IE 2015

The Literature and Art Magazine of LREI Little Red School House & Elisabeth Irwin High School

2014-2015

A reminder to families: This journal’s content reflects the thoughts and experiences of seventh through twelfth grade students at LREI. We ask that you keep that fact in mind as you consider sharing it with younger children. ~ Phil Kassen, Director

COVER Art By Julia Greenburger

Table of Contents

Stella Achenbach Photograph ... 2 Jaquie Adler California 35 Brianna Adu-Kyei The Realms of Day and Night 6 Wilton Bompey Original Recipe 22 Ciro Bright A.F.S.A.: Armed Forces Security Agency 48 Anna Brooks Second Grade Autobiography 4 Jayson Camacho Papa 36 Adam Caplan Blown Up 66 Ming Chen Ming 56 Logan Cioffi Drawing 17 Alexa Code My Midnight Thoughts Get Out of Control 23 Untitled 65 Love Is Overrated 66 Eliana Cohen-Orth Dictionary 14 Miles Dorsey Crash 72 Tibeau Ferguson A.F.S.A.: Armed Forces Security Agency 48 Louie Figliulo Climber 58 Antonia Frank Baby June 7 Girls 9 Layne Friedman 13 Ways to Look at a Pool 20

Photograph 57 Hans Genares Painting 29

Painting 37 Painting 58 Oliver Gifford The Last Shred of Humanity 74 Cameron Glass A Slice to Remember 26

What Is the Significance of a Pen on a Table? 34 Saskia Globig VE 1945 16 Pheremones 32 Grievances 46 Daxia Godoy Scars 5 2 A.M. Thoughts 9 Onaje Grant-Simmons Drawing 11 Julia Greenburger Painting 13

Drawing 18 Painting 33

Painting 51 Maxine Guttmann My Endless Room 3 James Haggis Iridescence 75 Asha Hinson Photograph ... 38 Juno Hobbs The Rest Between Two Notes 2

What Do You Want?

24 Maisy Hoffman In Wet Rain Light 59

Painting 75 Kellin Hostler-Burrows Untitled 21

Alexandra Klemer Photograph 69 Cameron Krakowiak Photograph 73 Layla Krantz Drawing 27 Dakota Law Untitled 27 Gabriel Law Your Obituary 5

Beyond Pain 37 Untitled 45 Griffin Cloud Levine The Haunted House 10

College Papers 47 Ben Maltz Photograph 6

33rd 19 Photograph 35 Photograph 44 The Search 52 Photograph 64

Photograph 73 Michelle Mardones Be You 56 Finley Martin Nothing Underneath 1 Painting 8 Painting 29

Painting 61 Ethan McKesey The Life of You 54 Rose Merjos Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question 43

Love That Dog 60 Jarrett Moore Mixed Media 51 Luca Nicholas Painting 7

Mixed Media 15

Painting 30 Painting 33 Drawing 42 Julia Noonan Apportionment 12 Pilar Olivieri Photograph 73 Skyler Pierce-Scher Triple A’s 62 Daniela Pierro Oh So Sorry 11 Boston Cream Pie 39 Amelia Pinney Drawing 61 Adrian Pinos Stencil 25 Stencil 25 Hanna Provost Untitled 22 Monica Quirante Untitled 56 Olivia Reis Photograph 3

Photograph 10

Underwater Breath 12

Photograph 41 Pierre Roederer Untitled 44 Elisabeth Seiple Sweet Memories 72

Dylan Siegel Photograph 49 Photograph 55 Nicolas Simbaqueva Cars 67 Semiramis Sophroniou Untitled 37 Sadie Stern Photograph 14 Photograph 22

Photograph 41 Photograph 65

Photograph 73 Sophie Stomberg-Firestein A Colonial Apothecary’s Widow 68 Lutfah Subair Girl 8 Iniko Thornell Always, Never, Should Have 13 Mani Tolkow Photograph 11 Emily Uss Tragedy Strikes 28 Try Again 42 Lilah van Rens Jade Earrings 15 Tallulah Walz California 35 Ella Wexler X-Ray 11 Untitled 23

Photograph 57 Noah Wistman Or Did It Live?

18

Not Me 31

Exploration Unfinished 38

Practicing Self-Awareness 60 Ryan Yee Photograph 55 Immanuel Zion A Muted Voice 24

Stroke 30

Nothing Underneath* Finley Martin

You sit in the silence of your apartment, the half finished drawing on the page beginning to seem impossibly overwhelming, and you suddenly find yourself with your phone in your hand, calling the girl next door who you sometimes pay to pose naked for you. The first time she came over, you felt as if you had to justify your request, trying your very best to make her understand that this was “for art” and that posing was a common occurrence back in your college days. You remember that her eyes slowly drifted over your small apartment as you said this and, when you finished, she nodded as she pulled her dress over her head to reveal nothing underneath. At first she came once a month, then once a week, and soon you felt as though your hand was constantly tracing the contours of her body. Again and again you had told yourself that she was there simply so you could “practice your figure drawing,” but soon, you think that both you and her realized that you simply craved the company. She isn’t the type of girl that most boys would choose to stand naked in front of them either, but there is something that you have always found endearing about her, as if she were some raggedy toy that you kept on the shelf over the years for sentimental value. You have seen and sketched every inch of her body: the folds of her stomach, the birthmark that sweeps up from the small of her back, her lopsided breasts that she has tried to mask by constantly leaning to her right when she poses for you. You find that you know what her body looks like better than your own, and you think that this feeling of detached intimacy is both strange and beautiful. After she disrobes, her clothes strewn around the small apartment, you often wonder what she is thinking as she stands there seemingly withdrawing deep within herself. You think that she may pretend that you aren’t in the room at all. You sometimes find yourself hoping that she likes coming over, but the faraway look on her face makes you doubt it. Part of you thinks that she pities you, in the hopelessly casual way one pities starving children in far off places. To her you must be nothing more than a ghost; a blur in the corner of her eye that she could hardly describe to anyone that asked. As the phone fizzles to life in your hands, you ask her to come over as soon as she can. The staticky sound of her breath makes its way through the telephone and, before she can hang up, you ask her why she agreed to come over the first time, a question that has gnawed at the back of your brain for what has felt like forever. She inhales deeply, as if she had been dreading this question for the longest time and then, unsurprisingly, you find yourself left only with the all too familiar sound of the empty phone line.

*Winner of 2014-15 IE Writing Contest [1]

The Rest Between Two Notes Juno Hobbs in one moment, I am still my legs tangled around yours your sweet face, eyelids shut lit by the city leaking through the window the needle grazes the plastic a song spins around us my head rests on your shoulder not wanting to move I close my eyes locking the moment in my mind I hear the needle pick up and click back into place and a slow breath exhales our bodies silence reopening my eyes a slow note begins and the song continues sweet Inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Stella Achenbach

[2]

My Endless Room Maxine Guttmann

Olivia Reis

The room seems endless. Somewhere, tucked away in the labyrinth of the New York Natural History Museum stands the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. I’ve always found the small archway to be a modest entrance for the wonders that lay ahead. As I walk in, the head of the blue whale stares back at me with warm eyes as if to say, “It’s been a while, welcome back.”

The room basks in an artificial blue light that resembles the ocean waves. I look up.

The ceiling feels miles away. Nothing surrounds me but blue and the faint, surreal echo of a whale’s song.

I am swept away instantly. I leap down to my favorite place. In the corner, obscured by intentional darkness, is the display of a squid fighting a whale. It’s off putting. The statues inside look like ghosts, just barely visible in the black background. I stand there, studying the figures I have been visiting my whole life. They haven’t stopped fighting, they haven’t moved at all.

Since my childhood, I would eagerly run ahead of my father into the large blue room. I’d plunge into a world that seemed so distant from everything, surrounded by lights and sounds that were magical to me. I was so small back then that the room felt as large and vast as the oceans it was mimicking.

Everytime I come here, I have the same fear. That I’ll grow too big and old to appreciate it all. That the magic of my childhood will disappear and the room will become just that: a room. But as I look around, surrounded by animals that feel so real you can almost see them breathing, that fear goes away. I point and name the different creatures with the same eagerness now as I did when I was seven. As the rest of the museum grows dull, losing its sense of childish wonder, the hall remains the same. Beautiful, strange, and endless.

[3]

Second Grade Autobiography Anna Brooks I remember being shaken out of a dream as my sister and I woke wearily.

My mother looked down at us with a grin on her face, and she exclaimed with an excited whisper, “Come see what your father has caught.”

My dad is standing by the water with a 3 foot striped bass in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.

We stumble towards him, still in a sleepy trance.

The night before had been so hot, all there is covering our little bodies is thin tank tops.

Our hair is ruffled and our eyes still blink slowly.

We pose for a photo, unaware of what’s going on around us.

The sun is transitioning out of a morning chill and beating down on us with a hot summer strength.

My mom takes the picture, and we squint the sun out of our eyes, before she scoops me up and carries me back inside.

My head nestles in the crease between her neck and shoulders, and she lays me back in my bed.

I snuggle back into my blanket and drift off, still in my sleepy haze.

That photo hangs in my house now, as a reminder of tranquil mornings, and big fish.

[4]

Your Obituary Gabriel Law You asked why I cut I said to forget You asked what I got from it I said control You asked if it hurt I said no more than living You asked how I did it I said with the sharpest of razors You asked if I hated life I said life was a dream for the dead You looked at me disgusted But you understood my logic And were stronger than I thought Because you woke up From the dream Before I did

Scars Daxia Godoy I saw a welcoming fire in his eyes I saw his lips part into a blinding smile I saw how his chest moved in sync with each inhale and each exhale I saw the ash from his cigarette fall onto the windowsill I saw it blow away into the wind.

I felt his fire warm my soul I felt hypnotized by his beaming grin I felt how we moved against each other in sync I felt our connection fall through I felt it disintegrate into thin air.

[5]

The Realms Of Day And Night Brianna Adu-Kyei Have you ever seen The bridge between The realms of night and day?

Have ever seen The moon wink and dream The bright blessed day away?

When the stars come out To shine ever so bright To dance through the sky of the night.

And the dawn comes To brighten the sky The sun shyly peeks out of mountains high.

When the sky glows a rosy hue of light You have seen the realms of day and night.

So when the moon winks do not cower in fright As the sun brings the dawn.

Ben Maltz

[6]

Baby June Antonia Frank What is wrong with Baby June?

She won’t stop singing a haunting tune She has been crying since noon What is wrong with Baby June?

What is wrong with Baby June?

I told her she could sit and watch cartoons I’d even buy her a big balloon What is wrong with Baby June?

What is wrong with Baby June?

I know she was born with a golden spoon and her daddy is a big tycoon What is wrong with Baby June?

