1 ■ Madison and Cathedral

Digital Edition
 The Baltimore School for the Arts
presents

MADISON AND CATHEDRAL

Vol. III: 2009-2010
...............................................

FICTION:
CLOE STEIN Red Cowboys, 3
MAX GOLDMAN The Consciousness, 8
ALEXANDRA ITURRALDE The Path of Intentions, 11
MARK WINCEK A Soiled Recollection, 15
SAM KESSLER The Voyage, 22
ARIELLE ARMSTRONG Navy Blue Towers, 27
AARON OUTLEN Taking Off, 31
AARON CARY Fantasy, 35
CHRS LANE Confined, 36
ELEANOR FISHBURN A Life More…, 41
REBECCA ROSS The Neighborhood Nutcase, 45
POETRY:
CHRIS LANE She has a Pimple, 1
CHRIS LANE Doodling, 9
WILLY MASON Untitled, 10
ALLIE LINN Harmony, 14
JULIA KLAVANS The Celestial Being, 19
CHRIS LANE Necessity, 20
MARTHA ROBICHAUD Gypsy, 39
MELISSA ESTES Untitled, 48
SARAH ARROYO Heartsick for Freedom, 50
GRAPHICS:
CICERO FERRANTE - 2
CHRISTEN CHIOSI
6, 21, 43
ELZIE WILLIAMS - 7
ANNA HODGES - 18
BAYLOR ZIMAN - 30
ALBERT HICKS - 34
TANNAZ MONTEVELLI - 49
 CHRIS LANE
................................................

She Has a Pimple

The mirror has given us life,

As well as terror;
As we face ourselves and name ourselves With
an inhumane classification. We become It.
Never to be One.

I am a woman. . . So what.
I know this from the height of my voice And
the maturing bulge of my chest. I am a man. .
. It's obvious.
I know that from the hormones that race throughout my flesh
Even when my thoughts are pure.

Then I face the shards of reflecting glass.

It reminds me of a puzzle. No?

Over there [No no that's not right.]
My hair [This is getting covered. Where did I put that hat. . . .]
A girl to my left screams,
As she favors her appearance over her lungs. She
has a pimple.

She picks up a bottle of Chic in White And

throws it against the mirror.
It breaks into a thousand and one pieces.
All that is left is the piece of cardboard
Which was hidden behind the glass. She
stares at it.
It reflects nothing but her shadow. A
smile cracks, and she moves on.

1 ■ Madison and Cathedral

2009-2010 ■ 2
 CHLOE STEIN
................................................

Red Cowboys
It was a Monday, and the 138th day a pair of boots sat on the top
shelf of a local thrift store. The cowboy boots had seen better
days and their once shiny red leather was now a soft maroon. It had
been 50 days since they had been examined and now were collecting
a sufficient amount of dust. When people looked at the shoes, they
saw what they thought were a pair of dirty and smelly old boots that
were probably falling apart. Why else would anyone give them away?
A bell sounded as a mother and her daughter entered the store.
Holding the girl's hand she pushed back the brown curls on her fore-
head and asked the cashier to point them to the shoe section. They
followed the direction of the employee's index finder to a wall of
metal shelves. The girl reached up to her mother, silently asking to be
picked up. " You're getting heavy, Olive." she said. Together they
quickly glanced at the inventory one shelf at a time. When their iden-
tical hazel eyes reached the boots the girl whispered to her mother an
almost inaudible request to look at them. The young mother extended
her arm to pick up the shoes and immediately knew that they were
probably too old and worn out for a young and active little girl. For a
split second she pondered the history behind the boots and their pre-
vious life. Knowing how old they probably were, it was a miracle
they were still all in one piece.
The Rocky Mountain Brand red cowboy boots were originally
given to Allison Macoy, age 7. The year was 1979 and Allison loved
nothing more than to play cowboys and indians with the boys next
door. They were given as a Christmas gift by Allison's grandma
Shirley. She had come across them at a flea market a few weeks be-
fore. They were brand new and were half off with a purchase of two
or more country music records. An avid country music fan herself,
grandma Shirley couldn't pass up such a great bargain.

3 ■ Madison and Cathedral

 It was Christmas morning after a light breakfast that Allison
opened her gifts. That year she received a brand new box of 32 Crayola
crayons, a stuffed zebra, a fuzzy pink sweater (that was a few
sizes too big), and a new pair of footie pajamas covered in balloons
and teddy bears. The last present under the tree was a tall box in
striped green and yellow wrapping with a big blue bow on top. She
ripped the wrapping paper to shreds and struggled to free the box
from the blue bow. With the help of her father and a pair of scissors
she opened the box to find the brand new red cowboy boots waiting
for her. She didn't spare a second and before anyone could blink they
were on her feet. A perfect fit. She ran over to her grandma, almost
slipping on the shag carpeting, and gave her a big hug. She didn't take
off her new boots until she went to bed that night. Even then her
mother had to pry them off her feet.
For months Allison and her red cowboy boots were inseparable.
Not only did she wear them when playing cowboys and Indians,
but also to school, birthday parties, and sometimes to bed. The arrival
of summer didn't even convince her to put them away for the season.
Allison was growing up fast, and soon the boots no longer fit. She
kept them in her closet, not wanting to give up such an important part
of her childhood. Eventually as teenager, the closet was cleaned out
and the boots given away. They were given to her neighbor's little
girl Sasha. They were big on her but she would grow into them. She
wore them every now and again, but were not as loved as they once
were. Over the years they got more and more worn, yet no one had
the heart to throw them away. Thirty years after their creation they
ended up in a city thrift store.
"I don't know, honey. These look too old. Who knows where
they have been." The mother said to her daughter. Olive, still in the
arms of her mother, looked down at the boots.
"Please Mom? I like them."
The young mother glanced closely them. She noticed a good
number of blemishes. A scratch on the tips from when Allison ran too
fast, tripped, and scraped her knees. A weak spot from the all the
times. Allison would repeatedly knock her heels against the legs of

2009-2010 ■ 4
 her school desk. And colorful fuzzy lint from all of the brightly col-
ored socks she would wear. Maybe they were old and dirty, but they
had character. The mother shrugged and put them under her arm. Olive
silently rejoiced and gave her mom a kiss on the cheek.
"Promise to take care of them? They are ready to fall apart."
"I promise."
Olive wore them for three days straight. She took them off by
the front door one day, still wet from the snow outside, instead of
putting them in her closet. Their puppy Brownie enjoyed chewing on
the old seasoned leather, and when they were next seen, there wasn't
anything left. The once bright red cowboy boots were now in pieces
scattered across the hardwood floor. The mother sighed when she
bent over to pick up the brown slobbery scraps of leather. They were
put in a garbage bag and picked up the next morning with the rest of
the trash.

