Winter 2014
From the Masthead...
Choate students have a love/hate relationship with the winter. For many, winter means bright, white snow and velvety hot chocolate, while for others, winter is synonymous with only grey slush and frigid temperatures. This season, some Choaties experienced their first snowfall, and others their 100th. Whether it’s building a snowman on Mem Field or munching on cookies and milk in a heated common room, we all find ways to either enjoy or escape the New England weather. This winter, members of the Lit have gathered weekly to review and discuss the works of our talented study body through an agglomeration of writing and artwork. HB 110 was covered in stray marker caps and bodies clambering over one another as LITerati bonded through a visual “exquisite corpse” activity. We huddled in front of the library fireplace for an evening of hot apple cider, poetry readings, and the company of our friends and classmates. With the premier of this issue will also come to the Lit’s third annual winter launch party, in which members of the Choate community will undoubtedly be mesmerized by a cappella performances, as well as authors’ readings of their published works in this term’s issue. Perhaps most significant of all is that, here at Lit headquarters, we are very happy to announce that the Lit is now in its 100th year of publication. In the words of one of our advisors, Sarah Kate Neall, “you can’t spell literary without era.” For a century, writers and artists have united to share their creative works with the Choate Rosemary Hall community. As a celebration of this accomplishment, with the generous help and hard work of Choate’s own archivist Ms. Judy Donald, members of the Masthead and LITerati have selected pieces of work from editions and anthologies of the Lit throughout the years to share with you. Some of these pieces reflect on life at Choate in the 1900s, while others provide humorous short stories similar to those written and published today. We hope you all appreciate the talents that not only our current students have shared with you but also our predecessors.
With love, The Masthead
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Contents
4
The Gift Herbert Henry Harlan ‘23**
27
Olives (cont.) Sherri Afshani ‘14
5
Fluorescent Plights Alfredo Brillembourg ‘16 Photograph Isaac Lee ‘14
28
The Secret Garden Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14
6
Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Photograph Merrick Gillies ‘15
29
The Secret Garden (cont.) Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14 Photograph Tualsi Kadiyala ‘16
7
Keep up the rad, keep away the wack Sophia Swart ‘15 Photograph Ashley Kim ‘14
30
Laundry Nicole Wallace ‘14 Photograph Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14
8
Rooftops Laurie Patton ‘79** Untitled Laurie Patton ‘79**
31
Artwork Andrea Wang ‘15
32
Boarding School Sonja Eliason ‘15
9
Riverview Cemetery Emma Raddatz ‘14 Photograph Merrick Gillies ‘15
33
Twenty-five Minutes at Choate Robert Ogden Purves ‘15** Photograph Grace Tully ‘16
10
McMansionvillie Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14 Photograph Ashley Kim ‘14
34
Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Photograph Will Kortum ‘15
11
Reflections of a Cigar-Counter Girl James Nelson Man ‘16**
35
Untitled Katy Manning ‘75**
12
Dappled Leaves Truelian Lee ‘17 Photograph Grace Tully ‘16
36
Saffron Sherri Afshani ‘14
13
Artwork Stephanie Grossman ‘17
37
Saffron (cont.) Sherri Afshani ‘14 Photograph Alex Klein ‘14
14
Driving Through a Bridge Truelian Lee ‘17 Photograph Grace Tully ‘16
38
Thief Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14
15
Identity Zemia Edmondson ‘16
39
Untitled Sophie Latham ‘16 Artwork Karlin Wong ‘14
16
Identity (cont.) Zemia Edmondson ‘16
40
Associations Edward F. Albee ‘46**
17
Identity (cont.) Zemia Edmondson ‘16 Artwork Milly Battle ‘15
41
Associations (cont.) Edward F. Albee ‘46**
42
Indian Summer Sonja Eliason ‘15
18
Boy Studying Sanford Race Newton ‘44**
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And the World Keeps Spinning Truelian Lee ‘17 Artwork Karlin Wong ‘14
43
Untitled Anonymous The Pinky Toe Eugene Amankwah ‘15
44
The Unbreakables Esul Burton ‘16
20
Water Peyton Lee Wilson ‘26** Smoke Spiralings Gustaf Sobin ‘53**
45
The Unbreakables (cont.) Esul Burton ‘16 Photograph Ashley Kim ‘14
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Sandcastle Grace Alford-Hamburg ‘14 Photograph Tulasi Kadiyala ‘16
46
Waiting Mehvish Khan ‘15
22
Untitled Sophie Latham ‘16 Photograph Ashley Kim ‘14
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Waiting (cont.) Mehvish Khan ‘15
48
Of Which There is No Title Eleanor P. Clark ‘30**
23
Photographs Rebecca Bernstein ‘16
24
On Death and Dying Sitara Zoberi ‘15 Photograph Namsai Sethpornpong ‘17
49
Untitled Anonymous Photograph Will Kortum ‘15 The Northern Winter Frederic William Stix ‘15**
25
Walking With Her to Class Truelian Lee ‘17 Photograph Rebecca Bernstein ‘16
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26
Olives Sherri Afshani ‘14
Front Cover Art Will Kortum ‘15 Back Cover Art Michael Harteveldt ‘15 ** - Starred pieces were adopted from anthologies of The Lit
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The Gift
Herbert Henry Harlan ‘23 I run the gauntlet of the years And each year striking blindly leaves its scar; Yet when I’ve run the line I’ll face about, And gazing down their ranks, relentless, mute, Shall raise my hand in glad salute To honor them, Knowing their blows have given me Something to take into eternity.
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Fluorescent Plights Foggy nights, neon brights Mirrored flasks, see-through masks Mind games, it’s all the same, Plastic dolls, that even dance! But, where are the things That really stay? You’re so real, Banana peel. Yellow hues, a peasant’s meal. And that dumb dog! Gazing frustratedly, endlessly Somewhat intelligently, And still no soul.
ISAAC LEE ‘14
Psychedelics, tinted glass Containing magic Alas! And finally the blended colors Once envisioned on the wall Run through my head and drip, On to the floor. ALFREDO BRILLEMBOURG ‘16 5
REBECCA BERNSTEIN ‘16
MERRICK GILLIES ‘15 6
Keep up the rad, keep away the wack There was chatter reflecting off the water just like the moon. The Milky Way was swimming with us, wrapped in algae and moss. We had no swimsuits, only spontaneity and laughter. We were far away from trivialities where there was no light pollution, you could see so far outward into everything. We were not looking up, we were looking out at what we are part of. Light, so much light. When our thoughts were finally chilled like iced lemonade, we ran through bushes and flailed in the mud to the car. We drove. Once sitting on our bed, a delicious thought bubbled into reality. We discussed it, unanimously deciding on this nights adventure...we would enjoy the first rays of the morning while seating comfortably at the top of Sacajawea Peak. Eager legs kicked and finally slept…too soon later, a buzz of a telephone awoke us, then another. I bounced out of the covers and to the kitchen to prepare a hurried breakfast of peanut butter and fruit roll ups for us; nutrition was priority. Then the clock blinked 3 AM. Whines squeaked from tired mouths, but excitement prevailed. We packed into our seats and struggled to keep our eyes open, but the drive was bumpy and our sore butts kept us from forgetting the purpose of our trip. We were there to make our lives radical, and you can’t sleep in moments like these. 4 AM screamed at me, we had to hurry. I plowed my way up that mountain as the sun painted the tips of the mountains red. We crossed streams, tripped on rocks, marveled at climate change and the disappearance of the snow we had skied on just a week before. As the incline increased to nearly vertical, we met up with the mountain goats. Their tiny hooves danced on the faces of cliffs and I stood on the trail not more than a meter away. They smiled at us, said good morning, and we went on our way, huffing it up the face. As the sun’s light began to engulf the sky, we watched as the snow-capped ridgeline shined pink and gold. A mountain shaded us but as we reached the peak, the sun splashed our face, I felt godly. The sun had risen, and so had we. This is why we are alive; this is why we are happy. The valley below us still dozes, and we sit on top a mountain wide-awake. There is no item I could ask for that could ever give me this contentment. I do not climb mountains so that the world can see me, but so I can see the world…and it is so beautiful. SOPHIA SWART ‘15
ASHLEY KIM ‘14
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Rooftops
Laurie Patton ‘79 At night three stars were caught in the Old Tree Breathing grace into its cracked branches As I walked under the moon and out among black crystals. I sounded dreams in my footsteps, passing houses where four-cornered frames of lamplight painted portraits in the bitter gold of silent conversation. The slight nods of neighbors in silhouette pushed into dwindling journeys their hopes That cried within their tender skin at sunrise. What travels have ushered fond sprites to float before my fleeting sight and pass beneath the moon among black crystals of the night.
