Arts & Creative Writing

Tree by Zeina Lee '22

I’m a tree in front of Mac’s house. I have watched him grow from childhood. I showered him with maple leaves when he learned to ride a bike for the frst time. I gazed in patient wonder at seeing him fall, and pick himself back up to try again. I clapped for him after each basketball game. I waited for him to return from school each day. I shimmered in the wind watching him celebrate his 20th birthday from outside his window. Tomorrow, he is leaving for the military. After two years, he will come back, and enter adulthood. He will leave again, but the next time he comes back, There might be someone beside him. And the time after that, maybe two or three in his arms. When you look up, can you tell how old I am? There is no way of knowing unless you can parse me from within And count the rings. It’s not like watching Mac, It’s not as easy as watching a child grow into an adult. As I observe people growing up, I know that I am aging too, My body is thicker and I have more branches than before. But from the outside, what can be read from where you stand below?

Hope Selvitelli ‘22

Hailey Suller '22

Cooper Choate '22 Nate Schoen '22

Michael Greystone '22

Henry White '22

Jenna Daly '21

Tick-Tock by Trent Hieber '22

Tick-tock, tick-tock. As the suffocating noise surrounded me, I could not breathe; I could not move. My body was restrained in an icy metal chair in the center of a room. The clock was visible from every point in the room. Well, to be exact, the hundreds of clocks lining the walls of this enigmatic room were all visible. This tiny room was free of any windows but had one scarlet door, with a curved shadowy black handle. The door radiated a feeling of insidious temptation, begging to be opened. One unstable flickering dim light hung directly above my head. The walls, covered with nothing but clocks lining every inch, simultaneously ticked in unison, like the climb up a roller coaster that never drops. The ticking threatened to put me into a hypnotic state I continually fought against. The clocks never stopped, never stuttered, never ended. They just kept ticking. To my surprise, my body felt no hunger nor thirst though I assumed it must have been hours, if not days, since my last meal. You may ask where I was, but I could not give you an answer. I had been to this wretched place before but couldn't remember when or why. Peering down at my body, I confusingly saw no restraints nor chains, even though I still felt magnetized to the grim chair. I wanted to stand up- I needed to stand up. Shutting my eyelids, I fully flled my lungs and exhaled slowly, concentrating solely on the act of standing. It was such a simple action, an action I do every day, so why should it be diffcult now? The muscles in my calves tensed and contracted with all my might and energy. An abrupt realization hit me, the only thing that kept me from standing up was my belief that I couldn't. So, I rose to my feet with great effort, testing my balance as I stood. Anxiously, I haltingly advanced to the sinister red door. Its malevolent black handle jutted out, pleading to be pulled . Grasping the handle, I slowly pulled it down. Hands clammy, heart racing, blood pressure rising, I pulled until I felt the distinct clank of the latch. The door began to inch open. Suddenly, an awful, thunderingly loud noise pierced my ears, the opposite of the soothing cadence of the clock, much faster, much higher pitched, less tame, just an abomination of sound. The penetrating noise caused me to cover my ears with my hands, attempting to protect my fragile ears from the deafening ring. This clearly offered no protection as I felt blood gush through my fngertips. The clocks around me started to move, coming closer as if they were chasing me. The room shrunk to a size barely larger than my body. I was going to die, crushed by murderous clocks. Everything turned black.

Blinding light shocked me into consciousness as luminous rays of sunlight flooded through my bedroom windows.I hastily twisted my head to see my alarm clock rattling on my nightstand. As I turned off the contraption , I inhaled deeply to calm myself but visions of the grim clocks haunted me. My shirt had turned into a wetland full of sweat. Chills raced down my spine as the image of the red door popped into my head.

Then I heard a familiar sound, one which I never wanted to hear again, one only found in my nightmares. I turned toward the poisonous sound. Gluing my eyes to the circular clock face on my nightstand, I was entranced by every precise movement of the sinister scarlet second hand. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Rylie DeSabato '22

Austin Moore '23

Hanseo Lim '24

My Movie by Sophia Kim '23

I was a “good kid.” I did my homework before bedtime at ten; I had nice, neat handwriting everyone praised; I never stained my white shirts with chocolate milk; I said goodbye to my friends when it was time to go without tearing up; I always arrived on time to my violin lessons; I was not a target for concern. My somewhat tiger parents felt proud of me, especially after hearing the stories of all the other troublesome kids at the parents’ meeting. I was not one of them, and that was what I lived for.

