Posted December

17, 2006

Fiction

Inconceivable

 

By Maria DeLucia-Evans

Albany New York

His head sinks back against the pillow, weighted with

pain. Tubing was forced into place to empty his stomach. He's tired

of fighting. The plastic tube was pushed in through his nose and down

to his stomach. He feels it sitting in the back of his throat. Scratching,

itching, forcing him to remain silent-hurting too much to talk. He shuts

his eyes as frantic images begin to race through his mind. Slowly, he

pushes the morphine pump, hoping its numbness will quell the images.

His mind begins to settle, and the images meld into soft whispers. The

whispering slowly surrounds him on either side and he moves his head

back and forth trying to understand the messages. The whispers begin

to blur and slowly he relaxes and drifts into unconsciousness. He becomes

unaware, void of any understanding.

"Carolyn," he murmurs. "Carolyn, are you there?"

Time passes and he's there, alone. Removed from a world

in which he was once vibrant. His days don't exist anymore. He doesn't

care. He doesn't know enough to care. His memory is betraying him.

"Okay Mr. Young; we have to get you up and walking today.

You aren't going to get better just lying here. Those bones need to

get moving." Eyes glaze over and he stares at her.

 

"Carolyn?"

"Alicia, Mr. Young. My name is Alicia. I'm your nurse

today. We're going to get you up and moving-or at least try to. Sitting

up will be our first step. Now, I know it will be hard, but you can

do it. And the more you do it, the easier it will become."

He closes his eyes-allowing himself to feel the incision

pressing against his abdomen. Alicia motors his bed into an upright

position. His eyes remain closed. She pulls his covers off him and he

feels a chill run down his body. His eyes flutter open and he stares

at her. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't. He is trapped.

"Okay, Mr. Young. Let's get you up. First we're going

to swing your legs over to the right side of the bed. Nice and slow.

Just take your time."

He remains motionless, just staring at her. Alicia moves

her hand and gently begins pulling his legs over. Dead weight. His eyes

close and reopen; not quite believing this stranger is making him do

this. The thought of moving makes his head spin. He swallows and feels

the coarse tubes taking over his throat. There's just no point. This

woman isn't her.

"Mr. Young, I know this is hard work. I know you'd rather

not move. But we just want what's best for you here. You've got to trust

me."

 

He feels his body begin to move by her urging. The catheter

between his legs pinches and gets caught. Pain rushes through him, but

she doesn't seem to notice. He is screaming inside. Slowly, his body

moves into an upright, sitting position. He feels the illeostomy bag

crushed between the folds of his stomach.

"That's right, Mr. Young, that's right. You're doing it.

Slowly but surely, slowly but surely."

Suddenly, his shoulders slouch and he blinks furiously

tying to fight off blackness. Spots form over his eyes and his body

pitches forward, no longer under his control. He is descending, spiraling

down-deeper into his pain, into his body.

"Mr. Young. Mr. Young. Stay with me."

Slowly, he rises. The pain disappears. Lightness engulfs

him and he realizes he is walking along their favorite river park path.

Lifting up his shirt he sees the smooth creases of his stomach, free

from scars, the stoma, the illeostomy bag. Smiling he lifts his arms

up to the sky and feels the warm wind caress his skin. His lungs fill

with air, and he realizes there isn't tubing lodged in his throat-he's

free. He shouts "Hello" into the river. He can speak.

He glances behind him and sees Carolyn jogging towards

him, shouting.

 

"What, you couldn't wait for me?"

"I'm sorry … I… I didn't know you were coming." "I told

you I just needed five minutes…"

"Okay, I'm sorry… God it's good to see you. You look beautiful

today."

"What? You just saw me ten minutes ago."

"I know. It's just different now. I need you to know how

much I love you. I need you to know how good it is to see you."

"Chris what is going on with you? Are you feeling okay?

We've just spent the last two weeks together-you're acting like you've

never seen me before."

 

"I know…I don't know…Nothing's wrong…Everything's wrong."

"Chris, you are scaring me."

"Never mind, never mind. Please, just walk with me."

He grabs her hand and they walk, shoulders touching, down

the riverside path. He keeps looking at her. He's free and she's here

with him. How did he get so lucky? Doesn't she know what's happening-what's

happened?

Slowly, his head begins to feel heavy. He covers his eyes

with his hands. The path starts to widen and darken. The river is gone

and the ground beneath them is eroding. Carolyn is staring at him but

he can't talk anymore. He reaches out to her; she doesn't see him. Her

face fades and she evaporates into the air. He stands twirling around

in a circle, frantically searching for her. Somewhere, anywhere, she

has to be here, she can't leave. He fights to hold on. He doubles over

onto his knees feeling pain surge in his abdomen. He can't stand, his

legs are weak and his throat tightens. He can feel the tube in his nose,

winding through his body, chaining him to this hospital. His eyes slowly

blink and open. He's back.

"Mr. Young, you gave us quite a scare there. Maybe we

won't be having you get up just yet. We're not sure what caused your

fainting spell, but you've been through a lot and these things can happen.

We'll check on you in a bit. In the meantime, just get some rest."

 

Rest? How can he rest? His mind is whirling-she was there,

he knows it. But where is she now? Why can't he find her? He moves his

hands slowly to his face and breathes deeply. He can smell her on his

skin-that faint smell of vanilla lotion that instantly brings him back

to their apartment. God she loves that apartment. It is far too small

for two people, but she demanded they buy it. She said large spaces

made her nervous, and besides it is romantic in close quarters. She

bought used furniture and decorated it with odd artwork-the stuff you'd

buy at Target or Kmart; fake art. Somehow though, she made it work.

It was theirs and God how he missed it now. He missed the little things.

Like the mornings when she'd wake up and beg him to get her a glass

of water. Or lazy mornings when he'd make a big breakfast and they'd

eat in bed. The days they spent the entire day in bed, eating, making

love, reading-he loved those days. He loved her. He needed her.

Pain brought him back to reality. Desperately he reached

for the morphine pump. He shifted his body and looked around the room.

It was empty except for the pink colored water pitcher and Styrofoam

cup that sat on his tray table. He realized the TV was on, but the volume

was muted. His surroundings began to sink in and he realized everything

was wrong. How long had he been here? What happened?

He became aware of a presence on the other side of the

curtain that hung to the left of his bed. Slowly, bits of a phone conversation

drifted over. He had a roommate.

"Yeah, I'm doing better, thanks Ma. Should be outta here

in a couple days. Yeah, I got a roommate. … Don't know, sleeps all the

time. Did hear the nurses talking about him. Think his wife went crazy

or something-I guess she attacked him with a knife and took off. Police

are looking for her. … I know, poor guy. He's a mess."

The pain cascaded down on his head. The air was thick;

he couldn't breathe. He grabbed the morphine pump and kept pushing,

pushing, pushing. Tears streamed down his face, memories colliding in

his head. The piercing truth unveiled, racing through his body.

"Carolyn." he whispered.

 

 

Big Jim, the Mormon, and Hitler's Grandson

By Quincey Burkhalter

Roswell,NM

Note: This piece is the first section of a longer piece,

which chapters will appear in later issues of The Lotus Reader

"Hitler's Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver." That

was the headline on the latest edition of the tabloid I stole after

spending my last two dollars and eighty-five cents in change on cigarettes.

I didn't believe it either. I just put the magazine inside my coat so

I would have something to read while I was taking a shit. I had no idea

at the time that what I read in the bathroom would soon be parallel

to my life. But it's all true.

 

Pressure was coming from every direction at the time.

My mother called me at night and left messages during the day. My batty

girlfriend threatened to leave me. They both asked the same damn thing

every time. 'Have you found a job yet?' Then pressure came in from the

other side. I had just spent my last two dollars and eighty-five cents

in change and this was my last pack of cigarettes.

