Pegasus 2016 by BergenPR

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pegasus 2016

BERGEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL WRITING CONTEST SPONSORED BY THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT

Preface 2016 he number of Humanities majors declines apace, while the number of IT majors increases; schools of theology stand empty; ethics and civics have disappeared from the secondary school curriculum; and leaders in government, the church, corporate America, and even law-enforcement are regularly outed for corruption and profligacy. Businesses, even those that profess to support social justice, normatively keep two sets of books, one for in-house use, the other for the IRS. And vows are understood as temporary arrangements, meant to be kept only until better arrangements appear. Yet technology and “science” lie all about us and increasingly draw our commitments and hopes for a better life. They seem to promise spectacular breakthroughs in medicine, instant communication and knowledgeability, increase in wealth, and personal entertainment. And, indeed, they have changed the world as radically as Gutenberg’s invention of movable type changed it in the 15th century. What took mediaeval monks days, months, and years to create can now be created, revised, and delivered to one or thousands of recipients in seconds. The text itself has become an obsession, demanding daily hours of attention and response, to the point where people no longer look where they’re going and “virtual reality” displaces real reality, including conversation, relationships, sex, and history. The text is no longer a rare metaphysical icon of God, the Logos of the Greeks and of Saint John, but a man-made and constantly evolving network, or web, with the power (hypertext) to touch every related association in the universe. Research, rather than amusement, is arguably the chief beneficiary of this wonderful accessibility, so there is no mystery about why the 21st century is fixated on the potential use of such accessibility and on the devices—the computer, the smart phone, iPods, tablets, MP3 players, and e-readers—that provide it But there is a grave danger in such a fascination, as the English Poet Laureate Alfred, Lord Tennyson recognized over 150 years ago. Conceding the wonderful advances in knowledge during the Victorian period, he wrote, in In Memoriam (1850), Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light (ll. 21—32).

Knowledge, energy, and intelligence are invariably lauded, especially in our present post-modern culture. No one could sanely deny the achievements attributable to these qualities, nor does Tennyson deny them; he blesses knowledge and prays it will “grow from more to more.” But, like William Butler Yeats, who saw the unprecedented carnage and inhumanity of the Great War (1914—1918), he understands something of which this smug and “sophisticated” 21st –century needs desperately to be reminded: knowledge, energy, and intelligence, our Godless trinity, are morally neutral. They are not virtues in and of themselves; they are powers that must be subdued and directed by a higher, nobler consciousness. In “The Second Coming,” one of the keenest and most prophetic poems ever written, Yeats demonstrates that raw power (energy) and intelligence can produce the beast (the anti-Christ, if you will) that destroys civilization as we know it—a possibility that has grown exponentially since the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945.

With or without their ancient Judaeo-Christian metaphysic, the Humanities take on that challenge: they speak to and shape intelligence, knowledge, and energy into that reverence which safeguards human life. They provide the necessary “accord,” the “one music,” on which ethics depends. Without them, the beast, who can terminate the remarkable saga of humankind, will not only come again but will triumph. There is, after all, a difference between data and wisdom.

2016 Preface Among the Humanities, Literature has the distinction of being most effective in providing what Horace (? 65 B.C.) called the dolce and the utile. It can delight but it can also inform or mold the lens through which we see, which, in turn, determines how we speak and behave. Words are aural phenomena, but they also carry lexical significance, empowering them to formulate attitudes, perceptions, beliefs, and objectives. Whether a writer choses prose, poetry, or drama, he/she commits not only, or even primarily, to self-expression but to affecting the reader’s mentality. The writers in this edition of Pegasus certainly do that. They help us see the dangerous lopsidedness Tennyson and Yeats feared. They reveal the moral turpitude of this age and the damage it is inflicting on young people. The brutality one recent American experienced growing up in the Old Country, as well as the desperate, false self-affirmation experienced by a self-mutilator both testify to the shrinking ethical concerns of these times. The scholars find this and lack of compassion in their elucidations of Ethan Frome, Watchmen, Macbeth, ‘Their Eyes Were Watching God,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” and Lolita. The poets also express the intention of providing a whiff of “…euphoric addictive Eden” for “worried minds/to relieve when they weep.” Another poet regrets that we have moved so far apart that “the sun can’t warm me out here.” The playwrights dramatize the dynamic of the family and sometimes its dissolution. One goes so far as to suggest that Barty, the family dog, has assumed parental responsibility for shaping the mind of the protagonist. It is important that we read these promising young authors. Through them we regain the human focus and discover the multifarious concerns of their generation. We find in them moments of joy and exhilaration, but also moments of abandonment, outrage, psychological distress, and interpersonal vulnerability.

The judges for this year’s Contest, all Bergen Community College faculty, deserve thanks and praise for ploughing through many submissions in the midst of a busy semester, during which we all taught Composition, Developmental English, Literature, Creative Writing, and/or Theatre. Dr. Leigh Jonaitis (Personal Essay), Professor Mary Crosby (Poetry), Professor Jim Bumgardner (Drama), Professor Mark Altschuler (Recent American), all devoted time and critical discernment to this project. Without their efforts and dedication, we would have no Contest.

I am indebted to my co-director, Professor Peter Helff (who also read and judged the short story category), for his unfailing can-do optimism, administrative and technical skills, and commitment to the future of the Writing Contest and Pegasus. He has been crucial in streamlining the submission process, distributing all entries to their respective judges, soliciting judges and presiding over the rankings that are returned to the codirectors, sending out award letters, and organizing the steps needed, from poster to publication of magazine, for the success of the Contest and Pegasus. The future of this Bergen County High School Writing Contest is in true and steady hands for many years to come.

The Contest, the magazine, and the awards brunch would not be possible without the generous support of our Academic Vice-President Dr. William Mullaney, who found the money and rationale to continue our outreach to the broader Bergen County literary community. We also need to acknowledge the support of Adam Goodell, who has advocated and supported the Contest’s endeavors during his tenure as BCC’s Humanities Interim-Dean. Thank you to Ann Marie Roscello, for guiding us into the all-online submission process, helping us streamline and catch up with the twenty-first century. We also extend a great deal of thanks to Maureen Mitchell for all of her behind the scenes magic. And of course, none of this would be possible without Larry Hlavenka, who supplied the advertising and administrative know-how, and Cristina Grisales, Robyn Bland, and Tom LaPrenda, who have, as in years past, worked rapidly and tirelessly to assemble and layout the print and new web-version of Pegasus, of which we are all proud. Dr. Geoffrey J. Sadock and Professor Peter Helff

2016 Bergen County High School Writing Contest

Finalists-2016

1st Place

Erin Aslami 2nd Place

SCHOLARLY ESSAY: JUDGE - DR. GEOFFREY J. SADOCK Tenafly High School

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia

Hee Jin Choi

Bergen County Academies

Did Luck Really Bring Luck

Sandra Jamaleddine

Tenafly High School

Ignoring Ignorance: An Inescapable Aspect of Being Human

Bergen County Academies

A Collective Beauty: Lolita

3rd Place

Honorable Mention Jessica Lee

1st Place

POETRY: JUDGE - PROFESSOR MARY CROSbY

Jacqueline Yang

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Satisfaction for the Soul

Tucker Huston

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Mi Sol, Mi Alma* * (My Sun, My Soul in Spanish)

Natalia Pires

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Portugal

Jennifer Sauerman

Northern Highlands Regional High School

The Castle

2nd Place 3rd Place

Honorable Mention

1st Place

PERSONAL ESSAY: JUDGE - DR. LEiGH JONAiTiS

Maya Amitai

Tenafly High School

Self-harm as a Study in Biblical Figures

Emma Weiss

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Shiny-Haired Girl

Demi Rain Yona

Tenafly High School

Her Soul Crawled Out From Its Hiding Place

2nd Place

3rd Place

2016 Bergen County High School Writing Contest

Finalists-2016

1st Place

SHORT STORY: JUDGE - PROFESSOR PETER HELFF

Jessica Zhu

Bergen County Academies

And the Stars Threw Down Their Spears

Luke Taylor

Bergen County Academies

The City of Baden

Jamie Greer

Bergen County Academies

Neo Genesis

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Language Barrier

2nd Place 3rd Place

Honorable Mention

1st Place

DRAMA: JUDGE - PROFESSOR JiM bUMGARDNER

Arthur Dennis

Bergen County Academies

What Felt Like Eternity

Rebecca Rosenthal

Bergen County Academies

Revisonism

2nd Place

1st Place

Katia Hardesty

RECENT AMERiCAN: JUDGE - MARK ALTSCHULER Northern Highlands Regional High School

A Thing of the Past

Table of Contents Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia - Erin Aslami, Tenafly High School ....................................................6

Did Luck Really bring Luck - Hee Jin Choi, Bergen County Academies................................................................11 ignoring ignorance: An inescapable Aspect of being Human - Sandra Jamaleddine, Tenafly High School .......15

A Collective beauty: Lolita - Jessica Lee, Bergen County Academies..................................................................18

Satisfaction for the Soul - Jacqueline Yang, Northern Highlands Regional High School .....................................21 Mi Sol, Mi Alma* *(My Sun, My Soul in Spanish) - Tucker Huston, Northern Highlands Regional High School 22

Portugal - Natalia Pires, Northern Highlands Regional High School ....................................................................24

The Castle - Jennifer Sauerman, Northern Highlands Regional High School .......................................................25 Self-harm as a Studa in biblical Figures - Maya Amitai, Tenafly High School .....................................................26

Shiny-Haired Girl - Emma Weiss, Northern Highlands Regional High School......................................................29 Her Soul Crawled Out From its Hiding Place - Demi Rain Yona, Tenafly High School.........................................31

And the Stars Threw Down Their Spears - Jessica Zhu, Bergen County Academies ...........................................34

The City of baden - Luke Taylor, Bergen County Academies...............................................................................39 Neo Genesis - Jamie Greer, Bergen County Academies ......................................................................................45

Language barrier - Kiayla Amos-Flom, Northern Highlands Regional High School..............................................49

What Felt Like Eternity - Arthur Dennis, Bergen County Academies ..................................................................55 Revisonism - Rebecca Rosenthal, Bergen County Academies .............................................................................74

A Thing of the Past - Katia Hardesty, Northern Valley Regional High School......................................................85 About Our Judges ...............................................................................................................................................90

Erin Aslami

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia Tenafly High School

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

and fortitudo, but conflict arises when a person gets caught up and blinded by the amount of fame and fortune he is accumulating. Although success is by no means the only incentive to possess courage and wisdom, many characters mistakenly define success as the ultimate goal. These virtues are utilized as stepping stones to success, and the characters do not realize tha,t in reality, their true destination lies in their ability to embody the virtue. As we move away from a world of black and white—away from a world of good against evil—do these virtues fall away? Are these values only effective in the world of Beowulf, where these ideas were originally used, and the struggle remains between heroic soldiers and malicious dragons? Initially, Watchmen provides readers with a vibrant world of masked vigilantes who each have their own motivations. Many suffer from a spark of fame which is extinguished by the Keene Acts, which outlaw vigilantism before the start of the graphic novel. Very few remain in good health and in a positive public view. Rorschach, a vigilante who is still active despite the government’s ban, wonders, “Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without personality disorders?” (Moore 27). The struggle to balance sapientia and fortitudo is a delicate and complex one, and the high risk of failure affects many of these citizens, leaving them discouraged, unhealthy, and directionless. Being solely abundant in one virtue is not enough to maintain success (Kaske 490). Hence, the

Cultures diffuse and values change, yet some stories have the vitality to remain for generations on both the bookshelves and in the minds of men. In fact, many of these stories are revered in today’s society, and it is considered scholarly to read, know, and allude to them. The stories that survive these waves of time are often ones of virtue. Stories of guidance – which depict the success of individuals through virtue – and cautionary tales – which depict the downfall of individuals through a lack of virtue – are resistant to the erosion of time and fading memory. People of all time periods have been consumed by the possibility and opportunity of fame and fortune, which is most often attained through the merits of courage and wisdom. The recognition of wisdom and courage emerged as early as the Anglo-Saxon times with the terms sapientia and fortitudo, which mean wisdom and courage, respectively. Literary works warn against straying from these heroic virtues or exhibiting an imbalance, and thereby losing all success. The way Daniel Dreiberg in Alan Moore’s Watchmen embodies sapientia, but not fortitudo, contrasts with the way Macbeth challenges fortitudo in Shakespeare’s tragedy. Despite their seemingly opposite struggles, in the end, both of these situations lead to a loss of prosperity. The terms sapientia and fortitudo each lead to a kind of success: sapientia to wealth, and fortitudo to fame, two of the most desired objectives of human ambition. The ideal would be to align both sapientia 6

Erin Aslami

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia Tenafly High School

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

citizens who were protesting against vigilantism. The Comedian uses riot gas to cause havoc and disperse the crowd, while Nite Owl urges him to think about how his actions would effectively change any circumstances. When Nite Owl argues against the Comedian’s tactics, and the Comedian says it is for the society’s protection, Nite Owl asks, “Who are we protecting them from?” (Moore 59). Nite Owl refrains from violence and focuses on the consequences of their actions. His strict adherence to his morals and his reluctance to using exces violence prove his wisdom. How, then, does Dreiberg end up as a “flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement” (Moore 27)? It must be his lack of fortitudo which drags him down, despite his sapientia. He is deficient in courageous initiative. In fact, after his unexpected encounter with Rorschach, when he initially warns Dreiberg of the masked killer, they recall their past partnership and Dan wonders, “Whatever happened” to those great times, to which Rorschach replies, “You quit” (21). Dan Dreiberg does not have the wherewithal to take action. His lack of prowess is what leaves him in the declined state in which he is found at the start of the book. Later in the novel, Dreiberg begins to take action and show courage when he breaks Rorschach out of jail. He finds the strength to return to the life of a vigilante and gains momentum with the support of Laurie in the face of Armageddon, which would reduce almost all others to a state of cowardice. His previous stasis ends and he

characters’ suffering is a result of their single-minded aspirations. Daniel Dreiberg is introduced as a shabby, washed-out, middle-aged man. One of the first frames of him reveals his character walking away from the reader down a filthy New York City side street. A sign for an old auto-repair shop occupies the sidewalk, and reads, “obsolete models a specialty” (Moore 17). His former glory, his amazingly complex and advanced machinery from his “Nite Owl” vigilante days, which he had invented himself, now rests in his basement, untouched. Dreiberg’s intelligence is being wasted because of his lack of courage, which is revealed when he withholds and vaults up his technologies and talents. Furthermore, regarding sapientia, it is unjust to withhold something which could benefit society (in Dreiberg’s case, by fighting crime). The “neglect of … munificence” is a way to “outrage wisdom” and betray sapientia (Kaske 492). However, Dreiberg holds an illusion of prudence, believing that this concealment is his way of being cautious and eluding rashness. Certainly, in Beowulf, where these AngloSaxon terms were first applied, Grendel’s hoarding of gold is viewed as an action of malitia. Indeed, Dreiberg’s former sapientia is apparent: His past success brought him both the money and intelligence to build his original aircraft, tools, and weapons. Furthermore, in chapter two during a flashback from before the Keene Act, he attempts to stop the Comedian from hurting 7

Erin Aslami

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia Tenafly High School

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

any possibility of self-glorification. The Captain recounts Macbeth’s unblemished fortitudo, and excuses the violence of his actions. He proves Macbeth’s initial fortitudo by saying that the enemy stood no chance against him, “... for brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name) / [Disdained] Fortune, with his brandished steel, / Which smoked with bloody execution / Like Valor’s minion, carved out his passage / Till he faced the slave” (1.2.18-22). After the battle, Macbeth is immediately promoted from Thane of Glamis to Thane of Cawdor. His courage is described in its full, bloody glory. Further proving his status, he was typically called “worthy thane” when someone wished to address him (2.3.48). Macbeth has “… bought / Golden opinions from all sorts of people” (1.7.35-36). Macbeth is defined by all as a courageous man who deserves his title. However, Macbeth approaches a possible turning point when readers start “questioning … [his] future fame and prosperity” (Kaske 491). In the face of Macbeth’s newfound fortune, will he maintain and develop his prowess, or will he become consumed and obsessed by it? Macbeth’s greed, which comes from his rapid rise to success, initiates his equally rapid downfall, and his loss of fortitudo leads to his impending turn to evil. He even refuses to honor the reward and recognition he has received as a result of his glory. He is left unsatisfied and is indifferent to its value. Furthermore, Macbeth feels threatened when an heir to Duncan’s throne is named. Macbeth recognizes that this may incite a

takes charge using a newfound confidence and sense of urgency. He leaves the sidelines (planning the technology and avoiding unnecessary action) and commences to move towards engagement. Effective risks are being taken now, while still commendably avoiding rashness. His confidence is shown even in his stance, which has changed from a modest posture to one of a hero with a straight spine and sense of self-assurance. During the prison break scene (Moore 262), it is he who leads Laurie through the guarded jail. The pose he assumes when he runs straight out at the reader and into the jail, his hand gripped in a fist behind him and his head bent slightly forward with his teeth bared, suggests sheer, pure power. Broken shards of glass from a long window frame the image, and their bright white reflective color advocates a radiating aura of supremacy. It is in this moment that he regains his heroic virtue. He achieves a balance of sapientia and fortitudo, which allows his glorious rebirth to occur. Unlike Dreiberg in Watchmen, whom the reader initially witnesses in his postheroic phase, Macbeth plunges straight into the apex of Macbeth’s success and virtue. Macbeth begins as a courageous war hero, commended for his prowess, and quickly ascends into increasingly powerful positions. The play opens with an immediate praise of Macbeth and his performance in his recent battle. His intense fortitudo is described by many different people who hold him in high esteem, which verifies further his personification of this virtue and contradicts 8

Erin Aslami

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia Tenafly High School

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

Macbeth is misguided: Though he still possesses prowess, it is no longer fortitudo, for he has lost its virtuous aspect in consequence of the utilization of his prowess for evil. Macbeth becomes a corrupt man, who will kill to gain more of the prizes which come with being virtuous: fame and fortune. Other characters gradually begin to realize that Macbeth is not as pure as previously thought, or at least that something out of the ordinary is occurring. The porter compares himself to the gatekeeper of hell right after the murder of Duncan (2.3.1-3). Banquo, after the people discover that Duncan is dead, even begins to suspect that Macbeth committed the murder. He is the only person other than Macbeth and Lady Macbeth who knows about the Weird Sisters’ prophecy, and after recognizing the completion of Macbeth’s told future says he fears “thou played’st most foully for’t” (3.1.3). Subsequently, after Lady Macduff and her son are attacked by murderers sent by Macbeth, oblivious to the attack, Malcolm and Macduff discuss the villainy of Macbeth’s kingship. The two expressed their changed opinion of Macbeth by saying, though he “was once thought honest,” he is a “tyrant, whose sole name blisters [their] tongues” (4.3.14-15). Macbeth now holds a tarnished reputation which was destroyed by his waning fortitudo. Finally, it is Macbeth’s final moments which prove his complete downfall. When he meets Macduff in his last battle, he admits he is scared. After Macduff tells him that he

transfer of his fame to the heir, and would be “…a step on which / [Macbeth] must fall down or else o’erleap, / For in his way it lies” (1.4.55-57). The heir would prevent him from further progressing into the coveted position of king. With this realization comes Macbeth’s transformation into becoming his own authority; he converts from being a soldier of the king to a soldier serving solely himself. He sees his own transition of his use of courage go from fortitudo (using his prowess for a worthy cause), to malitia (using it for a selfish or seemingly evil cause), when he says, “…let not light see my black and deep desires” (1.4.58). His morals are now tainted. The opportunity and immediate accessibility of fame will motivate Macbeth to make destructive choices. His virtue is gone. Nonetheless, Macbeth still has the chance to return to a virtuous path and use his courage in order to stably acquire fame, rather than feverishly become notorious. The beginnings of doubt in his planned actions to kill Duncan show that he is not yet corrupt. He is concerned with how his conduct may cause him to “jump the life to come” (1.7.7). However, as Lady Macbeth starts to realize her husband’s hesitancy, she attempts to keep him fixated. She tells him to “screw [his] courage to the sticking place” (1.7.70), so they would not fail. Lady Macbeth pushes Macbeth to utilize an evil, frenzied courage rather than a virtuous, heroic courage. Thus, he returns to his plan to kill the king in order to attain yet more power, and he continues to conspire to kill his own friend, among others. 9

Erin Aslami

Fixating Fortitudo and Seeking Sapientia Tenafly High School

is a loophole in the prophecy, Macbeth confesses his loss of courage and fortitudo by saying, “Accursèd be the tongue that tells me so, / For it hath cowed my better part of man!” (5.8.21-22). Ultimately, Macbeth grasps the extent of his sin. There is no way he can come to terms with it, and “there is nothing left for him but the despair of his speech” (Islam 188). His final soliloquy truly relays the extent of his surrender to his actions and behavior. He wishes for his corrupt life to end when he exclaims, “out, out brief candle!” (5.5.26) and says that his life was pointless and “[signified] nothing” (5.5.31). His true loss of fortitudo comes not only from his motivations swaying towards evil tendencies, but also from his final admittance to his own corruptness prior to his pitiful death. Stories involving shining fortitudo and impressive sapientia have intrigued mankind for centuries. While Watchmen stresses the importance of the ideal balance of these virtues and the consequences of relying on only one, Shakespeare’s tragedy of Macbeth demonstrates how losing sight of these virtues can be detrimental to one’s success, regardless of his initial situation. Stories such as these leave us wondering how we can embody these virtues and incite the passion that if only we could have the chance to brandish our own virtue, we would surely do it the right way.

