2011 Volume II
A butterfly flaps its wings. On the other side of the world, a typhoon rages. The idea that these two events are linked, one caused by the other, is called the Butterfly Effect. Usually, this term involves destruction, implying that any seemingly insignificant action may have large, unforeseeable (and unavoidable) consequences that lead to chaos and disaster. The Catharsis staff, however, has chosen its own metaphor to describe a more positive cause-and-effect phenomenon: a PEBBLE, smooth or rough, represents limitless possibilities and a sense of things to come. Tossed into a lake, it creates RIPPLES that expand rapidly around it, but eventually fade as the surface returns to its MIRROR-like state, flat and calm, reflecting the world around it. The writing in this magazine, our second issue, contains aspects of these three stages—the small causes, the dramatic effects, the quiet reflections—and comes together to create one compilation of creativity that surely will have an impact on its readers and echo to the far corners of the world.
“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” ~Rabindranath Tagore
Catharsis is the official publication of: Coral Gables Senior High 450 Bird Rd., Coral Gables FL 33146 Phone (305) 443-4871 e-mail: cbetances@dadeschools.net http://catharsismag.com Cover design by Sophia Aitken and Cesare Giuffredi
Catharsis is a literary and art magazine produced by the Creative Writing III and IV Honors class as part of the Academy of Communication Arts, Film, and Digital Media at Coral Gables Senior High School. Volume II was made using Adobe InDesign CS4 and Photoshop CS4. Volume II uses Brushtip Travis for all headlines and Justus Oldstyle for all copy text. Myriad Pro is used for all folios, bylines and photo credits, as well as for informational pages. The Printing Post, Inc. located in Hialeah, FL printed 300 copies of this book on 80 lb. gloss text. The cover is printed on 100lb. gloss cover.
Madeline Cowen Editor-in-Chief
Catharsis solicits submissions of writing and artwork from the entire student body as well as faculty and alumni. All work submitted is evaluated by the advisory board and approved by the adviser. We actively recruit new staff members from the entry level Creative Writing classes. The staff writers completed various writing assignments for consideration into the magazine. Although class time was used to complete this magazine, countless hours were spent after school and on weekends working to ensure the magazine’s completion. The section division descriptions were written by Alexa Langen. The goals of Catharsis are to promote literacy in our school and local community. We encourage writing and artistic expression for all students, faculty, and alumni. The editors and staff would like to thank everyone who submitted work to Catharsis, especially those who were chosen to appear in the magazine. We would also like to thank the faculty and adminsitration for their support in this endeavor.
2010: National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA): Second Class Honor Ranking 2010: Florida Scholastic Press Association (FSPA): Silver Honor Ranking 2010: National Council for Teachers of English (NCTE): Superior Rank 2010: FSPA Convention: 5th Place Sunshine Standout Best of Show 2010: FSPA Convention Second Place Literary Magazine Team Design 2010: FSPA Convention First Place Poety Writing (Madeline Cowen)
Isaac Andino Layout Team
Julie Somoano Nonfiction Editor
Alexa Langen Literary Editor
Daniela Solis Layout Editor
Cristhian Martinez Layout Team
Yubisan Ventura Layout Team
Jonathan Leal Drama Editor
Julia Kahn Fiction Editor
Erica Hernandez Layout Editor
Sophia Aitken Contributing Editor
Jordys Herrera Poetry Editor
Cheyenne D’Araujo, Joshua Dodge, Marianne Eisenhart, Anadaniela Garcia, Lianet Llanes, Ashley Marti, Elizabeth McKiernan, Thamyris Oliveria, Lisaimi Talavera, Tarilyn Taylor, Brandi Troup, Beatriz Zambrano
The views expressed in the published pieces do not necessarily reflect those of the Catharsis staff or Coral Gables Senior High School.
