Amused 2015

amused Miami Country Day School National English Honor Society

SPRING 2015

amused SPRING 2015

| volume ix

Editor-in-Chief

SIDNEY THOMAS ’15 Layout Editors

MAIA WALKER ’15 ANDREA JENSEN ’16 Poetry Editors

SHALINI CHANDAR ’15 EMMA RODRIGUEZ ‘16 Prose Editors

ELIZABETH FINNY ’15 MADISYN JONES ‘16 Art Editors

MAIA WALKER ‘15 ANDREA JENSEN ‘16 Staff

MARCO CARTOLANO ’15 JODI BAUSON ’15 LUNA FAYAD ’15 ALESSANDRA SETTINERI ’15 FRANCESS DUNBAR ‘16 Faculty Advisors

MR. SCOTT BRENNAN MR. SAMUEL BROWN Front Cover

MAIA WALKER ‘15 Cycling | Animated Rendering

Back Cover

ANDREA JENSEN ‘16 Minimalism No Longer | Acrylic

2 | amused

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

Ralph Waldo Emerson

amused | 3

Untitled | Alyson Milberg ’15

ARTWORK 06 Sea Silver

Elmira Moskvina | ’16

Photography

09 Hydrant

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Digital Rendering

10 Dysmorphia

Digital Rendering

Photography

Photography

Maia Walker | ’15

12 A Gathering

Ana Lis Garcia | ’15

14 Golden Skull

Jacqueline Groll | ’15

Elmira Moskvina | ’16

57 The True Form

33

Earth Watching

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Kurt Carlson | ’18

Pencil

Elmira Moskvina | ’16 Arianna Arguetty | ’17

Photography

34 Windows Photography

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Digital Rendering

55 A Whisper Photography

Jacqueline Groll | ’15

Clay & Mosaic

31 Mouth

43 Monster Path

30 Round Face

Aminah Austin | ’15

54 Blue Pot

Photography Acrylic

Pen and Watercolor

Alyson Milberg | ’15

Photography

28 Sea Gold

42 Skyline

43 Scorpio

26 Passage of Light

Ana Lis Garcia | ’15

Photography

Aminah Austin | ’15

Pen

25 Light Figure

41 Clouds

46 Smoke Signal I Suppose

22 Water Nymphs

Ana Lis Garcia | ’15

Photography

Ana Lis Garcia | ’15

Photography

Maia Walker | ’15

Maia Walker | ’15

38 50 Years

45 My Imitation

Photography

18 Icy Landscape

Pen and DIgital Rendering

Andrea Jensen | ’16

16 Reality

36 Mending

Digital Photography/Photoshop

Charcoal

Photography Ceramics

Orville Mohe | ’16 Amelio Joseph | ’16

Photography

58 Elephant

Maia Walker | ’15

Acrylic & Pencil

Amelia Gregorio | ’17 Arianna Arguetty | ’17

Ana Lis Garcia | ’15 Elisaveta Bondareva | ’18

POETRY & PROSE

39 Valencia, Venezuela to Miami Sebastian Prokopovich | ’16

06 I am Sixteen

40 Color Ridge

Emma Rodriguez | ’16

Personal Essay

08 Little Black Case

Elizabeth Finny | ’15

Poetry

08 Hate, Need, Love

Poetry

Chris Haefner | ’16

10 An Apple

Fiction

Poetry

Catherine Jenkins | ’16

11 I Can’t Stand

Ian Zigel | ’17

12 The Green Genip

Poetry

13 Chicken Soup Friday Night Dinners

Personal Essay

14 To the Girl Who Hid a Cemetery. . .

Poetry

Poem

19

The Dryer Machine

24 Seven Things

Essay

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

Poetry

44 Love Patent Pending

Francess Dunbar | ’16

Fiction

47 What is a Small-Breasted Woman? Jodi Bauson | ’15

Personal Essay

48 Plastic

Ian Zigel | ’17

Fiction

52 Dinner Party

Alessandra Settineri | ’15

55 Eyes

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

56

Peer Communication Poetry

56 Prince Toadly Poetry

Lorena Arbulu | ’16 David Gonzalez | ’15

Liam Weil | ’18

Justin Walker | ’15 Francess Dunbar | ’16

Madisyn Jones | ’16

25 Beauty

Emily Kanter | ’17

26 Song of Myself

Sydni Wells | ’16

Arianna Arguetty | ’17

Poetry

20 Metamorphoses

Fiction Poetry

43 Untitled

18

Ian Zigel | ’17

Poetry

17 Urging Us Forward

Poetry

42 Today I Feel Lonely

Fiction

Sidney Thomas | ’15

Poetry

Poetry

Natalya Egozi | ’17

Violeta De La Guardia | ’17

Personal Essay

Poetry

16 Necklaces

Gabrielle Bailey | ’15

Poetry

Emma Rodriguez | ’16

Poetry

27 Cell Phone

Lucia Arriola | ’15

Poetry

30 The Aftermath of Happiness Lauren Kleidermacher | ’17

Poetry

31 Asking For It

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

32 The Game of Life

David Franco | ’15

Fiction

Essay

34 Limericks for the Seven Deadly Sins Ian Zigel | ’17

Poetry

35 Roses, Tulips, and Lilies

Poetry

36 Unending Void of Grime

Personal Essay

37 My Casual Christmas

Personal Essay

Maia Walker | ’15 Sierra Mathis | ’17 Veronica Apice | ’16 amused | 5

I am Sixteen

tine, and before I knew it the national anthem was playing, signaling the start of the meet. I found a meet program, highlighted my name in each event and memorized my heat and lane numbers, then sat on the bleachers with the team to wait for my races.

Fifteen minutes before my first race, I started stretching and watching the scoreboard to keep up with the meet. Three heats before mine, I put on my cap and goggles and realized what I had been missing: my headphones. Two heats before my race, I stood behind the blocks panicked because without music everything around me was too distracting. There were too many people cheering, too many swimmers talking, too many coaches yelling, just too much noise. I couldn’t focus and I could hardly remember my strategy for the race I was about to swim. All the negative thoughts came flooding in: I ate pizza four nights ago for dinner, what a bad choice. I went to sleep too late last night.

My legs are sore. I haven’t been training hard enough. The girl next to me is much faster… and at that point my heat was almost up and I hadn’t even taken off my sweatpants or jacket.

EMMA RODRIGUEZ | ’16

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Sea Silver | Elmira Moskvina ’16

T

he alarm ringing at five o’clock in the morning is the worst part about being a swimmer, but on meet days the incessant blaring brings different feelings. Today I got out of bed with less reluctance because I knew that if I stayed even a minute longer I would never get up, and I had too many things to get done before the meet. The bubblegum-pink tiles on the floor of my bathroom felt like ice on my bare feet as I stood in front of the mirror to brush my teeth, put in my contacts, and wash my face, in that order. I used the disgusting “whitening formula” Crest toothpaste that my mom always buys, but by now I’ve grown accustomed to the taste it leaves in my mouth.

I dress in the dark like I always do before meets because if I turn the light on it will wake me up too much and I won’t be able to sleep in the car on the way. Today is Saturday, so I wear a white team T-shirt. (The turquoise is for Sundays and the grey is for Fridays.) Next come the black and white Adidas sweatpants, matching jacket, and fuzzy rainbow socks, even though it’s eighty-five degrees outside. Sneakers go on top, and I start laying out all the items I need to pack in the order in which I will need them. Warm up suit, back-up warm up suit, racing suit, back-up racing suit, big towel, small towel, change of warm clothes, change of cool clothes, water bottle, snacks… and something was missing. I usually have thirteen things and today I only had twelve; I was forgetting something. I didn’t have time to think about it, because it was already 5:23, which meant I only had two minutes to make it to the car. I zipped my bag, made my bed, and grabbed my breakfast from the kitchen (plain croissant, exactly one tablespoon of strawberryraspberry jam, and my pill), and made it to the car by 5:26. Almost perfect.

I got to the meet at 6:20, five minutes late because parking was a hassle. I knew I should have set the alarm earlier. I tried to change into my suit quickly to make up for it, only loosely folding my clothes to put back in the bag. Warm up was a blur of my usual rou-

I rushed to take it all off and still get a few more stretches in, but my heart was already racing at a million miles an hour, and my self-deprecating thoughts were going with it. When the buzzer sounded to go off the blocks, I dove in with self-doubt. I wasn’t prepared, and I hadn’t followed my routine. There was no one to blame but myself.

When I hit the cold water, everything in my head finally quieted down. I could think straight again. The thick layer of water silenced all the commotion outside, and I knew what I needed to do. I focused on the girl next to me, determined that she would not beat me. I would not let myself fail completely because of one little slip-up. I touched the wall first, but when I saw the scoreboard, I was no longer pleased. My time was nowhere near the specific goal I had set for this race. It was 1.45 seconds too slow.

That meant I would have to go 2.56 seconds faster tonight at finals, something so unusual for me that it seemed almost impossible. I was known for my consistency and my accuracy, not as the swimmer who swims horribly in one race and sets a record in the next.

The break between morning semifinals and evening finals was crucial. I got home at 12:37 and

ate my usual meet day lunch, a bowl of spaghetti with a half-cup of peas, and I drank an 8oz. glass of chocolate milk. Afterwards, I went back to my bedroom and closed the door. I made sure there was no clutter on my desk or any of the four bookshelves or the vanity, then took my laptop to bed and went to my happy place: the “weddings” board on Pinterest. I pinned everything from venues to color palates to sample invitations. I knew the four C’s to picking out a diamond for the ring, I wanted a spring beach wedding, and planned what the menu would look like. The man at the altar had changed a thousand times, but I knew the wedding around him as well as I knew my own bedroom.

I limited myself to fifteen minutes on Pinterest so that I would have time for a 45-minute power nap, which would be just enough to rest me but not enough to make me groggy for the evening. As I drifted off, I made a mental note to pack my headphones for finals, which started in two hours and twenty-six minutes.

amused | 7 amused | 7

Little Black Case ELIZABETH FINNY | ’15 A small black pencil case remains of my great grandfather -- memories of watching Mass, ice cream dates at Friendly’s, and sitting on the old porch.

The memories evaporate, lost in transition from place to place.

Without the case, my memory of him flickers like a candle whose flame slowly dies out.

Trips to visit his wife’s grave, pens collected and cards sent covered in stickers, his favorite hobby…

I tear apart my room, a whirlwind, a hurricane, making papers and books fly, praying to find it.

Hate, Need, Love CHRIS HAEFNER | ’16

I love you, but then I hate you.

I can’t decide.

Maybe I am going crazy?

Do you ever get this feeling, like you are losing your mind?

I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, cold sweat running down my face.

All I can think about is you.

I hate you, I need you, I love you, I can hear your voice.

I can feel your heavy breaths against my skin.

You are there, but never here.

I regret the day I met you, the day you told me you will never let me go.

Yet you left, to whisper the sweet nothing in the ear of another.

