By Nicole Basile

In a cramped triple in Brown Hall, one humble sophomore held in his hands the power to vanquish evil. With the tap of a button or sometimes a combination of buttons, he became an ancient Japanese goddess, using her skills to restore peace to the world. Okami is the name of both the goddess and the video game. Danny had been playing for three weeks.

“It just gives me a sense of joy…a sense of…. accomplishment,” he said. “I can play for six hours straight if I’m having enough fun.”

He sat down and leaned toward his fully equipped desktop computer. A slight figure, Danny’s angular face and black widow’s peak were reflected by the dark screen. Over his shoulder, Danny’s roommate and his girlfriend were lying beside each other on the couch, giggling. Danny ignored them. The game’s opening dialogue began, giving the backstory of Okami and showing the events that lead up to the world being infected by evil monsters. Danny set his computer on double speed to skip through it.

“There’s about twenty-five minutes of dialogue before you can start the game.”

Danny already had the story memorized. Basically, Aruchi, an eight-headed dragon, has been unleashed. Sakuya, a wood sprite, calls forth the great Okami, a goddess in wolf form, to dash about the land collecting skills and gaining power to defeat Aruchi and his evil spirit minions. To win the game, Danny has to find and battle five bosses, who are difficult computer controlled characters. He estimated that it would take him at least thirty-six hours in total.

Danny picked up his basic black Play Station controller. The usual amenities were there: a large plus-shaped button on the left for directional movement and a diamond of four buttons on the right. Each button was marked by a symbol: X, square, circle, and triangle. The symbols were worn away, but Danny didn’t need them. He played by feel. Even when the roommate and girlfriend got up and whispered sweet nothings out of the room, Danny’s eyes did not leave the screen.

“I need to get Okami up this wall to get into the cave” he explained. Danny’s thumb pressed X (the bottom button of the diamond). Okami jumped halfway up the wall. X again. Okami did a second jump in midair and made it to the top ledge.

Okami, who looked more like a husky than a wolf, then moved forward into the cave. She immediately encountered a giant, dilapidated statue of a man holding up a shattered sword. Issun, the little green mushroom looking man who accompanies Okami, danced around and explained a newly acquired skill. By pressing R2 (the trigger-like button on the handle of the controller) and the square symbol button, an oversized calligraphy brush drops down from above.

“This is the most important power you get. With the brush you can reconstruct bridges, restore statues, slice through your enemies, and,” his voice took on a playful tone, “you can also make the world pretty by growing flowers!”

With the brush, he painted a stroke of black ink across the broken edge of the statue’s sword. It glowed and then, BAM, the sword was fully restored! Danny rapidly clicked the circle symbol to make Okami bark repeatedly to mark the successful acquisition. But as with everything, there was a catch.

“Right now I only have one bottle of ink to supply this skill. I need a few more to stay powerful. I gotta slaughter some evil spirits to gain more ink.”

Okami scampered out of the cave in search of some baddies, but then paused in front of a row of clay vases. Danny’s thumb held down the square symbol. Okami crouched down and charged into the first vase. It dramatically exploded and a word bubble popped up telling Danny he’d just gained an apple.

“Oh yeah, if you get two hundred food items, they’ll bring you back to life so you don’t have to go back to a save point.”

He was referring to the glowing mirrors that were placed sporadically throughout the land where you could save your progress.

“I like using the food to feed the little critters in the forest.”

Danny tossed the apple to a white rabbit and a cascade of Japanese symbols flowed out of its body. These were Praise Points. They are granted to Okami when she restores nature and can be traded for health points or ink. Health points keep Okami alive and are mainly obtained by destroying enemies. Suddenly, Danny’s phone buzzed.

“Hello? Heeeeeyyyyy…………mmmhmmm………….ummm…. now’s not the best time. How about in half an hour? Okay…….…..Okay………..Okay bye.”

He hung up and continued smashing vases. The main reason Danny stops playing is when he encounters a difficult and repetitive challenge. Once he had to maneuver through layers of rock to get to the bottom of a cave, but there had been a time limit.

“It was annoying hard. I got so frustrated,” Danny said, his voice raising a few octaves on the last word. Those are the times when Okami turns against him.

By Abby Feiner

Blue is the color of the sky where he flies his kite. Blue is the color of the hat that his hero, Thomas the Tank Engine, wears. Blue is the color that his hand is being painted as he looks around at the hundreds of other boys just like him.

Andrew was diagnosed with Autism at the age of three. The diagnosis came after fourteen months of his parents arguing about taking him to see a doctor. His mother, Leslie, begged her husband to help her figure out why their two year old son barely said a word while his friends on the playground were forming full sentences. After they separated, Leslie called her estranged husband, Ethan, to inform him that their son was not just shy and would not just grow out of it, as he had insisted.

