March 28, 2013 Find Meg’s Face!

We’re still going strong! Sorry about the short noticethis time. I’ll try to be better about it. We have two issues leftin this semester, so if you want something published thissemester, please send it in (details below).

SO MANY ANNOUNCEMENTS:● Conbust is THIS WEEKEND

○ You can pay at the door!● Lord of the Rings Marathon (in honor of the Hobbit movie)

○ Date: April 7th (Next Sunday)○ 11 a.m. - Whenever the movies end (w/meal breaks)

● BARDIC MOTHERLOVING REVELRIES○ Saturday April 27th○ Send ideas for performances to B.D. Meg

(walla22m)○ Deadline to send in ideas is April 15th○ THINK OF SOMETHING TO DO. PLEASE. SING BADLY,

FALL ON YOUR FACE, DRAW STICK FIGURES INFRONT OF AN AUDIENCE, SHOW OFF YOURBROOMSTICK SKILLS. SOMETHING.

(I need to think of something, too ….. >.>)

The end of the school year is approaching, and with it,ELECTIONS. The offices are listed below. If they are highlighted, itmeans that a senior currently holds that position AND SOMEONENEEDS TO RUN FOR IT.

● President/Benevolent Dictator● Vice President/President of Vices● Treasurer● SGA Representative/Imperial Visier● Webmistress/1337 m@$73r● Head Librarian/Information Guru

○ 4-6 Librarians

Prompts1. AU: Elementary School2. Imagine your OTP on a roadtrip.3. Statues guard the entrances and exits in a particular town. Peoplemay enter, but the statues block anyone from leaving.

Submission Guidelines (for the Chimera)● It must be your original work, or you have express written

permission from the creator.● A person cannot approve their own work for publication.● Any written work must be less than 5 pages.● It must be submitted by the Tuesday before the issue is published

on Thursday.● To submit it, send it to the editors (either in person or email).

○ hughe22w, mccra22e, tille22l, vacca22l

SUBMISSIONS

Recommendation for Johnny WandererArt: Yuko Ota

Writing: Ananth Panagariyafrom Camilla Yohn-Barr, ‘15

This charming, whimsical, and downright hilarious slice-of-life comicwelcomes you into the totally-normal-yet-vaguely-bizarre world of Yukoand Ananth. You’ll read about everything from artist woes and conventiontrips to New Yorker adventures and the habits of their cats – and you’llprobably find each comic strip to be surprisingly relatable, even if you, forexample, aren’t from New York, aren’t an artist, have never had tinnitus, ordon’t have friends who once decided making a candle was the best use foraccumulated bacon grease and actually burned it in your shared livingspace.

One of the best things about Johnny Wander is its simplicity. The artis adorable and the writing is typically brief and candid, both of which helpmake the comic so damn funny. Since there’s no plot to follow, I highlyrecommend this comic for anyone in need of a little cheering up in a verylimited span of time. Say, now-ish in the semester, maybe.

In addition to tales about their lives and the little shenanigans thatfill them, the duo occasionally posts pages from other projects of theirsinstead of the regular comic strips, such as a cute full-color story aboutDeath and a young woman with a skeleton hand named Cecilia (her, not herhand). Ananth is also connected to the webcomicApplegeeks, and Yuko often posts drawing projects and doodles on herTumblr. In conclusion: they seem like cool people and I want them to be mybest friends (...and the only reason I haven’t tracked down where inBrooklyn they live and camped out in front of their house is because I don’twant them to think I’m creepy).

Overall Rating: 10/10 (A+ should read)Art: Black and white, with occasional side-projects in color. Yuko’scartooning style is extremely adorable.Writing: No plot to follow; the writing itself is, in my opinion, extremelyhilarious.Alt Text?: Yes, and it’s also hilarious.

Update Schedule: Tuesdays & Thursdays, though not 100% regular.Perfect if you like: Straightforward humor, slice-of-life stuff/anecdotesabout other people’s lives, cats, normal-people shenanigans.Warnings: None!Feels?: Other than screaming “Why can’t I be these people?!” from yourmental mountain top, nope, you’re fine.