Elizabeth Gonzalez Art Editor
Nick Arias Business Manager
Cindy Castro Web Manager
Ms. Betances Adviser
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Alexa Langen Tarilyn Taylor Mateus De Faria Various Authors Anadaniela Garcia Jorge Galavis Sam Aburd Julie Somoano
Elmer’s Glue Patience Bucky Done Gun Shells Circle Story Storm Beauty Mark Submerged
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Madeline Cowen Cindy Castro Erica Hernandez M.M. Eisenhart Various Authors Thamyris Oliveria Anadaniela Garcia Alexa Langen
Shake Today He Cried Over You Escape Shades of Blue You Don’t Deserve This Ode to a Cupcake Six Word Stories Forced Poetry
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Madeline Cowen Samantha Cruz Lianet Llanes Elizabeth Gonzalez Cristhian Martinez Jonathan Leal Camile Betances Various Authors Julie Somoano
Half Open Door, Rinita Rasheed ’14, Digital
One Small Step Butterfly Battle of Baraki Random Connections The Pianist The Scholar Second-to-Last Words Mastery of Pickup Lines
Didn’t You Know I Was Waiting on You, Josue Brizuela ’11, Digital
Excerpt from
Alexa Langen ’12 Scene i. NASA Headquarters. [Curtains open on rows of technicians chattering on their headsets and staring at their computer screens with utmost concentration. Old technology and attire hint that it is some time in the 1960s. After 30 seconds the young and dashing MICHAEL CARSON appears from offstage. He is wearing a cowboy hat and is dressed in a black shirt that says “Director.”] MICHAEL [clapping]: Cut! That’s a wrap! Great work everybody. Go on and get some coffee. [The technicians take off their headsets and file out the door, talking casually among themselves. As they exit, MICHAEL’S assistant, JOHN HADDAWAY appears next to MICHAEL. He is scrawny and his face is cemented in a nervous expression.] MICHAEL: Hey, Johnny boy, my right hand man! How’s it going? Think we got enough stock footage already? JOHN [urgently]: Sir— MICHAEL [continuing as if he had not heard]: I mean, come on, how much are people really gonna wanna see a bunch of nerds staring at some com8
puter screens, am I right? JOHN: Sir, our lead actor— MICHAEL: Gotta keep this stuff fresh, know what I’m saying? If we’re pulling off the biggest hoax in history we gotta do it right—gotta make it dazzle. We’re gonna go down in history, Johnny boy! JOHN [loudly]: Mr. Carson! MICHAEL: Jeez, don’t have a cow. Whatsamatter? JOHN: Michael, we have a problem. MICHAEL: “Michael, we have a problem.” Hmmm… That rolls off the tongue a bit, doesn’t it? Maybe we can use that some time. I’ve got a big thing planned out for Apollo 13, and this’d fit right in there— JOHN: Mr. Carson. Please listen to me. Robert Walker cut out. He dropped the project. [Pause.] MICHAEL: John, what the hell are you saying? JOHN: Exactly what you heard. The lead role quit. MICHAEL: Quit? Quit?! Why the hell would he quit? He was our star! He was gonna be famous! JOHN: He said he found what we are
doing, and here I quote, “morally reprehensible.” MICHAEL [spluttering]: Morally reprehensible? Morally reprehensible?! JOHN: Yes, sir, morally reprehensible. MICHAEL: Does he know how famous he could’ve been? First man on the moon, Jesus! Robert Walker would have been a household name! JOHN [sanctimoniously]: Well, sir, some people would rather not be a part of a massive government conspiracy. For some, fame is not everything. MICHAEL [narrowing his eyes]: Not you, though, right? You’re okay with this? JOHN: Well, I can see their point of view— MICHAEL [scandalized]: Have you no patriotism, man? If the public gets ear of how we’re faking an entire moon landing, we’re finished! And not just you and me, the entire U.S. government! Everything our founding fathers fought for! No more freedom, no more liberty, no more apple pie… No more enormous pension for you! Is that what you want, John? Is it? JOHN: Of course not, sir. I would never
expose this operation. Whatever moral compunctions I may develop, let’s say it behooves me to keep my silence. MICHAEL: Damn right it behooves you. Good. I just hadda make sure, you know? Now, back to the issue at hand. Our star is gone. Robbie was the best we had. What now? JOHN: Well... There is one more option. My cousin. Neil. Neil Armstrong. He’s an actor. MICHAEL: Neil Armstrong… Got a good ring to it! And a trained actor, too! Why the hell didn’t you mention him before? JOHN: Well, sir, he’s… He’s a little bit headstrong. You two might find yourself a bit… at odds. Not to mention the fact that he’s drunk half the time. MICHAEL: Drunk’s not a problem. We can work with drunk. How the hell d’you think I make it through the day? Arrogance is a problem, but don’t worry. I know how to deal with these people. JOHN: If you’re sure, sir… MICHAEL: I’m sure of everything I do. Bring him here tomorrow.
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Tarilyn Taylor ’13
Butterfly, In your cocoon all day, Letting life pass you by— I know it’s scary. The world seems too big. People seem menacing, But you have to come out eventually. No one will wait. They wouldn’t, Even if your wings were gold. Butterfly, Break the cocoon, Show us those wings. Fly high, High, Higher to the heavens, So one day, you can deliver our wishes to the sky, So they can come true. Butterfly, Many people have to search for years, But you were born with a purpose. It is to rise.
The Flower, Rinita Rasheed ’14, Digital
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Paralyzed, Elizabeth Gonzalez ’13, Pencil on paper
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Excerpt from
Morning Star, Josue Brizuela ’11, Digital
Mateus De Faria ’12
“A
pproximately three bogeys, northwest of your position, be cautious. You’re hot,” the sentry warned with a breath of fear in his voice. I turned to Sergeant Whitman, grimacing. He nodded. Lieutenant Albassi, Private Vasquez, and Whitman were all that remained of my squad. We were too weak to move in without a tactical advantage. “Okay,” I muttered, crouching to my knees behind the poster-infested wall along the lonely street. The entire neighborhood had been evacuated twenty-three hours ago because of an IED down the road. Now all that was left was cracked pavement hugged by cell phone advertisements and Senate campaign posters. The small complexes, some still sporting hanging clothes on high floors, were vacant. The area would be filled again in a day or so. But for now, it was Baraki’s hot zone. “What’s the intel?” I asked Whitman. He leaned against a trashcan tattooed with graffiti, white names painted golden in arid Afghan sunset. “Well, sir, two blocks up we have a two-story motel called Gold Time. Now, from the Spectre circling the area we know that, thermally, that place is hot with activity. The only reason the Satan Sentry hasn’t opened fire is that we don’t know if they’re hostile. There could be hostages in12
side. Remember, not all civilians were accounted for when we emptied the place,” Whitman explained with more hand gestures than there was saliva dripping from his goatee. “No, I don’t remember. Okay, Albassi, have any ammunition?” I glanced up at the introverted Arab meditating cross-legged on the ground. His eyes flipped open like gateways. He stared at me and responded in monotone: “Yes, one clips, six-round, yes? I get from dead friend, yes?” He smiled awkwardly and shut his eyes again. His tranquility annoyed me. I snapped my fingers at him. “Hey Albassi, I know I’m not your superior. But guess what? He’s long dead. I saved you from a pinneddown, flaming Hummer. You owe me a sniper’s keen eye.” “Yes, sir!” He bounced to his feet and stood at attention. “Excellent…” I said, getting to my feet as well. “Whitman and Vasquez, you guys are my brothers. I promise you’ll come out alive. This is just a simple breach-and-clear. Albassi, you stay afar, keeping an eye out for any alleyway ambushes. You held your own against God knows how many tangos. You came out unscratched. Whitman and Vasquez, get on my six. Albassi, find a good clear view of the roof of the motel and of the entire street down to it.”
