Amused 2014 (with ceramics supplement)

amused Miami Country Day School National English Honor Society

SPRING 2014

amused SPRING 2014

| volume viii

Editor-in-Chief

OLIVIA KATCHER ’14 Layout Editors

MADISON GALLUP ’14 MAIA WALKER ’15 Poetry Editor

SIDNEY THOMAS ’15 Prose Editor

MARNI WEISS ’15 Art Editor

JOSHUA RIVAS ’14 Staff

OGECHI ANYAGALIGBO ’15 LUCIA ARRIOLA ’15 JODI BAUSON ’15 SHALINI CHANDAR ’15 LUNA FAYAD ’15 ELIZABETH FINNY ’15 PAUL-JULIEN GIRAUD ’15 MADISYN JONES ’16 KRISTINA LEITER ’14 STEPHANIE MACKENZIE ’15 WINONA PAEZ ’14 KANESHA PETIT-PHAR ’14 EMMA RODRIGUEZ ’16 ALESSANDRA SETTINERI ’15 Faculty Advisors

MR. SCOTT BRENNAN MR. AARON GILLEGO Front Cover

MADISON GALLUP ’14 Alien Planet | Animated Rendering

Back Cover

MILA BOANO ’15 Burst | Digital Photography

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If you would rule the world quietly, you must keep it amused.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

amused | 3

ARTWORK 07 August and Everything After Watercolor & Pencil

08 Freedom of the Wind

Pen

10 Pregnant Woman

Cut paper & Acrylic

Prismacolor Pencils

Clay & Glaze

12 Monarch

15 Tribute to Roy Lichtenstein Clay & Glaze

17 Orange Flowers

Pen

18 Endless

Photography

21 Stargazing

Acrylic

22 Brown Eyed Pearl

Photography

23 I’m Late

Clay & Glaze

25 Abandoned

Photography

26 Cracks

Sharpie

29

Man vs. Government

Watercolor & Charcoal

30 Rue: Hunger Games

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Watercolor

Andrea Jensen | ’16 Mila Boano | ’15

14 Silenced

Madison Gallup | ’14

33 Roller Derby

34

Dagger to the ____

Gauche, Acrylic & Stencil

37 Moons

38 At Home

Veronica Apice | ’16

39 Eyes

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Photography

Acrylic

Aminah Austin | ’15

44 Dyslexia

Ruben Volovitz | ’15 Julian Schultz | ’15 Andrea Jensen | ’16 Madison Gallup | ’14

Digital Photography/Photoshop

43 Malu

Michaella Sena | ’14

Maia Walker | ’15

42 Psychedelic Skyline

Maia Walker | ’15

Amanda Baldor & Corey Altman | ’15 & ’16 Photography

Ruben Volovitz | ’15

Kanesha Petit-Phar | ’14

40 Sensation

Madison Gallup | ’14

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Photogram

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Ines Lei | ’15

Pencil

Maia Walker | ’15 Aminah Austin | ’15 Chris Ward | ’16

Photography

Jackie Groll | ’15

Acrylic & Pencils

46 Tribute to Nelson Mandela

Digital Photography/Photoshop

Andrea Jensen | ’16

48 Evolution

Ruben Volovitz | ’15

Digital Photography

50 Prometheus

Acrylic & Pencil

52 Lifeguard Watch House

Digital Photography

55 Fiction

Clay & Spraypaint

58 Spartans Acrylic

Mila Boano | ’15 Mila Boano | ’15 Ines Lei | ’15 Elmira Moskvina | ’16

POETRY & PROSE

04 All Things Nature (II)

34 Blurred

33 Monsters Under My Bed

Sebastian Prokopovich | ’16

Haiga

Cameron Kasanzew | ’16

Free Verse

Sydni Wells | ’16

Ekphrastic Poem

06 After the Same Rainbow’s End Madelyn Hertz | ’16

35 Instructions of Shruppak

08 Fractured Fairy Tales

36 My Secret Hiding Spot

Fiction

Francess Dunbar | ’16

Free Verse

10 Natufian Burial

Free Verse

Free Verse

Madelyn Hertz | ’16

11 When I Die 12 It

Free Verse

13 Peaches and Cream

Sonnet

14 Mind the Gap

14 A Farewell Verse

15

Girl in the Woods

16

Thumbtacks

16

Napkins

Ekphrastic Poem

Personal Essay

Personal Essay

Winona Paez | ’14

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

17 Reflections from My Rock

Free Verse

Science-Fiction/Fantasy

Free Verse

18 Never Let It Fade Away

Sebastian Prokopovich | ’16

Haiku

37 Being Lost

Cameron Kasanzew | ’16

36 All Things Nature (I)

Viviana Velez | ’14 Marsha Edwards | ’16

Zainab Hageldain | ’16

Free Verse

37 Interstellar

Jordan Rosendorf | ’15

Free Verse

Evan Iaslovits | ’14 Francess Dunbar | ’16

Prose Poem

38

My Dad, My Father

Francess Dunbar | ’16

Prose Poem

Gina Macropulos | ’14

Madison Gallup | ’14

Free Verse

Vignette

39 My Sightless Childhood

Free Verse

39 A Perfect Home

Free Verse

40 Circuit

Sara Walker | ’16

Julian Popiloff | ’14

Jodi Bauson | ’15

Fiction

Francesco Longhi | ’16

42 Magnetic Poem

42 Mishla

Francisco Arocha | ’15

Experimental Form

Madisyn Jones | ’16

Flash Fiction

44 Dylan Reads Another...

Olivia Katcher | ’14

Francess Dunbar | ’16

45 Missing

Mateo Bolivar | ’14

Kiana Matisonn | ’14

Free Verse

Free Verse

20 Ode to the Carrot

Everett Levy | ’16

46 Abuelo

Emma Rodriguez | ’16

20 Tea and Sympathy

Sydni Wells | ’16

47 All I Saw Was Red

Francisco Arocha | ’15

Sonnet

20 Another Love Sonnet

Sonnet

22 The Glass Slipper

Personal Essay

23 Ready or Not

Free Verse

23 The Gift

Free Verse

Marsha Edwards | ’16

Free Verse

Flash Fiction

47

A Fairytale Ending

Kristina Leiter | ’14

Free Verse

Emma Rodriguez | ’16

49 The Boy With the Pipe

Amanda Gavcovich | ’14

49 Sung in the Key of Love

Mharlove Andre | ’14

51 Gunning for the Gulfstream

Robert Desmond | ’15

Alexa Randolph | ’14

Ekphrastic Poem

Collage Poem

Creative Non-Fiction/Memoir

Adria Markovic | ’16

24 A Measly Manner of Existence Madison Bolton | ’15

53 Ocean Reef, Key Largo

Nicole Halpryn | ’14

27 Iowa

54 Lap Dog

Samuel Benson | ’15

Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction/Scene

Connor Space | ’15

28 Tirupati

Shalini Chandar | ’15 Creative Nonfiction/Memoir

32 The Typical Journey

Personal Essay

David Franco | ’15

Free Verse

Spoken Word Poem

55 The Piano

Free Verse

56 Rapids

Creative Non-Fiction/Memoir

Rebecca Fulford | ’17 Sidney Thomas | ’15

amused | 5

After the Same Rainbow’s End MADELYN HERTZ | ’16

“Y

ou know, I really do love her,” Creston stammers as he pulls his baby blue shirt on over his head. The fitted garment stretches over his broad shoulders, shifting as he moves.“It’s just that, I don’t know, we’ve been really distant lately.” I’ve gotten used to his ramblings that occur after our encounters, sometimes even listening intently, trying to piece together my perception of his life and his marriage. He often volleys between loving and hating her, between vowing to get a divorce within the week and deciding to renew their vows on a holiday excursion to New Zealand.

Sometimes it’s little more than her forgetfulness or her innocent meal-ideas-turned-dreadfulkitchen-concoctions that throw him over the edge. But, from the growing confidence in his voice, I can tell that something had brought him back, given him a reason to go to her.

“I just can’t imagine my life without her, you know?” he ponders, half asking my opinion half trying to prove to himself that things were going to be okay between them. His russet eyes look up at me for some sort of approval. I glide my fitted charcoal skirt up my legs, trying to stall my response as long as comfortably possible.

“I understand. If you really love her then you should prove to her how important you find your relationship to be. You’ve been saying this for a long time now, yet nothing has happened. What makes you think it’ll stick this time?” I reply, hopefully getting him to consider all that would be involved.

My work often fluctuates between two extremes. One being a simple “thanks, see you again, same place same time” with a departure signaled by a swift breeze and the gentle slamming of a door, the other being lengthy discussion afterwards, typically about their regret, guilt, or general uneasiness with themselves or others. Though it might seem impractical from an economic standpoint, I actually tend to prefer to

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listen to their voices instead of the banging of a door after our business is done. I find it beautiful to see the inner workings of their mind. I’ve heard thoughts spoken in confidence that nobody else has felt brush past their ears. They feed me their weakness, and in return I give them my attention for however long it may be required. I’m more than a simple businesswoman; I’m a therapist, a lover, a granter of wishes.

Creston presses his hands into the plush pillow top and uses it as a means to ease himself upright. “Of course she’s worth it. Have I ever told you how beautiful she is?” I press the palm of my hand into his shoulder and try to tell him that her beauty shouldn’t be everything he was concerned with, but he’s so caught up in her I do little good.

“She just has the most beautiful eyes, the way the splashes of green do a gentle waltz with the swirls of brown,” he beams, tossing his hands around as he talks. “Oh! And the way she would smile at me, her lips separating so slightly as to see the delicate teeth once hidden beneath.” I move closer to him as if the act would allow me to better understand the life he waved goodbye to every morning on his way to work or caressed every evening when he opened his front door. I drift in and out of his words, letting them pull me into his vision.

“And the way strands of hair fall down her cheeks like waves of warm auburn. How strands of gold intertwine themselves as they glitter when beams of light bounce off of them. Everything just comes together so perfectly in her, and I just can’t stop myself from ending things because I know that she’s the best thing that has ever come into my life,” he beams, finally coming to a halt. “I’m just so terrified that if we part I’ll never be able to continue without her light,” he concludes after moments of pensive hesitation.