5 ■ Madison and Cathedral

2009-2010 ■ 6
7 ■ Madison and Cathedral
MAX GOLDMAN
................................................
The Consciousness of One of Alan Clark (the chief supplier
of arms to Indonesia during its war in east
Timor)’s Cancer Cells, And Questioning Nature
What a dilemma to be a brain cancer cell that one morning awakes
morally conscious: of himself, his role, his purpose, his nature. He
was not promised some altruistic existence, not to his environment.
His compos mentis, that he did seek empirically, methodically, as an
exercise of understandment for betterment, having high hopes for a
morally good end, he was sorry for having achieved. A deep depression
was his reward for learning what his existence meant to the
warm, pink walls of protein that he called home.

Should he protest? How would he? It isn’t in his nature. He sought

truth, and didn’t he think that he had found it? His nature was to corrupt
the world and fall with it. Is that nature not one to protest, to
fight, defy with all effort? What was nature anyway, but a definition
of what that is organic? He wanted to save himself and the world.
Was that not natural?

Oh, what a terrible dilemma to be aware of something quite so

uncomfortable.

2009-2010 ■ 8
 CHRIS LANE
..................................................

Doodling
I love doodling because it sucks.
From the ugliest duckling, to the very bad wolf.
Perfection would turn my scant lines into shapes,
My spontaneity into patterns.

I will maintain my freedom,

As it rests in the artist's perfectly aligned shadow,
While I simply draw and take pleasure In
my two-dimensional stick figure.

As my pencil tip kisses the paper. . . I am lost.

First, I form a crooked line - Ahh magic!
Followed by an oval - Intended to be a circle,
A slash here, a dash to the right, loop this through the middle.

. . . Kind of looks like Pac-Man

Oh! How I remember the nightmares of the red ghosts eating me.
Well, maybe it just looks like a Cantalope;
Come to think of it my stomach has been growling.

The teacher stops the lecture and walks towards me.

The piece of lined-notebook paper is taken. . . And thrown away.
"Pay attention! This is important!"
I return to the world of patterns and shapes.

9 ■ Madison and Cathedral

WILLY MASON
................................................

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

A thousand galaxies I’ll never know,
I then begin to understand my place:
An unimportant, puny speck below
The vast, eternal emptiness we call
The Universe, in all its cosmic pride.
And when I gaze at mountains, towering tall,
I know that they will stay where they reside
And make a lasting impact on mankind,
One only made by something quite unique.
And as these thoughts were swirling in my mind
I cast my eyes down from the mountain peak,
And came upon the answer that I sought:
A man’s true significance is his thought.

2009-2010 ■ 10
 ALEXANDRA ITURRALDE
................................................

Path of Good Intentions

Path was paved with good intentions, but it didn't lead to
Hell, no matter what certain interest groups claimed. Furthermore,
good intentions complete with good results only lined the portions of
street in front of the houses of those who could afford both. Other-
wise, the good intentions tended to not be accompanied by good ac-
tions, thus Path St. having the unique ability to include most of the
city's slums in addition to housing the richest citizens.
No one knew precisely who had had the brilliant idea to pave
Path with an abstract idea, but everyone hated him for it. The street
began in the heart of the city's financial and corporate district, passed
City Hall and Police Headquarters, ran past a number of charities and
orphanages, went through various residential neighborhoods, and fi-
nally ended in the middle of the main marketplace. Path spanned al-
most the width of the city, and could be argued to be the center of the
city itself, but if anyone official was asked, it wasn't, and anyway,
how silly, the idea of a street being paved with intentions of any sort,
Path was a perfectly respectable road, named after Jebediah Path for
his great input into something. Unofficially, it wasn't very clear what
that something was, and it was equally likely that he had either given
the city large quantities of money or simply blackmailed the mayor.
To be honest, no one really knew, or cared. Path Street was Path
Street, infamous and the home of more than a few important deci-
sions, with varying results.
The denial of the city's bureaucrats of there actually being good in-
tentions in Path, though a bit self-incriminating due to it housing City
Hall, was countered every few years when the idea to re-pave the
street was inevitably brought up again. They would argue such things
as, "The road is cracked and worn down!" (It never was)

11 ■ Madison and Cathedral

"Re-paving will (somehow) breathe life and money into the city's
slums bordering Path!" (It didn't) "The wealthy want their section re-
paved!" (They really, really didn't, having heavily invested in the ad-
dition of those previously mentioned good results)
Occasionally, the re-paving movement would win out, and
Path would be covered with a new layer of shining black asphalt and
re-painted. Thousands of dollars and many crossed fingers later, eve-
ryone would find out if the plan to 're-energize' Path had worked. It
didn't. Once they realized this, everyone in city government would
then switch to hoping that the good results they had sprinkled into the
asphalt would take hold this time. It also didn't. This result, having
been a top-secret part of the re-pavement process, wasn't disclosed to
the public, nor was it told to those who lived on Path and had spent
small fortunes on the good results they had put into the street directly
in front of their mansions.
The poor were well aware of this reaction, having experimented
heavily with the placing of different things in the street. Bad inten-
tions to perhaps cancel out the good, happy endings to complement
the good intentions, good health, even some ideas that may be
thought totally unrelated, such as successful business transactions,
were laid into the streets. Nothing really stopped the good intentions,
though after successful business transactions were put into the
ground, the corner of Path and Yellowbrick became a hotspot for the
selling of illegal wares.
Because nothing seemed to be able to cancel out Path's
unique properties, the houses in the slums that were directly on Path
Street were usually abandoned and boarded up, unwanted by those
who had lived there before and found themselves faced with an in-
ability to be dishonest. Good intentions often attracted total honesty
and sometimes unwanted help, and the divorce and crime rates
among the citizens of Path were far higher than those living else-
where.
If anything, Path was a topic of interest. It was the center of
much of the city's recent history, and everything was far more com-
pelling when it involved the street. A trend had even started, city-

2009-2010 ■ 12
 wide, of placing other abstract ideas into the foundations of houses,
into other streets, though nothing really took to a road quite like good
intentions did. Path was no longer an anomaly, it was simply Path- a
street simultaneously quite unlike anything else and yet very much
the same.

13 ■ Madison and Cathedral

ALLIE LINN
................................................

Harmony
His left hand gently strums the guitar strings
While with his right he plays with a machine,
Distorting chords into a loud waves and rings.
The thick, electric echoes bounce between
The rusty, chipping paint and concrete walls.
In their refurbished refuge from the streets,
There is no crime and violence in the halls;
Flashing police lights are replaced by beats.
Melodic noises layer deep and loud;
The energy and volume now increases.
The lullaby he hums unites the crowd,
And strangers share a safe instant of peace.
Alas, I feel the lack of love outside,
But here, all the difference are put aside.

2009-2010 ■ 14
 MARK WINCEK
................................................

