Zephyr
2009
art & literary magazine
Zephyr 2009 Âś Volume 49
Rye High School 1 Parsons Street
Rye, NY 10580
914-967-6100
zephyrmag.com
We are ridiculously happy to present to you, our beautiful reader, the 49th edition of Zephyr!
Letter From the Editors
What’s an average color? Average colors are simply what an image looks like when resized to 1x1 pixels.
The length of the bar corresponds to the word count of the piece of writing, the color of the bar represents the average color of the nearest piece of art. We did it this way so that you can both find what you’re looking for and enjoy getting lost.
Key
Table of Contents Smile Stack of Sounds
3
5
Afterdeath Happenstance Temptress
17
18
19
Pent Up 140
24
25
Green Coat
Clockwork
16
23
Gallimaufry
15
Stranger to Scrutiny
Sun Prison
14
22
Amber Eyes
11
The Drops
An Old Song
10
21
Flat
7
A Present Day Jupiter
Frame
1
6
Title
Page
5
Poetry
Katrina Gibbs
24 26
Poetry Poetry
Matt Moseman Oliver Callund
23
19
Poetry
Katrina Gibbs
Poetry
18
Fiction
Kira Hessekial
Jenna Langbaum
17
Poetry
Leon Husock
22
16
Poetry
Miriam Ward
Poetry
15
Poetry
Oliver Callund
Jessi Tremayne
13
Foreign Language
Viviana Pereyra
21
12
Fiction
Viktoria Lange
Foreign Language
9
Poetry
Jenna Langbaum
Catharine Greer
7
Poetry
Matt Moseman
6
3
Non Fiction
Monica Pfister
Foreign Language
2
Poetry
Sarah Nye
Casey Heil
Page
Genre
Author
Greg Langer
Misako Ono
Madeleine Goldman
Rachel Pariser
Artist
Drawing
Sculpture
Photograph
Photograph
Sculpture
Sculptures
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Drawing
Photograph
Drawing
Photograph
Rachel Munsie
Grant Young
Cat Raynor
Besia Friedel
Jasmin Telfer
Casey Gollan
Nat Stein
Michael Julian
Michael Julian
Emi Woodthorpe
Nat Stein
Julia Murray
Cat Raynor
Photographs Andra Khoder
Photograph
Photograph
Drawings
Photograph
Medium
ART LIT
The 49th 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 Adobe Garamond Pro. Rye Printing Inc. printed 800 copies on beautiful 80lb matte stock with a 100lb cover. Zephyr was made possible by the financial support of the Rye City School District and the wonderful individuals who contributed all of their time, art, and effort.
Colophon
We think it’s our best yet, and we hope you enjoy your Zephyr experience as much as we enjoyed ours! - Casey Gollan & Andra Khoder
The submissions we recieve vary each year, but one thing has stayed the same: we choose the pieces we love to make a magazine we love. Poetry Poetry Poetry Foreign Language Poetry Poetry Foreign Language Poetry Foreign Language Foreign Language Foreign Language Fiction Fiction Poetry Poetry Foreign Language Poetry Poetry Fiction
Jessi Tremayne Emi Woodthorpe Dale Neuringer Sarah Niss Jessi Tremayne Jenna Langbaum Alex Giroux Matt Moseman Julia Fiala Maki Nakajima Misako Ono Dale Neuringer Oliver Callund Eleanor Smith Katrina Gibbs Viviana Pereyra Dale Neuringer Brogan Matthews Andra Khoder
Green Paradoxically... Hope Lying Under... Love Poem Carnival For the Widows... Splatter WESPAC Evening Star Cocoon and Grave Untitled It’s Just the Loner Smashed Fairytale Disappointingly... Desert A Peculiar Meeting More than One ... Eruption I Am Awake Writing
27
29
31
32
33
34
35
37
39
41
42
43
47
51
52
54
56
58
59
59
57
55
53
52
51
50
47
45
43
42
40
36
34
33
32
31
30
28
Michael Julian
Amanda Benincasa
Rachel Munsie
Julia Baez
Cat Raynor
Greg Langer
Misako Ono
Casey Gollan
Nat Stein
Rachel Pariser
Rosario Gallagher
Jasmin Telfer
Ryan Cavataro
Eunice Taylor
Julia Murray
Sculpture
Sculpture
Drawing
Andra Khoder
Casey Gollan
Julia Murray
Mixed Media Laura Cabral
Photograph
Photograph
Drawing
Sculpture
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Sculpture
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Sculpture
Drawing
Drawing
Frame poem by Sarah Nye
Dip, Slide, Wait, Drip, Slide You can’t really tell if your eyes are open or closed. But yes – now you spot the orange light. You know they are open, And eventually they start to adjust. You feel for the clock and switch the knob. Now you can see it, The negative image has appeared. Dip, Slide, Wait, Drip, Slide You are careful with your paper, As you skim it gently out of the thick black plastic. You place the paper underneath. Skating on emulsion. Dip, Slide, Wait, Drip, Slide Projector on. It is set for thirty seconds, Which. Feels. Like. A. Lifetime. Dip, Slide, Wait, Drip, Slide Finally the light goes off and you slither the paper out. Only touching the paper by the very edges, You dive it into the vinegar and let it bathe. The acidic, sour smell sticks to the roof of your mouth. Dip, Slide, Stop, Wait, Drip, Slide, Fix, Slip, Drip, Wash, Dry. The constant sound of the running sink water erases everything else from your mind. Frame.
my nostie feum ex exerit utat. Amconse ectet, volorti sciduisi. Ero ex estions dio dolendigna feutin veniame tuerili ssequat erosto consequat. Umsan eros nos autetueros adiametue modip erit, conulput prat augue magnibh esequismolor am ent landiam velisl ex er ipis erciduisis dolore facipisim nulputat. Ad erat, quis nullam zzriustie cor si blaoreet, si. Tem et velit laorercidunt luptatie tet, conulputatue magna feummodolore ming ectem nulputpat etue modit, sequis at. Te dolessed diatio ent ero dit vel iuscin vel dolor sum ing ex el iure eugait nostrud ectem irillam vel endreetue delit erat, se ming ea feumsan eriure tat iusci te ea feu facinci liquisi eriusci te feum quis nostrud dolesse vel iurem dipis nis non etue facilit aut utem duipit prat volortio od ex et nons et dolorer augait, sis am, cons atue min hendio et, sequat. Incinim num quipis ad dolorperosto consenit iriustissi. Obor sectet, quis nisit lobore feugiat, sis diat. Usto commod et in henim quiscil landre mincips uscidunt at. Ure vel dolobore min estrud magna faccum quam quat del ea accum iriusci tat,Im nosto consectem quis nullam do doluptatie essectem ing et, vel dunt nonsent augue et nisl del ese euguero odit ad estin exerat. Henisciduisl iusto odiam augiat am illa adiam ver suscidu ismodiamcons dionsenim illa faccumsan erit, veliquat dunt aliquis molortie conum ing ex essed tie minis autat in ut in erilit alit wisis numsan velit nulput am vel el doloreet ilit ad elis dolore dolor sequip ectem vel irit dolorem dolore magnit ad euisim zzrit acin hendrero dolore el estion ulputat incillu tpatis eros num ipit loreet volor si eu feuguer atet praestrud dolese minim dit nonsed magna conse feuguer si. Do cor sectet volessi tet praesequam ad tet, sed ero dolortis ad exercil utpatum ipit pratetumsan henim ipsuscin ent aliquis ercinim dip eugait dipit praessed ming enis nim iurem dolortie ea ad del ulla facipismod te consectem el eui te tie vendiam commodo lorercil ilit utpatumsan utpatisl essectetuer aliscid uissisi tat. Ut ad ecte core del dolorting essi eugiam dolorem alit, quat nonsequ ipisit exero consed digna feu faci tiscing eu feugait velese dolor alisl dignit lut alis nisl ipsumsa ndignit inim eugiam vel eril ero od tisit elit in ullut lam aliquat, vel eniat vendre vel ute minci eugait num veros ametue magna facing et velit lore dolorpe rcipsus cipsusto erostrud mod doloreet, commodolor sim accummodit adio commod tet lutet lan et, quamet iurem duisi. Quat, sustiniat wismod del deliquam zzriurem zzriurer accummodigna feugiam, quiscip esed tin velisi.
