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... Answer Only to the Morning Alexandra Peterson QEP Essay Contest Winner When I am old I will answer only to the morning. I will no longer wake to the sounds of screaming children, city noises, or a lover snoring. When I am old, no alarm clock will shake me into the day and no obligations will make me miss the sunrise. I shall rise on my own time, to birds or perhaps the silence of snow in the winter. Ill touch my feet to the cool hardwood floor and shake out my long gray hair as if shaking the night from my body. Silence will be a welcome companion and empty hours ahead of me will be like friends I havent seen in a very long while. In the kitchen Ill glance at the empty ashtray. It will have been empty for quite some time and Ill think of finally just throwing it away. When I was younger, I probably would have turned the radio on and started breakfast before acknowledging the gentle hours of a young day. When I am old, I will sit on the porch for a while, swinging back and forth on the rickety porch swing. Now, I find myself frightened of being alone, as if solitude is a crushing enemy. I dont want to be forgotten. When I am old, solitude will be the quiet partner Id always overlooked. I will no longer be afraid of being forgotten, but rather embrace the actions in my previous years by which I always hoped Id be remembered and take solace in the idea that perhaps they really were worth being remembered. Pictures 8 from my childhood and adulthood will line the walls and Ill greet each one of them in reverence before taking a cup of hot tea; my only drug being that early morning haze of caffeine. Gone are the empty glass bottles, the clinking of wine glasses, the thick scent of smoke, and the cloud of raucous laughter. Mornings after shall no longer exist, just mornings. Some days these days, I sleep until far past noon, when Ive missed the world waking up and starting again. When I am old, all I may have is just the morning. I will have moved beyond the precariousness of joy and the turbulence of grief. I will be content to allow my scars to stare at me in the cracked mirror. I will not be numb, but content. Mornings have no room for dwelling on the past and that is how I will want to be. Like the morning. These days, Im much like the night. Tired or alive or both at the exact same time. An up and down of sleep or no sleep, quiet tears or ecstasy that comes with the deliriousness of the evening. Ill shake my head when I remember the days Id wake up just in time to go to work and rush out the door, forgetting that the day had begged me for recognition. When I am old, nights will hold nothing for me. They are the end, and when I grow old endings only become repetitive. Isnt it strange how near the end, all Ill want is just another beginning? Mornings will call me with purring cats or thundering rain clouds, leaking ceilings and the ring of the telephone. Ill remind myself today, today, todayand maybe Ill glance at the clocks. Theyll all be stuck on times they ran out of batteries. When I am old, I wont take the time to replace the batteries in my clocks. Time is too sweet to keep watching it. I can only hope that when Im old I wont count what I do not have, I will only count the lady bugs crawling on the screen door. I wont sit around hoping for something to happen, Ill only be glad that nothing is happening. Turbulence will no longer have a place in my life. Nowadays I find myself passing the days between tears, drinks, or other people. In the mornings, there are people on my couch or on the floor, in my bed or in the bathtub. And I want them all to disappear. I want to wake up in the morning alone for once, and be okay with it. Ive forgotten gentle sounds and how good running water feels drifting over skin. Ive forgotten dates, lunch appointments, and interviews. All Ill want is to be able to remember the things Ive forgotten. When I am old, I will answer only to the morning. 9  ...

... Rat Boy Lindsay Bell I want to take you back to Baldwin road We will dig up the graves of all your loved ones We will turn over the loose rock and find our homes obituary The creek will be filled with fire crackers and GI Joes The trees will be stashed with 1980s Playboys and cigarette packs The dogwoods will have grown so high They are our fortress My girls will romp through the ivy and collect tadpoles at the creek They will awe over the graffiti at the bridge and wonder why they cant draw on the walls We will snack on Doritos on the back deck, all the while peeling off the paint Then well climb through my window and retrieve our past It is a heavy load And as dusk creeps in, the magnolia tree you fell from will open its arms and cradle us to sleep And you will remember being loved 6  ...

... Sound Crista Norfrey The piano sleeps, its keys yearning for conversation with the palms of my hands, the music rack tired of solitude, wanting to be joined by the great works of Chopin, Schubert, Faure, Debussy, the pedals desiring to hear the shadows of the music, deep undertones bright wisps of light and the ever present middle C, satisfied with its home in the spotlight. The alarm sounds. Oh, to wake up this dormant piano. 4  ...

