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Hello and welcome to our online magazine! This magazine was put together by professor Peat's Introduction to Creative Writing class in the spring of 2013. Each student chose one or two of their favorite stories that they wrote and submitted it to this page. Enjoy!

Lottie's Cloud- Vivian

I hand over the slightly worn ticket that I had been holding onto for the last hour. My pulse quickens at the sound of the paper ripping. The minutes seem to stretch on, like the red staircase before me that vanishes up into a canopy of clouds. At the sight of those steps I close my eyes. I remember my childhood, somewhat blurred around the edges, it slowly comes back into focus.

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The tall silhouette of my father was striking against a palette of colors as we climbed up the stairs towards the entrance. In the lingering air I could already taste the scent of caramel mixed with the sugary undercoat of cotton candy. Large, weathered hands wrapped around mine, and everything seemed to take on a soft golden tone. Enveloped in a cocoon of music and laughter, I was truly convinced that this was an enchantment which happened only once a year.

As soon as we had stepped past the gate, I immediately took off running. My father followed in silent compliance, and his eyes crinkled into a smile every once in a while. That day, nothing could touch me except for the wonders of Alice in Wonderland, Dumbo, and the spinning tea cups. Like any eight year old, I felt nothing but the thrill of excitement as I explored the large, mysterious grounds.

I walked until my heels throbbed with exhaustion, until I could hardly contain anymore. It was a sad moment because I knew I was far from done, there was so much more to be had, but my ragged breath and spinning head disagreed. I needed a place to rest, so I chose a flakey green bench. That was when I saw it.

In front of me was a poster, new and freshly printed, depicting a red staircase that led up and further up until it was but a small point in the sky. However, in my childish delight I was more entranced with the fairies that were scattered about, the yellow and blue and pink dots spilling across. My big round eyes gazed at the block of white letters that read: The Empyrean, Come Experience the Wonders of the Sky! There was no doubt in my mind which ride I was going to take next.

I ran across to the long queue ahead, my little feet a flurry of movement, with my poor father trailing behind me. I waited impatiently as the tickets were purchased, but with a hint of curiosity. Before me there was a board divided into three different levels, each a different color. The different boxes read: $10 to ascend to Jack’s Cloud - A quick taste of the world beneath your feet, $15 to ascend to Sophie’s Cloud - The second layer of clouds is a feast for tired eyes, and $20 to ascend to Lottie’s Cloud - Ever wonder what heaven feels like?

I tugged violently on my father’s sleeve and pointed to Lottie’s Cloud. Of course now that we were here, I only wanted the best, plus I liked the sound of Lottie as it rolled off the tip of my tongue, it was much more charming than the name Jack. So my father bought two blue tickets and off we went. The line was very long, and there was chattering all around, I heard snatches of conversation here and there. I was too young to understand most of it, but the words “new discovery” popped up, and I felt proud to have known what that meant, but the conversation soon grew beyond my understanding as they talked on, something about “gravity” and “particles of cloud vapor”. I soon got bored, listening to what the adults in front of me were saying, instead I was bursting with excitement and ready to walk on clouds.

We slowly climbed up the stairs, every once and a while I would look down, the sight of the amusement park below made me lightheaded. I saw the ant-like people who were so far away, and the occasional speck of color, which I assumed were balloons. The trees became so small, and the roads like pieces of string, twisting and turning. I felt so wonderfully big,  as I held out my hand, pretending to pinch the miniature houses and roller coasters that were so far below.

It took a while, but we finally reached the entrance of the ride, small winged statues greeted us in mid flight. Soon, very soon I would join them and feel the trails of vapor beneath my feet. My father and I stepped across the gate and onto a large wooden platform, while behind us people piled on eager to secure a spot of their own. My ears perked as I heard an announcement from the speakers drift above the inane babble of the crowd. The announcer recited a few simple rules and ended with a short reminder for the children to stay close to their parents. Then came the unmistakeable sound of a loud buzzer reverberating in the air. The volume of the crowd swelled, as we watched the man in a neon blue uniform unbuckle the rope at the front of the platform. The people in front of us moved forward and I too stepped off the platform.

