Literary magazine 15 16 (final) by Angst Literary Magazine

Angst

MMI Preparatory Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Literary Magazine

2015-2016 Issue

Credits: Title Page: Erin Sari created this drawing using water color and markers. She calls it “Stress”. Cover Page: Ani Chowdhury’s piece called “By the Thinking Tree” was created using pencils, color pencils, and edited the picture using Microsoft Word. The Scholastic Awards: Students across America submitted 255,000 original works during Scholastic’s 2016 program to be blindly judged. Awards were presented by The Alliance for Young Artists and 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 and Writing Awards. Students receive oppertunities for recognition, exhibition, publication, and scholarship. Scholastic Award Winners: (Honorable Mention) Auntie Joe’s Most Amazing Dumb Thing By Olivia Minzola ................................................................... 15 (Gold Key Senior Portfolio) Selendra By Lauren Toscano ................................................................. 23 (Silver Key) Green Dress By Lindsey Walko ................................................................... 30 (Silver Key) Whirlwind Job By Josh Narrow ...................................................................... 35

Editorial Board: Faculty Advisor - Mrs. Jennifer Novotney Editor in Chief - Desiree Dinko Production Editor and Biography Editor - Lindsey Walko Poetry Editors - Andreas Boosalis and Desiree Dinko Fiction Editors - Dillon Merenich and Olivia Minzola Visual Arts Editor - Andreas Boosalis Copy Editor - Lauren Toscano

Contents:

Table of Contents

Welcome to the Jungle: Andreas Boosalis ............................. 9 Fools: Andreas Boosalis ............................................................ 10 PSA: Megan Marchetti ............................................................ 11 Scars: Chava Kornblatt ............................................................ 11 The Perfect Wedding Day: Olivia Minzola ......................... 12 Auntie Joeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Most Amazing Dumb Thing: Olivia Minzola ............................................................................ 15 Spooky Skeletons: Samuel Sessock .......................................... 20 Ghost Boo Scary: Evan Dryfoos ............................................. 20 Fall: Jonathan Smith ................................................................ 21 Ghosts: Gabby Demelfi .............................................................. 21 Fly High on Halloween: Jessica Smith ................................. 21 Sinners: Lauren Toscano .......................................................... 22 Selendra: Lauren Toscano ....................................................... 23 In the Shadows: Devon Faul .................................................. 25 Eternal Damnation: Evan Dyfoos ....................................... 26 My Big, Fat Jewish Bar Mitzvah: Lindsey Walko............ 27 Green Dress: Lindsey Walko .................................................. 30 Skitz: Josh Narrow ................................................................... 32 Attic: Josh Narrow .................................................................. 33 Whirlwind Job: Josh Narrow ................................................ 35 My Walk Home: Jon Smith .................................................... 38 Piggy Bank: Charles Bower ................................................... 40 A Backpack and a Blue Shoe: Desiree Dinko .................... 42 Familiarity: Gabby Demelfi .................................................. 46 Thanks Dad: Dillon Merenich .............................................. 48 Up in Heaven: Dillon Merenich .......................................... 49 A Red, Red Rose: Robert Burns ............................................ 51 Ode to Sock: Dylan Slusser and Brian Eschenback .......... 52 Love is Pizza, Life is Pizza: Daniel Tron and Kyle Williams ............................................ 53 A Big, Red Truck: Sam Sessock and Kyle McGuire ......... 54 O My Reindeer: Danielle Pileggi and Jessica Smith ........ 55

Art Credits: Don’t Feed the Ducks: Taylor Peluso ..................................... 8 Sea for Yourself: Caelyn McGran ........................................... 11 Summer: Jackie Braunstein ..................................................... 13 Lavalier of Rust: Julia Snyder ................................................ 14 Wilkes-Barre: Caitlyn Kiline ................................................... 20 Good Morning: Andreas Boosalis ........................................... 25 Rocky Road: Evan Spear .......................................................... 26 Green Zone: Alex Sessock .......................................................... 31 I’ll Think of Something: Dillon Merenich ............................. 32 Fall into Winter: Andreas Boosalis ....................................... 33 A Walk with Debby: Lindsey Walko ..................................... 34 Colors and Canals: Dana Carrato .......................................... 37 The Heart of the Ghost Town: Gabby Kupsho .................... 43 Boundaries: Sydney Karpovitch ............................................ 47 Beyond the Horizon: Evan Spear .......................................... 49 Rose: Krysalyn Postupack........................................................ 50 Drag on Days: Olivia Minzola ............................................... 54 Tribute to Paris: Allie McGeehan .......................................... 56

Contributing Biographies: B - Di ............................................................................................. 58 Dr - K ............................................................................................ 59 M - Pi ............................................................................................. 60 Po - Sm .......................................................................................... 61 Sn - W ............................................................................................ 62

“Don’t Feed the Ducks” Taylor Peluso

Welcome to the Jungle Andreas Boosalis Welcome to the jungle to the city street Where the trees grow like skyscrapers and the river flows like concrete Look at all the animals as they jump from tree to tree Nothing’s holding them back they’re just anxious to be free There goes one now can you see him? in his brand new suit looking dapper and trim He walks passed an Indian man sitting on a citadel He’s arguing back and forth With his racist clientele He struts into the lions den with his briefcase in his hand looking for his fortune his green wonderland They welcome him with promises they feed him with hopes and lies He’s fooled by all their charms He’s fooled by their disguise He comes up with great ideas but they steal them every time So in his tattered suit he leaves with out a dime Welcome to the Jungle to the city street where all your hopes and dreams are nothing but obsolete

Fools Andreas Boosalis

“Those fools.” That’s what the man says When he sees us walking by He looks at us in our corporate suits But we don’t ever see him He talks to us, begging for change But we don’t ever listen He laughs at us as we talk to ourselves But our cellphones drown him out We are too distracted by progress By ourselves By what we want By what we think we need That we ignore the poor man When in reality we are even poorer

PSA Megan Marchetti Something of yours is lost. Something of yours has gone missing. Something of yours is no longer in your possession. Something of yours must be searched for. Something of yours must be found. This something is your chill. Please find it. “Sea For Yourself” Caelyn McGran

Scars Chava Kornblatt We all have scars Just some have more Just some more physical Just some more emotional Just some more haunting We all have scars But some don’t have time to heal before they kill us

The Perfect Wedding Day Olivia Minzola Aunt Pearl was always prepared for the worst. So when her big day rolled around and nothing had spilled on her white gown, and her husband didn’t forget his vows, and the rings weren’t lost by my five year old cousin Timmy, and the doves didn’t escape, and the limo didn’t pull up late, and she didn’t get her period, Aunt Pearl was furious. Now that nothing terrible had happened, Aunt Pearl was rather quite unprepared. Aunt Pearl did not enjoy being unprepared. “Something is bound to go wrong today,” she said to me when we ran into each other next to the glass punch bowl at the reception. She blew a piece of raven black hair out of her face, exasperated. “Just look at everyone eating, dancing, having fun. Watch Lissa, just you watch, by the time we all leave here tonight and go our separate ways someone will have gotten food poisoning or will have fallen down and gotten a concussion. Just you watch.” I know she wanted me to agree with her, but I just couldn’t. “But Aunt Pearl, today has been so magnificent, nothing bad could ever ruin it.” Her nostrils flared as she responded and her eyebrows pulled together in an angry frown. “Who’s to say, Lissa! Who’s to say!” After that I had quickly scurried away, nervous that Aunt Pearl would threaten to punch me just so something, anything would go wrong on her wedding day, even something as bad as the twelve year old flower girl receiving a black eye from the bride herself. For the rest of the night, I watched Aunt Pearl attempt to trip her friends as they walked by to scramble up another plate of food and step on her relatives’ toes when they politely asked her for a dance. It was amusing, for a twelve year old like me. Multiple times throughout the night I was approached by random family members and asked if I had talked to Aunt Pearl at all, asked if she was having a good time, asked if she realized just how beautiful and perfect the entire wedding day was. I just nodded along to their questions as they prodded me. Why tell them that Aunt Pearl was out to ruin her own wedding day? Why tell them that her newly wedded husband Harold just married a psycho who hates perfection? I watched Aunt Pearl and Harold slow dance together in the center of the floor. Everyone’s eyes were on them. The men and women were hooting and whistling and oohing and awing. I frowned as I gazed at Harold. Poor Harold. He looked as handsome as ever, with his cowlick and a black bowtie and his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, as he twirled Aunt Pearl around and around. I sighed for him. Poor Harold didn’t have a clue about what he was getting himself in to.

