WINGS
Volume 1 Edition 1 Spring 2013
Literary Magazine
“Not Alien” by Laura Porat
“Lion” by Ashley Sauer “I love drawing animals and drawing this was a challenge because I wanted it to look stylized yet accurate, but I was happy with the effect that it had.”
“Unfair Justice” by Jason Alper “My inspiration was the law for the gay marriage laws. I was really moved by how unjust this was. I was inspired by the song “Same Love” by Macklemore which is quoted at the bottom of my piece.”
“Hour of Light” by Jessica Helou “I’ve always loved the honesty of the night against the complexity of the human mind. One night after an emotionally difficult day, I looked out my bedroom window, and just began writing.” Framework of being Crumbles in piles. Loads of a single hour Leak out my eyes Close my throat Shake my hands, familiarly. My desperate, Idle Fingers search for the pillow. Drown myself Conceal my collapse From reality With the lock of the door And eclipse of my haven.
And I am egotistical As I paint spheres of similarities Myself to a celestial body And soon transcendence encompasses my soul, The only welcomed company.
And yet I still fear Outsider knowledge of personal disasters. Bite the pillow, I order. Droplets dry to trickle Redirect sight to the moon Sitting in her own dark abyss Seemingly nothing.
Stuck in these walls till dawn Greeted with the morning late bell. Inhabiting others, following them. To escape the penitentiary Has escaped my mind for the moment In the miles of the lighted landscape
She stands alone Trailing a heavenly globe Never achieving individualism. Yet, truly similar are the moon and I As we are stuck Here.
Only to catch A single glimpse Of the resplendent, star-sprinkled Dark abyss of the moon. Onlookers and by-passers Rid themselves. They are blinded. Evidence is the gift to the Lonely. But the moon and I differ My gravitational pull to by-passers Mortal. Attachment to precedents falls Lifeless. My world is bright But the lights of others Shine too bright To see it.
“Dark Like Vanilla; Hushed Like a Scream” by Neda Davarpanah “I came across a picture of a musician in a magazine and the image captivated me. I imagined his background and what he must have felt at that moment based upon his expression and I just felt compelled to write the poem.” He’s a shadow on a leather boulevard With the voice of Lou Reed and the face of Bécquer. I burn by the light of his silvery glow, Pine for the smell of his cedar cologne, Which tastes of his touch and looks of him too – The man who can sing just like dusk turning blue. I hear in his smile the brown of his eyes. His name is not Dean and he’s not from Van Nuys, But his eyes are much more of a hazel or green. He’s dark like vanilla; he’s hushed like a scream.
But horses for courses, I guess you could say, ‘Cause he’s played the guitar for most all of his days And we’ll sock it to ‘em ‘fore they tear us apart. The rugged tattoos of Nietzschean love, and the Fervor, the passion of lacing up boots as we Look to each other, then down at our soles… I simply can’t tell how he swims through the streets But he’ll lasso the moon so his sweet girl will grin And he’ll always to this because, well, that’s just him.
His sinewy blushes will lead me astray And he’ll move me too fast, with the speed of a train. Il a un peu de ce “je ne sais quoi,” For we’ll hear the music of the bricks in the walls, Of the smirk of his blazer and the laugh of my shawl, Of the joining of souls as we two become one, And the voice of our passion as it blasts like a gun. We’ll always and always burn up by the light Of each other’s shadows, as they glow in the night.