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Works Cited

Islam, Saiful. “Nature of Evil in Macbeth.” The Arts Faculty Journal 4.6 (2010-2011): 188. Bangladesh Journals Online. Web. 7 June 2015. Kaske, R. E. “The Sigemund-Heremod and HamaHygelac Passages in Beowulf” PMLA 74.5 (1959): 489-494. JSTOR. Web. 28 May 2015. Moore, Alan, and Dave Gibbons. Watchmen. New York: DC Comics, 1987. Print. Shakespeare, William. Macbeth. Ed. Barbara A. Mowat and Paul Werstine. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2009. Print.

Hee Jin Choi

Did Luck Really bring Luck Bergen County Academies

There is a reason behind every action and every thought. Most will nod their heads in agreement with this statement. However, debate over what the content of the reason is becomes the cause of disagreement between people. Such a phenomenon is due to difference in interpretation. How a person perceives a certain text reflects the characteristics of that individual. As every person carries different beliefs and values, there are times when a single text can produce very contrasting views. An example of such a text is the short story “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” written by author Bret Harte. “The Luck of Roaring Camp” is a tale of “a city of refuge” called Roaring Camp where male fugitives from justice and crime reside. Harte depicts how the lives of these men change when the only woman in the camp gives birth to a baby boy. When the mother dies giving birth, the men are suddenly in charge of the infant (Harte). On the surface, the story seems to portray how these tough, masculine men change into kinder people out of the discovered love for the child. Yet, “The Luck of Roaring Camp” demonstrates a much deeper, richer story when viewed from different perspectives: one from an Orthodox Christian and another from an American historian. A devout Christian will interpret phenomena in daily life as signs or acts of God, as God controls the world and knows what is at the best interest for his children. Therefore, “The Luck of Roaring Camp” shows many religious affiliations in the eyes of a religious believer. The short story is

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parallel to a moral lesson portraying punishment for earthly sins. Harte starts out by introducing a character named Cherokee Sal, the only woman who lives in Roaring Camp. Not much of her history is noted, other than the fact that she is “coarse” and “a very sinful woman”. She gives birth to a child that can give a second chance to the men of Roaring Camp. She sees how physically and emotionally detached these men are from the world. “Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp,” and rather than feeling sympathy or assisting her as she gave birth, the men watched her suffer with “half-contemptuous faces”. Harte also emphasizes such detachment by using the adjective “rude” to describe how unaccustomed the men are in dealing with women or even insinuations of feminine traits. Cherokee Sal is placed in a “rude cabin” on top of a “rude bunk,” undergoes “rude surgery” that is performed by one of the men, and even at her a death, has a “rude sepulture.” Touching flowers is deemed just as difficult of a task since the men could only take a “rude attempt” to decorate a bower with flowers such as “sweet-smelling shrubs.” Perhaps the innocence of a child could soften the hearts of these men. Cherokee Sal sacrificing her child in order to restore humanity to the men of Roaring Camp is analogous to how God sacrificed his only son Jesus Christ to atone for the many sins of the earthly people. Jesus Christ was the Savior and Cherokee Sal, whose name means Savior in Latin (sheknows), is the Savior of Roaring Camp. 11

Hee Jin Choi

Did Luck Really bring Luck Bergen County Academies

Unfortunately rather than taking care of the child of out of the goodness of their hearts, the men begin to worship the child as an idol, since superstition says the child is good luck. Hence, the baby boy is named Luck. Exploitation of Luck is portrayed through the insincerity of the men when they decide what to do with the child right after Cherokee Sal dies. It is proposed, “to send the child to Red Dog...where female attention could be procured” or to accept “the introduction of a female nurse in the camp…” (Harte) Such suggestions reveal how the men are aware of the significance of motherly nurture to child development. Yet, because they refuse to be with women, or “the other kind” (Harte), the child stays with the men. With that decision, the interests of the men are prioritized over the well being of Luck.

The men are ultimately punished for their sins of idolatry and selfishness when during “the winter of 1851… a tumultuous watercourse…descended the hillsides [over] the scattered camp” (Harte). A biblical reference is clearly made to the Great Flood that God sent to the earth in order to get rid of sinful people. After the flood passes, a rescue group pulls out of the water Kentuck, a “prominent citizen” (Harte) and leader of Roaring Camp who is desperately holding onto the body of an infant. The other men see this and cry out that Luck is dead and Kentuck is at the brink of death. Kentuck’s reaction leaves all readers stunned. “Dying!” he exclaims, “He’s a-taking me with him. Tell the boy’s I’ve got The Luck with me

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now”. Kentuck then “drifts” away into the “shadowy river that flows forever into the unknown sea,” symbolizing that he went to Hell, a dark place of turmoil, as opposed to Cherokee Sal who went to Heaven, as she was “sinking” as she gave birth, but “climbed…[the] rugged road that led to the stars” (Harte). Both characters fell under the weight of their sins, but one was granted mercy to be lifted up and the other was not because he was selfish even in death.

In the eyes of an American historian, Kentuck becomes the protagonist of the tale, rather than an example of the eternally damned. “The Luck of Roaring Camp” now turns into a historical representation of The First Brigade of Kentucky, otherwise known as The Orphan Brigade. The Orphan Brigade existed in the Civil War from 1861 to 1868; its final year being the same year “The Luck of Roaring Camp” was published. The other obvious relation is that Kentuck is an important character in the story and the brigade originated in Kentucky. Confederates in Kentucky decided to move to neighboring Tennessee to fight in the Civil War once Kentucky declared neutrality (Civil War Trust). As their pro- slavery beliefs were not recognized in their home state, the soldiers did not belong (Bluegrass), just as the members of Roaring Camp were outliers before they became refugees. Also, the Orphan Brigade received its name for many hypothetical reasons, one being that its soldiers lost their identities as Kentucky residents; they lost their mother state.

Hee Jin Choi

Did Luck Really bring Luck Bergen County Academies

Similarly, the men at Roaring Camp also severed their pasts from their current lives. “Physically, they exhibited no indication of their past lives or character,” Harte describes.

When the Orphan Brigade first took action, it experienced great victories in the battles of Shiloh, Corinth, Vicksburg, and Stones River (Kentucky Historical Society). Just as the Confederate soldiers reigned victorious during their “golden times” in battle after liberation from Kentucky’s neutrality, or after “becoming orphaned,” Roaring Camp experiences a period the men dub the “flush times,” a time of great prosperity they believe is due to Luck, the camp’s orphaned child.

Another possible reason for the name Orphan Brigade was that the military unit was often left leaderless after its commanders were killed. After witnessing the cruel fates of the unit’s leaders, division commander John C. Breckinridge rode amongst the surviving soldiers and cried out, “My poor orphans! My poor orphans!” (Civil War Trust) Breckinridge became the first highranking official to see the soldiers at a personal, emotional level. Breckinridge felt sympathetic, rather than simply frustrated at the unit’s defeats. In comparison, Kentuck is the only character in “The Luck of Roaring Camp” who seems to share an emotional connection with Luck. All the men line up to see Luck after his birth, and, when it is Kentuck’s turn, Luck suddenly grabs the man’s finger. Flustered by the direct contact, Kentuck impulsively calls the boy “the

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damned little cuss.” The nickname eventually becomes a term of endearment and Kentuck ends up caring for Luck deeply. In brief, Roaring Camp is a creative representation of the rise and fall of the Orphan Brigade. An Orthodox Christian will call Kentuck a sinner, but an American historian will call him an admirable war commander. One calls it a religious fable, the other an historical allegory. A single text produces two polar opposite interpretations, even when American history is not the first candidate of the enemy of religion. Perceptions of a text expose the traits of the readers because different parts of stories stand out or remain unnoticed to different types of viewers. For instance, an Orthodox Christian will see great importance in the presence of a flood, while an American historian will note it as an untimely natural disaster. In other words, differences in the values of the readers of the text produce different judgments on the purpose of the text and this is clearly evident in “The Luck of Roaring Camp.”

Hee Jin Choi

Did Luck Really bring Luck Bergen County Academies

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

Works Cited

Bluegrass. Orphan Brigade “Soldiers Without A Home”. n.d. 26 February 2016. <civilwar.bluegrass.net/FamousUnits/orphanbrigade.html>.

Civil War Trust. The Orphan Brigade. 2010. 26 February 2016. <www.civilwar.org/hallowed-groundmagazine/spring-2010/| the-orphanbrigade.html>. Harte, Bret. The Luck of Roaring Camp. 1 February 2016. 1 February 2016. <americanliterature.com/author/bret-harte/short-story/the-luck-of-roaring-camp>.

Kentucky Historical Society. First Kentucky Brigade Index of Soldiers, 1861, 1865. n.d. 26 February 2016. <kdl.kyvl.org/catalog/xt7mpg1hj46s/guide>. sheknows. Sal. n.d. 26 February 2016.

ignoring ignorance: An inescapable Aspect of being Human

Sandra Jamaleddine

Tenafly High School

Should one believe presented information as the absolute truth? Many times, the truth or lack thereof lies in the overlooked roots of the relator’s perception. Wharton’s novella, Ethan Frome portrays the young protagonist as a bold hero with whom almost everyone would sympathize. However, upon close analysis, it is evident that the information given isn’t necessarily true because of evidence openly provided by the narrator himself. Readers are put in an unintentional state of confirmation bias, brought on by this fallible yet cohesive narrator’s account, in order to make Ethan stand out from one’s natural impressions. The narrator’s personal portrayal of Ethan masks the undeniable fact that some of his judgments do in fact exhibit partiality. As humans, it is our natural instinct constantly to make judgments on information we process and absorb. But what if a perfectly orchestrated plot, which creates a tragic, yet thought-provoking storyline, encompasses this information? This is the very technique that the unnamed narrator of Ethan Frome uses to conceal his lack of knowledge regarding the story he is telling. This specific technique directly results in the unavoidable confirmation bias of readers. Confirmation bias can be described as an inexorable result of the way perception and impression work on humans. This is largely because “people do not seek disconfirming evidence and only sometimes take it into account when it is presented to them” (Maqueda 104). Therefore, since readers were not instructed specifically to look out for discrepancies, they are able easily to

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ignore the obvious. Additionally, confirmation bias has been scientifically studied, proving that “it involves seeking only data congruent with one’s hypothesis” (110). So, this supports the theory that we are going to notice only the unreliability of this narrator’s account if an incongruent aspect appears, contradicting our expectations. In support of this claim, the very first sentence of the novel opens to the narrator’s straightforward disclosure that he “had the story, bit by bit, from various people… [and] each time it was a different story” (Wharton 1). This should immediately put readers on alert that this narrator is going to be very unreliable. As a matter of fact, the narrator clearly notes that his information about certain events was simply “gathered from [an] informant” (Wharton 1) who may or may not have known sufficient specifics. However, as psychologist Daniel Kahneman notes, it is natural that “our comforting conviction that the world makes sense rests on a secure foundation: our almost unlimited ability to ignore our ignorance” (201). The way we find stability in this world relies solely on our ability to trust most of the information given to us. Thus, when readers discover that the narrator merely “put together this vision of [Ethan’s] story” (Wharton 10), they overlook this inconsistency as an inconsequential component of the whole. Readers’ intuitive tendency to develop confirmation bias can be further proven by the way they interpret the courageousness and boldness of the misrepresented character of Ethan Frome. Although not necessarily 15

ignoring ignorance: An inescapable Aspect of being Human

Sandra Jamaleddine

Tenafly High School

accurate, Ethan’s personality elicits sympathy and appreciation from readers. In theory, we should be unable fully to establish the credibility of the story because of the thirdperson narrator who presents himself in the introduction and conclusion. In simple terms, it is obvious that when a third person tries to narrate, he will always improvise and certainly be lacking in full knowledge of the real characters. However, as previously stated, we somehow ignore this fact. This is largely because of Ethan’s fascinating character, but also because of the fluidity of the novel itself. In Blink, a psychologist by the name of John Bargh explains what is called a “priming experiment.” This experiment demonstrates how people are indirectly affected by groups of words they read. Subjects were asked to put together a scrambled sentence. However, one group of subjects gets a set of harsh, impolite words, while the other group gets happy and courteous words. As a result, the subjects’ later behaviors and decisions were directly affected (Gladwell 52-54). This correlates to how readers are able to feel and sympathize with the protagonist. Because of the way the story was written, readers begin to “treat the narrator as a real person” to whom they may relate (Olson 97), for whom they may show concern, or perhaps even feel deep commiseration. Nevertheless, this persona whom we come to know as Ethan “is no more than a figment of the narrator’s imagination” backed up by his experiences with the real Ethan and his discussions with residents of Starkfield(Hovey 5). A pertinent fact regarding this narrator and his ensuing bias is the way he pities yet

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simultaneously admires Ethan. To begin with, one of the only facts we are given about the narrator is that he is an engineer who was “sent up by [his] employers on a job connected with the big power-house at Corbury Junction” (Wharton 3). He gets to know Ethan while Ethan “[drives him] over every morning to Corbury Flats” (5). The two share some similarities, such as their interest in biochemistry, which is revealed when Ethan asks to borrow the narrator’s book. The narrator immediately concludes that he is “sure [Ethan’s] curiosity about the book [is] based on a genuine interest in its subject” (6). Although he barely knows Ethan, he quickly comes to assumptions. Through a combination of town gossip and talking with Ethan, the narrator puts everything together in an attempt fully to explain the details of Ethan’s life. This alternate perspective explains why the foundations of this book rely completely on a double biased interpretation. Like most individuals, Ethan certainly has his own bias on the details of his own life. The narrator then reinterprets that information, resulting in another layer of bias. In this case, it is true that “bias is purely in the eye of the beholder; it is not only a kind of point of view, but a point of view seen from a point of view” (Garver 139). Upon completion, all the different perspectives to create an alternate story much different from reality. Another example of how the alternate story was created can be shown through the narrator’s entirely biased view of Zeena, Ethan’s undesirable wife. Throughout the

ignoring ignorance: An inescapable Aspect of being Human

Sandra Jamaleddine

Tenafly High School

novel, he negatively describes her as having a “flat breast,” “puckered throat,” and a “highboned face” (Wharton 22). Upon close observation, it becomes clear that these descriptions are merely those of the narrator, who is trying to capture the essence of Ethan’s feelings towards his wife, while simultaneously including his own observations of her character. However, since the narrator is not Ethan, and did not know Zeena back when the story was taking place, it is practically impossible for him accurately to portray this secondary character. He is simply using his talks with Ethan and his own, personal impression of Zeena to draw conclusions as to who she previously was and what she looks like. Conversely, upon a closer analysis, it is revealed that the narrator is going to favor Ethan and turn him into the main focus of the novel. In just the third paragraph of the prologue, the narrator claims that Ethan “was the most striking figure in Starkfield” (1). Consequently, this gives readers the wrong first impression regarding the entire foundation of the novel. As a result, it is valid to claim that the whole plot, on which the story relies, is simply a fabrication of the narrator’s imagination backed up with little information concerning the objective details of the story itself. In summary, the information on Ethan’s personal life presented in the novella can hardly be seen as parallel to the reality of the situations. Readers are given enough information that should deter them from believing the validity of the story; however, since they are put in a state of confirmation

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bias, they are unable to detect the evident discrepancies. This confirmation bias, present among readers and brought on by this fallible yet cohesive narrator’s account is used in order to make Ethan stand out from one’s natural impressions. He shuns his wife, while readers praise his own courageousness. Therefore, this demonstrates just how much of an impact literature can have on human thought. The details we absorb are used unconsciously, meaning it is impossible for us to believe all presented information as the truth. Works Cited

Garver, Eugene. “Point of View Bias, and Insight.” Journal of Thought 23.3/4 (Fall/Winter 1988): 139-155. JSTOR. Web. 20 Dec. 2015. Gladwell, Malcolm. Blink: The Power of Thinking without Thinking. New York: Little, Brown, 2005. Print.

Hovey, R.B. “‘Ethan Frome’: A Controversy about Modernizing It.” American Literary Realism 18701910 19.1 (Fall, 1986): 4-20. JSTOR. Web. 18 Dec. 2015.

Kahneman, Daniel. Thinking, Fast and Slow. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011. Print.

Maqueda, Mariano and Barbara Koslowski. “What Is Confirmation Bias and When Do People Actually Have It?” Merrill-Palmer Quarterly 39.1 (Jan., 1993): 104-130. JSTOR. Web. 17 Dec. 2015.

Olson, Greta. “Reconsidering Unreliability: Fallible and Untrustworthy Narrators.” Narrative 11.1 (Jan., 2003): 93-109. JSTOR. Web. 21 Dec. 2015. Wharton, Edith. Ethan Frome. Canada: General Publishing Company, 1991. Print.