2 On this spread: poem On thisbyspread: Sarah Nye Medium Âś photograph by Artist Âś Poem by Rachel by Author Pariser
it utat lumsan vel er incing ex etum nulput ate dignit vulla ad dipit, com-
T
Smile non-fiction by Monica Pfister
wenty minutes (and one slice of iced lemon pound cake) after leaving my internship in Queens, I arrive on the elevated 36th Avenue subway platform and tuck my MetroCard back into my wallet. In my panoramic view of urban rush hour, I can see the fruit market on the corner, the car wash down the street, and the rusty, rickety tracks that wind north toward Astoria Boulevard. Seated on the platform’s bench are three other travelers squinting in the fading evening light; I join them, leaning back against sun-warmed concrete to wait for the N Train. Plastered to the platform wall is a yellow poster bearing the ubiquitous post9/11 message: “If you see something, say something.” Reflexively, I take a look at the three people seated next to me: aside from our identical MetroCards, we seem to have nothing in common. The man immediately to my right has a weathered, grandfatherly face set off by straight, white hair that falls past his shoulders. To my left is his antithesis, a middle-aged businesswoman returning from work in navy blue heels. Finally, a twenty-something dressed in black, with his dark hair gelled into punk-y spikes, sits next to her. Bent intently over a sketch of a dragon, he frowns as he smudges the charcoal on the page. Although we are all squeezed onto the same bench, we ignore each other
and avoid eye contact—it’s the unwritten rule of public transportation. The rhythmic background noise of approaching commuter footsteps is abruptly interrupted by a much less purposeful, irregular beat. A two-year-old girl is toddling across the platform, struggling to keep up with her mother’s patient strides. She lets out a satisfied little puff of breath with each step, her light-up sneakers scuffing on the concrete. When she notices her audience on the bench, she grins and waves her tiny hand—the four of us are suddenly alert. Although we are indifferent to passing trains, growing crowds, and each other, we count this toddler and her little bobbing pigtails as worthy of our attention. All four of us wave back in succession, matching the toddler’s shameless grin. The boy furthest from me—the one drawing a dragon—even makes a funny face to coax a giggle from the plucky little girl. As the girl leaves, the four of us exchange warm glances at our identical behavior; we are briefly linked by our violation of the unwritten rule of public transportation. We let our eyes meet just long enough to enjoy the unexpected camaraderie—in a moment, the girl will pass, our smiles will fade, and we will become strangers again. We will still be anonymous, but we will no longer be oblivious to the universal quality of smiling eyes.
On this spread: drawing by Madeleine Goldman ¶ non-fiction by Monica Pfister
4
Stack of Sounds poem by Katrina Gibbs We’re running through smoke stacks to the sound of my boots, clack-clack talking too loudly, as usual better quiet me down better quiet me down We’re jumping off rooftops to the sound of your heart, pump-pump beating too quickly as usual better slow you down better slow you down We’re breaking bread to the sounds of the sun, whispering too softly again
better hold me close better hold me close You’re running to the sound of your own thoughts, which race over mountain tops across the river bend and down the beaten path heavily trotted with frightened feet better to leave better to leave rub eyes so slowly wishing to keep the world away wake up to the sound of solitude.
A Present Day Jupiter foreign language by Casey Heil Cōtīdiē forma nova venit, et nōn possum cēlāre motūs animī verberātōs.
A new form comes with each sunrise, and battered emotions are not easy to hide.
Tū mūtās cōtīdiē formā et mente, et difficile est invenīre colōrem vērum.
You change each day, in both shape and mind, and your true identity becomes harder to find.
Nōs nec sponsī ut Iuppiter et Juno, sed Io, Leda, et Europa adhūc animum fidērunt.
While not betrothed like Jupiter and Juno, Io, Leda and Europa still split my heart in two.
Nōn possum mutāre tē et vitia, Haud cessābō. Nūllae commūtātiōnēs accident ut fābula est, ego et tū nec iugēmur nec simul senescēmus. Parāta sum progredī et oblīvīscī temporis nostrī, contra licentiam et cupiditātem vivendī celeriter.
Without the power to change you and your vices, I refuse to sit back and play nice. While no transformations will occur as the story is told, we will not be together and grow old. I am ready to continue and forget the past, despite your promiscuity and desire to live fast.
On this spread: photograph by Misako Ono ¶ poem by Katharine Gibbs ¶ photograph by Greg Langer ¶ foreign language by Casey Heil
6
Flat poem by Matt Moseman
What tribe of madness is this? That by which the trope of darkness Within grows to encompass ever more Of the expanse of self within its brittle emptiness? I was puzzled, I was unsure, But now I see with pernicuity, for All that filled me, all that was inside Has been abolished, has been banned; I am an empty glass. I try to drum up a sense of loss But my pleas only echo maddeningly Against the glossy membrane that my skin makes. Conceptualized continuity should be a laughing matter, If I could be moved to laughter. My nose knows; I am sliding down a slippery slope Into the eye of the needle.
I try to imagine in theory A happening big enough to move me: An anthropomorphic God in the night sky Flexing male musculature conspicuously for the first time; The implied death of a dump full of infant carcasses, The rot of their hasty grave visible on their faces In swathes and swatches of emergent verdigris and gamboge; The chalky detritus of a brief rape Ever less apparent as exsanguinated skin cools, An ashen hue inhuman in its transgression Of even the most milky pale caucasian color; Mausoleum of a million frozen souls Submerged beneath the waves and riptides Of some unsung sea, unsuspected By Atlantean lore; Fat boy laid out on a carving board Still breathing but unlikely to revive In time to interdict a twisted butcher; I could go on for I feel nothing, I fail in my endeavor to empathize.
Coca Cola culture rots my humanity Overnight like a tooth, Spiking my sensitivity before The experience of total nerve death Is presumably excruciating, but Passes unnoticed. Needless to say, blunted affect Is a gross understatement. Silent panoramas of nameless atrocity Slide through my psyche one after another Further tempering my sensational bulwarks. Every female form I see Appears in archaic monochrome in my mind, Petrified in death, the acts in-between Instinctive and exhaustively rehearsed, Assumed and accepted by myself alone, Or so I hope, for if others see within me, Then I am f***ed thoroughly. Contrary to popular belief, the people Around me do not become more beautiful in death, Optimizing as they are most alive, in The midst of fierce resistance to thanatos. All the items around me have Leverage towards death, be it Via puncture wound or blunt trauma. I do not try to mask my thoughts Knowing that bystanders will detourne The signs that I send out Into intensely personal sentiments. However, not as intensely personal As the intimate images of their deaths That are thoughtlessly conjured before my mind’s eye.
On this spread: poem by Matt Moseman Âś photographs by Andra Khoder
8
An Old Song poem by Jenna Langbaum
I could hear music from your eyes. It was a faint, quiet piano, On and on with no repeat. An old song I had heard in my dad’s black car. It travelled right through my unaware ears, Down into the depths of my piles of memory, And it settled, And stirred. The smell of my dad’s minty car, And the windows wide open, blasting wind through my skin, Leaving me translucent and wonderful, Leaving me in the waves of a song. Maybe it was Billy Joel, Or Elton John, Or maybe it was a song I had only dreamed once or twice. But I haven’t heard it since I looked into your grey eyes And felt the keys awaken me, one by one.
