Editors Maria Gelabert Emily Ward Staff Emma Halfon Delilah Hamlin Lina Jegeus Sara Seaman Harley Smith Tracey Thompson Faculty Advisor Brian Wogensen
Pillars of Salt Literary Magazine The Archer School for Girls Spring 2014-2015
Related Kayry Gonzalez (’16)
Table of Contents Related, Kayry Gonzalez (’16).......................................................... 2 Angel by the Poolside, Maria Gelabert (’15)........................................ 4 Mr. Endlos & the Imaginary Number, Yasmeen Namazie (’15)............ 6 Three, Two, One, Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18)...................................... 9 Sommeil, Audrey Koh (’16)..............................................................10 The Little Man, India Halsted (’17)................................................. 11 en mis ojos, Catherine Oriel (’18)..................................................... 12 Bird ’s Nest, Milan Cross (’17).......................................................... 13 On Doit, Sydney Shintani (’18)....................................................... 14 Mandeville, India Halsted (’17) ...................................................... 15 Untitled, Sonia Miklaucic (’16)....................................................... 16 Through the Screen I Saw Myself at 60,000 Feet, Sara Seaman (’16)... 17 Untitled, Sonia Miklaucic (’16) .................................................. 18-19 Three Rooms, Lina Jegeus (’18) .................................................. 20-21 Sugarlips, Zoe Pelikan (’17)............................................................. 22 Teach Him How to Laugh, Delilah Hamlin (’17)............................... 23 Story, Amanda Mihalke (’15)...................................................... 24-25 The Theory of Gravity, Harley Smith (’17)....................................... 26 The Great Gatsby, Kisa Rosenbaum (’18)........................................ 27 Stranger at the Dinner Table, Emma Halfon (’17)............................. 28 Daisy, India Halsted (’17)............................................................... 29 Thornfield Hall, Emily Ward (’15)............................................... 30-31 Paper Boat, Shana Chin (’17)........................................................... 32 Good Blue, Maria Gelabert (’15)...................................................... 33 3-Minute Haikus, Creative Writing Staff.................................... 34-35 The Wall, Tracey Thompson (’16)....................................................36
Angel by the Poolside it refuses — or, perhaps, cannot — acknowledge me. instead it crouches on the dirty chaise and watches the little black ants crawl in curlicues up and on and over its legs. its wings collect fallen eucalyptus leaves under the indifferent Heavens and the angel cannot stop watching the little black ants conquer 4 Pillars of Salt
its legs, indifferent to the miracle they destroy.
Maria Gelabert (’15)
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Mr. Endlos and the Imaginary Number
Room 010 was one door down from Room 011, 14 paces from the library and 21 square tiles from the break room – well, at least that was how Mr. Endlos perceived it. Not many shared his fascination with numbers, for he was a pompously stingy man. He had a mustache like a negative parabola, dark pupils dilated with area 2π mm^2, and grey hair finer than a delicately penciled integral. He always laid 3 leafs of college-ruled paper on his desk because 4 was too masculine and 2 was too feminine. Mr. Endlos hated everything that strayed from exactitude, any prospect intangible or unquantifiable. For him, math was concrete, and numbers were truth. The concept of infinity was baffling and asymptotes made him cringe. This was a curious predicament for a shrewd, middle school math teacher like Mr. Endlos.“Irrational!” he would sneer when students would ask him about these mathematical uncertainties, “Utterly and completely irrational.” However, there was no mathematical absurdity for Mr. Endlos like the Imaginary Number, i. i = √(-1) One day, Mr. Endlos was preparing an assignment for his 7th grade Algebra class when he flipped to the section in the textbook dedicated to complex numbers. He came upon a particularly infuriating theorem: “...by simply accepting that i exists, we can solve things that need the square root of a negative number.” “Irrational!” he crowed. “Utterly and completely irrational… The square root of a negative number is inconceivable! How in the mathematical world could something imaginary be considered real?!” As the 20.5 students (not all of them could really be called “students”) began to trickle in at the start of 5th period Algebra (at a 6 Pillars of Salt
