The Criterion Ardsley High School Volume XXIVIIX
Dear Readers, The Criterion staff is composed of ninjas. Well, not really, but when we scramble to copy posters, survive weeks of siHing through submis‐ sions, or pull together Café Criterion (our annual Editor‐in‐Chief: Diana Schoder fundraiser), we must at least have superpowers. A Kght‐knit community of editors and designers, organizers and postermakers, and those of us who Head of Design: do everything, we come together every year to cel‐ Mia Monkovic ebrate creaKvity. And quirkiness. AHer months in Mr. Baird’s room and weeks in the Mac Lab for the grueling, hilarious, and gen‐ Managing Editors: erally wonderful process of creaKng the magazine, Allison Wainer none of us are quite ready to publish. We need to spend just another hour moving that textbox two picometers over, or more likely, finding more You‐ Poetry Editor: tube music videos. Releasing our magazine into the Johanna Seitenbach wild—the Internet—is undoubtedly difficult. We have connected with the wriKng and art deeply, thanks to the talented students who submi-ed ma‐ Prose Editor: Jenna Friedman terial. This connecKon is why we sKll publish, even when we are no longer in print. In fact, the Crite‐ Editors rion was named aHer a literary magazine started by Mark Bolanos T. S. Eliot (in which he first published “The Waste‐ Mariel Fine land”) to gather the great wriKngs of his day, just as Ilana Goldstein we compile the best of the arts from Ardsley High Nimrat Kohli School—the ones with that instant connecKon. Ma-hew Rabito Whether or not we are ninjas, there is noth‐ Caitlin Smith ing be-er than a Mac Lab full of creaKve people who are ecstaKc about sharing a true treasure. Advisors: Enjoy! Mr. Baird Much thanks, Mr. Bonet Diana Schoder Editor‐in‐Chief
Criterion Staff
Special Thanks to:
Ms. 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 maga‐ zine was typset on a Mac using InDesign CS3 in Calibri and Trebuchet MS fonts.
Table of Contents Poetry Moment by Diana Schoder.................................10 Call of Duty is my Life...Lea Ansell......................14 Thirty‐Five Seconds by Ma- Rabito….................24 Loser by Shaw Schiappacasse…..........................33 Dear Friend… by Ilana Goldstein….....................35
Fic$on Ant Dialogue by Eric Corwin..............................6 The Perfect Spot by Raquel Medina...................4 Un#tled by Jenna Friedman..............................11 Our Sounds Have Changed by Becky Lehner.....13 One‐of‐a‐Kind by Nick Beldoch.........................18 Sparrows by Amber Aparicio…..........................22 Drowning Papers by John Evans….....................27 Brighter in the Dark by Amber Aparicio..........…28 The Girl in the Red Peacoat by Jenna Friedman..30 Un#tled by Jenna Friedman…............................34 One of Those Days by Nick Beldoch................…36 Un#tled by Amber Aparicio............................…40
Non‐fic$on The Tale of Mr. (Special Ed) by KaKe Soares.......8 Tumbling Dice by John Evans.............................16 Un#tled by Abby Osborn................................…39
Art Shanna Aitcheson Charcoal...3, 32, Inside Back Cover Anthony Kim Watercolor...7, 10 Andy Lehner Watercolor...Cover Charcoal...5 Graphite...12, 19, 30 Heather Sommer Colored Pencil...Inside Front Cover Oil Pastel…34 Kim Rivera Acrylic on Canvas...9 Graphite/ Colored Pencil…25 Josh Mulbaum Watercolor...11 Dana Reifer Chalk Pastel/ Tissue Paper...14 Acrylic on Canvas…Back Cover Becca Leibowitz Photography...17, 20, 35 Lauren Klarsfeld Colored Pencil...18 Chalk/Pastel…26 Torn Paper…37 Elena Bergome Photography.......38 Danielle Woolis Photography.......28
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. DarKng 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
This voume is dedicated to Nicole Talbi, whose creativity and strength we will always remember.
The Perfect Spot Raquel Medina It’s that kind of town. You know. The kind of town that’s near the ocean. And the ocean carries shards of seashells, discarded diapers, and rings of grease and oil, but you sKll like to go out to look at it. To escape the streaked buildings and splintered fences and the rainbow‐colored chimes on every porch that sound like Kn. And to watch the orange sun fold itself inside the gri-y waves each aHernoon because that’s the only bit of color in the gray sky. And there’s this perfect spot I found to watch the waves. It’s a li-le cave inside the rocky slopes leading to shore. It’s just my size, too, if I curl into a Kght ball and wrap my arms around my legs. No one knows I’m there. And if a pair of lovers comes giggling down the slope, arm in arm, heading toward the beach, or if a group of kids comes pounding on the rocks above me, they wouldn’t know I was there. I’m quiet. I don’t move. I just sit there. Unblinking. Mesmerized by the copper outline of the clouds. That’s where I was. Huddled in my secret cave. My fingers felt the hard ground. I felt each small mark I’ve made for each day I’ve been here. Since I’ve been punished. Twenty‐two li-le lines. I scratched them out with my nails. That’s why my fingernails are only stubs. I don’t care, though. It’s not like anyone cares about such small things like my hands and nails, anyway. The waves crept in. Five seconds and then retreat. And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. The waves push back out, finally knock‐ ing over a crumbling sandcastle. It sinks into the wet sand. I wonder what it would be like to have been curled up in that sandcastle when the wave struck. To drown in the churning waves that seem so calm from up here in my dry cave. Be‐ cause if I were as Kny as a grain of sand, I’d think it was the end of the world. I’d run as fast as I could to escape. Or maybe I’d just stay there. Ac‐ cept that it’s my Kme because running wouldn’t do any good. Maybe I’d relish the coolness of the sapphire waves. I’d pretend I was taking a swim in a cool lake or diving beneath a waterfall on some exoKc vacaKon
to make death seem bearable. I wondered if a grain‐sized person would take a vacaKon, a walk from the ocean to the rocky slopes. And would they walk or… “Hey, Sam! Look here! It’s a dead crab!” squealed someone on the rocks above me. “Ewww! Don’t touch it, Beth!” The slopping of wet feet. I knew who these girls were. The backs of their bodies emerged as they climbed down the slope in front of me. The unmistakable ponytails. Blonde. Swinging back in forth in Kme to each other. They disappeared to the leH, up and over the rocks. They were the girls who first noKced my ‘problem.’ I was strange. Just because I liked dis‐ secKng the rat in science. Just because I rode my bike barefoot. Just because I like the slight sKng of paper‐cuts. Just because the sunsets remind‐ ed me of some great ba-le being fought in the sky, blood seeping into the clouds. And I know I was different. I am different. I always have been. I see things that no one else does. But I guess when you live in such a small town where every‐ one knows you, they all expect you to be ‘nor‐ mal.’ No one wants you to be alone. They want you to go to the movies with the other girls and eat yellow popcorn from crinkly red and white striped bags. They don’t want you to walk the streets at midnight when everyone else is sleep‐ ing. They want you to join the sports clubs and drama clubs at school when you’d rather sit on the grass and close your eyes and hear the wind swirl in between the houses or howl into sea‐ shells. Li-le towns like making lists of people’s ‘problems.’ “Kassandra! Kassandra! I know you’re out here! You play the same game every Kme!” She came earlier than usual today. I never even got to see the sun fully set. I crawled out and peeped behind the rocks, making sure she wasn’t looking my way. I can’t ever let her see me in my cave. Or else she’d tell them and they’d ruin it. They ruin everything. Everything that’s mine.