I pause too before saying anything, knowing full well that I too have fallen for the very same glimmering hair and gemstone eyes.

amused | 7

August and Everything After | Madison Gallup ’14

Fractured Fairy Tales

Freedom of the Wind | Andrea Jensen ’16

FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16

i. peter pan: faith, trust, and pixie dust the agony of the wait staring down the skyline with under-ripened blueberry eyes swirling starry nights reflected there is a land I like to go where there is hardly ever snow the trees are as tall as daffodils and flowers just as large as hills and maybe in the corner of your eye you spot movement only to see that it is another nation’s flag as if to remind you that one day he will not return there is a land I like to go where time passes so very slow a boy in green (with a bright red cap) passes the time waiting for his mother’s slap

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and there on the horizon, I can see a mast, bloated as it is with nightmares and wind and a man behind the wheel hook controlling the flutters of the rutters with a thousand years practice there is a land where I like to go where the tide neither ebbs nor flows the sea is never too low or high because his sea is my sky ii. rumpelstiltskin: a study in sunlight, moonlight, and firelight spider-veins the color of a Colorado nugget a meager prize for a week’s hard labor freckles like indian pennies, scattered twisting and whirling along his tiny, clasped hands

and in them a child the color of a tilled field seeds sworn but still unsown teeth like frost upon a winter window revealed only when the wolf-cubs growls escape and a girly womanly thing with hair the color of strawberry syrup sweet and artificial and just a little addictive walks into the grey-green forest murmuring his name under her breath like a lullaby iii. bluebeard: the tragic story of Missus B. L.

iv. the sandman: lord of the dreamworld though his flesh is made of the long decimated corpses of granite and quartz and glass he appears like gold in the soft moonlight his touch featherlight as he whispers goodnight this is how it goes (the birds and the bees never had to deal with this bullshit) swivel your hips bat your eyelashes and smile (darling) brighten up their endless rainy day

the raven’s wings do not rustle as they pass he does not cry. there are no desperate caw-caw warnings meant to warn his brethren of the passing dangers; because it is his brother who passes cloaked as he is in black with just the faintest navy sheen

old men watch as she walks by and double take because token memories of

hips swiveling

eyelashes batting

a pretty girl’s smile shiny objects glittering most finely in the sunlight of youth

and his bride her coat dyed with blueberry juice with hair as white as an old womans though she is little more than a child herself

if there’s a pretty girl walking by you’ll know it by the shine in their eyes and if she is not so fair you’ll see nothing but emptiness there

the spires scrape the sky sapphire indigo cobalt twisting and curling weaving and waxing leaning ever so slightly forward like a hand ready to pluck and in the darkest corners of her deepest bowels is a tiny room filled with girls in blueberry coats; their lips the color of well-worn denim and the groom grips his brides arm tightly as a warning as a promise and her cheeks are like roses from the frosty winter cold

young men shift their sweatshirts along their lap and maybe, if they’re still innocent blush bright pink along the ears because

hips swiveling

eyelashes batting

a pretty girl’s smile it’s not their fault stand like an Amazon (but not too tall; you shouldn’t be intimidating) twist your hair into Gibson Knots and Victory Curls

(but not too much; you shouldn’t be vapid) suck in your stomach

(you really should think about a diet) play along

(but not too much; you shouldn’t get caught in a game you can’t win) amused | 9

Natufian Burial MADELYN HERTZ | ’16 The wind cries, swirling around the peak of Mt. Carmel in wiry spirals, cocooning a procession of faces shivering through the icy blow to put to rest two of their own Splayed out on their backs, their lungs stones in bone cages, the long horns of a gazelle— pointed like spears— had rammed into an abdomen a warm wine gurgled and gushed from the stream in his gullet. The hunter had stood proudly once— his wooden bow pressing into the creases of his shoulder shielding his precious son like a stone wall to ensure there were no bloody trails to match father’s But daddy’s little boy coiled in fear felt those same red strips cut across his body nonetheless

the hunter and his son are put to bed atop a knotted mat of wild sage

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Pregnant Woman | Mila Boano ’15

Woven together strip after strip by the faces, and arms, and hearts they left behind

When I Die

GINA MACROPULUS | ’14

I want my body to melt into the earth, to envelope the dandelions and the baby weeds to blend with the soil.

When I die, I want nature to soak up my bony carcass like raindrops gargling it, consuming it To breed new life— a wispy lily, perhaps.

When I die a bumbling bee might stumble upon this new flora and impart in it some pollen grains the wind will disperse.

And what a relief!

That when I die, time trickling out, the world will go on, the flowers bear fruit, and the cycle complete.

amused | 11

It VIVIANA VELEZ | ’14 It envelopes you.

See the fiery pits of hell, or the comfort of your home.

It cloaks you.

Feel the freezing loneliness cracking your skin, or a spring meadow’s sunshine warming your face.

It is a fictional cage.

Do not search for the comforting security of light.

Do not allow the panic to seep into your bones.

It is the frontline.

Battle and conquer the fear.

Embrace the sensations.

It is security.

Let it fill your solitude, Let it shed your worries.

It loves you.

Dismiss all anger and frustration as you slip into a peaceful state.

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Monarch | Andrea Jensen ’16

Peaches and Cream MARSHA EDWARDS | ’16

Her heart pounded like a child trapped in the back of a white van, desperately trying to escape as if her life depended on it. The air around her, thick, the smell of his cologne and the anemones, intoxicating. She could feel the eyes on her.

She felt like she would burst into flames from the July heat. On the wall across she noticed the peach paint peeling. He brought her a peach every day. The lights above shone down.

Her white dress felt dirty under his gaze.

She looked up into his eyes and didn’t recognize a thing. She remembered that summer by the lake where she got her first sunburn and her first crush—and how they felt the same.

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Mind the Gap MADISON GALLUP | ’14

As you jump over puddles in the cobblestone, watch out for the biting wind hugging your coat.

Tug your hat a little closer to your chin.

Wiggle your toes in the rain boots and thick socks that keep the splashes at bay

Watch your step as you pile into a speedy cab, feeling sure that the car will slam into the side of the narrow alleyway Close your eyes and place full trust in a stranger.

Scribble “Sherlocked” on the fogged car windows

Take care as you dodge around strollers and feet,rolling and stomping through a busy Leicester Square.

Remember that they belong to people lost in their own world.

Continue at your own pace, admiring the glistening Christmas lights

Mind the gap between here and there.

Take a final gander at the Gherkin building as you roll your suitcase to the train.

Garbed in a Darwin shirt with a new Penny Lane keychain dangling out of your pocket, return home brimming with tales from your latest adventure.

A Farewell JORDAN ROSENDORF | ’15 Windows cracked and structure broken, Wallpaper curled and doors blown open.

A distressing embrace of cold wooden tendrils, This is what our end entails.

Nature comes to stake its claim.

On the grey and dreary, dark and lame.

Ashen gray, frail and bent.

We capitalize on the time we’re lent.

Silenced | Veronica Apice ’16

Our progress, drive, and ambition, All break down, in dissolution: The complex network which we built, Ends up buried, with gravel and silt.

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Our leaves turn and fall with Jack Frost, And it would seem that all continuance is lost.

But…our seeds grow after we depart Into beauteous, imperfect, works of art.

Great limbs and boughs grow from you, From the seeds you planted which now grew.

Though our farewell is disparaging and dark, Not all will be dank, forlorn, and stark.

Girl in the Woods

after Vincent Van Gogh

Lost in her own mind, she wanders out into the coniferous forest standing beneath the giants of the land like a pin in a sea of hay The ancient trees ponder, why is she here invading the remote woods where the sun only sparkles through the grey-blue distance, untouched by human saws

She strolls past a thick pine wrinkled from old age among shedded leaves of yellow and brown I have a destiny, she murmurs her tangled thoughts making way to form words with her tongue The pines understand that the forest’s maze which life resembles has a path to the light. Sorrow is a choice she thinks, wanting to drown in it Tribute to Roy Lichtenstein | Ines Lei ’15

CAMERON KASANZEW | ’16

amused | 15

Thumbtacks WINONA PAEZ | ’14

T

he first time I was punished, I was in Montessori school—a place where toys and activities fulfilled my first-grade learning.

Afternoons came the best weekly assignment: pushpin art. As Ms. Estella made her rounds handing out small mats, thumbtacks, pencils, and paper, my friends and I bandied endless ideas. Our imaginations soared through green jungles and white castles. In innocent competition we each bragged about our plans. I was proud to acknowledge that mine, a fairy unicorn, was the toughest to beat. Once it was addressed that we could begin, the icky boys sketched cars and monsters, while we ladies drew rainbows and flowers.

After admiring my fairy unicorn, I slipped the mat under my paper and with thumbtack in hand I poked small holes through the outer lining of the shape. Confident in my work I took breaks between every push (either to help my friends or to crack a silly joke). Work time soon became playtime. Then, in a gust of cocky ambition I grabbed the resting pushpin and scratched the letters W-I-N-O-N-A, with a heart to dot the ‘i’, onto the tabletop.

When I looked back up, wide-eyed students gestured above me—their mouths gaping wide. The teacher’s assistant was standing over my head. She grabbed my hand and dragged me to my teacher’s desk. Her brow was furled, and I knew I was doomed for the principal’s office. My eyes welled up with tears. I had never visited the school’s second story office, and I did not know what to expect.

The assistant walked me up the steps of shame and through the wooden door. I had entered the lion’s den. The principal sat calmly facing her desktop; she was regal, a queen in her palace, and I was a delinquent. The queen asked me to walk closer to her. With this request the barricade restraining my tears let up and I avoided eye contact as I sobbed.

Then, before I knew it, the queen wrapped her olive colored arms around my body and squeezed me tight. At this action my swollen eyes seized spurting salty drops. I was lectured on defacing property and spent a ten-minute time out on a beanbag couch in the corner of the office. Far from distractions and even farther from temptation.

Napkins

VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17

I

t’s always funny what people remember about their childhoods. I have always remembered the napkins. Completely white with a repeating textured pattern covering the entire surface, folded into fourths and always somewhat longer than they were wide, those napkins were a symbol that everything was Okay. I remember that when my mother used to tell me to set the table and they were always my favorite part. Something about folding the napkins diagonally in half and never having the corners match up relaxed me, it showed me that not everything in life was going to be perfect.These kinds of thoughts have been passing through my head since I was six. Perhaps that is why I have always been called ‘eccentric’ by worried eyes and confused smiles.

