CRITERION Ardsley High School
Volume XXX
Dear Readers, Ten months ago, we sat squished together on two stools at the front of Mr. Baird’s room, eager to greet the prospective club members we knew would trickle in after the bell. Ten months ago, it felt surreal not to be those students—weird not be coming in and sitting on top of the desks where we’d spent countless Thursday afternoons. Ten months ago, we thought you would be holding this magazine in your hands. But this year turned out to be different; the cut budgets meant that there’d be no hard copy. Asking us to drop the hard copy was like telling a five year old that there’s no hot fudge left for her ice cream. No hard copy was like trying to make lemonade without any lemons. Last year had been the last time we’d get to run our fingers down the thick, glossy pages of our dedication and labor. The decision put a sad feeling in the air. But now here we are in June, and a light spring breeze slips through the windows of the Mac Lab. After weeks of scouring through the art folders, consulting one another on different designs, munching on our usual fare of stale snacks, reassuring the occasional teacher that Mr. Baird is our advisor and he’ll be down soon, blasting O Superman or the Captain Planet theme song, and running back and forth between the printer upstairs and the lab, we’re done. Sometimes we still mourn quietly over the loss of the hard copy, but as we click seamlessly through the gorgeous, vivid pages, we’ve come to realize that having a digital Criterion was one of the greatest ideas ever. Putting in the final edits and doing last-minute realignments, we can’t resist opening up the old PDFs that were sent to AlDan Press years ago, pointing out pages that we loved and shuddering at others. We’ve come so far since freshman year, the three of us, and we have meshed perfectly into the Dynamic Trio that we are. The Criterion is our baby. We’re going to miss this. As Freshmen, we vowed to sneak a panda into the magazine, and now as Seniors, we invite you to click through our magazine. Thank you and enjoy! Elana Schlossberg, Alex Brinas, & Maria Palij Editors-in-Chief
Criterion Staff Editors-in-Chief & Heads of Design:
Elana Schlossberg Maria Palij Alex Brinas
Designers:
Diana Schoder Mia Monkovic
Managing Editor:
Nicolas Hornyak
Art Editor:
Grace Kim
Literary Editor:
Kate Montgomery
Editors:
Arielle Cruz Johanna Seitenbach Allie Wainer Mariel Fine Jenna Friedman
Advisor:
Mr. Baird
Special Thanks to:
Mrs. Rosen Ms. Keisler Dr. Haubner
Colophon:
The Criterion is the literary and art magazine of Ardsley High School in Ardsley, NY. It is published annually on our website, www.ahscriterion.org. This year’s magazine was typset on a Mac using InDesign CS3 in Calibri and Trebuchet MS fonts.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS Fiction “J.K.”, Aiden Dreskin...............................................5 “Honestly”, by Danielle Woolis..............................8 “Untitled”, by Lauren Paley..................................11 “What’s in a Name?”, by Elana Schlossberg........16 “Time 2.0”, by Kate Montgomery........................30
Poetry “Think About the Sun”, by Aiden Dreskin..............3 “Pantoum Poem”, by Elana Schlossberg................4 “Endless Consequence”, by Alexa Aparicio............6 “Fade”, by Alexa Aparicio.......................................7 “Just a Game”, by Johanna Seitenbach................12 A Collection of Short Poems, by Rebecca Fishman, Ali Bohrer & Nicole Schoenbrun..............13 “Untitled”, by Arielle Cruz....................................20 “Silent Night”, by Nicole Talbi..............................21 “Their Apartment”, by Elana Schlossberg............23 “Forgotten”, by Lauren Paley...............................24 “Addiction”, by Emily Shapiro..............................25 “Music Box”, by Nicole Schoenbrun....................26 “Abyss”, by Diana Schoder...................................27
Non-Fiction
“Untitled”, by Emma Buegeleisen........................10 “Oysters???”, by Kate Montgomery.....................14 “Why the Sky is Blue”, by Alex Briñas..................22 A Collection of Six Word Memoirs from the Ardsley High School Community.............28
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Art “Amethyst”, by Sydney Newman..........................................Cover “Pregnant Robot”, by Christopher Bojemski....Inside Front Cover “The Night Parade”, by Alex Briñas..............................................3 “Stairs”, by Jake Schiacappase.....................................................4 “Stairs”, by Jessica Chan..............................................................4 “Heavy”,by Stephen Franciosa....................................................5 “Katie”, by Jessica Chan...............................................................6 “Galavanting”, by Jessica Chan....................................................7 “Worn”, by Jessica Chan..............................................................9 “The Second Growth”, by Stephen Franciosa............................10 “Awake”, by Skyler Lloyd...........................................................11 “A Woman with a Loud Mouth”, by Stephen Franciosa............12 “Teacup”, by Marie Jeong.........................................................13 “Pond in Pieces”, by Rebecca Leibowitz....................................14 “Pariah”, by Stephen Franciosa.................................................16 “Hooked”, by Stephen Franciosa...............................................18 “Hurtz”, by Jake Hurwitz...........................................................20 “Illuminate”, by Skyler Lloyd.....................................................21 “Serenity”, by Rebecca Leibowitz..............................................22 “On the Other Side”, by Skyler Lloyd.........................................23 “Untitled”, by Rachel Bloom......................................................24 “Frustration”, by Skyler Lloyd....................................................25 “Piano”, by Marie Jeong............................................................26 “Jumping”, by Alex Briñas..........................................................27 “My Sister”, by Stephen Franciosa............................................29 “Train Station”, by Skyler Lloyd.................................................30 “In Bloom” by Audra Foz...................................Inside Back Cover
Think About the Sun Aiden Dreskin Ten million fireflies. Taking flight. But one was just a little…odd. He flew too close to the sun, His wings melted and he drowned in the ocean. This reminded me of you.
