The Voice 13-14

The Voice Magazine of Art and Literature Issue D1

32 pages FLHS’ representations of future creativity, writers and artists

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The Revival

Selected works from previous editions of The Voice

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Award Winning

Inside interviews and work of FLHS award winning students

The Voice Magazine of Art and Literature Issue D1

32 pages FLHS’ representations of future creativity, writers and artists

!

The Revival

Selected works from previous editions of The Voice

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Award Winning

Inside interviews and work of FLHS award winning students

General Manager/Editor Mr. Stephen Dominguez

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Student Manager/Editor!

Aliza Ohnouna!

Teacher Editors !

Ms. Nancy Armstrong (Writing) Mr. Tom Cirone (Art & Photography)!

Ms. Brianne Baker (Writing) Ms. Klarissa Bruno (Writing) Mrs. Kathryn Hetman (Art & Photography)

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From the editor !

New vision in the horizon with a glimpse of the past When I received the pleasure of working with students to create this magazine, I began to think of the history behind previous editions that we so proudly call: The Voice. With the help of many colleagues including, Nancy Armstrong, Tom Cirone, Brianne Baker, Klarissa Bruno, Doug Waldin, , Sophia Karabatsos, and Kate Hetman (just to name a few), I discovered that The Voice has a long history that dates back to the 1960s.

In this edition of The Voice I wanted to capture that talent that exists in our school today and display it to the community through our new format. The introduction of a digital version of The Voice will allow, not just our community, but those interested in the humanities to see the expertise in writing and artistry that is our community. This is truly our moment to shine.

Over 50 plus decades The Voice has preserved in quite a successful way the history of great quality writing and creative artistry. In the past, The Voice has presented a collection of works that represent the talent once found in Fort Lee High School; moreover, it represents the talent that, whether discovered or not, exists in our community and reflects the hard work achieved by you the student.

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Furthermore, this edition of the magazine will honor talent from our past. Special glimpses of selected works will be included periodically throughout the magazine.

Lastly, I’d like to extend a special thanks to the students who have truly worked hard in creating this edition of The Voice. As a new beginning to an extensive past we would like to name this edition The Voice: Magazine of Humanities, Issue D1 (Digital Edition 1).

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Artistry of the Present and Past!

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Scholastic Art and Writing Award Winners !

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06. Poetry in the Making!

Features poems of the past accompanied by a current written piece of finding a place in the world we call our own.

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10. The Internet Survival Guide!

A humorous guide on surviving the pressures of Internet use accompanied by a tech savvy drawing.!

12. Poetic Style of 2013-2014 Valedictorian A heart felt poem of by our valedictorian, Jaryn Stewart

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13-15. Deconstructed Advertisement Paintings!

Not your average advertisements. Can you guess the brand being advertised?

33. Cartoon Remakes and Remixes!

Creative representations of childhood cartoon pals.!

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Poetry in the Making JEANANNE JOHNSON

MARINA ZHENG

“Where?”

“Where Reality Meets Dream”

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Where is a place you dream to be?

Where is a place that all are free?

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Where reality meets dream

I lie and the sky talks to me

Assuring me ideas that can never be will be

So I reach for them, I reach

Where is a beginning not an end?

Where is just around the bend?

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Where reality meets dream

I try to grasp the in-between

A strand of both truth and fantasy

This I reach for ruthlessly

Where is good, not bad?

Where is happy, not sad?

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Where is for a girl or a boy?

Where is a place to enjoy?

Where reality meets dream

I suddenly find it hard to see

The eyes miss what the heart pursues

But my heart keeps chasing after the hidden hues

Where is a dream world, maybe not?

Where is some place you are not?

1983-1984

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Where reality meets dream

I finally capture what is mine to keep

Enclosed and locked with my very own key

Waiting for a day to escape and be free

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Where reality meets dream

I bring an ax down on the golden lock

The world shifts as I open my treasure box

Where my reality is my dream

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2010-2011

6

MARIYA BERSHAD “The Ugly Truth About Makeup”

“Release the beauty inside you.” The slogan played back in my mind as I glanced at the bathroom counter and noticed the glistening bottle of Lancôme foundation staring right at me. I didn’t look half-bad that morning – I was wearing my favorite sweater and I looked and felt fresh after a good night’s sleep. I did not normally wear makeup to school, but I figured a little bit wouldn’t hurt.

So I opened up the magical container that held the ingredients for “beauty”. I let my finger dab a tiny droplet of the buttery foundation onto my nose. Soon enough, pesky little blemishes that I never even noticed before disappeared under a blanket of peachy pigment. My skin seemed to take on the velvety texture of the cream as I smoothed it onto my cheeks, my eyelids, my jawline. Before I knew it, droplets turned to dollops and all the light, tan and red tones blended into a solid, silky beige. My face was like a porcelain moon, reflecting the dim light given by the lamp above the mirror. My hazel eyes turned into glistening gems; they suddenly stood out as if they were just painted on a fresh, white canvas.

Irene Hort

People at school noticed a change in my appearance. Towards the end of the day, my friend asked if I was wearing makeup.

“Yes!” I answered, smiling. “I wanted to try something new.”

“It looks nice,” she mentioned. “But it’s not blended correctly.” She motioned towards her chin. I felt myself blush (though my redness probably didn’t show through the thick layer of white) and started heading to the bathroom to get a second look.

I looked in the mirror. There were small cracks and clumps of beige where a smooth complexion used to be. I tore a piece of tissue and rubbed it along my jaw line, frantically trying to blend in that line that separated my sanguine skin from the dry, clumpy foundation. It wasn’t working. I added water. I rubbed harder. I added soap. Suddenly it seemed like my pores were suffocating, drowning in the dense, sticky mess. I started washing it all off, and the slippery water clashed with the thick, gloppy cream to create an ungodly concoction that clung to my skin. I desperately scrubbed every inch of my face, from the lumpy surface of my cheeks to the dry crevices of my nose.

