harbinger
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2012
harbinger staff Editors-in-Chief Katherine Oosterbaan Alise Murawski
Layout Editors
Submissions Editors
Charlie Topel Anna Heinrich
Abhisek Rameswaram Emily Davenport
Publicity Editors
Copy Editor
Emily Sheridan Aliah Taylor
Katie Short
Contributing Members Sarah Applebey Jen Behrens Samantha Cook Lorena Fernandez Caroline Grebner Nicole Hefner Saiamulya Kandikonda Alyssa Kruft
Isabella Kwiecinski Alex Legaspi Hannele Maddox Nick McGuire Peter Meehan Alaine Murawski Amanda Pullinger Martha Reilly
Rosie Short Sanjana Singh Bridget Swanson Kelly Vogel Rose Watson Isabella Zanzucchi Annie Zidek
President
Principal
Moderator
Judith Mucheck, Ph.D.
Lynne Struzel
Janna Nixon
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Poetry and Prose: 4..... The Voice - Michael Hendricks 5...... The Power of the Letter - Charlie Santoro 6..... Gone - Jackie Quinn 7...... A Collection of Short Haikus - Colleen Black 8..... The Day I was a Threat to National Security - Henry Dominicis 9..... The Face of a Woman - Brooke White 10.... Beneath a Shadow - Michael Hendricks 11.... Waiting to Audition - Nick Heinlen 11.... The Song of Dance - Alexandra Senycia 12.... Sense of Security - Connor Higgins 14.... :( - Charlie Topel 15.... Ink - Creighton Budris 16.... Tick Tock - Abhisek Rameswaram 16.... Mad Minutes - Philip Fernandez 17.... Behind the Calico - Colleen Black 18.... To My Daddy - Brienne Lubor 20... Ode to Bacon - Mac Sullivan 21.... Sleep - Nick Pullano 21.... What is It? - Sarah McHugh 22... The Wonder of a Child - Jackie Durnil 23... 78. - Nick McGuire 24... Her. - Charlie Topel
25... The Typical Winter Day - Krista Gauger 25... Memento Rosa - Rose Watson 26... Seasons - Nick McGuire 28... Better Days - Daniel Santos 29... Ted - Robin Cruz 30... An Ode to the Green Goblin - Christian Horcher 31.... Untitled - Megan Hebb 32... The Fall of Man - Annie Cebulski 33... The Sun - Alana Kaaret 33... The Surprise - Alana Kaaret 33... Home - Abhisek Rameswaram 34... The Envy of Enjoyment - Tommy Paslaski 36... To Forget - Kara DeLaMar 37.... Timekeeper - Abhisek Rameswaram 37.... Beyond the Black and White - Jackie Durnil 38... My Love - Nicole Brate 39... A Sadder Love Story - Isabella Kwiecinski 40... Spring Cleaning - Caitlyn Cuba 41.... The Girl with the Sweater - Patrick Reardon 42... The Storm - Emily Helle 43... After Rain - Jackie Durnil 44... Ava - Nick McGuire
Photography and Artwork: 5...... Break It Out - Connor Higgins 6..... New Horizons - Emily Huth 9..... Mother and Child - Steven Fisher 10.... Cold Imagination - Darcy Lange 12.... Flowr - Darcy Lange 13.... Broken - Natalie Geoffroy 14.... Haunted Rollercoaster - Natalie Goeffroy 15.... From the Darkness - Anna Heinrich 16.... Cinderella - Natalie Geoffroy 18.... Father and Son - Katherine Oosterbaan 20... Bacon Clipart from the Internet - Charlie Topel
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22... My Tree - Isabella Kwiecinski 25... Frozen - Natalie Geoffroy 27.... Lunar Rest - Connor Higgins 29... Between Near and Nothing - Annie Cebulski 31.... A Street Artist - Katherine Oosterbaan 32... The True Call of Duty - Nathan Lowe 36... A Walk - Nellie Cocks 41.... Polaroid Power - Abby Nierman 42... Untitled 6 - Skylar Zak 43... In the City of Dreams - Katherine Oosterbaan 45... First Breath - Abby Nierman
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Letters from the Editors-in-Chief Dear Reader, Synecdoche. This almost-impossible-to-pronounce word has probably gotten you thinking. I can almost hear you saying, “A part that is representative of the whole?” Well, fair reader, that’s exactly what Harbinger is: a compendium of all of your finest works of poetry, prose, and art, combined into one magazine, a showcase of Carmel’s talent. As I finish my second year as co-editor-in-chief, I never cease to be astounded by the fantastic pieces we receive. So many people deserve so much credit for this year’s magazine. Alise, you were a wonderful coeditor, and you were always there for every issue, no matter how stressful or ironically funny. Mrs. Nixon, you jumped right into your first year as moderator like a seasoned pro, and you always knew the exact right thing to do. To the editors, we couldn’t have done it without your ceaseless work in publicity, submissions, copyediting, and layout. Members, oh members, what would we do without you? You are the heart of Harbinger, and your tireless enthusiasm made each and every meeting a joy. And finally, to each and every person who submitted, thank you. Without you, Harbinger could not exist. Now sit down in a comfy chair, grab your favorite snack or a cup of coffee, and start reading! -Katherine Oosterbaan
Dear Reader, Can I just say it? I love this job. I love this club, I love these people, and I love this magazine. That’s why it’s difficult for me to write this letter; I have too much that I want to say to the readers of this edition of Harbinger. But, for practical reasons, I’ll just pick one: Thank You. This year, Harbinger owes its success to a motley crew of editors, members, and to one shining moderator. First, to Mrs. Nixon, who patiently and sweetly put up with our disorganization, our madness, and our nottoo-thought-out ideas. Thank you for helping us stay on schedule, and for being a rock of support to whom we could always turn. Secondly, to our editors, who put in countless hours of assistance, proofreading, and discussion into this issue. Without your eyes, ears, and opinions, this magazine would not be the same. It takes an army to raise just one annual issue, and I cannot tell you how much we’ve appreciated your tour of duty in Room 108. To my co-editor-in-chief Katherine: you have saved this magazine, and my sanity, countless times this year. Lastly, to the students of Carmel, who bravely submitted their artwork us: I respect you more than you’ll ever know. But without the submissions of Carmel students, Harbinger would not be Harbinger. The talent among students here never ceases to surprise me—and, always, after I say that, I’m ashamed. Why? Because a little voice inside my head reminds me that, at Carmel, how could I ever expect anything less? Please Carmel, keep writing, keep reading, and keep photographing. If I have learned only one lesson from this magazine, it’s this: young people will always have something to say. And Harbinger can be your stage, your soapbox, your microphone, or your canvas. Your voice is important and necessary; never forget that. -Alise Murawski
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The Voice Michael Hendricks Young man, speak freely. Pierce the vast Universe. Never be poisoned of Lip nor of Life. Breathe deep and Go: Serenade the World, Bellow to the Heavens, Whisper to the Earth. do what you will, but kill not your Voice.
