Daystar 2013 by Hopkins School

Daystar

2013

Daystar 2013

The Literary and Art Magazine of Hopkins School

Editor-in-chief: Gleeson Ryan Poetry Editors: Ameya Calvocoressi and Alec Gewirtz Prose Editor: Aliyah Bixby-Driesen Art Editor: Laura Srivichitranond Faculty Advisor: Chris Jacox Layout: Gleeson Ryan, Max Ying, Alec Gewirtz, and Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

Table of Contents Poetry and Prose Being in Love with a Visual Artist, Ameya Calvocoressi……………1 Signs of Spring, Rose Etzel………………………………………..…2 The Old Man and the Dragon, Sam Berry……………………………3 Passing, Lauren Kranzlin.....………………………….......................7 The Boulevard, Gleeson Ryan……………………………………..7 Be Careful with Me, Andrés González………………………………8 Anonymous, Elizabeth Toledano……………………………..…..….9 new york, Chris Cappello…………………………………….…….10 Father and Son, Alec Gewirtz………………………………..…..…12 The White Pages, Gleeson Ryan.....................................................13 Train, Max Ying……..……….....…………………………….….…..14 Twenties on Iron, Austin Bodetti………………………………..…15 An Unexpected Visitor, Alex Sernyak……………………….…….15 Human Traffic, Sabra Stratton…………………………………….16 Apprehension in a Café, Natalie Schultz-Henry……………………17 Forgetting, Garrett Ballard………………………………………….19 The Pilot, Nikki Camera……………………………………………20 Self-Portrait as Soap, Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein…………………21

Visual Art Umbrella, Kayla Paraiso……………………………………..…cover Stoic Heron, Saiyara Fahmi…………………………..…inside cover Watch, Laura Srivichitranond………………………….…………....i Sunset on Hammonasset, Samira Bandaru..........................................iii Reflections, Samira Bandaru………………………..………….…….2 Badminton in the Backyard, Samira Bandaru…………..…………5 Floating Away, Tanner Marsh………………………………….……6 Knot, Laura Srivichitranond…………………………………..……..8 Glowing Beauty, Saiyara Fahmi…………………………………..….9 Window, Laura Srivichitranond…………………………………….11 Welcome to Narnia, Max Ying………………………………………..12 Grapes, Laura Srivichitranond………………………………………13 Starling in Flight, Rose Etzel………………………………………..14 Red Hair, Kayla Paraiso………………………………….………..17 Wolves, Laura Srivichitranond……………....…………..………18-19 Gaye Holud, Saiyara Fahmi…………………………………..……..21 Waterfall, Saiyara Fahmi……………………………….….back cover

iii

Being in Love with a Visual Artist Ameya Calvocoressi

It’s waking up to see them bent over an easel, squinting at you through the moonlight, your body becoming a study of figure, light, and darkness, your face reflected back as proportion, lines, and shading. It’s wondering if they want to erase your imperfections, give up, and find another blank canvas. It’s trying to forget every nude model they’ve seen, comparing your softness to the cold beauty of Roman statues, measuring skin to marble, the pink in your lips to paint. Does imitation beat the real thing? When you make their eyes roll back are Michelangelo’s frescoes on the ceiling? They’re privy to a world you can’t see. When you kick off your boots in their apartment, one knocks into a pail of brushes, and it falls over with a hideous clank. Your lover shudders like you’ve set the whole thing on fire. They’re privy to a life you can’t live. It’s craving nothing more than to be the reason they create when you know you’re just a sketch among crumpled millions.

Signs of Spring Rose Etzel

Spring comes quietly to the forest. Wary green fingers stretch Towards the sun as they whisper tales To the awakening earth. Little animals yawn in their dens, Joyful stirrings in their blood As they creep out with mouths open To taste the bright blue air. New leaves are like reaching hands Trying to warm the colossal columns Of the heart, a marble cathedral that is Waiting to be filled with song once again.

