Letter from the Editors

Dear Readers,

Here we are, April of 2012, right in the midst of tests, homework and extra-curricular activities. Amongst all the work and academic stress, North Shore’s writers still work hard, creating intricate plots and developing dynamic characters. The Written Voice is a digital literary magazine founded in order to be a unique channel for the aspiring young writers of NSHAHS and a mode for the publication of their work. Our goal with this monthly literary magazine is to provide a means of exposure for North Shore’s ambitious writers and a place for their literary works to unite. This inaugural issue includes literary stylings by some of North Shore’s most talented and dedicated writers. The novels featured here will progress with each successive issue and the poems and short stories have been carefully chosen by Written Voice staff for their creativity and originality. These writers have worked tirelessly during their free time to ensure that their works are edited to perfection and ready for publication. We hope that The Written Voice will be received with open arms and constructive feedback. Enjoy!

Sincerely,

The Editors

Anna Hardcastle and Rachelle David

The Enlightenment

The Enlightenment  
by Jordana Jampel

Crash; it hits me harder than this logic

As I try decoding this philosophical project

People spent their whole lifetime thinking

Food and shelter provided all by partitioning

But only now do I realize how

These thoughts can cut like a prow

Sparking a match, ignite!, it lights up

And starts to eliminate all the world’s abrupt

Teacher to student, mind to mind

Passing knowledge while trying to find

A way to hold that light and connect

Spitting out ideas without regrets

As clear as Pythagoras and his golden ratio

Or the quest for the interpretation of Plato

Some thinker’s ideas thought of as comparative

And as innate as Kant’s categorical imperative

But who am I you may ask yourself

Just a young girl, almost as short as an elf

But height can’t stop me, neither can age

I still have a mind, packed with light and rage

I may be no philosopher, with a beard and all

But if you stop tuning in, I’m sure you’ll have symptoms of withdrawal

I’ve opened my ears, and liberate my eyes

Clear as the holy water used to be baptized

Just like a chain smoker flicking live ash on me

I feel that spark of light serve as an appointee

To a secret union that pass around the torch

A genuine theory, steep and complex as a gorge

As an amateur teacher I spew this philosophy

Of luminous rhymes, phrases, and analogy

Inner-Self Workings

A play by Daniel Lang

Characters:

Companionship- an eager, charming, and energetic youth. Has a restless and playful personality. Dressed in a tee-shirt and Jeans

Love- An elegant woman. She is the only female in the company. She dresses appropriately, but is also very attractive. Often joked upon by the employees.

Food- A lethargic and obese man. Most of his sentences are broken up by irritatingly loud wheezes. All his actions are extremely sloppy and very disgusting.  

Drink- A man who constantly feels he has somewhere to go. He is a sporadic, yet understanding man. Is constantly walking around the room except when it indicates that he’s sitting. Wears a blue collared shirt without a tie

Possession- Very quiet. Timid. White collar shirt without a tie

Achievement- Upbeat, Confident, and diligent. Very fancy clothes.

Setting: 

Employee lounge. Contains a couch toward left stage, large table with five chairs in the center, a water cooler toward right stage, a fridge lower left stage. (Other props such as large desks and cabinets may be placed anywhere the producer sees fit. It is optional, but preferred.)

Lights come on and Love is lying on the couch in a very relaxed pose. Companionship is reclining on a chair at the center. His feet are resting on the table. He is frequently tossing a small ball into the air and catching it as it falls.

COMPANIONSHIP: O, c’mon. You hadn’t even applied for this job until recently. I’ve been here since this company was 3 years old and you know how important experience is for a profession.

LOVE: (sigh) Do you mind? I am trying to relax.

COMPANIONSHIP: Relax. Let me tell you something about relaxing. (He rises slowly getting louder) Every night we have a window. A break that lasts for about four to seven hours. You know what we do during this break? Nothing. We always sit down, relax and keep silent.

LOVE: Okay, you really want to talk?

COMPANIONSHIP: Yes!!!

LOVE:  What do you want talk about?

COMPANIONSHIP: (almost shouting) Haven’t you been listening? I wanna know who’s more important to this company.

LOVE: What do you mean?

COMPANIONSHIP: (suddenly getting calmer) You know…like who’s needed more?

LOVE: Who’s needed more?

COMPANIONSHIP: Yeah

LOVE: Well, we’re all important…

COMPANIONSHIP: But who do you think is most important?

LOVE: (pauses) I really don’t know……..I think I am very important…..

COMPANIONSHIP: Well, I am more important of course. Duh. I have been here longer and the company needs me more.

LOVE: Ever hear of the term “quality not quantity?”

COMPANIONSHIP: (mocking) Blahlity not blahtity. What do you contribute to this company that I don’t? I set up outside connections with other companies and we all benefit from each other. What do you do?

LOVE: I….I make connections too….

COMPANIONSHIP: O Yea, with whom?

LOVE: (sitting up)….I try to set up meetings with the other companies. I establish a place where we companies can congregate and…..it’s a very private matter.

COMPANIONSHIP: (whispers) Yeah, connections with my butt…

LOVE: (quickly stands up suddenly offended) Excuse ME?!

COMPANIONSHIP bursts into laughter

LOVE: How repulsive! How dare you?

COMPANIONSHIP: (gradually finishes laughing) I am sorry. Really I am, but you barely even do anything for this company.

Love: How untrue! You’re disgusting!

Loud and slow foot steps appear, followed by an odor which the characters’ notice.