So, I sat there, sat in the crapper smoking away on the

sweetest Marlboros I had ever tasted and thought about my options. I

had avoided this from the beginning. This option would tie me to home.

My parents won't give me anymore money. I'm just their loser son. So,

why go back to a family that didn't care for their son? I forced the

last option I had out of my mind.

I pulled the tabloid out from underneath my jacket. "Hitler's

Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver," it said. I sucked in hard on

the third cigarette from the pack. I wasn't really counting, but I figure

it was the third, because I had only wiped once. There was a picture

of a young man with his arm around a pretty girl. I couldn't tell if

the man was Hitler. It looked kind of like him, but he didn't have that

demonic square mustache and the distinctive little dictator grin; he

didn't look evil. He looked sort of happy. Under the picture it said,

"Hitler and his 'Secret Lover.' She was Jewish! (1923)." Hitler had

a secret Jewish lover prior to his dictatorship of Germany. His lover

had been Jewish. Ah-Ha! I guess that gives a simple explanation as to

why Hitler hated Jews. She dumped him like he was rancid meat.

And hey guess what? The plot thickens. Hitler's lover

was pregnant. And Hitler didn't even suspect. The child was a boy and

whether Hitler knew about him or not Hitler's lover and his love child

escaped the persecution of World War II. The kid grew up and even snagged

some unsuspecting wife. It's no wonder; his wife was an American. They

moved to Denver. Anyway, Hitler's son and his wife were killed in a

car accident ten years ago. And this is where it gets good. Their child

survived and is "Alive and living in Denver."

Hitler's grandson was going to the university. So was

I. He had been sighted going to criminal justice classes. That seemed

right. I had always thought cops and dictators were only a step removed.

And that's what Hitler's grandson planned to do. He planned on persecuting

people who broke the speed limit. Especially if their last names were

Lowenstein or Seinfeld or Rosencrantz like mine. Actually, I'm not even

sure if Rosencrantz is a Jewish name, but my parents are Jewish. I looked

at the baby picture of Hitler's grandson. The caption read, "Now an

employee of Big Jim's convenience stores."

 

And it just so happens that Big Jim's just happened to

be my last option. My sister-in-law worked for the main office and had

promised me a job if I ever wanted one. I was down to my last pack of

cigarettes, so I took it. There were more than a few Big Jim's in town.

So when I got the job, I didn't expect I'd be working with you know

who. I didn't even believe that this person really existed. I'd read

about him in a goddamn tabloid.

Who believes anything they read in a tabloid?

 

Enchanted

By Jillian Whitney

 

Omaha, NE

Tempest snuck out the back door of her house. She was

going to follow her big sisters and find out where they always disappeared

to every Friday afternoon.

She slipped down the rickety wooden staircase, the blue

princess dress she was wearing softly trailed after her. She tried to

stay in the shadows so Beatrice and Lily wouldn't see her.

"Where are you going?" she had asked them earlier as

they were preparing to leave.

"Nowhere that's your business," they had sneered back.

 

"Can't I come? I promise I'll be good," Tempest said

as she jumped up from her game of baby dolls.

Beatrice smiled at her with that patronizing older sister

smile.

"Tempest, where we are going is a big girl secret," she

cooed.

"But I'm a big girl," Tempest had protested, stomping

her foot impatiently.

They gave her a sympathetic smile, but continued to put

their shoes on and walk out the door without another word to her.

 

So she was forced to follow them. In her hurry to keep

her sisters in sight, she forgot to put her shoes on, but she didn't

mind. She darted out the old gate that they had forgotten to shut on

their way out of the back yard.

She had never been on the other side of that gate without

one of her sisters or her mama or daddy. And without them holding her

hand, she felt as little as an ant, but as free as one of the lighting

bugs she had let go of just that morning.

Tempest looked around. To her left was a huge sea of

wheat crops crashing together in the wind. To the right was the old

creek her whole family swam in just the other day. In front of her was

a dirt road that led to who knows where. Farther down that dusty road

were Lily and Beatrice walking huddled together discussing something

secretive.

Tempest ran towards the sea of wheat and pushed her way

inside so that it would hide her if her sisters happened to look around.

She peeped her head out to see the direction they were

headed just as the pesky wind started acting up. It blew wheat and dust

all around her. Her princess dress flew up and hit her in the face.

 

Tempest heard the wheat begin to make that whooshing

sound it always makes when the wind tries to blow it down. She always

thought it was kind of like they were arguing with each other.

"Stop blowing!" the wheat whooshed. "I've got a lot of

hungry people to feed this fall. I've got to stand strong!"

"No you don't," the wind blew back. "There is so much

of you and I just want to blow down a little."

No, let the wheat be, Tempest tried to yell at the wind,

but he blew so hard that he forced her words back inside and threw dust

in her eyes.

"Stinking wind," she grumbled as the wind died down and

she rubbed the dirt out of her eyes.

 

The wheat tickled her face softly as if to say thank

you for saving her. Tempest suddenly remembered that she was supposed

to be following her sisters.

She peeped her head out again; they were farther ahead

than she had thought.

Hitching up the hem of her dusty royal gown, she took

a deep breath and began to run. The wheat crashed by her as she tried

to catch up.

She ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. The

wheat hit her in the face, but she didn't even notice. She was set upon

finding out where her sisters were headed.

The wheat started to thin, and Tempest began to slow

down. She dropped to her belly in the green grass as the wheat completely

disappeared.

 

The sun was set high in the sky. She was lying in a huge

valley of tall grass. It was like she was a snake, slithering softly

after her prey. Tempest began to slide on her belly making soft "ssss"

noises.

As she peered around, looking for her prey, she noticed

a large grove of trees off in the distance. Her prey seemed to be headed

in that direction. Tempest began to slither faster. If she didn't catch

up to them, they'd disappear into the grove, and then she'd never find

them.

The grove was coming closer and closer. Tempest stopped

slithering, and slowly rose to all fours. She transformed into a cat.

Not a lion or a tiger, but a fearless tomcat with pale brown fur, and

speckles. Her fur would keep her hidden in the grove. She flew through

the grass silently. Her long limbs stretching as far as possible again

and again. Suddenly she stopped. Her cat ears had picked up voices.

She was going to be discovered. She dropped to her side and curled up

into a tiny ball. She hoped no one would pay attention to the ugly,

ratty tomcat.

"Come on Lily, we are going to be late. We don't have

time to rest. The others will be angry if we aren't there right on time,"

a familiar voice urged. It was Beatrice.

A soft whooshing sound near Tempest signaled her sisters

passing her. Tempest let out her breath. She had been running so fast

she had accidentally outrun her prey!

 

She sat up, once again the little princess named Tempest.

As she looked for her sisters, she noticed she was sitting right in

front of the grove of trees. Her sisters were disappearing into the

grove when she finally caught site of them.

Tempest stood up. Those trees looked awfully scary to

her. She wondered what Beatrice and Lily could be doing in there? Tempest

put her nose in the air defiantly, grabbed the hem of her dress, closed

her eyes, and stumbled into the grove.

Slowly Tempest opened her eyes. She had to blink a couple

of times before they finally grew accustomed to the dim lighting. Everything

in the grove felt unfamiliar. The canopy of branches overhead blocked

the warm summer sun. It felt cool in the grove, even cold. The air smelled

like dewy flowers and mud. Tempest stood still, listening for any sounds

of life. It was completely silent. There were no birds chattering, no

rustling of hidden creatures, no pesky wind. Just silence. She must

have stumbled into a different world when she had stumbled into the

grove.

Slowly she stepped forward, careful not to step on any

twigs, so she wouldn't make a sound. She didn't know what types of creature

lived in this foreign land. Tempest went to all fours again, transforming

back into the tomcat. He was faster than the little princess; he could

outrun a terrifying, princess-eating monster.

