ACS Athens - The Literary Arts Magazine

The Literary Arts Magazine

2016-17

A publication of the ACS Athens Literary Society ~Art by May Apostolou

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Contents Image to Word: Creative Writing Inspired by Art............................................................ Page 4 The Lavender Tunnel ~Maira Pyrgioti............................................................................... Page 4 Blackout ~Sofia Schoenbauer.............................................................................................. Page 4 Home~Nicholaos Mintas..................................................................................................... Page 5 My Journey~Kalypso Barbalia............................................................................................. Page 5 The Light Within Me~Marcus Cabatic............................................................................... Page 5 Utopia of Memories~Nora Jorgensen................................................................................. Page 6 If Only We Were Birds~Anonymous.................................................................................. Page 7 Home With No Father~Erymantheia Platanitis................................................................ Page 8 YOLO~Marie Heder............................................................................................................. Page 8 Cancer and Greed~Dimitris Pantazis................................................................................. Page 9 No Time to Heed~Abigail Bello ......................................................................................... Page 9 Heartbeat~Zoe Scotes.........................................................................................................Page 10 Let There Be Light~Stavros Demetriades .......................................................................Page 12 Beyond~Sascha Constantinou Malek...............................................................................Page 13 Youth~Ilia Ioannides ..........................................................................................................Page 14 Happiness~Artemis Mitropoulou.....................................................................................Page 15 A Leap of Faith~Sofia Sofokleous ....................................................................................Page 16 Drip~Shan Zhou..................................................................................................................Page 16 Yet Another Day~~Violetta Alargof ................................................................................Page 17 If I had a magic Pen~Owen Weng....................................................................................Page 17 How Free are We Truly?~Artemis Fotinos......................................................................Page 18 Not Anonymous Anymore~Anonymous ........................................................................Page 20 The Last Paddle Stroke~Sofia Sofokleous .......................................................................Page 21 An Interesting Essay~George Dougalis ...........................................................................Page 22 Carnivorous Friendship~Jason Stavropoulos .................................................................Page 24 Disappearing~Grace Metcalf.............................................................................................Page 24 The Virgin Hodegetria~Christos Tsourekas ...................................................................Page 25 White-Face-Yellow-Hair~Abigail Bello............................................................................Page 26 Subvocalization~George Dougalis....................................................................................Page 27

Credits & Acknowledgements Editorial: May Apostolou, Abigail Bello, George Dougalis, Artemis Fotinos, Andrea Jorgensen, Fay Nikolopoulou, Sophia Pipa, Maria Rifotis, Zoe Scotes, Sofia Schoenbauer, Eirini Stylianopoulos, Sofia Syrma, Fotis Tsitsos Production: Abigail Bello, George Dougalis, Andrea Jorgensen, Sofia Schoenbauer Artists and Illustrators: George Dougalis, Andrea Jorgensen, Maria Palios, Aliki Papoutsi, Maira Pyrgioti, Sofia Schoenbauer, Christos Tsourekas Cover Art: May Apostolou Back Cover Art: Athena Kotrozou Faculty Advisor: Mr Hercules Lianos Special Thanks: Mr. John Papadakis, Ms Leigh Anderson, Ms Elizabeth Ktorides, Ms Sophia Soseilos, Ms Leda Tsoukia Produced by The Literary Arts Society ACS Athens 2016-17 -3-

IMAGE TO WORD Creative Writing Inspired by Art a drawing & painting class project

Imagine you are trapped in one of Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings…

You slip from one surface to another. You hide within the folds. You try to escape but you can’t. You struggle to reach the yellow. It is shiny. You feel its soft surface. The wind is strong. You are falling…

I

am swimming through a boysenberry lake and I am slowly sinking into the warm, gloomy water. I am trapped in the pitch-dark and my body is submerged into the glossy, dark red waterfall of blood. I am falling until I reach the darkest pit. When I look around I see a tiny lilac path that leads me to an unilluminated, starless sky. I am struggling to climb up as a mulberry, a powerful stream slides past me, as if it is dancing in the pathless paths. Finally, I see a white, shiny sparkle radiating at the end of the bitter dark. And when I think that I am under the bright, dazzling sun, I run into a lavender tunnel.

There is a sweet, sugary smell that spreads through the pleasant atmosphere. I can either stay here enjoying this delightful magical life, or I can choose to walk on the sunrays, which if I’m lucky, can lead me to my sun. In my glassy eyes all the colors of the orchids and the periwinkle flowers are reflected, but then there is just the bitter dark. As I open them for one last time I see white snowflakes falling slowly on the icycold ground, covering me with a soft, powdery layer of snow, but then a shiny sparkle gets lost inside me and lights up my heart again.

The Lavender Tunnel ~Maira Pyrgioti

H

ow did I get here? This is without a doubt one of the darkest places I’ve been to, as far as I can remember. The last few hours went missing... I don’t like it, not being able to recall something that just happened. My brain does not react to what I want to know. I feel my pulse quickening; this will only make it worse... Concentration’s ~Art by Maira Pyrgioti gone, flown away along the shapes and lines of these walls. If I only had a light... For some reason, the wall at the end of the hallway is painted lighter than the browns around here. But somehow it seems that a newer, lighter film of color is placed over them with every step towards it. The brown falls back, relieving the pressure. My pulse goes back to normal. White spots flood my vision, the ground gets softer, it feels like walking on clouds. I want to stay here, but my feet drag me further. Suddenly the clouds break up, a glimpse of the sun and a broad skyline appear, leaving me stunned by the beauty I see, so close to my soul. But it does not last, night falls, and just as the last sun rays fade away, my feet drag me to the edge of the night. I am loose again, the fall never ends...

Blackout ~Sofia Schoenbauer -4-

I

don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am heading. Everything is blurry. Everything is moving painfully slow. Everything swirls and that makes me dizzy. I feel like I am stepping on quicksand and I am going under. I don’t like it here, but I don’t want to leave. Maybe this is what this is all about. Going somewhere, not knowing why, being scared but not wanting to leave. I think that this place has to offer me both the worse and best at the same time. It’s like this place is hostile and friendly at the same time, like it wants me dead and alive at the same time. Turns out that I like it here; it reminds me of home.