“Yes, sir!” Albassi saluted and dashed away into the street. I cocked my head to the right, signaling to follow. I crouched and, pressed against the wall, slowly moved up the barren road to the motel. “It’s quiet, sir,” Vasquez whispered through the headset. We kept cover behind bus stops and parked cars. *** “Go check out the window, son,” Shiam ordered me from the chair behind the wooden table. His beret was stained with blood. “Yes sir, Allah Akbar,” I chanted. While I dashed up the stairs, I heard Shiam mutter something in Arabic to the other warriors. Young and gullible, yet useful and easy… This could not have been me. I am a good soldier. I have done all he has asked. Dwindling orange sunlight peered from out of the corridor windows. A soldier stood at the end of the stairs with a Dragonov sniper rifle at hand. I tried to pass him but he stuck his hand out to stop me. “Take this. You have earned it. Be strong. You know how to use it?” he asked. His entire face was shrouded in a turban and the wrapping cloaked his identity. His voice sounded eerily familiar, like that of a brother who had left home many years ago. I nodded. His grip on the rifle half my size loosened… Then, finally, he
released the rifle. I walked into the room where the window lay open. *** I leaned against the car, images of the explosion… the bodies… the eyes peering open. They kept creeping into my mind. I sucked on my cigarette. “Albassi, see anything in the windows?” the American whispered through the radio. I dropped back to reality; I reached for the radio at my belt. “Not yet… you clear, sir.” I set the radio on the car’s hood. I grabbed my rifle and held the scope to my eye, while the stock rested on my shoulder. Through the scope I saw nothing as I jumped from one window opening to the other. Nothing. Then I laid my sights on the last window view. There stood an adolescent boy with a long sniper rifle in his hand. His eyes revealed innocence. His body showed hatred. *** I stood there, simply observing the sunset. It was so beautiful. Just like in Kabul where I was raised. Where my brother left home, running away to who knows where. I wonder where he… *** My bullet crushed his skull. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he fell over facing the motel. No remorse. Now he would remain innocent, blinded by the lies of the powerful, so bloodthirsty and so dangerous. 13
Nathaly Fierro ’14 & Camile Betances, faculty Why can’t I breathe underwater? Because the world is cruel. Why was dark chocolate invented? Because you know I love you. If my iPod broke, Then maybe I’ll sleep through the night. If the sky were orange, Then polar bears will attack at dawn. I used to like the Jonas Brothers, But now I have no friends. I used to be the sparkle of your eye, But now my social life is over.
Molly Rejas ’11 & Jacqueline Bravo ’11 Why don’t you care? Because life sucks. Why can’t you just admit it? Because my teacher told me it was true. If it were colder outside, Then the world would end. If I tripped you, Then I’d owe my cousin $5. I used to think it was funny, But now I wear my underwear backwards. I used to like spaghetti, But now I Google everything.
Kathleen Lopez ’12 & Alejandra Nolasco ’14
These poems are composed of independently written questions and answers.
Why are my feet so small? Because it’s just how it’s meant to be. Why can’t I fly? Because we fell in love. If walls could talk, Then pigs would fly. If I were an alien, Then you would be my sister. I used to run with scissors, But now things have changed. I used to bruise my knees a lot, But now I go to high school. Bungalow Bill, Natali Hernandez ’13, Pencil on paper
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S
he sits by the window playing that song, but it’s not the song that draws me in. The song doesn’t really hold any meaning. It’s really just a song—just any song, or maybe every song. The melody is rigid and overplayed. No, it’s not the song I’m listening to, nor is it the rhythm, which makes my head bob back and forth, that I’m paying attention to… Have you ever heard of a strong presence? It’s an aura of confidence that captures your every thought, move, and fiber of your body. That’s how she is. She demands attention the second she steps into a room, the second she came into the world. I admit to being a little biased—one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, no? But this pianist is a treasure from any angle, from any corner. Then, suddenly, the music stops and the trance I’m in seems to fade. I search in my brain for an excuse, something to tell her, but it’s too late. She sits erect on her bench, her back to me. She knows I’m there, though. 16
Her breath is mechanical and her feet tap against the cold stone floor. Neither of us wants to acknowledge the other’s presence. We play a game like we’re children in grade school. One of us has to give in sooner or later. The pianist will have to finish playing and then she’ll stand up and turn around. I’ll be waiting, like I always am, for her to smile and show me a row of pearly white teeth. She’ll say something like, “Oh, I had no idea you were standing there,” and in return I’ll flash her a nonchalant smirk and reply that I had only just arrived. But the catch is that she knows I’ve been listening from the moment she began to play and I know she knows, but there’s no point in saying the truth. She enjoys believing that her meaningless songs are played in solitude and I enjoy believing that she and her stupid songs haven’t gotten to me. And that’s the little game we play, because neither of us wants to accept that what we have is more than a passing thing.