... A Long Time Coming Kenneth N. Moore This voyage at sea was more than I imagined it would be. Storms and unknowing frightened me. Only faith held off my growing belief That I might never set foot on land again. But then one morning I awoke to the shouts of the lookout crying, land, land, I see land. I felt the pounding of my heart, as I strained to see out across the sea. And then it appeared a ridge upon the horizon that brought my soul to rest. As our ship sailed closer to this promised, but sometime disbelieved land, memories of stories past spoken merged into reality. Now, sometime past I am aware and grateful It was a long time coming. 56  ...

... The First Bite Kelly Shott a runner up in the QEP Essay Contest You know you cant leave until you eat all of it. I took a deep breath and groaned. How had it come to this? I am a grown woman, and besides didnt she know that I couldnt eat this sandwich. The nurse looked at the clock and sighed. I looked down at my plate. Why cant I eat this sandwich? The bread was fresh, the turkey was unspoiled, the cheese was not moldy; there was nothing unusual or offensive about it sitting there in the compartment of the institutional tray. I did the calculations in my head automatically. I had eaten the broccoli first: 10 calories per stalk. Then I ate the apple: 100 calories. I had drunk my milk: 130 calories. I had eaten more in this meal than I had eaten all last week; I just couldnt eat this sandwich. It was my first day of inpatient treatment for Anorexia Nervosa. My struggle with this exhausting disease began at age 12. Eating disorders are primarily anxiety driven and anxiety is something I know well. A hair on my shirt, a dust bunny in the corner, the slightly less than ninety degree tilt of the paper I am writing on, all of these things can throw me into a deep spiral of panic. Some students strive for As and Bs, I demand 100 percent. Overachievement is so common in my family that even the family tree is afraid to fail. I graduated with a 4.0 and numerous acceptance letters. That Fall I started college with the same grueling expectations of myself and the new found freedom to starve myself to death. The pressures of college soon took their toll. Chasing perfection is like trying to fill up a bucket with no bottom. In a world of deadlines and expectations, I thirsted for control. I was dying to control. One of my therapists once said, You have a bad case of the shoulds. You need to control a situation to feel safe and stave off the anxiety but your sense of control is an illusion and you know it. When you cant control anything else, at least you can control what goes into your mouth. I became reclusive and alienated. I quit the rugby and equestrian team; I dropped out of German club. My friends whispered, theorized and finally gave up and stopped calling. My weight dwindled and I found reasons to not come home for holidays. That summer my facade finally fell to pieces. I could no longer pretend that I was not sick and at 98 lbs I was admitted to a voluntary inpatient treatment center located in the 54 The First Bite | Kelly Shott Appalachian Mountains. I thought about all the reasons why I couldnt eat this sandwich. If you eat this sandwich you will get fat, your grades will drop, no one will love you, and your whole world will fall apart... I looked at the nurse. Her hair was out of style, her name tag hung just slightly askew on the lanyard around her neck, her impossibly white shoes squeaked on the sterile tile floor. Then I met her eyes. I saw steel resolve, I saw concern, and I saw compassion. Her eyes seemed to say, I hope you succeed but if you fail, we will try again. Like a mother bird pushing her fledgling out of the nest, she knew I had to fly or hit the ground. She thought I was worth it and she was not going to give up without a fight. I looked back at my plate. This woman had just met me; she didnt know that I had an almost perfect SAT score or that the tassels of my bedroom rug were all perpendicular to the floorboards and she still thought I was worth it. If she thought I deserved to eat this sandwich, deserved not to starve, deserved to be happy, then maybe I did. The prospect of eating that whole meal was the most terrifying thing I had ever done but, for the first time in years, I cleaned my plate. That nurse saved my life. I finished my inpatient therapy under her experienced care. Ninety days later, I went home armed with the tools to defeat the mental illness that had ruled my life for my entire adolescence and had threatened to stalk me into adulthood. I dont remember her name, but I will never forget her. The way her voice sounded as she encouraged me. The way her hands always smelled like antiseptic when she held my head. I will never forget that she never gave up on me, that she insisted that I was worth it. 55  ...