I heard a sound and it sounded familiar but I didn’t know what it was. You don’t know what you’re doing and you think I will? They will arrive at the place where each and every one of them was born. They’re looking for a specific image. Wish I could have been there. There has to be more to life than ducks that die and leaky roofs and flaming quince pudding. Hell, we’re nothing. It was a trick. When you do it, it’ll be for real. If you leave for any reason, your position is forfeit. Want to wake up? Look at that. We take our surroundings for granted. Everything is used to create drama. I I I I I I I
offer you peace. offer you love. offer you friendship. see your beauty. hear your need. feel your feelings. just want you to know who I am.
Pantoum Poem
Elana Schlossberg It’s all I never wanted, This life they’ve laid for me Living from textbook to test, I’ll never even see. This life they’ve laid for me, It’s not like I imagined. I’ll never even see Because I’m swamped with all the crap It’s not like I imagined, I fear my dreams are false Because I’m swamped with all the crap And I’ll never ever wake up.
I fear my dreams are false, So I don’t face reality. And I’ll never ever wake up, Until the bell rings, I’m not free. So I don’t face reality, I dance with elves instead. Until the bell rings, I’m not free, I’m stuck inside my head. I dance with elves instead Vacation is my savior. I’m stuck inside my head; I’m hostage to Their schedule.
“Stairs” Jake Schippacase Graphite
Vacation is my savior, Living from textbook to test. I’m hostage to Their schedule, It’s all I never wanted.
“Stairs” Jessica Chan Graphite
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“Heavy” Stephen Franciosa Graphite
J.K. Aiden Dreskin He opened the door and was greeted by several beams of light instantly converging on his eyes; voices asking him questions he didn’t care about. He moved to the elevator and pressed the “Down” button a dozen times. The lights still burned on him, but the voices had stopped. He remembered the darkness and dragged his feet to the stairwell, commencing his descent from the eleventh floor. Most were going the same direction, and as long as they all went at the same pace, he didn’t need to pretend not to notice them. J.K. found solid ground and exited through the double doors. He hadn’t known what darkness really meant until now. He watched bodies move through the streets aimlessly and he watched other people not move at all. A few people heard it. A lot of people didn’t hear it. J.K. followed the sound and found some cars piled on top of each other and a lot of people around them. A woman crying. A man crying. Others struggling to move the machines. He saw a little hand. It was moving, but only a little. J.K. and half a dozen strangers hoisted two cars from their precarious perches, liberating the damsel within. She was very fragile. He didn’t want to break her any more than she already was. He put her down. A woman knelt down beside her and touched her arm and then her neck and then started pushing on her stomach. She breathed into her mouth. J.K. sat down and watched. The woman stopped.
