Table of Contents Ava Basile
Stella Belt Kate Borows-Lai Maya de Jesus Jonah Davidson Cosima Dovan Bruce Doyle Oliver Eig Nina Gerzema Polly Gilmore Onaje Grant-Simmonds
Rafaella Thakur Greene Foster Hudson Daniel Jegede Kaya Kaparti Cameron Krakowiak
Julia Krawiecki-Gazes Neloy Kundu Ellana Lawrence Konrad Morgan Lehmann Peter Mamaev Isabella Marcellino Tess McCormick Rachel Morrow Charlotte Munsell
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Imagination Photography Photography Photography Second Grade Autobiography Photography Mother Mercy Untitled Involuntary Blather Rocky Photography Photography A Mirror Drawing Drawing Waves Drawing Drawing Drawing The Little Baby Desire at Christmas Time Grandma’s Hands Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Sunflowers and Roses Family Love Painting Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question Uncle __’s Advice: A Rejected Advice Column Conspiracy of the Pop-Tart People Drawing Drawing Photography Photography Photography Photography Sculpture
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Lola Picayo Henry Pomerance Sophia Raccuia Markese Redding Maxine Reilly Ava Rome
Clara Rosarius Ethan Tarpley Oni Thornell Jagger Walk
Jade Walk Juno Walker Clara Walker Farin Weinger Scekem Wells Benjamin Winokur-Applebaum
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First Grade Autobiography The Irony of Freedom Painting I Remember for those who know less My Star April 5, Shanghai, China Packing Up Body Image Faces Another Morning After Rain Photography Photography Photography Photography Be Ready Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Skool Photography Photography Staring Drawing The Last Few Minutes A Table Her Smile Haikus Representations
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I Remember Markese Redding They said the pain would subside They said the fight would be over They said the tears would dry up They said forget what happened in the past They said maybe if you weren’t wearing your hoodie or if you just complied with the officer They meant maybe if you weren’t black They said that we are equal but the truth is told through their actions They said we are dangerous but they are the ones with the guns. They said... They said... They said... They lied I remember Emmett Till’s mangled face in that Mississippi casket. I remember Rodney King’s ‘routine’ traffic stop that turned him into a human pinata. I remember Mike Brown’s mother’s face as tears streamed down her cheek screaming hands up, don’t shoot. I remember Eric Garner’s last breath after the other ten desperate calls. I remember Tamir Rice when he was just a kid, before he was labeled ‘armed and dangerous’. I remember Trayvon Martin just wanting to get home, but he had a hoodie on. I remember Sandra Bland’s lifeless face hanging in her jail cell, labeled suicide with murder written all over it. They did it. I have been waiting all my life, and others longer. I would have liked to close my eyes and woken up to a different today I hoped the things they said were true.
*Winner of the IE 2017-18 Writing Contest [1] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 5 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 1
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Involuntary Blather Cosima Dovan Sometimes words slip off my tongue Fast, inadvertently Like a bar of soap that has a mind of its own. I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean to say that. I hate talking to you. Your words fold over each other. Like you spit them out Just to suck them back in again. Maybe your tongue is made of cement. Could I break you if I hit you with a hammer? Would you crumble? Would you shatter?
JAGGER WALK
Some of my sentences trail off at the end Like someone is holding a vacuum to my mouth And the words are sucked from my lips Before I can finish. Most of the time I want you to shut up. I want you to listen for a second Do you hear it? No, Of course you don’t. Why don’t you listen to me? See these words naked in your mind, See them dressed in reds and purples. Take a bite. [2] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 6 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 2
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Absorb them like the sponge you are, Inhale them like the air you breathe. Catch every word in your palm, Hold them tight, Don’t let a single letter slip through your fingers. Have a heart. Sometimes words leak from my lips Like a broken faucet. Don’t listen to me, Forget everything I said. Pretend you’ve never met me before, Please. Hi, how are you? This weather is nice isn’t it? Sometimes I say too much. Sometimes I don’t say enough. Bye, it was nice to meet you. Let’s talk again soon. But most of the time, I don’t say anything at all.
RACHEL MORROW
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Sure You Can Ask Me A Personal Question Konrad Morgan Lehmann Sure you can ask me a personal question. Yeah, actually I did move here a couple years ago, Yes, from England and yes, from London. No, I’m not lying, I’ve just lost my accent now. Sure I can go back to my accent from before, No, I can’t be bothered to say that in an English accent Don’t ask me again. Trust me, I’m not lying. Yes, I drink tea, Yes, I love cottage pie, And crumpets, and scones. But not all English people do, And no, not lying. No, I don’t like cricket, And I don’t play rugby. Yeah, I play football, The real football, that is. But no, I wouldn’t lie. Yes, I’m an immigrant, No, not illegal. And actually, no one is illegal Did you mean undocumented? And yes I’m also German, Yes, I can speak it fluently. I can’t be bothered to say that in German No trust me; I’m not lying. Yes, I have family in Germany, And quite a lot. No, not I’m not related to that man, He was actually Austrian. No, I’m not lying.
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Yes, I like sausage, Of course I don’t drink beer, But I couldn’t be bothered to go through this again, Especially not in German or in an English accent-And no, I’m not lying.
ONAJE GRANT-SIMMONDS
Inspired by Diane Burns
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First Grade Autobiography Lola Picayo I am six, not pictured in the photograph Framed by Barbie’s classic pink fuzz, Collecting dust on my sister’s top shelf Next to the sparkly barrettes and Mary Janes unworn for nineteen years. She’s sitting on The Comfy Chair Cradling my newfound obsession Eagerly detangling his fur and Watching his ears twitch. My grandma’s dog looks up nervously At the child happily strangling him. A big grin and the knots in her hair Catch light from the window And my mother’s face behind the camera. I sit on a wooden stool nearby, My legs going numb Pin pricks inching into my polkadot shoes and red lines embedding in my thighs, Imagining myself in the photo instead. I would’ve done a big thumbs up Or something funny with bunny ears. But my sister just smiles, Her scruffy green crocs and the scrapes On her knees at the center of the world, Revolving around the camera’s lens. I watch, knowing my lavender love heart shirt Would have served much better Than her mussed hair and dirty feet In the photo that lives in dust As my mom counts down from three.
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The Irony of Freedom Henry Pomerance After the liberating, I staggered to the cosmos. The liberators followed, quickly on my tail, their piercing eyes boring into my conscience. For they are the people of Freedom, who long to control mine. Now I use my last ounce of will to launch myself into orbit— beyond the limits of the liberators, beyond the limits of war, beyond the limits of Earth. The stars stare at me in wonder. Because I staggered to the cosmos, an escape from the dead world. I turned around; the Earth became another star. And then, I knew real freedom. While Earth slept for the final time, I awoke for the first.
CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
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Untitled Jonah Davidson Out of all the things people called you, overgrown was really the best way to put it. You were fourteen in the summer of 1978 and too big for your childish body, overripe and underdeveloped, sweat spilling out like there was too much of it inside you and teeth crowding your mouth like jagged stones. You were tall enough to convince the local convenience store clerk you were nineteen, and you picked up cigarettes and issues of Hustler for the other freshmen when they asked you to. You spent a lot of that summer on your own, going down to the river and wading in with your shoes on, and the water made your shirt cling to you like a cocoon, and it made your limbs feel too thin. The other boys your age stayed at where the river gushed into the lake, putting the Hustlers on the picnic tables, and never looked at you all by your lonesome lurking, the quiet rasps of wet denim in your ears when you sloshed out. But it was late July when Eric Greene approached you on the shore. He was blond, and hung out with the other seniors, and had the face of a grown actor playing a seventeen-year-old. He usually didn’t ever talk to you. Eric said, “Richard, you’re Richard aren’t you?” There was stubble on his chin, around the mouth. You rubbed your own face in response, just from looking at it, and you nodded. He went on, “So you’ll just like do whatever?” “Yeah,” you said. “Okay,” he said, and began to dig in his pockets. “We decided, like me and the guys, we wanna see you eat tree bark. I’ll pay you. Three dollars.” You said nothing, asked nothing, but he explained himself.“Andy Myers said you wouldn’t do it,” he said. He couldn’t find the money. “You’re doing it?” You studied the bones in his cheeks, the way they stuck out to where the jaw had been thrust forward. The broad shoulders. Your teeth were touching inside your mouth, clenching, tensing up, and your tongue felt for the roof. “Yeah, I’ll do it for seven,” you said. You bartered for five. He took you to the lake, to where the other senior boys sat at a lone picnic table separate from the Hustlers, looming. They were wearing shorts, all of them, and their legs had muscle to them. You took a seat. Your knees bent at an angle, twisting to let you settle because you were bigger than some of the boys here. You put your hand out on the table and they hit the money into your open palm. The air hummed. Andy Myers was stripping a piece of bark off a tree just off the lake shore. He gave it to you. They said nothing, and they watched. You felt cool, supremely cool, with the boys, with their money, with their hard legs. You put your tongue on the slab of bark. It was ridged. Like the roof of a mouth. There was summer sweat collecting at your neck, on your hands and on the bridge [8] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 12 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 8
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ONI THORNELL
of your nose where the glasses rubbed on you. The bark was hard and stale, and tasted like lakewater, and you stopped probing, you inhaled hard through your nose and pressed your jaw into it. The wood refused to give way for you, resisted you, but the sand in the grooves grit at your teeth. You crunched it and when the seniors left, you sat on the lake shore and tried to crush the minnows with your hands.
