hello, you – this is it. this is the big one. you worked hard on it, we worked hard on it, and we have a big, beautiful book to show for it. we hope you enjoy it and love it as much as we do. thanks for leaving your mark. love, us
the staff of epic 2011 would like to dedicate this book to the lovely claire o’donnell. we think she’s incredibly brave.
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the staircase emily sullivan
a promise to a foreign friend becca frank
Dear Paris, Why must you speak French? I love your bread, and buildings, and books, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying. I think we could get on a lot better if I didn’t feel so guilty every time you spoke my language. You shouldn’t have to do that for me. I’m the guest, after all. So, I’m promising you, right here and now, that the next time I come visit you, I’ll speak your words. The first thing I say to you won’t be “parlez-vous anglais?” I don’t know if this is going to work, but I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, perhaps you could be a bit more understanding to my inability to speak your language. You don’t have to give me nasty looks and tell me “You should speak French.” I know I should speak French, but back in sixth grade when we had to choose a language, I didn’t choose French, and that’s that. I’ll learn French. I will. I’m going to come over to your side of the world and speak in your tongue. Je vous promets. Sincèrement, Votre amie qui va bientôt être bilingue
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asparagus emilie nadler
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tween hamlet brandon best
To tweet, or not to tweet: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The updates and pokes of outrageous persons, Or to take arms against a sea of loyal Facebookers, And by opposing end mine? I die: to tweet.
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truth in violence siobhan mcilhoney
I cannot say what I have foreseen It astounds me, to think that I, Such a non-important being, Could hold such a powerful truth. I am but a teenager Young, by the standards of many But old, so very old, in my thoughts and words. Many cannot believe that I am so uncommon My truth is in my pen My writing Has astounded them all with the truth, Mere truth calls so many to their knees I cannot say what I have foreseen I cannot tell the truth, For it would consume us all.
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cueillir des abricots marion stack
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bottled up, buried deep emily steinberg
My love My tireless love My flickering, fleeting Tide of emotions My pale, luminous desire For your trickling passion Consummation of each vowel Exhaustion of each look I will forever be Your silent reader
an unopened book catalina salazar
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group theory mrs. lisa loeb
“L
et’s make sure the next thing we read is something we’ll like. Not like that one we read once…what was it called? Neverland?” Actually, it was Netherland by Joseph O’Neill. It was the book I had suggested for my most recent book group. I had written the title down on a piece of paper and dropped it into the pink-sequined box that our leader had provided. I should have seen those sequins as red flags. Or flares. Or a big, neon sign that flashed, “You don’t read for the same reasons we do.” They had hated my suggestion and didn’t mind saying so. They didn’t want to read a book unless they knew ahead of time that it was not going to be depressing and, as one put it, that it was going “to blow her doors in.” Yes, in. Why do I feel I need to be in a book group? I know of only one woman who likes her group. The others? They complain about how no one reads the books. Or how all they do is gossip. Or complain about their husbands. All I want to do is talk about books with people who want to talk about books. Last year, I tried to start a book group blog called mybookaffair. I spent hours coming up with that name. The problem was, I didn’t even know what a blog was but I wanted to put a new twist on an old idea. I decided to get some of my younger colleagues involved, figuring they would tech-lead the way. They did not. They are young teachers, so they have no time to read. One of my non-teacher invitees approached me after a yoga class a few months later with a sweet but probing “What ever happened to your book blog?” I pretended to be in a yoga haze. Frankly, I just want to take down my blog and forget it ever happened. How do you take down a blog? About five years ago, a woman I socialize with and I got jazzed about starting a book group. I should have seen how bad an idea this was right from the start. She’s competitive and I’m competitive. She had friends and I had friends. In the Venn diagram, she and I are in that middle section. We met at each other’s homes. The person who hosted got to choose the book and was supposed to lead the discussion. This was fine until it started to feel like each meeting had to be better than the previous one, in a multiple intelligence sort of way. Suddenly, the food had to be linked to the book’s theme. You were supposed to be able to recognize why certain music was playing in the background. If a film had been made based on the novel, we absolutely had to see it before we met. We began to choose our new selection, it seemed, based on its ability to provide an experience. WHAT ABOUT JUST TALK-
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ING ABOUT THE WORDS IN THE BOOK, I might have suggested. I didn’t. I was always finishing my second glass of chardonnay by then and didn’t care enough to voice an opinion. After about the fifth meeting, I gave up on the Martha Stewart Living book group experience. I wanted Real Simple. The very first book club I took part in had been just that. We were organized. We chose our titles fairly and in a timely fashion. We met on Sunday afternoons at a Barnes & Noble. Sunday afternoons worked well for me, as I was wide awake. We wrote anonymous questions on slim pieces of paper and put them into something (it was not sequined) and then used them as “starting points” for our discussion. Everyone always read the book. It was truly magical, even more so now as I think back over my other book group experiences. I left this group because children and a long commute in the other direction were getting the best of me. In retrospect, I had no idea how good I had it. I should have given up my job for this group. When I recently emailed the unofficial leader to see if I could come back now that I had an empty nest, she was quite direct: “Actually, we’re pretty tight now. We don’t need anyone else.” I felt like a prep-school flunkie. I wanted to shout, “I’VE LEARNED MY LESSON. I WON’T SAY ANYTHING FOR THE FIRST MEETING. I’LL BUY ALL THE COFFEES.” I said none of that because her message was real simple: quitters don’t get second chances in this book group. So, I’m still officially “in” the sequined-box club. I get their cheery messages about how this book group has changed their lives. They meet at a restaurant called Laskara, so now I’m out twenty bucks if I go. I don’t. Frankly, I can’t bring myself to read their selections. Let’s just say that they’re not as good as Netherland which, by the way, blew my doors in. These days, I read a lot of books and try to strike up conversations about them at get-togethers with friends, at lunchtime with my colleagues, and on Facebook with anyone. It’s a cheap, hassle-free way to feel like I’m doing what everyone else is. And I have more time to read. I just wish I knew what my Barnes & Noble group was reading next.
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the shed
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kiera cecchini
lost
nick lange
We're definitely lost. No we're not. Yes, we are. But if I had to get lost with anyone, I'm glad it's you. It's such a beautiful evening Why not lay down on the grass beside the road And let it all sink in And get drunk off each other's company And listen to music as our feet tap on the dirt And watch the sun descend to its rest As we descend to ours.
cicada monica ambrozej Cicada, Cicada, Why do you cry? Why do you cry with the sun so high?
turtlenecks zarah mohamed
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ode to you eva stys
Quiet, you are. Delicate and bold. You’re here and there, Waiting, Watching. The world at your fingertips. Listener, you are. You lock others’ secrets in a vault. Forever put away. I wonder, though, what you do with secrets of your own. Mysterious, you are. Trembling in the wind, But never once collapsing. Glorious, you are. Lush with color. Ageless like the sun. Glittering in the daylight, Looming in the twilight. Magical, you are. Your touch soft as petals. This is my ode to you. Don’t ever stop swaying.