By the end of the night, after everyone had filed out of the reception area, Aunt Pearl had cornered me. She gave me a bright smile, despite her obvious irritation at everyone and everything around her, and wrapped her arms around my fluffy, frilly baby blue dress. Her recently manicured and dangerously sharp pink nails dug into my spine and her hug was just threatening to suffocate me when she finally released. She gave me a small pat on the head. “Thank you for the perfect day, sweetie. Wish Harold and me a good luck on our honeymoon. Let’s cross our fingers that it will be just as perfect as today.” She spun around on her heels and walked briskly away, in search of her newly wedded husband, and that was that. Once the party finally died down, and everyone had said their congratulations and goodbyes to the new couple, I could have sworn I saw Aunt Pearl slip a steak knife under her dress as she and Harold exited the room. But who’s to say, Lissa, I reminded myself. Who’s to say.

“Summer” Jackie Braunstein

“Lavalier of Rust” Julia Snyder

Auntie Joe’ Most Amazing Dumb Thing (*Scholastic Winner: Honorable Mention*) Olivia Minzola It was one of those types of heists that a naïve nine year old plans out. On a typical hot summer Sunday afternoon, about eight years ago, I was sitting on the front porch with Momma. We didn’t own an air conditioner, so we could be found fanning ourselves with our own bare hands, our faces dripping wet with sweat. Momma held a rolled up newspaper in one hand, swatting away the pestering gnats and flies. One of Daddy’s blue caps sat perched on the top of my damp head, blocking the bright rays of sunlight from reaching my eyes and blinding me. Momma sat swinging back and forth on the porch swing. I laid on my stomach on the dirty wooden floor, watching an ant explore. “Momma?” I rolled onto my back, my eyes looking up at her under the brim of Daddy’s hat. The ant had started to bore me. She sighed deeply, “What, Elizabeth?” Momma was in no mood to talk. Momma wanted to be left alone. As usual. “Momma, why did Auntie Joe die?” I stuck my dirty finger in my mouth and played with the strawberry gum my big sister Josie had given me as a last-minute birthday present, weeks before Auntie Joe passed on. Momma scoffed. “She was probably sick of this dumb ol’ world.” Then under her breath, “I know I sure am.” I rolled back over onto my stomach, this time finding a fat green caterpillar munching on a big green leaf. I wondered where the ant went off to. Maybe it was sick of this dumb ol’ world, just like Momma said Auntie Joe had been. Just like Momma said she was. I resumed the position on my back, staring up at Momma with my big brown eyes. “Momma?” “Hmph.” Her replies were never more than one syllable long. “Momma, where are Auntie Joe’s things? Did they leave too?” Momma dipped her head back and rolled her eyes up at the sky. God didn’t liked when Momma did that to Him. I’m not quite sure why she did. “I wish, baby. All of your Auntie’s dumb things are still tucked away. Those dumb trinkets and stupid gewgaws are cluttering up her entire house. It’s an absolute pigsty,” she spat out. Momma loved using that word, dumb. I think that was her favorite word, in fact. The only visible response I had produced that day was a quick nod of my head. Inside my head, though, wheels had begun to spin ever so slightly. Little did Momma know, the simple words she had spoken that hot summer day had given young bright-eyed and bushy-tailed nine year old me a brilliant idea and had ultimately to set me on a wild adventure.

That night, I waited until Daddy was laying passed out drunk on the couch, Momma was putting baby Ben to bed, and Josie was upstairs doing who-knew-what with her friends, before I snuck out of the house unscathed. Fireflies were lighting up the sky. I remember how they had reminded me of winking stars. The crickets and katydids were singing a lovely melody together. The air was so hot and dry; it felt like a blanket being pulled tight over my head. I hiked up my overalls and made my way across the dirt road between our house and Auntie Joe’s. Auntie Joe had to live nearby, Momma had always said, because she had some mental problems and needed to be checked up on and visited regularly. I had gone to Josie, when Momma had first told me this, repeating to her what Momma had said. Josie said Momma had meant that Auntie Joe had down syndrome. I asked Josie what down syndrome was. Josie rolled her eyes, told me to ask Momma or Daddy, and then walked away, bored of our questionnaire. My body practically lifted off of the ground as I flew up the walkway, making my way to the front door; overgrown weeds and dying grass loomed over the path. I hurtled my body over sections of weeds that were clumped together, pretending that I was a part of Josie’s track team at school, except my hurdles were much smaller than the ones she had to vault over. Auntie Joe’s front door was covered top to bottom with dust and peeling red paint. Just as I hopped up onto the porch, and my feet landed on the ground, I heard a faint squish. I lifted my right foot, examining my tattered blue sneaker. Stuck to the bottom was a fat green caterpillar, this time not alive, but dead. I pouted, upset that I had to find the caterpillar, who had been leisurely chomping on a fat green leaf on our porch this morning, in this grim way. I rubbed the remains of the caterpillar onto the ground, and reached for the door knob. The door swung open to the entryway – Auntie Joe’s door was always unlocked because of the checking up Momma always had to do, to make sure she was safe and sound and behaving herself. A smile inched its way across my freckled face – it was time to go hunting for treasure. Auntie Joe’s house had always amazed me. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t special or anything. It was always hot and sticky and there was always a mess left for Momma to clean up on the bathroom floor and, if you ever cared to look, you could find some of the biggest dust bunnies on the face of the earth under her couch and chairs. But her house had everything. Momma saw all of her trinkets and knickknacks and baubles as dumb little things. I saw them as wondrous treasures. I skipped around downstairs, searching for anything that might catch my eye or interest me. As I skipped, wood creaked underneath my tiny feet. As I skipped, dust erupted off of the floorboards I hit and furniture I bumped into. As I skipped, I was happy. Happy because I was in my own little world.

My skipping came to an abrupt halt once something finally did catch my eye – a tiny black pill bottle. At least, that’s what it looked like from where I had been standing across the room. But when I had stepped closer, and picked it up, and examined it closely, it still looked like that – a tiny black pill bottle, with a number etched in its side, though. It read 1958. Both confused and full of awe, I snatched my precious find and hurried out of the house, holding onto the object with one hand and slamming shut the front door with the other. I

have to show Momma. I just have to! She’ll forget all about the word dumb when I show her the treasure I’ve found, I had thought that late summer night,

running across the dirt road. I was back inside my own house in minutes, yanking Momma’s sleeve, her shushing me, me wide-eyed from excitement. “Whattt?” She hissed, spit flying through the gaps in her teeth and onto my face. “Your baby brother is sleeping! And so is your father! Hush, unless you want another licken’ from his belt!” I stopped my jumping but my smile was left plastered on my face. “Mommaaaaa –” “What, I said!” She place her hands on her hips, leaning forward, waiting for my next words. “Guess, oh, guess what I’ve found at Auntie Joe’s!” Momma’s mouth opened in shock and disgust. “And what may I ask were you doing over at Auntie Joe’s at this time of the night by yourself? In fact, what were you doing over there at all?” She gave me a stern look that I simply brushed away. “Momma, look!” I shoved what I had assumed to be a tiny black pill bottle in front of her face, awaiting the surprise and wonder that should flash across her eyes. Instead, she looked annoyed. “What? This? This dumb ol’ thing?” I cringed at the word dumb. Why wasn’t she excited? Why didn’t she care? She pushed the hand holding the treasure out of her face and rolled her eyes up at the sky. I felt bad for God. Momma rolled her eyes at Him much too often. “That, there, is a dumb. Old. Roll of film. Nothing special. Nothing at all.” I looked up at her with my brown eyes. “Huh?” “It’s just a dumb ol’ roll of film, kid! Nothing more, nothing less.” So after that, I believed her. I believed everything she ever said after that night, because there was no one there to ever prove her wrong, and I didn’t know any better. I took the roll of film back to Auntie Joe’s, tossed it on the floor, and watched it roll under one of her dusty, smelly, nasty plaid orange chairs. It was just a dumb thing. Just a dumb thing no one should ever feel excited about because it was just that dumb.After watching it roll away, I walked out of Auntie Joe’s house, and never turned back, not even to take one little peek. ...........................