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for those who know less Maxine Reilly on my ninth birthday i was unaccomplished because to turn nine meant another year of a single digit age and i needed to be ten, but on my twelfth birthday i was too young because turning twelve was not enough, i needed to be thirteen, i needed to be a teenager, i needed to be a woman. everyone knows teenagers know more, they’re experienced and know the cool words and know the cool apps and the real world. they’re in high school, they know the cute boys and the cool girls, but really they know the real world. i was only twelve when i babysat my neighbor’s daughter and she had these huge eyes that took up so much of her small face and stringy bangs that swept across her forehead. she never wore shirts. she never brushed her hair and she protested when her mom did it for her and would scrunch up her face like a scrunchie and shake her head back and forth. she loved scrunchies but she never put them in her hair, instead, she would fling them at her brother and they would laugh and she did this thing where she would draw pictures of me without letting me look and laughed when she showed me because she had drawn a hairless figure with one arm and a tail and i laughed with her. she loved painting watercolors that always ended up looking like soggy pieces of paper with blueberry stains and she would hang them on the wall and the wall would start dripping blueberry water. she said she loved it because the wall was a watercolor and i loved it because she would laugh and she laughed so hard her face would turn pink. when she turned four i turned thirteen she still cared about watercolors and i cared about boys she was five when i was fourteen she learned about acrylic paint and i learned about Instagram takings pictures of myself, not of blueberries or trees, but of myself she still shook her head when her mom brushed her hair, but I shook my head way more and sometimes when i went to her house i’d be on my phone and her drawings of hairless people and her soggy paintings seemed insignificant. [10] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 14 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 10
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on my ninth birthday i was unaccomplished because to turn nine meant another year of a single digit age and i needed to be ten, but on my twelfth birthday i was too young because turning twelve was not enough, i needed to be thirteen, i needed to be a teenager, i needed to be a woman. but at only sixteen, i want to be nine i want to be turning twelve, wishing i was thirteen i want to be a kid babysitting another kid who showed me what being a kid is when i didn’t want to be one her name was Allegra and i haven’t seen her since i moved and the truth is i don’t want to. her small face will be bigger and she would definitely be wearing a shirt. her hair might be brushed and my biggest fear is that she won’t laugh at everything she used to. or she’ll have a phone and prefer holding it over a paintbrush. her drawings of people might not have tails and she’ll know too much about the real world. now i am a teenager and i do know more, but i know that i want to know less about real women real men, but really, the real world and one day i’ll want to be a teenager again who wants to know even less because i’ll know too much more but as of now i just want to laugh so hard my face turns pink when blueberry water drips down a wall or when a drawing of a person looks nothing like them because the real world is not as funny the cool words can hurt and so can the cute boys, being cool becomes important and you know that when you know more and if i could tell Allegra anything now it would be to know less for as long as possible
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A Table Scekem Wells so much depends upon a Table dark brown oak polished wood it could be round but with sides down, it turns into a square standing on four legs or maybe just three its legs are reminders of the roots it had, when it was once a tree the Table never leaves us it bides all four seasons creaking a greeting every time we sit down, and bellowing a farewell as we take off yet we are forgetful of its presence it is the silent eye the graceful listener whenever we need it to be the Table has understood all of our struggles without fail from children’s books, action figures and unfinished plates of food to spilled tea, tangled wires, unwanted magazines and college mail [12] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 16 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 12
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it never asks for much in return, only longing to see the fruits that we will bear
TESS MCCORMICK
the Table has watched us grow, just as intimately as our mothers have.
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The Little Baby Rafaella Thakur Greene I see the little baby walking, I think she’s angry, is she talking? She storms around the now messy kitchen, She spots the cookies up high wishing, The baby likes to chase the cat, No that’s not a dog IT’S A RAT! Toddling around my feet, Please don’t eat the car seat, Come on tiny, Don’t be whiny, Close your eyes, Quiet your cries, Here’s a cookie, Let’s read a bookie, You sure are cute, I promise, that plant was not meant to uproot, Bye bye, baby, Maybe one day you’ll become a lady.
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Imagination Ava Basile
KATE BOROWS-LAI
My imagination is filled with wonder A place where all my strange thoughts can wander A safe home And happy world Like my own secret getaway Letting my brain float today To a place I'd rather stay And learn something new about myself every day
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My Star Ava Rome Autumn leaves fall to the ground. The echo of our mom stirring her tea fills the room. Zoe sits cross-legged by the window looking out at skies I can’t see from where I am, I am on the floor. Mom has been talking about a carpet lately, we still haven’t got one, The floor is cold but I don’t mind. Mom gets up to reach for milk, I think. I look at her and see that she is okay, so I turn my eyes back to Zoe and the window. She has water coming down her cheeks. Mom says that’s crying. My little hands stretch towards her and I want to help. I start to get up, Pushing myself off the cold hard wood floor hoping to nestle myself into my sister Zoe’s lap. I feel Mom behind me, Before my fingers can even graze Zoe’s arm I’m in the air, Mom’s chest pressed against mine. I look at Mom confused. Why did she pull me away? Mom brings me past Zoe and to the room where I sleep. She puts me down on my soft sleeping bed, I give her my same look. Why can’t I talk to Zoe? Why does she have water on her cheeks? Did I make her sad? Mom touches my head and I see water on her cheeks now too. She breathes heavy but not in the way Dad snores, She places her head on mine, I hear Dad walk past us, He is talking to Zoe now but I can’t hear, Are they telling secrets? Mom and I sit like this, Forehead to forehead My five fingers pressed to her palms For seconds or minutes Before Dad comes in. Dad doesn’t have water on his face, But he has this look that reminds me of when I don’t drink my milk. [16] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 20 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 16
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CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
He says something to mom that I don’t understand, “She doesn’t want to go to school today, I think she’s lost her last friend there. I did some research on Winston Prep. I think in a few months we can afford to put her there.” Mom doesn’t say anything, And I feel like the room has stopped moving until she nods and squeezes my fingers. I don’t understand what they’ve just said. Dad looks down at me but doesn’t smile, Mom tucks her lips in the folds on my neck and gives me a raspberry. I laugh and they smile, Mom stands then and walks closer to Dad. They both give me a weak smile and leave closing the door behind them. I’m alone now. The room is cold and empty, The windows are closed and I’m still too small to see what’s outside. I close my eyes and try to think of my star that Mom reads to me about, The star that is supposed to make every part of my body relax, The same star that aligns the skies in pretty shapes. Zoe says these stars inside us don’t exist, That it’s stupid and doesn’t help her sleep like it helps me, But Mama told me that Zoe’s star is sometimes harder to find at night but it’s there, And when we are all asleep, Our stars are dancing together. I like that thought and as I start to drift asleep a voice that sounds very much like my sister Zoe starts to grow loud.
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A Mirror Polly Gilmore
SOPHIA RACCUIA
I am small. Brown hair The color of hazelnuts Grey blue eyes Like a river on a frosty night Pale, peachy skin. I am looking through a mirror A mirror shows what you can’t see A mirror shows the different layers of me A mirror shows emotion But not as deeply as your mind A mirror shows the things you can’t change. A mirror shows Only what it wants to Hiding All of the things you don’t want to see.
