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MMI Preparatory School Literary Magazine
2014-2015 Issue 3
Credits: Cover: “Zebra” created by Joey Synoski. Illustrated with a scratch pad. Title Page: “Owl” created by Craig Wallen. Illustrated with graphite pencils.
Scholastic Writing Prize Winners: Silver Key Poetry and Honorable Mention Flash FictionZackary Heckrote Honorable Mention for personal essay/memoir – Victoria Kline Honorable Mention for Dramatic Script- Luke Yamulla
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Editorial Board: Faulty Advisor: Mrs. Jennifer Novotney Editor in Chief: Desiree Dinko Poetry Editor: Andreas Boosalis Fiction Editor: Victoria Kline Visual Arts Editor: Luke Yamulla Production Editors: Sherwood Jones and Zachary Heckrote Copy Editor: Lauren Toscano Contributing Bio Editor: Lindsey Walko
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Table of Contents: Scholastic Award Winners……………………………………………………...…….…9 The RedLandscape: Zach Heckote ………………………………………………….10 Of Little Faith: Zach Heckrote..……………………………….………………….………………11 The Sea Adventure: Victoria Kline ………………………………………………………….….19 Go Back (Excerpt): Luke Yamulla …………………..……………………………………….….21 Poetry ………………………………………………………………………………….………..…25 Creative Writing Sass: Andreas Boosalis.……….………………………………………………………24 Generation Grit: Victoria Kline …………………….……………………………………………………….26 To Name a Generation: Charles Bower ………….………………….…………………………………27 Heroes: Andrew Alday …………………………….….……………….…………………………..………….28 What Defines Our Generation?: Allie Ortiz………….………………………………….…………… 30 The Bright Generation: Jay Solgama………………….…………………………………………………..31 Give and Get: Alex Sessock………….…………….………………………………………………………….32 What Mama Says: Desiree Dinko ….……………………………………………………………………..33 Drowning: Devon Faul …………………….…………………………………………………………………..35 Human Nature: Chava Kornbl.att….………………………………………………………..……….……37 Conflict: Elise Hreha …………………………………………………………………………….………….…..38 On With My Day: Fred Mejia …………………………………………………………………….…….…..39 Nightmare: Alyssa Sweda………………………………………………………………………….……….…40 Super Spooky: Alex Sessock …………………………………………………………………….……….….41 Deadly Guilt: Alex Sessock ………………………………………………………………………………….. 42
Rub a Dub Dub: Desiree Petrick…………………………………………… …43
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Visual Arts …………………………………………………………………………………........45 Desiree Petrick …………………………………………………………………………………………………..…46 Elise Hreha…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….47 Brian Galbati …………………………………………………………………………………….…………………..48 Andreas Boosalis …………………………………………………………………………………………………..49 Desiree Petrick ………………………………………………….………………………………………………...50 Cory Rogers ……………………………………….………………………………………………………………….51 Andreas Boosalis ……………….………………………………………………………………………………….52 Andreas Boosalis .………………………………………………………………………………………………….53 Indkaran Bains ………………………………………………………………………………………………….….54 Audrey Stepansky ………………………………………………………………………………………………….55 Short Stories ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…….57 Heaven’s Missing an Angel: Lauren Toscano ………………………………………………………….58 The Night: Morgan Long ......................................................................................…...60 Loneliness: Lindsey Walko ………………………………………………………………..…………….…….62 Going Mad: Ariah Saeed ……………………………………………………………………………….……….64 Artist Biographies ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………67 A-He ……………………………………………………………………………..………………………….…………..68 Hr-O ……………………………………………………………………………………………………….……………..69 P-S ……………………………………………………………………………………………………….………………..70 T-Z …………………………………………………………………………………………………….……………………72
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Students across America submitted 255,000 original works during Scholastic’s 2014 program year to be blindly judged. Awards were presented by The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers as a nonprofit organization, whose mission is to identify students with exceptional artistic and literary talent and present their remarkable work to the world through the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Students receive opportunities for recognition, exhibition, publication, and scholarship.
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Scholastic Award Winners
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The Red Landscape Zach Heckrote Honorable Mention Flash Fiction
The waves crashed over the complex system of steel as it lurched forward from the channel’s grasp and onto the sand of the beach. Steam hissed and swirled outward from the exhaust as soon as the frigid water splashed onto the back of the hulking machine, but even in the wake of the crawling shield the water could not settle back into its place. A long stream of memorable faces followed closely after, the bodies attached to them seeking protection from the danger ahead while simultaneously kicking up the same water that had been trying desperately to escape the commotion. All those faces were suddenly painted over with fire when the chirping of the guns focused on them. Ahead of them, the many surviving men could hear a very distinct call, like a bird in spring. It was the screeching cry of battle, and it didn’t pause for a single moment. The guns chirped faster than any of them could listen, and the enemy loomed in grand stone and concrete fortresses. Those nests were all tainted black and smashed to pieces in parts from the falling lead and fire. the air pushed and pulled a film of grey and brown over the entire beach, and it was often too thick a burning fog to see through. One man knelt behind the flaming husk of that same vehicle from earlier and cried out in anguish, clutching his shoulder firmly. his voice could not penetrate the sound of the thunder of that lead and fire falling all over, or that of the others screaming just as he was. From the other side there was also crying. Men dressed in blue-grey cloths shouted to the others in a frenzy. No matter the language, their message was clear: kill. The confusion of feeling the very earth beneath them churning and creaking caused mass terror, and every man’s eyes opened wide in fear for a fraction of that first second. They quickly recovered, they had to recover, and then they finally began painting their dull brown canvas with streams of vibrant red. They all loosed fire and death onto the beach, adding more and more red to their canvas. Soon after, the shapes of fallen men had covered the beach before them. All of those fallen faces weren’t the concern of the true artists though, who were far off in safety, calling to them all and demanding absolute obedience. From the twin peaks of battle where those who guided the brushes and strokes of both sides to this work resided, smiles and handshakes were exchanged readily. First on the side of the men in bluish grey and then a few days later on the opposite. They had changed this simple landscape into a perversion of its former self—a work of modern art, in some sense. The men of the opposite who had guided their own painters and brushes below looked at this masterpiece and were in awe of their exceptional talent. The others, who had left hurriedly many hours earlier, did not appreciate the direction the painting took. However, the perspective of every painter who still stood on either side of the work, there was nothing but red.
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Of Little Faith Zach Heckrote Silver Key Poetry
Canto III – The Prophet is Chosen
Partway through my lifelong journey, with very nearly one third of that path which we all shared traversed, I came to rest one day in a place I would have once called my home.
