Ranney School Verse & Prose Spring 2012 Issue 35, Volume 3
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jfernandez@ranneyschool.org Ranney School 235 Hope Road Tinton Falls, NJ 07724
policy
RSVP is a literary journal of Ranney School. Its staff is composed of one faculty advisor and a small group of students who have chosen to take RSVP as an activity class period. Writing and artwork from grades nine through twelve are submitted to the RSVP staff by current students, ranked and chosen by the editors, and approved by the faculty advisor. In addition to those highest ranked, other selections are published in order to fully represent the student body of Ranney School. The staff aims to uphold a standard of excellence.
notes
The editorial staff uses Microsoft Word, Publisher, and Adobe Photoshop programs to complete their layout work. The cover is printed on 80 pound White Cover Stock. The pages are printed on 70 Cougar Opaque White Text. Arial, Myriad Pro, and Tekton Pro fonts are used to reflect style and content. Omega Graphics, of Shrewsbury, NJ, is the printer used for the final production of this publication. Both written work and artwork are voluntarily submitted to the RSVP staff during the school year. The staff critiques all submissions and selects the best for publication. The publication is provided to every student in the Upper School as well as each member of the faculty and administration. The staff selects the theme. Copies printed: 300.
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Foreword “The future influences the present just as much as the past.” — Friedrich Nietzsche Dear Reader, Advances in technology have changed the face of writing, but not the feelings that go in to it. Life is still a collection of emotion and experiences. The desire to record these events still provides many of us with a feeling of fulfillment. To see one’s writing, is to see a glimpse into their inner thoughts. And no matter how far technology takes us, nothing will ever replace the creative writing process. The ever-changing face of communication is reflected in the layout of our magazine. We hope that each of you will find inspiration within these pages and that each of you will continue to record your stories for us to share. We would like to thank everyone who contributed to this issue of RSVP. Without all the writers and artists, RSVP would not exist. Also, we cannot forget to thank all the teachers who encouraged their students to submit their work to RSVP. This year we would like to thank one of our fellow editors as she heads off to college. Sophia Lee has been the backbone to our magazine and her hard work will certainly be missed next year. We wish Sophia the best of luck and we will miss her dearly. As always, we would like to thank the entire RSVP staff for their wholehearted work in completing this issue. Finally, we would like to thank our Advisor, Mrs. Fernandez for her continued enthusiasm and support. With continued appreciation, Rachel Burstiner Sophia Lee Casey Wolfe
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Table of Contents Verse To Be Me — Steven Parlamas
Page 10
Abundance — Ilayda Takil
Page11
Shadow — Remi Rohl
Page 13
Gone — Sarah Bartosh
Page 14
Guilt — Eric Chiang
Page 22
Aperture — Donald Toresco
Page 23
Closed — Raquel Rizzuto
Page24
A Deserted Night — Francesca Fischer
Page 27
The Shore — Chris Grosso
Page 34
Shadows — Briana Richardson
Page 39
Cellphone — Elizabeth Roberts
Page 41
My Greatest Weakness — Sophia Lee
Page 43
Prose A Day with Thomas Nast — Adam Nickel
Page 7
Apocalypse of the Heart — Rose Maisner
Page16
Honor — Andrew Aboujaoude
Page 25
The Beginning of the End — Elise Birde
Page 30
Being Homeless — Omar Sarhan
Page 33
Survivor — Alexa Volpe
Page 36
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Art Self Portrait — Adam Nickel
Page 6
Skull — Louise Cerami-Guarino
Page 9
Holding Duckling — Kaitlyn Bovino
Page 12
Argentina — Jordan Hesslein
Page 15
Fields — Ethan Daniels
Page 18
Intestine — Louise Cerami-Guarino
Page 19
Red Circles — Jordan Hesslein
Page 21
Stack of Suitcases — Raaga Agraharam
Page 26
Bright Sun by Franki Toto
Page 28
Plague Doctors by Adam Nickel
Page 31
Happy Birthday by Jordan Hesslein
Page 35
Rain by Ethan Daniels
Page 38
Fireflies — Adam Nickel
Page 40
Flapping Wings — Kaitlyn Bovino
Page 42
Sail Away — Cierra Horsting
Page 44
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Self-Portrait
Acrylic by Adam Nickel
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A Day with Thomas Nast