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She was walking down the street when the ground started to shake. 65 minutes later the sky got dark, the temperature dropped. 113 dead. Now up to over 400.
ride the wave
keri ohlheiser
Tuesday.
She looked up, and the ocean with its deep black eyes greeted her. Its roar louder than a lion rose goose bumps over her body. 10 feet tall. It looked down at her, its face turned her body into stone. It crashed down sending her to riding the wave down the streets of her town. She saw the bamboo shack behind her house float by. She waved hello to her black bike. Giant of destruction. They blame it on the earthquake. She knew the day would come when the ground decided to shake. black body bags, prepared for the worst. Days passed, and she was determined her family must have ridden the wave. She looked up at the sky and asked why the ocean ate her family. Her day ended in tears 167 missing.
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poolside garden
emily gutermann
in the tall grass
farwa naqvi
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she closes her eyes, and takes in the world nuzzled against his chest. ever so carefully he brushes a straggling wisp of hair from her face, sending chills from his soft, careful movements over her skin.
warmth from his arm that is draped over her. softly, his delicate lips leave her skin tingling. sensations throughout her small, fragile body that curves and fits so perfectly next to his.
valves pat freeman
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the green bangles raveena khanna
T he night before the wedding there were people making garlands, people decorating, people running in all directions. With laughter and cheering and dholki drumming, there was a certain excitement in the air. Regardless, all I saw and heard was her. During the ritual, the turmeric paste seemed to melt against her smooth beige skin. It seemed as though rose petals enveloped the base of her feet. It was a deep red henna—an arousing, vibrant, and pure scarlet henna. Her hair glistened. It was as though the night sky was draping onto her back. She was the moon in the room. Her face glowed with a special innocence, whereas her body portrayed a certain maturity. Jingling against her delicate, pale wrists, her green bangles spoke to the men in the room. The rosewater fragrance sifted through the air, enticing and refreshing everything in its path. It was as though she was the rose, blossoming out as the women continued to gently wash the yellow paste from the creases of her body. Her hands were transforming into mazes of patterns. As intricate designs climbed up her arms, every finger became a wonder of its own. I followed the peacock as it ascended through the fields of flowers towards its mate. The bride watched too, anticipating the moment when her husband’s name would be imprinted within the story on her hands. Though the henna would eventually fade, after this night, she would be bound to him just as he would be bound to her, forever. He would be there to remove each green bracelet from her embellished wrists, and together they would search for his name. As the rosewater dripped down her face and into her mouth, I noticed the slight residue of honey on her lips. For the first time I perceived her hunger. It was as though the cleansing had disclosed a new woman—a sensuous, radiant woman, who could no longer subdue her desires. The ceremony established her transition. There, as she wiped the last patch of turmeric paste from the side of her soft neck, I saw her change. She was a flower in full bloom. The green bracelets were her stems. They kept her grounded in her past life, one she had now outgrown.
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untitled catherine harger
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canyon ed leardi
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drained emily steinberg
icarus
olivia o’connor
Wings lift you off the ground – they help soar, help you fly. But their weight is so heavy They can make you fall, hard. Gravity makes you fall fast, When you land – you break. Not dead, far from fixable It’s better to never fly at all, Than to get hurt, from the fall.
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if i were a man gabby wolinsky My head is a horrible place to be It was the last day in the second week of September that I realized: There is a strange sexiness about a man who doesn’t choose a woman sparingly, Something about a man rubbed raw, About a man with a leather tongue that slaps teeth. If I were a man I would take a taxi to strip clubs and burlesque shows every night, even on the Sabbath. And cover the whores with sand and naked Grief. And I would be shameless and beautiful. Superior. But I am a woman with scars on my body from the hands of men who haven’t touched me. I am inconvenient woman, My front door remains locked and bolted, And perfectly painted. But I am only as good as the anonymous painting that hangs crooked over your grandmother’s wooden bureau. I have bled myself dry, but you have no idea. Can’t talk to anybody about something like this. I’m Sorry that every atom in my body is so ugly and fragile, People say I’ve changed I miss going to bed with nothing on my mind. My head is a terrible place to be, And I need to get the hell out of here.
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help me (to understand) katie morgan help me(to understand) this world(my world) all of these different fractions are stuffed into a whole yet i have only experienced one to the outside, we’re private: conservative, conceited to us, we’re just living in our designated bubble they seem public: crazy, opposite, free but they’re just living in their world these bubbles will only expand(so far) no need for distinctions, lines, boundaries but they’re there regardless like an unwritten law written in stone we want what we don’t have (july longs to be december while december envies july, we want the flowers to bloom when we have the changing leaves) but another world isn’t always what it seems so help me(to understand) this world(my world)
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paradise zoe waldman
Like the setting sun My eyes shall close And when they do You shall know I loved you then Falling snow shall shower all As the bones of my sacrifice Are buried in the beauty of the world You shall know I loved you once Sleep my lover Sleep my child Dream of me in gardens past Waiting for my love again
like the setting sun siobhan mcilhoney
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Find my heart in every flower Find my soul in every bower Find my body in the ashes And you shall find my love in the dawn And the dew And the flakes of soft winter snow. For I shall love you Forevermore.
untitled ned meade
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pass me by (fleeting moments) catalina salazar
Fleeting moments of pleasant Keep me up for days Days go by and things are fine Fleeting moments pass me by
Fickle hearts and fickle matters Jangled words and crossword patterns Take me up and make me fly Fleeting moments pass me by
Rig me up and ring me round Sail me up and tie me down Got me tight and anchored ground Pull me up and hold me down
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i know the sea is not for me caroline lange gwendolyn brooks poetry prize recipient i know the sea is not for me. i know the ocean’s funny bobbing, pins and needles, salty sobbing makes me want to cry, and i – i know that a boat’s just a bathtub toy and the migrant whales aren’t much at all. i know she doesn’t know the difference between a me and a cotton ball. i know that i am little (and one thirsty gulp could take me, strand me, leave me waterlogged and slogging, there against the silty depths). and yet – i have to admit i admire the way that the ocean can humble and crumble and sway and how soft the waves are when they swirl in to play with my toes till i’m sandpapered, sudden, away.
