spring 2015 “It is spring again. The Earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” – Rainer Maria Rilke
epic
epic
spring 2015
The Epic Staff Editors-in-Chief
Molly Sullivan and Talia Zimmerman
Managing Editors
Meghan Kennedy and Amanda Loughran
Staff
Lauren Barnes Hannah Bash Max Bash Vivian Goldstein Ava Tankala
Honorary Staff Noa Silverstein
Letter from the Editors How’s it going? Hopefully, you’re picking up this final edition on a bright, sunny May day. You all know what epic is, so we are going to talk about what epic means to us. Talia: “I never considered myself to be an ‘artist,’ but this job has challenged me to try something new and push me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. I am so thankful for everything I have learned.” Molly: “Honestly, I hadn’t thought of epic’s significance in my life until this year, but through this process, I’ve made three incredible friends who went through the same journey. I’ll never forget what this magazine has done for me.” So as you can see, epic has been more than a place for the KO community to share their work, but a place where you can surprise yourself by testing your limits. Now have an epic summer (see it’s punny)! -Molly & Talia
Williamsburg Bridge Lexi Banasiewicz
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I Heard a Who
Talia Zimmerman
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How Life Should Be Lived Ryan Clifford
Love summer for the sun; do not hate it for the sunburns Love winter for the snow; do not hate it for the coldness Love autumn for the colors; do not hate it for the toil of raking Love spring for the flowers; do not hate it for the rain Love her for the comfort she brings; do not hate her for her occasional moodiness Love him for the calm he offers; do not hate him for his impatience Love her for her imperfections; do not hate her for these Love him for his quirks; do not hate him for these either Love yourself for all that you have fought through Love yourself for who you are Love yourself for making a difference in this world Love yourself for the absence of hatred
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Chicas Claire Halloran
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Ball Is Life
Benjamin Coady
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Siren
Ryan Clifford Singing, your songs brainwash, like a hypnotist; beautiful, unique, serene, intoxicating, luring: you have divine powers, a pearl in a field of ashes: Singing, you are worth going blind for. Singing, you are transparent as a glass of water; you have cat’s eyes and elaborate plans in your mind: Singing, you are not seen at the moment, but heard as he tries to get closer to you. Found, you are a living nightmare: Insane, evil, unforgiving, till he manages to escape with nothing but depression and confusion And you return to isolation with nothing but hate for the world, as if everyone is terrible and you are the only one who makes sense: and your darkness spreads, surrounding your island of solitude and hate–like a thick fog– and you begin to sing your song once again.
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A Lost Memory Meghan Dalton
I stop somewhere waiting for you, hoping for my eyes to once again meet with yours. Missing all the times we’ve shared; laughing at one another and receiving mysterious calls from your troublesome neighbor, leaves an ache in my chest. Not a day has gone by, that I haven’t been looking for you. Waiting for someone to tell me you are coming back. I continue to picture you laying in your bed as your breaths become short and your eyes struggle to stay open. Although I was just a stranger to you, memories unraveled through my mind, as I felt your hand against my own weakening, as I watched the color drain from your face. Slowly, your grasp was lost and my eyes no longer met with yours.
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Osprey
Alexandra Burke
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No Repeats Or Hesitations Reilly Callahan
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what a lark, what a plunger Cole Adams
you asked me what happened to venus’ arms and all i could think to say was ‘autotomy,’ like the lizards you’d pick up by the tail, and all around me are marble simulacrums of you, cutting into my shoulder blades and castrating my firing nerves, stuck like a stone chrysalis to a twig above the rotting carcass of a wolf that bit its leg off to get away it lost too much blood, it lost, it lost, it lost and now you’re a mannequin in my head i can’t take it, empty plastic eye sockets because someone jammed a knife straight through venus de milo’s spine and laughed when her skin tore like wet paper
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Fenced In
Claire Halloran
The Story of a Boy Phoebe Taylor
There is a school that exists nowhere in particular. And in this school, there is a boy named nothing in particular. This is a story about that boy. Our story begins in a quiet home. Soon, it will be filled with shouting and cursing and things crashing about, but for now, in the small hours of the morning, it is silent. This is where we find our hero. He lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he will make himself worth something. You see, this little boy has dreams. They are dreams that will never come true (but don’t tell him
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that, not yet). He wants to be something. Not anything in particular, really just something at all. He sits, every morning, staring at the ceiling, with a dream stuck in his heart, and the words of his father echoing in his head: “You are nothing,” “I am everything,” he answers. Oh, what blissful ignorance. Oh, what blissful youth. He has not yet realized that the world is not his oyster. That the playground down the road is his only kingdom, and that his dreams are irrelevant in this vast and hungry word. An alarm sounds somewhere in the depths of the house, and with a sigh, the boy begins his day. “Wake the fuck up and get ready for school!” his father shouts. So he wakes the fuck up and gets ready for school. “Good morning, Honey, ready for school?” Mom’s voice is tired, Mom’s voice is small. “Yeah.” His voice is small too. He gets in the car and Mom drives him to school. She says, “I love you!” and he leaves for the door. And here is where our hero meets his villain. The front doors are locked. They’re always locked for him. The front office buzzes him in, and he goes to class. The teacher barely notices him as he walks in and takes a seat. He has science first period, but he doesn’t understand half the words the teacher uses, so he looks out the window and waits for the bell. Next is math, but the numbers are a foreign language he never got to learn. “How would you go about solving this problem?” Panic.
