Daystar 2014 by Hopkins School

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The Literary + Arts Magazine of Hopkins School | Spring 2014

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Cover: Sarah Johnson

Top row: Lindsay Martin, Malcolm Drenttel, Lindsay Martin Middle row: Lindsay Martin, Lindsay Martin, Malcolm Drenttel Bottom row: Dani Gorton, Malcolm Drenttel, Natalie Schulz-Henry

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fiction

p o e t ry

Cami Jetta Thus I Take Leave of My Lost City | 5

Paige Steinberg Seclusion 4

C.c. Crews Trashcan Fires 23

Sanjay Dureseti Flight | 12

Rachel Kaufman No Sense | No Sense II 6-7

Bobby Davis Stock Market Crash 28

James Murray A Child’s Afternoon | 15

Cami Jetta Of This I Remember Most Clearly 9

Name TK Collaborative Poem I/II 31

Griffin ShoglowLindsay Martin Rubenstein Soldiers From “The Ant’s a 10 Centaur in His Dragon World” Austin Bodetti 32 Of Crushed Velvet 11 Michael McCarthy Harbinger Sydney Girasole 36 Vindicate 14 Kayla Paraiso 5K Precious Musa 37 The Motherland 17 Griffin ShoglowRubenstein Griffin ShoglowSalvo After Century 21 Rubenstein 38 Phone Call for Scriabin 18 Cami Jetta 1 Youth is and Was 41

Paige Steinberg

Seclusion

Night after night I change into a captured creature, commencing with a closed door. And night after night I stare into a startling, somber slate, soon to be secluded in my sentiments . But night starts. Bound by blankets, I seek comfort in sleepâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s promise of reverie. I take in this taciturnity, since after night and night, I enter my dreams, a world lit by my subconscious tranquility.

Cami Jetta

Thus I Take Leave of My Lost City

sebastian sat in his car at the edge of the woods, where a long, winding drive arrived at his first complete sight of his friend’s sprawling summerhouse. Yellow light glowed from almost every one of its many windows despite the fact that the sun had only just begun to set, and every glass pane was impressively clean. He idly imagined the army of poorly paid domestics that it must have took to maintain such a place; a stooped, frowning people arriving on the property every day equipped with fat yellow sponges and buckets of soapy water, working tirelessly to complete the Sisyphean task of keeping the windows spotless. His hands were still clenched around the steering wheel, its decaying leather growing hot against his palms, and the engine of his ancient Honda was still running. Rap music still leaked softly from the stereo. He considered putting the car in reverse and retreating slowly into the tree line, like some beast backing away from the sight of civilization. Through the pristine front windows, he caught sight of the top of a man’s head sagging into the cushions of a couch, watching a football game on the im-

mense flat screen television in front of him. The diplomat, Sebastian thought. Over the faint noise of his music he could hear the ocean roaring behind the house. For a moment he was still, listening carefully to the familiar lullaby of the waves crashing to shore again and again. With a tiny sigh that spoke of an internal battle lost to his own nature, he pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. at the door, wes greeted sebastian in a fashion that he had probably intended to seem casual, as if Sebastian’s presence were a surprise and not a thing long-awaited. “Hey,” said Wes simply, in a voice that seemed, to Sebastian’s ear, affected to sound deeper than it was in actuality. Although Wes managed to keep his tone steady through this monosyllable his eyes betrayed him. His delighted, poorly hidden grin told Sebastian everything Sebastian already knew. Wes opened the door wider and gestured him in with a vague wave of his free hand.

Rachel Kaufman

No Sense

I ruffle I shuffle do you play when the sun goes down and the moonlight dances he does she used to boosted boost it roost it he crows she cries a rooster walks and talks it crows it moans for its hay which is gone it wants food it won’t lose loose loose change in my pocket it clinks it won’t shut like a class a glass of champagne that rhymes and chimes he toasts her and boasts but he doesn’t know he tries to sigh but he just wants a muffine a muffin to be done and to run she said years ago and I waited I contemplated I shouted for the freedom and I envied her overalls and her smile and the home she found in the walls of her pictures they line her room and I swoon I crunch I munch on my book and it tastes like the sand and it gravels it travels and the rocks fit inside my shoes like pebbles in a crevice of a dolphin and the waves crash they cry they mourn but they don’t exist to be heard they exist to be seen to be not seen to stop and to wait to love and to cherish I take you my carrot and I hold you so tight and I put you in the fridge and my mom says to wash you to bask you in water and light to scream to clench I’m a wrench and I twist and I shake and she laughs and the bat it just flies, she always says but I’ve never seen it and I don’t know why

Sebastian stepped inside and swiftly took in the surrounding interior of the house. There was a monstrosity of a modern-art chandelier over the foyer and the rooms to each side seemed to consist of a great deal of furniture so white and immaculate it appeared to glow. “Thanks for having me.” He did not look yet at Wes; he was instead studying a painting on the opposite wall that appeared to be an Andy Warhol. “Don’t be stupid. You’re doing me a favor, dude. I’m going fucking crazy,” Wes dropped his voice and shot a furtive glance towards the living room, where it was now halftime of the football game, “—spending all this alone time with the diplomat.” This was how Wes always referred to his father. Sebastian laughed. “Introduce me, won’t you?” he whispered with an air of confidentiality, raising his eyebrows almost suggestively, the barest trace of a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth. Wes flushed, very slightly, and turned to call his father in. sebastian was not wealthy nor important nor particularly smart in the way of books and school, but if he knew anything, he knew people.

He had known what it would mean to be Wes’s best friend. Befriending the diplomat’s son meant, as Sebastian had calmly enumerated: 1. Winter breaks spent skiing in the Alps. 2. Thanksgiving on a yacht in St. Bart’s. 3. Weekend trips to Paris for “foreign affairs emergencies” that would really consist of late nights at Johnny Depp’s nightclub and riding in town cars with up-andcoming models. 4. Events with the word gala on the invitation, to which one would have to wear a crisp tuxedo. 5. Beluga caviar 6. and champagne for brunch at the chicest restaurants in the world. It hadn’t mattered that Sebastian didn’t know the first thing about skiing, or that in actuality Wes had probably never even seen a model one would describe as “up-and-coming”, or any kind of model at all, really. It had not mattered that Sebastian had only ever tasted caviar once, when his Russian Lit teacher had brought it to class while they were reading Anna Karenina, and had nearly spit it out in distaste. Plenty of people at his school were rich. Sebastian