... Love, Italian Style Anthony S. Prato Canto I. The Knowledge. They know. They all know. All of them. How do they know? Did they learn the Knowledge in the womb? Did they absorb It by osmosis? Was the Knowledge handed down to them via a long chain of female relatives, deceased and living? It doesnt matter. What matters is that they have the Knowledge and you do not. No, my benighted young friend, not only do you not have the Knowledge, but you dont even realize it exists! Here they come now. They look pretty ordinary, dont they? Theyre just another group of Italian-America Roman Catholic teen-aged girls from some big-city workingclass neighborhood. We could be anywhere: New York, Philly, Baltimore, Boston or Frisco. Lets pretend were in New York. Queens, actually. Okay, Long Island City in Queens. Theyre getting closer. Theyre chatting a mile a minute, giggling and grooving to the rock music blasting from somebodys radio. In the middle of this covey of seemingly innocent little doves is a girl well call Vivian. She is dark-haired and attractive. Her name was well chosen: she is vivacious and outgoing. Look at her! Not a care in the world or a brain in her head, right? Thats just what she wants you to believe, chump! These girls seem so oblivious to the world around them. The operative word, of course, is seem. They have long ago mastered the art of seeing without appearing to look, of hearing without appearing to listen. Above all, they have mastered the Black Arts of sensing, intuiting and envisioning, which enable them to look into your very soul. Make no mistake about it. These young ladies are Ninjas, female Italian Ninjas. Assassins! So what is the Knowledge these Italian girls have? When you try to describe or define the Knowledge, you inevitably trivialize it. Its essentially the feminine art and science of winning a mate. The highest manifestation of this art, the Black Belt level, is the ability of a Woman of Knowledge to induce the male to feel that he cannot live 47 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato without her and that he originated all of the courting and subsequent commitments. Canto II. It All Began Here Here is how it begins. You (well call you Salvatore) are hanging out in one of the rooms of the school attached to the local church, rooms that are used for Friday night socializing by the teen-aged parishioners. Let us call the church St. Ritas Roman Catholic Church. A girl named Vivian looks at you across the room, smiles and murmurs Daddy who? Daddy cool. Daddy who? Daddy Cool. Those are the words of a popular Rock song of the day, but when Vivian gently voices them, they are soothing and hypnotic. Also, listen to the words. Vivian is calling you Daddy, implying that she looks up to you, that she thinks you are wise and strong and knowledgeable in the ways of the world. And, as a bonus, she thinks youre cool! Vivian has taken complete charge of the situation. Salvatore, you are doomed. You ask her out...clumsily. She accepts...graciously. So the next several weeks become a dating fiesta: movies, pizza, inexpensive neighborhood restaurants, walks in the park, and church functions. One soft summer night, graced with a lovely full moon, Vivian says, Why waste your money on movies? Why dont we just go for a walk in the park? She takes your hand, and the both of you disappear into the hidden, shadowy recesses of Rainey Park, hard by the East River. Canto III. Sunday Mass. Sooner or later, Salvatore, either you or Vivian will suggest that you go to church together on Sunday. After all, both of you go to Mass every Sunday. Why not go together? It will probably be Vivian who broaches the subject. You are hopelessly obtuse. So you and Vivian go to Mass together each Sunday. After a short time, you have become a couple. All of your friends have seen you together each Sunday, as have hers. Relatives that live nearby have seen you and Vivian in church. This has been a triumph for Vivian but she is not growing complacent. Remember, Vivian has the Knowledge. She knows how crucial the next step is... and how dangerous. 48 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato Canto IV. Sunday Dinner After Mass. Vivian needs advice from her co-conspirator girlfriends. She meets with them the following Monday at a table in the high school cafeteria. There are many urgent whispers at that table, laughter, and tears. The full gamut of human emotions is given free rein here, with even what sounds like the cackling of Macbeths Witches gathered around the smoking cauldron. What is the problem? The next step is for Vivian to invite Salvatore to her house right after Mass for Sunday dinner. But when? Timing is of crucial importance. If the invitation comes too soon Sal may realize that he is being set up. The moon, the stars, the witches of Macbeth, the shades of wise, ancient, southern Italian crones and Vivians friends all agree that the very next Sunday is auspicious. You and Vivian have just attended Mass. The Mass has ended and you are melding with the crowd leaving the church. You walk Vivian to her home and start to say goodbye. Vivian says, Why dont you come up to my house for dinner? Id love to but my parents are expecting me, you say. Vivian replies, Well, you could call them from my house. You and Viv have now reached a critical juncture. Having