Burning AmbitionsChapter One: Rekindling - Part 2

By Lauren Tilley, ‘15Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (manga/Brotherhood)

Rating: GGenre: Fluff, some Drama

Hawkeye’s POVLeaving Scar’s house, I glanced up at the general. His posture was set

in the way I had become too familiar with over the years. A child ran out ofa house in front of us, making him stumble a bit. The child looked back overhis shoulder and yelled, “Sorry!” but he didn’t slow down. The generalstopped and watched after the child, who ran far off down the street. Hiseyes softened as they followed the boy.

Knowing he had a need to make a short speech, I prompted, “Sir?”“It’s a wonderful thing, to see into the future, isn’t it, Lt. Colonel?” He

was thinking of that month when he was blind, just after the fight with thehomunculi. Dr. Marcoh had used the last philosopher’s stone from Ishval torestore his sight, and I knew he felt a duty to repay the Ishvalans for that.When we’d been in the hospital for our injuries from that battle, he’d saidthat the loss of his sight was what the Truth gave to those who had a visionfor the future. It was his vision for the future that kept me by his side.

“It is, sir.” I answered. He smiled down at me, a smile which I returned.The boy had disappeared around a corner, and the general walked off inthe direction of our quarters, with me following close on his heels. Wereached the building where we’d set up our headquarters, and Captain

Breda was on the radio with Central, trying to convince them to allocatemore funding for us. He raised his hand in greeting when we passedthrough the doorway. In the break room down the hall, we found Havoc andFalman playing checkers. Black Hayate was sleeping in the corner, curledup with his mate, Chise. Havoc had brought the dog back from his timeworking at his family’s store, and the two dogs seemed very well suited foreach other. They’d already had one litter of puppies, which had beenadopted by Ishvalan families, and they were expecting another.

The general cleared his throat, to which Falman shot up. He hadn’tnoticed our entrance and couldn’t let go of old habits. I looked disdainfullyat the general. He knew Falman was a stickler for protocol, even when itwasn’t necessary, and Gen. Mustang loved to pull his strings. Havoc justwaved his hand, staring at the board.

“Hey, Mustang.” Falman shot a look at Havoc, obviously unpleasedwith the lack of respect in Havoc’s tone. I rolled my eyes and knelt down infront of the dogs. Hayate lifted his head with a worried look, sensing myconcern. Chise didn’t move, but I understood that. Bearing puppies wastiresome work. I pet the top of Hayate’s head until the worried look wentaway. Standing back up, I saw that the general had pulled up a chair to thetable Havoc and Falman were competing over.

I approached their table, standing behind the general. “Care to takeon the winner, Hawkeye?” Havoc asked, shooting me a grin. I always beathim whenever we sat down to a game.

I sighed. “Maybe if Lt. Falman wins this one. If you win, I don’t think itwould be enough of a challenge.” Examining the board, I noticed that thegame was about even. I hadn’t really seen Falman’s skills at checkersbefore, and I was intrigued to notice he was leading Havoc into a trap. Hewas sneakier than he appeared.

Havoc’s face dropped, but he somehow managed to keep thecigarette in his mouth. “You’re so cruel!” he yelled, proceeding to faketears.

“Havoc, you may need to focus on your game rather than the Lt.Colonel.” The general leaned forward, watching as Falman began hisattack. Havoc’s eyes widened, slowly realizing he’d been had. Falman satback and crossed his arms, obviously pleased with himself. the captain’sshoulders slumped as he made the only move he could, watching as thegame went to the lieutenant. Falman took Havoc’s last piece and smiled.

“Well, you turned out to be quite the strategist, Lt. Falman.” Thegeneral said, impressed by Falman’s win. Falman grinned at him, but thatsoon faded as Gen. Mustang said, “Now you can face the Lt. Colonel, ifyou’re up to it.” Both turned to look at me.

