Summer 2004

My mind thinks about it all the time
About how my mind is in motion, thinking.
Does yours think about it, or is it just my mind that thinks about it?
Even when I try to shut it off, to stop thinking
I am still thinking but I’m not thinking
But I am thinking that I’m not thinking

My mind is always ‘thinking.’
Or would you call my thinking, ideas
Big ideas, little ideas–gems
Like buds, bursting to open and flower?

But then, my always-in-motion mind
Is thinking–
That fleeting thought,
Was it a good idea?
But already it’s gone
Even when I’m not thinking, I am thinking that I am not thinking.

– Back to Top –

Enigma

by Sheila Magnuson

I am cloudy, opaque, transparent as glass.

The height of refinement. Obnoxious and crass.

Black and white, tinted, pastel of hue.

Fire engine red, stormy ocean grey-blue.

Cold as ice, callous, easily hurt.

Younger than springtime. Older than dirt.

Cosmopolitan. Sheltered. Scarlet. Prim.

Eloquent. Tongue-tied. Erudite. Dim.

Goddess Enchantress Fishwife Hag

Sociable loner. Virtuous slag.

Agnostic beseeching the heavens above,

I am rabid hatred. I am timeless love.

Capricious and feckless.

Guardedly reckless.

Coolly complacent amid continual strife.

Gracefully stumbling my way through this life.

– Back to Top –

card activation call

by Jessica Shimerdla

white noise sucks you in

your hushed voice leaks feebly on top.

a verbally vindictive Louisiana man

sweeps your voice off her pedestal.

unheard apologies swell then wither

in the howl of a southern accent

having near cannibalistic intent.

you plead for some human emotion to show

or at least a recognizable characteristic.

your voice finally falters

gives up its holy grace

the dial tone ensues

…if only tactfulness paid.

– Back to Top –

Potatophile

by Jessica Shimerdla

My fingers crawl over your tan, weathered skin…

You remain so unresponsive to my touch…unaffected…unfeeling…

You look away…utterly unforgiving.

Your silence leaves me in suspense.

Please look at me.

Please say something.

Oh well…maybe you just DON’T DESERVE ME

…maybe YOU’RE not good enough

…maybe I’ll just FIND SOMEONE NEW.

but why fool myself?

I AM AN ABOMINATION.

I am FOREVER COMPLETELY DEVOTED to you, my love…

…your tan skin feels so smooth…

…your tan, weathered skin…

– Back to Top –

Quoth the Raven, “Get Off My Floor!”
by Lee Coffin

Richard Milhous Nixon, 37th President of the United States, believed that he lived and died with the utmost dignity and respect. He held his head high during his electoral loss to JFK, the dark years of Watergate, and his disgraceful and embarrassing resignation. The only time he was willing to admit that he lost his dignity was during his infamous Checkers Speech. He could feel a tear in his eye, and his voice cracked ever so slightly when he spoke of that dumb dog. And while he meant every word about how the kids loved it, he couldn’t help chuckling over the fact that the truth sounded like a flimsy excuse. In the end, he couldn’t believe that he managed to avoid a huge scandal that surely would have ended his career in politics. In time, Watergate would have that distinction, but even with a scandal big enough to topple a presidency, he managed a little bit of a comeback, making himself available to his successors for diplomatic missions and trips to the White House for fatherly advice. He died triumphant, having shown the liberal scum of the world that you just couldn’t keep Dick Nixon down.

Death, however, has a way of making everything even, thus insuring that the skills that saw you through life were utterly useless in death. Tricky Dick entered the long night of eternity on April 22, 1994, walked past the vestibule with its ominous warning about giving up all hope and onto the one thing that was going to torment him for all eternity. No, it wasn’t great winged demons torturing him with hot coals and pitchforks, nor was it the fact that Satan decided that he would make a great janitor. He wasn’t even tortured by the fact that he was forced to wear a black cotton loincloth that sumo wrestlers wear, thus adding humiliation on top of punishment. It was the fact that he made the marble floors in the lobby of Hell’s office building sparkle, and everyday some asshole came along to mess it up. Like Sisyphus, who was forced to roll a stone up hill only to have it rebound and roll back on top of him, so he too had his stone, and its name was Edgar Allen Poe.

Nixon turned around and looked down at the nineteenth century poet as he tore the floor up, all the way down to the joists. “Hey, asshole! Could you at least wait until I’m finished before you do that?”

Poe, not looking much better than he did when he was found near death in a gutter in Baltimore, giggled insanely. “I have to find the heart. Can’t you hear it beating?” He held his head to the floor and listened. He then sniffed, licked the floor, and began tearing it up with a hammer and chisel. “I’ll find it. I’ll find it… and then I’ll be free.”

“What are you, a Democrat? There… is… no… heart!” the former President screamed, stamping his foot for emphasis.

Poe began to mutter something incoherent and then burst forth loudly. “… I was fearful of losing a bargain.”

“What bargain?”

Poe continued to pull up the marble floor. “I have my doubts… I must satisfy them.”

Nixon shrieked in anger and began kicking at the poet. “You mother…!”