What is wrong with Baby June?

She seemed so happy—over the moon But maybe I scolded her a little too soon What is wrong with Baby June?

Luca Nicholas

Inspired by “Rice Pudding” by A. A. Milne

[7]

Girl Lutfah Subair

This is how you cook iyon and efo so that you can find a nice Muslim, Yoruba, and Nigerian man; What if I don’t want to marry a nice Muslim, Yoruba, and Nigerian man?; You will marry one, don’t make the mistakes I made and marry a useless one like your father; more importantly, you must be more submissive so that a man will actually love you; you must smile more often if you want to actually get married; always remember marriage is for stability not love; always remember that your kids are more important than a husband; always chew with your mouth closed; focus on your education; always try your best because you’re an example for your younger siblings; stop cursing, it’s unladylike; well fuck me then; turn down that rap music, it’s garbage; this is how you make a bed when visitors come; this is how you scrub the bathroom to be sparkling clean; this is how you struggle to give your children everything they need; after buying fish, clean it with lime and lemon; always remember where you’re from; you’re Nigerian first, then American; Ma lò je awòn omò burukù tò wán sàlè*; this is how you take care of your youngest sister; this is how you make a bottle; this how you clean a dirty diaper; this is how you train your future kids; this is how you burp a baby; this is how you hold a baby, even though I know you hate carrying them; I don’t even think I WANT kids; never say anything like that!; there is power in the tongue; always watch what you say because what you spit into the universe WILL occur!

Finley Martin

*Don’t become like the terrible children that are downstairs.

[8]

Girls Antonia Frank We curl our hair We paint our nails We change our clothes All hoping you’ll propose We drink much wine While you waste our time We are not pure You’re shocked by our allure We give it up While you fill our cup Such beautiful dames All you know are our names We’re filled with regret Supposed to be your pet We’re weak and frail Hurt by a male We’re young and pure No self-esteem for sure Cause we curled our hair Painted our nails And you left us hanging Like all the other girls before.

2 A.M. Thoughts Daxia Godoy Stuck in the midst of a suffocating darkness, my thoughts, wandering into a bottomless pit of obscurity.

Better to cut my ropes and fall to a river of rubies, glistening down a pathway deep with remorse, than to eternally choke on broken pieces of my spirit once unblemished.

[9]

The Haunted House Griffin Cloud Levine

Olivia Reis

As our boat reaches the rocks the abandoned house comes into reality and as our feet make our way to the door the shadow of the monster pulls us closer until finally we are swallowed our two hearts pounding as we walk deeper into the beast.

I watch you make your way through each room like you’ve lived here your whole life telling stories of moments you pretend you have lived.

The silence of darkness surrounds us.

The mice and other wild animals run through the creaking house.

With each step we see the wood come alive and as we begin our adventure up the stairs you gliding on air and I following suit to your trail we walk alone hidden by the woods outside breathing our childhood fantasies Calvin and Hobbes versus the haunted house.

But as unknown words pierce the thick air creating penny drop silence “Who’s here?” the caretaker yells and our dream ends.

[10]

Oh So Sorry Daniela Pierro Sorry I stole your pencil sharpener, I’ll give it back soon I promise, just until I finish using it.

I’m almost done I swear.

I’m halfway through my pencils.

So sorry I made you wait, but don’t you just love how the pencil shavings are?

The way they fall when you throw them out, the prick of a newly sharpened pencil on your fingertips?

Mani Tolkow

Don’t you love that sound it makes as the soft, flat spirals of pencil slowly fill it?

Onaje Grant-Simmonds

X-Ray Ella Wexler I have my own x-ray it’s stuck in my brain it sees right through everyone I meet I have my own x-ray I can’t turn it off I can’t make it stop I wish I could just see the outside of some people I meet ’cause sometimes their insides is looking too deep

[11]

Apportionment Julia Noonan The way to slice a pie.

The way to divide lyrics between two soloists.

The way to share the workload of onerous classwork.

The way to allocate representatives.

The way to slice your heart,

divide your mind,

share your secrets,

allocate your pain? not to me. not for me. not from me.

The way to slice that hatefulness

that divides you from others

to share your ideas

to share loving

to allocate caring. for you. to you. from me.

Underwater Breath Olivia Reis I can’t float I can’t drown I can swim but can’t seem to remember how not without it this is how I feel without my soul it’s gone maybe forever don’t know where it went I think I saw a piece float by awhile back or maybe it was a fish with it’s soul intact coming to rub it in my face.

[12]

Always, Never, Should Have Iniko Thornell

Julia Greenburger

He had left early that morning, so early that the pale light was just beginning to stream in through the window. He’d grabbed all of his things and dumped them in a large burlap bag, thrown them into the trunk of his pick up truck, all the while his yelling echoed throughout the halls.

“You always...”

“You never...”

“You should have...”

He even left the door open each time he brought another of his things out to the truck. The crisp November air swept into the house without mercy, leaving every crevice, blanket, and linoleum tabletop stiff and cold.

When he’d finished loading his stuff up, he came back inside and waited by the door for her. She walked a few paces towards him and stared. His eyes were bottomless ochre puddles of emotion but amid all the sadness and anger, there was that lingering indifference to her, to them, to all that had been the past few months. And so she looked away and pretended to be consumed in thoughts of something else. The dirt beneath her nails. The scuff marks on her boots.

And so the last thing she heard was the slamming of the door so hard, the door frame shook.

The stiffly cold air embraced her as he never had while the silence continued longer than she ever thought possible.

And in that moment she made up her mind. If she could live in a vacuum she would. Void of time, void of sound. A life not centered on her but void of others. People hurt her too badly and she wasn’t sure she had room for even one more scar.

[13]

Dictionary Eliana Cohen-Orth I read the dictionary Lying on my bed It’s tattered, battered, I Need to put it down, instead I grip a shaky flashlight Read every page again, Looking for the one word That can describe who I am I know that I have volume I know that I have mass But I look into the mirror And I only see plain glass There was a time when I was A simple written concept The words weren’t always beautiful but were words I could accept I’m not that anymore I don’t need to pretend The person who was in me has come to an end

Sadie Stern

I shred the dictionary and drop it into a dusty flower vase I use a marker on the mirror to draw a hot pink smiling face

[14]

Jade Earrings Lilah van Rens

Luca Nicholas

Her hands are fumbling through the jewelry box: silver necklace with the amethyst… delicate gold cross necklace from her First Communion…bright plastic bangles from the 80’s…ah…her mother’s jade earrings. She can now slip on her go-to black dress and strap up her polished black stilettos. She has to wear something of her mother’s to not be completely numb and be able to get through the day. These earrings are now her companion and hold countless memories that she will eventually forget, but for now she grasps onto.

She holds the cold stones in her hands and for a brief moment, sees her mother swiftly push them through her flesh, her brunette bob swishing across the nape of her neck, left and then right. They were her mother’s second favorites. Her favorites were the pearl earrings. With that in mind and in preparation for today, the pearls were put on her mother’s pale, cold earlobes, which will eventually disintegrate and abandon the pearls in the cool earth. She had never understood the point of doing supposedly nice things for people if they would never be there to experience it.

She now tries to maneuver the jade earrings into her own ears. She can’t join the metal with the hole, her hands clammy and rigid. The arrow keeps missing the target and jabs into the plush flesh on either side, which is now tainted pink. She finally slips the earrings through and she blows out a breath she didn’t know had been trapped, her limbs now limp. She takes one last glimpse in the mirror. The hollows of her eyes are caked with concealer and her cheekbones are more protrusive than ever. The longer she looks, the more it seems like she is slowly coiling into herself—her torso struggling not to collapse beneath the unavoidable weight. Her eyes can’t help themselves and look back at her with pity. She finally forces herself to look away and picks up the bouquet of peonies lying at the foot of her bed, which will soon wither and rot along with her mother and the cheap dyed blue carnations that someone always brings.

[15]

VE 1945 Saskia Globig

He stood on the balcony and looked out over the crowd. His suit was stiff and itchy, freshly pressed, and the papers in his hands were damp with sweat. He stepped up to the microphone with the acute awareness that his voice was about to be on the radio everywhere.

For some reason, as he raised his hand palm-up for silence, and the dignitaries ceased their starched conversations and the soldiers snapped even more to attention, as a quiet like the underside of snow swept over the square—as he prepared to speak, he felt this could not possibly be the end. From this vantage point, he could not find it in their eyes. * “Mum! Mum! They’ve just announced! It’s over—it’s finally over! Come on, there’s to be a parade!”

Her mother looked around from where she had been standing in the kitchen, absently smoothing her apron with one hand over and over. It took an eternity for her face to turn, and when it did, everything in the flat grayed. She held up the crumpled telegram in her fist and said,

“He didn’t have to die...Couldn’t they have waited just one more day?”

And the confetti fluttered down outside the windows as if something in the sky had shattered. * The policeman ambled to the street corner and watched the procession pass. It was obvious that the people could barely restrain themselves, but they composed long faces in sight of the polizei barricade. They were making a poor show of mourning their country, their leader. The children skipped, and that was telling.

If joy was color, though, there certainly was a lack of it. He wondered if the blackred-and-white would ever hang on the streets again. There were some, he noticed, who had folded their flags more carefully, more reluctantly, and he knew the web clung on.

All over the city, even as the streets rang with unheard laughter, cupboard doors closed on slumbering spiders. * “That’s all, girls. Thank you for your help. You’ll find your pay envelopes in your cubbies. God bless America and God bless the end of the goddamn war!”

The foreman clapped once and tipped his hat to them all, and the machine girls exploded into chatter. The welder glanced around at the others as they collected their hats and strolled away from the crowd in little groups. There was a finality about this that she did not like. The last wages. The last letter to her brother telling him about her work, only to let him know this time that she was coming home.

She looked down at her toolbox: standard-issue, like everyone else’s, but augmented with the odd rusted implement she’d found and added to her arsenal over the years. She [16]

hefted the kit and carried it out with her.

Other girls, she noticed, left their tools behind in their lockers. *

He knew the triumph and animosity in their faces was for his police uniform, for him. *

The sound of the band and the people cheering echoed up to them: tinny and callous. *

From his position above the crowd, he cleared his throat.

Logan Cioffi

[17]

Or Did It Live?

Noah Wistman There was a wisp that lived— or did it live?

In a place beyond— beyond the realm of man, that hushed out of a pond, and wished it could be grand.

But wisps aren’t bound by nature— is it nature to be free, if freedom means the binding of the spirit to the breeze?

You can’t be grand if all you’ve had is whistles through the leaves.

The wisp breathed in, or did it breathe?