“Kassandra!” She was facing the other way. Barefoot, I ran up the rocks. I didn’t mind their sharp edges mak‐ ing li-le slits in my soles. I stood right behind her on the pavement. “Kassan‐‐” “I’m here,” I said. She jumped around. “Oh, Kassandra! You startled me! Oh, where did you come from? You know be-er than to run away like that!” The pavement suddenly became very hot. I felt the blood bubbling in my feet. I was standing on Hell, with Satan cracking his whip in my ex‐ posed wounds, licking them with his fiery tongue. “Kassandra. You must stop leaving like that. You know it’s not good for you, honey. Kassandra! Kassan—are you listening to me?” The last sliver of sun was about to fall into the ocean. The salty smell of the water filled my nose. That smell always reminded me of eaKng fish and chips by rusty parking meters, sipng on the hood of an old car and watching the seagulls swoop above people’s heads… I felt an arm around me. “Don’t worry, honey. Everything’s going to be okay,” the woman cooed. “Since when‐‐” I started. “What, Kassandra? What were you think‐ ing?” I stared at her. Her eyes were pale blue. They were so glassy and I was afraid that they’d break if I looked at them too long. I turned away and walked down the beach, always a few strides ahead of her.
Un$tled Eric Corwin “You won’t.” said Randall. “Just watch me,” said Silva. “I’m watching.” “Shut up. I need to concentrate.” “It’s not going to happen” “Shut up.” “Make me.” “Be quiet, or you’ll get what’s coming to him.” “Oh, I’m really scared.” “Relax. Let me do what I do best.’ “What a skill…” “Another word. I dare you.” “Word.” “Shut up. I’m not doing it.” “It’s not like you were going to.” “Fine. Here.” The barrel flexed and released, guiding a glisten‐ ing bullet out of the chamber. “He’s dead,” said Randall. “No,” said Silva. “Yes.” “No. He can’t be. Oh, I’m in so much trouble.” “Relax. We’ll hide it.” “Where? It’ll start ropng in a week, and some‐ one will find it. Then we’re screwed.” “There’s go-a be a dirt patch somewhere near here. We’ll pack him into a shallow grave.” “We need a long term plan. Something so that we’ll never get caught.” “Follow me.” “I don’t wanna carry this shit.” “Don’t be a li-le bitch.” “Ugh. This is disgusKng.”
“It’s so slimy. I can see his insides.” “I don’t know.” “I didn’t ask you anything.” “I just don’t know.” “Snap out of it. We’ve got to get rid of the body.” “SomeKmes I wonder why it was him and not me.” “Christ, Silva, it’s not the Kme for realizaKons. It’s the Kme for raKonalizaKons.” “We just killed another living, breathing creature.” “I don’t give a shit. I really don’t. He’s of no impor‐ tance to us.” “Isn’t he, though?” “Shut up. You’re being stupid.” “Am I?” “Ask one more quesKon, and you’ll end up just like him.” “Saved?” “I’m gonna bury him. With or without you.” “With.” They started digging, penetraKng the ground with rusty shovels laced with years of snow damage, and gravel altercaKons. “It’s done?” asked Silva. “It’s done,” said Randall. “Silva, honey, come in for dinner,” called the woman in the red apron. “And if I ever catching you killing ants in our yard again…well, I hope you dug that grave deep enough for you.” She added, smirking. “I told you we’d get caught,” said Silva. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Randall. “I don’t know,” said Silva. “I just don’t know.”
The Tale of Mr. (Special) Ed KaKe Soares When I was young, or should I say younger, I had a problem. Don’t worry it’s not like I was born with a tail or that I had a tumor on my body that contained my twin sister a la My Big Fat Greek Wedding. It’s not even that the song You’re So Vain, could have been a love le-er from my mother to my father, (and he does know that that song could have totally/probably been about him). The true problem would be aptly named a blanswer, or an extremely blundered answer or observaKon. The site of this sha-ering blanswer was Lancaster, PA, home of the Amish, making your own candles and what seemed like an infinite amount of quilKng opportuniKes; or, what my parents believed was the perfect place to take four hyperacKve, whiney children who had no paKence for fine craHs and corn husk dolls. Honestly, my hands were doll‐sized and uncoordinated, and I was therefore more interested in the local animals. Recently, someone had given me an encyclopedia on what I believed to be every animal in the world. When I encountered an animal I didn’t know, I would flip through and create hybrids or as my Dominican maid called them, “bastard animals” or “abominaKons”. Unfortunately, these innovaKve skills would be demonstrated in front of five other families in a train museum (yes, an enKre museum dedicated solely to the history of trains, and no, they did not have anything about Thomas the Tank Engine, which is really the only train a five year old wants to see). Within that museum, among the actual trains, was a very strange statue that resembled an animal I could not place. The creature of metal had a long neck, a wonky wandering eye immortalized in glass, and was sporKng what looked like a Cosby wool sweater. To add to my confusion, nobody could answer my quesKons about why such a figure was condemned to a train museum. Had all the cars hit him, one aHer the other? I quickly looked through my reference guide, found nothing resembling the poor godless animal, but instead gave it a prodigious name: Henry the Cllama‐‐a cross between a graffiKed brown cow and a llama. The major problem in my discovery was not that I was being creaKve and loud about my findings, but who was present to endure them. The creator of Henry the Cllama was within earshot, she flushed darker than the rust on the old trains, and screeched to us that Henry was in fact a replica of her rare childhood horse that had sadly sustained serious brain injury in its youth. Also, it was revealed, that because of his temperament, Henry had been sent to “horsie heaven”, or child speak for euthanasia. At the Kme, the young me loathed seeing adults upset, especially when I had caused the painful emo‐ Kons. Being ashamed of one’s commentary is a lasKng side effect of a blundered answer or blanswer‐‐it was what I thought about before I went to bed at night, where I would allow the shame and embarrassment to trample me. Also, as I would later find out, trampling was a real game that the previously alive Henry the horse had indulged in from Kme to Kme… but exclusively with prepubescent children. To a kid, Henry the Cllama was what George W. Bush was to the United States: something we like to pretend didn’t happen, but we sKll have to squeeze into our individual histories. The Henry the Cllama incident had the power to nag at me for weeks. Also, whenever we passed a horse in a field, my sisters would look at me, I would look at the Mr. Eds, Seabiscuits, and Secretariats grazing, and experience Kny pangs of guilt. A blanswer is the stereotypical opposite of love. A blanswer is not kind, is not paKent, definitely boasts, delights in mistakes, and flourishes in shame. The only true way to remedy a blanswer is extensive therapy, or to relive it as many Kmes as possible, and at least once in the presence of one’s peers. The knowledge I gained from a deranged horse statue, was that a blanswer has the capacity to inject itself into everyday life, and is easily recalled when in the presence of trains and public speaking. Here’s to hoping I never a-end a Seminar for Cha-y Cathys who happen to live in restored locomoKves.
