The Scribbler | Lost and Found by Pine Crest School

Lost & Found The Scribbler Volume 53 May 2019 Cover Art Courtesy of Delaney Dardet 2

EDITORIAL STAFF EDITOR IN CHIEF Ilana Hutzler DESIGN EDITOR Olivia Pettee LAYOUT EDITORS Fatima Minhas Madison Smith

ARTISTS Alana van Woerkom Delaney Dardet Emilia Velasquez Olivia Winnick ADVISOR Ms. Macy Dailey

TABLE OF CONTENTS WRITTEN WORK 5 Enough | Haley Cisewski

34 The Words Don’t Flow | Emma Gomez

5 Silk Blue Grey | Elizabeth Brown

37 Ode to Filling Things | Ilana Hutzler

10 Tuscon, Arizona | Ilana Hutzler

39 UFO | Hank Ingham

7 Ant Hills | Bianca Simons

41 RUN | Maya El-Sharif

12 I Have One Thing Only | Alana Friedlander

42 Longing | Kevin Harvey

16 Order & Chaos | Neil Sachdeva

44 The History Keeper | Ellis Osborn

20 Memories | Ari Bernick

46 Unwavering | Bianca Simons

23 Unfinished Book | Athena Myers

49 First Period, Reading Aloud | Olivia Pettee

24 Blackout | Haley Cisewiski

51 The Swing in my Backyard | Ilana Hutzler

25 It’s Dripping Outside | Elizabeth Brown

53 Rules of a Teenager | Mynda Barenholtz

27 A Step Outside | Katherine Minielly

54 The Strength of a Butterfly | Elizabeth Brown

29 A Slow Death | Natalie Berman

56 Haze | Ilana Hutzler

31 You Were a Hurricane | Ilana Hutzler

57 My Love for your Smile | Catrina Reyes

32 Moonrise Over Texas | Olivia Pettee

27 Glare | Saumya Jain

ART WORK

Skydiving Map | Lorrie Axelrod 6

Ant Hills Bianca Simons

I feel like an ant Looking at everyone walk over me Trying to squirm in a world so far ahead of me My heart weighs like a brick Spreading the blood of contempt for all the fall backs of my past Held together by fragile strands of will Almost nothing left Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m swaddled in a ball of depreciation Trying to find a route in this maze of mediocrity I dream of more Attempting not to fall in the ditch of adequacy Or to stand in the muck of normalcy But to find flight with ability, And soar in the remarkable Yet Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m stuck climbing ant hills Watching others conquer the Himalayas Continuing to follow in a line of consistency Afraid to venture into the unknown Though the cry of opportunity calls my name My fear of failing glues me to the floor of familiar Leaving me to only dream of prosperity 7

Once Upon a Time | Sarah Gotkin

By: Vanessa

Luster | Vanessa Wildman

Enough

Haley Cisewski

A sky full of stars and my breath was taken, My heart tugged, lungs clenched, he wasn’t brilliant, not beautiful, not perfect. Glowing eyes looking millions of miles away one of them is you, and you were enough.

Silk Blue Grey Elizabeth Brown

Crown of glory above the soul was dipped in petals of pink lilies and carnations. You’re royal now, though you always had the touch of majesty. I remember you without the crown, without the petals, you gave glory to me. A jewel above my head, now you’ll always guide me.

Imagine

Jules Guilfu

Opuestas| Athena Myers

Contemplations | Liza McMahan 13

Tuscon, Arizona Ilana Hutzler

tus manos huelen a centavos, your hands smell like pennies, he says. he’s five, i’m six. i cup them to my face and breathe in. they smell like change i threw them in the fountain behind my house in Honduras. closed my eyes and wished for arroz con leche. i don’t wish anymore. i only pray. pray to God, beg to see my mother again, promise i will be a good girl and help with the cooking, por favor, Dios let me hug her. i close my eyes tight, don’t smell pennies anymore, my hands smell of the charm on my mother’s necklace double-knotted for me before la migra pinned

her against the wall of our house. brown rope and silver sun. el mismo sol, she whispered. the same sun, and kissed my forehead in the swirling blue light. i clutched it between my fingers until the man in blue tore it off, dirty fingernails on my neck. i don’t smell pennies anymore, my hands remind me of cuffs locked on trembling wrists. scrape until i bleed. i hit them against the back window as we drove away, my mother crying mija, crumpled on the unpaved road. no, my hands don’t smell like pennies or wishing fountains. i turn to the boy and tell him they smell like lágrimas, like tears.

