stonecutters harvard-westlake school, los angeles, california editors
Errol Bilgin Rachel Katz Matt Ward Jessica Gold Chloe Lister staff
Jackie Arkush, Ruby Boyd, Jordan Bunzel, Jamie Chang, Michelle Chang, Natalie Epstein, Elizabeth Evashwick, Jamie Feiler, Melissa Flores, Lucas Foster, Samantha Frisching, Rhett Gentile, Allison Hamburger, Karen Kim, Nora Kroopf, Wyatt Kroopf, Maddie Lear, Merissa Mann, Natalie Markiles, Cathy Mayer, Sally McGrath, Mikaila Mitchell, Rebecca Moretti, Abbie Neufeld, Avalon Nuovo, Kelly Ohriner, Maria Qui単onez, Stephen Ring, Allana Rivera, Noah Ross, Madison Tully, Patric Verrone, Daniele Wieder, Anna Witenberg, Gil Young
faculty advisors
Jennifer Raphael/English Department Nancy Popp/Visual Arts Department Front Cover: Mind at Large by Ingrid Chang Back Cover: jellyjellyjelly by Alex Valdez Stonecutters is a Harvard-Westlake publication for literature and art. The font in this issue is Arno Pro. Printed by Sinclair Printing.
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contents
classical figures/Melissa Flores/4 Barista/Jessica Gold/5 Wallow With Me/Rebecca Moretti/6 the doors of perception/Ingrid Chang/7 11/9/10/Karen Kim/8 Fire drop/Jacqueline Arkush/9 Cylinders of Skull/Errol Bilgin/10 Midnight at Court/Maria Qui単onez/12 Parsons Challenge/Hannah Rosenberg/13 Promises [xoxo]/Melissa Flores/14 Inside My Compass/Erin Landau/16 Up/Madeline Lear/17 Into the Dark Black Night/Merissa Mann/18 When You See It Was Never There/Jessica Yorkin/19 Oasis/Erin Landau/20 The Various Diseases of San Francisco/Catherine Mayer/21 Good Ole Walt/Lucas Foster/22 untitled 4/Jamie Feiler/23 An Alligator on Top of a Train/Matt Ward/24 Untitled/Jessica Yorkin/26 stranger/Chloe Lister/27 fruit bowl/Claire Hong/28 Like Diamonds/Rhett Gentile/29 Poe Petrology/Avalon Nuovo/30 otis iv/Chloe Lister/31 Superstition/Erin Landau/32 Martyr/Jacqueline Arkush/33 the orthogon/Rachel Katz/34 banana slug/Abbie Neufeld/35 bridges/Claire Hong/36 Dung Boy Speaks/ Lucas Foster /37 untitled 2/Jamie Feiler/ 38 Little Demons in the Dark/ Rebecca Moretti/ 39 Petrified Wood Conglomerate/Dory Graham/40 Nothing Lasts/Leila Thomas/42 keep calm and carry on/Hannah Rosenberg/43
classical figures Melissa Flores
4
Barista Open, the door swinging the bell ringing, the chattering forms flocking and filling the room. First stop is before me, vacant eyes reading the sign behind me. Then they shake themselves awake as I ask “What would you like?” Coffee, cappuccino—latte, black, one sugar no make that two, a dash of milk a brown some cream, nonfat if you have it please. What would you like? Filling, pouring, swirling, scorching, they burn their tongues numb as they speak across the tables, their own worlds I burn my hands as I fade into the background— What would you like? In and out they wander, the door
in constant motion, open closed, open, closed, their mouths, their eyes, their hands open, closed, open, closed, open their hearts closed my heart. In they come and out, brushing by my world, mixing at the edges, caramel and milk sinking into “coffee, black,” the stranger tells me. His eyes are locked on me and I wonder is the menu written on my face now, am I invisible? “Grande,” he says; I never asked. The customers come and go, the door swings open closed, open closed, the stranger stays for once I feel eyes upon me, watching, for once the viewer views the voyeur, and then the door swings closed.
