The Elicitor (online)

Photograph by Maryka Gillis

2012-01-23T12:21:00.000-08:00

A photograph of "Ecstasy"

(a sculpture by Dan Das Mann and Karen Cusolito)

shot by Maryka Gillis while in San Francisco

The Mockingbird by Pauline Cruz

2012-01-23T12:09:00.001-08:00

One day when I was five, my parents and I went for a walk inthe nearby park. It was a warm autumnday and the bright, colorful leaves were twirling in the breeze. I was walking down the paved road, enjoyingthe day when suddenly, I heard a faint noise. At first, I thought I was just hearing things, but then I heard itagain. Quickly, I followed the sounduntil I found its source; a small mockingbird who had broken its wing and wascrying shrilly for help. I gentlycradled the poor bird in my cupped hands and ran to my parents. We returned home and I helped nurse themockingbird back to health. When it wastime to release it, I felt sad that it had to go. However, I was pleased that the mockingbirdwas healthy and free again. As timepassed, I forgot about the mockingbird and my life went on. Seven years after the mockingbird, my fatherdied in a horrific car accident. I sankinto a deep depression and nothing could shake me out of it, not even thecomfort my mother and my friends tried to give me. One day, I was sitting in my room, staringblankly at the wall as the rain fell heavily against the windows when suddenly,I heard a tapping noise. I looked andoutside my window was a mockingbird, trying to find shelter from the heavy rainfall. I walked over to the window and opened it andthe little bird flew in swiftly, simultaneously shaking rainwater from itsfeathers. At first, I was slightlyirritated that the bird had slightly dampened me, but then I realized that thelittle mockingbird was flying towards me, unafraid. Tentatively, I stuck out my pointer fingerand the mockingbird landed gracefully on it. A memory buried deep within my mind slowly surfaced as I examined thelittle bird. “Could this be the same bird I nursed back to health so long ago?” Ithought. Suddenly, the bird opened itsbeak and began to sing. The melody wasthe most beautiful I had ever heard and it began to slowly lift my spirits. The corners of my mouth slowly lifted andafter what seemed like a century, I smiled for the first time in weeks. I listened to the mockingbird’s song for afew more minutes and then I noticed that the rain had stopped. The mockingbird seemed to notice too becauseit flew off my finger toward the window. Reluctantly, I opened the window and the bird immediately flew off intothe warm sunshine, never to be seen again. All of a sudden, my mother walked in. She noticed my smile and asked what had happened that had made me happyagain. I simply said, “An old friendcame to visit.”

Gloucester by Brian Finlay and Perspective by Sarah Zuidema

2012-01-18T06:20:00.001-08:00

Gloucester Brian Finlay

Gloucester is thename of a city

But it is not a city,

It is a world

And in this world dwell its people

They are a mix of individuals

There are good, there are bad

Artists, Poets, Fishermen, Drug Dealers, Killers, Rats

The likes of which you’ve seen before

In magazines, and art exhibits, and news reports that make you cry

It’s housed many kinds of each

Over the years

Same famous

Some not

All maniacs in their own right

Some maniacs in what they write

This island is home to great ones

Heroes and Thinkers

Men who work for glory

For the name of their family

And the acceptance of their trade brothers

They hang out in dingy, badly lit rooms

Smoking and exchanging tales of worthless women and drunkenbrawls

Maximus lived here,

In Gloucester

He breathed his soul into the sea

And regretted nothing

Except that he would live forever
***
Perspective Sarah Zuidema

The air was brisk and cool,
The breeze filtered cleanly through the feathers,
While gleefully he observed the stark blue of the sky above,
and the water below.
The shore he fled was spotted orange and red with foliage,
as bright and burning as the sun.
He shivered under the shade of the wings,
Up he would go,
Beyond the chilly undercurrents of the sea's wind
To the welcoming rays of the sun.
The higher he flew, the more sun he felt on his back,
Strange, he thought, that the feathers should so quickly let in light.
In the distance he heard the shrieks of the birds and the yelps of
people on the shore,
How jealous they are of my flight.
He chuckled at the way the world leapt higher and higher to reach him.
It was overzealous to match his accomplishment,
But only he could reach the sun.

Wait.
The faces blinked back at him from the sun,
and the sky gained life and texture as the world got closer.
The fisherman yanked a catch from among the clouds,
and the farmer collected the harvest he had grown among the fiery forest.
The commoners had stolen his prize,
they'd beat him too it.

He passed his father in his climb,
But wait,
His father was falling!
Rescue him?
He tried to fly to catch him,
but his wings would not let him dive.

The sky was much wetter than he had imagined,
Perhaps he had not fallen up.

Silhouette of Branches on a Winter Afternoon by Nicole Dahlmer

2012-01-11T06:49:00.001-08:00

Photograph by Nicole Dahlmer

2011-12-12T16:25:00.001-08:00

The Lament of the Restless Ophelia by Pauline Cruz

2011-12-12T11:30:00.001-08:00

Act 4, Scene 8

[Ophelia’s Ghost enters on stage]

Ophelia’s Ghost

Oh, Hamlet! Why did you drive me to this?
Why throw me in the abyss of despair?
I loved you and I thought you felt the same.
But was it all a ruse, an illusion?
Did I become like dead flowers to you?
Once you treated me like a fine red rose.
Then you abhorred me like I was nightshade.
Is it my fault for abandoning you,
When you needed my love for you the most?
Should I have disregarded my father,
And ran towards you when I had the chance?
Should I have ignored my dear brother,
And given you my violets instead?
As the rain falls strongly so do my tears.
My tears run like the brook that took my life.
Surrounded by flowers, I drowned and died.
Madness led me to believe that I’d live,
That I would melt into the blue waters,
That I would be restored like the flowers,
Heliotrope, Lily of the Valley
Orange Blossoms and the Forget-me-not
After all, they are most beautiful wet
But instead life is worthless as weeds.
I gave you everything and look at me.
I have no reason to exist again!
Now the king and my brother seek your death.
There is nothing I can do to stop this!
All I can give you now are these few words.
Take care, my dear Hamlet, tread carefully,
Or end up a wandering ghost like me.

Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist by Lucas Olson

2011-11-28T10:52:00.001-08:00

Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist

by Lucas Olson

- Preface -

Here.

Here I sit.

Book at my feet,

storm rolling by above my window.

There is no better time to write,

I think

than in the evening

while nature happens upstairs.

It's a poetic occurrence,

that begs a poetic response,

begs the writer to write,

the reader to read.

“Now.” the thunder roars.

Yes, then.

Now.

- I -

Portraitof the young man

as anartist

Canthe former

bethe latter?

Younghas connotations.

Youth,even more.

Itdoesn't call to teenagers

asmuch as to children.