“Oh Adam, you’re an infallible being of intellectual and logical superiority,” Thomas Nast will declare over a steaming trenta-sized Frappuccino. I’ll laugh off the compliment, only to better prove my modest attributes. There is nowhere more humbled than a coffee shop to have a conversation with the father of political cartooning. Over the subtle instrumentals of Beethoven emerging from my iPad, our conversation resumes. “Surprisingly, it isn’t the first time I’ve heard those words.” Now it’s his turn to laugh. We ping pong back and forth trivial blather, before I finally proclaim, “The sycophantic state of society covets only to extirpate the progression of neoteric convictions, don’t you agree?” Tom will bat his eyes at me in recognition of my profound genius and winsome disposition, “Shall we go thrifting and continue our chat on the human condition?” he’ll reply. I’ll accept with nonchalant confidence and verbal dexterity. Tom and I will have a swell time discussing the abhorrent nature of consumerism whilst browsing through American Apparel’s selection of plaid scarves. But really, this is all pleasantries, because we have yet to indulge ourselves with political criticisms. After all, I chose this man for his activism. For his print made illustrations depicting the destructive nature of greed. Surely his insight would be an invaluable resource. And certainly, I am not disappointed. “This nation has become a utopia of harmonious compassion, so there is no context for my satire here.” My bobble head will nod in agreement. Nast’s criticisms of financial corruption and finger pointing don’t hold up in a modern world. We’ve hammered such imperfections out. The Boss Tweeds are an extinct species. They’ve left only their fossilized footprints in our history books. Perhaps that’s why I respect Nast as an artist the most. When dealing with issues of oppression in any form, Thomas Nast used his talents to take a stand. Regardless of opinion, it is more than respectable to fight against something you see injustice in. Comedy is one
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A Day with Thomas Nast
of the most effective means of doing this. The comedic talents of George Carlin or Tim Minchin have been able to make people laugh and reflect, and reflect in their laughter. Whether or not their statements are correct is subjective, because regardless, they have the power to make an audience think. Politics is often a tangled mess of opinion and failures. But to unravel those knots takes someone with conviction. To present their personal findings takes someone with talent. Our day together will draw to an end. Most likely on a pier in the midst of a sunset. I’ll have learnt a lot about love, loss, and an eye for fashion. Most of all though, I’ll have learned not to take satire too seriously. — Adam Nickel
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Skull
Acrylic by Louise Cerami-Guarino
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To Be Me
I want so badly to be understood, Like the authors of my English books, I’ll try to leave the world with a hidden meaning, Something only English teachers could find. I want so badly to be remembered, Like the Founding Fathers in my history book, I could do something amazing to change the lives of others, And then for sure I’ll be remembered. I want so badly to be me, But also to be everyone else at the same time, I want to go down in history like him and write like her, However, in the end, I will only be me. I will live my life, I will make history, I will write my book, I will change a life, I will live with a purpose, I will be me. — Steven Parlamas
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Abundance
Why is it that we don’t realize The magnificent things in our grasp? The love we hold onto when we forget it is there. The lavish commodities That we hold in our hands. How accustomed we are to have. How doleful it is to lose. It’s odd to be unhappy In a heavenly body of life. Not everyone is as prosperous But they are full of spirit While we are somber as night. — Ilayda Takil
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Holding Duckling
Acrylic by Kaitlyn Bovino
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Shadows
Chase you Your partner in crime A built-in best friend Block you from the brightness of the world Cloak of protection Continually following even if you don’t know Your mark on this Earth Shadows — Remi Rohl
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Gone
He was gone, And I feel as though I’m practically forgotten. He’s got bigger things in this world to do. Big things that change him. Big things that kill me. Silence comes with his goings, And every painful event is somehow tied with his absence. I miss him. I miss him more than anyone can say. I hope the big world is beautiful and Wonderful as he expected, So that if I’m not happy, At least he is instead. — Sarah Bartosh
