HUMDINGER LITERARY E-ZINE JUNE 2006   Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel   Literary Fiction Editor: Lorena Smith  Poetry Editor: Rochelle Smith Editor: RS Prasanna   Editorial Assistant: Chronika McDowell   Contest Judge: Timothy Bruderek      TABLE OF CONTENTS: SCIENCE FICTION, COMIC FICTION, MAINSTREAM FICTION,  WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST, LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST, MUSICAL NOSTALGIA WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS, TALE TALE CONTEST FINALISTS,  XANADU'S GATE POETRY FINALISTS, BETTER THAN POTTER CHILDREN'S FANTASY FICTION FINALISTS,  HORROR ,  POETRY , FANTASY,  POLITICAL FICTION, AUTHOR INTERVIEWS, SHAKESPEAREAN FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS, SPACE EXPLORATION FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS,  15-LINE POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS  WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS   OLD TUB By J. P. Kane   Adventures of Jack Care-away “Missing Word” By Scott M. Sparling   Prohibition Makes It Hard to Speak Easy (in English 101) By Brian Quass LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS   Aging By Sophya Vidal   The Tower of TVs By Amberine Wilson   Remembering Neverland By Scott M. Sparling MUSICAL NOSTALGIA WRITING CONTEST FINALISTS   I SAW THE SIGN By Victoria Guidi   Tripping By Lorena Smith   Shifting By H. Lovelyn Bettison   MISTER DOUBLE YOU By Jeffrey Scott Jewett   MAINSTREAM/lLITERARY FICTION: CLICK HERE Poeme: An Autobiographical Letter to an Anonymous Friend By Chris Goebel       COMIC SHORT STORIES: CLICK HERE. The Way I See It  By Amberine Wilson  HORROR HORROR SHORT STORIES CLICK HERE. NIGHTSTALKER: IN THE CREEPING DARKNESS  By Chris Goebel POETRY POETRY Click here. The Singing Bridge By Jon Berahya   twenty, for you By Andrew Miller   Collection of Poems By Margaret Fieland   Collected Poems By Stan Krajewski   Untitled by Akil Drayton  SCIENCE FICTION CLICK HERE.   Saving Private Josh By Mark Bennett   Trash By Jonathan Berman POLITICAL FICTION POLITICAL FICTION CLICK HERE TO READ. When an Empire Falls By Lloyd Hudson Frye   FANTASY FICTION CLICK HERE. No recent submissions in this category.  AUTHOR INTERVIEWS CLICK HERE TO READ AUTHOR INTERVIEWS. Interview with Angel Logan.  XANADU'S GATE POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS   Click here to read...   Springwine: The Absinthe Season By Kalae S. Anthony   Forced Retirement By Anne Cahalan   Gotas–De–Lluvia (Raindrops) By Robert Prives TALL TALE CONTEST FINALISTS Click here to read the TALLEST tales! An Old Man Story By Dan Sullivan   INTERNET DATE By Carmen Diode   TALL TALE By Scott M. Sparling   He Married a Yeti By Lloyd Hudson Frye   “Yo-de-ley-e-he!” By J.B. Pravda   OLD DOG RUMBLE By Robert Rives  BETTER THAN POTTER CHILDREN'S FANTASY FICTION CONTEST FINALISTS     MagicWorks--where the magic is real By Chrissie Sparling   HUNYA By JB Pravda   Planet X and the Invasion of the Shadow People By Scott M. Starling SHAKESPEAREAN STORY CONTEST FINALISTS CLICK HERE TO READ SHAKESPEAREAN SHORT STORIES. Rosie By Julia E. Martin The Testimony of Yorick By Louise Norlie Speaking Shakespeare By Scott M. Sparling SPACE EXPLORATION STORY CONTEST FINALISTS CLICK HERE TO READ SPACE EXPLORATION SHORT STORIES. PROMS By Lloyd Hudson Frye Preventing the Reaping By Scott M. Sparling 15-LINE POETRY CONSTRUCTION CONTEST FINALISTS My Legacy By Mary Ellen Garcia Being Fifteen By Scott M. Sparling What If? By Sophya Vidal     WHAT IN THE? WRITING CONTEST FINALIST OLD TUB By J. P. Kane      Why is love so hard to find? And why is it that when you finally do find that someone special that you squeeze and hold on so tight that you press loving right out of them? Like a wash cloth rung too tight.   It was summer in New York. Hottest summer on record and Virginia found herself once again soaking alone. An old tub served as focal point of her Manhattan apartment’s living room. It made for a conversation piece par resistance. Virginia was drawn to it like a baby to candy. Her dark hair cascaded over its rounded cooling end, as her firm breasts floated softly, just barely visible. She held an ice-filled tall glass, which brought relief from summer’s heat and dulled her senses with each sip of brandy. She had been crying earlier and now with drink and deep drag of her joint, her troubles slowly floated like her breasts, away far away. She was alone and she did not care to be alone ever again.   