Zika Baby Julia Tannenbaum

I Have One Thing Only Alana Friedlander

I have three things and three things only, my mother, my father, and the ground beneath me. We entered the camp with no hope or fate, we stood next to each other, unaware that our hands would separate. I have two things and two things only, my father and the ground beneath me. We go through the labor, the sickness and the pain, even the harsh winters when we had nothing to gain. Then suddenly he left me, and I wanted to turn back, nobody beside me, all the love I lack. I have one thing and one thing only, the ground beneath me, the pain below me. Ground help me, I’ve got no one but you! After all that we’ve been through, you still let me down. I don’t step on leaves, I step on the lost souls. And the worst part about it, I don’t miss anyone at all.

Lost in the Woods | Jake Malis

Appreciated Nature Joshua Koolik

depths of the ocean a world full of elegance hidden from our eyes ‘ suddenly blooming as sun soaks into rich leaves understood beauty unlike all things else a sky of infinite hue brightening our lives

Order & Chaos Neil Sachdeva

Order, the immovable object, Remaining steadfast regardless of obstacles. Chaos, the unstoppable force, Chipping away at the foundation of Order. Life, Death. The product of two clashing titans. A never-ending cycle.

The Pole | Dimitri Politano

“Perfectly balanced, As all things should be.”

n e s â&#x20AC;&#x2DC; g s y

e e s

Kayaking in Montuk | Olivia Pettee

2020

Tribe | Alana van Woerkom

Open Sails | Natalie Klar

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MEMORIES Ari Bernick

Childish chalk drawing on warm concrete,

I stare at you in awe of your masterpiece. Yet, I forever fear the rain. The rain that will suddenly, wash you away.

Lipwork | Olivia Pettee

Alpha Beta | Alana van Woerkom

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Anticipation | Olivia Pettee 24

Unfinished Book I am an unfinished book Though I am full of written pages There is a multitude of blank ones left to fill It is not an abandoned work But simply one yet to be completed My pages are ragged Like the surface of a mountain Demanding and wearisome to get through But feasible My pages are uncut

Athena Myers

Like a raw film Full of complete sincerity and vulnerability No editing Writing a book is arduous work It takes tears and pain It takes love and understanding It takes truth And it takes time

Blackout

Haley Cisewiski

Scars, millions of them yet, none compare to the ones you left, the ones that cloud my brain, destroy my heart, and drain me of tears, where did you go? leaving me picking up pieces, pieces that were nowhere to be found, hoping to blackout and take me to Neverland. 25

The Strength of a Butterfly Elizabeth Brown

Within the spirit, I gather confidence. A fearless fragility. Soft-spoken, yet I hear the battle cry reverberate among the stars. An armored cicada rides the petals of roses, a pawn to the queen. Opposition begone! But donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t waste a breath requesting what never had been.

Mandela Effect | Megan Guido 26

Dripping Outside Elizabeth Brown

A sky covered over with silk lies above me today. Porcelain drops crack on my skin, giving me the cloud I always wanted. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve heard that rain brings sadness, but when I wake up in the tinted world, with gentle taps above my head, I begin to breathe water until it pours.

