2014 Push Pins by MHS Mind's Amaranth Literary Magazine

Mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Amaranth Presents

h Pu s p ns e u g i r t In

Volume VII Insig

Inspire

Montgomery High School Literary Magazine 1016 Route 601, Skillman, NJ 08558 (609) 466-7602

Fax (609) 466-0243 3

The amaranth is a plant that bears a deep red flower. Its popular image is rooted in ancient Greek mythology as an immortal flower revered for its healing powers. Idols and tombs were decorated with it as a tribute to immortality and strength. Over time, the mind changes and fades. Yet its expressions in print or any other medium are permanent like the everlasting beauty of the amaranth. The transcription from the mind to paper is captured in the magazine.

Stephen Barna Sofia Dmitriadoy Marco Fratarcangelli Jessica Gilmore Tanya Glushkova Ava Hejazi David Jerez Allison Kang Christina Li Roshni Mantena Elaine Milan Colleen Molnar Cat Mykolajtchuk Marisa Ray Nithya Santhosh Kimberly Wang Isabel Won Jacky Wu Kevin Xu Stephanie Zhou Nicole Zhu

Cover Art: Kimberly Wang Amaranth Logo: Yibin Zhang

Editors‐in‐Chief: Hannah Conner & Laura McGuigan Assistant Editor: Nate Avish Submissions Editor: Lucy Zhang Assistant Submissions Editor: Sara Pau Layout Design Editor: Anita Louie Assistant Layout Editor: Keshia Pimenta Art Editor: Maliha Choudhury Head of Writer’s Workshops: Ariel Epstein Head of Advertising: Sushma Adari Advisors: Ms. Kim & Ms. Marshall 4

Pushpins can be used to mark locations on a map that represent our own personal journeys or they can be used to display postcards and other items we have come across on these expeditions. Diﬀerent aspects of life are seen in prominent characteristics of a variety of landscapes. Siberia exemplifies the struggles that we face in our lives and the isolation and detachment that we sometimes feel. In the Great Plains, a vast and flat landscape, we are surrounded by serenity and are able to self‐reflect and contemplate how to overcome the diﬃculties we may be facing. When we begin our attempts to conquer our hardships we find ourselves climbing the Himalayas, an extraordinary mountain range filled with many obstacles. The moments in which our problems change for the better is marked by the Sahara, where wind is constantly reshaping the sand dunes. The final landscape that we encounter is the Amazon, a vivacious rainforest that is brimming with excitement and life. These landscapes are denoted by postmarks and are scattered throughout the magazine in order to demonstrate that life is not as simple as moving from one place to the next. We venture backwards and forwards through recurring emotions and experiences because life fluctuates just as much as the landscapes we see around the world.

The Literary Magazine is a voluntary after‐school publication group that strives to produce a diverse and all‐encompassing magazine that reflects the ideas of the student body at Montgomery High School. The staff consists of a dedicated group of students who meet once a week for the majority of the year and then twice a week towards the end of the year. We are advised by two English teachers, Ms. Marshall and Ms. Kim. We begin the year with student‐created advertisements that encourage people from all grade levels to join, emphasizing that everyone is welcome. Throughout the year, the club hosts weekly writing work‐ shops open to all students. Excitement heightens as winter rolls around, and we carry out our fundraiser, Haiku for the Holidays. After the winter break, the staff refocuses on the publication of the magazine. Our posters and com‐ mercials encourage students to submit their creative works during this time. Without the hundreds of pieces we receive via email of all different media and genres, this magazine would not be possible. As each new piece arrives, it is kept anonymous and scored multiple times by our trained staff using rubrics created for each medium. Once we have selected the pieces for the magazine, we brainstorm a theme for the upcoming edition. The theme we choose is voted on by the staff and is based on a recur‐ ring motif that we see throughout the majority of the submissions. The selected pieces are then arranged into a layout. During this step in the publishing process, the staff often meets two or three times a week to design and edit the magazine in Microsoft Publisher and to decide on issues such as composition, or‐ der of pieces, and type face Copperplate Gothic Light Bold and Palatino Linotype for this year. The Mind’s Amaranth is published annually and handed out to the student body and faculty at the end of the school year. 5

6 Little Thoughts by the Grand Canyon ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 7 What’s Expected ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 7 Barn in Field ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 8 L(aughing, Cr)ying ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 9 A t r e s t ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 10 Distortion ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 10 Those that Fly ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 11 See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 13 Filigree ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 14 Sentences ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 14 A Long Walk ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 15 Two O’Clock ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 16 Decomposition of the Mind ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 17 Pressure ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 18 Dove ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 19 Untitled ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 19 What We Miss ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 20 Childhood Colors ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 21 The Philosopher’s Daughter ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 22 The Reflection in the Snow ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 22 Metro ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 23 The Swing‐Set Benediction ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 24 Power Vacuum ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 24 Mysteria ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 25 Forgetting Once ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 26 Through the Seeing Glass ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 28 Table for Two ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ 29 Fish Garden ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

Maliha Choudhury Laura McGuigan Emma Young Emily Cai Katie Schmidt Stephanie Zhou Ava Hejazi Angela Wang Sofia Dimitriadoy Hannah Conner Aaron Schankler Melissa Rechter Hannah Conner Cindy Fan Anita Louie Melissa Rechter Laura McGuigan Christin Hong Ellie Rodgers Nate Avish Roshni Lulla Ariel Epstein Hannah Conner Emma Young Ariel Epstein Emily Cai Anita Louie Kimberly Wang

30 Forbearance ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Sruthi Srinivasan 31 Excerpts from The One Who Lives ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Angela Wang 33 I Was Here ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Emily Cai 33 1040 ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Hannah Conner 33 Godless ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Katie Schmidt 34 Recipe for Poetry ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Anita Louie 35 From Andy to the Quiet Girl ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Laura McGuigan 35 Sandcastles ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Aaron Schankler 36 The Scribe ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Emily McKinnon 37 Woman in Traditional Clothing ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Sushma Adari 38 Sharks ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Nate Avish 39 The Astronaut’s Son ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Ellen Mei 40 Mother ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Lucy Zhang 41 Life in Ruins ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Marisa Ray 41 The Journey through the Mountain’s Forests ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Vijay Appasamy 42 Conquering Irrational and Rational Ghosts ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Hannah Conner 43 Destruction ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Stephanie Zhou 44 Requiem ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Lucy Zhang 45 Untitled ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Sofia Dimitriadoy 46 Janie’s Blues ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Brendan Simpson & Anthony Zhao 47 Looking for Waldo ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Emily Cai 47 Don’t Worry, I’ll Be Back Soon ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Laura McGuigan 45 The Winter Sky∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Nate Avish 49 Westward Bound ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Erin Leonard 50 Waves of Thunder ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Kimberly Wang 51 Swimming Lessons ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Aaron Schankler

Little

Thoughts

by the

Grand Canyon Maliha Choudhury Thursday, July 4th, 2013. I was peering over the edge of the Grand Canyon for the first time. I was a fish out of water, a girl from New Jersey who had been taught to brace herself against the weight of hot sticky summer air. Despite the unfa‐ miliar dry heat brushing against my skin, I felt strange‐ ly at home. I saw everything before me with a slight aura of déjà‐vu – the burgundy red spilling over the chasm’s sur‐ face had once been my favorite color as a child and the light that pooled in and out of the canyon’s crevices reminded me of echoing blue‐black mountains I’d seen in Saudi Arabia. The Grand Canyon still surprised me; hardy trees peeked through abyssal cracks that hid the fossils of behemoth sea monsters and pinwheel ammonites. With quiet disbelief I closed my eyes to memorize how it felt to be standing at the bottom of a dead ocean. A moment or two later, I took out my notebook and favorite Matador Pinpoint pen, trying to translate what I saw before me into words. How could I explain the sensation of realizing that mil‐ lions of years ago ancient seas and strange creatures had once existed and occupied the space around me? In my mind, primitive pitch‐black currents replaced the weightless white clouds hanging over the canyon’s rim. My thoughts were fleeting, anchored only by the movement of my pen. Writing during my travels has become a rite of sorts. My notebook, pens and markers have become my constant companions, always at hand whether I’m ob‐ serving mewling cats from my grandmother’s room in

Bangladesh or an old man’s animal‐print suspenders out West. The greatest reward is looking back through my notes because although I’m no longer physically in the moment, the writing becomes a tangible form of my memory through which I can re‐ explore the sights and feelings of that second. Even my handwrit‐ ing, usually described as “font‐ like,” degenerates into an une‐ ven scrawl that reflects my hand’s attempts to catch up with my thoughts. These little physi‐ cal details, along with the words themselves, act as cues to my memory in ways that photo‐ graphs and videos cannot. One time I scribbled down “the sun is making me sleepy” and the phrase literally started to slip oﬀ the lines. I can almost visualize the sun’s rays coaxing my eyelids shut and slowing my writing down to a halt, despite my failed attempts to fight back the sleepiness. The wavy texture of another page makes me imagine a day at the shore when I was sitting under the sun’s undulating rays with my notebook in my saltwater‐slick hands. Writing captures the ways in which my life has intersected with the people I’ve met, the places I’ve seen and the ideas I’ve mused over. More so, writing is a means of staying in touch with myself. As nonsensi‐ cal as this may seem, I defy the laws of time when I peruse my older notebooks. I see myself as I was, as I am, and as I will be. As Joan Didion once wrote, “Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.” In this sense the realm of thoughts and lan‐ guage is one that transcends all known maps and one that challenges our perception of self and the world around us.

How could I explain the sensation of realizing that millions of years ago an‐ cient seas and strange creatures had once existed and occupied the space around me?

What’s Expected Laura McGuigan She always had the keys,

Sometimes people just get tired of things.

but he wanted control of the car.

He turned down the volume;

A collision was waiting to occur.

she rolled up the window. Everything happened in silence.

She liked playing the music too loud and singing along with the words, but all he wanted was a clear blue sky and an open window to smoke his cigarette.

They never fought. The drive ended fine. Sometimes people just get tired of things.

