Radio Silence

By Patrick O’ Neill

Part I: Mania

Paul Bookes was better than everyone else in every possible way except one, his distinct and almost immediately perceptible inability to let go. He was smart, yes, and strong, handsome to a fault, straight teeth like marble columns, sleek brown hair and glistening crystalline blue eyes. However, despite his physical attractiveness and numerous academic achievements, including a master’s degree in God-Knows-What, his home was stacked to the ceiling with books, papers, CDs, maps, trinkets, and photographs of pearl of a woman he called Savannah (the one who disappeared). 

These photographs existed in piles stacked neatly, face-up in order to see her smile, and the eccentric coil of her lips, the twinkle of her eyes, as Paul sorted through and studied each picture day by day (whenever he had the chance). In this way the pictures never gathered dust because he handled each with exquisite care on the daily as though they were a valuable collection of rare trading cards (collect them all and get the full set). And oh yes, he had the full set. Obsessed. 

This particular morning Paul was thinking quite suddenly of the blue whale, as it is known, the largest animal on the planet. And he thought about how he was here, and the blue whale was there (the far-off ocean), so as that Paul could not currently see it. So, how could it be that such a creature was real? And Paul thought about how he was here and how he drives to work each day in a silver Honda and returns home eight to ten hours later all in fifteen-minute, three miles back and forth stretches. And life always seemed to move straight and pass him by daily. He whispered, “Savannah.” And wondered between the gentle blue whale and himself, who would die first? Savannah. He went with the flow but needed to be pushing against it. Why should he choose to block the sword when he could hack through the wrist?

Know thyself. Never walk like a cat around hot porridge.

There must be something more, he thought.

Paul Brookes’ car weaved ever-closer to the highway guardrail, at 65 mph yellow and gray passed under the car rapidly while the field of wheat beside the road passed in slow cautious lulls like a slideshow backgrounded by the sound of Pink Floyd on the radio. Everything fit nicely. Tap the steering wheel on cue. Rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Click to shift to 1st gear. Paul pulled up his driveway and pulled the park lever. He thought about the divorce (life passed by). He thought about her figure, and saw the dust rising through the car window as the 4 pm sun blared and planted the idea of cancer in the skin of a woman walking her dog down the sidewalk. 

Paul collected his coat and water bottle and unlocked the door of his home, placing his hand flat against the red brick wall outside the door, which was hot, but he didn’t remove his hand even though it burned. Not uncomfortably. Savannah. He would get her back was the thought that flashed through his mind before logic took over. He would get her back. The floor in the home was uneven, just like the atmosphere and the overflowing bookshelves. Determined. The carpet smelled of mildew and held flecks of lint and cobwebbing. A distant spider studied Paul (the son of a ghost) and related to him because he heralded the sound a spider makes as it scurries across a skeleton. 

Paul taught physics at a community college nowadays because physics was the only sad thing he could rely on. Why is the tattoo of her name on your shoulder crossed out? She didn’t really love him. Marriage doesn’t take time, just money. Nothing exists on purpose. Calamity. 

Paul sat upon a red sofa in his living room, big enough for two. The unoccupied space was filled with newspaper clippings of crossword puzzles, all blank. Paul needed them or thought he might soon be bored enough to need them. A ten year collection. The divorce was only 3 months ago. Judges, lawyers, paperwork. No struggle.

He was staring at himself in the wood-framed mirror above the mantelpiece. Was that really him? Who is he? His eyes are red, teeth yellow. Monster. His eyes were crystalline blue and his teeth white. Monster. All peace was broken when his cellphone began to ring. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, laying a ribbed pattern upon the floor. The phone rang three times. Four, and he picked up.

“Hey Paulie! Bro!” said a man, his younger brother. 

“Oh, hey John!” Paul replied in earnest. He is not sad. Only thinking. “What’s up?”

“You home from work yet buddy?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m in for the night John.”

“Come on over for dinner Paul, 91 Cedar Road, you know? It’s Friday!”

Paul peered at his watch, 4:32 pm. It was probably Friday, by the smell of the air, “Okay John I will.” No reply. He hung up.

