The Bricks 2014 - 2015
Gilman Middle School Liter ary Magazine
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“Feathers shall raise men even as they do birds, toward heaven -- that is by letters written with their quills.� ~ Leonardo da Vinci
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Table of Contents p. 6-7
“Too Soon”
Saad Jalisi
p. 8-9
“Mug the Pug”
Max Cortezi
p. 10-11
“Swept Away”
Richard Kim
p. 12-13
“A Journey to the Inn”
Cole Philippou
P. 14-15
“Bad News”
Daniel de Leon
p. 16
“The 60 Second Barrier” Nichi Pandey
p. 17
“The Last Shot”
Cole Iampieri
p. 18-19
“The Defenseless”
Morgan Zinn
Cover Photo: Alex Lawson
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Painting by: Daniel Khurgin
Painting by: Richard Kim
Back Cover Photo: Finn Arthur
p. 20-21
“The Bugle Boy”
Finn Arthur
p. 22-23
“Flashback”
William Bolin
p. 24-25
“Surviving the Slopes”
Gregory Diette
p. 26-27
“Draft Day”
John McGowan
p. 28-29
“Tapping”
Max Pollak
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Too Soon By Saad Jalisi
Kifa hears the sound of gunfire from several blocks away as she walks home. She sees smoke filling the air and people running from the ruination. All around her is destruction; to her left and right are buildings collapsing and cars blazing with flames. The screams of people fill her with terror but she must find her family. She runs through the market ducking and dodging disaster, but it is everywhere. Not knowing what to do, she stops and cries. As everything she loves turns to ashes, she sees something in the distance. It moves slowly, and it is large and bulky. Even through her tears she realizes what heads toward her, a Renault FT-17 tank. She dives toward cover and hears the 7mm cannon blast; everything suddenly goes black. Kifa wakes up under a pile of rubble. Her ears ring and her face is smeared with concrete, dust and sulfur. Her clothes are torn, she has a gash on her left hip, and she feels light headed. She is
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confused about what exactly happened, and then she scans the area. The sight of destruction leaves her breathless. Bodies fill the broken streets of her hometown. She is alone and in pain from the wound, so she searches for survivors. Kifa’s mother would always give her hugs and kisses, which she thought was unnecessary but now she needs her mother. She wants someone to hold onto, but there is no one. Looking through the rubble, she finds the body of her brother. She painfully picks up his lifeless body and yells, “Allah! What have I done to deserve this! Why must you forsake me?” She tears off a portion of her shirt to clean his body. Once most of the dust and dirt is wiped off his body, she carries her brother to the yard for one final prayer. Laying his body down, she prays to Allah to allow her brother to rest in Jannah. It breaks Kifa’s heart to see her village in ruins. She tries to stand up but her lower body has gone numb from blood loss. Knowing her time has come, she turns on her back and closes her eyes.
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Mug the Pug by Max Cortezi Rise from bed. Stand in shower. Get in car. Drive to work. Wait for your boss. Make his coffee. Smell his coffee. Greet his guests. Comb your hair. Look nice. Look approachable. Look businesslike. Look like a proper receptionist. Work all day. Come home. Open door. Avoid the random box. Eat instant soup. Get in pajamas. Watch meaningless reality TV. Hear something. Look at your feet. Look behind you. Look around you. Detect the box. Walk towards the box. Open folded cardboard box.
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Stare. Look at the face. Black eyes. Coal colored. Smushed face. Curled tail. The pug is on your red rug. He squirmed out of the box. He resembles a fat slug. He examines your house. He looks for a snack. Who has bestowed you with this pug on a rug? Your mother who assumes you’re still single. Your sister, who wants to make a laugh. A stranger who didn’t want his paw-footed pal. The pug parades around your kitchen. Let him adventure around in ease. Serve him some bread and peanut butter. Take him out of your food bereft pantry. Lug his self-satisfied self from your apartment. Carry his tubby, content body around your building. Look at his collar and hold it in your hand. “Mug.” Mug the pug upon your rug who left his box just like a slug looking so smug. Could this be the pug’s doing? Could this tubby be seeking a friend? Could this be a strange wonderful coincidence? Who needs an owner? Who needs a boss? Who needs other people when you have a pug named Mug?
