My City

We're walking to the mall
Just because there's a Subway there
Not the subway
Not underground trains and filth
Just Subway
You know
Eat fresh.

"It feels like downtown Naperville"
(He's longing to go back home)
"Kinda. The sidewalk's too gross and there are too many tall buildings, though"
"Not the looks, just the feel, the sun's just really warm and the smell is kinda the same and it's just random"
"Plus we're going to Subway"
"Yeah. It's an American thing"

Two seconds pass and he says it again
"It feels like Naperville"
"Kinda, not exactly"
"Close your eyes and feel it"

So I close my eyes

And there I am
Barnes&Nobles right next to me
Ruddy red bricks stretching across an organized town
Gigantic and flashy or environmentally friendly and flashy cars are zooming by
And it's safe to cross the street without looking twice
I could go to Noodles and Company or Jamba Juice or that cute little candy store with the delicious gummy trout
I could go to the River Walk and throw bread to the ducks
Or hop inside Barnes&Nobles and read Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul all afternoon

(Or I could go home. Back to my house. Sit on the roof with my friends.)

I open my eyes.
It's not Naperville.

"We're gonna go to Subway and then when we step out we'll be next to Dominick's and the library"
He says

And I do one of those nervous laughs
Because I know he's kidding
But somehow it seems true.

~*~*~*~*~
We turn onto Borba Gato.
(What a weird street name)
And all of a sudden it goes from feeling like Naperville to feeling like ghetto Chicago
Construction everywhere
Homeless people on the streets
Buildings stretching up up up

"Let's walk faster. It smells funny here."
"Ok."

We speed through
And there's the mall.
~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~

To get into the mall you take creepy stairs down
(Like the ones you take to get to the actual Subway in Chicago, if you were gonna take a train)
They're gritty and threatening
And you can barely see your destination
But you go down down down
And all of a sudden it goes from underground train station to life.

~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~

"Why do all the malls here have a grocery store!"
That's his first reaction.
I love my little brother.
"I don't know. Let's find Subway."
We follow the signs that say
Praca de Alimentacao 
Food court
It's not like Fox Valley
The food court is all the way up
Not all the way down.

~*~~*~*~*~**~*~*~

When he sees it he starts running
"SUBWAY!!!"
It's like he's going to hug a long lost friend
(Mark, I thought of you)
He orders his food
Getting a 30cm sub
Instead of a footlong

And there are cookies
Real cookies
Chocolate chip
Soft
Yummy.

He bites into his sandwich and he's home
"It's even better than the one back in Naperville, it almost tastes like Quiznos"
"Yeah well, they keep it cleaner here"
"Yeah, in the US it's like there's lettuce in the tomatoes and pickles in the peppers"
"Yeah, it's gross. Brazilians are super neat freaks"

He takes the last bite of his cookie
And we're done with Naperville
~*~~*~*~*~**~*~~*~*~

We step out of the mall
Into Brazil
It feels like forty degrees
(Not fahrenheit)

There are people buying fresh squeezed orange juice
And corn on the cob
And popcorn
And peanuts
And anything else you can imagine
From metal carts owned by barefooted Brazilians
And no one looks like they have money to spare
And everyone looks happy
It's like a circus or a county fair.

There are trees
Everywhere
Little forests in every step of the city
The shops don't have doors
There's just one wall missing
And I step into a clothing store
(A little place no bigger than my bedroom, filled up to the top with super cute everything)
Because this jean skirt catches my eye.

The lady is eating her lunch at the counter
And is interrupted by me asking her for the same skirt outside but in a larger size

"Sure hon! But the biggest size I have is G" (For the gringos G=Grande=Large)
She digs enthusiastically through neatly folded, packaged clothing and pulls out a skirt that looks like it'll fit someone half my size.
"Ugh. I don't think it'll fit."
"Of course it will! Give it a shot. You'll be surprised"

There are purple curtains on half circle bars
It kinda looks like a shower curtain
And I hesitate
Because it's not gonna fit
But I step inside anyways

"Let me see!" The counter lady calls from outside
I pull open the curtain, biting my lip, cause I'm not confident in how it looks
"It's perfect!" She assures me.
"It's u-hm. Hm. Yeah. I like it a lot. But it makes my hips look huge."
I'm tugging uncomfortably at the fabric hugging my figure
"Well! What else do you want! It's suppose to be tight like that. And you have a violao body. It's perfect for you"
Violao. A "guitar" body. Kinda like a disproportionate hourglass.
The second uncomfortable laugh of the day.
"It looks really good. I swear. I would tell you if it didn't"
I know she's just trying to sell me.
But I don't know
The skirt just made me feel good.
"I'll take it."
Done. The lady smiles and she adds, "You'll be the hit of the balada"
"Yeah. I hope so."
~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

We're walking back.
We've only spent about 80 American dollars between us
But we're practically carrying new wardrobes.
(I love street stores)
"You know," He says, "We're always comparing Brazil and the US. Like. We can't just say that São Paulo is busy or dirty or clean or anything. We have to say it feels like Naperville or Chicago or Arizona. And when we're in the US we say it feels like somewhere in Brazil."
"Yeah, well. It's because it kinda gets the point across about what the city is, but without listing everything single trait."
He doesn't respond.
But inside my head there's another conversation
He's right
This city can't be described in terms of US or Naperville or Chicago