I felt an unexpectedly cold shock at the bottom of my feet. Below me wisps of vapor swirled about in a lazy caress, and flashes of color peeked through the small openings. A soft chuckle stole from my lips, at the clouds that filled the gaps of my toes and tickled arch of my foot. I was giddy, practically humming with satisfaction. I drank in every moment of it. From all direction, beams of slanted golden sunlight filtered through the layer of clouds above. I all but ran to the next gate. It seemed I couldn’t get to Lottie’s cloud fast enough.

I called for my father, my voice echoed into the ringing stillness of the misty trails. So up we climbed, the colors fading softly from pink, to purple, to a clear blue sky. I was silent for once, lost in my own thoughts, there was no breeze up here to disturb the air nor its surroundings, so for a good hour or so everything stood still in this blanket of white.

The mist slowly began to break away, until I could see little puffs of white clouds, baby clouds that clung to their mothers in the elevated plane. I tore a chunk out of a nearby cloud and made little ball of vapor, throwing it as far as I could. It was a peculiar sensation, tossing air, I could see it but I could not feel it. After a while, watching the little ball of cloud drift away from my vision, I lay down, my weariness washing swiftly over me. Everything was so impossibly blue, a vibrant clear blue.  Such a strong blue, it brought the inevitable sting of tears to my eyes.

I felt my father lay down beside me and I heard the steady rhythm of his breathing. And then I knew, I felt I could just let go, drift away with the clouds that cajoled and crooned so sweetly. Instead my father’s hands found mine and I felt the warm, warm pressure of it anchoring me to my body. The warmth curled up beside me as I lay there with it, my eyes closed. I felt a deep, true contentment fill the cracks of my skin. I was painted over, fresh and new like the clouds that surrounded me. Gradually my world became dimmer as I slipped into sleep.

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That is where my memory ends. I try to hold onto the lingering images still pressed against the backs of my eyes. But a jolt from the side brings me back to this present, twenty year old me. My grip loosens, and I watch the memory trickle away. And before I know it, the line in front is moving again, my legs carried along with it. I climb up the stairs once more, focusing intently on the worn red steps passing me by. It is a very long while before I shift my gaze down to look at the world below me. Everything has changed. There is no longer the warm sparkling glow, nor musical dance of color and sound. I asked myself whether I was expecting something. Perhaps I was hoping for a silly old notion, an enchantment that happens only once a year.

I reach the top of the stairs to the same gateway, now weathered to a dull gold. My steps become hesitant, they drag behind slightly. Finally I reach the platform, but there is no crowd today. Only me and a few other people, children and their parents. The announcement comes on, it seems to boom loudly, louder than I remember it, crashing into my ears. The people in front of me begin to walk, and there is a brief moment where I forget to follow.

I step out and  feel the cold sting of vapor swirling below me. It still takes me by surprise. And gradually I begin to feel the stirrings of something shift, a warm comforting feeling that fights its way to the surface. I take my socks off, and tread barefoot onto the cottony expanse, my feet planted firmly into this layer of cloud. There are more advertisements now, more than I remember. But one thing stands out. A board with different colored layers. It reads: ascend to Lottie’s Cloud - Ever wonder what heaven feels like?

Hungover -Adrienne

Sandy woke up with her boots on and the floor lamp blazing in the corner.

“Oh God, what time is it?” she asked aloud while wiping the drool off her cheek and pulling a stray hair out of her mouth. She realized she was alone as she slid off the couch and onto the floor with a thud. She fished her phone out of the purse that was still strapped across her body. “Oh great,” Sandy thought to herself, “who did I call this time…?” It was still dark outside and her neighbors were sure to be angry she was causing such a racket upstairs on a weeknight. She laughed to herself and did a little jig in her untied shoes.