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Swept Away By Richard Kim
Kevin woke up at 10:00 am on a Tuesday. The usual hum of the city was gone. He looked outside his house. No one drove down the street. No one mowed their lawn outside. No one was in the city. Kevin made a cup of coffee. He looked at his clock. 10:30. Two more hours. Kevin watched the news on at the TV. There was no argument about it -- the temperature had been climbing everyday. At first, it wasn’t too bad. Then, there was today. Everyone had left except for Kevin. Under the threat of a natural disaster, nobody was loyal enough to stay, except for Kevin. Living on the coast was dangerous. Japan had its beauty, but it would soon drown or toast its citizens. This day would be a prime example of climate change. The wave was forecasted to sweep the islands in its wake. Adam was on one of those islands. Kevin took a look around his house. Nature would have no consideration for the dwelling that his grandfather built. This abode was his family’s cornerstone. The building had always stood as a symbol of strength for the family. Now, it was time to stand for the house. As he looked around the house, his eyes rested upon the broken vase. The giver was anonymous. It happened upon the doorstep. It wasn’t broken before. No one could move him though. It was useless
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thinking about the vase. Kevin shook his fist in the air. Nature would not triumph his defiant spirit. His family had urged Kevin to leave. They were all cowards. He would not desert what had given his family shelter. Kevin had nothing else to do but reflect. He walked towards the nearest window sill. The sky was dark, as if the heavens were ready to bring forth all the demons of the world at once. Kevin withdrew his eyes from the ghastly sight. The inside of the house was cozy. He felt the warmth around him. He sat next to the fireplace. The fire was quite beautiful. The great fire in the city had nearly killed his grandfather some forty years ago. Kevin almost let the song of the flames lull him to sleep. Time was running out. It was already 11:00. He refused to enter the bedrooms. He was sure that spirits roamed there. Kevin would give the spirits time to reflect as well. The sense of death was in the air. He could imagine the grim reaper raising its scythe. 11:30. The end was close. There was a strange tingling in his body. It was a warmth that ate at him. He could not fight the feeling. Death would be a swift deliverer. The voices whispered lies. His cornerstone was not worth standing for anymore. The rage of a dead man had consumed him. Instead of giving him confidence, it gave him a feeling of insecurity and disgust. The thoughts in his head were pure evil. He was losing himself. There was only one thing to focus on: the vase. Kevin picked up the broken shards of the vase. With trembling hands, Kevin took out the super glue and carefully spread the glue onto the edges of the pottery. The vase seemed to have gleamed when it was finished. The memory was fresh in his mind. When Kevin had first heard the news a week ago, he was weak. He had smashed that vase in anger. He pulled a shard of pottery up from the base of his hand to his neck. A trail of blood blossomed on his skin. He stopped before he reached the neck. Was it worth it anymore? Yes. Kevin would stay. His death would be at the hands of nature. The vase gleamed. It looked hungry. Kevin put the note in the vase. Hopefully, someone will find it. Kevin grabbed his shovel and went outside. He buried the vase deep in the ground. Kevin looked to the distance. It was there. It was incredible to look at. Kevin closed the door behind him. It was time. Kevin stood in front of the house. The wave came closer and closer until death was right in front of him. They greeted each other as good friends do, and Kevin was swiftly swept away.
