Word Flirt 2021 by Brooklyn Friends School

Word Flirt 2 0 2 1

Mamá - Sasha Ryder, Class of 2021

Table of Contents 4 - Writers 5 - Baby Don’t Hurt Me 7 - Letter to a Lover 8 - The Most Quintessential Odyssey of a Lab-Freak 13 - Chronicle of the City of New York 13 - Homesickness 14 - Loss and Denial 14 -Short Story Collection: “The China Doll”, “Aunt Dahlia”, “Grey Skies”, and “Dr. M” 24 - Loss and Transformation 24 - Land of Dreams 25 -Selfish Heroes 26 - Chronicle of New York City 26 - Celebration of the Human Voice 27 - Little Poet

Editorial Board Zoe Bartsch Claire Borden Loane Bouguennec Jack Donnellan Avery Lee Chelsea Parker Sarah Yang

he 2020-2021 edition of Brooklyn Friends School’s upper school literary magazine, Word Flirt, is brought to you by the creativity, diligence, and passion of the upper school students. Word Flirt—the upper school annual literary magazine—has served as a place for students

to showcase their imaginative and innovative work. From poetry to short stories and personal essays, each piece features elements of inspiration, talent, and originality. Some works have been recognized by the 202 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and by the New England Young Writers’ Conference. Other works have been written by students either as part of their English class curriculum or in their free time. Many of the pieces connect to this year’s theme of integrity. As part of the Quaker values at Brooklyn Friends School, the theme of integrity upholds the values of moral righteousness, honesty, and equality. In regards to the theme, students have curated their pieces to express the variety of ways in which integrity unfolds in our world today. We hope you enjoy this year’s edition of Word Flirt!

Writers

Sarah Yang, Class of 2021 I’m not as good of a writer as you. Your words flow, With your carefully placed transitions, But mine? Mine are broken and misplaced. The rules of poetry thrown out the door, In the same way you threw me? I wish I were your carefully placed transitions. I’ve become jealous of words. But how can I not? These words get all your attention. You write for all the meaningless people in the world; I write to say the things I can’t tell you. You choose them; I want to be chosen, too.

Limitations

Evelyn Yu, Class of 2021

“Throw it up to the stars, ladies”, my teacher commanded. “Don’t just piqué up there like a bird.” To say ballet is just made up of repetitive movements executed in a pink tutu is to say writing is just words on a paper. Beyond the concentrated faces and sweat dripping down one’s spine is a world of wonder. Your eyes and ears are no longer stuck to the audience’s raised eyebrows; rather, your eyes and ears are sold off to a fantasy world. A world where movements and music merge into a mesmerizing story. An arabesque is not just a balance on one leg with the back leg stretched far behind. It is a reach to the stars—to the unthinkable. Fast forward a few years and my fate was decided. Twelve screws hammered into my back. Two metal rods. That dream I painted with my limbs turned stiff. Beautiful arched back—gone. Classic Swan Lake attitude position—impossible. Mundane, is what my stories became.

I’m still learning to create in a foriegn body that no longer feels like my own.

Untitled - Cyrah Joseph, Class of 2021

Baby Don’t Hurt Me

I cut him off, “It has to start somewhere! Love is hard to define!” The hug bot finished, “how do I love something which is un-huggable?” Jared slowly recovered from his laughing fit; he was still wheezing, but he was at least articulate, “Okay, I see why you called me here. I’ll help you out, but first I’ll need to know what exactly you told him, Pete.” I tried to speak up, but the toy answered, “I have the series of questioning in my database. I asked Peter, ‘what is love?’ Peter sang his answer: ‘baby, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.’ Peter asked me to remove that from my definition later. So I re-posed the question, ‘what is love?’ Peter responded, ‘love is--uhh--love, I guess.’ Peter asked me to remove that from my definition later.” “Ralph, give us only the definitions I asked you to keep.” Jared was rolling on the floor at that point, a task I thought designated to Ralph, “Pete, you are a riot, you know that!?” Ralph said, “As it stands, my definition is: a verb, the act of showing someone you care about them, a way of showing this is: giving hugs.” Jared stood up straighter and wiped the tears from his eyes, “Alright, it’s not as bad as it sounded at first. What made it curious?” I sighed, “I was talking to Julie on the phone, and he listened in. When I hung up, he asked me about every term he couldn’t recognize. I was able to explain all of them. All except that one.” Jared grinned, “Oh! It’s for Julie? Well, I

Alexei Brusiloff, Class of 2021 Jared looked with a strong sense of uncertainty at the little machine on the floor, then back at me, “What is it doing?” “Loving?” He chuckled and started to pick it up, “You nerds give the weirdest presents-” “Shut it,” I carefully placed little Ralph back on the floor, “it’s a work in progress.” We slowly watched my little Robot give affectionate hugs to every inanimate object in my room. He looked back at me, “You’re trying to teach it-” “Love, yeah? I’m trying to teach him feelings-” “You want him to know about feelings?” “No, I don’t want him to know about feelings; I want him to feel.” “Huh… I mean, can he? Is that-” “I dunno, but I got this far…” We watched, mesmerized, as this little orb rolled around the room, trying to find a way to hug the wall with its tiny pincer-like claws. He stopped moving, and, as dejected as a little Robot that couldn’t follow orders could sound, he said, “Peter, if showing love is as you have defined ‘giving hugs’” Jared burst out in laughter, “Great definition, dumbass-” 5

SUMMER HOUSE - Bram Cherner, Class of 2021 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards - Honorable Mention don’t think you should give it to her yet. It’d be kinda lame if she found out that by saying ‘I love you’ what you actually mean is ‘I would like to show you I care about you, let’s hug.’” I pushed him with a blush and half a smile, “Shut it, man, let’s see you come up with a definition.” Jared thought for a few seconds and then gave up and turned back to little Ralph, “Well, why don’t you just look one up? I’m sure there are a lot.” I was glad he asked that, “You see that’s the problem. All of the definitions are flawed. There wasn’t one that didn’t define love with a synonym. The definitions all say the same old thing, love is showing affection, but what is affection? Affection is showing you love.” “And so you related love to caring,” “Isn’t that what it is?” “So, what is caring?” “You see the problem now.” We paused until he spoke up, “So what? Why do you care if he understands what love is? He’s a little helper with a basic machine learning algorithm, it’s not like it’s possible for him to love, plus he doesn’t need to know about love to serve his purpose.” I turned to him, “But isn’t it fascinating, Jared?”

Jared let out what can only be described as a combination between a sigh and a chuckle, “You really are something, Pete…” He was always saying things like that, “Let’s just talk to the bot! I’m sure we can come up with something.” I nodded. Ralph was still trying to find a way to hug the wall. Jared asked the Robot something pretty interesting, for it being Jared, at least, “Hey buddy, why do you want to hug the wall?” Ralph responded, “I care about the wall; it is a fundamental part of the architecture. If loving is showing care, then what way can I show love and affection to the wall?” Jared gave a simple but effective response, “You know, hugging isn’t the only way to show love. There’s kissing, holding hands” he looked to me with a grin, “and there’s also-” I stopped him before he could continue, “High fives, there’s also high fives.” The Robot asked Jared to define these things, and Jared gave solid instructions on how to hold hands and give a high five. Ralph found he finally had a way to show his appreciation of his little wall friend, but when it came to the kiss, he said, “However, Jared, it is impossible for me to kiss: I don’t have lips.” This was true. After all, Ralph was just a little orb with claw6

like servos that acted as hands. I said, “That’s okay; you can just… lightly tap the wall.” So, little Ralph started bumping against the wall. Jared chuckled, “Yeah, that’s it, buddy! High five.” Jared reached his hand down to the little Robot, and Ralph moved one of his little claws to high five Jared. Ralph had completed his little mission,

“Peter, as it stands, love is a verb, to give a sign to someone that you care.” We all sat there, satisfied. We had done it. We had defined the nebulous concept of love, all in an evening. Jared went a little further, though, “Well, but love is also a noun.” That piqued the Robot’s interest.

