Ursus Literary Magazine

URSUS 2014-2015

To Mr. Eure This page alone could not possibly convey the gratitude we feel for your guidance.

We can only hope that this magazine serves as a physical manifestation of the influence you’ve had on us.

Thanks, peace out.

Dear Reader, In your hands you possess an object of incredible value. This body of creative work is representative of why we, the human race, are here. Over the course of my short time on Earth, I have come to believe that the most important thing we can do is to create value for ourselves and for each other. Upon these pages you, reader, can see the frozen thought, hopes, dreams, fears, philosophy, beliefs, emotion, of those who have made a commitment to the act of creation. Before you is the work of the producers of the world.

I hope that this inspires you to join us creators. I hope that when you finish consuming this magazine—when you’ve had your fill—you race to find a pen and paper, a computer, a typewriter, a quill, a stone tablet even! I hope that you know the most vital thing of all: You may contribute a verse.

Sincerely, Co-Editor-in-Chief Gina Arnold Hello readers, Do you like to read? Yes. Are these words? Maybe. Probably. Yes. Love this, friends, love this magazine for a second and then put it down and forget about it for a couple of years, and then happen upon it again one day and let the wave of nostalgia wash over you as you see the names of high school graduates you never really forgot.

Bye now, Olivia, Co-Editor-In-Chief

Dear reader, Everything that can be said has already been said, and that prior statement has, in essence, already been said. But to perhaps avoid clichés for the briefest of moments (and maybe even avoid the cliché of avoiding clichés), I will simply say this: Ursus has meant, and still means, the world to me, and I hope that you enjoy reading this magazine just as much as I enjoyed working on it. Thanks for everything.

Yours, Megan Hoins Editor-Not-In-Chief-But-In-Charge-Of-Something-Or-Other

Ursus Staff

A Moment Later Olivia Lewis, ‘15 My mom would always say of me, “She could be placed in an empty, white-walled room, and be perfectly happy because she’s here,” and she would smile and point to her head. It makes sense, then, that the place where I’m most content isn’t a physical place so much as a mental place.

I can always tell when a performance is going well because I get lost in it. I stop thinking and worrying, and I just do. My fingers flow across piano keys as naturally as breath; my voice swells with the chorus, and I am fluently speaking the language of harmonies. Every ounce of my being is in the music, and I almost feel outside of myself. I feel like more than myself, and connected to everything – to explain this experience in words is strange though, because the “flow state” is such a wordless experience.

The end of a performance that is going well – that final resounding chord – then, the moment right after I’ve lifted my hands from the piano, the moment after the conductor has motioned our end – it is here that I am most content. It is that moment of silence between the music and the applause. It is that echo everyone in the room can feel, even after the literal echoes have died. It is the held breath, the unblinking eyes. It is the calm, the fullness of that moment. It is realising what I have just done, what I have just brought into the world and into myself, that beauty. It is the feeling that something has changed, that we have grown. Perhaps this is what it is to know success.

It is here, in this moment, that I am most content.

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

Sidereal Amanda Morfea, ‘15 In this once blank white expanse of nothingness there was only you and me Until one day when without a thought passing between us you left me behind while I slept I worked to build what you had I wanted to find you Gleaming in the early May light I named her for you And when I was ready to finally fly away from this place you took my hand and asked me not to leave and you kissed me for the first time You came back and you brought to me the stars I never asked for I snuck away mid June spaceship over open ocean while you slept I set sail so long ago at altitudes so high above that you could no longer see me I wanted you to look Did you?

Please search the sky for me Chart the seas and the stars and maybe one day you'll be able to find me again

A Fox in the Streets Spencer Flash, ‘15 In one city, three bled.

One was in the master bedroom, crying. Emotion held her in a fierce grip, shaking her body, leaving her gasping for air. The blood ran down her face, touching her white gown with delicate hands. If she could have, she would have stopped it. But she couldn’t. She sank to the floor, hands gripping her face, filled with disgust. What is wrong with me? A swirling cloud of fear tore her mind apart, crushed her with an unrelentingly cruel force.

Tears and blood mixed and seeped into the carpet. Through the storm, an odd image made its way into her mind - flashing images of the maids cleaning the blood, whispering to one another with surprise and fear. Why should she bleed?

Soon, but not soon enough, the fire had run out of fuel; her thoughts had died down, and she was left alone with a blood soaked dress, no fears to hide behind any longer. Slowly, she lifted herself to her feet. In the mirror across the room, another woman watched her. Her face was swollen and bleeding from the beating. Without any energy left to stop herself, she glided across the room to the poor woman, who stared back at her with empty eyes. Two bloodied hands rested themselves on the mirror. The women’s gazes locked.

No pity. Not for her. Not for the bloodied victim. Only anger.

With a balled fist she smashed the mirror into a thousand tiny shards of misery.

He bled, too. On a staircase. He sucked the life out of a cigarette, focusing on the smoke’s dancing form to distract himself from the pain. Raymond’s ear had busted open again, this time caught between a flying chair and his own thick skull. A doctor knelt to the right of him, cleaning the blood with a rag and stitching up the ear.

Down the stairs came Constable Albertson, wincing at Raymond’s injury.

“Ooh, Looks pretty bad, Raymond.” He shook his head and stroked his chin in a mocking expression.

Raymond’s eyes slowly crept up Albertson’s uniform and up to his eyes, glaring at him with a not entirely justified fury.

“Oh, calm down. At least we’re all still here.”

The raid had, in fact, gone pretty well. A string of burglaries is nothing unusual in the poorer quarters of the city, but this one had been particularly violent. Detective Arthur Raymond had gotten tired of picking up little bits of shopkeepers who had been on the receiving end of the burglars’ fury, and had been hard at work in his efforts to put a stop these crimes. He had eventually managed to find one thing in common with the robberiesafter every one, the burglars were seen fleeing in the same direction. Raymond was able to trace some routes along a map of the city, and found a few abandoned locations that all matched their criteria. Lucky for him, his first guess had been correct, and well timed- the burglars, about a dozen in all, were caught completely unaware by the raid. They were unarmed, and some still slept, paralyzed by heavy drinking. Probably celebrating their successes.

Blue coats stormed the building, billy clubs rained like furious hailstones. Upstairs, the lounge had been destroyed- a billiards table lay on the floor, with broken legs, and some chairs lay strewn around the place. At the station was a similar scene- a few thugs sat around with broken legs, the burglars strewn around their cells.

A lot of blood today, he thought, as he stepped outside and flicked his cigarette into the street.

The third bled far more gracefully.

Slowly, surely, one more time, she slid the silver blade across her palm. Her thin, pale hand clutched itself tightly as a pure crimson drop fell into the cup below her.

In a burst of energy, her swift hands danced from ingredient to ingredient, tossing and pinching as the chalice filled with herbs and animal parts and salts and pieces of mystery. A thin grimace gripped and contorted her face, as she fought down the searing pain radiating from her right palm. Finally, she took the cup and ran to the other end of the dark room, filled with a bubbling mixture of frustration and determination. The heavy oak floor, splintered and stained, bore a long, thin symbol, carved into the floor by meticulous hands. Those hands now emptied the chalice, slowly and with great practice, along the thin lines. As the concoction struck, red sparks flew from the floorboards and spun pirouettes in the air. Finally, the hands completed their task- the symbol was traced, and glowed a brilliant and blinding blood red.

And for a moment, she stood. Her greasy black hair hung in front of her eyes, clutching itself in matted clumps, waiting. Her shoulders rose and fell with arrhythmic exasperation. Her eyes, sunken into her skull, squinted with furious anticipation.

Then, she slipped under. Her world dropped suddenly, and gave way to darkness. Some part of her was aware that it had worked. It had finally worked.

But also in that moment, she knew that she was going to die.

I Love You Julia Morini, ‘15 I am swallowing my pride in telling you all this, Because, you matter, you will always matter, But I am a shit partner and can never say this again.

I am sorry for not being able to say those 3 words back.

There have been others to hold me close, Who claimed to hold my heart, Who pulled those words from my lips as if on a chain.

To everyone else when I said those words it was a lie, A beautiful empty lie.

Because the words “I love you” have never fit quite right in my mouth.

But for you I would make room.

Even if it means swallowing my tongue, Or ripping my teeth from my gums.

I would do it if you asked.

But I need some other way of letting you know how much you matter I would write for you everyday if you only asked me.

I would cover our walls in poetry and letters for you.

I would write across the sky with clouds for you.

I would scream poems at strangers for you.

I would use my skin as paper and cover it in ink for you.

I want to say if I ran out of ink I would write in my blood, I would try to do anything and everything for you, Even at the cost of my own life and sanity.

Now take my heart, it is only yours.

But if you need proof that it is, If you want me to say it I will.

I will swallow my pride and swallow my tongue, Because, these aren’t someone else's words This time it isn’t an beautiful empty lie Or some love poem I just found and put your name in This is my admittance, My confession, I love you.

Teddy Bear Olivia Lewis, ‘15 Your Converse and flannels and your way of standing bring me back to a decade I didn’t live in and remind me of the guitar riffs in my new favorite song.

You’re like the best book I ever read I’m afraid to read anything else, afraid their words will disappoint me.

Everyone is nice to me but you greeted me with more than your voice.

You said thank you like you meant it and you looked into my face unapologetically.

It’s not like I was special though, that’s just the way you are.

And I loved that.

There had to be something wrong with you, right?

Maybe there still is Some undiscovered darkness, somewhere in you.

I was afraid to find out, afraid your words would disappoint me.

Melissa Ursini, ‘16

Imaginary wears a suit but his tie is blue and yellow.

Real wears a skirt dark and straight and clean.

Imaginary holds her hand and lets her wear his tie.

Real tries to let go and walks out the door: “I have work.”

Imaginary waits patiently sitting next to an empty vase and thinks of her.

Real stays away focused and unwilling to see him waiting.

Imaginary picks flowers for her daisies and buttercups and dandelions— he puts one in his pocket.

Real strides through tall buildings onto the next job— a flower floats by, and she sees.

Imaginary fills the vase perfect, just for her— he closes his eyes, to save it.

Real stoops down to pick it up and dirty looks follow her hand— she touches the petals, and remembers him.