2011-2012

I glanced up from the sink.

The porcelain mask was gone and my face was red, raw. Every tiny, sinister blackhead and blemish whispered my name – “Look at me, look at me!” The eyes that once gleamed with life seemed to be weighed down, surrounded by dark eye circles that I never even realized were there. My cheeks were too pink. My forehead was too dry. My skin tone was too uneven. How could I have ever been okay with this face? Now that I noticed the flaws, all I wanted was to get rid of them, to conceal them.

The foundation did not “release the beauty inside” me. It was just a blanket that hid the imperfections that I never knew I had.

But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t put some on the next morning.

2013-2014 7

HYE YOON KIM

2013-2014

YANA HRUSHKO

2013-2014

CHRISTINE DENG “Soup Contents”

“I’m starrrr-ving” I mumbled as I rummaged through the cabinets, “I could really use some curry right now.” I opened the fridge, secretly hoping that some curried chicken would magically materialize. Instead, I was met with a bottle of blueberry yogurt. My stomach growled in complaint. I heard the chopping of knives resound from the living room and glanced over to find that my stepfather had his eyes glued to the television.

"Food Network," I muttered to myself. With a loud sigh, I grabbed the yogurt and retreated to my room.

My stepfather was a cook; if he wasn’t in the kitchen trying new recipes, he was in the living room browsing cooking shows. He had worked at several Korean restaurants around town before starting a family-run Chinese and Korean takeout. For the first few months after the restaurant's opening, I helped out as a cashier.

Because my stepfather didn’t speak English, Chinese and Korean only, I was also his translator.

Communi2013-2014 cation between us was an issue. I could never be sure if he was ignoring me or if he just wasn’t able to understand my broken Chinese. Either way, I had to resort to shouting “bu yao hua sheng you! bu yao hua sheng you!” (No peanut oil! No peanut oil!) to prevent him from killing customers allergic to nut My stepfather’s behavior was irritating. Once, he decided to remake an entire dish of fried rice because a few grains were slightly burnt. As he fried the rice in the wok, I had to apologize to the aggravated customer for “taking too damn long for pork fried rice." If I so much as let my hand lightly graze across the tip of a fried chicken wing, my stepfather would glare at me and then dramatically chuck the wing into the trash can.

Even at home, my stepfather mulled over the details of his food. I didn’t understand why he insisted on cooking after sweating all day in the restaurant. Before boiling the bok choy, he would vigorously scrub the leafy green, ridding it of any dirt. When preparing our rice, he measured the exact

TONI FAYNGERSH

amount of water that made the grains stick. I thought it was absurd, as if an ounce of made a major difference in the rice texture.

After a month of work, I was annoyed. I could not stand his constant obsession with the specific arrangement of the salad or the minuscule dab of oil on the kitchen counter.

Everything had to be perfect. At the end of one of my work weeks, I let my frustrations spill out, expressing to my mother how I felt about my stepfather’s behavior. I was brusquely interrupted.

“Is he your father?”

“Of course...a stepfather,” I muttered.

Her eyes rolled at the statement, but she continued, “He’s still your father, even if not by birth. He’s fulfilling his duty as a father: to love, care, and provide for all of us.”

Love? Duty? Father? Yeah, right. What does he know about those things?

These thoughts, of course, I did not utter — hell hath no fury like a mother’s rage. So I rolled my eyes and replied, “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

As I left the room, my mother added, “Don’t compare him to dad. People show their love in different ways.”

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I finally understood what my mother meant. The realization came to me in a bowl of soft tofu soup.

“Soondubu Jjigae,” my stepfather said as he gently placed the bowl in front of me. “It’s hot.” As I scooped the contents of the soup into my mouth, I noticed something strange: each cube of tofu was cut perfectly. I stared at the details. Who would spend time on something as trivial as a piece of bean curd? I glanced at my stepfather in the kitchen as he carefully sliced a chunk of beef into thin pieces for our dinner.

My mother’s words echoed in my head: People show their love in different ways.

The truth is, he was (and still remains) a very picky person.

He demands that his foods smell a certain way, taste a certain way, and look a certain way. Yet, it was through this so-called “flaw” that I discovered his love. He wanted only the best for me; pouring his utmost into every ounce of the meal. His affection for me was not so much expressed in the words he spoke or the compliments he sparingly gave. Rather, his love was in the food — it was in the delicately sprinkled seasoning on my barbecue chicken, the neatly cubed tofu squares of my soup, the perfectly crisped shell of my spring roll. Food was the medium, his means of communication.

“Dinnertime!” my younger sister hollered from the bottom of the stairs. Unfixing my gaze from the computer screen, I followed the mouthwatering aroma to the kitchen. There, on the dining table, lay a beautiful bowl of golden curry chicken.

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MICHELLE CHOI

PHIL PLUCINSKI

The Internet Survival Guide We've all had those nights, you know, the ones spent staring at a computer screen nearly as bright as your skin is surely pale.

Okay, well maybe that's every night. The truth is that we're slaves to the internet.

The internet preys on the social life of the average person, however infinitesimal it may be. It feeds on you. It reels in unsuspecting saps like us with the promise of useful information, easy communication, and funny cats with an insatiable desire for "cheezburgers." Then, when you're vulnerable, it has you sign up for myriads of

websites. And when I say myriads, I mean myriads. Personally, my personal information is probably my worst kept secret. Sad, but true. These websites feed you senseless garbage until you become dependent on them like government to mismanagement. Luckily for you, I'm here to warn you of the horrors of the vast trap that is the internet. And believe me, it's a trap!

