Originally titled “By the Century’s Deathbed,” “The Darkling Thrush” is set during the period of transition between the 19th and 20th centuries. At 60 years of age, Hardy was about to enter the “Modern Age.” The tone which he sets for the burgeoning era, however, is far from enthusiastic. There is no cause for celebration in Hardy’s description. Rather, he approaches the new century with a mix of apprehension and gloom. It can even be argued that the poem’s title alludes to the uninspired state Hardy finds himself in at such a time. If the “thrush” is symbolic of the poet (and thus Hardy), does he see the poet (and/or himself) “in the dark,” so to speak? Or, is the actual thrush “in the dark” in the sense that it remains ignorant to the surrounding bleak conditions?

Such questions can only be answered through a more in-depth or detailed analysis of the work. As exemplified in the poem’s first stanza, the devastation and desolation of the winter environment sets a somber tone for the work. Hardy describes the environment as non-conducive to any form of singing or lyricism. He writes: “The tangled bine-stems scored the sky/Like strings of broken lyres” (“The Darkling Thrush,” ll. 5-6, NA, 1871). The comparison of shrub stems to the strings of a broken lyre harkens back to the Greco- Roman tradition, in which lyres were popular musical instruments. Hardy utilizes such an image to emphasize the non-celebratory nature of the atmosphere the narrator finds himself in. Said environment can be starkly contrasted with the setting of Keats’ poem. Keats’ narrator seems enchanted by his surroundings: “I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,/Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,/But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet/Wherewith the seasonable month endows/The grass, the thicket, and the fruittree wild” (“Ode to a Nightingale,” ll. 41-45, NA, 904).

In addition to myriad references to the natural world, Hardy also describes the poem’s setting in terms of people: “And all mankind that haunted nigh/Had sought their household fires” (ll. 7-8). Both isolated in their separate living quarters and lacking a locus of community, society lies fragmented. One can infer the disconnect Hardy’s narrator feels in terms of the social. In contrast, the narrator in “Ode to a Nightingale” seems so overwhelmed (in a positive way) by the natural world around him, that the social is of no immediate concern. Keats’ imagery emphasizes the vitality and renewal characteristic of spring (mid-May), whereas Hardy’s winter setting is “dead”: “The ancient pulse of germ and birth/Was shrunken hard and dry” (ll. 13-14). In “The Darkling Thrush,” the natural world’s lifelessness is paralleled by the torpidity of the human community. Hardy writes: “And every spirit upon earth/Seemed fervourless as I” (ll. 15-16). The narrator thus perceives others as impassive “spirits,” and finds himself in a comparable position.

Hardy’s narrator’s bleak tone is abruptly interrupted during the transition into the third stanza. The lone voice of a thrush arises out of the “dead zone” to sing a song of “joy illimited” (ll. 20). Hardy alludes to an Anglican Communion hymn in his description of the bird’s melody as an “evensong” (ll. 19). Such a joyous, religious song thus stands in marked contrast to the thrush’s (and narrator’s) oppressive surroundings. However, the thrush itself is comparable to the environment in terms of its mutability. Hardy describes the bird as “aged … frail, gaunt, and small” (ll. 21). In direct opposition, Keats’ nightingale seems to exude an aura of the supernatural. Said nightingale serves as an embodiment of past, present, and future: “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!/No hungry generations tread thee down;/The voice I hear this passing night was heard/In ancient days by emperor and clown” (ll. 61-64).

An additional contrast between the poems is exemplified by the environment in which each bird performs. The reader has no cause to question the source of the nightingale’s melodious song in Keats’ work. However, the reader of the “Darkling Thrush” is most likely perplexed by the thrush’s joyous tune. The thrush seems entirely out of touch with the bleak reality of its world. Hardy remarks: “So little cause for carolings/Of such ecstatic sound” (ll. 25-26). The reader thus queries the origin of this “ecstatic” song of “joy illimited.” There are two speculations: either the thrush’s hope springs from a genuine source, or, it is simply a reflection of the bird’s oblivious nature.

If one interprets the thrush’s hope as genuine, it can be thought of as an expression of a Wordsworthian-like spiritual sublime. Hardy description of the bird’s song in spiritual/religious terms (“evensong,” “carolings”), can be understood as a harkening back to the faith Hardy held as a young man. Prior to his acceptance of “the disappearance of God,” Hardy had “seriously considered becoming an Anglican priest" (NA 1852). However, a spiritual crisis had caused him to both give up his Christian faith and abandon all desire to serve in the church. Does the thrush thus represent the spiritual, hope-filled side that Hardy used to have? And if so, does the poem express his yearning to reconnect with that lost spirituality? Hardy leaves such questions unanswered.

If the thrush’s song is not based on genuine revelation, however, it can be alternatively interpreted as mere animal ignorance. Perhaps the thrush is described as “darkling,” because it is, metaphorically speaking, “in the dark.” If so, the thrush’s naiveté shines through, causing the bird’s “joy illimited” to seem unfounded/irrational in the context of its miserable surroundings. Hardy’s narrator concludes: “Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew/And I was unaware” (ll. 31-32). Whereas Keats’ narrator,mesmerized by the nightingale’s song, releases all inhibition while “drunk” on the invisible wings of poetic imagination, Hardy’s narrator seems confused. The origin of the thrush’s hope remains foreign to him.

Hardy thus leaves his reader a bit bewildered at the poem’s conclusion. Although the source of the thrush’s hope is left ambiguous, one thing is clear: the narrator feels completely out of touch with any form of hope. Hardy, a strong atheist and champion of the philosophy of determinism, would most likely interpret the thrush’s hope similarly to the narrator. Moreover, Hardy’s philosophy would lead him to interpret such hope as ultimately unfounded in a world controlled by fate and devoid of God. Another factor left to consider includes the traditional trope of the bird as symbolic of poetic inspiration and imagination. Hardy thus leaves his reader with a challenge: If God is “dead,” and both the world and human nature are determined by fate, where is the poet (or anyone) to find hope?

Clearly, the bleak imagery Hardy utilizes in “The Darkling Thrush” is far from conducive to any hope or optimism. Furthermore, as a result of modern societal fragmentation, Hardy’s narrator’s lacks valid human connections. Therefore, without God, an inspiring environment, or social support, the only person the poet has to turn to is himself. For the narrator of “The Darkling Thrush,” poetic inspiration or “hope” must be internally derived. Keats’ narrator, in contrast, can soar on “the viewless wings of Poesy,” by escaping into the nightingale’s song (ll. 33). Hardy’s poetic response to Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale” thus questions the reliance on external sources for poetic inspiration. “The Darkling Thrush” challenges the poet of the 20th century to look inside his own head, for, as Romantic poet William Wordsworth writes: “thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms” (“Tintern Abbey,” ll. 139-40, NA, 261).

Works Cited
Greenblatt, Stephan, M. H. Abrams, Carol T. Christ, Catherine Robson, Eds. The Norton
Anthology of English Literature, Volumes E-F. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

"Tigerlilly" by Sam Cunningham, Junior, Pine Manor College

"Rock and Chain" by Sam Cunningham, Junior, Pine Manor College

"Many Fish" by Sarah A. Wilt, Senior, Pine Manor College

"Nightgale" by Gabriela Araujo, Sophomore, Pine Manor College

Father says,
Nothing is impossible for God,
A Buddhist who believes
(With his whole heart)
In Buddha will be rewarded,
And what of the atheist,
Who believes (with his whole heart)
In nothing, derives
No purpose
From a universe growing colder
To him, to everyone, to everything?

