Rhapsody 2015 by Rhapsody LitMag

reetings.

weet and fluffy poems- if those are all you expect from this issue of Rhapsody, we are happy to inform you that you are in for a surprising adventure. You will find your fair share of feel-good poems, but you will also find tragedies, loneliness, and — dare we say it — angst. For what is a work of art worth if it only shares half of the human experience?

n behalf of everyone who has diligently worked this year on Rhapsody, we are pleased to leave you with a copy that will encompass all that you may feel, both dreams and nightmares, and hope you’ll enjoy your odyssey through the works that the talented students of Upper Dublin High School have brought us. Sweet dreams,

Casey Reed & Amy Li 2

RHAPSODY 2015 Upper Dublin High School | Volume XL | Est. 1975 SENIOR EDITORS

casey reed amy li

JUNIOR EDITOR WRITING EDITOR ART EDITOR PR

emily hershgordon jillian axelrod emily won elena press

hannah lamberg FACULTY ADVISORS

mrs. stern mrs. favin

GENERAL STAFF erin threlfall, jeffrey fishman, emily rosen giorgio cocchella, hayley block, elle cagnoli, nina cheng, eryn cohen, hannah dorsey, angelina han, cammie brady, henry hoffman, victoria hoffner, kyra lisse, alina miao, gillian nolan, annie han, josh rosen, sarah tang, sherry han, calvin chan, madison prasol, jennifer xiao, richard zhang, danielle stern, felix li, longan loi, timothy feng, elle cagnoli, leeann raynor, esther lee, gloria han, jacob ginn, jordan friedland, julie ostroff, kevin duan, samantha chadrow, star naessens, annie han, ester kim, eunice lee, shoshanna israel, anna schwartz, amanda yang 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS ~ POETRY & PROSE 7

Nicholas Wrigley · Ode to Beauty

Jillian Axelrod · The Angel of Open Mic Night

Abigail Holbrook · Untitled

Aubrey Haggerty · If She’d Come and Die

Elena Press · Training Wheels

Elena Press · Leaking Sinks and Rain Drops

Richard Zhang · On Webbed Feet

Jacob Ginn · La Côte d'Azur

Jennifer Xiao · For I Am Ever So Angsty: A Poem of My Inner Emotional Turmoil

Rachael Rosenthal · A Better Tomorrow

Shoshanna Israel · Eighty Five

Shoshanna Israel · February

Kyra Lisse · Armchair

Justin Asaraf · Executive Chief

The Crash · Anonymous

Jordan Friedland · The Spring

TABLE OF CONTENTS ~ ARTWORK & PHOTOGRAPHY Intel Chen

6 · 12 · 14 · 15 · 27

Leah Simpson

Alexis Schneider

Leo Massey

Aubrey Haggerty

Emily Won

23 · 25

Grace Palmer

24 · 29 · 30

James Tralie

Jessica Derr

Ode to Beauty God. I have to tell you, I don't think I've ever felt this way before. Cupid, that dastardly old boy, his aim was spot-on. She's just so beautiful. Her eyes - well, what is there to say? They're clear as diamond, with these adorably giant pupils, and they glow in the moonlight. Her head is bald, sleek and shiny, golden as egg yolk, and utterly enrapturing. Her legs are perfect too. Rimmed in silver, studded with polished nails, coiled tightly underneath her rumbling body, bursting with energy. She's faster than five hundred horses. And then there is her butt, or her *** if you will, if you prefer the porny word. Never have I seen such a bucolic backside. It is rounded, cherubic, gleaming and finely crafted. Her sense of style is magnificent. She dresses all in stark yellow, and her makeup is a bold black. The contrast makes me tingle! Gives me the shivers, just like when I pee! In fact, that's what she's like: a good, refreshing, shivery pee. The only problem is that she's a bus, so our love can never be. Well, maybe it can in Utah - they do some weird stuff in Utah. 7

The Angel of Open Mic Night She breathed diamonds and chanted rubies as her voice crystallized in evening air. Weaving through wooden tables of the bar she rationed fairy dust from her purse, sprinkling champagne glass shards upon bent heads. I watched from the barstool, her dainty arms flew as if conducting an orchestra of lovers. I wanted her voice; I wanted her feet that trailed silk through splintering wood, her hips that swayed with magnetic force. Her pendulum eyes cast spells on the most rugged soldiers and her tears caused seismic earthquakes on hearts. Suddenly, her whisper crawled into my eardrums. Her translucent fingertips slipped into my pocket, depositing a dime of magic. “You know what you have to do,” she puffed precious jewels in my blackened mind. I knew. I stood, quivering with life in a room that was quite lacking in it.

