Tattler Literary Issue January 2016
contents [short fiction]
[poetry] First Place “ode to a shoulder covered merely by a strap of slightly less than two inches in width” Casey Wetherbee p. 4 second Place “When We Burn Books” Chloe Cramer p. 48 third Place “Candle” Nora Littell p. 26 “Overthought” Abby Katz p. 6 “Metal claws scrape at rubble” Thea Clarkberg p. 9 “My Dear Hands” Antonia Sinclair p. 11 “Winter” Chloe Cramer p. 12
“at what age did you lose your compassion?” McKayla Skierski p. 29 “Global Warming” Abby Cooper p. 30 “Growing up a Feminist” Abby Cooper p. 32
First Place “Xavier” Sarah Robertson p. 36 second Place “Pinch” Hannah Cheng p. 24 third Place “The Attic” Abby Cooper p. 42
“Relics, War” Emma Karnes p. 34
“Eyes fascinate me” Casey Wetherbee p. 40
“The Cup” Eamon Bollinger p. 35
“The Golden Cat” Ari Kirshner p. 41
“Potsdam” Cassidy Easton p. 44 “It’s an Acquired Taste” Sandra Stromswold p. 46 “to be human now” Emma Karnes p. 51
[creative [photography] nonfiction] First Place First Place “Unexpected Life Lessons at 30,000 Feet” Sterling Williams-Ceci p. 19
[visual art] First Place “Self Portrait” Antonia Sinclair p. 5 second Place “Cage” Andrey Shakhzadyan p. 13 third Place “Apprehensive Dog” Julia Miller p. 8 “Verbal Deluge” Antonia Sinclair p. 9 “Mother’s Hands” Antonia Sinclair p. 10
“Kinetic Rust” Ingrid Comella p. 18
“156th Oswego County Fair” Jintana Cunningham p. 28
second Place “Autumnal Fluid” Thea Clarkberg p. 50
“Mountains” Pearse Anderson p. 31
third Place “Electric Spider” Eleanor Pereboom p. 43 “Untitled” David Sheng p. 2 “Dandelion” Ruth Witmer p. 7 “Leaf” David Sheng p. 12 “Flow” John Yoon p. 14 “Moss Rocks” Pearse Anderson p. 14 “Untitled” James Yoon p. 15
“You Don’t Understand” Alexandra DeRoos p. 13
“Fashion design of an old dress” Antonia Sinclair p. 32
“Morning Mist” Jasper Minson p. 16
“A Day in the Circus I and II” Antonia Sinclair p. 32
“Slip” Jintana Cunningham p. 23
“Clunky Boots” Antonia Sinclair p. 34
“Ontario” Jintana Cunningham p. 25
“actress’ garden” Emma Karnes p. 22 “Wild sky” Thea Clarkberg p. 25
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“Greener Distance” Ingrid Comella p. 17
“Spider at Sunset” Ingrid Comella p. 26
“Dust” Jintana Cunningham p. 35 “Time” Jintana Cunningham p. 36 “Untitled” Jintana Cunningham p. 38 “Baby Eyes” Thea Clarkberg p. 40 “Tulip” Thea Clarkberg p. 41 “Inheritance” Jintana Cunningham p. 44 “Black Cat” Thea Clarkberg fasef p. 48 “Fiery Decomposition” Ingrid Comella p. 48
Staff 2015 – 2016 Editor-in-Chief
John Yoon ’16 editor@ihstattler.com
News Editor
Pearse Anderson ’16 news@ihstattler.com
Opinion Editor
Liz Rosen ’16
opinion@ihstattler.com
Features Editor
James Park ’17
features@ihstattler.com
Arts Editor
Emma Karnes ’17 arts@ihstattler.com
Sports Editor
Luca Greenspun ’17 sports@ihstattler.com
Back Page Editor
Claire Saloff-Coste ’16 backpage@ihstattler.com
Center Spread Editor
James Yoon ’17
centerspread@ihstattler.com
Copy Editor
Daniel Xu ’17 copy@ihstattler.com
Photography Editor
Bridget Fetsko ’16 photo@ihstattler.com
Layout Editors
Kenzo Uchigasaki ’16 Elen Uchigasaki ’18 layout@ihstattler.com
Business and Advertising Manager
Andrew Stover ’17 business@ihstattler.com
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Tristan Engst ’17 web@ihstattler.com
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Emma Roach ’16
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Annika Browning ’17 sm@ihstattler.com
Faculty Advisor
Deborah Lynn
advisor@ihstattler.com The Tattler is the student-run newspaper of Ithaca High School. It was founded in 1892 and is published monthly. As an open forum, the Tattler invites opinion piece submissions and letters to the editor from all community members. Drop off submissions in E25, email them to editor@ihstattler.com, or mail letters to: The Tattler 1401 North Cayuga Street Ithaca, NY 14850 The Tattler reserves the right to edit all submissions. Submissions do not necessarily reflect the views of editorial staff.