SP, Brasil is a uniquely diverse, fresh, busy, lively, infested, crazy city where cars will run you over without looking twice and you have to clutch your purse to prevent getting pick pocketed
Where shop keepers and hair dressers become confidants and every corner has a different personality

There's just no way to describe it if you haven't been here
It's like nothing you've ever seen before
Crazy looking trees in the middle of highways and bamboo forests in apartment complexes
Fairs with fruit you've never heard of before
It doesn't matter how many things I list
The good or the bad or the ugly
There's a feeling that you can only feel if you're right in the middle of it

So
(Come visit)

--Julie

Civility

my kind of town,

is a town with nothing at all.

-----

when I drive downtown,

and see the glorious skycrapers

(made from precious metals scraped from the economies of other countries)

the crystal clear water

(with neither an adequate amount of algae nor sustainable plankton due to the infection of asian carp)

the hustle and bustle and life

(and pollution and lack of consequence)

we see modern.

we see idealistic.

I see ugly.

I see impractical.

I see the human form in what come call civility. capitalists running around trying to exploit and not help others. the homeless on the streets. the smog filled air. the hideous cultureless modern architecture. the failed and reattempted efforts and reform. the death violence and brutality. the warping of time and constant rush hour.

I see the once beautiful prairie wetlands built upon and conquered due to small minded frontierist policy.

but I am not a god. I am a human. and I fall into the love of city life too.

the music.

the theater.

the fine-dining.

the atmosphere.

the tight areas of flourishing beauty.

however I also see the big picture.

and how living in such a way could drastically alter our natural environment.

in order for everyone on earth to live the same way as an average chicagoan,

we would need approximately 7 earths.

I'm not suggesting anarchy.

I don't want to watch a steel city burn.

but I do want changes to be made.

I want people to realize the consequences of their actions.

I want them to know that living sustainably is possible.

in the end it's not a want, it's a need.

I don't think people understand the severity of their actions.

and that whether we like it or not, the earth will be around for another 4.5 billion years.

and we can't change that.

by changing the environment we're not killing earth.

we're killing ourselves.

-----

the metropolitan menace.

chicago, IL.

come visit sometime.

--Mark

My kind of town.

I love this city.

I love. This. City.

No, not Naperville. It's a nice safe little burg to grow up in, sure, but I don't know if one can love Naperville any more than the way one loves the lock on the front door. Sure, you're glad you have it. Sure, it keeps you safe. But there's nothing particularly exciting about that lock. It's just a thing that's on your door.

But Chicago? I love this city. 

Whenever I'm in a car or on a train going into the city, no matter what time of year or day it is, that first view of the skyline never fails to take my breath away. The concentrated little clump of skyscrapers is beautiful on the bluest of blue-sky days, or slowly drifting out of the drab gray fog, or sparkling in window-lights and street-lamps at night. The shining glass giants and the solid landmark skyscrapers and the public art that never fails to fall short of really quite odd. (There's a giant eye by Robert Morris College right now. I smile every time I see it.) I love crossing under the El tracks when there's a train roaring and rattling overhead, momentarily drowning out any conversation. I love looking into the windows along the sidewalks, seeing all the different businesses and all the different people in them. I love how gross the city is in places-- the weird smell, the puddles of dubious origin, the construction zones that have been under construction ever since I can remember. I love the columns on the old buildings, the plate glass on the new ones, the haphazardly-placed scaffolding on the sidewalks. I love the shiny, artsy metal that attracts tourists in Millennium Park. But more than the buildings, I love the people.

Yes, there are jerks in Chicago. There's the crotchety old gay men who stretch out on the steps of the concert pavilion and yell at you for trying to get around them to your seat. There's the lady who steps right in front of you as you're trying to get on an escalator. There's any number of Chicagoans who are crazy or stupid or just plain rude. (We try to keep them shut up in City Hall as much as possible.) But for every one of them, there's dozens of the old women who joke with you on the elevator about how EVER do you carry that string bass, or the man passing by who goes out of his way to hold the door because you're carrying a LOT of stuff, or the girl behind the counter at Starbucks who makes a tray of free drink samples for her regular customers because "you've GOT to try this hot chocolate, it's got SO many calories but it's just SO good!". There's the middle-aged man on rollerblades doing a split down the sidewalk, or the tough-looking guy holding his girlfriend's coat-wearing Dacschund, or the nerdy guy in the park who offers to sing you a song on his ukulele. There are cops on Segways; that alone is reason to smile.