5
Jessica Gold
Wallow With Me Come wallow with me, Where the wind reaps and sows — Out of winter’s white darkness, To the forest we go. The candles melt into the pavement, The trees come alive at your touch — It’s been so long since you’ve been back, How dearly we’ve missed you so much! Come wallow with me, Through the high ways and low — Into misty white rivers, Through the October snow. The laughter will get you from under, The blackbird will kneel at your feet — It’s been so long since we‘ve seen you, In the woods where we finally meet. Come wallow with me, through the depths of my mind — in the swampiest nights, meeting beasts of all kinds. The sweat will freeze on your forehead, The lions will eat you alive — I’ve known it since the day I was born, You’ll know it since the day you died.
Rebecca Moretti
6
the doors of perception Ingrid Chang
7
11/9/10 Fire burns away at paper, slowly browning the edges until the very core crumbles. That is how fury works. Arresting the senses, seizing the body, eating away at weakness until you can bear no more. We are a self-destructive race. Passionate through strife, the rival of inspiration, we are ruled. The utter feeling of hate, the forced focus on moment, withers the heart. The bellicose heat courses through our veins. We convulse. We curse. We take. We explode. The true face of primal Evil. As we internalize after we are wronged, our senses melt and fuse, fuse and melt. We trample over ourselves. Everything is gone. Hurt and regret supplant the adrenaline. There is nothing left. Shattered, ashamedly naked, O, hollow shell of life, fall down to your knees and cry. Karen Kim 8
Fire drop Jacqueline Arkush
9
Cylinders of Skull A longing swoops in Its essence too overpowering You cannot catch your breath in time to change your mind. Trapped inside cylinders of skull A vulture that has been looming Underneath the insidious myth of skies— the moon, the stars, the clouds. The sky will never be reached except in the form of fireworks. You think you are within seconds of reaching the moon, the stars, the clouds. The sky seems farther and farther away as an intangible lump wells in your soul; your organs ache, for the sweat you have sacrificed, for the self you do not know. The vulture makes sure the well of truth does not penetrate those cylinders of skull. Truth a grain of sand lost in an ocean A grain would be enough if only, if only, you were not a slave to fireworks. Body fixed on the ground, Your skull separates; Mind endlessly free-falling. Single-minded attempts to reach the sky, fairytales set in stone, ready to pretend reaching the sky will fix it all.
10
Little did you know that allowing those sweet kisses and soft embraces, his hand spoon-feeding you the myth of the skies, made your heart into a dead carcass The stench of rotting life, a fresh aphrodisiac of innocence and a fragile heart attracts the vulture From far, far away. Because the poison is spreading through the fluid inside your brain and moving in frantic circles. Until one day, standing in front of a double-sided mirror underneath a fluorescent light, as you cry fat, clean tears suddenly that tiny grain of sand trickles down no longer lost in a bottomless ocean. But he is no longer there to console those tears And you solemnly tell yourself that you would rather Be lost in an ocean With the person who became your only life-jacket, for chaos was better than this eerie stillness— no longer trapped in cylinders of skull.
