Welcome The 2010-‐2011 school year has been rich in creative work. In these pages, you’ll find a harvest of poems, stories, paintings, and sketches that speak to the vast and varied imaginations of Castilleja middle school students. We hope you enjoy immersing yourself in this issue of Flame-‐-‐and that you find a spark of inspiration to create something of your own.
Jole Seroff and Katie Sauvain, faculty advisors
About Flame Flame has been meeting since the beginning of the school year. In the fall semester, we gathered to respond to art and writing prompts and provide constructive criticism on each other’s work. In the spring, we launched our campaign for submissions to the magazine, read and evaluated over 100 submissions, and laid out and edited the pages. Dozens of students have been part of Flame over the course of the year; the Flame Production Team is a list of those who have been with us throughout layout. Flame Production Team Abby Alter McKenna Barlow Maya Crawford Karina Gupta Caroline Harris Greer Hoffman Meg Johnson Nayanika Kapoor Sasha Landauer Jolena Ma Nicki Mitchell Maya Nagaraj Sarah Rantz Serena Rivera-‐Korver Clare Tandy Allison Zanolli front cover art by Sophia Pelosi back cover art by Heejung Chung
The girl from pale October Arises with the moon And wipes the shattered sunlight shards Out of the small room The rag that she wipes with Has seen its share of days From the misty-‐topped mountains Through the thick Nevada haze From the plains and the plateaus And the restless Eerie lake And the snow-‐kissed gargantuan-‐hills To the hills that shake Across the canyon not-‐so-‐grand And to buildings tall and wide With roofs that stretch so far it seems They just might scrape the sky-‐ But the girl, but the girl, with her sunlit shards Knows nothing of these tales For she cleans and she cleans and she wipes alone Save October that is pale. -‐-‐Kira Vargas
art by Alex Zafran
Excerpts from “Yellow” Yellow is the feeling when teacher give you a super star sticker. Yellow is a feeling in your stomach after a lemon soda refreshes your thirst. Yellow is the feeling when you are dressed up in a taxi and going somewhere special. Yellow is the feeling when you take your first bite into a corn on the cob. Yellow is the sound of a tennis ball being whacked with a racket. Yellow is the sound of corn growing. Yellow is the sound when prospectors found gold. Yellow is the sound of bananas being picked from their trees. Yellow is the sound of far ringing bells. Yellow is the smell of a freshly baked angel food cake. Yellow is the smell of a late summer day. Yellow is the smell of honey that bees make. Yellow is the sight of fireflies traveling in the night’s mist. Yellow is the sight of a black cat’s glowing eyes. Yellow is the color of a humming bird’s throat. Yellow is the color of lemon marmalade on a slice of toast. Yellow is the color when you pick summer squash at the farmer’s market. Yellow is the color of the cream on the top of a latte. Yellow is the color of a car’s headlights blinking in the dark. Yellow is a scorching hot desert. Yellow is a warm scoop of buttery popcorn. Yellow is a color that is happy and alive! And yellow is the color that shines inside of you. -‐-‐Jordan Jackson
The sun, sick and pale with grief And the moon, feeding only on things That are settled down by beginning of October. After the moon kills the sun Things will settle down And the witch woman, by the middle of October. will have wiped the ordinary out of Maycomb. art by McKenna Barlow
-‐-‐Maya Crawford
Please, do. For Severus Snape Happy Death‐day. Or does it have to be? Here, I hope it helps. An Invisibility Cloak. A gift from me to you. A thank you. Just remember, Use it well. If you choose To use it at all. Please, do. He needs you. Please, do. For Lily? ‐‐Katerina Pavlidis
To: Harry Potter You should know that I left your glasses on your bedside table You really should start keeping track of them After all, they are your glasses Perhaps if we tape them to your nose they will stick? I know how much you appreciate it, no need to thank me Most probably Yours, Luna Lovegood ‐‐Sasha Landauer
art by Karina Gunadi
Guitar Hero 6 As Jade disembarked the plane into Boston, he experienced the returning rush of high school life. Finally, home again. He laughed to himself, thinking how funny it was that he felt more at home at his boarding school than at his house. He walked towards the baggage claim area, gazing around. He didn’t particularly like studying at The Hydelin Academy for Exceptional Young Minds, but that was okay. It was the only place that he could be with Mel. And besides, he was Jade Spencer Marchand. He could kick anyone’s butt, wherever he was. As he pulled his duffel and guitar from the conveyor belt with little effort, he tried to remember where he and Mel had agreed to meet. He turned around and paused, facing the gaggle of people who had just arrived from Chicago. He started walking towards them, searching for Mel’s familiar face. He had a surprise for her. “Jade!” He looked up, and saw a girl with black hair and red highlights rushing towards him. When she was only a few feet from him, she caught her foot on the wheel of one of her rolling suitcases and fell into Jade’s waiting arms. Yep, it’s Mel. As he set her back on her feet, he looked at her more closely, pausing a moment to look in her dark blue eyes. He had missed her. “You look...” Mel started to say, but Jade interrupted. “Sexier?” he finished, then smirked. “Not more than usual,” she said with a smile, “But I was going to say taller.” Jade laughed. “Your hair’s just as long,” Mel added, reaching up to brush his black bangs out of his eyes. They fell back into his face and she sighed in frustration. “Can I please cut it?” “Maybe,” he said, and then, “I missed you.” He hugged her again. “You too,” she said after she had pulled back. “How’s Liz?” “Feisty as ever. She is quite the little demon. Takes after me, huh?” Mel giggled. “Oh, come on. You’re not that devilish.” Jade gave her a hurt look. “You come to the airport, drop your suitcase on my foot, fall on me, and now you wreck my evil mojo?” Mel laughed again, and picked up her suitcases. Jade grabbed her smaller backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go get a cab.” They walked side by side out of the airport and through the doors into the muggy Boston air. Mel hailed a taxi, and Jade handed Mel her bag. He hefted their suitcases into the back of the car with ease Clare and opened Tandythe door. “After you,” he said with mock courtesy, holding the door for Mel.
She clambered inside clumsily, and he followed, closing the door behind him. The cabbie, an older, bored looking man, asked without turning around, “Where to, Miss?” Mel replied quickly. “Quincy. Hydelin Drive.” “You kids are heading out to THAFEYM? Great school, my nephew went there.” He turned and saw the two pierced and tattooed kids in his cab. He sighed and muttered something under his breath as he looked forward again. Mel rolled her eyes at Jade, and he laughed quietly. “Excuse me?” Mel addressed the cab driver. “We can get another cab, if you’d like. I’m sure there are plenty of other taxis that would love take us to Quincy.” “No, Miss, that’s quite alright,” he muttered as he pulled into the road. Jade smiled at Mel’s attitude. “Oh, I brought something for you.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a flat rectangular box covered in shiny black paper. “Happy birthday, Mel. I know it was a week ago, but I had to get you something.” Mel took it from him suspiciously and carefully peeled off the wrapping. “Guitar Hero 6? This isn’t even out in stores yet! How did you get it?” Jade chuckled. “My parents got invited to one of those technology conference things, and they were giving these out. And I thought you might like it. The gaming guitar’s in with my electric.” He motioned to to back of the cab, where his gold and black electric guitar was resting in its case. Mel reached her arms around his neck and hugged him again. “Thank you so much! As soon as we get to school, we can set it up.” Jade smiled. “You’re amazing. And if you don’t mind now, I’m exhausted. I couldn’t sleep at all on my flight. There was this guy across the aisle who was talking the whole damn time, and I had to wake up at like, four o’clock this morning.” Mel settled her head on Jade’s shoulder and quickly fell asleep. Jade sighed and ran a finger through her hair, but stopped himself quickly. We’re just friends, he thought stubbornly. We’re just friends. And besides, his thoughts traveled further, love will tear us apart. He fingered the cloth over his right arm, where his tattoo was inked with the exact same phrase. Love will tear us apart. He proceeded to look out the window for the rest of the drive. As they drove through the town of Quincy, he looked out for their favorite haunt, Calefaction. In sophomore year, they used to come to the record store to Tandy chill out and listen to local bands. They used to walk in Clare the dead of night back to their dorms, and Mel would hold Jade’s hand so she wouldn’t trip.