I was a “good friend.” A friend who willingly gave up her last bite of ramen for you; A friend who let you copy her homework that took fve hours without a word of sarcasm; A friend who, despite being single, stayed up late at night just to listen to you talk trash about your boyfriend; A friend who laughed off your mean remarks about her newly bought sweater; A friend who always put you frst when you put her second; A friend who never said “no” to you. As early as I can remember, I was never alone at lunch—which was all that mattered—and that assured me I was doing well. I was at ease being the supporting role in my movie, watching others steal the show. I had no desire to fght over taking the leading role and be the heroine myself. At the end of the day, there was no need to defeat a villain; I never had one. At least until I met this girl in sixth grade. She was the frst antagonist in my movie that challenged me to become a protagonist. Her name was Angelina. She was taller than the tallest boys in our class, wore glasses with black round frames, and always dressed herself with striped outfts. She was defnitely not the one I would ask to sit together at lunch. One month into the school year, she randomly approached me in a crowded, busy hallway, and asked which class I was heading next to. Startled, I pointed at Room 201 right behind her and awkwardly smiled. From that day on, we were somehow walking back home together, since we lived only one block away from each other. We thought we were meant to be best friends then.

Angelina was street-smart. Of course, she knew exactly where the nearest 7-Eleven, Starbucks, or Subway was. Her knowledge was beyond that for a thirteen-year-old though. She knew how to make a deposit, ask for a refund, and win over an argument with her parents. The three things I could not see myself capable of doing for the rest of my life, she was doing it. We got close quite soon after going on a few adventures around the city of Songdo1. She was leading in our small trips, as well as in our friendship. It took me a year to acknowledge that I was hiding a sense of bitterness towards her. I enjoyed keeping her company after school until it became an obligation. I loved talking to her about who I accidentally bumped into last night until she cut me off. I wanted her to share her worst moments with me until she saved her best moments for someone else. It was those small things that snowballed into my discontent towards her. I did not ask much in our friendship, and that, she took for granted. It was just another cool, crisp afternoon in late October. I was alone, staring out the window on one of the couches at the student lounge. The campus yard was flled with joyful people chatting, throwing balls, and drawing chalk art on the sidewalk. I looked away, and the golden scenery of autumn leaves immediately caught my eyes. Nothing had my attention but the leaves of red and gold fluttering gently to the ground. All of a sudden, I felt someone’s cold hand on my shoulder. I turned my head around. Angelina set aside her maroon JanSport backpack and sat on the couch across me. Her pink fur keychain was new. She studied me for a solid minute with her arms crossed. We were strangers to each other. “What’s wrong with you these days?” she asked. I felt a hot flash over my face. Her words echoed in my mind.

What’s wrong with me? She ranted on about how I was not myself these past few weeks. How I was not engaged enough in our conversations, not checking her texts often enough, and not hanging out with her enough. She went on. Her voice grew louder but muffled in my ears. My heart started racing; I had to pour out.

“Everything’s not all about you!” Everything else just came out like word vomit. My eyes were flling with tears, and my whole body trembled. My lower lip felt numb. My face heated up with angry tears coursing down my cheeks. It completely blurred my vision of her. My face turned bright red. I could burst into loud tears at any moment, but I held it back. Only the sound of my sniffles flled the air between us. The utter silence from her disappointed me even further. The heat seemed to linger for a while. “Are you coming?” a high-pitched voice across the hall broke the silence.

Angelina got up to her feet and gave me a longlasting look of pity. The breeze gave me chills as she swiftly walked by. Her footsteps faded, my heart dropped, and the next moment, I was crying out loud. At that moment, no one but myself starred in my movie. I later encountered many more villains, coming and going, after Angelina— some were far worse. They opposed me, interfered with my plan, and made me question the “good” in me. I refused to give in, however. They could no longer put me in a supporting role. I was the protagonist, crafting my own story.

