IE 2012

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L i t t l eRedS c hool Hous e&E l i s a bet hI r wi nHi ghS c hool 272S i x t hAv enue| 40Cha r l t onS t r eet NewYor k , NY10014 2124775316 www. l r ei . or g

Ac ol l ec t i onofs t or i es , poems , a nda r tf r om t hes t udent sof L RE I -L i t t l eRedS c hool Hous e&E l i s a bet hI r wi nHi ghS c hool

The Literature and Art Magazine of LREI Little Red School House & Elisabeth Irwin High School

2011-2012

A reminder to families: This journal’s content reflects the thoughts and experiences of seventh through twelfth grade students at LREI. We ask that you keep that fact in mind as you consider sharing it with younger children. ~ Phil Kassen, Director

COVER Art By Hans Genares

TABLE OF CONTENTS Ayden Ackerman (7th Grade) Artwork, p. 70 Anonymous Elevator’s Lament, p. 12 Anonymous Decline, p. 84 Anonymous Untitled, p. 51 Anonymous Untitled, p. 51 Anonymous Reclamation, p. 94 Oscar Belkin-Sessler (8th Grade) A Nimble Troll, p. 62 Milo Booke (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 57 The Caedmon School, p. 41 Alma Bremond (10th Grade) Untitled, p. 22 Khalil Brown (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 34 Jake Cannavale (11th Grade) Little Mary Goodwater, p. 47 Sara Caplan (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 69 Guillermo Castello (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 22 Nicholas Cleves (12th Grade) The Musician, p. 5 Glass Voyage, p. 79 Alexa Code (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 35 Eliana Cohen-Orth (7th Grade) Stinky Cheese, p. 16 Dylan Corn (9th Grade) Artwork, p. 54 Artwork, p. 57 Artwork, p. 73 Aiden Curtiss (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 25 Untitled, p. 74 Lynette Dent (12th Grade) I’m a Nobody, p. 28 Olivia Dontsov (9th Grade) Artwork, p. 37 Artwork, p. 55 Artwork, p. 57 Artwork, p. 93 Mekhi Hayes DueWhite (8th Grade) The Great Feast, p. 54 Ketzel Feasley (10th Grade) Artwork, p. 19 Artwork, p. 57 Artwork, p. 87 Antonia Frank (8th Grade) Shouldn’t Have, p. 69 Artwork, p. 75 Lily Gavin (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 14 Artwork, p. 45 Artwork, p. 61 Artwork, p. 66 Harrison Geller (8th Grade) Wizard Spaceman John, p. 53 Matt Glickman (9th Grade) Gentleman’s Disguise, p. 6 Saskia Globig (9th Grade) The Writers, p. 4

The Backyard That Has a Memory, p. 11 Paths, p. 23 A Clipped Pace, p. 63 Snow Sky, p. 92

Josh Goldblatt (8th Grade) Found Poems, p. 75 Rehana Hirji (9th Grade) Artwork, p. 3 Artwork, p. 51 Artwork, p. 82 Juno Hobbs (8th grade) Catnip, p. 16 Hazel Hutchins (9th Grade) Artwork, p. 62 Ivo Illic (10th Grade) The Devil in the Suit, p. 17 Emma Jacoby (12th Grade) Artwork, p. 75 E Jeremijenko-Conley (8th Grade) Beautiful, p. 49 I Want to Keep It, p. 51 Maya Kaufman (11th Grade) City Girl, p. 15 Ally Klemer (9th Grade) It Was Bright, p. 26 Avery Kutis (8th Grade) I Saw It, p. 19 Artwork, p. 84 Virginia Mason (9th Grade) The Perks of Being Self-Conscious, p. 87 Stella Metzger (9th Grade) Artwork, p. 33 Pia Mileaf-Patel (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 9 Bite, p. 27 Jesse Moon (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 34 Goodbye, Blue Sky, p. 36 Violet Moore (10th Grade) Artwork, p. 1 Jacey Mossack (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 8 Artwork, p. 41 I Don’t Even Remember, p. 78 Kerabania Murillo-Maldonado (7th Grade) Artwork, p. 9 Julia Noonan (7th Grade) KK at Thanksgiving, p. 18 Pilar Olivieri (7th Grade) Artwork, p. 62 Kaitlyn Ramirez (11th Grade) My Grandmother’s House, p. 67 Pedro Ramirez (12th Grade) Artwork, p. 16 Artwork, p. 27 Artwork, p. 35 Margot Reed (12th Grade) Pocono, p. 32 Callie Richards (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 16 Artwork, p. 45 Artwork p. 47 Artwork, p. 63 Artwork, p. 68 Hannah Rifkin (12th Grade) Morning Light, p. 1

A Bridge to the Past, p. 94 Artwork, p. 23 Miral Rivalta (10th Grade) War Poem, p. 35 A Burned Story, p. 58 Emma Rose (8th Grade) Impression, p. 10 This Great City, p. 14 Jesse Gre Rubinstein (12th Grade) Beautiful Deception, p. 3 Silence, p. 34

The Ballad of Freddy McGee, p. 70

Juliet Sage (8th Grade) Untitled, p. 51 Artwork, p. 55 Lindsay Seitz (7th Grade) Artwork, p. 32 Hayley Shear (11th Grade) Her Mother’s Robe, p. 85 Mia Silvan-Grau (10th Grade) Sunshine, p. 23 Rebirth of Spanish Lilies, p. 88 Malcolm Staso (11th Grade) Forest Dream, p. 72 Josey Stuart (10th Grade) I Look at Life, p. 8 The Dirt Road and the Yellow House, p. 9 Steven Susaña (12th Grade) Isabel Terkuhle (12th Grade) Artwork, p. 9 Artwork, p. 44 Artwork, p. 78 Artwork, p. 95 Monet Thibou (11th Grade) RIP, p. 29 Words, p. 42 I Just Wish, p. 56 Lili Thomases (10th Grade) Artwork, p. 4 Iniko Thornell (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 21 Untitled, p. 24 Cheyenne Tobias (10th Grade) Artwork, p. 28 Artwork, p. 71 Grace Tobin (12th Grade) Artwork, p. 43 Artwork, p. 75 Artwork, p. 95 Sofia Trigo (8th Grade) Beautiful, p. 49 Lilah van Rens (8th Grade) Yeah, I’m a Dancer, p. 50 Artwork, p. 25 Infuse, p. 75 Bubble, p. 75 Jo Viemeister (11th Grade) The House’s Glow, p. 2 Gone, p. 44 We Remain, p. 62 That Night, p. 93 Hannah Weinstein (8th Grade) Artwork, p. 5 The Sun, p. 63 The Romance, p. 83 Isaac Weiss-Meyer (8th Grade) I Just Happened to Have It, p. 22 Artwork, p. 55 David White (11th Grade) Artwork, p. 28 Lucia Zerner (12th Grade) Voices, p. 7 Immanuel Zion (8th Grade) Steve’s Perilous Journey, p. 33 Margot Zuckerman (10th Grade) A Child Sits, p. 19 You Talk, p. 43 Are You Afraid, p. 68

Morning Light Light dances on worn wooden floorboards, illuminating the breath of morning.

The barren roads sleep.

House mice tidy their rooms.

The sparrow chants a song of soft hands grasping time.

This is a time for us, for our radiance.

For the earth to pause to gaze back at herself.

For the dust to fall and remain lost. ~ Hannah Rifkin

Violet Moore

[1]

The House’s Glow Two pairs of sopping snow boots lie haphazardly by the door The boy’s and the girl’s cold, compact bodies crumble in front of the fire Pixels of snow melt on the tips of their hair They introduce their frozen fingertips to the orange flames’ glow Empty mugs stand on the soft wooden table, waiting to be filled With steaming hot chocolate to put the children’s wishes to sleep On top of the fireplace, snow-drenched mittens sleep The abandoned snowman waits outside the door Wishing his hat wasn’t made of snow, while inside the mugs are filled And placed by the children who giggle in front of the fire The girl slowly lifts the drink to her blue lips and delights in its steamy glow A thick blanket is wrapped around her shoulders and covers her head like hair The snowman waits outside wishing that he had hair Inside a woman with thick dark hair rests on a couch with her blue-eyed baby in deep sleep A man with snow colored hair sits on a chair under a lamp’s steady glow Not understanding the book in his tired hands, he closes it like a door The boy and the girl sprawl, stomachs pressed to the carpeted floor before the fire The boy puts his blue crayon down, his coloring book is filled The mugs by the fire are not refilled The woman on the couch closes her eyes and strokes her baby’s delicate hair The boy and the girl tell jokes in front of the chuckling fire Outside, the snowman wishes he had a snug, quilt-covered bed in which to sleep He wishes he had hands with thumbs so he could open the door And feel the house’s glow The boy stands up and walks in socks to the door His brown eyes meet the snowman’s pebble eyes and he wishes he could bring the snowman inside to warm up by the fire A woman with sand-colored hair Puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder and assures him he can play with the snowman again tomorrow and his gap-toothed grin glows His sandy-haired mother smiles too, glad that his hopes have been fulfilled In front of the fire, the crayon in the girl’s coloring hand sleeps The understanding man puts a brown log into the fire [2]

He looks at the woman and the blue-eyed baby and he glows In his arms, the girl is asleep In the warm house, soon all the beds are filled The empty mugs stay patiently in front of the fire The snowman stays on the other side of the door The people dream nothing and the night is fire-filled In the darkness, the house still glows, and pillows hide under dozing hair Outside, the snow doesn’t sleep, and all night it knocks on the door ~ Jo Viemeister

Rehana Hirji

[3]

Lili Thomases

The Writers Writers are storytellers. When they speak, people listen. They can tell their stories to thousands of people at once; as they read aloud, the words thread together until we cannot tell where the real world ends and their false world begins. Come sit by my side, and I’ll tell you a story.

They know how to make the silver smoke of words unfurl and twist into the air above their heads. Opalescent wisps and curls, up, up into the darkness.

Or, some pick up certain stalks from within the mess of grass at their feet. Make a knot here, there. The grass meshes together slowly in intricate patterns. Then the writers look up, and a story is suddenly laid out in front of them. A complicated, endless woven mat that disappears out into the haze.

Believe me, this is true. I have seen it. ~ Saskia Globig

[4]

The Musician I once knew a man as a young boy I see him again from time to time In his room I listen to Golden strings pulled up and down Up and down As if his hands are threading a needle on the neck of a tamed instrument Blurry fingers dancing across the surface of the chords When sewing slows Only then can I see the magic unfold I sit there watching the musician Contemplating how what he does is possible I close my eyes and can see the notes flowing through my mind Each inflection, diverse from the next, forms a stable structure A simple modern bedroom becomes Carnegie Hall The musician Becomes a magician And with an illusionist’s sleight of hand he improvises So perfectly it feels already mastered The sound gracefully reverberates off of my eardrums A thought penetrates the moment My senses return A grumbling in my stomach Breaks the spell “Do you want to get Halal tonight? ” The magic stops.

The magician turns his head So we are face to face “My friends aren’t here.”

He grasps his instrument And the magic resumes I stare into regret filled emptiness For having thoughtlessly ended the concoction For now the magician’s trick is on me.

Hannah Weinstein

~ Nicholas Cleves [5]

Gentleman’s Disguise We’re boxed inside a style with sugar coated smiles And fancy colored ties Our briefcases and files are just to keep us miles From the fire in our eyes Oh, we’ll start another war and call ourselves mature But when the day is over we’ll be younger than before They’ll tell us that we’re wise ‘cause they cannot recognize Our gentleman’s disguise, it’s all a bunch of lies To keep us all from doing what society decries But under our attire, we’re just victims of desire ‘Cause the urges that we feel, the money we would steal The people we would murder for a child or a meal So why not criticize the chaos in our eyes, our gentleman’s disguise?

We’re stuck inside a fashion that tries to hide our passion to gain ourselves respect Yet behind our silly style, we all are in denial of what no one can neglect ‘Cause everybody understands our mutual demands, Yet we hide ourselves in sorrow just to shake each other’s hands While we both do recognize the truth that underlies Our gentleman’s disguise, it’s foolish more than wise Why must we keep each other from what isn’t a surprise?

And when someone doesn’t conceal the urges that they feel We’ll make a great big deal and make them feel ashamed, And though we’ve hid it better, we’ve done nothing but the same But we’ll never get the blame, we’ll look different in their eyes With our gentleman’s disguise We’re living in a nation that lures us with temptation To show our other side.

‘Cause every presentation with commercial information says there’s nothing we should hide If you’re tempting us today, then tell us it’s okay To do the things we want to as result of what you say If you’re gonna advertise, then don’t you be surprised When our gentleman’s disguise has bid us its goodbyes, And when everyone without it is an outcast in your eyes That’s the negative effect when you obscure what you expect And me, I do not care if we do or do not wear The costumes that we’re given for the problems that we share But the change ain’t up to me, it’s our own society, For they simply must agree what’s acceptable and wise ‘Cause if they only showed our eyes what they wouldn’t criticize, No more would I despise our gentleman’s disguise ~ Matt Glickman [6]

It’s so cold here.

At night the winds howl And the lightning illuminates the sky.

Voices

The shutters bang back and forth And I pull the covers up to my chest.

I close my eyes and imagine you by my side.

I wish you were here.

In the morning, The air is fresh.

The sky is a brilliant blue.

It is damp outside.

Fog hangs low. I cannot see Three feet in front of me.

Today I hung the laundry out to dry And watched it blow in the wind.

The trenches smell of mildew, Our clothes wet, never dry; We are soaked to the bone.

The sounds of birds chirping filled my ears.

The only sounds I hear are explosions, People screaming in pain.

Down the road Mrs. Green’s children play, Laughing and screaming at each other.

I wish I could hear the sound of your voice.

There is so much death.

Today a man died-Stepped on a land mine.

I see the pictures of young men blown up, The countless names of the dead.

I hope you are safe-I cannot be sure If I will survive.

Your letters keep me going.

I wait for your letters, I rush to the mailbox, I rip them open, Always excited and nervous, My hands shaking Heart racing.

I hope you are alright.

At night the wind howls, And the sky is black.

It is quiet here tonight.

The stars are out.

The sound of planes flying over my head…

The sound of crickets…

Put me to bed. ~ Lucia Zerner

[7]

I Look at Life

Jacey Mossack

I look at life through a piece of glass. When I look at the bark of a tree, or the lines in a flower, I see things not all people can, or want, to see. I look at the imagery of life. I see a picture when I look at the clouds; I see an instant or a flash, not a moment. I see pictures.

I look at life through photography.

Seeing the world through the lens of a camera gives me a different perspective or point of view. It encourages me to look at things most people wouldn’t notice. It makes me look at the dew in the morning and the stars in the night. I see the rain dropping into a puddle, and I embrace the single moment of a picture. This is the perfect moment, the moment that makes me love photography.

Each picture has an imperfection, whether it is a speck of dust or the blurriness of a tree branch, and I learn from each one. Imperfection is what makes each photo for me. It gives me the opportunity to improve or change one instant, both in the picture and in life.

The beauty of photography is the emotion that evolves with each picture. Each picture I take is an instant of time I’ll remember. Instead of imagining a memory, I have a memory.

The beauty of photography is being able to capture both the raw emotion and the hidden beauty of both my picture and my feelings. I look at life through the instance of a picture.

Photography is not a place for perfection, but a place for honesty. Capturing an instant of pure emotion, whether it is love or hatred, is about truth. In photography, even hatred can be beautiful. Photography allows me to express my emotions through the lens of a camera and transfer my feelings into the details of an image and the composition of the shot.

I look at the imagery of life. Looking through the glass of a lens shows me the honesty in life. ~ Josey Stuart

[8]

[9]

KERabANIA MURILLO-MALDONADO

Pia Mileaf-Patel

Isabel Terkuhle

Impression She has fallen asleep on the overstuffed, re-upholstered couch that is now a dark maroon color but was once a nice shade of red. She is propped up on a faded down pillow, her faced turned against the soft linen of the case. The flickering light, which she meant to fix before she dozed off, remains on and shines brightly on her back and shoulders. Her arms lie limp on both sides of her body and one hand grasps a thick novel that had been recommended by the Sunday Book Review. Though she has only been asleep for perhaps an hour, her face has turned to a flushed, pale shade of white porcelain. Her speckled green eyes are dormant behind her curved, playful eyelashes. Her thin red lips, which are the only welcoming hint of lingering color on her face, are slightly parted. Her ears peek out of her nestled head, as if to listen. Maybe she is listening, listening to the ghosts she fears as they whisper past. They brush over her clothes, rustle her hair, and fill her dreams with icy cold snow and long walks home on roads that have been long forgotten.

After what seems like years, she emerges from her dreams and realizes that she hasn’t had anything to eat. She places her feet on the wooden floor and pads over to the cupboard. Her feet are hesitant on the cold linoleum of the kitchen. There is no food in the cupboard, only pots and pans. She will have to go to the store. Just then she remembers that she has forgotten to pay the heating bill.

He is the superintendent of a dingy tenement building on Carmine and Bedford Street. He has fallen asleep at his desk under the dim overhead light. He pays no mind to the buzzing of the old bulbs and the clanking of the broken radiator as his head rests on the dusty desk. His weathered, age worn face lies on his frail hands. He grows restless in his sleep. His eyes drift open and glance at the clock. It is many hours into the night and time for him to go home. I am growing too old for this, he thinks as he gathers his coat, bag, pen, and paper file. These hands have worked and fixed, these eyes have measured and memorized, but these pockets have never been full. He lives upstairs, on the fourth floor, but before he retires to his home, he trudges to the front door and out into the cold night.

He has nothing to eat for dinner and needs to go to the store. He remembers that he does not receive his paycheck until Saturday morning.

They are so close, but their paths will never cross. They will be forever alone, but forever in need of each other. They are yearning for one another, for they have known each other before, once long ago. But now, they are merely ghosts to one another: a soft, faint recollection of times when they were together and memories didn’t haunt them. ~ Emma Rose

[10]

The Backyard That Has a Memory

What do you think about when you stand outside on the splintery deck in the fresh morning? With the breeze just cool enough to make you shiver, and the air clean, free of the smog and the heat that roll in with the afternoon?

What do you see? Is it the lone pink tulip, the nervous daffodils, and the brazen hyacinths that have poked through the ground? They promise spring, summer even, but it seems so far off.

Or do you see games of badminton played with mini racquets on humid days, the birdie forever flying into the next yard, over and over again? Or the yellow puppy running through a few inches of snow, catching the ice-caked tennis ball that bounces off the frosty fence? The summer you learned how to make a chain of clover flowers, and then couldn’t do it again? The way you stood, dripping wet from the sprinkler, your feet burning on that very deck warmed by the sun, thinking about what color you were going to paint your toenails?

Is this what you see?

~ Saskia Globig

Ketzel Feasley

[11]

The Elevator’s Lament I stood with my toes to the edge and waited on the dividing line. A silver strip of separation between hallway and elevator.

The soles of my ill-fitting shoes dug deep into the red shag, the hallway behind me dotted with lighter impressions of the same rubber-soled stamp. My feet bore down on the carpet out of spite. I looked up at the skylight And saw what of the sky there was to be seen.

To feel and to see and to wait to be taken away is to fear the silver lining of the edge.

Two arrows. One points toward the skylight, the other towards shag. Both I press, both are lit.

I wait and wonder which direction the elevator will chose to take and if it will let me ride along with it. My feet pine for movement but are restrained by curiosity. Fear and loathing in the hallway.

I stared down both ends of the hallway Waiting and watching and wondering. Standing in a red sea of shag. The tips of my feet welded to the dividing line of the edge.

I felt through my toes the rumbling of the elevator as it moved upward and came towards me from a distance far below. The ever open skylight.

As the elevator came to a stop before me, two arrows, two lights, switched off and lost luminescence. I stared down both ends of the hallway and waited and wondered. Perhaps no elevator had come to pick me up. I wanted to see, to understand, to know what it meant to jump the edge and travel to a place decided by the elevator and not by my own two feet.

To be taken above or below the silver lining of the edge.

I hoped, perhaps, that I might be elevated upwards and taken away to yet another hallway above. To stand with two feet on another colored shag and stare upwards into yet another skylight and perhaps even, another sky. To see what of the sky there was still to be seen.