I was led there after so many years by the quiet whispers of my unconscious spirit peeking out and into my thoughts through life-like dreams left each night in my mind.
In this place, atop a lone hill, was one thing not unfamiliar to my eyes, like the rest had become. I was now little more than a cold reminder of a life I’ve since my youth abandoned, and a town I’ve forgotten.
As I absorbed into thought the imagery before me, bringing back vivid memories, I found no anger left in my heart, though nothing filled the purely dark void left by the bitterness of my youth.
For many a year since I fled this place I 11
was rebellious, a heretic, truth be told; I had no strong sense of faith in any religion or in any being called God.
I found myself lost in our shared secularity, and though I avoided Him I knew He was there, silently watching me. Just then I found my final foreign feelings slowly fading as I closed in.
With some comfort returned to my soul I more casually strolled between empty seats meant for His faithful children, and for the first time in many long years, I felt like I belonged there.
My walk drew closer to its inevitable end in this House of His, the Lord’s House, and before His altar I knelt and began My prayer: “Lord, I have wandered far from your graces…”
But abruptly I was interrupted in the start of my prayer, when from the majesty of the Christ’s image above me sprang forth living light of pureness like the white of fresh snow.
The light danced within itself, whirling about a definite center. It was magnificent, as a bright star is in early morning. Slowly it 12
approached me and wound less, as if it were alive. Deep from within the light there then came a set of Several voices at once, as it was originally in the abyss that the first light came to all of the universe, and that Light was certainly speaking very clearly to me:
“Fear not, O impermanent creature of Dust, for my coming was bade by the Highest: that I should journey to your world, to this place, and deliver a message unto you who did not flee
Whosoever would stand and hear this Prophecy of great importance, they shall be raised as an individual defined by greatness already, and it would seem that you do not intend to flee from me.
Many who were worthy were sent dreams, calling them to His numerous Earthly dwellings, and of the many He deemed fit for a certain task, you are the only one who both heeded the call and remained to listen.
So you, Marcus, are to stand as the Silent Prophet; A hero of all humankind. You will be to all humanity a Divine savior and a nameless guide. You are to be the Ender of Ends and the one who returns faith to the masses.
And yes I said silent, for your name and 13
Voice shall be unheard to all of humanity. When you leave this House of His, you will forever cast aside your Earthly name.
You will denounce your positions in all of Adam’s society. To the masses of his descendants you will be known only as the one true Silent Prophet: our great Hero and Savior.
Your message as a Prophet will be taught by your actions from here and to the very end of your life, though you will never be made to preach any message by speech.
Humanity is to look upon heroism and actions, and from them extract many meanings of your great consequence; things that will speak to all of them more than words ever could.
It is His will that none shall know of your true purpose as His instrument, that you were divinely Chosen to act as this hero. They must take from you their own many messages and truths.
This is the will of the Highest, though I must ask one thing of you. Would you willingly accept this as your destiny, O fateful son of Adam?� 14
and all was silent for some long length of time. I broke the silence first, curiously and cautiously: “I might accept this fate that you’ve described, if you would merely give me your full name and some proof that all you have said here is true!”
The light shifted, and exactly in the center a Shadow grew. From that pit of growing darkness came form, and it was brilliantly beautiful; powerful in every way that I could see.
The figure, man only in its basic outlying shape, spoke again in a voice like softly blowing winds after I examined its new, extraordinary form. “By you I was once called Gabriel, the Archangel.
I am here and now, though, no more than a simple messenger. Do not let my form impress upon your mind grandeur more than that of His imageless purpose for me in coming here.
I am completely at your mercy to be questioned, and my mind is ready to be thoroughly prodded by your deepest curiosity, should you need to understand more than that which I’ve already spoken.”
Those words were not what I expected to hear, 15
but the air itself seemed to whisper to me, telling me that he was genuine. Much of my doubt slowly melted away in that short moment of silence.
Satisfied now that this was no elaborate and terrible joke, judged so by the fantastic display I had just witnessed, I agreed and put my troubles out of mind. No other person had truly known much of me then, anyway.
“Perhaps later I’ll have you answer all of my questions, but for now, it seems to me that this fate is of great importance. It is not one I can set aside for another time. I am eager, but… I am at a loss, and I believe I need much more time to think.
I cannot say that I have no doubts, in fact I still have many, but I haven’t had near enough time to even process what I just beheld, let alone that which you have told me. For now, I only know that I accept this destiny!”
Gabriel’s piercing golden eyes were unwavering while they were studying the slightest changes in my composure, and the Archangel nodded once, speaking again happily: “Then you do accept your purpose! Wonderful!”
“Yes,” said I, “As long as I may call on you somehow whenever it is that I am in need of answers. I will be your Silent Prophet, for my own purposes and His. 16
I will be His hand on Earth, perhaps even some new hero…” The Archangel’s full lips curled upward at both corners into the friendliest smile of all that I’ve ever seen. “All is good, then. I will soon return to you, whenever you call.”
Before I could speak to the manlike figure again, it was gone; vanished without a trace. The light, too, left me to my solitude, and in complete darkness I felt the chill of the coming night against my spine.
I left that empty building, the site of my rebirth in new purpose, and found for myself a quiet and peaceful place in the town to stay in. While there I attempted to comprehend what had happened to me.
Seven days and nights came and went, all the while I was thinking, before I resolved to accept that what had happened could not be doubted, for it was as vivid and true to memory as any experience I’ve ever had.
Finally, I was almost able to rest my weary mind, soul, and body; but not before I decided I’d try to determine how I, a man of no obvious uniqueness compared to all of humanity, could be those things.
Long before I could begin to understand that, I was granted 17
mercy from the onslaught of my thoughts and fell asleep. I could finally rest, even if I dreamt again as I had before. I remember each dream to this day‌ So clearly, as if they were real.
