Table of Contents Words
(in order of appearance)
Rachel Dutaud Katie Prucnal Allie Salazar Ivana Wang Scott Yehl Mercury Rebecca Saltzman Alicia Franklin Jesse Chai Karen Bao Teryn Mitchell Jessica Klimoff Emefa Agawu Cassie Lehman n Patrick Lynch Max Dickey Maddie Alden Terence Sodbinow Enyonam Akpoblu Aleksandra Taranov Jason Perlman Kim Palagyi Liana Bloom Helena Ord Melissa Zambrana Katelyn Bechler Yana Oganesova Farshad Tahvildar-Zadeh Kathy Wong
Visions
1, 27 3 5 5 6 6, 18, 25, 27 8 9 9 10-12 17 17 18 21 21 23 27 28 28 30 30 31, 44 35 40 40 42 42 44 45
(in order of appearance)
Veronika Bychkova Katie Prucnal Emily Kalish Alicia Franklin Emma Wingreen
2, 4, 7, 13, 16, 22, 26, 29, 32, 33, 36 3 8, 9, 12, 14, 15, 20 20 44
Anonymous
submissions are not listed.
the ivy phs’s magazine of the arts Staff
Karen Bao Alex Braverman Maddie Davis Avital Drucker (Editor) Victoria Ehrbar Nicola Faus Rachel Klebanov Jessica Klimoff (Editor) Jon Taratuta-Titus (Editor) Melissa Zambrana
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Mr. Cameron
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Color versions of recent issues are available through our website. To submit to The Ivy, drop off words or visions in the mailbox at the door of the libary or email them to theivy.phs@gmail. com. We are always eager to receive your art.
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The thing no one ever mentioned about angels was how much junk they collected. Now that the demon stopped to think about it, it did make sense. Earth-bound angels lived (sometimes in one place) for hundreds of years before they finished their mission and were much less prone to trashing their homes than demonds. See, it started off as a game. He would shift through the piles until he found something interestnig and he’d bring the find to the angel and they could dredge up as many memories about the item as they could. They’d exchange stories and tease each other. They even spent some of their more boring years on Earth doing so. Yes, it was unconventional. But to be honest (which he found he was a lot more often with angel around to needle him) so was their friendship. And he wasn’t about to stop either one of them. -Rachel Dutaud
I arrived late. The dancing had already started in a whirlwind of multicolored skirts and spinning. And he was already there, the freshly dyed blue streaks in his blond hair the same shade of dark blue as his uniform. The music had already begun to play, a new song. He was already surrounded by my friends and the thirteen other men, always near and always wearing those matching uniforms with the gold epaulettes. A single man in green slinking away as quickly, fighting to get away, but looking back all the same. I knew how he felt. I forgot all of them. Except the man with the braids and wolfish smile, twirling a slender brunet across the hall. Madeleine. They said we were here to celebrate the end of the war. I was there for him. I arrived late. The dancing had already started. And he was noticeably absent. They music had begun to play, a different song. My eyes slid over the crowd. He was gone. So were most of the other men who always arrived with him and the ones who were present were painfully different. I supposed I should have known he wouldn’t stay once the war ended. They said he was a hero. I’d seen the statue, larger than life and attended the ceremony. They said we were here to celebrate the end of the war, for real this time. I was here for him. Where was he, then? one
-Rachel Dutaud
two
three
four
My Love of Food food, food, food, that stuff controls my mood when I see it on that glistening plate my senses are ignited my taste buds gets excited, oh boy, I just cant wait! nom, nom, nom, food never does me wrong salty, sour, tangy, sweet my love of food goes very far, when we go out it rides in my car, boy, oh boy I love to eat! -Alli Salazar
Lost Black caps, hand clapping clanging drums, Jazzy foot tapping Broadway’s latest stares at you, a closer glimpse, reveals the inconspicuous a man, hands prop up his chin, his narrow eyes seem to wader, other worldly, what could he be thinking? What about that hot dog vendor, will the smoke lick his arms forever? What about the child, peering anxiously though her apartment window, could she be waiting for someone? A jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be put together, making up the whole, Lost in the eyes of a foreigner -Ivana Wang five
In the car I sit and wait For the instructor who would decide my fate Seventeen years of being driven everywhere Getting my license was only fair The instructor opened the car door and sat right in Then she told me “You are ready to begin” I took a deep breath in and out I kept composure despite my desires to shout I tried to get the car out of park As a driver this would be my first mark I tired and tried to move the stick But it would not move even a bit I wanted my mom and I wanted to cry If I couldn’t move the car I could kiss that license goodbye I tried every move possible under the sun Until I heard the instructor tell me to first turn the car on -Anonymous
Red, Orange, and swift. her gracefulness deceives Rising from the ashes She cannot be defeated He rises to the occassion and prevails. Phoenix: there is no lost cause there is only success, there is only overcoming. Red orange and swift, like the flame from which She falls. She is always rising. She will always rise. -Anonymous
Just as summers are hot and winters are cold, my daily routine is getting old. I need a change, something new to see this time we’re in is not for me. Get up early, go to school, repeat every day, no time to play, I need a change something new to see, this daily routine is not for me. - Anonymous
“Come From Dat Udder” Yummy drink come from dat udder yummy mold come from dat udder yummy butter come from dat udder. also yummy bacteria come from dat udder yummy breast feed come from dat udder yummy kefir come from dat udder. lactate more yummy stuff. -Scott Yehl
Ivy League-from a loyal tree I know that I am--to you--what you can only comprehend: My tone, my thoughts, my voice. Maybe I will grow ivy some day too, For I have grown as the best of them do But trust- my dark shade will not bring the Ivies --as much as you’d like to say -Mercury
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seven
Rainbow Life: RED: My heart Beats. Blood pumping, rushing to my brain. My blood pumping life through my veins, letting my heart love, my brain think, and my soul fly. The same color blood as the minister that lives down the street, my mother, the prostitute who hangs out around 57th street and 10th avenue, my high school spanish teacher. Our Red blood. ORANGE: His Mother’s favorite orange high heels, 5 inches high. A gleaming beacon of hope hidden away by his father on a high shelf in the hall closet. Replaced lower down with never touched, year old soccer cleats. YELLOW: My new bright yellow lace bra, worn on my first date with her. She didn’t like it. It was too “feme”, I was “selling out” to society by buying into the concept of objectifying women. She said I was being disloyal to my sex. Hidden now at the bottom of my drawer, under piles of ugly black sports bras. I never felt like less of a woman. GREEN: The stems of broken flowers, torn roughly apart from their petals. The flowers he gave him left behind on the concrete. Mashed by a combat boot and mixed with scraped off skin. The torn off petals floating in a pool of blood of their previous owner. The green stems ground into the rough unforgiving concrete. BLUE: His tight tight jeans which his legs hesitantly walked in down to the lower east side, to a club filled with other tight tight jeans. Later guiltily hidden in the back of his closet. INDIGO: ize the PURPLE: eyes of
The bruise I tried to cover up with a scarf hoping no one will see and realwords of hate which caused it: Dyke, Fag, Clit sucker, Diablo, Devil. Her tight skirt, moving seductively to the music with her hips, followed by men and women. Her eyes only on mine.
