EDITORS’ NOTE In putting together this year's Literary Magazine, we began by sorting the submissions into rigid categories. Yet, as the process continued, we came to realize that the pieces were more defined by their similarities than their differences. The connections between the works not only inspire our title, they illuminate our shared worries, thoughts, and hopes- our community. Subtle differences remain, but our commonality connects us. We hope that in a divided world, the words of your
classmates will be reassuring reminders of our enduring bonds. Frances Barranco, Alexander Parson, Alessia Guise, and Katherine Conner
NATURE
4
The Abyss
Frances Barranco
4
Heaven’s Lost Cloths
Nicholas Baldwin
6
The Color of the Spirit
Gabriella Batista
7
Boxing Day
Patrick Wareham
8
Untitled
Frances Barranco
10
On the Rainy River
Francesca Marini Fichera 11
Blue Moons
Rachel Lee
14
Grand Central
Frances Barranco
15
COVER PHOTOGRAPH, GABRIELLA BATISTA
LOVE
16
You Can’t Deny
Katherine Conner
18
E.D.E.N.
Elizabeth Nacion
20
Sunset
Alexander Parson
22
The Beach
Fiona Fortunato
23
Early Knights
Alessia Guise
24
Let Me In
Sofia Zalaquett
25
Life in Color
Emma Himes
26
One Way
Katherine Conner
28
IDENTITY One Way
28 Katherine Conner
Fake Smiles/ Real Tears Alessia Guise
28
30
The Repeating Face in the Photograph is Me
Frances Barranco
32
Alcaterous
Katherine Conner
35
Untitled
Gabriella Batista
36
The Monster Within
Alessia Guise
37
The Butterfly
Ian Miller
38
FRANCES BARRANCO, PHOTOGRAPH
“Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.” “He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Heaven’s Lost Cloths Heaven’s cloths lost in the wind, Wrought in gold and silver light, Fall in fires of our gorging sin. Heaven’s half-light blues flash red then black, consuming Once-night light and twilight.
Life’s colors burn to void Man’s fire has died cold, Leaving gray ashes of lost faith. Nicolas Baldwin Inspired by ‘Cloths of Heaven’ by Yeats and ‘Windhover’ by Hopkins
GABRIELLA BATISTA, PHOTOGRAPH
“Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Boxing My eyes jolted open at the sound of the rickety wooden
boat scraping painfully against the rocky ocean floor. Puzzled, I turned to my brother, Sebastian. His face mirrored my own.
We were in our usual fishing spot, about 300 meters off the coast. The depth here was never an issue, usually about twenty
to twenty five meters deep. How could we have run aground here? Sebby hopped overboard to retrieve the nets, and immediately yelped. I looked up. He was standing in a shallow pool of water that could not have been more than ten centimeters deep. Frantically scanning the landscape, I spotted several
grounded skiffs, and dozens of curious tourists who had ventured out to explore this newly formed sandbar. I squinted,
shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. The ocean's edge was now several hundred meters out, and appeared be in continual retreat. "Andy!" Sebastian called as he jogged toward the boat. Flashing his crooked smile, he triumphantly held up two flopping figures, playfully tossing one in my direction. The
fish landed at my feet. It was enormous— larger than any fish we had netted in the past two weeks. My eyes lit up. I eagerly
grabbed a metal bucket and ran after my brother in search of more low-hanging fruit.
In mere minutes our buckets were full. As we began
our long trudge back to the boat, I halted briefly to stretch out my strained back. I glanced over my shoulder and felt
my stomach drop. "S-S-Sebi? Turn around." My brother's eyes, just filled with delight and excitement, immediately clouded with fear. A large white crest, only a few hundred meters away, raced towards us.
"Andy! Run!" I dropped the bucket, and took off racing towards land. I heard Sebastian grunt as he stumbled
and fell. Skidding to a stop, I sprinted back towards my brother and grabbed his hand. The wave was almost upon
us. I gulped. He looked into my eyes and smiled that crooked smile. "I love you, brother."
Patrick Wareham
FRANCES BARRANCO, PHOTOGRAPH
“I was bitter, sure. But it was so much more than that. The emotions went from outrage to terror to bewilderment to guilt to sorrow and then back again to outrage. I felt a sickness inside me. Real disease.” Tim O’Brien The Things They Carried
On the Rainy River Standing alone in the endless forest, I turned away from the
familiar path, gazing into the darkness of the trees. Straining my ear, I heard nothing but silence. An immense feeling of desperation
overcame me —a wandering sensation—almost as if I had made a wrong turn and lost all sense of direction. Deciding whether or not
to go to war overwhelmed all of my emotions. Fragments of my own memory passed by. I saw a six-year-old girl in an oversized helmet riding a secondhand bike without training wheels; I saw a nine-year-old
fairy running around the house in excitement; I saw a fourteen-year old adolescent on her first day of school, dressed in her best outfit,
hair brushed and clothes pressed, ready for a new journey. I saw my parents calling me out of the forest to safer ground. I saw my brother and sister, my classmates, all of my friends, the principal, and all of my teachers calling me back. They screamed and called my name like at a concert in a huge arena. Everybody was screaming at me as though I was the center act. Excitement and
anticipation filled the air.