To meat least.

To myear

andeye

andfinger.

Itsummons

whatthe young call young

Theelementary

andthe kindergarten.

Poutingon foam letters

becauseI annoyed my

bestfriend too much

Butit's nothing in ten minutes

(Whenlooking backwards,

alltime ten minutes)

Becausewe'll run over rocks

andover a red wooden playground

(That'sgone now

Iused to have a splinter as a keepsake.

That'sgone now too.)

Tenminutes later

we'rearound a spring pool

filledwith tadpoles and April mud

In tenminutes

it'sdried.

Inanother ten minutes

thepark is gone.

Inten more

so ishe.

Pulled

intoa deeper Mass.

He'sa different person now.

Ofcourse, so am I.

Thecaster of the shadow of my former self

Butit was nice while it was there.

I methim

whenwe moved in,

actually.

Intothe light blue apartment

(likea castle to me then)

Therug was dark blue,

thick,

snagging.

Ialways scraped my knees on it.

Thereused to be

abush in the front

(twoactually,

butone was

thehornet's castle)

Ifyou crawled under a break in the brush

(yourknees squishing the

powderblue berries

intogreen juices)

youcould climb through the web of branches

andpeak into the outside

fromyour cavern of wooden arms.

It'sgone now

(Bothof them)

Pulledand tugged

fromthe place it called home.

Tomake room for patches of dirt,

Isuppose.

- II-

Ididn't want to include

myage in the title.

Seventeen

hasconnotations as well.

Moreapt to conjure images

of amagazine built on stereotypes

thanof a young man with a notebook.

(Thoughit's not like I'm

thetarget audience)

That'sthe problem with

brandingan age.

They'vestolen a year of associations.

- III-

B isa loaded letter,

isn'tit?

It'sone that stings

andone that questions.

Whatis it to be?

Furthermore,

whatis it to be a bee?

ThoughI suppose many of us know,

sinceit's hard to be a child

andnot dance through a field thick with pollen

breathingin the smell of June.

(That'sa smell right?

That'snot just me?)

Iknow that I have.

I'vestood in more June fields

thanyou can count on one hand.

I'vestood in June fields in

August

andin

November

andin

February.

I'vestood in June fields in

thepine forests

and

ongrainy, sweating beaches.

It'snot so much an actual place to me

as anidea.

Apicturesque grassy field

fencedin by leafy trees

waving“Hello” as the wind prods at them.

Thisisn't somewhere real.

Notreally.

If itis, it's uncommon.

It'sa usurped memory.

Theseeds of a whole forest

plantedin our heads

perhapsby media

perhapsby evolution.

Whateverthe case,

we'veall run through Elysium

andcome clear out the other side.

Weforgot where it was,

so wejust made more

andprojected them on top of

othermemories.

- IV-

Doesthe world

everreally get older,

ifthere are still young eyes looking at it?

Itseems to age personally.

The80 year old war veteran next door

certainlydidn't live in my world.

Norme in his.

Hiswas a old world

withnew things coming in

andtrying to change it.

Myworld is new things.

Myworld is change.

Butsomewhere there is a newer world.

Wheresomeone still doesn't know how it works.

Orhow we think it works.

Orhow I think we think it works.

Wherethere are still witches in the basement

anddragons in the attic.

Andwhere your room can

stillbecome a forest

ifyou think hard enough.

I canstill turn things into a forest.

It'sdifferent though.

Ihave to describe the stretching,

snapping,

bedpostsas they grow thick

andthrow their rough limbs outward.

Ihave to describe the carpet,

asthe light brown

meldsinto a darker one

andsoftens into earthy loam

thickwith curling leaves

andorange needles.

Ihave to describe the walls,

asthey melt away and fall into

thetrees behind them

takingalong the ceiling

leavingonly damp leaves

andmoonlight

inits stead.

I haveto describe the air,

as itthickens

anddeepens

andthe smell of petrichor

andmoss

beginto bleed into the oxygen.

Ihave to describe the sound

asthe roar of cars

andthe ring of speakers

tiltsinto moving water

andchirping crickets.

I canstill do it.

It'sdifferent than before,

butit can be done.

I canput the thoughts in the ink.

Butit may take a lot of ink.

Empty House by Lucas Olson

2011-11-14T11:21:00.003-08:00

Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. To himit felt like an unnatural, uncomfortable darkness, as if his eyes had refusedto adjust. But that didn't make any sense, because he could see everything inhis room. Actually, there was light leaking in through the crack of his door.Stumbling his way out of bed and into the hallway, he came into the bathroom.He tried to remember leaving the light on, but that thought trailed away fromhim. He simply wanted to go back to sleep. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, hethought, and he flicked off the light.

Mark wokeup in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. Finding the bathroom light floodinginto the hallway, he got out of bed and turned it off. As soon as the light wasoff, Mark was left in the same blind darkness he'd woken in. He rubbed hiseyes, giving them a few moments to readjust, when he looked up he saw somethingwritten in condensation on the mirror. Yet AnotherWalker in the Darkness, it said, in rough, uneven strokes, as if by anurgent finger. It occurred to him that he really shouldn't be able to readanything in this sort of darkness. And that there was no reason for there to beany sort of mist on the mirror, unless someone had been breathing on it. Inthat moment, Mark was keenly aware of his own discomfort. Of the standing hairson his neck. Of his tightening muscles. He was quickly overtaken with the ideathat if he could grab a flashlight it would be okay. It would be okay. But theflashlight was downstairs. Then he'd go downstairs, he thought. He movedhastily out into the hall, and wrapped his fingers tightly around thebannister, urging his feet to move forward.

Mark wokeup in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. He got up to turn off the bathroomlight, and found discomforting words written in the dark on his mirror. He felta pull to get his flashlight, and rushed to push himself down the stairs.Moving as swiftly as he could down the wooden stairway, he was overwhelmed witha sudden thought: Eyes Front. He'd be alright if he kept looking forward. If hejust kept his eyes facing front wherever he looked, he could make it to hisflashlight. Just, don't look in the periphery, he thought, don't turn around.Eyes Front. Do not think about what might be behind you, or around you, orabove you, or below you. Eyes Front. He just needed to keep his eyes ahead ofhim, and get to the flashlight in the second drawer below the cupboard. The bigmetal Mag-Light flashlight with the rubber grip. Eyes Front. He moved over thelinoleum of the kitchen. The cold floor made his back shiver for a moment. Atleast he thought it was the floor. He hoped it was the floor. He made it to thedrawer, and urgently yanked it open. Too urgently, as the drawer fell out andits contents spilled across the linoleum floor. He swore, and clamored over themess, feeling for the flashlight. He let out a relieved breath when he foundit, and let his eyes wander again. In the periphery, out behind him, he caughta shadow flick away from the base of the stairs, into the living room. Hisbreath caught in his throat for a moment. That had been foolish. Eyes Front. Hethumbed for the button on the flashlight. He was suddenly taken with the ideaof leaving the house. Yes, he thought, get out of the house. The flashlightcame on, splashing light against his back door. He moved to follow it, andclutched the doorknob.

