BFS Word Flirt 2014

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Word Flirt 2014

BROOKLYN FRIENDS UPPER SCHOOL

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Word Flirt 2014

Word Flirt is an Upper School activity that celebrates the literary, creative, and visual arts at Brooklyn Friends School. e magazine is published at the conclusion of each academic year. From the fall through the spring, the editors, staff, and faculty advisors work to encourage students to create and submit their work for publication. e Word Flirt editors and staff review, edit, and choose work. We thank those students who have shared their voices and their talents in this 2014 edition.

Editors Anna Emy ’14 Sam Miller ’14 Fiona Sharp ’15 Kira Barrett ’14 Chloe Burton ’14 Cindy Chen ’14 Ryan Jones ’15 Michelle Li ’15

Staff Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14 Olive Wexler ’16 Sam Whang ’14 Ayana Kai Whitehead ’14

Faculty Advisors Sidney Bridges Sue Aaronson

CONTENTS 1 2 4 6 7 8 9 11 12 14 16 18 19 20 23 24

Summer Nights, Christeline Velazquez ’15 You Listened, Ayana-Kai Whitehead ’14 Segregation of the Mind, Aria Cato ’14 Home Again, Bronwyn Edwards ’15 Goodbye, Olivia Parnell ’14 e Heart, Michelle Li ’15 To My Mother, Eve Bromberg ’15 Smoked Glass, Jacob Swindell Sakoor ’15 Unnamed, Sam Miller ’14 e Closet, Olive Wexler ’16 Cherry Pie, Tyler Roberts ’17 La Femme de la Mer, Chloe Burton ’14 Just Like Sliced Bread, Tyler Clarke ’14 Untitled, Maalik Dunkley ’16 e Strange Dream, Monet Massac ’17 An Autumn Splendor, Evan Novick ’14

Note: Some titles were improvised by the Word Flirt editors, suggested by the student’s work, and some pieces were edited for length.

Cover: Jillian Feinberg ’14

Brittney Edmiston ’15

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Summer Nights Christeline Velazquez ’15 The summer nights Our dreams are carried Through the glittering breeze In every hour and every second Of those bitter nights Little pieces of us Become stuck in expectations And we go crumbling down Only bits of our broken whispers Caught in the wind

On those summer nights The wet grass, the light whispers, The maple trees, and the kisses Become who I am And I am infinite On those summer nights We sit in the shadows of the trees And sing loudly, Our cracked voices echoing Across the neighborhood

The summer night tells me There are faces and places waiting for me To finally catch up and grow up But my chameleon soul perseveres Under the harsh moonlight On those summer nights I fall asleep to visions of myself With other faces and their dazzling dreams Memories of them are the only things That sustain me On those summer nights I see my own dreams Become dashed and divided Like a million stars in the night sky And I wish on them over and over again Until I, too, become sparkling and broken

On those summer nights Our places of sprinklers, ice cream, And laughter Become the broken and dead places in which We store our lost memories On those summer nights If I said I was strong, then I was lying I would search Through the Polaroid memories And find myself lost in the vast emptiness But only on those summer nights, Could I be as wide and wavering as the ocean And burn as hot and indefinitely as the sun Because only on those summer nights Could I truly be free.

Max Gustavson ’14

Word Flirt / 1

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You Listened Ayana-Kai Whitehead ’14

T

he children stayed silent, and you along with them, the heaviness in the air pressing down on your lungs a little, and you figured that they could feel it, too, which was probably why they weren’t talking. It was alright, though, because the adults found things to speak about, and you found yourself listening in, since there was nothing else to do.

You listened as they told each other stories, their voices sometimes hushed, the tones harsh and solemn all at once. You listened as they spoke about the massacres in Adana, when the riots broke out. You listened as they reminisced on the hopes and dreams brought about by the Young Turk movement, and how the streets had been filled with banners and flags and gleeful faces. You listened as they told about pillaged homelands, about torched houses filling lungs with thick, black plumes of smoke that reached up to the pale skies and the stars beyond. You listened as they told about the mass burnings, about the distributed poisons, about the thousands of women and children herded onto boats and thrown overboard into the Black Sea in the middle of the night, and how the bodies would float like pieces of driftwood all the way to Constantinople. And you didn’t want to, but you listened as they told of the Death marches, about how scores of people were led out of Deir ez-Zor, barefoot and confused, into the Syrian desert.

