table of contents 2 angie delucia ‘18 21 reilly callahan ‘15 “untitled” “wind blown” 3 jenna mick ‘18 22 luisa lestz ‘15 “this” “fallen flora” 4 emily lowit ‘15 23 max bash ‘15 “the road goes ever “the immaculate on” inception” 5 lexi delucia ‘16 24 lily hammer ‘18 “untitled” “a lonesome trail” 6 cole adams ‘15 25 david marottolo ‘18 “domestica” “the eye of the 7 luisa lestz ‘15 storm” “eye pod” 26 emily lowit ‘15 8 claire halloran‘15 “trip” “waiting for a 27-28 jen lee ‘18 customer” “the floating boy” “thirty-second 29 reilly callahan ‘15 break” “freakshow” 9 humza zaidi ‘18 30-31 mark sheehan ‘16 “where my heart “the moon also lies” falls” 10 max bash ‘15 32 claire halloran ‘15 “a country for old “belfast” men” 33 sasha bash ‘17 11 phoebe taylor ‘18 “inevitable void” “rainy day” 34 max bash ‘15 12-15 alexa casale ‘16 “the gates to the “the elevator also unknown” rises” 35 skylar barron ‘18 16 hannah bash ‘18 “freedom” “overlooking” 36 phoebe taylor ‘18 17 phoebe taylor ‘18 “lonely path” “turtlenecks” photo contest winner 18-20 mick hains ‘16 maitland bailey ‘18 “a farewell to background photo toenails” emily lowit ‘15
letter from the editors
we would like to thank everyone who submitted to the first issue of epic and to thank the whole staff who worked very hard to make this fall issue possible. we hope everyone enjoys it as much as we do! -amanda, meghan, and molly
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“untitled�
@angiedelucia18
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this
@jennamick18
when did we change From throwing paper planes And driving wooden trains To this. And when did we grow From angels in the snow Lots of things we didn’t know To this. Can you put your finger on the day When we never again did play Our childhood wasted away To this. And when did we get taller Our dreams get smaller So now the only thing left in life Is this.
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the road goes ever on @emilylowit15
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“untitled”
@lexidelucia16
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domestica
@coleadams15
when the ruby-eyed fly lands on my hand it scutters like a stop-motion film and i wonder who’s watching through its compound lens movie camera the sky is one half empty paper reaching meek blue into the other side where the sun sprays dusty light down on dusky dirt, ruby and umber acrylic paint fumes make the air sink down my throat, i’m reminded of my mother stenciling flowers onto the dining room wall to liven things up one day when i’m just femurs and ribs you’ll have gathered enough footage to release your film, a cult classic about poets, how they’re really just paranoid flies on your hand looking for a suitable dint to release their eggs
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eye pod
@luisalestz15
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waiting for a customer @clairehalloran15
thirty- second break
@clairehalloran15
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where my heart lies @humzazaidi18
My heart lies inside a man who travels the deep blue sea the myriad of turquoise gems glinting by Dawn’s sweet light. My heart lies deep underground guarded by a labyrinth that only one man knows the way through. My heart lies where I sit, under the watchful eyes of Selena — her moony glow softening the world, but at the same time blazing a fierce pain in every shadow.
My heart lies in a box full of holes with my very soul leaking. The rest of me is not a part of me, letting loose a torrent of water each tear thunderous and bold crashing upon the ground But what of it? A tear to me is no longer a tear; it is a trouble of history a constant reminder of my pain begging to know as I am incomplete without the knowledge: O’ when, my dear Odysseus? When will you come home to me?
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a country for old men @maxbash15
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rainy day
@phoebetaylor18
Lethargy drips from the walls and ceiling the way the water does from the sky. The tired old dog And the tired old man Sit side by side by the fire, Watching with bored exasperation As the springy young pup And the springy young boy Jump in the puddles outside, Quickly washing the slowness from their shoes And from their bones. Oh, how, how could we have turned, From those rowdy young minds To these tired old artifacts? How could I have become, The vexation of my once youth, The slow, aching limbs Which refuse to run and play? Oh, to be once, And never to be again, The jumpy young souls Of a half remembered world.