“Signs” by Anonymous There is broken glass everywhere. I can hear an ambulance siren in the distance. In the background I realize that they are taking her away. How did it get to this? How could I have not pieced together all of the signs to realize what was going on? Marisol had gone home sick today from school. She had told the teachers that she wasn’t feeling well, but when I had seen her she seemed fine. When we chatted before class she was very closed off and clipped in our conversations, but Marisol was always quiet and brief when she talked. She was naturally a shy girl and, as most everyone called her, the school nerd; a school nerd who never missed or skipped school, even when she was sick. That should have been my first sign. I had decided to visit my dear friend and knowing that she would want the homework, began walking along the trail that lead to her house. Usually the trail would be crowded, but today there wasn’t a single soul there. Instead there were these strange red marks all over the ground. Ignoring the anxiety eating at me, I finally reached Marisol’s house. There were no lights on and the door was wide open. Marisol was always a very careful girl. She had a lock for her window just in case anyone tried to sneak in. But her front door was wide open; yet another sign that was overlooked as I causally walked into the house. Silence; that was all I could hear. There was no music, no talking, and definitely no Marisol. Her house was never quiet. Whether her parents were screaming at each other for a divorce, or if Marisol had her music blasting from the speakers, Marisol’s house could never be described as quiet. This time it was silent; no breathing. An ear-piercing scream brought me out of my reverie. Rushing to the bathroom, I realized why my friend had gone home early and what the red marks were. I finally understood the signs, but it was too late. “Daily Commute” by Andrew Austin “In this short poem, I wanted to capture the grimy sensory cacophony that is the modern freeway.”
The revving sound of thoughts driving by— Scraping the sky’s blurry clouds and Roaring across paved lines, Thudding and growling. The silent cries of sharp clangs and crashes, Pulling along beside classic models
With mirrors mercilessly reflecting the past. Emissions coat the pavement, Staining transfigured pebbles That radiate harsh reflections, And warm with molten heat, Forging links of chain.
“Broken Doll” by Shruti Aggarwal “I was thinking of Ideas for surreal picture and hit on the idea of dolls. They are puppets in their master’s hands and can be forced down any path. This picture emphasizes the bond between perfection and corruption.”
“mmMm” by Orr Amran “I wanted to do a picture based on the artwork of Sarah Sitkins.”
“Skate” by Nichole Baffone
“clairBear” by Orr Amran “My favorite childhood movie was Mulan and due to my fixation on the movie I tried to find images that related to it.”
“The Pill” by Collin Butke Watch me take it. Watch me take the pill, That sits under the window sill. Out the vial it was spilled, Capable as any man to kill. Man-made, who was made by god. Just watch the pill get up, Walk to me and jump into my chest To fill an empty space left by memories. It’s no addiction, The emergency brake is within reach. The completion of mind and body Cemented by blood. Place a camera upon My helmet of self-consciousness. Stick a tape recorder in my mind, To capture pain and doubt. That grows stronger as the pill loses trust. Numbness wares off after mental battles. Once it does feelings become as passionate As the first true tears of three years. Never has true love struck me, But its burning sensation has been felt.
The flame has faded away, Taking the route of dead cells. Brain cells never being replaced, Leaving gaps and scars. As these cells leave, They buy new locks for my trust’s door. Can impair my vision, The pill is still in sight. Thick air and bad water Won’t mend my scars Or stitch up my gaps. They fill them up and drain. These gaps small but numerous, Encase my passion, That is too large to be released. This passion which is never spoken of, Only allowed to roam free in solitary confinement. The strength to pull the jail cell’s bars apart Is missing from the attributes, No amount of dilution That are listed on a business card. Let alone the strength To even pick up a fork. Once the tainted blood rushes through,
No amount of dilution That are listed on a business card. Let alone the strength To even pick up a fork. Once the tainted blood rushes through, The body becomes more magnified to the ground. Too much has the opposite effect. Only if I could let out these thoughts at night, Without these mosquitos sucking my blood. To spread my disease to the innocent. That’s why I stay inside, That’s why the presence of darkness is feared. No sight of dangers or conse quences. Want to see me take it? Take the pill? Sadly, the moon can’t cast a shadow on the pill. And the walls of my house are too thick. Trust me, It’s hard to see in this self-pro claimed darkness.
“Writer’s Block” by Ashley Siavoshi I sit down behind my desk
But today she is missing
“I cry for yesterday’s ghosts”
6 o’clock
I stare at the blank papers in front of me
Nothing complete, nothing done.