The napkins mean much more to me now. They are reminders of my grandfather. He died when I was eight, so I have a few good memories of him. Something about seeing these napkins in the kitchen yesterday after two years of buying different ones took me back to when he and my grandmother used to visit from their Real Lives. I saw the napkins and got a very clear image of my grandfather sitting at our kitchen table and wiping his already clean beard with one of those white diagonally-folded napkins. Somehow this image assured me that although things hadn’t been okay in a while, my life was well on its way to normalcy.

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Reflections from My Rock KIANA MATISONN | ’14 Oh to be in Cape Town with all the beauty there— to sit upon my rock with the mystical roar of waves so near The intoxicating air, the seaweed resting at the surface of the dark ocean— its strong aroma does not scare and thoughts of peace with nature surrounding me there The presumptuous seagull eyes my snack— he does not seem to be in sight here in Miami where I now reside As I keep him out of reach, I see him fly Encompassing the freedom of the sky he soars above the vicious Atlantic sea waves that are bigger and bolder and larger than life Now, however, that seagull is out of sight.

Orange Flowers | Andrea Jensen ’16

The kaleidoscope of colors magnifies Africa’s might as the sun fades beneath the horizon and disappears with its exotic colors, forming its own artwork in the sky--orange, and red, and pink shimmering across the ocean.

To be replaced by a glistening moon that penetrates the darkness of the African sky And as I leave my rock behind I return to the obscurity of my introspective mind and all that is left is the memory on my rock

amused | 17

Never Let It Fade Away FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16

F

or the first time in a century, the Empire State Building was deserted. New York was still alive—he could feel the hum of it in his bones, vibrating as they were with nervous tension. He thought he could hear the people down below, shifting and whispering. Nobody had talked above forty-two-pointfive decibels in weeks.

He liked the quiet. The day after the announcement, he had

18 | amused

played a one hundred twenty minute show for an empty amphitheater. The acoustics had been unparalleled—a once-ina-lifetime experience during a time of once-in-a-lifetime experiences. There was something distinctly wild about music played only for the musician, melodies meant only for the maestro. It was tempestuous and savage, tangled and feral.

It required a steady hand to control, and a talented ear to

know when to allow it to run unbridled.

And the prodigal Musician knew better than anyone.

His tuxedo had been built for air conditioned cathedrals, not windy skyscrapers in midJanuary. But his coat was sixpoint-two miles and four-pointfive billion years of world history away, and it was four-pointfive billion years too late.

Still, he shivered. He was only human, after all.

Endless| Ruben Volovitz ‘15

The first strum came as a surprise even to himself. It was deep, dark, and entirely fitting.

He shook his head and tried again—a lighter note, airy and bright and childlike. He smiled once—a goodbye to both those he’d known long ago and those he’d yet to find—and then the Musician ceased to be.

He was replaced by an Instrument, heavy and lumbering and beautiful. Over the next three-point-four-seven hours, it would play. Beethoven and the Beatles, Duke Ellington and Chopin, Adele and Clara Schumann, John Williams and

William Byrd. Every song that had ever been and would ever be written was played that night, and several songs that had never been invented were played for the very first time.

Classical masterpieces, rock anthems, religious hymns—the stage of the world did not discriminate.

And as the Musician and the Instrument presided over the world, people lived. Mothers cried and children laughed.

Babies smiled and teenagers fucked. Cowering in scantily prepared fifties era bomb shelters or perched on skyscrapers, people lived for the last time.

The asteroid hit the earth with a quiet thud. The wooden heart of the Instrument mixed with the fleshy soul of the Musician, and the steel body of the skyscraper crumpled in on them both.

And the Earth collapsed in on itself, splintering into tiny asteroids that would fly across the universe to destroy new worlds. The children were astronauts, like they’d dreamed, and the adults were adventurous, like they’d once planned. And though they’d never admit it, everyone was just a little bit more happy.

But our prodigal Musician— he was ecstatic. The dizzying tones of light zipping through a vacuum, the dulcet timbre of a planet creaking along on its axis, the sigh of a star twinkling contently. Everybody knows the best music is found not on plan-

ets but in the spaces between them—a no-man’s-land of melody and song. No musician could compete with it, but the honor of hearing, the joy of listening—it was an unprecedented gift for the man who had played humanity to sleep.

amused | 19

Ode to the Carrot EVERETT LEVY | ’16 The carrot waits and grows while his neighbors, the cucumbers, show off tall and lanky sprawling and sprouting unabashed.

The big men of the garden the baby cabbages just peek their heads, young and green.

They will grow large but they still have far to go.

The bushes full of beans springy and plentiful take over the garden.

Even the noble kale show off their leaves— they show their strength of produce.

But not the green-headed carrot.

The carrot has two faces, two different lives.

Deep beneath under the damp soil he grows stronger.

His orange body hidden from the prying eyes of those above.

His face does not mind to hide and stay quiet, for when his time comes he will impress everyone else.

For no one expects the quiet, little green plant to have such immense strength and beauty.

Alas, the poor carrot: none will see your bright orange roots before your time is done.

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Tea and Sympathy SYDNI WELLS | ’16

brown sugar crystals cling to the edges of my lips when my eyes close chamomile teases my tongue a man, named george, tells me a secret that whisks my imagination the way egg whites turn into foam: “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” and this thought kneaded at my mind with the weathered palms of a long time baker when people ask me what I want to do when I get older I will tell them: my life should melt on people’s tongues like butter I want the aftertaste of my mistakes to hug your taste buds like lemonade on a salty day and leave my sweet pulp on every surface of your memories.

Another Love Sonnet MARSHA EDWARDS | ’16

Maybe it’s the way your skin glows golden tan, like grains of sand in the vast desert of Morocco at the peak of summer, that propelled me to create this sonnet.

Or how your pink lips resemble a rose garden at full bloom in spring’s beginnings, that even the most royal bees buzz for.

Or perhaps it’s the gentle rasp your voice whispers when you speak, like chill autumn winds that shiver my bones and trigger goosebumps.

Or how your warm chocolate eyes melt snow and defrosts my heart in winter's solstice.

But maybe this rhyme was a waste of time; fourteen lines can’t possibly capture you.

amused | 21

Stargazing | Aminah Austin ’15

Brown Eyed Pearl | Kanesha Petit-Phar ‘14

The Glass Slipper EMMA RODRIGUEZ | ’16

C

inderella was always my favorite princess growing up. Even four year old girls like the underdog. With an evil stepmother, horrible stepsisters, and too much grueling housework, it seemed like nothing would ever go right for Cinderella. But one day, amongst her singing animal friends, her savior appeared- albeit a chubby, sparkly, fairy godmother type of savior- but magical all the same. She would go to the ball, after all, complete with the dress, the carriage, and the perfect pair glass slippers. (Who would ever think that shoes made of glass, of all things, would become the most desired item on a little girl’s wish list?) Of course, the prince fell madly in love at first sight. Who wouldn’t, I thought, with Cinderella’s silky blonde locks, sky blue eyes, flawless porcelain skin, and delicate figure.

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At this moment, four year old me declared matter-of-factly that the prince would never love me, because I had brown hair, brown skin, and brown eyes. My mother was shocked, and it became my parents’ mission to prove to me that I was already loved, because I was beautiful just the way I was.

Beauty and the Beast replaced Cinderella regularly, “See, Emma, she has brown hair!” and brunette Barbies were purchased immediately.

Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl,” became our family anthem. My father would sing it to me at night, and when it came on the radio in the car he would proudly proclaim that it was “our song!”. Even now, when I am more worried about studying for tomorrow’s Chemistry exam than I am about whether the prince will love me, Van Morrison inspires a bit of confidence in me. I am a brown-eyed girl, and I can do just as much as any Cinderella could.

Ready or Not AMANDA GAVCOVICH | ’14

They’ve been ready for years They’ve chosen their dreams While I wish for a real Neverland They’ve become adults I’m last in the pack in the race to maturity To independence Comfortable in my life Confused by their vengeance

The Gift

Here I am Admitting that I’m not ready To move on from this place I’ve known Into a mysterious new world

ALEXA RANDOLPH | ’14 Quick, hide it!

Tuck it away somewhere safe!

Don’t let anyone see!

But maybe this is life And I’m just immature Or maybe I have it just right Holding onto my adolescence this tight

It lies weightless within you Wherever you go, Yet it carries your life

Either way I know That I must not be totally alone And everyone’s a little bit not ready Eating their last Crayola crayon

As fragile as glass, be cautious It lies untarnished for now.

Make sure you feed it with creativity daily Don’t sell it for any price!

It has an intangible value.

Like a mother to her offspring, Keep it as close to you as possible.

Listen to it With both Yin and Yang It has a mind of its own, an aura But it needs you!

Ready or not Life will tumble by Until you’re sitting in a dorm room A stranger sleeping next to you Ready or not Promise when you grow up You won’t forget all of us Because we were all here That time you weren’t ready too

I’m Late | Michaella Sena ’14

The essence of your existence; Your soul.The only possession On earth that truly belongs to you.

They beg just to a catch a glimpse, And then crush it with their cold, sharp hands.

Handle it with care, Save it for the perfect moment.

Once it has been divulged, There is no going back!

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A Measly Manner of Existence MADISON BOLTON | ’15

I

t was the day Jeremy was dreading since his grandfather’s passing; he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

He and his grandfather were best friends. They became close when they completely rebuilt his candy apple red 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air. Jeremy couldn’t believe that Pops was actually gone. Forever. Who would appreciate cars as much as he? With whom could he eat takeout from the local Chinese canteen? Jeremy’s parents died in a skiing accident when he was only 7 years old, and he lived with his grandfather until he left Upstate New York to go to college in Connecticut. Pops had many different types of cancer and the majority of them were terminal, but the topic was never brought up in conversation.