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ISABELLA MARCELLINO
Faces Clara Rosarius I force myself to smile at their words. An everlasting loop of their laughing faces etched into my mind. My body wants to scream in anger, my thoughts constrained inside my throat waiting to be unbound. I already know their response. Hatred only growing as my words vanish into the air. I sit frozen in place, my legs longing to run. I still forgive them. Why? [19] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 23 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 19
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April 5, 2000, Shanghai, China Ava Rome This isn’t to say I don’t love my parents, I do, Edna and David, they’re all I know, And all I’m lucky to know, But, Sometimes, I start to think of my birth parents that day in Shanghai, And what little information I know, About the last day we saw each other. Shanghai is cold today, People crowd the small streets like lobsters, Mothers restlessly clutch their kids, It’s late April of 2000 and The One-Child Policy has no mercy, Fish vendors and bakeries on rolling carts bump and roll over innocent feet, There seem to be too many people wedged onto these narrow streets, It’s as if each person is a shell clamoring against each other, wanting to breathe. Across the street, a person too submerged in darkness to recognize, is wandering softly through the city, Despite the everyday Shanghai chaos, they are undisturbed by the mayhem around them, As they walk one foot after the other not leaving a trace of their last step, It seems as if there is a thin band surrounding them, Protecting them on their journey, Because even in such close proximity to the loud hussle and bustle of Shanghai, Not a hair seems to touch them, Like a ghost, I question if they’re really there. As they emerge closer it is suddenly evident they are carrying a child, A tiny baby girl, Her skin is that sweet caramel drizzle on top of coffee, Her eyes small almonds, Which I imagine are just as rich brown when she opens them as when they are closed, Even though she is tightly swathed in a thick shell blanket, A salmon flush stains her cheeks from the cold, She still doesn’t wake up. Moving with grace and indescribable gentleness, they glide down the streets, Skipping over potholes like they aren’t even there, Dodging hecklers with the ease of running your fingers through your hair, I follow them to see where they are going, [20] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 24 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 20
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ONAJE GRANT-SIMMONDS
They walk for blocks, Continuing their quiet journey together and I wonder if there is even a destination for this stroll. Turning the corner they stop, Standing in front of a market now I see his face, He is small and lean, His skin stretches tight against his cheekbones and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, His eyes are tired, Blue purple veins slither their way around the soft skin beneath his wilting eyes, He looks down at the baby, His baby, He smiles but it’s not complete, His smile is just as tired as his eyes, Just as starved as his belly is. A woman appears in front of him shortly after, Her eyes are different, Bright red I could feel the burn from where I watched,
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Her lips quivered like there should be tears rolling down her face, Maybe I was missing them, She scooped the baby into her arms and pressed her tightly to her chest, Whispering something in Mandarin she let a tear fall on the baby’s blanket and I saw a broken sob escape her lips. Together they stood, Protected by that same mysterious invisible band, A band that seemed to erase everything around them, The shouting of fish mongers greedy to sell their latest catch, The cooing of flower merchants and seamstresses looking for work, The kids clumsily running down the street, singing high pitched chimes from their game of tag, It was all blocked out, Even the harsh smells of rotting vegetables, And the sweet smells of freshly made pastries, The world seemed to stop in this moment, The only thing that mattered, Was this family, Mother and Father holding their daughter, Wrapped in each others arms so tight you’d think they would crush each other, But they didn’t. Suddenly both parents with tears smattering their worn cheeks, Drifted over to a secluded part of the market, Kissing her with all the pain I saw in their eyes, They set her down on the cold market floor, Sleeping, the baby did not argue, She did not cry, And quickly the mother and father made sure that their precious baby was okay, Draping themselves over each other as if they needed each other for support they turned around and left. I stayed long after her parents had gone watching the little baby, She slept for a while, Then in a moment her eyes crinkled open, Staring up at the open sky she must have realized she was alone, She began to cry, Crying hard I think she was looking for the eyes of her father and kisses from her mother, A nearby woman shoveling starfruit into her shopping bag heard her cries and lifted her into her [22] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 26 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 22
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arms, With gentle rocks and an ease only another mother could have, she soothed the baby’s cries, Approaching store keepers and strangers the woman discovered the child’s family was nowhere to be found, Reaching into her pocket she collected a phone, After dialing a number I couldn’t see from where I stood, She waited, Everybody in the market waited, Moments later a van pulled up in front of the market, Scrawled across the side it read Shanghai Welfare Institute, The woman had quick words with a man in uniform exiting the vehicle, And then the sleeping baby was carried into the van and driven away. The streets were still crowded, Kids still played and ran past angry pedestrians, Tourists still crowded the convenience stores, Mothers still chastised their children, And everyone still looked for work. There was nobody there who knew what had just happened, But I saw, And so did the streets, The streets felt the pain and the wind dried the tears, The street lights saw the heartbreak And the skies saw the tragedy, In a year without rain, The sky parted and let out a deep grumbling crackle, Rain began to tumble down hard and fast, That night Shanghai experienced the worst flood in its history.
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KAYA KARPATI
Grandma’s Hands Daniel Jegede I shuffle my small feet through the front door, suitcase in hand. Making my way around the home, I find myself in a room with My grandmother, who sits listening intently to the television. The flashes of bright lights reflect against her eyes. Though she appears to be watching, I know there is not much she can see, The white of her cataracts engulfing the entirety of her pupils. In front of her sits a bowl of uncooked beans which she dips her hands into, scooping a handful into her palms. Running her fingers over each small bean, She pauses on one And proceeds to pick it out, Knowing with just a delicate touch of her fingers, That this one is bruised, not to be cooked later. Though I try to enter the room quietly, it seems my clumsy steps [24] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 28 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 24
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have interrupted her tranquility, For her eyes quickly dart towards me. She calls out to me in Yoruba, Speaking in her soft tone. When I reply, I see her eyes shift closer to my face, and as I finish my sentence, She shines a big smile, And as she feels her way to me, She runs her hands along the walls Until she finds me. Holding my arm for support as she encloses me in a hug, She traces my cheeks with her aged hands. Her hands are smooth like satin, And have the faint scent of the beans. The warmth of her body embraces me.
JAGGER WALK
She has since then passed, but I can still remember her touch.
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Waves Onaje Grant-Simmonds The melody of the waves relaxed me as the crackling of fire soothed a lone infant. I listened to it as I rocked left and right in my hammock. As I swung left, I peeked through the opened door and saw my dad illuminated by his dim, yellow lamp. I saw him cautioning his yellow crew, preparing them to aid me on my first voyage. I saw the worried looks on all of their faces. As I swung right, I saw nothing but the strips of wood lined on top of one another, forming my cabin wall. The hammock swung left and right repeatedly, ceaselessly, until the waves soothed me to sleep. Hours later I woke up to my father yelling, “Beware the storm ahead of us! Bring down the sails!” I remained in my hammock, telling myself if I stay still the storm would go away. Meanwhile, the once soothing waves roared at me all night long. They laughed at the tears sliding down my shivering face. Fear clogged up my throat until the crashes of the waves exhausted me to sleep. I woke up to the sight of the glistening sea. The hallway leading to the deck was illuminated by the sky light beaming through the windows. Upon reaching the deck, I saw a crew half the size it was before the storm. I cried as the fear of death swelled in my throat and consumed me. My mood brightened that night as the crew and I ate some bread and fish. We all talked and laughed around the warm candle on the table. The crew shared fantastic stories of all of the voyages they went on. They boasted about the storms they’ve survived and the places they’ve explored. Later that night, I rested in my hammock in peace, silencing any fear that was growing in me. I let the waves soothe me to sleep once more. The next day, screams and shouts were muffled under the roars of the storm. Its great might swung the boat left and right. Despite the thunder, the banging, and the cries, I only listened to my own cries. I only listened to the same thought pacing back and forth in my mind: “I don’t want to die.” Just as I took a deep breath in the sailboat swung over too fast. I was flung off my hammock. My head crashed into the wooden wall and everything went black. I woke up to the coppery taste of my own blood. When I touched the bandage tightly wrapped around my forehead, my finger was soaked in blood. The red fluid ran down my trembling arm. My hammock swung to the left, and I saw my father sitting on a crate with his fingers laced and head hunched down. My vision faded back to black. My imagination raced. I braced myself for my inevitable fate as I imagined what my last seconds could be. In my thoughts I saw blood. In my thoughts I saw a table flying over and busting my skull open. I saw myself sinking below the blue water. I saw lightning striking down and evaporating me. Dozens of thoughts later, I stopped to contemplate. Hours later, my eyes opened to the sight of the misty sky blending in with the grey sea at the horizon. I got up and walked down the hallway. The boat rocked violently. My [26] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 30 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 26
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feet dodged the broken wood and slippery blood scattered on the floor. Holding onto the railings, I worked my way up the stairs and onto the foggy deck. Water smacked me from every direction. Despite my father demanding that I go back inside, I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. I couldn’t maintain my balance nor my vision. Everything was shaky until I saw it: the wave. It was the biggest wave I’ve ever seen. Time seemed to freeze so I could have the opportunity to gaze at it. Its tall posture hunched over me against the grey sky around me, the wave glowed an unreal blue. Something so beautiful yet terrifying in its mysterious look. This was stronger than any of us. I had to realize that, and I had to embrace it too. I had to comprehend a force of nature stronger than anything I could muster. Then, I accepted it.
JAGGER WALK
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Sunflowers and Roses Julia Krawiecki Gazes I am a sunflower. Tall and big with bright yellow petals. Some days I love being a sunflower. I feel tall and bold. I love my long stem and bright colors, I love the way my petals curve around me in a round shape. I feel wonderful, and free, and beautiful. Some days I don’t feel like a sunflower though. In fact, I might as well not be. I feel like a rose. I feel red with a shorter stem and sharper thorns. I feel like my petals should curve upward more, enclosing around me. But I’m never a rose. Not even when I feel like I am. People call me a sunflower, even though I wish they’d call me a rose. I see yellow petals, even though I wish my petals were red. I sit as a sunflower, even when I’m a rose. I don’t feel like a rose all the time. Sometimes I love being a sunflower. I really do. And sometimes I don’t. I feel trapped with a tall stem and flatter petals. But I don’t tell anyone. How can a sunflower sometimes be a rose? Wouldn’t that get confusing? Why a rose? It’s confusing. It’s for attention. It’s not real.