Imaginary opens his eyes and the flowers are still there— he sits and waits, just for her.

Real runs home but finds only darkness in response— she dons her black dress and doesn’t cry.

Real reasons with herself that he’s still there— but there is only silence and her regret.

Real leaves the coffin behind and walks into the arms of the stern— they glare at her, and she realizes.

She is still wearing his tie.

~Megan Hoins, ‘15

I Know Where My Poems Dwell Gina Arnold, ‘15 My poems float above me— they draw my eyes up like a magnet and I am helpless to stop it.

But, you see, it’s a beautiful kind of helpless: I surrender to the very best this world has to offer without hesitation.

I am the willing slave to greatness.

With my pen in hand: I kowtow to the skyscrapers that shoot toward the stars; I kneel before the computer that can access all of human knowledge at the slightest touch instantly; I bow to the sweeping symphonies that are ordered by the mind of man into a sound so true it can capture human existence without the aid of words; I surrender to the god that is the thinking, creating, man.

I know where my poems dwell.

Every poem that I pen has sprung from the gods that walk on Earth.

Every poem is an ode to the humanity that can be—that ought to be.

My poems are not born from the light of the stars but from the brilliance of light bulbs and the glow of screens.

My poems are not born from birds that fly their migratory paths but from the planes and jets that criss-cross the globe.

My poems are not born from the song of crickets but from the perfect chords of a piano.

My poems hide in the physical manifestation of human genius— in the proof of gods on Earth.

And as I pull my poems from their origins, I act in accordance with the divine: I think.

I create.

You

~Heidi Sunun, ‘17 Me

From the same Family tree.

You Me Filled to the brim With Monsters under the sea.

You Me Broken hopes Broken dreams.

You

Me Sedated Secluded Falling apart at the seams.

You Me Shattered mirrors Empty hearts Just chess pieces in one grand scheme.

You

Me Liars Thieves Spies on separate teams.

You

Me

Sunrise Sunset Our emotions have always been felt, but never seen.

You Me

From the same family tree.

Preservation Amanda Morfea, ‘15 Your chain-rattled voice is pressed against my lips You tell me not to let you go Delicate pressed-flowers delicate pressed between my lips my pages I am afraid I will flatten you I pull away pages open and blank save for the stain you leave behind

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

A Starless Night Kristyn Vario, ‘16 Every night that I returned to the city, the tears returned. Not in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, trailing my face. No, not visible tears like the children cried. Invisible tears. Invisible tears from omnipresent sorrows. Omnipresent sorrow I fought each day to ignore.

The little children would leak their tears for scraped knees or lost play time. The older kids would shed tears with memories of their parents or of the world now lost to them. I would cry my tears when I remembered the life I was returning to.

That damn city. That eternal Hell of Poverty, Plague, and Peril. The ruins of what was once beauty that reeked with the stench of betrayal.

I paused in the woods. Taking my last few breaths of clean air. Savoring the tranquility in the night. There were no birds. There were no insects. There were no government eyes. It was quiet.

A single tear.

One was all I could cry. Yet in that tear fell every longing I held. Longing for peace. Longing for the old life. Longing for a family to return to. Longing for a reason to return anywhere at all. Longing to go home.

Tainted Beauty

by Linda Jafa and Emma Longhurst Once upon a time, there was a beautiful queen with alluring ebony hair, a grand golden crown, soft emerald eyes and elegant capes of a profound, luxurious lilac. She espoused into a kingdom whose queen had deceased, forever existing in the shadow of her beloved memory. Soon, her husband perished, and she became truly isolated, forced to rule a kingdom she never felt she was a part of, one she was foreign to. The only shred of family she had was her stepdaughter, Snow White. The queen, shrouded in sorrow and feeling like she could never be anything but an outsider, turned to magic and became extremely insecure about her appearance. Every morning, every night, every waking hour she would plead with the mirror to tell her of her beauty, for she had trouble seeing it herself. One day, however, the queen’s world crumbled and turned upside down when even the mirrorthe only thing she had left to support her-dismissed her, telling her she was no longer the fairest in the land, that Snow White had surpassed her. Snow White, the daughter of the woman the queen couldn’t live up to, the daughter of the man who could never love her as much, who left her. She served as a constant reminder of everything the queen had lost, everything the queen longed for, everything the queen could never have. Soon after, the degenerating queen found a handsome prince from another kingdom singing to Snow White, another blow to the queen’s deteriorating state, yet another thing Snow White held tantalizingly over her head, one that she couldn’t have. Snow White, the “fairest of them all”, was her only remaining family; she was also true poison. The queen could not handle living up to the legacy she was expected to, couldn’t bear to see Snow White and think of everything out of her reach. When the queen once again asked the mirror-vowing it would be the last time-if she was the fairest of them all, the mirror once again degraded her. The queen became blinded by grief and feelings of inadequacy, full of self-hatred. She could no longer take her stepdaughter’s automatic possession of everything the girl desired; she could no longer take seeing the only thing she herself once had, her beauty, crumbling. The ice that burned her heart, that corroded every last scrap of joy the queen could feel, was her fault: Snow White.

Her deathly pale face, her blood red lips were all that could fill the queen’s mind, until it became a compulsion, a paranoia, a sickly obsession that plagued the queen day and night. Another soul lost to the plight of external beauty.

Another victim of incurable insanity at the hands of a “beauty”.

Never Mind Sarah Daleo, ‘16 I have a hundred thousand words bouncing around in my head. I run through our fake conversations a hundred times, playing it out in a hundred different scenarios. I work myself up, and I work up the courage. I straighten my back and stand perfectly tall. My heart is pounding in my head and my stomach is in knots. I breath heavy and feel a single dew of sweat. I will say what I need to say. I open my mouth to speak... “Never mind.”

~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Insomnia

When the girl thought back to her days as a queen

Lauren Colella, ‘16

Those memories slipped by as she became a teen

A precious little girl lays in bed Butterflies and ponies fill her head Innocent thoughts swirl around Not an ounce of evil to be found Mom and dad are so in love They care about each other when push comes to shove They dance in the kitchen and talk all night Something about it, just appeared to be right Their house was beautiful, and made her feel like a queen But soon these memories, were only in her dreams What suddenly happened behind the white picket fence Caused the child to have goosebumps, and become tense Mom stayed locked in her room, and dad with a drink Throwing glass after glass, in the sink Not knowing what to do, she laid afraid Counting sheep, in what became her barricade When the sheep disappeared, the nightmares began Wondering when all of this became part of the plan The screaming and yelling never went away She wished for peace and quiet, even just for a day The butterflies and ponies that once filled her head Never came back, for they are dead.

Her life fell apart, right before her eyes And as a result, another piece of her dies While certain that love just did not exist She still looked at the stars and prayed for her prince They would not dance or talk all night She knew how it ended, and there was no light

I’m Invisible

As if I don’t already see

Emily Gonzalez, ‘17

They’ll never come to see the true me Stop trying

I’m Invisible.

I’m just me

I’m alone.

I look in the mirror to find

They’ve all gone just as I

Lost, Confused, Alone, Betrayed, Afraid

I push and they don’t pull

Begging for invisibility

They gladly let go

Vanish from this earth

I did it to myself

I’m invisible.

I did it for them Who are they?

I am on my own I am all alone I am Invisible They are here but over there They don't see me I walk by but no one truly sees all of me They turn away with the whispers they spray Putting fuel on the flame I am burned away Turned to ashes and blown away All they see is my pretty face But it’s not what I see Cuts, Bruises, Burns and splotchy skin too All of the imperfections they point out in me

Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Poisonous Envy Cynthia Baseman and Fariha Hossain, ‘16 The Evil Queen: menacing villain, evil tyrant, wicked witch, despicable monster, narcissistic snake. With deathly pale skin, eerily cold and dull, with hideous furrowed eyebrows, misshapenly penciled on and curved like boomerangs, with eyes the color of rusted emerald, flooded by hatred and the incapability to see past them, with blooded red lips, still warm; she is an ominous woman who infects anyone who crosses her path with danger and peril. Her pompously bejeweled ego grows b i g g e r, s t r o n g e r, b i g g e r, s t r o n g e r, each day as she taunts her magic mirror—her personal slave condemned to a life of beauty, life of tortured admiration, to hear the same undying question, “Who’s the fairest one of them all?” and that overcast, ghostly face always replies in the same manner, bringing an acidic, distorted smile to her face, unnatural, twisted. But one day the mirror must admit, through trembling eyes, that a new beautiful damsel frolics through the meadows like a doe, and the usual warped smile is replaced by a glacial fire burning in her eye, as the she Devil becomes filled with spine curving, mind contorting envy toward her very own kin. She would find a way to stop her. She must put an end to Snow White’s life and steal her beauty. The Evil Queen domineeringly commands a frivolous huntsman to pierce Snow White’s tender heart with an arrow and return it to her Majesty. Pure, fresh, warm, still trembling to beat a final time. The huntsman returns, but not with the heart of Snow White, for instead, the scrupulous man spares the life of Snow White and tries to trick the Devil with the heart of a pig. She takes matters into her own hands, hurling her dark magic to wreak havoc on Snow White’s innocent life. In a large cauldron filled with brewing hatred, she conjures up a poisoned apple of envy.

Into the delicate hand, and past the lips the red of her blood, through the red of revenge. And the Queen lets out a menacing cackle while the china doll shatters, as her hand white as snow falls cold. And there Snow White lays, at last. A tarnished beauty. Wilted rose.

The apple of the world’s eye.

And the eternal demon of hell sits on her throne.

Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Anxiety Amanda Morfea, ‘15 sporraddicthoughts fill my head suffocating me the calm before the storm idiot lungs filling with panic idiot should have should have should have should have should have should never have Idiot all at once it comes IDIOT STUPID no one cares no one loves you they won't remember in a week they will still hate you in a week IDIOT youre being stupid to fear rejection IDIOT calm down a moment of clarity it was just one mistake too many‌

Light pollution.

Julia Morini, ‘15 I've heard it said that people are made of stardust.

That stars exploded millions of years ago when the universe was beginning.

And dust and ruin from those stars came together and made all of us.

And here in the darkness, In this moment only the two of us will ever have, I can almost believe that.