Mark wokeup in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. He got up to turn off the bathroomlight, and found writing on his mirror. He rushed to get his flashlight,keeping his eyes from noticing too much. He got his flashlight, but his visionbetrayed him. He was moving quickly out of his house now. The flashlight wasmaking deep shadows as it washed over the copse of trees in the rear of hisyard. There was a term for that sort of thing, when it was used in art. Itseemed to escape him, but the word Chiaroscuro came to him after a few moments,as if coming in through a back door. He couldn't think about that though. Hehad to focus now. Keep the light on. Eyes front. Get away from the house. Hecouldn't take the car, the keys were back inside. He'd move around the housethen, following the long dirt driveway. The road was out there somewhere,behind the trees. He moved with the same urgency as before, keeping the lightin front of him. But the light only made the darks seem darker. And twice heswept over a pair of glowing orbs, leering out from the edge of the lawn. Thetrees rustled above him as he moved. At first he thought it was the wind, hehoped it was the wind, but it was only one tree at a time. Worse than that,every now and then he would hear something behind him. Noises. Organic noises.Breathing and moving and pulsing and living and stalking. He ran now. Hegave up on just an urgent pace. He ran. That seemed to be a mistake though. Itwas harder to keep the light focused. To keep his eyes front. He caught edgesof shade and tips of shadows. Still he kept moving. Then he tripped, fallingforward into the dirt of the drive. He kept his eyes closed. At least thisdarkness was his own. He had wanted to get back to sleep anyway.

Mark wokeup in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. The darkness seemed impenetrable,except for the light from the hallway dripping under his bedroom door. Thewords left his mouth before he knew what he was saying. To Sleep, Perchance toDream Again.

Life's Music by Sarah Zuidema

2011-11-14T11:21:00.001-08:00

Life's Music

A whisp of words,
A tinkling of notes,
The soul's sweet voice raised on high.
The harmonious trails of silence ring in our ears,
And intonations built on emotions
Reproduce their origins in passers-by.
The bottles of screams roll down cheeks,
Smiles squeak and bounce to pull past teeth,
We wiggle and sway,
To the rhythm of our hearts' familiar grace.
The peace of sorrow,
The heights of joy,
A burst of pure life,
No flat sound do we hear.
The colors of sunrise,
The trickling of rain,
A vitality so near,
A pounding in sync.
We vibrate within our shells,
Creating melodies of our own,
Adding to the waves we receive,
And building our song.

Photograph by Nicole Dahlmer

2011-10-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

I'm Stuck by Sarah Zuidema

2011-10-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

I'M STUCK.

I'm stuck.

in a hole,
in gum,
in a chair.

I'm stuck.
in conceit,
in deception,
in despair.

I'm stuck.
in sin,
in mistrust,
in lies.

I'm stuck.
in stereotypes,
in expectations,
in a perspective.

I'm stuck.
in work,
in impressions,
in words.

I'm stuck.
in the past,
in the present,
in the future.

I'm stuck.
in hope
in touch,
in love.

I'm stuck in the net of the human race.
in the world's norms,
my own goals,
my life's pounding.

Time to break free.
Who but me holds me here?
Who says I can't live with integrity?
Who says what I've done is worthless?
Who says I'm not already who I want to be?
Who says I'm stuck?

Portrait by Pauline Cruz

2011-10-19T12:09:00.000-07:00

Photogram by Pauline Cruz

2011-10-19T12:08:00.001-07:00

Books for Sale by Pauline Cruz

2011-10-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

As I lie on my back, I nervously watch people move around the room, sometimes passing my table without a second glance. I look over at the others; some are sleeping and some are staring straight at the ceiling. I shift my glance at the giants standing guard over us with bored, blank looks on their faces. I look away and start praying for my pages. I’m a used book, you see, and today my friends and I are going on sale. I remember the good old days when I was fresh off the printing press. I was packed in a big box with my clones and shipped to some bookstore in some city. I watched as people came in the store everyday and browsed around. Every day, I sat back as my clones were picked up by someone. Sometimes, they were flipped through and set back on the rack in the same moment. Other days, they were carefully leafed through and, if they were lucky enough, taken home by that person after an exchange of money with the cashier. Soon, it’s my turn to go and I am promptly taken home by a female with her parents and her siblings. I tremble at the memories that were planted in my mind after my purchase. After years of having my insides ripped and torn, having various liquids spilled/written all over me, and being tossed and thrown around, my salvation finally came when I was put into a donation box for a library. The librarians almost rejected me, but after careful restoration to my pages and binding, I was ready for the shelves. The kids that borrowed me varied from day to day. Some of them would take me home, flip through my pages, and stuff me in their backpack so they could return me they next day. Others took me home and scrutinized my insides carefully; drinking in the story I had to offer. Now, after years of going back and forth from the library, I’m here lying on a table, ready for a new home…or so they think. I’m shaking inside, praying to my author (wherever he/she is) that I won’t have to go through the torment I had to endure after my first purchase. But with my luck, I’ll probably get someone with a massive dog that’ll use my as a chew toy. I can already see it now. Pieces of my pages flying all over the place. Me trapped in a prison of sharp teeth and disgusting saliva. I tremble just thinking about it. But just as I think I’m a goner, I look up and see her. A female looking down at me like I’m some sort of gem or precious treasure. She gently picks me up and starts to flip my pages, examining them and making sure I’m readable. After what seems like an eternity, she hugs me to her chest and asks to buy me. After the usual exchange of money, she turns around and walks out the door with me in her hands. I look up at her and see her smiling and I know that I’m going to be well taken care of for the rest of my days.

Pinwheel by Nicole Dahlmer

2011-09-26T11:17:00.001-07:00

Texting by Elizabeth Stephens

2011-09-26T11:14:00.001-07:00

Texting

Noise.
Jump.
Open.
Read.
Sigh.

Reply:
6 twice
6 three times
Space.
7 four times
6 three times
Double 7 three times
9 three times.
Sad face.

Pause.
Delete delete.

Add:
One less than sign,
And a three.
Send.
Close.
Exhale.

Noise.
Jump.
Frown.

The Drastic Hesitance (by Elizabeth MacDougal)

2011-05-01T15:46:00.000-07:00

To prove you could I saw you draw
Yourself aside against
The gravity of ages---wrong
Partaking circumstance.