COMPANIONSHIP: (frowning) Great! (Whispering) Speaking of disgusting….

Food Enter. He’s loudly munching on a bag of chips.

FOOD: Uh…hey guys.

COMPANIONSHIP and LOVE: (unenthusiastically) Hey Food.

FOOD: (finishing his bag of chips) Awww, I am out of chips. Wonder if we got something in the fridge.

Food begins searching in the fridge. While his back is turned, Love and Companionship begin shooting each other funny and disgusting faces and pointing at Food. They laugh silently at one another. Food finds a subway sandwich, takes it out of the fridge, and sits down at an empty seat at the table.

FOOD: OOOOO, pastrami with lettuce!

He takes a huge bit out of the sandwich and gets mustard on his hand. He wipes his hand on his shirt which causes a yellow stain to appear. Food shrugs and continues eating.

COMPANIONSHIP: (inconspicuously takeing a seat as far away to FOOD as possible) Hey….um…Food. I’ve got a question for you.

FOOD: MMM? (Still eating the subway)

COMPANIONSHIP: Yea…um….do you think you’re the most important member of this company?

FOOD: (stops eating to think) Oh…Well, of course I do.

COMPANIONSHIP: (excitedly) Oh really, Why?

FOOD: Cause this company needs me.

COMPANIONSHIP: For what?

FOOD: Well, to increase our intake in profit. (continues to eat)

COMPANIONSHIP: Ahh, but you cannot do your job without me.

FOOD: (belches) Is that so?

COMPANIONSHIP: Yea. I connect with other companies. These companies help join to make a healthy profit for all of us.

FOOD: But who’s the one that has to make sure we receive the money we need?

COMPANIONSHIP: Uh…yours I am guessing?

FOOD: Mhm hmm. (continues to take big bites from the sandwich)

(There’s a brief pause in the room due to the stupefaction of Food’s intake)

COMPANIONSHIP: Uh, don’t you think you should slow down bud? Too much consumption of the wrong thing can’t be good.

FOOD: It hasn’t killed us yet...

Drink enters the room quickly. He searches in need of a drink. He considers the water at the water cooler, but decides to check the fridge. While he’s in the fridge the others in the room look at each other, confused. Drink pulls a coke out of the fridge, opens it up, and chugs half of it.

DRINK: Ahhhhh. So much better. Hey, what’s up guys?

LOVE: Ummm. Pardon me in asking this, but wasn’t that a little strange?

DRINK: Hmmm. I guess it was. I just needed to wash my throat. My apologies. Hey, I was wondering, where….

FOOD: Hey Drink, we were discussing something interesting. Do you want to join the conversation?

DRINK: Sure, I guess I can spare a minute. (takes a seat at the table) What are you guys discussing?

COMPANIONSHIP: We’re talking about who’s most important to this company.

DRINK: Well, we’re all considered important here, but I think my role is very important…

FOOD: (laughs) Please. What could be more important than making money? Hahahaha.

DRINK: (pauses) Regulating the money correctly around the company?

FOOD: But you cannot do that if you do not make money…

COMPANIONSHIP: Which cannot be done without me.

FOOD: (shouting and standing up) There are many more ways (belches) to make money than through your silly connections.

COMPANIONSHIP: (also standing and shouting) Is that right, big fella?

LOVE: Now, now…(stands up) we don’t have to start anything, do we?

Possession begins to slowly creep in to the room and make his way towards the water cooler while the fight is still going on.

DRINK: She’s right. Companionship, calm down.

COMPANIONSHIP: Look Drink, I respect you and all, but I can’t respect this guy if he doesn’t respect me.

Possession reaches the water cooler and begins to drain water into a cup.

DRINK: I know, but you also…..

Everyone hears the bubbling caused by the water cooler. They just realized Possession was in the room. They all begin to stare at him. When finished filling his cup, Possession realizes everyone is staring at him.

POSSESSION: Oh…..I…I am sorry. I just came for some water. I’ll be on my way.

COMPANIONSHIP: Wait!!! (extending his arm out to Possession) Maybe you could help us.

POSSESSION:….Really?...

COMPANIONSHIP: (puts his arm around Possession) Sure just answer this question (pause) Do you think you’re most important to this company?

POSSESSION: I…I don’t really know…

COMPANIONSHIP: It’s not that hard. What do you do?

POSSESSION: I….I…decide which products we….we need to sell.

COMPANIONSHIP: Now do you think that’s important?

POSSESSION: (pause) I think so…

LOVE: Why do you think it’s important?

POSSESSION: (taciturnly) Because…. I decide what we sell….and that’s how we make money.

COMPANIONSHIP: See Food? Another perfectly good reason. Are you going to discredit that too?

FOOD: No. But I still think that I am more important.

(All sit down in their original seats. Possession begins to leave the room.)

DRINK: (to Possession) You can stay you know.

Possession shrugs and sheepishly sits next to Food. He takes a particular interest in the ball Companionship tosses around. Companionship takes notice of that.

COMPANIONSHIP: Here you want this ball?

Possession looks away.

COMPANIONSHIP: It’s yours.

Companionship rolls the ball to him and Possession decides to take it. Possession is much more relaxed because of this.

FOOD: Look, Selling products is important, but we need to produce money…

DRINK: You know, there are more important things than the necessity of our jobs…

FOOD: Like What?

DRINK: (stands up and begins to pace) Like work ethic.

FOOD: Work ethic?

DRINK: Yea, like efficiency in your work.