I did not trust the elevator but waited nonetheless for its doors to open. So that I might be able to lift my feet and step over the dividing line and into something else. I saw [12]

the two arrows, the two lights, both re-lit.

The rumble of cogs and gears, the sound of wayward movement. How strange that the elevator chose never to open. To leave me stranded on the silver lining of the edge.

What of the elevator? What of the skylight?

My feet remained implanted, undiscerning, sinking deeper into the red shag of the hallway, wasted by curiosity and wonder. What could be seen? What, if anything, lay beyond the edge? ~ Anonymous

Beautiful Deception The fortune teller examines the faint lines on a young woman’s hands, A random configuration of cracks, given meaning by swindlers…like me “Hello I am Ira, read my future?”

She begs for the truth, yet is still willing to accept a lie, “A prostitute,” selling herself for the luxury of ignorance She spends her last coins on false hope And it is my duty to lie and offer shadows of a better future They call me Gypsy, but I am alike to the Father of the Church Serving persuasive whispers of a heaven, a better tomorrow…

That neither he nor I knows exists “Fortune teller, please tell me of my fortune?”

She begs for stories of a knight in shining armor, Like a child craving a bedtime story, Except youthful Ira pleads for me to lull her into ignorance…

Rather than sleep And it is my duty to sin, like the Father who offers beautiful deception, As in unison, we pretend the universe has something planned for us ~ Jesse Gre Rubinstein [13]

Lily Gavin

This Great City This great city.

This glamorous party of a town.

This diverse grid of culture.

This monumental masterpiece.

This elegant, captivating city.

These great people.

These smart-mouthed wise-guys.

These chic fashionistas.

These fabulous individuals.

These exotic, indescribable, piece-of-work, great people.

These great people.

These never-sleeping streets.

This enticing, alluring, amazing, wonderful, lovely place.

This great, great city. ~ Emma Rose

[14]

City Girl

You can hear the pride in my voice. “Born and raised in New York City.” My smirks when they ask me if I really do ride the subway by myself. My shrugs when they tell me how jealous they are. “It’s really not that special.” But, deep down, I know I’m lying. I will always be loyal to my city.

“I’m such a New Yorker,” I pronounce every time my camp friends visit. We’ll walk down Bleecker Street, and I’ll point to that building on the corner. “That used to be the Thai restaurant that was always empty.” Now it’s becoming a designer clothing store, and I don’t really mind, but I miss that restaurant that my family ate at maybe once – or maybe never. We walk along Bleecker and I explain that the street used to be filled with antique shops and boutiques. Now it’s been invaded by chain stores. On our walk, I count the Marc Jacobs stores for my guest; there are five. Tourists have taken over these blocks, an area that was once my little secret.

My New York is those old elementary school traditions. I would play pretend at Bleecker playground with my two best friends while our babysitters watched from afar. We were so young; those were the days when we believed anything that anyone told us. We would go to Chelsea Market after school sometimes and sit in Amy’s Bread playing rockpaper-scissors while the babysitters ate sticky buns and had friendly conversations of their own. Only later, when I lost touch with both friends, would I come to realize how much those simple times meant to me.

I first realized that I had fallen in love with the city when I was in a cab racing up the West Side highway on a cool summer night. The windows were down and I could smell the fresh river air, feel it whipping my hair against my face so I could see nothing at all. But I didn’t need to see; all my senses were alive with the thrill that is New York City at night. As yellow lights glowed in tall apartment buildings, as the whoosh of the ride filled my ears, I let the pureness of the moment sink in, overwhelming me with unadulterated peace.

These stories create a New York City that is truly ours, only for the residents who have city blood coursing through their veins. It’s a different New York than that of tourists with “I LOVE NY” t-shirts. New York City is all those crazy subway stories, the complaints about noisy nights (even though no one really minds), the homey diners that never let you down, the corner delis where you’re always recognized, the cab rides, the neighbors you may never meet. And no one who has never lived here will understand.

Family friends always ask me if I think I’ll go to college in the city. My response is usually, “Probably not,” but they’re asking the wrong question. Because it doesn’t matter where I go; NYC will always be with me. New York has no ends, only beginnings. ~ Maya Kaufman

[15]

Catnip Dear Calvin,

Callie Richards

I thought of you today.

Dad gave treats to Ubu, the ones you love.

She didn’t finish.

You would have.

I hope you got the flowers, so beautiful.

I also sent some catnip.

When did they burn you?

Does your soul really get ripped out?

I hope not.

I miss you, you don’t know.

I wear black everyday, Even on hot sticky days.

Stinky Cheese

Love, Juno

I’m a stinky cheese I come from Murray’s And I’m a cheese no one will buy

~ Juno Hobbs

More likely than not If I was just bought All day I wouldn’t just cry If only someone Kid, man, or woman Would pick me up off the shelf

Pedro Ramirez

The other cheeses jest Say I’m worse than the rest But I know that I’d buy myself If I was just cheddar It would be so much better I would’ve been bought the first day But instead I just wail Because I grow stale And I’ll probably be thrown away ~ Eliana Cohen-Orth [16]

The Devil in the Suit

Mr. Manford walked to his office every day with asperity, while his swollen fingers, more fat than flesh, pounded indefatigably at his Blackberry. Slowing his pace to a near stop every few seconds as his sausage-like fingers pressed the wrong key, the disquietude this caused him only served to increase his ever-persistent asperity. Mr. Manford, being a man of considerable expanse, had the efficacy to almost preternaturally hinder the movements of the entirety of the block with such pauses. But his repugnance for these whom he deemed plebeian in stature only made these instances enjoyable. He felt like a Titan of Grecian legend standing among insects, whom he in his audacity could turn to dust. But today was unwonted. Today, for which he had planned so sedulously, his insidious plan in which he would be the mountebank, would be realized. He would augur to his clientele the success of a selected corporate entity, which would in fact face an inauspicious doom. While proving inimical to the clientele, in his sagacity he would play the other hand, and thereby collect a superfluous profit.

Upon concluding his walk to his office, ignoring the disgruntled “ants” he had disrupted, he noticed a man seated in a wheelchair blocking the entry. Had the day been any other, he may have tenaciously pushed the cripple aside and continued through the gleaming glass door, but, mollified by his impending success instead, with a gay skip, or as close to one as a three hundred pound man could manage, he pushed the man though the portal, almost gliding across the polished marble floor. The receptionist, an employee for thirty years, not inured to this manner of entrance, watched in awe as Mr. Manford inquired of the disabled gentleman if he would care to come up to his office to enjoy a drink. The man looked fraught but Mr. Manford insisted tenaciously.

Once in his office, Mr. Manford knelt down, not without great difficulty to retrieve a bottle of champagne from cabinet behind his desk. Suddenly Mr. Manford noticed a great vicissitude in the room, like the cold breath of Death himself upon his neck. He turned, and for an evanescent moment he saw the physiognomy of the cripple no longer confined to his chair, then saw an undeniably somniferous fist.

He awoke to see the man standing over him. Manford was paralyzed, by fear or more material bindings he was not sure. “Let me loose, you scurrilous fiend!” he cried. The man laughed. “Ego deus ex machina,” retorted the man, still smiling. The cabalistic Latin construction sent a chill down Manford’s spine. But without despondency he replied acridly, “Would you have me apotheosize you? You are no god!” With the final word he spat and watched as the spittle darkened in a spot upon the carpeted floor. The man laughed again and spoke this time in English: “Gods can be men, but so too can devils. Are you a devil, Mr. Manford?” Manford remained silent. “I have come to bring you repentance,” continued the man. “So kill me!” squealed Manford. Sweat began to pool in between the layers of his gluttonous flesh. The man only laughed. “And save you from ignominy? No, I have a much more lurid sentence for you, devil. I shall gouge out your eyes so you may no longer enjoy beauty, I will cut off your tongue so you may never lace the air with your lies, I will mutilate you face so the world can see you for the ugly beast you are. But I leave you ears, so you can here the cries of children and those of grown men as the pass you in the street. And so, devil, you shall return to hell.” ~ Ivo Illic [17]

KK at Thanksgiving I run up the five flights to KK’s tenement on the Lower East Side and stop in front of her door, panting. When I turn the knob it falls off. As I walk into the apartment, a breeze from an open window blows against my face. I drop the cool bronze knob onto KK’s wooden table and hurry into her room.

“Little Julie!” KK squeals, “How are you? Are you ready to go?”

I nod, beaming. Her room smells like bed sheets in the winter that are warm and inviting, calling you back even though you have to get up. I glance around at the rows of combat boots, the thick knitted sweaters, black jeans and vintage rock t-shirts that are stacked up in neat piles in her closet. Her window is open, and on her desk is her massive collection of nail polish. KK is wearing a least one silver ring on each finger and has on about a half dozen necklaces. Her pointy silver jaguar bracelet digs into my back as she gives me a hug.

“Let me just get on my coat,” she says, leaving the room.

KK never has to put on her shoes because she is always wearing them. The black leather combat boots are always laced up and ready to go. And even in the summer KK is always wearing sweaters. I think it’s because she is eternally cold. As we walk over to Takahachi she asks me how my summer was and if I’m looking forward to school. I realize that I’ve only seen KK a few times this summer, and I have no idea what she’s spent the last few months doing.

Takahachi is the Japanese restaurant that we always go to when I visit her neighborhood. The walls are a light orange and give a cheery and cozy feel. The black and white photos on the wall are of buildings and scenic rooftops in New York.

When the waiter asks us what we want to order, I say, “May I please have the Udon soup?”

“Hi! Can I have the spicy tuna tartar? Thanks,” KK says. She sweeps her soft orange hair behind her ear and straightens her bangs.

When the waiter eventually comes back out of the noisy kitchen, I know that at any moment, I’ll be stuffing my face with delicious Udon. The bowl comes, steaming. The long noodles fall out as I bring the spoon to my mouth, sending drops of hot water onto my wrist.

On my second attempt I act more quickly and manage to get the warm and delicious noodles into my mouth. As I eat, my whole body starts to warm up and I become less hungry. The soup is too good to stop eating, however, so I continue until there is nothing left.

Now that my sister is in college, I barely spend time with her anymore, except for the occasional drop-in because she is about to babysit in our building or has to do laundry.

So I really like getting to spend a dinner or event together, just me and her. Japanese is KK’s favorite type of food. Whenever I eat it I feel like we have something in common. It’s nice to think that something simple, like a meal, can make you feel closer to your family. ~ Julia Noonan

[18]

A Child Sits A child sits.

A child sees.

The children sit.

The children see.

The child wonders.

The children don’t think.

The children play, They don’t fathom a wink.

What one wasn’t showing, Unduly aware.

The other unknowing, Not giving a care.

The unknowing laugh.

The unknowing play.

The aware understands, It’s not a fun day.

The man tries to help, As time passes by, But then he gives up: Individuals cry.

The man has died.

The men have died.

The men were happy.

The man was not.

The children stood, The child sat, The child saw, Only had one flaw.

Ketzel Feasley

The child wanders.

The child ponders.

The child is sad, But the children are glad.

I Saw It I saw it.

That blue flash of light.

It still haunts me…

Gives me knots in my stomach.

Makes me shiver, Twitch, Feel sick.

Worried it will come back again.

No one believes me, But it’s true-I saw it, I really did.

That blue flash of light Will forever haunt me. ~ Avery Kutis

~ Margot Zuckerman [19]

I am walking home. My little sister Delphine’s hand is in mine. She is tired; it seems as if her legs are too weary for an eleven year old girl. The walk from school is long, and we always count after each kilometer. Delphine stops to runs up a tree. I tell her that she can’t afford to miss a minute that we could be spending with Gerard, our father. An hour a week is rare enough. Today is the day he is visiting from Paris. As I say that, she jumps down and grabs my hand again as we continue walking. We do not talk, instead thinking about how tonight is going to be, wondering if we will get a kiss from Gerard.

Delphine looks up at me and says, “Today we were talking about our families in class.

All my friends told their parents’ stories.”

I do not know how to answer so the silence stretches.

“I said that Gerard lived with his parents in an apartment in Paris,” she explains. “And he could climb on the rubber Eiffel tower at the Luxembourg park.”

She looks like she is deep in this fantasy but as soon as she looks at me, she snaps out of it. I look at her with pity. I feel bad because I cannot give her that life.

I tell her, “No Delphine, that is not how our father lived.”

“What happened, Olivier? What was it like?” she responds.

I hesitate but realize she deserves the truth.

“Gerard was a young Jew during the war. He and his family went to the non-German half of France to live with some relatives to flee. He stayed there a while but then the Germans arrived. As the Nazi army took over more and more of France, Gerard and his family had to move. He was in hiding. Until the Germans took over all of France, they ended up hiding in a forest.”

“Our father is a hero. I had no idea he went through so much. How did he survive?” she asks.

I kick the biggest rock I can see and watch it skid across the road. “The same way thousands, maybe even millions survived. It’s not like he was the only one.” I can hear the anger in my voice even though it isn’t my intention. I just want to walk fast, get home and most importantly, be alone. Delphine does not understand. She is young and ignorant. We do not talk the rest of the way.

I can see the forest that surrounds our house ahead. As we get closer, we feel the darkness of the millions of never ending trees. Our house is deep in that darkness. It is far from the world. I see the front door and a fancy car parked in the driveway. Gerard is here.

He actually came. Delphine starts to walk faster but I hold her back and we walk the last steps together.

Gerard is waiting for us in the living room. He is sitting on our old wooden chair but he makes it look like a throne, as if the world is his. I feel like when we walk by him, he will barely acknowledge us. He is looking through papers, still wearing his suit and scarf. I know he will get a phone call from some businessman and say he has to leave.

“Good day, little people,” he awkwardly says. “I have been waiting. What took you two so long? Did you get lost?”

“No,” I say. “We are always home at this hour. We are just coming back from school.”

[20]

Iniko Thornell

“Hi Gerard,” Delphine says, trying to be cute and charming. She fakes a smile and shows off her dimples. I hate when she does that. He does not deserve her love. He is never here. It would be too easy if all he needed to do was drop by once a week or drop off our Christmas presents. I do not even think he picks them out.

Our house is silent. Natasha is in the kitchen cooking dinner. She kisses my cheek and smiles as she hands me my wet towel. Her skin feels warm. I smell the gratin from the hot oven.

Natasha tickles Delphine and they both laugh. She is our babysitter but she gives us more love than our parents do. That’s what she’s paid for.

“Dinner, darlings, get to the table,” Natasha announces in an unusually fancy voice. I walk into the dining room and see candles, napkins covered with flowers, and a wine glass. This feels nice but wrong. Natasha never puts candles on for us. I stand and stare at the flickering flame.The candles look too nice. I blow them out.

“Go into the kitchen right now, Olivier,” Natasha whispers angrily.

I follow her to the kitchen and she slaps my cheeks, telling me to stop acting like a brat.

She says that I should be happy he came. I should be happy that the great businessman, Gerard Bremond, spent his precious time to come all the way to Chevreuse.

I hate this! Why does everyone act like this is okay? Why does everyone act as if our father rejecting us is normal?

“Okay,” I say in a low tone.

We go back to the kitchen and sit down. I sit next to Delphine, across from Gerard. He seems too far away, like he is not here. All of our glasses are empty so I go to the kitchen to get more milk. On my way back, I overhear Delphine speaking to Gerard.

“Olivier told me about when you were a child,” she says boldly, ignorant of how she sounds. The silence stops me from entering the room. After a moment Delphine continues, “You were hiding in the forest. Are we hiding in a forest, too?”

Suddenly I hear a spoon clanging to the floor. I hope they will not notice me as I watch closely.

“Gerard?” she asks in a small voice. I want to come out of the kitchen to break the silence. I do not want Gerard to feel trapped but I cannot move.

[21]

“You cannot compare…,” he responds. “ It’s okay now. Those woods were not like others. The trees here help you breathe. You need that air.”

She looks at him, unsatisfied.

I have never heard him speak this way. I hear the fear in his voice. He does not need to be scared; today is different. If he still has not let go of his fear of forests, why did he make us live in one? It is like he is repeating what he was taught. He is making us live as he lived.

I walk in. I sit down and pour milk in Gerard’s glass. He smiles and seems relieved.

He picks up the spoon from the floor and pretends to lick it, making a joke. Delphine giggles.

“Olivier, will you play with me after dinner?” Delphine asks me in her child’s voice.

Gerard quickly answers before I can, “I will.” We are as surprised as he was. My sister and I look at each other. Something new is happening. I look out the window and am surprised to see a ray of light. Most days the trees hide it all. I squint my left eye so the light won’t be too piercing.

“Let’s all play, Papa.” The words come out before I realize what they are. He pulls his chair closer and I feel that he is really there. ~ Alma Bremond

to

Have

it

Yes, I have it.

ADHD can be good.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m “retarded.”

Um...there are many good things.

Being creative, thoughtful, caring, curious, enthusiastic.

Many other good things.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.

Yes, I went to a special school that specialized in that kind of stuff.

Yeah, called Gateway.

No, I don’t still go there.

Believe it or not, I go to a mainstream school now.

People who have ADHD aren’t always hyper.

Because I take medication.

Yeah, sometimes I can’t concentrate that well.

Yes I try!

Of course I try.

But yes, it’s hard.

No, I’m fine the way I am.

I’m actually quite proud of it. ~ Isaac Weiss-Meyer Inspired by Diana Burns’ poem “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question” [22]

Guillermo Castello

I Just Happen

Sunshine You find the world’s true beauty in its sunshine Whether it is a spring dawn When the dew sparkles like teardrops on the grass As though it is crying with happiness from the sun’s warmth Or a sunset where the clouds are puffy with heat An artist gliding across the sky, paintbrush in hand Leaving a trail of colors far behind Old memories, long forgotten, never to be looked at again A sunny morning when the sun comes shining through your open window Tempting you to bask in its light To let your eyes sparkle like diamonds Then fade as a cloud covers the sun An evil smile painted across his face.

Paths

~ Mia Silvan-Grau

I am a network of the paths and people I chose and those I didn’t Like the branches of a tree a river delta there are so many ways to choose from A decision I make an impulse an instinct twists me in a different direction push-pull up through the branches And which is the right way to choose If I knew it wouldn’t be a choice Hannah Rifkin

~ Saskia Globig [23]

There it was. It was a dull blue, scratched up and worn out. Its engine was on, and light gray smoke puffed from the back end of the pickup truck. It was a dream come true, but at the same time it couldn’t get any worse than this. It was quiet in my house, the kind of quiet someone would expect at 2:30 in the morning. The air was still and stuffy; it must have been 90 degrees.

The heavy Arizona air clouded my head and made it hard to think straight. I knew that what it came down to was this one decision. Stay here and waste my chances or get in the car and never look back.

It was a dumb idea and we knew it: an old truck, four 15-year-olds and the Mohave Desert. It sounded like a story destined for failure. And punishment, lots and lots of punishment.

I forced my feet to step forward but the voice in my head was screaming like a teakettle.

“Come on Liz! It’s gonna be light out by the time you get in the car!” Ashton screamed.

I could see he was fidgeting with his blond hair that badly needed a trim, and I knew he was nervous. I saw two girls I didn’t know sitting in the trunk of the pick-up truck. One was a blonde and the other a brunette, both unbelievably pretty. I looked down at myself and felt a pang of regret at what I had chosen to wear. I had on an ill-fitting black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the logo of my favorite band (which I am sure nobody knew) front and center, and ripped jeans that were dusty and cuffed haphazardly at the bottom. I wore my all time favorite combat boots that were still a size too small, but that didn’t bother me much. I took a step forward and then a step back, mulling over the idea that this might be the worst decision of my life. I was excited to be with Ashton and the prospect that maybe by the end of this trip we would become best friends like we used to be. Then, suddenly, my little dream bubble popped when I remembered the two model-like girls in the back of the truck, with their flawless tanned skin and absolutely gorgeous hair. I was sure Ashton had other girls on his mind.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the soft purr and rumble that came from the old 1960’s pick-up truck. I guess it was time to go. I stepped forward right on the border where the pavement of my house turned into the tar of the road. I looked down, then forward, then down again. I heard a sarcastic sigh, which I guessed was coming from one of the girls.

“Are you coming or are you not?” I heard the blond one say.

“Cuz we are so not waiting for your...,” the brunette one began.