Home~Nicholaos Mintas

I

am inside a rainbow of happiness. If I get out it’s going to be a dark world. It feels like I am dreaming. Am I? So many colors, from light to dark… I can’t even choose which one I like best. It ~ Art by Marianna Paida feels like I am moving all over the place. I rush through all the surfaces, the valleys of colors, but there is nowhere to stop as there are so many beautiful shades to slip in and out. Everything looks so beautiful but complicated and frightening. My feet are heavy. I stop. I get nowhere at the end. I am just frozen.

My Journey~Kalypso Barbalia ~Art by Marina Papadimitrakopoulou

T

he sky is dark. It encloses me in its indifferent grasp. Slowly the light within me flows like a gentle stream filling the chasm of darkness. Slowly grass grows from within, filling it with lively greenery, bringing exotic flowers and scents. I inhale the light within me and it grows brighter. I inhale again and the light spills out like a raging waterfall. The dark encloses it forming a dark raindrop. The flow of light does not stop and rushes through, yet again forming a gentle stream of milky white resembling stars that touches the earth. Again the grassland forms forests along with bright blue streams of water. Then, everything is stills.

The Light Within Me~Marcus Cabatic -5-

W

ind - gusts breaking the silence, gleaming golden strands about her face as rays bathing in the vacant light, the sun already lost in the mirage of clouds. The scene was like a photograph, reflecting the surroundings perfectly, nothing changed in twenty years. Nothing except the ethereal figure standing in the midst of it all.

Her face, still glowing with youth, had no trace of the miserable childhood left behind. Still, the gloomy light brought back memories never intentioned…

“Annabelle! Honey, we have to leave, we have to-” The howling storm ripped mother’s words away, and the frightened toddler stared back, clenching her dolls. Concerned faces looked out from the entrance to the tornado shelter. Just then, a gust blew one of the precious dolls away, and the ignorant little girl immediately wept and scurried after it, ignoring the winds ripping at her skirts. Without concern, she ran off, leaving a mortified mother in the gateway, her path to her beloved daughter blocked by a fallen tree. ~ Art by Aliki Papoutsi The young child recognised her mother’s cries, and suddenly turned, the illumination of lightening giving her a last view of her only family’s face.

One wrong step, the clumsy child tumbled down, and darkness erupted.

Everyone had called her a miracle, a survivor destined for success. She was told someone had picked her out in the heavens, protecting her. “In the heavens, where her mother would be”, Annabelle always thought. Sure, she lived a great life, but no one had asked her how she wanted that evening to turn out. For her, she was just stuck in an alternate world, neither fictional nor real, where day and night, all she could see was her mother’s face, gorgeously illuminated by the lightening that would take her away forever.

Utopia of Memories~Nora Jorgensen

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If Only We Were Birds

I

braided her long, golden hair for the last time, thinking about how much I’d miss her. She was the most beautiful girl I knew, both inside and outside.

She was selfless, calm and kind. Her bright green eyes shone and lit the room every time she smiled. I loved her more than anything in the world.

I helped her pack her suitcase. We hugged each other for the last time. As soon as she left I started wandering around the apartment observing its emptiness, loneliness, stillness. It was quieter than ever. I don’t like quiet places, it makes me nervous.

To feel time pass I decided to look at some pictures of ours, hidden in a brown, wooden box, on a high, deserted shelf in my closet. We wanted to keep our relationship a secret. People thought we were just friends, but they thought wrong.

While looking at the pictures, a new thought started chasing me. What if she would forget me?

What if she would find someone she loves more?

knew that if she would confess to her parents that she was not what they expected her to be, there would be consequences.

Some days passed, but I didn’t notice. Then, one evening, I heard a knock on the door and it was May. She was crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Surprised and clueless, I needed to know what was going on. I held her away from me to see her beautiful face better. But it had lost its brightness. She had scars, blisters, scratches. I noticed that she wasn’t willing to open her eye, even there, she was hurt... Her hair had been cut, her soft, golden hair, gone with just a few cuts. She had told someone about us, the guilt I could see in her eye told me everything I needed to know.

We heard loud knocking and screaming. We understood that the people who came after her had proceeded to finally set an end to May’s life. We had no way of getting out of this. May told me that she didn’t want to be here anymore. She didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to live. When she asked me to

~Photo by Maria Palios Would we ever see each other again? My heart filled with emptiness, I returned the pictures back to where I join her, I didn’t hesitate. I wouldn’t have been able to had taken them from, and sat on our bed, covering my live without the person I love most. We climbed up on legs from the cold breeze that I suddenly felt. At that the windowsill, holding each other’s hands. My heart moment I thought it may have entered the apartment raced as my toes hung over the edge. We kissed one through the big window across me. I tried to picture last time.

“Ready?” I asked. She nodded. I squished her hand our last hug. I tried to feel her warmth. The harder I one last time. We both jumped. We had enough time tried, the less I could remember.

It is difficult being a woman who loves other to spread our arms, imagining they were our wings. women. Society can’t accept us. We are just as equal If only we were birds… I thought. We looked at each and just as individual as people who are considered other one last time, smiled one last time.

All that was left was the box filled with old to be “normal”. I do not understand why society treats memories, and the curtains of the window flying with someone like me different, just for feeling differently…

It was difficult for May to keep our relationship the wind. Wishing that maybe they were birds too. a secret. The biggest difficulty for her was to keep it a ~Anonymous secret from her parents, whom she loved so much. She -7-

Home With No Father Nobody appreciates what’s already given Nobody will change knowing they will always be forgiven, and when consequences appear, all we can do is wait, with fingers crossed, till they disappear It’s funny how we destroy life in order to survive we all have a common mother, she won’t always be there it’s a home with no father, we need to take care we all love what’s around us, we sit and admire, but at the same time we are feeding fuel to a fire the time will come when we will consider it a miracle to just hold a flower the simplest things will become the hardest in a few years, tears will be our only harvest they say everyone deserves a second chance we’ve had too many, what if this is the last? we are hanging from a piece of string, it’s dental floss thin its getting thinner and thinner but still...