But I don’t care about that, he thought to himself. Why can’t I focus? Jade, always calm and collected, snapped himself out of his reverie and stared straight at the seat in front of him. It would be okay once he got a good night’s sleep. He was just tired. As soon as they arrived at The Hydelin Academy, Jade woke Mel up by whispering in her ear. He grabbed their bags out of the trunk, and they turned to watch the taxi speed away, leaving them trapped here, in this prison of a school. But everything would be okay, because they had each other. And Guitar Hero 6. -‐-‐Abby Alter, Sasha Landauer, Maya Nagaraj, Katerina Pavlidis, Chloe Sales, and Anna Verwillow
photo by Karina Gunadi
Telephone The ringing of the electronic communicator. The excitement running through your veins Who could it be? You rush to the phone to answer, but find out you were too late. -‐-‐Katherine Moldow
For Dimitri Shostakovich... For Dimitri Shostakovich, One of your Own pieces To play. Why? You ask. Because They have Tortured Me. You will probably Try to play it, And Fail Miserably.
I also leave you here A recording. Recorded By a professional. To show you how it is supposed to sound. And make you feel Inferior. Make you feel The pain Of those who play your pieces. Revenge Is sweet. Just as your pieces are… Not. -‐-‐Natalie Sadlak
The colors streaking Across the recovered sky Lighting up the day An aura of wonder falls Amongst shattered panes of light -‐-‐Austin Jacobs and Abby Alter
art by Nicki Mitchell
art by Jane Choi A Shard of Broken Dreams It hurts. You don’t know how much it hurts, can’t know how much it hurts. But just because you can’t see it, can’t feel it, can’t know it… That doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Or that it goes away. Every time you look at me, speak to me, smile at me, you drive that shard just a little bit further into my heart. I try not to care, I really do. But I can’t. I can’t not care. You look into my eyes, and smile as you force me to care. As you make me bleed, and bruise, and scar. But you’re blind to my suffering. Hell, your world is full of rainbows and happiness. All smiles. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why you can’t see it, feel it, or know it. Or maybe I’m just crazy, and you’ll see me in the papers one day. “FORMER SCHOLAR TURNED SENILE,” they’ll say. And you’ll frown, and crinkle your forehead. “Didn’t I know that girl?” Yes. Yes, you did know that girl. At least you thought you did. -‐-‐Abby Alter
-‐-‐ Kate Wang and Grace Fenwick
My mind is blank My mind is blanker Fighting against myself What fun Now, an idea A rhyme, a poem A small blue flower No! not at this hour! Well, why not silly? Fine, fine, we’ll talk about a lily. It must be blue Blue lilies with chocolate fondue! Chocolate fondue? that’s random No, no, not as random as writing a tandem! Going through the green hills and seeing those flowers just gives me the chills! Since when were flowers chilly? Every since there was such a thing a a blue lily! Now my mind is blank again Ok then, this is the end! Art by Wings Yeung
Where I’m From I’m from the beach From hot summers and a yellow umbrella From riding on bikes and forts in the forest I’m from Fudge on 4th of July I can still taste the sweetness of the fudge And sand from the salty beach winds I’m from Sundog Books From Patty waiting at the door To Central Square Records on the top I’m from Pickles From the Foot Long Hot Dog From those Virgin Margaritas I’m from Frost Bites From that Tutti Frutti flavor From those warm summer nights I’m from the Degregorio Family From Greyson From Oliver From Cari From David From Grove by the Sea I’m from the Nasty Lady The Orange House The Old Playground and Those Tennis Courts I am from the Lime Green House With Orange Trim. -‐-‐Celia Aldrete
To Fall in Love with Poetry To win a poem's heart, I would show it my true self I would take it on long walks in the park, not talking I would give it small bouquets of daisies and a vase I would understand its troubles and worries and embarrassments I would appreciate its shyness and loyalty and love every moment of clammy palms and red cheeks and stuttering voices -‐-‐Abby Lowell
Black and White You never asked for this. This unanswerable question hanging over your head like your own personal storm cloud. You never wanted to be the one to make this terrible decision. But that’s life, they say. No, you reply. That’s just some great cosmic being, bent on screwing up your life. What would it be like, you wonder. What if you just said yes? What if you let the responsibility just slide off your shoulders? But you already know, don’t you? You know that no matter what you choose, that heavy feeling of guilt would settle in the pit of your stomach, and your thoughts would be plagued with “what-‐ifs” for the rest of your life. You consider whether guilt for eternity would be better than this daily pressure, to choose, that you can only escape in your dreams. Sometimes, not even then. But then you chastise yourself for being selfish. After all, the psychological consequences for you are nothing compared to the life-‐changing—or life-‐ending—consequences for her. You think, the only thing to do is to choose what’s right. But what is ‘right’? Right for you, right for her, right for them, us, the world? The thing is, there is no ‘right’. There is no ‘wrong’. It’s all just a blur of that fuzzy grey area. And so the question remains: Life, or death? Because in that respect, there is no grey area. It’s all black and white. -‐-‐Abby Alter
She says, “When the witch makes the moon drink, That and two small things arise.” And she Wipes a drip of Kool-‐Aid from her chin. -‐-‐Anna Verwillow
photo by Clare Tandy
Ordinary girl in the moon, Sick of things because of things. -‐-‐Anneliese Gallagher
Txt u l8r What ever happened to metal slides and tire swings and jumping in rain puddles to see who can make the biggest splash? When was the last time you ran as fast as you could just for the fun of it? ‐‐Karly Quadros
Soccer Can you feel your heart beat racing, looking at the team your facing? It’s the best sport in the world. It makes you feel so free. When I am out there on the field just the ball and me. Driving and dribbling, shooting and scoring. Always full of action and never ever boring. Kick, pass, cross, goal. Trip, slip, fall, roll. Soccer is an active game, not for those blind or lame. The game is not only for fun. The happiest team is the team that won. My shorts are grass‐stained; my jersey’s a wreck. I’m covered in mud from my feet to my neck. My shin guards are broken; my cleats are amiss– it just doesn’t get any better than this! ‐‐Kate Wang
art by April Chien
Earrings for the Buddha For those Flowing Floppy Ears I give you Wonderful Fanciful Earrings You need some Long Dangly Decorations Hope you Enjoy Cherish Them Adorn those Flowing Floppy Ears ‐‐Teni Amos
art by Jessica Zubizarreta
A gift for Buddha I have noticed there is something that you lack; For things like this I have quite a knack. Though you frown on most material items, Please accept this out of need. I would like to give you this pillow. Please sit on in as you meditate, There is no real need to hesitate. Just place it and yourself upon the floor, And on life you can continue to contemplate more. ‐‐Sarah Dunn
Fireflies A boy Awake at the darkest time of the night Scared The moon is hiding, for even he does not come out that late The boy There is not even a spark of hope in his heart In the distance A light Warm with energy A spark Of hope Coming toward you Gleaming with help -‐-‐Kate Wang
Unicorns never actually seen them, those mystical creatures almost like they came out of a storybook what kind of animals these days light their behinds on fire the world is dying you see if this is what we’ve come to -‐-‐Natalie Sands
photo by Kate Wang
The Garbage Collector Fredrick Newham crouched over a spilled trashcan, the bin rolling at his feet. Clawing past most of the items he found, Fredrick stopped at what could have been a woman’s favorite pearl earring. Taking that in his hand, he rolled it over and over between his fingers, seemingly examining every side of it and reveling in its creamy smoothness with a childlike pleasure. Not bothering to look for the earring’s pair, he pocketed the single earring and moved on to rummage in the next trashcan. The saying “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” was quite true in Fredrick’s case, and to say that he lived by it would be an understatement. Every day was the same: Fredrick would wake up at eleven and almost immediately start looking through other people’s trash to find items he thought were special enough for him to bring home. Finishing with his last trashcan of the day, Fredrick started the walk home in the nightly orange glow of the street lamps. They guided him home, as breadcrumbs did for two children in a fairytale. However those children and this man had something more in common. It wasn’t their age, since Fredrick was middle aged and far older in body than they– instead it was the fact that the source of his pleasures came from the same youth-‐ filled spring as theirs. Fredrick had the gift of looking about him and his world in the same manner as a child, with the same curious eyes. On the other side of the same street, a woman and her little boy were walking home hand in hand. With only a quick glance at Fredrick, the boy could tell at once that he wasn’t like most adults, and with the interest of a child, stated so to his mother. His mother hushed him at once and told him to keep his voice down so ‘the kind sir’ wouldn’t hear him. “But he isn’t like Daddy,” the child was insisting. “That kind man is autistic,” the mother replied in a low voice, painstakingly enunciating the last word. “That means that he doesn’t talk or play like you do, or act like Daddy.” The mother started explaining autism a bit more, but the boy had turned away, already bored. Fredrick had seen the mother and her boy from across the street, but did nothing to acknowledge their existence. He had vaguely heard their voices carried over by the night’s cool, crisp air, nothing but a little over a murmur, and he didn’t choose to listen. Fredrick’s mind was a great distance away from the scene that played before him, and children turning to stare and gawk was nothing new. Fredrick entered his house, which was little more than an abandoned shack, a little ways off from the rest of the neighborhood. His fingers