Eight years later, when Momma was gone and buried away in the earth, and Daddy had moved away with baby Ben and his heavy set, red-haired girlfriend, and Josie had ran off with her friends one night and never showed up back home for dinnertime, I finally turned around. I looked at Auntie Joe’s house. Because truth be told: I had thought of that roll of film much too often; that treasure that I was convinced to simply toss away. Auntie Joe’s house looked even worse than it had eight years ago. The weeds and grass had grown at least three feet tall, blocking the view of her porch. The red paint on her door had almost if not all peeled away from the rain and the weather. But I was curious about one thing: the roll of film. It was probably the only thing that hadn’t changed in the past eight years; just lying under that big ol’ plaid orange chair, collecting dust. So that night, when no one was around to stop me but myself, I hiked up my overalls and walked over to Auntie Joe’s. Opening the door, I slid inside like a stealthy snake. I clicked on my flashlight, bright light illuminating the room so that I wouldn’t trip on any random knickknacks. I looked at the orange chair. I walked over to the orange chair and got down on my hands and knees, filth covering me in seconds. I reached under the orange chair, my fingertips searching for that one thing – that one treasure. Those fingertips found it. That and a lot of dust. So I carried it home. And instead of simply placing the mysterious roll of film on my shelf to display it, I processed it. Then, that night, watched it, memories of the past unfolding right in front of my own eyes. On it was a video of Momma as a child, and another little girl, Auntie Joe I supposed. Momma was running around trying to catch a monarch butterfly, and Auntie Joe sat on the grass, playing with two sticks. All of a sudden, as Momma ran past Auntie Joe, Auntie Joe stuck out one of the long sticks and tripped her. Momma face-planted into the dirt. As she got up, spitting out grass and earth, she gave Auntie Joe an awfully mean look. “You’re so dumb! I hate having a dumb sister!” she screamed at her. My Noni, who was behind the camera, gasped at Momma, telling her to never say that word again and how names can hurt. Auntie Joe pounded her fists on the ground, tears streaming down her face. Momma stomped off, still spitting insults at her sister. The video ended abruptly. Then I realized, as I sat watching the roll of film, that this was most likely the first time that Momma had ever used the word dumb. Here is where Momma’s nasty habit had begun. And no wonder Momma had wanted me to throw it away years ago and never think twice about retrieving it. To her, this roll of film was nothing, but what was on it was too precious to be seen by anyone. On it was her own treasure that she did not want to be shared. So the next day, I visited Momma’s grave. It had been raining. I remember I had worn Daddy’s blue cap, and didn’t mind as the rain soaked through and

chilled me to the bone. I had placed the roll of film on the ground next to her illegible etched-in name. I was delivering Momma’s treasure home to its rightful owner to keep safe and sound. That dreary day in the barren cemetery, I couldn’t help but remember what Momma had always used to say, whether she was happy or whether she was sad. I remembered Auntie Joe, sweet ol’ Auntie Joe. Thus, the roll of film had even been given a special name, using Momma’s special vocabulary – Auntie Joe’s Most Amazing Dumb

“Wilkes Barre” Caitlyn Kline

Spooky Skeletons Samuel Sessock

Ghost Boo Scary Evan Dryfoos

The spooks are real Trumpet skeleton rises He is so spooky

There once was a ghost His name was Ghost Boo Scary He scared me real good

Fall Jonathan Smith A single leaf, it gently drifts to its demise. How canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t this be heard?

Ghosts Gabby Demelfi The winds are howling The ghosts wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave me alone I hide, terrified

Fly High on Halloween Jessica Smith Bats are flying high Spooky ghosts and witches too High, high in the sky

Sinners Lauren Toscano Cannibals. Cannibals ate my mother. I tell people this. Sometimes I whisper it to myself in public, in grocery stores, in pizzerias. I want people to know, but no one believes me. I saw my mother on the kitchen floor, gore and intestines hanging out like an extension cord hanging off your roof when you put up Christmas lights. And I saw my uncle and my father on their knees next to her, their fingers bloody. My uncle was practically drooling as he stared at the flap of skin on my mother’s neck that had been peeled away to reveal muscle. I’d screamed, ran out of the house. I told my grandmother and the police, but no one believed me. The investigators told my grandmother that my mother had slipped in the kitchen and hit her head really, really hard. It happens, they’d told my grandmother, freak things happen. They did not say anything about the gore, the flap of skin, the blood. They said she slipped. They said she died instantly. She didn’t feel pain. I started an organization. I made little brochures for it. I called it “Kitchen Slipping Awareness.” I collected money for it too, by going to door-to-door. I wasn’t sure what the money would go toward because I hadn’t had all the details thought out, but the adults loved it. They gave me money. They said, good luck. They said, have a nice day. The first day, I collected sixty-two dollars. I bought three milkshakes with some of the money and then I threw up by the dumpsters. The second day, I went out and a sweaty fat man in a wife beater came out when I knocked on his door. He said, come in. I came in. I passed clothes that were littered on the floor, a crooked poster of a vintage Penthouse cover, a cracked TV, and there were magazines and food wrappers on every surface. I stood in the living room, not wanting to sit on his lint-covered couch. The man came out holding a fifty dollar bill. I said, sir you’re so kind. He said, no you’ve got to earn it. He came up to me real close. I backed up but he grabbed my arm. Cannibals ate my mother, I shrieked, cannibals ate her. I struggled for a bit but then I stomped his foot with my sneaker and wiggled free and ran out the door. I could hear him calling after me saying, you big slut. I ran to my grandmother’s house. I ran and ran and ran. Then I laid down in my grandmother’s front yard, staring up at the sky. I said, please God. I said, get me out of here. Bring my mother back. I went inside. My grandmother had made apple pie. I sat at the table and she put a slice on my plate. I love you Melanie, she told me. I told her I loved her too and started eating. The inside of the pie was all red and it reminded me of my mother, of her intestines hanging out of her stomach. I thought of my father and my uncle and, as if she could read my thoughts, my grandmother said, one day the sinners will pay, Melanie, just you wait. This will all be over soon.

Selendra - (*Scholastic Winner: Gold Key Senior Portfolio*) Lauren Toscano When I was younger, my father gave me a nickname. I played T-Ball with all the other kids around my age, but I was the only girl. My father called me “Sprocket,” because I was spunky and fast like a rocket. He said he gave me the nickname because it fit me perfectly, but I know he was just embarrassed of the godawful name my mother had picked out in the 1989 edition of Baby Names that she’d gotten at the grocery store. So there was my team—Anthony, Taylor, Tyler, Greg, Tommy, Timmy, Ryan, William, Kevin, and Sprocket. We played on a team called the Rams. We were all pretty good, actually. Our coach had been a coach for a really famous baseball team in Florida, but his knee got all messed up, so he came back to Ohio to be with his family. Once he recovered, no one wanted him to coach their baseball teams anymore, so he started a T-ball team. He was pretty harsh. We had to run a lot, and parents complained that we weren’t getting enough water. When our parents came to pick us up, we’d collapse in their arms, exhausted, begging to go home to our beds and air conditioning. I’d sit in the backseat of my dad’s car, and he’d ask about how practice went, but I’d be too tired to speak, practically panting, tongue out. I quit T-Ball when I was old enough to do actual baseball, when I was six. I never went back to playing a sport. I started painting. Sometimes, my dad would walk in my room when I was crosslegged on the floor, trying to paint a picture of a rabbit. I always painted rabbit pictures. I was just really good at painting rabbits. My father would say, “Sprocket, don’t you miss playing ball?” but I’d just keep painting the detail of the fur on the rabbit’s ear, trying to get it just right. I always got it just right. I’d always say, “No, Dad, I don’t miss it,” without looking up. When I was done painting the rabbit, I’d blow on it, as if to dry the paint, and then hold it up and ask my father what he thought, even though his opinion didn’t matter much to me. He’d oooh and ahh and say it was great and that he was proud of me. Then he’d leave and go downstairs to watch the Red Sox game or something. When I was sixteen, my art teacher told me I needed to paint something else. She had us draw self-portraits, and I handed in a picture of me with bunny ears. Really good ones too. But my teacher just addressed me by my birth name—the ugly one I didn’t like—and said, “Maybe you should draw something else.” “Something else?” “Yeah. Like people or plants.” “But I like rabbits,” I told her. I spent the last two years of high school painting rabbits even though my art teacher told me not to. I dated a boy with curly dark hair and a Jewish last name, and on our three-month anniversary, I gave him a picture I’d painted of two

rabbits with hearts around them, but the anatomical kind. I was proud of it, but the boy with curly dark hair and a Jewish last name told me it was lame and broke up with me for the fastest swimmer on the swim team. In my senior year of high school, I finally told my dad to stop calling me Sprocket. I told him it was annoying, and that I knew my birth name was ugly, but Sprocket wasn’t much better. He looked hurt, and he apologized a lot and said that if that’s what I wanted, then he would do it. I said thank you and locked myself in my room and painted more rabbits. Once my father passed away, I stopped painting altogether. I’d see rabbits in my backyard sometimes in passing, but I wouldn’t stop for them. I ate only when my mother reminded me, but she never really paid attention, so it wasn’t very often. My father’s funeral was on a Tuesday. I wore a black velvet dress that itched me, and I wanted to scream. I shook hands with family members, and they all said, Sprocket how are you Sprocket how are you doing Sprocket I’m so sorry Sprocket I’m so sorry. I sat in the front pew, head down so I couldn’t see anything, but I could picture my father, sitting in the stands at my T-Ball games, pumping his fists and yelling my name. My nickname. He wasn’t here with me right now, but I could hear his words in my ears,

Sprocket. Sprocket. Sprocket.