A pair of clawed hands pulled him away in mid-kick and shoved him against the wall. Nixon looked up at his attacker and found himself face-to-face with Orobas, Satan’s chief of Staff. “Dammit Dick! You know the rules; no abusing the crazy guy, unless it’s your birthday.”

Nixon pointed accusingly at Poe, “He…he started it. I’m sick to death of this crap. The little bastard’s always tearing up my floors!”

At that moment Satan appeared out of nowhere, having teleported in from his home. Orobas fixed a smile upon his face before he spoke. “Good morning, my liege.”

Satan surveyed the scene before him, “Dammit Dick, this floor looks like crap!”

The former President bowed his head. “I’m sorry sir. I’m trying my best. But, you said you were going to do something about that idiot tearing up my floor.”

Satan sighed. Edgar Allen Poe was a problem because he wasn’t supposed to be in Hell. For some reason that neither he nor God could surmise, Poe became insane when he had crossed over into the afterlife, and all of God’s attempts to cure him had failed. On top of that, he always found his way from Heaven, where he was supposed to be, and back into Hell, where he would wreak havoc upon the floors. Satan could never figure out how Poe managed to get back in, but everyone was under strict orders not to harm him. “Cut the little guy some slack, Dick. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a little psycho.”

“Why do I have to put up with this?”

Satan put an arm around Nixon and led him away from the others. “You sucked as a human being. That’s why you have to put up with him. Jimi Hendrix used to do these floors, but whenever Ed would show up, Jimi would drop a little acid and help him out.”

Nixon frowned at the Prince of Darkness. “Hold on a minute. When I arrived, I was subjected to the most gruesome and humiliating body cavity search ever conceived. How in God’s name did Jimi Hendrix get drugs smuggled in here?”

Satan shrugged. “Have you ever tried searching a six inch Afro?”

“Sire, we have a meeting to get to,” said Orobas, sternly.

Satan guided Nixon back to his floor buffer. “Right, give me a minute.”

Satan knelt down, shoving Edgar Allan Poe’s face into the broken floor. “Naughty!” He let him back up and waggled a finger at him. “You are a bad monkey. This…” he said pointing at the floor, “…is a no-no. Don’t ever do this again.”

The poet cocked his head and looked up at Satan with big puppy dog eyes. “Nevermore?”

Satan snickered and rubbed Poe’s hair as if he were petting a dog. “Aww… hell, I can’t stay mad at you.”

Orobas turned towards the elevators, guiding his lord and master along with him. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Satan nodded, “Hold on a minute.”

Nixon had just started the floor buffer again when Satan came up behind him and put him in a headlock. The former President struggled as he first felt the mawashi tighten about his crotch, and then scrape and burn as it was yanked between his butt cheeks. His struggling turned ferocious and desperate, and he let loose a bloodcurdling shriek as if the mawashi was cutting him in half. The headlock then loosened, letting him drop to the floor so he could claw at the offending piece of clothing.

The Lord of Hell giggled like a fraternity boy who had just pulled off the greatest prank ever. “That was great! We need to get Martha Stewart into one of these.”

As Nixon stood back up to adjust his mawashi, Poe crept up behind him, “I have endured a thousand injuries of you, Fortunato…”

Nixon searched his memory, trying to figure out if there was Fortunato in The Tell-Tale Heart. “What are you switching stories on me? Fortunato was in The Cask of…”

Poe struck him on the back of his head with a piece of the floor. Nixon slumped over his floor buffer. “Amontillado. I have my doubts.”

Poe dumped the former President in the hole in the floor and buried him with the floor pieces. When he was finished, he knelt trying to smooth over the rubble with his hand. “Only this and nothing more,” he mumbled to himself before moving on to tear up another section of floor.

Orobas stood there and shook his head. “That was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.” He then turned to Satan who stood there in silence. “It was funny though.”

“Dick’s gonna be so ticked off,” chuckled Satan.

“Should we help him?”

The Prince of Darkness shook his head. “This is Hell, not Club Med. Dick can dig himself out this time.”

Orobas nodded in agreement, but soon became concerned about the poet. “What about Poe?”

“Offer him a job.”

– Back to Top –

The Dad I Thought I Had
by Chris Dawson

When I was five years old, I thought the world of my father. When I saw him, he would do anything to make me laugh like burp the alphabet or just goof around. That is one of the only good things I can remember about him. As I got older, things changed, and so did our relationship.

As the years passed, I began to see less and less of my father. I would call and no one would answer, and if he did, he didn’t have time for me. But I wouldn’t think anything of it. I was just hoping things would change. It only got worse from there on. He only called if it was my birthday or if Christmas was coming. I really didn’t know what to think, and I asked my mother, “Why is it this way?” but she just shielded me from the truth. She just added to his excuses. So with no one to blame, I blamed myself.

I made myself believe it was my fault, as if there was something wrong with me to make him not want to see me. I felt that maybe I wasn’t good enough for him and I didn’t deserve him, for what other reason could there be? But you can only take so much before you dissolve a relationship.

My mother knew I was hurting now more than ever. She began to let me in on the past between them and all that had happened when I was born. The truth finally started coming out.

