An Anthology of Verse and Prose
By the Composition for Honours Class
Howard University (2002-2003)
 
Tiffani JeTaun Jones
Editor-in-Chief
 
Roniesha Lajoi Copeland
Co-Editor-in-Chief
 
Editorial Staff
Michelle Jamese Boyd
Sherry-Ann de Coteau
Ebony De Leon
David Overton
Crystal Ramdial
Trenile N. Tillman
Kristen J. Wilson

Cover Design
International Creative, INC
Bobby Broughton

Photographer
Trenile N. Tillman

Accountant
Charlene M. Brown

Web Production
Noel Rose Mekkawi

Contents

Forward

E.R. Braithwaite
The Red Tie
Conversation Piece

Akinseye Akinola
The Fog of War
Trilogy of a Journey to Higher Manhood
The Good Man
Flow

Marsha Alexander
Journeys
Who am I?

Jamila R. Blake
The Long Wait 
The Welcome Party

Michelle Jamese Boyd
Eternal Love
The Wedding Gift
The Land
Childhood Memories
Reflections
Mahogany Pleasure

Randi L. Bridges
Smile
An Unheard Song 
When Innocence Says Goodbye
A Kiss Goodnight

Charlene M. Brown
Me and Howard
Some Songs Aren’t meant to be Sung
When Love Becomes a Rose

Lauren D. Chisholm
Table for Two
Me

Roniesha Lajoi Copeland
One Last Time
A New World
Farewell
So This Is the End

Sherry-Ann de Coteau
Me
Soucouyant in de C
Free to Be
For Gwendolyn
Savage and the Savages
Some Songs Aren’t meant to be Sung

Ebony De Leon
Thinking of You
The End
The Coin’s Two Faces

LaKrishna Shacquel Freeman
A Friend Like You
That Boy Is You

Kyree Nicole Holmes
An Ill Wind
Good Luck, Not Goodbye

Tiffani JeTaun Jones
Before and After
Forced to Serve
God Bless America (And Nowhere Else)
Me
Renaissance

Patrice A. Mitchell
A Broken Family
A New Life

Nubia Regina Murray
“Screen It Out” Commentary
Best Friends?

David Overton
A Dance with the Devil
How Much Did You Say?

Loren Edward Perkins-Johnson
When I Think of Her

Crystal Ramdial
Edward
Who Am I?
The End?
What is Love?

Faith Rogers
Pinky Promise
Love

Trenile N. Tillman
Goodbye, Mom
You

Gabriel Tuck
Bombs Over Baghdad
You Are My Everything

Kristen J. Wilson
Murder 1
Happiness

Foreword

Using our language well is the benchmark of the Composition for Honors class headed by Mr. E.R. Braithwaite. At the commencement of the school year, we showed the potential to write well. However, since potential is-as described by one of my classmates-the promise of future actions, it is worth nothing if the action is never accomplished. Now, at the culmination of the academic school year, we have produced a collection of work to fulfill our promise, bringing our potential to fruition.

As Editor-in-Chief of Faces and Voices 7: An Anthology of Verse and Prose, I would like to extend a special thank you to the following persons: Mr. Mohamed Mekkawi, Director of the Howard University Libraries, who has been instrumental in the electronic publication of this anthology which can be found in the Creativity Zone on the Howard University Libraries’ website; Ms. Roniesha Copeland, Co-Editor-in-Chief; Ms. Trenile Tillman, photographer; Ms. Charlene Brown, accountant; Ms. Randi Bridges and Ms. Michelle Boyd, for their tireless aid in final editing; and the entire editing staff.

Finally, to Mr. E.R. Braithwaite, I extend my deepest gratitude, for surely none of this would have been possible without your tutelage, wisdom, and ever-prodding punctilious eye for the highest standard possible.  
 
 Tiffani JeTaun Jones

The Red Tie
E. R. Braithwaite

Fragment of scarlet silk
Mom’s birthday gift to me so long ago
Colour of blood and courage
She’d said it suits me.
Insisted I wear it, even though
She had to know
T’was not my cup of tea
Safe, snug around my neck
Fragile, jaunty trapping
Edges and ends age frayed
Yet softly tapping
A minuet against my cheek with every errant wind
Reminding of things past
The times, the tides, the dark
The sorrowing
It bids me raise a cheer
Reach upward.
Towering.

Conversation Piece
E. R. Braithwaite

At the end of that day’s writing workshop, several students and I repaired to my office for further discussion of a matter which had been raised during the session – the relationship between reading and writing.  I had asked some of them to read aloud from the text we were using as a reference and it soon became clear to me that most of them, though Juniors or Seniors, read in a way which would have made it very difficult for anyone without a copy of the text to follow the unfolding of the story.
Even the better readers exhibited little interest in or appreciation for punctuation and if they encountered an unfamiliar word, were inclined to mumble something unintelligible or skip it entirely; the result was, that in most cases, their efforts failed to translate the words on the page into a recognizable and meaningful picture.
When we were settled, one young man, in a somewhat combative tone, addressed me while glancing around at his peers as if to suggest that they shared the same view.
“Professor, I didn’t like that you sort of like asked me to read aloud in class.  I mean like in front of everybody.  It’s like, I’m a Junior, you know what I’m saying, and I haven’t done anything like that in years.  Made me feel like a grade school kid, you know?”  Looking around as he spoke, for the supportive nodding heads of the others.
“Yeah” another agreed “I could ha’ like read much better, like when I’m reading to meself.  You know what I’m saying, but I was not expecting to like read in front of everybody.”
Now several attempted to speak all at the same time, but I insisted that each take a turn.  A young woman with petulant voice said,
“I don’t see the point of it anyway.  The workshop is like for writing, right?  It’s not about reading.  If I’d known I’d be reading I wouldn’t be there.  I didn’t join the class to learn about reading.”
I waited for anyone else to comment, and when no one did, I said,
“I agree that the workshop is, as you succinctly put it, about writing, just as a dressmaker’s workshop is about dressmaking, or a carpenter’s workshop is about building things.  May I suggest that the first requirement in any workshop is familiarity with the tools and materials associated with the activity.   The dressmaker’s apprentice must learn about fabrics, the natural ones, such as silk, linen, wool, cotton and the various blends which result from mixing them together, and the even wider variety of synthetic fabrics now available.  Then there are the tools of the trade and even those tricky necessities called needles and pins, all each of which have their places in the overall scheme of things.  Similarly with the carpenter’s apprentice.  He too must quickly become familiar with the tools and the raw materials used in the trade, such as wood, steel, brick, glass, nails, screws, all those things, large or small without which not much building can be done.”
They were watching me, guardedly, as if waiting to see where it was leading.  I continued,
“A dressmaker needs to be familiar with a wide variety of fabrics, the better to produce those amazing creations his customers wear with such casual elegance; a carpenter must know a great deal about his raw materials, that he might design and produce structures which are as aesthetically pleasing as they are attractively functional.
A writer’s raw materials are words.  He or she must learn about them to the point or comfortable familiarity.  He must know them so well that he is able to arrange them to best effect for joy or sorrow, pleasure or pain and all the multitudes of emotions which unceasingly clamour for his attention.  A writer needs words.  Lots and lots of words.  So, where are they to be found?”
I waited, and one young man offered, nearly inaudibly,
“Books.”
“Yes” I said, “They’re to be found in books.  That’s why we must read.  If we don’t read, we won’t have the words we need when we wish to give expression to all those wonderful ideas running around in our heads, seeking a way out.  We need words, lots of words, so that we can pick and choose from among them to give what we say or write the exact taste or flavour which the circumstances dictate.”
“When I read your written assignments and observe how you attempt to make the same very limited vocabulary serve every need, it becomes quite clear that you do not read enough.  If you want to write, you must read.  Anything and everything.  Newspapers, magazines, novels, comics, fairy tales, anything.  If it’s in your language, read it.  Anything that’s written represent that author’s attempt to convey something to us; when we read it, we discover how he has used words to present his story, and we are thus instructed in many ways in which words may be arranged or re-arranged at the writer’s discretion.”
“Behind you on the top of the bookshelf you can see a very large, old book.  It weighs about thirty pounds and is somewhat worse for wear, for, as Shakespeare might have said, it has been slave to thousands.  It is an English dictionary and contains hundreds of thousands of words.  The simple, wonderful truth is that each word in that book belongs to you; any of you.  All of you.  All that you need to do is claim them.  With your first breath of life you became heir to every word in that book, because it represents the compilation of the bricks of your language.”
‘I wouldn’t expect you to try to get something as large as that; a pocket – sized edition will do just as well to help with your reading.  You say you want to write; then read.”  Still no sound from any of them, so, for a change of pace I asked,
“How many of you can correctly drive a nail with a hammer through a piece of wood?”
They looked at me and at each other, then one young woman, smilingly, said
            “That’s not easy.  I know.  I tried.”
            “Exactly, “ I replied.  “but, with practice, it can be done.  After a short period of trial and error, the carpenter’s apprentice becomes adept at it.  So it is with words.  The more you read, the more varied your reading, the more familiar you become with words.  Another thing.  You wonder why I asked you to read aloud in class.  It was that you too would hear the words as you read them, and recognize the importance of giving each one its correct sound, so that together they recreate a recognizable picture.  You should each try it in the privacy of your room.  The more you hear the words as you read, the more comfortable you will become with each sound and the more confident in your ability to reproduce that sound, so that the confluence of sounds will recreate the right pictures.”
            A hand was raised, hesitantly.  It belonged to a young woman who had, as yet, said nothing.  I nodded to her and she said,
            “I always thought writing would be fun.  That’s why is signed up for your class, but you make it sound like a lot of work, hard work.”
            “Writing is indeed hard work, hard work, especially for a beginner.  Learning anything requires work.  Has anyone of you a young sibling?  Have you noticed the total concentration he or she gives to any new toy or game or puzzle?  That’s learning and it’s work.  The fun comes later, with knowing how the puzzle or game works.  Do you remember when you were learning to ride a bicycle?  The total concentration necessary to maintain your balance while pedaling, the falls, the bruises on elbows and knees.  All work.  Then came the day when, unassisted, you could pedal along, balancing easily, comfortably.  That was fun, and the fun came from knowing how to do it.  Reading to acquire a varied and effective vocabulary is work, the fun comes with the ability comfortably to express yourself, vocally or on the page.”
            “Professor, I’m graduating next year.  You make it sound like it’s already too late for me.”  That from the young man of the earlier combative posture. 
            “It’s never too late to begin using your language well; it’s never too late to insist on using words to make sense, comic sense, poetic sense, dramatic sense, casually descriptive sense, it’s entirely up to you.  You say you want to write, then continue to read and write after you graduate.”
            “I thought this class would be, like, easy, you know what I’m saying, sort of like an easy grade.  I should have taken something else” someone said.
            “I thought you joined the class because you wanted to write” I told him.  “Are you so easily discouraged?  If the wish is there, give it a chance.  I am here to help, but don’t expect it to be fun.”
            He stood, retrieved his bookpack and made ready to leave.  As if on cue, the others stood, said their goodbyes and were soon gone.