Paul went to the kitchen, rubbing his side, and took an aspirin or two. The medicine cabinet door creaked and whined. He pulled a menthol stick out of his pocket and began chewing on the end. Supposed to help him quit. 

And there he was pulling out of the driveway again. 4:45 pm, still blistering hot, except now the sun had had the time to reach inside the car and burn the seatbelt, but Paul didn’t mind the tearing heat. Hey Jude, played on the classic rock channel now, as the car edged down the side street, with Paul inside. 20mph. He thought about Savannah again. That face, that red hair, green luminous eyes, chewy lips, sharp nose, tall… beautiful. Paul wasn’t going to take the highway to John’s house, it was rush hour. But if nothing matters in the end why should he care about something as insignificant as traffic? Ten minutes down Alder Street, 45mph, bumpy, crooked. In other news, the world, bumpy, crooked. Up Cedar Road to house 91, the last one was 89. How do they decide which house gets which number? Who decides it? Savannah. 

John lived in a nice house, two stories, grey brick, white pane, dark glass. See the lines converge, people are tricked into believing there’s a purpose. Paul pulled up the driveway which was harshly sloped because John lived on a hill at the end of a col-de-sac. 

John’s wife, Madison, opened the door. Her voice was grating. She was religious. She wiped her hands on her apron and welcomed Paul inside. Paul knew his way, he had the extra key. 

“I didn’t expect you to be here so soon, Paul,” she said.

“John didn’t give me a good time, and I wasn’t busy.”

“Johnny stepped out to the store to get some drinks,” Madison and John had been married since college times, several years before Paul and Savannah and 3 months after, “How have you been Paul? How’s work?”

“Everything is okay,” he said. 

“Hello hello! Paulie, you here? You’ll never believe who I saw!” One could hear John kicking off his shoes, after pushing through the door, two six-packs in one hand and a paper bag of groceries in the other, he plopped these items on the table where Paul and Madison were now sitting, “I saw her Paul, when I was driving just now. She was walking some dog on a blue leash, next to some guy.”

Paul’s heart sank, “Who?” John was oblivious.

“Savannah!” he was already popping open a Budweiser. 

Paul didn’t speak or move while John sipped the froth and continued to say the name Savannah between many other unimportant words. Savannah meant freedom and bliss. Paul meant torment and traps. Madison studied Paul, making a mental note of the beard. 

“John will you shut up, can’t you see he doesn’t want to hear about her!” she scolded.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…buddy, sorry,” John took another sip. 

They were all friends in the end of course. Between the three of them and the great blue whale, Paul wondered, who might die first? Although, why should he care about some distant creature the likes of which he could not see or know? What had been lost? Savannah. Hope. Lions. Gazelles. 

Half an Eagle is a Hawk as they know (life passes by). 

Paul began drinking a beer, in five minutes he took another. Madison put the lasagna in the oven. John helped make a salad. He was a good husband. The TV was on in the background and was visible in the living room from the dining table where Paul sat. The Raiders of the Lost Ark was on, the money supply was waning. 

Paul would never want to be like Indiana Jones, never staying in one place, always running from traps. Eating monkey brains. Having faith. Becoming a rumor, sinking into conjecture, never advancing according to some plan. He would instead exist in echoes and live in the wind. Long for the wheat grasses of Iowa to consume him just as the sands of Southern California might’ve done.

They ate hot lasagna and Caesar salad that evening, while looking at weather reports. Feeling off. Several or more beers in each of their stomachs, caused John to convince Paul to stay the night, and drive home in the morning. He took the couch. Feeling off. 

Part II: Rain and Shine

That sacred buried point where the beige wall of the room met with the white paint of the ceiling, created an esoteric boundary between the heavens and the earth. Monet, Renoir, Matisse, they probably would have hated it. Vague and otherworldly, it was raining outside when Paul opened his eyes on the couch. Hot the day before, cool and rainy the next. The pestiferous liquid dampened the window on the outside and made the inside pane as chilled as ice. 