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Scientists, social justice bloggers, and cats agree; the internet has four chief agents of time theft- Social Media, YouTube, Tumblr

2013-2014 and E-commerce. Each agent has its own deadly poisons and methods of attraction.

Let's dissect everyone's favorite hell together. Shall we?

Social Media • What is Social Media?: Social Media includes primarily Facebook and Twitter.

However, it is also known to include the trash that is Google Plus, among others.

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PHIL PLUCINSKI cont.

• How it lures you in: Social Media promises to unite you virtually with your friends.

• How it feeds on your social life: Social Media unites you with various people you have more than likely spoken to in brief, forced moments that you might not even remember. Eventually, you add people you either hate or barely know in an attempt to have more friends or followers. Social Media then offers you to feed of what your friends or celebrities are posting. If you're using Twitter, these 140-character messages are plagued with hashtags and false grammar corrections. "ThePresObama: Well looks like I didn't win Powerball, now I have to find a new way to balance the budget..." "@ThePresObama you*re #getreal #yoloswag2013" Case in point.

You really don't care about any of these things, but hey, everyone's doing it.

Eventually, you find yourself on the computer and on your phone, refreshing the “Feed” multiple times a day to no avail. Nothing ever changes. Honestly, its more disappointing than reopening a refrigerator just to find that new food did not magically appear.

YouTube!

• What is YouTube?: Youtube is the internet's largest wealth of videos posted by users.

• How it lures you in: Youtube offers you videos that are educational, entertaining, or musical, in any combination. And all for free. Who could resist?

• How it feeds on your social life: Youtube does in fact show you the video you want to see, but then it has a "Suggested Videos" section after each video. By traversing these dangerous suggestions, you find yourself watching more and more videos than you wanted to, each more pointless than the last.

You may start off watching a video

about bees. Then you watch one about honey. Then bears. Then Skyrim. Then arrows to the knee. The cycle continues until you end up far from where you started. More often than not, this leads you to funny cat videos. Other times it leads you to the dark realm that consists of weird Japanese videos and really poorly done song covers.

Tumblr • What is Tumblr?: Tumblr is the internet's largest community of microblogs, run by anyone and everyone.

• How it lures you in: Tumblr offers a way to express your thoughts through nearly all methods of communication, while simultaneously allowing you to explore the expressions of others.

• How it feeds on your social life: At first Tumblr is innocent, allowing you to search the contents of tags like “pictures," “funny" and “music." But then, when you follow your first blog, all hell breaks loose. Your "dashboard" now contains all the posts from the blogs you follow in a feed. Say you follow someone because you really liked their Avengers post. Suddenly you are swarmed by not only Avengers posts, but also Sherlock Holmes, food, and if you're unlucky, Justin Bieber. Eventually you follow these people. All of a sudden, you now see Homestuck posts on your dashboard. You start to read Homestuck and then it's all over, you're done. And in between all this fandombased garbage are fights between selfrighteous social justice bloggers and their equally bad self-righteous anti social justice social justice bloggers.

Just for good measure, sprinkle in a few black and white hipster photos with a caption.

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E-Commerce • What is E-Commerce?: E-commerce includes sites like Amazon and eBay where users can buy items.

• How it lures you in: E-commerce sites offer items for far cheaper than normally found in the real world. They also sometimes offer free shipping. How convenient.

• How it feeds on your social life: When you first go on a site like Amazon, you may be looking for something as simple as a computer mouse, as complex as a mini nuclear reactor, or weird like a ... well... I'll leave that one to you.

Suddenly, you are bombarded by suggestions of other, cooler things, like better computer mice or full blown nuclear reactors. You keep going.

Amazon suggests a keyboard and weaponized uranium. It keeps happening, over and over, until you stop to checkout. At checkout, you find that, not only did you spend more hours of time than you wanted to, but you also are about to order a lot more than you wanted to. To make matters worse, when you revisit the site, it has suggestions for what you should buy, based on all the items you wasted your time on looking at. Does it stop there?

Oh no. They take your money too, your REAL money. *

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Now the question that remains: ”How can I stop the internet?"

Well the answer is simple: Pull the plug, go outside, ENJOY. Oh who am I kidding? 10-hour Nyan Cat Challenge. #LET'S GO! ”Send help,” I whisper into the night.

JARYN STEWART “Moments”

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We once never spoke a word,

We once never knew of each other’s existence.

And now the universe has collided, left us standing as one.

We gaze at the stars as they share secrets about us,

We gaze out to the distance, the horizon winking at us.

Splendid, whimsical, forever trapped in a moment.

Wonderful, incredible, to just live.

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Our only limits is our imagination,

So we battle the evils of the world,

And conquer all the hate.

The records spins on as our lives pass us by,

Like a train speeding towards the future.

Could it get any better than this?

Could life possibly be more fulfilling?

These questions encompass our beings.

Splendid, whimsical, forever trapped in a moment.

Wonderful, incredible, to just live.

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One moment with you creates a thousand blissful memories.

Forever into our hearts and souls they go.

Continuing on and on into infinity.

Where will it go?

No one knows.

The universe has conspired in our favor,

The stars expanding our minds into worlds unknown.

We taste the hidden flavor of life, and call it our own.

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Magical distractions surround us day by day,

Illuminating the path on which we soar.

Ample laughter fills us up with air,

Not one care in the world since life is treating us so well.

The future burns brighter and brighter each day,

As we stare into the sun and know in our hearts we will be okay.

Splendid, whimsical, forever trapped in a moment.

Wonderful, incredible, just to live.

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They murmur, but we don’t listen.