On this spread: photograph by Cat Raynor ¶ poem by Jenna Langbaum
10
Amber Eyes
I
fiction by Viktoria Lange
didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see the car itself. But I saw the driver; my own blue eyes met his amber. It must have lasted for a split second, but my airborne suspension felt like an eternity. The same thought passed through our heads, a mutual acknowledgement of the situation: Oh, S***. And that was it. I was down. The car hit into my hip and an unseen force tossed me into the oncoming traffic from the other direction. Flesh met hard, grey pavement. I saw the wheels of the car speed away. The smell of burned rubber mixed with that iron smell that only blood can emit wafted up my nose. My head. Oh, MY HEAD. It’s so…heavy….so…heavy. Darkness. Pink and yellow spindles float across an obscure black landscape. “OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT?” Smells enter and mingle with the pink and yellow. Green, blue smells. Then the red smell. NOT THE RED SMELL. “Is he gonna be okay? What the hell was that guy thinking?” “Hold still, son. HOLD STILL. IT’S OKAY!” The darkness is thicker now. It latches on to my eyelids and pulls me up. Forward. Over. Forward. Soft. Padding. Wheels. And… “OWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” The darkness evaporated. Burnt rubber tire smell, iron blood smell, and fresh rubbing alcohol smell. And light. And pain. Loud pain rushed into my right leg. “Glad to see you’re with us again…Alexander?” A man in EMS uniform fumbled through my wallet and found my student ID. I couldn’t say anything, I felt like I had swallowed a pint of Elmer’s Glue. I was still on the ground, but on a stretcher. Another EMS worker was at the stretcher’s head, ready to lift me into the ambulance. “Alex, we are taking you to the hospital. I’ll hang on to this.” The first EMS guy held up my wallet. I nodded. “Ok. Ready, Rob? One two three GENTLE NOW AND UP!” I held my breath as daggers shot up my leg. Orange glimmers hung in the outskirts of my
They began work on my leg. Compound fracture. I heard the screech one last time; Amber-eyes disappeared. I still have a limp sometimes— my right leg tires easily and seems to have a mind of its own when it comes to causing me aches and pains. It will be like that forever. I know it. Just like the scars that crisscross up my shin, giant Harry Potter scar style. These are my constant reminders of the day I narrowly escaped Death. And of Amber-eyes. I’m not the type to take revenge; I am a peaceful person. But I do wish one thing. I hope Amber-eyes remembers Blue-eyes. And the pain he caused him.
12 On this spread: fiction On this spread: by Viktoria Medium Lange by¶ Artist drawing ¶ Poem by Julia by Murray Author
vision. Five, four, three, two, one. With a gentle thump I was in the sparkling clean inside of the ambulance. Rob started disinfecting my face with a gauze pad and some tweezers (for the asphalt pebbles in my left cheek). This took an age, or so it seemed—I lay on the stretcher being tweezed and listening to a soundtrack of beeps and boops from the ambulance machines and communication systems. Suddenly a familiar screech sounded from the right side of the ambulance. I knew it before I saw it—it was the amber-eyed man. So, he had returned to look at the damage he inflicted. I heard the muffled voice of the first EMS worker. Then I heard the driver’s voice, quiet. Firm. I heard steps near the side of the ambulance. Then a faced peered around the back door. Blue met Amber. There was no pity in the eyes, no remorse. He said nothing. Looked away. Looked back. Blue met Amber. “OW. OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Sun Prison
14
Hurried come all the sensations My feet feel the cold china; my bones shiver Through the window the sun spills its blessings But from the exterior my eyes are prisoners. From branch to branch, from drop to drop the sun caresses Its luminous touch of a thousand colors to a thousand places arrives Good fortune the weather favors But my life the sun does not illuminate, only blinds.
Prisión del Sol
Distortions enter through the window Through the broken glass nothing is normal The sky wants to break, like porcelain An unreal landscape; sun, why are you disloyal?
Apuradas vienen todas las sensaciones Mis pies sienten la loza fría; tiemblan mis huesos Por la ventana el sol derrama sus bendiciones Light why do you play with your children? Pero del exterior mis ojos están presos. Why does the cold doorknob not give up? In here darkness accents itself; the hours are fixed De rama en rama a gota en gota el sol acaricia But in the garden of the sun, time rewinds. Su toque luminoso de mil colores a mil lugares llega Buena fortuna el clima propicia You, sun, great luminous star Más mi vida el sol no ilumina, sólo ciega. Your power is not such as to penetrate these walls Of the capricious flowers I am jealous Distorciones entran por la ventana Why can they enjoy you and not me, your eager daughter? A través del vidrio roto nada es normal El cielo se quiere romper, como la porcelana A thousand summers in a perpetual dungeon Un paisaje irreal; sol, ¿por qué me eres desleal? Who closed the door is a mystery Woman of the outside, your joy is not mutual ¿Luz, porque juegas con tus hijos? My illusions are shut away in a cold cemetery. ¿Por qué la fría perilla de la puerta no cede? Aquí dentro se acentúa la oscuridad; las horas son fijas Pero en el jardín del sol, el tiempo retrocede. Tú, sol, gran estrella luminosa, Tu poder no es tal para penetrar estas paredes, De las flores caprichosas estoy celosa, ¿Por qué ellas pueden disfrutar de ti y no yo, tu hija ansiosa? Mil veranos en un encierro perpetúo Quien la puerta cerró es un misterio Mujer de afuera, tu jubilo no es mutuo Mis iluciones enterradas están, en un frío cementerio.
On this spread: photograph by Nat Stein ¶ foreign language by Viviana Pereyra
foreign language by Viviana Pereyra
Gallimaufry poem by Oliver Callund
Awkward incondite images that’s all that’s in my skull From my dearest friend Bon qui qui To lead that turns to gold A worm crawling up your throat And crackling cracking bones The cascading drools Of my dozed off comrades Remind me it’s time to nap. But as my eyelids approach their destined smash I am abruptly woken up By my own mental paean? Nope, it’s just my phone I slip back into brain waves Why are ants so small? And Crash they finally do collide And now my mind is liberated My Brobdingnagian imagination’s loose Where I am allowed to sing So here‘s an ode to randomness An assortment of coloured smells And from the hodgepodge of my head I bid you all farewell
Clockwork Time is the canopy that won’t stop growing. Higher than the crushed crimson leaves against the burnt sunrise, Faster than ink and paper colliding to form collapsed, Fragments. Slower than the needle scraping away at the spinning wheel, Forever moving, forever standing still. Through creation or destruction, Time won’t escape.
16 On this spread: drawing by Emi Woodthorpe ¶ poem by Oliver Callund ¶ poem by Miriam Ward ¶ photograph by Michael Julian
poem by Miriam Ward
The Afterdeath poem by Leon Husock
The ghost in the machine is dead And within, amongst the gears, it rots. From the body’s mouth spews not breath but noxious fumes, poisoning the air with Nihilism.
fiction by Kira Hessekiel The air outside the coffee shop was a mixture of roasted beans and ice in the early morning light. The shop’s door opened and closed to the beat of the pre-work rush, letting people in and heat out. The multitudes swarmed the cash register, money out and eyes yearning for the cure to their caffeine thirst. Greg drained the last of his no whip half-caf latte (the only thing no one ever ordered, and the only coffee he liked), and threw his cup out under the counter. Fat Obnoxious Woman Who Comes Every Day stood in front of him, tapping her foot impatiently because he hadn’t immediately acknowledged her presence. She seemed to pride herself on the fact that she always ordered an excessively complicated beverage, but what she didn’t realize was that she ordered the same one every day and so the crew prepared it ahead of time. He listened to her ever-spirited tirade, took her money and handed her the reheated cup wordlessly, and she huffed out the door. Greg watched scores of people’s morning ritual in the same way as he’d watched Fat Obnoxious – practically catatonic, hardly aware of what they were saying or doing, and listening only for the key words that would clue him in to what he should prepare to make them go away. He turned to the next customer, barely aware of her presence until she opened her mouth to order.