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ode to a shoulder covered merely by a strap of slightly less than two inches in width Casey Wetherbee to say that i’m “distracted” would be an understatement the way yonder shoulder radiates, the opaline flesh revealed; a testament to the raw fertility of the deltoid; how could anyone remain unfettered by the erotic energy exuded by the delicate curves is unfathomable. how i might like to touch the soft, resplendent skin, otherwise covered by oppressive fabric, adorned by a single graceful mole: a perfect imperfection, one that sends a surge of ecstatic glee throughout my body. o, desire why, my self-control, as manageable as it was— yet when that perfect ratio is exceeded, of skin to strap, it’s all i can do to resist my own temptation— my mind is a whirlwind of unrequited lust. simply to imagine breaking the bonds that hold the gentle strap draped over, revealing but a strip more of exotic skin, is to ignite an unquenchable fire in my loins. simply stroking that exposed flesh would launch me into the throes of orgasmic bliss my vision is hazy i can’t sleep to keep it covered would save my pitiful life but to let it burst free might kill me
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“Self Portrair” by Antonia Sinclair
Overthought Abby Katz
Time is leaking through the gap beneath the door And I can’t help but notice the Emptiness Flash forward to too far away Where the fragments pieced together Form faces that won’t meet my eyes The poison left unsaid Bites and stings Eyes shatter and Skin crumbles Windows bleed and Walls shiver in the cold When I write your name I outline the letters in red ink I hang onto 11:13 PM So fervently the memories all but snap under the pressure The silence, once glass shards Heals all wounds In those moments I do not tremble in the chill of empty space I am content to let time slip away Wordlessly
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“Dandelion” by Ruth Witmer
“Apprehensive Dog” by Julia Miller
“Verbal Deluge� by Antonia Sinclair Metal claws scrape at rubble And drop lifeless scraps Into a rusted metal truck Letting out a broken clunk Into the grey rainy air. Jackhammers ring out Jarring and rumbling Breaking up the dense hurrying Silence. Car wheels smack rain against the road. Trucks splash brown when they Run through puddles. And under the noise Above the silence Hearts beat Warm and soft Sparse Over cold cement.
Thea Clarkberg
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“Mother’s Hands” by Antonia Sinclair
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My Dear Hands Antonia Sinclair Every day I gaze upon you and wonder how such small hands can do such big things. Your power amazes me, leaving me speechless. My dear hands, you express such emotion when my own words cannot. You have a mind of your own, making me feel like I am your puppet, and you my puppeteer. You speak for me, in your own language. I look at you and at your creations. I listen to you, and how you speak for me when I have no words to express, how you touch what my mind cannot, and how you hold what’s most dear to me, in you.
My dear hands, I cannot live without you. Without your power, I am dead. Keep me alive for eternity, as if I was under a spell. Your delicate structure is not to be trifled with. Just as you hold what I love dearly with such soft care, your ability to cause destruction and harm is frightening. My dear hands, stay soft and gentle. Keep on creating smiles and touching people’s hearts when I don’t know how to. Like a puppeteer tells his story with his puppets, I am yours to use, to tell my story too.
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“Leaf” by David Sheng
Winter Chloe Cramer
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I find a voice in the silence of winter When the leaves have fallen and leave only the trees with frost-covered needles; I find laughter as I see my breath (proof that I am alive) in the air I find comfort in the sweat which clings to my body under many layers When it is below zero because it means I am working Working to lift feet snug in woolen socks and sturdy boots over thick snow I relish the tingly prickles in my fingers, ears, and nose As it means I have escaped one of humankind’s deadly foes To find solace in steaming mugs of hot apple cider I find the most beautiful vision when stepping outside at seven o’clock To see the sun’s pink rays sneaking across the sky as tiny crystalline drops of snow fall Upon my hair, to melt when I go inside, as a reminder I find freedom in layers of wool and fleece So that no one can see who I really am I find peace when snowflakes are steadily, silently falling Whispering to the world, quiet, quiet, hush, hush In the silence of winter I find music in the branches, Songs in the air, life beneath the ground, and a voice In the silence of winter.
You Don’t Understand
Alexandra DeRoos
Sitting in my chair counting the days Counting until school is out Aren’t we all? I don’t want my learning to stop It’s the stress I wish to cease Heavy as a brick that weighs upon my heart The pressure deepens We all want it to stop The stress of life we cannot cope Depression and addiction ensue from the chaos We all make our decisions The boy with the blond hair takes medication Anxiety, depression and worthlessness plague his heart The boy with the brown eyes listens to music Sorrow and self hate encapsulated in his bones The boy with glasses drowns in lust
The boy with wealth drowns in drugs The girl with grey eyes drowns in alcohol The girl with brown hair drowns in guilt The boy with the blue eyes collapses under all four Our coping fails and we all collapse Under the weight of homework, tests, and college Our tickets into adulthood We push too far without reward So don’t pretend you don’t know Teachers who keep the work flowing Work that just asks for more That isn’t learning When did Hell become school? Why can’t I just learn?
“Cage” by Andrey Shakhzadyan
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“Flow” by John Yoon
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“Moss Rocks” by Pearse Anderson
“Untitled” by James Yoon 15
Morning Mist Jasper Minson New image the exit of the crevice a ringing hour in the blizzard before anyone opens their doors to you, fireplaces roaring in wait. “back in the old folk-ey days,” god what days, days of winter senses subsided into small red circles high beams on and off all night to the stars and the river by the willow tree. It had all started to surface, concrete poured over ash to bless the place and keep the peace. “When you’re this high up, death is more persistent,” he said. New image, the peak of the mountain a ringing hour in the blizzard before you pass up into the stars, like the spirit you deserve to be. You’ve made it this far.
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Before sunrise, you keep warm under blankets and jackets and holy fabrics, ready and dreaming. I wonder, do you have any tobacco? And finally it comes, it hits you, settles you, and you whisper to me, “my head is empty . . . my toes are warm” and all I can do is smile, no words will reach me. And now I leave you, I’ve wished you into a feeling, one that reaches me whenever I hear your name. One last memory at the dawn of a lifetime. Driving home, I see your face reflected in the window, senses subsided into small red circles high beams on and off all night, till the hills begin to glow, and we watch as everything starts anew.
