On March 4th, the Gettysburg College Wind Symphony of the Sunderman Conservatory performed as the final event for the Sunderman Invitational at the Majestic Theatre. The Invitational is an open show where members of selected high school bands are brought to perform along with the Gettysburg Conservatory members.  Though the program itself was short compared to previous shows, its song choice was meaningful and fun.

The orchestra blended a mix of contemporary and older music pieces by combining old world style and new world style music.  The program opened with a livelier number by composer Paul Basler called “Carnival”, which drew in the audience’s attention and set the stage for the entire program much like the opening of the carnival the song was portraying.  Clarinets and Ffutes, oboes and cymbals all joined together in splendid harmony.  The piece itself was not very long and, although not as dynamic as some of the later pieces, held enough spark to carry a segmented story that was easy to follow.

After the welcoming speech by the symphony conductor, the audience was introduced to two guest conductors: Mr. William Berz from Rutgers University and Mr. Benjamin Goldsborough from Cedar Cliff High School. Each man brought their own taste and flair to the pieces that they conducted and gave each a flair and freshness that would attract even the most seasoned of Symphony go-er’s attention.  Goldsborough had joined us via the Invitational as Cedar Cliff High School had been one of the local establishments to have been invited.

One song of interest was the piece “Variations on a Korean Folk Song” by John Barnes Chance.  Not only was the pure dynamics of the piece intriguing but also the history of it as well, which was written in the program.  The song itself was split into five variations of essentially the same melody but each was approached with a different manner.  Whether that manner was strong and lively or soft and gentle, the five different parts were superbly captured and portrayed by the orchestra.

Lastly, as many in the audience may tell you, the piece came that everyone had been waiting for.  Music students had been talking about it, the fact that it was in the program spread around campus as well as supposed rumors at what exactly was going to be done with the song.  The final piece and closing number of the show was “Godzilla Eats Las Vegas” by Eric Whitacre.  This song was well worth the hype it received and closed the evening with a rowdy burst of applause.

The music tells the story of what would happen if Godzilla suddenly awoke in the Nevada desert and decided to stomp his way through Las Vegas.  Clapping, screaming and even barking from the band members all added to the movie-esque atmosphere that the piece was written to be portrayed as during an overhead slide show complete with pictures to match.  The movement was brought to a ringing conclusion when an epic battle broke out between a dinosaur-costumed band member and an overweight Elvis.

This month the Schmucker Art Gallery features the works of Ronald Gonzalez, a sculptor with unique visions. Approaching the concept of found objects with a new mentality, his pieces are a profound addition to the gallery this semester.

Born in Binghamton, New York, the artist has worked from his garage studio since the mid-seventies. He aims to create sculptures that are personifications of death and loss while creating grotesque and witty narrative statements. Gonzalez received his Bachelor of Arts from the State University of New York, where he currently teaches as Professor of Sculpture. He has also taught at Cornell University and at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill as an Artist in Residence. In the past his works have been on display in the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., the DeCordova Museum and Sculpture Park in Lincoln, Massachusetts, and in numerous other galleries across the nation and worldwide.

Gonzalez is a self-proclaimed collector of “found objects, historical references, and enigmatic associations.” He acquires his inspiration from the various collected materials in his studio. In the past he has used items such as dulled tools, bicycle handles, a toaster, an accordion, a welding mask, and silverware. Constructing box-like human forms out of these objects, he welds the pieces together before using wax, paint, and carbon to finish them.

Each figure has a rectangular body with lanky steel limbs, fixated at a metal base. The carbon medium blackens the pieces, giving the appearance of a charred or burned figure. Because the pieces are arranged in the gallery in militaristic rows, gallery visitors get the impression of a sinister statue army as they walk into the space.

Gonzalez imbeds a different theme into each sculpture. One piece, titled Compression, has the air literally squeezed out of its body. Its head is made out of a pressed accordion; its torso is made out of a contracted camera bellows. This sculpture is intended to represent “breathless nonexistence.” Another piece, titled Skull, is made out of a bicycle seat. Sliced and gashed to mimic the human skeleton, this one has a ghastly mood that reminds the viewer of a radioactive explosion.

Deeply intriguing and fascinating to the eye, Ronald Gonzalez: Private Collection will be exhibited in Schmucker through March 11, 2011.

How could this happen? Just when everything finally seemed to be coming together he has to deal with this rain cloud on a summer day. What was he going to do know, his perfect, or so he thought, plan was starting to unravel like a child pulling at the loose strings of a sweater.

Panicked he starts to brush the hair off the side of his forehead and pushes the stewardess call button, he’s got to get off this plane, he can’t go to Idaho. Off course he’s never been to Idaho, but why would he want to? It’s too far away from New Jersey, Bruce’s one real homeland, and besides, what help could he possibly find in Idaho?

Lifting his arm high above his head he begins trying to wave down that nice lady that welcomed them all onto the plane. He looks like a crazed madman in the deep end of a swimming pool, flailing about in the water trying to get the attention of a lifeguard. After much consternation and activity she finally comes over.

“Can I help you with something?,” she asks, leaning down to speak to him on his level.

“Yeah, I need to get off this plane like right now.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’ve pulled away from the gate.”

“But I need to get off this plane immediately, I can’t go to Idaho.”

“Unfortunately airline and FAA policy prevents us from returning to the gate, please fasten your seatbelt and prepare for our depatute.”