I first learned that my father was never there for her either. Three months before I was born, he left and joined the navy, and he never saw me until I was two. During the time he was gone, he made empty promises to my mom. He would tell her every year that he had gifts for me for Christmas and my birthday and that he was mailing them out. But, of course, nothing ever arrived. He would tell her things would change when he came back and that he would be there for me. But when he came back, he still hid from me as if we weren’t even related.

My mother’s stories started making sense to me and explained a lot about why he acted the way he did and that in reality, it wasn’t my fault at all. His pathetic attempts to be a dad were just to call me once a year and invite me over for Christmas to give me a present or two. His excuse to his family was that my mom held me from him and that she didn’t want him to have anything to do with me. This, of course, was a lie. My mom had always tried her hardest to get him to see me and spend time with me.

I came to an understanding when I was twelve that my father is only a coward who is too afraid to confront his creation. I decided I didn’t want to see him anymore for my whole life. I was the only one who put any effort into our relationship, and I was tired of feeling rejected. To this day, I don’t think he fully understands all he did wrong.

I know now that my childhood dreams of him were all false. But I know because of what had happened, I benefited more than I was hurt. Through his mistakes, I know exactly what not to do when I have a child of my own. I will do my best to teach and nurture him in all ways my father did not.

– Back to Top –

Tribal Marks
by Peter Rek Dak

The most important event in the lives of Nuer boys in Sudan becomes when they reach the age of fifteen and seventeen. They will decide to have tribal marks. This will be done by Gaar, a man who is an expert in cutting tribal marks. The marks he cuts also are called Gaar. This ritual changes the status of the boys from boyhood to manhood. It gives the boys the right to exercise their power in the community, their community treats them respecfully, and their tribe becomes proud of them. This event involves many things for the boys who decide to have them. For example: planning, informing the families, and processing.

Before the boys have got the tribal marks, they talk to each other to make sure they are ready to get them or not. Among the boys, there are some who feel that they are too young to have their marks. That is why this talk lasts many days between the boys in order to know who is ready and who is not. It involves encouragement and influence to these who feel that they are not ready to get tribal marks.

When they agree to get them, they will take this plan to the families. The families will think about it for a couple of days. After they accept their decision, the boys will send a message to the man who will cut their tribal marks. After that, he will tell them the day he will see them. That day, all the boys will sleep in one place. They become ready to get their tribal marks. That event will take place in front of a hut made with wood and mud or grass. It will be an open area where everybody can see what is going on.

In addition, the man will arrive before the sunrise because he will cut the marks before the sun gets hot. Before he reaches the compound, he will announce his coming with a loud voice to scare the boys. He will say, “I’m coming, I’m coming with my Sharp knives Sons, who is not ready leave the compound.”

Hearing these words, the boys will glance to each other without words and they will know the time has come for them. Within that moment, the man will start to call the first boy. The boy will come directly to him without a word. He will lie down on his back facing the sky, his arms folding around his chest. The man will kneel down beside the boy and begin to cut. The first cut will start above the eyes. The rest will follow horizontal to each other until they become six in number. Moreover, everything is calm when the cutting continues. However, the only sound the boy hears is the grating of the knife on the bone. These cuts are very deep into the boy’s skin. The cuts become open before the blood covers them. The boys bear the pain with great fortitude. They will stay down until the bleeding stops. After the bleeding, they will crawl into the house with their hands and feet, their bodies bent backward. They do this because the cut will bleed again if someone turns down his head. After that, the boys will give some gifts to the man who cut their tribal marks. They will give him their fishing spears. Also, they will thank him for the great work he has done.

After these processes, the families of the boys will slaughter a sheep. They do this in order to bless the cuts so that they will get healed very soon. The families of the boys will provide local wine to the man and his followers. As a result of this, the women begin to dance and sing. Now, their boys have become men.

– Back to Top –

School is Important
by John Ramsey

When I was seventeen years old, I dropped out of high school because I chose to get in trouble with my friends, cruising the streets and doing what I wanted to do. I found out in the long run that I didn’t get far in life. It was hard trying to get a job being a drop out from high school. I really didn’t think finishing school was important. I thought I would be able to get any job as long as I had experience. I had applied for jobs in security, corrections, and the fire department. They all turned me down, so I asked why. They said my education level wasn’t high enough. I said,” I have the experience.” They said, “Well you don’t have a diploma or GED.”

I was sick of being turned down and working endless jobs in gas stations, McDonalds, and Taco Bell. I looked at my friends who have good paying jobs because they finished school. They became nurses, police officers, and firemen. It bothered me to see my friends succeed and not me. I knew that I had to get a diploma for my family and myself.

I went to Bellevue East and asked the counselor what I had to do to get my diploma. He gave me information. The following day I called Bellevue Public School Center to set up a pretest for my GED to see where I stood. I took the pretest, and the outcome was not what I had expected. The teacher told me after she scored the pretest that it would take a lot of studying and practicing to reach a twelfth grade level after scoring at a ninth grade level.

