Stray Shot 2009 by The Frederick Gunn School

Stray Shot 2009

STRAY SHOT 2009 Editors: Eros Angjeli, Kristi Bojdani, Ian Engelberger, Sam Funk, Clark Johnson, Joe Mashburn, Katie Pierce, Austin Ryer, Alex Strelov, Maisie Theobald Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut

CONTENTS Cover: collage by Min Hye Chung Frontispiece: Gibsonia (detail) by Victor Bogachev Sam Funk, I’m a Crow…………………………………………………………………………………………………………1 Alex Strelov, Ode to Hot Sauce…………………………………………………………………………………………….2 photo by Alex Geerken………………………………………………………………………………………………………..3 Three poems by Isabel Levy-Nance ……………………………………………………………………………………..4 Two poems by Rob Badger………………………………………………………………………………………………….7 Rob Badger, Huck and Thoreau…………………………………………………………………………………………..9 photo by Alex Geerken………………………………………………………………………………………………………11 Taylor Gillis, She walks………………………………………………………………………………………………………12 Kristen Rayner, Poem………………………………………………………………………………………………………..13 Kirsten Bouthiller, Tankas………………………………………………………………………………………………….14 illustration by Victor Bogachev……………………………………………………………………………………………15 Two poems by Kirsten Bouthiller……………………………………………………………………………………….16 Two poems by Tyler Lee……………………………………………………………………………………………………18 Two poems by Navid Ahmadzadeh……………………………………………………………………………………..20 Kristi Bojdani, poem translated from the Albanian of Dritëro Agolli……………………………………….23 photo by Ian Engelberger……………………………………………………………………………………………………24 Mike O’Neil, A Day in the Life…………………………………………………………………………………………..25 photo by Zach Elston…………………………………………………………………………………………………………26 Two poems by Alex Lizotte………………………………………………………………………………………………..27 illustration by Victor Bogachev……………………………………………………………………………………………29 Zack Bodnar, Like an Ostrich…………………………………………………………………………………………….30 photo by Zach Elston…………………………………………………………………………………………………………31 Lauren Castaldi, Wilbert…………………………………………………………………………………………………….32 Genny George, Untitled……………………………………………………………………………………………………..33 Sarah Auchincloss, A Christmas Story……………………………………………………………………………….…34 Callie Carew-Miller, A Saunter……………………………………………………………………………………………35 Jin Young Choi, Shut Up……………………………………………………………………………………………………36 Genny George, Two ghazals………………………………………………………………………………………………. 7 photo by Ian Engelberger…………………………………………………………………………………………………...38 Kirsten Bouthiller, I lay awake inside a dream………………………………………………………………………39 Yuze Sun, two poems translated from the Mandarin of Hai Zi……………………………………………….41 Three poems by Zach Elston………………………………………………………………………………………………42 Karen Layman, Creating a world with you…………………………………………………………………………….43 photo by Ian Engelberger……………………………………………………………………………………………………45 English IV: Baseball Fiction, Nine Innings of Haiku……………………………………………………………..46 Karen Layman, Logic?……………………………………………………………………………………………………….48 Karen Layman, Assassins of the Skies………………………………………………………………………………….51 photo by Alex Geerken………………………………………………………………………………………………………55 Taylor Dube, Indecisive……………………………………………………………………………………………………..56 Will Obilisundar, The paths both taken……………………………………………………………………………….57 Corey Tesch, I’m an old screwdriver……………………………………………………………………………………58 painting by Katie Pierce………………………………………………………………………………………………………59

Clark Johnson, Take my night…………………………………………………………………………………………….60 Sarah Lombard, Poem……………………………………………………………………………………………………….61 Two poems by Dan Goldberg……………………………………………………………………………………………..62 Tyler Littman, poem translated from the Spanish of Alfonsina Storni……………………………………..64 photo by Zach Elston…………………………………………………………………………………………………………65 Kevin Tarsa, poem translated from the Spanish of Pablo Neruda……………………………………………67 Joseph Löbb, poem translated from the Spanish of Pablo Neruda………………………………………….68 photo by Ian Engelberger……………………………………………………………………………………………………70 Sam Mandl, poem translated from the Spanish of Salvador Novo…………………………………………..71 Alex Strelov, Undecided……………………………………………………………………………………………………72 illustration by Victor Bogachev……………………………………………………………………………………………74 Maisie Theobald, The Bad Panini………………………………………………………………………………………75 Austin Ryer, Tom (Unfinished)…………………………………………………………………………………………..78 Katie Pierce, Hey whatchya want…………………………………………………………………………………………80 Eros Angjeli, Walking………………………………………………………………………………………………………..83 Kristi Bojdani, Humanity……………………………………………………………………………………………………84

Thanks to Mr. Perrella, Ms. Kjellson, Mr. Daniels, Mrs. Bucklin, Mrs. Aguirre, and Mr. Alter. For back issues of Stray Shot, go to http://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=299 for back issues of English Journal, the midyear literary journal, go to http://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=298

Gibsonia (detail) by Victor Bogachev

I’m a Crow by Sam Funk I am here not only to try and entertain but also to say something original and something of worth. I have taken to reading novels and memoirs that can be found on some bestsellers list and whatnot and through these experiences, which give me a shadow of excitement and glaze my eyes with interest, I have found that anyone with a “story” can sell a book, but not everyone can truly write something original, something of true worth. Too long has this pattern continued. Too long have we sat in our own sufferings and profited from our self-loathing and pity and suffering and distress. “Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?” (Emerson, Nature). We writers, storytellers, poets, songwriters, and anyone who enjoys the true unadulterated love of all that is expression must come together and take back originality. For “Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members” (Emerson, Self Reliance). Find your own “Self-Reliance.” Say your own words without care or worry to whoever may listen or buy your front cover. Talk to your dog, your cat, whistle to a bird. They might not understand you, or maybe they do. Maybe they hear and just don’t give a damn, but does it really matter? Take a walk and shout to no one. Read, watch, listen and formulate from experience to make yourself a better you, but make sure you’re still you no matter who or what that may be. For me, I’m just a crow, no matter how much I might want to be a hawk.

Ode to Hot Sauce by Alex Strelov hot sauce cruel and spicy red sauce. one long slim glass bottle a label and a cap. sharp jagged painful flavor never enough chile, bell, and habanero. cayenne, jalapeno, banana put it all on everything. a tasteful burn your tongue on fire. a craving for milk a need for rice or a load of bread too good of a taste. red delicious

splatter by Alex Geerken

An explosion by Isabel Levy-Nance An explosion of angiosperms A definition of life and mammal A scream of insignificance But the heat of tropic thunder The calling of the sails But the tide being too high To discover a new world Of happiness and of joy So we sit on the shore Letting the manatees swim off Down deep under Where they never have to surface reality I can only escape for a minute For my breath can only last And I do not wish to hold it Forever in the deep For I am a mammal I am born to reproduce And to disease When reality becomes weak I go under Not unto the seas But into a tsunami of thoughts And I try to find my way to the surface Because holding my breath only makes me less ready For my future

I walk a day in winter by Isabel Levy-Nance I walk a day in winter Would I call it a walk of silence? Although I heard birds howling through the winds Would I call it a walk of solitude? Even though I was with the lives of many around me I look past the setting sun Into my unknown but planned future The ice breaks I fall through, Deep under any hope and dream I ever had I can see them up above me, but I cannot touch them, The ice is too thick The sunset turns into nightfall I am frozen into this world A world of names and lookalikes A world of hate and unacceptance I want to sink further, Further into the freezing ice Further down past my dreams For down there is where I find solitude Underneath each layer of ice Is where I uncover who I am The sun begins to melt the ice Each layer making it harder to see my dreams due to the sun's brightness I do not reach for my dreams and hopes anymore For I have found my silence The silence of the loud ice cracking The sun reaching down and lying on my face Making my future brighter to me than ever For I am an experiment An experiment who wishes to be tested and used for everything I do not wish to be one thing

Histories of the past by Isabel Levy-Nance I sit here, Out of breath. My life has winded me, And I am stale with histories of pain. I fall and get cut, No one is there to put a bandaid on. The bandaid is my skin, Which covers up all my wounds. The ones I hide So I do not seem hurt. The bandaid is slowly wearing out, It is about to break, And pour out all the blood of my past. I need a replacement bandaid, Something to hide myself behind. It will make me stronger, But not heal me. I want to hide so I do not seem weak, But I am not strong. The blood in my veins wants to tell the story. The beat of my heart wants to stop, To stop hiding from myself.

Heaven by Rob Badger Maybe heaven is not a place in the sky Maybe it is finally not having to ask why It is a state of mind Where we have found everything we need to find It is a look back on our years An ability to hold happiness in tears It is our thoughts unbiased and true It is our life and story where the writers are few It is an autobiography we write to ourselves Piles of records understood dusty on the shelves It is a series of memories with no regrets or pain A realization of tests which hold no shame It is a complete and absolute knowledge of things An unexplained certainty that only heaven brings.