Errol Bilgin
11
Midnight at Court The court had already settled to sleep. There was darkness where the moonlight did not fall or the occasional maid’s candle did not flicker. As before the only noises were made by the unconsciously shifting sleepers; not a whisper disturbed the moths. Thus it was until a lady opened her eyes and silently padded from her bed and into the hall. There she paused, wary of the night watchers. But they did not arrive and she hurried on silk slippers through the halls. She was alternatively paled by the moon and in the walls’ shadow as she walked past windows. Finally she reached a great wooden door. She dropped a scrap of lace there as a signal. Then she adjusted her coat and pushed the door open. There was no one around to hear, but the hinges had been oiled anyway. This had needed planning. Moonlight was instantly on her, flattening her into the garden scene faster than brushwork. Adjusting her eyes, she blinked the moonlight onto her eyelashes and then sat herself down on a far bench concealed by an overhanging weeping willow’s branches. She had to push the branches aside; the tree had not been pruned in a while. It didn’t seem to want her on the bench above its roots. On the other side of the still leaves she waited, breathing slowly. The night air lacked substance; there was no wind, no crisp moisture from the pond. After some time had passed she took off her coat, trying to feel the air on her skin. She wanted the sensation of cold but the blood in her veins washed that away even. The silence was light. She saw nothing moving and there were no clouds in the sky beyond the black sprouts on the curtain of branches. She looked straight up, dropping her head on the back edge of the neck of her dress. There was another needle-prick of cold on her throat and the feeling of her bound hair sliding on her pearl earrings. Her eyes followed the branches slender but thickly-spaced as the wires of a birdcage and at the topmost point focused on the stars above. As the gaze of this moonlit creature and the gaze of the stars framed by leafy snakes met, she seemed to turned into marble. Pointed chin up, neck long and bleached white, she did not shift the folds of her dress and draping coat until the branches parted once more. Then she was in the 12
birdcage once more and the coat fell like birds’ wings as she stood to meet him. In one stroke he took a step inside, she curtsied, and then they stood facing the other. She took a breath to speak, cracking the ice of silence. The cracked ice fell away, the moonlit creature turned the lady’s face, and the caged bird fled. “You must help me,” she breathed.
Maria Quiñonez
Parsons Challenge Hannah Rosenberg
13
Promises [xoxo] i met you when i was three and you were eight and the world was still a concept i couldn’t grasp. you came into my life somewhere between orange chalk stained knees at 3:00 and ritz crackers smeared with peanut butter and jelly at 4:00. you told me that i looked funny, but you liked me because you liked the way i laughed. i had no idea what you were talking about - i just knew that i liked the way you held my hand when i couldn’t find my dad’s gray slacks or smell my mother’s lilac scent. you had to bend your knees to keep from yanking my arm out of its socket but it was okay because i was used to the tingling feeling in my fingers from my arm falling asleep. i lost you when we left that house, with the spastic baby Labrador that liked to lick my skinned elbows and the little girls across the street who liked to play with my hair and dress me up in their two sizes too big overalls. i was their doll and you were a knight and a cowboy and every superhero who puffed out his chest in the face of bee stings and prickly roses. i lost me when they left and he locked me in his gilded prison. i found you when you recognized me sulking beneath a neon sign, cigarette butt in hand and breath rank with whisky. you told me how you’d recognize that pout anywhere and how ten years had changed me but never from you. you thought you were so mature because the law declared you so and that in the decade we’d been apart, you’d learned from every mistake you’d never made and that no matter what i said or how crappy i felt, someday it’d get better. it was valiantly cliche of you but i bought it. you knew that i’d been hurting myself not because you saw the faded tracks across my skin but because i was no longer laughing.
14
two years later i fell in love with you when you hugged me at two am and promised me he’d never hurt me again, not as long as you were around, but how long would that be? i met you in secret on starlit roofs and between rotting branches and jumping off of creaking swings. i’d always known it would be like this, i’d be with him and you with her. but for now, we were 5, 6, 7, and 8 years old again and pretend was our favorite word. i knew i wasn’t supposed to kiss you. that you’d get in trouble if we were ever caught. but the thorns had caught up with me again and i needed to feel beautiful and free again. not worthless. it was between tentative hands tousling my hair and my hungry memories tracing the hardened lines across your jaw that i gave into you. that i gave into me. it was between curling toes and fast paced breathing that i’d find the purple chords lining your rib cage and the equally golden ones on mine, the ones we’d never find in other heartbeats again. i watched you get on that plane last night. two nights ago. three weeks ago. four months ago. i can still feel their eyes on us because of the way my tinted glasses reeked of teenage angst and because of the scruffy beard halfheartedly sprouting on your chin. “rules” again. [you promised this wasn’t goodbye].