The Old Man and the Dragon Sam Berry

When we were eight, the Old Man first told us about the dragon’s cave at the edge of the world. It was a tale from his glory days, when he was young and strong, when he had defeated kings and fought dragons. He’d killed the last dragon, he said - chopped off its head and buried a stake in its heart for good measure. As the dragon let out its last breath it told him about its cave. The Old Man had only heard talk of the cave late at night in whispers, with vague terms and wild speculation. But the dragon told it all. The cave had enough gold and diamonds to buy the world’s largest armies, crush the world’s most powerful nations, make oneself a king. All of it was buried at the end of the world, where the ground and the land and the trees all fell away into the Great Big Empty. “Well,” I asked him, moving a little closer to the fire, “did you ever find it?” “The dragon’s cave?” The Old Man laughed and put an arm on my and my brother’s backs. “No, no, no, my loves. I never found it. I searched and searched and searched, but I never quite found those diamonds. And so I settled here.” “Why did you give up?” my brother asked. The Old Man was silent for a while, looking into the fire as it burned away at the wood in the fireplace. His eyes turned back to us. “Sometimes a man gets old,” he said slowly. “Sometimes a man moves on.” My brother and I gave each other a look that stated, in no uncertain terms: well, we aren’t old yet. And that was that. It took us nearly a year, until when we were nine, to realize that we may have to venture beyond our backyard to find the end of the world. After that the entire valley around our cottage was ours. We explored beyond the reaches of our little home; we splashed in the crystal clear springs, we adventured into the little cave behind the roaring waterfall, we hid in the deep, dark woods and ran with the animals through the great open landscape. We were rimmed by the sky and the stars above us and the rolling hills around us that marked the edge of our valley. Never once did we try to travel so far that we could not return to the our cabin before nightfall, where the Old Man watched us run with a hint of a smile. The sun, the stars, the trees and the springs of our valley were more than enough for us. I cannot say whether or not we knew how fruitless our quest in the valley was, because for us, the lines between imagination and reality could be easily broken. Not only did we run through the forest but we seemed to travel backwards in time, too; I would throw my brother, the last dragon, to the ground and raise my sword above his head and he cried out to me the secret of the cave. I brought my sword down upon his head day after day and the dragon was dead and my brother was alive again. And so it went, day after day. When we were eleven we finally wondered if the edge of the world might not actually be inside our little valley. We spent the whole day venturing up the hill that formed its boundary, weaving through trees and rocks with determination and purpose until we reached the very summit. By the time that we had finally reached it, the sun was dropping low in the sky, burning with its last rays over the endless sweeping landscape around our valley. It extended forever in three directions, endless rolling hills and dotted with the greens and browns of trees and dirt. Blue rivers wound their way through the serene landscape, limestone cliffs towered over low valleys. But where the sun sat the land ended. There was land and then there was not. The Old Man found us soon, worried that we’d ventured too far and wouldn’t return before nightfall. He struck us each on the hand - the first time he’d ever done so - and told us that we’d be lost and would never make it back to the cabin if we were out alone after dark. Our glimpse of the end of the world was only momentary, and soon we returned to the shelter of our valley.