As she stalked through the branches, she sniffed at the

air, sniffing for any sign of Lily and Beatrice. She thought she smelled

something. She breathed in deeply. She had caught the scent of Beatrice's

lilac perfume. The tomcat picked up speed, staying hidden behind the

big trunks of the trees. Finally she caught sight of them. They were

crawling through a small makeshift tunnel of branches a couple of feet

away. They were whispering something to one another. Tempest tuned her

cat ears and listened hard.

 

"OUCH! Beatrice you just hit me in the face with that

branch," Lily complained. Tempest stifled a giggle.

"Shush Lily, we are almost there. It looks like we are

the last ones too," Beatrice sighed.

They disappeared. Tempest strolled over to the tunnel

and crawled through, stopping just at the other side's entrance. Her

cat eyes adjusted promptly to the darkness.

The tunnel led to a little opening among the trees. The

trees formed a complete circle, but were only the walls. Their branches

were the roof and let in just the right amount of sunlight to make the

place magical. Flowers of every kind filled the ground. Lily, Beatrice,

and about six other girls were sitting among the flowers in a circle.

In the middle of that circle was one lone tree.

The tree was very sad looking; it almost looked as if

it didn't belong there. Its trunk was no thicker than a couple of broomsticks

tied together. Its branches were too bare for a tree in the middle of

summer, and it was only as tall as Beatrice when she stood up straight.

Tempest felt like crying for that small, ugly tree.

 

The little girls around the tree began to pick flowers

and tie them together into one long rope. Tempest licked her lips. She

thought it looked like a candy necklace, every color you could think

of and delicious.

When the rope got as long as twice the tree was tall,

Beatrice stood up.

"In order to appease the Fairies, we have come to meet

once again to restore life in this lifeless tree," she announced in

a faux English accent. "Everyone rise."

As Tempest watched in the shadows of the tunnel, every

girl slowly rose to their feet and grabbed a part of the flower rope.

Beatrice held the beginning of the rope, and Lily held the end.

As if propelled by some unseen force, Beatrice began

to walk around the tree and all the girls followed. They wrapped the

tree with the beautiful flower rope, from the bottom of the trunk to

the top of the branches, when finished they all sat back down, closed

their eyes, and joined hands.

 

Before Tempest's very eyes, the tree began to change.

It grew taller and its trunk began to grow wider. Everything about it

transformed. Its branches burst into bloom, with the most beautiful

flowers--they were a pale, almost white, pink, with a center that looked

like a diamond in the middle of a ring. The flower rope began to meld

into the tree, so that it looked like some masterful artist had carved

it there. The tree became breathtaking.

The little girls all stood up, with hands joined, and

circled the tree three times. It was over.

Tempest didn't know what to do. She was stunned. Could

this have really happened? She shook her furry head and looked again.

The tree was still there, just as exquisite.

"The Fairies are very happy. Our work is done for today.

Next Friday we will meet the same time, same place. The Fairies will

bring us something different to make beautiful next week. Head home

now," Beatrice commanded.

Tempest quickly scurried out of the tunnel and into the

thicket before any of the girls could see her.

 

One by one they filed out, solemn, but with a look of

joy in their eyes. They walked silently out of the grove and continued

on their separate ways.

Tempest sat back on her haunches and transformed into

the little princess again. She hesitantly began to make her way back

into the tunnel, fearing that the tree would be gone.

As she crawled out of the tunnel, there was the tree

in all its glory. She stood up and reverently approached the tree. Laying

her little hands over the flower carving, she began to laugh. She was

amazed that she could touch the magical tree. Slowly she circled the

tree, like she saw the little girls do. Then she began to twirl and

dance around it, as if she was a little ballerina in her music box.

Faster and faster she twirled, until she became so dizzy she fell over

into the fragrant bed of flowers, laughing all along.

She looked up into the roof of branches overhead, and

became still and silent. Falling from the roof like light dust were

millions and millions of little fairies to retrieve the beautiful tree.

Tempest was in complete awe! Her world was enchanted.

 

 

Gloopasti

By G.T.

Brooklyn, New York

The 4th of October came and went and etched another year

off of my life along with a building's day worth of lights. The halls

were pitch black due to a blackout and I got an awful fright when, after

being smothered with kisses from my grandmother in the morning (who

also handed me an envelope containing a card and money), I opened the

door to two green eyes staring out at me in the darkness like headlights.

It was the neighbor's cat: "Yozshik". Even in a blackout, they leave

their door slightly ajar to let him roam our small hallway. He too,

startled and ran inside his home. Officers were positioned at every

elevator on the main floor, though, I had forgotten this and jumped

when I saw one who said: "Good morning lovely lady" from between his

missing front teeth as I leapt toward the entrance, flashlight still

in hand.

Later that day long after I had gotten home from classes,

my father pulled my ear twenty times and one (for good luck) , my younger

brother labelled the day as: "Shelby day"( his nickname for me is Shelby

for some unknown reason) and gave me a card that fit me perfectly: Its

front has a drawing of a grouchy thin girl with long straight hair ,

dressed in an artist's outfit , holding scissors and a sign over her

head that reads "Don't bother me...I'm in a creative mood". Then on

the inside flap, over my brother's sloppy : "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHELBEH

QUEEN OF THE SHELLS!" It said : "...and I have a glue gun!." I laughed

and thanked him, then went to join my grandmother and mother in the

kitchen for tea and crumb cake

 

"Gee." My mother said in Russian "At twenty I remember

standing there thinking now I'm really old! -- and now I'm 40 and thinking

what a ditz I was. But, you..."

"What about me" I asked and dipped a piece of crumb cake

into my tea. It broke apart and I had to fish the soggy bits out with

my spoon

."You were old from the second you were born!" she laughed.

"Seriously" My grandmother chimed in: "You came out looking

as if you already knew us and we bored you!"

"-And the talking!" My mother continued "You talked in

your own language with such speed! As if you were trying to tell us

something and were frustrated when we couldn't understand you, isn't

that right?"

"Mmmhhmmm" Nodded my grandmother, her mouth stuffed with

cake.

 

I have seen videos of myself as a baby. It is true what

they say. At times I would look up at someone and start my elaborate

gurgling stories. Adults would hunch over me egging me on: "Is that

right?" they would say in high pitched voices. At times it looked as

if I was warning them of something; stretching my arms over my scrunched

hairless brow and in loud baby-talk , announcing some harmful thorny

foliage looming over the horizon that was only visible to my eyes. My

efforts were lost on those elders who continued to smile and squeak

: " Is that so? Yes? Yes?".

"Now, all that's left is to find her a nice boy." Said

my grandmother. She is awfully worried that I will become an old maid.

My mother nodded.

"Inna's grandson is a doctor (Inna's grandson is 32).

You want to meet him? He's handsome looking..."

I raised my hands in protest: "Oi, Baba, not that again...he

is a bit old...no?"

 

"Ha! I think he's too young for you. You need someone

that's seventy! " My grandmother replied between muffled chuckles.

" He is settled, he has a good income ...handsome. You'll

make pretty babies." Started my mother. Boy does she ever. They know

how to push my buttons. Instantly I filled my cheeks with cake like

a hamster. They were wanting for me to say that I don't want babies

so, they could thrust their hands to their hearts in crying about how

much I'm 'breaking them' and how much they 'worry enough'. Once I told

my mother that I will have one and only one child so she would stop

pouting. Since then she has been especially giddy .

"You have to meet one now so you can marry by at least

twenty-six. After that it get's difficult..." Said my grandmother

I wasn't about to open that can of worms, even though

the lid was already coming apart. I left them planning my whole future.