Rachel Kaufman

No Sense II An elephant sat on my head on my bed it was red and I read every page every hour for a shower to eat and sleep my head it aches it bakes in the oven like a wake which I’ve never seen always left at home to drone no funerals for me but she laughs laughed cried watched for the bird that always seemed to sigh on my window in the air it flew into a chair but I see saw reed read Florida seeds I planted you in a tree and watched you grow and sow sew my fingers into the seams of your dress you pressed my tips through your roots like a plane I was raved saved caved into a world of trembling feet and open days and time that rhymes that shouldn’t rhyme but it instead is a dime a crime a pocket in my pocket in the folds of my pants and the holes in my shoes I fill my gaps with memories of you tucked within flowered gaps of empty air and space without time or chime or chiming dimes to eat and dream of when I sleep your words fill my mouth but are choked so I wrote but you stayed you prayed inside of my feet and my face and my throat so I wrote a poet a poem a creamy concoction of sugar and soap I washed my hands with your leftovers and bathed in the light of an empty bar of rope soap lope loped into me into you into trees that dream of cream of seas Vale hailed from Hypoluxo, Florida, population 2,015, a town that consisted largely of condominiums that had been built en masse in the 1970s and irritable retirees. For Sebastian Vale of Hypoluxo, being rich was not exactly sufficient. Although Wes seemed, as an individual, far from extraordinary, in being the son of an important diplomat, and in people’s knowing of it, glamour had clung faintly to him like stale cologne. Sebastian had known what such a friendship could mean for him from the moment Wes wandered into his line of sight. He had been almost painfully nondescript, the diplomat’s son: a skinny, plain-faced teenager struggling under the weight of a designer-label duffel bag as he squinted at the crumpled map in his hand and stood dumbfounded at the center of the quad on the first day of school. Sebastian, who had possessed since childhood a powerful nose for opportunity, had gallantly leapt forward to help. He had pointed out the dorm Wes was looking for and thrust his hand forward with a downright roguish grin. When he convinced Wes to join the soccer team and extended repeated invitations to lunch and generally became, as the year melted away, Wes’s dearest friend in

the whole of the world, Sebastian knew. He knew, and silently exulted in his success, and told himself that he never felt guilty in the least. the month of august was tennis whites and private-beach-sunburn and gleaming sailboats. He and Wes played a lot of Xbox and were constantly asking the maids for snacks. They slept in a different one of the six empty bedrooms every night and said that at the end of the summer they would choose a favorite. Town was a parade of wealthy and glamorous people in expensive clothes in colors with compound names like robin’s-egg-blue and salmon pink and canary yellow. They were perpetually sporting sunglasses and lazy teenagerish grins. They went fishing; they slept late; they ate lunch at well-air-conditioned restaurants by the sea. It was the way Sebastian had pictured it to be. Once, in Hypoluxo, he might have been one of their red-faced, constantly apologizing waiters, and now he had become one half of a party that always left a generous tip. Wes probably had, Sebastian thought, more interesting stories to tell than he did—international tales of intrigues that Wes had witnessed, perhaps, or at the very

least brief anecdotes of grotesque, tantalizing wealth. In any case Sebastian did most of the talking. He punctuated his exaggerated tales with wild gesticulations of his hands and a variety of dramatic pauses and, on occasion, voices. He ignored the awe in the way that Wes watched him during the telling of these stories and pretended easily that he did not notice the way Wes sometimes completely forgot himself and stared at Sebastian’s mouth or the place where his neck met his collarbone, because what this told him was something Sebastian already knew. They went sailing; they went fishing; they drank with breakfast. Sometimes in the evenings they smoked cigars on the patio with the diplomat and felt, temporarily, old. sebastian loved his best friend enough that sometimes—sometimes—he wanted to tell him that their relationship was not fair. During every comfortable silence, with a consistency that wandered into obsession, Sebastian imagined being brutally, breath-knockingly honest. “You think you hide it well, but, dude, it’s clear you’re into me.” This was one of the things of the humorous genre he may have forced himself to say, as an icebreaker. Or: “I love you now but at first I didn’t even like you.” This was more serious. “The Barcelona cab driver story is like ninety-nine percent bullshit, and the parts that are true happened in Fort-fucking-Lauderdale.” This was merely true. “And you’re fucking awful at soccer.” This: as harsh as Sebastian wished he had the courage or selflessness to be. He imagined disappearing in the dead of night, leaving behind only a letter filled with paltry apologies. It was a Wednesday night and there were only eight days left in August. They passed the evening drinking too much wine on the patio and discussing the nature of life in that youthful way that is both laughably pretentious and heart-achingly earnest. Sebastian looked sideways at the way the light of the moon fell on the decidedly ordinary face of his dangerously-dear-to-him best friend. Wes was smiling and looking up at the night sky, saying something about Buddhism and the reason humans are even here, man, and Sebastian felt his heart swell with deadly affection. He looked down, away, and wished more than anything that he could return to the way he felt before.

Later, after several more glasses of wine, they were sitting comfortably on the floor of their mutually chosen favorite empty bedroom and Wes kissed him, gently, tentatively: a question. He pulled back; he raised a brow. The dim lines of his visage asked wordlessly: Shall we go on? Sebastian nodded: yes. Yes: and for the first time he meant it. Yes. the next morning sebastian was gone before the sun had risen, his duffel thrown half-packed into the backseat of the Honda. He stuffed the keys into the ignition and ignored the car’s low squeal of protest as he sped down the drive towards the wood’s edge. No letter filled with paltry apologies was left behind. Nothing was left behind. sebastian was thirty-three, working a job that required him to wear a suit every day, and unmarried. He lived in a cramped apartment on West 90th and Amsterdam. He had no dog and he closed his window nightly to the stray cat that occasionally came nosing in from the fire escape. He was still not wealthy, nor important, and his methodical understanding of other people had crumbled alongside the swaggering certitude he has once possessed in his own self, before he fell in love and, panicking, abandoned it as swiftly as he had discovered it, during a certain summer of his youth. He stood near the Hudson River smoking a cigarette that the wind was whittling down faster than he could enjoy it. A few yards away, there was parked a sleek black town car with diplomatic plates. Its driver had stepped out and fished in his coat pocket for several seconds before retrieving a wilted pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sebastian studied him for a few moments as he lit up, and then turned his gaze back towards the river. It was a Monday night in late summer and already the chill of autumn had arrived in the air. Always, when there were eight days left in August as there were today, Sebastian looked out at water that was not the ocean whose sound he loved so well and tried to remember. He attempted to conjure up the illicit taste of that wine, and the clean smell of his room in that grand empty house in the mornings, and the soft warmth of Wes’s lips and body against his. But all of this had gone from him. There were eight days left in August, but it was colder now than it was then, and there was no memory of that other place left in his bones.

Cami Jetta

Of This I Remember Most Clearly

In St. Tropez, the clouds gathered all day. It began to pour as we departed. And of this I remember most clearly a deep sense of release, like exhaling. I think very often of Charlotte’s laugh: bursting, musical, always infectious. She’d throw her head back and squeeze her eyes shut; her white teeth glinted from that lovely mouth-A joy so warm, so loud, so engaging. The morning we were to leave the country, my thoughts insisted: “but we haven’t yet.” My mouth remembers certain small phrases: how I liked my coffee, and muttered oaths. I sometimes think the ghost of constant rain’s full rich scent lingers still in all my clothes.

Lindsay Martin

Soldiers

The call for battle sounds, And the soldiers emerge From their holes underground. Each anxiously waiting For the battle call to cry, Soldiers rub their hands together In attempts to keep dry. What fears do the soldiers lock inside? The horrors they’ve seen, Images of friends who have died? Soldiers appear strong on the outside, Despite the fact That they’ve wept and cried Over dreams of their home life And soldiers’ families with arms open wide. As soldiers race To face dangers unknown The enemy lies anticipating Soldiers about to be blown. Across the mud, the soldiers tread, With adversaries waiting, For opportunities to shoot them dead.

Soldiers to whom Patriotism means everything, Die with honor and great white wings. But these soldiers Are numbers no one cares to bear in mind, When victory has been won For all mankind. But memories of soldiers will live on Through generations of wit and brawn Who will volunteer When the next conflict should arise, And remember the soldiers Who live within them in disguise.