“Am I still drunk?” she asked herself while looking in the mirror. Pulling her eyelids open she could see that her eyes were slightly bloodshot and smudged with traces of makeup. When she was done making faces she found her way to the kitchen. She pulled a dirty frying pan out the sink and placed it on the stove. In the refrigerator there was only her roommate’s food, but he practically lived at his rich boyfriend’s these days so Sandy didn’t think he’d mind if she took a few eggs.

As the eggs crackled in the pan, Sandy realized red pepper flakes would be the perfect garnish. She knew they had them, because she’d attempted the ‘Master Cleanse’ a few months ago with no success. The small container was on the top shelf and Sandy strained to reach. “Stupid Danny. He’s always doing this to me!” she said through clenched teeth. As Sandy shifted all her weight to one tip-toe, she suddenly lost her balance and tripped backwards over her boot laces. She braced herself for the fall and was relieved that it didn’t hurt a bit.

Opening her eyes the ceiling came into a view and the room was spinning. “God, I really am drunk,” she said. Black smoke billowed towards her, “Shit the eggs!” Sandy attempted to move her feet and realized they were not touching the ground. As she flailed her body about in confusion she elbowed cabinets, bashed her knee on the ceiling and hit her head on the ground. Even if her skirt hadn’t been around her ears she still wouldn’t have been able to see where she was going with all the smoke. The fire alarm started screeching and she found the pan of charred eggs just in time to throw it back into the sink with a sizzle and fling open the window for some fresh air.

Somehow her feet were back on the ground but Sandy was not so sure she could trust them to stay there. The fire alarm stopped, but it was too late. “Open up!” the landlord bellowed from the hallway. Petrified, Sandy thought she wasn’t going to be able to move, or not move. “I know you’re in there!” he continued banging on the door. As if she were taking a sobriety test, Sandy slowly put one foot in front of the other. When Mr. Elmjouie threatened to call the police Sandy quickened her pace and opened the door before she could think.

“Smoking in the apartment again!” Mr. Elmjouie said with an accusatory finger pointed in Sandy’s face. Backing away from her landlord, Sandy felt her heels start to lift off the ground. Mr. Elmjouie noticed her discomfort and took a step backwards into the hallway. “I can’t let this party girl get the best of my temper,” he thought to himself. Meanwhile Sandy attempted to cling to the floor with the tip of her toes. Every second she lifted a little higher, soon her feet would leave the floor and she knew she wouldn’t be able to control herself.  “If you think…” Mr. Elmjouie began again, but his jaw dropped and a much more meek finger followed her as she steadily rose up and up until she was practically glued to the ceiling. “I’m really sorry sir. As you can see I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. I wasn’t smoking. I burnt some food, there was no fire. I’ll try to be more quiet” Sandy said while trying to readjust her skirt for modesty. Mr. Elmjouie blinked twice slowly and backed away in a daze. “Just don’t let it happen again,” he said as if reading from a script, closing the door quickly behind him.

As the sound of Mr. Elmjouie’s footsteps retreated, Sandy thought to herself, “Great, now I’m going to have to move again.” Then it occurred to her, “What am I thinking? I can’t even figure out how to move my own body!” Pushing away from the ceiling she nearly reached the floor but as she extended her arms for it, she lost her balance and spun towards a wall. She kicked off of it with her boots and rocketed across the apartment like a swimmer, stopping just before hitting the opposing wall headlong. Using her arms she realized she could control her course. When she kicked her legs she could go faster. She practiced as quietly as she could but later she would have a hard time explaining the footprints on the walls to her roommate.

She was exhausted, trying to figure out how to fly was a full body workout. It took her a few attempts but she finally grabbed her phone from the floor. Dialing was a feat of coordination but finally the call went through. Her mother answered groggily on the other end. “Mom! I’m levitating!” Sandy said as she clung to her bed frame bobbing like a buoy above the mattress. The line was silent. “Mom, are you there? I’m freaking out!”

With a heavy sigh her mother said, “Sandra, are you on drugs?”