In their excitement, they didn't even notice me slip out at first. In

two weeks I will probably have to go on a date with that doctor who

is twelve years older than I. Though, for them this is normal. My father

is ten years older than my mother and my grandfather was eleven years

older than my grandmother. The key word is: doctor. It frustrates me

how they don't believe that I can make a decent income for myself, on

my own. Furthermore, I am petrified of commitment. I have never even

fantasised about marriage as a child! Instead, I would dream of being

some big adventurer or an actress but, never in those fantasies was

I married. Frankly I am not much for wedding ceremonies either; I don't

understand why women make such a fuss about it. I could care less what

color the flowers are or if the carpet matches with the shades; flowers

wilt and all that matches well in your life at one moment might not

the next. My girlfriend Loren always talks about weddings, and each

time there are new details. Each time all those details make me awfully

dizzy.

"Ey' Professor Sahar, kooda ooshla?" (hey professor sugar

where did you go?) yelled my mother. Professor sugar is her favorite

character from one of her Russian comedies and also her recent nickname

for me.

"If you insist on plaguing me, I cannot sit there." I

called out from the restroom where I sat on the floor leafing through

a magazine.

 

"Gloopasti!" I hear my grandmother grumble. 'Gloopasti'

meaning: 'nonsense' is her favorite word when she is irritated. Out

of respect I returned. Noticing that my mood was out of sorts, my grandmother

tried cheering me up: "You will be a great writer one day" She said

and brushed a strand of hair out of my eye , tucking it in the back

of my ear : "Don't you worry"

I took her hand and kissed it: "Gloopasti!" I replied

to my grandmother who got the joke and laughed.

"Not this time, lovey" .

The conversation veered into plans about Saturday. Reluctantly,

they agreed to go to a buffet once again. My father is the only one

that didn't complain because he doesn't like waiting for his food. Every

year we go to the buffet and I am the only one that doesn't tire of

it (with the exception of my father). Every year they try to get me

into a Russian restaurant. They think I don't want to go because I don't

like the food. On the contrary, I may like it too much. Those restaurants

remind me of the time our family would get together on mine or someone

else's birthday. I would always wear my favorite outfit: a dark blue,

speckled blouse that is made to resemble the night sky with two white

cats sitting on a cloud in the front and leaning side by side against

each other, their backs turned to you , watching the stars. The skirt

was also blue and I always carried a little purse filled with toys.

At these gatherings I would be everyone's entertainment: I would sing

and dance and they would pinch my cheeks and stamp their red lips onto

my forehead .When I got tired , I would curl up in someone's lap and

leaning my head against their chest , listen to their voice vibrate

in their throat as they talked amongst the others. When everyone got

drunk enough, they danced and sometimes they would pick me up in their

arms and swing me around and around. How the food stayed inside my belly

after that, I don't know. Other times I just stood on the side and watched

my family on the dance floor. Even at six years old, my happiness boiled

over my skin at how much love I had for those human beings. Then came

the time when we saw less and less of each other and then eventually,

never at all.

Two years ago my friend Roman who, back then was still

trying to woo me, led me into a Russian restaurant. I placed one heel

through the door and with the familiar whiff of food and perfume filling

my lungs, almost cried out in agony. I told him that my stomach didn't

feel well and so instead, still dressed in our formal attires, we went

and drank tea at a Starbucks. Loren wants to have her 18th birthday

at one of these restaurants that I know so well. "Big, big bash" She

tells me, exited. Though I am not a drinker, I might have to become

one in order for me to go and sit stewing in the stale air of my memories.

 

"Don't you get tired of that place?" My mother asked me.

"No!" I said more forcefully than I had meant to. My mother

looked at my grandmother and together they shrugged.

Not long after, my grandmother and I retreated upstairs

to her floor where I had been residing since my grandfather had passed

so that she doesn't feel lonely. She went to watch her Russian soap

opera, turning the TV on full volume and I went to watch the ceiling.

I lay awake in the dark, remembering how we had spent all of my birthdays

in the past and wondering if the people who had once added so much life

to my years thought about me this day at all. I wished that they felt

as much guilt as I felt sorrow. I wondered what societal violence had

managed to seep through the barrier that divided the sacred realm from

the chaotic, and poison our unity- our spirit. But most of all, I wondered

why we had let it. After an hour or two, my body finally began to grow

as tired as my mind already was.

"Gloopasti" I whispered and then turned to my side for

sleep.

 

Nonfiction

A Mystery at Hand

 

Garrett Lech

Tunkhannok, PA

Eeeeeek! screeched the T as it approached my stop. I

jumped out, preparing to set out on my investigation. Bundled in my

winter clothes, I still felt the crisp air pinch my face as I took each

step to reach all that awaited. I came to a halt. I witnessed the regular

sitting between the two sets of steps holding a paper cup out, apparently

sleeping. I walked by hurriedly as not to disturb his sound state. Burying

my face in my jacket as I continued up, the wind hit me, sending a chill

throughout my body. I turned to the right as I reached the top of the

stairs, and headed towards Copley Square.

So many mysteries and unexplained phenomena come into

our lives, start to finish. How were the pyramids built? What is the

true purpose of Machu Pichu? Do we experience a life after death? How

does our unconscious really function? Will the truth ever be discovered?

To solve a mystery is to solve a riddle; it is a great achievement that

many wish to accomplish. Our initiatives to understand are great; our

drive to know is there. Uncovering the truth is our ultimate goal.

They live among us. Throughout the city streets we find

them everywhere. Nomads among natives, they are always searching for

a new dwelling. Hoping for that cool spot in the summer, that place

to keep warm in the winter. Always looking to stay out of the bad weather.

The homeless live a life of mystery. Misunderstood, passed by like they

are nonexistent, they sit in the subway or on the corner, clinking their

cups. Jingling them in hope for some spare change to buy some dinner,

a new pair of pants, a set of warm gloves, or is it a bottle of comfort?

Southern Comfort that is. Looking to take the easy way out, they live

off of others, refusing to get a job. Dangerous, uncontrollable, and

foolish. These are the characteristics of a homeless man or woman. We

go by them as if they have a super power of invisibility, yet we manage

to think we know everything about them.

 

The fact is these people are indeed a mystery. Their

lives are masked, their ways are hidden. Just as we search to discover

the uncertainty of the building of the pyramids or truths in ourselves,

we must try to figure out the life of the vagabonds we are in contact

with every day.

I passed the Boston Public Library when I noticed three

men sitting on the ledge of the building. Two of them sitting with their

leg carefully positioned over the other like a fine gentleman while

smoking his pipe, the third standing, facing the others in conversation.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: three old chaps passing a few words.

They were dressed as I: a coat, hat, and gloves, trying to stay warm.

They spoke rather loudly and seemed to be enjoying their time outside

of the library together on this cold November afternoon. I heard intermittent

laughing and joyful conversation from where I stood; I decided to move

a little closer. I sat on the steps in front of them, trying not to

make it too obvious. Nearing the men, my body took an unexplainable

pause. These men were homeless. What is it, I thought, that made me

feel this sense? What is it about the homeless that raise such a fear?

I attempted to listen in on their chat to learn more.

Back in the day, man, I could get twenty-five a dem fer

a dollar

That was what I walked in to. Money today ain't like

it used to be. I mean back in the day.

 

Yeah, back in the day! the others chimed in. They continued

to speak on money and how everything used-to-be as they moved to another

similar topic: wealth.

I mean I know this guy, he got like a hundred suits!

Yeah man, a hundred suits, stated one of the sitting men, speaking of

a friend, past or present.

You know what it is? the standing man stated as he finally

understood the reasoning behind wealth. Gay people are so rich. Gay

people, they make all the money, man.

The others nodded along, stereotyping with every sway

of the head.

They transitioned back to the old days. I mean the Italians

were on one side, Puerto Ricans on the other, Irish on the other. The

white people, man, they were all around the outside.