8 | amused

Hydrant| Amelio Joseph ’16

amused | 9

An Apple

CATHERINE JENKINS | ’16

“P

It’s been three weeks, and Xara still hasn’t left the house. She doesn’t even answer her phone. But she’s getting better, Patrick notes. Sometimes she comes down and sits with the guys. She doesn’t talk. She just sits there.

Sometimes on the couch, sometimes curled in one of their laps. To Patrick, it’s an improvement.

“Can you bring me an apple?” Xara asks one day while sitting with the guys who were watching Doctor Who.

They stare at her in shock. She rarely speaks and eats. This...this is good.

Drew is the first to recover, jumping up and venturing to the kitchen.

Emerging with an apple in hand, probably the biggest one. He gives it to her.

She mumbles thank you before biting into it, and the guys can’t help but smile.

When she finishes, Drew throws the core in the trash for her and she curls up in Patrick’s lap.

10 | amused

Dysmorphia| Maia Walker ’15

lease?” Patrick asks, trying desperately to get his adopted younger sister out of her bed.

“I don’t want to,” she whines, burying her face in her pillow. “Leave me alone.”

Patrick sighs. She hasn’t left her room in a week. She barely ate when he brought her her food, and she only got out of bed to use the restroom and sit in the shower.

“I’ll be back with food later,” he mumbles, lowering his head as he exits the room.

“She still...?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, she is. I just don’t know what to do.”

Nick nods. “Well, here’s dinner for her. Pasta and juice.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Patrick replies as he takes the tray up to his sister’s room. “Hey, Xara, I brought dinner.” When she doesn’t respond, he puts the tray on her dresser and sits next to her.

“Sweetheart, can you please talk to me? I know you’ve been battling depression for a while, but now you won’t move. And I’m stuck, because I don’t know what to do. Sure, Nick was in that dark place before, but not as bad as this.”

“I thought about it,” she mumbles quietly against the pillow. “Almost did it twice.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Patrick says, hurt seeping into his voice.

“But I didn’t. Couldn’t do it. Not to you. Or the guys.”

“And we’ll be forever grateful you didn’t.”

She nods and crawls into her brother’s lap, clutching his shirt like her life depended on it. Right now, it probably does. Soon, Patrick feels her shaking and wetness on his shirt, signifying her crying. He immediately runs a hand through her hair. “It’s gonna be okay, Xara,” he mumbles, gently kissing her temple.

I Can’t Stand Ian Zigel | ’17

I can’t stand by with bitter illness and demons kept locked up and the tempest born in the kitchen every night and just watch I can’t join the screaming by the time I want to every wall is occupied sound reserving every spot to bounce off and to another like musical chairs with pterodactyl sounds I can’t stand by I see clear solutions easy ways to change all I want to do is help while the others stand aloof being obsidian I refuse to stand by and watch the show corrode away

amused | 11

The Green Genip GABRIELLE BAILEY

‘15

Aunt Marcy refused to eat anything but the green genip. The baby inside kicked against her belly.

Within the fruit a sweet orange ball, a tough exterior shell, the black marks of ripeness, and a slender stem branching from the top.

Lines of distress below her black belly button.

A Gathering | Ana Lis Garcia ’15

And still she continued to cry, eat, sleep, and wait. The baby fidgeted; it was time.

The genip reveals its treasure.

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Chicken Soup Friday Night Dinners NATALYA EGOZI | ’17 I remember walking in through the big brown Iroko wooden doors; I was engulfed with the mouth-watering smell of my mom’s cooking on a Friday night, especially her chicken soup. By the time I was finished watching a few episodes of SpongeBob and Full House, my mom would call us all for dinner, her Spanish accent so prominent in her voice, “Guys, dinner’s ready!” We’d sprint to the kitchen and make our way to our usual seats, my dad at the head, my mom to his right. My dad would recite the blessing for the wine, then my sister Arielle, my mom, and I would recite the blessing for the candles, and finally the blessing for the challah bread would be done by my big brother, David. Every dinner began with my mom’s chicken soup. The chicken, still on the bone, never shredded, the carrots perfectly cooked and soft enough for my baby teeth, the celery, and we loved the seasoning --and everything else about that soup. While eating the soup, sitting at dinner with the most important people, my silver spoon in my hand, I felt a sense of comfort, a sense of warmth, and a grand sense of happiness. I would think to myself, “I never want this to change.”

And not once during those years did the soup change, not once in those years did we switch seats, not once were we greeted with strangers and boring people. It was always fun, always comforting. It was always family and friends, always chicken soup.

I think back to those simpler times and miss them. I miss my family sitting down at that long, brown table. I miss the chicken soup that my mom and sister wouldn’t even think of eating now. I miss the big yellow house in Baypoint with the backyard that my siblings and I would spend hours playing in. Mostly I miss the simplicity of it all, because now my sister is in Brazil, my brother in Los Angeles, the house buried in the dirt, every family dinner filled with strangers and boring people, and the chicken soup exercises only in our memories. The soup was more than a delicious treat. It was a symbol of stability, and when I think of the perfect taste -- I am engulfed with what it would bring.

amused | 13 amused | 13

To the Girl Who Hid a Cemetery in Her Thoughts SYDNI WELLS | ’16 i. you brought with you fall; when you spoke, your words tumbled through the air like the wilted leaves you so carefully avoided on the sidewalk because they reminded you of a wilted part of yourself. you kept your distance— and when halloween came you were the only one that didn’t dress up because your monsters stayed with you year round. the humidity was suffocating in mid-august, and you left my throat dry for words because i never knew what to say about miserable weather. you stole the comfort of summer— whose once assuring embrace became empty and left me with the aching loneliness only fall could bring in its absence. ii. you left with winter you were the dull ache that made home inside my joints. yet your absence made me grow to miss it, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why winter felt so empty. the remnants of you lingered like snowflakes on my tongue, but they melted by noon, and i vaguely wondered if you were there to begin with. i tapped my fingers restlessly, trying to ward off the ache of curious frostbite, and for the rest of my days i spent winter trying to forget fall had come in the first place. i. you brought with you fall; when you spoke, your words tumbled through the air like the wilted leaves you so carefully avoided on the sidewalk because they reminded you of a wilted part of yourself. you kept your distance— 14 | amused 26 | amused

and when halloween came you were the only one that didn’t dress up because your monsters stayed with you year round. the humidity was suffocating in mid-august, and you left my throat dry for words because i never knew what to say about miserable weather. you stole the comfort of summer— whose once assuring embrace became empty and left me with the aching loneliness only fall could bring in its absence.

Golden Skull | Jacqueline Groll ‘15

ii. you left with winter you were the dull ache that made home inside my joints. yet your absence made me grow to miss it, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why winter felt so empty. the remnants of you lingered like snowflakes on my tongue, but they melted by noon, and i vaguely wondered if you were there to begin with. i tapped my fingers restlessly, trying to ward off the ache of curious frostbite, and for the rest of my days i spent winter trying to forget fall had come in the first place.

iii. you bloomed in spring why did your name sting my tongue? you walked through the gardens i had spent so long coaxing into the sunlight and i watched every singing daisy fall away into an orchid. when spring shone through the glaze of winter, you breathed life into the uneasy buds. when you were ready to leave fall behind, you embraced spring, and as nature rebuilt itself you mended the most broken parts of you, too. when you took my hand i melted like the icy trench you built around yourself. i learned what the true definition of hope was— the type of hope that was so precious you didn’t dare speak it out into the world. amused | 157

Reality | Andrea Jensen ’16

Necklaces SIDNEY THOMAS | ’15 The first time I felt defeat I was twelve, pudgy, less brazen than I would have liked to be.

I put on my necklaces and threw on my overcoat.

It was snowing that day. Walking to the school bus I noticed him.

Tall, blond, no coat to protect him, his face flushed and pale from the lack of warmth, no doubt.

Walking toward him, adjusting my necklaces as I did, I noticed my out-of-kilter, uncooperative stomp, and a feeling grew inside me.

I wanted to make him warm, to take off my coat and put it on him.

16 | amused

I, however, with my marshmallow coat, still felt like an infant, my body temperature snake-like, an incessant enemy.

We kicked the edge of the bus, snow falling off our boots, and boarded the yellow machine, the first morning pick-ups.

Behind him, I sat down, confused by my anxiousness.

Frustrated, I gripped the back of his seat, swinging myself forward, then next to him.

Luckily he sat against the window.

There was room for me.

Next to him, I glared at the leafless trees, copying his gaze. I fingered my necklaces, hoping he would catch me looking.

When he did, I gulped, letting go of the safety blankets around my neck.

He looked at my horseshoe charm, asked if I rode.

I answered no. He chuckled and turned away.

When I felt it was safe, I gripped my necklaces, tighter than ever.

Fighting back tears till the next stop, I stood up and took my old seat once again my silent tears steaming hot and leaving lines down my face.

n,

Urging Us Forward ARIANNA ARGUETTY | ’17 With me is this memory, the sun beating down our sodden shirts.

With me is this memory, stair after stair, walking us into the sky.

With me is this memory, front yards and backyards, a driveway leading up to a single car.

And down we slide, water urging us forward and enclosing us in the end.

I will always remember the horrible heat of the scorching concrete on my shoeless soles.

I will always remember the scent of fried food trailing behind us as we race from line to line.

I will always remember the sharp sting of the lazy river: cold as ice, yet we force ourselves in.

And around we float, water urging us forward and enclosing us in the end.

The slides fall out from underneath us, and we land in the pool, sinking deep, so the water drowns out everything except for our blood in our ears and our thoughts and our dreads.

She’s moving away, and neither of us knows how to keep in touch.

What do we talk about if not school?

How do we gossip over a guy the other doesn’t know?

We can’t go skating over the weekends or laze out and watch T.V on my big screen.

I can’t cuddle her cat and try to tuck it into my sweatshirt as I prepare to go home.

Our heads pop up above the water.

We look at each other and smile wide then push our way to the stairs to climb out and find the next ride.

We pick our next slide and start up the next flight.

I think they should get escalators.

She laughs and points out why that wouldn’t work in a water park.

I will never forget that day’s clear sky.

I laugh, too, and concede.

I will never forget the laughter alight in our eyes. We decide to count how many turns until our own, With the water urging us forward, but I keep losing count. we think about what we have left to say.

Other things on my mind.

She teases me because of my poor math skills, As we do a death drop into a water pit side by side. and I stick out my tongue at her I look at her. like a kindergartener.

She looks at me.

She laughs some more, and we slide down, And we scream at the top of our lungs down, as we fall down this poor excuse for a slide, down. where our bodies don’t touch the plastic, not once, after launch.

The sunlight begins to waver, and we know our next will be our last.

Her golden brown hair is darker than usual As the water rushes beneath us, and flatter urging us forward, because it is wet.

I realize Her dark brown eyes are lighter, I’d rather the water still. more alive, I’d rather the clock stop because of the sun. if it meant I wouldn’t have to face the end.

amused | 17

Poem LIAM WEIL | ’18 I can’t write a poem today.

Today I am feeling down, I have a frown, I feel alone, like I have no home.

I do have a home, a very nice home, but that doesn’t make everything better.

I would feel much better if someone sent me a sincere letter.

What is the point of life?

To make your mark in the world, or to spin around doing swirls?