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on a tuesday afternoon victoria eatherton
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the steam engine steph fagbemi
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t is seven A.M. Hundreds of busy people perfunctorily make their way through the overwhelmingly large red oak doors of the factory to begin work. It does not seem to matter whether it is today, tomorrow, or seven years ago: nothing new happens in this old factory. Doctor Jonathan Borson has kept things this way for a while. He inherited the factory from his father, but wanted to be a doctor ever since the first time he got blood drawn for some enigmatic test and received a lollipop for being such a good sport. Jonathan was not normally a very well-behaved child, but he did not make a peep throughout the whole procedure; he found it so curious that so much of that crimson liquid could be inside him, ready to be taken away at virtually any amount. When his father died, leaving the factory to his only child, Jonathan cut back on a few things to pay for medical school, selling a few historical but seemingly irrelevant appliances that had lost their purpose long ago due to advancements in technology. After he enrolled, he completely forgot about the factory and the people and things tied to it by work or some story he did not care enough to endure hearing. Instead, he hired a Mr. Charlie Smith to oversee all production of the trains and their parts in the factory. Charlie Smith, unlike Dr. Borson, puts all his time and energy into the factory, making sure everything is always in fine working order. And today is no different. He is the first one in because he had not left. He had worked long into the night and then found it pointless to go home, and instead, shaped his large, extremely hairy arms into a comfortable rectangle and rested his head inside, allowing his right cheek to warm the metal top of his desk under his face. Charlie was extremely exhausted but woke up three times because the old steam engine stored a floor below his office often expelled irritating noises from its ancient frame. Once, Charlie thought he had awoken to see Dr. Borson standing confidently next to his father’s favorite steam engine, but it must have been a hallucination. In the morning, he work to the euphony of the machines starting up. He sprang upright into perfect posture and jogged downstairs to start the new day. He never wants to miss anything. Walking up and down the rows of fine machinery, Charlie finds that most of his workers are ostensibly sleep-working. He hurries up to the “announcement balcony”— everyone calls it so, for lack of a better word—and states that any worker not on task to his satisfaction will be fired on the spot. This statement sends the workers into a frenzy, and most sprint back to their stations and machines, all except Andre Paresseux, whose
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fight last night with his wife has left him melancholy and sluggish. It is Andre’s turn to make sure the late Mr. Borson’s most prized antique steam engine stays rust free, though it wreaks of decomposing iron. Among the sea of worker bees, Charlie Smith spots Andre slowly making his way towards the engine and starts down the stairs. At this moment, Anne, Charlie’s wife, walks through the red oak doors to see the chubby figure of her husband rushing down the steps of what once, with its cream railings and fanciful woodwork, she suspects, was a regal balcony. Anne hurries through the bustle of people to catch up with her husband. She simply wants to deliver Charlie the breakfast he has, once again, missed. In front of the old rusting steam engine, Anne taps his shoulder to get his attention. At the same time, Charlie taps the shoulder of a different man. Charlie wildly spins around, knocking the bag out of her small hands and causing food to fly everywhere. Anne immediately begins to scoop sullied eggs and pancakes off the dusty floor, Undetered, Charlie finds his original target, Andre Paresseux. “You!” he yells, demanding the tired man’s full attention, “You’re fired!” Andre, obviously confused, upset, and angry slams his right arm through one of the steam engine’s blackened windows. A dark liquid gushes through the hole. Andre’s arm is still inside; the glass around it is cracking due to the immense pressure of the perplexing flow of dark red. Andre rips himself free of the glass, just as the old steam engine spasmodically roars back to life. Anne Smith finds herself the second closest to the train and the second most unlucky person in the factory. She had been reaching for an orange lodged beneath the train when the ancient machinary ignited. Charlie lunges toward her through the red (which, at this point, is everywhere). He instinctually wants to help. And just then, the engine begins to move. Charlie tugs at his wife, and she screams. Her hair and a large portion of her skin remain trapped under the slowly turning wheels. Horrified, poor Charlie steps back. This too is terrible timing, because the train is now on its way out of the factory, and the bottom of Charlie’s pant leg is caught. Like Andre and Anne, Charlie is pulled down into the growing pool of red and he tastes the sea of blood under the moving train. Within seconds, those watching listen in disbelief to the faint, but undeniable sounds of hundreds of bones cracking beneath the now speeding locomotive, which has launched itself across the street, crashing into a small brick building. In the collision, the train breaks apart to reveal Dr. Borson, eyes wide open and a masochistic grin on his face.
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about a girl michael hathaway We met in a storm A convergence of two thunderclouds Perfect, yet entirely different Self destructive forces, seemingly unreliable and unstable
The water laps at my feet Washing away My innocence Fate held In our small, stupid hands.
Needle and string Is what we were; Repairing our broken lives And Mending Torn hearts
Wait Why are you doing this? You said you would never leave WE said that WE would never give up! I’m alone, aren’t I?
Through Rivers of our own Blood, The Rain of tears Seas of vice
But now I know I want the same The warm blanket, To curl up in, away from the cold stone of life. I promised But so did you
Under the summer’s Sun We met She cast aside My Inhibitions; As we sang and we danced Our faces cast in joy Cut short I left, seemingly only for days. Yet days became weeks And weeks, months You called for me But I couldn’t follow Oh those talks Eight hours In the freezing nights on the shore Some happy Others tragic Would you give in? Would I surrender?
You don’t love me You abandoned me You abandoned us all I’m sorry Love But I have to leave And so, As I tethered her, She tethered me Pulling Drawing me back into this reality And so we returned to love Sneaking calls in the middle of school Whispering
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Dors doucement, mon amour Still wishing To touch To slide my hands across your face Your head on my shoulder But I feared rejection Sitting, watching as you met him Feigning excitement Happiness, with a sting Of wishes, Never to be fulfilled But what was to come Was so much worse I wish Those wishes were just those Fantasies Bliss I saw your face Overcome with joy I called, Ran, Embracing Seven months, in that single second Emotion poured This time, you had to leave But I didn’t care I saw you the next week Still in bliss Perhaps wishes, dreams Would be realized?
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And the next week The emotion, even greater I felt weak Fear, death, hate Were nothing to this I pulled you aside And in that moment, Two years culminated Our lips met Lightning, Shot up my spine We were one, bodies pressed together Nothing as glorious But then she was crying Then I was crying The words fell from her lips “I can never love you. I’m sorry” Speechless And now; I wander Walking a road of uncertainty Lost What will I do What will she do Questions best left answered by Time
flight patrick freeman
open the paper humza moinudden Open the paper; Murder, death, lying, and War. Can I find some Peace?
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emily gersky
waiting in lines
Talking never did much good when all we wanted was purely unrelated to affection, to attention, to conviction. Fingertips whispered, voices and faces hidden behind them. But always through print — can you hear them? — I did. For a second, then I ceased to exist. Flagged down with a white flag stuffed down my throat, they were surely efficient if nothing else. I figured they’d do it in front of the kids, give them nightmares for all life, but instead, it was done in the ambiguity of an alley way next to a dumpster. I would have liked to have died in my living room. I bought the carpets for it. And the curtains would have gone lovely with blood splattered on them. But the whip lash of my broken neck caused me to sit down. Death was so much harder to get to than I had thought. I stood in security lines for hours, feet aching, no open bathroom stalls, and still stuck with heavy bags and trashy magazines.