RAINBOW: My red blood. His orange heels. My new yellow bra. The crushed green stems of his flowers. His tight tight blue jeans. My indigo bruise. Her purple skirt. This is my rainbow. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Purple. Rainbow Life. -Rebecca Saltzman
eight
The Lily It starts as a little seed that lies in the back of her mind. It secretly begins to grow when it is sprinkled with drops of appreciation. The stem pops up. It is tiny at first,but every month droplets of shame and doubt fall upon it and make the stem grow bigger while the roots weave their way through the grooves of her brain. The nourishment starts to come every week until the point where it flows on the foundation every day. She tries her best, she dolls herself up, she laughs, she flirts, she mingles, she runs, but there is always someone ahead of her, always someone beating her, petals begin to form. Every little thing gets to her, new petals grow each day. The lily takes over her brain, and her body lies numb -Alicia Franklin nine
Sitting in class, still starving for food, with an empty stomach, there is no academic mood I gaze outside, into the real world, gasping for air the material we learn in here, is it of any importance out there? Leonardo, Descartes, and Michaelangelo Newton, Cramer, and Donatello, would they help to cure our economic recession? Or will they be forgotten along with the now extinct Prussians? We have not yet gone insane because we know that it’s part of our grade but what do grades matter in identifying who we are? They are but only mere numbers Why must we calculate the energy released by a fire if more than half of us can’t even change a tire on such insignificant assignments, students work so hard, when they don’t even know the basics of a credit card. Have we really learned to live in PHS? -Jesse Chai
Ben Kansas, 1971 People started wondering two days after I did, on the dreary third day that Bernadette Laurel didn’t come to school. Some thought that she had left for Hollywood. Luke was sure that she was partying in a beach house in Turkey or somewhere. But the school consensus was that she was no longer in her house. Jenny Abrams lived right next door to her and hadn’t seen her the whole time. My name is Ellery, and I am a full-blooded Kansas girl, born and raised in and around this little town of Bolthill, population 3000. Ben moved here when we were in ninth grade, and nobody knew where from. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it were Los Angeles, New York or even Europe. She somehow avoided both a tan and freckles in the unforgiving sun of the Great Plains, and kept her hair flawlessly long and straight. It was as gold as my mother’s wedding ring and seemed to reflect more than its rightful share of light. Her clothes were predominantly dark and consisted of big button-down shirts, which I suspected were from the men’s section in some urban department store, and those new, radically tight leggings. In slightly colder temperatures she wore ragged, boxy jackets and shiny leather belts with her trousers. A few times a week, at least, she came to school in scarlet leather boots that came almost up to her knees. Those shoes caught every person’s eye and made all the fashionistas salivate with envy. I saw those distinctive boots paving though a hallway, and knew that Ben was approaching. I always wondered how her parents, especially her dad, took to her eccentricity. He was the new chief of police and also one of the principal sponsors of one of two churches in town. I knew, because my dad, the preacher, had to consistently make him happy. He was a thin but menacing man with a balding pate, and carried himself with his skinny head pushed forward, as if he was determined to find out everything you ever did. I remember the first thing she said to me, all that time ago: “Elle.” Usually I hated the ultra-feminine nickname, but it sounded musical and sturdy in her soft, low voice. On top of that, I was surprised and elated that she even knew my name. She talked magnetically, as if she understood you inside and out, knew a million secrets, and was about to tell you the ones you wanted to hear most. I was nervous and she was gregarious, with a slow, lazy smile that comforted yet unnerved me. Her blond hair brushed by the air molecules around us; I could almost hear them swooshing past the individual strands. She never fully opened her eyes, probably knowing that her dark eyelashes mysteriously hovered over them enticingly. I internally shushed my heart, which was thumping around in new and confusing ways. I had to do that for years to come. Quite simply, we stayed acquaintances, but she moved on to befriend the more outgoing and cosmopolitan of the Bolthill adolescent population. Last year, she started seeing my next-door neighbor, John Yeeman, and my world turned a sickening electric green. Though he had a heart of eiderdown, his strong, sturdy build contrasted awfully with hers in my eyes. I had always dressed nicely and put on a little bit of eyeshadow, but I began to pick up black liquid eyeliner from the CVS all the way in Topeka, to the dismay of my parents. Luke had always assured me that my eyes were my best feature. My efforts were futile, of course. She and I had totally different places in our school’s social infrastructure, and John was an average girl’s daydream. But more importantly, by virtue of gender, I was no match for him. I wasn’t even in the running. That day, the sky was a gray mass, as if God were lowering His brooding eyebrows on the world, or more specifically, on the waving expanse of the prairie. The wind teased the dehydrated grasses, a dull imitation of the Ben’s gold hair. I felt slightly reassured when I saw John’s big body striding down the path to the front door of the school, casting a hazy blue shadow on the snow. He hadn’t been here in two days either, instead preferring to stay in his cozy house, but his absence had traumatized me quite a bit less than Ben’s. He had gone through a recent growth spurt, and it left him waving his limbs around clumsily. Once upon a time, he had been a slightly chubby little boy, short for our age and continually smiling. I could hardly make out the vestiges of that little sprite in the big guy advancing towards us. “Hey, John,” Luke said. “Glad to see you.” “Hi.” John nodded at him with a blank face, then shot me a poisonous glare. He might as well have injected me with cyanide. I gulped and prayed to the good Lord he wasn’t telepathic. Maybe he had known about my ogling Ben for a long time. The cold air pierced through my wool coat even more and I shuddered from the back of my neck down to my numb toes. He began running away, towards the school entrance, and his water bottle fell from his backpack and into the snow. I ran after him to pick it up, hoping to regain his favor. His icy, blue-eyed glare continued nevertheless. “Please leave me alone, Ellery.” He started losing it in gym class. We were playing soccer, a sport that Ben excelled at, and it probably reminded him of her. Ben wasn’t there during roll call, of course, and that probably bothered him too. There were his friends, who teased him about the “vanishing lady.” There were her friends, who infelicitously came up to him and asked, “Did you guys split?” Liz Mathers, who wore her permed hair in a ponytail directly on the top of her head, had a voice too high and loud for her own good. “What ever. See? He doesn’t even have the guts to talk about her. She was probably better off with Andy anyway-” John defiantly kicked the ball into her abdomen. “Ow!” Then she started crying as her friends crowded around her and asked, “Are you okay?” in high chirping voices. He didn’t hear any of that. He just walked off the slippery indoor court. Then he turned around and hollered, “Everybody just shut up and go to hell!” Of course, in Bolthill, this was blasphemy. Every eye in the cramped, putrid gym turned to the crazy boy standing in the ten
doorway with fists clenched and veins standing out in his muscular arms. He ran out of the room. I felt like crying. His parents were friends with mine, and he always had something dry and funny to say at our dinner parties. He told great stories. And now he was reduced to a cursing, emotive piece of wreckage, dashed against the rocks by the tides of insensitive people around us. True, I hadn’t spent much time with him since middle school due to gradual social stratification, but I felt a kind of duty to care for him because I had known him since we were both in diapers. There was a slightly dorky thing I could do for him that would probably induce embarrassed vomiting in any of his posse members. I could bake.