Austin Bodetti

Of Crushed Velvet

Run, darling, for the garden awaits. Run through the yard and enter through the gates. A world full of wonder, a world that is pure. White roses will be your poison and will be your cure, For they will protect you and shelter your soul, But white roses will keep you lonely and whole. They’ll hold you from age, a gift that would stun, For no god could grant us the wish to stay young. White roses will assure you your childish views. Your fascination with simplicity you’ll never lose. Yes, this is thrilling, flawless at first, But, my child, white roses do carry a curse, For abuse of the rose will keep you too clean. No moment in time will you regret or be mean. You will be the sweetest soul to walk the Earth, But, for what kindness means, you know not what it’s worth.

You must learn in time through the evils that lurk Exposure to darkness and see how it works. With age, my child, white roses turn red From the sweat and tears and pain that you’ve bled. You must run from your garden as I do from mine, But be not afraid to return over time. Dearest, you’re so young now. Enjoy what you need not know, For, with age, you will learn. In time, you will grow. White roses remind us of our once-virgin eyes That only saw the garden, saw truth, blind lies. Innocent you are. Enjoy it while to lasts, For childhood will soon be left in the past, But, if in need of reminding that there’s good in Earth’s doom, Return home to the garden, where white roses bloom.

Sanjay Dureseti

Flight

A thud reverberates through the room. A crash follows. A body flies. “Don’t cut yourself,” says the woman. The boy, standing on a stool, clutches a kitchen knife in his sickly hand. He slowly slices an apple, careful not to let the curved blade touch his skin. Then it happens. He feels his body seize. His muscles clench and his face goes white. He falls off the stool, knife and apple in hand. He slowly turns his head as he feels his muscles, taut as corded rope, strain against the violence of his seizure. He sees his mother lying on the kitchen floor, drowning in a pool of red. In the glint of silver protruding from the woman’s chest, the boy sees his own reflection. The bright green apple is still in his hand. The boy takes a bite of the fruit and savors the sweet and salty taste as he closes his eyes. Jonathan wakes up. He gropes in the blackness and finds the bright orange bottle that he is looking for. He reaches in and takes out the contents of the container. As Jonathan’s eyes adjust, he stares, in wonder, at the white ovals in his open hand. “Life!” He must whisper quietly so as to not wake the others. “Life,” he intones, again. Indeed, the little white capsules, nestled in the palm of his hand, contain his life. At least, that is what the guards told him as they gave him that precious orange bottle. Jonathan, as usual, reverently places a single pill on the tip of his tongue. He bites down and lies back as he feels the medicine coat his mouth and slowly pass down his throat. He thinks about his dream.

It is a dream that he has dreamt so many times that he is beginning to wonder if it is reality. Something about it feels real, not the woman, or the knife, or the blood, but the apple, the tang of the skin, the sweetness of the juice, and the crunch of that first bite. And that color! That beautiful, vivid green, the one he used to see all the time before he started taking his medicine. He doesn’t see colors like that anymore. All he sees is the dull orange that he and all the others wear every day. All he sees is the rusty grey of the iron bars, the putrid beige that covers the walls and ceiling, the navy blue uniforms of the guards, and the dark brown of their night sticks. Four hours later, Jonathan and the rest of the prisoners wake up. Jonathan is set to sorting laundry, and, because of his affinity for colors, it is a job he relishes. Sometimes, he will see a red stain from a blotch of paint or a green grass stain, and he will shout in ecstasy. The other inmates would glare, yell, and hit when they first heard Jonathan’s exclamations. He still bears the scars as evidence of the ceaseless beatings. But, now, the inmates ignore him and leave him alone to his shouts, screams, and laughs. As is his habit, Jonathan enters the prison chapel after work. The place is deserted. The scent of burning candles wafts through the air. The sunlight filters through the multicolored window panes. A crude cross hangs on the back wall. Jonathan breathes it all in. He goes to his usual place, the confessional, a box with two doors and

a wicker frame in the middle. Jonathan shuffles in and sits down on the bench. As always, he peruses every nook and cranny of his box. “Look!” he exclaims. A new crack on the sideboard. Initials carved into the base of the door. And the mystery of the wicker screen. What riddles lie on the other side? So many secrets in such a small space. “What’s this?” “A new carving?” Etched in the dark wood is a robed figure, apparently female, with flowing hair framing an angelic face, encircled by a crown of light. Wings sprout from the figure’s back. A true artist made this engraving. The ornate details of the feathers, the rich folds of the robe, and the tangles in the hair all suggest the work of a master. Jonathan slowly gets up and walks out of the dark confessional into a room filled with light. Jonathan squints in the blinding light, and, gradually, his eyes adjust to the brightness. Floating

before him is the same figure in the box. She is dressed in immaculate white and a halo surrounds her head. But something is different. The face is all wrong. She looks familiar. He feels as if he has known that face all his life: but, he cannot remember who she is. As Jonathan walks towards the woman, he notices something else. A great red stain envelopes the front of her robe and from her chest extends a glint of silver. The woman is gripping something in her hands. “What is she holding?” wonders Jonathan as he looks closer. The apple! The bright green sphere of his dreams! He runs to the woman and reaches for that beloved fruit. The woman floats backwards through the stained-glass windows, towards the cross on the wall. Jonathan runs full speed at her. She drops the apple as he flies through the window. The silver in the woman’s chest shines in the sunlight. A thud reverberates through the room. A crash follows. A body flies.

Sydney Girasole

Vindicate

This sweet, innocent bundle Of freshness sits locked up In jail, As if it were a convict. What crime has he Committed? Trapped In this plastic lining; He cannot escape. His fate lies in the hands Of another. The only way out is to be released, By way of an authorityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s assistance. He may stare out at its surroundings, But its clear bubble in which he is suffocating in, Remains sealed. Day after day he is visited. His fellow jail mates, however, are sometimes The lucky ones, who get unlocked. Living a boring life, he desperately waits For someone to bail him out.

James Murray

A Child’s Afternoon the ball rattled around a broken down rim (which occupied several vertical planes) of a hoop whose other parts were even further dilapidated. As the ball careened wildly along the sharp, unpredictable gravel, a young blond boy gave chase through the mist. Mouth slightly downturned and eyes faintly narrowed, the youth quite plainly wore, upon his expression, his annoyance with the outcome of his latest attempt. Rather than having its six inch variance from the height of a regulation basketball hoop result from drooping the half dozen inches, the rim, somewhat counterintuitively, took its dissimilarity from a more than half foot rise above the ten feet of a standard basketball hoop. Finally gathering possession of the ball around twenty-five feet out from the hoop, the boy launched a wild, hopeless shot, one fated to futility before he had undertaken it. The outcome of his most recent attempt was no improvement upon that of his earlier. Instead, his poorly planned and entirely uncontemplated shot worsened, sailing not through the net, but through the

progressively worsening drizzle, until the projectile collided with earth after having covered only four-fifths of the distance to the hoop. “Shep! Get out of that rain! You’ll get sick!” his mother shouted out the house’s open front entrance, from which light partially spilled out. Shep’s frown of mixed dismay and perplexity (the expression of a child when some notion owing itself to a naïve trust cosmic workings of the world proves to be fallacious) regressed, due to his mother’s new directive, into an inimical scowl veiled from no one, but particularly not his mother. He schlepped back indoors nonetheless, sloshing rain and dirt with heedless abandon as he traipsed through the door kept open by his mother for the purpose of ensuring he did as she had commanded. Inside the house, a second child, black-haired, had been playing contentedly for some time already. Beside him, a dog of a bland, dull brown lounged, having come inside from the playing in the muck once the rain had begun. Unsure of what, exactly, to do, the younger of two boys wandered over to the room where his