The Ottoman troops who stood idly by wouldn’t offer them food nor water, and the people, your people, were left to the scorching heat of the sun, and the starvation, and the soldiers’ cruel desires. Hundreds of thousands were lost. That was more than you could count on your fingers and toes combined; you’d need more of you, even more than a hundred of you, more than a thousand. It was a number that made your head hurt just to think about it.

And in the middle of all of this death and destruction, in the middle of numbers that were too high for you to count or even imagine, where were you headed? You weren’t sure. There was talk, amongst the adults, about the children who had been “given up.” Were you one of these children? “Given up” sounded like such an unkind pair of words, especially when you thought of your mother, your kind, loving mother, who was doing this for your sake—could only be doing this for your sake. She hadn’t given you up, she was saving you. Saving you instead of saving herself. And in that moment you felt the need to speak out, to defend your mother, as well as the countless other mothers who were trying to save their own children by sending them away, but your throat was suddenly dry, as though it was full of sand, and the words shriveled in your throat. You kept quiet, and turned to stare back at the children’s faces.

They had been saved, too, though maybe they didn’t realize it, yet. Maybe they wouldn’t. You did, and despite the heaviness in the air, pushing down on your shoulders like a soaked quilt, you brought up an image of your mother in your head, and you smiled.

2 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Ayana-Kai Whitehead ’14

Word Flirt / 3

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Segregation of the Mind SPOKEN WORD

Aria Cato ’14 It’s like a constant pattern A constant circle we put ourselves in Rotating and never ending Because of the stereotypes and victimizations Placed on our people Solely based on pre-judgements and assumptions The rivers of Africa are drying at our ankles Because no one wants to connect to their roots any longer And because that intelligent black girl speaks proper English She’s white, white in the eyes of her own race And she puts herself in a position Not to educate these people, but to prove them right And that black boy speaks on how Black women are crazy and insane With no respect for themselves or others And he wants white women only And people categorize themselves As light skin, brown skin and dark skin Light skin being the “best” And dark skin being the “worst” It’s like sickness and disease spreading Spreading across Mama Africa Spreading through the cities of The Gambia Where young girls sit in poverty and desperation Where fathers walk out on their wives and children Where black men and women kill each other It’s like a fight to the finish A fight to be finished, diminished Living in a world where There are more black men in prison than in college And even in a classroom with white and black kids There is still a divide

4 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Sean Allen ’14 A divide based on socio-economic class A divide of skin color and privilege A divide of knowing one’s true beauty versus Taking in what the media portrays There is still a divide We can’t keep blaming the shackles and whips We can’t keep blaming those long nights and early mornings spent on plantations We can’t keep blaming lack of integration Because integration sits on the back burner if our own people can’t get along This idea of self-hatred And lack of unity of our people Whose responsibility is it to put that back together?

Whose responsibility is it?

Is it the responsibility of the young girls going to school Working two jobs trying to help their single mothers put food on the table?

Or is it the responsibility of these young boys forced to give up their youth And become a man faster than they would have imagined?

Because we seem to use guns much quicker than we use words And we use profanity more often than we give hugs And we attack more often than we support And we cut deep more than we heal the wound So like I said, whose responsibility is it?

Word Flirt / 5

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Sam Miller ’14

Home Again Bronwyn Edwards ’15

T

homas Wolfe wrote, “You can never go home again.” I have searched my whole life for a reason to return to that brownstone on Bond Street between Bergen and Dean. I’ve tried to come up with excuses to see it again, to sit under the magnolia tree in the front yard and walk across the creaking floorboards or carpeted stairs. I want to see what they have done to my room. Is the night sky wallpaper still there? Probably not, but I can dream and I could dream under those stars, too. I want to step on the tiled floors of the kitchen and look out into the backyard. Is my swing still attached to that large tree that I used to climb? Is the rock still there – the rock that my dad and I used to lift and search for bugs underneath? I don’t know.

And I will never know. It’s just something I like to ponder when I lie awake at night and think of home. My first home. I will never go back. I will never walk those hallways again. I will never see the place that I hit my head on the coffee table in the living room. All of that took place in a past life. It’s gone forever because you can never go home again.

6 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Goodbye Olivia Parnell ’14 Collapsed like some distant corpse, it’s like when you can’t find that last breath.

Your fingertips collide, and scattered, scratch at the surface, fatally.

You’re soft in the middle and gone in an instant.

Old roads are like steel plates shattered by that tasteless joy, and now it’s stinging at your feet. you look down at the dirt that surrounds then up and to unknown planets you swoop to the sunset and you are gone.

You never thought you’d be the vulnerable one You never thought you’d have to let it go and the bellowed, buried shores of ancient times, grip you hard and you can’t seem to forget, although you may want to.

