The Scribbler
Vistas
Memoirs of a Traveler Nicole Maharaj
The Scribbler Vistas April 2016 Pine Crest School Volume 50
vista (n.) • a distant view or prospect;
a broad mental view
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
-Marcel Proust
Editorial Staff Editors-In-Chief Addison Donaher Jarryd Rauch
Design Editors Jake Nachlas Brittany Shore Nicole Morris
Managing Editors Mitchell Friedman Roshni Singh
Copy Editors Hiba Ismail Katherine Jovanovic Gabby Mahabeer
Layout Editors 4
Marvis Gutierrez Michi Pendergast
Literary Editors Samantha Haubenstock Ishani Singh
Advisors Mrs. Macy Dailey Mr. Jared Lemole
Art Editors Rachel Mondshine Lauren Valad Jenna Wittich
Editorial Staff Isabella Faife Kyle Mattone Hailey McEwan Matthew Merrigan Cayleigh Pine Caroline Sachse Jennifer Wilson
Table of Contents Prose
Assumption • Chloe Quail • 24 The Art of Writing • Michelle Pendergast • 32 The Beginning of the End • Caroline Sachse • 50
Digital Arts
Old Man in the Sea • Elizabeth Pozzuoli • 12 Multiples • Ginger Hollander • 17 Floating Keys • Isabella Faife • 28 Vintage • Ashby Bland • 35 Cotton Candy • Rachel Auslander •35 See No Evil • Ashby Bland • 45 A New Clearing • Caroline Sachse • 59 Rooftop • Chloe Quail • 60 A New City • Bryce Emmanuel • 79 Kaleidoscope • Taylor Bogdan • 81 Soaring • Lindsay Siegel • 85
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Poetry
Up and Up • Jodie Kahan • 10 New Horizons • Elliot Seckler • 13 Until We Die • Henry Ingham • 14 Nowhere To Start • Tyler Shevin • 16 Hey to You • Gabriel Ortega • 18 Fleeting Warmth • Kyle Mattone • 20 Symphony • Austin Fields • 27 Sweet Days May End in Fire • Caroline Sachse • 29 Dust to Dust • Arix-Yani Fabre • 30 360° • Leah Simon • 36 6 Rain/Lluvia • Lauren Valad • 37 And Then I’m Back Again • Lilliana de Souza • 38 The Scholar’s Odyssey • Carolina Salazar-Paranhos • 40 The Burning Cage • Gabrielle Mahabeer • 43 Scratches of Ink • Daniela Gomez • 44 Unveiling • Erin Carr • 54
Poetry
56 • Felipe Corredor • Blue 57 • Aly Lakhani • Red 58 • Ginger Hollander • The Fifth Sense 61 • Megan O’Brien • My Senses 64 • Camila Morales • The Secret Garden 66 • Jodie Kahan • The March of the Turtles 69 • Phoebe Scheidegger • The Last Sunset 70 • Jordyn Elliott • Citrus 72 • Lauren Britton • Choices 76 • Jodie Kahan • At the Bluebird 79 • Christopher Alexander • Man in Orange 7 80 • Ashby Bland • Concert, I 82 • Ashby Bland • Concert, II 84 • Jarryd Rauch • Unbridled 86 • Michelle Pendergast • For You 89 • Samantha Meade • El Siguiente Paso/The Next Step
Drawings, Paintings, and Sculpture
Little Girl • Leah Simon • 15 The Mask • Hadyn LeMay • 19 Portal • Jubin Gorgi • 21 Man With a Cat • Leah Simon • 22 Innocent • Lisa Zheutlin • 23 Fractured Portrait • Rachel Mondshine • 26 Memory • Lisa Zheutlin • 31 Melting • Hannah Cohen • 37 Lion • Rachel Mondshine • 42 Mind’s Eye • Jamie Flores • 46 8 Into the Woods • Jamie Flores • 48 Natural Reflections • Katherine Jovanovic • 49 Tracks • Ishani Singh • 53 Orchids • Erin Carr • 54
Drawings, Paintings, and Sculpture
55 • Lilliana de Souza • Rose 62 • Taylor Logue • Flow 63 • Saumya Jain • Castle In the Sky 65 • Lisa Zheutlin • Forest 67 • Ishani Singh • Turtle 68 • Rachel Mondshine • Snails 71 • Ishani Singh • Orange 73 • Samantha Meade • Crossbreeding 74 • Jamie Flores • Elephant 75 • Jamie Flores • Nest in the Air 78 • Hadley Jones • Nepalese Truck 9 83 • Leah Simon • Crystal 87 • Ishani Singh • Insanity 89 • Rachel Mondshine • Ram
Up and Up Jodie Kahan
They come for me in the morning hours when the moon tries to catch the sun and the dark fights so hard to stay that the sky cries droplets of blood-- thin and damp, soaking the soil. The man in the glittered carousel with wings like stratus clouds carries me, hiding 10 my feet from the blood of the morning— Chains of silk hook us to the ground. We float in the sky like vultures surveying the land below. Papa used to tell me dying is an art-“practice, practice, practice” pointing up, up, up-That’s my house without a fence—
But you can’t steal me. The carpet will eat your ankles-leaving only a sour brain like Mama’s sad soup. I smell the broth reeking of onions and spoiled milk. She looks so angry, her eyes peeling back like the paint on the walls. She burns her finger in the broth her skin slipping, splashing into my bowl. We drift over the park where I left my crayons in the sun. They melt like mama’s finger, pink and blue and green and yellow now brown—I wipe the wax over my eyes. The man with wings bites the silk turning it to ashes. We float up and up-everything becomes a black dot on the ground and I become a golden dot in the sky.
