The Criterion MXXVVI 2014-2015
Gabe Biolos
Dear Reader, “We made it through a Tuesday”. Every single meeting starts with a round of applause for everyone’s ability to make it through what seems to be the longest day of the week. The meeting goes about as usual but, since we all talk way too much, it runs at least ten minutes over our predicted end time due to at least fifty interruptions (mind you, we have nineteen members in our club). Criterion is more than just a literary magazine; it is a community of artists and writers who love to make and discuss creativity. Do our conversations result in fits of giggles? Of course, as all good ones do.
Staff List
Editors-in-chief: Ilana Goldstein & Caitlin Smith Literary Editor: Lauren Sanfilippo Designer: Taylor Margolies Treasurer: Nimrat Kohli Staff: Tamsyn Brann Brian Evans Matt Gross “We made it through a Tuesday”. Despite all the stress present Arman Luczkow in our-high-school lives and the inevitable desire to dash home, Erin O’Connell Tuesday afternoons in room 201 make it all worthwhile. Criterion allows us, our student body, and our readers to be our won- Leelu Ravi derfully imaginative, spunky selves. We share our own artistic Nikita Reddy work as well as those of our peers and by doing so, we indulge Kathryn Richards in weekly food-for-thought; whether it’s teenagers’ tumultuous Anne Sternberg emotions or a poem about hugs, we talk about it all and we learn from it all. Criterion’s club community provides a forum for con- Swetha Sriramoju Club Members: versation, expression, and learning. Christina Bordoni “We made it through a Tuesday,” a phrase the two of us will not Nicole Mattos say again in 2015. The reality of summer slowly settles in and, K.c. Montgomery with heavy hearts, we must bid our beloved literary magazine Samantha Ortiz goodbye. It has been an absolute pleasure to serve as editorsin-chief for the past two years. We cannot articulate how much Adelina Sinanovic we value the advice, experiences, and friendships we have taken Advisers: Mrs. Moleski & Ms. O’Brien from our tenure in this club. Thank you. Special thanks to: Dr. Haubner, Mr. Arietta, and the adEnjoy this year’s issue of Criterion. ministration of the Ardsley Union Free With love and laughter, School District Ilana Goldstein and Caitlin Smith Dedication: Ms. Kiesler and Mrs. Rosen Editors-in-Chief We dedicate this issue The English Department to our principal Dr. Jim The Ardsley PTA Haubner, who has supported the arts since day one. We cannot thank you for your unnerving passion for the arts at AHS, including Criterion. We will miss you next year.
Colophon: The Criterion is the literary magazine of Ardsley High School in Ardsley, New York. It is published annually online on Issuu at www.issuu. com/ahscriterion and is printed annually. This year’s magazine was typeset on a Mac using InDesign CS3
Table of Contents Art Work
Written Work
Gabe Biolis.......................inside cover Kristen Bova....................................35 Miles Bradshaw...............................26 Caitlyn Chu.......................cover, 3, 23 Kaya Das.........................................22 Emilie Dorn.....................................35 Sami Hutchinson..................17, 19, 29 Levon Kostandyan...........................12 Miranda Lopez................................22 TJ Lyons..........................................21 Nicole Mattos....................................1 Emma Schneider...................10, 11, 31 Adelina Sinanaj................................28 Zoe Solomon..........................6, 12, 33 Swetha Sriramoju........................5, 15 Jayde Xu.....contents, center fold, back cover
Depression by AJ Hernandez....................2 Shit Lot by Lauren Sanfilippo...................3 Autumn by Arman Luczkow.....................5 Daydreaming in the Drumming Rain by Nikita Reddy........................................7 The Waste Hierarchy by Evan Macedo.....8 Lost by Morgan.........................................9 Truth by Sandra D...................................11 The Cold Within by Arman Luczkow......12 2 by Jane KC...........................................16 La Madre by Fallon Sheridan.................17 Manwhore by Caitlin Smith....................18 Watching the World Go By by Ilana Goldstein...................................19 I Want it by Sandra D..............................21 The Tragedy of the Common by Lauren Sanfilippo................................................22 Ignotego by Celia Castellano..................23 Victims of Fear by Kathryn Richards.....25 I Believe by Katharine Morse.................27 Light and Dark by Anne Sternberg........30 Monster by Lauren Sanfilippo................31 Thoughts on Ambiversion and My Peers by Kathryn Richards Hysterical Blindness by Rosina Mandolina..............................34 It Starts as a Thought by AJ Hernandez.....................................35 The Gift by Bethany Kelly......................38
Jayde Xu
1