And became distinguished from the sky, and said, in what a wisp would call a scream: “I AM!” and then it died— or did it die?

And so it left (the wisp), it rolled along the streams, and flowed into the valley, where sunsets aren’t finale, and whispers trample dreams.

And in a place so quiet it gathered up its strength, which wasn’t much by measure of its power or its length.

But tell me, who would measure, with these units bound in tethers, such subjective things as strength?

And so the wisp prepared.

To be—more than it was?

All it could be?

It’s hard to say, but this would be finale, it seems, yes, all seems to gray.

[18]

Julia Greenburger

33rd Benjamin Maltz The solid thrum-thrumming drags my vision to the floor.

Mottled linoleum stares back at me, awash with muddled splotches.

I try to find constellations within them, picking out a periwinkle fleck and finding the big dipper.

I cannot tell if my heart has synced with the rhythm, or if it has synced with me.

Spectral stars whiz by through spot-stained windows, fluttering between unseen walls and dismal heads.

I know they are there, yet I do not say a word.

We all look down.

Finding one another by our shoes, I see a lady, lips red like a gushing pomegranate.

She perches, as if on a throne, folding an ivory handkerchief ever so carefully as though it was the flag of a country that no longer existed but once had ruled the world.

I move on.

A plump woman sits on a tangerine, wrapped in plush faux leopard, prepared for a Scandinavian winter.

Time has carved her hands from silent driftwood; ashy hair peeks out from a fuchsia cap.

Closed eyes scrutinize.

I wonder if she’s traveling back to the era she came from.

[19]

13 Ways to Look at a Pool Layne Friedman I Hear the birds tweeting as the water falls in the background II Watch as soaked heads pop up from the clear water III Flat and still until the splash of humans interrupts the stillness IV Small circles appear even from the littlest touch growing slowly V Drip drip drop then the once dry ball reappears VI Shining and sparkling as the sun glistens down on the moving water VII Listen to the sound of laughing as little bodies are thrown by loving family VIII One by one pool toys are thrown where they are submerged in a mixture of water and people

[20]

IX Droplets of stubborn water drip down bare legs their urge to reach the ground unwilling to stop X Up and down, up and down, up and down this is the sound of a diving board splash XI Drab solid stone surrounds the glistening fluorescent water XII The multi-colored swimsuits disturb the smooth flow of water XIII Warm towels surround shivering bodies that have left the warmth of the water

Untitled Kellin Hostler-Burrows Others are just now facing the truth Some are evil men, at war with good And some are good, struggling with evil Six billion people in the world Six billion souls And sometimes— all you need is one

[21]

Original Recipe Wilton Bompey Sponge Cake Ingredients: 3 eggs 70 grams flour 70 grams sugar Preheat the oven at 160 degrees. Line the tin with parchment paper. Crack eggs into a bowl and beat well. Add the sugar as you mix. Cook egg mixture over a double broiler until warm (40 degrees Celsius). Remove from the broiler and beat with an electric mixer.

Beat until smooth and fluffy. Sift the flour into the batter. Fold the flour into the mixture using a wooden spatula. When batter is glossy, stop. Pour batter into pan. Drop pan from 2 inches to remove bubbles. Bake for 35 minutes.

Untitled Hanna Provost I never got to say goodbye.

Last I saw you, We were playing In the yard You’d jump You’d twist You’d run To get your ball Then collapse in the grass Panting Tired from your play.

At night we’d play inside together, With our heads under the sofas.

Now you chase your frisbee High up in the sky.

I hope you’re happy.

[22]

Sadie Stern

My Midnight Thoughts Get Out of Control Alexa Code

I’ve always wondered if every other stranger notices the things about me that I notice about them—how many of them notice the way I walk and the way my hair lightly bounces as I’m trying to catch the bus. I wonder how many people have looked at me and wondered what was going on in my life that made me smile randomly as I walked past them. I wonder how many people look at me with music blasting in my ears and my eyes glued to my phone screen and don’t assume that I’m one of those teenagers that only cares about themselves. If people look at me when I’m looking off as I’m sitting on the train, not paying attention to anything and think it’s cute that I can just be inside my own head without the distractions that are surrounding me, without the obstacles in front of every goal I have. I wonder if there is a part of them that immediately cares about what happens to me after they see me even though after that split second they saw me I would probably never even cross their minds again. I wonder how many strangers have temporarily fallen for my eyes as I have temporarily fallen for theirs.

Untitled Ella Wexler

In the small lighthouse on the shore of the Swedish bays, on a shelf somewhere behind the forgotten stairway, maybe in a cupboard, a lost spot, lies an old glass bottle. Full of songs that tell stories from times when the seas were saltier, bluer, and merrier. Now the lighthouse and the castles by the sea are abandoned with only the autumnal breezes waltzing through them. Keeping them occupied while the memories are still haunting them. Near the lighthouse, on a cliff, lies a cottage. Not one of much glitz and glamour, but its trinkets are appealing to the eye. An old pipe, a small rusty chest, in the corner lies a piece of driftwood, a sailor’s treasure, with eloquent cursive writing on it, Joanna. In another corner maybe lies more memories, of faces and dresses and flowers and the times of the saltier seas.

[23]

A Muted Voice Immanuel Zion Tears dance on a still table Emotions taking over, my voice disabled Fragmented sounds press at my lips A bead of sweat begins to drip My voice forgotten My mouth a stutter Sorry was all I could mutter Water puddled at my drooping eyes My heart crying in disguise Cascading sadness filling empty canyons with sorrow Maybe there is hope tomorrow.

What Do You Want?

Juno Hobbs his hands were pale but they felt warm and much larger than expected pressed up against my hand for the first time it was my first time the warmth overwhelmed me I pulled my hand away the blue sheets surrounded us all my belongings piled up beside the bed the brick wall of the room made up the house tucked away in our secret street “what do you want?� I asked not fully knowing what I wanted myself his smile formed [24]

[25]

Adrian Pinos

Adrian Pinos

A Slice to Remember Cameron Glass I feel the gravel crunch beneath my shoes and, bored, I watch all my friends play soccer, using one section of the fence as a goal and the other as a boundary. The silence bothers me. I run over to one of the large poles planted in the ground and climb to the top, as I always do for fun. As I am waiting at the top, my face is pummeled with hard winds and the smells of people, cars, food, and the city. Although the aroma of gasoline, pollution, and that putrid garbage smell that lingers in the air are distasteful, I still relish every last one of them, absorbing the city with every breath. “I want to stay here,” I murmur to myself. A jolt hits my left foot and I almost fall from thirty feet in the air. It is a football, and the thrower could be nobody else but Marlowe. My little brother Marlowe is an interesting character. He always seems to want something, but when offered it, he refuses. He’s a little bit taller than me, and he always wears the sportiest clothes he can, even when it’s twenty-seven degrees out. On this day, he is wearing shorts down to his knees and a Knicks sweater covering his undershirt. His curly hair continues down to his ears until his eye line interrupts it, and his LeBron sneakers look ridiculously big on him.

“What do you want?” I say not really paying any attention to the small figure down below.

“Let’s get pizza!” Marlowe exclaims.

“Can you wait a minute?” I ask.

“NOOOOO-” “Okay fine!” I interrupt, annoyed. I grab onto the pole beneath my feet and make my way down carefully. A couple seconds after I’m finally on the ground, I break into a run towards Percy’s Pizza, laughing, as Marlowe chases behind me. This is how we play. One of us aggravates the other, and well, it just gets worse from there. When I get to Percy’s, I am out of breath, but not Marlowe. Marlowe is like the reaction you get when you shake a soda before opening it. He’s that kind of kid.

A couple minutes later, the pizza we ordered is heated up and ready to eat. The scent of tomato sauce fills my nose and steam fills my eyes. I take a bite and the taste fills my mouth with my favorite flavors: tomatoes, sausage, mushrooms, oregano, and the delicious bread. I hear the rustles of people around us waiting in line to get pizza. Marlowe and I both acknowledge it, but don’t care as we are too busy enjoying the pizza. The rough surface of the bread fits in my hands almost flawlessly, and even my brother closes his eyes and enjoys the flavor without a word. His pizza has pepperoni and pineapples, which I can never quite understand, but he likes it. We start walking back to the park with the pizza folded in our hands.

After school at the park, eating pizza is something I always do. It is a moment I always get to share with my brother, and a moment that he always gets to share with me.

It is a moment when we can both take in the city and love it, no matter how bad it smells, and it is a moment when we can run and play as children should. There are many other [26]

Layla Krantz

people that think they know my brother better than I do—my grandfather and grandmother, mom and dad, uncle and aunt, nephew and niece—but none of them are as close to him as me. I wake up every day to the sound of him jumping on my bed or loudly watching Antodaboss or playing video games on YouTube. And even when we get old, that will stay with me. Marlowe will always be with me, and that pizza will just be another thing to bring us together.

Untitled Dakota Law This is dedicated to The people who look at themselves and think, “I’m not good enough” The ones who build up walls taller than the Empire State Building The people who don’t need water to feel like they’re drowning The people who love, but aren’t loved in return The ones with words that are never heard The people with thoughts more tangled than my headphones This is dedicated to every human still striving for perfection You are not alone.

[27]

Tragedy Strikes Emily Uss I walk down a crowded street.

Cars honking, people screaming, broken glass.

The chaotic mess engulfs me.

Out of the darkness a light emerges.

A familiar face in the distance coming closer.

A bobbing head full of dark brown curls, Weaving his way through the crowd.

His calm demeanor soothes me.

The fluidity of his movements is enticing.

Suddenly he too becomes part of the chaos.

He runs, screaming my name.

I try to respond, my body getting weaker.

The pain eases.

His hands cup my face, but I can no longer feel his touch.

Ben Maltz

He runs out of the hospital room, pushing everything out of his way.

No tears, just anger and fear, of what will happen if he stops and lets reality sink in.

He pulls his hood over his head, leaving just enough room so his tears can fall.

[28]

[29]

Finley Martin

Hans Genares

Stroke Immanuel Zion He says he is always optimistic But my heart cannot work through this.

He says his condition is reversible But the rigorous man I once knew is lost.

He says look to light in darkness But when I look at him, his face is hidden in dull shadow.

He tells me to look away from pain and sorrow But I stare directly at it.

He guides me to what hope is left But I engage sadness.

He tells me negativity is his undoing.

I tell him Fall into darkness.

Luca Nicholas

[30]

Not Me Noah Wistman She held the air of Spring around her head, and could shine so bright, one could hardly see, and she made her home in the hearts of men with souls, not me.

Her laugh fluttered, riding feathers on the wind, her walk skipped beats, hair bouncing with glee, and she resided in the hearts of men with souls, not me.