It’s sticking harder and harder, haunted by that memory when you say goodbye.

Elinor Hills ’14 Word Flirt / 7

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The Heart Michelle Li ’15 The Heart—beats, pounds, inside her chest— Threatening to explode— Tainting the walls—sliding, smearing— But—still beating, pounding—

The sight, his scent, his touch, his taste— As if a pin—pulled out— Triggering fear, panic, and thrill— Her Heart—goes into overdrive—

The Heart is beating and pounding— Faster, quicker, harder— The trigger set, the countdown starts— The Heart—shatters, bursts—

Eloise Seda ’15

8 / Brooklyn Friends School

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To My Mother Eve Bromberg ’15

T

he day Eve’s grandfather died, she knew he was going to die.

Trapped – she felt trapped in the chair in the study. She was supposed to be meeting friends for a birthday, but she couldn’t stand up. But the time, the time, the time, it kept on moving forward quickly – an hour till 12, 45 minutes, 30 minutes – she continued to sit. Sweat was collecting around her knees, which always happened when she sat on the exercise ball chair. To miss out on a friend’s birthday celebration was low, but to leave her dying grandfather would be worse. He was suffering too much for her to be far away. She could be at Bergen Street, stepping on to the F train, and he could die.

Mesmerized by her anxiety, she gave in and canceled on her friend. But the feeling wasn’t anxiety, having experienced it so often that she knew she felt more; this was Nixon-esque paranoia. Her heart wouldn’t stop beating, and her knees wouldn’t stop sweating. Any sudden movement and it could all be over – everything felt too much in her hands.

Papa had been sleeping in till noon, even one. Eve juxtaposed this with the man she’d known all her life: the man who felt inadequate if he woke up five minutes past seven. When he awoke, he would carefully dress. He wasn’t fashionable in the eyes of Vogue, but to her, his Izod gray long sleeve polos and belted trousers were as chic as could be.

His cleanliness was impeccable: never a speck of dirt under his nails, which were always properly filed by what he called “an emory board.” A short man, he stood tall and walked like a dignified diplomat.

Next would come breakfast, where he sat with Eve’s granny and they drank orange juice, with no pulp, and ate toast. Here would mark the beginning of what was to be multiple intellectual conversations of the day. They’d each

Kira Barrett ’14 read a section of the paper: commenting and inserting their opinions, or noting an unknown fact, a rarity.

From there, they’d go about their business, enjoying the blissful life of retired professionals. Granny would run errands to the local shops, Sahadi’s being a staple, and Papa would write emails to his millions of relatives.

Here they lived this happy life, filled with what they wanted: intellect, routine, love, interests, but most conveniently, Eve and company lived across the street from 306A—her grandparents’ home. Eve’s mother (Philippa) did this to stay close, but also because there was a beautiful brownstone for sale and she longed for domestic bliss in Cobble Hill. And so, they resided there.

This led to a never-ending friendship between Philippa and her parents, and a deep relationship between Philippa’s daughters and their grandparents. Eve visited often, and once she was old enough to walk home alone from school, she made it her quest to go for tea at least once a week.

Visiting her grandparents wasn’t just visiting old people who were related to her—she had the utmost respect for them. Her grandfather was a beacon of knowledge; there wasn’t anything he didn’t know. From JFK to the Boer War, he knew it all, and had an opinion on it.

Word Flirt / 9

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He came from South Africa, born on a farm to a quiet father, three sisters (one was his twin) and a mother who died when he was 13. In school he excelled academically, and played every sport available to him: track, soccer, and horseback riding. He did it all and well, throughout his life, there wasn’t anything he was bad at. He went to university to be a doctor, which is precisely what he did. He married Eve’s grandmother at the age of 23.

The system of apartheid in the South African government was the cause of the family’s immigration. After being an active participant in the anti-apartheid movement for years, he came to the conclusion (with his wife), that if they didn’t leave soon they would be killed by the government, leaving their children to serve as soldiers when the time came. They underwent a long odyssey through Europe, but he brought his wife and three children to America.

Eve thought about all of this. Granny had died 88 days ago, and she knew that, from then on, her grandfather’s life would never be the same—for old people can’t live apart (just look at Bacchus and Philemon). She also remembered the terrible surgery he went through in 2003, causing him to be hard of hearing, and improperly balanced—less of himself.

Kira Barrett ’14 10 / Brooklyn Friends School

He had been hanging on for years, but it was too much now. At 89, he could barely walk up the stairs, and for whom did he have to do it for now that his wife was gone? He said he loved his family, but it wasn’t worth going through the suffering, and for them to see him suffer.

