The Manhattanville Monthly

October 21st, 2009

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There have been some exciting developments in the past weeks here at Manhattanville College. Let's turn to our lead report, C.M. Alodia Smalls for the full report.

"Last weekend, our correspondent, who wishes to remain anonymous, went through a terrifying ordeal while attempting to visit her better half at Hampshire College. After arriving at the bus station at three in the morning, the young woman discovered the ticket counter was closed, and would not open in time for her to buy her ticket to Amherst. For a few horrifying few minutes she was trapped, stranded in the large city of White Plains; the school provide bus had driven off without her. She was saved by a taxi, who agreed to take her back to the college despite the time. However, come to find out there was a discretion in the form of payment, causing the young woman to have to be ESCORTED by CAMPUS SECURITY to the local A.T.M. The young lady was thankfully able to return safely to her room at nearly four in the morning, after having a humiliating walk of shame down the halls of Spellman's third floor.

The following Monday, a rising starlet here at Manhattanville College handed in a story to her Creative Writing class. "I'm not usually proud of my work," the woman says, in a very private interview. "but this is something I think I excelled at. I was really aiming to capture the imagery, and putting the reader into the story." the story follows a young teenage boy living in the ghetto of Phoenix home, where he comes face to face with his deadbeat parents. He narrowly escapes the wrath of his abusive father, with little help from his mindless mother.

Tuesday, the Freshman Seminar 'To Be Human' class was cancelled, leaving several students on campus free all afternoon and evening. The same day, the course Theory of Knowledge took their midterm exam. The exam was simply this - to sign a piece of paper that was passed around, with your name and stating you had participated in class. One girl, a short, spunky brunette, stated, "I love college!" The students also learned that class was to be cancelled on Friday. They had previously been scheduled to take an actual test that day, but the teacher was called away to a meeting and was unable to find a proctor.

Late this afternoon, the students of the class Politics and Religion in Ireland learned that their class had been cancelled - for the third week in a row. Due to the 'Backpack to Briefcase' program being put on for the senior class, only three of the students had planned on attending class, and the Professor found it useless.

In the coming weeks:

a small group of students, including roommates Chelsea Linehan and N'Jeri Agyeman, and cousins Fabiannie and Alexandra Paulino have decided to head into White Plains Thursday night in the hopes of getting Halloween costumes.

Saturday is Manhattanville's 'Fall Fest' featuring food, prizes, face painting, henna tattoos, games and more. Many students are excited and plan on dressing for their theme: 'Dress in Flannel for Fall Fest'.

Sunday night, the college is holding a 'Haunted Castle Tour' from 7 p.m. - midnight for five dollars. This should be a popular event and many students plan on attending.

The coming week looks calm and uneventful, but most know here at Manhattanville any day is not uneventful. The next weekend is Halloween, and while it has not been decided on definitely, it is assumed that a party of some sort will take place in which the students will attend. Unfortunately for a few particular students, this means no trick-or-treating, and hence no candy. Cape Codders Blake Tower and Dylan Buotte have discussed their plans in coming to visit a fellow friend here at Manhattanville for the Halloween weekend, though this is could be considered a doubtful event.

Until next month, C.M. Alodia Smalls, signing off."

Thank you very much Alodia! We hope you have enjoyed this month's edition of Manhattanville Monthly.

Comments? Concerns? Questions? Please email wedontgiveahoot@nowhere.com

C.E.O: Anon E. Mouse

Editor In Chief: No Onep Articular

Staff Reporter: C.M. Alodia Smalls

Untitled!

Chelsea Linehan

October 18^th, 2009

Story With Silent Character

August was a particularly hot month, especially in Phoenix. It was 102° that day. The tar on the ground was almost melting it was so hot, and as Ashton Boufford came to a stop on his skateboard, he picked up a water bottle and dumped it over his head. Every drop that hit the ground sizzled and steamed around him. The water was as warm as bath water, after having sat in the sun all day while Ash practiced his tricks, spins and flips. He eyed the sun for a second, before shaking his shaggy black hair around his head. The rest of the water dropped from him to the earth below.

The teenager picked up his board and started out of the park and down the street. It was about four o’clock. He was hungry and tired, and had plans that night. Ash was going to a metal concert with his friends. Turning down Harley Avenue, he dropped his board to the ground and stepped on it, quickening his pace. As the skyscrapers and highways of the city became his backdrop, his surroundings became big brick apartment buildings, with iron rod decks for every unit, and luscious gardens at the steps. Children rode by him on their scooters going a million miles an hour, heading to the moon; parents sat on the steps watching, sipping homemade lemonade and gossiping about their fellow neighbors. A few greeted Ash and offered him a drink, tempting him to ‘come out of the sun and into the shade for a moment’, but he politely declined and took a rain check.

