From the Archives

May 2024

Moderator's note:  I have scanned and scavenged many past issues of 451Press over the past few years to add to this From the Archives page.  Like a Deadhead who savors the concert bootlegs from '72 or '77, I am finding that I have some favorite vintage years of Serra's Creative Writing. I like many of the pieces from Mr. Sullivan's '94-'95 tri-school Creative Writing class.  They were firing on all cylinders.  Here's a couple juicy bits --     - Mr. V.-K.

Ben

Jill Drexel

He sat there alone in a bleak corner of the bustling subway station.  Ben thought about how long it had been since he had last sat in comfort on plush cushions in warmth, and in clean clothes. He was alone in the world, no one he knew could look out for him - no family anywhere. That's why he made this lonely corner of the station his home. Tattered blankets are bundled together in a heap, with a slightly larger lump at the top for his head. All his worldly possessions are tightly tucked into the folds of the coverings - a watch, a picture or two, and other little odds-and-ends.

Ben blended into his surroundings very well. His long, scraggly hair looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks, which is probably true. His once beautiful eyes looked like they had the baggage of an army because of all the endless nights without sleep. He longed to be able to brush his teeth with toothpaste again; now he could only settle for the brush and water from the grimy old sinks in the corroded public restrooms.

Scarves upon scarves were layered around his neck, and hung off of his head. The jacket that Ben wore was old and torn. It was the jacket that he got when he entered the war in 'Nam - the war that he has a hundred stories from that he could tell for hours on end. The black pants he wore had turned gray with age and wear, and holes were beginning to form at the knees. The poor man hadn't had a decent pair of shoes in ages. The one pair that he did have were all scuffed up, and the soles are almost completely off. One day he hoped that his life of despair and misfortune would change. He hated having to live like this.

_______________________________

Order

Kevin Rende

Order is

making sure

you shuffle a stack of books

so they won't be dropped

when you pick them up

Order is 

things where

they should be when

needed

Order is 

dependable, rigid, serious, expected

& Correct

Order is

a definite schedule

Order is 

not whistling through studious halls

Order is 

not a daring whim

Order is

not a natural disruption from solid living

Order is

a dictionary and an encyclopedia written in stone

Order is

not a thesaurus of changing meanings

Order is

not a freely flowing globular mass

unknown, surprising, chaotic, pungent

aroma.

April 2024

Moderator's note:  Before 451Press was 451Press, it was The Serra Scroll, "a creative writing class project under the direction of Mr. Roger Lanzini."  In our archives we have vol. 1, no. 1 of the Serra Scroll, dated December 1980.  In the spirit of our issue title, "Something New," here are two works from a school project in its infancy, something new from 43 years ago.     - Mr. V.-K.

Jeff Andreini

There was a man from St. Paul

Who went to a costume ball,

He thought he would risk it,

And go as a biscuit,

But a dog ate him up in the hall.

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

Never Fall in Love

Staff [sic]

October 2023

Moderator's note:  The Creative Writing Club of 2008-2009 practiced flash fiction -- stories of 1000 words or less.  Two of the works from that year's  anthology harmonized with this "Fear Factor" issue.  The first, by Robert Gill, makes one consider how fright, being an emotion, is also subjective.  That which is a delight to some may spell doom for others. The second work is a compilation by four of that year's writers, each one picking up the story as it was given to them by the previous author(s). Notice how each writer develops different emotional and tonal elements.    - Mr. V.-K.

Billowing Evil

Robert Gill

The sparrows never understood the clouds.  They did not even have a name for them, they just knew they were quite vile beings. The billowing monsters would put a damper on any bird's day. They were unpleasant to look at, and the sparrows though of them as quite foreboding. They made flying difficult, raining on the sparrows beautiful wings, making their feathers heavy. The beasts took pleasure in startling innocent sparrows with the their cold down drafts. Of course they brought the succulent worms to surface from their dark depths, but this was inconsequential as any decent sparrow could manage this on his own. No, there was nothing even remotely good that came from their frothy white and cold grey beings, and the sparrows wished only for the sun, so they may flaunt their beauty for creatures less blessed than them.