That you are so perfect and so beautiful, The only way you can possibly exist, Is if you are made from the dust of something as amazing and radiant as a star.

You may think you are no miracle or astounding light, But from where I am standing, Not clouded by any one else's vividness, You are as breath taking as the sky at 3 in the morning.

When the only ones awake are you and me and the world is a beautiful shade of onyx.

Because so often now the world is no longer dark.

People pour their light into space and drown out all the stars.

No one bothers to even look up anymore.

Just like how you don't bother to see your self.

But I want to learn every legend they have given those poked holes to heaven, Like I want to learn everything I can about you.

You are my own constellation.

And though the sun may block you out right now, Know that sometime soon the sun will go down, And the world will see you for the brilliant nebula you have become.

And I can only hope that someday you will see yourself that way too.

So here in the darkness in this moment, This quiet endless moment at three in the morning.

I will look at you the way I do the stars, With wonder, amazement, and happiness, Because I have been given the chance to see this supernova while I can.

Here in this moment you shine brighter than anyone else ever has, And I have seen the sky light up before.

I have see the sun and moon eclipsed.

I have seen stars fall from the heavens and wished for something like you.

My very own Orion.

Here in this one moment you are made of stardust.

Here in this moment you are shining.

Don't ever forget that.

I Hate the Way You Smell Kristyn Vario, ‘16 I hate the way he smells The way his scent fills my nose With every passing motion No matter where he goes I hate when he passes me by In the halls or backstage When his air hits me like 2 tons of bricks So thick I can't escape I hate the way he smells Of flowers, meadows, and dew And I hate the way my heart races whenever I'm near you ~ I hate the way you look at me I hate your kind, soft, eyes I hate being away from you I hate that you can make me cry ~ I hate the way you smell Because it makes my life a dream I hate when you sweet scent fills my nose Because I know you'll never love me.

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

Poem-Shaped The words hide behind curtains and giggle like children when you walk by.

The words crawl under your bed sheets and create cat-shaped or poem-shaped lumps.

Perhaps some of the words are scattered in the junk drawer or resting with the dust bunnies until spring cleaning.

And maybe, just maybe the most poignant words of all have flowed through you all along, flowed like blood – all along giving you life and tinting your flesh with an indescribable Beauty. ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Corner Megan Hoins, ‘15 I am small, and I am large. I am there, just out of their eye— fill in the blank.

I align their walls, position their furniture just right.

There is a lamp here, with me. It glows, sometimes, dispelling the shadows from my hidden face.

They don’t see me— the family, I mean. There are four of them, mobbed together between these breaded walls, unable to see where they’ve been squeezed into my space.

Oh, they try to ignore me (the lamp was their, ahem, brightest idea), but there’s to be no exterminator.

What would they do without me, after all— who would hold up their tiny rooms?

Who would secure their doorways, hold their precious lives in objects, keep the walls from falling on top of them?

Well, it wouldn’t be the lamp, that’s for sure.

Listen Megan Hoins, ‘15 It crept upwards, back speckled by the distant night: a series of dot constellations, moving and shifting.

The heavy musk of age and book pages is reassuring, a constant reminder of home, where discarded scraps, old friends, present themselves with crumpled grace.

It gazes, almost soulfully, at the towering masses, the giants and giantesses of lore, their names printed or embossed on their kindred’s sloping sides.

It wants to take those words, devour them

whole, absorb them into itself.

It wants to respond when words drift by, thrown about so carelessly by those feet outside its door.

It takes what it has in stride, nibbling on corners and listening to drifted words—it delights in what is found there, on the edges.

ALLEY Olivia Lewis, ‘15 crumpled cigarettes in claustrophobic alley, a burnt-story street the land of broken windows and forgotten fights.

Say, does it rain here?

Melissa Ursini, ‘16

The Cat Gina Arnold, ‘15 She crouches, hidden.

Her large yellow eyes fixed upon the dark chasm.

She waits for an opportunity— whiskers a brown body a long tail— to emerge.

If you ask her if you can crouch beside her, and focus on another tiny abyss, she’ll ask you why.

And if you say that you want to be a jaguar too, then, then, she will purr.

Her muscles, tensed.

Her pointed ears, pricked.

Her black fur, raised, ever so slightly.

Now and then… her tail flicks nervously, revealing, momentarily, her inner strain (to those who might bother to look).

All she thinks is: Get it.

Get it.

Get it.

GET IT. If you ask her where she is, she can’t answer you.

How can she see where she is?

If you ask her if she’d like to slink inside for a plate of milk and a warm bed, just for a moment you tell her, she won’t follow you.

She’ll turn up her nose.

Melissa Ursini, ‘16

Is This What I Want?

Kristyn Vario, ‘16 Is this what I want?

I don’t know if this is what I want I’m so confused My mind is in a hundred different places I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know Do I want this?

The beating lights?

The swelling orchestra?

The applauding crowd?

I’ve laughed for this I’ve cried for this I live for this Do I want this?

The rush of adrenaline with each scene The pounding of my heart The tingling in my fingers and toes

I do want this It just doesn’t want me

Writer Am Megan Hoins, ‘15 I hear the emptiness of the sound in the air, blank and distant.

Like dust I hear her breathing softly, rasping out words she cannot find cannot grasp— letting them go, drift across the canyon falling into the deep brown into black into dark— some make it where she cannot touch cannot leap— left there at her side staring.

I walk away down the cobbled road where lampposts glow in the fog gloomy and sweet like muffled rain, whispering triflings into the waning dark.

But that lamp, ah, that lamp, it glows with all the fires of the earth, burning with the light of a thousand suns before it, shimmering with heat and gentle intensity, yet what is seen through that fogged-up glass, through the opaque two-way mirrors, is a soft, permeating swell of flame keeping constant, shrouded to walkersmoverspassers-by, but there.

Coffee Mug In the grand scheme of things, I may seem pretty insignificant. I am white, glossy, hard… and interchangeable with any one of my clones.

But what I may lack in beauty, I make up in function.

I, and my kind, contain a powerful elixir— a potion of sorts. My thick exterior protects the delicate hand of man from my scalding contents. I sit beside him in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, and sometimes even in the dead of night. He works.

But with every gulp, sip, and guzzle, I serve him.

I, with my magical solution, keep the chemical weakness he faces at bay. I order Sleep to bed.

My position may be humble and my appearance may be plain, but—I assure you—I am proud of the role I play.

For who else has the chance to power the minds of creators?

I know of none but me. ~Gina Arnold, ‘15

Family Car I dread that moment when my four tires will never again tenderly roll along these old roads.

I fear the day I’ll hear them say the time has finally come.

I’ve watched the bubbling babies, nervous parents terrible twos, exhaustion spelling bee flash cards and bickering and teens finally free thanks to my key.

I’ve been new and old news but someday soon – one more strange noise or one more loose screw – and I will go from “lovable hunk of junk” to “death trap.”

They will give me new tires New windshields More wires.

But won’t they realize?

I am, at my heart more than just my parts. ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Desk Poem [thoughts on random scribbles on my desk] “ALEX FROM TARGET” Really.

Really?

You are going to deface school property, And you write that?

Come on man!

If you are going to write on desks Write something cool, Or something beautiful.

Like a quote Or a poem Something more than “ALEX FROM TARGET” Don’t be stupid Then again, At least you didn’t write or draw anything bad.

Like male genitalia, Or some girl’s butt, Or something no one wants to see.

Thanks for that.

Then again, You could have drawn a rocket ship, Or a smiley face, Or the Mona Lisa, Or even Canada!

Yes, I would rather you draw the 2nd largest country, In the world on our shared desk.

But nope, You wrote “ALEX FROM TARGET” Way to dig deep and be original dude. ~Julia Morini, ‘15

Rose-Colored Glasses I am weak.

I cannot toss the minuscule key.

I turn it over in my hand and loathe my cowardice.

For as long as I keep that vile key, I can still access the iron chest that guards my most dangerous possession.

Sometimes I press my eye up to the keyhole, and I see it.

I stare at the wickedly beautiful pink glasses that I donned so innocently.

I hate it, but… oh, how I miss it!

I remember how I crafted it late at night.

Sometimes—often even—I forged mine with friends.

From my mind sprung a blueprint: tiny screws of intelligence (to hold it together) the frames of charisma (to give it style) the lenses of talent (to prove its value) And from that design I built an awe-inspiring device: a pair of rose-colored glasses.

It worked by honing in on any entity that matched its own identity.

Intelligence.

Charisma.

Talent.

Once someone was identified as having these characteristics, my perception was warped— I could only see those three traits.

I was blinded from any contradictions.

All that was favorable was enhanced.

And do you know what’s so odd, dear reader?

Do you?

I have yet to mention one infinitesimal word.

My embarrassment stings me too deeply.

I use lofty, distant, language like “entity” and “someone.”

God forbid I say he!

How could I have been so foolish as to build such a mind-distorting tool?

Worse, how can I long for it now when the savage scars are still so visible on me?

I remember how my blood pumped faster, fiercer my eyes widened, dilated my mind focused on that all-encompassing, singular task of winning the object of my affections.

I look through the keyhole, back to the past and my soaring peaks and devastating lows return.

I am not yet strong enough to chuck that wretched casket and tiny key into the depths of the sea.

But I am brave enough to say that those mystical glasses are pointless.

I am whole. ~Gina Arnold, ‘15

Lightning Strikes The spark that set the world on fire was no bigger than a pin prick.

The feeble thing landed in an open field and held on for dear life.

It sucked at oxygen, tugged at grass.

The flame ran free from field to house From coast to coast From Earth to space to the very fabric of the universe.

And when the world was all ablaze, the bravest ones dared ask “Does lightning ever strike twice?” ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Falling Out of Love I can breathe again.

After months of choking on someone else's breath.

I can finally fill my lungs with the freedom they have been craving for months.

I can run again.

There is no longer something keeping me from leaving.

I can go to the ends of the earth now and never look back.

I can sleep again.

No longer will I spend sleepless nights trying to decipher your messages.

I can close my eyes for an eternity and wake up feeling like I am new.

I can relax now.

The concept of forever has always made me panic and freeze.

I can finally stop thinking about tomorrow rather than today.

I can scream now.

It hasn't been long enough for me to forget him just yet.