Another year passed, slowly. My brother and I still searched the valley, but more and more our eyes began to look outside of it, and wonder if we’d truly seen what we thought that we’d seen beyond the shadow of those hills. Yet we never brought it up with the Old Man, and he never brought it up with us. It merely hung between us, thick and unspoken, forever present but never acknowledged. When we were thirteen the Old Man died. I cannot say what killed him except for being old. But he died with little ceremony, and we didn’t know what to do with him so we left him where he was. My brother and I left the house in silence, and stayed there in silence until the sun fell. Even when it did, we could still not bring ourselves to return to the cabin. We sat alone in the valley and night as the stars came out, and we watched them in silence. Slowly, without speaking, without needing to speak, my brother and I made our way up the hillside under the cover of night. Time trickled away and we traveled up, and by the point that we had reached its summit the sun was bursting its way through the horizon behind us. Yet we let it watch our backs, because our eyes were focused on the west. On where the world fell away. “The end of the world,” my brother said, and that was that. It took us many years to travel through the open country to that place of our dreams. There were the trees and springs and hills that we were used to, but there were new trees, new springs, and animals too; there were cliffs and ravines and huge expanses where there were no trees at all. And there were no houses, no buildings, no people. It was just us and the sun and stars, which ran with us like our friends and our protectors. But none of the trees or springs or even the stars could contain us, so we pushed forwards into the unknown. We grew and so did everything else. Our games turned from mere fun to competition; our jokes turned to analysis and planning of what to do with our future riches. The youthful fire in our eyes burned brighter and brighter and consumed us. And still we journeyed, alight with passion and ambition and a feeling of hope that no words can truly express. We received no warning before we reached the end of the world. The land rolled on and on until it rolled no longer. It was split between blades of grass, in the middle of a rock, along a perfectly straight line that stretched forever in either direction. Then, beyond where the ground fell away, was the Great Big Empty. There was something and then there was nothing. We’d first glimpsed it six years ago; now that we were here, it was more than we could ever have imagined. I watched my brother slowly shake his head, his eyes not truly believing what he saw now that he was here. Silence wrapped around us for a long moment. I finally felt the need to break it. “This is it,” I said. “The end of the world.” My brother nodded, still staring out into the Great Big Empty. “I wonder what would happen if I dropped a stone over the edge,” he said. “Just, like...” I nodded; I’d been wondering the same. Where would it go? Would it just keep falling forever? So I found a little stone along the edge and held it out into the perfectly still air, nothing below my hand but the inconceivable distance of forever. And then I released my fingers, and it dropped. It grew smaller And smaller And smaller And then it was gone, too small for the eye to see any more. My brother looked up, and our eyes met, alight with wonder. “And...and the diamonds,” my brother said, his voice almost catching in his throat. “Where’s the cave with the diamonds?” I looked up and down along the edge, that straight, arbitrary edge, but I saw no cave, only the edge of the world extending forever in either direction. Of course, it could be anywhere along that endless stretch. That cave, that gold, those diamonds... “It must be here,” I said. “We’ll have to look for it.”

“Together?” my brother asked, his eyes alight with the same emotion I’d seen so many times whenever we began one of our journeys. He faced me with his feet just barely balanced on this side of the edge of the world, of death, but I had never seen him look so alive. I remembered our games, our talks, our valiant quest. I remembered the diamonds that I’d dreamed of for so long. I looked into that Great Big Empty. “Of course,” I said. “Together, like always.” As soon as the words left my tongue I shoved my hand into his side and began walking away. When I was eighteen, I pushed my brother off the end of the world and didn’t look back.

Passing Lauren Kranzlin

Hopping from the safety of each street lamp into the darkness that beckons and caresses, Light soon frightens, Headlights, street cars; Spotlights, criminals. Our motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voices ring in our heads, circling like those birds from Saturday morning cartoons

The Boulevard Gleeson Ryan

Without his citizenship he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get a license so I unhooked my keys from the back of the door and picked him up. I parked parallel and waited until opening the door he kissed me more out of courtesy than affection and settled into the passengerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seat. We drove through the city and in silence past the body shop and the soccer field and the school. I took the corners slow until they became curves in the long farm roads beyond and then just drove. I never knew that cars designed to get you places were so good for finding that place in between places.

Be Careful With Me Andres Gonzalez

Be careful with me, My handles are broken off, My lip is cracked. Be careful with me. The fractures on my back are hard to see, Be careful with me. You broke no records, except for just the one The one where I repeat, Over and over Maybe there is hope, for me, for me. Maybe, there is hope for me, for me. Your caress was always loose. Your grasp was hesitant. I never even crossed your doorframe whole. You brought me back into the little shop you found me in, Hoping they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice, You snuck me back onto my shelf, Turned me around. Hid my new discolorations from the next pretty passerby. Back again. A tired souvenir, a worn out metaphor, A self-conscious poet, a quiet lover, A sullen reflection of the perceptions gleaned in snippets of conversation Silenced when I am the passerby. A litany of bitter weekends and anxious Mondays. A porcelain piece, slipped from inexperienced fingers. Both drop. Both slip. I have been the buyer, and I have been the keepsake. I am become destroyer, just as I have been destroyed Who will break me next? Who will I let slip?