 

That's how it always was. The others concurred.

Suddenly, an interruption stopped their talk. Hey Skinny

Steve! Whacha doin Skinny Steve? A friend tormented from the sidewalk.

Yo man! How the hell are ya? The standing man responded.

Making crude jokes towards one another with multiple profanities involved

that I won't delve into, they continued a conversation to the side,

arms around each other like real buds; I was unable to hear. They shared

a few stories, had a few laughs, and the friend walked away pushing

his cart in front of him.

He looks better now that he got more weight on him, Skinny

Steve declared as he went back, now to sit, with his friends.

They went on to converse once again. They spoke largely

of their families, mentioning their brothers and sisters. Each told

stories of their childhood, the good times, and possibly of their present

relations with their siblings (I was unable to determine, through the

context, whether they were talking about the past or the present). They

seemed to bask in these stories, enjoying every minute of their own

voices, as a beautiful melody that aches to play again.

 

After several stories were exchanged, two of the men

walked away, leaving Skinny Steve alone to feel the chill in the wind

slap across his face and sting the tip of his nose. He sat in silence,

the first time I had seem him this way since I took a seat on that lone

step.

As I walked away from Skinny Steve that evening, thoughts

were racing through my mind: People fear the homeless, but are they

really a group to be feared? They are associated with so much negative,

why not positive? We know so little, yet we assume so much. Are these

people languid, demented, raging alcoholics, or are they just given

a bad wrap? Are they filled with the concern that was portrayed to me

this day, the love and compassion that I have seen? Do the stereotypes

we give them allow them to do the same right back? Do they want to go

back to the past, change their decisions, change their relationships

and receive new outcomes?

They are just like us; they are people. We stereotype

them as a group and they stereotype several groups as well. They have

different cliques, different hang outs, and are trying to earn a living,

fulfill a live, just like the rest of us.

More answers were needed, my journey was not complete.

I returned to the same spot in front of the library, with the same attire

and the same objective. I took a seat, this time on the ledge of the

library, to examine a little more. Although Skinny Steve was not around

this afternoon, his two friends were, and they were joined by several

other men. There was another group of men on another side of the building,

chatting away.

As I sat down, I heard, I got your back, as a man informed

another that watching his possessions while he was gone was absolutely

no problem.

 

I noticed once again that their volume was much louder

than necessary, and this time they were much more animated than last.

It was like they were in the comfort of their own home, pacing back

and forth, telling stories and jokes, really getting the chance to socialize.

They conversed largely of their favorite movies and actors, seemingly

biased to Al Pacino.

As I sat listening in, a man was carrying another over

to take a seat. Obviously drunk, the carried man tried to sit by me.

Over here, man, the other motioned to the group of men, respecting my

personal space. The intoxicated man fell down onto the ledge and opened

a bag of food. He took a bite of bread, as well as a cookie, and began

throwing the rest onto the street in front of him, ignoring the passing

crowd. He clearly didn't enjoy this food on which he was about to feast.

After trashing his food, the drunken man began to stand.

He gonna fall down again, viewed the preying eyes of a man from the

other group. He then turned back around to gossip with his friends.

My group then began their round of gossiping as I listened in, Did you

hear he said that to me? They went on to talk about others in a sort

of he said, she said.

Growing tired, I looked up from my notebook, and recognized

all of the people. They were staring; their eyes were burning into my

soul with hateful eyes. I watched as people leered, but then would quickly

turn away. I was immediately invisible. I was given the look of death

which quickly changed to no look at all, I wasn't even there. Was this

how the community viewed the homeless? Was I being looked at in the

same eyes? Is this what the homeless have to go through everyday?

After this dramatic realization, I went back to the safety

of my notebook. Taking a peek over, one man was reaching into his pocket

as another watched with gleeful anticipation. The man was getting money

out of his pocket to give it to his awaiting friend. I overheard that

this man was heading to the store to purchase some food, for himself

and for the drunken man on the ledge.

 

Suddenly, it was like a reunion. So many people started

coming by.

Yo man, what’s goin on?

What you been up too?

Yo Mikey, chat with me later, a run-by hollered.

Did you hear from Mario today? Mikey, who was the same

man helping the drunkard to his seat, shouted in his last effort to

be heard in this momentary conversation.

 

After scratching a few more notes in my note pad, I watched

as Mikey decided to head over to the store with the money he had just

received. A quick, what's up, was exchanged as a newcomer was approaching.

Just as Mikey was galloping down the stairs, I heard,

Are you alright? I looked up and his arm was around an elderly man,

a grandfather type, clutching to a cane. He was strolling along as Mikey

conveyed his concern for well-being, and replied with an inaudible answer

(to me at least). However, Mikey continued his journey across the street.

I looked up at my crew which I had been a part, and I had a realization,

an insight. All this time, writing in my notebook, watching these people's

lives, not once did they pay any attention to me. They ignored me just

as they ignored every person that walked by giving that heinous glare.

They treated me as a nobody.

Was I giving them that same fierce look? Was I treating

them just as every onlooker? But I had been so unbiased, an observer.

I made no judgments! With this feeling of contempt, I stuffed my notebook

into my pocket as I walked away from my seat on the ledge. Walking down

the stairs I looked back to view, for the last time, the group that

I had felt a member, while looked upon as a complete outsider.

Walking away, I managed to answer some questions as well

as compile several more. Are these men hiding from the public? Are they

trying to portray themselves as loud belligerent people to stop the

contact with the people that offer them such bad glares? Who are they?

They seemed so kind, so compassionate, with so much camaraderie. Arms

around each other, asking of each other's health and well-being. Lending

each other a few bucks in time of need. There were two separate groups,

visiting two separate homes along the library.

They were walking back and forth, chatting as if surrounded

by their long-time-no-see relatives on Thanksgiving Day. This was their

comfort, their quarters.

 

Are these the real people that we have chosen to overlook?

I watched as a man threw out food that was not enjoyed. This isn't the

stereotypical picture. Are they really these dangerous, hunger-driven

lunatics, craving any morsel of food they can put their hands on?

They respected me, yet seemed so unopened. Was it my

attire, was I just like everyone else? Was I staring them down with

those eyes that I felt ripping through my body? Or was it that I was

an outsider, a newbie that wasn't part of this group; who didn't know

the way of the Boston Public Library ledge?

Reminiscing their past, looking back at their lost family

and friends, the homeless were able to find contentment in new friends,

new family.

Treating each other just as we would our closest, they

get through everyday together.

As I journeyed back to Northeastern, I clenched my jacket

tightly against my body. The cold was rushing in. I was alone, just

as I had been all day. The setting sun made my eyes squint and a sniffle

came to my nose. Walking down the steps to the T, I noticed the sleeping

man with the outstretched cup. I walked slowly by, offered a hello,

then continued on my way.

 

 

This Century

By Averin Resnick

Florida, USA

This century has been a century of scientific discoveries

and emerging technologies. By the end of the 20th century products once

thought impossible to create were in use by the majority of the American

public. We have learned more about our own bodies than we had ever imagined

possible. We have split the atom-truly a revolutionary scientific development-and

used the technology involved to provide us with one-fifth of our electric

power. It appears that the 21st century shall bring to us an even more

astonishing technological revolution than the one we have witnessed-it

promises to bring to us nanotechnology, which is expected to have an

impact greater than that of the first tool.

 

However, with new technology comes a decrease in the

necessary supply of human labor. When writing was invented, people no

longer had to ask young children to remember legal agreements that they

had made with each other. When cars were invented, people no longer

had to use carriages as a mode of travel, the latter requiring a man

to spur on the horses. When lifts, cranes, and other modern-day construction

technologies were invented, it no longer took thousands of people to

build a pyramid. Why did the necessary supply of human labor decrease

in these situations? Simply because it's more efficient-and cheaper-to

use machines than it is to use manpower. Unlike humans, machines only

have to be paid for once, don't demand health insurance, generally do

their job as they're supposed to, and never revolt. Any self-interested

employer would hire machines over humans.