Scale, Josue Brizuela ’11, Digital
Anadaniela Garcia ’12
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Hall Way, Rinita Rasheed ’14, Digital
Jorge Galavis ’12
’Twas the morning before my AP exam. All the students were stirring and trying to cram, Making mnemonics and hoping to pass And regretting the days they were sleeping in class. And now when they start they can honestly say They have no clue what’s happened from August to May. So they’re ready to sit, desperate to see If randomized guessing can get them a three. Then anxiously waiting for exams to be graded, When people stop caring, play Risk, and get faded, I’ll just sit laughing because I can show ’em That while they were stressing, here I wrote a poem. 18
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Julie Somoano ’11
I cannot stress repetitively enough that you are not the scientific Latin name for anything related to maple trees, nor are you this nor this nor that nor anything to do with maple trees and how they are. Are they deciduous, and would you label them “perennial” growths and where exactly do they reside and what do all those special tree words even mean And never mind meanings, you are nothing like them except possibly strong and daunting and exhausting and tall like them Which I will always silently admire, and outwardly resent; nonetheless I will admit you are like some things pertaining to this genus and very sometimes violently unlike the others; I will go to great lengths to explain exactly why to you, all the deciduous things you are and all the perennial things that you might be; and I will try to make you feel beautiful as I explain and go into great detail about this juxtaposition of you, and roots and bark and leaves and altogether uninteresting morphology; I will go to daunting heights to convince you that you are, for these reasons and a great deal more, not a maple tree and that I could never endeavor to tap you, whatever that means.
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Untitled, Sheyla Junqueira ’13, Pastel on paper
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Madeline Cowen ‘12
E
lmer wasn’t sure why he had come. The humidity was suffocating, and he hated the water. Well, no. Elmer liked the water, even when it was so full of chemicals that you smelled like chlorine for days. He just didn’t like what you had to do near the water. Bathing suits were not designed for people like Elmer. Elmer wasn’t sure why he had come. His mom would probably kill him when she found out that he had walked all the way to the pool. He had even crossed a busy road, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to do that. Definitely not. Elmer didn’t usually break rules. He was a good kid. A sweet kid. His mom loved him; his teachers thought he was nice. Those aren’t the kind of things that get you friends, but having friends isn’t the most important thing in life. You get by, you do what you have to do, and you listen to your mom. Especially when she tells you that it’s easier to make friends when you get older, and that friends aren’t the most important things in life. But that didn’t stop Elmer from trying. There was Jake, for instance. If you knew Jake, and if Jake knew
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you, that was it: you’d have friends. You’d have lots of friends, actually. Jake, or Michael, or Nick… If they knew you, and liked you… And didn’t call you Elmer’s Glue. But that didn’t stop Elmer from trying. That’s why he came. His mom, his teachers: they all said he shouldn’t stop trying, and so he wouldn’t. His hands were sweating, but he didn’t know if it was the heat, or if it was because… No, it was the heat. The humidity was suffocating. It had to be the heat. That’s why Jake and Michael and Nick and everyone else went to the pool. Elmer had heard them talking when Mrs. Whittaker was talking (they didn’t follow the rules like he did). It was Nick’s birthday, but it was hot. Sweltering. That’s why they had gone to the pool, and that’s why Elmer had come. He had followed them. And now he was here. Elmer didn’t really know what to do once he got to the pool, but he had gotten to the pool and now he had to figure it out. He sat down near the edge and slid his feet in. His mom
would kill him when she found out he had walked all the way over to the pool without shoes. At least now he was ready to get in, if he wanted to. But Elmer didn’t take his shirt off. He didn’t move. Jake and Michael and Nick and some other people Elmer didn’t know were on the diving boards. There were small diving boards for little kids, and then bigger, taller diving boards. There was also a really high diving board, maybe three stories high, but you didn’t jump off of that, not unless you were an Olympic diver, or really brave. Elmer wasn’t allowed on the diving boards. Even the small ones scared him, and his mom didn’t want him to learn to hate the water, even when it was so full of chemicals that you smelled like chlorine for days. That’s why Elmer didn’t know why he had taken his feet out of the pool and had stood up. Elmer didn’t know why he was walking over to the diving boards, but he did know that Jake and Michael and Nick were watching him. He stopped before he got too close. You had to know Jake, but
Jake had to know you, too. “Hey, Elmer’s Glue, whatcha gonna do?” “Elmer’s Glue, Elmer’s Glue, look out, Nick, he stuck to you!” They knew him, didn’t they. Now he just had to show them that he was cool enough to have friends, that he knew what to do. His mom would kill him when she found out, but Elmer was ready. It was time to have friends. That’s why Elmer was climbing up the ladder to the diving boards, where Jake and Michael and Nick were standing. They had their shirts off. “These boards are taken, Elmer’s Glue.” “Not gonna jump, are you, Glue?” “No, he ain’t got the guts to.” Yep, they knew him. Elmer turned around. He grabbed a different ladder, the one that barely looked used. With a deep breath, he climbed. Elmer was a good kid. Sweet kid. Never broke the rules, almost didn’t even know how. That’s why Elmer didn’t know why he had come. He didn’t know why he had crossed that road; he didn’t know why he had climbed. He didn’t know why, when he jumped, he didn’t go forward, but sideways, backwards. He didn’t know why Jake and Michael and Nick stopped laughing, why the world was quiet, and he didn’t know why, when he hit his head, the world went black.