In an adjacent apartment lived Dereick Saunders, ex-baseball star, now turned sports announcer, and his friend Major Domo, whose real name was Lenord Jerome White—but he preferred being called MD or just Major. He was an ex-Navy Seal who had served in Viet Nam.   Truth be told, he and his squad were ordered to retrieve several downed pilots who were being held in a P.O.W camp. Orders read: “To extract with and at any means with minimal contact with enemy.” Major White led his team into dense jungle and extracted six navy pilots safely. He then turned around and returned with three Navy Seals, strictly volunteer operation, to retrieve other POW's left behind. There were fifty or so enlisted marines who had been left behind. That's when all hell broke loose and three Seals were K.I.A.  He was the only black Navy Seal at that time. He was awarded a medal of honor and a purple cross for his actions. Uncle Sam's GI bill afforded him a college education and later a law degree. He now worked for a prestigious Law firm in New York's financial section. He and Saunders were roommates, lovers, and friends, sworn to secrecy about their relationship.   Mona was tall at 5’10’’, big boned with a strong character and a heart of gold. She loved kids and sharing her smile with you. She was unpretentious and looked you straight in your eye. She made an impression—a strong impression—when you first met her. She was raised in a South Dakota town named Winter, where it gets 30 below on average during winter months. Her four brothers helped her grow up confident, if not somewhat tomboyish. But make no mistake, she was a real looker. Green eyes that took your breath away coupled with a figure that an Olympic skier would die for. She, like so many before her, had arrived in New York City with high hopes of fame and fortune. She had gone on countless auditions and was told, over and over again in different ways. “You’re too young; you’re too old; you’re not right type; right height, right age. Still, she wasn't a quitter; she was determined to break into show business.   Forced by financial conditions, she took to exotic dancing, but just until she got her first real role. This is what she told herself. Mona, along with being an exercise-aholic, was a vivacious reader of short plays, poems and novels. She frequented a local Strand used book store at 828 Broadway; this is where she and Virginia first met. That is, Virginia Elizabeth Puscard.   Virginia worked behind the counter. It was a summer job that she had obtained along with a most coveted Manhattan apartment. Job and apartment were only for one summer. Virginia gave up her Paris Flat for a Manhattan apartment, even trade. It is amazing what they can do with an Internet connection theses days.   Mona and Virginia, upon first meeting, were taken by each other’s appearance. Virginia's soft skin and black hair with a gentle and very ear-pleasing French accent was matched by vibrating strength and confidence that oozed from Mona. What is this special magnetism or magic that draws couples to each other over thousands of miles? They hit it off like they had known each other in another life; you could see an aura of heat and a glow of warmth. Not long after their first meeting, they moved in together. Those were really special times; they laughed and hugged and whispered secrets to each other and most of all they loved. They loved with a special love like children display, a playful love not predicated on just sex, but on truly caring about each other. They spent hours together just soaking in an old tub, talking or reading to each other. They laughed; they were happy, gloriously happy and it showed.   Virginia and Mona lived together for three weeks, three days and three hours. There laid an unopened card that Virginia found one afternoon that simply read:                  Love doesn't die it just goes away. Like summer or the day’s end.                So draw love in with deep gentle sighs, ‘cause love doesn't die, it just goes away.                   Missing you already.... Mona       Derick was safe asleep in his apartment when he heard it. He at first thought it was a baseball bat hitting a fast ball. It was Major who knew what it was and from where it had come. An apartment manager along with Major and Derick entered Virginia's apartment. There they found Virginia's naked body floating, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot. Derick had never seen a dead person and lost his stomach. Major had flash backs of Nam but went into auto-reaction and checked for any pulse. Someone said something about him not knowing her as a tenant. I didn't find out about Virginia's suicide until several months later. I am so, so sorry my darling Virginia; I will never forget you and our love that we shared. You were like a sister, friend, and always will be in my prayers. I always will love you.   