HRASHE
WESLEY
BLACK
the symphony of destruction," Phreak's alarm woke him up.
He was so excited over that dream he got up, grabbed his board
and ran outside in his PJs to practice trying to ollie.
THE ITCH by Pat Berryhill
As he lay in bed, he noticed a slight itch on his left knee.
Had the dog been sleeping on his blanket while he was out of
the room? He did not know. More attuned, another itch, this
time his left arm. Fleas? It couldn't be. It was winter. All of the
pets had been inside, most of the time. When they were out-
side, it shouldn't have mattered anyway. It was cold. The low
temperature should have killed any nasties. Right?
His left calf, then his forearms. It was nothing, still it bothered.
His chest, his scalp,
his back. The backs
of his hands. All
slight but percepti-
ble. As he lay there
supine, safely in
his own bed, in the
dark, he began to
scratch. Itch on his
thigh. Scratch. The
nape of the neck.
Scratch. The bridge
of his nose. Scratch.
His neck. Scratch.
More and more.
On his back be-
DUBLIN, GA tween the shoulder
blades. Scratch.
His head. Scratch. His shoulders. Scratch.
More and more. Uncontrollable. He
scratched behind the ears. The elbows.
His sides. Harder and harder.
Skin flaked up. It was continuous-
everything irritated, itching. Still he
scratched. Scratching his jaw. Across his
chest. Writhing in bed, he ran his fingers
across his chest again. He drew blood. His
left knee. He drew blood. His calves. He
drew blood. His forearms. Blood. His
scalp. Blood. His back. Blood. The hands
Blood. The thighs. Blood. The neck.
Blood. The nose. Blood. Elbows. Blood.
Digging, tearing into his flesh-he
screamed. Screamed for the pools of
blood gathering and the linens collecting.
Splitting his skin, gouging his muscles,
tendons, corpuscles and veins. Screaming
at his ruddy pulp. Screaming at that god
damned itch.
Screaming to wake himself and to find
his left knee itched, a little.
ONE by Ryan Randazzo
As his alarm clock went off, the sharp
beeping was quickly stopped by his unen-
thusiastic hand upon the snooze button.
Great, another day at the seniority social
called high school.
He got up from his bed after a while,
showered, dressed, then proceeded
down to the corner to await the big yel-
low bomber.
Once aboard, he took his usual seat,
number seventeen, with the emergency
window. He caught the usual glances
from the girls around him. They always
gazed at him with curious eyes while his
head was turned. The football players sit-
ting in back also looked at him. They
snickered and sneered. They'd often
comment on his clothes with such
remarks as, "Nice shorts, clownboy," or
"Cool shirt, welfare case."
SO THAMER
FATHER BELL
RAMSEY, NJ
TURTLE
CLEVELAND OHE
LCPL MICHAEL BUNN, USMC
CAMP LEJUEVE, NC
AARON YEAGER
SPRINGFIELD, MO
MIKE RANDONE
COLUMBIA, SC
JASON GARNETT
ROANOKE, VA
JON DEAN
GLEN, MS