“Greener Distance” by Ingrid Comella
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18 “Kinetic Rust” by Ingrid Comella
Unexpected Life Lessons at 30,000 Feet Sterling Williams-Ceci “I will be fine,” I kept repeating to myself with barely subdued anxiety. “Nothing scary will happen. I will be seated next to a nice person on the plane, and everything will be awesome.” It was 5:15 a.m. when my uncle dropped me off at the airport for my first solo flight, on a journey from North Dakota to Ithaca. When he pulled away in his pick-up truck, he took with him my last layer of protection. I would have to fend for myself for the next 360 minutes until I reached LaGuardia Airport, and the hugs of family members I hadn’t seen in weeks. Everything about the experience seemed intimidating—going through security, finding my gate, meeting my seat partner, and of course, flying alone. Because I am shy and nervous around strangers, I am always the one in group photos who does not make it into the frame. My parents always say, “Sterling, people are kind; if you reach out to them, they’ll reach out to you. There’s no need to be scared of strangers. Be outgoing, talk to people the way you talk to your Ithaca High School friends, and you’ll be fine.” As it got nearer to boarding time, I kept repeating these words to myself in the hope that my parents actually knew what they were talking about. continued on page 20
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continued from page 19
My nerves began to spike, though, as I found my aisle seat and awaited the person who would be in the window seat next to me. “Who would it be? Which gender? How old? I hope it’s not a whiny child or, worse, a loquacious old person . . .” Almost every other seat on the plane was occupied except the one next to me. It was only two minutes before the scheduled departure, and I was envisioning the nap I would be taking with all that extra room. The flight attendant came on the P.A. system, telling us to buckle up and rattling off the safety instructions. “So far, so good!” I thought. Suddenly, every passenger in front of me startled at the specter of a huge, bedraggled-looking young man lumbering down the aisle. He was truly bizarre, wearing a vast mass of fabric with skulls, crossbones, and demons all over it. The mountain-of-a-man was about 20 years old, with a bushy red beard, hair full of tangled dreads, and a colossal face that was eerily Hagrid-like. He boasted about 20 (visible) tattoos and multiple eyebrow, lip, ear, and nose piercings. He started stomping faster down the aisle, because he was so late, rocking the entire floor as he ran. And then, the unthinkable happened: He paused when he reached my row, and climbed over me into the seat next to mine! The palms of my hands started to sweat as my stress hormones flowed (just like in the diagram in AP Psych Class). I felt as if I was going to cry. This wasn’t okay: Of all the possible people I could have been assigned to sit next to, this man, this freakish, scary, hulking mountain-of-a-man, was the last person I would choose. What were the chances that I would end up with him? I could not even muster a “hello” or fake a smile. I had been successfully practicing my social skills with people I randomly encountered in public, but those were normal people—not guys with intimidating demeanors and faces full of metal studs. How could I sit next to him for 360 minutes? What could I do? Nothing. I could do nothing. Escape wasn’t an option, and not even for switching seats as the entire flight was now filled. And even if it wasn’t, who in their right mind would swap seats to sit next to a guy whose face had more metal than a stud-
ded snow tire? In the final minutes before take-off I did my best to avoid eye contact with him, which was difficult because his massive body overlapped his seat and infiltrated my space. Finally, the attendant came on the loudspeaker again, presumably to announce we were departing. Speaking in a monotone, she said, “I’m sorry, but we are delayed. There is an issue with one of the electronic controls and ground maintenance has been notified. We will update you as we learn more, and we thank you for your patience.” My world was slowly coming to a crushing end, my composure dissolving. An unexpected wait was not what I needed. Fortunately, my seatmate was immersed in listening to music on his iPod, seemingly uninterested in initiating conversation with me. I was envisioning 360 scheduled minutes expanding into at least 400 already, with me staring at the aisle the entire time! Everyone else on the plane seemed disgruntled by the delay, too, and several children struggled to free themselves from parents trying to keep them seated. However, all activity ceased when my scary partner, whom I secretly nicknamed Hagrid, stood up and loudly bellowed his first sentence: “Excuse me, but can I get some alcohol? Two bottles of vodka, please, and orange juice—RIGHT NOW!” I had never seen anyone order alcohol at 6:30 A.M., and it must have been against regulations (or just an affront to common sense), because the attendant said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you must remain seated. We cannot begin beverage service until the plane is in the air.” The dispute became heated as Hagrid roared, “I really need these drinks NOW!” Everyone on the plane had their eyes on just him and me, assuming there was a link between us, perhaps as siblings or, worse yet, traveling companions. The attendant repeated her command, but Hagrid would not take “no” for an answer, and repeated his demand even louder. I felt doomed. I had no idea how to make contact with him, how to soothe him, moderate his outburst, or even if I should attempt to. After his fifth try, the attendant simply stopped responding to his demands, and Hagrid seemed to settle down. But the reprieve was short lived. Although the other passengers were
as disappointed as Hagrid about the delay, they seemed apprehensive about his apparent instability. They craned their necks in our direction, fidgeted, and exhibited other signs of nervousness. An elderly woman seated directly in front of me seemed particularly unnerved by Hagrid, continually stealing glances at him, as if monitoring a volcano about to erupt. Everyone was concentrating on the question most central to our lives at that moment: “Who gave Hagrid the license to assert himself in such a loutish manner?” His outcries frightened passengers, resulting in some of them covering their ears or putting on headphones. The only demographic not adversely affected by Hagrid’s outburst was the children: For them, Hagrid provided immense entertainment, and they were boldly beaming at him as he smiled, made funny faces, and waved at them in an almost avuncular manner. I reminded myself that just an hour before, when I said goodbye to my uncle, I had been worried about sitting next to a bratty kid or gabby grandparent! Fifteen minutes later, it was the pilot’s turn on the loudspeaker, announcing