“Good Morning” Andreas Boosalis

In the Shadows Devon Faul In the shadows The pain is all so real Why do I hide? I know the deal For stepping into the light Is a risk I can’t take Coming out Would be a fatal mistake So now In the shadows I remain The dark you see Shields me from pain In the shadows You can’t hear my cries For it’s designed To hide all the lies Everything you see It’s fake, Not what it seems I put on the smile My shallow disguise I hide my face And hide my eyes For if you’d look into them What would you see? Your only light’s What I want it to be. In the shadows You don’t know who I am If only you could Could you recognize me? I don’t think you would. Why should you be wise To my pain And my lies? All I am And will ever be N’one knows Not even me

Eternal Damnation Evan Dryfoos

“Rocky Road” Evan Spear

The man awakens to the loud murmurs of voices is the distance. Although his eyes are open, he sees no light. He feels his breath being restrained and pushed back towards his face. He does not know where he is, or how he got here. His hands and legs are bound down to the chair he is sitting in. The man tries to struggle but it is useless; he can barely make the chair rock back and forth. The murmurs grow louder and louder although he can’t make out any words. All of a sudden the veil covering his head is removed. His vision only of darkness is soon replaced with blinding light. As his eyes try to adjust, a voice yells “We’ve got the wrong one!” “Where the hell am I?” the man asks to which he got no reply. “Can someone please tell me where the hell I am?” he continues loudly. A dark silhouette in the distance gets larger and larger. The figure is one of a tall, burly man who yells at the hostage to be quiet and places duct tape over his mouth. He tries struggling again in the chair and as it wiggles back and forth the figure threatens the man to stop or he will never see his family again. The man is shocked. What do they want? Who is the other “one” and how do these people know him? The man complies and sits as his body twitches nervously. He sees the silhouette leave the room as he hears footsteps on stairs. He looks around. He is in a small, concrete room where water lines are visible leading to a water heater. There appears to be boxes scattered around the place. He hears footsteps again. The door opens and the silhouette has reappeared, holding an object the man can’t quite make out. The veil is placed over his head again and he hears a cock of a gun. As a tear rolls down the side of the man’s face he hears a bang. He jolts forward to find himself in the very chair he believes he was just murdered in. He hears the same murmurs of similar voices in the distance. As the veil is removed from his face he yells, “What the hell is going on?” Again his mouth is gagged. The figure leaves and comes back holding the same gun. The veil is placed over his head again and he clenches his eyes tight as he hears a loud bang yet again. For the third time the man is awoken in his chair. When the veil is removed he says nothing, but this doesn’t change his fate. Again he is shot and then wakes up. The man is in a constant loop and no matter what he does, he is stuck in the loop. It is out of his control. Woken up to darkness and only sees light for a brief time, then darkness.

Lindsey Walko My Big, Fat Jewish Bar Mitzvah Scene 1 (Kevin and Mary are lying in bed, Mary is asleep on Kevin’s arm. A cell phone rings, Mary stirs but doesn’t wake. Kevin reaches for it and answers it in a whisper) KEVIN: Hi Mom, yes I’ll be home for Jonny’s Bar Mitzvah, no I’m not bringing a date. Mom, I don’t need you to set me up with anyone. Actually, (glances at Mary) I am seeing someone. Yes, yes. No, she’ll be out of town. Yes Mom it’s a girl. No, she can’t come. She’ll be out of town. Mom, stop going on my facebook profile. Yes I know it says I’m single, I haven’t been on facebook in three years. Mom, MOM, goodbye mom, BYE! MARY: (still with her eyes closed,) I’m not going out of town any time soon. KEVIN: I’m sorry, did I wake you? MARY: No, your mom did. KEVIN: I’m sorry, it’s just… MARY: We’re not serious enough to meet the parents, I get it. You’ve met mine like what, three months ago, but whatever. Maybe we should be taking things more slowly. It has only been eight months KEVIN: No! No, no that’s not what I meant. I loved meeting your parents. We’re moving just fast enough. You’re just not...just not… MARY: Smart enough? Well Mr. Lawyer, I’ll have you know teaching middle school take a VERY smart perKEVIN: No! That’s not it at all, you’re one of the smartest people I know. And the cutest and the funniest and the prettiest. You’re everything -est. MARY: So why can’t I meet your family? Rather, why didn’t you tell them about me? KEVIN: You’re not… MARY: Yes? KEVIN: Jewish MARY: Excuse me? KEVIN: Jewish MARY: What? KEVIN: You know the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding? MARY: Yeah… KEVIN: It’s like that, only with Jewish people MARY: Okay, yes, but they end up being together in the end and getting married(realizing what she said, she babbles) Not saying that’ll happen to us, I mean it’s only been a few months, marriage is totally out of the question right now-KEVIN: I’m sorry Mary, I should’ve told you sooner.

MARY: So I’ll just never be able to meet your family? KEVIN: If you think about it, it’s not that bad. They’re crazy and small minded. MARY: Wait, Kevin, I don’t get it. Why can’t you just tell them I’m Jewish. It’s not like my name sounds ultra Catholic or anything. KEVIN: I wouldn’t want you to pretend you’re anything you’re not. You don’t deserve that. Plus, your name doesn’t sound Jewish enough. MARY: Fine, tell them I’m Mary Goldberg or something. Kevin, if all I have to do is change my last name and not eat bacon for a night, I’m willing. KEVIN: You don’t understand. She’ll look you up. MARY: Who will? KEVIN: My mother MARY: Look me up where? KEVIN: Where else? Facebook. And then she’ll see you’re not a real person MARY: Or you could say that I don’t have Facebook? It’s an easy fix Kevin. KEVIN: Oh I wish it were that easy. If she can’t find you there, she’ll call everyone. The whole synagogue. And if no one knows you there, she’ll definitely know something is up. MARY: I doubt your synagogue knows every Jewish person even KEVIN: They do. Don’t ask me how. They just do. MARY: Fine, create a fake profile for me or something. KEVIN: Do you really care about meeting them this much? MARY: I care about you and your life and your family is a part of that. If this is what it takes for me to be able to be completely in your life, then go ahead. Do what you have to do. KEVIN: Wow, I...I love you...Mary Goldstein (They kiss.) Scene 2 (A bar mitzvah. Kevin and Mary are surrounded by a group of old men in yarmulkes. They are laughing. A slow song starts and Kevin and Mary break away to the dance floor. They are surrounded by pre-teens awkwardly dancing.) KEVIN: They love you MARY: I am a very convincing Jew, aren’t I? KEVIN: You have no idea how happy you made my mom. You’re not a guy. MARY: (Laughs) No, I’m not. (They dance for a little more, Kevin’s mom makes her way to where Kevin and Mary are. She has her phone in hand) MOM: I was just going to post a few pictures on Facebook, do you mind Mary? MARY: Oh no, not at all, go right ahead.

KEVIN: Oh Mom, please don’t. MARY: It’s okay Kev, I’m sure mine are just as embarrassing. (A boy of 13 walks up to the group.) BOY: Ms. Smith? MARY: Jacob? BOY: What are you doing here Ms. Smith? How do you know Ben? MOM: Smith? I think you’ve gotten your people mixed up Jacob, this is Mary Goldstein. BOY: No, this is Ms. Smith, she’s my English teacher. She’s Ben’s too. (They look at Kevin and Mary. The two chuckle nervously)

“Drag on Days” Olivia Minzola

Green Dress (*Scholastic Winner: Silver Key*) Lindsey Walko I have this dress. That’s the perfect dress. Everyone has one of those- like their perfect pair of jeans or perfect top. It’s green and tight but still classy. The dress is worn at every formal and semi formal occasion. It was from this thrift shop on Mulberry Avenue, eleven dollars. My friend Celeste asked to borrow it for a funeral. Since it was for a funeral, no wasn’t an option. She drove over in her red square Jeep. The stairs to the second floor creaked when she ran up them. She wasn’t delicate in putting the dress on, not even bothering to unzip it all the way. It was 18 minutes before the service for her grandfather started. She pulled her stockings up and buckled her shoes. They were saddle shoes and did not compliment her legs or the dress in any way. She said, “You’re suppose to wear black to a funeral, but Grandpa Jim loved green. He loved spring and summer and trees and green apples and ginger ale and vegetables and split pea soup. I bet the tie they bury him in is going to be the green one with the checkerboard pattern.” The dress was too short and emphasized her in all the wrong places. It desperately clung to her, holding on for dear life. A nod of approval and she was out the door. Her shoes clacked down the stairs to her red Jeep. She drove off, wearing green to Grandpa Jim-who-loved-green’s funeral. Sleep didn’t come easy, plagued with nightmares of spilled punch and tomato sauce and loose threads being pulled on by children, unraveling the dress to shreds. Morning arrived and so did Celeste and the dress. Her eyes were puffy and red. The dress was neatly hung on a hanger. It looked different, faded, bigger, dirtier, tired. Celeste put the dress back in the closet and left in her red Jeep. Celeste’s Aunt Jane, who loved green just like her father died the next spring. I told Celeste she couldn’t borrow my dress again. Celeste had a fit. She said, “Aunt Jane loved the dress at the funeral. She loved the color and how it looked. You’re suppose to help a grieving friend.” She sniffed and pulled out a crumpled tissue from her jacket pocket. She blew her nose and put the tissue back in her pocket. I shook my head no, and told her I was sorry for her loss. I offered her up a green scarf instead. A cardigan. Shoes. I offered to buy her a better green dress. But she said no. I told her that black was more slimming anyway. My bedroom door slammed behind her, my bookshelf shook a little. The day of her Aunt Jane’s funeral, I wore my green dress. My mother told me people can’t wear green to a funeral.I explained to her how Aunt Jane, like Grandpa Jim, loved green.“She loved clovers and celery and frogs and the inside of kiwi.” Celeste was standing by her family at the funeral. They were wearing green. She was wearing black.