Barn in Field Emma Young (Oil paint)

L(aughing, Cr)ying Emily Cai (Oil Paint) 10

“There is a time for being at rest” – Lao‐Tzu

t s re

T h e s u n l i g h t F a l l

K at

ie S

T h r o u g h t h e w o o d e n b e a m s

chm id

L i k e w a t e r s l i p p i n g t h r o u g h

S p r e a d f i n g e r s.

I t i s d u s k A n d T h e g o l d e n r a y s I l l u m i n a t e T h e d u s t i n t h e a i r

A s w e s t a r e u p

A t t h e r a f t e r s.

T h e a i r i s w a r m W i t h c o l d e d g e s. I t i s c h a r g e d A n d A l i v e S o t h a t t h e r e a r e T h r e e p e o p l e I n t h e b a r n:

M e, y o u, a n d t h e s u n.

Distortion Stephanie Zhou (Oil paint)

y l F t a h t e jazi s o h e T Ava H

The birds that oft fly, those with frail bodies, light wings, meant for soaring high, that delicately, hopefully sing, The envy of us all here on the ground. Yet a miniscule bullet brings them spiraling down.

See no Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil Angela Wang

She wakes up in her dream and breathes in smoke. Fire. There is fire everywhere. It licks up hun‐ grily at the windows, bursts forth from the sidewalks, dances in her eyelids and her hair and her bare feet. She does not feel anything, even with her frail paper body burning up, but she supposes she should be afraid. She looks down at her hands, calmly observes the flames tracing up her matchstick fingers and leaf nails, and knows that she cannot afford to be afraid. Instead, she decides to walk. Her body disagrees. It bolts. With detached amusement, she watches as her flaming body runs away without another thought, casting her mind off in a faraway place to be de‐ voured by tigers burning bright. Where will that body end up? She does not want to think but she under‐ stands at the very least that she must follow through to the very end. A sigh escapes her. Very well, then. Like wind rippling through a fire, she pursues her body in pul‐ sating gusts and hot flashes. Her body sprints past, leaving embers crack‐ ling in her wake. The matching houses roar at her with gaping maws of sunset. The pruned shrubs wail as twigs of fire dart in and out, stripping them to the very bones. The neighbors throw up their arms and cry up, “REVIVED! REVIVED SHALL WE BE LIKE THE PHOENIX!” Something blocks her body’s way.…No, some‐ one blocks her way. There is a man on the ground, thrashing around and sobbing. All the neighbors walk past or around the flailing man without sparing him a second glance. Her body painstakingly pauses to think. With great difficulty, it opens its mouth. “What…is….this?” One of the neighbors turns to answer her. “Oh,” he says carelessly. “That’s a Crime‐thinker.”

“A….Crime‐thinker?” “Oh, yes, a Crime‐thinker. They’re evil. They’re bad. They must die. This Crime‐thinker has seen things it shouldn’t have. That’s why the Brother‐ hood punished the Crime‐thinker. See, look.” The neighbor points to the man and her body strains to see. The man on the ground claws at his face with anguished howls. For a moment, she sees it; she sees it, the fire flickering inside the man’s empty eye‐sockets. It seems...oﬀ. “…What…did it…see?” “Oh, just something it shouldn’t have seen. The Brotherhood says so, so that must be the truth.” She can see tears rolling down the face of the man on the ground. The water dampens the flames in his eyes but does not extinguish the blaze. There is nothing more to see. Her body begins to move again. This time, her body moves slower in a leisurely jog. This time, she follows behind closely. The homes are crumbling in the searing bon‐ fire. The bushes wither away as the conflagration sucks the life out of them. The neighbors march in single file rows, chanting, “Revived! Revived shall we be like the Phoenix!” There is fire and it burns and blackens. It is hard for her body to breathe and even harder for her body to keep moving. Someone is crouching in front of her. There is a woman on her knees, screaming, hands clapped over her ears. Her body ponders for a bit, then lets the words shape her lips. “What is this?” Another neighbor stops what she’s doing to respond to the question. “Oh,” she says casually. “That’s a Crime‐thinker.” “Another one?” “Oh, yes, another Crime‐thinker. They’re evil.

They’re bad. They must die. This Crime‐thinker has heard things it shouldn’t have. That’s why the Broth‐ erhood punished the Crime‐thinker. See, look.” The neighbor points but her body has already seen it. She looks at it again, the fire dribbling down the woman’s earlobes and scorching her eardrums. It feels bad. “What did she hear that was so evil and bad?” The neighbor looks confused for a moment but then sudden clarity dawns on her face. “Oh, just something it shouldn’t have heard. The Brotherhood says so, so that must be the truth.” Her body trembles. She thinks there is more to hear. Her body begins to move again. This time, her body trudges at a painfully slow pace. This time, she almost reaches her body. The buildings sink into the fire. The plants are doomed to the pyre. The neighbors smile and say, “Revived. Revived shall we be like the Phoenix.” The fire kills everything. Her body will succumb to the blaze soon. A boy runs in front of her, tugging at her clothes, eyes wide in horror, mouthing silently. Her body doesn’t stop to think and just lets the words tumble out of her chafing mouth. “What do you think this is?” A third neighbor nudges her gently with a look of consternation on his face. “Oh,” he says flat‐ ly. “That’s a Crime‐thinker.” “What do you mean, another Crime‐ thinker?” “Oh, yes, another Crime‐thinker. They’re evil. They’re bad. They must die. This Crime‐thinker has said things it shouldn’t have said. That’s why the Brotherhood—“ “What do you know about the Brotherhood? What do you know about the boy? What do you think he said that could possibly deserve punish‐ ment?” The neighbor stares at her blankly. It’s wrong. Tongues of fire flicker inside the boy’s charred mouth, hissing, snarling, spitting poison. It’s horrible. The boy clings to her, salt and despair min‐ gling in his tears. It all clicks together. “Oh, just something it shouldn’t have said. 14

The Brotherhood says—“ “The Brotherhood! What about you? When have you ever seen, heard, or said anything that did‐ n’t revolve around the Brotherhood?” The neighbor steps back with an unreadable expression glinting in his eyes and pulls a gadget from his breast pocket. “Crime‐thinker,” the neigh‐ bor states into the gadget. “Crime‐thinker in Sector 42.” The neighbors are all rushing towards her, a surging flood of faceless people and sweating bodies and mindless beings shouting in synchroniza‐ tion, “SEE NO EVIL, HEAR NO EVIL, SPEAK NO EVIL!” She grabs the boy’s little hand and screams at them, “When have you ever been your own people?! When have you ever been free?!” “Crime‐thinker in Sector 42. Crime‐thinker in Sector Fort—“ “When has the Brotherhood ever let go of you?!” The neighbors press against her. She shoves the boy out of danger’s way and turns to face the masses. The neighbors are an avalanche crashing on‐ to her. She falls. She feels the fall. She feels the fire. There is fire. It licks up hungrily at the windows, bursts forth from the sidewalks, dances in her eye‐ lids and her hair and her bare feet. She feels too much. She is consumed by the inferno. *** Elle wakes up with a gasp that tears its way out of her lungs. Shakily, she breathes. Air, fresh sweet pure air, air. She flings oﬀ her blankets and lets the cool air sink into her burning body. Not real. Not real, she thinks to herself. When she’s calmed down enough, Elle takes a long look around her bedroom. There, stacked by her bedside, are the books 1984 by George Orwell, Two Treatises of Gov‐ ernment by John Locke, and Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. She smiles up at the ceiling, lips wob‐ bling. Just a dream. Just a dream. “I’m glad that wasn’t real,” she says out loud. It was(n’t) real.

Filigree

Sofia Dimitriadoy

(Watercolor & colored pencil) 15

Sen Han ten c nah es C onn er

Don’t tell me That I’m a semicolon Or a comma I am not incomplete and I do not need you to finish my sentences

A Long Walk Aaron Schankler (Photograph)

Two O’Clock Melissa Rechter

I am the moments that make up two o’clock I am my grandmother’s engagement ring hung around my neck. I am the cobwebs of an ancient tree Spinning back generations. I am unfinished poems at two O’clock I am my Grandfather’s ‘sharp little gal’ And my Grandmother’s ‘sheyne meydel’ I am an unfinished book waiting for my next page to be turned.

Hannah Conner

Decomposition of the Mind

I watched a boy climb to the tallest part of a tree, where the limbs began to bend and the leaves fell oﬀ like meat from the bone. As he moved closer and closer to the clouds, I began to wonder what it would be like to fly. But then I remembered that my legs were perfectly content on the solid ground and that I had grown more roots than the tree I watched him climb. I began to realize exactly how similar I was to the trees that I read about in National Geo‐ graphic magazines. The veins throughout my body have been hollowed out and replaced by trees that lost their leaves during harsh autumns. Their leaves were shed throughout my cells and they are begin‐ ning to decompose. How much longer for spring to come? Trees spend the entire winter mourning the loss of their leaves yet each year they grow back stronger than the year before. I have spent years mourning the loss of you, but I have yet to bloom. One day, we spent the better half of the af‐ ternoon planting flowers in my backyard. Every morning I look outside in the hopes that they have finally remembered to grow. Every morning, my eyes are disappointed. Maybe I shouldn’t have wa‐ tered them as much as I did. Maybe I didn’t water them enough. I guess it’s too late to figure out now and I should probably just forget about them. Some days that sounds much easier than it really is. I miss the way that you used to look at me, like winter looks at summer. I remember how sur‐ prised I used to be when I caught you looking at me with longing because most days I was nothing but hesitation and some‐ times I waited in my car longer than I should have. Now I am the one looking at you with longing and I am sur‐ prised when you so much as glance in my direction. When you used to kiss me, it felt like you were trying to breathe life into my frame but even after all this time I’m not so sure that I’m actually breathing. All I want right now is to feel the way that your arms used to surround me at night when I was nothing but old memories. You acted like a lay‐

er of alligator skin that could protect me from even the strongest of predators, even the ones in my head. Now that you’re not there, it makes it much easier to unzip my mind. I think it’s ironic how you have become many of those old memories that you used to protect me from. Thoughts of you hit me like waves to the shore and you start to remind me of an empty shell that I found on the beach many years ago. It was almost as gorgeous as you were but the main difference between you and it is that in you I could not hear the ocean. I tilt my head to the side and tap at my ear in hopes that excess wa‐ ter and thoughts of you will spill out my other ear. Some days this trick works and others I can hear you sloshing back and forth in my head trying to find a way out. At night time, I can’t help but imag‐ ine you as you settle down in your dreams. You close the book that you’ve read too many times and place piles of school work that you have decided to finish later onto the floor. You blow out the candles on your bedside table but fail to realize that I am the afterthought of smoke that refuses to make its way out of your window. You pull your blankets up to your nose and close your eyes. One of these days I hope to slip my way through your lips and settle on the tip of your tongue to be remembered the next morning. Of course you will wake up and make coffee for yourself just as you always have. You will remember how I drank my coffee black and promptly put in as much sug‐ ar and cream as you can find. You will forget about me. One night it will be near‐ ing three o’clock in the morning and you will not be able to sleep. You’ll toss and turn before giving up and leaving the comfort of your bed. You will write or draw or start organizing the items in your room but eventually you will decide to play your guitar. Your fingers will curl around the neck of your guitar but I will still be there and I will put lyrics in your mouth of songs that we sang together. You will bite your tongue and put your guitar in its case and decide that you will not play again until