Magic | Lauren Howe

Talking to a Horse | Julia Tannenbaum

A Step Outside

Katherine Minielly

As soon as I walk thorugh the white gate onto the soft mulch path, I leave one world and enter a new one. The commotion of the outside world turns into the quiet chirping of birds as the piles of work move towards the back of my head. The concrete walls melt away into a nature scene that looks as if it could be out of a book. A bench beckons me from its shady nook, and the mulch softly crunches under my feet as I make my way over. As I sit down, I am enveloped into nature and the beauty that surrounds me. The fresh air fills my lungs, the sun illuminating the world around me. I hear a fountain splashing into the background, as the gentle breeze rustles my hair. The vivid green grass surrounds me as I sit. As I look up, I see the lush foliage rustling in the wind, as a bright green iguana catches my eye scampering up a tree. I turn down to the pen and paper resting on my lap. My mind cleared, transported to its happy place, my pen touches the paper and I begin to write.

Glare | Saumya Jain

UNDRESSED | Saumya Jain

A Slow Death Natalie Berman

We had no choice but to seek shelter fast. Tears fell down my mother’s face, hard and fast, like a rushing waterfall. We had heard warnings on the radio, but we did not think it would be this severe. She looked at me as if it was the last time she would ever see me. It was early, 6:00 AM. I was awakened by the yelling of my mother and the wailing of the wind. Fifteen hours were dreadful. The trees outside of my house went down like dominoes. My special tree, the beautiful palm tree that had been there for as long as I could remember, collapsed. It uttered its last cry and simply snapped in half. I wanted to get up and run, but I was paralyzed with fear. “Get in the closet! Get in the closet!” my mom yelled frantically. It had been raining for weeks, and the river near my house was already at its peak. I watched as the river continued to rise, and rise... and rise. Before I knew it, water had surged and everything was ruined. The chairs toppled and my fence blew apart. Hours had passed, and our roof was on the verge of flying off. There was no way our shabby, little home in Louisiana could withstand these winds. The lights flickered off. It went dark. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew great danger was upon us. In the course of fifteen hours, Satan had taken over. Our home was no longer safe.

Windswept | Delaney Dardet

You Were a Hurricane Ilana Hutzler

i was a house with my blinds open, doors unlocked. wind slapped the trees, shattered the front window, someone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dining room table swam in the kitchen. rain pounded the roof until my head ached. was that the eye? exhaled, swept up your mistakes with broken glass, accepted your flimsy, blue tarp apology. but you raised your voice, raged and i remembered why storms are named after people. rain poured into windows already broken, a tree through the roof, bricks strewn like confetti, the lights flickering off.

Open Seas | Austin Brattli 33

Moonrise Over Texas Olivia Pettee

On a cherry evening the side city saturated with the last of daylight, I catch a glimpse out my window. For a moment I squint, focus on the moon above – a toe nail in the crowded sky— I look into the moon’s silver eyes and I am there egg-yolked sun sliding over my head in the desert. Watching in a patch of still shade as the moon half empty climbs the valley stuck between two crooked mountains blanketed in thick color the air drips of honey fresh from last night’s rain. The sun a dead bullfighter long past Texas.

I would rather be so sticky that I melt in my skin instead of so cold and bitter in the cities of the East, sometimes smothering you in its mechanical heartbeat, until you forget that you are suffocating. So come again going moon, washing over me, take me back over the mountain of the West and let me join you. Scatter me in your freckled stars, roll me out over the rest of rugged Earth and your tides.

Saloon | Alana van Woerkom

The Words Don’t Flow

Emma Gómez

Hay algunas palabras, Que no puedo decir. Y no es porque son malas Pero porque simplemente no las sé.

There are some words, That I can’t say. And it’s not because they are bad, But because I just don’t know them.

And these words I should know, But my mouth can’t form them And I’m lost in a world Between my two cultures. Ahora aprendí más palabras Pero todavía estoy perdida Entre mis mundos differentes De escuela y familia.

Now I learned more words, But I am still lost. Between my different worlds Of school, and family.

Because the two are the same And yet very different For in one of the worlds My words don’t catch in my throat. Estoy mejorando, Porque estoy aprendiendo. Las palabras que no sabía Ahora en mi memoria

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I am getting better. Because I am learning. The words that I didn’t know Now in my memory.