FOOD: Efficiency? Who cares about efficiency?! As long as the jobs done and through I am happy.

DRINK: Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?

FOOD: (beginning to shout) Hey, I wouldn’t be talking about efficiency if I was you…

DRINK: (stops pacing and stares at Food) What do you mean?

FOOD: You and your movements. It’s a wonder you get anything done.

COMPANIONSHIP: Ha, says the glutton. At least he moves…

Love and Possession chuckle in their spots.

FOOD: (infuriated) What did you call me? (at Possession) What do you think is so funny? (at everyone) You know what, if it wasn’t for me none of you would have any value and would have….

Achievement knocks on the door and without a response, slides into the room.

ACHIEVEMENT: Hey, did you guys hear about my party I am throwing for…what’s going on in here?

DRINK: We’re having a debate going on.

ACHIEVEMENT: (excited) Oooooo on what? (Takes a seat in the last chair. Everyone should be sitting again)

COMPANIONSHIP: We’re debating who’s most important….

ACHIEVEMENT: Well that’s not hard at all. Of course I am the most important. (all characters groan)

ACHIEVEMENT: Why is that so hard to understand?

COMPANIONSHIP: Because no one knows what you do?

ACHIEVEMENT: Another easy question. I raise the spirits of this company to perform at its best….

FOOD: Okay, what does that even mean?

COMPANIONSHIP: (shouting) Look, I am most important.

All characters except for Love begin to yell at each other in their sitting position. Possession hangs his head.

COMPANIONSHIP: Connections are most important. I keep companies together. We all benefit from each other. We each give and sell to each other. It’s very important….

FOOD: This company cannot survive without money. Who keeps the money coming? Me! Who makes sure there’s profit? Me! How can you say you’re more important than me…

The Wall, Part I

by Rayna Friedman

Dear Readers,

These are the accounts of my experiences before embarking over The Wall, my time there and a few days thereafter. This compilation contains almost all of my experiences over the Wall, taken from my voice log and put in written form. Please be informed that all of which I have written in this literary document is the truth, contrary to popular thought.

Chapter 1:

I had been in my workplace, the Emp Times main office, sitting in my cubicle, staring at the TV. I had recently come home from my trip to the burned out, former war district (8), of the Mexican border and Texas. The news station was on, broadcasting about my venture into the war district. I had been one of the first to go there since the war itself. Every single shard from the bombs had been collected and the nuclear waste had been disposed of by the ANWA (American Nuclear Waste Association). But besides them and a few government officials, I was the first civilian to go into the district. I was always the first to do the “scary things” which everyone else in the country refused to do.

And then it struck me. I found it a little ridiculous, the world we live in. I mean, here we are, willing to send people into the war torn area of old war districts hundreds of miles away from our home and we’re too scared to send ourselves over the wall. So as I was sitting on an old chair by my writing desk in the main area of journalists, I thought to myself, ‘Why are we so scared of going over that wall and why don’t we just do it?’ Now it seems even sillier to me than it had before I began my “crusade over the wall” as the papers had called it.

If there’s some other massive nuclear war with new bombs that haven’t even been discovered yet and most of the world is obliterated, and there are a few survivors who want to learn of their world’s past, then this next part is for them.

The world we live in…well it’s a nice place depending on where you live in it. After the Great War, also known as the Nuclear War, also known as World War Four, in 2669, much of America was bombed out. The way it had worked out was that the Northern part of America was not hit so hard by the bombs while most of the south (latitude coordinates lying on the 37’ line and below) was bombed out completely. Hundred year old trees were uprooted and many turned to ash. The grass and other any other low plant life was completely crushed to ash by the many bombs hurled over our once great cities. All buildings from massive skyscrapers to modest, one family homes were blown away or crushed; not one was left completely intact.

But at the time of the bombing, of course there were the many bomb shelters all over each city. And the whole of America went underground, hundreds of feet below the bombing, and were kept safe. The actual nuclear bombing only lasted a week before negotiations were made throughout the entire world, but then the real damage began.

The government initiated its Post-bomb Bill, which called for the cleanup of the American cities. Teams of scientists, researchers, government officials and damage control operatives were to be sent out into the field. They would first collect as much data of the affected areas as possible and then send more professionals to use that data to clean up the nuclear waste products and restore America to its once shining beauty. And so the work began, but once the data was collected and looked at, the scientists realized that the damage had been too great. North of the latitude 37’ could easily be saved and cleaned of waste, but south of that was almost a hopeless cause. A new bill was passed through congress, the Save North Bill, which asked for the abandonment of cleanup south of that 40’ line

Protests ensued. The public went wild. Every (temporary) underground newscast team reported the bill’s plan. If people could have marched up to The White House with picket signs, they would have. But how much damage could the public do under the ground, while the world they knew was completely destroyed? Even so, the President and Vice President held a broadcast. They told the entirety of America that there was merely nothing that their scientific resources could do. It was, in fact, a hopeless cause and we would have to sacrifice some of our brethren to save those who could be guaranteed healthy, normal lives. Within two days, the “Underground Riots” stopped; people are selfish and care mostly about themselves. The masses didn’t care enough about their fellow southerners because they “knew” from what the government had told them that they couldn’t be saved.