YOLO

nobody appreciates what’s already given nobody will change knowing they’ll always be forgiven ~Erymantheia Platanitis

Empties lay on the ground around, Another in his hand.

Speech slurs and reasoning is weak, His memory blows like sand.

Chambers the bullet, gives it a spin, And holds it to his head.

Odds are reduced to one in six, It’s fun until he’s dead.

The things he does to get a thrill, Either desperate or a dunce.

At such a young age, there’s years ahead still, But hey, “you only live once.” ~Marie Heder

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No Time to Heed As I fly up here in the sky I cannot help but ask them why The soldiers of the world beneath Place silver swords in golden sheath Tittering down there to and fro Like hatchlings parents on the go So no one has the time to heed A petty little bird like me Still one stop short and stares my way And gives a smile that’s full of play He answers me, ‘There’s war to come.’

I more than hope the battle’s won Down below there’s screams of sorrow Stolen from a free tomorrow Blood and gore meet my search for life And now I curse those fiends of strife Men fought for valor to be known Men died protecting house and home It seems to me the battle’s won But weeping and tears are yet to come Men’s lives have been given for lives To leave mourning children and wives Such victory is not truly won In the hearts of their mothers and sons

~Photo by Sofia Schoenbauer

Cancer and Greed

I say there’s no joy in violence But my cries just meet the silence As no one has the time to heed A petty little bird like me

They grow without control, and cannot stop They aren’t normal like all the others They will not stop until they’re on the top They steal from your friends and your mothers

~Abigail Bello

The cancer cells I say to you above Are no different than a greedy man Me first, self-centered, scheming traits we love I will get you first before you dare can So where is the difference, if I may ask To kill the good cells or kill the good man It’s me first because I wear my death mask I truly don’t care cause that’s my game plan So give me medicine, or give me grief I will always make sure there’s no relief ~Dimitris Pantazis -9-

Heartbeat

I

follow Anthony into the alley. I watch as he looks around uneasily, flicking out his tongue and running it against chapped lips. He’s a beautiful boy. Not that many people would use the term beautiful for a boy. Or use the term boy for a twenty-seven year old man. But I can’t help either.

A cat yowls, and Anthony jumps. It’s all I can do to not jump with him. ‘Why are we here?’ I want to ask. ‘What are you doing?’

I try to follow him everywhere, but sometimes I can’t. There’s no other word to describe it: I just can’t. And it’s terrible. When I’m not near Anthony, I feel like I’m surrounded in darkness, floating aimlessly until someone turns the lights on. Anthony is in control of the lights.

And when he goes somewhere I can’t follow…it’s like he’s switched the power off.

“Hello? Are you here?” he says, and although he’s trying to sound brave, I know it’s all bluster. “I came like we said.” I briefly wonder who he’s talking to-- it’s certainly not me-- when a laugh is heard, harsh and cold. Anthony and I both whip our heads around to face its owner.

Although it’s a sunny day, the stranger seems to be cloaked in gloom, and he’s wearing a grin that I instantly don’t trust.

“Of course I’m here,” he says. “Did you bring the money?” Anthony licks his lips again. He’s had this habit for longer than I can remember. “I need an extension.” The man’s smile sours.

“An extended extension, you mean. I’ve given you two weeks, kid.”

“I know,” Anthony mumbles.

“I don’t see me ever getting my money at this rate.”

“I said you would.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about. I don’t know what’s going on. But I can see something bad is going to happen soon, and I have no way to prevent it.

When Anthony was younger, I can’t even begin to count the injuries I took for him. Pain was, and is, nothing to me: if it spares Anthony, I’ll gladly go through anything. When it comes to verbal matters though, I’m powerless to help. I can only sit back and pray the outcome doesn’t hurt Anthony -- and me-- too much.

“I’ve waited two whole weeks,” the man snarls.

“I said, you--” The man takes a step forward, but Anthony stands his ground. He’s always been stubborn.

“Words aren’t cash. I want my money, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it. Just wait a little longer, and--” “Guess what, kid? I’ve waited too damn long.”

A flash of silver is all I register before a pistol is in his hand. Anthony still doesn’t back away.

His mouth hangs slightly open; dumbstruck.

‘Run,’ I tell him. ‘Please, for the love of God, run.’

Anthony doesn’t hear me. He never does. My voice is weak, it doesn’t carry.

“Put that away,” he says shakily. “I’m sure we can reach an arrangement.”

The man regards him with skepticism. His fingers play with the trigger like a cat might play with a mouse.

Anthony has a unique relationship with words. He’s a master of persuasion, a bender of language. He can shape words to manipulate people’s beliefs in a heartbeat. Convincing this strange man for an extension--- whatever that means--- should be a cinch for him. He’ll just - 10 -

talk his way out like he always does.

Then I look at the man; the way the afternoon light doesn’t seem to bathe him like it does everyone else, the way his eyebrows curve over his eyes like snakes. He’s a phantom come from night and here to haunt. Cruel. Harsh. Impossible to reason with.

I think that’s when it hits me that, for once, Anthony’s words won’t save him.

A shot echoes, and I scream.

Nobody hears it.

I can only watch as Anthony pauses for a second before falling to his knees. I feel the impact on my own; rough gravelly shards of rock digging into my legs. It doesn’t hurt like it should.

Like I said, my relationship with pain has always been a little sketchy.

Anthony’s breathing has picked up: he’s now breathing quick, shallow breaths. I don’t know if this is good or bad. I try to call for help (from someone, anyone,) but my voice fails me.

It always does. Anthony is the charmer with words, he’s the one who knows exactly what quick-witted remark to spit out at exactly what time. I’m just the silver to his gold.

Speaking of breaths and words--- I feel both catch in my throat as Anthony slowly drops to the ground. He’s practically laying on top of me. This is the nearest I’ve ever been to him, and I don’t know what I should be feeling.