Anonymous Elizabeth Toledano

It was not too long ago When these halls didn’t reek of pain I miss being free, Before you knew my name I’ve been a thousand people And I have a thousand more to be I am tired of disguises But I still haven’t found me I close my eyes and I breathe the air In this painful search for anonymity I hear footsteps that could notice I disappear so they can’t see No smiles last forever A whisper is a greeting Don’t worry, please don’t care at all I’m happy if I’m fleeting There’s a place where I can run I glare straight through an empty seat I am alone on this subway Crowded voices carry my lonely feet The city is my favorite mask It shields me on my own The lights want nothing in return And that’s why this is home Just two prideful shoes prefer this walk Long-legged, eyes straight ahead If I can’t find myself, I will be anonymous instead

new york Chris Cappello

I’ve been watching HBO’s Girls lately, but I have yet to see anything from the second season, which debuted earlier this year. If you’re unfamiliar, the concept of the show is fairly simple. Rich, privileged white girls living in New York City (specifically Brooklyn) undergo the intense emotional and physical trials associated with being a rich, privileged white girl in New York. Essentially, it’s a slightly less self-aware, slightly more dynamic Sex and the City for the post-everything generation. Played by and modeled after show creator Lena Dunham, lead character Hannah is deliberately portrayed as obnoxious and inconsiderate but ultimately ‘lovable,’ displaying a frankly annoying degree of self-deprecation that scans as self-obsession from Dunham’s directorial perspective. I’m not sure why I’m so fascinated with this less-than-great television show, but the discourse that it has generated in my circles has been really interesting. From what I have gathered, the ‘girls’ whom Girls targets -- vaguely counter-cultural teens and 20-somethings who have read The Bell Jar and probably enjoy (at best) Cat Power or (at worst) Best Coast -- tend to love the characters and plot elements of the show that I generally dislike, and vice versa. Take, for instance, Marnie Michaels, a character whom Vanity Fair’s Juli Weiner called “a gallerina with overbearing mothering tendencies.” She’s almost universally derided amongst the Girls fan base, but I happen to admire her work ethic, her entrenched behavioral code, and her unwillingness to get so caught up in the trivialities that Hannah and the others spend so much time worrying over. But maybe I see past her character flaws simply because she’s beautiful and scans as potentially dateable; in other words, maybe I’m as shallow as most of the male characters on the show. To an observer, our New York City adventure that night would have seemed reckless, but we felt entirely self-assured in our urban endeavor. Perhaps, in some mutual subconscious, we embraced the recklessness. We boarded the train at Union Station in the pouring rain, decked in leather, clasping disposable Kodaks and hoping for the better. Ultimately, our destination was The Bowery Ballroom, where Beach Fossils were hosting a release show for their new LP Clash The Truth. In a grander sense, we were called by the directional force of the city itself. Something beyond the prospect of a good concert drew us to the city that night -- perhaps the same force that drives New Haveners to write “outside of New York” under ‘location’ in the ‘about me’ section of their Tumblr pages. When we arrived, we walked around Washington Square, visited Other Music, and joked about HBO’s Girls as we taxied down Bowery Ave. The show was 18+, but we knew that the bouncers wouldn’t check; we just had a feeling. “So New York...” Aaron half-jokingly whispered as we descended the stairs, past the bouncers and ticket salespeople, “I feel like we’re in an episode of Girls.” Our plan, if we had been rejected, was to take the soonest train home and meet up with a friend of ours back home, whom Aaron promptly notified as soon as we made it inside the venue. A little more than half-jokingly, I suggested that he invite her to the show anyway, since we had an extra ticket. Surprisingly, he obliged, and contacted her again immediately. More surprisingly, she accepted the invitation, saying that she would take a 9:19 train out of New Haven. I missed her in a way that made me feel shameful, as though she were a helpless puppy that I had abandoned in the rain, or a newborn baby for whom I tragically lacked the capacity to care. This moment of misanthropy stung, but also offered me a disturbing sense of consolation. I had to check myself. I knew that she was anything but helpless. When she arrived, I couldn’t bring myself to dance anymore. “So New York...” I muttered to Aaron when he told me that she was coming. A post-punk song was playing over the PA. He couldn’t hear me. The Williamsburg Bridge is only two blocks past the Bowery Ballroom. If you’re heading South on Bowery Avenue, turn left on Delancey and you will pass the venue on your way over the