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9
Moment Diana Schoder The breaths of Stillness, silence, time Seep in through windows Under doorways, Forgoing their homes— Their late August nights And midwinter snow— To lurk in our quiet, Our temporarily surreal. Elusive as always, They shatter reality Until we are barely Tethered to the ground, And peering out into Life’s changing vicissitudes, Horizons evaporate, Boundaries dissolve. One sweeping sigh, And then they are gone, Fleeting, they vanished, Back to dusk and to dawn, And we once again, Hear the stable rise of our lungs, And fall into the day, Into our empires of walls.
Un$tled Jenna Friedman “It’s so wet out. Why stay outside?” “I like the rain.” “But you’ll catch a cold. C’mon inside.” “No. I like the rain.” “Really, what’s so bad about moving indoors? What’s the difference?” “There’s nothing for me indoors.” “But you’ll be warm.” “I’m perfectly fine where I am.” “No, you’re not.” “Why don’t you like the rain?” “Will you at least put your hood on? For me?” She giggled. “You’re silly.” “And you’re insane. You’ve got two hoods and you’re not even wearing one.” “I don’t need a hood.” “Everyone needs a hood.” “Hoods are for cowards.” “He’s not coming, you know.” She rocked back and forth in her yellow galoshes. “I don’t even like rainboots. My mom made me wear ‘em.” “Hadley.” “Mark!” “Hadley.” “Are we playing name games? I do so enjoy name games.” “You can’t go on like this.” “A li-le rain never hurt anyone.” “I can’t tell if you’re clueless or just stupid.” “I’m not anything. I just like the rain.” “Whatever you say.” Hadley watched as Mark trenched over to the door, evaporaKng into the warm yellow of the indoors. She turned back, facing the slick tar road once more. She hummed. Wiped a trickling raindrop from the side of her temple. Looked up at the ashen sky. “He’ll be here.”
Our Sounds Have Changed Becky Lehner Rustling, mumbling, waiKng. Kids se-le for supper. I can barely move about. Apartment clu-ered, noise suffocaKng. Booming cars, enraged taxis, a sultry singer, cha-er of children. Sounds overwhelm me. He’s home. For now. Late for dinner—he has his music thing. Yes, I adore him. He’s my friend. He’s ambiKous, chal‐ lenges me. Shares my passion for melody, lyric, song. Pushed my passion. It’s faded. Surrounded, choked, I lost him in his music. His industry of noise. Deafening. He’s deaf to me. At the parKes, noise overflows, envelops him. He disappears. Touring the world for new sounds, beats, movements. His noises separate us. Our beauKful children. Freckled like him. Inspired by him. Without him. My music: alarms and a humming stove. Three children shower and it seems a tempest of morning. The over Kmer dinks, the backpack zipper clinks and they’re off. Silence. The clip‐clip‐clip of my heels seems uneven; I hear a clip‐tap‐clip and my shoes don’t match. I’m hoping no one will noKce. Tick and my Kme begins. The fax machine whines, the newspaper crumbles, the computer monitors scratch, a raspberry yogurt three rows over gurgles and spits. Tock and I’m back home. I forgot to make myself a lunch. Buzz into the apartment. Clack the door’s unlocked. Rustle and the pantry only has Cheerios. Do I have Kme to run to a deli? If I run quickly. Thwip, of course my skirt rips right now. Back up the steps, scavenging through the closet. My hand rests for a moment on the slinky emerald dress I wore that night. That night that was the last date we’ve had. I remember that night. Deehhhlayyyyleh, a low grumbling moan comes from the kids’ room. I hear the walls creaking against a heavy weight. Un‐ se-led, I inch over to the corridor leading to the sound. It seems uncomfortable, out of place. Sneaking open the door, I see my husband and his freckles spread across some chick. This chick is Delilah. His young new singing star. This is why my husband stays so invested in his work.
Call of Duty is my Life Lea Ansell I’m a pro at Call of Duty I’m a quick scoping queen Watch me wipe out the whole map I’ll show you just what I mean. How I customize my class You won’t even get a killstreak. With my fiHy cal barret You and your ACR are weak. I’m not a fan of noob tube I’m a stealthy sniping pro I’ll headshot all your team members And you don’t even know That I see you from a distance I know where you’re gonna camp Your whole team won’t stand a chance To this quick scoping champ. Got my scavenger perk in play No ACOG sights in this game I spill blood across the map How I run this show’s insane. Rapid fire, sleight of hand, And even the drop shot Aren’t anything compared To the skills that I got. Extended mag, dual wield, Or taped magazines Won’t save you in this game I’m a ruthless death machine. Don’t toss a flash or throw a sKcky Neither of those work. I know where you’re gonna run But you don’t know where I lurk. Don’t go prone Or pick a corner Or place your claymore by the door.
Watch the kill cam Boom you’re dead And your body hits the floor. You all want me on your team I send care packages and Carpet bombs and As long as I’m by you’re side Nothing can go wrong. And my emblem is insane It’s a ram with a beret. I go hard And wreck guys every single day. My name’s always on top Of the leader board. Go-a keep it that way By playing it hardcore. Try to keep up and level up Every single Kme. Sorry, but your score will never be Just as high mine. Yup, not even the guys Can shoot ‘em up like me. I’ve been nominated Queen of the PS3. I’m a veteran at this game But my parents really hate it. It’s bloody, missile‐dropping violence Not to menKon it’s M‐rated. I’m just so good on the sKcks And I know all the tricks But we all know gaming And schoolwork don’t really mix. Oh, I really can’t help it I go-a keep my KD high Always got to get my game on And be be-er than the guys. My parents just can’t stand it I’m stuck in front of the TV They hate the sound of guns shots And bullets flying on the screen. I love the clicks and the booms BursKng arKllery shells Such a wonderful waste of Kme And I love it. Oh well.
Tumbling Dice John Evans A pair of dice cupped within my hand—a mark of gambling, an innocent li-le test. My trembling hands shook. The dice moved. My Kny frame jilted about as I moved my hands in quick succession. Once, twice, three Kmes—the game went on and on. My head was bent toward the ground, the cold Kle of the floor meeKng my bare elbows as I rested. Dim light filtered from overhead. Outside I could hear the rain beaKng heavily against the windows. Then the rain stopped and the sun shown out. It must have, for it was then percepKvely brighter. Yet I could see li-le else. My eyes were on the dice. I could hear crowds of people about me, hustling and jostling around where I was crouched. They called to me. I didn’t answer. They called again. I grunted. They scurried past, their feet making rhythmic rapping noises on the chill floor. I let them be. My eyes were on the dice. I could hear my teacher, an elderly woman of graying hair, soHly murmuring something to someone nearby. I heard something rustle near where I was sipng, leaning, stooping. I heard my name spoken in a rapid voice. She whispered now. I couldn’t make out what she added. The footsteps got closer. I didn’t look up. My eyes were on the dice. Then I felt the arm on my Kny shoulder. My li-le head twitched. I didn’t turn around. I conKnued to shake the dice. The dice rolled about in my palms. My wrists began to ache. My wrists grew sKff. The dice fell. I could hear them quite clearly hipng the floor—a ra-ling which filled my ears for a long moment. It was only then that I looked up. I looked up at one of the other adult’s faces. She was a woman in her forKes. Her face was less lined. Yet beyond her there were only the gray lights and a haze of color. I didn’t mind. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. The words escaped the woman’s lips, ponderous and calm—“Why were you looking at those dice so closely, John?” “Don’t know,” I mu-ered. I groped for the dice. They were just out of reach. A student rushed past, a girl with flow‐ ing blonde hair. She ran over the dice and kicked them aside. I moaned, reached a bit farther, and then let the dice go. There was always later. “Are you sure everything is okay?” asked the woman leaning above me. “You were kind of too close to those dice, John. Your face was nearly up to your hands.” “I know,” I replied, rising to my feet. “That is how I can see them.” A shadow fell across the woman’s face. She sKll smiled. Yet as I looked into her eyes I could only see pain. She peered over her shoulder and peered down at me. Then she said to me, “Wait here. I’ll be right back. Everything is going to be okay.” As she walked away I wondered what she meant. I cast one glance back down at the floor and then at the hazy light which encircled me. I shrugged, picked up a book, put it down, and tro-ed away with a heavy sigh. The dice had to be somewhere.