“I think that somewhere deep down, I knew that when we took him to the doctor, everything was going to change,” says Ethan, “I just didn’t think it would be this.” They both look at Andrew, instead of each other, when they speak.

When Andrew puts his hand on top of mine, Leslie’s eyes tear up as blue paint fills the crevices between my fingers. “He’s not really great with physical contact,” she says with a forced laugh. Andrew smiles, but does not look up. Instead he runs his finger along the blue beaded bracelet that I had bought earlier that morning. His eyes stay frozen on the puzzle piece charm that dangles from it.

“I’m not worried about his mental development,” says Leslie as she bends down to kiss her son’s forehead. “He’s doing so much better than he was a year ago.  But he just started kindergarten and he’s not making many friends.”

If Andrew knows that we’re talking about him, just inches from his face, he gives us no indication. He grabs at his mothers keychain, a small Rubik’s cube and begins to fiddle with it.

“Even though he hardly talks to me, it’s like he communicates with certain objects,” she says. “I know that doesn’t make sense, but I feel like this is his way of working through his frustration.” She looks down and we see that Andrew has solved the cube in less than five minutes. She laughs, “It’s kind of a cliché, isn’t it?”

Leslie looks at her son, who, like one in 68 children in America, is living with something that cannot be cured. He has dark brown hair, which is always shaved close to his head so that his Thomas the Tank Engine hat can go on with ease as it gets to be too small for his head. His eyes are bright blue and are so large that they seem to take up the majority of his face, and from the way he looks at his mother, it is clear that he, like most children his age, has learned how to work them to his advantage. He stares at her and she hands him a lollipop.

They continue to walk the 5k for a few minutes until they stop to look at a large banner. Surrounding the words “AUTISM SPEAKS” are hundreds of blue handprints. Andrew approaches the banner and, without hesitation, puts his own blue hand on top of a print on the banner that is about twice the size of his. Ethan, who had gone to take a phone call, kneels down next to his son. He does not say a word; he just looks up at the banner with Andrew until his five-year-old son indicates that he is ready to leave by scrunching his face and scuffing his shoes against the ground.

Leslie lifts Andrew off of the ground as a young girl who appears to be about his age runs up to them. She wears a “TEAM HAYLEY” shirt and a plastic tiara on top of her head. Her mother runs after her and, after apologizing to Leslie, asks her daughter,  “Captain Hayley” if she wants to say hello to Andrew. Hayley giggles and blows Andrew a kiss. Andrew looks past her with no expression on his face.  He focuses hard on the scene behind her in a way that indicates that he has seen her, but this is his escape. Maybe if he stares at the mob of people long enough, he can be a part of it, instead of here, with this giggly, aspiring ballerina.

Andrew reaches for his father. Ethan holds up his hand, which is now blue. Andrew stares at the paint as Ethan kisses his head. “Look Andrew, my hand is just like yours,” he says.

By Shelby Benton

April O’Connor rolled over and stared at her alarm. A red 6:23 blinked in the dark. She sighed and pushed her messy brown hair away from her light gray eyes. She didn’t have to be up for another three hours, but it was going to take her another hour to fall back asleep anyway. Might as well grab a glass of water.

April headed towards the kitchen, which took no time at all. The house had been described as “quaint and cozy” which was code for “old and cramped,” but it was just for the next few months, and the rent was cheap. That was when she heard the noises.

“Oh, not again,” said April.

The mouse problem had started over the summer, but a few successful mousetraps later and they hadn’t seen or heard anything in over a month. April grabbed a broom, as was standard procedure, and headed in to investigate.

Flicking on the light illuminated the room but not the source of the noises. Now the sounds were a loud rustling and squeaking coming from under her desk. April held the broom in front of her like a spear and strafed around the desk.

She gasped. It wasn’t just a mouse. Then she screamed.

In the next room, Jan Smith woke up to her roommate screaming again. She was so dramatic about everything. “Not worth it,” she muttered, and she pulled her blankets up over her blonde head and went right back to sleep.

Michelle Kettner and Melissa Stephenson did not have the same calm attitude, and instead woke in a blur of activity in their shared room. Michelle pulled a large, fluffy robe over her tan shoulders, the last remnants of a summer spent at the beach.

“What do you think it is?” she said.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good,” said Melissa as she shivered, looking even more pale than usual. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tried to warm her hands on her freckled cheeks. They rushed into April’s room.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Just look!”

Michelle and Melissa moved closer to April and stared under her desk.

“What the fu-!”

“Ohmygod!”

Under the desk a long, black snack peered back out at the three young women. It had just finished a tasty meal, swallowing a mouse whole, and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Its tongue slithered out and tasted the air.

“What…what do we do?” said Michelle.

“I don’t know. Do we call the police?” said Melissa.

“Oh yeah, that’ll work. Do you think they’ll arrest it? How do you suppose they’ll handcuff it?”