We have much more on our minds than time allows.

Life is meant to be lived, so we are living as much as we possibly can,

Singing to the sky, rejoicing in this wonderful world.

Splendid, whimsical, forever trapped in a moment.

Wonderful, incredible to just live.

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So ineffable are these memories that make us who we are.

Without them, we would be lost souls searching on.

Moments like this are what define us, so write these stories down in your book.

Make the most of these precious seconds.

They are the ones that add up.

Blaze on into the fire we call life,

And hold on to what makes you you.

Catch the cold, feel the heat, and just live.

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Splendid. Whimsical. Forever trapped in a moment.

Wonderful and Incredible to just be alive.

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CHUAN NITTA

2013-2014

CINDY LUGO

2013-2014

IRENE ESTRADA

2013-2014

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YEJI KIM

2013-2014

Poetry in Translation MARIA BOLANOS “Love is to Forgive”

“Amor es perdonar”

Love is to forgive the person you love,

It is to share everything we have

From within and from the outside.

Is to understand without many reasons,

So we can trust in the person we love.

Amar es perdonar a la persona amada,

Es compartir todo aquello que tenemos

Por fuera y por a dentro.

Es comprender sin demasiadas

Razones, para tener confianza en el ser

Amado.

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The one that does not love is because

He does not know how to give love;

And to give love alone,

You must have an open heart.

And that’s how you love and be loved.

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1987-1988

El que no ama es porque no sabe

Dar el amor;

Y para dar el sólo se tiene

Que tener abierto el corazón.

Es asi como amarás y serás amado.

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1987-1988 16

KUJTIM DUROLLARI

2013-2014

17

SALLY YOO

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CAITLYNN MAIDA

2013-2014

Some Selections from our Winners List Below

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Honorable Mention Bernadette Darcy, Personal Essay, “Answer Me”

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Tae Park, Science Fiction, “Does the Caged Robot Sing?”

Silver Key Connie Bak, Flash Fiction, “And the Innocence Will Burn into the Night”

Mariya Bershad, Personal Essay, “Running Home to My Brother”

Joy Chen, Poetry Collection

Ji Won Lee, Personal Essay, “‘Those’ Moments”

Knar Marashian, Personal Essay, “Deaf but Not Deaf”

Silver Key/Senior Portfolio Joy Chen, “Sincerely Life”

Gold Key Aliza Ohnouna, Humor, “Dear Senioritis,”

BERNADETTE DARCY “Answer Me”

The school bell pierces the thick, tense air. Time is up! My entire test is blank. Straight A’s, scholarships, and happiness dash out of the classroom just ahead of my beaming, confident classmates.

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“Wait! Wait!”

The crash of books onto the paper-strewn bedroom floor jars me awake from my nightmare. I pick my head up from my desk, peel off the loose leaf stuck to my face, and rub the exhaustion out of my bloodshot eyes.

The numbers on the clock make me cringe. I picture my heart and pre-calc grade, hand-in-hand, plummeting into oblivion, and it’s only the first marking period. I hastily grab my textbook and start transforming the twelve basic functions.

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A rhythmic ticking lullaby hums from my old clock.

My brain factory starts to shut down again. Gears stop turning, the assembly line slows down. My eyelashes softly flutter like butterfly wings. Nightmares, mixed metaphors, panic attacks…has it really come to this? I need to escape. (On cue), a memory drifts into my thoughts…

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The cartoon alphabet stares down at me from the wall, my SpongeBob lunchbox relaxes in my cubby, and my thick, yellow Ticonderoga pencil rests inside the indentation at the head of my desk. My feet swing above the carpeted floor as I work on my “All About Me” book. I am on the page entitled, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I chew on my lip and think for a moment. In my messy seven-year-old handwriting, I scribble “happy” in Crayola Canary Yellow.

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I snap out of my daydream and find myself face-toface with the toothless second grader who smiles at me from a frame on my desk. At seven, I thought I wanted to be an astronaut, to fly through the sky in a big red rocket ship, eat cheese from the moon, and float among the twinkling stars. Happiness lay in the carefree wonder of space.

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I’m sixteen now and I want straight A’s and a big scholarship to a great college. I want a PhD and a Victorian house with a white picket fence. I want a family. I want success. I want the American dream. Doesn’t the Declaration of Independence affirm my right to the pursuit of happiness? I’m going to be happy dammit.

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I resume my ritual with renewed energy. I annihilate a pile of homework, attack essays, shoot down

math problems, explode pens. When the clock strikes four, it’s over. Piles of completed homework are my spoils of war. For now, the spoils are meager, but someday they will expand like the universe.

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The next day I take my math test.

“A+” Emptiness.

The following night I spend hours writing a research paper about Confucius.

“A” Existential nothingness.

Ritual: fight sleep, think, study, ace.

Repeat.

It’s another late night. I nearly drop my laptop when I see my reflection in the dark screen. A haggard creature stares back at me with a look of despair. A fisherman’s knot in my gut tightens, twisting my saliva into my throat.

A sharp breath fights its way into my lungs and I force my hand to touch my face.

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I slide my fingertips over the inky blue bags sagging under my lower lids. Spindly twigs branch out from the corners of my tired eyes. I slide my fingers downward and grope at the deep hollows of my cheeks. The smooth blushed skin that once covered my cheekbones is now sallow and rough. Lips are thin, frowning, white. I try a smile, but the corners of my mouth lack the muscle memory. Do they mock my happiness?

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Dizziness and confusion drive me into bed.

I have the right to pursue happiness…I have the right…

As I force my eyes shut, all I see is a big red rocket ship named happiness shooting into outer space—without me.

TAE PARK “Does the Caged Robot Sing?”