17
One‐of‐a‐Kind Nick Beldoch “Where is she?” She sat. Crossed her right leg over her leH. The khaki fabric stretched seamlessly. One solemn heel clicked the metal floor. An eyebrow rose unKl it became absorbed in a black sea of perfectly straight hair. An irritated boredom spread across her face. She rolled her eyes, then closed them. Her right leg returned next to the leH one. Two solemn heels clicked the metal floor. She stood and paced the width of the room once, pausing briefly in front of the mirror to stare into her dark brown eyes. She returned behind the chair, laying her smooth hands atop its cold back. “Where is she?” she repeated, the words escaping quietly from her lips. She stared forward, her eyes glistening with a fire that had not been seen in years. “I don’t want to ask you again, Michael. Where—” She paused before she finished the quesKon, expecKng no response “…is she?” She turned and raised a fist toward the mirror. She murmured a profanity under her breath and conKnued the conversaKon. “I like you, Michael. You’re commi-ed. I like guys like you.” She grinned slightly, shaking her head from side to side. She then sighed, glaring back once more at her opponent. * * *
Michael poked his head up. The same violent smirk that had been there four years prior remained on his aging face. His foul gray beard grabbed in every direcKon. The crusty strands of hair that sprouted from his grimy scalp stood untouched by hygiene products for quite some Kme. A fly circled his skull, finally resKng on his shoulder. It made its bed on a red stain that was once wine, or perhaps tomato sauce. The fly didn’t care. “Please, detecKve. Sit.” Michael whispered. “It’s been too long. We really have some catching up to do.” He smirked, entertaining and encouraging himself. He rotated his head leH ninety degrees unKl he could see his reflecKon and fidgeted with the one‐of‐a‐kind whale’s tooth around his neck. He winked and abruptly focused his a-enKon center again, forgepng his previous act. “You don’t expect me to believe you have anything on me, do you, detecKve? That mistake I’m sure you cannot possibly make twice.” He waited for a response. She waited back. “Nevertheless, detecKve, I have no idea as to the whereabouts of this girl, nor do I know anyone that does. Sufficient?” * * * The detecKve watched intently, observing any subtle movement, deciphering any sudden twitch. She reached into her back pocket, producing a slim manila envelope. She removed the contents and tossed them across the room. They came to a stop on Michael’s barren lap. “Look,” was her simple instrucKon. The notes in her voice turned from aggravaKon to sorrow. Michael looked down at a Polaroid picture of an empty field, taken seventh of November, 2007. Beneath this was another shot, this Kme zoomed into a small patch of under‐grown grass. Marked seventh November 2007. The third and final picture was an even Kghter close‐up. A small card lay on the ground. It showed a picture of a teenage girl with dark brown eyes and a sea of perfectly straight black hair. The girl was wearing a one‐of‐a‐kind whale’s tooth necklace. “How did you…?” The gruff voice trailed off. “Where is she, Michael?”
Sparrows Amber Aparicio She danced by the elephants, mimicking their trunks with a limp hand and an outstretched arm. I sat on a bench, kicking around white stones, reading engravings etched in the wood. Charlie’s strawberry curls spun as she giggled, and she adjusted her pink glasses that were far too big for her tiny nose. She tried to climb up on the bottom bar of the fence, but her toes couldn’t reach. I walked over to her. “Come here silly,” I said, trying to pick her up. “No! I did it!” She whined. “No you didn’t.” I forced a crooked smile. “Yes,” Charlie mumbled. “I did.” Her eyes widened and she ran away. “Come back here or else the elephants are gonna eat you up!” I called as I chased after her. “No, they only like stupids!” she yelled. “Did you just call me stupid?” I asked, surprised. She was already bored of her game and stopped running. She looked at me and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, Joshua,” she sighed. “Did I say you were a stupid?” “No,” I laughed. “I guess you didn’t.” “Well, you are now!” she screeched. She stuck out her tongue, blue from the ice pop that she begged me to buy for her earlier. I lifted her up on my shoulders, and she talked to me about the elephants. She explained their movements in detail as if I, too, weren’t tall enough to see over the fence. “And now he’s gonna get some water. He’s going slow ‘cause he has all day to do it. That’s all the elephants do.” I carried Charlie under the August sun all the way to see the birds. I didn’t really mind it, though. She told me where to go at every turn, pretending that only she could decode the arrows on the signs. The birds were just beyond the pond. A golden plate was covered by tangled vines that shadowed the arch, leading to the bridge. We tried for a while to read it, but eventually we gave up and passed through. The sun stained the still water, bouncing beams of light beneath the surface. Silver fish flopped in the air, coaxing little waves to fade until they disappeared forever. “Hey, Charlie?” I said, as I crouched to the ground so that she could get down. “What?” she sighed, turning to me. The sun entered her eyes, coloring them in a burnt orange. She scrunched her face and wiggled her nose. She was wearing her favorite outfit—denim overalls and flip-flops. “Look!” Charlie pointed at the sky to a flock of sparrows flying overhead. They created patterns and then separated, each soaring off on its own. Before I could say a word, she started spewing her theories about why birds fly. “Let’s go find the birds now,” I offered. She held my hand.
When we finally found them, she ran up to the cages, mesmerized by the jumble of pulsing colors. A bird flapped its yellow wings, tilting back its long beak. It rested on a thin branch next to three others, identical to itself. Charlie kept exploring. “Oh, he’s my favorite!” she danced. “Which?” I asked. “The one with the white belly and the blue neck.” “He is pretty. But Charlie, I think—” “Nope. He’s the best one and you can’t argue it,” she chuckled. “No. I guess not.” We heard two toddlers fighting over a stuffed bear. Their mother plucked it from their clawing hands, yelling at them for making a scene. The girls wore the same dress in different colors—blue and pink. The one in blue glared at her sister, as if to say that this battle would continue in secrecy at a later date. The one in pink nodded. Charlie watched carefully. She held my hand, tighter this time. We kept moving. I stopped to get her a late lunch at the snack bar, and she ordered chicken fingers and French fries, a child’s classic. I wasn’t hungry. With luck, we found a table under a tree. She inhaled her food in record time, and for such a little girl, that talent never ceased to amaze me. We stayed in the shade for a while longer, and she told me stories about her favorite bird. She gushed about his life before this place. When I asked her how she knew all that, she smiled, shrugged her shoulders, crossed her arms on the table, rested her chin against them, locked her eyes with mine and whispered, “Sometimes, there are things you just know. Sometimes you feel it. Other times you hear it in the wind.” “So which was it this time?” “Both,” she grinned. Charlie wanted to see the reptiles after she ate, but she forgot that she’s scared of snakes. I reminded her and she said that she wanted to go anyway, so we ran past them, hissing. We slowed down once the snakes were out of sight. She pressed her face against the glass containing the poison frogs. They had indigo skin with black and white spots all down their backs. A sign read that they weren’t really poisonous because they never lived in the wild, and Charlie seemed strangely disappointed. When we left the reptile house, the sun blurred our vision. I hate that feeling, like when you leave a movie theater after sitting for a couple of hours in the darkness, and in all that time you forget how bright the sunlight really is. Sleep crept into Charlie’s eyes and she began to yawn. “When are we going home to see Mommy?” She looked up at me, wiping her nose with her wrist. “Mom’s gone.” I clutched the metal banister and we descended the bronze staircase, slowly. A sparrow hopped on the last stair, singing a song I’ve never heard before. He didn’t fly away. We were coming and he didn’t even mind, like birds should. I wanted him to just fly away and leave us alone.
