Agathon 2013

AGATHON

The Barstow School • Issue 47 • 2013

SO WE HAD THIS IDEA...

T

he idea that Barstow represents something wonderful and unique. Looking beyond the ideals that the school stands for as a whole, we aimed to portray Barstow when broken up and magnified. Each person who makes up Barstow creates an environment that will never again be replicated. Whether we realize it or not, we float through each other’s lives only catching glimpses of one another. Each person at Barstow is living a vibrant and intricate life that we can never fully understand.

Through the Agathon, we are given the rare opportunity to glimpse into the lives of others, admire their work, marvel at their creativity and begin to understand those who surround us. The lives of others go on even when we aren’t around, which is difficult for us to grasp at times. But there are certain reminders that others exist -- a smile in the hallway, a light in a dark home, a passing blur of shared experience. Through the Agathon this year, we strived to grant you the opportunity to take a step further into the lives of others, forsaking your position as a bystander. For the perceiver, each piece of work represents its producer; we hope that the apparition of a face in the crowd will become a relatable human with depth, emotion and a voice. We hope you enjoy the work of those who surround you, and that these glimpses of others remind you of the vivacious life you intend to lead.

Iris Dew, Gabrielle Fenaroli & Madeleine Tadros Agathon Editors

STAFF: Faiza Aslam Tai Barber-Gumbs Danielle DePriest Payal Desai Aaron Dupuis Stephanie Hamann Lissa Leibson Nora Lloyd Shivani Lokre Lizzie Mombello Helen Myers Iqraz Nanji Becky Reilly Jessica Schneider Preston Schwartz Lili Tucker Erin Walker

CONTRIBUTORS Will Pursell

6

Ethan Gilworth Janie Velghe

18

Sonia Larbi-Aissa

7

Arsam Yazdani

19

Farwa Haideri

8

Brenden Guzman

20

Bailey Fisli

9

Lorelei Culver Emily Reed

21

Faiza Aslam Divya Dendi

10

Brennan DePew

22

Iris Dew

11

Brennan DePew Lauren Sandness Arsam Yazdani

23

Christian Franklin Chris Sokoloff

12

Pierce Farinelli Aidan Lawlor Chase Rothhaas

13

Lauren Estes Yasmeen Mir

24

Emily Reed

25

Natalie Beyer

14

Jessica Schneider

26

Saeju Kwon

15 16

Ryan Sparks Isabelle Top

27

Jessica Schneider Elizabeth Baughman Lili Tucker

17

Rosie Pasqualini

28

Alise David

29

Nathaniel Goscha Colin Soo

41

Libby Rohr

30

Phoebe Brous Danielle Fleming

42

Rosemary Warren

31

Aaron Dupuis

32

Ashley Gratwick Aishi Sethi

43

Arsam Yazdani

33

Gabriella Passantino

44

Mia Eckhardt

34

Lindsey Smith

45

Delaney McMahon

35 36

Sarah Epsten Jay Gillen

46

Farwa Haideri Samuel Christifano Janie Velghe

37

Benjamin Anderson

47

Sonia Larbi-Aissa

38

Audun Sundeen

39

Michelle Martin Hannah Tadros

40

A DISTANT DISTANT MEMORY MEMORY A Will Pursell, Grade 11

Memories;

Little incandescent bulbs in the darkness, A road map to Somewhere unknown, The past and the present and the future, All rolled into one being, Ripping down the Singularity, Begging questions of reality, The path Here, the path Forward, In the deep dark; Standing tall like ancient Gaelic Monoliths, Yet an ephemeral angel from beyond reason, Washed away easily on the great sands of time; Sometimes coalescing and forming a being, Oft exceptional, Even if ignored, And sometimes sinking into the Primordial mud from times immemorial; A child sits on a rock, Isolated, alone on his sandy island, The waves fight violently around him, The wind caresses his hair, Even as sprays of salt sting his eyes, Blinding him in the dark, stormy night, Big blue-purple clouds menace overhead, Grimm monsters from the Black Forest, A war rages around him, lightning Flashes above, he sits scared as