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Argentina
Acrylic by Jordan Hesslein
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Apocalypse of the Heart
The future is bleak. All of the sci-fi novels and television shows lied with their promises of sleek chrome skyscrapers that floated in the air, hovercrafts, and people who dressed in metallic outfits looking similar to the extremely intelligent robots that everyone feared would someday rule the world. Instead, 3042 is desolate with the Empire State Building in ruins, nowhere to go and nothing to see except dry desert, and only two hundred survivors left to re-inhabit the now deserted planet we once called Earth and home. I stroll along the fractured ground, looking at the now unfamiliar world, wondering if this truly could have been Ms. Lowell’s front lawn. The bright green grass has withered away to nothing but brown lines, but unlike the grass, my vivid memories of ice cold homemade lemonade after a laborious morning of mowing her lawn in the hot summer days were still here. That was a time when ninety degrees was considered unbearable; the excruciating temperatures of one hundred forty degrees now are what is considered a cool day. But, then again, nothing has ever been the same since 2012… It was December 31, 2012. My friends and I had decided to go sledding down by the beach, because the snow had piled up into pretty tall slopes that were the perfect hill for ultimate thrill. It was my turn. I had just gotten onto my sled and had pushed myself off the slope. That’s when the madness hit. The earth jerked the ground forward, backwards, side-to-side. The slope was my one source of stability to hold on to, but at this point, the most recent earth shake had jerked me forward on my sled, moving me across the beach against my will on a journey that can only be categorized as a nightmare. The earth’s jerks moved me in all sorts of directions. At the direction and rate that I was going, I should have sped headfirst into the giant hole that just opened up in the middle of the ground in less than ten seconds. My heart pounding, my pulse racing, I tried to steer the sled in the other direction, any other direction, but the hole that was now seven seconds away from me was increasing its diameter in a rate I’m pretty sure was faster than the speed of time. Now five feet away from the black hole in front of me, I got ready to face my death, cause unknown. That’s when a body knocked me twenty feet away from the hole, saving me from the immediate death, but pushing me back into more madness.
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Apocalypse of the Heart
Now, away from the hot void that I’m pretty sure was filled with molten lava, I suddenly realize how cold it had become – the temperature had dropped below the extremes of Antarctica. The stuff falling from the giant purple clouds above me was a mixture of snow the temperature of dry ice; hail the size of dinosaurs, and stark black lightning that claimed at least seven victims a second. Through the thick blanket of various weather patterns, I looked for my savior from the doom that was probably my ticket to death. Although the recent fog made it hard to see, his piercing blue eyes stood out against the white mess, staring directly at me, a stranger. I called to him, but my voice was lost in the howling wind. I tried to approach him, to thank him for saving my life, but a sudden gust of wind that felt as if I’ve been hit by a car, knocked me off my path away from the boy who saved me and into the ocean that was now colder than the frostbite air. Before I could realize what just happened to me, I froze. My whole body paralyzed. I noticed how a layer of clear glass that was freezing-cold starts to form around my entire body. Then I realized what this clear glass substance is: ice… Taking my time, I made my way to camp base, where the infinitesimal human population was being herded together. The other survivors were being hauled out of the once frozen ocean that now melted to the temperature of a hot tub. We were the only survivors. The only reason we survived was by freezing our bodies in the ocean, waiting out time in a protective layer of ice, only to awaken by the melting of our shell by the now white-hot sun of 3042. The only reason I survived is because of that boy. He could be dead by now. Who knows if he survived. I’d never be able to live with that guilt if he sacrificed himself for me, a total stranger. For this reason, I helped the survivors rescue the humans still trapped in the now boiling ocean, searching for my hero. But many had already drowned…others’ had literally been boiled alive…After what seemed like an infinity, we hauled sixty-two more out of the ocean, thirtythree dead. I became hopeless. Another three hours went by…more rescued, few survived…my faith was shaking…Finally, someone announced that there were no more survivors. As I was about to leave and figure out how to cope with the overwhelming guilt, I heard shouts coming from the shore. The people found one more body. I still continued to walk away. There was no