Thirty‐Five Seconds Ma- Rabito What if your world imploded in 35 seconds? You think it’s any normal day unKl a tremor in your core crescendos to roar through your vertebrae, A tremble in your toes grows to throw your heart through your throat and the globe ragdolls you around with heaving shakes, because 35 seconds is all it takes for an earthquake to rake a town in HaiK to the ground. And when the smoke clears, you rise on broken feet, smell bodies in the street, houses disintegrated, and there’s no one there to ring the death knell, because every bird with any brains already flew the coop. And it makes you want to fill your sails with the dusty air and take to sea. Because at sea, velocity equals mass Kmes the human capacity for compassion, where your only raKons are for sunshine and freedom, where the winds will take you anywhere you wanna lead ‘em, but the waves, the Waves of Grain will always point you to the American shore, lead you to this naKon built on the precipice of greed and glory. So look. Here’s the story, We’re sipng here, merrily living Part Two of our parents’ American Dream while the world melts outside our windows, blind to the past, anestheKzed at the present, downing mountains of 35‐second morsels like we gobble precious truffles. Like that 35‐second Dorito ad that incites us to make that patrioKc, 3‐minute quest to Shop Rite to buy a lifeKme’s worth of snacks, so we can champion it home, plant it on our mantles as an effigy to how we consume our Kme with roboKc efficiency, because we don’t have to waste it on anything: Because we have robots to cook for us! Robots to clean for us, robots to shop for us and robots to cook, clean, and shop for the robots that cook, clean, and shop for us. Robots to sleep for us, robots to eat for us, and one day we’ll have the bright idea to teach them to reproduce for us,
So maybe the future isn’t so bright, but at least we’re in America, right? So when the world ends in HaiK, we can just send money, send troops, while we sit on the thrones our forefathers built but our naKon teeters precariously on a pylon of gold coins. And on top of that we’ve got Tax hikes and school cuts and Vladimir PuKn And foreign oil and clean energy and the Middle East revoluKon And immigraKon, deportaKon, and United NaKons consultaKon on terrorism, the economy, and a scheme to use magneKc levitaKon to beam our trash up to the internaKonal space staKon where we’ll zap it with solar radiaKon. But what does that mean to your average HaiKan? So with 7 billion people in the world, there’s barely enough Kme to go around but we can do this — we’re an advanced species, it’s easy, we can learn to make a difference just from news clips on TV, and we don’t have to save the world all at once, just, take a 35 second crash course in global awareness, and look around you! History is afoot! Because sipng among you is the next generaKon of social workers and superheroes. So I think you get my point. As America’s youth we’re inheriKng a big mess. It’s up to us. And if it could all come crashing down in 35 seconds, we have no Kme to lose.
Drowning Papers By John Evans Beyond shore shown the rising sun, the rosy rays of the dawn stretching, reaching forth over the roving waters, the sea seeming endless. Alone within the confines of the fisherman’s menial vessel the lone mariner stared forth in to the nothingness of the sky overcast and then down, down at the blackness beneath. Upon another morn he would have no cause for distress, but there was the loitering, almost lingering shadow here, a watchful brood‐ ing which did not weigh upon a second in undo course but rather in a magnitude solely constant, as though every passing moment was an ageless weariness, as though the dullness of the air and the harshness of the sojourn could trammel up the consequence of the acKon, ringing the knell of despair homeward, bound in the anguish sullied and so tarnished. Through the waters of the world did crowd, did press around in besieging misery, the beso-ed heart of joys was drained, empKed of a constance of marvels, a monu‐ ment to a gladness perished, no more no less. There was nothing. Near to the crude port, consisKng of but a wooden plaworm and a few stone buildings along the coast, the fisherman lowered his net and cast his line into the shallow waters below, his fingers feeling the damp rope course and sKff run loosely through his grasp with a heavy weight. Frowning, the man grumbled as he groped grimly about his box of hooks and rugged oddments of his trade, his arms thumping against the flanking sides of the weathered vessel in his haste. A line or two of rope and a metal buckle to fasten the net to the stern ra-led as they fell precariously from a metal box which lined one corner of the boat. Cursing, the man kicked the items aside, not minding that they lay too near to the edge of the boat and so proceeded to extract a familiar leather bundle which rested in a chest of red wood beneath his spare lines and navigaKonal tools, his favorite spy‐glass and astrolabe couched next to what few coins and bars of gold were under his possession. Unraveling the cord which kept the bundle together, he found his pocket‐watch and booklet of many ta-ered papers, opening to one page out of the many there neatly bound into individual secKons marked by a tab of parchment which he had pasted to the outmost side of the opening and closing pages of the forty individual chapters that comprised the text. Sighing, he gave the manuscript one more look, put it down to examine the rolling clouds overhead, took the book‐ let back up again, and began reading what he found there.
Brighter in the Dark Amber Aparicio “I don’t believe in that stuff anyway. I mean, I would go to Hell, wouldn’t I? Eternally burning for the silliest reasons. But I’m a good person, don’t you think? Well, I…” She paused, tracing the face of her watch with a bent wrist, digging her nail into the glass. A white blouse cloaked her fragile bones. “Well, wait. How good do you have to be? You know, to be considered a good person and all?” “I thought you didn’t believe in it,” he teased. “I don’t! I just want to know what makes a good person. That’s all.” “Ask everyone in the world and you’ll be more confused than you already are.” The path crept past wooden pillars, billowing as it morphed into a marbled sky. There were no stars, only a biKng wind. An overhanging canopy sha-ered a sparse light through its swaying branches, casKng shadows in contorted waves. They focused on the leaf‐laden pavement, savoring the silence. “Do you think,” he asked, as a gold cloud smothered the skies and darkened the burnt filed beside them, “that we should stop here?” “But it’s so open.” “That’s why I come here. The sky’s endless.” She Klted her head, autumn air breathing a burning numbness onto her pasty flesh. “Alright. Fine,” he sighed, creasing her skin with the strength of his grasp. “I know a be-er place, then. Come.” They conKnued toward the eastern horizon—a sky coated in streams of blackness. He moKoned to a dusty cabin, vines crawling through crevices in its crumbling walls. A light‐feathered bird folded against the clouds, land‐ ing on a windowsill. She stared. Pensive. The door screamed as he opened it, and she followed him inside.