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Endless Consequence Alexa Aparacio
The afflicted always wonder why limbs are stripped so bare and question the icy breath that inhales the warmest air There’s the hardened hillside of petals becoming stone the slowly freezing tree roots the fading ivy throne
The consequence of mourning turns prosper into pain and with six small seeds the blackened shroud is called to reign So tear the diamond canoy pull the fraying ends away and weave a thickened banner of teeming soulless gray
Retract your working fingers while the melody’s beneath and contemplate the ruling transcending ordinance with grief Then raise the wilting hourglass soon half the grains shall fall wait out the morbid sentence until she scales the wall
“Katie” Jessica Chan Ink
“Galavanting” Jessica Chan Acrylic Paint
Fade Alexa Aparicio Weaving thoughts wander inside of your mind Leaving wilting words hanging from your tounge. Soaked in ink with promises you’ve signed Until betrayal calls and lies are sung. Run the path that veils the shattered past To charge the mist and tear the fierce fabric And scour for memories that don’t last While the passing fog condenses to brick. Just as failing love grows fast into hate You scrape up dreams that are shredded to frays And know it’s possible to alter fate If you walk and see the mountain path’s rays. Then think on the river of drying ink And guiltlessly sever the lasting link. 7
Honestly Danielle Woolis “Honesty is honestly the best fucking policy.” That’s her favorite one. She’ll whisper it or just speak it or sometimes shout it to me, usually after she tells me some brutal truth. She says she knows me better than even God does, although I’ve never understood how she can think she knows me better than something she doesn’t believe in. She mocks me for believing in God. She says I’m giving into the bullshit that organized religions force-feed us when we’re not looking. I don’t care what she says about that, though; my belief in God is important enough to me that it’s the one thing I won’t change for her. “Honesty is honestly the best fucking policy.” She probably says it at least twice a day. I don’t know if I’m the only one she says it to. I’m pretty sure that I am. She doesn’t really talk in depth to that many other people. We talk about that a lot—what it would be like if we didn’t know each other, if we lived in different places, if one of us had been born ten years later. Usually we talk on the roof. She doesn’t like going up there that much. Not ever since that time I fell. Oh, God…that time I fell. I wasn’t even that hurt, but she freaked out anyway. I milked it a little. The grass broke my fall, but before she got down, I put my wrist under my back so that she would think I landed on it. I heard her running toward me from the front door. She knelt down when she got to me. She picked up my head with one hand and pulled my wrist out with the other. I closed my eyes. I could feel her breath ghosting over my face as she moved closer. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” The question rang in my ears as she moved in and pressed her mouth to mine. My eyes snapped open, but the second I saw that hers were closed, I closed mine again. The air had left my body. I had simply forgotten how to breathe. Every cliché regarding a perfect first kiss shivered down my body as she tilted her head slightly and pressed a little harder. And suddenly, the pressure on my lips was gone. It didn’t feel like it hadn’t happened, but it felt very unreal to look up at her and know she had just kissed me. I was not my own anymore. I belonged even more to her than ever. She leaned back and examined my wrist to make sure it wasn’t seriously hurt. She grinned and 8
stroked my hair, running her little fingers through the knots, following the curls as they made their way down my back. She helped me up and we went back inside and got high—we were going to smoke on the roof, but after my fall she wouldn’t let me go back up there. We snuggled on her couch like always, and it felt different for me, like something had shifted. I traced the scars on her arm with my fingertips, and she didn’t make me stop like she usually did. I never forgot that day I fell. The scene often reappears in my memory, most of the time because I will it to, but other times it sneaks up on me, taking over my mind. No matter how much I suppress it, no matter how far I push it away, it manages to invade my senses, and I’m laying on the grass, holding her hand, being kissed by those sweet, soft lips. She told me the other day that she doesn’t want to lead me on. As if I didn’t know that she doesn’t have feelings for me. She asked me if I could ever get over her. I said no. She showed me her arm. The new lines were deeper. She told me not to tell. I would never tell. I could never. It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. She’d do what she wanted. She couldn’t even stop herself if she tried. She took my hand and touched my fingers along the deeper cuts, the ones I knew would destroy the both of us. She asked me if they made a difference. She looked straight into my eyes. “Can you get over me now that I’ll be gone?” I shook my head. “Can you move on now that I can’t be here for you?” I shook it again. “Can you forget about me now that you’ll never see me again?” My head fell down. She lifted up my chin. “Answer me,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me say it,” I whispered back. Her thumb grazed over my cheek. She sighed and dropped her hand. She slipped me a torn piece of paper, and walked away into nonexistence. I picked up the paper, unfolded it, and read: “Honesty is honestly the best fucking policy.”
Untitled Emma Buegeleisen They say one is the loneliest number. But, for me at least, the loneliest number is three. We used to be four and then it wasn’t so bad. When the two of them were fighting, surrounding themselves with a smoky red cloud that only I could see, we would gather anything we could carry and hide somewhere, usually the back seat of our car. One time, the fighting got so bad that we decided to get creative, my sister and I, and build a little fort in the backyard. I watched her intensely, materializing our safe house out of nothing. I admired her dry eyes while mine shimmered, hazy with tears, as she lifted the SpongeBob blanket and told me to get inside. She lit a candle, and our shadows overlapped. Spiders infiltrated our castle, but she kept saying, “We can make a home for them and they can feel safe.” And I felt safe. A tornado could rip through our house, but if it came to stand in front of me, I would be kind to it and it would be kind to me. And when I said I was hungry, she took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for the journey of her lifetime. She crept out of our bunker and made a mad dash for the back door, her strides long and precise. I watched with amazement as she grabbed the first box of cereal she could get her hands on. Those stale cheerios, laced with sweet bravery, were the best thing I have ever tasted.