Skittles by Chidinma Esielem '23

I would like to consider myself a patient person. Someone who doesn’t rush experiences but savors the little things in life. Like sucking on a Skittle until it turns white, instead of engulfng half a dozen in one go. (Maybe then I would have realized sooner that all Skittles tasted the same). I would like to think that I am someone who milks every Skittle dry, who breaths in every breath of color they can. But in this picture, I am everything but patient. I vividly remember the accordance of events that led to this picture. Assembled near the equator, Naija’s1 sun treated us as she usually did that day: unsympathetically warm. My sister and I played under her sun in the morning out of respect. My dad had left for work, which slightly dampened my day. But, considering it was my birthday, it would have taken the power of a fright of a dozen masquerades2 to chase me into the blues. My mother thankfully was present on my birthday. In fact, alongside protecting me from my demons, she was the one that picked up my pretty pink heart shaped cake. Next to my cake was 5 Alive and two bottles of La Casera, an apple drink so loved by Nigerians hence the tagline “I Love This Drink.” Although I did not know it yet, the sweet citrus and apple taste of 5 Alive and La Casera would complement the crunchy, buttery taste of my cake. My mother was also the one that put us in those white dresses. Although I cannot speak for my sister, I do believe I have never looked as fresh besides the day of my birth. I wish, and I know my sister would agree, that our skin stayed as beautiful and clear as it was in this picture. The darkness of the room could not pale the brightness of our skin—something I cannot reiterate today. In this picture, I am everything but patient. However, one would not know of the sweet and sultry draw of the pan of jollof rice that sat in my kitchen. One would not know of the throbbing ache on my head, a reminder of my newly made hair. One would not know of my mother behind the camera, who is the reason for the existence of this photo, but also a witness to a dozen other remakes.

In this picture, I am everything but patient. With my eyes wide and my lips tucked, as well as profoundly cute, I was the image of intense longing. A yearning to rush all the Skittles in one go, sloppily chewing them in haste. I believe my sister and I held hands for the sake of cutting the cake together. However, I see her restraining me, as though I am about to pounce, about to latch myself on the other side of the camera and greet future me. In this picture, I am everything but patient. In this picture, I did not know that in a year, my third birthday would be overshadowed by the arrival of my sister. I did not know that in two years’ time, my father would win a visa lottery. I did not know that after a decade I would have four more siblings, the sixth and last one, for mine and my parent’s sake, a boy. In this picture, I am everything but patient. In this picture, I did not know that in a nearly a decade and a half, I would fnd it diffcult to utter words besides insults and simple commands in my native language. I did not know in a decade that I would live in Newark, a place that nurtured the

American me, but which also served in exposing my double consciousness. I did not know in fve years, I would be identifed as the color black, in the same way I described my television. The expeditious nature in which I quaff down my Skittles does not ease the palpable flavor that I savor. However, the amount of time it takes for me to see the green splotches on my tongue does judge how much I cherished each bite. I would like to think I am a patient person. But in this picture, a picture that commemorates my second birthday, my eyes are already in search of the next bag of Skittles.

1 A patriotic name Nigerians use to refer to Nigeria 2 An African masked dancer believed to represent ancestral spirits

Saud Shawwaf '23

Dwelling

in Ignorance by Chastity Blair '24

Does my history bore you? Is the mirror in the bathroom More enlightening than the redlining In the Divided States of America?

Does the feeling of leaving, the poor projector talking about basic human rights give you a thrill? Or does it slowly kill your sensitivity to oppression? I know you’re the person that America was made for But did you ever stop and think about who is really at the core? Who slaved for the foundation? Who made and still makes the nation? Who is the example for how all of Gen Z should talk? Who worked in the sun for hours? So that your ancestors could make money Pass it on And let you come to class with your camera off And the clothes you slept with On?

Disregarding the will to gain knowledge Does it hurt to try and understand Why black people are deemed “thugs” and “lawless”?

Ignorance is a deep whole That only you can pull yourself out of It is your duty to learn To sympathize To listen To fght But you dwell in the sea of ignorance And choose to ride its waves While the rest of the people are on the beach Cleaning the trash from the grains of sand Don’t be the surfer riding the waves Come to shore and clean the beach Before you get wiped out from a 50 ft wave And will never be able to go back And pick up the plastic pack And make a real impact.