I can feel the rage rise as he takes the future away from some other poor girl.

I can move on now.

He was never worth any of my time.

I can finally say I don't need him any more I don't need anyone.

I am better off alone. ~Julia Morini, ‘15

LOUD and soft Loud speaks first and soft chimes in.

Loud slams fists and turns red and soft is still.

Loud is never ignored; no, how could he be? soft is misunderstood, by all except Loud.

Loud hears soft’s ideas and shushes the crowd with spittle-ridden “Shhh!” and a “Guys, guys, guys! soft is saying something important!”

And soft whispers genius. ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

You want to be remembered forever.

Have a writer fall In love with you Every character they create will have your soft hands or voice Every beautiful person in a poem will sound like you.

They will spend hours trying to find the exact words to describe your laugh your sigh Your smile Your silhouette against the setting sun.

You will be bound between pages of books And you will get your wish You will live forever But be wary of you break their heart For every villain will have your name Every monster your eyes Words will be crafted like bullets with malicious intent You will still be bound in books But in chains too The world will see you for the monster they see you as. ~Julia Morini, ‘15

Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Half Glass In a vast, empty space I see hope.

In the loneliest room, I see room to grow.

In an abandoned building, through crawling vines and graying skies, I see the brightest future.

So give me that half glass, universe – I will see neither half full nor half empty.

No, I will see my world fully full with water and possibilities – and I will breathe in those possibilities like they are my first gasping breath like they are the oxygen to the fire in my soul.

In this glorious vastness This infinite emptiness The grandest of freedoms I will puff out my chest And lift my head high.

Let me be anything but small. ~Olivia Lewis ‘15

On the Handling of Words Amanda Morfea, ‘15 Anyone can handle words gently fingertips brushing letters, curves and edges tracing sweet syllables across a page parting from lips like a lover’s kiss I want to throw words against a wall and push them send them hurtling over a cliffside break their curves and rearrange them pound their edges into the ground with a hammer and grind them down with the heel of my boot until their meaning is power-washed away like the guts of unfortunate insects The honeymoon phase is over I want to hurl words like lightning bolts beautiful and fleeting and full of power that leaves an impression on the backs of strangers’ eyelids And I want to throw words like darts burying their points in a pinned-up picture of my sophomore year AP Physics teacher I want to take words apart carve them open with a knife and peel back their skins just to peer inside poke around using only my fingertips I want to sink my teeth into those gently handled words and feel their bitter ink part from my lips and drip down my chin.

The Death Of Rebellion Julia Morini, ‘15 Rebellion died today. Her body was discovered in her apartment in Vilnius, Lithuania. The coroner has determined that her death was a suicide, put a gun in her mouth and fired. There was no note and no explanation, but she had told a friend the day before ‘There is nothing left to fight for’.

Rebellion never told anyone how old she really was but ever since there was someone or something to fight she has existed. She whispered in the ears of the greats, emperors, kings, champions of people, showing them how to act, how to dress, how to scare their enemies and how to achieve their goal. She built empires on the backs of men and destroyed them too. She lead armies into battle and conquered nations. She used to be so powerful, so happy.

That all ended the day men of nobility descended from great warriors and the brave, decided that women should only be seen, never heard. Rebellion watched as her sisters were told they weren't good enough, as their lungs were restricted and their ribs shattered by corsets in an attempt to be what they were told was beautiful. She watched as those who could have changed history ignored her whispers and were forced to work the land for men who would let them die in a heartbeat. Rebellion felt abandoned by all, even Hope left her alone on the battlefield to fight for herself. She struggled all the way as they wrestled her into a corset and gagged her mouth. She ran away in the night and escaped that life hiding in the darkest corners of the world, the places where they would never be able to make her unable to breathe again.

Then she went to America. She pushed the country toward revolution, helping the pot boil over. She was there, hurling ice and snow during the Boston Massacre, dumping tea into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party she heard the shots fired at Lexington and Concord. She cut her hair and bound her chest to help the founding fathers fight for a new country. She stood by their side and and fought for their cause of equality for being able to speak after being ignored and silenced for so long.

She felt the betrayal of this new country when they forgot more than half their people in their constitution. She lead men twice trying fruitlessly trying to change things that had been decided by only white men of English descent. She left the country after John Adams took office.

She fought in every revolution and civil war to date telling people they deserved better and could do better ruling themselves, despite always being forgotten and unthanked in the end. Only leaving the ranks when she stood up for women everywhere, fighting for their rights, to fill out a ballot, to dress as they chose, to learn what a man does, and to keep their name after marriage. But she never looked happier than when she was behind the barrel of a gun or was proving to others they were wrong about people like her. After World War II, when soldiers no longer understood what they were fighting for and their officers no longer had a plan to get them out, she returned to civilian life. There the world tore her apart. Too manly to be a woman but too weak to be a man, she wasn’t able to be herself. Rebellion began to fade.

She grew her hair out, hid her face under layers of makeup, ran forty miles daily to keep her figure, and swallowed pill after pill looking for a way to feel like she wasn’t worthless, like she still mat-

tered. She watched as no one fought anymore even when everything that ever mattered was taken away like the right not to carry someone else's baby or the right to protection. The only people who rebelled anymore were angsty teenagers with nothing to complain about. Civilian life brainwashed her into thinking it was easier to give up then to stand for what she deserved, to be happy. Perhaps it was seeing the world so steamrolled and seeing so many people live with this injustice that killed her.

She is survived by her sister Hope, her twin brother, Courage, and his wife, Determination, with their three boys, Beauty, Faith and Strength. Her funeral will be held this weekend in New York, to fulfil her final wish, which was to be buried in Seneca Falls, New York.

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

Goodnight Kristyn Vario, ‘16 Ring ring...

“Jessie, it’s two in the morning…” he groaned through the phone “What is it?”

“My surgery’s in a few hours. I just wanted to talk to you.”

I could hear him smile into the phone. “Well I’m up now,” he yawned. “OK. Let’s talk.”

I drummed my fingers on my sheets. I’d wanted to talk, but I couldn’t find any words now that I was able. “I… I’m scared…”

“Don’t be scared, baby,” he cooed, his voice like a warm blanket. Comforting. “Everything will be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes. I do. Trust me.”

I closed my eyes and took a moment to let time slow. The TV like monitor to my right sounded with every pulse of my sickened heart. The tubes in my nose filled each diseased breath with the clean air I’d become unable to breathe on my own.

“Jessie?”

“Hey, can you promise me something?” I whispered.

“Anything, baby.”

“Do you…love me…with all your heart?”

“Of course I do. I love you with every breath I take.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

I smiled wide and laid back into my hospital bed. It was all I had needed to hear. All I’d ever needed to hear. “I love you too.”

I could hear his smile again, wider this time and more sincere. “You should go to sleep now. We both should.”

“OK.” I closed my eyes, ready to sleep.

“Goodnight, my precious little girl.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

I hung up and fell into the deepest sleep I’d ever slept.

Video Game Soundtracks Megan Hoins, ‘15 One ear cocked, and another still our hands grasp the portal while our eyes slip into heaven abyss and you, drifting, while the swell and thrum of your heart is hidden behind your pixelated stand-in a pity but we could not run without you nor shoot nor stay nor breathe You, in your beauty, are never recognized as such— we twitch our fingers and listen.

Olivia Lewis, ‘15

August 25th Through golden-sun eyes the world looks like honey – the flowers are as delicate, intricate as the sky is vast and freeing.

My tongue of mud and grass drinks warmth like water and water like wine.

My words are winds that call and respond, sing lilting song.

I sit criss-cross like a child – like dirt roads, dusty and firm.

My arms are horizons outstretched to brush the very ends of the world with my forest-lined fingers.

My heart pumps sunscreen and saltwater, tears and sweat, rain and lemonade.

I will hold the clock’s second hand hostage Yes, I will be as everlasting as I feel. ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

Loveless

My eyes can see his false smile

Kristyn Vario, ‘16

My mind can see fake actions They know what is true

How can I hope to have a chance

But my heart can only see

With a boy with friends like them?

his lies

He knows at least a hundred girls Each more beautiful than last ~ Each ten times more than I And no matter how I try I can never be what they are It's all just a lie ~ I can't help being lost in the dream Can't help swimming in the hope I'm gazing at the northern star Drowning in my wish ~ Each day I feel his smile Each night I see his face Dawn tries to bring reality Twilight shakes me awake ~

I Knew I Had to Leave.

Sarah Mitchell, ‘16 I knew I had to leave.

It was dark there, dark here. The twisted laughter, the beauty made ugly, the senseless noise, the awful words. It was never ending, the darkness. It never ceased. It was always dark; it is always dark.

Where is the light? I said. I could see it on their faces. The longing, painful desperation. The hurt, the trouble, the lack…

I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t stay here. I was the light; I couldn’t stay, I can’t stay--

I have to stay.

I’m their only hope.

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

But as I got older they didn't anymore Teachers never told me words could float in the air That they could be pulled together like the beats of a songs As a child I hated many things Stairs, high shelves, tall adults, tall boys, my mother on With no sentence structure to bind them where they sit.

No one told me about free verse until my teachers dealternating Thursday's and the angry little dogs who cided 'I hate poetry'. lived down the street.

But the things I hated the most by far were children's The day I figured it out, creativity was taken from the poetry books. curriculum and replaced with structure.

At that age there was nothing I loathed more than poMonotonous tone essays about books no one wanted to etry. read It was always the same ABAB pattern over and over Being told you are wrong for having a different peragain. spective then them Out fish about wish Writing the same essay over and over again and punRhyming made me want to scream ished for giving it voice Because I never understood how they sounded the Poetry has its own voice whether it's yours or not. same For me, especially back then, sounds blended together I learned that writing poetry isn't about finding the right words to make up words I couldn't seem to grasp.

It's the right sounds the right feelings So I sat in the back of the class hating story time Making someone understand all of this Cause every poetry book for children rhymed Poetry is trying to wave a tapestry with as few threads And to continue rhyming they invented words as possible More words that weren't real or logical It is pouring yourself out over the paper when you are More words I didn't know how to pronounce or spell. so full that you might drown in your own soul Soon they made us write our own poetry in class The list of things I hate has grown since I was a child And frankly that was far worse than listening But I can happily say poetry is no longer on that list Words were force fed to me through a funnel Only rhymes.