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Fields
Photograph by Ethan Daniels
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Intestine
Acrylic by Louise Cerami-Guarino
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Apocalypse of the Heart
chance that it could be him…But one of the men beckoned me towards the site of commotion, saying that this young man may still be alive, and that the whole population should be present for the awakening of a new member of our dwindling society. I made my way towards the huddled circle. Unconscious in the middle was a boy about my age with jet-black hair, sun-kissed skin, and a lean figure. I had no clue who he was or why he mattered to me, but some instinct told me he was important. I ran into the center, pushing people aside. They didn’t object or question. I threw myself down by his side. This boy was even more gorgeous up close. The way his inky black hair fell in cascading waves over his forehead, the way his golden skin seemed to glisten from the now almost evaporated ocean water, and the way his perfect lips parted ever so slightly…But he seemed so lifeless, so lacking in energy and vitality. I took his hand; it fit perfectly into mine. He was ice cold. I felt no pulse. But then, as if my touch had an electrical current running through it, the boy’s hand had a spasm, and his eyes fluttered open. I remembered watching those clear sky blue eyes move around in confusion. Then, they locked onto mine. At that moment, we were the only two people in the world; I couldn’t even hear the commotion behind me as people scurried around for medical supplies to keep him alive. His breathing was shallow, but I didn’t lose hope for a second. He continued to stare into my eyes as if he’s known me forever, as if I were some sort of comfort to him. That’s when it hits me. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten those piercing blue eyes from that day hell broke loose. My savior from that fateful day on the beach…the boy I wanted to thank… I opened my lips to say what’ had been on my mind for over a thousand years. But, just as the first breath was released from my mouth, his eyes started to close, his breathing became slower, and his grip on my hand loosened. His eyelids closed over his intense blue eyes, gone from me forever with my undying gratitude still hanging on my lips. — Rose Maisner
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Red Circles
Acrylic by Jordan Hesslein
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Guilt
The earth tipped and swayed A guilt upon me was laid. The world was blurred Never had such a thing occurred. Head spinning with pain Until rest finally came. A cold dawn had awakened Knowing actions must be taken. A sacrifice was in store Burning bills more and more. — Eric Chiang
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Aperture
What secret? Whose secret? A secret of thee? Yes, just one, pounding at the insides of me How could I possibly think to release this to you But I must, I must, or I’ll surely be blue This crow awake in the cage of my mind Has no ears and no eyes but for sure isn’t blind He knows and watches for every blip in the sea Waiting and planning to escape from these lips of me Without a time or place is what I know for sure What secret? My secret? A secret for me? — Donald Toresco
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Closed
His eyes were closed and he slept. Everything comes to an end. His life was a mission God had sent him on. Now the mission is complete. A series of events to learn from. Good and Evil. A path. Which direction? Fortune vs. Inheritance Everyone has a destiny. Good and Evil. The path which one takes is unknown until the path is over then he knows. His eyes closed and he slept. His mission is over. Closed. — Raquel Rizzuto