It Could Happen by Rob Badger I fell asleep on the couch one night And came to a front desk where a man stood happy and proud And I asked if I might Take a room among the clouds He smiled and handed over the key I guess he knew what I was supposed to be I shone so bright, so long, and far I guess I was meant to be a star. Millions of years and a boom It was my time to fall I woke in the same room Human after all

Huck and Thoreau by Rob Badger Huck Thoreau Well Iand s’pose it was a good talking, the one me and Thoreau had that day. I never thought I would be so sivilized to speak to a man such as that. He reckoned I was smart too, ain’t that funny ? It was a peculiar thing though, I was just mindin my business through the woods and there he was, plain in sight. At first I s’pose an ordinary fellow would think it mighty awkward, the situation I mean, here I am walking by myself in the woods and this guy is sitting there on a tree stump writing sumthin on a tiny paper. The way he said hi to me, it was like he knew I’d be stumbling over that patch of thickets for a while now. Of course I thought it out of the ordinary, this crazy man knowing I’d be coming. I thought to myself, “I won’t be scared one bit, I am Huck Finn, and I know these woods just as good as the squirrel in that tree there.” The man introduced himself as Thoreau and at first I asked myself, “What is he gunna throw ?”, but then I reckoned that was his actually name and took a seat on another stump. After the first few moments of silence, I asks him what he be writing about. The kinda thing he said back to me sparked a conversation I could hang in on. He said that he didn’t completely know and he was gunna find out if he kept on keepin on. I mentioned the big blue river and we talked of it for some time. This Thoreau really had a big feeling for the woods and whence I get him started he wasn’t gunna stop one bit. He said something like nature is solitiudey or something, I forgots exactly what he meant but I kinda thought of me when he was talkin. He said this thing called sosaEty takes over nature and people care too much about it instead of finding themselves and their own solitudeys. Well I got to thinking and I says to myself, “Wow I must have a lot of solitudeys because I know nothing about that sosaEty thing and I’m out here all the time with nothing but myself, and I quite enjoy it.” I think this Throw fella notice how naturey I was and he was a whole lot of fascinated in me. He kept asking me questions about myself. Like what I like doing on days like today and why am I doing these things. I s’pose I told him all about me! I put myself up on a pedestal see. I reckon he may write a book or sumthin on me, or maybe somebody will. He was a mighty smart fella, sometimes he said things and I didn’t know if they were names of peoples or if I should get up and leave. I took a likin’ to him I s’pose. He knew how to hold a talk and I enjoyed being outside and I had a smoke the whole time. Me and my suspenders laying by the log, listening to throw man talk, watching the smoke circles dissapearin’ into the blue, hearing the sounds of the squirrels and animals of the place, and the flow of the river on our right colliding and flowing with the bank, and the birds quakin’ over our heads, and me as happy as I could be. In the end I guess I must be pretty sivilized because I’d be talking to Henry David Thoreau and mighty ‘mount of people think him real smart. And I reckon I do nothing but live my life through the book he wrote, Walking. What kinda crazy people don’t enjoy walking? I like walking, talking, smoking, napin’, humming, swimming, and all kinda ings . The next couple things that happened left me to thinking for the rest of a long time. I caught myself in one of those things where sleep is getting you and awake has you. Then I kinda fought the both of them and I realized that no throw man was on that stump next to me no more. I

thought myself to be crazy. Was I talking to old Huck that whole time or was there really that man, with his stump and writing stuff? I tried for that praying thing again and I says, “Oh please, sir if I can get some surance and know someone was here I’d be awful thankful, am I crazy?” Well at that moment the river the throw man said would rise , well wouldn’’t you guess it rose, and the sky he said would seem to turn orangey like, well it was the deepest orange I had ever seen, and the doubt he said that I would have about some things, well just as he says to me, “Doubt is only what you make of it, simply don’t make it.” So I decided I wouldn’t make none of that and believe that he was here. But then I got to makin’ that doubt stuff again and how could he have been here and be gone just like that, invisible like? Then I think I started getting kinda looney and believed I invented the throw man in my head. The whole day was out of the ordinary. I never usually met someone on my walks. And I felt bad because I wasn’t trying to make the doubt thing, it was kinda following me around, ever since I left that patch of dirt, after throw man disappeared. Then some lady in a house across the river start a hootin’ and hollerin’. I was in shock because the words she was yelling made that doubt thing that been following me put it’s tail between its legs and run away. She was yelling, “Rupert you knock it off with this writing nonsense, you will never be a Henry David Thoreau!” At that moment I just sat myself down and got to thinking again and life isn’t about being sivilized , it’s about finding yourself and bein happy, and I reckon I am mighty happy the way I be livin’.

photo by Alex Geerken

She walks by Taylor Gillis She walks down the path, her headphones around her neck, the soft autumn breeze tickles her neck. She's distracted slightly, her face in a slight frown. There's too much to do and too little time. The sound of a tennis ball striking a racket makes her look up. Her brown eyes pick up on the different forms of the two players. Her trained eyes watch expertly as the ball blurs back and forth. She stumbles forward slightly as a person brushes by her, she barely notices. Her nose however, lights up with the smell of hay and horse. Her eyes automatically go back the the tennis players but her mind isn't there. A flood of memories rush through her lenses, ones that she holds dear to her heart. Faces, horses blur into a rush of black and white flashes of the past. One of the girls misses the volley and falls, behind her a soccer ball is being kicked. Once again her well trained eyes pick up the two people passing the ball. She can't help it, every critique of their stance, their kicks, their traps, bombard her. She tries to shake those memories before the rest come. She knows what will happen, she knows how she'll react if she lets them surface. She slowly turns from the people, prying her eyes seems as hard as trying to pry a moth from a flame. She does it though, just as she's done it a million times. She's a veteran in that area. She slowly begins to walk back, back to reality, back to the present. She puts her headphones on and turns the volume up, attempting in vain to block the voices from the past that haunt her. Another person brushes past her in their hurried life. A small sigh escapes her as she mutters under her breath, so much stuff so little time. And with that she walks away from her active past, only to visit that dusty vault, another time, another place....

Poem by Kristen Rayner Poem Anger, frustration, rage: they’ve consumed me, tortured me to the point of utter insanity. I need to leave, get out: run.

“Where do you go when you want to be alone?”

But where? I am confined to an empty room within my mind. There is no escape, no refuge to seek. Keep running, I am told. Don’t look back! Pick a direction and take it: no, it will follow me. Anger will race forward to block, frustration will hold me down, and rage will rip out my every desire. I cannot be alone with myself; trust was overcome a long time ago when hope was lost with the cynics. I want to be alone, but I can’t. I am not strong enough to fend off range alone. It will always appear, abruptly. Do I wish to cry, or pray that my worst fears will not find me? Do I stay in the middle of those four entrapping walls: the walls that never allow a breath of air to escape from my enervated lungs? Yet I run, endlessly, aimlessly: No, I cannot be alone.

Tankas by Kirsten Bouthiller A Quiet Summer Night 1 Your voice is shaking The red sky is soon to fade Into a black mist Like a peaceful solemn calm In the middle of summer 2 The lone wolf, he walks Silently through the dark wood You hide your aged face Ashamed of your horrid crimes He disappears with twilight 3 Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re sick with fear Cringing at a single thought The black mist now creeps Through the darkened summer night His lone howl shakes your deep sleep.

Age of Great Kings (detail) by Victor Bogachev

Finding Salvation by Kirsten Bouthiller Voices echo Through my aching ears. I close my eyes And block them out They blare And drone on Commanding me To quit. The ice has broken I fall downwards Towards the pit of Hell. But what if I don’t want to go? What if I beg And plead And resist. What if I don’t accept This horrid fate? What if I kick and scream And run away And resist all odds? But I can’t. No, I won’t. I’ll play the cards I was dealt. I will Find salvation.

Maybe by Kirsten Bouthiller Maybe, After all this screaming and yelling And wanting to just shut you up and walk away, I was wrong. Maybe you really were right And I was being ignorant and cruel, Selfish and stubborn. But how would I say sorry After all the damage I have caused And inflicted so deeply upon you? Could I even admit to it? Could I hand you the baton And walk away casually as though nothing Had passed us by? Maybe I was wrong, But even if I was, Why must I sit and dwell in this lucid thought Becoming more and more clear As the hours tick by In this stuffy, dark room lacking windows or light Waiting to come to a stable conclusion. But why am I waiting if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re only going to walk away At first sight of me? I can hear the mice in the walls chipping to each other anxiously As though they know of my dilemma all too well And it frightens me knowing that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not as alone as I feel But as the door opens and the light enters and the mice quietly scurry, Your expression calms me and I realize that I was wrong In thinking this was the end.

Awkward Trip (OULIPO poem) by Tyler Lee Awkward trip Awfully awkward trip Up to school, two hour trip Him and I I and him No talking Him driving I on radio Turn that down It’s too loud This is just right “So do you want to go back to school” “I don’t know” I didn’t “How do you not know “ “I just don’t” “okay” “okay” “Alright” I say Pull into school Kiss Kiss Good way to finish a vacation [note that per OULIPO experiments conducted by Georges Perec and others, the use of a certain essential letter was prohibited in this piece of writing: the letter e.]