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Old Man in the Sea - Elizabeth Pozzuoli Digital Manipulation
New Horizons Elliot Seckler Open your eyes, For what lies before you, Is the past of all your achievements. Life ends as another day begins, But the journey is the ship, The ship from which you embark. All that is, All that isn’t, Is all but family alone. Odysseus applauds on. Just as Death welcomes your bond. For the light is what you can’t see. Continue your voyage across the seas, Bearing the wind propelling life forward. Because the end is near. However, the sunset is nothing greater than The Earth that keeps spinning New Horizons.
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Until We Die Henry Ingham
Now I’m walking down the trail, Of life I can’t make head or tail. I hear the rustling of leaves on trees, The crack of twigs, the buzz of bees. The trunks of trees are burnt and black, The result of uncaring people’s attacks. Trees to twigs, creature to bone, Twigs to dust, bone to stone. Animals decay, leaving empty shells; 14 Does death lead to heaven, or only hell? If Death’s a foe we hope to cheat, Why must we kill to live, to eat? I cross a bridge, over waters flowing; What is it that keeps them going? Why do we continue without knowing, What it is the Fates are sewing? We all choose a different route, To find out what life is about. Regardless of how much we try, I doubt we’ll understand it, until we die.
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Little Girl - Leah Simon
Charcoal
Nowhere to Start Tyler Shevin
I just do not know where to start. I am overcome with energy, with joy. There is truly a special place in my heart. You make me feel like a happy, little boy. Forever and always, you are my number one. Your flavors delight me each and every day. You make me feel like I’m brighter than the sun. When you leave me, all I do is pray. My love, you are soft and you’re sweet. In your many diverse, changing forms, My heart never fails to beat. 16 Your strength can end all the world’s storms. Sometimes you’re filled with a special treat, One that always puts me in a trance. Other times you’re coated with something sweet. The kind of thing that makes me want to dance. I do not know how to stop, My love unconditional.
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Multiples - Ginger Hollander
Digital Manipulation
Hey to You Gabriel Ortega
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Hey, to you in the future, Did you find happiness? Did you forgive those That who ridiculed you And made you feel worthless? Did you finally see the light in life? Did you make it? Did you make it past 30? Did you disagree? And bury the good left in you? Did you feel it slowly drift awayOr did you slip to madness immediately?
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The Mask - Haydn LeMay
Paper Mache
Fleeting Warmth Kyle Mattone
A fleeting warmth beats against the skin, Senses enveloped, Mind’s in a trance. I can feel the gentle pressure against my eyelids, As the light beats against my body. All is gone. I have been fooled. 20 You left me. In your wake, darkness has followed. I’m all alone, Since you fled into the distance. But I am no stranger to this darkness, As it returns day in and day out. And your beauty will not get the best of me. For I will be waiting At this time tomorrow, To dance this dance again.
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Portal - Jubin Gorji Ink
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Man with a Cat - Leah Simon Colored Pencil
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Innocent - Lisa Zheutlin Pastel
Assumption Chloe Quail
The Strong hide effectively behind eyes of hazel, brown, or blue. Teardrops trickle internally, forming pools not on the floor, but in the heart. Smiles are painfully upturned lips. The Strong’s laughter is music sung in soprano - music that is meant to be sung in alto. The Strong are noble sufferers-con artists who have perfected their art, deceiving unwitting masses to see white instead of black. The Strong showcase facades—they are magicians with a myriad of tricks up their sleeves, pulling insecurities masked as confidences like rabbits out of top hats. Their melancholy is unrecognizable wearing polished shoes, ties, and suits of fine silk. The Weak are beautiful tragedies; poets trying to 24 overcome writer’s block. Sunken eye sockets hold volumes of the same lamented tale while feeble bones break under crushing burdens that demand to be borne. The Weak are lambs that have succumbed to the wolves that prowl their minds. They are gaunt angels whose wings have been broken by demons, whose ethereal sparkle has gone dull, whose luster has been replaced by earthly flecks of dust and finely powdered ash. The Weak are crumbling castles victim of an ephemeral reign, whose rooms of golden jewels and silver cups have become nothing but shattered windows and tattered tapestries shrouded in past memories. The Silent are private–feelings are tidal waves that engulf the senses. The Silent hold secrets like those found in cracked crevices in grey alleyways; they are lilliputian fourleafed clovers that go unnoticed in immeasurable fields of
three-leafed ones. The Silent’s words, when spoken, fumble like quarterbacks badly hit. Yet behind the guise of oversized sweaters, rigid posture, and hesitant eye contact lies an inner realm of vast landscapes whose expanses remain largely unexplored by those of external reality. The superficial is The Silent’s worst enemy. Harsh judgments, snide comments, and penetrating stares are insurmountable forces that cause the inevitable retreat into oneself. “The Weak are The Strong, The Strong are The Weak... The Strong are The Silent... The Silent, The Strong. The Weak are The Silent... The Silent, The Weak....” Assumption strikes like lightning and causes the audacious notion that we as observers can effectively judge an individual, when in reality, our perceptions are as easily able to be blurred as watercolors or our vision in a snowstorm. Avoid affliction of this misconception by diving beneath the surface to discover what lies beneath rays of false sunlight and seemingly calm waves. Use gentle words gathered from rainbows, whose shy colors will soften the dark skies of troubled minds. Listen to the wind’s whisperings when wandering through the forests of the solitary. Not all locks are foolproof-we hold the key to see what lies behind closed doors. All it takes is to step inside.
