Tabula Rasa
January 2014 Issue
Getting Tackled
By Ryan Wallace
Twas not a day out of the ordinary // At that time in February. // A bright, sunny day with no alarm // until a boy of ten years old fell and broke his arm. // The story goes like this you see // The boy rode the school bus home with glee // For at home there was a brand new ball // Which his brothers knew not at all. // Not that they would care you know // for the brothers did not care to throw. // So the boy arrived home and was ready to play // With his ball and his coat before the end of the day. // Suddenly...he paused...and took a look around. // He was alone, you see, from the sky to the ground. // Not a stone in the driveway // Not a bird in the trees // Not his dog on the front porch // Nor a bug on his knees // could possibly play ball next to the flowers and the hoe. // The boy was hoping soon to play // like Vladimir and Estragon are waiting for Godot. // "Of Course!" the boy smiled with a sparkle and a gleam // "I know how to play ball without a whole team. // If I throw the ball here and run there to catch // I can be, at once, all the players, within a stretch!" // So the boy ran and threw and jumped and caught // And became a new person, a star // His self he knew not. // An on-looker would easily see // That the boy was having quite a blast. // But what happened next would not surpass. // It seemed as though the boy was jerked and fell // And he proceeded to shout and yell. // "Ah!" he cried out in pain // As his fantasy world flushed away in vain. // The strong throbbing was certainly not a joke // For the boy knew right away that his arm was broke. // The boy rushed inside, or stumbled that is // And his dad rushed him to the doctor quick as a whiz. // His radius and ulna both cracked like glass // And although the pain was strong and mighty // eventually it did pass. // "What did you do? How did you fall?" // Many would come and ask. // The boy’s answer, he still argues to this day. // One must not play football without being tackled // Even if he is all alone // Even if he breaks a bone. // Don't laugh too hard for you will see // The boy of ten was, in fact, me.
By Ryan Wallace
Twas not a day out of the ordinary // At that time in February. // A bright, sunny day with no alarm // until a boy of ten years old fell and broke his arm. // The story goes like this you see // The boy rode the school bus home with glee // For at home there was a brand new ball // Which his brothers knew not at all. // Not that they would care you know // for the brothers did not care to throw. // So the boy arrived home and was ready to play // With his ball and his coat before the end of the day. // Suddenly...he paused...and took a look around. // He was alone, you see, from the sky to the ground. // Not a stone in the driveway // Not a bird in the trees // Not his dog on the front porch // Nor a bug on his knees // could possibly play ball next to the flowers and the hoe. // The boy was hoping soon to play // like Vladimir and Estragon are waiting for Godot. // "Of Course!" the boy smiled with a sparkle and a gleam // "I know how to play ball without a whole team. // If I throw the ball here and run there to catch // I can be, at once, all the players, within a stretch!" // So the boy ran and threw and jumped and caught // And became a new person, a star // His self he knew not. // An on-looker would easily see // That the boy was having quite a blast. // But what happened next would not surpass. // It seemed as though the boy was jerked and fell // And he proceeded to shout and yell. // "Ah!" he cried out in pain // As his fantasy world flushed away in vain. // The strong throbbing was certainly not a joke // For the boy knew right away that his arm was broke. // The boy rushed inside, or stumbled that is // And his dad rushed him to the doctor quick as a whiz. // His radius and ulna both cracked like glass // And although the pain was strong and mighty // eventually it did pass. // "What did you do? How did you fall?" // Many would come and ask. // The boy’s answer, he still argues to this day. // One must not play football without being tackled // Even if he is all alone // Even if he breaks a bone. // Don't laugh too hard for you will see // The boy of ten was, in fact, me.
The logic behind contradictions
Contradictions and logic match perfectly.
Lies and reality synchronizing in perfect harmony,
Awaiting unsuspecting eyes to confuse.
Where logic fails to explain,
Contradictions succeed the refrain.