The rain rushed past the window, carried microscopic pieces of dirt back to the Earth. Rain falling, rain pouring, coming down. Rain coming down in sheets. Sleep. Repeat. Paul slowly stood, jaggedly, bumping into a side table, where a decorative glass globe sat. The globe faltered and titled, but Paul caught the planet, secured it, waiting for news crews to arrive.

Who gets to save the world? How do they pick the next Pope? John-Paul

There are these mysteries.

John and Madison were already in the kitchen, speaking softly. John hadn’t yet gained his usual boisterousness. They drank coffee.

They haven’t located themselves yet.

“Mornin’ Paul,” said John.

“Hey John.”

“Sleep well?”

“Well enough. It’s raining.” 

John was oblivious, “You want bacon and eggs buddy? Bacon and eggs sounds good to me, how about you? Waffles too, eh?”

Rain came down in sheets.

Part III: Years Later

Nobody needs a purpose, people should just exist for the sake of existing. Living in pleasure is supposedly a sin. Why? The bogeyman cannot get you until someone gives him a bigger knife. 

When Savannah left Paul (nearly three years ago now), one of the things she said to him was, “Having the same general body parts doesn’t count as having something in common.” Now as she occasionally walks along, the sun has already planted the idea of cancer in her skin.

Paul had said that when he was four years old he saw a birthday clown drowning in the backyard pool. There are these mysteries.

Savannah traced the grooves of the banister as she stepped lightly down the stair. She was remarried (only last year) and lived with her rich (wealthy) hairy (rich) husband, Bill, in a miniature mansion in the hills., big enough to host a reception. Savannah had grown fatter since a divorce that seemed so long ago. Paul hadn’t spoken to her in nearly two years, and indeed was on his way to forgetting her existence entirely, even starting to date again. The pictures now lay in a plastic bin in the broom closet.

Savannah went to the kitchen, after kissing her husband on the cheek. She had to make his breakfast. Paul. Her husband was watching TV, some conservative news channel no doubt. She recalled Pau…the money her new husband had and made him an omelet slowly. The cheese crackled and popped in the Teflon pan. The eggs sizzled. He ate half of the omelet shortly after and looked disgusted and went to work. 

Savannah cleaned the dishes and got ready for her own job, teaching algebra at Alder High School. She ate no breakfast but had a few sips of coffee, obscuring the dark circles under her eyes with L’Oréal. She tied back her red hair and pulled a pair of jeans (far too small now) around her hips, walking out the door with ankle boots on her feet. One needn’t be a religious person to lose one’s mind. 

A tractor in a wheat field in Iowa twists the land in ever-opening circles. Life passes by. Savannah had better options, but first she had to pick up Bill’s dry cleaning. 

If she forgot to grab some milk, Bill could get upset. Obsessed. Bill sometimes thought about locking her in the closet, frantically. He was often angry. He remembered not to let her scream, not to let her call the neighbors. 

John and Madison started getting into horror films after their first child was born last year. The world turned. 

Why is it ‘around the globe’ and ‘across the world’? ‘Across’ implies flatness, and yet all are aware that the world is perfectly round. And so, life passes by behind rot-stricken oak doors. 

Bill came home at 4 o’clock, his beard was black and grizzly around his neck and chin, stretching around his face like a mask. His dark skin was made darker by the dim lights of his empty house. He found satisfaction in that… his house. His large manly hands, veiny, slammed the door behind him. The lights were on, she must’ve left them on all day. ‘Where was that damn woman?’ Bill thought. He reached for his phone to text her. Desperation. Where are you? Where are you? He felt agitated but okay with the fact that she must have went to the grocery store without telling him, she had to pick up some milk. 