another thirty-minute delay. Infuriated, Hagrid bolted up and bellowed, “Are you EFFIN’ kidding me?! No effin’ waaay!,” dramatically elongating the word ‘way’. (And, of course, he used a more colorful form of the word “effin’.”) “Can’t you hear me up there, in the cockpit? I said, ‘no effin’ waaay’!” At this point, every passenger’s attention was riveted on Hagrid, and I sensed they were angry and frightened by him. Hagrid, however, seemed oblivious to both his audience’s discomfort and my humiliation. He was only warming up, becoming more outraged by the minute. “No effin’ waaaay!”, he blurted, “I’ve got some place to BE!’” Some passengers were becoming more agitated, some were glaring at Hagrid, and some were merely keeping him in their peripheral vision, poised to flee if he approached them. Finally, the flight attendant came to our row, and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to remain seated and lower your voice. We’re trying our best to get off the ground, and we’d appreciate your cooperation.” Surprisingly, Hagrid settled down, but not for long. As he listened to music, he
started roaring with laughter, audible to passengers within a ten-row radius. His laugh sounded breathless and frantic, and engendered yet more wary looks. The elderly woman seated in front of us removed rosary beads from her purse and started to pray. His laughing transitioned into talking, as if he were discoursing with someone inside his head. “Hahahaha, very funny, yeah . . . !” was all we heard for the next fifteen minutes, until the plane finally, finally departed—to Hagrid’s standing ovation, seatbelt be damned. Shortly after take-off, Hagrid developed an urgently impatient bladder. He scissor-stepped over my knees and sprinted to the restrooms at the rear of the plane. I waited nervously for his return, which took ten minutes–all the while with a line of people waiting outside the bathroom. He did eventually return, but not for long; five minutes later, he went through the same routine, once again scaling my seated body, racing toward the bathrooms, and coming back in several minutes. I suspect he was unaware that this strange behavior had attracted an attentive audience. With every trip Hagrid took to his newfound place of comfort, people were starting to find interest, and even humor, in his behavior. The prayerful woman who had been fidgeting with her rosary started smiling at Hagrid when he returned from his 11th trip, out of what became 22 trips total (I counted). They even commiserated with each other about having weak bladders. Funnily
enough, although I had barely noticed it, the flight was passing much faster as a result of Hagrid’s humorous, albeit bizarre, behavior. The dynamic in the plane began to shift from fright to something else—perhaps fascination. Several children even came to our row and Hagrid let them listen to his ipod. Hagrid’s restroom antics were abruptly interrupted when the flight attendant came on the speakers once more: “I’m sorry, folks, but flights are backed up over LaGuardia, so we’re in a holding pattern. We will circle New York City until we are cleared for descent.” Hagrid, who was now back in his seat, was not pleased. Actually, that was an understatement – he was infuriated. Leaping from his seat, he again thundered, “Didn’t you hear me before?! I have someplace to BE! No effin’ waaaay!” But this time, the fearful fidgeting and wary glances were gone. Passengers were snickering, some were now smiling at Hagrid and laughing out loud at his outburst; several offered encouragements to him. Although I remained nervous around him, I too was amused at his latest outburst, and was more comfortable with it than the ones before. Hagrid stood again, this time cupping his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone: “Yoohooo, Mr. Pilot—I have somewhere to BE! I bet you’re doing this because I’m Canadian! You’d be listening to me if I weren’t Canadian, wouldn’t you?” Passengers everywhere in the plane were now in stitches. The flight attendant, bedraggled from battling Hagrid, came over and leaned across me: “I’m sorry sir, I can see that you’re upset, but so is everyone. Please calm down. You’re disturbing people.” Hearing this, Hagrid jumped up, and boomed: “FINE! I’m sorry! Are you happy now?” He vaulted over me into the aisle, as if ready for another bathroom run. But instead, he went from person to person, leaning into the face of each one and saying “I’m sorry if I was disturbing you! But these people are making me miss my appointment!” He mentioned a girlfriend waiting for him in Brooklyn, and how it was crucial that we land so he could see her (as for how Hagrid ever attracted a girlfriend, that is beyond me). In response to his latest antics, we all broke into laughter—including the
flight attendants, who actually clapped! Somehow, the emotional tide had completely shifted, and everyone had gotten behind Hagrid by this point. He had become their spokesperson, it seemed. As the plane’s wheels finally hit the tarmac, Hagrid bolted from his seat, but was asked by the attendant to remain seated until the plane had fully stopped. He obliged with a grinning wave at the children watching him. When the moment to deplane arrived, I realized I did not want to part from him, even though he had scared me so badly just seven and a half hours before. As I exited the plane, I watched Hagrid trundle down the stairs to the concourse. Everyone around me erupted into laughter, with strangers commenting approvingly on Hagrid’s bizarre behavior: “Say what you want, but the big guy had a valid point!”; “We need people like him to keep the airlines honest!” I, too, started laughing and talking with a man who had sat near Hagrid and me; we spent several minutes reminiscing about how Hagrid had made the flight so memorable. Somehow, just by being his own bizarre self, Hagrid had endeared himself to many passengers and created a bond among all of us. He was our courageous spokesman, someone who gave voice to what we all secretly felt. As I headed my separate way from the crowd, I realized that I had evolved emotionally during this trip. I was so frightened at the start—not only of Hagrid and what he would do, but also of having to deal with him and those around me. But what started out as apprehension turned to amusement, even admiration, and I realized that this experience fortified my ability to connect with people in public settings. Not only did Hagrid no longer frighten me, but I realized that, as outlandish as he seemed, he was only saying aloud what the rest of us were thinking. And even his initially freakish appearance seemed acceptable by the end. Not only could I relate to him, I could now relate to everyone else on that flight, all because of our shared experience with Hagrid. (It even occurred to me that, just maybe, my parents were not complete imbeciles.) So, the story of my first solo airplane flight has a happy ending—all because of my unexpected life lessons at 30,000 feet.