He had made his mind up weeks ago to die. Eve went to see him, and because she had been prepared to go and celebrate her friend’s birthday, she wore lipstick. When she greeted her grandfather she refrained from kissing him; she didn’t want to stain his cheek. She sat next to him as he greeted her and apologized, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

She joined the group of family in the kitchen, a room once filled with granny’s curries and papa’s wit, now composed of gaunt faces and worry. He died in the evening – around 11. But before this, his children sat by his bed. On the bed was the yellow duvet with embroidered flowers in blue and pink, against the yellow they always looked in such harmony, especially next to the yellow walls of the bedroom.

His last words were about everyone in the family. To his absent granddaughter who was on her way back from England he regretted that he didn’t get to see her once more but said: “I have her in my memory.” Philippa came home for a bit, to sit with her children, until she was called back again, this time not just as a daughter but the decider—to see if he had stopped breathing.

Eve entered the room with her mom and uncle. There was a body under the duvet. When the covers were lifted she saw what seemed to be her grandfather: but he was pale, so so pale, and almost yellow, and his skin hung like it would melt away. Philippa held his jaw shut, and Eve came close to the body that once belonged to her papa. She kissed its head, over and over and over again—it was icy cold.

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Smoked Glass SPOKEN WORD

Jacob Swindell Sakoor ’15 I’m sitting here consoling you, I’m sitting here holding you.

What is it we hold onto, Is it still the past?

That we could never get past?

You were my mirror, my other half, Instead we’re more like a looking glass.

But damn girl you switch up fast, Taking any baton on life’s track.

Why is it that you’re back?

Your friends that had your back Became snakes in the grass?

Yes you reply, then you look up and ask As to why we couldn’t last.

Maybe ‘cause you’re bad as Apollonia, But selfish just like Scott’s Ramona?

So I’m no longer on ya.

Yes Ms Shakespeare sonnet, I’m through with your lustful tonic.

Gone.

So I apologize, A million times.

Never meant for you to cry, But us or we, is suicide.

So I apologize, A million times…

A million times.

And I admit it I was in it So I’m just as wrong.

That’s why I wrote this song.

A quick one six.

‘Bout how I missed The mark from the start.

I left you in the dark.

So let’s clap on for the situation.

Elinor Hills ’14

All of my lofty statements, That surely had you waiting.

They were ‘bout how when I make it, I’ll make it back to you.

A plastic lie, Surely see-through.

That’s the problem with us.

We confuse love for lust.

We confuse passion for a crush.

Told secrets don’t equate to trust.

So can we hang it up?

I guess only time can tell...

I’m just afraid to see you with somebody else…

So I apologize, A million times.

Never meant for you to cry, But us or we, is suicide.

So I apologize, A million times…

A million times.

Word Flirt / 11

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Unnamed Sam Miller ’14 A man comes up to me with my brother’s soul wrapped in a blanket.

His shoes kick the dust that lay on all the fractured bottles on the street that look like broken messages, as sharp as the rocks that carve secretive initials onto concrete steps and I see him walk by and see him wide-eyed and close-mouthed, his legs straight and eyes pointed forward.

He tells me the clouds resembling his mother’s face were whisked away in time.

His sad eyes teared as I remembered mine.

His face is carved like hills, carved, and still, as by cold chills.

He tells me, “In time it changed and is now warped green in fear of approaching endless reams of names from overseas.”

On a puddle, red with the blood money from deaths of honest souls, floated a picture of my brother’s face on a boat, A boat that no longer sways, A boat that once rocked, brightly red, floating in the way....

And he held up a glass of wine, Lit in the dark by rain-bent light, Which spilt into the puddles of memory and splashed out droplets like paint They painted my memories of him.

He gave me a five minute poem Where time (stored like an invested currency) froze for five minutes more.

He must know the time spent, that time isn’t free.

He asks, “Like how this poem changed us, and shows him, It changes thee?”

His hands obstructed the warm light of the streetlamp projecting rainy shadows on the wall.

Snow began to fall Softly spilling the silence on the walls.

Peaceful dark enjoyed its arts.

Was his mind frail and shattered?

As much as my brother’s ship may have been missile-battered?

12 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Max Gustafson ’14 So I ask, “How, really, (as I hate to say) did he die?”

He looks into my eyes, grieving in his, but from his mouth comes no reply.

Between red streetlights and ticking clocks I count all the steps that I have walked — We, standing in the rain and puddles and amongst dying memories of long-gone brothers.