Above all, I love that our city really IS a city. It's not just a collection of people; it's neighborhoods and it's streets and it's like one big small town. We're a city of losers; when our Bears or our Bulls or our Cubs or yes, even our Sox more often than not flop miserably or peter out after a strong start or lose in the final disappointing game of a championship, we all sigh the same sigh and go back to hoping for the next year, even though we know it'll probably be the same as the last year. When some major tragedy befalls Chicago, when our streets aren't safe or somebody important dies or yet another political scandal shakes up City Hall and surprises nobody, we're all angry together. But when we triumph-- and we do triumph-- we celebrate en masse. We were the ones who filled Grant Park that chilly November night and watched history happen. We were the ones dancing in the shower of confetti in 2005 for our Sox, and then for our Blackhawks just shy of five years later. We were the ones who packed the lawn a few weeks ago to watch a larger-than-life Italian conductor usher in arguably the most exciting era of classical our city has seen since Burnham built Symphony Center. And we'll celebrate even more in the years to come; because no matter who our mayor is, no matter what happens to the economy, no matter how much we gripe about the weather or the construction or the politicians, Chicago is a great city, and we're just getting better.

I'm not going to deny that we have problems. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't break my heart and every true Chicagoan's every time we see another one of our young people dead on the streets, or another public school failing because we're too corrupt to fund them right, or another politician ignoring what the people put him in office to do in the first place. I'm not going to say I don't feel sick every time I see a political attack ad and think of what the politician promoting it is going to do to our home, whether in raised taxes or cut services or good old fashioned corruption. We're a city imperfect as its politicians, as its workers, as its nation, as its people. It's both our downfall and our greatest strength.

New York may have its all-American fantasy, Paris its high art, Los Angeles its movie-star sheen. But Chicago? Our weather is harsh, our streets are congested, our industries and our origins are plain. But we have our buildings, our minds, our people who root for our city like we root for our teams-- perennially, come rain or sleet or snow or sideways hail or all of the above, which has been known to happen on occasion. Keep your cardboard fantasies, your crumbling plaster statues, your silicone starlets. We have grit, we have pride, we have heart.

And we love this city because of it.

--Patti

Pressure

it will always be us and them.
they will never be accepted.
they will never be initiated.
they will never be us.

they're different.
and that can't be changed.
and I'm glad.
we don't want them.

I don't care how nice,
how decent,
how honest,
how noble these people are.

I don't like other people.
they're freaks.
imbeciles.
different.

but, because of you,
I made the exception.
and I put up with them.
not for long, mind you.

they get on my nerves.
why can't they be normal?
do they have to be so ridiculously incompetent?
we saw you first, we own you.

our cliques will stay the same.
and we will not mingle.
and you will not move.
because it is always us and them.

our lives will never change.
and we will not question.
and you will be content.
because it is always us and them.

our lies will not falter.
and we will forget their names.
and you will stay loyal.
because it is always us and them.

--mark

In the news

she fumbled with the rope hurriedly, nimble fingers quickly tying it around her bed-stand. Swearing under her breath in Croatian, she anxiously smoothed out the wrinkles of her clothes, and took deep breaths. As if trying to calm herself, she looked around her room silently.

A few seconds later, she looped the other end of the rope around her neck, and shivered as it rubbed against her neck.

Next, so opened her window, and removed the screen.

As she looked out the empty windowsill, Sladjana breathed out slowly, before catapulting herself out.

-------------------

Angelina was a quiet girl at school.

She knew the rumors about her school, and in order to keep herself safe, she never got into anyone business.

She went further to avoid brushing against someone, never spoke out loud in class, and never tried to do anything that would set her out from the others.

She still sobbed like a maniac at Sladjana's funeral.

She watched in between perfectly manicured fingers as four girls walked up to the coffin Sladjana was rested in, dressed in her pink prom dress that looked absolutely perfect on her, in Angelina's opinion.

Her breathe trapped itself in her lungs as the four girls started to giggle, before out-right laughing at Sladjana's form, wispy remarks about her looks escaping their mouths.

Angelina wanted to stand up, scream at those girls, you caused this girl to kill herself, and you're laughing at her funeral?!

But Angelina knew better. She knew that standing out was suicide.

So she quickly whipped her tears away with her manicured nails, and structured her face into indifference.

---lynn

[p.s. bully is bad. if you ever feel like you are being bullied, please, tell a teacher, a friend, anyone. don't just let it sit and fester, or start believing what they tell you. you are a beautiful person.]

arbitrary labels.

girls have annoyed me since middle school.

not to bash all of my relationships with fellow females--some of the people closest to my heart are girls. they were my first best friends. we make scrapbooks, we make music, we plan study groups and homecoming logistics. we can talk about silly personal issues like clothes and periods and the superficiality of boy drama, and it's something all of us are concerned about sometimes, no matter how tomboyish some of us might say we are. on the other hand, patti is right. girl talk in excess becomes petty. shallow. often manipulative. like her, i'm fairly quick to grow tired of it.

hence my male friends now probably outnumber my female friends. probably. it's not like i've bothered to decide who in my life deserves the arbitrary label of "friend" and systematically count them all up. anyway, i'm still with patti here. generally speaking, guys don't constantly second-guess other people's motives. they don't need flattery. they'll take you as you are if you just return the favor. i've sat with them just doing chemistry homework, staved off boredom during math class by playing the mirror game with them, squabbled with them over violas during orchestra camp. have i had petty squabbles with guys? sure, but those problems are few and far between compared to how often i find myself disagreeing with other girls.