And we have to revolve around time? This starts now; that finishes then.

Why can’t we do our thing and go with the flow and lay low?

I will show no remorse.

I wish I could go to a different planet and ride off on a horse.

Yes, I love my life, but times are troubling, and days now you can’t be fumbling.

I could sell my mom’s cameo, which is the color of a pistachio, but that wouldn’t make anything better or worse. I should be finishing up this verse….

I feel as ancient as a fossil, almost colossal, like I’ve been around forever, so clever, so hyper like I’ve been drinking coffee. My eyes are aquamarine, but still I can be sad, unlike my dad almost always happy, and someone who can write a poem.

I don’t care what happens, even if I’m napping, today I can’t write a poem.

18 | amused

The Dryer Machine JUSTIN WALKER | ’15 The rumbling and tumbling of the dryer machine outweighed her howl.

She was taking deep, long breaths, resting on her belly.

My dad fetched a bowl of water for her, and she appreciatively lapped it up. One after another, like children’s toys on a conveyer belt, puppies were expelled from her womb. The dryer machine got louder and louder as each puppy came.

After a few hours, twelve pups cuddled up on their exhausted mother. The dryer’s cycle finally ended.

Icy Landscape | Ana Lis Garcia ’15

As its roar hushed, the only sound was the mewing of newborn pups trying to get comfortable in the back room of my house.

amused | 19

Metamorphoses FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16

I

n the evenings, my mother sat on the back step and rolled my older sister’s hair. Our city was in the heart of the heartland, and for all its good intentions, it was always a few years behind.

It was still fashionable to have tight ringlets there.

Sylvia didn’t have the money for a curling iron, so my mother twisted her hair up in these tubes, thin as pencils and covered with Velcro bristles that always caught on my shirt when I left for school in the morning.

As the sun set, my mother retreated to her room to unroll her hair. She used fat ones that gave her big Jessica Rabbit waves. They hung around her face in long, careless curls. Mami always manipulated them to swoop beneath her cheekbones, giving them a dark, hollow look that emptied her eyes of the warmth that greeted us when we came home from school.

She told me stories while she did her makeup, mixing fantasy and truth so expertly that even today I struggle to understand the realities of her life. Some were obvious lies. “I grew up in a palace,” she sighed one night, rubbing Princess Pink blush onto her cheeks. “Linda, I was supposed to rule the world.”

But others skirted the edge. Especially when I wanted to believe her. “Your father,” she tsked, swiping her eyeliner back and forth with deadly calm. “Hm. He was something of an asshole, dear. Yes, I believe I’m allowed to say that.”

I had been tasked with cleaning her make up brushes. I was doing a horrible job. “Why? What did he do?”

She sighed. “The usual,” she said, her voice deepening in theatrical fervor. “He was a demon, you see, just an absolute devil. And I would ask you to please remember that men like him are to be stayed far, far away from, you hear me?”

I nodded stoically.

“But sometimes… sometimes, demons can be good,” she smiled nostalgically. “If they want to, they can change. But it’s very hard. Demons have dark impulses.” Mami’s mouth contorted into a devilish grin. “Your father was a trickster. He tried to be good. He wanted to be good. But sometimes 20 | amused

you can’t control yourself. Something gets under your skin, and you’re a different person.”

She gave me a discerning look. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

I rolled my eyes while her back was turned, but she had me.

“One day, he ran afoul of the most powerful witch in St. Louis. She was so scary, dear, I can hardly describe it,” she paused for dramatic effect. “Your father owed the witch a favor, and he refused to pay it. See, this witch was evil, and she wanted your father to do terrible things, but he was a brave demon. He loved you and Sylvia and me, I know he did. He didn’t want to hurt us. He tried to hide from the witch.”

She stopped to line her lips. I waited, my breath caught in my throat. “What did the witch do to him?”

“Well, she cursed him! That’s what witches do, isn’t it?” I breathed a sigh of relief. I had thought for a moment that she had done something much worse. Mami smiled sadly. “She spoke an evil spell, cursing your father to walk the Earth with a different face every day. No man, woman, or child could recognize him. He thought that he was destined to be alone.”

She ran her fingers through my hair. It was darker and coarser than her and Sylvia’s. “But she had forgotten as all witches do about the power of true love. Dear, I loved your father so much that when he kissed me on the lips, I knew who he was immediately.”

I smiled, and she looked at the door. “Every day he wakes up in a different bed in a different city in a different country with a different face.

And every night he finds his way back home to us, and tells me stories about the places he’s been and the people he’s met.” The doorbell rang like it was on a timer. “He’s early.” She swallowed and smiled tightly at me.

“It’s time for bed,” Mami whispered in my ear, pressing a Maybelline-colored kiss to my forehead. My sister had already retreated to our room.

Every night at eight, she watched Friends on low volume, mouthing punchlines like memorized scripture.

Sylvia pounced on the remote the second she heard us coming, but my mother always stopped her and said, “You can watch another episode as long as it doesn’t keep your sister up.”

Every night she would smile like Mami had given her the best gift in the world.

We each had our routines, and this became mine: I crouched by the door on my knees, watching the shadowy figure of a man enter our home. He was short or tall, fat or thin; his skin was pale and dark and yellow.

Sometimes I would stare at my fingers and wonder how I could come from a being so foreign, and sometimes we looked so similar that I wondered how it was possible that this wasn’t his true face. Every day, I ached to speak, to touch, to listen to him.

My sister, for her part, did not question my habit. I think she was happy to have the bed to herself. “How you doin?” she murmured under her breath like a prayer.

I often wondered if she even knew the truth about our father. Mami didn’t usually play favorites, but this was an important secret.

Sylvia was trustworthy, but fallible.

It took me a long time to work up the nerve to ask her. “Do you know why the man is here?” I whispered one night, my eyes still watching the hallway. He was tall, tonight, with dark skin and a thin frame. He looked old.

She clicked her tongue and put the television on mute. I can say with full certainty that this had never happened before and would never happen again. “Yes.” Her voice was tight, but it rose up at the end like she was asking a question. I was seven and she was thirteen.

“Why don’t you want to see him?”

Sylvia grimaced. “Why do you want to see them? Little perv.”

“I’m not a perv!” I muttered angrily. This was the only conversation I ever had with my sister about our father.

I always helped my mother with dinner, and she usually took us both along to help with groceries. I spotted one of the men in the cereal section one day. “Mami,” I grabbed her arm and pointed.

She took a sharp breath. The man looked at her and smiled lewdly. “Sylvia,” my mother said, and the anger in her voice made my bones ache. “Take Linda to the dairy section and wait for me. Now.” Her grip was like a vice on my arm. “I want to talk to him,” I said, but she just held on tighter.

“You don’t understand anything, ever, do you?” I stared at the yogurt cartons. They promised to make me skinnier, healthier, better. I

grabbed one and held it in my hands.

“Put that back!” my sister hissed. Her body pinned me to the freezer. It felt like a cage, but I know she thought of herself as a shield.

My mother was pale when she returned.

Her cart was gone. “We’re going home.” I could hear her heart beating. She was so afraid.

After we said grace around the dinner table, my mother said she had an announcement to make. “I’m going to be working out of the house for a little while.” She grinned at me and grabbed Sylvia’s hand before my sister could snatch it away. “I will still be here after school. But I need to be somewhere else for work. Mrs. Blake has agreed to keep an eye on you.” She cut her chicken into tiny pieces.

“Money might be a little tighter, too. But I promise you, dear, everything’s fine.”

Mrs. Blake was a mean old woman who lived across the hall from us. She adored Sylvia, and hated me. I had lost my father and my freedom in one fell swoop.

I was angry for weeks, but Christmas was coming, and the air began to buzz more and more insistently with anxious excitement.

Most of the children in my class had given up on Santa Claus, but I still believed. There were so many bad people in the world; it seemed only right to my naive brain that there would be a personified force of good to even it out.

Money was getting tighter and tighter, though, so our gifts were few and cheap. My sister got new curling rollers instead of the iron she’d asked for, and back issues of TV Guide magazine. I got a beginner’s makeup kit and a box of drugstore chocolate.

The bags beneath my mother’s eyes were deep, though, and her hands twitched when she rolled my sister’s hair. Instead of uniform corkscrews, her curls were uneven and flat. Some of the hair on the back of her head was straight, giving her a schizophrenic look that verged on a mullet. She cried in the bathroom and trudged to school with her head in the tight bun of a deeply unhappy soul.

I knew from my mother’s shrinking portions that most of her worries were about money. But sometimes I wondered if there was something wrong with my father. Had the witch found out about my parent’s trysts and come back to finish the deed? I hoped not. I amused | 21

22 | amused

Stargazing | Aminah Austin ’15

part of her that as her daughter I had never been privy to: young and small and scared, unsure of her place in the world and afraid of the answers to her unspoken questions.

She pulled her skirt down a little and walked into the lobby of The In’s In . Once upon a time, it had been The Kingfisher’s Inn, but the neon had burnt out a hundred years ago. It was a desolate, dark place, the kind of grimy underworld that good mothers tell their children to stay away from. My mother was braver than them; she marched into hell with her head held high. There was no shame.

I smiled when she walked out with a man. He was light skinned and old, but in a stately way; he

Water Nymphs | Aminah Austin ’15

had a whole book of questions for him.

Before his transformation, had his earlobes been connected? Where had he woken up this morning? Why didn’t he come to our apartment anymore? Why didn’t he love me enough to know me?

I began to formulate a plan. I would sneak past the evil Mrs. Blake and follow my mother wherever she was going. It couldn’t have been far -- we had sold the car a few months ago.

I would find him.

There was a feigned excuse of illness and a decoy doll sleeping in my bed. I took the stairs two at a time, my feet barely touching the painted concrete before I reached the next one. I felt like an astronaut, discovering a whole new world. I had never been on my street after nine. Every lit window was a searchlight, every barking dog an alarm. I hissed at the cigarette smoking old men who scowled at me discerningly from their porchlight kingdoms. The siren sounds twenty miles away obviously meant that Mrs. Blake or Sylvia had found my hastily constructed sleeping form and called the police. Speed was of the essence.

I was an adult, my head held high.

I’m supposed to be here, I yelled at the streetwalkers as they tousled my hair and hiked up their skirts. My heart raced when I passed the sleeping bum on the corner.

He knew my mother, somehow, and his sleeping form was guarding her like the dragons in fairytales.

Mami kept a steady, slow pace. She was a few blocks ahead of me, and she stopped to chat with everyone, waving goodnaturedly at the grandfathers and dropping a few coins in the bum’s cup.

She gave the streetwalkers quick, cursory smiles, but did not stop to chat.

I hid in the alleys between homes, imagining that she would see me; but only when she reached the hotel did she turn towards our apartment, its dirty yellow light only just visible where our neighborhood met the Boulevard. She stood there, for a moment, alone at an intersection. It was like she had slipped through time. I could see her then as I do now, old and frail. But I could also see a

looked like a sitcom father. I set the scene in my mind’s eye. I was older, and my mother had done my makeup in primary colors. There was a boy at the door, earnest and apprehensive. “Now, Linda,” Dad would say, his belly jiggling. “What made you think you could date before your thirtieth birthday?”