My shoulders slumped. I was the reigning champion of checkers inour squad, and I was tired of people challenging me or volunteering me fora game. However, I hadn’t played Falman before. Presumably, he was tooafraid of me. As it should be. Havoc got up and offered his seat to me.Falman had begun sweating, but his mouth was set. It would certainly be achange to play Falman. Sitting down in the seat Havoc had vacated, Iwaited as Falman reset the board. The general leaned back and put hishands behind his head. Havoc went to sit next to Falman on the two-seater.

When the game was ready, General Mustang sat up to watch us,amusement in his eyes. I know he was looking forward to my struggle, but Iwouldn’t lose tonight. For the first few moves, Falman and I danced aroundeach other, each trying to gauge the other’s skills. I knew I could handlehim. He may have been able to beat Havoc, but he was too subtle in hisattacks. The red pieces piled up next to me. It was only a few minutes inthat I realized what Falman was doing. He was going for the queen, and Icouldn’t stop him anymore. I was too confident, and I had missed thatcrucial factor. I backed off, trying to cover my tracks. I heard the generalsnicker, seeing my mistake. Falman was very good, better than any of theothers I’d played against since we’d been here, but he had lost too manypieces to win outright, and he knew this, from the way his mouth set into afrown. He couldn’t pull off the same strategy he had on Havoc. But it wouldbe difficult for me to pull out a win, as well.

The game continued for an hour, and Havoc had fallen asleep on thecouch, mouth wide open with drool dripping onto his sleeve. We’d goneback to dancing around each other, knowing that any more drastic moveswould result in losing. Finally, the general stood up. “Just call it a draw,Colonel.” He said, stretching his arms. “There’s no shame in coming to adraw in checkers.” I knew the general preferred chess, and thought ofcheckers as a child’s game, but checkers allowed for more directstrategies, whereas chess was full of deception. I grimaced and sighed. Icouldn’t give up that easily. If I just moved this piece here-

Falman sat back suddenly, disturbing Havoc’s sleep. Sighing, he said,“I concede, Lt. Colonel.” I looked up in surprise. He grinned sheepishly atme, and began clearing the board. I straightened my back, which I hadbeen gradually hunching over as I’d gotten more absorbed by the game.“Maybe next time, we’ll play it out to the end.” The general nudged Havoc,who groaned.

“It’s time we went to our bunks.” Gen. Mustang said, heading towardthe door. “Good night, everyone.” I heard him go into the main room, whereBreda was still arguing over the radio. I glanced over at Black Hayate andChise, who’d completely conked out. I smiled at them, looking so peaceful

together, something I knew I could never have.Falman saluted me, bringing me out of my drifting mind. I let out a

small sigh and saluted him back. After that little show of respect, Falmanpulled Havoc up by the arm, pushing him off to the room the four menunder Gen. Mustang shared. I headed out down the hallway to my room. Iwas one of the few who got their own room, partially because of my rank,and partially because of my sex. Gen. Mustang was waiting for me next tomy door, something he wasn’t known to do.

“Can I help you, General?” I asked, reaching into my pocket for mykeys.

The general didn’t say anything for a while, but I didn’t push him. Hewould say it when he was ready to, whatever it was. Sure enough, after amoment, he said, “What I said to Scar tonight, I should have warned you.” Iwas a bit surprised. Surely, he knew me well enough to know that I wouldnot object.

I unlocked my door as I said, “It’s fine, sir.” I heard him let out a deepbreath, and I looked up at him, worriedly.

He was looking far away from this place, through the floorboards,with the smile of a tired man. “We’ve seen a lot, together, haven’t we?” heasked. I didn’t say anything, knowing he was just saying something for thesake of connecting with me. He pushed off of the wall, and began walkingaway, patting my shoulder as he did so. “Sleep well, Lt. Colonel.” I watchedas he walked away, remembering how he’d changed from the boy poringover alchemy notes on the kitchen table. Opening my door, I smiled. I’d staywith him until the end, whatever that end turned out to be.

The River-WalkerBy Charlotte Kugler, ‘14

Original FictionRating: PG

Genre: Dark Fantasy

Ciarin is lonely, Ciarin is sadCiarin would be a happy girlIf she hadn’t been so bad.She spilt the sacred waterAnd broke the precious stones.Now Mother will not love herUntil the earth receives her bones.