Time ticks slowly by and by, He cries, “Who Am I?” No one answers An antique clock ticks softly Forgotten in an old shed, looking for home, Its hands still beat, steady, unaware Of the passage of time around it, A mouse finds the clock alone, and Makes a home, a warm cozy nest Hidden in the sanctuary of the gears, The clock stops ticking, its last movements Fade away, unheard of in the crashing Of the nearby sea, But it has found a home, Nestled in its gears, A warm, cozy home, As good as any other, And a Purpose, A singular Purpose; Sometimes I gaze up at the gears above my head, wonder what the old clock felt like, then I think back to my trials on that rock, eons ago, a different form now, and I know, I know…

FORTUNE COOKIES

Sonia Larbi-Aissa, Grade 12

Anonymous

Five years in a fortune cookie

Hope to rekindle in forthcoming days Each tomorrow, each weekend passes His cracks inaudible Venture the past step Or embrace anonymity Empty cookies Good as empty messages.

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Farwai Haideri, Grade 12

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A STREET STREET CORNER CORNER AT AT DUSK DUSK A Bailey Fisli, Grade 10

Gentle maple breeze

Streetlight blink out one by one Solitude and peace Moonlight in the shop windows Bellary scents fade Reality vanishes And the world melts down As I consume the scene A corner at dusk

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FLOWERS FLOWERS Divya Dendi, Grade 3

Flowers

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beautiful, colorful sprouting, blooming, blossoming plant, bud, bad, a pain spreading, riding, bugging ugly, green Weeds

Faiza Aslam, Grade 10

Iris Dew, Grade 11

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THIRTEEN THIRTEEN Christian Franklin, Grade 7

I never forgot what it was like

It was a gloomy day outside The lightning was loud and smashed into the ground with as much force I ran inside after watching this horrible monstrosity in the making I didn’t expect much from them All I wanted was one thing To be respected I was not a child anymore No more fun and games No more Lego Batman with mother It was time to step into the place of destruction Waiting to get swallowed by the jaws of earth It was time to accept who I really was I was turning thirteen

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Chris Sokoloff, Grade 12

THE MINER MINER AND AND THE THE BEAR BEAR THE Pierce Farinelli, Aidan Lawlor & Chase Rothhaas, Grade 1

NARRATOR: Once upon a time in an old house in Gold Town, there lived a miner who was ready to go mine gold.

MINER: This will be a tough job, but I’m ready!

NARRATOR: So he set off to go to the mine.

When he got close to the mine, he had a big surprise. Little did he know there was a bear by the mine!

BEAR: I’m gonna beat you to that gold. See you later!

NARRATOR: And the race began! The miner knew a shortcut.

MINER: I’m gonna beat that bear for sure!

NARRATOR: But, when the miner got to the mine, the bear already had the gold and was rushing out of the mine.

NARRATOR: Ewwww...loud. [covering ears] The bear was heading home and the miner was following close behind, but the bear looked back and suddenly, he ran into a tree.

BEAR: Oooooo!

NARRATOR: The miner caught up to the bear.

Luckily, he had nice manners and he said...

MINER: May I please have the gold, kind Mr. Bear?

BEAR: What nice manners you have! Maybe we can share the gold.

MINER: Yes, we can!

NARRATOR: And the two friends lived happily ever after because they discovered having nice manners can get you the things you want.

BEAR: Ha! Ha! Ha! I fooled you and I have all the gold!

MINER: He’s chubby...Anyway, I’M GONNA GET YOU!

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THE INTERNET Natalie Beyer, Grade 7

I can answer all of your questions

Answer math problems and give you definitions I search through all of my files to give you the best results And I always make sure that you use me But I have competitors Competitors that can do the same as me But nothing can compare to me I am faster than lightning most of the time But I need a source to let me do my job Millions of people use me in their jobs Or to play games But nothing is smarter than me because I am the Internet

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Saeju Kwon, Grade 12

15

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Jessica Schneider, Grade 11

SILENCE SILENCE Elizabeth Baughman, Grade 9

Tortured silence,

The weight of love lost, The colors of the world gone dark, Sadness tearing, clawing inside.