OLIVER EIG
So I’ll be a sunflower when I’m a sunflower. And I’ll stay a sunflower, even when I’m a rose. Maybe one day my petals will learn to change colors.
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Rocky Bruce Doyle When I hear the first door open I poke my head up out of the warmth of the comfy cushions in the couch I hear the second door open and I wait I hear the last door open and I stretch my legs long and far I jump up to your knees and lick your face I sprint to the back door doing some laps around the backyard peeking my head around the tree to make sure you are still there I run back up the wooden steps and scratch the door You pick me up and hold me like a newborn Saving me from the outside world You tell me to sit and I sit You tell me to shake and I shake You tell me to roll over and I roll over You give me a treat At night I wait for you to go to bed I sleep at the end of your bed to protect you from harm In the morning I follow you around, hoping you will stay I hear the first door and I stop running I hear the second door open and I go back to the couch I hear the third door close and I wait I just wait.
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Uncle _______’s Advice: A Rejected Advice Column Peter Mamaev I’ve lived a good life--I’ve had many experiences, met many people, alienated a good half of them, and went out with a non-figurative bang. However, what awaited me in the afterlife as a punishment for my sins, I could not have seen coming in my wildest dreams. It is said in Dante’s Inferno that the heathens go to Limbo, while the bad go to Hell. The worst people, however--well, they’re destined to answer high school advice columns for all foreseeable eternity. Dear ______, I am a teacher here in LREI, and in my class I use yellow markers very frequently. Unfortunately, for the past few months somebody has been stealing my highlighters! I can’t seem to find the culprit, and the shortage has been so noticeable I now have to borrow markers from other classes! Signed, Confused in Compton A: Hey Compton. This is a crippling problem for teachers worldwide, but fret not. Firstly, acquire at least a dozen baby/adolescent ariolimax, or banana slugs. Then take a bunch of old dried-up highlighters, ones no longer in use, and gut them from inside out, until you have a bunch of hollow yellow tubes. Make sure the caps on both ends are intact. Then, carefully place the banana slugs into the highlighters and close the lids. If you don’t want those PETA fruitcakes breathing down your neck, cut some breathing holes in the hollow markers and pay the slugs a fair wage. I shall not give away the full graphic details, but when your thief finds a living pulsating slug head curiously peering out at him from inside a newly stolen highlighter, the problem will be solved. You keep the highlighters, the thief most likely gets PTSD and will never look at highlighters the same way again.
Dear ______, For as long as I can remember, I have had a messy room. Piles of notebooks, magazines, old socks and pizza boxes as far as the eye can see. I want to clean my room up, but I could never see myself getting rid of all this mess (I’m lazy, sorry). Do you know any strategies [30] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 34 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 30
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for how to get rid of all the junk in my room, fast? Signed, Slovenly in Sacramento A: Hi Slovenly. I remember the days when I was little, and would engage in borderline thermonuclear warfare with my mum and pop over whether I had to clean my room. Now, you could just start early, organize, clean the junk up, throw the garbage out, and just become a more productive human being. But that would be boring. The most convenient method to get rid of your excess junk is as follows: acquire a dying star, usually available at your nearest corner store. Then, wait until the star turns into a black hole through a scientific process you will be too lazy to Google. Then, simply throw all your garbage out into the eternal vortex of darkness and destruction.
NINA GERZEMA
Granted, you will have to part with the rest of the planet along with the garbage, but hey, a messy room is a lot worse than a nonexistent one.
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Dear ______, There is no other way I can put this: I like American Girl dolls. I have played with them my whole life, even though I’m a boy and play a sport. I just really adore the idea of dress-up and other pretend games normally reserved for girls. Problem is, my birthday is next week, and a whole bunch of them will be spending the night at my house. I’m worried if they find out about my hobby, they will judge me. Is there anything I could do? Signed, Dollface in Dallas A: Hey Doll. Don’t worry - everybody has a hobby, and nobody should be ashamed of their interests or beliefs (unless you’re a communist). Ignoring that, my advice here is to never bend to societal pressure. Be yourself, and if people judge you for who you are, make them pay. First, install all your dolls with control chips, preferably those from remote-control robot toys. Then, just wait for a stormy night, place your collection of dolls on the roof, reenact Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein: the Modern Prometheus, and voila! You have an army of newly reanimated remotely-controlled American Girl amalgamations at your disposal. And before you take your new army of dolls toward world domination and beyond, why not play a little dress up to make your army just a bit more imposing? Tiny Tenney™ will enact terror with a bunch of butter knives at her disposal! Bring Little Logan™ a lot closer to her Hugh Jackman counterpart with a talons made from paper clips! I talk from experience when I say nobody laughs at or behind the back of a teenage warlord with an army of battle-ready American Girls at his disposal.
Dear _____, I have cheated on my girlfriend several times. What should I do? Signed, Cheating in Charleston A: Woooooooow. Thank you for the long and descriptive email! It really gave me a great grasp of all the nuances of the situation. Now, whilst somebody else would normally just [32] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 36 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 32
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suggest coming out clean and telling your girlfriend about your exploits, and perhaps leaving this obviously unhappy relationship, we’re here to actually help. Though your girlfriend may not like the idea of polyamorous relationships, she will never dare argue with you on a religious basis. Now, since there aren’t that many polyamorous religions of actual impact out there, the easiest solution is to start your own. Simply copy and paste a holy scripture (any scripture - Christian or Hebrew Bible, the Quran, anything), paraphrase a few important sentences to make it sound like your own work, erase a few passages if you wish to make it more inclusive. From there, find some young and impressionable people--the best places to look are indie music concerts, overpriced hipster internet cafes and Tumblr forums. Begin recruiting the gullible masses. Promise them a happy afterlife, or a reward, or some manner of bread and circuses so they do not rebel. Most importantly, enforce the idea of free love and multipartner relationships. Congratulations! You are now a respected cult leader, having become the holy prophet of your own religion. And now, following the LREI code, your girlfriend’s feelings or basic relationship decency will not matter in the face of your religious beliefs.
KAYA KARPATI
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Packing Up Ava Rome She said we could go to the park together and toss around a frisbee for hours She said that she was there for me whenever I needed her She said that she was going to be the sister that she claimed to be She said I would be her Lilo and she my Nani She said she’d pick me up from school on Fridays She said she wanted us to be a happy family She said she wouldn’t forget about me when she met new people in college She said it was just a gap year, that she’d be back soon She said the boxes at home were going to storage She said that Brooklyn was actually better for her She said she’d try and visit soon. I remember the limitless laughter playing mad libs loopy on lollipops I remember the milk and cookies when MTV was on for her and Disney for me I remember Barbies and crayon doodles on milk cartons at the dinner table I remember our mother saying, “Let’s remember this time.” I remember our mother saying, “Happiness is meant to be cherished.” I remember she told me that happiness changes, that it means different things to everyone I remember hearing her cry that night Because we both knew this wasn’t how we saw sisters love each other I remember she couldn’t make eye contact when she told me what I already knew When she told me the place I call home she hadn’t for awhile. The boxes are gone now, The frisbee has been donated, The cookies are stale and the milk spoiled a long time ago. Everything is different now, The conjoined twin-sized beds that dominated our room are gone, Replaced with the queen I always wanted, My room is too big but only because she’s no longer in it, I have two desks and two closets But she’s not here to share them with me. I’m different now, 17 is very different than 5 or 10 or 13 when we were closest I can read on my own, Write essays without help, I no longer have those “mosquito-bite boobs” And I weigh more than 100 pounds, [34] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 38 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 34
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Now I’m applying to colleges, Practicing for my permit, Making adult mistakes that she’s not here to help me with. You think of sisterhood as constant, At least I did. A constant bond all the time, I’ve learned now that like all relationships Sisterhood is fragile. That just like friendships, sisterhood needs attention too Because even cacti need water And even the sun needs the moon so she can rest I know this now five years too late, We’ve grown apart and started different lives I couldn’t tell you what her favorite color is And she wouldn’t know mine. I rarely see her now, But when I do, It’s hard to stop myself from thinking, if only I fed that cacti, maybe it would show more life.