“At night time, I can’t help but imagine you as you settle down in your dreams.”

you have for‐ gotten. Your cal‐ louses will fade away and so will I and you will (Oil Paint) start playing and you will forget about me again. When I was younger, my sisters and I were raised on the words “because life just isn’t fair” and “because I said so”. Unfortu‐ nately for me, I have learned that those words can’t save me from my own mistakes. I’m tired of trying to make up for my wrongdoings with words that were put togeth‐ er sloppily and with lousy inten‐ tions. I realized far too late that you deserved much more than programmed responses, faulty logic, and mis‐ calculated attempts to get you to notice me. Sometimes I am glad that you are stuck in the background of my mind, driving over the speed limit and turning the volume up too loud, watch‐ ing horror movies that you hated just because you knew I liked them, and showing up at my house in the middle the night and playing guitar for me when I was on the

Pressure Cindy Fan

edge of my limits. Other times, however, it’s as if your memory is taunting me and I wish I could snap my fin‐ gers and see how much vacancy there would be if you were gone. I often stay up at night wishing that it was as easy for me to forget you as it was for you to forget me. I guess “life just isn’t fair”.

o v

Anita Louie

And the great winds shook the earth. The branches shook. The air shook… …and deep in the woods, a small dove shook. She couldn’t find her way home through the dark gray sky, the clouds rolling about like rabid, foam‐ ing waves. Admittedly, she knew she’d gone too far that morning. But it was the day of the takeoff. How could she possibly miss the takeoff? She shivered among the leaves of the tree she desperately clung to, squeezing her eyes shut against the whipping wind. The sleets of rain pummeled her feathers like bullets of ice. But she couldn’t help but think that it was worth it. The small dove loved watching the rocket ships takeoff, shooting off into the sky, past the atmosphere, past all limits. Before takeoff, she liked to hop right up near the rocket ships in hopes of a glimpse of the excite‐ ment. She was so enchanted by the ships, she even made an effort to memorize the names of each one. Mer‐ cury, Gemini, Apollo…Certainly, she was no birdbrain. No, not when it came to her beloved rocket ships. She always cried during takeoffs. She wasn’t quite sure why; in part, perhaps, because she was secret‐ ly terrified something would go wrong while the ship was all the way out there, floating along in the middle of nothingness, and no one would be able to help. Then again, she reasoned that it might have something to do with the fact that she had no idea what was out there, and didn’t fancy herself brave enough to imagine what laid beyond the skies. However, the main reason was a rather large embarrassment for her. She was terrified of heights. She’d never flown in her life. “You’re a bird! You’re supposed to fly!” she would often scold herself, forcing herself to climb to the top of trees. But she would always look down at the ground so very far below, and lose her nerve. She knew she’d plummet down like a rock. It just didn’t feel right. Yet, when those sleek rocket ships raced to‐ wards infinity, wisps of smoke trailing behind in fiery plumes of red and yellow, that felt right. Recounting the majestic take off, the dove practically swooned to herself, despite the howling wind battering her feathers. But then she remembered the situation she was in. “Oh, dear,” she told herself, her beak chatter‐ ing. “Oh, dear, how do I escape this?” 20

Peering upwards, she noticed that the foliage of the tree thickened considerably higher up, and so she decid‐ ed to take refuge there for the time being. Digging her beak into the flaking wood, she used her talons to scrab‐ ble her way up the trunk, her wings hugging the tree. Finally reaching a sheltered branch, she col‐ lapsed, her small chest heaving up and down from the exertion. Yet she still regretted nothing. But then a great torrent of wind rumbled through the woods, shrieking and squealing and clatter‐ ing about, knocking into trees and spiraling through the fallen autumn leaves.

The dove clung to her branch.

And then came the dreaded sound.

Crack!

“No! It can’t be!” the dove cried out. “Not this branch!” And suddenly, she found herself plummeting downwards. Just like a rock. She collided with branches every which way, tossed about, the world rolling around and around. The only thing she could tell for sure was that she was head‐ ing down, down, down…

This is the end.

But then, the rockets grew onto her body. Her plumage turned to fire. Machinery whirred deep, deep inside of her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling… Soaring. That was the last thing she remem‐ bered. The sky was within reach, and she painted the clouds with her blazing wings, singing, somersaulting through the air. Her rockets shot her higher and higher, the forest and the storm left far below, and still she kept climbing up and up, knowing she would never stop… The next day, some folks swore they saw a shooting star in the midst of the storm. Others thought they saw a crackle of lightning, or a rapid forest fire. In any case, they all agreed‐ there had been something in the sky that day. I just smiled to myself as I heard the rumors spread, for I knew the truth. I knew that there had been no lightning or fire. There had just been a lost rocket ship, finally finding her way back home.

Melissa Rechter

Untitled

I still say “my Grandparents”

for my mother when she came home

Even though only one is living.

But my Grandmother isn’t

I guess I think,

Here any more.

That if I call them by that unit name

And I watch my Grandfather

They’ll still be living in the same form.

Worriedly twist his wedding ring around

Even after the last passes.

His finger.

Because I miss the times

The indent from it,

When my Grandfather pushed

Lasting far longer than any

Me through the freshly fallen snow

Of his war scars.

In an orange sled

And I wonder if that is what

And I miss my Grandmother

True love is.

teaching me how to cross stitch

WHAT WE MISS Laura McGuigan

(photograph)

Childhood Innocence Christin Hong

my little brother came up to me, with his color palette in his hand. what color is the sky? he asked blue, I said. it’s the color blue. why can’t I paint it green or gold? he asked, with growing inquisition. because that’s what people said, they called the sky ‘blue’. my little brother came up to me, with his crayons in his hand, what color is the ground? he asked brown, I said. it’s the color brown why can’t I draw with pink or purple? he asked, with growing curiosity. because that’s what people said, they called the ground ‘brown’ my little brother came up to me, with a painting in his hand his eyes aglow he gave the delicate are to me. the sky was gold, the ground was purple and the ocean was a shimmering gray. you don’t like it? my brother asked as he looked at me, I tried to listen to what you said, but this is how everything looks to me and now that drawing is on my desk a tad bit crinkled as a reminder of simple childhood innocence

The Philosopherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Daughter Ellie Rodgers

(Oil paint)

Last night I told myself to keep marching. One step in front of the other. They say that the first step is the hardest one but that’s not true. Somewhere in the first handful comes the hardest one, the one where a voice tells you you’re oﬀ to a good start so you deserve a break. Don’t listen to that voice. The break lasts forever, and when forever ends, you have to take the first step again. It gets easier after the first few though. Where a pep talk monologue was once needed to keep me going, now the whispered phrase to keep walking is all that is required. So I walk and I whisper and I walk forever. Calculus is magical. By sticking into a function the innocently innocuous phrase d/dt, the third variable in any function is revealed plain as can be. No magnify‐ ing glass could force it to appear before; no microscope, no telescope of any power could seek it out. It hides per‐ fectly well in y=x, the invisible third term spelling out the rate of change of the graph. But three letters and a slash mark force it into the open, giving it a voice and a shape and form, eﬀortlessly. Calculus is magical. Physics is hardly easy but it isn’t hard either.

Everything makes sense. Learn‐ ing the rules of a few situations translates to every similar situa‐ tion in the universe. Keep step‐ ping along, pausing to under‐ stand all the details, and the universe unfolds itself before your eyes. Just don’t stop. The patterns of history are comforting, terrify‐ ing, giving voice to the present, uncovering invisible trends that explain revolutionary ideas as little more than a continuation of the past. Like an intricately and deeply engraved face of a cube, the present only tells you what you can see, but if you could peer back behind it, into the interior of the cube, you would see the patterns etched into its surface unfolding slowly, acci‐ dentally, precisely. And you would understand the in‐ tricate appearance of the square face on the surface. You would take comfort in understanding where the warped surface might be headed. In the same way, deep knowledge of the past connects the present to the future. Oddly, English connects everything together. All about ideas, it reveals, plain as can be, the invisible scaﬀolding holding together the world. Innocuous ideas can easily shape the future of the entire world: they re‐

The Reflection in the Snow Nate Avish

Metro

Roshni Lulla (Photograph)

veal the invisible functions present in every element of the world. Ideas that laud, stress, excite, vilify, glue peo‐ ple together and tear them apart, secretly threading the world together, describing the rate of change of the pre‐ sent into the future, born of the past, moving to change the universe. As I walk on, I am lost in the vastly inter‐ connected world of ideas, of how and why and what and how about that? and I keep marching, seeing where the web of knowledge will lead me. Marching to a drum set, filling my head every moment of the day with thoughts and understanding until I collapse and deeply sleep the newly forming cobwebs and creakiness away, I forget about the world outside my head, outside the heads of the giants whose shoulders I stand on, and I rest. Silent snow, whispering gentle words, muted phrases of faraway lands, falls slowly to the floor of qui‐ et whiteness damping down the world. The noise is op‐ pressive, absorbed into the silken soundless down that covers all in sight, the cold jabbing my face as I stare at everything I can see. Like a slap I quickly relearn what I missed in my life, which is the quiet moments to lie down and take in the world, allowing my thoughts to coalesce coldly, gently on the whitened down of my mind.

