Spring 2015
Volume 54
Worcester Academy
LANCE Student Literary Magazine
81 Providence St Worcester MA 01604
Copyright © 2015
Worcester Academy Worcester, MA 01604
Editor’s Note Lance is a literary publication dedicated to celebrating our peers’ creativity by allowing them to share their works with the Worcester Academy community. We accept submissions of art, photography, poetry, or prose from Worcester Academy high school students, faculty, and staff. Through this outlet we the editors and staff hope to spread our love for literature and art and encourage all to pursue these activities. Worcester Academy adheres to a longstanding policy of admitting students of any race, color , religious belief, gender, protected sexual orientation, nationality or ethnic origin to all the rights, privileges, programs and activities generally accorded or made available to students at the school. Worcester Academy does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religious belief, gender, protected sexual orientation, nationality or ethnic origin in the administration of its educational policies, admission policies, scholarship programs and other school programs.
Editors John (Jack) Chase
Sarah Potter
Staff
Rowen Price
Aaron Liew
Anna Kessler
Sean Pierson
Emma Yanco
Zhanna Shalabayeva
Lauren Kuchnir
ReAnnen Hogan
Advisor
Christine Thorn
Technical Supervisors Sidharth Sadhujan Divinity Sebag
Table of Contents Photograph by Xu ‘15
10
Nothing but Spilt Coffee, Emma Berry
11
Photograph by Polletta ‘16
12
A Single Complication, John (Jack) Chase
13
Photograph by Emus ‘16
16
Violated, ReAnnen Hogan
17
Photograph by JJ ‘15
19
Battle of One, Jocelyn Emus
20
Photograph by JJ ‘15
22
Is This “Happy”?, Megan Kralj
23
And some day, Julie McDermott
24
Photograph by Lockbaum ‘16
25
Photograph by Rogers ‘15
26
That’s Poetry, Miriam Tanenbaum
27
Photograph by Wang ‘16
28
Photograph by Renzoni ‘17
28
A Collection of Things I’ve Learned in my 17 Years, Siobhan Herr 29 Photograph by Mullaney ‘16
30
Quake, ReAnnen Hogan
31
A Romance, Rowen Price
32
Photograph by Hogan ‘16
33
Photograph by JJ ‘15
34
Untitled (Because I’m Unimaginative, Not Because I’m Artsy), Miriam Tanenbaum
35
Photograph by Mullaney ‘16
39
A Wise Trick , Aaron Snyder
40
Photograph by Fenner
40
Photograph by Su ‘15
41
The Sunflower, Kylie Lavine
42
Addicted, Emma Berry
43
Photograph by LaMarche ‘15
43
Photograph by Emus ‘16
44
Inexplicable Warmth in Us, Sean Pierson
45
The Cold Cement House, Caleb Dimenstein
48
Photograph by Hogan ‘16
49
A Page of Night, Qiyuan Zheng
50
Lord, Forgive Me, Mackenzi Johnson
53
Photograph by LeMarche ‘15
55
Time, Jocelyn Emus
56
Photograph by Emus ‘16
57
Looking Up, Catherine Paul
58
Photograph by Fenner
59
Pretty Darn Lucky, John (Jack) Chase
60
Photograph by Wang ‘16
62
Next Time , Hannah Lowe
63
Photograph by Emus ‘16
64
3 Haikus, Michael Papetti
64
Done, Isha Mayor
65
Photograph by Pijaca ‘16
66
Photograph by Hogan ‘16
67
Photograph by Mullaney ‘16
69
Photograph by Price ‘15
70
Whittled-Down, Miriam Tanenbaum
71
Photograph by Malloy ‘16
72
The Nameless Ruler, Emma Berry
73
Photograph by Price ‘15
75
Box, Megan Kralj
76
Photograph by Price ‘15
77
That Pulled Pork Sandwich From the Old An Ode to Forgotten Zip Codes/The Food Truck on the Corner, By Anonymous
78
Crop Circles, Michael Papetti
80
Photograph by Renzoni ‘17
80
Photograph by Malloy ‘16
82
In All My Contemplation, Mackenzi Johnson
83
Photograph by Pijaca ‘16
84
Dream Chaser , Min Jun “Ryan“ Kim
85
Photograph by Fenner
86
The Wall, Raymond Reeves
87
Photograph by Mullaney ‘16
89
Lingering, ReAnnen Hogan
90
Photograph by Azizi ‘15
91
The Declaration of (Semi)Independence, Hiliana Melo
92
Photograph by Emus ‘16
93
Photograph by DePersio ‘15
94
Innocence, Moira Mullaney
96
Photograph by Carroll ‘16
98
A Crisis of the Wandering Mind, Olivia Lockbaum
99
Photograph by Pijaca ‘16
101
Underground, John (Jack) Chase
101
Stress, Jocelyn Emus
102
Photograph by Su ‘15
103
Cleansing Ritual, Emma Berry
103
Philophobia, Mackenzi Johnson
104
Photograph by Carroll ‘16
104
Photograph by Renzoni ‘17
107
Stigma, Megan Kralj
108
Photograph by Carroll ‘16
109
8
How To Be Happy And Have Lots of Friends, Michael Papetti
110
Forsaken Destiny, ReAnnen Hogan
116
Photograph by Carroll ‘16
117
Photograph by Romanova ‘16
118
Escape, John (Jack) Chase
118
Photograph by Kessler ‘17
119
Photograph by Price ‘15
120
Alone, Moira Mullaney
121
The Cricket, Miriam Tanenbaum
122
Autumn has Wind, Julia Harvey
127
The Rye, Michael Papetti
128
Photograph by Hogan ‘16
128
Photograph by Renzoni ‘17
129
Photograph by Castro ‘15
130
Starry Night, Yadi(Andy)Wang
131
Asthma, Jack Baker
132
Decomposing Thoughts, Megan Kralj
133
Photograph by JJ ‘15
135
The night at Maunakea Peak, Una Zhang
136
Photograph by Isackson ‘15
136
Photograph by Sebag ‘15
137
Photograph by Sadhujan ‘15
139
9
Xu ‘15 10
Nothing but Spilt Coffee Emma Berry
Empty and broken, coffee cups cover the porch next to me. I think of the unturned pages of our book. That will never be re-turned. Our book we once read together, is nothing but- Â dust that now covers the porch. You left me; with nothing but, spilt coffee.
11
Polletta ‘16 12
A Single Complication John (Jack) Chase
We made it through the desert without a single complication. Ea’s map was sound, and our provisions held up just as planned. The raging river of the desert ran straight through to an abandoned settlement that lies at the very edge of the desert. It seems that the run-away slaves of Walden’s age did indeed find a safe haven. When will we find the cause of this crazy mass-disappearance? We have not come across a single resistance since the very beginning of my reign. I must admit: I have thought quite a bit about our first battle. Will they see the justifications that I see? Will they understand equally that death is just a part of life? These enemies have been the glue that keeps our empire together, surely they all remember my words: “save your ire for the wars of tomorrow because today there will be peace.” I would not have said such words if I did not believe them myself. My entire existence is geared to the destruction of these traitors, and I will not battle with myself. Yet, now… something’s wrong. Ever since we entered this swamp, something has been wrong. The light-bug appearances of torches in the distance give me my only sense of safety. The silhouettes take the shapes of trees and the creatures of this horrific swamp. They move unlike their walking master. The flickering of those light-bugs on the horizon give them a ghostly dance. These ghosts surround me on all sides paired with their lovely light-bugs. No eyes, no ears, no such solid appearances to ground them. The hairs stick up on the back of my neck. Their fellows, the goosebumps at their base, rise like rolling hills. An icy cold pair of fingers runs slowly down my back like icy water. My brain, normally bogged down by the horrible humid heat, becomes quick and calculating once again. I only return to questioning the silhouettes, which are taking more solid shapes. I hear the slurps and sloshes of bare feet in the ravenous muck. Each step is a battle against the tantalized hands of the 13
dead. They pull, hoping that fresh blood will reach their decomposing mouths. The muck has taken countless boots and several men. I ordered the men to remove their socks and boots in order that at least some provisions will make it through this swamp. That’s when we realized that if we stopped, death’s grasp would prevail. The very ground pulled in all those men who didn’t jump up in time. We can never stop to sleep. My eyes and ears perk up in peculiarity. Interesting. The wind has not been so chill in this sticky, hot mess of a swamp in any of the weeks we have spent trying to pass through it. The air normally rests on our skin like we’re walking at the bottom of a lake of tongues. Normally the moisture saps my kindling heart, but this rush of frigid, dry wind feeling like death’s grasp of my very soul revives my fire. “Attention! Enter formations.” I shout. Any mortal’s voice would be absorbed by the starving swamp, but my voice clearly resonates to each individual ear without fail. We swarm into action like bees around a bear. I heat the ground below our stopping feet hoping it will silence the dead, just long enough to deal with the incoming threat. “Who would dare challenge me and my mighty men? I am not one to enrage; I say we will engage,” I announce. My men search around for the threat; their minds have sprung forth like mine, ready for the challenge. Even under my righteous authority, they question my judgment. Their blind eyes don’t see the shadows, but they do notice the silence. The swamp is filled with creatures of the night. They dangle from trees, slither through muck, hop from branch to fallen branch, and some stay hidden from sight. Their calls, hisses, croaks, and other eerie vocations are our ambient noise, our marching drum. Now there is no such music. My men may be blind, but nature sees the terrors approaching. The quiet rings through my ears louder than the thump, thump, thumping of my heart. My vision is tunneling, my grip is tightening around my sword, and my mind is clear. I’m ready for battle. A blood-boiling scream shatters the murky night. I leap three men high, twisting myself toward the ground. I plummet, 14
sword-first, into the shadow lurking in the murk not a hand’s breadth from one of my soldiers. Even in my slaughtering, my men are put out like candle flames. How can I help them? How does they see nothing? Why can I alone see the enemy? How does one remove their own shadow? ...light! I set fire to their swords, which I have done only in practice with my full concentration on each individual flame, so the fires don’t spread out of control. I yell, “Surround me!” I sit on the ground as they rush toward me. I reach out with my mind, latching onto each blade with my very life. I feel the life ebbing from my body, feeding into each sword a powerful flame. A flame that could consume just as easily their armored bodies as the enemy’s shadowy souls. The fire takes some of the men by surprise, but most are too focused on the enemy that encroaches to care about anything else. I feel their slimy grips as their enemy is finally visible. The shadows, ten feet high, with disformed backs, heads, and limbs of all kinds. Truly, I don’t know how my men could react if they could see those faces behind the shadow. The first swing. Falls like lightning from a cloud, burning to hit anything. It cleaves the shadow in half, and the two halves disappear instantly. Cheers rise up from the men around, they gain confidence in themselves and in me with each enemy slain. I grant more and more of the men, who were too far away before, some of my precious flame. They’ve seen too many of their comrades fall in this swamp, they grit their teeth and fight the horrifying monsters. I feel each adept parry, each heroic slash, and every enemy fall. Then, I fall unconcious.