And try to write something cohesive
The paper yawns and eats my words
But all I end up with are sparse feathers of thought
As if to say
The same time I sat here yesterday The same time I will sit here tomorrow So why is it my muse won’t come
“a vacuum cleaner turned on somewhere near my heart”
She’s always been sitting on the windowsill
“a laugh louder than the sun”
“what’s wrong with you today.” “I’m sorry!” I scream at it in return.
“Doc Strides” by Hannah Exler “I wrote this poem as a birthday present to one of my really good friends.” Emerald eyes sparkle as she sings the lyrics That matches the tone of her heart And her big smile Brims with a confidence that sometimes even she cannot see She’s in love with her beat-up Perks novel That’s been folded and warped Much like the nine others who have read it
And maybe even cried over it Red velvet dyed her hair years before it was ‘in’ And she cursed at the conformists That tried to make it appear original Her infatuations bring in an influx of souls Musicians, smokers, the hopeless, the dreamers
But her love for an innocent blonde And a distorted brunette Remains unchanging There is no such thing as too many docs Just as there are never enough cats And she will never go to law school Because her world is a kaleidoscope
“Witness” by Shruti Aggarwal Deprived of friendship
With a sword of words
That boy, now a man
Due to other’s haste
I watch him cry
Still recalls that day
A stain left on his heart The sadness on his face
How he now fears others Never once did I
And stays out of their way
Keep him away The child of shadows hides
The sticks and stones
His eyes tell a story
Away in the back of the school
I did not delay
Yet, I keep a distance
From the kids that hurt him His misery is their fuel
I know he wants help I realize now My eternal mistake
The children’s weapons are sharp
Being only the witness
I watch him die
Baring this dull ache
But, I am only the witness.
“Because of You” by Anonymous
I am the girl from the mental hospital. That girl who no one wants to befriend is me. Why? The answer is simple, really. I live in an asylum. People don’t want to know me. They worry that they will be contaminated. They believe they will get my illness. Don’t they realize? You can’t. No one can get my illness. I am sure you are wondering why no one can. That is because I am not sick. The doctors tell me I have Schizophrenia. They think I can’t tell what the reality is. They are wrong! These doctors don’t see the reality. Otherwise, they would see her. I ask them to look for her every day. She wanders past my window at night. She is by my side when I wake up. She is like the friend that I have never had. Yet, I don’t know who she is. She won’t tell me. I ask her, but she only nods and disappears. I ask the nurse, who comes in to check my blood pressure, where my dear friend goes. Her answer is the same every time. “Have you taken your medication yet? I am sure your friend will come back when you do.” No, she won’t. She never comes back when I want her to. Today, a doctor came in to talk to me. He asked me, “Do you know why you are here?” I answered that I did. I was here because I needed to help my friend. On hearing this he informed me that I didn’t have any friends. He said that I used to have one. She used to be with me always until she died. I asked him to describe her. But I couldn’t focus on his words for as he spoke she appeared outside the window. I pointed to her and whispered softly that she was there. She was standing right there, with her golden locks swaying slightly from a breeze that I couldn’t feel. Her brown eyes were dull and contrasted with her blood red dress. I begged the doctor to tell me how my wonderful companion died. I watched, bewildered, as my friend opened her mouth and the doctor’s next words flew over my ears. “She died because of you.”
“50’s Cartoon” by Collin Butke Looking at my past I have been fronting like a head wind of a plastic monsoon. Lying became such a habit, words that were so unworldly false That I regretted them as they slipped from my lips. So fake that The Truman Show director had hopes of A sequel. What kills me even more is when I think
“Who am I?” I am at the point where I only stall No full answers given. I lie to the person I should be true to the most, Myself. The bush has been beaten with varieties of weapons and ways The bush cannot be broken, And the only way through Is through it.
Sadly once you get through You face a maze. As you progress scars are etched onto your body So you can retrace your steps Depicting wrong turns and dead ends. Once the exit has been reached, The scars spell the words TRUTH And following the letters is the only way out.