Rhyme this with that or start this with that letter or scrape it all and write a better one All this forced down till I began choking and spitting words back up They burned at first Never quiet fitting right but they were there and that was enough to make teachers happy.

After a while they came out because after choking so long it was familiar Just another reflex At first they rhymed They rhymed the basic sounds that were spelled the same Things I thought I would never get wrong.

Why I Hate Rhymes Julia Morini, ‘15

Red Ribbon Megan Hoins, ‘15 She carried an odd thing with her, something old and so deep she knew it had always been there, something deeper than herself alone.

She carried a perspective, notably the third person.

Her thoughts were never “I” nor “we”, they were always “she” and “they”.

She didn’t think it needed to be fixed when they said it was odd, and she only thought of it as odd when everyone else did.

She carried words as well, piles upon piles of them, some loose and dangling out of her pockets and the crevices of her mind, while others lay captured between pages of books she held close, as though they were a lover she didn’t want to let go after so long, so long.

She carried a pencil at all times, though it had to be mechanical.

She didn’t miss the feel of wood beneath her fingers, nor did she aspire for the steady tread toward the sharpener.

She somehow loved the endless point of her chosen utensil, and she wouldn’t give it up, not for anything.

Except for tests—

Scantrons got her every time.

She carried something else, too.

It was buried beneath the pencil and the books and the words and the third person, and she liked to think it wasn’t there at all.

She liked to think that she had all she needed and nothing else, and the thing at the bottom of the heap was merely a token she had picked up and felt pity for.

She carried doubt.

She gave it names, a new one every day: confidence, self-assurance, belief, all preceded by a lack of, a lack of.

But she knew it boiled down to that word she wouldn’t think, that word she would never give the time of day to, not ever, because that was something she carried in her pocket amidst the words and she wasn’t giving it up so easily, no sir.

She carried the black creases of her mind that spelled out those five letters and she let it sit and seep, spooling out into the soles of her feet and dragging her, dragging her.

She carried doubt because she had

no other choice but to let it stick around.

But, she figured, she didn’t have to let it turn her away.

She carried her doubt now as something else, something new, and she wore it around her wrist like a bracelet, a red ribbon tied so careful, as if that was all it was.

She never let it go, never undid the knot, never said a word about it.

And no one said anything back, and she was grateful, because, if she was being honest (as she often seemed to be), it was a lifeline.

She carried her doubt as a lifeline around her wrist, and when she was alone, when the lead had stopped running and the books had stopped falling and the words had stopped spilling and the third person had stopped talking, I would smile.

Inner Tribal Dance The sun sets into darkness; a fire is lit, A whole community gathering the wood, Together finding light.

Ashes and sparks fly up in the air, alive, and to mirror it their flicking steps: Singing, chanting, healing, A spell of goodwill to those that need it, They dance; they raise their arms and to the heavens they plead. An easy gait. A careless laugh. Drums beat, beat, beat, a rhythm that sings, a song that sings, echoing stories, of the past, of the present, bringing luck to come.

The earth meeting bare feet in a cadence.

The gods smile and the wind dances with them. ~Jessica Trombacco, ‘15

A Smoke this isn’t a city corner, behind the staff room, at the bus stop kind of cigarette. this is sitting in the dark at one a.m. keeping the smoke coming as if you could pinch it in your grasp for more than a second this is songs on the radio and danger, this is definitely danger, because cigarettes are not supposed to be an attic commodity and you are trying to suffocate yourself. trying to choke that choking feeling out of your throat. when will you learn that your demons are not afraid of smoke? ~Jessica Trombacco, ‘15

Melissa Ursini, ‘16

Falling In Love

You need it all so much it chokes you.

Don't say it.

Please don't say it.

As long as you don't say it you're free.

You were lost the second you saw him.

You can finally see your self happy with someone else.

Listen here you little shit, We are not going to fall again.

You remember what happened last time.

You can't stop thinking about how he smells.

Like laundry detergent, and coffee, and, sleep I am in love.

No you can not do this to your self again.

He will leave you out to dry or you will leave him.

No one deserves that.

He makes you smile.

It feels like it's been forever since you have had a reason to.

There will be no one to scrape you off the floor if he drops you.

Do you want to pick yourself up again.

And worse, what if you do that to him.

Every time you see him your heart flutters.

You want to be near him, no next to him, at all times.

You little fucker.

You are going to run in the opposite direction when you grow tired of him.

And you will grow tired because you're scared of happiness.

You tease him, poke him, and steal his stuff.

Anything to get his attention and to keep it from going back to anyone else You are not thinking rationally.

You never think rationally.

I will have to beat some sense into you.

You have built a life around him.

You have accepted the hugs, the kisses all the variability that comes with this.

Allowing someone to see you so weak and easily destroyed.

It's not too late.

You can still run.

You can save your self.

You need him.

His smell.

His laugh.

His smile.

Melissa Ursini, ‘16

Cave Megan Hoins, ‘15 Sparkling, solid wall shimmers with the sound of wings— they are all floating.

— A rising sense of uncertainty, unable to step a straight line.

— The constant murmur of something sleeping, growling— there is no one here.

— Flicker of motion— there! A flash of grace, a snap and all is now lost.

—

I Take to the Stage Gregg Ong, ‘15 My feet are crossed, one foot in front of the other, toes to the heels. A deep breath. I pull my arms back.

Tighten my elbows. Straighten my legs. Find that spot on my back to keep my posture up and my mind ready. I look forward to the panel of judges. A set of three, equally spaced across the front of the stage. They show no emotions, and yet they decide my fate. I have to be perfect to spark their interest. I have to keep my mind clear to be confident. I can’t falter like I did before.

The musician begins. 8 bars to prepare my routine mentally before I start. Each little note sparks my mind, counting 1, 2, 3, 4. My routine echoed in my mind. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. Nothing but myself and my dance. The judges dissipate. The audience vanishes. The music is all that echoed through my mind as I continue. 1,2,3,4 echoes again, continuing as I move across the stage. Keep my hands in, back straight, head up, feet pointed, all staying in time to the music. I remember everything.

I am in the front of the stage. The musician stops, judges write their final notes. I am done with my routine and bow to the judges. Footsteps take their lead to the back. I present myself in proper form. The middle judge rings the bell. Before I walk off stage, I bow to both the judges and the musicians as a thank you.

But that isn’t the worst feeling of anxiety. The worst feeling comes when the awards are given. Everyone is thinking about what they did wrong and how they could improve. The dancers made sure that every mistake echoed in the dancers’ mind, taunting them. They were the judges of their own routine. They took note of how imperfect the routine felt. My mistakes taunt me as well as I wait for the results. Even if they help us to get better, it is the moment that we shine the most that we fall to the pressure.

“Competition No. 407: Awards are in 15 minutes.”

Months of fogged up glasses. Sweat dripping from all strands of hair. I move from one side of the stage to the other. My teacher standing behind me, following my moves across the floor. I’m in the air, my front leg parallel to the ground and my back foot kicks its way to the front. My teacher grabs my arm, forcing me into the empty air and pulls me down faster than I can take a breath. Fix everything, only make mistakes now. Once I reach the stage, everything must be set.

“Number 545, 819, 606, 12, 543, please come up.”

Flashback to: The keyboard plays. An accordion follows. The beat forms. The music is set. I stand in the middle of the back, five judges rear their eyes to me. Eight bars pass, I kick my front leg back, pushing my way to the front in a few seconds. One competition, now toward the next.

“Number 819: Second Place.”

That was my number. My number was called and my face flushed red. I walked to receive my ribbon. It reads “Second Place” in ungodly font, attesting to my imperfect routine that only achieved the second best place.

The judges knew I wasn’t First Place. They knew every mistake that I knew I made.

For now, I was not capable of being great. I was better than the rest of the competition, but I wasn’t the greatest. Next time, I will be stronger and confident. My feet will be pointed. My leaps and kicks will be higher. I will be better. For now, I just have to keep getting better. I can’t do that if I just sit around, though: I have to keep working. I have to be focused.

You asked me why Why did I let you go I didn't give you a real reason I just said I can't any more How do you tell someone you don't love them the way that you should That when it hurts you don't want them to kiss away your tears or hold you You don't want them to see the most vulnerable and broken parts of you You don't want to run to them when things are not alright.

I didn't want you to chose me Because I know I wouldn't chose you.

I am a person who is better off being lonely You didn't ask for me to kiss you And I didn't ask you for any more than that But you still managed to make me happy For at least a little while But I had to leave this before I suffocated I am sorry I had to do this but staying would have killed us both I am sorry so sorry But really I couldn't stay any more. ~Julia Morini, ‘15

Don't Julia Morini, ‘15 You just stand there staring at me After all this After all we've been through All you can say is Don't Nothing else Not like all the other times where it was Don't leave me Don't speak Don't forgive them Don't stop Don't come near me Don't leave me Don't shut up Don't keep me out Don't touch me Don't say it Don't listen to them Don't stay Don't leave me Don't tell anyone Don't let me go Don't let anyone know Don't jump Don't leave me Don't fall Don't fuckin leave me Don't let me fall Don't you ever fuckin leave me Don't tell me what I don't already know Please, Don't go.

We are a train wreck We are disaster We are contradiction after contradiction We are fire and a powder keg And we both know one day there won't be any survivors You have only one more don't left One more time to tell me what I can't do And you wasted it

Don't Don't what?

What is left for you to tell me I can't do.

You are driving me crazy again With your stupid face Dumb smile And intoxicating smell I don't know if what I feel for you is real Or if it is my heart trying to convince me that I am capable of love But I don't want to feel things like this any more I am toxic when it comes to other people But I don't know how not to love you anymore I can't keep feeling this way So break every part of me I want to give to you Tell me you don't love me That you will never love me I don't know or care if you feel how I do Please be wise and save both of us from this disaster in the making Even if you love me I will only hurt you and I can't have you on my conscious too Because I know there will be no forever for me, No holding the love of my life or soul mate Because I will be running away or drowning in stale oxygen I kill myself trying to be happy Because I should be happy in someone else's arms But I am not You are the closest I have been to feeling that Love is not something I have been able to live with I ended the closest thing to love I have ever found Because I couldn't look him in the eye anymore Because I couldn't breathe Because I can't love someone like that without killing us both.