“Quartzicodium-152. Yup, that’s what this bad boy’s made of.”

Commander Beliar stared at his creation from behind the windowpane. Two red lights, void of any emotion, stared back from the abyss—a dimly lit cube, fifteen feet in all 3 dimensions with titanium walls. The commander definitely did not want it roaming around freely. Assistant Director Teller gazed into the same room but with more fear than awe. As he gazed however, he couldn’t help but notice the stark differences between him and the commander in their reflections.

Commander Beliar had broad shoulders and a robust frame, with a face that showed the scars of war and time. He carried himself with a distinct pride. He wore his decorated veteran’s jacket almost anywhere he went throughout the facility, while Teller wore his white lab coat that was just handed to him this morning. With a slightly hunched posture and a pair of square glasses, it was evident that he spent a lot of his time in front of the computer.

“Sir, what exactly is Quartzicodium-152? I’ve never even heard of that element before.”

Beliar took a breath the same way he would load a gun, always quick to shoot. “Son, not just any private is privy to this sort of information. We got a hold of it back in Russia during a covert ops mission. Simple get in there and get out.”

“That… doesn’t really answer my question commander.”

"Well do you remember that meteorite that crashed into Russia a few years back?" Beliar asked.

"Yeah, it made a huge buzz on the Internet. I believe one of the videos from a car camera that caught the explosion received about five million views on YouTube..."

"The Chekarbul Meteor exploded 14 miles above the ground, releasing 400 kilotons of energy. Some of that energy was released in the form of light, which you saw in those videos. But there was another 300 kilotons of energy expended in exergonic reactions and we believe that energy catalyzed some sort of chemical reaction that created this unique isotope— well, we believe it to be an isotope at least. The chemical structure of this particular compound doesn't resemble anything natural that we've seen yet. It's highly responsive and reactive, but only to itself. And it's for that reason that we were able to create DC."

"DC?” The two letters escaped slowly out of Teller’s mouth.

"DC is its name, the automaton you see within this heavily reinforced room.”

Teller gazed once more into the dark abyss again, only to be met with the same red two lights a second time. This time he caught the initials DC in red on the upper left chest area of its humanoid frame.

“DC?” Teller stood in solemn contemplation for just a moment. “How about DesCartes? You know, like after the philosopher?”

“Just don’t get too attached to the name kid.”

Teller rolled his eyes at the kid comment. “So how does Quartzicodium fall into all of this?”

"Quartzicodium is the perfect element to create a central nervous system and a complementary skeletal system. The reaction time of this robot is three times faster than that of any human's. It processes information within milliseconds and uses algorithms to calculate its best chance of survival down to the tenths. It’s a ruthless fighting machine that always make the right choice.” The commander stressed this point the greatest. “Or so we thought. That’s why you’re here, to fix him.”

“This isn’t the job that I signed up for, Commander.”

“Too bad, you’re the only guy for the job. You’ll get over it quickly.”

Teller kept his mouth closed for the time being. He needed this job desperately.

"You’ll be in charge of managing this highly classified experiment for the most part Mr. Teller. From your résumé it seemed like you were more than capable of handling this job. Your work in AI development is even more prominent than my own which is quite impressive.”

The commander was referencing Teller’s handicraft in the recent string of bank robberies. Not the kinds that involve ski masks and guns though, that era was long gone. Teller was able to override ATM machines to feed other peoples’ deposits directly into offshore accounts he owned without having the machines even realize what they were doing. It was regarded as one of the biggest heists in the hacker community, and near impossible too considering the security strength of the ATM AI nowadays. Everybody’s still wondering how he managed to pull it off. Teller got off without jail time, but work became even harder to find. “And might I remind you that this operation is on a need-to-know basis. Your office is in the second sector, southeast wing. It's hard to miss. That's all for today. " The commander marched forward, parting from the assistant director to his own office in the north wing.

“What a great way to start off the first day,” Teller grumbled turning back towards his office. Passing by DC’s box, he couldn’t help but stare again. He brought up one hand up to the cold glass and placed his knuckles along the barrier that set them worlds apart. The faint knock caught the attention of DC, and its two red eyes met with the assistant director’s own navy blue eyes. Teller stood there motionless for only a few seconds.

“We’re both trapped here,” whispered Teller. “In a place where we don’t belong, doing what we don’t really want to do… Well, you’re programmed not to know any better.”

TAE PARK cont.

Teller’s moment was interrupted by a third red light that appeared in the far left corner of the box. It only took a few seconds of the light flashing faster and faster and a faint corresponding beeping noise to let Teller recognize what it was. He had to act now. He pivoted off his right foot and made a mad dash back down the hallway he came from, taking a sharp left and ducking for his dear life.

The explosion masked the sound of Teller’s panting. His heart stopped beating after every pant and spiked up when he took a breath as if to make up for lost time. Shards of glass window littered the floor of the hallway.

Damn. That was the only word he could find within his mind. He turned and walked back to the black box to see if DesCartes was there.

Shit. That was the only other word that came to mind when he found himself staring at an empty black box with a gaping hole to the side and a completely shattered window.

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* * *

Two red lights appeared from around the corner. Cold sweats started to run down Beliar's face. DC must be detained within the premises at all costs.

Its humanoid frame was now fully in the commander's view. A marvel of what science could achieve, DC simply stared at Beliar. The commander reached for his handgun from the interior of his military jacket. It wasn’t ready to be allowed into the real world, not just yet.

Within just a few seconds, he pulled the gun out, aimed, and fired. DC tucked its head to the side, dodging the bullet by barely an inch, and closed the distance between itself and the commander in one fell swoop. “Damn, I’m getting too rusty.”