Jessica Lee

A Collective beauty: Lolita Bergen County Academies

In a 1964 Playboy article, Vladimir Nabokov talked about his novel, Lolita: “No, I shall never regret Lolita. She was like the composition of a beautiful puzzle—its composition and its solution at the same time, since one is a mirror view of the other, depending on the way you look” (Nabokov). As the subject of major criticism, Humbert Humbert justifies his evil actions by weaving in pieces from an already published love story. Vladimir Nabokov paints a beautiful picture that represents his own artistic capacity as he emphasizes the language and literature and not the graphic content of his novel. By incorporating works of other writers and beliefs of a group of people, Nabokov is able to display his creative genius as an artist, not an erotica enthusiast, and give room for Humbert Humbert to win the approval and respect from the audience as he tells of his adventures with young Lolita. References to American writer Edgar Allan Poe can be easily seen in Lolita. Lolita’s precursor was Annabel Leigh, Humbert’s childhood love. Annabel Leigh is a reference to Annabel Lee from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, Annabel Lee. Both girls from the poems were in a relationship with the narrator and have very similar sounding names. When analyzing the text, the similarities between the two “Annabels” becomes clear because both stories are parallel to one another. When Humbert delivers the tragic and romantic connection between himself and his Annabel, he asserts that they were both thirteen-year-old children who loved each other in France, by the sea.

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“When I was a child and she was a child…in a princedom by the sea” (Nabokov 1,17). This is almost identical, word for word, to Poe’s poem. The obvious references to Poe in Lolita were not only used as a plotline to the story of Humbert and Annabel, but were also used in order to build Humbert Humbert’s character and justification. As he tells a story of his carnal relations with nymphet Lolita, Humbert Humbert will be faced with criticism, hatred, and general negativity. He writes his tale to not only share the love between him and Lolita but also to justify himself while he recounts his relations with Lolita. In order to gain the audience’s sympathy for Humbert, Nabokov weaves in parts of Poe’s poem, Annabel Lee. The poem is a love story of infinite passion between two children. Although there is a subtle reference to necrophilia, as he “lie[s] down by the side of [his] darling…in her sepulcher there by the sea,” it is not the main focus. Attention is pointed towards the romance and the innocence behind it. Likewise, Humbert wants to portray himself not as an evil criminal but as an advocate of romance. Because Humbert’s lover, Annabel, died while they were both young, Humbert is unable to let go of the innocence and purity that was his love for Annabel. In order to satisfy his strong desire to hold on to the past, Humbert finds himself attracted to nymphets, particularly, Lolita. By establishing and emphasizing that his love for Lolita was “what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs 18

Jessica Lee

A Collective beauty: Lolita Bergen County Academies

envied,” which is analogous to how Poe’s characters loved “with a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven coveted her and [the narrator],” Humbert characterizes himself as a man with an uncontrollable and passionate love for Annabel, who is reincarnated in Lolita (Nabokov 9 & Poe 41). Ultimately, Humbert Humbert wants clearly to explain his affection for Lolita. He is not in love with Lolita as a separate and independent girl, but is in love with the reflection of Annabel he sees in the young Dolores Haze. The references to the beautiful yet dark love between Poe’s Annabel Lee and narrator are used to highlight that Humbert Humbert’s motives are not evil or insane, but representative of his ardent adoration for Annabel. According to Nabokov, a creative writer must study carefully the works of his rivals (Manolescu 2). As a postmodern writer, Nabokov often focused on things that are not scientific and transformed and incorporated existing artwork into his own writing. Particularly in Lolita, Nabokov developed his own story and his own text by including works of others. Nabokov emphasized that art is something that needs to exist, invokes a certain response from the audience, reflects the creator’s own skill as a true artist. Intertexuality, is a postmodern way of creating a fictional world by using other texts and establishing a relationship between his work and others’ works. Poe was already established as an accomplished and accepted writer. He is acclaimed as a poet and writer. Therefore, by interweaving pieces of Poe’s literature, Nabokov can be viewed

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as a writer and not a creator of graphic and carnal writing. Moreover, Annabel Lee is a story, a story about the extraordinary love between two children. The act of necrophilia is subtle and not the main point of the poem. Instead, the purpose of the poem is to tell a tale of innocent and tragic love. Likewise, the relationship between Humbert and Annabel is full of the same themes and symbols as Annabel Lee. By doing so, Nabokov is able to affirm his literary and artistic endeavors. Annabel Lee is invited to participate in Nabokov’s linguistic creativity. Although the star of the novel, Humbert Humbert, displays acts of criminality and pedophilia, Nabokov wants to emphasize that Lolita is fiction. Perhaps the sensitive and taboo topic within the book will stir much attention, but it is not a representation of Nabokov’s secret desires or beliefs. He is not telling others a story of himself as Humbert Humbert or even representing anything that is real, but is creating and displaying his own skills as a master of language and artist. Nabokov is creating art, art that exists to simply exist no matter how controversial the subject may be. The heterogeneous way of using intertextuality not only invites Nabokov to showcase his skills as a writer and artist but also sets a stage for Humbert Humbert’s character. Using an already established beautiful love story as the basis of Humbert Humbert’s past give him the ability to highlight that he is not an evil and insane man, but is a man grieving the loss of his undying love. Poe’s voice is used within the novel in order to emphasize that it is just 19

Jessica Lee

A Collective beauty: Lolita Bergen County Academies

absolutely creative fiction. The puzzle that is Lolita is an example of Nabokov’s unique and inventive genius and the ultimate foundation for the controversial allure of Humbert’s pure love. Works Cited

Manolescu, Monica. “Lecture on Lolita (Part 1).” LECTURE ON LOLITA (PART I) - M1 PBworks Sites. Web. 26 Jan. 2016.

Nabokov, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Lolita. New York: Knopf, 1992. Print.

Poe, Edgar Allan. 1991. Annabel Lee: In The Raven and Other Favorite Poems. New York: Dover Publications, Inc. 1991.

SCHoLARLY ESSAY

Satisfaction for the Soul

Jacqueline Yang

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Satisfaction for the Soul They call him the dream dealer,

I’ll pluck away a tiny fragment,

He wheels his wares through worried minds

so you can have your merriment,

they say you find him in your sleep. to relieve them when they weep.

snip away the smallest thread

no worries, it’s fine, go ahead.

A cure for the weary elder,

His kind eyes sparkle winningly,

a glimpse of golden paradise,

He dangles a dream before your eyes,

a hand for the downcast youth, an escape from the blackened truth.

his teeth gleam, his smile lingers.

twists a promise between his fingers.

Come see my stock, my bottled bliss,

So you grasp the fragile neck of hope,

He swirls a daydream in a jar,

You shake his hand and then succumb

come taste a glass of glee. uncorks a flask of ecstasy.

you breathe in the smell of freedom. to euphoric, addictive Eden.

Here have I these dreams for sale,

They all seek out the dream dealer

The cost is but a sliver of self,

contentment for a slice of spirit,

happiness—at an easy price.

a bit of essence, cut clean and nice.

who in return, asks a simple toll:

satisfaction for the soul.

Now, now, don’t fret, young sleeper, don’t twist away in fright.

What harm is there in paying this to make your dull life bright?

PoETRY

Tucker Huston

Mi Sol, Mi Alma*

*(My Sun, My Soul in Spanish) Northern Highlands Regional High School

PoETRY

When I got accepted into the first manned mission to Mars, I knew what I would become: the first human (ever!) on the far-off Red Planet,

a brightly burning star like Sirius, an inevitable idol to all humans.

stars,

But I now know what I really am: Eta Carinae, the greatest and most luminous of all but desecrated, blistering, alone.

Shining a searing white light over terracotta soil,

I rise over this rusted wasteland, triumphant.

Eta Carinae may be the greatest, but it burns too bright to live. Sometimes at night on this bloody rock,

I strain my eyes into that sable space above me,

starless and abandoned

looking for that blue-grey bouncy ball, levitating

at the edge: Earth.

And beyond that, the Sun, a gentle golden

glow that softly sings, beckoning me back like a far-off love.

No matter how far we stray from our origin,

we are all united within its grand heliospheric array, set against this dark solar system.

If I look hard enough, I can see my family on that little beach ball

hovering in the black.

Sometimes, I can hear their voices too

but that is getting rarer.

One day, I shall hear nothing:

I shall forget Mariaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soft whispers and Javierâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s raucous laughter

Tucker Huston

Mi Sol, Mi Alma*

*(My Sun, My Soul in Spanish) Northern Highlands Regional High School

PoETRY

and Mama’s comb working through my knotted curls

that she said looked like the terracotta clay she used to work with,

that coated her fingerprints in familiar auburn.

I thought I would find similar comfort in that color here on this removed reality; but no.

This rusted red is nothing like my mother’s red.

I am that Eta Carinae because I, too, am remote.

Big and beautiful, larger than life—larger than all life (look, I can cover the Earth with my pinky!).

But I am alone, despite this greatness, this vastness, a curse.

I am a luminous sphere, held together by my own trembling gravity

and its silent caterwauling.

I left everything behind to see this but

it wasn’t worth it,

because it’s red.

And the Sun can’t warm me out here.

Natalia Pires

Portugal

Northern Highlands Regional High School

Portugal

There was a child who memorized the taste of cheese that would be brought home and the rough road against the wheels of a bike. And the large windows where dogs would rest next to watching people and stray cats scavenging on the sidewalk. And the delicate feet of butterflies as they land on flowers and the way trees swayed when the wind picked up and the way the waves touched the shore in sync with those trees. And the absences of cars during the middle of the day, the line at the bank and the expression on impatient people. He memorized the calm right before reaching his house, and the smell of salt in the air and the way you could hear flip- flops on a dock from a distance. He memorized how quickly the grass would grow and all the dandelions that would be picked by children, and the way the children danced when the seeds flew away in the breeze. He memorized how quickly the kids would move on when the soft ends of seeds would dissolve at sea, joining lost toys in the quiet vastness.

PoETRY

Jennifer Sauerman

The Castle

Northern Highlands Regional High School

The Castle

The girl walks in wonder, her head thrown back to observe the heights climbing rapidly above her. The buildings stretch so high; she wishes to be as tall as they are. She wishes to shine as suddenly: to blind and illuminate those gazing upon her. Towers grow inside her head, she crowns herself queen. Inside she grows a garden, its flowers plucked from the path she walks home from school. Every day she scratches her hands on roses, sneezes from peonies, blankets herself in sheets of moss grown on grey-scaled boulders. Her garden is a rainbow of memories. She gazes upon them and remembers the soccer games and picnics, she sniffs their petals to recall the ice cream cones and roasted nuts. The garden hums. A thrum of action, of peace, reverberates; leaves shiver and follow the movement down her spine. She is sacred ground. She twirls around inside her mind, a warm breeze follows to spin her faster. Its hands lift up her full skirts, her giggles spur them on. At night the hands tuck her in. The trees uproot and rustle up stories of princesses and aliens and mice who live in walls. The stars twinkle above her, obscured in the sky but glowing green on her walls. She creates her own wonderland, happily falling down the rabbit hole.

PoETRY

Self-harm as a Study in biblical Figures

Maya Amitai

Tenafly High School

Eve.

We are both born improbably. She from the rib of man, and me three months early at Lennox Hill Hospital. I tell the story for years after, relishing the awe flickering across the faces of my captivated audience as they envision me crying feebly in a too-large crib, unborn fingers wriggling blindly under the harsh fluorescent lights. There is something primal, nurturing that stirs in them when I tell it, almost as if they know how to cradle a beginning this fragile, as if their descendants depend on it. Once, I find the photos tucked into an old album, trace my fingers along the snaking tubes that seem to swallow my body whole. I imagine they hiss as they keep me alive. I imagine I oblige. I am apple-red, sanguine, ugly. Moses.

In the second grade, I take my grandmother on a tour of my elementary school. She—a former elementary school teacher turned principal turned retiree—is entirely in her element as I lead her to the threshold of last year’s classroom.

“You know Katherine, right?” I ask, voice brimming with barely suppressed glee. She nods, amused at my enthusiasm. “She threw up on that desk over there! Right in front of everyone! It was so gross!” She looks over at the desk I’d singled out as if to look for traces of vomit, then allows me to drag her to the next point of interest after I hint that she may be spending a little too much time in one spot. I take her into the

PERSoNAL ESSAY

library, tell her all about Mrs. Williams (she likes me because I read a lot, but you shouldn’t get on her bad side), and the biannual book fairs that transform the space into my idea of Heaven (I always want to buy everything, but Mom doesn’t like spending money on books; she says I should just take them out of the library in town). After doubling back through the gym (I got hit with a soccer ball right over there), we make it to the brightly lit classroom.

“Look!” I yell, running across the faded carpet, past the sleek desktop computers, over to the back of the room where—tacked to the deep navy wallpaper— the personal narratives we’d toiled over hang like stars. My work attracts me to it like a prophet to a burning bush. I read the first few sentences to myself for the millionth time, and remain satisfied with what I see. The diction is flawless, the story riveting. There is a revelation resting on my tongue: “You know,” I say, filled with childlike conviction. “I think I’m the smartest girl in the whole grade. I’m the best writer, anyway.” I do not remember actually being called remarkable, but I do recall believing it. The assumption colors my formative years with a certain holy hue; I learn to take tests in the same way Moses taps a cane on the ocean floor and splits a body of water—deliberately, as if he knows God approves. Despite a bad grade or two, I am shepherd, an example.

Self-harm as a Study in biblical Figures

Maya Amitai

Tenafly High School

Cain.

I possess no special talents; violins screech under my direction, and I have a disconcerting habit of tripping over my own feet whenever a ball or a Frisbee comes remotely close to my outstretched arms. Still, I bring home test scores and earn grades that overshadow any shortcomings, and make friends with teachers and camp counselors who call me brilliant when I am not in the room. I learn to bask in my own reputation.

In the sixth grade, I watch quietly as the grade begins to blossom, entire. New frontrunners emerge—kids I have never met are getting perfect scores on math tests I am not prepared for, poets and essayists compose work I can barely comprehend. My offerings, my capabilities, seem so meager in comparison, so I scour websites and forums in hopes of finding a means to even the score. I stumble upon the solution incidentally, the words cut and bleeding and relief glowing a holy blue in the darkness, and I know I have found something good.

Joseph’s eleven brothers.

Despite my unwavering faith in my abilities, my elementary school experience ends with a laundry list of grievances and shortcomings that only seem substantial when knit together, like

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an old sweater threaded gingerly and gifted to the smallest son. For example, list item number 33 (not testing out of the tenth math unit even though seven other kids did,) is not noteworthy by itself, but when coupled with number 21 (taking a day or two longer to understand long division,) I have to question whether I am as good at math as I had previously thought. Later, of course, comes the 37th item (being only at the third-highest reading level at the beginning of fifth grade,) and the heartbreaking 40th (handing in an essay with spelling errors as prominent as the lack of stylistic flair.) As the transgressions pile up, I feel a jealous misery rise like bile. Just before graduation, I press my high heels into the dirt, examine the hole I’ve made, and spit.

By my twelfth birthday, I imagine cutting myself in the same way older girls dream about fucking, only they don’t call it fucking because the term is too crass; it wrecks the tenderness of the honey-warm moment they envision for themselves. I am young enough to view self harm in the same way: in my imaginings, the cuts will be a brave kind of beautiful, a milestone reached when I am ready for it. Most important, they will be something I am good at. The act itself is unceremonious and timid. I am older. It is January. It is a safety pin. I don’t look until it is over, choosing instead to focus on the view outside my window, where a neighbor walks his dog in the newly plowed streets, and my father hums a tune while shoveling the driveway. After, I keep watch over the newborn scratches like a boy bent over his brother’s body, filled with a sick pride at the deed. I

Self-harm as a Study in biblical Figures

Maya Amitai

Tenafly High School

may not understand factoring or Alexander Hamilton’s economic policies, but I have a hip full of apology to offer—angry and red.

I maintain that I am not a victim of an unshakeable urge to hurt myself, scoff at the helpless girls on TV who can’t control themselves. When holding the kitchen knife, I have all the power. I am better than both the shepherd and the valedictorian. In fact, the act itself becomes a skill. I ignore that I only ever feel remarkable after hurting myself, flushed scarlet with capability, and concentrate on how good I feel when the blade stops rocking. It is not difficult to treat the body with violent disregard—let the skin peel open in layers and bleed onto the hardwood floor. Sure, I shake every time, but I’ve been doing this for so long that it feels as if I was meant for it. This is how I manufacture a hatred for a body. This is how I let skin become collateral damage. There is a confession on the tip of my tongue for months; I swallow it each time I am about to speak because I know I’ll be received like an outcast, a man who has set the precedent for sin. Instead, I do what the guilty do: I hide, hips concealed under baggy jeans.

Once, I make the mistake of opening my arm and letting it heal uncovered. That is all it takes to get me called down to the guidance office. I consider then that I, like any criminal, have been caught red-handed, and I can’t help but laugh.

PERSoNAL ESSAY

Abraham.

Shifting uncomfortably on my therapist’s leather couch, I grasp for something to fill the silence and come up empty. She’s already asked the obligatory questions about my family and friends, and I know she’s waiting for me to tell her about the self harm, but I’m not sure where to start. It’s not that I’m shy; I have never had enough trouble talking about myself to hold back now. More than anything, I want to explain everything that has happened, but I am afraid that there is no right way to articulate the pride taken in the pain, no means of talking about how tightly I cling to this coping mechanism. Thankfully, she tries a different approach. “So, do you feel that you’re going to stop hurting yourself?” She says it without a trace of judgment or expectation.

I remember Abraham, how he had longed for an heir all these years but laughed with disbelief when God told him that he would finally have a son. I don’t blame him. It is hard to have faith in something so improbable. I remember, too, that he named the boy Isaac. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “More miraculous things have happened.”

Emma Weiss

Shiny-Haired Girl Northern Highlands Regional High School

My great-great grandfather hanged himself with a belt in an overcrowded section of New York City I always imagine in black and white. My family belonged to the “other half” of America. We were strong because we had to be. We were obligated to the future. He was obligated to the future, and filled with so much of something not even his wife could crack and sweep away. My great-great grandmother, now alone with three of her own, strapped the leather belt across her hips and stepped up to serve as man and wife. I see this part in sepia: my ancestor ties her hair back and steps forward. She makes a choice and does what she needs to do. She bootlegs. She feeds her children. She breaks the law. She teaches her children. She buckles the leather belt on even tighter. No one talks. She was obliged to keep it all in the black, where it started and finished. He had an illness, perhaps cancer, maybe a heart condition. Her kids had a home and an education and eventually, a life of their own, and that would be it. In my family, there’s a passion in maintaining your duty to someone else. Passion in the traditional sense is left for the home: love your kids, protect them, educate them, and do not stop until you’re passionately lying dead in the ground. I live in New Jersey. My grandmother lives in New York. A couple years ago she took my hand and sat me down as a party thrown for the fiftieth anniversary of her marriage to my grandfather began to wind down.

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“See here,” my grandmother said, reaching out to circle my palm with her ring finger. “Yes,” I said. “See here,” she said again. “I’m giving you a lesson right now. Well, actually think of it like a parable. An instructive fairy tale.” My mind swam with images of dainty princesses dancing before sunrise and perfectly bland, poignantly handsome princes cruising down rustic country roads on horseback. I was tired but the night was warm so I nodded my head several times up and down. “Well, here it is: There are two girls, and one of them has brown hair. And the other one has black hair. And it’s shiny, the black hair. The first girl with the brown hair has a notebook.” “A notebook? Is it black and white?” “It’s a notebook and there’s one page and all the rest are ripped out. And the girl with shiny black hair has a notebook, too.” “Is this one black and white?” “Just wait,” my grandmother said, and I can still remember her wedding ring digging slightly into my knuckle as she adjusted herself. “Oh, yes. But hers was full. She had, maybe, one hundred pages. There were a couple of rips here and there, of course. But that was it. The brown-haired girl used her book to write down everything she needed on that one page. And the blackhaired girl used the first page or two to write down what she needed, and then she had the rest to do whatever she wanted. Doodles. Drawings. Maybe a blank page or two.” “Are they princesses?”