bridge. We joked that the Williamsburg-based band who played that night only had to travel a half-mile outside of their fragile Brooklyn bubble for the show. Jung writes, “Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other. My ex-girlfriend and I talked for hours on a 1:47 AM train back from New York City. The mood between us felt different in a way; I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to try to get something out of it. When I arrived home at 4, I found myself browsing her Facebook page absentmindedly, looking at old photographs, thinking about how young we were and how much youth we still have left to expend. That night was youth incarnate, from the concert to the spontaneity and the lateness of it all and the city itself, a bastion of our immediate post-adolescence, shared and separate, collective and individual. She will spend the next four years of her life in a certain hole-in-the-wall university in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a place in which I will almost certainly spend little to no time in the near future. It’s distinctly possible that I will end up back in the city, though, retracing the steps of my journey out of childhood, wondering where I may have gone wrong. On April 2nd 2011, I stood in Madison Square Garden and shed tears for the end of an era as LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy sang for the last time, “New York, I love you, but you’re bringing me down.” If only I had known how prescient that line would be. If only I knew now how prophetic it will yet prove to be. An anonymous comment on the SongMeanings lyric page for that song reads, “I’m the kid who thinks it still exists,” echoing another one of Murphy’s best lines. I too fear what the future may bring. Today I live, better off that I have ever been, but still so unaware of what will come. Although my life travels forward on an upward trajectory, each minute of vital upsurgence increases the likelihood of an eventual crash downwards, the perspective nosedive after meteoric rise, the downward slide just beyond the mountain’s summit. I fear the inevitable, eventual realization that my notion of New York is not yours, nor hers, nor Lena Dunham’s or Marnie Michaels’, to say nothing of the city’s objective reality. Despair, misery, murder, poverty, wealth, privilege, Brooklyn, the village, a 24-hour diner near Union Square that thank god we never found, or we would have had to take the 5:30 AM train home. The New York City of life’s totality will bring me down, I am sure of it, but I won’t know until it happens.

Father and Son Alec Gewirtz

Putting on your glasses now that it’s dark is no use. Your arm, mitt included, extends until stretching, hanging as if expected nowhere, but then comes that perfect sound for which “slap” is both apt and too harsh. Clean catch. Silhouetted, you ask, returning the toss, am I not happy that so-and-so on such-and-such rival came down with an injury? “Never wish another ill,” I reply, and from here it is unclear whether this makes you happy or upset, or, from there whether I am being serious or self-mocking. The ball lobs silently. If there is something between us having to do with evil, it is best kept in this cool, dark place.

The White Pages Gleeson Ryan

On the highway yesterday I saw a van full from bottom to top with phone books. “Imagine all the people you could call,” I thought but even the passenger seat was full to the window and the wheels of the van sagged flat across the pavement. All the numbers went through my head the area codes the dial tones the numbers out of service the inmates and mothers and lovers and businessmen and all those who just wanted someone to talk to. I changed lanes and reshaped my thought “Imagine how heavy a load that is.”

Train Max Ying

He looks through the window. Past the splotched and grimy stains, he can make out the silhouettes of blurry trees on the other side. He feels the vibrations coursing through his body as the train rattles rhythmically on the tracks, the cla-clack, cla-clack echoing the beat of his heart. He glances at his watch: 2:35. The afternoon sun feels warm on his face as he takes a slow sip from his drink. Letting himself slip into the moment, his eyes flutter shut as he delves into his thoughts. He pictures the trainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s path in his mind, cutting across miles and miles of countryside, swaying and bending cornstalks in its wake. Its polished shell reflects the surroundings nearly as well as a mirror, gleaming brightly in the daylight. He then imagines the interior: the smooth velvet seats that he could run his hands across forever, the little overhead chandeliers that jingled whenever the train hit a bump in the rails, and the people... all of the people who had somewhere to come from and someplace to go. He inhales and exhales. When he opens his eyes the illusion is broken. He watches helplessly as the train speeds across the field and into the horizon, leaving behind a jagged metal scar on the ground. God, I wish I had someplace to go.