Flow, Josue Brizuela ’11, Digital
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Daniel Crespo ’11
Cindy Castro ’12
Shh… Can you hear that? Can you see the swept dust particles floating away? Maybe feel the breaks Lying on the surface of your skin. The freshly cut grass. A sweet note making its way From the television downstairs. You hear the waves clashing; Speeding into one another, Resting as they merge into one. Can you feel that?
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Paint the Sky, Josue Brizuela ’11, Film
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Erica Hernandez ’11
T
hree tattered potato sacks were all that remained to remind Bucky of the previous evening’s events. Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, he walked out of his room and onto the porch of his grandfather’s quaint wood-paneled cottage. The screen door slammed behind him, interrupting his thoughts. He drank in the crisp Maine air which spring had so kindly brought him. Bucky was a lanky fella—he always had been, and over the years he had grown to accept this shortcoming. This particular morning a pair of navy blue boxers clung to his boney hips. His bare chest was covered in a salty residue. Resting his body on the worn wooden railing, he let his greasy blonde locks fall into his face, shielding him from the intense morning sun. After a few moments he lifted his head, focusing on the lake for the first time that morning. Lake Witchwalawala: the lake he and his brothers had grown up by, where he first learned to swim after his eldest brother, Krusty, had thrown him in at the ripe age of four. This was Bucky’s lake, and he knew it. That morning, Bucky wasn’t feeling so fond of the lake, and the more time he spent looking out onto it, the more nauseated he felt. Finally he grasped his stomach and turned away. Lying in his bed, his body wracked with chills, Bucky stared at the sacks.
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Lake Tahoe, Alexa Langen ’12, Digital
Unconsciously, he began to work through the previous night’s events in his mind: Sam smiling at him as they rowed across the lake, her stringy brown hair across her bare back as they went for a midnight swim, the tender kisses they had shared throughout the course of the day, and her rusty Jeep’s headlights momentarily blinding him as she left for the night. After that he drew a blank. He knew what was at the bottom of the lake, but his heart fought to block out the details of what had happened after Sam left. Eventually, his heart lost. The levy broke in his mind and in an instant, all of the details were brought to the forefront of his mind. Sitting up now in his bed, he realized he had been weeping, tears rolling across his cheeks like streams. He was covering his mouth with both hands to keep himself from screaming. He ran out of his room, back onto the porch, and down the stairs. Standing still on the grass, he soaked in the sun as if he were recharging his battery. He focused in on the sensation of dewy grass between his toes, then he raised his weak trembling arms over his head and he screamed. He screamed like he never had before, as if he were experiencing his own voice for the first time in his life. The power he was able to exert with the scream was something he was newly aware of. He took a deep breath and struggled
to open his eyes, which felt as if they had been burned shut by the sun. His phone was ringing; out of habit he ran inside to answer it. The caller ID said “Sam.” He remembered they had made plans for that afternoon. Was it for a movie, or a game of croquet? He couldn’t quite remember, though he knew Sam would wear her favorite rosy pink cardigan. It was their three year anniversary and she wore it whenever they went out on their anniversary. He focused on the image of her in that cardigan, walking toward him with love in her eyes, never once blinking. He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of his weeping cry. He knew with assurance why he was weeping this time: he would never get to see Sam in that sweater again. He walked through the hallway, stopping at each door to carefully examine each room. He walked into the guest room, where he and Sam had spent so many blissful nights under the skylight. He sat at the desk and began to type on his most valued possession: his grandfather’s typewriter. He considered each word carefully. Then he folded the finished product and placed it on the bed. Next Bucky retrieved an antique radio from inside the bureau at the other end of the room. He lifted the radio and slammed it against the bureau, revealing a revolver. He lifted the revolver
to his head, observing his every motion in the mirror. He studied his body; the contours of his chest, and the wrinkles that had recently appeared around his eyes. He burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that starts in your stomach and makes you feel like you are going to burst. Then in the midst of his chuckles he shot himself in the head. The note that Sam found three and a half hours later when she arrived for their date read:
“He screamed like he never had before, as if he was experiencing his own voice for the first time in his life.”
Sam, 29.21.13.8.8. 143—but this was a necessity.
Sam knew that 143 meant “I love you.” Bucky always told her “143” whenever she was angry with him. It would take 16 years for the police to realize that the other numbers were directions. 29 steps from Bucky’s porch to the edge of the dock. 21 feet from the edge of the dock. 13 feet under the surface. This was the exact location of a potato sack which was filled with the remains of Sam’s lover, Andrew. The one she had been cheating on Bucky with for 8 months. His body was dismembered into 8 segments.
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M.M. Eisenhart ’13
Hardened Her white skin Inviting A dozen times Separated One peaking pearl Shells opening Her Styrofoam enclosure lies beside her No longer concealing The one that dropped Or The floor she hit. Yolk seeps.