everyone together for Sunday dinner after church is very important in most Italian-American families. This is your first step towards becoming part of Vivs family. Viv knows that she must become a part of your family too. That will soon come to pass. Your mother will say that you should reciprocate and invite Viv to your house for Sunday dinner. Vivian will, of course, accept your invitation, cordially but without appearing too eager. Soon this becomes routine: dinner at Vivs one Sunday, dinner at your house the next. Canto V. Shes Good for Him. Your mother has already fallen in love with Viv: What a sweet girl, so warm and friendly. And shes attractive but a little plump, just like me! I think she will keep Salvatore going to Mass every Sunday...and keep him away from those no-good friends of his. Your mom and dad know youre a bright kid who always did well at school. Theyve been praying for years that you will go to college, the first of the extended family to do so. They are scared to death that your friends will tempt you away from the ivy path to college and towards the primrose path to...God knows where. To jail? 49 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato To a roof top, where the police will find you slumped over with a needle dangling from your lifeless arm? To a hospital emergency ward, your life oozing out of a lung punctured by a razor-sharp knife wielded during some senseless gang fight? I know your crowd, Sal. Your friends arent that bad. Its just that parents worry. They worry most about those scenarios whose horrors far outweigh their likelihood. Thats human nature. Nothing can change it. The important thing is that your mother sees Vivian as a good influence: a lighthouse in a pitch-black night, an unwavering compass pointing the way to safety for callow and inexperienced sailors tossed in a stormy sea of adolescent angst, confusion and vulnerability. Canto VI. Meet the Family. Vivian knows that the next step is crucial. Again, Viv must confer with her girlfriends. When you have a bunch of Italian girls sitting together in a high school cafeteria, talking in urgent, conspiratorial whispers, you know some unsuspecting guy is about to sink a little deeper into the courtship quicksand. The next step for Viv is to invite Sal to a family function: a birthday, a christening, perhaps a major holiday. Again, timing is critical, as is the choice of function. Wakes and funerals are out (too gloomy). Weddings are out. No sense in scaring the unknowing little slaughterhouse piggy...until it is too late. Christmas dinner at Grandmas is as good a time as any. There will be plenty of relatives there who havent seen each other in a while and will be anxious to renew their friendships. Viv knows that Sal wont be the center of attention and will therefore be able to relax and enjoy the festivities. Another advantage for Viv is that one side of her family gets to size Sal up, all in one sitting. This is important. Italian-American couples do not live in a vacuum. They are an integral part of both the husbands family and that of the wife. Actually, the two families will eventually become The Family. It is unthinkable that Sal and Viv could get married if either one did not fit into The Family. After Christmas dinner, Vivs mother will be receiving reports from the field. They will all be favorable. After all, Sal has been in his familys school all his life, the school where one learns how to be an Italian male. He is nice, friendly and modest, and 50 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato respectful of the older family members. Vivs family will recognize him immediately as one of their own. And so it goes. Viv attends all of Sals family functions and Sal attends all of hers. Now you are officially a couple in the eyes of God and The Family. If Sal goes alone to a family wedding without Viv everyone will converge on him asking, Wheres Vivian? Is she ill? Tell her we said hello. Canto VII. Heart Speaks to Heart. Sal and Vivian have had many long, serious conversations about their future, many of them in the ...hidden, shadowy recesses of Rainey Park, hard by the East River. On one of these occasions, Sal is very quiet. Honey, whats the matter? Youre so quiet, Viv says. Its nothing, Sal replies. Tell me, she demands in a raspy whisper, her beautiful brown eyes wide with concern. Sal asks, Are you dating other guys? Well...NO! Why should I? Do you want to date other girls? Are you thinking that we should break up? Well... Sal says, taken aback by the force of her reply...and cut to the bone by her palpable pain. WELL, WHAT?!! she snaps at him. Well, since were not seeing other people, I thought, and I dont know how you feel about this, but I thought, well, maybe we should... Vivian completes his sentence: Go steady? Weve been doing that for months, you silly! And then she dropsthe bomb: Why should we go steady? Sals innocent question somehow turned the conversation into a chess match. The words check mate are softly, almost inaudibly, reverberating inside his skull. Well, he stammers, I think we should get married someday. Why? she says, archly. Because you love me? Well sure, Viv, because I, well, you know, love you...sort of...and because I dont want to be without you...ever. That wasnt so hard, was it? she asks, trying very hard to keep a note of triumph