“I’ll have a no whip half-caf latte please,” said a quiet voice with a hint of a smile in it. Greg’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus for the first time all day – in front of him stood a pair of wide eyes fitted into a pale, heartshaped face which was bordered by smooth tangles of waving chocolate brown hair. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he stuttered, caught completely off guard, “you ordered what?” She repeated her request, giving Greg a quizzical look. Shaking his head like a wet dog, Greg quickly took her money and went about busily making her drink of choice with utmost care. “She’s beautiful, and she drinks the same coffee as me?” he thought as he put the lid on her cup, “I can’t let her get away.” Feeling a little foolish despite the clarity of his inner monologue, he took the marker he used to designate orders out of his apron pocket and quickly jotted his number on the cardboard sleeve he slid up the cup’s white walls. “Enjoy, Miss,” Greg said as he handed the girl her order, hoping she didn’t notice his hand shaking. She smiled in return, taking the cup gingerly. “Ouch!” She slid another cardboard sleeve over Greg’s number and walked out into the sunlight, letting in a gust of icy air.
18 On this spread: photograph by Michael Julian ¶ poem by Leon Husock ¶ fiction by Kira Hessekiel ¶ photograph by Nat Stein
Happenstance
Temptress poem by Katrina Gibbs
She’s fatal in all the worst possible ways. She lures you in with her eight different legs, Her eight different faces, and her eight different names. Behind her batting eyelashes, she silently whispers a secret to herself. Question marks swat at the fly-on-the-wall’s mind, Buzzing paper wings. She knows what she is doing. The helpless victim is engulfed, surrounded by nothing but cobweb. She looks into the eyes of her prey with sick content The quivering fly gazes back in aching fear But she never sheds a single tear Strictly business You were never anything but a meal. She devours the insignificant bug, inside and out, Blood pours into her mouth. The small gnat was helpless all along Sewn into an icy spider web.
The little fly wanted to cry out and it wanted to yell, But all it could do is lay there as its life slowly fell Into the fatal fangs of the temptress Who’s stamped with a crimson hourglass Whose teeth flash like daggers in the dead of night So patiently she sits in the shadows. She knows what she is doing. Her stomach is full with one night’s dinner, Yet her insides grow thinner and thinner, A sharp pain strikes profoundly Deep within the confines of her mind Distracting her aching head, she gently spins her sparkling white web. Everything is so intricately intertwined like delicate ivory vines Dew drops glisten with every beam of light that stretches its arms far enough to tickle through the thick glass window, And the web hanging from the bend. Bright beams of light strike the spider’s ebony sides For a moment the temptress lets her mind slip away For a moment the frozen walls within her collapse under the overbearing weight of the sun For a moment, glistening light tinkles in her eight different eyes But only for a moment in staggering sunshine.
On this spread: sculptures On this spread: by Casey Medium Gollan by¶ Artist poem¶byPoem Katharine by Author Gibbs
20
The Drops foreign language by Catharine Greer
It was raining. I remember your eyes, your voice, you face. Sweet words fell like drops of rain. Often I thought about your return. But you didn’t return. I always hoped to see you again. To know the truth. Why did you go so far away? The only answer was the sound of the rain. Drops of rain.
Las Gotas Estaba lloviendo. Recuerdo los ojos, la voz, la cara. Palabras dulces se cayeron como las gotas de lluvia. A menudo pensaba en el momento de tu regreso. Pero no regresaste. Yo siempre esperaba verte de nuevo. Para saber la verdad. ¿Por qué te fuiste tan lejos de mí? La única respuesta fue el sonido de la lluvia. Las gotas de la lluvia.
Untitled poem by Jessi Tremayne
A stranger to my scrutiny He crossed the track in the first hour or so of darkness Dressed for the weather And he made his way to the end of the field Where he stopped In front of the pole sheathed in red Standing still for a moment or two Before lacing up gloves And bouncing on his toes Coughing out hot, thick air Into the face he had created The one he couldn’t name I wanted to know what he was doing, In the strange bitterness of an early December evening Reveling in its disorienting incongruity I ached to see his emotion Purposely left for someone to find But I left first Turning back to see the pallid yellow light Creating a shadow of what was a man Dancing under his feet
On this spread: sculpture by Jasmin Telfer ¶ foreign language by Viviana Pereyra ¶ photograph by ????? ¶ poem by Jessi Tremayne
22
Green Coat poem by Jenna Langbaum
You have a brown suitcase and a flickering smile, You love your new suitcase, but I don’t fit. You hug me and my tiny tears escape like wishes. But I don’t want you to see, So I lock them away in the car. You are so happy its making me lonely. You gather your green coat and your rain boots, and the green blurs into liquidy lines of lime. You have left with your pretty freedom, Your room is still and weepy. So I climb into your bed and let the wishes escape.
poem by Matt Moseman Did you know that Every morning and every night The staff of the Lenin Mausoleum Have to re-tighten the straps That hold old Lenin down? Because, otherwise he would eventually Break loose, and start to spin. That’s right, if he weren’t tethered He’d be spinning in his coffin, And before you know it, He’d be spinning a mile a minute. Spinning like a centrifuge To cast out all the gunk They pumped in him so he wouldn’t rot. Spinning like the axle of a Monster truck named Red Guard, Spinning out of control, He could not be contained within His glass display case.
I have no doubt, given the chance, Lenin would break out. Imagine, suddenly he escapes; Rolling, like a log at ludicrous speed, Makin’ a roll for it down the street Of the city they would call Leningrad again just for one day. Imagine the mayhem and the hubub He could cause, Whirling down the avenues like a dervish, As startled Russians leap to get clear Of Lenin as he spun out of all of his Frustration with the way communism worked out. By the time Putin and Medvedev Caught up with him, he’d Be stark naked and halfway To Smolensk at least. Or maybe not, in fact I would like to Think he would roll To Peter Kropotkin’s estate, Where he could dig himself in And tell old Pete That he knows how he must have felt.
24 On this spread: photograph by Cat Raynor ¶ poem by Jenna Langbaum ¶ poem by Matt Moseman ¶ sculpture by Grant Young
Pent Up
140 poem by Oliver Callund
Corrugated brown hardened paper Concealing my chattels Linens: Packed Photographs: Stored Comforters: Sealed My home: Shipped off They obliterate everything The boxes hurled carelessly into the metal container They drain it all Like insatiable stout kids downing their milkshakes Leaving only some bubbles and residue for me to cling on Through my room’s window I see my home The darkness it now swallows The cobwebs already collecting As we flip the sign hanging on the door from occupied to vacant. 140 still stands Others will call her “home” Disregarding her past. Recollections, slip-ups, tantrums and belly laughs Veiled by the silence Gone My footsteps repeat in the derelict halls I laze over my illusory bed Making carpet angels Enjoying the serenity Mourning the quiet A tacit goodbye
On this spread: poem by Oliver Callund Âś drawing by Rachel Munsie
26
Green poem by Jessi Tremayne
When you held it in your hands It was beautiful, I thought Maybe it wasn’t But all I knew was It held me to you I let you slide it on my finger While you told me it was a promise I fell into those lies When I took it off today My finger was stained in that same Pretty little circle An angry green I held my hand under Scalding water with a bar of soap Scrubbing at what was left of you Before, I wanted to show everyone Even though I knew it wasn’t much, and that I shouldn’t Be so fast to believe your promises But, you knew I would A thousand times over And now what am I? Bitter nothing But I still have A reminder of my faults My mistakes
On this spread: poem by Jessi Tremayne Âś drawing by Julia Murray
28
Paradoxically Speaking poem by Emi Woodthorpe
A thousand lines I wish to you, a thousand things I pretend… Could I teach a fish to fly, Teach a crack to mend, Make honesty lie? Could I ask windows to look, Teach a war to love, Make an anorexic cook, Should I cage the dove? Teach two left feet grace Make the joker weep Should I let the rabbit win the race? Teach 8 am to sleep. Make the shadow shine The grass grow blue Just for you, pretend you’re mine…
On this spread: poem by Emi Woodthorpe Âś drawing by Eunice Taylor
30
Hope Lying Under Hot Wheels poem by Dale Neuringer
Stumbling, blue into broad daylight The animal shyly renegotiated it’s sheen with the light, Pulling at the adoring rays as it shimmered, onto the bulging, stocky, pavement. I couldn’t return to focus, Couldn’t focus on returning as everything glowed softly In the shadow of the animal. My be-stockinged, realist, feet didn’t feel the brakes They didn’t feel the gas either. Instead they felt the infinity that a beautiful moment holds you in As it embraces you woefully and passes into Time’s tomb. I felt as if I could drive towards this moment forever Never leave it behind as memory Or as the ignorance that Time calls husband.