But I have chosen the life of the marcher. Where can I find balance? When can I lay down my work, sit in the snow and watch it drop to the ground, silencing the ambient noises to emptiness? The beauty of the snow is that it silences the noises we make in the world. Through my walking, wandering, I have slowly shed oﬀ the silencing down of my mind that silenced my problems in a world of lazy splendor. I now have to live in it, not it in me, but that I also cannot do because I walk by all the beauties of the visual and auditory worlds. The world is amazing. I learn all the hows and the whats and the whys from my whispered words of encouragement each night. But what of the sights and sounds and smells that nourish the senses? What of the feel of a freshly packed snowball? The taste of the first snowflakes of the year? The dizzying descents of mad‐ ness down covered slopes, the painfully bright sun after the storm, the welcomingly dark nights that bring si‐ lence and comfort to the lucky denizens of the world who experience them? Maybe the cobwebs are forming on the starving parts of my mind that want to be exer‐ cised as well but are forgotten in the eﬃcient march of progress. Maybe I sleep so soundly each night because I cannot bear to reflect on myself through dreams. Or maybe I just miss the snow.

The Swing-Set Benediction Ariel Epstein

There is a girl outside my window who swings when the sun goes down. During the daylight hours, she is nowhere to be seen; But the second the last beam of light retreats into the crevice the moon left behind, She is there. The wooden frame of the swing set creaks with every pump of her spindly legs; The night wind gossiping through her hair leaves streaks of blue on her palms. Back and forth sway her intentions Until the rhythm becomes a benediction; Until I know every word by heart. And by the time my eyelids are heavy with the cool green light of dawn, the swing is empty And she is not. I will never say a word to her; I will never tell her that I know her secret. I will never let on that I, too, have tried to race the night to the horizon, Only I failed where she did not. She will never let the sun play in her curls, just that blue night wind, Whereas I cannot hide from the light That will force me to see. 25

Power Vacuum

I have always had the problem of being too busy with daydreams to pay attention to whatever’s happen‐ ing in my classes. It took me years to learn that I wasn’t supposed to fight fire with fire or drive out pain with more pain. You told me that the only way to grow was to build so I began building. I swear it was only a week later when I looked back at my structure to find it lying on the ground and there you were off to the side carry‐ ing a stone and grinning. I guess it must have been just another lesson to you. Later on, another friend of mine told me that if I began to doubt myself then I must pic‐ ture my bones as structures of bricks that hold up a stur‐ dy house. She told me that there would be days when you would come back and knock at my door. She re‐ minded me of the story of the Big Bad Wolf and said it would be up to me to remember that I am far stronger than the straw house that I believed myself to be and that I cannot be blown down by a simple gust of wind. This morning I woke up earlier than the sun and opened the window so I could feel the brisk air sur‐ round me and replace my breath. Some days the wind is still and others it cannot help but argue with itself so much that a tornado is born and it leaves the world in devastation. Unfortunately for the human race, we sur‐ vive off the ability to inhale and exhale air. It is because of this fact that each person is a different type of storm. I have friends who are as still as a warm summer day and I have friends who quarrel with themselves at almost fifty miles per hour. Of course there are also people like me who are as unpredictable as the wind itself. One day I will be so calm that you will wonder if I am moving at all but the next I will be harsh and I will tear down trees and take the roof off of your house and leave nothing but destruction. For this, I will never apologize. Most days I am nothing but a void. I am a black hole that sucks in everything and everyone that comes in contact with me and I refuse to let go. Maybe I am just lonely and searching for some extra molecules that I can use to replace the faulty ones beneath my skin. If someone were to pour me into a cup, I wonder if I would be seen as half empty or half full. Maybe one day someone will come along and tell me that they believe that I am filled to the brim and don’t need any type of change. I’m tired of looking out at the entire ocean and seeing it as nothing but half empty. I wonder how many people take notice when the clouds form over the mid‐ dle of the ocean and split themselves in two. I’ve been tearing myself apart for years now but I have yet to pro‐

Hannah Conner

duce any rain. I am confused as to how some days I can feel so insignificant that I become absolutely nothing and I get so close to reaching absolute zero that my body cries out in pain. Other days, I feel like I can be exactly everyone at the same time and I feel the constant power struggle.

Mysteria Emma Young (Oil Paint)

When an unstable country’s government falls all that is left is an abundance of impassioned people and a power vacuum where diﬀerent groups attempt to take the lead. I am tired of this being all that is inside of me. The days that really don’t make sense are the ones when I am a combination of both types of days but still not myself.

I can be both the north and south poles but nev‐ er any of the places in between. Most days I am incoher‐ ent and more apart than I am together. These are the days when my heart misses the way things were the most.

Forgetting Once Ariel Epstein You wore your scars like old shawls, Tattered enough to see through with your eyes shut tight. The song of your voice struck a mournful key Before flattening out into a timbre of loss. The notes shivered over my skin And brushed at my hands, Whispered at my shoulders, As if it could be that easy to forget the silver edges That grief once gilded onto your skin. Your flouted soul repaired, Your mending heart unanswered, You were still one and whole, As if it could be that easy to forget the bones of broken soldiers That once haunted your eyes. In the deepest crease of the night, The swollen blue moon lost its footing And tumbled through the sky outside your window, Spirited away into ethereal black, As if it could be that easy to defy the boundaries of the shadows That once carved despair into the faces of the stars. 27

Emily Cai

Seeing Glass

(Oil paint)

The

Through

Table

Two for

“Good evening, Cesar. Table for two, please,” the old woman beams, arms intertwined with her hus‐ band’s as she jauntily strolls into the café.

Anita Louie

her husband doesn’t want to, for some reason. He’s been a bit distant lately. He doesn’t talk much anymore, ei‐ ther. But she’s glad that he’s a good listener.

Meanwhile, Cesar skirts around the tables, The waiter grins. “Nice to see you back, ma’am. Right over here.” He leads them over to their quiet cor‐ drinks sloshing about his tray as he weaves in and out of chairs. One of his waiter buddies leans over and ner amidst the crowd. whispers out of the side of his mouth, “Hey, what’s up The café is smoky and dim, with yellow lights with that little old lady who always orders two drinks?” hazily hanging above the oaken tables. Slick jazz notes purr along, slinking through the shadows through cus‐ tomers’ hushed murmurs. It’s a busy night; patrons pack in, crowding around the tables and clinking glass‐ es.

They both peer over at the table in the corner. The two parkas on the chairs hang awkwardly, the stiﬀ arms spread like the wings of a fallen bird. And the little old lady sits by herself in the corner, staring intently oﬀ into the distance.

Helping the lady shrug oﬀ her parka, Cesar swiftly hangs it over a chair and does the same with the man’s coat. The pair sits down, still gazing at each other. Years have not worn down their love. Rain or shine, winter or summer, they come to the restaurant together every Thursday night in the same matching parkas. And they always look at each other with those ten‐ der, loving eyes. Cesar clears his throat, in‐ terrupting. “And what will it be tonight? The usual?”

“Beats me,” Cesar shrugs. “She never drinks the hot chocolate, just the tea. And never wears that extra parka, for that matter.”

“Slick jazz notes purr “Yeah. I heard she went a along, slinking little crazy after her hubby died. through the shadows Guess the rumors are right,” the other waiter observes, chuckling through customers’ as he whirls oﬀ to serve some more customers. hushed murmurs” But the little old lady hears

“Yes, please!” the woman exuberantly replies, nodding at her husband. “Green tea and a hot chocolate, coming right up!” Cesar disappears into the crowd, leaving the cou‐ ple by themselves. But that’s alright, because they prefer being alone.

none of this as she continues to stare deep into her husband’s eyes, long after the hot chocolate cools and the café empties. Cesar, who begins wiping down tables, eventually meanders over. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got to clean up,” he gently prods. She snaps out of a reverie, smiling warmly at him.

“Ah, yes, sorry about that, young man. We’ll be They know each other too well to talk anymore. right out,” she promises. Tugging on her parka with her So they just sit and stare at one another, peering into frail, shaking hands, she fondly takes the other parka each other’s eyes, thankful that they’ve found their per‐ into her arms. As Cesar escorts her out, she nods at him. fect match. At some point, Cesar comes back to set the “See you next Thursday.” drinks before them, but they don’t even notice as he And she hobbles away down the dark road, slips back into the crowd. clutching the extra parka for dear life as it flails about in

The woman wants to hold hands, but she knows the wind.