By the next month, the north was up and running, the nuclear waste was taken care of, construction on the dilapidated buildings had begun, the government was back to work and life had slowly returned to normal. The south was told to stay underground until further notice, just in case the government could do something to restore their land to normal. But that notice would never come. Those in the south probably knew that anyway, though. But even though most thought things in relation to the south couldn’t get any worse…

When all of the northerners had come out into the daylight after weeks of underground living, they saw something that they had never expected to see. The real chemical clean up only took the scientific teams at most two weeks, but they had spent the rest of the month working on a much bigger project. What those northerners saw was a wall, The Wall. This new wall stretched the entire continent of North America right smack on that 40’ line. The Wall was created of what seemed to be pure stone. On its top stood metal guard posts every 25 feet and machine guns half way between each of those posts. On either side of the machine guns, there was a camera (one facing the south, one facing the north) that watched each side of the wall for those brave enough to come close to it. Those that came within 50 feet of the wall on the southern side were shot dead. Those on the north would trigger an alarm, and Wall Police would come to escort that person away. Built into the wall every 10 feet, were video screens that showed a woman from the shoulders up repeating the phrase “This wall is for the safety of our citizens” 24/7.

Although warned by the government of the effects of going outside, where the chemical waste was still circulating the air south of the 40’ line, there were a good many extremely angry southerners who couldn’t help themselves. They ran outside and to the wall. They began to bang on it, to hack away pieces of the stone with whatever meager weapons they had brought out with them. Before The Wall had been constructed, mere army officers would shoot whomever they could dead. But some were able to get away from the carnage and they fled to find whatever shelter they could, although not underground. They were avidly against living underground for the rest of their lives; they couldn’t bear to live that way.

Well those people who managed to survive the raining bullets from the wall were obviously exposed to the nuclear chemicals that weren’t cleaned by the government. And well, it changed them forever. Most died within the next month from exposure, but some lived to old ages. They continued to have children but those children had similar diseases and distortions as their parents. They were raised to hate those over the wall and that they did. They continued to fight (while poor and pathetic every time) against the guns and guards on the wall, as well as try to break the wall itself. But that wall was made not to be broken. But those infected did make some damage in multiple states throughout their history.

Those infected came to be known as Ills, their popularly chosen name. They became a clannish group of physically and mentally distorted individuals. They began to not only hate those north of The Wall but also those living underground who had not done anything about their imprisonment behind nuclear chemicals. And it was those Ills that began the stereotype of all people living on the southern side of The Wall. They were successful in this unintended endeavor by constantly coming up to The Wall and screaming like madmen as they tried to chip away from the stone. Each camera on top of The Wall captured every second of their mad stupors and used it to show the rest of the world of the horror on the other side of The Wall. The government had been using this footage that seemed to multiply exponentially as time drew on to warn its northern, civilized people from trying to come close to The Wall.

And well, it’s been 300 years since that Fourth World War and that had been the perception of most, if not all, of the people living on the North side of The Wall. And it was mine, as well. But I only hope my accounts of my time spent over The Wall may soon change all of that.

 So, that day, in that Chicago Times office space, I decided I would go over The Wall and discover as much as I could about the place and report the news to the world. Into Roge Gran, the chief of staff’s office I went.

“Heard about the broadcast; good work, Clay!” he said unenthusiastically, reading a stack of papers, not even looking up to see who it was. Although he really didn’t need to look up, I was the only journalist on the staff that would dare storm into his office uninvited. Most people working in the building found him to be a very scary man. I didn’t see it. And since I had come onto his staff, the Times made a hell of a lot more money than it ever did. The amount of digital copies sold a day rose immensely since my first article on the drug king at the time, Wald Rostfore (better known as Kin’ R). And ever since then, Roge made it his business to meet me personally. Actually, we’ve been somewhat friends since my first big article.  

“I’m going to go over The Wall.”

Roge snorted and laid the manuscript he was reading down on the table. He smoothed the papers down lightly and looked up at me quite slowly. He took his gold glasses that had been lying on the table near a stack of papers and placed them on the bridge of his nose.

“Clay, you just wrote one of the biggest articles of your life. Don’t you think you should at least wait a couple of weeks before you go on to another stupid idea?”

“Roge, when I was a young kid, fresh out of college, you got in front of all the new interns that year and told us to never turn down an opportunity for a great story. I want to go over The Wall and I will do it. I didn’t come here for your approval. I just thought that it would be nice for you to know. And besides, there isn’t anything you can lose from a story like that. Imagine how many copies that will sell. ‘Over The Wall’ written by Clay Burnam. The Times will make trillions.”

“First of all Clay, I damn well know that you didn’t come for my approval. Second, I know you’re one to go and do all that crazy undercover stuff but…over The Wall? I mean how the hell do you even think they’ll let you leave the North?”

“They let me go to Mexico, Roge. What’s so different over The Wall?”

“They’re crazy over there! Clay, you wouldn’t survive that! They’ll eat you in a goddamn second!”

There was a woman’s gasp by the frosted plastic door. I turned around to see what it was. There were shadows by the door that the second after I turned around were gone to the sides. I sighed and rolled my eyes. It was probably some stupid interns that heard the arguing and needed to find out what was going on in Roge’s office. I turned back towards Roge’s desk and ignored the kids by the door.

“Roge, are you listening to yourself? How do you even know that’s what it’s like over there? Maybe the Ills are getting tired and we could take the few left down, clean up the place., Aren’t we supposed to report the news? Don’t the people deserve to get a firsthand account of what’s out there?”

“Clay, we get new footage of them all the time. But if you really want to go…”

“Hey, Roge, relax, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine. Just don’t go to any government agent to get over that thing, ‘cause there isn’t a government man alive that’ll approve it.”