An elbow transfers energy
More than a lightning strike.
Drawn in by this community
To drown in dry and drink.

Sweet hyssop I have never known---
It is the thing it is---
Until we candy---to commune---
The plant---you break from this.

As how could we who have not lived
Give lives and love---and leave
The questioning of what we give---
Ascribe not ascertain?

The Mute (by Elizabeth MacDougal)

2011-04-09T18:47:00.000-07:00

She lost herself to sacred things
Adored the polished brass
Became the sainted bones

From our hardened lips
We turn marble words
That cannot rise
That cannot take us with them

The wood could not be trained to speak
So she burned the forest down
Walked away with a nail in her mouth, stone in her hand

Found a telephone pole, called the place Sedbo'u
Knocked a For Sale sign
In above her head, her back to the post

From our hardened lips
We turn marble words
That will not rise
That would not take us with them

I passed with vinegar three times
She wanted water, but
That was never done before

Now Sedbo'u is Spatium
The wires were placed underground
Everyone knew this was coming
But nobody saw her go

From our hardened lips
We turn marble words
That will not rise
We polish them

Professor Patrick Lewis Grangerford, Pre-Law, & Graduate Physical Sciences, & Co-Chair of Dept.

2011-03-24T17:32:00.000-07:00

(By Madeleine MacDougal)

“Professor Patrick Grangerford,” read the gold letters on the door of room 228, which is where Professor Patrick Grangerford teaches. He has 137 pupils to whom he lectures at nine o’ clock in the morning, and again at four in the afternoon.
His pupils enjoy him and his classes are full. In fact, Prof. Grangerford has just been given a salary raise, but he has yet to learn this; instead, as he packs his things–a favorite pen, or a coffee mug given him by a student–into his bag, he’s thinking about his little daughter at home, who’s just started liking Barbie and who watches Dragon Tales on the TV. Just like on every other Thursday afternoon–it is Thursday, and Prof. Grangerford is flying to New Orleans this weekend–he locks the supply cabinet, shuts off the overhead, and then pulls the shades to.
But something happens, and he does not pull the shades (and maybe the janitor would question this, but he wouldn’t ever have an answer for why). Prof. P. Grangerford either forgets to pull them, or else is stopped--prevented physically from doing so–and something has caused this (because it can't have been any fault of his own).
Actually, Professor G. is probably in the act of doing so when, crawling onto the window frame to reach a shade, he looks through a window pane and sees something through it. He cannot understand, at first, what he's seeing, so squints, but something has undeniably clumb onto a high-up windowsill within the stairwell of another wing, and is (probably) clutching its knees (or maybe it's lying prostrate); but, anyhow, that figure in the window is a person–a startling person–whom Prof. G. knows (after he recovers from the sight) is in distress.
After a few minutes’ elapse, he has come through a couple hallways and has found the stairwell and the phantom. She is sitting, and she is dangling a leg where it rubs the glass. She’s oblivious, even though Professor Grangerford knows that his phantom (no longer a phantom, but a person with a thought and a will) has heard his tapping shoes on the polished floor.
“G’deevning”–his words are not so loud, nor so sudden, and are almost expected.
A nod replaces reply. He becomes frustrated.
“Are you all right?”–this time, his words seem to break the atmosphere, and they sound frustrated. The creature, the girl, must know that the words are for his gain, and not for hers–but they are truly spoken out of concern.
“Yes.”
She speaks in what is almost a cough. Professor G. hears the dry lips tear apart before the utterance of speech, and it seems the very muscles in that unattuned throat have nearly forgotten their use.
“Mmm hmm.”
His action has proved ineffectual. The Professor's reaction evoked by this student is useless. Suavity has failed him: he climbs the stairs and his tapping shoes tap down along another hallway around the corner.

Retrograde Creation

2011-03-18T19:24:00.000-07:00

Let there be no light to flaw the dark.
Let sky
and land
and sea form into one.
Let Adam’s feet
return to clay,
and breath,
Let it d i f f u s e
before it pass the tongue

Into the crumbling man turning earth
Into the black gas, choking,
Into mechanical turning of earth
Into rivers, streams yet-smoking

While some billion counted crowns are fed
Necessity commercialized, electric shocks;
Some billion-dollar industry thanking,
(moments some billion years undoing).

Earth bled, Say, and shrank to nothing.
Say I shrank and nothing bled,
That my lips one dark breath choked
On indecision|Barring Eden

This
no sword.
This
(in my head).

The Elicitor Volume XXIV is here!

2011-03-15T12:25:00.000-07:00

Please join us at the Pleasant Street Tea Company on Monday, March 21 at 3:30 pm to celebrate the arrival of the 2009-2010 (Volume XXIV) Elicitor with a special preview of the 2010-2011 (Volume XXV) issue, which will come out in June.

Volume XXIV includes work by Sarah Zuidema, Madeline MacDougal, Tyler Devlin, Micaela O'Connor, Joanna McKinnon, Wes Dunn, Maryka Gillis, Alexandra Hanley, Hannah Sumner, Pauline Cruz, Elizabeth MacDougal, Kristina Bandoni, Alex Bigger-Allen, Philip Curcuru, Ryan Fulford, Kara Papa, and last year's editors Eric Brown, Amy Carpenter, Hayden Wilson, and Terri Moody.

The preview of volume XXV includes a photograph by Lucas Olson, microfiction by Nicole Dahlmer, and a poem by Elizabeth MacDougal.

Join us!

2011-03-07T18:29:00.000-08:00

......... ...-elizabeth macdougal.

Low Expectations (By Elizabeth Macdougal)

2011-03-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

When this mottled sycamore no longer breathes
Nor wants of limbs they hewed to clear the view
Of that, the breath of this transpired to dew,
Young waterway gone brackish, salt marsh greaves
I could recall from grasses now frost sheaves,
Divert my mind from roads salt-crusted, cracked
That brackish turn the sweeter water (cast
By car tires, trudging, gritty splashes; leaked
To huddled roots corroding froze-bark sleeves
Tucked up, tight, pericyclic; toxin-wracked),
Could overlook, not focus my fault shared,
Or silent tongue, preserving (hushed) the soul,
To know of somewhere's influence yet spared,
That time dispensing which: facile--until.

Low Expectations, or One If By Sea (By Tom Martin)

2011-02-02T22:03:00.000-08:00

It was dark, and it was cold, and it was quiet.

And then the rain came.

That's all I remember.

But it might have gone like this:

It was a Thursday evening when I made the decision, as good a day as any to be drastically dramatic. “It's now or never,” I say. And “never” was really not an option at all. The moment was now.

I get in, close the door. No sound, no warmth. It's cold. It's always cold here. Even in the blistering heat of the summer's reign, this town is still cold, cold and unforgiving.