‘I didn’t follow you here for this,’ I whisper. ‘I wouldn’t have followed you here if I knew this would happen.’

That’s a lie, and I know it even as I say it.

I’ve followed Anthony everywhere all his life.

When he went home, I accompanied him, keeping a close look on traffic and other obstacles.

When he went to school in the mornings, I trailed behind him, listening as he whistled a careless tune to himself. When he was around, I felt alive, even if the admiration only went one way.

I now have a new claim to add to this list: While he died, I was the only one lying next to him, whispering words (although I’ve never been good with them) and listening to his fading heartbeat.

Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

I wonder what that man’s shadow is thinking right now.

Are they in shock with what their bonded one did to mine? Or are they as head over heels as I am, to the point of forgiving any sin, no matter how grievous?

Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

Maybe all shadows give their hearts to the person they’re connected to. It’s not the first time this idea has crossed my mind, but it will probably the last.

I don’t know what I’ll do, or what I’ll become, after Anthony is gone. He feels so warm next to me, so alive. If I try really hard, I can almost pretend we’re at home, and he’s reciting something for work in his black spinning chair while I sit nearby and listen.

Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

I always listen.

Anthony always talks, and I always listen.

So that’s what I do now. It’s all I can do now.

I lie down, and I think, and I listen.

Silence. ~Zoe Scotes - 11 -

~Photo by George Dougalis

Let There Be Light Nothing there was And nothing there is A hollow truth based on a lie An unabridged lie, lying on the truth Who you are I do not know O how my memory Betrays Me

O my dearest Judas how could I forget thee?

O how ashamed I am to forget such a great man Never has there been a man as brave as thee Remembered you are for your fight for Liberty There is only a single Benedict Arnold For every man is born alone And every man shall die alone

You must Cain, son of Adam Such beauty all around me I see Endless it is, the fruit of the ground Watered with blood was is it not?

Who you are I do not know O how my memory Betrays Me

O Brutus O Brutus My Brother and my friend Your loyalty is noted for, with the words Et tu Brute?

Atlas I am Forever condemned to support this lie ~Stavros Dimitriadis

Never has there been a softer kiss For 30 pieces of silver A man shall walk free

- 12 -

S

Beyond

till she sat, gazing out into the darkness through the wide open window at the corner of her room, she see’s a long plain field that lay beyond it. She had always wanted to know what was on the other side of the thick, gloomy trees. Whenever she’d lean forward to get a closer look, the delicate window drapes would stroke her cheek, as if pushing her away.

A tractor trail path cut the field in two, moving along the field of autumn grass, tilting to the left, leading away from the dense forest.

The sky thick, seemed different over by the trees. She was always alone, in her bitter room where she lay. She would continue to sit and stare, glaring through her window, with her eyes set on the trees, wondering what was beyond the seemingly mysterious section of her view.

As she ascended from her bed, she approached the creaky door and exited the room.

She was lying in the field, beside the deep tire tracks on the opposite side of the trees, keeping her distance as she inspected it. As she was sitting calmly on the dying and decaying grass, she, being closer to the trees, felt less scared. However, she was more suspicious as to what, if anything, was on the other side.

Getting up and walking to the trees would bring back terrible memories.

Nonetheless, a decision was later made to just get up and go. Leaving everything behind her, she got up, looked down at the tire tracks, and stepped passed them. She continued walking in angst, longing return, yet continuing forward. She peered up, seeing the giant body of trees towering over her, stepped ahead, and had entered the gloomy forest. ~Sascha Constantinou Malek

~Art by Nick Lagarias - 13 -

Y

Youth

outh. A dove who is deemed an ant. At no point in life are the senses more intact and interconnected than they are in our youth. We investigate reality with our sight, touch, taste, smell, and ears. Our innocence allows us to leap fearlessly with a thirst for knowledge. Context is yet to be set and its blankness allows wider perception. In actuality, youth sees transparently and perceives without presumptions.

Haven’t you noticed how babies inquisitively search the world with a lightness in their eyes; it is sight in its purest form.

Although babies usually have countless toys, they always prefer to play with random objects. They turn and twist the object, investigate every angle, and then, once fulfilling the sense of touch, they put the object in their mouth. The senses are combined to create a more complete perception. Inquisitiveness is innate in all of us, yet more often than not, it is hidden under layers of unsubstantial substance.

Youth is heavily disrespected and degraded. Quite ridiculous (isn’t it?), for people to attempt to define anyone other than themselves. How many times have you been told you don’t know, that you’ll understand when you’re older, that you can’t do this and can’t do that? This phenomenon especially presents itself in the relationship between youth and adulthood. An issue which is both internal and external. This supposed superiority adults believe to possess shows ignorance rather than wisdom. Yes, experiences are quintessential to our existence, and for obvious reasons an older person has more experiences. Nevertheless, you never know what experiences each person has or more importantly, if and how they are applied.

A wise person, regardless of age, does not degrade others. Instead of embracing the beauty of youth, it is often stampeded. Soaring spirits are deemed ants, with little importance, and they’re stepped on by the heavy elephants.

Gaiman’s crusade against the spiritual disservice of shielding children from difficult emotions is one of many examples. What good does shielding someone from the truth do? These children are going to live in a world which is tailored to an unreal fantasy. But don’t we all?

Plato claims there is a right moment for the introduction of each topic, and I agree, or at least partially so. The key word is “moment,” for it can be personalized, unlike the stereotypical assignment of age and its given attributes. While certain topics should not be heavily imposed on children, to shield someone from truth is deplorable. It is manipulative.

Each person reaches each stage in their life at a different age. Even if we were to generalize these stages and assume every person experiences the same stages, at the same age (which of course is not the case), it would still be wrong as it discourages growth and encourages disdain. The words “you don’t know” bear ignorance, close-mindedness and discrimination. That voice saying “you don’t know”... We should be saying it to ourselves, not to others! ~Ilia Ioannidi - 14 -

~Photo by Andrea Jorgensen

Happiness

E

veryone keeps saying “find happiness and everything will be alright,” but what does that really mean?