actress’ garden Emma Karnes after rain when the tall grass swims in pale light, layers of violet fall away from bodies, suddenly childless, unfragranced. it is an adoption of ragweed & torn flapper skirts in the underfed lawn out back, littered with the childplay of cigarette butts and red pebbles arranged in circles & x’s. better, the dances have a stage, and trails of markers showing where to bend from the hips & pound upon the ground. better, thickening
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“Slip” by Jintana Cunningham
rainfall for a ceremonial— cancerous—joy; for weeds as they begin a poem of their own.
Pinch Hannah Cheng I pinched the skin on my left elbow, digging my fingernails into it. What is elbow skin called? A weenis. That’s weird. Why isn’t it just called elbow skin? There’s no specific name for knee skin. Or is there? When I was in elementary school, I heard my classmates and teacher talking about pain. What an unusual and indescribable feeling ‘pain’ is; yet we feel it all the time. They were talking about a particular type of pain that day: broken bones. My teacher said there was apparently a cream you could apply that stings your skin so it would distract from the pain of the broken bone. I remember being so confused when I first heard that. Why would you inflict more agony on yourself when you’re already suffering? But as I grew older, I found myself doing it. Whenever my earring hole grew swollen and infected, and my mother wiggled the earring out, I would pinch either my elbow or hand skin with my fingernails. It helped. And maybe it was the familiarity, the
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absence of the fear of having my skin hurt; especially if it was skin on my arm. We get paper cuts on our hand, we scrape our elbow when we fall off our bikes, we hit our funny bones on tables. It is casual pain. Pain we can ignore, because it’s familiar. But when my ear is swollen red, and I’m standing on the kitchen tiles waiting for a piece of cheap metal to be fished out of my earlobe, I don’t know that pain well enough. That feeling is not my friend, not even an acquaintance. It’s scarier, and I would rather my arm that got thrown around regularly, hurt more than the insides of my earlobe. But now, here I was standing on my own kitchen tiles. 27, getting thrown around regularly. I looked down at my fingers, and there they were. Fiercely pinching my left elbow. Hurting my elbow for the thousandth time. And there he was, standing across from me. Looking at me like I was some broken arm that had papercuts, dried scabs, and ugly funny bone tingles all over it. So it hit me.
I was his arm skin. I was what he went to whenever he wanted other parts of his life to stop hurting. And when he was done hurting, he would let me go. And he would ask why I was the one who was broken. “Why do you just stand there and look at me? You just stand there . . . and pinch yourself. Why do you do that? Just stop crying when we’re arguing, and talk.” He smacked my hand away. I left that night. And as I wandered the Manhattan streets alone, somebody stepped on my toes with stiletto heels. I hopped around grabbing my foot, and I almost brought up my hand to my left elbow. But I didn’t, now that I know what it feels like to be pinched.
Wild sky Wild sun Wild sea. On wet sand I stand still.
Thea Clarkberg
“Ontario� by Jintana Cunningham
Candle Nora Littell I’m lighting the candle in the window and I wait for the flame to warm the glass. The sun has washed out of the sky and the cityscape is a jagged dark mess across the pale swath. The candle flame is dull compared to the bright-bleached sky, flickering too angrily, and I want my thoughts to stay in the cool air. I think it might be possible for a pigeon to sit so long, folded around itself, in the curve of an O somewhere— that it might gather dust. Perhaps its resignation would be like what a stone has in the face of the elements. The creature would become the object and nobly, be beautiful.
The candle is the pulse of the room, and the day is dwindling across my face. I sit like this in the city. By my window, a window, perhaps not mine but only habitually near me, I’m uncomprehending witness to stones and buffeting winds and the slow grinding of the earth.
“Spider at Sunset” by Ingrid Comella
“156th Oswego County Fair” by Jintana Cunningham
at what age did you lose your compassion? McKayla Skierski was it in grade five when none of the kids wanted to be around you because they thought you were chubby? was it in grade seven when no one wanted to hold your hand because they said you weren't pretty enough? was it in grade ten when your lover didn't want to be with you anymore because you weren’t popular? was it in college when your professor told you you wouldn't get anywhere in life because you couldn't finish your homework, because you were working to pay the cost of living?
was it when you were thirty two and your boss laid you off even though he knew you worked your hardest and had a family to feed? was it when they locked you in the nursing home and you received a call saying your son had been killed In war but they wouldn't let you go to the funeral because you were "unstable"? but i guess i understand why you lost all compassion after we found you hanging from the ceiling fan with a note that said “you'll only have compassion, after i'm gone"
Global Warming Abby Cooper Flames dance in the sky, a harsh array of oranges and yellows and reds, more a salsa than a ballroom twirl. The clouds are soldiers on a battlefield; bright colors reflected in a pond, serene and tranquil. Invaded softly by algae and mallard ducks, the same creatures that used to beg the children for leftover bits of bread. No children play at the pond anymore, not since all the people fled. Tigers and snakes rule the world now, ever since the fire in the sky began to spread Fiery tendrils reach out and grab at any life to be found. You have to be quick to escape it, You must flee with purposeful poise, Before the flames you created come back to engulf you. The sun looms high in the sky, a magnificent orb that radiates life, or used to, when the atmosphere was thinner, and death wasn’t trapped inside. The carpenter ants are having a feast, wood rotting, metal beams rusting, buildings collapsing. No more people to stop the world from falling apart, they left after letting the Earth fall to ruins. They took off in small metal boxes, like chickens going off to the slaughter, packed tightly into cramped compartments, leaving a trail of fire dancing in the air. Not even the owl knows where they went, but the first mark they leave on their new home will be an array of reds and yellows and oranges, a sunset gone wrong of flames twirling in the sky.