I drive down the hills. The roads aren't smooth, not safe at all, but I go faster and faster until-bump-I almost crashed, I swear I almost crashed.

It was as if my life flashed before my eyes.

And how very dreary it was.

The roads are flat now, better for the brakes they say.

I stop, even though I don't have to, look, even though I don't have to.

What exactly is the right-of-way anyways?

Which way am I going, how do I have it, and is it really right?

I don't really question, I just think.

I pull out into the street and I just wait, just for a little bit, for no real reason at all.

What if this is my last moment?

What if right now, a car speeding by in the oppressive darkness strikes me dead, cold.

What if a meteor falls from the sky and crushes me into a million little pieces, gone.

What if?

A few more moments pass me by and I'm closer now. I'm closer to the shore. I can sense it as I roll down my windows and inhale the scent, the salty, bitter cold of the sea air. It thrusts past me, what else, cold. And just when I begin to think that maybe this isn't right, maybe there is no perfect place, I am here, this is it. I pull over to the side of the road, get out of my car and walk slowly, but surely to the bridge. I walk the planks, they creak, I don't care, it's none of their business. The sand brushed upon the wooden floor beneath me causes traction between it and my shoes. “Don't” it says, “go back”.

But I keep walking. I keep walking.

As I take my first steps into the sand, I nearly couldn't get back up, it pulls me in, trying to engulf me in one fell swoop. Over and over again, I escape. I hate the sand and have no time for it now. No time. I continue the routine until the sand is hard enough and more stable that it lets me go. I am practically thrown upon the beach. I walk little by little to the shore's line. It ebbs and flows in a rhythmic pattern, pushing closer and yet farther away from me. The stars are all I see above, small specks in the massive insignificance. The tide comes in higher now, it reaches my shoes. I paid good money for them. Such a shame. Splash, splash, splash. I'm an obstruction. An obstacle.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that…

Why think anymore, why bother? This is it, this is the moment. The sea is calling me. I look out for one last moment; the expansiveness of the ocean astounds me and terrifies me all at the same time. I would be just as essential there as I am here. Might as well be. I run. I can't jump, it's up to my ankles. So I run. I run into the sea and I don't stop. I'm soaking wet. I hate wet socks, I hate them. I run until I can't run any longer, until my feet can't touch the ground and until I can't feel anything at all. I float flat on my back and look up. But it was then, that I remember, looking up, that a drop of water hit my forehead. It was dark, and it was cold, and it was quiet. And then the rain came. It poured down unto me and then I realized that this isn't how it's supposed to end, and that I'm not the best swimmer, and the stars were there for a reason, and then I remembered that he said he would never let us perish by flood ever again.

So I got out, I got out of there. I pushed my way back to the beach, and fell down again once I hit the land. I looked up again, still in the pouring rain, and thought this was good enough. So I laid there and waited, and breathed.

When I was ready, I got up, and started to walk back to my car, and back home.

Pretending none of this had ever happened, and that it was all better now.

Which, I'd like to think, it was.

Low Expectations by Elizabeth Stevens

2011-01-31T11:40:00.001-08:00

Marsh by Maryka Gillis

2011-01-30T19:37:00.000-08:00

Essex by Lucas Olson

2011-01-30T19:27:00.000-08:00

Cool Water by Lucas Olson

2011-01-30T19:26:00.000-08:00

Arch by Lucas Olson

2011-01-30T19:25:00.000-08:00

The Graveyard by Elizabeth MacDougal

2011-01-30T19:19:00.000-08:00

The Graveyard

They are quiet now. Cold frost cannot nip colder toes. Dead heads of last season’s grass grows thick with the white precipitate. And heaped over still-standing stones in the wall, drifted tall against the slanted slates so old, the snow will inundate the solid turf in time. But now the winter scene that plays upon a stage which should be so serene, does not tell of future thaw–nor does it tell of death.

My life has always been an animated thing untinged by the solemn bodies below the overgrown curvature of earth which composes the grave yard’s bed. Observing now the locust trees grown tall and thorny in their age among the last age’s life, I can recall little foreboding in their imposing form; more memories of them are tense from the dread of discovery as I crouched behind their rough trunks in a neighborhood game of manhunt. The effect of the Dead beneath my feet was no fresher then than now, and the symbolic grievance of the graves seemed a thing unnatural in emotion, yet natural as a response. The yard to me is a human construction that I know to be a cry–yet cannot hear. I have noted, sure, the growth of the stones as the dated centuries changed, as though the deceased feared each other’s fate, and tried to reach high from where they lay. I knew they were no more. As I looked out the window each morning, though, or left the house, catching sight unconsciously of the long cemetery, the tombs became a familiar presence, rather than the tags of absence.

Frost has now obscured the scene, and where I have just pressed my warm palm, its print still dripping, a different churchyard is visible. Hundreds of graves, this time blank, attest to unknown death. In this absent note of absence, I am reminded for whom the bell tolls.

Fisher Girl by Elizabeth MacDougal

2010-12-13T12:10:00.000-08:00

Fisher Girl, to Herself

Ever continual's the sucking sway,
Rude serf indifferent,
To which it is the human wont to go.
Do not be led astray.

Come, two persons, many days, to know
How like two minds can be
How in concern, and humour, care and way,
In wiles. When like they go,
Hope's cell, the memory's tenement

Will make of nature signs, and see
With artifice, a glowing globe from dirt,
(Words, from the earthen lineaments)
Which overlooked is not itself, but stays
Infected by persistent memory
Who will not recognize, will not concede
That she is not creator, no,
Nor can in cadent crests restore
Old company.
Repent.
The current waves care not for your lament.

Fisher Girl, II
Brother of bones
broken
No good, but
broken
Broken
Will

Would he but out,
Quit the house
Stop with his company
Debauchery
Hungry mouth.

Comes home
choking
Tongue sputters,
choking
Choking
swill.

Fisher Girl, III
They rust white on weary shores
The organic caskets
With their leather strappings tattered
None wonders but once where they're off
to.

Fisher Girl, IV
It is not good
To live near a drawing mouth.
We harvest from its excess.
It harvests of us.

Fisher, V
As a rock, I would climb out of my ocean socket, if I had one, and leave it to the clams.
Off to Nevada.
Rather than be ground away.

Fisher, VI
how discrete
a pink
drowning anemone

Every Man, A Holy Man by Lucas Olson

2010-11-15T11:19:00.000-08:00

Every Man, a Holy Man

Every man, a holy man

and every book, a bible.

For no man thinks himself as evil

or as the other, liable.

Every soul, a perfect one

and every spirit wholesome.

For purity, a subjective thing,

though subjectivity, loathsome

For is any man as pure,

in the eye of the beholder,

as when the eye's his own,

his thoughts his own to shoulder.