“Yeah, Roge…I know.”

“You know who to contact?”

“Yeah.”

I knew exactly who to contact. There were still a few people throughout the northern cities that were taught by their ancestors to hate what the government had done to their fellow brothers over The Wall. They kept to themselves in small groups, mostly under the cities. There were plenty in Chicago, but I knew of one man personally, from an undercover journey of mine a few months back. There’s a black market underground that those certain groups of want-to-be-rebels mostly deal in. They don’t like involving themselves with the rest of the North and would rather make their money one hundred feet under it. I wrote an article about that black market and met some very useful people down there.

“Well, see you in a couple of days, Roge,” I told him, turning around and walking for the door. I put my hand on the knob and heard the clatter of footsteps running away from the door. I laughed for a second.

“Just don’t get yourself killed Clay,” I opened the door.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” I said waving my hand at him as I walked out the door and into the main journalists’ room.

I left the office and walked to the parking area. I got into my Elle car and started downtown. My Elle was not in the best condition, which was something I had never really cared about before, but now it seemed to serve my purposes pretty well. Downtown Chicago at the time was just about the closest thing a person in the North could get to something even remotely like the South. Downtown was where all of those unfortunates were dumped. There was actually a gate constructed to keep Uptown from Downtown in 2499. It’s funny, because it was actually constructed as part of the AAAC (American Annual Architectural Contest) to celebrate the New Year. It didn’t win that year though; some architect from Idaho won for his 50 foot wide, 800 foot tall storage facility.

Anyway, the gate is made of Immer, a technology created in the 24^th century. It was originally a science experiment by the Russian government’s military agency for indestructible aircrafts that would eventually be flown in wartime. The scientists had melted a multitude of metals as well as plastic. They then let the metallic mixture harden slightly and injected it with the melted plastic, creating a new material that was almost indestructible. They called it Immer. The metals were supposed to handle the aircrafts while the plastic would make death from crashing almost 0%. Well, the new material couldn’t handle leaving the atmosphere, because once it did, the plastic component of the Immer would melt almost instantly, causing the aircraft to fall and crash, which was quite counterproductive.

Immer wasn’t used again after that experiment.

To Be Continued...

Foresight, Part I

by Elias Horowitz

Chapter One- The Vision

                  As he slowly rose from bed, only one thing ran through Peter McCowley’s mind. “I hate the morning,” he thought. To tell the truth, it was a wonder he didn’t cause an accident each morning on the freeway. And as always, the haze left his eyes as he downed his coffee and read the paper. With the greatest reluctance he pulled himself up from the table to start the commute. How others did this everyday was beyond him. Perhaps they merely had jobs they enjoyed. He sincerely doubted it.

                  “Do you have those numbers in for me yet, Pete?” shouted John from across the room. “I need them in before my 11:45 this morning.”

                  “Almost. You didn’t exactly give me a huge advance notice.”

                  “That’s life. Just get it done.”

                  Pete swore to himself quietly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was cognizant of the fact that his job here would not last much longer, but the sheer volume of work kept him from brooding too much. He sighed and kept working. He thought not of the pile of papers he would have to complete before the end of work today, but of a woman, with red hair and piercing green eyes. The load of paperwork he had ahead of him now seemed just the smallest bit more bearable.

                  That night, Peter walked through his door to find a woman standing there. Yet, as happened every day, he was disappointed to find her hair a deep brunette, with hazel eyes. Again he kissed her hello and smiled just ever so insincerely, but she took no notice. Why had he ever thought it would be a good idea to give her a key?

                  “You work too hard, Peter,” she told him for the thousandth time. “I really would like to be able to spend more time with you.”

                  I’ll bet you would. “Honey, we’ve been over this. I want to spend some more time with you too, but work is flooding in right now. It’s our busiest season of the year.”

                  “You said that last month.”

                  Peter wished that his girlfriend understood the difference between a season and a month. A girlfriend who did not make him feel as if he were babysitting, who gave him a feeling of adventure. A girlfriend with fiery red hair. Christine.

                  “Are you listening to me, Peter?”

                  Peter put on his plastic visage once more, praying his discontent had not broken too obviously through his facade. He needn’t have worried. “Of course I’m listening, Melissa. You were saying how you wanted takeout?”

                  She raged at this injustice for what seemed to be much longer than fifteen minutes.

                  Guess takeout’s not gonna help, concluded Peter. Going out to dinner seemed to be more appropriate to her. Peter consented, and they got into his car to leave. He recalled another time he had entered a car in the dead of night with a woman, also against his will. He and Christine had gone to school together, Catholic parochial school. Both had hated it from the start. Near the end of their sophomore year, they had decided to take the headmistress’ car for a joyride. No one was hurt, though he and Christine had ended up spending a lot more time together. Mostly in detention.

                  He ran a red light, swerved and narrowly avoided an oncoming car, receiving a slap on his arm from Melissa.

                  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Peter? We’re not even going the right direction! I thought we were going to Va Benne.”

                  “We are.” And, half an hour later, they arrived. Peter eyed the menu, but did not see the penne alla vodka or the fettuccine alfredo.

                  Instead, he remembered a ladleful of vodka sauce pouring over Christine’s pasta as they both still panted from their recent chase. They were always running from something, it seemed, whether a mall security guard or a teacher from school. Not yet fully in control of his breathing, Peter watched Christine eat calmly, as if they had not just barely escaped the clutches of, this time, an angry shopkeeper with a newly shrunken inventory and no money to show for it. He realized, as she often said herself, that her name didn’t fit her startling red hair any more than Catholic school fit her personality.