The “Fog of War”
Akinseye Akinola

     "It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets." - Voltaire.
     "War is delightful to those who have had no experience of it." - Desiderius Erasmus.
   .  .  .
How weird is it that during Vice President Dick Cheney’s tenure as chairman of Halliburton this same company sold more equipment to Iraq than any other company? From 1998 to 1999, Halliburton subsidiaries had submitted $23.8 million worth of contracts with Iraq to the United Nations for approval by its sanctions committee. Halliburton also has had dealings with Iran and Libya, both on the State Department’s list of terrorist states. Of this same Halliburton, two of it’s subsidiaries were fined millions for re-exporting goods to Libya in violation of U.S. sanctions.
     Just a couple of years back, Vice President Dick Cheney, then chief executive of  Halliburton, was engaged in secret business dealings with Saddam's regime, selling equipment and spare parts to make Iraqi oil fields more productive, according to United Nations records. Yet during the 2000 presidential, on an ABC-TV news program, Cheney adamantly denied such dealings. A wonder his nose didn’t immediately grow longer on national TV!  Indeed the ‘Father of Greek Tragedy’, dramatist Aeschylus, once said that in case of war, truth was always the first casualty. 
     It’s also ironic that the Bush administration continues to heap insults on France for not supporting Bush’s decision to embark on a questionable pre-emptive war against Iraq, but behind the closed doors of corporate boardrooms these same hawks use French subsidiaries of their American companies as cover-ups for their transactions with Saddam. The US can be likened to a spoiled child, happily conceited when everyone showers him with attention and caters to his every whim but throwing tantrums the instant someone voices a contrary opinion.
     Even if sharing the financial spoils from reconstructing a post-war Iraq isn’t the primary reason for waging war against Saddam Hussein, the very thought of someone profiting from such an evil venture as war is sickening. Any person who could already contrive victory plans with personal profits in mind, whether primary or secondary, is nothing short of cold and heartless. The lives of thousands of innocent Iraqi civilians and American and British troops are really not worth sacrificing in order that, with the sweat and blood of these people, you could be able to repay some rich friends who gave away a couple of dollar bills to help put you in office.
     Despite the president’s seemingly limited inclination to logical and ethical reasoning, I still believe he is aware of the fact that the establishment of a connection between the war on Iraq and its benefit to some of his cronies could prove unforgivably disastrous for his administration, even in the eyes of the American people, who seem to be more and more accepting towards whatever new brash decisions he carries out in the name of ‘patriotism’. 
     It now seems that although Halliburton might be out of the contest for rebuilding Iraq- they still get to extinguish oilfield fires in Iraq- I can’t help wondering whether they withdrew their reconstruction bids of their volition or the government decided to rethink its previous decision. But alas, Halliburton isn’t the only company in the race with political connections and we can only wait and see who the government decides gets the chunk of that bittersweet pie.

Trilogy of a Journey to Higher Manhood
Akinseye Akinola

As I put together my tempestuous emotions,
Trying all so hard to hold back the deluge of tears
So determined in their bid to break loose,
And flood bank, watering my parched orotund countenance
And break the primal rule governing masculine goodbyes,
All I feel now is a loneliness emptiness cannot describe,
Sadness the doomed opponent of the Nadir alone understands,
Miles from the airport yet homesickness wells strong inside,
Already losing the domiciliary warmth I have so felt all the time,
What turned my home into a house?
The malignancy of my selfish pain intensifies,
As this sadness will take weeks to subside,
The little prophylactic I am willing to accept,
Presumptuous of course but still helpful,
Is for someone to empathize with and listen to my song of tears.

II.
Sitting by my airplane window,
Stoically disallowing my thoughts to roam home,
Ignoring the cirrus mists of nostalgic feeling,
Which gather in the midsummer dome,
With great pain I attempt to alienate reason and sentiment,
Dismembering the appendages binding me to the ones I love,
Smelting the golden amalgam of family union
Which I had once grappled to my soul with hooks of steel,
Once again gritty tears threaten to expose my unfair treachery,
To undo the hara-kiri knot I have so shoddily made,
To untie the noose that tightens round my neck with every passing day,
But chauvinistic adamancy again seizes the day,
Life in the Fool’s Paradise commences…

III.
Trying ever so hard to forget the “past”,
And embrace my prosperous “future”,
Knowing well that behind every future lies a past,
The past will always be the definite constant
Embedded in the constantly changing integral of future;
Future having been engraved eternally in the calculus equation of life,
Having given myself this advice,
Heeded or unheeded,
I proceed to become the Kafkaesque bystander,
Staring and observing the cars go by
On the American roads of time,
I shall wait and see.

“The Good Man”
Akinseye Akinola

     “NOOOOOOO!!!”
     He woke up in a cold sweat, and tears in his eyes. He always had these dreams- or nightmares- when it was about to happen. Images of his mother being pummeled furiously by his dad, taking care not to hit her face, and him being continuously sodomized by this same man, with bestial intensity, still flashed in his head.
     His name was Sam and as you can see, his dad was a wife-beater and violent pedophile. Unfortunately no one would believe anything he said- his mum was too weak to stand up for herself, let alone anyone else- because his dad so happened to be the present President of the United States. Sam’s dad was none other than the personable 23rd U.S President John Goodman, popularly known as ‘The Good Man’ for he could do no wrong in the public’s eye. He was definitely the most morally upright president ever, with a special no-nonsense stance towards domestic violence and sexual molesters of any kind. Plus, the First Lady always happened to look nothing short of angelic in public, there were surely no bruises on her perfect face!
     Sam actually couldn’t remember when he started getting sexually molested by his dad, though he could faintly recollect his dad always fondling his tiny male organ during his apparently infant years. It was as constant as breakfast with them and he grew up thinking that it was actually a normal thing and an expression of deep love from his dad- till he got to junior high! That was when he discovered the very sickness of this action and on that fateful night of his reading the true-life book “The Molesters” he became violently sick and threw up everywhere. From that day onward he had tried his best to not hate his father but always rejected his advances, which sometimes landed him the sort of beating usually reserved for his mum, but at least his father had learned to keep his distance, or so he believed.
     In the wee hours of Friday morning Sam, now a very reclusive 17- year old at the prestigious Georgetown Prep, woke up from his nightmare. He knew exactly what it meant- his father was coming to ‘visit’ him tonight- and, funnily enough, this time he knew what to do. He called his dad’s protocol officer in the Oval Office and told him to inform him that he wasn’t going to school today; he had a migraine. Normally he would have communicated this to dad directly but it was election year and President Goodman had his hands full at the moment. Sam went to the kitchen to make breakfast- it was an off day so hopefully the chefs wouldn’t be milling annoyingly about. He was lucky; there were only 2 people in the kitchen today. He dismissed them and was searching for bread in the drawers when a glint of something caught his eye.

.  .  .

     Sam had hardly settled into bed when someone barged into the room- his stomach turned instinctively. It was his father, naked. He was obviously under the influence of alcohol for he ambled clumsily towards the bed, mouthing obscure obscenities. Sam was perfectly still as his father climbed under the sheets.
     “Well you’re certainly being a good boy tonight Sam, if you’ll just turn over and let Mr. President do…”
     The knife went through his heart in no time. Sam then withdrew the 9-inch ultra sharp kitchen knife from his dad’s chest. He had seen it in the kitchen and it cut through his rubber slippers like butter when he tested it, all he had to do was hide it under the pillow and wait. He then proceeded to dismember his dad. The poor pervert won’t need that where he’s going, Sam thought, laughing bitterly to himself. He sensed another presence and turned around to see his mother at the door, wearing her usual expressionless face- though he did seem to notice the ghost of a smile. They both agreed that he needed to turn himself in to the cops and she would testify that it was manslaughter.

 .  .  .

     He watched the TV in his prison cell, expectantly. He was waiting for CNN to resume with his mother the special guest in an exclusive Larry King Live interview on what was already being dubbed the ‘mother of all scandals’. Soon his mum would expose his father’s evils to the whole world and defend Sam’s actions as self-defense.
     “Now, did late President John Goodman have sexual relations with his, and your, son?” Larry King had just dropped the long-awaited question with trademark seriousness.
     “Never…,” was all she said, her head bent in seeming guilt.
     He froze. Oh my gosh! Too weak to truthfully support her son even in the wake of her antagonist’s demise! Hot tears cascaded down his cheeks, it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t bother to watch anymore and he switched off the TV. It was a done deal.
     Meanwhile, the whole world watched on as the First Lady of the United States calmly continued.
     “…ever ask me if that evil man molested my son again! Ask me how many times during the week he did it! My son did nothing but protect himself and thank God I have it on tape…,” she was sobbing now.
     “….What John didn’t know is that I installed hidden cameras in Sam’s room- and for a situation like this I have hard evidence!” The tears were flowing freely now and they had to take a commercial break because she was crying so hard.
     What a poor kid, thought the guard as he made his way to Sam’s cell to congratulate him. He deserves to be out of here, he’s really gone through a lot. There was no need. The body of Sam Goodman was already hanging from one of the top bars.

