Zephyr 2008

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Installation Sculpture • Casey Gollan

Zephyr 2008 Âś Volume 48

Rye High School 1 Parsons Street

Rye, NY 10580

914-967-6100

zephyrmag.com

Left Sculpture • Liza Langer Right Photograph • Riccardo Zagorodneva The Zephyr Staff is thrilled to present you with our 48th edition. This year we exhibit a collection of brilliant new art & literature by students of Rye High School! In fact, our artists and authors are so busy that we are publishing the largest Zephyr ever.

Looking back through the Zephyrs of the 60’s it is clear how radically the magazine has changed, but yet the valuable traditional arts remain.

This year, we have seen an extraordinary surge in the interest, quality of work, and sheer number of sculptures being created. Sculptural works became a staple of this year’s magazine and in the end, we wondered how we ever got along without so much beautiful 3D art!

The work in this issue is very sophisticated, and the magazine is designed to echo that sophistication. We vowed never to design for the sake of design, only to elevate the work, otherwise, to become invisible.

The result is a minimally and efficiently designed magazine that provides a delicous and complex experience.

Though much has changed, we have retained our same simple editorial policy: choose the pieces we love to make a magazine we love!

Putting together a magazine is no easy task. Many decisions had to be made regarding not only what we do and do not want to publish, but what we can and cannot publish. Through late nights at school, long discussions, and hard work (but mostly lots of fun) we have completed another edition. In the end, Zephyr is ultimately a reflection of the students, and we couldn’t be happier with it! So please, take off your shoes and let the creativity flow through your body while you are reading. You will not be disappointed.

Casey Gollan & Andra Khoder Editors-in-Chief

Contents

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“Mr. J and Mr. H (Yes/No)” poem by Oliver Callund sculpture by Chuantong Ma

3

4

5

6

“Aquarium” poem by Caroline Higgins “I Wake Up...” poem by Jeff Bouton sculpture by Ryan Cavataro

7

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“Pool” foreign language by Alexis Gothburg photograph by Kelly O’neil

9 10

painting by Megan Cindrich “Perfect Daddy” non-fiction by Elise Yannett

11 12

sculpture by Liz Chabot “True Art” poem by Ryo Takahashi

13 14

“Beauty is in the Eye of the Business” essay by Marguerite Ward painting by Kelsey Longo

“Becoming a Big Girl” non-fiction by Monica Pfister photograph by Sarah Krikorian

“Asymmetrical Anger” poem by Dale Neuringer ceramic teapot by Liza Langer

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“Beauty” poem by Matt Moseman “Une Soree Sans Espor” foreign language by Caitlin Hartnett drawing by Oliver Callund

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“Observer” poem by Caroline Higgins drawing by Andra Khoder

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“Cuando/When” foreign language by Molly Simonson clay teapot by Liza Langer

19 20

“Helen” fiction by Janina Lagemann-Doné photographs by Lia Meyerdicks

21 22

“Cry, Baby, Cty” poem by Sarah Tartaglia “Rosebuds” poem by Sarah Krikorian

23 24

drawing by Brittany Fog “Parody of the Month” poem by Monica Pfister

25 26

“Lollipops and Orange Slides” non-fiction by Caitlin Gager sculpture by Liz Chabot

27 28

“Posture” short story by Matt Moseman digital photographs by Rick Zagorodneva

29 30

“Fat as a Toothpick” fiction by Sarah Tartaglia digital image by Kelsey Longo

31 32

Center Spread photograph by Riccardo Zagorodneva

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photogram by Lia Meyerdiercks “Fire and Brimstone” fiction by Jesseca Turner

35 36

digital photograph by Katherine Marchand “Dream Within a Dream” foreign language by Julia Fiala

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drawing by Kelsey Smith “Gallery Germans” poem by Dale Neuringer “I Walk Slowly” poem by Dale Neuringer

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sculpture by Liz Chabot “A Modern Day Tragedy” foreign language by Casey Heil “Orange Marker” poem by Janina Lagemann-Doné photograph by Betsy Holleran “All Love Songs End” poem by Sarah Krikorian “Fashionably Late” poem by Matt Moseman

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“Soldier” poem by Caroline Higgins photograph by Michael Julian “So” short story by Dale Neuringer

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“Forever 15” short story by Caroline Higgins

47 48

“Untitled (Circles)” foreign language by Alex Giroux sculpture by Chuantong Ma

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photograph by Ali Kane “Without You” poem by Casey Heil

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photograph by Tori Stearns “These Words Don’t Do You Justice” poem by Caroline Higgins

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ceramic teapot by Liza Langer sculpture by Chuantong Ma “Spring” foreign language by Yoon Jeong Choi

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digital photograph by Ryan Cavataro “Emerging” poem by Hannah VanDolsen “Winter Arrived” foreign language by Daniel Altschuler

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“Una Rosa” foreign language by Luca Carboni & Anna Borgogni drawing by Elizabeth MacAulay

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sculpture by Liz Chabot “Whispers of time” poem by Elise Yannett

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graphite drawing by Emily Woodthorpe “Rememberance” poem by Marguerite Ward “Tailor” poem by Marguerite Ward digital image by Will Galperin

“Fortunate” non-fiction by Monica Pfister photograph by Casey Gollan digital image by Amanda McLaughlin “Labyrinthine” fiction by Leon Husock

“Spring Snow” foreign language by Seira Mori “Golden Supernovas” poem by Jesseca Turner digital photograph by Caroline Higgins

Cover, Inside Cover

installation sculpture by Casey Gollan

Disk Art

digital photograph by Riccardo Zagorodneva

Colophon!

The 48th volume of Zephyr Art & Literary Magazine was produced on Dell computers running Windows XP, Adobe InDesign CS3, and Adobe Photoshop CS3. Headlines and display text are set in Century Schoolbook. Body Text is set in Garamond Premier Pro. Rye Printing Inc. printed 800 copies on beautiful 80lb matte stock with a 100lb cover. We chose matte paper to create a better feeling Zephyr while preserving the brilliance of the text and images. Zephyr was made possible by the financial support of Dr. Rooney and the Rye City School District and the fabulous individuals who contributed all their time, art, and effort. Special thanks to Mrs. Julianne May also to Mr. Allen Fields for an amazing donation of photographic lights! Enjoy Zephyr!

Mr. J and

Mr. H (yes/no) Poem • Oliver Callund

Once there was…

Why bother?

What am I supposed to do now?

Come up with a brilliant idea that will make you think?

Make you laugh, cry… feel?

If I’m not mistaken, it’s all been said.

Everything I write won’t be enough.

Will it?

“You’re just…satisfactory” you’ll say Not worth our time.

There is no point It’s “amateurish” Not enough imagery.

And they’ll stamp it with colossal crimson letters REJECTED! You want imagery Well here it is I’ll shove it down your throat until that gagging feeling makes you feel as if your damn intestines would spill all over the frosty tiles.

Make you cringe so that it will feel as if a million needles pricked every pore on your deadened body.

You might cry with those cascading sea salt tears that will expel over the floor while I snicker at your idiocy.

Who gives you the divinity and supremacy to judge me?

You don’t like it?

TOUGH! Call us angry Call me mean Who freaking care?

I don’t!

I’m sorry I didn’t mean to yell.

NO, I LIE! I want to yell!

No, I don’t But they’re loathsome How do They know?

Well… to tell You the truth, how do You know?

Sculpture • Chuantong Ma

Sculpture • Ryan Cavataro

I Wake Up...

Poem • Jeff Bouton I wake up at dawn each morning Not knowing what to expect.

Is see a kid skateboarding And a kid breathing down my neck.

I walk through the long narrow hall With people telling me what to do.

They are talking in many languages From English to Hebrew.

They tell me to do this and try that.

I’m scared they might hit me with a bat.

I run away in fear.

But the same people are there No matter which direction I steer.

It’s always the same, day in and day out.

Someday they will force me to try it, no doubt.

4

Sculpture • Ryan Cavataro

Aquarium Poem • Caroline Higgins

Glowing, flushed bodies Pulsating and surprisingly peaceful Illuminate the surrounding royal blue Beautiful, brave and dangerous Each drags long hair behind him Each strand a lethal weapon Tinged with pink and purple The mushrooms of yielding jelly Squirm, slither and swim Curiosity compels children To reach out and touch the jellyfish But their small hands eventually collide With a wide wall of glass

Becoming a Big Girl Non Fiction • Monica Pfister I ask my mom today, Do you remember what happened when I fell down the stairs? She says, Sort of, but go ask Dad because I wasn’t there. I say, I know that Daddy was there. That part I remember.

I didn’t want to go with Daddy. That wasn’t the routine.

I knew what was supposed to happen: graham cracker snack at Woodward nursery school every day (made into a formal affair so that we three- and four-year-olds would practice our manners: Would you please pass the apple juice? Thank you very very much); afternoons with Mommy and baby Claire on the apartment building’s outdoor playground (where I triumphantly learned to pump my legs on the swing, but loved when Mommy pushed me anyway); and dinner in our cozy white kitchen with the painting of the Iris on the wall (I had once spilled a gallon of grape juice and stained the white tiles deep violet, briefly matching the Iris until a mop brought back the white). That was my routine. And although it was riddled with the mishaps and tangents of a four-year-old in New York, I saw it as a relatively clear-cut schedule, predictable even after the birth of my baby sister. I always knew what would happen, and I liked it.

So when Daddy came home early, changed out of his scrubs even before dinner, I hugged him and asked him what was going on. Hi Daddy, I said, What are you doing here?

My dad smiled an amused adult smile across the room at my mom, and he asked if I would like to go to the park. I looked around. This was not suspicious; this was our routine plus one more. Besides, it would be fun to play with Daddy at the park—he could lift me high off the ground on the seesaw, hold me up to the monkey bars, carry me home once I had tired myself out. I smiled at the idea and ran to the front hall to get my shoes. Let’s go! I said. But where’s Mommy? Are you coming? Let’s go!

I took pleasure from being the bossy ringleader of the rest of my family, so I missed the second, less-relaxed knowing

glance that passed between my mom and my dad. My dad turned to me and said, Mommy’s not coming today; the baby needs to rest and so does Mommy. Okay?

No, I told him, as jealousy rose up in my chest. You stay here; I want Mommy to come. Then cringed as I watched the hurt melt into his gray-blue eyes, because I knew how hard he was trying. Part of me felt how selfish I was being—I was just old enough to recognize a whine—but I cared more about keeping Mommy with me at the park, just like always, than I did about acting mature. Unsure what to do, my dad moved to unfold the pale blue stroller. I shuffled heavily to the front hall to put on my sandals, taking much less pride than normal in doing the two little buckles myself. But as I finished doing up my sandals, my disappointment slowly turned to four-year-old rebellion. I could pump on the swings and buckle sandals on my own. What did I need my family for? Maybe I wanted my parents to stay home with the baby, so there. I was a big girl, and I could do it all myself.

I marched ahead of my dad on the way out of the apartment, little head held high as my ponytail bobbed down the hallway. In the elevator, I stepped through the door without waiting and pressed the button for “Lobby” even before asked.

Then I avoided my dad’s eyes and his attempts at conversation, instead tracing the gaps between the long, mirrored panels on the walls, watching my distorted reflection in the elevator’s reflective inside.

We eventually reached the warm May sidewalk; I got there first, with my dad still bouncing the stroller down the cement staircase behind us. I was ready to lead the way to the purple playground (turning right, then left, left, right) and to relieve the pressure that had built up behind my eyes by running faster, faster, faster across the park’s dirty woodchips. On the cool metal seesaw and on the familiar dented slide I could forget losing my mommy and schedule to this new baby Claire. But when we started rolling, I froze. Daddy, where are we going?

We’re going to a different park today, he said, a park at a school.