“Paige, relax,” Ashton warned before Paige got any further. “ Ugh,” the two girls said in unison.

“You too, Charlotte,” he said, clearly directing this comment towards the blonde.

They suddenly fell silent. Ashton seemed to have some weird authority over them. I walked towards the truck with an air of confidence and opened the old car door while giving both of them a smug look. They looked away. Clearly they were not used to defeat.

I looked over at Ashton’s slightly tan face and stared into his deep blue eyes hoping to see just a glint of his old self. For a second I thought I saw something, but then as soon as it had come it was gone, and his blank unforgiving look once again covered his face. He quickly turned around to face forward then breathed out.

“This is going to be a long trip,” he muttered. ~ Iniko Thornell [24]

[25]

Lilah Van Rens AidEn Curtiss

It Was Bright It was a bright sunny day on the Aegean. The water was calm, and there were no clouds in the sky, only a slight breeze out on the clear reflective sea. Our ship, the Andromeda, was well equipped with everything we needed to voyage to Alexandria, Egypt. Off the port side I could see the earth curl in the distance and could hear birds soar over our heads; the day couldn’t get any better.

Then all of a sudden the sun disappeared, and clouds gathered in a swirling formation. Rain started to fall. The light drizzle was followed by a heavy downpour. Whether we liked it or not, we had just found ourselves in the heart of a category six tropical storm. The name of the storm was Scarlet, and she didn’t hold back at all. I was drenched within seconds. There was a new strange taste in my mouth--a mixture of rain and salt water.

Giant waves crashed against the ship knocking us off our course to Alexandria. As the ship rocked from side to side I found myself slamming against a mast that held one of the jib sails.

Everyone aboard the ship was in a state of panic, but I didn’t lose hope for survival. Just a few meters away from us was a creepy looking ship that appeared out of nowhere. It looked abandoned and it probably was, but we had no other chance to survive since the main sails of our ship had torn right down the center. After we climbed onto the passing ship, a lightning bolt shot out of the sky and hit the Andromeda right in the center, splitting the boat into multiple parts that floated away with the crashing waves. Everything we brought and owned went down with the Andromeda, so we were left with nothing but each other.

Relieved that we had left the Andromeda, we went below deck to investigate. I found a dark hallway with multiple doors lined all the way down it. It was so dark that I couldn’t see where I was going after my first few steps. I began to get worried; we were supposed to be on our way to Alexandria for an annual get together to talk about our two great cities, Alexandria and Athens, and to negotiate about trade between our two cities.

Tropical storm Scarlet went on for about a week. It wasn’t like any storm I had experienced and I had been in a few. There was no telling when it would end. We had lost our brave captain in a wave that swept him off the deck of the ship, and after this loss I assumed his position as captain of this voyage. It was my duty to get my crew safely to shore.

When the rain finally stopped, the clouds moved by faster, letting spots of sunshine peek through. The dark clouds went away and the ship glided out of the storm. Although we were safe, we still had a long way to go, and the ship was in no condition to sail anymore. Luckily for us we stumbled upon Crete. As we docked the ship, people on the dock stared up in awe at the torn sails, broken wood, and severe damage.

A local fisherman was kind enough to let us borrow his ship to complete our journey. We set sail the next day and made it to Alexandria four weeks later with no problem. When we docked in Alexandria’s ports we were greeted by the village with welcoming gifts like supplies, goods and food. After another week we were finally ready to set off for home. I was promoted from first mate to captain of my very own ship. I felt accomplished. A carving of myself was drawn on the wall of gold in my honor. We held a burial for the departed captain we had lost earlier on our journey, and then life carried on better than ever. It was if the storm never happened and everything was right with the world. Our relationship with Alexandria was better than ever. Greece was stronger than it had ever been before. ~ Ally Klemer [26]

Bite (Excerpted)

The sun was setting. We were headed for a cave not far ahead of us.

“What was that?” I asked Dan nervously.

“Probably nothing,” his eyes flashed with realization. “Don’t freak out again, okay, Ash? You need to be calm and do what I say,” he commanded with a nervous edge to his usually confident voice.

“Um, why?” I asked, even though I already knew something bad was going to happen.

He opened his mouth to answer, but I heard the hiss first. Dan grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the way. “Run!” he shouted. I wriggled my wrist free from his grasp and bolted up the trail.

My legs felt like they were on fire, and my eyes burned from the frosty wind. I wanted to sit and wipe off the beading sweat on my face, but I couldn’t stop for even a second. I could feel a presence behind me, but didn’t dare turn around and see what it was. I looked up ahead of me, surveying my surroundings. Dan was up ahead. I saw a rock on my path. I went to jump over it to escape the beast chasing us, but miscalculated how far it was. I tripped and fell flat into the snow. I flipped over and tried to get to my feet, but a great white snake was coming towards me at top speed. I closed my eyes just in time to feel a searing pain stab me in the shoulder as the snake bit into me. I felt paralyzed and could tell there was poison spreading through my body like flames, freezing my blood. I screamed in horror.

That second, I felt a wrenching in my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see the pale, twisty snake’s body thrashing in the air as it was hurtled off the cliff by some unseen force.

PEDRO RAMIREZ

~ Pia Mileaf-Patel

[27]

I’m a Nobody I’m a nobody as well.

Does nobody + nobody = somebody?

Would two darknesses equal light?

Let’s try this out; people would not make pariahs out of us because they’d be fooled into thinking we are somebodies We would be public but we would not stand out either Cheyenne Tobias

Or maybe we shouldn’t care about being a somebody!

Just be!

Instead be like a seagull, which only flies to fly and does not care what it is We would still be nobodies together. ~ Lynette Dent Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poem “I’m Nobody, Who Are You?”

David White

[28]

R.I.P

The word burns on my tongue Breaks my heart And boggles my mind Rest In the grave The place where you remain For all eternity Never to come back to me Under the grass and the gravel That hold you back From the life you lived The children you gave life to You rest In The box under the dirt While we’re up here filled With hurt and pain We say your name in vain LIFE will never be the same Will never be in Peace Since you are deceased Gone with the wind Rather with one last breath Then you hit death Without saying goodbye You died Or should I say just resting in peace ~ Monet Thibou

[29]

Pocono

My mother wanted me on a leash when we were in the city. It turns out that hyperactive five-year-olds and city streets don’t mix very well. When all you want to do is run and climb and find things, it drives a mother insane. A child can’t dash off in a supermarket just because she sees something interesting. And there are times, after a nine hour work day, where it would be so nice if a daughter could sit still instead of using the back of the couch as a jungle gym. The hallways weren’t always supposed to be racetracks; it was okay to stop running and tumbling through them sometimes. But all of the frayed nerves and stress seemed to die down every weekend. As soon as the sun went down on Friday, I would get piled into the car with our bags, already prepped in my pajamas, and we would retreat up to Pocono Farm, the place where my mother spent her childhood and the only time where I was unleashed, wild, and free.

It might have been a farm once, but the name was merely there for the sake of making it feel like we were going somewhere new. There was a farmhouse, a renovated smokehouse that was now a storage place with an extra bedroom, a tool shed, and three fields and a barn that didn’t get any use until my grandmother started to house horses and give riding lessons to people in the area. For that reason, my mother grew up around horses. Many of her own childhood days were spent on the farm, away from the school that she had no passion for, and instead in the stables with the horses who became some of her most important friends. She slept in the hay manger above the stables when she could, and rode almost every day. Although there are no horses anymore, and we live in a city where my mother never expected to live, she still made a conscious effort to go and see her parents: my grandmother, quiet and as sweet as the chocolate she loved, and my grandfather, a brooding man with a hunched back from the polio he had when he was younger. Every weekend when we arrived up at Pocono Farm, I would hop out of the car, kiss my grandmother and hug my grandfather, be rushed to bed, and the next morning my adventure would begin.

I don’t know how many children are allowed to go out into the woods when they’re six years old, but I somehow managed to prove to my mother that I would stay nearby.

Of course, she had to battle me into a bright neon pink sweater so that she could see me, but if that was the only price I had to pay, then that was fine with me. During the colder months of spring, she would tug the sweater onto me and nudge me out the door. I would immediately break out into a run, going to the small wall built into a grassy slope to pick up Wooly Bear caterpillars and giggle as they curled into my hand. I would grab my mother’s old horse figurines from the farmhouse and run out into the woods behind my grandmother’s property to an old abandoned riding ring where she used to teach some of her riding lessons. Although the real horses were long gone, the ones that I clutched to my chest became alive as I reenacted the life of a wild horse out in the West. I would stay out there for who knows how long, only returning obediently when my mother rung a bell [30]

outside the front door. Only then would she be able to make out the speck of bright neon pink that emerged from the green.

When it became too warm for the pink sweater, it didn’t even bother my mother. I still sprinted around the property every weekend. As the sun got hotter and hotter, I spent more time out in the pastures, where I would roll through the Timothy grass and stare up at the giant clouds that rolled overhead. I would come back on my own whim to the wall, where I would rejuvenate with a push-pop that was so deliciously artificial that my lips would be orange and my tongue would be purple. It was during these times that my mother would take me out to the riding ring, and I would slowly be helped up onto June, the last horse my grandmother owned, and walk around the ring. As the days went by, June and I broke into a trot and then a canter. During a few weeks of cantering, my mother finally decided it was time for me to try and gallop, but within a few minutes, June had bucked me off and I fell to the ground. After shakily getting up, I refused to do anything but trot from there on out, and June and I would ride around the ring, stopping briefly so I could pick apples off the tree that hung over the ring, one for me and one for June.

As the leaves fell and the pink sweater became a purple windbreaker, I found myself retreating closer and closer to the house. It wasn’t my mother telling me to do so; it was my own thinking. I had my freedom, and I respected it, but as the temperature lowered, my desire to be closer to warmth, both physical and emotional, grew stronger. I would help gather up the leaves and place them in a large pile, only so I could dive into it when all of it was done. We began to gather stray wood and pile it out in the pasture, whose soil had become hard and the grass so dry that it stung my fingers as they ran across the edges. As the wood piled up, the months got colder and colder and the sky became grayer until the first traces of snow arrived.

Many days were spent inside during the winter. We would read, play card games, and nap in front of a burning fire. There were also days packed with festivities, such as breaking out the old, rickety toboggans and sleds and racing down the hills in the pastures.

Then there were the woodpiles that were finally lit aflame into some of the most spectacular bonfires I have ever seen. I would go out in the feet of snow that covered all of the property, until I couldn’t feel my legs, and then I would retreat back to the farmhouse to soak away my blackish-purple joints in hot, hot water. The days were comforting, relaxing, and only at night would I feel the hysteria of being a young child come over me. As I was tucked into the familiar bed with the wool blanket, patterned almost completely with white sheep except for one that had been dyed black, I would look at the walls where old embroideries of horses and Native Americans hung. As I slept, ladybugs would creep into the room from the windows and cracks in the walls to hide from the cold, and eventually die. I would wake up the next morning with ladybugs, dead, all over me. There was something about not knowing when they would enter or when they would die that terrified me. I knew that they would all just show up sooner or later, littered on my sheets, scattered around my pillow and all over the floor. Small, little black circles that quietly clicked when I moved [31]

Lindsay Seitz

my blanket, or the feeling of that subtle crunch against the wool rug when I put down my feet in the morning. I became so terrified that eventually I needed to move rooms and sleep out on the sleeping porch with my sister, where it was so cold that you needed seven wool blankets and one electric blanket on full power just to keep you warm enough to sleep comfortably.

I still sleep out there, on the sleeping porch. No matter the season, I am there with my sister right across from me. Ever since my grandparents died and my uncle moved in with his family, we haven’t gone to Pocono Farm as much as we used to. And when we do, the pastures aren’t as grand as I remember. The wall isn’t as high. The trees behind the property aren’t as tall as the redwoods anymore; in fact they seem sparse and skinny. The snow isn’t an ocean. The riding ring is gone. The farm as a whole just seems…smaller.

But when I picture it, I imagine it being as big as a country. I remember becoming a brave warrior, fighting dragons and discovering new rocks to turn over, new bird calls to hear. I realize now that I have grown out of my imaginative era and stepped into maturity. I have lost that thrilling sense of adventure that Pocono Farm once held. It is now only an old farm, with nothing but overgrown pastures and a run-down barn filled with garbage.

But I can still feel the little ball of energy in my stomach that is the child I once was getting excited the minute I step onto the farm and smell that clean air again. The chipped walls and creaking floors still make me smile as I enter the farmhouse and kiss my family on their cheeks. And there is still a sense of play. I throw punches at my uncle and struggle as he twists my arm around my back and ruffles my hair. I play old card games and laugh with my cousins. I help my aunt in the kitchen as she prepares a feast for us all. It may not be the same place it once was--full of adventure and never-ending wonder. But it is still a place where nothing is expected of me. A place where I am free to do whatever I want no matter my age, from strolling in the fields to snuggling up with a book, or even still having a small sense of panic when I see a ladybug on the wall. ~ Margot Reed [32]

Steve’s Perilous Journey (Excerpted)

Steve is inside the End World, clueless about what to do. He is standing on a world of air, with no sky and no sun. Steve is terrified; he senses danger, but he knows he will have to toughen up. He must learn to survive and, most importantly, win. As he stares into the black abyss, something registers in the corner of his eye. For some reason his instinct tells him what it is. It is an Ender Dragon. Steve flips around and prepares himself to fight.

This is the biggest battle yet, and he will need more than just a bow and a sword. He will need his brain and his soul.

The huge dragon lunges toward Steve, who is preparing to lash out against the dragon’s powerful fire. Steve dodges the attack and then lunges toward the dragon. The dragon is caught off guard, and in that moment Steve uses his Weakness Enchantment to tire it. Pulling back, confident that he has paralyzed the dragon, he closes his eyes for a moment. Little does he know that the dragon has begun to creep up behind him. Suddenly the beast attacks, ripping his flesh and biting his body. Steve is thrashed from side to side like a ragdoll, and the dragon thinks he has triumphed. In his last moments, Steve realizes that he still has his determination, he still has his fight. He is not going to give up. Swoosh!

The Weakness Enchantment creeps over the dragon and it falls helplessly on its back.

Steve prepares for his final attack but then realizes that the dragon has done far more damage than he thought. His arm has been ripped and torn to the bone; pulsing tendons are visible. He screams in horror, missing his chance to attack. The dragon is now awake, and Steve is now the one lying helpless on his back. The dragon charges and is about to finish Steve.

Out of nowhere Steve once again finds the courage to attack the dragon. This time, instead of using his weapons he uses a miracle. Steve still has one more enchantment left; he speaks the holy words, which have more than strength, and finishes the beast off.

The dragon falls instantly and does not move an inch. Its bright purple eyes close, almost peacefully, and it is laid to rest. Steve, still on the ground, is critically injured. He manages to say “Thank you” to the dragon for the fight before lies down next to it, falling into an internal sleep with the dragon. ~ Immanuel Zion

Stella Metzger

[33]

Silence Where did you go?

To church, Father Where did you go?

To the House of Doubt Why did you go?

Because my mother said so Why did you go?

To change my ways What did you do?

Blasphemy, Father What did you do?

Ask questions one “should not say aloud�

Jesse Moon

When did you do it?

Last week at the Baptism When did you do it?

Every Sunday Why did you do it?

Because I wanted answers, Father Why did you do it?

Because I strongly disagree Son of God, how will you refrain from sin?

I will move past my thoughts Son of God, how will you refrain from sin?

I will keep my thoughts to myself

Khalil Brown

~ Jesse Gre Rubinstein

[34]

War Poem What is war really?

When I think of war I think of all the innocent people who die for no reason, children like me and my little brother who run in the dark and will never see their mother again, all the children who have no choice or hope.

I think of that man today who will run back home right after work and will find his house in pieces, his family dead and his whole life destroyed.

I think of those kids who dream of freedom.

What really is war?

Only chaos made of hopeless people who wake up every morning knowing they could die.

Alexa Code When I look around here I notice people around me saying their lives suck I feel like laughing and crying at the same time because they know nothing about that feeling.

Lucky them I guess, I can see the innocence in their eyes; even if they act tough, they never saw a dead body.

Pedro Ramirez

~ Miral Rivalta

[35]

Goodbye, Blue Sky I have not tasted clean water in three months. Not a single one of the 50 people living in Yurich has either, and Yurich has not seen rain in the same amount of time.

They’ve continually assured us that we don’t have anything to worry about, and it will rain…eventually. But I’ve forgotten what it feels like to touch fresh water to my lips; now they dry in the sun without even a drop of moisture. The crippling feeling I get in my stomach on the days without a single meal is just barely overrun by my absolute need to be outdoors. The sharp dryness in the air fuses with the air in my lungs and makes my mouth taste like the copper of pennies. I swallow, my glands salivating at the thought of food mixed with an acute feeling of nausea. I combat these temptations by shutting parts of my brain off that alert me to the problem. Instead I focus on being a normal 14-year-old.

While I really do not know what that entails, I intend to function as normally as possible in my sheltered environment.

Lahiri and Kriya are the village leaders. Lahiri is a tall woman, reaching almost two meters in height. Her eyebrows have a sharp arch to them and become slightly more terrifying when she attempts raising them in question. Lahiri does not express feeling; she believes that all human emotions are empty and that happiness is only reached by the ignorant. Kriya, on the other hand, plays the imperative role of ‘good cop’ in her and Lahiri’s partnership. When Lahiri punishes someone for waking up late for his or her daily duties, Kriya will console them and offer a small piece of fruit that she may have come across earlier in the day. Kriya believes that children need to experience life and prohibits children from working when she is around. Lahiri believes children should be seen and not heard. Lahiri is discipline and Kriya is kindness, though the two still get along impeccably.

Yurich, our small village, is home to 50 people in total. I am somehow related to at least twenty percent of these people. I live with my mother and baby sister. I had a father once too, but he selflessly gave every morsel of food he could find to my sister and me.

He eventually died from malnourishment. I try very hard not to think of him, especially because Lahiri, and even Kriya, forbid mourning of our dead. We find our own people waste away so frequently that our village cannot afford to lose any laborers for the purpose of mourning.

Lahiri and Kriya tell us that we must trust them and that the worst is over. I find this to be somewhat humorous considering things seem only to be getting worse. I remember my father in these moments. I remember my empty stomach. I remember how frail my mother is. I remember my little sister’s inability to digest the harsh foods that are available.

I find great distaste in remembering.

We are forced to work constantly when Kriya is not around. Whether it be tending to the already barren land, walking 15 kilometers to find fresh water, or taking care of the newest members born into our village, each job is extremely difficult and exhausting.

Often I find my thoughts straying from my tasks; I imagine myself running away [36]

and living on a humble island by myself. I resist the urge to escape, but this is really only because my legs are made up of just skin and bone. We all look like that: skin and bone.

Besides, I have never been further out of the village than the trip to find fresh water‌ I do not want to know what would happen if I were to be caught by Lahiri or Kriya.

One night, a particularly well-imagined escape plan begins to dance along my thread of consciousness. As I slip into an uncomfortable rest that evening, I see stars behind my eyelids. Then black. My eyes flutter open as I am awakened by a harsh, freezing cold rush of air. I look around furiously but can see nothing but black. I blink a few times, but the wind begins blowing harder, and I cannot see. I take a moment and remind myself to utilize my four other senses to understand what is going on. I smell rust. I can taste it on my tongue, that taste of pennies again. I feel nauseous until I am aware of a cold, fast rain on my cheekbones. The drought is over? I think to myself.

Suddenly, the wind stops. I look around me and I am standing in the center of my village. The entire area is flooded with at least three meters of water; I stand on a patch of soil two feet in diameter that has remained untouched, much like the parting of the Red Sea. I see body parts of people I have known; I am related to twenty percent of those arms and legs. I see the face of Lahiri float past; her left eye is swollen up to the size of a peach, and her right eye has completely disappeared into her skull. I look away and begin to cry, realizing that my own tears have produced the three meters of water to become the sole cause of my village’s destruction. I turn away; the last thing I see is a white flame lick the moon, and the promise of a brave new world unfurl beneath a clear blue sky.

I wake up and I run.