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A Journey to the Inn My Paranormal Journey To the Admiral Fell Inn By Cole Philippou
I was at the Admiral Fell Inn on the Baltimore Harbor on a recent Saturday night. I asked to see the manager, whom my dad knew personally. I was interested to learn about the paranormal activity at the Inn. According to the manager, several residents who had stayed
Above: a recent picture of the Admiral Fell Inn
there had complained of loud noises coming from the floor above. The manager was quoted in the Baltimore Sun. “A woman came to the front desk in the middle of the night saying an old lady was standing over her. Just standing.� After I read these stories, I decided
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to visit the Inn. It was dark on the 4th floor hallway. I could not see anything in front of me, but it didn’t matter. I walked forward. Suddenly I heard a noise to my right, but when I turned nothing was there. I walked in silence for what seemed like hours. I was scared beyond imagination. I then entered another narrow hallway. I reached for a door and when I touched the handle it was ice cold. I tried to turn the knob slowly, but it was locked. There was no way I was going to get through that door, as much as I wanted to. I first became interested in the Inn while searching on the internet. When I found that there had been multiple sightings at the Inn, I needed to visit. But, this building was not the only place with paranormal sightings in Baltimore. The Westminster Church Cemetery, home to the grave of Edger Allen Poe, is a cemetery known for many encounters and sightings of spirits. It was completed in 1852, more than sixty years after bodies were already buried there. This cemetery was built on bricks to prevent disturbing the pre-existing tombs under the church. General Samuel Smith and Colonel James McHenry, war heroes from the war on 1812, were also buried there. Another haunted attraction in Maryland is The Middletown Tavern. This tavern is nearly the oldest building in the area. It was established in the 1700s when it was sold to Horatio Middleton, a ferry operator. The tavern was visited by George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and was often a meeting place for the Freemasons. It is said that nameless ghosts haunt the area, and often plates, glasses, and other objects are said to fly off the wall. Because off these occurrences, The Middleton Tavern is thought to be one of the most haunted places in Maryland. Even though I did not see much on the trip to the Admiral Fell Inn, I am still interested in researching paranormal activity. The thrill of what I might see, or hear, or even encounter drives me on. And this is what ghost hunting is all about: searching for what is unknown.
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BAD NEWS by Daniel de Leon
It was a cool fall afternoon. I walked home from school thinking about all the homework I had to do. It felt like it was just yesterday that I started middle school. I used to be so worried that I wouldn’t do well. But now, two years later, I felt at ease and comfortable. Being in the eighth grade, though hard and stressful, was still enjoyable. As I ventured towards my house, I ran into some of my best friends. Since it was my birthday, they gave me celebratory punches and talked about what we were going to do later that night. We planned to go paintballing with my dad since he was finally supposed to come home. My dad and I had Skyped each other weeks ago about our plans. My dad told me that he was recently promoted to Captain and that he was very busy, but there was only so much he could tell me about his job. We also wrote each other letters. He would describe his life on the base. My dad wrote that it was almost like normal life: waking up in the morning, going to work, shopping in the markets of Um Qasr, and interacting with locals. He also wrote that he missed me and that he would come home on my birthday, and we would do anything I wanted. I was near my house when two black cars pulled up into my
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driveway. I figured that they were government cars since they had heavy black tints on the windows. No one from the government had ever visited when my dad was deployed. I walked towards our front door nervously as two men exited from their cars. Both of them had on sunglasses and black suits and ties. I entered the house as they approached the door. Their faces were grim as my mom invited them in. My mom’s face had turned white as a sheet. It was at this point when I knew something was wrong. “Did something happen? What’s going on?” I asked. “This morning, we received a call that your dad has been found dead,” one of the men said. My mom started crying. “The cause of death is still unknown. We are sorry for your loss.” I teared up and almost lost my composure. I had to be strong. My dad would want me to be. I didn’t know what to do. I had so many questions. Who killed him? What was he doing? Was he killed because of something he did? Could he have been saved? I missed him immediately. My dad, my hero, my best friend died on my birthday. What was supposed to happen now? Today should have been about paintballing with him and my friends. There would be no more dinners with him, no more watching football on Sundays, and no more time with him. I grew up fast that day realizing I would live the rest of my life without my dad.
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The 60 Second Barrier By Nichi Pandey
The gun fired, and I slipped into second place. My legs met no resistance as if driven by an unknown force. I worried about the pace until I took the lead at the beginning of the back straight. My wind told me to “relax.� Unconsciously, I obeyed. Halfway there and I remembered Mr. Bullard telling me to drive, to come off the curve as hard as possible. My arms pumped on either side of me with only one hundred meters to go. The crowd roared like a lion. It was now possible. I reached top speed, running like a cheetah chasing a gazelle across the Serengeti. Those last few seconds seemed never-ending. My lungs were unable to expand, giving me a shortage of oxygen. The faint line of the finishing tape ahead was a refuge from the struggle. I leapt to the tape nearly unconscious. I knew I had done it even before I heard the time.