out of her voice. The moon and the stars look down on the young couple with approval. The Witches of Macbeth, the shades of wise, ancient, Southern Italian crones and the spirits of her girlfriends gather secretly behind a dense copse of nearby shrubbery, silently cheering. Canto VIII. The Perils of Passion. Vivian presses her lips against Sals, cutting off his reply. The kiss, one of the very 51 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato few that she doled out to him, is long and passionate. After several seconds, when she can feel her heart trying to burst out of her chest, she pushes him away, a little more roughly than was necessary, Sal thinks. Vivian is totally, cold-bloodedly in control of the couples amorous activity. She knows what would happen if she became pregnant and she is prepared to fight with her entire being - tooth and nail, body and soul, to the death if necessary - to avoid that fate. If she became pregnant, she and her parents, and Sal and his parents, would be in Father Russos office for an impromptu, private wedding ceremony. There would be no nuptial Mass, just a perfunctory, uncomfortable rite that everyone, even Father Russo, would want to be over as soon as possible. Vivian wouldnt be able to bear the look of pain and disappointment in her fathers eyes. Nor could Vivian stand seeing her mother struggling for control, trying to think of something reassuring to say, only to break down totally and blurt out: Vivian, bambina mia, my heart, my soul, my blood, why did you do this to me? No, bad boys and girls, and their parents, dont get formal church weddings, in the presence of both families, with the bride dressed all in white, just like she has been dreaming of since she was a little girl. Mothers of bad girls get to cry their eyes out at every family wedding as the bride, all aglow, and stunning in a dazzling white wedding gown, walks slowly down the aisle at her fathers side. Such is the compassion that the Churchs administrators reserve for erring communicants. Canto IX. Plans. Vivian is a very practical young woman. As for the engagement ring proffered with a formal proposal delivered on bended knee, well thats only so much American frippery. Life is serious and has nothing to do with rings. A diamond ring? Thats a refrigerator equivalent! And the bended knee should be reserved for church, where one genuflects to the Living Presence residing at the altar The happy couple eventually decides to get married as soon as it is practically and reasonably possible, which really means in a few years. Yes, Sal, you have now not only resigned yourself to your fate but you are embracing it. Vivian cannot wait 52 Love, Italian Style | Anthony S. Prato for that happy day. You young people are crazy. For years youve been complaining about how old fashioned and irrelevant your parents were, how uncomprehending and clueless, how hopelessly out of date. And yet you are now in a big rush to become your parents! The gods, and parents everywhere, must be laughing Sal is changing his plans to take a pre-law curriculum at Queens College. After all, it takes three years of study after college to get a law degree. It seems more practical to get a Bachelor of Science Degree in Accounting, which is all the education necessary to become a C.P.A. Sal will enroll in night courses at City Colleges Bernard Baruch School of Business Administration while working full time at a stock brokerage house. Vivian will go to work as a secretary for a major insurance company. Sal and Viv will open a joint savings account. Canto X. The End...and the Beginning. Four long years have passed since high school graduation. Sal will make his formal proposal to Vivian in the hidden, shadowy recesses of Rainey Park. Vivian will be a June Bride next year. And yes, Vivian will get her engagement ring. After all, she has to set a good example for the sake of her girlfriends. No one knows if Sal will propose on bended knee...no one except the moon and the stars, which are benignly beaming down on the young couple, and those other benevolent well-wishers: the Witches of Macbeth, the shades of wise, ancient, Southern Italian crones and the spirits of Vivians girlfriends, who hide behind a thick copse of nearby shrubbery. But they arent talking. 53  ...

... Like A Good Piece of Land Patience L. Ray I wish the bed would eat us, tear me limb from limb, pick the flesh from your bones. Maybe then this place would be ours; our sweat, our blood in it like a good piece of land. We would sow all year round with our hands turning the sheets, cloth fields to bury death in, live in, forgetting as we soaked into the cotton, silk, whatever we made it with. There are things only a pillow can carve up, make better, look at with your eyes closed. Like that time you ignored my bound foot pressing against your Sunday shoes under the table. I needed unwrapping from that mediocre dinner party, but you let me add superficial layers for another 92 minutes. I thought it meant something until we returned to ground, shedding false pretenses, became snakes digesting gophers, filling in the musty tunnels and holes in our field. Forgiving is pulling back the coverlet, entering that place between tongue and palate, embracing the cud, this place of ours; our sweat, our blood in the fabric like a good piece of land. 46  ...

