Table of Contents
The Literature and Art Magazine of LREI Little Red School House & Elisabeth Irwin High School
2012-2013
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 Jacey Mossack
Ayden Ackerman Drawing 74 Alma Bremond Amma 18 Untitled 44 Leo Bremond Soccer Ball 64 Men at Bars 64 Laurence Brent An Autobiography 80 Lais Granzoti Cintra Photograph 31 Mixed Media 37 Photograph 57 Eliana Cohen-Orth Hamburger 40 Sophia Cook Mixed Media 66 Sonya DeSalle Fantasy 1 Kyla DeSouza Photograph 15 Olivia Dontsov My Father 20 Photograph 71 Patrick Faulkner Plump 12 Shana Fletcher Is Life a Dream? 10 Adolescence 1.5 16 Sophie Furman Photograph 60 Photograph 77 Stella Rose Gahan Mixed Media 50 Ruby Geiger Photograph 45 Saskia Globig Laughter 3 Regimen 54 Mixed Media 65 The Sight 78 Galiba Gofur Beautiful Night 5 Josh Goldblatt Where I’m From 41 Maddie Grandison Hip Hop Was Here 73 Julia Greenburger Painting 37 Halle Gunsberger Painting 47 Mixed Media 64 Carina Hardy Photograph 9 The Tree 11 Photograph 12 Photograph 19 Photograph 42 Photograph 69
Chiara Hardy Mixed Media 66 Julia Herzfeld Hoofbeats 46 Rehana Hirji Photograph 63 Photograph 70 Photograph 72 Lucy Hirschfeld This is Me 30 Mixed Media 64 Lula Hyers Photograph 3 Photograph 9 Naomi Jabouin Photograph 7 Drawing 25 Photograph 38 Amalia Jaimes-Lukes Marcelo 17 Maya Kaufman Fire Hazard 4 Photograph 13 Photograph 57 Sam Kielian A Day in the Life... 28 Ally Klemer Lost & Found 29 Photograph 34 Martine Kushner Photograph 11 Gabe Law Untitled 70 Becca Luna-Leibowits Painting 51 Ana Maroto Photograph 27 Guthrie McCarty-Vachon Love 75 Julia Meltzer Orphan Dreams... 14 Mixed Media 17 Jesse Moon An Autobiography... 2 Jacey Mossack Photograph 8 Photograph 41 Kerabania Murillo-Maldonado Untitled 43 Luca Nicholas Block Print 61 Julia Noonan Susurration 12 Ode to a Wastebasket 51 Anti Zany 53 Ode to Books 67 Pilar Olivieri Fashion 46 Age 13 53 Aidan Ostermaier Drawing 65 Naomi Picayo Curriculum Vitae 60
Adolescence 2.5 76 Alvaro Quirante Blow Pop 8 Sophia Raccuia Mixed Media 66 Bella Reed Untitled 25 Callie Richards Drawing 5 Painting 13 Drawing 21 Drawing 40 Painting 42 Drawing 81 Miral Rivalta Photograph 16 Photograph 58 Photograph 75 Sofia Santoro Ask as Much... 68 Luke Schimmel Mixed Media 17 August Seiple Painting 47 Lindsay Seitz Ode to My Old Hat 51 Mia Silvan-Grau For a Long Time... 36 Nicolas Simbaqueva Mixed Media 66 Jessica Speight Behind Their Back 24 Boaz Steed Iwantyoutonight 72 Sadie Stern Drawing 65 Sean Tamir There is No Such Thing... 26 Malaika Tapper A Day in the Life... 38 Monet Thibou No Strings Attached 6 He Loves Me... 56 Jerry Wexler Ode to a Dark Room 74 Julien Verglas Untitled 48 Jo Viemeister Photograph 46 Photograph 49 Photograph 52 Little Talks 62 Charlotte Watson How to Be Happy 52 Atlas Wegman Untitled 32 Untitled 69 August Weinbren The Last Drive 58 Noah Wistman Read Fast with Emotion 50 Immanuel Zion Flooded by Night 61 Watery Moon 77
Fantasy Sonya DeSalle She would be clean So she would be happy. He would be calm And no longer snappy. We would all be together, no longer apart With nothing in between, never forced to depart. It would be like the old days Familiar with smiles. Hanging with friends Who weren’t in the lifestyle All that would matter was the state of each other No longer questioning if she is with another. It would all be a fact, and a matter of the past. Soaked in hopefulness, how long will this last? She would let her guard down Now able to trust the good ones. She would no longer hurt herself Officially ignoring the hood ones. She would see herself And in turn see me. She would see our faces No longer beastly. I would no longer hate And no longer suppress. Accessible to those entrusted All on the surface. It would all be a memory Just a story of our past. No longer the inspiration Of all my pieces for this class. [1]
An Autobiography in Five Short Chapters
Laughter
Jesse Moon
Saskia Globig
Chapter 1 I am two years old with my head caught in the banister, This is all that I know. Black, And I am transported. The moment is gone before it came. I am five years old.
We laughed until we felt hollow, even as our chests filled with air. Looking down onto the golden pricks of light in the city, we shouted into the night until we were silent, covering our mouths with our hands as our joy turned to soundless gasps. It was cleansing, to laugh this way. Everything was funny, and we were all beautiful, and we went away with taut stomachs that felt as if they had been stopped up against emptiness. The feeling rose in us, cocooning our hearts, and it seemed we could make no misstep. Our eyes sparkled. Our skin prickled. Our faces hurt from grinning, and we felt whole.
Chapter 2 It is raining on my birthday, My chicken pox stained hands feed me ice cream. Nana really takes care of me, Strokes my hair. I blink and it is gone again, Everything is gone. Eleven years old and I am sitting alone in my basement. Chapter 3 I am talking to my mother on the telephone, Everything is spotty, the conversations empty. She had gone back to “college� Was getting her six-month chip. There were so many secrets then. Another jump, Everything is soot. Chapter 4 I am seventeen years old. These are the memories that flaunt themselves, Most everything else has vanished. Chapter 5 There are holes in my brain.
[2]
Lula Hyers
[3]
Maya Kaufman
The first thing I noticed was the bed underneath me. The mattress was flimsy and damp with sweat. I tried to open my eyes, but they drooped like melting candle wax. It was humid. Couldn’t someone open a window? I had no idea that On my ninth birthday, my parents had made me a chocolate cake. They beamed at the sight of my gap-toothed smile. The cake had trick candles. I blew on them over and over, but they wouldn’t go out. Those 10 candles—one for good luck—burned and burned. but at least now we’re A few summers ago, a friend of mine invited me to stay with her for a long weekend. Her AC broke a few hours after I arrived. We sat on the porch fanning ourselves with magazines and sipping from plastic cups filled with lemonade and ice cubes. We dumped sugar packets into our drinks and shrieked when we got brain freeze at the same time. We painted our nails and talked about the kids we went to school with. “You should be a foot model,” I said to my friend. She examined her toes. “That’s so weird. Do people actually do that?” “Yeah. Like, shoe catalogues, you know? You’ve got really nice feet.” We ran down to the lake in our bathing suits and used the tire swing as a diving board. I was tall enough to stand on my tiptoes far out in the lake. I bounced up and down, cutting through the water. “I wish I was pretty like you,” she said with bittersweet admiration. The lake rippled as she treaded water. I felt the midday sun on my scalp. “Hey, let’s go inside. I think I’m getting sunburned.” best thing right now is rest At fifteen, the California sun kissed my freckled cheeks. Nothing made me blush like high noon. The other high school girls could dance on air, but I was filled with light. In winter, we had a bonfire. We laughed all night, our faces disguised by darkness. The boys fed the flames and opened our beer cans. The boy who looked me in the eyes knelt beside me. The fire caressed us with its claws. “Look what I can do,” he said to me. He passed his hand through the flames. “What does it feel like?” I examined his hand for burns. His eyes were like hungry wolves. “Like pain that can’t catch you.” He took my hand. “It tickles.” We’ll keep her here for another day or two. She should stir soon. I’ll give you this: twice a day, every day. If she’s in pain, she can have aspirin. Twice a day, every day, and keep an eye on her. [4]
Does that make sense?
Beautiful Night Galiba Gofur Tremble with a sigh, Glitter in your eye. Surrounded by light That fades fades fades away Into the stealth of the night. Stare at the sky Not a single star in sight But a single firefly that turns on and off and on and off and on… Only to disappear Just close your eyes, Tremble with a sigh as that one tear rolls down with the glitter in your eye.
Callie Richards
Fire Hazard
[5]
No Strings Attached… Monet Thibou That rope that held them together Through four years of stormy weather That rope that tied them together Chaining them forever Has been severed by his move The constant Tug-O-War Pulled him to her and her to him But she couldn’t bear the attachment Of a love who’s so far away
Floating in the air above our heads On the imaginary string that our acquaintances wish wasn’t there Even with no strings attached I still love you But I must let go And you must too For we can’t resort to one another when we’re lonely... No strings attached...