Fortunately, this hasn't been much of a problem so far.

Unfortunately, this means that the unemployment rate ought drastically

increase with the emergence of nanotechnology, given how nanotechnology

will pervade our lives in the future. Assuming a lack of institutions

such as welfare, this will eventually result in the starvation of the

majority of the population and therefore their revolt against capitalistic

society.

Short of destroying technology, there is one way out

of this-the way America seems to have been taking for quite a while

now. If we enact socialistic policies on a global scale and force the

few who still have jobs to give to the unemployed many, we may be able

to head off starvation. However, it should be noted that this will require

a tremendous increase in taxes in a relatively short period of time

and that the rich, who are effectively in control of the government,

will probably not be agreeable to such policies.

Right now we are at the dawn of a new age. It remains

to be seen how we shall react to this.

The Achievement of a Rational Society

 

By Averin Resnick,

Florida, USA

I. The Foundation of Anti-Oppressionist Morality

In an absolute sense, we humans mean nothing. What's

so important about the human race in general? What importance do we

have to the universe? Assuming that there is no God (a significant assumption

to make, yet as a wise man once said, "The burden of proof lies on the

one claiming the positive"), our importance does not exist, and we are

all equally irrelevant.

 

However, it is pretty clear that, pending morality, we

are all important to ourselves. It therefore follows that because I

am important to myself, every conscious being must be (relatively) important.

It is possible for humanity to be important and non-important at the

same time, much like it is possible for a marble to be big and small

at the same time. The marble is big relative to the atom, while it is

small relative to the solar system. Similarly, the human is important

to himself, and therefore, to other humans, while it is unimportant

in an absolute sense.

Because every conscious being must be objectively equal,

it therefore follows that the sum of many conscious beings is more important

that one conscious being alone; in other words, that the majority is

more important than the minority, and that "the greatest benefit for

the greatest number of people shall determine the moral course of action,"

which is, in effect, the theory of utilitarianism.

II. The Hierarchy of Morality

Yet it is quite clear that giving the majority what they

want will eventually cause things to become ugly and immoral. Utilitarianism

dictates that slavery would have been moral in the 19th century, and

that it is morally acceptable to ostracize one person in order to strengthen

ties between the others. It is therefore obvious that utilitarianism

is subordinate to other moral ideals. It must be below compassion and

freedom as well as justice. (It obviously isn't fair---or morally acceptable---to

vote the winner of a nine-person race out of first place just to improve

the standing of the other eight.) However, utilitarianism is occasionally

the principle to be followed. If ten people want to play hide-and-seek,

three people want to play house, and all of them want to play together,

the kids ought to play hide-and-seek because there's no reason not to

benefit the majority (assuming all are in good physical condition).

Because we have now established that at least three moral

ideals are superior to utilitarianism, we now know that utilitarianism

is not the ultimate (highest-ranking) moral ideal. But if not utilitarianism,

what is the ultimate moral ideal?

 

Let us first begin with freedom. It is clear that if

we put freedom above all else, society shall crumble (unless it's an

anarchic society, but anarchism requires the assumption that the majority

is anarchist). If we put freedom first, or even above compassion, corporations

will be able to exploit people to the best of their ability, poor people

will be left to starve to death, and people will be allowed to rape

and murder people whenever they want to. Society, in other words, will

be governed by force.

What if we put compassion above all else? Then everyone

would be forced to live for everyone else, religion would be banned

(it creates too many religious conflicts, thus disrupting the peace),

and political activists would be prosecuted. So as you can see, all-out

compassion destroys freedom, and all-out freedom destroys compassion.

Because there cannot be more of one than the other, the two must be

equal in value, or at least close to equal.

What if we put justice above compassion and, therefore,

above freedom as well? This, of course, depends on what justice is.

In this essay, we shall take justice to mean the "an-eye-for-an-eye"

principle, the "you-get-exactly-what-you-deserve" law. (Some people

use the term "justice" to refer to the sum of all moral ideals, for

example "It's just not right.") Needless to say, this makes justice

an abominable ideal. Under the law of justice, if one takes a life,

he must have his life taken. Under the law of justice, everyone is treated

equally regardless of the situation. Under the law of justice, we humans

would all have to commit suicide because of all the bacteria we have

destroyed by washing our hands. It is therefore fairly clear that we

cannot have a society in which justice is more important than all other

moral ideals, or even one in which justice is more important than compassion.

So this makes justice at most third place.

So currently we have established that compassion and

freedom are equal and tie for first, that justice comes third, and that

utilitarianism comes fourth. What about reason? Let us imagine a society

in which reason is of no importance....

A fleet of robots, each specializing in a very specific

area, control the earth. When they feel the urge to do so, the humans

urinate and defecate in a little tube. This tube leads to machines that

make oil from organic compounds. The oil powers the robots, who not

only replicate themselves but also serve the humans. All knowledge has

been destroyed, for with knowledge, humans would know how to turn off

the robots and thus subvert society. Nobody has a job; the robots do

everything for the humans. Innovation is not necessary, for humans are

content as is. What's wrong with this picture? Absolutely nothing---if

one ignores the moral law of reason. We must declare as axiomatic the

relevance of the truth, or else we end up with a society that frightens

most sane members of the population.

 

Reason is also necessary because without reason, one

cannot pinpoint the path of maximum morality. For this reason, reason

is the most important moral law of all. It trumps both compassion and

freedom, or at least ties with both.

III. Reason and Absolute Power

Authority is the arch-nemesis of reason. I say this not

only because authority alone can diminish a person's reasoning capacities,

but also because when a person has authority, he doesn't have to reason,

and tends not to do so.

An example of authority diminishing a person's reasoning

capacities can be found in the book 1984 by George Orwell, in which

Winston, an undercover anti-Party crusader, is captured and is slowly

brainwashed through the systematic use of force. An example of this

occurring in real life can be found in the Milgram experiment on authority,

in which the subject is told to ask another "subject" a series of questions

and to administer electric shocks of increasing strength if he did not

provide the correct answer. Now what this subject didn't know was that

the person he was supposed to shock was actually a researcher, and that

this researcher was not connected to the shocking apparatus.

The shocking apparatus supposedly could not give more

than a 450-volt shock, and both the subject and the researcher were

given a 45-volt shock before the commencement of the experiment; the

subject because it was required for the moral conflict (between following

orders and following conscience) that he know what he was supposedly

doing to the researcher, and the researcher because he was trying to

act like a fellow subject who had been given his role at random. xxxxxxxxxxx

When the subject reached 150 volts, the researcher sitting in the chair

asked him to stop the experiment, as it was allegedly becoming increasingly

painful and dangerous. However, another researcher told the subject

to continue with the experiment; if the subject was hesitant to do so,

the researcher would tell him that he was responsible for anything that

happened to the other "subject."

 

Despite the fact that the subjects knew (or thought they

knew) the pain they were inflicting upon the researchers and that reason,

coupled with the rest of morality, would have likely impelled them to

stop had they not been exposed to authority, 65% of them went all the

way; i.e., "administered the experiment's final 450-volt shock." This

was in stark contrast to what was expected; most people that Milgram

had asked beforehand had predicted that very few people would actually

do so. And it shows quite well how much impact authority can have upon

a person's judgment and actions.

The second reason I have given for my statement above

is that when a person has authority, he need not reason, and tends not

to do so. This is quite evident in many families; next time you see

a parent with a teenager or child, wait for him to say "Because I said

so" and threaten the kid with spanking, grounding, or revocation of

a privilege in order to force the child to abide by a personal prejudice

of the parent's.