And then Harley Avenue became Scotch Street, and nice apartment buildings became broken down houses, condemned by the town or closed by the landlords. The kids disappeared and in their place were the ragged, strained homeless of Phoenix’s streets, or the hard-as-nails drug dealers. All outcasts of society, all condemned, like their home, to a life of obscurity. It was here that Ash slowed down, and somewhere in the middle of Scotch Street stopped, kicking his board into his hand, and heading up the stairs. The door was open, whether it had been left unlocked, or someone had broken in was irrelevant; there was almost nothing here worth stealing, not to the common thief.

Ash lived on the fourth floor. There were at least eight units on every floor. That meant at least eight families a floor, with five floors. The building itself was decently sized, but after having been split so many times to accommodate as many people as possible, the apartments were cramped and awkwardly arranged. Ash lived with his Mom, and sometimes his Dad, in one of the larger apartments. They had their own kitchen, and their own bathroom; this was a luxury, as both the first and third floors shared a bathroom and kitchen. As he headed up the stairs, he could hear the screaming babies who lived on the second floor, the Italian immigrants on the third floor, and the echoing rap music from the landlord son’s room on the first floor. The fourth floor was quiet, but Ash knew enough not to be fooled. Give it time, he thought, in a few hours this floor will be as loud as the others.

The door to his house was open. In plain view to any passerby was his living room, complete with broken coffee table covered in booze and assorted drugs, and ratty couch. His mother, thirty two year old Anna Sharbreck, was laying unconscious across there, long black brown hair spilled out around her, arm flung over the side, mouth open wide as though she had been mid-speech when sleep took her. “Ma.” Ash croaked out, walking over to her still form. He gave her a good shake. “Ma, wake up. Shit, Ma, not again.” He put a hand over her mouth, and the lines on his face relaxed as he felt her breathing – steady, and strong. She was alive, at least. “Can you wake up, Ma?” he asked again, shaking her again. Her lips moved and she shifted away from him. Satisfied, he backed away and turned to look at the coffee table. This wasn’t an unusual state for her, she’d wake up eventually, probably cranky and looking for a drink, or a hit.

Ash grabbed the empty bottles off the table and walked into his kitchen, dropping them in the garbage bag. It clanged with yesterday’s bottles. He turned, opening the fridge and bent to look at its contents. Ketchup, relish, butter. Not even a bottle of booze, or a water bottle. Ash had taken the last one with him this morning. As if it knew, Ash’s stomach grumbled. He stood in the dirty kitchen for a moment, unsure of what to do.

In a second he had crossed from the kitchen back to his mother’s side at the couch. He shook her roughly this time. “Ma, wake up. Listen to me, Ma. It’s Ash. Where did you hide the money?” Her eyes rolled around in her head as Ash shook her again, raising his voice. “Ma, where’s the money. Where’d you hide the money?” Anna finally opened one green eye, trying to focus on her sixteen-year-old son. She opened her mouth but instead of verbalizing, she pointed across the room. Ash darted to the shelves that stood against the wall and reached up, taking down the whiskey bottle that sat among the few books they had. Taking the bottle by it’s neck he turned around and smashed it against the table. His mother sat up quickly in alarm. “It’s just me, Ma. It’s ok.” They met eyes and he watched as she tried to recognize her son through her drug-induced haze. When it finally went through she flopped back down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Ashton leaned down and picked up the wad of money tangled among the shards of glass. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Ash whipped around and met eyes with a man standing in the hall. He staggered forward and gripped the frame of the door, glaring at him. “Wha’re you doin’ with my money?” Ash’s hand tightened around the money in his hand, and he lifted the broken bottle in the other. He studied the reflection of his face in the man’s.

“Dad, I-I need this…we’re out of food…” his voice wavered as Thomas Luppen crossed the room quickly. He grabbed his son by his hair and yanked him in the downward direction. Ash let out a yelp like a dog and waved the bottle head above him like a weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother sit up, witnessing the scene. Grabbing his dad’s wrist he reached over and dragged the broken glass across his skin. Thomas groaned in pain and let go, smacking Ash in the face.