She grabbed the hatchet and began slicing away The years of memories encased in the thick, tan, braided rope Sawing away the pain of the love lost and the hope for its return Once the deed was done, Little strands remained among the rest Wobbling and wiggling as thin as a spider’s web dangling in the air in front of our faces Tying you to me and me to you But I couldn’t bear the attachment Of a love who’s so far away We’re drowning one another in our tears from broken hearts that are yearning for affection We’re lacerating one another with our sharp claws that are reaching for the rope Those little strands that held us together Through the stormy weather Those little strands that tied us down Chaining us forever Have been set fire to by me Slamming us into the walls of our current home Flinging us into the place where we belong Pushing us into the arms of others Forcing us to let go
Naomi Jabouin
No strings attached... But the pain of a love lost still remains [6]
[7]
Carina Hardy
Jacey Mossack
Blow Pop You are hard and round; smooth and thin. Purple and white. Your sweet and sour smell makes me want to put you in my mouth. The sweet taste of glory flows down my throat. At the beginning you’re sticky and rough, but you keep on eroding in my mouth till you are finally smooth. Purple, dark and lonely. The smell of grape surrounds me. I can feel your crunchiness, your hardness. But I don’t want to bite you yet, because if I do, I will no longer remember you. The ball of gum under you cracks his way through the sweet and sour shell to find a way out. Your size decreases. The stick starts to erode too. I don’t like you. I hate you, little man! You start hurting my tongue with your delicious candy cracks. I’m frustrated. I feel alone. I can no longer smell you. But I can still see you, taste you and touch you. I love you, Blow Pop!! You’re so sweet. So gentle. So quiet. But you’re crunchy. You sound like an earthquake inside my head. Now you smell like sugar. The acidity of the chewing gum starts working his way from under the sugar coating to my mouth. Finally, I bite you. With all my teeth, although your candy coating isn’t done yet. More crunchy noises until my mouth separates the gum from the candy that I have already swallowed. It’s done. The joy of having you in my mouth. It’s just you and me, chewing gum. I know you will win the battle with my mouth, but I have the power to dump you in the trash can whenever I want to. [8]
Lula Hyers
Alvaro Quirante
[9]
Is Life a Dream? Shana Fletcher
But you have to be struck. Struck hard Hard enough to be able to look outside into the city the people and worry about their emotions their lives too. You have to come out of your own world, and observe the world Because it is what’s most important People on bikes looking Snazzy. Mail ladies wearing weaves, (society making her want it) working hard to get by and rise out of their pain. Pain will bite you so hard but death will bounce you back to this world the world
[10]
Martine Kushner
Is life a dream? When you stop living for one moment and feel pain you realize life is a dream.
The Tree Carina Hardy The sky was a roller-coaster ride. Clouds swayed by, the sun shone fiercely then hid bashfully behind the thick clouds. The stormy sky was an infinite ceiling. I saw my monumental destination; a towering Baobab tree. My surroundings were barren, a 360 degree view that only the Baobab obstructed. My heart jumped from my body into the tree. I saw the silhouette of my veins stretch out against the now clearing dusky sky. A ventricle rooted itself into the ground and thumped. The earth began pulsating to the beat of my heart. This tree cradles dreams in its gnome holes. I had come to the tree to find something intended for me. A letter. For centuries, the tree has been a post office for passing travelers. Now it was my turn to find a letter from him and deposit a letter for him. My letter, as the tree would soon know, was long-ago promised. The wind began to blow, pushing me forward, lifting me off the shrubby ground and wrapping me in its silky smooth arms. It cooled the saline that seeped with a mixture of nerve and excitement from my pores. I breathed the wind in.
[11]
Susurration Julia Noonan Beautiful Meaning Sound Word. Perfectly suits its meaning.
Carina Hardy
Maya Kaufman
Can you guess What it means? Psst. Whisper.
Plump
Patrick Faulkner
Plump little baby Plump jolly man Not fat Not skinny Just right [12]
Callie Richards
Like a plum Plump sounds so plump It sounds like not fat But not skinny
[13]
Orphan Dreams of Christmas - A Sestina Julia Meltzer A clump of orphans press their faces against the window, Where all the houses are covered in thick snow. White flakes float across the view. They fall, drift Past the bakery, with its cheery Christmas music And the sugary smell of baking gingerbread Next door tries to sneak past the snow in our chimney.
But we just lull each other, until we drift To slumber and dream poor orphan dreams of riches outside our window. As we wake, we stare out the window, out at the snow, Until we remember and again drift to sleep, dream of music, Fresh gingerbread, and best of all, a warm, clear chimney.
The fire we hope to see glows and puffs through the chimney. We chew last night’s crumbs of bread by the window And dream of that sweet, perfect gingerbread House, where there is never leaking snow, Always food, warmth, and bright, happy music. As joyful children slumber, their dreams drift Back, back through worlds and to another—drift To a world of sad children and stuffed chimneys, Where Santa doesn’t come down the chimney with his music. In the gingerbread houses of lucky children, with big, glass windows, He does, and he makes sure that there are no piles of melting snow, And that each child gets his own present and piece of gingerbread. In the evening, those idyllic children eat their gingerbread And their parents read to them as they slowly drift To sleep in the Christmas glow. Outside, the snow Falls. Outside is not their problem. They watch the snow sparkle and glisten among the stars from inside their windows. They don’t feel the cold; they feel warm and cozy with music. We press our ears to the wall to listen to that music The bakery, it smells of gingerbread And children who don’t need to stay by the window To keep warm. Like other orphans’ holidays, ours tend to drift. We know it’s Christmas, but when our chimney Is filled with snow, how can it be? We celebrate by saving scraps of food, We celebrate by holding hands around the chimney. Children born with parents get presents and gingerbread, [14]
Kyla DeSouza
[15]
Marcelo Amalia Jaimes-Lukes Marcelo is my brother; he is great And being his sister wasn’t just mere fate He is my role model and sometimes a friend He says he’ll live longer than me, so he’ll be there till the end
Miral Rivalta
He is very fashionable, likes H&M I copied his glasses cuz I really liked them When he is happy I get happy, too I was born when he was only two I love him so much, I can drive him kooks I love my brother, Marcelo Jaimes-Lukes
Adolescence 1.5 Shana Fletcher It’s a parched moon-lit night. Hands of a midnight skinned boy touch mine. My fists tingle, rush. The smell of smoke carries in the air till I hover above the bed of Mama, for it was a “wanting nightmare.” The lights flicker on the street, and blood drops drip on the cement. On. Another ending of my day dream. Which was reality. Daylight rests on top of me like a warm dog. [16]
Julia Meltzer
LUKE SCHIMMEL
[17]
Amma
Alma Bremond I left the beating wind, that I helped you survive from. I left the pitch black sand, that we used to walk on. I left the tall mountains, that I never used to watch, but you did. You stayed. You are still in that house, the one that was once filled with life. Now just left with memories. Now, Who saves you from that raging wind? Who walks with you on that sunless sand? You stayed because it is where you’re from. You traveled the world, you had your days. You made your mark and now it is time to rest. You want to stay in your place of origin. Now, I can imagine you sitting in this empty house, with what used to be a pot of tea, now just a single cup of boiled flavored water. The spoon which I used to eat the kjotsupa you made me, now lying unused in the drawer. An empty kitchen, only the imprints of our fingers left on the fridge, and the knife scars on the counter. Even though I’m gone, I’ll always be here.
[18]
Carina Hardy
[19]
My Father Olivia Dontsov My father explained Carlos Castaneda and how, in a book he’d read by him, he said that true opposites were in one plane: he gave the analogy of a table, and the air outside the table. The table, my father explained, was everything we could think of in existence. When I asked what the other was, he said that it was impossible to ascertain or describe. Those, he explained with his trademark smile that screamed of superiority and cleverness, those were the only true opposites. It was the douchiest thing I’d ever heard. ~~~ I talked of acceptance and respect for others, and tolerance: realizing that others had different opinions, but to them they were perfectly legitimate. My father “explained” that while it showed I had a pure, albeit unrealistic way of thinking, people really just thought of themselves. He listed himself as an example, saying he thought only of his own personal well-being. “But what about me?” I prompted. “What about you?” “Well, don’t my feelings and concerns take a place in your life?” “You mean because I’m your father?” I shrugged almost sheepishly at his tone of voice. “Well, I’m just your servant, aren’t I?” I looked up from where my fingers were twisting together in my lap, tugging almost painfully from where they were preventing my fingers from curling into fists. I met his eyes for a brief second that told me all I needed to know: blue irises that held enough seriousness in them for me to know the banter in his voice still held weight. ~~~
Callie Richards
“You don’t talk to me anymore,” he observed over dinner, breaking the awkward yet frequent silence. I shrugged, keeping my eyes downcast. “Why not?” he pressed, and I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Everytime I try to tell you something, or if something’s wrong, or if I’m angry, you just… dismiss me,” I mumbled. “It doesn’t really feel like you listen or care.” I kept my voice soft, even, careful. The words that I had practiced in my head faded into white noise. He smiled the whole way through. “I don’t think I do that...do I?” He wore a smile that could be described as nothing else but smug. “Never mind,” I muttered, returning to my dinner. ~~~
He plopped down next to me, a photo album cradled in his arms. It was one of the many my mom and he had of me as a baby and toddler. Near the middle of our perusing and reminiscing, he sighed and traced a finger over one of the plastic-covered photos. “You grew up so fast,” he murmured, and I rolled my eyes, ready for a long tangent about growing up, suddenly exasperated. “If only you were a happy child as before,” he muttered, and I froze. Suddenly, I didn’t feel as exasperated.
I woke early, before he did. I stepped into the shower, turning the faucets on, thankful for the sweltering heat summer brought. We hadn’t had heated water for months and while the freezing water was a pain in January, it was slightly more bearable in July. As a contrast, the lack of AC and the small fan my mom had bought for me did little to relieve the heat. Removing my glasses, it became easy to ignore the peeling paint and grimy floors. As I tried to become accustomed to the water, I could blearily see something crawl out of the faucet and fly towards the ceiling. That was probably my quickest shower to date.