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Fractured Portrait - Rachel Mondshine Ink and Watercolor
Symphony Austin Fields
Stillness occupies the concert hall. Suddenly, the flick of a baton hushes the crowd. Strings reverberate, exciting the roomEach chair, each corpse, each molecule Battered with oscillating pressure. The invasion augments. Surreptitiously, musicians join in, building on each other. Reeds reverberate, exciting the roomEach chair, each corpse, each molecule Battered with oscillating pressure. The crescendo peaks. Eloquently, instruments duel in a symbolic coexistence. Drums reverberate, exciting the room – Each chair, each corpse, each molecule Battered with oscillating pressure. The diminuendo induces blissful tranquility The crows applauds the sweet serenity.
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Floating Keys - Isabella Faife Digital Photography
Sweet Days May End in Fire Caroline Sachse
The rushing wind blows swiftly o’er the heights, flowers sway in full bloom, dancing sweetly; bees hum in harmonic and rhythmic flight, the swallows flutter like butterflies, neatly. Through the hollowed valley a gentle soundthat of footsteps, crackling gravel on the path; a lone stranger climbs a solid mound, the sun his sole companion, drenched in wrath. Each swell of pain battles the aching wind as temperature bounds in hellish heat; tortured, days turn to wounds as he hath sinned, a choice to seek truth may end in defeat. No man hath perished as he in the fire parched and dying, he burns on a glowing pyre.
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Dust To Dust
Arix-Yani Fabre
Dust to dust Continue for the space between Light and quick But time passes slowly Unprovoked yet provocative They enjoy the violence The blood More than the flying of limbs A livelihood A family in fear 30 Never in need The road is long No opponents just obstacles To the top Worth the work? The blood? On top
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Memory - Lisa Zheutlin Oil Pastel
The Art of Writing Michelle Pendergast Writer’s minds are chaotic. Active and always at work, it doesn’t stop- it’s like a tick. We are thinking but we aren’t formulating thoughts- we are actively coming up with potential topics of interest for our work. For instance, a subway ride is never just a subway ride for us. It’s an observation of a meager young woman glaring into her book titled, “ How to Become Lucky,” with a delicate, bothered look in her eyes. It’s an observation of a teenage girl attentively staring at a boy who appeared to be the same age as her, sitting across and to the left of her, his focus was held on a posh elderly lady holding a Chanel purse with a Yorkshire terrier stuffed inside carelessly. Discreet as the teenage girl 32 is, his gaze then falls upon hers, and her eyebrows furrow in slight repulsion as she concludes him to be “ almost cute”. It’s an appreciation of the aesthetics. My focus is not to illustrate our ability to convey thoughts and ideas onto paper, but to deliver the workings behind it. A scene demonstrating this arduous, while simultaneously satisfying love of mine is depicted as follows: It was late, eleven thirty or so at night. I was exhausted after a day of walking from East Midtown to the Smorgasburg food market in Brooklyn, and could not stay up any longer. I got into bed with the expectation of passing out, however, something involuntarily kept me up. There it goes again: tick, tick, tick, tick: a writer’s mind at work. I was alert with no chance of getting rest anytime
soon. Situated on the 19th floor of the United Nations Plaza on 48th and 1st Avenue, my motionless, fatigued body succumbed to the thoughts demanding to flood my mind. Growing up in South Florida, going to bed is irritating; crickets whistling outside my window, and my sister reluctant to lower her alternative rock music that I could hear a little too clearly due to being just a room apart. Indeed, it certainly was nothing special, but really- it was what I was used to. And, because of this, I associated a sort of enchanted characteristic to Manhattan on that night. In the moments before you fall asleep, immediately following the burrowing into your pillow, your mind begins to recall the events of the day while slowly drifting to your slumber. All during this 33 time, your sleepy body obtains a certain vulnerability to the atmosphere surrounding where you’re sleeping. Wherever you may be, the life outside will translate to your resting manner- may it be a thunderstorm, a flock of jaunty birds chirping outside your window, or a neighbor’s house party nearly shaking your bedroom. With that in mind, it is safe to say that you will not experience anything even considerably close to falling asleep in Manhattan. It was no wonder that my mind was overwhelmed while trying to sleep; the hasty breaking of the crosstown buses, wispy chatter floating from the streets into my bedroom, illuminations sporadically shining through my window, and cars carelessly beeping about the empty streets were pure music to my writing ears. It’s a simple
action- going to sleep; yet just being present in Manhattan stirred my soul and caused my writing wheels inside my head to turn. My mind was intertwined with the beautiful movements of the city; and I questioned how it was even remotely possible to get any sleep with the aesthetics which were begging to be appreciated. Understand this: it was not that I loved the atmosphere of this city at night, but more that 34 it loved me. And because of this, as the morally honorable and responsible person I am, I felt it my obligation to respect the ambiance and let my transcribing self take control. Now, whenever I am to think of New York City, I find myself desperately nostalgic over that euphoric night in the United Nations Plaza; the things I would give to go to sleep in a city like that tonight.