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Cracked, Alexa Langen ’12, Digital
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Lianet Llanes ’12, Nick Arias ’12, Elizabeth Gonzalez ’13, Brandi Troup ’13, Alexa Langen ’12
O
nce upon a time, there was a beautiful princess from a dimension parallel to Earth. Her father, King Maxim, was a great ruler loved by all. However, he was always overprotective of his beautiful daughter. One day, she decided to tell him that she was tired of him treating her like a little girl. The king, heartbroken and angered, decided to punish her. He sent her to the very last place she expected: to live with her 3,000 ungrateful, snotty, stuck-up rabbits. Her father didn’t even leave food for her, and when she tried to lie down to begin a good night’s sleep, they attacked her. No, they didn’t bite her; they began to fart continuously. They would have been able to effectively clear out an open area with the smell of their gases. The princess decided to escape from the barn filled with farting rabbits. She noticed a small window on the top of the barn and an idea struck. What she’d do was cut off all the ears of all the rabbits and put them together to create a giant rope. She would make a loop that would catch the latch. The plan was foolproof. Steeling herself against the rabbits’ shrieks of pain, she sliced off ear by ear until she could put together a rope long enough to escape with. When she did, she found the king waiting for her outside. “I am very disappointed in you,” he said. “Oh, suck it,” she said, storming past. “I wanted to test your ability to live with other creatures. You see, you have been spoiled. You have never cared about anyone else. While I admire your ingenuity, I must present you with bad news.” She swallowed hard. “Each of these rabbits,” he said, “was one of your friends.” His daughter fainted. When she awoke, she found all the rabbits had turned back into people. Now deaf, they could not hear her apologies or her cries for mercy as they turned her into a rabbit and sliced off her ears to use as a jump rope. This story was “Shame,” said King Maxim. “She was really beautiwritten by multiple ful. Oh, well. Now to have another one.” authors, who each had
three minutes to write his/ her part of the story before passing it along to the next author.
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Thamyris Oliveria ’13 Sailing away, Into the horizon. The farther I go, The more interested I become. But it’s too late— I’m caught up. A storm flanks me, But I keep going. The waves grow more violent with every passing minute. With every mile, More clouds appear. Somehow, that makes me more curious— I know Mother Nature has no pity— What lies after the horizon? Eventually, the storm will catch up, I calculate my chances. And I have no hope for rescue. How do I get out alive? As I peer at the ocean surrounding me, I know what’s waiting for me on the shore. So with no second guesses, I run away from the storm. I keep sailing. One day, I know I’ll see what’s on the Other side. Love My City, Josue Brizuela ’11, Film
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Excerpt from Anadaniela Garcia ’12 INDOORS (INT.) YACHT DECK [The moonlight shines on the tall pale silhouette of AUBREY, 27. She sits on a table at the edge of the deck. Holding a pen in her hand, she writes solemnly on a stack of loose sheets of paper.] AUBREY VOICEOVER (V.O.) I never figured that my life would come down to this. Not once did it cross my mind that I’d be sitting here recollecting my past “achievements” into a few sheets of flimsy paper. Karma works in mysterious ways, wouldn’t you agree? [chuckles] “You” have no idea what I’m talking about. “You” are simply a trivial person whom I don’t even know and whose sole purpose is to read my legacy. [beat] But don’t feel insulted by this; I’m just in an irritable mood and apparently I’m taking it out on you. [beat] You see, in my defense, I’m not usually this melancholic; in fact, I would normally describe myself as
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Her Eyes, Michelle Garcia ’13 Pencil on paper
a joyful person—but I guess these past two weeks have changed me. [beat] That’s such a silly thing to say, don’t you think, that two weeks were enough to change me, truly change me, but I’m only saying the truth— [beat] Or rather, the truth from my perspective. [...] MIT OUT VOICE (M.O.S.) MONTAGE 1) A little girl swinging in a homemade tire swing. Her back is to the camera until she suddenly turns around. She doesn’t look like most children; she has bulky braces surrounding her face, her skin is marked, and she is missing blotches of her hair. 2) Funeral home. Same little girl, this time wearing a black dress and crying on the lap of an older woman who passes her hand soothingly over the child’s back. In the corner there is a woman with an angry look on her face. 3) The woman in the corner is wearing white. She doesn’t seem interested in the crying child, nor is she crying along with the others. She is too dolled up for a funeral. 4) Fast-forward to a woman who looks
somewhat like AUBREY. She sits in a hospital room and looks at herself in a mirror; her face is still somewhat disfigured. 5) AUBREY sitting in a dark bedroom hugging her knees; tears stream down her face. AUBREY (V.O. CONTINUED) I was a really ugly little girl. “Deformed” was the word I remember hearing the most, and unfortunately for me, I was raised through all my teenage years by my aunt, who is a pretty vain woman. So I grew up with this “trauma,” or so my psychologist calls it, and I’ve been trying to come as close to physical perfection as possible. I’ve done over a hundred cosmetic procedures throughout my adulthood. From a nose job, eyebrow lift, face reconstruction, breast implants, thigh shaping, liposuction, laser scar removal—my list could go on forever, but I only brought with me a few sheets of paper, so bear with me. Anyway, living with this “disorder” (again, that’s my psychologist talking) kept me from making any real connections with people—not that I have a problem with being alone or anything, but it gets tedious sometimes. [beat] Okay, so maybe sometimes being alone feels pretty lonely. FADE OUT
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Madeline Cowen ’12
I
hurt Almira today. She yelped and jumped away, and the books I had dropped continued their fall to the floor. It was an accident, but the poor dog didn’t know, and she sulked under the nearby table. I immediately knelt down and reached out to her, trying to coax her out and somehow let her know that I wanted to apologize. She glared at me and, with a distinctly offended snort, brushed past me. Just like how I had brushed past my brother a few days ago. Marcus. I refer to him with his full name now, because he can’t stand it. That is my only revenge for his betrayal. It is the only way I can punish him, because any other method would involve addressing him directly, or enduring his presence— both unacceptable options. I had hurt Almira unintentionally, but Marcus had had a choice. He could have done something, instead of standing off to the side, clenching his jaw, watching as his new friends bullied his sister, me. It was no initiation act; they likely hadn’t even realized we were related. I often found myself tormented and teased, usually at least twice a