“The Second Growth” Stephen Franciosa Colored Pencil
Untitled Lauren Paley The picture, the lone inhabitant of his locker, rested face down on the grimy metal. He sensed its judgment. The photo of his sister—dangling limbs, crinkled eyes, toothy smile—was engrained in his mind, banished to this rectangular prison. Chris stood at his opened locker, staring into the emptiness. He heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to flick his eyes in her direction to know who the delicate squeak of sneakers belonged to. A soft inhalation of breath came from her direction. “You made her really mad,” she said. He couldn’t help it—he looked. He turned his shoulder to glance back at the most beautiful girl he knew. Then he resumed staring at his locker of nothingness. “She’s probably going to give you detention.” Chris raised his eyebrow at his locker and smiled to himself. She obviously wasn’t an expert in pissing teachers off like he was. He had a permanent residency in the detention room. Chris crouched down to unzip his backpack. He thumbed through his folders to give his mind something else to think about besides her steady breathing and the soft tapping of her foot. “I just don’t get it.” Her words were soft, pleading, inviting. “You don’t always have to be like that…” her voice trailed off as she spoke to his back. His hands, which had grabbed for an unused notebook, twitched. A barely perceptible response. “Okay, Chris. Okay.” She conceded to his silence. He knew he was a lost cause, an angry mind trapped inside an angry body. Now so did she.
“Awake” Skyler Lloyd Charcoal
Chris stood and grabbed his sister’s picture. He pivoted to face the beautiful girl, while snatching up his backpack. His dark eyes narrowed slightly and dropped to the floor. Once again, he turned his back and walked away. He pushed open the double doors to the parking lot. Just add it to my tab of detentions and go to hell, he would tell the principal if he were caught. He headed towards his Corolla, fiddling with her picture. He had not visited his sister, told her a story, or kept her company, for months. Her gruff laugh and all-encompassing hugs were no longer in the forefront of his mind. He needed to see her. He slid into the driver’s seat and left the parking lot, imagining the conversation they would have when he arrived. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” his sister would say, and chuckle--the kind of laugh that makes everything bleaker. Her bloodshot eyes would avoid his gaze. He would try to apologize, but she would turn her back. It ran in the family, that quick turn of a shoulder that left the other person staring at a tense spine and a matt of hair. He passed a stop sign, a squat building, and an abandoned house. The first five songs on his car’s playlist were extinguished when he arrived. He exited his car, only to have his black sneakers sink into the muddy ground. The doors could stay unlocked. He continued down a field of grass, careful to avoid the stones scattered about the ground. He stopped, but didn’t sit down. He didn’t deserve the luxury of comfort. He simply gazed down at the gravestone, not yet withered by time. “Hey sis,” he whispered.
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Just a Game Johanna Seitenbach It’s just a game of hide-and-seek Hands over eyes Don’t peek Don’t cheat Count down from fifty, Darkness Sneaks through each fingertip Every breath another second drags along Your eyes adjust to what they can’t see It’s your turn to disappear Find shelter behind tattered furniture Or beneath worn-out beds Doesn’t matter where you hide You will always be found 10, 9, 8 Don’t swallow too suddenly Don’t settle too still Your breaths can be heard, You’re not very far Come out, come out wherever you are It’s just a game But you’ve never played like this before. 6, 5, 4 And a trickle of sweat drapes your face Time has no sympathy for your scrawny struggle It’s just a game 3, 2, 1 Ready or not, here I come.
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“A Women With a Loud Mouth” Stephen Franciosa Charcoal
All memorable events Transpire In a morning Light -Rebecca Fishman
I lived with hurry Finding fault in every day So I had not lived. -Ali Bohrer
In our soundest sleep, With doors and windows open, Work need not be lost -Nicole Schoenbrun
“Teacup� Marie Jeong Colored Pencil
Oysters Kate Montgomery The first time I had oysters, it was like the ocean bursting in my mouth. I came back to the table and they were laid bare on a bed of chipped ice, their faces the most disgusting thing I had ever seen that was intended to be consumed. Edging between our table and the next, I fell into my seat and stared at the shining grey lumps nestled in their own shells, and at the two tin pots of sauce off to the side. They were bigger than I’d thought. I wondered how I was supposed to swallow them whole. “Like pudding?” I asked. He laughed and said, “No, not like pudding.” He picked one up and let the briny water strain through the fork tines. He scooped the meat like I’d done with my brother-in-law when we’d baked clams, and squeezed a wedge of lemon over it. “Do you like the horseradish sauce I make at home?” he asked, pointing at the light-colored sauce. “No.” “What about cocktail sauce?” he said, while dipping the oyster in the other pot. I shook my head and worried that I couldn’t have oysters because I didn’t like the sauce. I watched him chew, swallow. I picked up the smallest oyster for myself. With fingers that had never learned to hold an oyster, I tipped the shell against my fork to let out the water. Then, lemon. Just to see, I blotted the oyster with some of the red sauce and held it up above our table, looking. It didn’t fit anywhere in the catalogue of images I’d amassed. The closest I’d come to this were clams and snails, which weren’t very close at all. The metal scraped against my teeth as the fork retreated, and I bit down. The cold, clear sea flooded into my mouth, the entire Atlantic lapping at my tongue. I didn’t taste the small spot of sauce, and the lemon was only a whisper against the gentle brine and chilled flavor of the meat. It was smooth to swallow. I immediately searched for the next one.