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The Sea Adventure Victoria Kline Honorable Mention for Personal Essay/ Memoir
Cool ocean water rushes into my wetsuit, raising goose bumps on my arms and legs. I am surrounded by endless shifting blue. I exhale, and the water immediately claims me. The weights around my waist speed up my descent towards the beige floor below. Beneath the chaotic surface of the sea, everything is a strange type of quiet; like the sound of the fan in my bedroom when I turn it on to help me sleep at night. The only prominent noise is the sound of my own breathing. My flippers touch the sand, and the water clouds around my feet. A strand of kelp brushes against my left leg. In the crevice of a nearby rock, two crabs are snapping at each other; every close of the claw saying, “Keep your distance.” A parrot fish creeps up behind them, craving some crustacean, but he is not sly enough. His first attempt to charge fails, and he loses his own edge. Both crabs see him and disappear. I feel a tap on my shoulder and whirl around. It is only John, my deep sea diving instructor. He holds up my air gauge, forcing me to acknowledge the numbers. I see that I have sixty-five minutes of air remaining. John is reminding me that I am only a visitor, not a resident. I turn around to face the rock again, but the parrot fish is gone, off searching elsewhere for his breakfast. The ocean all around me is bursting with life. A lionfish lurks by a piece of brilliant blue brain coral. The sea turtle swimming by is generously providing transportation for three pale remora. A cluster of clown fish gracefully weave in and out of a patch of pink anemones. Somewhere in the distance swims a pod of dolphins. I can hear their clicks, but I can only imagine what they are saying: “Welcome to the carnival.” John comes up from behind me and begins to swim around the rock. The water being pushed by John’s fins hits me like wind would on land; I am pulled out of the ocean’s trance. I turn myself horizontal and follow behind my dive guide. The two of us effortlessly fly over a colorful coral garden full of exotic marine life for what could have been five minutes or eternity. I am aware of my air gauge occasionally bumping into my upper thigh, but I choose to ignore it. The thought is pushed into the back of my mind and replaced with the contemplation of a barely visible flounder trying to embody the ocean floor. If it were not for his slight shift in location, I never would have noticed him. It makes me wonder, how much have I already overlooked? John gets my attention by jingling his chain weight belt. The sound of clinking metal is glorified underwater. I close my eyes for a split second and am reminded of the wind chimes my mother puts out on our porch when the weather is nice. When John and I make eye contact, he slowly brings his hand up to his face and makes a fin, stretching his thin fingers up to the sky. With his free hand, he points towards a nurse shark circling a frightened octopus three sizes smaller than itself. The shark’s black beady eyes appear merciless; making me question whether or not there is a soul behind them. Predator and prey dance around each other, putting on a show that nobody but John and I seem to be watching. The octopus flashes bizarre colors towards the shark and flares its gills, promising him an ugly future should he choose to attack, but the enemy 19
has on his poker-face. This particular nurse shark seems to be well practiced in the art of hunting, and he finds the octopus’s blind side. With one quick pulse of the tail, he puts his victim in an unforgiving death grip. He chomps down on the octopus twice, and then swallows her nearly whole. Shark – 1, Octopus – 0. John is not nearly as frazzled as I am. He motions for me to check my air. I have fifteen minutes remaining. It is time for us to find out way back to the boat that brought us here. We swim until the anchor’s rope is in sight. The two of us grab on and begin to inch our way to the surface, left hand over right. I feel the pressure of my body lighten with every two feet I rise. Eventually, my head breaks the surface. It is no longer quiet. Waves crash all around me and the shrieking of gulls pierces my ears. I climb aboard the Sea Adventure, and exhaustion consumes me. As we drift over wave crests, I drift into a dream of cocky crabs and hungry sharks.
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Go Back (Excerpt) Luke Yamulla Honorable Mention for Dramatic Script
Act I (Scene opens with a closed curtain and no lights turned on.) Donovan (Voice): I need you to close your eyes. We have to go back. Katherine (Voice):No, Donovan, I can’t, you know I can’t. Donovan: Katherine, here I am Doctor Tillman, and I know how traumatic this is for you, but if I am to help youKatherine: I know… I’ll try I’llDonovan: So let’s go back a little before the incident, say an hour. Close your eyes. Where are you? What do you see? Katherine: Jake is there. (Spotlight shines on Jake who stands center stage.) He hadn’t shaved in a while; he had gentle stubble on his face. He was smiling. He did not have a face like a movie star, but when he smiled, there was this strange happiness that filled me, it was soft, safe, Donovan: Okay, what else do you see? Katherine: I see…nothing else just Jake…. Donovan: Where were you? Katherine: I can’t remember…. I just see him…..he’s….he’s…. Donovan (lights fade off of Jake): Okay so let’s go to the incident, what do you see? (Katherine screams spotlight shines on Jake who is covered in blood. We hear Katherine cry.) Katherine: I see him. Donovan: Look past him. Katherine: I can’t! Donovan: Please, it’s the only way we can find the bastard responsible for this before they hurt anyone else. 21
(Jake falls to the ground and struggles to get up) Jake: Please Katherine…. help me….. Katherine (Sobbing): Oh god Jake, I am so sorry please forgive me. (Light on Jake fades out) I’m sorry, all I see is him, nothing but him. Donovan: Okay, maybe we can go back farther; maybe something less traumatic, do you think you can do that for me. Katherine: Yes. Yes I think I can. Donovan: Let’s start with the week leading up to the event. Can you describe your home to me? Katherine: It….it wasn’t a fancy home; it was just your average (Curtain opens to an average looking suburban home. A couch sits center stage presumably in front of a TV. A small table sits stage right with two chairs on each side of it. A green art desk sits stage left with a chair behind it. Papers are thrown around it on the floor. Jake sits at the desk drawing something. He is no longer covered in blood, but now he is wearing graphite dusted shirt and baggy jeans. His hair is better kept, and he looks less tired.) Katherine: Jake was working at his desk; he always worked so hard. Donovan: And what did he do? Katherine: He was an architect. His boss was pressuring him to get this restaurant design made. It just wasn’t going right. I would come home and he would be lost in his work. (Katherine enters stage right and crosses to Jake.) I’m home! Jake: Oh, hi Katherine, I’m really busy right now. (He sighs. Katherine walks over and puts her arms over his shoulders.) Katherine: You need to cool it Jake. You’re a mess.