It is also evidenced by what is now known as the Stanford

prison experiment; in this experiment, which was designed for the purpose

of observation of prison behavior, the subjects were divided into two

groups of people, one labeled "guards" and the other labeled "prisoners."

They were then brought to the basement of the Stanford psychology department,

which had been designed to look like a prison, and the guards were told

to keep control of the prison in question without resorting to the use

of physical force.

After a while, the guards started mistreating and abusing

the prisoners; that is, they started acting as if they were somehow

superior to them, even though the roles of the subjects had been chosen

randomly. This continued to the point where five prisoners had to be

released from the experiment before its termination, despite the fact

that the experiment itself was terminated eight days before it was supposed

to end. As the people chosen to participate in the experiment were the

most normal people applying to participate, and as most did not behave

in such a monstrous way in real life, it is relatively safe to say that

during the experiment, authority had clouded the guards' judgment and

had removed them from a sense of moral responsibility.

So, in short, authority is the arch-nemesis of reason;

this proposition can be restated as "absolute power corrupts absolutely."

 

IV. The Ultimate Utopia

Since authority is the arch-nemesis of reason, it therefore

follows that the only way to achieve a rational society is through the

elimination of all authority. This proposition has some very far-reaching

consequences; in order to eliminate authority, we must eliminate government,

capitalism, the structure of family, and religion. It's easy to see

how the proposition necessitates the elimination of government; as government

gives government officials authority over average citizens, or, in some

cases, puts the majority above the minority. The religion proposition

is also fairly straightforward: religion puts the alleged will of a

"God" not proven to exist (note that faith is not subject to reason

and is therefore immoral in a way) over all of humanity.

Some would deny the fact that capitalism puts bosses

above workers; these people state that the two are in a mutually beneficial

joint partnership. This is true to an extent; however, the boss is still

often above the worker, as the boss can force the worker to do anything

so long as his practices are less merciless than those of all other

employers. And often other employers run scarce; this would explain

why Third-World workers line up by the thousands to apply for sweatshop

position in which they are constantly abused, overworked, and underpaid.

One could even say that these laborers are doing backbreaking work under

the threat of starvation, for they know very well that the bosses have

the power to fire them at will and to reduce them to a state of hunger

and homelessness, and the bosses know that the workers know this. This

is little more than slavery, and obviously represents a relationship

tarnished by authority.

(One could also say that capitalism puts the rich in

general above the poor in general, as money grants one the power to

have other people work for you, and the rich have more money, and therefore

more power, than the poor.)

Perhaps the worst hierarchical relationship currently

visible is the relationship between family members. The father is above

the mother (fortunately, this is changing, albeit slowly), who is above

the children. I say this is the worst form of authority because it influences

children at a very young age. It impresses upon them that might makes

right, that life isn't fair, that it's useless to challenge authority

because the parents can make you suffer for doing so. The adults have

a means of enforcing their will. They're the ones with the whips, so

you'd better stay on their good side, even if they're wrong. In effect,

the structure of family trains children to tolerate totalitarianism,

and in doing so, forces them to accept the patterns of exploitation

and dominance exhibited in other hierarchical relationships.

 

What would a society without these patterns of dominance,

that is, a rational society, be like? First of all, government would

be replaced by a system in which people resolve issues through discussion

and debate, thus allowing the most reasonable solutions to flourish

while the oppressive ones die out. (Contrary to the belief of many,

voting in most cases would be a bad idea, as it would only serve to

put absolute power in the hands of the majority. But of course in situations

in which no side is clearly in the moral right or the moral wrong, on

in time-sensitive emergencies, it is acceptable to vote, as there's

no reason not to appeal to the desires of the majority.) Of course,

everyone would be allowed in these debates, as nearly everyone has the

potential to have good ideas. (If the meetings become too big, groups

of people send delegates to groups of people who send delegates to groups

of people who send delegates to the meetings.) Although some people

say that the lack of government would cause crime, this would not be

the case, as in a rational society, the rational majority would likely

form a huge group dedicated to the prevention and termination of crime,

owing to the fact that most people desire law and order.

Of course, this begs the question "How do we know it's

going to do that?" This is where the revolt comes in. Unfortunately,

this society can only be achieved through majority revolt in the name

of such a society. (It's sad, but it's a clear case of the ends justifying

the means.) Although this is mainly because revolt is the only way of

abolishing a government without creating a new one in its place, the

revolt also comes in handy due to the convenient fact that anyone who

willingly revolts in the name of a society will probably be dedicated

to the creation of that society in question. It also provides a sort

of safeguard; if I'm delusional and this idea is far too idiotic to

be even worth thinking about, the revolt won't happen, as I probably

won't be able to persuade the masses to revolt in the name of a rational

society. Of course, someone eloquent and persuasive could attempt to

do so, but with rhetoric rather than reason; this, however, would lead

to a revolt by the brainwashed rather than a revolt by the consenting

majority and would therefore not be the type of revolt necessary for

the achievement of a rational society.

Of course, some people claim that any revolt will be

squashed by the government before it succeeds in achieving its objective.

This is not altogether true, despite the fact that some governments

are extremely difficult to assail. Why? Because no leader wants to kill

everyone he rules over. It's hard work rising to power, you know. (This

is another reason why we need a majority revolt and not a revolt by

two or three radicals.)

But in any case, the huge crime-fighting group which

I mentioned before would not treat criminals in an immoral and uncompassionate

fashion, as its constituents would all be morally righteous, and all

practices of the crime-fighting group would be open for debate, just

as all other issues would.

This crime-fighting group, by the way, would also have

as one of its duties the prevention of totalitarianism; that is, it

or some other newly-formed group would prevent any hopeful despot from

rising to power. This would be easily accomplished, as the majority

would be highly sensitive to tyranny, and would also be relatively skilled

in revolting, having revolted before. (This is another reason why the

minority cannot liberate the people for them; if some despot decides

to take over the world, the majority will be left completely defenseless.)

It would also be easily accomplished because in this society the majority

would give everyone one standard gun in order to eliminate inherent

differences in strength and therefore put power in the hands of the

majority (Alex can shoot Betsy as hard as Betsy can shoot Adam, but

without guns, Alex would undoubtedly be able to intimidate Betsy as

well as Chris) and for the purpose of protection against tyranny. Of

course people would be able to make better guns, but those people would

be disarmed by the majority.

 

While guns would ultimately put absolute power in the

hands of the majority, ultimately power must lie somewhere, and the

rational majority is the safest place to put it. (Unfortunately, no

society is perfectly rational, much like how no chemical reaction can

give you 100% yield, and although this society is more rational than

many, it falls short of perfect rationality. Despite the fact that absolute

power, even when placed in the hands of the majority, corrupts absolutely,

the majority is far less corruptible than the minority is. Besides,

if the majority starts becoming incredibly tyrannical, the minority

could always attempt to influence its policy using terrorist tactics.

The economy would be organized in one of two possible

ways: it would either be organized in a manner similar to the government,

with people resolving economic issues through discussion and debate,

or it would operate on a "from each according to ability, to each according

to need" basis (sorry for the cliche). The former option would lead

to a rational society, while the latter would lead to a compassionate

and free one. (Recall that reason may tie with compassion and freedom.)

Of course, the people might find a better option (through debate, of

course), in which case they would (hopefully) adopt it. But in any case,

it would be unacceptable for the economy to be controlled by any small

group of people, as that would create a measure of authority in that

grouop of people.

What would the family structure be replaced by in a rational

society? My guess is that anyone who wanted to take care of children

would be able to do so, but that nobody would force any child to do

anything. Of course, they would warn them that their actions would have

real-life consequences; for example, that playing in the street may

result in their getting hit by a car.