and now let's address this little thing in life called love. relationships. boy/girl drama.

i get sick of it. mostly the gossip and the girls' squeals and the guys joking about getting laid. relationships shouldn't be impersonalized like that, but that's a different rant for another time. and it's sort of funny walking up to couples during a dance and telling them to keep it parallel, but it's not that funny when you're in the couple. it's supposed to be a special moment.

the way people address love and relationships, you'd think that teenagers are out there for sex and the right to say that they have a boy-/girlfriend. the high school relationship is characterized by flirting, cheesy ways to ask her to homecoming, facebook officiality, and angsty breakups. obviously there's truth to the stereotype, but who said that's all it is? i guess it bothers me that patti fails to address the "friend" part of "boyfriend", because the relationships that last aren't the ones that are founded on physical desire--those would be the "five minute beaus" she was referring to. the ones that last are the boys and girls who've known each other for over a year before deciding to use the labels "boyfriend and girlfriend". the ones who hold hands but also laugh about parents' follies and the typos in news articles and everything else they've always laughed about. the ones who are, in the end, friends.

so yes, there can be platonic friendship with the opposite sex, sans romantic complications. (oh my god, patti, you just put into my head the hypothetical situation of becoming romantically infatuated with all of my male friends. ewwww -.-)

but sometimes it seems as though people need a reminder that relationships can be so much more than a mess of hurt feelings and complications.

Table for Two

Separate checks, please.

Oh no, we're just friends.

These orders aren't together.

Him? He's like a brother to me.

I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't had at least one incredibly close male friend. Some of them I remain friends with, while some have moved or drifted away. But from Pokemon cards to practice rooms, late-night video game marathons to late-night Facebook chats, swing sets to cell phones and every step of the way in between, there's always been some guy in my life with whom I can just be one of the guys... yes, even though I'm a girl. I've had female friends too, most of the time, but for whatever reason I've always felt closer to the men in my life than the women. Girls can overanalyze. Girls can be petty. Girls can fight, girls can talk, girls can hurt you. I've felt it before and I've done it before; I'm not proud to admit it, but sometimes that's the way girls are.

Guys, though? Guys are different, somehow.

Some girls drop their IQs by twenty points every time they come near a Y chromosome. Some girls spend months trying to impress a boy whom she's unintentionally convincing she's kind of a skank. I know, because so many times I've been the girl that boy turns to after the awkward conversation is done and whispers, "Okay, I'm kind of creeped out now." I'm the girl who gets the look that says "Get her off me, I can't breathe." And in the end, I'm the girl that boy texts later that afternoon just to talk. Because even though they look kind of stupid sometimes (sorry boys), guys are surprisingly perceptive about who sees them as a person versus who sees them and whispers "LOOK HERE HE COMES! How's my hair?"

Maybe my nearly religious belief in the platonic, my policy of boys as friends not food, is part of the reason I've never had a boyfriend. Maybe trying to see guys like guys see guys has made guys see me like they see guys too. I'm okay with that, though; in the end, I'd rather have a best friend for five years than a beau for five minutes. In the end, I prefer having someone I can complain to and at and with than be tangled in the web of concealment and awkwardness and eventual heartbreak that a relationship so often means. Sure, I've been accused of being in love with my guy friends before. Sure, I've been the subject of awkward "are-they-dating" questions, to which my responses have varied from an enthusiastic "no" to an overly dramatic faking of my own slow, gagging, death, complete with extensive post-mortem twitching. But in the end, shouldn't it be obvious that one can have respect without romance, proximity without infatuation, a sort of paradoxical love-without-love? We're all humans here, no matter what gender; whoever says that there's no such thing as a mixed-gender friendship also implies the nonexistence of mixed-race friendships, mixed-age frienships, mixed-orientation friendhips... mixed-human friendships. They say that no two different humans can just be friends, that there must be some awkwardness, some barrier, some unimpeachable boundary...

There are no boundaries friendship cannot cross.

And as long as I live, I want a guy by my side--

not a husband,

not a boyfriend,

not a lover--

just a guy who is a guy

who I can trust and who trusts me.

These orders aren't together, waiter--

but we'll be eating side by side.

--Patti

cassandra (a second appearance).

there is a boy in cassandra's life.

no, she is not in love. her parents have succeeded far too well in conditioning in her a profound disinterest in romantic relationships--she is a student, she doesn't need to waste time with boys, she has better troubles than that. she has gone so far as to tell me that she doesn't want to get married when she grows up.

he is her partner in dance class. the others dismiss him as a class clown, but to her, he is polite. decent. intelligent in conversation. clever enough to win arguments with the teachers if he tried, she says. i've never met him, but knowing her, she's probably polishing the truth. i nod my head and within two minutes, i have forgotten about him.

one day, she tells me he has been put in jail, and he will be transferred to a military school soon. although i'm studying the wall directly to her right, i know her eyes are full with empathetic disappointment for him. she is upset that he is throwing this comfortable suburban life away just because of one mistake too many. she is upset because he is smarter than that. she doesn't understand his passive unconcern for his predicament, which he accepts without a fight. "i'm more worried about him than he is," she says, "and that worries me."