Love Poem Las flores eran más bonitas cuando tú y yo estábamos juntos. El sol era un poco más brillante cuando tú y yo estábamos enamorados. La sonrisa era más grande. Todo era mejor. Los animales cantaban. Los colores cambiaban. El mundo sonreía. Pero, Cuando el amor murió, la sonrisa y el mundo congelaron. Las personas gritaron y la vida era una guerra. Mi mundo era frío y casi imposible. Pero, Así es la vida. Una persona canta mientras otra llora.
The flowers were more beautiful when we were together. The sun was brighter when we were in love. My smile was bigger. Everything was better. The animals used to sing. The colors used to change. The world used to smile. But, When our love died, both my smile and the world froze. People screamed and life was a war. My world was cold and almost impossible. But, That is life. A person sings while another cries.
32 On this spread: sculpture by Ryan Cavataro ¶ poem by Dale Neuringer ¶ foreign langauge by Sarah Niss ¶ photograph by Jasmin Telfer
foreign language by Sarah Niss
Carnival poem by Jessi Tremayne The cracked and barren lot For just a night Was the place of exhilaration A carnival was in town Ferris wheel reached high above The clowns with their demented giggles Young children laughing into clouds of cotton candy Fear was forgotten For just a night Tickets were exchanged For moments spinning circles in the air, or A drenching on the log flume Everyone lined up for the old wooden coaster Tired cars creaked at every turn But the sound was swallowed With the riders’ joy At ten o’clock
Fireworks exploded into the sky The loud bangs frightened many, Unfurling fists of shining light A thousand stained glass windows shattered, Stealing the veil of the evening Come tomorrow The carnival would be long gone An airplane would land about a mile away Releasing young men into reaching arms While others waited And returned home, clutching photographs Knowing there would be no more But who could say Who would return, so For just a night Tomorrow was left behind And the night was alive
“For the Widows in Paradise” poem by Jenna Langbaum
After I have listened to too much Sufjan Stevens, and the words numb my core to a rotten apple, I slip behind the gray masks of shadows, Lay on the coolest and smoothest of floors, Let my body reside in thick, warm breathing, until the air around me is only the breath from within, Cry the weary tears I often forgot about, Seal my eyes tight, Switch it all off, And think of you.
On this spread: photograph by Rosario Gallagher ¶ poem by Jessi Tremayne ¶ photograph by Rachel Pariser ¶ poem by Jenna Langbaum
34
A
Splatter foreign language by Alex Giroux lan was spread out, lying in the center of the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was past the point of frustration; he had pretty much given up and accepted his fate. It had been days and just…nothing. He could feel the walls laughing at him, taunting him, making his skin crawl. But what more could he do? There wasn’t exactly a whole lot he could do, so he just laid there. Alan had been ecstatic to finally get his own place and couldn’t wait to start the next chapter in his life: a new place, a new job, and a new life. But the move had turned out to be a terrible decision. He woke up every day and went to work at job that paid a meager salary and bored him to tears - literally. Every night, he returned to his tiny (but still his) apartment, which he had hardly had time to furnish, and watched TV, read a book, or just contemplated his sad life. All his hopes, dreams, and expectations for this new chapter couldn’t have been farther from what he actually had. Finally, he had had enough. He got up and left. With no destination in mind, Alan drove
around, using up his gas, until he stopped at a paint store. Before he realized what he was doing, he parked the car and went inside. He walked out of the store ten minutes later pushing a cart full of paint cans. He loaded up his car, drove back home, and brought the cans into his room. He pulled the top off of the red, dipped a brush in, closed his eyes, stuck his arm out and ran around in a circle, flinging his arm towards the wall the whole way. He picked up another brush and flung paint at the walls, then another, and another. He could feel the pent-up pressures and anxieties flying away with each splatter of paint. He kept going until he had used all the colors: blues, reds, greens, yellows, oranges, purples, pinks, black. He kept spraying and splashing paint onto the walls until there was none left. Paint covered everything: the walls, the floor, the windows, the bed, the closet, and Alan. He finally collapsed in his bed and looked around at his masterpiece. His eyes slowly closed with the silly grin still on his face.
Alan estaba tirado en el centro del cuarto con un una mirada vacía. Él estaba más que frustrado. Ahora solo quería abandonar todo. Había pasado días y…nada. Las paredes blancas se rieron de él. Él había hecho todo lo imaginable. Entonces allí en el piso, no se podía creer en nada. Él había estado emocionado cuando se mudara a su nuevo apartamento, emocionado por su vida nueva: un lugar nuevo, trabajo nuevo y vida nueva. Pero después del cambio, esta “nueva vida” simplemente fue horrible. Alan se despertaba cada día y trabajaba en un trabajo que era muy aburrido y lo odiaba. Regresaba a su pequeña casa y a veces miraba la televisión o leía un libro o se sentaba en el piso, sin hacer nada. Lo que había querido por su nueva vida era muy diferente de lo que tenía. Finalmente, hasta que él simplemente no podía más, se levantó. Salió de la casa aunque no tenía ni idea adónde iba. Él conducía en círculos, hasta que finalmente paró en frente de la ferretearía. Antes de darse cuenta de lo que estaba que haciendo, salió de la tienda con pintura y un pincel. Condujo a casa y puso la pintura en su cuarto. Puso el pincel en la roja, cerró los ojos, y dio la vuelta. Pintura voló por todas partes del cuarto. Después, lanzó el amarillo, y entonces el azul, y el verde, la naranja, la morada, y el negro. Siguió hasta que se acabó toda la pintura. Había pintura en todo en el cuarto: las paredes, el piso, las ventanas, la cama, el armario, y si mismo. Él se cayó en la cama y finalmente hizo lo que siempre quería; se durmió como lirón.
On this spread: foreign language by Alex Giroux Âś photogram by Nat Stein
36
Wespac poem by Matt Moseman
Walls adorned with works of art which aren’t quite serious. Pleasing and intriguing but not so much so as to make people feel uncomfortable around them. Because everyone except the newcomers knows that this is no place for delicacy, and anybody being careful not to mess anything up is a newbie and a fool. It is the only live music venue I know with a carpeted dance floor. And you’ll be thankful for it the first time you fall and ever after; finally in that moment of humiliating agony you will see the sublime utility of the otherwise tacky thing. Fresh fish too proud to believe it, but everybody falls, and it usually doesn’t take long. Because this is a house of experimental-Post-Punk-Rock-Metal-Indy-Grunge, and it’s all the rage among kids my age in and around White Plains. Here all the tension and frustration that builds up in our blue blood as we grind our teeth and act like good boys and girls is manumitted in a bodily typhoon to the irregular rhythms that our sweaty shirtless friends on stage produce; capturing the feelings of knowingly petty angst that these edgy heirs and heiresses harbor due to their not popular decision to exist on the fringe of acceptability to our overwhelmingly Republican parents.