15
Emus ‘16 16
Violated
ReAnnen Hogan His eyes burn into her every time they meet hers. She avoids them at all costs, yet somehow they always find her. Seeing him sends a bolt of anger through her, and she is reminded once again of her regrets. She wonders how she could have ever been so ignorant, so oblivious. She could have stopped it, but she didn’tshe went along with it until the last possible moment, when they were the only two in the isolated room; when she was completely vulnerable. But she finally stopped it. He persisted, but she could no longer take it. She lashed out, twisting his arm backwards, almost hoping it was enough to make it break, and not caring if it did. ‌
17
The fire burns inside of her, and acid fills her eyes, as she looks into his, and remembers.
18
JJ ‘15 19
Battle of One Jocelyn Emus
A double sided mirror On the sides reflecting our life Me myself and I All in one Trying not to tear apart’ Stitching together Yet gaps in seams Trying to remember what was forgotten In me? Or myself? I don’t even know I’m never okay, I never will be It’s life, my life Chaotic and swirling of blinded paths and blinding lights To fall under or fall off of Where am I? I lost myself again Do I know? The best and worst? Do I have a light and dark? Or shadows I wish to leave untouched? Restless demons? Or relentless feelings good and bad alike Flowing like rains from the heavens Or fires from hell Hell is inside me it is myself Yet I try to escape it but I myself am unable to I wish for salvation but it isn’t there for me My hopes my fears all take me Sewn into my skin such as ink of my ideas Ideas from a different time A different me Yet I am the same Still frozen in darkness Unable to find the light Till light come forth and shine behind my eyes Until I slay my demons 20
And swallow myself An eternal battle That I shall one day win Because I refuse to give up I will fight till the bitter end It’s a battle against myself I shall reign In hopes of being okay Because I am I
21
JJ ‘15 22
Is This “Happy”? Megan Kralj
Pulling at my roots’ and screaming my throat dry, I desired to count each of my pennies like each of my steps. As I hand-pick conveniences and waste all of my time, I realized that I was flying upside down through an adult world. Smiles and virtues were shattered carelessly on the ground. With a haughty scoff and an boisterous laugh, Erupting forth like bile that won’t dissolve the residual tension Was my own comical fairytale ironies, and a flinch too. My head is filled to the brim with nothing but girly fantasies… It looks like a disgusting “game over” in the third degree. With no beginning nor end in sight, please take me to tomorrow, So mold me into aspiration, and I can’t dare to make a move. All of these indecent words of advice: they have no meaning. I can’t understand the understandable rhetoric of understanding. I don’t even comprehend the magnitude of my own mistakes! Spinning in an infinite loop, this tachycardia won’t relent. I’m waiting for answers that won’t return. Is this “happy”?
23
And some day Julie McDermott
And some day, When the sun explodes, Shooting fire across the galaxy, But the moon isn’t shining, When it won’t be seen again, When the planets collapse and crumble, Don’t come to me. When the stars go dark, And black holes snatch everything important, And you can’t run anymore, While you’re still searching for the sun and the stars, Don’t try to find me.
24
When you can’t find your way back, Because you’re closer to Neptune than to earth, And all of humanity is gone, And the sky has split open, Spilling broken rings and ugly asteroids. Don’t call to me. But when the sun comes back, And the stars are aligned, And when the earth is whole, And humanity is safe, Come home. Come back to me.
Lockbaum ‘16 25
Rogers ‘15 26
That’s Poetry
Miriam Tanenbaum Poems contain stanzas. This is a stanza. What I’m writing, right now, Is a stanza. And what you’re reading, Right now, That’s a stanza. You are indefinitely trapped within my stanza. You are no longer trapped in that stanza, But you are now trapped in this stanza. [Insert convoluted and clichéd comparison Of your predicament to that of a caged bird] Congratulations, you are not trapped Within any of the previous stanzas. And, when you finish this poem, You will not be trapped within any stanza. But that isn’t to say you won’t be trapped. You’ll be trapped within the sentence you’re speaking, Or the sentence you’re hearing. For your sentence is a sentence, and you are doomed within it. You are attached to it, wrapped around it in a never-ending Tethered rope, that, when you try to cut, you find yourself bleeding. You are trapped within all that you do, And, for now, that which you do is that which you read (see: this poem). So, yeah, That’s poetry. 27
Wang ‘16
Renzoni ‘17 28
A Collection of Things I’ve Learned in my 17 Years Siobhan Herr Some days you might feel particularly sad, But remember that life isn’t all that bad. Always study for that upcoming test, Because when you feel confident, you’ll do your best. Don’t throw your gum outside on the ground; Birds choke on it and it would be too quiet in the mornings without them around. Be a good friend because you get what you give, And having lots of close friends is the best way to live. Stop wishing to grow up; it’s no fun to be old, Respect your parents and do what you’re told. Before it’s too late, forgive and forget, Otherwise you’ll miss that friend I bet. Grades are not everything; don’t let them stress you out, You’ll get into college and that I don’t doubt. Take risks and try things that are new, Because it will make for a more interesting you. We all have this idea; we lived for 17 years and we’ll live for 70 more, But the scary thing is, you can never predict what’s in store. So live every day as if it’s your last, Because unfortunately, things can change very, very fast. Play a new sport, try out for the play And tell people all the things you’ve been wanting to say. Say hi to a stranger or try a new food, Take risks, and to conclude: My question for you is, with your life thus far, would you be satisfied, If tomorrow, You died?
29
Mullaney ‘16 30
Quake
ReAnnen Hogan The volume as high as it goes; that’s just how she likes it. Surrounding her. The vibrations move through her whole body. She closes her eyes. She sits on the floor. It does all the work for her; it pounds, it cries, it screams. It’s all she hears; the rest of the world is gone. She just has to sit there feeling it while it takes her pain away. It’s over, it’s quiet for a second, and she realizes she’s a little bit calmer. With one button, she’s free.
31
A Romance Rowen Price
Her sheets of tresses brown inspire heat, Her heat in turn does fill my heart entire With thoughts oh so deliriously sweet That I must struggle to contain desire. Her molten smile like a radiant sun Allows me hope with which I carry on And fills me ‘til my work’s completely done With dreams of her – not there, but never gone. And as I drift throughout my lonesome day, I think of her, no longer on my own And loudly laugh, my day no longer gray. For with her I can never be alone. Alas I cannot keep her all to me; The chocolate fountain sits, for all to see.