Depression AJ Hernandez Depression, the fear of not wanting to wake one day, as you lay in disarray of the world around you. Your inner mind fighting with your body, which is fighting back just as hard and to summarize this expression into a one word definition it would be depression. Suspicion of the people around you and their judgments back, makes you want to act with a self-inflicting attack. The scars may not be on wrists but they still exist in my head, cutting and jumping, wishing I was dead. These voices in my mind are not mine alone, but voices that control and uphold their power against my soul. I can’t escape their wrath, holding, tying, boarding, scolding, remembering, withholding to forget and move on from my past. These voices are viciously forced upon me, vivid and violent thoughts only to victimize me. It’s like holding a gun straight to the head, wishing I was dead, making me dread getting out of bed in the morning. BANG. The gun goes off. It’s a new day, a new morning. The morning, the mourning of a poor soul by his family, doomed by damnation and hesitation to say something was wrong. The mourning of the thoughts held hostage in the head of a poor soul. A poor soul who went by and by on his day, but couldn’t buy anything to make his pain go away. For the voices always bound to play and sustain and drain all that makes you feel good, but the voices go away, happiness at first but then loneliness, and depression. Then to feel a hand on your shoulder and to turn and it’s only you, to hear the voice of the friend but you’re all alone in the field. You are alone, but not lonely, isolated but not separated, depressed...but not
destroyed.
Nicole Mattos
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“Shit Lot” By Lauren Sanfilippo
3
Weeks afterwards, I could still see her blood stained onto the weathered concrete of shit lot. Other kids buzzed around Peach Grove Preparatory School in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, ignoring the sectioned off piece of sidewalk. They continued to drink on weekends, and sneak joints in the communal bathrooms, running the shower so the steam would erase the smell of pot. But the God’s honest truth is, no one even remembered her name. It happened in winter, and like the demise of most tragic heroes, everyone saw it coming, but no one tried to help. I am no exception. Actually, I’m the biggest bastard of them all. When she was alive, everyone knew who Lila Lancaster was. It was hard not to. She was beautiful. Not in a bottle-blonde, cake face, booty shorts type of way. She was a classic beauty; curling strawberry hair, long legs and sharp cheeks bones smattered with freckles. She was crazy and wild, but she was smart. From the lips of the great Bukowski, there was no lie in her fire, only bright vivid flames that you could almost touch, but not quite. She was true insanity. You see, no one could own her. She was irrevocably self-possessed. You just knew by the sway of her hips, and the bite of her voice. The sun blazed above all our heads, and it seemed like a joke. God’s latest and greatest fuck you. I loved her. Well, I thought I loved her. I guess not enough. Because in the end, she still jumped. Right off the top of Eastman hall, where she roomed her freshman year. The news report, the police report, and the school report all said that she was trying to land in the Creek. The Creek was a particular nuisance. Long, and wide, it snaked its way through our small campus, connecting two distant towns. People say it wasn’t always a creek, river, whatever you want to call it. Rumor says, it started as a crack. No one expected it to grow as big as it did. You see, the Creek was a nasty bitch. The architecture of this school was a fucking disease; a real fault. And though the four-story drop into the frozen water may have been survivable, she missed the Creek by a foot, maybe two. She landed in shit lot, the parking lot behind the freshman dorms, away from all other human life. Juniors had to park in S-lot if they wanted to bring a car (which administration obviously didn’t want them to do.) If I had only known. Took the time out of my day, ignored my anger, my rejection, maybe I could have saved her. Or I could have helped her, maybe. The consensus after her death is that she wanted the attention. That she was desperate. She left no note, left no explanation. I mean, why else would she do it? I loved her. I was sure of it. I mean, I wasn’t much. But I was something.I might not have been ripped and handsome like the other guys she dated, but I loved her. How many people can say that? That they were loved, completely and truly? I loved her for all of her faults. I never got to see the body. I was told that she splattered, like a tomato being thrown at a wall. Body Parts haphazardly thrown around like garbage. I was also told that she just landed, in one piece, pooled by blood, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Her parents never came to get her body. They sent a driver to Minnesota, and had the body flown to Miami, There was no wake no funeral. She was there, and then she wasn’t. There had to be comething that we weren’t seeing. That she chose to hide, or left out in plain sight for
Caitlyn Chu