Bruce was really flustered now, and was going to do something he never thought he’d do again, “well, can you at least get me a Diet Coke?” He’d gone two and a half weeks without so much as a drop of Diet Coke, but none of that mattered now, he needed it, he needed to just get him through this flight.

Her answer sent chills through his spine, “is Diet Pepsi alright?”

“Oh forget it,” he said, turning his attention to the SkyMall magazine in the seatback pocket.

He started to page through the magazine and pick out things he might like to buy: a gumball machine, Lord of the Rings chess set, and an underwater cellphone system to use when he goes scuba diving. He pulled a pen and paper out from his inside jacket pocket and quickly scribbled down the product numbers, no way he was going to forget these with Christmas season approaching.

Just as he was finishing the man seated to his right, he was a real bear of a man with thick facial hair, bushy eyebrows and a suit that had to be at least twenty years old, leaned over and whispered, “allo, you are the Dr. Larson, yes?”

“Yeah man, that’s me, whose asking?”

“You can call me Dmitry, it is quite lucky we should be seated here, yes?

“Uhhhhhhhhh.”

“Yes, I think it is lucky indeed.”

Dmitry slowly reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulling out a cigar.

“I cannot smoke on plane, but I like to suck on cigars, it makes me feel, as you say, relaxed.”

“Listen man, I understand, Diet Cokes do the same thing to me, all I need to do is smell them and it’s like I’m smoking the finest Havana gold.”

Dmitry begins to softly chuckle, taking his unlit cigar from his mouth, “I vant to tell you this, Comrade Larson, I think that ve vill be very good friends, yes?”

“Yeah, sure man, whatever you say.”

“You must listen to me, comrade, I am someone you might find very helpful in your given, vell, predicament.”

“Yeah, what predicament is that, them only serving Diet Pepsi on this flight?”

“Ohh no comrade, vat vith your problems with the, how you Americans say, Germans.”

Bruce immediately leaned back and his chair and open his eyes as wide as the Grand Canyon, who is this Dmitry guy and how does he know about the Germans.

“I can tell by your look that you are the surprised,” said Dmitry, opening up his chest to face Bruce head on. “Let me say this, I vork vith the Russian government, the KGB to be exact, and ve are very concerned vith this little German situation. Very concerned indeed.”

“Oh yeah, well what are you guys going to do about it.”

“Comrade Larson, is it not strange that ve are sitting next to each other right now? Is it not strange that you are on flight to Idaho? Ve are here to help you, do not worry of this, the great bear is friend in the battle against the Huns, yes?”

“Listen man, what are you trying to tell me?”

“I am saying that this all is happening for reason, that ve vill fix your little German problem, just listen to us and do what vhat ve tell you. Vhen you land in Moscow, I vant you to go Applebees be there at nineteen hours, my associates vill find you and tell you what to do next. Now if you vill excuse me, I use bathroom now.”

Dmitry awkwardly shuttled past Bruce and went to the rear bathroom. Bruce never saw him come back…

By Firstname Lastname

Bruce’s flight to Moscow was set to leave in two and a half hours.  Usually the trip down to Washington took a good two hours, but this wasn’t an ordinary trip.  Lucky for Bruce, he didn’t have a mere Gettysburg College Transportation driver; he had Scotty, the very best driver that transportation had to offer.  Bruce was lucky, very lucky.  The type of luck usually reserved for high school quarterbacks and Powerball winners.

The German Club had set up checkpoints on all roads leading in and out of town, with strict orders to let no one in and no one out.  A little thing like checkpoints wasn’t going to stop Bruce and Scotty, not today.

“Fasten your seat belt, we’re approaching ramming speed,” Scotty told Bruce with the calm voice of a captain who had seen his fair share of battles.  Scotty put the pedal to the floor, mustering all the horsepower he could out of the van.  Up ahead a series of barricades had been erected, with several members of the German Club out in front to prevent passage.

As Scotty got closer, the speedometer inched up past 80.  “Ooh boy, if these kids don’t wise up we’ll all be eating German Stew off the road for dinner,” Scotty shouted back to Bruce.  It was at precisely this moment Bruce suspected he had a madman for a driver, but at least madmen get results.

The Germans now began to worry; the van did not seem to appreciate their barricade.  Slowly they raised their hand giving the stop motion to Scotty and Bruce.  Legs shoulder width apart, backs inflexible like their Prussian will, they stood with one arm behind their back, the other fully extended in front of them, palms facing the speeding van.

“What do you say Bruce, should I give them a little warning?”  Scotty shouted back to his frightened passenger, who had now assumed the fetal position.

“YES,” Bruce shouted back at him, “you can’t just run right into them, that’d be downright barbaric, man.”

Scotty honked his horn and swerved.  They were now only 100 yards from the barricade.  Still the Germans stood, showing no signs of backing down.  As he drew closer to them, Scotty was able to finally look the Germans in the eye.  His eyes were red with fury, and he looked more like a deranged animal than the Scotch-Irish man that he is.

Finally convinced that the van and its crazed driver would make no effort to spare their lives, the Germans begrudgingly jumped to the side just as they could feel the heat of van’s engine on their sweaty palms.  With the force of a thousand and one nuclear warheads, Bruce and Scotty exploded through the barricade, shattering its wooden frame into incalculable slivers.  Relieved Scotty let out a deep breath, and Bruce, he uncurled himself.  Scotty and Bruce would be the last two men to leave Gettysburg.

Knowing just how imperative Bruce’s mission was, Scotty pushed the van to give him all it could.  When it was all said and done Bruce was down in D.C. in under an hour and a half, and he would make his flight with plenty of time to spare.