Abandoned | Ruben Volovitz ’15

The night of Pops’ funeral Jeremy ordered the Lo Mein with extra chicken because that was Pops’ order without fail. Jeremy ate as quickly as he could because he was so anxious to read the fortune. He saw that they’d given him two cookies; they must not have heard of Pops’ passing. Jeremy cracked it open and pulled out the tiny slip of paper: “To love and win is the best thing; to love and lose is the next best.” He had won and lost, but it was now time to let go. Jeremy knew this was it for him in Upstate New York. He now had no reason to come back, so he got into the Bel Air and drove.

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CONNOR SPACE | ’15

I

t’s as if they just sat there, wondering to whom the next move would belong. Although this had occurred many times in the past, this time it was different; it was special. Not in a good way, of course, more of an “I never want to see you again” kind of way. You could ask how this all started. Well, to tell you the truth, nobody ever knows. For all anybody knows, they could be fighting for different reasons. It all just boils down to one last thing: the end.

Jack: Well… where do we take it from here.

Heather: You’re asking me?

Jack: Well, you know, I’m not good with these kinds of things.

Heather: I know it all too well.

Jack: Your sarcasm hurts you know… It’s part of the reason we are in this whole mess in the first place.

Heather: (raising her voice) Is that what this is about for you? Because you know what you signed up for!

Jack: (matching her intensity) Just because it’s a part of who you are, Heather, doesn’t mean you can’t try. That’s what this is about for me, getting you to give a damn!

Heather: Oh, that must be the problem, it’s definitely not that you come home every day after the kids and I have gone to bed.

Jack: Oh, I’m sorry I did not mean to provide for the family!

Heather: (sarcastically) Oh, is that what you are doing? I had no idea!

This insulting banter went on for a little while, going back and forth, screaming at the top of their lungs and getting nothing accomplished. She did it. She actually said it again. “I’m leaving.” These were words that Jack had heard from her many times before, usually an empty threat based on some dumb argument.

He didn’t know it yet but it was those very words, at that very moment, which would play back in his head for the rest of his life. Jack didn’t really take her storming out with the kids, packing their bags and going to live with her mother very seriously.

It was just a short week later when he found the divorce papers on his desk that it truly dawned on him. “It is actually happening,” were the exact words that he muttered under his breath. Those same words he used under his pungent, alcohol ridden breath at the bar later that night.

It was no surprise that some years later he missed the woman of his dreams, his beautiful children, his very first home, the job that he loved. Jack had no choice but to move back to Iowa. He lived at home for a little while working in the town’s convenience store selling liquor, condoms, and cigarettes. Jack’s life would never have been described as ideal, but this was a new kind of low for him, and one he had never experienced before. So this became the moment of his ultimate decision. What would be his end? Well, he didn’t leave a note or anything, so I couldn’t tell you, but that was his choice.

Cracks | Julian Schultz ’15

Iowa

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Tirupati

SHALINI CHANDAR | ’15

I

glance at my cousins, Shyaam and Sangeetha, who are over a decade older than me. Most of my family on my dad's side is older than me, in fact. I'm the fawned-over baby of the family.

“Norway has one of the highest depression rates in the world,” Shyaam tells her.

They are discussing Shyaam's possible move to Norway from Chicago, where he wants to study sustainability at Trondheim.

“Then why would you want to move there?

Chicago is such a great city.”

“Tuition in Norway is free!”

“Isn't everything really expensive in Norway other than the education? How do the people there afford that?” I interrupt. I can’t fathom why he would want to leave dynamic Chicago for dank Norway.

“Because they get paid a lot. That’s why all those Europeans in Miami are rolling in cash.”

Shyaam is what most would consider a "green freak," and by most, I mean probably just me. He went through a phase when he didn't use storebought shampoo because it was bad for the environment, and instead combined baking soda and apple cider. He stopped after a couple of weeks when he realized that malodorous cloud that seemed to be pursuing him, was him. He has yet to get his acceptance letter for graduate school, but Sangee is already planning her trip.

“When we drop you off, we can take a tour of Northwestern Europe. Visit all those cute little boutiques...”

Sangeetha’s the head of interior design for IHG and travels frequently to exotic locations. She desperately tries to be as “untouristy” as possible, acting like a local wherever she goes and avoiding popular sightseeing destinations at any cost.

She's also been the topic of discussion among the women of our family for a couple of years because she is 33 and still unmarried. I dread the day I pass the age of twenty-five and the beleaguering begins.

“Aren’t you going to be hot?” Sangeetha queries as she points to my thick, gold and red polkadotted salvar kamis, a long, knee-length top over thin cotton trousers.

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“It’s December. It’s like 50 degrees outside.

What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be pressed up against thousands of agitated Indians trying to catch a glimpse of a shrine. It’s going to get hot.”

She scrunches up her nose as if she’s imagining all the alien sweat that’s going to be touching her body today. Sangee was born in India, but she is the probably the “least Indian” person in our family despite only moving to Atlanta when she was 20. It’s hard to imagine her ever living in India.

“It’s fine. Stop freaking out. She’s fine. Stop making a big deal out of it, we have to leave in like three and a half minutes.”

Shyaam is just like his dad, he’s a funny kid who always makes large hand gestures when making fun of his older sister. He had a successful career before he decided to resign and apply for

our destination for today, to the cacophonous soundtrack of thousands of beeping cars. In India, drivers may be able to clearly see the miles of packed traffic ahead of them, yet they continuously honk as if the traffic will part like the Red Sea. Even in the dead of night, I can sometimes hear the honks of auto rickshaws as they barrel through the streets.

I take my sandals off and leave them in the car as we arrive in Tirupati. The soles of my feet immediately tense as they come in contact with the stone-embedded dirt ground. I skip across around the jagged edges like a young school girl as the rocks pierce through the sensitive soles of my feet. Little girls wearing pavades approach us, selling flowers we can offer to the Gods as their flowing, patterned skirts flap in the wind. I stare down at our bare feet, toe-to-toe, hers colored with peeling purple nail polish, just like mine.

Man vs. Government | Andrea Jensen ’16

graduate school, but he’s still a kid at heart with a strange fetish for pirates.

“I kind of want to change now,” I relent, feeling insecure about my choice of dress.

“No!” Shyaam moans, pointing at Sangeetha.

“See what you do? We’re leaving in like thirty seconds.”

Thirty minutes later, my family and I–red salvar kamis and all–cram into a red Toyota Qualis that is covered in the dust and sand that seems to coat all of India.

I sit up front with my dad and the driver, feeling rebellious without my seat belt on. It isn’t illegal in India to ride without a seat belt, and despite the stupidity of neglecting a seat belt in a country where the reckless driving puts Hialeah traffic to shame, I employ my freedom full force.

My dad manages to talk and keep us awake for the entire two-hour car journey to Tirupati,

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Rue: Hunger Games | Madison Gallup ’14

The Typical Journey DAVID FRANCO | ’15

T

he game of life has been a tradition throughout the souls that have walked across the this unjust earth I call home. I play the typical game, on the same difficulty level, and with the same objective as everyone else. Climb to the pinnacle of satisfaction and receive the endless riches of self-worth, or lose by slipping on the grease of our inner arrogance. The choice is and always will be mine. Anyone, even I, can win the game to his own advantage, but I think that may be just the way to lose.

I start the journey off strong.

Of course I want to be the best I can be. I feed on the attention given to me by those who are left in awe by my greatness, if what I have can even be considered that, greatness.

What makes me so special?

Nevertheless, my ego begins to grow, using every last compliment I receive, every last ounce of kind remarks I hold and pump it into the endless vacuum that is my ego. I look at all these components that I must have in order to be great and I still call myself simple; A simple being that needs no more than food, shelter, and the clothing on my back. I look at the people who surround me and find that we make ourselves out to be these fakes, these people who are unable to function without the charging power of acclamation.

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Humans tell one another how they don’t ask for much.

We don’t ask for anything more than the minimum, but I see the minimum will get us nowhere, the minimum will not move our bodies two steps, the minimum will never be enough. We hide our flaws within the maximum, I believe, and for me, the maximum gives me more than I need. So, I say I don’t need it. I act as though I would be perfectly stable without all the affluence given to us, yet I, along with everyone else, need that affluence to pay for the paint that covers our lies.

‘You keep climbing with that look of determination in your eyes, that nothing will be able to stop you. You know everything there is to know.

Not a single person that has, is, or ever will walk this earth knows more than you. You have your entire life planned out ahead of you, nothing will go wrong at all. You show people how great you are, how selfless you can really be. There are few out there that can see truth, few that can look beyond the painted beauty you have made yourself to appear to be, into the self-centered, egocentric witch you are inside. The paint begins to chip away, piece by piece. The maximum no longer supports your selfish and prejudiced personality.’ I continue to stare at my reflection, my eyes begging to look away.

‘All your predictions lead you down a lonely road of denial until you reach the boulevard of pure failure. You keep climbing and think you are almost there, like you have proven yourself to be different. Yet all you feel on your hands is the slippery grease which causes you to struggle. You started your life being egocentric and you will end it just the same.

All the factors that you used to fill your perpetual vacuum now turn into the grease running down your hands. You watch your personality slither down your arm and you begin to fall.

You fall into your never ending vacuum with everything you put inside staring right at you.

All the things that were going to make you a success, now haunt you for the rest of your life.’

‘Your greatest strengths could very well be your worst failures. Your cockiness moves you to be someone you are not.’ What ever happened to just being simple? ‘Although, as you become self aware of your actions while falling through your bottomless pit you have dug yourself, it is all too late; the game is over, and the vicious, circular cycle takes a new victim.’ My eyes finally leave my reflection. I see my past and know my future, but there is no way for me to escape this journey my life embarks upon.

Roller Derby | Madison Gallup ’14

Monsters Under My Bed CAMERON KASANZEW | ’16

I remember Mom perched on the kitchen floor, mascara smeared on the bottom of her cheekbone, a half drunk bottle of the Cabernet from your wedding night. I thought you left us abandoned like the cat on Kirk Street you would leave chicken scraps for every now and then, but she was convinced it was one of your many long nights at work or sudden business trips with your girlfriends. Should we take a trip down memory lane or was that flight cancelled too? It wasn’t your fault I still loved you through the first day of school when Anna's dad showed me how to tie my shoes, the neglected birthdays and unread bedtime stories I left out every night just in case

you showed up. My wish to Santa was a letter, a voicemail, even a bicycle, as long as you were there to teach me until I no longer needed training wheels. The monsters under my bed were not so much monsters anymore but the parasitic thought of you as though you were draining blood from my veins, leaving me to suffer, so I told mom to not bother to check for them anymore.