A Soiled Recollection

The more he looked at the tree the more he was absolutely

fascinated by it. It was covered in poison oak and the grass around it
was long and dead. It was so lonely there in the park, as lonely as a
tree could get. No kids have ever ventured up the hill to explore its
gnarly tangled branches because they harbor the sharpest thorns. Not a
single family had had an afternoon picnic under it because it offered
not a single eclipse of shade. And all the wayward kites from the field
below seemed to avoid its company. Yet it held such an unspeakable
beauty that he could not explain.
The man leaned forward with his hands in his jacket
pockets and stood up. He glanced around one last time and stepping
out of the vigil of the streetlamp, made his way up to the base of the
tree. He knelt down and took his hands slowly out from his pockets.
His dry, chapped skin stung in the frigid air. He took a deep breath
and sunk his fingers into the damp crumbling soil. It was a deep
black and ran like muddy rivers through the folds of his palms. As he
gazed at them they suddenly became young, and they filled with a
vibrant warmth like cream billowing into coffee. The darkness
around him exploded into a warm spring day and he felt a large com-
forting presence behind him. He spun around and looked up at his
father. His hair gently slicked into a cowlick, eyes impenetrably
opaque, and the ends of his mouth curled up ever so slightly in con-
tentment. His small undershirt complemented his strength and his
overalls told of his profession. The boy placed the dirt next to its
hole and looked up again to his father for the next step.
"What now, daddy!"
"What do you mean, 'what now'? You have it."
The boy giggled and scrunched his face, "'Do not!!" His father
leaned over to him and reached behind his ear. With a flick of his

15 ■ Madison and Cathedral

wrist, an acorn popped out into his fingers and he placed it in his
son's eager hands. "Go ahead now, you know what to do."
The boy bubbled with excitement and wiggled in his place. He ten-
derly nestled it into a niche as if tucking it in to bed; he wanted to be
extra careful not to hurt it. He took the pile of dirt and covered it up
again. He closed his eyes and grinned over his accomplishment. But
when he turned around for praise he opened his eyes to the dark ex-
panse of the field lit only by the solemn lamppost. It had begun to
drizzle and there was a soft orange motion in the shape that the light
made. He looked back down to the hole he was making. A sick sink-
ing feeling boiled in his stomach. He wanted the vision to come back
more than anything. He squeezed his eyes shut as strongly as he
could. He tried to remember what his father looked like but the more
he remembered the more the calm assuring face was twisted and
mangled by age. He tore at the soil again and again, throwing it be-
hind him in cold mounds. Frustration overtook him and his tears
mixed with the rain and mud. He almost lost himself in the corridors
of his memory until he found himself running down his own hallway
to his room. He tried to close the door in time but his father kicked
the door in and grasped his entire arm in his fist. He could still feel
the pain, and still smell the vodka on his breath. He wept harder and
punched at the wet ground, shattering his knuckle on a hidden root.
He clenched his teeth and felt even angrier, beating his forehead at
his stupidity. He lunged up and kicked his shoe into the dirt, sending
clumps of grass and rocks flying down the hill. He remembered puk-
ing with fear after he crashed his father's car into the back of the ga-
rage. Tools fell everywhere making an alarming clanking sound. He
fell to his hands and knees next to the car and felt his muscles tremble
with anticipation. His stomach undulated and he spewed out all the
chunks and acid he was capable of onto the slick cement floor. His
nostrils were clogged with the putrid meal and his eyes glazed over as
they reflected the black soil. He collapsed face first into the pool he
had dug and rolled over onto his side staring off into nothing. Main-
taining his unblinking contemplation, he reaching into his jacket
pocket and slid out a small pistol. It was wet and shone in the grey

2009-2010 ■ 16
 light from the sky. He let the handle slip into place between his wet
fingers. It reminded him of a puzzle piece. He played with the trigger,
lightly pulling it before the point that it would fire. With his other
nervous hand he found a small tucked away object from the hidden
pocket on the inside of his coat. It was a little acorn. And as he gazed
at it he saw the final image of his father; destroyed by time. His hair
was white and receded, wrinkles bore down his face like canyons,
and his brow was slightly furrowed. Arms crossed over his chest, and
his legs hidden by the rest of the casket. He still had the slight curve
to his lips though. Through all of it, it was the one thing that re-
mained. The son didn't say a prayer or any other unnecessary ritual.
He turned around and walked out the door into the rainy November
night. He decided he'd see the tree.
It was silent in the park. The shot was neither seen nor heard.
The rain muffled it to a distant, misty pop. And with it, the man's
string was cut loose, releasing him to nothing more than a wayward
spirit. He realized he would never be remembered. He knew his fate
was the same as the tree under which he rested. His essence would
seep into the soil with the rain. Yet strangely, against all considera-
tion of self-preservation, he could not see it played out any other way.

17 ■ Madison and Cathedral

2009-2010 ■ 18
 JULIA KLAVANS
................................................

The Celestial Being

From afar the stars astronomers admire

And study how their brilliance punctures night.
They praise the supernal orbs' burning fire
That fills them with wonder and pure delight.
But soon the inky night melts into day,
And Helios takes his daily morning flight,
Obscuring the bright stars to their dismay And
illuminating the astronomer's plight.
Alas, the angst I feel is all for naught For
you orbit a diff'rent sun than I.
Stuck on this Earth I find myself distraught
That I cannot see you with my naked eye.
Though you live high above and far away, My
love for you burns brighter every day.

19 ■ Madison and Cathedral

CHRIS LANE
................................................

Necessity

He broke her heart It was

necessary.
To be obligated to hurt is a greater pain than the damage.
Girl meets boy and falls in love without meeting in the physical form.
Love supposedly a mutual concept, to the male means much less.
The quickness to love, to its true definition - Resembles the boundary of
immaturity to maturity
She was immature for her haste, indeed.
He never confronted her, so they ride the roller coaster together.
Suggestive clues are dropped as silent bombs so that rejection can not shat- ter
the heart.
Now she wants more and time speeds up.
They agree to meet, an event that gives her the opportunity to cage her prey.
Family introductions were never thought to be so binding.
He sees that he has made the wrong turn upon a one way street with a fore-
shadowing dead end.
She only sees the one way path, eternally.
Obsession.
She begins to eliminate anything or anyone who oppose a threat to her item.
Tactic, after tactic, after tactic until he is depleted with no other worldly care
except her.
A cute innocent kitten turns into a thesaurus for Lady Macbeth.
Ownership, possession, greed, trust.
"No!"
The mind rambles filled with radiancy, fury, and nervous NRG.
"What have I done?" You have created a monster with a love to protect. But
you must break a heart with the pride that engulfs it. He broke someone's
heart on this day. But it was necessary.
The mind is clear. The water may run.

2009-2010 ■ 20
21 ■ Madison and Cathedral
 SAM KESSLER
.......................................................