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The Power of the Letter Charlie Santoro In its no longer fledgling history, written language has proven to be one of the most potent and influential tools, utilized by everyone from royalty to the lowest of society. It has the power to start wars, as well as end them. It has the power to connect generations in even its most basic form, joining together the hands of those who have lived thousands of years apart. It has the power to bring two detached hearts back together as one, when mere oral communication is not enough. The language governs, protects, solidifies, changes, and molds the people it touches. The most powerful documents man has known or will know have come in this form. Writing is etched in stone; its power far exceeds that of even the mightiest of humans. The pen is mightier than the sword, and even the strongest works that have ever been produced are comprised of words, paragraphs, sections, and ideas that are believed to have changed the world. Swift hands forming complex thoughts into comprehensible, written ideas are what have shaped the human race since the inception of the language itself. But no matter how long a document may become, how complicated or controversial an idea may be, or how far the effects of the written word may reach, everything begins with a single letter.
Break It Out • Connor Higgins
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New Horizons • Emily Huth
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Gone. Jackie Quinn The laughter of a boy, Who echoes in your head, See that glisten of a tear? And the sorrow of the morning As he picks up his bags, And goes. And her heart tightens; she begs: Don’t let them Break your playful spirit; Your beautiful soul Don’t leave me Like this… Not Like This… And for the last time, He takes her hand, And held her heart. And he breathes: I’ll return a man.
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Just Hold On.
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A Collection of Short Haikus Colleen Black “Itsy Bitsy” Spindly legs tiptoe, Vacuum captures, thundering VROOM; Eight legs no more. “Send My Love” Boarded up beige box. Marked in a delicate script; Please handle with care.
“The Tide” All depends upon the ardent Tide; preparing for—New Beginnings.
“First Meet, First Greet” Smoldering eyes pierce; Lush lips part... into a smile. Nearly stops my heart.
“Galaxy” Slicing the stillness; Loneliness shall wait; for one last chance - Shooting Star.
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The Day I Was a Threat to National Security Henry Dominicis I remember it like it was 3 years ago. Oh wait, that’s because it was… Overly emphasized flashback ripple effect
It was January 2, 2009 when I was at the airport in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. My family and I had just spent a week-long Christmas vacation and were heading home. Here’s what happened 3 months earlier though. I was getting some extra help from my biology teacher when I saw her pull a bag of bullets out of her desk. That’s right, you read me. Bullets. Then I saw that they had little keychain rings attached to them at the “primer” part of the round. This meant they all had no charge or powder in the round, but boy did they look real. As I was talking to her about how cool her violent key accessories were, she pulled out an assault rifle round and said “Here, you can have this one,” and put it in my hand. I was so thankful for my first ammunition related gift that I attached it to my pair of car keys immediately. I kept it in my backpack all the time, the very same backpack that I brought to Mexico… Now we’re back to the security checkpoint in Puerto Vallarta. As I removed my shoes, belt, and hat and dropped my backpack down on the x-ray belt, I didn’t feel scared or dangerous at all. I was completely oblivious to the fact I had a bullet in my backpack. Then I saw it unfold. You know something’s going down when the large security lady behind monitor suddenly widens her eyes and rolls the belt back in reverse. Then she put up her hand and waved over the bulky, stone-faced military officer holding a large assault rifle in a not-so-relaxed fashion. They cautiously took my bag out of the x-ray while the other security guard put his hand on my shoulder. Then they looked in my bag. That’s when my brain exploded with the realization that I accidently left an authentic rifle bullet in my bag. “Oh God,” I thought, “I’m going to Mexican Juvi!” Then they pulled out the round, and I almost soiled my khaki shorts. Thank God for my Cuban father. He was able to calmly explain to the armed guards in Spanish that I am not a terrorist, just a dumb kid who left a KEYCHAIN in his bag and that the bullet is not live or able to kill anyone.
After a quick pat down and glaring looks from the other passengers, I was free to go.
This was one of the most frightening and hilarious times of my life, and to this day I will always wonder why I wasn’t stopped in AMERICA FIRST for having ammunition in my bag. Like seriously? I’m fifteen, great job O’Hare TSA.
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Mother and Child • Steven Fisher
The Face of a Woman Brooke White
Most will disagree with the idea to be proposed. It is concluded that the face of a woman is delicate and sweet, for she has nothing to hide. Her lips are plump, her skin is sweet, and her eyes, gentle. Acceptable and no need for question, there is proof that such a judgment is false! Rather innocent it is not, for the face of a woman is not free. Everything seemingly hidden is seen; what was once concealed is exposed. Search the creases on her face and trace them to every hypocrite she has ever known. They said they were in search of beauty, not found in something painted on. Such a lie is seen through his embrace, as the sweep of his hand smudges her lips! The lips, so creased, that speak without talking tell the tale of every man she has ever feared Call into question this fear; For it is not a fear of physical submission, but it is the fear of restraining her heart from leaping. The leaping, triggered by all emotion, Shapes the stages of her face that range from that of an unknowing child to an incredulous participant who has gained enough knowledge to understand life by its end. As her eyes, no matter what shape or tint, start to see and comprehend, and as her cheeks and lips work in conjunction to frown or smile at life’s happenings, It is apparent that, in fact, the face of a woman is a open storybook with some beginning and no end.
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Cold Imagination • Darcy Lange
Beneath a Shadow Michael Hendricks
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beneath a Shadow, our deepest secrets reside, hiding from the world.
and if Light showed all, then things hidden would arise. my Shadow would say‌
what Shadows conceal: our hopes, fears, and desires, the Light shall reveal.
that i am nothing compared to the rest of You. and i do not care.
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Waiting to Audition Nick Heinlen
I breathe in and out. The silence of the black abyss is oppressive. I glance backward toward the door, the only source of light, wishing to break its threshold. I wish to be free. I breathe in and out. The silence is broken by the crinkle of the lined paper I have so intricately woven into a v-shape. I pace back and forth. My heart races and my hands sweat. It won’t be long now; the anxiety is almost over. I breathe in and out. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. I repeat the lines of the monologue eternally etched into my consciousness. The director says she’s ready for me. I walk to the curtain and step into the light. I breathe in and out.
The Song of Dance Alexandra Senycia Waiting on the stage, I hear the song of dancers who have performed before me. My lips form their whispered prayers as I stand on the holy shrine of the arts. I can hear the faint vibrations of their feet pounding the beaten boards beneath my own. My blood sings in my veins knowing that it is my time to perform, And my heart pounds as it drops to my stomach in anticipation. The curtain flies as it’s pulled toward the wings flagging the stage; The silence loud, but I make out the tone of the dust motes twisting in the air. Lights are buzzing overhead, dazzling my eyes And music echoes in my ears. Without hesitation, I plunge into a solo, I lose all sensation as the crowd’s pressing eyes suffocate me. The audience swallows me with their applause, and I am consumed by shouted praise. I listen to their song knowing it will die when the curtain falls, But it will live on inside me.