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the elevator also rises
@alexacasale16 Second runner up in Hemingway Parody contest
It was the middle of July and it was damn hot out. I could feel myself sweating through my newly dry cleaned suit. I walked along 5th Street, about five blocks away from my office building. It was about seven-thirty in the morning, and I passed by all kinds of people in pant suits and nice dresses, talking loudly on their phones to each other, or maybe to someone halfway across the world, and I saw fit men and women jogging on the sidewalks, weaving through the crowd, and dog walkers strolling along. I would have sat down on the nearest bench to observe some more, but I was damn near late for work, and I had a meeting first thing. When a man is twenty five, he can’t be late for a meeting. I quickly made my way into the building, and into the nearest elevator. I was alone. The doors closed, trapping me inside. I pressed the number 99. The elevator jolted to a halt at 17. “Morning, Garth,” a woman said to me. She stepped in and pressed 31. “Good morning.” “Pretty hot out today.” “You’re damn right.” “I thought I was going to collapse on the way here.” “Reminds me of my days in the War.” “What war?” “The War.” “Aren’t you only twenty five? It’s 2014. What war were you in?” 12
The ding of the elevator resounded again, and the woman stepped out. I never saw her again. On the 45th floor, a man I knew as Bill joined me. He worked on the floor below me, and I often saw him in the cafeteria. He gave me a nod and I did the same to him. As we passed floor 49 I noticed him take a small flask out of his coat pocket. “Don’t tell anyone,” he laughed, taking a swig. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. “Oh, the youth. Drinking on the job. Drinking off the job. Always so tight.” “Garth, I’m older than you. By ten years. You’re twenty five.” “Reminds me of my nights in Paris, hopping from bar to bar. Girls in their flapper dresses. Men in their suits. Everyone having a good time. Taking horse cabs around the town. Kissing under the twinkling lights of the city.” “When were you ever in Paris? Didn’t you grow up in Delaware?” Once again, the elevator dinged, and Bill got off at floor 57. In his place, a man known around the office as “Old Martin” walked into the corner opposite me. “Aren’t you glad it’s Friday?” “Very.” “Doing anything exciting this weekend?” “Nothing will ever be as exciting as Pamplona, Spain.” “I love Spain. So quaint. So beautiful. When did you go?” 13
“Oh, it was awhile back. I went with some friends for a couple weeks during the summer. We came from Paris.” “Sounds like fun! What did you do while you were there?” “Well, what else to do in Pamplona but see the bullfights?” “Bullfights?” “What wonderous spectacles they are. Those heroic matadors facing off the bull and steers. A great break from daily Parisian life.” “When exactly did you say you went, again?” “Oh, hell. I don’t know. Sometime after the War. Sometime before the Depression.” He didn’t say anything. He waited for the doors to open again, and stepped out in a rush. The elevator hummed along for another few minutes, and stopped at floor 89. A guy I was particularly sore at, Riley, came in. He shot a look at me as the doors closed. “Hey, Riley.” “Hi, Garth.” “Any important meetings this Friday morning?” “Oh, just some plans for the Berlin offices.” “Reminds me of-” “Garth. Save it. Save your rotten stories about the War or the Depression or Paris. Hell, don’t even talk to me. Why do you insist on talking about things that never really happened? Next thing I know you’ll be telling me all about how you took trumpet lessons from Louis Armstrong, before writing a novel with the help of F. Scott 14
Fitzgerald. Enough’s enough, man. You were born in 1989.” He pushed the button to open the doors and got off at the nearest floor. I waited. The doors opened again on floor 99. My stop. I walked out and made my way past the receptionist taking calls and writing notes, and men throwing paper airplanes between cubicles, and women gossiping by the water cooler, and the executives sitting at the round table inside the conference room. I opened the door to the room. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen.” “Hey, Garth,” one of them said. “Today I will be making my presentation comparing the economic strategies of companies in 1920’s Paris with our own.” They all looked at me expectantly. I stood the easel up and placed my graphs on it. The windows were open and the heat from the 98 floors below was rising. I loosened my tie and wiped the sweat from my brow. It sure was damn hot out.