JADE WALK
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Be Ready Jagger Walk Run with the others “Practice patience” Tomorrow You play, Cut Popout Pump fake Finish As for me, I will be in uniform Socks high Laces tight Arms stretched Warming the bench
CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
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JAGGER WALK
Family Love Neloy Kundu Your love is like the medley of vegetables, Caramelizing into one creamy curry, The peeling of a yellow-green mango, To find out that the flesh is still fresh, Your love is like the image of a tulip on a television screen That appears more clear than in real life, Warmer than a crowd of penguins, Or the steam off a pot of boiling rice Or the sun-stricken sand. Or the green tea with slices of ginger in it. Your love is like a bowl of Cheerios, Like the leaves shaking at every touch of the raindrop, Like the scent of a new book’s pages, Like the pen moving without pause, Cooler than the bear, Sipping water from a downward stream, Than the breeze Than running barefoot through wet grass, Than the smack of a water balloon As it explodes across your face. Than the crunching of a coconut-flavored ice. After two-hours of soccer under the sun Your love is like hand-washing linen, And then putting it in the dryer. [37]
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Her Smile Scekem Wells Your smile is lightning cracking down on a tree in the silent night like looking straight at a light bulb after staying in the dark for too long like a rock that is skipped across the river and then swept away by the rapid current it beckons to my attention like hungry birds chirping for their mother sudden like an apple being chopped in half with a butcher’s knife cautious like a stray cat approaching a stranger timeless like watching the sunset while sitting on a ferris wheel playful like a dandelion floating in the air then disappearing like a thief in the night
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ELLANA LAWRENCE
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JAGGER WALK
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Haikus Scekem Wells These bikes in a row Frightened like a pack of deer Surrounded by beasts The bell is ringing 12 pm on a snow day They rush out to play Sunlight gazes down Lighting up a floral tree and even the sea Lost, nowhere to go. I place my trust in the Hands of the unknown The wind beckons me To follow its wistful pull But I won’t follow. Oh, sweet solitude. Little did my mind recall The silence of grace
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2nd Grade Autobiography Stella Belt Berlin, the summer before I turned seven. The small patch of grass between my grandfather’s apartment and the woods behind it. My favorite dress has pink flowers at the seams, and stripes sloping down the sides. The bangs that my mother trimmed with sewing scissors are getting long again, but I don’t mind. We run to the playground beyond the bushes. My grandfather follows us while my mother holds his hand. They travel slowly, as if moving through honey, But my little sister rushes before me so I do not wait. She giggles with soft cheeks crumpled like chocolate wrappers. We reach the grand wooden jungle gym, The one my mother used to climb, when she was young with my grandfather watching, before she fell from it and broke her nose. She tells us to be careful, We only smile in response and I show her the gap that stands in the place of my two front teeth.
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My grandpa sits and watches us from the bench behind the swing set. But his sweet scent still lingers, even after he’s gone (though now it seems he smells more of sweat than he does of candy).
CLARA WALKER
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Mother Mercy Maya de Jesus Mother mercy let me out of here Because this water doesn’t look so clear Father father Son and the Holy Ghost, tell me who’s the one I should pray to the most? Who’s the one to fill my Empty Soul? Who’s the one to help me take control? because I’m noticing, all the pain mistakes can bring. And it means everything, just to be myself again. Sister Sunshine shed your light on me Give me a shadow and let it walk right next to me. Familiar faces have never seemed so cold. I need warmth like I need a hand to hold. Mother mercy let me fly away Give me wings and let me see another day
Representations Benjamin Winokur-Applebaum It occurred to me today That the color white Should not represent Perfection For isn’t the whole purpose Of paper To be scribbled on? And black Is not the color of death, Despair Destruction It is the hope The faith That the sun will rise After night’s peaceful keeping.
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CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
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Another Morning After Rain Ethan Tarpley I sat on the couch and flipped on the television. My heart was racing. The secondticks of the wall clock were as loud as gunshots. Laura was in the other room. I stared at the screen as fairly recent re-runs of Home Improvement played. I felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of my face. Soon, I’d hear a knock on the door. Soon, my daughter and I would show up in the front yard and greet Laura at the door. I couldn’t remember exactly when, but it could be any minute, and if I was still here when it happened, I knew things would get weird, quickly. Despite my better judgment, I stuck around. I wanted so desperately to see my daughter, at this point, I hadn’t even started thinking about getting back to the present. However that was to be done--if it even could be done--I cared first about getting to see my daughter. Now I needed to figure out how that would work. Every time I thought I heard the pressing of wheels on the pavement outside, I started to get a warm, uneasy feeling in my stomach, and I would waveringly stand up to glimpse outside the window. Oh fuck, I thought, is it me? Eventually, the fright of the living room was too much, and I crept silently into the kitchen to get a drink from the fridge that would quench my growing thirst. There was lemonade there. Freshness date: 7/14/98. I poured myself a glass. I thought it over. When they arrive, Laura will assume I went out to pick up Jana from the neighbor’s house--which I said I took her to--and brought her back. It may be a little confusing when I come in with Jana--who in fact I had never taken to Dolly’s house-to come at Laura with a fresh greeting, as if I hadn’t seen her in two days; of course, I--he-hadn’t. But I figured I’d work with that. I would have to leave as soon as they came in, but I would find some way to get to see my daughter again. I still felt slightly buzzed from the whiskey I had drank that morning at the bar. Let’s hope this works. I grabbed an opened bag of potato chips from the kitchen pantry and dug in. I hadn’t eaten since last night--a wretched, rainy day six years ago. Once I had a couple, I couldn’t stop myself, so I kept feeding myself potato chips, and occasionally peering through the doorway, as if I might just see a reflection of myself peering confusedly back. I’d probably be wearing a different shirt. That might be kind of weird to Laura. I decided to go into the laundry room--which Laura wasn’t in--and changed shirts. It probably didn’t matter which one I took, as long as I left my damp shirt from last night on the floor, to show that I had changed it. I headed back to the kitchen, where the back door was, and waited. Tick-tock-ticking like bullets. The door would open any minute. Any second now, as the moments crept by. I heard birds chirping outside. A car drove by. And then I heard the door creak open. My own voice whispering something inaudible to my daughter, echoed through the kitchen doorway. With a sudden jolt of adrenaline, I silently snuck out the back door and ran. My fresh cotton shirt felt good in the summer sun--better than that cold, clammy one I spent that horrible night in, when everything went haywire. I glanced behind at the [46] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 50 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 46
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house and couldn’t take my eyes off it as I hid in the trees. I returned later that night to my house, after everyone was asleep. I knew I was disturbing the peace, but I couldn’t resist; my mind was set on Jana, and I wasn’t going to turn around until I got to see her face. It was around 3:00 a.m. and the whole street was quiet. Lights were out in all of the houses. Crickets were chirping, hidden in the bushes, trying not to be seen. There was my house, just like the others, and the obvious flower pot that was always by the windowsill. I walked over to it and picked it up, revealing the silver key beneath it, and I wondered why Laura and I had thought it a good idea to put our spare key there, and more astonishingly, why it never got stolen. Ever-so-quietly, I stuck the key in the lock and inched the front door open. On the inside, I heard that clock ticking again. It was gentle now. I walked through the familiar house that I never would’ve imagined I’d be sneaking into. I navigated through the darkness and past the markings in the doorway that slowly got higher up, but didn’t go higher than 39 inches, and I entered my daughter’s room, sat down on her bed, but didn’t smush her little legs. She was so small, but even so I could effortlessly recognize her as the same little girl I lost not two days ago. My God… she was really there, sleeping safe and sound. Her wavy blonde hair was the same texture, though slightly lighter than when I’d last seen her. The same freckles dotted her face as would stay there far into the future, but not far enough. I felt an uneasy warmth in my stomach as I rested my hand on her chest. Part of me had been doubting I’d see her again, although I don’t know what I had expected to see when I came in; I couldn’t believe my eyes. I leaned in and brushed her forehead,
CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
and gave her a kiss. She tiredly squirmed around a little, and after a [47]
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gave her a kiss. She tiredly squirmed, and after a few seconds, opened her eyes to me. She didn’t say a word. I felt sorry for waking her, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to see her, to talk to her. Upon eye contact my heart filled up with glee, and I almost felt a tear coming to my eye. “Jana…” “Daddy?” She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?” “Late, Sweetheart.” That clock was ticking softly in the living room--soft enough not to wake her parents, who were as carefree and childlike as she was, in a sense, knowing nothing of the future that lay ahead. I suddenly felt an impulse to take her and run, but I knew I couldn’t. Against my better judgment I heard myself tell her, “I want you to come with me.” I expected her to question it, but she didn’t. She simply said, “Okay,” and got up from her bed. She stopped, unsure if I wanted her to get dressed, but I just said, “Come on.” I couldn’t waste any time. I couldn’t risk being spotted. We walked outside the house, her bare feet scraping the grass. I walked up on a hill with her, and talked gently to her as we passed the houses and the trees. We walked through the town, along the bridge, and past where I had woken up by the road that morning, in the still wet grass. Then we went down on the ground and sat for a while, taking in the stars. The grass was now dry. We sat in the warm, calming darkness, her dressed in monkey pajamas, myself in my old age. She couldn’t see the difference in the dark; I was still her old man. We talked a little, but mostly just sat silently, and stared at the sky. I held her in my arms, telling her it was to keep her warm, but it was summer, and I knew she was perfectly warm. She may have known I needed it too. I thought about all the times we had spent together, and wished I could do it all again. I wished I had spent more time with her; God knows I would’ve, if I had known. But while thinking back on all of that, I found myself losing the moment;I was wasting perhaps the last minutes I might ever have to spend with my daughter again--those last minutes I had been miraculously blessed with--dwelling on the past. I was embarrassed at doing so, and quickly talked to her. “Jana,” I said to her with sincerity. “Promise me one thing: you stay out of trouble… Always be safe.” She looked confused, but nodded. She was never one to ask questions. That may have been her downfall. She looked tired, and was wondering why I had brought her out here. She probably wasn’t so eager to spend the night with me since we had just spent the last two days on a fishing trip together. I had to remember that, for her sake. Out of nowhere, I started to tear up, knowing how little time I had. I had so little to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her with this. I needed to make my time with her meaningful. If only I could stretch these minutes longer--time to just sit and watch her. But morning would come soon, and I needed to have her back long before that, in case one of us would check on her during the night. [48] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 52 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 48
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I wanted to tell her--I wanted to warn her--but I couldn’t find the right words. There was no way to explain the future to her, so I just told her, “I love you.” Jana nodded and muttered back, seeing no significance in it. I couldn’t blame her, and somehow that mutter of hers was just as meaningful. She rubbed her eyes again and yawned. She was tired. As much as I wanted to, I knew it was wrong for me to keep her out here so late--she’ll need her sleep. She’s young and she needs to grow. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home, Sweetie.” We walked back home quietly. I opened the door again, and we walked in. I tucked her in, and softly said to her: “Listen… I don’t want Mommy to know I got you up at this time. It’s too late for you to be up. So, let’s pretend none of this happened tomorrow, okay?” She was confused, but went along with it. “Okay,” she nodded. “Good.” I went over to her bookshelf, and shuffled through the picturebooks with my fingers. I grabbed her favorite one, and sat down on the bed to read it. I had read it to her a million times before, but having not touched it in forever, it seemed new and different. I felt a flush of nostalgia as I lulled her to sleep. She lay there, and I brushed her blonde hair in my fingertips as she dozed off, then kissed her forehead. It was still dark. Now listening closely, I could still hear the crickets chirping. I heard the clock ticking loudly in the living room, but slowly. I had nowhere to go. I needed to get out of here quick. But there was nowhere to go. I went into the dining room and quietly searched through the drawers for money I could sustain myself on. I grabbed some loose cash that I could live off of for a little while, but I still had my debit card if I needed it. As I slid the drawer shut, I walked into the living room and was surprised to find myself staring at a flatteringly young reflection of myself. Thirty-six year-old Luca stood on the carpet in the living room, in his boxers, his jaw gaping wide at me. The whites of his eyes pierced the darkness of the room, and he was trembling. He didn’t say a word, but stared in complete amazement. My heart raced--both of them. I tried to think of something to say, but my brain was shooting like lightning. Surely he was baffled, and wondered about me with a curiosity I couldn’t satisfy. With no other options, I bolted out the front door. It slammed behind me, leaving myself wondering.