Every winter, I dream. During the deepest nights of the year Isee in my mind a young girl with long, long hair, and she is walking on ariver. Branches of willows frame each bank, flowing softly in the wind. Shewalks on the surface of the water like I walk down the road, leisurely andassured in her step. Her face betrays the confidence in her movements,though. I could drown in the depth of the sorrow that I see in her eyes. Butwhen I wake up, I can never remember what color they were.

When I was a child I told my father about her one night. He wastucking me into bed and said, "Goodnight, sweet dreams," as he gave me akiss on the forehead. I looked up at him and said, "They would be sweet ifthe girl wasn't so sad."

"What girl?" he asked me.And so I described her. Her long black hair that turned the water

behind her black as she walked, her gray dress that clung wetly to her paleblue skin, her eyes whose color I couldn't know but that were like windowsnot into a soul but into an abyss. I told him of the wide river and its greenwillows and the sun that always shown brightly in blinding contrast to thedarkness that walked beneath it. He listened to me closely, taking in eachword.

When I finished he sat quietly for a moment, considering my dream,and then said, "It sounds like you've seen a river-walker."

"A river-walker," I repeated. The name fit the strange girl perfectly.I have therapy every other evening at this time of year. I sit in a chair

in front of a large, bright fluorescent lamp with my eyes closed. The

warmth envelops my skin and even though my eyes are shut, I see lightbehind my eyelids. I think I was in my early teens when I was diagnosed withseasonal affective disorder. Light therapy combined with a mildanti-depressant is the best treatment, my psychologist said.

I've never told her about my dreams, about the girl, the river-walker,who haunts them. I've never told anyone except my father. As the yearshave passed I've gotten older with them, but the girl is always the same.

My father took me down to the river one cold winter day after I'dshared my dream with him. "There is nothing to fear from her," he said."She only wants someone to see her and care about her."

I stood next to him at the river's icy edge. The outlines of the baretrees on the opposite side of the water against the gray sky cast a starkmood over my child self. I shivered as the wind blew strands of hair acrossmy face.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why did she choose my dreams and not someoneelse's?"

"I don't truly know why," said my father quietly. "But river-walkersalways choose people with kind souls. People who couldn't ever hurtanother person."

It was awhile before I spoke again. When I did I asked, "Why is shesad all the time? Why does she turn the water black when she walks?"

Soon, soon I will talk to her, and I will ask her the questions I askedmy father all those years ago. He hadn't had an answer. River-walker loreis not widely known. People visited by dreams like mine are few.

Every day in the winter I look out the window of my fifth-floorapartment, see the buildings across the street and hear the traffic below,and I long to return to the countryside where I grew up. But where I ammakes no difference to her. She chose me early on and she has never leftme. In a way, I take comfort from this. She'll be with me until my last winter.

I need to ask her the questions that haunt me. I have been able tospeak to her in each of my dreams for the past few days, and each timeshe has turned her empty eyes a little more towards my voice. Soon, soon Iwill fall into their depths and I will know her, my river-walker.

I only found out several years afterwards that the place on the bankof the river where my father had taken me as a child that winter day wasthe place where my mother drowned. I don't remember her. There had beena bridge, old and rotting, across the water. After it collapsed under her thecurrent carried away both the wooden pieces and the woman who hadborne me not too many months earlier. They found her body some milesdownstream. She was buried in the churchyard on a morning in January; Ivisited her gravestone for the first time as a young adolescent. That's all I

know.I used to wonder sometimes if she became a river-walker. Somehow I

don't think she has. I can't picture her with soul-reaching sorrow in hergaze. From the photographs I've seen she was a bright, laughing womanwith curly hair and big green eyes. Not like the girl in my dreams. Dying inthe river does not turn you into someone like that by itself. No one has toldme this but I know it to be true nevertheless. There has to be somethingelse, something that happens before death. Your fate is sealed beforeyour breathing ceases.