everyone to see. But no one did. Or everyone did. Something that pushed her over the edge. And I really couldn’t blame her. She hung out with the wrong crowd. That was a given. She dated the jocks, got drunk with the cheerleaders, and rolled joints with the stoners. A week after the event, there was a memorial in her honor. Right near that blocked off slab of sidewalk. I went. So did two other people. It was a shitty memorial. Pictures printed off Facebook, sloppily thrown around, a couple already melted candles and a beat up radio playing music I have never even heard. It was tragic. No one even cried. The teachers didn’t like her because she never attended class. The kids she called her friends were pissed at her because now the rules were stricter than ever. No more snorting shit up your nose while finishing up the AP Gov homework. Her boyfriend had already been cheating on her. We all saw the endless bracelets. The long sleeved sweaters on the rare warm days. She didn’t eat much. Never, really. She was still beautiful. I met Lila my freshman year, when she was a sophomore, and my older brother, Chris, was still a senior. I stared, awestruck, of the girl in front of me. She was sunshine and rain all at once. She was thin, a little too thin, but radiated youth and light. The Chucks that were on her feet were heavily drawn on, bright slashes of pen on the once pure white. She wore a pale, long-sleeved shirt, and a sundress over it. My brother pulled me out of my daze, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “Bad idea.” His voice was like a bucket of cold water over my skin. “Why?” His eyes softened a bit, but not enough to be comforting. “You would be good for a girl like that. But she wouldn’t be good for you.” Chris then shook his head, and ambled away from me. I looked back at the roaring groups of kids, and after standing still in the middle of the masses, I started to move again. I was late for Physics. Maybe one of these days it would dawn on me why she did it. But I was just a teenager. I wasn’t going to waste my time chasing ghosts. She did this to herself. She didn’t ask for help. I made my way to classroom 103, and sat in the seat farthest to the right, all the way in the back. My tolerance for people had been crippled since the event. Maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. I can count on one hand the amount of times I had actually spoken to Lila Lancaster. That may make me crazy, but I swear, I loved her. My Physics teacher was a mess of a woman. Matted grey hair and cheap red lipstick smudged onto her frontal incisors. “Brian, do you have anything to say?” “No.”
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Autumn Arman Luczkow
When all the work is weighing you down look up. Embrace the sky; shower in its light. For autumn may be cold but this life of trouble never gets old. Fiery leaves swaying on brittle branches, sharp pine needles drifting through the air. Help me remember that one day I’ll wake up in a world far better.
Swetha Sriramoju
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Zoe Solomon
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Daydreaming in the Drumming Rain Nikita Reddy Right after the storm, it’s easy to remember the beating of water against skin. It’s heavy. The whole place is heavy. You can still feel the beats on your back because the air reminds you. The air presses up on you and forces your eyelids open. The drops, their sizes no bigger than a sunflower seed, feel like an army screaming as they hit trees and picnic tables and swings in the park. When it gets harder to remember is a week later. The feel of water drumming on skin is forgotten from the pain of carrying heavy loads. The feel of water drumming on skin gets washed away each night under showerhead. Children who long for the sweet taste to stay forever in their mouths after they eat ice cream know this kind of memory: their tongues dancing with sugar; their lips are pressed to savor sweetness; their cheeks pink from laughter but tongues blue from ice. They smile despite the shivers in their spine from tasting the coldness. They smile from the heat of their laughter and the pleasure of their dancing tongues. But they can’t go on like this for long. By early the next daylight, when the kitchen is alive and the sun breaks on their morning faces, all they can remember of their joy is the pain from laughter they felt in their dimples. They sob because they exhausted the sweetness, and so that when their mother calls them for breakfast, the little one can ask for more of the cream that made his tongue dance. Sometimes I’m glad I can’t take it all in. Not because I’m foolish, or depressed, or can’t feel the joy of these little pleasures, but because despite all the bliss we feel in these small moments we live in reality. We need the pain to help us feel thrill. We need the hail to remind us of the wonders of snow. We need the nightmares in our lives to wake us so we can always remember singing in our dreams. And for all the pain we invite onto our backs each day, a second for daydreaming in drumming rain or sweet cream is enough relief.