Twenties on Iron Austin Bodetti

If you were the boy Who sat lone on the tracks, That ran from the city Through valleys and back, If you were the boy Who had not a clue That no star in the world Could make dreams come true, If you were the boy Who threw coins in the well, Uttered his wish, And watched as it fell, If you were the boy Whose hair was unkempt, Neither dare nor challenge Would you refuse to attempt. If you were the boy Who forgot his whole past, Who got up one day And grew up too fast, You are the man Who has slipped through the cracks. Don’t forget that boy Who once sat on the tracks.

The Unexpected Visitor Alex Sernyak

In yonder woods I saw a bear All gnarl’d and grizzly too, His eyes possessed an evil glare, His fur a mangy hew. He had ferocious claws And teeth all pearly white, And snarling through clench’d jaws, We started our great fight. I grabb’d a pointed stick And jabb’d him in the eye, He claw’d then attempted a kick, Neither of us would die! He absconded and left me in the dirt Alone with scar and scare, Yet if you think that I was hurt, You should have seen that bear!

Human Traffic Sabra Stratton

A heart beats and I can hear it Ticking to the beat of waves Snuggling with sand Fighting with gravity Taken down to low tide They yearn for more Squirming towards faraway rocks Screaming for home A heart beats And I can almost see the aorta push Blood out of the organ Telling capillaries, â&#x20AC;&#x153;you work too hard, take a breakâ&#x20AC;? Please just Shut off blood, Shut off feeling Turn volume to low and listen for White noise A heart beats And this girl in front of me is supposed to settle Every bargain Limbs, toes, lips for what? A debt? Blood and muscle do not repay me Instead they take my heart and dissect it Looking for that one thing called Humanity

Apprehension in a Café Natalie Schultz-Henry

I look at the alarm clock. It is 5:57 AM. Three minutes and I will be up, fumbling for the doorknob to the bathroom. I am too groggy for this, but today is not the day I can fall back asleep. Today is my interview. I have waited years for this day, for the chance to finally meet the revered Cynthia Attridge, the head of my favorite fashion house. It has only taken four years at RISD and two others slaving away in sales at Saks. I am already at it again, running question after question through my mind; I cannot guess exactly what she will ask me. 7:43 AM. I have just hopped off the subway, and it is freezing outside. I desperately need a coffee to wake up, so I march over to the Starbucks across the street filled with trash and old melting snow. I narrowly miss a pile of sludge. I check on my best patent-leather pumps: they have not been dirtied yet. No time left to inspect, I must hurry. Cynthia’s secretary told me to be at the office at 8:30 AM sharp; Cynthia is not one for tardiness, and if I want this job I should do my best to get there as early as possible. I am in line now, skimming over my emails in my blackberry. There are a few new messages, mostly advertisements. One catches my eye: it is from Cynthia’s office. She is pushing back the meeting until 11:00 AM and has sent me the address of a new meeting place. Great. I’ll be spending the next three hours going over notes upon notes of questions, answers, and more questions. I have quizzed myself on every collection she has released. I know my facts; I have it down. Now, I just have free time to worry. My non-fat latte is long gone. I am on the right block. Where is this place? I see it now, a pastel café on the corner covered in windows. I am pondering why my interviewer would decide to bring me here. She could be showing me how little this interview matters to her; after all, she did summon me