and for the first time during this conversation, i stare directly into her eyes as a thousand thoughts flash through my mind.

i don't know this boy's story. i don't even know his name. what i do know is that i cannot judge him until i can perceive him sans the filter of cassandra's views. perhaps he's wasting opportunity like she tells me. all i see is a girl who cares hopelessly more than she should for a boy who's already come to terms with his own future.

maybe i am a cold, impersonal bitch who cannot appreciate a noble cause because the people in my world are ultimately concerned not for others, but themselves. perhaps this sort of caring for another person should be appreciated since goodness knows it doesn't happen often enough. but ultimately, no matter how strongly cassandra feels, she cannot help him see the opportunities that she does. she cannot do so because she cannot touch him in that part deep down where the mind and the heart are connected. that truth manifests itself in the tone of her voice, the expression sculpting her eyebrows.

for a long, selfish moment, i want to open my soul and tell her all of this in a torrent ofwhys and nos and understands. in the end, though, i never do.

response to my harry chapin addiction

Hannah and Jacob were the best of friends when they were growing up.

Their houses were right next door to each other, so it was only a matter of time before Hannah popped her head over the fence in between their houses, glanced around, and saw Jacob.

'Hey! You want to come over and play?' She called out to Jacob, who was sitting quietly on his lawn, two toy trucks in his hands.

'Play...?' He echoed. 'Play what?'

Hannah appeared to shrug her head, but since she was only appearing over the fence by hoisting herself up off the ground herself, it looked unnatural and awkward.

'I don't know! But come on, let's play!' She whined, her nose scrunching up as her arms shook, tired from holding up her body.

Jacob looked around his yard unnervingly, glancing between his red and yellow trucks, to the girls' head that was staring at him, before he shrugged his shoulders, and hopped up.

Hannah's face light up with a grin as she dropped from the fence, and Jacob dropped his toy trucks as he went around to the unusual girls front yard to do whatever.

And Hannah grins and grins, and Jacob smiles and smiles.

Years later, they're on Jacob's roof at around 2 A.M. Both of them are standing barefoot, and are clad in both jeans and ragged tank tops splattered with paint.

Hannah is laughing at a joke the D.J. pulled on the radio they're listening to that is balanced on the top of the roof. It's bright red blinking numbers are the only lights on on the entire block.

Jacob is looking around their neighborhood, before he falls backwards to sit down, not even flinching as the roof tiles dug into his palms. Hannah looks down at him, before she does a spin and falls down next to himl.

Neither of them talked as they just sit there, listening to the club music pounding on the radio next to them. It wasn't long before Jacob reached backwards and hooked his ipod into the radio, muttering how 'i don't want to listen to this electric-bass and auto-tuner shit anymore'. Hannah laughs loudly again, drumming her fingers against her knees.

After a few minutes of fiddling, Jacob swearing quietly, and Hannah admonishing him for swearing when he was such a 'perfect jesus-kid' Jacob finally righted himself, and and the sounds of two guitars started to play.

Hannah's face lit up and she laughed loudly before she hopped up on her feet, wavering only slightly before she started to sing in time with the song, 'My child arrived just the other day, he came to the world in the usual way,'

She grinned down at Jacob and smiled broadly when he slowly joined in as well.

'But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay, oh he learned to walk, while I was away'

Hannah was laughing and Jacob was laughing soon also. 'Dude, Harry Chapin? I knew you had it in you. The best folk-rock artist ever.' Jacob only scoffed and said, 'i always had his music on my ipod, you just never bothered to check'.

He finished with a wink before cupping his hands around his mouth, and shouted across the roof-tops, And the cat's in the cradle, and the silver spoon, Little boy blue and the man on the moon, oh when you comin' home dad? I don't know when, but we'll be together then, son.  You know we'll have a good time then.

And Hannah laughed and laughed and Jacob laughed and laughed.

Hannah is screaming in terror and her mascara is causing messy black lines to crawl down her face.

Her eyes are red from salty tears, and her throat is harsh and painful but she cannot help it. Her hands are clawing at her sides as she struggles to keep her composition, hair falling in her face.

Some of her shirt is on the ground, ripped and covered in mud and rain that continues to fall.

But her shaking eyes are still focused on the fight going on in front of her in this dark alley.

Jacob is there

Jacob is fighting.

Jacob is fighting for her. He's gritting his teeth and ducking under punches and smashing his fists and knees into the other, not holding anything back as he curses the body he's going against.

Soon, the ruckus is loud enough, what with her screams of terror and the horrible sounds of fighting that people are drawn to the alleyway, and quickly separate Jacob and the other body.

A few see Hannah standing in the back, and they see the black eye, and the split lip, and the harsh finger-shaped bruises on her sides, neck and arms. They quickly run to her, draping her in their jackets as her hands fall limply to her side, her shirt no longer providing adequate coverage of herself.

They are talking to her in hushed, rushed voices, asking her what happened, who did that to her, is she okay, what happened.