Shedding my cicada shell I glided to the stage. Grabbing the microphone from a two-bit guitar player without warning, I weaved fibers of melody into the metallic glow of stars. Their sweaty teeth and chapped lips stopped moving. The alcohol was transferred from callused fists to wooden tables, because it was no longer the antidote — I was. Bonfire adrenaline ran rampant through my frosted veins as the plywood ceiling became a planetarium. Every living creature was transfixed, eyes alive with awe. I sang on, staring at her all the while. My voice resonated with rubies and my hips swayed with magnetic force as she flashed me pearled Polaroids of approval. The moment was fragile in time; it would burst at the slightest touch. I moved my lips as she had moved hers, satisfied that I had become who she wanted me to be.

This time, when I looked across the room I detected something different in her eyes. The pendulums no longer entranced me â&#x20AC;&#x201D; I saw arson beyond their hypnosis. Her translucent skin grew porcelain white, her ruby lips were cracked. She was no longer the beautiful angel of open mic night. I had accepted the offering of a voice akin to hers, but I did not want it anymore. Her ghostly countenance haunted my mind and gnawed at my sanity. I saw beyond her glistening facade. She was here to create another drone out of me, enslaved by the idea of perfection. Another limp sack of flesh sucking the marrow of better people. There was one way to escape her trap.

I had to stop wishing upon planetarium stars to be the angel of open mic night, the angel of writing or cooking, painting, running or loving. It would take time, and maybe these men would leave the bar, disgusted by the real me, covering their split ears. Then I would dance alone through the cobwebs and dust, leaving diamonds in my tracks. I took a deep breath, inhaling almonds and hiking boots, exhaling angels and fairy dust. My voice rang out stronger, uglier than before. It fluctuated with battered dreams and empty pockets, it riffed with cold soup and crumpled poems. My eyelids were smeared shut, for fear of the crowd's reaction â&#x20AC;&#x201D; neither they, nor I had heard my true voice before. Reluctantly opening my eyes, I saw that the crowd was on its feet, and for the first time in my life, they were singing along.

I panned the room for any sign of her, but I no longer lusted after her jewels. I glanced at the barstools and benches, but she was gone. I turned towards the crowd, filling my lungs with serenity. Grinning with teeth that were far from pearly, I sang a little bit louder.

If She’d Come and Die When she came and cried with me, at least I knew she’s crying. Or when she slept and yawned by me, I found comfort in her sighing. And when she rose and walked ‘round me, I smiled to know she’s walking. So one day maybe she’d talk with me, and then I’d rest she’s talking. One day she sobbed and spit at me, but at least I knew she’s reeling. Or when she screamed at howled at me, at least I knew she’s feeling. And when she ran and ran from me, I breathed to know she’s running. And one day maybe she’d come back to me, and I’d know for sureShe’s coming. So as she called me late one night, at least I knew she’s calling. Or as she knocked and hid her face, at least I knew she’s stalling. And as she hugged and gathered me, I melted to know she’s near. My love was there for years and more, and now she saw it clear. So darling as she still may be sits quietly by my side. And I for surely know for sure she’s breathing, and alive. But if she’d come and die with me, to repay the years she’d lost, I’d tell her, child, it’s your turn now, at least you know the cost. 13