What is real happiness? People say it’s having a lot of money, others say it’s going to a good university, others say it is being in a relationship, but I do not think that is it. The thing is, when it comes to money, relationships, and where you will study happiness is not really there. If you have a lot of money you may be happy for some time but there will always be that person who has more than you. If you are in a relationship you may be happy, but at one point or another you will break up, and let’s be honest relationships are not just rainbows and sunshine. Now, the university that you go to may bring you good jobs and a ‘good’ life, but does that mean you will be happy?

Happiness is not just one thing, it is many. Real happiness is being able to enjoy the small things in life, like going out with your friends, or enjoying the same movie for the fifth time at home while eating popcorn, or sleeping near the Christmas tree because you just like how it looks or really want to meet Santa. Happiness is being extremely nervous and having all your best friends home because you have to find that one perfect outfit for that special date. Happiness is even staying home in your pajamas sitting on your couch while reading a book. Happiness is being able to say what you believe and being your true self while feeling comfortable about it. Happiness is staring at the fireplace while drinking hot chocolate. Happiness is getting to go to that concert you’ve been trying so hard to find tickets to. You see, happiness can be found in many places, and it can also be created by sadness, because finding happiness is not as easy as it sounds. Some say that one cannot find happiness if they do not have someone to share it with, and I think that’s true.

Happiness is an odd thing and seems so difficult to find, but all you have to do is stop trying so hard to find it and just look around you. ~Artemis Mitropoulou - 15 -

Drip The lamp upstairs asks the tree by the window, but the tree by the window asks the road to the shadow, what is the rain saying through the night?

The road to the shadow asks the bridge up the stream but the bridge up the steam asks the umbrella of my dream, what is the rain saying through the night?

The umbrella of my dream asks the croaking frog near the pond, but the croaking frog near the pond asks the thick fog all around. what is the rain saying through the night?

The thick fog asks the lamp upstairs; but the lamp upstairs asks the man under the lamp; And the man under the lamp Looks up and asks: why is it still raining What is the rain saying through the night?

A Leap of Faith

~Shan Zhou

Your tears unfold in silence like a silver chain, While their dance bedazzles you with its quivering light, You stand enthralled and watch them fade into the most pure white, As if their spell delivered you from an unknown pain.

To stay drowned in your sorrows seems now cowardly and vain.

As night falls lazily, the moon sheds its light, Anxious to expose before you the magic of the twilight.

Your deepest dreams resurface slyly, it’s time for them to reign.

Your soul cries out to them in eagerness and pride; Ready am I to leave this world and towards the unknown fly.

For my heart, it’s time to take a leap of faith, not hide.

If it wasn’t for my memories, I would surely try And lock the past behind me, by now a useless guide.

I shall then be free indeed, and not prone to cry. ~Sofia Sofokleous

- 16 -

Yet Another Day Yesterday I met companionship, Chairs pulled out and laughter set free, Life seemed a pleasant trip, As far as I yesterday could see…

But then the sun will always set, And darkness drowns the dusk, Today’s rain rose with regret, And now I deal with another task….

The loud shrieks of the lone souls And their shade under the moonlight, Remind me of yesterday’s goals, Which fell with the curtain of the night, Because today, chairs are pushed in, And emotions pushed aside, Can I in this loneliness’ game win?

The chances are small and the margins wide.

And thought after thought, Yesterday went by, Having lost what I forever sought, With today’s rise, I whisper goodbye, So before yesterday forever fades away, Let me try keep to it for yet another day.

If I had a magic pen What happens if one had a magic pen?

If I had a magic pen, I would draw the outline of the first beam of sunlight in the morning, Then, enjoy its warmness.

Hold it with my hands, And put it in my heart.

~Violetta Alargof

If I had a magic pen, I would draw the eyes of the sky.

Although I don’t know how it is, It must be beautiful.

And emerges slowly, Full of unexplainable happiness.

If I had a pen, I would draw the grass, And the flowers beside it, With a broad and quiet clearing.

They are always together, And play with me.

If I had a magic pen, I would draw my dreams.

Whether they are long or short, happy or sad.

If I had a magic pen, You would live forever in my dreams.

~Photo by Sofia Schoenbauer

~Owen Weng - 17 -

How Free Are We Truly?

F

ew have and will consider the shackles that have been placed on us from birth, by the society we inevitably are a part of. These bonds come in the form of “dos” and “don’ts”, as we are instructed, from as early on as childhood, to abide to the social norms that have been prearranged by past generations. These norms are simply rules that are hardly ever broken, as they accommodate greatly those in control of the masses and of the greater schemes of things. This discussion, therefore, surely includes the concept of money and capitalism; if one comes to look closely those are the two irrevocably interrelated governing forces of all human activity on this planet. We are all shaped from a young age to uphold certain behaviors and beliefs that will make us the efficient and moneymaking machines that we are expected to become.

So where does this molding begin from? Certainly this is initiated from the educational system both in means of school and parenting. At heart, school tells children that they must aspire to excel in all domains so that they achieve a symbolic grade of their intelligence, a statement that at its core is faulty. How can the holistic capabilities of a child be represented by a grade? How does that grade demonstrate its imagination, creativity, personality and its overall effort? It simply does not. What the grading system achieves, is to place children in categories that inevitably makes them compare to one another. This unhealthy and certainly unnecessary antagonism and pressure, grows as one progresses from primary to secondary school and then to college. We begin comparing ourselves firstly to our classmates, then to our domestic peers and then to the international student population, which we are pinned up against when undergoing the college application process. Children are thus taught in an almost innate manner, that they must be the best at school in order to be chosen by a university. Iron~Art by Nick Lagarias ically they are simultaneously taught to be unique while they are socially labeled and categorize so to form a mass - so much for uniqueness.