“Be-er.” “You’re so strange,” he laughed. She smiled. He fumbled in the darkness for his lighter. “You’re no different than I am.” She was capKvated by an insect inching along the bleeding while he held the smoke in his lungs, the constant hum of his breath vanishing. It was a curious white noise. The scent colored the gray stalls and seeped through the dirt‐caked floor, smearing a thick grease that lingered on the smoky mirrors. It was freezing. She stepped closer to him, black boots staining the mud. He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Really?” “Yeah,” her voice trailed with the penetraKng fumes, dancing beneath her dilated pupils. “Here.” She took it from his cold fingers and placed it between her wind‐misted lips. Inhaled. Slowly. “Adam?” She coughed. “What?” He was staring into the distorted glass. “Are you sure about it, I mean?” “I thought I told you we were done talking about this.” “But you have—“ “Audra, please. Just. Just please.” She noKced that his eyes were brighter in the dark. “Do you know how hard it is not to care? I meant what I said.” “So did I.” “But there are so many things you could do. You don’t have to decide just yet. You can stay here for awhile longer and maybe—“ “Name one.” “What?” “Name one thing I can do with my life. Just one.” His voice was low, almost muffled. “You’ll figure it out. I know you. And you know this isn’t it.” “But it is.” “Please don’t do this. I’d worry about you every day. And what about your girlfriend? I thought you—” “I don’t have a choice! Do you honestly believe that you’ll sKll care about me? You’ll miss me at first, but you’ll get over it. That’s how we survive. People move on because they can’t bear not to. So stop trying to convince yourself that life always works itself out. Let me tell you something. It never does. At least for me it never does.” “That’s not true. And I’ll always care. You don’t realize how—“ “Things change, Audra. Things are always changing. I can’t do this anymore. I thought that… alright. I’m done.” “What?” She swore it was just a week ago. A week ago since he told her he was finally happy. AHer years of his tortured wrists and self‐destrucKon, they were lying on the rooHop, listening to music that made them feel infinite. She didn’t say a word, but he cried and said he was happy. “Nothing. I’m just done with you.” She collapsed as his silhoue-e shoved through the torn screen door. It swung for some Kme, coaxing the wind to whisper a silent lullaby, and she pressed her palms into her eye sockets, screaming. His footsteps were faint. Fading. Gone. She knew that she would never see him again.
The Girl in the Red Peacoat Jenna Friedman “Hey,” she said, “you wanna see something burn?” The sun glared upon the city from its throne in the sky. We were walking down York, through the 80s, to our favorite diner. The li-le girl in the red peacoat was parked outside a beauty parlor, her golden hair pouring over her shoulders, glowing. She looked up. “You go-a promise me something first.” She warned. “Don’t tell Mommy. Mommy doesn’t like it very much when I burn stuff. You seem nice. You won’t tell Mommy. Will you?” She jabbed at the door. I peered inside the parlor. Idle stylists swapng at their updos, a manicurist in a white lab coast filing her own nails. I saw he red pumps peeking out from underneath the beehive hair dryer. I was sure that the blue helmet, once liHed, would reveal a similar set of bu-ery locks. “Well?” I looked at Tom. He gazed at his watch, his eyebrows pensive. CalculaKng the distance to the diner, the length of the meal, the walk to the theater, the duraKon of the trailer. “We’ve got a couple of minutes to spare,” he concluded. The li-le girl beamed. “Hooray!” she hopped over, throwing her arms around my waist. “You’re so nice. Nicer than Mommy.” She returned to her perch. Her body hunched over, legs bent, eyes prowling the cement. They passed over the wrappings and newspaper shreds that li-ered her vision. I squa-ed, offering her a scrap from the New York Post. She shook her head. “No, that won’t do…” She Klted her head, furrowed her eyebrows. Suddenly, they widened. She pounced. “There we go!” She moKoned for us to approach her. As we stepped forward, she revealed the prisoner of her cupped hands. A plump black ant scurried around her palms, its antennae flurrying. “Look. Do you like him? He’s cute, isn’t he? He’ll do nicely. Yes, he’ll be swell. I think I’ll name him Marcus.” She withdrew four popsicle sKcks from her leH coat pocket. Their Kps were Knged red. She arranged them to create a diamond on the pavement. “Welcome to your new home, Marcus.” She gently placed the ant inside its makeshiH holding. From her right coat pocket, she plucked a miniature magnifying glass. She peered up at the sun, her eyes squinKng. Her tongue poked out from the corner of the mouth. “Hmm…just about…” she drew a line with the glass from the sun to the popsicle pen, “…there.” The glass hovered crookedly over the startled ant. The ant writhed. The girl in the red peacoat chuckled. “Look,” she giggled. “He’s dancing.” The sunlight sparked a glint in her light eyes. A slight hiss seemed to emanate from the roasKng insect. The girl closed her eyes, sighing. A crack. The walls of the cage were spla-ered. Her eyes fli-ed open. She peeked down at the scene. “Aw, nuts!” She stomped the pavement. “Why didn’t you tell me? I missed the best part!” She glared up at us, her lips pulled down by an invisible anchor. She blinked, and her anger alleviated. “It’s okay, I guess. You didn’t know. You seem nice. It’s alright. I forgive you.” Tom glanced at me, eyes wide. He nodded in the direcKon of the girl, humming as she picked up her popsicle sKcks. I hesitated. Cleared my throat. “Honey, do you think it was…right, to kill that poor li-le ant?” “Why not?” She shrugged, her hair shimmering. “We all burn eventually.” She grinned, the glint reviving. “You can go now. But remember. Don’t tell Mommy.”
Loser
Shaw Schiappacasse This is a poem for my losers. This is a poem for my nerds, my freaks, my meek and weak, no physique, boy and girlfriend losing streak geeks! This is a poem for every high school student with just about as much swag as Michael Cera wearing monogrammed overalls, as much play as Billy Cundiff shooKng free throws, as much skill as a level four orc wielding a broken light saber! This poem is for every high school boy who is covered in peach fuzz and zits, whose mind goes on the fritz when he sees a girl with some glitz and he can’t keep his wits. This poem is for every high school girl who thinks she’s overweight and doesn’t know if she’s straight and sKll can’t get a date. Well hell, I can relate! And hey—popularity, I love you, and I’mma let you finish, but nerds like me have the most fun of all Kme. I don’t care what souped‐up energy drink you run on “homie” ‘Cuz I run on an AMD Phenom dual core processor. So if you’re having server problems, I feel bad for you son— I got 99 problems, but a glitch ain’t one. Watch the throne, king of the geeks is approaching, Wearing jeans with pen marks and headphones that are half‐broken, And with a voice like hot thunder that pierces the air, He proclaims, “You aren’t alone comrades, I’m there!” And I mean it. When you need someone to get dressed up with you for the Harry Po-er premiere, I’m there. When you need someone to pracKce your Shakespeare lines with, I’m there. When you need someone to get on his Xbox because you’re playing Nazi zombies and don’t have a full team, I’m right there! So when you get all upset and you get all depressed, ‘cuz you know no girls are impressed with the weight you bench press, Just realize that, given a few years, when girls start to relax, and your weakness doesn’t earn you constant a-acks, That the meek will inherit the earth, this is true, And all the mighty football jocks will be working for you. Girls, the same goes for you, too, don’t think you’re inferior. Don’t let some stupid boy convince you its all about the exterior, ‘cuz he thinks he’s superior—his moKves are ulterior, and if he says you ain’t beauKful, I’m gonna bust his anterior! But this is not about jocks and bitches and cool kids and junkies, But losers. Losers that wouldn’t want to be anything other than a bonafide legiKmate, true‐to‐himself, motherfucking loser! But don’t misunderstand me. This is not a poem for bitchin’ or whinin’ or screamin’ or cryin’ or sayin’ No one understands me or My parents are assholes or I hate my school or I’m a self‐righteous non‐conformist like all the hipster kids that look exactly the fucking same—no, this is a celebraKon! Who cares what other people say—nothing is wrong with having a full‐fledged light saber ba-le royale in your parents’ basement! Hell, you jocks and flirts don’t know wild nights unKl you’ve cracked open a Mr. Pibb, whipped out the whipped cream, and taken Call of Duty Modern Warfare 3 online gaming to new heights. That shit is Kght! Embrace it! Don’t worry about the drama and the fights and missed calls and sad sights or how your ass looks in those Kghts or why you’re alone on Friday nights—its all right! Be happy knowing that in twenty years you can tell your kids and wife That high school was one of the most awkward Kmes of your life. You played MinecraH and Skyrim instead of partying all day And you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way!