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The Waste Hierarchy Evan Macedo It’s hard being the minority. I’m here, just sitting in class, and I’m outnumbered two to one. I work harder to help than them I wear a brighter color than them I’m the best at what I do, and still Nobody notices me. People just walk on by, thinking I live a lie; I’m actually just like everyone else. I’m not. Everyone else is trash, but me Me! I’m Recycling. For some reason, my bin keeps getting more garbage thrown in it than a shoplifter’s purse And I don’t know what more I can do to show that I’m not trash, I’m Recycling. My solid blue coating with my broken white triangle, dazzling in the room, waving to everyone saying, “Hey, I’m a nice girl” But that big shot thinks just because she’s got curves and I’m boxy that she is better than me. Is she? She is Regina George. Everyone goes to her more often. Everyone gives her my stuff. Everyone thinks that I’m the trash or worse, They don’t think about me. When people look for her they find her. When people look for me, they give up because no one thinks to look in the dusty dank corner where the alone and depressed bin spends all her time. So often I hear, “Wait… you’re here?” So often people don’t understand me, “Are you bottles or paper?” But People need to understand that if they can recycle they should recycle so there will be land for our kids. The hoods won’t just be on the edge of town but all ‘round the neighborhood, because housing would be too expensive, then everyone will be pensive and on the offensive in this intensive and I know this isn’t really comprehensive so you might try to get defensive, But don’t. Just, instead of walking by me and ignoring me for a curvier, taller, thinner bin, give me attention. I think you’ll enjoy the results.
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Lost By Morgan
I have lost control All the problems I have been avoiding Have added up I delve deeper and deeper into my mind Searching for the answers Yet I receive nothing Not a hint Not even a sign I am on the brink of insanity Leaning over the cliff of despair I slowly lose the battle Round after round Defeat after defeat Succumbing to the pressure and destructive thoughts I don’t have much to hold onto I feel closed Entrapped Tangled I am no longer the navigator of this journey For I have become a victim of your control The light has escaped me I have become shrouded in darkness I know not a way out But only a way deeper into the void They say experience and intelligence comes with age Yet I am still blind Light shines from somewhere within But the location of this tale is an enigma I have waited for the truth to come Yet I receive nothing I have tried to achieve victory Yet I achieve nothing Time is one of our most precious gifts As well as one of the most wasted People who search for something in this world fail to value their time
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For there is nothing to be found Nothing ‌ but the empty string of lost hope ‌ and forbidden truth
Emma Schneider
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Truth Sandra D. Bullied all my life Verbal, physical, virtual The pain never stopped. Tear filled nights Anxiety ridden days But all i ever said I'm good. Adults made it worse Resentment building Day in day out its all the same The bullies stop but the torment continues Voices echoing from the past FAT, USELESS, UGLY, WORTHLESS Emma Schneider
Today the mirror is my only bully Break the mirror Walk away Change the voices
Don't bully yourself
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The Cold Within Arman Luczkow Raindrops patter on the rooftop Twisting through the gutter. Our grass has never been green, The wind doesn’t blow. We’ve been taught to remember This is the way things are here And there’s nowhere else to go. We’re afraid of losing shadows, Of turning from despair and darkness The painful tremors and anxiety Because these are the things we’ve learnt Will always be. Fires are too weak to spread The dusty car keys Are made of lead. The sun never reaches our skin Perhaps it’s scared Of the cold within. Yet this is home The one place We’re truly alone. With a breaking voice That’ll only ever sing to itself We’ll hide in our pasts And crawl between the shelves.
Zoe Solomon
Levon Kostandyan
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13
Jayde Xu
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Swetha Sriramoju
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2 By Jane KC
I am a mathematician My love is a writer I don’t know how to put words together He doesn’t know the Pythagorean Theorem But he has taught me more than any professor ever could He taught me 2+2=4 2 is a special number 2 is the number in a pair 2 is the number in a couple or the number of us 2 represents each of us Because 2 means more than just 1 Because he is more than just 1 He is more to me than any 1 And no doubt The first time I told him I loved him Was at 2:22
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La Madre --Este poema está basado en un cuento que yo escuché cuando era niña By Fallon Sheridan La madre siempre sabe Lo que es mejor para sus hijas Y siempre les dicen a las hijas Sus pensamientos y aconsejas Pero, ¿qué occure Cuando la madre no está aquí? Ella está en el cielo, Un lugar lejos de mí. Ella puede ver Y proteger mi vida. Pero sin su sonrisa, Mi vida es aburrida. Y cuando era niña, Ella me dijo “Mira una estrella” Y cuando hago esto Yo sé que la luz es ella. Translation: A mother always knows What is best for her daughters And always says to them Her thoughts and advice But what happens When the mom is not there? She is in the sky, A place far from me. She is able to see And protect my life. But without her smile, My life is boring. And when I was young, She told me, “Look at a star” And when I do this I know the light is her
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Sami Hutchinson
ManWhore By Caitlin Smith “Sexy woman,” screeched the kids bounding from one end of the pole to another. “Sexy woman,” the brother repeated, mimicking the older’s actions.“Shh,” the mother hushed through rose stained cheeks. “Sexy pole,” spewed the defiant leader. “Sexy door,” went the sidekick. “We’re not singing that song right now!”
