
it
hanging
out
on

the
clothesline
in
the
rain?
What’s
the
deal
about
comfort
anyway?
Or
skin,
for
that
matter?





“Down
to
earth”
they
say
about
Eddie.
Hellooo.
Gravity.




“Grounded”
they
say
about
Eddie.
What…
did
he
just
jump
out
of
a
low
flying
plane
with
a
chute

that
didn’t
open?





“Eddie’s
the
one
to
talk
to”
they
say.
Wait
a
minute—doesn’t
everybody
else?
You’ve
told
your
life

story
to
the
clerk
at
the
checkout
counter,
for
God’s
sakes.





And
just
who
are
these
theys
who
are
talking
to
Eddie?
Does
Eddie
respond
or
is
shirtless,
salty,

puny
grin
enough?





“He’s
a
good
kid”
they
say
about
Eddie.
Eddie
hasn’t
been
a
kid
since
before
cars
had
seatbelts.

You
wonder
if
something
wonderful
he
did
in
childhood
has
etched
itself
into
Eddie’s
happy
clam

face
making
it
memorable
and
child
like.
You’ve
seen
Eddie’s
face.
Live
fast
and
die
young
does
not

apply
to
good
kids.
Live
slow
and
die
old
does.
No
offence
Eddie,
but
I’ll
take
the
bad
boys
every

time.


























65




Rambunctious 
66


Staff Members

Faculty
Advisor:



 Mrs.
Marilyn
Shelton





Editors,
Typists
and
Layout
Designers:


 Leah
Chamberlin

 Kathryn
Hu

 Jenny
Keeler

 Sarah
Lesser

 Phoenix
Robertson

 Taylor
Williams





Cover
Photo:


 Alex
Lesser