“Flow”
Akinseye Akinola

"Is it possible I could feel this cool,
I could really love you the way I do?"
…
 
I feel the same way about you
When last did I even see your face or talk to you?
But this abstinence does engender even more fondness
I love you so much, I wonder is it surreal or really
real?
Is this an obsession or are you really my most prized
Possession?
At least if not possession, doppelganger
I feel our hearts beat together,
Systolic spike, diastolic spike
In harmony, mellifluous melody
You tantalize me, your memory
Single handedly draws me out of my agony and brings on
my face a smile again
You know not how I appreciate you
I thank God I met you, for in that instant of our
introduction
The heavens sang in choral rendition
For they knew the course of my destiny had been
altered forever
A rare nightingale had come to me, to sing me a love
song
Making my spirit soar out of the doldrums
I am depressed and maybe even obsessed but I know what
I write
And mean every single word, I love you
Maybe I don’t even understand love
I mean great thinkers have written volumes on it and
yet only succeeded in wasting ink and parchment
And why then me, a young blood? audaciously telling
you, an angel, that I love you
Is love some cheap word one can use in meaningless
flow?
I don’t know but I love you and that’s all that
matters
And know that I write this not for the sake of poetry
and prose
For it flows from the very depth of my being
My love is an unending stream into the sea of You
…
 
"I feel a love light rush over me…
and then your love just creeps over me"
 
flow
like light particles in a world of glow,
water molecules in a field of snow,
love in the air, intermingling with nature's forces
holding its own, yet insinuating
tantalizing, yet withholding
flow
like sunflowers in a field of gold
or the panorama of skyscrapers in New York, and behold
softly, smooth and undulating
slowly, blithe and pulsating
riding off the waves, the whites foaming
as the undercurrent hits the sand, a rush of saline
mixes with the grits, drawing them in
flow
for such is my love and I trust it to be
a magnet you can’t resist for it’s purely me
pulling at the strings of your soul
gently but soon you resonate with it
strum, strum, strum
and finally out of the humdrum
the vibrations increase and in tension I hold your
soul
my intentions are clear I want to give you all my
attention
and the only way to do such is to keep you heart at
tension…
what else can I say, I have rambled more than enough
I am not great a poet for even at the end of such a
verbose poem
My expression of love remains inept
Maybe I never will, but just know…
And let the rhythm of love in you too flow,
Flow.

Journeys
Marsha Alexander

Just as one door closed, another one opened, especially at times when I was in a quandary.  Moreover, as all these opportunities appeared, it meant that I was moving away from home.  Due to these travels, I was able to experience a whole range of emotions: fondness, disillusionment, despairs, shame, and last but not least, fear.  These trips enabled me to mature in ways that allowed me to see the world realistically even though I have been reluctant to confront these experiences.  Through these trips, I was able to not only experience the life at a level that only a few know, but also to open myself to different individuals that I would never meet under normal circumstances.
For instance, when I moved to Houston, Texas, it was sort of a culture shock.  I had attended an American school overseas, but it was nothing like what I encountered in Houston.  It took me a while to properly adjust to life in the United States without the support of peers helping me along.  As soon as I had a handle on life in the US and middle school, I started attending high school; it was even more terrifying, to say the least.  It was a period in my life where I felt adrift in a sea of chaos.  For that reason, during freshman year of high school, I didn’t get too involved in any extracurricular activities and concentrated mostly on my schoolwork.  The next three years, however, experienced my emergence from the stacks of books.  Throughout this period, I joined the Army Junior Reserves Officer Training Corps, or AJROTC.  I also tried my hand at soccer, but it would prove to be an experience that I would never forget.  At first, it was physically draining and my whole body seemed to be one raw nerve.  I was sore almost every day for two weeks straight.  If that wasn’t enough, it was during soccer season where I encountered my first serious injury; I tore my ACL, a ligament that allows an individual to sit and walk properly.  Physical recovery involved sacrificing my summer and exerting myself to my capacity.  I eventually recovered; however, when tryouts for soccer started again in the fall, I decided not to participate.  Nevertheless, that did not stop me from getting involved in more extracurricular activities.  In fact, my senior year was probably my most involved ever.  Regardless of the fact that all these organization were time-consuming, they all showed me where my interests lie and how much commitment would be needed to succeed.  They also taught one last lesson: I was ready to leave high school and attend college.  I was ready for new experiences that would open my eyes to new sights and for varying challenges that would mold me into a stronger person.
Arriving at Howard University illustrated another transition.  In my eyes, it was a matter of Providence having a hand in my life, as I like to call it.  It was the sum of different factors coming together: the ambience, the people, and the locality.  At first, it didn’t strike me as eye-catching.  However, after several visits to this institution, a sense of it frequently lingered in my mind.  I saw this institution as a sort of stepping-stone, a stepping-stone enabling me to grow into a self-reliant, experienced woman.  Moreover, since it was so far from Texas, I would be able to start my new life with a clean slate.  I was ready for whatever presented itself at Howard.  In the end, I felt that I had made the right decision in attending the right institution.
Throughout my college stay at Howard, I hope to have the opportunity to join organizations that serve the purpose of educating, challenging and supporting my principles on life.  By excelling academically and taking advantage of the different programs that Howard offers, I intend to make my stay at Howard a worthwhile experience.  Regarding my career goals, I aim to secure an internship in the area of finance and to learn as much as I can about succeeding in my field.  Likewise upon graduating, I would like to have the opportunity of having a full-time position available to me that tests the skills I learned in college. 
Overall, I would like to be able to find out more about my strengths and use them to the best of my knowledge.  As for my weaknesses, I hope I can continue to work on them so that in the end they become more of an asset than a liability.  Thus at the end of my four years at Howard, I would have become more mature, independent, and self-reliant individual ready to take on the world.

Who Am I?
Marsha Alexander

From provincial cities to urban kingdoms
From the threshold between whimsical imagination to callous reality
From Doctor Doolittle’s voyages to Gatsby’s remoteness
I am.
 
From sweat-slicked skin to mottled bruises
From vague malaises to acerbic agues
From taxing nauseas to debilitating ills
I feel.
 
From the sensuous taste of black Hindu tea sliding smoothly down my throat
         to the pungent aroma of sizzling chocolate
From the never ending appeal of hojaldres
         to the daily richness of Latin rice with legumes
I taste.
 
From virgin oceans to toxic streams
From buttery potatoes to horrid malts
From ripe plantains to spicy beef patties
I rebel.
 
From weekly trips to communal beaches
        to exciting Sunday Schools filled with vigor
From gazing at deafening school parades
        to being mesmerized by the silvery notes of Sade
I adapt.
 
From mindless clutter to Spartan discipline
From crowded minds to senseless silence
From politically correct notions to biased truths
I become.
 
From vapid tongues to undulating bodies
From impressive pasts to enigmatic futures
From chronic laziness to habitual zest
I see.
 
From the crazed ranting of a few
         to the thoughtful attacks of the wise
From full-blown dispute over war
         to passive battles of morality
I hear.
 
From juvenile bliss to adult gravity
From childish ignorance to mature confusion
From wistful nonchalance to growing uncertainty
I conform.

The Long Wait
Jamila Blake

                        More than thirty minutes had passed since the waiter had shown me to my table. I was becoming more and more impatient with each passing second, and my frustration manifested itself with the rapid tapping motion of my heel. The couple next to me had arrived shortly after I did, and were now starting on their main course. Every once in awhile, I looked up to see the older woman in royal blue glance over at me with a questioning look on her face. At first, her staring intimidated me and I was too ashamed to look her in the eye. Here I was, an elegantly dressed young lady, waiting for the arrival of my prince charming, who was now forty five minutes late. I felt as though her eyes had penetrated my mind, and she thought much less of me for my girlish belief that my guest would eventually come.
As the night went on, I tried to appear as though perfectly comfortable with waiting in the crowded restaurant. I ordered a bottle of wine and asked for a vase of water to place my rose in. My treasured flower was a gift from the young man who had invited me to dinner that night. The day before, I came home from work to find an envelope with my name written in calligraphy and a rose beside it waiting for me at my door. I entered my apartment and eagerly tore open the envelope to see who had left such a thoughtful gift. Inside, I found a note that read:
I’m in town for a few days and I would love to see you. Your mother gave me your new address. I’ll be waiting for you at Rembrandt’s tomorrow night at 7pm. Don’t forget to bring that beautiful smile. Love, Andre.
After reading the note, I fell to the floor in a state of confusion. After all this man had put me through, I still had a desire to see him. A few month’s ago, I had promised myself that I wouldn’t have anything else to do with him after my sister told me she ran into him at the airport and he didn’t even ask about me. Despite the shortcomings that I had endured in eight years with Andre, yet again I found myself willing to heed to his every beck and call.
When my bottle of wine was half empty, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and puffed them one behind the other. By now, the woman in royal blue had left with her companion and two sisters were sitting at their table. I devoured the bread in my basket, staving off hunger pangs that were made worse by the aroma of lobster, roasted chicken and sirloin steaks. There were many times when I begged myself to get up, but I just couldn’t do it. I was convinced that Andre would walk through the door just as my cab pulled off, or that somehow I had arrived for dinner much earlier than he expected.
As each hour passed, I sank into a deeper sadness. I felt defeated. He had managed to make me look like a fool once again, only this time 200 of my close friends and family were not there to watch.  At 11:30, I dug into my purse and threw a wad of bills on the table. As I tried to stand up, I realized that I had drunk more wine than I thought. My napkin fell from my lap, but I felt too sick to crouch and pick it up. With tears of disappointment streaming down my face, I shuffled to the exit and hailed a cab.