The Veterans were compiled into a small, vintage fire truck, while roaming the streets of New York City. Handing couplets of flags to every onlooker around, waving age-splattered hands, beeping horns, and grinning for the world to see their experienced faces gleam without the hovering shadows of war.
“Do you want to take my number,” he asks with more confidence than he is worthy of, after reciting the contents of his dating profile. “No,” I reply, already cultivating a number of reasons in my head: 35, selling CD’s on the street, won’t leave, etc. etc. After continuous rejection, he makes a dishonorable retreat, of blaring disrespectful sentiments. One being a city-wide alert that he is a ManWhore and then various other statements I would rather forget.
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Watching the World Go By Ilana Goldstein She replies with a text:“I want some me time” even though it’s a Friday night and she’s seventeen and there’s already a pizza in her friend’s oven. Eyes glazed, they hunch over glowing metal and tap incessantly at finger-stained screen waiting for a red heart and a little beep despite all of the colorful noise in the cafeteria. Awkwardly standing in the corner, cup and chips nestled in his fingers, he refuses to speak because he thinks he can always talk to them another day. She grows frustrated and indignant, demands participation in the grade’s festivities, mocks my decision to talk rather than play, and claims that I’m watching the world go by. After a long day I eavesdrop on their gossip, laugh at their off-key pop tunes and endless giggles and I sit, fascinated by their energy, watching the world go by.
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Sami Hutchinson
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I Want It By Sandra D I want it I need it I crave it When I get it, I feel... It makes the stress melt away It’s like a drug... I am addicted One time is not enough Sometimes it’s better than other times, but I crave it nonetheless I think about it all the time Sometimes I see a person and just want it from them Other times not so much I want it I want a hug
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TJ Lyons
Kaya Das
Miranda Lopez
The Tragedy of the Common Lauren Sanfilippo
I know, but I won’t admit it. I cheat. Fifth grade spelling bees, AP History, memorizing Socrates. I lie. No, I didn’t punch him in the face. No, I didn’t break that lamp.Yes, I do love you. I steal. Pink sparkly pencils, scratch-n-sniff stickers, bedazzled belts and $2 hair clips. I am human tragedy. He knows, but he won’t admit it. The doctors told him months ago. It was easy to ignore. His parents dismissed it like one swats away a fly, bathing in their denial and disillusionment. Thursdays were Scrabble night. Saturdays were movie night. He was fourteen when they found it, swelling like a balloon on his right lymph node. He was sixteen when he was buried. He is a human tragedy. She knows, but she won’t admit it. Her face is scarred. She sits in her room. Cold steel met flesh five years ago when a drunken minivan came swerving and swinging down the street. She was eleven. She plays the trombone. She reads comic books. Sometimes, only sometimes, she sings Jeff Buckley in the shower. She doesn’t look in the mirror. She is a human tragedy. They know, but they won’t admit it. Their marriage fell apart years ago. He started sleeping at the office. She started screwing the tennis instructor. They go to therapy on the weekends. They have three kids and one nanny. Five place settings rest on the dining room table. Four are used. They hate each other, but can’t say it. They are a human tragedy.