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KAYA KARPATI
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AVA BASILE
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Desire at Christmas Time Foster Hudson The lights emerging from the line of suburban homes were intoxicating to Fletcher that night, as he crept down each block in his car, cloaked by the night sky. Christmas decorations adorned the outer walls of these houses, imbuing the blankets of snow with warm, festive colors. It was deep into the night, however, and as such the windows were pitch black, their curtains drawn. The streets were silent, save the cautious crunch of gravel underneath the tires. The building was small in comparison to the rest of the block, but its walls and columns were no less festooned with ornaments and lights. Their placement was haphazard, however, and disjointed. In uniform with the other houses, the building’s windows were dark as the sky above it. The mailbox’s door was open, revealing a multitude of unopened letters, whose envelopes were as white as snow. The path to the doorway was shoveled, though only barely. The home had an erratic charm to it, and it was clear, at least to Fletcher, that whoever lived there had left weeks ago at the very least. He slowed his car to a stop and carefully set his foot on the cool, snowy sidewalk. Looking at the endless congregation of suburban houses, Fletcher felt a dim melancholy rise up inside him. Before he could let it cloud his thoughts, however, he found himself at the foot of the front door. Fletcher tapped on the door handle lightly, and, as if welcoming him inside, the door slowly swung open. The house was pitch black, save the pillar of light emanating from the Christmas tree. He moved towards it with a meticulous and paranoid effort not to disturb the array of gifts on the floor. After what seemed like hours, he arrived at the foot of the tree. He followed the trail of the lights to the wall outlet, and as carefully as he could muster, pulled the plug out of its socket. A noise echoed from upstairs. He paused for a moment, and held his breath. After a couple of tense minutes passed, Fletcher continued to unravel the lights from the tree. The branches rustled in passive protest, as if there was a desire, long since dulled, to keep its characteristics in place. After a pause, Fletcher continued unimpeded, though still as careful as before. After he had stripped the tree of its lights, he curled them into a tight loop and swung them over his shoulder. He continued back towards the door he had entered through and had almost made a clean getaway when the room was suddenly basked in light. Fletcher turned around, only to find a thin, elderly man standing in the hallway, with his arms crossed. “Is there something wrong with my Christmas lights?” the man asked, his blue eyes piercing straight through Fletcher. The man was of an average height and wore a long, teal night gown. A thin scar trailed down his right arm. His white hair, while not completely gone, was on its way out. Despite his age, which was at the very least sixty, his features were strong and vivacious, and almost intimidating to Fletcher, who was in his mid 30s. “Sir, is there something wrong with my Christmas lights?” he asked again, his voice rising with impatience. He clearly did not appreciate being woken up at this hour. Fletcher looked at the ring resting on his side and opened his mouth to lie, but looking at this stern, old man suddenly made him change his mind. [52] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 56 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 52
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AVA BASILE
“No,” he said. “Then what are they doing on your shoulder?” “I can’t tell you that.” “Well, then you can’t have my Christmas lights.” “Sir, I really need these lights.” “You can have them if you tell me what they’re for.” Fletcher sighed. “I can’t tell you that,” he repeated. “Right, you can’t tell me.” A silence hung over them, the older man sternly watching the thief, and Fletcher paralyzed with his foot in the door. Growing impatient, and perhaps a little awkward, the old man said, “Well, do you want to sit down and have a drink?” “I should be on my way...” “Not with my Christmas lights, I hope.” Fletcher’s patience was diminishing, and, despite his best efforts, it was beginning to show in his voice. “Sir, I really do need these lights.” “Now, you listen here, and listen well.” The old man’s polite charm disappeared in an instant, and his tone became frighteningly stern and forceful. “Those lights hanging off of your shoulders, those lights are my property, you understand? I paid for them with my hard earned money, and I spent many hours stringing them around that Christmas tree, which you so kindly have undone. So, unless you intend to tell me what you’re going to use them for, you are not about to barge into my home in the middle of night and steal my goddamn Christmas lights, do you understand?” Fletcher regretted his tone of voice almost immediately, and his face grew hot with shame. A thick layer of sweat had permeated on his forehead. He weighed his next actions very carefully, and, after much deliberation, he asked, “Would you like to accompany me to my house, and I can show you what I’m going to use them for?” [53] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 57 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 53
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This response caught the old man quite off guard, and it took him a moment as well to answer. Fletcher, then more than ever, noticed the penetrating quality of the old man’s eyes. They were squinted and alarmingly inquisitive, and the thought that there was something inside Fletcher that the old man could see and that he couldn’t worried him to no end. Lifting the two from the deep caverns of thought they were both ensnared in, the old man agreed. Fletcher smiled, and the two were soon back in Fletcher’s car, driving back down the festive, wintery scenes that Fletcher had come from. Fletcher’s house was not far, and in a matter of minutes he had pulled up to the towering, melancholic mansion that stood before them. Though it was not far geographically, the house was separated from the rest of town in almost every other aspect. The old man, in complete bewilderment, looked from the mansion, to Fletcher, to the mansion, and then to Fletcher once more. “You’re the guy who lives here?” he asked, as the whirr of the car engine fell silent. “Yes,” answered Fletcher curtly. He opened the door and stepped outside before the old man could ask anything else. The front of the mansion, though extravagant in almost every way, was noticeably lacking in any sort of festive decoration. Under the night sky, and covered in soft, glistening snow, the house had a brooding and unwelcoming atmosphere to it. If it were Halloween instead of Christmas, one might have mistaken it for a haunted house of some kind. These features, though not particularly noticeable when Fletcher was alone, were especially bothersome now, and Fletcher was almost embarrassed by them. In an attempt to hide his chagrin, he hurried inside and turned on the lights, only to be further ashamed by the disarray his house was in. Empty bottles were strewn erratically on the marble floor, chairs and couches were adorned with old clothes and magazines, and the kitchen was in complete disorder. Fletcher looked quietly at the old man, and began to apologize, only to find the old man chuckling under his breath. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “and I really don’t mind. Trust me, I’ve seen my place in even worse shape. Frankly I’m still trying to get over the fact that someone even lives in this museum exhibit of a house—and I mean that as a compliment.” A dim sense of relief flared up inside Fletcher, and he laughed nervously. He walked, albeit with some difficulty, towards the kitchen, attempting to clean up after himself on the way. He set the Christmas lights down on the coffee table gingerly, making space for them as best he could. Fletcher turned to his guest and asked, “Do you want something to drink?” The old man eyed the tray of alcohol twinkling in the light. “I’ll take a glass of vodka if you wouldn’t mind.” The old man looked up at the ceiling, “And if you would also turn off some of these lights that would be great.” Fletcher turned around and filled two glasses with clear liquid. He wandered towards the row of light switches and flicked some off at random. As the house began to once again cloak itself in darkness, a soft glow emanated from a room upstairs. The old man’s eyes travelled towards the light, and then to Fletcher’s tired, angular face. Fletcher stared at his drink, seemingly unaware of the old man. “Do you want to know why I never got married?” the old man said. Fletcher was [54] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 58 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 54