Evil isn't personal,

its a matter of the world.

Though however right they are

internally, its pearled.

Every man is doing good

but some may do it wrong.

Even if intentions pure,

it may be sad, the song.

For, Every man is a holy man,

no one man can do ill.

By his own rights he is perfect

but his ego, he can't fulfill.

Prompted Prayers by Sarah Zuidema

2010-11-08T11:57:00.000-08:00

Prompted Prayers

The day was bumbling to an end.
The horizon became a taut blue line along a fast darkening ocean.
The sun's fleeing rays cast eerie shadows along lengthy sidewalks and glossy windows.
After the the day's buzzing white gyration,
The cooling fingers of a green dusk seemed to smooth the vicissitudes of life,
and wander through the city with an air of enthusiastic exploration.
The moon rose swiftly as one wide, ecstatic grin,
dragging with it the wearisomeness of night;
which ravenously consumed the gale of hysteria,
left behind by the now shattered golden sun.
Darkness, the abyss of ages,
covered the coast in a heavy molasses cloak;
stretching a somber silence throughout the once bustling city.
Somewhere in an alley, a match was struck.
The tiny flame sliced through the syrupy blackness,
revealing the faintest traces of the riotous colors of civilization.
A breeze weaves behind the towering silent giants,
its current nearly visible in the leadened air.
The small flicker shudders in virtuous recrimination.
The silent oppressor, agonized by indecision,
finally retires over the pink cliff,
plunging toward the ocean,
and leaving the stifling pollutant of disinclination in the street.
Merely by way of baffled commonsense does the math burn on,
permitting its master a glance at the sky above.
Even the stars struggle against the choking weight of darkness,
succeeding in naught but an opalescent speck here and there.
The tiny light wavered and twitched,
rapidly approaching suffocation.
Daylight leaves yearning for night,
But night's unyielding pressure bring fearful chattered prayers.

Creative Non-fiction by Amy Carpenter

2010-01-13T11:55:00.000-08:00

Stories From My Mother

Have you eaten potatoes recently? I bet you have. Between mashed potatoes and French fries you’ve probably had at least three servings of potatoes in the past week. My family tends to eat more than that. In my earliest memories I can remember my mother peeling potatoes almost every night for supper. Her thumbs and hands are scarred from cuts and she would give me the carrot peeler to help her. I would stand on the kitchen stool slowly rotating the oblong root, taking off the brown skin and listen to her. Sometimes she would tell me stories about how when she was young, she knew first hand how this vegetable got out of the ground.

My mother would tell me stories about potato harvesting and my aunts and uncles pass down their experiences to me as well. “It’s thing of the past now”, says one of my uncles. Labor laws, machinery, outside competition and chemical pesticides have killed the Maine potato economy and the Maine potato harvest. Children no longer get three weeks off of school in mid-September to bring the harvest in. But they used to. My mother and my aunts’ and uncles’ schools started classes in the middle of August while muggy heat and mosquito swarms still dominated the days and nights. But the cold comes quickly in The County and very soon it’s time for the harvest to be gotten in.

If you were a farm kid, no matter how young, you helped pitch in. My mother started working in the fields at the age of nine for 30 cents a barrel. By her senior year of high school, the amount paid per barrel had only risen 20 cents. At least if you worked on a harvester you got state minimum wage-$3.35 an hour.

One of my aunts tells me, “The one day I worked on a harvester, I felt overwhelmed by the noise and vibration of the machinery and picking potatoes was like a nature walk compared to that.” At least if you worked in the field your greatest danger was a rotten potato in your knee.

“You could loose a finger on a harvester, working in the pit”, my mom said. No one knew anyone who really had lost a finger but there always was that threat.

“You wear layers”, my mom says. Undershirt, t-shirt, long-sleeved shirt and sweatshirt and long johns under your jeans but still you shiver in the early morning frost. Girls wore bandanas to hold their hair back, their ears tucked under the dingy paisley print to protect from frostbite. When I was young my mother would tie my hair up in a bandana with the tips of my ears covered when it was cold. She told me that that was how she wore her hair and I was proud to do the same.

It wasn’t just farmers and farmer’s children who harvested. “You could always tell the Townies apart,” my mom laughs. “They couldn’t pick as fast and always came in the morning clean. For us, we couldn’t get a bath until Saturday night and we didn’t have enough clothes to be wearing clean ones everyday.” Every night before dinner the children would wash their faces and hands like they were wearing white gloves and masks above their real identities.

When you got to the field the field boss was already there. He handed you your tickets, tough pieces of oaktag with a number corresponding to your name, and told you to mark your section. Potato rows were long and you worked across them, not down them. Then you got your basket, a woven wooden one made from brown ash straps. The local Maliseet tribe made these baskets and they held about one fourth of a potato barrel. One Maliseet man brought his entire family every day to the harvesting, all ten children, and he wouldn’t straighten up all day, working furiously for every last cent.

One of my aunts remembers, “Once in the field there are the smells – earth, decaying tops and diesel fumes from the tractor as it chugs by bringing up the first rows of picking for the day. When we were quite young, our Dad would have chocolate bars tucked in his clothing. As he dug the sections his children were responsible to pick, he would drop a chocolate bar into the row to raise our spirits as we came upon it leaning over our potato baskets.” Only the youngest of the children crawled through the dirt to gather the potatoes. Everyone else bent at the waist and got used to the pain by the second or third day.

As every barrel was filled and a ticket squeezed underneath the top band the potato truck would drive by, a young man driving, an even younger boy standing on the flatbed operating the hoists and rolling the barrels as they were brought up onto the truck. “One of the boys sang “You Are My Sunshine” to me every time he came around to my section”, my mom recounts. “I turned red every time which is why he kept doing it.”

And so it went until the crop was in. As it got later in the season my mother remembers crawling inside one of the cedar barrels and pulling another one on top of it to block out the wind. But after all these years, this is what they all remember.

“Autumn leaves… colors bright everywhere…running through the fields. In and out of the trees and up and down the nearby gravel pits. Yelling…screaming…dancing. Weary muscles, bent skeletons, tired, dirty and mashed potatoes for supper.”

These are the stories my aunts and uncles tell me. These are the stories that my mother tells me.

Two Poems by Terri Moody: The Power of a Child & The Wanderlust of Life

2009-10-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

The Power of a Child

Sidewalk chalk, Salamanders and Swings,
These are children's things,
Our childhood is pure, white as snow,
Things change as we grow.
Scraping of knees is no longer the definition of pain.
Innocence leaves us just to spite.
I guess it is better this way,
Our knowledge expanding day by day.
Promise me though you will not lose faith,
In the fantastical creatures who used to be our mates
The Fairies who take flight
The Apples that will Poison with a bite
The Mermaids,
The Houses made from Sweets,
The Animals who could speak,
Or
The many people who You could be in an Hour.
Belief will be Your power.