brother sat, totally immersed within the bounds of the world that he had constructed. Wordlessly, the lighter-haired of the two plopped himself down. Aiming to determine what was transpiring, he lolled about, taking in the scene and actions of his slightly older brother. Try as he might, however, Shep was unable to uncover for himself to what end the movements and machinations he bore witness to served to accomplish. He suffered through nearly a full half hour (which, in and of itself, seems a lifetime and a half to small children) of entirely unproductive first-hand observation. After enduring this focused, intensive period of examination, Shep understood his brother’s actions, ostensibly the indoor frolicking of a child, less than those of their father, irrefutably the intensive work of an employee facing a deadline. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Shep fractured the tranquility. “Wudderya doin’?” he interjected. “Shhh, quiet. Help if you want,” Shep’s older brother offered. It was neither a sincere supplication nor an utterly honest urging. More exactly, it was a purposeful attempt to placate the single wild card in his eyes. Shep fathomed not the intention, which lay behind the offer, yet still accepted, without hesitation, the tender. Sans a superior plan for the remainder of the day (i.e., the hour, or so, he planned out in advance), Shep jumped upon the offer with faintly peculiar brio. “Yeah! Let’sdoit.” His vigor might have let off a somewhat nebulous impression of abnormality due to the contextually staid tone and his prior lucubration’s lack of depth concerning the requisite mindset, the immediate objective, the actual, physical deeds, as well as the ultimate aim of the total process. Shep’s unevenness surprised or roweled his brother not at all. He had learned to ride adeptly the undulations and vacillations of his younger brother, whether they be emotional or intellectual variants. In this vein of awareness, he knew Shep had become jovial and content to chug along side by side, working to the same ends. He did not know ( just as no one else, including Shep, did, either) what action Shep was to take next. Shep may have put forth an attempt in good faith to assist his brother, for all he was aware of. The outcome could’ve resulted in an absolute pastiche, yet his brother crossed the Rubicon, nonetheless. The stifling and suppressing stillness so striking to Shep subsisted, somehow. Now that Shep had joined the fray, however, his brother judged the atmosphere’s

prior serenity nonexistent. The elaborate set up’s architect, engineer, building site coordinator, and independent contractor had not considered, before, the cause of the feeling, close to a warmth, he had been experiencing. Stretched out amongst blocks and figures sprawled along the floor and table near to him, he figured, without excessive consideration, the cause to lie in some combination of the gentle lighting colored as if butter, the melodious, soothing pitter-patter of the rain beating the window pane, as if it were a drum, and comprehensive feeling of security brought on by the protection afforded the youths (disregarding whether they realized and appreciated it) by the sturdy walls and tightly sealed windows of their home. Not any more than six minutes into the ostensibly joint building, one in which only the older of the two did anything, Shep began to execute his plan. Deriving enjoyment from the annoyance he was to his brother, Shep increased the magnitude and conspicuousness of his behavior. By purposefully functioning counter to the aims he could discern (i.e., reversing and generally negating his brother’s feats and movements), he found some pleasure, despite the perversity of the procedure used to achieve it. The delight he attained through this method proved, predictably, to be ephemeral. Shep finally got a rise out of his tolerant brother through incessant annoyance with the identical tactic. The frustration amounted to only a half-hearted condemnation: “Shep. Bad.” It was, more than anything else, the disappointed sigh released by a dog owner who, upon returning home, has caught sight of his or her dog’s pee, pooled upon the floor. The older brother realized, just as dog owners do, the responsibility lay with himself; chastising the perpetrator any further was futile, bordering upon actively counter-productive. Shortly thereafter, the poop-like (i.e., similar to poop in color and odor) dog stirred from his seeming paralysis. The rain had let up. Shep and his comrade could, once again, go outside. Grasping the possibilities, Shep sprung up in ebullience. Together, the dog and the young blond boy fairly trotted up the stairs, from the basement, through the foyer, and out the doorway. Even were he to have exhaustively searched his memory, Shep could not have recalled, even faintly, the pain and confusion he had wholly projected as his last basketball shot missed.

Precious Musa

The Motherland

The Motherland Sometimes I feel I should weep for not knowing my home. The Women: ebony, smooth skin, bald heads, dark eyes, eyes that have seen their and their children’s lifetimes, know so much, yet know so little, question the meaning of darkness and beauty. The Clothes: clothes I wish could, would shake the core of my being and implode it into colors. But I don’t know the purple of that scarf, don’t know the pattern of that wrap or what it means. Or what it’s supposed to mewan. And sometimes…sometimes I can feel content with knowing they exist. With knowing, just simply knowing that I will always be embedded in this intricate history, this pattern. I cannot undo my binding. But other times my roots tug at my core, beg for me to fall into something, a way of life larger than myself larger than anything. Beg me to remember, and never forget that my shape is that of love, of Africa, of home.

Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

Phone Call for Scriabin

We have learned to read music, but what does it mean that a small, curvilinear square of light blinks from the black space from which we assume the noteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s intelligence speaks? * I am concerned about the future of any form that promises survival without a straight line to distract the performer, let alone a head that we composers presume to call

Alex Burdo

Birds and Cancer

i have been engrossed in the natural world, especially birds, for as long as I can remember. Much of my early childhood was spent exploring the natural world around me, with the great majority of my free time being spent outside. But this carefree existence was cut short when I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma at the age of twelve. Feeling isolated, defeated, and angry, birds became my solace in a world of misery and hardship. Having had a relatively easy life before my diagnosis, I was suddenly pushed into the harsh reality of cancer treatment. But my diagnosis did not stop me from birding. In fact, it might have provided me with more birding time, as my schooling was temporarily postponed. Just a few weeks after I began chemotherapy, my hair began to fall out, and within a relatively short period of time, I was bald. I received many weird looks from people when I was not wearing a hat, and it seemed as if there was a bright strobe light shining on my head, screaming â&#x20AC;&#x153;Alex has cancer!â&#x20AC;? I felt like I was continually judged and even pitied for my compromised situation. But that all changed when I left society, and entered the ever-shrinking realms that birds call home. Birds did not judge me

for how I looked or whether I had cancer or not. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn their heads in an attempt to get a better angle on my distorted appearance. Instead, they kept going with their routine, providing me with an immense sense of normalcy, as if I still had hair and a normal weight. As if I still belonged. During a period when much of my time was spent in the operating room or the hospital bed receiving chemotherapy, my planned excursions out into the field gave me something to look forward to, something concrete to hang onto, and ultimately, something to fight for. When so much of my life had turned to gray, I still found color, and happiness, in the time I spent out with the birds, in their habitats. There is solid scientific proof that birds and exposure to nature provides immense stress relief, and are incredibly helpful for patients dealing with dementia, as well as cancer. There are so many times during my treatment where birds have saved me from entering the dark depths of depression, many more than space allows for recounting here. Instead, I will focus on one individual tale, although it is no more powerful than any of the other