Forbearance

Sruthi Srinivasan (Charcoal)

Excerpts from The One Who Lives Angela Wang

“i wonder what reincarnation feels like?” II. “Hey, Veras, is it true that cats have nine lives?” Veras looks at Maravilla with a tired smile, her eyes crinkling. “Here in América, yes. Over there in Méjico, sev‐ en.” “Oh. Méjico. Méjico,” Mara says, rolling the ex‐ otic syllables on her tongue. Mama tried to teach her how to say it right before she had been dee‐ported. She remembers Mama laughing at the awkward, American pronunciation and then feels a little sad and empty be‐ cause life was good before Mama had been dee‐ported. Mara doesn’t really understand but Veras once tried to explain that Mama got taken away because she wasn’t s’pposed to be here. “What? Why?” Mara had demanded insistently. Veras had only sighed. “Your Mama, her old home is Méjico. But life there, not so good. There, very poor, scary, bad. She escape into América because she has no money to make it across right. Here, she has better life. Here, she has you. But now, police find her, take her because she came to América wrong way. Now, she in Tijuana.” “Oh.” Mara had been sad and puzzled. Mama always did the right thing and taught her to do the right thing, but now the police were taking her away because she did the wrong thing? But the police were wrong be‐ cause they couldn’t just take Mama, who had a pretty smile and smelled like cinnamon and sang her to sleep every night, from home but they were right because Ma‐ ma said that bad things happen to people who do bad things and Mama did a bad thing but‐‐‐ “You know when you older.” And that was that from Veras. It’s been five months since Mama had to go and Mara feels like she will never grow up and she’s not 33

sure if she wants to grow up and she misses Mama very much. Veras sees that Mara is lost and she lays a warm, calloused hand on her shoulder. “The moon is bright. Your Mama, I know she come outside to watch. You too.” Before she knows it, Mara is being ushered out‐ side into the front yard, and she feels a little better wig‐ gling her bare toes in the grass and pressing her fingers against the fence and letting the moon’s light wash over her face, even with the wild cars, honking, beeping, squealing, wheezing, flooding across the border, from San Ysidro to Tijuana and back and never again. She stands in the clear night and her eyes spar‐ kle with starlight and the stuﬀ of dreams and patched quilts. Here, she doesn’t have to worry about her throat clogging up whenever the class sings ‘Proud to be an American’ or having to explain that Mama couldn’t come to the parent conference because she was dee‐ ported; she thinks only of Mama dancing with the fire‐ flies, and the pretty sunset butterflies that fly back and forth ‘tween Méjico and América ‘cause they’re free, and cats with nine tails and seven lives. She thinks of the Man on the Moon and whether Mama can see him all the way from Tijuana, and wishes upon a little star that she can fly together with Mama to the moon and be together forever and ever in the great‐ est of all heights. IV. He’d had traded his little old town for far great‐ er heights but he’s never regretted it, especially not now, standing at the peak of the apocalypse with dust storms tearing at his clothes and the muﬄed howls of the voice‐ less tearing at his conscience. I am alive he thinks as the earth shakes and the buildings erupt and the gunfire hammers down and the people flee, stumbling and shrieking and sobbing. I am alive in the truth. His body instinctively moves, not away from the scene but rather towards it. Max is running towards his doom but he does so with a grim satisfaction; he must witness it, proclaim to the world the truth; he must nev‐ er let the truth be wrought and distorted until it is un‐ recognizable; he must fulfill his duty as a journalist. Run. His colleagues are calling for him. Some‐ thing explodes in front of him. A boy is in front of him, weeping, tripping. Max, my love. We have already forgiven but we will never forget. Remember and tell the world of the

truth of our people….No, the truth of all people. “Aisha! Sister! Aisha!” Sounds are dribbling out of the boy’s mouth but Max can’t hear anything, just cymbals clashing and gongs ringing and the iron bolts of civilization creaking, metallic tinny noises. Bombs burst‐ ing in mid‐air, gave proof to the night that our flag was still there—Lines of blood and shining blue eyes and white, horrible white bodies piling up in the night of broken crystals, broken homes, and humanity keeps marching on‐‐‐ Max yanks the boy up, tears oﬀ his name badge, shoves it into the boy’s hands. “Run,” he tells the boy in Arabic. “I will save her but you must run, you must re‐ member and tell the world.” The boy’s lips shape, “Ameri” but Max’s already too far to see, to hear, to feel. Past the ruins of bustling neighborhoods, shoes slapping against annihilated streets, caked in the remnants of de‐ struction, a man of dust, a golem. The golem is a creature of the earth. On their fore‐ heads is the mark of life: ,‫אמת‬truth. Only when one smears the truth, takes away from it, does it become ,‫מת‬death. Life in truth, death in lies, just a husk of a soul, a clay husk, a doll, the girl, the girl! She is limp with glazed eyes but crawling, crawling with all the strength she can muster. “Aisha!” She looks at him. “Your brother! Your brother is waiting!” Max pulls at her, and she stands up, grips his arm, whispers, “Allah, be with you.” He nods and releases her, watching as she flees, icy numbness seep‐ ing into him but at peace because she called upon her Muslim God to save him, a Jewish American journalist. The world is ending but he is alive in the truth, the truth of a humankind that despairs and hopes. He is more alive than he’s ever been, free and it doesn’t matter that he’s white, male, Jewish, straight, American, middle class, because he is engulfed in an explosion of light and fire and the voices of the voiceless, reduced to nothing‐ ness and everythingness in the flare of one life that comes to mean‐‐‐ VI. (it never comes to mean anything because it nev‐ er wakes up) It’s curled inside its warm, dark, damp den. It can hear the heartbeat of The Mother, an endless rhythm of breathing in, breathing out, throbbing like the uni‐ verse is expanding and contracting all at once. The Mother is its universe that has given it life, provided it a place, nurtured it. It is alive and The Mother is alive. It is surrounded by flesh tissue, red veins criss‐ 34

crossing through pink carnations. Yet, it is suspended in space, anchored by a tendril that snakes from its core. It stays in this space and it continues to live. It does not know much but is content not to pursue it. Instead, it tunes in to The Mother. The Mother often communes with it. Sometimes, The Mother will hum to it, vibrating with lullabies. Other times, The Mother will read to it, speaking muffled noises that it cannot understand but likes anyway because The Moth‐ er is telling it about The Outside. Most of the time, though, The Mother talks to it. Every day, The Mother talks and it is comforted by Her talk. Her talk has many different shapes and it likes to see all the shapes that Her talk makes. Today, The Mother’s talk feels spiky, jagged, and droopy. The Mother holds many things in Her heart and today, it can feel all of them too. There are inde‐ scribable feelings rushing through it, heavy, suffocating things that make it kick out, make it curl deeper into it‐ self and burrow into The Mother’s warmth. It doesn’t like this, not at all. The Mother says two final words. Suddenly, it’s going black, the dark is closing in, it is afraid and choked and flailing inside black holes and cold vacuums (foggy windows) and terrible things, it hurts but the universe (the moon), The Mother is not there (forever and ever), it is not here (pills), it was, it‐‐‐ Good‐bye. VII. “Good‐bye,” the author whispers and closes the notebook.

I Was Here Emily Cai

1040

(Graphite)

Hannah Conner I am afraid of the future and its ability to change the world in a millisecond “you’re fired” “I want a divorce” “Time of death ‐ 9:17” I am scared of change but the world turns at 1040 miles an hour and I have managed to keep my balance

Godless

Katie Schmidt

In the summertime desert,

The Tower of Babel becomes a bookstore of used myths and folklore. A mecca, if you will, of brutes bartering in alien tongues, Fiery seraphs igniting the tips of words that whip in their harshness, Stripping the meaning of the language.

There is too much fluidity present:

The cups of knowledge run over and onto and into each other,

Spilling drops haphazardly,

Changing color as the liquid is painted above doorways.

The beings will freeze, eyes seeing everything but nothing,

Black mouths speaking but not communicating.

There will be no diﬀerence between the buyer and the seller.

In the end, the mecca will stagnate:

We’ll all be godless.

Recipe for Poetry Ingredients: 1 human heart 1/2 cup clichés 1/2 cup angst 1/2 cup meaningfulness (can substitute in ʺdesire to be meaningfulʺ) Generous sprinkling of the words ʺbelieveʺ, ʺhopeʺ, and ʺdreamʺ Handful of SAT vocabulary Directions: 1. Freeze human heart for an hour before use or until cold throughout. 2. Blend words together until the nonsensical sentences sound poetic. 3. Stir human heart into sentences. Top oﬀ heart with angst (you can use more than ½ cup‐ will definitely turn out better)

4. Sprinkle thoroughly with sophisticated, overcomplicated vocabulary to show your sesquipedalian side and toss in some clichés. The more, the merrier.

5. Pour into a pan. Spread meaningfulness on top, then decide the meaningfulness is rotten and replace with desire to be meaningful. 6. Bake on high at 42 degrees Celsius for 42 minutes. 7. Take out and realize that itʹs half baked. No, itʹs completely raw. But why? You did everything correctly! You followed that recipe word for word! 8. Sit awhile and mourn the failure for a few minutes, and then realize what you’ve done wrong. 9. Rip up recipe and see your stupidity: There is no recipe for poetry.

From Andy to the Quiet Girl Laura McGuigan

Empty your purse I want to listen to you Empty your purse Because I want to hear your voice Fill all these gaps Because there’s a bigger picture here But if you want to run away No one’s gonna hold you back I promise I wouldn’t ignore you Quiet is intriguing I promise I can think for myself since I, too, am tired of people Your eyeliner’s smudged Your story is learning to walk even if you don’t want it to I’ll catch it if it falls

Sandcastles Aaron Schankler (Photograph) 37

ently as the times change, a man sneering at fragments

The scribe sits in an empty room with blank white walls, seated at a single white chair in front of a clean metal table. Suddenly, the white walls of the room flicker with light, transforming into scenes of life spanning 4 billion years. The scribe watches carefully as he observes the evolution of millions of diﬀerent species, only to see them wiped out as new ones rise to take their place. He begins to see the early fragments of humanity, hunched over

of paper and crumpling them up and burning them

T H E

figures barely surviving their dangerous environ‐ ments. He sees villages and towns start to appear, faster and faster now, as if humanity is making up for the billions of years of non‐existence. Sudden‐ ly, a piece of papyrus appears on his table, and a simple reed brush. He tries to make sense of what he’s seeing, frantically scribbling down the images flickering before him. Mesopotamia, the Pyramids, Ancient Greece, Alexander the Great, The Roman Empire, the Huns, the Vikings and many more; all of it seems to pass by faster than he can get it down. More scribes join him, all working franti‐ cally to record the images. A supervisor comes around at diﬀerent times, sometimes dressed as a

from our collective consciousness. But the fragments of paper, burned by fearful politicians, popes, warriors, mothers, and kings alike don’t go up in flames as those destroying them had thought. Silently, they lay forgotten, strewn about the floor, waiting to be discovered again by the masses. A few begin to pick up the scraps, and even discover things that the scribes