fumbled for the light switch to the right of the door, flicking it on, though he had no electricity. It was just a routine that had no motive except for the fact that to Fredrick it made the room feel the slightest bit brighter. Standing with his back against the door, Fredrick was surrounded by all sorts of items imaginable: items of different colors, items of different shapes, items of different textures. It was safe to say that the only thing the items had in common with each other was the fact that Fredrick had taken an interest in them and had taken them home. Fredrick reached into the pocket of his dark green coat, and pulled out several objects, one of them being the pearl earring. Setting them aside with great care, he began to dig in his other pocket. Out came a piece of fried chicken, a couple French fries, and a half of a BLT sandwich that he had found thrown away. He had begun methodically eating when he heard a loud knock. Fredrick didn’t look up, and continued eating his dinner. Sharp, insistent voices could be heard through the door, yet they didn’t pierce through Fredrick’s stonewall, and were ignored. Sounds of shouting and loud banging went unnoticed by Fredrick. The door was kicked open, crashing into the piles of items that he had collected. A snow globe came tumbling down from the top of an old broken microwave and burst on the floor. A cracked face of a little dancing girl stared back at Fredrick from the middle of the shattered snow globe. He turned away from her. Two policemen walked in– yet that, too, seemingly went unnoticed. It was just him and the broken girl staring at his back. Fredrick continued to eat, gazing straight into the air before him. Murmurings were passed between the officers; words like “hoarding” and “invading private property” were used, as they took in the sight of the room and all the many items piled around them. When Fredrick finally noticed, he was confused. He didn’t comprehend what was going on around him and didn’t try to. Words were thrown back and forth between the loud officers as Fredrick stared down at the dancing girl, frozen in an eternal dance, looking up at him with accusing eyes. Words were yelled at him. Finally he sighed. “Fredrick Newham,” Fredrick said as if was reading someone else’s name on a business card. His voice was flat and monotone as he gazed past the policemen. More mutterings were exchanged between the officers, as they forcefully led Fredrick into their car. They were mildly surprised when Fredrick didn’t fight them at all. He just walked on. Emerging from the police car, Fredrick found himself in a place he had never seen. He was thrown into a room of mass chaos. The room was as wide as it was long. It was filled with many people
wearing dark blue, rushing back and forth, to and from wooden desks stacked high with paper. Fredrick was then ushered into a next room. The whole room was white and so startlingly bright that he had to look away. But everywhere he turned the whiteness followed until he was reduced to staring down at his dirt smeared shoes, two sizes too big. A grey haired man in a white coat was waiting for them in the room. He talked to the navy clothed men behind him who brought him, until they finally left. Once they left, the man turned towards Fredrick, slowly talking. Fredrick didn’t want to be there. He wanted to go home. The white room scared him. However, every time Fredrick turned his head to look away, the man moved into his sight again. There was no escape, so he told him the thing that everyone always wanted to hear from him. “I am Fredrick Newham,” he said with a bit of difficulty. He had trouble pronouncing his cks and his ms. The man in the white coat continued to mutter to himself. If someone else was in the room, they would have heard words such as “autistic,” “correctable,” and “therapy,” but of course Fredrick heard nothing. And so started his days in jail and speech therapy. Jail could have been the best thing that happened to Fredrick. Six weeks and forty-‐two therapy sessions later, Fredrick Newham found himself back in the center of his room where he had stood all those many days ago. He was still taking therapy sessions with Dr. Bradbury, but his speech was improving at a fast rate. Fredrick was now working on finally parting with all the items that he had collected over the many years, and he knew exactly what to do with them. Fredrick took a step back to examine his work placed all around him, and then looked back into the bag that held the last of his found items. It was all empty, except for a single, pearl earring, lying almost forgotten in the chasm which was the bag. Fredrick picked it up, remembering the day he had found the pearl earring. This was the only thing he could not part with, for the memories it held were too important… too strong. It signified a part of his life he still wanted to remember. He put it in his pocket. Neighborhoods away, a woman picked up her daily newspaper at the breakfast table. Her boy was playing with a toy truck at her feet. As she flipped through it, the woman stopped at a picture of a proud looking man standing in front of multiple pieces of art, all made from recycled materials; things someone would find in an average household’s trash can. The man looked familiar, but it was his wide, brilliant smile that made her stop. She couldn’t help but grin. -‐-‐Anna Caltabiano
As the tiger roars Sand erupts into the air To call her cubs back. Stealthily through the bushes Rustling like the dead leaves She waits, silently. Waiting for the prey to come, Patience is vital. A flashback to her early days When impatience was allowed. That means nothing now After all they must survive Simply survive She opens her dark black eyes To see the prey leap away
The flowers falling Lightly onto snowy ground Each blossom is gone. Leaves wither and branches shrink Into brittle bones of trees. By Natalie Sadlak and Jane Choi
photo by Karina Gunadi
‐‐April Chien, Sasha Landauer, Katerina Pavlidis
Clear sky above her And green grass below her She watches clouds here. Blade by blade she counts the grass Ten, twelve are numbered the earth. A fast swooping bird, A crow cries from the distance Lying, listening calm And as night’s curtain doth fall She falls into dreamless dreams ‐‐Kris Auyeung, Lianne Blodgett, Audrey Flower
Time easily drifts Not tethered to anything Careless as wind The movement is so careful As it floats abroad in the dark A man‐made concept Yet we utterly depend On its method, its madness ‐‐Sima Biondi and Catherine van Blommestein
Coming Home In a yellow floral dress, with hair in tiny blond ringlets, the little girl sitting on the sidewalk looked like a ray of sunshine. A pink piece of chalk in hand, she drew a butterfly on the concrete, smiling with satisfaction. Then, a second later, the smile had vanished, and her eyes became downcast. A tear slowly fell from her face, landing on the beautiful butterfly. Beth looked at her butterfly, now ruined, and started to cry. She dropped her chalk carelessly on the street and stood up, smoothing her dress with her hands. She made her way down the sidewalk, to her house, feeling crushed. Her father was supposed to have come today, and meet her on the sidewalk. She had imagined that he would pick her up in his strong arms and twirl her around, each of them grinning ear to ear. That apparently was not going to happen. Beth arrived at her house, and she walked up the uneven walkway. She let her perfect white shoes drag on the ground, as if to make it clear that she was very unhappy. Barely able to reach the rusty old knob, Beth let herself inside the quaint house, peering with derision at its disarray. Books were stacked upon each other in the middle of the family room. And her dog, Sherry, had left toys everywhere. Dream catchers hung from the ceiling, and a large poster that said ‘Let peace live on!’ hung up on the plain white wall. Sherry rambled into the room enthusiastically, licking Beth’s legs. Beth giggled; Sherry always made her feel better. She took a few steps towards her mother’s art room, the messiest room of all. Suddenly, Beth heard a car door slam outside. Her heart lifted, and as quickly as she could, she ran to the front door with Sherry in tow. Swinging the door open revealed her father, in his camouflage uniform that Beth had always said made him look like a bunch of leaves. All of Beth’s earlier doubts about her father not coming home went away. It couldn’t be a better summer day, Beth thought, there wasn’t a cloud in sight, not a single shadow to dampen her spirits. ‐‐Sarah Rantz
At night it disappears into heaven's shadows but it creeps behind your shoulders at the light's rays Light, it makes our shadows angry! A fragment of black must be present, a repeating ghost, taller or shorter than to desire only incomplete oaths have witnessed Dressed in grey ‐‐Karina Gupta and Kiana Borjian
art by Jessica Zubizarreta
Our Silhouette daunts the pavement a following twin of darkness a foreign darkness: ore that shines host of a devil it floats with hatred for the ground trapping your every corner
Dream Résumé On this day she flies without purpose, on magic carpets and wings, the catcher of foreign animals, to learn their language, then release. The girl can make the seeds in apples disappear, and is a licensed killer. She can string flame flowers to dying water birds, she can bend in any way, find the things she never lost, and with the kick of her knee, breathe the dead alive again. ‐‐Ana Afshari
art by Karina Gunadi
The Keystrich (a mix of an ostrich and a key) The KEYSTRICH’s talons are made of keys He uses them to swiftly run by trees Its keys can unlock so many things And sometimes a box of diamond rings The KEYSTRICH habitat is desert or open‐land When they move through the desert their key blades kick up sand They mainly feed on seeds, grass, fruit, and flowers On occasion, they eat insects which give them power The males’ height is from six to nine feet Their top land speed is tough to beat It stores its food in its throat It also wears a warm, feather coat What makes them special is their long legs and neck To eat their food, they munch, crunch, and peck Their decorative metal key toes shine in the light They are definitely one bird, which doesn’t take flight Sometimes their key toes break and need repair They go to Home Depot and boy do people stare They are all different colors, even blue Their legs only kick forward‐‐who knew? The KEYSTRICH spend its winter in pairs or alone When they hatch, out pop up toes of chrome Their soft, fluffy feathers act as insulation The female lays her eggs with such determination So, if you see the extraordinary KEYSTRICH walking in the city Please, dance to a ditty and be very witty ‐‐Jordan Jackson
I am one of those
Who never have good dreams but
The reappearing
Candy that I never get
To eat. No, I have nightmares.