experiences I have had with birds. It was June 2012, and I was about to receive my fifth thoracatamy, a six to eight hour surgery that involves breaking through the ribcage to access the lungs, and then deflating the lungs and removing the cancerous lesions. Just a few days before my planned surgery date, a Chestnut-collared Longspur, a species that is endemic to the prairies of North America, appeared in Biddeford, Maine, far outside its normal range. Knowing that this might be the last birding trip I would take in a long while, I convinced my dad to make the trek up to see it. A little ways into our drive, it began to rain, and then to pour, and was predicated to continue doing so for the remainder of the day. This put an enormous damper (literally) on my hopes to see this species, and furthered my hopelessness, but I intended to make the effort nonetheless. Arriving at the site, a grassy meadow right at the edge of the rocky coast, I got to work in searching for the bird. Very few other species were active in the rain and angry wind, which gave me little hope in seeing this individual. Offshore, the seas rocked to and fro, like a troubled baby that refuses to go to sleep. Just a few minutes into my effort, I was soaked to the bone and began to shiver. This trip was becoming fruitless, and I was faced with the very real possibility of returning home, about to face an upcoming surgery with nothing to grasp onto, nothing to get me through it. Making one last loop around the meadow, I flushed a bright, boldly-colored sparrow-sized bird from the grass, which made one pass by me before ducking down into the vegetation. That look was all I needed to confirm that it was a Chestnut-collared Longspur. I had done it. I had seen the bird. But one quick look at this bird in flight was not satisfactory for me at all, but I was much too cold and wet to continue on. So we headed back to the car when I remarked to my dad, “that was great, but it was basically like that longspur was just ‘throwing me a bone.’” So we decided to dry off a bit in the shelter of the car, and then give it another go. And that’s just what we did. An hour later, we headed back out there, the wind still whining and the rain still pouring away. Heading to the exact spot I had seen the bird land an hour before, it didn’t take long to flush it, but instead of making a single pass and dipping back into the thick vegetation, it instead flew a short distance and landed on the bare grass up ahead. Both surprised and excited, I slowly made my way towards it, creeping along the wet ground, as if I were at the end of an obstacle course and so near to attaining the goal. The bird remained, and I sat a short distance

away, dumbfounded. I obtained a few decent photos, but mostly I just watched, admiring a bird that was undergoing hardships of its own. After all, this bird was alone, thousands of miles from its breeding grounds and other Chestnut-collared Longspurs on the prairies of the Rocky Mountains. As I sat there, all the rain cold of the rain and might of the wind seemed to dissipate, as did all the surrounding vegetation. All that remained were myself and the longspur, our souls out in the open, speaking to each other. Fully engolfed in such a wonderful experience, the thoughts of cancer and surgery disappeared, and I instead thought only about this bird, and the words of inspiration it spoke to me. When I finally looked up, I was hit by a bright light in my eyes, and noticed the sun peaking through the clouds. The rain, so powerful and potent just minutes before had nearly abated, but the longspur still sat there, eyeing me and I him. He took a few nibbles at the grass, no doubt feeding on some small, unseen insects, before giving me one last glance. He then took off, flying a short distance and then landing back in the grass, his long white rectrices (tail feathers) being the last I saw of him. I sat up, and saw my dad standing a short distance away, smiling. As we walked back to the car, we found ourselves in deep in another conversation. But instead of the typical cancer and surgery that had dominated so many of our recent discussions, we found ourselves talking about the longspur, and the beautiful grassy meadow and rocky cliffs that the bird was temporarily calling home. When we finally arrived back at the car, and back in a ‘human’ situation, I was finally reminded of my circumstances, and of the upcoming surgery. But I was feeling uplifted, and nothing was going to bring me down. By the time I emerged from the hospital a couple of weeks later, the longspur had already moved on, leaving me with just the memories and inspiration he had provided me. But that was quite enough in its own right. Thanks to this wonderful Chestnut-collared Longspur and all other organisms with which I’ve had experiences with, as well as the habitats they call home, I now have a strong belief in the power of nature to inspire and heal people, especially during times of hardship. By isolating ourselves in our own world of humanity, we have discarded the very things that made us so special in the first place: a love and fascination with other creatures, but more specifically, all of the lessons that they can teach us. Although my fight with cancer continues, I am reminded every day of the beauty and good in the world, and that it is worth fighting for.

C.c. Crews

Trashcan Fires

frozen hands burnt nose trashcan fires eat away at the dead fingers of men too poor too sick theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re thrown from the thrones of our chapels and the gates of our castles it is cold it is dark and quiet and it is cold the unwashed bodies drift silently along the street buffeted by ice and sleet frosty asphalt crunches under calloused feet and boots that try to cover the indignity of rags eventually wear down.

Nate Flicker

Nothing

it was a saturday morning, at around ten o’clock. Spring was all around me after a long and particularly cold winter. I could smell the soggy earth, soaked in melted snow and decomposing twigs, leaves, and pine needles. I sat on the porch of my aunt and uncle’s small cottage in southern Vermont. Personally, I found little elements of vacation in visiting relatives, but my parents sent me up here to “rest up.” They think I’m in over my head with this college thing. In truth, I’m a nervous wreck, an anxiety fiend, but that’s not from college. That’s from life. Life is filled with anxieties and restless nerves, so I think it’s only natural to experience them to their fullest extent. It’s my first year at college, my first year of life as an independent adult, and I’m stuck in hippie-town Vermont, cut off from functional society. The closest town, Wentworth, pop. 1,800, is two miles away. It’s filled with crunchies, farmers, grass-heads, musicians, and drugs, something my parents are not aware of and did not consider when they sent me here. I’m a clean machine, well oiled and healthy. Any time I ingest a chemical substance (aside from caffeine, obviously) I have an anxiety attack, regardless of its potency. So here I am, sitting on the porch of my Aunt Jennifer and Uncle Theodore’s tiny cottage in Vermont. I’m drinking coffee from a white ceramic mug, surely

made from finely ground, 100% organic Costa Rican coffee beans. Jenny and Ted are sound asleep, and they will probably remain that way for the next few hours. Even if they do wake up, they surely won’t rise from bed until around 4:00 this afternoon, basking in the glorious invention of Netflix. They’re night owls, but they love to sleep. I pick up my book, Tom Robbins’s Still Life with Woodpecker, when I hear a rustling, no, a thumping, in the leaves of the nearby forest. I look around, curious to see if it’s an animal or a camper. I walk to the far end of the porch, where, through the metal mesh screen, I can see a wiry man with a thick, brown beard. He has a purple tie-dye bandana on his head, holding back his long, knotted hair. He wears tattered khaki pants and a stained, white long-sleeve t-shirt under an extremely puffy down vest. He sits atop an elephant. I blink, hard. An elephant? But why? How? I took an environmental studies class in high school, and I know that elephants are animals of African and Asian grasslands, surely not cut out to survive the deciduous forests of the northeastern United States. I put down my coffee, and contemplate. What’s the best way to shoo off a hippie on an elephant? I initially decide to ignore the stranger, but I conclude that passing up an opportunity to speak to a Vermonter on an elephant