I walked quickly home and registered the contents of our pantry. Despite his intimidating bulk, John preferred sweets over more “manly” fare, as I had learned over the years, and his favorite delicacies were probably my mom’s ginger snap cookies. We were short on flour and eggs, and my parents wouldn’t be home for another few hours. That left me one option: Luke, who had full use of his dad’s pickup truck before 6:00 at night. “Luke,” I said quickly into my home phone receiver. “Can you take me to the store? Really quickly? I just need two things and that’ll be it.” “Huh? Ellery?” he said groggily. “I was just about to take a nap.” I snorted loudly to jolt his eardrum. “Seriously. If you give me thirty minutes of your time, there will be baked goods involved in your reward.” He sighed equally loudly just to irritate me as compensation for his compliance. “Fine. You promised.” I slammed down the receiver with a smile tugging at the corners of my melancholy mouth. When I heard a honking noise like a flock of Canadian geese, I knew the pickup had arrived. I bounced through the freezing air, right up to Luke’s passenger door and fiddled with the loose handle until it opened for me. As usually, the inside of the pickup truck was toasty enough to make me almost forget that I had just spent thirty seconds in the unforgiving cold. He greeted me with a prolonged roll of his eyes. “You know, this is only for the cookies.”
Mom insisted on walking me over to John’s house, even though it was only some three hundred yards away. I clutched the Tupperware box with my cold, clammy hands but could feel the reassuring, friendly warmth of the ginger snap cookies inside. I had carefully wrapped a bunch of the irregularly-shaped ones in plastic wrap for Luke’s lunch tomorrow. The front door was tugged open, and it stuck to the hinges somewhat, as if it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Funny, I used to come here all the time as a little kid. “Hi,” he said quietly. “You should come in.” “Well, no thanks. I’m just coming over to say hi,” my mom chirped with a smile. She was always smiling. Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t. Her sticky grin made you feel like trusting her, but I doubted she trusted anyone back except for God, and maybe Dad. John’s own mom showed up behind him, dwarfed by him and looking about as pallid and insubstantial as he. “Hi, Mrs. Yeeman.” I stepped into their front hall and took off my brown leather boots over their yellow welcome mat. “Here, John. Smell!” I pressed the warm plastic into his big hands. He smiled slightly as he removed the lid. “Ginger snaps.” “Mmhmm.” “For me?” “Obviously.” Now he really smiled, and some color diffused into his face. He bit into a fragrant cookie, which was so soft that it fragmented in his hands. I followed him to the worn, dilapidated brown sofas in his living room that had been there since the dawn of time. I started eating a cookie too. Mom’s cookies were spicy but sugary, and they warmed you up from the bottom of your stomach. “Thanks for the eats, Ellery. It’s been a rough day,” he admitted, in accordance with his habit of understating everything. “No problem. I get to eat them too!” With my words and a wide smile, I attempted to shove his weighty discomfort right out the window and into the snow. It was time to get talking. It worked. Suddenly he slumped even lower in the saggy sofa. “I didn’t mean to be mean to anyone today, you know? It’s that the whole Ben thing is driving me crazy.” I nodded. Boy, I understood him more than he knew. “Is she all right?” The irises of his eyes oscillated left and right as he looked me straight in the face. “I don’t know.” “Oh no. I’ve been worried.” “Really? I thought I was the only one who cared. I’m glad you do, too.” “Yep,” I said curtly, blushing awkwardly to myself. I cared, but not in the way you think I did. “When we were little, you were always the person waiting for the kid who ripped up his knee or something. Remember that?” He was opening his heart up before me, and the dusty memories and feelings of our youth, dormant for so many years, stretched themselves out next to us on the couch. John had covered up his childhood innocence with muscles and sinews, but I saw it still in his face, which had a healthy glow to it in the lamplight. He had lived in a safe world, one without complications, one ruled by the principles his parents taught him. He didn’t know about people like me, who violated law and religion only in their fantasies. I wondered dully if he, or anyone, could see past my perfectly ironed clothes, could look beyond my lipsticked smile and into the crazy passions behind it. I decided that no one could. I was safe. But a new heaviness in his brows pushed the notion of his naivete away. “Do you think that there’s a hidden side to every eleven
one?” The words knifed through my lungs and knocked the wind out of them. I panicked like a baby squirrel. Perhaps he knew about my strongest peculiarity. “Maybe. Are you still talking about Ben?” He bit into another cookie. I was glad I’d brought him half the batch. “Yeah. I went over to her house the other day and everything spiraled down from there.” He swallowed with a prolonged gulping noise, and his Adam’s apple bobbed precariously. He looked ready to tape his own mouth shut to keep from saying anything more. Ben’s predicament took priority over my tact. “You know you can tell me anything,” I prompted quietly, to keep him talking. “Okay. I guess. I mean, you never did tell anyone about the time I threw up on your table.” We both smiled fleetingly before he took the plunge. “So, I was at Ben’s house, in her room. She told me about how much she trusted me and all, and made me promise not to tell anyone anything, ever; then started saying that maybe she wasn’t like other girls. “And then I sort of knew what she meant. There was the way she dressed, but that seemed like something that