“Green Zone” Alex Sessock

Skitz Josh Narrow fretting. B doesn’t trust his psychiatrist or galaxy pills multicolored. B’s father was a preacher and mom was a criminal. No. father says let sour lemons run round merrily like cancer. B runs for miles, down shorelines, waves, always tightens his tie before church. Throws prickly towels down on hell grown ground for Daughter she howls when the moon goes full. B holds Daughter’s hand under jazz streetlight and calls it a prism’s painting but streetlight sobs like watercolor. Chases whore girlfriend to Colorado he doesn’t need to cook or write a newspaper he’ll spill cake batter and cry it’s all a conspiracy silence. B and Daughter go quietly to carnival cotton candy, B thinks they’ll feast on the sand tonight. And routine begins laying bedside his words taste like carolina whiskey [raw] in his journal and his eyes shine ruby greed stop. B says and the voices go away so B frets no more.

“I’ll Think of Something” Dillon Merenich

Attic Josh Narrow in our attic we eat carrot stems a lunatic sends men down rusted pipes to piss aluminum cup leaf mist an ode to liberation a quenching gulp from the mattress/deathbed tucks me in pulls food from wooden tiling language was sketches on an old kitchen playset popped crackers at two a.m wore shawls shawls and shawls little boys went home to recite great songs

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Fall into Winterâ&#x20AC;? Andreas Boosalis

“A Walk with Debby” Lindsey Walko

Whirlwind Job (*Scholastic Winner: Silver Key*) Josh Narrow I.

Jimmy’s been sleepin with this week’s forever so I told him tonight we needed a long car ride to his favorite unknown place. Beep Vroom Honk Swoosh interstate shrill song adventure about no nature just tubular road astray let’s check out trucker pit stops/hide in furnished cargo units shorts/ dabble with radio words / pronounce our name’s slow / think we can pull hat backwards / let’s go be truckers.

II.

Monotonous bells in diner halls but us real truckers have never been church goers and these runaways [How can two boys be more religious than i?] think they’re prophets for big truckers with even bigger trucks and even bigger churches where sins make glass stained organ told stories electric D even when not plugged in walked kneeling towards blacked draped priest tapped hypocrite Usually accustomed to black veil priests [Is it a sin to write about the devil in Church?] Maybe these boys can use their messily written volumes to tune organ tubes, play vernacular, preach gospels, chant Sunday at halftime, read Job, hate Job, love Satan, love Job, live out of whirlwind Job.

Ramble words to short skirts [and stop short skirts from worshipping] altars are easy to trip on I never see “Don’t trip altar here” signs in this church. These boys stare crucifixed at Mary, Joseph, Jesus but speak like wide mouthed Buddhas smile ran off the page. And father father father father father father, father every word these boys say reads creation [ your tree of life and ten sefirot] I read Maimonides and Ben Yeshua and Peter and profit commission to drinks aloud. I read Melchizedek, Thoth, nutjob the bible started making sense. Our boys read Patty Cake, Exodus, Whitman, [and their religion messiah was here a week too early.] Nah, pluck em right down on pew on knee on ass on holy on heart on sin on wafer on mass on wine on bible on organ on two bit Sunday services and make us some church boys.

“Colors and Canals” Dana Carrato

My Walk Home Jon Smith It was a crisp and dreary night in late October. I looked down at my watch and observed the first hand tick near the twelfth hour. I had just gotten out of a stressful day at work. As I was exiting the building, my boss yelled, “Angela, I will see you next week bright and early. Please be careful walking home!” “I will, Bill. See you next week”, I responded. Bill was always friendly with me, probably because of my harsh and undeserved working conditions. I am a supervisor at a company named Grave-tech, a leading software and virus removal company. My occupation is vigorous and demanding, yet I am paid less than my co-workers. Bill claims it is for the sake of the company and it will all work out in the end, but I doubt it. Every day at work, he wears a ludicrous glow in the dark tie and nasty cologne with a scent of blue cheese. Yes, cologne that smells like year-old blue cheese. After having to put up with the nasty smell and absurd glow in the dark tie for eight hours, I end my shift and quickly put on my jogging shoes to walk home. My apartment is only a fifteen-minute walk, and the choice to walk rather than drive saves gas money and enables daily exercise. It was October 31st, and the kids were running to house and house to search for the most candy. I decided to stay late for work to ensure efficiency and productivity in the workplace, and to impress my boss, Bill. After cleaning my office desk and organizing my papers, I left the building at midnight to return home. However, this specific night felt ominous. The full moon shined bright like a diamond, the light reflecting the dark, towering trees that lined the sidewalk. Seeing the moon this vivid reminds me of werewolves or vampires, but I knew for a fact that they did not exist. But that did not stop the anxiety build up in my body. My instincts told me something was definitely not right. As I continued to jog home, a feeling of uneasiness swept through my body. There were no street or yard lights in sight, and the darkness overcame me. I felt vulnerable. In an instant, I turned around due to sheer reflexes. I watched a murky outline of a man appear closer and closer. I dashed for my house, pretending to not realize that a complete stranger was following my footsteps. In the warmth and safety of my dimly lit house, I peeked through the curtains to see that the ghostly figure turned around. This image I encountered either in reality or my mind disappeared, and I refused to let it turn me down. So I trotted my way down the front porch stairs and started to pursue this haunting outline. When I got in the proximity of this figure, I shouted, “Who are you?”

“Why are you following me?” As the figure nonchalantly turned around, a smell of blue cheese wafted over me. A sight of a glow in the dark tie was inevitable. This “figure” looked me in the eyes, pulled a white piece of paper out of his back pocket, and said, “Angela, you forgot your paycheck.”

Piggy Bank Charles Bower I used to have a piggy bank. Every so often I’d add a coin or two to it, Periodically a dollar bill, And I’d save them and build up more over time. Most of the kids have one though. They keep their coins just the same. Some piggy banks are bigger, Some have a longer nose, Some have weird hair Ah but mine, Mine had the capacity for a million coins. Mine had a heart bigger than a lion’s. Mine had blue eyes and imperfect teeth. Mine was unique, as is everyone else’s. One day though, out of nowhere it seemed, My piggy bank fell off of the dresser And shattered, as it struck the floor, Into millions of pieces that could never be repaired. I loved my piggy bank. I want my piggy bank. I still see everyone else enjoying theirs. They all continue to put in their coins, And save up to enjoy another day. But I can’t. I have nowhere to put my coins. I can’t save up my change to enjoy another day All I have is what was inside Up to that moment my piggy bank died. I’ve picked up the coins that were released when it broke, Although there are some, there’s not nearly enough.

Sometimes at the store I see piggy banks here and there And sometimes i see some that had the same hair As my piggy bank did. Sometimes the piggy eyes remind me of my piggy’s eyes. And I’m filled with a heartbroken feeling to cry. I loved my piggy bank. I loved my dad. I loved adding new memories to our collection And enjoying the thoughts of them. But I can’t have any more, Because my piggy bank’s shattered on the floor.