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Now everyone will think I’m dumb. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. What the hell do all the lines mean? Why is that number separated by a slash from the other? Why are there letters when this is supposed to be numbers? Why is this, why is that, shit I don’t know what’s going on? Stupidsutupidstupid. He shakes his head and the teacher shakes her’s right back. “This is basic math!” she exclaims, “you learned this in seventh grade! How do you simplify 3x+1=4?” Silence. The day is painfully slow. Then lunch is here and it is. Loud. “Hey, man, what’s up?” another faceless no-one-inparticular emerges from the cacophony. This no-one-inparticular also thinks he’s going somewhere. Lunch passes fast, and then back to the classes no one understands. Art class is next. Finally. Paint and clay are universal languages. The teacher doesn’t do much yelling, because there is nothing to yell about. In this room our hero is safe; although it is quiet, his colors create all the sound he needs. This is the bat cave, the highest tower, the place he is not alone. He actually gets praise from teachers here. They tell him he’s got talent when everyone else tells him he’s got nothing. But when he gets there, the doors are firmly closed. His art teacher is in his office, packing boxes and readying to leave. “What’s going on?” Our hero’s voice is smaller than his mother’s. The teacher is very sad: “The art program can’t pay for me anymore. Art will be again next year, but the other art teacher will hae to pick up the slack on her own.”
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Now let me tell you something about our hero. His dreams will never come true, and he will not make it past his junior year, but he can make beauty with his own two hands, even when it seems like the world is falling apart. His art teacher was the first person in the world to tell him he could do it if he tried, and now that’s over too. So now this teacher walks over to our hero and tells him something very, very new: “Listen to me very carefully. You’ve got more talent than ten of me. You don’t need me anymore. There are a lot of people who will tell you you can’t, and there’s only a couple who tell you you can. If you only listen to one thing in your entire life, listen to this: the only person that really matters is you. So don’t you dare turn into one of those people who tells you you can’t. They’re a waste of time. Don’t you dare become one.” Then he picks up his cardboard box and leaves. The hero watches the time tick away by counting the particles of dust floating in the light by the window, and then the bell rings, and he goes home. About a thousand mornings later, the boy is laying in silence on his bed in the very small hours of the morning. He is listening again to the voices in his head. “You are nothing,” it says. “I am nothing,” he answers.
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Conformity Emily Lowit
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Foggy Bottom
Angie DeLucia
deep-ends
Cole Adams i was born today of natural causes—with a leaky brain that drains down the back of my throat, clogs the garbage disposal and gurgles up the crevice between my abyssal lips— on my tongue i taste the tang of vomit and it makes me sick, sick like you on our family trip to vermont, passing out in the hotel shower and knocking out your front teeth; now screws in your gums hold the replacements in place—and how like you to ask the dentist whether people would be able to tell if they were fake. she said, ‘it depends; will you take care of them?’ and only i saw the paroxysm of fear flash on your face
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6 Million
Benjamin Coady Yeah you heard me right 6 million of my closest brothers and sisters died by the year 1945 Why might you ask? Not because they were rapists or thieves or murders They were Jews like me They were murdered by a man Who lived in Berlin, Germany Who thought that they were tainting his pure German society So he shipped us away In trains like cattle After days We arrived At places like Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, and Dachau They told us it would be all right As thick black smoke came out of the cremetory No harm would be done This is where we would go Until the war was won They lied A man pointed to either right or left Your fate at one man’s fingertip And he couldn’t care less
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If he pointed right Well, back to the barracks you would go And they would see how long you could last If he pointed to the left Into the “showers” you would go They would ask you ask you to strip off your clothes And wait for the water to hit your toes But the water would not come Gas would, my friend You would suffocate and finally drop dead And you would become the black smoke over the new inmates’ heads So where are the Jews today you might ask? All dead and gone No we are still here, doing just fine But people will forget what the Nazis did to us Or people say that we just made that story up Never let them forget What happened to my 6 million siblings Because if you don’t keep the memory alive Who will?