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shadows in the hall spencer murray
catherine harger
drawers of secrets
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since eyelids are atop who notices hummingbird-fast blinks that conceal the eye beneath. will never fully be admired fully to be the one while skinny dipping in those, sea my nerves anticipate and staring is far more enjoyable than swimming (drowning) boy with sea Blue eyes don’t sleep, (don’t mask) the worst view through your eyes must be better than what I (sea)
since eyelids are atop gabby wolinsky
happiness is swimming in his eyes green and blue eyes black and Blue souls crying, sleeping, hiding the wounded.
but life is not some black and white photo production
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let there be spencer murray
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tree sap molly miller
“S ophie says that her family only gets real Christmas trees,” announced the little blonde girl, as she looked up from her schoolwork. Amy was busy at the sink, not paying much attention to her daughter or her daughter’s construction paper tree, which she was decorating for art class. “Well, so do we, darling,” said Amy, as she placed a dish on the rack. “No, we don’t,” retorted the six-year-old. “Sophie says that the tree in her living room smells nice and that the trunk gets sticky. I smelt our tree. It doesn’t smell like anything.” Amy finally turned toward her little girl with a tired smile. “Well, Tessie, our tree might not be grown from the ground like theirs is,” she explained, “but it’s really the Christmas spirit that brings a tree to life.” It was a worthy attempt. “No it doesn’t. A plastic tree can’t be brought to life,” stated Tessie matter-offactly. “It’s plastic. Also, Sophie’s older sister Caitlin said that real trees are better for the environment. And she’s eleven,” she added, as if that made Caitlin an expert on all things related to Christmas trees. “Oh, Caitlin doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” said Amy. “Our tree is just as good as their tree.” “And Sophie said that Santa likes real trees better and that he gives her better presents because she has a real tree.” “Tessie, don’t worry. Sophie doesn’t really get better presents because of her tree. Do you remember that Bella doll you really wanted last year?” “I think so…” “And Santa gave it to you, didn’t he?” “Yeah! And Sophie just got a dumb book. I guess Santa doesn’t really like her that much,” smiled Tessie, as she went back to dumping glitter on the kitchen table, managing to get a tiny bit of sparkle on her little paper tree. But Amy didn’t notice. She continued absent-mindedly washing dishes, as she thought about the trees from her own Christmases past. ***
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The ground was cold and muddy. A girl in a fleecy red jacket, jeans and black rubber boots that looked way to big for her was trudging behind her family through aisles and aisles of trees, sinking into the ground with each step. “What about this one?” she asked brightly, pointing to a tall green one with long, soft needles and water dropping from its limbs. “I don’t know,” replied her mother. “It’s a bit thin.” The middle aged woman in the long black coat continued walking through the field, staring down each of the trees as she passed them, and making soft clicking sounds as if she were the headmistress at a reform school, clucking or tsk-ing at girls whose skirts were rolled up too high. “Well, how about this one here?” asked her husband. “It could look nice in our living room.” “It could look nice? How could it look nice? What would you do to it that could make it look nice in our living room?” Her eyes penetrated him coldly as she mocked his perfectly harmless statement. “I was just complimenting the tree,” her husband remarked, laughing with a bit of disbelief at his wife’s vindictive disposition. “What’s wrong with this one?” the little girl asked innocently, grabbing on to a nice, full tree with short, stiff needles that pricked through her mittens. “I don’t know, I just don’t like it very much,” her mother said with a frown. “It looks like it might be a little bit crooked.” “It doesn’t look crooked to me,” said her husband. “Will you please let me talk for once?” cried his wife, as she turned and started walking away silently. The man rolled his eyes and followed her, as the little one frolicked about the tinier trees, dancing around as if she was the fairy queen of her own little forest. “Why can’t you just tell me what you honestly think about anything?” “I have been telling you,” said her husband in exasperation, with his jaw clenched so tightly it could have snapped at any moment. “I’ve pointed out at least
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five trees so far that I’m alright with.” “Oh, that you’re alright with,” said his wife, again failing an attempt at mockery. “That doesn’t make it sound like you’re enthusiastic about it all. You do realize that these trees aren’t cheap don’t you, Greg?” “Yes, I realize that, for crying out loud!” Greg cried a bit loudly, waving his hands out to the side like a toddler in a crowded store who can’t find his mother. “And I am enthusiastic, I’m sorry that you can’t tell.” “This is just another one of our communication flaws. I knew that this would be a bad idea.” “Well, why can’t you point out a goddamned tree that you like?” asked Greg, his face turning even redder. “Honestly? Because there are no good trees here,” responded his wife. “Every year we wait until the last week before Christmas, and there’s never anything left!” “Then do you want an artificial one? Please, just tell me what you want, Claire!” “How about you start being an adult in this family and make some decisions?” asked Claire, her voice echoing the biting cold in the air. “I’ll be waiting in the car.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” shouted Greg. “Amy, come on, your mom wants us to go home.” “Oh, that’s a great idea, Greg, make the child hate me.” Claire walked as quickly as she could back to the parking lot, her shoulders slumped and her grimacing face buried into her home-made scarf. Greg followed ten or so yards behind her, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Amy walked closely with her father, copying his stern facial expressions and aggravated strides. The car ride home was completely silent. Greg sat with his eyes set dead straight ahead, as if there were some sort of bug on the windshield wiper ridiculing him. Claire stared out her window, her brow furrowed and lips pulled tightly together, as if words might fall out if she wasn’t careful. Amy sat in the back seat, with her head down, playing with her fingers and singing Christmas carols inside her head, every now and
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then letting the slightest hint of a song escape from her closed lips as a hum. “I guess we’re going without a Christmas tree again this year, Amy,” sighed Claire as she walked into the house. “Your father just doesn’t know how to express his thoughts or make decisions.” “It’s okay,” said Amy, as she walked towards the bathroom and remained locked in longer than anyone ever should be locked in. Of course, sleep removed some of the tension by the next morning, but Claire and Greg still barely spoke to each other. Amy followed suit, taking note of how she should act in these sorts of situations. Whether she understood why she was being quiet mattered not - she didn’t want to disturb the pall that always seemed to set into her household so near to Christmas. In the middle of that week, Amy came home from school to find a nice little tree in her living room. Claire took one look at it and left the room, but Amy was happy to finally have a tree just like in all of those songs and movies. When Greg came home from work that night, he whistled “Oh Christmas Tree” as loudly as he could, as he watered the tree. “Hey Amy, wanna help me with the lights this weekend?” he asked over dinner. Amy smiled, but then looked at her mom, who was staring angrily at Greg. “Don’t worry, Amy, you can string the lights,” said Claire through her teeth, still looking at Greg. “I’m not going to make you choose between your father and me.” *** “Why can’t we ever have real Christmas trees?” demanded Tessie, staring intently at her mother, who sighed in exasperation, put down her plate, and turned to her daughter. “I don’t know why, Tessie,” she said, with a sharp edge to her words that could almost cut Tessie to pieces. “Maybe when you’re a mom, your family can have a real Christmas tree.”