I could not defer watching her fall apart at the seams, her eyes gazed at the decaying front door left ajar. I did not know how to sew and “divorce did not exist in God’s eyes.” It wasn’t your fault, I thought.

I knew you loved me— or was that just my wish to the tooth fairy?

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Blurred

after Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party”

SYDNI WELLS | ’16 I. It shouldn’t have been such a loud afternoon, but one too many sips of teenage ambrosia left everyone with too many words spoken and not enough thoughts unsaid.

The sun glided across the faces of beautifully young souls that held the world in a careful balance between each perfectly sculpted finger.

Laughs bubbled up from a dark place where even friends dared not venture because despite the brightness of day shadows lingered.

II. The chill of a big world with little apologies creates troubled youth with nothing better to do except to look for the answers to problems at the bottom of a bottle with labels we can’t pronounce.

Paint our faces with lies and try to wear shoes with heels bigger than our realities in vain attempts to escape our lives.

Even with smoke in our lungs, the air tastes just as harsh and our aching feet can’t take us far enough from our troubles.

And so we played and laughed and danced—because it was all we could do not to cry.

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Instructions of Shruppak FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16

Y

Dagger to the _____| Maia Walker ’15

our first step, nothing happens. This is known, colloquially as the calm before the storm. On later days, you will reflect on how the sky was unnaturally blue and the sun a disturbingly cheery shade of yellow. You will discover the tornado’s disguise a few weeks or months or even days later, as you reflect upon the darling home destroyed in the whipping winds. You will think yourself quite clever for seeing him as he truly was: tempestuous and tempting and lovely in that tight-fitting, cloudy sweater of his.

And eventually, you will smile, because delayed clairvoyance is still satisfying if your only pursuit is knowledge.

Your second step, you hear a scream. You will wonder, distantly, if it is real or imagined; but that thought will promptly be pushed away. If it’s real, someone else can take care of it, just this once. You’re always the helper, the mother hen, caring for the bloodless boo-boos and the broken backs with the same careful, kindly hand that pushes them out the door when they’re well enough to fly. Just this once, you’ll let another Florence Nightingale tend at the bedside, less saintly than your Mother Teresa but still compassionate, still protective. And if it is inside your mind, if it is a desolate premonition of what is yet to come, if it is a thorny ivy plant creeping up the side of your brain, you will cut it off at the roots. Because such an anguished cry could never come from a boy with lips like rose petals and words like citrus.

Your third step, you can’t breathe. Clawing fingers spring from your lungs, slitting your throat from the inside with their carbon monoxide nails as you gasp quietly at the humid, swamp-like cave of your mouth. Your vision darkens at the edges, cloaked figures taking refuge on either side of your peripherals, waiting quietly with their toothy grins. And this is the real tragedy: it is too late to go. You are there, and so is he, asking if you’re alright with that clever grin. This is when you realize, finally, that this not a love story; it is a cautionary tale, and you are the boogey monster, green and filthy.

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My Secret Hiding Spot ZAINAB HAGELDAIN | ’16 you watched and you screamed for me yet there is no sign of me I am hiding but you find me

Haiku: All Things Nature SEBASTIAN PROKOPOVICH | ’16 I. The water flows down from the heavens to the land earth and the people

II. Hoots and howls at night silent shuffles around trees eyes peer through darkness III. Sunlight reflecting on the calm ocean waters brushed against the coast IV. Lions creep through grass animals in a frenzy blood soaks the warm ground

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Moons | Andrea Jensen ’16

V. Behind calm waters rays of bright red and orange spread across the world

Interstellar

Inspired by Interstellar Teaser Trailer

EVAN IASLOVITS | ’14 Waiting.

Waiting with anticipation And grasping onto anything Until I can finally have it all.

Listening.

Listening to Zimmer’s score Over and over again Until I can finally hear it all.

Watching.

Watching one teaser To hold me over Until I can finally see it all.

“One year from now Our destiny lies above us.”

Being Lost FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16 soar up and see the sea beneath sweet and milky a thousand lusty moons rising diamonds shadow music languid repulsive you trudge through a storm

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My Dad, My Father SARA WALKER | ’16

W

At Home | Maia Walker ’15

hen I was a kid, spending time with my father was the best. On the weekends, when he was home, he would take me on adventures.

We would go on hour-long drives with the top down and the radio blasting just to find the perfect scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream; or we’d go to the movies, and he’d teach me how to see two, but only pay for one.

But that was the weekend. I quickly learned that weekdays were different. Monday meant that I wouldn’t see Dad. It meant that I’d have to wait five days to giggle and share secrets with my number one confidant, or to find out what

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to do when the bigger girls pushed me around.

I became accustomed to seeing an empty seat next to Mom at piano recitals, soccer games, and science fairs. If I did see Dad during the week, it was probably so that he could tell me we wouldn’t be able to go to the beach that weekend.

As I got older I spent fewer days waiting around to see if Dad could hang out. Over time, I started to giggle and share secrets with Emma and Julie. I started going on adventures with Luke. I got advice from magazines that became some of my closest friends. I lost my appetite for mint chocolate chip ice cream and for seeing two movies for the price of one.

Eyes | Amanda Baldor ‘15 & Corey Altman ’16

My Sightless Childhood

A Perfect Home JODI BAUSON | ’15

JULIAN POPILOFF | ’14

A beige house on the corner,

One touch, one word, In one end, out the other.

You speak, I speak, The whole world’s meaningless chatter.

What happened to Our promises?

I look away; you go astray.

I waited by the back door.

Centuries passed and littered the floor With memories and hopeless dreams, Sightless glances and hurried footsteps.

What happened to “stop and smell the air”?

When did we stop living life to the fullest?

Why did we ever give up on our childish dreams?

When everything was about to be real?

So just leave me, Go out and follow your dream.

Whatever you choose to do Seize the day and live.

where two streets meet lies comfort and safety.

Green grass, wooden doors, steps. Presents visitors with warm welcome.

Behind concrete walls, a small girl dressed in faded pink, drags a father into a basement.

Dark, dirty, and helpless he waits—as she did— forever regretting his mistake. amused | 39

Circuit FRANCESCO LONGHI | ’16

I

t doesn’t matter if they are the most peaceful priests in existence, loving mothers, or grandmothers, Italians in traffic are the best trash-talkers of all time. Just the slightest mistake would cause the entire city to turn against me as if my papà were a surgeon performing brain surgery.

“Cretino patentato! ‘Sa fet?

Torna a scuola di guida, patacca!

Cogliunz san sens!”

As I’m sitting in my father’s tightly-spaced Fiat 500, the 1957 model, the smog from the crowded cars attacks my nostrils, causing a nauseous headache. The honks from the other cars don’t make it better. I look up and see the sign of a new restaurant in town, but I can’t make it out because I am blinded by the warm glare of the sun. After ten tries to infiltrate the car in the right lane, papà is finally able to.

At the corner which leads into Via D'Azeglio, the car makes a right turn into the ancient, tight alley. It’s as big as the sidewalks in America, or so, I have heard. It still has the bricks planted there by the Romans. I open the old, screeching gates to my building, papà parks the Cinquecento in our parking spot, 13, in the courtyard. I have to take my sweatshirt off for the heat is making me sweat like Nettuno’s Fountain. The excitement doesn’t help either.

I turn into Pietro Mannea as I sprint my way up the neverend40 | amused

ing staircase. I arrive at my front door, then stare at my father’s rattling deck of keys as he sticks the front door key in the keyhole, turns that son-bitch sideways, opens the wooden door.

I flash my way to the couch, turn on the tv, and enjoy the game. It is humanly impossible to hype a kid this much, unless that kid is Italian and is watching the finals of the FIFA World Cup and Italy is in the finals.

I can hear the yells of all the grown men in the building, and I think I can hear the cheers from Piazza Maggiore, about two blocks away.

A foul is called, giving me time to change into my Paolo Rossi jersey, put on my blue scarf and sit back down on the edge of the couch, as Rossi kicks the free kick.

The first half is goal-less, and as we wait for the second half to start, my papà and I eat a full plate of tagliatelle al ragù each. The second half begins.

Rossi is going to the speed of light towards the opposing goal, turns left, turns right, gets rid of all opponents until it’s one-onone with the goalie. He keeps running until he shoots and scores for the first time three games in a row.

It’s a long game, but Italy triumphs with a score of 3-1.

The whole city goes ballistic.

I run downstairs and sprint to my friend Matteo’s house. I can barely get through the grown men, the confetti, the beer.

I arrive after five minutes of running. He’s still sitting on the couch with his dad watching the TV. They are excited about something. I hear a noise come

from the television, like motors from cars, except less rough.

They’re yelling for someone named Franco Uncini.

“Dai su! Più veloce! Spingi!

Spingi! Vai! Vai! VAI! I advance through the wooden floor until I reach the couch. They still don’t notice me. I look at the screen of the TV and see a kind of vehicle

advances even faster than Pietro Mannea in the Olympics or Rossi on the field. He’s about to finish the race, he’s second, he cuts through, he’s now first! I move up to get closer to the TV and start cheering. It’s almost over, Franco finishes the last lap in first position. We all jump up and down to celebrate the victory.

There’s happiness all over Bologna, mostly because of soccer, but I’ve now discovered a new passion: motorcycles.

Matteo explains that this was the Moto GP, or Grand Prix, the most important motorcycle race in the world. I imagine myself as an adult, 15 years from now, riding one of those machines on the Moto GP circuit.

Sensation | Maia Walker ’15

I’ve never seen before. It’s like a bicycle but bigger and much faster, and there’s no need for pedaling. I ask Matteo what it is, he answers, “Ciao Valentino!

Sono moto!”. Motorcycles.

They look dangerous, rough, noisy, unorthodox. They look… beautiful.

Franco battles for first place as he turns right and left. He

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Magnetic Poem: Laws of Attraction

Mishla

FRANCISCO AROCHA | ’15

MADISYN JONES | ’16

Psychedelic Skyline | Aminah Austin ’15

T

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he cured cabbage stings my nose, forcing my senses awake.