The imaginary audience laughed.

“But dad,” I said, blushing. “He’s come all this way.”

Mami smiled and kissed my father on the cheek.

“Doesn’t our daughter look beautiful, dear?”

The audience cooed. I disappeared into the night with a strange boy. The stage went dark.

I turned to find myself at the door of their hotel room. I could hear him talking, and my mother laughed.

He was probably telling her about the journey home. I smiled, and it all went quiet.

My first knock might have been timid, but I was excited. I was finally meeting him.

My mother answered the door, her dress askew and her perfect curls messy.

“Linda,” she said in surprise, looking behind her. “What are you doing here? Are Sylvia and Mrs. Blake alright?”

I nodded my head, trying to peer behind her. The man was staring at me from an armchair. He looked afraid. I wondered if this was family. “I want to meet him,” I said, and Mami’s face turned to ash.

“Oh, my Linda. My baby girl,” she said, running her hand through my hair.

She held my face to her stomach. “Stephen, I think we’re going to have to reschedule.

Tomorrow night?”

The man said something and left. I tried to grab his hand as he passed, but he shook me off, fear in his eyes.

Mami sat me down on the unmade bed. “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, and suddenly she was crying. I held her close to me and restored the part in her hair to its usual perfection.

“I haven’t seen your father since you were very young.” Mami’s hands were shaking. “These men... aren’t him. Linda, if you learn one thing in this world, let it be this: everyone wants to be loved. And I give people that. I make them feel loved, and accepted, and happy.” she straightened. “I’ll tell you about it when you’re older. But right now, you need to know that your father is gone. Me, Sylvia, Mrs. Blake... we’re your family. I hope that’s enough.”

“It is, Mami.” I lied because one day it could be true.

She walked me home. Mrs. Blake apologized in tears. Sylvia was still watching Friends. We sent Mrs. Blake back to her apartment and watched the last episode with her. Hushed her when she tries to ruin the jokes. Cried when Chandler professes his love for Monica.

I woke up the next morning, and I pointed to the lines of latitude and longitude on a map and wondered how the distance between two straight lines could be so vast. amused | 23

Seven Items MADISYN JONES | ’16 In the fitting room, I try on blouses, hoping that the flounce will promote my innocence and courtesy, that the light chiffon fabric will hide the insecurities that have fought their way to the surface.

I try on skirts, anticipating that in between each layer of frill, courage brews and stalks of strength grow tall enough to reach the heavens and stand in the way of the stars, but only if above the knee.

I try on shorts, praying that the brevity of the cotton on my legs leaves ample room for the longevity that my life may bring, that the short inseams will attract the best yet to come.

I try on dresses, satin, silk, and cotton, looking for a figure that paints a self-portrait.

I want to be the sole subject of the masterpiece, me, myself, and I. I try on jewelry, matching the dangling pieces of thinned metal to my ears, looking for the right set to match my complexion, but a perfect match is never truly flawless.

I try on shoes, putting myself into the life of another, hoping for an alternate perspective to the photo we all gaze upon. I tie the laces, because a loose fit could send me tripping, falling into blank spaces that I have no thoughts to fill.

I last try on hats, an accessory to cap my thought processes and keep the most genuine ideas inside.

24 | amused

Light Figure | Alyson Milberg ’15

Beauty EMILY KANTER | ’17

E

veryone perceives the word “beauty” so differently. So what is beauty? Your appearance, your mannerisms, or is it merely a feeling?

If you rely on social media to tell you what beauty is, you will find out that beauty is perfect skin, perfect hair, and a skinny figure. This perspective, the idea of being perfect, damages the thoughts of young people. It sends the message that if you do not look “perfect” you are unwanted. Is that what beauty really is? The standards for beauty usually come from social media, yet not enough people look at the true meaning of the word.

In the dictionary, beauty is defined as a combination of qualities such as shape, form, and color that pleases the aesthetic senses, a definition that sounds funny to me, because that isn’t

what beauty is either. That leads me to one of the biggest questions of all. Am I beautiful? My mom has always told me I was beautiful, but then I will look at magazines and television shows and start to question my self-worth. I begin to nit-pick and compare myself to the people I see on social media.

Throughout the years I have figured out that my personal definition for beauty is a feeling. It’s the feeling when you know you have done something right, when you are finally content with what you have done, or when you are self-confident. That is when I feel most beautiful. To me, beauty is confidence.

The standard of beauty is so important because it impacts the way people grow up. Growing up thinking you are beautiful, then coming to a time when you figure out you are not someone’s idea of beauty is a heartbreaking. Growing up thinking you are anything but beautiful is just as horrible and can lead to many emotional problems as a person grows older. amused | 25

Song Of Myself: A Song of Confusion EMMA RODRIGUEZ | ’16 I am pressured to have my future figured out, but the world is still as confusing to me as it once was when I was a child, only now that I can see the dark parts, it’s not so full of wonder.

It seems as though the more I figure out, the less I really know.

I try to see the world as an exact figure, something with less nuances and abstracts and more concretes and absolutes, but that is only how my brain works, and even with all my lists and numbers, I can’t fathom this world.

I long for something or someone to make me feel needed, to give me a clear purpose in this life, but I don’t know where to look.

I don’t even know how feelings are supposed to feel, or if I will ever feel them at all.

The life around me is too loud, too bustling.

I am more comfortable in my own piece of silence, sorting out my own thoughts like unraveling a spool of thread, except every piece I untangle knots another.

I am on a perpetual search for the algorithm or the formula for life.

I begin knowing that it is fruitless, but I continue on anyway hoping that on this search I might find myself.

26 | amused

Cell Phone LUCIA ARRIOLA | ’15 Opening that frosty white, rectangular box, holding that brand new iPhone, downloading Facebook, having access to the Internet at the tap of a screen.

Sitting across from my parents, a plate of cold fajitas in between, my silence drowned out by their screaming.

Passage of Light | Jaqueline Groll ’15

The only sound from me, the zzz zzz of my vibrating phone.

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28 | amused

amused | 29

Sea Gold | Elmira Moskvina ’16

The Aftermath of Happiness LAUREN KLEIDERMACHER| ’17 I can’t move the clock backward, return to the memories I had to leave.

So today I spent my hours reminiscing, reaching for happiness beyond retrieve.

One summer was not enough.

I wish we had one more day.

Separated by ocean, He is so far away.

I remember our last day together, watching the waves crash into sand.

His green eyes stared into mine as I let him hold my hand.

The day of his departure neither of us could speak.

My tears blinded me and I let myself be weak.

“I wonder what we could’ve been,” the final words he said.

His voice is now an echo.

I hear it in my head.

My eyes red from crying when I woke up an hour late.

My makeup half-smeared, my hair in disarray.

Falling for a stranger, one I’ll never see again.

I never knew his feelings; his loss extends my pain.

Forward seems as hopeless as back.

How to lose this nostalgic feeling?

Our time came to an abrupt end, How to start the process of healing?

Certain things pain me more than others.

I don’t understand my own heart.

I wish I could block the emotions.

Then it wouldn’t be so hard.

30 | amused

Round Face | Kurt Carlson ‘18

Wounds are not only physical.

Around you I was vulnerable.

Once distance made us strangers, the pain proved intolerable.

Asking For It VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17

S

Mouth | Elmira Moskvina ’16

he trembles as his rough hands grasp her pale shoulder too tightly. The air becomes heavier, and she forgets how to pull it into her lungs. His mouth crushes hers; she tries to protest but cannot find her voice.

After all, she thinks, didn’t I ask for this? Wasn’t this what I wanted?

Her big brown doe eyes had stared at him through her overgrown side-swept bangs for hours. And he took their invitation.

His greedy hands attempt to take in every inch of her at once and make her disappear underneath him.

She is overwhelmed by nausea. Her eyes burn and her vision blurs. He has had too many drinks to notice. He mistakes her anxiety for passion. All she can think is how she wishes he had turned off the lights. But perhaps that would only have made it worse. At least this way she can anticipate before the stubble on his face scratches against her. She can try to avoid his hand as it approaches the hem of her shirt.

Feeling his hands on her bare skin makes the tears spill over onto her milk-white cheeks. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He is too engrossed in what he is doing to her now. He sees her only as a prop, a part of the scenery. When she tries to push him away, he only becomes more forceful. His fingers leave dark patterns encircling her right upper arm.

amused | 31

The Game of Life DAVID FRANCO | ’15

T

he game of life has been a tradition throughout the souls that have walked across this unjust earth we call home. We all play the same game, on the same difficulty level and with the same objective. Climb to the pinnacle of satisfaction and receive the endless riches of self- worth, or lose by slipping down the grease of inner arrogance. The choice is and always will be yours. Anyone can win the game to their own advantage, but that may just be the way you lose.

We all start off the journey very strong.

We all want to be the best we can be. We feed on the attention given to us by those who are left in awe by our greatness. We grow our ego using every last compliment, every last ounce of kind remarks we hold and pump it into the endless vacuum that is our ego. We look at all these components that we must have in order to be great and we still call ourselves simple. Simple beings that need no more than food, shelter and the clothes on our backs. We make ourselves out to be these fakes that are unable to function without the charging power of acclaim.

Humans tell one another how they don’t ask for much. We don’t ask for anything more than the minimum. Although the minimum would get us nowhere, the minimum would not move our bodies two steps, the minimum will never be enough. We hide our flaws within the maximum. The maximum gives us more than we need and we say that we don’t need it. We act as though we would be perfectly stable without all the affluence given to us, yet we 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 32 | amused

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, although there are few out there that can see truth. Few 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.

All your predictions lead you down a lonely road of denial until you reach the boulevard of pure failure.

You keep climbing and think that you are almost there, that you have proven yourself to be different. Yet all you feel on your hands is the slippery grease that 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.

Although you become self-aware of your actions while falling through your bottomless pit that you have dug yourself, it is all too late: the game is over and the vicious, circular cycle takes a new victim.

amused | 33

Earth Watching| Arianna Arguetty ‘17

WIndows | Maia Walker ‘15

Limericks for the Seven Deadly Sins Inspired by the movie Se7en

IAN ZIGEL | ’17 I. GLUTTONY Filled my belly up like a sac every meal, a Whooper and a Big Mac Wasn’t bothered being big Spirit animal: a pig Wish I predicted my heart attack

V. LUST All I thought I could do was appease By getting down low on my knees I would stand by the corner And act like a foreigner Went to hell from my STDs

II. GREED I just love the color green And a wife who’s sexy and lean I say money is power I use it to shower!

As the poverty remains unseen

VI. ENVY I wish I could act more than want.

Not fall victim to luxury’s taunt As I lay drunk as hell In a one star motel It was jealousy, a dangling haunt

III. PRIDE I find my opinion most legit And your opinion is just unfit I know all to know And you are just slow And though you’re a hit man, please don’t hit

VII. WRATH In retrospect, murder is bad But my victim just made me so mad!

He stole many things My fiancé, the rings I had to just deal with the lad

IV. SLOTH I don’t want to get out of bed I’d rather just lie here instead As the world burns in flames Eliminating names I swim in the thoughts of my head

34 | amused

Roses, Tulips, and Lilies MAIA WALKER | ’15

Like a treasure chest being buried, my grandfather’s casket was lowered into the ground, the thud of the dead weight against freshly packed dirt.