My school? I wanted to know. Daddy, we can’t go to that park. We can only go there during school, and today I had a half-day.

No, he told me, we are going to a different playground at a different school, at the nursery school of Rockefeller University. It’s not the purple park, he said, but it’s closer to home, and I think you’ll like it just as much. There’s fun equipment and lots of room to play. So let’s try something new today,

Digital Photograph • Sarah Krikorian okay? Good idea?

I bit my lip in the stroller as we followed a new route (turning left, then right, then right), trying to be independent without my mommy and without the purple park. I didn’t trust this series of changes; I didn’t even trust my daddy. So I was going to do my best to show them all that I could make it by myself.

I passed the next hour or so in relative isolation despite the flurries of other children around me. Instead of interacting with or joining the colorful blur, I focused on mastering the art of the jungle gym alone. Without anyone to help me, the equipment somehow seemed taller and more forbidding—the rings that I normally would have asked my parents to help me reach loomed yellow and taunting above my head. Again and again, I stood up on the toes of my light-up sneakers, casting spurts of lavender light on the woodchips as I reached fruitlessly for the rings; I finally tried shimmying up the pole that held them but slid dejectedly down the side when my sneakers couldn’t grip the dewy plastic. My dad stood off to the side, tentatively offering help every once in a while; every time, I said, No Daddy, I can do it myself.

But when it came time to leave and we reached the steep, metal stairs, my dad glanced doubtfully from me to the railing

and back to me. I stuck out my lower lip out against the suggestion that I knew was coming.

Here, do you want to hold my hand?

No. Why not?

I can do it myself ! I’m a big girl. I don’t need help.

I fixed my eyes on the metal stretched before me, its paint flaking into the breeze, floating delicately to the landing below. I wrapped one little hand around the railing to prepare for the climb.

One of the only clear mental snapshots that I still have from my nursery school years is the view tumbling facefirst along the rough metal. It had slots cut to keep sneakers from slipping in the rain, and I felt the first ridge grate my palm as I thrust it out in front of me—my view of the red stain on my hand was made shaky as I bumped down, confused and out of control. As my hand warmed with blood and skidded down to the next step, I caught a blurry glimpse of the traffic and sidewalk below me. Through panicked tears, I saw my dad look up.

And then he caught me, before my chin could more than nick the perforated steps.

I held my daddy’s hand the rest of the way home.

Pool Piscina Foreign Language Poem • Alexis Gothberg De un cubo de hielo aparece, Cincelada y esculpida al gusto del artista, La forma de una mujer, transparente como el mundo a su alrededor, Fría, pero perfecta para muchos, Serena y observadora para algunos Mundana para unos pocos, Hermosa para uno.

Cabello hacia atras, espalda erecta, labios ligeramente partidos, ojos bien abiertos, Tomando el mundo el que nació, y la gente rodeándola, Sus voces, palabras y opiniones enjuagándola como el océano, ese era su hogar una vez, Continuaron formándola y definiéndola, No puede dar paso al frente sin ellos, Se han convertido en el bloque de hielo que una vez la escondía.

El sol emite fuertes rayos y la golpea sin gracia, La superficie lisa de su mejilla gotea hacia abajo, Alargando su cara prematuramente, Sus fuertes hombros recaen con el peso del aire, Un charco se forma a sus pies, Mientras mira el agua fijamente, Ve que todo lo que ha pasado, todo lo que ha conocido, Lágrimas se resbalan de sus ojos plateados para unirse a la piscina que se agranda por siempre.

Cuando el sol está poniéndose, ella se sumerge en la piscina, Perdida para el mundo para siempre, Mirada y llorada por esa persona que queda, La persona que miró la brillantez de su fresco y nuevo, Y la miró derritiéndose pero ve solo esa brillantez.

Se ha ido, El escultor comienza nuevas historias, Los admiradores van a otras maravillas, Uno recuerda.

From a block of ice it springs, Chiseled and sculpted to the artist’s content, The form of a woman, as transparent as the world around her, Cold, but perfect to many, Serene and observant to some, Otherworldly to a few, Beautiful to one.

Hair blown back, back erect, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, Taking in the world she has been born into, And the people surrounding her, Their voices, words, and opinions washing over her, Like the ocean that was once her home.

They continue to shape and define her, She cannot step forth on her own without them, They have become the block of ice that once hid her.

The sun summits and beats her ungraciously, The smooth surface of her cheek drips downward, Prematurely lengthening her face, Her strong shoulders slump with the weight of air, A puddle forms at her feet.

As she gazes down into the water She sees all that has passed, all that she has known.

As the sun sets, she dives into her pool, Lost to the world forever, Watched and mourned by the one person still left, The one person who watched the brilliance of her fresh and new, And watched her melt.

She is gone.

The sculptor begins new stories, The admirers turn to new wonders, One remembers.

Photograph • Kelly O’Neil

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Painting • Megan Cindrich

Perfect Daddy Non Fiction • Elise Yannett

“My one wish is to have the perfect daddy,” she says, “but I guess that will never come true.” All she wants is a normal childhood.

My eyes cannot meet hers.

Swinging back-and-forth, we look at each other – her wide, gap-toothed smile and curious big eyes meet my straight-laced teeth and sun-squinting stare.

She talks. I listen. She talks. I fight back tears.

She’s nine; I’m seventeen. She’s seen more than I ever want to see; dealt with more than I will probably ever have to deal with.

She’s tough. Or so she tries to be.

And when we walk back inside, she’s holding my hand, but my eyes cannot meet hers. ***

My dad has never done drugs, or so he says, and I believe him.

My dad has never been in jail, and that I definitely believe. He has never worn that itchy orange jumper and those cold metal chains. My dad has visited jails to see the people behind the bars. Her dad is the one staring back at him on the other side.

And when he’s gone it’s because he’s doing business not because he’s doing time. And when he comes home…well, at least he comes home.

My dad did not leave us; he never would. My dad doesn’t use his money for a fix and a “hoe”; he never would. My dad never raped me; he never would.

Hers did.

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Tell your teacher Here’s your poem: .

Just a period. Nothing more.

Surely she’ll tell you There must be more Some hidden meaning Some arcane, cryptic significance.

But no you say.

It’s just a dot. Leave it alone.

Is it a black hole? A microcosm of humanity?

Or perhaps a filthy tear?

No, you say.

It’s my dot. That’s my poem.

Surely you jest, she says.

You mock poetry. You’re a blatant fraud.

No foul grade will suffice for such indecency.

Why, you ask.

Because she says. It doesn’t take much time to think of a dot.

Poems should be longer. They must have meaning.

They must be majestic. And dazzling.

A blank piece of paper isn’t worth grading, she says.

But the paper isn’t blank, you say.

It has my dot. That’s my poetry.

She tells you that you’ve failed.

For you don’t understand poetry.

That’s fine you say.

My poem is not meant to be understood.

It wasn’t meant to be scrutinized.

Or pried apart. Or dissected. Or graded.

Who are you to grade my art.

What is the standard. The customary. The traditional.

The norm.

Well I’m happy with my poetry.

For my poetry is a dot.

That’s right. A dot.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Sculpture • Liz Chabot

True Art Poetry • Ryo Takahashi

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Beauty is in the Eye of the Business The way our values are so easily veered Essay • Marguerite Ward 13 The ad I flipped to was so simple. Pictured in black and white was a man and a woman around 65 years of age wearing fitted hoodie jackets. In front of a gray background, no fake trees or clear blue skies needed, the man leaned against the woman, hugging her with a semi-serious, tired look. One of the woman’s eyes was hidden behind her wispy bangs; she was smiling slightly. Aesthetically, it was such a nice break from the pages and pages of tangerines and fiery reds splashed onto other ads to draw attention. It almost seemed paradoxical that before this particular clothing ad, there was an ad for anti-aging cream and immediately following it, a risqué perfume ad. In its simplicity and acceptance of old age, the hoodie ad was rebelling against everything that today’s pop-culture stands for.

The whole “feel” of the advertisement was not surreal, but remarkably realistic . Maybe it was his hidden wink, or the wrinkles in her hand, or the crows feet that quietly tip-toed to the corner of their eyes, but the elderly models were human. You might mutter, “duh”, but we consumers, in a world of glossing, air-brushing, tanning, and dieting often abandon reality for a perfect form of life that the media projects.

Even more real was my reaction to the picture. I was surprised that an elderly woman could have such free-flowing hair, that an elderly man could look slightly mischievous, that these models were chosen for a youthful clothing ad and not an insurance ad, that the ad even ran in a teen beauty magazine at all. And then, in a little pang of disgust and sorrow, I realized the meaning of my surprise. It is a fault of my own that I allow the media to morph my perception on key topics such as beauty, age, and happiness to the point where I forget that elderly people can be handsome too. But this fault is shared. Assuming that I am a typical teenager who is in touch with pop-culture and all its base, but catchy advertisements, it is also the fault of my generation.

There is an inherit need to help people as they grow older with different and often numerous medical conditions. And so businesses respond

to that need in the market. But is business extending its influence beyond profit and into people’s ethics? Take a look at mid-afternoon TV on a weekday when the majority of men, women and kids are either at work or school and senior citizens are sitting in their living rooms. Hundreds of ads air about insurance, prescription drugs, health machinery, and the latest surgical procedure. They propel this image that if you are old, you are not strong and therefore need drugs and operations to cure you. Did you ever stop to think that perhaps all this focus on the negativity of aging could actually be making aging a negative thing ? In psychology, such a case is called a self-fulfilling prophecy. Companies persuade the public into believing that aging is a negative process that requires lots of medicine. So senior citizens go out and buy products to alleviate themselves of life’s natural process, concentrating on their physical shortcomings, therefore making aging a financially burdening, dependent, and negative process.

We undermine the influence of the media. In the virtual reality it creates, minorities are excluded. One of my professors pointed out, “When do you ever see a disabled man in a commercial for say, Applebees? Or how about a black baby doll? Rarely if at all.” Excluding real life people from the picture can lead to excluding them in day-to-day life. A general acceptance of certain minorities, including the elderly can improve the general welfare of society. In one sense, it could help business.

More people will want to buy a product that advertises people like them.

A real-life approach creates a bond and attracts a profit. On a more personal level, think of it this way—at one point we will be in a minority, (for example, we will be old) so why not educate our contemporaries to accept the diversity of people now? If not for the betterment of society, it will make for better living conditions when we grow old and bored with the pursuit of perfection.

The black and white hoodie ad was intended to sell a product, but for me, it evoked a visceral response. Yet, it shouldn’t have. Let’s revive the ideas of diverse beauty, a content lifestyle, and actual life. Let’s dispose of trashy, unreal advertisements and look to an almost forgotten idea of positive simplicity. We should veer our values so off-course that we forget that old people can be handsome too.

14

Thumbprint Painting Kelsey Longo

Somewhere There is a beautiful girl

Beauty Poem • Matt Moseman

Somewhere there is a beautiful girl With no idea How much I miss her smile When she is gone.

Or when I am gone— Locked away on a desert isle Where I cannot feel her gentle warmth.

15

She likes to torture me, She is a sadist: Taking sick for weeks at a time Just to see my face when she returns; Dumbfounded and Confused.

Her absence is like a hot iron, Searing pain Running through my veins; I get withdrawal.

Pretty girls in the hot tub Don’t compare.

Hot girl on the heater Doesn’t hold my stare Like she does.

I can never get enough.

I want more But it’s gone in a puff Of white smoke; Soft, like her creamy cheekbones…

She is more than the grand prize On the pedestal; Her Beauty lies On the salt of the earth.

If only I could have her Forever For only a second The ocean would be jealous Of my sea of happy tears.