was simply stupid. I leave the safe confines of Jenny and Ted’s small cottage and walk down the porch steps, onto the yard, to further explore this odd spectacle. I wear pajamas, but considering the circumstances, I don’t feel remotely embarrassed. He looks up from his pet and catches me approaching, but he doesn’t seem surprised. His careless eyes convey that he has been expecting me. “Excuse me,” I begin. “Oh, please. Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind,” the man replies. I’d half-heartedly expected this man to be on drugs—or is this your average Wentworthian Vermonter? “Sorry?” I ask. I don’t understand the implications of his prior response. “Really, it’s fine! Don’t worry, man. I’m happy, you look fine, this one’s feeling great,” he pats the elephant on the back of the neck. “Why are you on an elephant?—if you don’t mind my asking.” “Ah, alright. Her name’s Georgina. I was taking her for her morning walk, to stay in shape that is.” “So, you own this elephant here in Wentworth, then?” “Well, not me, exactly. It’s Samuel’s. He’s the ringleader; he owns the elephants.” The ringleader? By God, what have I gotten myself into! This man’s in a gang—no, a cult! He’ll murder me before he lets me squeal to a soul about this poor elephant! Before I have the chance to scream for mercy, he interjects, “—for the circus that is. Samson Circus Company, owned by Samuel and his son.” Of course! The ringleader of a circus- a far more rational thought. A gang? A cult?—Hippies don’t kill! My nerves ease and our conversation becomes less tense, at least, for me, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” “Nope, don’t believe that you did. It’s Henry. I work around the country with Samson Company Travelling Circus. I’m no acrobat or anything, just work with the technicalities and such- ticket sales, lights, occasional fireworks, even lend a hand with Georgina, here. What’s you name, stranger? Live here?” Georgina raises her trunk towards me. I step away, fearfully, but Henry reassured me that she’s a “people elephant” and is simply familiarizing herself with my scent. “My name’s Nate. I’m staying in Wentworth for a week with my aunt and uncle. They own this cottage.”

“Huh, sounds nice. Just taking a break? That’s usually why people come up to Wentworth.” “Well, that’s what my parents hoped I would do when they sent me up here. I’ve never been to Wentworth before; my aunt and uncle rarely have company. I can’t find very much to do here, to be honest. I still have five days ahead of me.” “You see, that’s the beauty of Wentworth- nothing to do around here. I’ve been here twice before with Samuel and his son. Some seem to love it—the relaxation of nothing — at least, the people who live here do.” His comment seems to make sense. Jenny and Ted are a rarity; I’ve never known people to be so content with lounging, doing nothing. They can certainly find beauty in nothingness. “Others think it’s ugly. They’re disgusted with nothing. You see what I mean?” Henry lifted his hand from Georgina’s back. It looked weathered, tan, experienced. He stroked his beard, thinking about nothing. “I think I do,” I reply. “Well, I gotta take Georgina back, or at least get her off your aunt and uncle’s property.” I think about why he’s rushing to do nothing, but Georgina defecates, interrupting my train of thought. I stare at her massive pile of dung between her back hind legs. I’d never seen elephant stool so close up. I’d never seen an animal create so much waste matter. Henry saw me gazing into the enormous pile of feces: “Sorry about that. I was afraid that might happen; she’s already had breakfast, you see. Well, now, we really better get outta here before we faint. Georgina’s one stinky elephant.” “I bet,” I reply. Scanning my head for a reason to return to the cottage, I claim, “that reminds me, I should eat some breakfast.” I immediately notice how bizarre I sound, as only a few seconds ago I was caught gazing at an elephant’s pile of feces. But, Henry doesn’t seem to notice. He yelps, “All-righty! Nice meeting you, Nate. Head down to Wentworth tonight if you wanna catch the circus- eight o’clock, right in town. You wont miss it.” “Maybe, I will. Good luck with the show.” I turn and walk back towards the porch steps. Henry and Georgina stomp their way back through the forested area, in the direction of Wentworth. Equidistant between us, sits Georgina’s colossal creation. It rests on the soggy earth in Wentworth’s calm spring scene, amongst nothing.

Bobby Davis

Stock Market Crash

We are the weekend warriors, wandering whimsically From the fading day to the fleeting morning. Our fireside chats, concerning coronation Of the weekday’s worst, are spiced with our verbal color. Perhaps our children or wives are with us, Fighting with their urge to twist some tale from truth, To face the fact that they struggle with our Sunday struggle too. Some of us, at the grill, talk of the sweet smell of steak, Or drift off to television. Now and then a hand will Clumsily flip a frank to reveal real marks of char. One man, stares stagnate at a juicy peach and reasons Not to eat it. His fear, I know, I will never know. By the fire, by a father, lies me. I am the little lover, Watching from the edge of ticking time. Not yet ready for responsibility— I can’t flip a frank, Nor even pour a pint- I am, however, there. Lying in the light of fire. Seeing without being, Something I intend never to become. Then (really looking)

My father closes both his eyes back. He looks, at once, relaxed. distance, Smiles as her friend tells news on its way.

and lets his face fall And my mother, at a that another girl’s

Then comes the forced end, the fading day is nearly spent. Faces, now, are somber as the moment slips From out their hands. And I’m held by the breeze Of my father’s gentle hand and my mothers gentle hand. Forever in this foray, fighting day by day. We walk Back home from heaven, under the dying cherry tree, As the sun sets over our Pompeii.

Annie Hughes

Kitchen Knives

fiery light pours through the window, only to become cool the instant it touches the walls. A dog stands at the window, his eyes reflecting the red and blue flashes from the white truck. A woman is walking across the parking lot on shaky legs, two EMTs hovering beside her. She climbs into the ambulance, awkwardly guarding her right hand, which is wrapped tightly in a soaking red rag, draped protectively by her side. She pulls out her tools. A thick wooden cutting board, stained multicolored from so many solitary dinners. Her implement of choice, a short Chef’s knife. She picks it up from its casual position on the edge of the counter, noting the nicks that mar its finely honed blade. How long has it been? Two, three years of constant use? She makes a mental note to get all the kitchen knives sharpened. On the stove, a pot of chicken broth bubbles, ready to soften and flavour vegetables. She begins with the carrots. With practiced movements, she washes, skins and cuts them lengthwise. Her dog trots over and nudges her leg in an invitation for playtime. She smiles down at him. “Not right now buddy, I’m cooking.” As she turns back to her work, his tail droops, and he drops his toy dejectedly at her feet. She continues to chop the carrot into fine pieces, humming as she works. The blade dances in her hands, her motions quick and

precise, practiced a million times. The knife gleams in the light, eager to help her with this small task, jumping at the slightest twist of her fingers. The phone rings, and she pauses. The phone hops from the counter to her hand and then settles itself in the crook of her neck, held in place by her tilted head. Hey Mad! What’s up?” She groups the chopped carrots into a neat pile. “Just cooking. You’re coming next week, right?” The knife slips on the wet cutting board. “The kids too? But… where’ll they sleep?” She saves it, narrowly avoiding nicking her thumb in the process. “Alright I guess they can take my bed… No no it’s no trouble! It’s been ages since you’ve been to visit.” The knife is still moving among the carrots, mincing them into too-fine pieces. “Dad’s good, getting loopier by the day but hanging in there. He misses mom.” The knife pauses and is suddenly held outstretched in the air, as if to ward off an invisible foe. “Well that’s the problem isn’t it. She’ll suck him dry if he doesn’t do something, but he’s too caught in his own world to care. It’s like he wants to piss away his money.” The rhythmic thock thock of metal against wood resumes. “Ok well I’m excited you’re coming! We can hit the

shops, get mani pedis, the whole deal.” The knife misses a beat. “Yup love you too, bye.” The phone clicks off and she replaces it in its cradle. The carrots are far past chopped, and she dumps them into the pot. She clicks on the TV and starts on the celery, slicing it into centimeter thick crescents. It takes a certain skill to cut celery. A gentle hand and dull blade will leave attached strings, but a heavy blundering hand will crush the vegetable and take out its crispiness. Her technique is the perfect blend, easily navigating the green stalks until they are stacked in a neat tower. She dumps them unceremoniously into the pot and tosses the board and knife into the sink. She takes out a carving knife for the chicken. This one is different from the chef’s, longer and crueler. She uses a new plastic cutting board, her mother’s loud advice about not using wood with meat ringing in her ears. The chicken isn’t so much sliced as shredded. It is already cooked, and all that remains is to separate it into smaller pieces. It’s so soft that the knife isn’t entirely necessary to separate the fibers, but it is happy to oblige. A commercial blares holiday music in the background and she hums along, her mind wandering. The knife continues to move without her help, skirting her fingertips in a staccato of chopping and slicing. Her knuckles sit under the blade as if egging it on, daring it to take a bite. The knife comes down one too many times, falling, falling, until it hits.