people in New York would do. You know, where she came from. But then I looked around her bedroom for the first time and saw all these pictures of Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe and Liz Taylor on the walls. Her walls were dark purple. God, who has walls like that? And I saw the way she looked at Miss Gillian, and how she never hesitated to join in when my buds talked about the girls it was all for nothing, because now she is ‘one of them’. And that they moved from New York so that he could raise her like a good Christian and a productive member of society... “Her mom kinda slipped into the room and stood in the corner, behind the door, just crying her eyes out and wiping them on her apron. She started mumbling stuff and looking up at the ceiling, like she was praying. That really got me. “I ran right out of that house, because I really thought I was going to barf all over the pure white carpet. The whole structure could have crashed to the ground, with those cowardly people and their brave-as-heck daughter all mixed up inside. “Oh, and I don’t remember if I heard this right, but when I was leaving her room, he yelled, ‘Goodbye, son!’ Jesus, the nerve! What a moron!” I thought I’d never see the day that John Yeeman cried, but he did, and his back heaved like an earthquake was going on. I thought I’d never hug him once he entered puberty, either, but I did, for an indefinite amount of time. “Wow. You really do care for her,” I admitted aloud. Bile rose in my mouth as I thought of how I had deemed him unworthy to do so. “Where is she now?” He shrugged his big shoulders. I could feel the sheer power of his muscles shifting in my arms. “Probably hopped on a train or something, to somewhere that people are going to treat her better. I remember she had this big wad of money that she just stuffed in her coat pocket. It was like she was planning to get out of here at any moment, like she was just a rabbit waiting for the foxes to show up.” “God,” I murmured, taking the Lord’s name in vain. There was no other word to express myself with. When his tears had long dried up, I picked up my empty Tupperware and put on my puffy coat. “Thanks,” he said, and we went outside. The dying rays of the sun shone bloody red like Ben’s boots as it set in the West, the place of innovation and opportunity. No clouds marred the view of the beautiful scarlet rose that was folding in on itself before our eyes. She would arrive soon, we felt in the marrow of our bones, in the center of the rosebud, in Washington, Oregon, California: the promised land, where people would perhaps forgive her for existing the way she was. I sucked in the chilly air, filled up my lungs with up her indomitable courage and unwavering pride, and stored them away in my beating heart. Sooner or later, some day or other, I knew I was going to need them.
-Karen Bao
twelve
thirteen
Whatever. The midsummer’s bummers full of promise, strummers, drummers In the sweet heat, mouths meet, good streak, Venice street. Eyes bloodshot, forget me not’s, lessons taught, shoe laces caught. You and me, me and you, we, you, me... all the above. Persistent perfume, the constant doom, the cold rocky shores gloom, My chest is knots, the team mascot, the nonsense you talk, The sweetness of your soul, he’s on patrol, oh wait... no, parole, the crazy story He must have told. When the stars go blue, me and you, you and me, we, you, me... all the above. Your Silicone sister, her half-hearted mister, emotions like one real big twister, Walked out in a trance, she hated to dance; your poppa forgot the feeling of romance. Your wamr light house, the color of my blouse, he the seemingly inherent louse. When all hell breaks loose, me and you, you and me, we, you, me... all the above. Getting kinda older, feeling sorta bolder, his heart getting colder, oh well I certainly told ‘er, He’s deranged, plans rearranged, her love shortchanged, everything’s changed, lies exchanged, Summers end, love is pretend, the letter I never did send, a simple love to transcend When all the above seems impossible to remember, remember, it was Me and you, you and me, we, you, me, all the above, forever. Whatever. -Anonymous
fourteen
There are things you wish could happen that you only remember in dreams. How expensive is that delicious silk that you roll around in your breast pocket? Brimmed hat and brimming authority Comfort in your rule For sleek-bodied beauties bow to your will None having such glowing eyes as theirs And a mess of hair to capture their movement Fleeting like the blue and white lights amongst the night-filled bodies Hold Take one into your arms Feel her warmth next to yours And forget not a thing in the morning When you can look back So much dancing To the rhythm of her ecstatic heart.
-Anonymous
A Memory; freezing moments Memory is the essential root of human life the past sculpts the flow of time; defines the future shots of smiles, etched grief and vignettes of strife frames fused in a filmstrip; memory binds every suture But sometimes we forget and history replays and so in new problems, whose twins we’ve met Pain, Griev, Death, and Loss each stays. Once we hit failure, its a done deal We don’t learn from our mistakes Life is a recording reel and there are never retakes. -Anonymous
fifteen
sixteen
One Look, one Touch, one Voice One Sound, one Thought, one Whisper of Hope A collection of kisses, a carton of scattered rose petals All emblems of times past Mystery confounded the simplest of beauties The simplest, yet the most intrinsic of them all The rhythm of a heartbeat split in two Now buried beneath the shards of Mother’s broken window Extinguished
He sits, immobile, At the kitchen table. His chin dripping into his hand, His shoulders sagging into his spine, His cheeks falling down on his face, Every corner and sharp edge Melting together into Indistinguishable Unremarkable Wax. The flame that conquered him Withers into ash.