Emma Weiss

Shiny-Haired Girl Northern Highlands Regional High School

“No. No. They’re just two girls.” And then my grandmother put her head down on the table and fell asleep with a glass in the hand that hadn’t been holding mine. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was the shiny-haired girl who would always be able to doodle. My grandmother was the brownhaired girl, the one who married at sixteen and raised children and used the page she had been given to do what she needed to do. There’s a passion in maintaining your duty to someone else. For many in my family, that was the only passion that could ever truly be felt. Confronted with my own luxury—the possibility of both passion and obligation—I blushed. I winced with shame. I saw my ancestors and I realized that for the lucky ones like me, there would never have to be a choice.

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In my family, there’s always been passion in obligation. That is why I can choose to separate passion from obligation or allow the two to mix freely. Maybe the girl who watches American Idol every night won’t go onstage one day, feel the light hit her skin, and belt out a song she’ll be passionately singing every day for the rest of her passionate life. Maybe the little girl who sees herself sitting in the Oval Office won’t be able to talk to millions a million times a year and let it all make her heart and a million other hearts sing. Maybe they’ll both just live good lives and remain obligated to some things and love other things. Having the ability to chase passion, either independent or dependent of obligation, can be a gift. The leather belt is only suffocating if you choose to wrap it around your neck.

Demi Rain Yona

Her Soul Crawled Out From its Hiding Place Tenafly High School

Sprawled out on the hammock in my backyard, I am engaged in a full-blown battle against my own eyes as they struggle to shield themselves from the daunting sun that threatens to sear them. Compromising with a squint, I am free to transcend back into the early 20th century world of the novel resting in my hands. The crisp flick of a turning page is the last sound I hear before the alluring aroma of my Great-Grandmother’s arroz con pollo saturates my surroundings and I am transported back to the August of 2008. I am sitting in the kitchen of my grandparents’ Miami home immersed in a concoction of British accents and Spanglish as four generations of kinswomen of my kin are gathered around the table at our family reunion. In their typical hold-nothing-back fashion, they are partaking in a loud and colorful conversation about the female anatomy. The discussion begins to escalate in volume and content, when there is an abrupt disturbance as my aunt’s British-Jamaican husband storms into the room. A chill crawls up the length of my arm as I spot the fury in his eyes. “What on earth are you talking about? I don’t want to hear it!” he roars at my Tía Cassie with a voice dripping of condemnation, as he demands she retreat into their guest room alongside him. After merely a moment’s hesitation, she obliges and her shadow sweeps out of the room. When she is gone, nothing remains but the stench of uncomfortable stillness. In recalling this memory, I am unsettled by how a once happy-go-lucky, moped-riding punk rocker could have

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allowed her freedom to slip out of her grasp. This notion holds a potent parallel to the initial negligence of female independence in Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston and The Grapes Of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Frequently, the female voice is crushed under degradation and suppression that allows for males to assert undeserved dominance over their female counterparts. Their Eyes Were Watching God’s Janie Crawford is repeatedly underestimated and weakened by her officious second husband, Joe Starks, who deems her unfit to “know nothin’ ‘bout no speech-makin’” and pompously states that her “place is in de home.” In the same way that Janie’s voice is held captive by her dictatorial husband, The Grapes of Wrath’s societal circumstances originally depict women as “silent” and dependent on men. If “women…[know] deep in themselves that no misfortune [is] too great to bear if their men [are] whole,” then their reliance on men is exemplified as more important than their reliance on themselves. Thus, female independence is reduced to a rarity rather than a necessity. As my eyes glide over the pages that paint portrayals of the suppression of women, I reflect on the modes in which I myself was raised and notice that instilled in me there has forever been a certainty that my voice is as worthy of attention as that of any man. I have always assumed that expressing these principles externally is an easy task. However, as the pages turn, my mind is opened to aspects of my family that indicate it can be a formidable one. My Aunt Cassie’s 31

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husband had “wanted her submission,” and instead of denying him it, she “pressed her teeth together and learned to hush.” As I advance in my reading, I notice that gradually the female characters begin to take notable steps toward their independence as they defy expectations that designed to limit them. For instance, Janie Crawford eradicates the expected feminine principles as she dismisses the societal rule that claims she “needs aid and assistance.” For once, Janie follows the love she chooses for herself and marries Tea Cake despite endless warnings that he cannot provide for her. By stating that she “done lived Grandma’s way, now [she] means tuh live [hers],” Janie declares herself copiously capable of taking matters into her own hands. Furthermore, through the life that she chooses to live with Tea Cake, Janie starts to regain her voice as she “[can] listen and laugh and even talk some herself if she [wants] to” during the “big arguments” held by men. Likewise, The Grapes of Wrath’s Ma Joad rebels against female regulation by deposing the traditional patriarchal family dynamic of her time, and establishing herself as the matriarch of the Joads. As her household trudges westward to California with the intention of a new life, she becomes the “citadel of the family.” Despite losses and tragedies that unceasingly test the family’s will to persevere, Ma Joad acts as the backbone for her loved ones as she is completely aware that if “she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall.” Therefore, Ma Joad

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unexpectedly and unapologetically earns the role of a leader. Thus, both novels exemplify the rising of female autonomy. In discovering these truths within fictional characters, I find it impossible not to admire my aunt’s ultimate decision to reclaim her life as her own. In fact, Tía Cassie was able to loosen the grip of her husband’s abusive domination when she filed for divorce and cut the ties that had so manipulatively trapped her old self. As Janie Crawford so powerfully states, “[there are] two things everybody’s got tuh do fuh theyselves. They got tuh go tuh God, and they got tuh find out about livin’ fuh theyselves.” And so, my aunt made the decision to live “the rest of her life…as she [pleases].” Just as by the end of the novel, Janie returns to her hometown with a newfound certainty in herself and a confidence in being alone, Tía Cassie selfsufficiently raises two boys and exemplifies undeniable independence each and everyday. As I reflect on my aunt’s arduous journey, I cannot help but question why it has taken until now for me truly to appreciate this bravery in my own family. It is so immediate for me to recognize valor through fictional characters in novels or films, or even in news stories I read online. From afar, I can easily identify bravery, but when it is standing so close to me, that is when I sometimes fail to do so. Nevertheless, I now see what I have previously missed, my aunt for who she is— a woman of courage, a woman with a voice. As the swinging of my hammock settles into a light whisper, I am coaxed back 32

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into the reality of my environment. No longer in my grandmother’s kitchen, I decide that I have read enough for today and instinctively make a mental note to continue tomorrow. The scorching sun drives me off of the hammock and onto my feet, as I attempt to fix my disheveled hair and begin to head up the stone path into my house. Looking down at the novel clutched tightly in my other hand, I think once more of the memory it so instantly evoked. On that day of August 2008, my nine-year-old self was saddened to see how Tía Cassie’s vibrant character had slithered so deeply inside of her. As I step into my air-conditioned home, a smile creeps onto my lips. I know what the younger me does not yet know, that her Tía Cassie’s “soul crawled out from it’s hiding place.”

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Jessica Zhu

And the Stars Threw Down Their Spears Bergen County Academies

Lance leaned over the railings of his apartment balcony and wondered what it would be like to jump. His apartment building was far from the tallest in Port Galba, but it was high enough that he could see the lights of the lightweight cars above that flew effortlessly through the thick, muggy air as they dipped between buildings and monorail tracks, the only lights that twinkled in the persistent night sky. Lance would never experience the feeling of being in one of those cars. Disappointing as a car ride would be, it would be the closest he would ever get to falling through the air. When he explained this thought to others, it was hard to convince them that he wasn’t suicidal. There was nothing in life that he wanted to escape from that would make jumping from a balcony to an assured death worth anything. But staring down at the dozens of stories below him that blended into the brightly lit streets just gave him an itch – l’appel du vide, Alain had told him many years ago during their time in college. “The French have a word for that feeling,” Alain mused “L’appel du vide.” “Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?” Lance said, his voice slightly muffled by a face mask. The masks still were hard to get used to, even years after they were issued for health reasons, but wearing one was better than lying in the hospital, fighting for another breath with permanently blackened lungs. So no one ever complained. Alain coughed through his own mask. “Literally, it means ‘the call of the void.’” “And?”

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“It’s the psychological phenomenon in which sane people find themselves at a steep cliff and experience a desire to jump.” Alain rattled off what Lance was sure was a perfect dictionary definition of the term. “What’s it again? Lappa – “ “L’appel. L’appel du vide,” Alain repeated, speaking a little slower while rolling his eyes. “Sorry not everyone speaks your perfect French.” “As you should be,” Alain said with a click of his tongue. The idea of the phrase did hold some appeal to Lance. He liked the idea of the void calling him, enticing him. Granted, he wouldn’t be falling into a void at all, just a cloud of lights scattered by a toxic fog composed of ammonia, carbons, and sulfates. With a sigh, he swung his legs over the balcony and sat on top of the railing. A single shift of weight would cause him to go tumbling to the ground – and the thought of it didn’t scare Lance a single bit. He was more scared of the idea that he might die some way other than falling. “ – aside from the recent rise in protests, Airus is proud to announce a new top of the line advancement that, as they claim, will revolutionize the way that we collect our energy,” the dull voice of a reporter droned from behind him from the broadcast screen in his tiny living room. Lance disinterestedly listened as he continued to stare out the windows. “ – These stones are still in mid-testing stages, but Airus believes that they will soon have a 34

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way to extract the energy from these stones to solve our current energy crisis – ” How far above Port Galba was he? If it were possible to open up the window, could he push himself out and tumble through the night in a blur of blue and green lights until… ? It was a tempting thought.

It was only one week ago since Lance was abruptly woken up to a sound that he thought he would hear again, as it was a tune reserved only for the refined tastes of – Alain. The sight of that name across his phone made Lance’s blood freeze. For as much as he had always, desperately, wanted to see that name flash on his screen the way it was now, it was like reading a cremation tag. A message from someone who wasn’t supposed to exist any more. With a trembling hand, Lance reached over and took the phone off the table, and tapped the screen. “…Hello?” “…Lance?” He cursed under his breath, for it was a way that his name was said that was so, utterly, uniquely Alain – the hints of a stubborn French accent, soft yet strong, elegant, with the undertone of the wild, impulsive mind – it was a voice that Lance thought he could no longer remember, but now that it was pressed right against his ear… “Alain? That is you, right? Where the hell have you been?” “Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I need to ask you for a favor,” Alain said abruptly.

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“How can you ask of anything from me when I haven’t even seen you in seven years? That’s a bit more of a moronic move than usual from you, don’t you think?” Lance spat bitterly. “‘Moronic?’ Really?” Alain said with a sardonic laugh. “Can’t come up with a better insult?” “That’s not the point. Where have you been?” “I’ll explain some other time. Listen, I need your help, and you’re the only one I trust to do this, even if you did blow up a whole car plant,” Alain replied. “Would you be willing to steal one of those energy stones from Airus that I’m sure you’ve already heard about?” Lance furrowed his eyebrows. “So this is what makes you call me after seven years?” “Yes.” He wanted to curse Alain through all nine circles of hell. But that wasn’t what Alain wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that Lance was in, and if he didn’t, what other reason did Alain have to stay on the phone? “All right. Fine. But you better have a good explanation for dropping off the face of the earth.” “Are you that upset about it?” “Yes,” Lance snapped back. “Like any other normal person with a heart would be.” “I’ll tell you why, later. But that job request, it pays well. Think the hydroelectric car plan job, and multiply that by ten.” “So, zero?” 35

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“No, I mean literally, millions –” “Well, we didn’t get any money from that job, and zero times nothing is –” “I meant the potential money,” Alain corrected. “But there’s something else bigger at stake here. You know all those rumors that used to go around about the stars that we have now being fake? They’re true. And those stones Airus claims they found? They’re the fallen star fragments of what used to be real. I’m working with people who think that if we can get enough of these star fragments, we might be able to see some real stars someday. We’re going to take the energy out of it and use it to reconstruct a real star.” That was the most Alain had ever said to Lance at once, as far as he could remember. “…Wow.” It was all Lance could say. On most nights, it was impossible to see the stars anyway, so to Lance it didn’t matter if they were “fake” or “real.” But sometimes, the poisoned haze would clear just enough to see tiny specks of light across the darkened sky, and those lights were infinitely more fascinating than those below him. If it were possible, Lance would have liked to know what it would be like to fall up and into the unknown void above him. But the opportunity to steal a true star fragment… “The last of what used to be real is going to be wasted on a quick-fix energy solution. Sad, isn’t it? So, Lance. What do you say?” A part of Lance wanted flat ou tot reject Alain’s offer. It would be a kind of punishment for disappearing and leaving him

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alone for seven years. But if he said no, it would be highly unlikely that he would ever see Alain again. A connection severed, gone forever. And he had to admit, he did want to see what one of these star fragments Alain seemed to admire so much looked like. But there was a more pressing concern of his that he had to wonder about. “Doesn’t accepting it mean that I’m going to be more likely to die by a bullet than by falling, then?” “You’re still on about that?” Alain sighed, but Lance knew that he was smiling. “You know how it is. I’m not ready to die yet, but if I’m going to, it better be by falling.” “So it’s still your raison d’etre. That’s ‘reason for living,’ if you still haven’t learned any French. We’ll have preparations so that even in the worst case scenario, you’ll come out alive.” “All right. Guess, I’m in.” “You’re going to be doing the world a favor,” Alain said softly now, hushed. “If you get that fragment, we might be able to have real stars again. We could bring them back.” Lance slowly kicked his legs against the balcony rails one last time before swinging himself around to the security of the other side of the balcony. He could have stayed longer. He could have stayed there the whole night with his eyes closed, imagining the world going dark around him, and letting himself fall. But if Lance could just put off his desire to fall long enough, then maybe he’d be able to see a real star before he went

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And the Stars Threw Down Their Spears Bergen County Academies

along with the pull of the void and finally, finally fall the way he always wanted to. — The sound of gunfire was louder than he was comfortable with. No matter how fast he ran, it sounded as if the shots were only getting louder. Lance knew that there was every possibility of his dying in that moment. But this was not how he wanted to die. Even though he had managed to steal the heavily guarded star fragment, at the very last moment, he had been discovered and was now being relentlessly pursued by Airus soldiers. He had hoped his escape wouldn’t be accompanied by gunfire, but he had been briefed on a backup plan. Once the lake was in his view, he immediately dived into the water. As the crack of guns from the Airus soldiers faded away, his thoughts drifted to the stars that hovered in the sky above, floating in blissful silence. It was just a shame that all its energy would soon be gone. He remained still as he sank further into the water, watching as it faded from its bright blue hue. Slowly, he brought up his fingers to brush over a sensor on the side of the mask, and he started to breathe. There was a beep in his ear. “Well?” Alain’s voice came through with a slight crackle. Lance licked his lips. “Got the fragment. I think I shook off those Airus guys too.” “You actually got it?” “Of course. Now stop wasting time and set off the distraction.” The other end went silent and Lance

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hovered in the dark water. He hardly dared to move until he received an all-clear signal – not when the water lit up like a blue beacon with even the slightest of disturbances. And so he waited in the suffocating darkness of the water while heat from the stolen star fragment pulsed in his pocket. A faint beep broke the silence. “Lance, you’ve been spotted, and they’re riding in right now!” When he looked up, tiny circles of blue light slid on the surface of the water, drawing closer. “What am I supposed to do? Didn’t you have a plan? Your diversion was supposed to work!” he yelled, knowing that the warning was pointless. So instead of waiting to become a water-logged meat sack packed with bullets, he kicked his feet and began swimming up. His head burst through the water and he looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings. A dark ship constructed of sloping geometric planes was rushing up fast in the distance. A white, swirling symbol on the side marked it as an Airus ship. There was a low roar that grew louder and louder – menacing, even, so that Lance could even feel a tremble in his bones. “Are you still there?” “Yeah,” Alain replied, calm as ever. “Do you ever think that they’ll come back?” he asked while gazing up at the sky. “The stars, I mean. The real ones.” The thousands of bright dots above were almost dizzying now. “Well, maybe. If you get caught, I guess we’ll never know.” 37

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His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a transparent square box with a bright, pulsing star fragment floating inside, but it just looked like a glowing sphere. It was still as beautiful as he had always imagined it would be. When all its energy was gone, would it look like any other rock on the side of the street? “These fragments just need to be in water long enough for the energy to disappear, right? I know you won’t be able to extract any energy from it any more to try and make new stars, but it’s better than…” “You know we’re not going to be able to rescue you.” “You weren’t going to be able to before anyway,” Lance laughed bitterly. “…I’m sorry.” “When have you ever been sorry about anything?” “No, this time I mean it.” Lance blinked up at the sky again. It was even more dizzyingly large than he remembered its being. “I’m not sorry. It’ll be a pretty good way to go, I think. Maybe you’ll succeed at this next time with a different partner. Adieu.” Lance yanked his masked off and hurled it off into the distance. It wasn’t necessary anymore. He reached down and hit a button on the side of his boots, and like a rock, he fell into the water, hurtling downwards as the water splashed around him and lit up in a bright, cerulean column. The feeling of falling was just as he had always imagined it would be, better even. For the first time in his life, he suddenly felt relieved

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of the burden of life, and he was finally answering the call that had been enticing him for years. Lance held his breath and struggled to keep his eyes open just to hold onto that feeling just a little bit longer. That feeling of total completion that he wasn’t ever going to get again. And he opened the box. Lance kept his eyes on the fragment through his blurring vision as he fell further away from it. Of the thousands of stars that lit the night sky and had always dreamed of being able to see up close, Lance was finally going to see one fade before his eyes. As brilliant as the light was, the way that it began to wink out of existence was mesmerizing against the luminescent blue. Lance didn’t fight as he gave into instinct and tried to take in a breath of air he knew wouldn’t be there. He fell in a column of blue, and down into the void with a hand outstretched to the darkened piece of stone that was still warm.

Luke Taylor

The City of baden Bergen County Academies

I live in a city of bodies. Every house, complex, building and business is filled with the lot, stinking, rotting bodies. I hate it; I can smell their stench from around every corner. I can’t walk down the street without hiding my face from it. I don’t mean any of this literally; I don’t live in a city of walking dead people. But, honestly, they’d be better off dead anyways, considering the way most of them are. The city I live in is called Baden. According to the internet, the founding father of this town was named James Baden. He founded the place basically on a whim in the 1800s, in the middle of nowhere Montana, and found a vein of coal buried in the mountains to the northeast. He found thirtyfive people, both American and immigrant, and brought them to the mountain where he started the Baden Mining Company, where they raised families and grew the population into what it is today. My family moved here before I was born; my mother found a job as a nurse in the local hospital. I think of James Baden as the first, and last, generally intelligent habitant of Baden, Montana.

I walk this city a lot, whether at night or during the day, by myself. I’m not a fan of people coming up and talking to me because I can sense the unintelligence in their voices. Truthfully, there’s nothing I find more unappealing in a personality than general dumbness. When I walk through Baden, no one notices me, talks to me, or wastes his time with me. I am invisible, and I am the

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only one who can see me when I choose. It’s as if I flip a switch, and I’m enveloped in my own shroud away from the world. Well, no. That’s not exactly true.