Lights flashed. Music blasted. The arena buzzed with activity, with noise. Every sound I made reverberated throughout the entire arena. Music played next to me on the center stage. A rock band belted out a song while adoring fans screamed. Everywhere I looked people jumped up and down, waving signs and dancing to the rhythm.
All my extended family filled the arena, and Albert Einstein, and Saint Francis, and my uncle who died of cancer when I was ten years old, and the presidential candidates of the upcoming election, and Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Queen Elizabeth II, and all those who died in 9/11, and all the soldiers who had died in war already, and the soldiers who would die in the next one, and all those who would be referred to as collateral damage, and victims of mass shootings, and my future sergeant, and Meryl Streep as a witch, and a random stranger performing a kind act, and a girl studying the Mona Lisa, and citizens of the United States waving their flags. Everyone was screaming and singing and gesturing at me to leave the forest and venture forward.
The future and past mixed into the present. My future husband appeared holding my infant son. My young daughter stood next to him, waving at me. A priest looked at me with hope. A waitress listened to me when I felt alone. A friend encouraged me to follow my dream, the same friend who would die in my arms during the war I so desperately wanted to avoid. Francesca Marini Fichera
FRANCES BARRANCO, PHOTOGRAPH
Blue Moons
Ever captivating, Hypnotizing you, Trapping you Into forever Blink. They disappear, But never really go. Timed, yet timeless. Like the moon Cutting through the sky, Reflecting on your pupil, Bleeding into your iris.
Blink again. Gone. Rachel Lee
“They disappear...
FRANCES BARRANCO, PHOTOGRAPH
But never really go.”
JESSICA HOLDEN, PHOTOGRAPH
“Enamórase, quédese enamorado, y esto lo decidirá todo.”
“What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, whom you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in Love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.” Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ
You Can’t Deny Our relationship was like a fairytale. Just like x squared equals -9, The result was imaginary.
We were a good match. The same way a good match Can burn down a bridge. You were captivating. As in, you suffocated me— Made me feel like a captive. You can’t deny what’s between us, you said And you were right; Because you cannot deny what is no longer. You can’t deny what is no longer Because It was imaginary. It burned bridges. It held me captive. Katherine Conner Inspired by Margaret Atwood’s ‘You Fit Into Me.’
“We were a good match. The same way a good match Can burn down a bridge.”
KATHERINE CONNER, PHOTOGRAPH
E.D.E.N. (A Letter to my Best Friend) every day you tell me that you feel like no one cares; you feel like there is a dark cloud hovering over you. you want to move, but your mind won't let you. your heart is fragile in this constant state of heartbreak. here I am. I'm trying to pick up your pieces, holding your heart close to mine, hoping that the warmth in my soul can make you whole again. I want to take away your worries. I want to ease the pain. I want to be able to just feel all of this for you. although you might feel like you are burdening me, you are doing anything but that. you are bringing this light-this truthful light-something so real, so beautiful, so indescribable into my life. I did not think that I could experience God this much through someone who is broken.
I have never told anyone
as many well-thought out words as I have you.
you are the reason I will never waver; I will never fall too far. you keep me humble. I believe in who you are. God has brought our lives together. He crossed our paths to increase our faith. I know I'm miles away, but I have never felt so close to anyone. I will text you "everything is going to be okay" a billion times if I have to, because I believe so much that everything I tell you is true. that you are so much stronger than you'll ever know.
that you are loved beyond words,
beyond thoughts, beyond it all.
you are loved. Elizabeth Nacion
“Lost in sunsets of hope, tides recede.”
ALEXANDER PARSON, PHOTOGRAPH
The Beach She cries tears of ocean water, And thinks about how much he loved her. Stopped at the shoreline, lost in thought, receiving waves of truth, She thinks about the past and how she spent her youth.