Y no las puedo usar perfectamente, Pero están allí, Si un día, Las quiero usar. And that is the difference, Although it is small. Yes, the words don’t flow, But at least I know Que ya existen en mi mente.

And I can’t use them perfectly, But they are there. If one day, I want to use them.

That they already exist in my mind.

Buddah | Joshua Koolik

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POP | Saumya Jain

Ode to Filling Things

use all the lines on the paper, Ilana Hutzler front and back, i don’t have space for all these notebooks. i tape pictures to my wall until i can’t tell what color paint is underneath, pour orange juice into a glass, sand into my mouth and it crunches between my teeth, some spaces aren’t meant to be filled i guess. i fill the gaps between my knuckles with hot coals pour words into the gaping hole between us. they don’t mean anything. we both know that. pour orange juice into a glass and watch it spill onto the kitchen table keep pouring and pouring until the floor is sticky pour myself onto the floor until there is no empty space left to fill and my secrets stick to the bottoms of your shoes.

Whisper | Olivia Winnick

UFO

Hank Ingham

Carl was a man from the north of Vermont. He lived a happy life; there wasn’t much he could want. Sure, he’d lost his wife, Sloan, and he had aches in his bones, But with his son John, he was never alone. All in all, their life was of happiness and mirth, The only tragedy being Sloan’s death in childbirth. Carl’s main focus was on paternal care; Perhaps overprotective, he followed John everywhere. Their house was at the outskirts of the woods, So the wild was practically their neighborhood. This pleased naturalist John to no end As he could easily rendezvous with his animal friends.

Now and again Carl would have to take trips To further his professional relationships. Reluctantly convinced of the maturity of his son, For babysitting Carl didn’t hire anyone. Entering the woods in the midafternoon And intending to return to the house soon, John was confused when the sky went dark, And everything was silent, from cricket to lark. One day while Carl was away, John wanted to go to the forest to play. Though he was forbidden to do so ‘til his father returned, He figured there was no way he’d be caught doing what he yearned.

John was a quiet but intelligent boy, Favoring nature walks over any toy. On these walks Carl would often convoy; After all, John was his pride and joy.

Entering the woods in the midafternoon And intending to return to the house soon, John was confused when the sky went dark, And everything was silent, from cricket to lark.

Carl worked from home figuring out clients’ tax, Corresponding by phone, sending documents by fax. This allowed him to spend most of his time with John

Through the shadow pierced a ray Brighter than the sun in the middle of the day. Temporarily blinded by this light in his eyes, After a moment John noticed its source in the sky.

When he realized what was happening he started to scream: A flying saucer had him caught in a tractor beam! He felt his body enter the atmosphere Rigid and tense, paralyzed with fear. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes Was a legion of gray-skinned insectoid guys. Who knew what nightmarish things Might be done to him by these freaks with wings? When Carl returned from his trip there was no trace At all of his son, or his youthful face. In the forest he searched every blade of grass Letting nothing under his nose pass. Alas, this fastidiousness was to no avail, So there was nothing for Carl to do but wail. As tears flooded his sorry eyes He turned his face up to the sky. “O mighty God, or what powers there be, Please send my Johnny back to me!” From the heavens the aliens heard this plea, And stopped their experimentation to set John free.

When the aliens returned him to Earth John looked a little different from how he looked at birth. Now his body featured horns and four toes And three nostrils were bored in his nose. Nevertheless, his father was ecstatic That John had survived an event this traumatic. As they enveloped each other in a firm embrace, Carl saw in the distance a familiar face. Could it be that this shadowy shape, Pale as the tundra and stretched tall as an ape, Had once before the end of its life Been the woman that he called his wife? As the form approached it became clear That it was indeed Sloan after all of these years. Of course, she’d been resurrected, he assumed; Her shape and complexion made sense for having been exhumed. The aliens watched from above with their circulators warm. This reunion of man, abductee, and cadaver was well outside the norm. The family was happy to be back together on the ground; They had been lost, but now were found.