She loved it when the sky was all but cloudless, so that the sun could glisten off the sea, and this gave her place in the hearts of men with souls, not me.

She said that she knew life, and life knew her, and that anything, and everything could come to be, and she lived through time in the hearts of men with souls, not me.

Because I know that I do not know life, and I know that rain keeps fields of grain from death, and my walk always stays rhythmic on the earth, and my laugh is often lost beneath my breath.

I have seen her in the shade, the light that shone so brightly, dimmed, and I saw the doubt that she forbade from exiting her grin, into the air, and then the winter came, and took my soul away, and by then, I did not care, and do not care.

[31]

Pheromones Saskia Globig The curve of you, where the cheek meets the thigh, is sweeter than lips strawberry in a tinted photo which is not your own anymore.

Instead savor the place of skin wrapped by summer clothes stretched as you run.

A prickle of grass at the back of your neck and sweat on your hairline, delicate musk in its stickiness trailing down, down into the gentle creases circling the mounds.

You create your own humidity.

Trap it here now, to use later or maybe find it in memory at that party where you sent the calling, just sitting, testing, like smoke in your favorite princess movies and were asked to dance.

The first time is power.

Twine them out, those summer tendrils, use them only when you wish although you heard once people with synesthesia see auras and they cannot be denied.

Try to pull and retract your affection on your whim, keep it close against your chest or blow it forward as you will, that monumental surge of softness.

Sometimes fail.

[32]

Ensnaring, that’s a witch’s term as green vines probe the earth, and it need not apply to you.

What you do has no shame because it’s echoed back, singing on cornsilk and raven’s wing, from when you exposed your throat.

We’re all slain from within, but in spilling blood, we snatch another’s look.

There is no conquest, only ebb and flow, a frog wriggling in your palm reeled in from the darkness.

Luca Nicholas

Julia Greenburger

[33]

What Is the Significance of a Pen on a Table?

Cameron Glass What is the significance of a pen on a table?

The pen, a tool to express the idea The idea, a thought that aches my heart The heart, an item only to shed tears Tears of the moon Tears of the night Tears made to soothe my sinking mind Sinking The mind, the creator of space and time The crack in the ground that opens the world What is the significance?

What is the significance?

The pen, though it may not speak Cries for the freedom of the day and the skies Cries for the moon Cries for the night Makes victims no longer What is the significance?

What is the significance?

Perhaps it is not just the pen on the table Perhaps it is just the pen Perhaps it is just the user of the pen Perhaps it is you

[34]

Ben Maltz

California Jaquie Adler and Tallulah Walz From walks on the beach to throwing rocks in the bay, To playing tetherball while the sun shines its rays.

Having fries for lunch and sundaes for brunch, Racing into the horizon without looking back, Then ordering some slushies for a quick snack.

Rocking out to music in the hotel room, Then making your way to the ice cream shop, You hope this endless summer will never stop.

You jump on the plane leaving California behind But it is always on your mind.

[35]

Papa Jayson Camacho His hands are large and rough like giants But still comforting.

They swallow up mine as we sit next to the fire.

Reminds me of the days When he took me to my baseball games And held my hand after we lost.

Reminds me of the days When he picked me up from elementary school And walked me home.

The fire in front of us warms us.

Reminds me of the days When we went to the Poconos.

When we sat in front of a campfire after tubing.

Reminds me of the days When everything was so easy When I had not a single care in the world.

Now there is only one thought on our minds “How bad is your cancer, Papa?”

I look at him with concern upon my face With my hand still in his.

I squeeze it so I don’t start crying.

Reminds me of the days of him comforting me when my great aunt died.

When I was so scared to go to the viewing, So scared to see a lifeless body.

He stares at me And tears start to fill up his eyes.

[36]

Untitled Semiramis Sophroniou Sacred friendships Start in the American nation In places of luxury, kindness and happy hours Lions grow in the fresh crystal palaces of our Dreams We stand in bars where "Time flies when you’re having rum" New sounds come from buildings Sounds of Music Dance and Fun As the night ends And the new morning arrives We go home Leaving The street Filled with Historic and special memories Hans Genares We start our days And go back to our families But we will soon find each other In a space That is filled with Beyond Pain Our fantasies Gabriel Law Our hallucinations Because I once questioned your reasons for cutting Of the rum But I now know why you did what you did Which helps After all I’m currently falling off a bridge Time fly by With my back facing the ground And in these dreams My eyes staring at a sky We will be free So clear yet muted almost as if And no one will govern us.

My suicide is ruining a perfect day But that’s okay since I wasn’t a good person in life Hopefully when I die The sky clears again [37]

Exploration Unfinished Noah Wistman Exploration unfinished, destination unknown Many years gone, away from home, A hundred thousand steps, taken on my own, Exploration unfinished, destination unknown, I’ve left behind my society’s stagnant embrace And it’s left me with smile plastered on my face, As I go on looking for that special place, Where I won’t live life at a breakneck pace.

Exploration unfinished, destination concealed, Just pondering, wandering from meal to meal, As I feel like it’s real and so unreal, Exploration unfinished, destination concealed, And I don’t know what I’m looking for, not quite, I don’t pretend to know the what is the light, But I’ll find it, and know it, and know I’m right, This is my only assumption, my blinded sight.

Asha Hinson

Exploration unfinished, destination unknown, I’m going strong still, no wrongs to atone And no regrets, what’s set is set, I go on alone, Exploration unfinished, destination unknown

[38]

Boston Cream Pie Daniela Pierro

The noise of the traffic was loud outside of the small diner where Anna Miller sat.

She leaned against the glossy red vinyl back of the booth she was sitting in, and allowed her mind to wander. Labor Day weekend was coming up and she had plans to see her brother William. She rarely saw him now that he had moved to Georgia. He was going to travel to her apartment in Manhattan over the long weekend for dinner. Maybe they would watch some tennis. William had always been good at tennis, Anna recalled. She remembered how he would always score the points, and how once, when she was seven years old, she sulked for a week because he had so clearly outplayed her. He was older by two years and stronger than her, but Anna always tried to be better than him. She never was. He was a natural at everything—from tennis to soccer, swimming to schoolwork. No matter how hard she tried, Anna had never been able to outdo her older brother, and she resented his achievements.

“Are you finished with this?” Anna’s eyes flew open and the scowl emerging on her face dissolved. A waiter was standing next to her, motioning towards her emptied plate. She blinked as her thoughts rushed back to reality.

“Sorry to disturb you,” the waiter said to her, “but are you done with your burger?”

“Oh! Yes, thanks,” she replied.

As the waiter cleared her plate, Anna let her eyes scan the diner’s brightly lit interior. The walls were off-white, and there were white sconces scattered about the room, illuminating the cherry red seats. There were windows lining two of the walls, allowing Anna to see the taxis and tourists of Manhattan, and the smooth, glassy skyscrapers penetrating the evening sky.

There was a couple in the corner booth of the diner, laughing over their identical chocolate milkshakes. On her left, there was an old man wearing a white t-shirt with a blue cardigan and corduroys. She watched surreptitiously as he took out his phone and started to text.

Anna turned her gaze to another woman in a booth in front of her. She was wearing a silky black dress with tiny white polka dots sprinkled across it, and silver hoop earrings. The woman’s blonde hair curled over one shoulder as she turned her head to look at another part of the room. Anna followed her gaze and found herself looking at the diner’s pastry case.

She saw a tall chocolate cake with unnaturally huge swirls of frosting, and a lemon meringue billowing on top. It was a cake with so many layers it was hard to count. Anna squinted and counted...seven, with chocolate between each layer. There was strawberry shortcake with white icing and a very vibrant red color inside. There was also a Boston cream pie. A Boston cream pie! Anna had always loved Boston cream pie.

Something about the yellow sponginess, warm chocolate, and vanilla pudding made it [39]

impossible for Anna to resist, and this pie was no exception. She had trouble tearing her eyes away from the creamy chocolate dripping down thick slabs of sponge cake, and that smooth, sweet vanilla custard. There was only one slice left...and it would be Anna’s.

She heard a loud sound in a nearby booth and turned to see what had happened. It was the old man, who had sneezed loudly. Once again, Anna’s eyes skimmed the room.

They settled on the woman in the black dress, who was still looking at the pastry case.

“I bet she has her eye on my Boston cream pie,” thought Anna. The woman’s eyebrows puckered and she was wearing makeup. “Too much makeup,” Anna thought, “and those eyelashes look so fake.” Anna could feel her face growing hot. “She probably refreshes that pink lipstick every hour.”

Anna’s jaw was tense and her lips were curling into a scowl. Wisps of heat crept up the back of her neck and her face was flushed. She saw that the woman’s eyes were greenish, “and I never did like green eyes,” she added. Anna resolved to wave down the waiter first, so she could order her Boston cream pie before that other demon of a lady could get to it. She searched the room for a waiter, twisting around until she saw someone. She waved her hand frantically in the air, but the waiter had his back to her and could not see. She resisted running up to him and demanding the pie. Her feet were beginning to dance a little jig, and she could feel her breath coming short and fast.

She turned back around in her seat and saw that the thief-woman was already ordering, gesturing to the pastry case. Anna let out a squeak of indignation and disbelief.

“She’s really ordering my pie! She really is! How could she? It’s so unfair,” she thought.

She fumed as she glared at the woman, fists clenched and crimson cheeks. The red seats suddenly seemed redder, the air seemed sharper, and the chatter of the others in the diner faded to a mist in the background. She seethed silently at the injustice of it all. Anna watched, shocked and raging, as the waiter left the table and hurried over to the pastry case, opened its glass door, and picked up...a strawberry shortcake. She froze, her lips parted in surprise. She felt relief crash over her like a wave and her hands loosened. She had created such misery for herself, only to find it was imagined. Her mind cleared, and she wondered how she had gotten herself so worked up. As she watched her past rival dig into the strawberry shortcake, she wondered at the strangeness of it all, and at how she had been so utterly convinced of something that was entirely based on her own assumptions and desire.

Anna ordered that last slice of Boston cream pie. She took her first bite expectantly. It didn’t taste nearly as good as she had imagined it would, but Boston cream pie is Boston cream pie, and she loved it.

[40]

Olivia Reis

Sadie Stern

[41]

Try Again Emily Uss

Luca Nicholas

The smooth metal is pressed against my back I grip the handle in an attempt to steady myself She stands opposite me Putting most of her weight onto her back leg While the other is awkwardly bent in front of her Staring at her reflection She adjusts her hair As she always does when she doesn't know what to do With her restless hands The spaces between her fingers Are stained a sweet and sour yellow As a reminder of the previous night she spent in her mother’s kitchen A tear threatens to crawl down my cheek I consider letting it But I know better I grab a stiff paper towel And the tear has lost its power I suddenly find the strength to speak How can I share something so personal to that many people?