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take me out
brooke goldsmith
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how would you define:
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dactylonomy* [dak-till-on-o-mee] n. 1. the study of ducks (sophie pennoyer); 2. dancing wildly in the street (katherine gianni); 3. the study of walnuts (mahathi kumar); 4. the study of the origin of ducks (jack sullivan) *the art of numbering or counting by the fingers
tintinnabulation* [tin-ti-nab-yuh-ley-shuhn] n. 1. making annoying noises (sophie pennoyer); 2. a fear that at some point in life you will turn into a tin can (katherine gianni); 3. cheese (mahathi kumar); 4. the assimilation to timbuktu (jack sullivan) *the ringing or sound of bells
inglenook* [ing-guhl-nook] n. 1. a small comfortable place (sophie pennoyer); 2. a quiet place to think or dream (katherine gianni); 3. a vitamin (mahathi kumar); 4. the study of angles (jack sullivan) *a corner or nook near a fireplace; chimney corner
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all i am, is a girl who found a face it fits all right (a little bit tight) all i am, is a girl who wears a mask struggling to reveal the flesh (of silence) beneath all I am, is a Girl whose face fits right onto a body covered in costume stitched seamlessly onto a face of masks continually being shaped and formed
faces of flesh emily ford
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arnold palmer
chris miles
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He sat stiffly strict, erect, chalkboard dusty with pie symbols crawled needle deep in twilight paths. He had a mustache of rulers and frogs in his throat, they bounded out of his mouth, which when opened spiraled deeply out of proportion and opened new universes. He sat upright, manly odor infusing the room with his essence, his sense scattered and sensitive, they tremble to the touch; flight grown wings flow from his back as his thoughts find root in their motion, striving through and by existing. All he could do was sigh at the sight stretched before him; all was in motion to his kaleidoscope. His sunglasses flashed and made all shade, and in the shade his eyes truly saw what the biting glare of the sunshine masqueraded.
sunglasses emily gerksy gwendolyn brooks poetry prize recipient
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abe emilie nadler
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sleepaway camp emily gutermann
I feel I need To tell you this, E x p e r i e n c i n g Feelings of being unsafe. I’m Kept in by Screens, an animal In a cage. Tossing, turning. Silent sobs streaming Down sun burnt cheeks. My body hot, Sweating from the heat The exhausting Cries create. Not even The sweet summer Breeze can sing me to sleep Like the sheets tucked tight At home Wrapping around me could. Or the protection of You and dad: I cry harder, When I think A b o u t Y o u . Please come, retrieve me. Rescue me from This cage. I’ll be Careful, not to wake Others who somehow rest… P e a c e f u l l y .
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untitled
carolyn mitchell
depressive nostalgia
casey calkins
my heart in my stomach my pulse in my head my throat closed to words my feet move like lead my lips start to quiver my chest rises fast my eyes blink out tears this feeling never passed.
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12:01 a.m. blink another line carved in – to the corner of the wall permanently paralyzed another day gone to waste like candles on each birthday cake that burn painfully burn deep down til death do It part trying to preserve the littlest of wax preservation – the system of the rule the way of living through Life days, months, years day plus days equal month plus months times more equals year plus years equal Life (or something like It) life plus Society equals routineroutineroutine or – the illusion through Today’s silver plates for all to see aside from the distortions of empty reflections filled up by the empti-ness of more creating Empty somewhere in the Empty, lay humans that wait (for the time to reveal) 12:02 a.m. blink another thought gone to waste
condition 12:01 emily ford
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tacypoc copycat llehctim nylorac carolyn mitchell ti did ehS deviv rus ehs dnA ti did I .deid I dnA
She did it And she survived I did it And I died.
evah dluohs tI ylkciuq reh delliK .yas lla yeTh deviv rus ehs tuB .yalp s’lived siTh
It should have Killed her quickly They all say. But she survived This devil’s play.
ot deirt I .reh ekil tsuj eB er’ew tuB .emas eht toN deviv rus ehs oS .deid I ,I dnA
I tried to Be just like her. But we’re Not the same. So she survived And I, I died.
ti did ehS .flesreh sA ,erew ti sa ,tuB ti did I ; oot flesreh sA .reh dna I dna I
She did it As herself. But, as it were, I did it As herself too; I and I and her.
deviv rus ehs dnA ,deid I elihW .deirt I tuB : eurt dnA .defl evah dluohs I daetsni tuB ehs sa did I deviv rus ohW .em fo daetsnI
And she survived While I died, But I tried. And true: I should have fled. But instead I did as she Who survived Instead of me.
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waterfall mrs. amy swords
raking leaves mark toubman
Outside in the cool crisp air we work, The Autumn sun energizing us, As we listen to the distinct screech Of metal on asphalt. Slowly but surely we collect each and every one. And transform the ocean of Reds, yellows and oranges, Into our own private mountain. As the pile grows, So does our excitement In anticipation of our deserved reward. We glance at each other, then at the leaves, Ready for that exhilarating crunch.
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well-lit room emily sullivan
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surfing
xochil rivera
I’m waiting The sun, so hot against my skin
But every lifetime is a second It ends
I stare out for miles, There it is What I’ve been waiting for
But wait, The ending is the best part
I turn around Then lie down I take a deep breath I glace back, just once more It’s approaching My heartbeat accelerates I shut my eyes On a count of three, I’ll be ready 1… 2… 3… The anticipation is over I don’t look back this time I feel myself being driven Faster and faster No, It’s time to take control I push myself up The jump determines it all One more deep breath I’m up I stretch my arm The water grazes my hand I’m in control Every second feels like a lifetime
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Those last moments The rush, the adrenaline The breeze kissing my face It’s my drug As I feel the last second creeping up; I fall The cold water hits my body So sudden, It pulls me in Full of disappointment Full of happiness Full of thrill Eyes shut tight I don’t know where I am I don’t struggle The moment isn’t over yet I’m pulled by the leg It’s time I break the surface It’s over It’s okay though, This will last me until next year Because, Nothing else compares to that moment
count quickly& don’t stop casey latorre
count quickly& don’t stop three. the sound of your voice late into the night(talking talking talking) into the phone. whisper softly and everything sounds right. two. stop grinning(it drives me crazy) it’s fake &i don’t like it(but) the truth is that i Fall for you when you( smile). one. touch my hand again but don’t(let go ). knees go weak and hearts pound fast (spinning spinning spinning) look away fast(i collapse at your feet)
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tree by the lake ed leardi
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crumbles pat freeman
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Just take one look at the gleaming sun, And realize how bright you can be. Open your eyes and it could be fun. In England you can be the Queen’s son. Or in Japan you can grow some tea. Just take one look at the starry sun. Envision yourself on an Olympic ski run With wind so strong you’re unable to see But, open your eyes and it could be fun.
dreaming to be the one
Do you want to work putting burgers on a bun Or watch the sunset on your yacht out at sea? (From your boat) just take one look at the vibrant sun. Thoroughly clean the barrel of your gun And prepare to fight for your country in World War III. Open your eyes and it could be fun. The choices are endless, but you can only make one, Which will determine your destiny. So take one look at the shining sun To open your eyes and experience the fun.