S C R I B E

Pharaoh, then the next time as a Roman politician,

could never have captured, using genetics and archaeological digs to recover what was lost. Obscure buried texts suddenly rise to the surface and truth seekers and historians alike figure out the real story. The corruption of the popes, Christopher Columbus’s inhumane treatment of the natives, Victoria Woodhull’s candidacy for presidency; voices question why we gloss over such important pieces of our history. But the fat cat, the controller of knowledge doesn’t need to burn the pages anymore; it would be fruitless now, in the age of information where everything is recorded and catalogued. Instead, he shifts his focus elsewhere, using his influence and corruption to change the way his‐

or a head of a village. He strolls around the room, lean‐

tory is taught, an emphasis on simple half truths and

ing over the scribes’ shoulders to get a look at certain

careful avoidance of negative reflections on himself.

parts of their stories. Acting as a kind of editor, occa‐

Scarily enough, he has created the perfect population,

sionally he will frown and snatch up a sheet and crum‐

one exposed to the frantic voices of truth, but one that

ple it up, burning it and scattering the ashes on the floor. simply shuts out opinions and evidence that don’t sup‐ Four thousand years pass in this same way as the scribes frantically try to capture the entire history of

port its manufactured thought processes. But the most frightening thing of all? This book

humanity. The true saga of humanity’s struggles, immo‐ burner, hider of all the good and bad of humanity, is rality, pain, joy, war, and love are played out on the

closer than you think. He or she is purely and 100 per‐

screens, the most beautiful yet disgusting story ever

cent human, and walks among us, closer than we think.

told. And in the same way, there is always someone looking over their shoulders, al‐ ways the same figure, just dressed diﬀer‐

Emily McKinnon

(Acrylic)

Woman in Traditional Clothing Suhma Adari

S K R SHA

Nat

e Av

i sh

On this dark and singular night, as I sit thinking havoc on the unprotected souls of the earth, as well as a quiet thoughts to myself in front of the flickering fire‐

well‐educated and discerning populace. I think I can hear the maybe‐real shark on the

place, an emissary comes to my apartment door and hands me a letter, and then wordlessly vanishes. The

move. I will continue my writing after I climb to a high‐

letter requests I design a version of Mt. Rushmore for

er location. I don’t want it to fin‐ish me before I finish

the entire world. The deliveryman (or woman or demon my assignment. Mt. Ring (as I will call it for now) should be a

of the Pit) is a black‐hooded figure. Could be death. Could even be a college admissions oﬃcer; it’s hard to

testament to human ingenuity and success, to incredible

tell them apart even without the many‐folded robes. (I

advances made in the species’ knowledge of the uni‐

merely jest and do not wish to get on your bad side, O

verse, and to the very inspiring stories of surprising suc‐

Mighty Gatekeeper of Higher Education.) The letter

cesses trumpeted to the masses in self‐help books. Truly,

promises me as reward wealth beyond my wildest

those criteria are the strongest indications of individual

dreams, which I suspect is the street term for “four years merit. of higher education”.

The first ways humans used to understand the

Ideas are already forming in my head as I step slowly back through my small, low‐lit apartment. Like

world around them were probably philosophy and math. There are many deserving people from both tradi‐

every good single man I must wade thigh‐deep through tions who could be put on Mt. Ring, all far more intelli‐ assorted trinkets and clothing strewn on the ground in

gent than I. But on the other hand, they didn’t have to

order to traverse the room. Sometimes I suspect a shark deal with a probably‐real shark roaming their apart‐ hides in here; the moving fin is a dead giveaway and my ments and disturbing their peace at all hours of the day. surfboard didn’t last a week. The location of the monument is the easiest to solve. Why put it in a particular country, where it will necessarily be owned by one government or else be hid‐

But I will not punish Thales of Miletus for his shark‐less life: the father of Greek philosophy and first true mathe‐ matician deserves the honor I am bestowing on him. Sometimes people change the course of history

den somewhere in Antarctica? Preferential treatment to not by inventing new ways to think about the world, but a single country and people is not in the spirit of the

instead by firmly disrupting something that already ex‐

project. I think back to an autobiography I recently read ists. There was a man who played a very large part in by Nikola Tesla, in which he describes a stationary equa‐ the Roman Empire’s creation, and who also chose to torial ring around earth allowing for rapid travel as the

cross the Rhine River by building a bridge instead of

planet rotates beneath the mammoth construct. Putting

swimming through waters that could possibly have

Mt. Rushmore version 2 on such a ring will nicely solve been infested by sharks. Julius Caesar, who helped cre‐ the problem of location – no country will own it – and

ate the empire that conquered Thales’ civilization, will

its location in the sky around the equator will ensure

be placed next to him in space. Maybe they will be able

that everyone on earth will be able to see it. Cost will not to work out their diﬀerences there. be a problem, no matter who my real hirers are: both

The invention of the scientific method was a true

Hell and colleges are extremely well‐funded in this day

revolution in the history of human thought. It was creat‐

and age, as politicians have always seen the immense

ed a few pieces at a time, and one of the first pieces was

value of demons that stalk the night, vying to wreak

the deconstruction of a phenomenon to its constituent

parts. The pioneer who performed this feat was also

far beyond what was known or expected of them,

pursued by the Inquisition, so he certainly had to over‐

changing the world because they had the visions to do

come external challenges (even if he managed to live his so, and that anyone currently on earth can potentially life without ever being attacked by a shark, which

do the same. That will be nicely inspiring, I think.

would have

The hood‐ ed figure The Astronaut’s Son has reap‐

been a biting insult to such

Ellen Mei peared at

a great man). And so Gali‐

(Watercolor) my door.

leo Galilei, a

The light‐

creator of the

ing is low.

scientific

The night

method and

is still dark

discoverer of

and

the imperfec‐

stormy. I

tions of the

think I can

heavens, will

see the

get to put up

shark on

with Caesar

the prowl,

and Thales

maybe try‐

bickering

ing to es‐

next to him.

cape the

In space.

horrible

With

smell I just

such an in‐

realized is

credible

inescapa‐

group of hu‐

ble in my

man faces

humble

flying past

abode (it is

earth at a

so messy),

few hundred

maybe try‐

miles per

ing to fi‐

hour, staring

nally kill

down at the

me, or

planet be‐

maybe not

low, I think

actually

many will be

real in the

inspired. So I

first place.

have decided that my last choice will be a bit diﬀerent:

I report to my visitor my ideas. The black‐hooded figure

it will be a mirror. The mirror will symbolize the person – you, dear reader, O Great Decider of my Fate – begins looking up at the monument, a feature that will remind to speak… observers that those featured on Mt. Ring were breaking

Mother

Lucy Zhang

A light shines at the end of the road Mother Should I reach for it Or will you leave? Mother You go and you hold onto it And I shriek a feminist laughter Yes dear mother, Adieu On the seventh day without sun, like sea He abandoned you Mother I was home and wondered where you were. And late, late, late—tick tock went the rabbit Its bead eyes clad with a single eyeglass although I swear itʹs to replace the devoured sight Mother. I stared in front of a glowing screen Mother Until you came home for dinner At dinner I stared at you.

Mother You were wrong, wrong, wrong from the start A hypocrite who couldnʹt see An angel who sank beyond Hell And look, now something is growing Malevolently, malignantly inside of you Mother But you chose the slow death. I didnʹt hear your words that day Tick tock said the rabbit a pawn toppled the Queen Mother A glowing screen sat in front of me Mother And I kept counting those incorrigible numbers You kept wringing my brain dry Mother With a poisoned body Your uterus holds expired life A hollow bosom reeks of broken will. Smile, smile, smile yes please Laughter looks down on you Mother My heart pumped steadily through your message. Itʹs growing—a parasite voracious for guilt you shanʹt let it starve in me Tick tock Mother. Mother.

Life in Ruins Marisa Ray

(Photograph)

The Time hallows in the mountain’s thick forests, while, Each dead tree, lies hallowed on the colorful fall leaves. Journey Though the evening storm, from many years ago, had, through Through its rain‐wrapped wind, killed each now decayed wooden giant, Their bodies remained. Their exterior beauty remained. The They still existed, but their empty trunks did indeed resound, that, MOUNTAIN’S Since that violent night, their life had been stolen. Time’s deformed voice hallows in the gray forests. Hidden, FORESTS By the silent shadows casted by the darkness of the universe, It whispers uncertain and dangerous words into my ears, while I traverse, Along that forest path, that takes me through my journey, from beginning to end. From birth to death. The life on that autumn mountain, were my friends and family, Whom by the movement of my footsteps, and the touch of time, slowly, Like the changing fall leaves, meet their deaths, leaving me ever more alone, And ever more vulnerable, to the despair and insanity of demonic time.

Vijay Appasamy

Conquering Irrational and Rational Ghosts Hannah Conner

At this point in my life, I could probably begin writing about all of my rational and irrational fears and by the time I paused I would have a novel. All children are scared of something whether it is hiding in the clos‐ et, underneath the bed, in the attic, in the dark, down the bathtub drain, or even inside an evil younger sibling. At the time they seem so rational that nothing can convince them otherwise. My fears, irrational or not, are just the same. In my head I am aware that they may sound as if they had come straight from the mind of a child. Maybe I just have yet to grow up. I was always a shy kid and, to many people’s amazement, still continue to be. I was quiet and I kept my mouth closed for so long that I began to fear that there was a small forest growing on top of my tongue. By that point, I was afraid that if I did open my mouth, I would just be giving those little plants the light that they needed for nutrients. If that were the case, then the sec‐ ond I opened my mouth, those little plants would cease to be little plants. They would grow to be so enormous that they would block my airways and curl around my neck. That would be the end of me. When I tried to ex‐ plain this to my mother, in writing of course, she laughed so hard that she started crying and shook her head. She reassured me that she had a little lawnmower just in case that very situation would occur. I began speaking again. The first time I was given a disposable camera was on my trip to the zoo when I was just old enough to walk. Both my older sister and younger sister were each given one too and we were told that we would be there all day and could photograph all the animals. My sisters began doing so right away but I was terrified. I was so scared that if I took a picture of an animal with my cam‐ era then that animal would actually be trapped in my pictures. All day long I looked at the animals but I held my camera tight and made sure that my fingers were far from the buttons. When it was finally time to leave, my mother asked about my pictures and I told her I didn’t take any. I explained why and she started giggling again and explained that a picture is just like the mirror, all it does is reflect. I never would have guessed that, years later, I would do all that I could to get behind the lens, sometimes hoping that I could truly freeze something forever.