In chilling water
Magically enclosed by
A chain‐link fence I
Thrash around, my eyes glimpsing
Flashes of electric eels
My heart increases
In speed when I see their eyes Red and dull, hungry
Again, there is a chain fence
A volcano of play‐doh explodes
Red lava drips down
Slowly spreading on the floor
Surreal, I start to run
Agonizingly slowly
The lava spreads, reaching me
It touches me and
I wake up, my toes ice cold.
And my lungs aching.
‐‐ Karina Gunadi
The Passionate Piano Fingers fly across the black and white keys The glowing golden pedals smooth and light Fluttering beneath me like bumblebees The harmonies soaring through the dark night A complex melody stirring the sky The notes illuminating my bright face Their movements so graceful it makes me cry With light, rounded feet, running in a race Yellowing pages splattered with black spots The marks of a thin calligraphy pen Stems crisscrossing, forming intricate knots Straying away from the book yet again The bittersweet song pulls to a close I walk out the door – where the music goes ‐‐Caroline Harris
The Small Yellow Room It was just a room Just a small yellow room But somehow Somehow It became more Maybe it was the bedspread Maybe it was the cream colored curtains But somehow Somehow It became mine A part of my heart that I will carry around forever Wherever I go, the small yellow room will be tattooed across my heart Imprinted like Braille on my soul Because somehow Somehow It became me. ‐‐Clare Maloney‐McCrystle
Convenience Store We stopped outside a 24‐hour convenience store. One of the livid red lights of the Open sign was out, and another was flickering. The entire place had an air of desolation about it, though that could have been from the empty night of the surrounding desert. It looked eerie, unreal, glowing in the night. We parked in the space nearest to the door, our one beat‐up car in an empty lot, and got out. A cold wind blew at us and rang the old brass bell tied to the top of the door as we opened it. The man behind the counter glanced up, then returned to his game of solitaire on the old computer behind the counter. The artificial light was harsh on the packaged goods. Row after row of brightly colored, artificially flavored food and drinks rolled out, their plastic coatings shining. The only unpackaged foods were rotating kabobs of cut up hot dogs. They looked sick, dry and wrinkled in the red light of the heating lamp. We picked up a case of Gatorade, the red kind. That’s the kind my mom always got, too – the red. No flavor, just a color. Red. We walked up to the cashier and set the Gatorade on the counter. He rung up the purchase, looking faintly annoyed at having to do it. As if it were presumptuous of us to want to buy something at the store. But maybe it was. It wasn’t our store; we had received no invitation to it. Maybe you weren’t supposed to buy anything. Just look. Just look at the fake food. The store could have been a museum; the pieces, the food, would last long enough. Maybe it just wanted to stay frozen in time, never change, never lose any pieces to scurrilous collectors who would insultingly tear them apart, disregarding the perfection of the clean, plastic packaging. Maybe that’s why it was out here, so far from anything else. To protect the vestiges of civilization it had been entrusted with. The bright, artificial pieces that painted a picture of a fake, dependent, era. But we didn’t know. All we knew is that when the cashier rung up the purchase, we paid him from our dwindling supply of cash then left. Left the store frozen in time. The store with the flickering lights that would probably just go out, one by one, and never get fixed. The store where the hot dogs on kabobs just got drier and drier, sicker and sicker until nothing was left but a withered husk of what they had once been. The store with an old brass bell tied to the top of the door. A door that would never open. A bell that would never ring. A bell that would just hang, silent, frozen in time.
‐‐ Clare Tandy
Gone flutter here and there with the light lingering in lines but still even you cannot light the darkest corners of my heart you cannot bring it back, nor I I don’t care about your glow so radiant it hurts stop your effort to have me dance with you in the dark in the fields that brushed its legs as well, you cannot bring it back ‐‐Heejin Hahn
photo by Clare Tandy
Where I Am From I am from cupcakes in bed on birthdays From cinnamon toast crunch cereal in the mornings, with a glass of orange juice I am from the dog couch in the family room Covered in dog hair, and often vacuumed I am from the waterslide and pool outside (Where you catch the speed of at least 20 mph) The hot Jacuzzi with jets Whose shape is oval‐like, with small pebbles lining the inside As if we were on a Hawaiian rock beach I’m from guacamole and chips every night From Brenda and Robert Leslie I’m from the beach in Tahoe To skiing on its highest mountain From Go to sleep! and Get up! I’m from the Menlo Park Presbyterian Church Where the leaders are a bit too enthusiastic And we learn all about each other in huddle groups I am from England Fish and sticks are all they eat there From the hat collection my dad has To my grandfather’s mustache (which everyone comments on) I am from the hide leather lamp, which never seems to fall over in the family room Metal structures of men and women Faces hard and serious To light up the room, when filled with despair and darkness I am these collection of moments— Ones that formed while I was here on ground— I have finally budded on the Family tree A beautiful flower ‐‐Leslie Akin
Shea She sits quietly, reading her book All is peaceful, all is well The wind blows gently through her straw colored hair She delicately turns each page, as if each were a note Breaking the crystal clear silence with her perfect pitch A delicate hand blocks the sun Shining through the clouds On this beautiful day On this beautiful Shea ‐‐Clare Maloney‐McCrystle and Lou Biffar
art by Chloe Sales
Stairs Stairs Sadly taken for granted. What a wonder they are. They lead you to new places They take you up and away from the ground. Every time you take a step You are closer to your destination. Every step you take, you rise Every time you take a step, you get wearier, but you carry on knowing that you want to get to that place. That one place closer to the sky than where you started. ‐‐Greer Hoffman
art by Karina Gunadi
Casting Call Art thou that honorable maid, that here killed the Maycomb witch; Ay, it was a long and bloody battle, Between an "and,” including you and the witch Legend says you killed her wickedness with a baby rag, and a fair table. You fought valiantly against her, she nearly won several times, but you persevered long enough so by the time the candles had burned low, you declared victory. Was that really you? I should think not. But thank you for your time And... Next! Center stage if you please. Now let me ask you this So art thou that honorable maid.... ‐‐Sima Biondi art by Karina Gunadi
Where I’m From I am from Nanang and Tony, I am from my dad, who helps me grow, From my mother, I am from the grandparents I never got to meet, From sinigang and fried chicken at gatherings, I am from Illukano, Spanish, and English the language of my ancestors, I am from “attitude determines altitude,” I am from the smell of Expo markers on the whiteboard in the morning, I am from the annoying sound of the alarm clock, I am from the smell of food waking me up, I am from early Sundays, I am from Friday afternoons, From those never ending summer days, I am from the taste of dirt on the softball field, The smell of the grass on a hot day, I am from the great taste of championship, and the bitter taste of defeat, I am from the rosebush near my house, I am from the feel of a shower after a long day, From the never‐ending barks of my dog, I am from the smell of Coco’s fur after a hard day, From my bed, blankets, and pillows, I am from a toothbrush and toothpaste, From sleep, I am from My writings. ‐‐Meg Johnson
art by Mackenzie Macdonald
Ghandi I have left the comfort of Haviana flip flops on the shelves which you could probably use, for that long walk towards world peace. No need to thank me. Think of it as a present, a returned favor, because you will spread peace and harmony throughout the world. Enjoy the squishy, floppy, coziness of your new pair of Haviana flip flops. ‐‐Megan Colford
Art by Heejung Chung
er or v ‐K ra iv e en a R y S er ar t b