Training Wheels When my father was young, he took me into his arms and strapped me into the back seat of his bicycle. Together we flew down the mountain. Then, he pushed me through the grass, encouraging me to pedal my tiny feet round and round. I laughed as the pedals he simulated twirling became the closest thing to flying I would ever know. We laughed as we cruised among blazing suns, scraped knees and devilish horn honks. He would stop and check that the coast was clear. Each of his pedal pushes was scrutinized to just the right pace, so that my single gear bike could keep up. Always, when we came to the mountain he cheered my valiant effort from the conquered summit. Sometimes I walked my bike, sometimes he came back for me, and sometimes I managed it all on my own. My father kissed me off as my friends and I raced down the hill on our way to school, or the store, or the park. But one day I traded the bike for a remarkably yellow bus and spiders reclaimed my bicycle in the shadowy corners of my garage. It was many years later that I got back on my bike to regain the freedom. It was many more months before I asked my father to ride with me. Once again we took off along gravel roads and midafternoon rays. Faster and faster I rode with the wind swirling in my hair and the sun glinting off my face, but when I looked back I couldn't find him. And then, off in the distance appeared a reassuring wheel and a man. When we finally reached the mountain, I raced up it, laughing at my childhood distress. I turned to my father to smile. From the summit, I saw him journeying up. Walking up. I tried for an encouraging smile, but I shielded my face as the tears rolled down.

Leaking Sinks and Rain Drops Drip drop, split splat, leaking sinks and raindrops Tick tock goes the clock The coffee slowly cools Maple leaves fly in the breeze The electricity bill grows

On Webbed Feet I’ve got webbed feet. Cause of it buying shoes has always been a pain. Everytime Jason and I go to the Payless he’s always like “yo Rich check out these J’s and I’m like dammit Jason you know I have to buy at least two sizes up.” It’s like how Rapunzel was stuck in a castle. I’m also stuck in a place I don’t wanna be. And on the bus I’m always tripping over kids’ feet whispering to myself “It just ain’t fair.” I carry my wallet in my back pocket. Yeah I’m not afraid. Jason calls me out on my idiocy, calling me all sharp and everything. I nod as sarcastically as I can. It’s not like they’re gonna mug me; we live in the middle of white suburbia right between the Dairy Queen and the shiny, flashy “Downtown Village” shopping mall. We go to a nice school that still got its hand-dryers working and learn about “equilibrium” and “granulated” and “calculus” and a bunch of other cracked up words invented by tall-wigs who wanted to **** the 10th grade. I live in a murky, stale, tiled hallways horror story. It’s when everybody that goes there’s got the same backpack, same shoes, same haircut, same attitude you know something’s up.

Next time we’re in the woods behind Jason’s house I try to tell him how I feel but he just tells a dumb joke. Richard you got your webbed feet, why don’t you just swim away! He cracks up at that one like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard on Comedy Central. What an idiot. But then we hit up against the small stream that runs there, the one that turns tangerine this time of year cause of the falling leaves. Jason starts skipping rocks and I just sit there staring at the water thinking like maybe he’s got a point. I kind of just wanna jump in and see how far the tangerine water can take me. Jason turns around and dons a wise-crack smile and starts going off about the supposed witch that lives in these woods. Apparently she stalks clueless victims like prey and then nabs em at the last minute. I call it a load of crap and start walking ahead. I read an article about a guy who was just like topple society. Just burn it to the ground he said. Like that’s a little violent but he’s got a point hidden in that crazy somewhere. The drone of a plane passes overhead and the rising pitch vibrates through the crisp October air and shakes me up. I end up staring at it a little too long and Jason asks what’s up with me. I genuinely don’t know, so I end up shrugging and walking ahead again.

Jason starts going on about his mixtape. Buffoon’s always going on about his mixtape, even though his parent’s don’t want him getting into music. It’s about get into college, get into that cubicle, get into that coffin, it ain’t about get into music. Where’d you learn to get into music, his mom would demand. I heard them arguing about it behind a closed door when I was over at his place. He said it was a process for him, those violent beats elevating him to some kind of Nirvana. When he realized I was outside his door he straight-up tackled me. You really messed up that time Rich, he would always say. Sheesh. I said I was sorry. Why couldn’t he get over it? My rhymes are nuclear/

Radioactive warfare/ Before the cops arrive I’m already outta there. And I just think about how right Jason is. Turns out I got webbed feet. I don’t belong.