Letter to a Lover

Loane Bouguennec, Class of 2021 My dearest cashews. I despise you. Again, I’ve devoured the Costco tub of cashew, almond, pistachio, and pecan mix. I feel nauseous, and it’s your fault. My aggression towards you likely comes as no surprise as I know several women who have had to ban you from their households because you forced them to lose all sense of control. They aren’t the only ones! Anytime your luscious image comes into my mind, my arm impulsively reaches towards the Mason jar you live in. I’m afraid of myself when I’m with you. Why can’t I stop? I don’t hate you. I just loathe that I can’t control myself when I’m with you. You are incredible. I’m sorry for saying otherwise. I can imagine you right now: Your soft exterior is glimmering under the kitchen lights. I take a bite of you. Crunch. You are even smoother inside. With each bite, I reduce you to smaller pieces. Soon, you transform into a butter-like consistency. No! NO, NO, NO. I’m sorry for insulting you. Really, I am. I don’t mean to be so harsh. I’m not trying to push you away. In truth, I’m afraid of never seeing you again. Your tender curves which seem to envelope me into a warm embrace, your smile-shaped form, which makes me melt: your tough shell that you let me break to uncover your vulnerability. I’m afraid of never again feeling the excitement that you are waiting for me at home, and then the guilt of overindulging myself in your presence. Above all, I’m afraid of wasting our intimate moments after dinner when I lose myself in my sweet love for you. Always yours, Loane

Scholastic Art and Writing Awards - Gold Key

Untitled - Cyrah Joseph, Class of 2021

The Most Quintessential Odyssey of a Lab-Freak Chelsea Haye, Class of 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards - Gold Key

Repetitive. That’s the only word that sums up my daily routine. At some point, the constant experiments and pain become simple parts of your existence. I have not yet reached the point where the pain no longer fazes me. I fear without intervention, I will lose my last shred of precious sanity. My eyes open as I stare at the white-tiled ceiling of my prison. To my side, an alarm clock rings, symbolizing the start of a mechanistic day. I turn my head to a mirror on my nightstand, white, bolted to the floor, and simple. My frizzy yet soft bedhead greets my blank face as I wipe away drool from the corner of my mouth. Another day in the Facility; this one promises more of a change. The Facility. A multi-compound training and research center for people like me. It’s located in a country known as Xeos. In the modern world, Xeos is one of the leaders in natural resources as well as manufacturing. However, most of the riches are reaped by the most privileged members of society. This caused a rampant civil war that has been going on for almost a year now. Surprisingly, the revolting commonwealth has been able to evade and defeat the better weaponry of the upper class. To combat this, the upper class has funded a “special” government program. We are this program. We are used to fight in this country. Each day my schedule is filled with different classes and training meant to build me into a child soldier. A short walk from my bed to my closet reveals the inside. All that greets me are shirt and trouser sets, along with two dresses and two skirts. The items possess an overly short range of color from the same white as my room walls, a static gray color, and full black. I grab a towel from inside my closet along with my toiletries and head to the communal bathroom. There are three bathrooms in the facility. X, Y, and Z. Each letter signifying a power level. Here, gender, race or sex don’t define your status. Power does. 8

and kill waves and waves of dangerous beasts like starved lions for 6 hours. They came out mentally and emotionally scarred. Several more of these trials led to the Y-level allowing themself to be consumed. These abilities could be something like “control water”, “speed”, and “make fall asleep.”

What kind of power might you ask? It’s simple if you think about it. There aren’t actual numbers. The facility is filled with children and teens from the ages of 3-19. Each one of us has an ability of some sort. We are sorted based on the potential power of our ability. Beginning with the lowest level X; these are the common or non-useful powers. Abilities such as “create fabric,” “move food,” “find metal,” etc. were seen as low ability powers.

Last and most definitely not least, the Z-levels. The most powerful inhabitants of this facility. They are watched around the clock and sometimes confined in a single room. They live in a separate part of the facility with specific security teams and extras. These abilities could cause harm to the facility and others. For example, collapse, time travel, teleport, and pilfer. Most, if not all, of these abilities came with limitations. If someone could teleport, they could only do so for ten seconds, if they tried to exceed that too many times they would get sick.

X-level people were given the least security and lowest quality of facilities. Guards on those levels weren’t as heavily guarded. The few weapons they did have were lethal for the most part. This was because there was no point in detaining an X-level. Why, when there are 50 others who could fill that spot? Many of those with X abilities were used as lab-rats for the higher level research and were continuously disposed of and replenished. Somewhere in the underbellies of the facilities and likely in hidden facilities around the country the bodies are buried or disintegrated. New X-levels are easily found in the younger population. The rate of youth with abilities has drastically increased since the war. It’s thought that by the end of the year, it would reach 50% of all youth born to have an ability. Many of the daily facilities like the cafeteria, bathroom, and exercise rooms had low quality equipment. The quality of the food in the cafeteria was very lacking. The logic being there is no need to give high quality enriched food if it won’t aid their abilities.

Now I know you might wonder, what ability do I boast? If the above clues didn’t key you in, I’m in the Y-level. My current ability is memory erasure. However, my condition is I must maintain physical contact with whoever’s memories I want to erase and it takes time. Sometimes ranging from 10-30 seconds. If I am disturbed mid-way, I have to restart the connection. As I head into the Y-level bathroom, a guard halts me and searches through my things. As I mentioned earlier, Y-levels have a higher level of security than X-levels. Once passing through the entrance, I head to a specific shower and clear my throat turning on the shower.

Next are the Y-levels, in between X and Z. Y-Levels were more situation-specific but still useful powers. They had a higher level of security than X-Levels and way better facilities. Of course, its the opposite of the X-levels. Guards are armed with very few lethal weapons and mostly non lethal weapons. Although we aren’t Z-level, we are valuable to the war because our powers are more powerful. Our facilities were very high tech, almost to the same level as the Z-levels. We got food that supplemented a healthy diet that would keep us energized. We also had more freedom in terms of having our own rooms. This, however, came with its consequences. The higher your power level is, the more watched and constrained you are. More experiments and torture are done to you than the X’s. The more experiments and torture are done to you than in the lower levels. The scientists were constantly trying to improve information and weaponry by experimenting on our powers. These were sometimes brutal as the scientists were willing to put us in life-threatening situations. All in the name of war. There was once a Y-level who had the ability to only kill animals. They were forced to try