She is coming. I wait among the willow branches, and as I wait thewind carries a sound to my ears - she is singing. The melody holds bothgreat sorrow and great beauty, like her. As she comes closer I begin tomake out the faint words of her song. "Ciarin is lonely, Ciarin is sad..."

Ciarin. The song she sings is about herself. Throughout all the years, Inever stopped to wonder if she had a name.

I speak her name aloud now, from the shade of the willows. This timeher head turns quickly in my direction, and instead of only me seeing her,we see each other. She has stopped her flowing stride down the river, andfor a long time we stay still and silent. Blackness swirls around her barefeet.

When she speaks her voice is quiet but clear. "I am ready," she says,"to tell you my story. You have spoken my name... you care about me."

"I do."She was only a child, but she knew no love from her family. She

whispers this with a small smile and faraway eyes. Her eyes are clear, I seenow. The color of water. Ciarin lived a long time ago, in another countrywhere people once dwelt in harmony with the spirits they believedinhabited the trees and the stones and the lakes. In front of me sheappears to be no more than ten, but Ciarin is old, old. The story she tellswill be known only to me.

"We honored the gods at each full and new moon," she begins. "Theywatched over us, over the entire land. The ceremonies were beautiful,sacred things. I always knew this. But what I did never matched what I felt.My parents would tell me over and over what to do, what magic words tosay, which stone to place where and when to sprinkle precious water fromthe pool over the ground. I couldn't remember anything, though. I stumbledthrough the rituals while my brothers and sisters glowed with the beautyof the Goddess's affection. And then one day when I was ten years old, mymother forbade me from any participation in the ceremonies both in thevillage and in our own home. My mistakes would bring a curse, she said,upon us all.

"So I went to the forest each morning. I took refuge below the treesand by the stream that carried the pure water to the pool. I made my ownofferings to the gods and to the Fair Folk, beings from the Otherworld. Myfavorite one was a little house made of sticks and moss. I sat on a stone allday putting it together and when I was alone, with my mind calm and in myown space, my fingers did not tremble. The house was perfect, and it stoodfor many cycles of the moon. Although I visited it occasionally, I never didcatch a glimpse of the spirit who took such good care of it through theseasons.

"Then everything changed. It was the evening of Samhain, the nightwhen the souls of the dead may return to the realm of the living until thefirst ray of sunlight appears. I was to stay home while the rest of my familyand the villagers went to the fields for the communal rites. And I wouldhave done so, lighting my own candles and saying my own prayers, if myonly friend had not died of sickness a month earlier. I'd never gotten to saygoodbye. So I waited until my family had left, and then I made my way indarkness towards the flickering firelight in the field. The light called to me;perhaps I would see my friend's face once more, even if in shadow.

"And see her I did. Her faint visage appeared among those of manyvillagers who had passed on over the years. I couldn't help it; I cried out inmy happiness when she saw me and smiled. The people nearby saw me too,though, and they knew I wasn't supposed to be there. They made signs withtheir hands against evil and fled from me fearfully, closer to the warmth ofthe bonfires, leaving me in the cold. And I was mad. 'I hate you,' I screamed.'I hate you all!'

"The High Priestess appeared, her face shrouded with a long veil. Ihad barely spoken to her before, but she knew of me, of course. 'What isthis child doing here?' she said with a gasp, and then from within the crowdthat was forming my parents stepped forward. 'I am so sorry, my Lady,' mymother said. The High Priestess commanded her to remove me at once,'before she brings all the dark forces from the Otherworld into thisvillage.' But I ran, sobbing, before my parents could grab hold of me.

"I took refuge in the forest, as I had many times before. This time,however, I would not return home.

"Days and nights passed. Deep within the protection of shady oaksand pines I made a crude dwelling, like the fairy hut but large enough formyself. A stream flowed nearby that provided me with water and smallfish, and there were edible roots if I dug in the right places. I spent my timewandering the forest and searching for the things I needed to survive. Butwinter was coming, and I was alone, without enough food and withoutwarmth. The fires I made became too weak as the coldness increased.