Painting • Oliver Callund

Une Soirée A Night Sans Espoir Without Hope Foreign Language • Caitlin Hartnett

C’était vendredi et il n’était pas encore rentré ; je parle de Monsieur Dupont, bien sûr. Madame Dupont s’inquiétait. Ils devaient aller au cinéma ce soir, rien que tous les deux. Le seul problème était que Monsieur Dupont n’était pas encore rentré du travail. Madame Dupont essayait de s’occuper en nettoyant, pour la centième fois, la table de la cuisine.

Monsieur Dupont travaillait dans un grand bureau au centre de Paris. Il devait partir tôt aujourd’hui. Il devait emmener Madame Dupont au cinéma pour voir le nouveau film d’un jeune producteur américain après avoir mangé dans un restaurant chic au nom de Sans Sel. Il devait déjà être à l’appartement où le couple habitait mais il ne l’était pas.

Il se faisait tard. Madame Dupont pouvait voir les lumières de la Tour Eiffel s’allumer de sa fenêtre. A vingt-trois heures, Madame Dupont abandonna tout espoir et alla se coucher.

Elle ne savait pas que le lendemain elle allait découvrir que son mari était mort d’un accident de voiture. Elle ne savait pas que la police lui dirait que Monsieur Dupont allait trop vite, sûrement essayant de rentrer chez Madame Dupont au plus vite. Elle ne savait rien de tout ça alors elle se coucha et s’endormit pensant à la soirée au cinéma qui ne se passerait pas.

It was Friday, and he wasn’t home yet; I mean Mr. Dupont, of course. Mrs. Dupont was getting worried. They were supposed to go to the movies tonight, just the two of them. The only problem was that Mr. Dupont wasn’t home yet. Mrs. Dupont tried to distract herself by cleaning for the hundredth time the kitchen table.

Mr. Dupont worked for a large company in the center of Paris. He was supposed to leave early today. He was supposed to take Mrs. Dupont to the movies to see a young American producer’s newest film after having eaten at the fancy restaurant, Sans Sel. He was supposed to already be at the apartment where the couple lived, but he wasn’t.

It was getting late. Mrs. Dupont could see the lights of the Eiffel tower light up from her window. At eleven o’clock, Mrs. Dupont gave up all hope and went to bed. She didn’t know that the next morning she would discover that her husband was killed in a car accident. She didn’t know that the police would tell her that Mr. Dupont had been going too fast, probably trying to get home to Mrs. Dupont as fast as he could. She didn’t know anything of this so she went to bed and fell asleep dreaming of the night at the movies that would never happen.

17

Observer

Drawing • Andra Khoder

Poem • Caroline Higgins Sitting, silently staring off into space Tapping his feet on the floor, his hand on the table Absent-mindedly practicing drumbeats

White headphones shoved into his ears.

Their white trails tracing back to the source Of the music which motivates and drives

Occasionally laughing to himself Recalling a funny incident or line from “The Office.”

Frequently leaning over To pat our stocky yellow lab on the head.

I can hear the AC/DC from across the kitchen table.

The bass causes surrounding objects to vibrate Dancing to the tune of the beloved classic rock

Dirty blonde hair hangs past his ears.

Under a blue baseball cap for the team he cheers Led Zeppelin spelled in huge white print On a black T-shirt from last Christmas Video iPod in the pocket of his cargos

He taps the chewed pencil In his enormous hand On his AP World binder Before turning to me And demanding “What are you looking at?

Freak.”

When When I look at you I see the morning light And the glow of the midnight moon.

White I listen to you I hear jazz music And the flow of a river.

When I touch you I feel the warmth of the tropical sun And sand falling through my hand.

When I smell you I smell fresh air And flowers in the morning when there are still dewdrops.

Cuando Cuando yo te miro Yo veo el sol de la mañana Y el resplandor de la luna de medianoche.

Cuando yo te escucho Yo oigo la música jazz Y el flujo del río Cuando yo te toco Yo toco el calor del sol tropical Y la arena cayendo por la mano.

Cuando yo te huelo Yo huelo el aire fresco Y las flores de la mañana cuando todavía hay gotas de rocío.

Foreign Language Poem • Molly Simonson Ceramic Teapot • Liza Langer

Helen

Photograph •Lia Meyerdiercks

Short Story • Janina Lagemann-Doné

I stared at him through the wires of the cage. He did nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. I tapped the sides of the enclosure to make sure that my new best friend hadn’t already died. But he wasn’t dead. I mean, I had just bought him.

Hamsters are supposed to live for four years, not four minutes.

Maybe he didn’t like my house. I might have just picked out a hamster that didn’t care for my mother’s eclectic décor.

I took his cage and moved him by the window. Sunlight makes plants happy; maybe my new hamster would also benefit from a bit of natural light.

Blink.

Blink.

Squint.

I was beginning to believe that he was either crippled or sick.

“Mom,” I yelled from my room, “Where’s our thermometer?”

“Bathroom!” She screamed louder than necessary, making the

hamster flinch. Finally the rodent showed some sign of life.

“What’s wrong, Honey?” called my mother.

“The hamster’s a retard.” By that point I was convinced that this was true. On second thought, it could have just had a case of rodent ADD. I didn’t know.

“What?” My mom had come into my room and stood next to me, joining me in the stare-down of my new pet hamster.

“He’s dumb. Look at him.”

“Hey! Just because he’s a little shy doesn’t mean he’s . . . a retard or whatever. Take a look at Helen Keller—” “Mom, she’s dead.”

“Don’t interrupt me. Helen was called deaf, dumb, and blind.

Then she got help, and with a lot of patience she eventually said WaWa.” “WaWa?” “My point is that they taught a deaf person how to speak. For

the first time in her life, Helen Keller asked for water.”

“You scared the living bajeesus out of me you little jerk. Go to “Okay,” I was apparently missing the point, “So?” bed!”

“So, you should treat your hamster like a little Helen. Be “No, Mom, you have to come see Helen first.” I marched down patient. Give him time.” the hallway to my room. My mother trailed behind, bumping She then asked me if I had done my homework. I said I had. into walls, drunk from sleep. Once there, we observed.

Satisfied, she left the room. I pulled up a chair and sat by my “It’s called being nocturnal. Something we’re not. Go to bed.” rodent whom I later named Helen. He stared at me with his She walked out of my room. I stayed still, and just gazed at my tiny, buggy black eyes and took his first step forward. We were little running Helen. I heard my mom turn off the lights in her making progress. room, grunt, mumble, sneeze, and then cover herself with her I sat by his cage and watched him sleep. I wondered what comforter. he dreamt, and then came to the conclusion that he dreamt So much for teaching my hamster how to run. I went back to absolutely nothing. I, on the other hand, had dreams of my bed, disappointed and unable to sleep because of the ruckus own. I fantasized of a hamster that could talk. Heck, I’d even Helen was making. After several nights of this I gave up on be happy if I got a “WaWa” out of him. him. I allowed him to skip meals and instead fed him my I went to sleep. Tired and bored. leftover meatloaf from dinner. I took the wheel out of the cage, Squeak. making my nights much better, but my days much worse.

Squeak.

A week later I diagnosed Helen with hamster obesity. He laid Squeak. in the wood chips, occasionally cracking open a sunflower seed Okay. What the hell was that noise? I was awoken by what and stuffing it in his cheeks. He looked constipated and sicker sounded like the rusty tin man parading about my room. than he had looked on his first day with me. Helen had disapThree o’clock in the morning wasn’t my usual wake-up time. I pointed me. And I wanted nothing more than him dead. turned on the lamp on my nightstand, annoyingly blinded by Another week passed, then a month, then a year. My mother the light rays that pierced my pupils. Nearly blind, I attempthad snuck the wheel into his cage and the squeak could have ed to look around my room for the source of the squeak. I saw returned, but Helen chose not to run. Being nocturnal became the hamster running on the little metal wheel I had gotten cliché. Heck, Helen slept day and night. him at Petland that day.

He, however, died one The idiot was a genius! No, sunny Tuesday. I don’t know the genius was an idiot! I his exact time of death, for didn’t know. Who cares? I Helen had always looked was floored. I ran into my dead to me. But light pink mother’s room, eyes wide puss began to ooze from his open, ready to share the exmouth, and when I went to citing news of my personal poke him with my pen he pet mastermind. Looking didn’t stir. Nothing gave. back, I guess it was too early I picked him up with a in the morning for me to plastic bag and flushed him come to valid conclusions down the toilet, bag and about Helen. Frightened, all. Kneeling by him, I said Photograph •Lia Meyerdiercks my mother looked up for a my last WaWas to Helen. I split second, reached under began to cry, just a couple of her bed and got out my father’s old rifle. Heck, I didn’t know tears running down my cheeks and onto the tiled floor. Then I that she still kept that old thing. I lunged to the floor, fetal began to bawl position, hands over my head. “Stop, Mom, it’s me…Don’t like one of those two-year-olds lost in the mall. shoot me. It’s Helen, he’s…he’s…he’s alive. I mean, I knew he My best friend had died. was alive but he’s running. Come see. Just put the gun down!”

Cry, Baby, Cry Poem • Sarah Tartaglia

21

“That’s a command, Not a Request.

You think you have a choice, You don’t.”

His hand covers my mouth.

I can taste his confidence.

Bitter, sour milk.

I can hear his poisonous delight, The sound of a rake scraping along concrete.

“Cry baby cry” Because he’s crawling deeper inside.

His lips consume my face, Chapped, rough, broken, and bleeding, Suck the color from my glazed eyes, Until all that remains are the stale leftovers of a life.

My bloodless body lays limp on the floor, A fallen marionette.

It’s all done now, Until he decides he wants to play again.

So many rosebudsSo few bouquets.

Rosebuds

Poem • Sarah Krikorian

Drawing • Brittany Fog

Parody of the Month Poem • Monica Pfister

Okay, confess. They’ll find out soon either way.

What have you done Now? Did you forget your grandma’s birthday? Total your best friend’s car?

If so, we have an offer just for you.

For one payment of four-sixty-one ninety-nine, You buy well-packaged forgiveness for a year.

For one low payment, you can pawn off just a little of your guilt.

Mail it wrapped in a green-and-gold box from Harry & David.

24 You can offer the victim of your carelessness a once-on-a-lifetime treat —it’s the Hallmark card you never sent— It’s a limited-time membership to a très exclusive club, and it’s called: Exotic Fruit of the Month.

Kiwi Medley arrives in April, Perky pity, fuzzy and brown, with just the right shade of repentant green.

Honey Mangoes in May, easily diced into neat, peach cubes, (I’m Sorry is easier to stomach that way) Tart Grapefruit in June, kissed with sugar (to temper its bite) Blushing pink with apology and shame.

Giant Luxury Riviera Pears in July (and October and March): Eighteen pounds of a fruit as hard to finish as its name.

In August, the Plumcot Medley (a plum and apricot hybrid) Meant to apologize for—without directly bringing up— All the times a recipient was criticized or taunted.

And at last: the Royal Tangelos, the fruit that no one has ever heard of, and probably that nobody wanted.

And they’ll receive a gold-foiled document, To all whose betrayers tried to buy them off with fruit.

Dear (name,) the wronged, the forgotten, the unloved, I just want to let you know: Welcome to the club.

Creak. I stepped back quickly, angry at the floorboard for nearly giving me away. I waited a moment but didn’t hear Mommy move at all. Cautiously, I tiptoed up to her door, a sliver of light illuminating my bare feet. While clutching my beloved blanket, Dit-Dit, in my left hand, I knocked on the large white door. When Mommy called for me to come in, I turned the tricky gold knob and glowed with pride when the door finally opened. I pitter-pattered over to the side of the huge wooden bed where my mom sat comfortably against the squishy pillows watching Friends, and I looked up at her expectantly.