A good day by Tyler Lee Today was a good day I failed my test I studied so hard for Whatever I'll get them next time I got home and I was locked out of my house Who cares it was a nice day My dog died He was old, I'll get a new one My best friend was hit by a car She's fine, just broken bones My dad left my mom Now she has that whole house to herself, lucky My boyfriend's cheating on me Now he's less stressed, I have more time on my hands

Free Will by Navid Ahmadzadeh Smite him He said with a force of a thousand winds A stampede of proboscis mountains rose from the earth The retribution, cast by a dark mage Bitten by a draconian magic devoured his soul With stentorian blasts of bites Fed upon his unholy flesh Rapid fire of convoluted snakes wrapped around his decaying life His body, consumed with such vulgar lavishness His spirit free with serendipity and as powerful as an anticyclone Free from the imprisonment of reality and society I will march on and carry the flag of freedom into battle Long live my heart, my winged star, my eagle mind.

Trees by Navid Ahmadzadeh trees standing tall in the distance a land of mystic living druids charming the woods with lush leaves marvelous quiet thrill magnificent senses floating through the air I walk along under their umbrella-like branches listening to the still silence around me an antique world capped by a green overgrowth of love

Pulëbardha by Dritëro Agolli (b. 1931) Pulbardhen në rërën e lagur e gjetëm, E kishte thyer këmbën nën gjurin e brishtë. E kishin lënë shoqet në bregun e detit vetëm. E kishin lënë e askush nuk e priste. Pulbardhen në dhomën tonë e shpumë E u mesua me ne si njeriu i shtëpisë. Vec nga dritarja shikonte detin me shkumë Dhe valën që ngrihej mes shiut dhe stuhisë. Jetoi pulbardha shumë në dhomë Po humnbi papritur një ditë, Një ditë kur deti hidhej mbi rërën e njomë Një ditë kur vinin stuhitë.. Dhe shkuam në det ta kerkonim, Kur vala me valën si deshtë kokat kishin përpjekur Dhe era dhe retë rënkonin Dhe e gjetëm pulbardhën të vdekur… E pamë! Kishte hapur krahët e bardhë në rërën e njomë E pamë! Ndofta nuk donte të vdiste në dhomë…

The Seagull, by Dritëro Agolli, translated from the Albanian by Kristi Bojdani We found a seagull lying on the wet sand, She had broken her leg under the fragile knee, She was alone in the middle of the seashore. She was abandoned and no one was waiting for her. We brought the seagull into our room, And she became used to us, like a family member. But from the windows she would look at the furious surf, And the foaming waves rising in the midst of the angry storm. The seagull lived for a very long time in our room, But one day we couldn’t find her. A day when the sea would devour the wet sand, A day when storms were coming. And we went to look for her in the sea When waves clashed heads like bulls, When the wind and the clouds would moan, And we found the seagull lying dead. We saw her! She had opened her wings in the clammy sand. We saw her! Maybe she didn’t want to die in that room.

photo by Ian Engelberger

A Day in the Life by Mike O'Neil I woke up, and fell out of bed, which was cool because it woke me up fast. It gave me a bruise on my leg, I’m very happy about that because it will teach me not to get hurt anymore. Then I went down to breakfast, and as I was on my way down the stairs I tripped and tumbled down. I realized I tripped on my brother’s toy; I wasn’t mad at him, it taught me to watch where I was going. I got some cereal for breakfast and I sat down and started eating, when I accidentally dumped it all over myself. “Silly me” I said, and thought to myself that it was great that I dumped the milk on my shirt because now I would have to walk up the stairs (getting exercise) to change out of the shirt that I didn’t really like anyway. On my way to school, I drove off the road and popped a tire. I figured it was a good time for the tire to pop, and I was lucky it popped now, before they all wore out and I got into a bad accident. When I got to school, I found out that I received a zero on a test, which was alright because I think zero is a better looking number than 92, which is what I thought I was going to get. Besides, it saved the teacher all of the time it would have taken if he had to write two digits. When I got home the doctor called and told me that I had a sleeping disorder, and that I would never be able to sleep again. This was just the news I was looking for!! Now I have extra time to think during the night. Overall, this turned out to be one of the best days of my life!

Clark by Zach Elston

Economic Breakdown by Alex Lizotte Turmoil and fear of whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to come, the economy is punch drunk and full of rum, like a fighter that just lost a fight washing away his sorrows in drinks all night. People are scared, afraid to invest, this time America will be put to the test. Can we come together as we have done in times past, or will this crisis be our last.

Ghazals by Alex Lizotte All of our lives we have been told to refrain, hold back, calm your mind and refrain. Now it is time to make our own judgments, it is our turn to teach the young this valuable skill, to refrain. When you are angry at the world, or angry the way things are going, you must refrain. When you are unhappy with life, when you are depressed, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get angry, refrain. When the time shall come and it is necessary, You will know that you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to refrain.

Every time I stand on the beach next to the ocean, I look out in amazement at that vast ocean. The life in that body of water is endless, and it is amazing what the ocean holds. The ocean is where I want to be, so inviting in the night stars is the ocean. When the sun dances off the water the colors are so vibrant, reflecting the true beauty of the ocean. When it feels like you are all alone it is always there, The single body from which all life came called the ocean.

Age of Great Kings (detail) by Victor Bogachev

Like an Ostrich by Zack Bodnar Long necks and harsh beaks with noisy screeches and fast long legs If I were an ostrich I'd be like an ostrich and hide my head The ground might be wet but I wouldn't care because I'm an ostrich And ostriches hide from the troubled world maybe because they're mad But if I were an ostrich I'd hide from fear of what is feared Because under the earth ostriches are happy as humans under the earth

photo by Zach Elston

Wilbert by Lauren Castaldi WilbertWilbert grew up in a household where the rule was survival of the fittest. His parents had no sympathy and he had to be vicious to be fed. But that was just the way he has to be raised, Wilbert grew up in harsh surroundings after all. His habitat was a dry scalding desert and he needed to grow up with killer instinct. Wilbert had parents who believed in growing up with very strict rules and did not have a lot of compassion. Each member of the family had a job to fulfil during the day and Wilbert’s was usually bringing home dinner. His mom, Rita, was in charge of the cleaning and his dad, Frank, had to look for a suitable home every night. They all looked out for each other’s lives, for they lived the rough life. No matter what they had each other’s backs, but in order for Wilbert to grow to be able to fend for himself, his parents had to be rough on him. After all, it’s not easy to be a family of cobras in the Sahara Desert. One night Wilbert was out on the hunt for mice, when he met someone that changed his thinking forever. He saw an especially plump lady mouse that would be delicious as an appetizer for his meal. Wilbert slowly crept up on this attractive mouse, but then he saw some of his friends with their eyes on the same creature. They all circled her, trying to make it a sort of game. Whoever could get her first would bring home the prize. The snakes smiled at each other as they backed her up against a boulder, with their greedy teeth flashing. Wilbert was just about to spring when he caught a glimpse of emotion from the mouse. He saw a twinkle in her eye turn into a tear and roll down her furry white cheek. It was then that he noticed her beauty. Her radiant, snowy fur coated over a cute little stomach. Also her black beaded eyes were mystical abysses against the white of her face. Wilbert thought of the life she would lose if he had her for dinner tonight. The children she won’t have, the husband she’ll never love, and the niche that she’ll never fill. He thought about what people would think if the husband she loved was him, if people would shun them for being so different but still together. That mouse appeared so beautifully in that moment of its vulnerability, and Wilbert just froze still. He was caught mid-gaze by his friends and the circling abruptly stopped. His friends sneered and chuckled at his expense. They taunted him since it was obvious what was going on, and threatened to tell his parents he’d rather love a mouse than provide food for his family. The mouse looked in horror at all except for Wilbert, who she, too was feeling the connection with. They were only safe in each other’s stare as the others danced around threatening them and Wilbert’s family. That was when they challenged Wilbert; his friends backed off and gave him the option of winning the mouse for his family’s dinner, as long as he killed her right there in front of them. This snapped him back to the cruel desert reality; he could not betray his family’s trust for a mouse. The only problem was the attraction, the clear connection they shared pushing them to be together. He would have run off with her, but as I said before, Wilbert was raised harshly and was able to adapt impossible situations. The mouse pleaded that they could work it out, that they could love each other, but Wilbert could not risk his family’s health for his love of this strange rodent. He ate his love at first sight right there encircled by his friends. Wilbert’s family and he dined on Missy the Mouse that night, and Wilbert simply had to keep his heartbreak to himself. His family and way of life forced him to compromise his true feelings towards his love, to stay alive. Congratulations to Lauren, whose work was chosen to be read at the ASAP Young Writer’s Celebration at the Town Hall, Washington, on May 16, 2009.