So please Break my heart Before I break you Before there is nothing left of this friendship to save Please I am begging you Tell me you don't love me.

Tell me you never will Because you are driving me fuckin crazy again And this time I may not want to let go ~Julia Morini, ‘15

Where Poems Hide I see it in the way you push the hair out of your eyes, How your fingers on my shoulder blades tell me you’re following behind, Darling, I see it in the way you take the long way home, Send me a poem when I feel alone, I see it in the way you ask me what’s wrong Shrug and hug me anyway when I don’t play along, You’re like my favorite... song? ... darling, I see it in your eyes, in your hands, in the air, I see it in how you whistle songs when you think no one’s there, I see it in the way your heart won’t sync with mine, How we’re playing improv jazz when we should be keeping time, Darling, I may be a poet, But you are a poem.

Olivia Lewis, ‘15 ~Jessica Trombacco, ‘15

Needed Silence Some days, you will struggle to find the courage to love yourself.

And on those days you will call her up and she will kiss your hair and run her fingers over the small of your back, soothing your aching muscles with her touch and She will not ask questions.

The kettle will whistle, the blankets will wrap themselves around your shaking frame, And the girl, The girl will kiss your hair and stay, silent, next to you.

The day will happen, and you will get better.

Because even though you may not recognize the mirror today, Because even though your shoulders are shaking too hard to carry your insecurities, Because even though the good inside of you seems to be buried a little deeper today, You are still worth love.

You are still worth love even when you don’t think so.

Sometimes, when your arms start to tremble under the weight of your burdens, The most courageous thing you can do is let someone else pick up the weight. ~Jessica Trombacco, ‘15

Amanda Morfea, ‘15

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16 Melissa Ursini, ‘16

Cthulhu Family Inspired by Mr. Eure, the College Board, and our wonderful AP exam ~Mallory DeLanoy, ‘16

Creative Expression These pieces were submitted by this year’s Creative Expression class. Each piece answers one of four different prompts that were given throughout the year: an obituary for a concept, a poem about a stranger, a poem written in a specific state of mind, and a poem written in the style of another poet.

An Ode to Sanity Michaela Bailie, ‘15 My sanity was stricken by a disease late last month that she just couldn’t shake. She was helping new Seniors through the college admissions process when she fell ill. Late nights coupled with looming deadlines and a growing sense of emptiness may have made her more susceptible to the disease.

Sanity was a fighter, never gave up in even the most dire situations, which is exactly why she did not seek medical attention for her affliction. Instead she kept up her daily activities and helped as many people as she could. A known Hope dealer, she could often be found dispensing it by aiding in homework late at night (or settling arguments, coaxing people to sleep, completing applications, doing taxes, comforting the lost, holding the broken together).

Even in her final moments she was strong and poised. She made light of the situation, trying to help those around her deathbed feel better. With her around, it was hard to break down and cry, she always elicited a certain resilience in others.

She is survived by the people she had helped in the past - college students, soldiers, teachers, kings, farmers, actors, bakers, cops - all types of people. I just hope that without her watchful presence her beneficiaries can hold it together.

The burial will be held on Sunday in the cemetery with the old cherry blossom tree. A large turnout is predicted, please plan accordingly.

Obituary of Young Love Samantha Scerri, ‘15 Young Love was finally pronounced dead yesterday afternoon after months of suffering at St. Cupid’s. Young Love lived a long fulfilled life, although her exact age is still unknown.

Young Love brought indescribable happiness to the youth of the world, and there are only few unfortunates who did not meet her. Young Love’s presence could not be forgotten, for once you saw her eyes, touched her hand or felt her warm embrace for the first time, her memory could never be erased.

Throughout her life, Young Love was the cause of many Stomach Butterflies, Broken Glass Windows and Beautiful Dreams. Dreams that soon became realities.

Young Love first became ill shortly after the invention of the mini skirt. She was quickly put into the hospital but released with only mild symptoms. As time continued, her symptoms worsened, but she never seeked any real medical attention. Although it is not confirmed, many have now come to believe Young Love knew that her condition would be fatal.

Soon, the mini skirt was accompanied by the crop top and the push-up bra. The worst part was, they became all that mattered. Bottles of makeup, perfume and liquor shadowed her fading embrace. Young Love watched it all, sick from her bed, and slowly people stopped visiting her. Her mother, Soulmate, found her this past July unconscious. That was when Young Love was first places into St. Cupid’s.

Young Love died slowly at St. Cupid’s. Severe peer pressuring and new weekly hookups slowly deteriorated her. However, treatments such as late night phone calls about nothing, beautiful silence when words weren’t needed, or just the glance of that someone’s eyes kept her alive, for maybe just one more day.

Young Love will be missed by those who remember her each day as they look into their lover’s eyes. She will be missed by those who remember her each day as they try and glue back together a broken heart.

Young Love knew her time would come, and although she is no longer with us, she has left us butterflies, butterflies that only we can choose to feel.

Yo, so Subtlety died today. Yeah, poor sap was hit by a car while crossing the street. Sucks. ~Amanda Morfea, ‘15

Obituary for my GPA Jessica Trombacco, ‘15 Today we mourn the loss of my dear GPA. Though loud, demanding, and a great source of stress to those who bore witness to his antics over the years, it was not clear how important he was until his untimely but predictable death. A dark horse of sorts, he was ubiquitous in the lives of many... yet looking back on how I saw him in my youth, he grew from a being of few words to a constant force at work in the lives of his friends and acquaintances.

Although my darling GPA had the potential to be a buddy who would help me feel better about myself when I was down, a saintly friend to positively boost the first impressions I give off, and not to mention an outstanding reference to list on an application, he never quite reached his potential. Once a trusted and sturdy friend, our hope for him deteriorated as rapidly as his health. We all have regrets in this matter, I’m sure. Perhaps if we had gotten him help quickly, making emergency tutoring appointments and filling life-saving prescriptions of sleep and good studying habits (alternating between day and night, one hour before eating or three hours after, taking with calcium not recommended). Perhaps if we had the foresight to give him a reason to hold on, to show him the positive impact he could have made on the life of his best friend, The College Application Process. Perhaps if instead of taking him for a dead man too soon, and instead of taking his well-being for granted, we had stayed by his side day and night, nursing him back to a healthy 4.0 weight---- death brings out the perhaps in all of us, but unfortunately, no matter how 20/20 our hindsight may be, death is final (exams).

The first hit to his health was back when we were young, as we sat playing in our room. My mother came to pick me up for my first soccer practice. At the time we thought nothing of this small amount of separation-- my friend GPA was someone I took for granted at the time, and I had barely noticed his presence to begin with. But over the years, as soccer accumulated more extracurricular debris (piano lessons girl scouts volunteer work dance class community theatre honor societies book club other clubs other sports--), it became increasingly more obvious how important it would have been for me to spend quality time with GPA in my younger years. GPA was, by the time we were teenagers, an essential facet of my life. But we don’t see these things when we are young; if I had given GPA more attention, we could have raised each other up and prevented the travesty we are honoring now.

It is unclear exactly what landed the final blow on his health. It may have been the 5+ hours of homework a night; it may have been the pressure of being compared against others, constantly poked and prodded; it may just have been a lack of sleep. But what’s important is that we learn from this: if all those around him had paid more attention to his needs, we may have stopped his health’s decline.

The funeral will be next Saturday. I, for one, will be there. I do have some homework due the next day… but it can wait.

The Death of Living.

No one exactly knows Living’s time of death Some suspect it was when he missed his chance to say I love you due to fear Or when she pursued Med School instead of trying for that record deal Living was last seen in the eyes of lovers And peacemakers Living was seen in drunken tattoos And spontaneous, midnight adventures Living was seen kissing someone And climbing fences Late last week And singing loudly to songs In public And following their dreams all around the world There seems to be some speculation from others around the Earth that Living simply Went missing However Living did not go missing Living was found lying in between two sharp edged textbook pages And many were surprised to realize they were staring at Living’s lifeless body Throughout their entire lives Trails of blood from high schools to colleges to cubicles, so many traces left behind An alphabetical list of names, accomplices to murder And the rest of them were funeral guests their whole lives If only they had remembered to wear black But it wasn’t in the syllabus ~Janet Bergquist, ‘16

Blue Julia Morini, ‘15 I met her twice.

Both times uncomfortably awkward, And easily forgotten by anyone else...

Except me.

She was always there In the hallway Or around the corner.

I would find my eyes drawn to her.

Even amid- conversations with friends my eyes would follow her as she walked away.

And now, She is here...

But she has always been here.

Since the beginning of the year In math class.

Front row.

Left side of the room.

Blue hair.

Ouran High School Host Club shirt.

Plaid skirt.

White boots.

Hunched over, Writing on loose leaf.

For someone so silent, She stood out so much.

Or maybe she just does to me Because she is exactly the kind of person who I want to be friends with.

But I don't know how I would do it.

I'd talk to her, But I don't really know how.

Maybe I'll tell her I like her shirt And we will talk about the Manga vs. the Anime Or I'll tell her, her hair looks nice And we can talk about my failed rebellion against my parents.

Or maybe I will finally ask what it is she has been working so hard on.

But I won't talk to her.

Not today.

Just like yesterday.

No, I'll talk to her tomorrow.

I will promise myself that again And again and again Until the day comes when I run out of tomorrows.

But this time, This time is real.

I'll talk to her.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll say something to her.

Camp Counselor Jessica Trombacco, ‘15 Day after day, I watch you complete your to-do list.

Item 1: Wipe snot off that six-year-old’s nose.

Check.

Item 2: Take a head count. Take a head count again.

Check.

Item 3: Tell the kids to be quieter. Be ignored.

Check.

Day after day, You find yourself towering over everyone in the room, On display for everyone to See, Counting to one two three four five six seven eight nine ten Because you don’t want to lose your temper with The same children asking the Same questions In the same room day after day until The paycheck arrives in the mail, Another stepping stone to career you’ve always Dreamed of.