“What’s wrong honey?” Mommy asked, looking down at me with eyes as warm as a tropical ocean. The people on the television gasped softly as if they too were wondering what had happened. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I think so,” I replied, not quite remembering why I’d come Non Fiction • Caitlin Gager here except to see my mommy. It was really late; the windows were black with night, and the bright green numbers on the analog clock read 7:30, a code of which I couldn’t make sense. “My throat hurts a little bit.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, sympathetically jutting out her lower lip in a frown. Instantly her hands were around me, pulling my three-yearold body up beside her. After nestling pillows of various colors around me, Mommy reached for a bag of Tootsie Pops, plopping the heavy plastic down between us. When offered the bag, I took my time peering at the bright, crinkly-wrapped lollipops before choosing one. The sucker dripped sweetness over my tongue as I snuggled against Mommy’s side.

She smiled down at me, wrapping her arm around my tiny figure. My sunny blond curls entwined with her cocoa brown hair as we watched the television show, a moment of pure comfort: the only one that I can remember.

Creak. The tire swing whipped in circles, earning more giggles from my two friends. Their midnight black hair whirled in circles as I pushed them faster and faster. The slam of a car door interrupted my concentration, and I turned to see who had come to the playground.

Daddy spoke with my friends’ mothers for just a minute before calling me to him. He took me aside until there were splintering woodchips underneath my feet instead of the warm sand by the tire swing.

He knelt down until he could look into my eyes, his tattered jeans pressed against the muddy ground.

“I have something important to tell you,” Daddy said, his voice shaking slightly. “Mommy’s going to die.”

At six-and-a-half, the words didn’t carry the full weight of their meaning. I had yet to experience any kind of death in my life, not of a person or a pet. My heart beat faster, threatening to jump out of my chest, but I didn’t grasp the concept completely. I looked at my father

Lollipops and Orange Slides

25

blankly, wanting desperately to return to the playground where my friends waited.

“Do you want to come to the hospital and see her?” Daddy asked me. He seemed unbalanced, trying to maintain his composure.

I looked longingly at my friends, who, too impatient to wait for me, had decided to keep playing. I watched as they plunged into the long orange slide, shrieking in delight. I knew that their hair would stick to the sides, a static sensation I craved as much as vanilla ice cream, my favorite dessert.

“No,” I replied, turning back to my father for permission to rejoin my friends. He pulled me to him in a tight hug, picking me up into the air and holding me close. When he set me free, I raced back to my friends without a care in the world, never guessing that one day I’d wish I’d said yes.

Sculpture • Liz Chabot

Posture Short Story • Matt Moseman

For as long as I can remember, I have scrutinized the way people sit.

Some people sit elegantly balanced, like a songbird perched upon a branch, not too far forward or back, not too relaxed or too uptight.

Others sit like a monstrous swine too bulbous and lethargic to ever move from their place. They seem to have grown to fit their chair, limbs loosely hanging from any odd place, eyes never more than half open. Others still sit coolly like cats—prepared for anything that might happen. They brood carefully positioned for both maximum comfort and maximum mobility; they could sit for hours or pounce on anything that came their way. I never liked any one more than the other, I just noticed. Until this morning.

In Psychology I noticed a new girl, June, she sat to the right of me, right in the corner of my eye. She was like nothing I had ever seen before. Physically, she was rather average, but her posture was the stuff of another plane of existence—capturing both the majesty of gods, and the necrotic substance of forgotten nightmares. So straight and firm, yet fluid and adaptable—her posture was as terrifying as it was amazing.

I knew from the moment I saw her I would never be the same again.

In homeroom she was there too, this time both in front and to the right.

I knew then that it had not been an illusion-- that this goddess had been sent as an example of seating perfection. I needed her, she had been meant for me and me alone, for I was the only one capable of realizing the divine seated among the lowly and bestial.

In Science, she was to the left of me. It was there I saw the sickening serpentine essence she possessed, the unholy perfection. It was not right, I told myself again and again it was not possible, only some ill-begotten pact with unspeakable terrors of the night could ever allow one to sit with such nauseating reptilian grace. If her posture was a color, it was Fuligin, the color darker than black, darker than the night, darker than dead stars and

charred souls. In English, I saw the light again, not light, not white, but an argent more pure and more sacred than light or white. She swayed yet remained steady, she relaxed yet remained attentive. She blended in, and yet, she stuck out to me more than anything ever had. It struck me that she was enslaving me, that I was now undeniably bound to her, like the lonely sailor doomed to answer the siren’s call only to be torn to shreds by the unspeakable jagged hazards that lie waiting. She had bewitched me, she was a sub worldly succubus possessed of a grace and perfection sure to draw me and only me to her. I remembered the dark, but it did no good.

In math she was gone. I craved her; I could not live without the comfort of her assuredly flawless stance. I would have given anything, killed my own family, just to see her for one more second. And yet, I saw my depravity, the dark she was brewing in me—was I simply to be her eternal servant, bound by her intoxicatingly sublime pose? It did not seem a cruel fate.

In History, she sat in front of me. I knew what to do—I took my pen and lodged it into her medulla where I knew it would cause instant death. Her pose never faltered, and in my mind it never will. I do not regret my actions.

28

Digital Photographs • Riccardo Zagorodneva

29

Fat as a Toothpick Fiction • Sarah Tartaglia

For as long as Alex could remember, she was overweight. The worst part about it, Alex thought, was the way that the other student’s never seemed to be able to pry their eyes off the sight of her body. Sometimes it was so bad that Alex could swear she could feel their eyes burn her skin, filling her nostrils with the scent of scorched plastic and hair. Whenever they would look at her, Alex could feel her clothing shrink two sizes too small, causing her fat to ooze out and spill over her jeans. Like puss overflowing out of a zit. Her fat was soft and doughy. Vertical stretch marks outlined her entire body. There were two types of fat people, Alex was once told; there were fat people who were born skinny and became fat, and then there were fat people who were born fat and, no matter what, would always be fat. Alex was the latter.

A droplet of sweat ran down the back of her neck; her body was crying.

Once when Alex was seven her mother yelled at her. Alex’s mom dragged her into the kitchen one morning and placed her in front of the refrigerator.

With her free hand, her mother swung open the doors in one swift motion. “What the hell is this?” Alex had been caught. The refrigerator was empty except for a stick of butter, half a carton of milk, and one apple.

Neither of them said anything. The only noise in the room was the constant hum the refrigerator made.

“What do you have to say for yourself ?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Alex, children aren’t supposed to be fatter than their own mother, do you know that?” Alex had snuck out of bed that night. She had woken up from her sleep from the sounds of a loud lion’s roar. The noise was coming from her stomach.

She didn’t like the feeling of her stomach not being full, so she had gone downstairs for a midnight snack. The truth was, Alex was always hungry. “I’m ashamed to be your mother, it makes me sick to even look at you.” A hot knife went stabbing through Alex; her insides suddenly felt self-conscious. “I was hungry.” She managed to whisper, but before her mother walked away, she replied, “I’m sure you were.” Alex had a body that not even a mother could love.

Alex arrived home early. It wasn’t the first

time she had to leave school before three o’clock dismissal. So often she had to escape early to get away from the whispers and constant hum of the talk about her. Nobody wants to be friends with a fat girl. Alex walked up the stairs to the bathroom, and although no one was home, she locked the door just incase. She stood in front of the mirror trying to imagine what it would be like to be thin. She longed to have razor sharp cheekbones that were almost considered dangerous; and a stomach that looked like a shallow valley. Alex fantasized about to be able to count her ribs, to stroke them one by one, like a musician gracefully playing a harp. But most of all, Alex wanted that feeling of power, knowing that she controlled every part of her body. The reality, though, was that Alex’s thighs would always grind together when she walked, her arms and legs will always look like stretched out rubber and, no matter how hard she tried, her stomach would always look like rolls of sausage fat.

Insecurity leaked through her pores as she looked at herself through the mirror.

She spoke to her reflection, “How many chins does Alex Ward have? The world may never know.”

Alex took a step onto the scale that was waiting for her next to the toilet. This was the most dreaded moment of her day. It took awhile for the scale to process her weight, but soon the flashing numbers appeared.

“Eighty-one,” she whispered in disgust and, as soon as the words escaped her mouth, she threw up in the toilet.

Digital Image • Kelsey Longo

The Centre Fold • Photograph • Riccardo Zagorodneva • Next Page

33

Photogram • Lia Meyerdiercks

Fire & Brimstone Fiction • Jesseca Turner

The automatic doors slid open. I walked inside and couldn’t help but feel

I had just been ingested by a metallic, cold being. As I looked around, my eyes recoiled from images of men and women scurrying around like hyperactive chipmunks, and my ears were assaulted with waves of horrendous, nasal sounds emanating from the loudspeakers: “Would Mr. and Mrs. Bakers please report to

gate 5B. I repeat, Mr. and Mrs. Bakers, please report to gate 5B.” I was overwhelmed by the frenzied activities of the innards of the monstrosity.

I tried to ignore the pounding in my head as I walked up to the marble desk. An ostrich stared back at me. My eyes fixated on her sharp snout and long neck. I wondered how quickly she could drill a hole with her face. I shuddered as I pictured her drilling holes in me. I should probably try not to make her angry. What kind of place was this?

“Can I help you?” she asked, with little inflection in her tone. When I didn’t respond, the beak-nosed lady asked again, this time a little louder: “CAN I HELP YOU?” I was jerked back to reality.

“O, er, sorry, umm, yes, you can. I need to check my bags…ma’am.” I looked around nervously, wondering if I was the only one terrified of this place.

“Last name?,” the ostrich lady asked.

“Muller.” I responded.

“One second. Here are your tickets. Report to Gate 7A IMMEDIATELY.”

“Thank you.” The bird lady stared at me for a few seconds, pushed her glasses further up her nose, and proceeded to screech, “NEXT!!!”

As I walked away from the cold, marble desk, grateful I had gotten away in one piece, I remembered I still had to find my gate. And I had to go through security. Why hadn’t I confessed my sins? Why hadn’t I repented? O, God! Tell me how to survive this place! I felt alone and helpless, not in the least ready for this ordeal that I had been told so much about in my mortal life. This was my judgment day.

I dragged my feet along the cold, grey tiles as I searched endlessly for Gate 7A – my portal out of this place. I passed fast food restaurant after fast food restaurant, bookstore after bookstore, bar after bar. But no Gate 7A. Was it my fate to wander forever in this hell hole, desperately searching for my gateway to heaven, my elevator up to the clouds? I hung my head and watched my feet, poor fellas, exerting themselves for no good purpose, slowly inching ahead over the tiles like brown snakes. And then something wonderful happened.

Suddenly, the brown, rubber, humble gentlemen stumbled upon a square of carpeting. Carpet? I looked up, and my eyes landed on a plastic, green sign with “7A” scrawled upon it in white block lettering. O God! My savior, my life! I proceeded to run over the carpeted waiting area for Gate 7A to the entrance turnstile. I was almost there, I was almo – a figure in

black leather appeared in front of me and restrained me with her burly, muscular arms.

“Have you passed through security, sir?” Security!! I had totally forgotten. My heart sank down into my stomach, and my happy, giddy persona hit an iceburg and began to sink down, down, down into the murky depths of the ocean.

“No, ma’am,” I mumbled resignedly. “Where can I do that?”

“Come with me.” As I shuffled behind the masculine, blonde, bear-like German woman, she led me towards a frightening scene. I gazed upon the strange machines and strange archways, wondering if this was where I would meet my end.

“Put your carry on luggage here,” she ordered me.

“Carry on luggage?” I asked.

“Are you bringing anything on the plane?”

“Um, yes – here.” I answered, timidly, handing her my bags. The bear woman pawed my shoulder and pushed me towards the grey archway. I pushed back in the other direction.

“Sir, you have to walk through here or we can’t let you on the plane.” I slowly inched my brown patent leather friends forward, realizing that my judgment had come. It was my fate to go to hell. As I passed under the archway, I saw my life pass before me and was ready for divine justice. To my great surprise, when I got to the other side, I was still in tact. Phew!