Untitled
Laurie Patton ‘79 If only a figment of water and sky There still was a unicorn Riding Behind a baby bush— Breathing snowy blossoms— Into the air— Afraid Because there were no magicians about And no poets— It stood trembling— Its ocean-filled eyes Might have met those of a dull imagination That would look and laugh At the shoddy horse grazing.
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Riverview Cemetery
MERRICK GILLIES ‘15
It’s weird for someone to stay this long in a cemetery. I must look like thug or a hoodlum in my all black outfit. I probably don’t look too creepy, though, because my jacket is North Face and I’m walking a yellow lab. The smell of my dog’s poop starts to sting my nose – I really should have double bagged it. I think I’m known in my town as “that girl who drags her dog around on bike rides.” For everyone’s information, I’m not dragging him – he just likes to lag behind. I skillfully hold his leash in my right hand and steer with my left. We ride through Essex, avoiding concerned looks and head to the cemetery-our favorite spot. It’s safe from ridicule and has one large hill, which my dog loves to sprint down. After we blast down the hill (narrowly avoiding a squirrel encounter), I get off my bike and walk slowly. The Riverview Cemetery is empty, but it’s overlooked by large white houses. The curtains are all pulled, making the windows look like wary eyes. I should pretend like I’m visiting a loved one and stare knowingly at one of these graves. Hudson, Rogers, and Cliff have the most ornate stones. Rogers even has this small crypt, which overshadows the cemetery and holds the best view of the river. But a smaller grave with the name Macy catches my eye. It’s not lined with flowers or wreaths like the other tombstones, but rather, small rocks of different shapes and colors. Each rock looks smooth and worn, like maybe a boy kept it in his pocket until he brought it to this resting place. They were placed carefully in a row and protect the grave from weird strangers like me. Rogers only has a cold and empty-feeling crypt. But Macy – Macy is loved. I want my kids to collect rocks and balance them of the curved head of my tombstone. I want the rocks to sit in their pockets and weigh them down until they visit me. I want the rocks to fit in their hands, like my hands would. I didn’t visit the cemetery for a while after I found Macy’s grave. But sometimes I pass the gates at just the right time and catch the sunset wrapping its blood red tendrils around each tombstone. The fading sun highlights the etched names of Macy, Rogers, Hudson, and Cliff, making each stone look like it is glowing a little bit. Fighting the urge to check my favorite, I walk past the ivy gates. I would just overstay my welcome. I wasn’t invited to this party of old friends. EMMA RADDATZ ‘14
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McMansionville Darling, don’t you know we’re gauche? Sequins dripping off the Juicy on our ass. Family history whipped up in a Venetian artist’s studio. (No one said he’d be wearing a sword—or tights) Live-in chomping Big Red Over a half-loaded dishwasher. The long mink to cover the nightgown. Dog shit on Persian rugs. We can hear the boardwalk lights From the shore house porch. Backpack stuffed enough with eBay pearls For six years of gifts. Fifty grand for the lawyer When the lamp only cost five hundred. Botox and tattooed eyeliner like the deer’s eyes We hit last Saturday. Because who takes a stretch to the airport? Please. GRACE ALFORD-HAMBURG ‘14
ASHLEY KIM ‘14
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Reflections of a Cigar-Counter Girl
(Addresses to Billy, the Bartender, at Buck’s Tavern, Ray, Colorado.) James Nelson Man ‘16 Chub King strolled in last week, Billy. He wanted a Bismark stogie, but I do detest that guy so I passed him up. Let mame wait on him. He was all duded up in that Dandy Dick cravat and new pasteboard ring he got a Cy’s last week, but he didn’t have no place to go, I seen right off he was on one o’ them sympathy jags o’ his, ready to make up to any dame he met. Well he and mame had quite a gab together, but after a while they got sick of each other, and he got up mumblin’ about his new raise or sumpthing. As if Mame ud swaller that! I felt kinder sorry for the poor gink, so I asked him if he’d take a Robbie Burns-you know, Billy, that new seegar. Thought it might cheer ‘im up a bit. What?-Me like that guy? Lord! Bill, what’s got inter yet? I didn’t wanner see Mame get thick with a simp like that, ‘s all, yer idiot. Well, he come over to where I was sittin’, but instead o’ speakin’ to me like any decent guy woulder done, he gave me th’ up an’ down with that beery look o his and marched outer the lobby. I mean tried to, of course. I know he was full ‘cause I seen ‘im hand the bell hop a new tenner on his way out. Honest, kid, the next minnit I thought I’d pass out. He spilled inter that little Miss Potter-you know the one I mean, Bill, the new boarder with the Cheshire Cat map, that’s always fluffin’ her nose or lookin’ around for some guy to squint at. I thought, of course, she’d get sore, but when I seen her huggin’ Chub I jumped up pretty quick, you make why, Bill, not ‘cause I like him, but the boss was out, an’ besides my salary ain’t th’ kind ev’ry girl gets at forty-one. I tried to pull her Chub ‘cause I seen she was stuck on him already but instead o’ helpin’ me she fainted where she though Chub’s arms ud be, but they weren’t so the floor got her. I was glad o’ that, an’ everything would er been O.K. if she hadn’t screeched, “How coarse!” on the way down. When I heard that cat yell I knew sumpthing was gonner happen, an’ the’ boss came in just then, so I fainted, too.
Whajjer say, Bill? Sure that ring’s on my engagement finger. Y’ see, Chub caught me.