“No, Mom! I mean, I was a little drunk earlier, but I’m not anymore. This is serious. I don’t know what to do.” She began tearing up a little as it really sunk in.

“Listen, Sandra, drink some water and lay down. I have work tomorrow. I don’t have time for this.”

Before Sandy could explain, her mother had hung up. “This is so typical,” she thought to herself. As she struggled to anchor herself and hold back, Sandy remembered a childhood dream she’d all but forgotten. “Look at me Ma! Look at me!” she said as she hovered around the kitchen. “Not, now Sandra. I’m fixing dinner. Hand me that pepper and go play outside.”

Sandy woke up with her boots on and the floor lamp blazing in the corner. 

La Cancíon- Simone

Outside, the snowflakes are so big they have their own shadows, cast in the glow of the café’s warmly lit windows. Upon entering, the coziness of the small bar floats amiably through the smoky atmosphere to easily settle on shoulders like the comforting arms of an old friend. There are low hanging casual chandeliers and too many barstools for the handful of regulars who come for an after work unwind. The décor is reminiscent of old bull fighting times; walls scattered with matador posters, framed photos of glory pinned beside swords and hats, and through the haze you can just make out a faded no smoking sign. The dark hardwood bar is polished to shine, but you can feel its age nonetheless; it’s comfortable, beckoning inwards.

Behind the bar stands an elderly man in a button down shirt and red vest, peering through round rimmed glasses at the tumbler he slowly dries. His absence of attention to the customers feels normal, as though everything there was meant to move in this slow motion manner. People chat quietly in corner booths over tall beers and tapas, their work troubles and worries gradually draining out of them like the tapped keg that fills their glasses. Off in one corner, a man sits on a bar stool, cradling an old guitar in his arms. Now the warmth of the room becomes more complex, and the distinctly sweet scent of a man broken down and battered by life mingles itself in.

A slow trickle of notes issues from his guitar, but distractedly, and although he performs for a small audience, his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. The melody is graceful, dancing along your eardrums with the tease of far off dreams. Although he is hunched forward in despair, you can see a neatly slicked back ponytail, falling over a loose fitting tunic shirt. Despite brokenness, he is well kempt and handsome. Eyes closed, he strums gently to the cluster of people around, many of who lend a half-listening ear to the melody. Except for one man, who sits in a chair near a corner booth dressed in casual workday clothes and nurses a beer. He watches the guitarist contently, enrapt in the tune. His eyes don’t leave the player’s hands, and he nods slowly at the tune. It leisurely drifts to an end, and an eerie hush falls over the café.

The guitarist remains hunched over his guitar, lost in thought, but starts upon the utterance of one word.

“Marisol” he quietly says.

The guitarist draws a long breath in contemplation, regarding the old man with tired eyes. A pregnant silence follows, endlessly, with every person in the café now alert but pretending not to listen. He sighs, long winded, and rearranges himself on the stool in relent. Unhurriedly, he draws a scale along the guitar’s neck, and after another pause he begins the song. And delicately, the notes come forth, lightly and without much emotion at first. But as the song continues it builds, the notes taking on a life of their own, to dance through the room and tantalize every listener’s ear. As the song crescendos it becomes charged, the melody invoking a sadness, longing, and love so strong the air beside the stooped guitarist begins to shimmer in a deep red hue.

Now the audience’s eyes grow wide, but not a sound is uttered. With each emotion packed note the shimmering grows stronger, taking on shape and more colors; the black of silky hair, the porcelain white of perfect flesh, the even deeper red of lips. And still the guitar plays onward, emotion pouring forth from the instrument, and yet the guitarist doesn’t even notice the figure taking form beside him, so lost is he in the music. Shimmering brighter and brighter, as the song launches forward towards climax, it begins to take shape, an elbow here, a black high heel there, the curve of a bosom and the sweep of long black hair until, at the very peak of the song and woven from the intricate melody, is a nearly solid woman.