Day after day, Your head is filled with stories, Your heart is filled with camera angles And lighting changes, The promise of a day to come that is spent in Another place, The set of the Hollywood movie in your mind, Come to life at last.

Chili Pepper Owen Benfield, ‘15 Peaches, Light Cream, Cheerios, and Pretzels: a fairly simple shopping list.

The cool air greets my overheated skin as the threshold drifts away behind me and the sticky plastic of the shopping cart meets my skin.

I grimace.

Ingredients gathered, I approach the checkout lane, and that’s where I lay eyes on you Your skin caked with powder the color of a russet potato, your eyes boldened by an odd shade of brown, your cheeks pinked by blush the color of a sweet, dry wine, your lips stained with Ultra Lipstick #203CR Chili Pepper plucked off the clearance rack at Rite-Aid. Lipstick is lipstick. You do know that’s the color of the year for, like 2007, right?

Your gaudy smile welcomes me to lane number 7, and I wonder what hides behind the applique. Eccentricity does not have a home in checkout lane number 7, so your presence here confuses me.

What hides behind the makeup is only yours to know. I’m nobody to you. I’m customer number 382. Your secrets are not mine to know.

What hides behind your Ultra Lipstick #203CR Chili Pepper stain, your winewashed cheekbones, your oddly-outlined eyes, your skin darkened to the color of a russet potato, it isn’t mine to know.

All I can do is wonder, and pay with a debit card.

G Samantha Diaz, ‘15 You don’t seem to talk much Just standing there Are you too much for me?

Or do you have nothing to say You’re pretty shy and you hang out with this girl who doesn’t have an off button or not one that I know of.

You wrap your arms around her You guys must be pretty close I’m not sure if I like you You just randomly show up from nowhere It’s kind of annoying Oh you laughed at my joke? Cool Oh you laughed at my joke? okay Oh you gotta race now? Good luck Oh you gotta race now? okay These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I imagine what you think of me Am I really just that girl that stands there doing nothing?

That only approaches when “she’s” there?

I’m probably not as pretty as she is.

I don’t have that smile that I’m comfortable in.

I don’t have hair that all the girls want.

I don’t have the sparkle in my eyes or will ever have one I’m the dorky looking girl with eyes too small for my face, hair that falls short on healthy.

Stutters in all of my words, and lack of social grace

Yes. That is what you think of me.

I’m Alive Jennifer Funigiello, ‘15 Wrinkly hands, weak smile, I can tell you’re scared, yet, I don’t know what.

You laid in your bed, as I slowly pushed you down the hall.

Your nervousness shook my sense of sure.

You laid in a shrine of soft pillows and blankets.

Glaring into the bright light.

I could tell you were reliving.

Reliving the memories of your husband, your kids and family.

Your hopes and dreams, your doubts and screams.

The times you’ve opened and closed your eyes.

You held yourself even though, I wish I was doing it for you.

Your loss of breath but sweet words, enhanced my confidence.

I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are.

You have this heart.

And you are alive.

The stacks surrounding you should have been suffocating I still don’t understand how you didn’t drown in that endless sea of words Although, I’ll admit I’m a bit jealous Their titles, covers, plots must have caught your attention Barely two called my name as I passed by I imagine you easily lose yourself in books You’re probably the kind to forget menial tasks Too wrapped up in a story to even care about the now lukewarm coffee by your side But then again, I could be wrong Elbow on knee; hand pushing up that tousled raven hair Sea blue eyes steadily moving left to right Left to right Left to right A soft gasp escaped my mouth when I discovered a treasure trove Left…

A small smile flitting across your lips is the only indication that you heard Blood suddenly rushing to my cheeks, I slowly but deliberately moved on What were you reading? Would you recommend it?

You seem like someone who would throw themselves head first into an adventure Maybe you’re more into romance or comedy or history or even…biographies That could be a deal breaker The way you tucked yourself into a corner (towers of books threatening to crash down at any moment, forgotten coffee nearby, perfectly content to stay in that spot forever) suggests you come here often Maybe I’ll see you again Maybe I’ll ask you what you’re reading And if a tower or two is toppled to achieve that then so be it When I do I hope it’s something good ~Michaela Bailie, ‘15

Remember Alexis Ferrara, ‘16 I remember your cranberry colored lips, always pointing towards the heavens.

I remember your chocolate eyes, tough as a grizzly bear yet soft as his fur I remember that seat, it was always reserved for you, during every holiday, every birthday, every celebration.

It was as if your name was hand carved into the dark mahogany.

I remember when the sky went grey, the sun never shined, the birds never sang I remember when the sky went grey, the sun never shined, the birds never sang I remember seeing that cotton candy pink ribbon everywhere It can’t be happening not to you not to you I remember looking into your grandson’s eyes, strong as a dam as they used to be I remember seeing the dam crack, the water pouring out I remember that October day, dreading that phone call, please, anything but that phone call I remember hearing that terrifying ring, I knew

I knew one day we would meet again, until then I’ll remember you

Sundays Katie Kelley, ‘15 I see you on Sundays With your black leather driver’s cap Standing there Frozen in time For now, your pain is numbed The ice in your soul Only melts when you stand there Over her Over her grave.

I see you on Sundays Outlining the letters that lay on the stone With the hand that used to Collapse Into hers The hand that used to Hold her Feel her Grab her But the hand that couldn’t Protect her.

Not from this.

I see you on Sundays Clinging to her Red scarf The one she wore On holidays and Your birthday And you realize Another year of life Is much dimmer without Her light.

I see you on Sundays for I am frozen too.

To the Children of War Grace Nevin, ‘15 As you sat there On your giant red ball, Your ball of love, Your ball of sensitivity, Your ball of energy, You sat there alone, Alone in the middle Of the empty road, With your head on your knuckles, In the middle of the gray empty road.

The age of growth, The age of change, The age of discovering, Discovering the uniform of fired red, The bullet holes of red, The flag of blood Flies as you sit there On your giant red ball.

What’s Underneath Jenny Pauta, ‘15 There you are, smiling.

Slow pace rhythms never seemed to be your style.

Laughing.

The blaring music drowns away any conversation attempted.

You are dressed in an open collared shirt, dress pants… sometimes a suit, a twinkle in your eye with rosy like cheeks, the smallest hint of a glow man made by god himself upon your face.

I don’t know your favorite colors, your favorite drinks or favorite meals, what makes you get up in the morning?

I don’t know.

Could it be the parties?

Maybe the drinking?

The friendships that you cherish?

I don’t know, should I even care?

I’ve seen you before.

And sometimes you haunt my dreams.

That scar right below your hairline is a constant reminder of who you were and who you are today.

Permanent.

You’re permanent and I can’t seem to get you out of my mind and deep down I’m dying to know, what’s really underneath that foolish grin of yours.

wolf pack Janet Bergquist, ‘16 I remember the first day I saw you I saw you for the first time Seeing me for the first time At least I think Intense blue eyes And big strong hands Easily over 6 feet It was hard not to notice you Surrounded by your friends But you seemed distracted Always You stood with such confidence With an arrogant stature I wanted to trust you The stranger with golden hair Cut right above those broad shoulders I wondered what burdens they carried Maybe his own His family’s Mine Whenever I turned You were there Waiting For what? I’m not sure But when your eyes silently met mine In the cafeteria In the hallways, on the bleachers I didn’t feel scared I should have feared you Like the others did With your wolfish senior smile And my sheepish freshman grin You never had to say a word for me To know who you were You were the one always waiting And watching Protecting I like to think you were keeping me safe As if the wolf cared for the sheep Much more than the pack knew

How couldn’t I notice you?

But why did you notice me?

What?

What is it?

Oh my gosh, what is it? oh my gosh what is it what is it what wha no no no that no that can’t can’t oh my gosh oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god it’s all my fault

oh my god it’s all my fault i did it i did it

i did it

oh my god

somehow i don’t know it’s all my fault it’s all my fault frick

fri ck god

people are giving me hugs and I don’t quite understand because while I appreciate it I’ve never

lost

anyone not like this i can’t sleep i blame it on work on stress on bad habits but i know why I don’t have nightmares and I don’t cry myself to sleep but sometimes when I hear laughter from a distance i hear sobbing

I put his picture up in my room, where I’ll see it, because [hiding him away] would make it worse I tried to write a poem today, but the

weight I felt was too heavy to be real so I didn’t.

~Megan Hoins, ‘15

and everything is coming back and i can’t do it I can’t o hm mygod I can’t I can’t I can’t stop curling my fingers and I can’t stop scrunching my nose and walking back and forth and back and forth pacing a line that isn’t even there anymore because the furniture has been moved four times and there’s no one on the phone this time I’m just talking to people that aren’t here and I know they aren’t but I can’t get through this no I can’t get no fuck I FUCK I can’t say that right start over I’m just talking to people that aren’t here and I know they aren’t but I can’t get this fuck through this fuck it I’m going to die I’m going to die something’s going to happen while my back is turned okay, just turn back and forth, okay two seconds east two seconds west one second north then scan the window scan the door scan the window scan the window scan the room back and forth two seconds east two seconds west it’s so hot in here it’s too hot but i can’t take off layers I can’t stop keep your legs in not until the moonlight hits that portion of the floor or else something happen s It’s so hot I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe back and forth two seconds west two seconds fuck fuck fuck what if something happened i messed up i did it wrong im so sorry back and forth two seconds east two seconds west one second north scan the window scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan the door scan ~Jessica Trombacco, ‘15

Writer’s Block Samantha Diaz, ‘15 I CAN’T COME UP WITH ANYTHING. MY MIND IS BLANK IT’S EMPTY I’M HAVING A MENTAL SHUTTER THERE IS THIS THIS THIS DESIRE IN ME THAT WANTS TO GET WORDS OUT BUT I CAN’T WHY CAN’T I WHY CAN’T I GET THE WORDS OUT PLEASE PENCIL WRITE SOME PRETTY MEANINGFUL WORDS WORDS THAT MAKE SENSE. THIS IS SO AGGRAVATING I’M ANGRY I’M DESPERATE JUST TO FIND THE WORDS I THOUGHT I HAD A MINUTE AGO. I CAN’T THINK I CAN’T PROCESS A THOUGHT WHY ARE YOU BLOCKED? DID SOMETHING UPSET YOU ARE YOU TOO HAPPY TO FUNCTION? I’M GETTING ALL DESPERATE TO FIND THE WORDS I WANT TO FIND TO FIND THE WORDS WORDS I’M FORCING ONTO THIS PAPER. I’M DESPARATE….