Dead waters, were you just like me? ‘Cause his eyes were as vacant as the seas. Lost in sunsets of hope, tides recede, changing the way to cope. Like grains of sand, they were different but found each other. Like salt in water, they were perfect for each other. Fiona Fortunato
Early Knights I remember the first time I saw him. His name was Liam. I was four. His hair was blonde and his face was sweet. Everyday he opened my milk for me, And on February 14th, he gave me a Valentine, He spelled it "Valentime." He was a prince fit for a princess. My knight in shining armor. I remember the first time I saw him. His name was Alex. I was seven. His hair was dirty blonde, and his smile was crooked. We played with Legos and colored together, And when he said he didn't like me "like that," I cried. He was a prince fit for a princess. My knight in shining armor. I remember the first time I saw him. His name was Quinton. I was ten. His hair was dark and his eyes crinkled with mystery. We met on vacation and spent every moment together. When he kissed me goodbye on the last day, I never saw him again. He was a prince fit for a princess. My knight in shining armor. When I was eleven I realized Maybe I wasn't a princess, Maybe I'd never get my prince Or my knight. Maybe I should stop looking. Maybe I should give up. Then I met Troy. - Alessia Guise
Let Me In Until I caught the slight touch of a mind, Whose thoughts were way more louder than mine, Impressed by blacks and whites, I went blind. Now, you only need to read between the lines. We do not see each other, we watch; We pretend to hear. Instead we listen. That is the reason we possibly matched Even our shadows would cross and glisten.
So it began, but not everything was right Excused by time we took different paths. Flowers turned dull and shrank in the night Getting to know you was the hardest of tasks, Reflection of the light is not enough, I needed to be the color of your life.
- Sofia Zalaquett
Life in Color You know how they say when you fall in love, a world that was dark and gray becomes bright and colorful? Well, I never really understood that. I consider myself to be aromantic, so being in a relationship--that doesn't really interest me. Basically what that means is that I don't want to be in a romantic relationship with anyone. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly happy the way I am. Sure, it took me a while to accept that I was like this, but over time I realized that I'm a complete person by myself and I don't need to fall in love to live my life. Despite these feelings, the world continues to look colorless. My friends who are in love tell me how colorful their world looks now, and I can't help but wonder if I'm destined to live a life where I can't fully see those colors. I'm snapped out of my self-loathing mindset when I’m startled by a loud growling noise. Upon further investigation, I soon realize it is my stomach. I vaguely remember a friend mentioning a really good sandwich place a couple of blocks from my house. I am confident that at this point anything I eat will taste good so I decide to venture to this sandwich shop. The store is small, but the smell is immense: fresh bread and happiness. I walk over to a young woman with breathtaking grey eyes and blond hair that flows past her shoulders. She smiles as I approach her and inquire about their sandwich special, then assures me that I should order it. It’s her favorite item on the menu.
I am rewarded with the best looking sandwich and fries I have ever seen. I can't even explain what is in it because it seems to change every time I look at it. I prepare to take the first bite of my sandwich. As soon as the first particles touch my mouth, I know my life has changed. Colors begin to flood into the world. I see the bright green of the lettuce and the red tomatoes. I cry and make noises that are probably inappropriate for the restaurant setting. I finally understand the life of those in love. The world truly is very colorful. Emma Himes
KATHERINE CONNER, PHOTOGRAPH
“Eines Tages zurückblickend auf die Jahre, wo du gekämpft hast, werden sie dir als die schönsten vorkommen” “One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.” Sigmund Freud
Fake Smiles/ Real Tears She had the “perfect life.” Loving family, Beautiful home, Wonderful friends, But still she felt Worthless, Stupid, Ugly. He had the “perfect life:” Loving family, Beautiful home, Wonderful friends, But still he felt Unwanted, Rejected, Useless. Confiding in each other, Talking eased the pain. They realized the answer to their Problems can’t be found At the bottom of a bottle, And a blade to the skin Isn’t the answer to anything.
They put on their masks, And went about their lives. Smiling. Laughing. Pretending. They said “I’m fine,” And no one questioned them. But the funny thing is: If you say something enough, You start to mean it. It started to become natural. The smiles. The laughs. And eventually, They were fine. Alessia Guise
The Repeating Face in the Photograph is Me Albums of photographs sit on the shelf collecting age as well as dust; the photographs are of a single child. I rarely look at them. But why should I? I know the child. She is always with me, no matter how many years elapse. Perhaps her influence has subdued and matured with time, but I have never strayed far from that child in the photographs. In many of the photographs, I am dressed in different costumes, playing in imaginary worlds. Without friends living close by or the companionship of siblings, I spent many afternoons entertaining myself. My companions, for the most part, were adults, my parents and my nanny, but I did not mind because I had hours to play without interference or compromise. I was not a lonely child; on the contrary, I was content playing alone. My dollhouse people, imaginary friends, and stuffed animals were the perfect solution, since they became animate when I needed them and inanimate when I did not. They became the other faces in the photographs.