~~~
~~~
[20]
[21]
I contemplated my wardrobe, the little things I had brought from my mom’s to here. At least I have a dresser now, I thought to myself shrewdly, and forced myself to choose an outfit from the five items of clothing. I changed quickly, in the coat closet my father had told me was mine, and prayed I wouldn’t wake him. To call our apartment a one-bedroom would be generous. There existed a kitchen, bathroom, and “living room” that doubled as our bedroom with a pullout couch. My dad took the floor when I stayed over. He had the larger closet. I did my best to ignore the dust that lurked in all corners. He seemed to have little need and less desire to clean them or the grease splatters that covered the stove, no matter how many times I’d mentioned it. The refrigerator was bare. He stirred the pasta with a large kitchen knife, as we didn’t have a wooden spoon. Sometimes I spent afternoons hungry, wary of asking for money from a man without a job and barely paying the rent. I was worried about my father. I chuckled joylessly as it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be worrying about him; the roles were often reversed. Still, if I wasn’t going to worry, who was? ~~~ We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, silent and reading. He reached underneath his chair and pulled out a bottle to drink from. I had to be seeing wrong. Yet the unmistakable Bud Light logo on the bottle caught the light and reflected back into my eyes, through my cornea, traveling through my pupils and the vitreous, to my retina and unmistakably confirmed the sight before my eyes. He took a swig and placed the bottle back under his chair, his eyes never wavering from his book. I thought he was sober. He has to be. Doesn’t he remember…? I gulped and remembered a night Mom came in with me to his house so I could have time with my daddy. It wasn’t long after they separated, so I must have been seven. He was sitting on the couch. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with him at the time but Mom certainly did. He had a bottle in his hand then too. He said something about Babushka… How she didn’t like Mom. And then the fight changed languages to Russian, and I couldn’t understand. Mom pulled me down the stairs, to our car, and back home. The next day he wrote me a letter, apologizing. It took him three more letters to sober up. He was looking at me from across the table and I quickly looked back at my book. My eyes pricked with memories and my throat tightened, the air thick with unspoken words.
[22]
~~~ “I want to become a video maker,” he exclaimed on a walk through Central Park, “It’s always intrigued me.” “What about photography?” I asked in a dull voice. He shrugged. “Not my calling, I guess.” He went on about the expensive equipment he’d get and how famous he’d become. I sighed because we had this conversation about every three months. He gave up painting first, threw out all his expensive canvases and paint and bought a fancy camera. I had no doubt that he would do the same now. I spun around on my heel, yelling. I told him that if he got enough money to do so, he wouldn’t waste it on a fucking car so he could be more “manly”, and he wouldn’t waste it on fucking video equipment, and he sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on his fucking self. He would get a new apartment, maybe, or cleaning supplies, or help Mom support me or some other shit that would get his fucking life together because informing your daughter that you were broke and telling her about your fucking dreams or explaining your “midlife crisis” to her doesn’t do jack. Shit. I replayed this scenario in my head, turning it over and editing certain words, adding dramatic pauses, writing a script, a story, rewriting myself. It was different, always different, and my fingers danced restlessly at my sides as I wished for a stick of graphite, a napkin, anything. But these stories would go on unsaid, things that I could not fathom into words and instead remained abstracted and hazy, barely out of reach. I kept quiet, and hoped that in an alternate universe I would have the strength to speak these words. He was looking at me. “Why are you so quiet? Is anything wrong?” I set my mouth in a grim line that I hoped looked like enough of a smile, and said in a characteristic voice, “Nothing.” ~~~ I came downstairs with the dirty laundry from my father’s in a bag along with my books and computer. Mom smiled at me from the car. “How was your weekend, Boo-Boo?” she asked as soon as I had gotten in and slammed the door shut. “It was good,” I responded as always.
[23]
Behind Their Back Jessica Speight Upset stomach Similar to butterflies Yet it squeezes you Almost nauseating Disappointment Maybe it’s this This feeling of displeasure Maybe even sadness
Naomi Jabouin
It weighs heavy on my conscience Sinking deeper into my thoughts and emotions I stop to think – Should I have said it? Did I mean it? No, I only said it... to say it I wasn’t really thinking! Please forgive me for my indecisiveness I can only question the reason I’ve made Such an agonizing statement This statement Holds my mental being at gunpoint Sorry No, I apologize I don’t know how to say those words Those three words that can put my mind at ease Fine. I’ll say them... I... am...sorry
Untitled Bella Reed Listen, To your heartbeat in your chest. Listen, As it pounds faster and faster, as if it will break free. Listen, Where are the birds waking you up every morning? Their songs echoing through your ever constant thoughts. Gone Beauty, music, Life. What is this desolate world? Where are you?
[24]
[25]
There is No Such Thing as Normal Sean Tamir When I was about six years old, it was my first day of kindergarten. I was so excited to meet some new kids my age. When we all walked into the classroom, the teacher sat us at table groups based on our favorite color. Most of the girls sat at the pink and purple tables. Most of the boys sat at the blue table and some at the green table. I was the only boy sitting at the red table, which made me feel sad considering that I wanted to sit with the other boys. At this moment I felt different, different in a bad way. It was like I had an unusual problem, a problem that crosses the boundaries of being normal. And then I realized that I wasn’t normal. Up until third grade, I always thought that boys had to follow certain rules in order to be a normal boy and be accepted by others. I thought boys had to like the color blue and be interested in sports. But I didn’t like the color blue and I preferred art over sports. I decided to do what I liked and didn’t care what other people thought of me, however I still felt that I was “different.” During my childhood I was a very creative person. I kept creating things that you wouldn’t expect from a regular seven year old. I drew buildings I saw from the New York City skyline with extreme detail. I loved doing this because I felt like I was born to do it. I became very good at it. As I got older, my drawings became more complex. As I kept drawing I really didn’t care anymore about normalcy. At the same time, I was meeting new boys in my school who also liked the color red and loved art as well. At that moment I realized that there is no such thing as normal; it’s just a state of mind. I would never forget the day in 2nd grade when I won the best artist award of my school. When I received this award I was so proud of myself because I accomplished something really special to me. This is when I gained some self-confidence. I knew that I was born to do this and that I could not give up on this special skill for anything. Art is a part of my life and is something I can’t let go of. As I grew older I started building up more confidence. I became proud of who I am and what I love to do. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me because I wasn’t afraid anymore; I wasn’t afraid of revealing the truth about myself, and that is important for a human being. A person should feel free to express his or her interests and personality because it’s never right to hide yourself from everyone. This is what I learned during childhood. I will always consider it an important lesson of my life. In my opinion, self-confidence is very important. It can help you through difficult situations and help you accomplish goals. I want to use both art and self-confidence throughout adolescence and adulthood because these two skills are honestly some of my strongest and most important skills. I want to always remember that day in 2nd grade once I achieve my dream of becoming an architect because it will remind me of what I love and why I am here. This is what I think is important to human beings, not the idea of normality, because there really is no such thing as normal. Ana Maroto
[26]
[27]
A Day in the Life of the Woodworkers Sam Kielian It’s closing time in my shop. I sweep the shavings and sawdust from the floor and toss them. I exit the shop, lock the door and head home, passing customers as I walk down the dark street in Colonial Williamsburg. I notice that there are only a few lights on. I turn the corner and walk up to my humble house where I see candles lit on the dining room table and my wife cooking at the fire. I smell sweet corn bread through the open window. I walk into the warm house. My two year-old son must be upstairs sleeping, so I go upstairs and see him in the cradle I made for him at birth. He is covered with a warm quilt recently woven by the local weaver. I go back downstairs and see my dog sitting in a corner by the fire. She notices I am there and gets up to jump on me. I give her a bone and a piece of beef we had prepared for her. I take a seat next to my wife by the fire. She tells me about her day and then asks me about mine. I tell her about my customers and what they bought. We eat dinner and sit by the fire, and when we are done we go to sleep. I wake up at 6:00 in the morning, wash and get dressed. By the time I am done with my morning ritual it is 6:15. Again, I walk down the dark streets. I walk to my shop, unlock the door, and walk in. The sun is still not up but I get to work soaking glue in a bucket and transferring it to the glue pot. I look around to make sure nothing has been stolen. By the time I am ready it is 7:00, and the sun is starting to rise; I start making molding. Thirty minutes later I’ve finished two moldings (one base and one crown.) Then I realize that my apprentice is late. The sun is up and my first customer is in the shop. He tells me about the latest news. Not until 7:50 does my apprentice walk in. He explains that his mother was having her baby this morning, and he had to help his father get the room ready for the new child. I want to make this baby girl a cradle to sleep in so I begin to cut pieces of wood to size, then chisel and cut some more. After I am done adjusting the pieces I assemble them together and use wooden pegs to finish. I paint it a light pink and set it aside to dry. At noon I get hungry; my lunch consists of chicken with a cup of ale. After eating I continue working till dusk. It is almost time to close up the shop. Before he leaves, I show my apprentice the cradle. He loves it. He leaves the shop with the cradle under his arm. I leave the shop and start to walk home. I see the apothecary as I walk; she is rushing down the street and turns onto my road. I wonder what must be wrong with my neighbor. But when I walk into my house I see the apothecary upstairs with my wife. My son crying upstairs. He is very ill with a high fever, says the apothecary. He is going to die. This is life in Colonial Williamsburg. [28]
Lost & Found Ally Klemer Dedicated to my grandfather who passed away recently Everyday I see my dream, It seems so close, Yet so far away Life is the boat that carries us down The stream of thought Which way’s right? Which way’s left? I embrace the name given to me My name is my identifier My personality Who I am Whatever I see, you see Whatever you feel, I feel We are intertwined Bound by an invisible chain Impossible to break And what I assume, You shall assume We breathe the same air I will never die, I’ll always be with you Deep inside your heart The only difference is I won’t physically be there I’ll just be a ghost Following your footsteps and hiding in your shadow Hopelessly wandering in the afterlife … Waiting for you * Inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” [29]
Lucy Hirschfeld Hey, nice to see you! No, I am not wealthy just because I live in SoHo. No, I am not rude or a snob. No, I don’t live for shopping. I prefer the local characters waving to each other in the morning. Sam, the poster man, who sells gorgeous old vintage posters or the old man, thick glasses, hanging around Little Italy amusing, with his dog’s tricks, the throngs of tourists crowding my block. Yes, that’s me. I am a New Yorker. No, I am not the most privileged child. I am not fake or stuck up. I think I’m nice actually. No, I am not preppy. I am more of an artsy kid. I’m visual so it is easier for me to describe things in drawings than in words. No, I don’t wear a school uniform. Yes, I go to private school. No, I don’t shop at H&M. Or Forever 21. Not Delia’s. I love to spend hours browsing through the flea markets of Williamsburg finding little bits and pieces of life at the Charm Shop. I enjoy the complicated flavors of popsicles at the popsicle stand and jewelry made of material you can’t find anywhere else. Yes, I have Jewish ancestors. No, I am not having a bat mitzvah. And I’m not that big on Hanukah. No, I am not thinking about being a lawyer when I’m older. I am not ten. Or eleven. Or twelve. Don’t be fooled by my height. I’m thirteen, and I am not your average thirteen year-old girl. I am unique, different and I love art. How? I dress differently, I look unique, and I love to keep busy. I spend hours watching old black and white movies. I am not big on young adult novels, but I can read fashion blogs all day. I go searching through galleries and museums to discover new artists I go to the theatre a lot to be inspired I want to work in entertainment when I grow up. [30]