Savannah deliberated on milk choices far longer than necessary, anything to get out of going home too early. She shopped and shopped at that grocery store for the sake of not going home. She imagined what her home might possibly need. The mop was getting old, better grab a new one, but which one should she grab. They were running low on eggs, right? Grade A. Toilet paper, should she get the regular cheaper brand or the ultra-soft? Deliberations for nearly an hour. Bill needs bananas, apples, cherries, right? ‘I should grab some frozen meals for lunch at work,’ Savannah mused for herself, while the fluorescent lights of each aisle and the glossy floor planted the idea of consumerism in her skin and the skin of every patron at the store. Each of the glossed tiles on the floor was peppered with black specks, she wondered who might’ve designed such a pattern. 

Her wire grocery cart rattled like an old woman down the frozen food aisle, where she took time to grab the precise cuisines she wanted. 700 calories. 500 calories. They want to bring cholesterol to the American heart. Associations and byproducts, nutrition facts and warnings. Saturated fats with oil seeping through the corner of the thin cardboard on this week’s latest frozen Indian dinner with curry. She picked that one, wiping away the collection of frost that obscured the name, satisfied, tossing it in her cart. Bags of frozen French fries, pints of raspberry sorbet, thick gooey vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, peas, carrots, corn. The cart was becoming heavier and it became easier for the rough wheels to lean into the divets or cracks in the tile. Slices of life trapped in carboard. Savannah reasoned that all this was necessary, she hadn’t gone shopping in a long time. $123.45. But she forgot the reusable bags in the car and drove home dismally to see Bill. 

Her phone was lighting up with texts from Bill, but she took the drive slowly. 35mph. The Amber Alert was far too easy for everyone to ignore on their phones. By the time she got home it would be almost 7 o’clock. Rows of red and yellow-leafed aspen trees along the medians and sidewalks whisked by as she drove. The sky darkened, does nature include space or just the Earth?

It was 7 o’clock, and as she pulled up the driveway, Savannah felt everything at once, a great sinking feeling. The garage door opened like a curling spine, crackling along the way with that garage door motor kind of sound. This meant that Bill would be aware that she was home at last because he could always hear the door from the living room. Bill parked his nicer car in the backyard in a detached garage, where he thought he might be safe from the accidents of Savannah. Savannah collected all the groceries, hanging the bags along her forearms, as her flesh oozed around the edge of those plastic handles and her skin reddened under the pressure. She thought about those days long past when she was less afraid, less subservient. Paul. It was 7 o’clock and the moon was almost out. 

Bill noticed her right away as Savannah came into the house through the garage door that lead directly into the kitchen. She temporarily relieved herself by plopping all the bags down on the counter and silently removing and organizing items. Bill had the news on again. He was always watching the news, as though he hoped to hear something about his own political or economic goals being met. Those goals would never be met. The cold food was now in the fridge. And Savannah had paused by the kitchen window to watch the last rays of sunshine dip beneath the horizon and disappear. How could she disappear and never be found? 

Humanity is guilty. 

“What are you daydreaming about over there?!” Bill said, striking Savannah out of a brief and nearly imperceptible trance or hesitation, as she stood near the crumb-littered counter weary after a long day. 

Regular.

“Nothing dear!”

“Still thinking about that slick idiot Paul?”

“No dear, of course not,” she said, beginning to wipe the counter with a soiled and chaotically dampened washcloth, wiping crumbs off the counter and into her hand. The moistened pieces of bread, crackers, and lettuce stuck to her palm when she tried to shake them into the pull-out trash bin. 

Bill changed the channel of the TV from Fox to CBS and back again, his thumb crushing the rubber buttons into the plastic casing of the clicker. High Definition, Static Hums, hmm. 

“Maybe I should pay him a little visit,” he said, flipping the channel to AMC, where The Godfather played the scene where Carlo beats Connie as she smashes plates one by one. 

Savannah dropped a serving dish on its way from the dishwasher to the cupboard. Bill flinched and turned towards her, severity upon his brow, his beard hair curling like the tentacles of a dead octopus after a fine exposure to soy sauce. 

In the night Bill kills people, but during the day he drives trucks. 

Somewhere nearby an ambulance stopped at Dairy Queen and a paramedic bought ice cream for himself and his partner, while a weary man pushed a bin of garbage towards the street. There are these mysteries. 

“What the hell did you do?” 

“Just dropped something dear, don’t worry about it.”