The Welcome Party
Jamila Blake

            It was nearly a week before I met any of my neighbors in the dormitory. Last Saturday morning I returned from shopping at the local supermarket to find a folded note stuck to the door of my dorm room. It read: Some of us who live on the top two floors are having a get together on Sunday to welcome the “freshies”. You are invited. 2PM. Casual dress. Call Anita at 359-2608…
I grabbed the note from my door with a sigh of frustration as I tried to juggle the shopping bags in my left arm as well as ramble through my purse for my keys, which I finally recovered with my right hand. Upon entering my room, I found yet another note, this one placed on my pillow. It could not have been from anyone except, Mecca, my simple minded roommate. She had an annoying habit of wasting both paper and ink by leaving various notes for me around our room. This frustrated me because they were always questions or comments that one would say in a casual conversation, not take the time to write them down. For example, I might find a note on my mirror reading, “What are you doing in class today?” or “Did you see how hard it was raining today? I had to change into some warmer clothes!” The last one was especially enraging not because of the terrible handwriting, but because she had dotted all of the “I’s” with hearts and I found the exclamation point to be unnecessary. It was for these reasons and many more that early on, I unwillingly concluded that Mecca was just another ditzy girl on campus. I tried my best to ignore her wardrobe composed of tight jeans and mid-drift shirts, the look of bewilderment that took over her face whenever I used “big” words, or that God-awful laugh she performed in the company of men. Hers was the same laugh that a friend of mine back home had labeled “The Valley Girl Giggle”.
            During a rare moment of solitude, I realized that I avoided Mecca not because I found her to be so annoying, but because of the mean comments that her mere presence could manifest in my thoughts. Seeing no option, I stayed out of my room as much as possible.
            I ignored the note on my pillow when I saw Mecca’s name scrawled at the bottom. All of the time I had spent thinking of my roommate made me doubt whether I would attend Sunday afternoon’s soiree. The invitation read “casual dress” but I still had no idea what to wear. The people on this campus have such various styles of dress that the word casual could mean any number of things. I valued the diversity here at school, but sometimes it could be a bit overwhelming. On my first day of classes, I looked around the room and wondered where I might fit in among all these other students. I even found myself comparing what I had on, my physical features, the way that I talked, my hairstyle, how my skin tone contrasts that of others, and most importantly, how my personality might assimilate or differ from the behaviors of the strangers that I sat among. I worried that this party might do more harm than good. I had seen Anita around campus, and she seemed cordial enough to have a conversation with, but I envisioned her hanging out with girls like Mecca. Then it occurred to me that the note might not have been intended for me. Maybe Anita or some of her cronies had anticipated Mecca coming home before me to find the note. Should I take the risk of embarrassing myself by showing up to a party uninvited, or offend someone by not attending?
 
            After getting myself settled in for a long night of contemplation, I decided to take a nap and enjoy the unusually quiet halls of my dormitory. During my slumber, memories of my first overnight stay here at the university took over my dreams. I was at one of the pre-orientation sessions with a few high school friends. During the day, I enjoyed myself, maybe even a bit more than I should have. I was enraptured by the experience of being on my own and found a new sense of independence. Little did I know that this new sense of self would come with a very big problem. How could I take advantage of my newfound freedom to get to know myself (and others) in this environment?
            I looked for an answer to this question in the image of others. I could not stand to be around girls like Mecca. They made me feel like an elitist, and I did not know where I had obtained such feelings of superiority. My suitemate, Rubye, intimidated me. She dressed in African garb, told me stories of her five trips to the “Motherland”, showed me her books of black empowerment, kept meticulous eating habits and worst of all, made me feel inferior. I feared that I could never live up to her sense of awareness, her pride, her determination, and her self-assuredness. She scared the living daylights out me. Rubye represented all that I wished to be in some way or another, and I was not sure if I would ever achieve that. In my eyes, my suitemates were at two different ends of the spectrum. One side (Rubye’s empowerment), I ran toward; the other (Mecca’s naivety), I shied away from.
            All of these thoughts running through my head had put me into a deep sleep, and I awoke the next morning to the sound of Mecca opening and closing her closet door. I glanced over at the clock. It read 11:37. Before I got a chance to ask Mecca about this afternoon, she had grabbed her purse and left. A few minutes later, I dragged myself out of the bed and walked over to the note with Anita’s number. I laughed out-loud, tickled by the fact that such a simple note had preoccupied so much of my time. I picked up the phone and proceeded to call Anita.

Eternal Love
Michelle Boyd

Your touch is like that of a million dreams,
Your voice is an enchanting sound that whispers through my ear,
When you find comfort in my presence, my soul beams,
When you are far, I long that you are near,
Your smile is brighter than that of the morning’s first ray,
Your eyes glimmer with zeal,
I listen with respect to the words you say,
I refuse to let any break our seal,
I have met others, but none compare,
For you are not selfish and vain,
In all that I’ve done, I have found that your love is rare
My vow is that I will love you long after Death takes its reign.
            For all eternity you will ignite my fire,
            And always challenge my desire. 

The Wedding Gift
Michelle Boyd

A week before my June wedding, I received a petite letter in the mail bearing a return address failing to indicate the sender’s name.  I anxiously opened the envelope to expose elegant cream colored paper with a brief note jotted down in black ink which said:                
            Meet me at The Peppercorn Duck Club.  Friday.  8:30 p.m.  I have a wedding gift for you. 
                                                                                    Michael 
I was surprised to be receiving a letter from him since we had not spoken in a year.  Michael was my first love whom I had met in my sophomore year at the University of Southern California-Berkeley.  We had dated for two years before our devastating split.  Michael desired to get married soon after graduation and begin a family while I wanted to at least complete law school and possibly begin experiencing the corporate world before committing to such a situation.  Our conflicting views concerning the matter eventually led to our separation.  Though we were not dating, I always had concern for Michael whether we were miles or minutes apart; therefore, a correspondence from him was welcomed.  Upon my graduation from Columbia Law School I began working at a New York based law firm, Gray and McClintock.  Two years into the position I began dating Steven Gray, a colleague of mine who happened to be the son of one of the partners.  He and his family were aristocrats, members of an elite sector of society who represented a legacy of prestige and wealth, an idea I had grown to understand and embrace.
            I arrived at the restaurant at 8:25 p.m. and walked through the chandelier lit foyer and corridor to be greeted by the hostess.
“May I help you, ma’am?” she asked with a slight foreign accent.
“Yes, I am meeting a Mr. Michael Hall tonight.”
“Yes ma’am, Mr. Hall has already arrived and has been seated.”  I followed a young, sleek brunette through the dimly lit main dining area to a private dining chamber where I was warmly embraced by my dear friend before being seated in the cushioned chair.  On the table was a slim vase with a single crimson rose, a wine bucket where a 1945 bottle of Mouton Rothschild rested upon the ice and an ashtray partially filled with cigarette butts, indicating Michael still had not overcome his addiction.
“How have you been?” he began the conversation.
“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful,” I chirped in reply.  After two hours of dialogue, reminiscing on past memories and present successes, a four course meal and two bottles of wine, Michael casually reached into a tan leather briefcase I had failed to notice and delicately delivered an envelope to my hand.
“Before we must part, here is the gift I promised you.”
“Oh, why thank you Michael,” I responded.  I carefully opened the unsealed flap of the envelope to uncover a note which read: 
            I know that your wedding is only several days away, but I feel as though I must express my thoughts.  I am convinced that we were and are meant to be     together.  I have loved you since the moment I met you, and I still love you.  It is a devotion that will not die, no matter the distance or the span of time.  In my heart    I know you feel the same way.  Please be bold enough to admit that every time you close your eyes to fall asleep, every time you awake to a new day and throughout your      day, you think about whether or not you are making the right decision for your life.  And in the core of your being, you know that marrying Steven is not truly your destiny.       All that I ask of you is that you follow your heart. 
                                                                                    Michael 
As I looked up, Michael was standing next to me placing a ring box upon the neatly draped table.  Without hesitation, I sloppily pushed my chair back, grabbed my belongings and began to briskly walk through the main area of the restaurant.  As I glanced back towards the private area, I saw Michael throw a wad of bills on the table before he began to chase after me, continually calling my name.  As I jogged out the front door into a clear summer night, I extended my arm to catch the attention of a taxi driver.  Michael had reached the front door when I was closing the door of the taxi cab.
“Where are you going in a hurry ma’am?” the taxi driver asked politely.
“38 East First Street, please.”  In a lighthearted manner, the driver then asked,
“If you don’t mind me asking, what were you running from in such a hurry, ma’am?” 
I simply replied, “The truth.”

The Land
Michelle Boyd

            Her lined face and the stringy gray hair attested to many years of struggle and poverty, yet she seemed resolute, though frail, beside the young man as they stood together in the narrow storefront doorway.  The crippled umbrella provided inadequate shelter against the slanting rain.  Together they waited with rigid body posture, in an effort to avoid looking at each other, miles apart.
            “So, you’ve decided?” he asked, his gaze directed towards the nearby playground where a group of youngsters bare-chested in the rain were engaged in a noisy game of soccer.
            “I’ve decided,” she answered, the words barely audible, her narrow chin thrust forward aggressively.
            “Yeah.  Right.  So, what about me?  Don’t I have a say in any of this?”  Now she turned to face him.
            “That land belongs to me and nobody else.  Not you or anybody,” she responded in a harsh tone while she fixed a piece of hair that had been displaced during their brisk trot in the rain as they sought shelter.  The rain forcefully hit the pavement in front of them as Geraldine began to silently reflect upon the land she so desperately wanted to keep but knew she had to sell.  She thought about the time when her father gently placed her upon his lap and began to recount the property’s history within their family.  He narrated the story to the young girl about when his father bought the five acre plot in rural Greenwood, Mississippi when he was a young boy.  As his father would proudly display the deed to his possession he would say,
            “If I die with nothin’ today but this land to my name, that’s fine, because I know that my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and so on will have something they can benefit from.” 
            Young Geraldine sat upon her father’s lap listening intently as he told her one day the land would be hers and then she would be able to pass it on to her children.  Into her adolescence and early adulthood, her father periodically showed her the document to reinforce the importance of ensuring an inheritance for future generations of the family.  Despite the financial turmoil her family endured during her upbringing, her father had refused to sell the lot.  But now the elderly woman was faced with the dilemma of paying for the expenses of her grandson’s college education or maintaining ownership of her land. 
            After the untimely death of her husband and daughter due to illness she became responsible for the well being of her grandson and due to her limited education, she was forced to work as a caregiver and cleaning woman for a wealthy white family in order to support her infant grandchild and herself.  During his childhood, Michael would spend his days with his grandmother as she toiled in Judge and Mrs. Baugh’s home, meticulously cleaning the spacious residence and caring for their two daughters.  Though she also worked part time as a waitress at a local diner, she earned a minimal salary forcing the two to live meagerly.  Despite their financial strain and lack, Geraldine would sacrifice her last dime to ensure that Michael received the best she was able to provide.  Throughout his years of schooling and upon his graduation from high school, she recognized his intellectual potential and aspirations to succeed and thus wanted him to further his education by attending an African-American university.  She continually witnessed that the opposition against young, Black men in 1930’s America, especially in the South, was intense.  Consequently, she wanted him to have an advantage and leverage in society; therefore, she decided to sell the five acres of land that was deeply rooted in the legacy of her family to pay for his education at Fisk University.  With influential African-Americans including W.E.B. Du Bois as alums of the university, she felt an education at the Black institution would be beneficial to Michael.
            They stood outside the entrance of the Lewis County Bank as the noise from the playing children carried across the street and the rhythm of the rain intensified.
            “You don’t have to do this.  I can get a job and help you out.  Help us get out of debt and then worry about college down the road.  Ma Dear, just don’t sell the land,” Michael pleaded while he placed his firm hands on her forearms.  She sternly replied, while gripping in her petite, wrinkled hand the manila envelope that held the deed to the plot of land,
            “Child, let me tell you somethin’.  This land mean nothin’ if our family continues to live in poverty, lack of education and ignorance.  It mean absolutely nothin’ if you have this deed after I die and you have no food to feed yo’ babies.  You are too gifted to labor all your life like me and like my daddy and his daddy and then die with nothin’.  You can do so much more fo yo’self and I guarantee that I am gon’ give you that opportunity.”  Geraldine then stroked the young man’s damp face and wrapped her thin arms around his waist while resting her head against his chest causing her hat to slightly shift out of place.  Tears began to swell in her eyes as she glided her right hand along the middle of his back.  After the brief embrace, she released her grip, straightened her pleated skirt, dress coat and hat.  With her envelope in hand and determination, selflessness and love guiding her, she slowly turned to face the doors of the bank.  With Michael casting a glare of disapproval, Geraldine stepped into the bank ready to complete her business.