“Oh shut up. It was a suggestion. It’s not like you have anything better.”

“What about animal control?” said April.

“Are they even open this early? And how would we contact them? We don’t have a phone book or anything,” said Melissa.

The snake looked again at the three women. It was time to leave. The snake slithered out from under the desk.

“AAAHHH! It‘s moving! Shit shit shit, back up!” said April, pushing her friends out of her room and into the living room.

The snake calmly coiled up in the hallway, peering through each doorway.

“What if we just open the front door and see if it’ll just leave on its own?” said Michelle.

“But it’ll make the house even colder!” said Melissa.

“Is a SNAKE better?” said Michelle.

Melissa opened the front door, and then all of them stood on top of the sofa and waited. “I’ll sweep it out if it even gets close!” said April.

The snake turned and flicked its tongue. There was a new breeze, and with it came new smells. It slithered into the living room and surveyed the area. Then the snake finally left, taking its time, as if it was a welcome guest that didn’t want to leave.

April, who had been poised still as a statue, sprang to life, slamming the door shut and locking it.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” she said.

“I need a drink,” said Michelle.

“You know it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday, right?”

“I didn’t say I was going to have one, I just said I needed one.”

“How about hot chocolate?” said Melissa. “My grandmother showed me how to make it extra rich.

Michelle and April looked at each other. “Sounds good.”

A little later, Jan wandered out of her room. She hadn’t started her makeup or done her hair yet, but she felt positively radiant. It had been an excellent night of sleep. Turning the corner, she saw all of her roommates huddled around the kitchen table with mugs clutched between both hands.

“Did I miss something?”

Jamie Moelis

“Hi, my name is Jen Tarangelo and I live at the 4600 block of Knox Road. Someone just broke into my house.”

At approximately 4:30 am on Sunday, October 5 twenty-one year old Jennifer Tarangelo, a typically heavy sleeper, was awakened by the sound of her squeaky bedroom door opening. She figured it was probably just her crazy roommate Emily, who stayed out an extra hour partying than she and her other roommate Laura did.

“Hello?” said Jen. No one answered.

A little more awake now, Jen saw that the figure standing at her wooden bedroom door was not Emily. From the darkness all she could make out was a short, African American individual who she believes was a female. ‘She’ had long black cornrows and was wearing a thick black headband around her head.

As soon as Jen said hello, the person scattered and hid behind her door.

“Hello?” said Jen more firmly. No one answered.

Seconds later she heard the sound of prompt footsteps walking through her tiny living room, and the sound of a door closing. She knew now would be the perfect time to bolt through the living room, go down the stairs, and see if her sorority sister Laura knew what was going on. On any other night she would have gone next door to Nikki’s room, but Nikki was home for Yom Kippur.

Scared, anxious, and confused she ran through the living room and down the stairs to Laura’s room where she and her friend visiting from out of town were fast asleep.

“Laura, Laura,” said Jen. “Someone was just in our house, did Emily just get home?”

Laura, another typically heavy sleeper was very confused and was still half asleep. They decided to phone Emily, who lived on the top floor, to make sure that the person Jen had seen wasn’t her, coming home drunk.

“We called her and thankfully her phone was on loud,” said Laura. “She told us that she had gotten home over an hour ago. So I told her to lock her door, and by accident I said that someone was still in the house.”

Jen was now 99% sure they had an intruder. She dialed 9-11.

“Name and address,” said the police dispatcher.

“Hi, my name is Jen Tarangelo and I live at the 4600 block of Knox Road. Someone just broke into my house.”

The police dispatcher, probably a man in his early 30’s, stayed on the phone with her until the police arrived. They gave her strict instructions not to open the door until they said so. Within 3 minutes there was an aggressive bang on the white wooden front door.

“Do not open the door ma’am, do not open the door,” said the police dispatcher. “Ok…now you can open it.”

Two lean, tall police officers walked into the house and asked the girls to explain what happened. They then proceeded to check the entire house to make sure no one was still there, to see if there was any damage, and to see if anything was stolen.

Right away they could tell that someone broke in because there were black scratch marks on either side of the front door. The girls were positive that they double locked all the doors within the house, so the individual must have used some sort of device to break in. The police also noticed that the kitchen door was opened, so the perpetrator most likely entered through the front door and left through the kitchen door.

“Ninety percent of the time intruders don’t want to hurt you, they just want to steal your stuff,” said one of the officers. “They don’t want confrontation they just want your things.”

The officers explained how prevalent break-ins were in the area, especially because it’s a college town. People know that college kids live here and that a lot of students have MacBook’s, iPhones, iPads, and other expensive gadgets.

This made Jen feel a little better, but she was still frazzled and shaken up. Since this night, without fail, she wakes up at 4:30 am, can’t sleep alone, and can’t sleep with the lights off.