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overlooking @hannahbash18
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turtlenecks
@phoebetaylor18
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a farewell to toe nails
@mickhains16 First runner up in Hemingway parody contest
It was a long and hot and sweaty day at school and we all got onto the long and hot and sweaty school bus. It was yellow and dirty. The hot and humid air made me uncomfortable and I didn’t want to be here. I dreaded going to our track meet today. I looked out the grimy window at the ugly school. It had a big parking lot and a football field and a rubber track that was red. I hated the color red. There were many cars here today. I wondered which cars were on our side. As I got off the bus onto the hard and black asphalt I kicked a rock at one of the cars. I hoped it was a car that was from the enemy team. I hated the enemy team. When we got to our area on the grass along the fence next to the finish line I put my bag down on the ground. I put away my jacket and shirt and pants and hat. I couldn’t stand this goddamn weather. Before starting the warm-up I quickly took a long swig from my flask. Was anybody looking? I hoped that they wouldn’t see it. I was in no mood for sharing. The cold red wine dripped down my hot throat. It was good. “Kid! Quit slacking and start running!” That was the captain. She always made me run the warm-up. Nothing was worse than the warm-up. It never ended. All the guys always talked about her. She always made us go. If you were lucky enough, she would yell at you until she was 18
forced to run right next to you for the warm-up; the entire two laps of the warm-up. Whenever she yelled at me to get on running, all I could think of was her. I wanted to get to know her much better. I wondered how she was. I heard she was good at it. After the jogging and the stretching and the talking and the planning were done, I sat down under the shade of our tent on the hard and tall and blue water jug. They had told me I was to run the 800 meter event. It was bad. I needed to get out of this race. “Coach—” “Oh Kid,” he said. “You will win this for us, won’t you?” What the hell, I thought. I stroked my beard and patted the sweat off my forehead. He was crying. “You will, won’t you?” He looked up at me. “Because we can’t have Middlesex beat us again.” There was no escape. I was going to be forced to race and that was that. I thought about taking out my spikes and gouging and impaling myself in the meaty part of my thigh. I felt something dripping. At first it dripped slowly and regularly, then it pattered into a stream. “Kid!” shouted the coach. I jumped up. I had only been daydreaming. “Where have you been?” “I’ve been under the tent.” “You couldn’t have sent me a text?” “No,” I said. “Not very well. I 19
thought you knew.” “You ought to have let me know, kid.” He looked at me, “And you do trust me?” “Yes.” “You did say you trusted me, didn’t you?” “Yes,” I lied. “I trust you.” I had not said it before. He was crazy, absolutely out of his mind. I was going to drop dead on this goddamn track if he didn’t take me out of the 800 meter event. “And you call me Fritz?” “Fritz.” We walked on a way and stopped under a tree. “Say, ‘I’ve come back to Fritz to win the race.’ ” “I’ve come back to Fritz to win the race.” “Oh, kid, you have come back, haven’t you?” “Yes.” I checked my watch. My event was nearing. It now would be impossible to miss it. They would come after me. They would call my parents. It’s a rotten game. They would make me race the Middlesex militia. At last, they all called us to the starting line. As we lined up, I tried my best to avoid the front. Nothing was worse than the front. The starter then steadied us and the gun was shot by the starter. At the end of the race came the permanent pain and with the pain came the misery. But it was bearable and in the end I only had three toenails left.