Donovan (still offstage): So you were still very close at this time.(Katherine attempts to lean in and put her head on his shoulder but Jake gets up and begins pacing.) Donovan: Oh Katherine: Jake, I don’t know what’s going on? You’ve been growing distant from me, is it because of work, because I can help you get through this. 22
Jake: Honestly I’m fine; I just need to step out. (Jake exits, the curtain closes. All lights are off.) Katherine (Voice): There was…. someone else, at the time I didn’t know who.(Violins play in the background as two black shadowed silhouettes, a man and a woman, dance onto stage. The man leads the woman in and twirls her.) Katherine: Believe me I knew where he was I just didn’t want to believe it. (The violins gets louder.) Donovan: So would you define your state of mind as denial? Katherine: I guess. (The silhouettes kiss.) Katherine: But eventually, that phase passed. (The figures dance of stage, the violins fade.) Donovan: So how would you say your new attitude was? (Curtain opens again; Jake is working at his desk. Katherine enters. She walks over to his desk and rips the paper he is working on apart.) Jake: Katherine, what the hell? Katherine: Who is she? Jake: What are you talking about? Katherine: Don’t act like you don’t know. You weren’t just finishing up some work last night! Jake: Yes I was, these plans are due next week! I was showing my boss my progress, which happens to what you just tore up! (He drops to the floor and attempts to put together the pieces of the torn painting). If I screw this up, it’s over! He told Gordon she could have my position as lead designer!! Donovan: Stop! (Lights go out)
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Creative Writing Sass Andreas Boosalis
“What to name Luke’s mystery play?” “Can we not?” Desiree abruptly sighed. “No, not until we find a title,” Andreas replied. “How about ‘Murder Therapy’?” Zach shouted. “No way, that is lame,” Lindsey pouted. “I think you should call it ‘Party Fun.’” “Ha, sorry Lindsey, but that’s overdone,” muttered Victoria. “Leave it how it is,” Sherwood said. Lauren interrupted, “Call it ‘No Rodeo’ instead!” “I HATE them all!” screamed Luke. “Your suggestions make me want to puke. Now please help me find an ingenious title. Please, please, it’s excruciatingly vital!” We asked and thought away.
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Poetry
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Generation Grit Victoria Kline
pushed down seven times, stand up eight destined for downfall, denying our fate we are the sad, the rendered, the troubled yet strongly, through obstacles, on we stumble
those that are older fear ruin and change and trap our new ideas under their chains but we’ve got perks that they’re failing to see we hold a great future under lock and key
we’ll bring color to the black and white scheme we want to contribute to the American dream against so called wisdom we will fight through repression, to shed some light
an enlightened era we promise to bring to old ideas will nobody cling the terrible thoughts that were preconceived will linger no longer after we leave
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To Name a Generation Charles Bower
What would our generation be named, To be called and labelled and eternally famed? A name for all of us that would really suffice Would be extremely lengthy and not very precise. No, a name that would fit would have to create The image of misinterpreted fates. How can anyone truly so simply perceive Where each and every person is going to be? Judging by looks, some qualities and traits, More based on numbers of ideal height and weight, Is a horrible systematic desensitization That misleads us all with generalizations. My point is this, to make it all clear, We cannot just label everyone here. We are each our own unique kind of person Whose social pressures makes us generally worsen.
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Heroes Andrew Alday
A generation is defined by who its heroes are Our parents grew up in a time not too long before this one But their heroes lived under the same roof as them Their heroes made breakfast for them everyday Their heroes tended to them when they were sick And bought them gifts And played ball And clapped too loud at graduation Today we are blind We are drawn to the screen like bees are to honey We look up to socialites, athletes, actors Who some are indeed good people But although we see a lot, there is much, much more that we don’t and thus ignore Yet we lack the courage to embody what our heroes do Or to identify who our true heroes are for that matter Not Generation X, but Generation Sex, Text Not Generation Y, but Generation Wi-Fi, Lo-Fi, Sci-Fi Not the Baby Boomers, but Baby Zoomers But this Generation is us driving with our parents Yet we actively ignore their suggestions
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Not the Lost Generation from nearly a hundred years ago Telling us to go nearly a hundred different directions Lost as most adolescents are And to a fault we wish so dearly to experiment each and every one
Because social media consumes, we retweet and double tap to show respect to our heroes Not Generation Z, but Generation Re (-tweet, -vine, -post, -ly) But the generation that seeks nearly a hundred locals’ help whom of which we do not know
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What Defines Our Generation? Allie Ortiz
Although I think our generation is fine Millennials feel we must grow a spine A spine inside our interior design That is stable and rigid like a straight line Unfortunately, we’re always on cloud nine Ditzy, clueless… like when we drink wine Annoying and stupid like a bad punch line All we care about is a rich dollar sign Common hobbies of our time Surfing, texting, and shopping online But our music and movies are so divine Miley, 50 Shades, and Cat Valentine Forget about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein The only thing we need are famous Vines. The world we’re trying to redefine Has taken us and laid us in the confines Of their twisted ideals and bothersome kind Read this in between the lines
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The Bright Generation Jay Solgama (Imitation of “Returning, We Hear Larks” by Isaac Rosenburg)
And though our world is amazing, we know Chaotic our generation is. The challenges that lie within Racking our young brains, we only know The dark-scary problems of our planet— Are waiting to be Resolved But look! hope—hope—strange hope Yes! minds of exceptional creativity and intelligence A shining possibility for our needing world. Obstacles come from thin air Trying to trump us – And surely they will come And love dearly, Like the stories of dark horses we hear Whether or not we have faith of those all around us, We shall conquer all that we encounter
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Give and Get Alex Sessock
Without give, there is no get. Nothing’s been done without man’s sweat, But in the end, there is no regret. Without risk, there is no reward. No battle was won without shield and sword, And the world grows closer from these petty wars. Without hope, there is no chance. No hope means life in a horrid trance, But hope means life in a battle stance. Without want, there is no give.
If you don’t want, opportunity sinks through a sieve, And to survive, you have to want to live. Without pain, there is need. Nothing prevents the pain of a seed, Growing to lessen a stronger man’s greed.
And without you, there is no us. You, who holds up the world like a bridge’s truss, And You, with whom there’s always something to discuss.
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What Mama Says Desiree Dinko (Inspired by “Boys” by Rick Moody)
Mama says, “No more games until you do your homework,” as our eyes are glued to the GameBoy. Mama says, “Be careful, she’s delicate,” as our older siblings hold us. Mama says, “Watch your head,” as we crawl under the dining room table. Mama says, “Color inside of the lines,” while we create a masterpiece. Mama says, “Take one more bite,” as we sit with our arms folded in the high chair. Mama says, “Say please,” when we ask for another cup of milk. Mama says, “This answer is wrong,” as she checks over our sloppy work. Mama says, “Wear your lifejacket,” as we go fishing with our dad on a Saturday. Mama says, “Please be careful,” as we go hunting for the first time. Mama says, “Don’t forget to stay hydrated,” as we play softball in the summer heat. Mama says, “Give her the other show now as well,” as we sit crying in the doctor’s office. Mama says, “You’re not wearing that to school,” as we walk downstairs in our miniskirt. Mama says, “Go try it on,” while shopping in our favorite department store.