Mona   Derrick and Major don't live together any more. They are still friends and keep in-touch from time to time. Derrick drifted to California and Major decided to sail to Jamaica.   Mona eventually returned to South Dakota and married a son of a Rancher who owned a farm 13 miles from her home. She now has three lovely children. Two boys and a girl, who she named Virginia.   I knew them all for a short while. I am still in New York and on hot days, I still give some comfort from heat and city living. I am just an old tub but I have seen and heard a lot in my day.     Fini   © Copyright J.P. Kane       Adventures of Jack Care-away “Missing Word” By Scott M. Sparling                           Mister Reaver knocked with tight lips and white knuckles. He looked completely out of place considering his surroundings. From his shiny black shoes to his tall black hat, Robert Reaver was a man of impeccable grooming. Even his mustache had a sheen as if waxed. There wasn’t a hair out of place.             It was a rather scarred surface for a door, dinged and cracked here and there. Everything else in this outer office had that same used luster. Well ingrained dusts and oils. A second-hand look.             “Smells like coffee,” Mister Reaver sneered. “Old coffee. And cigarettes!” He knocked again.             “Come on in. It’s open!” a tired voice answered.             Robert pushed once. Door crashed against wall as he entered. He marched in with a large stride until his pants touched desk. He glared down at a man whom he had loathed ever since high school, but a man he knew he could trust with his life.             “Jack Care-away!” he exclaimed. “I have a problem.”             Jack looked up, bleary eyed and disinterested. “Mister Reaver, what seems to be-”             A harsh ring made both men jump. Jack grabbed his phone, listened for a moment and answered with, “I’m sorry, I have a client in my office right now. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.” He hung up and took a look at his old high school adversary. “Police chief,” he explained. “How can I help you?”             Robert Weaver sat down hard, opening and closing his mouth under his immense mustache while trying to conjure a kind word. He couldn’t think of any. And judging every sour expression Jack shot back at him, he didn’t think Jack had any either. Could he still be upset over Mary-Sue, that cheating girl who had two-timed him with me? Robert wondered.             Robert decided to make his point quickly. “Sometime in this past week or so, someone has broken into my house and taken something from my safe.”             “What did they take?” Jack asked, leaning forward. Solving crimes was Jack’s passion, and he had a knack for it. It was what he lived for, Robert had heard, and he could solve any case handed his way.             “A word,” Robert blurted. “They took a word from my safe. I’m not sure which one it was. I’m not even sure how long or short it is. “I just know that one is missing.”             “Nothing else is missing?”             “No,” Robert said. “Nothing else. A bit odd, don’t you think?”             Jack nodded. “How can you be sure a word is missing?”             “I keep accounts on all words in my vault,” Robert said primly. “Accurate numbers. That’s my motto.”             “It might be just as important to find out which word it is as finding out who took it. You don’t seem to be talking strangely, so I would assume it was not a common word.”             “You’d be surprised how many common words can go missing without people noticing. I think it probably was a common word . . . Otherwise why would they take it? Criminals want something valuable, and common words are usually worth more in a black market. Can you imagine how much money a criminal could make by stealing And or But. What about Yes or No? Those would be worth millions in ransom.”             Jack scribbled a few notes on a yellow pad of paper. “Obviously, if we can still use those words, then none of them were stolen.”             “How right!”             “I think I’ll need to take a look at your house and safe. There might be more clues there.”             “How much is this going to cost?”             “We’ll talk about it en route.”                         A trip from Jack’s office to Robert’s neighborhood normally took fifteen minutes, but Robert cleared it in seven. When they stepped out into Robert’s white cement driveway, his face was already red and pulsing. Negotiations over money had not gone well. Jack’s fee, in Robert’s opinion, was too high.             But he had agreed. A word was missing, and there was nothing more important to a master librarian like Robert. His language and his reputation, were on thin ice.             As they walked up, Jack asked, “So, I heard you have an amazing jewelry collection as well. Quite a few rare pieces worth large amounts. You’re telling me they took a word, only a single word, but left all of those precious jewels untouched?”             “I know what you’re thinking,” Robert wheeled about on his heel and pointed a thick finger into Jack’s chest. “You’re wondering if I might not have made off with my word myself. For insurance purposes or something.”             “That thought had crossed my mind.”             “Well you can forget it. Imagine how useless my insurance contract could be just from missing just one word. That whole, damned, bloody contract might be obsolete right now.”             “I hadn’t thought of that.”             “No, you wouldn’t would you?” Robert calmed down. He forced himself to breath slowly. Jack waited patiently in silence. “I’m sorry. I keep my jewels in a separate safe. It’s hidden well.”             “Wasn’t your word safe hidden too?”             “Yes.”             “Have you checked your jewel safe? Are you quite certain it was not tampered with as well?”             Robert puffed up his chest. “Yes. I examined it most carefully. Not a scrap out of place. Besides, I had taken much more care with that one. Never thought some damned criminal would seriously consider stealing any words.”             They crossed into his house through a side door, and Robert brought Jack straight to his office, located on a very quiet third floor. This office, unlike Jack’s was impeccable. Clean coffee table with literary magazines lined up in a row. An Andrew Weathers sculpture of a man throwing a discus stood at a large window that overlooked a well trimmed garden. A Picasso, certainly a reproduction, hung flat on a wall, well lit from a sinking sunset and track lighting.             Robert marched up and pulled on this painting. It slid away, revealing a dark safe behind. Carefully, Robert ticked away, dialing a combination.             Safe now open, Jack stepped forward to begin his examination.             Words floated inside, as if void of gravity. They bounced off each other and changed trajectories and paths so as to baffle Robert’s eyes, who waited nearby on tip toes, craning his neck to see over Jack’s shoulder.             “How many are there?”             Robert was pleased to hear awe in Jack’s voice. He swelled once again. “Too many to count.”             “There’s an Is and a Yet. And How is floating just near When What and Who. Yes, it would be impossible to guess at what word went missing. You are too right. I’m going to see if I can lift a few fingerprints off this steel.” He set to work with his case of forensics devices. He continued his verbal examination as he worked. “There was nothing else out of place as you said. No damage to dial, handle or any other part?”             “Not a thing.”             “Where do you keep this combination? In your desk, I presume?”             Robert stuttered. “Well . . . yes. In my desk.”             “Anything there tampered with?”             Robert flushed bright red. It was bad enough he needed to ask Jack for help, but he didn’t want to be heckled or frowned upon by him. “I was just checking right now,” he hurried with an explanation. “Everything appears to be in order.”             “Nothing here,” Jack said slowly. “Maybe a few useable prints. Most likely they are all yours.” Jack joined Robert and examined all drawers. “I’ll have to comb over this entire desk for prints as well. I’m sure this supposed criminal must have visited here first to get a combination.”             Jack looked up at Robert, eyes suddenly alert. “Wait! Did you keep both combinations in here? One for each safe? Or are both combinations matching?”             “Of course they aren’t matching. Do you think me for a fool?”             Jack relaxed a little. “I think you should show me where you keep all other combinations. I should like to examine that area, and then take me to this jewelry safe you spoke of as well. I think I have an idea of what’s going on.”             “What is it?”             “Just show me quickly. Time is of essence here, man!”             Robert almost pulled Jack across two hallways and down a flight of stairs. He took Jack to an old broom closet with a secret panel inside where he kept a great many private things, including a small piece of paper with several numbers scrawled on its surface.             “This combination . . . it’s for your Jewel safe?”             Robert nodded.             “Do not touch anything else here. I’ll need to print this entire closet.” Jack gave a quick glance once more, then set down Robert’s secret combination. “Now, take me to your other safe.”             Robert was in a near panic as he waked, answering Jack’s questions as they went.             “No, none of my servants know where I keep it.”             “Yes, I have every piece insured.”             “No, my entire collection is worth over ten million.”             “Yes, I let my wife wear a piece or two occasionally, but I always check them back in myself.”             They descended a large flight of basement stairs. Robert moved away a section of wall containing rows of old wine bottles covered in dust, and revealed a safe of immense proportions.             Jack opened his bag. “Tell me, Robert, does your wife ever come down here without your knowledge?”             “I don’t think so. She hates it down here. Why?”             Jack sniffed at each component; dial, handle, door. “You are absolutely certain?”             Robert sniffed as well, wondering if there were a perfume or other strange odor in about. He detected nothing. “I am fairly certain. Why? Why?”             “I need to know for sure so I can tell how to proceed next. It is of up-most importance. You are certain nothing was missing from this safe?”             Robert grabbed his hair and pulled. His heart hammered away at his ribcage trying to break out. He reached out, ready to dial his combination, but Jack slapped his hand away.             “Robert, I need you to calm down. Take a few deep breaths, and call your wife. Does your cell phone get reception down here?”             “No, I’ll have to go upstairs.”             “I thought as much. Then listen carefully. Ask your wife if she ever opens this safe when you aren’t home. Ask her if any of her friends or family knows about it. Go over each person she knows, one at a time, no matter how aggravated she gets with you. Then tell her every jewel was stolen, just to see what she says. If she acts shocked or amazed, I want you to hang up and call nine-one-one immediately. Do you understand?”             Robert could only nod. He ran upstairs as Jack turned his attention back to his job.             He couldn’t get cell phone reception anywhere in his house, and never could, so he went for his kitchen phone. He tried to stretch as far as he could, but couldn’t see down those dark basement stairs. “Bloody cord!” he cursed his phone. “I told that bitch we should get a wireless.”             His wife answered. Robert froze.             She almost hung up after a few “hellos” but Robert found his tongue and started barraging her with questions. No matter how much she panicked and screeched in his ear, he drilled her for information over and over again, trying to remember every word that Jack had told him to say. Every question.             After a few minutes, she broke out crying and Robert hung up. “Stupid woman!” He said as he dialed nine-one-one. “If she had anything to do with this, I’ll slap that stupid look off her stupid face. Damned, bloody, stupid woman!”             “Nine-one-one.”             “I need to talk to a sheriff, or a detective, or somebody. My jewels have been stolen. They’ve been in my family for years!”             “Your family jewels, sir?” fired back a now stuck up, snotty voice.             “Yes, woman. My family jewels!” Why do I always have to deal with women? he thought.             “Sir, this is an emergency phone number. I’ve heard that joke five times already this week. Please stop calling or we will arrest you.”             She hung up.             Robert bashed his phone on a countertop, smashing it to pieces. I turned and ran down stairs.             “I called, but they thought I was joking!” he yelled. “They said they were going to arrest me if-”             But there was nothing more to say, because there was no one left to talk to. Jack Care-away was gone. Robert’s precious safe was open and empty.             