Beliar muttered while bracing for the expected blow. With one hand, DC swatted Beliar’s gun behind itself, and with the other, punched the commander right in the ribs. He landed on his rear with the wind knocked out of him and a searing pain in his chest, helpless as DC slowly made its way over to him.

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* * *

Turning the corner, Teller stumbled upon DC just steps away from the commander. Beliar struggled to maintain eye contact with Teller without letting DC catch on. Beliar’s eyes guided Teller’s to the silver Desert Eagle by his feet. If eyes could talk, his would scream “Shoot!”.

Teller picked up the gun, placed both hands on it, and pulled the trigger hoping that years of video games would finally pay off for his hand-eye coordination.

Bang. The recoil echoed throughout the hallway and masked the sound of metal ripping against metal. Quartizcodium bullets. Smart fail-safe, Teller thought to himself. The Quartzicodium from the bullet interfered with the circuitry in DC and the red lights that spoke to Teller faded back into the darkness of DC’s “skull”.

“God, what another failure. I was hoping that would be the one,” said Beliar.

“Another? This has happened before?” Teller asked completely lost at what just happened in the last five minutes.

“Yeah, that glitch in the system I mentioned. Here, just follow me.” The commander led the way back towards the room that DC was held in. There was a janitor already cleaning the shattered glass and a new glass pane already installed..

When the two entered the hallway directly facing the cube, Teller couldn’t believe his eyes. Two red lights glared within the abyss.

The commander finally started to explain. “Purposefully left within that room is a bomb. DC is left with two choices, to try and escape which would lead to probable death or to remain within the room. It makes the same decision over and over, detonating the bomb for the small chance at freedom.”

“How does it even know what freedom is commander?”

“The AI that it’s programmed to use analyzes new and existing information to make the best decisions. I’ve already added a foundation of information for the AI to work off of. Freedom is a given because DC has to be aware it can make choices.” Teller turned and stared at the dark room to his left. The freedom of choice within DC’s survival mechanism was its own curse.

“If it can pass this psychological evaluation, we can finally start moving on to enhancing its physical capabilities and robotics. After that, we can start mass producing and then we’ll be ready for war against the United Pacific Convention,” he said quickly stealing a glance at the room. “We’re pretty much guaranteed victory if we perfect this technology. At the moment though, its actions are too erratic,” The commander added with a sigh.“It’s troublesome, to say the least but that’s why you’re here.”

Teller gazed intently at DC in the abyss still.

“Alright, you know where your office is. Evaluation reports are due every other week, so get to work.”

There was still only silence to fill the void. “I’d be careful if I were you Assistant Director,” warned Beliar. “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.” And with that, Beliar made his way to his office

TAE PARK cont. and the only sound left in the hallway was the receding clicks of his heel tapping against the floor.

“And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you,” Teller finished the second half of the aphorism under his breath. Teller instinctively went up to clean the fog left on the glass with the sleeve of his coat. As he faced closer to the window however, he noticed his reflection positioned next to DC, both trapped in the same abyss. It was then that he learned that the abyss doesn’t just gaze into you, it can swallow you whole without you even realizing it. If we should be considered monsters for fighting for our freedom, so be it. He left that hallway finally understanding his job in the company.

To fight for his own freedom.

ASHLEY PACHECO

2013-2014

CONNIE BAK “And the Innocence Will Burn into the Night”

Droplets of condensation welled into globs of murky water and slid down the cracks that mapped the concrete wall. Crushed aluminum cans and ripped cardboard littered the dank concrete and the stench of sweat and decay hung thickly in the air. Along the rusty infrastructure of the abandoned subway station ran a juryrigged network of emergency light fixtures with dying bulbs that blinked erratically.

From her lap, her little brother stirred in his sleep.

Her eyes scanned his scrawny physique: sharp clavicles and ribs poking out from underneath a gossamer tee, dirt encrusted in the pits of his pores, dark shadows painting the tender skin under his eyes. A sigh that seemed to encompass the weight of the world spiraled up her dry throat and expelled heavily from her lips.

clutching the fabric.

“W-What’s going to happen to us?"

“I…don’t know.”

“I miss mom and dad.”

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It took ten months after the turn of the new year for Washington to call a state of emergency and sixteen for the apocalypse to be filed into the archives that later disintegrated into good-for-nothing ash.

One night, her brother had tiptoed into her bedroom and curled himself under her blanket, tiny palms

Me, too.

It was not as if the end had come without notice; for years the symptoms of an impending annihilation had blared like sirens yet the people chose to remain passive.

And when the Earth finally shed its gilded façade and the aftermath of centuries worth of abuse surfaced with a roar, all tar and rage, people could only bite back their tears and watch as the world burned.

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* * *

The earliest memory she had of things being terribly wrong traced back three years ago. For eight days, a thick fog had settled itself close to the ground and made it impossible to see anything but haze. Her existence suspended and strung itself in the air — she had never felt so stranded. Businesses and roads closed and all anyone could do was stay indoors because the troposphere had become a burden too heavy for people’s lungs to bear.

A few months later, the fire department made an emergency announcement that a sinkhole had opened up near the elementary school. She had sprinted the two miles from her school to her brother’s and screamed his name until she finally spotted him trembling underneath the playground slide. With ribs threatening to split open, she ran over and collected his weak limbs and terrified sobs into her arms, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, everything will be okay.”

The rest came to her in fragments: the day the tap stopped working for good. Radio podcasts of cities being devoured by chemical fires and islands being swallowed whole by the angry sea. Cold nights and the growing black terror gnawing at the pit of her stomach. Acid rain and merciless windstorms. Reality closing in. Childhood refuge disappearing. The news of her parents’ car tumbling off the collapsing freeway.

He weakly buried his face in her shirt.