My heart lept.

“Ok, you can go back to your gate,” The bear woman told me. Was this divine forgiveness? I turned around and headed back to my gate, loaded the plane, and was ready to be transported out of that hellish place. God must be kind and merciful, I told myself, and you must not be a devilish sinner!

My heart leapt with joy like a thousand giddy dolphins out of a sea of holy water.

Six hours later, my plane landed on the other side. I made it! I got off the plane, elated that I had survived the ordeal. I looked around, and my soul suddenly turned to stone.

I was in another airport.

A voice over the loudspeakers screeched,

“Would Mr. Muller please report to Airport Security.

Mr. Muller, Airport Security. All your baggage is unaccounted for. Mr. Muller, Flight 803, Airport Security.”

O God.

Digital Photograph • Katherine Marchand

Dream Within Traum a Dream im Traum New German Translation • Julia Fiala Original Poem • Edgar Allen Poe Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avowYou are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sandHow few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

Lass dich küssen auf die Stirn!

Und, um mich von dir zu trennen, So lass es mich bekennen - Es liegt nicht falsch, wer meint Meine Tage verflossen wie im Traum; Doch wenn die Hoffnung erlosch In der Nacht, oder während des Tages, In der Fantasie oder in der Leere, Und nun verschwommen?

Alles, was wir sehen oder sind Ist nichts anderes, als nur ein Traum im Traum.

Ich stehe in mitten des Getöses, An der, von der Brandung zerfurchten Küste, Und ich halte in meinen Händen Körner des goldenen Sandes - Wie wenige! aber doch wie viele rieseln Durch meine Finger in die Tiefe, Während ich weine - - während ich weine!

O Gott! kann ich sie nicht halten Kann ich sie nicht fester umfassen?

O Gott! kann ich sie nicht retten Nur eines, vor den erbarmungslosen Wellen?

Ist alles, was wir sehen oder sind Nichts anderes, als nur ein Traum im Traum?

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Drawing • Kelsey Smith

Gallery Germans Poem • Dale Neuringer My mother Standing in front of a solemn german.

Mounted on the wall in this quiet gallery.

She looks, Says, “ I prefer Impressionism” Turns around, but I’m not there to hear her words.

Embarassed she turns back She’d forgotten Too old to stand in her shadow.

I no longer need to share

Her space, or her views on the solemn german.

Instead I lean against a different wall, Looking at her and a Harajuku woman Mounted in a plastic frame I KNOW she wanted me there Shadowing her, mirroring her opinions in my younger self But the knowledge that I can’t any longer That in fact, I LIKE the solemn german It ages me beyond my fifteen years Gone forever is the age of innocence As the starry eyed elephant looks on in joyous oblivion.

I Walk Slowly Poem • Dale Neuringer I walk slowly The friction building between my rubbing thighs People tell me I am TOO Fat. I can’t help it.

The jello jumping on my tummy The carefully constructed armor that is My bra.

I have cheekbones.

Somewhere.

Pocketed away in the flesh of my face For safe keeping.

People laugh.

I laugh too.

The silken folds of my neck, Clucking gently at each other as I chuckle.

My clothes Synthetic playful tents.

Each item an ode to polyester.

The stretchmarks running across my stomach They tell a story A map leading to the hidden treasure of My belly button You can look me in the eyes, Made exotic by the corpulence pushing at them from every angle.

You can kiss me on the lips People don’t.

I don’t understand.

Lips are the only body part that expand only with experience.

People tell me I am TOO Fat. I can’t help it.

I like it.

39

Sculpture • Liz Chabot

A Modern Day Tragedy Poem, written in and translated from Latin • Casey Heil He is my Orpheus, as I am his Eurydice, And Ovid’s retelling will suffice.

While I was the one withering away, He swore that he would stay; And after the original loss, He attempted to come back and cross.

Ille est meus Orpheus, ac ego illīus Eurydicē, trānslatiōque Ovidī sufficiet.

Dum īnfirmābam ego, ille promitēbat sē mānsūrum esse; Postque prīmam āmissiōnem Ille temptāvit revenīre et transīre.

While currency was needed for the river Styx, His persuasion and charming did the fix.

I was originally abandoned when I needed him the most; He seemed willing to change at any cost.

Soon proved wrong, I was sadly tricked, But I learned a lesson, and was never again afflicted.

I calmly retreated, not stirring a scene, To the depths of Pluto, where I have been.

Dum monētā opus erat flūminī Stygī, Venustus persuāsit mihi facilius.

Initiō relicta sum illīus egēns; ille vidētur velle mutāre pretiō quōcumque.

Mox decepta et falsa sum, sed didicī multās rēs et numquam iterum afflicta sum.

Recessī tranquillē, nūllum tumultum faciēns, Ad īma Plutōnis, ubi sum.

40

41 Photograph • Betsy Holleran

All Love Songs End Poem • Sarah Krikorian Before the divorce, my parents gave me a periwinkle blue acoustic guitar, the color of the late afternoon sky when it is too early to be evening.

He carved their intitials on the brown neck.

She painted white doves across the smooth front that looked like clouds against a brilliant sky.

We all used to sit on my bedroom floor, Calmly strumming love songs in turn On those six choiring strings.

Now alone in my room, I wrathfully strike, screaming out songs that don’t make sense.

Each note falls one by one.

Love used to move at a pace I could hear I have to play the songs slowly again So I can enjoy their blessings once more; sad when they’re over that all love songs end.

Fashionably Late Poem • Matt Moseman

I am here!

I have come!

I am the beast of the north.

More majestic and terrible than any that has been before.

I am the Dragon of the south.

I come to devour.

I am the wind from the west.

I snuff out the very last candles.

I am the swarm from the east.

We are locusts.

We destroy nations, Leaving their children; Unborn. Yet exposed; Silent, Silent, Alone.

Amongst the barren fields.

Look up.

I am the sun.

I am the amethyst sun.

I am foreclosing on that which I have given.

I am taking back that which has been taken.

That which has been stolen.

I am not the Lapis sky.

The Lapis sky that gave you comfort, The Lapis sky that made you smile, The lapis Sky that died screaming in agony As you ripped it apart with your meathook fingers.

It’s lack of shine defines my slowly dimming ochre hide.

Look around.

I am the Beast of the North.

To look upon me Is to know madness.

To look upon me Is to know death.

Nor am I the slate grey sky.

The slate grey sky that gave you rainy days to read and huddle by the fire.

The slate grey sky that made the wind smell like sweet reciprocated love before the storm.

Because the storm has come We have sharpened our claws into razors And filed our teeth into fangs And the slate grey Sky has been ground into dusty nothing.

Yet again, the wind smells of sulfur and burning tires.

I am the Topaz sky.

The abterran haze that blocks out all hope But fails to hide the slowly dying sun The looming slowly dying sun.

They shed no tears upon the bones.

A true death.

The true death.

A truer death than can be met At hands.

I am the dragon of the south.

I come to reap what I have sown; A fear of me and of my kin.

I am the wind from the west.

I come to wet my icy blade.

Proudly toiling men and women, Learned elders, sleeping children, All fall as I go amongst them Leaving naught but blue husks to be discarded To a lonely frozen grave.

I am the swarm from the east.

We are locusts.

We render bare all but the stones that watch our passing.

I am the earth.

42 I am the poisoned earth.

Once emerald green, I fade to verdigris.

As I choke on your sweat and blood.

Neither am I the peridot sea, Nor am I the ocean of blue tinted beryl.

The turquoise waterways that let you shrink the world, Have sizzled into nothing.

I am the ruby sky.

I stay aloft on flaming wings That burn away Burn away into my blood stone carapace Ravenous tongues of fire Pierce the celestial, scarlet veil To cast one-hundred crimson shadows Whose manic dancing tramples those below I am the onyx sky.

I descend to meet my death Cursing life with my last breath.

Soldier Poem • Caroline Higgins Through the wind she hears your name.

The fatal tune, the hushed refrain.

“Little boy You can’t turn back now” “Don’t wait for me,” you told her.

“We’re doing fine,” you told her.

But the girl on the dock will linger.

You’re wrapped around her finger in 18 karat gold.

A million souls read your name One of the many Fallen Black ink printed in the morning paper But she’ll leave the radio on tonight And hear the midnight update.

Photograph • Michael Julian

So

Short Story • Dale Neuringer

So’s one day I was walking up 49th and 3rd. 49th ain’t no place for them no good hobos neither, but there I was. Not that I’m no damn hobo neither you remember, but I ain’t no gaddam snooty investment banker type, that’s for sure. I was there on the way to meet the Boss. Shady business I was in, and life found me on the street corner of the Crystal Pavilion, positively shakin’ in my shoes, trying to work up the balls to go into that office. Anyhows, I was walkin’ the block, tryin’ to relax when from a dark doorway, a tinny voice called out to me.

“ Ya know, I don’t usually tell this story, but you look like an upstandin’ young man, not like all them fresh young rascals out there, so ima tell you the greatest story you ever heard.”

“God?” I asked the mysterious garbage pile that had spoken to me.

“ No you shmuck, Minnie Horowitz the third” said a tiny face with a shnoz the size of Germany pokin’ up at me.

Embarassed, I snapped, “ I got’s business to attend to doll, and time for listening to crazy old yentas ain’t in my schedule!”

Impressed by my own quick thinking’, I looked to the old bag, but her face was dreamy, she was already gone.

“ I rememba the silky smell of cigarettes, coating the world with a gloss of glamour. They didn’t know nothing ‘bout nicotine then, and life was beautiful. The world really was black and white then,sonny. People might tell ya different, but I gots no motives to tell ya anything but the truth, I swear to that. Anyhows, those were the days. Flappers were out, wholesome was in, but no one had told our crew that. Why, I used to stay up smokin’ and playing poker with my boys till’ dawn came and we couldn’t cheat under the pretense of darkness no more. Not that we were cheaters though boy, real cheatin’ is for dummies, and I ain’t neva been no dummy. No, life was woth my time then, now it ain’t worth a nickel. I was a stunner

too back then. They used to call me Knockout, for my looks and my infamous bar brawls.” She chuckled.

“ Nah, you lookin’ at me like I’m a crazy but let me tell ya, legs down to there breasts up to here, you wouldn’ta been a bug on my shoe in those days. No boy, what I’m getting’ at is that the quality if life ain’t what it used to be. People don’t pay me no mind, they done run out of compassion! You look at me and you see a trashy hobo, but I done more things and seen more places than you can count, which makes me the smarter of us two. Now, you might wonderin’ why I chose YOU to impart my wisdom to, and I’ll tell ya. I seen boys go up there” At this she jabbed a bony finger in the direction of the pavilion. “ I seen them, and they come out corn husk men.

Crackly copies of their former selves. I ain’t never felt for one of them before, but you seem a decent enough kid, good red blood runnin’ through ya. It don’t naturally run black, boy, so before you act a damn fool, take heed and walk away. Get yourself a wife, nice strong country girl,raise a brood and get the hell outta here whiles it’s still in ya, ya hear? I SAID, YA HEAR?!” She shouted with sudden conviction, old bag.

“Yea I got ya, you tough old bird.” I said to the doorway, only to find it empty, save for a nickel and a burning cigarette, the smoke drifting in a ribbony fashion, round and round my head.

Forever 15 Short Story • Caroline Higgins

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It was near the end of July, and we had reached the halfway point of summer. We had June behind us, but all of beautiful August ahead of us. It was a Wednesday, which meant that Playland would be shooting off fireworks down by the pier that night. My mom was a huge fan of the beach, especially in the evening when she wouldn’t get roasted by the sun. She suggested we walk down and take a picnic with us. We wrapped peanut butter sandwiches in tin foil, and carried beach chairs over our shoulders. Once we got there, my Mom called up Ryan and his mom, Maureen, to see if they wanted to join us. They did. I had brought Nineteen Minutes with me, and I had barely started the first chapter when I caught sight of Ryan’s taller-by-the minute body walking towards us. Maureen bright red hair stood out against the blue sky.