Father says,
God is loving, God is powerful
But God has no power to hate,
Am I more powerful than God,
Because I can fill myself with fire
And cast out brimstone,
What of hell father,
Could you ever hate me,
Do you have the power,
The will to hate,
Could you do it forever,
Could you see me suffer
Forever, my screams
Coming through flutes to you,
Could you dance to my suffering,
Build basilicas to my defeat?

Father says,
Hell is separation, the farthest from god
Are in hell, their own hell,
But God is far from everyone,
Good and evil are closer together,
Knowing one another better
Than God, they keep to a battle
With one another, still
Only making an acquaintance with the Divine.
God sees all, but is not in all,
The creator admiring and disliking,
Finding disappointment in his creation,
If otherwise, then Pantheism
Would hold true and God’s hand,
Would be dripping with blood.
So God then is in hell,
While he sits in heaven,
No one heeds his calls
(I feel sorrow for the fellow)

But Father says,
Nothing is impossible with God,
Am I too hard for him,
To chew and swallow,
Absorb within his heavenly goodness?
It can happen
He says,
What do I have to do?
Nothing, it seems,
An all-powerful force,
Can do what it wants with me,
I am not an immovable object,
The church improves your odds,
God is a bookmaker,
God roles dice!
Who is far from God,
If God is everywhere?
Few
He says,
Few
Me?
I hope not
Hitler?
I hope so.

Now he is middle management

He wears a tie in place
Of chain mail,
Holds a pen instead of a sword,
His shoes are not meant for
Advancing or retreating,
And so not absorb
The blood of the fallen well.

How, he wonders,
“How did this happen,
I was burned on top of a pyre,
As a good warrior should be.
Was I not a good warrior,
Was I not a hero?”

His Wiglaf,
Coffee-maker, pencil-sharpener,
Proof-reader, pen-getter
Offers no answers,
Only questions.

Do you want me to fix you a cup of coffee now how many lumps of sugar do you take oh
your pen is broken can I get you another one or how about a pencil you don’t use pencil
do you maybe you can start today they can erase your mistakes why is this word
capitalized in the letter I think the margins are too wide but that’s just an opinion isn’t it?

He longs for a king to serve, but
There is no ring-giver,
Only a time-taker, who
Sits on a clock
And hands out coins.

The competitors swarm,
But he is held back.
His sword will not emerge again
It will not reflect sunlight and fear
Into its enemies eyes.

He insists,
“I slew the dragon, I had to die
For it to die,
Yet I see no dragon among us,
So how am I living,
Who brought me here?”

He watches the sun set
Through glass,
Unable to breathe the burning air
Noticing his reflection,
Coming into its own.

Drunk at a Christmas Party,
While he was celebrating the Yule time,
He screamed in his corner,
“I slew Grendel,
And Grendel’s mother,
I slew the dragon,
And I too,
Should have been slain.”

I’ll be in New York
about a month
after summer gets there.

And I’ll be there on time
I’m sure the Greyhound won’t rear end a truck
two rides in a row.

Save your songs
I want to hear them all
We’ll go to your Washington Square Park

Pass under the Arch
with your guitar
and pretend it’s a portal
–dimension of parched grass but full fountains.

Get some more of that
white chocolate peanut butter
and that Italian bread from Trader Joe’s.

We’ll live off that,
and episodes of Rescue Me,
and stories about all the girls you get,
and all the boys I don’t
and now don’t frown an apology at me like you do.
It’s nothing to me, so it should be nothing to you.
– I got more holding me together than a few good screws.

We’ll stay away from Times Square
and visit your Swedish Cottage in Central Park.
I’m sorry I’ll still be a month shy of getting into a bar.

But at least we have Around the Clock –
best nearby New York breakfast for cheap
aside from, of course, those donut and bagel stands on the streets.

And when my feet finally get tired
and my back needs a chiropractor
and I feel I’ve drained the summer from this city,

I’ll head back to mine,
and wait for your turn, your time
to play wanderlust.

Because you know there’s a bed for you in Boston.

in a beam of light it seems
timeless, falling slower than snow

the people are made of sand
and crumble easily
forgetting to drink water

but they don't mind it
some even like it

gray flakes of everyone
bottled as specimens and labeled
for all to see

when 2012 comes
this is what will be left

and in 3012
when the crocus grows
from the sand
in some new era

when people have gills
or wings
or some other
strange mutation—

sight no longer
born from eyes,
but from the tongue
or in the mind –

they will talk of us
in their new language
and believe the dust
was our glory, our war

our lifelong struggle
and our Ultimate
golden
achievement

by 4012
the world will be covered again

Hello, ocean. Lovely night, I do agree.
I wonder, did you see this day
A woman strolling on your shores?
Of course, you must see so many of them,
But this one in particular (she walked
Into the water and)
She simply didn’t stop.
Imagine my bewilderment when she did not resurface!
I wonder, ocean, do you believe she could simply vanish?
(You are omnipotent)
Yes, goodnight to you as well.

that I got not from paper cuts
nor a paper plant but while I was in a sawmill

and they happened not from a saw nor tools
but from tripping over a piece of wood

while grasping a glass bottle that I once used
as a spyglass. I'm a lefty, so that's fortunate.

But now I'm afraid to get my palm read,
my lines a maze of live wires.

Some have already been cut for me and I won't know
till the time comes if they were the right ones.

I wouldn’t call this a wound.

You never hurt me,
at least not in the way of breaking skin.
And brain and heart are still here anyway –
good, okay, intact.

I wouldn’t call this a book or a chapter.

We’ve written to each other
and the words have failed
(engines with good intentions)
in pitch and ring and fruition.
We’re not a hard cover anyway;
the bold type.

I wouldn’t call this a gap.

Because I need the space.
It’s this arm’s length or more
that keeps me reaching for you.

It’s room to wiggle my fingers
– a wave that I change my mind about:
hello or goodbye.

I try to call this as I see it.

But it’s all bleach
pure and pungent
and I don’t want to open my eyes
against it.

Whatever this is,
Whatever we call it,
We’ve got to close it, L--.

My thoughts on the subject have been Morse Code
for too long,
Short short short, long long long, short short short.

I don’t want to wish for cold and you in the same thought.

I don’t want to wish for you.

I want the stars for other things.

I want the night for sleeping.

I want pencil for permanent,
but I want that carmine-pink chrysanthemum-yellow merrigold-orange summer twilight
to find dark and finally be done.

I want March to come (in like a lion, out like a lamb)
I want to see you then.

I want to get this closed.

I want to open my eyes.

Bethany Zaiatz

Bethany Zaiatz is an English major in her junior year at Pine Manor College. She is the last remaining staffer of the original, paper-bound Conifers from the Spring 2006 semester, and is very proud and excited to see the journal reincarnated in its brand new, national, online format. She has also spent the last three years working as an editing intern for Éire/Ireland, an internationally recognized interdisciplinary journal of Irish studies, under the guidance of co-editor Vera Kreilkamp. She hopes to one day work in the publishing industry as an editor of fiction. Should this not work out, however, her fall back plans include the fields of community theater and world domination.

Camille Sabree

Camille Sabree is a first year Pine Manor College student majoring in graphic design. She enjoys drawing and writing poetry during her free time. She grew up and still currently lives in Roxbury, MA. Just recently, she joined the chronically-losing lacrosse team.

Lindsey Berndt

Lindsey Berndt is a first year student at Pine Manor College. She is from California. She spends the majority of her time napping. She constantly believes that it will snow and asks her roommate "do you think we will have a snow day?" She has an amazing sock collection, which includes socks with dinosaurs, polka dots and Tinkerbell.

Mabel Rodriguez

Mabel Rodriguez is a sophomore at Pine Manor College who is a biology and nursing major. She spends most of her days solving the New York Times and Metro sudoku puzzles. Other than solving sudoku puzzles, she also spends time writing essays. She seems to write more essays than the English majors. If she is not writing and not solving puzzles, she is most likely visiting the perezhilton.com website to catch up on Hollywood news. She also takes great pride in her collection of Hello Kitty memorabilia.