But what is truly meant by being the best? It surely does not mean being the best version of one’s self, as it simply means to be the best on paper; having the best grades, the best scores on standardized testing, the best recommendations, the best of everything. One must be the perfect mold of what the education system has to offer, which quite frankly is very little. What is truly achieved therefore by being the best in this manner? It bluntly means that one is the most efficient and most convenient to be further on molded in higher education, where you will continue to strive for the best grades and scores that at the end of the day might not represent not even a third of who you truly are or can be.

But why does that matter when the degrees we earn and all future degrees will get us a good job with sufficient money for our family and us to live by. If we sit down to do the cost-benefit

- 18 -

analysis, we will find that according to what we have been taught, it is more beneficial to excel in the road that has been set forth for us by society instead of doing it our own way.

Because that way will not allow us to obtain all the materialistic and superficial things that the capitalistic system we have been living in for the last decades, has told us we need.

Then the evaluation of the society, which prompts consumption and a dream of happiness through money acquisition, must enter the scene. How is it that the greatest part of earth’s population has come to grow up thinking that education leads to job security and that in turn job security leads to money, which then leads to success and happiness? How has this domino effect been so deeply instilled in the millennials’ mentality, restricting them from the true intellectual and spiritual freedom that an individual can achieve? Such effect goes hand in hand with the exponential growth of the individualistic attitude, which prompts every person to look after themselves and only.

This is what I believe has led to the moral disintegration of our world the past years, from the economic crisis to the environmental disasters.

Every leader, every worker, every politician, every citizen looks solemnly after his interests and concerns. This indicates that one will not turn around to bother about the harm he/she is inflicting on third parties while he/she goes about everyday activities that allow him/her to obtain the means he has learned to desire. This is why there are environmental disasters all around us, since company leaders neglect the evident catastrophes they cause through their production or promotion of consumption because doing so leads to an increase in revenue and thus profit.

This is also why poverty has nearly doubled around the world instead of halved through projects such as the Millennium Development Goals.

People are suffering all over the globe, whole countries are being sacrificed at the altar of international interests and source exploitation, while most of us just turn a blind eye and go about our life, because such events don’t directly affect us. There is no sense of unity, no belief in the greater good of our neighbors regardless of their nationality, color, religion and personal preferences. As to whether this deterioration of ethos directly affects us or not is not even a question. We all have been desensitized, to pursue our own moment of glory as a form of pretentious utilitarianism and completely disregard the concept of altruism. Especially when it comes to love. The solution is as simple and as complicated as it has ever been – “When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” ~Artemis Fotinos - 19 -

T

Not Anonymous Anymore

he velvet rose plummeted. The bloody petals separated and stained the polished wooden floor. The security guard clad in his uniform lowered his glasses to stare at him. Both exchanged a look for a moment. Harry tried to smile.

“Are you alright?” questioned the guard.

“Do you know the name of this artist?” Harry responded.

“No. This was anonymously donated to the museum last year.”

Harry took a step back. He sat on the bench that was in the middle of the room. His gaze was locked on the girl sitting on his bed looking outside his window, which overlooked the factory where he used to work. Four years he entered at sunrise and returned to this nondescript place after sunset. He came to the big city to attend art school. During his first drawing class, he sat next to Sally. They went back to his place to chat. He took out his sketchbook and made her immortal.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Should they be folded, open, crisscrossed?

The guard walked slowly around the room.

The fallen flower was a new accent to this painting. Should he say sorry?

Years ago again he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He gave her a huge hug and handed her his heart. He held her with every stroke of his pencil. She smiled. She thanked him for the picture. She said she wanted to be a model. She wanted more.

She came up from behind and placed her hands over his eyes. The scent of the rose tickled his senses. He didn’t want to turn around.

~Art by Hyun Joung Yoon

He took her hands and they began to leave the room. They were sticky from the candy she slipped into her mouth.

“Can we go now? I saw all the pretty ladies.” She whined.

“Of course. Do you have a favorite from this wall?”

“No. The one in the middle looks boring. She is just sitting in an empty room.”

She might have become immortal. Yet her life stood still. His was full of love and laughter that she left behind.

Take that immortality. No one knows that was me preserving her for the world. Yet Everyone knows this little beauty is my one and only. She does not stand still or want it all. She only wants me. She will never feel that she was left behind for more. Harry felt the old black and white photograph of Rosie, his daughter, on the beach in his pocket. Everyone knew who the creator of this picture was! Sally will and is anonymous sitting on the bed. Who had it all?

He decided that he would go back and tell the guard the title of the painting. It should not be unknown.

- 20 -

~Anonymous

The Last Paddle Stroke

“A

and dream a different dream. A young Ben was holding his hand firmly, dragging him towards the shore. Ben stooped over a silver conch, and he encouraged him to pick it up. The calm setting was unexpectedly overturned. The old man watched horrified as the conch grew larger and larger, rolling away into the sea, dragging Ben along with it. He crawled desperately after his son, but it proved too late as his heart refused to follow him into this parallel journey and dissolved into hundreds of pieces.

Angie was half asleep when her father’s steps echoed down the stairs. She tucked the edge of the blanket closer as if to protect herself against the cruel reality. They all needed a rest in order to recollect themselves and stay strong for Ben’s unborn child’s shake. “After all”, she thought, “she should learn to embrace change. At her age, it had become an inevitable part of her existence.” It did not take her long to fall fast asleep.

Her dream took her back to when she was a little girl, laughing and playing recklessly in their back garden. “I could not possibly leave before saying goodbye, Angie.”, the sound of her father’s voice made her jump. “It’s time to go fishing. Will you be all right?” “I am a big girl, dad. You know, I can take care of myself.”, she hardly heard herself say gaily. These were the last words she would ever speak to her father.

She woke up suddenly in the middle of the night to the sound of harsh waves lapping furiously against the rocky shore. She pressed her hands against her chest and looked fearfully outside the window. She heard footsteps approaching hastily before James, their neighbour, broke in, shaking. “Angie, I’m sorry.”, he fumbled. She held her breath and looked away proudly, filled with tears.