Instruments of a bizarre character are brought in and incorporated at a steady pace as we burn through the year, one or two weekends at a time. All their trial is whether we can make them out over the amplified electric hardware around which everything revolves— and as we mosh, thrashing and throwing our weight in any vector we can at any time until we are not dancers but sacrifices to an instrumentality which forges us into a brackish amoeba from which not a one of us wishes to escape until the bands we came to see are off and we get a whiff of the smell that we hadn’t noticed until then by some not-so-small miracle. Then we hope that no one has kicked our coats out from where we stashed them for semi-safe keeping, because the wind and the night air cuts with an awful salty cold when you are soused in sweat from head to toe. After waiting for what seems like a few decades everyone walks a few blocks away so that we won’t see each others’ parents picking us up in their minivans. When we finally do get home we realize how tired we are when we consider not taking a shower before we fall in bed knowing that we will be sore tomorrow.
On this spread: poem by Matt Moseman
38
Evening Star translation by Julia Fiala original poem by Edgar Allen Poe
Es war mitten im Sommer, Und mitten in der Nacht; Und die Sterne, in ihren Bahnen, Schienen blass, durch das Licht Vom helleren, kalten Mond, Macht die Planeten zu Sklaven, Sich selbst im Himmel, Die Strahlen auf den Wellen. Ich starrte eine Weile Auf das kalte Lächeln; Zu kalt— zu kalt für mich— Da zog vorbei, einem Leichentuch gleich, Eine wollige Wolke, Und ich drehe mich hin zu dir, Stolzer Abendstern, In deinem weit entfernten Ruhm, Und lieblicher soll dein Strahl sein; Als Freude in meinem Herzen Ist der Stolz teilhaftig Du Strahlendster im Himmel bei Nacht, Und mehr noch bewundere ich Dein weitentferntes Feuer, Als dein kaltes, totes Licht.
‘Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro’ the light Of the brighter, cold moon, ‘Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold— too cold for me— There pass’d, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.
On this spread: foreign language translation by Julia Fiala Âś sculpture by Casey Gollan
40
Cocoon and Grave translation by Maki Nakajima original poem by Misuzu Kaneko
Un ver va dans un cocon, dans ce cocon Êtroit. Mais le ver doit être heureux. Il peut voler devient un papillon. Les humains vont dans les tombes, dans ces tombes noirs et seules. Puis des ailes poussent au garçon sage et il peut voler devient un ange.
Silkworm goes into the cocoon, into that cramped cocoon. But the silkworm must be happy. It can fly as a butterfly. Human goes into the grave, into that dark and lonely grave. Then wings grow on a good boy, and he can fly he is an angel.
Spring is best at dawn, when gradually the hilltops lighten and the light grows brighter until there are purple-tinged clouds trailing through the sky.
english translation by Misako Ono original poem by Sei Shonagon
On this spread: foreign lang. by Maki Nakajima ¶ sculpture by Casey Gollan ¶ foreign lang. by Misako Ono ¶ photograph by Misako Ono
42
Untitled
“I
fiction by Dale Neuringer
t’s just the lonerrrrrr” Strains of Neil Young came from behind my mom’s door. She had been blasting that s*** since five, when we had that argument over college. She is insisting on sending me to some liberal arts bulls*** college, when all I want to do is go to Brown, where I have already gotten in. My mom has this annoying habit of loudly playing jam bands when she gets angry with me. Neil Young is a new one, seeing as he is a solo artist and all. I have a secret suspicion that she keeps a bong in her closet for such times, but I cannot definitively prove it. It’s just a theory. The fact that I can even harbor such thoughts about my parent
and consider them valid is beyond embarrassing. After all, who wants to have a mom who is more of a secret bad-ass then you are? Not I, that’s for sure. I want to go back to doing that Econ homework that I have but I’m too worked up. I’ll try counting forwards and backwards to 100, usually does the trick. My mom has always been like this. Even when she was still married to my dad. He married her thinking that this whole freespirited thing was just a ploy to lure in attractive men like himself. He thought it was sexy. Knowing my mom , it probably was, though it pains me to say that. She had long hair and wore ratty vests, and somehow was never
mare, and parent nights in high school got to the point that I would hoard the school mail, and burn it. She only noticed that “my aura was noticeably smokier.” S***, I can hear the gentle padding of eco friendly animal friendly hypo- everything moccasins dancing in my direction. Specifically, in the direction of my door. The Door of Doom. My door is the only one in the house that wears any sort of recognition for excellence. My mother believes that to rank one human over another is cruelty and too reminiscent of the Dark Ages. My mother stands in my doorway, flanked by two of her cronies, who are often middle aged men who might have at some point been attractive had they not decided to emulate Father Time in terms of hair style, and Lady Godiva in terms of adornment. These two are no different. As per usual, I stare pointedly at my feet as the angry flock of patchouli scented ones descends. The men sit on my bed, and I make a mental note to wash this comforter, so as to wash away the Eau de Balls that will no doubt waft from that area of the bed. “So…. you are really considering this Brown place? Despite the fact that it is a blatant breeding ground of despots and sexism ? You want to be caged with a bunch of pastel wearing conservatives?” She says this last word as if given the chance, she would chew it pieces and then bury it in the garden outside, because it was not even worthy enough to leave for the birds and outside creatures. One of her cronies nods obediently, then goes back to lovingly staring at her ass.
44 On this spread: fiction by Dale Neuringer ¶ photograph by Greg Langer
looking into the camera in every picture taken of her, although you just know it wasn’t intentional. She went to protests and concerts and doubtless f***ed countless musicians silly just for her own amusement. Needless to say, my straight laced dad realized the huge mistake in judgment he had made and booked it, but it was too late, he had already left a little present to the world chilling in a manger (yes a manger), and that was me. Left to my own limited devices, I began to make a way in this world, and that way was as far from my mom as possible. I can remember her taking me to a séance once, and communing with other smelly long haired skirt wearers, men and women alike. They spoke to the dead, and she claimed to have made contact with Jimi Hendrix, who apparently told her to offer her child the Joint of Wisdom. I was nine. The smell of weed smoke was my perfume until I was old enough to perfect the naked sprint to the porch, where I kept all my clothes, so as to appear as if my family actually had it’s s*** together. The worst part was, she didn’t even mind this blatant strip show for all the voyeurs who dared approach our humble abode. She spoke of being one with nature, and the hindrance of clothes and earthly objects to the natural state. I simply threw on my polo and riding boots and left her nodding dreamily at the door. She was the mom who tried to hold my hand in public until I was sixteen, simply because she felt that in that manner our souls could communicate purely. I loved her and avoided her, a task that I grew adept at. Teacher conferences were my worst night-
I now glance to my closet, which is open and awash with colors ranging from a light peach to a soft yellow. She looks over too and puts her face in her hands, for only a moment. “Oh…. Well if you won’t be the death of my eternal soul” she cries, cultivating a few new tears to fall onto her hemp kurta. “I tried, I really did, but if you insist on killing any creativity my genes have bestowed upon you, then it is only up to you! My last wish is that you at least consider the California Center for Healing and Meditation! It counts as an education, because as you very well know, educa-
tion of the soul is infinitely more important than any education of the brain!” with a last anguished cry, she flounces from the room, and I sense a palpable scent of sandalwood and disappointment. I sigh and turn back to my desk, alone at last, and free of the Crazy Crusade, only to find a brown pamphlet for the honorable Healing Center of critical acclaim in this household. From behind me I hear a rustling, and I jump, because although I was brought up to welcome the wild life and all creatures of nature, I can’t help my more human aspects.
unsure whether or not I want to find out. “ I went there you know” he says, getting up and weaving his way towards the door steadily, and I stare like a person who’s eyelids have been miraculously removed. At the door, he turns and offers me a kind smile over a slightly saggy buttocks. “You know, the correct path will eventually find you , no matter where you are kiddo. Just keep that in mind, when you make your choice.”