15
Melissa Flores
Inside My Compass I once knew a man Tall as the wind, bound by the sea. He crawled to me on broken arms. Whispering gently that I was free I heard each grain leak through his pores I once knew a man There was no escape he couldn’t see I told him softly to obey He crawled to me on broken arms Oh sing once more, the man cried out Sing of valleys and footprints I once knew a man I’m too tired my love The man turned his head to the sun And crawled to me on broken arms Our palms faced north but our eyes faced south I spoke in riddles, he spoke in lullabies I once knew a man He crawled to me on broken arms.
16
Erin Landau
Up Madeline Lear
17
Into the Dark Black Night blinking flashing lights: the city rushes by. escape; escape into the dark black night. hopes and dreams crushed beneath tires and traffic minutes flown by faceless engines; driven by driven people. escape; escape into the dark black night. cellphones chirp a hundred beats a minute and neon billboards flash by glitter in dark hollows: light doesn’t lie. escape; escape into the dark black night. red and white brights blind as vehicles screech by weeds slunk along edges: of beaten old roads. escape; escape into the dark black night. beyond stainless steel boundaries glass glazed stars swish by drowning in strife: the city cries out. escape; escape into the dark black night. suspended below an endless sky and wrapped up in one endless lie Merissa Mann
18
When You See It Was Never There An Emulation of James Wright’s “Two Postures Beside a Fire”
Tonight I watch my mother’s eyes, As she feels her aching temples grow. Knowing I’ve been living in my mind, She called me softly to the patio. Lately my life’s been a sigh, so I comply. Tonight, California, where I once Thought that I was better than good enough, Shows me my mother, who squirmed free, Flung herself down and crawled away from a rotting fate, And cries, pushing down those trees she planted long ago. Gently her hands cover her broken nose-her Cherokee eyesher crumpled bloom. She has been proud of me, believing I have grasped my time with milky tears and done my best Of place among others who perhaps have no milk left to give. I will not awaken her. I have come outside, without clout or proof To display. Anxious, disillusioned and timid I scoot closer to her on the couch, the throb Of an ugly guilt gushing through my form, and my eyes Become moons in the desert.
19
Jessica Yorkin
Oasis Erin Landau
20
The Various Diseases of San Francisco There is ivy spreading like the plague on this brick building not a single slithery strand like a green stemmed serpent, but an infectious swarm. Wait, who painted on this garbage can? There is a cyclops squid sucking the words off this advertisement, dignified under his crown of obscenities. Soon, speech and sketch will seize this waste container crawling with sprayed-on tags, its polluted form a work of art. Behold, a concrete case of the mumps, mutilated and maaaaaaaagnified pockmarked with potholes. What keeps the fire hydrants and pedestrian from plummeting? There must be something to get rid of the swelling. Cringe, this is the store of useless objects, a case of pygmy salad forks the shape of the Golden Gate. Vile prices must be disinfected. Look, this label reads ‘X-Rated’ taped to a stack of fortune cookies, their brittle corners rubbing sugared dust against the plastic. Muse about their contents, someone suggests “You will get lucky soon ;) ” An outbreak of snickers has been reported on Grant Avenue I hope you have all had your vaccinations. 21
Catherine Mayer
Good Ole Walt I have a vision of my brother Only getting drunk on Fridays. He Puts on a party hat and announces to His college friends that he loves His girlfriend, and he hasn’t Been drunk In two months. He’s always exaggerating, though. I wish I were there with him to calm him Down and make sure he doesn’t fall. 22
Lucas Foster
untitled 4 Jamie Feiler
23
An Alligator on Top of a Train Matt Ward