By Claire Graft

The year was 1984. Ronald Reagan was president. David Bowie was singing about modern love, and Steve Groft was worried. All he had between him and the BWI airport was a fearsome snow-covered hill. He was in his `67 Ford Mustang with his sister, whom he had dragged along. There’s no way, he thought. He was cold and nervous, and when he realized his car would not make it up the incline, he looked at Pam. They were both thinking the same thing, except for one tiny little detail.

His little sister got out of the car to push. Steve remained sitting behind the steering wheel. He had the windows down, snow pelting his face from all angles. In the rearview mirror he could faintly make out an outline of his sister, leaning against the car and pushing it with all her might. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed. Instead, he said, “You ready? Okay. Go! Go!”

Pam channeled her annoyance with her brother into the car. Push, push, push, she thought, go go go!

Slowly the car started moving. He felt a rush of excitement, the thrill at the possibility of seeing his best friend one more time before her trip. With his foot on the pedal, he urged his sister to keep pushing. “C’mon!” he said. “We’re almost there!”

Meanwhile, on an airplane, snug in her warm seat, Cathy McGuire had no worries on her mind. In a few hours she would be in sunny California, dividing her time between work and Tom, her ex-fiancé. She was feeling a little impatient, since the plane hadn’t left the airport when it was supposed to, but she much preferred waiting than flying in a scary blizzard. She was allowed to leave the plane and go back to the terminal to wait it out, but Cathy remained where she was. She was comfortable.

Then on the loudspeaker she heard an announcement.

“Cathy McGuire, you have a visitor at the terminal. Cathy McGuire, please report to the terminal.”

That’s me, she thought. Who on earth wants to see me? So she did what any single woman traveling by herself would do: she stayed put. Another announcement came and went; she ignored it.

She thought she looked sloppy. That’s the real reason she didn’t want to leave the plane. No makeup on, her perm had started to lose its youthful bounce, and she had an ugly pimple on her cheek. She was wearing her “cool boots,” but one was tied over her baggy jeans, and the other was not. In fact, the other one wasn’t even tied properly. She was certainly not in the mood to be seen by anyone she knew.

An airline attendant walked to her seat. “Are you Cathy McGuire?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Okay, you have two people waiting for you at the terminal. Please come with me.”

So she followed the attendant through the concourse and into the terminal, where she immediately recognized Steve and Pam Groft, whose frosted faces burst into wide smiles. She was delighted.

“Hi, KiKi!” he said. It was a nickname given to her from their friend James, who had also bestowed nicknames to the rest of their college group, including Steve. “We didn’t think we were gonna make it! These are for you. In case you get bored.” In his hands were a Rolling Stone magazine with Chevy Chase on its cover, and a pair of googly eyeglasses. Written on the magazine were the words: “Seat 27K. Kiki, Have fun in California. Tried to see you. Oh well. Love, Bif.”

“I can’t believe you guys are actually here!” she said. “Thank you so much!” She hugged both of them, feeling very grateful she hadn’t rebuffed the attendant.

With Cathy off to California – for a work conference, even though he believed she was only going to see Tom – both were nervous about what would happen when she returned. During her trip, all she could think about was him. All he could think about was her.

The next time they saw each other was a month later, at a graduation reunion party. It was here that they finally had their first kiss.

They didn’t now it at the time, but that fateful trip to the airport would change everything. Thirty years later, they still talk about it. “Poor Pam,” everyone usually says.

By Abby Feiner

“Oh, shit. This isn’t good,” says Ben as he watches two women get their hands stamped at the entrance of the bar. His friend Austin sucks air between his teeth and cringes before ordering shots of Fireball whisky for Ben and himself.

One of the women watches this interaction and smiles. Her eyes light up with vengeance.

“Want to go over?” she asks her friend, beginning to walk before she receives an answer.

“Em, hang on,” says her friend, Laura.

“No, this will be fun,” says Emily.

They walk over to Ben and Austin, who quickly realize that their original plan of pretending not to see their ex-girlfriends was not going to work.

“Hey,” says Emily. “Want to take a shot?”

The two men look at each other and both nod, but neither says a word. Laura stands there with her jaw slightly open as she begins to twirl her sand-colored hair around her index finger. A few strands get caught in her ring and her cheeks turn pink as she tries to remove them quickly.

The bartender puts four shots of Fireball on the bar, which is already soaked with a variety of spilled three-dollar beers and two-dollar shots. The four look at each other and take the shots before staring at each other in silence. Laura, who by this point has gone through all three of her nervous ticks, playing with her hair, folding her arms across her stomach and biting her nails, excuses herself to go to the bathroom, where the line of women waiting guarantees her at least fifteen minutes away from this situation. She looks at Emily, waiting for her to join, but she doesn’t.