Un$tled Jenna Friedman “Really?” “Do it.” “No, I was kidding.” “No.” “Oh.” “C’mon, do it!” “That was sarcasm. Now make a wish.” “No!” “What’s sourcasm?” “It won’t hurt anyone.” “Something my brother taught me. He’s “It could.” real good.” “Nuh‐uh.” “So what is it?” “Uh‐huh! What if someone jumps ou-a “Didya make a wish?” nowhere and it hits them on the head and they go “Yeah. Go, quick.” into a coma?” “Lookadat! Didya see it?” “It’s a penny, Lacie.” “No. I saw the splash, though.” “I know that. But even a penny could hurt, if “So what’d you wish for?” you drop it from high enough, Luke.” “I can’t tell you.” “You’re a wimp.” “Why not?” “Am not!” “ ‘Cause then it won’t come true.” “Then why wontcha drop it?” “You sure you won’t tell me?” “…’cause.” “Mhm.” “You are a wimp!” “Fine. You wanna get ice cream?” “What if we break something?” “Yeah, okay. I’m hungry, anyway.” “Wiiiimp, wiiiimp! Lacie’s a wiiimp!” “I’ll have vanilla.” “It could land weird and crack the Kle and “I think I’ll have strawberry.” my mommy’d haveta pay a thousand bucks to re‐ “Strawberry’s good.” place it.” “Yeah, it is.” “We’d run away if it did.” “And I’m the wimp?” “I’m not a wimp. I’m street smart.” “Streets can’t be smart.” “You don’t get it. It’s okay, I know you wouldn’t. Lemme have the penny.” “No.” “C’mon, give it!” “It’s my penny.” “You’re a snooze.” “You’re a jerk!” “Don’t say that.” “Jerk jerk jerk jerkyface” “That’s it.” “Hey!” “Now it’s my penny.” “Well now your wish won’t count ‘cause you stole it.” “Fine. You make a wish then.”
Dear friend… Ilana Goldstein I have yet to discover evidence Behind our conversaKons and phrases, And in my heart blossoms repentance, As my brain controls and erases. The soul demands that the lips u-er: Hey, I am sorry for what happened to us. And all that comes out is a hopeless mu-er For our words drown as the others fuss. Hear my plea with some sliver of hope Because we need another try. If not, our friendship will not float, And we will join the others likewise. But listen to me Because I want you To become my friend again, Real and true.
One of Those Days Nick Beldoch Have you ever had one of those days, you know the ones where nothing seems to be going your way? I guess it was just one of those days. It’s not like I’m a parKcularly unlucky guy. In fact, I’d say I’m actually on the lucky side of things usually. Like I said, it was probably just one of those days. I guess I should start from Thursday night because looking back on it, I think that’s really when it all started to happen. Well, you could argue that this really started in fourth grade when I first met Joey. But then again my dad would argue that this all originated billions of years ago when the big bang caused this universe to exist, and once you get my dad going on that debate, it’s best to just leave him alone. In the interest of Kme, I’ll start from Thursday night. You see, Joey texted me Thursday around 7 or 8pm. I have the message if you really care about the Kme, but I don’t think that’s important to be honest. Anyway, like I was saying, it was around 8 when I got the message from Joey. All it said really was that Casey had been asking about me that day. You know the standard “Is he in a relaKonship? Does he like anyone?” kind of talk. The regular this and that you would expect a girl to ask about a boy that she was interested in. I told you I have the message but I don’t really think the way he worded it was that important. So Joey tells me that she’s saying all this stuff and I’m psyched, you know? I mean, I always knew she kind of liked me. And she isn’t a bad‐looking girl either. In fact, she’s actually very a-racKve when she puts a li-le makeup on. You know those girls who don’t have all the natural beauty, but when you talk to them you just get this feeling that they are really a-racKve? Yeah, she’s like one of those girls. Like I was saying, Joey sends me that text and I’m gepng all excited. I was gepng excited in my head, I mean, not physically. I think I was out to dinner at the Kme with my parents and my older brother. Yeah, I was definitely out with them. Because what happened was I told my brother every‐ thing that Joey told me. My brother’s a ladies’ man. He can go up to a girl, any girl, that he sees at a bar and she will let him buy her a drink. At least that’s what he says. He never takes me to the bars he goes to. Appar‐ ently they are pre-y strict with serving minors. But anyway, I told my brother, and he was telling me to play it cool, you know, act cool and talk to her or whatever. Man, do I wish I had listened to him. Not listening to him was my first mistake. My brother always knows what to do with girls, but I don’t. I usually just freeze up and start stu-ering or something stupid like that. All night I kept texKng Joey. That was my second mistake. If there ever was a decision in my life that I regret, it’s that one for sure. That, or the Kme I climbed that big tree behind my house when I was seven. That was the Kme I broke my leg and I had to get surgery. But I think texKng Joey was probably worse. I kept asking him what he knew about Casey and her friends and what she said, the works. All night we’re staying up texKng about Casey. So basically, I decided the only raKonal thing to do was to go talk to her. I told you, I’m not very good at talking to girls, and I think it wasn’t a good idea to have Joey build my confidence up.
36
So I go up to this girl, and I don’t really know exactly what I said, but I know it wasn’t good. You know there are some things that you say, that you don’t remember lepng out of your mouth? It seemed like I was hearing someone else say it, more than I was saying it myself. I definitely heard it, but I thought, “Why would anybody say something like that?” My brother wouldn’t have said that. Like I said, he’s good with girls. If he had been there he would have told me the right thing to say to her. Because, and I know you definitely won’t believe me when I tell you, I actually said this to this girl, honest to god. I walked right up to Casey and said, “Do you want to go on a date someKme?” Yeah, I know, I’m nuts. I don’t know why I would say that, because right when I did something changed. Suddenly, I realized she wasn’t wearing makeup and she didn’t look that good today. Now, I’m no professor of love or anything, but want me to tell you what I really think hap‐ pened? Call me crazy but I think what I really liked was the idea of a girl liking me. Is that really so much to ask as a teenage boy, for a girl to like me? Because the worst thing happened. You see, when I asked her out on a date, she said yes. Just my luck, right. I guess it was just one of those days.