She turns to me and puts one of her shaky hands on my shoulder You can do it, Em A weak smile is shared between us Together we walk down the hallway An empty road that will only lead to more tears

[42]

Sure You Can Ask me a Personal Question Rose Merjos Hello.

How do you do?

Go ahead, stereotype me, see if I care.

No, being an only child does not make me conceited or spoiled.

My parents are divorced.

Do I wish they weren’t?

Well, I can’t change the past, so why does it matter?

Yes, I love both of my parents equally.

Was that not the answer you wanted?

I have two step-sisters.

They are not evil like the ones in Cinderella.

They are my family.

Thank you for telling me I look younger than my actual age.

I think being small comes in handy.

No, my size has nothing to do with dancing.

No, you do not have to starve yourself for a “dancer’s body.”

But you have to work hard.

Surprising?

I live in a city that never sleeps.

9/11, huh?

Subways, huh?

Is danger the only thing that comes to mind when you think of my home?

Well, you’re forgetting about the thousands of people each of whom is unique.

You’re forgetting that it’s a place with endless opportunities.

Sure, there’s crime and terrorism.

But what would life be like if we didn’t live on the edge?

Yes, I love New York City.

It has a special place in my heart.

Are you done now?

Thank you for generalizing me.

Thank you for recognizing my flaws.

But your words don’t offend me.

I cherish who I am.

[43]

Untitled Pierre Roederer Behind her the noise escalated. I was in an empty mall by myself. The noise I heard was very irritating. I looked behind me as if there was a person, but there was no one. I kept on walking but whenever I got to a darker spot I would hear the same sound. It was the sound of someone scratching their nails on a chalkboard, or instead of cutting the meal on their plate, they cut the plate. It kept on getting louder and louder. So when I was walking down the broken escalator all I saw was a blink of an eye and a flash of a chalkboard covered with dripping blood and on the ground a piece of dusty chalk.

Ben Maltz

[44]

Untitled Gabriel Law Your walk is unsteady Right before you jump off Knowing you’re on the wrong Side of heaven I’ll watch you fall And wonder What happens when You die young and Fall so far Like a balloon Released into the sky Deflating before Once more it sinks to the earth.

Clutching your broken body in my arms And weeping over what we never had But what I wanted so badly The hours slip by in a mess of tears As I regret not helping you earlier And I hate myself for that.

I don’t bother Listening to the drivel Your friend spouts at your funeral You were weak and there’s nothing Else for it Who cares if you had shit going on In your life without a hero To save you You had me with my arms wide open For you but you couldn’t see Past your selfishness I can’t forgive either of us For being unable to breach That barrier.

[45]

Grievances Saskia Globig The government men have umbrellas, black umbrellas, and I’m sorry if that means you don’t have anything to shield yourself in the rain, and they’re only harder to find on the black market.

But the government men, you see, are me —my shadows.

So does that mean the umbrellas are mine?

You may imagine a room full of them, them and the black coats, piled and draping maybe over the gilt and velvet furniture that it seems a ruler should have.

It’s a proper queen’s room, with arched windows and their window-seats washed in gray light.

The clink of my china cup is paper-thin, the tea stiff and cold as my legs in this chair.

I think I can see you from here, if I crane my neck.

You’ve been standing at the gate for a few days now, occasionally drifting up to claw at the base of the rampart.

The rain masks the noises you make, I’m almost embarrassed to admit because it’s a groveling whine angry in its insistence that floats from your frustrated lips.

It’s really a shame that you have to wear that hat, a floppy stocking like a placeholder in the tableau with all the peasants.

No, of course there aren’t really beasts in the moat —spikes, though, that’s true.

Tapestries, so vast, really should depict more of you, because I don’t think a unicorn will solve anything.

My pointy gold slippers click on the flagstones when I stand.

You’re at the door suddenly, or maybe you’d been standing there for a time back, dripping quietly and holding everything you own [46]

in the form of a pitchfork.

I’m not sure if I was expecting you.

What would you have of me?

Only words, it seems, but I don’t need you to tell me that the black umbrellas came and the children cried.

That’s their job, just like this is mine and that is yours.

Your accusation is worse, almost, than assassination because it lasts.

College Papers Griffin Cloud Levine I look down at the papers saying yes or no I hear the world asking yes or no But I can’t say and no I don’t know I can’t decide where I wanna be in life I see no bright lights in the distance Or the North Star in the sky Lost in the night surrounded by everything I’ve ever known Living should be about the unknown Jump off a bridge and hope there’s life on the other side And water to cushion the blow Not engulf you in darkness I don’t even want to know what’s ahead of me But it all waits for you in the end And sooner or later the bridge falls And I must face the fears I’ve had all along Let the current come Even if it’s too strong Because after all isn’t it just college papers

[47]

A.F.S.A: Armed Forces Security Agency Ciro Bright & Tibeau Ferguson Chapter 1: The Understanding

Tyler wasn’t used to this many people being around him. He didn’t even know who half of them were. He knew a few from when he went to his mom’s office. His mom. His loving, caring, beautiful, and now dead, mom. He was at her funeral and he kept forgetting it. He could not believe that anyone had wanted her dead. He couldn’t believe that she had any enemies. Everybody loved her. Who would hire someone to kill her? The police said that it was an accident that she died, and that it was not a killing, but Tyler did not believe it.

He knew that someone was hired to push her off a bridge. He knew. The security cameras turned off right before it happened. Why would they turn off in the middle of the day? It was a cover-up. It had to have been. But who? And why? Tyler had to find out. If the police weren’t going to help him, he would have to do it himself.

And that’s when everything went wrong. An explosion erupted from the doorway and a team of seven men ran into the building. But these men weren’t just armed. They had to be professionals. Their weapons were very high grade. Only a very wealthy person would be able to buy them. Tyler supposed it was the police, until they started shooting into the air. One of the men ran and barricaded the door. The others took watchful positions around the chaotic mourners, guns at the ready. Tyler was standing now, looking for a place to hide in the chaos. More shots fired. Then silence. A man began to talk.

“Everybody listen up. We don’t want to cause any more problems. Just direct us to the family of this woman.” He pointed to Tyler’s mom’s casket. “We don’t want to harm them, but if you do not tell us who and where they are, we will start to kill people. Every two minutes that we wait here without the family of this woman, someone will die. Do you understand?”

Then the man began to walk into the crowd of sitting mourners saying, “Is it you?

Is it you?” pointing at various people. “Thirty seconds!”

Tyler wasn’t sure what to do. Should he say who he was, or shouldn’t he?

“Five seconds! Four, three, two....”

Suddenly, Tyler’s uncle Tom stood up holding a golden 50-caliber Desert Eagle and fired off four rounds into the man with the gun before he even hit the ground. But not all of the men on the team heard the shots because Tom’s gun had a silencer on it.

But the ones who did spun around and started shooting just as he dove behind the altar.

Suddenly, a stained glass window exploded into pieces and one of the attackers fell to the floor bleeding.

“Snip—” one of the remaining attackers yelled as his head exploded. The men that were still alive were so worried about the sniper that they forgot about Tom. He saw a chance and he took it. He jumped out from behind the altar and shot all of the remaining men before they had a chance to save themselves.

[48]

Dylan Siegel

“Run to the building two blocks down. Number 162. The door isn’t locked. Once you enter, run up the stairs to the roof. There you will meet the person assisting me with the sniper. Go and tell him this, and only this: A.F.S.A. 1753. After doing so, follow whatever he tells you. Now go! The team we just got rid of will most definitely have backup coming. By the looks of their guns and gear, they will not give up until they kill you. Now go!” Tom yelled. Tyler ran. He didn’t know why. He just ran. He couldn’t understand what was happening.

“Building 158... 160... 162!”

Tyler dashed inside and ran to the roof. There he found a teenage girl, about his age with a barret sniper rifle pointed right at him. Then he remembered.

“A.F.S.A. 1753!” he blurted out. The girl turned, aimed at the church and fired one more round before turning and signaling John to follow him. They ran. Suddenly, the girl stopped and turned. She said very little.

“Can you shoot?” the girl asked.

Tyler thought. He remembered he had gone to the shooting range once or twice with his mom.

“Yeah, I think so,” Tyler said.

The girl pulled a Magnum revolver out of her jacket and handed it to him.

“Whoa, this is a powerful gun, right? I don’t know if I can handle this.”

“You said you could shoot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So keep it.”

The girl ran off again. Tyler followed, but then he realized that he didn’t even know the girl’s name.

“Excuse me, but what is your name?”

“That’s classified,” the girl replied.

“Classifi—wait, who are you? And how do you know my uncle? Do you work with him?”

[49]

with him?”

“We are here,” the girl said as they stopped on one of the roofs. She went up to a wooden square on the ground and tapped her ear.

“Let us in,” the girl said. Suddenly the square dropped down and she hopped down after it. Then she popped her head back up and said, “Follow me.” So Tyler followed. He jumped down as the girl had. There he saw something unbelievable. There were hundreds of people his age working at high tech computers.

“It seems you made it!” Tyler spun around towards the sound of the voice with the Magnum in his hand. There, standing in the half-light, was Sasha Valentine, Tyler’s father.

“Dad! Wha—? Where did you go?” Sasha Valentine had gone missing two years prior. No trace whatsoever. He was nowhere to be found. And now, he was standing in front of Tyler. It didn’t seem right. Tyler didn’t understand.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sasha said. “‘Where did you go? What did you do? What happened?’ It is all very confusing, I know.”

“Dad, you know that mom died, right?” Sasha looked away.

“Yes. I know. That’s why I sent Tom and Kathryn to assist you when we picked up the team’s radio signal.”

Tyler, flustered: “Wait, why were they there? What did they want?”

“You. They wanted you,” Sasha replied.

Tyler, baffled: “But why would they want me? I’m just, well, me!”

“Yes, you are you, and you are the son of a multi-billion dollar drug dealer and the people think you are a part of it.”

“But why would they think that?! I’m just a kid!”

“Well, the person that was the drug lord was your mother. She sold them diluted drugs for a very high price. After they bought the drugs from her in a large amount, she used an alias and fled to a different state before they caught her. This seemed like the perfect plan at the time, until she was discovered in Mexico, and the drug cartel there got touchy about her selling in their territory so they followed her here when she moved. To make sure that she didn’t come back, they killed her. And now they think that you were connected to her business and so they are trying to kill you too. This is why the men at church were there. They were trying to finish what they started.”

Tyler couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His mom had been one of the most wanted criminals in the world. That explained why they moved so much and why she always had so much money. He never really thought about how she got the money. They moved very often, so she never had a job, yet they always had lots of money.