Falling to his knees, Robert crawled forward. “What?” he asked. “What?” He hoisted himself his safe’s lip, and saw that it wasn’t entirely empty. There was one word laying alone, cut into separate letters.             With shaking hands, Robert picked up each letter. An H, and a T and an E. He moaned as he tried to piece them all together, his moan rising slowly into a scream of outrage. He crumpled each letter in his massive hands and faced upward, still screaming.             Had he actually led Jack into his office? Shown him where he kept his combinations? Walked him willingly toward his secret safe?             “Damn you, Jack Care-away. Bloody, hex, hell, damn you!” He screamed and screamed though he knew that Jack Care-away was so far gone that he couldn’t hear it, and that Jack Care-way would be too smart to ever be found again.     © Copyright, Scott M. Sparling         Prohibition Makes It Hard to Speak Easy (in English 101) By Brian Quass   No doubt some of you are wondering why I have prohibited you from either saying or writing a certain three-letter definite article in this semester's English class (you know, one that starts with “t” and ends with “e”?).   Peter, take your foot off of th—THAT desktop, young man! (Whew! I almost said that three-letter word myself!)   There’s a logical explanation. You see—   Come in, come in. What's your name? Sally? Well, you're not on my roll, I'm afraid. No, that's fine: just sit down in— in THIS chair, and we'll worry about it later. (Remind me to kill "a certain" registrar after class, okay, gang? He’s always overbooking me!)   In particular, you may be wondering why you can still use pronouns such as "this" and "that" while scrupulously avoiding this seemingly related three-letter word of which we speak— or of which, in fact, we are going to try to be completely silent until further notice.   Uh-uh! Peter, please deposit that gum in th— Ahem! in one of our several conveniently located trash cans that you'll find to either your left or your right.   Now, where was I?   Oh, yes: This particular three-letter direct article has been banned because it has disturbing connotations, particularly in today’s censorious climate of political correctness. True, its connotations are disturbing in an extremely subtle, almost rarified way, but then we are (I trust) extremely subtle people, so it’s our bounden duty to be revolted by even a marginal flirtation with boorishness.   If I’m making you guys sleepy, feel free to stretch out on— on— on floor! There, see, you almost made me say it again. Now behave!   Where was I? Oh, yes:   Every time we place that connotatively rigid word in front of a noun, we are tacitly suggesting that OUR object, OUR noun (whether it be something as tangible as a fish or as wispy as a dream) has some sort of pinpointable Cartesian existence and that somehow (amongst a vast panoply of likely cognates in a real or imaginary world) it merits our individual consideration in and of itself, without reference to a rich world of associations to which it might otherwise give rise.   In other words—   Oh, wait a minute: Sally Smith, right? I forgot all about it. I have you listed right here in— in— in THIS particular notebook. (Still, a certain registrar has really filled this class to— to— well, he’s filled this class to brim, is what he’s done, straight to brim!)   Anyway...   There is only one noun (or class of nouns) whose real-world referent might indeed be worthy of this connotative exclusivity implied by our direct article, to wit: God, or an Unmoved Mover, so to speak. For when we contemplate such perfection (at least in our western monotheistic tradition) we are indeed thinking of one and only entity. If we worship god X, for instance, we would consider it blasphemous to speak merely of a god X, for we thereby endow rival deities with a philosophical grounds, however slight, for existence.   Indeed, a definite article must introduce such religious nouns if we are to speak accurately of what theologians might refer to as “godhead.”   Fortunately, this class seems to be chockfull of reprobates, so I don't expect too many anchorites are going to object to my grammatical prohibition on religious grounds.   I know, it's 12:00, Peter. (Peter keeps looking up at one of several nearby clocks, so he must be getting antsy.)   Of course, you could argue: How can one distinguish between persons and things without using you-know-which word?   