Untitled by Genny George The glassy green orbs stared at her, looking, but not seeing exactly. They were unfocused, out of sync you could say, like fuzzy little fledglings just hatched. She stared back at her reflection in the glassy green orbs, trying to see what was or wasn’t there. Dark blobs swirled and moved, forming for brief seconds then dissolving quickly like fog. The silence enveloped them both, an iron grip. Hiding, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Neither knew what to expect, what to wait for, like those silly plastic worms in a can. The silence weighed upon them, all the air whooshing faster till nothing was left. It engulfed them like a tornado, out in the middle of the ocean: vast, open, wet, and cold. They stood there like that, swaying slightly like plants. He looked at her dark portals, trying to see what they were hiding from him. But he couldn’t see anything. They were impenetrable, well-guarded. Too well-guarded. They stayed that way, simply staring blindly at one another, before turning, then leaving.

AA Christmas Christmas Story Story by Sarah Auchincloss If I could meet that man The one with the big red suit and a long white beard That jolly old fellow with a little red nose And he asked me what I wanted for Christmas I would sigh and look into his merry eyes Santa I want more time I want more time to enjoy my childhood, now that I see it leaving me faster and faster as every day goes on I want to spend more time with the people I love Spend more time climbing trees and running barefoot in the warm summer grass Or go sledding down an icy hill Having enough time to not worry about a thing And wandering blissfully anywhere where without any weight on my shoulders Santa what I would do for that one gift To have that gift sitting under my tree, or in my stocking I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want any other gift in the world Good Old Saint Nick Just that one gift would be fine

A Saunter by Callie Carew-Miller Turquoise, indigo, navy, teal. No blue word can describe the sky today. Highlighted by ochre, yellow, gold. The changing leaves made light by Apollo’s eyes. There are the wise arches, Oh so ancient and clothed in vines. Also the two trees, mother nature’s own, Their leaves a symphony of perfect scarlet and emerald. But up, up, up. Up, through the branches and their feathery fingers. Past even the very tops of the trees Is the sky. So beautiful a blue that no word can describe it. Brightened once again by Apollo’s warm smile.

Shut Up by Jin Young Choi Here he goes again. The bastard won’t admit that he is wrong. Shoving his words at my face, he is yelling and screaming. I yell back at him. Every time he gets closer and closer, that horrible stench from his mouth is getting into my brain, giving me nausea. Even the words coming out of his mouth are garbage. I had a paper cut right between my fingers once. This one time, I was scratching my head and I accidently scratched my pimple sitting on top of my scalp. I used to have a mosquito bite right in the middle of my foot, and I couldn’t scratch it for hours when it was itchy. My toenail broke off when I accidently slammed my toe against the edge of the door in the middle of the night. And I still survived. Anyways, I need to end this argument. We need to compromise. How about cutting each other’s fingers off every time someone does something wrong to someone else? If people drove around with knives instead of air inside their airbags, everyone would drive at 3 miles per hour. Right? But whatever. I just punched him in his face.

Two ghazals by Genny George She sat there, unsure of what to do, sitting there, nothing but silence Glancing at the face of the grandfather clock that broke the silence The moon stared blankly at the stars, the night sky, and even the people Illuminating everything in a yellow glow, savoring the moment in silence Seeing, searching, seeking, sighing, no singing, nothing He looked at her from afar. Nothing, but stifling silence What to do? Noise was not an option. But neither was living without sound It was time to break out of the shell, time to break the ever-present silence The sun slowly rose over the vast horizon. This was the moment of truth The boy stood up, walked to her, and started talking. He broke the silence.

Addicted. That’s what she thought, what they all thought. But they were wrong She wasn’t addicted to it, to anything. It was something she loved, was that wrong? Peace, love, truth, happiness. What garbage. Filling innocent minds with lies. And they said she had problems, and needed help. They couldn’t be more wrong How was it possible to feel this way? To keep wanting something more than anything else? There wasn’t an accurate explanation for the way she felt. Words were so insufficient, so wrong Which will it be? To keep living the way she currently was? Or to find another way of being? She didn’t know what to choose, which one to pick. She didn’t want her final pick to be wrong There are rarely any redo’s in life, the girl thought. I had better make this decision count She looked deeply in her mind, picking the path to walk. She chose, and knew it wasn’t wrong

Kurt by Ian Engelberger

I lay awake inside a dream by Kirsten Bouthiller I lay awake inside a dream While searching for words to say If any could somehow convey The message I wish to deliver to you. But, my glorious master who pays me well in attention, I, the mere messenger, Am but a nobody and a fool Playing hopscotch on a broken foot On a typical April day Just tempting fate to take its role And strike me down as inferior as I am. I am your disciple and you, My glorious master, Are my teacher, My superior, My world. I see none other but you When I reach for words but fall short sighted Upon my bleeding knees while praying to God Hoping he could lend me a few incredulous words That could convey such a message for you. My glorious master, The sun itself sets for you when May has its way And April falls back into the unforgivable past Long left behind and soon to be forgotten As the summer months start to take their positions Along the marked calendars of anxious teens longing To break out from their clam shelled school lives And see a world of sun and timeless freedom. Yet if I could ever truly fall to my knees before you I would hesitate to kiss your beauteous feet For my lips are not good enough for your precious, hammerhead toes And so instead, I would kiss the ground after you hoping to take in the greatness In which you have so easily left behind.

But as I find my way from inside this slight self induced coma And try to awake into a world of clear thought and reason, I find myself writing this in desperation of finding the right words, If any could truly convey such a meaning, Of why I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but live for you.

Two poems by Hai Zi (1964-1989), translated from the Mandarin by Yuze Sun The shades In the shades I have three agonies: Drift. Love. survival I have three happinesses: Poems. Throne. The Sun

The Sun of Arles Down to the South Down to the South Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no spring or lovers pulsing through your veins Not even the moon Not even bread Not even friends Only a group of starving children Consuming everything Oh, Van Gogh, my thin brother Fir and Rye Belched recklessly from underground Or it is you Belching the unwanted life In fact, you can light this world with one eye But you used your third eye----- The Sun of Arles It burns the sky into a rough river It burns the earth till it starts to swirl Raising your yellow twisted hand, Sun Flower To invite all those people All those people who pull the chestnuts out of the fire Do not draw a Christian olive orchard any more Draw a fierce fire To take the place of the old man To purify the life My red hair brother After drinking the vermouth Set your fire Burn

Three Three poems poems by Zach Elston a cold breeze swims in through the window her nose flares and contracts with her slow soft breaths the fresh flow of air soothes her lungs, cooling her chest the moon falls behind clouds on these nights, peeking only for moments to illuminate a leg, an arm, her smooth stomach her breaths are slow the moon disappears again, clouds ringed with white drift through the ink of sky her body pines for the light once again, like a flower to the sun bring me back she calls, bring me back to life the grey tufts fill the sky emptying it bringing a curtain over the earth's face * bright sunlight complements the warm air through the window the hair on her arm pricks up with the scent of spring fluttering green eyes meet the orange-yellow sky sunrise she awakens with her legs flowing in blankets her throat opening to a yawn hair slack, its softness matching the cloth and linens smooth feet touch the smooth floor the night's freeze lingers on the tile * clap your hands with joy the great rescuer has arrived grass green springs and bounds meeting your toes with a kiss of love how I missed your touch the lovers swoon on a park bench, their lips like the grass touching, having missed each other in the long slumber of the frigid night clap your hands for this festival of senses the feast for the eyes nose mouth ears fingers life is this this is life clap your hands

Creating a world with you by Karen Layman Creating a world with you Creating a world with you Is even more fun than watching you draw, or watching you watch me draw Or being like normal teenage girls and painting our nails and doing our hair and gossiping about boys Partly because you know my characters as well as you know me Partly because of their personalities, partly because you can become them so well Partly because the stars that we cannot see through the ceiling but we know are there, or because of our friend’s obsession with ceiling fans, or because of the fan that has been attached to the ceiling that is blocking the stars and the combination of the ceiling and the fan makes us all laugh You don’t have to watch your brothers when you’re with me—you aren’t their mother, your mother is their mother You can say what you want with me—no one will tell You are my friend And we are goddesses—together we create the world of Areita, the isle of Vanisa Elitra, the city of Neras, and all the world and all its inhabitants All your worst fears, nightmares materialize in this world and are destroyed forever by the characters that the two goddesses created Our champions, our chosen ones to carry out our bidding on horrors that our own lives have given birth to, the personified villains and monsters that maybe once upon a time were the vicious gossiper and the kid that ratted on you for no good reason and have now become the Joystealer and that goody-two-shoes Paladin that is trying to slay our Vampire chosen ones And the characters—the chosen ones—are more than abstract ideas, more than just tools for creating a game, telling a story They are friends—perhaps some of the truest friends you may ever have They will always understand, always know what you’re going through And you will never be alone So go ahead, tell me what a horrible person you are, and how selfish you are, and how you deserve to starve to death, or whatever other horrible punishment you dream up for yourself next

Every time I will tell you otherwise And one day, maybe years down the road from here Maybe one day youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll believe me.