Mama’s shchi for Papa woke me before the sunbeams had a chance. I would often sneak the leftover meat from the soup for breakfast, but we haven’t had the money to buy any poultry or beef lately.

The radio in the kitchen fades in and out of clarity, “Our beloved leader, Joseph Stalin… troops sent down…ammunitions on hold.” Mama mutters something and shuts it off. I often see troops walk past our apartment, their machine guns in tow. Their drunk stutters, loud jokes, and calls to women disturb the silence of my room.

The sun shyly makes it way up into the sky. The clouds, like a damp towel, only allow a sliver of light into my room.

My curtains dance in the winds, performing for the breeze of the east, as they do every morning.

I lie in bed for a few minutes, watching birds chirp through the distressed wood on my window frame. Ten years in this home and it’s always been the same. Brass doorknobs, coalfired stoves, metal bed frames, concrete floors and walls. The wildflowers I picked from the alleyway yesterday lie dead around my room. They only last for about a day, or until Mama yells at me for bringing the outside in.

I lie still for as long as pos-

Malu | Chris Ward ’16

sible. “Anytime you’re awake is able time for chores,” Mama’s voice rings in my head. “Hurry up, I will not have my sons grow up tupoys,” my mother yells to my four brothers. She has never let my brothers miss one day of school and has high hopes for them. She will not let them live the life of Russian poverty she had.

Nika, my kukla, is smothered under my blanket. I give her fresh air as I trace her brown button eyes with my fingertips.

The strings of yarn that make up her hair have started to disappear off her head. I match her circular face up to the sun, pretending she is a sun god sent down to take me away.

She wears her dress I made from the leftover scraps of my

clothes, floral patterns and plaid mashed together in one.

Sometimes, I let Nika sit in the window and watch Mishla for me. Growing up in Mishla hasn’t been extraordinary, rather like eating Mama’s bland shchi over and over again.

The large rug on my floor has begun to fray. I plead for Mama to fix it, but she claims to be too busy. A mouse scurries in through the wall and pulls at the tattered tapestry. I pay it no mind; Our cat, Mishka, hasn’t eaten for days. I found Mishka while I was searching for Nika after my brothers hid her. She was cowering under an oil-stained cardboard flap in the alley, her hair damp and mud-splotched. “Eeeeeeek!” I assume Mama has found the rat.

Murky clouds of black exhaust spiral into the sky outside my window, diluting the purity of the white clouds. The gears have been churning nonstop since the start of the war.

Papa works in one of the big factories, returning with a smell of the kopeks I use to buy wheat.

Living on the third floor of our apartment building gives me miles of landscape to view.

Eight in the morning and I shift my legs to the edge of the bed, change into a floral plat’ye recently bought from the market, and head towards the door.

The last time I stayed in bed too long, she threatened to slice Mishka with her nozh and serve him for dinner. I grasp the brass in my hands, hoping today will be better than the last. amused | 43

Dylan Reads Another #@!*% Sad Story in AP English, Goes Mad, and Cannot Stop Thinking About the End OLIVIA KATCHER | ’14 How many #@!*% poems can he read of misery and death?

What is the limit he cannot exceed and when does it all come to an end?

Dyslexia | Jackie Groll ’15

The Road, Looking for Alaska, Moby Dick— He is tired of reading these never-ending stories of tragedy.

Refusing to read any more, one question continues to make him sick: Where do they all come to an end?

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No longer living in the real world, he starts to think, becoming engulfed in this wonder and mystery (‘the possibilities of where we go are endless’).

And everything in his head has swirled.

What happens when it all comes to an end?

And then he becomes insane and mad.

He is trapped in his own thoughts and there is no way to ever again be glad.

Why does it all have to come to an end?

Missing

MATEO BOLIVAR | ’14 I lost it today or last month— the date doesn’t no matter. It escaped me, left through my mind’s forgotten backdoor past the folds of flesh on the inside of my skull.

It didn’t even have the courtesy to warn me.

My bastard of metaphysics and ethics It presided over the Self in plum robes, tended by the bookish Morality and meant to be a mediator for my my rotations, a light in the attic, a ceaseless orator for balance in the Abstraction Theatre.

Chaos, Panic and Despair barged into the cavern of the Abstraction Theatre. The whole scene was rather tasteless, as they paced the aisles, spitting tobacco on the Persian rugs and pawing at their sweaty foreheads as they informed the patrons that It was missing.

And from the crowd came the familiar scene of uproar that is not unlike those birthed from my darker moods. The air was frothing with curses and bitter howls.

Frenzy and Mania mingled in the lobby around the scent of concession treats.

There’s a chance that It won’t return having met other Abstractions.

It could have run into Isolation in a seedy bar in New York, seated near the sword-mouthed Persuasion, sharing a welcome euphemism between brothers Pride and Humility, drunken argument feudalism.

Vice at the corner of the bar, smoking a defeated impotent cigarette He glances over, blowing tumorous motes of smoke that almost masked the crippled jaundiced wallpaper, and whose smell committed adultery against the marriage of bleach and sweat that held dominion over the patrons In any case, my prodigal son is welcome back whenever It sees fit. After all, It was my caged canary, sunk in the depths of a mine leaving me without a grip on my Abstractions and as such, cast out, rudderless amongst begs for continued sacrifices and dreams of sweets.

Perhaps It will come back in a fortnight, repatriated to my psyche, a hero’s return amongst Greed’s grateful cries for more legroom (now hushed) a and Judgement’s rolled eyes.

Naiveté would welcome It back as if he hadn’t left for respite.

amused | 45

Abuelo EMMA RODRIGUEZ | ’16 You hear your mom get up in the middle of the night.

The clock blinks 4 in the morning.

She is on the phone and you see that she is crying.

“Mom, what’s happening?”

“He is gone,” she says.

Your heart sinks to the floor with a thud. Heavy.

You cry too and you can’t stop.

The plane ride is silent but everyone tries to be cheerful.

Even your young eyes can see through the act.

You walk through the open doors of the funeral home in a trance. A mahogany coffin gleams through a curtain of white gardenias.

Mahogany used to be pretty.

You whisper along with the Spanish prayers, Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, Amén.

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Tribute to Nrelson Mandela | Andrea Jenseun ’16

You’re unable to distinguish your sobs from the others. As if the world wasn’t sad enough, they have to take him away now.

“They can’t take him, they can’t,” you weep.

No one understands you, but you keep saying it anyway.

All I Saw Was Red FRANCISCO AROCHA | ’15

“M

om, shut up, I’m talking with my friends, I don’t have time for you right now. By the way, I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight,” I said.

“Lucy you promised a week ago we would have dinner tonight! Just the two of us, you know, mother-daughter bonding! Come on, it’ll be fun!” She said.

“No mom, I already told Sarah and Megan I’d go with them. We can have dinner any other day,” I replied “But…” Said my mom as I turned my back on her and walked away.

I went upstairs, took a shower and put on a tank top and shorts that I had bought last weekend. I prefer saying that I “borrowed” my moms credit card without her consent, rather than saying I stole it, because I’m not the kind of girl that steals things. The shirt I bought was bright red and only covered my chest. I thought it looked cute because I’ve been working out lately. The shorts were white and had crystals glued to the back saying “Sexy”.

As I was putting my makeup on I heard a loud noise coming from the kitchen, like if something heavy had fallen to the ground. I went down and I saw my mom picking up bits and pieces of my computer off the floor.

“You broke my computer?” I yelled at her.

“I’m so sorry Lucy, it was an accident, I’m so sorry,” My mom replied.

“What is wrong with you? I hate you so much! How could you be so clumsy? Like seriously, could you be any more of a screwup?” I yelled at her.

I walked away from her, went outside, and slammed the door behind me. As I was walking away from the house, a loud thud, followed by the sound of glass shattering came from inside. I turned around, opened the door, and all I saw was red.

A Fairytale Ending KRISTINA LEITER | ’14 Golden curls cascading from the crown of my head, my face made up to be pristine and innocent, My body delicate and tiny, dressed head to toe in the purest white, fitted just for me— the future princess.

A sapphire pendant dangling from my neck [blue], A diamond tiara securing the veil shielding my face [borrowed and old], And a life beginning to unfold in front of me [new]— one whose description would no longer read: house maiden, pathetic stepdaughter.

As I marched towards my future hell [My prince, my new life] it was clear this was not a fairytale ending.

Rather I was drowning in a black and daunting sea, devoured by a merciless monster.

Washed down by this beast, pushed and thrust underneath the virulent waves, my dress suffocated me.

The tiara and pendant, heavy and tight, pushed me deep into the ground, hindering me from taking any further steps.

But, as you know, This is not the way the story goes.

I straightened my crown, flashed my brightest smile, and began walking down the aisle, into my carefully concealed hell. amused | 47

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Emotion | Ruben Volovitz ’15

The Boy With the Pipe

Sung in the Key of Love

MHARLOVE ANDRE | ’14

after Picasso’s “Garçon à la pipe”

ADRIA MARKOVIC | ’16 There he is in the meadow staring—his eyes pierce through your Lebanese skin.

You’re paralyzed in front of him.

He lifts his pipe, up to his sweet tobacco-stained lips. Inhales— Your legs feel wobbly, like when you take the first hit of your Parliament cigarette.

He exhales—releasing little o’s.

Now you can move, but you don’t.

You like the sense of feeling fear— of self destruction. You stand there, beautiful, confident.

He’s approaching you and you start to smile.

He’s in front of you now. You look at him.

You’re looking at this boy— the boy with the pipe— the boy you’ve only seen in your dreams.

Now your faces are near touching— Your hands are subconsciously caressing him memorizing his features— making sure he’s real.

You’re about to speak, but he stops you with his lips. In your head there’s a song playing, a song you’ve never heard before.

And you’re forever grateful— to the boy with the pipe and roses in his hair.

I Want to Know What Love is, Here and Now, Because, I Swear, I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.

Listen, The Sound of You and Me? Wow, You’re my First, my Last, my Everything.

Wouldn’t It Be Nice, If You Needed Me, Forever and Always, Always and Forever?

Everything I Do, I Do It for You, We’ll be Together, Never Say Never.