The Voyage

When, before the summer began, I announced that my grand-

mother had offered to take me to the Netherlands for two weeks with at
no expense to me or my father, most people could not understand
my hesitancy to accept her offer. Evidently, most people do not know my
grandmother. Eventually, however, I did accept her offer, and the
resulting experience led me to an insight about myself. But I shall get
to that later. First I must provide a few details regarding my grand-
mother.
To most people, my grandmother probably looks just like the next
harmless old woman. She is robustly built, and she looks a few
years younger than her sixty-seven. Her face is bright and red and she
frequently laughs. To most people, she will appear to be a perfectly
normal, friendly human being. Unfortunately for most people, ap-
pearances can be deceiving.
My grandmother grew up in Rotterdam in Holland in the af-
termath of World War II. Her city had been bombed extensively by both
sides in the war, and because of a severe housing shortage her family
had only two rooms in which to house my grandmother, her
parents, and her six sisters. She spent the early years of her childhood
fishing for eels in the river to provide her family with food, being
bullied by her older sister, being beaten by her mother with a wire
rug-beater, being beaten by her grandmother with a stick, being
beaten by nuns with rulers at her school, and smoking. And also
drinking. Knowing my grandmother, exactly half of these things are
actually true.
My grandmother is not still plagued by the trauma of her
youth. Its main use in her eyes is as a justification of her general ha- tred
of everything. My grandmother is evil. In long lines, she cuts in
front of disabled people so she won't have to wait as long. She has

2009-2010 ■ 22
forged a handicap parking pass so that she can get better parking
spaces. When she crosses the street, she does not wait for the light. She
walks into traffic waving her arms, forcing the drivers to brake
sharply to let her cross the street. Her sisters have since informed me that
one of her favorite pastimes in her youth was sitting on the roof of her
house chewing on tar, and then spitting it out onto the people who
walked by.
She is the most racist person ever to marry a black man.
Among the groups she hates are black people, Asians, British people,
Germans, French people, Mexicans and other assorted Latinos, Ar- abs,
Americans, and children. In addition, she has an especial hatred of
Lance Armstrong and Anne Frank. And even if you do not belong
to any of these categories, she will still hate you if you make noise.
But, according to her, all of this hatred is excusable because she had a
rough childhood. I think she has theorized that the more trauma peo-
ple experience, the more evil they become later in life. This would
explain her hatred of holocaust survivors.
She is also a chain-smoking alcoholic.
But I think that my description has served its purpose, and so
I shall recommence with my narrative.
So I accepted her offer to take me to the Netherlands, her an-
cestral home, where dwell the hundreds of members of my extended
family whom I had never met before and will probably never meet
again. But alas, as my time is limited, as is my desire to write this ar-
ticle, I cannot do justice to my entire trip. That is another work to be
written at another time. I shall instead devote my time to one single event
on our journey: the plane ride.
The central reason behind my grandmother's offer to take me to
the Netherlands was that she had finally racked up enough frequent flyer
miles to get a free round trip to Europe. This way she could take
her grandson to the Netherlands, something which she has always
wanted to do, without having to pay for his ticket, something which she
has never wanted to do. Unfortunately, because she was getting
free tickets she had to accept whatever timetable she was given by the
airline. In this case, it involved a three-hour layover in Detroit. My

23 ■ Madison and Cathedral

grandmother was not happy about this. She hates Detroit. The last
time she was in Detroit, it rained. Therefore, it always rains in De-
troit. My grandmother hates rain. It was about this that she com-
plained over the hour ride to the airport.
And then we reached the airport. My grandfather dropped us
off and we entered the building with our luggage in my arms. I, being
younger and thus expendable, had to carry everything, including an
immense, aggressively yellow suitcase which was ostensibly filled
with cement. I learned later that it had a false bottom so that she
could smuggle back chocolate and cheese from Europe without paying
import taxes. When we entered the airport, we immediately made
our way to the baggage check, where we also had boarding passes
printed. My load was thus lightened, although not by much as my
grandmother wanted to take as much carry-on as possible in order to
avoid paying for checked bags.
And then came the security check. My grandmother hates airport
security. She hates it so much that she adamantly refuses to read
the notice which tells you what is not allowed on a plane. She also
refuses to learn from her past experience of being searched at the air-
port every single time she has ever been through security. And so
when she sent her bag through the scanning device, the security per-son
had to take it aside and search it. He rooted through the bag, re-moving
fifteen packs of cigarettes before he found the offending ob-
ject: a bottle of sherry, which my grandmother had brought for the
flight, not remembering that liquid is not allowed on the plane. So the bag
was scanned again, but it apparently still contained contraband.
The security person soon found the problem: another bottle of sherry.
After that was confiscated, the bag was deemed safe. My grand-
mother angrily repacked her bag, and we trudged into the terminal to
wait for our flight. The flight to Detroit was fortunately quiet. My
grandmother and I read, and soon we were in Detroit. It was sunny.
We passed the three hours there peacefully enough. My grandmother took
it upon herself to give me advice about driving, which consisted
mainly of the fact that you shouldn't run over children in your car
because you might get caught. And then we boarded our flight to the

2009-2010 ■ 24
Netherlands.
It was one of the planes which has a small television in the
back of every seat, so that one can actually choose what one watches
or listens to. I settled down to watch Gran Torino, until I was inter-
rupted by the headphones which I was wearing being ripped violently
from my head. My grandmother did not know how to operate the
television in front of her and needed me to help her. I am sure she is
perfectly capable of understanding technology, but she refuses to do so.
Thus, despite my best efforts to teach her, she kept ending up ac-
cidentally switching the television to Dragonball Z. She interrupted
my lesson when she discovered that wine was free on flights to
Europe. She asked for three bottles. Instead of letting her switch to
Dragonball Z again, I put on some Bach and told her to listen to that. I
returned to my movie.
About a half an hour later, the headphones were once again
removed from my head. My grandmother, having finished all three
bottles of wine, had decided to change the music to Mozart, but she
had instead put on Dragonball Z. She was speaking very loudly, not
realizing that she was wearing headphones. She took off the head-
phones and continued to speak very loudly. She was drunk. I
switched her music to Mozart and resumed watching my movie.
An hour later, the movie was almost over. Night was beginning to fall
outside the plane and dinner was being served. Of the available op-
tions—chicken or vegetarian—I chose the chicken. I made a mistake.
The food was awful. The meal consisted of a few strips of dried
chicken in some sort of white sludge with a grey-green blob of what I
assumed were vegetables of some sort. I ate the roll which came with the
meal. My grandmother ate everything else.
And then it was time to go to sleep. My grandmother took a
sleeping pill, and she was soon snoring. My grandmother has an in-
teresting way of snoring. Most people who snore snore regularly; af-
ter a while, one can find the pattern and get used to it. My grand-
mother, however, changes her pattern every few seconds. Just when I
thought I was getting used to the snoring, she would find some new and
unexplored sound which she had never made before. It was like