... Journey to Vinestone Sarah Catherine Washburn And there, looming before them, stood the Abbey, the safe hold, the destination: Vinestone. After all they had been through ... the hiding, the fighting, the suffering ... they had made it! We sat leaning intensely over the freshly revised script. Lost in a reverie, it took several seconds before any of us spoke. Its perfect! exclaimed my sister, Ariel, shaking her brown hair in admiration. All of us agreed. It was a work of art. We had put so many long hours into making it perfect. Ooo! Layne sighed, eyeing my pile of supplies. What kind of stuff did you bring? She stood peeping into one of my bags, her blonde, wavy hair pulled back in a long braid. Well, I said, I have the elegant, medieval costumes, the village props, and the fabric. And I have the cameras! Ariel added enthusiastically. She was deeply into allthings-camera, and its a good thing too, or else we wouldnt have had the necessary equipment for movie-making. Great! cried my cousin Morgan, her smiling face framed by her short, dark hair. Now can we try on our costumes? Dressing up was not something average teenagers did, but we were going to have a blast! Thankfully, we would be alone and deep in the woods where no one could see us. Just as we had planned, we changed into our medieval costumes, arranged our hair, and put on our various medallions, knife sheaths, and footwear. Layne was a princess and wore a beautiful white dress made of bed sheets, done up in elegant twists and flowing folds and fastened with two safety pins tucked out of sight. For a crown, she wore a string of white beads around her head. Ariel was a villager. She wore a simple brown dress and an intricate belt made from colorful beads and leather and had two small braids in her hair, tied together in the back. Morgan was the princesss maid and wore a maroon frock and a blue skirt. In her hair was a comb, adorned with beads and trinkets. I was a warrior and wore a long, cream-colored tunic, a straight, shin-length, brown, rawhide-looking skirt, and a medallion around my neck. Feeling foolish in clothing of such oddities, we walked out of the front door and 43 Journey to Vinestone | Sarah Catherine Washburn into the lushly green yard, where the sweet smell of summer flowers and the cheerful chirping of North Carolinian birds greeted us. Tromping down the street to the public walkway, we looked like an anomalous revolution, all dressed up in medieval clothing. We gulped. Now, wethe lost heroes of oldwere fully exposed to the world. The path was relatively quiet, but long and open. Anyone walking could see us on that narrow little lane. We walked along the path until we came to a secret trail where we turned and cut into the woods. The splendor of the forest was overwhelming. It looked like a mystical woodland. Passing moss-covered trees, deep creeks, and fallen logs only added to the magic. Wildlife was everywhere. Birds sang, frogs croaked, and rabbits hopped gleefully around, celebrating the magnificent day. We crossed a wooden bridge, rounded a bend, and looked up. Our eyes met a glorious sightthe Meadow! Layne and I loved that place, and when the sun hit the field just right, the beauty was so vivid you could almost see fairies dancing in the tall grass. It always gave me a deep thrill inside saying, This place is magical. It was the perfect spot to film. We then set everything up and got the camera ready. We did a quick run-through of the scenes, got into our places, and started shooting. Action! I shouted, for I was the cameraman. It was a forest scene, and the princess was running from an enemy camp. Layne was in the spotlight. She had to run through rough terrain, climb up a steep ledge in one giant leap, and duck under various boughs. Finding it to be nearly impossible, it took three takes before Layne got up the ledge. But then, on the fourth take, Ariel and Morgan could be seen in the film when they were supposed to be miles away at a village. So we did one more take, and it was perfect! Then we filmed some scenes of the sky and some of the beautiful meadow and surrounding scenery. After that, we headed back to the bridge to shoot a water scene in the stream. When we arrived at the bridge, everyone got into position, and I was just about to press record when a girl rounded a bend in a pathway and was heading straight towards us! We froze. I turned my head away, and Morgan and Ariel pretended to be talking. But Layne ... Layne had a different idea. Some people are shy, some outgoing, and others follow their spontaneous instincts. That is what Layne did. Excuse me maam, my cousin, all dressed up in a princess gown, said, using a 44 Journey to Vinestone | Sarah Catherine Washburn heavy, exaggerated English accent. My heart stopped. No, no! Dont bring any attention to us! But Layne had no intention of letting a good joke pass by. Could you please tell me where the nearest carriage is? Im afraid Im late for the ball, Layne finished, staring at the girl with a face of perfect innocence. Uhh ... okay? the girl answered in a