Olivia Dontsov

~ Jesse Moon

[37]

The Caedmon School

Some of the most vivid and formative years of my life took place at the Caedmon school. My family had recently moved from Hastings, a small town in Westchester, to New York City. We were moving into the city for a number of reasons. It was closer to my dad’s job, both my parents had grown up in the city and liked it, and my brother needed a school that could cater to his learning differences. I was going into kindergarten and had visited a variety of schools. We were going to live on the Upper East Side, East 72nd between Lexington and Third to be exact. It was a fairly quiet street, and I remember being awestruck by how different it was than my small suburban town. I marveled at the buildings, getting that sort of dizzy feeling as I stared at the top of the skyscrapers, imagining standing on the roof with the wind whipping past me. The constant honking of cars assaulting my ears was startling, but in time it grew to be a comforting dull buzz. I think the strangest thing was the people; there were so many people. Walking in the city for just a short while, I saw hundreds and hundreds of people, all ethnicities, shapes, and sizes. It was a testament to the sheer variety and diversity of New York City. I remember looking at the endless stores and restaurants with wonder, each selling something different, all of them filled with shoppers. It was an absolutely different experience from anything I had seen before, and when it really struck me that I would be living there, it seemed like the greatest thing ever.

In terms of schools,Trevor Day, Dalton, and Columbia Prep were all options, as my parents wanted me to go to school near home. However, they eventually settled on the Caedmon School, and off I went.

The Caedmon School holds a lot of memories for me, both good and bad. I made a lot of friends there, and even some enemies. On the whole, I loved it there.

I remember that on my first day of kindergarden I felt very uncertain. The classroom was spacious and colorful, with bright artwork covering the walls. The room looked like a sort of collage, interspersed with random paintings and classroom supplies. Everyone was so friendly. The kids were very shy, as it was everyone’s first day, but the teachers couldn’t be nicer. My teachers were Ms. Adams, and another one whose name I can’t remember.

Ms. Adams was almost a frightfully energetic woman, with a constant wide grin on her face. Weirdly, she would end up being my teacher all the way through third grade. Every time I moved up a grade, she also did, switching teaching positions and becoming my teacher for every year at Caedmon.

The classroom was filled with art and activities. There were dress up games, drawing, painting, arts and crafts, and schoolwork. In kindergarden my favorite project was making paper maché piggy banks, literally the color and shape of a fat pig. I still have mine on the shelf in my room. There was also an incubator in the classroom. Near the start of the year, we got chicken eggs and kept them there. We waited a long time for them to hatch, and when they finally did, little yellow fluff-balls popped out of the eggs. The entire class was thrilled, and everyone wanted to hold them, until we realized they incessantly [38]

pooped everywhere.

One of the most important parts of Caedmon at the time, and probably the most enduring in my memory, were the other kids. My fellow classmates at Caedmon made the school, whether they were friends, enemies, or just acquaintances. There was Nathalie and Teryn. Nathalie had flaming red hair that struck you every time you looked at her. She was best friends with Teryn, who looked very similar to her, although she had dark brown hair. When I say best friends, I mean it. They were essentially joined at the hip, and never left each other’s side. In class, recess, and every other activity, they were constantly next to each other. Even outside of school, they basically lived at each other’s houses, taking the word playdate to a new level. I was very good friends with both of them, although they could be a little bit annoying. They got very snarky at times.

There was Nika, who I was great friends with. I had a big crush on her for all of my years at Caedmon, and I went over to her house a bunch of times. Her family was Croatian, and her parents were incredibly nice. They were both actors, but also owned a bread store.

They made the best bread I have ever tasted. They always brought tons of it home, and whenever I was there, they would always offer loaf after loaf of delicious bread. There was Max, who was my on and off friend. We got into a lot of fights, one of them culminating in him ripping my Yugioh card in half, a horrible thing at that age. I watched my first R rated movie at his house. We ordered Jackass on Pay-Per-View while his mom was in the other room and sat there transfixed. His mom never found out.

There were a bunch of other kids in my kindergarten class that made an impression.

Tyler was the hyperactive kid who never listened to the teachers, bouncing off the walls when we were having story time. Amani was the only black person in my entire kindergarten class, something I find strange now. She was incredibly nice and friendly, always cracking jokes. She was always a lot of fun to have in an activity group. Her sister also went to the school, but was a grade above us. She had the exact same personality as Amani, very gregarious and welcoming.

My two best friends were Graham, whom I instantly befriended, and Tom, whom I befriended midway through the year. I remember becoming friends with Tom very clearly. Our whole class was painting pictures of our favorite animal. It was about halfway through the year, but I hadn’t talked to him yet. We were at the same table and we worked studiously, our fingers streaked with paint. I painted a giraffe, and he did a tiger. I looked at it, dismayed I hadn’t painted such a cool animal. I said, “I really like your tiger,” and it was the start of a great friendship.

We were practically inseparable in kindergarten through third grade. In recess we played every sport together. He was always amazing at soccer. His dad was French and a huge soccer fan, and he played constantly. I tried to keep up with him in soccer, but it was hard. He was far better than any other kid in the school, let alone our grade. I used to go to his house after almost every day of school. He lived two blocks from me in a small apartment that was always cluttered with stuff. He had an enormous TV in his living room [39]

that dominated the apartment. His dad was a movie fanatic and had shelves and shelves filled with what seemed to be every DVD ever made. Often we would go to a local park to play soccer, playing pick up games with a bunch of kids who were often there. Sometimes we would just sit in his apartment playing video games until my mom picked me up, often 8 o’clock or later. I always loved going to his house.

Tom had a great sense of humor that was very similar to mine. He could be very shy, and would never say if he wanted to do something. You had to make the decision or nothing would ever get done. He often seemed very glum, but I knew he wasn’t. He also had a very bad type of diabetes, and when I first became his friend I remember being slightly creeped out by all the needles. He had to constantly prick himself to test his blood, and then stick himself with insulin needles. I felt bad for him at first, but I got used to it, and after a while I barely noticed it anymore.

Graham was my first true friend there. He had long blond hair, and was covered in freckles. He was always very short for his age and was towered over by the rest of the grade. He would run like the Flash, though; he was easily the fastest kid I had ever met. He always had on some piece of clothing with a Yankees insignia. I would often go over to his house, and we always did something related to baseball, be it playing catch or BackYard Baseball on his computer. He wasn’t quite as good a friend as Tom, but he was close. To this day, I remain very good friends with Tom but rarely ever talk to Graham. Something I always found fascinating was the weird story of his birth that intertwined with Tom’s.

They were both born on the same day, in the same hospital, with their mothers in adjoining rooms. They were both born at almost the exact same time as well.

Along with my friends, though, I had enemies. My nemesis was named Ryan; we loathed everything about each other. Unfortunately, he was very good friends with both Graham and Tom, so I had to try my very best to avoid him. I despised everything about him, from his sense of humor to the way he talked. He felt the same way about me, it seemed. I remember when we were playing soccer one particular time he kicked the ball very hard at me, so on the next play, I tripped him. That was our relationship in a nutshell.

Ironically, about two years ago we ran into each other again randomly and have since become great friends.

I still remember every little aspect of the school. I can walk through it in my head.

There were two staircases on opposite sides of the building, the very wide and short red staircase, and the steep and long yellow staircase. Everyone hated the yellow staircase because it was brutal to walk up. It was like a steep mountain, every step an arduous task. The school wasn’t religious in the slightest, but attached to the school was a gigantic church. We only went there for music class occasionally, but every time we put on a play, it was in the church. It had a gigantic stage, and row after row of benches, enough to fit every parent in the school. The man who put on the productions was insane. He took a maniacal pride in the productions, making us kindergartners rehearse for hours. With every play he tried to top himself. The last play of the year in kindergarten was so elaborate it could have [40]

Jacey Mossack

been a Broadway production. There were smoke machines and pulleys, and the crazed teacher wrote the script himself. It didn’t make much sense, but he treated the play with the utmost reverence, flipping out on any kid who wasn’t following the script to a tee.

Recess time was the highlight of everyone’s day. The school had a tiny little park area outside, but we were all so small that it seemed gigantic. There were a few jungle gym objects, and the entire area was covered with hard green turf that stung whenever you fell on it. There was a little area in the back where all the boys would play soccer. There were no goals, and the area was horribly designed for any sort of game. It wasn’t wide open, and there were numerous poles that blocked people’s motion. In addition, the back of the playing field had a wall that was about five feet tall. If someone kicked the soccer ball over it by accident it would go into the backyard of a neighboring house, and would be lost forever. Any kid who kicked the ball over would be ridiculed and forced to bring a new ball for recess the next day. Just in kindergarten alone there must have been 100 balls that were kicked over the fence. The owner of the neighboring building rarely ever collected the balls, so by the end of the year the backyard was an ocean of soccer balls and kick balls, just sitting there mocking us.

Everything about Caedmon, the seen and the unseen, came together to create a wondrous place. It had its bad moments, as every place does, and there were some days when I would come home crying. However, on the whole, it was an amazingly formative and happy school. I wouldn’t be the same person I am if it wasn’t for that school. I will always be grateful for the lessons it taught me, and the friendships I made there. ~ Milo Booke

[41]

Words I Have been a victim Of stereotypical assumptions I am only seen by what’s On the outside of me Am I the only one who feels this way?

Their wicked eyes watch me From afar Their whispers spread to everyone Near and far Like a virus that goes on and on It’s Not Like I had a choice Out of the womb I was doomed To this society I would go Unseen and unworthy of attention I’ve been whiplashed, backlashed Boiled in the ideas that society places On black people A Word strikes me Like a knife through my heart Through all the battles we fought They still call us Nigger.

The dreaded word I’m afraid to hear Even though I know there are no niggers here It’s still a word I fear ~ Monet Thibou

[42]

You Talk You talk, I listen.

I talk, You listen, Or do you?

Maybe not.

I’m not worth it?

Okay.

But I’m still talking.

I’m still speaking.

You’re not listening.

So what?

So I talk, And I talk, It’s just me.

You laugh, I laugh.

We both laugh, This is fun.

But you leave, With them.

Who’s laughing?

Not me.

That’s you.

You all.

Over there.

I’m here.

You still talk, Over there.

And I still listen, Over here.

But I don’t speak, I don’t talk.

I don’t care, With you.

Now I’ll talk.

But only here.

You’re there, I don’t care.

It’s simple.

We’re our own.

But who’s laughing?

Not me.

Grace Tobin

~ Margot Zuckerman [43]

Gone I knew he didn’t pity this earth Observing the dying man with one eye This tragedy What was dreaming What was real I knew he wouldn’t tell me Listening with one ear only The steaming rubble Anonymous, nudging through I didn’t talk Pulsed with color Gone This tragedy A faceless onlooker Pulsed with color With one eye, he told me not to talk This tragedy Nudging through the steaming rubble He told me, a faceless onlooker, to watch the dying man Stretched across the rugged cement Surrounded by a halo of tragedy Jerked and rattled Still alive, still dreaming in strings Jerked Rattled Without pity, he was Gone What was real What was dreaming ~ Jo Viemeister

[44]

Isabel TErkuhle

Lily Gavin

Callie Richards

[45]

Little Mary Goodwater

Once upon a time, there was a little girl by the name of Little Mary Goodwater, who lived in the cheery village of Fiddler’s Hill. Mary was a bright and happy little girl, but the other children never let her laugh and play with them. You see, the other children were scared of Mary because she was born without a right eye! Little Mary Goodwater was sad, because all she wanted to do was play with the other children and be treated like they were.

Every night Mary would lie awake in bed with her kitten curled up beside her. She would wish for an eye to fill her empty socket every night; then the other children wouldn’t be so mean.

There was one little boy who was meaner than all the other children put together!

His name was Nate Norris, but everyone called him Nasty Nate. One day, while Nasty Nate was playing a friendly game of catch with the other children from Fiddler’s Hill, along came no other than Little Mary Goodwater! Mary noticed the ballgame and also noticed Nasty Nate Norris. Even though he was mean, Little Mary liked Nasty Nate. He was so pretty and the sun always shone so beautifully on his two green eyes. When Nasty Nate saw Little Mary Goodwater, he pointed at her and yelled, “Cyclops!” Then, Nasty Nate threw the ball right at Little Mary’s face! Little Mary Goodwater ran away with tears pouring out of her left eye as all the other children laughed at her.

That night, Little Mary was restless. Her little heart was broken and now, more than ever, she wished for a new eye to make everything better. Then Little Mary got an idea.

She went down into the kitchen and fetched herself a spoon. She crawled back up into bed where her kitten slept curled up next to her. Mary wrapped her free hand around the kitten’s neck, and with her other hand, used the spoon to scoop out the kitten’s right eye. The kitten hissed furiously, and Mary knew that it would eventually wake up her mother and father.

Afraid they would wake up, Mary held a pillow over the kitten’s little head until it stopped hissing, and went to sleep. Mary went downstairs and into her mother’s bedroom. There Mary went into her mother’s purse and took a needle and some thread, then went back upstairs and into her bedroom where she locked the door. Sitting on her bed, Mary sewed the kitten’s puny eye into her empty right eye socket.

The next morning, Mary walked into school feeling better than she ever felt in her entire life. She looked for Nasty Nate, whom she eventually found in the cafeteria drinking his boxed chocolate milk. With confidence and bravery in her heart, Mary approached Nasty Nate and smiled a pretty smile. Nate looked confused. “What happened to your eye?” Nate asked. Mary held her head up high and said, “It’s my kitty’s!” Nasty Nate looked at her in horror. “Get away from me, you witch!” Nasty Nate got up from his seat and threw his chocolate milk at Mary. Little Mary Goodwater was heartbroken again. She watched in sorrow as Nasty Nate Norris ran away.

Unable to finish her day at school, Mary ran home in tears, ripping the sewn kitten’s eyeball out of her eye socket. It was a sad, rainy afternoon on Fiddler’s Hill. Mary ran upstairs into her room and locked the door. That night, Little Mary Goodwater was sad.

Her sadness turned into restlessness, and her restlessness turned into anger. Little Mary Goodwater was mad. She was mad that Nasty Nate didn’t want to be with her, and just [46]

because she was a little bit different than everyone else.

The next morning, Mary went into her mother’s purse again. She took one of her mother’s sewing needles and then went into the kitchen and took a candle and a match.

Little Mary Goodwater walked to school daydreaming about her future with Nasty Nate.

The thoughts she had made her smile all the way to school!

Before her first class, Mary saw Nate in the hallway. He was all alone, and he looked sad. Mary knew that he was going to be happy very soon. She went into the bathroom and locked herself in one of the stalls. Inside the stall, Mary lit the candle and held the end of the needle over it. She dropped the candle in the toilet, and walked out of the bathroom.

Mary was happy to see that Nasty Nate was still by his locker, still all alone. Mary quietly walked up from behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Nasty Nate Norris looked behind him, and before he had time to say anything, Little Mary Goodwater stabbed him in the corner of his right eye with the hot needle, and picked the eye out. Nasty Nate Norris screamed. Dark streams of blood rolled down his cheek from his empty eye socket, and from his left eye, thick lines of tears. Nate hid his face in his hands and held his head low.

Mary lifted up Nate’s chin and looked at his beautiful, one-eyed face. She gave Nasty Nate a quick kiss on the nose, and then pulled him in close and whispered, “Now we’re the same!”

Even though Nasty Nate Norris still wouldn’t love Little Mary Goodwater, Mary was satisfied with what she had done, and she lived happily ever after. ~ Jake Cannavale

Callie Richards

[47]

Beautiful

(Excerpted) Once upon a time there was a beautiful village where there stood a beautiful castle. Inside the castle lived a beautiful princess with a beautiful voice. Her wavy blond hair hung loosely to her torso, and she was always brushing it, just as the typical princess would. Her eyes were a foggy blue smudged with a sunflower yellow, as if a flower had blossomed around her pupils.

Her skin was a creamy white, perfect as a doll’s, and her lips were an inviting pink. Whoever visited the castle was instantly cast under her magnificent spell of beauty. She was perfect.

The maid had always been jealous of the princess. Why wouldn’t she be? The princess was always complimented. Although the maid was beautiful, with her long, curling black hair streaked with a reddish gold, she was never seen behind the princess’s lovely shadow. She braided, combed and pinned the princess’s long blond hair every day, forcing her stubby fingers to be gentle. She wanted so badly to grab a handful of the princess’s blond hair, thick as honey, and yank it out, watching as the long strands stretched and finally snapped.

But she couldn’t. Instead she dug her nails into her own palm. Tiny purple crescents emerged on her tan skin. She looked away. That night, instead of leaving when the sun set, as she did every day, the maid stayed, sitting in the delicate white rocking chair in the corner of the princess’s room--a gift from one of the princess’s admirers. The maid sat, picking at the white paint and letting the chips fall onto her lap. The sun slid down the sky like a yellow egg yoke, smudging the clouds with a rosy light.

The maid turned her head, looking over at the beautiful princess. Her usually gracefully swaying limbs were stiff and jerked violently, like dying tree branches grasping for life. The stunned maid watched as the princess began to sputter and spit, muttering in a language that sounded broken and fragmented, like glass shattering. The maid tried to shake her, she really did, but the princess didn’t halt, stop, or wake. The maid broke down. She ran screaming down the royal hallway, squeaking the polished marble floor under her bare feet. She banged at each door, hearing the protests of people sleeping on the other side. The hallway was soon clogged with people, their eyelids drooping, and their eyebrows narrowed at the small figure hunched over, whispering fearfully.

“The princess! The princess!” The maid fell to the floor sobbing over and over, “There’s something wrong. There’s something wrong.” Fear streaked the people’s tired faces. They all scampered to the princess’s room, all except for two: The queen and king, who claimed that this silly maid created yet another common rumor in spiteful jealousy.

The princess’s quarters were filled with people, all peering down at her pale, beautiful face, the sheets crinkled around her like a white flower. She was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling, out of rhythm with the panting people. Scrunched up faces and angry eyes turned to glare at the maid. She looked down at the princess once more and darted out of the room. As she ran down the hall she could hear the angry muttering and cursing coming from the princess’s chamber. The maid draped a violet cloak on her narrow shoulders and ran out of the royal door into the rain, finally allowing her tears to swallow her face. They poured out of her eyes, like blood from a wound, mixing with the rain that slashed against the sky. But as she ran she collided into the most handsome and flawless man she had ever laid eyes on.

[48]

His eyes met her brown ones. They were a light sea green, and around the edges they were stained with hints of a rough, cloud gray. His eyelids were fringed with thick, dark eyelashes. His hair was a dusty light brown that was effortlessly tussled. Strands of his light brown hair were stuck his forehead from the gray rain. His bronze skin glistened; the maid could see his white shirt stuck to his firm chest. He blushed freckle-dusted cheeks, struck by the maid’s simple beauty. He opened his perfect pink lips, offered his apologies, claiming it was his fault and resting his hand on her shoulder, and then noticed her eyes, red from crying. He asked her if she was all right and offered her his coat, which she refused. They sat down on an old wooden bench, which was shielded by an ancient willow tree. Its branches whipped in the wind. She told him everything, even what happened with the princess. She didn’t know why.

She had to tell someone. Then she noticed a golden ring on his finger, glimmering against the coarse wooden bench. She gasped, realizing who he was. He was the princess’s fiancé, a prince from another kingdom.

The prince could sense the maid’s alarm and quickly tried to cover up his glimmering ring. The maid looked around hoping no one had seen the awkward exchange. She quickly tried to get up, muttering something about her many chores and errands, but the prince stopped her. “I...I knew it all along, I guess I just didn’t want to admit it, her beauty...it is so distracting.

But what’s underneath....” he said. The maid was lost in the prince’s sea-green eyes, which, like the ocean, she could stare at for hours. The prince gazed upwards at her, begging her to sit back down, his eyes luring her closer and closer to him. The prince leaned forward, pulled at her waist, and then kissed her.

Unnoticed, the princess stared down at the two of them, their bodies melting into one another. She didn’t cry, she didn’t shout, she didn’t slam the window. She just stood there, staring. Her hands clenching and unclenching the windowpane, her knuckles white with force. But slowly her scarlet lips curled into the most beautiful smile, and she softly closed the window, unseen by the beautiful bodies below.