25 ■ Madison and Cathedral

summoned my courage and turned my grandmother's head. The snoring
became quieter and more regular, and I was just about to
go to sleep when a baby behind me began to wail. My grand- mother
awoke next to me, looking angry.
"Fucking child," she said, "You can tell it's a spoiled brat.
Just listen to it." It sounded like a normal baby to me. "I bet it's
British," she said, "The British have no idea how to raise chil- dren.
When I was young, they would beat me to death if I cried
like that." And she went back to sleep. The baby continued to cry.
I decided sleep was a lost cause and settled down to an-
other movie. When that was finished, the baby had stopped crying
and I lapsed into uneasy sleep. I was roused exactly two hours
later. My grandmother had apparently spent the last hour watch-
ing Dragonball Z. She was rather irritated. I was tired, so she
opened the window. Morning light streamed into the dark plane, waking
the people around us. "It's okay," she told me, "It's time for everyone to
get up anyway." She addressed the people around us, "All right! Time to
get up!" The baby behind us began to cry again. "Goddamn kid," said my
grandmother, "I wish I could kill
it."
"This is your pilot," said our pilot, "We'll be landing
soon. I hope you've enjoyed your flight."
I had not. But I had gained insight into my character. I re- alized
that I had been too easily bribed by the prospect of travel to "do what
else, though damned, I should abhor" (Milton, Paradise
Lost, IV, 392). I realized that no amount of fun in Holland could
ever make up for the suffering inflicted upon me by my grand-
mother. The hatred and bitterness which seeped from out her soul
like Stygian waters o'er the hellish dam of her appearance were too great
for any to withstand. But alas, this revelation came for me too late, and
doomed was I to carry out my fate.

2009-2010 ■ 26
ARIELLE ARMSTRONG
................................................

Navy Blue Towers

There was a city. Not a bustling, bright and busy city, but a city of all
things considered. Serious, direct and sharp. Just as serious as the
skyscrapers that littered this city, they were all the same height and
width. And in these skyscrapers there were sharp rooms. Each room
measured 80 sq. feet and each wall was painted navy blue, navy blue.
The phone cords were installed right beside the light switch, which was
always 5 inches away from the door that was cut at a 7' by 36"
measurement. Everything was exact; people were exact. A day in the
life of a worker had no room for estimations, there was no need to
repeat or have glitches. And so each worker was to arrive to work at
exactly 15 minutes before their scheduled time. Arrive 15 minutes
before 8:15 am to begin the daily count of people in the city. Lunch
was to be eaten at precisely 1:15 pm everyday, even on the weekends.
Every worker was to eat turkey, lettuce, tomato, provolone, (thin cut,)
cheese with Hellmann's mayo, (at a refrigerated temperature,) sand- wich
accompanied by a red apple and fresh carrots. Everything listed above
had to be done precisely.
You are here. A worker, an employee in the navy blue society. A
quiet and small voice of the community named Allen. People mutter
about you daily because you are a girl named Allen, but you wear it
well. You're around 25, and your favorite color is red, color is red. A
worker is not allowed to enjoy any color other than navy blue. But you
like the color red, and curves, not sharp edges, and hot places,
not cold distant social measurements. But the day has already begun, and
so you must suffer one more time, one more time. Lunch passes,
and you've accumulated the number of people in the zip code as-
signed to you. You've made sure that nothing is out of place, out of place.
And yet, though you ate your lunch at precisely 1:15 pm, you
begin to feel dizzy. Disgusted and sick from the navy blue walls,

27 ■ Madison and Cathedral

carpet, chair and even the lamp on your desk. It surrounds you, sur-
rounds you! This disgust fills you inside, and inside you start to burn.
You are sitting and even this begins to hurt. It's hard and cold fea- tures
make you hate the office even more, even more, even more, even more.
Faster and faster your heart beats, faster and faster you
run to the bathroom, anxious to hurl on your navy blue dress. You're
anxious to spew out your irritation with the place. Everything must be
accounted for, but sometimes you just need to hide!
You become frantic, desperate and start to wheeze, like the old
man they killed about a week ago due to the fact that he wasn't
walking at the precise speed required. You gasp for air as you run out
looking for help from the perfection that is suffocating you. And eve-
ryone begins to stare at you suspiciously.
"She's crazy," they begin to mumble quietly, although you
can hear every word, every word!
"Look at her hair, it's awful."
"She looks sick, her eyes are blood shot red--"
"Just like her dress!" You stop abruptly and look down. It
has indeed turn red now, and the woman who noticed this is the lady
who works at the desk next to yours. You shiver as a blast of cold air
bursts through the A/C vent behind you, behind you, behind you.
"I can't breathe," you moan, "There are no mistakes…but
why?!" You begin to stalk to your desk, knowing exactly what you
need to do next. In the bottom drawer you find your gun and you pull
it out, ready to kill anyone who tried to make you a navy blue status
quo. At this moment, you realize no one is watching you anymore. No
one cares to notice your troubles, but they are all eager to point out your
flaws. Like the fact that you're a size 6 in dresses and not
the highly recommended size 2. Or that you cut your hair shorter than
everyone's 8 inch length. No one cares. For a moment you go blank,
and there's a bright white covering you. A moment ago you could have
sworn there were several gunshots, but you fail to remember who shot
them. There's no more navy blue. It's suddenly replaced with red;
everything is covered in red, covered in red. You quietly
begin to think to yourself as you reach down to your heart and

2009-2010 ■ 28
discover you're bleeding. Now your hands are covered in red, cov-
ered in red. It suddenly gets warmer, as you realize that you're dead and
this must be hell. A punishment for not being perfect in the navy
blue roomed towers, blue roomed towers. There are flames every-
where and screams of the others who have ended here as well. But
you quietly begin to giggle, Allen, because at least there are no more cold,
navy blue faces in your mind. You wipe the red off your hands and walk
away, walk away happy.

29 ■ Madison and Cathedral

2009-2010 ■ 30
AARON OUTLAN
................................................