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

Accident

[A compilation]

(Started by Shawn Kramer) In the midst of life, we do and see some things that go in a long list of things we look back on and consider mistakes. Some are our deepest desires, like punching the schoolyard bully in the face and some are merely accident, some of which we spend our whole lives recalling what we could have done differently. This story starts in the middle of an undisclosed forest in Montana. Nightfall has come. A young couple is there, lost after hours of searching, not knowing they have been traveling in circles. The young woman faints near the pond. She barely arises to walk a few more lengths and suddenly the young man stops. nearly a half of a mile later he suddenly realizes, she is not at his side. He beings walking back to where he believes he left her. He hears footsteps. A loud scream pierces the forest deep in the night.  

(Continued by Robert Gill)  The man's heartbeat became a roar in his chest. As he charged toward where he thought he heard the scream, he ran for nearly a mile.  The sweat was beading on his face. He realized that he was lost. He couldn't get the scream out of his head. It was growing in intensity, shaking him to the core. The scream reached a pitch that could shatter glass, and he lost control, and he lost contrl, and fell face first into the dirt.

(Continued by Andrew Comstock) The screaming stopped. He looked up, gazing wildly into the blackness before him. he ran more furiously than before. He loved her. He hadn't realized that before. In his mind's eye ran slow motion movies of her smiling at him, talking but he couldn't hear her. He just wanted to see her again, his inner critic kept screaming at him, "You lost her in the woods?! In the woods! How could you do that?! What's wrong with you?!"

(Ended by Moses Nerio)  Slowly, he calmed himself. As if in a daze, he stumbled his way into nowhere. The woman was lost. In one hour it would be nightfall again and wolves were known to roam the area. As he walked up the hill, distracted by the darkness, he heard a crackle. The crackle gained progressively, louder and louder, until he saw the silhouettes of three things. "They're not ready yet," on of the things said. And he ran as he previously had and found a group of campers huddled by the fire. "I think she is dead!"

May 2023

Editor's note:  Each of these poems -- Laura Kingsbury's from the May 1990 edition and Belle Francisco's from 1991 -- certainly fall under our "Everything Under the Sun" theme, with each offering its own small surprises and pleasures.  Both students were attentive to the rhythms, the music, of the language they employed.  Enjoy!    - Mr. V.-K.

Nature's Song

Laura Kingsbury

A lake.

Still, serene and placid.

Unscathed by human's harmful hand

The sun.

Beating harshly on the glistening waters-

but there is no damage in its

tough

The wind.

Blowing across the lake-

but not disturbing its peace.

The rain.

Pounding down; fiercely

penetrating its surface-

to join the lake in its

entirety.

It is quiet

But not silent

to the music of life.

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

The Camel

Belle Francisco

Ten times the heat of the desert sun.

Inside a blazing inferno he lies.

Red heat,

Burning cinders,

Inside the ashes he cries

To get out.

I inhale the cause of his death

And smother his ashes on a metal railway,

Concealing all evidence that he ever existed,

Then give life to another for addiction insisted

Then he be born again.

Ten thousand deaths now reside within me.

Inside my body they plan their attack.

Hungry

Slowly waiting to get back

At me.

Intentions of malicious thoughts

Are discussed among these sinister criminals

From whom after thousands of deaths I've finally learned

That there will soon come a day when it will be my turn

To suffer in the end.

February 2023

Editor's note:  This one's from the archives of the world ... I usually post student work from earlier 451 Press publications, but this tweet from actor Michael Warburton introduced me to a brilliant letter from author Kurt Vonnegut to some students in NYC back in 2006.  I hope that you might delight in it as much as I have.     - Mr. V.-K.