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I am a Hero
Jacob Silverstein *As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles I am a hero of spirit, I am a hero of truth A hero that does not pretend to be eternal A hero that does not wear a cape, nor wear a mask A hero that does not fly through the sky, nor be different from another But a hero whose power is to inspire, a hero who can influence another to make his own miracles. My weakness is a bullet, my weakness is my heart I may perish but my message lives on, not with a face but with a moral a miracle of inspiration, that outgrows me, that is carried among those around me and their peers. *From the Poem “Miracles� by Walt Whitman
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Heaven
Emily Lowit
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Raindrops on “Roses” Talia Zimmerman
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Roman Law School Commencement Mark Sheehan
Rome is at a crossroads greater than any along the length of the Appian Way. For hundreds of years, our religious world has been dominated by the Greek pantheon, but now there’s something new, Christianity. With this change comes upheaval, a social revolution greater than any since the fall of the Republic, and, of course, class action discrimination lawsuits, so I hope you’ll all agree with me when I say there’s never been a better time to be a Roman lawyer. I, Pompous Maximus IV, am mildly pleased to have been invited as commencement speaker for you, graduating class of the Roman School of Law, class of LVI. Now that you’ve all made it through school, many of you are no doubt wondering what branch of the Roman legal world you will enter, and I’d like to give you some tips for several of them. Firstly, you could work in criminal courts as a public defender. Public defenders get a bad image because a lot of people think this is just lowly grunt work, but there’s a lot of cleverness required. For example, maybe your client has some pretty strong evidence against him, and if he’s found guilty, he might be fed to the lions, but with a good plea bargain, you might get his sentence down to gladiatorial combat for life with the chance of parole after 10 fights, at which point, he’ll probably be dead, but there’s still a chance. There are also all sorts of loopholes a good public defender knows how to exploit. Does anyone here really think that Pontius Pilate had some weird tradition to free a random prisoner ever now and then? No. Barabbas’ lawyer worked that one out. If you’re interested in working in the public sector but don’t see yourself working in criminal court, there are many other
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possibilities you can pursue. For example, proscription. To a Plebian, the whole thing looks pretty simple. Put a bunch of names on a list, post the list, anyone on the list is fair game to murder for cash. What could be easier? Of course, a smart lawyer like any one of you knows that’s not true. There are all sorts of nuances like proving that people are in sufficient mental health and physical health to be proscribed, and it takes a smart lawyer to work it all out. My own father organized the great proscription of XLIII BC. It’s a shame he had to proscribe Cicero in that one, but lawyers aren’t exactly known for being friendly to each other. Another great field to go into is insurance. There are a wide variety of low risk high reward insurance plans you can write and sell. For example, current projections indicate Rome won’t be sacked by barbarians for at least three centuries, so it’s a great time to scare people into buying some barbarian insurance. I myself have been doing quite well selling my sacking of Rome insurance plans. Of course, the fine print I wrote has some interesting statements like Article VI, Clause III, “Plan does not cover sacking done by any of the following groups: Huns, Visigoths, Vandals, and Ostrogoths,” or Article LIX, Clause IV, “Plan covers all actions during the sack except for destruction of property, pillaging, burning, and murder,” but people don’t look at it that closely, and, let’s face it, those Plebeians probably can’t even read. Also, if anyone is interested, now is a great chance to get in on the ground floor for an excellent new insurance startup that will be selling a wide variety of low liability insurance plans for residents of the Mt. Vesuvius region. Market analysts estimate that they could see comprehensive volcano insurance plans to 95% of all freemen residing in the greater metropolitan areas of Pompeii and Herculaneum by the year LXXIX, when the
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odds of a devastating volcanic eruption are believed to be low to nonexistent. They won’t have to pay out volcano plans to any of those suckers! Maritime law is another excellent field. Admiralty law can get complicated fast. For example, say a ship built in Russia and manned by a Dacian crew attacks a ship registered with Italy in Parthiam waters and kidnaps its Rhodian captain. Who has jurisdiction for hunting down those pirates, and, of course, the big question, who has to pay out for the captain’s ransom? It takes a good lawyer to figure out those issues of jurisdiction, and a truly great lawyer to find some compelling reasons for why someone other than Rome should pay that ransom. Labor law is also important, and many unions just don’t have the lawyers they need. For example, if the United Coliseum Workers had the lawyers they needed to enforce their contracts, their employers wouldn’t be able to commit blatant labor rights violations like the time they sent the legendary gladiator Russellus Crowus to fight Tigris of Gaul without telling him they were going to throw in a bunch of tigers. There are even more fields of Roman law that I haven’t touched on. The reputation of many a lawyer was made on wrongful crucifixion lawsuits, there’s always work to be done obtaining building permits for new temples and forums, but you don’t have to limit yourself to these fields. The truly great Roman lawyers like Cicero have been great because they’ve carved out their own paths. So get out there and find out how you; make it big in Roman law.