particularly slow rate of .167 students/sec, he thought), Mr. Endlos sat at his big, mahogany desk, whose top had an impressive surface area of 8.34 feet^2, watching them discuss twitting and the instagrand, or whatever other meaningless riff-raff they went on about. “Today, children, we are going to discuss radicals and taking square roots,” he began. He turned around and scrawled in oversized chicken scratches on the whiteboard. The school had just made the transition from blackboards to whiteboards, and he despised the way the markers glided across the glossy surface without making a sound. It made him feel like what he was teaching didn’t have substance; the etching on the chalkboard made the information inherently true. “Mr. Endlos, can you take the square root of a negative number?” Tommy Harris interrupted from the front row. Mr. Endlos brought the marker to a halt. He let out an exasperated sigh; “Yes, Mr. Harris. We call this an Imaginary Number. But it is an irrational concept, utterly and completely irrational. You might as well disregard it — the imaginary can never be real.” he said, turning 180º to face the future nine-to-fives staring at him with their lifeless, post-lunch eyes. But once he turned, he noticed that the students had vanished, and instead there was a man in a long, cylindrical top hat standing in the center of square room. He stood with his feet at an obtuse angle, and his hands clasped at the midpoint of his waist. “Am i not real, good sir?” he said. “Do i not stand before you, in the flesh?” Mr. Endlos was aghast. He opened his mouth wide enough to swallow an exponential function, but not a sound escaped from the dark matter in his throat. “Without i, your world would be inherently skewed. You could divide by zero, 1 would equal 2, numbers would be meaningless. Pillars of Salt 7
Could you, of all people, understand and perceive the world without numbers?” the man questioned. “But… but, but.. numbers are rational,” Mr. Endlos stuttered frantically. “i can’t exist! i doesn’t exist! It’s… it’s mathematical nonsense! Imaginary! Irrational!” he cried. “i is imaginary, i is real. i is tangible, i is surreal,” the man began chanting. Slowly, one by one, each desk melted into the floor and dispersed like liquid over the tiles. The structure shook at an inconceivable magnitude as a distant rumbling roared in the distance until all Mr. Endlos could here was the piercing scream of silence. Pencils, staplers, calculators, posters — everything was melting. Solid became liquid, liquid became gas. Mr. Endlos covered his ears fiercely and shut his eyes. “i isn’t real! i can’t be real!” he shouted as he fell to his knees. The man stood composed in the center of the room as the chaos unfolded and objects melted around him. “i am real,” the man affirmed calmly. “i shall show you what happens if i didn’t exist.” The man tipped his hat and melted into the floor. Suddenly, the rumbling tremors stopped. Mr. Endlos opened his eyes and saw Nothing. It was a white void, free space, an endless plane. He stood up at gazed at the expanse of Nothing, blinded by the white. His steps made no sound. “There’s nothing here!” Mr. Endlos cried. “Help! Help!” “Precisely,” i said.
Yasmeen Namazie (’15)
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Three, Two, One
I would eat away the seconds Skip the heartbeats of the clock I would dance across the Days and nights paint Landscapes on the Minute hand Moons and suns and stars, boundless Oceans of infinity Marked with ancient scars And flocked with new divinities Digestion is a powerful thing The slate wiped clean Begin again Time like paintings in yellow and blue And red And raining from the dark grey clouds Time like swallowing hard and Fingers shaking in front of a crowd Time like pennies shining from newness Rusting and greening and bringing us luck Time like icebergs melting and suns setting Time like age and death and life Time that slowly runs out Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18), Poet Laureate Runner-Up Pillars of Salt 9
Sommeil Audrey Koh (’16)
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The Little Man In a bed of green, Past the window frame, Sat a man, picking away.