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Dappled Leaves Walking along the street, she remarks, “It's quite breathtaking in the fall; there's a tree outside with dappled leaves. It looks like it's aflame. A dragon came, slithering over the hills, and breathed smoke onto it. You should come.” He laughs, promises, “I'm sure words cannot describe it. I'll be there soon; I have to wrap up some business meetings, you see.” She loses track of the days, but she knows that the tree remains dappled, the embers are still sizzling, and the fire flickers warmly. As she is walking, with a bounce in her step He is coming tomorrow she glances toward the tree. Sneezing, she misses the spindly branches, bereft of any color. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17
GRACE TULLY ‘16 12
STEPHANIE GROSSMAN ‘17
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Driving Through a Bridge The bus rolls along under a bridge, and I remember tumbling down the slide in the neighborhood playground. Rusted green, the bright plastic slide curved and dipped precariously. It had a covering on top, blocking out the sun. I would cry as my body was jostled from side to side. I was as far in as I was out, in these shadowy tunnels. The arches of the bridge blot out any light, as the bus tumbles over the asphalt. Like ants we crawl between sharp blades of grass, the sun is but a pinprick in the sky. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17
GRACE TULLY ‘16
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Identity I. The psychiatrist and his patient stared at each other. “Would you like to tell me what happened?” The psychiatrist pursed his lips as he checked his watch. She shook her head. “Well,” he began, and then he stopped. His trying had proven futile. The psychiatrist was growing impatient. Plus, he could feel his heart rate increasing. This girl had that effect on him. There was always the chance that she knew. The chance of recognition, while slim, was present. The psychiatrist could not deal with an ounce of recognition, but he really needn’t worry. Today marked their one-month anniversary. Today, he would be able to diagnose the woman. Maybe he could recommend additional help in the form of an institution. He would not though. He enjoyed the game they played. He enjoyed winning this game. However, his winning streak would end soon. The girl knew his secret now. So she told him, “I figured it out.” A slight thud was heard. His ballpoint pen rolled a bit on the uneven floor. The psychiatrist’s foot shook. He snatched his pen. “Would you care to, uhm, elaborate Aerial?” She gazed at him with eyes devoid of humanity. “I know where we are.” “Yes, we are in my office.” “No Doc, it’s mine,” Instinctively, his fingers grazed his face. Shit, he thought. She does know. The psychiatrist knew, thanks to a growing lump in his stomach, his act would be ripped to shreds. He, then, would disintegrate into nothingness. He thought of everything he had done that could have gone wrong. Beads of sweats began to run down his temple, collecting in pools at the small of his back. The woman’s voice broke his thoughts, “but, Mr. Wolfe, I must commend you. You almost fooled me.” II. Censors, or at least an age warning, should be required for the news, as with anything else publicly broadcasted. The graphic images and morbid stories are the reason most families decide to turn the news off, but the Irving family didn’t mind. Mrs. Irving, a retired teacher, felt that a child’s development was aided by the news, and, at this point, how could she honestly believe in the innocence of the soul? So she raised her children to embrace the news, and thus her children taught her grandchildren to embrace it. Today, it was an accepted and integral element in the Irving family. The news always played, whether in the background at dinner or the central focus of family night. Today’s “breaking news” was a rape case including an unknown mentally insane female victim from the next town over. Mrs. Irving pondered the claim of insanity, as she knew that instances like rape could be the cause for insanity. She noticed the little information there was regarding the investigation in order to find the rapist. Hmm, they’ve probably stopped looking by now, she pondered. The investigation seemed questioningly sloppy. Detectives did not have a clue as to who the woman was or where she came from. Instead, concern was felt because of the location of the crime. After all, Coral Gables was a nice neighborhood. The city prided itself on being “secure” and “safe”, but they were disillusioned. Safety was a front. Any place could prove its insecurities; unluckily it happened to a young woman who wasn’t all right in the head, according to some eyewitness. But still, the community’s surprise at this event was foolish. And then, just as the camera cut from the reporter, new information came in regarding the rapist and the raped. Turns out Mrs. Irving knew the victim. She was also acquainted with the criminal. 15
III. Morbid thoughts raced through Dr. Grayson Wolfe’s mind. However, he continued to stop his thoughts whenever he considered one thing: how? How had that girl managed to crack open his mind and discover the truth? How did she even know where to look? God knew all the things the psychiatrist kept bottled up. He felt violated, ironically. But then again, his actions—intentional or otherwise—psychiatrist the woman who sat before him. Somehow, he made a mistake, but he was meticulous in every account. The measuring, administering, acting—all of it was done perfectly. It was all so well executed, he thought, they would never even expect me! Instead, his aspirations were crushed with that girl’s statement: “I was not there, yet I was there.” It resonated in his mind. The phrasing was a perfect reminder of the immoral deed he committed. The crack in her voice after she said “there,” emphasized her subtle hatred hidden behind her clear eyes. How had she, if she really knew this entire time, managed to sit with him—her literal nightmare—and look at him as she had? Sometimes, he remembered he caught her smiling, and it wasn’t a vicious one. If only he had realized that her smile wasn’t vicious in the slightest, but bittersweet… “So, do you want to know how I found out?” she taunted. Dr. Wolfe’s mouth twitched. Ha, he thought, she’s really going to give it all away! He was so excited. If he could not win, at least he could find out his mistakes. Then the doctor had a better idea. He planned to let her spill the details on how she figured out what had really happened, and then, as soon as her eyes showed that promise he hated, he would shut her up forever. Marvelous. “Doctor Wolfe, I was not there, yet I was there.” The doctor thought of her peculiar statement. Then, a clip of that night played in his mind. He made his mark on her. With a piercing knife, he inscribed his initials on her elbow. It was small, but the scar was there. And it would stay, forever. It was then that the psychiatrist realized the predicament he was in. IV. “Aerial, Grayson, playtime has finished,” Mrs. Irving informed them. They shared looks of despondence before returning the dolls to their appropriate bins. Aerial meticulously reorganized the dolls that Grayson haphazardly threw into the bins. Grayson, annoyed with Aerial’s perfectionism, went to his desk without her. Aerial soon came to her chair, but not before sticking her tongue out at Grayson, who snickered. Aerial simply intended the expression to mean “na-na-nah ah boo-boo,” but Grayson took it as “I’m so much better than yo-ou!” Atop each student’s desk was a booklet and crayons. The booklet read, “Careers to Consider” and the children began considering the different careers. There was light, excited chatter regarding the benefits of being a movie-star actress versus the U.S. President. Mrs. Irving asked all students to pick the one career they thought, at six or seven, would be a viable option for their life. Most students were either ambivalent or uncertain with their options. The ones who did not care simply shrugged their shoulders, but the students who found two or three careers particularly inciting spent a few minutes. When the questions looped around to Aerial and Grayson’s table, simultaneously they answered “psychiatrist.” Mrs. Irving was surprised because the other first-grade teachers (herself not included) had purposefully not included that option in the booklet. The other students looked at the two strangely, they simply had no idea as to what a psychiatrist was. The teacher, not knowing what the future held, smiled at them for their ambition. Physically, she would not be there in the student’s lives. As a force, she would always be there. And that smile remind each of them why they needed to be the best. Too bad the term best describes one, not two.
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V. The television droned on in the background. The victim has turned out to be not a mentally unstable Jane Doe, but renowned physiatrist Aerial O’Hare. Ms. O’Hare’s mental condition is unstable. Physiologists do not know when, if ever, she will be able to return to her field. Mrs. Irving turned off the television. She realized that the news had lost its relevance. ZEMIA EDMONDSON ‘16
MILLY BATTLE ‘15
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Boy Studying
Sanford Race Newton ‘44 The windowsill, drenched with the morning sun, felt warm on the back of his neck. He was tipped in the chair so that he could look out of the big window that filled the other side of the room. He saw the naked trees, streaked with frost, straining stiffly in the wind. And on the ground, the leaves, white and crisp, were not yet awakened by the sun. Soon they would be warmed, and, scampering over the sidewalk, would whisper and wait for winter and summer and another autumn. He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned at the book propped up in front of him. He looked at the smooth, perfect, blackand-white pages. There were no pictures, just words. He thought of home and of mother and father and the dog. He remembered the hospital where he went with his father every morning—the hospital with its polished brass doorknobs and its silent elevator and buzzers and flashing lights. The hospital bustling with nurses with white shoes and stockings and white starched dresses and faces. Making cold, neat beds, taking temperatures. He thought of the lake at dawn. The way the bass jumped, making circles in the still water. He remembered paddling in the canoe at dawn with Helen, watching the restless clouds waiting for the sun. He remembered now, when he trailed his hand in the water, it felt warm in the sharp chill of early morning. He looked at the smooth, perfect, black-and-white pages of the book. There were no pictures, just words.