Sharon Ward

Sharon Ward is a first year student at Pine Manor College. She is planning to major in psychology. Sharon is preoccupied with making mix cds from her itunes library. In her spare time, she composes music on her keyboard. Currently, she is composing a rap/techno version of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

and Faculty Advisor, Amy L Clark

Amy is an assistant professor of College Composition at Pine Manor College. Her most recent work can be found in A Peculiar Feeling of Restlessness: Four Chapbooks of Short Short Fiction by Four Women, published by Rose Metal Press.

Thank you Samantha Wallace for being the only senior on your team. Thank you for mentoring your younger teammates and offering them sweet midwest hospitality the way only girls from Kansas can. Thank you for not giving up when winning seemed like a distant memory from your freshman year.

Thank you Angela DeAngeles for your overly girlish appearance, which tricked opponents into underestimating your intensity on the court. Thank you for straightening your hair and applying makeup before every game. Thank you for being a WASP from Staten Island with the attitude of an inmate from Riker’s island.

Thank you Taleisha Thompson for being freakishly tall and strong. Thank you for being a total bitch to your rivals, throwing elbows and spouting obscenities. Thank you for being an example of a butch lesbian who always gets what she wants.

Thank you Sarah Ortoff for being a basketball goddess. Thank you for showing quiet girls are skilled. Thank you for practically never missing a shot. Thank you for pulling down nearly every rebound and hitting all your free throws. Thank you for playing with such grace and skill opponents are tempted to stop the game to marvel. Thank you Galina Georgaklis for filling the fifth starting spot. Thank you for running back and forth, knowing nobody will give you the ball. Thank you for guarding the other team, knowing they would get past you, but stopped by another teammate. Thank you for sucking, but acknowledging your lack of skill and allowing the others to pick up your slack.

Thank you Lady Rams. Thank you for not allowing me to waste $100 again this year. Thank you for sparing me from having to tell my boyfriend I spent the week’s grocery money gambling. Thank you for finally helping me move out of a rented ranch and into an owned split-level. Thank you for the 1967 red V-8 convertible Camaro I will be purchasing tomorrow. Thank you for defying the odds. Thank you for restoring my faith in the little guy.

The fog rested in the alley as well, and Frank could only see the base of an emergency exit staircase. The wet, black rails blended into the fog as they ascended. The silhouette of a garbage container, pregnant and full, could be discerned resting against the corner walls of the alley. Leaning against a wall was a man with a leather jacket wrapped tight around him.

“Hey Frank,” the man said, pushing himself off the wall and moving towards Frank.

“Hey, Joe. How goes it?” Frank said, taking a small step backwards.

“You tell me. You ready? You got the equipment?”

“Joe, I've been thinking,” Frank said and paused, expecting Joe to interrupt. He looked up and tried to see Joe's face, but in the dark he could only make out the whites of Joe's eyes. “I've been thinking that this isn’t a good idea.”

“Why?”

“What if-”

“What if nothing, Frankie. Look at me,” Joe said grabbing Frank's arm and pulling him close. “No risks, no problems. We've been through this before. It's regular. It’s easier than the Third Street job. This is routine. What the hell are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid” and yanking his arm he moved forward and looked down at Joe. “Don't tell me I'm afraid.”

Joe did not move. “Then what is it?”

“It's, it's this.” Frank reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope. Peeling away the flap he pulled out a granular, black and white photo. Balancing it on his palm he showed it to Joe.

“I can't even see the damned thing in this light,” Joe said pulling out his lighter.

“Careful.”

Flicking the light on the two huddled together and looked at it.

“What? What's this?” Joe said. He coughed and chuckled and looked up at Frank. “How long?”

“Six weeks. Jenny found out a couple of days back. Came flapping about yelling that she had missed her thing. Anyway, day before we went and got this.” Frank said. He couldn't look away from the picture as he talked and could feel his heart beating faster.

“This,” Frank said as he pointed at the grainy picture, “is it.”

“How the hell can you tell?”

“I can't.” Frank said and laughed, coughing out air and swallowing. He smiled and said, “Neither could Jenny. She just lay there bawling and sobbing, 'I can't see it'. Some guy who worked there pointed it out for us.”

“Jenny; she doesn't even look different” Joe said, scratching the stubble on his face and flicking the lighter out. He was nodding his head and gazing across the alley. “You keeping it?”

“Yeah. Of course we are.”

Frank looked at Joe and then slid the object back into the envelope. Pressing the flap down he eased the envelope back into his jacket before zipping up. The fog eased its way around them as Frank, his hands stuffed in his jacket's pockets, stood waiting for Joe.

“It doesn't make a difference,” Joe said, still looking across the alley.

“It does. Why wouldn't it?”

“Look at it this way, Frankie. With that parcel coming in you're gonna need some cash and fast. You're gonna need some security. With this job done, you're set. No problems. No worries, and best of all, everyone's happy.”

“Jenny won’t be. She knows, Joe,” Frank said, scraping his feet and looking down.

“She knows? How? Did she find the tools?”

“No. Well, she – she doesn't know. I just, I just think she might know. She always is asking me where I'm going and how come once a month I'm always back late in the night.”

“Ha. Maybe she thinks you're having an affair?”

“That isn’t better, Joe.”

Joe turned and looked up at Frank. In the dark he couldn't see Frank's face, only the shape of his nose, but he reached out and grabbed Frank's shoulders. Squeezing, he said, “We need this. We've spent six stinking months watching The Family. We know everything we need to, and this job: it's gonna be worth it, not like the other ones. After this we can stop. We'll be done.”

Frank avoided looking at Joe's face. His right hand, despite being in his jacket pocket, could feel the hard and protective edge of the envelope. It pinched his hand.

“Frank, listen to me. Never have we had problems. This is not a new thing for us. After The Family, we're going to be fine. You can even buy Jenny that dish-washer that she's been wanting for so long. Think about it,” Joe said and chuckled, “clean dishes.”

A picture of a gleaming, large steel box flashed into Frank's mind. Jenny and Frank used to stare at the box, lying behind the display glass, and they would leave with him whispering promises in her ear, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.

“Now,” Joe said as Frank turned and looked at him, “you got the equipment?”

“I don't need this, Joe,” Frank said. Shaking his head he turned away, but Joe grabbed him by the shoulder again.

“Where you gonna get the money, Frank? Huh? How the hell you gonna afford that?”

“We'll have cash, Joe. We got it all figured out. Jenny's thinking of getting another job somewhere. Her friend knows somebody. Me – I got the construction gig and Jenny is trying to get me something else. Oh,” Frank inhaled and then said, “We're also moving in. I'm leaving my place.”

“What?”

“Jenny. Jenny and I. We decided we're gonna live together. More money, and it makes sense. We've put this off for so long. Six years and we still live apart.” Frank smiled. “My socks in her house and her gloves in mine. I'm doing this because it's time, Joe. It's time we did things right. This job – I'm not just risking myself, I'm risking her too.” The sound of Joe's watch could be heard ticking as Frank tried to look at Joe. The fog and the dark hid Joe's face. Frank turned around and started moving away from Joe, out from the alley. His shoulders were tensed and ears pricked. He was at the mouth of the alley when he heard Joe say, “You're risking her by not doing it.”

The blood rushed to his head and turning around, Frank ran back into the depths of the alley. Despite the dark he could see Joe leaning against the wall, and grabbing him by his jacket he yanked Joe towards himself. “You threatening her, Joe? I'll kill you!”