It nicks the tip of her manicured thumbnail. “Dammit,” she mutters as she looks at the chipped nail art. The knife looks innocently up at her. She shreds the rest of the chicken by hand, pulling each small piece apart and dropping it into the broth. Both the wood and plastic cutting boards are washed, dried, and stowed away. The knives are carefully washed and stored in a drawer with the rest of their kind. Finally, the soup is ready. She walks to the stove, turns off the burner, and lifts the pot’s rubber handles. The phone rings, and as she turns to look for the caller’s identity, her foot rolls on the toy her dog had so lovingly placed at her feet. The pot is in her hands, her feet are somewhere between the countertop and the floor. It all comes crashing down, the pot spilling over onto her arm, its boiling contents scalding. She lets it fall, fall, until it lands with the thock of metal on wood. The contents whisper over the floor, barely pausing before steaming up into the rafters. She lays on the ground, stunned, her hand icy hot from being washed in the broth. The phone continues its shrill cries for attention. She reaches up with shaking fingers and ignores the call, instead dialing 911 and quietly requesting an ambulance. Her dog licks her arm in an apology. She gets to her feet and grabs the nearest rag, an old red dish towel from her mother’s kitchen. She soaks it in water and wraps it around her hand to stop the searing pain. The open cutlery drawer supports her as she tries not to faint. The knife’s gray sheen winks up at her, as if to offer some cold comfort.

Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

From “The Ant’s a Centaur in His Dragon World”

i. Or to put it another way, and profoundly, apostrophe is equally good as imagined address as as punctuation. I would like a soundtrack for this poem: sails unfurl and flip past themselves. That’s lines-breaking, corrugated ocean line, creaking and making wind. We are not windmills but we use what comes past or out of us. I would like to adduce an ending. Can it be mine. ii. When the rabbit says, “You are full of and fuller than Yourself,” he does not mean what the familiar means, the idiom, the not-saying what you’re saying: he means The air is full in the space between part and harmony.

iii. “The little green cat is a bug in the grass.” Right. I mean it. The cat is a red cat but then later it is a green cat. Sure. Now listen. Black is the monument And black is the night, the nighttime. The time Of night. Is black. You’re turned. The monument Is black, like you, like time. Can it be my Monument? iv . The decal on his car was a chipped white swan He renewed every rainy season to preserve the just-chipped look.

Sanjay Dureseti

What Remains

gerald had always thought that the hospital was a gloomy place. The building was rendered in various shades of gray. The food was terrible, the work was hard, and the patients were nothing short of depressing. They were all going to die, no doubt about it, despite the show that all of the doctors put on. “Oh, I think this treatment will really work, Mr. Hartman.” “You’re showing some great improvement, Mrs. Shay.” All of it was nonsense. Every single patient, whether he or she had AIDS, as did the one in bed number 3, or mad cow disease, as did the one in bed number 7, was going to die. The patients knew it, and so did the doctors. As the night nurse in the hospital, Gerald saw how the patients coped in different ways. Some thrust themselves wholeheartedly into the doctors’ campaign of denial. They responded enthusiastically to the doctors’ assurances of improvement. Other patients, however, embraced death. They planned their funerals and sorted out their affairs in order to ensure that their deaths caused as little trouble to others as possible. But, most of the patients just sat there, listlessly. They did not crack a smile when their relatives came for a visit or when a nurse told a good joke. They seemed dead, already. It was hard to believe they were ever alive. These were the patients that made Gerald shudder. There was one man, Mr. Filmore, in bed number 10. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Gerald’s estranged

father. Gerald hated the sight of Mr. Filmore. He watched as Mr. Filmore, crippled with a cirrhotic liver, slowly raised a trembling hand to grasp the gelatin pill placed in the outstretched hand of the orderly. As he grabbed the capsule, Mr. Filmore was struck with a bout of coughing and dropped the pill on the floor. Filmore tried to reach down, but, this time, he coughed so violently that he fell back into his pillow. Gerald looked away in disgust. It was the same disgust that rose in his belly as a child when his father would come home drunk and flop down on the couch. It was the same disgust he felt when his mother was forced to pay for groceries with food stamps because his alcoholic father could not keep a steady job. Eventually, alcohol would destroy his father’s liver, and, along with it, the family savings, and Gerald’s dreams of going to college. The next day, Filmore was wheeled out of the hospital. His heart had stopped during the night. He was headed to the funeral home, where he would be stripped, cleaned, and stored until the day of his funeral: the day he would become another bag of bones living six feet under. Gerald stared as the man’s body was loaded, unceremoniously, into the back of a truck. He walked back into the ICU wing of the hospital. His scrubs itched, mercilessly. He could not wait for his shift to end. His superior spotted him in the hall and beckoned. “Gerald,” he said, “go and make up bed number

Michael McCarthy

Harbinger

The neighbor’s lawn had blue flowers. I strolled by without much care They were strangely familiar at second glance The telltale sign that spring had come I doubt that he has noticed them, He seldom mows his lawn anymore. His walks are slow in his age-old cap, His waves common, but never a chat He was married once, not for long The spring has no effect as his winter dawns.

10. We’ve got another patient coming in.” Cursing his boss, bracing himself for the usual smell and stains that accompany the sheets of the freshly dead, Gerald slowly walked toward Filmore’s room. He turned the corner and stopped in the doorway. A woman bent down over Filmore’s bed. She looked to be middle-aged, but as Gerald looked closer, he could see years of wrinkles, dark circles under her eyes, fatigue showing in her frail, old face. He wondered if she were related to Mr. Filmore. She clutched a browned piece of paper in her arthritic fingers. Tears ran down her face as she silently cried. The woman buried her face in the pillow and ran her hands over the sheets. Gerald, seeing this spectacle, moved away from the door. A rising wave of guilt washed over him. He felt as if he had just seen something sacred, something not meant for him to see. He watched from a distance as the woman, drying her eyes, reverently placed her paper under the pillow of the dead man’s bed.

Gerald cautiously approached the bedside and reached his hand underneath the flattened pillow. He noticed the lack of smell, the pristine white sheets. He pulled out the brown paper and turned it over, his heart beating fast. On the paper were three simple words, written in minute, swirling cursive. “I forgive you.” Gerald slowly set the brown square down and stepped back. He stared at the bed before him, where a man had spent the last moments of his life, where a woman had grieved over his death. He looked at the sheets, remembered when Filmore struggled for his medicine, visualized his body being rolled in with the others, envisioned the old woman sobbing over his grave. Gerald turned around and switched off the lights. He closed the door behind him and walked away, leaving the sheets of the bed untouched. The night air outside was clean and crisp, with stars glittering in the black sky. His mind wandered to his own family, scattered like the stars above.