Congratulations to Karen Layman, who won The Gunnery Poetry Contest 2009 with this poem.

photo by Ian Engelberger

Nine Innings of Haiku* Finally it’s spring: BatsInnings and gloves start to appear, Nine of Haiku Snow melts on the field. The freshly cut grass, An old rickety backstop – America’s game. The drunken fan stands When the ball flies, Spilling his beer on a young boy. Night before the game, Not sleeping – Like an owl keeping watch. The crack of the bat Like a hammer hitting wood – Two-nothing, home team. Power hitter launches one deep, The crowd stands up to celebrate – Right fielder snags the ball. Seventh inning stretch, Scoreless game, a cool breeze rolls Through, awakes the fans. On the field it snows, Like baby powder Falling from the sky. Bottom of the ninth The crowd roars, Like thunder beating in the sky. Extra Innings Thunder claps loudly: Crowd looks at the lightning bolt Extra Innings Spanning plate to fence. Fresh cut grass creates A horizon with the sky –

The first pitch is thrown. Scoreless after One, Smell of Hotdogs in the Air – A Beautiful Day The ball rolls slowly, It moves almost like a slug – The game is over. The players spit seeds And sign autographs; The fans find their seats. He takes a large lead And sees the pitcher rear back, Then darts for second. Baseball, glove, cleats, hat, Uniform, helmet, bat, field Dugout, Stadium. *by English IV Baseball Fiction ‘09 Nik Campero, Derek Coppola, Ryan Erbe, Ethan Fischbein, Kim George, Shane Gorman, Greg Kumpel, Darren Laurie, Mike LoPresti, Jimmy Richardson, Andrew Romanella, James Sarris, Tucker Shaw, Michael Tait

Logic? by Karen Layman What can you catch on your tongue? Logic? You would say, “Snowflakes.” But why snowflakes? Shooting stars are so much more fun. Why do we wash our hair with fancy concoctions? You would say, “To keep it clean.” But what do those concoctions do? And why scent them with “rain” when the real thing is so easy to come by? What do you do with a balloon? You would say, “Blow it up.” But what if you were to tolerate it? Living in a balloon is worse than living in a bubble. At least in a bubble you can see out. What can you do with a hen? You would say, “Eat it.” But perhaps the hen knows some secret. You could make it tell the truth, if only you spoke its language. What can you do with an egg?’ You would say, “Crack it for an omelet.” Or “dye it,” if you were feeling festive. Or you could steal it—the prefect little life inside a shell. What would you do with an ax? You would say, “Sharpen it,” and here I would agree. Or, if you were a guitarist, you might say, “Play it,” And I would still agree.

Sure strokes could destroy something that was there, Or create something that wasn’t. What would you carry in a basket? You might say “eggs” or “berries.” I would carry foxes in my basket. “Why,” you ask? Because I can. That’s why. What would you eat? “Blackberries,” you say, still thinking of the berries you carry in your basket. “Bullets,” I would reply. Yes, those harmful bits of lead used in crimes. Perhaps if we could eat them, crime wouldn’t be so common. What would you breathe? “Air,” you would say. “What else?” But why not fire? Perhaps fire is more pleasing to the lungs, and we just don’t know it yet. What does a screwdriver do? “Twists screws into holes,” you say, wondering how I could not know. “Help a carpenter twist screws into holes,” I correct you. For it would have to be a magical screwdriver to do it itself. What would you do if you were suddenly tiny? “That’s stupid,” you say. “It’ll never happen—I’d eat my hat!” All right, eat your hat then. I hope you find it satisfying. I would do something more productive, like sleep. How would you handle a tail? “Humans don’t have tails! Stop asking me these stupid questions!” you shout.

And I laugh. Humans do have tails, actually, it’s one of the prerequisites to being a mammal. So what would you do? You would hide it. You would pretend it wasn’t there. It’s just how you are. “And what would you do?” you demand. Drape it over my arm, and be proud to be different. “But the logical thing would be to thread it through a slit in your pants!” you protest. Yes, I know that. But what exactly is…logic? And is common sense really so common?

Assassins of the Skies by Karen Layman AssassinsKiliara of the calls Skiesmy sister, Elya Ravenwing, “the Eagle.” Majestic, proud, and strong. If she is the Eagle, then I, Kevice Wolfswift, am the Hawk. I am silent and sly—my prey does not see me until it is too late. My favorite prey is not, however, fish or mice or whatever else it is that hawks hunt. My favorite prey is those who abuse their power. Elya and I are the perfect combination to do our work—our work being to protect the innocent. My stealth and her diplomacy can get us anywhere. While she talks her way into a castle or a fortress, she scopes out all possible ways in. She observes where and how my victim sits, what sort of security measures are in place, and anything else I could possibly need to know. And when she comes home, she draws it all out for me and we devise a flawless plan. And now, the task falls to me. The Hawk circles the area, searching. I perch on a branch above a stream, waiting for my fish. I watch all the little fish go by, hurrying to get out of the way of the bigger fish that they all know is coming and will eat them if they do not hurry. Then I dive, snatching the big fish that is all alone in this part of the stream, and I disappear in a burst of bloodstained feathers. The tyrant is dead, and his people are free. The Eagle and the Hawk smile at each other, both knowing that soon, another will arise, and our job will begin again. The cycle of death will never end. And it is on this note that I will begin my story. Kiliara, I neglected to mention, is the Goddess of Death. There are actually eight of them. Kiliara is the most powerful, followed by—in no particular order—Grymn, Yazaou, Lyn, Slade, Luciana, Vivian, and Rashnu. Grymn is the Grim Reaper, Yazaou is the Soul-Singer, Lyn is the Guardian of the Children, Slade is the Sandman—too much of his magic sand will kill you instantly—Luciana and Vivian are the Guardians of the Gates of Heaven and Hell, respectively, and Rashnu is the Judge of Souls and their father. We’re all just one big, morbid family, I guess. Elya and I were bored. Or at least, we were bored until Kiliara summoned us to her hourglass room. Kiliara keeps the hourglasses of everyone who has lived and died. The hourglass room is magnificent—filled with shining hourglasses and the soft hiss of flowing sand—or, in certain places, the eerie lack thereof. But neither Elya nor I had expected to see a heap of glass and sand and Kiliara standing over it, arms crossed and red eyes flashing angrily.

“Messy,” I said in a careful attempt to disarm the explosive that was Kiliara’s temper at that moment. I succeeded—Kiliara uncrossed her arms and allowed herself a small—albeit very cold—chuckle in the back of her throat. “Quite. But I didn’t call you over here to sweep. I called you here to investigate.” “Investigate what?” Elya asked. “Who did this.” “I wondered about the massacre,” I said. “I knew you were feeling moody, but I hadn’t thought you were that moody.” “I’m not. Or, rather, I wasn’t. Someone got past my guards.” “It wasn’t me. I can’t get past your guards.” “I know that. That’s why I’m so concerned. Whoever did this must have been very stealthy.” “No. Your guards can spot Kevice. It wasn’t stealth,” Elya said. “What, then?” Kiliara asked. “Strength. Magic. Something that wasn’t stealth. My guess is magic.” “It sounds like your tactic.” “It is,” I said. “So who did you let into the castle?” Kiliara looked up at the ceiling. “No one recently.” “Then someone not recently. That’s actually a really good way to divert suspicion from yourself…I’ll have to remember that…” “Oh great, my assassin is learning how to infiltrate his own castle,” Kiliara said, rolling her eyes. “Weirder things have happened then having to sneak in and out of your own home,” I said. “That’s true, actually,” Elya said. “Unimportant! We’ll argue about this later. The last person I can think of letting in the castle who isn’t one of us is Lamia Meleril,” Kiliara interrupted. “Sorceress companion of rising tyrant Nalom Osod,” Elya said. “Rising tyrant, Elya?” I asked. “As I see it, there are tyrants and there are not tyrants.” “Meaning, he has the perfect makings to be a tyrant, but he isn’t…yet…it’s only a matter of time before the lure of absolute power becomes too strong.”