“I’m not threatening her,” Joe said as Frank shook him vigorously like a rag-doll. “You don't do this then you're threatening her.” Hurling him against the wall, Frank waited, cracking his knuckles and pacing back and forth.

“Sure, you're moving in – that saves money. But what about education, clothing, and food? Huh? You thought about that?” Joe said. Frank stopped moving. Joe continued, “Furniture? Doctors? Toys? It goes on Frankie. Yeah, things have changed. This job, it would have helped you before. Now,” Joe said staring at Frank, “it'll save you.” Joe adjusted his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Flicking on his lighter he glanced at Frank's face – suddenly illuminated by the light – and was surprised to see Frank clean-shaven. The smoke curled around Joe's face, burning his nostrils, before mingling with the fog. “Well, Frank? The equipment?”

Frank scratched his forehead before plunging his left hand into his jacket. Joe dropped the cigarette and moved closer to Frank. The sound of metallic objects clinking against one another like spoons in a drawer came from Frank's jacket, before Frank pulled out several thin, shiny, and long instruments.

“Good. Wait – where are the tension wrenches?” Joe asked.

“I – well. Jenny found them, and I told her they were from my construction gig. She didn't buy it and threw them away. She said they looked ‘suspicious’.”

“Dammit. You gotta be more careful, Frankie.”

“It happened while we were packing my stuff up, okay? I didn't throw them at her. They were in my damned sock drawer and she thought, hell, I don't know what she thought.”

“Alright, alright. It's no problem. We'll just use the 'feelers' then. Those babies will know their way about.”

Frank's palm lay open, and on it rested six tools. Joe leaned close and peered at them, as though they were on display. “If the 'feelers' don't work, I'm sure the half diamond will, or maybe the snakes.” Joe whispered. “Shall we go through the plan again, Frank, or you remember it?”

“'Course I remember it, Joe. I’m not a fool.”

“Good. No one will see us in this weather, and -”

A clinking noise began from above both of them and Joe retreated into the corner of the alley, hiding near the garbage container. Frank remained where he was and looked up. Despite the fog, he could see a square-shaped area of yellow light, and from that window the noises grew. The sound of water hissing out of a tap, skidding off dishes, and bubbling in a bowl filled the alleyway. As Frank stared up at the window he pictured Jenny standing next to him as they did the dishes. Her blond hair resting on her shoulders as she scrubbed the bowls first, and then the plates. Frank smiled. She always did the dishes at his place, and her hands would always smell of dish cleaner afterwards, but he didn't mind. He would hold her hands until his hands smelt of dish-cleaner as well. She said she didn't mind either.

A squeaking noise and the water turned off. A girl could be heard hiccoughing and talking to someone. A moment later the light turned off and the sounds of water and hiccoughs were no more. Silence filled the alley again, and Joe walked back to Frank. “Close one. God, for a second I thought they might have heard us. You see anything?” Joe said.

“I don't need a dishwasher,” Frank replied.

“What?”

“I don't need a dishwasher.”

Joe shook his head. “No, Frank. We decided. Let's go. Let's go,” he said and grabbing Frank's arm tried to pull him. Frank jerked his hand out of Joe's grip.

“I'm leaving Joe. I'm sorry.” Frank started walking out of the alley, his hands in his jacket and his right hand feeling the edges of the envelope in his jacket.

“No, you selfish fool!” Joe yelled.

Frank turned, but before he could pull his hands out of his jacket, Joe had grabbed Frank by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Loose bricks dug into Frank's back. Pain shot up his arms from his elbows. Grunting, Frank wrenched his hands out from his jacket. He punched Joe hard in the stomach. Joe groaned before launching forward and slamming Frank into the wall again. Writhing in pain, Frank swung out. Joe dodged and stood up. He kicked Frank. He kicked until he couldn't breathe.

“You selfish fool,” Joe whispered as he collapsed next to Frank. His head reeled, and glancing at Frank he saw the tools glimmering on the floor, spread across the alley like the remains of a broken glass.“Frank, I need this. He's threatening to kick me out,” Joe said.

Frank lay on the floor, leaning over his right side. His chest's left side hurt and he was having difficulty breathing. Opening his eyes, he inhaled and, using his right arm, sat himself up. Having done that he rubbed his face with his right hand to make sure there were no cuts and no blood.

“Your brother?” Frank said, staring towards the road and the mouth of the alley.

“Yeah. Says he needs his own place; can't handle an elder brother being his roommate. I need this, Frank, because I can kiss all that goodbye. With this job, I don't even have to go back to that coffee shop anymore. No college kids, no coffee. I hate coffee,” and with a vehemence that surprised Frank, Joe yanked Frank by the collar and pulled him towards his own belly. “Frank,” Joe said, as Frank's head lay on his belly, “Smell me. Smell my shirt.”

“What?”

“Do it,” Joe said, although he stopped holding onto Frank and looked away.

Frank sniffed and frowned. It was a pleasant smell, and reminded him of a thermos. “You smell like coffee.”

“Wrong. I smell like Hazelnut Coffee with cream and three Splendas. Some idiot kid wanted five of them and I ended up spilling the muck all over me. You can’t see the stain, but the damn stuff sure as hell can be smelt on me. That smell,” Joe said and winced, “is so painful to me. I get sick in the coffee shop. I get sick when my brother makes it. I get sick when I wear my clothes. I get sick all the time.” Joe pounded his fist on the floor. Inhaling and shifting his weight so that he cradled Frank's head, which still lay on his stomach, Joe said, “Frank, I need this job so I can wash myself clean.”

“Joe, I can't,” Frank said and glancing up was surprised to see tears roll out of Joe's eyes and disappear in his stubble. Looking up, Frank was able to see Joe's face for the first time that night. There was a cut on Joe's forehead, and Joe's hair and blood had clotted up the opening, almost obscuring it from sight. “You're bleeding, Joe – it must have been the 'feelers' or the snake pick,” Frank said as he stood up and began walking across the alley, picking up the fallen tools.

Joe sighed and then rubbed his forehead with his jacket's sleeve. “Will you come with me Frankie? Will you help me?” He looked up and tried to see Frank's face, but from his angle, Joe could not see Frank's face. He heard Frank walk back to him, gravel crunching under boots. Frank stood above Joe offering his hand.

“No, Joe. I will not help you. Not for this.”

Joe looked down and nodded. Frank nodded as well and bending down laid the tools on the floor of the alley, next to Joe’s legs.

“Be careful, Joe. Come by our place for dinner tomorrow. I'll tell Jenny you're coming,” Frank said and then got up and walked out the alley. Pausing, he looked behind, but the alley was soaked in darkness.

“Bye, Joe,” Frank whispered and then headed back to Sixth Street. Reaching the road, Frank could see the lights of buildings in the distance.

Now that you’ve developed a bit of an addiction, lost a little bit of yourself, and racked up a considerably high balance on your credit cards, it’s time to move on. This is where you start experimenting with the so-called “real” drugs: ecstasy, mushrooms, meth, cocaine- whatever you find available should do. If you do enough drugs the night before you’re scheduled to work, then you should have no problem maintaining that high well into the work day- that way, you can be sure to pass out periodically at your desk, or in the bathroom for a paid afternoon nap. Go home and do it all again. I mean shit, why not? If you really want to drive the nail in then make sure your mom sees you lit out of your mind. It’ll make her cry, and then you can tell her to shut the fuck up, because it’s no big deal and it’s none of her business. You know what? Maybe now it’s time for you to move out.