I dream of being an actress Not for the big bucks or the fame, but because I love to spark emotions and make my audience laugh. Over the summer I didn’t spend hours lying on the beach. I worked really hard on my art skills and volunteered at my brother’s school. When I am older I want to make a difference in my community and in the world. I love who I am. This is me. *Inspired by Diane Burns’ “Sure You Can Ask Me A Personal Question”
Lais Granzoti Cintra
This Is Me
[31]
Untitled Atlas Wegman Although I was born on the streets of Kalamanset, it is not where my story begins. Although, grew up on 239 Linden Lane, it is not where I became a man. Although I attended school, K-12, at South Middletown, it is not where I was educated. I come from the tracks. My story starts there, and it will most likely end there. I did what my family had done for decades, caught the first train I could and never looked back (not that I could if I had wanted to). My old life was left behind, and with my boarding of the King Henry Express came a new beginning. I didn’t have much to leave behind. A mother, a father, maybe a sibling or two. No friends worth keeping, no car to miss, or house to yearn for. My new beginning was not much of a shock at all; I couldn’t miss what I never had. It helped that I always knew what was coming, that I was told from birth what my future would hold. I knew that at age four I would enter school, and that at age eight I would skip a grade. I knew that I would have my first birthday party when I turned ten, and that I would board this train when I turned sixteen. The years in between were irrelevant; my life was lived from landmark to landmark. This is how life was lived in our family. Everybody followed this “code,” and when they boarded the train they were set free. I knew no other way, we all knew no other way. I had no reason to doubt what those before me had successfully done. When it came my time to board the train, I simply did. My room on board was a double decker, but I had nobody to share it with. A small multi-purpose bathroom was in the far left corner; a toilet, a shower, and if you really wanted, a bath tub, all in one. The curved door, although aesthetically interesting, did not close all the way. Any attempts to use the room as more than a toilet resulted in a soaking mess of soap and sewage. To the left of the all-in-one bathroom was a small recliner. This is where a majority of my days were spent. From here I watched the countries rushing by, through the cities, over the mountains, and across the rivers. My small room remained static but the scenery around me was always changing. I absorbed it as best I could, let it shape me. Whether it was during the night, from the top level of my rickety wooden bunk bed, or throughout the day in my slightly crooked recliner. The world outside whizzed by, and although I could never stop and stare at it, I would always attempt to consume it, allowing my body to become the plains, slopes, hills, and valleys that made up the route of the King Henry Express. Activities were limited while on board. The train made stops at all the major locations (South Danbury, Middlecreek, Crawley’s Cove), but I never got off. I enjoyed the sounds of the creaking tracks and rickety wheels. I enjoyed being on the train, and I had no reason to leave. Three weeks into my journey I met Jack. He was a tall, scrawny kid (a taller version of myself). To any random bystander, we would appear brothers. Jack was one the only other kid on the train (at the time). He was a hot shot of sorts, always throwing his money around, tipping the waiters, and buying dinner for various lady guests. He had a seemingly infinite [32]
pool of money, which he never hesitated to drain. He and I quickly became friends, at least in the most minimal sense of the word. We would say “hi” while passing through the red and gold corridors, sit together on the blue leather benches in the dining car, and wish “good night” as we shuffled back to our cozy rooms. Our relationship was a comfortable one, and I was glad to have him there. He gave me no reason to believe he was anything more than a friendly face, friendly to all. I had known Jack for eight weeks when he decided to let me in on his scheme. One day, over our usual lunch, he asked why I never asked him about his wealth. I let him know that I believed it to be none of my business, and hoped to move on. It was then that Jack decided to let it all out. He was a thief. In the darkest hours of the night before the train stopped at the station, when all the other passengers were gently rocked to sleep enjoying their last night on board, Jack would open the doors (using a master key he had looted the first night) and steal whatever money the victim had on hand. Though simple, the plan was flawless. By the time any of the unsuspecting passengers had realized a theft had occurred, they were no longer passengers. With no way of getting back on the moving train, it was near impossible for the victim to get justice. No one had any reason to suspect Jack was behind the thefts; to everyone else he appeared to be just a young boy along for the ride. After telling me all this I was in shock, but only slightly. I felt safe knowing that the only criminal on board was telling me his crimes. Jack’s reason for opening up was not entirely friendly though; he wanted me to join, claiming that “two times the thieves equals two times the profit.” Though I never considered becoming a criminal, Jack’s plan was certainly appealing. My funds were running low, and I had no source of income. The crew onboard was full, and there were no other jobs available. I bit the bullet and joined Jack’s ring of thievery. He handed me a copy of the master key which he had made during one of the stops and we began to plan our next “strike.” There were three options: an old man, a middle aged woman, and a family of three. Jack said “pick two.” The choice was obvious; the old man and middle aged women would be far easier to steal from without waking then the family of three. Jack agreed and we set out to find the rooms. The old man was in the middle class section of the train, two cars behind the dining hall. Like all the others, his car was lined with red velvet and gold trim, but because it was the middle tier there were six rooms instead of four. The middle aged woman was in this upper tier. We assumed she was the daughter of some wealthy man, but we had no way of being sure. They were both getting off at Pinewood, the next stop. I was nervous, but had nothing to lose. The conductors on board do not have the right to arrest anyone, so the worst that could happen is we get thrown off board. Jack and I walked back to our rooms, ready for the theft which lay ahead. I was told to meet by the third window from the left, in the car four behind the conductor. I lay down and began my wait. Time dragged on. Sun fell, and the moon began to rise. I hadn’t slept a wink, but I was wide awake. I wondered if Jack had slept, or if he was so used to the fear and adrenaline that they no longer kept him awake. I wondered if this night would be my last on the train, would [33]
Ally Klemer
I have to find a home? My thoughts jumped between extremes, “I’ll be a rich criminal,” “I’ll be a homeless thief.” I accepted both possible fates and set out to meet Jack in the hall. I stepped out. The mesmerizing blue moonlight illuminated the hallway astoundingly well. I had no clue if the hue was a common occurrence, or a rare treat, as I never left my room at night (nobody did, there was no reason to). I continued on down the hall, leaving my door slightly ajar so I wouldn’t have to carry a key. I walked briskly, then jogged lightly, then sprinted wholeheartedly. I felt an impending sense of doom, and thought maybe I could outrun it. I passed through the final corridor and there he was, cool as ever. Jack was leaning on the third window, just as we had planned. I walked up to him, panting. He chose to ignore my heavy breathing, and went on explaining exactly what would happen. My job was the old man. I was told to walk (calmly) to his door, open it, crawl inside, search the top three drawers beside the bunk bed, take what I could find, and exit, all without being seen or heard. Jack told me to leave the goods in the public bathroom, located next to the dining hall. He would come to pick them up at breakfast the next morning, and we would meet in his room to divvy up the winnings. I nodded my head, and began the walk back towards the middle class section of the train. I walked much slower this time and breathed less heavily. The trek to Jack felt like it was sped up, two, maybe three times the normal speed, but the trek to the old man felt much slower, almost as if I was walking through quicksand. Maybe it’s because on the way there I was walking with the direction of the train, and now I was walking against it. Maybe it’s because on the way there I wanted to get it over with, and then I didn’t want to get caught. Maybe it’s neither of those, and time really was moving faster on the way to Jack. Either way, the journey to the old man felt endless. As I arrived at his door, I was sure I had taken so long that the sun would begin to rise and ruin our whole plan. I took my master key and opened the door. The old man was asleep and the drawers were in sight. I crawled towards them, swept up whatever I could find, and swiftly exited the room, all as Jack had asked. The deed was [34]
done; I was a criminal. Everything felt easier on the way to our drop off point. Time returned to its normal speed, my breathing resumed a normal pace, and all fear simply evaporated out of my consciousness. I felt cool as can be, like I was king of the world (or at least the train). I sashayed through the corridors, striding past rows and rows of doors, and strolling into the luminescent blue hued dining car. I left my goods in the public bathroom, just as Jack had asked, and began my walk back to my room. I had no problems sleeping that night, in fact, I had no problems at all that night. When the sun rose, I excitedly went to meet Jack in the dining car to divvy up our goods. I was directed towards an empty table. With my newfound wealth I decided to order something slightly fancier than my usual. A stack of pancakes, a cup of orange juice, and a steaming pot of coffee were delivered to my table. Jack had not yet arrived. I decided to start eating without him, assuming he was just a few minutes late. I devoured the pancakes, but Jack had still not arrived. Maybe I ate them too quickly? I drank my orange juice and finished off the pot of coffee, but still no Jack. I first thought that maybe I had heard wrong. Did he really want to meet in the dining hall? Did he want me to stop by his room first? I decided to leave and see if Jack was still asleep. I went to the bathroom to relieve myself of the entire pot of coffee. The goods were gone which meant I had at least done that much right. I made my way to his room and knocked on the door. No response. Another knock. Another lack of response. I opened my door using the master key. We were friends, right? I was sure he wouldn’t mind me coming in, especially not after last night. When I opened the door I was met with...nothing. It had been swept clean. The beds were made, the drawers were empty, Jack was gone. I had no clue if he was kicked off, or if he just got off at Pinewood. Had I been duped? Did Jack take my share and leave, or was he caught in the middle of the night and thrown off? I would never know what happened to Jack, but for some reason I was angry at him. I was a criminal, but I had nothing to show for it. With my master key in hand, I vowed to steal again. The feeling of confidence and power I had after robbing the old man was far greater than any potential negative. I had already stolen once, why not do it again? Night after night, theft after theft, I grew richer. I could have stopped whenever I wanted; money wasn’t an issue before and it sure wasn’t now, but I didn’t want to stop. Life as a simple mortal was no longer an option; I had become a god. Untouchable, and undetectable, I terrorized the trains at night. Days, weeks, months, maybe even years passed. I lived crime to crime, sleeping during the day and stealing twice, maybe three times a night. Jack shot too low, robbing only one poor fellow a night. Maybe he only stole as he needed? Maybe he wanted to hurt as few people as possible? I had no such bounds. I had no reason not to steal all that was in sight, and so I did. I grew greedier after each successful theft, wanting more and more. I began to steal on nights where the train was not stopping at a station. This increased my chances of being caught, as the victim would have time to notice their belongings gone, but I did not fear, I was untouchable. I was king of the King Henry Express. As time went on, my greed overcame my fear. This was my first and final mistake. [35]
For a Long Time I Climbed For a long time I climbed. I was tired; it was cold. The fog clears. Am I at the top? Is this what it feels like? It can’t be. My heart is pumping too fast. I can barely breathe. I fell off… that’s what happened. I’m falling. Twigs, branches and rocks hit me, scratch me, break me. Will someone be there to catch this body? I’m still falling. I can’t see anything. It’s dark now. When will I reach the ground? Is there ground at all? Why did I climb the mountain? Why can’t mountains be plateaus? Because they are mountains! The triumph and rejoice stay at the top. Joy is momentary instantaneous and fabulous. You can camp at the top but only for so long. The rest is climbing. Climb the next mountain. I dare you. Remember the wind rushing through your hair, The sound of the wind whispering in your ear, Remember the smell of the rain, welcoming and fresh. Every time you think about climbing back down, remember the rain. You’ve already come up; why go back down? The ground is boring, ordinary. Come up here where everything is in sight, on the horizon waiting for you to find it.