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Calle
Max Bash
A Walk on the Beach Hannah Ferraro
And again as I walked the beach under the paling stars of the morning Thinking about the simple times Wondering at what moment it all changed, At what moment life went from playing in the sand to watching others have all the fun Why must things get complicated? Will I ever understand why it has to happen? I’m filled with these questions, Questions that can’t be answered So I walk, Further and further, searching for the reason, Under the paling stars of the morning.
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What Is the Soul? Jacob Silverstein
What is the soul? The soul is what we make it The soul is who we are, The soul is what we care about and what we believe We call it a heart, we call it a personality It is, our soul The soul dwells within us Searching for purpose, The soul dwells within us Looking for hope The soul drives us, the soul is what motivates us Our soul is who we are and what we care about It’s what defines us, it’s our permanent record Our soul has our past, our future and our present sealed upon it It holds our secrets and our truth It is, our soul
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The Salesman Adam Kim “A man at the door,” Light said. “Really? Who could be knocking at this hour, and at our door, in fact?” Justice asked. “Who is it?” “A salesman and his young companion.” “A salesman? Most odd. Well let him in. I’ll call everyone togeth-” “Already done,” Light said and Justice smiled. “Of course.” Justice leaned back in its chair as the numerous others appeared in their thrones around him. “A salesman! How exciting!” Happiness cried, her exuberant voice filling the cavernous hall. “I wonder, though, what would he grant us?” “Some new joy, perhaps?” Love said, a voice so gentle and fair it brought silence wherever it was heard. “It is most curious.” “Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Wisdom said, her every word deliberate and soothing to the ear, like rain to a desert. “We must not judge him before he is before us.” Intellect said nothing. But surely there is no harm in making guesses?” Humor said, his joyous voice ringing with mirth. “Oh, this is too much! I must know!” Curiosity said, her shimmering eyes watching the door with great anticipation. “I appreciate this man for taking the time to excite us so. We hardly ever have anything so thrilling,” Gratitude said, his voice calm and earnest. Intellect said nothing. “This man is of great stature, I can tell!” Pride said, his voice booming like an avalanche.
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“Perhaps it is another sibling to play with! Oh, I’m sure what this man has to offer is most glorious!” Trust sang, her voice reassuring her anxious companions. “It takes a brave soul to enter our hall! I respect the man for his daring,” Courage said, strengthening his siblings. Intellect said nothing. “The salesman and his companion, my lord and ladies,” Light said, opening the doors. The man was unlike anyone they had ever seen before. His clothes were dark like the night, and his skin pale like the moon. Also like the moon, his eyes seemed to change phases and colors. For a moment, the assembly thought it was the Night, coming to play a jest upon them. But his cloak did not bear the glittering stars Night bore. Trailing behind him was a small child, barely more than an infant learing to walk, in similar clothing. The man bowed to his audience. “Greetings. I am most honored to be allowed into your hallowed hall. If would be willing, I would like to present to you a gift.” “A gift? But you are a salesman! Surely it is only just for you to receive something in return for your crafts?” Justice said. The salesman shook his head. “Oh, no, I do not intend to take anything from you but a little bit of your time. You see, I cannot give you my gift unless each one of you guesses one of its attributes correctly, understand? I shall start with you, Justice. Please, make a guess about what I have for you.” Justice, naturally, took its time considering. The hall grew quiet, save for the whisperings of Curiosity to her neighbors. Justice finally spoke. “Is it a tool for righting wrongs? Does it bless those who deserve it?” “Correct! That is all true of my gift. Now, Happiness, Joy
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Eternal, your guess, if you would?” “Will it inspire meaning and excitement for the days of all beings that exist?” “Yes, indeed it shall! All existence shall find joy in it. Love, what is your guess?” “Love was patient and deliberate with its time. “Shall it reinforce the unbreakable bonds that tie two loved ones together?” “Most definitely! Lady Wisdom, what say you?” To everyone’s surprise, Wisdom responded promptly. “Will it allow us to better prepare for the future and teach those whom have yet to be created?” “It shall, it shall. Humor, what shall be your inquiry be?” “Surely, laughter and joy shall follow it?” The salesman paused for a moment. “Mmm... Yes, I think it will! Young Curiosity, what is your question?” Curiosity burst into a storm of questions, although Justice raised its hand and she slowed herself. “Is it... Mysterious?” “Oh, yes. It shall occupy your thoughts for ages to come, my dear. Now, Gratitude, what may you ask of me?” “Will this gift be appreciated and cherished? Will it further our understanding of the blessings that we have been given?” “Ah, those most of all, perhaps! Pride! Your question?” “Shall it fill man and woman alike with the sensations of accomplishment and achievement?” “Yes, that it will. What will you ask, Trust?” “Can we all take refuse with this new gift, one that we shall hopefully all bear, and find confidence in one another?” “Indeed you shall What have you to say, Courage?” “Will it embolden us to stride forth into what we do not know?”