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And the World Keeps Spinning i. the scent of grass so sharp slicing through the blanket of sun that smells like warmth so safe the rain will come soon it always does and with it the heavy smell of her tears mixed in with grass and cement it's a chorus that sings just slightly off tune but the notes are still as riveting as they would have been ii. she is old and withered underneath a guise of supple flesh and luscious lips the tang of metal and gasoline and concrete makes her senses recoil in disgust tangling together into a sticky mess of fire and heat; she can still remember the days when she could smell the unadulterated grass, the trees but even that is buried underneath the fog of time the song had changed, and her voice was not needed anymore. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17
KARLIN WONG ‘14 19
Water
Peyton Lee Wilson ‘26 Whene’er I think of you, I think of water, deep and blue; Of clear deep water, With moonlight mingled through’ And pools, On whose faces raindrops fret, And gathering cloudbanks turn to jet, And voices come and voices go In a clear and soft arpeggio.
Smoke Spiralings Gustaf Sobin ‘53
he lay with his own Isabelle comfortably in bed looking out over sleepy chimney tops in a grey Paris sky. They’ll never get me here, ils ne peuvent pas m’ arrêter ici. And as he lay, comfortably, so comfortably, looking over the Paris morning, he saw smoke spiraling softly upwards from grey brick chimney tops into the damp air and the smoke entered lazily through his tall windowdoors, unchallenged.
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Sandcastle
TULASI KADIYALA ‘16
We built ourselves a sandcastle On the edge of the ocean Where the sand is wet and sculptable. It was magnificent. We used a bucket to cast Tall, sturdy towers With smooth, square turrets. We imagined pretty sand princesses Sighing from the tops of them. Between the towers lay a flat courtyard Where pretty sand knights sparred with seashell swords. We scratched cobblestones into The wet sand with a stick. We even dug a moat for the crocodiles, But we forgot to build a bridge, So the invaders couldn’t get in, But the pretty sand people Couldn’t get out. In the end, it didn’t matter, Not once the tide came in. GRACE ALFORD-HAMBURG ‘14 21
Untitled Learn from the children. I know, we know better now. Sunsets and rainbows are physics. Falling red leaves are chemistry. Snowflakes are fractals, and tides are gravity. Fairy tales aren’t real. I know. We’ve been taught. But those little kids jumping in a leaf piles Who still believe in fairy tales and magic Who don’t know what is “real.” They know so much more than we do. Until we teach them. SOPHIE LATHAM ‘16
ASHLEY KIM ‘14 22
PHOTOS BY REBECCA BERNSTEIN ‘16 23
On Death and Dying The pizza was supposed to arrive three hours ago It’s almost midnight now Far past the socially acceptable window of time to eat pizza by yourself which is 6-9pm on weeknights I called the pizza place five times The same man answered every time and informed me that my pizza was on its way By now I have given up hope that it’ll ever reach my door As I contemplate whether to retire for the night or force myself to sit through Titanic I see a black SUV pull up onto my driveway I watch the car convulse and spit out a delivery boy Like the car had swallowed him whole But stopped short of digestion and rejected his taste Turned itself inside out and left him sprawled on the pavement covered in remnants of the car’s stomach lining He goes through the motions stands up, reaches for the pizza, stumbles towards my house I wait for the sound of the doorbell to echo through my walls I open the door He’s out of breath He explains that the GPS broke, he got lost, his car ran out of gas he’s sorry But it’s too late now I already ate ramen noodles for dinner I’m not hungry anymore I look up at the deliver boy holding three boxes of large pizzas in his right hand His presence feels vaguely familiar He’s not wearing a nametag I’ll probably never see him again (because I’ll never order from this pizza place again) So I grab him by the chest and kiss him on the lips to mask the void in my life that the pizza was supposed to fill SITARA ZOBERI ‘15
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NAMSAI SETHPORNPONG ‘17
Walking With Her to Class She chatters, gesturing excitedly. I nod along, eyes drifting away. Her voice slides right by my silence. How do I tell her that With you, I am always trapped in a glass box. I try vainly to read the flicker of your eyes and your moving lips, but to no avail. We are water and fire, and it’s impossible for us to mix together. All that comes out is smoke, dark black voluminous smoke that chokes my lungs and then spits me out. TRUELIAN LEE ‘17
REBECCA BERNSTEIN ‘16
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Olives Aunt Cecelia mumbles as she stubs Heads of fleshy olives against Her china fork. The green they emit Hovers transparent And collects in sour pools across her plate. ***** Aunt Cecelia frightens me. Mostly I am afraid when She speaks to her olives, or Stumbles onto our doorstep; Hungry drunk Drenched in The liquid of poached dreams. Times like this, she is A Dali clock that slips— Into her olives. She smashes them with her tongue, until
Trampled, The green beasts whimper. Juice moves In snake trails through Her rigid mouth, All converging at The uvula A sea of vinegar and jade— And she smiles with Her lips, sewn closed. ***** But tonight, she is upset With her olives. She stabs at them with flamed angriness And, glowering, watches her fork Perforate the skin— Stuffed, groaning, retching Old imbibed stories of Her insults. *****
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Aunt Cecelia chokes over Another swig of warm vodka. She gathers me in her dark eyes. I see her lips—go—slack— Hear her tongue unstick From the roof of her mouth ***** I look, and clench The front of my shirt In one clammy fist, with The other dragging My fingernail up the Expanse of my thigh. It leaves bare skin red, And nerves raw—
Another night with Aunt Cecelia. ***** I reach, Lacing blue-knuckled fingers Around frosted glass And the hotness radiates, In my chest— When I swallow— I am heavy. ***** A forgotten olive rolls across the plate. With our eyes, Aunt Cecelia and I arrive At goodnight. SHERRI AFSHANI ‘14
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The Secret Garden We went back to the Secret Garden The day before you moved. It didn’t occur to me that we’d Never see it again— Moving isn’t a thing we do (But you did). Past the blue-tiled pool We never swam in; Across the sloping lawn where we Ran from the end of playdates; Under the Chinese arch at the Start of trees and magic. Maybe it was just the winter-bare trees Leaving the Secret as naked As their branches, But I swear someone chopped off The heart of the long walk To our Garden. Not five feet down the woodchipped path We saw the corner of the waterfall, A whisper, a glimpse, Decidedly unhidden. Silence pressed at our lips. We didn’t feel like Queen’s English Or song, but nor could we Abandon the laws of the Garden. Three final stone steps. Rocky waterfall from which No water ever fell; Gray pond floating below A carpet of dead leaves; Wrought iron lawn chairs Made rough by creeping rust;
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TULASI KADIYALA ‘16 Slate slabs split Through the core. Flowers never grew In the Secret Garden. Around the Arrow Rock (Carved symbols of escape faded with Remembered berry juice and stolen henna) Two shadow-girls danced, Chanting and wishing their way Away. I don’t think any two fortunates Ever dreamed of Out More than us. The Garden disappeared As we walked away, Pulled through the Vortex To the real land. GRACE ALFORD-HAMBURG ‘14
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GRACE ALFORD-HAMBURG ‘14
Laundry Haven’t done it, In a whole month. I’m not sure if I’m disgusted Or impressed. But I am confused. Do I own that much underwear? NICOLE WALLACE ‘14
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ANDREA WANG ‘15