Childhood Memories
Michelle Boyd

The stormy,
            Eerie,
                        Late nights,
Filling my tiny mind with scary frights.
 
Making clumpy,
            Icky,
                        Messy mud pies,
                        With rocks, bugs, and sticks inside.
 
The playtime with my
            New Ken and,
                        Barbie dolls and other toys,
                        Listening to poetry and storybooks without a peep of noise.
                       
Dancing to Cameo,
            Prince,
                        And the Bloodstones’ beats,
                        And slow dancing atop my daddy’s size 13 feet,
           
The roughhouse,  
            Wrestling and tumbling
                        Moves in the living room,
                        And getting in trouble when my mother heard that big boom.
 
Eating tasty chicken ‘n dumplings,
            And smooth
                        Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,
                        And watching Scooby Doo with Sparky when he was a pup.
 
Those imaginative,
            Carefree,
                        And relaxed days,
                        Why am I growing up and changing those ways?

Reflection
Michelle Boyd

            All week long she had pondered what she would wear; now it was Thursday night and tomorrow she’d be making the oral presentation on which would depend the direction of future study.  She was on the verge of completing the last of a series of activities, including interviews and essays, that could result in an award of a renewable full tuition scholarship to a medical school of her choice.  The monetary honor included a monthly stipend to cover the costs of textbooks, course materials, mandatory fees and living expenses.  Such a scholarship would lift a tremendous financial burden from Kelly’s shoulders.  The more she thought about the 45-minute presentation in front of the board of the Medical Scientists Training Program, the more her stomach swelled with nervous tingles. 
            She examined the contents of the small closet, pushing aside the wire hangers with their load of assorted tank tops, jeans and tee shirts and pulled out the only thing which seemed remotely suitable for the occasion, the short-sleeved navy blue Harlena number with the Pelucci lace trim around the collar and the hemline.  She clearly remembered the day she’d bought it, that moment of supreme madness when she’d handed over eighty-five dollars for the mere handful of frothy silk; eighty-five dollars she couldn’t really afford for a Homecoming dress, which had been hanging in the closet ever since, as near forgotten as the face which had occasioned the extravagance.
            Now she held it up to the light, carefully checking for any sign of damage, then slipped it over her head and stood before the mirror, critically surveying herself.  She stared in the mirror eyeing every detail of her appearance, amazed.  Not amazed at how the dress still fit properly after four years of college, but amazed at her achievements.  Who would have thought the young girl from the poverty infested ghetto of West Richard Projects would soon be entering medical school, possibly at no cost?  She reflected upon her upbringing which was the epitome of meager living.  Kelly imagined herself as a small child again lying in a rickety bed upon a bare mattress along with her two younger siblings, disturbed by the high pitched noise of the mice that gathered under the queen sized bed.  The constantly bare pantry and refrigerator inhabited by roaches and other insects only added to the despair of the household.  She remembered childhood Christmases, where the only gifts under the lean, undecorated tree were donations from the neighborhood Mount Calvary Baptist Church. 
            Images of her younger siblings kicking and screaming her name as they were forced into the backseat of a minivan on their way to live with their Aunt Margaret in Ohio after their single mother’s untimely death flooded her thoughts.  She remembered watching the ordeal in the stormy downpour allowing the raindrops to disguise her tears, wanting to intervene, but knowing it would be the best situation for their care.  Kelly was only a sophomore in high school when she was abruptly faced with the responsibility of caring for herself while striving to complete her remaining two years at West Mount High School.  She reflected upon the financial, as well as emotional, hardships she faced during her undergraduate studies at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, yet how she continually persevered through it all.  With an aura of pride and a slight smirk, Kelly audibly said to herself,
            “It’s amazing what I’ve done in life and what’s more amazing is what I’m going to do in life.” 
            She then gave a final evaluation of her outfit for the event, 
            “Well, Missy,” she said to her reflection.  “This is about the best you can do, so, go in there tomorrow and knock’em dead.”  She carefully slid the dress over the sponge rollers in her hair and placed it gently on the paisley print loveseat next to her bed.  Kelly pulled the comforter back exposing sage green sheets and lied down, gently placing her head upon the down pillows.  While closing her eyes, she exhaled softly, eagerly anticipating the next day knowing that her journey was complete, yet only beginning.

Mahogany Pleasure
Michelle Boyd
 
Mahogany Pleasure.
Unveiling rare beauty and knowledge,
Beating with force and vitality,
Yearning genuine freedom and equality.
 
            Mahogany Pleasure.
            Equality lost upon distant, ancient soil,
            Equality that drifts on waves of the Atlantic,
            Equality that sank with their bodies.
 
Mahogany Pleasure.
My misused ancestors,
My silenced ancestors,
My disrespected ancestors.
 
            Mahogany Pleasure.
            Your hands stained with royal blood,
            Your attempts to control my mind,
            Your cages bind me, but my spirit soars.
 
Mahogany Pleasure.
You have cursed me, painted my image with lies,
You have recognized my power and hate it,
You have cast your disdainful stares, partnered with ignorant words.
 
            Mahogany Pleasure.
            Certainly not Nigger,
            Neither ‘coon,
            Mistakenly called Bitch.
 
Mahogany Pleasure.
I admire your pride and indelible creativity that flows through me,
I cherish your sacrifice, which produced fruit you did not taste,
I honor your hunger and perseverance that even now guides me towards the prize.
 
            Mahogany Pleasure.
            Honor bestowed upon you,
            Flowers placed at your feet,
            Praise sang in your ear.
 
Mahogany Pleasure.
Courage,
Wisdom,
Passion,
Heritage,
Unity,
Life.

Smile
Randi Bridges

            A smile given or received helps the people of this world move positively throughout their lives.  No matter what situation I must face in life finding something to smile about eases the tension, and helps me get through the most difficult of times. A smile makes your mind see the beauty of a butterfly, a great piece of art, or the treasure of happiness in the face of a child or the elderly.  A smile is the worldwide response to everything because along with happiness it can also mask sadness. If we greeted and judged people by their smile alone problems of difference would not exist, because the inner beauty would be all that we knew.  It is the one thing that all mankind has in common and if it were used on a regular basis a smile could unite us as one people instead of separately as individuals.  Many believe that beauty is imperfect and vanishes through the years; however, a smile proves these thoughts wrong because it is the perfection of beauty for eternity. I will always be able to look towards my future as long as my smile holds strong, it will get me through the good times and the bad. It is never known when a smile will allow another individual to finally think everything is going to be ok and that they can live at least for another day. Smiles help everyone move through this world, it is the silence of the world that speaks clearly.
            A smile is golden because it represents perfection in this imperfect world.  Everyone at any age can show emotion through a smile, a baby can smile when he sees his mother and knows that he will be taken care of, a teenager can smile when she thinks she is in love, and an older person can smile when he knows that he has had a life well spent.  This simple gesture speaks a thousand words without shedding a single noise.  You smile when you are happy, to mask pain, to greet someone, to give hope, etc. The simple gesture of a smile can save someone from his or her pain, stop a tear, or slowly make some of the pain go away. A smile is the gateway to one’s heart where joy and forever live.  All people go back to their youth when they smile because a smile is our innocence.  When people get their picture taken they are asked to smile so that their character will shine as bright as the sun in their thousand words.  If you think a nice thought, dream a great dream, accomplish a major goal, or hear from an old friend, a smile can say exactly how you feel without uttering a word.  The actions towards a smile can be very simple or complex, however once a smile is started it will never stop.  From one person to the next a smile will move and everyone knows what it is saying without saying a word.
            No matter what has affected me in my past it will all melt away with a smile.  Any pain or joy I hold is behind this smile because the world deserves to know what they see in me, what they see in my smile.  As I said before this is my beauty, my truth, my individuality, the choice is yours to read into what I openly show you through my smile. Just as the sun rises in all its glory at the beginning of a new day, a smile will be the beginning of anything I face and it will also be the end.  Remember that pain and joy live together, one cannot be defined without the other, but pain will always be overcome by the joy in a smile.  I will greet the world with my smile, my unbreakable strength, and let them know that this is the best gesture anyone can give anybody.  So whether it is for me, the world, or simply your own satisfaction remember to always SMILE.