I started going to study groups and studying long hours. I cut my work hours back from forty to twenty hours a week, gave up my free time, and time with my daughters. It was very hard for me to do. I started to get depressed because I had to put a lot of things aside for school. There was one thing left to do so I could spend more time with my kids: quit my job at Wal-Mart. I was studying six to eight hours a day, five days a week and also some on weekends. One day, the teacher came up to me and said, “You are at a twelfth grade level now.”

Finally, I was ready to take the GED test. I took my math and science test first. It took approximately seven to ten days to get the test results. That was the longest week ever. I received the results in the mail, and I passed the test. It was the greatest feeling in the world. I scheduled myself to take the next two tests in English and Social Studies. I also passed both of those tests. Finally, one test left. When I received my essay test results in the mail that I had failed, my world dropped. It felt like all my studying and sacrifices had gone down the drain. I decided to give up on my GED.

The teacher noticed that I wasn’t going to study groups or work shops. She called and asked, “Why are you not going to study groups or workshops?”

I said, “I give up!”

She told me, “It’s not worth giving up after all the sacrifices and time that it took to get this far. Why not finish what you started?” I thought about what the teacher said and decided to finish. The teacher helped me study and showed me how to write a proper essay. It took about a month and a half to get the skills down.

Finally, the day came and I took my essay test. There I was again waiting to receive the result in the mail. The week went by and I received nothing. I thought for sure that I failed. I received a call Monday morning from my teacher.

She said “you passed.” I thought, I’m not stupid after all. It was worth the seven months of life changes to finally have my GED. Now I have so many opportunities in the world such as continuing education and better career choices.

I went back to the security company that turned me down before. Now I have been with them for a year and half. I have also continued my education at Metro Community College. That was the best change in my life to succeed and have my GED. No matter how hard it is, there is no excuse not to finish school and get your diploma.

– Back to Top –

My New School

by Ana Reynoso

When my parents told me I was going to attend to a new school, I was really scared and I didn’t want to go. I wanted to cry because it was going to be a new experience for me.

The first day that I had to attend the new school came. I woke up in the morning. It was still a little dark outside. The neighborhood was quiet. I put my clothes on, but I didn’t know if I was dressed properly for school. I tried to curl my hair, but I couldn’t, so I let my hair down. Then I put on my shoes and had a glass of milk.

Finally, I walked out of my house, but I didn’t know how to get to the school bus stop. A guy walked by me. He was Hispanic, so I asked him if he was attending the same school I was going to attend. He told me “Si.” He didn’t say anything else to me, so I just followed behind him. When I got to the bus stop, there was a bunch of students waiting for the bus to come. When the bus arrived, the students pushed and shoved their way to the entrance to get a good seat. As far as I understood, the bus driver was yelling at the students to make a line without pushing each other. On our way to school, everybody was talking loud, throwing paper at each other and making fun of people. Finally, we arrived at the school.

Outside the school, there were a lot of busses in a line dropping off students. It was crowded with students trying to get to their classes. I just stood there wondering how to get to my classroom. I remember hearing the noises of the lockers opening and closing, friends talking and laughing to each other. A girl came up to me and asked me, “Hablas Espanol?” I answered her back, “Si.” Then she walked me to my classroom which was her classroom, too. She had the same classes I did.

In every classroom I entered, I saw different faces, and a few of them I could recognize from my other classes. The students and the teacher spoke in English, so I barely understood what the teacher was teaching us. I was observing everything they did in class, so I was doing the same thing they were. In one of my classes, the teacher asked me to read a paragraph. I was scared to read. I was reading the words the way I read in Spanish. I was very embarrassed of the way I was reading. I wanted to hide under the desk. Luckily, I didn’t see anybody making fun of me, maybe because they would have gotten in trouble with the teacher.

At lunch time, I sat with the girl I had met in the morning. She was trying to have a conversation with me. She wanted to be my friend. She told me that she could help me with my homework or any other questions I had in one of our classes. She introduced me to her twin sister and other girls who were their friends. They were really friendly with me, and I liked that because I felt really good, and I realized I wasn’t the only person who moved to a new city where people speak a different language.

During lunch time, we talked about our families and how long each of us had been living in the United States. After lunch, I went to my next classes. I didn’t feel like a stranger anymore, and I was putting more attention to the rest of classes that day.

At the end of the day in school, I climbed into the bus again to go back home. When I got home, I told my mom how my day went in school. I told her about all the new things I had learned that day and that I had new friends. My mom told me, “Vas a estar muy bien,” which means you’re going to be just fine, and she smiled at me.

At night I climbed into bed happily, thinking about what happened to me that day. I realized that it was not going to be easy to be successful in my new school, but I told myself that I was going to try harder because I wanted to feel proud of myself. I didn’t want my parents to think they failed by bringing us to a new city to have a better life and education.

– Back to Top –

My Squeaky Lion

by Daniel Tipton

My first car was a white, 1979, Oldsmobile Toronado. I had inherited it from my Grandma after she passed. It was truly a Grandmother car. It was a luxury car in its day–gigantic and old as dirt. It had some major rusting along with some loose parts on the body. It wasn’t exactly pretty, but it definitely caught one’s attention. I’m not sure if that was such a good thing, but it was going to be the only car I had for a while, and I knew that I would have to find a way to appreciate it.