Busting into Washington-Reagan International Airport, Bruce made his way to the ticket counter.  Well, the e-ticket counter rather.  Lucky for him he had no bags to check, so he had no wait to get a machine.  Quickly recalling his frequent flyer number (it was the same as his badge number that summer when he had joined the force, back in Jersey) he diligently sped through the self-check in.  As the machine spit out his boarding pass Bruce noticed two things: first, that he had a window, and second that this was going to be a direct flight.  This was great; he was going to have plenty of arm room for what would hopefully be a ten hour nap over the north Atlantic.

Walking up to the security checkpoint Bruce fumbled around for his passport in his sport coat. The TSA agent motioned him forward, taking Bruce’s passport in his left hand.  He quickly scanned over in with his flashlight.  With disbelief in his eyes the agent looked up at Bruce and then back down at his passport.

“Bruce Larson?” the TSA agent asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“Yes….” Bruce responded.

“Author of The Party’s Just Begun?”

Bruce was shocked, “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I just want to thank you, that book got me through my first divorce.”  The TSA agent was choking back tears as his big, chocolate brown eyes began to display a deeper sensitivity.  “You can go right ahead, in fact, cut ahead of everyone, let them know big Kevin said it was ok.”

“Thanks man, that means a lot, it’s always great to meet a fan,” Bruce said with wide eyes.  Leaning forward Bruce pointed his finger at nothing in particular. “If you like that then you’ll love my newest book Parties, Politics, and Public Policy in America, it’s got even more clever graphs and stylish figures.”

Bruce grabbed his passport and made his way through security.  Once past the security checkpoint Bruce broke out into a half sprint.  It was only a half an hour until his flight left.  From above Bruce heard a voice.  At first he thought it was God speaking to him before realizing it was just the loudspeaker.  “Flight 631 with service to Moscow is now boarding all passengers at gate B7.”

Bruce had made it; after his day from hell, Bruce was finally here.   Next stop Moscow, and just the help he needed to rid the campus of Germans once and for all.  He handed his boarding pass to the ticketing agent and got aboard the airline.

Once aboard the jet Bruce buckled himself in nice and tight, and leaned back with his eyes closed.  He was just about ready to power down and get some much deserved sleep.  He could feel sleep creeping over him, slowly making its way through his body.  He was almost completely consumed by sleep when he heard the flight attendant announce, “All of the flight crew would like to thank you choosing us for your travel needs today as we fly non-stop to Moscow, Idaho.”

Bruce’s whole body jerked awake at the sound.  With eyes open Bruce exclaimed, “Idaho!  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He started walking towards his car.  Bruce hated walking to Stone Lot; he always got scuffs all over his shoes.  Today he got lucky though, and he got a spot in Constitution.  It was a real nice spot, the kind of spot people dream of.  Easy in, easy out.  Even better was the parking job he did on it.  His spot wasn’t exactly the roomiest, the jackoffs on either side decided to flirt with going over the white line.  It didn’t matter for Bruce though, he can park a car anywhere, or at least that’s what he told himself.  Back home in Jersey they still talk about the parallel job he did back in the summer of ‘79.

But if there was one thing Bruce loved even more than his parking ability, it was his Subaru, or as he called it, the Soob.  What a car!  He could always count on the Soob to get him from point A to point B. Who could forget Snowmaggedon 2010, when many people were snowed in; Bruce just put the Soob in drive and plowed through a 4 foot snow bank like a knife through butter. That car was like a dream, and behind the wheel Bruce was a regular Mario Andretti.

As he got close to the parking lot he saw his car.  It was as if the clouds had parted and a single beam of light was coming down on the Soob.  It was a sight for sore eyes. But what’s this?  Some type of note was under the windshield wiper, and some type of foreign object seemed to rest on the side of the old Soob.  Bruce was starting to get worried, what could this mean? Another one of Von Wolfenstein’s tricks?  His anxiety reached a fever pitch as he quickened his pace in haste to reach the Soob.

Once alongside his glorious thunder machine, Bruce grabbed what appeared to be a citation off the windshield.

“To Herr Larson,
Your car has been booted in accord with Gettysburg College regulation 33A subsection C:  ‘All cars parked on Gettysburg College property must be of German origin.’  In accord with this new regulation, your car has been booted.  To free your car please visit the Campus Safety and Security and pay a fine of no less than 2,000 dollars.  You have two weeks to file a written appeal with Campus Safety and Security; no verbal appeals will be accepted.

Sincerely, Kommandant Schneider.”

“You have got to be kidding me man,” Bruce screamed incredulously.  “This has gone too far, they are not going to get away with this.  No one messes with the Soob.”

Bruce snatched his beloved phone from his pocket and made another call, this time to Gettysburg Transportation.  He hoped that the Germans hadn’t gotten to them yet, and that somehow he could convince them to give him a ride to Washington National Airport.

“Transportation? Hey, it’s Bruce Larson.  Well of course you’ve heard of me, I’m very famous.  Yes, well I was wondering if you could somehow give me a ride down to D.C. today, I have a plane I desperately need to catch.  Why?  Well it’s a long story that has to do with some mischievous Germans.  Ahh so you’ve heard from them, too.  Yes, well, if you could help me out, man, it’d really be great.  Outside the chapel?  I’ll be right there.”

By now Bruce had been doing a fair amount of walking about campus, scrambling from one side to the other.  Luckily for him, he applied a rather liberal dose of the anti-perspirant this morning; he was good to go for hours.  If all went to plan he hoped to be back on campus in no time, but with some back up. But that was only if everything went to plan, and today, things going according to plan were few and far in between.