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wind blown
@reillycallahan15
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fallen flora @luisalestz15
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the immaculate inception @maxbash15
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a lonesome trail @lilyhammer18
Upon a bed of filth I wait, I rest. For my glory days have passed me by. Tail solemnly pressed between my stiff swollen legs oh, how they ache to gallop once more encouraged by the praise of my master, my companion. I long for the rush of wind upon my muzzle the excitement of a sprint like a racehorse eager to break free of his stall enthusiastic to step forward into a jolting gallop and to dirty his metal shoes with the fine dust of the track.
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Here on my pile of filth just groggily watching the passersby when I smell him, my master. I could recognize his wonderful stench anywhere! And I see him approach my pile of filth, now a weak old man has it really been that long? He’s a beggar: Withered, ragged, and worn. How did we both end up this way? But I see him now, finally a little twinkle in his eye and I know he missed me too.
the eye of the storm @davidmarottolo18
I stare out the window Of the vehicle. Branches whip past the windows, Their dry foliage caressing the glass, Gnarled and twisted limbs Silhouetted against a gray, stony sky Which for all its placidity Holds an indefinable air of Hidden, imperceptible Rage. The winds which pushed relentlessly Onwards the swells and billows of that inverted sea Howled around us, Shrieking and moaning, Mouthing with myriad voices Its incomprehensible message. I drummed my fingers against the glass, A beat to drown out the storm, Pressed my cheek against the windowpane. I longed to reach home, A home which seemed far off, removed from sight, A safe haven Isolated by the storm without and the silence within, Isolated by the feelings which the magnitudes of nature arise To strum and set throbbing the solemn chords of My heart. Isolated, by the anger without And the calm within.
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trip
@emilylowit15
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the floating boy @jenlee18
part 1 of 3
Eating had always been a painful experience for Will, and as such none of the Bentons were surprised when he elected to skip supper for the fourth night in a row. Nor did they protest as he slipped away from the table with a quiet “I’m not hungry” and padded up the stairs without a creak to be heard, away from his six siblings and two haggard parents and all of the loud talk that took place over pasta every night. Will was the kind of boy who seemed to float as he walked. His feet barely touched the floor as he ascended the stairs and slipped into his room—which was, as a middle child, his very own. The middle child had it tough enough, his mother reasoned. Throwing himself onto the bed, he was overwhelmed by a claustrophobic sense of detachment. Like his brain was hovering above his body and observing every action from afar, like his world was seen through the tunnel vision of a spirit watching from the clouds above. Everything was small and so, so far away. His stomach grumbled. But digestion was too great a task as of late, and so he took to his bed. The sun had only just set over the December blanket of snow, early in the evening, but Will did not rise until the morning when the scent of toast drew him out of his slumber. He floated down the staircase once more. 27
“Twelve hours again?” Penelope, his eldest sister, said as she sipped a mug of nearly-white coffee by the kitchen table. She poured another glug of caramel creamer into the mix and shook it around. “You’ve not done a word of homework, have you?” He didn’t respond right away. It seemed that the words took a long time to travel from his sister’s mouth to his brain. “I don’t think so.” “I think,” his sister went on, “you’re going to have to put an end to all of this babying someday. People never hold you to the same standards as us.” “He’s the middle child. He’s Will. Let it go,” their mother said in a weary voice. Penelope shot her a reproachful look and flounced out of the kitchen. “You’d best be off now,” she said. Will nodded, stared out the window. A gentle snowfall had just begun. A moment later, Penelope stomped down the stairs into the kitchen, fretting about her choice of boots as fifteen-year-old Violet stumbled after. Reluctantly, Will joined his sisters as they made their way out the door. “Don’t you want a coat?” Violet said. He had only slipped on a sweater and a pair of boots. “I guess I don’t really feel cold.” “That’s right,” Penelope cut in as she strutted ahead. “He’s a freaking robot.” Will shrugged. “Penelope,” Violet said, “do you mind?” The eldest sister didn’t respond.