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Un$tled Abby Osborn Would you start the New York City Marathon if you didn’t know where the finish line was? Would you put all that strenuous labor into the run, never knowing when it would end? What about if you weren’t quite sure why you were running? You run because everyone around you is running. Your friends are running, your siblings, and your parents are cheering you on from the sidelines. All you do is run. All you do is run. School is a game, a race. A race to a place everyone knows about: your parents, your classmates, even your teachers know about it. A sort of dreamland, where your studying gets you into a good college, the good college gets you a good job, a good life. Back to reality; this place doesn’t exist. Sure, it is a truism that “hard work pays off,” but not if you don’t know what benefits you want your hard work to reap. Well, it’s junior year. The most important year of your enKre school career, people will tell you. It’s a year of num‐ bers: number two, twenty‐four‐hundred, thirty‐six, six‐point‐oh, top ten percent. You. Must. Achieve. At whatever cost, achieve. Give up your social life, studying is more important. Cram. Whatever it takes to get a good grade. Sacrifices must be made. Sorry you can’t take creaKve wriKng, because you would have to drop physics, and we all know that won’t look good for college. DisappoinKng advice from your guidance counselor. This is what has become of our educaKon system. The junior class is full of drones following a course load dictated by what classes will look good on our high school tran‐ script. AP this, AP that, honors this, extra‐curricular that. You can only take the classes you are interested in if they look good for college. We’ve all seen these drones. That girl who spends endless hours working on her AP bio notes, has no idea what she’s learning, crams for every test, and doesn’t remember anything by the Kme the final exam comes around. Why is she even doing this? Maybe she didn’t even want to take bio, she wanted to take sculpture. But, dropping an academic for an art‐‐unheard of. That “isn’t good for colleges,” isn’t good for the generic, yet vague, high school agenda. So she makes the sacrifices. She takes the classes her guidance counselor tells her to. She hates them, but she takes them. So, why do we work hard at classes we don’t care about? Our parents tell us from a young age that hard work pays off. Work hard, study hard, and you can be whatever you want to be when you grow up: a doctor, a teacher, a law‐ yer. But you don’t know what you want. You’re sixteen years old, there’s no reason you should. So you work hard, in the hopes that you will know what you want with your life one day. You work hard to give yourself opportunity, a chance to make it in the scary, adult world. But there are no guarantees, and it seems no one realizes this. Working hard doesn’t necessarily mean you will get into the college of your dreams, and gepng into the college of your dreams won’t get you a good job. This isn’t dreamland. Hard work only guarantees one thing: that you work hard. I’m not trying to undermine the effects of hard work. It is also important to remember that working hard with no specific goals is akin to starKng a race with no idea where the finish line will fall—you can stop running whenever you want to, give up because you lose touch with what you’re working towards, but you will be trapped in the middle of the race, with nowhere to escape to, no backup plan to fall on. Everyone else is sKll running, and you get trampled. Hard work can get you places, but you can get places without taking classes you hate, and studying eight hours a day. Obvi‐ ously it is important to sKll work hard; I’m not saying to slack in everything you do for the rest of high school. But, don’t sacrifice some of the best years of your life studying things you don’t care about. Don’t give up doing the hobbies or li-le things you like to do to cram for subjects you hate. Think about your moKves—why are you doing this? What do you want out of your life? Your answer probably won’t be “take all AP classes I can and spend all my free Kme doing work.” According to Westchester Magazine, fiHy‐one percent of Ardsley High School juniors are currently in at least one AP course—what percent of these students are there purely out of desire to learn that topic? As students, we are learn‐ ing based on how to impress a board of adults that know the bare minimum about us: test scores, transcripts, a few clubs. We try to impress them in order to deceive ourselves that our hard work in high school actually did something for us. But, many omit the important next quesKon… what next? You got into college. But, what do you want to do with your life? Everyone avoids this quesKon, yet it is what should drive you through high school and college—not an arbitrary course load determined by what someone believes a college would like. You. Your hopes and dreams. So figure out what they are. QuesKon yourself. You are young. If you fail that test tomorrow, who really cares? Does it make you a bad per‐ son? No, it doesn’t. Will it determine the rest of your life? No, it won’t. So, why all the stress? Slow down, deep breaths, and appreciate what you have, while you can. It won’t be this easy forever. But, there’s not much we can do right now. The way society works today, you have to study hard, and work hard to deceive yourself that you are your only limitaKon from doing great things. So study up academia nut, just remember that there’s no guarantee your hard work will pay off.
Un$tled Amber Aparicio “Not knowing is what scares me, not the icy lake,” she repeated. “Not knowing what, Sally?” I asked again. “I don’t know. I have these dreams someKmes. I see his hand and I can’t tell if he’s trying to save me or drown me, but I push him away.” “Why do you do that?” “Push him away?” she quivered. I’ve never heard a voice quite like Sally’s. It frightened me, as much as I hate to admit it. She sang ev‐ ery word, every syllable. “Yes,” I looked up. “Push him away.” She tensed her shoulders, digging her chin into her collarbone. Her black bangs fell in front of her round eyes, golden from the glint of sunlight spilling through the curtains. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I don’t like that clock up there very much,” she pointed. “Why not?” “It thumps like my heart does in those dreams, under the green waves. My neck gets all damp and sKcky. The lights fade.” “I’m sorry, Sally. Here, I’ll take it down right now.” “No, no. Don’t. Can I tell you my other dream now?” She was wearing a white summer dress. It looked like a nightgown, the way it clung to her side and dropped around her knees. “Go ahead.” “I woke up. Not in real life, I mean. In my dreams I woke up. I think I was scared of the sound of si‐ lence. Pure silence. You know, the kind that rings in your ears. Well, this nurse shuffled in.” Sally’s ankles were crossed, swinging beneath the wooden chair. She was sKll glaring at the clock, eyes paralyzed. “Her robe was white with a round collar, a bow wrapped around her bony waist. She was sweet and very pre-y, but I wanted to hurt her.” “Why did you want to hurt her if she was sweet?” “Couldn’t say. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though,” she whispered. “It was only a dream.” “Is that all that happened?” “The nurse carried a tray smiling. Her teeth were jagged. She knew all about the lake, that nurse. She had those empty eyes. You know, the kind of gray eyes that you can see right through.” She studied the room, pausing at the animal figurines that guarded my desk. Her favorite was the glass elephant in leopard print. I told her she could keep it once, but she said that it wouldn’t be the same. I know what she meant. “Well she told me I had a visitor. I told her that I didn’t like visitors very much at all. She kept asking me, ‘Would you like some soup, Sally? We would love it very much if you had some soup.’ I looked right in her gray eyes and said, ‘I don’t want your grimy soup. Leave.’” She started to beg. Pleaded for forgiveness.” Sally squinted her eyes and dipped her head when she used her mocking voice. Her hands folded against her white dress. “”I’m so sorry, dear,’ she wailed. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ But I wouldn’t let her finish. I told her to leave again, and she ran away. Then a voice seeped through the glass. It said ‘Sally, sweetheart, you should say you’re sorry. Mary was only trying to help you. Won’t you let her back in, darling?’” Sally stood up. “I screamed that I wanted to go home. The voice told me that I was home. Then the voice faded away. Every night I tried to escape, but the voice would always catch me a laugh.” “Now how did Mary really know about the lake, Sally?”