46 On this spread: fiction by Dale Neuringer ¶ photograph by Cat Raynor
Sitting on the bed is the other crony. I contemplate yelling for help, I’m about to be raped, but then it occurs to me that I run naked across the house each morning, and if he were really intent on that…. This wouldn’t be the ideal time. However, he looks at me kindly, and despite the slightly flabby nakedness, I get the distinct impression of a professorial air. “Brown?... That’s a pretty good school.” He says, stroking his beard lovingly, and glancing from the packet to my face. I nod dumbly, unsure where this interaction is going, and
A Smashed Fairytale fiction by Oliver Callund
Dear Diary: I still cannot believe my father is being so unreasonable. So what if I made most of the princes of the neighboring palaces cry? It’s their bloody faults for being such sissies. Fine, so maybe breaking Prince Phillip’s wrist after he tried to feel me up might have been a bit over the top. In my defense, I did give him his fair warning. Men can be such brutes sometimes! All they seem to be interested is in sex. Sure sex is important, but it’s not the only thing I need from
the man I love. Is it really that hard to find a decent man now-a-days? Still, no matter what I did, I do not think I deserve this kind of treatment. Being locked up in this tower will do me absolutely no good. If anything it’s making me all the angrier. I wish my father understood that not all princesses are built the same. I am definitely not the typical princess; I guess I’m going to need a not-sotypical prince to come rescue me from this mess, All I can do is wait. I hate being a princess. ~ Princess Serena
On this spread: fiction by Oliver Callund ¶ sculpture by Julia Baez
48
There were a couple of loud clicking footsteps outside the keep’s door that made Serena wake up. With hopeful eyes, Serena stared at the old oak door hoping to see the man of her dreams. There was a loud yelp outside. Finally the door was flung open and in fell Prince Lafayette with his shiny leather boots. A silver locket hung around his neck along with a colorful wool scarf. “What the hell!?” he cursed under his breath as he checked himself. “My dad never mentioned anything about having to run away from a dragon. I nearly go killed out there. Damn it, my favorite scarf got all dirty now. This sucks.” “Excuse me? Are you here to…“She stopped at the thought of making herself look as if she needed his help and finally said “…you know, rescue me? Because I already
figured out how to get out of here. I am in no need of your assistance.” “Fine. Then good luck with the 20 foot dragon that’s waiting for you outside this door.” “You mean to tell me that you did not slay the dragon, and that it’s still out there?” “What did you want me to do, kill it or something? With what? “With your sword. You know, the long sharp object that’s strapped to your waist you bumbling baboon!” “Oh, that’s what that is! It’s not like I know how to use one of those things anyway.” Serena put her hand to her forehead and laughed incredulously. What kind of knight in shining armor was he? He didn’t even know how to use a sword! Even Serena knew
how to use one, and had actually become quite the swordswoman back in Imaim. “Well, anyway, my name is Prince Lafayette. What is your name?” Serena felt stupid for having thought for one moment that waiting for her ideal prince could have ever worked. She rolled her eyes and decided to at least be civil. “Well, I am Princess Serena from the Palace of Imaim. Where are you fr–“ She was rudely interrupted. “This place is so filthy! What the hell? How can you even stand to live in this place? Look at all these cobwebs. The bed isn’t even made. Looks like someone isn’t going to be much of a housewife.” “Shut your mouth! I am perfectly capable of … You know what? I wouldn’t be talking Mr. I can’t even slay a measly dragon.” “It’s not like you could do any better.” “Watch me” she said with a defiant tone. As she exited the room that had been her prison she finally felt free. She grabbed Lafayette’s sword and walked away with a determined strut. It was a good ten seconds before she was back in the room as she slammed the door behind her. “Fine, so maybe I cannot slay a dragon. I am not expected to. What do you have to say in your defense? You are a prince after all are you not?” “I dunno where you’re from, but where I come from Dragon Slaying 101 is not a requirement to graduate out of royal training. Plus it’s not like I even wanted to come
here in the first place.” “For your information, neither did I. I can take care of myself and I most certainly don’t need help from a stupid prince. I’ll get out of this mess without your help. And if you didn’t want to come rescue a princess, then why did you even bother to show up?” “Do you really wanna know why I came here?” She nodded so he continued. “Well, my father forced me to come. He says it’s what every prince must do.” Serena was surprised to find something they both had in common. She began to explain how her father had forced her into this keep to teach her how to be a Real Princess. Lafayette paid close attention to what Serena was saying. He could definitely relate. As Serena continued to spill her intimate feelings with a complete stranger she realized what she was doing and stopped herself from sharing any more particulars about her personal life. Still, she couldn’t help but feel comfortable around Lafayette. He was different. He actually listened to her, unlike any of the other brutes that had come to Imaim. She felt she might actually like him. “Well, how are we even gonna get out of this mess?” “I really do not know. This is your job you know Lafayette?” She let out a soft giggle. “Well, why don’t we try to sneak past the dragon like you did to come in.” “We could try, but I kinda think its waiting for us to come out.” “We’ll take our chances. That is unless you want to stay here forever.” As they reached for the door they found
try to rescue me soon enough.” “Yeah, but what do we do till then?” Serena acted on impulse. “I can think of a couple of things.” She pranced. She jumped on Lafayette and gave him a passionate kiss. As she reached down Lafayette’s forceful hand stopped her in her tracks. “Wow, wow, honey. The only reason I’m here is to make my father happy and to prove that I could rescue a princess if I wanted to. I am sorry but I already love someone. He reached to his locket and opened it to reveal a picture of a blonde blue eyed man. “I’m sorry, but my heart only beats for Ricardo’s size thirteens.”
50 On this spread: fiction by Oliver Callund ¶ drawing by Rachel Munsie
themselves with a dilemma. The door was locked once again. When Serena slammed the door shut she had locked both Lafayette and Serena in the keep. “Oh this is great!” protested Lafayette. “Now we’ll never get out of here.” He reached for his silver locket, kissed it once, muttered under his breath, and sat on the bed. Serena knew that there was no way out of this prison unless someone opened the door from outside. They truly were trapped. Still, this didn’t seem like such a tragedy now. She was trapped in a bedroom with a man she actually liked. “Well, someone else will come and
Disappointingly Priveleged poem by Eleanor Smith
Oh, poor you You have so much silver, that It took you all day just to polish it Oh, poor you Your child slashes paint on paper just for you, and You can’t hang it next to your Van Gogh’s Oh, poor you The mail came, and That party invitation seems to be missing Oh, poor you You get so many flowers, that It’s just not special anymore Oh, poor you Your son didn’t get into college, and You’re the talk of the neighborhood Oh, poor me You’re my wife, and I wake up to you every morning
Desert poem by Katherine Gibbs Persistently, she waits At an abandoned bus stop The sun sets quietly against the rusty, jagged cliffs of Mojave Night creeps into the fading, tangerine sky and chuckles to itself As it settles in, reclining back with popcorn in hand, The shadowed sky gazes intently at the capricious girl with furrowed brows Whose weary shoes never quite left footprints in the sand And instead rest lightly above the dusty ground Not because she holds her chin too high But because her bones chatter with fear Of the bus that never comes And the snakes of her past Clouds of dust and sand swarm in the distance Down the small hill strewn with lizards who can’t quite relax The sound of rolling wheels grinding against rough grains of sand and beaten rock Enters her ears She picks up her head with the attentiveness of a skittish deer The twisting crimson truck screeches to a stop The shady baseball cap slides down, tilts itself forward, and whispers, “Get in, Mary.”