seventeen
-Jessica Klimoff
Flying thorns of pain, of grief, of confusion Thoughts scribbled hastily upon thin ice Forced into Fire and quickly drowned A peeking eyeball into the present future No confirming checkmark, no stark red ink Nothing to prove right or wrong A deficit of sparkling light Yet a heavy abundance of deep doubtful cold Questioning harmonies fill my Mind The elusive key to a hidden world of joy Which without I would be desperate Myself alone, lost in a maze of devastation
-Teryn Mitchell
In the stall Mirror, mirror on the wall whose the fairest of them all? rosy cheeks and sun kissed tone? this is such a lovely drone! Oh no no- don’t go deeper people won’t want to see her scary bones-grotesque like base that is such a scary face! Mirror, Mirror in the stall whereich lies the best of them all? -Mercury
When I say the world, I mean love. When I say love, I mean happiness. When I say happiness, I mean laughter. When I say laughter, I mean a window. When I say a window, I mean a gateway. When I say a gateway, I mean an entrance. When I say an entrance, I mean acceptance. When I say acceptance, I mean death. When I say death, I mean birth. When I say birth, I mean a new start. When I saw new, I mean ancient. When I say ancient, I mean mistakes. When I say mistakes, I mean learning. When I say learning, I mean love. And when I say love, I mean the world. -Anonymous
Breathe The silence of the air, heavy and thick on my tongue floods through and over the canal of my throat and nose. Sweeping with it the anxiety and promise and fear of the room. Sweeping with it the chalky taste of youth in revolt. And it erupts in my head, a symphony of the here and now, of the past and present, of the never, and forever. Quiet! -in. Exhale.
-Emefa Agawu
eighteen
Shattered The boy stood facing the glass store window in the light of the street lamp, back against the midnight wind. His left fist was clenched, knuckles white, and in his right hand, he held the rock, gently caressing its cold rough surface with his numb fingertips. The world was in his hand. He peered at his reflection in the window uneasily, seeing the pale, anxious face of a boy. He closed his eyes, imagining himself a man. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up against the icy winter night. It was his shield, his hopeful guard against the even more frigid cold he had been struck with many times before. The cold he was about to encounter once again. The boy lived on the other side of town with his mother and father. They were both in business and were almost never home, so they left him simple instructions like how to preheat the left-over spaghetti for dinner or to do his homework, then play his video games. His life was mapped out for him, planned down to the very day. He was locked in the chambers of his dungeon, his everyday routine. He needed an escape. There he was in front of the store. Time was running out. Without a second thought, he inhaled a deep breath and wound his arm back, hurling the rock through his reflection, shattering his fearful expression. The shards of glass dispersed, the sound of the impact screaming through the hollow, empty space. The heart-jerking alarm sounded as he nimbly sprinted through the hole in the window and onto the waxed floor, dodging the shadows of tables and counters, eager to find all that he lacked. Then it came. Low shouts echoed everywhere, the thud of heavy black shoes angrily pacing the floor[s] searching for their guilty prey. The flashlight, hungry for a frightened face, flickered on. He broke into a clumsy run through the shards of glass, out into the dead of night. Not surprisingly, the black shoes thundered after him, eager to chase him down, to put those iron claws around his feeble wrists. Minutes of running passed, then he listened close and heard the sound that rattled his knees and shook his heart every time. “You can’t run forever, boy!” the Voice shouted. It was the voice of all evil, painfully stinging like a gunshot, icy, and abrasive like the cuts of many knives. “I’m gonna get you!” He kept running, his legs pumping faster as he leapt over trash cans and wrought iron fences, heart numb and pounding with cold fear. His sneakers thundered against the slippery pavement, ink-black and iced over, and with each stride he took, he felt his breath grow ragged, his lungs sear in pain, chest heaving with the dull ache of his weakened heart. Still, he could not stop. He pushed on against the merciless wind, his running becoming clumsier, staggering, as the Voice gained on him. “I can’t let my hood fall,” he gasped to himself. “Can’t let it fall.” “I’ve got back up and they’re comin’ now, boy. Stop and put your hands up while you still can.” The Voice was threatening him, menacingly now, a roll of thunder in the silent night. He heard it faintly as he seemed to pick up speed. By this point he had become more aware of the red and blue lights flashing, feeling the glare of car lights burn holes through the back of his sweatshirt. They appeared to be far behind him, and he had one more fence to jump, then he’d be free of the Voice, free, safe, warm. He neared the monstrous gate, mind hazy and filled with thoughts of home. He could smell the fresh spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove, see his mother’s warm smile that rarely lit her face, hear his father’s crackling chuckle, a fire that almost never burned. The sound played like a broken record as he took a running jump. Mustering every last ounce of strength he had, he began to climb, cold metal cutting into his raw hands, sneakers slipping as he staggered his way to the top. He was almost there, just an inch farther, just-Rough hands grabbed at his clothing, pulling him down, prying him off the precious fence. “Hold him steady while I check his pockets,” the Voice barked as more hands pinned him to the cold ground, smashing his face into the concrete, pawing at him like crazed dogs. He struggled to get free, to keep his hood up. He stood, barely, blindly throwing a few punches as he hid his face. The Voice snarled. An abrupt kick to the gut sent the boy sprawling through every cell of his sore body. He saw the red and blue lights. Then darkness. “Gotcha.”
Only it wasn’t over yet. The car lights had gone out; the Voice was silenced. The boy, not wasting a minute of time, let out a yell that shattered the sudden silence. He jumped the gate with the heart of a lion and flew home, wishing to run straight into the comfort of his mother’s arms, hoping to hear the lullaby of his father’s voice... “I’m home!” he cried excitedly, voice bubbling up with ecstasy. He slammed the front door shut and ran about the house like a child in a playground. “I’m home!” he cried again. There was no answer. He yelled for minutes that seemed like hours, his voice growing hoarse with desperation. Finally he sat dejectedly, facing the hall mirror. In the light of the moon, he saw the true reflection of himself. Frightened. Full of sorrow. With no hope. A boy. With nineteen
an unforgiving pain he realized: shattering the glass window of the store did not change the fact that he was still a boy. Running from the Voice only showed that he was a child, not able to face any fear, not even his own fear of living a life where he had no control. The thoughts sunk into his aching head. Ever so slowly, he picked himself up off the floor and went out the front door towards the flashing lights. Towards the Voice and its black shoes. Back to the store, to pick up the pieces of shattered glass and put them back together.