The bittersweet words of a contradiction
Can only mean that one’s values will be
Placed on the line in the test of the mind.
Where contradiction begins to explain,
Logic becomes the refrain.
Thinking, observing, analyzing
A world of thought in a universe.
What makes sense is but only
The true distance between the mind and brain.
Obscurity claims the refrain.
The universe is a planetary world
That is a component of a multiverse.
My words are bent to a paradox’s fit,
But the line of fit better fits a shoe.
This is the final refrain.
Words are lies and lies are true.
When the truth consists of words,
Where do we find the answers to decipher
The true meaning of anything in nothing?
Evermore continues the refrain.
Contradictions and logic match perfectly.
Lies and reality synchronizing in perfect harmony,
Awaiting unsuspecting eyes to confuse.
Where logic fails to explain,
Contradictions succeed the refrain.
The bittersweet words of a contradiction
Can only mean that one’s values will be
Placed on the line in the test of the mind.
Where contradiction begins to explain,
Logic becomes the refrain.
Thinking, observing, analyzing
A world of thought in a universe.
What makes sense is but only
The true distance between the mind and brain.
Obscurity claims the refrain.
The universe is a planetary world
That is a component of a multiverse.
My words are bent to a paradox’s fit,
But the line of fit better fits a shoe.
This is the final refrain.
Words are lies and lies are true.
When the truth consists of words,
Where do we find the answers to decipher
The true meaning of anything in nothing?
Evermore continues the refrain.
A Letter to City Council
By William Coffin
I was driving along in the historic city of Staunton just last Tuesday, when I realized something horribly wrong with the infrastructure. With utter shock inscribed on my face, I stopped at a stoplight, having seen a disastrous turn of events. Another automobilist had flown by the intersection when the stoplight displayed its middle color, yellow. The driver was obviously confused; therefore, he drifted into Coffee on the Corner.I could not help but ask myself naturally why our society accepts a volatile act such as this. How can one safely drive on public roads that have stoplights that are confusing and disruptive to traffic? I immediately made a legal u-turn and jetted back to my house.
I retired to my study upon arrival at my house to consult with my brain. A mediocre plan of hiring volunteers to direct traffic was thrashed; a decent plan of having no stoplights was thwarted, and so began the creative process. Minutes melted into hours, hours melted into days before the correct solution came to me. Until finally, a modest plan, yes a modest plan indeed had come to me. Why not add the entire rainbow to the assortment of stoplight colors? Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, a wonderful scheme of hues! How could one be confused now with only seven colors to obey before continuing again?
Red will be the only color to keep its original meaning, which of course, is stop. The rest of the colors will have the clearly defined meanings, in order to keep drivers well informed on the road. Please refer to Table One for a summation of the lights’ meanings.
Color
Intended Meaning
Orange
Drivers should have their cars traveling at less than 5 mph.
Yellow
Drivers are not allowed to “floor it” to beat the light
Green
Drivers are free to continue traveling through the light, but should be aware that they may be required to stop soon.
Blue
At this light, drivers are allowed to change the radio station if need be. However, this is only for blue light.
Indigo
If a driver has nitrous in their car, they are allowed to use it during this light’s time.
Violet
Go.
ALL Colors
Drivers may utilize the star power up, as observed in Mario Kart.
By William Coffin
I was driving along in the historic city of Staunton just last Tuesday, when I realized something horribly wrong with the infrastructure. With utter shock inscribed on my face, I stopped at a stoplight, having seen a disastrous turn of events. Another automobilist had flown by the intersection when the stoplight displayed its middle color, yellow. The driver was obviously confused; therefore, he drifted into Coffee on the Corner.I could not help but ask myself naturally why our society accepts a volatile act such as this. How can one safely drive on public roads that have stoplights that are confusing and disruptive to traffic? I immediately made a legal u-turn and jetted back to my house.