31 “Mountains” by Pearse Anderson
Growing up a Feminist Abby Cooper
“Fashion design of an old dress”; “A Day in the Circus I and II” by Antonia Sinclair
I grew up in a house where the reading material of choice was Ms. Magazine. Always on the dining room table, did you read that article about the pay gap? Next month: did you read the article about women in poverty in the Middle East, in Africa, in Bangladesh? Next month: go read that article about the systematic culture of rape, next month: did you see that article about the media and the portrayal of strong women as sex objects? Mommy cooked, next day Daddy cooked, Daddy cleaned and Mommy worked, we followed Mommy’s job offers, Mommy took care of the kids, Daddy took care of the kids, Daddy worked. Equality. Not all houses are as lucky. In some houses, Mommy cleans and mommy cooks, Daddy works and makes the money so mommy stays trapped in the house, a cycle of oppression that she can’t get out of. In some houses, Daddy beats mommy. In some houses, there is only mommy. Because mommy was too stupid, she went and got herself knocked up, Mommy was too stubborn, she refused to get married, No. Mommy was brave. Mommy is strong enough to do everything. But, in some houses there is no mommy. Girls wonder: What does a strong women look like? Girls wonder, it okay for the boy who “likes” me to make fun of me? To throw things at me and laugh with the other boys? Is it okay for men to touch me like that? Do strong women exist who don’t have big boobs, big butt, who don’t show skin, or even wear make-up? Because the movies and poster boards say no, they don't.
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As little girls, who can we look up to? Are there women we can be inspired by despite their label of bossy slut whore and bitch? Why do we talk about Michelle Obama’s clothes when we should be talking about all that she has done since she graduated from Harvard Law? Why is Emma Watson’s hair more interesting than her role as a UN Women ambassador? I’d like to see headlines about women changing the world, not about which celebrity is pregnant with who’s child. Why do we shame women who don’t want children, and blame women who have children for perpetuating stereotypes? Why is there this idea that we don’t need to empower women? Girls are still scared to make noise, won’t speak unless spoken to. Women are still scared to take up space, scared to sit with their legs uncrossed. It’s an implicit injustice. We are so used to ignoring the voices of women when their voices need to be heard. If you don't see what I see, then you aren't looking far enough. Look no further than your TV screen, or flip through a magazine: pictures of women, showing only beauty and no brains. Dare to look down to your bathroom floor, girls sit there and force themselves to purge, to be as skinny as a photo-shopped model. Girls learn to compete when really we should be getting along and building each other up.
school code:12224516
Girls learn to judge, to slut shame, to prude shame, to gossip. The media tells girls we aren't good enough. If you don't see what I see then you aren't looking deep enough. Because I see a gender imbalance, so severe there is not one person left unaffected. I see girls told to look pretty and don’t speak. Men who are told they are not allowed to cry or show any weakness. I see women who sit in offices, their ideas ignored, Men called names for taking “women’s jobs.” I see women denied their basic right to control their own bodies, I see women catcalled in the streets and the response is “what was she wearing?” And men not taken seriously when they report a case of rape. I see women harassed and the response is “it’s just a compliment.” Women and men are taught from the day they are born to embody a particular shape and follow certain rules or they won’t be accepted. Feminism and equality are synonymous. If you stand for equality you should be able to get past the name of a movement, understand that women have been oppressed throughout history. There are stereotypes that hold back both men and women. Feminism is about erasing all of those. Why can’t people understand that empowering women is not the same as disempowering men. To understand the human condition it is essential to analyze the gender inequalities that have erupted in society.
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Relics, War
Emma Karnes
The war after she was dead was a war of pleading: please moaned the soldiers, and the tired generals in their tents. She only would have sewed blankets for one side, stitching quickly three fragments to one; she only would have eaten propaganda and relished the last of the sugar on her tongue. She too would have pleaded in her prayers, for less cold men and more sugar for baking. But the war after she was dead exploded bridges in the city, painted faces, buried earrings. Knotted her needles into machine guns, cut the world’s circulation with her thread. Dealt in prayers as currency, christened coffins as bomb shelters. Set more girls to work at rough cloth.
“Clunky Boots” by Antonia Sinclair
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“Dust” by Jintana Cunningham
The Cup
Eamon Bollinger Clear but green. The cup stands. Like a tree, or a parent the cup provides. Not for drinking, but for decoration. It provides an element to the room, a little piece that builds it all up Just like the last straw on a camel’s back It is the piece that perfects the small, dismal room.