At this point the bills should be pouring in and having that job sure doesn’t help give you any excuses about why you can’t pay them --so quit it. $14 an hour is shit anyway. You could do so much better. Quit the job, move out of your mom’s house, and go stay with your friends in another state. That way, your mom won’t be up in your business, the bill collectors can’t find you, and you now have a great opportunity for losing some friends. Get messed up, piss them off and when the rent’s due --fuck it. They know you’re a junkie at this point, so why bother trying to carry your weight? You NEED that little bit of money you have left for drugs, you need to escape reality. However, I should warn you: they WILL kick you out at some point; but don’t worry being homeless isn’t all that bad. In the mean time, sit and think of all the reasons why none of this is your fault. Notoriety can’t be yours if you connect the cause of these downfalls with things you’ve done to bring it on.

The time has finally come for you to start finding alternative ways to supply your habits and stay alive. Luckily, there are a variety of ways you can accomplish this. You can prostitute (which might also help in lowering your self worth), you could rob someone, you could break into cars and swipe things to pawn, or you could steal mail. This last option may be a felony, so be cautious. Use the little brain cells you may have left to find creative ways of getting by, and try not to get caught. Though you shouldn’t have much to lose at this point, since you will be in serious denial about your life, getting busted makes it hard to find ways of pinning the blame on others. You’re on your own
now, kid. What do you want? I don’t have anymore advice to offer, I suck at life.

First degree murder. Sort of has a certain ring of finality to it, doesn't it? I really don't know how I managed to fuck everything up so badly. The job at the restaurant wasn't glamorous by any means, but it paid the bills. Every day I went in and ground my way along; day in, day out, I went and did whatever was asked of me, at every beck and whim of every customer, I worked from open to close for next to nothing. I barely had a roof over my head. But, it was work.

Mark Rivowitz. Easily the biggest asshole I'd ever seen. Rude to the waitresses, always sent his food back three or four times (often with the most asinine complaints) a visit. And yet, I didn't really have that much of a problem with the guy. Sure he was a dick, but plenty of customers had obviously never spent a minute in the service industry. He certainly didn't deserve what he got. What I gave.

I did it. I'll admit that, there were plenty of eyewitnesses and I remember the feeling ... But I didn't want to do it. On my life, on the lives of my now never-to-existchildren, I didn't want to do it. It was all Ashley.

Ashley Detmer. We were fairly close (in the "friends zone" since we worked together), and I had heard all about her little boytoy. Ashley's habit of talking to herself – about herself – meant I had intimate knowledge of all her goings-on, including her love life. The whole situation's kind of funny, really. Not that I'm laughing, but I suppose someone must think so. Mark looked like he was having fun, at least up to a point. It's unfathomable, the power women have. Poor Mark knew this power all too well, not that he was aware of it. What possibly possessed him to bring his wife to the restaurant where his girlfriend/mistress/(whatever you're supposed to call the woman you're sleeping with who's not your wife) worked will forever remain unknown. Though, from what Ashley told me, they didn't talk all that much; it's entirely possible he did it by mistake. Come to think of it, we don't even know if Ashley was his only fling.

The hell of it is, that bastard almost got away with it, too. Ashley wasn't even supposed to be working that night. But Richard called in sick, and Ashley wanted the extra hours ... See? I told you there was a funny part in there somewhere. Not funny "haha." More like funny "he got killed thanks to absolutely terrible luck." Anyway, Ashley served the back half that night, while Mark fortuitously enjoyed his date in the front.

Joanna served the happy couple, but – displaying the skills that earned her the nickname "glass shoes" – managed to drop an entire tray full of empty plates right in front of the lovebirds. Ashley, ever the vision of helpfulness, rushed over to Joanna's aid. I can never forget the hurt indelibly etched on Ashley's face when she recognized Mark.

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth widened into a smile – until she swiveled her head to the other end of the table. Her eyes darted to the ring finger on Mark's wife's left hand, staring blankly. Her ruby red lips dissolved from a half-smile into an enormous "O," her hands flew to her eyes and she bolted, oblivious to everything else around her. Her pain was palpable, even to me in the kitchen. You've never heard silence like that, and Mark's wife was staring daggers at him. Clearly, the date was over, and the drive home would be one filled with uncomfortably long silences.

If there would have been a drive home.

Ashley burst through the kitchen doors bawling, almost wailing. When she turned hysterical, her screaming was almost unbearable, but she somehow managed to drown it out by hurling pots, pans and everything she could possibly get her hands on. Until she saw the knife.

She saw me, grabbed me, and headed back into the dining room. I've only ever seen eyes like that one other time, and it was a Discovery Channel special.

I don't remember anything else that happened that night. I know it sounds like a cop-out, but whenever I try to conjure up an image of anything beyond the kitchen doors, all I see is red. I swear I didn't mean to do it. I loved Ashley like a sister, but I certainly wasn't mad enough to kill someone.

Of course, madness is the case I made. I don't know why, but I became insane when Ashley grabbed me and dragged me out of those doors. By insane, I mean I literally lost my sanity, my sense of consciousness; myself. I became nothing more than an object. But for some reason, the good people of Louisiana saw it differently. Either the rednecked yokels don't believe in "temporary insanity," or they just like to watch people fry. I suppose it's all academic now. I do feel somewhat responsible, though; if it weren't for me, Mark Rivowitz would still be alive.

And maybe, just maybe, so would I.

It was about fifteen minutes after your party had already started and I was still in Wal-Mart, staring at the display in the jewelry department so hard my eyeballs felt dried up and started to ache sharply in the back. But I couldn't help it. It was perfect. “It” was one of those happy, sunshine Precious Moments water globes-- the kind that was exactly like their line of sentimental pastel snow globes. Only instead of little kids with mittens and skates, the figurines in this globe had shovels and pails, ready for their play on the carved little beach scene. They had those picturesque carved little cherub faces with smiles that somehow managed to be both demure and excited at the same time. Their little bathing suit-clad bodies were pudgy, but gracefully rounded, not lumpy and ugly the way chubby kids like me were in real life.

That was part of its allure, of course. The perfect tiny sculptures trapped in an all encompassing glass bowl seemed imperfect enough to relate to. They looked like us. One of the girls in the globe had your faded, reddish brown hair cut short and playful around the chin. The other had blond hair like mine-- or at least how mine looked when it was freshly washed and my mother spent over an hour wrangling the thick waves with a hot rod of iron to produce those JonBenet style curls.

And when I picked up that globe to shake it, rolling the too-bright blue gelatinous water of the beach scene up high like a tsunami, nothing changed really. The resin blond's curls stayed perfect. The sand didn't move. The words that had been carved into the shore line never washed away. Best-friends, it said.

When I was feeling brave I hid myself at the top of the staircase, hugging my knees close to me as I tried not to breathe. It was a game I played—I held my breath from the time the car door slammed to the time the front door creaked open. It never took very long, and sometimes, when he was particularly fast, I held my breath while he locked the door, a click that always sounded so definite, so safe.

From the top of the staircase I could catch a glimpse of him, watch him remove his green striped scarf and the hat he always hung in the closet. He never looked up the staircase, though my heart always pounded as I wondered whether this was the night he would see me, would invite me down to sit on his knee by the fire. My mother always had his favorites ready for him—scotch in a crystal glass, sometimes cheese or crackers that caused a crunch I imagined I could hear. Their talk was quiet but comfortable, and the pieces I couldn’t hear I simply made up in my head:

“How was your day, dear?” My mother would ask, and I would settle down, knowing there was no chance I would be caught now. He had gone into the living room,had sat down in front of the fire.

“It was fine, but I missed you,” he responded quite often.

“Yes, we missed you too. We had a splendid dinner of lamb chops and peas.”

“I wish I could have been here,” he said with a smile.

Here was the deciding moment of the conversation, and sometimes I couldn’t help sliding down the first step to get closer, hidden by the wall that blocked the entryway from the living room. Would she pose a question to him, inviting him to speak at length about politics or the book he was reading? Or would she remain silent, simply enjoy his presence, the warmth of the fire, the quiet of the house? My mother often remained silent in this way, and when she did I would wait only a few moments before heading back to bed. On those nights, my memories of previous conversations were all I had to lull me to sleep.