I started by appreciating its size. The front end alone was larger than most compact cars today, and I’m confident that it could have run over most of them with ease. I felt a sense of power driving around in such an enormous vehicle; it was like driving a tank. I also felt a sense of safety. In 1979, cars were actually made of metal, and I knew that if I ever got into an accident, I would not be the one sitting in the hospital. I was pretty sure I’d be at home rubbing out the scratch on the head light.

Although my car was big, it purred like a lion. It seems that smaller cars nowadays are making much more noise. I see Honda Civics racing down the road sounding like a small elephant with a flatulence problem. I just don’t understand. Does the loudness make them faster? My car was very quiet, almost soothingly quiet. I came close to driving off of the road on many occasions because of the steady melody of the engine. It was unique; it was beautiful. I appreciated the quietness of my car, but the engine was about the only thing that was quiet. I would not have been able to sneak up on anybody because any bump that I hit caused a squeak. When driving down a country road, it sounded like a hundred rusty doors being opened and shut simultaneously. My friends had a good time with it. To avoid the teasing, I tried not to drive too close to them, but they were always ready when I pulled up. I didn’t let the teasing get to me. I appreciated my car and the squeaking.

My car was very comfortable on the inside. The soft interior hugged my seat like a pillow. It was one of my favorite places to sleep. During my lunch breaks at work, I would often go outside, prop up a pillow, and sleep like a baby. During drive-in movies, it was perfect. It was like watching a movie in the comfort of my home, although I had a hard time appreciating the color of the interior. I wondered who would pick such an awful color for the inside of a car. Light tan does not work. I guess after time it grew on me. Actually, the whole car grew on me after a while. I took it personally when people gave me a hard time about it. It was a gift from my grandmother. I felt a responsibility to take care of it and love it. It meant more to me than just a car. I did not have it for very long, but I spent a lot of time with it. The car and I had gotten close over a year. I learned to appreciate it because it was my car and it had been faithful to me for over a year, and I felt I owed it some amount of respect. It was by no means the car of my dreams, but I liked it.

Selling the car was a little difficult. Seeing the price painted on the front made it seem less personal to me. It was as if it were back to being an object rather than a trusty machine. It caught the interest of a young man not much older than me. He was basically looking for a car and not much more. He talked me down to a fair price, but I’m not sure that I could have put a price on the sentimental value. Still, I think that it helped me move past my grandmother’s death. The car was always sort of a reminder.

I wondered what my grandma would have thought about my selling the car. I knew it could not sit around for eternity. I had to move on to four cylinders and good gas mileage. However, I think she would have been happy to know it gave me fourteen months and a mode of independent transportation beginning the day I turned sixteen. To this day, I still miss that car. There were just things about it I appreciated, even that god-forsaken squeaking.

– Back to Top –

My Mother and the Cover-Up

by Roy Paden

“Ring,” the doorbell sounded. “Ring,” there it was again. “ I am coming,” I shouted from down the hall and up the stairs. I made my way towards the door, but before I could get there… “Ring,” the impatient person had me on my nerve’s end already. I thrust the door open with authority as if the door and hinges attached to the house owned by my parents were mine.

My tone quickly changed at sight of a police officer on the steps. “Is either one of your parents home, young man?” pronounced the burly officer.

“My mother is, but…”

“Who is it?” my mother barked, cutting me off.

She made her way to the door, and as she arrived, the police officer was quick to dig for information. “You are the mother of Roy Paden?”

“Yes, I am. What has he done now?”

With a sure look on his face, he badgered, “Do you know where your son was at around 2:00 a.m. last night?”

I was surprised to see my mother answer so fast, as she usually ponders things for a while. “Yes, he was with my husband and me at the police station.”

“Ma’am, the police station?”

“My son and his friend seemed to have a little problem with a flag last night that they found in someone’s yard. Why, what business do you have with my son at that time of night?” my mother said, turning her deadly stare off me to the police officer.

“We had multiple reports of stolen lawn statues in the area and put two and two together and…”

“And what?” my mother interrupted again. “You thought since my son was already guilty of doing wrong that you would hang him with this too, huh?” To my surprise my mother came to my defense. “Well, officer, my son was occupied at that time. So, if you have nothing further, we have things to attend to.”

Life went on as normal after the visit from that police officer. I shortly got off grounding for the flag incident and was on to other adventures. Time flew and things changed drastically.

The worries of my adolescent behavior had turned into amusing stories and memories. I had almost forgotten the flag incident. It all came back again when Norma, my wife, our children, and I went to Texas one year to visit with my parents. Until the day we sat sharing stories, my mother still knew nothing of her role. As Paul Harvey would say, “This is the rest of the story.”

My best friend, Dave, had come over to pick me up in his brown, beat-up old Oldsmobile. We were heading out to cruise around. When he picked me up, he went on and on about a lawn statue that he wanted. I asked him repeatedly, “So where is it that we are going?”

“To pick something up,” he replied. We drove and drove, listening to our classical music. We were certainly an odd pair of teens. We were not into sports, nor did we like the usual music of our generation. We were into martial arts and things such as lawn statues and flags.