A seemingly impossible noise from such a void.

He had been a quiet man, only spoke when spoken to, still haunted by the shadow of a soldier.

A small group, old friends and distant family, came to see their comrade, father, husband put to rest.

Mascara-smudged and tear-stained hands threw roses, tulips, and lilies into the unknown, physical representations of silent prayers hoping to reach the unreachable.

Everyone reacting and revealing, everyone except me while my mother loses her sanity.

Roses, tulips, and lilies sink.

My hands are dry and clean, and hers are smeared and soaked.

Letting go of him means nothing to me.

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Unending Void of Grime SIERRA MATHIS | ’17

T

Mending | Maia Walker ’15

he light metal gray zipper, now with hints of golden brown rust around its edges, is undone, releasing the rank odor that almost makes you double over and regurgitate. The fumes, wafting up slowly, begin to escape from their recent imprisonment. They’re on their way to rudely assault your nose, leaving you temporarily scentblind. Once your eyes are done watering from the stench, they quickly catch a small speck rapidly moving. It hurtles across the folds of the worn Spartan Volleyball t-shirt, now an off-eggshell white due to its many practices and wash loads. The area under the armpits is now a light mustard yellow from the numerous cycles of perspiration from twohour practices. Reaching down slowly and hesitantly, you displace the discolored t-shirt and reveal what conniving creature is hidden under all of this filth.

Your jaw drops, going slack while you retreat in horror as the dark sepia beetle-like insect comes into your view. From the sudden change in exposure, the beetle quickly scurries into the dark, grime infested depths of the bag. You stand there stunned and slowly close your gaping mouth, but as soon as you do you commence to choke on your breath just taken. Your eyes glint at their edges from newly formed tears, your throat clenches and unclenches as your body is racked with coughs to escape the foul smells that slather themselves all over your taste buds.

Once you gain control from your coughing fit, you decide to further inspect the gym bag. Your eyes zero in on the sticky, slightly damp substance on the tip of your index fingers. As you swiftly pull away , there is a repugnant residue left on your finger’s tip. You try to wipe it off on a section of the bag that appears to be less distasteful than the rest, but to your own disdain you’re left with even more nauseating residue than before. You dispose of the filth-ridden gym bag without a second glance, left only with the queasy feeling in your gut.

36 | 36 amused | amused

My Casual Christmas VERONICA APICE | ’16

Y

ou know how on Christmas Day you wake up with butterflies in your stomach, thinking about presents, and you smell the chocolate chip cookies in the oven from the kitchen? Then you turn on the television and there it is, ABC family’s 25 Days of Christmas marathon. In those movies, children run to their parents’ rooms to jump on them, shouting “ITS CHRISTMAS, ITS CHRISTMAS, GET UP, C’MON LET’S GO!” Then they run downstairs to the tree and are overwhelmed with all the presents they get from Santa. Yeah, well that’s not what its like in the Apice Residence.

Waking up uncomfortably because the sun is blinding my closed lids, I then just lay in my bed watching Netflix. Netflix is like a drug to me, as shopping is a drug to my mother, but on this day, my mother doesn’t buy gifts for us nor do we buy gifts for her. Let me warn, you my mother is not your ideal mom; her synthetic red hair from India makes her stand out like a tanned “Little Mermaid.” Growing up with my mom was very unconventional; we don’t really fit the cookie-cutter mother daughter relationship. She is like a guest in my house, you see my mother three times a week sometimes because that person’s out exploring the city. She’s out getting her four-inch crystal-covered nails with gold nail polish, or shopping for her friends’ kids, or eating dinner at an expensive five-star restaurant with her best friends, never me.

As I walk downstairs, the three trees are shinier than ever. Red, pink, and gold are not traditional holiday colors but my mother seems to think otherwise. The tree near the front door is gold completely, filled with little angels scattered along representing my over-the-top mother’s affection for the color itself. The red tree is crammed with little Santas all-over; it’s as if he threw up all over this tree, which I find to be absurd. Last but not least is the pink tree, at the top of the stairs, in honor of my older sister, Anna, being born. Anna is 18 years old but my mother acts like she was born yesterday. Pink, to me, represents innocence. Anna is the complete opposite of that. She is rude, careless, and selfish. The tree should be black. Like her soul.

However, my sister and father are very alike. My father is the ideal man from New Jersey.

He looks like he is part of the mafia or worked in the garbage business, with a deep voice, a scary face. He’s the patriarch of our family. “You don’t get presents on Christmas because Christmas is everyday for you guys,” is what he usually says. In reality, my father did grow up poor and I understand where he is coming from, but I just wish I could experience a normal Christmas.

I always dreamed Christmas to be one large tree that was completely covered in red, white and green ornaments, full of beautifully wrapped presents. The smell of pine would make me queasy. My parents would still make me believe in Santa or joke about him bringing all these presents, but I would know it wasn’t him. On Christmas morning we’d make some chocolate chip pancakes and eat around the tree opening presents, laughing, crying, screaming—what everyone feels is happiness. Then after all the present opening, we’d watch funny movies and just snuggle together, have dinner together and talk about being grateful for all we have and calling it a night.

That’s my ideal Christmas. That’s how it’s been. And that’s what it’ll always be. amused | 37

38 | amused 50 Years | Ana Lis Garcia ‘15

Valencia, Venezuela to Miami SEBASTIAN PROKOPOVICH | ’16 My father’s callused hands gently shook, my body and mind astir, and I could still faintly see that the darkness remained lodged in the room.

My small, blue backpack leaned against my bedside -- I opened it and took one good look.

I carried my toys and games that I wanted to keep, carried my sluggish mind, dragging it across the cold, brick-colored tiles to the white door, carried my dawdling sadness, tagging along behind, gripping my ankles as if to draw me back, and I carried my burdensome gloom to the beat of my departure from my home.

Out in the living room, my eyes stung, and my mind had sunk, the arepa my mom put before me turning stale, its steamy scent vanished, my surroundings crashing upon me.

My games didn’t matter, my toys didn’t matter, my room didn’t matter, the table, the bed, or the couch, none of it mattered.

Photos were scattered across the cold, wooden table: my Uncle Nelo’s wrinkled face grins while Aunt Natalia’s light hair glowed through the glass.

Next to them, my cousin Manuel stands as a giant next to my Aunt Alida and her gentle figure.

Some dust had collected on their surface, and my fingertips were lightly covered in gray.

Now even more would shroud their faces.

Standing now by the door, my blatant expression drew my mother’s caring attention.

“No te molestes,” she said, reminding me that I was not losing them, and it was not the end of our family.

“Te van a visitar pronto, y tenemos que ver nuestra familia en Miami.”

Looking up to the flowers at the entrance, a radiant red caught my eye.

Behind them, a beautiful painting of Jesus Christ before a row of gleaming white candles reminded me of my grandmother who always sat on the green couch, her smile beaming across the room.

I wasn’t thinking of the sadness, I wasn’t thinking of those I wouldn’t see, I wasn’t thinking of my apartment, and I wasn’t thinking of what I was losing.

My happiness led my mind to wonderful memories, my confidence in my grandmother’s smile, and my hope in “todo va estar bien” forced a smile on my face, my happiness ever since.

amused | 39

Color Ridge

them. My dad is tall and tan with a few tattoos -- all conVIOLETA DE LA GUARDIA | ’17 taining a meaning. Rene is also tall and tan with many tattoos.

They have kind brown eyes and hearty laughs. My two cousins are skateboarders. Cheyenne “Chey Chey” is 2 years younger othing was betthan me. At the time, he was ter than the feeling of laying short and chubby with long in my daddy’s station wagon, brown hair and brown eyes. looking out at the stars. Back His half brother, Kaya, who is 5 then, I didn’t know just how years older than me, was lean lucky I was to not feel an and tall with big curly blonde ounce of sadness in my bones. hair just past his shoulders.

My dad would take my sibKaya and my brother, Owani, lings, my cousins, and I to do were the ringleaders of all our countless activities together. adventures and games.

We would go to roller skate at In the mornings, there Super Wheels, and go go-kart were daddy’s smoothies- “smooracing at Speed Demons. On lies” as Chey Chey called them. the way back home, we would There were egg omelets and lay our heads on each others fried potatoes and toast. “Don’t shoulders and stare out the be messy,” my dad would say. windows and nod off to sleep.

Always, before anyone would If the night still wasn’t wake up, Kaya and Owani snuck over, we would be trying to out to the living room to play sing the highest notes of rock Halo on Xbox. My dad, a light songs, we would be spewing sleeper, would wake up to the out air guitar solos, and we sound of dying aliens, grunts would be stretching our arms of chiefs being shot -- “Did you out across the dashboard to brush your teeth yet?” My dad mock the meanest keyboard would ask the boys. His hands solos you’ve ever heard. Or would be on his hips and his we would be lulling ourselves eyes spoke words of their own. to the softest, sweetest songs They said, “You didn’t, did you?” that played the melodies of Looking at each other, Owani our free, light-hearted spirits. I and Kaya would run to the can still feel the songs echobathroom and brush their teeth ing in my ears... “Hot Blooded” before my dad took the Xbox

by Foreigner, “Tiny Dancer” controls away from them. But

by Elton John, “Blinded by every time they came back from the Light” by Manfred Mann, brushing their teeth, my dad “Roundabout” by Yes, “Welcome would have already started his to the Machine” by Pink Floyd, own new mission. So after all Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”. the “please start a new game We all lived together on with us” pleas from Owani and the weekends in Cutler Ridge Kaya, they would start a new -- I called it Color Ridge. My game altogether. As they played, uncle, Rene, and my dad shared Owani and Kaya would look at the house and we stayed with

N

40 | amused

my dad’s screen to find where he was on the map. With that information, they could kill him and win the game. “Don’t be a screen-cheater!” my dad would say. Soon thereafter would come the sounds of them pleading for him to go make breakfast as my sister and I woke up and smacked kisses on our dad’s cheek. And nothing was better.

In the afternoons, my siblings, my cousins and I would slip into the backyard and come up with ideas to keep ourselves entertained.

Our main thing we loved to do was start backyard fires. We would dig a little hole in our backyard and fill it with sticks, paper, and leaves. Sometimes, when the boys ventured for the sticks and wood, they would pick little flowers they found on the sides of the sidewalks for my sister and me.

After we had everything ready, we would go inside, steal a lighter, and start our fire. There were no second thoughts.

There were no worries. We were kids, but we took care of ourselves because although we were starting fires, we had our cups of water beside us ready to put it out just in case. There was no staring deeply into the fire and thinking emotional thoughts. There was no “don’t stick your finger in there!” because somehow we knew better. There was no crying about childish things. It was just us, the little flowers, the fire, and the water -- just in case. And nothing was better.

Then there was midnight football in the cold. “Go long!” My dad would shout.