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silent, and the old man continued. “I was in a relationship once, in my twenties. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. God knows why she picked me.” He chuckled softly. His eyes were faint, though Fletcher could almost perceive a dim flame in them. “We dated for years, I’ve lost track of how many. She was the longest relationship, romantic or platonic, I’ve managed to sustain in my life. But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. And come to an end they did.” A pained smile crept onto the old man’s face. “It was a cold night in January, I believe it was right around New Year’s. I was home from work, and, filled with an uncommon amount of love and goodwill, I spend the afternoon planning the most romantic home dinner I could muster. I had candles, expensive food, roses, the whole nine yards. It was dark when she got home, and I had dimmed the lights and put on her favorite jazz record, Waltz for Debby. It was timed perfectly. She opened the door right as the first chords of “My Foolish Heart” played, and there I was, all dolled up in a tux adorned with a rose, standing with this stupid, lovesick grin. But god damn, you should have seen her face when she walked in, the happiest face I’ve ever seen. She sat down, and we ate dinner. It was all going great, and I was just about ready to ask her to marry me. I had thought about it long and hard, I had bought the ring, I had set up the fancy dinner, all the stars were aligned in my favor.” The old man’s voice trailed off, as his eyes wandered around the dark crevices of the living room. He rubbed his old, weathered hand over the scar on his right arm, wincing as if a new pain had suddenly arisen inside it. The old man continued, “And so, when I saw it fit, I got down on one knee, pulled out the ring from my jacket pocket, and said those fateful words: ‘Will you marry me?’ Every movement she made from then on was very exact, very calculated, as if she had rehearsed each of her actions over and over in her mind. She left the table very slowly, and walked towards the kitchen. She took a knife out of the cabinet, and I can still see its blade glisten in the florescent light. She came back and sat down right next to me, her face, in all its radiant, solemn beauty, inches from mine. She took the knife in her hand and dug it into my shoulder.” The old man, unconsciously, it seemed, traced his fingers over his right shoulder. “I could feel the blade sink through my skin and the blood trickle down my arm. She dragged the knife down the length of my elbow, stopping there. And the entire time, I was silent. I did not cry out in pain, I did not retaliate. Frankly, I wouldn’t have cared if she plunged that damn knife through my chest and spilled out all my guts right then and there. To me, she had already taken my heart, so why not take the rest?” The two were silent for a moment. Fletcher looked up at the old man, whose face was now drenched in despondency, and mumbled, “I-I don’t understand. I don’t under-” “Honestly, I don’t either. But, I guess I wasn’t supposed to, was I? It’s been fiftyodd years since that night, and I’ve turned the events over and over in my head, but I still can’t seem to understand it. And maybe that was my big flaw, maybe I thought too much, maybe I was holed in my head like a hermit. Or maybe not, maybe I moved too fast. Maybe she was seeing someone else, or she thought I was seeing someone else. I’ll never know what her exact reasoning was for plunging that knife into my shoulder. But I do know this, [55] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 59 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 55
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I loved her, with all my heart, and that’ll never change.” Fletcher had gone silent, his eyes vacant. His glass was empty. A silence hung around them like a thick, velvet curtain. A crack suddenly pierced the air as Fletcher’s glass slipped out of his hand, shattering to pieces. Both men turned their heads the pile of glass, and Fletcher’s eyes filled with tears. Fletcher mumbled something incomprehensible and rose to get another drink. Another crash sounded, this one exponentially louder than the last, and the old man turned his head to find that Fletcher had thrown the tray of liquor onto the floor. Were the old man in any other situation, he would have risen to help, but some ulterior force in the air held him to his seat. He doubted that his aid would have mattered regardless, for Fletcher seemed completely detached from reality. The crunch of broken glass echoed through the mansion’s chambers, and the thin, drained shadow of Fletcher’s figure drifted up the stairs, whose railings glistened faintly. The old man rose slowly and followed Fletcher. He looked at the table, and found that the Christmas lights had disappeared. The old man moved achingly slow, meticulously avoiding the objects strewn along the marble floor. The old man could hear a faint shuffling from the lit room upstairs. He made his way up the stairs and inched his way closer to the body of light. He found it even more difficult to traverse upstairs than down. The soft, yellow light suddenly gave way to a crisper, though dimmer, one. The old man recognized this to be the glow of his Christmas lights. When the old man finally found Fletcher, slumped down on the floor and sobbing, his eyes immediately were struck by the tall structure hanging over him. Adorned with the Christmas decorations the old man held so dear, was a large, amateurish sculpture of the human heart. The piece was not exact, the arteries drooped a little too much, and the bottom half was misshapen, but regardless this statue was infinitely more moving and human than any facsimile found in textbooks or biology labs. And seeing this human heart, in all its blemished, buckled magnificence, and then seeing Fletcher, limp and despondent, lying under it, the old man felt his heart breaking all over again.
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ONAJE GRANT-SIMMONDS
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The Last Few Minutes Farin Weinger So, these are the last minutes of my life, huh. It’s oddly melancholic. I mean you always see people drowning in those summer movies where the boy saves the girl and they fall in love. It always seems so scary, but it really isn’t, to me at least. It’s just like laying at the bottom of a pool. That is harder, though. Moving your hands to push you down, and your goggles filling up with water. Well your goggles wouldn’t fill up if you were actually good at putting them on. The real difference is that no one is saving me, and no one ever is. I’m invisible to the world. Nobody notices me, and that’s why they aren’t saving me. They don’t care. It’s always “don’t care”! THE WHOLE WORLD IS “DON’T CARE.” Is there anything I can do about it? Nope. The only thing I can control is me. I don’t know how this happened, or why. To be honest, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m slowly sinking through the water, at least I think I am. I haven’t opened my eyes yet. But what to think about in the last minutes of your life? How about that I’m dying? Sarcasm, nice. I slowly open my eyes, and I look around. I see multiple kinds of fish, coral, and seaweed. They are all doing their own thing. Every single fish swimming to a different point, all with a destination. A couple brightly colored fish come up to my face. They are as confused as a fish can be. I laugh. Bubbles flying up in front of my face. Oxygen, what a silly thing. How can something so simple as atoms, control your life? I mean, if I could be an oxygen molecule I would just float around. I would get to know every single person I got sucked into. I might get breathed in before they sigh. I might be inhaled with an icy cold breath during winter. I start laughing. I laugh and I laugh and I laugh. I keep laughing until it feels like I can’t breathe anymore. I ran out of time. I said that the only thing I could do was control myself, but is it that easy? No it’s not. Your emotions control you to some extent, and you can’t do anything. You’re strapped into the rollercoaster of your life. All the ups and the downs. The buildups and the drops. They are human, and they are me. They are you. As I look around for one last time I start to smile. I smile because of the fish. I smile because of feelings. I smile because of me. I may not be able to do anything to save me, but why not die in peace? I close my eyes and let out one last breath. Finally, peace.