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THE LAST SHOT
by Cole Iampieri
The field is heated The fans are impatient and unseated I slip on each glove While rain fell from above The score is 0-0 The shooter could be a hero The Bermuda blades of Arrowhead Stadium were nicely cut I had a strong feeling in my gut The goals were so white The shot could go right The sky was once blue He is waiting for the cue Shouting and screaming “Los geht’s Deutschland!” Taking the shot with the game in hand My feeling is uneasy The German striker looks queasy The ball was struck with such power Though it seemed like an hour Streaming through the stadium air I stopped in a stare The shot was a threat With a cheeky shot in the net A game that was international A loss that was irrational Leaving the field in shame While I was the one to blame
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The Defenseless By Morgan Zinn
The disease searched for the right one working in the small, dirty building, scanning them with its intelligence. Finally, it saw its perfect victim, the only right one here. The victim sat, staring at a screen. Perfect. It floated through the air unnoticed by anyone and slunk across the man’s skin, spreading itself everywhere. It did not need to do much work to spread itself throughout the area. The victim would surely do the job as it always did. It floated off the victim and left parts of itself behind, watching the limbs start to twitch uncontrollably until they stopped within minutes. It told the part left behind to look only for the specific genotypes even though the idea was already ingrained in its essence. The victims were secured here, and the disease moved on. This one was easy. There was no resistance this time. There usually was.
The disease moved on, scanning the clumps of potential victims.
This is just so easy and so sad though, reducing this ancient desert city to almost nothing . So much scanning though. That was the boring part:
picking the victims. The start had to be perfectly executed. It needed to be
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the same thing every time, and then it can rage on, taking more potentially defenseless victims. That was another hard part, encountering defense. Sometimes it defeated the disease, but that was rare. Mostly, the defense just occupied its time. It was almost an insult, really, to think those feeble defenses would work. It found the next victim. There was something odd about him though. Don’t second guess. It’s fine. It quietly advanced like a silent storm, ready to take more victims. The skin burned, and it had no idea why, so the disease floated back and began to change rapidly. Yes, here we go again. It felt itself changing, not on the outside but inside. It changed for the better, silently putting up its own defenses, one that its creator provided. It was finally ready to go again. This time, as it touched the skin, it did not burn. It did not burn as it spread itself throughout the body, infecting its victim. After this was done, it left once more. Soon, I won’t need to do this. I can rest and let the
defenseless victims pile up. They stand no chance.
On it went, infecting, adapting, and infecting again. They had no chance. It would take a long time to create a new defense. The new defense
would always stop the disease, though it would just return to its creators to change.
They have no chance.
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The Bugle Boy By Finn Arthur
The flag was flown half mast that day Though some may question why. The flag was flown half mast that day The day the Bugle Boy died. The cool Balaclavan morning Swept a cold breeze through the sky As the British sat up on the hills, Waiting in the Rye. The first shots were heard at sunup, The final ones at dawn. One army against another Like a hunter and a fawn.
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Then sun became the moonlight, And the gunshots’ sounds became a drone. The two armies packed up their bags, And the Bugle Boy went home.
The next day there was no fighting. It was a day when all men mourned. They cried for their brothers in arms, Fellow soldiers who had been scorned. The next day was a bloodbath, Men trading fires, one for one. There were few men standing When this living nightmare was done. A lady with the lamp was seen Tending to the wounded and sick. The sounds of MiniĂŠs were heard Lit up by her candle and its wick The final bugle sounds were heard To commiserate the dead While the invading armies moved along Still looking ahead. Then the dead were counted, And their bodies sent away To the ones they loved in life And with whom in death they would stay. When the dead were piled on their cart One stuck out from the rest: A small boy lying on his back With a bugle at his chest. The flag was flown half mast that day Though some may question why. The flag was flown half mast that day The day the Bugle Boy died.