Instead, Emily turns back to Ben and Austin. “I haven’t seen you two in a while,” she says.

“We’ve been hanging at the house a lot,” says Ben.

“Oh, I’ve heard,” she says.

“What? Heard what?” he asks.

“So when we were dating and you said she was your study friend, were you fucking her then too?” Emily asks as if she already knows the answer.

“First of all, no, I wasn’t. Second of all, I’m not doing this right now. It was good to see you. Have a good night.”

As he tries to walk away, Emily grabs his shirt. “You owe me this much. You owe me the truth,” she screams. Austin puts his hand on her shoulder and she quickly hits it away. Ben puts his hands in the pockets of his salmon-colored shorts and looks down at his Sperry Top-Sider shoes that are stained and sticky from his month of celebrating turning 21 by going to the bars every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. He doesn’t go in between classes like some of his friends do, though.

“We can talk tomorrow, okay? You’re drunk and this just isn’t the right time,” he says.

“Why? You don’t want her to see us talking, right?” Emily’s voice is now loud enough that the people surrounding the bar turn to listen.

“You’re acting like a psycho,” he says in a whisper. He has noticed the crowd eavesdropping.

Emily’s eyes, which have been rimmed with eyeliner, coated with bronze eye shadow, and defined with three coats of mascara, widen as they fill with tears. She digs her left heel into the ground and looks at Austin.

Without a word, she walks away. This is the first time she has seen her ex boyfriend since they broke up three weeks ago, after 17 months of dating. He had done it over the phone because she had refused to see him that night. She knew it was coming and thought that if she avoided him long enough, he would change his mind. She now uses the fact that he didn’t break up with her in person as another reason to say she hates him.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” says Ben.

Austin forces a laugh and they take another shot. Ben looks over at the corner where Emily has retreated to, now surrounded by girls slurring their words and spilling their drinks. He doesn’t have to be within earshot to know what they’re saying. He accepts their dirty looks. He knows that the second he and Emily are on good terms again, her army of roommates, sorority sisters and classmates will smile at him as if the past three weeks never happened. He doesn’t want to get back together with Emily, but they can be friends soon, right?

He looks over at Nina, whom he slept with last week. He waves and turns back to Austin. He doesn’t regret having sex with her because it was what he wanted at the time, but he does regret getting himself into an uncomfortable situation with his ex girlfriend and one of his good girl friends. He knows he’ll be seeing both of them every night at the bar and when he tells Austin that, his friend laughs. “It can’t get worse than tonight, right?” Austin asks. Ben looks at Emily, who now has all three coats of mascara running down her cheeks. He shakes his head and puts his hat on and walks out without a word.

By Chris Conaway

The following is an interview with Jeff Mitchell, the owner and head teacher at Elite Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in Newark, Delaware.  The interview was conducted a few weeks after the fight took place.

“Chris was not ready for this fight” says Jeff.  “The last two years have proved promising for him in the Jiu-Jitsu world.  His submission skills are highly impressive and continue to grow rapidly.  He won a handful of highly recognized submission tournaments (including a Grapplers Quest World Championship) that boosted his confidence a little too much I think.  He wanted to try out full combat in the cage, and against my advisement, scheduled the fight.  Don’t get me wrong, the kid can stand up and throw, but I didn’t think his striking was ready for a test like this, let alone for a belt.  But Chris is family, and that’s what it comes down to.  He’s stood by me ever since I met him and done wonders for my name, and the name of my school, so I stood by him for the fight.  The win surprised me, but the manner in which it came did not.  Chris’s only hope in this fight was to beat his opponent’s striking and relentlessness with Jiu-Jitsu.  I can’t tell you how proud I am to have someone so dedicated and driven to spend my time with.  He makes teaching fun.”

…

It is September 27, 2014.  The sun fades from view and the temperature drops as night falls on the outskirts of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Tonight, the North American Grappling Association (NAGA) is presenting an evening of war in the form of cage-fighting.  Among the three championship fights, I will make my debut against 26 year old Jake Taylor, a former West Virginia University boxer turned mixed martial arts fighter.  Taylor is no stranger to the cage.  Through a combination of fine-tuned striking, endless conditioning and a relentless tempo, he has earned five victories, three by way of knockout.  A formidable opponent to say the least.

Deep within the Locked In The Cage arena, I stand fidgeting in the dimly lit tunnel with Jeff, as always, close by my side.  I am anxious and increasingly impatient.  Just as the wait becomes too much, it is seven o’clock, time to fight.  My opponent enters the arena first, strutting to the beat of a hip-hop track.  Eminem I think.  The tunnel walls do nothing to muffle the thunderous cheers for the reigning champion.  It is extremely intimidating.