“I don’t feel w-well,” Tyler stuttered.

“Tyler! Can you hear—?”

It was too late. Tyler had already blacked out.

[50]

[51]

Julia Greenburger

Jarrett Moore

The Search (Based on the top Google searches in America, 1998-2013) Benjamin Maltz Last Saturday, the world partied the century— and possibly its life— to a close.

Fireworks went off with an air of joy and splintered disappointment.

On Sunday, two columns fell in streaks of fire.

Battles began leaving nerves high strung.

Monday came with America’s first idol and New York went black.

The Ice Age came—with twenty-foot snow drifts. iTunes was born.

Concorde, Columbia, Hussain gone.

Yet I just kept swimming.

On Tuesday I saw a wave.

300,000 faces washed away, yet one—Facebook? emerged.

Then, chilling in Madagascar with Alex, Marty, Melman, and Gloria, Katrina made the wind howl.

Wednesday saw destruction in Mumbai, the loss of Pluto and 1 billion songs downloaded.

As a people we were all in this together– whatever “this” was and whether we stayed together or not was not of our concern.

Thursday was Irreplaceable.

While Troy and Gabriella swam through summer Harry said his final words, Raven had her last vision and [52]

privacy vanished with the release of the iPhone.

On Friday, The economy struck birds and plunged into the icy Hudson, yet that time, no one survived.

Obama became a household name While Jacksons’ was carved in stone.

The world was now digitized– studded with data and numbers and disease.

We all moved faster.

Our increasing closeness was breaking us apart.

Busy Saturday began with a tragedy– Oiled ducks dripped black onto Haiti, and slippery wings became shattered glass.

We are the world, and we were getting taller.

From Justin and Boeing to the Burj Khalifa.

On Sunday Fukushima became this decade’s Chernobyl.

Bodies coated the sea floor like dust in a sub-basement, yet one, vengeance, colored the American flag blood red with justice.

Suddenly, the hot winds of the earth began to stir, Light whispers reaching Joplin as violent gales and Arabia as a springtime breeze.

We would leave Iraq, yet Iraq would not leave us.

This morning, I incredulously thought Sandy was my friend.

But– what will happen in 2015?

in 2020?

to America?

when the sun dies?

with ISIS?

with deflate-gate?

tomorrow?

What will we search for next?

[53]

The Life of You Ethan McKesey Life is a story, a story that travels through time like the wind going through the air. Life will never end, but you will. The person you are defines you and only you. Don’t worry about the person next to you. Focus on yourself because your life can end at this very moment. The earth can crumble right in your face and what would your life mean then?

Death. Death goes beyond life. What happens with your soul? Does your soul go to purgatory, or do you start another life, or do you live in an alternate universe? Life will never know about death. Are heaven and hell real? You will never know until you die. Can death be the beginning of life? Will you remember your past life or will you be wiped of all internal memory? We will never know.

My name is Morgan and I’m just a boy from the Midwest. Everything that I do is thought out. Life is too short to be wasting it on something that you won’t enjoy. I lost my parents at the age of two and now I live with my grandmother who has cancer. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she is gone.

School is one of the places on which I feel life is being wasted. Sitting in a room, listening to words and numbers that have no use to you. The only reason that I go to school is because my grandmother wants me to learn and to be smart. You spend eight hours a day looking at a whiteboard while the teacher stands writing things that make no sense to you, while the light shines down on you and gives you anxiety. What if you die the day after your high school graduation and all you can say you accomplished in life is graduating high school? You can spend those eight hours doing something better, like sleeping, eating, playing video games, or spending time with your loved ones, who will soon be gone.

Right after school I rush to my grandmother’s house expecting my grandmother to be resting. When I get to the house it seems likes there’s something strange going on, so I walk to my grandmother’s bedroom. The door is slightly closed. When I walk to her bedroom there is no one there and all there is is a note. The note reads, “Your relative has recently passed away at 1:48 PM, and if you want to see her, come to the Kings County Hospital.” When I read this, my hearts sinks to the bottom of me. I didn’t have last words.

I feel heartbroken. All I can do is think of what just happened. I can be with her now, but I know that’s not the right thing to do. She would be upset with me. The only thing I can do now is to live out her legacy.

[54]

[55]

Dylan Siegel

Ryan Yee

Be You Michelle Mardones Just imagine a world without tragedy, Yeah, sure, you may think, “The world would be perfect!”

But the truth is, it wouldn’t.

You see, each and every day we focus on the small things Wearing the best clothes, or being popular Sometimes we forget the major aspects in life CHANGE See, the chances we take define us The obstacles that we overcome are what makes us powerful So, don’t be afraid to dirty those hands up a bit, Go stand up for yourself!

Be fearless because one day you’ll regret the chances you didn’t take Focus on what’s important Fight for your destiny Help others Go chase after your dreams Be strong. Be brave. Be you.

Untitled Monica Quirante

Ming Ming Chen

Those who smile are often the saddest, Those who cry are often the strongest, And those who love aren’t loved back.

My name is Ming, I am the king of everything, I like to sing on swings, I also like to play ping-pong.

[56]

Ella Wexler

layne Friedman

[57]

Climber (Excerpt) Louie Figliulo

Hans Genares

When Jack was trying to fall asleep, he thought of his mom telling him that he was the king’s firstborn son. He was the prince. He was the rightful heir to the throne. Jack felt this huge burden upon him—like the very mountain he was climbing now sat on his chest.

His head was about to explode into a million pieces because he knew he was going to regret what he had to do. As his mind emptied of thoughts there was one that still remained: a boy not much older than him. Hands chained to a tree. Feet as blistery and red as the setting sun.

Two muscular men with sonic-blasters strapped to their waists. In their hands they held steel clubs, which only the Rangers owned. They beat him to a pulp and he was heaving his last breaths near the riverbed. Then one of the men kicked him away and powerfully shouted, “Get your filth away from the river.”

The Ranger wiped the boy’s splattered blood off his own face. While all this was happening, Jack was hiding on a cliff that was in view of the river. He shivered as he watched the boy take his last breath. That could be me. That could be me. Jack told himself he had to stop this dangerous and risky quest. But no, he had to avenge his mother and free everyone from this dictator that he knew to be his father.

[58]

In Wet Rain Light Maisy Hoffman In soft rain light I watch the dark sprigs Hill peak.

The wind is wet with the smell of berries.

The tears are warm with the sound of apple trees.

And then Out of the thick smoke Running swiftly Pounding Swirling above the treetops The night birds come, Chirping, chirping Blue song Warm wind in the branches.

And when the birds have flown Behind them A tiny beam of moonlight Shreds of fog And leaves.Â

Tangled in raindrops

[59]

Love That Dog Rose Merjos Love that dog, like fire loves to burn.

I said I love that dog, like fire loves to burn.

Love to walk him in the evening.

Love to say, “Come here boy!”

He’s been wagging his tail since the day he came home.

I said he’s been wagging his tail since the day he came home.

Oh that dog never whimpers, never cries.

Just prances around ’til the day he dies.

I like to pat his head, and count the spots on his paws.

I said I like to pat his head, and count the spots on his paws.

I like to watch him chase the birds and run into the morning sun.

Now he gotta keep running.

Running ’til he reaches his resting place.

Love that dog.

I said I love that dog, even when he’s done.

Inspired by “Love That Boy” by Walter Dean Myers

[60]

[61]

Amelia Pinney

Finley Martin

Triple A’s Skyler Pierce-Scher

“Ew, where did you get that sweater, B!” says Amber laughing.

“Oh, um, my mom made me wear it,” says Brooke, ashamed. Her mom didn’t actually make her wear it, but she sure isn’t going to tell Amber and Allison that. If they find out, she won’t have a chance to become one of the popular girls, and she is already very lucky to have any small chance at all.

“Well, just don’t wear it again and we’ll give you a pass this time,” says Alli with a smirk. Brooke tries to hide her shame. She can’t let them see her cry.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” says Brooke, trying to get away.

She rushes to the school bathroom just down the hall. She forces the door open and slams it shut. After she makes sure the door is completely locked, she sobs. She lets the tears roll down her face. Brooke glances at the mirror, her makeup smudged, eyes red and puffy. It’s not the sweater that really upset her—she goes through that every day—it’s the fact that she has held in all of her emotions too long.

“Five minutes, B, five minutes,” she tells her self as she stares at her reflection.

When she’s done she wipes off the tears and re-does her makeup. She rushes back to their spot.

“That took a while, B,” says Amber.

“Was it the tacos?” says Alli laughing. Everyone laughs at that.

“No,” says Brooke with a fake smile, “I had to re apply my makeup, it was starting to wear off.” They all look at each other, and she can tell they don’t believe it. She makes an awkward little fake laugh. “What was that?” she asks herself under her breath.

The bell finally rings, saving Brooke from this situation. She is hurrying to fifth period when Ash stops her: “Come on, B, we’re skipping, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I have to be in class today actually. Mrs. Spencer wanted to talk to me,” says Brooke pretending to roll her eyes.

“Oh, that can wait,” says Amber. There is no saying no to Amber. Amber Williams is the queen bee. She gets her way no matter what she has to do. Everyone fears her.

Amber is perfect, looks-wise. Her two minions, Ashley Miller and Allison Moore, both have very rich families and they always get what they want. They call them the Triple A’s, and there is no getting around them.

“I guess it can wait,” says Brooke nervously.

“That’s my girl,” says Amber.

“Where exactly are we going?” asks Brooke.

“The park, duh,” says Alli.

“Where else would we go?” says Ash. “Don’t make fun of her,” says Amber with a suspicious grin.

While the group walks, Jake Shapiro bumps into Brooke. Jake Shapiro is the dreamiest guy in Torrance High. He and Amber used to be the power couple, until Amber [62]

dumped him because he decided to play soccer and not football. Brooke has a huge crush on him, but she can’t date him because that’s against girl code: friends don’t date friends’ exes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” says Jake with his signature grin that everyone loves.

“Oh, it’s, it’s um, it’s okay,” blabbers Brooke, embarrassed. She turns around and walks away. She glances back and sees Jake still standing there, staring at her. They catch eyes and both nervously turn around. Brooke tries to hide her smile.

“Well that was interesting,” says Ash.

“B, do you like him?” asks Alli. She gives Amber a look.

“Oh God, no,” says Brooke, “No, I don’t like him and I wouldn’t date him,” Brooke says trying to convince herself and her friends.

“Okay, you’d better not,” says Amber.

The girls head off to the park and sit on their bench. They eat their yogurt and gossip about stupid things. Brooke tries to stay interested but she doesn’t really care much about other people’s personal lives.