An Unheard Song
Randi Bridges

            “…sure it was a song, but some songs were not meant for singing, that people spoiled the music of the words when they tried to sing them.”  As the week progressed I thought about this idea of a song not meant to be sung, a song that had deeper meaning when someone just said or read the words instead of singing them.  Everyday on the news the leading story was related to the latest terror threats and Americans were scared.  The idea of a new attack had people buying plastic, duck tape, gas mask, and all the essentials for survival in a safe room.  America was panicked this week and no amount of American history or pride could change that.  No American stopped to find comfort in the National Anthem, an anthem that tells the tale of America surviving under attack.  Could it be that as an anthem the power of the words do not hit the heart of Americans as hard as someone just reading the poem it came from?
            This anthem that we sing at many events, the anthem that most people assume will be followed by a prayer, an anthem that comforts the safety of festive times, an anthem for the people of America to sing in honor of their land.  The National Anthem did not comfort America this week; it did not put the people’s minds and hearts at ease that no matter what others do to us we will persevere.  This song that we sing so carefreely at times was never thought of as a savior to the feelings of fear America has.
            The song that most of America can say the words to as long as the music is playing along does not soothe the mind of the American because the words have lost some of their meaning as a song.  When I sing our National Anthem I stand and sing, I focus on remaining on key and observing the people around me who are or aren’t on key as well; my focus while singing has never been on the words and what they should do to my feelings towards America.  Many Americans want to sound good for their country and in sounding good they overlook what America was trying to do by making this poem the National Anthem, they over look the hope and comfort of the words.
            The National Anthem the song that Americans sing to pay tribute to the country that will always protect us, a song that lacks the feeling of protection itself.  The words protect, the song does not; the words secure, the song does not; the words touch America’s heart, the song does not.  Yes, this poem should be honored by holding some national rank in America’s history but the form of a song is not serving it justice.

When Innocence Says Goodbye
Randi Bridges

She lost her innocence at five
            Someone told her she was ugly.
He lost his innocence at six
            The parents of the other boys said he could not come over and play.
She lost her innocence at seven
            Her mother died at the hands of a boyfriend.
He lost his innocence at eight
            His father left with no good-byes.
She lost her innocence at nine
            The only gift she wanted for her birthday never came… nothing came.
He lost his innocence at ten
            His peers teased him for not understanding what was taught as fast as they did.
She lost her innocence at eleven
            The teacher told her that she had the wrong body type to be a ballerina.
He lost his innocence at twelve
            Drugs gave him the happiness his home no longer had.
They lost their innocence at thirteen
            Society no longer considers teenagers children.
 
Being an adult is ageless because the innocence of a child is being lost everyday.

A Kiss Goodnight
Randi Bridges

A gesture from parent to child, husband to wife, loved one to loved one.
 
A signal that all will be well in the world when the sun returns.
 
A guarantee those sweet dreams will always come with sleep.
 
A moment in time where serenity, peace, and love dwell.
 
A simple goodnight kiss…

Me and Howard
Charlene M. Brown

Currently, I am an undergraduate student at Howard University, in Washington, DC.  It is no secret that I am not fond of Howard, ask anyone in this class or anyone who knows me fairly well, or even someone who has only made my acquaintance and asked me the question: “So . . . How do you like Howard?”  My response is usually the same: “It’s here” or “It’s okay.”  Most people then give me that “I pity you” look because most of them think Howard is the greatest place on earth.  I beg to differ, however.
            The love affair Howard and I have been having for the past seven and a half months has left much to be desired on my end.  I don’t like the way Howard does things nor do I care for most of the people here.  It seems to me to physically be a walking fashion show.  And there are far too many people who make me question whether college is an institution of higher education rather than a place where Mommy or Daddy got them into either by alumni or monetary status.  Some of the people are just another one of those “things that make you go hmmm.”
Overall, Howard has not been good to me.  Howard has lied to me, been mean to me, and generally mistreated me.  And if not me, then far too many of the folks I know.  Howard’s arm does not communicate with it’s foot, and neither have access to the brain.  Every part works independently of the others, none conveying anything to each other.  Despite all of this, I continue to stay in this abusive, yet strangely educational, relationship.  With the exception of the above discrepancies, Howard treats me individually well.  But, you see, I was deceived.  When I came to visit Howard in the Spring of 2001, my Junior year in high school, there was so much going on that I apparently got sucked in.  No, this is not quite true.  At the time, I recall my comment being that I loved the atmosphere but not necessarily for myself.  But the day I visited, the Q’s, Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Incorporated Brothers, were coming out, so there was a lot of excitement in the air.  It was also springtime, which generally takes away the lethargy of the winter, and usually makes things all around nicer.  But I understand that life is a give and take.
            This alone gets me to thinking about both what I give to and what I take from Howard.  Howard gives me things I don’t care for and refuses those things that I would like, those things that I want.  My impression of Howard has just not been very good.  Howard seems extremely self-serving and condescending.  Howard has a bad relationship with the community and many of its constituents despise its leadership.  This is definitely a problem that continues to be addressed without coming up with adequate solutions.  However, during my short relationship, I believe I have found my life’s calling, which makes it necessary to endure this acrimonious bondage for at least a little while longer.
            Of myself, I have been told by many that they have never met anyone like me.  Whether or not this is a true statement depends on whose opinion is asked.  I do, however, pride myself on being myself and greatly enjoy my “uniqueness.”  If this is what I enhance Howard with, then so be it.  On the contrary, I also believe that I will not truly know what it is that I have left Howard until we break up.  But leaving something heavily relies on what others take from my having been present.

Some Songs Aren’t Meant to be Sung
Charlene M. Brown

“And I asked what he was getting all excited about, it was only a song, wasn’t it?  And he said sure it was a song, but some songs were not meant for singing, that people spoiled the music of the words when they tried to sing them.”
-Excerpt from Choice of Straws by E. R. Braithwaite
 
That’s right some songs aren’t meant to be sung
Like the song in your bones that tells you you're free
And the song in your footsteps
That signals your arrival
And the song in your heart
God knows you can’t tell
And the everything of anything that lets your soul sing
And heart skip
And head bow
Cuz you know everything just ain't right
And the eyes inside your soul weep and weep
For the loves lost and the souls never found
And the wind takes the willows
And buries them deep in your heart
So your tin box stays glued shut
And your eyes stay nailed open
Allowing the debris to fall
In circles around your head
As if in a halo
With angelic serenity
And customized audacity
Fit just right for you
But no some songs aren’t meant for the singing
When your clouds disappear
And the sands swirl
The waves rush and the thunder booms
And your life is shattered
Into 3 million pieces of whole glass
Each one reflecting every moment ever bore
And every pain ever taken
And every hurt ever brought surface
No matter how deep you thought you had forgotten it
And how far you thought you had traveled away from it
Every shattered glass brought the initial sensation roaring back
Singing a song you knew you had forgotten but couldn’t remember the words to sing
Nor the harmonies or the melodies that you only knew because they reverberated in your soul
Not because you could recall a time when you ever knew the words
yet the song echoed deep
As if it had been with you for ancient centuries
From your daddys tree
Through your mamas apple
And into your inner dwellings
The song you cried out when the excruciating pain came
And exalted loudly when only peace remained
That song that raised you up without ever knowing any words
And kept you alive when the cord was around your neck closing your airways and haunting your dreams
Making your eyes pop out and your throat swell
Making your heart leap with relief when you finally passed out only to be met with the warm salty taste of blood all over
And you wonder whose father was pronounced DOA this time
And you wonder whose mother got raped this time
Or whose brothers and sisters lay massacred in the street this time
And damn why can’t you remember the words of the song this time
When the inside of your bones ache
And the outside of your skin crawls
And your blood tissues start to curl and wind
Until you explode and your whole life is shattered
So you take inventory of the missing pieces this time
And wonder who stole them from you this time
Looking for all of them one more time
And you think about that song
The one you could never sing cuz you never knew the words
Then you look up and watch the sad stars reflecting on the dim moon
Envious of even their sadness
For they can probably remember the words
Even if they are sad
But at least they can remember the words
And no
Some songs aren’t meant for singing.

When Love Becomes a Rose
Charlene M. Brown

There is a table
Ever gleaming is the napery
Silverware glassware
The clear blue crystal vase encompasses
The Rose
Electrifying the entire restaurant
Screaming at the overflowing ashtray
Dancing with the empty wine goblet
Caressing the bucket from whence it came
Devouring the crumpled wad of bills carelessly waiting for the maitre’D
The Rose
Staring at the napkin effortlessly forgotten on the floor beside
Gently reaching for the disarranged chair
But oh, it is beyond the short grasp of the distraught napkin
And the napkin must settle for the neatly compiled chair instead
And reminisce of the love that was lost just moments before
When the she and the he decided it was no longer
And love was no lover
When the she decided that he no longer loved
And the he decided that she loved no longer
“Some say love it is a river”
And the she said that the water had already run dry
And the patient Rose admired disdainfully
Remembered painfully
And cried softly for the he she love that lost
When quieted was the vulnerable flower a more intent listen was surely to follow
At best the beautiful bud breathed beautiful breaths
But alas the brokenness beset beside the beauty
And the Rose wept once more
For the love had been lost
And the lost unloved
For timeless was the love of the ages
But the she said of love no more
And the he obliged his heart and mind rejoicing
For he no longer loved
And love loved him no more
And his heart leapt with joy as he kissed her goodbye
And said goodnight for one last time
For love no longer loved him
And he no longer loved
She got up from the table
And gracefully walked away
She too rejoiced
For she was indefinitely freed
From the love no longer loved
And the love to be loved no longer
But yet and still
A Rose is still a Rose