I listen in as a voice to my left speaks. “We have managed to find someone with the ability we need.” The voice belongs to one of my best friends and accomplices, Azazel. He has the ability to read minds. “Copy,” I reply as I continue using the shower. The bathroom was one of the few places we could talk without being overheard. Someone else discerning our plan would most likely mean death. “It was difficult to find. The ability to make a double of any person or thing. That is of course as long as you have seen or can see the item. We will need to act as soon as possible. Before your real ability is found out or they find a way to steal Sage’s ability.” “When will we approach the person?” I perk my ears up as I hear someone enter the shower to my right. “After curfew, some X-levels have volunteered to start up a ruckus. During this time you will have to make your way to their room. From then on the 9

plan will go into effect.” Azazel stops speaking as our time limit draws nearer. We’ll have to talk more periodically throughout the day. As he leaves the bathroom, I dawdle a few moments more, then leave. You see, we are desperate to get out of this facility. In just a week will be my annual testing. It’s possible that they will finally figure out that my ability is not what I said it is. If so, I’ll be caged up in a Z-level facility and meet the same fate as Sage. Heading back into my room, I avoid eye contact with the guards lined up in the hallway. They are equipped with paralyzers and actual guns...just in case. As soon as my door closes behind me, I speedily get dressed in a white shirt and trousers and walk back out. I wear these trousers because they are one of the few clothing options with pockets on them. I check the clock and hurry to breakfast. Upon entering, I swiftly join the line and grab a brown plastic tray. Metal would be too dangerous because some people can control it. Once grabbing a variation of mundane food items, I sit at a particular table in the middle of the room. Guards are stationed at each corner in the room keeping watch. A few of my friends sit around me, acting as barriers from the guards’ view. To my left is Amana, her caramel skin is dotted by brown freckles and her eyes flicker to me. Her dreadlocks have been cut short, a consequence of trying to end her life early. To my right my friend Lennon nods and continues creating small chatter. His hair is also cut short, though by his own wish. Snow-white, it matches the color of his eyebrows. Next is Lyssa. Her ebony colored skin shines in the lunchroom lights as she swiftly joins in the conversation, creating enough white noise to drown out the next few interactions. Just as planned, Azazel sits directly behind me at another table. These particular tables happen to be in a blind spot for the guards. Smiling along with my friends, I slowly reach out my hand behind me. Azazel places a piece of paper in my palm and without a hitch engages the person sitting next to him. I stuff the paper in my hand quickly as I pick up footsteps approaching the table. “Hey you, it’s time to head back,” A guard holding a paralyzer motions to Azazel as he gets up with his tray. Azazel is a special case Z-level. He is allowed to interact with the Y-levels at certain points in the day. Having been here for several years, he was trusted more and given privileges. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had to report on the Y-levels every once in a while. Through him, we contact those

on the Z-level. It seems Azazel was able to find someone who is able to locate abilities, from there the person with the “Copy” ability. The guard looks at me in a scrutinizing way and calls out, “You there. Did you receive something from him?” My body tenses up as I turn to him. “No, sir.” He eyes me and then walks away with Azazel as I sigh a breath of relief. Shoving the rest of the food down my throat, I mentally steel myself in preparation for tonight. Hours later, I sit on my bed nervously. In just a few moments, the alarms of the facility would ring out. A mass panic and hysteria would ring out, lives would be lost, but for the greater good. I read over the piece of paper Azazel gave me. Y-Level: Cody Walkerman. Room: 320 The tension in my body releases as I catch the loud sirens ring out. With no time to waste, I swing open my door and look out into the hallway. I stare as a boy my age runs up to a guard screaming. He tries to grab for the guards gun but is pushed back, the handle of the gun connecting with his jaw. Without a moment of hesitation, the guard releases two bullets into the boy as his body stills. I cover my mouth in shock as my heart clenches in pain. The hallway is filled with more death and fighting. I survey the situation as guards and inhabitants kill and hurt one another. A familiar voice suddenly enters my head. Asva have you found him yet? It’s only a matter of time before Z-level guards come and we lose our chance. This pilots me into action as I speed down the hallway, jumping over corpses on the floor and ducking underneath flying bullets. Having been here for so long, I know where the 300 rooms must be. I turn a corner and almost bump into a guard who grabs me. My training kicks in as I knee him in the stomach, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him down onto the floor. Immobilized, he tries to struggle as I grab his pistol and aim it at his head watching as his eyes meet mine. I close my heart to his humanity and release a single shot; his body slumps to the ground. Keeping the pistol on me, my eyes scroll left to right looking for the right room. I focus on the numbers 10

and block out the chaos around me. The air is knocked out of me as an older scientist is shoved into me. I wince in pain as the left side of my chest hurts and push him off of me, trying to keep moving. My eyes widen as I see it, Room 320. The door seems to still be closed, giving me hope he is still inside. I open the door at full tilt and rush in, pinning the boy down to the ground. He lets out a frightened scream and I shove my hand up against his mouth. Glaring at him, I get closer. “Now, listen here. I’ll have to borrow something from you okay? Scream and I’ll have no choice but to kill you.” He nods his head quickly as I remove my hand and make eye contact. His amber eyes squint in confusion as I take in a deep breath. After a few moments our eyes begin to glow and a slight brown aura surrounds me. In seconds, it’s over and I am off of him. He gets up and squeezes his hands, opening and shutting them. Then I see it; his eyes widen as tears collect in them. Clear orbs begin to glisten and collect as he gradually sobs. I whisper a sorry and hurry out of his room. For you see, my real ability is “pilfer”. I can take anyone’s ability for myself after looking at their eyes. Such an ability would be classified as a Z-level which is exactly why I had to hide it. I approach a military grade door with two guards in front of it. There are many people fighting and struggling as I am pushed side to side. Getting close to the floor, I silently take the pistol back out and check the cartridge. Three more bullets.

Untitled - Bram Cherner, Class of 2021 Getting through the door, I jog down a smaller hallway. From there, I open yet another Z-level door and get into the facility. These halls are filled with more inhabitant bodies than the guards. I am not surprised. Even though the Z-levels have powerful abilities, many of them are already restricted. Most have been malnourished or disabled in some show shape or form to limit the chances of an attack.

Steadying my breath, I aim at one of the guards. His face is covered by a plastic mask so I aim for his neck. A small area of skin remains revealed in between the mask and his clothes. Closing one eye, honing in I release a shot. The crowd stills as the guard falls and his companion reaches for a gun.

Walking down a long hallway, I bump into Amana and Lennon. They must have already found a way into this facility.

The mob wastes no time and surges forward. I watch as they overtake the guard, his screams being silenced. Years of worse than prison treatment can create an animal in any child. I slide on the ground towards the first dead guard and activate the “Copy” ability. I feel my body take on more weight and look down towards my hands. I am now wearing protective gear as well as a paralyzer and new gun in a holster. I smirk and walk towards the door pulling out a Z-level clearance card. After weeks of watching, we had figured out how to get into Sage’s facility. This is what the countless planning and arguing had come to. I would not fail this plan. everyone I loved, their lives were on the line.

Before I can say anything, Amana yells “Look Out!” and I duck down. I make out a body dropping behind me and turn around. Checking, the guard is fast asleep and so is Amana. Her body slumps into Lennon’s arms. Lennon nods at me and moves aside as I approach him. We lock eyes and I feel the same aura as before surrounding me. Now I have his ability, “phase.” “How does this work by the way?” I ask him as I turn to the wall next to me. “Just imagine yourself walking through and you’ll be fine. Be careful though it’s immensely energy taxing.” I heed his warning and go plowing through a wall.

The wall seems to liquidize and a feeling of wading through quick-sand comes onto me. Upon reaching the other side, I gasp for air as my body struggles to stay upright. Simply going through one wall usurped a lot of energy. I continue going through multiple walls as my body screams in agony. Suddenly, I make out Azazel’s voice in my head again. Asva, you are so close but you have to hurry. Guards are on their way to secure Sage right NOW. I’m going to connect you two to one another. Okay I got it. Azazel’s voice leaves my head and instead a baritone voice fills my head. ...Asva? Is that you? Yes Sage it’s me. Keep talking, it makes it easier to try and find your room. I continue phasing through walls, I throw off some of the heavy gear I am still wearing in an effort to keep my body moving. Oh, okay. I believe in you Asva. This plan could not have worked without you. I will make sure not to let you guys down. For our future and every kid after us. Pummeling through the last door, my body collapses to the floor and I grab onto a lab table filled with needles and syringes. In front of me is Sage. His eyes are covered by a metal visor of sorts and he is bound, in a standing position,to an upright metal lab table. I look around for a machine of sorts to release him. Tears come to my eyes as my heart constricts. I watch Sage pull the once clasped the metal visor from his face. It had been years since I had seen my brother’s face. I struggle for breath as I hear guards approaching the door. Their shouts wake me up as I hear them try to open the door. I use the small lab table to wheel me over to a machine next to Sage. Quickly scanning over the interface, I notice a button that says release. “You better not fail. I’ll seriously kill you.” Smiling in pain as I say so, my hand slams down on the release button as I fall to the floor. I can see Sage smile as his ability begins to activate. The light from the now opened door entering his eyes. The guards aim to shoot in futility as a bright light blinds us all. I close my eyes in peace, knowing we did not fail. He would bring us all back to a time when we were not forced to go to war. We will all be able to protect each other for good. The End.