-Anonymous
twenty
White Tranquility Suffocating the foliage Throwing cars off roads Cloaking the ridge Closing institutions responsible for growth Responsible for physical restitutions Making it dificult to make a harmonious ode Although, the way you cloak trees allow for adrenaline to be part of my drive Cover all the impurities of the forest floor Give children a well awaited rest What are you, White Tranquility? -Patrick Lynch
The apple of my eye and the life in my soul her gentle waves crash over me my body takes its toll Her streaming light dances under the forbidden sky her children rejoice as they laugh and they cry Her graceful screams and lovely roar quiet my begs of mercy Intoxicated with the promise she brings I silently let her submerge me She swings me back and around again but alas! The land doth come I barely escape her contorted form but solitude, she leaves me with none -Cassie Lehman
twenty-one
twenty-two
In a lifeless pond, a hungry man seeks fish, starving over a murky surface to fill the empty dish. The trout were common, not so long ago, there neither need for farm nor need for bow. So t’is very strange the fish have fled, as the man who seeks them fears they are dead. The pending famine sparks a seaborne range, and the angry man aboard plummet towards the murky cage. He neither drowns nor dies, but rather finds a stunning surprise: The pond is all gone, now a shallow mud-pit, full of those imagined fish that would never have bit. The surface is clear now, and there are clearly no fish, and the man looks elsewhere now to fill his empty dish. But t’is done, now, for he is out of bait; even worse, the coastal town could simply not wait. His futile aspirations kept him in place, as People look elsewhere forgetting his conservative face.
twenty-three
-Max Dickey
In the day, light shines through and illuminates the dust a thousand boarded up windows, walls lined with rust out in the street, the wind whips, cold, across the ones still in town must surely be lost the water’s polluted, the grass (overgrown) All that is here’s, exactly what’s shown as the night arrives, Darkness comes with it the streetlights don’t work or are very dimly lit. outside it is dangerous, no one wanders out there no one wants to be caught in the gasp of cold air some call it decrepit, a hell hole, a disgrace but I won’t forget that people live in this place. -Anonymous
twenty-four
Do you ever wonder Why nothing ever happens? You do the same thing day after day and nothing ever happens Well I’ve wondered about this before and its crossed my mind that maybe its me What if I’m not courageous enough? never put everything in the line hoping for the best. Play it safe, lie and hide staying friends, no sacrifice...
There are things you wish could happen that you only remember in dreams. How expensive is that delicious silk that you roll around in your breast pocket? Brimmed hat and brimming authority Comfort in our rule For sleek-bodied beauties bow to your will None having such glowing eyes as theirs And a mess of hair to capture their movement Fleeting like the blue and white lights amongst the night-filled bodied Hold Take one into your arms Feel her warmth next to yours And forget not a thing in the morning When you can look back So much dancing To the rhythm of her ecstatic heart -Anonymous
Sometimes I wish I had the balls to demand everything no pain no gain. -Anonymous
Waxy Ears (that do not hear) Often-and explicit-is the pain that plucks the sinews and tendons of my dreary heart. Often is the excitement that I feel for delightful little things, Solomon are these things keenly felt, believed, appreciated and now...no longer heard by those with waxy ears If only some jubilance for me could be expressed, or even falsified I am sure my life, no longer dreary, could then be as falsely joyous -Mercury
twenty-five
twenty-six
Pink and orange fill the sky As I sit upon the soft sand The sun slowly disappears As waves crash onto the shore this is my goodbye to summer. -Maddie Alden
Across the empty beach they stroll, The bride and groom, hands locked together And far above, the stormy grey clouds let loose a torrent of rain, Forcing the few of the beach to flee, Back to homes, hot chocolate, and tea. He pulls her into a dance, and so they waltz. Her gown whips around her legs As they dance,spinning and twirling, dipping and sailing. A victorious gust of wind teases loose her veil, sending it flying across the sand. But on they dance, as if oblivious to the world. A maid and avalet dahs across the sand, calling, umrellas in hand. And still they dance. Minutes pass, and the rain pours down. And still they dance. The rain patters to a halt and out comes the sun. A new start. And, on the beach, they dance. But every dance must have its end. So once more, they spin. And, sopping wet, he bows. And, dripping on that sand, she curtsies. And the maid and the valet heave a sigh of releif. They laugh, young and in love, The world is at their feet.
-Rachel Dutaud
High pH Salty streams upon a face that cannot see beyond this space where bars line around some box alas right here- marks the spot here is where my body rots -Mercury
twenty-seven
Snowflake Descending from the heavens God’s gift of eternal cold Children catch them with their tongues Never wanting to feel old. Creating frozen tundras inch by inch it begins to pile angry driver, stuck on the median knowing they’ll be there for a while Evil plows clear the white runways schoolchildren cringe with fright Have no fear, the weatherman says Snowflakes falling through -Terence Sodbinow I see my dream as a combinations of colors always beautiful and bright It’s enlightening and full of optimism like the color yellow Trustworthy toward my desires like the color blue It has a natural balance like the color green It protects my fears and anxieties like the color red It is uplifting like the color purple I choose to think of my dream in an encouraging way It’s the only way that can change all negativity. -Enyonam
The Drawer (anonymous) graveyard-ocean balloon boy descent into hell LIVE detached rainbow blob head red face mask peru: sharp mountain curving steps tile thing (maybe) clouds on machu picchu hummingbirds poem (maybe -Anonymous twenty-eight
Just as summers are hot And winters are cold, My daily routine is getting old.
I need a change, Something new to see This time we’re in is not for me. Get up early, go to school, Repeat every day, No time to play,
I need a change Something new to see, This daily routine is not for me. -Anonymous
twenty-nine
Identity Freedom from fear of expressionChallenging traditional notions and convention. With unrefreshed power and passion,devotion, To cultivating thought and embracing emotion I live for-love for language,music,peace,and repartee, And my own kind of free serenity. -Aleksandra Taranov
My legs reach below In darkness they sit around my body sits snow What a snug fit My head hangs above an eye in the sky sitting on my arm, a single dove What am I I awake with four legs and crawl around As the day progresses my balance is found to two legs I go and walking is found as day fades away and night time is bound to three legs I go all three on the ground. -Jason Perlman
thirty
COMIC SANS AN ABSOLUTELY HIDEOUS AND UNPROFESSIONAL FONT, USED BY INDIVIDUALS WHO HAVE NO SENSE OF DESIGN OR CLASS WHATSOEVER. IT HAS BEEN BANISHED TO THE SCHOOLS OF AMERICA WHERE TEACHERS USE IT TO HAUNT THEIR STUDENTS UNABASHEDLY. IT IS ONLY ACCEPTABLE IN THE SIMS FRANCHISE. -Kim Palagyi
thirty-one
thirty-two
penny a gallon the clearest skies no smell of rain the riverbeds empty of watery dreams he fears for his fallow fields of grain knowing htat life trickles from streams. the riverbeds empty of watery dreams filled instead of waste and debris knowing that life trickles from streams she thirts for that place so far fromth esea. filled instead of waste and debris the Great Wave churbes by Neptrune’s trident she thrist for that place so far fromthe sea a place that is steady, and safe, and silent the Great Wave churns by Neptue’s trident displacing him, so he searches for a place that is steady, and safe, and silent while he yearns to be washed ashore displacing him so he searches for a drop pf water to relieve the pain while he yearsns to be washed ashore the clearest skies no smell of rain.