Vintage - Ashby Bland Digital Photography
Cotton Candy - Rachel Auslander Digital Photography
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Leah Simon
Life – a steady course traversing peaks and valleys – Seeking Immortality – At the end of the road, despite toil and tears – Reaching only Anonymity. Love – a deceptive sun lurking on the Horizon – Beckoning with its Beauty – Only to disappear in a fading scarlet Cloak – Tricks of a cruel Deity? Death – a dusky and desolate destination that awaits All – An ever-ready Companion – 36 Who will not be avoided or left behind – Asserting its somber Dominion. Is the Journey worth the Effort? A heaviness crushes the Heart – Attempting to shroud it in a Veil of Darkness – Summoning Sanity to part. But the Spirit awakens to a new Dawn – As the valley fog dissipates – The chains of Captivity are broken – For now humbled Death suffocates.
Rain/Lluvia Lauren Valad
Endlessly Falling Descending into the Earth To give rise to life
Cayendo sin fin Hundiendo en la tierra Para dar vida
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Melting - Hannah Cohen Pencil
And Then I’m Back Again: A Poem About PTSD Lilliana de Souza There’s a period in my life that I prefer to ignore, The only problem is that’s not what my mind has in store. A simple flash of light or a loud car whizzing by Sends me shooting through the years back to the battle cries. I see the shooting; I see the death–the same as it was before But this time now is harsher, it just hurts a little more. I thought when I left the battlefield, I’d be free of all the grief, But that was all a lie, since I’m in pain beyond belief. No matter what I’m doing, when that trigger comes about I get drawn from my peaceful life To face fires, shots, and shouts. 38 I try not to remember, but it’s not easy to forget Once you have lived the trauma of combat, You are tainted with regret. Regret for taking part in war, regret for taking lives, Regret for taking loving husbands away From their anxious wives I look back on these memories And on the person that I became But in my heart I know that it’s not me who wears the blame. War is the devil’s game, which we are forced to play; It turns the good to bad, and bad to worse… it happens everyday My fragile mind does not need much to be shipped off overseas Something as simple as smelling mustard gas
And roses in the breeze. Just with this I’m back again–I’m thirty years away Holding my rifle in a filthy trench, cursed to relive these days. I’m yanked out of my normal routine, Placed in a horrible warzone . If I am to live both back then and now, Will I ever have a place to call home? I am stuck in my past, Prevented from moving forward in the present It interferes with all aspects of my life, Leaving me utterly discontent There is no reason to go on if one step forward is two back; I have not been myself for years ever since the first attack. My condition is unlivable, more than I can admit; I decide that I must end the problem, Knowing I must go down with it There is nothing I can do to stop this, For it is coming from within. I take my knife and jab it down And then I’m back again.
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The Scholar’s Odyssey Carolina Salazar-Paranhos
Through a rupture in a cloaked window, Streams of sunshine seep into the scholarly shrine, Waking an intellectual who so peacefully slumbered, And whose zeal is at once kindled By the ever-fixed aurora on the glass; His eyes are enraptured by the sprinting sunshine, His body, invigorated by the fresh dawning air, And his brain, crisp with flair and finesse, As the Muses’ sweet melody hasten him to share The impending inspiration fiercely burning in his chest; He soon steps into the Broad,
40 Where subjective structures loom over his body, Swiftly accentuating soft, silvery bosoms in the blanketed sky, Whilst carefully embracing flushed yellows and violets That in baskets rest along the stone-shielded walls; Steam from a sizzling teacup warms his fine fingers, As he continues on his expedition through the gleaming County Town, Greeting glorious phantoms that move along its alluring streets And guide him to a place where they no longer exist; He then approaches the extremities of the town of knowledge, And his gaze seizes an unfamiliar view, Where streets seem forsaken by the learned,
And instead, populated by a prosaic people; Men and women trudge along its stark stones in haste, As if guided by circadian circumstances, Seemingly fated at this end of the twisted path, Yet unfathomable by the incongruous intellect; At the end of his trail lies a vast pastures, Where cows graze the untrimmed grass, And fish swim in the frigid Thames, Flowing under a comely crimson bridge, And finally ending the scholar’s stroll; He then promptly turns around, And commences the reverse route, Discerning flashes of the red and gold in the sky, Where the Sun seems to close its eyes, And gleaming dreams take over; In a moment of mantic meditation, This scholar comes to a radiating realization. Though distinctly divided by disagreeing domains, The celebrated city of knowledge has no soul without this town’s strains.