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Sense of Security Connor Higgins
Flowr • Darcy Lange
Each stoplight in downtown Hackettstown lasted 49 seconds not including a 7 second yellow light. Only 6 stoplights from our apartment to the restaurant. 5 minutes and 18 seconds of stopping and waiting. My mom always learned to never go through a yellow light, so while other drivers may have had 5 minutes and 4 seconds of waiting or 4 minutes and 57 seconds of waiting, we had the full 5 minutes and 18 seconds. I could wait the full 5 minutes and 18 seconds on my own, but Mom doesn’t think I’m responsible enough to drive. I could though. As she drove through the labyrinth maze of the New Jersey street grid, I peered out the window of our compact Honda Accord. I couldn’t help but glare at myself in the side mirror. The plain tuft of blond hair on my balding head, my tired eyes, the numerous cuts lining my neck, the spots of facial hair I missed earlier that day. I turned away in disgust. The Broadway-esque border of the Trattoria Pomigliano sign was missing 3 light bulbs at the top, but the tiny suns still were able to brighten up the shady street. I took 11 steps before meeting the hostess who asked for my reservation. “O’Hara,” I whispered breathlessly. “Your reservation is not for another half an hour,” she said cynically. “28 minutes, not 30,” I said bluntly, or matter-of-factly. The crooked sign said please wait to be seated. I fixed the sign and briskly walked past. The table I was assigned to seemed small. Maybe it was to replicate an Italian café. I didn’t like it. I sat down on the firm metal chair and did my fixing. I picked up the silverware from where it currently resided. I put the knife on the left and the spoon and fork on the right. I folded my napkin in a triangle neatly under my plate. I wouldn’t need it—I eat very neatly. I liked salt though. I put it precisely next to my knife. I almost forgot to move my wine glass to the left side. I guess my mind was wandering. Michelle. I finished my fixing just in time. There she was at the front of the room. Her sweet summer dress had the same affect on me that Cinderella’s gown would have on the handsome prince. I wasn’t handsome or a prince. Our table wasn’t far from the door, but she still found a way to glide effortlessly for what seemed like an eternity. I could watch her elegant step forever. This was an important day. I
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harbinger 2012 might tell her that I love her. If it comes up. She took 14 steps to arrive at the table. Maybe it was 15. I was distracted. A good distraction. Michelle sat down and smiled at me. Her wide smile took up most of her round face. It was a gift from her to me. The waiter walked over and Michelle reminded me I needed to ask for a glass of water, but first he poured each of us the white pinot grigio. It flowed out like a fountain and splashed into both of our glasses. We sat in 2 minutes and 4 seconds of silence, or maybe it was 14 seconds. Distracted. The waiter came back with my water and Michele handed me a tissue that encased 2 little blue capsules. My help. I hated that Michelle had to give them to me. My treatment. More silence. She knew I didn’t like the medication, so she held my right hand, a sense of security. I placed the pills on my tongue and they burned my taste buds. I gripped the small glass of water and tilted it when it touched my lips. Michelle’s grip was just as strong as mine on the glass. Love. The waiter came back. I ordered mostaccioli with red sauce, Michelle had fettuccini alfredo with no chicken. Our meetings were always the same—mostly silent. This is how I liked it, Michelle knew it too. It wasn’t awkward, just silent. After about 17 minutes, maybe 19, our food arrived. With ease, the waiter placed the fettuccini alfredo in front of Michelle. He walked over to me and then the moment slowed down, slow motion. A very plump, red faced man ran past the waiter and bumped him. The mostaccioli fell from his arms and landed like an avalanche all over my lap. I yelped like a small poodle and Michelle’s laughter broke the silence. The waiter started apologizing but I couldn’t hear him. I started running to the bathroom, where I might meet the plump man. I tried to scrape the red sauce out of my khaki corduroy slacks, but it was hopeless. No matter how hard I rubbed, it wouldn’t come out. The red stained my pants, stained my heart. I couldn’t take it. I began to shake—to tremble. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn’t tell Michelle I loved her, not today, not like this. I stayed in the bathroom for exactly 27 minutes. No distractions, just the cold tile under my stained pants. Finally my mom came into the bathroom and pulled me off of the ground. She led me into the restaurant like a pig to the slaughter. Our table was empty. The fettuccini alfredo was still on the table though. Cold. Only one bite taken out of it, and a lonely napkin on a chair…
Broken • Natalie Geoffroy
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:( Charlie Topel All around me, I see death. Everyone, everything, is dying. Falling away into some unknown abyss, their souls never to be seen again, never to be felt, loved. My soul is a wandering darkness. I fall, fall far from this world down, down, down into the depths of sorrow where no one waits for me. There is no hope. I try to climb out from this horror, yet I feel the darkness closing in. There is no way out. There is no escape. Darkness Sadness Hopelessness All encompassing into one deathly glow. The end is near, the end is here. I say goodbye goodbye to those who care, those who don’t, those who live their lives with doubt and despair, for I am devoid of salvation. I fall quickly now, quicker than ever before. THUD. I hit the bottom. Oh, look, five dollars! I’mma buy me a Twix. Best day ever.
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Haunted Rollercoaster • Natalie Geoffroy
Ink
From the Darkness • Anna Heinrich
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Creighton Budris we were written in permanent Ink, on skin so Soft she squealed for too long. cut into her wrists to hide teenage misfortunes, our purpose was clear. They drew us apart, but we were drawn together. usually Her sides steal your Image, but we See each other now and i’m at Rest and i stare not vacantly, but with feelings too numerous to Express any one more than the others. All i can do is gape—my thoughts and reasons Lapse, replaced by the detail within your shape and style. we were made with each other, for each other, to match and to compliment each other, but i do not know your name. i have not touched you OR met you. we’re moving closer now; she’s intertwining her fingers, folding her hands, and i can see you clearly, Art as primal as perfect. you whisper something. Lilly. it takes me a moment to realize It is your name, two syllables with more meaning than anything Else.
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Tick Tock Abhisek Rameswaram A Time to be, a time to die, a time to love, a time to hate. Time is of the essence. Time is on the mind. Time Flies by, time trudges along. The rate of fleeting glory or the rate of all encompassing death? Time cannot be bought; it has no prejudice, it has no fee. We watch it constantly like a mother bear watching her cub. We listen to the clicks of the metronome of fate strapped upon our wrist, we watch it burning our present, fueled by the future, and into the ashes of the past like dying suns; we are doomed for one of two fates: Burn Out…or Fade Away. Death, the great equalizer, prepared to take us whether willing or unwilling, prince or pauper, glorified or shameful, angelic or demonic, messiah or pariah. With guns ablaze we resist our true master: Time. We fight an inescapable fire, the mausoleum of hope, the coffin of desire, the cindering of the nimble thread of mortality. We sob and cry gripping the ashes of the end in our hands, but we are reborn like phoenixes. Time the rate of change. Time the true victor for all battles. Victory among men is delusion, mere chimera mulled over by philosophers and fools.
Cinderella • Natalie Geoffroy
One, audible, tick– Pencils mar papers… Be still! Better luck next time.
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Mad Minutes Philip Fernandez
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Behind the Calico Colleen Black Swirls of purple paisley lay draped over windows containing memories of my past, at times forgotten, I am abruptly reminded the importance of looking back. Gently pulling aside the calico curtains, I find my most treasured childhood memories start to trickle back, My sister— My best friend— My idol— the time went by all too fast. Tucked away behind calico curtains on our own private stage, Imagination takes flight, time ceases to exist. Our world to make into anything we want— a fairytale dream, acting out the parts of the princess and the queen. Two small hands intertwined, Two little girls facing the world, side by side. The curtains flutter, Swirls of purple calico dance back into their original resting place. Suddenly I realize I am observing the past, Had I known how fast time would slip by, I never would have let go of her hand.