The sun was rising in a cobalt blue sky as Angie made her way away from the cottage. She waved longingly at the sea, which had regained her calm after a tortuous night and was emanating, by now, a serene beauty. She thanked her silently for accompanying her father to his last journey and for teaching her the secret of life. She now perceived with clarity what her father meant when he advised her to live life fully, according to her truth, because no season would ever remain the same. After a long storm, Angie was finally ready to welcome the calm in her life and honour the legacy of her loved ones.

nd when would that be? Sooner rather than later, isn’t it?” the old man closed his eyes, swearing to himself. He retired breathless onto the worn out couch, looking absent-mindedly through the window. Afar in the horizon, the sun delved into the sea, drowning willingly into dusk.

The young woman nodded hesitantly, but didn’t speak right away. She knew her father’s ways. He always let his pride get the better of him.

As it was, his broken voice could not but betray his torment.

“Late November, I think.”, she let out faintly.

“But, surely, there’s still time for her to change her mind, if we could only persuade her to..”

His hands fell abruptly from his face. “It will be fine. She’s a strong woman. She can raise that baby by herself.”, he whispered, gesturing nervously as if to silence her. “That’s what Ben would …”, he whispered weakly and it suddenly seemed as if all light and sound was drained from the room in an instant.

It was early into the night when the thunderstorm struck. The old man was still laying awake, trying to assimilate the unexpected news. The distant thoughts, images and voices swirled through his mind. If Ben had not gone fishing that day, how would all of them be in a different place now.

Who knows, maybe he could have sold the sea house and moved with his son and daughter-in law to the city. “It’s Ben’s gift to us.” Angie’s voice echoed through the silence. He felt numb inside at the memory of his son and his momentary resilience surprised even him.

“No amount of tears could change the situation”, he told himself; He decidedly got up and gazed into the cool darkness, his soul hungrily seeking the boat. The dark blue vessel, stared at him mockingly, as it moved swiftly, dancing along with the waves, inviting him to a duel.

As he walked towards the shore, the old man fought the memories that kept storming back, unravelling mercilessly the past before his eyes.

“I begged him not to go fishing with a hurricane warning. It was too dangerous. If only I had insisted.”, he mumbled. “But then again, my Ben was never one to back down in fear or avoid risk.” He seized firmly the paddles and for once let the boat lead the way.

When the first wave hit him, he had already made up his mind to wake up from the nightmare - 21 -

~Sofia Sofokleous

An “Interesting” Essay

W

ords are what we use to communicate. In doing so we try to pick the right words to articulate precisely our intended message. This is known as linguistic accuracy.

Instead of repeating the same words in our every conversation, we try to choose a variety of words from a wide spectrum of our vocabulary in order to express what we mean more explicitly. Words have texture, color, taste, scent, temperature, weight. Some are denser, thereby dissolve slower. Others leave a mark. The thing with words is that they mean things. And we have all agreed - whether we know it or not - to use them appropriately. A sentence amongst the likes of the following is acceptable: “I walked my dog to the park so that he could go about his business, and I could have some fresh air;” while one structured as “Climbing drama insensitive dragon adoring mushrooms” will perhaps be appreciated as spaced-out poetry but not as meaningful text. It is a duty to use words correctly and a self serving process at the same time, because this is how we get people to understand us. And we want that, right?

Words are wonderful but we have made a habit of misusing them. Sad little words like good or bad come to mind; or words that have been tormented to the point that they have lost all meaning like horrible and terrible. But the most brutally tortured, ridiculed and abused word I can think of is no other than the misfortunate “interesting.” And in this word’s case, the suffering of it isn’t to be blamed on young people. For it is not them that are responsible for its neglect. It is working professionals. And professionals whose use of language is supposed to be masterful. Businessmen and even teachers. Its misuse, however, also points to a phenomenon, one whose effects can be very detrimental to our society.

Misuse of the word interesting has given people a “pass” to comment on something just for the record, without actually commenting anything. Someone says something with which you disagree? Worry not! There is one word that lets you get away without having to say anything. Say “interesting,” momentarily act like you are considering it and move on. Someone says something you do not care about? Relax! Just act like you were listening, muffle “interesting,” wait for a minute and move on.

When has avoiding communication of all sorts been any easier? And when has misuse of language been any more acceptable? After all, you may argue that you didn’t do anything wrong. You just commented that what they said was interesting. But did you find it peculiar, bright, stimulating, and worthy of attention? Did It spark a little flame of curiosity inside you? Or is it that you just didn’t care, or didn’t even listen? You probably couldn’t even be bothered to phrase that in a non-offensive way and just decided to toss a plain old “interesting” in there.

Interesting is a safe choice, since in the way it is used it indicates nothing. It doesn’t indicate whether you agree or disagree with the person’s claims; whether you consider their point or completely disregard it. It says nothing. And that’s the worse part of it all. This delightful, expressive, once proud word means nothing anymore. And this is a great loss to all of us.

Remember the times when certain things were interesting? You heard a new type of music, told your friends you found it interesting, went home and listened to some more, discovered new artists, learnt songs by heart, broadened your horizons and grew as a person. Or you saw a bunch of kids in a field playing a sport you’ve never played before. It seemed fun and you were interested. You approached them, introduced yourself, asked if you could - 22 -

play. You made new friends, discovered new things and explored and enhanced your interests. Or the day you met a person who really did have something interesting to say.

Something you had never considered before. Something that made you question things you thought you knew. Now you mean to tell me that the water-cooler conversation you’ve had with a co-worker earlier today about his weekend was the same sort of interesting for you? But were you even listening?

Let’s now analyze the phenomenon from a linguistic point of view. To do so we must first establish some common ground. In structural linguistics, all words are conceived as “signs.” Each sign is unique and is made up of a signifier (sound-image/ form) and a signified (mental concept/ content). The connection of the two forms the sign. For example, a cat (the sign), spelled as “C-A-T” and pronounced as “/’kæt/” (signifier) is a small furry animal that typically has four legs (signified).

In the case of “interesting” what we have is the disconnection of the signifier and the signified, ultimately resulting in two things. For one, the sign as a whole is now broken and can no longer serve its purpose - which is a great loss to our vocabulary; but what’s more important and even threatening is that now a signifier has replaced a sign and became able to stand on its own, with no signified meaning, no purpose, just filling up space.