A Backpack and a Blue Shoe Desiree Dinko I grabbed my police cap before I headed out of my bedroom door and placed it over my bald spot, which I was convinced wasn’t really there. I looked at the wedding picture of Amy and I. That gown took my breath away when I first saw her walking down the aisle. It fit her in all the right places. I could almost hear her say, “Be careful, today,” from the left side of the bed. “Always, honey,” I smiled at our picture. I walked down the long hallway, constantly alert and aware, even in my own home. Right before I reached the stairs, I stopped in front of Billy’s old room. His room was empty now, but he left a few items in his closet. The door squeaked shut as I pulled it closed. ********************************************* “Morning, Chief. We got one for ya.” Steven, one of the technical analysis workers in the station handed me two manila files, both with pictures of small children paper-clipped inside. “Why are there two here, Steven? I should have been notified about this when the first one came in,” I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. I hated when people didn’t do their job. He held my glare, “I just got news of those a couple hours ago, sir.” Then his eyes returned to his computer screen, typing away, slamming on the keys in front of him. I believed him. “Don’t break that.” I began walking away towards the briefing room. “There’s no room in the budget for another one of those,” I mumbled. My team was already there, two eager officers straight out of the academy, Kelly and Tim, and one experienced 6-year employee, Jacob. “Two children have been murdered, Katie Bryers a six year old girl and Brian Foulner, a four year old boy, both from the area.” I started taping the pictures of the victims to the glass window next to the closed wooden door of the small conference room. The pictures showed a little red haired girl posing for a school photo in a blue polo. The picture of the toddler, Brian Fouler, showed him building sand castles at a beach. He was smiling and holding up an orange plastic shovel. The rest of my team was sitting around an oval table, files in their hands. “Katie was reported missing and found about 48 hours later by locals picnicking by West Branch River.” I reported as I flipped through the files myself after taking a chair at the head of the table. “She was severely bruised. Those cuts around her wrists are most likely from wire or a sharp plastic, not rope.” Kelly reported as her long fingernails traced the photos of the scene. “She wasn’t dead long. Whoever took her killed her quick and moved on to

“The Heart of Brian.” Jacob noted as he held the Ghost Town” his coffee cup that had “Best Gabby Kupsho Dad” written on the side. “Brian was found in a dumpster behind the Bob’s Supermarket. Did the killer not want the body to be found this time? This doesn’t make sense. Most want their kills found.” I argued, still flipping through the reports, digging for more information. “Brain was definitely malnourished, too, even though he was only missing for four days.” Kelly stated. She pulled her long brown hair into a low ponytail with a thin rubber band. “But everything has changed from the one murder to the next. Katie was kept for two days, dumped in a public place. Brian was malnourished, and beaten, but kept for four days and thrown into a dumpster. This guy’s personality is changing,” Tim reported as he pressed back the dark bridge of his glasses that were sliding off of his nose. “And these two victims had nothing in common. Different ages, hair color, eye color, home status, family, churches, schools. Everything was new. But why?” Kelly questioned. She looked around the room, waiting for her question to be answered. “Let’s try interviewing the parents. Kelly and Jacob, interview Brian’s teacher. He was taken from the pre-school’s parking lot. Tim, you’re coming with me. We’ll interview Katie’s parents since they were the last people to see her alive.” We left the room in a hurry, eager to stop the perpetrator before another young, innocent life was taken. “Remember,” I yelled as we entered our police cars in the parking lot, “we’re looking for a connection.” ********************************************* Katie’s mother was sobbing so the father spoke. “What do you remember about the day Katie went missing?” Tim asked as we sat in the couple’s living room. There were few pictures of the family. “I came home from work and Katie had her dolls in the backyard. I told her that she had to come inside soon for dinner,” the father spoke quietly, pain streaking across his face. “What did she say to you, or do? What was her body language like?” I lightly pressured.

“She didn’t do anything. She nodded and continued playing. I went upstairs to change out of my suit. I figured she would come inside after I left.” His eyes were glossy, his hands folded on the table in front of him. “The doorbell rang,” the mother jumped in. “I went to go answer the door. Keith was already heading up the stairs.” The tears in her eyes doubled. “And who was at the door?” Tim was on the edge of his seat. “Just the UPS man, I could see his truck from the living room window.” Tim turned towards me and raised his eyebrows. “When I went to the door, no one was there. So I headed outside to get Katie and all that was left was a blue shoe from one of her dolls.” She began to sob heavily. Her husband handed her a box of tissues. We excused ourselves and left their house. “Call Kelly and Jacob.” I ordered as I hopped into the police car. “Tell them to meet us back at the station as soon as they can.” ********************************************* “Brian’s teacher,” Kelly said, “confirmed that there was a UPS truck outside of the pre-school right before Brian went missing. It was so obvious and so normal, they missed it.” After tracking down the UPS’s plates and driver, we were led to my son’s house. My hands were sweating as I drove as fast as I could. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “John, are you okay?” Kelly was sitting in the passenger seat. “I don’t understand this. Billy has always been in trouble ever since his mom got sick but I was promoted as chief and…” The words failed to express what I was trying to say so I just kept my eyes on the road. “Everyone’s innocent until proven guilty, remember. Just breathe. We’ll figure this out.” There was a calming tone in her voice. I believed her. We pulled into the driveway where other policemen were waiting for our arrival. We fled into the house with loaded guns in single file. I was first in line. After knocking on the door and not hearing anything, I nodded to a policeman behind me who knocked the door down with a battering ram. I rounded the corner of the kitchen and entered the living room. Billy sat on the couch with a gun in his lap. He smiled when the full line of policemen had him fully surrounded. “Hey, Dad! I knew you’d find me. You were always such a great cop!” He watched me with his narrow eyes. He laughed and threw his head back. But that sly smile that soon disappeared when he held the gun up to his head with his finger on the trigger. “Come on, Billy. Put the gun down. We can work something out here.” I tried to keep my voice stable, but I had a gun pointed at my own son, who was a

murderer, and, now, was suicidal. “It’s too late for that. You only ever worried about your job. You never cared about me or Mom. So I’m gonna do this my way.” He released the safety on the handgun with a loud click. The adrenaline pumped through my body. I could hear my heart beating out of my chest. Standing there with my gun pointed and ready, I lowered the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The pain made Billy cry out and his weapon fell to the floor. I holstered mine as Tim secured Billy’s weapon on the blood-stained carpet. I held Billy’s head as he lay on the floor, holding his shin, asking me why he had been born. Across from the couch I could see a plastic backpack with the nametag “Brian” and a pink-haired doll that was missing a little blue shoe.

Familiarity Gabby Demelfi

I’ve spotted this girl from across the room. I can’t help but looking at her, subtly watching her. The way she looks, the beauty in her eyes, her laugh, feels familiar. Have I met this girl before? Wouldn’t I remember if I have? Maybe she just reminds me of someone I used to know. Alright, time for some bravery. I need to talk to her. I mean, how else would I cure this curiosity that has sprung up inside of me? As I muster up enough courage to walk across the room, she looks at me with the same sense of familiarity and as we meet halfway, at the same time, we both say, “Have we met before?” We both laugh. We must have known each other at some point, but why can’t either of us remember? “What’s your name?” I ask, “Maybe your name will ring a bell.” She smiles, “Mercury Atwood.” I draw a blank. I feel like I should remember that unique, celestial name, but I don’t. Nothing is ringing a bell. “How about we go somewhere quiet and talk?” she asks, before I have the ability to respond to her name. I guess she figured I didn’t recognize it. I nod and we walk into another room. As soon as I walk in this other room, I feel a cold breeze biting me harshly, but for some reason I’m okay with it. “How have you been, Mercury?” I ask, breaking the dreaded silence. “I’m just lovely! How about you?” “I’m pretty good. Maybe a little confused.” I watch her, every move she makes and how her nose crinkles every time a breeze comes through. I watch the way she joyfully admires the paintings on the wall. “You like art?” I ask, and she appears confused as to question how I knew that. She nods. “I love art, too. The beauty of it, the story it tells. Oh, the stories are my favorite. I used to analyze pictures all the time. Even if I came up with the wrong story, it was cool to see how it related to the painting.” She smiles. “I’ve never met someone who likes art as much as me.” I watch her lips, which are stained with lipstick even though she has natural beauty, form into the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. “I’ll analyze this one for you,” I say, hoping that would make her smile bigger. The painting she is staring at had a single tree in the middle of a vast, dry but still green field with a little girl at the bottom who looked like she had fallen. “Okay. Analyze it,” she says, smirking. I began with my story, “This painting represents betrayal.” She gives me a look of disapproval like I was making everything up. “WAIT! Let me explain.” We both laugh. “When the little girl is sad, which is a lot of the time, she goes to this tree to escape the abusiveness of her horrid foster family. That night, she fell. The tree is dying because of the never-ending drought

and, while she was climbing, a branch broke and she fell. She had been betrayed her whole life, but now she has been betrayed by the only entity that took away the pain. She feels betrayed, even though the pain the tree caused was not the tree’s fault.” “That was an amazing story!” She gets so excited and I reach out to hug her. We stay in each other’s arms for a couple minutes in utter silence. Then she looks at me and I stare right into her forest green eyes that met with just the perfect tint of ocean blue and I lean into kiss her. We kiss for a couple moments and then memories started to flood back. Memories that I didn’t even know I had. She looks at me, surprised, “Do you remember now?” she asks. All the memories are coming back. I feel so much pressure in my head like it’s about to explode. In that moment, I finally realize. We’re not in a house, we’re outside which is why it’s so cold. I’m lying down. Why? I roll over and I see something. It takes about a minute for my vision to clear up and when everything came into focus, I see something. I can’t believe my eyes. It is a dark gray grave and in the dusk of the night I can read a name. The name reads, “Mercury Atwood.” And then everything goes dark.