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Flashback By: William Bolin
I was nearing the Canadian border, ready to start a new life in my new home. I was about to cross the border when I saw the dense forests before me and heard nothing. The forest was completely silent, but I swore I saw movement along the trees. I was on my way to find a small town where I could live peacefully. I pulled over and left my truck running as I peered into the forest’s darkness. Suddenly, I heard the sounds of running feet and gunfire before I lost consciousness. I heard the chopper’s blades whipping above taking us to a drop point. My unit and I were going to free some POWs in a village near near Vung Tau. We were about seventy feet up when a projectile hit us. Our pilot tried to keep the chopper steady, but I knew we were going down. Shrapnel ripped through the soldier next to me. I put pressure on the wound. When the chopper hit the ground, I was thrown from the trashed machine. My head bled terribly. I pushed myself off the ground and looked around for survivors, but I couldn’t see anybody who was alive. I took part of my shirt and tied it around my head to cover the wound. I next looked for a weapon. I found an M16 and moved towards the jungle to find the squad that was dropped nearby. After walking through the jungle, I heard planes overhead and I tried to get their attention, but it was in vain. The plane sprayed what appeared to be some sort of chemical. When it doused the ground, I realized it was Agent Orange. I tried to find some cover from the chemicals, but I could taste them and feel the tingling on my skin. I
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kept trudging on in hopes of finding a friendly squad. My hunger gnawed at my strength and in my mind, I began to panic. I finally found an American squad of soldiers, and they gave me food and water. They were commanded to support us on our mission near Vung Tau. I asked if I could go with them, but this attempt was refused and I was told to return to headquarters in Long Binh, which was only 12 miles away. An officer forced me to go back and said, �You have gone through enough already.� Two soldiers and I left the others and headed back. Still miles away from our destination we, walked down a path already made by the another squad when we were ambushed. One of the soldiers was shot. I frantically looked around for enemies but before I could find anyone, I was hit in the back of the head and knocked unconscious. I awoke on the cold, barren ground outside of the Canadian border. I pulled myself off the ground and cried softly. I never wanted to go back. Never.
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Surviving the Slopes By: Gregory Diette
I ski to the lift. The ride up will be swift. I have finally reached the summit. I will soon prepare to plummet. I smell the brisk Aspen air. A powerful gust blows through my hair. I choose my next run, Praying it will be fun.
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It is the steepest black around. I hope I can make it down. My stomach feels queasy. My legs are uneasy. The run starts out hard, and I can’t let down my guard. I am now in the groove. My technique is smooth. I hit a large bump. I hit the ground with a thump. I had fallen hard. My face was scarred. My fears came true. My face was turning blue. I try not to cry. I think I might die. I summon my valor. It takes all my power. I am finally up. The blood could fill a cup. I ski down in pain. I scream out in vain. I fly around the bend, and I can finally see the end. I am at the base. I have blood all over my face. I ski to the lift. The ride up will be swift.
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Draft Day by John McGowan
The front façade of the Barclays Center towers over me as I stroll in alongside my agent. Despite having notable sweat stains underneath both of his arms, Will, my agent, expresses the importance of staying calm and focused on the task at hand. As I aimlessly wander around, gazing at the multitude of banners, snack vendors, and advertisements, the commissioner, Adam Silver, greets me. I give him a firm handshake as he welcomes me to the 2015 NBA Draft. While Will thanks Mr. Silver and mentions other cliched sayings about how much of a pleasure it is to be here, I think back and wonder, “How on earth did I get this far?” All those countless hours in the gym, working my tail off every single day, have paid off. The dozens of times I studied game tape, watched basketball on TV, or even played in a pickup game have helped me immensely. Even the pre-draft workouts and interviews have been
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key to get me to this point. I made it a priority to excel in high school and college so I could prove something to my friends and family. However, professional basketball will be different. Not only will I be proving something to others around me, I will prove to myself that I can get better each and every day. After all, this is not something I have volunteered to do. This is how I will make a living. I can’t afford to fail because I have no a back-up plan. If I get left out, I do not have a Plan B. This is it. My agent guides me towards our chairs, where I will wait patiently to hear my name called. Around me are other college stars, whose egos range from the size of a mouse to the size of the moon. My agent expects me to be picked mid-to-late first round or even early second round. He has been nervously waiting for this day to come. I am his last opportunity to succeed in this business. If I wash out, he washes out with me. This is another reason I have made it a priority to work as hard as I can and get stronger, quicker, and tougher every time I put in work. My parents are anxiously tuning in at our home in Delaware due to their extreme fear of air and train travel. The commissioner finally welcomes everyone to the draft. Next, he reveals the draft order with the Knicks having the first pick, followed by the Timberwolves, 76ers, and Lakers. The Wizards, my hometown team, sit at 23rd. Although it would be a huge honor to play for the Wizards, they have so many talented guards that it would be difficult to crack the lineup. Before I can think of other possible playing options, Adam Silver starts the draft. “With the first pick in the 2015 NBA Draft, the New York Knicks select Jahlil Okafor from Duke University.” The crowd erupts with joy and excitement. As the draft carries on, Will tells me the draft is going exactly to plan. My eyes wander to the big screen, and I am shocked to see that fifteen selections have already been made. Will says I should be selected within the next five picks. “With the sixteenth pick in the NBA Draft,” the commissioner announces, “the Indiana Pacers select Myles Turner, from the University of Texas.” Oddly, my agent sighs with relief, giving me the vibe that he was not comfortable with the organization. The Hornets are on the clock. Suddenly, my heart begins to pound rapidly because of all the mock drafts that had me going to Charlotte. My palms sweat and my feet tap intensely. “With the seventeenth pick in the NBA Draft, the Charlotte Hornets select… John McGowan from Clemson University.” I explode with disbelief, joy, and excitement. My previously silent phone erupts in my pocket. I nearly sprint up to the podium, grab my draft day cap, give the commissioner a sweaty handshake, and gaze into the crowd. Chapter one is in the books. Chapter two has just begun.