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To My Daddy Brienne Lubor
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Father and Son • Katherine Oosterbaan
Dear Daddy, The first handmade gift I made for anyone was for you. I was four years old and at least four feet shorter than you. You reached for your checkered luggage to pack for the two-day business trip in Detroit, Michigan. Watching you methodically fold each shirt like the cashiers in Marshall Fields, I wanted to ensure that you filled that suitcase with all equipment necessary for any adventure that might arise. Socks, ties, pants, and toothbrushes filled the gaping mouth of the suitcase, and one free corner of space remained. I knew exactly what you needed: a homemade, fuzzy pair of slippers to keep your feet warm. With my ambitious task at hand, I set off to gather the supplies downstairs. Cautiously grasping the railing, I descended the stairs step by step with my eyes set on the shoe closet. Reaching high to open the door, I searched through Mom’s high heels and flats to pull out your size thirteen gym shoes for a template for the slippers. Sneaking through the kitchen like an undercover FBI agent, I made sure that the coast was clear, that you were still packing. Equipped with my blunt Preschool safety scissors, sticky Elmer’s glue, and rainbow sequin fabric, I bit my tongue and commenced my creation. Two hours later, I glued on the last button, sewed on the last flap, and stood back to admire my avant-garde fashion accessories, which faintly resembled the Muppet Puppets from Sesame Street. Although the slippers lacked sole padding, symmetry, and any masculinity whatsoever, I could not wait to give you my masterpiece. Even then, at age four, through those pathetic excuses for slippers, I wanted to give you a token of gratitude in return for all the late nights that you endured with me during my infant years, as I screamed, bawled, and woke up neighbors’ dogs. I wanted to apologize for the millions of times that you played my lullaby, “Free Falling” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, to ensure that I drifted off to sleep. As I developed a fear of the monsters in the hallway cabinets, I wanted to thank you for fending them off with your bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. And I wanted to thank you in advance for your patience towards the growling, grumbling monster called adolescence. But my gratitude stretches far after my infancy and into my childhood; our relation-
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ship grew stronger, from baby and parent to inseparable partners in crime. We were Shaggy and Scooby Doo, Tom and Jerry, and green eggs and ham. As I explored the art of talking incessantly, you avidly listened to my babbling with more attentiveness than any of my teddy bears or Barbies. You even tolerated my obsession with Disney princesses, as I confidently affirmed to you that I would marry a prince and live in a flamboyant castle. My future was a predetermined blueprint; in fact, I had my aspirations and dreams figured out as early as kindergarten, thanks to your kindness and attention to me. I was your dainty princess, and you were my gallant knight in shining armor. Fortunately, you managed to give me an athletic side to counter my princess fantasies and wild imagination. We played baseball, volleyball, and tag in the backyard, and you discussed sports with me like I was an old friend. At an early age that sports knowledge is equally useful to a girl as to a guy. I picked you a bouquet of dandelions and clovers; in return, you saved me from the various spider species of the backyard. As preschool years crept around the corner, we counted the geese at the park with me and used nickels and pennies from the savings jar to teach me about thriftiness. We read the same book for weeks on end until I had the lines committed to memory. To this day I clearly remember the opening lines of Madeline in Paris, as we recited, “In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines. And the smallest girl was Madeline...” By middle school, the tip of my ponytail could reach your elbow; I quickly grew out of both the Disney princess obsessions and my former toddler stature. You introduced me to the principle of responsibility, teaching me how to wash dishes, organize my room, and cook simple pasta dishes. We held cooking shows in the kitchen as we prepared macaroni and cheese, ants-on-a-log, and your famous flourless chocolate cake. As a reward for helping you with family dinners, we frequented Six Flags Great America, since I fulfilled the height limit with a smidgeon of tissue paper padding in my shoes. We fearlessly defeated the towering arcs of the Raging Bull, the plummeting drop of Vertical Velocity, and the stickiness of my traditional cotton candy moustache. As my tough-chick bravado abandoned me at the bottom of the ride, I admired your fearlessness, and I decided from then on to participate in each and every opportunity. And I do. With your encouragement, I involved myself; I continue to strive for first place in music, volleyball, science, and art. I want you to know that every time I carry home a trophy or receive an A on a report card, I am creating you a neater version of the pair of purple slippers for you to carry with you, with the original purple pair available for inspiration. Sixteen years later, the purple pair of Muppet slippers still resides in your dresser. Sixteen years later, I am still your princess, and when I marry my prince, I will dance to “Free Falling” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers with you for the Daddy-Daughter dance. As a junior in high school, I am the luckiest girl in the world, because I can proudly call you my daddy. Love you, Bri P.S. I made reservations at D&J Bistro for a daddy-daughter dinner.
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Ode to Bacon Mac Sullivan Bacon my bacon Your wonderful aroma Can make me awaken From a coma Bacon my bacon You are oh so greasy You sometimes leave my stomach aching And also uneasy
Bacon Clipart from the Internet* • Charlie Topel
Bacon my bacon You are not low-cal But I am not mistaken That you raise my morale Bacon my bacon You may make many obese But I am not taken Because I’m all in one piece Bacon my bacon I am lucky to be young For I am not mistaken That you would have my cholesterol hung Bacon my bacon No bacon my love For there is no doubt That you are my satisfying dove
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*http://www.hasslefreeclipart.com/clipart_food/breakfast/bacon.gif
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Sleep Nick Pullano I do this every chance I get… You’ll find me there, don’t take that bet. I am there whether well or sick… I hear my parents calling, “NICK!” Forget the homework and the chores… Just wake me up to see the scores. Won’t fold the clothes or walk the dogs… All curled up just sawing logs. I love the peace, I love the quiet… “NICK!” I hear my parents sigh it. All other things I think they’ll keep… I need my rest, just let me sleep.
What is It? Sarah McHugh There it was, standing before me. It is large, still, like an elephant in the room. Can’t you see? It is just there, announcing our doom. Where did it come from, how did it get here? We all stare in wonder, shock, and awe. Why would you cheer? It must just be me, it must be my flaw. The crowd’s snapping pictures, excitement in the air, They begin to surround it, excitedly talking. Doesn’t anyone care? I am speechless, motionless, gawking. I am stopped in front of it, for it won’t leave my mind, It’s twenty six feet tall, polished with a smile. What is it? Why, it’s Marilyn Monroe on the Magnificent Mile.
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The Wonder of a Child Jackie Durnil But I’ll prove them wrongthose who say I “can’t”. I’ll prove to all children: the world is pliant.
Seasons changed…how? I didn’t know. Days felt like years; Time moved so slow.
WE change the world, not the other way around. WE can change our lives and all the things that surround.
Daddy was a giant. Teachers slept at school. I could pray to Santa. Wearing jeans was cool.