“Hey B, are you going to the Spring Fling?” asks Amber.

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” says Brooke.

“Who are you going with?” asks Alli.

“Oh, right, I don’t know yet. We’ll see,” says Brooke, embarrassed that no one has asked her while guys are lining up for the three of them. She goes back to eating her yogurt and pretending to be interested in what the girls are talking about. After fifth period Brooke goes back to her last class: physics. When physics is over she goes back to the bench with the Triple A’s. They hang out a bit more, then Amber drives everyone home.

“How was school, honey?” asks Brooke’s mom.

Well, my “friends” made fun of my sweater, I cried in the bathroom, I was forced to skip fifth period, says Brooke in her head.

“It was okay,” says Brooke as she rushes up to her room and slams it shut. She isn’t in the mood to talk about it with her mom. Her parents give each other a worried look.

“Sweetie, you wanna talk about it?” asks Brooke’s mom.

“No,” says Brooke.

“Okay,” says her mom as she heads for the stairs. Brooke puts in her headphones and starts her homework. She starts to get a call from Ash. She hesitates to pick up, but she does anyway.

“Hey, tomorrow after school we’re going to the mall. Meet us at the bench right after 6th period.”

“Okay, thanks,” replies Brooke. Brooke really isn’t in the mood for shopping but she knows it’s better to be in the Triple A’s rather then being a nobody. With them she is noticeable and she likes that.

The next day she drags herself out of bed and gets ready for school. She considers the fashion tips she got after the sweater incident yesterday and wears the cute top Amber gave her as a gift for joining their group. She puts on her new simple black skater skirt with [63]

Ben Maltz

her 3-inch heeled boots. She arrives at school 30 minutes early, like always, and heads to the bench. Waiting there is Amber, Ashley, and Allison.

“You’re late,” says Ash in a bitter tone.

“I’m three minutes late…” says Brooke confused at why they are so mad.

“Only three minutes late, ha,” says Alli with a fake laugh.

“You had us sitting here wasting our time and looking like fools waiting for you, like you’re the queen and we should all wait for your presence,” says Amber.

“Is something wrong? Why are you suddenly so mad at me?” asks Brooke.

“Ash told me you were planning on going to the Spring Fling with Jake!” says Amber. Ash tries to hide her guilt, but Brooke can see it on her face.

“Just so you know we are back together and we are going together,” says Amber.

“Ash is lying! I was never planning on going with him, he wouldn’t ask me anyways,” says Brooke. Why would Ash do this to me, Brooke asks herself. Brooke is overwhelmed with anger.

“You know what? I don’t want to be a part of this group anymore. I’m done!” yells Brooke. She grabs her stuff, and doesn’t look back as she walks. She knows she will regret this, but the way they are treating her is unacceptable and she won’t have anymore of it. Then suddenly she feels happy. She lifts her head with a sudden confidence.

Brooke walks up to Jake, who is walking by the bench.

“Hey, who are you going to the Spring Fling with?” she asks with a grin.

“Um, I’m going with-—”

“‘Me’ is the answer. See you there!” says Brooke walking away before he has a chance to argue. She quickly glances back and sees Jake smiling.

[64]

Sadie Stern

Untitled Alexa Code i met you in third grade. i didn’t care what you were wearing and you didn’t care if i was smarter than you or not. we became friends in fourth grade. not because we were lonely and sad and needed someone to talk to, but because we were young and we took risks and we wanted someone to share that experience with. in fifth grade you had your first kiss. i didn’t really care all that much because that was when peer pressure just wasn’t a thing. sixth grade was when we got into our first fight. we both liked the same guy and it is amazing how much that can hurt a friendship. but after a week we were back at it like nothing even happened. in seventh grade you became friends with someone that i didn’t know, and had no desire in knowing. we started drifting. she was a stronger magnet than i was, you were more attracted to her. in eighth grade she left you for someone else and you came wandering on over to me and i was so excited to have you back i didn’t even think about the fact that i was the back-up choice. in high school it’s like i didn’t even exist. maybe i wasn’t cool enough for you or maybe that peer pressure shit finally caught up to us, but no matter how hard i tried i was no longer a part of your life though you were still such a huge part of mine. as the year went on i saw your brown hair fade to blue and your cute leggings turn to a miniskirt and let me be honest i couldn’t even recognize the best friend you were. friends care more when there isn’t a reason to be friends and i realized you started to have a reason to be friends with me. i missed who you were but not you.

[65]

Love is Overrated Alexa Code Because you asked me out on a Sunday. I told my friends because that's what you're supposed to do. They freaked out because I had finally found someone. They asked if I was happy and I said yes because that's what I'm supposed to say. But I went into this with the expectation that with a relationship comes an overflowing feeling of love and happiness.

I went into this with the expectation that it was supposed to take up every thought in my mind because that's what all the stories say. You love each other unconditionally and you couldn't be happier. But love is just an over-exaggerated emotion to get people worked up about something that isn't that special. Of course you're special, but you're just like any of my other friends and I have time for other things when I talk to them. Love isn't all that amazing, and maybe I'm supposed to feel something different but it isn't everything you hear about in books.

Blown Up Adam Caplan A dark storm rages in the sky, One after another they pour in, Clinging to the edge of their stretchers, Soaking from the rain falling outside.

Their eyes are open but their wounds blind them.

Their mouths gape in pain, But their screams go unheard, Muffled by the pounding rain.

The doctor’s white coat is sodden with blood.

As he sees them, one by one they die.

The orderlies follow him, leaving a trail of red, As they drag the dead to the dumpster out back.

Outside, the cracked street is lost under wreckage.

The few survivors frantically searching through what’s left.

All they find are dirty puddles.

[66]

Cars Nicolas Simbaqueva I love cars, that’s a fact, to me they are as beautiful as stars.

It’s my passion, it will always remain intact.

There are some people who ask me why, although it’s hard to say I won’t be shy, it all began that day.

I was young and small, a fancy car stopped in front of my house.

I can’t remember the driver at all, but I remember my rouse.

The beast fell asleep, the doors swung.

It seemed as docile as a sheep, the car’s tune was sung.

I knew I could never go back I would never forget this moment.

It’s matte black, when I remember, it is sugar coated.

And that’s why I love cars, that’s a fact, to me they are as beautiful as stars.

It’s my passion, it will always remain intact.

[67]

A Colonial Apothecary’s Widow Sophie Stomberg-Firestein No one ever questioned my husband when he was the apothecary, but because I’m a widowed woman, the townsfolk don’t trust me and they avoid my apothecary shop. “Ms. North isn’t trustworthy.” “She’s a widowed apothecary.” This is all I hear every day. The townsfolk gossip and spread rumors about me and my suffering business. They believe that I should remarry because they think that it is shameful to be a single thirty-two-year-old, but I have no intention in doing so. Some people think that I poison medicines and trick people into buying toxic remedies. None of these rumors are true, of course, but they bring my soul down. My whole life is surrounded by stress and worry. This stress weaves its way around my shop and turns my hair silver. My daughter Lily is my only joy. She is a lit candle that never goes out. She does her best to stay optimistic, no matter how difficult the circumstances are. I am desperately trying to train her to be the next apothecary, but it is hard. Every day people have been dying from malaria, the same disease that my husband and son both died from. People have been blaming me for all the deaths that have occurred these past few weeks. They blame me because they are afraid to face the truth. Malaria is deadly.

“Lily! Come downstairs! There is an emergency,” I urgently call from downstairs. I hear her boots clomping down the creaky, old, wooden stairs. She arrives just seconds after I had called her. Outside, the sky is dark, for it is only 6 o’clock in the morning. We arrive just in time to see a young woman dragging a girl into our shop. The girl’s skin is papery and yellow and her eyes are hollow.

“Can’t you do anything for my daughter?” she asks, wiping a delicate tear from her face.

“It depends,” I respond stiffly. The mother helps me gently carry the girl over to a worn cot at the back of the store. I can tell just by the look of the girl that she has malaria, but I’m nervous to tell her mother.

“Lily, examine her immediately,” I say, trying to ignore the nervousness of my voice.

“Yes, mother,” she responds quietly. As Lily carefully kneels down next to the girl, I run to the front counter. My eyes scan over the familiar medicine bottles until I find the little jar labeled, “Peruvian Cortex.” I pop the cork and take a small amount of the rough, dry, plant bark. The girl has malaria, I mutter under my breath. I start mashing up the bark in the mortar and pestle, but all I can think about is my dead son, Abraham. He, too, had suffered from a bad case of malaria several years ago. The memory of my son consumes me.

His eyes were a sickly red color and he burned with fever. I didn’t even have to feel his forehead to know that he was death bound. I knelt down next to him and gently caressed his face. His eyes flickered open briefly.

“Stay strong,” he said quietly. Then, his head flopped back onto his worn pillow and [68]

Alexandra Klemer

his pale eyes glassed over. He was dead.

Then my tears come, long and hard. They fall into the mortar and pestle.

“Mother, she isn’t going to last long. Can’t you hurry up?” Lily asks. “Mother?”

She hurriedly walks over to me.

“What is the matter?” I shake my head and say nothing. Wiping the tears from my face with a handkerchief, I quickly bring the Peruvian bark over to the girl, but I know that I’m too late. Lily is horrified and turns her head towards me. I start spooning the bark into her parted lips, but it is too late. I know what death looks like, for I have seen it too many times. Her eyes are still and unblinking. I feel for her pulse, but a clammy, dead, stillness is all that I can feel. Her mother collapses on the ground, crying hysterically. It is now, when the word failure rings loud and sharp in my head. I am a failure. I couldn’t even save one little girl from dying. The girl reminds me too strongly of Abraham. I feel more tears coming, but I quickly blink them away. I mustn’t cry. Not now. Lily is in shock. Her face is a white sheet and I suddenly realize what a hard blow this death must be for her. After all, she watched her father and brother die. And now a young girl? I try to comfort her with a hug, but she just shrugs it off.

I look out the store window to see the sun rising. The day has just begun.

[69]

Crash Miles Dorsey

I get up groggily, still feeling woozy. I look down and see blood seeping through my white t-shirt. No time, I think. I start jogging towards the screaming and then slowly it turns into a sprint. I smell the smoke before I see the fire. The sight is awful. Plane wreckage and metal lie on the ground in a twisted heap, separated and disjointed. Sparks crackle and fly and the fires burn everywhere on the beach. I see people, some have gotten up. Some still lay in the sand. I’m not sure if they are dead, alive, or somewhere in between.