Can never forget, but can't quite remember, A single tear, otherwise strong.

I promise I won't forget you.

Kneel before those who do not understand.

There is nothing left to fight for.

A new purpose is necessary,

I cannot let go, A knot years long, and countless memories wide, Perfect reflection, shattered glass.

Story teller, tell all, Such a wonderful tale, believe it fiction.

There must be more, they say.

Tell all, tell all, tell all, an endless chant.

This is mine alone.

I am sorry.

Silent I will remain.

Lili Tucker, Grade 9

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Janie Velghe, Grade 10

SWAYING IN THE WIND Ethan Gilworth, Grade 7

I slowly rise

Through the air Warm, cold, everywhere I am a silent killer The start of something bright I walk where there is no air I run where there are flames Rising, but never falling

Arsam Yazdani, Grade 11

19

Brenden Guzman, Grade 3

20

HAPPINESS HapPIness Lorelei Culver, Grade 3

Happiness is yellow.

It smells like roses.

It looks like a rainbow.

It tastes like a candy bar.

It sounds like music.

Happiness feels like a soft teddy bear.

Emily Reed, Grade 9

21

MOVWALLACE GOES TO THE MOVIES Brennan DePew, Grade 12

W

allace’s shoes peeled up from the theatre floor. Light bounced off the screen, flickering over occupied seats. Wallace searched for two empties, and spotted his prize in the direct center, two red cushions devoid of buttocks. Wallace pointed, and muttered in Greta’s ear. Greta gave him a look, a nasty look. The sort of nasty that Wallace imagined festered on the theatre floor. As if she felt disappointed in him for such mediocre seat selection.

They made their way over to the seats, shuffling down the aisle and whispering apologies to the unhappy family. The unhappy family grumbled and mumbled, and imagined painful deaths for the couple that dared disturb the preview for the new Nicholas Cage movie.

Wallace sat down behind an unnaturally tall bald man. Light from the screen bounced off his polished dome and into the depths of Wallace’s pupil.

Wallace shifted in his seat, which either leaned too far back or not back at all. His foot brushed some abandoned wrapper, and the crinkle drew another nasty look from Greta. Wallace wondered if she always gave nasty looks, or if she just looked nasty all the time now.

Wallace spent forty-nine minutes staring into the abyss and listening to the romantic comedy he was pretty sure already came out sometime in the nineties.

From the dialogue, Wallace pieced together that the male lead, Paul or Rob or Scott, had gone and made an absolute mess of things.

While mauling popcorn between her not quite white teeth, Greta leaned over to Wallace’s ear.

“Scott’s really screwed up this time,” she said.

“Sounds to me like he’s doing his best,” Wallace said.

Greta dismissed the thought with a shrug.

Wallace felt his shoes becoming one with the nastiness. He leaned over to Greta’s ear, an ear that sagged under the weight of an ornate earring, and muttered something about the restroom. He unstuck his soles from the floor and waded his way back through the unhappy family and out of theatre three.

He discharged his waste in the porcelain bowl.

Relieved, Wallace took off his ring and washed his hand.

The skin beneath the band was red, raw almost. Wallace put the ring into his pocket.

Outside the restroom, Wallace found himself alone. The bright, empty space welcomed him, it said, hello Wallace, you belong to yourself now. Have fun.

So Wallace did. An old tune dug its way up out of his memory, and he moved his feet to it. Slowly, unsure at first. He regained a sense of freedom, of fun. He leaped past the vacant candy counter, he spun around the ticket booths, he ran up the staircase and slid down the banister. Among all this dancing and prancing, Wallace felt a mild bump against his chest.

He extracted from his coat pocket a box of cigarettes. He looked at them, curious. Greta hated it when he smoked, but then again, Greta hated many things. Satisfied with his justifications, Wallace stepped outside and lit up.

His eyes purveyed the parking lot behind the red tip of his nicotine stick. A couple dozen cars crammed together, obscuring and smothering one another, a self-made maze. Behind that warm red tip, Wallace felt a superiority, a dangerous independence. He felt for his keys in his pocket, stroked them between his fingers until the cold steel warmed.