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ben andaya
surely loved kelsey mester
Surely they love him, It’s their own flesh and blood. Surely they love him, True baby or not. Surely he will live a life like a planned son. Surely he will nev’r know the truth. Mom and Dad sacrifice their other loves To prove a twinkle in an eye is false; That, Surely, they can live among the other Moms and Dads, Who planned and thought ahead. But with every act comes an end, To which the audience applauds – or disapproves. And so the show ends for all who have come and acted. Sad that their run has ended. But Surely this is life like another son. But Surely he’s loved by Mom and Dad.
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chewed brooke goldsmith
burned
catherine boyle Dear Welch’s Fruit Snacks, I’m awfully sorry that you burned in my house fire. I tried desperately to save you, but the delightfully small packets that you’re stored in slipped out of my hands and into the sizzling fire. I watched in horror as the flames engulfed the packet, leaving only a gooey mess behind. I wiped a stray tear streaming down my face; what if I will never be able to taste the wonderful artificial flavors of my favorite gummies ever again? With love, Catherine Boyle
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bright nick lange
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chuck james mckeown
If I was stuck in an elevator with Chuck Norris — wait, Chuck Norris does not get stuck in elevators.
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dennis jonathan wu
People I’d like to meet: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.
Dennis Bisgaard* Harry Potter Roger Federer Jack Black Nicolas Cage
*If I met Dennis Bisgaard, I would tell him how much I like his name. I would say that not many people have the name of Dennis and that I love saying it. I would ask him to allow me to call him “Dennis” and he would reply, “Sure,” in a Danish accent.
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average day spencer murray
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crayola kiss zarah mohamed
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a knight’s quest liz dietz
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he knights got it right. They seemed happy enough; content to die for their beliefs and their mistresses. They feared nothing, not even chinks in their armor. The knight was a man of unparalleled gallantry, of unmatched refinement: why then, must the present epoch condemn him? Why must progress, equality, the future, be without chivalry? Society is an evolutionary masterpiece, adapting and changing to suit its contemporaries. However, the zeitgeist dictates that if we permit chivalry, we widen the gap between men and women, good and bad, fiction and reality. Society squelches chivalry, eviscerating it as antiquated and sexist. Could there, however, be in it some hidden value? The code of yore, undoubtedly, would take some fixing to work today. We have more stringent policies regarding public dueling, and the putting-women-on-a-pedestal-whileactually-marginalizing-them business surely would need amending. But we are on a ship sailing directly for the land of pigs – a land where poetry goes unvoiced, flowers go unsent, and the death knell of the civilized sounds when the final door is left unheld. Chivalry is dead, and we are worse off for it. Only faint vestiges of humanity’s former moral code remain. Looking for a knight’s honor on our Wall Streets is but a quest for the almighty dollar: Though Camelot looks nothing like Goldman Sachs, it is, sadly, our closest approximation. What sort of loyalty do we have, if it can be bought and sold by the flashiest advertisement? And where, too, might we begin with women? Undeniably, progress has produced a society in which they have received a begrudging acceptance, as competent workers, strong leaders, and perchance, more than fashionable arm candy, thanks to the miracles of birth control and common sense. But in the process, somewhere we’ve lost the hope for a better man. Somehow as men and women approached parity, the obligations of the suitor vanished. That is not to say that women should be hoisted back upon a pedestal and left there until the house gets dirty, nor that men should relate to women with any unjust propriety, nor even that the men, and not the women, must be the gallant ones. But for heaven’s sake, are “please” and “thank you” that much of an impediment? The death of chivalry has put the florists and the chocolatiers out of work, and the poets and the muses too. We cannot regress to a society in which we kill or subjugate to show our strength. But we can beg for one in which we are a little more vocal about our affections, a little more true to our values, a little more courageous in our actions. And a little more likely to hold the door for a lady.
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building an empire in a day emily gersky
Pimply biscuits are like fresh peaches waiting to be plucked. My bistro soup points to Mars, and all soup tells the future, honestly, I swear to the god of orange things and cashews. We are no brighter than deer eyes caught in headlights and just as helpless. Making cities is like playing with blocks, super glue those bricks; it’s tick-tacky and scrapped together with fumbling fingers ― like hasty sand castles configured on a beach ― they crumble like blueberry cobbler. Let’s throw thousands of people in our Alexandria and watch it all fall apart.
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amnesia kelsey mester
holes ramona bullock What are you going to do for the rest of your life with those big holes in your ears?
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tiger
claudia silvers
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the sun jacqueline dufour The sun is setting While we walk down the path The red and orange sky Shining down on us We start running Trying to get to the hill We get there just in time. We sit down, Our legs dangling over the cliff. His arm over her shoulder She leans into him, Both staring at the setting sun The sunset’s Making the sky grey. The stars come out Shining brighter than anything before Making the sky grey. They stand up Walking down the path The sun is setting While they walk down the path The red and orange sky Shining down on them. They start to run Trying to get to the hill They get there just in time, The gates open, And they walk through the gates We stand there We are not alone anymore.
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They give us hugs, We have been gone for so long. We sit down. The sun is rising The bright light Shining down on them The bright blue sky Shining with opportunities. The sun will not set. Not for many years. The sun will stay up, Alive and well, Unlike the setting sun, Dead and watching Over the new rising sun. As we sit here, Our sun already set, We can only watch from above, As our great great grand children Learn and grow, Their sun is just about to rise.
caroline lange
goodness
goodness, boy, i wish you knew i simply have no words for you. you are everything between the lines: the eyes, the mouth, the teeth, the tines of a perfect fork or the pretty font that spindles through your work. i only want for you to know i try (‘cause despite the silence, sleepy eyes, and hands that don’t know what to do, i really, truly, do like you).
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untitled matt luther
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I take It once in the morning to help focus overall It improves grades but It makes me quietshylonelymisguided It brings a weird feeling with it a sense of confusion I am forced to question everything happiness is not a concern it’s collateral damage at the end of the day a smile starts to sneak through that grey matter the mind is at ease but the brain is in a panic solution: take another no need to have a good meal or good laugh it’s better to get what needs to be done without any distractions but do the ends justify the means? They say so They say in Society achievements are measured by success and success starts with this thing I take It keeps me up and wired for eighteen hours and sleepy and restless for six sleep is overrated they say you need it but who has the time?