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* * *

She fingered the flap of the empty box of biscuits which she had pilfered from the Salvation Army wagon two weeks ago. Food had to be rationed with precision, but sometimes, precision wasn't enough.

She tried to imagine a time when she and her brother could live in peace. She tried to imagine for the sake of keeping every and any speck of hope alive, or tomorrow would be too dark to face. Swallowing hard, she grasped her little brother's hand and closed her eyes.

JI WON LEE “‘Those’ Moments”

“Guess where we are going for summer vacation this year?” my mother enthusiastically asked as she barged into my room, excitedly awaiting my answer.

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“Cape May,” I mumbled dismally under my breath while pulling my head up to look at her with a plastered smile set perfectly across my face. Summers at Cape May have been a staple feature of my life since I was in the fifth grade. In other words, I was sick and tired of going to the same place every July for the past who knows how many years. And while my mother was fully aware of this fact, her “I-know-you-don’t-want-to-go-but-you’re-still-going” face set in stone my annual return to Cape May. The next thing I knew, I found myself packing my things in the same old, polka-dot suitcase I’ve brought with me every summer.

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* * *

I inhale summertime the second I jump out of the car. The smell of sea salt and fried food dances along a sticky day’s breeze and into my nose as the scent of various sunscreens— coconut, banana, piña colada— follows me around like a ghost. While the smell of decadent hot dogs and popcorn, sold along the boardwalk, sends a swarm of nauseating dizziness to my head, the honeylike, perfumey scent of cotton candy offers a sweet balance and tickles my nose.

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Under a blazing sun and chilly ocean breeze, glistening and glittery grains of sand slither between my toes.

There is no escaping the sun as I make my way up and down the shoreline. It hangs onto me, pressing red hot against my skin, beating without rest. Harsh sounds of the waves crash on rocks, clashing with the ferocious, hungry screams of seagulls overhead. The wind hustles around me, breezing past the overly burnt tanners and children caked in five pounds of sunblock. Broken pieces of shells coordinate along the shore, as tourists dig at them, hoping to find a little piece of magic to take back home.

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As my family and I begin to set our towels and baskets down, we can't help but overhear snippets of conversation everywhere.

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“How are you?”

“He said what?!”

“John, get over here!” Kids laughing. Old friends catching up. Pure happiness; genuine laughter. Everything intertwining together, creating an everlasting, utopian paradise.

Looking into the horizon, I see nothing but shades of blue pastel like a blanket throughout the ocean; the royal blue of a wavering sea meets the baby blue of a spotless sky. Specks of neon and navy align sporadically, traveling atop the ocean stretching everywhere and nowhere in all directions. Surfers line the water, waiting patiently for the perfect wave to fall upon them. Sailboats and rafts, meanwhile floating, are ready to explore and discover, to just go.

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Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupts the calm, scenic view. “Hey, you’re smiling!” my mom grins as she lightly squeezes my arm.

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“Yeah…I guess,” I quietly murmur, which is followed by a low, awkward chuckle. And suddenly, a wave crashes over me. I am swimming, basking a moment. A simple moment. And there I was floating. Just floating.

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* * *

We all dream of having “those” big, life-changing adventures— a journey around the world, tearing open an acceptance letter from the nation’s most prestigious college, discovering an unbreakable passion for someone or something. It’s no secret that it’s easy to get lost in a wave, in one of “those” moments, though, and let the little things worth experiencing slip away. The smallest ripple, the tiniest instance, can be the one we remember the most- the one that makes way into becoming one of “those” moments.

Cartoon Remakes and Remixes

KNAR MARASHIAN “Deaf but Not Deaf”

If someone were to come up to me from behind and scream in my ears, I wouldn’t flinch at all. I am profoundly deaf and have been all my life. Quiet and total silence from being deaf are totally different. It is almost as if quiet has a sound to it, as strange as that may seem, whereas when I take off my cochlear implant, it is complete and utter silence.

After I had surgery for the cochlear implant, my parents and I went back to the hospital to have my implant activated.

That day would mark my journey into the hearing world, while still being able to venture into the world of the deaf if I so felt like it.

I felt like any other kid and never payed much attention to the device that was, essentially, a part of me. However, as I grew older and became more aware of myself, I started to realize that my condition would never change. Even when I was little, I would go as far as to blame my mother for being deaf.

I have had times where people would underestimate my ability to do something based on my deafness, which is very frustrating and makes me wish they could truly understand my feelings. There have been many instances of this but there is one that is worth mentioning. There were some people who thought that my deafness and implant would present a challenge in a larger public high school setting and they even went as far as to encourage me to go to another school that would help me more. I took their concerns into consideration, but in the end, after graduating from the 8th grade at my small private Armenian school, I went to the larger school and proved myself to be capable of the challenges it presented at times.

My implant has been through much with me in my life. It has allowed me to hear the emotion in the events of my life, such as happy and sad moments. There have been funny moments as well such as times when my brother would say something under his breath and I could hear what he said and call him out on it but when he would scream something, I couldn’t for the life of me understand what he was trying to say because the words sounded jumbled. Whenever this has happened, he swears that I’m doing this on purpose to annoy him. My implant will continue to bring sound throughout my life, giving me the joy of hearing my name being called at my high school and college graduations, my husband say “I do” when I get married, the laughter of my children, and so forth. It will color the events in my life, making them richer and more meaningful to me and the people I know. I am not just “that deaf person”.