October 2022

Editor's note:  There's a touch of brilliance in this story.  You will see it, dear reader.  And keep in mind this issue's theme.  It all comes together.   - Mr. V.-K.

Footprints

Paul Canson, '92

"Billy, do you know what time it is? It's 9:30. You had better get your seven year old butt to sleep, or I'm telling your mom you were a bad boy tonight!" Brenda said, scolding.

"But Brenda, I get scared at night. I always hear weird noises and can't sleep," retorted Billy.

"Billy, don't you know those noises could be anything? It could be wind outside, or your imagination playing tricks on you. You know old houses creak a lot and make funny noises."

"What about ghosts, Brenda?"

"Ghosts?"

"Yeah! I told my best friend Kenny at preschool about the weird noises, and Kenny said that they were ghosts."

"Ghosts...Billy, there are no such things as ghosts. Like I said, the noises could be anything. There's an explanation for everything."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Now, how about getting some shut eye, eh?"

"Well, I guess so. But if there are any ghosts, I'm tellin' you, I'm gonna scream."

"Well, you go and do that, Billy. How about a kiss goodnight?"

"Good night, Brenda."

The seventeen year old girl closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. As she trotted down the stairs, she realized that putting Billy Tanner to sleep was the hardest part of her babysitting job for the Tanner's. She always felt she should get paid extra for it.

"It's a little chilly." Chilly wasn't the word to describe the weather which lurked outside the door. It had just dropped to 30 degrees Fahrenheit and had just snowed. The snow had covered the neighborhood like a bedsheet. The Tanner's front yard was flawless with no footprints to blemish the newly fallen snow.

"That should do it," said Brenda, turning the heater up a notch. She was glad Billy had gotten to bed so she could finally catch up on some homework.

Brenda always believed that the "so-called" unexplainable had to be explained somehow. Although she never found the subject of ghosts to be an explanation of strange happenings...until what was about to happen.

Brenda brushed off the cookie crumbs which lay on her quadratic equations as she finished her homework in the kitchen. 10:15 PM...Brenda heard the front door open, then close shut. She set her pencil down and pushed her unfinished problem aside.

Walking over to the door that separated the kitchen and living room, she slightly opened it and peeked out to ask, "Mr. and Mrs. Tanner? Are you two home already?" 

No one appeared to be in the living room. "I would have heard them go upstairs," she thought to herself, while walking to the front window to take a look outside. "I guess it must have been the swing on the porch rocking itself to the wind."

"Boy, I got the chills! I better go use the toilet," said Brenda softly striding toward the bathroom. As soon as Brenda turned the doorknob with her hands, the toilet flushed vigorously. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was in there. Please excuse me." 

No one answered. Brenda waited until the toilet was through resetting. She knocked again. No one answered. Finally, she opened the door after a hesitant knock, finding it empty and unused.

"I know there's a perfect explanation for this. There must be something wrong with this toilet. Forget it. I've got to finish my homework. I've got no time to worry about toilet bowls...this is stupid," she declared, reassuring herself.

Brenda walked confidently back into the kitchen to sit down and finish her homework. As she picked up her pencil, she looked down at the paper to see her unfinished math problem finished.

Gathering her courage, Brenda opened the kitchen door to the living room and walked to the stairs. She proceeded up the stairs, reciting Mr. and Mrs. Tanner's names as she slowly reached the top. She received no answer. Brenda opened and checked every room. She found nothing but young Billy sound asleep in his own bedroom.

"Billy, are you awake?" she whispered softly. All she heard from Billy was his tiny body breathing in and out of his deep sleep. "Don't play tricks on me now, Billy, or you're really going to get it."

Billy responded with a snort that broke his rhythmic pattern of snoring, which then paused...took a deep breath...then started the pattern again. In a way, Brenda was hoping that it was Billy who was causing all the commotion, so it wouldn't have to be anything else. She still hoped for a better explanation.