“Shall we?” I asked. “Keep your sword on, we’ll get there, but you don’t have any proof,” Elya said. I sighed. “It’s so logical though! Ah, fine, so we need proof.” I scanned the room for several minutes before I spotted a piece of cloth on the corner of one of the shelves. “Good eyes,” Elya said. I was tempted to comment on that’s why I’m so sneaky, but she spoke before I could. “It looks like a piece of someone’s robe.” “Don’t touch it!” I said when she made a move toward it. “Don’t even touch the ground near it.” “I suppose you think it’s a trap?” “Life is a trap,” I said as I scaled a wall and scurried across the ceiling, then landed lightly on the shelf. I examined the scrap and the area around it, looking for any signs of a trap—wires, powders, bottles…you can put a trap anywhere. “All right, be prepared to jump backward,” I wrapped my cloak around my face and plucked the scrap off the shelf. Nothing exploded. No poisonous powders dispersed into the air. “Be prepared to jump backward, eh?” Kiliara said, raising her eyebrows. “A bit paranoid?” “There’s always someone trying to kill me,” I said, shrugging and jumping down from the shelf. “That’s just how is being an assassin.” Kiliara shook her head. “Elya, time for you to go. Find out what kind of robes Lamia or Nolom wears.” “On my way,” she said, gliding out of the room in a swish of blue silk, purple velvet, and green dragon scales. “And let me guess—I clean up?” I asked. Kiliara looked at me with another of her halflaughs. “Didn’t I already tell you that I didn’t call you here to sweep? No, you get ready to go. I’m sure that this won’t take Elya very long.” I nodded and disappeared with a snap of a red leather cloak. *** Elya returned soon, as promised, bearing what could be taken as good or bad news. “Matches the material of Lamia’s robes perfectly,” she said, tossing the scrap onto the table in front of me. I handed her a quill and ink and motioned to the piece of parchment in front of me.

“Go for it,” I said. “How many guards?” “The place is crawling with them. It’s like they expect you,” she said as she drew a neatly labeled map. I watched over her shoulder. “They probably do. They must know that you can’t really expect to sneak into Kiliara’s castle and get away with it. It’s impossible.” “But it’s nearly as impossible to get into their castle too,” Elya said. “I think they want us to employ our tactic against them, so they can catch us and use us to threaten Kiliara.” “Threaten Kiliara? Are you mad?” I asked. “Perhaps. But you have to admit, we’d make excellent hostages.” “Hostages aren’t supposed to escape,” I said with a smirk. “Fair enough,” Elya said, handing me the map. “Be careful Kevice. You’re the only brother I have.” “Oh, spare me the gloom-and-doom speech,” I said. “How many times have we done this?” Elya sighed. “Too many.” I flashed a confident smile and vanished. Tyrants come and tyrants go. But one thing remains the same: The Eagle and the Hawk, the Assassins of the Skies.

photo by Alex Geerken

Indecisive by Taylor Dube Do I want this? Or do I want that? The mind confuses me so I know I am supposed to know what I want But know what I want I do not When it comes to small, insignificant things I can tell you what I desire When it comes to matters of the heart Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m more confused than a fire Never settling in a direction, blowing every which way Dying out and rekindling, burning night or day The fire resembles my heart in so many ways Not only its indecisiveness, but also in its blaze It burns with power, unknown to the bystanders Much like my emotions, hidden beneath my exterior However indecisive a fire may be, it never ceases to blow In at least one direction the fire will always go

The paths both taken by Will Obilisundar Two paths diverged in a stone village, And two toddlers decided on the steps And they began their journey On metal horses. One said: “I want to go the other way.” The voice said: “That’s fine… just watch out for the cracks…” The other child continued on the plain, “I don’t want to.” So, both took their contrary ways And it was not wrong; Nothing stopped their will And they prospered. Nothing impeded their ability; When the time came There was no regret. They reached the same destination From two paths diverging in a stone village. The two toddlers took separate courses But are allowed no distinction And that would make much difference.

"...I'm an old screwdriver..." by Corey Tesch I’ll harness the pain of the universe The beauty of the earth Captured by my tongue A butterfly gnawing on my taste buds A dirty human with dry oatmeal In his hair Mentally sick, he eats shampoo But do continue to feel sorry for yourself. I’d advise a balloon to stop floating Unless a child lost it I’ll dye an egg for easter Until it’s dead The axe can no longer help me Heat my house I’ll brush my teeth with it, Sitting cold and bleeding. Why does your berry basket have a fox Eating the berries? I put the fox there. That’s right, Cry. I used to eat bullets when foxes ate my berries. And breathe fire When my life would get scary. I’m an old Screwdriver Filling the holes In everyone’s lives At my expense No one hears you when You’re small as a pea So there’s no need to plea For help So I harness The pain of the universe And cut off the tail That makes me a freak

‘Eye-Guy’ by Katie Pierce

Take my night and walk with it by Clark Johnson down some lonely and desolate boulevard where the stars shoot away never to return and never to touch you again. through alleyways of poverty and despair where the poor and desperate feed off of themselves; they destroy themselves and they love it. over a green and gray windswept hill of dirty brown earth where people stand in long black jackets and gaze into the wind where they find nothing and expect everything. along a rain slicked cobblestone street by the sea where small motorized vehicles zoom past with stories and tales of times exactly the same as today. in between dead brown trees sick with autumn and excited by cold; they stand still and stagnant in the anticipated air. out onto a porch in the early southern morning where I can already tell how hot of a day it is going to be and I can smell something familiar in the air. Take my night and walk with it through a city tainted by lust and a city bursting with lights everywhere and a whisper whilst walking in the dark down the wonderfully lonely streets.

Poem by Sarah Lombard There I saw it, an apple As red as a brilliant hot flame that glows from burning embers, illuminating the sky with its crimson aura, gleaming in the brilliance of the sun's light as she kisses it's skin with her warming rays, sweetening the essence of this forbidden fruit. Do I dare pick such a beauty of nature? Perfect in color, shape and size. A rich red garnet in a sea of green leaves That hangs alone in silent beauty Amongst rows of apple trees that fade in the distance across the hazy horizon. As the bright light of midday subsides and the shadow of darkness creeps in, I turn and walk away from God's creation. Too magnificent to disturb, Nature's gem lives on for one more day.

Uppity Up by Dan Goldberg Upitty up, I’m oh so down, Fly monkey fly through the empty sky. Moon, my sweet moon, come out to play, Won’t this great emptiness just go away?

Chippity-chap the bluebirds tatter. “Shut the hell up!” I yell a little louder.

The sun is in your eyes today, May sunshine at its strongest. I open my umbrella and cower in my nest, my nest, my shady nest where no light may enter, only darkness by the plenty, where the happy go crazy and the crazy reach sense.

Alphabet Soup by Dan Goldberg Alphabet Soup Poems aren’t always short, they aren’t always sweet They don’t always repeat, or have a beat Poems don’t always rhyme, or have a special form or a line They don’t always have a moral or a theme— No story it seems. Sometimes, the best poems are the ones that make no sense The ones with no purpose no pretense nor context no focus nor logic Just words— Strung together by the stroke of a pencil Straight from thin air— Bare – naked – words. They can mystify, glorify, retell history or a Sherlock mystery— Words have the power of power, they are almighty and all-encompassing Words move people to fights and countries to war They lead the world through the bible They lead us through the Constitution And they lead you through identification Words – Control – Everything.

Congratulations to Dan, whose work was chosen to be read at the ASAP Young Writer’s Celebration at the Town Hall, Washington, on May 16, 2009.

Peso Ancestral by Alfonsina Storni (1892-1938) translated from the Spanish by Tyler Littmann Tú me dijiste: no lloró mi padre, tú me dijiste: no lloró me abuelo, no han llorado los hombres de mi raza, eran de acerco. As’ diciendo te brotó una lágrima y me cayó en la boca…; más veneno yo no he bebido nunca en otro vaso asi pequeño. Débil mujer, pobre mujer que entiende, dolor de siglos conoc’ al beberlo. Oh, el alma mía soportar no puede todo su peso.

Inherited Weight You said to me: “My father did not weep, Nor did my grandfather weep.” I heard you say “No man of all my race has ever wept, of steel were they.” And upon my trembling mouth I felt the poison of your bitter teardrop fall, worse potion than my lips have ever quaffed from a cup so small. Weak woman, poor woman who recognizes the taste of centuries’ grief. But oh, my wretched soul cannot support the weight of it!

photo by Zach Elston

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos." El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso. En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos. La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito. Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido. Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella. Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío. Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla. La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo. Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos. Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo. La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles. Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise. Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído. De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos. Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y estos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo. Tonight I can write by Pablo Neruda, translated from the Spanish by Kevin Tarsa Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines. Tonight I can I can write, forwrite example: ‘The night is glowing with stars, Trembling and blue, the heavenly bodies are in the distance. The night wind swirls in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines. I adored her, and at times she loved me back. Through nights like tonight I caressed her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the boundless skies. She adored me, and at times I loved her too. How could I not have been enraptured by her giant, fixed eyes? Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines. To think I do not have you. To feel as though I have lost you. I can hear the night, vast, still vaster without her. And the words settle on my soul like the dewdrops on the pasture. It doesn't matter that my love couldn't keep her. The night is star-filled and she is not with me. That's all that matters. Someone is singing far away. Far away. My soul cannot be content, because I have lost her. As if they could bring her near, my eyes try to find her. My heart searches for her, and she is not with me. The same nightfall whitening the same trees. But we have both changed so much since that night. Surely I no longer love her, but how I once loved her. My voice sought the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. As before I had kissed her. Her voice, her pale body. Her endless eyes.

Surely I no longer love her, but maybe I love her. Love is so short; memories last so long. Because through nights like tonight I caressed her in my arms, my soul cannot be content, because I have lost her. Even if this is the last pain she makes me suffer, and this is the last poem that I write for her.