Taking Off
I opened my eyes and out of nowhere a man appeared. I don't know
who this man was or what he intended to do.
"Here," he stated as he handed me what appeared to be a small vest.
Suddenly he vanished into thin air. I was suppose to do with this
bright, green vest so I did only what came naturally; I put it on. As I
strapped its three tiny straps across my chest I felt as if I had some-
how dropped fifty pounds. The wind suddenly began to pick up and it
felt like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. I looked up at
the fading sun and I felt like I could fly. I walked down an empty
street where I received the impulse to run. I slowly started to pace
myself and before I knew it I was running like a madman. I could not
stop myself from running faster and faster. After running for approxi-
mately five minutes, strangely I was not tired. In my mind I could
feel as if something was about to happen. My feet began to lift off the
firmly placed ground beneath me and I was flying. At this moment
my mind was torn between fear and amazement. I was fearful be-
cause my body was leaving the pavement without the aid of any pre-
conceived notion of flight. Amazed because of exactly that fact. I
soared through the air in a bobbing motion going up and down. The vest
allowed me to go as high as I wanted but at the cost of a sudden descent
hereafter. I absorbed the sights around me as I bobbed up and down.
With each fall my nerves increased as I felt as if I was seconds from
colliding with the pavement resulting in my death. I flew across
a town where I aw children playing in the street. I glided down to
converse with them in an attempt to show off my newfangled buoy-
ancy. When I came within an arms reach to them, they began to claw at
me. They wanted what was mine. They wanted to steal my flight. I
became enraged at the greed of these usurpers as they attempted to
disrobe me. But I wouldn't allow it. I fought back with such tenacity

31 ■ Madison and Cathedral

They had no choice but to submit. I leaped back into the sky and flew
away. I grew tired as I flew through the air for hours. I needed to rest.
I journeyed to a nearby alley where I thought I'd be safe from scru-
tiny. Seeing no one around me, I began to make my descent. Sud-
denly a group of three men approached me. Within each man I saw a
desire for my vest. I became frightened. Now I was truly tired. I no
longer had a desire to fly. Before the men could reach me I went to un-
strap my vest. I pulled one of the tiny straps but with no result.
The vest was stuck. I knew that there was nothing I could do but fly
away. Once I regained my composure I realized that I was now the
object of attention being watched by everyone below me. they all
wanted my vest. I knew that I was stuck. I knew that I could never
return to solid ground again. My new home was in the sky.

2009-2010 ■ 32
 IAN
CAMERON
................................................

A Complete Impediment to Understanding

I feel that all I have done is for naught,
For though I spent my time seeking what could
Be sought, I unraveled the rope and I had caught
To find naught but a knot. I fear we should
Flee, a flight in lit light, but in distress
All of the mistresses misdressed, the dear
Miss' mere disses were near misses, congress
Compressed and the right fight became a right fear
As I developed a love of the dark
And a fear of the knight. I've more to say- But
hark! The lark rushed to park in the park
Where the grass, all tired of tires, died today
And the sea's crazed movement (locomotion)
Swept me from land out into the ocean

33 ■ Madison and Cathedral

2009-2010 ■ 34
AARON CARY
................................................

Fantasy
In the womb, we looked each other face to face, knowing each
others every thought. When you left, I bade you farewell, knowing that we
might see each other in the future. In what seemed like moments, I was
given birth also. I looked, but I could not see. I sensed your terri- ble
magnificence and looked to you. Then my sight came. We traveled
through space and time together; our fantasy never ending. I looked into
your face again. It was different this time. I stopped, no longer able to
comprehend what you had become. You continued to move
forward and when I looked up, I saw the unfathomable. Your hands,
curling around the world as it became your creation. I was glad for
you, but something had always been wrong. You took this creation by
force, and I believed it would be a fearsome outcome. But no, your
actions had always been flawless and the stars began to shine brighter
whenever your name was called. But while you were right, I was
wrong. My awe dissipated into raw fury. You then began to conjure up the
most magnificent artworks ever known to man. You snapped and it
was called music. You breathed and it was called warmth. It was then that I
realized; I loathed you. I envied you. I stumbled upon a rift that grew
between us and lost my balance. As I fell you reached your hand
out towards me, but then you saw my eyes. My hateful eyes that
wanted to pull you down with me. So I fell. I fell for so long. Down
into a pit of confusion and tumult. I remained there growing stronger; ready
to become greater than you. When I reappeared before you, you knew what
had happened to me. I was banished from your sight and I
watched as you wept for what I had become. A new revelation ap-
peared before me: I must become him. So I did. Even when I suc-
ceeded in becoming what I wanted for so long, I became even angrier with
myself. So I returned to my true form and decided to defeat you as myself,
no matter what disadvantage I may have. After all, you're
my best friend and my greatest enemy, aren't you?

35 ■ Madison and Cathedral

CHRIS LANE
................................................

Confined

It was August 29th, the first day at my new school. I awoke to the
rays of the beautiful sunshine accompanied by the birds singing in the
trees. They sang to the alluring tune of- Scratch that, I can't do this.
This is not a happy story. I have been holding this in for far too long. To
whom it may concern, my name is Jacob Ryan and I must hurry in the
writing of this tale. The guards are watching my every move. They sit in the
other room like hawks staring at the camera monitor, waiting for the day I
make a move for survival. I make my move today.
My senses have grown since I've been here; I can smell the con-
stant rate of breath escaping the guard's mouth as he sleeps. His teeth,
like the stain of the banana he has just finished eating, would benefit
from an intense scrub. Whether he owns a toothbrush or not is beyond
me. Apparently the second guard has ventured off on his daily lunch
break. I always feel the rush of the cool 52 degree weather come past as he
opens the door to the main gates. All of my senses are working fine,
but yet I see nothing. I have been in solitary confinement for sixteen
years, staring at this grey stone wall. I loathe the sun now, because I
know nothing of daylight. Enough small talk, I will try to recall the
events that led me in this predicament. Beware, my memory is foggy but
determined.
My earliest point of memory is a lab. . . . Ahh! Cut that damn
light off! The light beams down on my slowly opening eyelids with the
intent to burn. I can't move. I am using all my might to break loose from these
straps that bind me. As I struggle and flail with growing intensity a metal
brace falls from the ceiling and claps onto my neck. I can't move.
As I gasp for air and stare at the ceiling, I wait for someone to come to
my rescue. They obviously have the wrong person. "No we don't," Says
an incoming dark figure. Wait, what? I could have sworn I didn't say
that out loud. "No you didn't," The dark figure answers as he crosses behind
my head and to pick up a needle from his desk. Get out of my

2009-2010 ■ 36
head you bastard! "This is only going to sting for a second. Brace
yourself, Jacob." How does he know my name? Look! You have the
wrong- My thought pattern stops as I feel a wave of electricity run
from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I've never experi- enced
so much pain in my life, it was as if I was being shot, stabbed, and
tasered all at once. Woo! The 52 degree breeze just passed under
this steel door. I guess the guard is back from his lunch break. It's
always the same beef and blood. Sorry I tend to get distracted.
"Wake up, Jacob Ryan. Patient 509, get up." What? Who is that? I
open my eyes to see the cursed blinding light again and yet
another dark figure. I'll be damned if I listen to you. "Stand Jacob." No!
The figure growled, yelling, "Jacob Ryan rise!" A force threw me from
the lab table head first into the wall. What is this! I want to
yell, but I am still confined only to my thoughts. I get up from the
ground and look around the dark room. Why is everything so dark in
here? I turn my head to the wall and freeze. There is a large dent and
crack in this wall. This wall is stone. It's impenetrable! That couldn't
have been me. I didn't even feel anything. "Get used to it. You are one of
us now." One of what? The room is so dark, I can't even see what I am.
Give me some light! "You'll get accustomed to the dark- ness Jacob,"
The figure said nonchalantly.
It's all starting to come back to me now. . . . Next was my es- cape
attempt. If I had that kind of power to make that kind of impact on that
wall, then I should be able to get out of this place with ease.
"Do you want to repeat that?" Damn you, mind reader. Well what
now, since you seem to be in control of my life? I mean you brought me
here and you obviously have the wrong- Before I finish my sen-
tence I decide to take off through the open door. As I cut down the
halls of the laboratory, I see every obstacle in my mind before I see it
with my vision. My eyes are like an eagle's, and my legs feel like a
cheetah's sprint. I can get used to this! My speed is increasing with
every step. Which way is out. . . . I begin to hear the slight pitter-
patter of feet. I make a sharp left, hoping that I've found the exit path.
I run into a dead end. I suddenly hear the heavy running of feet be-
hind me. I turn my head around sharply and see nothing concluding