thirty-three
-tony chen
thirty-four
Winter Daze As the short days drove away the flocking birds, the anxiety of the cold, bitter season accumulated like the flurries on the sidewalk. There was the hopelessness of staying indoors, shackled by a home knitted, light blue blanket that had been made during the same kind of weather. There was the patience of curling up with a book and unlimited amount of time to read it. There was the warmth of the ginger tea scorching my mouth on the short but seemingly endless trot to school. There was the hesitance of trusting the glassy sheet of ice beneath my feet as I tiptoed on the sidewalk. There was the mystery of plowing down the frozen slope on two thin planks of fiberglass, not knowing where the next turn would take you. There was the comfort of a yellow wool hat cradling my frostbitten ears that were longing for feeling again. There was the red- orange blaze from the artificial fireplace, bringing hope as it lit my tender face. There was the sweet aroma of cucumber chap stick as it soothed my cracking lips. There was the sense of camaraderie as old friends gathered on the top of a white hill, waiting their turn to speed down and land in a pile of fluffy, consoling powder. There was the unity of family as they placed the final touches on the molded man. There was the crack of the ice on the edge of the street, destroyed when a na誰ve child stepped on it. There was the trickle of water dripping off roof, finally freed after months. There was the depression of looking out the window to the molded man being destroyed by uninvited rain. There was the relief of wearing a light purple jacket instead of a colossal parka. There was the anxiety of the children as they ran outside for the first time, after being cooped in a beige classroom for so long. There was the hope the first green tulip bud brought as it poked through the rough soil, bringing the first signs of warmth in the outdoors. After looking back on the grim nights bringing grey days, I looked forward to the warmhearted season following. I would reminisce on the past few months, hoping the habitual activities would return the next time the flocks of birds left. -Liana Bloom
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
Mrs. Welds When we moved to Wisconsin after the ninth grade, my first impression of Killingsworth was through Mrs. Welds. She lived in the house next to ours, with two Rottweilers perpetually enclosed within her chicken wire fence. They escaped into our yard once in a while, but for the most part, Mrs. Welds’s only bad quality as a neighbor was how in-your-face she was. On our first Christmas here, she put up so many lights and inflatable snowmen and Santa Clauses that I still think she started the entire global warming crisis singlehandedly. It was some time in mid-December before she ever really tried to start a conversation with me. I was shoveling the snow off our driveway after a big snowstorm,and she was wading down her driveway in her heart-covered bathrobe and her snow boots in a quest for the Sunday paper, big mug of coffee in hand. I don’t mean this in a mean way, but she was pretty big; she looked like a heart-covered beach ball rolling down her driveway in the middle of winter. “So where are all your Christmas lights, Junior?” She called every boy on the street Junior, as far as I could tell. I wasn’t sure if it was because she had trouble remembering our names or if she simply had no desire to know them. “Oh, we don’t celebrate Christmas, Mrs. Welds.” Her smile faltered a little and she adjusted her newspaper in her arm. She was fast running out of good conversation topics. “Then what do you do for fun around here?” She giggled at her own joke, her stomach bouncing as she laughed. I told her that my dad was Jewish and my mom didn’t believe in organized religion. “She doesn’t believe in organized religion?” She put a lot of emphasis on each word as if it was some big joke. “She thinks it’s corrupt.” “And what kind of beliefs do you have, Junior?” I stuck my shovel into the ground so it shot out of the snow, a brown shock in a sea of white. “I worship Satan, Mrs. Welds.” I waited for her to catch on to the joke and laugh—that was people’s general reaction—but she just kind of looked at me with a smile fixed on her face and nodded. A moment passed between us as a snowplow rolled up the street, making a big mountain of snow at the end of the driveway right where I had just shoveled. “Alright, sweetheart, I’ll see you soon.” “Uh-huh.” She gave me a look over her shoulder as she walked away, spilling a bit of steaming coffee onto the snow as she did so. I watched the coffee splotches burn deeper and deeper holes in the layers of snow on her driveway before turning back to my shovel. She didn’t speak to me for a while after that beyond the mandatory, “Hi, Junior,” screeched from her porch as I walked home from school each day. Actually, she finally broke the silence when she complained to my parents that my hair was getting too long for a boy my age. She made a special visit to our kitchen for the occasion. “Gina, I think it’s time we discuss your son’s, ah, haircut.” I remember she had some cookie crumbs resting on her belly and another cookie on its way into her mouth as she spoke. Mom raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” “You can’t possibly be confused as to what I’m getting at here.” She paused to give herself a chance to chew the cookie. “Junior’s hair is reflecting badly on the entire neighborhood.” (This was before the news came out that the Hollands’ twin boys had secretly been running a meth business from their basement.) Mom put the remaining half of her cookie down on her plate. “Lynda,” Mom had said, “Charles has a right to his own fashion choices.” “Mrs. Steinberg, studies have shown that the majority of boys who have hair like that end up homeless drunks and worse.” I saw this moment as my chance to jump into the conversation. “Mrs. Welds, are you effing kidding—” Mom cut me off, her words like the cement wall my speeding car was suddenly crashing into “Charles, go upstairs.” “I’m staying here.” “Charles.” “Fine. I’ll be quiet.” Mom rolled her eyes, but Mrs. Welds just stared at me and nodded once or twice, as if I was verifying all of her assumptions about me. She left shortly after, her enormous behind swish-swishing from side to side as she walked down our walkway. FANTASY REALITY The next interaction we had with her was a few days afMrs. Welds called a few months later. ter her obituary was published in the local paper (“Lynda “Oh, hi, Mrs. Welds.” Welds dies at 56; Unknown By Many; The Few Who She didn’t sound as angry with me as she had seemed the Knew Her Are Sorry They last time we’d spoken. “Junior, sweetie, I have a job for you. Ever Did”). It was a couple years later, and we had found I want you to clean my gutters for the spring. How does that out by then that it was customary for everyone in Killingsound? I’ll pay fifteen dollars for the job.” sworth to attend a funeral; it was considered rude if you A week or two earlier, I’d actually been playing videos didn’t. Mom gave some flowers to Mrs. Welds’s nieces games with the first guy Mrs. Welds had hired to do her gutters, and nephews who had come up from Tennessee. And that Duke Herringwald, when he remembered that was supposed to was the end of our next- door neighbor, Mrs. Welds. have been at her house an hour earlier. After a, “Damn, oh well. Too late now,” we started another round of Black Ops. She was clearly looking for an alternative, albeit desperately if she was actually trying to hire me. I was almost tempted to turn down the job, but in all honesty, I needed the money; Killingsworth was proving to be incompatible for a human being without a car, and my bank account amounted to a whopping seventy-three dollars, not even enough for the used bicycle Duke’s older brother had been offering to sell me. thirty-eight
I dreaded the gutter job in the days leading up to it—I can’t remember how many days it was, exactly, maybe because they felt like a lot longer than they were. I imagined cleaning the gutters to consist of a steady stream of lectures about Christianity and bad haircuts, intermixed with Mrs. Welds eating fantastic amounts of chicken wings with her mouth open and Dr. Phil blaring from the living room. When the date finally came around, though, I showed up fifteen minutes late to a puzzled Mrs. Welds standing on her porch, with her arms crossed and her usual blond bouffant disappearing into a tight ponytail. “Junior, have you seen the nice boy who lives next door to you? The one with the golden retriever dog? I’ve been waiting for him to show up to clean my gutters for a good twenty minutes now.” I stopped in my tracks. I hadn’t actually started turning up her walkway from the sidewalk, so she couldn’t yet know that I had been aiming to go to her house to do just the job she was speaking of. “No, Mrs. Welds, I haven’t,” I said, and I just kept on walking.
thirty-nine
-Anonymous
The Bruise I wandered lonely as a cloud When suddenly I hit a crowd Of noisy students in the hall At PHS and took a fall. I slipped on something and I fell, A moment later my leg hurt like … The first thing I did was take off my shoe. Oh, my poor leg looked like it had a tattoo! Next day the bruise was really bad But it looked so good I wasn’t sad. If other people dye their hair, I’m happy with all the color down there. With all the shades from yellow to blue I can sport more colors than hair dyers do! I even saved money, as you will agree, ‘cause, after all, bruises are free!
-Helena Ord
The Upset. The Coping. The Ranting. This. Spirals. All I can see are spirals. Or perhaps I am spinning. Perhaps my life is spinning. Whirling around in circles. It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s just a boy. A silly boy. Nonsense. This is all nonsense. Find a new focal point. Why are boys your focal point. Love. Have a life. Focus on your life. Live in the moment. The moment that is not falling. Stability. Don’t look to the future. Don’t look to the past. The present. Focus on the present. ~Melissa Zambrana
forty
forty-one
Waking Up Feeling comes back into my toes, I hear myself breathing quietly, I start to remember, I see nothing--but a bright white light in front of black, I recollect. I remember. Thoughts of light hours flash through in a matter of seconds. Confusion fills my brain. I lift one eyelid, then quickly it closes. It didn’t exist. -Katelyn Bechler
When I step outside, I see you. Wind carries your scent over to me. Cold air against it, pure sweetness. You’re winning, your feet set you free. It’s dark, so your eyes aren’t green anymore. They’re cloudy, a sad shade of grey. Your movement pains me, can’t you stand still? When I leave, I’ll be again afraid. The sun hasn’t risen over us yet. I see pink, purple clouds above. It’s beautiful since we still see stars, Bright against the fading night’s dark. Building’s roof is still our favorite place. Lightning strikes but I don’t want to be far. One step closer, brings me closer unto the edge. Breathing slowly, tranquil, I step down. -Yana Oganesova
forty-two
forty-three
PLEASANTRIES Tape. Red hair. Soap. Bashing. Bananas. Mail. Cardboard. Dustbins. Anal. Angus. Bits. Blood. Teeth. Ice. Clams. Sheets. Swimming. Moss. Skis. Sticks. Crazy B------s. -Kim Palagyi
No one is “free” in this world, We are all human chains. We may be blind to them, but we feel their tug and pains. When we go to work every day, We feel our chains. When we hear the news, We are reminded of our chains. And yet we live on, Accepting our fate. For can we really break these chains, Which we have ourselves put in place? -Farshad Tahvildar-Zadeh
What makes some, Different from others? Please come, And explain this to me. Why can’t you close your eyes, And see the simple truth, That wherever our origin lies, All have a heart, body, and voice? Just imagine, The things we could do, If everyone realizes What we have in common. -Farshad Tahvildar-Zadeh
forty-four
Bounce. Red. Yellow. Purple. blue. Everywhere you looked, i saw other colors too. Each person was on a ball. And up they went, flapping their arms was all. Like cars, to each his own, You will not need a loan. Everybody was fine and dandy, As mcuh as the beach is sandy. Pleasant and calm as they say, You go where you want, okay? Now you can fly on these magical balls, Wave your arms around to steer, they call. Here, no one knows of misery, pain, grief Crazy and wild, the journey of a falling leaf. but, when I open my eyes, I have to wave to this world, a good-bye. -Kathy Wong
forty-five
Dear Diary, Today has been an absolutely normal day. I went to the moon, and was back before noon. I took some clouds home for dinner. I played some hoops with the stars, and won against the sun. The Milky Way had fresh cookies to share. I saw Jupiter, and he gave me hellos for mom. Pluto and I went ice-skating, and Venus joined too. The North Star was busy today, but he managed to give me some dreams. And so it seems, the sky still gleams. Yes, it was just another ordinary day.
-Anonymous