“BASTARD CHILD!” he dropped to the floor and groaned, feeling blood drip from his nose to the ground. There was a shriek and Ash looked up to see Anna staggering against Thomas in defense of her son. The two drunks struggled with each other for a moment. Ash rolled over onto his hands and knees and started crawling away. After a few feet he rose to his feet and tripped to the door of his bedroom. He shut it, and locked it, wandering to the window on the other side of the room. His hand pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the steady drip of blood.

Ash was knocking his elbow and palm against the window to open it when the door banged once, then broke open and revealed Thomas in the doorway, Anna still grabbing at his shoulders. With a swift motion he knocked the woman into the wall, where she fell and crumbled into a withering ball on the floor. For a moment, Ash and Thomas met hazel eye to hazel eye, and in a split second the elder had crossed the room and knocked his son out the window onto the fire escape. On the ground again, Ash leaned back and kicked up into the face of the man. The heel of his foot made contact with his nose and there was a loud crack, signaling the breaking of his nose. Thomas swore loudly and sat back on the window ledge, hitting his head on the frame. A moment later he dropped to the floor.

Stumbling to his feet, Ash looked down at the drunk, unconscious and left in a pool of his own blood. He looked up and met eyes with his mother. She leaned against the wall for support, a black eye forming, blood dripping from a cut above her right eyebrow. His lips formed a tight line and he shook his head lightly, before pounding down the metal steps and running off into Phoenix’s setting sun.

The Sad Part.

The sad part is, we seem so much happier apart.

My Thoughts, Part Deux (Apparently)

http://hellinmyhead1991.blogspot.com.

Short Story

She sat at the base of the sink, her eyes trained on the mirrored closet doors in front of her. She met her own gaze and held it. The room around her was trashed, littered with papers and feathers and pillows, broken glass and cracked pictures and mirrors. There was an odd silence around the room; it was the kind of sound that that came after major destruction. It masked even her deep breathing.

The girl tore her gaze from the mirror to study the damage she had done. It was chaos, everywhere. She didn’t know where to go from here. The girl wasn’t even sure if she could function. Fights are a vacuum for passion and emotion, leaving the aftermath empty and desolate. But the longer she sat there, face to face with herself in the tail end of disaster, the more regret settled into her empty stomach. It wasn’t the regret left by their usual spats, but a deep, black monster that moved through her blood like acid.

In the background she became aware of a high-pitched ringing. It repeated itself, demanding her attention. “You’ve reached Cecily Cunningham and Samson Andrade, we’re not in right now, so please leave a message after the beep. BEEEEEP. Hahahaha, SAMSON!” “Cecily, pick up. Come on babe, you can’t hide out there forever, you know I’ll come in after you. Look just ca-” the message from Cecily’s sister cut out as she ripped the cord from the phone, tossing it across the room. The brunette lifted herself to her feet, looking around the room slowly. As she crossed into the living room, her eyes landed on a black heap in the middle of the floor. Cecily picked it up and brushed it off. Her fingers traced the seams of the fabric, and then the lettering across the front. ‘Burn Me Down’. She slipped on the sweatshirt and breathed in the memories and sweet smell of Axe body spray. It made her shiver straight down to her bones.

Cecily was making a sandwich when it started. “I need to tell you something I should have told you a long time ago.” She looked up, smiling at him. Samson stood in the doorway of the living room, looking at her carefully. He held something in his hands that he twisted, over and over.

“Want a sandwich? I got some ham from the deli.”

“No, Cecily. Will you just sit down for a second?” Cecily frowned, putting down the knife and crossing her arms.

“I’m fine standing. What’s going on?”

“I’d really rather you sit – ”

“Sam, stop it you’re scaring me.” He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and sat down at the island. It was then that she saw what he was holding in his hand – a kid’s Red Sox sweatshirt. “Who’s sweatshirt is that, Sam?” Cecily asked in a low voice.

“His name is Devlin. He’s ten years old…he lives in Cambridge with my ex girlfriend Darcy. I was seventeen and a senior in high school. She was the older and more experienced woman. I was foolish. We both were.” She started at him, but his eyes never left the countertop.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a son, Cecily. A son.” She laughed, but when he didn’t laugh with her it died off. She felt her breath catch in her throat and gripped the side of the counter for support.

“A son? You…you can’t have a son..”

“I have a son, Ces.” Samson’s tone was harsh and she ground her teeth together, her eyes drifting to him again.

“What do you mean you have a son, Samson. You can’t have a son, I would have known. We’ve been together for four years. You don’t have a son, Samson, you can’t!”

“Cecily, would you listen to yourself! Listen to what I’m saying to you! I have a son. He’s ten years old. He lives in Cambridge.”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME BEFORE! How could you keep this from me, Samson. For five years, I’ve known you FIVE YEARS!” Cecily screamed at him, stepping away from the counter.