And one day, maybe, we’ll get the world to turn a 180. Back when the world was new. Back when the world wasn’t scary…
“When you grow up, you can be anything you want.” A princess, a teacher, I could be an astronaut!
Oh, how I long to have the wonder of a child.
As a child, I believed, this world full of lies. I knew nothing else except love and smiles Slowly but surely, the truth dawned on me. Life is a trial that won’t go easily. War is a constant. People are cruel. School is rough. Poverty rules. Disease is widespread. Sin marks every door… How did the world change from just the decade before?
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My Tree • Isabella Kwiecinski
Oh, how I long to have the wonder of a child, Back when the world was new. Back when the world wasn’t scary (at least through my view).
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The wispy sails, drawn against the calloused skies, held aloft by ropes. I hear the laughter of expanses pulsing on my tongue dry resentment drapes itself in samples of my mislaid mind.
Nick McGuire
I wish to skim over reflective skies and search dusty oceans for unattainable stars. I’d arrange to match a heartbeat of my sleepless nights.
78.
A boy and his boat find zephyr and vapid clouds on a pursuit for breaking horizons; ends of worlds where waves rise to meet words written on disappearing lips.
Here I catch the sun rise above the edge of reality while the moon still is sculpted in recesses of my eyes Whispers of early morning fade along the coast of coy yesterdays that I left in the sandy past of her love. I am alone, free to draw windows in the sea to opposite universes, free to shape the remaining sound of ocean breeze into cracks of converging glass and know the wandering freedom of a boat and his boy.
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synecdoche
Her. Charlie Topel Her. I call Her I ask She says yes I smile. I pick Her up We drive We talk We laugh We listen. We. We stop We exit We enter We order I pay She thanks me. She hugs me. I smile.
She checks Her phone She smiles "he's coming!" "Great!" I lie.
I check My phone "No messages" "8:34" I look at them they kiss.
I smile. I pretend. he comes She stands they hug they kiss. they sit down he orders we talk. he whispers to her She smiles. they laugh.
"I have to be home by 9" I lie again. I get up they get up She hugs me I hug Her We hug. he waves I wave back I walk. I look back She laughs
they kiss. they kiss.
We sit We eat We laugh We talk We smile.
they kiss. they kiss. they. Buzz.
I look away.
I walk out I get in I drive I stop I breathe I exit. I.
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harbinger 2012
The Typical Winter Day Krista Gauger Snow gently falls down. The hot fire crackles indoors. A great winter day.
Frozen • Natalie Geoffroy
Memento Rosa Rose Watson Though other roses may fall from the breeze and light rain, I shall not. Neither sweet words nor the tugging of a gentle hand may release me. But before shears sharpened by knowledge and eloquence, I fall readily into the palm of the wielder, And long only to bloom for him.
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synecdoche 1. The sun collects in puddles before our feet. red, pink, drawn together. ~ The fireflies blink in the edge of my eyelids— young flickering stars. ~ When sunsets fade, ebbing away to nothing, I see stars in her. ~ Marble clouds wander above the heat of day lit lightning—blind my sight. ~ I’ve never trusted the light. How do I know you’ll be back tomorrow? ~ Drops of our summer flow lazily from the sun’s late August murmurs. ~~
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Seasons Nick McGuire 2. The red moon waxes behind closed eyes in faulty memories I made. ~ Two young breaths bathe in caramel mornings before the sky surrounds blue. ~ The swarming autumn leaves dance aimlessly among forgetful raindrops. ~ We sat on the hill, (silent) watching the sky glow like pools of amber. ~ Kitchen starlight sets us off against dust tapping the glassy windows. ~ I wander past the wrought iron fence lining— enclosing your heart. ~~
harbinger 2012
4. The dewdrops found a way onto the scarlet of his blushing smiles. ~ lips release a breath, exchanging by air—secrets between lightning bursts. ~ I find my close friend when the sun falls to her sleep. Moon. We’re both lonely. ~ soft rhythms of leaves rustling in the April wind fade behind our feet. ~ Stolen kisses hide in the night sky’s empty face. Stars are love affairs. ~ An evening mist falls, imprisoning my body. Her touch runs away. ~~
Lunar Rest • Connor Higgins
3. A voice, captured in pale flakes falling from the sky, whispers in snow-light. ~ Winter pulsed between his fingers—he is shrouded in layers of white sounds. ~ We slept in sheets of a gray winter’s morning, the ice in our toes. ~ Our cool bodies found warm solace, in each other, within the snowfall. ~ A fire cracking in your syncopated breath, is worth your cold touch. ~ Is the cold from my heart pulsing against frozen ribs? or her breath fading? ~~
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synecdoche
Better Days Daniel Santos I guess it’s time to leave everything behind. I see the children on the streets and the workers on their grind. They search for opportunities to see what they can find. Some took the easy route; others used their minds and lyrics to find a way out of this place, where we see the remnants of pain in each and every young face. Take me away from controversy and away from the drama. Free me from the stress and all of this trauma. Just last week, my best friend got robbed. And the sad thing about it is that nobody’s snitching. They really don’t care until it’s their own child that’s missing. We try to keep our heads up, even when we’re feeling down. And we may be gone now, but we’ll always be around. This kid on my block, Shawn, was a top-notch baller, With all the scouts at the games, and a bunch of D1 offers. Until the night of winning state, he found out he was a father, Turning down college for a job that paid seven bucks an hour. He can’t even clear his mind because life is getting harder, as he’s trying to leave the projects, but the future’s looking darker. He was the black sheep because his sister got good grades. But A’s don’t stop strays, and tuition still has to be paid. She can’t walk home from school without being afraid. To think this all could have been avoided if her dad had just stayed. Now, he keeps the snapback down just to cover his eyes, with banging headphones just to drown out his cries. He tells his sister, “Not everybody makes it, but at least I tried. Spread your wings baby girl, and maybe one day we’ll fly.”
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Between Near and Nothing • Annie Cebulski
Fresh out-the-joint, Faded jailhouse ink on every inch of him. Waiting. The night is late, and the morning is young. He sings jolly tunes while he sits in traffic. Waiting. Walking into the store. Chaos. With one item in hand, he stands in the long line Waiting. Casually he walks out, With only one ambition to dispatch. Waiting. After driving for awhile, he pulls over. Yanks the key out of the ignition, he doesn’t forget the present. Waiting.
Ted.
He presses the button, the doorbell rings. The door opens, standing there is his Wife, Waiting.
Robin Cruz
He reaches behind his back And hands her the teddy bear. She smiles and reaches in for a kiss, With her nine-month bump between them. Together they wait.
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synecdoche
An Ode to the Green Goblin (my friend’s truck) Christian Horcher The radiant joy upon his face Will pass the test of time and space The perfect truck, a hue of green The engine roared, awfully mean He drove his Ford out of the lot Paid six grand for what he got A massive price the dealers pay Ecstatically he sped away. Filled with diesel and set to go With much of summer yet to show! With his new wheels, he could hardly wait To live the memories they’d create. With his new truck now full of friends With no limit to their travels’ ends Through the town to drive in loops, Or to the park to shoot some hoops. To the gym to lift some weights Then to a restaurant, where they heartily ate. The sun was setting at evening’s prime The only limit was the time A false statement this proved to be American trucks live endlessly! “The future now!” is what we say The Green Goblin speeds in that way. Yet in our haste, a big mistake To forget the memories in future's wake.