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Caitlyn Chu
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Ignotego Celia Castellano
Every once in a while I see myself clearly, as if for the first. I look deeply into my mirror. I study the crevices of my face for a few minutes. But for as long as I look, I still don’t recognize the face I see. Are my eyes even blue? Is my hair still blonde, just like it’s always been? I guess it’s been so long since I saw myself. I keep staring at this image, but soon I thrust my head in the opposite direction because, truthfully, it scares the hell out of me that I haven’t the faintest idea of who that person in the mirror really is. My smile seems foreign; the way my hair parts itself is alien to me. I look back again though, because hopefully this time I’ll see the image of myself that is engrained in my head. We go through life in our own bodies, yet our eyes only let us see everyone else. I have memorized all the mannerisms, faces, faults, all the little things about the peers that surround me every day. However, when someone tells me that I say the word “uncomfortable” after every sentence, I’m dumbfounded. How have I been able to go through these 17 years and not know myself? Yeah, I know my hobbies, my likes and dislikes, but I have no idea who Celia Castellano is. Even just that, saying my own name, makes me feel uncomfortable (see, there I go again). I have had this name my whole life but I’ve never gotten used to saying it. It just doesn’t seem to fit. We’re supposed to know everything about ourselves since we live inside this body every single day of our lives, but as I’ve made it pretty clear, I do not know who I am. We’ve become so accustomed to seeing everyone else that we don’t give ourselves enough time to understand who we are. We are taught to imagine the perspectives of others. But how can I really understand another person’s point of view if I don’t even know what my own point of view is? So instead we must allow ourselves to think about our own being first. We need to give ourselves the time to discover the soul-deep thoughts that rack our brain incessantly, which we push aside so often. We are so afraid of hearing our own thoughts that we drown them out, in what would be a silent car ride, by turning on z100. And god-forbid we have to sit alone without the comforting touch of our cellphones to muffle the inner contemplations of our minds. Maybe I don’t recognize myself because I’m so busy trying to fit into the box that my parents and teachers and friends and society and the media and everyone else has created for me. Except, what’s worse is that they all placed different boxes in front of me and expected me to jump right in. But by now I’ve stretched myself so thin, by escaping myself and attempting to fit into these boxes, that there’s basically no way to survive anymore. I haven’t made my own box. I haven’t been able to think about myself for once. I haven’t let my mind delve into what I want in life and who I am. It is time that we mold these so-called boxes into something we can actually fit into for once. If we don’t do this, we may become jammed so far into these boxes that there will be no hope of escaping. Yet still, I’m not sure, even if I was given all the time in the world, I could really tell you who I am. I have so many thoughts, so many desires, and so many internal conflicts racing through my head. We have about forty-eight thoughts per minute. That means two thousand, eight hundred and eighty thoughts per hour. Sixty-nine thousand, one hundred and twenty thoughts per day. Four hundred eighty-three thousand, eight hundred and forty thoughts per week. Two million, one hundred seventy seven thousand, two hundred and eighty thoughts per month. Twenty-six million, one hundred twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and sixty per year. And if you live to eighty, for a grand total that’s two billion, ninety million, one hundred and eightynine thousand thoughts per lifetime. So when someone asks me to describe who I am in one word, I believe it’s impossible to truncate my existence into another formulated box. Our extreme complexity is too valuable to be dwindled down into one sentence. So I’ll sit here and continue to question who I am, and maybe I’ll eventually figure it out, who knows. But I can no longer go through every day of my life being able to recognize all of your voices, but not my own. We need to allow ourselves the time to uncover who we’ve become over the years. Because if I don’t know how to simply look myself in the mirror and not be frightened, then how am I supposed to help anyone else with their own internal struggles? And I don’t believe that I’m alone in my confusion of self-understanding. Aren’t many of us deeply struggling over how we will describe our entire life experience in a relatively short college essay? Yet there is no word for this puzzling phenomenon, even though almost all students, going through the college process, end up realizing that they have no clue who they are. However, now there is a word: ignotego—ignotus meaning unknown and ego meaning self in Latin. So now in a few months when you sit down on your bed, open up Word, stare at the blinking bar that awaits movement down the page, and contemplate how to “describe yourself in 1000 words” craftily enough to get into your dream school, just know that there are thousands of teenagers out there just like you who are suffering from ignotego.
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Victims of Fear Kathryn Ruchards They say anger is a side effect of fear.
We fear the unknown, those that are unknown, the variants of the human condition. That’s why people are hateful and cruel; because they are afraid of change, afraid of losing what they have. Fear controls them, contorts their frame of view until all they see is evil. They see evil in what is not evil at all. They see threats that aren’t there, a contagion to their way of life. For centuries this irrational, insatiable, indefatigable fear has destroyed all sense of humanity and decency. It has turned humans into beasts. Only recently have the hated and feared stood up once and for all, Declaring they wouldn’t take it anymore. And things changed. The fear relented, some of the beasts reverted to their former selves, their humanity and compassion returned to their souls, evicting the cloud of fear and contempt that made its home in their hearts.