This, however, is not about one sign, it is not about one word, it is not about “interesting.” Look at the word “awesome,” as well. Do the things we label awesome fill us with awe and fearful wonder? Or how about the word “amazing?” When was the last time your friend truly had an amazing idea, one that astonished you and filled you with fascination?

There are dozens of other words, that exist in the same state, just as empty signifiers, but it is not about them, nor is it about them as a collective either. This is about communication at large and conversation in general. In the era when emojis, memes and abbreviations of cliche statements have replaced words in all online platforms and daily communication, we cannot afford to stand idle as more and more of our vocabulary’s assets become hollow. Having empty signifiers replacing signs establishes the proposition that meaning/ content is unnecessary and all that matters is the reproduction of empty form.

But for how long can we sustain a type of communication that is deprived of meaning? Because even if a hollow tree makes for a great hiding spot, we can never count on it to fuel a strong fire. ~Photo by Andrea Jorgensen - 23 -

~George Dougalis

Carnivorous Friendship Would it be wrong to compare a burger To an exceedingly loving best friend?

It’s like an emotional absorber But one where you don’t have to overspend.

One might eat a burger seeking pleasure Just how a best friend would seek a good time Some refer to best friends as rare treasures But a friend is not dinner and that’s fine A friend would always be the correct choice Over a burger with exquisite taste a best friend does have a beautiful voice And a friend is not easily replaced you could compare a burger to a friend But unlike a burger a friend has no end ~Jason Stavropoulos

Y

Dissappearing

ou climb the thick green slopes, yearning to reach the top. A cloud of fog seems to watch over you, during your ascent. Wise, watchful blues dance within the fog, trying to motivate you on. Climbing higher and higher the grass beneath you sways in the breeze, brushing your ankles. You see the top in sight. The fog billows in excitement and the grass pushes you with every step. You reach the peak with one final tag and feel the magnificent beauty enveloping your mind, your soul and your body, making you disappear in the cascade of colors forever. ~Grace Metcalf

~Photo by Sofia Schoenbauer - 24 -

The Virgin Hodegetria Church. Church. Church.

Dome. Dome. Dome.

One church, one Dome.

One more.

My footsteps take me across the threshold, Same old church, one dome.

Aged intricacies, Frescos with one eye and half a smile.

Bricks peeking through Holes in faded blue.

My eyes are satisfied By the beauty on the walls.

I wondered under the dome, Staring up at the saints, Staring back down at me.

My gaze drifts towards the narthex...

There’s something different, There’s one dome.

But wait, six domes.

It’s unbelievable, My curious eyes must explore and see more.

Outside and above, Six unexpected domes.

Last church, best church.

The Virgin Hodegetria. ~Christos Tsourekas

- 25 -

A

White-Face-Yellow-Hair

hmed should not have followed the white-face-yellow-hair woman through the streets of Cairo. He should not have, but he was glad he did. He could only sit, drink coffee, and play cards for so long. She was the adventure of his younger days that he missed so sorely. Yet an adventure she ceased to be as they arrived at the base of the pyramids. His heart sank. Of course she was just another tourist, even as today was just another day.

She didn’t act like any-other-tourist at the base of these ‘wonders.’ She didn’t gasp and ask anyone within reach to photograph her. She stood and stared, then she turned toward the desert.

Ahmed kept his distance, he stood at the vendor carts and watched what she would do.

She walked twenty paces. She removed a blanket from her shoulder bag and sat on it. She set two worn boots directly in front of her. She removed a fancy camera from her bag.

She photographed the boots. All angles and all directions, as if she was trying to make those pieces of trash into a work of art.

Then she left. She didn’t buy anything.

She didn’t photograph the pyramids.

She didn’t even spare a glance for the ~Art by Athena Kotrozou vendors. Ahmed continued to follow her, more and more intrigued and less and less comfortable following this strange woman. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty Ahmed made up his mind to leave and pursue his own business. But then the woman spoke, “Salaam ya aamo,” she spoke Arabic with no accent. “Please don’t think I haven’t noticed you.

Would you like to see why I do these things?”

She unlocked the apartment building door to her right and gestured for him to enter. The halls of the building she lead him into smelled like the hospital his brother died in. “How old are you?” she asked him.

“Saba oo sitteen,” he responded. Sixty-three.

“My father is eighty.”

She opened the door to reveal a room of tubes and life-machines. The old man opened his eyes and stared at Ahmed. He even looks like my brother. Ahmed wondered if this woman too had been warned to say her last goodbyes.

“I’m Angela, his name is Clancy.” The woman - Angela- explained as she pulled two chairs toward the bedside. “He has been sick for four years. We are here to check the final items off his bucket list. Here he lives through me.”

About an hour later Ahmed exited that same room, and returned to his home and his family.

His wife made another delicious dinner and his son came to visit and tell them how the family business fared. The next day he went to the mosque and said his prayers to Allah. Life went back to the mundane and average, but somehow everything changed.

Everything was different, because somewhere along the same streets he walked every day there was a woman. One who squandered her family fortune on her dying father. One who lived selflessly enough to invite an old Arab man into her magic. The white-face-yellow-hair woman - she had changed everything. ~Abigail Bello

- 26 -

Subvocalization The city dark, the city is cold But the sky is bright which gives me hope Another sunrise, another dawn Another day spent on this world The count to ten has reached eleven The men were 8 but now they’re seven None breathes, none walks None moves and none talks Still life beyond a painting Death sits of the window seal Patiently waiting Empty streets, empty minds Random men who catch your eye Evening’s sudden thoughts Written in broken Spanish words There’s a leak dripping from the sealing And a widow down-stairs grieving One can wish and one can pray But nothing comes through uneven trade For you to get what you desire You must burn in your own fire ~George Dougalis

- 27 -

~Photo by George Dougalis

~Art by Athena Kotrozou

The ACS Athens Literary Arts Magazine www.acs.gr ©2016-17