La Côte d'Azur An infinite pool filled with endless wonder, A serene blue to distant observers, The liquid treasure, shared by all, Drastically contrasted from the depths below. The surface, peppered with rafts and barges, Cloaks its inhabitants in an enigmatic haze, Giving an illusion of isolation, solitude By the same token, the surroundings mystify, Faint murmurs in the distance, a faint Caw! Or cackle, Up, down, north, south, all around, Nothing is for certain. Join me now on a boat, small in size, Barren from bow to stern, from port to starboard. The purity of the white acrylic defiled with age, And now, we wait. For the glory of existence is yet to come, The Pièce de résistance, la crème de la crème Has yet to bestow its magnificence upon us. I implore you to turn your attention toward the horizon. Onward lies a splendid sunset, Better yet then your beloved Turner seascape Here, I leave you in peace, staring at the most beautiful painting, Living the most elaborate sculpture, Drinking in the salty scents of life. 18

For I Am Ever So Angsty: A Poem of My Inner Emotional Turmoil I am ever so angsty. My heart is cold and twisted like a swirled popsicle. I am sad, and tears fall from my eyes like water falls from a showerhead when I am showering. I dream of being lovely, like the chocolate I binge on when I am angsty yet hungry. I walk along the beach slowly, like a melodramatic movie scene, but the sand has sharp shells. They cut at my feet.

Truly, I am Ariel. My feet bleed, but I ignore it in favor of my inner angst. Inner angst > Outer angst. My golden/ebony/honey-mist-auburn/chartreuse (choose one) curls ruffle gently as Zephyr whispers â&#x20AC;&#x153;you are so overly angstyâ&#x20AC;? into my ear.

I ignore his harsh words but they make me angstier. They cut at me like the seashells cut at my feet. O, the angst. The feels.

My gold/silver/crystal/ruby/sapphire/emerald (choose one) almond shaped eyes gaze mournfully at the #1b3e64 waves. They crash like a toy monkeyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cymbals. Repeatedly. I run a hand through my pin-straight, peridot/hyacinth/citrine/raven (choose one) locks as I watch silently. The ocean is polluted.

I am ever so angsty. My viridian/pewter/cerulean/vermilion/lavender/celadon/fuschia/saffron/ cinnabar (choose one) afro is drooping. Like my heart. Save the planet. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

A Better Tomorrow If I have to hear Rabbi Leibowitz ramble about “the meaning of life” for one more second while this itchy chair rubs my stockings, I’m going to scream. Sophy used to hate wearing stockings too. When Mom would make her wear them, she would say, “What am I trying to cover up? They’re my legs. And don’t even try to tell me they’re supposed to keep me warm.” I said the same thing when Mom “suggested” I wear them today. Sophy deserved more than this. More than an emotionless, tearfilled speech from our great-great aunt once removed. She was my sister. *

“Shh! Stop breathing so loud!” Sophy’s warm breath tickled my hand as I quieted her. My sister’s tiny six year-old hand tries to brush mine away, but my bigger eight year-old hand doesn’t budge. Our parents have been outside for a half hour, yelling and yelling and yelling. Not that I am surprised. But I want to know why they are this time. Maybe Sophy’s most recent hospital bill, or that dad didn’t go to work anymore, maybe that Buddy peed on their bed again. They are standing near Daddy’s car in the circular driveway, so we crack my bedroom window, peer out, and listen. Ever since Dr. Reynolds looked at the floor and mumbled, “I’m so sorry. Sophy has leukemia.” Sophy has grown up doubly as fast as any normal kid. She’s taken care of herself in a way that my mom and dad could never figure out how. She’s accepted what’s happened, and has denied herself the escape of false hope, unlike the rest of us. Unlike me. “Sophy what’s wrong? No, they’re not fighting over you! You didn’t do anything wrong!” Her guilt-ridden face contorts into sobs. Her whole body shakes and shivers, the tiny blue bruises on her arms raise with goosebumps. “Come on, I’ll go tuck you into bed and lay with you until you fall asleep. It’ll all be over in the morning. Everything’s always better in the morning.” 22