Clouds | Ana Lis Garcia ’15

Sensation | Maia Walker ’15

The streetlamps would shine the light across Kaya’s face and bare torso as he jumped high in the air to catch my dad’s spiral. Soon after, Owani’s deer-like body would fling across the air to tackle Kaya down to the patchy grass area -- thank god they almost never crashed down onto the cement. Our bodies would cackle and crack with laughter. My face was almost paralyzed into a smile. The moonlight was almost as radiant as our souls’ energy. “Daddy, is the moon getting closer?” I asked him once. “If it were we’d be in a lot of trouble.” He answered with a laugh. “I guess we’re in trouble then.”

I informed him. We kept playing.

“Dont be a ballhog!” My dad would scream to my brother. Then we would all complain for the ball. And nothing was better.

But some nights, we went to Speed Demons. The feeling of being in the go karts racing each other was one of the best things I can remember. I now realize that it wasn’t the fact that one of us would win the race. It was the fact that we were all connecting and having fun. Then, we would drive home in serenity together. The air back then seemed fresher than it is now. Sweeter than it is now. There was something in the way the moon glowed. Now, it glows with a certain kind of sadness to it. There was something in the way songs sounded when they played.

Now, songs play with a certain tone of melancholy. There was something about the way I smiled back then.

Now, I smile with a longing for anything that feels peaceful like back then. But some nights, when I look at the moon and the stars, when I take in the air, when I listen to the music that played in my dad’s station wagon, it feels like it did back then.

And nothing is better.

amused | 41 amused | 41

Today I Feel Lonely IAN ZIGEL | ’17 The sun rises while the other stars decend and sits alone in the lighter blue and thinks today I feel lonely And while the kids on the playground see who can stare at the sun the longest without losing sight of the world another boy weighs down one side of the seesaw and thinks today I feel lonely

Skyline | Aminah Austin ’15

And while he sits on the seesaw his mom cleans houses and remembers when her lover had been so excited to have a son and thinks today I feel lonely

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And that lover prays for his life in the western hemisphere, fighting Middle Eastern soldiers, being held captive in a dark dark room and thinks today I feel lonely And the sounds he hears of five daily prayers are heard by another woman in Hijab who stands at the graves of her husband and only son and thinks today I feel lonely And she looks at the rising moon who sees the son hogging up all the light blues, oranges, and pinks and thinks today I feel empty

Untitled

VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17 your eyes are imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. maybe it’s the way you sometimes look at me when we kiss. i love that about you. you aren’t afraid of doing things wrong. some call that bravery; i call it you. your name is what i whisper in my sleep and you have a way of clarifying everything for me. when we first met i honestly thought you were a mirage. and sometimes i still think you are a mirage, but when i see you in context, it all comes together. you are the realest thing i can imagine. we are the realest thing i can’t imagine. i don’t trust my thoughts to create something this beautiful. and you tell me that you think i’m beautiful and, Darling, i blush every time you tell me so. i know i can tell you anything but i’m still trying to understand what that means. i don’t understand what that means, but you understand anything i tell you even when i tell you that i can’t tell you anything that day. and when i tell you that i love you, please understand that even though i can see it, i don’t know what that looks like yet. but i know that right now, Darling, right now, i love you. i love you more than i hate the fear of telling you so.

i love you differently than Icarus loved the sun i love you because i can feel your warmth on my skin without fearing that you’ll melt my wings anytime soon because now i know better than to make my wings from wax. and, Darling, i am learning how to love you. and i am learning how to stay near you without fearing i will melt.

Monster Path | Andrea Jensen ’16

when i fear something, Darling, don’t take it personally even though we are personal and these are my personal feelings. just remember that sometimes fear is the product of evolution. my fear is just part of my fight or flight instinct. but now you are teaching me how to fly. and i love you.

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Love (Patent Pending) FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16 A LETTER TO THE MEDIA, POSTMARKED FEBRUARY 13, 2024: Through careful contemplation and diligent division, I have created an unbeatable formula for emotional attraction. Perhaps the most human of emotions, love has long vexed sentimentology researchers. But after the creation of Dr. Maria Marquez’s artificial anger serum in June of last year, my researchers and I saw a niche in the market.

Though we drew from Dr. Marquez’s research, our formula is not a serum that induces attraction.

Instead, it is a machine that analyzes video, speech patterns, hormonal stimulation, handwriting, and the answers to a fifteen-question quiz. Your answers and our algorithm play an instrumental role in finding you an ideal partner in every sense of the word.

We understand that many of you will be skeptical, but we are unwilling to share more information about our research at this time. Though our design would be nearly impossible to replicate, the US patent office has been uncooperative in fulfilling our request.

The questionnaire -- which will require the use of a webcam -- will be online tomorrow at midnight on Anteros.com. New accounts will be free on Valentines Day, but cost ten dollars at other times during the year. I encourage the lonely and curious to consider applying.

AN EXCERPT FROM THE QUESTIONNAIRE OF MS. CECILY ROSEN OF SACRAMENTO, CA:

What is your occupation? Why?

I’m an accountant! It’s not as fun as it sounds, ha. My best friend’s father worked at a law firm, and he offered me a job after grad school. I ended up finding the work very interesting, and it has great hours and benefits! It’s a really good balance for me, personally.

What do you enjoy?

I like to live life to the fullest, like any other person! I’m an avid hiker with the Sacto Outdoor Club, and I teach English to immigrant children at the rec center Tuesday and Saturday evenings. It’s very fulfilling!

Why are you here?

I just feel so alone sometimes. I don’t know if it’s this city or me, but sometimes when I’m waiting for the bus, I’ll watch the people walk by and realize I don’t know anyone on a deeper level.

How did you hear about ANTEROS? The same way everyone else has heard about it -- the television!

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AN EXCERPT FROM A TED TALK BY MR. ROSWELL ANDERS, CREATOR OF ANTEROS:

“How many of you feel alone right now? Right here, in this big crowd of people. How many people does this stadium hold? A few hundred? A thousand?

How many of you came with someone else? Please don’t be ashamed if you didn’t. I like you better, I promise. You’re not scared.

“But those of you who did come with someone else -- I want you to ask yourself, right here, what they have added to your experience. Go on, do it.

Some of you -- maybe sixty percent -- will say they enhanced it. They made some insightful comment about pre-K education, or kept you awake during that dull robotics lecture. But forty percent of you -- probably the ones who made the insightful comment or were genuinely interested in artificial intelligence -are thinking, well, no. This might have been better on my own.

“I think that this is the question at the heart of humanity: why do we move in packs? Why do we feel embarrassed when we sit and have a quiet thought?

Why are we so afraid of our individuality?

“And I know you’re all wondering: this guy created a glorified dating app. Maybe you even know about my beautiful wife Clara -- hey, honey -- who I met through Anteros. What does he know about loneliness? Why would he advocate for isolation?

“But let me say this: there is a difference between being alone and being lonely. I want people to learn to enjoy their own company, but I don’t want them to feel awkward doing it. In the past hundred years, human interaction has gone through so many radical changes. And I want to usher in that next great change: Xenia. I know this is pretty unorthodox -- I hope you’ll forgive me for doing this here, but I’ve got the go ahead and I’m just incredibly excited.

“Xenia is, in essence, a dating app for friendship. I know what you’re thinking, hey, only losers are going to use that. And I can already hear the New York Times op-ed -- what is humanity coming to, et cetera, technophobia, et cetera. But the world we’re living in is radically different from the one that most of our old social mores come from. Every human wants a pack, but every human wants to explore the world. I, personally, don’t know anyone who lives in Cincinnati. If I had to move there tomorrow, I would have literally no one. That’s loneliness.

“But with Xenia, you have a network of compatible acquaintances to meet up with. You want to get a beer and talk about the cast of the Breaking Bad reboot? Go for it, man. Nothing’s stopping you but yourself.”

EXCERPT FROM AN ACCEPTANCE SPEECH GIVEN BY ROSWELL ANDERS TO THE NOBEL COMMITTEE:

“I would like to thank all of you for this award.

I think we can all agree that loneliness is so inherently human that its eradication would spell our own destruction. But I would like to -- I’m so honored that I can minimize it. I’m so happy that I can stand here and say that people who once would have been alone and lost in the world have lovers and friends. I love that I’ve been a part of that. And I’d like to thank everyone who uses Anteros and Xenia. You’re our future.”

My Imitation | Maia Walker ’15

EXCERPT FROM AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION IN A BAR BETWEEN XENIA USERS: Datapp2008: Hey, man, you watch football?

Arze9: Yeah, I root for the Cubs.

Datapp2008: Sucks for you.

Arze9: I guess. Do you?

Datapp2008: Not really.

Arze9: Yeah.

Datapp2008: Yeah.

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46 | amused

Smoke I Suppose | Orville Mohe ’16

What Is a Small-Breasted Woman?

JODI BAUSON | ’15

“D

oes this bra fit you better miss, or do you need a smaller cup size?” the saleslady outside the fitting room door asks. “No, I’m sorry it doesn’t fit, I don’t think I’m a 36 B…probably a 36 A would fit much better,” I respond. In a society that propagates the message that bigger breasts signifys how much of a woman you are, this situation is pretty embarrassing for a 17-year-old girl who wants to be taken seriously as a young woman. The saleslady hands me the 36 A and it fits perfectly. There’s one problem though: the bra’s heavily padded and makes me look like I’m a size bigger than I actually am. With no other choices, since all the bras in my size have substantial amounts of padding, I leave the store with my new undergarment in hand. Why do companies think that those women with small breasts feel the need to wear gross loads of padding in their bras? This leads me to the question: What is a small-breasted woman?

Oftentimes people do not talk about the plight of small-breasted woman. It is simply ignored.

Pop culture and the media facilitate images of large breasts to sell anything from cars to movies to even the fast food most people consume on a daily basis.

Daily images of larger breasts displayed everywhere cause some women, especially myself, to feel inadequate. Mass media also spreads a message to young women: those who have large breasts are considered “real women.” But when these women have socalled “nip slips,” their reputation and public image destroyed because “they showed a little too much boob.” This is only one of the confusing mixed messages we blast out to our young girls about their bodies. There is a serious problem when the media refers to women with fewer curves, or in this case a smaller bra size, as underdeveloped or as those who need a little help.

Usually the moments when I feel the most different from every other woman around me are when I go shopping for clothes; the worst clothes to shop for are shirts and bras. The top half of my body often screams for small in fitted shirts, but since my chest is smaller than the average “small” person, the chest area of the top is loose while everything else fits pretty nicely.

This predicament causes me to buy bras that are bigger and do not support as well as smaller ones just so my fitted shirts don’t look weird on my body. Because of this, shopping for clothes is not really my favorite activity due to the negative impact it has on my body image and self esteem.

The lack of ability to fit into most blouses and bras properly sometimes leads me to believe that there is something wrong with my body and I must do something to change it.

The idea that “sex sells,” especially large breasts, causes woman like myself to turn to ways to make our assets appear larger. Some ways include wearing push-up bras to feel more womanly, or more drastic measure such as breast implant surgery, which can cause many problems for women in the future. Over-sexualizing women’s breasts no matter the size instigates body image problems to become rampant in our society, thus making for an unhealthy and unhappy population.