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CAMERON KRAKOWIAK
JAGGER WALK
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Conspiracy of the Pop-Tart People: Unveiling the Truth Peter Mameav Of the millions of species inhabiting earth, homo sapiens are perhaps the most blind. Most naive. Most prone to impending self-destruction. I am not talking about nuclear warfare, or climate change complications, or even McDonald’s utter failure to bring back the Mulan Szechuan Sauce. I am talking about an enemy that has been here from the very beginning. An enemy that is responsible for all of humanity’s dismay. All the pain and the suffering and the Jonas Brothers albums. An enemy which has the hold of our our media, our so-called “government,” the people to whom we bow down, the people we worship. An enemy who held our consciousness with an iron fist for as long as we know. But no more, I say. Let the voice of the free people (by AVA BASILE which I mean our local chat room community) be heard! I will bravely put my life down and dedicate this blog to revealing the truth! I will jot down any and all data I will find on the subject. For my protection, I will use my classified username so I will not give any personal info away. I will refer to myself by my My Little Pony username, LonelyPony42. And this is…BLIGHT OF THE POP-TART PEOPLE. DISCOVERING THE TRUTH. 9/12/XXXX: Yes, you heard that right–Pop Tart People. I mean, first we thought it was Bigfoot, but then they cancelled that show, then we said the Illuminati, but then Obama left the White House, and then we said the Lizard People, but then that grew old too and…You know, I WANTED to talk about the OBVIOUSLY bigger threat that is posed by the Tupperware People from Planet Mars, but SOMEBODY (DANNY61 FROM THE CHAT ROOM) said that Pop Tart People “sounds better.” Yegh. Liberal Arts bachelor’s degree for this… No. I must keep an level head. That’s exactly what those bastards in the big government want! 9/14/XXXX: So, I WAS gonna do some groundbreaking research today, but the Simpsons marathon was on...Simpsons predicted the future, right? That counts as research. 9/16/XXXX: The media keeps feeding us lies. We all know it. Saw a FREE [60] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 64 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 60
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PUPPY giveaway on the news today. Oh, I’m sorry, I should have said the SHEEPLE TV. Lies. All lies designed to ENSLAVE us.Though I am happy that my mom pays for cable (as well as everything else), now at least I can relax my brilliant mind in the glory of Barney and Friends and all their subliminal messaging. 9/19/XXXX: The Pop Tart people control everything. Our government, our media, the LIES it tells us…We see them everywhere. On store shelves… on TV… mostly on store shelves…You may not believe me now, but just wait til I have proof… oh you just wait. You just wait. 9/24/XXXX: So I was at the supermarket today, shopping on my allowance for a sustenance of Doritos and Mountain Dew (conveniently the only two foods PROVEN to have not been controlled by the MAN). 9/27/XXXX: I was GONNA start working on the research, but then my MOM burst into the basement, jabbering about how I needed to “take out the trash” and “how I need to get a job, I’m 32” and all that jazz. The truth is out there and I know it. Good news is I have found like-minded individuals – well, one at least. Apparently she is said to hang out behind the WalMart parking lot… people at GameStop say she got abducted! By aliens! Now I can finally have a first-hand source! Also she said on her Tinder profile that she’s a 27-year-old Swedish model who likes My Little Pony and video games, and of course with my irresistible unemployed charm and brilliant IQ I can finally talk to one of those “girls” all my friends in Magic: the Gathering are raving about…I’m going to meet him tomorrow…it may have been a long and arduous process, but this time I know I will finally get to the truth! 10/15/XXXX: Those evil bastards. Curse them. Curse those evil monsters. So, I was gonna meet this guy. He told me to show up at 7 o’clock…forgot all about it, had to drive my brother’s moped there…Anywhoozle, I got there, and I found this guy (weird, he claimed to be a Swedish model), Troy, as he apparently called himself, behind the general store. “Are you LonelyPony42?” I cut the formalities. I had to know. I was so close… weeks of blind searching and dead ends… CHARLOTTE MUNSELL [61] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 65 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 61
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I finally had the opportunity to track those Pop Tart bastards to track those Pop Tart bastards down…“Yeah, yeah, sure man, I got your stuff. Don’t sweat it, brodude.” He then extended his hand. In it was a pill. A red pill. “It’s like one a’ those things from uhh… that movie? You know the one, Matrix? Yeah. It’ll make you see things, man… I know I did…” And there it was. The answer to my questions. The long-awaited revelation. How long did the pop-tart people have hold of the government? How many of them were there? How could our humble resistance fight them off, without preferably leaving their mother’s basement? I hesitantly took the pill when… “Freeze!” The pigs were on the scene. We saw flashing red lights. I knew something was CAMERON KRAKOWIAK up from the start. It was only when Troy bolted in the opposite direction that I saw something fall out of his pocket. It was a cherry pop tart. It was not even the fact that I was making deals with the enemy that shocked me. It was another realization. He had pop tarts on him. That means it’s no longer a conspiracy. The Pop Tart People have literally become pop tarts with people. They could be anywhere. They could be anyone… your teacher… your mom… that cute girl that works at Subway who I’m totally gonna ask out after six years of waiting… I was charged with resisting arrest (apparently hitting a police officer over the head with an open box of powdered munchkins is now restricted by the MAN). I’m on parole now. And I have to do community service for a month. And my mom changed the Netflix password.
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Afterword:
JAGGER WALK
The battle may be lost. But they must be crazy if they think I’m losing the war. This is a message to the Pop-Tart People Resistance; Retaliation Front (PTRRF for short). When they take away our Netflix password, we will use Hulu. When they confiscate our brothers’ scooters we will use our exercise bikes we haven’t used since childhood. When you almost get charged for dealing drugs but get off with resisting arrest and community service, we will not bow down. We will not surrender. For too long the bastards held us captive... They may take our store shelves. They may take our governments, our media, and our insulin. But the fight has begun. To be continued…
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ONAJE GRANT-SIMMONDS
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ONAJE GRANT-SIMMONDS
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Staring Juno Walker
PETER MAMAEV
I look back at you But you can’t see me It’s as if I’m staring at a blank slate The eyes look back But it’s as if there’s nothing there Is anyone there? But you don’t move, you just keep staring What are you staring at? Well, the answer should be simple But is it really? You stand still As if there isn’t anywhere you need to be But what’s stopping you? Time feels as if it’s stopped But you just keep staring It’s as if you aren’t even there It’s like you’re looking through a window You pay attention to what’s past the window I still feel it
You just keep staring and not the window itself What stops you from looking at me? Tell me But you don’t You just keep staring Look at me You don’t You just keep staring Even though you look at me, you really aren’t Look! You just keep staring Please! You just keep staring Why can’t I get to you? Answer me! You don’t You just keep staring It won’t work I walk away The reflection follows
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JAGGER WALK
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Skool Jagger Walk The spring resents me My shorts hang low I walk a cemented highway with a thought A realization The dent in my apple breaks my perception of perfection I have never seen perfection There is no perfection The fall worries me Paper after paper Word after word Why Why must I go to school I dream about my dream I then descend back to class The winter depresses me Where are my friends Who are my friends I sit in a room with 15 strangers We know little about one another And I’m ok with that Summer awaits me I dream of a journey An Adventure Excitement Months And Months And Months away I find myself back in spring Spring resents me My lunch still tastes the same [68] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 72 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 68
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JAGGER WALK
The water washes away Every season Every minute Every moment I will avoid resentment I will go home I will rest And Dream
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Body Image Ava Rome From the first day of freshman year fitting in was a priority, It wasn’t just the physical aspect, Not just my perfectly straight hair, Not my picked-the-night-before outfits, It was acting put together, Laughing even when I didn’t quite understand why, It was wearing trendy clothing, Showing off my body, Pleasing the boys who could potentially like me And the girls who could potentially be my friends, Every day for months I woke up an hour and a half earlier than I needed to, I would find my outfit, Picking out clothing that would hug my non existent body tightly, To suggest there’s something to hug in the first place, Before I put on the shirt two sizes too small I grabbed my push up bra, It was firm and reminded me of a pool floaty, It had a soft exterior, Layers of intentional padding with no attempt at discretion, It rested on my rib cage “heart of the ocean” deep blue, Although I wasn’t proud to be wearing it, Some kind of sad pride manifested when eyes would drift from my face to my chest, It wasn’t happy, Or a pride that lasted, It just screamed at myself finally there’s something to look at here, No bee stings any more. That push-up bra wasn’t just a bra to me, It turned into an unhealthy attachment and a security blanket, This bra was my key to fitting in, My key to having a body that could finally be considered desirable, The kind of body my best friends in middle school were starting to have, When I was still wearing training bras, This bra was a gateway into an unhealthy obsession with my looks, I would cry if I didn’t have it on and had to be in public, When purchasing new clothing it wasn’t what I liked anymore, It was what would compliment the bra and showcase my imitation chest, In just the right angles. [70] 78661_LREI_TEXT_r2.indd 74 Master Copy-FINAL__r2.indd 70
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Junior year rolled around and I was worn out, I didn’t really understand who my friends were at the time, And I had just lost my best friend as well as my boyfriend, There was nobody to try for, That’s when I bought my first pair of sweatpants. Heathered gray and plain they came home with me after a stress-induced mall day, They weren’t tight, They accentuated none of my “attractive” curves, And it wasn’t buying sweatpants that was monumental, It wasn’t even putting them on for the first time, It was the day I wore them to school that was monumental. Walking down the hall I felt free in a way I never had in high school, It wasn’t the free that felt like having a boyfriend who everyone knew, Because that wasn’t free no matter how many times I was told it was, Not the free of taking the train to school on my own, Not the free of swimming in the deep end, It was a free that felt like birds singing in my ears, Wind through my hair and losing the cold you had been suffering for weeks, This was the first time I wasn’t forcing myself into something too small for me, When my skin could breathe,
RACHEL MORROW
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And my days didn’t end with lines on my belly like annotations in a book, It was the first time I let my body rest, Letting my bones slouch, And my chest expand, It was the first time I wasn’t making choices for other people, I was making choices for myself. I was finally taking some of the months worshipping that push-up bra back, And trading them in for a comfier lifestyle, One with soft linings, And expandable waist lines, Oversized sleeves, And sweaters that only hugged my collarbones. Little by little I stopped being so affected by how I thought I needed to dress, I donated every two-sizes-too-small shirt, And unnaturally tight bottoms, Now if I want to wear something fitted, It’s because I want to, Because I know what it’s like to feel sexy, To feel good in my body, Not to pretend like I do, Now I know what it’s like to care for your body, To want every part because my opinion matters the most, Now I know what it’s like to love my body, Because that’s for me and nobody else.
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RACHEL MORROW
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