Kayla Paraiso

Gun Aimed at the cloud on the left the cloud’s moving but the gun’s not No, need to focus This is it This is it this is it this is So many legs if I spike you... Sorry Where’s your three? You’re number four Go catch three Close your mouth you know how to Breathe. woods narrow Cut them off, Pass again, one more Pass good. it’s cool in here. there’s the hill you Train on that you got this. Short Steps, High Knees, Use your Arms, Look Up.

second hill, just as easy. You got oh boy short steps high knees... OK just short steps shit. it Hurts No, it doesn’t. it Hurts No, shut up and Pick Up your damn Feet. OK. tired. just Breathe you can Run if you can Breathe there’s Coach almost done look good good form start moving a little faster all Hurts there’s your race

why don’t there’s your race. - my legs There’s your race. - move. “There’s your race, right there! Only 800 left, go get her!” she’s so far No You Know that’s Not true so Kick it Hur-Kick! Feels Good to move fast. beat her... and her... and her. line’s there beat clock 04, 05, 06 cmon kick through, don’t slow --

Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

Salvo after Century 21

garden of earthly ruined, tangential cities open as we close figures for a moment a falling tower, lean in its erection, the failure in ascribing axes after mathematical innovation, love is a money for which no one should or breathe, apologize and start a new line, approximate a question for this answer to that question someone answered verbatim from the text of the writing on the falling wall, legible only when falling upward into twentieth century skies

Leah Voytecich

The Misunderstanding her legs galloped across the gloomy gray station, her heart panted from nerves and a lack of oxygen, her bag flew like a cape behind her as superwoman slid through the train door, knowing that if she had been a little heavier, she would not make it through. All of a sudden, Jane was at a halt. After thirty minutes of intense sprinting, her adrenaline rush was simmering down, and now she was forced to sit for four and a half hours in the dull, monotonous environment of a train car. Meanwhile, as Jane was still breathing heavily to repay her oxygen debt, all eyes on the train were deeply focused on the sweaty, dressed up girl, appearing to be in her twenties. Some passengers gaped with open mouths while others merely gave an intent, judging stare and returned to their personal thoughts. Jane chose to sit next to a rather old woman, whose purse and cat required her full attention, although occasionally she looked up, fixed her thin, white hair, and then returned to protecting her belongings with her eyes. On Janeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s other side sat a boy, seeming too young for college, but rather old for high school. He was draped in black, the tattoo on his arm included, except for his sneakers, which were oddly enough bright orange. His flat lips and lazy eyes caused him to look depressed and

lonely at first, but if one focused with sufficient effort, he or she could tell that the dimples of his cheeks were forming, and he was actually holding in a laugh. Across the train sat a family of five plus a bundle of blankets cradled in the motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm. The children were unusually quiet, preoccupied with their toys and gadgets, while the adults were extraordinarily elated, taking turns between gazing at each other and gaping at their baby with bright, excited eyes that relaxed as their smiles grew broader and their hearts became cheerier. As the gaping people returned to themselves, Jane believed that she was free of stares until she turned her head slightly to the left and noticed a pair of desperate eyes, focused on her own, tired but radiant, brown pupils. The instant the man realized Jane had seen him, his eyes ran away and his body began to shake. Jane did not release her gaze upon him until she recognized that it was she that was causing him to feel so uncomfortable. He was a nervous man, no doubt, but his figure argued otherwise. One would think that with a form as sturdy and handsome as this manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, he would have a little more self-confidence. Jane felt excited that she had caused the man to be nervous.

Jane had never been in a serious relationship; her only boyfriends were from high school and did not mean much to her. Nevertheless, Jane was a hopeless romantic, and if the opportunity of being with someone even remotely attractive and polite came up, she would snatch it in an instant. Jane peered up to find the nervous man staring at her, again, looking very emotional. Jane’s thrill heightened, and she produced a subtle smile, which she aimed at the man. All of a sudden, the man’s eyeballs were hidden behind a transparent, wet wall, and tears were streaming down his rigid cheeks. Perplexed, Jane momentarily pondered this strange reaction; but, then, she understood. Jane concluded that the man was crying because he knew that despite the fact that he was so attracted to her, he would never be good enough for her. Jane was convinced that in the ten minutes they had been on the train, the man had fallen in love with her. Jane spent the following twenty minutes devising the perfect plan to introduce herself to the man who had continued to stare at her occasionally. When he did glance at her, it was as if all of the other passengers were blurs, and the only thing that mattered was the eye contact between the man and Jane. Her palms began to sweat, her heart ran abnormally fast, and she found herself mimicking the old woman, fixing her hair a bit too often. The romance in the air was palpable, and at this point, all Jane could think about was if she loved the handsome, sensitive man that sat across from her.

Instantaneous love was supposed to be impossible; but, because Jane was so convinced that the man had experienced it for her, perhaps she could do the same for him. Jane thought of telling her future kids about how she and their dad met; she thought of telling them the story of how she was on a train and she fell in love. Jane’s mind sprung back to reality when the train stopped moving. This was her chance; Jane was about to introduce herself to the charming man. Before her voice had reached her throat, the man came up to her and said in the most wonderful, appealing tone: “Excuse, me, Miss, I’m sorry you had to see me cry like that. Please don’t take it personally, it’s just you have the same eyes as my sister-” the man’s face turned scarlet, his voice became high-pitched, and it took him all of his willpower to prevent him from crying, “she just died. Seeing you, made me think of her, and that’s why I cried. Excuse me, Miss.” The man walked off the train, wiping the new tears with his shirtsleeve. The family and the old woman followed him out of the car. The remaining people on the train included the orange sneakered boy and Jane, the girl who had just mistaken someone for loving her when, in reality, her appearance caused him pain and grief. Jane’s eyes swelled, and her heart fell to her stomach. The young male sitting beside her took off his sweater to reveal the entirety of his tattoo. It said: Love is stubborn. It requires patience. But everyone gets love in the end. Jane grinned and felt extremely foolish for she had almost let herself fall in love with a stranger.

Cami Jetta

Youth Is and Was

the constant shoving into cabs, the laughing, a goodbye always shouted over a shoulder, at ten oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock or three oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock as we raced onward towards the fever-dream neon lighting of diners, the radiant numberless nights we spent in them, talking, roaring, cackling, eating the same bad food again and again, a loud young canker in the heart of the place until the timelessness evaporated

and we melted out the door into the grasping embrace of hot summer air, of cold winter air, before sliding with the breeze into the beloved cacophony of another car ride, of five teenage voices calmly colliding all at once, of music perpetually playing: calm snap-along sing-along music with guitars and drums, or songs with lyrics like a slap, and deep healthy beats like that of the heart: nervous, euphoric, young, bleeding, as your face searched the face of a certain boy, a certain girl, (there was always someone) a twinkle scintillating in their eyes, heat climbing your spinal column as they leaned in, or up, or down, to kiss. 41

daystar — the literary and arts magazine of Hopkins School— publishes poems, short fiction and nonfiction, and visual art from the Hopkins student body and hosts meetings to discuss this work. daystar publishes biannually—a short chapbook in the spring and this, a full-length magazine at the end of the academic year.

editor-in-chief Alec Gewirtz literary editors Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein and Andres Gonzalez assistant literary editors Lauren Kranzlin and Garrett Ballard art editor Kayla Paraiso publisher Malcolm Drenttel faculty advisor Ms. Chris Jacox cover art Sarah Johnson Daystar thanks Jessica Helfand for her help in the production of this issue of Daystar.