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But not all the beasts left. Some had sacrificed themselves to this fear wholly and completely. They were lost the second they were born. Their benevolence billowing away like smoke from a fire, meandering through the atmosphere, never to return to its creator. What I want to know is why. Why are people so consumed with this fear that they are willing to belittle and batter and butcher the innocents they target? Why did it start? When was in conceived? And by whom? Who is responsible for this? Who is to blame? Who thrust upon me this burden of being hated for what I can’t help? Who made me assume all the lost, dejected souls of the wrongfully dead? The infinitely wronged. Those who were physical and psychological victims of the fear. Who made me one of them? The infinite tragedy is, we will never know.
Miles Bradshaw
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I Believe Katharine Morse I am a believer. Life has to be more than going through the motions of each day like a bee in a hive, a stiff wooden puppet who doesn’t know what it means to be alive; a remote controlled car on an endless little track, a sheep who only lives to be herded there and back, and to sleep. As day falls to night and heads fall to pillows, I am so much more than a statistic, a point on a graph, a student in a class, or a fish in the sea. A woman. A woman is a woman is a woman, is more than I will ever be. The shallow water of your comprehension cannot encompass the depths of me. You can take my frozen picture, see me still and light and fair, but a single sheet of paper won’t begin to compare. Black ink sits much colder than the crimson on my wrists, each little drop of blood more proof that I exist, when I forget about the veins tracing maps of long lost cities beneath my flesh, the bottoms of my toes stained with mud and earth and death. Life is so much more than we can build and try to buy, It is the air in your lungs, filling each extremity, it is the choices that you decide to finally make, and it is the wind beneath my wings when I fly away from this bullshit. Remember the world, still crystalize in rain. I will live for myself, and I will rise above the pain.
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Adelina Sinanaj
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Sami Hutchinson
Light and Dark Anne Sternberg A young child Alone A new flickering wick Enclosed in a soft, steady shelter Quick drops, a wax always on guard And if necessary, Will melt away into emptiness In a heartbeat If it keeps the promising infant dancing Like a flame he hungers An absolute need Arms reaching out But not really Wrapped around raw, fresh, new skin Arms crossed across his chest Curled up into a ball Holding himself tight A silent beg can’t travel far in the freezing black wind Running around An innocent angel But even the good has held hands with evil Shadows Anger Demons Words Mistakes Circles Hurt Hurting All clashing Shards of glass, bled inside out Knives haunting Whispering in his ear Seducing him to fall apart
Fall down Fall away Night claiming its own Holding him in its hand But a grasp as light as mist But the seeds of all he is made of Wishes to be Was Will be All the feathers of his wings The soul inside his mind That dips his way into his heart And his heart into his head Every drop of the blood in his veins Flowing to the edges of himself All the grains of sand on the beach Lie on both sides of the line Lie in the dark and the bright The two are entangled And house the two sides to every angle He is a twisted coil Two sides fighting Both losing Please don’t let him lose
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Monster Lauren Sanfilippo As I concentrate on the space between your eyes, the sun glints off your hair, short yellow snakes with copper and golden cracked scales, coiling and kissing the green of your skin as your talons scrape across the shards of my being, your voice a hollow shriek that methodically cuts into my flesh. Your voice is sunshine and pain, either love or hate, everything evil in the world. I glance to your wrinkled forehead, the hollows of your cheeks and your plumped body, full from all the dreams and hopes that passed through the hard lines of yellow lips, devoured by the pointy peaks of your rotting teeth. Your hands coil around my bones, cold ice that clashes with fire as you shake my broken body and tears rip down inflamed cheeks. Your ragged fingernails pierce through my chest cavity, gripping my pathetic cardiac muscle in your poisonous hands. Your voice tells me that I am nothing. That I am worthless. The words make their way under my brittle skin, that flakes away with every beating,
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and suddenly, your claws retract I use my stubby fingers to drag myself to the mirror and stare at the ugliness that the beautifully untouched girl has become. I look at every scar and every wound, but I never meet the eyes because the eyes show the monsters in us all. Especially in you.