One day my sisters and I were sitting on my mother’s bed and saw a giant spider crawl straight across her pillow. We, of course, ran screaming for my mother to come and kill it. That night, however, all I could think about when I got ready for bed was that huge spider crawling right where my mom’s mouth would have gone had she been asleep. I was shaken by the thought of a spider settling down in my mouth for the night or making a web or laying some eggs. I grabbed the duct tape from downstairs, taped my mouth shut, and went to bed. The next morning my older sister woke me up and her face turned red from laughter. She yanked the duct tape oﬀ my lips and told me that I was “being stupid”, so I told the spiders to get out of my head and to stay away from my mouth and that was that. A much more logical fear that I share with many others is that of public speaking, which is cer‐ tainly still prevalent in me today. Others in my grade were and are afraid of public speaking be‐ cause they do not want to embarrass themselves in front of our peers. At this point in my life, I fall into that category. Originally, however, I did not. Our public speaking teacher always told us that when people get nervous during a presentation they start talking much faster than normal. Before my first presentation, I got so scared that I would talk too fast. So fast, in fact, that my mouth would run oﬀ of my face and then, out of embarrassment, the rest of me would reduce to nothing but jello and I would get yelled at by the teacher that I would receive a negative score. There was absolutely no way to get out of doing this presentation so I decided I was just going to “wing it”. The class period of the presentation arrived and some‐ how I ended up crying for about five minutes, hiding in the bathroom, actually throwing up in said bathroom, gathering myself, doing my presentation, and receiving a near perfect score. Apparently the class thought I did fantastically and I am still trying to figure out why. I would be lying if I said that my pre‐presentation “routine” had changed at all over the years. Some days the fear of graduating is rational and other times it is far from it. This is one of the many ghosts that I have yet to conquer; if you have any tips please do share. Some days I am scared because I will

D E S T RU c T I O n Stephanie Zhou

(Pencil)

not have my friends with me every single moment I need them. More often I am scared that I will not be able to be there for my friends when they need me. I am also frightened of silly things like sleeping late, missing clas‐ ses, stumbling over my words, answering questions in‐ correctly, or forgetting a friend’s birthday. More often, I am petrified of learning that I will always fall short of those in my class, that my friends will forget about me, or that I won’t end up getting a career and will be forced to live in my mother’s basement, which I’m positive is not something that she desires. The fear that is always on my mind, however, is being so afraid that I end up allowing myself to fail before I begin. That is the largest ghost of them all and I swear that one of these days I will conquer it. On the first of my three two‐hour driving les‐ sons, a male drove up to my house, got out of the driv‐ 45

er’s seat, and told me to sit down. At that point, I began shaking so much I was afraid that my atoms were going take off in opposite directions, obviously another irra‐ tional fear. I could barely clutch the wheel and the man told me “just relax and go”. Not only did the concept of relaxation seem impossible, but this was also the first time I had driven a car and it was one thing to watch videos in driver’s ed but another thing entirely to actu‐ ally be the driver. More fears, both rational and irration‐ al, shot through my head ‐ what if I steer off the road, what if I miss a stop sign, what if I can’t go the speed limit, what if I get pulled over by a police officer, what if the gas pedal stops working, what if the gas pedal de‐ taches from the rest of the car, what if the steering wheel falls off, what if all four wheels shoot off the car simulta‐ neously, what if, what if, what if. I took a deep breath and went.

Requiem Calculations were everything. A person’s move‐ ments, actions, and words could all be anticipated with enough perception and shrewdness. Those eyes could read deeply into any soul and manipulate it to do horri‐ ble, unspeakable things. He was an evil man. He was also a kind man. His eyes flashed from kind to sinister in the time it took for his personality to change, which was ironic since his personality never did change. He was always both simultaneously—his restless, calculating side hidden away. There was nothing wrong with that. But there was something wrong with the world. He saw it so clearly, to an extent that others could never see because they did not want to. Somewhere in the streets poisoned with leftover toxic gas from war there was a child a coughing on his blood, unable to walk and hardly able to breathe. And the soldiers who came around driv‐ ing their tanks shot any half‐ living, half‐dead people out of convenience. Somewhere, the soldiers spared a child who blended so well with the black‐ ened ground. Once the soldiers left, the child opened her black‐ ened eyelids to attempt to see the clouded sun, which still produced enough light for warmth. But when she attempted to see, there was only a black that exacerbated screams piercing her skull. Her senses were all at once muted relative to her hands, as she felt around the earth and touched something which seemed to have five fin‐ gers. Her hand traced up the object that appeared more and more like a hand. She felt the sharp joint of the el‐ bow and anticipated the shoulder and soon neck. But the continuous plane and existence of the object stopped abruptly at a wet stump. The child wished deeply in her little, half beating heart that the soldiers had killed her. Somewhere else in the world, there was a king sitting on his throne, staring at battle plans. With a point of his finger, a town was eradicated. The king did not laugh, for he was not irrational. Death and destruction of the weak were inevitable, for men were not all born equal. He sought results, not means. With every con‐ quest, he created the evolution of men and power. This

Lucy Zhang

was what it meant to be king of a kingdom not meant to have sacrifices, but gains at the expense of nothing. Ci‐ vilians, after all, were replaceable. A king, however, was not. He was once a civilian. He saw these things and sought revenge for his people. Justice was the only goal. He sought to bring back his sister, killed during the af‐ termath of the military’s mass gassing. He hungered to torture and kill the king. His hands had already been soiled, his integrity and morality discarded. His eyes lost their kindling warmth, but their depth remained two black abysses. His sister’s body was rotting and half decayed as a rat crawled out from inside her hollow eye socket. He carried the corpse like a bride. It was no decaying body of bone and skin. He saw a full ‐fleshed girl with the faint scent of camellias, waiting to awaken. But there was a prop‐ er signal to wake his sister up. He had to fulfill his own wish‐ es that he claimed were his sis‐ ter’s, otherwise neither would rest. He forged himself a new identity out of the dormant self that slept within him. His eyes changed the most: they became charismatic enough to persuade people to kill themselves, to read the actions behind the liars of the world, to conquer a nation. He laughed mirthlessly at the deaths of his enemies and stood stoically with indiﬀerence at the death of the mid‐ dlemen of his journey. He explained to his sister softly that he was going to create a peaceful, gentle world that she could wake up to. He stroked the locks of his sister’s hair, whose eyes remained closed and her cheeks tinted pink in flesh. He would shape a world where they could talk and laugh together and no one else would be neces‐ sary. And then, his sister would open her eyes and smile like she always did, unfettered and naïve, like a child should be. So he created an identity and became name‐ less. He fashioned his identity into a symbol. Soon, his presence would evoke fear and awe, his com‐ mand undeniable. His calculations would all be deathly

“Civilians, after all, were replaceable. A king, however, was not.”

(Graphite)

precise and fall steadily into place. He would succeed because that was what he came to believe in: his own solipsistic religion. It would be so simple to eradicate the dark from the world and replace it with the light of jus‐ tice. 47

After the light faded, justice crept insidiously towards the decaying soul, gnawing into the heart where it tore the flesh oﬀ piece by piece .

Inspired by Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God

Janie’s Blues

Brendan Simpson & Anthony Zhao Wakin’ up that mornin’ to that sweet sun rising No memory of my ma or pa in that daze Wakin’ up that mornin’ to that sweet sun rising Livin with Nanny, always under her gaze Following Nanny’s plan for me Life is just one long melancholic haze I became a woman under that old pear tree After Nanny caught me kissin that boy I became a woman under that old pear tree My marriage with Logan brought me no joy But I had to respect Nanny’s decision He was married to the ebony Helen of Troy

A loveless marriage was my cross to bear Treated unfairly by my bitter man A loveless marriage was my cross to bear Until Jody came along and took my hand My loveless marriage was finally over I ran away with a man i thought was better than Nothing was the same after that day Jody and I were happy in a new town Nothing was the same after that day I was happy until he put on that crown The power hungry mayor was no longer my husband When i lost the mayor, all my sorrows were drowned His death marked the birth of my new life Teacake was the only man i truly loved His death marked the birth of my new life He gave me hope, he was my dove But I knew it was too good to be true The one man i loved, but even he was sent above As I pulled that trigger I ended my own life I held Teacake as he slowly died As i pulled that trigger I ended my own life He gave me the chance to love as his bride I may not have lived a perfect life But I’ll be damned if i wasn’t satisfied

Looking For Waldo Before the age old question of “Where’s Wal‐ do?” can even be asked, we must clarify exactly who— or what—Waldo actually is. Despite being on top of every Missing Persons list, nothing is known of his background or character. In fact, Waldo’s red striped turtleneck and beanie, with his blue jeans and brown loafers have instead become a metaphor for the elusive, the abstract, and the intangible. However, many none‐ theless continue searching for him, without even know‐ ing for whom they are searching. Why do children and adults alike begin and inevitably fail on their quest in search of Waldo? How does the idea of his existence aﬀect so many? Waldo is home. Not the “home” that you sleep in, nor necessarily the “home” that you were born in, but rather the home where you will find yourself most content. The home, the place, or the community where you will feel most accepted. Everyone, regardless of age, sex, or race searches for a home, a place where they can think and have their thoughts remembered, a place where they can act and have their actions acknowl‐ edged. Likewise by that definition, many may declare that they have already found Waldo, perhaps even have known Waldo their entire lives to this point. That may be the case for now, but Waldo is so elusive because of his ability to shift due to circumstance. Waldo diﬀers with each person and varies as his or her situa‐ tions change. For now, Waldo may be the neighborhood

Emily Cai

and friends you grew up with; however in twenty years, Waldo may be the office and coworkers for a job you are most passionate about. I myself, have scoured maps and pored through atlases in search of Waldo, but, like others, my efforts have been in vain. Although I have not yet found Waldo’s current location, I have spotted him in certain places that remind me of a home I may one day find. As a young child, I saw Waldo peeking into the guest room of our old townhouse in Pennsylvania, while I quietly drew a cartoon cat from a coloring book. Fast forward to eighth grade, I saw Waldo cheering from the stands as I accepted my fourth medal in the Science Olympiad State Finals. This summer, I almost met Waldo as I spent my days in an art studio, sketching and painting, feeding off of the creative and focused energy from my friends. A few weeks ago, I could have sworn I saw Waldo in the booth next to ours as I took a well‐ deserved break at Panera Bread and enjoyed laughing and catching up with friends. Unlike many, I have had the fortune of having seen Waldo, though never having met him. Perhaps I’ll find Waldo tomorrow while sitting in the empty field by my house. Perhaps I’ll meet Waldo well into my later years when I retire to an apartment in the city. But when I do meet him, I will welcome him like an old friend, with a smile and a plate of cookies.