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Boarding School Going to boarding school felt a lot like being on one of the moving walkways in an airport. You stumbled onto it, tripping over your shoes and hoping you were going the right way and glancing back over your shoulder, waiting for someone to grab your hand and pull back, saying it was a bad idea. Then you stand there for a moment and regain your balance. The world outside of you is completely visible through clear glass, close as it ever was, but entirely inaccessible. Suddenly, you were different. Suddenly, you were separated. And you spin around and try not to fall over as you realize how fast you’re moving. The world through the clear glass rails looks chaotic; the people milling about and bumping into each other have no direct path like you do. You’re moving quickly forward in a straight line. Even when you stop and fall, you are still moving. Because what else can you do? There is no getting off until the end, no breaking of the glass. You know there’s an end to the walkway, you can sense it somewhere, in the back of your mind. But that end is so far into the distance that you can barely begin to comprehend it. You wonder idly if you’d get there quicker by running with the machine, if maybe you should be moving with it, and not just riding. You grasp the handrail and try to stand, to move one shaky foot in front of the other. But the world outside distracts you; the swirling decisions you once made and now have to live with make you dizzy and you sit down again, trying to regain your balance. You feel yourself being propelled endlessly forward. No matter how many times you sit down, you are being carried, forced into progression and advancement. There is no crowded, indirect confusion on this path you are traveling. You are separated by a thin sheet of glass from the outside world, segregated into a place where your only direction is on. After a moment, you look up and realize there is something sort of beautiful about your walkway. There’s a warm, comforting hum that surrounds you, a historical sound, rich in tone from generations of the same note. Your hand brushes over the floor, worn down from decades of shoes just as unsure and desperately hopeful as yours are. Fingertips on the glass remind you of the people who took the ride before you and looked to the outside world, wondering. Newfound dedication begins unfurling in your chest, and you reach out a shaking hand to pull yourself to your feet. You see the way you move forward, gliding through a world of chaos. You see the way you are guided, eased by so many devoted hands towards that goal still yet intangible. You feel as if someone believes in you, as if you’ve been given a chance because someone saw something inside that was worth the effort. Your hand reaches out to the glass but not, this time, in longing for a world you’ve left. It reaches out to steady you as you take your first step with the moving walkway. It is shaky. You stare down and breathe deeply and tell yourself that it’s possible. You take another step. And another. You’re moving faster now, you’re moving with the machine and it’s carrying you farther. Your strides widen and you release the handrail. How fast can you go? You push yourself. You match the rhythm of the path and feel as if you’re sailing, the world through the glass receding into a blended mass of color as your vision tunnels on the ultimate goal. A smile spreads across your face. This is what they meant when they said it would be worth it. This is what they said would come. A deep burning begins in your legs. Logic tells you it’s exhaustion but it matches the historical hum of your machine and you embrace it. It is merely another mark of evidence that you were meant to be here, to be part of the history. You let yourself move into a run, the combined forces of your effort and the consistent support of the walkway propelling you onward. You stumble, and you continue. You push yourself faster and faster as wings sprout from your ankles and your pathway transforms into a golden hall that you have given yourself for in every sense of the word. Your eyes close in satisfaction of what you have become. And then you stumble off. Just as you stumbled on the beginning, the end of the walkway comes abruptly, without warning. You turn back, disbelieving, waiting for someone to pull you back on and tell you it’s not quite over. But the walkway has disappeared. You turn and face the world in front you, confused. Perhaps it is not so chaotic. You begin to see patterns you’d never noticed before, rhythms in the movement. You move slowly back into the middle of the hallway, holding your breath, hoping, knowing, that soon, only too soon, you will begin to run again. SONJA ELIASON ‘15 32
Twenty-five Minutes at Choate Robert Ogden Purves ‘15
It was one minute after seven on a very cold winter morning, and the rising bell had just ceased its imperative summons. For a few seconds all was quiet. Then the bed at one side of the room, piled high with blankets and comforters, creaked loudly, as its occupant stirred slightly. Once more all was quiet. Then suddenly, from the next room, “Sister Susie’s Sewing Shirts for Soldiers” sprang from the open jaws of a phonograph, in the soothing tones of Al Jolson. Again the bed creaked, this time a little more sharply than before, and “Aw, shut up!” issued from the middle of the pile of bedding. By the time Caruso and Billy Murray were well under way in their representations of the prison scene from “Faust,” and “The High Cost of Living.” With the exception of this blended harmony and the occasional whistling of a joyful youth, all was still. But the tranquil scene was broken in upon by the indignity of a sharp challenge of the second bell. Immediately the pile of blankets and comforters was on the floor. The window came down with a bang; and for a few minutes the air seemed filled with flying pajamas, underwear, socks, shoes, and trousers, as one after another was put on by the indignant individual. In a twinkling our drowsy-eyed, ruffled-haired friend was in the washroom, throwing water over his face and head. This done he rushed to his room, where, with two strokes of a comb, he smoothed out his rumpled locks, put on his coat, and with the words, “I wish it were ten o’clock to-night,” started for the master’s room to report.
GRACE TULLY ‘16
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REBECCA BERNSTEIN ‘16
WILL KORTUM ‘15 34
Untitled
Katy Manning ‘75 Given time, I will find a rock somewhere. A hermit island in the ocean, naked but for bleached shells dropped by sea birds like explosions. When I find it I will sit, wind in my hair, and let my eyes go out to sea. Leaving my thoughts to hibernate on my rock fortress. Then I will know that only time and sea spray can erode me. If I only will my thoughts to cling to my rock, and not let my eyes come back from sea, to gaze on bleached shells, dropped by sea birds like explosions.
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Saffron When her father was not busy probing another brain, he’d spend hours by her side, sliding down the old rusty metal slides, twirling his daughter in the air until they were both lying on the ground, dizzy and panting. Look at that cloud! That one! That one! She’d squeal in delight with each cloud shape, and he smiled, the thoughts of his pager and call schedule temporarily forgotten. Arranged by rainbow gradients and heights, the slides were where she would cast aside her bashful exterior, running full speed through the gravel for another day’s adventure. Each week, she would venture yet another step on the highest ladder, bracing herself for that day she would finally reach the top of the rungs—only to always inadvertently catch a glimpse of the ground, so far below her tiny toddler feet, and beg for her father to take her to safety in his twirling arms once more. The slides had been home, long before she’d known what such a thing was. It was where she had uttered some of her first words, and taken her first wobbling steps, teetering humorously in her flower-patterned shoes. It was where she had gotten her mop of dark curly hair stuck in between the rusty old screws that held everything together, crying until her mother managed to pry the strands loose. It was the background of her grandmother’s faded Polaroid prints, as she stood at the top of the ladder, beaming and still leotard-clad from her gymnastics lesson. *************** She was six years old when she discovered the Atlantic. There, on the 747 that took her away from her beloved slides and towards her father’s new operating room, she looked below, and saw the navy blue of the frigid waters scattered in between the clouds. She hugged her knees tightly, the bows of her frilly socks brushing against her forearms as she tried her best not to cry. Crying’s for babies. Crying’s for babies. I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl. Crying’s for babies. By the aisle, her father snored away, arms folded against his chest as the preordered movie continued playing on his seat’s individual TV. Her mother was busy reading, her customary green ink pen in hand as she mused over her latest book, finding tidbits here and there that she circled without any emotion on her face. She’d gotten quite good at doing that. One: Focus on object. Two: Pretend to be interested. Three: Tune out family. Repeat as needed. She thought of the slides, and her grandfather, and the last playdate they’d ever had. She had propelled her small body down the rusted ramps, oblivious to the world around her. She hadn’t noticed the oxygen tank, and the cannulas that snaked around her grandfather’s neck and into his nostrils—she’d only seen a playmate, and her annoyance towards the sixty-year-old man who was incapable of lifting her to reach the last rung of that highest slide. She never reached the top, and one day that autumn, he stopped coming to the house for their afternoon playdates. *************** Twelve years later, the bitter winds nipped her rosy cheeks, as she stood alongside her father and peered out into the parking lot that had once been home. She was two feet taller, her father’s Elvis ‘do streaked with gray, and her slides demolished. She peered at the scene, a lump in the pit of her throat, but her ivy-brown eyes refused to spill their brimming contents. All that remained of her life stood in the corner of the concrete lot. The tallest slide swayed in the winter winds, the colored metal completely obscured by the saffron-hued rust that plagued its cracks and crevices. Slowly, she drifted from her father’s side, her legs carrying her towards the base as hands hastily adjusted her lilac hijab before grasping the lowest rung. Hesitantly, she climbed, higher and higher, eyes kept firmly on the horizon, refusing to peer down at the ground and the gap between her bony feet and the ash grey concrete.