At the time, I was focusing on making sure my fifteen year old brother didn’t kick too much sand around. More and more sand was getting wedged inside the crease of my summer reading book. I was lying quite comfortably on my stomach, on a brightly colored beach towel, propped up on my elbows. When Ryan reached our vicinity, I got up and went to give him a hug. I hadn’t seen him in ages, and was surprised that he let me hug him, because his response to my outstretched arms usually consisted of “ew no.” But that day, he hugged me back. Not the tight hug of an enthusiastic companion, but the warm, light, casual hug of an old friend. I asked him how camp was, and he responded “Awesome.” Then he proceeded to recall various incidents of hilarity with my brother, who had attended summer camp with him, and was his best friend.

I remember exactly what Ryan was wearing that evening.

Thin, white T-Shirt. Black gym shorts. And those big sneakers that skater guys wear. Possibly Vans. They were white, with a thick black stripe. His hair matched the sand. I brought my beloved digital camera with me that day, which was the best decision I have even made. The beach was absolutely beautiful. For some reason, many Rye residents complain about our beach because it is “dirty.” No, it’s not Florida. It’s not bleached white sand and blue-green water giving a beach comber a clear view of the rainbow fish. But I always considered it a privilege to be living next to a beach and a boardwalk that were walking distance from my house. You certainly would be thankful if you were from Wyoming. Today, the shoreline was littered with stringy green seaweed and fluffy white foam. I got down on my knees and zoomed in on a few tiny grains of sand. My digital camera clicked as it captured the photo. I

took a picture of the moon reflecting off the water. Click. Another moment captured in a small electronic device. I took a few shots of Ryan and Andrew. They talked about camp, and threw sand at my little sister, Abby. Click. Click. Click. The silhouettes of two young boys against the sky and the sea.

Skip ahead an hour or so. It’s dark now. None of my pictures are coming out. I try to hold the camera as still as possible, but still the resulting picture is blurry. The fireworks have already been set off, but there is no need to leave the beach yet. The air is getting a bit cooler, and the ocean looks like an enormous pool of black ink, except for the parts that are lit up by a streak of moonlight or the lights of a far-off motor boat. I am sitting with my knees folded in front of me against a small rowboat that has been turned over in the sand. It’s a bit rough against my back, and the white paint is peeling off. Ryan scoops up handful after handful of sand, and deposits it over my feet until they are completely covered. The sand feels warm against my skin, until he begins scooping up the deeper sand, which is cold and wet. I wiggle my toes so that they peek through the mountain of sand. Ryan covers them again quickly. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I do remember when Andrew jumped up to go chase my little sister. Ryan moved so that he was sitting next to me. Close, but not touching. We spoke, but I can’t recall what we said. We laughed, but I don’t remember why. Why would I? It was a normal conversation. I remember realizing we were older. Older than when we first met, and Ryan was only 6 years old. Older that when he was 13. Older than when he was 14. Older than we were yesterday. I remember thinking, “this is nice.” That’s all.

Just “this is nice,” sitting next to Ryan on the beach, just the two of us.

Not, “this is special”, or “this is amazing.” Just “this is nice.” Sitting next to an old friend who you haven’t seen in a while. Ryan got up to follow Andrew in a matter of moments, as anyone would have suspected he would.

It was time to leave, so we were all gathered around my Dad’s black Volvo. My Dad had driven over so that he could join the rest of his family, so my family decided to take advantage of the ride home for the sake of our tired feet. Ryan and his Mom were there to say goodbye. We were writing “Clean Me” on my Dad’s dusty back windshield.

Our fingers traced trails in the dirt. Abby was yelling at my brother for reading her text messages, which is pretty cruel, I admit. “I can’t believe you called one of your friends the b-word!” Andrew was yelling. Abby was trying to punch him. I remember that I was tired, so I sat in the car while my Mom said goodbye to Ryan’s mom. I should have stayed outside longer. I should have given Ryan another hug. I can’t even remember those last words that were exchanged between us. I just remember being wedged in between my sister and brother in the back seat of my Dad’s car, waving as Ryan and Maureen walked away.

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Untitled Foreign Language • Alex Giroux

(Circles)

Sculpture • Chuantong Ma

Dando vueltas. Siempre dando vueltas, día y noche. Como, duermo, y doy vueltas. Todos mis amigos también dan vueltas, pero ellos no son como yo. En el momento que tienen la oportunidad, ellos hacen todo lo que pueden para salir de este lugar. Yo, en cambio, estoy esperando la oportunidad correcta y perfecta.

Todos los días yo veo a las personas que pasan mientras doy vueltas. Hoy, muchas personas me pasaron, pero particularmente recuerdo a tres. La primera era una chica, y si puedo decirlo, ella era una niña malévola. Tenía seis años y corría con mala gente, siempre tocando el cristal. Ella le pidió que su padre le comprara cualquier cosa y todo lo que ella quería. A ella no le importaba nada menos de que lo que quería. Me sentía mal para su familia y las personas que necesitaban estar con la chica; afortunadamente, yo no tenía que estar con ella. Finalmente salió con un regalo; su padre le compró a nuestro amigo Raul. Salió con grandes cajas llenas de cosas para Raul, de la cuales probablemente perdería interés en una sola semana, cambiando a otra cosa. Todo el mundo y yo estábamos felices cuando ella salió, pero nos sentíamos tristes para el pobre Raul.

Luego, un chico, que tenía dieciséis años, entró. El miró por la tienda por quince o veinte minutos, caminando, intentando decidir lo que quería. No me interesaba mucho y eché una siesta por varios minutos antes de oír una comoción y mucho ruido. Me desperté y vi que alguien estaba acercándonos para recoger uno de nosotros. El chico nos señaló con el dedo. Había caos mientras todos intentaban irse. Yo también intenté, pero no pude porque todavía estaba despertándome, y, pues, no tuve éxito. Estaba un poco desilusionado, pero no me importaba mucho porque no me parecía que el chico fuera muy cariñoso, sino aburrido. Todavía estaba esperando a la persona correcta.

Durante el día, más personas entraron y salieron. Pero, una chica que entró con su madre me llamó la atención.

Tenía diez años, y era muy feliz. Ella estaba emocionada y seguía agradeciéndote a su madre. La madre se sonrió. La chica corrió directamente hacia nosotros y me señaló y se sonrió. Mi corazón paró por un minuto: ¿era la persona que esperaba? Otra vez, había caos. De pronto, estaba afuera mirando adentro. ¡Había logrado mi meta y había encontrado a la persona correcta! Yo eché una última vista a los demás mientras me llevaban.

Ahora, estoy en una casa, en el cuarto de la chica. Esoty muy feliz, pero no puedo dejar de pensar en lo que podría haber occurido si no hubiera tenido la de estar con esta chica. ¿Podría haber venido otra persona que me hubiera tomado? ¿Me habría comprado otra persona? ¿Habría estado tan feliz como ahora? La verdad es que no sé todas las respuestas. No sé si sabré lo nunca. Pues, no es importante. Estoy feliz, y eso es lo que me importa. No debo preocuparme por estas preguntas, porque sé que mi vida va a ser buena a partir de ahora. No tengo que preocuparme con las preguntas “si” de la vida. Después de todo, sólo soy un pez dorado.w

Circles. All I ever do is go in circles, all day and all night. I eat, I sleep, I go in more circles. My friends also spend their lives traveling in circles, but they are just not like me. When they are given the opportunity, they do whatever they can to get out of here. I, however, am taking my time, waiting for the right opportunity.

Every day, tons of people walk by, some more interesting than others, while I’m bored circling my temporary home. Today, many people walked by me, as usual, but three still stick out in my mind. The first was a small girl, and to be honest, she was a horrible, spoiled little girl. She might have been about six years old and ran around with no respect, banging on the glass. She demanded that her father buy her anything and everything she wanted, caring only about getting what she wanted. I felt pretty bad for her family and anyone else that had to deal with her; I cringed at the thought of having to be around that girl every day. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to be. Eventually she left with her “gift”; her father had finally bought her what she decided on, which, unfortunately, was our friend Raul. We were all happy when she left without any of us, but we felt terrible for our poor friend Raul, knowing he was not going to have a good life with that evil little girl.

Later, a teenaged boy, probably about sixteen, came in. He looked around casually for fifteen or twenty minutes, walking around, trying to decide what he wanted. He didn’t interest me much, and I fell asleep for a little bit. All of a sudden, there was a commotion and a lot of excitement. I woke up, startled, and heard someone saying that someone was coming for us. The teenager was talking to the store owner, pointing at us. Suddenly, there was chaos again as everyone tried to be chosen. I tried to be picked too, but I my brain wasn’t processing what was going on because I was still trying to force myself to wake up. Not surprisingly, I wasn’t successful. I wasn’t too disappointed, and I didn’t care as much because the kid was a little too casual for my liking; I figured he wasn’t going to be very much fun and I’d rather go with someone who I know won’t ignore me and shove me in a corner somewhere. He just seemed a little too apathetic and boring for me. I was still waiting for the right person, and I wasn’t going to give up until I had found him or her.

During the day, a bunch more people came and went. However, one girl who entered with her mom caught my attention. She looked about ten, and was a very happy child. Her eyes sparkled, and her she was smiling so much I thought her mouth had to be tired from stretching so far. She kept saying thank you to her mom in her excited, high pitched voice. The mother smiled back at her child. The girl ran straight towards us, pointed at me, and smiled some more. My heart stopped for a moment: was this the person I had been looking for? Once again, an excited crowd quickly gathered. Next thing I knew, I was on the outside looking in. I had reached my goal – I had found the right person! I looked back one last time at the others as I was taken away.

Now, I am in a house, in the little girl’s room. I love my new home, but I can’t help but think about what could have happened if I hadn’t been so lucky and hadn’t been taken home by this girl. Could another person have come and decided to take me home? Would I have been taken home by anyone else? Could I have been as happy as I am now? The truth is that I just don’t know.

I don’t know if I ever will know. But it’s not important. I am happy, and that is the only thing that matters. I know I shouldn’t concern myself with these questions too much; I know my life from now on will be a good one. I don’t need to worry about the “what if ” questions of life. I’m just going to sit back, relax and enjoy life. I mean after all, I’m only a goldfish.

49

Photograph • Ali Cane

Without You Poem • Casey Heil Without the beach, you can’t have summer.

Without a set, you can’t have a drummer, And without a drummer, the music won’t flow, And without music, we could no longer grow.

Without structure, you can’t build a house, Without a disagreement, there can’t be a joust.

Without pain, you can never later rejoice, Without right and wrong, you can’t make a choice.

Without mistakes, you can never learn, Without a loss, you can never yearn.

Without love, we could never be, And now, without you, there can’t be a me.

50

Photograph • Tori Stearns

These Words Don’t Do You Justice Poem • Caroline Higgins

This little, quiet town, We’re all going to leave it one day.

He left it sooner than we did And now everyone speaks in clichés I’ve met a few friends around here, Living in the smallest houses on their streets.

But no one gets a second chance now.

There are some things you just can’t cheat.

Yesterday you wore a plain white tee shirt.

You were covering my feet with sand.

I’ve come to learn there are some things I’ll never understand.

All the people you once knew Fill the lonely air with your memory “I miss you” just doesn’t seem enough.

But still, I believe you can hear me.

Spring Original English Translation • Yoon Jeong Choi

Poem •Songbu Lee

You come though I am not expecting you, and you come when I have lost all expectation.