*

The Wanderlust of Life

Is it just because This is something new?
Or is It something more?
It is scaring me, is It scary to You?
We are landing on an unfamiliar shore,
Our spirits bursting, on Our face a smile,
Their voices full of welcome, and cheer,
But will This all be worth Our while?
Once we venture out, there is no coming back Here,
Promise me now, that This is love!
Or tell me that It is lust,
Or, confirm my fears, is it only part of growing up?
Nothing now is certain, Except This peregrination is upon us.

"The worth of cubical probability" by Eric Brown

2009-10-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

The worth of cubical probability
The rotation of flat proportions
The numerical extremes of possibility
In other words, chance

That internal emotion of excitement
The slim opportunity of fortune and fame
If things go your way, in good fortune
You could end up lucky

Luck is a distraction
A word for human's incomprehension
The feeling that the stars will align
To have everything go your way

Does it help, probably not.
I guess it's just hope
For movements to preference you
And not someone else

"I seem to be like something new" by Amy Carpenter

2009-10-08T05:48:00.000-07:00

I seem to be like something new,
And I don't know what you go through,
As you try to tie your shoe,
But really, I was once like you,
I once, like you, was four
And I can see right through your eyes,
And how you suck at telling lies,
Your gap-tooth grin is your demise,
When you can't pretend anymore.

And I remember how I look,
To those who still can't read a book,
In awe of those whom time has took,
And how my life was severely shook,
'Cause it's not how it's portrayed.
You can't wait to be like me,
Though the future is too far to see,
You think someone like me is free,
But we all have been betrayed.

So go and look for Neverland,
And build your castles in the sand,
Come and take me by the hand,
And I'll try to make you understand
How we're not much different, You and I,
I still long for other days,
To change myself in different ways,
The world is still a maze,
No matter how hard I try.

Red Death at 6:14 by Bethany Sabo-Brisbois

2009-03-06T11:32:00.000-08:00

Red Death at 6:14
by Bethany Sabo-Brisbois

I suppose the closest I’ve ever come to falling in love was with a girl named Helene, I can’t recall ever learning her last name; our relationship didn’t require such things. I met her on July 9^th, the sky was beginning to turn a dark shade of grey and the air began to get stiff and damp, a storm was beginning to form. I was walking home especially fast that day, trying to make it home before the rain began to fall; I took the shortcut, through the woods. With my headphones in, Red Death at 6:14, and my hood protecting my head from the slight mist that had arrived. Thunder roared above the tree tops, I looked up hoping the cool splash of rain would hit my face and cool down my body, sweating from the hot summer air that stuck to me, instead of the cool splash of rain, I felt my face meet the ground. A soft chuckle came from my left; I looked up finding a girl laughing at me.

“What’s your problem?! Do you just go around laughing at anybody that falls? Who do you think you are?!”

“Kid, you tripped on your own two feet, and took a face dive straight into the dirt. That is pretty funny, I mean you honestly couldn’t tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say back to her, because well, I knew she was right.

“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, here let me help you up”

She took out her hand expecting me to take it, and to my surprise; I did. Amazingly strong for her tiny stature she was able to get me to my feet in a matter of seconds, I quickly brushed the soggy dirt off of my pant legs, the girl watched me and I could begin to feel myself feeling self conscious. She took out a lighter from her pants pocket and a cigarette out of a different one, she lit it and put it in her mouth, she breathed in the smoke, long, and deep.

“Hey, do you want one?”

“Umm, No thank you. I’ve got to go right home, and my mother would have a fit if I came home smelling like smoke.”

She laughed again, this time louder, “Hey don’t sweat it, truth be told I wasn’t even really asking you.”

To my surprise I began to feel myself get angry, “Well, why even bother asking me then?!” I could here the bitterness in my voice.

“I was being polite.” She smiled at me, not with her mouth, no, she smiled with her eyes. My nerves began to calm after she smiled, and I don’t quite recall thinking clearly.

Shopping with Abe Lincoln by Jaret Sears

2009-02-12T05:20:00.000-08:00

Shopping with Abe Lincoln
Jaret Sears

Abe, buddy, could you grab us a basket?
We won’t need a cart, we aren’t buying that much.

Where are you going? We…no… wait… no, we start over here.
Come back over here, don’t go to the deli, we don’t need anything there.

Ok… do you have that shopping list, Abe?

You forgot it? Where? I asked you in the car if you had it and you said you did.

Do you remember any of it?

You could remember the Gettysburg address, but you couldn’t remember a shopping list. Never mind, I think I remember most of it.

Hey. Whoa there. Abe, what are you doing?
Are you smuggling potatoes in your top hat? That’s illegal, Abe. Shoplifting is illegal.
And they called you “Honest Abe”. Ha. I laugh at that. I do.

Oh you were just putting them in there so you could weigh them easier?

Sure, ok. No, I believe you. Why are you giving me that look? Don’t give me that look.

Abe, look at this. Hormel chili is on sale. Ten cans for $10. That’s pretty good.
What? Well… yeah… I know. I know we don’t need it.

But I mean its nonperishable, so we could buy it now when it is on sale, and store it.

Abe, it’s not a stupid idea. That’s realistic. Fine, we won’t get it.
But when football season starts next month and you invite your pal Rathbone over,

Don’t ask me to make dip for you, cause I won’t, cause we won’t have chili.

Ok… we have to pick up Diet Coke. Not regular Coke. NOT regular, Abe.

You know what it does to your stomach, and I’m not going sit there feeding you TUMS. And you groan and you tell me never to let you get regular Coke again…

And then the next day, what do you do? You get regular Coke.

No. Freeze. Right now. What are you doing? You are holding regular Coke.

Put that down, get the Diet Coke. Just do it, Abe.

What else did we need? Anything… is this about it?

We’ve put a few things in our basket… we don’t need much else.

I don’t think so. But I just know that when we get home I am going to find the list,

And I’ll have missed something on it.

But oh well, whatever it is, I’ll pick it up after work tomorrow.

Ok, we don’t have that much stuff. So we’re not using a regular aisle.

Should we use the “Express Lane” or “Self-Checkout”?
You know what, the self-checkout always breaks when I use it, so we’ll just play it safe.

We’re going to use the “Express Lane”. We have ten items or fewer, right? Right?

Alright… ok… I’ll put this stuff on the conveyer belt.

No, you don’t need to help me, Abe. I can do this myself.

What are you doing? No, you aren’t getting that water bottle, put it back.