Lais Granzoti Cintra
Mia Silvan-Grau
Julia Greenburger
When did I climb another mountain? The last thing I remember is falling. I got up after falling so far and climbed again? Well, I’m already up here, so there’s no point in going down now.
[36]
[37]
I am brought back to earth as the smell of smoke fills my nostrils. I look down in alarm and remove the burnt grits from the pan. I prepare another batch quickly so as not to upset Peter and Felicity any further. We sit down and eat in comfortable silence, our tin forks scraping across the fading China plates. The birds begin to trill their evening song as the sun sets behind the softly glowing trees. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be someone else, perhaps a femme sol, an unmarried woman. I could open my own shop, support myself. I have always wanted to be a milliner. But, I wouldn’t dream of it of course; after all, unmarried women are pitied across the land. As I finish my daily gardening I absentmindedly watch the loose soil roll off my worn fingers and onto the thriving tomato plant I had just been tending. I pick up my basket, filled to the brim with fresh produce, and set off to make a hearty dinner stew for my family. “Peter! Felicity! John! Dinner is ready!” My family eagerly answers my call to supper. My husband is determined to educate Peter about the upcoming political election. Naomi Jabouin
A Day In The Life: Rose Baker Malaika Tapper “Mother! Mother! I’m terribly hungry!” Felicity impatiently tugs on my skirt while Peter stands on his tiptoes in the vain hope of snatching a breakfast treat. “Breakfast is almost ready. Patience, my loves.” Properly chided, they sit down at the scratched wooden table. Outside, the city of Williamsburg is bustling with morning activity. Horses briskly trot down the cobblestone streets and merchants begin to open their shops. Rays of a new sun stream into our kitchen, adding a gentle morning glow to the room. My husband, John, rushes out the door, breakfast in hand. He works as a blacksmith, a humble yet satisfying position. As I watch the grits sizzle on the stove, the fire drifts my thoughts elsewhere, to a time in my childhood. I was raised on a farm by two hard working parents, but when I was eighteen years old our house burned to the ground. One day, I met John, and two years later we moved to our home here in Williamsburg. That was ten years ago. Since then I have spent my days raising Peter and Felicity and making baskets, candles and fruit preserves to sell to merchants. [38]
“Whose views do you support, Peter? Which candidate will best influence our nation? Peter! Are you listening to me? When you are a man these matters will be very important! Do you understand?!” “Yes father,” Peter replies with obvious indifference. John has a strong interest in politics, an interest that I do not share in the slightest. Of course, even if I was invested in politics, I could not have any real influence anyway because, as a woman, I cannot vote or hold public office.
Felicity spiritedly pipes in, “Father! I support General Washington beca-”
John sternly cuts her off, “Now that’s enough Felicity, don’t trouble your pretty little head about these matters.” I worry about Felicity sometimes. She seems to have a sincere passion for her father’s political lectures in a way that other girls her age do not. If she continues this way, she’s bound to get herself into trouble.
[39]
Hamburger
Where I’m From
Eliana Cohen-Orth
Josh Goldblatt
I’m an alien; I came to earth Looking for fortune and wisdom and mirth. While walking around, I saw some cooks carving (meat) And realized that I was starving!
I am from words, From fact and fiction. I am from reading in the dark. (Dark, wonderful stories filling my head.) I am from writing; Words popping off the page, To install a mirage in the form of a world. Clouding my eyes with reality, Or so it’s always presumed.
I walked into the restaurant; they said it was delicious. I wondered if the food there was unhealthy or nutritious? I read through the menu but couldn’t go further When my eyes landed on the word hamburger. What could that be? I was so confused. Why on a menu would this word be used? Ham is pig, I know, and burger sounds like snot. But a booger from a pig on a menu? I know not.
I am from sound. Chords and beats, Reverberating through my skull. I am from drums and vocals, Guitars and bass. I am from speakers, amps, And loud crashes. I am from drumsticks to shards. I am from resonance.
I asked the waiter to give me relief -The waiter said it was a sandwich with beef! Earth, how confusing?! Too confusing for me. So I went back to my home planet, Stooglooee.
Callie Richards
Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From”
[40]
Jacey Mossack
[41]
Untitled Kerabania Murillo-Maldonado I’m lying here unwell My eyelids wide open My mind not taking in The heavy sound That fills my ears Slowly zoning out To the rhythmic cry of life Callie Richards
Every second Losing feeling Of my body As the people around me Force me to wake I lose the sight of colors And slowly forget Why I am almost gone My heart losing its heaviness With every breath, But yet again losing breath My spirit floats away As my eyes become a glossy blur And everything goes black
Carina Hardy
[42]
[43]
Untitled Alma Bremond We are walking against the current as a family all together beating the wind. Our destination the steamed water rising from the ground out into the cold and freezing open sky.
creates green lights, that reflect to the ground, everyone’s hair harshly and painfully blown by the wind. The past is gone, it is the current that they need to face. The families wind their way home to gather the pieces of her life. They ground what happened. The children follow the destination they are given; ignorant they go with the current.
Why is it that the sky changes color like the directions of a current. The sun and the rain, the snow and the wind together. They are heading to an unknown destination going with the wind. My friend’s grandmother, small as a wind chime, innocently looking at the sky, her destination. Living her current healthy life, ignorant that this is their last moment together her feet still touching the ground. Like a leaf departing from the ground, she flew along with the wind to gather her place in the sky. Just another piece of sand in the current with no destination. Her family’s destination is their knees to the ground, their tears taken away by the current. The awful wind disturbing the sky. Everyone gets together,
Ruby Geiger
the country, the big family, together. United, there for one another, with the same destination. The sky [44]
[45]
Fashion Pilar Olivieri
Halle Gunsberger
That skirt! The ruffles are like waves crashing on the beach Like the auburn leaves that fall brings The skirt flows Like a waterfall Covered in sparkles Like a Christmas tree covered with ornaments Like a cupcake covered in colored sprinkles Waiting to be eaten
Hoofbeats
Jo Viemeister
What thoughts do hoofbeats Put into your brain? A dangerous tattoo? A mad chase Through the rain? Two syllables -- sharp and sweet. Does a barn come to mind, perhaps? Do you think of freedom, or fear? Do hoofbeats make you think of Escape? Of paradise? Hoofbeats. [46]
August Seiple
Julia herzfeld
[47]
Untitled
Julien Verglas My parade starts out when I wake up in the morning to 77 degrees Fahrenheit. I put on my board shorts and Cabrinha jersey. I leave my little beach hut and head to check the day’s conditions on the way to the kitchen. The forecast is right. 25 knots east and 12 foot swell. I already know what the reef on the other side of the island is looking like, so I get my cereal ready, cut up some melon, grab my boards and kites, and I’m off. I head towards the outside reef at the kite beach. A parade like this on St. Barths is unique to me, because it’s the island I’m from so these kind of kite sessions get me super pumped. In the car on the way to the beach, I get to see how different sections of the island are being affected by the wind and the waves. The waves are breaking huge off St. Jean and Lorient. That’s always a good sign. When I get to the beach, all my buddies are there for the parade. Julien Kerneur showed up, the three time World Champ for racing. Enguerrand is here, the owner of the Saint Barth Kiteboarding School, and there are even a few locals. I quickly pump up my kite, set out my lines and race to get out of the lagoon where we start. The reef is slightly upwind so it takes me about ten minutes to get out there. Tortue Island Reef is definitely the best place to have the parade. The second I get out there the conditions are just perfect. These are the conditions I live for. Waves are breaking perfectly to the right, with decent barrels on some. The wind is going side off, perfect for down the line wave riding. I’m on my smallest kite and my brand new board from Cabrinha. Riding this spot during the parade is probably one of my top sessions of all time. The feeling you get out there is unreal. Getting out to the spot takes about ten minutes typically, and you’re so far out that basically the whole Northeast section of the island can see you. At this spot, you can’t mess up. There’s no rescue on St Barths, and only experts are supposed to be at this reef. I remember telling someone about it once and him ending up having to swim in and lose all his gear because the conditions were so rough. Not to mention the spikes of fire coral that stick out on certain sections of the waves. Being out there and taking wave after wave so perfectly is something impossible in New York. When I think of my best times of last year, I would definitely say it was the St Barths kitesurfing parade.
