Prose


 * Prose Selections:**

"The Marvel of Man" An Essay by Michael Dohmann In discussing the nature of man, there is no shortage of insults and no shortage of misunderstandings regarding his complex emotions. Many have marveled at the many paradoxes of love and have also spat at the thought of hate, greed, and lust. We’ve all at some point been forced to write an essay about a character’s tragic flaw. All of us have read about man’s hubris an innumerable amount of times. Yet we are so rarely asked to stop reading for a moment and to stop considering man’s weaknesses and simply consider what it is we are doing. We are so rarely asked to simply marvel at what a novel itself is. It does not matter in the slightest whether what is written in the novel itself has any inherent value; everything that is written, from the phenomenal works of Shakespeare to dime store novels and even the names on the top of our papers, is a creation of man. To some, a word is taken only at face value. However, if one takes the opportunity to simply look and consider what a word is, they can realize how truly marvelous man is. We, alone, have created a series of symbols: simple pen strokes, which by themselves have no meaning whatsoever. To each one of these pen strokes, we have attributed a sound and, even more marvelous than that, a meaning. Not only have we created symbols, but we have developed a way to put these meaningless pen strokes one after another to create words. We have found a way to string these words together to create a sentence, and from this sentence, a paragraph, and from that paragraph, full- length novels. If an extra terrestrial creature were to come here and pick up a piece of literature, it would seem like nothing more than a series of meaningless lines, connected one after another, for pages on end. Even if this “literary” work were __The National Enquirer__, it would seem no more ridiculous than a history textbook. In spite of this simple fact, it seems that even the most unintelligent of humans can look at something such as the __National Enquirer__ and laugh at how ridiculous it is. We all seem to be able to look at lines on a page, absorb what they are saying, and build knowledge and understanding of the world we live in. By six years of age, an American child is supposed to be able to read, not well, but nonetheless read. Is it not incredible that in six years a human child can master something that did not even exist on earth for the 4.6 billion years before we arrived? Not only is that unimaginable but even more so is the simple fact that man was able to create words and agree upon their meaning. Creating a system that advanced took creativity, ingenuity, and raw intelligence. We have created from scratch words to express everything we think and feel. We have created vulgar words to express our distress, and we have created beautiful adjectives to express our love. Words, no matter their meaning, possess an indescribable beauty; each one is like a child, born to serve a purpose, born to change the world however subtly. And like a child, each one must be cared for and given the attention that it deserves. It must be treated correctly to ensure that the integrity of the language as a whole is not compromised. Although languages may be spoken in many different ways, there is a commonality among all the languages that speaks of the universal need to find a connection to something bigger than ourselves. Although the sounds and structure of different dialects may seem to contrast each other greatly, man has found ways to traverse all language barriers. Man has mastered the art of translation, but maybe it is not that translators speak multiple languages, but perhaps it is that all languages are one, and translators have just found the connection points. It does not seem to be purely coincidental that parallels can be drawn between all languages, nor does it seem coincidental that languages exist everywhere that man does. Rather it can be assumed that language is part of the human connection, and perhaps it can even be assumed that we do not speak English or Spanish, but instead each of us speaks the language of man. Language above all things highlights the human connection, which is characterized by creativity, beauty, and serenity, and it can be said that language truly is the marvel of man.

"The Last Visit" By Dylan Finley

The video was very short; only a minute long. For a while, I watched it every week though. His hair was gray and mangled, and his girlfriend sat in a chair in the corner of the room, fat like a queen ant. The bottle clinked, as my mom searching for a comb and water, began to disentangle his hair. Out on the streets of West New York, sirens droned out the hockey game on TV. The camera panned out across the malodorous white sheet and zoomed in on his wrinkled, closed eyes. My mom continued with his haircut, and snippets of hair scattered and fell down his neck. My dad sat next to me with his oversized glasses and looked down toward the ground.

I was anticipating seeing him and it didnt seem like a day to be sad. I was only feeling despondent about other things. His death the next week was so unpredictable and I had other, more personal things to worry about, as I waited to go inside. The New York City skyline was laid out across the river, and though the sun was out of range of the clouds, it was a faint light, and it felt cold. My mom left her car and joined us in the parking lot. We said hello to the concierge and took the lurid red elevator up, I with my camera in hand.

The visit was not as pleasant as those in the past few months or even in the recovery place that smelled so awful. Usually my grandpa and I conversed about history and the wars, since he fought as a World War 2 pilot, but that day we mostly just sat with suppressed words and feeling guilty that we had nothing to talk about. When he occasionally spoke, it was in a low guttural whisper that was painful to listen to. My mom mostly talked and it was of health matters, and reassuring words, and about his hair as she delicately clipped it. "Daddy, you're all trimmed up." When we ran out of invigorating words, we fixed his pillows, and he propped up his head. He was exhausted and closed his eyes.