Brenda cautiously made it back to the kitchen. When she got to the kitchen, she picked up the phone and was ready to call the Tanner's emergency number. After dialing the first three numbers, a loud slam of a bedroom door echoed throughout the entire house. Brenda's eyes widened like golf balls. She dropped the phone and hid beside the refrigerator. A loud stomping of footsteps ran down the stairs then slowed its pace in the living room. Brenda crouched against the refrigerator, awaiting the next movement of the unexplainable sound. Slowly, the footsteps stopped...stopped before the door that divided the living room from the kitchen. Slowly, the door opened...millimeter by millimeter.

"Billy!!!" Brenda screamed. Soon after her scream, the door was let loose, and the loud stomping poured through the living room, through the hallway, and then through the front door, leaving a thud of a slam behind it. An evil chuckle that would be remembered throughout one's whole life echoed.

Brenda quickly ran out of the kitchen and rushed up the stairs to Billy's room to find him sitting up, wide awake.

"Did you hear it, Brenda? Did you hear that?" Billy said eagerly.

"Come on downstairs with me, Billy." Brenda grabbed Billy into her arms and hesitantly walked down the stairs.

"What is it, Brenda? What is it?"

"Shhh, keep quiet, Billy." Brenda and Billy reached the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to the front window. Brenda slowly drew the curtain and took a peek outside.

"What do you see, Brenda? What do you see?"

Brenda didn't say anything. All she did was stare out into the front yard, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. The Tanner's front yard was flawless, with no footprints blemishing the newly fallen snow. 

May 2022

Editor's note:  One of the many wonderful things about art, and about poetry, specifically, is that the good stuff always surprises you a bit -- takes you to a place you did not expect to go ... a drawn line that you thought should curve left curves right instead, a melody that you expected to cadence continues for another measure, a verse that you thought would rhyme doesn't and is all the better for it.  This thoughtful and timeless poem by Matt Struyf, '93, does that for me.   - Mr. V.-K.

I'm Alive Today

Matt Struyf, '93

It's just another one of those ways

To say I'm alive today

Amidst all of this change

There is nothing there in all those yesterdays

And my life is mine to take

To the limits imposed and all the nature we make

So today I leave this place

I will travel to the hills and celebrate the empty space

It is all there for me

It is all there for you

You, me and then us we have the power to share our love

We also have the anger to destroy the dove

It's time to feel all the warmth

It's out there for us to share

So let us run across the field, let us jump up and up,

Let us scream our joy, let us love the ground under our feet

We are young and we can laugh in the face of the terrible defeat

If we fall on our face, get up and hug the wounds

Laugh, laugh, laugh, at the blood

Let it flow till it floods

Share you vitality with this shot clock earth

Blow up your heart and share in the rebirth.

March 2021

Editor's note: Fortunately, for this FLASH issue, we did not need to look far into the archives to discover that the 2008-2009 Creative Writing Club moderated by Mr. Ferrando "experimented with flash fiction."  Here are two cheeky and unique short-short stories from Gabe Marx, Serra class of 2010. - Mr. V-K

Life in Ivory

Gabe Marx, '10

I was wheeled into this home in 1947. My genuine ivory keys, my mahogany frame, and my glossy finish that let children's fingers glide across my bulk like sheets of ice.  The purchase of this house was a mark of extravagance and I myself was an equal measure of surplus and luxury.  The fact that I was more of a piece of art rather than an instrument, made to look rather than to utilize, led me to yearn for the warmth of touch.  At times it was so horrific that the simplest pitter patter of the soft pads of the cat's paws as it pranced down my elegant jaw, or the slightest tickle of the maid's duster on my keys, would send toe curling tingles and shivers down my strings.  