Religion hopefully wouldn't be replaced with anything,

as religious belief is based on faith rather than on reason and therefore

doesn't belong in a rational society. Of course it'd be oppressive to

harm someone for his religious beliefs, but religion hopefully wouldn't

matter during the rational decision-making process. In other words,

there'd hopefully be separation of church and state.

Perhaps the most pressing question of all is whether

this society shall ever actually be realized. In the end, what will

determine whether this revolt which sets all this stuff in motion happens

or not will be whether humans can conquer their own instincts through

awareness of their faults. If they can conquer their tendency to be

capitalistic, to always look out for themselves, to stay on top of the

hierarchy rather than abolishing it altogether, then this revolt may

eventually happen. Otherwise, humanity will forever continue to live

in illogical misery and despair.

 

I am indebted to the following sources, yet have not

relied exclusively on them in forming my opinions (in short, Bibliography):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milgram_experiment

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_Prison_Experiment

http://www.stanford.edu/dept/news/relaged/970108prisonexp.html

http://www.zabalaza.net/pdfs/sapams/ffa.pdf

 

Steiner, Claude M. Scripts People Live: Transactional

Analysis of Life Scripts. New York: Grove Press, 1974.

Orwell, George. 1984. New York: Signet Classic, 1977.

 

Soldier

By Sharon Denning

 

Las Vegas Nevada

My heart aches when I reach across the bed, in the deafening

still of the night, only to recall that you are gone. Oh, how I miss

the safety of your arms around me, but I always knew, you wanted to

be a soldier.

When I watch news of war, the death and destruction leave

me frozen with a fear I never knew existed. I am consumed with an urgency

to pray for your safety. The frustration inside pushes the tears to

flow again as I ask myself why, you wanted to be a soldier.

Every minute of every day I wait for word that you are

coming home. I envision the moment our lives will be reunited, when

our hopes and dreams can be realized, not just written on paper to be

sent thousands of miles away. I plead with God to bring patience, as

I am once again reminded, that you wanted to be a soldier.

It is then I reflect on how deeply I love you, the pride

that I feel hand in hand standing next to you, how an entire nation

admires and respects you. And I understand why you wanted to be a soldier.

Poetry

Black Sky

 

By S. D. Langsdale

London

Black sky.

One thousand ravens tearing

at bodies of day soon gone.

 

Indigo wings shield the

stars and the witches

claw at the moon.

Their branches cackle

and brooms fall as leaves, helping

 

night time to

finish day off with a

chord.

A club in the face for daytime.

Day falls beneath

 

the horizon to recover

and they do.

Time and time again they rise,

above the ravens with the

darkness in their eyes.

 

Now light pours in through

the holes in night's terrible plan and

the stars and moon expand;

the ravens must disband;

revealing dusk and dawn

 

and we can whistle now.

Help the sun to swell, triumphant as the day

with yet more glories

to unfold.

 

 

My Heaven Beneath The Sky

By Amy Marie Hess

Worthington, WV

Gentle beams of light wash over us; silent confessions

from the constellations of the stars,

And in the comfort of their stillness, I can't think

of a better place to be than where we are

Here beneath a full moon's blackened canvas, melting

together in the warmth of embrace,

 

Chilled frost clutches the exterior of our blankets,

unable to pierce the concealed; interlaced.

Passion cries out to night's deafened ears - we lie encompassed,

yet make not a sound,

And in the aftermath of our closeness, I can't help but

to hope we could never be found -

To remain lost in placates silence; cocooned in the affection

reflected in your eyes,

Persuaded in the sense I could be content with you, here

in my heaven beneath the sky.

 

 

OH SPARE ME HIV AIDS

By Adeoye A Adetunji

Kwara state Nigeria

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS

 

You are just what money can't and wouldn't want to buy.

You are the world greatest allot,

You fall in love with those who really hate you, and

move from one to another.

"Situation" is no concern to you.

 

 

Spare me HIV AIDS!

People would seek properties but not like you.

You know no immune,

You give no respect to people of high places.

Surely, you have not heard the word "mercy" before.

 

 

Just spare me HIV AIDS.

You turn love to lust, fun to frustration,

Those that promise till death, you do them part.

You have made your self-a prayer point.

 

What a dream spoiler you are.

 

Why don't you spare me HIV AIDS!

Every single thing on earth is of a purpose; what is

yours?

If you are prosperity, i would rather adhere to poverty.

 

If you are fame hmm! Forget it i had never wanted to

be.

If you are to bring one closer to his God, so why that

harsh.

 

You had better go out of existence and become a legend

than to remain as a load.

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS.

 

I am a child of destiny.

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS.

 

Autumn Mood

by Lora Biutz

 

Lithuania

One more nameless autumn;

October betrays you again

now with the rain

 

now with a glimpse of the sunlight.

The autumn gives you away.

You are tired bloody.

Only the bared teeth of November come next.

It's an error…

 

 

While going through the thorn-shrubbery

and tearing your heart in to pieces you are looking for

a road.

The yellow leaves as a wet perishable carpet underfoot.

The bitter rain; and a white bleak melancholy comes next,

 

as well as the black silence

with the icy flowers ringing in the wind…

But you are waiting for dawn,

when in the cold morning mist,

in the emerald freshness,

 

in the splashes of the sunlight

you'll be able to breathe again.

 

Love is like a Chandelier

By Christopher Byrd

 

Winchester, Virginia

 

The form is exquisite, the curves vivacious and elegant

the bewitching luster of gold, a sonorous chorus

of voices that merely hint at the magnificent forms behind

them

 

an intricate web; stronger for its softness. All supporting

the radiance of a thousand tiny crystals, each one a

little speck

of verisimilitude, each a moment

preserved forever, unmarked by time or truth

the kind of comforting falsehood that makes life worthwhile.

 

 

But Then

The Earthquake. The Tempest. The fiery Armageddon

Where the very fabric of reality

SCREAMS

 

and then crashes in a shatter of skulls and weeping.

The chandelier plummets, and the gold bends against the

hard granite.

The inexorable veracity of this moment

can break a mind and scatter it; the bitter scorched

fragments

mirroring the shards of crystalline glass scattered across

the stonework.

 

 

Eternity passes

 

Despair is a hanging miasma that extends for miles.

A pervasive cynicism, a thunderhead of broken dreams

 

just waiting for the storm to break, so maybe the suffering

will end.

But in the middle of this fog, a beam of light pierces

through

a faded memory is revived and the faintly glowing embers

of Hope are lit.

A fulgent kaleidoscope is formed, and this prophetic

daybreak lifts the fog.

 

An artisan comes at last to this foreboding keep;

drawn hypnotically to this last sanctum, the remnant

of a forgotten Eden.

And the chandelier rises anew, a coruscating aurora

that reclaims this shattered visage of felicity from

the jaws of darkness.

The gold is tarnished and bent, the crystals ataxic and

split

 

but the light shines all the brighter.

Love is like a chandelier; a broken heart is the most

perfect form of Pain.

But a mended one

That is paradise, and every fruit is sweeter for having

once been lost.

 

 

Anxious

By Kimberly Kochaniec

West Milford, NJ

She walked back and forth,

For about an hour.

 

Her toes clenched and

Hands frostbitten.

Where was she to go?

She wasn't able to

Concentrate on what she had done.

 

Her mother had said,

"Never get too close to a man!"

She ignored such silliness.

Sleeping with her father,

Was what she needed to do.

 

So he said.

If only she hadn't gone to

The next generation.

He could barely get it up.

She did it.

 

She kept walking. Trying to run.

Thinking.

The Xanax did the job…she thought

It never would.

She could hear her mother's cry

 

When she would get home

To see they were both dead.

"But how could she be so selfish?

What about me?"

Carrying on, to the next street.

 

She saw a light.

It was her light.

The light she used to swing around

She was six.

Red and White flashing lights were

 

Coming towards her.

She knew then, the worst was over.