Bruce found all of this just a little too much, there was no way it could be true.  The Germans?  Taking over campus, then all of Pennsylvania Dutch Country?  It just couldn’t be.  He resolved to continue with his original plan, he was going to talk to President Riggs about this.

As he exited the car and made his way towards to Penn Hall he saw his old friend Professor McBrayer.  “Hey man, how’s it going?” asked Bruce.  “Did I miss anything at the meeting? Listen man, you’re not going to believe what just happened to me.”

“Sorry Bruce, you heard Von Wolfenstein, we can’t fraternize.  Especially not with you, you’re enemy number one around Glatfelter after your outburst earlier today.”

“Huh, what are you talking about, you’re not actually going along with everything he said, are you?”

“Sorry Bruce, I’ve already said too much,” responded McBrayer, who now had his back turned to Bruce.

That was it, the last straw; Bruce took off, half running to Penn Hall.  Throwing the door open Bruce didn’t slow his pace down one bit, he ran up the stairs and towards President Rigg’s office.  “I’m going to get some answers, one way or another I’m going to get the truth,” Bruce said to himself.

As he approached the door he saw the President’s new secretary, Andrew Ferriera. “Ummmmmm, excuse me, where do you think you’re going right now,” asked Andrew.

“I’m going to see President Riggs,” Bruce panted, out of breath from his sprint to the office.

“President Riggs?  You must be mistaken, Janet Morgan Riggs is no longer the President of Gettysburg College, you must mean that you’re going to see our brave and fearless President Heinrich Kahn.”

Bruce felt like he was punched in the gut.  President Kahn?  Why hadn’t he heard of this?  No matter, he needed to talk to someone about Von Wolfenstein’s terrible new rules, and about the general German-ification of campus.  “Yeah, that’s what I meant, I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Well he’s actually in a very important meeting right now,” said Andrew, ever the faithful secretary.

“Well when exactly can I get a meeting with him?”

“Let’s pull up the spreadsheet here and look for the next opening. Hmmmmmm, looks like President Kahn’s schedule is pretty well booked for the next ten years or so, I can pencil you in for October 3^rd 2019 at 23:15, is that alright?”

Bruce was shocked.  “2019!  No, I have to meet with him today, right now preferably, just who is he in a meeting with?”

Andrew kept his cool. He knew how to deal with rabble rousers like Bruce.  “Well, you see, I’m actually not allowed to give you that information.  If you fill out form 316V-22A at the Office of Scheduling we can let you know in 2-3 months time, pending President Kahn’s approval of course.”

Form 316V-22A.  2-3 Months.  Bruce couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  He wasn’t going to let bureaucratic regulations get in the way of truth, not today.  He continued on his way to President Kahn’s office.  Andrew shouted after him, “Wait, wait Bruce, you’re not allowed in there.  I’ll have to call DPS if you don’t cease and desist.”

Bruce looked back at him, “Do your worst, I’m not afraid, not today.”

As he got closer to the door he could hear voices.  It sounded like Von Wolfenstein was in there with Kahn.

Bruce heard a strange and new voice, it was raspy, like someone who had a lifetime of smoking under the belt.  He could only assume this voice was Kahn’s, “What’s the 411, give me a status report Von Wolfenstein.”

Now it was Von Wolfenstein’s turn to speak, “Vell Herr Kahn I have zum great news, ve have ze full zupport of ze Italian Department.  Ze French Department, not so much.  Ve have taken over zer offices though so they should be no real threat.  Ze English Department is also giving us some trouble, but ve should have nothing to fear, ze English are so incompetent they cannot even tie their own shoes Herr Kahn, zey must use der velcro.”

It was at this moment that Bruce decided to throw the door open and barge into Kahn’s office.  “The jig is up, I know everything,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Herr Larson!” shrieked Von Wolfenstein.

“I thought I told you to call me Doctor Larson.”

“I thought zat I told you to be a good boy and play by ze new rules, ja?”

“You two think you’re so clever, don’t you, turning the school into your own sandbox.  Well I won’t let it happen, not on my watch.”

At this moment several DPS officers came streaming into President Kahn’s office.  Von Wolfenstein was the first to speak, “Officers, take zis man avay, ve do not vant such a silly little man sitting in on our meetings.”

With that several DPS officers surrounded Bruce.  He braced himself for confrontation.  He had never had any formal fight training, but he had seen Karate Kid many times.  He brought himself into the “Praying Mantis” position, raising his arms above his head and standing on one leg, ready to pounce.  Unfortunately for Bruce just as he was getting into position a DPS Officer tackled him and brought him to the ground.  He was carried out of the building kicking and screaming, “You haven’t seen the last of me Von Wolfenstein and Kahn, not by a long shot, I won’t let you get away with this!”

As he was thrown down on the ground Bruce realized something: he couldn’t do this alone, and he couldn’t wait for Cartier (or the Spitting Camel or whatever his name was).  No, Bruce was a man of action, and he needed to act now more than ever.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, brought it to his ear and did something he never thought he would ever do: bring in some back up.

“Hello, I’d like a plane ticket to Moscow, I’ll take the next flight available.”

click here to read part 1.

The mystery man led Bruce to Washington Street where a black sedan with tinted windows was waiting.  “Get in,” the mystery man said, opening the rear door.