Of course there were the extravagant times.  The holidays,  When crowds of warmth and cheer would huddle around my glorious exterior, gaily caroling into the no man's land of day and night, sweet aromas of eggnog conquering the air.  That was when Uncle Barney, the only member of the family that was worth my throne, would drive down from Baltimore, hitting every right chord to "Come, Come Emanuel" just precisely at the right time with perfect voices.  I would shout and scream in harmonious ecstasy while being backed by the family's choral contributions.  But, to disaster's fate, Uncle Barney, my true friend who meekly arrived once a year had discontinued his visits, due to fatality or feud, I was not aware.  Al I know is that my true purpose is buried until further notice.  

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

Words

Gabe Marx, '10

You know those things you think in your head but you would never say? There is some unwritten law lost under the sea that proclaims you can think anything you want but once you verbalize it, it becomes offense.  Once that series of thoughts and constantans leave the realm of of your brain it gains mass, thus gaining momentum, and momentum can hurt.  Then again, in some respects spoken word doesn't always have to offend, as long as it doesn't journey into the inner workings of the ear of someone who could be offended by it.  It is the "if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" logic.

My parents would often find sport in mimicking my grandparents.  This elderly couple successfully filled out the irritable, bickering elderly couple stereotype.

"PHIL!!! You can't eat that Danish! It'll kill ya'!"

"BETTY! Damnit I'll eat whatever the hell I want!"

My mom would throw in all the theatrics, the getting the hand motions and facial expressions down to a science.  Shrieks of laughter would emit from my father's gaping mouth.

Now these grandparents were on my father's side of the family tree.  They lived moderately far away in the heat wave that is Phoenix, Arizona.  Due to the heat, lack of hospitality, and distance we rarely visited them.  In fact there is only one occasion which I can recall that I visited them without my parents.

The only memory I have of that visit was dinner at a Mexican restaurant.  All I can recall is a moment in the conversation that ran dry and there was nothing to say.  Awkward silence filled the atmosphere.

"Mom and dad make fun of you guys ya' know."

There is always going to be some forest dweller to hear that tree fall.

December 2020

Editor's note:  One might think that the prospects of celebrating the holidays in the face of a persistent pandemic are as bleak as one might ever see, but our From the Archives selection from the 1991 issue of 451 Press by Mike Johnson reveals an alternatively bleak holiday picture altogether.  Mr. Johnson employs, however, a Beat-esque, semi-stream-of-consciousness, highly vivid image set and word palette that makes his poem worth visiting again and again. - Mr. V-K

Keeping out the Cold

Mike Johnson, '91

Rolling too close to the fire

I sigh the sigh of a 6-year-old

Christmas shopping with mother

The heat reflects the window

like the undulating sting of

father's last spanking

With the dull, nauseating glow of the sidewalk

as weathered Christmas lights are kept outside

I strain to squint at a pitiful descendant

toting meager gifts in a loose paper bag

As my eyes widen

of freckle-faced innocence pondering

the unfamiliar object

In the crowd

of tinted windowed eyes

The damp newspaper

beaten constantly by passing tires

until a hopeless mush

The cigarette butt

gleams no hope in sight

With one flickering ash

in the raging fire glimmers comfort

and shortsightedness -- I am warm

The muted grey overcoat held loosely above

the moist brown ring marking the territory

of a messy coffee cup

An obtuse expression

from the white-haired waitress suffering

a smile out of the cracking residue once

her childhood

Falls close

without direction -- not one a target

The guilt

of sweet, honest old ladies who

sneak candy into movie theatres

Fractures my cold superiority

of upright, crooked highrises

clawing at the sky

The bite of eye contact --

an exchange of views and gifts

This moment lingers

like the scent of Grandma's bathroom

Until random scatterings

of nomadic shoppers shatter the instant

And I roll up my window

with the determination of racing home

a minute sooner and straining to forget

the entire dialogue.