Dream Skills In Dreams I have the unique ability The ability to be late Late to the same event Multiple times In Dreams I am able to get lost In beautiful places Places full of People People that I’ve seen But do not recognize In Dreams I wake up panicked Panicked I’ve overslept Overslept and missed an appointment But it’s only in my head In Dreams I question reality: Is this real? Am I dreaming? What is a dream and what is not? Surely I know what’s real. Because surely this is real. Isn’t it? ‐‐Clare Tandy
art by Elle Kass
art by Fernanda Kramer
‐‐ Abby Lowell
On the fairgrounds Tears drip down my cheeks Because my best friend Caught more fireflies than me
Lanterns in the darkness An excited shout pierces The silence When lightning is trapped Between her hands
Fairground Fireflies
Awkward turtles sit, Fierce, big lions roar loudly, Two worlds become one. The turtle’s shell sits empty By the lion’s big soft paws Soft, gummy candy, The turtles tasted salty, Torn out from their shells
Never to see light again Their souls drifting from their shells The other turtles Hear the unfortunate news They want their revenge These turtles wait for darkness, Then they slowly stalk the lions. ‐‐Anna Yu, Izzy Lyseggen, Clare Tandy
art by AJ Levison
art by Tess Batchelder
Dream Résumé she won the olympics twice in food skiing (macaroni is her favorite) and she can make a pony come out of nothing and ride off far away down a big cloud she can go places without moving sometimes she knows who people are when they look completely different than they used to she munches on stars and she slides off of shooting sheep sparks fly when she stomps and though she randomly falls off cliffs don't worry, she always wakes up before she hits the earth ‐‐Lucy Fox
photo by Anneliese Gallagher
Dear Jerry from “Tom and Jerry,” I have left a special Present for you in your mouse hole (I got the address from a friend). In it lies a taser Updated with the highest technological lasers And such The cat is really the problem You, the mouse, are definitely awesome Do the job because it must be done This is not a mere pun. I wish you the best little man Sincerely, your biggest fan. ‐‐Jolena Ma
Remixes of Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Lemon” Sweet‐smelling moonlight, of the universe of a miracle, emerges halves of gold love’s delicate moonlight essences gold to your touch emerge riding the droplets of pure gold from clotting light and gold so aromatic droplets ‐‐Karina Fonstad live on lemon juices ‐‐Indigo Jones
photo by Katie Jo Shuman
delicate of a miracle, aromatic facades the gold of the universe arcane droplets, sweet smelling moonlight brims in the barbarous gold house of starry light; half a world alive ‐‐ Kavya Tewari
Ode to a Lemon sweet smelling yellow brims into the rind a merchandise miracle sodden with the world unguessed light riding the star ‐‐Indigo Jones
Rain Rain, rain Crystal droplets, trickling down the window It can be heard for miles, on the rooftop Like clouds crying. April showers help the plants Grow, and grow and grow. To become colorful flowers, blossoming in the springtime. The smell of rain Is always there long after a shower. The fresh earthy smell lingers, And washes your worries away. My mommy says I shouldn’t go out in the rain. Not to jump in puddles. Not to let the rain fall on my head. But I open my mouth wide, and let the rain fall down I laugh And eat them, like gum drops The rain is beautiful Not just because of the fun I have in it, But also because after it is gone, Comes a rainbow. ‐‐Kavya Tewari and Sam Jensen
Water Your waters are dim You can tear apart a limb Yet fish and crabs swim ‐‐Tara Thakurta and Kathleen Chang
Breeze tickles lone bud Bright sunlight reflects drifting time. Night falls and silence. Sounds of nothing fill her ears The wind has swayed to a stop And she feels at peace Outside the lone bud still sits As she falls asleep ‐‐Kelsey Auyeung, Chloe Sales, and Alex Zafran
art by Chloe Sales
Never Going to Happen If You Just Believe... There's a small, beat‐up house, somewhere out there, that's yellow on the outside (“an odd color,” as everyone says when they stroll by) and beat‐ up nothingness on the inside. Its walls are lined with the different components of eggs‐‐the whites, yolks and shells‐‐with patches of bare wood panels, where someone threw something, or some animal scraped some part of itself against the paint, or something else happened, so that they are now colored brown‐‐or green with moss‐‐instead of plain old yellow. Bordering this house is a short, what‐used‐to‐be‐white fence. And in replacement of the originally white paint is graffiti. Just a collection of various phrases and groups of random words sprayed and splattered onto the poles staked in the ground that are written in completely illegible fonts. “Zach was here,” one reads in faded shades of green, and on top of it is, “and he was with his girlfriend, Vicky,” written in purple, along with other different names, in the many colors people use when they want to make themselves visible to others, or attempt at being noticed. Neon usually. Behind the chipped wood and names and colors of the fence is a patch of dirt coated in dead plants that used to pass as grass. Their once‐green blades are brown, and so old that when the smallest gust of wind blows by, they crumble into a billion pieces. That's how old the house is, how rickety and unwelcoming it looks. Not a complete sentence. It's the type of house that directors use in a horror film for the time when a curious little boy wants to check out an unknown place and gets eaten by some green, slimy monster as a result. Or the type of house that seems like a good meeting place for a couple of teens who think they're “all that.” “How 'bout the ol' yellow barn? 1900 tonight,” one might say to another. And after that night, one of them will have to leave the “ol' yellow barn” in an ambulance, most likely the one who suggested the idea of having an organized fight. It has the perfect atmosphere and appearance for something bad to happen‐‐creaky floors, an undernourished lawn, a cracked and broken fence, no inhabitants...all in the middle of about the worst neighborhood possible. It's almost as if some evil sorcerer lived there once, and put a bad vibe on it before moving somewhere else, just so he could give people like us (those dastardly humans!) a hard time. The first time I went to my little hide‐out there, I was on the verge of
tears, fourteen, and alone. The alone part was fine; I'd gone there to be alone. But didn't anyone have pity on a girl who was so desperate for comfort she would go to a junkyard like this? Wouldn't someone hear me crying and come inside to see what was going on? Maybe even try to help? Well, apparently, if I were to ask one of my classmates those questions, they would have answered with more enthusiasm in their voices than while revolting against our parents. “Duh! No. Especially not a girl like you.” Darn right. I don't even remember what I was upset about, but I know I waited for my savior for about an hour, venting out buckets and buckets of saltwater onto the floors of that house. And when he (I'd really been hoping for a “he”) didn't come for me, I said it for the first time. It was just a whisper at first, just a ranting‐to‐myself‐about‐how‐life‐ sucks kind of thing. But it felt good, saying my first curse word, being able to just let it out. So I said it again. And again. And again and again. Until it was more like a ranting‐to‐the‐neighborhood‐about‐how‐life‐sucks thing. I think I must have repeated it about 50 times, and by the 50th, I was probably as loud as the music emanating from the speakers in the house next to me. They were having a party by the way. Without me. I repeated them without any other words in the middle. It seemed more pure that way, more enunciated, more like I was mad as hell at the rest of the world. My savior didn't come for me that day, but I was proud nonetheless. It's just that it wasn't pride in meeting a guy that actually gave a crap about me, which (boohoo) still hasn't happened yet. I went home after the episode at the house, woke up the next morning (a Saturday), and went straight back. This time, I decided to use my new vocab word in complete sentences. “That ‐ing, stupid, idiotic, flirty...” “‐ her. I don't need anyone.” So on and so forth. “He” didn't come that day either, obviously. (A note: I didn't know who I wanted the “he” to be. It wasn't a crush savior; it was an anyone‐that‐came‐by poor person who happened to be a sucker for crying‐ and‐utterly‐desperate people, including yours truly.) As time went by, I continued to make my trips to the house, which I renamed as “the shack” later on in my cursing career. When I started using the words (after I thought I'd had enough practice) in public, Mom and Dad didn't grope and whine about it. Dad had figured I would’ve had to start sooner or later, and mom was too drunk all the time to care. I kept going back to that stupid barn. It became a habit: Wake up, get changed, go to the barn and rant, go to school, go to the barn to rant while doing homework, stay for another hour or so to rant to myself without having to do homework at the same time, go home, sleep, wake up... It was so soothing to be able to let it all out without anyone caring, that I