Desperate to get a word out. A word. Any word. Scraps of paper and scribbles on my page. This is the best I can do. God knows. He knows I can do better.

This is Goodbye Alexis Ferrara, ‘16 Hi, it’s me tell him It has been going on for months and finally its coming to an end I don’t know how else to say this tell him your delicate angel wings once veiled in gold and freedom were ripped off I’m sorry I can’t do this anymore tell him you’re naive blue eyes full of wonder and trust have been engulfed in hatred It’s not you it’s me tell him your skin so pure and youthful is now scarred and bruised I’m scared your heart that once beat for him will beat no longer No I can’t I just can’t I can’t take it any longer!

I should have known better We both knew it would happen someday Maybe Monday or Tuesday or Thursday Nothing you say or do will change my mind No today is the day Today is the day I will get my angel

wings back Today is the day I shall shed my last tear Today is the day the pain will end Today is the day I’ll do it By the time you hear this it will be too late Right now I’m going to do it Just one more thing before I go I have one final thing to say to you…

Now

Her Name is Nana Katie Kelley, ‘15 1950 They met in their twenties Their hearts were nothing but virgins to love the ice cream parlor that 10 cent movie They were in love “what is your name?” “my name is Ray.” Said Ray. 1953 They met at the chapel white gown and tux with the audience of friends family the ceremony “that is a wonderful story, who got married?”

“We did.” said Ray. 1 9 5 8 Lenox Hill Hospital 100 East 77th Street baby wrapped in a blue blanket Raymond II 1 9 6 0 pink blanket Karen 1 9 6 3 pink blanket Connie 1 9 6 5 pink blanket Laura “who are these kids in the photograph?” “your kids,” said Ray.

“oh, what are their names?”

1 9 8 2 Italian grave Catholic priest a mother a body sent to heaven “what was her name?”

“Your mother,” said Ray. “what was she like?”

“Italian” said Ray. “Do I know that language?”

“Yes” said Ray. “what is your name?”

“Ray” said Ray. 1

9

9

7

pink blanket.

Katie Olivia Rose. red cheeks.

“What a cute little baby” “that is your granddaughter” said Ray. “how old is she?

5? 6?”

“18” said Ray. 2

0

1

“What is my name?”

5

Stargazing with R.M. Drake

By Coryn Feeney, ‘16 Salty bitter tears stain my pale cheeks.

His gentle hand on my shoulder is soothing to the touch.

Why waste your precious time wiping those tears, there is so much to smile about.

I am lost. I’ve been taken away from my sweet addiction that soothes the chaos inside of me.

Oh sweet child, but we are all lost here. Close your eyes, calm the noise in you and pursue where your heart leads you.

My heart is confused. I am violently missing him, yet I haven’t even discovered him yet.

We cannot deny the brilliance rooted deeply inside of us. Stop looking for something that has already found you. Awaken, it’s there. Take it, it’s yours.

I feel too much and understand it too little. I love too much and show it too little.

Don’t destroy yourself with those little thoughts. Look deeper through the telescope, it is written between the sea and the stars. The word we die for, we live for and ironically look for when it cannot be seen.

I drift away. I get lost in eternity. Every star has its own story and every star is wrapped in a fabric of dreams. I just haven’t figured out which story was destined for me while my dreams seem so out of reach.

Explore the world with fresh eyes and don’t let that darkness consume you. Be authentic to yourself.

And if you must cheat, cheat yourself out of the lies the world throws at you.

Our eyes meet under the infinite night sky. His face lit up in the stars gleaming light.

You have a way with words Drake.

And darling, you have a way with laughter.

She has a little rebel in her, a little chaos and gentleness. She would drift away, dream with the stars but that was okay. It was just a matter of time until all of her made sense.

For all that we are and all that we will ever be is love.

SUSRU The following pieces were written during Susru sessions, in which members of Ursus answered prompts and shared their writing with one another. A few of the authors requested to remain anonymous.

“The most beautiful smile I ever saw…”

The most beautiful smile I ever saw was gap toothed and chipped.

He had stopped the soccer ball with his face that day.

Through the blood gushing from his nose, And the stinging redness of his face, He smiled.

He beamed.

His face lit up with pride and joy, His battle scars, in his mind, were proof of his glorious win.

The reason this triumph would live on in our history.

His mother shrieked from the side lines, Because her baby was bleeding out onto the grass He didn’t care though.

None of us cared as we ran to our great general, To praise his decisive and grand win.

But he was shuffled away by the coach before his celebration began.

We didn’t see him at practice the next day, Or at our game that Saturday.

But we did in school on the Monday after our win.

We all saw him alone in the hallway.

He was not the man on the field who had been victorious.

His glory and pride had all faded away leaving this broken boy.

Eyes were black and blue white tape across his nose.

He saw us all staring.

And he opened up his mouth in a nervous smile.

All his teeth had been put back in place.

They were all there.

They were all perfect.

The bruises faded and the tape came off.

Soon there was nothing left to remind us of his win.

The most beautiful smile I ever saw was gap toothed and chipped. ~Julia Morini, ‘15

On the night of the full moon, I listened.

Listened to the wolves howling.

To the wind whistling.

To the leaves scraping.

To the shadows whispering.

I listened to anything.

Anything but the sound of you, crying next door.

I tried to help.

Nothing I tried ever worked, obviously.

Your tears haunted me, Your sobs wounded me. and your smile scarred me.

Is this what’s really happening?

Is this all my life has evolved to?

To listen to you cry.

“You don’t have to stay, leave!”

You and I both know that’s not possible.

After all you’ve done?

You broke me, as well as yourself.

Let’s leave together.

But, I could never tell her that.

On the night of the full moon, I cried. ~Diellza Krasniqi, ‘17

The deep, deep blackness contested that of the sky. Eternity and emptiness lay in that fur. So large, that trembling body, so cold, that pulsing figure. The darkness extended to what seemed like infinity, never to begin and never to end. A disturbance, now, in the beast’s deep center. The fur rippled and waved, each strand both the needle and the thread. Oh, how perfectly they moved together, a symphony of sways. The glistening white broke the silence of eternity. A sliver, a half circle, and finally a full, glowing orb appeared as the heavy lid was lifted.

The eye turned as it warmed, seeing all at last. ‘Twas the night of the full moon. ~Olivia Lewis, ‘15

The most beautiful smile I ever saw, was the most deadly.

The most beautiful hair I ever saw, was the most scaly.

“Oh Medusa, won’t you please look at me with those beautiful eyes of yours?”

The most beautiful eyes I ever saw, were yours.

A smile like Kruger.

Hair like Medusa.

Eyes like the Mountains.

“Oh yes dear! the hills do have eyes!”

So jump, jump as high as your heart desires.

Punch, punch as hard as your will lets you.

Read, and read until the sun rises and sets!

But, do not pretend.

“Oh dear, yes you may pretend!”

No mother…

I won’t pretend.

“Not with a reflection as pretty as yours!

My dear…” ~Diellza Krasniqi, ‘17

When everyone was laughing at the party, I knew I had to leave. Who was I to think I could survive this?

How could I survive those smiles that rose to the corners of their eyes? How could I survive the loss of personhood and descent into carnal behaviors? How could I keep myself from cringing to visibly?

I don’t know.

When I am alone in the center of a crowd of brilliant happiness. I must always leave. If that means leaving early than so be it. So be it.

I pull the warm blanket of a belief over me: if I am content than I will be complacent. If I am complacent then I will stop getting better. If I stop getting better then what am I? So I go back to the house that is not a home. Back to more people with gleaming smiles. I look at them, keeping my face carefully neutral. It was a necessary skill I had acquired over the years. They hugged me. [People seem to like that.] I responded stiffly and they chuckled.

They always thought I was funny. ~Anonymous

He turned the key in the lock and opened the book. He turned to page one. With trembling hands he clutched the soft spine of the book, and sat down in the grossly overstuffed chair. The title and author glared at him from the page: The History of the Earth and Everything By: The Remaining Ones This was it: the forbidden book. The very last one of its kind about the very last people to exist on Earth. Well, if you really could call them people. They did detest the name in the end. They took to calling themselves the post humans instead. They liked to think it was more accurate.

The book started to mutter at him. The voices of the book blended and fought with each other, he couldn’t hear what was being said but he knew that they wanted his attention. If you are going to unlock us you better know what you are looking for. ¨Take me to the final chapter of Earth.¨ The book shuddered. ~Gina Arnold, ‘15

The Most Beautiful Smile He was laughing before he closed his eyes. He was watching a video of us, the one my mom filmed before the accident. I was three, he 52. I was running through a sprinkler screaming and shouting as he chased me, until we both slipped in the mud and started rolling around and laughing. He’d make pig noises at me and chase me out of the mud. His teeth were bright white then, the perfect accessory for such a handsome man. Now the were yellowed and crooked, the ones that were there. He had one canine that stuck out over his lower lip creating a red and white scar line just below, a “battle scar” he called it. He laughed again, a deep rumble that almost frightened me. Then the coughing came. Like it always had. But then it ended, just like it always had. He went back to watching the video. I went back to watching his face. I traced his smile lines up to his eyes, and then traced the wrinkles that had formed there over the years. His eyes were a sea of sadness, of pain and hurt, but he never let on. He had to be strong. He always had to be strong. He laughed again, this one coming from me giving him a big kiss when he gave me the Barbie that I had wanted. I looked up at the screen. Of the happy family. The old man with his daughter and son-in-law and their baby girl. Then the coughing again. A nurse came. A nurse left. It was just how it had been. Except we all knew today…. I looked back at him. His chestnut hair now completely gray.

The beard he had been growing since he could no longer shave, gray as well. But it added something. I looked back up because his smile had grown. The most beautiful smile I had ever seen despite the missing teeth and gnarly tooth. Despite the wrinkles and the gray hair. It was beautiful. It was happy. I glanced up, the video was over. When I looked back down, his eyes were shut. There would be no more videos of us. ~Anonymous