Biff Tran '23

Hailey Suller '22

The Parasite by Dominic Balise '24

I wake up And I feel it. Growing inside me, Overtaking my body Putting my whole self Into a state of panic. I feel trapped I can’t escape it. My breathing Starts to increase While my brain Is going 1000 miles a minute.

When I tell people They think I’m exaggerating. “Calm down,” they say “It’s not a big deal,” they say Like it’s a choice. A choice of misery Something I do for attention. If I could I would rid of this Awful thing for everyone. Even with meds And therapy This parasite Still comes and Uses my body as a host, Feasting on my inner thoughts. Making me want to end it all.

My body freezes I can’t eat I can’t sleep I can’t even talk Without tears streaming From my eyes. I cannot Do anything about it. The thoughts start to creep in: What if I had said that? What will they think of that? Should I have done that? Why didn’t I do that? What if I fail? What if everybody hates me? What if?

It’s a simple question. What if? But these Two solemn words That haunt me forever Is what the parasite Feeds off of the most.

Perspective

by Katya Yurkovskaya '22

“All cops are bastards”, what a saying! A motto of America. Today, I’ve got a new perspective From my home country, a few life stories, The outcome might feel unexpected, But just sit back, relax, enjoy it.

Age twenty-three. My mother, Still full of hopes and dreams, One day was slightly bothered, By our great police. She and her friend were sitting And talking in the car. Policemen found it fitting To pull up, shout, “you are Arrested”. Why? There seemed to be no reason. “Exchange of currency, bye-bye, Enjoy your time in prison”.

My mom went crazy. “Idiots! From angle where you stood, You wouldn’t see a single thing, You shame the whole manhood!”

And yet for half a year, My mom stayed in confinement, For no real crime, with the exception Of most unlucky timing. You see, police in Belarus, Don’t need no evidence, but rather They have to say, “Ten culprits caught, All by the book, respect me, brother”.

Small business, a few little shops, Was how my father earned his living, Until – you know the pattern – cops Showed up and made my dad the villain. “Tax fraud” became breadwinners’ bane, All of a sudden, all detained, This stain destroyed my father’s name, He got in jail, and we remained. My pregnant mother, me, my sister, And constant lawsuits, always lost, My mom would speak to cops, “but misters, You realize that it’s the most

Unfair thing to do to a person For never did you care for taxes, And businessmen thus never paid them, And now you’re saying, ‘pack your boxes’?” But no one listened to my mother, They were busy seizing all Property that they could gather, Thank god, they let us have a home. My father spent five years in prison, And want to know a funny fact? The law he broke is now abolished, Well, who would ever think of that!

My mother’s very good friend Stella, Who is amazing, kind, and wild, Had married her beloved husband, And she was pregnant with his child. Once, Stella’s friend got murdered, With blood and violence, all that jazz. The killer wasn’t found. Cops ordered To jail up Stella’s poor young husb-And Stella was given a choice, Give up her love, confess his “crime”, Or fight for justice, be repressed, Be beaten, tortured, lose her child.

It doesn’t matter what she’d chosen, What matters is: where I come from, Police don’t try to spread the justice, They only need a nice report.

What are these stories? Do they matter? Or are they simply horror tales To scare you all away from getting Outside of the United States?

Well, here comes my queer confession, I am afraid of coming home, The way I am, they’re gonna question, And judge, and threaten, and so on. Don’t worry I am not illegal, They just pretend I don’t exist, They say, “do it at home, unseen, please We will not care whom you have kissed”. But should I cross the line, speak up, Be active, talk, pass down my wisdom, I am afraid I will be wrapped And tossed directly into prison. I make a choice: to be myself, Or keep my body free from shackles, Pretend, don’t feel, don’t ask for help, But always fight internal battles. I am at my house. Clean my closet, Tear up my ribbon, leave nails long, Destroy the pin and burn the flannels, Take off the ring, don’t sing gay songs! Then maybe, maybe I’ll avoid The fate from Then There Were None. I’ll be defeated, lost, forgotten, … Just like the last man, Soldier One. Then I’ll accept his fate.

In Belarus, we don’t expect To go to court, demand release, There’re no revolts and no protests Against Defenders of the Peace. America!

Just give me one of your defunded bastards, (If you believe ACAB), Who’d save my dad, who’d save my mother, My mother’s friend, and who’ll save me.