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Xavier
Sarah Robertson
He was always dancing when I saw him. Not hip-hop or tap or anything like that, but he was always moving somehow. He flitted about busy classrooms; negotiated choked hallways with elegance. He was fluid, graceful, and I thought it was beautiful. I didn’t know how a person could be that beautiful, how human motion could be so smooth. I wasn’t anything like that. No other person I knew moved like he did. “You should be a ballerina,” I told him one day, tracing the curve of his neck under my eyelashes. He considered that. “What do they call male ballerinas?” he asked me, draped across my father’s couch. He was twirling a navy blue ribbon around his fingers. “I don’t know,” I said. “Ballerinos?” He laughed at that, and it was as lovely as anything else he did. A few days later he told me he’d looked it up, and they actually were called ballerinos. I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I just smiled. He did too. continued on page 38
37 “Time” by Jintana Cunningham
continued from page 36
I saw him dancing once, some years after that. We’d fallen out of touch since high school, but he’d sent me an invitation and a ticket to a ballet. The paper was cool and heavy in my palm; cream-colored, with crimson lettering. I wore a nice shirt and my church shoes and went alone. And when I saw him, he was magnificent. If before he had been liquid—strong, but peaceful—now he was fire. He soared across the stage, transfixing us with vibrant dashes and swirls that took our breath away. He captivated us; he made us feel as if we could be made of light, like we could be art. When it was finished, I found him backstage, gave him a flower and told him his dance was lovely. (If he saw the tears in my eyes, he was kind enough not to mention them.) He thanked me, gave me a card with his phone number and address, and then brushed a kiss against my cheek. He looked at me then, and for a moment, I felt beautiful. We said our goodbyes, made promises to meet for lunch, and I took my grey coat and left carrying the weight of his soul in my chest.
“Untitled” by Jintana Cunningham
“Baby Eyes” by Thea Clarkberg
Eyes fascinate me Casey Wetherbee Eyes fascinate me. I’ve been struck by the look in someone’s eyes or the way their eyes look, how they can express those deepest sorrows and shine with the joy that I’d feel if I knew that every morning I could wake up and see you, your shining eyes, or the inexplicable rush that I can only imagine someone would feel upon just being able to see for the first time. Sometimes I get lost. It’s not the stress you’d feel if you drove through small-town Westchester—or anywhere in New Jersey—and you just kept turning and encountering the same damn gas station and wasn’t I just here? Where am I going? The sameness is more refreshing, something I want to experience, again and again.
It’s not that I don’t like blue, I love blue, it’s just that there’s something alluring about darker eyes that captivates me. Sometimes people call blue eyes “piercing” as a sort of neutral comment; there’s nothing good or bad about it necessarily, it’s just that they’re cold and trenchant at times when brown eyes are warm and comforting. There’s something smooth and warm about your almost-black irises that melts my heart where icy cerulean would freeze it. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. There are times when yours are wide open, relishing the fresh air, and times when they are shut tight, shutters drawn (presumably to keep out the cold). I think it’s best to keep the curtains open, at least. I like to see the sun shine through.
“Tulip” by Thea Clarkberg
"The Golden Cat"
Ari Kirshner
I followed Master Midas up to his bedroom; as he sat on his bed I leapt into his lap. He watched me and stroked my back; I purred loudly, shifting to a sitting position. For a few minutes we sat there, pet and Master, completely relaxed. From my observations of him the King may not have been a very intelligent man, but he was kind. Suddenly my Master stiffened and rose slowly from his bed. This was something I had never perceived him doing before. He was standing straight backed, and started slowly and robotically walking out of the room. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I decided that I might as well take the chance. I followed him as he strutted down the palace stairs and into the back garden. King Midas stood in the middle of the garden, perfectly still. I could not tell if he was asleep, or awake yet somehow frozen in place. Midas’ body erupted into motion. One moment he was still as any of the surrounding trees, the next he was frantically looking around him, confused and distressed. He seemed not to notice me.
A smiling figure emerged from nowhere. He looked as if he was ready to have some real fun. He directed a collection of noises at my Master, who fell to his knees in front of the gleeful gentlemen. Midas babbled back to the mysteriously happy stranger. I watched Midas’ face as the exchange went on. It went from confused, to hopeful, to a kind of raving happiness I had previously seen on no human’s face. With a small giggle the man from nowhere turned back from whence he came. Master Midas then did something very strange and completely impossible. He touched a twig; no, that’s not the unbelievable part. What my brain could not manage to comprehend was that, as he touched it, the twig turned to gold. A substance that the humans value very highly and I had only seen locked away deep in the dungeons of the palace. My Master then began touching everything in sight, creating a new species of trees I named Goldenwood. He gave Marigold flowers the color that resided within their names. Yet everything he touched lived no longer. The
trees and the flowers no longer breathed as they had only moments before. Everything that he touched not only looked and felt like gold, but weighed as much as gold. As my Master pranced into the dining hall of the palace he left behind a garden of sunken goldenwood trees and of golden marigolds whose stems could barely support the weight of their flowers. My Master waved his hand at some servants and food was brought to him. King Midas reached for an apple and then cracked his teeth against its golden surface. He lifted a now golden chalice of wine to his lips and managed to stop himself just before consuming its thick golden liquid. At this point Midas’ smile was gone; he looked hopelessly around himself realizing his folly. I paced over to him and rubbed my body against his robed leg. I hoped to comfort him as I had many times before. I saw him absentmindedly reach down to stroke my fur.