He smiled.

Wallace crushed the cigarette into the ground.

He went inside, through the lobby, into theatre three. His feet, left right left right, skimmed over the floor at such speed that the growth failed to capture them. He slipped through the unhappy family and plopped himself down in his seat.

Wallace brought the ring out of his pocket.

He took Greta’s hand, placed the ring in her palm, and closed her fingers around it. He leaned in.

“I don’t need this anymore,” he whispered.

Greta gave him a nasty look.

TEENAGERS TEENAGERS

Arsam Yazdani, Grade 11

Lauren Sandness, Grade 10

i hate teenagers

Yolo and hashtags lol Although I’m also one

23

SHOOTING STARS AND DARK NIGHTS Yasmeen Mir, Grade 7

You watch for me from your window For the luck I bring, to answer the dreams, Of the watchers, You’re the only one who knows, I am done with the sky, the emptiness above.

24

Lauren Estes, Grade 12

Emily Reed, Grade 9

25

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Jessica Schneider, Grade 12

FOOTPRINTS Isabelle Top, Grade 7

The waves grab me

folding my memory into the vast nothingness of the royal blue ocean.

But, don't you fear, for if just keep going I will follow, no matter what you do.

Ryan Sparks, Grade 11

27

Rosie Pasqualini,Grade 9 1. passionweed is not a drug.

Belief is dead for all but those who do not wear designer clothes who think that rips in denim jeans should not be slitted by machines a passionweed would see the sun and hit the sand and run and run for minutes hours even more to beat the d y i n g light to shore a passionweed is young (and wise) with cotton hands and fire! eyes with blinding iron angel wings that beat the world until it sings some 1 here believes they know my <mind> and how the shapes should go the JAGged edges blunted *clean* to â&#x20AC;Ś....choke....... away the passionweed some 1 wants to steal from me my fra gmen

ts of identity with all the shards designed to feed a lonely livid passionweed

The grey matter does not matter.

Instead of scrupulously studying "The gaseous and pulmonary physiological effects of inhalation and exhalation", One must breathe.

That some 1 says to close my eyes to hold my breath to kill the tide to realize the life I see is all that I can hope to be someone find the soul in me materialize the misery make me bleed make me accede my lonely livid passionweed Someone has the guts to say That nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as bright as dawn of day.

That person is what I should be: A lonely, livid passionweed.

2. FACT: It is seldom enough to Call the gods by name and wait for The great sliding whitewashed walls To creak and sigh and groan Methodically into and out of and through One's lackluster cerebrum;

Alise David, Grade 5

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Libby Rohr, Grade 8

IF I WERE IN CHARGE OF THE WORLD Rosemary Warren, Grade 3

If I were in charge of the world, I’d cancel school, winter, cloudy days And also the word “No.”

If I were in charge of the world, There’d be ice cream for breakfast, dogs Who can walk themselves, boys who are nice And nooooooo cancer !!!!!!!!!!!!!

If I were in charge of the world, You wouldn’t have to clean You wouldn’t have to go to bed early You wouldn’t have mean siblings Or hear “Be on your best behavior!”

You wouldn’t even have homework.

If I were in charge of the world, A brownie would be a vegetable, All desserts would be healthy And a person who sometimes forgot to do chores And sometimes forgot to close doors Would be allowed to be forgiven.

31

Aaron Dupuis, Grade 12

T

he bird hit the window with such force that the glass shattered from pane to pane, and jagged shards now broke from the surface or simply fell away. Great canyons etched into the barren landscape, crags running their length. It occurred to the man to touch them. To run his fingers across that transparent plane, a god descended to give those canyons a current, those crags color.

He stood there and thought about it. Stood there in the pale light now creeping its way across the floor, toward the open door far behind him. The room was long. Narrow. Bare, save for a drawing table, a chair, and a well-worn candlestick. Lined on three of its four sides with windows. Tall slender windows, in deepbrown wood panes. They had counted twelve in all.