32
Hogan ‘16 33
JJ ‘15
34
Untitled (Because I’m Unimaginative, Not Because I’m Artsy) Miriam Tanenbaum Audrey’s small five-year-old arms delicately cradled the precious doll that she held. Having received it recently for her birthday, it was now her most prized possession. Her mother handed the stuffed doll to her and told her that it was named Zoe. Audrey was mindful of the position of Zoe’s head, having overheard her mother once say that babies weren’t yet strong enough to support their own necks. She raised its head to hers just a bit more and gave it a kiss before she was interrupted by the sound of Evan smashing in through the, thankfully, open backdoor, probably tracking mud on the floor on his way to the kitchen. It had rained last night, and he had a habit of rolling around in the result of the dirt and rain like some kind of uncivilized barnyard animal. She turned on her bare feet, noting that the tiles were just a bit slippery from when her mom cleaned them earlier that day. Looking toward him, she discovered that he had in fact tracked in mud, but she hadn’t anticipated that he would also be completely covered in it. “Momma’s gonna be mad at you if you don’t wash that off,” she said, gesturing to the nearest spot of mud on the floor. “Yeah? Well let her be mad.” Evan said with a repulsive sort of gravitas. It all seemed a bit ridiculous coming from a child covered from head-to-toe in wet dirt, and she didn’t like how, ever since he turned eleven, he’d been trying to act like ‘more of a man’ (his words). But despite what he might’ve thought, Audrey knew that although real men may track in their mud, they always cleaned it up. It was as she placed her doll on the kitchen counter and stooped down to the floor with a wet paper towel that she thought she may be more of a man than her brother. 35
Just as she was finally making headway on the first stain, she heard the sound of her brother’s shoes hitting the floor, making his way toward her. Thinking that he was going to do something like push her head into the mud, she looked up and prepared to defend herself. What she saw was much worse. He was dangling her doll several feet above the biggest pile of mud on the floor, holding Zoe’s fragile hand between his dirty fingers. Evan laughed, a petty, unnerving sound. Although he had no intention of following through and dropping the doll, he reveled in the pleasure of torturing his little sister. All would have been fine if their mother hadn’t chosen that moment to come back home from the neighbors. She closed the front door louder than usual, and, startled, Evan dropped the doll. It seemed to drop in slow motion. Audrey saw it, frame by frame, as it made its way to the mud. When it finally fell, Audrey was troubled by the fact that it made no noise. Surely such a monumental moment in history should be marked by some form of audible recognition by the universe. Regardless, there it sat-- there she sat, soundless. Audrey saw the blue of Zoe’s soft dress, she saw how it was marred by a shade of brown that it was never supposed to display, and she saw all of the colors begin to blur as tears filled her eyes. “Oh crap.” Evan’s voice cracked as panic overwhelmed him. “Language!” Their mother called from the hall closet as she hung 36
up her jacket, as if scolding a rebellious dog that everyone knew was never going to change his behavior. She made their way down the hall and was troubled at the lack of noise coming from her children. That was never a good sign. And upon seeing the doll and the mess on the floor, she may or may not have let out an, “oh crap,” of her own. She made her way to her crying daughter, picking her up and deciding it would be best to put her down for a nap. “I’ll get to you later.” She said, maintaining eye contact with her son. … Although Audrey never quite knew what magic words her mother had said to her brother, she came downstairs several hours later to find a pristine floor and a perfectly clean Zoe sitting on the counter. Next to Zoe sat Evan who was devouring his peanut butter sandwich in a way that only a pubescent boy could, and if the nearly empty bag of bread and the jar of peanut butter near him were any indication, this was not his first sandwich and it would not be his last. Audrey ran to Zoe as fast as she could, happy to note that the the floor was a bit slippery, how it had been that morning. “She’s clean again!” Audrey exclaimed, any last grogginess from her nap now totally gone. “I gave her a bath,” Evan reasoned, licking peanut butter off of his fingers, and somehow, Audrey knew that this was his version of an apology, “you gotta wash babies, you know.” “Of course I know that.” Audrey defended. And with that, she forgave him. Still, she wondered, “hey, if you washed her, why isn’t she wet?”
37
He had used a towel. It’d taken him at least twenty minutes of diligent drying to finally get her to be what he deemed dry enough, but he knew neither of them would be happy with that answer. Instead, Evan smirked. “I stole mom’s hairdryer.” Audrey stayed silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m gonna tell mom!” She concluded, and neither of them saw the other’s near identical smile on their face as Audrey confidently made her way up the stairs.
38
Mullaney ‘16 39
A Wise Trick Aaron Snyder
What is the warrant of wisdom, The purport of prudence? It has been told throughout our time That the most insightful one acquired it through ambition, Just an innocent acclamation, and alacazam: it apparently appeared Or…was it already agile? The Great Gadfly proudly uttered, “I know that I know nothing” Because surely servility is sharp, and subjugation is scholarly So did the Magician in fact illustrate an illustrious illusion? Or was the real apparition actually executed by the one who asked?
Fenner 40
Su ‘15
This is truly a tragic tale Because the paramnesia was not a placebo as was first thought of But a primitive power that was fully present throughout his later years For the power was purely mundane And the invocation was inordinately inane
41
The Sunflower Kylie Lavine
Sunflowers are an even bolder and brighter version of the sun, whose petals emit rays of energy and happiness that inspire every one around them. Sitting peacefully and quietly their smiles shine as bright as the sun while happiness radiates from their soul, they enlighten the atmosphere and accompany one another. They stand for loyalty and exude a sense of warmth, comforting, even the most bitterness of souls. They live for the longevity of life and for companionship of one another. They reflect the light of the sun as a mirror, which reflects the nature of one’s heart.
42
LaMarche ‘15 Addicted
Emma Berry I was addicted to a demon’s love. His poison flowed throughout my body. Lying there together and I could feel the heat of his fake smile, branding itself onto my heart. He became a disease that had no cure. The pain came in waves-It just kept coming and coming I wanted it to stop. I just wanted the pain gone. Maybe I wanted him gone, but it didn’t matter. The poison made me stay. 43
Emus ‘16 44
Inexplicable Warmth in Us Sean Pierson
Listless she whispers fruits of comfort through the cornstalk vibrations of neurons waving hello in this pantheon of broken windows and torn wicker baskets. tongue, a soaked Phrygian cap against my earlobe, almost an embrace, almost. and how strange we become in morning, stomping grapes for wine somewhere where the sun lifts its ancient bristled hand and caresses, bare of the usual white knuckle clutch. then, while the light begins to fade into lurid streams of purples and tangerines, neon pinks and a definitive somber red, our wheels enter revolutions unrelenting against the rotation of ground beneath our feet, always a fallen leaf ahead, but we roll on, we are the lighthouses in a sheet of ice littered with boats carrying fishermen and fishermen’s wives and fishermen’s mistresses and their children and friends. Detached from these little beautiful lives, we shine on, flashing each individual potted plant vessel a hopeful, playful, sinister wink. And their roots follow nature’s rule. And their stalk grows, as it has for centuries, in the middle of them all. And we laugh and drink our wine and rest fitting as perpendicular rays do at one point in a nostalgic concave. in the feeling of warmth, 45
yours and mine, two semispheres dug from beneath the leaves magnetize and click into place; we are frozen in our own place in time, and our breath slows. Listless she whispers fruits of comfort wake up love, it’s morning through the cornstalk vibrations of neurons relax, relax, it’s okay waving hello in this pantheon of broken windows everything’s okay and torn wicker baskets it’s just time to wake up tongue, a soaked Phrygian cap look, the sun’s high in the sky against my earlobe, almost an embrace, almost. okay? and how strange we become I love you.
46
Romanova ‘16 47
The Cold Cement House Caleb Dimenstein
The tangled vines curl around like garden snakes feasting upon a prey. Their mossy green leaves curl, wrap, and fester around the cold cement. As I walk into my house of ages past, the lively family aura has altered into a mystical fairy tail Esque forest. The green array of vines covers my living room from top to floor. The moss from a tree stump that my house has engulfed slowly spreads to the floor where sprouts of grass are popping up like hair on a baby’s head. As I ponder into the European style kitchen my creaking bones echo throughout the hollow eerie house. Dusty frames of black and white photos cover the stovetop. 48
Hogan ‘16
As I dust away the photos, I long for the times of past where life was easier. The world was safer The people were kinder Society was peaceful where war and genocide were unimaginable And this house, my childhood, was not covered in natures products. As I gaze outside the cracked windows of the unrecognizable house into the backcountry of my home village I sympathize for the house, feeling as if society has entangled me in its ever-changing vines.