                  Peter snapped out of his reverie and glanced quickly to the side. He hoped Melissa hadn’t noticed, but for someone so oblivious to most aspects of life, she seemed to have an uncanny sense of when Peter was not granting her his full attention. He finally decided to order fettuccine with an olive marinara sauce once Melissa started to tap her foot like an irritated metronome. Peter sat back, unconsciously distancing himself from his girlfriend’s incessant criticism. The waiter shot Peter a sympathetic look before bringing their orders to the kitchen.

                  Dinner passed much the same as the beginning of the night, with Melissa’s voice washing over Peter’s unhearing ears, and Peter’s mind washing over half-forgotten memories of Christine as he pushed the food around his plate halfheartedly, while his subconscious echoed the hope, long forgotten, that he and Christine might have another chance. Melissa was lucky that she was hot.

                  Slumping in through his front door, Peter exhaled deeply as Melissa got into her car and pulled out of the driveway. He had forgotten to lock his car. Shivering at the thought of the cold air outside the house, Peter decided it wouldn’t run away before morning and headed upstairs. This day had been as uneventful as the last, as the night would be.  How could he possibly know that the phone, which would ring that night, would herald the change of not only his life, but his dismal prospects in it as well?

                  “Another day, another takeout dinner,” Peter mumbled. Several hours later, another takeout dinner translated into another session divesting himself of it into the toilet. As always, his work wasn’t limited to his seven hour work day. Right after his shower, he dressed himself rapidly and headed downstairs towards his computer. The phone rang. At first he almost missed it, wrapped up in his bubble of imminent failure. It always seemed to him that people dialed right as he was about to start something productive, or when he was about to finish an assignment three months overdue. Slowly, he reached down to pick up the phone.

                  “You aren’t going to believe me,” said the voice on the other line. “At least you won’t until your seizure tomorrow.”

                  “I’m sorry?” Peter answered in confused tone. “You must have the wrong number. Goodbye.”

                  “We both know you aren’t going to hang up. You’re extremely confused, but you’re also intrigued. And you might not admit it to me or yourself, you are also scared. Just remember this phone ca-”

                  Click.

                  Despite not believing a word that had been said, Peter’s hand shook while he replaced the phone on the receiver. Peter had no idea how much he would regret simply hanging up.         

                  The next morning followed the typical daily script. He awoke with the same dull thoughts. Again he made the commute to work, never knowing just how many times he came close to ending his life by turning the wheel too quickly, or neglecting to brake soon enough.

                  He arrived in his usual stupor, vaguely wishing he had made a much stronger brew of coffee. Once more, Peter sat down to his desk to find yet more applications and reports piled there. Pushing himself harder than perhaps he ever had before, he crunched through paper after paper, calling client after client. Twice the phone rang that morning; each time he picked it up just as thoughtlessly. The first was a dissatisfied customer who had to be referred to Peter’s supervisor. He picked up the second call after it rang for almost a minute, delaying his answering because he was putting the finishing touches on a promotion for the very printers he was trying (and failing) to sell. Without thinking, he finally answered. “Hello, F.M. Printers, how may I help you?”

                  “Well, hello again.”

                  Peter froze. Hearing the voice from last night, he quickly slammed the phone back into its holder. For the next hour and a half, he ignored the phone and concentrated on the pile of paperwork in front of him.

                  “Finally, lunch,” Pete mumbled. “These data analyses could bore a horse to death.”

                  How far off his lunch break truly was, he did not realize. At that moment, the phone rang again. He let it ring. And ring. And ring. Nervously, he eyed the base. After about two minutes, he grabbed the phone off the hook.

                  “Hello? Hello….? Hello?!?” he shouted. He received no answer. The air in the office got heavier and heavier and the anticipated relief of the lunch break was a distant memory. Peter took no notice of anyone else in the room as he rose from his seat. He needed to get out. He needed to leave. There was too much movement, too much noise. The last thing he remembered was looking up at the secretary with a blank stare as she stared most concernedly downward. 

To Be Continued... 

Rebound, Part I

by Anna Hardcastle

Chapter 1

As Alegra was immersed in her own morbid thoughts, she walked right into a boy who she vaguely recognized, and fell into a muddy puddle.          

“Bloody hell!” she yelled at the tall, green-eyed, muss-haired boy, frustrated, but trying to keep her cool as she wiped off her Ralph Lauren clad backside.

“I’m so sorry,” the boy said, attempting to wipe off her raincoat for her.

Alegra slapped his hands away.

The boy jumped back apologetically. Alegra looked up at him and relaxed her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault. Oh and look, now you’re all muddy,” she exclaimed, after giving him the once over and noticing his soiled slacks.

“Don’t worry, they’ll dry. But you are completely covered,” he noticed as he looked at her disheveled appearance. “How about you give me your number so I can buy you a coffee after school… You know, to make up for any inconvenience?”

Oh wow, this guy was really smooth.

“I’ve got to stay in school late. Sorry. Lovely to meet you though,” Alegra said briskly before walking away.

As she was walking, she pondered going back; the boy was gorgeous, after all. Although she had only caught a glimpse, she was still picturing his long, shaggy black hair, tanned skin and long-lashed eyes; he was quite irresistible. But before she could think any more about going back, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to find his beautiful green eyes glaring at her.

She suddenly felt very aware of the fact that she smelled like a mixture of wet grass and Burberry Brit.