questioning tone. Her dumbfounded face showed the shock of seeing a rugged band of adventurers from the ancient castle era. Realizing that this girl had no interest in playing our game, Layne quickly apologized. Oh, sorry. I was just... she trailed off, her innocent look melting away to uncover one of sheepish embarrassment. I was trying so hard to keep myself from laughing that when the girl finally disappeared around the corner, an outlandish howl exploded from my mouth as it tried to escape. Did you see her face? cried Morgan, gagging with hilarity. I know! Ariel added. And she was taking out her cell phone to make fun of us with her friends. We are going to be famous! After shooting our water scene, we headed through the woods back to Layne and Morgans house. The forest life seemed even cheerier, as if it understood our laughter. As we strode back, we replayed the best scene of the day about Layne and the girl. It got us all worked up again, and I dont know how we ever stopped laughing, but we did, and that evening we had so much to share at the dinner table. It had been a fun dayone to remember for years to come. Imagine walking down your favorite pathone you used oftenand seeing a bunch of teenagers, about the same age as you, all dressed up like ferocious first graders in costumes of imaginary places. I think the girl was relieved to find out that we were just pretending. But that conclusion probably made her just as uneasy. After all, ordinary teenagers didnt let their imagination and love for adventure get the better of them. But we didnt care. It had been years since we had dressed up, and it was refreshing to feel foolishly young again. Oh, that wonderful princess and her carriage ... the one who not only stars in movies, but who also loves to laugh. 45  ...

... The Problem with Being Dead Patience L. Ray The problem with being Dead is, after a few days, you start to stink. Kristen took the perfume bottle from the top of her dresser and gave herself two good sprits of the sweet smelling fragrance. Not that she could smell anything either way, she just wore it as a precaution. The last time she had gone outside without wearing any perfume, an old woman had almost fainted from the stink. It had been quite embarrassing. Kristen looked at herself appraisingly in the mirror hanging over the dressing table. Sure, besides smelling like road kill, the ghostly pallor and dark circles under her eyes were a little bothersome too, but there was nothing a little make-up couldnt fix and she kind of liked the way her skin seemed to glow when light hit it. There were definitely worse things in life than being Dead. She finished applying a bright red shade of lipstick to her full, gray lips and then grabbed her purse. She walked into the kitchen where her mom was standing at the sink up to her elbows in soapsuds. Hey mom. Kristen kissed her moms pink cheek. Hey to you too, her mom said, raising an eyebrow as she took in her daughters appearance. Headed somewhere? The Graveyard, Kristen replied, checking her purse to make sure she had her I.D. Theres this new band called the Headstones who just flew in from Denmark and I hear theyre stone dead cool. I guess a little music wont hurt, her mom said, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but be careful. You know how I feel about you being newly Dead and hanging out at a place like the Graveyard. She slung the towel over her shoulder, a slight frown around her mouth. I just hope Im not letting you jump too quickly into the Dead scene. Dont worry. Kristen put one arm around her mom. Dr. Matthews says being around other people like me will help. She gave her mom an affectionate squeeze. Sometimes its hard when everyone else in the family is packing a pulse. Of course, her mom said, I know its the right thing to do, but I dont want you to forget your old friends either. She looked pointedly at her daughter. Like Liz. She called today and wanted to know if you were . . . feeling alright. 39 The Problem With Being Dead | Patience L. Ray Now she calls? Kristen thought bitterly. Didnt seem like I was alive enough for her two months ago, she said, gazing at the floor. If Liz wanted to talk to her, it would take a lot more than just a phone call. Kristen looked up again at her mom. You told her I wasnt here, right? Yes, just like you asked, her mom replied, shaking her head as she pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down. But I still feel terrible. Liz sounded so sad on the phone, like she feels responsible for what happened to you. I dont blamed her. Kristen tried not to sound hurt, which was pretty easy since being Dead made the whole crying thing impossible. Its not her fault some drunk guy decided to go for a joyride into the side of her carit could have been her in the passenger seat, she just happened to be driving. Her mom reached over and took her hand. You two were so close, just give her another chance to make things right. It will be better for you both. Kristen nodded, waiting till she trusted her voice not to crack. Ill think about