“Pond in Pieces” Rebecca Leibowitz Digital Photography
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“It’s really good,” I said, “for something so ugly.” He was surprised; we were the only two in the family who liked these foreigncreatures. “Except maybe Skye,” he said as he texted my mother to say that he was corrupting her eldest daughter. I remembered how they repulsed her on menus and at grocery stores and smiled, swallowing down another. This time the sauce was a sharp accent painted across my tongue. Soon, there were empty shells resting on a wet palate of ice, and sauce licked at the sides of pots. The flesh of the juiceless lemons hung out of the rind, the fruit discarded next to our drinks. I looked over his shoulder, into the restaurant. I looked at the sweaters and the Oxford shirts and the dark trousers; the scarves, the well-cut coats, the glasses of shining amber and ruby and diamond wobbling in the light as people talked and stood and waited. On the blackboard behind the bar were listed the offered oysters. Strange names told of a world whose border I had only just brushed against, like running my hand along a fence at night. I felt privileged to be told about his work: the horrible art department, his bosses, his current project. I was lucky to be seventeen and to have him sitting across from me, telling me about his day like I mattered; like I was a real person now. There was no talk of school. No tests or assignments or people I knew. And around us, there were no Ugg boots. No sweat pants. He mentioned a show he had seen the week before with my mother. I thought he would probably tell me the story of how he knew the lead actor, but I asked anyway to get him to talk a while longer.
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“Pariah” Stephen Franciosa Colored Pencil and Graphite
What’s In a Name? Elana Schlossberg Mildred. I wish it wasn’t my name, but that’s what the parents gave me. Maybe when I’m old enough, I’ll change it… Mildred. How could any sane parent think it’s okay to name their daughter that? Maybe they were high the night they decided that’d be my name. “Ahh…Mildred…that’s nice. I like the way it rrrolls off mah tongue. You try it, hun. Millldred. Pass me the cannabis, please.” Or, maybe they pulled out a book of baby names one day and decided it’d be fun to put on a blindfold and give me whatever name they stopped on. Well… they were probably high for that, too. So, my name is Mildred. And if you think I’ve been made fun of my entire life, well, you’re right. Because “What’s in a name?” Well, Shakespeare, I’ll tell ya; a shit-load of bullying, that’s what’s in my name. And do you know what rhymes with Mildred? Dead. Dread-locks. Well-fed. Lead…poisoning. And I could keep going. But do you know what doesn’t rhyme with Mildred? My last name. Oh, but don’t you worry, this one’s even better than my first name: Poux. It’s French. Pronounced “Pooh.” Yes, like the excrement. Bottom line is, I’ve had a fabulous childhood. Plenty of friends, too. …If you count Fluffy, Goldy, and Morston as friends. Mom got me Fluffy one day at F.A.O. Schwartz, before it closed. I really 16
like Fluffy, because he never judges me, no matter what I look like when I go to sleep. And Goldy, well, he loves me even if I forget to feed him or change his water. And…I think my parents were under the influence again when they decided it was a good idea to get a dog…and name it Morston. Who does that? I mean, really? All I ever wanted to do was legally change my name. I tried changing my name around school, but Mildred just stuck; I mean, the bullies love it. I thought that if I finally met someone who gave me a chance beyond my title, I could at least have a different last name… So, I’m roaming the streets of New York City. Because I ran away from home. No…I’d never do that. I live in the city. And I’m just walking home from school; same route every day. I see the same things, too: four Starbucks’, two Duane Reades, and one Massage Therapist. Seventeen years, and I’ve never stopped at any of ‘em. That’s a lie, actually…I went to Starbucks two winters ago when I really needed something warm to drink. And I stopped in at Duane Reade for emergency…lady things. But I’ve never gone to that Massage Therapist. However, today I am feeling particularly stressed, and a massage doesn’t sound too bad. I check my wallet to make sure I have some dough, and walk inside. It’s not like I imagined at all. The lighting is low, and there’s some weird Muzak playing from what seems to be a boom box. Nineties, much? As I fumble with my sweatshirt strings, a beautiful man emerges. He is perfectly nerdy and perfectly handsome at the same time. He offers his hand. “Hi, I’m Jackson.” My hand meets his. “I’m Mil…Melanie. The name’s Melanie Jones.” “What a beautiful