Baby, Your Love: Irresistible, Better Than Words, More Than a Feeling, You Had Me at Hello, This I Promise You. Irreplaceable, Gold on the Ceiling.

Maybe I’m Amazed, Your Body is a Wonderland.

Every Time We Touch, You Set Me Free.

Best I Ever Had, Baby It’s You, Let’s Get Married, You Belong with Me God Gave Me You, Beautiful, Mine, Just Like a Star, Breaking Free.

Let’s Go, A Whole New World, You and I, Together, Forever, Happily.

Stay, Stay, Stay, Right By My Side, How Do I Breathe, When You’re Gone?

Be Without You? Crazy, Impossible, Stay, Here, Where We Belong.

You Make Loving Fun, Always On My Mind, I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You, Just the Way You Are, Every Breath You Take, I’ll Be, Crazy in Love, Crazy for You.

amused | 49

50 | amused

Prometheus | Mila Boano ’15

Gunning for the Gulfstream ROBERT DESMOND | ’15

S

ince the waves are large and the wind is strong we have to make a decision. We can either go slower and have a more relaxed and safer ride or we can go faster and skip over the tops of the waves, which is more dangerous because we could spear one of them. When you spear a wave, you go from forty-five knots to zero in just a couple of seconds because your boat is stopped by the weight of the water. We decide to go the faster way, so I push the throttle forward and we start to increase speed.

“This is insane! I’ve never done anything like this!” Danny says to Andy in a scared voice.

“You’ll get used to it. Rob likes to get to the fishing grounds fast so the lines can be in the water longer,” he screams to Danny over the sound of the engines. From his raspy voice, you’d think he’d been smoking for years, but it’s probably more that he’s always out on the ocean and breathing in that salty air.

“Do you guys ever wear lifejackets?” asks Danny anxiously.

“Yeah, but we only wear the inflatable life jackets because they are smaller. And we only wear them when we are fighting a fish in rough seas and or if we have a chance of falling overboard in rough conditions,” says Andy in a macho tone. “Just hold on, we will be there in about ten minutes.”

Andy is a new friend. I first met him when my dad and I were at the marina and saw him cleaning the boat next to ours.

One thing led to another and now he is an angler with us in this tournament.

“Why did I ask to be on one of the boats!” says Danny in a whiney tone.

Herb, Andy, and I didn’t want Danny fishing with us because he doesn’t have much experience and we didn’t need a rookie who might mess up all of our lines and rigs. The only reason that we had to have him on board is that he is one of the major donors to the tournament and the organizers told me that I had no choice.

We are now running at close to 45 knots. Our destination is 15 miles offshore, so we are going to get there in just under 30 minutes. As we motor out, Herb continues to rig up the bait and prepare the rods to be put into the rough seas of the Atlantic Ocean.

“This is going to be annoying,” I say in a rough voice.

“Why?” asks Andy.

“Because we are going head on into the sea, which means that every wave that we hit is going to spray right back in our face and all over our gear,” I reply.

“Thank god we have this foul weather gear!” Andy says while smiling.

As we approach our fishing ground, I slow the boat down to

around 10 knots to avoid scaring any game fish on the surface away. I climb onto the marlin tower to get a better view and we all turn on our closed circuit radios. These radios make it look like you are flying a plane because they cover each ear and have a mike in front of your mouth. Once we all have them on, we get ready to put the gear in the water.

“Okay, so let’s head north for some trolling at a depth of eight hundred to one thousand and then we will kite fish and drift back down here,” I say through the mike.

“Roger that,” Andy says, clinging to the side of the boat trying to put out the outriggers.

“What do you guys want to do?” I ask through the headset because I am standing up in the Tuna Tower.

“Well, you’re the captain, it’s your choice,” replies Andy.

I then realize that I am in charge of the safety of Danny, Herb, and Andy, so I have to make a decision.

“We have only gotten that small Bull, so I think we should stay out,” says Herb.

“Yeah, I agree, we need a big Wahoo or an even larger Bull Dolphin,” Andy adds while still re-rigging the bait.

“If you guys are okay with it, I think we’re going to stay out until this tournament is over. I want to get the prize money and come back and have the bragging rights around the dock,” I amused | 51

Lifeguard Watch House | Mila Boano ’15

say through the mike.

“I guess we’re staying out then. Thank god I have the foul weather gear on, because it’s going to get intense out here,” says Herb.

I boost up the speed to get us out of the bad weather and trolling for some Wahoo because they are the fish that will win you a tournament. We are going into head-on seas and the wind is now blowing at 20-25 knots in our face. The waves are hitting our bow, the wind then taking the water and dumping it down on our boat.

“Fish on!” Danny yells while running to the rod.

“Don’t touch the rod, Danny!”

I scream.

An important rule in this

52 | amused

tournament is that whoever picks up the rod once it has a fish has to fight the fish to the boat without help. We do not want Danny fighting this fish because the second we hooked it, we knew it was a Wahoo, which is a challenging fish to bring in. With the line screaming off the reel, Herb grabs the rod and starts to get the harness set up.

“Okay, I’m in,” says Herb while I listen closely to him for directions on where to turn the boat.

“He’s going away from the boat!

Back down fast!” he screams while water is splashing over his head.

I put both engines into reverse and back down on the fish hard. The boat is now moving as fast as it can in reverse and

the waves are breaking over the back of the DAY SEA, a 35-foot center console Pursuit.

“Get the gaff ready!” I scream to Andy while trying to make sure we don’t flood the back of the boat. The stern area of the boat in which Herb is fighting the Wahoo now has a foot of water inside of it.

“Herb, how much line is out?”

I yell over the loud noise of the engine and waves breaking.

“There’s enough for you to go forward to get the water out of here!” Herb replies in between heavy breaths.

I put the boat in Idle Forward and the scuppers begin to put the water back where it should be, in the ocean and not on the boat.

“Almost at leader!” Herb says.

Andy runs to the back of the boat with the six foot long gaff with a large metal hook on the tip and waits for the fish to be brought closer.

“Danny, get over here, grab the line, and start pulling it in by hand,” Andy says to Danny, who is sitting on the helm seat.

“Are you sure?” asks Danny, questioning his own skills.

“Shut up and grab the line!” says Andy while trying to place the gaff in the head of the fish.

The Wahoo is at the leader and now it is in control of Danny and Andy, who have to work together in unison.

“Pull it in closer, but smoothly, don’t yank hard on it or the hook will come out,” Herb says

while trying to catch his breath.

Danny pulls the Wahoo next to the boat perfectly and then Andy reaches over the gunnel and jabs the fish at its head as hard as he can.

“This is a big one! Herb, get another gaff, I need help!” Andy yells while another big wave hits the side of the boat and soaks them both.

Herb grabs the gaff and jabs it in the shoulder of the fish and then Andy and Herb pull as hard as they can and bring the fish aboard.

“It’s in!” Danny says, screaming in delight.

“This might be the one!” I say to Andy through the mike.

Just after the fish is safely onboard, I hear a distress call

over the VHF. “Help! Help! We are fifteen miles off of Haulover Inlet and taking on water fast! We have four adults onboard our thirtynine-foot Sea Vee.” This is always one of the scariest things you can hear over the radio. We all look at each other.

“Robert, we’re around eight miles away, right?” Danny asks.

“Ten miles away from them.

We’re going to get there before the Coast Guard cutter does if we gun it right now,” I reply.

“Gun it” Andy says while hitting me on my back. The second he says, “Gun it” I know that I am not just fishing anymore but that I am in a race to save a person’s life.

Ocean Reef, Key Largo NICOLE HALPRYN | ’14 In the most purifying environment of all, stroke by stroke, breath by breath, time seems as infinite as the immense ocean.

The salt water burns my eyes for only a second and then the sting disappears and I can see the blurry underworld.

I can only hold my breath for a mere minute, maybe less, but I wish I could stay underwater forever.

My thoughts are a saltwater stream— fresh, free, and flowing.

Pure content. Even if I cry, nobody will know.

Will I know?

I won’t even feel the tears trickle down my face, unifying with the dark, deep depth.

I can’t hear the bees buzzing or the grass swaying; I don’t even miss the wind whistling.

Instead I see flaming coral propelling squid. Despite the millions of unknown species under, here none make a sound.

There is not enough time in the world to discover them all, to explore the vastness.

The silence is perfect and I wish it would last forever, but I have to come up for air.

amused | 53

Lap Dog

SAMUEL BENSON | ’15 I read a book over the summer. It was assigned by my school, but it touched me, It was called The Art of Racing in the Rain, about a dog who could understand what his owner was saying, but couldn’t share any of his thoughts.

I also lost my dog this summer, and it’s strange that just when I read this book I was presented with the quote: “In Mongolia, when a dog dies, he is buried high in the hills so people cannot walk on his grave. The dog’s master whispers into the dog’s ear his wishes that the dog will return as a man in his next life.”

So for all I know, Buddy is there right now running with Domino.

But that’s a whole other sad story so don’t get me started.

My dog, Buddy, damn that was a weird dog.

He was missing a bone in his back leg about six inches long. I was at the doctors and Doc said, “He’ll never be able to run again.”

He was lying.

Cause, well...he didn’t know my dog like that.

He ran for hours the first time he ran away.

But he was a dog. You probably think, “Son, he was just a dog, you know.”

Just a dog? Haha.

“No, sir,! He was my dog.”

I’m always hearing “a dog is man’s best friend.”

Never knew how true something was before.

I mean, I loved that dog. I’d come home, get a snack for me and a treat for him and I’d tell him things that if he could understand…

Then he wouldn’t care.

54 | amused

I honestly thought that he could have been a man trapped in a dog’s body. I’d sit and reminisce about him being a puppy, asking him if he remembered that specific moment and he’d respond with nothing.

Everybody needs that cane to help.

That was Buddy.

For a dog that weighed 100 pounds he thought he was a lap dog.

“Are you kidding me? You’re fat, bro.”

Now you may not wanna hear this, but the last months of his life, I watched this lap dog suffer. And I tried to fight, tried to keep him alive. But I always got the constant “We have to put him down” from mom and “He’s got a little more in the tank” from dad.

I knew both their reasons for saying that.

Maybe it’s because my mom was tired of taking care of him and my dad didn’t wanna be the oldest one in the house I didn’t agree with either. Which was bizarre because I sort of needed to choose.