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week. It had gotten so frequent that I had stopped telling my mother, and so she, believing the problem to be resolved, had stopped telling Marcus to look after me. That wasn’t why he had betrayed me, though. He was a follower. I just had never imagined that he would value such friends over family. Almira crouched in the corner, staring at me with a wounded look. She sniffed, and turned away. I wanted to throw myself at her feet, to beg her to understand. I couldn’t believe that I did to her what had been done to me so many times. And then she did an incredible thing. She stood up, shook, and walked over to me, gently wagging her tail. She forgave me. With a single shake, she had replaced her hurt,with forgiveness, and moved on. The look she gave me as she allowed me to pet her told me she hadn’t forgotten, but I had learned my lesson. I was sorry, and we could move on. My dog had performed a remarkable feat. Though her actions were based on impulse and feeling, some part of her must have realized that this fight was not worth not worth such precious time.
On the table, my watch beeped. I stood up to turn it off, and the moment was over. In the kitchen, my brother closed a drawer and then stumbled over something. Almira perked up at the sound and ran to investigate. I glanced at my watch. I had spent valuable time brooding by myself, moping about the unfairness of my life. I looked around. Marcus was wrong to betray me. What he had done was inexcusable, and he deserved to be punished. My disgust was justified—but not rewarding. I was alone in the room. From the kitchen, I could hear Almira pounce on my brother, and the brief laughter that followed. Such a display of happiness had recently become unusual in this household, and not merely because I was punishing my brother with silence. He, too, was glum, occasionally trying to catch my eye, but usually wallowing in what I hoped was guilt. By now, he must have recognized that his actions were abominable. He must have learned. He must be sorry. I thought of Almira and mentally shook myself. When I finally walked into the kitchen, I called him Mark.
“
Innocence 1, Ali Stack ’13, Film
”
My disgust was justified, but not rewarding
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So your life is going great, Finally got what you wanted— That’s good to hear.
Samantha Cruz ’11 He cried for the very first time. Last night he threw a plate across the room that barely missed my head. Then he threw a fist but I wasn’t so lucky. He said he was sorry, just like the other times. But somehow today was different. Today he cried. He even brought me flowers (And I really love flowers.) Last night he slammed me into a wall and closed his grip around my neck. But today he cried. He cried today even though last night he slapped me in the face And punched me to keep me quiet. I thought it would never end but he beat me until it did. You see, Today is the day of my funeral. He beat me to death last night, But today— Today he cried.
So you got a new job, To go with your new girl— Everything’s the same here. So finally things are going your way, Finally feel like you belong— That’s wonderful. So all your dreams are coming true, Finally did what you want to do— That’s beautiful. There’s just one little problem. It’s nothing really, You see. I just thought That maybe perhaps You’d take a little longer to get Over me.
Lianet Llanes ’12
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Arlington Cemetary Series, Camile Betances, Faculty, Digital
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Elizabeth Gonzalez ’13
I
caught myself thinking about that time again. It was unexpected, sudden, and traumatic, a horrid experience! I was glad to be alive, yes, but I was only alive because a hero picked me up and brought me home. I remember feeling trapped, suffocated. These glass walls constantly confined me. I thrust my body against them several times in vain. The clock ticked. Water drops fell from across the room. Crickets chirped outside. The noise surrounding me mixed into a hum that conveyed to my soul the idea of rebellion, of escaping this damned place. Escape. I needed to find a loophole in this bowl of death. Agitation of spirit kept me awake many hours after this idea had sparked inside of me, but I came up with nothing. With a wild desperation in my heart, I did the first thing that came to mind. I propelled my body upward, to no avail. I had to jump three times until I finally achieved my goal. Freedom, at last! I was out, and ready to reunite
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around, but I felt every fiber of my being give up. I was a fish without a bowl, literally. I felt footsteps: a savior! Fingertips were poking me. Something picked me up. They were small hands, belonging to a child perhaps. The child dropped me back in my bowl, and I began to feel myself function once again. My gills sucked in water, making up for what I had lost. My tail and fins began to quiver. I opened my eyes, and saw the child staring back at me from the other side of the bowl. “Don’t you do that again! You could die.” I was glad to see that everything was clear. There was light coming from different sources. Food, food was everywhere! I do admit I was fortunate, to be saved from the grasp of death. At times I do wish I could return home to the big sea where my father waits for me. If only I could let him know that I, too, wait for the day I can return to him. Even today, I swim within the confines of my sphere, ever to lurk in darkness, waiting in my castle for the light to shine my way.
with my only family member, my father, whom I had not seen in so long. Something stopped my thought though: I felt my throat closing up. I coughed wildly. My eyes were straining in their sockets in the hope of catching a small ray of light. Everything fell black. I felt my body hit the dry, hard floor beneath me. It felt as if I had fallen on a pile of rubble and large rocks. I tried moving Suspended Animation, Cristhian Martinez ’11, Marker, Artistic Interpretation of Drawing by Nanami Cowdroy
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Cristhian Martinez ’11
Wooden Pathway, Rinita Rasheed ’14, Digital
As I get older, I push aside The past and try to remember What I once forgot.