“I do love a girl who plays hard to get,” Pretty Boy said.

“And I don’t love being late for class,” Alegra retorted. After a second’s hesitation she continued despite herself, “You go to Charles’ Academy, don’t you? I think I’ve seen you at Lacrosse games.”

He looked at Alegra and seemed to consider her prominent facial features for a moment.

From her dark hair and hazel, almost brown eyes to her porcelain skin and hollow cheeks, she had a kind of classic, old-school beauty that you didn’t see much of anymore.

“Yep, I’m a proud junior there. How about you? I’m sure I’ve seen you around before.”

Alegra decided that she might as well just tell him where she went to school. Manhattan was a small island; they were bound to meet again anyway.

“North Side Prep,” she revealed. “And I’m very late, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off now.”

       As she power-walked away, she noticed that Mr. Suave was jogging along beside her.  “Come on, you haven’t even told me your name,” Pretty Boy said interestedly.

“Your observational skills astound me.”

Clichéd, sarcastic thinking was just one of Alegra’s many skills.

“Ooh, who knew the British were so witty,” the boy responded, just as sarcastically. “I’ll begin the introductions. I’m Spencer,” he informed Alegra. “Spencer Watman. Alright; your turn,” he waited expectantly.

Alegra sighed, then stopped in front of the gates to school and turned to Spencer.          “Alegra,” she said succinctly.

“Well, Alegra,” Spencer started, “I feel confident that we’ll meet again. It was a pleasure.”

He began to walk away and Alegra felt surprisingly rejected. She wasn’t used to guys just walking away from her. Most of the time she wasn’t interested, but this guy seemed different.

¤                 ¤                      ¤

Four hours, one test and two Dior lipgloss touch-ups later, Alegra was relieved when the school bell rang, signaling lunch. As she walked out of her American history class and straight into someone, she again fell to the floor. Today wasn’t a good day for her butt. She looked up and saw her boyfriend smirking down at her.

“Lovely of you to help me up Jonathan; such a gentleman,” Alegra snapped from the ground.

Jon gave her his hand and she pulled herself up while he swiftly kissed her on the cheek. “Why haven’t you been answering any of my texts?” he asked. “I’ve missed you.”

Alegra began to walk to her locker to avoid looking Jon in the eye.

“Hey Alegra,” a few girls said as they passed her in the hall.

“I dunno,” Alegra replied as she smiled back at the girls. “I’ve been busy. It’s nothing personal.”           

“Busy with what?” Jon asked skeptically as he leaned in for a kiss. Alegra turned her face to the side so he only got her cheek again.

       “I’ve got to go to meet lunch for Jules,” Alegra said. “I mean, Jules for lunch,” she corrected herself and pivoted around, leaving Jon at her locker, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Alegra felt guilty about not being honest with Jon, but she didn’t want to have to deal with him. Their relationship was getting more boring by the minute. Jonathan Smith just wasn’t the guy for her. In fact, the only guy she had been able to think about all morning was Spencer.

During the ten o’clock break as she had checked her iPhone for messages, she’d seen a text from a number she didn’t recognize. It was Spencer, who said that he’d asked five of his friends who went to North Side and finally persuaded one of them to give him Alegra’s number. They’d been texting on and off since then and Alegra was intrigued. Spencer had said that he wanted to meet up with Alegra after school at Starbucks. She did love Starbucks, and she didn’t have much work to do after Photography Club anyway, so she couldn’t resist agreeing.

As she walked to the restaurant to meet up with Jules, Alegra passed a poster for a summer horror movie, showing a teenage boy sprawled on the ground, limbs in strange positions, covered in blood and very clearly dead. Alegra did a double take and felt tears welling up in her eyes. The picture looked so familiar to the one she’d seen in reality just nine months before.

The rest of the way to Au Bon Pain, Alegra couldn’t get horrible thoughts of the past out of her head. The image of her boyfriend lying on the ground, eyes blank and empty, looking out into nothingness had haunted her mind and dreams for months, bringing back all the guilt and remorse she felt.

Just as she was about to lose her composure, Alegra felt two hands covering her eyes. She turned and saw her peppy best friend smiling at her.

“Hey, hot stuff!”

 Julianna Viman was tall with an athletic build and seemed permanently excited. She was perfect cheerleading material. Alegra was inwardly very thankful that North Side Prep didn’t have a cheerleading team.

 

She wondered what would be the best way to tell Jules that she was dragging her along to meet Spencer this afternoon. Alegra didn’t want it to seem like a date and by bringing a friend, it wouldn’t.

“Jules! Long time no see,” Alegra said, kissing Jules on both cheeks, although they had seen each other the day before. “I need a favor,” Alegra began as they waited in line to buy paninis. But before she could elaborate, Jules interjected.

She didn’t have an award-winning attention span.

“I saw you come into school late this morning with some hottie trailing along after you! Which poor prepster have you got smitten now?” Jules teased, with a wink.

“That’s actually part of the favor,” Alegra began again. “I only met him this morning, funny story actually. But anyway, he got my number from a friend at North Side and he says that he wants to meet me after school today. Would you please come along… I just don’t want it to feel like a date… you know ‘cause of Jon and everything.”

Jules gave Alegra a suggestive look. She’d never kept her hatred for Jon at bay, and Alegra knew that Jules would do anything to set her up with another guy.

“You minx! You have a boyfriend! Which makes it all the more fun! Of course I’ll come; anything for my bestest friend!”