I can write the saddest verses tonight by Pablo Neruda, translated from the Spanish by Joseph LĂśbb I can write the saddest verses tonight. I can write the saddest verses tonight To write, for example â&#x20AC;&#x153;The night is starry, blue stars shiver in the distance.â&#x20AC;? The wind of the night gyrates in the sky, singing. I can write the saddest verses tonight. I had loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. During nights such as this I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the vast emptiness of night, more empty without her. And the verses fall to the soul like dewdrops to the grass. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry, and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance. My soul is not content having lost her. As if to retrieve her my gaze searches for her. My heart searches for her, for she is not with me. The same night that whitening the same trees. We, as of then, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that is certain, but how I loved her. My voice searched the wind to touch her hearing. Of another. She will be anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Just as it had been before my kisses. Her voice, her fair body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that is certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, and forgetting is so long. For through nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is not content having lost her. Even if this be the last pain she causes me to suffer, and even if these be the last verses that I write of it.

photo by Ian Engelberger

Junto a tu cuerpo by Salvador Novo, translated from the Spanish by Sam Mandl Junto a tu cuerpo totalmente entregado al mío junto a tus hombros tersos de que nacen las rutas de tu abrazo, de que nacen tu voz y tus miradas, claras y remotas, sentí de pronto el infinito vacío de su ausencia. Si todos estos años que me falta como una planta trepadora que se coge del viento he sentido que llega o que regresa en cada contacto y ávidamente rasgo todos los días un mensaje que nada contiene sino una fecha y su nombre se agranda y vibra cada vez más profundamente porque su voz no era más que para mi oído, porque cegó mis ojos cuando apartó los suyos y mi alma es como un gran templo deshabitado. Pero este cuerpo tuyo es un dios extraño forjado en mis recuerdos, reflejo de mí mismo, suave de mi tersura, grande por mis deseos, máscara estatua que he erigido a su memoria. Joined to your Body Joined to your body totally given in to mine Joined to your shoulders from which the roots of your love is born, From which your voice and your stares are born, clear and remote, I quickly felt the infinite emptiness of your absence. If all of these years that leave me Like a climbing plant that bends in the wind It has felt that it comes and goes upon contact And avidly every day has messages that do not contain a trait without a date And every time your name grows and vibrates more profoundly Because your voice wasn’t more than what I hear, Because my eyes were blinded when yours left them And my soul is like a grand disinhabited temple But this body of yours is an estranged god Forged in my memories, reflected in myself As suave as my smoothness, as big as my desires, Mask the statue of you that I have erected to your memory.

Undecided by Alex Strelov Andrew spent all his time memorizing the Encyclopedia Britannica word for word. He never knew Undecided why he did it. After 30 years of developing a shark-repellent, Dr. Sidney White was struck by lightning and died immediately. It took twelve days and five hours for Ralph to finish his masterpiece collage. It took five minutes for the fire to ruin it. Peter was happy with his research paper. When he gave it to his teacher, she was reminded of the paper, which nobody else had done. Peter was no longer happy. In a failed act of justice, Mort Chasten threw his innocent brother's innocent hampster through the window of the attic. To verify lyrics from a Ween song, Dean tried to sink like an ice cube in the sink. Gene was not pleased. Ethan was surprised when his stomach was writhing in pain. His doctor was surprised when an xray revealed a roll of quarters in his stomach. Ethan was not surprised anymore. Although nobody found the loose cannon-eater, goggles with intrepid disc-shaped lenses overwhelmed the creature into a submissive state of complex emotion. The silver lamp with black strips of tape curled around its clamp, shining its red light through the black desk and into the legs of its owner, burned the desire to think out of him until he drooled a puddle of saliva onto his computer. A small tub of old wonton soup sat on Zack's mousepad until finally it released a vile and intolerable consistency, forcing me to dump the "soup" into Zack's lap. Trying to impress his yoga instructor, Natasha, in a routine position, Jerry hyperextended his leg. The ambulance driver was Natasha's fiance. Eeldorf, a two foot three inch spherical creature from Easter Island, fell off the Empire State Building and exploded into a puff of baby blue slime. Sleepy earthworms will weep at the sight of live music concerts with large bass amplifiers placed close to the floor for obvious reasons. Rain dissolved the space mushrooms into a powdery paste, which Michael uses to make his Earthfamous chicken nugget sauce. Still in a drunken stupor from the night before, Julia put her shoes on the opposite feet, causing

her to walk with a pronounced pimp step and later fall down the steps of her duplex. Ilyena ruined her brother when the last everlasting gobstopper in the box fell out of the box and into a sewage drain, making it last only seconds.

Age of Great Kings (detail) by Victor Bogachev

The Bad Panini by Maisie Theobald I sat down at the table across from Jake watching him finish his fourth grade homework. I felt a The Bad Panini sense of déjà vu seeing that this was something that I had done every Thursday, Tuesday, and Monday afternoon for the last two years. He usually did not take long with his work, and then we would proceed to some play time and then dinner. Jake’s mother was a nurse at a nearby hospital and usually did not get back until 10:00 pm on Thursday, Tuesday and Monday. These were the only nights of the week that she was late. The rest of the week she was back in time to pick Jake up from school. I looked forward to these days every week. They were a time to spend doing things that brought me back to my childhood when everything was so simple. They were relaxing and stress free, and Jake was the best behaved nine years old in my book. I had not been able to babysit for the last four weeks because I had been away on Vacation in Minnesota for three weeks to visit family and then I caught a case of pink eye and was in bed for a week. A sense of comfort and contentment came over me now that I was back on the regular schedule. “Finished,” piped Jake from across the table, he set his pencil down for a final effect. “Great!” I said enthusiastically, “Ok would you like to go out to the tree house in the yard?” He nodded happily, we grabbed the bucket, the rope, and stuffed lions from the toy bin, and sauntered out to yard. I walked to the bottom of the tree like I always did, and waited for him to lower the bucket down with a stuffed lion seated in the bucket so that I could take it out and then toss it back up into the tree house. “Amanda, come up the ladder, come up!” Jake exclaimed. “Isn’t this what we always do?” I asked. “My new baby sitter Celeste taught me this really cool game while you were away, and I want to play it...” I could not believe it. I knew that Jake’s mother had to find someone else to watch Jake while I was gone, but I had no idea that someone could one up me on the fun and games. However I did not want to upset him so I went up. “Celeste was so nice,” Jake continued, “She showed me the best games to play…see look if you throw the lions off of here and if they land in the sandbox you win…oh and if you hit the dumpster its fifty points!” “Oh…wow…this game is certainly interesting,” I replied, slightly let down, but I had to remind myself that he obviously was very happy with it, and if he was happy then I was happy for him. “She also told me all these stories about when she traveled to Africa and was able to see real lions, and she promised me that the next time she comes she will bring pictures!” I had never even been out of the country. “Wow Jake! That Celeste sounds really cool, you know I’ve been to the Bronx Zoo before and saw a lion there, it was really amazing…. and...” “But..,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t really count because it isn’t in the wild, it’s not in their natural habitat.” Since when had this kid gotten so sassy? We played the game for a while, Jake beat me. Apparently Celeste had taught him the “right” way to throw the lion so that it would be more accurate. “Hey, how about we head in and start dinner, does that sound good?” “Ok, I’m so hungry, I could eat a pig…no, a horse! “Ok, Ok calm down let’s go,” I said, laughing.

“Alright, I am going to make your favorite tonight; a peanut butter sandwich, with salad, and macaroni and cheese.” I had never known a child who loved peanut butter more. His mother would occasionally make it for him for lunch, but it was agreed that one of the nights when I came it was a special treat and it was allowed. Along with that he loved macaroni with cheese, and salad was a must. “No, I want a Panini.” “A what…?” I had never heard of a “Panini..?” in my life. “A Panini.” “It’s two slices of Italian bread stuffed with mozzarella, tomatoes, prosciutto, fresh basil, roasted red peppers, with extra virgin olive oil, and then toasted so that it is a golden brown.” “Celeste made it for me when she was here! Oh and she gave me Spanish olives, with brie and carrots on the side.” Who on earth was this manipulative Martha Stewart clone who had appeared out of nowhere and basically turned this little boy into miniature, snobby, food connoisseur?! “Don’t you want a peanut butter sandwich? It’s your favorite.” “No thank you, Paninis are my new favorite.” “Well to tell you the truth I don’t really know how to make a Panini, how about we do what you usually have tonight, and then some other night you can have one.” “But I really, really wanted a Panini tonight!” he started to whine. That had really done it. I could not believe that this girl had come in and made me out to be a complete failure as a babysitter, and made him think that anything that was not gourmet was not acceptable. “Look here Jake,” I said sternly, “As long as I’m the babysitter there will be no pretentious cheeses, and foreign sandwiches in this kitchen, we stick to good honest American Peanut butter!!” His eyes grew wide, then immediately went to slits, next came the lower lip protruding out. “You are the worst babysitter ever! I hope that your arteries get clogged from all the chemicals in that packaged powder Kraft cheese mix!” he exclaimed. How did he know all this, let alone why was he worried about it at his age?! “I don’t think you have to worry about packaged cheese being harmful to you or me at this stage in our life,” I retorted. “That wasn’t my point Amanda, my point was that I don’t want you to look after me anymore! Celeste is so much better!” That really hurt. I was just trying to help, and now he was turning against me! “Now Jake,” I said, slightly panicked, “You don’t really mean that, I mean we’ve just had a little misunderstanding over a Panini, I’m sure that we can smooth things out, I can go online and learn how to make one.” “No, that’s fine, I would not like to have any dinner tonight, I’ve lost my appetite, I will wait until Celeste comes back and makes me one. If your Panini making skills are as bad as your ability to cook pasta to the right consistency…then you’re in trouble!” Since when had he become so articulate?! And when did he pick up the habit of talking back! When I was his age I don’t think I even used the word “consistency,” let alone have the nerve to stand up to a sixteen year old. Anyway what sixteen year old was expected to be a part time professional chief and make food that looked like it belonged on the food network? “Jake you must have something before you go to bed, you have school tomorrow morning.” “Fine, if you insist I will have toast and milk, but I’m going straight to bed.” “Ok that works” I said carefully, afraid that I might upset him again.