Table for Two
Lauren D. Chisholm

            It was Monday, December 13, 1966, a day that Marla would never forget. Though Monday was by no means Marla's favorite day of the week, any day she spent with Lance was considered a blessing. As Marla lay in bed, she silently watched as Lance slightly shifted between the sheets. With deep concentration, Marla listened to Lance, and tried to syncopate her heartbeat to his breathing.
            As the sun rose over the Hudson, Marla reluctantly raised herself from their bed and proceeded to dress for work. Today would be a long day, and though it was tempting to steal a few more minutes of solitude with her chocolate angel, she knew that it was time to leave. For the past six months, Lance had been out of work, and it was up to Marla to put in extra hours at the factory to make ends meet. Though they weren't formally married, Lance had promised her that as soon as he got back on his feet, they would have the big church wedding that she dreamed of.
            At any cost, Marla loved Lance. She simply adored him. They had been courting since her "sweet 16th" birthday. In those days Lance was considered a "great catch" and at the time he knew it. Lance had made it perfectly clear that he was a bachelor, and was in no hurry to go steady with anyone. That is, until he met Marla. Marla was a looker. Her hair was long and silky--with the aid of a good straightening comb, her back held a regal arch, and her hips swayed just right when she walked. Lance knew that he had to have her, and he did. Though, when he got her, he couldn’t quite commit to her.
            Marla knew that Lance was a womanizer; to be honest, that is how they ended up together. As the sweet sounds of the Temptations blared on the record player in the hot sweaty basement of the local YMCA, Lance asked Marla to dance. From the first spin, Marla was hooked. The heat of his body pressed close to hers, the smell of his sweat as it gently careened down her neck, the firmness of his body between her arms, all intertwined in a slow grind, seduced Marla to the point of pure ecstasy.
            As time went on, it was the very recollection of that steamy night that made Marla cling to Lance each time she thought he’d leave. She also thought about all of the nights that they had spent together holding each other in the rain, or taking long walks in the park; even those nights when Lance would occasionally try to cook for her. Those memories made her smile in the middle of the day, and caused her to work faster, so that she could rush home to attend to his every need.
            Lately, things had begun to change. Lance would leave the apartment after Marla, supposedly looking for work, only to come home smelling of cheap cologne and even cheaper liquor. Some nights he would not return at all, but leave a note or some paltry trinket on her pillow to be found when she returned from work. At first these peace offerings pacified Marla, but recently the appearance of these trinkets were few and far in between.
            When Marla returned from work, there was a note taped to the refrigerator door. It read,” Marla, don’t cook tonight. Meet me at the Red Rouge for cocktails at six. Lance.” As Marla carefully read the note, her heart skipped a few beats, but this quickly changed when she noticed that it was not signed with its usual, “Love, Lance.” Marla quickly dismissed this minor error, reasoning that Lance was probably in a hurry when he had written the note. Anyway, it had been ages since they had been out together, and even eons since they had gone anywhere as impressive as the Red Rouge.
            As Marla looked at the clock, she realized that she only had a few minutes to get ready. With great haste, she carefully put on her new makeup, combed her hair into an elegant up-do, and dabbed a few drops of French perfume behind her ear, before she was out the door.
            When Marla arrived, she took a seat at the bar. It was 6:15, she knew that Lance was never on time, so she waited. As she sat, she thought about their relationship. Marla had been keeping a secret from Lance, and soon she would no longer be able to hide it. Contemplating the best way to tell Lance, she decided that it would be more appropriate to tell him in a more intimate setting.
            Marla asked for a table for two in the back of the restaurant. All she could think about was seeing Lance. For an hour she practiced the way in which she would address the matter. After much consideration, she decided that being straightforward was the best way. As she casually glanced at her watch, she noticed that it was 7:15. There was no sign of Lance. Marla began to worry. At first she played with the napkins that were folded into doves, but that did not keep her attention. As her nerves took over, Marla lit a cigarette to calm them. When that didn’t work, she asked the waiter for a bottle  of wine. This worked for a moment, but Marla decided to combine the cigarettes with the drinking. The combination of the two substances began to take the edge off. While admiring the crisp, white napery, she absently missed the ash tray allowing a few ashes to set the tablecloth on fire.
            Noticing the careless mistake, Marla concentrated on the growing hole. It reminded her of her life. For the past five years, it seemed as though Marla had done everything right. Her career decisions, her future, her past, they were all white and pure, like the tablecloth. The only dark spot in her life was her relationship with Lance. It was the hole. At first, it only occupied a small part of her life, but for some time the relationship had begun to mar everything that she did. She would work double shifts at the factory to correct the mistakes that she had made during the first shift, due to her frequent daydreaming. Over the years, she had lost many of her friends due to Lance’s distaste for the company that she kept. She also had begun to lose some of her womanly charms. Her hair had begun to thin because of many nights filled with worry and anxiety. Her shapely figure had begun to droop because she was no longer eating properly, yet she continued to take nerve pills. Despite her failing condition, her devotion to Lance remained strong. Like the growing flames on the table, her love for Lance began to distort her vision, and turn all that was pure into a charred shadow of its former self.  Before the fire grew out of control, Marla curtly put it out by covering the hole with the ash tray and a few napkins. When Marla looked at her watch it was 9:36, she had already finished a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes. Marla knew that Lance had a tendency to be tardy, but not late. This was simply ridiculous.
            Just then the maitre’d told Marla that she had a phone call. It was Lance.
            “Hi baby where are you, I’ve been waiting all night?”
            “Uh, I’m not coming anymore.”
            “Lance what do you mean you’re not coming?”
            “I’m not coming because I am leaving you, I don’t love you anymore.”
            “But Lance, baby, what do you mean...baby we can work this out...besides I have something to tell you...Lance, I am pregnant.”
            The phone went dead. The deafening sound of the dial tone drove Marla mad. As Marla rushed back to her table, the tears began to run down her face like Niagara Falls. By the time she made it to the table, her face was covered in a mix of salty tears and cheap mascara. She reached in her purse, threw out a wad of bills, and clumsily bumped into a waiter. Blinded by her tears and heartache, Marla ran out onto the street. Suddenly, she realized that she was enveloped in the headlights of an oncoming truck. She did not move. She stood still. 

Me
Lauren Chisholm

            It is 4:06AM. In exactly one hour I will be 40 years of age. As I sit in solitude, I can’t help but wonder where the time went. I am comfortably positioned on my leather couch in cozy pajamas with a piping hot mug of cocoa, extra marshmallows, on the coffee table in front of me. My memory box is placed adjacent to the mug on the coffee table. As I look out of my big bay window, the sky is the color of shoe polish.
            Some years ago, I created a memory box to hold all of things that were dear to me or that reminded me of an important part of my life. I was inspired by one of those old Oprah clips, you know, “Remembering your Spirit”, or whatever they were called. At any rate, every year, exactly one hour before the time that I was born, I open the box and rehash old memories. In a way, it reminds me of my past, but also helps me to focus on creating new memories and new challenges for the year.
            As I go through the box, I can’t believe that I have kept old ticket stubs, my husband’s phone number from the night that we first met, bubbles from my wedding, my oldest daughter’s first lost tooth, and a some other odd items. There are also a number of old photographs. There are a few pictures, that I can’t help but to stare. The one that always catches me is of a girl that I once knew.
            In the picture she is laughing and smiling, with a group of other friends. It seems as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. If  I can remember correctly, it was taken around the time that she went off to college. At that time, life was fun, new, fresh, and exciting. Her motives were pure and it was exemplified throughout everything she did.
            In her former years, there seemed to be nothing that she set her mind to that she couldn’t accomplish. She held various leadership positions in high school ranging from Vice-President of  the Sophomore Class Board to Director and Co-Writer of the Black History and Women’s Month Assemblies. She volunteered with various organizations, and made it her business to remain on the honor roll for all four years of her high school career.      
            As I look into her eyes, though smiling, she looks determined, yet optimistic. I think of how outspoken and fun-loving she was, but never had a problem with working hard. As a matter of fact, when life presented challenges to her, she simply adapted to the situation, and ultimately came out on top. In addition, she tried to remain positive. She encouraged me, when I felt like I couldn’t make it, or when I didn’t have enough confidence in my abilities. When I was afraid to make changes in life, she told me that it was okay to try it. She told me that the worst thing that could happen is just that, the worst. She always made me think about the best thing that could happen. But most importantly, to never forget the power of prayer; God never fails, nor gives you more than you can bear. I must say, when I get the chance to see her again, I will surely thank her for it.
            It is now 5:00AM. The sun is slowly beginning to wake up the earth. I quietly put the items back into the memory box and proceed to place it on the top shelf of my closet. I then tiptoe to my private bathroom, so as not to wake my husband. As I stand in front of the floor length mirror, I have decided to cherish the last few minutes of age 39. In exactly three minutes, I will be 40 years old. In exactly three minutes, I will begin the fourth installment of the saga that is my life. In this installment, I plan to strive to connect with the past in order to provide further insight for my future. My first order of business is to reunite with that girl. It is now 5:05AM with thirty seconds and counting... 27, 26, 25... It has now occurred to me that there is a young girl standing beside me in the mirror. 19, 18, 17... As I peer deeper into the mirror, I recognize who it is...3, 2, 1... It is me, at 18.