After lingering in a corner of the fields or beside some kind of stinking pond, looking around a bit, enjoying a fight, throwing yourself down worn out then being shaken awake by a breeze speeding by bearing urgent news, rubbing your eyes, you come slowly ambling.

At last you come, ambling along, ambling along.

When I see you I am so dazzled I am unable to stand up to welcome you.

I open my mouth to shout, but I have grown tongue-tied; I can tell you nothing ahead of time.

With difficulty, my arms open wide to embrace you, arriving home after victory far away.

Opposite: Ceramic Teapot • Liza Langer Sculpture • Chuantong Ma

Fortunate Non Fiction• Monica Pfister

53

I drove past the sign for the elementary school carnival today; I only got a brief glance while rounding the curve, but images of Elvis, I Love Lucy, and slick black records danced from the off-white cardboard. I smiled briefly at this year’s flashy “fifties” theme. But even with passing snippets of scenery to distract me as I drove, a part of my subconscious, growing more insistent with distance, remained anchored in front of the sign. I realized, surprised, that I’d automatically started planning my fifties-themed outfit—a poodle skirt and mary janes, of course— with the enthusiasm and efficiency of a military officer who has never grown tired of her job. And that memory, that cozy fraction of the elementary-school past, left me desperately seeking carnival nostalgia.

I remembered vague feelings better than specific events; I especially savored the blurry recollection of wind-blown fluffs of cotton candy eventually merging with the clouds.

As a child, I had always spent weeks in breathless anticipation of the glorious carnival atmosphere that had smothered practicality.

There had been cupcakes to decorate; their pastel-colored smell had wandered on the breeze, drifting just close enough to tempt before moving on. The bitter smell of colored hairspray had competed for attention, let loose in a mist to decorate kids’ heads in green, blue, and

gold. Gold brought my teenage self back the memory of one carnival’s fortune-telling fifth grader—he’d proudly worn a lopsided, gold-sequined Party City turban. I’d waited breathlessly for my fortune as he had caressed his crystal ball, mouth twisting in what I’m sure he hoped was a sage smile. “In your future,” he had begun, “I see lots of golden clouds.” Then he had unceremoniously ushered me out of the room.

But I had believed him and grown almost immediately awe-struck by the vision of a world with golden clouds. As a teenager looking back on my dream-world, I wondered when I had lost it.

Memories of golden clouds fading as I finally pulled into my driveway, my mind wandered to the last time I had felt that kind of irrational anticipation. I had just finished Chinese take-out and, made sleepy by the tangy stir-fry, I had slowly pulled back the crinkly plastic surrounding my fortune cookie. I had smiled in spite of myself, both knowing it meant nothing and enjoying entertaining the notion that it did. But secretly I had hoped it would say something out of the ordinary, just to give me that blissful dose of magic.

“Your problem just got worse,” it had said. “Think, what have you done?”

I had laughed. But without the magic, it was just a broken cookie.

54

Photograph • Casey Gollan

55

Labyrinthine Digital Image • Amanda McLaughlin

Fiction • Leon Husock

Once, quite a long time ago, when all the things you read about in school had only just come to pass (and some had not even happened yet), there was a girl, and her name was Mara. She lived in a great, stone palace with her father and her cat. The palace was surrounded on all sides by an enormous hedge maze that stretched infinitely, as far as Mara was concerned, in all directions. Our story begins one morning not long after she had turned eleven.

Mara walked out onto the broad, pink sandstone veranda and stretched quietly. The bright, clear morning sun beat down hotly on her brow and reflected off her strawberry blonde hair and white cotton sun-dress. She gazed out over the vast hedge maze in front of the palace. The sunlight warmed everything pleasantly, but she could tell it was going to be another brutally hot day.

The young girl sat down and held her knees to her chest, feeling the sandstone warming her skin. Mara loved the mornings. She always got up before anyone else, and liked to sit on the porch and wonder about the labyrinth. This was her name for the hedge maze. It stretched in all directions, and her father had warned her never to go into it without him. Once or twice she had ventured inside alone, just a few yards past the gate. It had felt as if there were a sort of will there, tangled within the twisted brambles and leaves. A mysterious feeling had pressed on her mind, imparting a fearful, shivering claustrophobia. But at the same time, there had been a faint feeling of welcome, and of comfort, like she had never felt before. It was very strange.

The experience was very different when she went in with her father. He was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. His was a will that commanded everyone else in the room, and those who would not submit were beaten into submission by his intense, dark brown eyes. When she was in the Labyrinth with him, she could not feel even the slightest trace of that strange other entity. They simply walked until they got where they wanted to be, and the high, close hedge walls always took them there. Occasionally Mara would hear a rustle in the leaves, and out of the corner of her eye she would see something shift. When she asked her father about it, he brushed her off, telling her he had work to do and retreated to his study.

She heard steps behind her and started, but it was just Thom, her cat. He was very friendly but had razor sharp claws.

She reached down and scooped him up into her arms, and the small, grey animal purred softly in the heat.

“Mara!” She heard her father shout from inside the palace. Uh oh, thought Mara. She had accidentally broken an antique porcelain vase the night before and hidden the remains. Her father must have found them under the desk.

Without thinking, Mara dropped Thom and took off, shouting behind her, “It wasn’t me!”, unwittingly confirming her guilt. She was running, fast, her feet instantly chilled and begrimed by the dew-soaked grass, carrying her in the only

direction she could go: towards the labyrinth. The little girl was speeding recklessly through the iron archway that was the entrance, feeling the thorns snag her dress. It was only once Mara stopped to catch her breath that she realized what she had done. She was inside the labyrinth. Alone.

“Okay. Okay. It’s all right,” she told herself, breathless. “I’ll just retrace my steps. It’ll be easy. Nothing to worry about.” She felt something rub against her leg and stifled a scream. It was just Thom. He had followed her. He did not like her father. His allegiance was to the girl who fed him.

Mara smiled in spite of herself. She loved Thom.

A little calmer with her friend, she turned around to see if she could still see the entrance. No such luck. However, she knew that the way she had come must be the opposite of the way she had been facing. So she decided to walk in that direction until she reached the archway, or at could at least see the palace. She walked. After twenty minutes of walking, Mara realized she was not going to get anywhere. She was lost in the labyrinth.

She sat down for a minute to calm herself and clear her head. Thom climbed into her lap and she petted him absently.

“Of course!” the girl exclaimed to the cat, “I’ll climb one of these walls. Then I’ll be able to see where I am.” She stood up and seized what looked like a good handhold in the bushes. But as she tried to haul herself upwards, the thorns cut deeply into her hands and the hedge sagged. “Oh, this is no good.” She cried. She fell back down and wiped her hands on her dress, leaving red and dirty green streaks on the white fabric. Mara held back a sob, taking a deep breath and trying to stay calm. She told herself firmly that crying was no use. “I suppose,” she said, “all there is for it is to walk and hope I get somewhere.” So walk she did. The maze twisted and turned in all directions until she had lost all idea of where she was, and just as she was beginning to despair, she came to an iron archway.

Mara rejoiced, certain that this was the entrance. She ran through the gateway and stopped. This was a place she had never seen before. In front of her stood an apple tree heavy with bright red fruit that stuck out amongst the green leaves.

On the ground around it, neatly arranged in beds, were a variety of herbs and flowers. Patches of alyssum with tiny, starlike blossoms, and dark, creeping thyme. The girl was acutely aware of the enormous hunger that had grown within her as she wandered the maze. She took a cautious look around, not trusting the labyrinth, but when no danger appeared, she

smiled and sat down in the shade of the tree. An apple hung tantalizingly from a low-hanging branch. It crunched loudly as she bit into it, and the white-clear juice ran down her chin. The fruit filled her mouth with a sweet, tangy taste.

It was wonderfully refreshing. It seemed almost unnaturally perfect.

A warm, fragrant breeze blew through the clearing, and Mara felt she could stay there forever. Sleep was just beginning to settle into her tired limbs. I wouldn’t mind a nap at all, she thought to herself. But first maybe a drink. She got up slowly and looked around for something to drink. A rippling, liquid glint on the far side of the tree caught her eye. It was the edge of a pool filled with pristine, clear water. She shook herself awake and walked towards it, only to discover a startling and unpleasant surprise. There was a man in the pool!

He was immersed in the water up to his neck, but he seemed not to feel the chill. His face was haggard, and he had in his eyes the look of someone who has despaired of all hope.

He was emaciated and miserable.

The man caught sight of Mara and seemed unnerved, but it was nothing compared to his reaction when he saw the apple core in her hand.

“You...you can eat the fruit?”

Mara was frightened. “Is there something wrong with it? I’m terribly sorry! I knew I shouldn’t have eaten it!” She threw the apple core on the ground.

The man stared at it pitifully. “No! Please! The fruit is fine. You seem like a kindhearted girl. Could you do me a favor?”

“Well…” She had to think about it. “That would depend on what you want.”

“Please,” he cried, his voice cracking, though from joy or anguish she could not tell. “You must get me an apple.

Please. I beg of you.”

“Can’t you get one yourself ?” Asked Mara, confused.

“There’s a branch right there. Look, it has a whole bunch of them.”

“Alas, I cannot. The apples fear me. See?” He reached vainly for the nearest bright red gem. Even as he strove, the branch receded into the tree, leaving the fruit just out of his grasp. “I am damned.”

Well, that hardly seems fair. Thought Mara to herself. It can’t hurt to just give him an apple. Really. She reached up and twisted an apple off the branch it was suspended from,

plucked the leaves off its stem and polished off the dirt before handing it to the man. He smiled as if he could hardly believe his luck, and stretched out his hand to take the apple. His fingers closed around the shiny red skin, and his eyes grew wide. He gazed in disbelief and horror at the apple and let out a piercing, inhuman shriek of grief. Mara jumped back away from the pool as the apple shriveled and turned to dust.

Screams filled the space and seemed as if they would split the trunk of the tree and wither the flowers.

Mara did not stay to find out what had happened, but fled, bare feet pounding the grass as she raced down the nearest path back into the maze. She ran and ran, her breath coming in hard gasps that pained her chest until she finally stopped, utterly exhausted, and collapsed on the ground. As the panic left her, the little girl looked around and realized that she had lost Thom. She hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed.

The tears ran hot down her cheeks and hiccoughing tremors shook her body. She was hopelessly disoriented and had lost her only friend. A normal little girl would have gone on wallowing in self pity for hours, but she was a stronger than most by nature, and knew that her only option was to keep walking.

She stood up, her legs still a little weak, wiped away the tears, and continued down the path.

As she walked, Mara noticed the air beginning to get colder.

Leaves on the hedge became sparser (though the branches were no less thick), and biting gusts of wind cut through her thin dress. She shivered and rubbed her arms with her hands to try to keep warm. The young girl wished fervently that Thom were with her; he was always warm. Lost in her own thoughts and self-pity, she hardly noticed when the hedge on either side of her disappeared. She turned around and saw behind her another iron archway, but this was not the clearing with the apple tree and the man.

This open space was much larger, and blanketed in a vaguely sinister mist that drifted aimlessly about. She could not see the other side, but occasionally dark shapes loomed in the fog and then vanished. She took a tentative step forward, her heart hammering audibly against her ribcage. Suddenly, an earth shattering roar and snarl shook the ground and split the mist into swirling tendrils that caught at her feet before rushing out the gateway. Mara almost fainted. Where the mist had been stood an enormous wolf. It was at least fifteen feet tall at the shoulder, and twenty long from the tip of the nose, not including the tail. Its footlong, white fangs glistened in the pale halflight and its bloodshot eyes glared hungrily at her.

“Come here, little girl.” The wolf said. It had a voice that sounded like flesh being ripped in cold, winter air.

“Why?” Asked Mara, tentatively. Luckily for her she was a brave girl. She knew that she could not leave the clearing without passing the wolf, and she would not go back the way she came. Then again, she thought, I don’t even know if it matters which path I take in this place.