Jo Viemeister
kite in front of the restaurant along with all the other kites, and get a bacon cheeseburger, some fries, and a Shirley Temple. About 50 minutes later I head back out and see how the conditions are. I wax back up my board and go out again on my smallest kite. It is still lining up perfectly. I soon see my buddy Ludo pumping up his kite. It’s time for a freestyle session. I head to the lagoon and get my wakeboard, and we have a great time. It is time to get going though, so I head home and put on some nice clothes to get ready for a night out. I go to my favorite restaurant with some friends, and later head to the local club. I never liked clubs or anything of that sort, but the one in St Barths is great; you always know people, there are amazing girls, and a lot of opportunity. I always love it when I go out and run into people I have seen earlier in the day.
Nothing beats a great day in paradise. That’s my parade.
Once all the pro windsurfers and kiters get out to the reef, things start getting real. Waves are building, the tide is lowering, everyone is ripping and it is simply too good to be true. Soon enough, after a nice ride, I head back into the lagoon for some lunch. I park my [48]
[49]
Read Fast With Emotion Noah Wistman
It’s time for new worlds! Talking monsters! Talking rocks! Talking trees! Talking squirrels!
Lindsay Seitz As precious as the end of a rainbow, Used as much as my pencils, As fun as an amusement park, It’s one of this girl’s best friends. It made her rainy days go away, It was as snug as a bug in a rug. I miss it. For the hole it has is like a cut gaping open, I hope for a hero to come. But for now it’s the damsel in distress, Sitting on the tippy-top of the books on top of the top shelf. Maybe it’ll come back down, But for now it rounds up the dust bunnies.
Full of scary things That go bump in the night. With a hidden message, Barely in sight. It all starts off well! Not a problem, no strife Just a prince and a princess A happy husband and wife
Stella Rose Gahan
Ode To My Old Hat
BUT THEN -Out of nowhere! The villain arrives! OMG! Leaping lizards! What is wrong with my life! Off goes the princess Hair flowing through the air But wait, dear reader, Don’t you despair! For the hero is strong! He is cunning and bright He catches the villain And they fight through the night! CLASH! SMASH! BASH! SLASH! Hours go by With no end in sight.
Ode to a Wastebasket Julia Noonan
I love to throw Trash Inside you. Especially when it’s Smelly. Like a metal monster, Gobbling up old homework. Your steel walls barricade Those unwanted pryers from seeing Test scores I wished would disappear.
But as the dust settles, Wrong again loses to right. A party is thrown, with great joy and great laughter! Everyone settles back down, And they live happily ever after.
Where do you put your trash? I wonder.
Becca Luna-Leibowits
[50]
[51]
How to be Happy
Age 13
Charlotte Watson
Pilar Olivieri
John Lennon once said, “When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me that I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them that they didn’t understand life.” What is happiness, what does it mean to be “happy”? In the dictionary, it is defined as “feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.” Sure, happiness may have a definition. But how to be happy doesn’t. There are millions of people in the world. There are millions of ways to be happy. It’s easy to throw around the term “happy,” especially when one has never felt true happiness before. To know what true happiness is, one needs to experience the opposite. Without knowing “sad” or “upset,” one cannot know “happy.” How to be happy may seem vague, but it’s really not. When someone is happy they are being themselves. Being yourself is a good thing. Most people believe wrongly that they need to change something about themselves to be happy. If people look at everything in a negative way it can bring down their own spirits and those of others. Happiness is contagious; it only takes one person to spread it. Find what makes you happy, not what makes others happy. Being happy is being free to be yourself. It’s life -make it yours.
It’s like that moment before a huge performance Or The class period before a big test Age 13 When you can take a stride and choose your future When you’re past the preparation But before your big break You’ve come so far But the journey isn’t over yet At age 13 It’s like the second to last step on a staircase Age 13 That’s me
Anti Zany Julia Noonan Zany. You disgusting Hallmark-invented word. Unnatural Movement in my jaw. Though your meaning May be a compliment, You do not sound it.
Jo Viemeister
Go away.
[52]
[53]
Regimen Saskia Globig Breakfast at my house, at six forty-five on a “school day” like today, is assorted bagels to be buttered and grapefruit halves to be scooped out with spoons. The sky outside the window of the dining room is still dark, and as I pull on my socks at the tiny table, I have a feeling they won’t be thick enough for the wintry floorboards. The toaster dings and my father, standing in our kitchen, loads the bagels into a basket from one of the endearingly ugly cabinets just as my mother comes down the stairs from where she was putting on makeup. There’s a lot of movement in our house in the mornings, even though it’s only the three of us in this family. My father puts the breadbasket on the table and then instinctively reaches for one of the cinnamon-raisin bagels inside. “When I met Dad,” my mother says, referring to my father, “he ate a cinnamonraisin bagel for breakfast every single day of the week except Sundays. I had to expose him to new foods!” We all laugh as she sits down. “I know you like your routine,” she says, patting his arm. It seems that every morning, I can’t set the table or brush my teeth fast enough; my father tells me to “get going” so I won’t be late for school. I think sometimes that Dad must have the equivalent of a train timetable in his head. His parents — my grandparents — came from Germany. The way my mother teases him, it sounds as if German trains are mercilessly on time and meals are eaten at exactly the same hours every day across the country. Consistency is the most important virtue. With traditions like those, exaggerated as they may be, it’s not surprising that my grandparents raised my father to unconsciously follow schedules and be impeccably precise, even as a child in a suburban house on Staten Island. I begin tearing into a bagel — sesame-seed — when my father starts to tell the story of hard-times in Germany, just after the First World War, when my grandmother was a little girl. “Money wasn’t worth anything — people would bring wheelbarrows full of bills to buy a loaf of bread,” he says. “They would paper their walls with useless money.” “Wow. Super-inflation.” I’ve heard this anecdote maybe five times already, but it never fails to enthrall me. “Yep. That’s what happens when a government’s budget is out-of-whack and it can’t honestly pay what it needs to. They just print more money.” There is a grain of bitterness in my father’s voice. He is cynical of the government and sensitive about money, and about what happens when the balance the two uphold falls apart. At the same time, this fascinates him. Now, he folds his gutted grapefruit in half and squeezes the remaining juice into his empty glass. It amounts to about half a millimeter of liquid, but he drinks it anyway, and urges me to do the same. [54]
“I did already. Look at it!” This is to no avail. My father takes the withered citrus next to my plate and wrings it dry. I let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay. I just want to make sure you get the best out of it,” Dad says. I think my father inherited an aggravating “waste not, want not” mentality from his economizing German parents. Dad is a steadfast member of “the 99 percent;” even though he technically works a corporate job, it’s in an architecture firm with only three people and very little income. For his own personal campaign of frugality, he refuses to throw practically anything out, whether it’s burnt-black toast or a plank of wood he finds on the street. “We might be able to use it for something” is my father’s constant refrain. He is Master Curator of countless collections, from screws to red pens. At the same time, he reuses a few items until they fall apart, exhausted, at the seams. From where I sit across from him at the table, I can see that my father’s shirt is fraying around the cuffs and buttons. I know it would be useless to say anything: later, right before he leaves for work, my mother will notice how threadbare his clothes are, but by then it will be too late to change because my father is on a schedule. The fading shirt will be forgotten about, and won’t be ejected from his closet for another few months. Dad’s shoes, similarly, were bought in a singular store in London on a family trip; that was six years ago, and he wears them every day. Though they’re nice shoes, the shoe polish, ancient too, has given up on making them shine. It seems to me that as my father’s shoes get scuffed, his spirit is dulled along with them. He sits slumped in his chair at the breakfast table, glumly anticipating the day’s work ahead, without sunlight to glaze his curly hair that is so much like mine. Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that my father’s actions are more than irritating habits. He has reasons for preserving what can be saved, and for sharing what he has preserved. There is a selfless side to my father’s frugality: he doesn’t spend money or much care on himself because he saves those things for his family. He works so hard, without many dividends for his own use. I’m worried that one day, the red pen in his pocket will crack, and the ink will leak out until there is nothing left. But amazingly, even with the responsibilities hanging over his head, my father can smile and laugh — at himself. Which is why I say to him, smirking as I get up from the table, “Dad, the world will keep on turning if you don’t always eat a cinnamon-raisin bagel. Everything will be alright.” And I think he believes me.