Don't Worry, I'll Be Back Soon Laura McGuigan

(Photograph)

The Winter Sky

beneath the winter sky. Later, in middle school, I stood under that win‐ ter sky, staring upward, cold but lost in reverie, grap‐ pling with all I could see. There was Mars, ruddy and bright millions of kilometers away; and just to its left When the earth quiets itself beneath a quilt of but far more distant was a cluster of stars, seven sisters soft snow and a black igloo sky, my experiences sharpen gently sighing beauty and hope to thousands of genera‐ like the chilling snap of the surrounding cold. It is the tions of humans. And in between them was blackness, season of the night and the lights that brightly shine but I knew there were hundreds of galaxies there, island universes in their own right, if only I could see. Permeat‐ through the stillness, and when I look up toward that igloo sky, sparse but innumerable dots of light penetrate ing the cosmic entities was a fog of microwaves, invisi‐ my earthly existence and fill my head with dreams of the universe. For years I have stood under the stars, swept away by the vast point‐like worlds they reveal. The winter sky is hope. Winter is the season of possi‐ bilities, when the world quietly for‐ gets its bustling summertime life; and from that stillness there is the oppor‐ tunity to start anew. And in this sea‐ son, hockey players take to the ice and my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs give me reason to hope for success in a new season, a new opportunity to reverse their misfortunes toward tri‐ umph. It is hard to deny that, for years, Toronto was the loser of the NHL. It was the only team to miss the playoﬀs seven consecutive years when I was growing up in middle and high school; the only success I had seen them muster was stored in the dim memories of a young me who barely understood what he was seeing on the TV. Cyclically year in and year out, winter would come, the stars would shine to my delighted eyes, and hope would spring forth anew: this is the year. But it would not be the year. And yet over time I came to see that each game was a fresh start, a new opportunity to succeed

Nate Avish

ble to my gaze; and sparking the stillness were the showers from cosmic rays, the violent ends of particles catapulted across the galaxy and dying on impact with Earth. There was just so much in the universe above me; in the face of all that, what could such a small person hope to accomplish? How could I possibly make a diﬀerence to my species, to my world? I stood in pensive stillness, waiting for some kind of answer to give me hope. Years later I was outside again as inside my room a TV flickered blue and white in the darkness: a

hockey game was on, and Toronto was losing badly. This season, the Maple Leafs were thoroughly outplayed by Boston, and they were already losing 5‐0 in this game. I needed to get outside to decompress. I realized the game was only over if Toronto continued to play the way they had been. If they went out there with more speed and more desperation, they might be able to get a few quick goals before Boston realized what was going on. I knew my plan was unreasonably unlikely, but it was a legitimate way out of an impossible situation. A few years ago I would have given up the game for lost, but growing up cheering for the los‐ er had made me practice self‐ delusion until I could construct a solution to any problem, no matter how hopeless. It was a vital skill To‐ ronto forced me to have: to find hope where there was none; to continue fighting when all seemed lost. That night as I stared up at the sky I began to see possible fu‐ tures for myself carve themselves into the heavens. I saw an astronaut stepping foot onto an asteroid or Mars; I saw an engineer designing the rockets to get there; an inventor thinking of the next generation of sci ‐fi spaceships that might one day become a reality; and an astrophysi‐ cist learning about the universe, add‐ ing to the breadth and depth of hu‐ manity’s knowledge of the stars, where we must someday go. I know that there is a real chance I will not make a large impact in my lifetime. The world is very big, the universe bigger; and I might one day find my‐ self on a seven‐year losing streak like my beloved Maple Leafs. But I do not mind: I will follow my winter‐ born dreams with the determination of one who does not understand the concept of failure. I will make an im‐ pact. And since failure is never com‐ (Photograph) plete to me, thanks to the Leafs, I

Westward Bound

Erin Leonard

Waves of Thunder

Kimberly Wang (Digital)

Swimming Lessons Aaron Schankler

I met Jimmy when I was 16. It was 11:03 on a cold Saturday in November. I was at the YWCA pool, teaching. The water was unreasonably warm. Jimmy was 11 and far paler than the current sea‐ son dictated. His blue swimsuit matched his eyes with the uncanny accuracy that only a mother can achieve. He was sitting in the bleachers patiently waiting for his instructor to arrive. I arrived. My supervisor had just told me that I would not be teaching the preschool class that I expected to be teaching. Instead, I would be teaching “adapted aquat‐ ics” – a private lesson for a child with disabilities. I was terrified. We walked to the pool as his mother nervously explained that, while he didnʹt talk much, Jimmy could understand most of what I said. With encouragement from his mother and my supervi‐ sor, we set off into the pool. Jim‐ my loved the water. He let me take him around the pool, he used a kick‐board, and he even swam a little with me holding him up. I went home con‐ fident that we would make speedy progress and Jimmy would soon be swimming by himself. I was wrong. What worked one week would fall flat the next. I was lost and frustrated, not at Jimmy, but at myself. I felt that he deserved better: someone who actually knew what he was doing. With other problems, I always had something in my “toolbox” to open the door to the answer. Whether I needed tweezers to pick the lock or a hammer to bash it off, a quick Google search or a lengthy calculation, I could always find a way to solve any problem. This was different. I would arrive at the door with my lock picks only to find that I actually needed to sing it a lullaby. The next week I would arrive with a song wor‐

thy of the Pied Piper and discover that I really needed a crowbar. Each week I became more determined to teach Jimmy to swim, but each week I found a new way to fail. Jimmyʹs mother spoke to me after one particular‐ ly disappointing class. I had spent ten minutes convinc‐ ing Jimmy that it really was more fun to swim in the pool than sit on the wall. When she came over, I ex‐ pected her to tell me what I had been thinking: that my approach with Jimmy clearly wasnʹt working. I had no explanation and no excuse, so I waited for what seemed inevitable. Instead, she complimented me on my pa‐ tience and thanked me for all of my eﬀorts with Jimmy. I was shocked. On the way home, I looked more closely at what I had done with Jimmy and realized that his mother never expected me to teach him to swim. He was more com‐ fortable in the water; I had gotten him to trust me; and he could even swim a little better. True, he could not really swim, but that was not failure – no one really expected me to turn Jimmy into a medal winner. I failed because I tried to “fix” Jimmy. I failed because I was trying to solve a problem that didnʹt exist. For everyone else, it was not about swimming, but about the process of working with Jimmy and encouraging him despite the lack of progress. That was the most important thing, but sometimes whatʹs important is hard to see when you are immersed in the moment. Although I was supposed to be teaching Jimmy, it was actually Jimmy teaching me about putting things in perspective and not focusing so much on the end goal. What I had been viewing as fail‐ ure was only a failure because I had not ʺadaptedʺ. I had become fixed on unlocking one particular door when countless others stood open and waiting for me to walk through.

“This was diﬀerent. I

would arrive at the door

with my lock picks only to find that I actually needed to sing it a lullaby. “

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Board of Education Mr. Arun Rimal, President Ms. Adelle B. Kirk‐Csontos, Vice President Ms. Sandra M. Donnay Mr. Dharmesh H. Doshi Mr. Humberto Goldoni Mr. Nicholas Hladick Ms. Judy Humza Ms. Anne Michaelson Dr. Lei Yu

Central Office Administration Ms. Nancy Gartenberg, Superintendent of Schools Mr. Thomas E.C. Barclay, Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum, Instruction and Technology Ms. Fiona Borland, Director of Technology Ms. Kelly Mattis, Director of Human Resources/Staﬀ Development Ms. Mary McLoughlin, Director of Pupil Services Mrs. Erin Peacock, Director of Assessment and Testing Ms. Deborah Sarmir, Director of Curriculum Mr. Thomas M. Venanzi, School Business Administrator/Board Secretary

High School Administration Mr. Paul J. Popadiuk, Principal Ms. Corie Gaylord, Vice Principal Ms. Naoma Green, Vice Principal Ms. Melissa Hodgson, Supervisor of Social Studies Mr. Anthony Maselli, Director of Athletics Mr. Damian Pappa, Vice Principal Mr. Christopher Reginio, Vice Principal Ms. Alma Reyes, Supervisor of World Languages Ms. Jennifer Riddell, Supervisor of Mathematics Ms. Karen Stalowski, Supervisor of English Mr. Jason Sullivan, Supervisor of Science Ms. Joanne Tonkin, Supervisor of Pupil Services Mr. Adam Warshafsky, Supervisor of Visual and Performing Arts

The MHS Literary Magazine would like to congratulate Mrs. Cleary on her retirement and thank her for sup‐ porting, guiding, and teaching so many students at MHS over the years. She has contributed so much to the MHS Community, and we will deeply miss her. Thank you for all that you have done, Mrs. Cleary! We wish you all the best in the years ahead! 54