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Her father peered up at his daughter, as she continued to grasp the rough metal, her hands scratched and burning from the rusty residue. He knew the slide hadn’t been used in a decade, that it was something he shouldn’t be letting happen, but—despite their lack of normal understanding and communication (all that had ended when she realized more brain surgeries meant more nights without bedtime stories), he knew what she wanted, and so he watched on, trying not to worry about the corroded hinges coming undone. With a final push, her left hand gripped the final rung. She hoisted her body over the edge, seeing for the first time what she had hoped to so long before. The hideous parking lot disappeared, as she was greeted by the view of nearby trees, barren and sickly from winter’s cold kiss. Her muddled irises leaked with their contents, as she relived her childhood, wishing not for the first time that her grandfather could see her then. SHERRI AFSHANI ‘14
ALEXANDRA KLEIN ‘14 37
Thief I steal lines from books, Cut them out with plastic kiddy scissors And store them in my cheek. When the conversation is just right (And it will be, at some point: our thoughts are not As unusual as we think them to be) the line will Dissolve from ink and paper To sound. You’ll laugh and wonder at my wittiness, My unpredictable cleverness. But sometimes— All the time, really— I wish you’d realize it was stolen. Except you haven’t read my books, Haven’t seen the ragged places Where my kiddy scissors cut. You see, you don’t know My literary friends, The real ones, so much truer to me Than you. So I wish you’d catch me with my stolen lines. I wish you’d call me out And finally join the ranks of the real, The first corporeal person To live there. GRACE ALFORD-HAMBURG ‘14
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KARLIN WONG ‘14
Untitled We are free. it’s dark outside, as always it gets colder every day but tonight the moon is out we laugh for no particular reason we race across the road when we think no one can see us we go home singing far too loudly we know we will come back tomorrow and there is so much work to be done but for now we are free. SOPHIE LATHAM ‘16 39
Associations
Edward F. Albee ‘46
Love— Two children falling down a well, Their laughter echoed with a bright, Almost golden tinkle, as they fell Holding hands, joyous as the light Receded, Faded, From their sight. Is Sacred— Bach wrote his music mainly for the cold Stone walls, placid, heavy walls Entombing those who pray within The houses they have built, for centuries, For God, their Lord. The stones are old. Occasionally some spirit calls And laughs at all the “pardoned sin”. The stone, So cold “St. Matthew’s passion” Echoes From the walls And falls On stone. Love— Two mudpies hopeful that the sun Will not deface their sweet romance Until no longer are they living things But clods of dirt Hardened
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By the chariot Dashing Madly through the sky. Will Outlast death— The Spring leaves wither in the sweet And perfumed air. The tenderest buds Recoil and faint. There is no heat, Nor cold, Nor singing in the air, Nor a maiden Placing flowers in her hair, Nor beauty Bathing in the gentle warmth of Spring, Nor happiness. But there is quietness, Endless, Restful Quietness. Love, then, is permanent As death is not. “There is no such thing As permanence,” Read the scholars. Love, however, The tender breath of Spring is calm And soothes with fragrance, Soon to sleep, The weary mind. The world is left behind.
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Indian Summer There’s always one day in November when New York City smells like summer. It’s brief; if you move too quickly through life and every day, you’ll miss it. But I wait for it like Christmas. I wait for that one day when I will step outside into a world so nearly in the embrace of winter, when it will turn its head over its shoulder with a final, whimsical glance into the warm and sunny past. It is the city’s final goodbye to the season. This year, my Indian summer came uncharacteristically late. So late, I was terrified it would not come at all. The Thanksgiving decorations had been taken down and replaced by jolly red men and fluorescent wrapping paper. I held my breath as the calendar stumbled forward to December, waiting, begging my day to come. And she did. Like the long-lost lover who’d never given up, she came with rosy cheeks and a pleasant wind and the smell of sunlight wrapped up in her hair and daisies in her pocket. And like the eager man who’d never lost hope, I ran to her. I took the bus as far into the country as it’d go, knowing she was waiting there. Trekking through the abandoned park that felt like a dense forest after living in the cement city for so long, my heart pumped the thick blood of an addict, or an insane man. But I knew she’d be there. And the thought of her waiting for me, for her one final goodbye before fleeing to the arms of another man, sent me running. The entire neighborhood had been abandoned after World War II. It was just another of New York’s suburban towns; this one just happened to fail. Most of the houses were the kind of dilapidated grey that comes from years of unwashed white. The few stores that had been there were all broken glass and empty racks. It was a ghost town. It was her town. The swing set in the middle of the park was the only thing that seemed to have been untouched by time. It was solid steel with two identical seats hung side by side. I approached slowly, searching. She was there, waiting, on the left swing. Sunlight tumbled heavily down from the clouds and glittered on the metal seat. Tall blades of grass, uncut, reached up and caressed her. Light wind sent her swing swaying. I imagined her gentle laugh, in tune with the breeze. I walked silently over and sat beside her. The wind tickled my face in welcome, and I smiled as I removed the coat I no longer needed in her presence. My feet dug into the soft dirt beneath the grass and I pushed. We flew together, drunk on the last bit of sun, laughing at the optimism of the birds, so active as if they thought it was springtime again. We swung until the light faded, and eventually dropped down over the horizon. Too late, I glanced over at her. Distracted by the beauty of the setting sun, I had forgotten to wish her farewell. Her seat was empty. I could feel the cold settling over the metal in the space she’d left. I grabbed the coat I now needed, left alone in the bitterness. My Indian summer was gone. She’d left me for another season. I walked slowly through the town, heading for the bus station. Tomorrow the cold would set in, for real this time. And I would be left alone to survive it. SONJA ELIASON ‘15
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The Pinky Toe
Untitled She brought her home she tucked her in she pecked her cheek and saw her grin she tied her shoes she waved goodbye she picked her up and saw her cry she helped her win she let her lose she gave advice and saw her choose she wasn’t thanked she didn’t care all that mattered was that she was there