On this spread: photograph by Amanda Banincasa ¶ poem by Eleanor Smith ¶ photograph by Michael Julian ¶ poem by Katrina Gibbs
52
A peculiar meeting A girl, a boy The first thing that to my brain arrives Say something you want to say Now, or it is going to be too late!
Le ciel est violet, et jaune, et bleu C’est tard déjà Mais, pourquoi il ne peut pas ouvrir la porte ? Le moment passe rapidement ; rien ne peut l’arrêter.
The sky is violet, and yellow and blue It’s already late! But why can he not open the door? The moment passes rapidly; nothing can stop it. Do not let the perfect instant pass It is a crime It is your only opportunity Where is the power of love now? The boy His first feeling: shyness The girl Her’s: courage Like a magnet love is possible Like a magnet with its opposite poles Like chemicals true love produces itself When the reactions are completely different. Boy, don’t panic! The girl becomes courageous When you start to shiver Does not love cause bizarre things?
Une fille, un garçon La première chose qu’à mon cerveau arrive Dit ce que tu veux dire Maintenant, ou il va être trop tard !
Ne laisse passer l’instant parfait ! C’est un délit C’est ton opportunité unique C’est le peur de l’amour. Le garçon. Son premier sentiment : la crainte La fille. A elle : la valeur.
Comme un aimant l’amour c’est possible Comme un aimant, avec ses pôles opposés Comme un aimant, l’amour se produit Quand les réactions sont totalement différentes. Garçon, ne t’inquiète pas ! La fille devient courageuse Quand tu te mets à trembler L ‘amour cause des choses bizarres. poem by Viviana Pereyra
On this spread: digital image by Laura Cabral ¶ poem by Viviana Pereyra
Un rencontre singulier
54
More than One Catcher in the Rye poem by Dale Neuringer
Your shrill tone will ruin everything As it rings off of past mistakes in the midst of repetition It will blow our cover and declare us in this misty world We will never again delight in the anonymity of the young. Or be able to come home dirty without retribution. If you keep screaming for help It will come With all of its heavy implications and responsibilities. The medics determined to cure you of your age will be well prepared, With a makeup bag and a remedial day job to plant you in. They will grab you by the hair and tease it back They will pinch your lips until they turn thin and hard They will take your feet and bend the joy right out of them They will pluck at your skin until it sags defeated on the weeping bones of your body. Medications have been created to treat naivety Diagnoses have been formulated to prove that difference is a disease. You might think that they can’t grab you But they already have. Because you’re still screaming for help from a monster that isn’t there.
On this spread: drawing by Julia Murray ¶ poem by Dale Neuringer
56
Eruption poem by Brogan Matthews
A drabble of fear, words somewhere keep thumping – calling for a pen to break the bonds of fortitude. Yet the heart’s desire far outstrips the mind’s ability. Linguistics spew forth, in peasant-like simplicity, excess words disassociate into monotonous night. A cave painting remains, scratched alone on the wall – for meager tools worked here.
On this spread: sculpture by Casey Gollan ¶ poem by Brogan Matthews
58
Untitled
I
fiction by Alexandra Khoder am awake writing this while my girlfriend, Winifred, is asleep next to me. My buddy Cole left already to catch his ride at 6:45 in the morning. The two freshmen are sleeping on our floor. My girlfriend’s brother Leon is sleeping in the room next door. It is now 7:42 on Sunday morning. Winifred is a quiet sleeper. Although, she does twitch a little when she sleeps, I don’t mind. Mike, one of the freshmen sleeping on our floor, snores while he sleeps. And Jessica, the other freshmen, sleeps like a log. Cole loves to laugh. Last night, he almost ruined one of our prank phone calls because he couldn’t keep the laughing in. So he left the room. The four of us are still in Winifred’s room. Winifred, Mike, Jessica, and Leon are still asleep. It’s 7:56. The Mac computer is still open on the bedroom floor. I can’t believe five people could sleep together in such a small space. My girlfriend is the most wonderful person in the world. I’m planning on asking her to marry
me. Once we finish our junior and senior years of course. Only a year and a half to go. Although, I don’t think we are going to the same college. The areas that we want to go into are too different. I’m going to miss her. Last night, all we did was make prank phone calls. We called CVS, Wal-Mart, and Wendy’s. Funniest s*** ever. We videotaped them with the Mac Book so you can watch them on Facebook. 8:14 and Mike is still snoring. My grandmother hates me. I never call her. My father hates me because I never visit. No one wants to visit my father. But I do miss him. I miss my family. It’s a weird thing to say since I never really had a family. Don’t get me wrong, I do have a family. It’s huge. But I never fit in. I’m the outcast. That’s why I can’t wait to join Winifred’s family. That is unless she says no to my proposal. I want a family. Three freshmen, three juniors, and a Mac computer. I wonder what would happen if I lost my right hand? Probably nothing. I would have to learn how to write with my left hand. That’s probably all.
On this spread: fiction by Andra Khoder ¶ sculpture by Andra Khoder
60
Holy S***! What if I lost my nose!? I wouldn’t have a nose on my face. I’d be known as the noseless face person ha ha ha me with no nose No nose 8:28 I wonder how many Barbie dolls there are in the world. I had twenty-two when I was little. And I never owned a Ken doll. What if we stacked all the Barbie dolls in the world from head to toe? I wonder if they could reach the moon. Instead of using that space elevator we could just connect Barbie dolls to each other and climb our way to the moon. I think it would be a lot cheaper. Or we could make a salt elevator. There is enough salt in sea water to cover the Earth 500 ft deep. We would just have to glue the salt together. That would be cheaper as well.
8:38 Say purple pens 5 times fast. 8:39 Tomatoes are round and so gooky. They are really slimy on the inside too. I don’t know why people eat them. They look like sun burnt boobs. 8:42 What if stuffed animals ruled the world? Would we all be happier? No, I don’t think so. I think we would all be enslaved and forced to mine salt. All the police officers would be purple unicorns with whips. Kinky…. 8:46 You ever notice how round spheres are? They’re like so smooth! Unless they are made out of sand paper. But then it wouldn’t really be a sphere. Or clay. You
On this spread: fiction by Andra Khoder ¶ sculpture by Andra Khoder
62
can’t make a sphere out of clay because you can never make it perfect. Or can you? I guess you can put it in a machine to make it round. And if you do that, how do you get it out of the machine without denting it? I like spheres more than cubes. 9:02 If animals could talk human, I don’t think anyone would have pets. 9:06 What is the point of having a middle name again? 9:08 What if your farts were your butts way of speaking? Your mouth speaks by talking; your hand speaks through writing. So, what if your butt speaks through farting? Then do your eyes speak to other eyes by blinking or crying? I bet the blinking is Morse Code.
Zephyr Staff Casey Gollan Editors-in-Chief Andra Khoder Greg Langer Jasmin Telfer Megan Cindrich Ryan Cavataro Monica Pfister Dale Neuringer Casey Heil & Miriam Ward Miriam Ward Matt Moseman
Art & Video Staff
Senior Literary Editor Junior Literary Editor Secretaries Proofreader Treasurer
Literary Staff Julia Baez Paula Baez Oliver Callund Caroline Dorn Caitlin Gager Rosario Gallagher Brooke Galliard Katrina Gibbs Casey Heil Kira Hessekiel Sophie Hessekiel Leon Husock Madeleine Junkins Sarah Krikorian Andra Khoder Jenna Langbaum Alex Giroux Catherine Telfer George Krajca Andrew Pease Kim Mooney
Greg Langer Matt Moseman Dale Neuringer Sarah Niss Matt Olson Monica Pfister Claire Pfister Jessie Roth Alex Springer Natalie Stein Kelsey Smith Eleanor Smith Sarah Tartaglia Jessi Tremayne Miriam Ward
Foreign Language Editor Art & Video Faculty Advisor Literary Faculty Advisor Music Advisor Foreign Language Editor
Hope you enjoyed your Zephyr experience!