Bruce didn’t know why he did it, he didn’t make a habit of getting into strange cars with mystery men, but there was something about this man, about this situation, that made it all different.  He seemed to know what he was doing, and more importantly he seemed to know what was going on here.  He slid into the back seat of what appeared to be an old Cadillac Deville, American made, just the way Bruce liked it.

The mystery man slid into the seat next to him, leaned forward and muttered something to the driver.  Suddenly a plane of dark glass slid up from in front of Bruce, separating him and this mystery man from their driver.  Bruce felt the car slowly move forward.  It was at this time that Bruce wished he could see out those tinted windows.  See where he was, where they were going.

Leaning back into his seat the mystery man took off his hat and sunglasses.  “Hello Professor Larson, my name is Agent Cartier, I’m with the CIA, you don’t know me, but I know you.  You see, the agency, that’s what us agents call the CIA, we’ve been following what’s been happening at Gettysburg College for some years.”

It was at this moment the car started to speed up.  Bruce felt the driver take a lot of turns, like they were being chased or something.  Now more than ever Bruce wished he could see through these darn windows.  “Just where are we going man,” asked Bruce.

“For your safety I think it’s better I don’t say,” responded Agent Cartier.

“Listen, man, I don’t what’s going on here, this stuff is just like to crazy,” said Bruce.

“We know Bruce.  Trust me; the agency has got a pretty good read on the situation.  You see Bruce, can I call you that, it seems that for years the Germans have been trying to infiltrate Gettysburg College.  You ever notice how the German Department was the best funded on campus?”

“No, not really, I’ve never noticed anything extravagant about them.”

“Trust me Bruce, if I showed you just how much they got your head would spin.  The Germans have been playing you guys for fools all these years, they had us for a while too, but sooner or later the agency always comes around.”

“Listen man, can you just tell me what this is all about?”

“Certainly, how could I forget.  Surely you’ve heard of Pennsylvania Dutch Country before, right?”

“Well yeah, of course I have, but what does that have to do with Germans taking over the school?”

“It has everything to do with the Germans taking over the school.  This thing goes far deeper than you think.  The Germans, they’re trying to take over Pennsylvania Dutch Country, return it to the fatherland.”

Bruce was shocked.  “That makes no sense; Pennsylvania was never part of Germany.”

“Try telling that to the Germans.  They’ve been working at this for years, trying to get people into key positions at the school.  Did you ever ask yourself why Gettysburg College built that new athletic center?”

“Yeah, I could never figure it out.  I guess it was to attract more student athletes or something like that.”

“Ha, hardly. For years the school has been trying to get the students into better shape, make them grow some lean muscles.  Did you know that they put steroids into the servo food?”

“No, but I still don’t see what you’re getting at here Cartier.”

“They aren’t training students, Bruce, they’re training an army.  And soon they’ll be strong enough to make a move on Dutch Country unless we do something to stop them.”

“So you mean to tell me the Germans somehow managed to take control of the whole school, that all the key players are in on it?  Von Wolfenstein, Servo, all of them and more.”

“Yeah, and that’s only the start:  The Board of Trustees, most major members of the administration, heck they’ve even got Frank over at DPS.”

“But how, how did they do this?”

“Deutschmarks, Bruce, deutschmarks.  They paid them all off in deutschmarks.  By the time people realized that deutschmarks were out of circulation it was too late, the Germans were in control.”

The car started to slow down.  Agent Cartier opened the door. “Alright Bruce, this is the end of the line.  Do you have a shortwave radio?  If not I suggest you get one, that’s how I’ll contact you next.  Remember, you’re the Silent Unicorn, I’m the Spitting Camel.  When the time comes you’ll know what to do, the agency will make sure of it.”

“But wait, where am I?” asked Bruce.

“Turn around, you’re back where we started.”

“But all those turns…”

“Yeah, we were driving around campus.”

With that Agent Cartier shut the door and sped off.

Week 2 (3/29/10)
Chapter 2: Isabella Rose

Samuel grunted in pain as another shaft of light found its way through the curtains of the buggy. Outside was bright and sunny, and Dunskis had never wished for otherwise so much in his life. Dickens, sitting beside him, leaned forward slightly. “Are ya alright, Samuel?”

Dunskis grimaced in reply, eyes staring straight ahead of him. “Quite frankly, Drake, I’d much rather be home with a nice glass of scotch, drowning the day away in leisure and liquor; like any decent man should do in his free time.”

Drake scoffed. “Honestly, can yew think of nuthin else than when next you’ll have a glass in yer hand?”

Dunskis nodded. “Of course. You find a decent enough distraction and I’ll consider it.” He smiled wryly.

“How ‘bout this case? Tha’ yew agreed to help with?”

Samuel blinked “You got me here, haven’t you?” He sighed. “Sorry. I’ll focus more.” He cracked his neck, relieved to find his headache temporarily lessened.

Drake winced.

The whinny of a horse and the slow momentum of a stop signaled their arrival at their destination. Opening the door of the carriage, Samuel slid out of his seat and stepped out onto a cobblestone walkway. The house in front of him was a wide, beautiful building with a stone face and many pink and red flowers decorating the front in gardens and hanging baskets. The grounds seemed to be very well manicured, obviously maintained by greatly adept hands and equally great sums of money. The scene of beauty was only marred by the appearance of two officers standing at posts in front of the house. This was the home of Damascus Rose, renowned senator, favored polititian, and father to the accused Isabella Rose, who was currently being detained under house arrest.