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harbinger 2012
But like spring rain washes the ground as if to heal the sorrowed earth, so too does precious time to rid the pain and to rebirth.
A Street Artist • Katherine Oosterbaan
As summer heat begins to warm, and winter is forgotten for being unkind, so too sweeten the memories of love that's passed, remembered fondly in the mind.
Megan Hebb
Like the stinging jolt of winter that comes at such a quickened pace, the shock of unrequited love presses cooly to the face.
Untitled
Like the excitement of the rushing leaves, a hurried frenzy as they fall, naive daydreams are painted bright of new regard that comes to call.
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The True Call of Duty • Nathan Lowe
synecdoche
The Fall of Man Annie Cebulski Hands shaking, eyes wide Life drains from the left side Cannot stand, fall to one knee Vision blurs, cannot see Is this the hour man dies? Orders are orders, which he carried through Knowing fully what he had to do Crept silent as justice rode on his shoulders Felt the guns in their holders Deciding the hour man dies The deed to do cannot be done The race started will not be run Instead he took a different path Abused the power in his grasp Marking the hour that man dies
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The mission was simple; the mission was clear If only one man did not veer Now we are doomed to follow his lead Now our sides forever will bleed Since the hour man died
The sun brushed over the darkness, enveloping the shadows with light. People cried, falling to their knees to look up at the beautiful blinding light.
A boy’s shadow walked in the rain. He stopped with the thud of a door. His tears turned into a smile on his sweet face.
Home. Abhisek Rameswaram
The Surprise Alana Kaaret
The Sun Alana Kaaret
harbinger 2012
O Captain My Captain Decade past we hath buried our claws in Iraq, Searching for ebony gold which our machine lacked. Btwixed sand and strife, the stolid sentential returns to shore; This warrior, will man the cannons no more. O’ how the enemy’s vessels fade into the azure abyss; My Captain how I can tell you something is amiss. Lovers returning, fathers hugging, brothers uniting, Tempered through valiant fighting. Never will they be the same; Stealing a soul is no game. “War is hell” they say, Nay, for the innocent don’t pay. Virgil hath never taken a man through war; the wreath wearer despises it to the core. Logic abstains from staining the beauty of peace, So that parting of the lovers, the mothers and fathers, and brothers and sisters, may cease.
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synecdoche
The Envy of Enjoyment Tommy Paslaski A thousand eyes stared me down as I emphatically hopped my way through Sunset Foods. Although grocery stores are usually refreshingly cool on those scorching summer days, this time was different. Employees scrambled for direction and were baffled at the disturbance in their daily routines. I had never been that nervous and excited at the same time in my life. As shoppers saw me and my cartful of bananas, people laughed, ran from, or stared at me in confusion. I looked anxiously at each onlooker with anticipation, excited by every new glance and reaction. “Eeee eee eee eee,” I screeched as my voice echoed into the ears of shoppers throughout the store. It reeked of sweat and I could barely see ten feet in front of me—primarily because I was wearing a gorilla suit. My friends and I are typically classified as weird. One of my partners in crime, Melanie, suggests that it’s because we were dropped on our heads as children; I know we just lack the emotion to care what others think of us. As Melanie filmed me making a fool of myself from a distance, others looked on in awe and bewilderment. Their eyes were glued to me and their reactions varied; some laughed, some hid, some gazed in disgust, some applauded, and some were just plain confounded, but all stared. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself in spite of the negative feedback from my onlookers. I came to realize that embarrassment is a state of mind that can be either embraced or avoided. The day I dressed up like a hungry ape in pursuit of his bananas was the day I discovered the pure joy of the thrill of putting myself in the spotlight and checking out the reactions of the unsuspecting people. That was my first time doing anything like this and it certainly wouldn’t be my last. It was an icy cold Friday night and I glanced at my phone and saw a text from Melanie. “Let’s go gnoming,” it read. “What’s gnoming?” I responded. “It’s when you ring someone’s doorbell and then stand in their yard in whatever pose you want. Get it? Like a garden gnome?” Melanie said. And that’s what we did, for about an hour at least. The only problem with gnoming in the wintertime was that it was cold, and we needed to find a way to keep warm. “I have an idea,” I began to explain, “let’s get the iPod speakers from my car and we can dance to ‘Barbra Streisand’ on peoples’ lawns. That’d be more fun.” My friends agreed. Our surprised spectators, as usual, had a wide array of reactions. They were shocked to see us out in the icy chill of winter, dancing vigorously to keep warm. I’m sure it was a sad sight for, out of the three of us, Lindsay was the only one who could actually dance without making a complete ass out of herself, but that didn’t stop us at all. A few people laughed, one or two yelled at us because they failed to understand why anyone would think to do this, and one guy brought out his Rottweiler in an attempt to scare us away, which proved to be a successful method.
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harbinger 2012 “Oooo ooo ooo oo oo Barbara Streisand,” we proclaimed loudly enough for the neighbors to peek their heads out for a peek as they likely contemplated calling the police. We ignored the foul looks and comments we received and continued, proud to just be ourselves. Most people would feel uncomfortable putting themselves in the spotlight, much less intruding on peoples’ lawns to give them the performance of a lifetime, but not us. The prospect of people judging us didn’t stop us from having a grand time that night; instead, it made the night even more fun. Every time I make a fool of myself, it’s always the same; I see blank stares, people who glare at me like I’m an idiot, and the occasional one or two who actually appreciate my personality. People judge me all the time and it doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m sure it happens at every school dance, but I’m always too busy to notice. By the end of the second song, I can feel the sweat dripping from my face. Passersby have to look twice to make sure I’m not having some kind of seizure as my spastic yet surprisingly coordinated dance moves catch the attention of everyone around me. My dancing is like the fourth of July, explosive, loud, and inevitably entertaining. Music is blasting and with every beat, every note, and every word of the song, my body is shifting to some original dance move that I choreograph on the spot. Sure, I look foolish, but who is having more fun, me or the kid who’s too cool to dance and sits in the corner talking the whole time? My mom’s cousin’s wife’s sister’s son, Joe Markiewicz, is another friend, and distant relative of mine who shares the need to entertain everybody without hesitation. I guess it runs in the family. One day Joe and I were in a singing kind of mood. We picked a song, drove to the Portillo’s parking lot, turned the car radio all the way up, and were ready to pour our hearts out to unsuspecting fans. The song was Adele’s Someone Like You and we nailed it. We sounded like a choir of angels sent from heaven. After giving one of the most soulful, heartfelt, and entertaining performances in the history of the human race, we belted out the last note. Out of breath and with a sense of accomplishment, we looked up to find people clapping and laughing at our awkward randomness, proving our mission to be an epic success. “Nailed it,” Joe said proudly as we drove away. We had an enjoyable car ride home as well; accordingly stopping at every red light to blast some Britney Spears just to see the look on peoples’ faces, we laughed and joked with no fear of judgment from the surrounding world. Instead of sitting at home and having the usual teen dialogue: “What do you want to do?” “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” We made our own fun and enjoyed ourselves for it. I could go on for days about the crazy things I’ve done. Everything from having iPhone light saber fights at the mall, to drawing the attention of a huge crowd at Navy Pier while having a dance party to an all-male 50 year-old a cappella group, to driving through McDonalds, ordering ice cream cones and grabbing just the ice cream, leaving behind the cone, I manage to enjoy myself time in spite of being judged. Those who don’t do stupid things are stupid because of it. They are missing out on an essential part of life called joy.