Chronicle of the City of New York Evelyn Yu, Class of 2021

Speed walking, sighing, and non-stop phone checking. These are the elements of New York. Alarms can be set anywhere from 5am to 8am, or not at all. In fact, the morning garbage pickup could very well be your alarm. Speeding through the streets, there is the classic Goldman Sachs already-burned-out guy, the office lady rushing down Madison avenue in her sneakers, but soon to be changed into heels, and a bunch of worn out students. Times Square may be epicenter to the most professional of pick-pockers and desperate Sesame Street characters intimidating you for a picture, and in return for your money. New York City life may seem dreadful, at times. But at night, when the suburbs turn dark, the city is illuminated with fireworks of innovation. The city that, indeed, never sleeps.

Homesickness

Sarah Yang, Class of 2021 See the bright colored lights that shine past midnight And the people speaking in tongues, While they eat food you’ve never heard of. I thought homesickness was a lie, An inside joke I was never let in on; Bouncing from home to home was easy. But then I met someone, who the lights couldn’t compare to, Who spoke a language that wasn’t in any dictionary, And who was a much better chef than I. Suddenly home was spelled differently, Except this home was just as temporary. One thing changed during that move: I know the joke now.

Loss and Denial

Loane Bouguennec, Class of 2021 On a random Friday afternoon, with no classes nor worries, Jules traveled all the way to New Jersey, three hours from his Brooklyn apartment. As the cold morning progressed into the warmer hours of the day, Jules began to take off the layers of his winter apparel. First, the hat. Then, the scarf and sweater. And for some unknown reason, when Jules took off his hoodie he also removed his chain from his neck. He tucked it away in his hat for safe keeping. As the warm hours of the afternoon merged into the cool night, Jules grabbed his sweater, scarf, and when he dove his hand into his hat, he felt the void of his most prized object. Unfamiliar with the feeling of loss -- for Jules never loses any object, person, or argument -- he stared into his hat, waiting for his chain to reappear. When it didn’t, he looked to the tall, un-manicured grass under his feet. After digging around for an hour, the sleeping winter sun and rising moon called him back to Brooklyn as he could no longer see what was right in front of him. The next morning, Jules hopped back onto the train, now familiar with the three hour route -- this time, prepared. He wore his neon yellow construction jacket and held two cones he found abandoned on a jobsite, and a rake from his neighbor’s garden. He strategically placed his cones around the perimeter of the park and began to rake. He raked for hours until each square foot of the park had been overturned. As the sun set a second time, Jules began to despair for his neck was still bare. Before leaving, Jules devised a new plan: he ordered a metal detector from Amazon, convinced that if his eyes, hands, and rake couldn’t find his chain, a machine surely could. The next morning, he waited for the Amazon truck to appear with his long rectangular box, but it never did. For the first time, Jules allowed himself to realize his chain was lost forever.

Short Story Collection: “The China Doll”, “Aunt Dahlia”, “Grey Skies”, and “Dr. M”

The China Doll

Raia Thomas, Class of 2023 My delicate, porcelain body slipped out of her dainty fingers. I could see the freckles spotted around her creamy complexion, forming constellations. I hit the ground, making a small thud. The girl I had loved, my companion, was gone. Her petite frame disappeared into the crowd. Bodies ostensibly meshed together to create an array of colors. Her lush, long locks of apricot-colored hair, now concealed. The isle of freshly cut dahlias positioned in front of my stagnant body sparked a vague memory my old mind could not recall. Their deep plum color, speckled with bursts of orange, the petals beginning to wilt. I lay there, stranded, unable to move, I pondered what would happen to me. Is this how death felt? I questioned. Death had consumed me. Everything around me, everything that I embraced, seemed to die. My father, the man who created me, had succumbed to death’s sinister grasp long ago. He was a kind soul, light14

painted a cool-toned grey, replicating the color of the man’s hair. The faint streaks of silver in his hair gleamed under the streetlamp. The grey seemed to become enlivened. I had noticed this man before, watching me. His dark black eyes peered after the girl and me, following our every move; I could not recall whether this obsession had been with the girl or me. I hoped it was nothing more than an innocent infatuation. I ignored these sinister recollections, thankful for a newfound sense of safety. Somehow his being reminded me of something I had known long ago. We walked into a small boutique positioned on Main street; antiques and spider webs decorated the walls. The objects spoke in a hushed whisper,

hearted. He was a talented man, remarkable at his craft, forming my brothers and sisters with such intricate detail, such grace. As he began creating me, he fell ill. I remember seeing him in his final days, the life slowly leaving his body, happiness leaving mine. I was never able to say goodbye. I had been adopted by a family, the new companion of a young girl. This cycle continued for years and years. My family would grow tired of me, passing me on to another. I was a nomad, living in vagrancy. Dahlia. Dahlia cared for me like her own flesh and blood. She treated me like a human, as her daughter. I recall the day she passed me down to her niece, the girl who continued her love. Still, I was just a doll. Hours and hours seemed to pass by. The flickering lights of the grocery store shined an eerie yellow. A crack began to form on my left leg. It crept its way up my body, but I was able to remain in one piece. Abandonment showed its familiar face, yet it still felt so foreign. A cloak of invisibility seemed to cover my body. Everyone around me neglected my presence. Berries fell all around me, dirty boots stepping on my hair. My strawberry patterned dress that had once been fresh was now tattered and tainted a light brown. For a moment, everything seemed to exist in a suspended reality. I felt the burning sensation of a pair of eyes staring at me, probing me, craving me. A large hand hovered over my body. The warm palm clutched my lifeless figure, reviving me. “Aren’t you a beauty,” a deep, bellowing voice boomed. It was a man who had picked me up. He had a furrowed face, adorned with wrinkles and scars. Still, I could not quite decipher his age. He stroked my face with caution, admiring my features. He carefully moved me into a bag seemingly reading to hold me, perfectly shaped to my form. “I’ve been waiting for you.” What a strange thing to say, I thought to myself. A fresh, crisp breeze of air welcomed me, hitting my face as we walked outside. The air felt heavy with moisture; remnants of rain dispersed on the cobblestone streets. The cloudy skies were