October 2020

Editor's note:  For our Scary Issue, I'm delighted to share a short story from Frank Scholz, Serra class of 1991, that appeared in the 1991 issue of 451 Press.  Young Mr. Scholz does a great job of creating tension, foreshadowing, bringing readers along on a ride of emotional highs and lows in a very compact story, and wrapping it all up with a final touch of terror mixed with a healthy dollop of irony.  - Mr. V-K

Shadows

Frank Scholz, '91

Robert Kerso heaved the yellow life raft into the water.  Then he picked up the items he had gathered and threw them into the dinghy all at once.  Rob took one last look around and then jumped into the water.  He quickly swam to the small rubber raft and lifted himself inside, just in time to see his burning sailboat totally submerge itself into the vast Pacific.

From the raft Rob gazed at the spot where his boat had once been.  it had happened so fast.  One moment he was sailing toward Hawaii, the next moment his boat was on fire.  Now he didn't have a boat, just a raft, a first aid kit, and a fishing pole.

"If only I had remembered my fire extinguisher, I wouldn't be in this mess.  I always forget something, and it always ruins my trip.  Last time I forgot the anchor.  The time before that, a CB.  Before that, my compass.  No biggy, I got out of those situations well.  This one should be no different."

The next morning, Rob woke up with powerful stomach pains.  "I've got to get something to eat."  Rob looked around the small confines in which he sat, hoping to find some food he hadn't noticed the day before.  "I guess this baby will have to do," he said, picking up a fishing pole.  Then it hit him--he had no bait!  How could he catch something in a bare hook?  Rob looked around for some type of lure he could use, something shiny or translucent.  Rob ripped the plastic wrap off his first aid kit and began to look through its contents.

"What am I going to do?  I'm going to starve.  I'll never make it.  I'm going to ..."  His words were cut short, for out of the corner of his eye, something sparkled in the sun.  He snapped his head around and took sight of the plastic wrap lying on the bottom of the raft.  How perfect, the reflective wrap from the first aid kit just might attract a fish.  Quickly he wrapped the plastic onto the hook, knotting it every so often.  When he had finished, he dropped the glistening specimen down into the water and waited.

About three minutes later, he felt a strong tug on the pole.  Rob began to reel in line and immediately could tell that he was in for a big fight.  The line went limp and then snapped back with greater intensity.  It was obvious that the fish was trying to break the line.  For minutes the battle continued.  After a while, Rob stopped for a moment to see if his catch was yet in view.  Rob carefully laid down in the raft and peered over into the clear Pacific.  There it was, a small glimmer about twenty feet down.  Just for a second, Rob stopped and stared at the fish's beauty, admiring its graceful movements and its elegant form.  Suddenly, the fish became rampant and darted towards the left, until the line stopped dead.  Then, as if from out nowhere, a large, dark shadow whizzed by the fish, and the incident was over.

Rob quickly sat up and reeled in the loose line.  At the end was not the graceful, elegant fish he had just seen, but half of it!  Rob almost threw up.  The bleeding mass of meat seemed to be staring a him as though it was his fault.  Rob hastily removed the remains off the hook and threw it back into the water.  As he watched it drift down, the shadows reappeared and began to fight for the creature.  Little pieces flew out into different directions, and the water became alive with glimmers of an extinct fish and the movement of the dark shadows.  Rob was no longer hungry, he was afraid.

Rob rolled back to the middle of the raft, gazing at the clear, blue sky.  His queasy stomach ached for food, but Rob ignored the pain.  The sounds of the sea cut straight into his ears; the lapping water on the raft, a distant seagull, a quiet hum.  A QUIET HUM!  Rob shot up to a sitting position and saw the small plane flying toward him.  Rob snatched up the first aid kit and ravaged through the items once again.  "There's got to be a mirror.  There's got to be a mirror.  There's got to be a mirror."  There was no mirror.  "I know there's got to be a mirror."  Rob had not given up hope, instead he looked at the card glued to the inside of the tin.  "3x5 gauze pad, 2-2X@ gauze pads, 15ft first aid tape, 3 ammonia packs ..."  Rob readjusted himself so that the glare from the water was not in his eyes.  "... eye patch, tweezers.  How can I be so stupid?  I know I should have gotten the nautical kit, the one with the signal mirror.  I should have listened to everybody ... Wait a minute."  Rob looked at the tin he was holding.  Its metal surface reflected the blue sky, and Rob realized the glare in his eyes was not from the water but from the tin itself.  He rapidly ripped the cover off the canister and aimed it at the plane.  Over and over again, he signaled SOS, SOS, SOS.  The plane dipped its wing and continued on its way.  Rob shook with jubilation; he was saved.