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Tapping By: Max Pollak
I sat in the corner of my cell with my head leaning against the intersection of the two walls. My left index finger tapped on my left knee to the same rhythm as the leaky water pipe dripping in my cell. It started to sound like the percussion of a symphony with violins in the first row and flutes and clarinets in the second. I imagined myself as the conductor of all of the musicians, using the pitter-patter of the water as a metronome to guide me. I would never turn my head from the band, but every so often, in the corner of my eye, I would catch a glimpse of a small child nodding his head along with the band. My conducting was sadly cut off by the screeching of the old, heavy metal cell-door, but my finger never stopped tapping. The two guards walked over to me and gave me an order. His English was less than perfect, and he mumbled when he talked. Each of the guards grabbed one of my weak arms and dragged me through the halls. At
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this point, I had little to no feeling in my arms, but I still knew that my finger was tapping. Once we reached the end of the long hall, the two guards stopped in front of the door. Suddenly, a blinding crack of light flooded into the hall as they opened the door. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was sunlight coming in. As much as I wanted to look up at the natural light of the sun, my eyes were too weak to stay open. The guards dragged me through what I assumed was sand. Once we had arrived to their desired destination, they sat me down so that I was kneeling before some man with a camera. I had wondered if they were going to kill me, but now I knew. They wanted to make an example of me for all of the others back home. I did not want to watch what they were going to do to prepare for the end, so I just let my head hang, and my finger kept tapping. This time I was not in an orchestra, but I was in a ballroom. I had learned to dance for my wedding reception so that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself on the dance floor. I saw my beautiful wife’s face, mouthing the words, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, helping me keep up with the music’s beat. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and drop down onto the sand below me. Thinking about my wife made me even more upset, so my mind went back earlier. The tapping of my finger changed to when my father taught me to box -- one, two, three, four. I never saw my dad more proud than when he taught me to defend myself. The guards talked to the camera, but all I could hear was a mixture of the ballroom music and my father’s constant “There you go. You got it!” The man stopped talking, which was my cue to finally open my eyes. I looked up for only one second to see the man behind the camera nod to the guards behind me. I looked at the other guards standing beside me. The guards were armed but only for show. They held Stingers to show the Americans that they had a weapon that could be used against their tanks. My head sank again, and all that I could fixate on was the shadow of the blade. I was not scared, nor was I sad that in a matter of seconds, I would be dead. I knew that I could not sway the guard to spare me of the horror that is death. Finally, when the blade just touched my neck, I closed my eyes. I went back to all of the times when I felt strong and proud to stand up for what I believed in, and I never stopped tapping my finger until that final light went out.
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Thank You for Reading! During the year, the Literary Journal’s staff pens original works of fiction, pieces of poetry, film reviews, in-depth journalistic features, and so much more. The Bricks is a collection of the eighth graders’ best work as chosen by each author from the many he had written during the course of a semester. The writers consider this journal as being of the students, by the students and for the students.
The Bricks 2014 - 2015
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