You need to go out and buy this book. Why? Because it teaches you all kinds of awesome stuff, like how to survive against an alligator on top of a train. An alligator on top of a train. Yes, but that’s just one of the – When would I need to know how to do this, like, in what case is it necessary? Ok, hang on…umm. I’m waiting. Ok, Ok, so you’re on a vacation – I would fly on a plane. So you’re somewhere where you would take a train. You’re in Rome. Ok, why am I on top of a train with an alligator on top. The mafia’s after you. Wait why? You’ve stolen a briefcase full of classified mafia information. How on Earth did I manage to get this? You stole it from them at a party. Then why is it with me still? Ummmmmm, you chained it to your arm while smashed, so you don’t know what’s in it. How did I manage to steal anything from the mafia in plain sight while drunk? You know that weird Bruce Lee drunken fist thing. So wait, I beat up mafia members, stole a case, chained it to myself, and got on a train…..all while heavily intoxicated. Yes. I’m a boss in this scenario. So the mafia finds you on the train. How? What you didn’t know was that the briefcase had a tracer in the lining. And how is the alligator involved again? The train is also transporting cargo to a nearby zoo. But if the mafia were attacking me on a train, I’d just get drunk again and go drunken fist on them. It worked out for me the first time. There’s no booze. BS, this is Italy. Run with it. 24
Ugh, fine. They take you up the ladder and throw you on the roof of the train. Why the alligator? …….It was the day of the don’s daughter’s wedding, and the guy you stole it from requested death by alligator on top of a train as your execution. Fair enough. Awfully convenient that they requested death by alligator on a train and I got on a train with an alligator, wouldn’t you say? Shut up. So they get the alligator on the roof. Easier said than done. They had a forklift on hand. You can’t fit a forklift in a train. This was a bullet train. That makes even less sense. It’s a forklift for midgets. Wouldn’t the alligator fall off the roof? I’m pretty sure they can’t balance themselves well enough to stay on top of a bullet train. It has rails and a cage. That defeats the purpose of a bullet train. So it’s finally on top and ready to eat you and now you – Wait. What? If it eats me, how does the mafia get the briefcase back? They sawed it off of you before they put you on top. So you now must face the – Wait. What? I have awful balance, how do I stay on top of the train? The cage protects you. Huge cage. Yes. Now finally….. No I’m good. How do you deal with the alligator. Guess I’ll have to buy the book. Wanna’ know a situation you could’ve used to get me on top without all this trouble. How’s that? You’re on a reality show and this is the million dollar challenge…. checkmate. 25
Matt Ward
Untitled Happy birthday dad. As you sit on your plush chair Perhaps mumbling, perhaps buzzing With ideas and half-formed queries Slightly marred by the same force Which dug its tiny fingers into the creases Around your eyes. Strange how I can see you there right now, Wondering how you ever became such a wise Old man. But you wouldn’t call yourself wise. It’s okay, no need to be humble. Besides, You’re 84. When I was younger we used to play together. We’d make movies with my dolls, and proudly showcase our names Scrawled upon cardboard as Impromptu credits. You were my daddy-who happened to have hair Just a little bit whiter than most. When people assumed you were my grandfather I simply didn’t want you to feel embarrassed. I didn’t recognize how grandfathers Are closer to death Than dads.
26
stranger Chloe Lister
You never truly escaped from that time Of simple days So raw. Of words that make me giggleLike “chifforobe� -But dad, we will smile so strong That I too will greet those little fairies, Pinching pulled lines around my mouth, Until one day my enthusiasm Will match your journey. 27
Jessica Yorkin
fruit bowl Claire Hong
28
Like Diamonds We fly, all of us Eighty years of dust on the cover of a book Sent aflutter by the lightest of breaths We twinkle, glittering like diamonds Despite our origins of clay and bone. Perhaps the fifty-million facets Proclaim, with polychromatic intensity Our individuality, our verve Because for every carat That those imperious rocks have You’ve got something far more precious Do you realize that? A hand upon yours A thread of breath, intertwining Like an ethereal snake with yours Those strains of laughter drifting like scented smoke Away upon the winds of time Those so brilliantly outshine A musty, ancient matrix of atoms Perhaps because they are Ephemeral, they are so vital Those stones will be there when the universe Comes crashing together with the sound of one hand clapping But so will everything else Besides that infinite matrix of memories That is still drifting, forever now Along a single, forlorn Breath of air.