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Lion - Rachel Mondshine Ink
The Burning Cage Gabrielle Mahabeer The walls in this house have come crashing down on me The burning walls have collapsed on theFugitive to beThis house was where I- Dethroned- the Coward Lion My mind- like a lion- has been Slayed- DethronedI put me before my thoughtsThese Thoughts are being spun into Lies- leaving my head As I sit- CryingCrying tears of Blood- Crying- to the point where this constant crashing thought clots
43 As I fall from my house and the walls come crashing down on my desire My Mind has been slayed and my Thoughts are deadly- on FireThis House is home to the most dangerous things of allMy mindAt the end of your life you get a call But not this prisoner- living life in a Cell like the deserted islands sailors find
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Into the Woods - Jamie Flores Sculpture
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Natural Reflections- Katherine Jovanovic Pencil
Scratches on Paper Daniella Gomez
If only life would work When I pick up my pen. Just let the ink go, The words flow, We can be ourselves again. Scratches of ink On a page Turn into something else. They have weight, But they’re as light as paper. Still it’s so hard
46 When I sit down to write, And the words don’t come. They congeal at a place Near my heart. It’s hard to let go Of the words, As if they wanted To stay Really close to me. But life flows like a river, It’s never the same, And it always goes on. It doesn’t care
For the words I don’t say. So I’m here again With a pen in my hand, And the words, too heavy for me, So I just make scratches.
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See No Evil - Ashby Bland Mixed Media
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Mind’s Eye - Jamie Flores Ink
The Beginning of the End Caroline Sachse
She opened her eyes, blinking away the haunting green lights as they pierced through her sparse lashes. She cleared her vision to find herself gazing at a high ceiling covered in green honeycomb like structures, each waxy hexagon brimming with a glowing substance, sparking as it dripped endlessly from the infinite compartments. Attempting to sit up, she was jolted back by clamps holding her arms to a table. As she slowly opened her eyes once more after crashing against the hard surface, she searched her mind for anything that could explain her situation. Her memory gave her nothing. She could not recall who she was or where she was. As far as she could see, she had no name, no purpose, no recollection of anything. She writhed in her restraints, the cold 50 metal cutting against her supple skin. She twisted her head every which way, wildly struggling against captivation, falling into a manic confusion. As she flung her eyes about the cell she caught sight of a man comfortably watching her, leaned against the honeycomb walls, dressed in white coat flecked with the green liquid from the ceiling. He flashed a terrifying grin at her as she met his eyes. The girl froze as he strolled towards her, each step clashing against the shimmering floor as if signifying her impending doom. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, then carefully inspecting her as she helplessly flinched and shrank away in fear from his touch. Without uttering a word, he released her from her cage, wrapping her torn wrists in a soft blue material. He took her shivering hand and led her through a passageway in the hive. They walked through a maze of hallways, different paths and rooms opening on either side as
he led her knowledgeably through the labyrinth. Her bare feet stuck to the floor, snapping every time she pulled away from the sappy liquid. She inspected herself as they walked, experiencing a slight ache begin to form in her thin legs with every step, and she began to tire of the exercise. Her head was covered with a pale fluff, sprouting from her gaunt scalp like weeds in a vacant lot. Her fragile body was covered in a smooth white material, covering her raw flesh. She was dressed in a light gown that floated along as she was dragged forwards by the man. She found she could move various parts of her body separately, experimenting with her arms, hands, and fingers, almost forgetting her surroundings. She was thrown back to reality by her entrance into a room 51 filled with perhaps twelve other such men in coats. Upon seeing her, they applauded each other, rowdily clapping each other’s backs and shaking hands. She sprung away from the creatures, cowering in the shadow of a large table in the room. The men turned quiet at once, gently pulling her out of her place. They strapped her to a chair, crowding about her, entranced by her features. They loomed over her with large blocks of paper, occasionally jabbing her or tugging at her arms, then writing down whatever discovery they had made. They spoke in a language incomprehensible to her, making strange sounds to each other quietly as they investigated her. What she saw as she looked at them is that these creatures were not the same as her, but in fact constructed quite differently, each bearing six arms and green skin, with a smooth hood of mucus covering their heads. Where she had