“Help” by Shruti Aggarwal
“Nothing” by Mangled Butterfly So, there’s this girl. EW. Stop thinking that way. I’m not a guy/girl with a crushy-gushy, lovey-dovey, kissy-face emoticons story to tell. I have a different story. And, I think more people can relate to this than what you initially thought I was talking about. What was that anyways? I’m curious now... Anyway, all I want are your eyes, to see through mine on this journey of disaster, your ears, to hear the heart-crushing words I had to endure, and most of all feel the feelings I had and still have. Welcome to my nightmare. Whoops, I meant life. When you hear the phrase ‘heart-crushing’ what do you think? A hammer smashing into the delicate organ that keeps us all alive and breaking it into a million pieces? Someone throwing a heart, resembling a head of lettuce out of a two story-building, having it fall to its doom? I guess you’re kinda right. Except instead of a hammer, think bigger, like a piano! And, raise the two-story to a 28-story. Make more sense? Can you understand how much her words hurt me? I guess not. I’m still floating on this boat, by myself, in the middle of my sea of thoughts. I just wanted someone to try and swim out here to provide me with some company. It gets awful lonely. Maybe if I visualize in a different way. She was a lasso that grabbed me and pulled me in. After a while she stopped choking me, but held me close on a leash of persuasive words. Every now and then she would let me stray from her watchful eye, to live the life I was supposed to. But just as quickly as she let me go, she would take me back. She would tug me around to join conversations. “I agree with her,” were practically the only words that left my mouth. Sure, I wanted to say more, but she wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes I would bark out my own opinions about things or not come when called and I would be punished. After a while, I became nothing but a tired, worn-out soul belonging to her. I forgot my name. I forgot her name. I was ‘pet’ and she was ‘master.’ When in public, she would keep me close but push me away if I was standing (or sitting) between her and someone much more interesting. I was the dirt beneath her One Direction converse. But, I guess dirt can still be there to comment nicely on her hair or give her a shoulder to cry on. Wait, dirt has shoulders? I guess that adds to my weirdness. I was nothing to her. And I never really realized why I stayed. Maybe I thought that someday she would finally ask me, “How are you?” after venting about her own life. Maybe she could finally be the one I could confide all my secrets in without them being used to blackmail me or make fun of me with. Maybe she could be the one Best Friend every person in this whole damn universe has except me. But I guess not. She has other dirt specks. She has other pets. I’m nothing special. I’m nothing but a head of lettuce beneath a Grand Piano. And I guess I always will be.
“Tools of Art” by Noah Rashba “I wanted to portray one of the most recognizable artist’s tools in its most basic form. The piece itself is simple and of course, colorful, just as most art should be.”
“Ever-Watching” by Lynn Wang “This painting is part of my AP Art Portfolio, and features a garden with various facial parts growing amongst the foliage. I like the eerie feeling the painting gives off, as well as the bright colors.”
“Snow Devils” by Kailee Canty Northern stars fall down from the midnight sky. They congeal delicately on my pale and excited countenance. The flutter of eyelashes is heavy with ice. All four of our voices are masked by the crunches and crackles beneath our boots, trotting down an aged wooden path. Intimate motor chariots bide with anticipation with stares of headlights luring us in, slowly capturing our young and reckless innocence. I grasp onto a comfortably cordial back of a lover, and a friend climbs on behind another. Two to a bike, making a pair of unlikely but lust gazed couples. Lyrics of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers and Elvis Presley haunt our tongues and our lips, like a muscle memory. Heartbeats are lost forever in the roaring engine, along with opinions, cares, and concerns. Four small town rebels accelerating dangerously into black snow. Pursuing a seemingly infinite road that ignites a raging fire releasing a thousand suns burning with thrill lighting our way through the crisp, dark night. Wide eyes with elation, excitement, passion, adventure, buzz, fear, exhilaration, fright, enchantment, complete and utter felicity. Our hummingbird hearts are racing to be frozen in this moment of compassion, to last forever. If I am to die soon then let it be in the bliss of this Heaven. The faster he accelerates, I am more aware I become of my iced face. I hide my numb self behind his melting body. His warms hands graze my frozen fingers. Then, immediately, the machine jolts to a halt. Barn lights hold my eyes. Dancing through the midnight fall. Beyond a jammed and broken door. Thick breathes of warm cigarette smoke and hay radiate heat within. Our breathing condensates a near window that once revealed a rebirth: refreshing Montana snow washing away distant California sunshine memories. Now, his gaze is divided amongst the window and I. Anticipation to return to the bike. Contemplation of frozen lips kissing stars.