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synecdoche
To Forget... Kara DeLaMar Everyone remembers learning how to ride a bike, gaining confidence as they gain speed. Everyone remembers their first day of kindergarten, meeting new people and learned new things. Everyone remembers their first day of high school; entering a new building, with even more people and more challenging obstacles. Everyone remembers their senior year; Prom, college acceptance letters, graduation, and leaving everyone you love behind. Everyone remembers their first day of college; leaving home, finally an adult, unpacking boxes, and reminiscing and missing all certain things about the warm and loving place I grew up. Everyone remembers their first job, finally out in the world; ready to succeed. Everyone remembers their wedding day, so happy that they’ve found the one; on that day they become one. Everyone remembers holding their child for the first time; and as time moves on all they can think is, where did the time go?
I just don’t want to forget —
A Walk • Nellie Cocks
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Timekeeper Abhisek Rameswaram Watch in hand, the father said to the son, “Boy I give you this watch not to have fun. This mausoleum of hope, a coffin of desire. Whose rhythm burns our tomorrows in an inescapable fire. A dream catcher of all my yesterdays. My son, my boy, love the radiant rays. All glory is fleeting like birds of a feather No matter how much you fight time, it’s your tether To this world spinning, twirling. I give you this: Do not forget the beautiful bliss of timelessness. Forget not to gather ye rosebuds while ye may Put down your fretting and seize this day. Your time on this small world is unexpired. Waste not your breath battling time, for the end will only take you tired.” The boy both bittered and elated by his father’s words replied “I know father from the Reaper, I can run but I can’t hide.” The watchmaker smiled at his son “But time does fly when you have fun.”
Beyond the Black and White Jackie Durnil Beyond the black and white, I’ve heard there’s so much more. Oh, how I long to live in a world With so many colors to explore! Imagine! Waking up to sunrise, (With colors called red and gold), Could these hues exist? To ask—I’m not so bold. Still my heart wants to believe, And my eyes want to see, Straining to look around And find these colors surrounding me.
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synecdoche
My Love Nicole Brate It was a simple enough autumn morning when the mother and her young daughter went to the zoo. The sun was just coming up when the mother bent down, buttoning the child’s coat. She gave the toddler a kiss on the forehead. “What was that for?” the young girl asked, grinning as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. “I will always love you.” On a crisp Saturday morning near the end of fall, the child showed her mother the note that the boy in art had passed her. The child bounced giddily as the mother read the letter and laughed. She bent down to give her child a kiss on the forehead. “What was that for?” the girl asked, confused as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. She handed her daughter back the note, and chuckled. “This is puppy love, my daughter. But I will always love you.” The sobbing teenager threw herself into her mothers awaiting arms, re-living the horrendous break-up, imitating the cruel words said on that cold winter’s afternoon. Her mother kissed her upset child on the forehead. “What was that for?” the girl sobbed, feeling comforted as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. “This was a terrible, clouded love. But I will always love you.” The girl called, crying tears of pure happiness as she spoke to her mother over the phone that fresh, spring afternoon. More than four hours away at college, her daughter had become engaged. She talked non-stop about the man she was to marry after college. The mother cried tears of happiness as well, longing to kiss her daughter on the forehead and hold her close. “What was that for?” her daughter asked, hearing the tears from her sniffling mother. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently over the phone. “This is true love that you’ve found. But I will always love you.” The new baby girl was placed into the new mother’s arms. Her own mother fawned over the baby and commented on its small fingers and toes and perfectly blue wide eyes on that beautiful, bright afternoon at the turn of summer. The mother leaned over to give her child a kiss. “What was that for?” her daughter asked, staring at her baby as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. “This is the love of a new mother that you hold in your arms. But I will always love you.” It seemed all too soon that the time came for that baby girl to get married on that sunny, shining afternoon at the end of summer. As the mother watched her grandchild walk down the aisle, she heard her daughter sniffling, longing to hold her own baby girl. Her mother kissed the crying woman on the forehead. “What was that for?” her daughter whispered, wiping away tears as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. “This is the acceptance of another love in your child’s life. But I will always love you.”
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A Sadder Love Story Isabella Kwiecinski
It was the last day they would her see each other as mother and daughter. The mother lay in a hospital bed, barely breathing, dying of old age. It was a fall evening, and the mother talked to her daughter for as long as she could. She whispered for her daughter to come closer, noting her graying hair and aging face. The mother reached up with shaky arms and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “What was that for?” her daughter asked, sensing a calmness as her mother held her close. “My love, this is for you,” she spoke gently. “I will always love you.”
An “I don't love you” at the house that day; Was that what you were waiting to say? Do you mean it? Though you never said it, But after you left I could tell you had pretended. And it's not like this started a few days ago; It's been going on for two years or so. The moment you saw me, you'd run away. “I have things to do,” you wouldn't hesitate to say. I guess that's good, since it shows you're not shy, Yet it's an excuse I don't really buy. Still, I can't tell you to not leave me here. I'm younger, you're older—by much more than a year. I know you have your own friends and own life, And I'm not your girlfriend; I am not your wife. I'm only your sister, but I want you with me! Just like the old days, as we used to be. I miss you, and wish that as you get your degree, You'll let me know you do too, before you forget me. Because if one day, without saying it, you walk out the door I'll think to myself: “I once had a sister... ...but not anymore.”
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synecdoche
Spring Cleaning Caitlyn Cuba I take down the faded pictures of you and me I search for the stories we wrote the cards you sent the notes we passed and the flop-eared dog you gave the day I entered my teens I round up your handwriting your smile your face your influence, still evident like a tattoo across my mind I dig out the papers the drawings the gifts the jokes the memories And I pack them away Three years gone by and I am ready to let you go Lifting the dust-covered water-stained stale-smelling box full of you and me I shuffle to the garage
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And unceremoniously, toss it in the trash There. Done. Free. I turn to go but I cannot depart just yet There is a paper gently floating twirling spinning to the ground Face up, a picture of you and me, happily laughing smiling talking content We were friends, once With a sigh, I pick up the picture retrieve the box and bring the memory of you and me back inside.
harbinger 2012
The Girl with the Sweater Patrick Reardon rugged, broken, unfixable, frigid, freezing, miserable— ouch! watch it! (sorry!) …jerk. hmmm… what’s this? why a sapphire sweater! fleece, too… did he drop it? well, it’s mine now… Hah! to think I was so, so envious —in fact I was… JEALOUS! yes, very much so, too —now no element can conquer me! except now, for I’m depleted, tired, hungry —starving, actually. destroyed, bruised, crushed, beaten, thrown, displaced, —WRECKED. memories of a finer past, here comes the rain…
Polaroid Power • Abby Nierman
tears, whimpering, sadness! (honey, did you hear something outside?) quiet (no, dear.). Crying… is my sweater bluer then before? unwanted, uncared for, unkempt. harmed, inhibited, on the lam, no, no, no! enough of this! Ah! (give me all yo money!) screw it. life sucks (nice doing business with y’all—heh) Need to sleep, rest, refresh… a man in Blue. (get up.)huh? (Get up, I say!)who? what? (don’t you know?)… (you’re on state property!)…sorry (you better be. you’re scaring the guests.) UNWANTED a shadow dweller of an unseen world. has it come to this? well, they won’t notice… (hey, wait up! I can’t find my bike!) …crap. run, jog, trot, walk no Blue lights; I’m safe. Lost, can’t find my way, loneliness, isolation, pain, My sweater and I.