I retired to my study upon arrival at my house to consult with my brain. A mediocre plan of hiring volunteers to direct traffic was thrashed; a decent plan of having no stoplights was thwarted, and so began the creative process. Minutes melted into hours, hours melted into days before the correct solution came to me. Until finally, a modest plan, yes a modest plan indeed had come to me. Why not add the entire rainbow to the assortment of stoplight colors? Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, a wonderful scheme of hues! How could one be confused now with only seven colors to obey before continuing again?
Red will be the only color to keep its original meaning, which of course, is stop. The rest of the colors will have the clearly defined meanings, in order to keep drivers well informed on the road. Please refer to Table One for a summation of the lights’ meanings.
Color
Intended Meaning
Orange
Drivers should have their cars traveling at less than 5 mph.
Yellow
Drivers are not allowed to “floor it” to beat the light
Green
Drivers are free to continue traveling through the light, but should be aware that they may be required to stop soon.
Blue
At this light, drivers are allowed to change the radio station if need be. However, this is only for blue light.
Indigo
If a driver has nitrous in their car, they are allowed to use it during this light’s time.
Violet
Go.
ALL Colors
Drivers may utilize the star power up, as observed in Mario Kart.
The Beauty Within:
When I was a little
Girl I came home from
School crying because
Kids said I wasn’t
Pretty enough, my mom said,
“Sweetie they don’t know what
They are talking about, you have to see
The Beauty Within.”
In middle school
I always tried to “fit in”
Wearing your hair like
This or that and having the
Right clothes but I never
Felt accepted
What helped my self Esteem was remembering
The Beauty Within
In high school
You forget yourself because of the
The importance of losing your virginity
Or getting high to fit into a mold that isn’t you
It was hard to not give into that life but I had to remember
My self- worth and
The beauty within
In college I finally understood
The lesson my mother had tried
To teach me many years ago
You have to be proud of
Yourself and know you are loved to truly see
The beauty within
And now many years later
I see my sweet daughter
Get off the school bus
Distraught
With identical problems
I possessed
And realized
It was time to teach her about
The beauty within
When I was a little
Girl I came home from
School crying because
Kids said I wasn’t
Pretty enough, my mom said,
“Sweetie they don’t know what
They are talking about, you have to see
The Beauty Within.”
In middle school
I always tried to “fit in”
Wearing your hair like
This or that and having the
Right clothes but I never
Felt accepted
What helped my self Esteem was remembering
The Beauty Within
In high school
You forget yourself because of the
The importance of losing your virginity
Or getting high to fit into a mold that isn’t you
It was hard to not give into that life but I had to remember
My self- worth and
The beauty within
In college I finally understood
The lesson my mother had tried
To teach me many years ago
You have to be proud of
Yourself and know you are loved to truly see
The beauty within
And now many years later
I see my sweet daughter
Get off the school bus
Distraught
With identical problems
I possessed
And realized
It was time to teach her about
The beauty within
•|• where there are no s t a r s •|•
By Sere
There isn't a sound. The silence is cold and loud—louder than anything you've heard and anything you haven't. It's deafening, tearing into your eardrums in a way you can't feel. The silence is buzzing in the way white noise is when you can't hear anything else—so rhythmic and consistent that the pressure builds up inside your head until you shiver in cold sweat and wait for the explosion in your mind.
There is nothing to see. All around there is an absence of color—it isn't black, it isn't white, it isn't gray. There just isn't any color. You can't see your paws or your nose or the world around you. You couldn't even if there was color. Nothing is there anymore.
You can't remember anything from before, if there was a before. It's only here, and now—nothing and everything all at once. You can only remember the utter lack, the complete and total nonexistence of everything, including yourself, that you've been subject to for the several eternities you've been here. Forever is so much longer when you know nothing.
You thought it would be calm here, before you entered. Wait, is that a memory? You thought it would be your solace, a haven. It just seemed so... welcoming. No one could bother you here. Nothing could touch you, harm you. It would be quiet and gentle and free, and you wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.
Right? Right?
It is a memory.