“A Balancing Act” by Lauren Zamfir Enter the center of the city, and walk to a tall building with a briefcase in your hand, shielding the blinding light that’s reflecting off of the windows. Take the elevator to the twenty-second story, walk down the corridor and enter your room. It has three walls, and the wall behind you is actually the window looking outside. It’s so high up you feel like you can see the entire world, limitless possibilities. You sit comfortably at your desk, working on a document your boss told you to write. Suddenly, a shot rings through the silence. You jump up and look out the glass wall. Looking down, you see chaos. People are being shot and stabbed; blood is everywhere. You watch. I’m down there, fighting, trying to keep them out so that you won’t get hurt, but I can’t help you for long. Watch. Eventually, you can’t bear looking any longer. You contemplate coming down and fighting, but you’re too afraid. You’ve been hurt before, and you don’t want it to happen again. So, you pull out a bucket of paint. You start painting over the window, covering the entire thing. You paint a beautiful landscape of green hills and butterflies and a rainbow and the sun and you look at it and think that your mind has been opened to new ideas. You paint a dragon and a unicorn and you keep going, ignoring the shots of death down below. Avoiding reality, hiding from it. You think you’re doing the right thing, it feels good. It looks good. You like it so much better than watching the pain, and risking anything that you could lose. If you take the paint off the window, you feel vulnerable- people will be able to see you. What if you fall? Will you be able to pick yourself back up? It’s easier to live in this world, one that you created. It’s convenient. I call you, and you answer. ‘Chip away at the paint!’ I say, ‘Look at the world, its infinite opportunities! It’s a struggle, to fight on a day to day basis, but maybe, just maybe, its worth it.’ I keep fighting, but if I keep trying to protect you I’ll get hurt. I might even die. You look at the small knife that you could use to chip away the paint. It would take so much effort, so much work to keep chipping, chipping away at the paint. You’d have to look outside and see the pain and risk the life you knew. Is it worth it? Painting was so easy. This was easy. But what if they got past me and they got to you. You wouldn’t know what to do, you’ve never learned, never experienced the effort. When you go down and fight, you learn how to defend yourself. You become strong. You grow. But you’ve never learned. You’d die. It’s a struggle. Chip, chip, chip away the paint. The pain. And finally, you look outside. The fight is over. The sun is shining upon the road that can take you wherever you want to go. All you have to do now is walk. It’s all just a balancing act.
Letter From the Editor Dear Reader, When we announced that we were accepting submissions for this edition of Wings, my team and I were not expecting so many amazing submissions. From creative short stories to emotional poems and visionary works of art, we have seen that Oak Park is not only strong in its acedemics and sports, but also in its creative minds. I would like to personally thank every person who submitted something for this edition of Wings, even though not every piece was published. It is because of artists, writers, painters, and poets like you that this magazine was even made possible and my team and I are inspired to continue our efforts to make it available to you. Please consider submitting pieces for our next editions and joining the editing team. I would also like to thank my amazing team for sticking with me through tight deadlines and a stressful few weeks of intensive work. - Ashley Siavoshi, Editor-in-Chief
Staff Members
Mission Statement
Editor-in-Chief
The Wings literary magazine’s purpose is to promote teen creativity through writing, art, and photography. Editions are published twice a year.
Ashley Siavoshi Layout Editor
Shruti Aggarwal Poetry Editor
Vani Bharawaj Short Story Editor
We welcome comments on any of the pieces featured in this edition. Please email all comments, questions, and ideas to OPHSwings@hotmail.com.
Juliana Furgala Art Editor
Lynn Wang
Interested in joining the editing staff next school year? Email OPHSwings@hotmail.com to be added to the mailing list.