“You’ve got this” I keep repeating, as if trying to convince myself.  Jeff is a constant voice in my ear as well, reminding me of our game plan.  “This guy has an impressive striking background, I don’t want you standing with him” he tells me.  “Wait for your opportunity, then take him down and finish the fight on the ground.  You can submit this guy.”

A man in a suit calls out to me, “It’s time Mr. Conaway.”

I emerge from the tunnel with “Enter Sandman” by Metallica blasting through the arena’s speakers.  The crowd erupts.  All of my pre-fight jitters momentarily disappear and I become numb.  Testosterone surges as I step proudly through the parted sea of spectators.  I turn my gaze to my opponent who is pacing back and forth, staring me down as I cross through the cage’s threshold.  I stare right back.  Like a duck on a pond, I wear no signs of fear, but beneath I’m paddling hard.  The door slams shut behind me.  There is no turning back.

The referee summons us to the cage’s center.  As he reviews the rules, my focus is stolen by the freakishly shredded-up man who is poised inches from me.  I study him, desperately searching for a weakness.  No luck.  His skin is an impenetrable armor that encompasses the unstoppable power that he will soon release upon me.  It dawns on me that this man holds the title for a reason.  “Take him down, take him down, take him down” I repeat as I make my way back to the corner.  I turn to find the referee’s eyes upon me.  “Are you ready?!!” he yells.  I answer with a nod, and he shouts, “Fight!”

My opponent charges.  He lashes out with a perfect balance of punches and kicks.  The speed and power behind the strikes is almost overwhelming.  I dodge one, two, BOOM! The third strike is a kick from hell that smashes into my cheek, leaving me in a daze.  I am rocked, desperately covering up to survive.  So much for a game plan.  Mike Tyson once said, “Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face.”  This is a serious testament to that statement.  By the grace of God I regain my senses just as my opponent slams me to the canvas with a perfect double leg takedown.  But this is a foolish move.  He should have kept the fight standing, but instead he is on top of me, feeling a false sense of control as his punches rain down searching for their mark.  My legs lock around his waist like a steel belt.  His movements become increasingly restricted as my arms snake around his upper body, and finally incapacitate him.  Although I am on my back, the ground is my home, and from here, I am dangerous.  As my confidence surges back, I begin to go to work.  I isolate his right arm by over-hooking it with my left, while stealthily inching my right leg up his back.  The table is set, and I make my move.  I slip my leg over my opponent’s left arm with lightening speed, catching his head and other arm in a leg triangle.  I lock my legs together and send a barrage of elbows to his face that sink him deeper and deeper into the trap, cutting off the blood-flow to his brain in the process.

“You have it! Finish it, FINISH IT!” Jeff screams from just outside the cage.  My legs are two anacondas that constrict tighter and tighter around their prey as I pull down on his head to lock in the submission.  Just before the referee calls the fight and rips me off of him, I can feel my opponent’s body go limp.  He is out cold.

I did it.  As my hand is raised, an indescribable feeling starts to set in. Jeff bursts into the cage, and reaches me just before the belt is strapped around my waist.  With a beaming smile from ear to ear, he hoists me into the air.  As I stare out into the arena, I am blinded by flashing cameras, and the roar of the crowd deafens me.  I close my eyes and take in all that this moment has to offer.  My head is filled with all sorts of emotion and disbelief, but one thing is clear: I am a champion.

By Jamie Moelis

With just over eight minutes remaining in the second period, Assistant Coach Ken Deming motioned over the referee and signaled a time out.

The short, overweight referee blew his whistle at center ice, and the Delaware Blue Hens and the University of Pennsylvania Quakers scattered to their respective benches, both a little confused.

“Listen ladies,” Coach Deming said. “We’ve been on the other side of the spectrum, and it sucks. Let’s not be that team who runs up the score. From now on, you can only score if your name is Jenn. If anyone else even attempts to shoot at the Penn goalie, you will be benched for the remainder of the game.”

The ref again blew his whistle, waving for both teams to assemble back at the center ice face-off circle, where 2 large navy and red letter P’s were painted.

“Jenn, hop out their with Katie’s line,” said Coach Deming.

Jenn, Katie, Olivia, Liz, and Sarah, otherwise known as the green line, jumped over the boards and skated to the center ice-circle.

“I really hope Jenn can play on our line next shift,” said Sophomore Danielle Marten. “I want her to net one so badly!”

The entire Blue Hen bench was rooting for Jenn, along with the 50 other Delaware fans in the Class of 1923 Arena.

Jenn slowly wobbled to the right side of the face-off circle and got ready for the draw. She didn’t think she’d get any playing this game and was very nervous that she would do something wrong.

The plan of attack was for Center Katie Smith to win back the face-off, skate the puck up into the Quaker zone, and then set Jenn up with a perfect pass as she posts up in front of the Quaker goaltender. If all went according to plan all number 16 in yellow would have to do is guide the black biscuit into the net with her worn-out chipped and rusted Nike Bauer composite stick.