name, Melanie. Just rolls right off my tongue. Melllanieeeee.” My tongue can roll right off of your tongue if you want. “So, what can I do for you today, Melanie? I should preface whatever you’re going to say by telling you that I’m not actually a masseuse. And I don’t usually get any customers, either. So…I apologize if I seem a little awkward or uncomfortable…” You seem perfect. “...You can leave if you want…” “Why would I leave? No! No...We can just talk if you’re uncomfortable massaging.” Go Melanie! I’ve got a whole new confidence and I love it! Mildred my butt. Chew on that, bullies! “Wow, you’re really nice. Pretty name, pretty face, and nice, too. You’re a keeper.” “Oh, stop…you’re making me blush!” “It suits you.” “Hey, do you want to grab a cup of coffee or something? I know there are four Starbucks’ right around here. There’s one—” “There’s one on every corner.” We both smile. He says, “I’d love to, but…I have so many customers waiting for me…” I blankly stare. “I’m kidding! Let’s go!” He takes my hand and opens the door for me. I think I might be in heaven, because I could never have imagined a moment more perfect than this. Goodbye Mildred, hello Melanie Jones! Or Melanie Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is. Just to make sure my life is set, I ask, “What did you say your last name was, again?” “I didn’t. It’s Smith, Jackson Smith.” Perfect.
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Untitled
Arielle Cruz
A needle pokes through Forcing a black hole into form-fitting fiber It tugs its cargo Stringy edges catch until the knot stops Forcing a black hole in form-fitting fiber The needle takes its second plunge Stringy edges catch until the knot stops Leaving behind a silken tattoo Friction flirting with ignition Desperately flirting with ignition Thread and hide forcefully intertwine Friction flirting with soft ignition Holding silk frustrations to cool skin Thread and hide forcefully intertwine They writhe in singular purpose Holding silk frustrations to cool skin Black holes with hot red rims They write together in singular purpose The plan now visible on its face Black holes with hot red rims A yearning that was never meant to be The plan now visible on its face It tugs its cargo A yearning that was never meant to be A needle.
“Hurtz� Jake Hurwitz Primsacolor Marker 20
Silent Night Nicole Talbi
The whipping winds Find their way through the crack in my window. They brush right through, The silent night. It comes to me, And wraps around my head, Tight, Numbing my thoughts. Darting into my mouth, Sliding down my throat, And dropping to my stomach. It whirls back up, And reaches my chest. Shielding it, Healing it. The chill is gone. My tender heart glows through me. Through my eyes, Through my lips, Through my skin, Unlocking my dream keeper. There she stands, Across the clouds. Her face is pale In the illuminating sun. I look into her eyes, And smile.
“Illuminate� Skyler Lloyd Colored Pencil
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“Serenity” Rebecca Leibowitz Digital Photography
Why the Sky is Blue Alex Brinas When I was younger, I always wondered—why is the sky blue? I remember that afternoon in Union Square Park, looking up from the bottom of the slide, cocking my head in curiosity. By the time Mom called me for juice and roasted peanuts, I’d locked in a few theories. Mr. Sun, Earth’s daddy, drapes a bright blue blanket on Earth every morning to make sure little Earth is warm and comfy. Or, maybe someone swirls fluffy blue cotton candy all over the Earth, and by the end of the day, it gets all eaten up. Curled up under the comforter, I’d dream about the artists of Cloud Kingdom who paint the sky before everyone wakes up, only for the aquamarines and powder blues to dissolve into the darkness by nighttime. But my own grand hypotheses weren’t enough, so, like every youngster, I had to ask for some grown up expertise. I tugged on my dad’s sleeve, pestered my aunt, tapped on my teacher’s shoulder, what makes the sky blue? Always the same answers. “Oh, I don’t know.” “That’s a good question.” Or “That’s just how it is.” No one, not even the grown ups, had a solid answer for me. As each year passed, I worried less and less about the sky, until eventually, I completely forgot about it. As each year passed, society implemented its devious plans for me. As each year passed, a film of societal dust—conformity, superficiality, and petty peer pressures— settled on my innocent mind, my pure youth transformed into a jaded teenager. There are times when I spot that other me, that younger me, twiddling my fingers behind my back. Especially in my brother. His six-year-old mind is spongy and fresh, dirtied only by the tiniest bit 22 of societal dust. Everything that leaves his mouth is genuine and charming.