She wouldn't be better in the morning. But I give her my own false hope as I pull the blankets of her tiny twin bed up to her chin, and kiss her cold forehead, it’s the only thing I can think to do. Now I know that she needed that more than anything else. More than the stupid teddy bears people brought, or the food she didn’t eat. She needed me. We used to play with Buddy, and do each other’s hair, and make cookies. But since she’s sick, we can’t do any of those things. She doesn’t have the energy to play with Buddy, she doesn’t have any hair to play with, and she’s never hungry for cookies. But I don’t hate her for that. It’s not her fault she’s sick. So as they yell and yell and yell outside, I hold my sister’s hand under the covers and squeeze it tight.

Eighty Five Stirred by just one tapping limb A sultry twang, untamed Rhythm-charmed, flashed ivory grin Warms keys and cognac-rouged-kneed fame Enamel alive in staccato white,

Ignited by red-nailed reflection, She knows she is their queen tonight, As she hums for just one bar's affection. But the coins have sung their last duet, The liquorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nearly through, Musicians smoke a cigarette, While she croons of nothing new.

Paris is cold.

Not an American cold that chills your hands and chatters your teeth, but cold like a draught of fresh air, after too many hours in an airplane cabin, a cold that feels invigorating, bone deep, stirring and alive. Your lashes sparkle, snowflakes melt into raindrops there, sitting in the wash of restaurant window light, sipping cafe au lait until 3 AM, their time. You’re bright, dynamic, like cars flecked with rain who reflect the champagne glow of streetlight This city has a knack for curling inside you, braiding itself into your DNA

February

until you recognize the smell of February smoke where the sound of its sidewalk step-

A shower of words rain softly down on the sidewalk,

whispers punctuated by dissonant laughter.

belles in high heeled bootsis unmistakable. That beauty is borrowed,

The space heaters of a Paris winter glow red,

just a moment

blurred and receding into background,

it’s just supermarket rosé

matching the dying embers of

and the lilt in your voice when you speak,

deftly handled cigarettes.

a street performer.

The pink tint of your cheeks,

Armchair A young man sits contently on his grandfather’s torn 1940s maroon armchair, a relic from World War II set adjacent to a strangely placed iPhone. His fingernails make sharp indents in the sensitive felt as he watches an old bulb flicker and then slowly die out. A record is spun and scratched on the player at his side table, its movements evolving into sounds, sounds into words. “Fly me to the moon…” he sings, though not in time with the music. Suddenly, the notes seem to catch in the young man’s throat, as if they’re not meant for him. Scents of fresh smoke and Rosemary cloud around him, entrancing him in an endless fog. The satisfaction of the chair disappears in a matter of seconds, being replaced with an intense thirst for a glass of water. But the young man cannot stand. No, his destiny forever remains with his mom’s dad’s ragged chair. “I must,” he croaks, feeling the remainder of his strength being drained from his body. “I must see her. I must.” The crickets, to which he had previously been oblivious, now seem to be serenading him with a message of great importance. He tries to listen, to speak their language, but all he hears is darkness. He closes his eyes, feels the lids being scorched by some relentless beast of heat. His nails dig deeper into the fuzzy arms. He opens his eyes. All at once, the chair releases its hold, fly me to stops before the moon, the fog clears, and the crickets cease to exist. The young man’s mind goes peacefully blank. Noticing an unfamiliar light flooding in from the window, he stands. It grows brighter, brighter, so that he has to squint. But then he sees it, in the midst of the dazzling beam: her silhouette. “Rosemary! I’m coming, my love!”

Just as he’d promised, the young man approaches the light. He takes a step away from his grandfather’s beloved armchair, and then another — until he is an inch away from her radiance — and then he leaves. A line goes flat somewhere.