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synecdoche
The Storm Emily Helle
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Unititled 6 • Skylar Zak
The clouds are forming and darkness is upon me. The blaring and ringing cracks of thunder rattle my very bones as the storm advances. The wind encompasses me as leaves flutter like butterflies in the breeze. Lightning strikes off in the distance setting the prairie ablaze with the colors of an inferno. We sit there in the fields just waiting, watching, listening, just me and my thoughts. The tall grasses bow down as the monstrous black tempest is in full view. In the distance rain can be seen and soon the storm nears. I stand up and survey my surroundings as I start to run. My slowly paced jog turns into an all out sprint as I pound my way through the sea of infinite grasses. My heart threatens to give out as it beats within me driving me onward, warm blood rushes through my veins, my legs burn with exhaustion, and my sweat blinds me as I launch into oblivion. Behind me I race from the storm until I can go no further. I spring for cover under a tree and the violent winds strips the leaves, exposing the branches that are left. Barren. The storm has arrived... I hang on for dear life. Soaked to the soul, my body convulses and the end is near. Time seems to stop and my heart slows, I wipe the sweat from my face, my eyes open blurry and bloodshot. The warm blood within me drains away and I am left with nothing. Nothing. I am vulnerable. The winds cease and the rain lightens to a mist. Everything becomes quiet. Everything is peaceful. The sun peaks out of the clouds and life continues...Anxiety
In the City of Dreams • Katherine Oosterbaan
harbinger 2012
After Rain Jackie Durnil I walked out into eerie silence Down the slick, silently steaming street Where water glistened on the pavement And emptiness and loneliness meet Pictures reflected in the puddles In a dull, glowy, distorted mess. Nighttime swallowing the dim streetlight Casts a shadow on my loneliness This silent scene is not black and white Here black bleeds into white to turn grey But where color lacks in this sad scene Also lacks the happiness of day I stop under the flickering light A wet bench the only thing that’s near I pause to look back across the street And whisper my thoughts, but no one hears And so I’ll sit here on this lone bench Blinking back the ever-pressing night And I study my muted shadow Before bidding myself a good-night
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synecdoche
Ava Nick McGuire
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I cannot see how anyone began here, in this place where fluorescent blinks on the tiles scratched by rising—falling—footsteps, where faces pale in anxious waiting, where some ghosts still linger before me. I can hear them. Their screeches are in wheels skirting along hallways. Rushing, trying to save a life. The spirits whisper to me in the beeps of a drowning soul—of a heart rate ending. I slip past the receptionist and down the hall to find your door. I open it slowly, half hoping you are asleep, but my luck isn’t what it used to be. Your face is awake, but your body is too weak to move. “Who are you?” you ask. I whisper, “I am the brick you’ve lost on memory lane.” For a moment, nothing is said, nothing is seen, but then a smile runs through your eyes. Why are you smiling? Can you remember me? Do you see me again? I was hoping you would not forget, no matter what they told me. “Do you remember the fields we rolled in, the summer sun a backdrop upon our skin?” It lit our eyes bright as yours are now, as if you can still feel the heat of my fingers curled in yours. The robins drew clouds in our sky, the blue interrupted by a sheet of thin gray we slept in. It was then the faded color of my red shirt brushed against the violet panels of your dress. You found a way into my head, into everything I tried to keep to myself. I remember all this because, when the clouds parted we saw the sky grow into a mixture of night and day, a painting drawn before our eyes, a view I would never forget. Crashing into the horizon, the sun sent a thousand bits of light into the darkening sky. Stars rained down, and I could only hope all of this would last forever. “Remember how in early autumn it rained when we walked the beach?” The crowds had fallen away and the clouds were back, bluish and wrinkling from the liquid that parted their lips, like your skin now—wrinkled and pale. You took off your flip-flops, your blonde hair curling in the droplets. I let your golden skin slip away from my outstretched fingers. Now I wish I had never let go. You ran off, laughing to the clouds, and I could not stop laughter from escaping the cage of my lungs. We left footprints, but you did not remember which pair was yours. I knew—I did not tell you. Perhaps I thought it was one less thought for you to forget. “How about the winter when we fell apart? We were never meant to last that long.” We walked in the snow-lit night with shortened smiles and stretched bodies, our love dissuaded by the cold air. I missed the skin of summer, the heat along my face. Your kisses grew angrier and your voice became quieter. You would not have it, you tried to make me hold onto your ice-layered body and forget the robins that flew south. I said the stars reflect the snowflakes falling at our feet, but you walked off, away from my last attempts to keep nights together. Your face was bright then, shining in the winter lights.
harbinger 2012 “To me, your prime is now as well as then, when we were young and had our lips sewn together.” You are still as beautiful, though the cogs in your mind have slowed. Your hair, golden then, is still as celestial, though now more like the snow of a perennial winter. “You still matter to me.” But I do not matter to someone who has forgotten where her footsteps once lay, and I do not matter to the girl you became after years and years of fading. You don’t remember the growth of summer, the height of autumn, or even the weakened pulse of winter. I am lost in your memory. “Yet, I must go now.” Someone waits for me, someone who took the place where your heart once stood. “No, don’t go,” you plead, the shine of your eyes grow stronger. “Tell me more about the winter.” I look around your room. There are no picture frames, no notes, no life. No one seems to care, not even I. “I could not even begin to explain all we had in the summer. Look, I brought flowers—violets, your favorite. I must go, but please remember. Please. If nothing else, remember how I called you Ava and to you I was Cary Grant.” “Who are you?” you ask. I whisper, “I am the brick you’ve lost on memory lane.” For a moment, nothing is said, nothing is seen, but then a smile runs through your eyes.
First Breath • Abby Nierman
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HARBINGER 2012
synecdoche Volume 36 Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelein, IL 60060
Cover Art: ‘‘Machines’’ by Devin Becker Background Art:“‘‘Rowing’’”by Abby Nierman Border adapted from ‘‘Fayette Kiln’’”by Sophie Lombardo
Copyright 2012 by Harbinger, a publication of Carmel Catholic High School. After publication, all rights return to each work’s creator. The views expressed do not represent the views of Carmel Catholic High School or the Harbinger Staff.
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synecdoche [si-nek’-duh-kee]:
a part that represents the whole