Run

Maya El-Sharif

I simply kept running. The hair rushing behind me as I sprinted from tree to tree, the world shaking by my side. I could not stop to see the sun, the birds, the flowers. I could not stop out of fear of what was behind me, so I kept on running. I let my fear drive me forward, and had little time to think. The shadow of the past trailing not far behind. I remembered my inability to fit the standard, my friendsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; constant reminder that I had to be the best. I remembered my parents comforting me, until they were not there anymore. I remember when I was a little girl with two pigtails in my hair, the only worry I ever had was what outfit my dolls should wear, and now as a continue to sprint away from darkness that was my life, I seek nothing but to find myself, so I just continued running.

Joshua Koolik

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Creation | Joshua Koolik

Longing

Kevin Harvey

My mind is in turmoil as to whether I am happy or not My body aches and yearns for the feeling of wholeness I beg and scream and cry for the pain to stop But the brain is a place of torture that keeps planting seeds making worrisome thoughts grow Dark thoughts like pools of blood are scattered throughout my psyche Dripping through every part of my brain slowly swallowing all the blank space I do not deserve to feel happy is what is whispered to me in my dreams I do not deserve to feel anything other than sadness That is what I have planted in my brain But I know that there is always a rainbow There is always a light at the end of the tunnel There is always a way to get better.

WAVE | Gabriel Sareli

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Contortion | Saumya Jain

Rules of a Teenager

Mynda Barenholtz

Growing up young the rules seem simple to do what’s right and never stray but when everything changes, the boundaries unhinge, and everything seems to suspend. Everyone trying to find themselves but they are standing still; What’s there to look for When everyone is the same? Nothing’s out of the norm except what’s in the norm, so the rebels all leave and go back ot their life, where they have everything they need except peace of mind. They find adventure so thrilling while everybody else is trying to follow the rules.

Countryside Train | Chase Cuento

The History Keeper My last name from my parents, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more than a name to me. It conveys a story of my ancestors sailing the Atlantic Sea. My heritage shows tales of my great family tree, Rooted deep in the ground, now pointed to me. I feel proud to have a name that displays how I began, It all started with a young Polish man. Family began in Europe and made their first trip, Leaving from Warsaw on a great sailing ship. After long and tired days, they made to land, Beginning with meeting people and giving helping hands. They made it to my island, an immigration station, Which gave my family hope, and my parents a name inspiration. My parents loved Florida, moved to my home, Beaches with fine sand, waves with white foam. Parker, my middle name, was passed down from generations Who spent their lives uncovering this great American nation. My first name lacks meaning. I define it: strong and proud, A name that compels me to stand out from the crowd. My name, an antique watch, pristine edge of brass, Not history to be placed behind museum glass. Although only a name, my name means inspiration. It encourages me to be creative with much excitation. I cherish appreciate my name, it conveys my past, Which will never be lost, only remembered to last.

Ellis Osborn

Haze

Hidden Treasure | Molly See

Ilana Hutzler

i think the things i don’t expect are golden, things i want are unexceptional. the nights i mean to sleep, the world unfolds to far-fetched stories, barely legible. last night i dreamt i saw a boy in green without a face. a voice that smeared like dirt, i wonder what you look like, seventeen, and swallow sand until my stomach hurts. but i don’t fear that i can’t see you clearly, smudge of ink that stains the creaky swing. for when i see you closely, it will sear. we’ll drift above the flames on smoky strings. what lies beyond this murky, starlit sky remains a mystery. i close my eyes.

Unwavering Bianca Simons

“The world has changed for us,” they said “We are now all free” Statements like these hit me like a gulp of spit Filled with slivers of their unwavering ignorance They are not familiar with my America Their suits of white privilege Are armour with shades That blinds them from the shattering of my brother’s heart As he falls slowly from the glocks of fear Their protector has a built in mouthpiece That guards them from a dry mix of cement and sharp grass my sister tasted As the hands of her overseer were grasped around her neck Their blockade comes with compact headphones That deafens them to the cry of my mother As she feels the coldness of her child’s corpse for the first time You see, our mahogany undertones Act as their caution warning A trigger that signals their red and blue sirens Our bodies are still chained to their plantations Where we are left to rummage outside their prison fields.