37 ■ Madison and Cathedral

that my hearing is heavily sensitive. The heavy running ceases. I feel
the sturdiness of the stone wall, I can't make it through this thing. I
begin to run back the way in which I came. Yaeeeekkkk!!! A loud
screech shatters my eardrums. I look behind me to see the large figure
chasing me with incredible speed. Not chasing, charging! I run for
my life as the repulsion of his face scarred me; so hideous. Come on
legs! Can't you go any faster? Suddenly, another vile creature comes
from the front of me "Did you really think you were going to get
away, Jacob?" A figure in front of me and a figure behind me. The only
other option is the stone wall to my left. Looks like that's my
option. "Go through the wall then. Let's see if you make it." I glance at the
figure in front of me and then the incoming one behind me who is still
charging with intense speed. "What are you gonna do, Mr.
Ryan?" I get in position to smash through the wall, but I hesitate and
cringe. The charging figure punches me and knocks me to the oppo- site
end of the hall.
Sixteen years in this thing. To this day I still don't know what
those things are. I don't even know what I am, but I am a creature
who has no mirror to acknowledge my own hideousness. A creature
who has become mute and dumb. A life without words is only action.
My action at this moment is escape. I have written all of this in the
time span of a minute and four seconds. My hands are filled with ra-
diancy, filled with energy, filled with power. After all these years I am
ready to live individually and not hide in solitary under the con- trol of
these wolves. I make my move today.
"Jake baby wake up. Breakfast is downstairs on the table.
Happy sixteenth kiddo."

2009-2010 ■ 38
MARTHA ROBICHAUD
........................................................

Gypsy
You painted my intention on my left hand—
Branded me, and let me walk away.
But I boomeranged back,
My tribal colors glaring in the sun,
And I wondered if this time you noticed. (My
intention had hardly begun to crack, still caked
on in layers of reddish mud.)

And then you came and branded me some more

M y l i ps
My cheeks
My ears
And I laughed when you called me a freckled snowflake
Because it's true.
So I looked up at the sky and at the desperately reaching branches And
called your eyes a tree.

You never stay for long, And

because I know this I won't scrub
at my body.
Still, every day the mud flecks off like skin—
Soon there will be nothing left Of my
intention.

And I, stranded in my glass cage,

Will watch as the wind wisps you away
And the trees engulf your eyes
And the ocean eats your toes
And the fire dances round your

39 ■ Madison and Cathedral

Young brain
And bakes into it pretty clay images.

I will watch
Watch Watch
And wonder if this time you notice My intention.

2009-2010 ■ 40
ELEANOR FISHBURN
................................................

A Life More…

The tree stood solid and strong. A gnarled contour of flesh

settled mid dance supports an explosion of leaves. They are like butterflies
anchored to twigs, fluttering in a breeze but clinging to their
support. A peace surrounds the being, serenity achieved through the
simplicity of prolonged existence and endurance. This tree has lived
through more than most. It remembers in the way of trees a time
when all that surrounded it was vegetation, and the only visitors were
creatures occupied with survival. It remembers a time when the air
was fresher, the water from the sky tasted cleaner, when the earth felt
endless and infinite, as did the sky. It met a human for the first time
after a few decades of growth in the sun had dimmed the memory of
bursting through the earth into one fondly forgotten. The creature
walked and looked strangely, and seemed to have a peculiar purpose,
for it wandered through the meadow the tree centered not in search of
food, but seemed to be searching all the same. The tree was intrigued
when the human came back with more and began to create something.
They did strange things with the carcasses of its brethren, exposing
the tender flesh to the air and changing the shape. And soon
the tree shaded what seemed to be a dwelling. It was content with
this, for the creature had more soon, small versions flitting about with
the energy of the young, and these interested the tree in their strange
ways. They moved around and came and went, and made a lot of
noise. The other creatures seem to not feel the same friendliness, although
still many birds and small animals visit and even nest in the
trees branches. The tree finds it enjoys the humans, and their energetic
oddities. It watches as the seasons change and still it grows and
stretches, and beneath the boughs the little dwelling changes as occupants
leave and more arrive. The dwelling grows, and then in one
night of terror it is burned badly and the tree suffers from burns as the

41 ■ Madison and Cathedral

humans rebuild. The tree stands tall and resilient through storms and a
few floods, another fire, winters and springs and summers and falls, so
many years that each pass like hours and centuries both. More dwellings
appear, changing and going through the cycle of life like living things as
they are born and decay and grow and eventually are destroyed only to
be replaced by bigger and stronger ones. A lot of the other trees are cut
down and chopped up, the survivors isolated from their rivals for sun
and water.
Then one day that starts like any other, the tree realizes that the
sky is no longer infinite. It is framed by dwellings almost as tall as the
trees highest branches. The earth is filled with cold metal roots that will
not break, crowding the soil. The tree has seen many things. It stands
strong and solid.
But the saw bites deep.

2009-2010 ■ 42
43 ■ Madison and Cathedral
SYDNEY SPANN
................................................

In the night, when it was snowing, I thought a while how

things were unfit, and hid all my insecurities under my mattress. If I
were to lift it up, you could see them spread completely across in lay-
ers, one spiral-bound on top of another. I have never lifted my mat-
tress up because I do not want to be taken aback by the masses of
them. It is safe to just reach under and feel around the papers one at a
time. If my colleague were to approach me and say "Do you sir, feel
that you are sunny and warm, and that if I asked you 'Are you per- fectly
stable?', that you would answer in the affirmative?" I would not have an
accurate 'yes' or 'no'. If he were to ask me when I had
been around for twelve years, I would have responded "Surely so,
sunny as the sea!". These days I would not respond so surely. Due to the
times and my inches, I have been watching Mother and Father
closer than ever, and disapproving of their morals. Mothers don't
always love fathers, I learned once, and we can't always agree on the
same wares.
Humor is a characteristic of the enlightened; and to think I had been so
serious! I was so serious and regarded everything in such a
contemplative manner. Laughing is often a response to the dreadful:
When you see home-sewn kitten legwarmers at a county
fair, laughter is the outcome because it's recognized that you yourself
know better than to take such a thing so gravely. So then, we feel a sort
of pitying-type affection for those who dedicate themselves to blue
ribbon preserves and award-winning alpacas. Another thing
comes with slugging off a certain amount of seriousness and imperi-
ousness: learning that no madman is really insane. All things that
are felt have been felt before, and again again and again. I am flow-
ing movement, and that is a progression. I am enlightened for the sixth
time, and there will be more episodes to come.