I have one friend named Marcia. Marcia’s more than just a friend to me. She’s the only person I like in this entire world. People often joke with her about how similar we are; we even have the same first four letters in each of our names. She’s not my girlfriend or any of that soppy stuff. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even think like that, because she’s never even been with anyone. She thinks just as I do; it’s kind of miraculous, to be honest.

When I begin my walks, I always start at my house and walk to Marcia’s. She lives in a really seedy part of town, where the buildings are always derelict and falling apart. I once walked around the back of her building, and I saw a gas line with an unbelievable tape job. The pipe from the ground ended about three inches from the beginning of the pipe that went all the way up to her apartment, and to fill the void the landlord taped from the bottom pipe to the top, leaving a sticky, rubbery mess to bridge the gap. There’s a lot of drug activity in her area; I guess even the building managers care less about those parts of town. The high school here especially reeks of useless bodies. I blend in the walls all the time, and as a freshman I almost enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations. I remember how often boys and girls both

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would complain about gossip and drama. The student body lives and dies with the need for drama, because without it their lives are dull and useless. I don’t have time for their ridiculousness on most occasions; I have almost no friends here.

Truth is, I like being alone. I can think when I’m like that. I can wonder about who I am, where I belong. It’s kind of demented to think about as a whole, but I really enjoy going into deep thought about it. Beyond that, I can barely explain half the things I do other than being a little bit impulsive. Like the time when this kid, Mikey Ingrossio, threw a paper at the back of my head in class, thinking it was a joke. I walked to the back of the room where he was laughing and I smiled at him, then put my hands under his desk and flipped him over. The whole class started laughing and screaming and Mikey had a cut on his head and I spent a few days in detention for the whole fiasco but I didn’t regret it one bit. It made me feel good to stand up for myself, and Mikey never bothered me again.

I like going up to Fitchman Hill whenever I can. It’s my favorite spot to sit at and just to hang out. It’s the one place away from the noise where I can look out on that pile of bodies that I live in with a smirk and lie to myself and say that I got out.

But no one sees from where I can. Up on my hill, my own natural palace, I can see and rule over those insignificant people below. I feel like a real king, and I smirk as my little peasants run about and do my dirty

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work. They don’t realize who runs their show, but I see everything, working from the top of my grassy throne.

Like the other day, I was up on Fitchman Hill with my friend Marcia. I’m busy staring into the sun because I like the spots that appear on my eyes. “Quit staring at the sun like that, Marcus. You know that isn’t any good for you,” she said to me.

I always liked listening to her talk because she talked correctly. When I was little, I never learned how to say stuff correctly and I constantly make mistakes, but I see it when I write instead. “Let me do what I want, Marcia,” I said with a grin on my face. She knew I was joking whenever I grinned like that. “I’m just trying to keep you from burning your eyes out of your head, okay? It’s okay to have someone care about you every once in a while.”

We stopped talking for a little bit after that. I was staring into the sun, off somewhere else, but I couldn’t get my mind off something that was bugging me. I turned around to face her and looked up at her face. She was sitting cross-legged in the grass, not a drop of sweat on her. She looked down at me with a blank expression. “Marcia, why do you like me?”

“You ask me this question every day, Marcus.” 40

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“I know I do. But I just can’t get my head around it. I can’t ge-t-“

“Marcus, do us both a favor and shut up, all right? You’re making a fool out of yourself. Go back to the sun.” “I don’t want to look at the sun. I want to look at you. You don’t hurt my eyes as the sun does.”

She had turned away by this point, but whipped her head back around to face me. Her eyes met mine and blazed a little for only a second, and I could’ve sworn that she was going to act out. But it settled, and her eyes returned to her characteristic, indifferent stare.

“What are you talking about? I said that perfectly.”

She smiled again at me. I turned away and soon enough, I had drifted off to sleep. Hours later, I woke up to the sight of the sunlight fading in the distance. I threw up my hands behind me, expecting to hit Marcia, but my hands thudded against soft grass. I bent my head all the way into my back and saw nothing but grass and hill, and the lone, old oak tree that stood at the very crest of Fitchman Hill. Disappointed, I got to my feet and glanced back down. Nestled in the grass was a tiny little note, and I picked it up and read it out loud to myself.

“I’m not here for you, Marcus, I’m here because I like the grass under my feet and the way the clouds roll above me.”

Marcus,

I had to rush home before dinner. I didn’t want to wake you to say goodbye, so I just left this note. A thousand apologies.

I knew that she was kidding to avoid the question, but I still heard a bang somewhere when she said that.

We stared back at the sky for a while, not saying anything again. We had that kind of confident silence between us, the kind of quiet where we knew we felt comfortable enough with each other that we need not talk for a while and be content about it.

“Marcia, which way is west?” I asked her, turning back towards her again.

She gave me a wry smile out of the corner of her face. “We sway less?” she asked me.

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I have something to talk to you about later tonight. Get out of the house at around 11:00 and I’ll meet you back up here. It’s important to me. Marcia

I put the note in my pocket and started walking back down to the city, all the way to my complex. After about a half hour, I reached my corner and turned down my street. I didn’t see anyone walking at all on the way back, which was strange because it wasn’t that late. I walked up the steps into my rental, and I could hear the sound of the 41

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TV playing very loudly from inside the door. A few streets away, I could hear the sound of sirens and a thought of fires and people burning rushed through my mind, but only for a fleeting second.

I entered and found my brother slumped on the couch, a bowl of some snack food laying lazily in his lap. I hated my brother; he and his friends loved ransacking my room and finding whatever valuable things they could find and selling them at a pawn shop. It got so bad that I had to start hiding my things in a hole in the wall behind my headboard, and I’d have to move my whole bed and stick my hand into the dark and uncertainty of that wall to get something.

Walking past him, I went into the doorway to the kitchen, past the dining room table and up the stairs to my room. I threw myself down on the bed, exhaling a great breath before rolling over to look at the clock on my wall. I remember the exact time, too. It was 8:46.

I stared at my ceiling for a long time, before I slowly felt sleep come and drift over me. I woke up, frenzied and worried that I had missed Marcia. I checked the clock. It still read 8:46. I thought to myself, what the hell? Startled, I stood up and checked the back of the clock. The latch was open and there were no batteries left in it. It dawned on me, just then, that I had forgotten to put them back in my clock before I left the house this morning. I ran downstairs and looked at the

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digital clock in our kitchen. It read 11:24. Frantic now, I threw my shoes on and rushed out the door, up the street and ran across the intersection that led to the bottom of Fitchman Hill. Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of sirens again, piercing through the thin air. Sprinting, my feet pounded against the rough earth at the bottom of the hill, slowly changing to soft pads as the small vegetation grew in count.

Panting, I finally reached the top of the hill. I checked through the grass for another note, but I didn’t find anything. Searching around and spotting the tree, I saw a bit of something white and I grew excited, my hopes skyrocketing, but sharply went back down when I saw that it was just an empty bag of chips.

At this point, I was pretty upset. Marcia was never late to things like this. I waited for a while, standing awkwardly in the night air, surrounded by darkness with the exception of the radiating light from the bright lights of the city. I got fed up pretty quick, though, and started walking back down the hill, downtrodden and disheartened.

At the bottom of the hill, I reentered the city streets and decided to take a nightly walk. I began turning unconsciously down the corner. Once I got back to my house, I spun on my heels and went back just the way I came, in the direction of Marcia’s house, as I always do. As I reached her street, I turned down the corner with a smile on my face, knowing that I was so close to her, and I 42

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The City of baden Bergen County Academies

could figure out what was going on here.

I smelled the smoke, though, before my eyes adjusted to the bright light.

Down the street, at the end of the culde-sac that I had come to know so well, flames poured out of Marcia’s home. Three firetrucks lined up around the curve, blasting water onto it. Frantic firefighters circled the house, seemingly vapid and ignorant of the fact that my friend’s house was on fire. My life became a blur. My memories don’t work that well from there on out; from what I remember, I don’t even remember how I got to her house. Everything was moving, yet at the same time motion seemed to stop. The only thing that I thought clearly was about was Marcia.

I burst through the line of firemen, only to be held back by a big, burly man without his helmet on. “Stay back, kid, there’s no need for you here.”

“I needa find my friend,” I shouted at him. “Tha’s her house there.” “Son, this fire was reported by the neighbors. There are cars in the driveway over there,” he said pointing to a small path where two cars, a red sedan and a black truck, lay vacant on the pavement, “And no one has come out of the house since we got here.” I stared at him blankly. “What are you sayin’ to me?”

The fireman pursed his lips, giving

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me a steely yet empathetic glance. “Whoever is in that house is still in there, and probably not breathing, son.”

My emotions didn’t change. There was no way that this man could be telling the truth to me. Marcia couldn’t be dead, she just couldn’t. “Well, get in there and find ‘em, then,” I began, feeling very angry at his insolence and doubt. “Standin’ here isn’ gonna do much.”

I watched his expression tighten as he attempted to come back at what I said, but finally turned around and returned to his duties. I watched the fireman work for hours, finally taking a seat on the curb and overseeing the process from a distance. After a while, the fires died down and finally cut out, leaving the smoldering ruins of Marcia’s complex still standing. The firemen packed up their stuff and moved out, driving away in their huge red trucks, sirens off this time. I saw the firefighter I had talked to before. He must have felt ashamed, because he knew as well I did that Marcia was still well alive. As soon as they left, I turned away and started walking home. My mind was coming to; I was focused less on Marcia and finding her, and more on wha hadt happened and how this was going to affect me. I could smell the smoke settling over her street, and the pungent reek of those dead bodies again settled over my nostrils, and I had to cover

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The City of baden Bergen County Academies

my face and shield it from the wrath of the stench. I thought about her family, how she’d have to live without them from now on when she came back from wherever she was hiding. I thought about how she’d have no money, and how my family and I’d have to take her in and keep her safe and hold her tight like one of our own. She’d grow up alongside me, and maybe, just maybe, we could get married one day.

I don’t like listening to people because I know that I’m more intelligent than they are. I see more in a day than they could in a lifetime, and I see just by looking at them. I see beyond people, beyond their cold eyes and into the shallow lives they lead. Give me five minutes and I can tell you all that’s happening in your life, too, just by looking into your eyes. The reason I liked listening to Marcia, though, was that I couldn’t figure out anything from her eyes. I could stare and stare forever, but I’d never find anything out. She was one of those interesting mind puzzles that I could work at and work at for ages and get somewhere, yet nowhere at the same time.

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By the time I reached my house, I was in tears. I could feel her, holding onto me and my heart, but something was still nagging at me. I opened the door and passed through the threshold, and with a passing wind my mind settled and I became at ease. I knew she wasn’t dead; she just couldn’t be. She was the piece of this city that would not pester or disgust me, but instead took place beside me and could smell the stench of bodies around us. She was a piece of my heart, beating alongside mine, helping the bits that couldn’t function on their own.

I guess she was special to me like that.

Jamie Greer

Neo Genesis Bergen County Academies

The spacecraft coasted into the halcyon exosphere of a lifeless, brown orb. P-58-C and Zero watched in silence as the planet grew larger in the viewscreen. The hatch behind them was elaborately colored like the tomb of an Egyptian Pharaoh. This was the doorway to the extra- dimensional cargo hold, where hundreds of thousands of tiny, glowing cubes, only a few inches tall, seemed to sit one atop the other. In truth, each hovered half an inch from the ones around it. They all glowed electric blue as if embodying lightning. A slightly musty scent hung in the dank, oxygenated air. The alien pair had pale, yellowy skin that glistened with sweat from the humidity. Long, lanky limbs extended from their slightly rounded bodies. They wore plain, dark blue uniforms and no shoes on their tentacle-like feet. P-58-C sat at the helm, a foot taller than his inexperienced partner, A0-C, or Zero, his head nearly brushing the top of the modest spacecraft. Zero sat beside him, searching laboriously through an intergalactic map. P-58-C’s worldliness showed through his captain-like demeanor as well as his name—a high rank, high number of successful missions, and esteemed occupation. Suddenly, Zero looked up and stared at P-58-C with his five eyes and scratched his pale, citrine scalp with his long-fingered hand. He spoke in a tongue long forgotten by any being in the current age, full of whispers and hiccups, and, as he spoke, his tone became more urgent. P-58-C’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Zero’s pupils

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enlarged and his breath became sharp and uneven. Upon hearing Zero’s request, P-58-C was suddenly furious, all five of his huge, brown eyes misting over in utter rage. He hissed and sputtered at Zero, shaking his head and stomping his toeless feet. Rarely did P-58-C experience such an emotion as anger, for he knew that anger as well as any other sentiment was unfavorable and potentially detrimental to any mission. He had not encountered these feelings in any of his missions with his partner, including their previous mission. *** Galaxies zipped by as wisps of light through the spacecraft windows until a big, green button flashed three times and stopped. P-58-C quickly punched it with his thin, sticky finger and instantly the craft came to a halt. Zero dragged a long, slender pointer across an extensive map until he found the desired location and showed his partner. It was his first mission and would not be completed for millions of years. After exchanging a few hiccups and screeches, P58-C steered the spacecraft towards a tiny, red planet. The planet grew closer and closer as the spacecraft continued to slow. When the craft was close enough to it, the reddishbrown globe’s gravity began to work on the vehicle. P-58-C, an expert in his craft, steered away from the planet, flipping switches and pressing buttons with agile fingers. After about a minute of adjusting, the craft was hovering safely above the planet. 45

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Neo Genesis Bergen County Academies

On closer inspection, areas of clear, pure water dotted the reddish-brown surface, each one no bigger than a puddle. Looking closer, one could even see traces of green in the dust. Tiny, underdeveloped plants were pushing themselves out of the dry, cracked ground, rising like Icarus to meet the sun, stalks barely a few inches tall and leaves smaller than dimes. This was a lot of progress considering it had only been a few hundred years since the two aliens had planted a life cube on Rubella Regolith. The small, red sphere was one of their most recent life planet creations, and this was its first check-up. It would be at least another thirty million years before they could collect DNA samples from the life forms to bring back to Vita Faber, their home planet, to incorporate into their own DNA. Only when a substantial amount of DNA was brought back and used would the mission be considered complete. Zero wrote some notes on a thick, wide writing pad and nodded to P-58-C. Without a word, the pair disappeared into the stars. *** Since that mission, the pair had visited many other planets and delivered hundreds of cubes. None were complete, all still in the unhurried, methodical progress of evolving into beings advanced enough to have DNA samples collected. Despite P-58-C’s obvious disapproval, Zero reached behind him and wrapped his long, sticky fingers around one of the majestic, sapphire hexahedrons on the top of the organized pile. As he touched it, a

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soft whirring noise escaped the cube and echoed around the craft, slowly dying down. Immediately, his heart rate quickened. The greed in Zero’s eyes grew evident, as did his longing for what lay hidden behind the six three-inch-long, impervious, glowing walls. In his eyes was the spark of evil that lay inside every creature, lingering, anticipating the time when it would slowly, silently smother the warmth inside, overriding the good nature and virtuous intent. From the moment of their birth, when knowledge was instantly programmed into their minds, they were taught to suppress these feelings of greed, love, passion, and so on. P-58-C worried that there was very little he could do to stop the desirous creature from getting what his heart, now dark and cold with greed, wanted. He had seen this happen before, but never had he seen such an appetite for what was inside the cube that Zero revealed. What lay inside the cube was neither Heaven nor Hell. It was neither light nor dark. What rested unscathed inside the cube was not death, but life. The cubes, every one, held the necessary ingredients, the stupendous potion created for life itself. The electrifying blue glow from the object could be seen in Zero’s wide, shimmering eyes. Tears welled up in his eyes as he gazed upon the thing. P-58-C knew he had to act quickly. He reached for the cube so swiftly his arm was only a blur. Zero snapped out of his daze quickly and his multiple eyes went from infatuated to infuriated. He tried to snatch 46

Jamie Greer

Neo Genesis Bergen County Academies

his hand away from P-58-C, but his companion was too fast. In a single moment both creatures had their hands wrapped around the cube. Their thin, gangling fingers were tense, intertwining around the cube. This kind of thing was not uncommon for Life Cube Distributors—at least, not in map navigators like Zero. In the past, P-58-C had had many other partners, hundreds, who suffered from similar syndromes, deviating from the expected emotionless state they spent millions of years training to possess. P-58-C suspected that there was something, in the midst of the boundless, copious folds of paper that composed the maps that changed them. He tried not to think about this too much, as that would be dangerous and not in the best interest of the collective. With great sadness, P-58-C realized that Zero’s desire was far too great for him to compete with. He had to think of something quickly, some way to keep the vital object out of his partner’s greedy hands. The ways to abuse life were endless. Even P-58-C was unsure of the precise power held by the cube, and the things that could be done with it. P-58-C tightened his grip even more on the cube, blue veins bulging on his knuckles, and reached for one of the securely shut windows in the craft. Zero cocked his head in confusion as his accomplice wrestled the window open. In one swift motion, P-58C swung open the window, grabbed an oxygen mask and pulled it over his mouth, and grabbed onto his seat for dear life. He no longer had a grip on the cube. Before he

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could realize what was happening, Zero and the cube were sucked out of the pressurized craft with a calamitous “whoosh”-ing sound and sent out into the abyss of the exosphere. In the confusion Zero had dropped the precious cube and was floating farther and farther away from it. The cube went down, down, down, past the exosphere and into the ionosphere, then the mesosphere, troposphere, falling faster and faster, an artificial meteorite, until finally it hit the lifeless planet with a surprisingly soft thud. It arrived undamaged, as the cubes were created to endure such a fall. Zero continued to orbit the huge, brown body, a silent satellite trapped eternally in the exosphere, drifting endlessly and without course. Soon he was not visible to P-58-C’s eyes, lost forever in the immeasurable darkness. Still grasping the chair, P-58-C pulled the window back into place with all his might. The shutting of the window made a loud banging noise of metal on metal, and finally P-58-C took off the oxygen mask. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, waiting a moment as the craft reestablished its correct 78 percent nitrogen, 21 percent oxygen and 1 percent other gases throughout. He had not seen the cube drop to the brown planet, and assumed it was stuck in orbit along with Zero. He knew Zero would not last long, and he silently mourned the loss of his former companion. He knew Zero’s inner self had died long before his physical body, as soon as the greed vanquished his heart. He knew he had to do what he had done, as he had 47

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Neo Genesis Bergen County Academies

with his corrupted partners in the past. He had acted in the best interest of their planet, as he did in every situation. Some sacrifices were necessary, he knew, as long as all was for the good of the collective. Their journey to the brown planet was their first mission since that day when they checked on Rubella Regolith. Alone now, P-58-C straightened his rumpled blue uniform and rode away from the planet, vanishing into space without giving a second thought to the missing cube. The possibility of its landing on the planet without his realizing did not cross his mind. He slumped, defeated and ashamed of his evidently failed mission. P-58-C did not record this location in his book of the lifeholding planets. He did not mark it on the appropriate swirling galaxy in the vast map of the universe he kept with him. He did not count the number of planets from the closest star and mark the small circle indicating the correct celestial body inhabited by the new life cube. He did not inform the others that this planet now contained the ingredients for life. He simply flew the spacecraft far away from this planet to deliver cubes to distant galaxies. Soon after, great rains fell, the trapped hydrogen and oxygen in the planet’s atmosphere crashing down like drops of ambrosia spilled from the chalice of Zeus. Vast bodies of water churned and rolled over the planet’s dry, cracked surface, filling the great basins and valleys. The air filled with nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and other vital gasses. Then the first life forms began to

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spring up on this brown planet, turning the sphere from brown to green with vegetation. Organisms emerged, and slowly, archaea, bacteria, plants, and animals began to roam the newly born life planet. No alien races learned of this planet’s birth. P-58-C did not venture back to collect DNA from the organisms of the planet. It continued to grow and prosper in utter isolation, far away from any other planets that had been given the life-giving cube. One large landmass separated into seven, surrounded by seemingly boundless oceans. Eventually, two-eyed, two-legged beings of yellow, brown, and pinkish shades walked the planet, free to develop without intrusion. They could only look up at the stars and wonder if other intelligent creatures existed outside of their home planet. Years later, P58-C dreamt something that both mystified and disturbed him, and he struggled to eradicate it from his mind in the centuries following—a beautiful, sparkling city under the gleaming light of a single full moon.