My mom was pressuring me to sing a song for him. I was supposed to perform my song from the Wizard of Oz, and I had to fill in for all the other character's voices. He seemed to enjoy it, and clapped his hands, strewn with hairs and broken skin spots. He had missed the final performance of the show the previous day. "I love you daddy. I"ll see you soon." We gave his girlfriend an obligatory hug, walked down to the elevator, into the parking lot, and into our separate cars.

I do regret seeing his dead body in the coffin. His nose was shiveled, his skin was pallid, and his eyes were opaque. He looked inhuman and very dead. I prefer to watch the video of the last time I was him: even though he is motionless, he still responds to my mom, and though his eyes are closed, they are not insensible. It is the last visual documentation of his life, and looking at it now, I notice more about his final existence than all the times I spent beside him.

"A Moment of Silence" By Hayly Napier

My feet drift into the sandy surface as the ocean salt water rushes over my toes. Lying on the beach with the starry sky above me urges a feeling of calmness. THe stars shimmer down over my body, and the fresh air runs through my hair. The voices from the hotel echo in the distance, not a sound circles around me. The sand resembles a comfortable soft bed to my elegant body. The smell of food from the hotel causes my stomach to growl like an angry bear, thirsting for meat on my bones. This sensation might never come again; therefore, I stay still in the moonlight. Not a nerve in my body sets off while having this mood of cool, calm, and collectedness. As each wave crashes onto the shore, the water inches closer to my skin. I stand up and stare out over the horizon, glancing to see if anyone lurked around the beach, but my eyes did not meet a soul. As a result, I decide to take a chance; head first, arms out, and into the water I go. The cold water travels from my fingernails, down further and further, until it smashes over my toenails. The taste of water reads salty on my tongue as the waves tumble over me. It burns my throat while traveling down. Sand stays trapped in my clothing. It begins to edge its way through my long brown hair, forcing my scalp to itch. I tip my head back to release the sand, thrusting my arms apart to float along the currents. Each wave brought me closer, closer to shore, rinsing sand out. My mind clears of any stress. The peaceful ocean waves creep over me, bringing a serene sentiment never to be forgotten.

"The Blue Velvet Curtain" By Stephanie Amanda Rich

I hear the floor board screech in a high pitched, painful tone as I take a step towards the center of the stage. The stage seems alive, with vile feelings towards me. Almost as if it wants me to fail, and fall into it with the first step of my foot. It surely wants to swallow me whole. The poor, lost, and lonely stage doesn't know that I practiced for months and I feel ready to put up a fight. I take a deep breath, remerging all the time and effort I put into this. This was all I focused on for the past few months; so, this is exactly what I do: I take a second step. That second step, my commitment, my signed agreement, saying, "No turning back." I stand there in the middle of the stage with an awkward grin on my face. For some reason, no matter how hard I try, the smile refuses to leave my face. I feel happy, not an excited happy, but a nervous, "I don't know what to do" happy. As I stand in the center of the stage, my hands feel hot and clammy, sticking to everything I touch. I clench the black, plastic pick in my riht hand, so hard. Out of my unconsciousness, I run my fingers on my left hand up and down the neck of my prized possession, feeling the rigit strings on the wooden Ibanez guitar. I look at it and then back to the loud, obnoxious, yet strangely soothing amplifier. I touch the tuners on the very top of the guitar, knowing that if I move them everything goes downhill from there. I stare at the blue velvet curtain hanging right in front of my face and think about the exact second when it opens. I quickly flashed back to the moment; I don't want to think about the future yet, not even the next thirty seonds. Testing the amplifier for the very last time, my guitar produces a full, calm sounding; it's a G chord. As I speak into the microphone, I hold onto it, tight like a baby and its bottle. The microphone, being ice cold metal, freezes my fingers. The speaker announces the next performance, "Up next, is Stephanie Rich on guitar." I hear the electrifying applause from the crowd which makes my stomach turn. I look down and no where else. As I look down, I place my eyes on my shoes, not just any shoes, my favorite ones. My navy blue, converse high tops, with mustard yellow shoe laces! I have never worn them because they stand out, but with tonight being special, it is my moment to stand out. I bite my lip in nervousness, so hard that I make it bleed the distinctive flavor of blood. I feel my heart beating a million times a mintue. I hold all my feelings of anxiety and happiness within me as I think about the large crowd that sits in front of the curtain. This crowd contains my fellow classmates and random parents I don't even know. I take an extremely deep breath, almost as deep as an endless abyss. Slowly and suspensefully, the curtain opens.