Physical Chaos - Sasha Ryder, Class of 2021 crying out to me, cautioning me of my new life. A still, warm air filled the store, a ubiquitous feeling of comfort blanketed over us. He situated me on the shelf, my fate now sealed. The stale stench of tobacco coated my skin. My hair felt burdened by the dust that had begun to collect on each synthetic strand. It had been weeks since I had last felt the fresh outside air, the warm sun glistening on my shoulders, the cold bite of a droplet 15

of rain on my face. A myriad of faces had passed through the store. I memorized them all. A woman with a small freckle located above her left eyebrow. A man whose bright olive skin had started to wrinkle. A young girl with a luminous smile, admiring the decadent china animals on display. I cherished any attention I received. Sunlight oozed through the minute space under the door, tinting the oak floors a warm yellow. It had been a tranquil day at the store. There would be sporadic moments when the sun would burst through the ajar door. Right as the shop was nearing closing time, a towering man barged through the doors, causing tumult. He possessed a pertinacious look on his face, searching for something specific. His immense stature was intimidating yet refreshing. I seemed to catch his glance; his forest green eyes stared into mine, filling me with exhilaration. Was this my chance to be free? I ruminated on this possibility. His attraction to me felt invigorating. He strutted towards me; his large feet created turbulent pounding noises. His hand reached out, a surge of relief washed over me. He meandered out, accompanied by a pair of currant red earrings. Their delicate brass trim formed dainty flowers, framing the deep red color of the oval-shaped stone. Once again, my desires had left me disillusioned. I always desired the possibility of human admiration, passion, love. I sat there, abstracted in thoughts, in fantasies, languidly losing touch with reality. The man would have made reservations at a nice restaurant in the next town over, him and his wife celebrating their third anniversary. They would discuss their plans while drinking a bottle of 1937 Chateau Latour merlot and dining on foreign appetizers. As their meal concludes, he would reach in his pocket, pulling out a small prune-colored box, the earrings hidden inside. She would thank him, a smile plastered on her face, and they would drive back home, finishing the night off cuddled in their room, the end. I could envision this perfect picture, painted in my head.

conveyed back into reality. I now lay in a box somewhere unknown and concealed from the human eye. My dilapidated body a reflection of my bruised soul. Years ago, a woman whose hair was stained an apricot orange came across me in the store. I was able to animate something in her that was devoured by anguish. I was liberated, lived one last life, a final journey. Now, I can feel death creeping upon me. The tickle of its cold breath greeting me every time my mind retires for the day. My eyes, too broken to see anything other than an achromatic haze, try to close. Still, I am just a doll. Incapable of death. Incapable of life. Just a doll.

Aunt Dahlia

Alice Sebbah, Class of 2023 I have always had trouble making friends. When I was younger nobody wanted to be my friend except Aunt Dahlia, mom’s sister. She lived above us in our small apartment complex that only housed six families located in our petite town. She had gorgeous strawberry blonde hair that fell from her shoulders and hazel eyes which sparkled in the sunlight that always showed its face when she was around. Aunt Dahlia had the best sense of humor and she loved to make me laugh until my sides ached. She always had a large smile plastered on her small face that would illuminate every room she entered. One cool July night, before my sixth birthday, we were sitting in her apartment looking up at the cloudless sky, littered with small stars. She looked over at me and with a frown said, “I used to have trouble making friends when I was your age too, you know.” I could tell she was trying to make me feel less alone but despite her efforts, she was failing miserably. Trying frantically to make conversation to evacuate the ever-growing tension she said, “How are things going with the girls at school?” The girls that were bullying me? “Fine,” I lied. She glanced at me at that moment with a dejected look in her eyes and vanished into the next room. Seconds later, she came back holding a doll carefully cradled

* * *

The memories begin to dissolve as I am

in her pale arms; the doll had chestnut hair that sat on her shoulders and was curled in perfect ringlets. She wore a cloud dress covered with bright red strawberries that cut off at her knees. She had pale porcelain skin and wore a smile almost as big as my aunt’s. Aunt Dahlia gingerly placed the small doll in my hands and beamed down at me. “For your birthday,” she told me. I did not know how to tell her that I no longer enjoyed playing with dolls because I knew it would destroy her. So, I looked up and thanked her for her thoughtful gift. She kissed the top of my head and told me she hoped I liked it. I grinned, knowing that I couldn’t lie to her another time. Then, from downstairs, I heard mama call me for dinner.

* * *

Mama always enforced strict rules. She taught me to always be polite and to constantly wear a smile on my face. Each dress that mama insisted I wore, suffocated me even more as the days dragged on. Mama told me pretty girls wore makeup so when I was four, she started painting my face with makeup everyday. She told me I needed to wear it whenever I went outside and even when I went to school. I wasn’t allowed to play in the park with the other kids because that’s when I got my dresses dirty and mama got mad when she had to clean them. I guess that’s why I never had many friends. When Aunt Dahlia moved into the apartment above us, I started going over there more often. She always let me wear whatever I wanted when mama wasn’t around. I didn’t have to wear the makeup with Aunt Dahlia.

* * *

The night of my seventh birthday, after mama put my birthday crown and makeup on, she left my room in a hurry when she heard the doorbell ring. I sat down at the foot of my bed and sighed as I glared at the plum purple dress that hung from the hook on my closet door, wishing it to disappear. I had never told mama that I didn’t have any friends at school; she wouldn’t have understood. So, when she made me invite a couple of

Chipped - Addison Vande Plasse, Class of 2022 17

girls from school I drew a blank on who to ask. I had no one. Mama sat anxiously awaiting the arrival of the children she thought were her daughter’s best friends. No one showed up that day. I waited for hours perched on the kitchen table checking the clock that hung drearily over the disappointment that overwhelmed me like an overflowing kettle. Aunt Dahlia arrived late walking through the door with a big present that almost fell out of her small hands. She exchanged a sorrowful look with my mother and her signature smile instantly faded as she came to the realization that no one had come. That night I sat on my bed wishing the day had never occurred. I decided a glass of warm milk would aid me in pushing all my pain away, so I opened the door of my bedroom and sulked towards the kitchen. Not long after, I stopped suddenly when I heard two sets of hushed whispers coming from the dining room. As I peered into the room, I saw mama and Aunt Dahlia sitting down, both with stern looks on their faces. My heart dropped, I was afraid of what was to come.

face the wall on the side of my bed and place my feet on the cold wooden floor. I wince as the floor cries out in agony, and quickly turn to face the door of my room to make sure no one has been disturbed by the commotion. I saunter over to the doll and hold her delicately in my arms. I stride back to my bed taking the doll with me, wrap myself in the warm embrace of the quilt, and fall back into a slumber clutching the doll as a tear escapes my hazel eyes.

* * *

From that night on, I swore to the memory of my aunt that the doll would stay with me everywhere I traveled. Mama was convinced that I had depression and was grieving the loss of Aunt Dahlia. She took me to see a therapist one hot summer afternoon when the sun scorched the ground. I knew that mama believed I was a lost cause, like a shattered window, unable to be saved. I had one brisk meeting with the therapist and never returned to the office after that. Mama said we could not afford it anymore. Then, she mumbled something about me being a financial burden and stalked away.

* * *

Aunt Dahlia died later that summer. It had always seemed that I was the only one in my family that was devastated by her tragic death. Maybe it was because she was my only friend but, everyone moved on as if a monumental incident had not just shattered our entire family. For weeks I settled at the foot of my bed examining the porcelain doll Aunt Dahlia had gifted me for my sixth birthday. It rested against my closet door in the corner of my room, I could not touch it, afraid its fragile body would disappear. I did not speak a word to anyone for the rest of the summer. Who knew a seven-year-old could deal with that much pain in such a quiet way.