gradually increased my weekly ranting trips. Maybe it was because I still had hope, and I was trying to make excuses by saying that it was soothing. Maybe, I started going more often to increase the possibility that, oh please oh please oh please, “he” might come and at least try to placate me. But, of course, to no avail. So where's the ending to my story? How does this all come together so that I can have a life and be noticed and be thought of as cool and all that good stuff? It doesn't; it's a simple fact that I learned to accept the day I started cursing. My story is filled with a bunch of maybe’s and possibly’s and hopefully’s and wishful thinking that didn’t come true like the Disney movies all said. I believed and believed and believed and look where that’s gotten me. But I still don’t have the intelligence to stop, so I just keep on believing. And it's stayed that way since that first journey into the shack because I decided not to do anything about it. My story doesn't have an ending... yet. But the “yet” part of it only exists because of the hopeless, pitiful hope that something that hasn’t before, isn’t going to, and probably will never happen “just might.” ‐‐Heejung Chung
photo by Clare Tandy
photo by Katie Jo Shuman
Ominous Obstacles
Roaring wind propels me down the mountain With heavy flakes twirling around me The flurry of snow is like a fountain Swirling around me madly as I ski Unforgiving blades cut deeply downwards Harshly stirring up miniature snowballs Forming a series of tumbling herds Creating cacophonous endless falls Dark trees ominously cloud my vision A constant torrent of free‐falling gray Furious snow morphing to mad fission Tall trees looming overhead with dismay The deadly doom of this winter attacks But I solemnly swear I will be back ‐‐Caroline Harris
art by Sasha Landauer
art by Anna Verwillow
Where I’m From I am from white rice and noodles From hamburgers and pasta America and China. I’m from music Piano and violin From monotonous practice everyday. I’m from a ball making contact with a racquet The “try harder” or “good shot” From the success of winning Or the bitterness of loosing Every time the ball flies over the net. I’m from daily homework A worn down pencil scribbling over a paper Spilling out ideas. I’m from the barks of poodle when I get home From the pleasant wagging of his tail. This is where I’m from. ‐‐Rosie Crisman art by Wings Yeung
A Short Life Poem Did cities arise from small things? Did citizens arise from the moon? Ordinary happened by living. Man happened by living. Living happened by… ‐‐Maddie Tarr
art Madeleine Frick
The Telephone Box The bright red box Glows like a beacon Through the early morning haze At the corner Of two very busy streets ‐‐Grace Fenwick
For Cinderella I got you a gift Just because A pair of lovely new sneakers Size 5 like you said Glass slippers are so out And a great new wristwatch It’s really very posh P.S: try not to leave The shoes on the stairs again I’ll be filled with grief. ‐‐Jolena Ma
Cleopatra: You should receive some black eyeliner Via first class mail I hope it serves better than the kohl, Which seems to smudge The new liqui‐liner is water proof and Should last twenty‐four hours Maybe you will start a new fashion movement Well, it will at least be easier to apply. ‐‐Cameron Hill art by Tallulah SaNa, Jolie Kemp, and Lily Zafran
The Little Warrior As usual, I, Piper Miller, awoke to the squawking of my five hens. You can never tell whether they are squawking because of the weather, because they are delivering eggs, or because my rowdy little sister Faith is “attacking” them. The weather, by the way, is quite rainy and windy, in case you ever travel to Liverpool, England. My little sister Faith is this goofy eight‐year‐old on her way to becoming a world‐class comedian. And about the chickens. There’s Betty, my favorite, and Rosetta, Nadia, Gretel, and Maria. Let me tell you that when we first got chickens, the family was not used to all the squawking. I was about seven at the time, and I had learned the expression “shut up” from the school bullies. It seemed to work, so I tried it on the chickens. It did not have the wanted effect on the chickens, so I anxiously waited for another chance to try out the miracle phrase. At the dinner table that same night, over kabobs, my scientist dad was blabbing about some crazy science thing, and since I was so confused, I yelled at him, “SHUT UP!” After all, that’s how the bullies at school did it. And my dad immediately transformed from a blabbing scientist to a very livid father, who immediately ordered me to clean the chicken coop. It was that day I learned that shut up did not have the desired effect on humans nor chickens. Anyways, chickens squawk. We got used to it. That’s life. But one day, a month after we got Hansel, the majestic rooster, we got the shock of our lives. Betty, Rosetta, Maria, and Gretel each laid three beautiful white ovals. And hens don’t sit on their eggs unless their is something special in there. A month and £275 later (spent on the incubator), the miracle began. * * * * * The little bambino had created a tiny little hole in the egg, then the pecking stopped. “Why did the chick stop pecking?” Faith questioned. “My friends have hatched chicks before, and they said breaking out of the egg is a very strenuous journey. It’s like running your first marathon,” I said. The pecking persisted. I could now see its little beak. Then it stopped. “Big sissy?” Faith asked. “Can we call the chick ‘It’ since we don’t know whether it’s a boy or girl?” “Sure,” I replied. “How long will it take for the chick to get out?” Faith asked.
“I’m not exactly sure, but some of my friends’ chicks took 24 hours to hatch.” I responded. “I am going to wait, even for twenty four hours.” She didn’t exactly sit in front of the egg for twenty four hours. I wouldn’t expect anyone, least of all an eight year old, to do that. But at last, thirty minutes before the chick was due, we all gathered around the egg. You could by now see It through a gigantic crack in the egg. The feathers were greased back with...yolk?...and it was energetically, almost frantically pushing out. You could see its pink skin. We could hardly wait! It was becoming more and more productive, not just a peck every 30 seconds, but a gigantic shove every 30 seconds. Faith was hopping from one foot to another and squealing like a guinea pig. And as I giggled, It delivered a gigantic blow to the egg, and quite a bit of the very end of the egg flew off. Faith was now jumping up and down. I felt like jumping up and down too, but I was concerned of the weight of my landing and its impact. Now, It was squeezing itself out of that claustrophobic egg. The stubborn shell wouldn’t budge, as if trying to hold It back. But It wasn’t going to step down yet. After a 25 second rest, It made the boldest move yet: It rolled around, then It cocked its head back, and boom, it tried to shoot out of the egg. Half of Its body was out of the egg, and half of it was still stuck. It looked like a greasy ballerina with a really yolky, gigantic tutu, and I swear Faith became apoplectic with laughter. Then the little warrior’s final act was the most daring of all. It tried to roll over the edge of the incubator. Faith ran to It and tried to block the egg from rolling of the treacherous edge. The egg shattered against her hand, and a second later she was holding It, the chick. It passed out in her hand. Faith was surrounded by silence of astonishment and shock. Then the uncontrollable laughter, then the planning of the future. “I want to be with the chick all the time!” Faith announced, “because the chick rolled against my hand! I will do chick duty every day! I clean out Its poo, and I’ll even teach It to say its name!” “You are being quite presumptuous, silly goose, er, chick!” I smiled.