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Honor Ranney School’s motto, “Knowledge, Vision, and Honor,” has had a major impact on every person. Honor is the last word in the motto, but it surely is not the least. Knowledge and vision sum up to nothing if the person is dishonorable. Being honorable means being honest and fair, and doing what you do with integrity. Honor is a dad’s smile to assure a child; honor is a mom’s kiss to relieve pain; honor is a handshake to make a business run; honor is a rainbow to keep God’s promise; honor is a teacher’s effort to raise a generation. When I joined the Ranney community in 2001, I was most focused on education. After all, that‘s what a traditional school gives us. But Ranney went beyond the traditional schooling to teach me honesty, integrity, and respect for others. These may sound like soft skills, but it is very hard to live by these words every day. It is hard not to look left when you do not know the answer to question six; it is hard to keep the door open for an adult when you are in a rush; and it is hardest to tell the truth when you are the guilty party. But honor is more than doing what is right. Honor is a habit that my teachers and my parents have instilled in me. It is a desire to do the right thing because not doing the right thing, would leave the residues of guilt behind. Honor is learned, and learned, and learned again until it is glued to the core of one’s spirit. I have achieved significant academic success so far in my life, but what I am most proud of today is not what I have accomplished, but how I have accomplished it. I have accomplished it by working hard, and by being courteous to my peers, honest in my dealings, and respectful of my teachers, parents, and everyone around me. As I look toward college and beyond, I am confident that I am building on a strong foundation of “Knowledge, Vision, and Honor”. I know these three pillars of my future are strong, but one of the three pillars has been, and will continue to be, the strongest. I will always hold my honor close and dear, because as the French poet Nicolas Boileau said, “Honor is like an island, rugged and without shores; once we have left it, we can never return.” — Andrew Aboujaoude
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Stack of Suitcases
Acrylic by Raaga Agraharam
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A Deserted Night
The silky purple dress, Once pressed and elegant, Deserted and desolate. Crumpled tissues on the glass, Reflecting back a face, Now left and hurt and forgotten, Once held in an embrace. The flowers dried and drooping Sit within a shattered vase, The occasion not remembered, Now lost in outer space. Scattered pearls on the ground, The chain along the floor, Cries and weeps of love and loss, A knock upon the door. — Francesca Fischer
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Bright Sun
Photograph by Franki Toto
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The Beginning of the End I open my eyes. It’s darker then the blackest night and colder than the winter’s wind. There, right in front of me. It’s a twinkle, it’s a light, and it’s the only thing to break up the darkness. Each breath I struggle to take in makes it shine even brighter. Its purity is mesmerizing and magnificent. I’ve heard of this light. It’s supposed to be at the end. You’re supposed to go toward it. You’re supposed to feel something other than the prick of cold coursing through your veins. You’re supposed to be alone. Instead, figures dance around me. They look like shadows, but they have no owner. They’re taunting me. Maybe I’m imagining it. I’m begging for my cell phone to signal morning, but it doesn’t come. I wish someone, anyone would come to my rescue. I don’t like being so alone. I don’t like this place, and if this is death I’m filing a complaint. It is nothing like what I’ve been told. Maybe everyone embellishes death, so it doesn’t seem so intimidating. Hopefully this isn’t the end. Just as these thoughts leave my head, the light disappears. My heart starts jumping out of my chest. I stand unable to move. Paralyzed with fear of what will happen next. Did I miss my chance? Am I now stuck in this tenebrous place, left with my thoughts alone to keep me company? The cold no longer affects me. It is fear that controls me now. All rationality is lost. I want to cry, but no tears come. My instinct creeps through every inch of me. It touches each and every part of my body, and I take off. I’m running away, but the fear and jet-black follow. I plead with a non-existent person to let me go, to let me die or let me live because a life in this dark and lonely place is not an option. My muscles contract and my bones leap off the ground with each step I push off with all my might, hoping, praying, that there is somewhere to go. My breathing becomes heavy and my mouth is drier than the greatest deserts, but I keep running, hoping that nothing can catch me. I close my eyes and push on. It doesn’t take long for my legs to feel like Jell-O under the weight of my body. The familiar feeling of tiring muscles comforts me, but this comfort is short-lived as the tingling of the cold rushes through me again. My urge to resist has left me as my heart rate steadies.