I see a couple of my classmates. Most of them crying and holding their friends. I want to throw up. The sight is beyond grim, and at the moment, I want to just disappear. I want to go back when to when I thought that too much homework was my biggest problem, back to when I was surrounded with only life. I see James Gordain lying on the ground, part of the plane sticking out of his chest. Blood is splattered all over his shirt and jeans; he is still in his seat belt. The sand around him is tinted crimson, and his sand-filled hair is stuck to his forehead. His eyes are glazed over, and I know that he is dead. I turn and vomit on the beach, my eyes well up with tears. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was sitting with him in math class. He sat two seats behind me on the plane. He is dead, and I am alive.

I scour the beach for familiar faces. Relief floods over me when I see Mrs. Cornali, our English teacher, a few steps away. She is disoriented, but seems to be alive. She has a pretty big gash on her forehead, but for now she is the only person I know. I continue to look for my classmates, hoping no more are dead or have giant pieces of metal sticking out of them.

Unfortunately, my hope isn’t enough. My heart skips a beat when I see Jack lying motionless with debris in his side. Jack was the closest thing I had to a best friend. I hadve friends, but not many as close as Jack. I have a close group of friends, and we all know each other very well. But Jack had known me longer and better. In third grade, when I first began my time at Horton Elementary, he was the first to say hello, and in general took me under his wing. Now that I stand on a beach and watch him valiantly fight for his life even with a chunk of metal in his side, I realize how much I depended on him.

I sprint over to him and my eyes begin to sting with tears. I think to myself about how selfish I am. I begin to cry now for my friend and for the other people. I kneel next to him and put my hand on his neck. He is breathing, but from my very little experience watching TV and reading books, I can tell his pulse is faint. I look around for help but everyone is helping themselves. My heart is on a roller coaster ride, and I think the stop button is broken.

Despite the feeling of horror and death around me, I realize how beautiful this island is.

Turquoise blue waters, nothing like you would see in New York City. Something straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Beautiful palms rise around the beach and create shade by the forest floor. Away from the carnage, the ground is littered with bright green foliage and plants, with hints of purple, yellow, green, blue, you name it. If I listen close enough, I can hear the noises of the jungle over the blood curdling screaming. It is simply magnificent.

I turn back to face my problems, and see Mrs. Cornali trotting over. Her glasses are [70]

broken and her mascara is running. She has tears in her eyes, but she is strong enough to hold them in. Her clothes are now in rags, and her neat brown bun on top of her head is now not so neat, to say the least. Somehow she still smells of pungent old-lady fruit perfume.

She doesn’t bother with that warm teacher smile as usual. I try to ask her to help me, but somehow it translates into a long series of sobs. She wraps me in her arms, and for once I bear the scent the terrible perfume. I cry for a few moments before I break away from her hug.

“We need to help him right now,” I tell her. She smiles and nods.

“I found a first aid kit while stumbling around. Most of the equipment is broken and useless, but I can make some of it work.” She turns back to Jack. His face is becoming paler by the moment. I rip off part of my white tattered shirt and get ready to wrap it around Jack’s wound once Mrs. Cornali pulls it out. I’m scared, sweating like never before. My best friend can die if I don’t act fast. I need to do this. I’m going to do this.

“Ready?” she asks, not really caring for my answer.

She pulls it out, and blood begins seeping from the wound. She uses some liquid, probably an antibiotic, and wipes off the wound.

“Okay, go!” she tells me. My hands move fast. Faster than I knew they could. I finish tying the knot on Jack’s makeshift bandage. When I’m done Jack doesn’t look any better. But I know he will pull through. His skin is slowly regaining color, and I sign in relief. Mrs. Cornali looks at me.

Cameron Krakowiak

[71]

Sweet Memories Elisabeth Seiple

I can barely remember those late fall, early winter days in Pennsylvania. We used to visit my grandparents’ retirement home. It was a smallish building made from coffee colored bricks. Her apartment was about an hour drive from our country house, not so far that a visit seemed unreasonable. Inside, her apartment was small. The windows were covered with heavy floral drapes. The dim light gave the rooms a yellow tint. As we arrived, Grammie would already have a freshly baked plate of cookies out for us. Before you even walked through the door you could smell the vanilla from the sugar cookies, wafting from the stove through the hall. On the door there hung a drawing my ten-year-old cousin (who is now eighteen) had drawn. I loved visiting Grammie. She would let me play with the dolls she had from when she was little. I don’t recall much of her, but I do remember a few things.

I remember one day the clearest. It was early October. The leaves were turning crisp, and the trees that created a small arch to the entrance of the retirement home were bare and gray. We had just driven up to Pennsylvania for the weekend. We arrived at Grammie’s apartment. I was the last to enter. As I walked in, I saw the familiar house. Grandpa was up for a quick break from the horse races to hug everyone. Grammie just pulled herself away from the kitchen. She smiled, and the corners of her kind brown eyes crinkled, hugging me.

“Take three,” she said, holding out a plate of cookies, “for now.” I smiled and grabbed three off the plate. She motioned for me to come with her to the kitchen. I followed, leaving a trail of crumbs behind me as I walked. I was only four or five, so I couldn’t see over the counters yet.

“Why don’t you help me with the next batch?” she said, pulling out a step stool from a cupboard. I still had to be on my tiptoes to see. She showed me how to make the sugar cookies. She said that you had to make them as if you were making them out of snow. We had to be very delicate with the dough, to make fragile cookies that crumbled in milk. While our cookies were baking she let me play with the old porcelain dolls she had from when she was younger. She told me about each one, and why they were the way they were. When our cookies were done, I was in charge of placing them on the plate when they cooled. I went around acting like a waiter and serving them to my family.

This was the last time I saw Grammie. It was really important that I had those few memories with her. From what I remember of her, and what I’ve heard about her, I think we would’ve been quite similar. Even though I can never vividly remember the days I spent with her, I’ll remember the feelings of happiness and safety I had whenever I was with her.

I wish that I could still bake with her, and that we got more days to spend together. I am so thankful for all the times I got to see her, and I wish that I had just one more day to bake with her.

[72]

[73]

Pilar Olivieri

Sadie Stern

Ben Maltz

The Last Shred of Humanity Oliver Gifford Abaddon arrived at the bar called The Holy Bar with a cross in the middle of the sign. Don was afraid to go in. It was run by a retired priest. What if he touched the door and his hand fell off? Whatever, he thought. Touching the door, nothing happened.

“Disappointing,” he muttered.

“Can I help you?” Ex-Father asked.

“Yeah…I need a bottle of vodka,” Don answered. The Ex-Father went back to the wall that held many bottles of hard liquor. Perfect, Don thought.

“Don?” He had been thinking so hard that he barely noticed the Father in his face waving at him. The calloused hand let go of the bottle. Smiling, Don willed the wings to come back. There was a sound like someone had just shanked a vacuum and it was spewing air everywhere.

The wings came back as the Ex-Father yelled, “BURN IN HELL, DEMON!” “After you,” Don replied. He put a rag in the bottle of vodka and held the strip of rag to his wings. Don put the now-lit improvised flaming cocktail back on the bar.

“Got any last words?” he asked.

“You will nev—” Don punched him hard in the gut. The Ex-Father spit blood all over Don’s chest. He took the blood and put an upside down cross on the Father’s face.

“Demon.” Those were the last words the Ex-Father said.

Don opened his wings and pumped a pure wall of flame at the remaining bottles.

The bar blew up. He walked out of the smoke and cinders of the place that was The Holy Bar. He tripped on something. It was the sign. It now read, “The Bar.” The cross was still there, though. Don ripped out the nail holding the cross upright. It fell upside down. This put a smile on Don’s face. Hearing the police sirens and the hum of the news reporters, he stayed.

“Sir?” a reporter asked. She was average sized, probably 5-foot-5 with black hair.

“Yes,” Don said. It didn’t sound like his own voice. It sounded deep and layered.

Demonic.

“Did you see what happened here?” the reporter asked. She stood among one of the remaining yellow pieces of charred wood.

“No, I did not,” Don said in his demonic voice. She went around the corner, as Don predicted. The reporter gasped, took out her phone and snapped a picture.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” Don said. He pumped a jet of fire at her. The fire was white hot. She dodged the fire but dropped the phone. He picked up the phone. The device was cool to the touch. Looking at the photos he saw what he had hoped not to. His eyes. His eyes were burning. And not just metaphorically.

He burst up to the sky and felt a pain in his foot. Why? He looked down and saw a bolt of pure black in his foot, attached to a chain of pure white fire. He tried to jerk free but felt the barb dig into his foot. The chain pulled down and took Abaddon down with it.

[74]

Maisy Hoffman

Iridescence

James Haggis

His gnarled hand carves deep gashes of iridescence into the nothingness. Parched, he finally lets his brush dip down, tainting the clear sea with its vibrant colors. One by one the pigments fall away, drifting down till their edges lick every side of the glass. The brush presses against the depths, its bristles spreading out like the hungry branches of a vine.

Tendrils spinning violently, they weave a dance of color through the watery matrix as they rise.

His fingers pinch the excess moisture from the brush, letting the water drip down into the murky depths it left behind. He dips the brush’s tip into the watercolor rainbow.

Its bristles suck up the paint like the roots of a great tree. He lifts his hand, uprooting the brush, leaving faint lines across the paint’s surface, and the last drop of a puddle where the ochre receded into itself. His hand adds this sap into his precious well of color. There it bleeds into the pond, tinting it with vibrant emotion. His hand stands above, pondering the completion of its work. It moves over to the glass, drawing a clear trickle from the color stained ocean, and carefully drags the drop to the lake of his aspirations. There he watches as the water rolls down the sides of the brush and gathers at the peak of its decline. The droplets cling together, quivering under the pressure of the task they are given. Eventually, they submit to his wishes and fall into the mixture below. Finally, the color is as it should be. He runs his brush through the concoction of his imagination, and prepares to lash out at the blankness. He attempts to steady his breath as the infinite emptiness of the canvas is gently shredded by the tranquil trashing of his hand.

[75]

The Literary & Art Magazine of LREI High School IE STAFF: Jenna Brause Anna Brooks Juno Hobbs Ben Maltz Pilar Olivieri Olivia Reis Sadie Stern Iniko Thornell Eve van Rens Lilah van Rens Ryan Yee Middle School IE STAFF Stella Achenbach Wilton Bompey Louie Figliulo Layne Friedman Oliver Gifford Cameron Glass Maisy Hoffman Dakota Law Michelle Mardones Rose Merjos Sophie Stomberg-Firestein Ella Wexler Faculty StaFF: Chris Keimig: High School Editorial Advisor Suzanne Cohen: Middle School Editorial Advisor James French & Susan Now: High School Arts Advisors Rohan Cassells: Middle School Arts Advisor Stephen MacGillivray: Production Advisor Special thanks to: Phil Kassen, Micah Dov Gottlieb, and Mark Silberberg