Executive Chief - A Rap Got the most powerful office in the world Stronger than my bicep back when I curled But my power as the chief can come to a pause In that I may not violate the constitutional laws That are passed by congress, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m faced with challenges Because DC has checks and balances For example, I can always veto a bill But the legislative branch can override it still I check that the laws are faithfully executed Otherwise I will have your butt prosecuted Regarding rules the government must follow Like rejecting bribes of a diamond and avocado With my power to appoint 4,000 officials Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a chief with many other bells and whistles Like the Department of Treasury who prints lettuce And collects taxes through the IRS

The Crash I pressed my head against the freezing glass window, hoping the cold would help ease the pounding in my head. Behind me, my classmates were still singing Disney songs at the top of their tone-deaf lungs. My fingers clicked the volume button up several decibels while they dove into a zealous chorus of "Under the Sea," half the words becoming nonsensical lyrics made up on the spot. Almost midnight and they still had the energy to tear my eardrums to shreds. I couldn't fathom how everyone else could be so cheerful after losing a competition and getting stuck with a bus driver who couldn't find her way out of a swimming pool. We had already taken several wrong turns, were an hour late for the scheduled pick up time, and in the thick of Preston cemetery, the eeriest place in town even during the day. I glanced out of the window; desperately wishing I was anywhere but here when something caught my eye. At first, it seemed like one light â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a dimly glowing, blue orb hovering in front of a gravestone. I thought it was just a night lamp to read the inscriptions. There was one on the stone next to it, too. And the one a few rows back. More and more orbs started appearing, and I began to wonder if maybe they weren't lights after all. I tried poking the kid next to me to see if he saw anything odd about them, but he waved me off. A wave of nearly tangible dread washed over me as my attention went back to the graveyard. I felt my blood run cold at what I saw. The lights were gone. In their places stood people. Translucent, floating specters, each consigned to their designated grave. They were vaguely humanoid shaped, most with two arms and two legs, some with heads, some without. I blinked hard, fighting to turn my head away, to listen to the voice in the back of my head screaming Don't look don't look run away go just don't look run! But my eyes were glued to the apparitions in the cemetery, and as I stared at them longer, I began to discern their faces. There was the escaped convict whose stolen car had overturned on the freeway last year; the young woman and her daughter, fatalities of a house fire when I was five. The judge who'd turned up dead after condoning several abuse cases. A serial killer and his victims. The man whose death on the operating table had been the basis of a nasty malpractice suit a month ago. So many more that I didn't recognize. People dead, people buried; people who, I realized later, all died unnaturally. They seemed to know I was watching them; their blank, sunken eyes met mine. Suddenly my dread became despair, sadness, anger. Emotions they were feeling. My head pounded fiercely as they all simultaneously smiled, beckoning me with their withered hands. The sound of shrieking metal and the acrid smell of smoke and flames invaded my senses, fireballs dancing behind my eyes. 28

They smiled wider; I shrieked in horror. Confused eyes, worried for my sanity, swung towards me. I didn’t care. I knew exactly what was going to happen a moment before it did. “Stop the bus!” I cried, slamming my hands against the driver’s seat. She slammed the brakes, sending us screeching to a stop, tires squealing. The driver’s infuriated eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, just as a scarlet blur came screaming out of nowhere. We all watched, horrified, as a red sedan collided head-on with a tree. The car nicked the edge of the bus, taking out a side mirror but leaving us unharmed. If we hadn’t stopped, if we had started that turn into the intersection, if I hadn’t said anything, the car would have ploughed directly into us. Everyone’s eyes were on me again, but I didn’t care. As a chaperone shakily stood and yelled to remain calm, I looked back out the window to see nothing there. I gave them a wan smile, their job was done. They saved someone else from a fate like theirs. Because if I hadn’t made the imperative decision to stop us, the bike rack on the top of the car would have gone straight through my window.

The Spring I was asked in the fall What I thought of the spring And I said "**** the spring. Who cares about the spring? Why should I be concerned with a season all the way on the other side of the cycle? Who the hell do you think you are? Asking me about the spring. I'll tell you what:

Come to me in the spring, And I'll tell you how I feel But right now, Get out Go away Leave."

And so they did. And since then I haven't stopped thinking About the spring