Residing in a bed of weeds, He snipped the daisies, A flower that intruded upon his orderly scene. Pruning away the dead, Ridding of the different, To preserve his patch of heaven. He wore a leather pouch, With rusty, silver tools, That sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Dipped in dirt, his boots, Were leather creased with wrinkles, Worn down like his overworked hands. Levis, ratted with age, Hung about his slim hips, Bounding his trousers into place. Sweat trickled from his brow, Arms tanned from the sun’s blaze, Hair moved with slight breeze. This little man, Ears touched with red, Was forever stationary: Brushing away the brown from the luxuriant green.
India Halsted (’17) Pillars of Salt 11
en mis ojos
me dijiste que no preferiste el sol más que la lluvia pienso que me atraías a mí por el nube de tormentas constantes en mis ojos y confundí su sonrisa por un rayo de luz.
Translation: you told me you didn’t prefer sunshine over rain i guess you were drawn to me because of the constant storm clouds in my eyes and i confused your smile for a ray of light.
Catherine Oriel (’18), World Language Poet Laureate Winner
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Bird’s Nest Milan Cross (’17)
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On Doit
La petite fille se proméne au bord de la mer et elle regarde la couleur de la mer qui se répand à une position lointaine. Elle imagine la pollution entre les gorges des innocents. D’abord, elle dévore la tête, puis il continue aux bras et finalement aux jambes. Il n’a aucune hésitation. Il ne s’arrête pas. L’humanité dit, « ne t’inquiète pas ». Mais ils se trompent. Elle se met en colère et se dispute avec le monde. Elle s’énerve avec les gens du monde. Elle ne peut s’amuser à la plage. Elle ne peut se détendre au bord de la mer. Le monde doit se dépêcher. Parce que quand l’environnement meurt, les gens meurent. Leurs cœurs vont s’arrêter.
Translation: The little girl walks along the edge of the sea and watches the color scatter to a far place. She imagines as the pollution enters the throats of the innocent. It first consumes the head, continues to the arms, and eventually the legs. It has no hesitation. Humanity tells us, “Do not worry.” But they are mistaken. She gets angry and argues with the world. She becomes frustrated with its people. She can no longer play on the beach. She can no longer relax by the ocean. The world has to hurry. Because when the environment dies, the people die. Their hearts will stop.
Sydney Shintani (’18), World Language Poet Laureate Runner-Up
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Mandeville India Halsted (’17)
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Untitled Sonia Miklaucic (’16) 16 Pillars of Salt
Through the Screen I Saw Myself at 60,000 Feet It starts as a hunger, A wide-eyed cat, Electricity running down its fur. You can rip it open Like a tangerine, Bite-sized thoughts Of sunset covered in skin. Skin ripples like oil And melts like cream, Curdles as it puddles and stings‌ I clot. I thought I could react calmly To the push and pull of water, To a teacher getting louder But my throat is filled with snow. I live under my fingernails, The door slams indigo. I sink, Fall, Slip, CleaveThe cat scratches at concrete. Sara Seaman (’16), Poet Laureate Winner Pillars of Salt 17
Untitled 18 Pillars of Salt
Sonia Miklaucic (’16) Pillars of Salt 19
Three Rooms
She keeps her drawings in the space between the dresser and the wall. For some reason the smudged figures and messy scrawls feel like her secret to keep. This room is too clean, too perfect for her smudged mistakes. The purple and white bedspread has never been slept in. Purple has never been her favourite color. There are empty hangers in the closet, and silver bookends stand together on the desk. She pulls the curtains apart, and sunlight sets the doorknob alight, a shimmering silver sphere. She wants to touch it, to turn it and run down the stairs, out of this house, and away from this room full of empty things. She looks away. But this is a new start; a chance to have the family she never knew. The fresh paint smell still burns her nose. She opens the window, and the hot, stale air clings to her skin. They aren’t her family. She knows nothing of them, and they know nothing of her. A stranger in her own home. She closes the window. His walls are green. His door is closed. He tosses a tennis ball into the air and catches it in his hand. He never wanted a sister. A fly is perched on the screen of his TV, and his eyes follow it as it moves to his hamper. His hand moves and the ball drops to the floor and bounces once before rolling under his desk. He’s going to have to introduce her to everyone at school. She might sit with him at lunch. Who is he kidding? She doesn’t know anyone; she’ll stick to him like gum to the bottom of a shoe. He hates when that happens. He rolls out of bed and picks a shirt and some jeans out of the closet. He hears the shower turn on and his frown deepens. Of course she’s using the shower. He doesn’t want to wait. He throws the clothes down and shoves his headphones on. Heavy music begins to fill his ears, and he sighs. He doesn’t want a sister. 20 Pillars of Salt
She’s always loved this room. She remembers how she invested all of her spare time on it when they first moved in. She loves the cream walls, the faded blue duvet, and the scuffed floorboards. She loves the way the moonlight comes through the window late at night and leaves a luminous square of silver on the floor. She loves a lot of things. She loves her husband. She loves her son. She loves the daughter she never knew she would have. She sits on the bed, and the mattress sinks slightly underneath her. She loves them all so much, but she doesn’t think her love is enough to bear all their weight.