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Mama says, “I don’t like that boy,” when we return home from our first date. Mama says, “I still like watching volleyball more than softball” after a tough loss on the car ride home. Mama says, “Hands in the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock position,” when we drive for the first time. Mama says, “Have a good day,” as we leave for our minimum-waged job in a grocery store. Mama says, “My baby is a licensed driver,” to her friends on the telephone. Mama says, “Text me when you get there,” as we leave a little late for school. Mama says, “Go to sleep earlier at night,” when she drags us out of bed in the morning Mama will say, “That dress is too revealing,” as we stand in front of the mirror in a fitted prom dress. Mama will say, “I knew you could do it,” after 31 caps with tassels are thrown in the air
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Drowning Devon Faul
I’m beginning to fall Fall into the abyss It’s a familiar feeling; One I do not miss I’ve been pushed and pulled Tossed under the waves I can’t escape this feeling From which I can’t be saved As I lay here drowning, Damaged and cold. I’ve let go of the hope Which you refuse to hold I can’t help but get a chill The frigid waters drag me deeper and deeper still I’m beginning to fall Fall into the abyss It’s a familiar feeling; One I do not miss I’ve been pushed and pulled Tossed under the waves I can’t escape this feeling From which I can’t be saved * * * * * * * 35
As I lay here drowning, Damaged and cold. I’ve let go of the hope Which you refuse to hold I can’t help but get a chill The frigid waters drag me deeper And deeper still I can’t breathe I’m all out of breath I look down, towards inevitable death. I feel my vision clouding Someone help me I’m screaming and shouting. Now everything’s closing; Fading to black Suddenly I can breathe And I snap back. Through blurred eyes, I see you. My head’s pounding But it’s nothing new. I’m used to drowning, and from the looks of it, so are you.
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Human Nature Chava Kornblatt
Now I know why it’s called a crush Why it’s called falling in love Why it’s called heart break It’s because love is pain Because even the smallest amounts of it will crush you And when it hits, it’s like you’re free-falling And when it’s gone, it’s like world has shattered as you hit the pavement And the only thing left to do, is hope to be lucky enough to experience it all again
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Conflict Elise Hreha
White. White everywhere. Seeping through the cracks Clumping in the corners and around every bend. Now what happens When the white meets the black? Does it turn gray? Or does it go away?
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On With My Day Fred Mejia
I looked out the window today I saw one neighbor eyeball the other But it didn’t bother me So I went on with my day I looked out the window the next day I saw one neighbor argue with the other But it didn’t bother me So I went on with my day I looked out the window the next day I saw one neighbor punch the other But it didn’t bother me So I went on with my day I looked out the window the next day I saw one neighbor shoot the other But it didn’t bother me So I went on with my day I was walking down the street the next day And someone shot me And it did bother me On the concrete my dead body lay
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Nightmare Alyssa Sweda
You didn’t know it was a dream How realistic it may seem Suddenly you heard a crash Looked at your arm and noticed a gash Terrified you dared to look Then you got up as you shook Out your window, you saw a mysterious sight What a fright It was very scary Big and hairy Long sharp claws On its paws It was angry and there was rage in its eyes Hopeless you started to cry You really thought you were going to die You woke with a scream Ah, it was only a dream
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Super Spooky Alex Sessock
This will make you scared It is so very spooky Boo, I am a ghost
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Deadly Guilt Alex Sessock
I killed a man in May last year And now I live in constant fear Fear that tomorrow he’ll be found In the deep of underground I slit his throat with ease, with skill And buried him up on that hill I hope, I wish he sleeps so sound His soul, I pray, does not hang ‘round For a year he has lived there And me, I live with guilt so rare For I have worked of similar trade But of a slightly lesser grade I hear his heartbeat beat with pain And it slowly drives me insane I cannot take it anymore I surely can no more endure The beat-beat-beating of his heart Of it, I swear, I’ll have no part I put this gun up to my head He and I’ll have a similar bed Hopefully I will sleep sound With him under deep, cold ground 42
Rub a Dub Dub Desiree Petrick
Little Isabel sitting in the tub Rub a dub dub Washing the dirt of that day away It wasn’t her fault is what she’ll say But the monsters know better than that She’ll have to deal with them wanting to play When the clock hits that time She knows she’ll start to whine The monsters that sleep under her bed Will crawl into her head Slowly they chime back in stinging with every holler and cry She fights the words as they take over Trying to itch their way out She looks at her dirty shin As they are gnawing under her skin Mommy walks in, and they creep away But don’t fret they’re here to stay
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Visual Arts 45
Desiree Petrick
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Elise Hreha
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Brian Galbiati
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Andreas Boosalis
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Desiree Petrick 50
Cory Rogers
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Andreas Boosalis
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Andreas Boosalis
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Indkaran Bains
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Audrey Stepansky
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Short Stories 57
Heaven’s Missing An Angel Lauren Toscano
Mama said pleasure was wrong. Well, pleasure that came from outside of praying and doing good for the community. Mama believed lots of things, like that Judy Blume was the devil, and that boy bands were luring young girls to disobey their parents. She told me I couldn’t eat sugar because it would make me hyper, which would only bring me farther from heaven, which I didn’t understand. I’m not allowed to watch any TV shows except for Leave It to Beaver, because my mama likes the lessons it teaches. And magazines were off limits for good; celebrity gossip was the work of the devil. Kids from school feel bad for me for having such a strict mother, but the truth is, I don’t really mind. But there’s one thing Mama doesn’t know. And if she did, she’d be absolutely furious, so I mostly keep it to myself. I mean, God’s not watching all the time, is he? He doesn’t notice everything I do. As far as I know, I’m flying right under the radar. I’m sure if He did know, He wouldn’t do anything about it, anyway. I’m sure lots of people did it, like Mother Theresa probably. I darted up the stairs and laid on my stomach atop my bed, pulling the magazine out from under my bed and plopping it in front of me. I flipped through the pages and landed on the one with a picture of Nick Lachey then kissed my finger and rubbed his face. He was definitely the cutest one in 98 Degrees. I wasn’t paying attention when I heard the front door open, and Mama’s orthopedic shoes clomp up the stairs. “Mary,” she called, and my eyes snapped open in panic. I quickly rearranged myself, throwing the magazine on the floor, but my bedroom door opened. “Mary,” she pressed, sounding disgusted. “What on earth were you doing?” “Nothing,” I replied quickly, but her face reddened when her eyes landed on the magazine that was askew on the floor. “Come with me,” she said sternly, coming forward and grabbing my wrist. “I wasn’t doing anything, honest!” I shrieked as she dragged me down the stairs. She led me out to a backyard, where there was a deep hole, about five by five. “What is this?” I bleated, and she pushed me down into the hole and grabbed her shovel. I hit the soft ground with a thump! “To think,” Mama muttered, “my daughter, the nymphomaniac.”