felt bumps on her own face, they had none, only a mouth with which they communicated so excitedly. She suddenly burst out, emitting a sound from her mouth, so unfamiliar to her. The men gasped, smiling at her victoriously, and another creature was brought in. This form seemed quite similar to her own and she stared at it curiously. It returned her stare quite intently. He was seated next to her and inspected similarly. The green men seemed aflutter with excitement and joy, keeping their eyes on the two clueless humans. After what seemed like endless prodding and writing, she was once more led into the maze of passages together with her similar. They were taken through hallways, finally reaching a dark rusty ladder leading up a narrow shaft. Where to, she could not fathom. Certainly it would be another cell covered in oozing hexagons, or perhaps she should be chained to another table, or some other dark room with men in white 52 coats. The two were pushed up the ladder for what seemed an eternity. They reached the end of the ladder above which was a circular door. The metal plate was pushed open and white light flooded the shaft, blinding anyone that dared look directly at it. She nearly fell, but the man behind her carefully helped her back onto the rungs. They proceeded out into the glaring light, gradually adjusting their eyes to this new brightness. Upon turning back, the man and woman saw the green men returning through the door, slamming it shut behind them. They were both quite confused, unsure of what to do or where to go, but they stayed close together through their struggle. While inspecting their new surroundings, the first man and woman on Earth found themselves in a fantastical garden
filled with lush fruit bearing plants, and beyond this oasis lay colorful fields followed by grand mountains, and then glorious oceans. The surface of this planet was brimming with beautiful life, and now finally was inhabited by intelligent forms that had been created by those who live beneath the earth’s crust. They stayed for many days in the garden, nourishing themselves on berries and fruits that grew within the garden. On their fifth day the woman spotted a serpent in a large tree, admiring its hypnotizing reflection in a large red fruit. Enticed by her new discovery, she climbed the tree, plucking a plump fruit from within the serpent’s sight. She bit into the juicy object, tossing one down to her companion. The two ate their red fruits in bliss for many days, unaware that their choice in food had led to the demise of their own species’ harmony with the nature that they had been placed in...
Tracks - Ishani Singh Paper
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Orchids - Erin Carr Pencil
Unveiling Erin Carr Wisdom through the light of unearthing worldly truths unveils life’s beauties Â
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Rose- Lilliana De Souza Colored Pencil
Blue
Felipe Corredor
A sense of tranquility falls over you. You feel warmth and comfort take over. It’s as if the world has totally stopped. The day begins to transition into night. The warm feeling of the sun begins to fade. The commotion and vibrations of the world go away. You listen as the birds stop chirping. The sound of crickets and insects take over. The breeze gets stronger, and the temperature cooler. The sound of children playing in the street subsides. As they are called inside for dinner. The world as a whole is quieter. The world as a whole is cooler. 56 There are no disturbances left around you. The constant sound of crickets hums a tranquil tune. And as the world begins the nighttime anew. You don’t need sight to tell the world has shif ted into deep, dark blue.
Red: A Freestyle Rap Aly Lakhani
The Wind parts as his eyes pinch Striations, burn as they stretch into the next vexed Deception, undressed my shoulder as I am unleashed Onto this man for my own selfish needs Through his broken spirit my soul feeds And lastly will push the wind aside with the speed of an open capillary As the drum sings I don’t listen but I hear it clearly Red though him, dilated, pinched, unconscious nearly The red turns to blue as the dust settles I wonder If they fear me Rise again, man Rise again, purple Rise again, red Militant representative of rambunctious tendencies, A visionary in the art of Lucifer’s deception When I see purple again I will make no justification Now I am red in the fury of a ported nail bend He is red, redder than I, Black
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The Fifth Sense Ginger Hollander they say when you lose your hearing your other senses learn to compensate, but I have not gained clearer vision or finer tastebuds suddenly I am able to feel things more deeply than before. I feel the vibrations of the music, but more than that, I feel t he emotions of everyone in the room. everyone experiences music differently but even though I can’t hear it, 58 it still moves me to dance and to feel. I can stand at this concert with you by my side and I can feel the sounds reverberate, but more than anything, all I care about is feeling your presence nearby. they say when you lose your hearing your other senses start to compensate I have learned how to appreciate these experiences all I need is to be with you.
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A New Clearing - Caroline Sachse Photography
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Rooftops - Chloe Quail Photography
My Senses Megan O’Brien Sweet at first, almost a tickle in my nostrils as it envelops my senses and it becomes sour. Overwhelming, next comes the steam from the subway, Warm and warranting a reaction as the sun goes down and the heat does not relent Sticky with the garbage of the unclean streets permeates even the deepest follicles in my nose; a deep breath sends me down a spiral I want the cleanliness of my city but there is no solace here anymore. The aroma will never subside but as I assimilate, my nose stops puckering. It’s not as bad as I once thought; a deep breath follows a clearing cough, now I smell nothing, when will these short days end ? But I still attempt to smell the roses.