+ her all chris macca
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the room with the window varun khattar
W
hat’s beautiful about it actually doesn’t lie within the four walls. The room itself is actually quite small. With a queen bed, desk and wardrobe, it leaves hardly any remaining room to stand. A nook, a hasty attempt to add an additional bedroom. It’s not exactly tastefully decorated either. The deep mahogany bedroom set, artificially aged with imperfections to appear antique and heirloom, doesn’t exactly fit the disorganized, ecletic pre-adolescent theme. Baby pictures, preteen fiction series such as Alex Rider or Star Wars, cheap, gold plastic soccer trophies surround it, on the walls and the desk. Permission slips, homework assignments and other neglected scraps of paper litter every possible inch of tabletop space. There’s even a porcelain, painted Laughing Buddha statue, a religious token of good fortune, collected from a childhood trip to India and lost in a distant, fading memory, in an untouched corner. The walls are a soft blue, the kind you often found on a newborn boy’s bibs, socks, and pacifiers, but probably less appropriate for a twelve-year-old. A thermal map of Mars’s surface removed from a copy of National Geographic is tastelessly plastered by the patron on the wall above the bed. But it more than satisfactorily fits its purpose. No, what’s beautiful about it lies beyond that expansive window – my selfcontained, well-maintained world, my suburban neighborhood. Picturesque red brick houses contrasted against rich, wide green lawns preserved within the window frame like a photograph. On a bright, cloudless afternoon, the room is saturated in brilliant sunlight like a liquid suspended in the air. Not the piercing, blinding sunlight, but the warm, heavy kind. The type of sunlight you can close your eyes and allow your skin to absorb and soak in. Today, weather permitting, the room lends itself perfectly to people watching. My brother and his younger friend are presently tossing around a football, chasing each other and collapsing in laughter in the grass, in an innocent, childish game on our large front lawn. Lawnmowers peacefully graze on their respective properties. Neighborhood children pass by on miniature bikes in small flocks. The sunlight dances upon nondescript cars as they slowly arrive and leave across the asphalt. A glimpse of a miniature perfect world for a few hours.
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Lying spread across the bed in the sunlight with a newspaper or book, it’s too easy to fall victim to a deep, trance-like sleep wrapped in the warmth and sunlight. Too easy to forget life beyond the room with the window. If only it could remain forever. But alas the sun has set and the magic disappears and beauty disintegrates. Again it becomes a plain, messy room. A site for countless arguments and lectures. A bedroom from which a parent has been forced to retreat too many nights. What’s beautiful about it truly doesn’t lie within the four walls.
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self-portrait catherine harger
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amante
siobhan mcilhoney
AmanteDon’t cry for me When I leave this world I’m still here in your arms tonight Though tomorrow comes swiftly On wings of blue and gold This hour that dawns of late is still dark Still ours For me and for you For us together Twixt the morning dew and the nightingale I love you more than life itself. -your Constance
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untitled maleeha naqvi i Really didn’t want to go, i left a piece behind in your favorite book when, i left it all behind a piece in your telephone (so i can hear you all the time) a piece in your blanket (so i can keep you warm at night) a piece is in the dining room (so you never eat alone) a piece by the front door (so i can greet you when you get home) a piece in your handkerchief (so i can wipe your tears when you cry) a piece on your lips (so I can feel it when you smile) there was a piece i kept with me (you know i need it too) to keep That little piece alive i took a piece of you.
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catherine boyle
coat on a hanger, boots on the ground
(b)rainstorm crystal abbate
The scalding water trickles down my back, As the steam penetrates the glass doors, From the bottom, Gradating to the top. I grab the bottle wet enough to slip out of my clumsy hands, And slightly squeeze a quarter amount of its substance in my palm. I massage it into my scalp as I close my eyes and Scream into my microphone of bottled shampoo as I sing along to the lyrics of the song Broadcasting on the radio. I clutch the milky bar of soap and scrub it into my loofah, Which then gets spread around the perimeter of my body, Cleaning each section of me, Reviving every inch of dry, flaky skin. And then after all the cleaning is done, I just stand there, With my head facing towards the drain and the water slowly dripping off my dead ends, The water pouring on the same place, with the same pace, The steam evaporating into the pores in my skin and slowly inhaling it with each deep, solid breath, The comforting hot water relaxes me more than ever. If only people knew, This is where I do my deepest thinking. Every thought bounces back and forth in my mind, And I sometimes don’t come to conclusions with some problem or issue, I just think about them. But sometimes that’s all I need.
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epic math mrs. garcia’s varsity calculus class
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estimations steph fagbemi
“T
his should be easy,” Bella thought as she glided down the halls smothered with high-pitched voices of nervous excitement. She could not understand what all the hullabaloo was about: it was only a silly dance. Then, it came to her! Everyone was so worried about asking a date to the dance because they were all so average with their gray clothing and dull brown eyes and shine-lacking poop-brown hair and dry, wan skin. All the girls seemed to look alike to her, like fashion-backward sheep. Even all of their bodies were the same: short and chubby with chin-length hair that did not at all help to mask the rotundity of their faces. Bella was different. She was tall and thin with black hair that reflected light like glass, and fierce, green, cat-like eyes filled with mystery, and a healthylooking tan that went well with her firetruck-red nails. She gracefully walked with a single book in hand and stopped just to the left of Anne’s locker. Anne was her best friend and they bonded over being different. Like the other girls, Anne had gray clothing, brown eyes, brown hair, and pale skin. However, her clothes fit her perfectly, accentuating her curves. Her brown eyes sparkled with energy. Her brown hair was long, voluminous, and glossy. Her pale skin almost always flushed with life at her cheeks. She looked up from her locker to her closest friend whose one book was held as though it was weighing her down, unknowingly posing like Twiggy, and said, “Do you know who you are going to ask yet?” Bella ruminated for a whole second and replied, “No. You know how weird I think these dances are. It’s too much work to have to choose that one, extremely lucky guy. Every other girl has it so easy: they just have to ask the best-looking guy that won’t turn ‘em down! Do you have any idea who you’re gonna ask?” “Well… I was thinking about asking this one person,” Anne said, raising herself up from her spot, kneeling in front of her bottom locker, too fast and losing her balance a smidge. “And who might that be?” Bella said with her exotic eyes slightly squinting into Anne’s in a look of curiosity. “Uhh, but I dunno if they’ll like me back,” she said, looking down at her toes which were pointed toward Bella, but cautiously crossing her forearms over a number of books at her chest. “Common, Annie! We both know these things are stupid. All they are for is to give them hobbledehoys a break from the worrying about whether they are good enough
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for us or not (not, clearly being the answer, here).� Anne looked up and giggled at the use of the funny word she had taught Bella yesterday. She smiled until her bright red cheekbones pushed the bottom lids of her eyes into half moons. She leaned five inches forward, kissed her best friend, and stepped quietly into her half-full chemistry classroom.