You can't feel anything but the burning cold. It's freezing and scalding at the same time. You can't breathe through the air—there isn't any oxygen.
But you don't have lungs to breathe with.
You have nothing.
You are nothing.
Nothing at all.
You’re not free. You’re trapped, caged in something that isn’t really there, but is. You are nothing, you have nothing, and everything hurts even though you can't feel and everything is too loud even though you can't hear and everything is too bright even though you can't see and there’s no color and you
just
can't
escape.
It isn't what you thought. You were too caught up in leaving a world you thought didn't need you, and now you’re stuck and lost and you can never leave.
You want so bad to go back to those who grabbed your hand as you walked away, but you can't.
You can't.
You did this to yourself.
By Sere
There isn't a sound. The silence is cold and loud—louder than anything you've heard and anything you haven't. It's deafening, tearing into your eardrums in a way you can't feel. The silence is buzzing in the way white noise is when you can't hear anything else—so rhythmic and consistent that the pressure builds up inside your head until you shiver in cold sweat and wait for the explosion in your mind.
There is nothing to see. All around there is an absence of color—it isn't black, it isn't white, it isn't gray. There just isn't any color. You can't see your paws or your nose or the world around you. You couldn't even if there was color. Nothing is there anymore.
You can't remember anything from before, if there was a before. It's only here, and now—nothing and everything all at once. You can only remember the utter lack, the complete and total nonexistence of everything, including yourself, that you've been subject to for the several eternities you've been here. Forever is so much longer when you know nothing.
You thought it would be calm here, before you entered. Wait, is that a memory? You thought it would be your solace, a haven. It just seemed so... welcoming. No one could bother you here. Nothing could touch you, harm you. It would be quiet and gentle and free, and you wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.
Right? Right?
It is a memory.
You can't feel anything but the burning cold. It's freezing and scalding at the same time. You can't breathe through the air—there isn't any oxygen.
But you don't have lungs to breathe with.
You have nothing.
You are nothing.
Nothing at all.
You’re not free. You’re trapped, caged in something that isn’t really there, but is. You are nothing, you have nothing, and everything hurts even though you can't feel and everything is too loud even though you can't hear and everything is too bright even though you can't see and there’s no color and you
just
can't
escape.
It isn't what you thought. You were too caught up in leaving a world you thought didn't need you, and now you’re stuck and lost and you can never leave.
You want so bad to go back to those who grabbed your hand as you walked away, but you can't.
You can't.
You did this to yourself.
The Bridge between the Colors
by Fig Newton
Once I asked a friend of mine how she was feeling. She didn't give me an emotion. She gave me a color.
The sky is still black when I step outside. I make my way silently down to the beach, where the cool sand squishes under my toes and shifts under the pads of my feet as I near the water. I glance up and down the beach—I want to be alone—and watch the falling moon cast a silver glow on the sparkling sand.
But the water is black and mysterious, lapping viciously at the sand like it intends to drown me. The hills of sand cast ominous shadows, and I can see things moving under them. The chilly breeze slides against my skin and I shiver, rubbing my arms and taking a step away from the water.
When my friend looked into my eyes and named a color instead of a feeling, I finally realized something was wrong. She stared right through me, opened her mouth, and whispered, "Gray," and I realized I hadn't been looking hard enough. Every day after that, I asked her the same question, and she responded with the same word.
Gray. Gray. Gray.
I drop down onto the sand. It sprays around me before I sink into it and push the sand behind me up into a hill to lean back against. The sky lightens, just barely, along a line above the edge of the sea. I know I should be going back to the house, before my parents find me out here, but I don't move.
The way she described the color gray to me was heart-wrenching. The color of ashes, she'd said, falling around you and sticking in your nose, your ears, your mouth, suffocating and blinding you. The ashes of something that used to be beautiful, now destroyed and reduced to mere particles. Gray is colorless. Gray is empty. Gray is the lack of everything.