Well, first of all, Charlie Chan never pronounced a direct (or for that matter an indirect) article in his life, yet his conversation, though certainly quaint, was never unintelligible: indeed, it was witty and urbane, more often than not.   But let’s look at this from a philosophical point of view:   This may sound like splitting hairs (especially to you freshmen lot who haven’t yet attended your obligatory Philosophy 101 class with old man Smithers) but there is a real difference between "pointing something out" (with a relative pronoun) and "distinguishing" it (with a definite article). When I say, for instance, that THAT clock (one of several that Paul’s been staring at for at least a half-hour now) is reading 12:00, a full connotation of my statement, if laboriously expressed, would go something like this:   Connotation 1:   That clock over there is reading 12:00, which is not to say that other clocks are not reading different times, nor to suggest that this clock has a monopoly on time-telling accuracy. Indeed, I have merely consulted this particular clock out of convenience: any subsequent presumption of accuracy is therefore a function of our intellect and not of sentence structure.   Peter’s over there like: “Will this be on test?” No, Peter, this will not be “on test,” okay? Man!   Now then, suppose I truly "distinguish" our clock by introducing it (in writing or in speech) with a direct article (that three-letter one, say, that starts with “t” and ends with “e”). Our connotation becomes:   Connotation 2:   T** clock (in other words, this very clock, not some supposititious cognate) is authoritatively reading 12:00, therefore a consultation (even via imagination) of any extraneous timepiece is superfluous. Hence, our thoughts must now logically turn to scheduling considerations that take our noon-hour determination as a "given.”   See? By introducing our noun with a direct article, we’ve not just consulted ANY clock: we’ve consulted a Platonic “clock in itself,” or a sort of Jungian archetype of a “clock,” which, by definition, must be accurate (or at least must be considered so if we are to be logically consistent, since accuracy is one of many qualities that would seem to appertain to a paradigmatic timepiece).   Right, there goes th— th— there goes th— Well, there goes bell, okay? There goes bell!   Off you go, then. (Somebody might want to wake Peter on their way out.)   Oh, yeah, read pages 1 to 100 of “Tess of d’Urbervilles.” This is still an English class, after all, even if I did wax a little philosophical today regarding that unnamable direct article of ours.   Sally, do you have your computer-printed class schedule with you? I'm going to go ahead and add you to our rolls.   What? Your friend Kim there needs to be added, too? Well, you've got to speak up, Kim. You know what they say (let’s see, I’d better be careful how I put this...): a squeaky wheel gets grease!   (Ooh, wait till I see that registrar of ours. This overcrowding business is— is— well, it’s pits, is what it is: it’s just plain pits!)     © Copyright, Brian Quass   LOOKING BACK AT YOUTH POETRY CONTEST FINALISTS     Aging By Sophya Vidal   The whispering echoes of long ago— seem to call my feet today. The childhood—wrapped in a bow, gracing and forming all that I say. Ah, remembering those rainy afternoons, or the victory in my games, spreads my past like free laid runes, or freshly paved lanes. How fleeting youth is built, or perhaps simply the innocence, it seems— Yet like the stitches of a quilt, it’s what helps construct our future dreams.     © Copyright, Sophya Vidal       The Tower of TVs By Amberine Wilson   The tower of TVs was taller than me; he stacked them together all four … or three, and tilted his chair back so it was easy to see the tower of TVs that’d still be taller than me.   He called it “the box” and it worked as his muse, controlling his mood with its buttons and fuse. “What?” he would grunt as his thumb pushed down mute; “Nothing,” I said, but made faces behind the old coot.     I was sent to the table till my homework was done, then we’d mush up some ice cream just cuz it’s fun. Between five and five thirty when nothing was on, his guitar would come out and we’d sing Beatle songs   I noticed the power the tower displayed and watched how it soothed his nerves that were frayed because of some ship place where he worked “all damn day.” Then around six o’clock, “Come and get it,” he’d say.   I sat close beside him on the couch where we ate and beamed at his pride as I cleaned up my plate. When old Bunker was talking, I always laughed late,