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The Beginning of the End
I look straight ahead. The light reappears, but this time it is near. I feel its warmth hugging my body. I feel its force field pulling me in. It feels natural, like it was meant to be. I take one last look into the darkness and try to breathe it all in, knowing that this is my last breath. I step into the light and levitate to a distant, yet familiar land, on a cloud of memories. — Elise Birde
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Plague Doctors
Charcoal by Adam Nickel
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Being Homeless
I am a first generation American and while some young people hold onto their country of origin’s culture and traditions, others choose to fully assimilate to American culture, leaving their nationality only to be a label or a name. In my own life, this choice has remained a challenge as I have yet to find a personal balance. One can broadly define what it means to be Egyptian, which can be directly linked to whom one is speaking and the memories they one possesses. My first memory of a city street was Mohi Eldin Abdu El Ezz Street in Cairo, where my first home was. I can remember the heavy traffic going all day and most of the night. Cairo is where all of my family resides today, except my mother and father. Because we do not live in Cairo, when holidays come around and families are getting together, I often feel that the holiday is not as celebratory as it could be. And when unforeseen tragedy occurs, I cannot be there for the rest of the family and vice versa. Most of my cousins are my age and gender and I miss them a great deal. When together we get along, spend hours in the streets with firecrackers, drink coco-cola from bottles (it tastes sweeter that way), and as all boys, do the occasional play fight that escalate to seriousness. Cairo holds all these memories and fun times for me. New Jersey is really my home and I have a separate set of memories created here. In either place, I am missing out on one or the other and never feel completely at home. If Egypt was my first home, New Jersey is where I have lived most my life. New Jersey holds almost all of my memories. From the snow, to the traffic on the Garden State Parkway in the summer and pumpkin picking in the fall, these are just snapshots of memories of which I am especially fond. The States contain all of my friends, my school, and probably my future. I cannot forget what Egypt has instilled in me. I cannot forget about the United States, particularly New Jersey. However, when I am in New Jersey, at times I feel like there’s something missing. Part of this feeling comes from the fact that the mindset of the boys and girls are different. Trying to socialize with people who are my age in either country sometimes feels like I’m talking to different species. People would tell me that I have an American accent when I spoke Arabic. No matter how hard I tried it was hard to rid my voice of my American accent. Not to mention that I was the one that had an American passport and my cousins would not forget to mention it to their friends.
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Being Homeless
No matter how hard I tried to conceal my American way of thinking, it could not be hidden in conversation or in my everyday routines while in Egypt. In the United States, I am Egyptian. In Egypt, I am American. I have caught myself speaking English with an Egyptian accent and vice versa. In the end, where do I fit in? Which place is home? They both are and for that I am most proud. — Omar Sarhan
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The Shore
The surf crashes on the shore, the sound it makes has an almost hypnotic allure. Listen to the rhythm, it never ends, relaxing your mind and coming back again. The scent of the ocean makes you want more, while you’re listening to the ocean roar. Its intoxicating smell wakes up all my senses, as I gaze at its beauty from the boardwalk benches. I stare on the horizon and forget all my troubles and worries, not a care in the world, time to unwind, no need to hurry. The sun is blazing in the sky, what a perfect day to watch the seagulls fly. The breezes are blowing, so gentle and calm, tickling the dune grasses and the palms. Children are playing and having great fun, building huge sandcastles reaching up to the sun. The sun is now setting in the magenta summer sky, so hard to believe that this day is over, it’s flown by. What a wonderful day! Just wishing for more, must wait for tomorrow for the sun, the ocean, the surf on the shore. — Chris Grosso
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Happy Birthday
Acrylic by Jordan Hesslein
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Survivor
For the past four years fundraising has become a major part of my life, in particular, raising awareness and finances for Breast Cancer Awareness. I am drawn to this charity because my maternal grandmother and aunt both passed away from this illness. Last year, my mother was also put through a series of tests to check for breast cancer. Fortunately, the outcome was negative, but this experience only solidified my interest in becoming involved in this cause and finding ways to educate my peers about the wonderful work of this organization as I entered high school. As an enthusiastic incoming freshman, I knew that my school supported numerous charitable organizations. To my delight, Samantha, then a junior, had already formed such a group that worked in support of breast cancer awareness. Needless to say, I was extremely excited to join the committee. Initially, I was put in charge of performing little tasks, such as helping out before and after school and making sure that everything was ready for the annual Point Pleasant Walk. The 2009 walk was a huge success, as we raised thousands of dollars for the American Cancer Society. Sophomore year I gladly lent my assistance with the “window project� painting and decorating school windows with personal sayings and ribbons that represented various types of cancers. I would even help out between the end of school and beginning of practice, when most other athletes would go home to relax. I enjoyed the work as we could immediately see the results of these efforts. When Samantha graduated I did not want this committee to be disbanded. Therefore, I assumed the principal responsibility of maintaining the club. By continuing to raise money and awareness for this worthy cause, I thought that perhaps I could help save lives in the future. I was so excited by the prospect that I began working continuously on fundraising ideas even before the new school year started. Among many viable ideas, I thought of designing shirts, together with selling cupcakes and chocolate ribbons at school events throughout the year. Last year, I participated in the annual Point Pleasant Walk for the first time with others from school. It was truly amazing to see relatives and friends of women who were survivors as well as those who marched in memory of those who had lost their battle. This experience made me feel in some small but meaningful way that I was making a difference.