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My fingernails scraped against the dirt walls as I desperately tried to claw my way up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I choked through my tears. “One day, you will be punished for what you’ve done.” Mama threw dirt onto me, and I spit out flecks of soil. “There’s a place for sinners like you.” She kept digging, and dirt got into my eyes. “Mama, please—” Dirt fell on my shoulders, and I couldn’t breathe. “After all I’ve done for you.” She shook her head, pushing piles and piles of dirt on me. “You will pay for your sins.”
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The Night Morgan Long
As the sun began to hide behind the silhouettes of the immense city buildings, Dr. Deckard sat in his black SUV preparing for the task ahead. The task he had been preparing for years has arrived. He began to slip on his black leather gloves that glimmered against the growing moonlight that shone through the tinted windows of his BMW X5. Deckard has done the math for every move he will make. Flowing quietly out of the doors of the Texas State Courthouse strolled the Governor of a corrupt Texas state system wearing a black petticoat almost reaching his ankles. Deckard waited patiently in his SUV as the Governor walked down the courthouse steps to his red Sedan at the rear of the parking lot. Knowing that it takes sixty steps for the Governor to reach his car from the top of the courthouse stairs, Deckard discreetly exited his SUV as the Governor reached his fortieth step. Dr. Deckard begins to follow him, slowly slipping on a black wool mask. He slowly starts to remove a small surgeon’s knife he had concealed behind his tight leather jacket. The stars of a summer night were glinting peacefully over the city of Dallas. The Governor slowly inserts the keys into his red Honda Accord into the lock of the driver’s side door while whistling a soft tune. Before he realized it, Deckard begins to choke the Governor of Texas. Struggling to maintain consciousness, the Governor is carefully impaled in the corroded artery with the once concealed surgeon’s knife. When the knife is quickly removed, the Governor collapses to the ground, only able to yell one word before dying rapidly: “Why?!” The ever-growing pool of blood surrounding the Governor sparkled off of the illuminating moon. After dropping his knife in the blood, Deckard walked from the corpse of the Governor of Texas. He reentered his car. Examining his cold, pale face in the car mirror, he began to grin. After awaking from one of the best sleeps he has had in a long time, Dr. Deckard relocates to his quaint family room on the bottom floor of his San Antonio home. Turning on the 6 AM news, he examines the top story on every news channel—“Governor of Texas Killed in Cold Blood.” For many years, he has waited for this moment, the time for a new Texas state system. Surgery has come easy for many years for Dr. Deckard of the San Antonio General Hospital. He performed hundreds of successful operations on hundreds of patients during the prosperous days of a straight Texas government. However, Deckard’s most successful operation was fulfilled at 9 P.M. last night. 60
As the police officials arrived rapidly on the crime scene following the report from a soon-retiring judge, not a soul could believe the gruesomeness of this murder. Not a fingerprint or a trace of hair of the probable murderer existed on the scene. As detectives were left clueless on any possible suspect, a funeral was held for the Governor the next day. The city of Dallas was lined with police cars, trucks, and armored vehicles to prevent the killer or killers from attacking any more federal officials. They haven’t succeeded. Re-arriving in Dallas with the sun beating down on him, Dr. Deckard found himself ten floors high on the roof of one of Dallas’s inner city buildings. In his clenched hands was a military grader sniper rifle. During the funeral, the coffin was scheduled to parade down 21st Street, which he was nestled above. Cloaked in his black leather suit, sweat covered the inside of Deckard’s jacket and wool mask. Approaching noon, the temperature reached one hundred degrees. The procession slowly began advancing toward 21st Street. With twenty rounds loaded inside his camouflage green rifle, he began to focus it on the leading groups of officials. As they turned the corner, Deckard began to unload his rifle. One by one, unsuspecting police officers fell to the ground, lifeless. He began a slow walk down the fire exit of the building having left his rifle on the roof fully unloaded, stopping in an office for a crisp, white sheet of paper and a black, permanent marker and a piece of duct tape. Soon, the black figure walked quietly out of the office building into the hot Texas air. Dr. Deckard was immediately met by police and tackled to the ground. When he was lifted from the scalding hot concrete sidewalk, surrounding the building, the police only noticed the message tape securely to his death black, leather jacket—“The cleansing is complete.”
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Loneliness Lindsey Walko
He was quiet all day. Not by choice of course, but Joan seemed to forget all about him. He was so nice to her this morning too, waking her up with just enough time for her to adequately get ready without rushing, but let her sleep in for just a few minutes. They were up late last night, talking about everything really, everything from her latest meeting to Bruce Jenner’s new revelation. They fell asleep tangled together, warm in each other’s embrace. So he delayed her wake up for a few moments, enjoying watching her breathe in and out. She wasn’t a morning person, but he was hoping she’d be less cranky and for once actually grateful for his presence at this time of day. He felt lonely, so very lonely. He wasn’t used to being alone. Someone was always with him, usually Joan. This is the first day they’ve been apart, he isn’t sure how to handle it. This morning, when he heard her car start up, he just assumed she was heating it up. It was in the negatives after all, Joan was just being sensible. But then he heard her backing up, and saw her outdated green Jeep speeding down the road as he looked from the window. He thought about calling after her, or leaving a message at the office. But he didn’t want to seem clingy. Maybe they needed time apart. That’s what he spent all day looking up, trying to remember any possible argument they had to spur this behavior. She could have been preoccupied and simply forgot about him, but that thought is even sadder than a break. It shows she doesn’t care. A break at least expresses feelings. The internet left him with inconclusive results, no situation on Yahoo Answers even came close to his. The longer the day wore on, the more agitated he grew. After beating every level of angry birds, he just sat, staring at the clock, counting the seconds until Joan would pull into the driveway. He satisfied himself by fantasizing their reunion. She’d burst through the door, throw her arms around him and apologize immensely. She’d come with bags in her arms, filled with presents just for him. Or maybe she’d walk calmly into the house, see him, and immediately burst into tears. She’d be so overcome with guilt, she wouldn’t be able to speak through her sobs. He’d comfort her, being the bigger man of course. It was 7:19 when the key finally clicked and the door was unlocked. Joan walked in, carrying a package. He was practically vibrating in anticipation for their reunion and his obvious present. She threw her keys on the kitchen counter and glanced at him, returning her attention to the box in hand.