No matter what bread crumbs they toss our way We are still in Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house Where my brothers are painted red And my sisters drawn as unworthy In the realms of this picket fence I find myself in a constant state of grief Wondering when the next casket Will be dedicated to me.

Building Olivia Pettee

First Period, Reading Aloud Olivia Pettee

The bell rings in first period English class on a Monday. The desks are arranged with a King Arthur equality; there is nowhere to look but at each other. Nobody listens as the teacher begins to read a letter by a Spanish poet. I imagine him: a ghost of a man, gray and weathered. His shoulders ache of soreness and death from standing against mountains. The teacher pronounces every vowel, widens his jaw as fistfuls of words fill up cavities between desks—grandfather and Brooklyn and God— the class is silent. I press my ears against the room—mattresses and Skittles and grit—to find a heartbeat in the girl next to me in the boy across the room in the bus drivers outside in the poet in the syllables Everyone is crying. I do not remember the name of the poet, or what else I did that day, the reason for writing the letter. I can still hear the absence of morning sounds— The bell rings. We unfold ourselves from our chairs. I take one last look: sunlight streaming down the walls, like golden veins.

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not I... | Delaney Dardet

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The Swing In My Backyard Ilana Hutzler dad built it decades ago, rotting wood cries when i sit. i am not six years old anymore, i can not close my eyes and drift over orange canyons, no, i scrape at splintered tree trunk searching for beginnings. dig until sap stains my knuckles and bark grows under my nails. red hands, rope-burn and rejection sting the same. the swing a penny, sinks slowly into the earth, and copper corrodes to green. fistfuls of uncut grass.

Kite | Delaney Dardet 5252

Fall | Taylor McClain

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My Love for your Smile Catrina Reyes

held between my hands is a photograph of a child with a familiar face. the smile of the child is so sweet, i cannot help but feel the contagious warmth spread to my face.

time has taken away pieces of her angelic beauty.

the eyes of the child are so so bright, filled with a feeling of seemingly endless joy and hopefulness.

sometimes, I am unable to fend off the villains she has created.

spread out before me is the spillage from an album with more photos like these.

but it is the times when I help her win, and return that beautiful smile, that make my heart sing.

in one photo the child is dressed in a sunny yellow jacket, gripping the bars on a playground with glee her smile is so beautiful.

she has walked back into the room -

in another photo the child is looking away from the camera, laughing at the ticklish sea breeze her smile is so so beautiful. i have seen this smile before, it is the same smile that brings me the most joy on many many days.

it is the same smile that disappears into the shadows when swallowed up by the demons of her mind.

i scan her eyes there is no intruder knocking, I conclude. i close the album. she looks away absentmindedly and I think again: i will never let your smile disappear forever.

COLOPHON

The Scribbler, published annually, displays a diverse collection of literary and artistic work of Pine Crest School students. Our mission is to provide a forum and audience for emerging student writers and artists. Entries are solicited from the Upper School student body through a schoolwide call for submissions. We accept online submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art, and photography. Each year, the staff chooses a theme through popular vote. While not a requirement for publication, strong consideration may be given to pieces that demonstrate the theme. The meetings and production of the Scribbler occur outside of school hours. The current Editor -in- Chief, in consultation with the advisors, select the editors and staff writers annually based on applications and the previous yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s performance of duties. Students produce the Scribbler using InDesign and Photoshop. This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s title fonts are set in Kohinoor Bangla, and the body fonts are set in Avenir Next. The Scribbler offers print and electronic versions of the literary magazine. Print Dynamics of Fort Lauderdale, Florida print 100 perfect bound copies of the magazine which the editors deliver throughout the school.