There was one day, when my brother and I were home alone, with absolutely nothing planned. In the Brinas household, a completely free day like this comes once in a blue moon. Over breakfast, I listed everything we should practically do: errands, homework, chores. But I see my brother across the table, swirling around his cereal, and decide to factor in his opinion. “Paolo, what should we do today?” “Hm. Let’s do…whatever we want. I wanna do everything.” His voice is sugar and watermelon and sunshine. So the day becomes a game, my brother and I taking turns choosing whatever comes to mind: Frisbee in the best spot behind the school, sharing a scoop of creamy ice cream goodness from Main Street Sweets, and whipping out my tub of Lego and constructing perhaps the coolest empire known to man. It is spontaneous and beautiful. My thoughts feel like ugly, jagged rocks next to the twinkling gems of my brother’s. The dust of society has left me sometimes hesitant and unsure. But usually, if you look closely, you can see still see the glow of my innocent mind, peeking out from beneath the dust. Just a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the actual explanation to why the sky is blue. Something wordy and scientific about wavelength and nitrous gases and such. But once I’d finally found the answer, I felt…unfulfilled. Disenchanted. Because deep down, I know the true reason the sky is blue. Whenever I step outside, I look up at the ceruleans, cyans, and periwinkles, and smile at the cloud people beautifying the heavens with their paintbrushes.
Their apartment Elana Schlossberg
It’s filled with the kind of love you buy in a store, in the back, behind the discount milk and expired yogurt. Smiles are plastered on faces, and faces with frowns or dirty glances are slapped into grins. It smells like cinnamon But tastes like metal It looks like nothing, Because there’s nothing there. Only boxes And empty walls.
“On the Other Side” Skylar Lloyd Conte Crayon and Charcoal
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Forgotten
Lauren Paley A nimble finger meets a dusty page Gliding down the black spine Its weakness tells of age, It used to be a young girl’s shrine. Now decaying in this forgotten cage, Of dark mahogany and shelves of pine. The only audience to hear its sage Advice that goes from line to line The only light to quell a young girl’s rage. The only thing that could define Her anger, which without a gage Would overtake and intertwine Into her life, take center stage. Instead of telling mother she was fine, She would kick and scream and wage A war within herself that only time And a little black book could disengage And still, now she closed that which used to define Her, for there was nothing more it could assuage.
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“Unitled” Rachel Bloom Digital Photography
Addiction
Emily Shapiro I am your puppet You pull the strings attached to my back, and I dance to your command I twist and turn to please you, slide and dive to comfort you I do what you saw, when you say, because when I am with you, I am brainwashed. When I am with you, I have no strength of my own, I thrive off of your wit and intensity, your power and guidance But are you guiding me in the right way? I love you; I need you in my life; I can’t survive without you. Literally. I am dependent on your embrace, no matter how sweet. My body thrives on the rush, the rise and crash. I lose control when I’m around you, My arms jerk and my heart stutters, my legs dance to steps I don’t know. Which world is reality and which is fantasy? You make me believe anything is possible; I can jump from the highest window and survive Or dive into the ocean without breathing. You make me want to steal, want to lie, want to defy everything I ever learned You make me forget right from wrong, left from right, black from white. On the best days, I dance and laugh without stopping, Take a tumble and forget that it hurts. I caress you, kiss and praise you On the bad days, I cry – my body shakes and I don’t know why I fall and bleed, my heart pours onto the ground as I tremble Wondering what made me become like this, why did I turn into this monster? But somehow, you pull me in again. Is it your sweet scent, or the way you penetrate my blood and my soul? Is it how you make me feel out of this world, or make me lose control? Why is it, that when I try to break away, you tug me back with an iron grip? Why is it, that when I try to free myself, I only want you more? You know where to find me, I know where to find you I can see you with other girls and guys on hidden street corners Dancing and flirting Captivating their every motion and thought, just like you do to me. You are the world’s biggest tease; the most tantalizing and enticing thing in my life. You make all of us fall in love with you even when we hate you You suck the soul right out of our mouths, pierce our hearts and dreams But somehow, for some reason, we keep running back to you. Because we are your puppets And you, you are our puppeteer.