This wasn’t a child’s game anymore. It was life.

I should’ve thought of him, not me. Sorry, pup.

Now don’t get me wrong. Probably could have been the hardest thing I have had to go through my whole life. And that says a lot. My losing a dog was the hardest thing for me so far.

He was the only thing that I was attached to that wasn’t there anymore.

I’d sometimes start talking to him. “Hey, Buddy.”

He’d come wobbling as if he had a broken leg.

Oh….wait, he did. He got hit by a car.

That’s how he became my dog.

The Piano

REBECCA FULFORD | ’17 I sit behind you admiring your beauty Your black and white keys fluoresce bouncing the light into the air slowly, I place my fingers feeling every corner, every angle rising up the courage to play Three keys go down entrancing me with the sound, the vibration the hammers having taken a swing the strings vibrating in response creating a sound like no other The three strings vibrating in harmony as I play on More keys go down hammers strike, strings sing more intense than the last tension begins to rise in the air anticipating the next move until the last chord is played resonating through you like chills or goose-bumps

Fiction | Ines Lei ’15

I sit behind you admiring your beauty glad I had the courage to play

amused | 55

Rapids SIDNEY THOMAS | ’15

“J

ump off when you’re about to hit the rocks!”

“What rocks?”

“The ones at the bottom of the creek.”

“Oh...”

I’m blowing up the tube in the middle of the creek and as the glacial water seeps through my porous clothes, the fact that I was about to illegally tube in Clear Creek sinks in. I’m already freezing, about to mount a thin plastic tube and about to be hurtling towards a set of rocks resembling bowling pins, except these pins wouldn’t fall, so the ball would crack. But, it doesn’t matter.

I’m going to be a Colorado girl now. My initiation is almost akin to the college hazing rituals people cringe at in movies; it’s like an episode of I Survived. I remember one where a couple went mountain biking and they both rolled off the path and tumbled down into the unknown terrain with nothing more than a water bottle and a measly supply of half-eaten granola bars. I desperately hope that won’t be me being taken askew by the rapids off on a winding path with nothing more than my wits and the drenched clothing on my back. I’m barely wearing any clothing at all. My two-sizes-too-small jean shorts were nothing more than a sturdy pair of underwear and the bikini top I was wearing under my see-through tank top didn’t help much along the lines of coverage either.

I unfold the massive heap of folded plastic layers held together by silver, yellow and black nylon cords. I purse my lips to one of the three portholes to blow up the tube. Easy. The tube is surprisingly difficult to blow up. I struggle with every breath my lungs try to push out. I imagine this is what labor must feel like: my lungs exerting so much air just to push a baby out. My mother’s labor lasted about eight hours. I’ve been trying to blow up this tube for only twenty minutes, and I’m winded.

“Anyday now, kid!”

Even with his what might be mistaken as 56 | amused

a harsh tone, he disarms me. Any resentment I would normally feel against someone speaking to me this way is now out the window, the way he says things, even when he’s angry or sad is simply immaculate. Nevertheless Philip is really starting to get on my nerves. But he’s someone I need to be friends with, or maybe even more than friends with--I’m new here after all.

I blow harder. My lungs convulsing at every heave and ho I force out. I’m kind of happy it’s taking so long for this tube to inflate, it’s giving me more time to find a way out of this. I could fake hypothermia. Or I should just fess up and tell him I don’t feel like doing this.

I want this so bad though; I want to be a Colorado girl. I want to say that the mountain’s base to snowy peak, the creeks and rivers, shallow or deep, the deer and everything else the state has to offer in its treasure box are partially mine.

The golden pebbles in the riverbed are calming. They’re massaging my feet as I dig in deeper, as if I could get more air out by pressing my feet against the earth and burrowing my toes into the shallows of the riverbed.

The tube is filled.

“Alright, kid. Lie flat on your stomach, grip the two front handles, and slide your feet under the one on the back. Whatever you do, do not and I repeat again, do not let go until the very end.

You’ll get sucked into the rapids, and if I have to jump in and get you I’ll be pretty pissed off. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I get that he is one of the most beautiful specimens to have ever graced the earth. He is the embodiment of all things godly and worth living for. His eyes, his nose, his lips, his slight scar above his left eyebrow fading into his perfectly pale skin are microcosms of sheer perfection and they drive me crazy each time I look at them for too long because I know that all that is Philip will never be mine. He was unattainable, the apple I couldn’t eat, so to speak.

After staring at him for longer than I should have, I drift back to reality. I try to lie flat on the tube, as instructed, but I can’t get on it because it keeps moving. I feel Philip’s strong hands around my waist and my body turns from rock hard granite to ink spilling over a page unable to collect

itself.

“One, two, three.”

When his hands let go, I instantly tense up again. His hands, the only thing protecting me from the dragons, murderers and magma just at the end of the creek, are gone. I panic. I’d like to think I’m like a duck: cool on the top while panicking frantically on the bottom. Unfortunately, that’s just not the case. I struggle not to scream, I am making a half-choked-out screeching sound like a waterlogged harmonica while releasing my death grip on the handles to jump off and walk the four feet I managed to travel, with my head hung low, back to Philip.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Sid, what exactly are you scared of?”

The question is so ridiculous I give him one of my looks that is silently pleading him to say, Fine, I’ll go with you.

I’m thinking I have now brilliantly talked my way into sharing an already flimsy plastic tube with another person who is heavier than me thus causing our inertia to propel us even faster towards the dragons, murderers and thieves at the bottom of the creek. But then I remember whom it is who will be sitting next to me on the tube.

Philip: Poseidon, king of the seas. For all I know he could be king of the seas or the skies or anything else he wants to be. He could win anyone over with his Jay Gatsby smile and his iconic blue eyes.

We start moving.

Naturally, panic overcomes me, but Philip doesn’t give in. He grips my shoulder tentatively and aggressively at the same time.

“Hold on,” he says.

I’m expecting a thrilling ride, ups and downs, thrashing rapids, whirlpools worthy of Charybdis, but it’s actually kind of nice, relaxing even. The water coming into contact with the tube is reminiscent of a paintbrush, caked with paint, striking the surface of a canvas, uneven as it may be. The raspy sound of the water hitting the tube is oddly the most relaxing part, the rest of me is trying not to panic that I have the guy with whom I am in love with, his arm around my back, his legs strewn over mine, my hair thrown over his back with my chin inching towards his...

My awkward streak has never been broken and

situations like this have been and always seem out of my league. We have traveled a length of half a football field, but I am too obsessed with his blond hair to have noticed.

“Lift your chin up like this and don’t let yourself fall forward because you’ll go over the front of the tube and you’ll get sucked under.” We’re about to go over the first miniature fall.

“I’ll do my best.”

I truly am trying my hardest to follow Philip’s not-so-concise instructions. I hoist my chin up into the air similar to how surfers lift theirs up when paddling into the white water. I’m not a very good surfer.

Plonk.

It’s over. Philip and I look at each other after completing the first small fall that seemed like a 400-foot drop seconds ago. I laugh a little.

“I cannot believe I made such a big deal out of that.” I laugh again. “I mean that seriously wasn’t bad, at all. Wow, you scared the crap out of me.”

“Just wait, Sid, that was nothing.”

The quiet starts to become a rumble. Philip starts yelling and I can barely make out what he’s saying.

“We’ve reached the rapids! This is where the fun begins. Now remember what I told you. Hold on as tight as you can to the two front handles and grip the bottom ones with your feet. Oh, and if you fall off, you’ll get sucked under the tube.

Don’t panic, hold your breath and feel around for my hand, I’ll be there to pull you up.”

“Promise?”

He smiles at me. That was all it took. That unbreakable, confident, sly smile that could make an ogre weak at the knees.

“Here we go, Sid!” I feel like I’m flying. But, I’m not. I’m in the air, but I’m not flying. I am falling. We are falling. In fact, it is more like tumbling. Yea, that’s it, tumbling. We are tumbling down a lengthy rapid and I am too busy daydreaming about his dazzling smile to even notice my body thrashing left and right, like a rag doll.

I am now loving the last few seconds I have left on the small waterfall, it’s exhilarating. I have never known such a freedom with the fear that there is no safety net ready to catch me falling in love. amused | 57

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Spartans | Elmira Moskvina ‘16

Acknowledgments DR. JOHN DAVIES Head of School

MR. GLEN TURF Upper School Director

MR. DOUGLAS MANN Upper School Academic Dean

MRS. AMY GALLUP Humanities Department Chair

MRS. JONINA PITCHMAN Fine Arts Department Chair

MR. ZACHARY ORDONEZ Fine Arts

MS. JUDY MISTOR Fine Arts

MS. BETH LONG Technology/Media

About Amused Published by the members of the National English Honor Society of Miami Country Day School, 601 Northeast 107 Street, Miami, FL 33161. The poetry, prose, and artwork found herein are the original and creative works of the students. Copyright on all works is retained by the authors and artists.

Current MCDS students may submit art and writing for consideration by the editors during the first semester. Editorial staff positions are open to NEHS members.

The magazine is free to all members of the MCDS community and is distributed during the second semester.

Email: amused@miamicountryday.info

Colophon This magazine is set in three fonts. The main text is set in PT Sans Regular. Titles and bylines are set in Myriad Pro. The magazine’s nameplate on the cover, inside cover, and masthead are set in Cooper STD. Printed by Sunshine Graphics, Inc.

amused the ceramics supplement

Ceramics at Miami Country Day School The Ceramics Program, one

of many exemplary fine arts programs at Miami Country Day School, is led by Ms. Judy Mistor. The amused editors are pleased to present this special supplement to showcase the work of MCDS ceramics students as part of this year's edition of the magazine.

–Zoe Cross

–Sebastian Propokovich, Chase Jacob, & Orville Mo-he (left to right)

–Megan Tate

窶天eronica Apice

–Ellen Gelman

–Ellen Gelman

–Daniela Stransky

–Amanda Caban

–Doreen Jean-Jacques

–Spencer Berens

–Michaella Sena

–Bianca Caban

–Johnny Appleseed

–Alexandra Puissan

–Alexandra Puissan

–Jacob Katz

–Corey Altman

–Nicole Bradman-Garcia