Her eyes are just only drawn to Jacob as he anxiously steps from foot to foot, adrenaline still rushing through his body as he talks to a few people, eyes accusing towards the other body which is sitting against the wall, blood pouring, a few people offering assistance, but not really helping.

Someone asks him a question, and he answers quickly, yet calmly. They nod, and repeat the information into their cellphone, and they walk away. Someone offers him a jacket, and he refuses before he slowly makes his way to the back of the alleyway.

Hannah only flinches visibly when she almost makes eye contact, and she looks towards the ground. The one standing next to her puts their arm around her for comfort, but she only inches away, fingers twisting with the zipper of one of the jackets thrown over herself.

Jacob stops in front of her, and stares at her face. He stares at the black eye that is vibrant against her pale skin. He stares at the mascara and eyeliner that makes tracks down her face, mixing with the blood from her split lip.

He stares at her silently, and she finally makes eye contact, and instantly her whole self crumples and she catapults herself at Jacob, twisting her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder loudly.

Jacob only hums into her ear, holding her up as her legs are shaking so much they are bound to collapse.

And the rain continues to fall overhead, as the people around silently circled them, or the other body against the wall, waiting for the police and ambulance to come for them.

and Hannah sobs and sobs, and Jacob hums and hums.

--lynn

Skinny isn't a compliment.

I climbed flightless stairs, trying to reach my destination.
At the top of the steps there was a feline.
She was the most majestic, maternal creature I had ever laid eyes upon.
Her fur begged you to feel it.
Her eyes warmed your toes and your soul and your heart.

"Hello," She meowed, her voice curling around like incense smoke, mysterious and intriguing.
"Hi," My eyes widened and my mouth murmured in awe.

"They call me," She purred sadly, "The Fat Cat."
She shifted her paws uncomfortably.
"But I am not fat," She said, "I am thin."

"You," I took an encouraging step forward, "Are beautiful."

Her ears perked up enthusicastically, "What is beautiful?"

"Beauty," I whispered, "Why, beauty is...it's special, it's untouchable, unreachable, beauty is the greatest compliment ever recieved, beauty is love in tangible form. Beauty is the eyes dessert, the ears most valuable image, the hearts most welcomed friend!"

"Beauty," She purred, "Beauty. Beauty. It is rather like being thin."

No. I thought to myself. Beauty and thinness are not alike at all. Beauty is round and robust, warm and inviting, inspirational and moving. Thinness is easily broken. Something thin may be beautiful, but not because of it's thinness, only because of the essence of that thin thing.

"Yes." I said gently to her, "Yes. Beauty is like being thin."

How would one explain beauty to such a cat?

--Julie 

Depth

you say you know me.

but all you see is a facade.

you say you know me.

but i've not told you anything.

you say you know me.

but you haven't been inside my head.

you say you know me.

all you know is a mask.

-----

you don't know me.

don't even pretend you do.

you know nothing.

nothing important, anyway.

nothing significant.

obviously you would know major things.

like my nationality.

age.

orientation.

appearance.

but what would you know about me?actually me.

not the actor that I play on school days.

or while i'm texting.

or having any form of social interaction.

the real deal.

-----

you would be uninterested.

ignorant.

stupid.

and unaware.

and you have no reason to act otherwise.

I'm just a kid like you but who writes a lot.

-----

but i'm so much more than that.

and I don't mean that in a positive way.

-----

you say you know me?

like hell you do.

--mark

Dear society

hi. I'm lynn.

and i do not appreciate today's society.

i don't appreciate the fact that Asher Brown was found by his own mother.

i do not appreciate that in the fourth grade was when it started for Seth Walsh. He also had to be found by his mother. 

i don't appreciate a lot of things today.

[in the words of Joel burns,

you will get out of the household

you will get away from those who don't agree.]

i like to read six billion secrets

and pretend, hey.

i could know someone who posted one of these

i could help them with this. i should help them with this

i will help them with this

and i don't

because i cannot.

i like to pretend,

that hey.

my sister is incorrect.

there is no danger in the surgery

and that for the love of god

will you have some faith in modern-day medical technology?

he will survive

there will be no complications

our family will not lose a member.

he is going to be perfectly fine.

and i pretend that some nights i don't cry myself to sleep because in the back of my head i believe my sister. 

everyone gets sad sometimes

some people act on it

some people don't

if you ever think you're going to act on it

please

think of your mother.

if there are two things i want to keep from my childhood until when im old

are these two items.

one if a bear, with a little noise-maker inside i've had since i was a baby.

it's tattered and old, but it's mine.

and another is this quilt my mother made me.

you know that feeling when your heart pulls itself out of your chest

and the back of your throat burns?

love can be painful sometimes.

remember the power rangers?

the blue one was gay.

people think i write for some crazy reason.

i want to get noticed. i want to get famous. i want to make money.

want want want want want.

this isn't a strip club.

i don't want anything.

i write because i like to think of things that are better or worse

--lynn

The Girl and the Pickle Jar

I take the jar of pickles out of the fridge.

It's a brand new jar, stuffed chock-full of crinkly little cucumber product, never been opened before.

I'm about to call my dad to help me open it, thinking that's what's expected of me. But the words catch in my throat.