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Flow - Taylor Logue Pastel
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Castle in the Sky - Saumya Jain Ink
The Secret Garden Camila Morales
Inside a tiny tunnel
Past blue doors and long corridors Emerged a great escape. A new world unveiled, A secret garden prevailed Aside from condescending towers and great spires. Petty griefs bow down To the enchanted landscape Wherein lies wisdom, beauty, and relief. Ivy enlaced with wild flowers Accompanies the stone-walled building from its solitude; 64 The growing vines crawl into every nook of the dwelling And consume their portion. Intertwined, the nature and structure Reside in peaceful harmony. Adjunct there lay And endless array of trees and pasture. Leaves bristle to the sweet tune of the wind Harmonizing in unison As the grass sways in groups Descending right and left. Tiny gravel crunching under dirty boots Rustling of the bushes at my hand, Its every corner presents different hues,
Its vastness so simple, yet so perplex, What more secrets lie? What more adventures await?
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Forest - Lisa Zheutlin Charcoal
The March of the Turtles Jodie Kahan
In the quiet below the bright August moon, the young girl sat still—her legs tangled beneath her, twisted like vines in the wild. Past the time of the mindless chatter of people and the scent of stale cigarette smoke, only the water remains— calmly crashing against the sand, innocent under the pale moonlight. She did not mean to stay so late, only to see the moon and leave. But the fine sand behind her 66 began to rumble, a force kicking like a child in utero. Life began to emerge from the pockets now teeming with the delicate heads of baby turtles like small aliens, scaly with only street light illuminating their features. She could not move or look away as if her green eyes were being pried open by two concrete hands. The creatures were confused
for a moment and then they began to shuffle, each body heading the same way to the sea. She watched in awe, her eyes watering, forgetting to blink. The innocence of her kindergarten smile disguising her envy. Because, on instinct, they just knew. “God – it would be nice to know,” she thought.
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Turtle - Ishani Singh Ink
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Snails - Rachel Mondshine Watercolor and Ink
The Last Sunset
Phoebe Scheidegger
It’s getting colder and colder. The wind blows the seawater mist. I call out but find myself alone. The waves are crashing on the shore. I crawl, searching for my cane. My watchdog has abandoned me. Carefully feeling my way through the sand, the water crawls up to my hand, and before long, it pulls away. The silence encroaches, closer now still. The last touches of warmth float away. Ice cold, alone, and afraid. Slowly, I move my way up the beach. I’m surrounded by sand, I give up. Laying on my back I surrender. Listening to the sound of the ocean, I imagine the last sunset.
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Citrus
Jordyn Elliott
Citrus splashes mix with warm comfort, Saying goodbye to crowded spaces, Stress sweating and burning ties. Welcoming sweet sweat of summer, With nothing other than a salty surprise. Nature’s freshness trumps city’s funk And coffee’s soothing aroma is 70 Replaced with crisp citrus splashes. Sizzling links wake sleeping souls. Honeyed treats help the soul retreat. Coconut gloss smothered on and off And Florida fragrances float effortlessly, With a side of saturated guilty pleasures. Salt in your hair, salt in the air. Never leaving even your soapy side, For three hot and heavenly months.
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Orange - Ishani Singh Colored Pencil
c
Choices
Lauren Britton
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One leads to another Your past forms your future Never or meant to be Right for you Right choice or wrong choice No right choice but a better choice There always is One. One, two, or three choices good for another not for you the Right choice for you. Chance for happiness seals your fate and plows towards your future.
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Crossbreeding - Samantha Meade Acrylics
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Elephant - Jamie Flores Paper
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Nest in The Air - Jamie Flores Watercolor on Paper
At The Bluebird Jodie Kahan
Rain falls in the city of country music and blues. In the shadow of the lights and bold signs of neon guitars lies a dirty street corner in Green Hills. Only the blue color of a delicate bird shows on the awning of the tiny store window, illuminated by cheap Christmas lights.
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The bouncer stands outside holding a cigarette he lights with a hipster lighter colored an electric blue. The inside looks grimy from my spot against the window. A mustard carpet sits with a few stray guitars forming a circle for tonight’s show. Tables sit with stacking chairs on ledges like small hills. I walk in the door hearing the echoes of Faith Hill and Cathy Loveless bouncing off the low ceilings lightly. Six old musicians sit in the round, sound checking before the show begins and the lights dim a fading blue like the dying vibrations of a whaling guitar. The packed venue becomes stuffy so a woman cracks a window. An older man with curly hair takes the window of quiet to begin the night with a reflection on the hills of Nashville, strumming on his guitar. His voice hits the mic with a soulful lightness reminiscent of 1980’s blues.
The past of this café starts to show as the walls become a trap of the shows that came before, and the window becomes a freshly painted blue. The words “Bluebird Cafe located in Green Hills” are again illuminated by those Christmas lights and the sweet noise of a pure country guitar. The circle goes around, continuing with a solo on the guitar holding a melody like a sprinter, showing no mercy on the strings. A musician with light gray hair laughs bitterly at a small broken window in the corner, singing a song about dreams plateauing on a small hill— Her fingers slide along the strings until the tips of her fingers turn blue. I walk out the door silent staring at a guitar through the window The show seemed so big in the small area of Green Hills, But the lights soon dim and only the awning remains a bright bluebird blue.