[55]
He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not Monet Thibou As I pluck the petals off the Rose that encases the romance receding from my life I begin to ponder thoughts of him and me Pros and Cons I go down the line Recalling the events in our relationship timeline Peeling one petal off at a time (Pluck) I hold it close to my heart
Hakuna Matata, right? If it’s meant to be, it will be? I suppose. But I can’t suppose, guess, wonder, ponder, hope, plead, or yearn I have to know! (Pluck)
Lais Granzoti Cintra
He Loves Me
It dwindles to the concrete ground beneath me
He loves... Me not
How does one even know when “Love is in The Air”? Is it shown through a million roses and kisses? (Pluck) Can you visualize the words floating through the sky with the acrid smell of spoiled chocolate Strawberries trailing behind it
He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
[56]
Maya Kaufman
(Pluck)
[57]
As they go down the street, it gets darker and darker until the only light is from their own car’s headlights. “Did we miss the right turn?” the girl says in a quiet, freaked out voice. “I hope not,” he says, not trying to hide his fear any longer. Without being able to see, they drive much slower than before. The woman’s eyes happen to glance at the gas meter. Almost empty. How long have we been driving? She keeps the thought to herself, realizing it will simply annoy him. “We must have missed that right turn,” she says, “Let’s turn around.” The man starts turning the car around blindly. He can’t see anything because of how dark it is. All of a sudden, there is the sound of glass exploding, followed by a slow hiss. They both jerk their heads back in fright. He nervously attempts to keep driving. The car bumps along in a strange way. “Oh my God,” he sighs to himself. He reaches for his cell phone in his pocket and quickly dials AAA. “Where are you?” they ask him. He asks his girlfriend, with no other option, holding the phone to his chest. She simply looks at him, with a tired, angry expression. “I’m sorry, we’re going to have to call you back,” he says. He notices a tear streaming down his girlfriend’s cheek. “I’m going to look for a street sign,” he says. She looks somewhat relieved.
Miral Rivalta
The Last Drive August Weinbren The man instinctively sits in the driver’s seat, even though it’s his girlfriend’s car. Like he always does, he checks the gas and the mirrors. He doesn’t ask her if she knows the way back to Manhattan, even though he himself has no clue how to get there. He assumes he’ll figure it out along the way. After a random series of turns and u-turns, she realizes they are lost. Her GPS was stolen several months ago, but she’s always put off getting a new one. Now is the time she regrets it most. Not wanting to accuse such an easily offended individual, she asks softly, “Wait, Paul, are we lost?” She gets no response, he keeps driving. The neighborhoods get dingier and less brightly lit. After she sees abandoned building after abandoned building, she gets more nervous. She says in an agitated tone, “Paul, stop the car. I’m going to ask this guy.” Without saying anything, the man stops next to the one person in sight. This isn’t someone they would ordinarily ask for anything. His girlfriend does the talking. She rolls down the window a few inches, “Sir, would you happen to know the way back to Manhattan?” With a very muffled, slurred speech, he says, “Straight, then take a right in two.” With no other options they take his advice.
[58]
Paul gets out, and in the complete darkness, looks desperately for a street sign. Walking up the street a few blocks, none are in sight. He fails to hear the brief scream in his desperation to find a sign. He gives up, realizing he needs to get back to the car and his girlfriend. When he gets back to the car, his girlfriend is nowhere in sight. He immediately tries to call her on speed dial, only to hear the ringing inside of the car. He sits back inside, feeling more tired than before. He doesn’t notice he has left the car doors unlocked as he passes out in shock. The car door is opened from the outside. Paul is dragged out and before he has time to realize what’s going on, a scarred man kicks him in the head as insurance that he won’t wake up. The scarred man finds Paul’s wallet in his front pocket, and is quick to sit back in the driver’s seat. He starts the car and drives off, cursing as he notices the flat tire, but continuing to drive regardless. Paul is left on the street with a bloodied face, in a deep level of unconsciousness, sleeping better than ever before.
[59]
Flooded by Night Immanuel Zion
Sophie Furman
The night was an inky shadow. A dark milk that drowned my eyes in mystery. All I could do was clutch the only thing that was visible. The light that reflected off my pale, bare shoulders. The ink of night was pouring into the holes in my face. I lost sight of where I was. But I still wanted to follow. By that time I was washed away.
Curriculum Vitae 1) I was born when only those required cared, because this is America, and the SuperBowl was on. 2) My sisters were where I am now, this same school, seems like another. 3) Here comes the last of us five Picayo girls, straight from Jesus himself. 4) This, the smallest, deemed bad on her birthday because of burning buildings she never even saw. 5) Everyone changed, if for different reasons, and now, because of their mindset, I was a boy to everyone. 6) Years went by and I was still that boy, who wore a dress once a year, and wasn’t it something to be seen. 7) Alina’s in trouble, Gabi’s singing, Neri’s taking photos, I’m dribbling a ball, Lola’s drawing. 8) Daddy has to fix something, and asks me to help. Maybe one day I’ll fix it on my own. 9) But then, Mommy yells at me. 10) I live in a beehive, filled with the wrong kind of insects. * Inspired by Lisel Mueller’s “Curriculum Vitae” [60]
Luca NIcholas
Naomi Picayo
[61]
Little Talks She lay on a bed, crushed by an avalanche of blankets. The house was dark and empty, its walls as old as the book that rested, tired, on the worn floor next to the bed. Its cover was faded, fingerprints of past generations lingered on its thin, torn pages. The walls were as deserted as the house itself, only dark shadows clung where paintings and photographs used to hang. Ghosts of her past swam around the broken ceiling fan above her. She stared up at them, not afraid, only sad. The creak of the stairs, groaning with the weight of footsteps from another time, was keeping her awake. It’s the house telling you to close your eyes. She closed her eyes. The creak of the stairs stopped. She slowly drifted off to sleep, but the ghosts dancing above her slipped into her dreams. She had memorized every detail of the aged photographs she kept tucked between the cover and the first page of the book by her bed. She would hide the memories and run, but she couldn’t run any longer, and they caught up with her in sleep. Images flickered into her mind in pieces; a rope swing swaying from the strong arms of a huge and magical tree, a young boy gently holding a bundle of baby sister, that boy and a girl with missing teeth and melting popsicle on their sun burnt faces grinning, the same children with longer legs and shorter hair cuts in pajamas on Christmas morning, the boy with a cap and gown and diploma, his sister on his back. We used to play outside when we were young, and full of life and full of love. She snored softly as she mentally flipped through more snap shots, a mother and father, her brother and her, giggling on the front porch of the house. In her sleep she saw her brother’s smile, heard his voice as he sat on her bed, whispering comforts to her as the stairs creaked. She watched him put on his favorite green tie, and then she watched as he could no longer dress himself. She stared as he grew weaker, bags under his bright eyes darkening, his laugh wilting. She was helpless as he disappeared. In her bed, she rolled over, twisted in the blanket, the sheets grabbing her ankles. She wasn’t dreaming, but she wasn’t awake. She felt her brother’s hand slide into hers, guiding her through the now empty house. The color in each room disappeared, her brother’s hand slipped away, and again she was alone. She opened her eyes, blocks of sunlight perched tentatively on the bare wooden floor. Where were all these people now? A name on a never-visited gravestone, a wrinkled face too drained for self-pity, and the life of a young man shrinking away on a stiff mattress in a hospital room. As the morning light knocked on the dusty windows, the old voice in her head held her back. Its desperate calls echoed in her pounding head. The screams, which used to punch her mind with relentless blows, all sounded the same now. She was the one who could no longer dress herself. Her confidence and her happiness were locked away in the past. When she had run, they couldn’t keep up. Now she wondered if she could ever get that happiness back. She wondered if their lives had been a waste. The life of their [62]
Rehana Hirji
Jo Viemeister
family would be gone with the death of their memories. She wondered if there was truth in anything, she wondered if she was wrong or right. The ship meant to carry their bodies safely to shore had left her stranded in the middle of a gray ocean, where she had been floating for years. Your mind is playing tricks on you my dear. Still lying in bed, she no longer wanted to float. She realized she wasn’t ready to bury all her memories with the past. Her brother’s encouraging voice swept through the house and she got up to brush her teeth. She pulled her hair up, dabbing some minty, pinkish chapstick on her lips. She walked down the stairs; they creaked, but she didn’t care. She slipped into her jacket as she pulled open the door, not trapped in the past, but finally living in the present. She stood outside of her brother’s hospital room, breathing heavily. He was looking at her. He was pale and thin, but his hair was combed and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. Hey. A re-run episode of his favorite show played on the TV clamped to the upper corner of the room. She stepped into the room. This time, instead of seeing his sickness, or trying to see how he used to look, she just saw her brother. I’m sorry I haven’t come by in a while. She took her hands out of her pockets and let them hang by her side. Her brother laughed loudly, and after a moment, she laughed too. I’ve missed our little talks. I missed you. [63]
Soccer Ball Leo Bremond
Sadie Stern
Lucy Hirschfeld
Aidan Ostermaier
Slow motion curve in the air Suspense as the crowd stares Seeing you spin at the back of the net And the cheers get louder
Men at Bars Leo Bremond All hands clutch beer glasses They shout to the players As if the players could hear ‘em Suspense hangs on the ball As it spins across the field A moment of
Then the commercials start The Geico lizard makes a face They chat about the other team Getting a touchdown Halle Gunsberger
[64]
Saskia Globig
Silence
[65]
Ode to Books Julia Noonan
Paper bound, novel, new or used, Ripped cover, yellowing pages -- I love them On all occasions. Books are an adventure. An escape and a distraction. They are filled with romance, drama and action. They sit quietly on a table Their presence cannot be ignored. Calling you towards them, I can’t help but be lured. Sophia Cook
Chiara Hardy
[66]
Sophia Raccuia
But be careful. Some books, Are chosen just Based on their looks. Be warned! Books are like chocolate: Some are sweet And savory, While others are bitter Or worse than that... Some have no taste! Make sure to drop those in The Utmost Of Haste.