The referee bent down, dropped the puck, and scooted out of the way. Katie won the face-off cleanly back to Liz on defense and Liz skated the puck up, deked around one of the Quaker defensemen, and looked in front of the net to pass to Jenn. But number 16 was face down on the ice. One of the Quaker girls had illegally crosschecked her. Thankfully she barely felt the hit since she’s covered with layers of equipment.

“Hey! Where’s the penalty on that one?” asked Coach Ken.

The whistle blew as soon number 19 on white, the perpetrator, touched the puck. The Hens were on the power play.

“Hey Jenn, stay out there,” said Coach Ken.

Coach Deming said he wanted the same five girls to remain on the ice for the power play.

“Jenn skate to the net and look for my pass,” said Katie.

The ref blew his whistle, dropped the puck, and again Katie won the face-off cleanly back to Liz. Liz looked around, saw an open lane, and passed it to Freshman Olivia Tarca who was down in the left corner. Olivia, an exceptional skater, pranced around 2 Quaker girls and passed the puck directly to Jenn’s stick where she was wide open in front of the net.

“Shoot Jenn, shoot!” said Coach Ken.

The entire Hens bench jumped up, thinking Jenn had scored her first ever goal in her first ever hockey game.

“She’s got this, she’s got this!” said Daniele.

The team, the fans, and Jenn’s parents were all cheering. Jenn spontaneously decided to switch over from competitive figure skating to hockey this year and was doubtful she would even make the squad. With a team like the University of Pennsylvania, Captain Sarah Berkley knew it was a great game for an inexperienced player like Jenn to get some ice time and hopefully score a goal.

Ding.

The puck rang right off the left post and the Quakers dumped the puck out of the zone.

Jenn, smiling and laughing, skated back to the bench.

“Tomorrow you’re shooting 150 pucks,” said Coach Ken. “I would have kept you out there the whole time, but I figured you may need a second or two to breathe.”

Jenn didn’t even know Olivia’s pass was coming to her. She was just standing in front of the net and happened to have her stick out in the right spot. She was a little disappointed in herself that she hit the post though.

“Sorry coach!” said Jenn.

The buzzer sounded and the scoreboard read 8 Delaware, 1 Pennsylvania. The Hens headed into their locker room, and the coaches awarded the game hat to the player of the game, Jenn Bruskin.

Sporting her new pink, glittery hat Jenn felt special and honored to be so warmly welcomed and accepted on her new team.

By Serena Grant

Kevin Corcoran’s life is Pat’s Pizza. He has been working there as a manager for over fifteen years. He’s seen every kind of customer: rude ones, picky ones, aggressive ones. Nothing at the store fazes him anymore. Even during the busiest times of day he strolls around without urgency.

Compared to his large body, Kevin’s head is tiny. Every day he wears a baby blue button-down shirt to work. The cashiers have a fruit for every color he wears outside of work: when he wears orange he’s a pumpkin, when green he’s a green apple. In his trademark shirt they agree he looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy. His hair is so light that he appears to be bald at first glance. On his left arm is a grapefruit-sized bruise, which he got from playing softball. He gets his little kick out of telling people it’s a hickey.

He loves immature jokes. When he’s bored, he’ll kick the back of your knees, point in random directions and snicker at people who look, and make farting noises. It’s like you’re back in middle school and Kevin is that kid who can’t control himself. He is 40 years old.

During work hours he doesn’t seem to take his job seriously, but when called into question Kevin is quick to get defensive about the store.

“Do you remember a couple years back when the economy took a dump?” he asked Amanda, a waitress who’s been at Pat’s for five years. She nodded robotically.

“Food costs went up, gas prices were up,” he said. Because of this, the other parts of the chain started using lower quality food. But not ours! There was a split between the current owner of our local Pat’s restaurant and the rest of the chain. We use fresher ingredients. We don’t use the same cheap crap other stores use. He gave a passionate defense about the store that seemed almost too serious to be coming from Kevin.

Amanda quickly changed the topic.

“I don’t get why he cares so much,” she said later, after Kevin had left. “I mean, I know he works here all the time and stuff, but seriously: it’s just food.”

Kevin invited some of his employees to eat at Denny’s with him after work. It was about one a.m. on a Saturday night. Amanda and I showed up first.

“He’s a green apple today,” Amanda whispered when he arrived.

Kevin reclined in the booth with his back against the wall and his feet on the seat next to him. He looked into the kitchen, pointed out a young man carrying big trays of dishes, and said he would hire him.

Without even talking to him?

“I don’t have to,” Kevin said. “He’s working. That’s good enough for me.”

Only two other people came to eat with us. Kevin shrugged, saying he expected a low turn-out. It was midnight after all. The driver Hany had brought Alejandro, one of the cooks, with him. Kevin enjoyed getting Hany to dance for our neighbors.