Here I lay in a dark, closed space Moist, unappreciated, and lonely Never allowed to see the world. I am the runt of the family My older brothers tease me constantly, My parents are distant, and so here I lay I have not much to live for But every night I see her Every night when we are finally let out of that dark cage, so is she, and she’s perfect She’s small, the runt of her family too She has two mean older brothers, just like I do She understands me Or I think she would if we ever talked Because we don’t talk, we just stare Maybe one day we will talk Maybe one day, I’ll approach her, and introduce myself And we’ll talk about how much we hate seclusion And how we want to leave this place and travel the world And we’ll do just that. But then I think to myself and remember, I’m just a pinky toe EUGENE AMANKWAH ‘15
ANONYMOUS
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The Unbreakables They meet every Thursday in the basement of the local Catholic Church, a small, sad-looking brown house that sits on the corner of Washington and Elm. They pull out the plastic chairs into a circle, resting their rumps on badly-drawn doodles and markered-in Bible messages or the occasional profanity written in messy handwriting by a presumably bored Sunday school student, and wait until someone is ready to talk. Until then, they occupy themselves by staring at the peeling cream-colored wallpaper, its blue trim faded to a pale gray, the taped postcards of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, the rusting metal fans that sit in the corner, the buzzing lights above them, which occasionally flicker, taking them out of their limbo. Tonight is different though. They wait nervously, glancing at the stranger who has decided to join them tonight, a small man in a red hooded sweatshirt, his chin covered in square pieces of paper, hiding cuts from a poor shaving job. To the right of the stranger, a fair-haired man named Joshua, clearly spelled out (with the addition of a smiley face) on a blue sticker stuck to his shirt, clears his throat. “Well, I think it’s time to start this meeting of the Unbreakables. Who wants to go first?” That’s what they call themselves. The Unbreakables. The stranger snorts slightly when Joshua says it. Everyone pretends not to hear the snort, knowing well that their name sounds like something that had sprouted from the imagination of comic-book obsessed six-year-old child. A rather heavy-set woman on the right of Joshua goes first. She tells the group that her self-esteem had been broken long ago, when someone had made fun of her at work. Apparently, the doctors had tried to fix it but her self-esteem had snapped into microscopic fragments, making it almost impossible for the surgeons to attach the pieces. A lot of the pieces are still missing. The group claps slowly when she’s finished. The man in red simply nods. The rest of the stories were pretty similar. A man with a tattoo sleeve had lost his sense of safety when his father came home drunk one night and threw him against a wall. He had managed to find some of it in his mother’s bedroom but the rest was gone for good. A young, anxious-looking woman had a broken patience, the result of her newborn child. She pointed at the small scar near her collarbone, where the doctors had, unsuccessfully, tried to add more. Joshua’s freedom had broken while he was in prison 8 years ago, a fact that made the man in red raise his eyebrows. An elderly gentleman had hurt his pride when he had shit his pants at a family Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago for the first time since childhood. A young man in glasses with no confidence left after he couldn’t get a job. And finally, a woman in her twenties whose heart had broke in 61 pieces after her boyfriend had cheated on her. She now needed a pacemaker. The woman with the broken patience occasionally interrupts these narratives, telling people to hurry up, but immediately apologizes after every outburst. The man in red nods after every tale. The rest of the room looks at the man in red after everyone had finished speaking, waiting to hear his story, the only new one in the room. Joshua, who seems to be the defacto leader, coughs, quietly at first, then rather loudly. “Hey, um, bud, want to tell us what’s broken in you?” The man in red seems indifferent. But then he straightens up, rolls his shoulders and looks straight at Joshua. “I’m not sure what’s broken.” “C’mon, you gotta know. Think about it.” “Just little parts here and there. Everything and nothing is broken at the same time.” “Why is that?” “Because no one ever broke me. I, uh, I break other people.” The room is eerily silent after the man in red speaks. The woman with the broken heart unconsciously hugs her chest. The man with the tattoo sleeve rubs his hand up and down the inked roses. The chubby woman looks as if she is going to cry. No one says anything out loud but everyone knows. If this man in red really does break things, then he has broken the safety of this room. 44
The elderly gentleman raises his hand, but quickly puts it down after realizing he doesn’t need anyone to call on him. He readjusts his glasses and opens his mouth. “If you don’t mind me asking, why exactly are you here?” The man in red shrugs his shoulders. “I want to know why I feel broken.” No one has an answer. The man looks ready to leave, almost sorry that he had destroyed something again. But then, the young man in glasses speaks. “It’s you. Other people who choose to hurt others instead of being hurt themselves are fine because they aren’t burdened with their guilt. You are. You break yourself because you see how you break others.” Everyone in the room stares at the bespectacled man for a while, but then starts nodding. Joshua clears his throat, again. “What’s your name?” “David.” “What’s your story, David?” David begins to speak, and although everyone is listening, they feel the air in the room changing ever so slightly. The man who lost his sense of safety stops rubbing his tattoos. The woman with the broken heart lets her hands fall to her side. When David is finished, the group comes to their senses. They stack the chairs by the metal fans and wave shyly at each other as they leave. As David walks up the stairs, Joshua smiles at him. “See you next Thursday, David.” ESUL BURTON ‘16
ASHLEY KIM ‘14 45
Waiting Lying on his front he asks when he can go home. He doesn’t have the answer so he asks the mud seeping into his uniform. It oozes its way into his combat boots And sits settling, waiting, as trench foot sets loose Tiny rainy dew drops slip off rich green leaves And trickle to fall on his soft face as he heaves A deep sigh that is long enough to reach the sea And skip over the valleys and rice paddies As the flaming sun sets the sky ablaze And carries with it fiery sprays That dance with orange, red and gold in twilight And entwine in each others arms back to his eyes bright. Tiny jungle bugs crawl and creep Little birds ominously peep As their brightly colored feathers flit from tree to tree Soaring, flying, liberated, free As the heat intensifies, the insects grow tense They fly and zip having lost their sense One private nearby slaps a skeeter on his neck One lieutenant obliged keeps everyone in check Scanning the boys to make sure that they Are alive and safe in the best possible way For the situation they are in is dire And no one can time the random gunfire. There is no concept of time here Every second an hour, every day a year As the sun disappears and gives way to night The moon forebodingly beams down to ignite The valley with terrific jungle sounds As his heart grows weary and pounds And he hears no sound As his heart continues to pound And now he assumes it’s twenty four hundred And heat lightning booms as horrendous as it thundered The night before and the night before that And time never stops, it never lasts.