Mama calls me into the dining room, “Get ready,” she snaps. I groan and look at her, waiting patiently for her to inform me of our destination. Her eyes examine the scowl on my face and snarls at me. She tells me we are going grocery shopping for breakfast ingredients. She signals me to get ready and pushes me toward my bedroom door. Not long after, I pull open the door of the car and begin to get comfortable in the backseat with my doll held tightly in my small hands. Mama slams her magenta flats on the gas and suddenly the forest green Toyota lunges forward. In no time, the car comes to an abrupt halt, and mama barks at me to get out of the car. We walk into the store and mama begins to hiss orders at me, telling me to get the strawberries and yogurt for breakfast tomorrow. As she turns to walk away without a goodbye, tears threaten to pour as my face begins to heat in anger. I pivot my attention towards my task, smooth out my sky blue

* * *

Last night I dreamt of Aunt Dahlia. I dreamt of her destroyed face as she saw I had not played with the doll since her death. I am suddenly startled awake and slowly open my eyes when tears cloud my vision almost immediately. As I open my eyes the second time, I am drawn to the porcelain figure that sits in the small corner of my room. I turn to 18

dress and trudge over to the strawberries. I place my doll underneath my other arm and claim the last package of strawberries and amble towards the dairy aisle.

of how this would end. I stared at my dead flowers sitting on my window sill. They had completely lost their color and looked exhausted; I had been so consumed by my work that I had disregarded them. I stared at her clean, shiny shoes, white like the snow. I glared out the window watching the clouds glide through the fields of grey. I noticed that my eyes wandered all over the place avoiding meeting hers, filled with affection for me. Eventually, our session came to an end which meant it was time to muster up the courage to tell her I won’t be seeing her anymore. At first, she said nothing. Not a word. She simply froze. I tried making her feel better but she didn’t respond. We waited. And then all of a sudden, she yelled. I had never seen her like this, it was incredibly painful and disturbing to watch. She flung herself up from my couch, walked back and forth screaming at me. Her shouting voice echoed in my head, covering my body in never-ending chills. Her pale face was painted with bright red and her fingers started to twitch. She stabbed me again and again with her vile words; yelling, “Why won’t you love me back!” I do not know how long she yelled but I stood there paralyzed, unable to blink, unable to move. Once the room had completely filled with anger, she turned her back and ran away.

Grey Skies

Emma Rabinovici, Class of 2023 I quickly glanced at my watch as I scampered down the sorrowful streets; it was 9:00 am. Technically I was late but knowing it was a Tuesday, I had plenty of time before my first patient. On my way to the office, I encountered no one, only a deserted town. Perhaps this was because it was cold and grey out, but I took pleasure in the way that the wind blew its breeze, gently caressing my face. The silence provoked me to keep practicing what I was going to say to her, “I am sorry Ophelia, this isn’t working out so this will be our last session.” She would understand, right? It had been a couple of months now where she would come in, freeze and just stare at me. It made me feel uneasy; my palms broke out in a sweat and my cheeks burned overwhelmed in discomfort. When I asked her why she had such a peculiar habit, she responded saying that it was because we were in love. How could I ever love her? I didn’t consider myself a quitter, but when it came to her, I didn’t know what to do anymore. I felt so awful for the girl, she was always so paranoid and prudent with every aspect of her life; I had no clue how she would react. Pacing around my office, I rehearsed the sentence, practicing my intonation over and over until the moment she arrived. It was 9:21 am and our last session officially began. She looked around the room, contemplating whether she was going to fix or change something. I noticed her eyebrows were incredibly overplucked. It was obvious she had tried to shape them to perfection but the red skin around them looked so fragile as if it was about to crack. She was wearing a knee-length, juniper velvet dress. It was impeccably pressed, I expected nothing less from her. But I couldn’t help thinking that it was far too fancy for the occasion. I pitied her, she tried so hard to impress me, but I would never love her. I was her therapist! I let her rant and talk one last time, but I found myself getting distracted, evading the thought

* * *

The night slowly started to creep as the clock tower rang five times. After a long day suffocated in my office, my body felt remarkably heavy with fatigue. Regardless, I chose to walk home in hopes of finding meaning to my agonizing day. Every now and then I strolled back home expecting something different but time doesn’t change as the years pass by. I walked by the old buildings and boutiques lining the main street. I passed by the diner on the corner, filled with the locals talking about politics. I encountered a group of ladies probably exchanging gossip. The crisp wind traveled through every street, scattering the rust and amber leaves.

* * *

I have heard that most people are so fond of

weekends that they look forward to it all week, but, for me, they are dreadful. They move so slowly, it is irritating. This time, my husband hadn’t told me his whereabouts so I found myself alone, staring at my desolate reflection. My vision blurred, as a small, cold tear trickled down my pale cheek. It bothered me because I did not know why all of sudden I was crying, so my hand aggressively wiped my face remembering I had things to do around the house. I washed the dishes: one knife, one fork, one plate, and one cup. I removed dust from unlived surfaces in the living room listening to the clock tick. Any faint sound reassured me that I wasn’t completely alone. I picked up his abandoned clothes from under the bed and carried them to the laundry bag. His white button-up from last week was hanging out the bin and I noticed a mark on the collar. I brought the shirt closer to my face to make sure I hadn’t seen it wrong; it was a strawberrycolored lipstick stain. It was exactly like a Reflections of the Met - Hannah Vinson, Class of 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards - Silver Key detailed stamp, the creases of the lips were prominently visible. Shock overwhelmed my body and my body trembled. I ran to the phone and my fingers took over, quickly dialing his number. After the third monotonous ring, he picked up. “Hello?” he innocently said. “How–Why would you do this to me!? Out of all things, why this?!” My voice was shaking as the tears returned, slowly running down my weary face. There was a long uncomfortable pause before he continued. “Honey, what are you talking about, I’m working right now,” he ignorantly responded. “Why can’t you just love me, I do everything for you, and all you do is come and go as you please but you never stay beside me” He was the master of deception, feeding me false truths. I could feel myself drowning in solitude as he recklessly hung up our call, ending our last chance of hope. The next morning I went to my office to have a session with a patient. I was aiming to escape my own problems by focusing on Henry Shepard instead. He came in right on time and I saw anxiety flush over his scrawny body. He plopped down onto my crimson-colored sofa. “How are you feeling today Henry?”, I questioned. Soon after, Henry began to delve into his own problems. He whined about his frustration with his mom who had kicked him out for not being able to keep a simple job as a bagger at a grocery store. Why are men always so helpless? I pondered.

* * *

As I was doing my nightly deep-clean, I found it; it was a box. I took it in between my cold shivering hands. It was dark blue colored like the deep night, I read “The China Doll” as it was engraved under the box. The name sounded familiar to me. Maybe the name of a shop near my office? It didn’t matter, all my attention was fully captivated by the little box. I needed to know what was inside; curiosity overcame me. I struggled for a while to open the clasp but once I did I gasped. My fingers immediately caressed the beautiful shape 20

of lustrous stones. I hesitated to pick one of the gorgeous earrings, they just looked so untouched and flawless, like they were meant to rest in the box eternally. Was this gift an apology? Does he love me again? I grinned as I imagined myself wearing the beautifully detailed earrings. I would wear them on a nice autumn day where the sun is peeking through the thin clouds so that the earrings could gleam in the light. I would carefully match them to my pair of garnet-colored heels for some classy color coordination. All of a sudden I was so excited to receive the small blue box. Our anniversary was two days away so I waited patiently for the time to come.

* * *

I never received them. The gorgeous earrings were never meant for me. I realized that I was never going to be able to wear them on sunny days as I had dreamed. I was foolishly excited but I should have known. The beautiful rubies had been stolen from me. I needed them as I needed him. Some other woman was the one he preferred and she received my little box with my earrings. My mind was swamped with jealous thoughts. I understood now why he was so exhausted all the time. Exhausted from living a double life.

* * *

The wooden floor creaked every time I set my foot down. I looked around noticing the small piles of dust crammed into corners. Everything in the shop was tinted in a smokey yellow color. I looked around until a delicate porcelain doll caught my eye; she was the partner I needed to fill the void of my loneliness. Her serene presence called for my ownership; I grabbed her worn-out and almost discolored arm and cautiously carried her to the register of the store.

Dr. M.