“I’d like to go to the theatre this weekend,” she said after quiet seconds of agony. I slipped down the second step, my excitement forcing me closer in an effort to hear all that I could. Now that she had spoken he would begin, and it would be long minutes before he stopped—sometimes I imagined that he talked for hours.

I listened to his gentle voice as he remained cautiously quiet, for he knew we children were asleep upstairs. I listened while he told my mother about the decline of the American theatre and the decreased taste of American society. I listened while he declared it a dead art form—that the only pieces of value were coming out of England and France. I often imagined that I was her, sitting across from him, watching the expressions change on his face and the words come from his moving lips. I loved to fall asleep to these philosophical monologues, passionately expressed in whispers barely audible from the stairs.

Much later, my father would find me curled up on the carpeted staircase, would carry me back to my bed and tuck me in before moving to the room next door to check on Emma and Shelly. I always knew when my father was curious—when he wanted to ask how I got to the stairs—but it was easier for me to feign sleep. I couldn’t tell him that I woke up every night, that I snuck out of my bed and sometimes halfway down the stairs. I couldn’t tell him that I spent my nights eavesdropping when I was supposed to be asleep, well away from the grown up conversation. And so I never said a word. Originally I kept quiet because I worried I would be punished, but later, as I grew older, I came to feel that I was holding onto some sort of secret, that these evening conversations were private matters—that it wasn’t my right to give away the secret.

My father was a very sound sleeper. It was no wonder that he didn’t wake up to a strange car weaving its way down our driveway. No surprise that he didn’t hear the door creak, wasn’t there to see my mother greeting him with a kiss. And of course he wouldn’t be roused by their quiet talks with one another, talks which I could barely hear from the stairs. There was a whole hallway separating my father from those stairs, a closed door to block out the sound that might have traveled up, and a floor to separate my father from my mother and her guest.

“Why doesn’t mama go to bed with you?” I would ask as he pulled the covers up to my chin. I wanted to hear him give an explanation—wanted him to admit that he knew about this strange man who came into our house every night.

“She likes to stay up later than I do,” he answered simply. “She doesn’t get much time during the day to be by herself.”

“Doesn’t she get lonely?” I asked over and over, but my father would simply smile and turn off the lamp next to my bed.

“If she gets lonely she can come upstairs.”

The last image I had of my father was always of his hand, pulling my door closed just enough to let in a sharp line of light. Sometimes, while I watched this familiar image, I found myself promising that I wouldn’t leave my bed. I burrowed myself deep beneath the covers, even placed my pillow over my head to block out the noise of that car. But when the time came, when the unevenness of our driveway seemed to throw the sound into my room, all thoughts of my father were gone. He would forgive me this indulgence, would be glad I was having such fun. I would give him an extra long hug when he carried me back to my bed, I reasoned. Just as long as he didn’t take away my pleasure, this excitement that I thought about throughout the day.

I rushed out of my room in a perfected silence, hearing the moment of quiet that meant he had turned off the engine. Soon he would slam the car door and make his way inside. Quickly, I took my place at the top of the stairs and focused my breathing, for tonight I was prepared to challenge myself: tonight I would hold my breath even beyond the locking of the door, until that time when his hat and scarf were placed neatly inside our closet.

During the cold, cold winter, my mother passed and by summer she had come with her swirling red skirts and long curled mahogany hair and her forest eyes flashed in cold, stern intensity even as her pale lips curved in a sweet smile. Every night since her violation into my family, the awful sounds of scratching and gnawing would start with the terrible smells and screeching of my three cats at the ancient walls of my room. Far be it for me to question my father’s desire to remarry, for human need for companionship is one of our strongest emotions and I will never fault my father for her presence which is her invasion alone.

“Good morning,” I say to her through clenched teeth and her icy eyes follow me as I sit down at the old wooden table, helping myself, not to the omelets she had made that morning, filling the kitchen with the pungent smell of eggs, onions, and brewing coffee, instead putting bread into the toaster. Hitting the toaster’s lever harder than necessary, I turned my back to the woman, ignoring her presence even as I feel her gaze burning into me like a deep brand in my brain, her mere existence marking me. I knew that there was something rotting and nasty in her, though for all of my perusal of her person, I could never discover it, even in the late hours, watching her sleeping frame, her body sunken in my father’s bed.

Just a few more weeks, I tell myself, just a little more time and things will be back to normal, my father will tire of her and she will be gone, but still the sounds continue, deep into the night. Keeping true to my father is too difficult, pretending that I like this intruder, but my hatred bleeds through to my expression for not even the deep love for my father can make me love this woman. Listening to the scratching inside of those walls fills me with a dull sort of horror, the sounds of tiny squirming bodies working on the creaking wood scares me, yet I am frozen on the bed, incapable of doing anything except listen to the relentless gnawing.

Many nights, I listen to those sounds, wide awake, my insomnia eating at me, I can see her rot eating at everything and I wonder why no one can see that but my cats and I. Notions, various and furious, circle around in my head, bombarding me with ideas of escape both great and terrible, yet, just as I am frozen with fear of those sounds at night, I am frozen in this place, her perfume clotting in my skull, the sounds scratching around in my ear. Opening the cupboard two days ago, a plan forms in my tired head, a way out, a plan so simple, I know I can do it.

Pattering footsteps join the scratching, the light, sudden footfalls like scampering of some bipedal rodent, it drives me mad, the frantic sounds, like a terrifying chorus of the wind of the night beats on my window, only the image of the white powder in the cupboard makes my troubled thoughts settle. Quilts, heavy and stifling cover my form, the weight trapping me, smothering me, the darkness that greets my eyes is yawning and powerful, the smell of animals that I cannot see is nauseating. Rats, rats, the daemon rats, yes, I can hear them now, as soon as the sun starts to set, it drives me mad, that incessant scampering and scratching.

Still, be still, I beg in my mind as I hear the muted sounds of thousands of rodents, their horde pulsating behind the peeling wall. The woman stares at me, her gaze questioning at my dazed state and I yearn for sleep, so her presence is overpowering and I wonder if I am a ghost and she has stolen my clarity. Under that unrelenting stare, I can finally see it, the squirming in her chest, that dreadful feral smell follows her. Velvet strands of mahogany hair on my hair brush, she is replacing me, little by little, I can see it now. White, I feel the color has bled out of me and spread into her cruel, stretched, painted lips, and I am a ghost in the room, listening to the scratching, the terrible scratching. Xena looks at me with her feline green eyes, only those eyes, her black fur hiding her in the shadows, a plump rat dangling from her jaws and I understand I will not fade away.

You can call it murder, fine, but I know better, it was the rats, and surely they will see that, the rats devoured her. Zealous, I watch as they take the woman away and I sleep and sleep and all is quiet, the walls are silent.

Ashley Ann Albrecht is a junior at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, double-majoring in English and Psychology, and minoring in Philosophy. On campus, she is a music writer for Illini Media's BUZZ entertainment magazine. Ms. Albrecht aspires to become a college professor and make substantive contributions in the realm of academia. Literatures's ability to tackle the "big questions" of human existences continues to daily inspire her.

Gabriela Araujo is a sophomore at Pine Manor College and her major is Visual Arts.

Taylor Bratches is a Senior BFA Creative Writing major and Dance minor at Emerson College. Her work has also appeared in the literary magazine Gangsters in Concrete and The Emerson Review. She owes everything to the quirks of the universe, and to the light within and beyond her.