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The Attic
Abby Cooper
There is a musty smell that slithers its way out of the attic when you open the door. It’s a panel on the ceiling with a string attached, and when you pull the string the door opens and a ladder folds down onto the floor. The black hole of undiscovered secrets above you makes your stomach turn and your palms sweat, but the mystery is too alluring to keep out. The steps creak and the wooden ladder is rough on your hands as you climb into the dark cave atop the house. It’s an unexplored place, and as you climb up you think of Columbus and wonder what he must have felt like when he discovered America. You can see the faint outline of boxes as the blackness surrounding you falls away and your eyes adjust to the dark. There are piles and stacks of unidentified brown cardboard boxes, surely full of various treasures and memories. It is hard to move; the ceiling is low with horizontal beams and for the first time ever you feel like a giant since you have to crouch down so you won’t hit your head. There are cobwebs draped over and around the walls, intricate patterns woven by spiders and then abandoned once they decided to find a new home. A thick layer of dust coats everything like icing on a cake, and you are scared to touch anything in fear that the dust will rise and make you sneeze, and also because you just washed your hands. By now everything is visible in the darkness. The boxes are labeled with various names: “Lisa,” “Barbara,” “Daniel,” “Joseph.” You feel like an intruder; these are not your boxes, you don’t know anything more about these people than their names. Nevertheless, curiosity takes its hold on you. The boxes are calling out to you, pulling you in, and you carefully lower one of the boxes from the top of a stack onto the floor. The weight of it surprises you and you drop it to the ground with a force that rattles the floor. “What are you doing up there?” someone from the floor below calls out. “You’re not supposed to be in the attic!” You sigh, groaning with disappointment at the secrets that remain undiscovered and climb back down the ladder with a slight feeling of relief.
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“Electric Spider” by Eleanor Pereboom
Potsdam Cassidy Easton The tiny town of love hate, a hive of rednecks and closeted humans. Our town flag, like many others, flies all the shades of green camouflage. I love this town, I hate this town. As I walk home in the three foot November snow, hulking giants of green and orange spit brown stains of chewing tobacco into the crystalline white snow. I love this town, I hate this town. I laugh with my friends in the darkness, clothed in brightly colored costumes, waiting for the hot lights to smile their color upon us. I love this town, I hate this town. As I sit in the moving truck watch as the town of Potsdam runs away in the other direction. Hot tears sing in my eyes. I hesitate to touch my feet to the foreign ground. I love that town, I miss that town.
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“Inheritance” by Jintana Cunningham
It’s an Acquired Taste
Sandra Stromswold
Wine and weather Not hard to put the pieces together. We grow older and older And for some reason Bitter is better. Bitter coffee only reason we rise Bitter drink an acceptable lullaby. This wine on my tongue It’s strangely familiar Uncomfortably so, but I’d rather not dwell Not what this drink is for Rather it’s compensation For life complications. But why the hell Do we add bitter to bitter? Adult logic, I guess But even then . . . it’s starting to make sense Bottoms up, then take your chaser Amateur consumers... But it’s in our young blood nature Eventually we learn to sip the poison Enjoy it, then sip a little quicker I’ll grimace and they’ll laugh and say “It’s an acquired taste” I’m going bad In a decade or two I’ll be just like this glass of wine Could’ve been a kid’s juice box, But instead they put me in a barrel so I could rot You’ll never hear someone go out and say it But the drink you sip, The bitterness on your tongue won’t dissipate It’s there to stay, So you might as well learn to love the taste.
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“Black Cat” by Thea Clarkberg
When We Burn Books Chloe Cramer Will the world end in mutual destruction Atomic annihilation of all our atoms, after A war of tension and fear with both sides Following their leader, Weapons ready, waiting for the Word which will direct them to Eradicate the people on the wrong side into oblivion, first As if we can only exist in black or white. Will the world end in starvation in combination With dehydration with Sclera yellow and bruised like rotten egg to go with Ribs over shards of glass and swollen beachball stomachs Throats like sandpaper tunnels unable to swallow For the cracks and rivulets of dried blood like desiccated rivers Can’t swallow hope in a bed of danger Will the world end in rocks flying at our faces from the boundless depth Of Space. Meteors plummeting to bruise The earth like a foot crushing an ant hill into oblivion Shooting stars to be wished upon until The breath of nature’s bombs burst open our faces Laughing as we failed to Reconcile in the face of our unnoticed Imminent, extinction
“Fiery Decomposition� by Ingrid Comella
Will the world end in freezing, crops withering until they have Decayed. Snowflakes never stopping, smothering The earth with a thick white shroud of death. People turning blue before their bones shatter leaving Souls to be buried surrounded by ice and the dirge of silence. The world will end when tangelo flames lick the sky, ashes Eclipsing it a little more every day; The world will end when humanity Gathers books in unconscious arms and sets them on fire; Blindly building their own funeral pyre. The world will end when people, keen to do good and Feverish eyes glowing with the glory of their noble actions Will take matches to set flame upon the yellowed pages, So eager to do away with blasphemy and evil. When prose becomes cinders to cover The earth, the cinders of poetry blocks the sun, and when the Literature of ages turns to ash and dust when we walk upon the grave Of our civilization, stamping the remains of our culture under our feet. The world will end when people burn books Because that is when we will have forgotten.
“Autumnal Fluid” by Thea Clarkberg 50
to be human now Emma Karnes 1. if we are beasts then the sky owns more of us than we think. cradled in the compromise, this possessive overgrowth, we sharpen our teeth and chisel at the clouds. mutualism has eaten our children for centuries— its archaic tongue a trap we swarm to. if we are indeed beasts. if we are fieldmice then the sky is not a means of survival but a means of dancing, we a chanting prey rejoicing in death as well. 2. how many mirrors shattered before we could accept that our reflections were not hideous, how many shards praised before we learned to fear blood? as a species we have stretched ourselves one too many times around the earth’s hips, snapped our own necks too loudly for God’s sympathy. maybe our jawbones will remember a melody before it is too late for song. a fire erupts in our throats and we sculpt the smoke into war memorials. 3. the box of our jewelry died along with us. somewhere between the hinges and the hole beneath our porch the gold rotted, the diamonds splintered into the rut. after our engagement rings disintegrate, are we still married? after the moon explodes into champagne and we forget about our own children, are we still the beautiful people who sleep with belligerence and dream wildly?
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