The Fight

I woke to my dad shaking me awake well before sunup. The house was quiet and my dad and myself trudged outside groggy eyed to our Volvo with a single fishing pole and small plastic tackle box. We trundled up to the coast where we parked our car next to a single dimming streetlight, and walked across the gravel parking area towards the sea. The ocean was cool, calm, and poised as if it were to engage in an epic battle with a six year old in search of his first fish. "It was the deep breath before the plunge" in Lord of the Rings jargon, but as I baited the small hook with minnows, the vast sea seemed to raise her fists ready for the fight. The sky slowly turned from its deep evening purple to a pale morning pink and orange. As the golden sun crested the horizon, a light wind rippled across the sea, splashing waves across the rocks and sea salt into the crisp air. The sea was ready for our first fight.

My first cast was perfect. It landed, bobber and all, just behind a small collection of rocks, just out of the current, yet where the Snapper Blues waited like circling sharks to feed. The bobber floated up and down, swaying with the current, a flash of brightest orange surrounded by masses of blues grays. And then it was gone with a gigantic tug and a graceful bend in my fishing pole. I gave a yell of surprise and delight, and pulled myself out of my sea entrancement and grasped at the pole with sweaty hands. With another jerk, the pole slipped out of my fingers like a bar of soap and disappeared over the rocky ledge toward the foamy surface. As the rod bounced down the rocks, I dropped to my knees and with a lunge, swiped in its direction in search of the plastic handle, but came up short, my small fingers closing on thin air. With a small splash, the rod disappeared beneath the surface.

I sat down, and felt hot tears of disappointment fill my eyes. I had lost my fishing pole within the first ten minutes of battle against the daunting sea. As the sun arched its way high above us the ocean, I sat down defeated upon the salty rocks, my face now shinning with sweat, sea spray, and tears. The sea splashed back and forth below me, playful, mocking, and victorious. I had lost the first fight.

Pesent Bread

Begin by pouring flour, salt, yeast, and water into a large metal bowl.
Mix them thoroughly together with a wooden spoon.
Cover the mouth of the bowl with saran wrap and then a faded red kitchen cloth.
Place the bowl in a warm place.
Let it rise simply for an entire day.
Once risen, plop the dough genitally onto a kitchen surface covered in dense yellow corn flour.
Copiously coat the dough.
Bake it for twenty minutes at a high temperature.
Let it cool for a minute or two and then thickly slice the crunchy peasant bread and serve it with butter.
The hot crunchy outside and the soft doughy inside together in harmony with the melted butter, saturate your mouth in a crunchy softness seldom experienced with bread.

Caleb Florence's thoughts on the LIT MAG...

I like the smaller format
I like the variety of photographs and abstract drawings
I like rough layout in contrast between the gas, liquid, solid, plasma format
I like the idea of the themes, but I don't think we should be restricted by it
I like the wide variety of prose, poetry, and stories

I don't like how the majority of the magazine was written in the same font. I think it should be mixed up to influence creativity

I think we can improve on the layout a bit. I think it feels a bit cramped and squished together although that may be just because of the smaller format

Overall, I liked it....

Superman's Side Effects

Well folks I hate to break it to you but being Superman sucks. Why exactly God chose to give all this mighty power to ME, still evades my mind, but I struggle through it. I try to...
I hate flying. Never liked it, never will. The first time I was on a jet, I threw up four times. Once across my moms lap and into her purse. She wasn't pleased. I didn't learn about my superpower till I was seven.
It was an accident, but I ended up levitating myself on top of our garage. That's when I learned I was, for lack of a better word, "special." My bother and I were playing "wall ball," when I through the ball so hard at the wall, it landed well above the target, and bounced up onto the roof, rolling down the tin sheets till it was stuck in the gutter. Frustrated, I playfully attempted to jump and reach the ball but quickly found myself floating gracefully through the air to the roof top.
Thirty years later, and I am till queasy even after the shortest flights, despite the regular dosage of pepto bismol. Will I eventually grow "the stomach" even to handle a short flight? Probably not. Its embarrasing and leaves me looking like a pansy. Remember I am sopposed to be Superman! I have no problem busting thieves and villans, but I would rather take a taxi to get there any day.

Fire and Ice

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

This poem is one of my all time favorites. Its simplicity yet complexity creates a contrast between opposites illustrated by few. The poems simple words portraying such power of fire, ice, and hate although could be called a "cry for help" by some, but to me are a masterpiece.

Remeber the Panzer

I remember...
Rain lashing against the windshield, the sound of splattering water droplets, and the humming and thumping of windshield whippers.
I remember...
Hot dry air beating my frost bitten skin, the chilly dashboard, and a forever foggy windshield.
I remember...
The whine of the ignition, the coughing sputter, and then roar of the diesel engine as we lurched forward in a haze of dense black smoke.
I remember...
Chipped gray faded paint, mismatched seat buckles, cracked faded leather seats, and grimy, sooty tire rims.
We remember...
The Panzer.

Acrostic Poem "The Life of Fire"

F flames
I ignite
R roar
E expire

Haiku "Forgotten Winter"

Winter cold and gray,
fond memories gone; a snow flake
left upon the ground.

The Decent of a Tear

Emotion