The next morning, Rob woke up with the same pains he had the morning before.  This time they were worse.  It felt as though his stomach was on fire.  "I've got to catch something."  Rob reached over and grabbed the pole lying next to him.  He stopped and looked at his once-perfect lure.  It still contained the same brilliance it had the day before, but it was a little frayed from the fish he had caught.  Hesitantly, he dropped the hook into the water and waited.  WHAM!  The pole bent forward, almost pulling Rob into the ocean.  This time he wasn't going to play any games.   Rob reeled in the line like a machine.  Up and up the fish came.  Rob could practically taste it in his mouth already.  Al of his muscles strained, and pain surged through every part of his body.

Abruptly, the struggle stopped, and the line moved freely.  Rob knew what had happened but didn't want to admit it, so he continued to pull in his catch.  Rob was right, all that remained was the fish's head.  Every muscle in his body ached, and for what:  a large, meatless head.  Once again, Rob leaned over the side as the shadows reappeared.  Rob wanted to cry, but he couldn't.  No tears would come out.  He looked toward the horizon, hoping to see some glimpse of the land or some other sign of hope.  What he saw was beautiful.  It filled him with jubilation and revitalized his entire body.  Off in the distance, not more than a mile away, a small ship raced straight toward him. "Ha, ha.  I told them I could make it.  They said an amateur couldn't sail the Pacific.  I showed them."  Rob stood up and waived his arms frantically.  He knew he was saved, but he hoped if he waved, they'd come faster.  Rob took one step toward the boat just to get closer.

SPLASH!  The raft capsized as the shadows reappeared.

January 2020

Editor's note:  As I get older, the energy of children and teens often feels more and more foreign to me.  Sigh.  But this poem from Monica Aiello in the 1998 451 Press captures the vigor of youth and brings it right back to me.  There's no denying the energy that drives children to move, to be free, to imagine.  The poem's concluding couplet reveals that there's more to the story than white-knuckled, daredevil bike riding and annoying whistles from slow, elder teachers.  Such a delightful poem!  Thank you, Ms. Aiello, wherever you are.

In the Zone

Monica Aiello

It is the morning recess.

The energetic children line-up

Behind the double doors

And the beat-up bikes

Wait on the other side

And in this line

The adrenaline races through their bodies.

This is the suitable reward

For the good behavior during storytime.

The disorganized teacher is looking

For the annoying whistle.

She moves in slow motion,

Passing by us one by one.

My Night-Rider bike is black.

It is a powerful demon;

It possesses me, out of control.

My sweaty palms clench tight

Around the handlebars;

My knuckles begin to turn white.

I will ignore the whistle.

I am the leader of the pack.

Let the others run to line;

Let each slow rider

Finish last.

"Monica! Recess has been over for 5 minutes;

You have held up the class.

Take a time-out in the corner."

The price you pay

To win the race.

November 2019

Editor's note:  A favorite website of mine, poets.org, describes the philosophy of haiku thusly:  "the focus on a brief moment in time; a use of provocative, colorful images; an ability to be read in one breath; and a sense of sudden enlightenment."  Each of these poems in Ryan Kaher's wonderful trio is as true to this description as any I've read.  Enjoy and enjoy again! -- P. V-K.