In one photograph, I am nearly two-years-old, dressed as a cat. It is Halloween. I pounce towards the camera, imitating how my cat leaps onto the sofa. That was before I learned what shyness was. Two years later in another photograph, I stand selfconscious in a pink and white tulle dress, a matching sparkling headdress, holding a silver wand streaming with ribbons hesitant before the camera and nervous that people will see me in public. Costumes in the shelter and privacy of my own home were acceptable, but in public, alone with everyone staring at me? I must be perfect, and I set my expectations above reach
Reflecting on my early childhood, I realize that my shyness in public stemmed from my fear of embarrassment, fueled by my unobtainable goal of perfection; not until middle school did I truly realize that mistakes were acceptable and, above all, human. Often I speculate whether an older sibling's guidance and trailblazing might have allowed me to recognize my almost painfully reserved nature earlier, but this remains merely a speculation. I did not have the advantage of a sibling, and I never seriously entertained the idea of a sibling--certainly not an older one. I am my own trailblazer. The time for a sibling has passed. Introducing a sibling now would create an estranged relationship, since I would be fifteen years her senior, so instead I adopt my close friends as my honorary siblings. It has taken me over ten years to realize the benefits of having a sibling. Over the course of sixteen years, the loss of loved ones and less-than-amicable friendships have made me aware, perhaps unconsciously, of the importance of companionship, which my younger self did not truly comprehend or fully appreciate. The knowledge collected with the inevitable passing of time allows one to place into retrospect the actions of one's life, and photographs are visual memory markers.
I cannot change my childhood, yet it continues to shape me. The girl in the photographs transforms from the childish grace of a toddler, to a curious and shy girl, to a Jo March adventurer, and into her latest form: a combination of the repeating faces, a sixteen-year-old high school student. I do not think she will ever cease her metamorphosis, nor do I suspect that she will abandon the girl in the photographs since she has only herself to reshape, transform. The girl in the photographs stands alone. Frances Barranco
Alcaterous "ALCATEROUS!" shouted one, shattering the concentrated silence of the room. The other cocked an eyebrow, "huh?" "Alcaterous," the first replied in a very matter-of-fact manner, as if the collection of letters explained itself. The second, even more flabbergasted than before, asked "What's that supposed to mean? That's not a word!" The first, affronted at the comment, responded boldly to his older counterpart, "Of course it is." "What's it mean then?" the second asked in a biting tone, now simply irritated with the younger. The first pondered for a moment, before replying, "I'm not sure yet ...I think it'll mean loud. Yes, loud is a fitting definition for alcaterous." The other sat in a shocked and confused silence for a few minutes. "You just scrunched random letters together, gave it a meaning, and think it's a word?" The younger spoke paused to think, then countered. "What's the definition of 'word'?" The older thought carefully before replying, "I suppose a word is a group of letters that conveys a thought." "Exactly," replied the other with a pleased smile, "and I said that alcaterous meant loud.�
Katherine Conner
GABRIELLA BATISTA, PHOTOGRAPH
The Monster Within There’s a monster living inside me.
Swinging on my vines, Climbing my trees, Swimming in my ocean, But never drowning. There’s a monster living inside me. Whenever I look in the mirror He looks through my eyes; he tells me what’s wrong. Whenever I think my clothes fit well, Or my face looks beautiful, He takes those thoughts and strangles them Until they pop, So they evaporate, And float away Out of my ears and nostrils, But never my mouth. There’s a monster living inside me. Perched atop the highest tree, Taunting me, knowing that He can never be killed. Alessia Guise
The Butterfly What are you, some kind of sissy? No, I said, as the boys surrounded me on the playground for crying, crying over my dead butterfly. I was four. What does a sissy even mean? Sissy: S-I-S-S-Y. Effeminate or cowardly. So that's what I am? A sissy? Am I not allowed to hug, Not allowed to play volleyball, Not allowed to cry? All I can do is fist pump. I can play basketball. I can move on without Shedding so much as a tear? When dada said “Take it like a man" When mama beat me for having girl friends, But no girlfriend And tears ran down my face, I only cried harder. I knew I wasn't like him. But that didn’t cut it. It never did.
When friends said “You're lying, “You’re attracted to your girl friends or “You’re gay,” I laughed it off. I knew I was neither. “We’re just friends,” I said But the world is different now— A world of love and acceptance. Not everything is so Cut and dried, Black and white, Boy and girl. I can feel. I can love. This is what you can't do: You can't bring me down. Not for having girl friends, Not for being a nurse, Not for being a secretary, Not for being a teacher, Not for crying over a butterfly. Not for being who I am. Who am I? I’m a man. Just a man. Ian Miller