49
A Page of Night Qiyuan Zheng
Deep night an explosion erupts, Losing sight, you feel an adrenaline rush. Among such dangerous and thunderous commotion, you ignore emotions and observe. “Nerves, where are they now?” you scream, “This situation is absurd!” Finally, you question whether this is a dream. Admittedly, you’re terrified and want to scream. Gleaning your entire brain for facts, you found nothing to verify. Even though you feel wholly drained, this horror is making you feel electrified. “Be real, this must be your hallucination.” Pangloss1 said. “No, boss, it’s time to call help” Martin2 voiced with dread. “Shut up!” You yelled uncontrollably. “Get out of my head and get lost!” “Get lost?” Martin remarked, “You just want to fly out here like an albatross.” “Focus,” you tell yourself, “Stop panicking and call for help.” Scrambling back up, you hear a knell of a bell, Bringing your eyes up, you see a hall leading to hell. You are oblivious of your location, Clueless about your directions, Truthfully lost in this labyrinth, Blue about your future and all your past sins. The walls around you crumble, Stumbling, towards the hall you tumble, As your surroundings fall, you sprint down the hall like a cannonball. 50
Past the sorcerer’s corridor, you find a cage that made your insides crawl. Only now you feel petrified and lonely, It’s like your lifetime’s courage is all phony. You observe and realize that you’re the only one stuck in this trap, “Crap,” you thought, “this isn’t happening, am I here with no going back?” Observing your surroundings with your sight, You find beyond the cage nothing but deep night. Along came a creature, entering your sight seething in rage. Restraining Phobos3, towards the creature you began to pace.
Imagining you’re on stage, Performing with so much at stake, You put on a confident face, walking to the edge of the cage. The creature hisses in anger, indicating danger of its hate. It lunges forward, spewing venom. Menaced, you backed up from the demon. Kept outside your cage, it hissed in vexation: “You faulted me,” “Altered my life! This is my only wrathful opportunity!” “Look around you,” it ordered, “ ‘Tis real, not some nightmare terror.” You shiver, scanning around the place from ground up. What you found around sent an icy blade of fear to your guts. Here, there, they are everywhere, Screeching so loud you can’t hear. These demons spitting poison and cheering for your death, All at once yelling, telling you that you’ve been their Macbeth4.
51
Backing off, stiffened, you realize the cage is shrinking rapidly, Before you can comprehend, you’re suffocating hopelessly. You crouch shrink with the cage, but found a sword on the floor shining bright, Desperately, you grip it, only to decide between suicide and losing the fight alive.
1. Character in the classic Candide by Voltaire, he is extremely optimistic and always hopes for the best 2. Another character in Candide, a pessimistic but extremely erudite philosopher. 3. Greek God for fear and horror 4. Character in Shakespeare known for his brutal tactics and murder of King Duncan.
52
Lord, Forgive Me Mackenzi Johnson
Your “I love you” is a curse to the Lord, it’s false hope, a black hole pulling me in, quicksand, yet so slow, so curious, so angry. Nothing is definite, and with you His forgiveness is uncertain. So I pray to God your “I love you” is not a collapse of a thousand skyscrapers because I believe you this time, and the Lord wont save me from the rubble if I curse his name.
53
54
LeMarche ‘15 55
Time
Jocelyn Emus Time is flying To a destination unknown Passing and rolling in waves around us it skips by Tick Tock, Tick Tock It drags us with it to our graves Where it passes over for another and another The hourglass dripping sand piece by piece The cycle revolves It's quite dizzying Step abroad to be lost in its voyage Start to end End to start It surrounds us beating away A lifeforce its own Ageless to give us age The stubborn beat, Tick Tock, Tick Tock Never ceases to reach our ears Times wasting
56
Emus ‘16 57
Looking Up
Catherine Paul Old men drag flimsy lawn chairs onto fire escapes And gaze up at the stars. Many moons ago, as children, they looked up And searched the sky for the first star And chanted, enchanted: “Star light, star bright, the first star, I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might Have the wish I wish tonight--” And there was so much to wish for! “Please make me a fireman when I grow up… Or a baseball great, or President of the United States.” But now, the years ahead are fewer And the wish, when it comes, Is for peace, is for love, is for someone else. But now as then, despite dreams, That have fizzled and fallen like stars, There is hope that things will be a little better And despite occasional clouds and storms That hide them from our view, The stars are always there-A reminder of heaven When we are yearning For something more.
This is a “borrowed line” poem. I took for my first line a line borrowed from Edward Hirsch’s poem “In Spite of Everything, the Stars.”
58
Fenner 59
Pretty Darn Lucky John (Jack) Chase
The night’s air settles on me like viscous sludge. It fills my lungs with dead weight and my head with the incoherent babble of a thousand forest creatures. Plus, it makes my hair frizz up, but that happens in any kind of air. I swat at bugs that evaporate at my touch, but their friends come back in waves. Shlop. Shlop. Even the ground’s trying to pull me under. “What kind of forest is this, daddy?” “The first,” he says. He knows what I mean. Why can’t he just answer my questions with the right answer? I know he’s trying to teach me, but how am I supposed to learn if he responds with these silly existential responses. “And why does the ‘first forest’ seem so much like a jungle?” “That’s why,” he says as he stops walking and looks up. One tree, whose leaves are more black than the night behind the stars and whose leaves are as wide as I am tall. The damp air seizes my breath with a white mist, and my teeth chatter: it’s so much colder under these leaves. “Wow,” I utter. “Under King Walden, people aren’t allowed to come to this sacred place. Walden is afraid that people will regain their faith in Deagon and lose faith in their almighty king. Well, your mom and I won’t give up on this place, nor will we give up on Deagon, so we want our daughter to know... well, about this. And that there is something beyond our little tailor shop and our village and politics. There’s Love everywhere Renna; you just have to find it.” I rest my hand on the tree. It’s bark is smooth like skin and warm like a hug. It’s sheer size should be intimidating, but I feel more safe than anything. “I like it here, dad,” I say, as I slide my back down the trunk, resting my head back as I land on the mossy ground. “You’ve never seen Deagon, have you?” “No,” he responds, “but I believe I will-- some day.” “I think I’ve seen him in a dream or two, you said he’s a dragon, right?” 60
“That’s right, the first of the dragons, and the friend to mortals. It’s also said that there are many, many other dragons like him, who look after us for their mother, Jawoh, the world herself.” The leaves rustle. One of those monstrous black leaves falls from the sky and lands in my palms. It covers both of my hands entirely. “Jawoh,” I whisper. As the wind picks up, dad says, “I know it was a long walk, but we have to head back now; we can’t let King Walden know we’ve disobeyed him, even though he’d be walking around butt naked without us.” I laugh and sigh, “Okay, but we have to come back again soon.” Then just above the trees, a brown blur flashes across the sky. Nearly soundless, except for the response of the trees, almost reaching up to touch him. The animals of the forest make their sounds: squeaking, squawking, howling, chirping, and roaring. The grass becomes a little greener. The sun becomes a little brighter. The clouds disappear from the sky, making room for his majesty. Dad falls to his knees, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Just wait until your mom hears about this. I’ve come here countless times and have never seen even a hint of him, and the first day you ever see his tree, you see him swooping just above your head.” “I must be pretty darn lucky, huh, dad.” “You sure are, kiddo.”
61
Wang ‘16 62
Next Time
Hannah Lowe CrammedInABoxThatsGettingSmallerAndSmallerAndSmaller Late Nights. Early Mornings. EndlessRambling of unfathomable concepts Listen, take notes, study them, forget them, take a test … maybe you’ll do better next time Repeat 4 times 3 Hours later you’re taking off your sports equipment And taking a deep breath for the first time that day But then there are talks of “nobody likes you” “you never try hard” “you don’t deserve this” But then you think I guess I do deserve this But maybe it’ll be better next time
63
Emus ‘16
3 Haikus Michael Papetti i. This time the book seems A little closer than the Skin pressed against me. ii. Run rampant through streets Keep the queer eye on my side And watch the sunrise iii. Give me my sneakers I’ll be going out tonight I won’t be back soon
64
Done
Isha Mayor She who frolicked in the meadows Danced to every song Laughed at each jest Smiled at every being Is confined deep inside her heart Irremediable deeds done upon her Tactless is a kind thing to say She who conversed with no soul left Soliloquizes in fear Tremulous mind lost all sense Dignity snatched away He who did this is not human Squalid delinquent detained Hell is a lucky place for him Her mind wanders in abject depression Loss of world; loss of life Self-esteem thrown away Jovial little soul crushed by Adverse destiny
65
Pijaca ‘16 66
Hogan ‘16 67
68
Mullaney ‘16 69
Price ‘15
70
Whittled-Down
Miriam Tanenbaum They never tell you how many times you have to run a knife through the dishwasher to get all of the dried blood off. Honestly it’s something Martha Stewart should cover, especially considering that she’s gone to prison. But maybe she’d only know how to get blood stains off a shiv. Well that would probably still be helpful, I mean they’re both objects made for impalement. But I doubt a prison-shiv is made of metal, it’s probably just a whittled-down toothbrush or something. So I guess that wouldn’t be very helpful. Thanks for nothing, Martha Stewart.