I haven't seen her smile in years. Sometimes I can’t remember what she looked like when she used to smile.
For a while I just lay there, my eyelids drooping against the sky and the water and the sand. The sea slows to a gentle lapping, throwing its blanket of green up onto the beach with a soft whoosh. My breathing slows to match it. I dig my fingers beneath the cold dampness of the sand and imagine that I am a part of the beach, sleepy like the ocean foam and rolling like the ripples in the sand.
But then I have to open my eyes, because there really is no time left, and I can’t get caught by my parents. They’ll be up any moment now, to see the rainbow on the horizon—my mother to sing to it, my father to paint it.
Dawn is stretching cold fingers over the sky now. As I watch, my eyes intently trained on the morphing colors, the sky is nearly completely taken over with gray, fading from the darkest black behind me to a soft gray above me to a myriad of warm colors above the ocean.
As I gaze at the gray between the colors, I realize my friend was wrong.
"Gray is a bridge," I tell her the next day, grasping her arm like it’s the only thing left of her. "It's the bridge between the night and the day, the darkness and the light. It's the bridge between the sky and the feeding of the earth. It's the bridge between nothing, and everything." I take a breath, and look her hard in the eye. "It's a bridge, and all you have to do is cross it."
She blinks at me. And then she smiles.
by Fig Newton
Once I asked a friend of mine how she was feeling. She didn't give me an emotion. She gave me a color.
The sky is still black when I step outside. I make my way silently down to the beach, where the cool sand squishes under my toes and shifts under the pads of my feet as I near the water. I glance up and down the beach—I want to be alone—and watch the falling moon cast a silver glow on the sparkling sand.
But the water is black and mysterious, lapping viciously at the sand like it intends to drown me. The hills of sand cast ominous shadows, and I can see things moving under them. The chilly breeze slides against my skin and I shiver, rubbing my arms and taking a step away from the water.
When my friend looked into my eyes and named a color instead of a feeling, I finally realized something was wrong. She stared right through me, opened her mouth, and whispered, "Gray," and I realized I hadn't been looking hard enough. Every day after that, I asked her the same question, and she responded with the same word.
Gray. Gray. Gray.
I drop down onto the sand. It sprays around me before I sink into it and push the sand behind me up into a hill to lean back against. The sky lightens, just barely, along a line above the edge of the sea. I know I should be going back to the house, before my parents find me out here, but I don't move.
The way she described the color gray to me was heart-wrenching. The color of ashes, she'd said, falling around you and sticking in your nose, your ears, your mouth, suffocating and blinding you. The ashes of something that used to be beautiful, now destroyed and reduced to mere particles. Gray is colorless. Gray is empty. Gray is the lack of everything.
I haven't seen her smile in years. Sometimes I can’t remember what she looked like when she used to smile.
For a while I just lay there, my eyelids drooping against the sky and the water and the sand. The sea slows to a gentle lapping, throwing its blanket of green up onto the beach with a soft whoosh. My breathing slows to match it. I dig my fingers beneath the cold dampness of the sand and imagine that I am a part of the beach, sleepy like the ocean foam and rolling like the ripples in the sand.
But then I have to open my eyes, because there really is no time left, and I can’t get caught by my parents. They’ll be up any moment now, to see the rainbow on the horizon—my mother to sing to it, my father to paint it.
Dawn is stretching cold fingers over the sky now. As I watch, my eyes intently trained on the morphing colors, the sky is nearly completely taken over with gray, fading from the darkest black behind me to a soft gray above me to a myriad of warm colors above the ocean.
As I gaze at the gray between the colors, I realize my friend was wrong.
"Gray is a bridge," I tell her the next day, grasping her arm like it’s the only thing left of her. "It's the bridge between the night and the day, the darkness and the light. It's the bridge between the sky and the feeding of the earth. It's the bridge between nothing, and everything." I take a breath, and look her hard in the eye. "It's a bridge, and all you have to do is cross it."
She blinks at me. And then she smiles.