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“Ah, yes, it will! And finally, Intellect!” Intellect said nothing. The hall was suspended in anxiety as they waited for their sibling to speak. Intellect said nothing. “Well, I will not penalize you for this. After all, Intellect speaks when it chooses. It is ever present, but perhaps not always in use. You shall have my gift!” With this, the hall cheered. This time, the salesman raised his hand for silence. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small black box. “As you have all guessed correctly, I shall give you my gift!” With this, the hall cheered. This time, the salesman raised his hand for silence. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, black box. He opened the box and unspeakable, primal elements burst forth from it. “My gift, is death.” The shadows of grief, sorrow, and loss poured out; the spectres of hatred, fury, and prejudice were set loose; the leeches of fear, doubt, and envy latched upon their victims. All the while the salesman smiled and his infant companion grew. She grew to be more beautiful than love, more hideous than hate, more prudent than wisdom, more foolish than envy, more daring than courage, more cowardly than doubt. “She is life,” Intellect said.
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Doggy Say Woof Amanda Loughran
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Confirmation Nic Bisgaard
2015 Gwendolyn Brooks PrizeWinner I fiend for confimation
In an environment where I recieve it always and never at the same time The unhealthy Stockholm syndrome to the daily microaggressions, paralleled with the painful uncertainty of my identity Whipping my own experience to fit the rugged mold of a stereotype to prove to you that I can be who you think I am Because for every time I’ve been denied access to my culture from its fair-skinned gate keepers I’ve stomped my indiviuality in the dirt to paint my face for another They’ll give me 25 years, and then they’ll give me 25 years, but it isn’t enough Living in this white man’s world isn’t enough I am a proud black man, and I’m ready to dance
They fiend for conformation
I’m vulnerable, they sense it They see the insecurities beyond the dollar signs, they don’t matter They won’t call my bluff They’ll film it on their cellphones and share it amongst each other And laugh as I proudly lay face sown, hands behind my back, as a black man
I’ll take off my shackles and fly
Fly back the comfort that those shackles gave me And I’ll feel free This is where I’m supposed to be
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Shine Bright
Shelby Fairchild
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Life On The Edge Adam Ovian
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Let’s Just Pretend Alex Breen
I know We aren’t made for each other You aren’t my forever But for now Let’s just pretend Because every time I look at you I feel this kind of peace inside me Like if you can pretend to look at me As if I was the first sunrise you’ve ever seen Full of life and warmth Maybe just maybe Someone could see the galaxies in my eyes And the colors that spill off my tongue Instead of the small star that twinkles in the night Or your one favorite color, the one everyone likes I know We aren’t made for each other But for now Let’s just pretend
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Life Is Hard
Matthew Rossi Just thinking about him makes me seem to value every moment so much more, Much more than any amount of money, a kind of value like no other A Picasso so valuable, it is worth too much to put a price on. I never thought I would need to look back. That was until it happened. The day he arrived at the home was the hardest day of my life. It wasn’t the not knowing what would happen to him But the realization that he will never be the same person: The countless nights spent in the workshop making things that never really had a purpose, All the times stuck in the mud on the tractor; These moments are what matters. Since they can’t be in his head they can be in mine. He was special to me He taught me everything I know today Yet somehow the roles are now reversed: Now it’s my turn to teach him everything we knew Why did I skip past all the moments that seemed insignificant? Yet when the source of these moments was gone they meant the most to me Why is it that what is important now was never important then? The answer is simple, Grandpa: Life is hard.