71
Malloy ‘16 72
The Nameless Ruler Emma Berry
The sound of the crunching frozen ground beneath her feet seemed to echo throughout the woods. She thought for sure that the crunching would give her away. Emily Miller was running as fast as she could. She knew she did not have much time until they discovered what she had done. All she had wanted to do was provide for her family, and especially for her sick father. Her father had been struck ill by the synthetic food that They were providing for them. The citizens of her country had not eaten any real food in years. Her country, or what was left of it after the war, was ruled by Him. All the citizens referred to their ruler as “Him� because no one had ever heard his name. His identity remained a secret throughout the land, and that was one of the reasons that he was so feared. It is hard to start a rebellion to overthrow a nameless leader no one had ever seen. The war had devastated what were once rich and prosperous lands, and now there was barely enough for one person to live on. He had invented a serum that created the synthetic food that the people now were forced to eat. Every month He would send crates of the synthetic food, along with a certain number of water bottles, and a list of what each family of the village would get. At the end of the year at least ten people would die due to a disease that the food caused, including two members of Emily’s family. Emily had been running for her life. She knew what she had done was wrong, but it had to be done. She knew running from them was hopeless. They would find her and bring her to Him, and she knew He would sentence her to death for what she had done. She was losing stamina and her body ached from head to foot. It felt as if she had been running for hours. She stopped briefly at a near by river to throw some of the cool water on her face. She knelt down and cupped the water in her hands and gently splashed on her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined a life different than the one she was currently living. She imagined large fields filled with endless amounts of grain, and gardens filled with 73
an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. She imagined a life where she was not ruled by a man that no one knew the name of. Crack. Her eyes snapped open and in an instant her perfect imaginary world was shattered. She could hear the sounds of the soldiers yelling and marching quickly approaching. She faintly the heard the sound of the hunting dogs barking, and probably sniffing the ground trying to pick up her scent. She nervously looked around trying to find an escape route, but it was too late. They had found her.
74
Price ‘15 75
Box
Megan Kralj I was given lonely pack of stationary to move about, Then eventually granted a small box to generate ideas. The spark of a voice somewhere beyond these walls Can even be turned into an interior weapon. I better stop struggling so much. If in the end I am just a number, another demographic, Then I must materialize my box in under 500 words. The simplicity of not wanting to be in the bottom of the stack Leads me to believe that the light will finally enter someday. This box is much too perfect. Examining, taking exams, and being examined is fine. In time’s test, I fear that my results will always be false. I am accomplished. I have achieved. I am in a closed box. Swimming like numbers, my prime perfection passes me by I need to grow up even faster now. “Can you write an analytical essay on Western philosophy?” “Can you recite every equation and approximation?” “Can you finish the test before everyone leaves you behind?” “Can you recite all of your lost hopes and dreams?” What does “growing up” even mean? Intoxicated by a self- induced hypnotism, it reeks in here. My life is a sheet. My personality is a supplement. And if my easy job is to be the best number, I won’t question The justice of confinement and the answers to yesterday’s homework.
76
Price ‘15 77
That Pulled Pork Sandwich From the Old An Ode to Forgotten Zip Codes/The Food Truck on the Corner By Anonymous You always used to pass it, but never ventured in, knowing how bad it might be, how unhealthy, how dirty, how full of chemicals and grease and possibly-toxic barbecue sauce it might be. But the pulled pork has an allure, one day, you see someone buy one, and it doesn’t look too bad, so you stroll over, tentatively, twisting your head left and right, making sure no one sees you approaching the smoking, reviled truck, you walk over in a ridiculous arch, just to be absolutely positively sure no one sees you. You are excited, but you don’t want to show it. You are also pretty grossed out by the prospect of putting a sandwich coming from that truck in your mouth, a mouth accustomed to scowling at anything not certified organic. Before you know it, you’ve 78
arrived at the ordering window. The supposed owner has his back to you, a back riddled with hair. A wife-beater is holding his plumpness together like a squeezed berry about to explode. He turns around. An absurd combover is the greasy icing on his cake of a face. Cake meaning his face is caked with barbecue sauce and bits of pork. You get it over with, “One pulled pork sandwich please.” (Probably the first time he’s heard please all day) “Ugrh, three feefty,” his reply is startling, his accent is oddly unplace-able. His feet like cinder blocks, he thunders over to a grill in the back. You see him slop the pork on a flimsy bun. He comes back and hands you the sandwich on a paper platter. You shove the money in his face, your hand shivering a bit, though it’s 75 degrees out and humid (nevermind the unbearably warm steam perpetually billowing out of the grill). You walk away; the encounter was unceremonious. Out of the corner of your eye, you peer a bench. Afraid to eat your possible poison standing up, you stride towards the bench, again, afraid of being spotted. You sit down, take a bite into the sandwich, and groan. But it is a good groan, the sandwich is delicious. For those moments of bliss deux sandwích, you forget your irrational fear of being seen with the pulled pork. You are not in high school, the sandwich isn’t your parent. It’s gone. You get up, walk to your car, and drive home. Later, sitting in an armchair, thinking of the day’s adventure, you realize the thing (delicious yet gross) you ate and quickly forget about it. It was a one-time-thing, bound to be thrown into the bottomless pit of other forgotten one-timethings. But, just before you fall asleep, you feel a longing in your stomach. At first, you think you’re just regular hungry, but then, you know. You miss the pulled pork. Eventually, as the year goes on, the sandwich truck becomes a weekly tradition, and you learn to love all the greasiness and smoke of the pulled pork sandwich from the old, rattling truck. At times, it almost feels like home.
79
Renzoni ‘17 Crop Circles
Michael Papetti We did not understand why it happened. We did not know how it happened. The only thing we could be quite sure of, and that was certainly unsure of us, was that it did happen. I didn’t see love that night. The group of us sat in circles, Talked in circles, Traced the circles of our eyes with soot. Lightly grazing fingernails on our skin between Desperate clawing. We inhale the wisps of shriveling silicone Coating our lungs with the future: Cancer-ful, cancer-free. 80
Running fingers through our hairRunning hair through our fingers. Running through the empty field Towards a dim light and carbon copy eyes. From our leave-behinds on the road: Smell the wheat as it burns but Watch the fire as we go. We traced shapes into our thighs with blades of grass. Each cut we made was deeper than the last; Our faces bled through the air like balsa wood and plastic. Spinning like toy plane propellersCrop dusters in circles. Circling the fields that we trapped ourselves in Until the sprinklers came on.
81
Malloy ‘16
82
In All My Contemplation Mackenzi Johnson
I put a cigarette to my lips. I’ve been thinking about how he told me I’m a spitting image of toxic, how every chemical works together in perfect harmony to strip the world of its charisma, to deepen the wound. But his green eyes, they remind me of spring, righteous and alive, an end to a bitter winter, the answer to everyone’s prayer. Every hand-sculpted column, every statue dedicated to a Goddess, every representation of love, I thought to myself, turns to rubble. Every wave crashes, and every flower loses a petal or two, or three. So when every chemical stops working in perfect harmony to keep me alive, I’ll wait for the smoke to kill me instead. Maybe, if he were right about me, being an expiration date, a death sentence, it would please him. In all my contemplation, with a cigarette to my lips, I had forgotten to light it. 83
Pijaca ‘16 84
Dream Chaser
Min Jun “Ryan“ Kim On a glazing night, I look up to the sky very deep and deep. I talk to all the stars upon, I looked at the sky, They blinked and blinked. Filled with dreams and hopes. I asked if I could reach my goals and dreams that I desire everyday. Stars replied. My potentials. My dreams. My faith. My hope. Are limitless. Just like the stars out there in the universe. It is up to me. I can stay here keep dreaming about it or I can go back on my journey to chase it.
85
Fenner
86
The Wall
Raymond Reeves
When the Berlin Wall was constructed, families were split in two, workers were barred from their jobs, and military force tried to obliterate all those who dared oppose the wall. Later more houses were torn down to build a buffer zone, filled with barbed wire and guards ready to shoot those who dared to cross. Ninety-six miles long, twelve feet high, the wall cut through the heart of Berlin, tearing apart lives strung in-between. A year after the wall was constructed my grandfather built a house with an unfinished bomb shelter. He decided never to finish, as a world after nuclear holocaust would not be worth living in. I was named Raymond after him. When I was 8 years old I played in that concrete bunker and wondered if perhaps that room was never finished because my grandfather had faith that mankind would not annihilate itself. In my childhood bedroom, my parents allowed me to paint my ceiling with constellations. As I fell asleep each night, I would look up at the stars and give myself hope as I imagine a new tomorrow where I can break down all the walls between us. Two generations of my family have lived through the Cold War; my mother was born at roughly the same time the wall was built. A generation of progress stood 87
between the truth my grandfather may have believed and me. Walls don’t need to be made from stone, but those that aren’t can still be broken. At the beginning of the Cold War West Berlin was blocked. There was a massive airlift to help those cut off from the basic necessities for life, food and water. They dropped 8000 tons of material per day – with a plane landing or taking off once every 30 seconds. I was one of the last to be born in a hospital two blocks away, a building that no longer exists. Its new walls were erected eight blocks from here, so you see, I’ve come full circle. Keep in mind that not all walls are bad; these walls give life, comfort and aid the people in this neighborhood. So, if you are to tell me that walls are to keep me from my dreams, I’ll remember the 5,000 Berliners that went over those walls to accomplish their dreams reuniting with their families for a better future. And I’ll remember that twenty-eight years later the people tore down the wall, brick by brick, leaving no stone between. So when I meet you, be patient while we tear down the walls together. No matter what reason there is for one, a wall is just a wall. It doesn’t matter how you get over it, whether with help or by yourself, just remember to ask for a hand if you need it.