Nicolas Simbaqueva
[67]
Ask As Much As You Want Sofia Santoro Oh, hey there Sure you can ask me a personal question Yeah, I do live in New York But, I don’t eat bagels every morning or have a Brooklyn accent Yeah, I’ve been to Time Square But, I live downtown Yeah, I was born and raised in New York But my family is from Argentina, Puerto Rico and Italy No, I’m not Asian -- my eyes are just small when I smile No, I’m not always a loud mouthed Puerto Rican I’m not always a shy girl either I cannot speak Spanish That’s because my parents never taught me, and I’m fine with it My mom doesn’t have a job right now; she’s getting her Masters Degree No, that doesn’t mean we’re broke or poor. We’re fine Yeah, my hair is curly I don’t curl it every single day That’s just how my hair is Thanks. Your hair is gorgeous, too Yeah, I’ve always been skinny Yes, I do actually eat real food More than you probably think I do Yes, my mother and I are 9/11 survivors But we don’t walk around by our house scared and paranoid Yes, I do think about what my life would be like if 9/11 didn’t happen I do miss my Dad. A lot. Even though I don’t remember him. No, he didn’t work at the World Trade Center He was an EMS worker at Beth Israel I’m okay now Thanks for asking Poem inspired by Diane Burns’ “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question”
[68]
Carina Hardy
Untitled Atlas Wegman I look up from my six monitor display and see Jonathan at the door. Good, I am protected. Jacob is at the windows. They are bullet proof, but it’s nice to have him there anyway. I get back to work. Typing away I lose sense of time, but a quick glance tells me that it is well past midnight. I am nearly in, I’ve got four cores parsing rainbow hash tables, and the other two traversing databases. A few more hours of work and I’ll be able to sleep, though the computers will run all night long. The CIA will never know what hit them.
[69]
Untitled Gabe Law I’m from immigrants Loud noises and stern voices Back alleys and tourist filled streets The projects and hangouts by the bridge Running and crowd weaving Jumping from building to building And hangouts on fire escapes Like dirt given a chance To hold a seed that may flower Secrets better left forgotten But always there Reminding me of what I’ve lost And gained To get myself here And the story of my journey Is that no matter who’s with me It is my road to journey alone
Olivia Dontsov Rehana Hirji
[70]
[71]
Iwantyoutonight Boaz Steed
It’s cold out and you are warm. The world is a rough place, but you are soft. You never judge me. All you’ve ever done is comfort me. I want to be in you. I want that scent of yours to envelope me I want to sleep inside you, like a fetus in the womb. The only thing I want to feel is you holding me. I can’t get enough. When I wake up you’re there, and when I go to sleep you’re there. I love you. If I could wrap my arms around you I would. If I could bring you wherever I go I would. If I sleep in another bed, know I’ll always be back for you. No matter what comes between us, I’ll always have you in mind. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love you, bed, and I’ll never leave you for good.
Rehana Hirji
by Maddie Grandison
[72]
[73]
Miral Rivalta
Love Ayden Ackerman
Guthrie McCarty-Vachon
Ode to a Dark Room Jerry Wexler In the darkness The obsidian depths – Like a pool of ink Not known Unseen A curtain of black Mysterious blackness Intimidating Intriguing Exciting Never understood Scary Not there [74]
Love, is unexpected unpredictable unseen it can catch you by surprise like a rainstorm love brings out our emotions love isn’t like a movie love isn’t perfect but something about it keeps us wanting it we all want love even if we have to fight for it. [75]
Adolescence 2.5 Naomi Picayo Too tall for the small backyard But too lost in town Out the back door Through the darkness To the quiet back street There sit those long Lanky boys With their baby lips Spread, revealing a white Wall of teeth Flashing to the bathroom Where those demons found me I check Everything Perfect For them But they aren’t liked And I’m not allowed Out There Anywhere Still out the back I go Back street Back woods Bye-bye
[76]
Sophie Furman
Watery Moon Immanuel Zion A watery moon is body awakened. It is no longer dry. Its craters are filled with water. Leaving rivers that flow. This moon is alive. Life’s path is like a watery moon. The wetness, a reflection of oneself. In a puddle of presence. Only water surrounds. During adolescence that moon dips. Eclipsing and covering the sun and brightness of childhood. Still reflecting the moon does. Water surrounds. During adulthood the moon lifts. Light hovers above. The moon is stuck in the sky. Below the moon they sit, longing for childhood. Submerged before destiny.
[77]
The Sight Saskia Globig It begins with the words. The words are everywhere, but not everyone can see them, and different writers of course see them differently. For me, the words slide around the sides of buildings, chalk-drawn on the brick and stone. A word is pinned to each wet yellow leaf that spirals to the sidewalk; entire narratives are plastered to the ground. People hold words, carry their pasts around inside them like talismans, or curses, and I read them. It’s not as if I can look into someone’s face and read their mind, but I invent their story, imagine what the inside of their apartment — or their head — must look like, or what they work as a day-job, a night-job. There are so many people in the world, in New York City alone, that watching them and eavesdropping on them is a huge undertaking. Naturally, all I learn rubs off on me. I create dialogue between myself and another version of myself, using idioms and cadences I have observed in other people. I can’t help it: I often find myself trying to form my thoughts about the scene around me in perfect sentences, revising again and again until the words in my now-stale mind sound right. I try in vain to swat the words away but I’m lying to myself: I marvel at the words, at the fact that I can hold them when others cannot. Having a dramatically different perspective on the streets I walk than the others that walk them is powerful. I must sound odd, off, insane, but I don’t think I am. If anything, the observing makes me exhausted while it is a load I feel I can’t — and don’t want to — put down. It’s also isolating, because others cannot see what I can. The words, in this way, come with a price. I think it’s because I can’t read minds that I invent people’s stories; maybe I wish I could hear their thoughts to get a grasp on what is real and to fuel the words further. I need reasons for people’s actions towards me, and as I withdraw farther into the my head and into the words, I become more hesitant to ask them to their face. It is easier to pretend, to make it up. I’ve gotten good at transposing what I see into the eyes of another. How do I look through his eyes, strangely dark blue and reflective, like deep pools of water with flecks of ice? Or her eyes, scuffed brown like the well-worn leather handbag slung over her shoulder? I assume the ways these eyes view my mistakes and my triumphs, and I try to imagine the results. Positive or negative, depending on my mood, I build nearly-false worlds for myself made of hopes and assumptions that constantly shift with my experience. I always wonder, and always revise, revise, revise what I need, what I wish for, who I am. Because of the thoughts I create for other people. Thoughts about me. And I rarely take the time to notice how influenced I am by them, these thoughts, these people in my life.
them. The inside of my head is not a constantly moving mass of colors — I think just as clearly as anyone else — but the words sometimes get in the way. I find, now, that I have been studying the words so intently, been so hyper-aware of the details, that I tend to lose the more important things, the bigger picture. Because of this, I must alternately choose which side of the world I want to experience: the simpler side, in which I can let go and feel both emotions and sensory experiences without too much thought; or the tighter but more insightful side, where everything I see and think and feel becomes a set of words that click in my head and fall into time with my footsteps. Having the skills endowed to me as a writer allows me — forces me — to choose what I want to notice, because if I didn’t, I would be caught watching and cataloguing everything. I am still learning which of the words I need to keep in order to see the world as a whole, and which can be released from my grasp. I do not yet know if the stream of thought I experience every day is “normal” for a writer, if this is the way all writers think. I do have the sense, though, that the need to write is a burden for most of those who have it, but writers choose to nearly wallow in this difficulty because with it comes the beauty of our creations. There is occasionally the danger of us falling over the edge, over the lip of the everyday to sit, content, among the words even if we are called crazy for it. By this definition, writing as creative sustenance could be a controlled sort of insanity. And I now know that I don’t want to slip away. I can see nearly objectively how I am slowly withdrawing from the world, and I want to balance the words with the pure ideas behind them to remain present. I think I would feel empty and deprived without access to the words — this I am sure every writer feels — and so I will attempt to let the tide of language carry me along while keeping my head above water. I will try to live my life fully as a writer, just as countless writers before me have grappled with their burdens.
This way I stumble day to day, trying to make informed adolescent decisions while the words swirl around me and consume me, poking me in the back and urging me to use [78]
[79]
An Autobiography Laurence Brent Chapter 1 I am a young adult. Responsibility is flung onto me. I clasp the sides and strain my back to hold onto the massive load. I am grown. In my independence is confidence, In my contemplation is fear. Chapter 2 I am a teenager. Responsibility appears massive to my small eyes. I strain my back while my parents hold my hand and drag me through it. I am not the master of my domain. I am a pampered guest. In my ignorance is bliss, In my maturity is doubt. Chapter 3 I am a kid. Responsibility is my play toy. I throw it against a concrete wall and laugh at its insignificance. I am unconcerned. I am cooperative with the system. In my complacency is home, In my youth is pure joy. Chapter 4 I am a toddler. I live in the now. I love all.
Callie Richards
Chapter 5 I exist.
[80]
[81]
The Literary & Art Magazine of LREI High School IE STAFF: Milo Booke Olivia Dontsov Sophie Furman E Jeremijenko-Conley Maya Kaufman Lilah van Rens Josephine Viemeister Middle School IE STAFF Sarah Grados Lucy Hirschfeld Ben Maltz Pilar Olivieri Lindsay Seitz Sadie Stern Jerry Wexler Noah Wistman
Faculty StaFF: Jane Belton: High School Editorial Advisor Sara Momii Roberts: Middle School Editorial Advisor James French & Susan Now: High School Arts Advisors Nathalie Hall: Middle School Arts Advisor Stephen MacGillivray: Production Advisor Special thanks to: Phil Kassen, Ruth Geyer Jurgensen, Mark Silberberg, and Laura Hahn
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