Lina Jegeus (’17)
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Sugarlips Zoe Pelikan (’17)
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Teach Him How To Laugh
He didn’t know how to laugh. He cried, talked. His name was Jimmy. He had a friend named Brooke, and she didn’t know how to cry. She laughed, talked. She thought Jimmy was amusing. When he spoke her smile cracked and her eyes tightened while sound poured from her. He didn’t know how to love. She did. Brooke loved Jimmy, and he was oblivious. He figured she was there to teach him how to laugh.
Delilah Hamlin (’17)
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Story
My name is Narrator. I work as a Guardian, a sort of Fairy-Godmother type, but without the magic or ability to actually change anything. My job is to look out for a Character, make sure their story is moving along. As Guardians, we don’t have much say over the character’s story. We basically sit around and hit the key if something should happen, but never get a say in what that something will be. It’s like when you watch a show and feel that a major plot development is coming, but you can’t tell what the development itself will be. We only have one chance to have a choice in what happens, and this is the story about my turn. Character 4 has always been mine. She started out like Coraline, a neglected child, wishing for a different life. She wanted a world full of attention, as most kids do, but I was never able to do anything. Her story was going; she was growing up, her parents were continuing their average lives, so there was nothing I could do for her. I could only watch as she lived in the state of normalcy. I would say that I watched the seasons change, but even the weather stayed the same. Before I could help her, Character 4 needed something that would surpass her dreary life, so she reached out to stories (like lots of kids do). Her favorite was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland because Alice was able to explore beyond anything Character 4 had ever experienced. Character 4 began to write her own version over the years as her escape. She was Alice and everything in her life was shifted to Wonderland. The trees behind her house led to the rabbit hole, each of her stuffed animals played a part; she even dragged the family cat to play the Cheshire Cat. While it was able to provide an outlet for her, it was never enough and she had a yearning for something more. She existed in the same routine, aimlessly waiting for something and finally, I got to give that something. 24 Pillars of Salt
One day, everything changed (as it usually does in stories). I was watching as she was reading about Alice’s Adventures and a message arrived to me. I froze, completely stunned. We never get messages, and if we do, it’s us moving on to another Character, but I didn’t want to leave her yet. She was still so young. I opened it and it read, ‘It’s time.’ And this stunned me even more. I had only heard about a guardian getting something like this, never seen it in my time here. I looked around, making sure it was real and I wasn’t imagining it. Finally, I thought it and it was done. Character 4 sat, flipping through her book, acting as she would on any other day. As she began to flip through the pages, the words started moving ever so slightly. It was so slight, you wouldn’t notice; it was like how the words seem to move when you flip a page of a book. But, as she tried to read, a single letter disappeared. She stared, dismayed at where it had gone. She flipped frantically through the book, searching for it. But as she looked, other letters flew away too. Whole words began to disappear, rearranging and transforming in front of her. Then, in a blink, they were all gone. She abruptly looked up. The word ‘symbol’ stood in front of her. It was almost as big as she was, just sitting there. If only she could know what was about to happen.