Morning Ballet

Ryan Kaher, '01

Wake up and see it

Screaming at you with harsh tones

Throw your shoe and snooze

Massive Power with a Cool Spray to Match

Ryan Kaher, '01

Roll in and roll out

Wear and tear away the shore

Bring cool mist to me

Sky Falling Upon Me

Ryan Kaher, '01

Lay on the ground, watch,

See the rain come and fall, wet

The clouds open, dry

March 2019

Editor's note:  The 1994 issue of 451 Press was a poetry issue.  The epigraph to the issue is taken in translation from the great Mexican poet, Octavio Paz (1914-1998):

Touched by poetry, language is more fully

language and at the same time is no longer

language: it is a poem.

With an economy of words and passion that leaps from the page, it seems that Notre Dame-Belmont student Rossanna Gustafson realized the possibilities of language and poetry that Paz refers to. -- P. V-K.

Unrequited

Rossanna Gustafson, '95, NDB

Infatuation, and obsession deep,

That runs into the heart of one that loves.

To begin, to sear, to tear, and to beat,

Upon the doors of someone's heart the proves

To be inside not knowing what she feels.

It ruins her existence, scorching her soul,

Emotions pounding against her mind and heart.

Her passions reel through and unconscious pull

Against the feelings because it is hard.

If she knew, what was love, and, what was not.

It's a mistake that should not be taken.

A hazardous fall that should not be made.

But once looked at in consideration,

This love is worth the high price being paid.

February 2019

Editor's note:  The following poem by Stephen Girolami from the 1994 issue of 451 Press delights at many levels.  The images and metaphors are clever and vivid.  The poet draws the reader into the reverie of the painter, effectively using the change from third person to first person point of view.  The contrast between bucolic pastoral memories and harsh present realities is clear, but also handled with amazing economy.  Ultimately, the work leaves me with thoughts of past joys that can only be revisited through memory, the stark realities of modern life, and the elusive inspirations that fuel the artistic process for so many.  I hope the reader might enjoy this skillfully rendered poem as much as I have. -- P. V-K.

The Mistaken Painter

Stephen Girolami, '94

He sits at his easel and doesn't

know what to paint. He has

forgotten what everything looks

like.  How does he paint a tree

if he has no tree to paint.  How

does he paint a mountain if he

has no mountain to paint.

He searches his imagination, but

it is blank, full of unfinished images.

So his memories invade his hand.

From the brush spills fields of 

forget-me-nots, and daisies mixing

together, giving you a headache if

looked at for too long.  In the distance

he remembers a happy little mountain

whose top would play peak-a-boo with

the stars at night.  A small lake whose

glimmering surface looked like a lens

from a mirror, mimicking what it sees.

And a lone tree.  Pine, he thinks.  What

a sweet smelling tree, whose trunk

was home to Red-Breast Robins, and 

thieving little squirrels who caused

much mischief with birds.  He paints

a child swinging on a tree swing

without a care in the world.  His clothes

are still wet from swimming in the

lake.  That lake had fish as big as

watermelons.  And mother's garden.

I can still hear her, "Who wants

pumpkin pie tonight?"  "I do, I do,"

the little child jumped off the swing

and stumbled towards the house through

the daisies and forget-me-nots.

Forget-me-nots, what a ridiculous name

for a flower...Ding-Dong.  The painter is

awoken, he puts down his tools and answers

his door.  A package from his mother is

on the ground.  He picks it up.  "Mmmmm,

pumpkin pie, thanks mom."  He watches

the UPS truck leaves as it spews black smoke.

He looks through the smoke to the city.  He

doesn't see any trees that children can put

swings on, he doesn't see any mountains

that can play peak-a-boo with the abandoned

stars, he doesn't see any lakes or gardens, in

fact there is not much to see at all.  He closes

his eyes and just listens.  He hears the cries

of the forget-me-nots, "Don't worry," he whimpers,

"I won't forget you."  A single tear glides

over the contours of his face, then falls.  He

backs into his house scared to turn his

back on the city.  He walks up to his easel with

the canvas full of sweet smelling flowers, purple

flowers, mirror lakes, fruitful flower, and

forget-me-nots........"What was I thinking?"