POETRY
Untitled
Jennifer Cole
Jennifer Cole
There's a streetlamp
at the corner of Fifth and Main
that never comes on at night
but instead lights up on cloudy days
or days with rain.
Whenever I walk underneath it,
it turns off.
What good is a streetlamp,
I say,
that serves no purpose?
It doesn't work when it ought to,
And works when it ought not.
There's a streetlamp,
at the corner of Fifth and Main.
at the corner of Fifth and Main
that never comes on at night
but instead lights up on cloudy days
or days with rain.
Whenever I walk underneath it,
it turns off.
What good is a streetlamp,
I say,
that serves no purpose?
It doesn't work when it ought to,
And works when it ought not.
There's a streetlamp,
at the corner of Fifth and Main.
Pencils and Erasers
Chyna Balonick
Chyna Balonick
Pencils are for your mistakes. Your unsures you can always mess up.
That's why there are erasers. Friendships can last a lifetime, Like
pens, but sometimes things go wrong. We can white it out to cover the fights. So we can start all over again. Markers are the
beauty between us. It's what keeps us alive and interesting. You
get angry and end up cutting us apart with scissors, but we can
always tape it back together. ANd try to forget the unforgotten
glue can be too sticky, it can slip by you, like the precious memo-
I took a a picture in my mind and saved it with crazy-glue
so as to make sure you won't be thrown away. You were special.
I framed you in my heart. I drew a picture with pencils
but sometimes we can make mistakes.
That's why we have erasers
That's why there are erasers. Friendships can last a lifetime, Like
pens, but sometimes things go wrong. We can white it out to cover the fights. So we can start all over again. Markers are the
beauty between us. It's what keeps us alive and interesting. You
get angry and end up cutting us apart with scissors, but we can
always tape it back together. ANd try to forget the unforgotten
glue can be too sticky, it can slip by you, like the precious memo-
I took a a picture in my mind and saved it with crazy-glue
so as to make sure you won't be thrown away. You were special.
I framed you in my heart. I drew a picture with pencils
but sometimes we can make mistakes.
That's why we have erasers
PROSE
Opening Night
Erin Kelly
Erin Kelly
"Erin," someone says to me, "You're on now."
The moment has finally arrived, I close my eyes for an instant to collect myself, and rise. As I walk onto the stage, I am overwhelmed by the lights, which beam unforgivingly onto my face, nearly blinding me. THe enormous roar of the audience is buzzing through my ears and fills every fiber of my being. THeir excitement and noise is contagious, and I can't help but feel more than alive. I am powered by their commotion, and I feel the excitement rush through me. My world seems to slow down as I walk carefully to the lonely chair at the center of the stage. The path is long, and has been walked by many before me. How will I compare? The chair seems miniature compared to the empty vastness of the rest of the stage. I take my seat calmly. But only on the outside. Inside my head, there are a million things rushing through my mind. I remember all the hours and hours of hard work I've put into making this performance absolutely perfect. I recall those long hours spent with my teacher perfecting every last aspect of this piece, down to the smallest of details. Will anyone notice how much time I've put into this work?
The room becomes hushed, waiting for me to begin. The hum of silence and anticipation hangs over the auditorium, even more strangely deafening than the applause. All of the countless people in the audience are watching my every move, and I'm paralyzed, scared of throwing off the delicate balance which has formed between the performer and the audience. The room is silent, but I can hear the world still moving. I hear the gentle rain outside, people, coughing, ruffling their programs. This is my true accompaniment. The entire world waits for me to break the silence. I feel the smoothness of the back of my cello, and let my hand rest on it. I can feel the cold metal of the strings beneath my worn and calloused fingers, waiting for me to begin. My body has taken over, and the notes descend beautifully, slowly, from my entity, and echo throughout the auditorium. The weight of the world that I felt every instant before the first note has miraculously been lifted, and I am relieved from everything I've ever known. Each note I reach, perfectly and effortlessly, radiates yet another wave of calm over me, making progress easier. The sound pours out of me, cleansing me. Everything is calm and serene inside. I can feel the audience, and I am reaching them effortlessly, communicating every emotion I have ever felt through this piece. And for a moment, just a moment, they feel the sorrow I have known, and the happiness, all of my moments of comfort, solitude, and fear. They know me, even if it only for a brief moment. I have captivated them, seduced them.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, "Erin, you're on now. Let's go."
The moment has finally arrived, I close my eyes for an instant to collect myself, and rise. As I walk onto the stage, I am overwhelmed by the lights, which beam unforgivingly onto my face, nearly blinding me. THe enormous roar of the audience is buzzing through my ears and fills every fiber of my being. THeir excitement and noise is contagious, and I can't help but feel more than alive. I am powered by their commotion, and I feel the excitement rush through me. My world seems to slow down as I walk carefully to the lonely chair at the center of the stage. The path is long, and has been walked by many before me. How will I compare? The chair seems miniature compared to the empty vastness of the rest of the stage. I take my seat calmly. But only on the outside. Inside my head, there are a million things rushing through my mind. I remember all the hours and hours of hard work I've put into making this performance absolutely perfect. I recall those long hours spent with my teacher perfecting every last aspect of this piece, down to the smallest of details. Will anyone notice how much time I've put into this work?
The room becomes hushed, waiting for me to begin. The hum of silence and anticipation hangs over the auditorium, even more strangely deafening than the applause. All of the countless people in the audience are watching my every move, and I'm paralyzed, scared of throwing off the delicate balance which has formed between the performer and the audience. The room is silent, but I can hear the world still moving. I hear the gentle rain outside, people, coughing, ruffling their programs. This is my true accompaniment. The entire world waits for me to break the silence. I feel the smoothness of the back of my cello, and let my hand rest on it. I can feel the cold metal of the strings beneath my worn and calloused fingers, waiting for me to begin. My body has taken over, and the notes descend beautifully, slowly, from my entity, and echo throughout the auditorium. The weight of the world that I felt every instant before the first note has miraculously been lifted, and I am relieved from everything I've ever known. Each note I reach, perfectly and effortlessly, radiates yet another wave of calm over me, making progress easier. The sound pours out of me, cleansing me. Everything is calm and serene inside. I can feel the audience, and I am reaching them effortlessly, communicating every emotion I have ever felt through this piece. And for a moment, just a moment, they feel the sorrow I have known, and the happiness, all of my moments of comfort, solitude, and fear. They know me, even if it only for a brief moment. I have captivated them, seduced them.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, "Erin, you're on now. Let's go."