29
Rhett Gentile
Poe Petrology Once upon a midnight dreary, in among woods dark and eerie Arborescent roots and chutes did veil the forest floor Perched upon the merest sapling, woodpecker with wings a-flapping Whiled away the time while tapping, tapping ‘til a hole it bore “Oh, how grueling is my tapping”, said the fledgeling of its chore Yet at the tree it pecked still more. Ah, distinctly I remember— the little bird, it did dismember That poor tree, still in its youth, ‘twas felled, it stood upright no more Down it tumbled, to the earth, and quickly found there was a dearth Of oxygen with which to rot, to rot into the forest floor. Instead, alas, the groundwater did seep into its every pore Petrified forevermore. With the flowing sad uncertain rustling of a liquid curtain O’er this very selfsame spot, a river did begin to pour So that now the speeding current rushed over such rocks that weren’t Sorted or rounded whatever—they’d been jagged heretofore And still the petrified wood sat, sat as past the river tore Rounding pebbles more and more Presently the river deepened, gradually its sides had steepened Now the weight of all this water pressed upon the river floor As it pressed, it came to be, that sediment, now thoroughly Rounded, though it lacked some sorting (sorting, in fact, was quite poor) Lithified in such a way that a conglomerate it bore Solid rock forevermore. Deep inside the river laying, all around sediment weighing Down upon that bit of wood, petrified since days of yore Of course that which did come next is not altogether complex Due to the natural effects, effects that this wet pressure bore Conglomerate with wood did fuse, sedimentary rock washed ashore One solid boulder ever more. 30
Avalon Nuovo
otis iv Chloe Lister
31
Superstition A black cat it crossed my path All the night I heart it yowlin’. Scratchin’ hard on the roof I heard its bones a breakin’. I bought myself a fancy car. People stared as I zoomed on by. Red, red, red, it hurt like hell Until I drove it right into the ground. My momma had a mirror hung proud and true. She’d tell me in it I would see my soul. In flames it leaped and flew, sputtered and squelched Until I grabbed that bucket of water and threw it on myself. I had a ladder made out of gold. When I dreamed it was a reachin’ the sky. I held it too close, turned it into a cradle. That baby never did look me straight in the eye.
32
Erin Landau
Martyr Jacqueline Arkush
33
the orthogon When I was growing up, I lived in one of those rusty, Cordovan towns off the interstate. Cordovan like the color, that is; not the Spanish city. No, the town was founded in the early nineteenth century, 1815 or so, by some Irish wheat farmers exiled by the great-grandson of Mr. William Penn himself when they got in a bit of a quib over name-callin’ those goddamn Susquehannock; which makes a great deal a sense if you know the town as I do. It could’ve been the Lenni Lenape for all intents and purposes; there were a ton of reds out there – Iroquois, Shawnee – when that handful of doughfaced, prideful-as-hell farmers came out here with their scythes, and toothbrushes, and coffee cans of toils. Just the usual. They reaped and they sowed – ten tons of barley, then fifteen of spelt, so the legend goes – and that was the first year. The clouds screamed and their flannel pajamas became caked with brown, and still hardly any wheat, and then the second year went by. Seven more of this, and I think the men got fed up, as they say, or perhaps too many nighties had been worn paper-thin and that was an indicator that it was time, so the men put down their scythes, and packed up their pride in their hideskin sacks, all set to go when somebody’s granddad ran hollerin’ through the mudslicked graying afternoon, “Coal! Coal!” all alive like