“Frustration” Skylar Lloyd Charcoal
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Music Box
Nicole Schoenbrun her legs are saplings fresh in spring she buds and bears a toughened flower white petals like bells peal down her waist a slipper sheaths a sword her pointed foot one arm raised her eyes do follow small black things like grounded pepper second arm stiff but loose the same clasps her side and waits beneath her feet gears do stir with gentle cuffs they wake memorized steps to a wistful tune her body turning round a point until the stage closes in bends her back and lays her flat here she’ll wait for an encore
“Piano” Marie Jeong Graphite
Abyss
Diana Schoder Lost In the abyss of a mind, Suspended on fragile threads of thoughts, You turn your head up toward the light That beckons you back to the world you forgot. Its iridescence pulses with ripples Of your perceptions and your words; While others revel in its emptiness, The glare simply makes you hurt. And in your murky depths, You drift from strings of pain to sorrow Ignoring the coarseness of the fiber To leave your hands’ rawness for tomorrow. You refuse to climb out and save yourself Because the world might merely be A sadistic illusion of happiness That obscures your harsh reality. Lost Like one sock, mismatched for all time, You clutch pulsing emotions that are ready to die So that you can define yourself And quarantine your desperate mind. The tangled, nightmarish threads you clasp Haunt this abyss of thoughts— Liberation is unknotting them Before you exhale and have another breath Lost.
“Jumping” Alex Brinas Digital Photography
I fly kites on windy days. -Maria Palij Prince Charming will come one day. -Elana Schlossberg
I don’t know what I’m doing. -Anonymous
These are our six word memoirs.
Maybe I’ll make a real friend. -Anonymous
I enjoy getting lost on hikes. -Daniel Herman
I don’t like goodbyes. So, hello. -Anonymous
I’m allergic to self definition. Achoo! -Alex Briñas
I have forgotten everything I know. -Mr. Baird
I leave life up to fate. -Anonymous If I was a little shorter... -Anonymous
Don’t know who I am... yet. -Juliet Schwarz
To illuminate the stained glass window -Katie Corvino
WANTED: A passion to strive for -Arielle Cruz
Lost a mini golf ball overboard. -Naomi Merer
Can’t play sports, so I sing. -Julia Pernicone
Sometimes caught in a different world. -Anonymous
Rip myself from my comfort zone. -Kelly Garson
Always end up covered in paint. -Sydney Newman
Caution: Handle last year with care. -Alison Shlom I try my best and succeed. -Nicole LaPietra
Will three numbers determine my future? -Anonymous
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Dark angel enchained, lonely and scarred -Nicolas Hornyak
Time 2.0 Kate Montgomery It was cold here. Not yet winter, and it was already cold enough that he needed a sweater (or a jacket, God forbid) to set foot outside. Actually, he needed one just to be inside, because he was refusing to turn on the heat in the hopes that, through his denial, he would stave off winter. It wasn’t working, he realized, as he sat in the window seat, his forehead against the freezing glass. It wasn’t working because at five in the morning, he had woken up, shivering, and had been unable to go back to sleep, and that was why he was sitting at the window, staring at the sun rising up over the buildings around him and spilling into the streets. And it wasn’t just the feel of the cold—it was the smell. The cold somehow sterilized everything so that it seemed tasteless and unappealing. He sighed and closed his eyes, curling his hands further under his knees to gain as much warmth as possible. He closed his eyes against the cold city. He closed his eyes against the sight of his arms caught up in long sleeves. He closed his eyes against what the sunlight reminded him of. He closed his eyes against his breath curling frostily in front of him and sticking to the window. And he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere quite different than the small, cold room high up in the city. But looking around, he found that he knew this place, that he had been here before, so perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all. What it could be, then, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, because it was warm. He looked down and saw his feet, pale rippling shapes below the rushing water. The small waves sucked at his ankles, and he dug his fingers into the low stone wall that ran alongside him. There was no beach at this part of the lake—just a stone ramp, and the stones were slick with years’ worth of grime, filling up the holes in the stone worn by the relentless water like cruft. He blinked his eyes and squinted against the sun directly ahead of him, rising over the blue hills and burning away the morning mists. As the sun climbed, slowly, it melted over the water, rippling and shining like liquid copper. And if he turned around, he knew he’d see the sun drenching the faded blue hydrangea bushes that grew wildly along the length of the walking park. He’d see the grass looking gold-plated and the air sparkling because of the sprinklers. Beyond the startlingly green vegetation, he’d see the cafes pandering to ex-pats and tourists with names like Café Gigi and La Belle Dame. 30
If the breeze drifted just right, he’d smell the coffee just beginning to be brewed, layered on top of that particular smell of the lake and of the grass and the flowers that were all over the place, like weeds. But to make the picture really complete, he would have to be able to turn his head and see a second pair of feet in the water next to him, and feel a hand brushing against his every few minutes. And if he looked up, he should see her standing next to him, looking at him, her eyes pierced by the sunlight so that they glowed with the intensity of the grass and the water and the flowers— The microwave beeped in the room, and he opened his eyes. Fitfully, he tried to recapture the other place, but it was gone so fast he questioned whether it had been there at all. He got up, his legs protesting, and it was like trying to unfold a slightly-rusted beach chair. He stuck his hands beneath his arms and, hunched over, went to retrieve last night’s re-heated coffee.
“Train Station” Skyler Lloyd Charcoal