2009-2010 ■ 44
REBECCA ROSS
................................................

A.K.A The Neighborhood Nutcase

The bright orange sunrise rose from the east and the only
sound was the chirping of the birds. Coffee brewed in the pots of the
neighborhood and icing melted on top of the hot cinnamon buns.
What a perfectly peaceful Sunday morning… VRRROOOOMMMM.
Old man Jenkins of house 2147 almost fell off of his rocking chair
and held his ears like a cannon just went off. Damn… neighbors…
He got up and mumbled to himself as he limped over to the window.
His eyes immediately went to the house across the street, a.k.a. the
nut’s house. To no surprise, the loony leaf lady revved her engines.
Jenkins shook his gray head and stared at his neighbor bopping up
and down on a huge tractor. After 25 years she won’t give it a rest, he
thought. Lord have mercy on us. He shuffled to the kitchen, picked
up some cream of wheat and Geritol, and headed back to his chair in
front of the window. Well, I ain’t got nothing better to do. May as
well enjoy myself while I can. All day he watched his crazy neighbor
shuffle around her lawn doing every possible thing to keep her yard
as spotless as it always was. Jenkins swore that if one blade of grass
was out of place, she’d know. She watched and picked at her lawn
like a hawk. If a couple walked by with a dog on a leash she would
lift her suspicious face and stare at the by-passers to make sure not
one paw or toe touched her precious green grass. Most of the
neighborhood veterans knew not to walk on her side of the street but
some newbies had yet to discover the secret. Her miniature poodle
was the canine version of herself. Every time someone walked by, the
most hideous yapping noise would come out of its seemingly harmless
snout. Not only did her grass somehow manage to always keep
its exact 1.75-inch height, no leaf could survive on her lawn for more
than 10 minutes. Several times throughout the day Jenkins saw her
stroll around the yard with a trash bag, meticulously picking up the
sparse leaves one by one. This wasn’t enough however. about noon
she started to suck the leaves off of her tree with a blower. She

45 ■ Madison and Cathedral

couldn't even let nature take its course naturally. Then she went
across the street and started to pick the leaves out from under the
windshield wipers of her neighbors' cars. This made Old Man Jen- kins
cackle out loud.
Weeks passed and every Sunday the crazy neighbor repeated
her routine just like the last 25 years. One Sunday, something mo-
mentarily interrupted her schedule. Just as Jenkins plopped down in
his chair with his breakfast, his neighbor's children pulled into her
driveway. Both she and her husband ran out (on the sidewalk) to
greet the kids. The father took the homemade cake from his daugh-
ter's hands and they all laughed and talked as they made their way up
into the house. Jenkins smiled to himself and started to think about his
own kids… But five minutes later his smile was wiped from his face. His
cooky neighbor stalked out of the house and started to trim the already
perfect bushes. Something ticked inside of Jenkins head.
He rose from the swaying chair, stepped out into the sunshine, and
headed over right onto his neighbor's lawn.
"Hey don't step-"
"Hello, I just want to ask you, what are you doing?"
"Oh, um, do you like this?" She held up the shiny trimmer.
"It's the newest model of trimming supplies. I just got it yesterday."
She smiled. "Now please get off the lawn."
"No. What are you doing?" Jenkins snapped.
The elderly lady's face was in shock and she couldn't say
anything.
"I just noticed that your children are here, from out of state.
What are you doing messing with your stupid lawn? Is your precious
Better Homes & Gardens museum more important than your own
kids? What are you doing with your life?" Neither of them could speak.
After a minute the neighbor said, "Who do you think you are,
coming over here and telling me how to run my life?" Though she
was trying to sound mad, Jenkins could tell she was fighting down a
lump in her throat.
"Just thought you'd like to know that you're wasting your life

2009-2010 ■ 46
away.” Jenkins let out a breath and headed back to his own overgrown
yard. When he got back to his window Jenkins saw her still
staring in shock in his direction. He was glad at what he’d done and
thought he really helped her out today. His neighbor dropped the
trimmer and headed for her garage. She disappeared through the
door. A minute later she came out with earplugs and her blower ready
to suck the leaves off the tree again. Old Jenkins shook his head in
disbelief. He couldn’t bear to sit in his chair one more minute, so he
got up, picked up the phone, and dialed the number of his own kids.

47 ■ Madison and Cathedral

MELISSA ESTES
................................................

One day I wrote his name upon paper

In front of me, surrounding it with hearts,
But wondering if my love would taper
Because he was punctured by Cupid's darts, And
now his heart belongs to another.
His loving gaze I did not acquire,
And my lonely heart yearns for the smother Of
Love's passion and burning desire. I would love to
find a way to remove
The arrow that made a controlling cage
Around his heart (Cupid would not approve), And if
I can't, my heart will die in rage.
But can one senseless girl's heated passion
Win against Cupid's immortal fashion?

2009-2010 ■ 48
49 ■ Madison and Cathedral
SARAH ARROYO
................................................
Heartsick For Freedom

Tomorrow and tomorrow and right this

Second I am filled with a dulling ache.
The warmth left from an old, forgotten kiss
Has turned cold, and forced my weak heart to break. Alas,
I feel the lack of love today.
'Tis a chilling emptiness in my heart. I wish
that I could go and fly away. Any thing, I
only want a fresh start.
And when I have found the freedom I lack,
A life without your memory's cruel cage, I shall
sing to angels and they right back. It shall be the
victory of this age.
So, give me what I have long come to miss.
I want my heart back, that single, sweet bliss.

2009-2010 ■ 50
The Literary Magazine editorial team consists of students of Baltimore
School for the Arts from every discipline. They do everything from
selecting the submissions to be included to designing the layout of the
magazine.
Literary Magazine Team:

• Managing Editor: Daniel Schutrum-Boward

dschutrumboward@madisonandcathedral.com
• Literary Editor: Gaby Iturralde
giturralde@madisonandcathedral.com
• Art Director: Christen Chiosi
• Digital Media/Web Editor: Daniel Gillespie
dgillespie@madisonandcathedral.com
• Music Editor: Royce Hodnett
• Web Site Contributor/Reviewer: Willy Mason
wmason@madisonandcathedral.com

BSA Faculty Organizer: Thomas Ventimiglia

Tventimiglia@madisonandcathedral.com

Digital Edition Editor: Daniel Gillespie

2009-2010 ■ 52
53 ■ Madison and Cathedral