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Turtlenecks
Angie DeLucia
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Simple Days Ryan Clifford
I was the age of eleven the first time I had a relationship It was a chilly day in march and I decided I wanted a girlfriend because Ben had one and I thought Ben was cool. Emily looked particularly pretty that day so of course it made sense that she Should be my girlfriend. I was confident she would say yes as I was incredibly smooth, handsome, and Well-built as I was in the middle of going through puberty and had little to no Experience talking to girls. “Hey Emily” “Hey Ryan” “Do you like me?” “I asked first” “I only like you if you like me” “Okay, I like you” “So are you my girlfriend now?” “Yeah that’s how it works I think” “Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow!” “I love you!” “What?” “That’s what you’re supposed to say” “Oh... okay... I love you too!” “You’re cute” “I’m not cute I’m handsome” ...And so on We were actually a cute couple I put my coat on her when we had fire drills in the winter, I bought her chocolates, and we saw “The Lorax” as our first date.
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Although I had no idea what I was doing, it managed to last somewhere around nine months. Looking back on it, it makes me miss the days where everything didn’t have to be so complicated and ambigious.
Flowers Alexandra Burke
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The Floating Boy Jennifer Lee
(continued from epic fall 2014)
He was, as seemed to be tradition thus far in the year, the last person to arrive in the class. When he pushed open the door, the teacher stopped speaking, just for a moment, as all nineteen students swiveled in their chairs to catch a glimpse of him before returning to attention. All except one, of course. Ella didn’t look. Ella sat at the far left corner of the room, the one nearest the teacher’s desk and the room’s only window, always looking out at the soccer fields and curling her sunset-colored hair around her pencil and occasionally scribbling a note. In her presence, Will had no interest in learning whatever was to be taught that day. He looked at the board, then at Ella, then at the teacher— whoever that woman was—then at Ella. It was metronomic. Feeling was a rare thing for Will, and when it arrived it slammed him in the face with the force of a sack full of bricks, shook him to his bones with the pure tectonic force. And then the class ended and the students gathered their bags in one sweeping, perfectly choreographed motion and scurried out of the classroom, but Will only had eyes for Ella. She took a left, walking quickly, and stumbled upon her own coterie with a bright smile and loud exclamation of greeting. As she talked, he stared at the back of her sunset hair and listened to her voice, one so rich that you could sink your teeth into it. He remembered the day he had listened under a door to her audition for the select chorus—a freshman, no less!—how she had stunned every teacher in attendance with her soulful, jazz-infused singing, how the sound had left Will struggling for breath. In a daze, he made his way through the throngs of students to Ella. With one finger, he reached out and tapped on her
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shoulder. “Hi Ella.” Will smiled. Ella continued to talk. She didn’t even glance in his direction. He stood for a moment. One of the girls across the circle met his eyes and frowned. He began to back away, a knot forming in his throat. Another girl looked over at him. The second girl nudged Ella, pointed over at Will. “Hey, Ellie. Will wants you.” At this, she turned. Will’s breath caught as he met her brown eyes, eyes with all the richness and sweetness of chocolate. But no. She wasn’t meeting his eyes—she was merely looking in his direction. Not at him. Through him. As if, in her eyes, he simply didn’t exist. “Ella,” he repeated, struggling to swallow the knot in his throat. “Ella. It’s Will.” He found himself backing away until he disappeared behind a knot of upperclassmen and finally dashed off to his next class, a class with a distinct lack of Ellas in attendance. Sweat poured down the back of his neck. This feeling, it pained him like none other, like a long unattended hunger. Ella’s empty gaze echoed in his mind. Once the last student scurried out of English, Will heaved a sigh, mustered up the strength to shoulder his backpack and plod across the threshold to the slowly clearing hall, through the lobby to the throbbing cold, or, rather, what should have been a throbbing cold, but what was only a slight pulse of sensation amid the echoing of Ella, Ella’s voice, Ella’s unseeing eyes. Then Will looked up. The yellow backside of the bus was distant, now, several blocks down the street from the school. He would have to walk. At that moment, he felt a single icy tear begin to bead up in his eye. He began to pace down the sidewalk, one soaked boot in front of the other, and the tear fell, followed by another, and
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another, and another. He hadn’t cried in so long. He wasn’t even sure if he was really crying, or if he was just imagining the salt on his lips, the pain in the back of his throat. His paces grew faster and faster, until he was running harder than he had ever before, as if he could leave the tears behind in a race against feeling. The world faded into a streak of white. “Will! Oh my god, Will, where were you?” Violet scooped up her little brother from the porch and nearly dragged him inside. “You scared us all.” “I walked home,” he heard himself mutter. The sudden burst of heat seared his skin, pricked his joints with little needles. “But why?” “Because I wanted to.” Now his mother rushed over to embrace him. “You look down, Will. Whatever is the matter? Just tell us.” “I...” He stared at the patterned wallpaper blankly. “I think I need to be alone for a while.” His mother barely had time to nod before he broke away from her grasp and clambered up the stairs, feet barely touching each step, down the corridor where that old, creaky door guarded the attic entrance—it yielded with a slight turn of the knob, and Will ascended the wooden stairs to the shadowy room beyond. There was only silence in his path. It took only a moment for Will to find the string dangling from the ceiling and give it a yank, illuminating a single incandescent lightbulb above. He was not one to visit the attic very often, but he had a vague recollection of chasing his sisters upstairs in a particularly rough game of hide-and-seek and finding a young Penelope curled up between stacks of cardboard boxes. The place was precisely as he remembered it. Dust streamed thickly through the air, coating the floor and wooden beams and—there they were—at least half a dozen boxes stacked in the corner by an empty bookcase.