Emma Schneider
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Thoughts on Ambiversion and My Peers I sit. Alone Not always lonely. Sometimes I am. I wait for companions that never come. Friendship that never smiles. Only silence and the distant laughter of those around me. But sometimes I'm fine. I take solace in that silence, Relish the distance of others. Because it allows me to see who I really am. Who you really are. There's something about what you're willing to say When you think I'm not listening That shows who you really are And who I can really trust. Kathryn Richards
Zoe Solomon
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Hysterical Blindness Rosina Mandolina It's been a long slow death and I should have seen it coming It was inevitable The signs were there for quite some time He gives less I accept less He says less It says more I chose not to see, or I saw only what I wanted We make excuses, concessions, and rationalize and justify The arguments become futile, circular, with no resolution But we latch on, hopeful It's hysterical blindness I believed in him, when everything logical told me not to and he never ever believed in me, or what we had I'm not sure what's worse, saying things you don't really mean, or Not saying what you really mean Both are simply lies And if that's what this has been based on, then we never stood a chance Doomed from the very first kiss it was no more real or different than anything else I’m still one of many Foolish Suddenly there's such clarity It all makes sense
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It Starts as a Thought AJ Hernandez It started as a thought then my whole night was ruined. I stayed awake in a state of confusion and trouble, locked in my mind of devastation and rubble. With interlocking mazes of memories and regrets and maybes what-ifs and then...nothing gets done. I see the sun rise up, as if hesitant to see me. ...I’m sure it sees me tremble. My thoughts continue to cloud and confound and bound me to a game of life. Like some game of minesweeper where every space is a bomb, ready to go off once uncovered. I’m ready just to give in to the pressure of having to defuse every single one. Every Single Fucking One. With 3 wires. Red, Blue and Green. Anger, Sadness and Scenes. Everyone tells me, that my thoughts are my control. That, all I have to do is think of something else. I try, at least I try. But every memory just leads to another pain, like a train where every stop is a ravine waiting waiting waiting to go off-board. I thought my mind was supposed to get clearer as i aged and understood more. But the more I see, the less I know. The less I know the worse I feel. The worse i feel the more i question what’s real or fake. To take those thoughts and craft them into stones and epics, that are supposed to depict a certain picture. But what i write they don’t understand. My handwriting too scribbled My typings, unclear. My voice, too muffled.
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Kristen Bova
But what i write they don’t understand. My handwriting too scribbled My typings, unclear. My voice, too muffled. To teach those to break the bounds that confound and surround you, not to be afraid of uncovering the bombs inside. Not to implode or impose you, but to give the sky a picture with the inner fireworks that spark your creativity and your own reality. I started with a thought, and in the end i ended with a story that didn’t explode me but explored me. I was able to figure the pattern to the maze, that I was once trapped for days in, to gaze in and realize I made it. But the work isn’t done, my journey has another island, my adventure another map, my story another chapter, I can’t call it and say ¨That’s a wrap¨ Because where i succeed others try to fight, with their might, but their voice no bark they actions no bite. I wanna breach, I wanna preach, I wanna teach. Teach how to deal with the color of pounding desks and scattered papers to the color of another night alone, with a lighter tone. I wanna teach those who try to cope with no hope of a better tomorrow because sorrow is always present in their mind. That the bully always finds and pokes and pokes and pokes and you choke on the tears and your fears come alive. But express those thoughts maybe in anger maybe in sadness maybe in scenes, but express don’t compress your thoughts. Because in the end you are who you choose to be, and if your thoughts manipulate what others see, and have others try to demean you, well screw ‘em. be who you want to be see what you want to see create what you want to create and make from what you can take, Because in the beginning you might only have a thought, but in the end you can create a Story.
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Emilie Dorn
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The Gift Bethany Kelly Waiting for love like it’s water, but I can’t pretend any longer Kina Grannis She gave him friendship. He gave her a Facetime. She gave him secrets. He gave her someone to trust. She gave him tears and broken hearts. He gave her something to look forward to. She gave him Washington, DC. He gave her London, England. She gave him a “see you soon.” He gave her the long distance. She gave him her everything. He gave her a text every third week. She gave him her innocence. He gave her a superiority complex. She gave him whatever he wanted. He gave her something to be ashamed of. She gave him nervousness and shame. He gave her anger and a lecture. She gave him no hope for the future. He gave her a flight to meet the family. She gave him the end. He gave her nightmares and a promise to come back again. 38