The experience of having smaller breasts than most differs, yet common experiences are shared. Generalizations can be made about the features and interests that define a person, but in order to develop a better understanding of the differences mankind has, individual stories need to be written, read, and understood. Having smaller breasts does not detract from my human experience; it enhances how I experience the world around me.

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Plastic

IAN ZIGEL | ’17 9:38 PM, Tuesday October 7th, 2014 I run to the ringing phone in the kitchen, set down my flashlight and guitar and pick up.

“Dr. Sergio!” exclaimed Linda Soapstone “I just can’t believe it. Your ads don’t lie. I look and feel like my entire body is new, not just my rack! I can run faster, think more clearly, sing higher notes… it’s amazing! What could you possibly have done?”

“Oh, don’t let it concern you --” I reply, “always happy to fix someone up a little.”

3:27 PM, Saturday October 2nd, 2014 I’m shedding a tear of two because I just saw the ending of Lost on Netflix. I’m trying to understand what just happened, when I hear the phone ring in the kitchen. “Is this Dr. Sergio, the plastic surgeon?” says a peppy, somewhat exhausted woman who I’m guessing is about 40. “Speaking,” I say. “Oh hi! My name is Linda Soapstone. My friend Cheryl recommended you… said your ads don’t lie.” I remember Cheryl.

“Anyways, I’m hoping to get a fresh pair o’ knockers for the big 4-0,” – I was right – “and was wondering if you could help me out?” Well, that was quick, I thought, relieved.

9:29 PM, Tuesday April 3rd, 2012 I climb into bed next to Dolly. She’s reading The Tao of Pooh, in her own world. “Dolly?” I ask. No response. I try again, a little louder. She slams her book shut and puts it on her night table. “Dolly?” I ask in a mellow, affectionate whisper. She looks at me for a long five seconds; the look in her eyes is one that I’ve never seen before. Then she turns off the lights. I dream of myself as a boy, the time that I helped relocate my brother’s shoulder.

1:07 AM, Sunday October 5th, 2014 The rain is pouring, the night is black.

Google Maps tells me I’ve arrived at Cheryl’s address, or at least the one she gave me a week ago. Just my luck, a huge mansion by the water in Miami Beach -- exposed, challenging. I park my SUV about a block away, walk over to the house, 48 | amused

and open up the front door. Did I mention that picking locks is an area of expertise for me? With what I do, I guess it has to be. To my surprise, the Bannisters had forgotten to turn on their alarm. Just my luck I guess. My alarm goes off on my watch.

1:20. Cheryl should’ve died peacefully in her sleep by now. I turn on my flashlight and tiptoe up the stairs to the master bedroom. There she is, sprawled out next to her husband, lifeless, ready to be recycled. With my gloves on, I silently pick up her body, carry it downstairs, put her in the trunk of my car, and think, It usually isn’t this easy. No guard dogs?

No alert husband?

3:38 AM, Thursday October 9th, 2014 There she is, my daughter Lila, playing violin, just like when it happened. Am I dreaming? Reliving it. No. What’s happening? It’s different this time.

I’m on the couch, next to Dolly, but I’m chained up.

I can’t move. I’m trapped. Lila continues, and god she’s so talented. And then, just like that, it happens again. She hits that E flat, and Dolly launches at her.

But I can’t even pull her back at this point. Before I know it, I see blood spurting out of my daughter’s carotid artery, draining her entirely. My wife continues to bite, and devour her. I try to close my eyes, but my eyelids are stuck, forcing tears out. I try to turn my head but I’m paralyzed. And finally when she’s done and the only thing left is bones, she looks up at me and says, in a whisper, “You’re next.” I wake with a start.

8:47 PM, Tuesday October 7th, 2014 I grab my acoustic guitar out of the closet, grab the garbage bag from the kitchen, grab my flashlight and descend into the basement. I find the light switch and flip it on. The loose chain on the floor suddenly tightens and shoots up right when I pull what remains of Linda’s left arm out of the garbage bag.

10:15 AM, Sunday October 5th, 2014 I hear a doorbell ring just two hours after I finish gutting Cheryl. I chug about 3 ounces of cold coffee, and find Linda and the Soapstone Family.

Just in time. I take them to the “waiting room” (Lila’s old room, actually) and tell the family that the procedure should take around ten hours. “For a boob job?” Mr. Soapstone rudely questions. I don’t

blame him. I seal them in. They won’t hear a thing, because the room is actually soundproofed to what goes on outside. Linda’s waiting on the operating table, she looks doubtful. “Everything all right?” I ask. “Well, I’m being operated on in a home and not a hospital… is that even legal?” she jokes. Her expression changes and she tells me that minutes earlier, she found out that Cheryl’s gone missing.

“I’m sure the police will find her,” I say. Lying has become another area of expertise for me.

5: 56 PM, Tuesday March 27th, 2012 I can hardly believe what I just heard. The doctor’s words still ring in my ears. “Your wife has an extremely rare condition that will eventually cause intense cravings for live human flesh. Soon, she will experience no emotions. She will become an animal. A monster. There is no cure. I would suggest putting her down, out of humanity.” I reply, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? How the hell am I suppose to cope with news like that? Suggesting I put my wife down? GET THAT CLIPBOARD OUT OF MY FACE!” Was there a part of me that knew I should’ve heeded his warning?

11:15 AM, Sunday October 5th, 2014 The Sedative has done its work. Gloves and scrubs on, I grab my chainsaw and get to work. I make incisions carefully, starting with the left arm.

I cut until I feel the bone, stop, and use forceps to lift up the skin, veins, you name it. Everything but the bones, up to her shoulder. I continue all around, leaving four things: the bone, the hair, the heart, and the brain. That’s when Cheryl comes along. Her body in the plastic bag. Soon to be worn by Linda, and then future customers. It’s composed of body parts from organ donors that I stole from the hospital back in 2012 before I quit. I soak the legs in a special concoction that includes lethal bacteria that will cut off circulation throughout the body a week after entering. While recycling these parts on patients (which truly do feel new and resourceful while they last), I keep the fresher flesh for important reasons.

2:06 Sunday September 22nd, 2012 Dolly and I sit next to each other on the living room couch. She’s out of it, of course. Lila eagerly brings her music stand down the stairs, her violin in her other hand. I love her because she’s

not afraid to be unique. She’s got a dad who plays guitar and even went on tour with a band that opened for Def Leppard in the 80’s, and of all instruments, she chooses violin. It’s been just a year that she’s been practicing and I can tell, she’s a natural. The way she caresses the bow to produce smooth, silky sounds that give you both goosebumps and warmth. I sip my water profusely. Dolly hasn’t even touched hers. And then, it happens. She strains the final E Flat in the second movement of Mozart’s Violin Sonata No. 33, for dramatic effect, and I rise to give a standing ovation, only halfway through the concert she’s prepared for us. I’m shocked to see Dolly rise as well. And then I see the two embrace. Are they hugging, is my wife feeling proud, and emotions?

Is this the sign I’ve been waiting for? Then she turns to me, with the same look she gave me that night that she was reading in bed… but blood is dripping from her mouth. I never thought I would knock a woman unconscious in my life. But only then did I realize that the doctor was right.

I was too late. Lila’s carotid artery had been clamped down on. Blood is flying everywhere.

She has no chance. I get down in the floor and hold her head in my lap. We cry together, as I tell her that she will get to meet Mozart and Bach and Beethoven (who would be able to hear) in no time. I remind her to have courage like Anna from Frozen. And after our beautifully horrible moment that lasts 15 minutes, she closes her eyes. I am hysterical. I pound the floor with my fists, I kick my unconscious wife on the floor, I throw lamps and vases on the floor, I am horrified, I am erratic. I let out a scream, “NO! JESUS CHRIST WHY?!?” and then get on my knees, pound the floor, hysterically crying, and grab the pistol from the cupboard and put it in my mouth. I pull the trigger.

Nothing. I try again. Nothing. The gun’s not loaded. Is this a sign? What if I need to prevent my wife… my monster… from ever doing this again. I drag her body into the basement, and bind her with duct tape. I give her room to breathe, go upstairs, sit in a rocking chair, put my face in the palms of my hands, and think.

The beginning of it all.

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together. Now to gather up her old flesh.

I take every last scrap of it and put it in a garbage bag. I put the bag in the pantry and check my watch. I’ve got a little under three hours, minus one hour as the sedative will start to wear off. I make some last-minute adjustments, leave the surgery room, and make myself some dinner.

9:15 PM, Tuesday October 7th, 2014 I finish my rendition of “Your Body Is A Wonderland” as Dolly, 7 feet away, chomps on Linda’s right leg. She finishes eating during the last chorus, and lunges at me. Luckily her collar is attached to a chain leash, tightly attached to the wall.

She soon accepts failure. I decide that she’s had enough food for the day, and try something new. I talk to her. “How have you been, sweetheart?” She spits at my feet, and eyes me with the look. Her “hungry look” is what I call it. I go on to play some more old time favorites of ours, aimlessly searching for some emotion in her. I get frustrated and try something else. I get the picture of Lila that’s on the shelf. “Doesn’t this mean anything to you?” I ask. She reaches her hand out. I toss it to her. She smashes the photo on the ground, takes the photo from behind the glass frame, and tries to eat my little girl again. And so I yell, both to her and myself, “WHAT HAVE I BECOME? WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER FEED YOU? YOU’RE A MONSTER!” And as I ascend the stairs because I hear the phone ringing, I hear the most unexpected sound: crying.

8:00 PM, Sunday October 5th, 2014 I sit, elevated over Dolly, reading Watchmen when she slowly opens her eyes and works up the strength to ask, “How’d it go?” I reply, “See for yourself,” pulling the blanket off and holding up a mirror to see her body, naked, exposed, fresh and new. She buys it. What I do is truly a form of art. She looks at me, enthusiastically, and offers me a hug. I 50 | amused

hand her her clothes -- she immediately pushes away the push-up bra-- go grab glasses of water for each of us, and unlock to door to let the family come see Mom. I direct them to the door. I get one more hug from Mrs. Soapstone, who says into my ear, “You’re a miracle worker, Dr. Sergio,” and a suggestive pat on the back from Mr. Soapstone. I don’t blame him. I hope the two enjoy their time together while it lasts.

7:00 AM, Thursday October 9th, 2014 I stayed up the rest of the night, thinking about that dream. What does it mean? Her words continue to pierce me, sending chills down my spine. “You’re next.” Am I? What can I do? The only reason I’ve continued to do this is that there’s a part of me that thinks that Dolly still loves me, monster or not.

10:53 PM, Thursday October 9th, 2014 I creep down into the basement and turn the lights on. I hear Dolly, sleeping in the darkest corner of the room that the light doesn’t touch.