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to be continued in the next epic edition...
freakshow
@reillycallahan15
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the moon also falls
@marksheehan16 First place winner in Hemingway Parody contest
It was a bright and sunny summer day, and the car drove through the French countryside, and the rolling hills were covered in verdant grass, and flowers were blooming, and there was a gentle breeze, and the leaves of the trees rustled. Rabbits and deer frolicked about, and a few clouds dotted the sky. In the car, the two occupants had endured 23 minutes and seven seconds of driving with little to do but lose themselves in both the bottle and the Riviera, and the floor of the car was covered in scores of wine bottles, and the bottles were empty or half empty and forgotten, like the two men, although the label “men” fit them as poorly as the tattered secondhand cardigans they wore. After another swig of wine, the passenger, Hall, cleared his throat of saliva, but the greater clogs of shame and regret remained. Suddenly, the sun went behind a cloud, and the world was plunged into eternal darkness, and it was darker than the cruel heart of the harpy they had both once loved. His voice slurred by wine and hopelessness, he muttered “Tanner, sometimes I sit on the toilet for hours and hours, but the bowl beneath me, the only thing lower than me, remains as empty as the rest of this sad godless world where we have been damned to live out the remainder of our futile existences.” He leaned back on the hard cold leather of the seat and for the next five minutes there was a silence thicker than the blood caked all over Hall’s anus after it was hit by shrapnel on the Italian front.
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Then Tanner spoke. “Darn, Hall, I’m sorry to hear that.” “It’s the worst. Even when the poop flows freely, the pain, both physical and emotional, is immense. Not even a bidet can ease my perpetual agony.” “I was constipated once, for about a day, and it was awful. I can’t imagine how you feel.” “No, you can’t.” “What does Jane think about that?” “She left me.” “Why?” “She said I didn’t satisfy her in bed because I couldn’t get it out.” “Darn man, I had no idea. That’s awful.” “Yeah, I’m a have to win her heart again.” Although it was only a few minutes ago that there had been nary a cloud in the sky, there was now not a single patch of blue in the whole sky, in the whole world. Rain poured down, and the darkness was total, except for the occasional flash of lightning. “We’ve arrived.” “Good. It’s finally over.” The car plunged over the edge of a cliff down three hundred feet. They had finally hit rock bottom.
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belfast
@clairehalloran15
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inevitable void @sashabash17
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the gates to the unknown @maxbash15
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freedom
@skylarbarron18 I will run forever, As far as my legs can carry me. I want to escape the suffering, And the poverty, And the neglect. I will not stop.
Faster, I feel as if I am flying. My legs barely touch the ground.
Everyone else has given up, I give one last They have all lost hope, surge of energy and Not me. I am here. My destination. I can feel the wind in my My freedom. hair, Extracting all my I stand for a moment and pain and sorrow, take in my surroundings. Pulling everything away Vast, green fields that just slow enough, seem to go on forever. So I can cherish it The sight of the bright, And re-live the fiery sun warms my soul. bittersweet memories, Just for a second. I collapse, And allow the grassy They are a part of me, fields to caress me. Each memory a separate page They are my protection that has been torn out, and I trust them. Of my once bounded story. They lull me to sleep, and I let them. I am closer now, I let go. Now that I have forgotten. The weight of my past is Once I am vulnerable, lifted off of my shoulders, I am swallowed up. And I begin to sprint. I feel and see nothing. My senses are disabled. The fields keep me warm, And tuck me in. Goodnight world.
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lonely path
@phoebetaylor18
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editors-in-chief amanda loughran meghan kennedy molly sullivan epic staff lauren barnes skylar barron miranda bascetta maxwell bash hannah bash sasha bash julia bayer haley carangelo alexis delucia sam dibacco melanie doot corinne florian justin genga julia goldsmith vivian goldstein elizabeth hammer isabel kaufman adam kim ellie kraus jennifer lee david marottolo jillian mazzocca robert mccabe jenna mick melani norsigian faith pease erin persico rebecca powers gabrielle ruban
emma smith avantika tankala phoebe taylor addie waskowitz talia zimmerman
epic 2014 fall edition