At times, I do wonder, “Why me? Of all the people that it could have happened to, why did it happen to me”? Sometimes I even feel frustrated that it had to be me because at times, it does make my life a bit more complicated. However, I am grateful for the ability to take off my implant whenever I’d like so that I can have a break from this noisy world. While being deaf doesn’t define who a person is, it is a part of their identity and has a major impact on their life. I have had a person or two who, upon, learning about it, would say “oh sorry.” The truth is, I really am no different than any other person who can hear except that I am deaf and I wear a cochlear implant. So don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your sympathy. Just treat me like anyone else.

ALIZA OHNOUNA Dear Senioritis,

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Congratulations! The Admissions Committee is delighted to welcome you to the Violet Venable Psychological Division of the Institute of Isms, Aches, Itises, and Assorted Illnesses, Class of 2018. You stood out among a cesspool of over fifty-thousand germs, microbes, viruses, unsuccessful vaccines, and immoralities. We hope that this letter puts an end to the exhausting process of persuading people who you may or may not have infected why you’d be the most pandemically-minded student in their respective schools.

Yours is a magnificent accomplishment, one granted to only a handpicked handful in humanity’s history. Your admission verifies your potential as a global game-changer; you have reminded (and we’ve accepted you because we are sure you will continue to remind) the world that even while it is advancing, bettering, and revolutionizing at a maddeningly rapid rate, there are still some problems it has no idea how to solve yet. You will be one of the conundrums that will keep psychologists, philosophers, neuroscientists, and students, frustrated, and research philanthropists on the covers of magazines, for years to come.

Unlike the other pre-penicillin institutions, we commit ourselves to enumerating why we invited you. We do so in the hope that you will use our reasons to develop yourself into a better, more ambitious illness during your time here. Before reading on, please note that there is not one single factor that has led us to extend this priceless offer to you. You are not receiving this letter because of the strength of your blood test or Stroop test or Petri dish growth or electrophysiological supplements or therapy session or list of affected individuals. We take pride in holistically evaluating our applicants, weighing all of their merits against their shortcomings.

That said, we selected you because you proved exemplary in (1) eluding diagnosis from accredited physicians, (2) exhibiting a markedly high and correct rate of self-diagnosis (3) possessing a disingenuous name, (4) revealing yourself typically after a more or less three-year, insidious incubation period, (5) being immune to any uniform cure, (6) manifesting yourself along a spectrum, (7) indiscriminately attacking, (8) being comorbid with almost all other diseases, (9) utilizing contemporary, novel vehicles such as Twitter, Facebook, and Google to express yourself, (10) infecting a substantial number of people, and (11) having attacked each and every member of the heavily-vaccinated admissions committee at least once.

Senioritis, it is because of you that every selective college in the world is able to be selective, to weed out only the most voracious of the voracious. It is because of you that young people are taught the virtues of persistence when they’ll sting the most, and it is thanks to you that they live out brief pockets of their lives in indolence and later regret, promising to never succumb at your hands again. Until they do. And most of the time, they do.

For the aforementioned reasons and your otherwise outstanding capacity for invasiveness, we would like to offer you the status of Sick Scholar, a historic honor bestowed upon only ten percent of the admitted class (an honor formerly conferred upon the Bubonic Plague, HIV, and Ebola). As a Sick Scholar (S.S.), you will have the opportunity to attend Stage Four seminars, typically reserved for graduate students. You will be taught by the foremost professors in your field of interest, by men and women who've spent their lives developing drugs for diseases to ensure that only the fittest strains (and users) survive, men and women who’ve spent their lives understanding through their fragmented discoveries the complexity and frequent incurability of disease. As an S.S., you will collaborate with the most industrious and potent students in your class (and in the world), devising new ways to knock the planet dead. Because being an S.S. means that you are not only a disease that corrupts throats, stomachs, and minds. It means that you are a disease with implications that extend into the spiritual and epistemological realms. In our timeworn eyes, we view your existence as grounds to foment an educational revolution. Young people excuse your symptoms as a divine affliction, one that tells them that there was never any meaning in toiling for the sacrilegious DNA impostors called grades, and that in complying with that set of decontextualized letters and numbers, they were only making themselves transparent, predictable, and wholly and thoroughly boring. Being a S.S. may also mean that you’ll be occasionally misunderstood. In any case, if you are considering becoming an S.S., we encourage you to visit the program’s website (SS2018.edu) to learn more about the dizzying evolutionary advantages available to the S.S.

On behalf of the Admissions Committee, I’d like to once again congratulate you on your achievements. Below, please find your financial aid package, some important enrollment procedures, and directions to the University. We hope that you visit in the near future to find out if you feel as lovesick about us as we do about you. But do not rest on your laurels. Continue contaminating.

If you plan to matriculate, your mid-year report needs to be submitted by February 15, 2014. See “Guidelines for Submission of Mid-Year Report” for more information. Please do not include your already-affected patients in your mid-year report, unless they’ve become substantially sicker or better. Wherever you choose to enroll next September, best of luck in making sure other young people can’t.

Be well and continue your hard work,

Betty R. Zen

Dean of Admissions

Violet Venable Psychological Division of the Institute of Isms, Aches, Itises, and Assorted Illnesses 30

SEIRA OH

2013-2014

CHRISTIAN FALLON

2013-2014

Advertisement Kind acknowledgement is made to the Fort Lee Board of Education and Administration for their support, assistance, and encouragement.

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Administration Mr. Paul Saxton, Interim Superintendent Dr. Sharon Amato, Executive Director of Curriculum and Instruction and Operations Mrs. Ann Marie Bruder, Director of Special Services Mrs. Laura Carruba, Director of Guidance Mr. Alex Guzman, Director of Curriculum and Instruction Mrs. Irene Min, Supervisor of Secondary Education

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High School Administration Dr. Frank Calabria, Interim Principal Mr. Patrick Ambrosio, Assistant Principal Mr. John Coviello, Assistant Principal

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