“Come here!” The wolf bellowed in rage. It was then that Mara noticed that it could not move from its place.

Wrapped around its feet were thin, pale grey ribbons. They had been hidden in the mist. They trailed down from the wolf ’s ankles and disappeared into the earth. Mara was almost certain she could have torn them in half with her bare hands.

“You can’t break those ribbons, can you?”

The wolf hung its head sorrowfully. “No. I was tricked.

Now I am bound forever in this place.”

Mara had always had an affinity for wolves, and even though this one was many times larger than her, its pitiful voice moved her heart. “If I free you, will you promise not to hurt me?”

“If you freed me I would be your servant for a thousand years. But you could not uphold your end of the deal.

These chains are unbreakable.”

“They look so thin. Let me try.” She walked over to the beast’s left foot and knelt down to try to tear the fabric.

It felt cold and slippery to the touch. Try as she might, her fingers just slid off it. It would not break, even if she had been able to grasp it.

Mara heard a hiss behind her. She turned around, startled, only to see Thom. His back was arched, his ears were back and all the fur on his body was standing on end. He looked possessed. The strange thing was, the cat was not looking at the wolf. He was staring at the ribbon. He stalked it, every muscle in his body tensed. He stopped short about two feet away from the strip of grey cloth, and with a screech like a banshee he leapt and swiped his claws at it.

The little cat’s claws passed within a hair’s breadth of the ribbon, but it was then that a peculiar thing happened. The soft sound of padded footsteps was heard retreating into the air, and even as Mara watched a change was wrought on the fabric of the wolf ’s fetters. It grew dull and its luster fled; the edges became frayed and worn. Thom watched the air carefully, only relaxing once the ghostly footsteps had fled completely. The ribbon disintegrated. All that was left was a fine grey dust on the ground.

The wolf lowered his head and nosed Mara gently, almost knocking her over. She picked Thom up and held him close, unsure if she could trust the wolf.

“What would you ask of me, my lady?”

She stroked the fur on the wolf ’s head tentatively. “Do you know the way out of this labyrinth?”

“I can take you to the exit, but only you can make sure that the exit is there.” Mara sat down on the grass and thought long and hard about this. She thought all the times her father had led her through the labyrinth and back again. She remembered how certain he had been of where they were going, and how purposeful he had been from the moment they stepped through the iron archway into the hedges.

She took a deep breath, and said, loudly and confidently, “I know where the exit is.”

“Then climb on my back and hold fast to my coat.

But you must not forget where we are going, or else you will never find your way out.” The wolf knelt down and Mara clambered onto his back and sank her fingers into the rough, silver-gray fur and buried her face in it. It smelled warm and comfortable, like an old, lovable dog who had sat by the fire all night. Then they took off.

The wind threatened to tear her off and hurl her into the depths of the maze, and each time they jumped over a hedge she nearly vomited; but she never forgot where they were going, and soon the air got warm and the sun beat down on her back. A great, sandstone building rose in the distance and Mara recognized it as the palace. At last, with one last leap, the found themselves in a corridor. At the end of the corridor stood an iron archway. Beyond the archway was the familiar sight of home. She dismounted and passed through the arch, Thom walking at her feet. She turned around to see that the wolf was not following.

“Why don’t you come with? There’s plenty of room in the palace and I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t mind.”

“I could not place such a demand on my lady. But if you ever need me, you need only call and I will come.”

“What should I call you?”

“My name is Fenris, son of Loki. You may call me Fen.” She hugged as much of him as she could get her arms around (which was not very much), then left and walked back to the Palace. Looks like Daddy’s not the only one with secrets now, she thought to herself and smiled.

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Emerging Poem • Hannah VanDolsen

with a flick of the wrist, and a test of fate, he sends the paint, across the void, flying through the air, falling in graceful dots and dabs. once just space, animals emerge from hidden niches, deep in the blankness of an unsolved mystery, out into a world of color, brightness blinding their eyes as they take their first steps out into the un-familiar. what waited was more than worth the price.

Digital Photograph • Ryan Cavataro

El invierno Llegó El invierno llegó, todo quedó nevado Los pinos desean ser abrigados Por el invierno prolongado Un suéter, una bufanda, y un gorro adecuado La luz se fue sin piedad Reina la oscuridad Los días duran la mitad Pero que tranquilidad Que el viento venga con amistad Los brazos de los árboles están agotados La nieve de febrero los mantiene ahogados Pero me encuentro maravillado Con este paisaje tan soñado Que yo he admirado Fotografiarlos con mucho amor Plasmarlos como un pintor No hay nada mejor Que los pinos vestidos De un blanco soñador

Foreign Language• Daniel Altschuler

Winter Arrived Winter arrived everything is snowy The pines have to get dressed They want to protect themselves From this winter A sweater, a scarf, a jacket or a hat

The light is gone The darkness reigns Because the days are shorter But what clamness That wind comes to hug us The arm’s of the pines are weighed down Drowned by snow of Febuary But I am amazed By the view That I can admire Take a picture to save it Paint it to keep it There is nothing better Than the trees dressed In snowy white

L´ hiver Est venu L´Hiver est arrivé ! Tout est neigé 66 Les sapins doivent s’habiller Ils veulent se protéger De cet hiver passager Un pull, un cache-nez, un gilet, un bonnet La lumière s’en est allée Règne l´obscurité Car les jours ne durent qu’à moitié Mais quelle tranquillité !

Que le vent vienne pour nous embrasser Les bras des arbres sont epuisés Noyés dans la neige de février Mais je suis émerveillé D´un paysage si rêvé Que je puisse admirer Prendre une photo pour le garder Le peindre pour le conserver Il n´y a rien de plus beaux Que les sapins habillés Vêtus d´un blanc « enneigé »

Una Rosa Poem •Luca Carboni Translation • Anna Borgogni

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A rosa per te per te che ci sei Una rosa per te non te l’ho data mai Ma dentro di me tutti fiori dei campi e I frutti degli alberi sono per te Ma dentro di me mietitrebbie e trattori stanotte lavorano soltanto per te

A rose for you, for you because you’re here A rose for you, because I’ve never given you one But inside of me, all the flowers and fruit from the trees are for you But inside of me, all the workers and tractors tonight are working for you

Una festa per te per te che ci sei Una festa per te io non l’ho data mai Ma dentro di me coca cole aranciate saltini e pop corn sono pronti per te Ma dentro di me c’è una torta gigante di panna montata per tuffarci io e te

A party for you, for you because you’re here A party for you, because I’ve never had one for you But inside of me, coca cola, punch, popcorn and crackers are ready for you But inside of me, there is a gigantic whipped cream cake for us to plunge into

Un valzer per te per te che ci sei Un valzer per te io non l’ho ballato mai Ma dentro di me tutti lenti che sento io alzo il volume e li ballo con te Ma dentro di me tu non sai io che io brivido sento mentre mi stringo a te

A dance for you, for you because you’re here A dance for you, because we’ve never danced But inside of me, all the slow songs I hear, I turn up the volume and dance them with you But inside of me, you don’t know that I shudder each time I hold you

Una poesia per te per te che ci sei Una poesia per te io non l’ho scritta mai Dentro di me ci son poche parole insieme a quelle che ci hai messo te Dentro di me ci son poche parole ma c’è tanto amore analfabeta per te

A poem for you, for you because you’re here A poem for you, because I’ve never written one Inside of me, there are few words next to those you have written Inside of me, there are few words but a lot of love for you Drawing • Elizabeth MacAulay

Sculpture • Liz Chabot

Whispers of Time Poem • Elise Yannett Because time runs so quickly The imprints of its toes Trickle trepidations And whisper paths for later consideration

Try Though destined to fail To run faster, harder Against an immeasurable illusion

Because even those With newborn wings Have not been freed From their burdens

As it teases, torments Pretends to be Where we want it to be – Where everything is right

Burdens With pummeling feet And treading fists Reminding the dazed Little is ever forgotten

But with trembling tears Suspended on Our once-laughing cheeks

So through these paths We solemnly tiptoe our way Down each deafening alley

We learn No one streams So seamlessly Into the ever-elusive abyss

Graphite Drawing • Emily Woodthorpe

Rememberance Poem • Marguerite Ward “Do you remember me?”

A search, a rapid running Through memory Starts, quickens, lashes inside And then Stops.

“I-I don’t.”

Sinking in remorse, The mind has failed Left a soul to quiver Alone.

It’s not your fault; Mind’s memory Has been measured, contained, Bound by a number, a fact.

But the heartIt remembers ‘Til it stops.

“Do you remember me?”

A heartbeat responds Faintly.

Tailor

Poem • Marguerite Ward Tailored answers fit some just fine Catch myself sewing from time to time Pricked my finger on the needle, but no spell was cast On the tip of my pencil, in the second of second guessing I draw back, not enthusiastically To drawings of what actually is Inside my head--too fast Something’s crumpled now The only A’s I’ve seen are telling me Away Away with these thoughts I may be mistaking this horizon for a mirror This river for a stream of stifling heat That’ll burn these passions, these pages But I know these clothes are sewn too tight Breathing room feels too right Digital Image • Will Galperin

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Stretching and twisting and molding and folding

And twirling.

Floating and sinking

And twisting and linking

And moving and spinning and

Out of the sky and into the vacuum, Exploding and dying and shattering and flying.

A golden supernova.

falling.

Golden Supernovas Poem • Jesseca Turner Photograph • Caroline Higgins

Golden feet, golden hands.

Golden minds, golden hearts.

Golden lives.

Golden spheres.

Orbiting one another.

Waiting for their supernovas.

Zephyr Staff Casey Gollan Editors-in-Chief Andra Khoder Liza Langer Julia Baez Megan Cindrich Sara Krikorian Dale Neuringer Meredith Seifert

3D Photographer Art Staff

Jesseca Turner Marguerite Ward Elise Yannett Monica Pfister

Fiction Editor Non Fiction Editor Poetry Editor Junior Editor

Julia Baez Oliver Callund Jennifer Connors Caitlin Gager Casey Gollan Casey Heil Andra Khoder Sarah Krikorian Matt Moseman Dale Neuringer Adrienne Schaffler Kelsey Smith Natalie Stein Sarah Tartaglia Jaime Breslin (See Art Staff ) Catherine Telfer George Krajca Andrew Pease Kimberly Mooney

Literary Staff

Foreign Language Editor Video Staff Art & Video Faculty Advisor Literary Faculty Advisor Music Advisor Foreign Language Advisor

Zephyr Video & Music Zephyr Video

Here you will find compelling videos that connect you with the concept of time as media. Conceptual and aesthetic uses of Video Art allow the artist to communicate their own original ideas to others. These videos attempt to bring the viewer so close that they can touch, understand and believe in the ideas of the artist.

This year’s Zephyr Video compilation investigates the relationship between various media, and combines multiple mediums into singular works of time-based art. We hope that it entertains you, yet by and large, we hope it inspires you.

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and

exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t

nice, I don’t know what is.’”

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007)

– CT

Zephyr Music

Living for Something • Jainist Assassin; Chris Barrett, Ben Chesneau, J.P. Barrett, Axel Calmut, Rickey Rodriguez Save a Life • The Fray, Sarah Krikorian Through the Fire • Jesseca Turner The Longest Time • Billy Joel, RHS a Capella Maiden Voyage • Herbie Hancock, RHS Jazz Combo Dracula (remix) • MMW, Ian Gibbs What is Hip • Tower of Power, RHS Jazz Band Georgia on My Mind • Hoagy Carmichael, RHS Orchestra featuring Dylan Kindler Reflections on Nature: Stars • Jesseca Turner Opposite: Installation Sculpture • Casey Gollan

Installation Sculpture • Casey Gollan

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