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

Before she tumbled down the rocky ridge, West had a split second of clarity where she saw a transparent, mirage-like film between the edge of the path and the ridge. As she fell through the haze, she heard the distant sound of her friend talking on the phone as it flew out of her hand, and the rush of air as the wind picked up around her. Her vision focused on a flash of orange on the ground, a plant of some sort that hat passed by too quickly for her eyes to discern. Suddenly, the moment shattered as she felt the first rock.

The shards viciously attacked her skin, drawing lines of blood like a toddler with a red crayon. Her head pounded, her wrist was definitely sprained, and by the time she stopped moving, she felt as if pieces of broken glass had been embedded in all of her internal organs. Eventually, West could sit up again, holding a crimson-stained hand to her bruised forehead. She blinked wearily at the sun, trying to discern where she was, and instantly became even more confused.

West was not an astronomer. She, in fact, was pretty terrible at anything involving science beyond basic first aid. But even the worst student of all time knows that there should not be two suns in the sky.

She ground her feet as best she could into the dried-up mud beneath her, managing - albeit a little wobbly to stand up. She rubbed her eyes with her uninjured hand, and

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was shocked to see that the image had remained the same: two suns in a lavender sky.

“Wait, what?” she murmured to herself, looking at a different part of the sky above her. Still purple.

“Do I have a concussion or something?” she asked aloud.

But despite the headache pounding in her ears, West doubted that she had hit her head enough to see the sky turn and stay psychedelic, while the clothes on her body remained their original colors.

West groaned and began to look around her. She was no longer in the pine forest of her small town in Colorado where snow had covered the boughs of trees and sidewalks. This place looked as if snow had never graced it; it was a sort of weird desert, something out of a Dali painting, where the mirage made everything look as if it were melting. There was very sparse vegetation - a few bright orange cactus-like plants dotted the landscape - and no signs of civilization, whatsoever. If West had to use one word to describe it, it would be “alien.”

She brushed her hands on her ripped cotton shirt, the texture almost like velvet compared to the sharp rocks she had just fallen on. Her clothing was the only familiar

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Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

thing that remained with her in this barren landscape, as her phone had disappeared on the way to wherever West was now.

No phone, no landmarks, no people. Where the hell am I?

She turned around, scanning the horizon, and, to her surprise and delight, she spotted something that could come from people - a smoke trail rising in the distance. She closed her mouth, steeled her limbs, and began to trudge towards it.

As she got closer, a faint smell rose on the wind, something that reminded West of burning wood. She pushed on faster, hammering her feet into the ground as she picked up speed and saw the thing she had hoped for: people, little figures surrounding a campfire only a few hundred feet ahead. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Hey! Hey, you guys!”

The figures, which she could now see were covered in black shrouds of some flowy material, turned towards her. She sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. Could you tell me where I am? I was just in-” She was abruptly cut off, as each figure had begun to scream.

Their wails were positively unearthly, reminiscent of a banshee’s, and they made her headache strike with a vengeance. Their shrouds swirled around them, giving them

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the menacing aura of a storm, and West swore she could see elongated fangs emerge from where she assumed their faces were, dripping with a smoking, vaporous substance. She dropped to the floor, crying out in pain, and covered her ears as best as she could with her hurt wrist. She glanced back at the figures, and was shocked to see them all standing, still screaming, and zooming in serpentine patterns towards her. West scrambled upright, still clutching her ears, and sprinted back across the sand dunes. Her thoughts, in contrast, were paralyzed in terror; she had absolutely no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away from the creatures.

Behind her, the creatures’ wails suddenly changed pitch and became higher and louder than before. They reverberated in her ears like a train whistle in a tunnel, deafening and piercing. Distracted, she cried out in pain and tripped over a strangely familiar orange cactus, tumbling down the sand dune. Her hurt wrist made an alarming snapping noise, and the instant agony was only worsened by the gust of sand she inhaled on the way down. For the second time that day, West crashed down the steep descent, coming to a painful rest with orange spines stuck in her skin and friction burns all over her body. With a jolt, she remembered the creatures chasing her and managed agonizingly to stand, clutching her now broken wrist.

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

least Wraith-like, and was shocked to see that the naked monkey was in fact, very reminiscent of a marsupial without any fur, except on the top of her head. They were barbaric creatures, he was told, devoid of any civilized notions, like proper clothing or language.

Yet the area around her was devoid of sand or twin suns or black figures. Instead, West found herself on an asphalt path in the middle of a snowy pine forest. She glanced around, baffled, and spotted her long-lost phone lying on the pavement in front of her. As she checked her cell, she realized her friend was still on the line.

This specimen was just like that, as she (he guessed on the gender, based on the creature’s mezzo-soprano voice and long locks) wore virtually nothing, save scraps of perhaps loincloth. She babbled in ridiculous coos, obviously unlearned and perhaps even stupid.

“Hello?” West asked cautiously, holding the phone with her uninjured hand. “West? I lost you for a sec. What happened?”

“Excuse me, madame, but I must insist that you vest yourself with proper attire. It is unseemly, not to mention illegal-l” he began to state.

West nearly dropped the phone, her eyes wide and unbelieving. A hysterical laugh began to erupt from her chest, burning against undoubtedly bruised ribs.

But the creature collapsed, apparently overwhelmed by the articulate nature of his speech. One of his companions tried again, to no avail.

“You are never going to believe this.”

—————————————————— The naked monkey was a weird creature, East remarked.

The being stood in front of them, pink skin shining with sweat in the desert sun. East had been told all his life of what the rare species of monkey looked like, but he had never imagined them to look so…well, alien. They tended to pop up amid the landscape, bewildered and nearly blind, bumbling about until they somehow left the desert. East always assumed they were at

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“Really, it is absurd to wail and scream about it. It won’t get you anywhere.”

The creature cried something in its nonsensical babbles, before limping away. East sighed, nodded to the rest of his friends, and they all began to pursue the creature. “If you would please halt for a second, we could provide you with the necessary outfit at no cost to you,” one of East’s friends tried.

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

The idiotic creature cried something unintelligible, perhaps in reply.

East looked ahead of the creature and was worried to see it approach one of the numerous cacti in the desert. It didn’t seem to have any plans of evading the prickly plant, which only raised his suspicion that the naked monkey was not only uncivilized but also absolutely stupid. most-“

“Do look ahead. A collision would be

The warning went unacknowledged, and the creature painfully toppled over the plant, before falling to (presumably) its demise at the bottom of the steep sand dune. East sighed, watching the creature begin its descent, lamenting on the stupidity and ignorance of such an inane being. “-unfortunate,” he finished, before turning back solemnly to his companions.

“Absolutely unbelievable,” one of them remarked.

“Do you suppose we ought to go after her?” East questioned. The other Wraiths made a sort of mental agreement, before turning back to him.

“Well, since you suggested the endeavor, we entreat you to journey after the monkey yourself. Good day,” the previous one declared.

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And with that, all of the Wraiths zoomed out of the desert, eager to leave the remnants of the day’s shenanigans. East grimaced and reluctantly glided towards the offending cactus that the hairless monkey had tripped over, before cocking his head in confusion. The air around the cactus contained a kind of energyt, and an almost invisible barrier stretched behind the unassuming plant, seemingly guarding the other side of the dune. East observed the curious, prismatic nature of the barrier, leaning closer to it, his body unbalanced. It took only one strong gust of wind to knock him completely over, pushing the Wraith across the barrier.

As he tumbled down, he gritted his fangs in agony, wondering how he had ever managed to find himself here.

——————————————————

West hung up the phone, resting her body against the pine tree next to her. It would take about an hour for her friend to get to the secluded part of the path she found herself on, but soon, West would finally be back home—or, rather, at the hospital, to get a cast for her wrist. She found herself dozing off before a rapid succession of thumps brought her spiraling back to attention, and she watched in horror as a rather familiar figure tumbled down the rocky ridge straight towards her. She scrambled up and out of the way, and watched, spellbound, as one of the black-clad

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

aliens crashed into the tree she had just rested upon. The impact and fall sent all its effects into disarray, tearing the folds of the cloak and knocking the hood off of its head. In terrified fascination, West observed that the creature’s skin was a mottled gray, covered with bumps and warts, and its long canines were still surrounded by some kind of steam. Yet strangely, West found her heartbeat slowing down and her muscles relaxing as her fear turned to pity, for the creature, like her, was not immune to the painful aftereffects of the descent.

Its forehead now displayed a long gash, from which blood oozed. The blood looked eerily like hers, except maybe a shade or too darker, and West realized with a jolt that the alien was now in the same situation that she was in back on the other world. It was hurt and alone, and lost in a place so different from its native desert of orange cacti and towering dunes. She made up her mind and quietly stepped closer to the creature, tearing off a piece of her shirt in the process. As she slowly began to dab the wound, a gray hand reached up and snatched her (unhurt) wrist, sharp, elongated nails digging into her skin. West looked down and met the piercing eyes of the creature, hoping that the emotion in its oval pupils was wariness, and not fear. She cleared her throat and placed her hands up in a show of surrender, never losing eye contact with the creature.

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“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered fruitlessly, recognizing somewhere in the back of her mind that there was no way the alien would understand her. She motioned with her head and eyes towards the top of the ridge, where she could barely see the iridescent barrier gleaming in the sun. “I just want to help you get home.”

The creature opened its mouth, and West flinched, preparing herself for the painful screams of earlier, but was surprised to hear only a soft grunt as the creature let go of its grip on her wrist, and pointed to the top of the ridge, then to her, and then to itself. West’s eyes widened as she realized the alien wanted to cross the barrier again, and she nodded quickly. ——————————————————

The arduous ordeal of climbing back up the ridge was well worth it, East thought, as he gazed at the shimmering barrier in front of him. The hairless monkey had been intriguingly happy to help him journey up, and now she sat next to the barrier, her long hair blowing in the wind, tapping on some kind of metallic box. He was fascinated by the technology she held in her hand, which he believed she called a “selfoon,” whatever that meant. It could project audio upon command that sounded like her language, which was an idea much more sophisticated than he had ever expected out of a hairless monkey. And as he stared at the creature, the mysterious not-so-

Kiayla Amos-Flom

Language barrier Northern Highlands Regional High School

stupid being, he realized that he wanted to know more about the race, and especially more about her. East sharply inhaled, attracting his counterpart’s attention, before motioning between the barrier and the monkey.

“I entreat you to visit whenever you wish. Perhaps we can achieve an understanding between our two races,” he whispered, remembering that his normal speech had crippled the creature.

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hood back up. He spread his arms open wide, the dangling black fabric whirling in the wind, catching curious white flakes that fell from the sky.

And as he saw a purple sky and twin suns once again, he finally realized that sometimes, barriers were meant to be crossed.

She had no possible way of understanding his language, but East could see some kind of light enter the creature’s eyes, as she read his body language and the soft tone of his voice. They were kindred spirits, after all; both knew the challenges of being an alien. East grinned, his fangs nipping his bruised jaw, before pushing his

Arthur Dennis

What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

Character List PARIS: A charming and witty mortal. In a romantic relationship with both Athena and Aphrodite. Often contemplates his own mortality and the nature of love. ATHENA: The Greek goddess of wisdom. Witty and contemplative, perhaps to a fault. In a romantic relationship with Paris, though not without reservations. APHRODITE: The Greek goddess of beauty. Charming and beautiful, making her seem more shallow than she is. In a romantic relationship with Paris, very committed to making it work. HERA: The Greek goddess of women and marriage. The mother to Athena and Aphrodite. Despises mortals and is an overbearing mother. Scene 1: It Takes Two To Tango

(APHRODITE, seated, is stage left with a mirror. ATHENA, seated, is stage right with a book. Both are in their own separate worlds; neither notices the other. PARIS stands downstage, centered.) PARIS Comparison is the thief of joy And who am I but one of god’s (looks at ATHENA, then at APRHODITE) toys? Who am I but a mere mortal, a shadow Whose flickering light is begging to be blown out? I must use my days with zeal unmatched To avoid my fate’s mortal traps And embrace the existence that awaits.

DRAMA

I must unreservedly pursue my fate.

(PARIS runs stage left and kisses APHRODITE abruptly.)

APHRODITE Oh, my, Paris, what a surprise! What brings you here—under what guise?

PARIS Oh, Aphrodite, I just couldn’t wait to see you The goddess of beauty with beauty so true!

APHRODITE Oh, please, Paris, you shower me with charm But your words only cause your good looks harm. PARIS And just what harm do my words cause?

APHRODITE All the harm in the world. (Stands up.) When you dance, Paris—give me your hand. (Extends hand.) PARIS (Tentatively taking hand) When I dance…? Yes, and?

APRHODITE (Lifts his hand and spins under it.) When you dance you lose sight of your words. You disappear under the curse of things not worth 55

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Escaping your mouth. Only breath, only breath. (She lets go of his hand and dances around him.) PARIS Only breath?

APRHODITE Only? Only is a word saved for the lonely! (Takes his hand once more and spins him this time.) This, this dancing and movement, this wondrous bliss Only breath needs to accompany it, and only this.

PARIS Ah, only breath. So, shall we dance? (Takes her hand and smiles.)

APHRODITE (Spins under his hand.) I suppose I must offer you the chance.

(They begin a simple box dance, smiling and giggling throughout. Then PARIS dips APHRODITE.) APRHODITE Paris, this is too much fun. This is more brightness than all of the sun!

PARIS The sun never shone quite like you did. (APHRODITE rolls her eyes and leans her

DRAMA

head back playfully in disgust, but PARIS leans in and kisses her.)

APHRODITE Well, arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you just the sappiest romantic? PARIS When it comes to love, I was always an addict.

(He lifts her from the dip and they continue the box, until he twirls her under his hand and she falls back into her seat. APHRODITE picks up the mirror and begins looking at herself and running her hand through her hair.) APHRODITE Do you think Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m like Narcissus?

PARIS Far from it.

APHRODITE (Still looking into mirror.) How do you figure? With my gaze forever spent into this mirror, I fear sometimes beauty can be a disease.

PARIS (Grabs mirror from her hand and talks to his reflection.) Yes, that it could be, except for the fact that you see. You see the inherent flaws in self-absorption: Despite being blessed with the fairest proportions, 56

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You pause to consider its nature And in such considerations, you transcend Narcissus.

APHRODITE (Pulls PARIS down to look in the mirror with him.) I suppose that’s very true; It’s not just my beauty I’m enraptured with. It’s the world’s and all of life’s and especially you. Beauty exists in my dancing, from our boxsteps to your dips. PARIS And if loving such beauty makes you narcissistic That makes one Narcissus I wish to stick with. (They kiss and PARIS runs stage right to ATHENA. She continues reading upon his entrance.)

PARIS (Earnestly.) Words, words, words; can’t they wait? (ATHENA looks up, grins, and then continues reading.) I said, can’t they wait? (Seeing her continuing to read, he begins dancing around her, almost singing mockingly to get her attention.) Athena, The queen of, Her books and her brain, But if she lost one of them, (He grabs the book from her hands.)

DRAMA

I think she’d go insane.

ATHENA (Looks at him, playfully defeated.) Oh, it’s nothing but a tale of forgotten lore. PARIS (Thrusting it back to her; she grudgingly takes it.) Surely it can’t be so stale—that book is breathing. ATHENA No, truthfully, Paris, it’s a bore

PARIS I never understood you The goddess of wisdom, with mental prowess abounding, (PARIS grabs the book from her hands.) Devours books old and new Only to leave without a single novel page found ATHENA Who’s to say I find no such page novel? PARIS (PARIS leafs through the pages.) You claimed it wasn’t breathing—dead.

ATHENA When it comes to certain mortals’ words, why bother? PARIS (Sarcastically) 57

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Is that how you feel towards me, dear friend?

ATHENA (ATHENA rises and begins walking towards him, taking another step closer towards him with increasing levels of sarcasm.) Oh, withdraw to your silenc,e you witty fool. I imagine you take pride in turning me imbecile. Me, Athena, finally finding someone as contemplative (Pauses upon realizing the truth under her sarcasm.) If only we had some centuries more time to play with PARIS (Taking a step back.) You don’t think our love can outlast me?

ATHENA (Remaining in place.) I think the very absurdity of your question gives its answer. PARIS (Stepping forward once more.) You know what I mean.

ATHENA Paris, I think at best we shall share beautiful banter. PARIS (Earnestly, stepping forward.) And divine conversations?

DRAMA

ATHENA (Remaining in place.) And conversations of intellect bursting.

PARIS (Stepping forward once more, now extremely close to ATHENA’s face.) Then what more can we ask for? Beyond divine conversation and lovely love, what more?

ATHENA (Grabs the book from PARIS’ hands. Leafs through it just as he did before.) Perhaps nothing, perhaps nothing but time. I fear that requires something a tad more divine

PARIS (Puts his hand on the book to stop her from leafing through it.) Well, I love you in this short interval nonetheless. ATHENA (Looks up from the book to him.) And I too find this interval one of the best. (They kiss. PARIS runs stage left and taps APHRODITE on the shoulder.)

PARIS (Feigning a deep, masculine voice as a joke) Excuse me, miss goddess of the sea, The truest, most beautiful Aphrodite— APHRODITE 58

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(Laughing) Oh, Paris, will you stop?

PARIS (Continuing) Who denies even the most handsome of men—

APHRODITE (Standing up, confronting him jokingly) The most handsome? Are we going to begin lying, again? PARIS (Assuming to his normal voice.) I didn’t say it—someone else must have Just a quiet voice in our heads, I suppose.

APHRODITE Yes, one of the many voices in your head, I know: You’re positively mad, you— PARIS I am positively glad—

APHRODITE And not in the least bit clever. PARIS Never?

APHRODITE Oh, god, no.

APHRODITE Paris! I was thinking that—

DRAMA

PARIS interrupts her with a kiss.

APHORIDTE Oh my, Paris, will you ever be contained? PARIS I hope not for all my fate.

APHRODITE As do I. In any case, I was thinking That perhaps a vacation of ours is in order While your years pass, my eyes are maybe blinking. I’d ensure not to take a third of your life— nay, a quarter! PARIS A quarter of my entire life?

APHRODITE Well, surely you’d offer more to a wife. PARIS It’s not the time that worries me

APRHODITE Paris, allow me to dispel any worry. I’m the goddess of beauty and, with that, comes A life of dreams and fantasies never to be undone. But among the wonders of such an existence Comes a need to remove all inhibitions. I don’t have time to waste in much the same way as you Because I’ll wake up and as much as a century will pass— 59

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PARIS Aphrodite, that’s not what I asked.

APHRODITE Paris, I don’t recall your asking anything! PARIS Sorry, you’re right, you are.

APHRODITE Well, surely I am! I’ve outlived the stars! PARIS A quarter of my life?