I shine my light over her, walk around her, and unlock her collar. She wakes with a start. “Hey sweetie,” I say. She looks at me, friendly and innocently. I stand up. She stands up too. I hold her hands in mine, walk with her where there’s more light, and she kisses me. And then, it’s like it used to be, until I realize that she isn’t making out with me, she’s gnawing at my face. I back up, grab the pistol out of my back pocket, and scream at her “NO DOLLY, NO! I LOVE YOU!” And then I take a shot.

It’s all over. ______

“Thank you Anderson. I’m here at the house of Dr. Sergio Martinez in Coconut Grove, Florida, about 8 blocks from Ransom Everglades High school. It’s a two-story house with a basement, not the most common thing anywhere in South Florida other than Coconut Grove. Dr. Sergio’s body, which is currently located in the basement, was found with one bullet in his head.

Forensics experts believe that he committed suicide. Martinez’s parents have requested that if

Scorpio | Amelio Joseph ’16

“A man in Coconut Grove was found dead in his basement in the middle of the night after a neighbor phoned in about hearing a gunshot. He was identified as Dr. Sergio Martinez, a retired plastic surgeon who once played in a band that opened for Def Leppard. His wife and daughter have not been spotted by anyone within the last 24 hours. Here to tell us more is reporter Jim Acosta. Jim?”

Sergio’s wife, whose picture we’ll show soon, is spotted, that they immediately call the number below me with details about the spotting.

Mysteriously, detectives found an odd detail in our story. A chain leash is attached to the wall of the basement, and whatever it was holding, presumably a dog, has gone loose. However, no records of the Martinez family owning a dog have turned up so far. The Miami Metro Police department is asking anyone with recent information about Dr. Sergio to please come forth. That’s all we’ve got for now, back to you Anderson.”

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Dinner Party

ALESSANDRA SETTINERI | ’15

Climbing into the dress was more difficult than what August had anticipated. With a huff, she hopped, yanking the beige linen over her wide hips.

She could already hear the guests’ unintelligible chatter from her bedroom on the third floor. With renewed vigor, August twisted the skirt all the way up to her waist, stopping to examine her handiwork. The seam went down her front, revealing that it was actually on the wrong way. Groaning, she reached down to readjust. Now certain of her success, she encountered her next obstacle – the crisscrossing straps that seemed to have neither beginning nor end.

“Fan-freaking-tastic,” August muttered, taking the thick strips into her hands. “How the hell am I supposed to put these on?” August ducked her head through the largest gap, navigating her muscled arms through the web of fabric, pulling them back whenever she realized she’d made an incorrect entry through one of the diamond-shaped openings.

Her struggles ended as each appendage slipped into place within the design of the summer attire. Flattening the shape of the dress, the girl padded over, barefoot, to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Despite the great lengths it took to put it on, she thought the dress certainly captured her soft curves wonderfully.

At last satisfied, August grabbed the light orange sash strewn on her cream comforter and tied it casually around her waist, letting the cloth fall asymmetrically on her body.

The buzzing of voices beyond the door seemed to warn August that she was out of time; nothing could be done about the flaming heap of curls piled on her head. She could only let her hair down and pull off what her parents’ chic acquaintances called an “intentionally messy” look. Before striding through the door, August groaned, remembering the uncomfortable pumps by her closet meant to go on her feet. She retrieved them, knocking over one of her golden trophies in the process. Clutching the footwear with one hand, she hobbled down the marble stairs, attempting to slip each heeled shoe on.

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The party was already in full swing; clusters of adults dressed in the slacks and polos laughing at each others’ incredibly charming anecdotes about the latest rides on their yachts, glasses of chardonnay and pinot noir glistening beneath the romantic lighting that emanated from the chandelier in the foyer. It was clear that Mother’s assistant, Margaret, had already had too many spritzers by the way she was waving her hands – flinging them about carelessly, unaware of the clandestine whispers already circulating through the crowd of judging eyes.

“Glad you could finally make it,” a familiar, deep voice boomed.

August turned and was greeted by the broad shoulders of her father, dressed in an ostentatious pink suit surely more expensive than her school’s tuition. She lifted her chin to see his jovial grin, his eyes twinkling as if he were twenty years younger and his cheeks already ruddy from the rosé.

August returned the smile.

“Hello, Papa,” she chirped, quickly giving him a squeeze around his growing middle.

She could feel this rough stubble brushing her scalp as he leant down to place a kiss on her head. Although she’d inherited his stockier build, August was still quite short for her age.

Pulling away from her, August’s father said her least favorite words, “Now, sweetheart, I’ve got some people here for dinner that wanna talk about your – ” “Nope,” August said, the word popping through her coral colored lips. “Not happening.

We already dis–” “I know, sweet pea,” her father conceded, putting his pleading face on, “but I’ve got a lot of important people from Worthier University that want to talk to you about tennis.”

The word – that sport – made August shiver, despite the fact that the room was quite warm, since packed with peculiar strangers in their expansive home.

She’d just wanted to go through one of her parents’ ridiculous dinner parties without some socialite attempting to make small talk by interrogating her about tennis, a sport she was quite skilled at, but loathed. With several singles titles under her belt, many colleges had started making their claims on her in the past year. She’d

soon have to decide which school she’d spend four years playing for, despite having lost her passion for tennis long ago. Of course, Mother and Papa would never allow their star athlete to quit while she was ahead. Abandoning tennis was not an option.

“Dad – I –” August attempted to protest over the increasing volume, but her father’s attention had already drifted to the far corner of the room where a young man enthusiastically conversed with several older elitists. The man quickly caught sight of August’s dad waving him over to where they were, one arm around his daughter’s shoulder to keep her from bolting.

“August, honey, this is Marcus Thompson.

He’s a scout over at Worthier that’s wanted to talk to you for a very long time.” Marcus flashed a whitened smile that was almost blinding, offering her his hand to shake.

“Very nice to meet ya,” he said.

For the sake of politeness, August halfheartedly reciprocated the smile – which came off more like a grimace – and returned the shake.

She couldn’t help but squirm as he held onto her hand longer than she’d have liked.

He couldn’t have been more than twentyfive years old; August had to admit to herself that he was quite good looking. Mark had the telltale features of the pretty Southern boy: the sandy hair, adorable baby blues, lean build, drawling accent. However, despite his Adonislike features, August’s stomach still churned when she caught the hungry glint in his eyes.

Fortunately, she was able to avert her eyes from his stare as her mother’s sharp voice rang from across the room, promptly silencing the crowd in their home.

“Dinner is served,” Ruby announced firmly, a gracious smile on her still youthful face. Brushing away a nonexistent strand of pin straight crimson hair from her forehead, she strode back into the kitchen to do what August was sure was her favorite pastime – ordering people around.

With those three words the throng of people recommenced their conversations, now making their way to the enormous table in the dining room, murmuring over whether or not the meal was gluten-free.

“Marcus, why don’t you and August sit

together for dinner. You can talk tennis then,” her father urged, nudging the two younger people toward a two empty seats.

“Wait – Dad!” “That sounds fantastic, Dominic!”

Mark quickly placed his hand on the small of August’s back, leading her to the unoccupied chairs.

The appetizers already lined the table, people grabbing a minimal amount of food – wanting to appear gracious to their hosts without being the subject of insults later. August picked up some melon wrapped in prosciutto, placing it on her mother’s fine china. Mark followed suit, but his eyes never left her, or more accurately, her chest.

Catching his path of sight, August shifted uncomfortably in her seat, crossing her toned arms over her torso as obviously as possible.

“So my father mentioned you wanted to talk about tennis?”

As if brought out of a trance, Marcus’s gaze returned to August’s accusing eyes. He sent another dazzling grin her way, fully turning toward the girl.

“Right. Of course, we’ve been checking you out for quite a while,” he chuckled lowly.

“I’ve personally been to many of your matches.

You’ve got … great form.” He laid a hand on August’s exposed knee that caused her to jolt at the contact.

Her eyes widened, quickly glancing around to catch any appalled expressions. No. They were all too preoccupied with the number of calories in the tomato soup that servers had begun distributing.

Marcus continued, his calloused palms drifting up her leg. “You have quite the résumé, darlin’. I mean, three national titles in a row.” He paused, staring at his hand that teased the hemline of her dress. He glanced back up to August’s indignant eyes, holding a steely gaze on them.

“You’re a pretty lookin’ girl, August,” he said as a finger slid beneath the fabric, “and I’ve heard from Dom and Ruby that they want Worthier for ya… closer to home. It’d be a shame if we didn’t sign ya for some reason. Perhaps we could …” He held up two digits. His well-groomed eyebrows wiggled, like the predicament had been a happy accident.

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Blue Pot | Amelia Gregorio ‘18

“Five.” August interrupted sharply, ripping the hand from her thigh and shoving the offending limb back in its owner’s lap. “I was already playing nationally by the seventh grade. I have five titles. And you – you’re just a sicko.”

An idea suddenly sprung up in her mind as one waiter brought around a steaming platter of red soup. Smirking, August swiped a bowl from the astounded man.

Before Marcus could even realize that the situation was no longer in his control, she tilted the soup right onto his lap. August ignored both the tingling burn from the maroon liquid running down her hand and the astonished gasps that arose around the table.

Howling, Mark grasped the crotch of his formerly crisp white pants, promptly falling onto the carpeted floor. His face was twisted in pain as he attempted to rub off the soup with his hands.

Satisfied, August watched the comical scene, dropping the now empty bowl on her parents’ marvelously expensive Persian carpet. Rubbing her hand on her dress, she smeared the off-white fabric with soup. Her twinkling eyes drifted back up to her audience, with their mouths all agape. She could see her parents side by side, utterly horrified.

This was the second time tonight that their massive house was silent, save for Mark’s pitiful whimpers.

Brushing a flaming red curl away from her face, August offered everyone a gracious smile.

“Dinner is served,” she bowed, pointedly looking at her mother and father.

Not bothering to wait for a response, she strode out of the dining room and up the marble stairs again, kicking her heels off along the way.

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Eyes VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17 Girl with the confused Blue Eyes, you saved her.

Girl with the endless confusion.

Girl with the bright Blue Eyes, you saved her.

Girl with the eternally bare feet.

Girl with the sad Blue Eyes, you left her.

Girl you came back to.

Girl they took from you because they thought she was broken.

But her light they had stolen.

And you were her reason for Living.

A Whisper | Arianna Arguetty ‘17

Girl with the clear Blue Eyes, you saved her…

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Prince Toadly Peer Communication LORENA ARBULU | ’17

DAVID GONZALEZ | ’15 Like nomads lost in their smoke rising to the skies, they laughed over their prosaic blunt with red eyes,

blind to the scene their car had hatched; moist viscera beside the inverted head of a princely toad atop the honorless tar of the animating road.

I watched them through the veiled night air.

What contempt and coarseness sat on that bench!

But the fervor faded, leaving me with a splattered anuran alone. With the camera of my phone I processed the display, coldly compelled to text, to transmit.

She responds, “Ewww.” Pathetically, all I can muster back, “Ewww, indeed.”

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The True Form | Ana Lis Garcia ‘15

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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.

Editorial Policy 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

Elephant | Elisaveta Bondareva ‘18

Colophon This magazine is set in three fonts.

The main text is set in PT Sans Regular. Titles and bylines are set in Myria

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