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Nepalese Truck - Hadley Jones Ink
Man in Orange
Christopher Alexander
Damn, I just shook the hand of a killer. I never would’ve known had he not confessed. but yo, he said someone raped his sister. she came home crying with marks on her chest. so is he to blame or is he insane? only the man upstairs can tell him that. was he wrong to welcome that violent action to sooth his emotional satisfaction? he said he just reacted but never thought about what taking life away meant, so he just aimed and carelessly shot. I’m sure the homie had good intentions but that wasn’t enough to fade the judges decision, for the rest of his life he’ll rot in prison.
A New City - Bryce Emmanuel Digital Photography
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Concert, I
Ashby Bland
I say: Let’s dance a little bit And at the first note you step left, I become stitched to your side. Your right foot hits, The ground shivers, And my left knee skips up and down. Back down with a force So a current creeps back. Did I electrocute you? Or did our frequencies match?
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You bend to the right as the decibels rise; We may not be dancing, but slightly intertwine. There’s no words left, you say, but I shake my head in both directions, so that my nose brushes your cheek, while the strobe lights spray paint your hairline. In my last defense, I part my lips and whisper in your ear. My words tickle down your throat like knives, please don’t choke, we just got here. You say: My dear, these hollow walls are soundproof, not bulletproof, be careful where you drop your bombs. I say: I don’t wreak havoc this often and didn’t mean to string you along.
But, in a beat, all my promises spill onto the wooden floor. Unable to be seen in all this darkness, entangled in our wrestle of heartbeats, and the burning sensation you feel in your lungs, when you inhale someone for the first time.
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Kaleidoscope - Taylor Bogdan Digital Manipulation
Concert, II Ashby Bland
When his weathered hands grasped the guitar When his fingers tickled the glistening strings And the kaleidoscope of strobe lights spray painted my hairline I swore it was an earthquake. “It’s starting,” she mouthed in my direction But her hushed statement couldn’t dispel my immediate affection For the way the instrument flashed colors in the crowd Reminiscent of the red, red wine my mother poured for The table when I officially couldn’t hear anymore
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more satisfying Than the sound of a grating voice, harsh wood on stretched membrane. The drums, I presume, were being played Because the rhythm of my neighbor’s head banging Matched the frequency of the feet of the man on stage Creating a force so robust that the c-note electrocuted My knees. At one point I thought I’d spontaneously combust, But she assured me it’s just the vibration of the hollow room Filling the nooks and crannies of my heart in places that Had cracked previous times when I realized I’d never
Hear “I love you�, the sound of the subway rattling on its Tracks, the autumn wind whispering in my ear and This band, ever again Most of all.
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Crystal - Leah Simon Colored Pencil on Paper
Unbridled
Based on ‘Hay’ by Paul Muldoon Jarryd Rauch
For a body to ascertain that when one bursts everything is shown without a veil, It must burst as well. It must know the anger, raging inside burning for a chance to escape. It must know the solitude, drifting alone 84 without an anchor to hold. It must know the ecstasy, flying high where nothing can pull it down. It must know the determination, solid as a rock unmoving from the path set out upon. To know that when one bursts all is shown, It must burst as well.
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Soaring - Lindsay Siegel Photography and Ink on Paper
For You
Michelle Pendergast I know you’re not mine. In fact, You may never be. Yet, There isn’t anything I could have wanted more Than to know There is someone Just like you Living Breathing In your human flesh 86 Existing In this god-forsaken World.
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Insanity -Ishani Singh Pencil
El Siguiente Paso/The Next Step Samantha Meade
Yo agité y temblé I shook and shuttered De repente mi casa se destrozó Suddenly my home shattered Finalmente liberé Finally set free Apretado solo yo era Cramped, I was alone Pero entonces yo estuve en el aire libre But then I was in the open Finalmente liberé Finally set free Yo batí mis frágiles alas I flapped my frail wings Como mis colores vibrantes bailaron As my vibrant colors danced Finalmente liberé Finally set free
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Ram - Rachel Mondshine Watercolor
Colophon The Scribbler, published annually, displays the best 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 school-wide 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, stronger consideration may be given to pieces that demonstrate the theme. The meetings and production of The Scribbler occur outside of school 89 hours. The current editors-in-chief, in consultation with the advisers, select the editors and staff writers annually based on applications and the previous year’s performance of duties. Students produce The Scribbler using InDesign and Photoshop. This year’s title fonts are set in Café and Brewery, the body fonts are set in Homizio Light, and the cover page font is set in Root Beer. The Scribbler offers print and electronic versions of the literary magazine. Print Dynamics of Fort Lauderdale, Florida prints 120 perfect bound copies of the magazine each year that the editors-inchief deliver throughout the school.
The Scribbler Pine Crest School Fort Lauderdale, FL 33308 http://www.pinecrest.edu/scribbler 954.492.4103