Following the intense crescendo of notes the music mellows downward, and her body becomes yet more solid. As final notes issue from the guitarist’s tired palms, the old man sits back, arms folded in a look of self-satisfaction. The song closes and she is now fully there, tangibly formed from the player’s heart. Her long, smooth legs extend from a red sequined flamenco dress, a scarlet begonia pinned in her hair. Finally taking notice of the crowd’s awestruck silence, the guitarist lifts his head, his weary eyes taking in those around him, including the old man, who is nodding, his eyes smiling, at something to the player’s left. Languidly he turns his eyes in that direction, and upon seeing her form gives no visible reaction beyond the tears that spring to the corners of his eyes. He takes her in, his longing now silently crashing down around him as there she stands, but can she be is she truly?

The moment stretches out as though inscribed in molasses. And bit by bit the space between the player and woman fills with emotion, their loss and love pouring between them; a tear slides down his face, but he does not notice. No one in the room breathes a word, not a sound is made as every person takes in this scene of passion, longing, love so heart-wrenching it could draw tears from a statue.  Their eyes glide across each other’s skin, their souls engaged in a silent dance of words, unspoken but perfectly clear. Finally, with apprehension, the guitarist draws out three syllables, uttering them with unadulterated reverence,

“Marisol”

And with that single word, she is gone, her graceful figure pulled from the air in a single moment.

The guitarist collapses over his guitar. His fleeting moment now gone, his body shakes in remorse and renewed grief. The room is quiet, no one has words for what just occurred, and instead find themselves closely examining their beers or looking any direction that is not towards him. Only the old man moves, shuffling to the only moments ago vacated spot and bending creakily to retrieve something from the floor.

Turning to the guitarist, he delicately holds out a single scarlet begonia.

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." -Anaïs Nin

The Certain Truth -Yasmeen

She stood alone, far away from the men and women who were on their knees in utter devotion to their Lord. She was covered from head to toe in black satin but she felt naked inside, as though someone around her could see right through her. Her face told a story; her dark eyes contained the traces of childish enthusiasm of a girl, her skin now lined with worry, like a wilting rose petal did not do justice to the youthful spirit that was caged within her.

The power of age made her insides warm, so warm in fact that her soul was rejuvenated. She could not remember for how long she had been in that little corner behind the herculean, marble pillar but it felt like a lifetime. It was as though her entire life had passed by her and now she was living through the spiritual power of her surroundings.

She was naïve for her age. Once full of hope and optimism, like a jasmine in its very first spring; nothing could bring her down. But like every bloom, every sapling, every insect she had to weather her very first storm. A storm that would bring her one step closer to a reality that was entirely surreal to her; a veracity of actuality, the greatest adversity of creation: the truth of mortality.

Truth was a baffling concept. Some found truth in disappointment or hardship, while others are introduced to it during moments of extreme happiness, and achievement. However in the midst of dealing with her worldly affairs, she forgot that the biggest, and possibly most certain truth in life was death.

She never for a second thought that every game of trumps, family gathering, and phone call or text message might be the last. It was tragic, but also eye opening because she realized that all it takes is one moment for an entire life to turn around. All it takes is one, simple moment to realize that someone so dear to her could leave her permanently.

            The thought of her role model, with every passing day, moving one step closer towards the embracing arms of death, made her sick to her stomach. She was not ready for the truth. Memories of holidays spent together, like photographs in her mind, burnt a hole in her chest, making it harder and harder for her to believe. Memories of cakes and birthday wishes burnt a hole in her mind, making it harder and harder to focus. But most notably, memories of a loving father and his undying support burnt a hole in her delicate, fragile heart, butchering her soul and leaving her bare, naked and unprotected.

            Tears poured down her face like raindrops during a storm, why wouldn’t they stop?

            The graceful man got up from the prayer mat and moved towards her. His pearly white shawl could not compare to his glowing complexion; he was indeed a beautiful reverie. Sick, yet beautiful.

He had been looking at her from a distance, reading every thought in her mind. He knew that he was the reason for her pain, for her tears, for her sorrow. He could not stand his child suffer like this; he had to comfort her.