Amanda Coffin is a sophomore at Emerson College double-majoring in Writing and in Theatre. Her interest in theatre has led to many different roles from performance to Dramaturgy, which she is currently studying at Emerson. Last summer she was seen in the world premiere of the new play, The Argument, and she continues to explore new ways to combine her writing with theatre. Amanda is a member of Emerson College's Honors Program and was recently selected for their Board of Overseers Mentoring Program. Lover to her twin sister Rachel, her mother and father, Jackie, and the many friends and family who are so important to her.

Meghan Coyne grew up in East Bridgewater, Massachusetts, graduating in the town's high school in 2005. She now lives in Boston as a student of Emerson College, where she is pursuing a BA in Media Production: Film, and BA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing. Meghan is set to graduate in Spring 2009, with plans to eventually publish several novels already in conception and various stages of writing. She is traditionally a fiction writer.

Sam Cunningham is a junior at Pine Manor College with a major in Visual Arts and a concentration in Photography and a minor in History. She mainly works in black and white, but occasionally likes to work in color if the subject calls for it. Her favorite things to shoot in color are flowers because, "to me, you should see the changes in color that make the flower special."

Jesseca Dapper is originally from Pittsfield, MA and currently is a freshman at Ithaca College in Ithaca, NY. She is in the Roy H. Park School of Communications, as her major is Cinema and Photography. Though she focuses mainly on the cinema aspect of the major, she enjoys photography as a hobby. She likes to film and photograph in black and white and she works with both digital and film cameras. In her spare time, she enjoys watching movies, working with HTML, and writing stories and screenplays.

Erin Diskin once dreamed of being a fly-girl on In Living Color, but since the cancellation of that show she finally settled on becoming a college student. At the ripe, young age of twenty-six she has no plans to ever move on from PMC, and instead intends to live out her years as a sophomore and keep contributing to Conifers. Erin is from Massachusetts and spends the majority of her free time engaged in road rage, playing pool, or watching Ghost Hunters.

Dan Herman is double-majoring in History and English at Washington State University. He's harbored an unhealthy obsession with cutlery for many years, and only recently has he begun to jot down the various tales he hears from the voices inside his head. He currently wiles away his days working in various editorial capacities for The Daily Evergreen (WSU's student newspaper), and his blogging exploits can be found at http://mgal.ophono.us. His fondest wish is to one day grow up to be an adult.

Naimah Ismail is currently a first-year at Pine Manor College and is majoring in Biology Education. She was born and raised in the city of Boston and that is where she currently resides. Naimah has been writing creatively (stories and poems) since the age of twelve. She is hoping to publish her own novel and book of poems soon.

Abby Lavigne is a senior at Pine Manor College from Franklin, NH. In her spare time, she enjoys eating truffles, watching old episodes of Northern Exposure, and running.

Standing tall at six-foot, three-inches, Justin Mcleod is a surprisingly mediocre basketball player. He is, however, very clever with a mandolin, and he enjoys exploring the big and small things in his hometown of Saint Charles, Illinois. Hi currently attends the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. His favorite poets and influences include Charles Simic and E. E. Cummings.

Benjamin Nardolilli is twenty-two years old and currently attending New York University, where he studies Creative Writing, History, and Philosophy. His is originally from Arlington, VA. His work has appeared in Perigee, Theives' Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, The Houston Literary Review, and Perspectives Magazine. He maintians a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

Mabel Rodriguez is a sophomore at Pine Manor College who is a Biology and Nursing major. She spends most of her days solving the New York Times and Metro sudoku puzzles. Other than solving sudoku puzzles, she also spends time writing essays. She seems to write more essays than English majors. If she is not writing and solving puzzles, she is most likely visiting the perezhilton.com website to catch up Hollywood news. She also takes great pride in her collection of Hello Kitty memorabilia.

Bikram Sharma was born and raised in Bangalore, India. At present, he is completing his BA in English and Creative Writing at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. He intends to return to Bangalore and continue writing.

With an international upbringing, Lindsey Yuriko Warriner was born in Japan, raised in England, and attended high school in California. Now a sophomore at Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts, she is pursuing a BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing with and emphasis in Poetry. She hopes to continue with her transatlantic lifestyle and pursue a career in publishing.

Erin Thorp is a twenty-one year old English major in her junior year at Pine Manor College. In her spare time, she likes to write novels and short stories and watch horror movies.

Sarah A. Wilt, a native of Lake Pleasant, New York, is a senior majoring in History. She transferred to Pine Manor College last fall. Sarah enjoys Pine Manor, but is looking forward to graduating in December. Unsure about her future plans, Sarah is considering looking into graduate schools in California. In her spare time, she loves drawing, listening to music, and traveling.

Bethany Zaiatz is an English major in her junior year at Pine Manor College. She is the last remaining staffer of the original paper-bound Conifers from the Spring 2006 semester, and is very proud and excited to see the journal reincarnated in its brand new, national, online format. She has also spent the last three years working as an editing intern for Éire/Ireland, an internationally-recognized interdisciplinary journal of Irish studies, under the guidance of co-editor Vera Kreilkamp. She hopes to one day work in the publishing industry as an editor of fiction. Should this not work out, however, her fall-back plans include the fields of community theater and world domination.

Some may question if global warming is really an issue we should place our attention on. Global warming is a large issue that everyone has to think about. Derrick Jackson of The Boston Globe says that “Climate change is anticipated to alter the frequency, timing, intensity, and duration of extreme weather events” (Jackson). It is an issue we should all spend time thinking about because it affects everyone. Jackson is right; climate change is worsening weather events that affect us all. In Montana’s Glacier National Park the number of glaciers has dropped to less than thirty, and also they have decreased in size (Clemmitt). Also, Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania has had an eighty percent decrease since 1912 of snow that covers the mountain top. It is not just an issue because the environment is changing but because evidence has found that human-induced warming is increasing fast. The human-caused warming is hard to predict, and most importantly it can cause potentially dangerous changes to the environment (Clemmitt).

Even the world's sea and ocean levels have been rising at a reported rate of one to two millimeters per year (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 778). Those one to two millimeters per year have the possibility to cause erosions on the sandy beaches (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 778). The higher sea levels will also increase tide levels, storm surges, and the entrance of salt water into coastal estuaries and groundwater supplies (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 778). The increase of salinity in coastal estuaries puts the ecosystem in danger of collapsing. With the increase of salinity all the organisms that reside as well as plants will be forced to familiarize themselves quickly in order to survive, or move further from where the ocean and the fresh water meet. Global warming does not discriminate. It also affects what is not visually present like the organisms that reside there. The changes to the ocean do not only affect the organisms it affects people too because the ocean is a resource used by all for sea food.

Global warming can be combated with everyone doing their part to reduce greenhouse gases and by recycling. Recycling is an easy way for everyone to participate in positive manner. Some simple things people can do are print or photocopy work on both sides of the paper, buy Nalgene bottles to drink water from instead of expensive water bottles that do not get recycled, and switch all the light bulbs in their home from old fashion ones to new energy saving bulbs. Recycling is not just a positive thing for the environment, but also to the people who do it because they can receive five cents for every empty can they recycle. They save money when they print on both sides of the paper. When they buy energy saving bulbs their electricity bill is lessened and they have to change the bulbs less often. Even the purchase of a new car like the Toyota Prius can help the environment; the Prius is an energy efficient car. Not only are the consumers spending less on gasoline they are decreasing America’s dependency of foreign oil and decreasing the emission gases emitted by vehicles.