Then the bird hit the north window.

The crags needed color. He gave them just that.

He lay his hand flat on the window, wincing as those peaks pierced his palm, and pushed. His swollen veins found respite as rivers began to flow from his fingertips.

As the glass gave way. As the frigid air washed over him, and the deafening knell of winter. That deafening silence. That nothing that makes itself known.

He clutched his hand to his chest and raised his eyes to the house across from his own. A cottage in comparison. There were many such houses in the village, and many such individuals as those that lived in this particular hovel. Each day he watched them from his drawing room, taking notes, reaching conclusions.

Sketching. He never gave them color. They had none.

They were wights. For the most part, they bored him, but he could not look away. He would stand there watching. Waiting. Thinking. Thinking about them sleeping. Thinking about them afraid. Thinking about hurting them. Stopping. Moving to the next window.

Watching anew.

The north window had been his favorite

window. Then the bird hit it. But it had been his favorite window. It looked over that quaint little cottage. It could have been home. It was homely. Wood and brick work of mediocre make. A roof of shifting shingles. A solitary flower box. Barren. It was no place for her to live.

He couldn’t remember just when he had started watching her. It had been many years, he knew that because she had grown. She was the only person that seemed a person at all. The only creature with any color. The only thing with any color. Her cheeks were two apple blossoms, her skin an ivory shell, her hair golden threads brilliant enough to make Jason weep.

The colors seemed to spread about her. Bleeding. Like ink on parchment. But the ink would fade, leaving the trees she had climbed one night lifeless and brown by next morning. The man longed for her color. He longed for her skin. To speak to her. For maybe that color could wander into the ear. Into the soul.

And now the north window was broken. He had broken it. With his good hand he lifted himself up and out of the window. His feet met with the earth.

He looked down at the bird. Its head tucked violently under its breast. It shuddered. Gasped. Then lay still.

He pressed his hand deeper into his chest and the sting of his wounds crawled steadily up his arm. His sleeve clung to him, his shirt growing heavy with the weight of his color. Maybe he didn’t have to hear her voice. Maybe he wouldn’t have to speak to hear it. Maybe. The bird hit the window. The northern window broke.

Arsam Yazdani, Grade 11

33

OCTOPUS OCT Mia Eckhardt, Grade 7

Moving

Octopus Living free Octopus Eight arms spread Octopus Drifting aimlessly in coral Octopus Travel across the inky abyss Octopus Showing the world my bright colors Octopus How wonderful, living only to be me.

O O O O O O O

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C C C C C C C

T T T T T T T

O O O O O O O

P P P P P P P

U U U U U U U

S S S S S S S

Delaney McMahon, Grade 2

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Farwa Haideri, Grade 12

PIRATES

Janie Velghe, Grade 10

Samuel Christifano, Grade 2

Pirates, pirates, pirates,

Cunning, cheesy, crazy pirates, Bony, boring, barefooted pirates, Pirates, pirates, pirates.

Pirates, pirates, pirates, Silly, secretive, sneaky pirates, Mighty, mean, messy pirates, Pirates, pirates, pirates.

Pirates, pirates, pirates, Rough, roudy, robbing pirates, Flippant, fighting, foul pirates, Pirates, pirates, pirates.

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Sonia Larbi-Aissa, Grade 12

ODE TO ELEMENTUS Audun Sundeen, Grade 7

Oh Elementus and your gold topped towers.

I wish I could go to this sweet desire.

With your numerous peoples and many things From cheese stores to spaceship venders to rogue’s retreat To when I go through the sectors to buy a treat The city if the elements and where worlds meet In my heart I surely keep I can accept a challenge by fighting in the streets as gray as the moon In your sturdy walls I have been granted a boon Fire, water, air, earth, energy, darkness and light I bend the elements to fight for you and that’s right Against the Lich king I keep your walls clean He has no way against me for they are evil and mean I love the streets in their grid in every of your sectors Your 8 sectors the way to map you don’t need vectors You have my friends and enemies and heads don’t roll Only kids and teenagers have duplicated their souls My traveler's Souls can only visit your halls Though I can project myself anywhere there even a mall I love your city I do cry for I never go there for real Not even The sea of teal.