He gently put forward his hand. Without hesitation, she placed hers on his. It felt like home. His face radiated a supernatural illusion, one that pleased her greatly as he pressed onto her hand, comforting her. Gradually she felt her hand and arm relax, as though they were falling into a deep sleep. The sensation crept onto her legs, numbing them, paralyzing them. Her eyelids started to get heavy; she wanted nothing more but to give in to the lethargy. She could no longer think straight but she was content. Her heart calmed down with every new beat. She was with him now; she no longer worried about tomorrow. She no longer cared about all that would change in her life in the future. She understood that he wanted her to cherish his time on Earth and to live with him in the present, not give up living because of the darkness of the future. The man held onto her hand as she felt her feet on the clouds, far away from the chains of time, the chains of pain.

As she lay on his lap, she came to terms with the devastating hardship she was undergoing; there was no running, there was no hiding. She would finally get acquainted with the most “certain truth.”  

Umayyad -Sandra

I stood tall and proud in the ancient city of Aleppo for a thousand long years. These years have bought me joy, happiness, and most importantly, humbleness. As tall as I am, as big as I am, and as strong as I am, I will always remain humble because that is what I was made for. I was made to invite people from hundreds of generations to nurture them and welcome them to the only place they can come to in peace. Prayers of gratitude, sorrow, and forgiveness of my people lay within me. A medium to God is what I have been to my beloved people of Damascus for generations and generations. I bared the prayers of sons, daughters, women, and men. I held the prayers of my people so close to my heart. Life long prayers lay within me, of men that came to me when they were children, and the elderly that came to me when they were youthful, their prayers stay with me as I welcomed them for thousands of years. Oh, my beloved Damascus, oh my beloved Aleppo how I have seen you grow and blossom into a beautiful city where gratitude and humbleness was always there.

I was once a house of prayers, but not today. My beloved people of Aleppo came to me to pray, but now they come to me with guns. I was a shelter for prayers for my beloved people, but now I am a shelter for rebels and mass destruction. My beloved people of Aleppo shoot at me with guns and tanks. A place where my people held each other’s hand to help each other up after prayers has now become a place where my people shoot each other down. Oh my dear people of Aleppo, my dear country Damascus, that I do not recognize anymore. My own beloved people that I have nurtured for all these years have destroyed me, as they blame one another for my destruction. My dear people of Aleppo have beaten me down, the Umayyad Mosque, the house of prayer to millions of people from hundreds of generations, but not today. The holy house of prayers has now become a tainted house for a civil war. 

They Tore Us Up -Majda

Child killed in Syrian refugee camp fire

19:03, April 24, 2013

ANKARA, April 24 (Xinhua) 

 A fire broke out Wednesday in a Syrian refugee tent insoutheastern Turkey's province of Sanliurfa, killing a nine-year-old child and injuringfive other kids, local media reported.
The fire erupted early in the morning at the Tel Halmut Tent City in the Ceylanpinar district

One Syrian child died, and another five kids were taken to nearby hospitals due toserious injuries. They are reportedly all in critical conditions.

They Tore Us Up

(Sung to the melody of You Raise Me Up)

When I was born

My mommy told me a secret

She said: my son,

You are the world to me

Now I am gone and she is left alone

But in the dawn, I come and pray in peace

They tore us up

Broke our home and our spirit

They tore us up

Sent us miles away

I was young

But I know that it’s not fair

They tore us up

Then killed me again.

I went to play

And then I smelled the fire

I saw the flames

In my face it blazed

There I lay

With refugees around me

A Syrian soul

Gone on Easter Day

They tore us up

Broke our home and our spirit

They tore us up

Sent us miles away

I was young

But I know that it’s not fair

They tore us up

Then killed me again.

When I was gone

My mommy started crying

Her only son

Eaten by the flames

I was young

But I just couldn’t stay

Away from home

From my Syrian bay

They tore us up… Then killed me

Agaa-innn