it was Jesus’ personal tinsel-flecked gift to the Lutheran himself. So the men, once again, put down their scythes, but this time under the bed for real now. And from the hideskin they unpacked their rumpled pride, and it was time to get started again, so the men commenced building. And building, everything with these men, for that fact of the matter, was a logical business, so the men set about it with the utmost devotion to simplicity; thorough though, and practical. Yes, above all practical. They gripped their oatmeal spoons with the softened callous of a shovel, wiped the sting in their eyes from brute northerly winds, and lay down their heavy heads with weathered, naked skin clinging for cool hospice to the creases in the starchy sheets. Eventually, their boots and their gaits, too, yielded ever-slightly to the give of the land in the wintertime; their pride harshly whipped, recoiled, tamed like a good Christian into something more along the lines of dignity; their souls taught like granite of recompense, and work ethic, and the burden of chance, and maybe even the tenacity of promise. 34
They grew old and they grew wise, and in time they died, as did their children, and their children’s children, and a few generations of thanklessly troubled progeny after that. They grew old and they grew wise, and hand-to-hand passed on this cruel land, maybe changing viscerally but evolving never, bloody taskmistress of each pinking dawn.
Rachel Katz
banana slug A banana slug lies on the grass A boy holds a magnifying glass The slug lies, sensing, with its large eyestalks The boy sits, stalking. His eyes moving like a hawk’s. The sun shines brightly on the two of them. The grass blows gently swaying in the wind. The boy moves closer he extends out his hand. The slug shrugs worriedly. The boy has entered his land. The sun shines on the glass and the glass shines on the slug. It looks like the vision of a hallucinogenic drug A spark is ignited. The slug is lighted. A childhood game has turned into a real life game of clue. It was the boy in the grass with the magnifying glass. 35
Abbie Neufeld
bridges Claire Hong
36
Dung Boy Speaks Dung Beetles are named after poop because that’s what they eat. I was never really sure how they would feel if they found out what we call them. It could be considered a condescending title, but it’s just what they eat. They walk around the earth, and they gather poop to eat. It probably happens like a million times a day or something; I don’t really know the statistics. I saw one do it once, I think it was a mother, and it was sort of beautiful seeing a creature turn what one considers waste into what another considers nourishment. I mean that is TRUE recycling. If I ever have a pet dung beetle, which I don’t think I will, I’ll be sure to talk to it a lot, and in a really respective manner, so that it knows I think it’s my equal. Technically, it’s not my equal. I get to vote, eat exotic foods, and have sleepovers. It can still be my equal, though. I really hope it understands that.
37
Lucas Foster
untitled 2 Jamie Feiler
38
Little Demons in the Dark On this electric gray night music plays in the empty streets where running boys on shuffling feet hurry home and out of sight. On the coldest of all nights when darkest demons come to play at the peak of a hill not far away a house is warmed by candle light. On this eve of silent fright a painted picture is the sky stars fly across and softly by as they twinkle, twinkle bright. On the stillest evening of the year the wind hides in the shady trees it longs to breathe along the seas he waits for dawn is breaking near. On this hour of melancholy cheer men sing of all things lost in the fire and at what cost they wait for dawn is breaking near to ward of dreaded visitor, fear.