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Survivor
Not only seeing these brave women at the walk but also their husbands, friends, parents, and kids, was truly motivational and inspiring. That day I proudly walked in memory of my beloved aunt and grandmother as well as in honor of my tenth grade US History teacher and close family friend, who are also survivors. We all wore stickers on our shirts that said we were walking for each of them and this gave me a unique sense of pride. Not surprisingly, this display of support brought tears to their eyes. I was so moved that as a result, I have solemnly pledged to continue to support this cause in every way that I am able in the hopes that one day a cure might be discovered. In 2010, our group was able to raise over $5,000 for Breast Cancer Research by receiving donations, selling shirts, and having bake sales. As a senior, my goal is to raise even more then I did last year and this experience has solidified my interest in and passion for service and helping others. — Alexa Volpe
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Rain
Photograph by Ethan Daniels
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Shadows
They are silent yet present Dark mirrors that can distort reality Many times they appear, even when you do not notice. Everyone and everything has one. They are one thing that unites us. Yet, every individual has their own. It doubles as another unique way to set us apart. Many seek them, In the seasons when they’re most desired. Their relief and protection is sought after. Many also may find comfort in their darkness If they are not ready or too timid to face the light. Silent yet present, many times the amount of their usage remains unknown. — Briana Richardson
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Fireflies
Acrylic by Adam Nickel
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Cellphone
In pitch darkness of the night A little girl sat aright Voices looming into her head She sank deeper and deeper into her bed As she wailed a tiny weep A cold brush of air dusted her cheek Startled and afraid she turned on her light But it was only the wind from her window in sight As she turned off her light, she saw a shadow looming ahead It was only her neighbor’s old cat, drenched blood-red Pain shot down within her, she wanted to shriek But there was no time, for she was put asleep As she woke in the morning in a place that did not seem right, There was something staring back at her, most eerily bright Two blue eyes stared back at her, filled with dread He did not have to speak; the message well-read She felt the medicine treating her skin-deep She was hurt, which they did not know if they could treat She was not a little girl, but a soldier in flight Who was bombed in a plane, at a great height She thought of the life for which she had led She was proud to have helped peace spread It was only a matter of moments until there was a beep It was not her monitor, but the doctor’s cellphone on his seat They could treat her with a cure that was found The worst was over, her new life began now. — Elizabeth Roberts
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Flapping Wings
Acrylic by Kaitlyn Bovino
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My Greatest Weakness
My greatest weakness was a fondness for great things — for happiness and triumph, victory and power — spoiled as I was, more with books than with anything else. What was a handbag, or a car, when a book could fly me far further than any plane, to any plane of light cast cleanly ‘gainst a glass — twinned, as it were, in words. Shall I call it illusion? a trick of light and shadow in the mind, twined In swirls and whorls (and whirls) on fine-grained paper. (To write seems an act of desperation.) I would search for meaning and light, and love once lost, and loss sealed tightly within a story’s end. I would wonder why we must seek such things, great things as deception — or perhaps not so, not trickery — no — but a mirror: these roundabout ways to say hello to ourselves — how tedious! How artful. Of cunning and craft both, none would deny its import, nor tear its weighty veils — for who knows what it is, what it must be, to dream overwhelmingly in words. — Sophia Lee
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Sail Away Dedication
Photograph by Michael Stavola
Photograph by Cierra Horsting
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