Nisha Siedler, Class of 2023 The clock struck eight when my eyes opened to the gray shadow peeking cautiously through the curtains. Before I dared to move my well-rested body, I checked the room and made sure everything was just as I had left it; the floor was dustless, my books were aligned with precision, and my clothes for the week were neatly folded on my wooden chair. Everything was neatly placed, exactly the way I liked it. The coast is clear, I thought to myself decisively. I rose from under the covers and perched myself on the side of my soft bed. I repeated that movement five times until it felt just right; I could not afford for things to go wrong today. After I left my room, I stepped into the kitchen, and I could tell something was off straight away. I eyed the cupboard, which was slightly open on the west side of the room, interrupting the peaceful mindset I had affirmed for myself earlier. I could almost hear it whispering to me: you will have a bad day today, Ophelia. I quickly silenced it and slammed its intrusive mouth shut. I counted to ten and soothed my racing thoughts to tranquility before I could continue. I reached for the plump and luscious strawberries that were nestled in a small nook of my counter at a perfect 90-degree angle. I could already taste the perfectly tart juice that would overwhelm my taste buds with pleasure. After I washed them, careful not to rupture their fragile skin, I prepared myself to slice them into flawlessly shaped triangular pieces. However, soon after I had cut the first berry, I realized that I had destroyed it; the immaculate structure ceased to exist, and I knew my routine had faltered almost immediately. If I had only angled the knife more diagonally, my day wouldn’t have been wrecked, mirroring the state of the strawberry. I could hear my pulse throbbing in my ears as tiny droplets of sweat formed on the center of my forehead. I threw the whole container of strawberries into the trash to prevent any further harm from happening.

* * *

I unlocked and locked the door to my charcoal Mercedes six times before I proceeded towards the 21

office building. When I headed inside, I instantly felt the tension of the rough morning release from my shoulders at the sight of my favorite person; her elegant physique rested against her desk chair. Her thin eyebrows raised when she heard I had entered the room. I examined my surroundings, cherishing that her office was almost as neat as my apartment. Before I greeted her, I took a moment to admire her look for the day; her apricot-colored hair was flawlessly styled into a pixie cut that complimented her round features. Her dark business suit, ironed to perfection, suited her thin and long frame that almost matched a model’s. Finally, I stared at her gorgeously blue and gentle eyes that looked like a carefully crafted painting, which was powerful enough to glue me to the floor. Dr. M’s presence had always been impossible to ignore, and I felt almost self-conscious when I imagined what I looked like next to her. “Hello, Ophelia, nice to see you again. You can take a seat”, her lucid voice ordered. I obeyed quickly, embarrassed that I had stared at her for too long. Our session soon began, and I delved into the painful events of my day; I explained to her the travesty that had occurred while I was making breakfast, how the knife had slipped too far, and how I spoiled the once flawless strawberries. I even told her about how I knew I would die if any more terrible things would happen today; it had always been so easy to share my darkest thoughts with her. Throughout the appointment, she nodded with sympathy as I continued explaining, but I could tell she was distracted. It seemed almost as if she wasn’t truly there, as if her pale white face had drifted to another dimension. It angered me to see her like this; how could I sit and watch my favorite person ignore me? “Dr. M?” I asked, trying to get her attention. She was staring out the window, into the gray abyss of clouds that clumped together. I could tell she looked stressed; her hands cramped in her lap, and her eyebrows were tensed into deep focus. Despite this, she still looked breathtakingly beautiful, and I wished deep down that she would return the love I felt for her. Almost as if she had heard my thoughts, she turned around and stared at me, though this time, her eyes looked firm and determined, and I

knew something in her had changed forever. “Ophelia, we need to discuss something,” she informed me. I nodded, unable to disagree with her. “I’m sorry, this isn’t working out, so this will be our last session. I hope you see how much you’ve grown during our long time together, but I have new patients that need your time slot”, she explained with a calm voice. Dr. M continued talking to me, yet I ignored her for the first time in my life. I could faintly hear her voice humming in the background of my thoughts, but I was able to look away from her. I could almost feel her ocean eyes piercing through me, but I knew better than to surrender to her desires. She made me feel furious and broken, almost like facets of shattered glass discarded on the dirty streets. However, I soon realized deep down in my lonely heart that I had always known that she was too good to be true. I tried to distract myself from this disturbing revelation by focusing my attention on objects around the office; I searched for the window she had looked through earlier and observed the beads of water that began to drip down the glass. The clouds transcended towards me as the rain attempted to clear the ash-colored sky, mesmerizing my tearfilled eyes. I traced my vision to the windowsill and felt pity for the desperate Dahlia’s that were slowly deteriorating in a cream vase. Their flimsy heads heavily drooped down to the floor, and their once colorful coat of life, slowly faded to death. How could she neglect such a vibrant and impeccable flower? I questioned.

* * *

My legs moved faster than my mind could process my steps, as speed was taking over me; I didn’t know where my rage was leading me to. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and a thin layer of sweat dripped down my back. My calves burned with determination, so I kept pushing further to my unknown destination. I felt isolated, rejected, and my heart felt heavy with loss; tears began to escape my eyes, dripping down my cheeks in misery. The wind whipped through my brown ponytail, and my breath formed into small gasps of fear. I realized that I had been so focused on running from what 22

had happened that I had forgotten my car in the parking lot, but, for the first time, I didn’t have a care in the world to go back for it. My vision cleared slowly as I moved ahead, but I came to a sudden stop; the tiny grocery store on the corner of Peach Street was in front of me, and it felt like destiny had called for me. After I had walked around the revolving door seven times to calm my racing heart, I entered eagerly. I was anxious to return to my routine, as I always loved going there after my sessions with Dr. M. The store was so familiar; I knew almost every inch of the floor, every nook and corner, and every aisle and their belongings. I took a deep breath and could already smell what I was looking for; the beautifully fresh and exquisite strawberries, close to the freezing room in the fourth aisle. After I had walked around the revolving door seven times to calm my racing City Bathroom - Abraham Churner, Class of 2021 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards - Gold Key heart, I entered eagerly. I was anxious to return to my routine, as I always loved going there after my sessions with Dr. M. The store was so familiar; I knew almost every inch of the floor, every nook and corner, and every aisle and their belongings. I took a deep breath and could already smell what I was looking for; the beautifully fresh and exquisite strawberries, close to the freezing room in the fourth aisle. My mouth began to water at the idea of their sweet flavor diffusing on my tongue, the tingling sensation that its sourness inspires, and the hint of red that would coat my lips! I stalked towards my passionate desire, almost dancing with thrill. I was ready to make up for the dreadful miscalculation that had occurred in the early morning, almost as if I was proving myself for redemption from the strawberry itself. As I turned around the corner, my body turned rigid, and a sudden dread rippled through my stiff figure; a little girl, possibly around seven years young, was standing in front of me. The first thing I noticed was her adorable cyan-colored dress, which fit loosely around her petite body. Her hands clutched onto a porcelain doll as if she was holding onto it for dear life. She turned around and faced me, and I noticed the tears that crept from her honey-brown eyes; they slowly ran down her blushed cheeks, which were kissed with thousands of freckles. Even though her youthful appearance was lovable, something about her intensely irritated me. I soon realized that it was her apricot hair because the color was the absolute replica of Dr. M’s that I had cherished only a short half-hour ago. This reminder of my painful heartbreak from earlier reanimated all of my problems that the joy of the supermarket had made me forget. My eyes landed on her other hand, where she gripped onto the last available package of strawberries. I could feel my heart tightening and my hopes falling to pieces. This would be the last straw, the last thing that would go wrong today. The little redheaded girl had taken my last chance of happiness: the extreme satisfaction and delight I would’ve gotten from eating the delicious strawberries. I looked at the selfish little girl and grabbed her pale-white arm, pulling her with the ambition to settle this slight disturbance in my day. My ears were ringing, my pulse was quickening, and I felt almost dizzy. I dragged her across the icy tile floor as the yellow lights from the ceiling shone down on us. I spotted the freezing room I had seen earlier and aggressively shoved the little girl into it. She looked terrified but clueless as the door closed behind her. I decided that I did not care what would happen to her. I ran out of the grocery store to the revolving 23

door and walked with it eight times to calm my thoughts. After a while, I headed out, ready to go to the next grocery store and finally get my strawberries; my most ardent dreams would soon be mine.