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This box was particularly small, perhaps only a two by two, and not heavy at all. He found it half-empty and stuffed with laminated newspaper clippings. Presidential elections. Environmental disasters. The beginnings of wars, the ends of wars. And then there were local restaurant reviews, high school graduations. A short piece about a reunion with a photo of his grandparents arm in arm, captioned “We met in freshman year. Who would’ve known the two of us would be together fifty years later?” Then he spotted a photo of a young boy peering up at him from the very bottom of the box, printed next to another article from the local paper. That face. He knew that face in black in white and laminator tape With trembling fingers, he picked up the article and began to read. LOCAL BOY DIES IN TRAGIC BUS ACCIDENT STONYVILLE– The town has been stricken with grief since the death of an eleven-year-old boy in a tragic bus accident Tuesday afternoon. On the way home from King Elementary School, a school bus struck a large patch of black ice and skidded off the road into a grove of trees, shattering several windows and upending most passengers—all first through fifth grade children—from their seats. While most were only mildly scratched up from the affair, one fifth grader, Will Benton, happened to be sitting nearest the trees and was virtually impaled by a frozen tree branch. As an ambulance was called in, the driver, escorted the students out of the bus while he carried Will on his shoulder. But even the most heroic efforts were unable to save the eleven-year-old, as he bled out within a half hour and was pronounced dead minutes later. Will stared at the photo.
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Will Benton. Impaled by a tree branch. Pronounced dead. Suddenly, Will was seized by a certain conviction; article secured in his fist, he sprinted down the hall and the staircase and skidded into the dining room where his entire family, brothers and sisters and mother and father, all sat chattering over roast chicken and potatoes. He stared, breath heavy and labored, and held up the clipping. Every pair of eyes turned to him. Finally, his mother broke the silence. “Will.” Slowly, she stood and made her way over to her son, then gathered him up in her arms and kissed his wet, matted hair. “Will. I’m so sorry.” “Mom. I’m dead, right? I’m dead. I died three years ago.” Tears began to well up in her dark blue eyes. “Some of them have moved on, Will. Some of them don’t care anymore. But don’t pay attention to them. You’re always real to us.” Around the table, his father and six siblings nodded. “Does that mean...” Will’s voice cracked. “IS that why Ella ignores me? She’s...moved on?” Looking down at him with eyes full of sadness, his mother shook her head softly. “I beg you, forget them. Please. You’ll always be real to us.” He closed his eyes. And the boy was overcome by a claustrophobic sense of detachment, the feeling that he, Will Benton, pronounced dead, was no longer real.
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Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls Sam DiBacco
Running
Ophelia Deng
Running, it was the first time I paid attention to you. Swung your pale arms, sweating but soft hair was fluttering in the air, The summer sun shined. You turned around, smiling with confidence and gratification. Waving at me, with a tiny young leaf in your hand. Running, together in a fair game. Touching the tenderness of a ten-year-old hand. When the summer breeze ran through, I smelled your lemon shampoo. I knew I could rely on you. Running, the second after the bell rings. I looked through the window quietly, And I saw your galloping soul, free and enthusiastic. Like a little fiery flame burning this green earth.