APHRODITE And it will shine with uncontested light. I just don’t want to postpone any more days. PARIS I find it hard to argue with such ways

They kiss and PARIS runs stage right.

PARIS How much of your life do you want to spend with me? ATHENA Paris, any fraction of mine is naught. Yours fractions are off.

PARIS Fine, then, then, why not all of it with me? ATHENA Because all of my life outlives yours!

DRAMA

PARIS No, no, not all of yours—mine!

ATHENA Paris, I’m telling you this for the last time. You don’t understand your own death What it means for you to take a breath. It’s not in the same way I wake up and live. Your heart pumps blood. I wish I could give This infinitude of wisdom. It is as much a vice As a virtue and it’s never quite as nice As the company of someone I can share it with And that, Paris, that is what you have to give. PARIS My company?

ATHENA Your thoughts, your mind, your dichotomous time PARIS And you feel equally?

ATHENA No, not equally—yours is still finite But teeming with ideas so bright And some thoughts so dark and confused That I too can sometimes sympathize with you. It’s really nice finding that in a mortal, in a man.

PARIS And you’re afraid you’ll never find that again

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

ATHENA And I’m afraid in a century I won’t remember it again…?

ATHENA Why does it scare me?

PARIS A quarter of my life, right?

ATHENA Paris, truthfully, Fear is an emotion I have longed to feel But it requires finality far more real Than an evanescent love to be terminated soon. But yes, Paris, it’s rare such a mortal makes my heart swoon And it’s rarer still—

PARIS runs stage left.

APHRODITE As much as you feel you can afford is right. PARIS And it’s because you love me? APHRODITE It’s because you’re fleeting!

PARIS Right, right—but still breathing? APHRODITE Exactly—but for how long?

PARIS Hence our love could never be wrong. APHRODITE Exactly—it’s so short and curt There’s no way for me to get hurt PARIS runs stage right

PARIS Why does my mortality scare you?

PARIS Isn’t such fright true?

PARIS But I thought we have the same dichotomous mind The same yearning to know more all the time. ATHENA We do.

PARIS And yet your fear remains true.

ATHENA It’s presence fails to waver or disappear Until either our consummation or end is near. PARIS runs stage left. PARIS Do you love me?

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

APHRODITE Paris, why such incessance? Your insecurities make me wince— Just enjoy our time: “love” is a mere word. Our days together hold the real worth. PARIS runs stage right PARIS Do you love me?

ATHENA Paris, how could my answer remotely matter When in no time at all I’ll be left alone with my solitude for banter And my still books for answers? PARIS runs stage left

PARIS So, if we spent time together…? To me, that would constitute forever.

APHRODITE It would constitute whatever you desire.

PARIS And how would it benefit you, the goddess of beauty?

APRHODITE Paris, I want more time with you. That’s it: yours is finite, mine is not. I’d prefer if you could share some of yours with me Before you, before you rot

DRAMA

PARIS runs stage right

PARIS Why don’t you want to spend my time with me?

ATHENA I never said that. But it’s your time. Your questions often allude to their answers— It’s your time and for that to be my decision Would be to rob you of the only thing Your mortality has to offer. PARIS And what’s that?

ATHENA A life… and a death.

PARIS runs stage left.

APHRODITE Ah, Paris, were you gone long? PARIS No, I, uh,….

PARIS runs stage right

ATHENA Paris, I do love you, I just—

PARIS I thought “love” was juts a mere word.

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

ATHENA What? I never said—

PARIS Never, uh, nevermind, I— PARIS runs stage left. PARIS I—

PARIS runs stage right. PARIS I—

PARIS runs back and forth until he collapses center stage.

PARIS Comparison is the thief of joy And who am I but one of god’s toys? Who am I but a mere mortal, a shadow Whose flickering light is begging to be blown out? I must use my days with zeal unmatched To avoid my fate’s mortal traps And embrace the existence that awaits. I must unreservedly pursue my fate. PARIS exits.

Scene 2: The Holy Trinity

ATHENA is stage left, leaning towards center. APRHODITE is stage right, leaning towards center.

DRAMA

APRHODITE I don’t understand.

ATHENA It’s just boring, Aphrodite. It’s short and it ends too quickly— It felt as if the entire thing was rising and climaxing, almost for some beautiful crescendo. But for it to end like that?

APHRODITE But it was beautiful! Filled with intensity and passion, it felt as if every single word were dripping with intention and love—

ATHENA Well of course you’d say that! Always seeking charm and allure, but never wanting to seek anything further, never pushing yourself to consider another alternative, never getting out of your own single minded vapidness.

APHRODITE Why are you attacking me so much? Athena, I never anticipated such negativity from you; it was so short and devoid of depth anyway that I honestly expected you to feel as much, but to get so worked up about it is so out of character,r honestly. ATHENA I’m not attacking you—I’m just upset you thought it was so beautiful. You thought it was so wonderful and spectacular without even pondering a semblance of its meaning or intention—because there was none!

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

APHRODITE Who are you to criticize me on intention and meaning? So what if I thought it was beautiful? So what if— HERA enters.

HERA Children, children, why are we yelling? I swear I could hear you from the top of Mt. Olympus. APHRODITE Athena’s screaming at me over this book.

ATHENA I wasn’t screaming, Aphrodite was simply making me upset because of her abysmal judgment.

APHRODITE See! Abysmal! God forbid I read something and fancy it; she has to accuse it of lacking depth and meaning and being shallow and— ATHENA It is all those things!

APRHODITE So what if it is? What’s so beautiful about depth if the shallow parts are already beautiful?

HERA Children, stop bickering. Now. It’s beneath you. It’s extraordinarily beneath you.

DRAMA

APHRODITE Sorry. ATHENA Sorry.

HERA Now, while we’re already on matters of disappointment, can we please address the subject of this mortal Paris? I trust that this conversation will be curt and dismissive, as I have very little time for such discussions. APHRODITE Mom, what’s there to discuss?

HERA What is there to discuss? I, Hera, the goddess of women and marriage, have two daughters who have struck up a romance with a mere mortal. Where must I begin?

APHRODITE It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. I still don’t see the harm in it. HERA It is beneath you! You have eternity to strike up immortal engagements and yet you both still entertain yourselves with finite matters. There’s no place for it. APHRODITE Yes, it’s finite—that’s exactly why it’s okay.

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HERA Athena, will you please talk some sense into your sister? APHODITE She fancies him too!

ATHENA Aphrodite, that is not the case. It’s just, Mom, there is a certain intriguing, almost immortal element to his mind. Sure, he’s beneath us, but if you could hear the way we converse—it’s rather divine. His intellect notwithstanding, I haven’t even invested too much into him to justify your fears, Mom. It’s too finite, too fleeting; there are such limits to any endeavor.

APRHODITE Everything is finite for mortals! That hasn’t stopped them yet, and it’s not ever going to stop them. They are blind to their finitude— I don’t see why we can’t just join them on their blind journey!

HERA Because you are not blind! Because you are not blind! Thank you, Athena, for maintaining appropriate reservations. Aphrodite, you are the goddess of beauty. This boy could have the charm of Achilles or the wit that Athena attributes to him, but he is blind. Just as you have said, he is blind. And he is blind to what it means to be the goddess of beauty. You are so much more powerful than he could ever imagine—

DRAMA

APHRODITE And I realize that!

HERA You don’t! You don’t because if you did there would be no prolonged conversations; there would be no infantile fantasies of spending his finitude with you. Aphrodite, I’ve slept longer than the lives of some men. Their troubles are fleeting, their concerns are immature. There’s only so much time that can be spent with them. APHRODITE Athena doesn’t agree with you, either. HERA Is this true?

ATHENA Mom, I’m not siding with Aphrodite, and I refuse to indulge in her vapid infatuations— APHRODITE Stop calling me vapid!

ATHENA But I nonetheless reject that Paris should be dismissed as a mere mortal! HERA He is mortal! He is mortal!

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

ATHENA Ye,s but you spit that word out like an insult, as if we should be above that, as if there is elegance to immortality that grants us responsibility to maintain a pristine image of purity. HERA You shouldn’t maintain such an image because you are immortal, you should maintain it because you are my daughters.

ATHENA That notwithstanding, it feels degrading—to Aphrodite and to me—to have our judgments so easily ridiculed.

HERA Very well; Aphrodite, do you feel the same way? APRHODITE Yes.

HERA I’m sorry; it was never my intention to be so condescending. I merely wanted to advise you—I’ll retract my concerns until I’ve gauged the situation appropriately for myself. ATHENA Thank you.

APRHODITE Thank you.

DRAMA

HERA With that, I’d prefer some privacy on this issue. ATHENA Yes, we’ll go.

APHRODITE Thank you again for understanding, Mom. ATHENA and APHRODITE exit.

HERA The mortality of simple men Must unfortunately be expressed again and again To teach to my daughters the cruelty of fate And of the days of death that await Of the sense of loss and the crushing blow of time And of the terrible underworld’s punishment for a crimeless crime HERA picks up a previously unseen apple and marks it.

It is a shame that such meddling must occur So as to prevent my daughters from the chaos they would’ve endured. PARIS enters.

HERA Paris, please come and talk with me. I have an issue that requires the utmost honest.

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

PARIS Yes, of course, Hera. What is the matter? HERA There’s a certain question I’m unable to answer. PARIS What is it?

HERA I found this apple and on it inscribed, “To the fairest, the most divine” And, as their mother, I can’t possibly decree Whether this belongs to Athena or Aphrodite PARIS Are you asking for me to give the apple to one of them?

HERA I’d hate this simple decision to be such a burden. PARIS No, it’s not a burden at all.

HERA Just pass the fruit on to she whom your heart calls. PARIS My heart?

HERA Yes, unless there’s emotion hiding in some other part.

DRAMA

PARIS No, it’s just—

HERA Paris, I am the goddess of marriage and women. Aphrodite and Athena are my daughters, and you are wooing both of them. I expect sincerity and clarity Even from a confused mortal. PARIS I didn’t think of it as wooing so much as mutual love. I assure you that insincerity and lack of clarity I am above. HERA Then be above it and decide The apple lies in your sight I trust that you will decide right.

HERA tosses PARIS the apple. ATHENA enters stage right and APRHODITE enters stage left. PARIS stays frozen in between them. HERA walks between all three of them throughout the following monologue.

HERA It’s all just a short and fruity game Filled with misplaced desires and love feigned, In sad attempts somehow to bridge reality With the pitiful mortals’ absurdity. There are. daughters seeking more Knowing they’ll receive less And men knocking on tempting doors 67

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With vague inscriptions in hopes of discovering something blessed And yet he’ll lie behind his own door soon One under the ground lit by the moon While my girls wake up and start their day over too Like the way we’ve been forced to get used to HERA exits. PARIS remains center stage. PARIS Comparison is the thief of joy And who am I but one of god’s toys?

PARIS goes stage left.

PARIS Aphrodite, what does it mean to be the fairest, the most divine?

APHRODITE It sounds to me like a silly question set to waste time.

PARIS But what does that even mean to you, what time is there of yours to waste? APRHODITE Do you think I just remain here, still in my place?

PARIS No, Aphrodite, I meant no insult or malice But here you sit, the queen of your palace, In a timeless space with the time to waste, no?

DRAMA

APHRODITE No. PARIS No? How?

APHRODITE Because of now. Because while my time is infinite, yours is not Because in the blink of my eyes all of this is for naught Because while you sit and ponder questions of divinity I sit and try to live while I have my eternity. PARIS So you think the question of who the fairest is…?

APHRODITE Is an answerless question on some mortal’s quiz…? I’m the goddess of beaut; my aura radiates But hubris is a trait everyone hates And I’m quick enough both to recognize That I’m the fairest according to anyone with eyes And also that I must cloak that with a humble disguise. PARIS Your humility is overwhelming.

APHRODITE laughs and they kiss. PARIS walks slowly to stage right, with occasional backward glances at APHRODITE. 68

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ATHENA is reading a book.

PARIS Still entrenched in tales of forgotten lore? ATHENA Yes, though this one is less of a bore.

PARIS And you never tire of these volumes aplenty? ATHENA To tire of such wisdom seems rather petty.

PARIS I suppose I’ll learn of such pettiness in time But for now Athena let me ask you: who is the fairest, the most divine? ATHENA Paris, why must you entertain such riddles? Questions like these mean so little.

PARIS You have all of your existence to ponder questions readily Doesn’t tiring of them so quickly seem rather petty? ATHENA I was speaking of wisdom; contests of fairness or divinity Hardly pass the threshold for being worth a debate of eternity

DRAMA

PARIS Not a debate of eternity—just a short, fading one The question won’t live once more to see the sun.

ATHENA Well, I won’t allow the sun’s light to shine on it even today. It’s a waste of our increasingly shorter days. PARIS begins walking stage left, but pauses center stage for the following lines. Upon their conclusion he is stage left with APHRODITE. PARIS Who am I but a mere mortal, a shadow Whose flickering light is begging to be blown out?

APHRODITE Paris, have you given our vacation any more thought? I figure that through all this deliberation some time may be lost

PARIS Nothing lost—it’s all still very much present Do you think I should do it with you? I mean someone like me, a mortal, a peasant With you, someone so fair and divine too?

APHRODITE Paris, I’ve echoed myself more than the deepest cavern And yet you seem more lost than a drunk in a 69

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tavern, Somehow in place but still stumbling over Only because he can never remain sober.

PARIS What? How am I likened to a drunk? What did I do to be compared with someone of such low luck? APHRODITE Because you refuse to listen or even see. It’s this blindness of yours—your mortality. I’m asking you to throw that all away And invest with me for all your remaining days. PARIS I would really love each and every one of them. APHRODITE Then I won’t ask you again!

They kiss. PARIS walks towards ATHENA, but at center stage pauses and delivers the following lines. PARIS I must use my days with zeal unmatched To avoid my fate’s mortal traps.

PARIS reaches stage right, where ATHENA is still reading. PARIS Still not finished with your reading, I see.

DRAMA

ATHENA You’ve always had the greatest clarity.

PARIS And now I’d like to ask for some of yours. ATHENA Clarity should be the only thing from me you’ve heard.

PARIS You and I are in love, or rather, we fancy one another And despite the commentary from you or your mother— ATHENA My mother?

PARIS Is there another?

ATHENA What did she say to you, exactly?

PARIS It wasn’t so much as what she said actually…

ATHENA As what? If it wasn’t what she said then—

PARIS It was the thing which was lent. ATHENA Lent? 70

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PARIS From her to me, an apple, yes.

ATHENA And what does this apple have to do with anything? Was it blessed? PARIS No, it was. It was intended to force my decision.

ATHENA Who has clogged your ears and clouded your vision?! What did my mother lend you? PARIS An apple with an inscription— ATHENA Saying what?

PARIS To the fairest, the most divine. ATHENA Hera!

PARIS, shocked by her yelling, retreats to center stage.

PARIS Athena, Aphrodite, I truthfully do not know what to do. I love you and I love you And as my own life’s ticking marches forward,

DRAMA

I fear that I must further reserve “love” as a thought and word And instead communicate all of my wants But I’m at a loss and the decision is too daunting And—

APHRODITE Paris, there is no daunting decision ahead, With Athena, you’ll lead a life of reservation and dread. I say we jump headfirst and headstrong into life And worry not about famine or disease or strife And instead focus on preserving all that we have And if that makes me vapid or shallow, too bad.

ATHENA I never intended to call you vapid! Only that your decision making process is lacking And that you fail even to consider the mentality of Paris And equally dismiss him, like Hera, as a mere kid HERA enters. PARIS is frozen.

HERA Look at him, still as a statue With fewer veins and artistry He is charmin;, that’s true; Yet he is restrained by his mortality.

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What Felt Like Eternity Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

ATHENA I suppose I’ll offer to him my thoughts as well. Paris, the world is gray and dark and light And it’s this combination that never seems right Yet instead of seeing a blind palette like so many others You too see the colors and spectrums that HERA evade my mother It seems all the wisdom of yours fails to Me and you and our dichotomous minds serve you well. It seems that in your infatuation with the cognition of a mortal you Perhaps speaking of forgotten lore— Despite the occasional bore— have lost your own. It seems that in simultaneously defending yourself and your Wouldn’t be the worst usage of our time. sister through this fleeting and unimportant affair you have failed to recall your place in HERA the world and on Mt Olympus. There is a He’s had more than these mere words here reason he is frozen right now: still open to for deliberation. Both of your relationships receiving our pleas, but unable to act until we should suffice in entertaining him; I suppose allow it. If you think such pleas are there’s nothing left to do but watch him necessary go ahead; I’m certain I’ll be decide. proven that he is a shallow, love-stricken mortal like all the rest. One without so much ATHENA returns to stage right. as a deep thought as most mortals, let alone a APRHODITE returns to stage left. HERA goddess. places the apple in PARIS’ hands and recedes to upstage center stage behind him. APHRODITE HERA He knows everything I wish to say. Paris, who is the fairest, the most divine? Paris, though life may be a mere apparition I wish to join you on its ghostly vision And see the sights and the worlds as your life ATHENA You don’t have to answer or even decide. expires And fill both of our mutual desires. APRHODITE I want to enjoy the life you were given And both of us think you are divine. Without the fear of being “love-stricken” Just absent-minded pure bliss, The thing we’ve had since we started this. ATHENA He wasn’t even offered a chance to decide adequately. He was never presented with a choice or deliberation or thought or input; only the meddling affairs of a goddess who feigns protection for her daughters instead of fostering their best interests.

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ATHENA The world is tumbling with dichotomies.

APHRODITE And I’d love to share my slice of eternity…. PARIS I must embrace the existence that waits, I must unreservedly pursue my fate.

PARIS looks at APHRODITE, then at ATHENA. Finally, he looks back at HERA. He then faces the audience and takes a bite from the apple. Fin.

DRAMA

Rebecca Rosenthal

JASON GELDBAUM: MS. W:

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

Cast of Characters

A student at the end of junior high or maybe the beginning of senior high. Jason’s history teacher. Late 20s.

MRS. GELDBAUM:

Jason’s mother. Loud and middle-aged.

BARTY:

The GELDBAUM’S very large dog.

MR. GELDBAUM:

DRAMA

Jason’s father. Quiet and also middle-aged.

SCENE

A public school classroom in a suburb of New York City.

The near future.

TIME

SETTING:

A public school classroom, indicated by a flat covered in posters upstage and a student’s desk and chair, downstage left. A teacher’s chair, empty, right of the desk.

AT RISE:

Bright fluorescent lighting. JASON sits at the student’s desk, holding a piece of lined paper and pencil in his hands.)

Rebecca Rosenthal

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MS. W

(Offstage). Just a minute, Mr. and Mrs. Geldbaum. Jason and I are just going to review his truly excellent performance, then you may join us for your sonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s annual state mandated parent-teacherstudent conference. No need to worry! (JASON begins doodling on the paper as MS. W walks in.)

MS. W Jason, your parents are outside, as I am sure you know. (Laughs at her own joke, then pauses) I was hoping that maybe we could resolve our issues. Before they come in, so that I can assure them that you are improving. So that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worry them too much. All right.

(Shrugs).

JASON

MS. W So, do you have that paper? The one for which I really emphasized the importance of writing and actually handing in for tonight? JASON Oh, yeah, Ms. W. I did it. Just like I always do it.

(He holds up the paper he was holding. It is soggy and missing chunks.)

I see. Unreadable. Again. I did write it. I swear.