Since when, I wonder, did women have to be the weak ones?

Traditionally, of course, men have been stronger physically. Ever since the stone age, men were relegated to the heavier labor, and women the lighter jobs, simply because of the slight sexual dimorphism present in the species H. sapiens. The men kill, the women gather; the men reap, the women sow; the mean hunt bears, the women bear hunters... It only makes sense. To format society otherwise would be highly inefficient.

But since when does that mean women have to be such wimps?

Women are delicate flowers, says the Victorian era. Women are made for housework and for child-care and for sitting around in impossibly huge dresses looking like the beautiful, delicate creatures they are. Women are not to think, women are not to work, women are not to do anything strenuous or serious or gruesome enough to move one delicate little ringlet on their delicate little heads.

Yet it's the women who bear the children. It's the women who take care of the sick, the wounded, the hurting, the dying, the lost. Even in the most ancient of civilizations, it didn't matter how much the man did unless there was a woman behind him.

Maybe it's traditionally the man who moves the world, but it's the woman who makes it stay put.

And now that times are changing, who says we women can't change with them?

Physical labor isn't the most important aspect of a job anymore. Even the farmers and the construction workers have tools to help them; although they're still immensely strenuous jobs, it's nothing an extremely fit woman couldn't handle. Society's mechanized so much that outside of mens' athletic competitions, I dare you to name a job that no woman could perform as well as her male counterparts, if not better. People say women are appeasers, are poor decision-makers, are soft and weak in the brain. They say we try too hard to make everyone happy, to be everyone's friend rather than to make the best decisions. And maybe some women do that. Maybe some women are still convinced that everyone has to like them to be worth anything... but I can name a million examples where it's exactly the opposite. Who tries harder to be everybody's friend, me or my brother? Who's made more enemies, Hillary or Bill? And when you look at the men in the CEO jobs on Wall Street giving everybody bonuses to make them happy, don't you wish just for a second that Wall Street had a tough-as-nails woman to shape it up? An Arianna Huffington? A Condoleeza Rice? Yes, even a Hillary?

Men need to respect our ability, but that also doesn't mean they have to be a jerk about it.

Yes, boys, feel free to hold doors. Feel free to pick things up when we drop them or buy us dinner. Chivalry isn't dead just because sexism should be... it just means that after you hold the door for me on the way in, I'll turn around and hold it for you when we leave. Maybe I'll pay next time. And if you drop your pencil and it rolls toward my feet, I'll pick it up and hand it to you. And then maybe I'LL ask YOU to homecoming: it's a free country, and I'm a free woman. Just because old society expects you to be chivalrous to me doesn't mean new society can't have chivalry go both ways.

--

Snapping out of my reverie, I looked at the pickle jar anew.

I set it on the table and twisted the lid. It came off without much effort.

I smiled.

Yes, I'm a woman.

I'm a woman who can give a firm handshake

I'm a woman who can carry and play an instrument bigger than you are.

I'm a woman who can write

I'm a woman who can think

I'm a woman who can decide

I'm a woman who's much more likely to change the world than to change a diaper

And I'm a woman who can open her own damn pickle jar.

--Patti

It's not a problem, it's a solution.

There is that

I haven't eaten in a week

Feeling

Head feeling like a cloud

Eyes feeling like a rock

Stomach feeling like spoiled milk

Body feeling like the flu

Your mind understands that it needs to eat and your eyes are dying to eat that strawberry pie

But your stomach is fighting your head, wanting nothing but to go to sleep

And your body agrees.

There is that

I haven't eaten in a month

Feeling

Head buzzing with non existent white noise

Eyes forever searching for something they can't see

Stomach cringing from unbearable pain

Body thinning from the sickness

Your mind doesn't even care anymore, but your eyes frantically stare at the mirror, looking for a girl who's disappeared

And your stomach has it's eyes closed, dreaming about the taste of food, unaware that it's right. there.

Your body is snacking on itself, taunting your stomach who can't even enjoy the stored fat your body is nibbling.

There is that

I'm still not eating

Feeling

Mind gone

Eyes giving up on seeing a more beautiful reflection

Stomach drying up, hoping to fall from its longing position

Body hyperventilating from prospective hunger

Your mind and your eyes find the sleep once reserved for your stomach and body

And your stomach is reaching out to death

Your body is running out of supply, fat disposed of and muscle becoming sparse.

There is that

I'm dying

Feeling

Mind dreaming

Eyes blinded

Stomach smiling

Body unaware

Your mind jolts awake with the image your inner eyes visualizes:

Your body, silent and decomposing, luminescent bones finally emerging through skin

The last thought is "I'm finally going to be beautiful"

As your stomach receives its wish.


--Julie

balloons.

He does not ask for permission from the sleeping balloon stand man as he silently presses latex necks to the mouth of the helium tank. He does not say thank you as he fumbles with the balloon ends, struggling to tie them and attach them to strings. He does not say anything at all as he limps away with his helium-filled loot without paying. Such thoughts do not occur to the boy's mind as he makes his way down the street, this child with an oversize bouquet of carnival colors.