How had this day gone from so great to so horrible? I knew one thing though; I would never try a Panini in my life seeing how much grief it had caused me. I watched him sullenly eat his makeshift dinner without making eye contact with me. He then finished and headed towards his room for pajamas and to get ready for bed. I did the dishes and sighed as I looked at the clock and saw that not only had the meal stunk, but now he was slightly late getting to bed. His mother was going to have my head. “Have you finished the football chapter book that we left off on when I was last here?” “No, Celeste finished it and brought me some really good detective ones last time; they’re on a pile on my desk.” “Ok, we can read those.” Well it was now obvious that even the word Celeste would not go away, I could practically see her shadow lurking behind every door and slinking under every rug. She could not be beaten. This girl had stolen my enjoyable Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, that was almost half my week! Let alone my money! But really it was not the money that was so disappointing, it was the status of a being a role model, someone for Jake to look up to. I had taken pride in being someone who would set a good example, helping to shape the person that Jake turned into. Jake, as an only child, had no one else to learn the ropes from, no older sibling to show him the right way to act, and what was really important. He was so vulnerable and naïve that he easily believed anything someone told him and soaked in information like a sponge. “Well goodnight, sleep well… I guess I won’t be coming back, I wish you luck buddy.” “Goodnight,” he replied and then as I was walking out the door he added, “You know you are my favorite babysitter, as much as Celeste is cool and fun, sometimes she doesn’t listen to me, and I feel like she does not care. And I think that if I always have Paninis I will get sick of them, and I never get sick of peanut butter.” I smiled. There was hope yet. The gourmet chef did not completely brainwash him, and things could go back to the way they were.

Tom (Unfinished): 3 by Austin Ryer The light switches weren’t on the left wall. Tom found them in a closet in the right corner Tom of the(Unfinished): main church,3behind fragments of a pew broken long ago. It didn’t matter though, as the overhead lights only gave a brief flare and spark before they died out completely. As he stepped back into the main aisle Tom pulled a small pen-light from his pocket. Though it wasn’t much, it was better than the weak light being filtered through the dust coated stained glass windows, and together they were barely enough to properly assess the condition of the building. Slowly, Tom walked down the aisle, sweeping his light across the dust covered floors and pews. Aside from the occasional track of an erratic bird, there were no footprints, and the dust on the pews was uniform and untouched. Tom hadn’t realized how old this church was, but wasn’t surprised at its ill condition; to him, the age of religion had been dying for years, and in such an isolated location he did not expect a strong devout population. He was soon close to the front of the church, and was now far enough away from the light coming from the open door that it too was beginning to be claimed by the dust. As he had walked by, he had disturbed so much of the fine powder that it had risen, creating a haze that blocked much of the light. Now he could only clearly see what was illuminated by the thin beam of the flashlight, but he also began to notice more as he was so heavily concentrated on what was immediately in front of him. Small bones littered the aisle alongside occasional pages from a hymn book. Tom couldn’t feel a breeze or draft, but an old chocolate wrapper moved and spun in place, and some of the hymn pages on the floor fluttered sporadically. Looking up suddenly, Tom realized he was immediately in front of the statue of Christ, crucified and suffering in all His glory. It loomed over Tom, in a regal grandeur Tom had rarely seen in these statues. With little color and even less definition given to His features, from it only the simplest story could be told of a simple and universal man who had sacrificed himself for a greater cause. Though larger than life, it was humble, as a statue of Christ should be. Taking another step forward, a shrill crack resonated from under his heel. Directing the light downwards, he noticed that the number of bones had grown and accumulated at the foot of the statue as if in some pagan sacrifice. Now standing in the center of the pile, he realized there was nowhere to move without further disturbing the grave. Worse, there was no where to move without again hearing the sickening crack of what he hoped were rat bones. Turning and facing the back of the church though, he froze and accidentally dropped his light. As it fell to the bones below him and broke as so many animals had before it, he was thrown into complete darkness that was fought only by the dim light from the door and the stained glass window above it. What had first struck him was the appearance of a silhouette in the doorway, barely distinguishable, and unidentifiable. However, more disturbing was the window, which he had failed to notice earlier because of its location. From what Tom could see, it was the identical image of the statue now behind him, but small pinpricks of sunlight pierced through the bullet holes that riddled His body. Two such holes were placed perfectly through the eyes, giving the once majestic figure an appearance of vengeance and judgment directed straight towards Tom. When Tom turned his attention back towards the doorway the silhouette had disappeared. A few seconds later the overhead light fixtures flared to life and a woman emerged from the back closet and without hesitation she began walking down the aisle towards him. Quickly, he again looked at the window above the door, but the electric lights had completely eliminated any effect from the bullet holes; there was now only a simple Christ overlooking a simple church. The

woman had reached him and, with a sigh, looked at the statue that he still had his back to. Soon though, without turning to Tom, she spoke. “He’s beautiful, isn’t He?” she asked him.

Hey whatchya want by Katie Pierce Hey whatchya want? Hey whatchya want hah no. no. impossible improbable hearings off hearings damaged. you must be mistaken mistaken! go look look at the data facts information mation? nation general area. not here over there there no! never will anything ever ever never be here. go far far away way a ways farther there. now sit sit shut your eyes close them tight inwardly look look inside inward... what? no, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no

treasure gold no prize itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inside inward no treasure higher plane? no, original plane plane of the origin look harder concentrate looking? no. go farther a ways farther inside not outside stop moving sit still still rock still? dead still no. no killing genocide is wrong stop speeches speechless no talking no noise no speaking no sit sit still stop thinking just look looking does not involve thinking does not shhh no shhh quiet inwardly quiet outwardly dead still

rock still look farther ways farther inwardly farther farther enough.

Walking by Eros Angjeli It was late And cold. The night was becoming too Frigid and unfriendly But I didn’t care. I was going to walk Alone Through the streets Empty as they were that night. I popped my collar And walked the sidewalks. The only warmth I felt was The smoke of my cigarettes. They were my only comfort that night. As I walked by churches, parks, and pubs. There were not a lot of people around, I noticed. I laughed and said out loud, “You scared them away didn’t you? “I can’t wait to see you run away “When they all come out tomorrow. “Oh, and I’m gonna tell you something: “You won’t scare me.” And I walked streets of misery, Streets of lights, Streets of hope. And did not stop until The first ray of sunshine struck me. “AHA” I laughed, “I’m going home now. “You can all come out now, he has “Surrendered, he has left.”

Humanity by Kristi Bojdani they say that god is everywhere, what about the whispers of the demons in our ears? if god exists, why do I still hear this moaning? sounds tearing my heart apart. guns taking lives, and they still throw fuel onto this lethal fire. drugs sucking the energy from our veins, procrastinating our happiness. and closing the white door to success. racism inflating hate. the life which we live today is better spent inside our own world. stop this war, and let peace decide time!

Navid Ahmadzadeh Eros Angjeli Sarah Auchincloss Rob Badger Baseball Fiction Zack Bodnar Victor Bogachev Kristi Bojdani Kirsten Bouthiller Callie Carew-Miller Lauren Castaldi Jin Young Choi Min Hye Chung Taylor Dube Zach Elston Ian Engelberger Sam Funk Genny George Taylor Gillis Alex Geerken Dan Goldberg Clark Johnson Karen Layman Tyler Lee Isabel Levy-Nance Alex Lizotte Tyler Littman Joseph Löbb Sarah Lombard Sam Mandl Will Obilisundar Mike O’Neil Katie Pierce Kristen Rayner Austin Ryer Alex Strelov Yuze Sun Kevin Tarsa Corey Tesch Maisie Theobald