88
Mullaney ‘16 89
Lingering
ReAnnen Hogan I love the way my name slips off your tongue like honey in the heat of summer. I love the way you make it sound like my name belongs to you and it’s safe between your lips forever. I love the way your scent lingers on my skin like rain in the air after a storm. I love the way it smells like your scent belongs to me and it’s safe in my skin forever. I love the way your smile sticks to the back of my eyelids like flower petals on the water. I love the way you make it look like your smile is because of me and it’s safe between your dimples forever. I love the way my heart beats for yours like autumn leaves to the ground. I love the way it feels like my heart belongs to you and it’s safe with yours forever.
90
Azizi ‘15 91
The Declaration of (Semi)Independence Hiliana Melo
Forty-five dollars and eighty-three cents, that’s what the cashier says. I swipe my brand new debit card and sign my name. With this gesture, I declare my independence. For the first time in my life, I went to the supermarket by myself to buy groceries and other useless luxuries that would only belong to me and no one else, the world never seemed so scary. I could almost feel the umbilical cord being ripped off as I walked alone through the store. Not long ago my mom would knock on my door on a Saturday morning and ask if I wanted to go shopping with her. I always went shopping with her. It was my favorite Saturday activity; even though I had to spend the whole morning listening to her say that inflation was going to make us starve to death. Now as I walk by the shelves, I find myself wishing that my mom was here with me, and I realize that this single wish goes against all the efforts that I have made to fight against my Latin American heritage. I come from a traditional Latin American family. I’m the second child of four children, with parents that are distant cousins and have been married for almost twenty-five years; I also have a maid that has been working in my house for at least fourteen years and who I see as a second mother. We can be considered the perfect example of a Latin American family: numerous, loud, and above all very close. It is widely agreed in Brazil and all other Latin American countries, for that matter, that our first responsibilities are within our families, or as we say in Brazil: a familia vem primeiro. (the family comes first). This was statement that I always tried to fight, but like a riptide it always pulled me back. If you would ask me four months ago what I really wanted, I would say be dragged out of that dependent, family-based reality in which I was part of. After I came to an American boarding school all of that changed. Friday’s family dinners became late night hang outs with friends; the laugh of siblings became the smirk of people that I had never seen before and mother and daughter grocery shopping time became lonely walks through supermarkets. That was when I realized what freedom really is. On the one hand I had my new92
ly gained independence, on the other, the fear and insecurity of being all by myself for the first time. What those first four months taught me was that independence is not acquired instantly. It is a process, a wall that is build block by block. It also isn’t an all or nothing situation, now I feel like I can wish for my parents to tell me what to do without hurting my short wall. I will probably never get used to this independence-mad world that I wished for when I was younger and now is my reality. Nevertheless, I would never be happy if I had stayed at home and done what thousands of people have done before. Even if I change and become someone different, I know that deep inside I will always be the good child from the well respected Latino family, and like we say in Brazil, good children always come back home.
Emus ‘16
93
DePersio ‘15
94
95
Innocence
Moira Mullaney As my vision is blurred by the snowflakes glued to my eyelashes The world is silent but I hear my heart Beating out of my chest Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear vision Need a clear mind Need a clear heart You are all that I see You are all that I feel You are everywhere Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear vision Need a clear mind Need a clear heart I wish I could erase the scars on my heart with a shake of an Etch A Sketch Every mistake, every broken promise Comes crashing down on me The weight of the world is on my back My knees buckle from the pressure I fall to the ground My lungs are being crushed I can’t breathe I can’t see The recipe of snow, tears & mascara creates a beautiful disaster across my face A heartbreaking piece of art
96
Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear vision Need a clear mind Need a clear heart Shining snow crystals gleam & with every step I take there is a wink in my direction I stop. Laying down on my back in the snow
97
Carroll ‘16 98
A Crisis of the Wandering Mind Olivia Lockbaum
What will you do with your life? Or on the smaller scale, What will you do with today? The question Is not a matter of what you can do It is a matter of what you will do. What’s stopping you? Stick it to the man Screw the feds Get a tat Give yourself dreads Sit in a tree Go on a hike Spend $1000 Ride a bike Across the states Travel far Sleep outdoors Watch the stars Search the Galaxies Search your mind Make a mixtape Try being kind Kiss a friend Take a stroll Skinny dip Search your soul Dive through the sky Sail through the clouds Pray to something Make yourself proud Buy a ticket Going one way Protest something 99
Carpe diem//seize the day Sing Take a trip Go to church Pierce your lip Learn what you want Forget what you don’t Climb a peak Do What you normally Don’t We all crave adventure Go after it. Just don’t conform You weren’t created To be anyone else Fear nothing For that’s what holds you back Laugh a lot Do something new So what’s preventing you? Money? Money is created to be spent People? Who cares what they think Remember Opinions are finite But memories last as long as you do.
100
Pijaca ‘16 Underground
John (Jack) Chase The man across from me sits plain and ‘lone. Two scar’d eyes upward ‘ligned do read while red; their faded blue stare through the cracked stone unphas’d they see true what all live to dread A tear rolls down his cheek but not of fear I ask, “Are you alright, sir, you’ve just shed--” “For all my life I have been blind, my dear, today my wife passed, but I’ve seen clear: she told me, ‘All is right,’ when all was not, ‘your eyes show black as night when all is bright,’ but only when she’s out of sight, I grasp: in love, she steer’d me to what I’d forgot, ‘but sight does show life’s old pieces and fights all human’ty’s sought,’ I see now God at last.”
101
Stress
Jocelyn Emus The pressure is on, An inevitable force, Forced upon us all Boulders resting atop your chest, Getting underneath the bone, Underneath the nerves To drag you down Adding weight by weight Sinking into the abyss of no return Heavier the world becomes, Never resting, eyes blood-shot, Open to the black flame As the gray mist sets in, Resting in our lungs, Gravity clings to us Ready to make the greatest fall, To crack our insides open, Clinging on until the end
102
Su ‘15 Cleansing Ritual Emma Berry
As she let the steam fill up her lungs, she looked up seeing the pattern of the tiles clinging to the wall. Her naked body let the tumbling showers caress her. The hot drops comforted her, not letting a single piece of skin be untouched. She closed her eyes and held her breath. As her pulse began to slow, her mind came to a stop. Those thoughts that haunted her, became absorbed by the cleansing waters. Trickling down the ends of her hair, to the tips of her fingers, sliding down her legs and into a puddle surrounding her feet. She stepped aside, opening her eyes, and watched as the thoughts slowly make their way to the drain. She gasped-As she let the steam fill up her lungs. 103
Carroll ‘16 Philophobia
Mackenzi Johnson Do you fear a whirlpool? Even if it spirals into glory? Do you fear a nebula? Even if the star is the most beautiful light your eyes have ever known? Do you fear the crash of a wave? Even if your skin embraces every grain of salt the ocean has to offer? Philophobia: the intense fear of falling in love, resulting in solitude. You clench your jaw, and your hands tremble 104
at the thought of him. You’re alone in this universe, surrounded by dead air, just trying to catch your breath. He touches you, and your skin tingles with unwanted excitement. Everything is spinning now, the way you imagine a tornado reaching for every window, every nail, every leftover crumb, so unforgivingly appreciating what you overlooked, but you were never actually scared, because you never actually expected it to touch the ground. For fear of oblivion, or for fear of heaven, for fear of drowning, or for fear of floating, for fear of the unknown, or for fear of knowing all there is to know, you ran. Nothing was safe there. So you put yourself into the middle of the ocean, where the waves rose above the moon, where you had nowhere to run, where he couldn’t reach you, where your skin embraced every grain of salt the ocean had to offer. Stars would explode, in the name of love, but not you. You would crawl into 105
a whirlpool of glory, and spiral into the ground, having loved every day of your life, without even knowing it.
106
Renzoni ‘17 107
Stigma
Megan Kralj My world reeks of parasitic rancor, With no chitin to hide my bitter laughter. The roach –micro monster –merely waits for Masses to trod upon dreams sought after. Stepp’d on incessantly, casting sighs deaf— Crush the stigma, whose hydraulics better Adorn splatter’d flooring. 6e 6f! This decaying fate is its fetter. The sole hero is that, “degradation,” Guarding the door to her true corruption, Arised from that disease: human cruelty. She wields the key, a thousand year naivety. For if wisdom reach’d her, like a cruel tune, We should fall to that corruption too soon.