“Maybe Jackson can come, as well, so you're not bored or something,” Alegra said, thinking of their other best friend.

“Ugh, I am not talking to him ever again,” Jules said disgustedly.

“You broke up, again?” Alegra asked skeptically. Her two best friends had been dating on and off since she had met them in seventh grade.

“This time it’s for good,” Jules began to tell Alegra. “He’s so reckless.”

Alegra didn’t say anything, but just thought about how strange her best friends’ relationship was. They were either just friends and totally happy to hang out or a couple and totally at odds. Alegra got the feeling that it was one of those relationships that only existed because there was no one better around, although even after five years with them, she never got up the nerve to ask.

“I bet by this afternoon you’ll be back together.”

To be continued…

 

One in a Million?

by Rebecca Rosen

Numbness.  That was all my grandpa could feel.  No more life flowing, no more joy, just numbness.  It was as though he entered a cold, dark world where no one could feel anything.  The date was August 3rd, 2009 and it started out like any other day would.  My grandpa had been suffering from pains in his hip for a while.  He checked into the hospital for a routine epidural back injection just like millions of people around the world do every day.  The doctor had told him that everything would be fine and he shouldn’t worry about anything.  My grandpa asked, “What is the chance something goes wrong?” The doctor’s response, “It’s a one in a million chance, I do this every day.” My grandpa just happened to be that one. 

        Helplessness. My mom had gotten the phone call at about 7:30 pm on August 3rd.  “Karen, your father has no feeling from the legs down, but the doctors say he will regain feeling; it’s common, no need to worry.” Naturally, being the voice of reason in my family, I had told my mother and sister that there was nothing to worry about and that Poppie would be okay.  They believed me. Unfortunately, I didn’t believe myself.  Another day passed with no feeling, and another, and another…  the doctors finally pronounced my grandpa paralyzed from the waist down after three days.  My grandpa, paralyzed? No, this had to have been a mistake; there was no way! Not my grandpa who spent countless weekends, holidays, birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries with me. Not my grandpa who would do everything in his power to make sure that his little girl was happy no matter what. “Not my grandpa,” I said, “It has to be someone else.  It’s a mistake!” But no matter how much I wanted not  to believe it, I knew my crying grandmother wasn’t lying to me.  I had never seen her cry before, which just made it all the more real.  This was actually happening and there was nothing I could do about it.           

        Disbelief. After my grandpa was pronounced paralyzed from the waist down, he needed to be air lifted from the hospital where the procedure had been done into a rehabilitation center.  No more time for emotion; this was about my grandpa, not the way we felt about his condition.  The intense training commenced then and there.  For about a month and a half my grandpa had to endure hours of physical therapy.  “Sorry Karen, tell the kids that Lenny still is not allowed to have visitors.” This was what hit me the hardest:  not being able to see my grandpa for a moth and a half. The grandpa who I used to spend every other weekend with wasn’t allowed to see visitors.  Ridiculous, these doctors were ridiculous.  First, they changed my grandpa’s life and now, they wouldn’t even let me see him?

        Acceptance.  The reality of the whole situation finally started to sink in.  My grandpa would be in a wheelchair for my bat mitzvah, my wedding, my sister’s bat mitzvah, his 50^th wedding anniversary, forever, and that was the bottom line.  “He is still the same person Rebecca” my Nana used to tell me, but both of us knew what the other was thinking.  He was not the same person, how could he be? His life and the life of the people around him would never be the same.  The chairlift was installed in his house, the room I had spent countless sleepover nights over the years turned into a room for his new medical bed, and his bathroom was totally redone to accommodate his needs.  Everything was completely falling apart at the seams and I couldn’t fix the tapestry. 

        What if?  What if my grandpa had chosen not to go in for the procedure that day? What if he decided he would just let nature do what it needed to do and heal his hips naturally? What if he had woken up that morning and didn’t feel well and decided to skip out on this “minor procedure”? What if when the doctor said, “It’s a one in a million chance,” my grandfather still realized that there was a chance something could wrong? What if my grandfather had not gone in for the procedure?  The answer?  Sure, he would still be able to walk and everything would have stayed the way it was, but he would not be the man he is today. 

        My hero. Had my family and I ever stopped once to realize how my grandpa was coping with all of this? No, we did not.  While we were all very busy worrying about him and how different everything would be for him, no one stopped to ask him how he was feeling about all of this.  When we finally got around to doing so, we asked him, “Lenny, how do you feel?” His reply? “I’m lucky to be alive, that’s all I can say.” Lucky to be alive.  Now, why didn’t we think of that?  My grandpa is still here, sitting in the living room, eating a sandwich with my mother and I, and I don’t have the right to complain that he is in a wheelchair.  I think of all the kids my age who don’t have any grandparents they can talk to about anything at all. Mine is still here, still talking to me, still breathing, still living, still loving.  He is still mine.

        My hero.  It has been two years since the accident now and my grandpa is still doing very well.  He is stronger than ever and has the most positive attitude about everything and anything.  He is my hero.  He has spent the last two years living his life up to its full potential and I hope to do the same in my future. Even though actions that used to be a no brainer, like coming up to my house and ringing the doorbell are hard for him, he still manages to brighten up anyone’s day.   He has taught me that no matter what life throws in your way, there is always that little shred of hope to cling on to.  My grandpa has taught me to find that hope and hold onto it for dear life no matter what obstacles are put in your way.  In life, we must see past the negative and strive for the positive because without it, we’re not really living at all.