The next day, the prince and maid were found dead. Small cuts streaked their pale, flaky skin. A pearl was found pushed deeply into one of the maid’s short nails, splitting it in half. The king didn’t know what to make of this. Soon a new maid was hired, one with brown hair that hung like string, loose and thin. Her moldy white skin was patchy and blotched with spots of thick ugly freckles. Just as the maid before her had done, she braided, combed and pinned the princess’s long blond hair thick as honey. She lifted up the pearly comb and admired its beauty. Rubies and emeralds were embedded into its sides, and the sharp ends of the comb were dark red. It was a most strange color for a comb, but the maid figured it must be the fashion in the palace. The maid ran her pointer finger up and down the comb’s perfect glossy surface and over the red material that covered its ends. The red substance slowly began to chip away and flutter down to the white marble floor. As it flaked, she started to recognize the color and texture. It was blood. The maid dropped the comb and let it fall to the floor with a clatter. The princess turned her perfect face and laughed a beautiful, joyous laugh, filled with happiness. The maid had no choice but to laugh along with her, her nervous giggles filling the empty hall. The princess leaned forward and whispered, “Everything is perfect.” ~ E Jeremijenko-Conley and Sofia Trigo [49]

Yeah, I’m

a

Dancer

No, I don’t spin in circles; the ballet term is pirouettes.

No, my toes aren’t bloody stumps, but my toenails do fall off sometimes.

You could say I go on my toes, but I really go on pointe.

Yeah, my mom still sews my pointe shoes for me.

No, I’m not anorexic; I don’t have an eating disorder, I’m just skinny.

I actually eat all the time.

No, I can’t do 32 pirouettes.

I can do two.

Yeah, that sounds lame, but it’s not as easy as you think.

Yes, I really do dance six days a week.

Yeah, dance is hard; it’s a lot of work.

I know I’m not some amazing football or basketball player, but I’m still athletic.

Boys dance too, including ballet, and no, they aren’t all gay.

No, ballet is not for “sissies.”

The dance world is a whole different place; it can be scary.

It’s competitive all right, if you’re at a place like ABT or NYCB. Yeah, I have gotten kicked out of a ballet school. It’s harsh, but I’ve gotten used to it.

When they don’t think your dancing is good enough, they will make you leave.

Honestly, it was a relief when I got kicked out.

When I was at ABT, it was as if I was on Survivor.

All year, everybody was thinking about if they would make to the next year or not.

Yeah, it can get pretty crazy.

One girl, who was kicked out, came into the dressing room, crying hysterically.

Once you get deep into the dance world, you find out what some of these girls are really like.

They may seem nice, but what they all really want is to be the best and win this game of Survivor.

They won’t slow down for anybody.

Yeah, I’m glad I’m not there anymore.

Honestly, it was a relief when I got kicked out.

At my new school there are also a ton of girls who are really nice, and aren’t all about being the best.

No, not all ballet teachers are extremely strict and will hit you with a stick.

Actually, teachers don’t hit kids with sticks anymore; but some say mean things and threaten to kick you out.

I know I’m shy, and don’t talk that much in discussions, but once I get on stage, it’s a whole different story.

I can’t stop “talking.”

I express myself in a whole different way.

It may seem easy, but I’ve never worked as hard in my life as I have with dance.

You may be asking, “Then why do you do it?”

And I will always say, because I love it. ~ Lilah van Rens Inspired by Diane Burns’ poem “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question” [50]

I can see you clearly in my mind’s eye I can still hear you and the way you smell Even though you’re a Million miles away I wish you were here right now Reliving past memories Things I wish I could take back Things I wish I said But all that wishing Can never do anything ‘Cause you’re a million miles away In someone else’s arms ~ Anonymous

I Want to Keep It

Juliet Sage

Rehana Hirji

A girl I once knew Walking with someone It seems so long ago Memories rush across the years And from millions of miles away They flood my mind and time slows I feel a tear slip down my face and I realize something What I am missing is a part of me That part is you

Hi, what is your name?

It’s E. ~ Anonymous No, not Eve, E.

Yeah, like the letter.

No, there’s no dot.

Yes, that’s really my name.

My parents’ names are Natalie and Dalton.

Why? Because they thought of a lot of names that began with the letter E, so they decided to name me E. When I am older, If I want I can change it to any name that starts with E No, I want to keep it.

Oh, that’s, uh, cool, I guess. ~ E Jeremijenko-Conley Inspired by Diane Burns’ poem, “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question” [51]

Wizard Spaceman John As the doors burst open, a blast of wind knocked me back, blurred my eyes, and pushed me hard against my locker. As my vision cleared, a tall silhouette of a large and bulging figure appeared. The breeze in this being’s hair made it look like it had been driving in a convertible. She was wearing two pairs of tight black leather pants. The long metal boots that she wore on her hind legs were hot red. As I looked up past her shell, towards her long blond hair to her malformed face, I noticed something. This was no human, but a giant turtle-woman. Although I was a bit intimidated since she was a turtle and I was human, I approached her and asked her if she was lost because the look on her face was a puzzled one. As her mouth opened and she started to move, she released a deafening high-pitched frequency. I covered my ears and dropped to the floor; I could not bear the sound. I screamed, “Be quiet!” and “Shut Up!” but she did not respond. I screamed, begging again, but there was no response. I felt bad but I knew the only way to quiet her was to hit her. I was desperate for that sound to stop. I covered my ears and ran towards her. I exposed my right ear to the torturous pitch and punched her in the stomach. Her jaws snapped back together. This act of violence actually quieted her for a moment. When I looked into her eyes again, I saw her fiery hate for me. She then pulled her arm back. It then sprang forward into my stomach with turtle-alien-woman speed. I flew to the back of the room and immediately blacked out.

When I came to, I felt metal cuffs around my neck, ankles, and wrists. There were large painful blue lights in my eyes. I closed my eyes hoping I would regain consciousness and reawake in my bed. But no, this was my new reality. Reluctantly, I looked around. I noticed two silhouettes towering over my trapped body. I knew that one of the figures was the turtle-woman from her hulking shell and long hair. I noticed one of her barely visible lips started to move. The high frequency noise returned. It lasted for about a second until the other form screamed, “Shut up, you imbecile and let him be!” in a deeply familiar British voice. The turtle-woman twisted her head back a little and spit to the side. She started to waddle away from the table. The very familiar British voice then said, “I apologize for my wife, she does not let it be. I apologize as she is only about as smart as a wet grape. Let me introduce myself. My name is John Lennon and this is my spacecraft, the Ringo. Oh, where are my manners? Let me release you.”

John Turtle Lennon gave me a tour of the Ringo. He treated me with hospitality and told me all about his fake death on Earth and how he travels all around the galaxy making people love him by making extraordinary music then faking his death. He said his wife was on Earth picking up some Costa Rican blood oranges, when she encountered me at recess, wandering the orange grove adjacent to my high school. I love the scent of orange blossoms and saw the grove as an escape from my classmates.

His wife was collecting the Costa Rican blood oranges because they are the only cure for her husband’s disease. Mr. Lennon suffers from Letitbenea, which means every now and then he must include the phrase “let it be” in his sentences. Anyway, he explained that she began screeching when she saw me.

[52]

He had to beam us both up to the ship to save us from hurting one another.

He was actually quite a wise wizard-alien. He asked me to accompany him on one of his make-people-love-him missions to other planets or simply said he could beam me back to Earth. He left it up to me. I decided to go with John on his journey, as I had nothing better to do with my life, and who doesn’t want to hear more live Beatles music? So the journey of a week passed as we traveled to the planet “Penny Lane.” As we approached, John readied his clothing and guitar. We then were beamed down to the planet’s surface. It felt like my body was being compressed into a millimeter hole and then pushed a thousand miles through it in one second while glass ran through my veins. As we hit the planet’s surface, I felt asphalt under my feet. The smell of fast food awoke my senses. I looked around and saw skyscrapers as high as the eye could see. I turned to John and was about to ask him why he had taken me to Earth, and to New York City specifically, but he knew exactly what I was thinking. He replied, “No, we are no longer on Earth, but it is very similar.” John then pointed towards a large auditorium about one or two miles away. It looked about 500 feet tall and was shaped like a bird’s nest. It was a greenish-brown color and had little specks of carrotorange on it. “That’s where we shall mesmerize these ostrich-creature-alien-heads with our tunes,” said John. He politely asked his wife to avoid screeching during the performance.

As we reached the auditorium, I realized that all those orange dots were just giant ostrich eggs. John led us to a green wall, which he told us was the door. He then placed both of his palms firmly against the wall as if he wanted to push it out of the way. A small one inch hole opened up in the door. A small metal arm then made its way through the door hole. It came forwards at a significantly fast rate until it was about an inch a way from John’s eye. A green light shone into his eye for about three seconds. The light then immediately shut off, made a beeping sound, and made its way back into the hole. The green wall then started to fade, like magic. A long bright alleyway then appeared which ended with the entrance to the arena. As we entered the arena I noticed that there was only one set of stairs to the far right side. Other than that, it looked like the Roman Coliseum in perfect replica. The ostriches all had their heads in the sand, while they waited for their entertainment to begin. John turned to me and whispered, “Here comes the King Ostrich Alien who will introduce me and, if he sees a human, will simply not let it be. You must hide.” And so, George Harrison, a Space Alien Cowboy, treated me to one-of-a-kind rendition of “All You Need is Love” with a surprise guest appearance. The ostriches loved it; they clearly worshiped John, and I was sad to realize soon he would have to fake his death and their ostrich-world would be rocked.

Despite the grief, I chose to follow John, despite the constant presence of his wife, around the universe. Earth was just going to be too boring, and I felt John Lennon was enough for me. ~ Harrison Geller

[53]

The Great Feast

I wake up thinking, “It’s Thanksgiving!” I get out of bed and smell the turkey in the oven being cooked and inhale the scent of herbs mixed together that make the turkey so delicious. I walk to the kitchen, say “Hi” to my mom and my dad, and ask them if they need any help. If they do, I help them by making the baked sweet potatoes with marshmallows.

This dish is one of my favorites because you can smell the spices in the sweet potatoes, and when you eat it you can taste the sweet marshmallows all mixed in one big delicious bite.

My job is to put the marshmallows on the top.

I also am in charge of making the stuffing for the turkey, even though I don’t like stuffing. I rip the bread into small pieces the day before Thanksgiving and let the pieces sit out to dry. Onions, celery, garlic, herbs, and chicken stock are also added to the stuffing.

In our family, we don’t bake the stuffing in the turkey because my mom says it dries out the turkey and it takes too long to cook. We bake the stuffing in a separate dish.

My Auntie comes to the house with macaroni and cheese from Amy Ruth’s restaurant in Harlem. This year she was actually going to make it from scratch. I hope it tastes good because we don’t know if she can cook.

When my Auntie comes over, I start to set the table. I put the tablecloth on the dining room table and set out our plates, glasses, silverware, and napkins. I always make origami napkins for Thanksgiving, which is hard to do because the napkins are really thick and hard to fold. In years past I have made samurai hats and origami cups out of the napkins, too.

My mom cuts the turkey for the feast. My dad and I always try to steal some of the turkey but Mom threatens to cut our fingers off. We start putting all of the food on the table for the feast. Sometimes there is so much food that we can’t fit it all on the table and have to leave some of it in the kitchen. Then, the whole family sits down to eat the great feast. My mom always asks everyone, “What are you thankful for?” On most years it’s the turkey she’s cooked that I am thankful for. I love it so much that I eat it with my fingers; my mother always yells at me to use a fork.

This is one of the greatest holidays in our household. We always celebrate it, no matter where we are.

Dylan Corn

~ Mekhi Hayes DueWhite

[54]

Hi! I’m good, thanks.

Oh, sorry I was so loud. I am a true New Yorker.

Yes, I live in Manhattan.

No, not many of my friends have accents.

No, I have never been mugged.

Yes, people walk fast; we walk with purpose.

Yes, I am European.

No, not Russian.

I am Italian and Jewish.

No, I do not speak “Jewish.”

No, my favorite food is not latkes.

No, I am not kosher.

No, I don’t eat challah with tomato sauce.

No, not a Jewish American Princess.

Yes, an Italian Jew.

OLIVIA DONTSOV

Oh? So, that is where you get your olive complexion.

Your great uncle, wow.

Pasta by hand? And pizza? Wow. Oh, so you’ve had a Jewish friend?

A Jewish employee?

A Jewish boyfriend?

No, my dad doesn’t have the curly tassels of hair.

No, my mom is not fluent in Italian.

Yes, I am learning to read Hebrew.

No, I can’t tell you where you can buy kippot and tallit at cheap prices.

Yeah, religion, yeah, Judaism, right. Torah, uh-huh, religion.

No, I do not wear a head covering, but I do wear a cap while playing softball.

This is me, not anyone else, but me. I am proud of me.

Isaac Weiss-Meyer

~ Juliet Sage Inspired by Diane Burns’ “Sure You Can Ask Me A Personal Question”

[55]

I Just Wish That she was here Just wish that she could hear The feelings that I have inside The feelings that I try to hide A mom can never be replaced Her face shall never leave my memory base A woman so proud of An offspring, both offspring, she’s willing to speak it out loud P-hotographer of every embarrassing moment in my life A-miable, never frowning always wearing a smile R-avenous, constantly wanting my food because she paid for it E-ntelligent, always there to fix my mistakes N-eat, the organizer of your life T-alented, someone who can juggle so much and still wear a smile I wish there was an S But that makes it plural Requiring two or above I’ve only had one for 16 years And now the tears gush out Like a broken dam Pouring out, spilling over My heart’s been crushed by death’s deadly hold on her I just wish that I could hold her tight

With all my might

But you can only dream

That she’ll come back

Because wishing on a star never works out The grave’s got her tight All I’m left with are reveries I just wish ~ Monet Thibou

[56]

Olivia Dontsov

Ketzel Feasley

Dylan Corn

Milo Booke

[57]

A Burned Story I am in the living room with my aunt. My little sisters, Rula and Rania, are in the other room. Rula is five and Rania is four. We all have different fathers but the same mother, Zachie.

My aunt doesn’t need to say anything for me to know that something is wrong.

Aunt isn’t very old, but when she is worried or has been told bad news, she looks twice her age. My mother, Zachie, is a couple of years older than Aunt, and has always managed to drive Aunt insane. That’s probably why she looks so bad. Zachie is missing. Again. Even I noticed and I am never home.

I stopped worrying about my mother a long time ago. I live with my older cousin, Amir, and two friends in Haifa. I hate Jerusalem. You can feel the struggles of the people around you in your hair, and you can see the hate in the eyes of every soldier you pass. I try not to pay attention to it, and although it bothers me, it never bothered me as much as it bothered Zachie. But the atmosphere is one of the reasons I love Haifa so much; it’s full of young people, like me and Amir, who don’t care about the conflict. Everyone is pretty much equal in Haifa. Amir had a girlfriend, a while back, who used to be in the army. I didn’t mind - Mika was cool. But there is something with my aunt’s generation – my mother’s generation. That they can’t let go. I had to promise Amir I would not tell Aunt about Mika.

That bitterness is why I couldn’t stay here, even if I could stand my mother. Maybe that’s why Rania is crying. I wonder if she has been crying since Zachie last left. I’m so glad I don’t have to live here anymore.

The phone in the kitchen rings and I know from Aunt’s eyes that it’s Zachie. She hangs up the phone and softly says to me, “Rauia, I need you to come with me somewhere.”

Her voice sounds weak. She and my mother went through a lot when they were young, but they handled it differently. Aunt read and studied and walked when she was stressed or sad; my mother drank. That has always been their biggest difference.

I don’t want to see Zachie. I had discovered long ago that the only way not to fight with her was not to see her.

“Where?” I shoot back. “If it’s about going to see Zachie, or taking her to the hospital – no, I don’t want to come. I am so tired of her leaving and coming back after months of disappearance, knocked up with what? The fourth baby? And then she acts like the perfect mom, like nothing is wrong, while we all know that she sneaks out at night, gets drunk and picks up guys to bring home. It’s sad.” It really is sad, and even though I know what I had just said was unkind and my words were sharp, I feel bad for Aunt. I’m talking about her sister.

My aunt’s eyes look blank for a second until she glares back at me and slaps me. I fall because of the impact of her hand on the left side of my face. It doesn’t even hurt yet because of how quick it all was, but I still feel the need to hold my cheek with my hand, as if that will help. I stay on the ground for a few minutes while she stares at the wall, then she looks back at me.

“I need you to come with me,” she says, her voice calm, but slightly desperate.

“They think they found her body.” Her eyes are still blank, even though she is now looking me right in the eyes. I know I don’t have her full attention.

[58]

me.

“What do you mean ‘found her body’?” I say, still shaking from the slap she gave

“The police, they found a body and think it’s hers.”

I want to say something like, “Finally, someone tired of her attitude - I’m not surprised….” but I don’t need a second slap. To Aunt, respect is the most important thing, and I have always tried to give it to her. I can’t feel any respect for Zachie, even if she is dead now.

Aunt walks out the room, probably to tell her daughter, my 12 year old cousin, Jasmine, that we are about to leave and that she will have to take care of Rania and Rula.

Suddenly, what my aunt says blazes through my mind and I stand up so quickly I feel dizzy for a second. I realize my mother might be dead - the woman I have despised for so many years. In the other room, Rania screams, and the thought of my little sisters growing up without a mother makes me feel like I am falling deeper and deeper into the center of the Earth. A million questions pop into my mind: if Zachie is really dead, do I have to move back into Aunt’s house to take care of my sisters? No. I need to take care of myself. It’s not my job to raise them.

My aunt comes back into the room and grabs her big bag, then walks out, saying she is going to buy food and will be back soon. She nods at me in a signal to follow her. I run down the stairs and wait for her right outside the house. After more than two minutes, I think, “Wow, she is getting old, too” but before I end the thought, she walks out of the building. She reaches for my arm, tired like she had just run a marathon; I laugh a little, but she doesn’t notice – too tired. And then I see it again, that worried look on her face, and I remember what our real errand is. I take her hand and she tries to smile at me and I’m starting to feel horrible; I’m starting to really feel like something is wrong.

We arrive at the hospital. A soldier takes us down the stairs to a white and light blue room. They say it’s called the morgue. I’m starting to freak out now. There is a guy with goggles next to a welded metal table with a white cover over it; there’s a body underneath the cover – I can see the weird shaped outline. Now I’m really scared. I give my aunt a look but she is staring at the man with the goggles. I guess he’s a doctor, because of the white vest he is wearing and the serious look on his face but I can’t tell if he’s Israeli, not that it matters to me. Then he starts to speak, and I know he is Israeli, of course. It would be impossible for someone like us to become a doctor, even in a crappy hospital like this one.

“I don’t know how old she is, but this might be a little too much for her, don’t you think? The body is in really bad condition.” I hear him say this to my aunt in Hebrew, knowing that he is referring to me.

“No, it’s okay.” Aunt always refuses to speak Hebrew, but so as not to disrespect the Israelis, she answers in English. The doctor nods and says something to the soldier so quickly, I can’t understand. Then the doctor gets closer to the gurney and quickly pulls up the white sheet that covers the body. I give it a fast look and run outside to throw up by the door. I feel the solider grabbing my arm.

“Are you ok?” he asks in a really strong French accent.

“No,” I answer. Then the dead face that I saw comes up as a picture in my mind and I throw up again. For a few minutes, I stand there with my eyes closed, and when I look up, the soldier is still at the door, looking worried.

“You are French. Why are you here?” I ask him, trying to change the subject, when [59]

I notice he is cute. Zachie and my aunts always taught me never to look the soldiers in the eyes, to view them only as soldiers and not as people, but his eyes are green and sweet, and he is cute.

“My mother became very religious when my father died, and came to live here. I didn’t really have a choice. Hey, are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. The body in there - I really think that’s my mother.” Listening to my own voice, I realize that it is the truth, even if the face and body were so burned it was impossible even to recognize the position of the eyes and mouth. I know inside of me that the body on the table was Zachie.

“I am so sorry. Maybe you should go back inside there.”

I sit down by the door, as far as possible from my own vomit. I see him about to sit next to me.

“Woah! Stop!” I say out loud.

“What?” he says, worried, looking around for a clue.

“Nothing. Well, your gun - it freaks me out. Can you not sit next to me with that?”

He looks down blushing, embarrassed and sad, like a baby who got his candy taken away, so I smile at him.