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diagonals warren hadley
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piosenki ola koza
Jak mam wiedzieć, że mnie kochasz? Jak mam być pewna? Jak mam wiedzieć że moje łzy są Ciebie warte? Może kiedyś to zrozumiesz, Że czasem nie jestem pewna. Jak mam wiedzieć, że mnie kochasz? Ale co mogę zrobić, Jak ten świat jest tak złożony że do tanga trzeba dwojga? Ale co mogę zrobić? Nie moge tańczyć sama. Jak mam wiedzieć, że mnie kochasz?
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ray-bans emilie nadler
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the balloon valerie courtney
Can you bounce a balloon? Open a package Searching for the best color. It stretches some And you add air Slowly, faster, fast. It inflates Tie it shut with A little pinch to your finger It soars high in the sky With a gentle push From your hand. Then it starts to fall, Fall fast into the earth. Can you bounce a balloon Or does it rest forever On the ground?
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I flew, Father, I flew from thee But as I flew thy blood rained down And the ground turned ruby. Thy red, red blood dyed my hands, Though they took no part in thy horrible death, They took no action to stay it either. I fled by your wish, I wept for your sacrifice, But no amount of calling can bring you back to me. Thy life ended in the dirtiest of ways, Three assassins on lonely night. All I can do is honor thy last words and take revenge Upon thee who tore thou from my clutching hands Before thy time and who made thou bleed So the earth could have a taste of thy blood.
red, red ruby jackie dunn
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farther than the sea
She held her life in her hands As if it was a bird that couldn’t fly. A bird so weak it couldn’t stand. A bird as small as a pea, But dreams as big as the sea. Then came a bird as sweet as honey Came along like a wind from the hills. He swooped in like a kite and landed with a chirp And taught the bird to be And fly as high as a tree. The bird tried and tried but couldn’t. He curled up in her hands like a cat. But then he got up, persevered and flew! He danced across the tops of trees as a kite. He knew he could fly until it became night. The older unneeded bird went and flew away. And now the bird flies higher All through night and day. Now her hands are open and the bird has been set free. He can fly as far as he wants Farther than the sea.
naomi letourneau
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mano di da vinci chris miles
Ever changing, lights lapse. The moon wanes and stars collapse. Darkness grows, fear expands. Hope implodes, plane crash lands.
memento mori olivia o’connor
Slicing knives bite, wary sleeps. Softened flesh breaks and weeps. Hearts crush, breaking open. The world turns, pain unspoken. Fatefully, the stars realign, Changing the destinies untold. The dust is bitten, sparks shine. Embers burning, the coals cold.
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my thoughts on a school day frank bruno
The clock goes off Beside my bed I stare at the blank ceiling Above my head I walk quietly down the hallway And into the hot shower The snappy steam fills up my head I could stay for an hour I soon get dressed And I’m looking my absolute best Shirt, tie, khakis, and all As I reach for my breakfast And head towards the car I think about school And my studies so far I’ve been trying so hard To bring up my grades So I can get honors As the semester fades School is a journey From beginning to end And the effort you make To increase your knowledge Could possibly get you Your choice for college As I manage my money And make up my mind My mysterious future Lies before me in time
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i really am studying, you know ruthie dannehy gwendolyn brooks poetry prize recipient I always do this, you know, Lose things. Things that are “real important,” my mom says. Like that AP Biology book, before the test. Full of facts and the Secret Lives of SNRPs. I love the word, SNRP. (Snuh-erp). What I don’t love is looking for the bible of all things biological So I give up after rifling through a pile of papers (that could never fit an anthology of answers.) Instead I lie back on the floor where I’m “studying” (only when the hallway creaks and the door opens) and close my eyes. I try to picture Okazaki Fragments But all that comes to mind is I love that word, Okazaki I had the definition, but, like my manual of molecules I lost it. You know those moments where its so quiet you can hear the lights buzz? (“awkward silences” I believe they’re called) Well I love them because I can hear my brain It’s a blender, you see. it takes thoughts I don’t want to think and sounds I don’t want to hear and sights I don’t want to see and pulverizes them (pulverize: that’s a setting on my blender) until I lose them. When it’s real quiet, I hear the blade whirl and thoughts crumble. I think that’s what happened to my treatise of transcription.
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I’m sorry, was that too random for you? My thoughts are like that Bits and Pieces. Parts of a ship wreck that drifted out to sea swayed by the current until they were never a ship. Does that make them Okazaki Fragments? (I don’t see why you’re asking me. Am I spelling Okazaki right?) I suppose I’ve exhausted my knowledge of biology now, so I’m sort of at a dead end. And truth be told I’ve exhausted my mind trying to think of synonyms for “book”. It’s just a book, see, nothing “real important” (my mom says). I think I’ll go back to thinking now. Or did I ever stop?
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the editors
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co-editors-in-chief caroline lange
emily steinberg
armed with pen and pearls she goes out to meet the world she’s heard all about
been told they can see past my lips. but they don’t know i get cold at night
art editor tom giardini sweet and sour shrimp next in the netflix queue is kat von drachenberg
contributing editors catherine boyle
michael hathaway
your words are bitter like the taste of orange juice after mint toothpaste
four string, five string bass revolutions per minute rainy days, long book
casey calkins
rayva khanna
writing haikus is a great talent of mine, but i would rather dance
sip dell’s lemonade no traces of any rain summer’s here to stay
ruthie dannehy
carolyn marcello
saturday morning not a haiku sort of day feelin’ a sonnet
lingua latina est mirabilis adi dura ligere
hayley deberry
allison mendola
likes walking at night in the summer, heavy rain, and nabokov’s books
we lay in the grass looking for shapes in the clouds i see a rhino
victoria eatherton
kelsey mester
seven year senior i’m lacrosse and outward bound i’m ‘nova nation
taken from the world by a rope around my waist spine first, feet dragged out last
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carolyn mitchell
sarah steinberg
too much to study i haven’t watched the new glee ap’s are a drag
a student by week a rider by afternoon always a writer
zarah mohamed
victoria stoj
thank you for all that you’ve done — understanding me is really quite hard
today i got lost don’t really mind, not at all in fact, i’m glad. joy.
chiamaka ndibe
eva stys
six years gone too fast, please don’t make me leave next year. upper prep, come back
rolling towards your skin waiting for my thoughts to burn catch me if i fall
madeline reich
emily sullivan
i love cuddling cats when i do i start to wheeze i hate allergies
a day at ko around the merry-go-round so it goes again
xochil rivera
angel villa
she is so little her eyes gaze on me cutely can’t help but hug her
oh, the senior slide there is no such thing, i think it is just a myth
catalina salazar
zoe waldman
she wants to be her i watch in fascination she wants to love her
wish i had more time to observe nature outside but i’m here for now
alec zimmerman it is too early starbucks is my second home cream and sugar please
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