MS. W JASON

Rebecca Rosenthal

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MS. W Oh, I believe you. Or, at least, I see that there was at one time something written on this. (Exasperated). What happened? JASON I couldn’t rewrite it in time after he chewed it all up… (He crumples the paper). Who. Who chewed it all up?

MS. W

JASON My dog. Also, he has ebolculosis. (Coughs). Gross, I know. If you touched this to see if there was ever anything resembling homework written on it in the first place you might die. (Pause). My family and I are immune since this is actually my dog’s second time contracting… ebolculosis. The first time we were all in the hospital for weeks. It was terrible. Horrible disease. My condolences. Yep.

MS. W JASON

MS. W What is your dog’s name, Jason? What?

JASON

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Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MS. W Your dog. Does he have a name?

JASON Yes, of course he does. What kind of dog doesn’t have a name? (He glances at a poster upstage listing various European explorers). It’s Bartholomew. My dog is named Bartholomew. I know, doesn’t roll off the tongue. But my dad is half-Portuguese, and he thought that old Barty— yes, Barty. Is what we call him for short. My dad just wanted to imbue him with the sense of curiosity and intrepidity that our Portuguese ancestors had in the Age of Exploration. Is that so?

MS. W

JASON Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. My dad is kind of nuts, if we’re being frank with each other. I am, at least, don’t know about you. Am being frank. Yes.

MS. W

JASON But he loves his history. Maybe that’s why I love your class so much. Genetics!

MS. W You have not turned in any assignment that was given to you the entire year. And your summer homework spontaneously combusted.

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Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

JASON Because the window repairman didn’t come to replace the recently recalled convex glass panes that focused sunlight directly on my desk. I brought in the ashes so you could see them! MS. W

Your last outline was… (She digs in a folder on her desk). “Stolen by the rogue bats that live under your roof.” JASON What do you want, the guano from my windowsill? No! Please, no.

MS. W

JASON (Catching sight of another poster). Well, I bet no one asked George Washington to do outlines of his history textbook. MS. W You are not George Washington. You probably do not even know who George Washington was. (Sighs). And this is a world history class… Oh.

JASON

MS. W I have to speak with your parents and I have to submit a report on all of my students to the state. And please, you know how this is my first year teaching. So?

JASON

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Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MS. W So, can’t you just promise me you’ll make up everything? No, Ms. Whateverstein—

JASON

MS. W Ms. W—- it doesn’t matter. You have been in my class for nearly two months but I have not received a single assignment that has not been burnt or stolen or else covered in your dog’s— Barty. Barty’s saliva.

JASON MS. W

JASON He is a big dog. He makes a lot of saliva.

MS. W I think I have given you ample time to complete one, just one assignment without it being salivated upon or otherwise destroyed. JASON Easier said than done. MS. W You can’t keep your dog away from your desk while you do your homework? Close your bedroom door? Just for a little bit? Nope. Why not?

JASON MS. W

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Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

JASON If you saw him, you would understand. He’s huge. Can barge through doors, even shut and locked ones. Just like our ancestors barged through the Atlantic waves for the House of Aviz back in old Portugal. He’d eat my backpack if he was so inclined. Is that so? Yep.

MS. W JASON

MS. W Well, then, could you perhaps get your work done at the library? Your mother said your family lives right near there.

JASON Nuh-uh. Ever since the bats moved in… well, you probably don’t want to hear about what happens when you try to walk out my front door. And my parents aren’t around to drive me because they work late. The bats are afraid of cars… but only during the day.

MS. W (Moving towards him, pointing). I am sure your parents will agree with me that these reasons are ridiculous, and will be upset to hear that you have not done a single assignment this year. JASON I’m not sure about that. Besides. That’s not true!

JASON (cont.) (He brandishes the damp assignment in front of his chest). I did them. You just said you don’t want to touch slobbery homework. (Shrugs). 80

Rebecca Rosenthal

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MS. W Well, yes, you have brought in the assignments but— JASON

So you admit it…?

MS. W

Admit what?

JASON

That I do my homework.

MS. W

No! I mean, yes! (Pauses, then calmer). But, Jason, sweetie. Don’t you see? I would really have to tell your parents about why I cannot in good conscience offer you a passing grade in my class unless you make a serious change in your habits. JASON

(Smoothing the paper). And I can’t offer you slobbery homework in good conscience, either, but you really leave me no choice. No, you leave me no choice!

MS. W

MRS. GELDBAUM

(Offstage). Is everything all right in there? It’s almost 6:30, and we forgot to tape Jeopardy!

MS. W Oh, yes, just reviewing this assignment with Jason. (Quietly). I just hoped we could work out something more pleasant together. 81

Rebecca Rosenthal

Sure we can, Ms. W. (Pause). Grade my paper.

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

JASON

MS. W I know you’re smart. Well, I think you’re smart. Maybe. (Moves the teacher’s chair to face him, sits down, quietly). I just wouldn’t want to tell your parents that you’re a lying, lazy, cheating smart-aleck. (Pause). Because I don’t think you are. Call me naïve— Okay.

JASON

MS. W — But I thought we could compromise, as friends. As business partners. You promise me you’ll make up everything and I will tell your parents that everything you turn in is absolutely perfect. That if you wanted to, you could teach my course and that it’s a pleasure having you in it regardless. Same thing on the state reports. You can keep your allowance, and I’ll keep my sanity and job security. How does that sound? JASON (Pauses to consider). You don’t have it in you. What?

MS. W

JASON You don’t have it in you to lie. You’re too nice. MS. W Why are you doing this to me? 82

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Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

JASON I told you already. It’s not me. It’s the urge for exploration in my ancestors… and their dogs. You can read my paper. It’s on Henry the Navigator. (Moves to slip it in the folder on her desk). MS. W No, no, that’s just fine. No need to show me. I’ll just tell your parents everything is… fine regardless. And you’re just. Imaginative. MRS. GELDBAUM I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. W, but can we get this going?

Yes! Yes, just a minute—-

MS. W

JASON I won’t make anything up because I did it all. Why won’t you believe me? I really want to.

MS. W

MR. GELDBAUM (Offstage). We don’t want to rush you and Jason, but we couldn’t— what with the windows out and the bats, you know— (Laughs). We couldn’t leave Barty at home and I was afraid the car was getting too hot so I brought him in. What?

MS. W

Rebecca Rosenthal

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MR. GELDBAUM He’s a good dog, don’t worry, a bit testy, though, really, and well, gosh, a terror on the leash, let me tell you—

MRS. GELDBAUM We named him after Jason’s great-great-great-great grandfather. He was a Portuguese explorer. Because Barty is so intrepid! Pulling after every squirrel! Jason’s father thought of it. Jason thinks it’s just the funniest thing. Don’t you honey? (Shouting). Yes, mommy!

JASON

MRS. GELDBAUM I’m sure you know how our Jason loves history! He says he just loves your class. MR. GELDBAUM And he cannot stop bragging about how much you love his assignments. He says he’s the class star. Isn’t that right Jason?

MRS. GELDBAUM

(Pause. JASON hands his homework to MS. W, who pushes away). Jason?

MR. GELDBAUM

JASON (Stands up and begins walking towards the door.) It’s up to you, Ms. W. (Loudly). Yeah, dad. You know it.

Rebecca Rosenthal

Revisonism Bergen County Academies

DRAMA

MR. GELDBAUM I’m sure this meeting will be quick. We’ll just hear how great our baby is doing and then get home for final Jeopardy. MRS. GELDBAUM Yes. Now may we come in?

MS. W (Stands and moves to open the door) Yes, of course, of course… (Opens the door). A pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Geldbaum. I can really see where your son gets it from.

(A large, quadruped figure on a leash enters, silhouetted through the doorway, as the lights dim. JASON moves to pet it as MS. W. moves to shake hands with MR. GELDBAUM, who holds the leash, and MRS. GELDBAUM.) (BLACKOUT)

(END OF SCENE)

Katia Hardesty

A Thing of the Past Northern Highlands Regional High School

My full name is Ekaterina Alexandra Nurgatina. My name was changed to Ekaterina Rose Hardesty when I entered America, since my new parents had no idea of my complete name, and I was too young to tell them. I was born in Siberia, Russia, on July 17, 1997. The apartment we all lived in consisted of four rooms. My learning to walk along the corridor took me from wall to wall and bump to bump till bruises covered my body. When I thought I had got a handle on it, the next thing I knew I was on the ground again, but that was just the beginning of my life and the least of my worries. Two years passed and I began to realize the world around me more vividly. I came to notice who the people in my life were and what use they were to me. My mom, I called her Mama, my grandma, Babushka, and my grandpa was called Dedushka. My dad, well there was no such person in my life. I have always thought he left Mama when I was just getting born, but that was just a supposition. I have never given a thought to why I didn’t have a papa since it was the norm. My grandparents were somewhat wealthy and could keep a family of four out of hunger for a period of time. Babushka was always good to me, always took care of me and helped my mother get through tough times, but I feared Dedushka. He was in a wheelchair and had no legs, well, he had legs but he had to put them on, and then when he put on legs he was a monster that hovered over me and stomped around like an elephant. I always ran and hid

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from him every time he had legs. How could he possibly have no legs one minute and legs the next? No words could ever describe my life in full detail then. It was a year after that day that my pleasant days became a thing of the past. I became hungry and yearned to have food in my stomach every morning, so I’d sneak early to my grandparents’ room to check if they were sleeping; then I’d go behind the door where their coats hung and reach into their pockets to pull out money. I’d sneak back out and run to the store to buy bread, since that is all we could afford. After I bought it, I’d sit on the ground near the store and eat it. People stared at me, but were not surprised, since it wasn’t uncommon for a girl to sit by herself eating bread in the poor neighborhoods of Siberia. On my way home I’d run, afraid to get stopped by bullies. After I arrived home one of these times I heard sniffling and soft talk out of my grandparents’ bedroom. I walked towards the sound, where I found mama crying in my grandparents’ bedroom. I was afraid to go inside because I had never heard my mother cry so loudly but I entered anyway, only to find her kneeling down by Dedushka’s bed holding his hand, as Babushka comforted Mama, but still wept over my grandfather. I was unsure of why everyone was crying until I crept closer to look over my mother’s shoulder. His body was still and his face and fingers were a light shade of blue with wrinkles all over. His face showed no emotion as his right hand was placed upon his belly and his left was held by my mother. 86

Katia Hardesty

A Thing of the Past Northern Highlands Regional High School

I never spoke a word to them, afraid to cry myself. I just stood there next to them until these men, arrived to check the time of death and plan a burial. The next day I was told to dress and get ready to leave. There were black cars sitting outside our house. I saw a big shadowed figure in the back seat that almost touched the ceiling of the car. I was told to get into that car and ride all the way to the cemetery. I then realized it was anything but ordinary. I was riding with a dead person next to me. Half way through the ride I gathered up the courage to touch it and say a prayer in my head, thinking I would never have him this close to me again. The ride soon came to an end and we all went inside a church to hear a priest say his blessings and send him to heaven. Months passed and life just turned into a party. My grandmother started to drink incessantly. Mother and grandmother stopped taking care of me. They apparently forgot that I was in the room and looking at everything they were doing. Drinking became an everyday thing from that day on. Then one night, the worst of the worst happened. Mama, Babushka, and I were at a party that had plenty of liquor to go around. People were there talking and dancing and laughing like idiots, and Babushka and Mama drank a lot. Russians tend to do that. They drink a lot and then pass out till the next morning with a hangover. The night gradually progressed and I sat on the couch to sleep. In the middle of the night, I felt a figure lay next to me, putting its head on my shoulder, but I was too tired to wake up and

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check who it was. Morning sun shone through the window the next day, and as I started to awaken the heavy feeling of a person up against me became more and more real. As I opened my blurry eyes I looked over next to me and my grandmother was beside me sleeping soundlessly. Her face was blurry to me and misshapen, but my vision slowly came back. And it sharpened her face, which became more clear and visible. Her wrinkly face and closed, veiny eyes were against my shoulder wrinkling her face even more. Her face was blue colored. Her hands were still, as was the rest of her body. There was no chest rising up and down. I jumped up pushing her down on the couch with a sudden jolt, making her fall gracefully upon the couch. I looked at her with fear and pain in my eyes and started to shake her to wake up her unbeating heart, but nothing was working. I screamed and wailed for her to awaken and say one more thing to me, but nothing came from her sealed mouth. I ran out of the apartment to where Mama was, and when I ran through the doors of our apartment Mother was laying in her bed sound asleep. I shook her awake and screamed to her that Babushka isn’t moving. She sprang from her bed and ran out the door in her bed clothing, not caring about me. But I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t think about anything but my own mother at that moment in time if I were in her place. As I slowly made my way to where Babushka was I saw my mother sitting by her near the couch, embracing my grandmother and hysterically crying. I once

Katia Hardesty

A Thing of the Past Northern Highlands Regional High School

again could do nothing but watch and reflect on the memories of her and me together. Like the one time when she told me to go buy something yummy like candy, but instead I went and bought a loaf of bread for the family. Little things that she did for me I tried to do back for her. That day had now changed my whole life from bad to worse. One morning on my way to the store, I met a couple of girls who looked a little older than I, and they somehow became my friends. These friends were the only people who made my life seem somewhat normal, but that didn’t last long. I walked with them to the store that morning and suddenly I heard a scream. “RUN!” I didn’t know what they meant, so curious me looked back to see who was chasing us. They grabbed my hand and dragged me into a sprint. My feet couldn’t carry me that far, and soon my legs and lungs gave out. I have never had to run before in my life like that, and I had to slow down which made them slow down too. The boys who were behind us grabbed one of the girls and dragged her away with them. The other girls looked on, terrified, as if she was already dead. From what I could see, they were dark- skinned and tall, about 9 or 10 years old. No one ever saw that kidnapped girl after that day, and I never got my food. Two or three days after the incident, I met the girls again in the usual spot. It was kind of warm out, enough to not need a coat. Out of nowhere, the kidnapped girl showed up, torn and beaten down. She had a bruise around her eye and God knows if there were bruises on her body. She was

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covered up, so no one could know. Secrets were passed around which were not shared with me. I was told I was too young to know, but my eyes didn’t lie, I saw those boys had beaten her badly. I became afraid to be around those girls again, yet something about them kept drawing me in, as if they were my saviors, sparing me from being alone. Were they trustworthy and caring problems I had never had to deal with before? I didn’t know. One afternoon when the girls and I went for the last walk to the store, they screamed “Malchik!” and sprinted, grabbing my hand once again and dragging me along like a rag doll. This time, when I slowed down, they didn’t slow down with me, but let go of my hand. I continued to run, but not fast enough, and, before I knew it, they got me. I tried to resist, and wiggled and screamed, but no one helped me. The other girls all just looked back at me with terrified and apologetic faces. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me; I wondered if they were going to beat me up like that poor other girl. They spoke to me slowly but in a hard way, demanding that I follow them. I was now surrounded by two boys in front of me and two boys behind me. I couldn’t ditch them, since they were faster and I couldn’t hide, since they all were watching me. We walked up to a fence they told me to climb. The first two boys climbed over, forcing me to follow. I tried to think my way out of it and suggested that the boys should go first since I would be slower. They were smarter than I and forced me to climb over. On the other side, we approached a pathway and I

Katia Hardesty

A Thing of the Past Northern Highlands Regional High School

saw my friends standing there. The boys stopped in their tracks and were about to strike when a tall, womanly figure confronted them. She was a teenager, but not a young one; she had the body of a teen but the face of an old woman. She said “let her go,” and reluctantly, they actually did. I ran to the girls, and the boys disbanded. I never figured out who she was, but I was extremely grateful she had been there. See, I was the ugly duckling in this situation, the runt in their litter of puppies. I don’t even remember if I was scared for the girl who got beaten. Those girls were the barrier that protected me from the outside. They took me in as if I were one of them, even though I wasn’t. No one can know how it felt to be me. I was different, and I still am, because of the past.

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About Our Judges Dr. Leigh Jonaitis has taught for 16 years at Bergen Community College. She holds a doctorate in the College Teaching of English from Columbia University Teachers College. She has published articles in the Journal of Basic Writing and Research and Teaching in Developmental Education, and currently serves as the Northeast Regional Representative for the Two-Year College English Association (TYCA). She regularly presents at national conferences, and her current research areas include the use of narrative writing in educational research. At Bergen, she has served in several administrative positions, and is currently the Coordinator of Developmental English (EBS), and the Coordinator of Accelerated Learning.

Mark Altschuler has taught in the English Department at BCC since 1998 after a career teaching high school English. He did his teacher training at Brown University and subsequent graduate work at University of Connecticut and University of New Mexico. Prof. Altschuler is especially interested in, and has published works about, 19th century American Literature, and Baseball and American Culture.

Jim Bumgardner (Associate Professor/Producer) earned an MFA in directing from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY and a BA in Theatre and Romance Languages from St. Andrews University in Laurinburg, NC. He is the producer for the theatre arts program here at BCC as well as an associate professor of theatre arts. Jim has previously taught at Seton Hall University, St. Thomas Aquinas College, and Hofstra University. He has worked as an actor in New York City at the Lamb’s Theatre, Soho Playhouse, Ubu Rep., Judith Anderson Theatre, Playwright’s Horizons, Actor’s Advent and the Actor’s Playhouse. Regionally, he has worked all along the East Coast, as far south as Boca Raton, FL and as far north as Whitefield, NH. He is a member of A.E.A, and SAG/Aftra. Some of his directing credits include South Pacific, Company, The Threepenny Opera, Making God Laugh, The 1940’s Radio Hour, The Heiress, The Hollow, A Murder Is Announced, Cabaret, Brigadoon, Kiss Me, Kate, South Pacific, Damn, Yankees!, Godspell, and Kindertransport.

Mary Crosby is an Assistant Professor of English at Bergen Community College. She teaches Creative Writing, American Literature, and Composition at BCC's Lyndhurst campus. In 2009, she founded the Bards & Scribes Creative Writing Club for students at BCC. The club hosts open mics, writing workshops and recently, through co-sponsorship with the Writing Center, presented a reading by Eduardo Corral, the Yale Series of Younger Poet’s Prize winner for his book Slow Lightning. She writes poetry and has poems published in Calyx, Dos Passos Review, Earth’s Daughters, and other journals. She won Honorable Mention in the 2015 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards for her poem “Big Sky Country.” Her chapbook, Alluvium Stream, was published in 2012 by Finishing Line Press.

This is Peter Helff’s tenth year as a judge and presenter for the Bergen County High School Writing Contest, and second year as either Co-director or Director. He is a proud alumnus of Bergen Community College, having graduated with Honors. He completed his undergraduate and graduate studies in English at William Paterson University (both with Honors), and returned to BCC teach English as a professor in 2006. He teaches English Basic Skills, Composition, Literature, Creative Writing, and Theatre. Peter has presented scholarly work at national conferences, and his creative resume includes several published short stories, as well as multiple plays, sketch shows, and improvisational shows in various theaters and venues throughout New Jersey and New York. He is currently a member of the NYC improvisation teams Elff and Humphrey. Geoffrey Johnston Sadock, PhD, is a full professor of English at Bergen Community College (Paramus, NJ), where he teaches composition, literary electives, and Introduction to Religion. He holds degrees from the City University of New York (with Honors), Tufts University, and Brown University. His areas of special interest are Victorian poetry and prose, aesthetics, and critical theory. He has published on Dickens, Trollope, Pater, and Tennyson, and on the red wines of the German-speaking countries.

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