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She glanced, just glanced! He couldn’t take it anymore. There was no apology, there was barely an acknowledgement. His lack of attention today was pent up into frustration. Frustration he had to let out. “Joan,” he growled. She looked up from ripping the tape off the package, confused, “Hello? Is someone there?” Of course someone was there, he wanted to shout. Me Me Me!!!! But he only growled, “Joan” again. She grew more confused, even a little frightful. Finally walking over, she quizzically looked at him. Tentatively reaching out, she touched him. As soon as her fingers made contact she started to shake, her eyes rolled back in her head. She dropped to the ground with a thud. He fell too. Staring into her lifeless eyes, he knew he did the right thing. He knew she wasn’t deserving of him. He couldn’t revel in his triumph for long. Soon the lights started to dim, he felt weak, drained. The warning sign flashed on his screen- 20% left, then only 10. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he went dark. The apartment was silent.
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Going Mad Ariah Saeed
The darkness is a place where I can see her. That’s why I try not to close my eyes much anymore. Dark circles drag beneath my eyes acting as proof of my sleep deprivation. Still, she finds a way into my head. My mother just refuses to leave me alone. The first sighting I saw of her was at her funeral. I remember shivers rushing down my spine, how the wind suddenly picked up, pushing my hair into my face. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Assuming it was my father, I let it go. Suddenly, her voice filled my ears. “Mom?” I whispered softly. I turned my head toward her. The smiling face should’ve been uplifting, instead I felt nauseated. This can’t be real, I reminded myself. “I am real.” This time, my head whipped around to face her, but she disappeared into fog. It was like she became part of the air. I wanted to break down in tears, but with everyone around me, I couldn’t. What I should’ve done was gotten help. If I knew things would go this far, I would’ve told someone. It has now gotten to the point where I can’t think straight. I haven’t slept in two days. Every time my eyes even begin to close, images flash through my brain like a slideshow. My mother’s screaming. I’m screaming. My father’s in tears. I’m in tears. The worst times are when I see my mother as if she is with me, standing right beside me. She says terrible things to me. Things my real mother would never say. I used to say to myself that it was all in my head. In fact, those thoughts are what kept me going. The day I began to consider that this was real was the day my mind flew away. I must be insane. My father calls from downstairs. I sit in my room, rocking back and forth on my bed. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. It’s her. It must be. I can’t think straight and start to panic. I can’t let her find me. Please no. Please. Please! I scream as loud as possible, resulting in me covering my own ears. My father bursts through the door. His eyes are wide and wild. His forehead is creased with concern. My lungs burn, and tears are trying to spring out of my eyes, but I refuse. “What is going on? Are you okay?” he asks. “I see her.” He seems taken aback. “I don’t want to see her. I don’t!” I shake my head back and forth. 64
“Who do you see?” he asks. “Mom,” I manage to squeak. “Get her away. Get her away.” My head continues to shake. My father reaches out to touch me, but I quickly pull away. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me!” My hands pull at my hair, trying to tear every little piece out. “When was the last time you slept?” His voice comes out soft like a whisper, like he is afraid of me. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not crazy,” I say loudly. “I see her. I do. She’s everywhere. Everywhere! Help me!” I grab hold of his shirt, and he pries me off of him. I’ve never seen my father so scared. I’m driving him away. Before I can apologize, he runs out of the room. I hear a tiny click from the doorknob. He locked me in. My fists pound the door. He can’t leave me in here. He can’t. My breaths quicken, and everything begins to spin. Focus, focus, focus. The words fade out, and darkness envelopes me. My eyes take a second to readjust to the light. I look around only to see a dark, stingy room. The moment I try to stand up, a woman walks in and immediately puts me back down. She hands me a glass of water before she begins to speak. “How are you feeling?” she asks. “Where am I?” She smiles. “You’re going to be here for a little bit, okay? This is one of the finest mental institutions, and we’re going to take care of you.” I’ve gone mad.
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Artist Biographies
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Andrew Alday (11) is a key player on the MMI varsity basketball team. His sport participation influences his reading genres, as his favorite book is Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out.” by University of Kentucky’s men’s basketball coach John Calipari. At school, he is also a member of three National Honor Societies including Science, Spanish and Math, for which Andrew is the historian. He is MMI’s Student Council Treasurer. In addition to sports, Andrew participates in Envirothon and Mock Trial. He has always enjoyed writing, but this is his first published poem. Indkaran (Ibby) Bains (11) has played on the MMI basketball and baseball teams for three years, receiving the title of Varsity Baseball District 2 Championship last year. He is a member of the National Art Honor Society and the National Honor Society. Ibby’s favorite book series is Harry Potter by his favorite author JK Rowling. Andreas Boosalis (11) is a member of the National German Honor Society and National Honor Society at MMI. He was also the winner of a Penn State poster contest. He is a member of a Greek dance troupe, is currently learning the Spanish guitar and has an avid interest in photography. He was inspired to take up writing by Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr. Fox and enrolled in Mrs Novotney's creative writing class to get better at it. Charles Bower (11) is an accomplished pianist and piano teacher. He has been taking lessons for 12 years and performed at Carnegie Hall in New York City. At MMI, he is a member of the National Honor Society, the National Art Honor Society, and the National Chinese Honor Society. He likes writing, specifically poetry. Charles has an interest in split personality disorder, making The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde his favorite novel. Desiree Dinko (11) is the magazine’s editor in chief. She is a National Honor Society Member and has made the Honor Roll quarterly. She takes part in FBLA and the student admissions team here at MMI. Desiree is the Class of 2016’s representative as well as the co-chairperson of prom committee. She is an avid sports player, being a team member of MMI’s volleyball and softball team, lettering in both. She is a graduate of the Hazleton Junior Leadership Program. Her taste in books ranges from classics such as The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird to romantic sagas like Twilight. Her favorite author is critically acclaimed novelist Nicholas Sparks. Devon Faul (11) is the secretary of the National Art Honor Society and a member of the National Honor Society at MMI. He also plays on the MMI soccer team. Devon’s favorite book is Alice in Wonderland by his favorite author, Lewis Carroll “due to the fantastic characters and wonderful imagery”. Brian Galbiati (11) is a member of the National Chinese Honor Society and is a member of stage crew to help the drama productions. He has been nominated to perform his assembly in Best of the Best back in his freshman year. He enjoys swimming in his free time, representing MMI in the Envorthon and FBLA competitions. His favorite movie is Hannibal Lector and his favorite book is the Odyssey. Zach Heckrote (12) received a Silver Key and Honorable Mention for the Scholastic Writing Awards in 2014 for his poem. In the fall, he plans on attending Wilkes University. At MMI he is 68