Loss and Transformation Loane Bouguennec Tu, Class of 2021

Eight year old Loane sits in the corner of her bedroom. She has her three story playmobil house with a miniature bath, bed, pots and pans, and all the other essentials in a modern-day home. The miniature house with all its miniature possessions are the only objects young Loane needs. For hours, she stays fixated on the house, giving the little playmobil voices, families, and stories. Her brother talks to his friends behind her shoulder, her mother calls to her from the kitchen, but Loane stays fixated on the world she created. When she finally departs the miniature world that she controls, her folded legs leave an imprint on the rug. Almost eighteen years old, Loane misses her playmobil world. In the real world, Loane is powerless. In the real world, Loane doesn’t control the narrative. So she begins to write her own. Through letters for friends, poems for family, journal entries to her future self, her world is now confined to a notebook.

Land of Dreams Evelyn Tu, Class of 2021

Sleeping is undeniably the favorite part of my existence. Once I close my eyes and surrender into my irreplaceable tempurpedic mattress, the pent up frustration melts away from my body. In my dream, a utopia flourishes. Smiling faces, acceptable. Frustrated tears, also acceptable. Politicians not just speaking, but actually doing. Schools not just stuffing information into your head, but giving you guidance to succeed in this decaying world. A system where the system actually does what the system is meant to do. It was the land of dreams, the land of everything of what is exactly impossible

out of your armadillo shell after meeting someone new in town. This person was independent and, despite knowing your role in the town, didn’t ask for your help when meeting you. Instead, they saw your heavy shoulders carrying the town, your frail smile that seemed to be stitched onto your face, and your peaceful body when you finally found time to sleep. They traveled often to see family, and seeing them after their return brightened your presence, as it was all you could do to demonstrate excitement without straining your feeble muscles and quavering voice. You were not a hero to them, and you dared to not view them as yours. At the end of the fourth day of cleaning and filling the rain gutters with flowers, you finished the task and walked home, passing dozens of townspeople, none of whom thanked or glanced at you. While walking on the cobblestone road, your once dull skin began to harden and turn grey. The change began at your fingers and reached your torso, spreading towards your toes and hair until you were stone. You had transformed into a statue. Despite the abnormal intrusion in the road, the town, including myself, didn’t notice the stone carving. We didn’t recognize your posture or your face plastered on the statue. For many days, chants of your name erupted and “Missing Person” posters, with a photo of you smiling from many years ago, covered every infrastructure in our attempts to find you, to find your altruistic hands. The person who you love was the first to see you among the panic. How do I know this? Because, on the day of their arrival from another trip, they were the first to stop moving and talking about your absence. I watched them as they trudged to your stone carving, unsuccessfully controlling the tears from running down their face. They fell onto your shoulders, letting their broken sobs take volume from the angry crowd of townspeople. They signaled the people to notice the statue, but nobody, including myself, could recognize you. We left your statue and the person hanging on it like broken armor in the street to continue our routines. The day after seeing the statue for the first time, I traveled through town to find a barren spot where your statue had stood. Instead of continuing towards school, I instinctively walked to our

Selfish Heroes

Claire Borden, Class of 2021 You spent four days and three nights willingly completing the town’s most recent request: to clear every rain gutter and fill them with flowers. Everyone asked you to clean during the day and spend the nights covering the town with the lively bright colors, so they could awaken to their newly decorated homes. Each time I walked to and from school on those four days, I saw you, covered in dirt and sweat, on a different building; you seemed to never take a break or a nap, and I don’t think you ever did. But there was no need for you to worry about hiding your exhaustion with a smile because no one watched you; they only watched your work come to life. You are the town’s hero, which is why the people call you “Hero” instead of by your name, and you accept it without a complaint. You help fix everyone’s problems, which is why you are hunched over the edge of a roof instead of at school with me and the other students. I remember the day your life morphed into this heroic one. When we were playing on the playground in elementary school, you had found a keychain hiding in the grass. It was a blue, flexible diamond with an image of a yellow and white flower. When you showed it to me, I immediately expressed that I wanted one to put on my backpack’s zipper. After a moment of hesitation, you put it in my hand, assigning my new role as the owner of the keychain with the painted narcissus flower. I showed the other kids, who soon looked to you to get them what they wanted, and you willingly helped them. Since then, you never stopped giving and never hesitated again after that moment on the playground. Each of your “I saved the day” moments had its unique shape and worth, but they were all the same to you. As you grew older, your services for the townspeople became more laborious, causing your body to age faster than normal; your shoulders and neck hunched over, your eyelids hovered closer to your cheeks, and your skin and hair lost their soft appearance. Nevertheless, you never stopped being the town’s hero. But you began to stretch 25

elementary school. Standing on the wood chips in the playground, I removed the blue, white, and yellow keychain from my backpack’s zipper and stared at it. My inspection of the plastic diamond was interrupted by conversing voices in the distance, causing me to look up and see you holding your partner’s hand. It was then that I discovered you had been the statue. Why were you walking away from the town? I wanted to call out your name, but you turned to look at me—probably from instinct, as well—before I had the chance to do so. You waved an empty hand at me, smiling and appearing taller than before. The one you love looked back at me with a stoic face and a gentle wave. After realizing they must have been the one to free you from your stone prison, I looked away towards the ground until I believed both of you were out of my sight. You both were gone. You had escaped the town. Looking back at the keychain’s faded image, I decided that that was the last time I would be holding it. I hurled it outside of the playground area to its original location, far away from you and me, where it should have remained. As I walked through town again towards school, I remained silent among the loud group who argued about the next replacement for you, “Hero.” I hadn’t noticed it before, but the flowers brimming every side of the buildings made me recognize the townspeople’s lifelessness. Their numb expressions and impassive voices vivified your smile on the “Missing Person” posters, the smile that slowly faded as you grew up, the smile outshone by the one you left with me as you waved good-bye. Admiring the vibrant colors and fragrances from the flowers as I walked away from the crowd, I knew I had escaped, too.

Chronicle of New York City

Celebration of the Human Voice

“Concrete jungle where dreams are made of” but The bright lights always seemed normal for me And the concrete jungle is just a grid When you grow up in the brightest city The rest of the world is dim And yet, I find charm in small towns & 24/7 pharmacies that close at 10 pm

Humans are sensitive beings. They absorb varied patterns of the people they encounter. Raised eyebrows, crossed arms, shaking legs, trembling hands, and ranging fists. Words on paper express the jumbled thoughts in one’s head; yet, it is still just words on a piece of paper. Eyes can quickly scan over those deep words, and not even feel the meaning of them.

Sasha Ryder, Class of 2021

Evelyn Yu, Class of 2021

The human voice, however, cannot be quickly peered at. The voice, whether timid, angry, playful, or solemn, is how our hearts are expressed.

Our voice is the engine to our self-creation.

Little Poet

Sarah Yang, Class of 2021 Little poet, Where does your meter come from? A hollow dark place that no one can access Where the ideas spill out, Like red ink washing away. Little poet, Where do your words come from? A nonstop wandering place that no one can access Where the thoughts spill out, Like the world on your shoulders. Little poet, Where do your rhymes come from? A beautiful warm place that no one can access Where the intellect spills out, Like the mounting pile of work. Little poet, Where does your inspiration come from? A white clean place that no one can access Where the hope spills out, Like the Neosporin, bandages and sweaters.

Unbloomed Water Lilies Kai Wiley-Mandel class of 2022