During dinner Hany’s phone, which was lying on the table, rang. He waved his hand in dismissal. He explained that it was an elderly lady he had delivered pizza to. On one occasion, he drove her to Wal-Mart at her request; she’s been calling him for other favors ever since.

“She is crazy,” he said with sweeping arms. “She do, uh…drug! Drugs, like heroin,” and he punctured his arm with an invisible needle.

Kevin is very interested in Hany. They’ve worked together for nine years, but because of the language barrier they don’t know each other very well. Kevin has never lived anywhere besides his hometown, and expressed fear in living in another country. He was interested in the citizenship test Hany took years ago, and laughed about how he could never pass it, despite being a citizen.

After getting our food, “Nina” called again, and this time Kevin swiped up the phone. He hesitated a bit, looking for our reactions: Hany just laughed and urged him to answer.

“Hello?” He started. “Oh, no this is Kevin, I think you have the wrong number…Sorry. So, what are you doing right now? …Watching TV? Is that so?…What are you wearing?”

He quickly hung up. “I think she may have heard you laughing, Hany,” Kevin said, giving the phone back to him.

As we were leaving, Amanda asked Kevin: “Did you ever grow up?”

He said, “Nah. I mean, what’s even the point? It sucks being a grown-up.”

By Lisa Tetrault

John James Hoder had a prominent Roman (actually Polish) nose. His blue eyes peered through wire-framed glasses. He often pursed his lips skeptically, but smiled just as easily. Just below average height, John walked with a slight limp. His knee never recovered from a hiking injury a decade ago. Perhaps as a consequence of this injury, John had gotten fat. His belly jiggled as he moved; it’s no wonder he played Santa during family Christmases.

He liked his coffee home-brewed from Dunkin’ Donuts beans, strong and sweetened with organic Stevia. He swore off sugar after seeing the poor condition of a Domino’s factory in New Orleans. He once drank up to twelve cups daily, but cut back significantly when he developed an ulcer.

After working as a primary school teacher in Avon, NY for thirty-seven years, John had seen it all. He said he learned to, “Expect the unexpected and not be flabbergasted.” Avon was a small town outside of Rochester, and the students came from varied backgrounds. As a remedial math teacher, his students tended to be more disadvantaged. When he once asked his students about their parents’ professions, one girl said her mom worked at a pizzeria called “Foxy’s,” which John knew was the local gentleman’s club. He spoke about the incident sheepishly, as if he was embarrassed for the girl. This empathy made him such a good teacher.

Mary Lou Liccione, the mother of one of his students, said he had been, “one of the best” second grade teachers Avon ever had.

His colleague David Weisner particularly noted his way of relating to students, saying, “He would have been a great counselor.”

John always sought kids’ perspectives. When he asked his nieces and nephew about their lives he watched them attentively, maintaining eye contact and resting his chin on his hand.

Despite his interest in children, John never had any kids of his own, never even married. He said that in a small town, like Avon, most relationships were already established. His preference of school district limited his life.

John’s grandmother said he was, “Too damned independent” to marry. When discussing his bachelorhood, John called himself “self-centered” because he was unwilling to concede his independence in exchange for married life.

Though John may have regarded himself as selfishly independent, those who knew him disagreed. While John never married, he shared his time and home with others.

For two years John had a housemate named Michael Toland. Once his student, Michael went into education and was a student teacher for John’s class. Even after Michael discovered that teaching was not his forte, John remained his mentor. So when Michael needed a place to stay, John offered his home, rent-free in exchange for assistance with the household tasks like repainting. It was a symbiotic arrangement.

Though Michael was almost a son to John, he remained distant from the rest of John’s family. He made himself scarce whenever relatives visited. During the two years he lived in John’s house Michael was never seen by the extended family.

John looked after his elderly parents, Emma and John Paul. As the eldest and closest child, John felt obligated to be the primary caregiver. When not teaching, he spent hours chauffeuring his parents to doctor appointments, explaining the medical jargon. It wore John out; his face became drawn. He concealed his exhaustion from his parents; no need to make them feel like burdens.

Even in retirement John sacrificed his leisure time. He planned to tour France, but his father’s heart was failing, and John feared his dad might die while he was abroad. He canceled the trip. Months later, John’s father passed away and his widowed mother moved in. He never expected to start his retirement rearranging his life to accommodate his senile mother, but he took it in a stride.

John’s friend Wanda Wolfley remembered that John brought Emma to the retired teachers’ luncheon. Though Emma had difficulty following simultaneous conversations, she enjoyed the socialization.

John easily integrated his mother into his social life, but occasionally sent Emma to stay with his sister, Joan in New Hampshire. Then he reclaimed his much cherished independence and explored the Finger Lakes or visited museums. His last planned trip: the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.