In 1997 the Kyoto Protocol was initiated as “first worldwide diplomatic” attempts to lessen the usage of fossil fuels (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 782). The main goal was to gather all industrialized nations to partake in the efforts to reduce the participating countries emissions of greenhouse gases. Each country would have a goal set aside to achieve (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 782). With the reduction of emissions the main objective was to lower the emissions to the level they were in 1990 between 2008 and 2012 (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 782). Sadly, the United States which is large contributor to greenhouse gases is no longer ratified under the Bush administration (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 782). Though, the Kyoto Protocol can help in the subsidizing of global warming it alone can not be the only action taken to reduce global warming. Every inhabitant of Earth should partake in some form of action to reduce global warming.

With ocean levels increasing people who reside on the coast will be forced to move inland (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 779). With their displacement already crowded areas will become more crowded and it will affect the housing market. It has the potential to affect the housing market because the amount of houses will relatively stay the same, but the amount of people will increase. The rise in the ocean's temperature is causing a "coral reef holocaust" (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 779). Though, it only makes up less than one percent of the oceans it is home to about more than one third of the ocean's inhabitants (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 779). With the death of coral reefs the shorelines will be more susceptible to erosion because coral reefs act like "breakwaters that, if healthy, can repair themselves" (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 779). The only way we can stop the destruction of coral reef is by decreasing global warming which in turn will let water temperature drop allowing the reefs to recover (Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia, 779). With the reduction of global warming the preservation of coral reefs will start and not only will the coral reefs be preserved, but also, the organisms that reside their, and shorelines.

Global warming is like a ripple effect. The environment changes negatively which then causes negative effects in the economy of certain places. In New Hampshire a tourist attraction is skiing in the winter months. With the increase of temperature the skiing season decreases thus decreasing revenue. Of, course they can make manmade snow, but that increases their investment. It is said that the ski season has been decreased by twenty percent (Clemmitt). Not only does the temperature increase reduce the skiing season, it also decreases the sales in skiing equipment like clothing and skis. Also, the temperature increase can also affect other tourist attractions for New Hampshire like the changing foliage. Outside of the United States, human-caused global warming has already started to make other governments notice that it is an issue.

Global warming is putting the Earth in danger by forcing some species of animals to migrate sooner and closer to the Earth’s poles, and different animals to move futher up mountain tops because of the rising temperatures (Clemmitt). With animals migrating sooner and further there is a large possibility that there will be a large scale extinction of certain species that can not adapt fast enough (Clemmitt). Not only are the certain species (animals and plants) fighting environmental woes they still have to fight humans on modernization that limits them from migrating (Clemmitt). According to Mario Molina, a professor of earth science at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, moderate warming will have “both positive and negative impacts”, but after a certain point the negatives will outweigh the positives of warming for most nations, their residents and biological systems (Clemmitt).

Though evidence shows that global warming has a large possibility to cause destruction there are some scientists who do not believe that global warming is a pressing issue we should address. The majority of scientists like, Stephen Schneider, believe in the certainty of destruction caused by global warming because in the past year technologies like that of computer models and satellite data have improved (Clemmitt). Some of the effects of global warming are starting to be evident. For example, the top ten hottest years have occurred in the past one hundred years, with 2005 taking the number one spot for the hottest year (Guggenheim). Other effects are melting glaciers, rising sea levels, and rising ocean temperatures (Guggenheim). While some scientists believe global warming is a definite threat others people like Senator James Inhofe a Republican from Oklahoma believes that the topic of global warming is a hoax that “environmental extremist exploit” for the sole purpose of fundraising (Clemmitt). Jeffrey Salmon, a non believer of global warming, compares predicting the catastrophic future caused by global warming to predicting the weather in few days in advance(Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints, 24). Salmon says, predicting what might happen is a “hit or miss”, especially since it is said that Earth’s temperature is only expected to only increase by a “few tenths a degree per decade” (Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints, 24). Though his reasoning is very appropriate global warming is something that should not be tossed aside because it may or may not occur. He also argues that there is no scientific evidence to support the theory that greenhouse gases produced my humans is the cause of the Earth’s warming (Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints, 25). Most importantly, he questions the credibility of computer models on predicting the possible climate change (Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints, 26).

If global warming continues to increase, it has the ability to cause “catastrophic consequences” (Clemmitt). It is evident from the environmental changes that global warming is an important issue that everyone should be concerned with. Global warming causes an economical decrease, especially in tourism revenue. Though global warming has the potential to cause dramatic changes there still is a hope for the environment with the aid from the human race by recycling and being more  environmentally aware. With the earth being in danger of flooding from rising sea level, and rising of ocean temperature I hope people open their eyes to what can happen to the place we call home. Even though some scientists believe that global warming is not an issue of importance, the research and the noticeable changes in the Earth are evidence enough that everyone should partake in decreasing global warming to avoid the catastrophic consequences.

Annotated Bibliography

Guggenheim, Davis, dir. An Inconvenient Truth a Global Warming. Paramount, 2006.
An Inconvenient Truth is a reliable source because former vice president and Nobel Peace Prize winner Al Gore. He warns the public on how the temperature is rising and the devastating effects it is causes and will cause. In his presentation he uses research conducted by different scientist and uses his own personal journey to the North Pole to convey this very important topic. He also uses graphs in predicting the increases in temperature of time, as well as the rising sea level; and pictures taken from satellites to show how drastically the Earth has changed in about sixty years, and he uses pictures of glaciers that also were taken about sixty years ago to show how the dramatically it’s size has decreased . I personally have chosen this documentary as an overview of global warming in general.

Clemmit, Marcia. (2006, January 27). Climate change. CQ Researcher. 27 Jan. 2007. CQ Researcher Press. Annenberg Library, Pine Manor College. 30 Oct. 2007.
The author, Marcia Clemmit proposes the question of having to instate tougher actions in order to combat the increasing temperature. Throughout her report she quotes Sen. James Inhofe a Republican from Oklahoma who is the chairman of the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee and Mario Molina a professor at Mass. Institute of Technology. Clemmitt also quotes others who oppose the idea that global warming is impacting Earth like Marlo Lewis who believes “there is no scientific cause for alarm” because the world is going to change for the bad and the good. I believe she is a creditable source because she talks about both opposing views.

“Global Warming.” Social Issues in America: An Encyclopedia. 2008 ed.
The encyclopedia, Social Issues in America is a good source because they give an unbiased opinion on global warming. They go in depth into different areas of global warming like forest fires and global warming, and the warming seas. The encyclopedia gives the hard facts pertaining to the topic without inundating a person with someone else’s opinions. They use information gathered from legit research findings. Also, they are not trying to persuade one to take a side, but inform people.

Greenhaven Press. Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints. San Diego, CA: Greenhaven Press, Inc, 1997
In Global Warming: Opposing Viewpoints contains essay arguing for both sides of the environmental controversy. One writer will argue for the reduction of carbon emissions while another writer will argue against the reduction. For every negative effect of global warming there is a rebuttal essay saying that scientist are exaggerating the truth. The book is unbiased because it offers readers to read both sides of the issue like, is the theory of global warming scientifically credible or not. My main objective in using this book is to get both sides of the issue to help me take a stance on the issue at hand.

Jackson, Derrick Z. “The climate change censor.” Boston Globe. 30 Oct. 2007. 31 Oct. 2007.
Columnist, Derrick Z. Jackson of the Boston Globe writes on how the White House has
ignored another document on global warming presented to them by Julie Gerberding the
director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. In his article Jackson quotes
the Washington Post, a reputable popular newspaper. I feel as though the article is
creditable because the author works for the Boston Globe and he quoted Julie
Gerberding.

In the Red of roses, blue of violets,
you taught my golden-brown to blush
and loved me as your lady bell
shed its petals to the ground.

When morning came, you left me,
with the wind that called you from my side.
Your garden too, without you,
turned to cold and then to ice.

As I sit upon my seat within a carriage
colored Red, I am reminded of the fallen
leaves that found their way from branches,
to the flowerbed in which we slept.