Rebecca Moretti
39
Petrified Wood Conglomerate A beautiful old tree stands tall in a forest. It’s been there for years, presiding over the others like a king. It doesn’t know how long it has been there, it only knows that it is very old. It is a proud tree, honored by all life that encounters it. The tree has been a home, a refuge, a sanctuary, and a food source. It graciously gives its seeds to the hungry animals that beg for them. Suddenly the sky darkens, wind thrashes the tree and rain beats down on its leaves. Suddenly a streak of light pierces the very sky above, and then there is nothing else. A piece of wood floats down a river. It knows it has been through tumultuous rapids, broken time and time again as it splinters on boulders and dives off of waterfalls. It vaguely recalls a time when it stood high above the ground; it was once a tree. That time is past now, and the wood is shattered and shamed. Low to the ground, it is no better than a twig. The river has slowed, and it bobs along gently now. After a time, when the river is barely moving and the wood has become heavy with water, it sinks below the surface. As the river bends, the wood comes to rest on a sandy riverbed. The sand is soft and smooth, almost like silt, and it is a wonderfully peaceful, quiet place. No more begging animals, and the sun barely filters through. It is quite deep there. Finally rest has come to the battered and exhausted piece of wood. It sinks into a deep, dreamless, undisturbed sleep. Many, many years pass and the wood remains quietly resting on the riverbed. As time goes on it is covered with a thin blanket of sand, which slowly becomes thicker and thicker. As the world outside changes, rocks begin to join the sand that covers the wood, leaving only a very small surface exposed o the soothing water. And still the wood knows nothing of air and sunlight. A strange, thick heaviness begins to creep through its veins, as though its lifeforce is dwindling and being replaced by an unfamiliar, hard, rocky substance. The wood changes, and becomes petrified. But really, all that has changed is its insides, the wood’s appearance remains very much the same. The rocks that first joined the wood’s blanket of sand are happy. The do not move, nestling closer and closer to protect their silent, changing friend.
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Time has rushed by outside of the river and its protective waters, and the wood has formed a protective shield of its smooth rock friends and the sand that has cemented them together. Nothing has disturbed them, and fish swim over and around this rare partnership of rock and wood. One day, however, the wood and rocks, now bound together as a conglomerate, receive a violent shove. Some of the rocks that loosely held the wood in its place are dislodged, and the wood is once again uncovered. Another violent shove and the wood begins to bounce around in the water. The rocks are dismayed, afraid they will lose their comrades, or worse, be dislodged from their petrified friend. Suddenly, something has gotten hold of the friends. They are being scooped up, up through the water, finally breaking the surface. The wood is awakened by the feeling of fresh air, oxygen on part of its surface where there had been none for a very long time. A crude, very ugly and uncoordinated creature makes loud, grating noises, shocking to such elderly and respected rocks and dignified wood that have heard nothing but smoothly burbling water for an age. It seems that the poor ungraceful creature was attempting to swim in the water and accidentally dislodged the conglomerate with violent force using a hideous lifeless object called a “swim fin”. There are sudden bright flashes of light now, issuing from a tiny box in the creature’s hand and illuminating the conglomerate. The wood feels a stirring, as if there is a similar experience buried deep within its past. The gangly and awkward creature begins to walk clumsily to a large construction the likes of which nothing in the conglomerate was familiar with. The conglomerate is sloppily placed in the contraption, and left there. It never sees the forest again. The wood does sometimes miss being a majestic tree, towering over all in the land, but it has grown to love the unsightly creatures that abducted it from the deep water of the river. The creatures seem to understand better than any of the other animals the true impact of the conglomerate’s great age, and they have immense respect for its journey. While the conglomerate has made a sacrifice to stay inside a strange world with no sunlight, it has taught its lessons to many of the creatures and they reward it with awe and respect. The end. Dory Graham 41
Nothing Lasts A steaming latte awaits my arrival; a warm embrace, a familiar song, a humble burst of caffeine, a brisk revival for my weary soul. The day has been long; filled to the hem with ‘tick-tocking’ seconds. But a day is merely the tips of my fingers trying to grasp water; futile as gravity beckons. A handful of stubborn moments swiftly slip, never linger, Through even Day’s nimble fingers – a handful of nothing. And with that, the time has escaped and the latte has cooled; bland and clammy, sheathed by a pasty clothing fabricated by dairy’s predictable coagulation, ruled by time: the seamstress, the weaver of the prison in which the brew persisted; arrested by time as time will never be arrested.
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Leila Thomas
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keep calm and carry on Hannah Rosenberg