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Tetris
Cole Adams 2015 Gwendolyn Brooks Prize Winner good mourning to all the carcasses in the soil, tonight your moldy rot seeps up though the mud and caresses my sinuses, makes them ache like i’ve just cried for the first time in years and throb like words from a mouth pressed hard against my neck, so queer and fearful. i make a mantra with my lips and turn the tetris block around, slide in between two svelte bodies pressed against my sides and realize how long gone he is, so far out of my mind i have to jump for him, like reaching for a balloon i let go, like the time i whispered something that made the blood drain from your face like a lightswitch so pale you could’ve gone tanning under the streetlight
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Incarceration Nation Max Bash
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Stormy Paradise Madi Kalkstein
This is when I knew the world would be hard: In the airport of a foreign country The warm, tropical air around me. I felt so free, so happy nothing could touch me, Until my mom’s phone rang, Her face fell We all knew what was wrong, what happened, But still, no one spoke. The tropical air was suddenly suffocatingly heavy. Unsure of what came next, we continued to our hotel The one thing that was sure Was the stormy, dark cloud that now hung over our vacation. My little eight year old self tugged on my dad’s arm, and whined: “I thought this was supposed to be a happy vacationing!” “So did we,” my dad answered.
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Goodbye
Nick Ravalese Walking up a set of stone steps, An icy breeze brushed up against my colorless cheek. Two towering doors stood guard. As I proceeded to move down aisles of men in blazers and women in black dresses, Sitting patiently on wooden benches. Pain and grief throbbing inside me, Emotions I was familiar with at the age of seven. Finally reaching the podium of the church, I sat beside my family, Tears descending down in silence, The echoing voice of a priest reminiscing vivid memories. I was lost in an illusion Believing the events that were happening were a lie or a nightmare, Until a thick wooden coffin was presented before me, Snatching me back into reality.
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Surface Beauty
Reilly Callahan
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There Was a Teenager Went Forth Sam DiBacco She has the world, Given to her on a silver platter. She goes to the most prestigious school, Taking the hardest classes, Yet still doing extracurriculars. Her parents paved the way for her, Giving her anything she wanted and needed, To go on and accomplish. She could be a doctor or lawyer, Travel and explore the Earth, Live the life her parents dream for her. But she, she decides to take a break, She stays in her bedroom to think.
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Pursuit of Happiness
Emily Lowit
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Hard Fall
Jacob Brown This is when I knew the world would be hard: I was a young innocent 8 year old Skiing on a bitter winter day. All around me I saw white powdery snow. I was on my last run of the day. Zooming down the mountain. Zig zagging around people. I felt unstoppable. As I neared the end of the hill, Approaching the lodge, Excited to get the hot chocolate I was promised. I quickly realized I couldn’t slow down. I tried everything my ski instructor had taught me that day, But nothing seemed to work. I had wiped out countless times But for some reason this one didn’t feel like the rest. This feeling of being unable to do anything, Unable to save myself from this nasty fall. This was the first time I ever felt so vulnerable. This was the first time I had ever felt fear. After tumbling down the rest of the slope I got up, Tears rushing down my face, Cold as can be, This was the day I realized how much I underestimated the difficulty of life
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Editor’s Picks: Favorite Literary Line
Lexi Banasiewicz “How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!” –Emily Dickinson’s I’m Nobody! Who are you? Meghan Kennedy “I hope she’ll be a fool– that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” –F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby Joe Ravalese “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” and “Not all who wander are lost.” –J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings Lauren Barnes “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view– until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” –Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird Denizhan Kara “I am slain.” –William Shakespeare’s Hamlet
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Molly Sullivan “Look like the innocent flower,/ but be the serpent under’t.” –William Shakespeare’s Macbeth Chris Marcello “A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof is to understimate the ingenuity of complete fools.” – Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Ricky Ferris “‘You can’t repeat the past.’ ‘...Why, of course you can!” –F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby Dan Miller “For a transitory moment, man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.” –F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby Asha Appel “It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
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Sinful 69
Mary Mort
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On Graduating
Why I got out of the car, Dan Miller To be done with the office paper To be done with this state Maybe I will find something new, out of this car Something beyond the stale, strawberry smell that lingers in that old Civic Beyond the nerve I felt on the black, rainy night the first time I drove it But at the same time maybe this car isn’t so bad I remember the stress I felt thinking it was on fire It was just some mist The time it broke down on Fern Street Every time someone cued the symphony of water bottles in that passenger street But there is something different Different from the stress of moving a dead car into a church parking lot Different from the never ending drives from A to B Maybe I can find A to C I don’t know Meghan Kennedy That’s why I got out of the car
Farewell
Goodbye to all the blue carpets. Goodbye to all the wooden desks. Goodbye to all the stress and desparation, but hopefully this won’t be goodbye to all my friends.