We have water in the car. I don't care if the car-water is warm. Put the water back, Abe.

No. Hey. Don’t put that on the conveyer belt. Get that off of there! Now! Abe!

Ok… fine… there you go, she scanned it. Too late, we bought it.

Now you have your water. Are you happy? You couldn’t just wait till we got to the car.

It’s funny that you could run an entire democracy “by the people”,

But you won’t listen to anyone else’s opinion while grocery shopping.

Whatever. I don’t make the money. It’s not my money. It’s yours. You can waste it.

What? Oh. I don’t have my “Shaw’s Card”. I didn’t bring my keys ‘cause you drove.

Abe, do you have your “Shaw’s Card”? No, you don’t? You don’t.

Abe Lincoln forgot his “Shaw’s Card”.

Red Sea by Kaylie McTiernan

2009-01-29T11:23:00.000-08:00

Red Sea
by Kaylie McTiernan

Infinite water surrounds me,

The Azorean sunset's passion manifests itself,

The secret ocean hides the wind's whistling might,

Almost forgotten is the wildly jumping jerboa,

The arctic blue narwhal's unicorn-like majesty is concealed,

Dreams of the tranquil stream are distant,

An overwhelming desire surges,

The Red Sea flooded irises gaze back into mine,

Endless water envelops me,

Fiery winds break the ocean with whistling might,

The Venus Flytrap does not snap shut,

No graceful Siberian tiger perches, awaiting its prey,

A blood-red sunrise pierces,

No dream of the tranquil stream,

The Red Sea flooded irises devour mine.

Traffic by Alex Rasmussen

2009-01-12T11:35:00.000-08:00

Traffic
by Alex Rasmussen

The cars all grind to a stop:

one can feel the pressure mount

in ripples through the pavement.

There is, of course, the usual mix of models:

the lumbering herds of Ford Explorers,

the fleet and solitary Dodge Stratuses.

And, of course, most idle

greasy unclean and festering

under the midday sun.

Coffee stains polka-dot every seat.

There is no hurry, no

scurrying through traffic lights,

no joyriding carful of teenagers.

There is no haze of exhaust fumes

through this dissipated air.

But in the breakdown lane

the stolen car with the burnt-out

headlights stalls, its abductor

in a panic with

manic groping sweaty fingers

twisting the impotent key

like the wrist of some

staunch deviant offender

in the ignition

sweating out the crawling, pricking barbs:

the brute caress of freedom.

Collapse. by Rose Pleuler

2008-11-21T06:07:00.000-08:00

Collapse.
by Rose Pleuler

Sorry I left that pile of dust in the bath tub,

but this sort of thing comes on with very little warning.

Under the splinters of a hot shower on a morning

so cold that my hands were bruised a dull purple,

I could feel bits of me

harden like a clay shell beneath the heat

and begin tighten and tighten on me

as it dried, until even the slight twitch of my wrist

caused tearing up the seams of my body,

making way for deeper cracks

that echoed redness

and sectioned my skin off into sharp platelets

that scraped against each other,

each section a piece to an ancient mechanism

that produced the same metal shards,

sliding into dry piles on the cold porcelain,

that you left in a clump at the back of my throat.

The metal taste in my mouth was getting strong,

and I'm sorry for when I say

I would rather be hardened, tightened, dried, torn, cracked, and scraped,

than have you

repair me.

Imbedded by Lucy Morgan

2008-11-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

Imbedded
by Lucy Morgan

Ruth has been waking up in the same bed on top of the same sheets for decades and she's been heart broken for almost as long, but on this Thursday morning she still startles awake with the expectation that a man will be asleep in the space next to her, and of course she is disappointed, so she walks quickly out of her bedroom to the immediate kitchen where the coffee she prepared the night before waits to meet the warmth of her dry throat and sticky morning teeth, swallows, and quickly hurries out the front door to the immediate driveway where her blue pickup truck is parked, forces the ignition to turn, and makes her way down a long dirt road until she reaches the only gas station in Rumney, New Hampshire - the one where she spent most summer nights working as a teenager, the one she inherited from the owner when he died of old age- and after she unlocks the front door she waits a moment before turning on the lights but when she does she finds that the shelves are stocked just as they were the day before, so she plants her feet behind the cash register and waits for it to be 7am, but the first customer turns out to be someone who doesn't feel intimidated by Closed Sign; it turns out to be Bill's son, the Bill who died in his vegetable garden at age forty-eight, and Ruth startles at the sight of his old face on the young boy as he says hi, asks if she remembers him, embraces her, and explains that he's been living about five hours away ever since things went wrong, and that he's leaving for college in the big city tomorrow morning, so he thought it might be good for him to visit Rumney one last time before he goes, and Ruth immediately thinks of her bed sheets and for the first time in her life she knows what is in store for her so she turns the Closed Sign on the door to Open, says goodbye to the boy, and kisses him hard on the mouth.

Introducing: The Elicitor: Volume 22: 2007/2008

2008-06-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

Behold the fruits of our labors!
~
Below you will find the pages of the 2007/2008 Elicitor. Click on the images to investigate the texts and to scrutinize the photographs.

Read in the paginated order. Or read randomly. Up to you, really.

Page 1 (cover page; photograph by Bryanna Porter)
Page 2 (staff listing and editorial)
Page 3 (poems by Felicia Lowe and Willie Norris)
Page 4 (poem by Lia Parisi)
Page 5 (photograph by Felicia Lowe)
Page 6 (photograph by Juliann Flaherty)
Page 7 (prose by Emily daSilva; photograph by Jessica Russ)
Page 8 (photographs by Chad Williams, Brianna Aloisio, Felicia DaRosa, Kayla Silva, Jessica Russ, Kathy Kaity, and Sara Pardo)
Page 9 (images by Heather Lopes, Stacia Pinegar, and Jessica Russ)
Page 10 (photographs by Lucy Morgan)
Page 11 (play by Allie Lees)
Page 12 (back cover page; photograph by Liam Anastasia-Murphy)

Be astonished. Be amazed. (But don't be too hard on us for the typos. We are still learning.)
~
Hard copies of volume 22: 2007/2008 will be available in room 2207 at Gloucester High School starting June 10.

Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 1

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 2

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 3

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 4

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 5

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 6

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 7

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 8

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 9

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 10

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 11

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Elicitor * Volume 22 * 2007/2008 * Page 12

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The Elicitor 2008: First Meeting

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Anyone interested in helping with any aspect of the production of the 2008 edition of the Gloucester High School literary magazine, The Elicitor should attend an informational meeting on Thursday, January 31, 2008 in room 2207 at Gloucester High School. If you cannot make this meeting information from the meeting will also be available on Friday, February 1, 2008 in room 2207 or from Willie Norris, class of 2008.