After the first cycle of the moon my clothing rested in tatters, fullyexposing my bare skin to the bite of the wind. When the first snow came, Icould barely move from my hut. But even then, I never gave a thought toreturning to the village, to my parents who hated me, to my brothers andsisters who taunted me and the other children who scorned and feared me.I was dying, but I was just a child. What does a child know about death?

"I knew the winter solstice was coming. Despite my hunger and mychilled bones, I resolved to hold my own ceremony on that special night, tothank the Goddess for watching over me thus far. Later, when the fevercame upon me, I struggled to stay awake and keep my mind clear. Andthen, when I finally realized that I wouldn't be able to live much longer,perhaps not even until the solstice, I was sent a vision. The swiftly flowingstream whose water I had sipped and fed from many times and used tobless my little shelter. I was to go to the stream in my last hours.

"So I went. The distance between my hut and the stream that hadonce taken me mere minutes now took an agonizing amount ofimmeasurable time. I crawled on my hands and knees over wet leaves andthin patches of snow on the forest floor. The sun was setting when I crestedthe small slope above the stream and looked down at last to the water. Butthere was something different. Above me the sun seemed to be shiningeven though it was night, and below me flowed not the narrow clear ribbonfrom my vision, but a wide, dark river that I had never seen before.

"The coldness of the river beckoned to my burning skin. In the haze ofmy fever I understood that this was the reprieve that the gods were givingme, a death in the embrace of the elements, a return to where I had comefrom. And so with the last of my strength I stood up and spread my armsout like wings as I walked slowly, shakily, into the river.

"'Goddess forgive me,' I whispered to the breeze against my dirty,tear-streaked face. "But I can't keep going anymore. Take me home. Thereis nothing for me in this land but the land itself.'

"With those words I closed my eyes and let myself sink beneath thesurface. There I floated in the darkness between worlds, consumed by thefire and ice flowing throughout my body, until all sensation, all agony bothpast and present, began to fade away.

"I know the Mother forgave and loved me, in both life and death. Butmy mother never did."

The river lies in silence as Ciarin finishes her tale. Its black waterflows almost unnoticeably, barely stirring the ends of the willow branchesthat dip into its surface. The young, pale girl stands in her weightless wayon the water with her head bowed. When I reach out to touch her hair, myhand feels nothing.

"Oh, Ciarin..." I say softly. But before I can continue, she speaks again."You have been everything to me that I never had, even though I am

dead. Friend, sister, mother... when you were old enough to understand, Iknew I'd find my peace through you."

I struggle to speak words over the stillness around us. "Whathappened to you was wrong," I say. "But even though it can't be changed,I've always cared for you, even as a child."

Ciarin lifts her head now, and I see that a tinge of rosiness gracesher cheeks. And her eyes... they are no longer clear and colorless, but thelightest shade of icy blue.

That was not the last time I saw her, only the last time I saw her as apale shadow of herself. Each of the many winters since then, when we'vejoined each other in my dreams, she has changed almost imperceptiblyfrom the year before. I first thought I was imagining it. It was only recently,when she walked on the river in a dress of white instead of gray, that Iknew we would soon be parting. Her hair is a rich brown now, in contrast tomy thin colorless strands, and the water behind her stays clear when shewalks. Just as I know by these changes that she is almost ready to go onfrom her place between worlds, I know too that I will soon leave where I amnow and join my father and, at last, my mother, if such a reunion exists.

Ciarin and I had not spoken to each other since the time she told meher story more than half my lifetime ago, until my last dream. Before thenshe was content simply to walk down the river side by side. As the yearshave gone on, she has visited my dreams less and less. It has been severalweeks since the second and final time she spoke to me.

"I'm at peace now," she said, after turning to look at me. "Thank you."I took in her deep blue eyes and her smile. I could only return the

smile falteringly before she began to fade away into whiteness.When I awoke, there were tears on my wrinkled cheeks. This year's

winter is coming to an end, and I won't be here to see the next. As I hadalways known she would, Ciarin has stayed with me until my last winter,until she could at long last be free. But what happens after death to thoseof us who aren't fated to river-walking is yet a mystery.

Next Issue Publication Date: April 11th