One Last Time
Roniesha L. Copeland

            His smooth, flawless milk chocolate skin glistened as he stepped out of the steaming shower. Small beads of water clung to his gorgeous, well-toned body, accentuating the glorious definition that made him comparable to a Greek god. He wiped the foggy bathroom mirror and smiled, thinking of his girlfriend, Italia, who would, hopefully, be more than that after tonight’s dinner. As he proceeded to get dressed, he picked up the phone and dialed The Highrise.
            “Good evening and thank you for calling The Highrise, Collin speaking.”
            “Hello, Collin. Please tell Tali that I’m running late and I’ll be there shortly,” the man spoke quietly, careful not to awaken inquiry from the party that was noisily banging pots in the adjoining kitchen, the same party that had joined him in bed less than an hour ago.
            “Of course, Mr. Addison. And shall I give her the usual?” he asked slyly, implying his full understanding of the situation.
            “Yes, the Don Perignon will do.”
            Just as he hung up the phone, a purring female voice summoned him to the kitchen. “Oh Jaaaaames, Jamesie dear. Come here for a sec, will you?”
Usually, he answered the tempting call but he had something more important on his mind. James promised himself that this was the last time he’d do something scandalous like this to his girlfriend. He couldn’t bear to hurt her anymore; he loved her too much.
Tonight, he was putting an end to his inconsiderate and deceitful pleasures. This little rendezvous with Alicia would provide closure to the final chapter of his life of gaming females. It was necessary. “Besides,” he figured, “Tali would never find out.”
            Reminded of the night’s importance, he pulled out a small Tiffany & Co. box and beamed with satisfaction and anticipation. Staring at the glorious token of affection that lie resting in his sweaty hand, a nervous tingle crept over his tense body, overwhelming him with anxiety. Breathing deeply to calm his nervousness, he squeezed the distinctive bluish-green packaging containing a four carat platinum engagement ring and offered a silent prayer to God, the friend he always turned to in times of distress and uncertainty. While carefully reinserting the box into the inside pocket of his black four-button Giorgio Armani suit, he heard Alicia call him for the last time.
Calmly, he stepped into the kitchen and said, “Goodbye, Leesh. It’s over.” The sound of his words fell densely on Alicia’s ears. Her head snapped around to face him, and the expression on her face caused James to back up defensively guarding his face, as if Lenox Lewis had cornered him in a boxing ring. Attempting to depart her presence, he quickly headed towards the door to let himself out.  Ignoring her passionate and deafening yells, he glided out the door somewhat fearful of what Alicia might do but relatively unconcerned considering that tonight was the night.
------------------------------------
James Addison had done this all of his life. He was a “player” in the complete essence of the word, the quintessential male dog. Any characteristic that fit a “player,” whether positive or negative, denoted him. Most described him as suave, debonair, confident, handsome . . . no fiiiiine. Not fine, but fiiiiine. Beginning at a young age, all the ladies wanted James but knew better than to get involved with him. This remained true as time passed; however, many females, way too many females, had fallen for his irresistible game.
            Italia Mason was one of them. For years, she dated scum, worthless men who mentally and physically abused her and depended on her for their livelihood. Then, one day, after a heated argument with an ex-boyfriend, she literally ran into James. Rushing hurriedly out of the revolving lobby door of The Drake hotel on a frigid and windy winter Chicago evening, she walked right into him as he stood amidst a mass of holiday shoppers on the crowded sidewalk. At first glance, she fell head over heels for him. His beaming white Crest commercial smile warmed her frigid body and instantly melted her heart. That night the two conversed for three hours over dinner and drinks at The Highrise, which had now become their favorite restaurant. Everything since then had been heavenly pleasurable and refreshingly satisfying.
Well, not exactly. Of course, Italia couldn’t come across such a wonderful catch without him having a flaw. His flaw had brought her the most frustrating and disheartening pain. James was a “player.” He cheated, not because he didn’t love her but because he could. 
Tonight marked their two-year anniversary, recurring break-ups included. As usual, she sat at their table in The Highrise near the piano, staring at his trademark--a single red rose--waiting for him to join her. He was already half an hour late.
Collin, the maitre’ d, strolled over to the table at which Italia sat impatiently, carrying a bucket of wine containing a bottle of Don Perignon. Immediately Italia’s face flushed with anger and disappointment. She knew what the wine meant—a cheating bastard of a boyfriend.
This had occurred so regularly throughout their relationship that Italia didn’t even have to think twice or question her suspicions. Her boyfriend never put work or his friends before her, and he phoned at the occurrence of an unexpected family emergency. The phrase, “Mr. Addison is running late,” had acquired a particular definition-- “I’m cheating.” And the Don Perignon denoted his apology. 
After downing her first glass of wine, she lit up a cigarette. Last year, she had quit smoking at James’ urging. But she always kept a pack with her in case she ever felt the need to deviate from her newly acquired discipline. Now was that time.
For the next half hour, she chastised herself for being naïve and getting caught up with a guy like James. Despite this self-criticism, the fact that she loved him repeatedly visited her mind.
While sipping on her final glass of wine, she glanced over at the restaurant entrance only to see the man who had stolen her heart. Wearing a brilliant smile that beamed from ear to ear and carrying an enrapturing blend of red, white, and pink roses-- three dozen to be exact, he floated over to her table, his commanding strides attracting the full attention of everyone in the restaurant. James was irresistible. Right now, though, it didn’t matter. Tonight was the last time she would accept his bull. Italia had had enough; tonight she found the strength to resist him. James had struck out.
Before he even opened his mouth, Italia jumped up, knocked her chair over, and threw the napkin she had been crumpling for the last half hour to the floor.
Passionately, she shouted, “It’s over! Don’t ask any questions because you know all the answers. This was your last time. It’s over!”
In attempts to calm her, James enveloped her in his firm grasp. He could see the rage and pain in her eyes as she pounded her fist against his brawny chest. Apologetically, he stared down at her and wiped her tear-stained, mascara-streaked cheek. “Pooh,” he whined softly, “Let me explain. Just please let me explain.”
Infuriated, she shook herself free from his powerful embrace and violently gazed up at him. Calmly, she whispered, “I said it’s over. Goodbye James.”
            Loudly stomping her four-inch Manolo Blahnik stilettos across The Highrise floor, she stormed out of the restaurant leaving James flustered. Awe-struck he stared at the freshly set table with its beaming, untouched silverware, the ashtray full of cigarette butts containing lingering traces of coral-colored lipstick, and an empty wine bottle.
            “Damn, she’s pissed,” he muttered under his breath, as he fought back stinging tears. “I can’t lose her. I just can’t.”
Determined not to lose the love of his life, he grabbed two neatly folded $100 bills from his pocket, and threw them on the table. Glancing toward the door, he whispered to himself, “Italia and James always and forever” and ran after the fuming Tali. There was no way he was letting her get away.

A New World
Roniesha L. Copeland
 
I woke up one morning to a whole new world.
What my eyes expected to see was indiscernible in the ambiguous sky.
Darkness flooded my vision, blinding me from bright days of joy and peace.
My pupils constricted as they became adjusted to the change in light.
I woke up to find that a life I never thought would change was no longer the same.
 
I heard a new song today, one that only an angel could sing.
My ears struggled to hear the voice it was so accustomed to.
But sounds of familiarity drowned in a tumult of boisterously disturbing noise.
My sensitive eardrums pounded at the painful sounds of emptiness and longing.
I opened my ears wide to hear something that will never be heard again.
 
I smelled something different just a few minutes ago.
My nostrils began to widen at the uncanny scents floating in the dense air.
All that was fresh, sweet, and fragrant disappeared in the grotesque stenches of pain and fear.
My sense of smell could only retain the aromas of a new and confusing world.
I opened my nose longing for the fragrances of peace, comfort, and normality.
 
I tasted a new recipe during dinner today.
My tongue expected to enjoy the sweet, mouth-watering taste of peace.
Instead, the raging fires that pierce and destroy tranquility burned it.
My sensitive taste buds longed for the savor of the past, the flavor of times before.
I tasted, sorrowfully, a meal that I wish could be nullified.
 
I reached out to touch a priceless gem just now.
My hand stretched out to caress its gentle features and intricate design.
What I felt was the stark cold and empty air brushing severely against my awaiting palm.
Still my fingers ached for the tangible, the concrete, the physical presence of this beautiful antique.
I reached out only to feel what is now an ethereal memory.
 
I woke up this morning to a whole new world.

Farewell . . .
Roniesha L. Copeland
 
Dear Friend,
            I never meant to hurt you, disappoint you, or destroy anything that we had. I suppose that I was naïve and blind to certain things-things that were innately obvious to you and to others as well. As much as it pains me to accept the hand that you have just dealt, I know that I have to. What makes it even more painful is that I am to blame.
That night when you called me, I thought I knew what to expect-the typical “you upset me, but let’s talk this out” conversation. How wrong was I! Never would I have imagined you’d tell me that we needed to take a break from our friendship. If only you could’ve seen my face as I listened to those words. My eyes widened in disbelief and my mouth gaped open. At the same time, I felt as if my heart had just been brutally mutilated into deformation. As you continued to express your feelings and frustrations, you left me dumbfounded. It hurt to hear what you said because I was clueless as to what provoked your comments and the feelings they expressed. I racked my brain, thoroughly probing for something I had done or said that would incite such a drastic response.
Truthfully, I’m hurt, lost, and confused. This situation has compelled me to look deep within myself to discover the true problem because I know there must be one. Friendship after friendship, I keep messing up. I care about all my friends, honestly, I do, but for some freaking’ reason I just can’t seem to get it right. But, for you, I will. I promise, I will. You have been my shoulder to lean on, my confidant, my laugh in times of frustration, and my solace in times of despair, the ear to listen, and the voice to console. When I was at my lowest, you walked beside me, holding my hand until I was strong enough to stand on my own. I am asking, actually I’m begging, that you give me another chance. Give me the chance to get right, to work out my own problems. Just don’t end it here, not now.
            You see, I’ve started working on the problem already. Right after our conversation ended, I called Dr. Greene. She agreed to see me immediately so I went to her office the next morning. I talked to her for hours; she had to cancel the rest of her appointments for the day. As I sat there and told her about the situation, she cried with me. She knows how our friendship has gotten me through many of the issues I have come to see her about. It hurt her, and she promised me that she would do anything to make sure I didn’t lose you or what we had. One thing she said, that I promise I’ll never forget, is that you are a vital link in the chain that has been my life. Your presence represents history, change, support, endurance, and attachment. She emphasized our past and how, without that, I might not even be there to talk to her. But then she reminded me that I am an individual and that I don’t have to depend on anyone but myself. This really encouraged me to fix myself because that may be the only way to fix us.
As I left her office, I thought about the time you attended a session with me after Drake and I broke up. Remember how I almost chopped off my hair and, even worse, refused to eat. Emotional breakdown....... Precisely. Through all that, you never left my side; you took care of me, making sure I went to class and giving me a “girl’s night out” every weekend despite how much Tre complained about him never seeing you anymore. No one ever knew what I went through because of you. You shielded my reputation and guarded my life. Now that I think about it, you were my angel here on earth. No, you still are. I believe that God placed you in my life for a reason, and I am not going to be the one to mess that up.
Maybe it’s a part of his plan to put some distance between us, to possibly make me depend upon myself. I guess it’s about time that I grow up some, learn to be independent and make decisions on my own. Perhaps, this is exactly what we both need. When we truly know ourselves better, the glory of our friendship will only blossom.
With this in mind, I’ve just decided to take everything in stride. I plan to spend some time with me, to get to know myself-my individual needs, desires, talents, and goals. During this separation, I plan to become self-sufficient, self-satisfied, and self-reliant. Then, I can be more considerate of you, your feelings, and you personal desires for space. I realize that it’s not your responsibility to be my mother, even though you have sometimes acted as both my parents ever since the accident. I see how that could take a toll on you and our relationship, and I am slowly beginning to understand what you said on the phone the other night. It’s time for me to find me. But know, that when I do, I want to find our friendship all over again, too.  I miss you and love you with all my heart.

Love,
A Torn Friend

So This Is the End
Roniesha L. Copeland

See, you don’t know the pain I feel.
The troubles I’ve had, the mistakes I’ve made.
You wouldn’t understand my naiveté or my ignorance,
My blindness to things that to you seem so apparent.
Never would you guess that I thought everything was fine,
Only to find that you definitely thought otherwise.
 
So maybe things can’t be the same,
Though that hurts and even makes me cry.
I messed up so you say.
I guess I’ll have to accept it and live with the consequences.
It’s insane for me to wish I could rewind time,
To correct my mistakes or take back my inconsiderate acts.<