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I’ve learned not to trust, Not to give, not to cry, And not to plead. Not to pick up the pieces without gloves, Not to love without a helmet on. Not to run barefoot as he breaks down, Not to yell while I’m in pain. Not to pick up the ring on the floor, Or take off my own. Not to fight back while I’m upset, Or cry myself to sleep. From great heights we held hands, And dreamt under the midnight sky, Rose over the clouds, to grace.
Jonathan Leal ’12 Why do you do this to yourself, boy? Close your eyes. Sleep. Rest. Leave your troubles with death’s brother. Why do you do this to yourself, boy? Sleep and let your day melt away. Let it ring, a brand new age. Let your troubles rot. Don’t look, don’t think, let your hurt melt away as you burn away your day. Why do this to yourself, boy? Look at your scars—you’re better than this. Close your eyes and let it all go. Drift away, don’t lie awake. Bury your pain, dismiss the day. Read not another word. Derail your thoughts absurd. You’re better than this. Sleep and let your heart freeze over. Let it not bleed for any other. Sleep and have peace, for your dreams will not let you bleed. Why do you do this to yourself, boy? Don’t think, don’t see. Don’t feel, don’t bleed. Don’t lie, don’t cheat, or you will forever stay in your cell. Why do this to yourself? This world will never be what you wanted. Save yourself from the sick dawning. Dream your sorrows away. You’ve been consumed by misery for too long.
Grainy, Josue Brizuela ’11, Digital
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Camile Betances, faculty
You start out simple. Eggs, water, oil. The basics. Slowly, as I spoon each bit of you into the little fluted cup, I dream of the deliciousness to come. As you enter the oven, the heat changes you: Makes you rise. You are sweet, Soft, Fluffy, Warm. I coat you in frosting. As the first bite reaches my tongue, I am transported into that rich, delectable place. The place where everything is okay. Where the world doesn’t matter, And the only thing I can think of is you. Afterward I feel guilty, Knowing that consuming you will lead to weight gain, (Unless I work the calories off.) But, you’re worth it. I love you cupcake. Unfortunately, my thighs don’t feel the same way.
Seaside Rendezvous, Natali Hernandez ‘13, Digital
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These last few nights, I’ve been dreaming in reverse. I’m stumbling into bed; I’m reeling out and into sleep. Your toothpaste flecks are back on the mirror and spell out a message, possibly. But I’m realizing that some things are the same. Your words are gibberish. Only now, they’re in reverse. I plan to teasingly suggest they’re a subliminal satanic message, but my words will not take place; every breath I draw to speak then draws itself back out of me. But that’s one dream. In another, there is only the sky. There is high noon, still smothering the sun; there are stars flashing through backwards nights like faulty cosmic Christmas lights; there is your chest, which, in reverse, heaves in exactly the same way. But you have trouble walking backwards, which comes naturally to me. And there are clouds; they still collect and still collide.
Julie Somoano ’11
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2010 Fall District Workshop Julia Kahn- 1st Place Feature Writing 2011 Florida Scholastic Press Association Individual Awards Jonathan Leal- Excellent for Poetry Writing Thamyris Oliveria- Excellent for Poetry Writing Alexa Langen- Honorable Mention for Poetry Writing Cristhian Martinez- Honorable Mention for Poetry Writing Julie Somoano- Honorable Mention for Poetry Writing Erica Hernandez- Excellent for Short Story Writing Madeline Cowen- Honorable Mention for Short Story Writing Mateus De Faria- Honorable Mention for Short Story Writing 2011 National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Cindy Castro- Silver Key Regional Finalist (Code of Law, Short- Story) Madeline Cowen- Silver Key Regional Finalist (Shake, Short-Story) Anadaniela Garcia- Silver Key Regional Finalist (Beauty Mark, Dramatic Script) Elizabeth Gonzalez- Silver Key Regional Finalist (Escape, Short-Short Story) Alexa Langen- Silver Key Regional Finalist (One Small Step, Humor) Julie Somoano- Silver Key Regional Finalist (On the Precordium..., Poetry) 2011 Dade County Youth Fair Awards First Place Cindy Castro, Madeline Cowen, Anadaniela Garcia, Elizabeth Gonzalez, Alexa Langen, Julie Somoano Second Place Isaac Andino, Erica Hernandez (senior portfolio), Jonathan Leal, Thamyris Oliveira, Lisami Talavera, Yunisan Ventura Third Place Nicholas Aria, Teresa Cusidor, Cheyenne D’Araujo, Joshua Dodge, Jordys Herrera, Lianet Llanes, Ashley Marti, Cristhian Martinez, Elizabeth McKiernan, Tarilyn Taylor, Brandi Troup, Beatriz Zambrano
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