Editors’ Statement

Josephine DeMarco and And Jacqueline Cecil

Reality is constantly shifting. In 2020, everything we took for granted irrevocably changed. The reality we knew would no longer ever be the same. Now, our reality is changing once more. With the invention of powerful AI to write essays and create artworks, what was once the subject of science fiction novels have made their way into our society, causing many to question what images or writings are real and which are generated. Everyone has a unique opinion about and experience with these changes, a specific viewpoint that shapes their reality.

But what do we define reality as? Plato would say that material reality is ever-changing, so nothing, in reality, could be perfect or everlasting. Eternal truths exist in the realm of ideas rather than in the physical world. What the writing and art within this magazine claims is just that: There is no one perception of reality because reality is ever-changing and can be interpreted through a multitude of lenses. Whether the art and writing “makes sense” is not a question that requires an answer.

The theme Realities was meant to evoke an understanding that there is more significance in basic objects and late night thoughts than nature allows us to see. Even more importantly, that there is no single significance to a thought or symbol.

Prose

The Pendulum Staff The Million Dollar Coat

E-Positron The Pendulum Staff Realities: The Cheese, Fairy

2098 and The Rats

In Winter Anonymous

In winter, I stare out the window and wait for spring. A season of renewal with jubilance and glow, The air thick with anticipation and excitement

For warmer months to come. I stare, and wait for The cherry trees to fully bloom, For the slight breeze to pick up And push me towards happier times. I wait for the colorful traditions, The festive atmosphere; Hoping to receive spiritual energy

From the warming sun. I wait for spring to blossom, When there is no need to use imagination at all. Nature’s finest form becomes a reality. I wait for months and months, For this honored place in my mind

To come to life.

Nature’s Language

Maggie Fluette

I watch the gulls and pelicans soar, Skipping along the glistening sea; I hear the cool breeze blowing by, As if it’s whispering back to me.

I see the waves crashing at the shore, In the finest symmetry; They rise and fall, splashing about, As if they’re calling back for me.

I lay in the warmth of the beaming sun, Gazing at the cloudless sky and shining sea; I watch them join at the horizon, As if they’re smiling back at me.

And I sat there on the picturesque beach, My heart overflowing with glee; As I gazed at its astonishing beauty, Nature had spoken back to me.

I Thought About Killing A Butterfly

Ethan Xia

I thought about killing a butterfly and how easily I could crush its body by slapping it with my hands, as if applauding myself, a murderer. Or by clenching my fists together, like the controlled breathing practices we do, letting out all my stress onto its shell, so that when the cave of my hand envelops this butterfly, it will bear the weight of ten thousand times its maker, and from dust return to dust, a gooey ball of trashy gloop in my hand that I will wash off later.

I could crumple its beauty, all its colors, and mash it into this crunchy, stained pastel, ripping its wings like the death of a paper airplane tearing it down the seams carelessly, violating its fragility, a love rendition once more, painting a purpose so that its colors live again, a self portrait with this bloody yellow-red mix, a mark of violence, brutal intrusion, an abuse, I committed, because I love this butterfly. The tip of my brush are its antenna, so that it can smell again, forever reborn into a Picasso-esque identity statement.

I thought about killing a butterfly destroying its will to fly far, far away shattering its neck, so that it can never fly again, not a meter again, so that it will never rest on other trees where it will be unappreciated, stolen, overlooked, unnoticed, like teardrops in the ocean. It will be a shadow of a second thought. But I will save it, I will smother it, I am not afraid to ruin everything because its colors mean too much to me.

I want this moment all to myself.

Today I went to kill a butterfly to essence forth its homecoming to grace a new life over its wings under every valley and ember hidden, to grasp all its purpose in my hand and to clench so tightly that it crushed its skull under my fingers, so that its paint would spill out, letting me adorn it once more. I went to hunt this butterfly with unrequited pride and tore its little heart in two, three, seven, ten. I poured all my love over this mushy corpse and cried.

From Lines Composed on a Dirt Road Beside a Hill, On Taking a Walk One Morning in Westchester, New York. Autumn of 2021

(Inspired by William Wordsworth)

Laurel Aronian

A pale mild morning, Looking back it might as well have been spring, When we walked over dirt paths never tread Discussed abstract concepts far from schedules. Space left time to fill my frightening brain. The poison I stow for midnight crises Had time to seep in and find my free mind.

No restrictions set upon the bare trees That copied the arteries in rivers. I ran for my life to escape it all!

Unaware that it was caught inside me.

On a faded hill with sky behind it, I laughed to hide from universal truths Until it struck me she had disappeared. Hasty to escape the existential, I had disregarded the tangible. Fear and death alive in nature’s power, Capable, compelling, inescapable, No longer my theoretical.

Yet the growing light kept out the fear; The endless grasses cooled me, kept me calm. So this is death, I thought to myself, maybe: An endless hill with sky behind it.

Balancing and wandering on the edge, I was renewed, awake; content with that.

Lost Laurel Aronian

It was the wrong north star, Her voice cuts through cavernous trees, a plea for help. Intensity, like the brightness of her eyes and The light of her laptop camera forecast bleak projections. Will she succumb to this extreme law?

Northern, imprisoned, alarming. She hasn’t paid her maintenance fees. Unqualified for the cold.

Frenetic, is this why you’re always tired? Don’t call, run, or alarm - need balance.

With no conviction, she can no longer debate. A crop with too many infections to find groundedness.

A naive migrant, all she will ever know is Crazy wind, making the wheat dance. Beautiful, alarming, shaken and inescapable.

A Dark Light Katey Charnin

Blinding. Brighter by night, Darker by day.

Made to lead and to save. Misunderstood. Shunned.

Shine into the dark For long enough, And you are mistaken for it.

Perceiving is believing.

Elusive, I wake, A placid look on my face. The sillage of pine, Eunoia that this forest is mine. My gem to roam, All I know as home.

But they encroach, Our antlers – their brooch. And with my trees brutalized, I can only bare to fantasize. Of times before inure, If only we remained so pure.

Yet their weapons dominate, My own mother served on a dinner plate.

They merely scoff her down, Neglecting the dismay for which I am bound.

So there I weep in isolation, In a state of despairing contemplation.

Insomnia Anonymous

Sweat is a badge of honor, At least in my mind, body, and soul

The trifecta of power

Pushed by the need to win gold

I never like to sleep

Bedtime procrastination becomes habit for me

And when I finally lay down quietly

My mind shouts WAKE UP!

Obsessed with possibilities

Real talk though, People tell me my mind needs a break Saying, nothing is everything Telling me I need to search for peace

EMBRACE IT! They say But still my mind roars back

100% focused on goals my mind remains

An arsenal of thoughts in my head

Asleep

John Rosseel

I am not awake. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. There goes my alarm… I’m floating,

I n a nd out of words I go.

Birdsong drags me back.

The Fall Katey Charnin

Pride comes before the fall, But to fall, you must be Above everyone else. As you fall, you see the world below you. A stunning view. For a few moments, you are still. Above all otou plummet.

In My Dreams

Danny Gall

I’m me in my dreams, But sometimes I become Not me.

I might become Mario or Luigi, but I usually start as me.