The need to ask for permission is not felt when one is a runaway left to fend for himself, living temporarily in a rusty, steel-and-concrete nothing of an elevator shaft with only his wits and the meager pittance he snatched from The Mommy two nights ago, which he uses for food from the 7-Eleven. The need to thank the world is deemed obsolete when one twists his right leg from tripping (of all things) over the base of a lamppost two hours after removing oneself from that nightmare called home, inhabited by The Mommy--not that gentle, loving Mommy of the cookies-and-hugs comfort he used to know, but a perpetually drunken Mommy who ruled the household with an alcohol-swayed fist and actions he must not think about...

In the lobby of the abandoned apartment building, he passes the stairwell, an option from which he has closed his mind ever since leaning on his right foot became too painful, deeming stair-climbing impossible. Above him, the balloons jostle and shift like so many marshmallow peeps bouncing around in a plastic bag; he adds them to a considerable quantity of balloons he had stolen yesterday. Yes, they would be sufficient, he thinks. With the entirety of his strung-up helium, he steps into the elevator shaft, a rectangular column of dingy, ashen-gray darkness braced with dust-coated steel bars lined with bolts, and he lets the stale mustiness fill his lungs. This is the last stop to his only hope.  The eleventh story. Words run through his mind as he appraises the light-filled portals that lead to each floor, mantras that make the freight train rounds insistently. Daddy is waiting there. Daddy said so.

A slight push against the floor using his functioning foot and he is rising slowly, balloon strings in fist, in a manner not unlike the way Mary Poppins uses her umbrella to sail skyward on the breeze. Five empty elevator doors pass beneath him--he is on the sixth floor, the seventh floor, the eighth. Somewhere along the way he discovers the ascent is made easier when one pushes himself up using the beams in the metal structure that cover the walls of the elevator shaft. Above him, some of the balloons silently deflate as the air seeps out through the inadequately tied knots; at first he is unaware, but by floor nine his lack of speed surpasses that of a dandelion seed sinking in still air.  The eleventh story, he thinks fervently as he uses his good leg to launch himself from the door to the ninth floor to the tenth floor. The eleventh story. Daddy is waiting there, Daddy said so.

Fingers trembling, he helps himself to his feet on the frame of the tenth floor, and at that moment, he glances up and sees the rotting fruit of his fatal mistake, already drooping earthbound. Despite the tight, dizzying storm of panic provoked in his chest, he cannot let this stop him.  Daddy is waiting--Daddy is waiting--have to get there--the eleventh story--he said so...

With pure strength focused to the future and unfettered by the past, he miraculously leaps to the eleventh story, and his fingers curl around the edge. Instinctively, his legs flail, scrambling for a foothold so he can climb to safety, and his right foot finds a supporting brace.  Daddy is waiting. One shift of his weight and he is secure--just as his wounded leg crumbles underneath the pressure and pain. The balloons, no longer brimming with helium, cannot support him now. Daddy is waiting--the eleventh story--Daddy is waiting...

His fingers grasp air, and he plummets, a bird shot from the sky.  Daddy said so...

No one sees the dead balloons, slowly descending like the last snowflakes of winter.

No one mourns for the boy's still form, sprawled brutally against the bottom of the elevator shaft with face bloody, legs askew, and ribs broken beyond mending.

No one sees the single white balloon that creeps toward the top of the dim tower of emptiness, nosing its way through the doors to the eleventh story.


--Christie

Consequence

5:50pm.

10 minutes till pickup.

-----

she took a deep breath.

and smiled.

her reflection was immaculate.

a vision in red flowers.

face perfectly toned with the right make-up.

legs showing but not to the point of vulgarity.

long jeweled earings droop from her head.

cascading brunette hair waved in ripples past her shoulders.

the emaralds in her eye sockets gleaming.she was ready.

picking up her crocodile skin purse, she walked outside.

and she waited.

she sat on her porch.

and waited.

and waited.

and waited.

for him to come along. to take her away.

6:20pm.

20 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she didn't text.

she didn't call.

she didn't communicate.

she simply waited.

she wouldn't be creepy, like those needy attention seeking gushers she went to school with.

she would be classy.

and wait.

for the boy she loved.

the sky began to turn a orange with burning streaks of red.

she looked at her watch.

-----

6:25pm.

25 minutes after pickup time.

-----

surely she hadn't been stood up.

of course not.

proposterous.

he was just as serious as she was.

right?

right?

her hands were clammy, and she was twiddling her thumbs.

now that she thought about it,

it was all rather out of the blue.

hadn't he one day just started talking to her?

was it just because nobody else would say yes?

paranoia.

had he changed his mind?

or was it all a joke from the beginning.

-----

6:45pm.

45 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she clutched her purse,

and stormed inside.

stood up.

for homecoming.

what person could do that? be so cold hearted?

obviously she had made a msitake.

she locked herself in her room.

put her headphones in her ears.

and listened to the angsty songs that had first contributed to her self-consciousness.

-----

she didn't see the bashes in his car.

how only one of the headlights was working.

how one of the windows was broken and there were cuts all over his face.

all because she couldn't hear the doorbell ring at 7:00.

--mark