“Oh, sorry. I guess I didn’t think about that. I’ve gotten used to it.” He smiles like a child; I find it adorable. Then I see my aunt walk towards us with a blank look on her face.

She is a really strong woman.

“It is Zachie. Apparently she killed herself. I’m sorry, I had no idea she was this depressed.” She says it to me calmly, without looking me in the eyes. I stand up quickly and see the soldier step back, looking down at the floor politely, pretending not to hear our conversation.

“So she set herself on fire? What kind of crazy masochist would do that?” Only after seeing my aunt’s face do I realize that I’ve just screamed.

“I don’t know. Don’t you dare tell your sisters; they are still too young. They don’t need to know.”

I honestly am not even thinking about my sisters. I surely don’t want to tell them their mother is dead, but then, who is going to? I don’t want to lie to them, but I also don’t want Aunt mad at me; she still looks shocked.

“Ok, but don’t expect me home tonight.” The only answer I can come up with is to not see my sisters until I am ready.

“Good. Come back when you know how to keep a secret.” In any other case, I would get pissed off at her and yell, but this time, I know she is right. I need to control myself and I know I can’t do that right now. It’s better just not to go home and see Rania and Rula today.

Aunt knows this as well, so she just walks away. I have the feeling she is going to walk all the way home – that’s what she does when she has to think – walk. My mom drank and my aunt walked; that was their difference. And my aunt had four children and was alive and strong and the woman of her house while my mother killed herself and left her three daughters alone in the world.

Then I realize the solider is still there.

“Hey, listen, I need something strong. Do you want to come get a drink with me?”

His face is first surprised, then glad. To me, he looks like a baby, but he’s probably past [60]

twenty. Me? I’m 15, but I have always looked older. I’m not beautiful, but I have curves, and I always get what I want. A lot of people compare me to Zachie, and I hate it when they do that.

He smiles and with a soft voice answers, “Sure, I would love to. I finish here at six.

Do you want to wait or go home and then meet up?” I think I can see all his teeth from how much he is smiling.

“I’ll wait.” I wink and all the thoughts about my mother, about what I just saw, come rushing back to me, but fortunately, he doesn’t notice.

I want to be strong.

Epilogue That night, Rauia and the soldier got drunk. They got married three years later and had two boys, Anas and Abdulla. When the soldier was 29, he finished his time with the army, and three years later, he died of a drug overdose. He had always been an addict.

Rula and Rania grew up in an orphanage and learned about their mother’s death a few years later from a cousin. Rula always took care of Rania, even though she was only a year older.

Rauia hasn’t stopped drinking to ‘be strong’ since the night she saw her mother’s body. She has never accepted Zachie’s death and she will always hate her mother.

Rula hated to talk about Zachie until she wrote a book about her family’s lives to let the memory go.

Rania loves Zachie, and always will.

And me? When I heard this story, I chose to follow in my mother Rula’s footsteps and write about it.

Lily Gavin

~ Miral Rivalta

[61]

A Nimble Troll Locked in -- no escape Locked in -- like I have no fate Locked out -- feels the same Locked out -- a missile with no aim Run, jump, tumble, and roll, Ride; stride, like a nimble troll How does one live if there is nothing to give, How does one die if one cannot cry?

When the end will begin, I can never know When the end will end, I have nothing to show.

When things are unknown, we can only roll, Roll, Like a nimble troll.

Locked in -- no escape Locked in -- like I have no fate Locked out -- feels the same Locked out -- a missile with no aim

Hazel hutchins

~ Oscar Belkin-Sessler

We Remain

Pilar Olivieri

On a cliff above everything, the earth stops Sand tumbles down and Disappears into nightmares below Which splash against jagged rocks with fingers like knives.

The sun smiles fearlessly but An opaque cloud blindfolds it and For a moment everything is black.

The sky blinks.

A blank piece of paper breaks the stillness and Flies with the sharp wind like a lost moth.

I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

Across the glass water there is a boat and There is the whispered outline of land.

The earth continues. ~ Jo Viemeister

[62]

The sun shines on the horizon, Like a blazing fireball Over the ocean.

Waves rise up As if trying to conceal it.

The sun disappears, Except for the yellow glow behind the wave.

A large wave Threatens to cover the sun forever.

The wave crashes, Creating a splash.

And suddenly, There is the sun again.

A bright light, Glittering luminously, Shining again In the eyes Of all who look At the beauty of the sun. ~ Hannah Weinstein

Callie Richards

The Sun

A Clipped Pace clip, clop, clip, clop her heels strike the ground on the sidewalk through the hallways powerful shoes for a powerful stride would that I could have such shoes that make such a noise so I pretend match my steps to hers clip, clop, clip, clop walking alone now I hear them again clip, clop, clip, clop and I glance around for those powerful shoes before realizing they’re mine clip, clop, clip, clop

Callie Richards

~ Saskia Globig [63]

My Grandmother’s House: An Intriguing Yet Distant World

There was a time, before Steven, George, and Baby Adam had moved to Pennsylvania, and Loury began to come less and less, before Chantz and Joshua started high school, and later moved on to college. A time before I started any extracurriculars. A time before my titi Ivy and my tio Amancio separated, and before Gianna began to take her dancing and gymnastics seriously. This was a time before my grandaunt moved into my grandmother’s house, before my great-grandmother was forced to leave her house in the Dominican Republic so she could be taken care of, and before all of this translated into my grandmother’s stress, when her house used to be the center of my mom’s side of the family.

My grandmother has a two-room apartment on Grand Concourse, just across the street from the 174-175 St. stop on the B/D line and up the hill from the Mt. Eden stop on the 4 train. She has resided there since before I was born, most of my mother’s life, and most of my grandmother’s life living in America. When you enter the short building, you can smell the stench of cigarettes and weed mixed with pee. You can see the “coocarachas,” the name that my mother often calls the hoodlums that hang out on the first floor, at any time of the day. There are no elevators, so you have to walk up the flight of stairs covered with empty beer bottles, the occasional dog poo, and other unpleasant things, to the second floor where my grandmother’s apartment is. I hated that my grandmother lived in such a building; she was too good for that. But I learned not to associate these disgusting images with my grandmother’s house, and it was quite easy to do because she always took the effort to keep her house clean and welcoming. I would run up the stairs, avoiding all of the horrors, so I could be embraced by the comfort of her house.

This two-room apartment (one of the rooms is my grandmother’s while the other room is often rented out), was the main source of my entertainment and a place I was always excited to visit. I guess I wasn’t the only one who felt like this because without question, every Wednesday night my aunts, uncles, and my mom would all squish themselves onto the once plastic covered sofa and love seat set in the living room of my grandmother’s apartment and have heated debates in Spanish. They talked for what seemed like hours while the nine of us kids went off to the room to do kid stuff, like fighting over whether we would watch a live football game, Nickelodeon, or music videos on the old-fashioned television. We’d smell the pungent odor of socks hitting each other’s faces as we fought for space on the high, queen-sized bed. We had such a strong devotion to going to my grandmother’s house that during the summer, both the kids and the adults would all pile into my grandmother’s room, which at the time, was the only room with air conditioning.

Wednesdays were our family’s day to sip slushy Pepsi as we caught up on each other’s lives, compared achievements, and laughed like there was no tomorrow. We truly adopted the idea that wherever there was a group of Latinos, there was a party. Not the drinking, loud-music type of party, but the joyous, gathering kind.

I always wondered what the exact thing was that kept our sense of wonderment about my grandmother’s house. Was it the delicious food that always seemed to appear in great amounts, so great that even after everyone ate, there was still more than half of a caldera full of food left? Was it the cockatiels with their almost constant mating noises and newly hatched eggs in that cage so huge I was able to fit myself inside? Was it Cacky, the white parrot who replaced all the cockatiels and had a weird fascination with landing right [64]

on my head, as if it were a nest? Was it the old guy from Puerto Rico who rented out my grandmother’s second room for as long as I could remember? The same old man that my once two-year-old cousin, Gianna, would run away from, screaming “The Guy! The Guy!” in terror? Or was it my beautiful-hearted, short, pale, soft, blond-haired grandmother, the esteemed angel, who always had a ton of energy? She is one of the best people to hug. She is also one of the most hospitable and benevolent people you would ever meet and would do anything to make you feel at home. I remember that she would never sit down until everyone was served or attended to. She always made the very large meals, feeding us to our heart’s content, no matter what mood she was in. She listened to anybody, even if it was in English, the language she still claims she cannot speak. I realize now that what kept us willingly returning every Wednesday after school and work was indeed my grandmother, as well as the adventures and the experiences my cousins and I always had together in this one place.

I was the middle child of nine first cousins on my mother’s side, including myself and my sister, who regularly went to my grandmother’s house. There were basically two groups of the cousins: the older group and the younger group. The older group included George, Joshua, Chantz, Steven and Loury, while the younger group included my younger sister Krystal, Baby Adam, and Gianna. George, known as “Georgie,” was the oldest, most independent and the most awkward of my cousins, and also the one most annoyed by me.

Because he hated to be kissed, I would always run up to him while he watched TV, plant a fat, slobbery one on his cheek and run away. Joshua, the second oldest, was always really funny and tortured me, using my naivety as his weapon. I remember the time I asked him if I could use the chapstick he had taken out of his pocket. He told me he had a special one for me, and took out a glue stick whose label had fallen off. I opened it, smelled it and said, “This smells weird.” He assured me that it was the best chapstick ever, so I swiped it across my lips, and he snickered. About a minute later, I felt my lips sticking together. He literally threw himself to the floor laughing. Joshua always did things like this. I remember learning that Joshua wasn’t actually my blood cousin because titi Ivy had a child with another man before my uncle. Of course, at first, I didn’t believe it, but when I finally realized that this was true, I didn’t feel any different, or treat him any differently. He will always be family, whether blood related or not. My cousin Chantz with the cool name always assumed he was my favorite cousin just because he was “awesome.” Chantz was the most annoyinglyfunny, conceited person ever. He would always look at himself in the mirror and say, “Look at that good looking dude,” smile, and tell you his face was “lickable.” He was a typical jock; he had all the girls, played varsity basketball on school and outside teams, and even had an article in the New York Post published about him. My friends swooned over him as I yelled, “Ewwww, yuck. He’s my cousin!” But he never actually let it get to his head.

He was a sweet guy, he respected the girls he dated, and in the end, he always told me that I was a great cousin. Next came Steven, who, in contrast with his brother George, was strong, kind of chubby, and very social. He was always playing card games and was the first person to teach me how to play Spit. He would purposely play against me so he could easily beat me, until I caught on to what he was doing and demanded that he either let me win, or I was going to be playing against an easier person. Loury was the youngest of my older group of cousins and the most understanding of me. She would listen to me talk on and on about school and boy problems. She would stick up for me when the boys would [65]

Lily Gavin

mess with me and let me watch Disney in the room while my head lay on her stomach and she played with my hair. When we were younger, I treated her as the older sister I never had. Of course, that relationship changed when she began to come to the house less. My sister, Krystal, was the leader of the younger cousins. She was the one who told them I was too old to play with them, who would initiate jumping on me to annoy me and mocked me till I ran away. Gianna was the youngest cousin, and always copied my sister. She screamed when my sister screamed, she repeated the things my sister would say, and even had her parties at the same places my sister would have hers. They were just like each other and the perfect match. Baby Adam, called baby Adam because he has the same name as his father and will probably always be called baby Adam, used to be a rough little boy. He took after his brothers, Steven and George, cursing and hitting people. I realize now, that although he was a part of the younger group, he may have had the same problem I did since he was the only boy out of the younger ones and my sister and Gianna were really close.

As a young child, I had a love-hate relationship with my cousins. My older cousins had been there when I was born and all tried to take care of me. I had done the same with my younger cousins. As we grew older I never fit into either of the groups because I was the middle child. This apparently meant that I was subject to many of the jokes directed at me for being older than the younger ones and still wanting them to include me and the violent consequences that came with being just old enough, yet still small enough, to be lifted. This meant I’d have to choose between getting picked up against my will and forcefully thrown onto my grandmother’s bed by my cousins in an attempt to demonstrate mastered wrestling moves or having to endure the adult conversations in the living room that I found boring because they were all in Spanish.

My grandmother’s house was the time and place for me to be tickled, pummeled, and thrown by my older cousins until I ran crying to their parents. I often took this time to test how long I was able to tolerate them torturing me and tried to prolong my toleration. I had always pictured them as having some sort of cult, and I thought that becoming less of a “wuss” would make them respect me and accept me. This meant not complaining when they put their feet in my face, when they asked me to retrieve them countless glasses of [66]

soda, or when they put a pillow over my face and sat on it. They would then proceed to say that they technically never farted on my face, as it was actually the pillow they farted on. Like my younger cousins, they would push me out. At the time, I didn’t realize that my older cousins only pushed me out to “shield my ears” from their adolescent conversations.

They would talk about the latest gory horror movies they saw or refer to what they thought, as 12-14 year olds, was the most inappropriate sexual comedy. I now understand that they were more worried about what I, as a younger child, would be exposed to. I also understand that maybe banging on the door they had locked in attempt to keep me out only allowed them to see that I was peeved by almost everything they did.

I remember the first time I decided to stick up for myself. My cousin Joshua had told me he was bitten by a dog, going into a gruesome story about how it happened. I distinctly remember standing there dumbfounded with my eyes wide and my mouth slack. He asked if I wanted to see the alleged dog bite as he covered his arm with a pained look on his face.

As afraid as I was, I decided to say yes in order to seem strong. As he slowly lifted his hand from the “dog bite,” and my attention was focusing on the spot where he said it was, Joshua barked in my face, loudly. The mix of the realistic bark sound and the smell of his hot sticky breath startled me so much that I jumped up and screamed like someone was killing me. I turned around while he was doubled over with laughter and punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. He swallowed a gag and tried to suppress the pain, but I could see it in his eyes and returned his laugh. But as soon as he regained his strength he proceeded to pick me up upside down. I later overheard him say that he had gained a bit more respect for me. He had been waiting for me to finally try and defend myself and I had done it. Along with many other things, one of the things my older cousins taught me, in my grandmother’s home, was to stick up and demand respect for myself. In their seemingly twisted way, they taught me that I deserved to be treated correctly. I now respect and love them for that.

Now, when I visit my grandmother’s house on Saturdays, my sister and I close ourselves up in my grandmother’s room while my mother talks to my tio Amancio, watches Abuela, my great-grandmother, fall asleep in the middle of conversation in the rocking chair, or sees my grandaunt, Yosy, do nothing but spend her time on my grandmother’s laptop, and listen to my grandmother complain about how much Yosy and Abuela eat and how she gets no help. My grandmother is not the same jubilant sack of sunshine she was when I was younger, though she is still just as benevolent and hospitable. My sister and I no longer fight over the TV, and if we went anywhere near each other’s face with our feet, either one of us would be dead. I sit there doing homework while my sister, whining about how bored she is, channel surfs. Secretly, we both count the days until my cousins return from college, and wish some of my cousins would move back from Pennsylvania, and that my tio and titi could get their issues straightened out so my little cousin Gianna would come over more frequently. Although my grandmother’s house is still considered the place for our small family gatherings, and the first place to hit when family members visit from out of the state or out of the country, it has lost the same meaning I associated it with when I was younger. ~ Kaitlyn Ramirez

[67]

Are You Afraid?

Are you afraid, my beloved?

For I know I am, but are you?

Oh, what are my thoughts, Absurdity ensues.

You are the strong one, The wise, you know who.

Searching for what will happen next, My head asks if the truth has come forth, Would my gentle man leave this trap?

Or is it fitting to remain quiet?

On average, fright would engulf me, Eerie sounds through the darkness prod.

Is it a creature?

Capable of killing?

But that is not true with you.

Callie Richards

Silence is decent for this hour, For if he was to leave these horrid walls, The daunting dark is the only way out, And haunting shadows don’t make him pursue.

Do you see that, beloved, a girl?

Gorgeous hair shining through the brush?

I shall find her for help, Her beauty is calling, I’ll then wish you adieu.

Time has ticked because of my lacking.

He is already off and we shall be saved, But my choice was wrong, my move not made, For the future this brings, a heart is in pain. ~ Margot Zuckerman

[68]

Shouldn’t Have (Excerpted)

Crystal didn’t always hate herself. It only started when she got into the modeling world.

None of the other models ate like she did. Where she came from everyone ate normally.

She was tired of the girls giving her the evil eye for being one of the few that actually ate a burger every once in awhile. Two weeks ago, while in France getting ready to go to “Club le Chic,” Crystal’s friend, Megan, began to lecture her about how if she continued to eat like a pig no one would hire her. Crystal didn’t understand; she had already been booked for at least five shows for Paris Fashion Week.

“You never see any of us eating like you do and that is why we get all of the good jobs.” It was true, though. Megan was the girl who was featured in the hottest shows for Chanel, Marc Jacobs, and Yves Saint Laurent. “Or you could just barf it up,” Megan suggested, as she pranced out the door in her new, tiny Alexander McQueen black dress followed by the rest of the girls, who trailed behind her looking like a herd of toothpicks.

Crystal just stood there, staring at herself in the mirror while the high-pitched giggles faded. Her shimmering tank top clung to her body like a glove. She felt the itchy fabric against her smooth skin. Crystal did a slow 360-degree turn and examined every inch of her tall body. She had mile-long legs, for which she had been admired all her life. Her feet weren’t too big or too small. She ran her fingers through the small amount of hair that was left after she’d cut it off oh so long ago. Crystal kept examining herself again and again, trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She searched and searched and searched as her body temperature climbed. Her face turned red, and she started to feel sick.

Crystal ran towards the kitchen and grabbed any food she could find. She sat at the table with the leftover pizza, cake, soda and chips. Crystal began to shove the fatty foods into her mouth, using the artificially flavored orange soda to wash it all down. As soon as she finished the last bite of cake she ran to the bathroom. I have to do this, she thought. Crystal grabbed the toothbrush and closed the door. Twenty minutes later Crystal strutted into “Club le Chic” as she tucked away her super strong Altoids. “Where the hell were you?” Megan yelled over the loud music.

“Just getting ready!” Crystal snapped, making her way to the bar.

Sara Caplan

~ Antonia Frank

[69]

The Ballad of Freddy McGee Freddy McGee was a country boy Raised by his aunt in South Illinois Now this aunt went by the name of Crazy Sherry Because she let no girls near her nephew’s cherry She’d yell and scream about the gals he brought home But everyone knew she just wanted him as her own But poor McGee was a simple cattle boy He didn’t know his lush lips brought such joy Manipulated by Sherry’s crude games She’d sneer at his girlfriends and put them to shame And this Sherry was no lovely broad One look would prove the absence of god She had a limp and cane and a mole on her snout And small beady eyes like those of trout All day she stamped around calling out for McGee Wishing he’d tell her once more she was pretty “Freddy, my boy, what do you think of this blouse?”

“It’s just a t-shirt,” he whispered, shy as a mouse This was routine for Crazy Sherry, An introduction for her to remind him of his sad story She spoke of two parents who abandoned their son And a kind gentle soul who took him in as her young On a low budget she offered him food and dress So now the only answer he provides must be yes A tale told nearly every day That has caused sweet Freddy to become incestual prey McGee did as she would demand Because the story pained guilt like the slap of her hand The years went on and he remained home-schooled Until one day a townsman roared, “McGee you are one fool!”

“I wanted one pound of veal, should I have two?”

He chuckled, “Don’t you see you are infected by her flu?”

[70]

AYDEN ACKERMAN

McGee touched his head and felt no heat And had reason to think this wasn’t about the meat Freddy glanced down and shrugged, his only intuition “My young boy, you are Crazy Sherry’s sexual mission!”

Was it true? He shriveled inside.

Remembering the time she called her body was a fun slide He decided to return home and present his knowledge But as one could assume Sherry’s response was not college “Aunt Sherry? He spoke in a timid tone “A man in town told me you wanted to bone” She smiled, confirming the fact And dropped her panties in a quick act She reasoned, “Without me you’d have nowhere to reside!”