108
Carroll ‘16 109
How To Be Happy And Have Lots of Friends Michael Papetti
You sit alone tapping in your room. You’ve noticed that the keyboard clacking you make has begun to keep tempo with your clock. You stop. It hangs on the wall. They synchronicity bothers you. You decide to take a break. You’ve been typing all night on something that will never get done. Hopeless. Take a breath. Stop what you’re doing and notice the light has been peeking from behind your curtain for some time now. You can tell because the beams of light have reached the corner of your face. It keeps patches of your cheek warm as you have been still for quite some time now. The rest of the house is cold. That is the best way to describe it. Not a nail biting event in which you require every blanket in your household. It is a raw type of cold. Your skin is chapped as you look around your room. Bottles of things, books, cups, a blanket on the floor. Pants strewn on chairs. The phone rings. “Hey, I have an idea.” You ask what it is. “Come outside and I’ll show you.” You pull on some clothes and wander down into your house. You open your refrigerator. It doesn’t have much in it. A bottle of mustard, milk, various types of alcohol that you like to keep refrigerated, a half dozen eggs, and some bread. You grab some alcohol and an egg. Breakfast of champions. You walk outside with a glass and a hard boiled egg some minutes later. Your friend has been waiting for you. He seems different some how. But you don’t know exactly how different. It’s definitely something though. “Hey, looks like you had a good night.” You explain to him how you were working all night on a book. “You’re going to kill yourself if you keep working like this. Why don’t you just take a break. It’s been months.” He’s right. You just don’t want to admit to him. He’s always such a jerk. He always tries to help you but it’s never for just you. You ignore his last comment and ask what his idea was. 110
“Okay, listen. Here’s the thing. You know that?” He points at it. You look and nod. You are perfectly aware of it. It is there at every second. It waits and does nothing. It has for your entire life. Before your parents, before their parents. Before everyone. It has slipped through the cracks of time and space and remains there waiting for you. For you. It bothers you sometimes. Most of the time. It’s there though. When it doesn’t bother you, it’s only because you forget it’s there. You’ve lived with it so long, you’re only ever aware of it when people point it out now. “It’s been here as far back as I remember. It’s ever present, always waiting. Somehow cant avoid it, right?” He doesn’t wait for you to nod this time. “I found a way to get rid of it.” You laugh at him and tell him he’s full of it. You begin to walk away but he’s usually right, right about everything. You don’t want to know what happens when it goes away. You’ve never wanted to know. “I know you want it to go away, everyone does!” he calls after you. You know. You turn around on your doorstep. He is twenty feet away from you. You ask him to tell you how. You notice once again that there is something different about him. “You can kill it.” Realization. It’s gone. Well, his is. You look around to the people walking down your street. Theirs are there. Yours is here. His is gone. There is nothing there where it usually is or, was. Why. How. You ask him these things. “You think about killing it.” Everyone has thought about killing it. If they didn’t, they were dead early. You live with it. It is yours forever. Much like a best friend, you think about killing it and the consequences. Would 111
you miss it? “It’s much better without it.” You ask if you can write about it. “Yes. Just focus everything on the urge to kill it and it will die. You will never have it again. It’ll be gone for the rest of your life.” It sits there close to you. You don’t know if it can hear him. If it does, wouldn’t it do something? It never does anything. It just waits for you. And follows you, like a sad red balloon held by a little girl. But the string is stapled to your mind. Someone, something put it there when you woke. You know it couldn’t be just you. You thank your friend and go inside. You go back into your house and sit back down on your computer and begin typing. You forget. The next morning you call your friend. It’s still there in the morning, waiting. You get frustrated at him and tell him that it’s impossible to think about killing it. “Fine, alright, maybe I’m asking too much. It took me a while. Okay, stay inside tonight and just look at it. Try to focus as much as possible toward it.” He hangs up. You look at the thing all the time, you could draw it right now if you wanted to. You try thinking about what it looks like. You can’t remember what it looks like. It was dark. This is the only thing you can remember without looking at it. You turn around and it’s there. It takes a while to try and focus on it as though it’s translucent. It is shapeless, you think, although you are unsure because you try to trace the shape of it with your eyes. Each movement of your corneas moves it to your peripherals and you lose focus with it once again. Staring at the middle of it makes the rest of it disappear. You discover how terribly hard it is to look it head on without losing it. After a few hours of sitting on your bed staring at it, you begin to sort out the best way to follow it. As you look in the middle, the edges disappear so look at the top of it. It will drop down so you can only feel it hovering below your nose. Watch it from below but look ahead. Just as you just now became suddenly aware of the sides of your nose, you be112
come aware of it resting there too. It tries to swerve and wobble its way around but you have your eyes ahead and moving back and forth so you it balances right below you. You stare at it for who knows how long but it starts to move back into your vision and none of it disappears. It is entirely in your vision. The black translucent shapeless thing that sits in front of you is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever set eyes on now that it exists in the forefront of your mind. Your entire life has felt this ever present thing hover behind you just in your peripherals waiting for you. As you look to it, I looks into you, or it feels like that. It is morning. Maybe it was already morning but something in the back of your head made you realize it was morning. Maybe you could see that too eventually. You call your friend and tell him that you can see it now. It’s always in your vision now. “Now kill it.” You forgot that that was the goal. You have grown awfully fond of it as it is in your vision now. You hang up without a goodbye. It comes closer to you. It has never moved before now but yet it always has moved. It always moved closer but you never remembered it. Soon, it is so close that the only thing you see is the shade of it. The translucent black. The shapeless horror. It encapsulates you. Holds you close. It is cold but comfortable. It is natural, it is present. It is company. You realize that you could never kill it as it has always been there. It always will be there. Then it scratches you. You only feel a small pain at first but soon, each of it’s countless fingers dig into your skin. You try your hardest to push it away, to kill it. You cant move as it sinks into you, an infinite number of tiny daggers peeking into a gap where it used to be long ago, before your humanity could ever fathom. Where it was before all this. It looks into you one last time as it disappears, the shapelessness seems to turn to smoke as the last whips of it fall down your throat. It is where it has always belonged. You call your friend and explain what happened. “I know,” he says, “I’m sorry. It happened to me too.” 113
You realize why. After it leaves the sides of your eyes, your awareness and into you, the only way to describe how you feel is alone. It is not by your side waiting for you anymore. It does not sit at the horizon of your consciousness. You realize the true vastness of your surrounding as you look around and see that there is nothing occupying this space. You sit on the phone in silence with him. Then you have an idea: simply tell everyone about it. Soon they will all know. You hang up and open your computer, go to the internet. You begin typing. You sit alone tapping in your room. You’ve noticed that the keyboard clacking you make has begun to keep tempo with your clock. You stop.
114
LaMarche ‘15 115
Forsaken Destiny ReAnnen Hogan
Waves crash unto me. Salt burns my remaining scars, As I escape fate.
116
Carroll ‘16
117
Romanova ‘16
Escape
John (Jack) Chase A nap at noon under the sun the tangles of stress unknot, I hum an anvil on weary lids a grassy bed for a locked kid I dream of mages, masters, sages dragons locked in timed cages away from desk, societal stares I drift away, the darkness snares A genuine smile cross my face cramping muscles stuck like paste Envy, contagion, broken hearts my eyes are dams, but never part a hero, brave, an honor’d man fighting ‘gainst himself, a sham 118
Dams look into sky for help painful pressure consume, engulf a diversion play’d night by night starry actors, moon ends the plight the hero made it through this fight Frozen inhale, energy steamy exhale, synergy It takes me back to fantasy long ‘nough to end introspect time is up, circumspect Imagination made your chains. Fire reigns and fire rains. To home anew to better pains.
Kessler ‘17 119
Price ‘15
120
Alone
Moira Mullaney Do you ever just feel alone? Lonely Sitting in a crowded room Laughing with a group of friends Lonely Alone in your room Alone in your head Lonely Sometimes being alone is peaceful Only your own thoughts to hear Peaceful Sometimes being alone is scary Only your own thoughts to hear Scary Sometimes being alone is safe No one to hurt you Safe Sometimes being alone is cruel No one to help you Cruel Sometimes being alone is beautiful Dancing around the room Beautiful Sometimes being alone is overwhelming What is life Overwhelming Being alone is the worst and best thing to be.