Dave stopped the car and got out. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered. We had parked in the streets of a local neighborhood. I paid no attention to what he was doing. I was too busy listening to Bach on the tape playing in his car. “Pop the trunk,” a voice called frantically.

When I looked up, to my shock Dave was running toward the car with a statue in his hands. Without thinking, I quickly popped the trunk and opened his door. With a slamming of the trunk and his car door, we were on our way. Our adrenaline was pumping so fast we seemed on top of the world. No one and nothing could touch us.

We drove up the street, and when we came to a stop, Dave said, “See that one? It is awesome. You go get it this time.” I sprang from the car and slunk across the yard like a sly fox on a hunt. Within seconds, I had the prized statue in my hands and tossed it in the trunk with the other one. We drove on for blocks and blocks like this until we had maybe fifteen statues in the trunk and back seat. It was then when we made our last selections.

We drove by two houses, one with a Japanese flag on it and the other with an American flag on it. Dave went first for the Japanese flag. His precise movements and his sleuth-like demeanor made him undetectable. It was my turn now with the American flag. I darted from the car, and as I reached up for the flag, my hands inches from it…”HHHOOONNNKKK!”

Dave had accidentally hit the horn with his elbow while he wrestled with the array of stolen objects in the car. I had gone too far to let this one go, so I snatched it up. As I ran back to the car, lights from all around came on.

We made a narrow escape. We had had enough and were on our way home when suddenly we saw it. It was like the Mona Lisa of statues or like the safe at a bank on Wall Street. A nearly perfect figurine of St. Mary was positioned perfectly under a bay window of a seemingly perfect house. It was too perfect. It had to go. Dave said, “Go get it. It doesn’t look that heavy.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look very big at all, shouldn’t be a problem. Pull into the neighbors’ driveway,” I directed him as I opened my door. I stepped onto the concrete and snuck to the statue under the open bay window. The light was on and someone was watching TV. I knelt carefully next to the statue and gripped it tightly so I could take off crouched down.

I began my way back to the car with a plop on my butt. The statue wouldn’t budge. I gripped it again, tighter this time and began to tug on it. It seemed to be part of the foundation of the house, it was anchored so well to the ground. I looked up. Dave was laughing so hard he fell out of the car. I began to laugh as I tried again. It budged this time, moving both feet and earth. This thing was buried. No wonder I was having such a hard time.

Now unearthed, it should not be a problem. I bent down to pick it up, suddenly aware of how many muscles laughing requires. I struggled to carry this thing a whole twelve inches before dropping it nearly on my toes. This made Dave almost cry he was laughing so hard, and I was right along side him.

“Come here,” I said. “You think this is so funny; you come and do it.” He hurried over, and about the time he and I got a really good hold …

“The damn thing is heavier than shit, huh?” bellowed a scratchy voice from behind us. We looked up and saw a man standing before us in a blue robe and scruffy cream-colored slippers.

“Yes sir,” Dave replied with some sort of respect.

“Here, let me help you,” the man offered. “My wife got this damn thing three months ago, and I can’t stand it. I have been trying to get rid of this thing ever since she brought it home.”

Both shocked and surprised, Dave and I responded simultaneously, “Are you serious?” Without another word he bent down and helped us to the trunk.

“You two have been busy, I see.” We shook his hand as if we were wrapping up an important business transaction, and that was the last we ever saw of him.

A fork could be stuck in each of us at that point because we were surely done. We drove to my house, laughing in amazement at our luck. Dave parked on the street, and we proudly stepped out of the car after a hard night’s work. No lights were on in my house, so I knew my parents were asleep. The statues were much too heavy to bring in tonight, so I stuck to my flag. I did not bother to hide it. Instead, I paraded it like a trophy as I walked to the door.

Dave turned the knob, and I was to his right. Just as the door opened, light illuminated the entryway. My parents stood at the top of the stairs. “What is that?” my mother spoke right through me.

“What is what?” I answered as I leaned the flag against the side of the house to the right of me as if my parents were blind. What was I thinking?

“Where did you get that flag?” my father questioned.

I quickly came up with a clever way out. “I found it.”

“Where?” my father drilled.

“In someone’s yard. They were throwing it away. It was in their trash.”

“Go home, Dave!” my father said sternly. “We are very disappointed in you. We thought you were better than this, Dave,” my father scornfully announced.

My parents escorted me to the police station. There I presented the American flag we stole that night and was instructed to return it. The owners of the flag did not want to press charges since they had received their property back. I considered myself lucky. If my mom had known we had stolen anything else that night, we might have been in deep trouble. Dave disposed of the statues that night, and we have never done anything so devious again.

When my mother found out that she had been my accomplice, she said, “I could just shoot you.”

– Back to Top –

The Search for Meaning and the Quality of Life
by Joe Prins

There is no general description that actually defines the phrase “quality of life”; it’s one of those things that can be different from person to person. The majority of us, however, can agree that quality of life could mean contentment, or better yet, happiness. How we achieve these things depends greatly on who we are, who we were and where we’re at in our lives. Quality of life for me at the moment would include many things from being financially secure, to having a loving family, but above all, getting an education.