“Boundaries” Sydney Karpovitch

Thanks Dad Dillon Merenich A home is defined as a place where someone lives, especially as a member of a family. I don’t spend much time at home. I don’t enjoy it there. Dad drinks too much, and mom enables him. She eggs him on by saying how shitty of a person he is and he just gets pissed. He can be abusive but he never really hit me or my brother. He took most of his anger out on the attic walls. We set up padding for him when he lashes out and gets too drunk to coherently realize how violent he gets. One day at Bill’s house, I sat there in my room. Crash. It was weird because I never really heard sounds in my house unless it was yelling but my dad wasn’t usually home at this point because he would be pre-gaming at the bar for when he gets home to kill his bottle of Jack. Tiptoeing down the steps I got a weird butterfly fright in my stomach. Maybe dad finally went off the deep end and did something regrettable, I thought to myself. As I creep around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the feeling grew stronger. Inching my way slowly...fearfully, I cross through every room. Nothing. Mom is asleep on the couch and my brother is watching tv. It is just a normal night. I make my way to the kitchen. If nothing was wrong in there, maybe I was just losing it. Maybe my family instilled so much fear in me that I am starting to hallucinate the worst possible things. I feel really estranged because my brother didn’t even mention the noise. I have to be losing it. Damn, there it is. The kitchen is right there. Should I turn back? I guess it’s too late now. I let out a sigh of relief. My cat just knocked over the vase in the kitchen. I will just grab a glass of milk and get too sleep I guess. Slam. Dad is home. He is stumbling toward the kitchen. He is hammered. I look at him. He looks at the broken vase and I begin to shake. Fear piercing through my body. What do I do? He is going to freak. He is too obliterated to believe it was the cat. “You little bastard. I work hard to maintain this house and you have the nerve to break shit and not clean it up,” he reams. “But da--” I try to get out. My brother makes his way to the kitchen I hear his footsteps. My dad reaches in the silverware drawer. I bolt under the table. My dad stumbles back around to face me, I’m not there. He grunts. Wait. My brother. Blood splashes. My brother hits the floor. The blood crosses my feet. Dad walks upstairs. I begin to cry.

Up in Heaven Dillon Merenich “He’s dead! Please come here! Please!” Laura says on the phone in a panic. She sounds like she’s crying. She hangs up before I can get any words out. As I run and get closer and closer to the apartment, two blocks from my office, I see flashing lights in the windows on the streets. I hear sirens. I start to slow down. I can see my apartment up the block. The flashing lights all stop there. There is a crowd around my building. There is a silence, now. Inching my way toward the apartment, step by step, the panic I once felt was gone. A couple hundred feet from the lights of the ambulance and I feel nothing, I see women crying. There are men; men who appear wouldn’t even shed a tear when they are first born, with tears pouring down their face. And I am the one who just received a call of a death in the family and my face is blank. I see Laura. “Laura!” I yell. But no one hears. She gets into the ambulance. The ambulance pulls away slowly. “Taxi! Taxi!” I call in the middle of the street with my arm raised. When a taxi driver stops the cab I have him follow the ambulance. The taxi smells like pine cones and vomit. The driver is sitting there with a Bluetooth ear piece in. He is not talking to anyone. Or if he is, he isn’t answering them. He is just listening. I see the ambulance pull over at the hospital. As I get out of the cab, “Where’s your cab fair?” I faintly hear from the Middle Eastern cab driver. I pay him no attention. I see the medics take out a stretcher. There doesn’t seem to be anyone on it. All I see are white sheets with blood stains on them. They rush the stretcher into the hospital. I see Laura run out not long after the medics. I slowly walk into the large hospital building. “Laura, what happened?” I call to her across the waiting room of the hospital. She just sobs as she runs over to me. She hugs me. “Laura, what happened?” I ask again. “Conner died,” she struggles to get out. I say nothing. Still blank faced and confused. “He fell out of the window in our apartment,” she says. I feel tears starting to run down my face. She was in a wreck the whole time as I stood there, a block away with no concern. “Beyond the Horizon” No thought. And now my son is dead, and I Evan Spear long to be with him. Up in heaven.

“Rose” Krysalyn Postupack

A Red, Red Rose Robert Burns Written in 1794

O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.

Ode to Sock (Inspired by A Red, Red Rose) Dylan Slusser and Brian Eschenbach

O, my sock’s like a soft, soft cloud, That makes it easy to walk; O my sock’s like sweet smelling flower, That with my foot will interlock. So fair art thou my fluffy friend, So deep I care for you; If you were to need a mend, I will still wear them you fool, Till thy shoes are ruined. Till thy shoes are ruined, my dear friend And the snow melts wi’ the sun O I will love the still my fluffy friend While the clock o’ life still runs. And fare thee wear, o my friend And fare thee wear again! And I will wear u again, my soft friend, Until the very end.

Love is Pizza, Life is Pizza (Inspired by A Red, Red Rose) Daniel Tron and Kyle Williams

O my love takes the form of a crust, That’s newly sprung out of the oven; For a crust, I have a lust; A delicacy that needs some loving. As fair art thou, there’s craving of cheese, So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, your taste is a tease, ‘Till my mouth has gone dry. Till a’ the sauce runs dry, my dear, And the pizza melts in the oven: O I will love thee still, my dear, While the aroma sends me to heaven . And fare thee well, my only love, For all the pizza has been consumed! And I will come again, my love, With this tragedy, a new one will have bloomed.

A Big, Red Truck (Inspired by A Red, Red Rose) Sam Sessock and Kyle McGuire

O my truck’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June O my ford’s like the melodie Of an engine that’s in tune So fair art though, my shiny truck, So clean with wax you are; I will not crash thee into a deer, Till thy check engine light is on. Till thy check engine light is on, my ford, And the interior smells like mud: O I will drive thee still, my ford, So long as thou still runs And bless my wheels, my beloved ford, And make her last a while! And I will drive you again, my ford, Though it were for thirty six thousand miles

O my Reindeer (Inspired by A Red, Red Rose) Danielle Pileggi and Jessica Smith

O my reindeer’s nose is like a red, red rose, That’s usually brighter in December; O my reindeer’s like the love I never had That I remember from last November. As fair art thou, my luve will last, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my reindeer, Till the Christmas lights die. Till the chocolate’s gone cold, my dear, And the snow melts with the sun: O I will love thee still, my deer, While the reindeer fly and run. And fare thee weel, my only deer, And fare thee weel, Kyle! And I will come again, my deer, Though it were worthwhile.

On September 7, 2015, ISIS attacked France, killing at least 150 civilans and wounding hundreds more. Attacks were spread throughout six different locations in Paris. This is a tribute to those affected by that dreadful day.

“A Tribute to Paris” Allie McGeehan

ANDREAS BOOSALIS(12): Andreas Boosalis is never found without his camera. His photos in the magazine were inspired by his muses, everyone in his creative writing class. He enjoys writing poems as well, mainly about birds. CHARLES BOWER(12): Writing poetry has been one of his greatest outlets for emotion and self expression for essentially his whole life. Charles can remember writing his first poem in third grade, which was telling a girl he liked her and asking her if she liked him too. Charles has developed his writing style over the years, though, through the loss of loved ones or, conversely, the occasional feelings of overjoy and complete happiness. The purpose of his poetry is first to express himself, and second to make people think. There’s always more than what appears on the surface. JACKIE BRAUNSTEIN (10) : Jackie Braunstein is in tenth grade. She enjoys photography and writing. What inspired her to take this picture was the ending of summer. It was late August and most of the flowers were fully bloomed. Jackie likes to photograph nature and candids. She also enjoys sports and other activities like: tennis, piano, and singing. DANA CARRATO (11): Dana Carrato has been attending MMI since the sixth grade and is currently a junior. She enjoys capturing pictures that are simple but beautiful. All of the natural beauty that the world has to offer is something Dana believes is worth capturing and sharing with others. She tries to enhance the photographs as little as possible as a way to showcase the naturalness of her pictures. ANI CHOWDHURY (11): Ani Chowdhury is a junior who has enjoyed drawing and sketching from a very young age. This drawing was inspired by a photograph of a book and pen on the flyer advertising the literary magazine. The work was first sketched and colored on paper, and then sharpness, color scheme, etc. were edited using the picture editing software on a computer. Ani mainly enjoys sketching and origami. GABBY DEMELFI (11): Gabby DeMelfi, who’s in eleventh grade, wrote a haiku called “Ghosts” and a short story called “Familiarity”. Her favorite things to read and write are mostly fiction and poetry. She likes to write creatively a lot especially about love and horror, sometimes both at the same time like in the story “Familiarity”. DESIREE DINKO (12): Desiree is a senior at MMI. She has always enjoyed writing, but finds more success writing from a prompt than solely just her imagination. This short story was in fact inspired by a writing prompt and is also inspired from her binge-watching of Criminal Minds. This is Desiree’s second year as Head Editor of Angst and is grateful to have her work in the magazine.