Drake jumped from the buggy, muttering his thanks to the driver and straitening his jacket. He turned to Samuel. “Ahh, Sam, does my hair look right?”

Sam stared at his companion silently as Drake began to try and remedy his already prim appearance. “Daggonit, Sam, I don need tha’ look from yew. It’s jus-a question!” He stalked off towards the house. For just a moment, Dunskis allowed himself a smirk before following.

The officers turned slightly to watch them approach the house, but they said nothing. As Dunskis reached the front porch, Drake knocked on the door. From inside came the patter of steps and in a moment the door was opened by a nicely dressed butler who sounded like he had a head cold. “Yessirs, how may I help you?”

“Hallo, sir, my name is Drake Dickens, an’ this ‘ere man is detective Samuel Dunskis,” Drake introduced. “We’re here under tha request of Senator Rose. We’re tryin’ to get more information about wha’ happened last night with tha… ahh… Lady… Miss Isabella—“

“Oh, Dickens! It’s you!” Came the call of a female voice from inside the house.  The butler turned around and nodded to the lady, moving out of the way so she could come to the doorway. “Oh, Drake! It’s so wonderful you’re here, my dear, dear friend!”

Sam was pushed to the side as Drake was suddenly kissed and hugged by this woman. Under the embrace of the shapely, dark haired, bright-eyed, young woman, Dickens turned red and was reduced to stammering, bumbling mess. Sam grinned and lifted an eyebrow at his friend, who mouthed in reply, ‘naw now’. Nodding to himself, Sam cleared his throat and said, “Miss Rose, how are you? Nasty business, all this.”

Isabella instantly let go of Drake and turned, her mental train of thought shifting gears faster than any ordinary locomotive. “Oh, oh yes! Lands! what a tragedy! Oh, oh…” she put a hand to her heart, “To think about it again…” Quite dramatically, she began to falter backwards. Drake gasped and grasped the lady’s arm. “Isabella! My dear, you should sit down!”

Miss Rose was escorted back inside where she was sat at a plush couch, a glass of lemonade at her right hand. Drake stared intently at the young lady, watching for any further signs of fatigue. Samuel, on the other hand, began to feel as if he had been escorted into a southern melodrama.

As if on cue, a sob came from Isabella. Dickens obliged the dramatic turn by declaring, aghast, “Oh please, Miss Rose, don’t cry! We’ll sort things out, I give you my word. Right Dunskis?”

Sam nodded vaguely. “Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, it will. Isabella.” He let his eyes wander around the luxiours house’s interior.  The stucco pillars, the keenly painted and carved ceilings and the tall windows were all very overwhelming to the senses.  The interior was dressed in rich, maroon curtains with gold cord ties and two other armchairs at the other wall of the room. To the left was a hallway that seemed to enter into a dining room, and closest to where Dunskis stood there was a staircase. “Hm,” Dunskis nodded his head as he brought his gaze back to Isabella and Dickens.  Rose was babbling some nonsense to an eagerly waiting Dickens who looked as though she was the most adequate speaker in the world telling the most fascinating story.  “Miss Rose,” Samuel broke their hurried conversation, “Why don’t you start from the beginning.  Take your time, there’s no rush… but… just tell us what happened.”

Isabella simpered a moment, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “We never meant any harm! He was just so dashing, so suave, so… So wonderful in every way…” She sighed, her eyes glowing. “We were in love, so in love that we were certain our love could outlast even death itself. Oh, to be together forever in the afterlife, how romantic!”

Sam stared in disbelief. “You mean, you really were going to jump off that tower by the college? You actually were in the name of romance?”

Isabella moaned. “Oh, at first, yes, at first it seemed so delightful. But then, we were up there, and… and…” A fresh wave of anguish overtook her and she again dabbed her face with her handkerchief. To Dunskis’s dismay, he noticed that all sensibility seemed to have left his friend Drake as his face contorted in sympathy and pain. He was being drawn into the romantic nonsense and could not tear his eyes from Isabella.  Moving quickly, Dickens moved to the couch to sit beside Isabella, putting a comforting arm around her.

Dunskis sighed.  “Please, Miss Rose, could you continue your story?”

A few more sniffles and Isabella continued in her quavering little voice, “I tried to tell Lawson I didn’t want to go through with it anymore. He seemed really torn about it, he was really upset. He pushed me to the side, even, he must have been so angry.” She sobbed again and then looked skyward. “Oh Mr. Kidder, I’m so sorry! It was all my fault!” she then dropped her head into her hands with a new wave of weeping and sobbing suddenly gripping her frame,  “I admit it, I killed Lawson Kidder.”

Dunskis and Dickens exchanged a quick look. Drake implored, “Miss Rose! Are you saying that you’re guilty?”

She nodded unhappily. “If I wouldn’t have said no, we’d both be together right now! But he was angry, and he… He was even in tears! I never realized he felt so strongly for me!”

Dunskis and Dickens were silent as the young lady cried softly to herself. Sam was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. The lady was obviously a ditz, really the most uncommonly, empty-skulled young woman her head filled with useless romantic thoughts from those writers in England. However, at this moment, she was beginning to seem sincere in her pain. He noted her shoulders were slumped, and that her face was red. Her muscles were not tensed, and she didn’t seem… nervous? Was that the word he was looking for?

He frowned, and asked for her to continue, though much gentler than he had before. “Please, Miss Rose, what happened after he pushed you? He didn’t try to push you off, did he?”