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A finger on the trigger ready to pull A hand grasping dirt one fistful The black barrel of the weapon growing hot as if to mock His hand too tired to move as it singes on the stock Golden bullets across his chest His consciousness yearns for a break, a rest Always alert, never sleeping Listening for signs of insurgents sweeping A twig snaps, an animal screeches Eyes flash and arms snap as he reaches For a sign, an answer that it might just be Someone, anyone, but the dreaded enemy. His eyes once green, young, and bright Now faded and full, with war in their sight Dry tears streak his mud splattered face And down his neck black with soot to find their place Curving quietly around his collar bone He lies and cries, as his tight hip bones Grind harsh against his sore femurs That have locked into place making him weaker And weaker by the day as he stumbles on Looking to regain a sense of hope to hold on To get him through the long hot days That never end, but he always prays. Jungle moon shadows fall black and white As the hot sun pours down crystal pure light It glints and tints off his silver dog tag Blood type O, the hardest to match, a red flag The silver square sits on his emaciated chest Shiny from sweat, heaving heavy with every breath He clutches the tag, releasing it, letting it fall The metal slipping around his neck, visible to all His throat is cracked and yearns for water, But making a sound to ask will bring on slaughter And as he looks to the sky, ready to say goodbye A buddy tugs his foot and hands him the last of the boys’ water supply. MEHVISH KHAN ‘15
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Of Which There is No Title Eleanor P. Clark ‘30
T
here was a place where I would ride when I was feeling sad, and even many times when I was happy, for far up among the hills, it was serene and set apart. I cannot say I know it well, for though in the summer I knew if another leaf had fallen, or if a stranger hand had come there, meddling, still I know that the winter winds have robbed it of its simple glory, have made it a desolate spot on a bleak and barren hillside. I would ride along a dusty road until I came to a friendly pasture with a wooden gate. And I would ride through the sunny field which sloped upward into a high hill. As I rose the wind became fresher, but the noon-day sun was always warm. The hill was very steep, and when I came to the top, I could see far below me the small brook that I had crossed, a tiny silver ribbon winding through a land of patchwork. Each fence was a row of needlework separating the gay designs, and each tree and each grazing cow was a bright dot upon its own pattern. The dusty road was the gold border of the quilt, and the tiniest miniature of a small, white cottage was embroidered under it. Close by where I stood there was a wooden fence, a lost thread, perhaps, and very near to it on the other side was a small, gnarled apple-tree. The ground, there, was a bed of ferns, and around them were black-berry bushes; and although the branches of the old tree gave shade to the spot, a few lost sunbeams filtered through the leaves. This made the place seem warm and friendly. I could lie there for many hours, looking down upon the world, or watching the clouds float lazily across the sky. Sometimes I would dream of many things, and sometimes my mind would cease working, and would merely drink in the perfect peace that was around me. Now, at the thought of it, I could laugh at the sunlight playing on the grass and the hill-side, and at the lazy clouds, and at the wild, gay, patchwork quilt. And yet the winter has sealed the silver ribbon, and if the long grass is still bowing before the wind, it is a mad dance before a hurricane. I know that the branches of the old tree are bare, and that it is a lonely skeleton, waving its arms against a cold, grey sky.
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Untitled Everyone wants to know that they came into someone else’s world and marked their spot, their territory, even if it means that they came as a wildfire and left behind ashes and smoke. Some people walk into another person’s life and they think that they’ve made that person. They don’t understand: no, he doesn’t scream out in his sleep because of you. No, she doesn’t swallow pills labeled with your name to fix whatever you broke. No, they don’t wish to unzip their skin and step outside of themselves because you made them want it. Pain, real pain, is never for someone else. Just because you came in and threw a branch into the flames that were burning someone down doesn’t mean that the fire was waiting for you. You were just warming your hands and passing by. Congratulations; you fueled a fire. Congratulations; you marked your spot: “I was here,” spelled out in ashes on someone else’s heart. Congratulations, you wildfire, you bringer of destruction, you fool. Step back and realize that before you came there were already dying trees with ghost branches and dead roots. Before you came, there was already friction enough to make smoke: maybe not enough to spark a flame but understand that this person was falling apart just fine before you. Open your eyes. Read the smoke signals that are rising out of the pores of the one you thought you broke. They say, “For me. For me. I’m burning down for me.” ANONYMOUS
WILL KORTUM ‘15
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The Northern Winter Frederic William Stix ‘15
Down from the Labrador swept the northern winter, driving before it sleet and stinging snow, rattling the shivering branches of the blasted trees with its icy winds, and bringing such intense cold that the trees cracked at night, and great rocks were shattered. Bravely the little log-cabin in the clearing withstood the storms, and from within its tightly-closed windows gleamed the cheers of a warm hearth-fire. Little golden-haired Marjorie lived there with her father, a tall, strong woodsman. It was a lonely life for the little girl, but she loved her father too well to complain, and amused herself as best she could during the long hours of his absence. Often she would press her little face against the cold pane, and, looking out into the frozen forest, would wonder why she had ever been brought so far into this wilderness to live; and she would think often of the story her father had told her of how they had once lived in a great city with “mother,” of the terrible day of “mother’s” death, the white-faced nurses and the solemn doctors, how father had tried in vain for employment in the city and had been obliged to cut timber far in the north for a living. Of these, and many other things, she thought, but never could quite understand, and so troubled her fair head no more about them. Her father left her early each morning, returned for a short time at luncheon, and then stayed in the forest until dusk, surveying or cutting the timber. One afternoon late in January, as the wild storm was raging about the cabin, Marjorie was at the window watching for her father to come—as she so often did as the evening drew on. The clock on the shelf ticked solemnly, but otherwise the silence was unbroken, save when an icy blast rattled the door or window. The great drifts grew deeper and deeper. Darkness was coming, and Marjorie began to be troubled; a vague fear clutched her little heart with an icy hand, and she grew more and more anxious for her “daddy’s” return. At length she could stand it no longer, and, opening the door, she stepped out into the clearing, without coat or hat, calling in trembling tones for her father. No answer came, and the snowflakes fell swifter and swifter about her as she started off through the drifts to hunt for him. The walking was difficult, and scarcely had she lost sight of the cabin before she began to feel exhausted. Her golden locks flew wildly in the wind, and her teeth chattered with cold, but she staggered on through the dark and the drifts. Twice she fell, but rose again, and pressed on, calling vainly for her father. Slower and slower grew her steps, until at last her feet struck something soft, and she fell exhausted. As she sank down like a tired child to rest, a fierce gust of wind swept aside the snow, and revealed her lying, as if asleep, with her head on her dead father’s breast, her golden curls spread over his face. ***** Down from the Labrador swept the northern winter; all night long the snow fell softly, now eddying slowly to earth, now driven about by the wind, as it covered with its merciful blanket the forms of father and daughter, asleep in the arms of their Father in Heaven.
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Acknowledgments Patrons
Benefactors
Kathy Bigham Shari Bailey Clare Findley Chaihyun Lee The Furlo Family Pamela Hamilton Natalie Hills Vincent Intrieri George Markantonis Rod Richardson Heather Zetterberg
Winnie Byanyima Moya Coulson Randall Eliason and Cherie Kiser Barbara Kage Sarah Khan Sudha Kumar Blake Lasky Myungho Lee The Lisi-Lengel Family Margaret Martin-Heaton Melissa Matthes Tal Nazer Alexandra Paladino Alexander Paolozzi The Rothburg Family David Rubin Min Hee Shin & Jeong Dae Seo Janine Smith Kenson So Lili Zhou
Special Thanks Alexa Cordova Judy Donald Todd Meagher Pat Tarasiewicz
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Masthead
Sherri Afshani ‘14 Brandon Chin ‘14 Lindsey Lui ‘14 Milly Battle ‘15 Merrick Gillies ‘15 Zemia Edmondson ‘16
LITerati
Emily McAndrew ‘14 Gary Wang ‘15 Tulasi Kadiyala ‘16 Angela Sim ‘14 Rebecca Bernstein ‘16 Sojeong Lim ‘16 Kyra Goldstein ‘15 Esul Burton ‘16 Jaylin Lugardo ‘16 Minas Markantonis ‘15 Stephanie Chan ‘16 Josephine Battle ‘17 Mickey Kieu ‘15 Esther Clayton ‘16 Sophia Gillies ‘17 Will Kortum ‘15 Anna D’Alvia ‘16 Stephanie Grossman ‘17 Sabrina Levin ‘15 Sara Feinstein ‘16 Marie Papazian ‘17 Taylor Rossini ‘15 Lilli Gibson ‘16 Geneviève Richardoson ‘17 Helena Seo ‘15
Faculty Advisers Ellen Devine Sarah Kate Neall