When I was seventeen, I dropped out of high school. I wish I could say that I left because I had to get a job to support my family or because I learned all that I needed. The truth is far less noble; I left because I wanted to. I don’t expect anyone to understand this simply because I don’t really comprehend it myself. I can, however, say that I’ve regretted that decision for far too long now, and the only way that I can see to escape that regret is to get a degree. Regrets are a strange thing; they’re like psychological prisons, and although the chains that bind me aren’t capable of tearing through my flesh, they are very capable of tearing through my soul. So my number one requirement for happiness is getting an education. Not for money, not for a good job, and certainly not for social status, but instead, for the sole purpose of serenity. Education would have to be my top priority for achieving a life of a value.

Being financially stable would be my second priority for contentment. It’s hard to explain the importance of money without coming off as superficial or even fake, but money is an important aspect of life in our society. I suppose we could take Thoreau’s advice and rid ourselves of this burden by living off nature, but what land could you find that wasn’t already owned by someone? How many garbage cans could you eat out of? I’m sure Thoreau’s theory sounded great in the mid 1800s when there was such a thing as free land, and you could hunt year around without violating laws, but in our time things have changed incredibly. Our everyday lives revolve much around money; it dictates where we live and if we get to eat or not, and for some, it defines who we are. However, I would like to have only enough money to live comfortably without having to worry if I can afford my rent this month or having to crunch pennies to buy groceries. I would like just enough money to buy peace of mind.

The final element to my happiness would have to be my family. In the end, I can say that my family will always accept me no matter what; friends, however, come and go. How many friends do you have who honestly care if you’re eating healthy or will pick you up at 10 o’clock on a Wednesday night because they don’t want you to drive home drunk? More importantly, would you do the same for them, and if so, how many times would you do it before they wore out their welcome? But you would certainly make sure your kids are eating well, and there are no such things as boundaries or “limited welcomes” when our wives and husbands are in need of our help. Friends come and go, but family is forever; this I must believe. In the end, I don’t want to be the man who wakes up one day and realizes that he’s forty years old and all alone with the exception of only a handful friends.

But things change, and I’m only twenty four years old, and perhaps my definition of “the quality of life” will be completely different in thirty years. Who knows, maybe when I’m older and wiser, I’ll understand the message that Henry Thoreau was conveying to us. Perhaps, I might feel that health is a priority for me as I come closer to facing my mortality. Maybe I’ll take more interest in voting and politics, or perhaps I’ll pick up jazz lessons again. I could even wake up one day, when my kids are moved out, and wonder who that stranger is who has been sleeping next to me for the last twenty years. How that would affect my priorities of happiness, contentment, and value is something I can’t even begin to imagine. The only certainty is that I’m young and I have little experience in the program of life, and the concept of true happiness and the quality of life are just now being explored. Perhaps one day, many years from now, I’ll find this paper tucked away in my garage and maybe then I’ll see the irony of it all; maybe then I’ll understand my values further with more experienced eyes.

– Back to Top –

A Response to Frank O’Connor’s
“Guests of the Nation”

by Bree Binks

Frank O’Connor writes “Guests of the Nation” with the notion that all humans are faced with surreal situations. In his short story, O’Connor depicts five fictional characters in realistic, yet uncharacteristic, situations. From the beginning to the end of “Guests of the Nation,” readers are compelled to feel the characters are forced into a paradoxical world where nothing happens in the manner expected. The term irony depicts this incongruity between actual and normal events, and it is through his fictional setting, characters, and plot that O’Connor’s readers feel this strong sense of paradox or irony.

Frank O’Connor places five characters in the midst of conflict between a foreign occupying army and a local insurgency—English vs. Irish. Since each main character is a member of one army or the other, readers would generally expect the five to be placed in settings where battle or war conflict is taking place. Instead, O’Connor does the unexpected and places his characters out of the heat of fighting. He places the two Englishmen, Belcher and Hawkins, and three Irishmen, Bonaparte, Donovan, and Noble, in a remote boarding house far from any distracting sounds of the battle. The environment each character now exists in at the distant farmhouse provides the proper setting for uncharacteristic, or ironic, events. For example, the distant battlefields of war would not provide the same close-quartered interaction that the five main characters encounter at the boarding house. In a battlefield, readers would not expect the five characters to participate in dances, card games, and nightly squabbles about random topics. In fact, readers would anticipate animosity or turmoil between the characters.

The different settings provided by O’Connor allow the characters to uncharacteristically bond with one another, which would not have been possible on the heat of the battleground. In addition, this type of bonding does not necessarily imply forthcoming trouble, which presents irony. Instead, these actions describe how acquaintances—friends—behave when they are comfortable with one another. The tragic ending of the story is not what a reader expects. Although the story ending is set in the dreary, dark, muddy bogs, the reader forgets about the setting and wishes the characters to hold their moral fiber. Readers expect a triumphant refusal to the tragic ending and a return for the characters to their ‘natural’ setting of the old boarding house. What happens is readers pay less attention to the setting, even though it is sending a strong message. Irony is extremely apparent throughout the setting of the story, from the beginning at the boarding house to the end at the muddy bogs, and becomes increasingly important as the characters and plot are developed.