She shook her head. “Actually, no. Just sort of to the side, enough to make me take a step or two for sure! Well, anyway, I guess when he pushed me he lost his balance or something, because that’s when he fell.” She shuddered. “I feel so terrible. Oh, it was all my fault, wasn’t it?” She sighed, her eyes tearing up more.

This time, Drake spoke. “Oh, please, Miss Rose. No, I don think it was yer fault at all! Please don cry, Miss Rose.” He took a handkerchief from his own pocket and wiped under her eyes. She smiled winsomely at him. “Really, Drake, what would I do without you as my friend?”

Sam looked around the room.  He noticed a bookshelf at the right wall and walked over. He picked out a book at random and looked at the title.

“The Samoan Desperado’s Mistress’?” He picked another two from the shelf. “’The Turquoise Man’. ’The Gaelic Suitor’.” He opened the book and glanced over the first few pages. “Miss Rose, do you read these?”

Isabella nodded. “Yes, aren’t they just so wonderful?”

Sam frowned. “Well, if you like this sort of thing, I guess… One last thing, Miss Rose, you say you were going to jump off Glatfelter tower. Why? Where’d you get such an idea?”

She sighed. “Well, it was my idea, I think. Lawson told me about this legend those men at the college talk about, how this couple went there to escape their parents and decided to jump off so that they could be with each other forever. It’s really quite wonderful, isn’t it. Well, we were sitting outside under that tree over in the field, and it was so pretty outside… He looked at me and wondered, ‘Oh, Miss Rose, you’re just so lovely like this beautiful day, and wouldn’t it be nice if we could be together forever?’ I agreed about how nice it would be, and he asked, ‘Miss Rose, I just love you so much, will you always be mine? And I don’t know, I guess I was just so swept up in the wonder of it all, and I said, yes, yes Mr. Kidder, let’s make sure we’re always together!” She sighed once more. “Oh, I remember it now, and it seems so foolish. I know I’m not always so smart, but Mr. Dunskis, I promise you, I never meant any harm.”

Samuel nodded. “I know. I’ll never understand why you’d ever think giving up your life would be so wonderful, but you seem like a nice young lady. You’re under house arrest, I see?”

Isabella nodded. “Yes. I shouldn’t worry, though, Daddy’s doing his best to sort everything out, I’m sure it’ll be fine!” She stood up, Drake quickly standing as well. “Drake, I can’t thank you enough for coming out here! I feel so much better now that I’ve talked to you. Please, come by any time!” She kissed Drake on the check, and walked upstairs. “I’ll tell Daddy you’re here. Thank you again, Drake, and you too Detective!” With that she was upstairs, still dabbing her eyes with Dickens’s handkerchief.

Sam took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Drake beamed as he watched her, the whole series of events that he had just witness obviously blotted out by thoughts of Isabella Rose. “Sam, ain’t she just wonderful?”

Dunskis gave a dry laugh. “Wonderful? Dickens, her mind’s been addled by her sense of romanticism, to say the least.”

Drake gaped. “Addled? Sam, how can ya say some-in like tha’ ‘bout her? Such a sweet young lady!”

Sam sighed. “Drake, I’ll concede, she’s nice and lovely and has every sugarcoated nicety and all of that. But her brain’s are air! She’s nice but she’s so… empty!”  Drake stared in confusion. Dunskis groaned. “Drake, forget I said anything. She’s wonderful, alright?”

Drake nodded happily, his face losing any appearance of sensibility.

Dunskis sat heavily in an armchair. “I will say this much, I think she’s also quite innocent.”

Dickens excitedly nodded. “Yes! Tha’s wha’ I wanted to hear! She wouldn’ hurt a fly, she wouldn’!”

Dunskis grunted his agreement. “She could be acting, but did you see those books over there she reads?”

“There all tha’ romantic stuff, aren’ they? Happy endings and what not.”

“I think the proper term is ‘harlequin romance’.”

“Well, sure. Bu’ wha’s tha’ got to do with anythin’?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, she’s harmless. She sticks her nose in those all day and without a care in her mind she goes about dreaming about nonsense. I’m not saying it’s anything to defend her with, but it’s enough to make me second guess the obvious.”

“Yew mean, it’s enough to make you think she’s not guilty?”

Dunskis nodded impatiently, “Well, it gives me a hunch, sure. I really need to see the scene of the crime, to be sure.”

Name – Chandra Rose Kirkland

Year – 2013

Major/minor – Environmental Science, Creative Writing (undeclared)

At a young age, Chandra began her pursuit in art like many of us did. She used to draw horses and other animals, not to mention the occasional dragon, to pass the time. It wasn’t until around 2008 that she began to take art seriously. She decided that, though she had never been able to do so previously, she would teach herself how to draw people, and someday even portraits. With no previous art experience than the doodles since youth, she took to carrying a sketchpad with her everywhere she went and drawing every face that popped into her head. Eventually, after several notebooks had been filled with slowly transforming faces, she started drawing real-life faces from magazines. Very steadily, her art was improving. When she could persuade her friends to do so, she would sketch them in various poses, farther developing her artistic talent.

Now, it is the year 2010, and just last semester Chandra took her first art class, Intro to Drawing, with Professor John Kovaleski. The portrait at the top left was the product of two years of practice and the aforementioned class. The drawing at right is one she made approximately one year ago.

Chandra’s experience is one we can all learn from. Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come, and can grow discouraged when we think we’re getting nowhere. It’s nice to step back and see how we’ve improved.

The below pictures are arranged by the years she drew them, and the last two are products of the drawing course from the previous semester. Oldest to Newest as you go down.