EVAN DRYFOOS (11): Evan Dryfoos was born a time long ago in a swamp to a salami farmer and a unicorn. Living in an unfortunate situation being that unicorns are extinct and he no longer had a mother, he believed it was impossible for him to become what he always dreamed to be, a ninja lawyer football playing king in space. He slumped into a depression and began writing poems. Ghost Boo Scary is a product of him battling his inner daemons, casting them out and triumphing over his darker feelings. RYAN ESCHENBACH (11): One day Ryan and Dylan decided that we should write a poem about an item. We decided to write it about a sock and how important it was to both of their lives. Ode to Sock is truly a masterpiece that two brilliant minds have created and hopefully everyone will enjoy this socktastic poem. DEVON FAUL (12): “Mask” was written in a time of weakness, on the verge of breaking. In a time where all he could do to stay together was to put on a “mask” to hide fear, doubt and anger as so many of us do. Mask is a way to give something that we all feel words and meaning, so we can then grow from it or learn to cope. Devon loves poetry and writes daily of affliction, love, hatred and a wide spectrum of profound human emotion as he did in “Mask.” Outside of poetry, Devon enjoys visual arts as much as the written form. SYDENEY KARPOVITCH (10): Sydney Karpowich was inspired to take this picture to capture the beauty of nature at Hearst Castle in California. She is interested in photography and enjoys taking pictures of nature. CAITLIN KLINE (10): Caitlyn Kline is a 10th grader at MMI Preparatory School. She took this photo on a walk in Wilkes-Barre when noticed the beauty of the “Black Diamond Bridge”. CHAVA KORNBLATT (10): Tenth grader, Chava Kornblatt’s writing is inspired by a mix of her own experiences and the injustices of the world. Her goal is to bring light to the suffering that many people go through silently. While the majority of her work delves into the darker side of the human experience, she enjoys writing about light and everyday kindness as well. GABRIELLE KUPSHO (10): There is always beauty to be found in nature. In this picture, is a small, colorless, and desolate town. This picture of Jim Thorpe is inspiring because it’s a cute, little town that is quiet, yet peaceful and gorgeous. It floods the viewer with feelings. Black and white shows the simplicity and beauty of the world. This old-time/antique art is awesome to create!

MEGAN MARCHETTI (11): Megan Marchetti is an eleventh grade student at MMI. She was inspired to write this poem, PSA, by anger and stress in her everyday life, both in school and out of school. She enjoys writing poems, like this one, short stories, and argumentative essays for her AP Language and Composition class. ALLIE MCGEEHAN (11): Allie McGeehan is a current junior and took the photo, “Pray for Paris.” She took this photo while visiting Paris over the summer and was interested in photographing the iconic monument from different angles and perspectives. Taking photographs is one of her favorite things to do on the side and she especially enjoys sculptures and man-made art. CAELYN MCGRAN (10): Caelyn McGran has been interested in photography for about a year now. She had the inspiration to take this picture because it shows the beauty in nature. Also she thought that it shows that even if the day looks dreary there is still beauty behind it. She really loved the color palette of the picture and all the colors seem to go together. KYLE MCGUIRE (11): I was inspired to write this after our teacher gave us the opportunity to write our own piece of literature. Eventually the idea came to my partner Sam and I to write about a truck, a Big Red Truck. I usually enjoy writing fictional pieces and satire of current events of the world. DILLON MERENICH (11): Dillon wrote about the real-life events that were not inspired by his every day life. Dillion doesn’t like to write but will if necessary. OLIVIA MINZOLA (11): Eleventh grader, Olivia Minzola, has enjoyed writing from a young age. She was inspired to write her Scholastic award winning piece, Auntie Joe’s Most Amazing Dumb Thing, after being given a prompt in her Creative Writing class which told the writer to include a roll of film in their piece. She simply took that prompt and added her own unique twist to it. Olivia is known to her family and friends as an avid reader and can always be found with a book in her hand. Some of her favorite authors include Michael Grant and Jenny Han and one of the most compelling books she has ever read is Front Lines by Michael Grant. JOSH NARROW (11): Josh Narrow’s inspiration for these poems came from his daily life. He enjoys reading and writing. DANIELLE PILEGGI (11): Dani and Jess were inspired to write about a deer since December and winter break were approaching. The weather was getting colder, and they felt eager for snow to fall. Dani enjoys writing fiction in her free time and has written many creative short stories for the past few years. She has even published some of her works online receiving over 200,000 views on her one short story and over 800 followers.

KRYSALYN POSTUPACK (11): Krysalyn is a junior at MMI. She enjoys drawing and her picture was inspired by the poem, “Red Red Rose”. She used colored pencils and markers to bring her vision to life. When she is not drawing, she is playing basketball and tennis for MMI’s team. ERIN SARI (11): Erin Sari, an eleventh grade student, was inspired to create the cover for this literary magazine by the very nature of the title. When considering what to draw, she asked herself, “Where does angst come from?” and sure enough, “Stress” came to mind. Erin enjoys creating art in almost every medium, from sculpting to painting, usually depicting anatomy or something emotional and abstract. ALEX SESSOCK (9): What inspired Alex to take this picture was the landscape of New Mexico, which goes from incredibly flat desserts to high mountains, the mountains being highlighted in this photo. The mountains are not of the sort we see around us everyday in Pennsylvania, but are rocky and covered in cliffs. The type of art that Alex enjoys creating is photography with a basis on mostly nature. SAM SESSOCK (11): Junior Sam Sessock wrote his poem as part of his British Literature class in conjunction with Kyle McGuire. While writing “A Big, Red Truck”, Sam and Kyle drew inspiration from the lyrics of stereotypical country music and trends in pop culture. DYLAN SLUSSER (11): The sock is an unsung hero in our everyday life, providing warmth, comfort, and protection to our feet. When tasked with a writing assignment for Mrs. Novotney’s class, Ryan and Dylan decided to give the sock the recognition it’s due. JESSICA SMITH (11): Jessica Smith enjoys writing poems. She was inspired to write a Christmas poem because it is one of her favorite holidays. She enjoys the snow and what Christmas has to offer and wanted to spread her excitement to everyone both young and old. She enjoys writing poems and creative stories in which she can use her imagination. JONATHAN SMITH (11): Jonathan Smith is currently a junior at MMI Preparatory School. He wrote two pieces for the magazine; a short story and a poem, specifically a Haiku. His short story is titled, “My Walk Home”, and his haiku is titled, “Fall”. Both of his writings were inspired by the Fall season and one of his favorite holidays, Halloween. His goal was to keep his audience on their toes as they read through the short story, while also maintaining a slight comedic tone to lighten the mood. His haiku delves into the life of a leaf, one that is usually ignored.

JULIA SNYDER (10): Julia Snyder is in the tenth grade and has always loved photography even from a young age. This photo is especially meaningful to her because it correlates with her favorite book series which inspired an entire album of photographs. From the Bad Girls Don’t Die series comes this photograph meant to make you look at every detail from polished silver to rusted metal. Julia hopes everyone enjoys the photograph and its exquisite elements.

EVAN SPEAR (11): Evan Spear is in eleventh grade. The inspiration that caused Evan to capture these pictures was the scenery that was contained in the Grand Canyon and the ocean. Evan traveled to the Grand Canyon with his family this past summer of 2015. While they were there, Evan had taken a lot of pictures. Whether they were panoramic, close up or far away, Evan had captured it all. The picture of the ocean had taken place in Key West Florida. LAUREN TOSCANO (12): Lauren Toscano is a senior at MMI who plans on being a starving writer for the rest of her life, and she is inspired by her favorite poet, Allen Ginsberg. DANIEL TRON (11): Daniel Tron is a junior, and he collaborated with Kyle Williams, also a junior, to create their poem named, “Love is Pizza, Life is Pizza”. This poem was created on the basis of another poem which it was inspired by: “A Red, Red Rose” by Robert Burns. They styled the poem to their own liking to make it about something that they both like: Pizza. Tron often likes to write short poems and stories. LINDSEY WALKO: Lindsey Walko’s Scholastic winning piece “Green Dress” was born out of a writing prompt given to her by her creative writing teacher Mrs. Novotney. Lindsey’s photograph was taken at the Grand Canyon while she was hiking there with her family. She enjoys writing essays for class more than creative writing and she is not an avid photographer. KYLE WILLIAMS (11): Kyle Williams isn’t really into writing, but he feels he could be Shakespeare. He enjoys playing B-ball. Kyle also enjoys food and sleeping.