It is through his character development that O’Connor further assigns irony in “Guests of the Nation.” He develops round and dynamic characters throughout this particular story. Because round and dynamic characters make readers feel the pull and play of actions or emotions throughout a story, it is important that O’Connor give his readers the feeling that they understand and can identify with the characters. The story begins with four main characters deciding to play a game of cards. Over the first few paragraphs, readers are introduced to the reasons these characters have come together. Each is given a specific personality—a different piece to the puzzle of how they came together. Two of the five are prisoners of war and are to be guarded by the remaining three. Typically, one might assume guards would be cruel to prisoners of war, but in the same opening paragraphs, readers are struck by the characters’ referring to one another as ‘chum’ or ‘pal.’ The uncharacteristic behavior of Hawkins, Belcher, Bonaparte, Noble, and Donovan is that they do not behave in the manner expected by readers, which instigates character irony. They do not consider one another enemies of war; instead, the characters behave more on a moral or ethical basis and begin to consider each other friends. For example, the character Bonaparte remarks,

“I couldn’t at the time see the point of me and Noble guarding Belcher and Hawkins at all, for it was my belief that you could have planted that pair down anywhere from this to Claregalway and they’d have taken root there like a native weed… So whatever privileges Belcher and Hawkins had with the Second they just naturally took with us, and after the first day or two we gave up all pretense of keeping a close eye on them.” (O’Connor 1155)

This type of dialogue illustrates characters who are at ease with one another. It does not describe characters in fear of one another or the outcome of their time together. Further, O’Connor allows his characters to have feelings. At the end of O’Connor’s short story, each character expresses his feelings on the morality of the situation with which he or she is faced. Having orders to murder their “chum” and “pal,” both Noble and Bonaparte find they are unable to simply consider the “guests” as prisoners of war. They had come to know, to like, and to adapt to the Englishmen. In the atypical situation, the characters are faced with—being at war—one would certainly expect heartless and cruel actions to take place among the characters. Instead, actions taken are in consideration of another character. Of the five characters, only one may be misconstrued as flat and static. From the beginning of the story, Donovan portrays exactly what the reader expects—an impatient, uncaring guard of prisoners of war. Ironically, when the time comes for Belcher’s death, Donovan helps him tie a blindfold about his head and appears to hesitate before pulling the trigger. It is this level of irony that plays a major role in character development throughout the story. Without irony, the characters would simply be in a predictable situation and react in predictable ways.

The plot presented in Frank O’Connor’s “Guests of the Nation” displays subtle hints of irony. As the characters are led in to a world where enemies have become friends, readers are compelled to feel that everything is just too perfect. Frank O’Connor’s intent is to imply that something just is not right in the boarding house. Although the characters play games, go to dances, and engage in conversation with one another—occasionally calling one or the other “pal” or “chum”—O’Connor makes readers feel uneasy about turning the following pages. The ‘too perfect’ feeling does not seem to fit in a story about war, guards, and prisoners of war. Sure enough, as the story progresses, it is discovered that the guards, Noble, Bonaparte, and Donovan, have been instructed to murder the Englishmen they have been ‘guarding.’ The natural instinct of moral people is to push the Englishmen away and refuse the retaliatory execution, which is exactly how Noble and Bonaparte react.

However, since these characters were participants in opposite sides of a battle, readers see the characters are required to feel no emotions for their newfound friends. Without hesitation, Donovan decides to follow through with the instruction, and the others must follow suit. When the execution of Hawkins is unsuccessful, Bonaparte finds he is overcome with sympathy for the fallen friend and yet fires the final shot into his “chum.” This action illustrates the irony of Bonaparte’s duty as a member of his army outweighing his duty as a moral human being. In addition, Donovan’s reluctance to fire upon Belcher is characteristic of irony as well. Readers expect he would have no trouble following through with the execution. After the events at the bogs, the Irish guards return to the boarding house. Readers find the characters reacting to the events as the murder of friends, not the murder of enemies. Each is quiet and filled with a sense of sadness. Bonaparte reflects, “and I was somehow very small and very lost and lonely like a child astray in the snow. And anything that happened to me afterwards, I never felt the same about it again” (O’Connor 1163). The plot of the story, while relying heavily on the characters’ actions and feelings, gives readers an impression of irony.

Are all humans answerable to God? This question implies that humans must consider moral and/or ethical implications of their actions during all aspects of their lives. The hierarchies of social class, governmental institution, or even race do not determine what humans consider moral. In some cases, however, as in Frank O’Connor’s “Guests of the Nation,” five characters are faced with the dilemma of choosing morals or hierarchy when murdering friends. In such a story, readers are encouraged to feel each step of the plot, character development, and setting contribute to a strong sense of irony. While a governmental institution may make them different from one another on the outside, human morality makes them the same otherwise. Ironically, O’Connor’s characters choose to follow institutional hierarchy instead of morality. The ironic push of military duty essentially outweighs the push of moral duty.

Works Cited

O’Connor, Frank. “Guests of the Nation.” The Story And Its Writer. Sixth ed.
Ed. Ann Charters. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2003. 1154-1163.

– Back to Top –