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UNDER THE BED

Michelle Martin, Grade 10

Hannah Tadros, Grade 6

Under the bed there is something astir Under the bed something Will give me quite a fluster Across the room there is a roar In the closet monsters are at war On the bed with not a toe hanging off By the window I hear a monster cough

Under the covers I gather my thoughts Around the corner I think “there can’t be lots And lots” Behind me something creeks Next to my bed a glare of light leeks My mom comes in without a peep She says “There’s no monsters, just go to sleep”

Colin Soo & Nathaniel Goscha, Pre-Kindergarten

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Danielle Fleming, Grade 10

GLORIOUS SPRING DAY Phoebe Brous, Grade 4

The birds are singing, the grass is green

In the sky clouds are nowhere to be seen The sun is shining, the air is warm, no humidity, spring is born I lay half-asleep on top of a willow tree Then my kitten puts her nose on me She scratches me awake, now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m looking over a clean water lake Oh kitten, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so confused I keep pondering on what to do on this glorious spring day

BEAR BEAR Aishi Sethi, Grade 2

Bear

brown, cub sleeping, eating, snoring fish, salmon, bamboo, China, cuddling, climbing, moving, black, white Panda

Ashley Gratwick, Grade 12

THE KITE Gabriella Passantino, Grade 7

I

can hear it. Soft and gently soaring through the air. I can smell it, the smell of paper on wooden crosses, and most of all I can see it, it’s a kite. I pump and pump while I’m just swinging here. I watch the children in the park slowly die as I’m still here swinging. It has now been 24 minutes and the kite is still here. Now only 13 kids remain. What could possibly be happening to cause the children to die so quickly? Is it the kite? Or the dangerous toys at the playground, why are these kids dead while I’m still alive on the swing. Every time the sky comes into my mind, the colors shift and the blue gets bluer as the kite still flies above me. I saw the kite fly hard into the wind and get farther and farther. The kite was going higher and higher as high as it could go. The last time I saw the kite the sky wasn’t blue any longer. The children everywhere running from what they saw as a monster, running so hard they died, running so hard I couldn't see them any longer. The sound of the swing screeching and burning frustrated me, where now I need the kite. I need the kite so I can’t hear the screaming of the kids slowly falling down and disappearing into the impossible blue sky. For I needed this kite more than a mother needs her child. The sounds of the mother’s cry burn through my ears like a fire and I can’t stop it.

Few of them disappeared into the impossible blue sky as I was left alone on a rusty screechy swing. I jumped off the swing to chase after that amazing orange kite in the gray blue sky, but something stopped me from jumping off.

What was it I, thought to myself? I turned around and that once bright sky turned dark and the kite got lower and lower. I reached up to grab the kite, but couldn’t it wouldn’t, let me. It fell slowly like a feather falling from a mountain. I stood and tried not to watch. My eyes wouldn’t close and I was suddenly forced to watch the sky became darker and deeper, and the kite get higher and higher. My eyes became bloodshot and I couldn’t blink and my life flashed before my eyes, but it was the same picture. Me on that rusty old swing with the impossible blue sky and the bright orange kite above me, but in every picture I was older. I tried as hard as I could possibly bear to close my burning eyes, but then as I became able to blink once again, the sky returned to that blue, and the kite got higher. Once I regained my eyesight I thought of one thing and am still thinking about it, in the last picture I was with someone but there was no kite, but all I can think is that we never flew kites together

Lindsey Smith, Grade 12

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Jay Gillen, Grade 11

FACELESS FIGURES Sarah Epsten, Grade 10

I stare into their eyes

but they do not stare back Their mittened fingers reach out to me My eyes roam over the frozen creature They are everywhere I turn Yet a new one appears each day I do not know where they come from They make themselves at home

in empty hallways and occupied classrooms Student's name them everyday but their titles never stick I feel threatened by them They have come to attack us They are of another kind They are mummies made of tape

Benjamin Anderson, Grade 4

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