“What’s the matter with you,” Bill turned the volume up on Connie, and Savannah’s grip tightened on the steak knife she pulled from the dishwasher. General Electric. 

John and Madison fast forwarded through the Carlo and Connie scene that evening. 

“What are you making for dinner?” Bill said. 

“Curry and rice,” Savannah said through clenched teeth.

“Geez, you don’t need to be so wound up.”

The sun had failed her. The sun had failed them. 

Black Tides

By Patrick O’ Neill

April Fool’s Day

By Patrick O’Neill, Staff Writer

As we all know, April Fool’s Day is today—across the world people will no doubt be playing practical jokes and spreading hoaxes, creating April fools in their wake. We all know and love (sarcasm) April Fool’s Day, but not everyone knows the history of this day. So, here we go—into the magical world of the Middle Ages.

Supposedly the ancient association between April 1 and “fools” or “foolishness” comes from Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales (1392). All Fool’s Day as it is sometimes called was celebrated in the Medieval Era when jesters and jokesters came out of their huts and caused mayhem in the streets for a day, whooping and hollering and setting things ablaze. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration but people these days often take things a little too seriously on occasion. Anyway, back on topic—April Fool’s Day was, and is often supposed to have been mentioned in The Canterbury Tales as “March 32” when Chaucer writes Syn March bigan thritty dayes and two or “March began with thirty days plus two more.” It could be guessed at that the foolishness of April 1 began with Chaucer then in The Nun’s Tale but who can really say for certain.

The Medieval tradition continues, generally across much of the world—and may also be related to a celebration of spring according to the Ancient Romans, Hindus and others when New Years’ was celebrated around this time of year. The tradition may also be related to Constantine—you know, that emperor of Eastern Rome who once legalized Christianity. Well, he had some rather feisty court jesters as the story goes and those jesters told Constantine that they could rule the Empire better than he. So Constantine, in all his cleverness, made a jester called Kugel king for a day. Kugel passed an edict that called for absurdity on that day and the tradition continued on April 1 for one thousand plus years.

Now that we have some of the history and conjecture surrounding April Fool’s Day, can we decide whether this “holiday” is worth our time? Well, we’ve all thought about pranking our friends and family on April Fool’s haven’t we? What’s the harm in a few jokes and tricks one day a year? But things can go wrong. I remember one story where a boy accidentally knocked his mother unconscious when she went through a door tricked with the ol’ bucket on the door prank—the bucket hit her in the head and knocked her out cold. April Fool’s pranks can go wrong—any prank can go wrong. And according to The Verge magazine, “everyone hates April Fool’s so why does it endure?” I can’t tell you. In theory there’s no harm no foul, but that’s only if we don’t let anything get out of hand. It all comes down to whether we let an ancient tradition of tomfoolery survive or whether we take away a holiday that’s existed for at least a thousand years. Here’s to a thousand more? Well, it’s up to you whether tradition survives.

So, happy April Fool’s Day and happy pranking!

Holocaust Survivor Speaks

By Patrick O’Neill, Staff Writer

On March 27, 2019 Eric Cahn, a Holocaust Survivor born in Germany in 1938 spoke in Claver 210 at 5pm. This event was hosted by RUSGA in association with the Social Justice and Diversity Committee for Anti-Oppression Week.

He started his speech with a phrase that really struck me with its gravity: “I am here today to bear witness to the Holocaust.” He asked each of us in the audience of anticipatory students and staff to think about our own lives as they are today—imagine then that a new government seizes power in our country, banning certain books and music, firebombing places of worship and beating families in the streets. Imagine, he says, Imagine that our lives are ripped apart by violence and oppression.

He also talked about the history of how the Holocaust occurred—the implications of Germany losing World War I began its descent into chaos and lead to the subsequent power seize of Adolf Hitler. Yet, somehow many people don’t believe such a travesty ever happened.