“I was scared, Ces, I was scared! I didn’t want to lose you!” he stood, screaming back at her.

“That is bullshit, Samson, and you know it! How could you do this to me!”

“Oh yes, Cecily, because at the time I was thinking of you. NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU! DO YOU REALIZE THAT?!” she whipped around to glare at him, dropping the porcelain plate in her hand, allowing it to drop to the floor and shatter. As she opened her mouth to respond, a familiar ringing echoed from his pocket and he pulled out a beaten up flip phone. “Andrade. Yeah. Yeah I’ll be outside in two.” He shut the phone and disappeared from the room, coming back a moment later with his uniform. “Forest fire at the base of the Berkshires. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

“Get back? You think you’re coming back?” Cecily spat, glaring at him through thick tears. “Don’t bother. I’ll leave you a suitcase outside the door.” The only response she got was the sound of the door closing behind him.

They didn’t fight very often but when they did, the fights were always disastrous. This one had been worse than all the rest. Cecily collected the evidence in the form of the broken plate in her hand, opening the garbage. A broken plate was nothing now.

Cecily was used to his bizarre hours. She could stand the phone calls at all hours of the day and night, and could usually even handle the waiting. But forest fires were different. It meant even longer hours, and extra danger. In the first half hour Cecily’s anger had fueled her packing. His suits, t-shirts, jeans, toothbrush, all of it in a suitcase and a duffel bag outside the door. Then it was that picture, those sets of sheets, and more. It took her four hours to get rid of everything in the apartment that was his. Cecily had just picked up the last thing, his ‘Burn Me Down’ sweatshirt, when the phone rang. “I’m sorry Cecily,” the Sergeant said over the phone. “He went missing some time in the second hour. We have a search party out for him, but after another hour or so we’ll have to turn in. The fire’s spread and we can’t spare too many extra men.” The shock was like ice down the back of her shirt. She started to shake violently, her teeth chattering and hands trembling. Slipping on the sweatshirt, Cecily tried to warm the innate cold that had settled in her body. But what she really needed was Samson and his arms around her.

As the tears came, she started to rip at her pillow, and soon Cecily was throwing everything she could get her hands on. All she could hear was her last words.

And now she was left to clean up the mess.

Cecily bit back her tears as she headed to the hall closet for the vacuum. Such a mess. Everything was such a mess and it was all her fault. If only she had just kept her mouth shut and temper in check. If only she hadn’t freaked out, he’d still be here. The thought made tears burn her eyes again, but she was out of tears. Instead Cecily dragged the vacuum to the other side of the room, and was plugging it in when she heard it. The knock was soft at first, but then a bit harder. Cecily pulled the sweatshirt tighter around her and crossed the room slowly. She couldn’t handle the idea that it would be the Sergeant with Samson’s things. Once she had cleaned the apartment, Cecily would put his things back, and make as if he had never left. The child’s Red Sox’s sweatshirt sat on the counter and she grabbed it as she approached the door. Oh god, would she have to tell his kid?

Cecily swung open the door and followed the line of the boots, up the black pants with brightly colored stripes, to the matching jacket and finally met his blue eyes with hers.

“Cecily, I’m sorry.”

Dear You, Love Me.

Dear You,

I am so sorry for everything that happened. And I understand that you don't want to deal with me for a while, and I had every intention of leaving you alone, but things changed. I wouldn't be able to stand myself if you went in for surgery and we were still fighting. You know the old wives tale about tying up your lose ends...

If you really don't want anything to do with me anymore, then you can simply ignore this, and come Thursday when I haven't heard from you, I will know. But I wouldn't sleep right at night knowing that I hadn't at least made the effort to patch things over before.

I love you with all my heart. I know it's been hard the past six weeks, but I'm just scared and lonely. I'm 236 miles away from home - away from you, and Mama, and all the rest of my friends. And I'm terrified. Somehow, all that fear and whatnot boiled out onto you, because you were my safe place. You were where I could go, and I knew that it was all going to be ok, and that you would always be there for me. I shouldn't have placed so much responsibility on you, I'm so sorry.

I'm not going to lie, I'm hurt by this. But you're too important to me to let you just walk away from me. Today is Tuesday, the 29th. If you want to talk things over, and make up, please text me, call me, skype me, IM me, Facebook message me - anything. If not, then you'll never hear from me again, I promise. Please talk to me.

Love, always and forever,

Homegirl.

I'm so worried about him.

I prayed for him.