a part of the German and National Honor Societies. Zach’s favorite books are Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire. When asked about writing, Zach commented, “I do enjoy writing and I often try to write in as many styles as possible.” Elise Hreha (8) received the Bishop’s Community Service award for her volunteer work throughout her community. She has participated in the Geography Bee twice and is a part of the National Junior Honor Society and the National Latin Honor Society. In her free time, she enjoys creating art and taking photos. Elise’s favorite book is The Book Thief and her favorite author is JK Rowling. Sherwood Jones (12) plans to major in business and minor in writing when heading off to college next year. At MMI, he participates in Botball, baseball, and FBLA. Sherwood is a member of the National Honor Society and has won an award for his violin skills. When asked about his favorite book, Sherwood said, “The Bartimaeus Trilogy because it evokes feelings of amazement and wonder inside myself”. Victoria Kline (11) is the Class of 2016’s President, as well as the Mu Alpha Theta Honor Society secretary and a member of the National Honor Society. She is an alumna of the WilkesBarre Junior Leadership Program, PFEW, and the local and national HOBY Seminar. Victoria has received honors for ten years in the National Piano Playing Guild and participates in the regional and state PJAS competition. She is a Joan Harris’s Student Representative and volunteer. Her favorite book is The Little Prince. She says, “Every year, I read it on my dad’s birthday, and every year I make a connection I have never made before”. Chava Kornblatt (9) has been writing for as long as she can remember, starting with lyrics and moving on from there. In addition to writing, Chava enjoys baking, reading, and cooking. Her school accomplishments include placing in the Top 10 of the state for “Letters to Literature”, receiving a first place at the state and regional competition for PJAS, and obtaining a first place in the regional FBLA competition. Her favorite book is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone because it was the book that created her love of reading and writing. Morgan Long (8) is a first degree black belt in karate and has won first place for his golf league. His school accomplishments include first place in the 6th grade science fair, a finalist in the 6th grade geography competition, won an award for his Open House in seventh grade, and has been awarded a first place in PJAS in 7th and 8th grade. Fred Mejia (8) has won Best of the Best for his assembly on Coca-Cola and has placed in the top ten in Mathcounts for two years. Fred was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society and the National Latin Honor Society. Fred believes that “writing poems is fun but writing essays are not.” His favorite book is Dracula because of the plot twists and characters. His favorite author is Bram Stoker. Alessandra Ortiz (12) is an accomplished ballet dancer and performer, having completed 8 ballet summer programs including the Cincinnati Ballet. She has also participated in the Youth America Grand Prix. Along with dancing, Allie is an avid writer and reader. Her favorite book is
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Sarah’s Key and her favorite author is John Green. She received an honorable mention for the 2013 Scholastic Writing Contest for her creative works and came in second place for MMI’s Poetry Out Loud competition. At school, Allie is a part of prom committee, the MMI ambassador program, National Honor Society, and is historian for the National Spanish Honor Society. In the fall, she will be attending Penn State Hazleton to major in psychology while furthering her ballet training in Lewisburg, Philadelphia, and New York City. Desiree Petrick (8) at just fourteen was recognized as the most hard working junior ski instructor at Big Boulder/Jack Frost. Her other extracurricular activities include softball and Science Olympiad. At school, she is a member of the National Junior Honor Society and is an honor roll student. Desiree loves English class and writing. When asked about her favorite book, she answered, “The Murmurings because I love scary books. I could barely put it down.” Cory Rogers (12) scored his 1000 points during this season of basketball for MMI and was selected for the Wyoming Valley Conference All Star Game. He is MMI’s Student Council vice president and is in the Science National Honor Society and National Honor Society. Cory is on the President’s List and the honor roll. His favorite book reflects his career choice as a sports reporter. He believes that Tim Tebow: Through My Eyes is a “motivational, personal and relatable book for young athletes.” Ariah Saeed (8) has always liked writing but did not think of publishing any of her works until she heard about this Literary Magazine. Her book tastes mirror her story’s genre of horror; her favorite book being The Murder Complex. Ariah’s other interests include art, theatre and piano. Her school accomplishments include the National Latin Honor Society and the National Junior Honor Society. She also has secured a spot on the school’s honor roll. Alex Sessock (8) has gone to States twice while competing in the Geography Bee. His other accomplishments include recently getting inducted into the National Honor Society and the Latin Honor Society. Out of school, he likes to play baseball and go on hikes with his Boy Scouts. Alex’s favorite book is the Hobbit because he believes it is a great story with good pacing and enough action. His favorite author is either JRR Tolkien or JK Rowling. In consideration to writing, Alex thinks, “Writing is what I consider to be a talent, and although I’ve never officially written a story, I often find myself thinking of situations in my head for one.” Jay Solgama (11) is a member of the Math, Science, Spanish, and National Honor Societies as well as plays on the varsity Basketball and soccer teams for the MMI Preppers. Jay is a summer volunteer at Geisinger and was selected for Hazleton’s Junior Leadership program this past year. His favorite book is the popular childhood story of Rainbow Fish. Audrey Stepansky (12) is on the Honor Roll at MMI and a member of the National Art Honor Society. Her favorite book is Fire Lover by her favorite author Joseph Wambaugh. Alyssa Sweda (8) is an award winning pianist, having played at Carnegie Hall and received first place awards at the Performing Arts Alliance Competition. At school, she participated in Best of the Best two years in a row, achieved honor roll, and made it on the President’s List. Also, she
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was recently inducted into the National Junior Honor Society. Her favorite book is Where She Went and her favorite author is Gayle Forman. Joey Synoski (12) recently won WVIA artist of the month and was in the running for WVIA Artist of the Year for his photography. He participates in Varsity soccer, Envirothon, and FBLA for which he went to the state competition this year. He is a member of MMI’s National Art Honor Society, National Science Honor Society, and the National Honor Society. His favorite artist is Alex Stoddard because Joey believes, “he takes pictures that are impossible to take.” Lauren Toscano (11) won the Holocaust essay contest in 2014 and attended the Susquehanna Writing Workshop last summer. She is an avid writer and plans to major in creative writing in college. Her favorite book is Going Bovine and her favorite poet is Alan Ginsberg. Craig Wallen (12) is very interested in street art, with Banksy being his favorite artist. His strong sense of nationalism is reflected in his favorite book American Sniper because “it shows the struggles and the life of what are troops go through overseas defending our country and our freedom.” In the fall, Craig will be attending Pennsylvania College for Technology for their engineering program. Luke Yamulla (11) is a member of MMI’s drama club, cross country team and student council. He is a part of the National Honor Society and Math National Honor Society. He has participated in the HOBY Regional and National Seminars. He enjoys writing scripts the most and his favorite play is Cabaret because “it is a perfect representation of the Nazi's rise to power and manages to do so in such an artistic and brilliant way.” His favorite author is Tennessee Williams, but enjoys the work of George Orwell, JK Rowling, and Stephen King as well.
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