“CRAZY SHERRY I WILL NO LONGER ABIDE!” ~ Jesse Gre Rubinstein

Cheyenne Tobias

[71]

Forest Dream

When I was nine years old my family bought a house in Lake Ridge, Connecticut. We still have and love that house. My friend Vinny Jessel also has a house up there, so anytime I go up I make sure he is going to be there too. Lake Ridge is a place I consider my home. I will always remember that house, with its beige color and black window frames. My dad always blasts the record player so loud that the music pervades the house. My favorite aspect of my house is the back porch, where Vinny, my brother Willy, and I would always fight for a spot on the hammock. We’re always barbecuing out there. When it is nice enough out and the bugs are not going crazy, we eat out on that back porch.

Connecticut is where I learned the meaning of nature. The idea of playing in the woods was foreign to me, as I am a city boy. But Connecticut opened up a whole new world to me.

Even as a kid, when I would play in a park in the city, it didn’t even compare to playing in the forest in Connecticut. It’s a completely different experience. Connecticut has the fresh nature scent, while New York City carries that musty pollution smell. Connecticut is filled with tall trees with dark green leaves and many little forest critters, while New York City is covered with tall menacing buildings. The night sky is another marvelous aspect of Connecticut. I can see so many stars while I am there, which is such a rare sight for a New Yorker.

When we were younger, my brother, Vinny and I would always pretend to be knights and samurais up in Lake Ridge. Fallen sticks would be our weapons. We would make little bases in the forest and pretend they were our forts. Lake Ridge is where I truly got to know Vinny. There is not one point in the day where we aren’t together. I got to experience this with Willy too. This allowed us to form a brother-like bond with Vinny.

Both Willy and Vinny are kind of goofy. They’re always joking around, and saying stuff that doesn’t always make sense, but works for them. As they laughed at whatever the other guys said, I would join in and laugh too. When Vinny was around, my brother never picked on me or singled me out to tease me. If I was alone with Willy this wasn’t always the case. The three of us probably talked about our lives, but what I really remember is all the sports and activities we would do together. During the day would we spend our time swimming, playing basketball or soccer, playing in the forest, or making up imaginary games. Winter might be the best part of Lake Ridge. We would spend hours having snow ball fights and making snow forts. Our favorite game was to see who would go the farthest on a frozen pond. Every step we would take, the ice would crack a little more. I remember looking through the ice at the cold water. Thankfully, none of us ever fell in. When it got too cold or nightfall came, we would go inside and play video games. We stayed up all hours of the night and even into the morning playing video games.

One of our favorite things to do was go to the East Lodge. At the East Lodge we could get food, go swimming and play tennis. East Lodge is located on a lakefront and the people who work there allow you to rent boats and take them out on the lake. One time we took out a canoe and started to go out on the lake. We rowed the boat towards a large boulder then tied up the boat by the rock and went swimming for a bit. I remember the water was so cold that it was uncomfortable to stay in for too long. We then sat on the large boulder for a while to warm up, and then we were off again, canoeing far down the lake, rowing hard for about thirty minutes.

I remember feeling a brisk breeze on my back and smelling the fresh outdoors. We were going pretty fast and passing by all of these little islands in the lake. Then we started encountering small islands we hadn’t seen before. They looked fascinating, filled with light and dark green [72]

leaves that would whisper when the wind blew.

After a while we were exhausted, and it was getting late so we turned the canoe around and started rowing back. When we got tired we decided to cool off in the water. I wanted to go in first so I stood up in the canoe. I was struggling to keep my balance. When I leaped into the water it was really cold but very refreshing. I poked my head out of the water and told my brother and Vinny to get in. They both quickly jumped out of the canoe. We decided to get out pretty quickly since the water was frigid. I tried getting in the canoe first. It was hard to do and I kept slipping before I could make it in the boat. I tried to put my hands on the top of the canoe to pull myself out of the now freezing water. I then tried to bring my leg over the canoe so I could hop in but it slid out from under me and I fell back into the water. When I got my head out of the water my back was facing the canoe. I can remember my brother saying, “Malcolm, what the fuck did you do?” “What?” I replied. When I turned around I saw that the canoe had capsized. At the time we were all pretty young and didn’t quite know how to flip the canoe back over to its right side. We were very persistent in trying to flip the canoe but it wouldn’t budge. The canoe had way too much water in it. I began to get a little worried because I wasn’t a very good swimmer and I was already tired.

We decided that the best plan would be to take the boat to shore and then flip it there.

It took a while, but we managed to get to shore even though all of us were exhausted. After we flipped it we thought we knew where we were so we decided to walk back to the East Lodge because it would be faster that way. We traveled on a path for about 15 minutes until we met a fork in the road. We went left for another 15 minutes. I knew we were almost there. I couldn’t wait; I was absolutely exhausted. But then we started seeing things that weren’t familiar to us. We got to a clearing and one path led up a hill and another led straight ahead. By this time we knew we had taken the wrong way at the previous fork so we turned back. I was so tired that I started dragging the canoe behind me. We also didn’t have our shoes because we had left them at the East Lodge. This was excruciatingly painful especially with the weight of the canoe pressing down on me. After about a thirty-minute walk we finally made it back to the East Lodge.

Our friendships were truly made in Connecticut, and are still very strong today. I truly believe that they will never breakdown. My brother is now in college but Vinny and I still talk to him a lot. I hang out with Vinny just as much as I used to. Our friendship means as much now as it always has. Next year he will go to college and I will miss him a lot, though I know our friendship will continue on.

Dylan Corn

~ Malcolm Staso

[73]

Hey, may I ask you a question?

Sure.

Are you, like, “ghetto”?

No, I am like the whitest brown person you will ever meet.

Ah, I see …wait, where are you from?

England and Guinea.

Oh, cool. Where did your accent go though?

It ran away.

You know you are tall; you could become a model.

I know.

But you are super tall.

I know…

I know you know, but I mean you are like way too tall for your age.

I KNOW. Um, do you think you will stop growing soon?

No, not anytime soon.

Wow. So you are English; did you live there?

Yeah, for 11 years.

WOW, that’s a long time. Also, just wondering, your hair is so curly and different…do you like it?

No, not really. But it’s me.

Yeah, you should get a perm, but your curly hair is cute…I guess.

Cool.

Wait, isn’t Aiden a boy’s name?

Depends how you spell it.

You know, I have some questions for you: Why do you ask so many questions?

Why aren’t you tall? Do you control it?

No, I am just short.

I see.

Aiden, are you adopted because your parents are white and -- No, I am not.

Oh, but your parents are—

My parents are divorced.

Are your parents tall?

Very.

How so?

My mother was 6 feet tall, and my father is 6’2’’.

Wow, so that’s why you’re—

Yes, that’s why I’m so tall.

I see.

Yep. ~ Aiden Curtiss Inspired by Diane Burns’ poem, “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question” [74]

Found Poems Shadow whisper is called through the quiet haze of night Danger wire wraps around a porcelain reality

Emma Jacoby

Bubble Artful passion bubbles a gold mine inside me.

~ Josh Goldbatt

Grace Tobin

~ Lilah van Rens

Infuse

Antonia Frank

The tangy sweet sassafras infuses me. ~ Lilah van Rens

[75]

I Don’t Even Remember I was five years old.

I was at my beach house.

I was a survivor.

I was a survivor again.

I was unaware of the pain.

I was happy.

I was goofy.

I was a sister.

I was a daughter.

I was my father’s daughter.

His favorite book was “Little Big Man,” which represented who he was. He was a “big man” because he was tall and handsome and had a big nose. He was a “little man” because he could get to my level, and when I told him to pose for a picture and smile with no teeth, he was as goofy as I was.

But I don’t remember anything.

Only photos and people’s stories are what I know about him.

My senses fail me.

I know what he looks like.

But. I don’t know what his voice sounds like or The feeling that my hand had when it was touching him or What he smelled like.

Because I am his daughter.

My life is A blend of happy and sad.

A composition of family and lost memories.

A mixture of happiness and vulnerability.

A brew of love and loss.

When I look at the photo of me and my dad, it represents Joy because in it I am smiling and my dad is alive.

Despair because only photographs are what I have left.

I am white.

I am 16.

I am a girl.

I am a daughter.

I am a sister.

I am in the 10th grade.

I am a best friend.

I am an enemy.

I am scared to be true to myself.

Third grade.

Eighth grade.

[76]

Tenth grade.

The teacher asks...

“Write about...”

A moment that changed your life.

A personal struggle.

A memory.

So I write about...

My father My cancer Cancer again My father My father But honestly.

Those sad moments.

I don’t remember.

But honestly.

They all could be lies.

I don’t remember.

I don’t write about the moments I remember.

My eleventh birthday, going to Paris, summers at the beach, my grandpa’s death, my living grandmother, my hardworking mom, my relationship with my brother, my sixteenth birthday.

Why don’t I write about the things I remember?

I am scared to be true to myself.

What else am I afraid of?

I am scared to love.

I am scared not to love.

I am scared of death.

I am scared of the future.

I am the player in my own game of life.

I see my life as a game.

I see two lives at the beginning: mom. dad.

I see one gone.

I see one left to go.

There is a lot more to my life and to who I am than my dad dying.

My dad was only five years of my life.

People ask me all the time...

Are your parents divorced?

How old is your dad?

Who is more strict, your dad or mom?

I respond.

No. My dad’s dead.

And then laugh.

I joke about it all the time.

[77]

To me, it’s a way to get all my anger out.

No one ever asks me about him.

How did he die?

How old was he?

Just because it happened a long time ago, Doesn’t mean I am not hurting.

It sucks not to be able to walk down the aisle with him.

It sucks not to play basketball with him.

It sucks not to hear his laugh.

It sucks not to see him smile.

It sucks that my mom lost the most important person to her.

I wish it didn’t have to be like this.

I wish he didn’t have to go.

I wish I could see him.

Touch him.

Speak to him.

I wish that my wishes could come true.

Do you know what it’s like not to have a father?

Someone you can trust.

Talk to.

I would do anything.

I would do anything in the world.

I would do anything in the world to see him again.

Isabel TErkuhle

~ Jacey Mossack

[78]

Glass Voyage Stunned by the liquid orange glass my eyes are fixed on the native Italian, as his hands spin the long steel tube. We-my mother, father and I--watch as the factory hands work together like bees in a hive. The roaring heat of the furnaces permeates the air, and our eyes follow the skill.

A molten ball of glass is pulled from the furnace with a deft gesture of skill.

A worker spins the heavy steel tube to keep the dollop of viscid glass on its end from drooping to one side. Heat bakes the atmosphere of the factory and my young half-Italian body perspires, deeply mesmerized by the dancing hands.

The venerable maestro who controls the glass sits down at a workbench. We watch him roll the steel tube back and forth on the bench; he captivates us, using a pair of tongs with his right hand and skillfully pulling and coaxing the molten glass while rolling the tube with his left hand.

An elder worker approaches him with another steel tube and more glass and fuses it to the first orb. My mother gives a murmur of approval in Italian as these novae are married by interlocking heat.

The radiating heat smacks me as we face the furnaces head on. An elder worker with a cigarette dangling from his mouth takes over. We observe, but my focus drifts, as the maestro and my mother are deep in Italian discourse. The elder smokes and exhales life into the glowing orb with skill.

He takes the bloated sphere to a mold, to define its shape. The glass begins its final transformation as it’s placed into the wooden mold. The aged hands spin the steel tube faster than before while blowing life into the molten orb. Confident hands open the mold, and out emerges a beautiful, undulating form still shrouded in a vapor of heat.

The metamorphosis is now complete: a once shapeless blob has now become an elegant glass piece, skillfully produced by these “Wizards of Glass.” The work for the day is done. We leave the factory but the roaring furnaces never sleep. I have witnessed the skills of the glassblowers my whole life but have only just realized that not even many Italians have this privilege. I have always considered this my second home, Italy, in the glass factory where my young eyes have watched magic unfold firsthand.

I have grown up understanding that this enchanting spectacle is very real work that only skill can accomplish. The same breath that goes into the glass mixes with heat to give us life; a trade we’ve come to depend on. We return to find the glass waiting for us in New York City. Italy always comes back with us. Heat from the factory lingers, and I will remember the image of their hands. We are a family with a keen eye for skill and a knack for glass. ~ Nicholas Cleves [79]

The Dirt Road

and the

Yellow House:

How I Realized They Were Poor

Every time we visit some very impoverished neighborhood in the Dominican Republic, my mom always says, “Mira esa pobreza. Look at the poverty.” She always reminds me that people are suffering and that it’s a saddening situation. She’s able to see the poverty because she has moved to better living conditions. In the stories she has told me of her childhood, she has spoken of living in the country and having to farm to get income when she was very young. My three aunts and my mom got enough money to move to the city with the money they made. Unlike me, who learned to read very early on, my mother couldn’t read, even when she had reached her teen years. Later, she learned to read by reading the Bible with her sisters. Given her own experiences, my mother always notes that I have had some of the most amazing opportunities that she never dreamed her child would have.

My mom is one reason why poverty became obvious to me. In the United States poverty isn’t as obvious. The ‘poor people’ in the United States aren’t very visible. Though I went to the Dominican Republic often and lived in those ‘poor’ neighborhoods, it never occurred to me. Even when my mom told me how sad people’s living conditions were, it still didn’t hit me until years later. Visiting my friends’ houses made me realize how poor the people in these neighborhoods were. Some of the people in the Dominican Republic have houses the size of some people’s living rooms, and some of my friends have second houses. The stark contrast is what made the picture of poverty clear.

When I was younger, every summer was spent in Santo Domingo in the neighborhood “ocho y medio,” which is really just a street lined up with colorful one or two storey cement houses and some tin-roofed houses. The street begins with a tiny church where people really feel Jesus and ends with a colmado that has been supplying the neighborhood for generations. There is no storm sewer for the heavy rains. When the heavy rains come, the streets are flooded and at times flood the Dominican-style garage we have. The only defenses we have against the rain are tiny trenches that line both sides of the street. People dump water they use to wash clothes and move the water down the street with a wooden broom made of dried leaves as bristles. There are constant power outages for hours. The church is one of the only places that gets a gasoline powered motor for energy reserved.

Children play in the streets with wooden branches they find and use them as baseball bats.

Cans and bottles are used as imaginary baseballs. The only way out of this neighborhood is to become Major League players.

A few years ago, my aunt got a promotion that put her into the six figures in Dominican pesos. She quickly moved to a more affluent part of Santo Domingo, to an apartment in a tower. The tower was across the street from the private school, Carol Morgan.

The school consists of about 10 buildings and has giant facilities and a vast soccer field.

The students are picked up from school by their service people or very wealthy parents in SUVs and minivans. It seems that all the parents like to flaunt their wealth whenever possible. The students at Carol Morgan take classes in both English and Spanish and speak a third language. There are about 1,200 students from about 30 different countries. They [80]

are the richest students in the Dominican Republic and go to the most expensive school in the Dominican Republic. LREI looks like a classroom in comparison to the campus of the school. The front of the building has a large cement gate with the school’s symbol in metal, and the gate is protected by police officers. The only people who live in the area are business people, news anchors, real estate agents, and celebrities.

At the apartment tower, there are two doormen who work 24/7 and there is a parking lot that guarantees two parking spots for each apartment. I’ve never seen so much affluence in the Dominican Republic before. The neighbors’ kids all have Nintendo DS’s, Mac computers, are a part of the pricey Palestinian Club, and have traveled the world.

When I was 15, I went back to the old neighborhood after about four or five years of not being there. As the car started to turn the corner onto the street, the memories began to flood back. This was the street that left two scars on both my knees. On this street, the kids played in the muddy water during storms and once right before a hurricane. It is also where the phrase, “Se fue la lu,’ the power is out,” is common. As I walked around, faces became familiar and warm. Some waved at me and some did a double take.

Almost a decade before, my aunt let me get the car out of its parking position and drive it a few feet forward before she pushed me out of the driver’s seat, because my mom would be upset at her. Now the car struggled to fit on the street because there was a car parked in front one of the houses. We pulled in front of my grandmother’s house. I tried holding back my tears. People always talk about poverty in these far away, third-world countries. You see people on television in straw huts in the middle of a desert. The people in the commercials are wearing almost nothing but rags. They are starving, and their bones protrude. They are begging for food. I did a research project on the Brazilian favelas. My grandmother’s house reminded me of the colorful houses found on Google Image search of the favelas. It was a moment of losing a bit of innocence. I never saw them as ‘poor people;’ they were just neighbors and family. After that connection hit me, I realized that they are affected by something called poverty. The tree I remember was really a sick little tree. My grandmother’s cement front lawn was small. The house looked dull even though it was bursting with the color yellow. There was no light illuminating the hallways and the tiny rooms. I realized that my kitchen was slightly bigger than her living room. My walls were bright and smooth; her walls were dull, gray, and rough.

It never hit me till then that they were in fact poor. For whatever reason, at that moment it hit me that they did not have what I had. I must not have been able to see the poverty because I was in the middle of it. One doesn’t like to think that loved ones are suffering in some form or another. Going back, I became an outside observer. Being on the outside forced me out of the bubble of fantasy. As I left that bubble, I also left my pleasant memories behind. All the memories I have are now tainted with my new thoughts of how poor they actually were.

When I stepped into my grandmother’s house, she hugged me and then just looked at me with a puzzled expression. Her bright, light brown eyes peered into my soul. She said, “Pero no te recuerdas de mi, tu abuela Maria? Don’t you recognize me, your grandmother Maria?” Then she went into a mini-rant about how I don’t love her like I used to when I was younger, and how I would kiss and hug her all the time when I was younger. She then [81]

rushed me into the kitchen to offer me some lemonade. Although she had very little, she wanted to offer everything and anything to me. She knew she had very little, but she was ready to give it all away to help someone else. I looked around the suffocating kitchen at the gray cement walls. There wasn’t any lighting because the electrician hadn’t come to install it. She promised me that she would make the house pretty really soon. It was harder to not cry thinking about her and her living conditions. She has such a big heart yet her house can’t house her heart. She handed me lemonade in a tin cup. I went to the front porch to drink it. I looked around the neighborhood and realized that I saw poverty and not warm memories.

I can no longer see the neighborhood as the sunny place where people were always happy. Every time I think of that neighborhood it reminds me how much better I have it. It just makes me realize that some people with the biggest hearts don’t get what they deserve.

Rehana Hirji

~ Steven Susaña

[82]

The Romance They have a romance They are in love He brings her scarlet roses But they have a fight, then an aversion To each other; it makes them feel pensive Their love is lost Their love for each other is lost There is no more romance They feel depressed, pensive They wish their love Had not become an aversion He brings no more red roses She wants a bouquet of roses But she knows she will not get any, because their love is lost She regrets her aversion She wants to have a romance She wants to be in love She is feeling pensive He too feels pensive He wants to bring her roses But he cannot, for she is not in love He feels lost, Lost without his romance He too regrets his aversion They agree unknowingly, they repent their aversions.

They feel pensive They miss their romance He brings her scarlet roses And their love is no longer lost Again, they are in love They are blissful, being in love Again there are no more aversions It is found, their love that was lost It is anything but pensive They love to be together, with roses They love their romance They are happy, having a romance, being in love They love their roses, and mend a relationship broken by an aversion They hate to feel pensive; it reminds them of the time when their love was lost ~ Hannah Weinstein

[83]

Decline She said good morning as she placed breakfast on the table.

She said her roses would take first prize this year.

She said have a great day, as she drove away from school.

She said I would love my birthday present.

She said she would help me with all of my homework.

She said she couldn’t wait to see my next play.

She said good night as she tucked me into bed.

She said she loved me more than anything.

She said it was nothing but a stomachache.

She said nothing when she placed breakfast.

She said she’d win next year when her roses dried and shriveled.

She said goodbye as my father drove me.

She said she was sorry for crying in front of me.

She said break a leg when I left for my play.

She said good night when we tucked her into bed.

She said she couldn’t wait to come home when she left for the hospital.

I told her I loved her while she lay still on the bed. ~ Anonymous

Avery KUTIS

[84]

Her Mother’s Robe As a father, the favorite part of his night was twitching awake to see her doe eyed face staring down at him.

Without words, he would scootch over and open up the covers for her to climb into his bed of serenity.

Then he would shield her from the monsters that lay in the other part of the house.

She would fall asleep in the comfort of his arms and to the heavy sound of his snoring.

He remembered how she would run down the hallway in her mother’s old silk robe that was twice her size.