Amanda Mihalke (’15)
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The Theory of Gravity
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree But instead it hits you in the head on the way down I see red rivers and yellow pulp but yet The cave my closed eyes travel to is so lonely The intensity seizes my body— My muscles stiffen, but my skin is weightless And I can’t seem to stay still Transparent waves of sound travel through my ears as the wind begins to sing to me I remember my mother used to tell me don’t play too rough when you’re out back The soft sound of her voice comforts me as I slowly slip down and then I recall her last words
Harley Smith (’17)
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The Great Gatsby Kisa Rozenbaoum (’18) Pillars of Salt 27
Stranger at the Dinner Table I was ostracized Shunned, snubbed, shut out The reason unknown to all but few The best kept secret Impenetrable Locked in a safe Buried in the back of minds
I sat there Watching like a stranger Laughter spread like a disease Apparently I was the only one immune They used to notice But I’ve become the burden No one wants to hold
Emma Halfon (’17)
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Daisy India Halsted (’17)
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Thornfield Hall
Charles wasn’t meant to take the files on Mrs. Conway’s insurance claim out of the office, but he did it anyway. He tucked them into his briefcase and kept an eye on their manila edge as he sucked at a chocolate malt in that drugstore down on 49th. He was supposed to catch the 5:40, supposed to be home in time for dinner, but he figured Mrs. Conway’s claim needed that chocolate malt as much as he did. House fire was what they were calling it, an accident, a passing driver flicking a lit cigarette into her garden. Foxgloves and dahlias bubbling and curling under the heat, the wooden porch cracking in half and smoke choking the chimney. “Don’t give her more than you have to,” Charles’ boss had said, frowning down at the contents of his mug. “We need the money.” Mrs. Alberta Conway was a WWII widow, her son grown and apathetic, stopping by on Thanksgiving instead of Christmas. He was fit to work, fit to wed, and he didn’t have time for his rheumatic mother. Malt half-gone, Charles peered at Mrs. Conway’s spreadsheet. He was decent at his job; he could tell when something didn’t add up. He just had this feeling. 5:40 came and went and he still hadn’t figured out what was off about the whole thing. Now he would be late and his wife would frown at him, her eyes dulling in disappointment as she hitched the baby further up her bony hip. Mrs. Conway didn’t work. She kept her garden blooming and her panty full of preserves. It was clear that she hated her son, or hated who he’d become. An easy kind of hatred, one she could stir into her morning 30 Pillars of Salt
tea. One of the side effects of Charles’ job was that he had fostered a knack for understanding old people, for seeing how pieces of the past were more frustrating than soothing, something to cut away instead of cherish. Now, the inconsistency was clear. In their meeting that morning, Mrs. Conway had told Charles that she hadn’t been home when the fire happened — she was in town, catching a late theatre show. But, despite the July heat, she’d been wearing a pair of long gloves, tucked under the sleeves of her dress, and she’d winced when they shook hands. And, as she left, he’d seen a flash of white at the edge of her purse, a brittle tube reading ‘—rn ointment.’ Charles huffed, the edge of his mouth curling upwards. “New York’s own Bertha Mason,” he muttered, reducing her claim to zero dollars and zero cents, wondering if he had the detective’s phone number at home. Sucking at the dregs of his malt, Charles capped his pen, his signature dark and sharp under the yellow light.
Emily Ward (’15)
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Paper Boat Shana Chin (’17)
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Good Blue Maria Gelabert (’15)
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3-Minute Haikus
The bright, light blue sky Turned to darkness in the night. This is what I know.
You were a sparrow, Slicing the heavens open With razor-sharp wings.
Again, not enough. No matter the day or hour, I have lost power.
My toes are frozen pea pods, The air a prickly pine My fingers darken to blueberry.
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Spring breaks out again — Air turns heavy, the moon sags, And my green thoughts ripen.
Allow me to pull past the gates of Wonderland and into the sky.
Teach me to pluck the Dandelions from my veins; They might stop my heart.
So much work to do, and yet my bed calls for me. I’ll do it later.
The Creative Writing Staff Pillars of Salt 35
The Wall Tracey Thompson (’16)
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