2008

Drawn from a picture of a sarcophagus fresco.

Early 2009

Drawn off the cover of a magazine.

2009

A woman, drawn off the cover of a magazine.

2009

Drawn off a magazine cover of H+M.

9/19/2009 (a quick sketch for Intro to Drawing”

A good example of things one might learn in Intro to Drawing, and also a sample of Chandra’s other skills.

2009 (over Thanksgiving Break)

A portrait of the artist herself.

Beyond pursuing her passions in art (which also include watercolor and other mediums, not only pencil shaded pieces) she is working towards her black belt in Karate. Chandra is a wonderful person to talk and work with as well.

“Bruce, are you ready for the meeting?” asked McBrayer, “Dr. Von Wolfenstein is really excited to share his new ideas for the department, I think it’d be a really good idea to show up on time, you know how punctual Prussians can be.”

Bruce glanced over from his computer, peering at McBrayer through his glasses. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute, just let me finish up with this email,” Bruce replied. “Say, do you want to meet up for lunch after the meeting, it looks like they have bratwurst with sauerkraut and side of spatzle today.”

“Sure thing, that sounds great, I’ll let them know you’re on your way.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out above his head. He had always hated going to these department meetings, nothing ever really got done. But McBrayer was right; this was the first time they had an opportunity to really talk to Dr. Von Wolfenstein, the new department chair. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright big guy, let’s go do this,” he said to himself.

With a hop and a skip he was away.  “Let’s just get this over with,” he kept on thinking to himself. When he got down to the meeting room he was still a couple minutes early. About half the department was already there, Bruce decided to take a chair near the door, right next to McBrayer.

Von Wolfenstein was already there too, he was up at the white board preparing some diagram or another, Bruce couldn’t really make it out, not that he exactly cared.

“Vell I’d like to virst say how thrilled I am to be here with zuch great mindz,” said Von Wolfenstein as soon as everyone got there. “Ze biggest zing I can zay is zat ve should all expect big changes. I expect a lot of out of my department, and I alvays get vat I expect. I run a very tight ship, zer must be order. Vithout order everything valls apart, ja?”

“Yeah,” mumbled about half the staff in attendance, Bruce wasn’t one of them.

“Good. Zer vill be a few new rules around here. Virst things virst, starting immediately ze Politikal Science lounge iz der closed. Next, zer will be no more use of ze third floor vater fountain, it is too inefficient, ve vill all carry water bottles now. Facilities vill be here tomorrow too remove ze vater fountain.”

“Just who does this guy think he is,” Bruce whispered to McBrayer.

“Another zing, you people use der vater closet too much, from now on all staff vill have five bathroom passes für eine semester. Zat vay ve can all focus on work, ja?”

It was at this moment that Von Wolfenstein started to twirl his waxed moustache. Bruce had tried to grow a moustache once, back in his Jersey days.

And finally, ze biggest rule of zem all, I vant no more fraternizing. Zat means no small talk with ze other staff members, no chit chat with ze students, none at all. Ve vill all quietly vork in our office. Zat really seem more efficient, ja?”

This was about all Bruce could handle. He threw he chair back and sprung into the air, “Listen man.”

“No you listen Herr Larson, you vill not talk unless called upon, ja? I zink zat you should just be a good little boy and play by ze new rules.”

“Man, I’ve had about enough of these new rules. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done,” Bruce responded, grabbing at his shirt. “These rules just don’t make sense. I mean, capping our bathroom visits, what is this, kindergarten? This just isn’t right man. In all my years in academia I’ve never seen rules like this.”

“Vell Herr Larson…”

“It’s Doctor Larson to you Von Wolfenstein.”

“Ja, ja, vatever. Zis is how I did zings at ze University of Leipzig, and zat is one vell run machine now. Doktor Larson, if you vant to talk vith ze new school President about zese rules go ahead, I’ve already spoken to him and he zupports making zings a little bit more efficient too, like ze Prussian army, ja?”

Bruce knew what he had to do. He turned his back to Von Wolfenstein and marched right out of that meeting. No fraternizing, I mean really, what kind of rule was that, he couldn’t believe it for a second. He was going to march right over to Penn Hall, walk into the new President’s office and demand some answers. As he walked out of Glatfelter Hall he noticed a flier he had never seen before on one of the doors, advertising a club he’d never heard of.

“Polka club, since when do we have a polka club on campus?” he asked himself.

As Bruce threw open the doors and walked forward into the cool December air he was shocked at what he saw, was that kid really wearing lederhosen? It also looked like a eerily high amount of kids were playing soccer. He thought he saw one of his former students, good old Robert Egan. He had always been a good boy, Bruce was a big fan.

“Gutentag Profesor Larson,” Robert yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Listen man, why are all you guys playing soccer all the sudden?”

“Fußball you mean Profesor Larson. Well, it’s too early to start practicing the luge or the skeleton, not enough snow yet.”

This was starting to scare Bruce, the growing fascination with all things German on campus was really starting to become too much even for him. Bruce was voted the most easy going professor three years running by the Gettysburgian, or as it was now known, Die Gettysburg Wöchentlichen, but this was something even he couldn’t be easy going about.

As he got closer to Penn Hall he heard someone whisper his name.

“Psst, Professor Larson, we need to talk,” this mystery man said in a hushed tone. He was wearing black slacks with a large wool overcoat, on top his head way ten gallon hat and even though the sky was overcast this man was wearing some thick, black aviator sunglasses. “Come with me, it’s not safe here.”