Mr. Cahn told his story—how his family was taken one night by the Nazis around 1942 and shipped “like animals” in freight trains to Camp Gurs in Southern France, a holding and internment camp where in the first winter of the 12,000 at the camp, 1,000 people died. Cahn elaborated how eventually he and his sister were separated from their mother and father when the French Resistance rescued them from the camp. His parents were sent to Auschwitz where his father survived but his mother did not. And, separated from his parents, Eric Cahn lived in France with a French Christian rescue family from 1942 to 1944.

In the Holocaust 11 million minorities died—including 6 million Jewish people living in Europe at the time of Germany’s grab at power. Mr. Cahn left us with some powerful points: It is up to us as the future citizens of the world to never let this happen again. We can make our country a better place by standing up to those who would deny the Holocaust, who would joke about such an event, and who would threaten our society through the belittlement of the people who suffered.

In response to a final question—Eric Cahn asked us to vote against the current President in the 2020 Presidential race to stop bigotry and violence and to do our part to make the nation a safer place to live in.

Book Review: Truly Devious

Photo Source// https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29589074-truly-devious

By Patrick O’Neill, Staff Writer

Truly, Devious—where oh where to begin? This is quite an interesting book series to say the least. The first book is simply entitled Truly, Devious and contains a plethora of riddles, intricately weaved together to form an engaging YA story that keeps the page turning from beginning to end. I think I read all 416 pages of the novel in the course of one long and murder-mystery filled evening. Does that make me crazy? Perhaps.

Regardless, Truly, Devious is a must-read for all you fans of murder mystery, romance, and teen drama out there—and if you want some pop-culture throwbacks and serious Harry Potter vibes then this is a stellar book for you.

The premise of the novel is that gifted and talented senior high school students are sent to Ellingham Academy—a private school deep in the mountains of Vermont where the quirky, geniuses of the world get to study what they want and prepare themselves for higher academia. One teen, Stevie, is wound up in the world of criminology—obsessing over the murder and kidnapping of the founder of school’s wife and daughter. She pours over crime stories and evidence, riddles and clues—leading her down the road of the novel. Her friends help along the way and of course there’s some spicy drama but that’s for you to find out about.  

This novel is compulsively readable according to John Green and I agree—the openness of the format makes it a quick and entertaining book that goes well with a blanket and a mug of hot cocoa. So curl up and give Truly, Devious a try. And don’t forget the thrilling sequel, The Vanishing Stair.

The novel starts with a poem signed Truly, Devious—the poem is a mysterious piece of work made of letters pasted together from magazines and newspapers and reads:

Photo Source// https://www.broadwayworld.com/bwwbooks/article/BWW-Review-TRULY-DEVIOUS-by-Maureen-Johnson-20180129

Concert Review: The Aces

Photo Source// https://www.theedgesusu.co.uk/records/albums/2018/04/06/review-the-aces-when-my-heart-felt-volcanic/

By Patrick O’Neill, Staff Writer

The Aces, a pop-rock band from Provo, Utah held a concert at Globe Hall in Denver this past Friday, March 15, 2019. The concert featured an opening act from a small pop artist called Tishmal who sang her original songs. Following Tishmal, The Aces played for just about an hour, singing hits from their newest record, When My Heart Felt Volcanic, as well as older hits from a previous record.

When My Heart Felt Volcanic is an upbeat and peppy piece with several great tracks and others that seem atypical of a pop-rock band or an alternative rock band. The lead singer, Cristal Ramirez said that the song “Volcanic Love,” the first track on this debut album would be the one piece the band wants to represent them. However, I found that the sound of “Volcanic Love” was a sound I have heard before—it wasn’t richly unique despite the beautiful lyrical composition. Other tracks such as “Last One” and “Stuck” were more unique and entertaining with vivid sound and beats that make you want to bob your head and tap your foot.

That being said, The Aces still had a great stage presence and interacted with the crowd thoroughly. I fully believe that The Aces have the talent to become a truly great alternative band but right now my immediate thought is, do we really need or want another same-old-same-old pop album?

The Aces finished up their album tour in Salt Lake City, Utah on March 16, 2019.
For more information on The Aces check their website: http://theacesofficial.com/