121
The Cricket
Miriam Tanenbaum 7:34 PM 9/3/14: There’s a cricket outside my window. It won’t shut the hell up. Shut the hell up, cricket. No one wants you here. I told Dennis to go outside and kill it, but he refused. Of course he did. He’s too nice to do anything like that. Hopefully it’ll go away by the time we go to bed. 2:28 AM 9/4/14: It didn’t go away. Dennis is fast asleep. 9:21 PM 9/8/14: I’d clearly thanked my lucky stars far too soon. The cricket is back. After a five day respite, my faith in god is now dwindling thanks to this goddamn cricket. 12:46 AM 9/17/14: I’m kind of coming to expect this from the cricket. Apparently it’s been nine days. I’ve been able to sleep soundly, so that’s a plus. So has Dennis. He’s had no problem with it, as usual. That man always sleeps like a baby, and he gets pissed when I’m grumpy in the morning. It’d been good to not be as grumpy in the morning. Getting sleep is good. I have a feeling that, that may end now, though. Well, here goes nothing. 9:12 PM 9/18/14 I slept alright last night. The cricket chirped, but it wasn’t too loud. It was okay. 7:53 PM 9/21/14: 122
I saw a big green bug while I walked Panda last night. I think it might have been the cricket. It didn’t chirp at all, it just looked at me a bit. It was kinda cute. Panda tried to chase him, but the cricket just stood still, so I took Panda into the backyard and played fetch for a while. 8:31 PM 9/27/14: Dennis broke up with me today. He took me out to a nice dinner, too. That asshole. Even when he’s being a dick, he has to do it nicely. Thank god for the industrial-sized tub of Ben & Jerry’s I have in the freezer. Well, that, and Panda. And the Cricket. Maybe when I’m going to sleep tonight I won’t feel as alone after all. 12:23 AM 9/28/14: The Cricket’s been chirping for about three hours straight. He’s always been nothing if not persistent, but this is new for him. It kinda seems like he’s telling me goodnight. Thanks, little buddy. 10:43 AM 9/28/14: There’s a kind of calm that washes over you after you cry for a good, long, while. It makes you feel like maple syrup, sinking, slowly but surely, into whatever surface you are placed on. Shit. Now I’m hungry. I’m gonna make pancakes. 11:30 AM 9/28/14: I gave a pancake to Panda. Maybe that wasn’t the greatest idea, but his tail wagged a lot when I did it. It’s good to know I can still make someone happy. I don’t know if crickets can eat pancakes, but I put some outside, too. Just in case. 2:29 PM 9/28/14:
123
I think there may be a few bites out of the pancake. 9:32 PM 9/28/14: The Cricket’s really loud tonight. Maybe it’s a sugar rush. 7:17 PM 10/7/14: It’s getting dark earlier now. I like it. It means that the Cricket comes out earlier. He just started singing for the night. 8:34 PM 10/10/14 I think Panda is starting to like the Cricket, too. He’s sleeping in my bed again, which he hasn’t done since Dennis moved in. 9:53 PM 10/24/14: Dennis called me today, he said something about how he missed me, I think. I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the Cricket. I hung up the phone and deleted his number. All-in-all, I’m glad it’s over between us. 11:12 PM 10/31/14: Some kids came over to the house to Trick-or-Treat tonight. They were cute. There were a bunch of ghosts, vampires, and witches. None of them were particularly original, but I gave them candy anyway. I hope it makes them happy. One of them said he could hear a cricket coming from my backyard. I smiled and told him that he was a smart kid. 6:43 PM 11/09/14: The days are getting short now, and it’s getting cold. I like this weather, it changes things. We’re supposed to be getting some snow on Tuesday night. I’ve started running in the mornings, and 124
sometimes I hear the Cricket. IPods are overrated, anyway. 10:45 PM 11/11/14: I’ve only recently noticed that I’ve started going to sleep earlier. I don’t know whether or not this is a good thing. The Cricket is chirping pretty loud tonight, maybe it senses that a storm is coming. 9:10 AM 11/12/14: We wound up with a foot of snow! Jeez, and all this before Thanksgiving. This is crazy. The Weatherman did not tell me about this. 9:10 PM 11/12/14: I can’t hear the Cricket. 10:32 PM 11/12/14: I don’t hear him chirping. 11:43 PM 11/12/14: Where are you, little buddy? 12:02 AM 11/13/14: There’s so much snow. I went outside, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I’ll check again tomorrow morning. 9:32 AM 11/13/14: I still couldn’t find him. 1:42 PM 11/13/14: 125
I brought Panda out to help me find the Cricket. He sniffed around a bit, but didn’t find anything other than a comfortable place to pee. 8:39 PM 11/13/14: There’s no sign of The Cricket. There’s no chirping. 11:43 PM 11/13/14: It’s too quiet to sleep. 1:42 AM 11/14/14: Come back, little buddy. Please. 3:21 AM 11/15/14: Please.
126
Autumn has Wind Julia Harvey
秋有风 冬有霜 春有好多花儿 夏有蓝天 四季给每个人留下很深的印象 秋天的风又凛冽又平静 冬天白色霜看起来像冬季仙境 春天好多美丽花都绽放 夏天的温暖的气候 暖和空气让大家很惬意 Autumn has wind Winter has frost Spring has many flowers And Summer has blue skies The four seasons leave behind a profound impression for each person Autumn’s wind is strong but calming Winter’s white frost looks like a winter wonderland. The many beautiful flowers of Spring are all blooming And Summer’s pleasantly warm air makes everyone happy
127
Hogan ‘16 The Rye
Michael Papetti What really happened in Chicago was all a lie to me The warmth, the warmth Felt like orange juice for a dollar The air reeked of kerosene She died in the summer Of 85 along with Grampa and they all went to Her funeral. Don’t cop a feel Bear like hands Sunk into seduction one Last time. No, we wont. We wont go riding With that one. 128
Lack in kisses And caramel dollar bills Tasting plastic and Drinking corduroy. Teddy wasn’t old enough To drown in orange Juice and live In kerosene.
Renzoni ‘17 129
Castro ‘15
130
Starry Night
Yadi(Andy)Wang Sometimes alone I look up at the starry night, and the only thing with me is countless stars from the sky. Remember old days you and I, peaceful town and the same sky, but brilliant dreams are too easy to die. Lonely is missing someone who is not by my side. Millions of people met in my life, but only a few did not say good-bye. Someone and I together laughed and cried, who left and no longer back to my life. O, starry night, for thousands and thousands of years, neither changes nor lies. O, starry night, your beauty of eternal silence is hard to describe. We’re all connected in your gentle eyes. We’re all relaxed in your charming smiles. O, starry night, please hold me tight; I know one day all my secrets and memories will be about to die, but you will still stay alive.
131
Asthma
Jack Baker “You are only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” A great friend of mine used to say that. I didn’t exactly know him. Although, he did talk to me very often. Years ago, madness sparked upon me. I couldn’t bear to go on with my life anymore. I found it too extreme to breath the same air as the pricks on this planet. I tried to see what a clean slate would be like. Help from others was like an emotional inhaler. Now I have been breathing easy. My friend inspired me to do as he had done. It was only until he couldn’t bare the breath that we had inhaled. My cards fell from my hands like a bridge that had reached its breaking point. My heart had skipped a beat, from the miss of oxygen that my lungs had weaped for. My friend started over. Look at his face on magazines, you’ll see the pain eyes like a dried up ocean. I guess for years he has been struggling with this asthma of pain. I didn’t know Robin, but I still feel that we knew each other. “If heaven exists, to know that there is laughter, that would be a great thing.”
132
Decomposing Thoughts Megan Kralj
Sole contact with glistening tiles Please work your magic, cold integrity A shiver travels up my spine While cleanliness weaves itself through the air Not truly being, yet consuming reality Cellular snowflakes searching for souls How do I respond as the populace raise their heads? My trembling fingers graze the walls The why do we truly seek ourselves? What about our idiosyncratic paradoxes? Is there truly an orthodox hatred? So what do we make in light of this world? How about the technicolor stains on the wall? All of this miserable bliss is incomprehensible Told you so. Ha ha ha ha ha. Numbers and words conceptually blend Synthesizing an organic sound. Life will love me to bits ‘Till there only remains pulsing, fleshy cubes. And we can paint a future by smearing the past. And we can evaporate both smiles and tears. For the sake of sanity For the sake of eternity For raw, dripping emotion I stand here and remain as a concept. So how do we truly understand? 133
Is there even a defined infinity for our minds? What about the idea of a real knowledge? Why are these thoughts decomposing? Will this rotting mess ever be cleaned up? I definitely don’t want it to be. Well, there. You. Go. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha.
134
JJ ‘15 135
Isackson ‘15 The night at Maunakea Peak Una Zhang
The night at Maunakea peak The sun is rushing to the other side of the sea Stage is left for the super stars To shining all over the place Lightning people all over the mountain Twinkling and twinkling, shining and shining Like a hundred fireworks burn at once Like a hundred glowing confetti falling and dancing Not even one single spot is left for darkness All reserved for those blinking diamonds Amazed people growing up among forest of concrete and steels Only lights and neon take the roles Amazed people like me Looking into the sky Thinking Somewhere in the space Someone must be also astonished by the starry night Just like me 136
Sebag ‘15 137
138
Sadhujan ‘15 139
140