A day later, It was feeding on grain in the incubator, and it decided that it wanted to be fluffy. With great effort, if shook off all the dried up yolk, therefore becoming a fluffy little thing. Then It seemingly completely forgot about what it just did. “He’s like Theseus, a great hero in Greek mythology, tying up the
mighty pine tree giant and then walking away like it was nothing,” Faith said a few minutes later. “I would like to name It the Little Warrior. That way, Its name can apply to all heroes, such as Martin Luther King Jr., Perseus, George Washington,General Sherman, and so on.” “Great idea” I commented. “Little Warrior it is.” A violent williwaw broke out around us. Chickens ran for the coop. Mother and Father ran to close the doors, curtains, and the windows. But the williwaw could not blow away the impenetrable border of happiness surrounding Faith and me. What magical animals chicks are.
‐‐Greer Hoffman
art by Clare Tandy
‐‐Katya Scocimara words from the autobiography of Miep Gies
Ignorance In the world of today Where ignorance is a crime We commit our own crime By being, Ignorant We know what we know But don’t know what we know By knowing It’s the bliss of epiphany Of innocence But the root of evils Are ignorance as well ‐‐ Heejin Hahn
Highway by Kate Wang
Death Death is an untimely stranger who comes knocking on the door To carry away your love's soul, whom you shall see nevermore Even as you beg, "Please, let my love live. He has done no harmful deed," Death only laughs, scoffs, and pays no heed. Death is a stealthy tiger, waiting to pounce on a little foal To rip the weakling's flesh from his pitiful soul Even as you shout, "Please, have compassion for the helpless child," Death only growls and runs back out into the wild. Death is the eternal torch, that lights the way for the departed Through the Room of Judgment and onto some land, uncharted Even as you cry, "Please, let my love return. How will he live without me?" Death will only shrug his shoulders and sigh helplessly. ‐‐Claire Huang
art by Aelya Imran
Searching for Irene The fire flickered in the stifling tent. The musty aroma of frankincense clouded the air, impairing my vision. The area around the light shone with the vibrant colors of the tablecloth: reds, violets, and blues. The storyteller, whose low voice echoed in the shadows, was unseen by the audience save for his wrinkled hands, which danced, forming shapes by the fire. “Hasss...ahhahhahh...” An assortment of hisses and mumbled curses flowed from the storyteller's old mouth. Given that it was crunched like a dry fig, it must have been a challenge to speak. While the eerie mutterings continued, I wondered briefly about the storyteller's gender. It was impossible to tell, really. Old and shriveled, the small figure barely reached five feet in height and a mane of silvery hair curtained the front of his (or her) face. The body was shrouded in shadow and draped with large fabrics. Pushing the issue of gender to the back of my mind, I refocused on the storyteller's words. The hissing increased in volume and I was surprised to hear distinct words. “Ssssa....I sensssse....” The storyteller drew out his (or her) “s”s, pausing for suspense before continuing. “...a prophecy. I sssense...a prophecy. The mystical waves in this room increase...I see death in the cards!” The storyteller's words provoked a chuckle that died in my throat. I was amused, yes, but more skeptical. What did I expect from this fraud? I would pay the storyteller's fee if he could tell me the color of my shirt. Before another chuckle could escape, the storyteller spoke again. “Before me stand three disbelievers...they doubt the eternal truth I present you! But they do not know...I do not create the truth...only gather it from the unworldly spirits that speak to me without words...I relay their message to you...and the message of our ancestors...” Incredibly unconvincing, I thought, shaking my head at the absurdity. But clearly, the audience members did not share my view. They were absolutely entranced by the storyteller's antics. The storyteller has the audience in the palm of his or her hand. I leaned back against a tent post, ready to call it a day and admit that the visit to the storyteller had been a wild goose chase. “You, madam...” murmured the storyteller, pointing a shaking finger at a stout woman in the front of the room. Her flyaway, ginger hair quivered as she shook her head. Despite her protests, her attention had been focused on the chicken she carried in her basket. As it was fat and shining from beak to tail, I assumed it was a recent purchase. Her inattentiveness is written across her plump face, I thought
skeptically. It's no wonder even this fraud can read her. “And you, sssir...” the storyteller continued. This time, he pointed accusingly at a tall, gangly child creeping towards the slash in the tent's cloths. Again, I was unsurprised by the storyteller's “abilities.” My shock was barely concealed when the storyteller pointed for a third time in my direction. “And you, sssir...” he finished. Don't be daft, I told myself, you've been laughing at everything the storyteller has said. I quickly gathered myself. I struggled to swallow the flippant remark that sprang to my lips, but the scathing words escaped nonetheless. “Was my amusement that evident? It appears so if even a blind old bat of a man could detect it.” As I responded, three thoughts popped into my head. First, I noted the inaccuracy of my comparison. Contrary to the common misconception, bats do not have bad eyesight. They merely do their hunting at night. Second, I had just descended to the level of sarcasm. Could I not have thought of anything wittier? And third, I scolded myself for mocking the storyteller. The audience paid the storyteller to do such things. It was neither the storyteller's fault nor the storyteller's intention to provoke hostility. I was so completely absorbed in my own thoughts that I failed to notice that the storyteller was shaking slightly. His or her hair undulated and the storyteller rocked back and forth. I was suddenly struck with fear. Was it anger? Or tears? The audience turned to me in revulsion. Guilt turning my stomach, I began to excuse my rudeness. “Sir, uh, Madam – I mean, storyteller –” I was cut off by the storyteller's roar of laughter. It was neither anger nor tears with which the storyteller shook, but laughter. My guilt disappeared in wave of irritation. How can that fraud dare laugh at me! He or she is making quite a spectacle of me, I thought angrily, exiting the tent without a backward look at the shining gray hair. Perhaps I needed to settle my annoyance; perhaps I was simply curious. For whatever reason, I found myself heading back to the storyteller's tent that night. The rugged road was mercifully empty, and the other storefronts were quiet, their owners sleeping peacefully above their shops. I headed to the stage of the storyteller's tent and ventured backstage, where a light glowed. A maze of props and costumes crowded the backstage. Facing a great mirror, on a crate, sat a crouched figure with a mane of silvery hair. I was wondering how to introduce myself when the storyteller suddenly spun around. My jaw dropped before I began laughing. Even as tears of laughter blinded
my eyes, I could see that the storyteller was indeed – “A child? This great storyteller is a fraud?” I gasped for air as a fresh wave of laughter came over me. “Oh no, not only a child,” I amended my accusation, “a little girl!” Cold olive eyes glared at me. “Oh no, not only a little girl,” she imitated my voice, “the greatest, most brilliant actress the world has ever seen!” She rubbed the area around her mouth with a wet cloth, removing penciled streaks of black, which had made her mouth seem so shriveled. “You were convincing, but the greatest the world has ever seen? There are plenty of frauds in this world. Don't kid yourself.” Realizing my play on words, I laughed again. “Oh hah hah.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “And for your information, bats have good eyesight. They just require more than good eyesight to see in the dark, a skill you seem to lack.” Far from being annoyed, her knowledge impressed me. It was almost amusing how her confidence was expressed in a high and childish voice. “I must have the name of your wig maker. Your wig quite made the disguise.” She must have detected the mockery in my voice because she responded, “What is it with you? Why do you go around putting others down to 'better yourself?'” she accused me sharply. “I don't 'go around trying to better myself –'” I scoffed, suddenly feeling as defensive as I had when the little storyteller had pointed her shaking finger at me that morning. But the child cut me off. “It is ridiculous, the way you strut around town –” “You've seen me around town?” “Of course. Groceries on Tuesdays, the barber once every three weeks, the tailor every five months. And I forgot the theater. You go to the opera once every two months or so. And all the while, you strut.” I couldn't help but laugh at her accusations, which were, unsurprisingly, true. I decided not to respond, hoping to avoid any more assertions. I watched as the girl finished removing her stage makeup and began replacing props in the large bags lining the walls of the tent. It occurred to me that she ran the tent by herself. How extraordinary, I thought again, I wonder how long she has been on her own. “It's not a wig.” She said suddenly. I looked at her questioningly. “It's not a wig,” she said again, “it's my hair. Prematurely gray. It runs in the family.” She turned to leave the tent with a small bag in hand. I followed her as she headed
towards the exit. “Now what do you want?” She sounded so wary for a little girl. “I have just met a most extraordinary child. You can't be more than twelve!” Since she did not object, I followed the storyteller out of the tent and into the night. We were walking along the cobblestone road when she responded to my question about her age. “I'm fifteen, actually.” I wondered if it was a habit of hers to respond only after several minutes of silence. As we walked, we passed by shops with colorful banners advertising their products. If their owners had been awake, they would have wondered at the curious site below them: a small, prematurely gray girl lead a tall man in a black cape. Soon, fewer homes littered the roads. Instead, a large theater stood on the left side of the road. Looming museums and galleries faced the theater. I began to wonder where we were headed when the child spoke again. “So why did you the storyteller's tent this morning? It is obvious that you are neither interested nor believe in what I say – which is probably wise – but 'what is wise' is beside the point.” “But you know why I was there, don't you?” I saw the answer buried in her large eyes. Her brows raised for a second before they lowered again, as if her fears had been confirmed. “You were looking for the story, weren't you? The story of the girl before me. Well, I'm sorry I cannot help. I know nothing of her or where she went or why she went. It is just as well you leave me alone.” She suddenly seemed flustered. “This morning, I thought you were nothing but a fraud. Now I am convinced you are a fraud. But a fraud with the information I need. Listen, I need the story, I need to know what happened to Irene Dmitriou. I know she was the storyteller before you. I know she disappeared three years ago. I need to know where and why. It is of the utmost importance!” “But why? Why do you need to know? Just leave her be –” “Irene stole something from me.” “Irene doesn't – I mean, didn't steal.” “Well, she stole from me.” “Are you going to tell me what she stole?” “A book.” “A book? If you want books, go to the book shop. Not to me.” “This book was my mother's. It means a lot to me.” I struggled to express the importance of finding the book without appearing vulnerable. “Understand that my mother died when I was very young and I have nothing else of hers.” The girl just stared at me.