it. The chain link gate swung shut behind Kristen, and she turned left, walking briskly along the sidewalk toward the railway. The Graveyard was only fifteen minutes away on foot, right by the abandoned rail yard, so walking on the train tracks would be the shortest and least crowded route to take her where she wanted. Besides, it was nice to be outside. Being stuck in the house all day had been one of the hardest things to get used to, but her dermatologist had been very clear about the damage extended exposure to sunlight would have on her skin, and rotting, gaping holes did not sound pretty. Cost was an issue too. She had just gotten this skin suit a few weeks ago and she had to make it last as long as possible. Neuskin products were expensive, and her moms work didnt provide insurance for deceased dependents. Kristen picked her way over the tracks, careful not to get a heel stuck between the rails. Only a few more minutes and she would be at The Graveyard. She passed a tall, round oak tree, its broad, leafy limbs a black mass in the darkness. Our tree, Kristen thought sadly. She and Liz used to come to that tree at least once a week to smash pennies on the track and watch trains go by, counting the boxcars, but mostly it had been a place to talk. But not anymore, not since the accident. She moved on, trying to keep thoughts of Liz from creeping in, her attempts only making it worse. She should have asked her mom drive her instead of coming this way. With relief, Kristen heard 40 The Problem With Being Dead | Patience L. Ray the steady beat of music just ahead. Maybe now shed be able to forget what her life had been like before. She hurried up the slope toward an old warehouse, a sign with the words Graveyard flashing in red neon above it. After opening a few years ago, the Graveyard had turned into the place for corpses to be and was one of the only joints in town that was strictly for the living dead. The parking lot was packed with cars, and there was a line of people at the door waiting to get in. The old glass panes above the door rattled in their frames as music blasted from the warehouse, and Kristen could almost feel the ground vibrate as she moved toward the end of the line. There was someone already there, waiting anxiously off to the side. Liz walked over to Kristen. Hey. If Kristen had been alive, her heart would have skipped a beat. Hey, she said lamely. What are you doing here? I came to find you, Liz said, your mom told me youd be here. Oh. They were both quiet for a few moments before Liz broke the silence. Im sorry, she said, her voice quavering as she scuffed the toe of her shoe into the gravel, I should have called you sooner, I just felt so. . . Kristen watched a tear roll down her friends cheek. I know, she said quietly, its alright. Liz relaxed her scrunched shoulders. Really? Really. Liz smiled, looking at Kristens face for the first time since shed walked over. You look good. Thanks, but you look . . . Kristen noticed the dark circles under Lizs eyes. Her friends skin was an unhealthy shade of gray and her lips bloodless. Are you feeling alright? Liz leaned closer as two guys walked past them. Yeah, Im fine, she said in a whisper, pulling Kristen a little farther away from the line of people. I just wanted us to be able to hang out like we used to and I heard that the Graveyard only lets in, you know, Dead people. 41 The Problem With Being Dead | Patience L. Ray Kristens mouth dropped. Are you seriously pretending to be Dead, just so we can be together? Something like that, Liz said. Kristen stifled a laugh while looking her friend up and down, a foolish grin on her face. Well, you really look the part. Liz shrugged. The make-up was easy, I read up on it. You can find anything on the web. What about the I.D.? Kristen asked. You have to be registered as deceased to get in. Liz held up a death certificate. I know a guy. Faked it. Kristen giggled. Gosh, I missed you. Yeah, you too, Liz said. They walked together to the end of the line. The couple in front of them moved through the door and Liz and Kristen handed their I.D.s to the guy standing at the entrance. He had what looked like tire tread marks down the right side of his face. He took one look and waved them in. Kristen watched Lizs face for any kind of reaction as they entered the club. Nothing. How was Liz doing it? Liz felt Kristen watching her and raised an eyebrow questioningly. Kristen nodded toward the dancing crowds. A whole room of stinking corpses how are you not gagging right now? Liz smiled proudly. Nose plugs. 42  ...

... Black Canvas Kyla Crowley im a canvas of contradictions ive got a bellyful of lies theres lightning on the water theres a fire in the skies i wanted you to hold me but you saw the red you saw the black you breathed poisoned oxygen slipped your fingers around all that i lack so beat a hasty retreat now do not make me tell you twice im coming out odd on an even-numbered die paint by number my contradictions ive got a bucketful of cries theres a shining on the water Jesus Christ is in disguise 38  ...