As she tripped over her own feet, she would stop at the floor length mirror at the end of the hall and watch herself as the robe flowed around her like a cape.

Over the years, the girl’s night frights and prances down the hall decreased.

He would see her staying up late, staring in the mirror, poking at every blemish on her face.

Asking herself why she wasn’t as pretty as the girls in Vogue or Marie Claire.

He would see her pile on eye make-up to cover up her doe eyes.

He saw the silk robe half thrown on a hanger in the closet, dangling above the bottomless pit of high-heeled shoes and knee-length boots.

One day he asked her, “What happened to your mother’s old silk robe?”

“It’s in my closet somewhere,” she replied.

“Why don’t you bring it out again?”

She shrugged, cleared her plate, and went to her bedroom.

Late that night, he caught her at the end of the hall, sleepwalking into a mirror wearing her mother’s robe. ~ Hayley Shear

[85]

The Perks

of

Being Self-Conscious

I have struggled with self-consciousness for almost as long as I remember. It’s a kind of self-consciousness where whenever I hear someone laughing, I’m afraid they’re laughing at me. When I do something wrong I feel a crippling sense of shame. I tend to cover it up behind a quiet mask, close it off from the rest of the world, subconsciously hiding it behind a quiet voice and shy personality. There have been many things that I have experienced that have made me become this way, and I have come to realize that no matter how hard it is, there is a perk to everything that I have been told is wrong with me.

Experiencing hurt and shame has helped me transform into the person I am today.

The thing that has made me the most self-conscious is what people say about me.

Whether it is behind my back, or to my face, I still feel the pain and embarrassment. Men have stopped me on the street since I was seven; calling me sweetheart, asking for my number, or simply staring at me as I walk by. Once a man asked me to get into his car. It’s as if they think I am on display, something for them to watch and comment on, something that has no feelings. It has gotten to the point where I avoid walking by groups of guys or construction sites, because those men usually harass me. The men sit on planks of wood or scaffolding and people watch. It’s almost as if I can feel their gazes burning into my back as I walk away. To some girls this may seem like a compliment, but to me, it hurts because I am not worth anything to them. I’m just another display. It’s not only strangers who lower my self-esteem. I knew a girl who thought we were really good friends. We were friends for a while, but then she started obsessing about her looks and she dragged me into it. At first she made comments about how frizzy my hair was or how my shirt would look better on her. After a while, those comments that seem so meaningless now turned into a horrifying mass of insults. Whenever I would ask her if I was pretty, like she often asked me, she would smile and shake her head. She would tell me what I needed to do to look skinny and tell me that the hundreds of freckles that appear on my face in the summer were ugly, all the while smiling and tell me we were best friends. I have come to realize that the perk of being called ugly and not being able to walk down the street without men staring at me is that I will never, under any circumstance, make someone hurt in the way that I felt hurt. Being criticized for something that I cannot control hurts me more than anything else I have ever experienced. I have learned to never judge people by what they seem or appear to be on the outside.

I have always had a problem with speaking out loud because I am afraid that I may say something wrong and people will look at me like I am stupid, which has often happened. A combination of bad hearing and a supposedly silent voice has made me think like this. I have always been made fun of for having bad hearing. When I was little, my parents and sister would laugh at me when I said “What?” because I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I gradually learned to stop telling people about my hearing because of all the questions they would ask me. However, the teasing never stopped. Whenever I ask one of my skating coaches to repeat something, he says it very loudly and slowly. I used to just shrug it off, ignore how stupid it made me feel; but eventually it began to eat me from the

[86]

inside, a tiny voice telling me that I really was stupid. This wasn’t helped by the fact that at school my friends and I had been given a label, the Silent Girls. Everyone thought that we were different, quiet, and shy. We always hovered on the outside of the class, always there but never fully included. It was as if we were our own little haven where people who had been judged or mistreated could find comfort and friends. Whenever people would say that our class was one big family, they would somehow forget to include us. Everyone thought that we were different; in fact it was a teacher who gave us the name the Silent Girls. What hurt the most was that we were just as loud and crazy as everyone else, at least when we were with each other, and kids whom I had known for years still yelled, “Uh-oh, it’s the Silent Girls,” as we walked by in the hallways. In group discussions no one would listen to us because of our quiet voices. This has made it hard for me to speak up when I have something to say, made it hard to warm up to people, because of the names I have been called and the judgments that have been made about me. From both of these experiences, I have learned to value what I say and hear, taking nothing for granted. I have learned that my voice is quiet, quiet but not silent, never silent. I have just as much to say as anyone else if someone is willing to listen.

Being self-conscious has been a burden on my shoulders for a long time, making it hard to make friends, speak up, and accept myself as who I am, not who someone has told me I need to be. Many people are affected by low self-esteem, letting it weigh them down, taint their every thought and move. But I have come to accept the perks of being selfconscious, which I never would have understood if I had not experienced it myself. It has made me appreciate my real friends, who are the people I can trust and who will never tell me that I need to change. It has made me realize that life is not, no matter how many times I may be told, about how I look. Most of all it has made me believe that everyone deserves a voice, untainted and unharmed by the other voices, actions, and people who weigh them down.

Ketzel Feasley

~ Virginia Mason

[87]

Rebirth of Spanish Lilies For my father, Matthew Silvan, a wonderful husband and father. I think reading your Vitiligo papers is one of the reasons I am a good writer today. Your death inspired me to share your stories and ours as well. Five years this year and I still have so many more to write. I love you Dad, you will forever be in my heart.

“The cherry blossoms are beautiful this time of year,” she said, in a thick Catalan accent as they walked hand in hand around the Great Lawn in Central Park.

“I know,” he said, taking in a deep breath, allowing the aroma of grass, flowers, and early May fill his nose. “It’s my favorite time of the year.” They sat down in the soft bed of grass, the bright sun warming them from head to toe.

“You never finished telling me about how you came to New York, last time we had dinner,” he exclaimed.

“It’s a long story.” She giggled and looked at the bright yellow sun, letting it warm her face.

“We’ve got time,” he said and waited patiently for her to begin.

“I was the youngest of five children. My oldest brother Xavier was twelve years older than me. My sister Marta was ten years older, Gerald was six years older, and Jusep was two years older than me. My father wanted to start up an international trade business.

His big breakthrough was Grau rice. My mother was a housewife and spent most of her time cooking. I was thirteen and ten months when my sister died.” She looked down at her hands.

“Marie, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice soft and caring. He looked into her dark chocolate brown eyes and took her hand in his.

“She was in her Mini Cooper entering L’autopista Central, the main highway in Barcelona. She came early from work to go to mass with my mother. A dog ran in front of her car. She was such an animal lover; she couldn’t bear to hit the dog. She swerved and rammed head on into another car. To think, if seatbelts and airbags had been invented, she would still be alive.”

“My goodness!” he said. His face contorted and his eyes popped at the terrible story. He felt sorrow for her and her family.

“I put lilies on top of her casket that day. She deserved them, every single one. Ever since that night it felt like I couldn’t breathe properly in Spain. I visited the graveyard every day and read my diary entries to her as I sat by her tombstone. It was silly but it brought me comfort. It made me feel like she was still there.

“I spent most of my time by her grave, not only because her presence comforted me but also because every corner I turned I saw her. Whenever I saw a tall girl with straight black hair, I would check to see if by some remote chance it was her. One year, when Christmas came, I made a little pesebre (the scene of Jesus’s birth) and put it in a little box and brought it to her grave. It even had a little Caga Tio in it.” She giggled a little, watching the rainbow patterns on the glass skyscrapers.

[88]

“What’s that?” he asked, laughing a little as a dent on his forehead between his eyes formed. His eyebrows rose in confusion.

“It’s quite silly, you’ll laugh,” she said, almost a little embarrassed but with a genuine tone of happiness. “Well, the direct translation is ‘pooping uncle,’” she said with a smile, “but it is a tradition that every year on Christmas there is this log with a face on it, and the little kids sing a song. They leave the room, and there are little goodies under Caga Tio when they come back. Until he poops out an onion, and you know that Caga Tio has no more goodies left. We used to do it every year. It was our favorite part of Christmas. Even as a teenager my sister would still do it with me. The year she died my parents didn’t bring out Caga Tio.” She averted her eyes to watch the cherry blossoms move in the breeze.

“Obviously you were devastated by your loss. But in what ways did it affect you?”

His eyes searched her face for some answer, as though it would come up written somewhere on the planes of her glowing, pale skin.

She understood that since they were both getting their Ph.D. in psychology, he was taking an opportunity to test what he had learned.

“We shared a room at the back of the house, right across from the bathroom. As you entered to the right there was a closet and straight ahead a bunk bed. It was cozy, just right for the two of us. Trying to fall asleep without her deep breaths above me made me scared.

Waking up as she would get into bed after coming home from a party--all those little things about sharing a room with her comforted me. It made me feel like I wasn’t alone. I was safe when she was there. Dreams of bugs eating away at her skeleton and gnarled roots dragging me down into the grave with her infested my sleep. I always had the same dream: “I am sitting by her grave and all of a sudden a dark cloud rolls over the sky, blocking the sun that warms my face as I read her the diary entry about the day she died.

The ground below me collapses. I fall and land on her body, her face pearly white and perfect, no signs of decomposition, but maggots and other insects crawl all over her body. I try to jump out of the grave but to no avail. I cry out for help but no one helps me, no one hears me. I am utterly alone. Each time I scream for help the echo is the munching of the insects. I get more frustrated and scared as I continue to scream and…and the bugs, they keep chomping and chomping. I am trapped in the underworld with my dead sister’s body.

The sound of the bugs scuttling and chomping rises to a crescendo that is impossible to block out. The cross around my neck does me no good. I pray to God that he will save me, but he never comes.

“My parents would wake me up because of the screams…,” she said, gasping, on the verge of tears. She took deep breaths, just another routine to return to reality and out of her tormented mind. She shook her head; the memories flew from the tips of her hair up into the sky.

“Did your parents do anything to try and help?” he asked. He debated whether to reach out to her, but decided not to.

He urged himself to look closer, to search her face for a sign, something, but it never showed up. It was evident that years of practice had painted her face blank, her attempt at blocking the world out.

“My mom finally took me to a specialist. Psychologists did not exist back then in BARNA.” [89]

“In what?” he asked.

“BARNA...Barcelona. That’s what us Spaniards call it.” There was a slight tone of superiority in her voice.

“I was in his office all alone. He would dim the lights and I would lie on the plush couch. He would do a visualization story; he called it the mountain story. He said, ‘You are walking up a grassy green mountain and you are so tired, but you keep walking. Your eyes feel like lead, and your legs are so tired, but you keep walking. And you’re so tired and there is so much mountain left but you keep walking. Finally, you reach the top of the mountain. The woodland creatures are there to greet you. You fall onto a huge fluffy mattress as the wind whispers you a lullaby.’ I remember leaving there and for the first time feeling okay. Everything seemed a little brighter after that session. Sleep came more easily but was still difficult. After that session I knew I wanted to help people like he had helped me. I thought that if I became a psychologist it would be the perfect way to honor my sister’s life and to climb that mountain until the dreams no longer haunted me.

“I found myself applying for summers abroad. I couldn’t deal with my mom breathing down my neck every five seconds to make sure that I was a good girl, with good grades who would never leave her. The constant pressure she put on me varied. Every Sunday I was obligated to go to mass with her, and she would always nag me to clean my room. She told me that a room my sister had lived in did not deserve to be so untidy.

I spent a summer in Cambridge, England with a withering lady who did not know one word of Spanish. I spent another summer as an arts and crafts counselor at a ballet camp in upstate New York. I took English lessons twice a week while I was getting my Bachelors in psychology. I asked my father if he would allow me to do a masters in psychology in New York one night while he was watching a movie with John Baine.” She giggled at the movies her father would watch.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“John Wayne!” she exclaimed and chuckled. “My father loved his movies. Anyway, I knew that if I asked him while he was watching he would be in a good mood. He wasn’t so keen on the idea. Actually, he found it such a terrible idea that he turned off the John Wayne movie and started yelling at me in Catalan. He sent me to my room crying. I didn’t understand. He had offered my brothers the opportunity to go study business there. But maybe he only did that so people would get word of his company in America. He didn’t understand how I felt; he never would. I needed to leave. I needed to discover what the world was, and what it could offer. All my other siblings had been given that liberty since they were older. But I was the youngest and the only girl. My parents were set on me becoming a teacher or a nurse in Spain. They wanted me to get married to a Spanish newscaster who did stories on the Vatican, Pope, and religious life in Rome. My mother had my whole life set out for me in Spain, but I didn’t want it. I applied for a scholarship and studied hard.

Eventually I got a Fulbright. I had applied for a masters program but they believed I was so advanced that they signed me up for the Ph.D. program. I guess all that hard work came to something good,” she said with a smile on her face and pride in her voice.

“So how did you break it to your parents?” he asked; the story was so interesting to him.

[90]

“I told my parents a week before I left,” she began. “In short I told them that they couldn’t stop me, and even if they did it would be such a waste. I told them that they should be proud of me…I think eventually they were. But I believe my mother was hurt by me leaving. I think she felt she had lost another daughter, even though I am going to come back to Spain eventually. I remember how I felt when I got off the plane. It was winter, and there was snow on the ground. I was so confused. I had only seen snow once in my life but it had never stuck. The wind howled and left a whistling in my ears. I took in a deep breath of cold fresh winter air and for the first time in ten years I could finally breathe fully. I stood there waiting for a taxi and gave myself the luxury of those deep full breaths. The cold masked the smell of fuel but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I was in New York about to start a Ph.D. program and that I could breathe.” She took in a full deep breath with her eyes closed, her nostrils flaring, as though this had now become a regular action. She took one more deep breath, allowing the aroma of cherry blossoms to enlighten her. Then she opened her eyes.

Marie and Tyler’s relationship bloomed over a short period of time. Six months after they met, Tyler asked Marie to move in with him. The night after she had fully moved in they decided to celebrate.

He walked in with a bouquet of lilies behind his back in his right hand, a bottle of Champagne in the left, and in his back pocket, a little black velvet box he had bought that day. But that box would have to wait a while before he got down on one knee and showed it to her.

“Hey hon, I’m home! What are you cooking? It smells delicious,” he said as the aroma of seafood and rice filled his nostrils. Paella!

She stood in front of the stove, her back facing him. Even from behind she was beautiful.

“Hi hon!” she said with a smile. She kissed him, long and slow. In that moment she knew her feelings for him would never change. She looked at him and smiled, a smile that spread from ear to ear.

He took the lilies from behind his back.

“Lilies,” she gasped as tears filled her eyes. “How did you know they were my favorite?” Tears streamed down her rosy cheeks.

TODAY The spot where “Marie and Tyler” sat, characters that represent my mother and father’s relationship and personality, is the bench with my father’s plaque on it. It says, “Remembering Matthew Silvan, We will always love you.-The Silvan and Grau Family” The mountain story that helped my mother through her depression after losing her sister was later used by my father as a method to help me fall asleep after I had bad dreams.

This story is my mothers but it is also mine. ~ Mia Silvan-Grau

[91]

Snow Sky “You know the sky’s right for snow if it’s all orange, Papa!” The young boy kneels on his toy chest to see out the window to the cold night on the other side of the glass.

The orange light reflects off his thin blond hair and bleaches his features. He grins expectantly.

“That’s right, Calvin.” The boy’s father smiles back, crouching on the floor beside his son. “Do you know why?”

“No.” He thought the orange sky was a thing that just was, and just meant what it meant, like the way the door to his parents’ room slamming meant his mother would soon be heard screeching out of the driveway in the car.

Calvin’s father adjusts his glasses. He is a very scientific man, and knows about such things as orange skies at night in January.

“The orange is from the sun, trying as hard as it can to shine through the clouds, to make sure there’s no snow. There must be clouds for snow, you know, and since the sun likes being center-stage all the time, it tries to get rid of the clouds.”

“But it never works!” Calvin finishes the story for his father. “The clouds always win and there’s snow the next morning,” he crows.

“And then the sun gets its turn to reflect off the snow.” His father stands with a rustling of khaki pants, and says, “If you want to see that tomorrow morning, you’ll have to go to sleep first.”

Calvin slides off the toy chest and jumps into his small bed.

“Good night, Calvin.”

“Good night, Papa.”

His father slowly steps out of the boy’s bedroom. As he closes the door behind him, the yellow shaft of light from the hallway grows thinner and thinner in the darkness.

Soon, all that is left is the vague orange tinge from the window as the streetlamps reflect the blanket of clouds.

When Calvin wakes up the following morning, big white flakes are falling from the sky, and an inch of wet snow makes the tree branches heavy. By the end of the day, so much snow has piled up that his mother cannot tear out of the driveway and instead holds a long, hushed conversation with his father at the kitchen table.

Before Calvin goes to bed, some thirty years later, he tells his own son the reason the sky is orange when it’s about to snow. Calvin grew up to look exactly like his father.

Not like his mother, whose face is forever pinched when it snows. As his son sleeps, the boy looks peaceful. Calvin leaves the door to his bedroom slightly open, so his son can reach out to the comforting light if the darkness becomes too much. And that night, as anticipated, it snows. ~ Saskia Globig

[92]

That Night The night was glowing with warm, calm tension.

The night was a table with plates of cheese and half empty glasses of red wine standing solemnly, comforting each other.

The night was silent but it screamed out of memories not made and thoughts not spoken.

That night voices murmured things I didn’t want to hear.

That night friends stood together, sipping whispers and slowly chewing flavorless melancholy.

That night pale sheets fell on the breakable figure of my misplaced mother.

That night was teasingly peaceful, driving my hidden struggles into the light.

That night candle flames swayed to rhythms of the past.

That night candle flames flickered and cast shadows on hollow white columns.

That night candle flames disguised dark faces I thought I knew.

That night candle flames brought to light answers for questions I never asked.

That night candle flames allowed me to see the beauty I had lost in her.

That night I fell asleep in my bed, oblivious to the candle flames slithering under my door.

That night our friends and family said their goodbyes, but I never did.

That night I didn’t realize it was the last night.

Olivia Dontsov

~ Jo Viemeister

[93]

Reclamation With dire strength and steel grain the defiant sprout tears earth asunder.

A protest of anger against the cold ocean of stone, The arbor messiah revolts against the chill, and he does it alone.

His roots shatter earth like disciples of thunder.

Paving over the forest was stone’s defining blunder.

The king of the forest’s ire and rage burns through even brimstone.

Just as rock marks the grave of the lived, the living shall stand as the rock’s headstone.

Empire expanded, king calls for his men who dig up from down under.

Lord Cumulonimbus owes king a favor So he lends king his tears so his men may emerge.

The infantry rise with the sun like a battle cry sounding “THIS WAR IS DONE!” Now, with numbers, they show their power to the stone scourge.

Shattered by their strength, stone tastes loss’s bitter flavor.

Years in hundreds pass. Trees still stand. The war of cold and warm… is won. ~ Anonymous

A Bridge to the Past The sky is a painting, filled with the colors of our thoughts.

The sea and the earth blend. Our hands building towns, building cities, with sand that moves like smoke with grains that grind and swirl.

The evening, she takes hold of us, she makes our castles fall, our cities crumble.

Our work collapses under the emptiness of an ending day. ~ Hannah Rifkin Lily Gavin

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[95]

Isabel Terkuhle

Grace Tobin

The Literary & Art Magazine of LREI High School IE STAFF: Grace Beck Milo Booke Livia Brock Ketzel Feasley Harry Fernandez Sophie Furman Ruby Geiger Maya Kaufman Chang Liu Finley Martin Hannah Rifkin Josephine Viemeister Lucia Zerner Middle School IE STAFF Lucinda Hirschfeld Avery Kutis Gabriel Law Pia Mileaf-Patel Julia Noonan Pilar Olivieri Otilia Olmeda-Young Emma Rose Juliet Sage Lindsay Seitz Isaac Weiss-Meyer Hannah Weinstein Faculty StaFF: Jane Belton: High School Editorial Advisor Sara Momii Roberts: Middle School Editorial Advisor James French & Susan Now: High School Arts Advisors Carin Cohen: Middle School Arts Advisor Stephen MacGillivray: Production Advisor Special thanks to: Phil Kassen, Ruth Geyer Jurgensen, Mark Silberberg, and Laura Hahn