“Okay, look,” I continued, “it is my mother's journal that Irene Dmitriou stole. It details my mother's life and thus, part of mine.” “But there is something else, isn't there? It's not just the journal you want. You want to know what has become of Irene Dmitriou.” Again, the little storyteller's perceptiveness astonished me. “Who was Irene?” the girl mused, pacing back and forth cockily. “Was she...a friend? Or...a client? Perhaps you had debts...” I could not bear her guessing. “It is nothing as bad at that.” “Not debts then?” she probed. “Not debts.” “Then what?” “She was,” I hesitated, “she is my sister.” “Your sister?!” The little girl exploded with excitement. For once, she acted much younger than her age or her intelligence allowed her to be. “That is far worse! And exciting! And I thought it was something as simple as a debt!” She giggled and screamed. “I don't see what is so exciting or amusing. It is a personal matter and I would rather the whole street not hear of it.” That quieted her. “So will you do it? Will you tell Irene that I would like to see her and to give me my mother's journal?” “You forget it is her mother's journal too –” “It is no use to her. She can't read,” I snapped. There was a long pause before the storyteller spoke. When she did, she had regained her cool. “Okay,” she said slowly, “I know where Irene is. But you can't come. I'll convince her to give up this...journal of yours and I'll tell her about you, okay?” “Okay. Thank you.” She walked down an alley between the theater and a small store. Reaching a grate, she bent down and heaved it open. Crouched by the opening, she turned to me again, “Please, Mr. Dmitriou, go home. And trust me. Please.” She jumped into the hole and turned to face me. With an impish smile she added, “And...by the way, I'm eight.” The last I saw of her was her small little hands, reappearing to adjust the grate once again over the hole, before she disappeared, leaving me with nothing but a promise.
‐‐Lianne Blodgett
Where I’m From I am from long summer days And sandy beaches I am from a summer in Hawaii Giggling and laughing In the waves I am from winter cold days Piles of snow covering the driveway And letting snowflakes fall on my tongue I am from staying in with family With cups of hot cocoa I’m from the smell of rain And freshly cut grass I’m from crinkling noses And full‐hearted smiles I’m from nice cushioned beds And warm thick blankets From There Are Too Many Blessings In Our Lives To Count I’m from the days Of Barbies and dress‐up I’m from the days When only imagination was necessary I’m from black‐and‐white movies with Audrey Hepburn and young Julie Andrews I am from bright spring days And butterflies around I’m from photography And small digital cameras I am from art From each paint smudge And from each eraser mark I am from music Which tames my soul And helps me heal The wounds I may hold I am from my cousin’s loud laughter From my mom’s beautiful heart and smiling eyes From my brother’s funny remarks And my baby cousin’s eager enthusiasm I am from playing football with dad Then playing bits of piano with mom I am from memory boxes and photo albums I am from tears and laughter From compassion and forgiveness I am from love And I am from happiness ‐‐Annie Kim
photo by Saba Moussavian
For Adam and your lovely wife Eve I have left you both an orange I have seen that the apple has brought you pain and so much suffering, but I have brought an orange In the hope that with a new day comes another chance Another opportunity to bring something bright and beautiful to the world With the hope that change comes in the smallest packages I have brought you an orange ‐‐Kathleen Kenealy photo by Katie Jo Shuman
Sometimes, the things that are the loudest don't make noise at all. ‐‐Karly Quadros
photo by Clare Tandy
The Road when it comes the rightful time to take the risk and leave‐ don’t cry, sweetheart, cause we’ll be fine but that sailor’ll be me and though the road still sings my tune I’ll be back by noon the night came with a savage fire a smoldering moon draped in white can no longer deny this desire let me rest once more in the light and though the road still winds away for here and now I’ll stay alas, and now the sun has risen‐ time does fly when you’re having fun guide my heart home whilst you listen: for here and now the journey’s done and though the road still carries on it feels like I’ve never been gone. ‐‐Kira Vargas
5 Things The rain‐ It pours down in patterns on the windshield, blurring the glass for a moment then the plastic wiper comes and makes it clear. Over and over again the rain falls, then blurs, and in comes the wiper. The puddles‐ They fill the sidewalks making it look like glass. Every time a drop falls the puddle is distorted and ripples are sent through the water. When the rain stops the puddle is still there, as clear as a mirror. I see my reflection and the Castilleja skirt peeking out from underneath my rain coat. I turn away leaving the puddle to dry. The sun‐ When it finally comes, it’s bright and makes your eyes hurt. After being in the half‐light of clouds, the normal sun seems like a flashlight in your eyes. You blink and look away, but you can’t get away. It is reflected in every drop of rain, every puddle, and every car. The branch‐ The branch has broken, it lies there swinging in the wind. Holding on by a thread as if it still thought that it could live, if it just held on. It won’t. A strong wind will come by and tear it from the final thread. The drip‐ Drip, drop, drip, drop it goes on seemingly forever. The water drops from everything: the plants, the cars, houses, everything. When you focus on a single drop the world slows, you can watch the life and death of a drop of rain. Then you realize that it is not life or death, it is simply a new form and a new place. Then you see thousands of other drops all doing the same thing, but each one is different, each one will have a different story. ‐‐Serena Rivera‐Korver
The True Life of a Dreamer I’ve travelled from Neptune to Mars, The center of the earth to the sky you see above you, All without leaving my head. I’ve met nameless knights, talking geese, Defeated demonic angels, Evil masked clowns And sirens in suits of white With laser guns. I’ve murdered and been murdered With icicles, daggers, and other weapons of interest, Opened large doors with small keys And walked through them into mysterious worlds That I didn’t believe existed. Maybe that’s because they don’t exist. They’re all in my dreams, These strange, wonderful, crazy visions Dancing around in my tired mind. But maybe they are real, And I’m just too afraid to admit it. ‐‐Maya Nagaraj
art by Karina Gunadi
art by Anna Yu
Dear Ms. President, I thought I saw you in the distance Running towards us Quickly approaching Ready But then you disappeared I don’ t know where you have gone It’ s not polite to keep us waiting And a president is supposed to be polite I have been waiting, you know For quite some time now, you know But you probably don’t know And that is because you’re hiding Why are you hiding? I hope you’re not afraid Because if you are afraid don’t tell the others Then they won’t want you to come anymore But don’t worry Ms. President I will always want you to come I will always be waiting Oh, and please don’t send Mr. President I have had enough of him ‐‐Saba Moussavian
art by Austin Jacobs