here last minute. I try to replace that thought with a more comforting one. This café seems a little intimate; perhaps she wants to get to know me. I guess I will find out soon enough. “Right this way, miss.” The friendly waitress directs me. I take note of her sleek black outfit and kitten heels. This is quite the place for a fashion-lover. My heart skips half a beat. Cynthia is sitting, already waiting for me. Am I late? I cannot be, it is 10:52 AM. Cynthia has acquired the perfect table, the two-seater situated on the corner, with a clear view of the street. I let out a breath of air. The twenty feet between the table and me is now a mile-long obstacle course of chairs, people, platters and bags. She has noticed me by now. I receive her glance and curt wave, before she returns to her cup of tea. I make my way over. “Hello, Ms. Attridge, it’s great to meet you!” “Yes, likewise. Please, sit,” she utters between sips. This is so professional. I take my seat and loop my bag over the back of my chair; I am trying to get Cynthia to see my fabulous sense of style. The waitress surfaces, again. I order a cappuccino, no messy food for me, thank you. A few minutes later my cappuccino is placed in front me, and a cranberry scone is placed in front of Cynthia. My stomach grumbles. I should have ordered a muffin when I had the chance. Cynthia starts in on her questions while buttering the scone. I am under attack; I must quickly dazzle her with my competence. She wields a butter knife, shaking it at me with the pronunciation of each phrase. This must be her preferred method of intimidation. It works. I have no weapon to show off at her—just my meager tablet of notes, my only shield. My notes serve their purpose; I’m doing just fine with Cynthia’s questions. Now, she is actually asking me for my opinion on several of her new designs. My notes cannot help me with this new topic. I slip them onto the table, next to my saucer. I notice I am not getting any more offensive knife shaking. I eye Cynthia’s right hand. It is fidgeting next to her plate. She is about to take a bite of the scone, which will slow down her questions a bit. She looks a little more comfortable. Each of us is now smiling. I realize I actually like Cynthia Attridge. I am still a little amazed that I am sitting across from her. She is not just a fashion icon to me anymore; she is real. I glance at my watch: 1:13 PM. Did I really just spend that much time speaking to the woman I both admire and fear the most? We say our goodbyes; she lets me know I will get a call from her office within a few days about the job. Round two of anticipation begins.

Forgetting Garrett Ballard

I forgot your name last night. Which, unfortunately means, that all of the breaths we shared, moments we spent laughing together, and all of the times I told you that I loved you are, now, completely meaningless. Last night, I looked at a picture of your face, extracted it from a dark quadrant where it had sat still for years, your radiant eyes staring ceaselessly into a void. Memories are all that matter. Vaults of pride and happiness, they preserve triumphs with nostalgia to make us feel fulfilled, lies with truths to make us feel sovereign. Forgetting spurns the master plan, leaves our lives crumbling like museums in an earthquake as the fabrics of history begin to knot and wither. Dimensional fragments, the bounties of past reflection become jarred from context and worthless, all value in experience nullified by the process. But as for the consequences of forgetting, well fortunately, we forget.

The Pilot Nikki Camera

He stood taller than all on his lowly roof, Shouting and kicking it like a horse While pointing down the suburban street, At the pastel colored houses. Green, blue, pink, yellow, Businessmen, housewives, children, golden Retrievers all fenced in their gates. If you did not dwell on this delicate street, You would not catch a glimpse, not even pass by To see a man dressed like a pilot, A man shouting at the sky. Adventure! –He howled- The Great Unknown! And with suits, with aprons, with scissor hands, They guttered laughter, sputtered lies, “Get down from there!” they cried. The pilot stood and raised his arms, His back facing the sun, Blanketing the street with his valiant shadow. He shifted his gaze from house to house, As humans dashed to the street. One lady left a casserole burning, One man dropped his briefcase, along with his jaw, One teenager paused in the midst of a text, And the children rallied with joy. Routine halted, chaos massed, His chest lifted, and he proclaimed That his time of duty had passed. He began like a hawk, going in for the kill, Swooping, gracefully Smacking the street with his skin. But the clocks in the kitchens never paused, And life resumed.

Self-Portrait as Soap Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

She found a few suds left in her hands and she knew She was sterile. In the sense Of space. That there was nothing There was the problem. In April Frederick came home for Thanksgiving. Mother, He said, I’m changed. When Thomas lost a hand In the war she tied his shoes as if He were a girl again. The boys’ father Waltzes in with his seamless face and all the mirrors Get frozen. There are no words For a pan without oil, for the oil When it is still. She falls Close to daily now, only now She barely cares. You can look In all the mirrors you want, he says, But all you’re going to find is mirror.