We hear short-lined poems to force remembering that we used to know them.

So when the man came up to me, with his hand on my shoulder, and said “In time we changed,” I knew he had walked the distance of loss too and was talking about us, drenched in our clothes making us colder and older too.

He hands me my brother’s soul by handing me the blanket and then leaves in the cold; My feet in the mud and a soldier’s paper poem with a lost brother’s verses getting drenched by the rain.

Word Flirt / 13

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The Closet Olive Wexler ‘16

W

hen going anywhere, my first rule is to dress for the occasion. When going into my own memories, I prefer to wear a tutu. The tutu is a joyful article of clothing, flouncing and prancing around as a small child does on her birthday. When going into my own memories, I wear my bare toes, wiggling on the wood floor. I wear my hair up, because although I know it looks less pretty that way, I am travelling alone.

The physical place I am heading for is not hard to find. In fact, I peek in there everyday. However, climbing into my closet and sitting cross-legged with the door closed transports me to a place where I can’t be found. *** The first time I saw my closet, I had no idea that its dusty blue carpet and white shelves would become a sanctuary. The first time I was in the apartment, I curiously opened the door, and my Mom scoffed. “These are not quality shelves, we will have to get rid of these,” she said. I didn’t see what was wrong with the closet, except that it was dusty. It got less dusty after a few months of living there, and I turned it into my hideout. *** At age seven it became home to my adventures.“C’mon Wendy! Hook is coming! Quick into home tree!” I shouted way too loudly at my friend Rachel. She was wearing my blue dress that had been designated as “the Wendy dress” a long time back. I wore pants and a piece of thick jump rope around my waist. We clambered into my closet and shut the door. I tied the jump rope to the handle and held the other end. “Time out,” Rachel announced, making a T sign with her hands. “Let’s pretend that it’s night and we have been here for a really long time.”

“OK, and we are scavenging for food!” I added, always hungry. “OK, Time in.”

Later on, when I had grown out of pretend games, the closet became a place to hide. “8, 9, 10...”

My brother called from the kitchen as I scoured for a hiding place. I remembered from movies, and previous hide-and-seek experiences, that no one ever looks up. I raced towards my closet and hoisted myself up to the highest shelf and curled up into a ball. “Ready or not, here I come!”

I could hear him bustling around, and I tried not to sneeze as I inhaled and exhaled dust that I thought was long gone. *** When I was small, the closet was a haven, a magical rabbit hole. Little Olive Wexler, sitting on a worn wooden stool that has the letters of her brother’s name in different colors, surrounded by books and clothes and nonsensical items. She and her friend could both fit easily, and turn off the lights to hide from villains of their own creation.

Now, when I climb into my closet, my magical rabbit hole, the metal bars grind into my back, and I can hardly close the door.

14 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14 Word Flirt / 15

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Cherry Pie Tyler Roberts ‘17 Every time I look around, I see girls shrinking, going through a period of mental and physical osmosis. Taking the bad in and leaving the good out.

Bodies and minds going empty. How are they growing, yet skipping all their meals. Food goes in, never staying in. Hurt goes in, gets digested and spread around.

Waistlines shrinking, appetites shrinking.

How can it be that girls’ stomachs are going empty, but they are growing full?

Full with worry and anguish.

That ice cream and those cookies are a therapist and friend. Then they’re an enemy when they throw them back up again.

Anger going in, hatred going in.

24/7 girls are eating, yet they grow smaller each day. Meals going untouched. Bones growing brittle. Hair falling out. Teeth rotting, throats burning.

The cafeteria becomes a minefield, the only thought is “When can I purge again?” Yet they gorge themselves on hate and hostility. “She’s too fat.” Or “I heard she wears a large?!”

Insecurities are exchanged, sliced and served like cherry pie. The cherry pie that is not okay to eat.

On blogs and message boards, a combo meal of hate comes packaged. Hot, fresh, slathered with insecurities and fried in emptiness.

And women, of all ages and races, buy these meals by the dozen. We call them billboards and commercials, trying to sell us a “product,” but how can a company sell you something you’ve already bought?

Furthermore, what if that product is an idea?

A mindset, feelings, desires. What if, little girls stood in the mirror, slowly dying while using this product?

Hildi Gabel ’17 16 / Brooklyn Friends School

I’ve noticed when you buy a product, there’s always a number to call if you’re dissatisfied.

I’ve been told that, if a product’s harmful, I should call the manufacturer.

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Anna Emy ’14 But I don’t know, I don’t quite have the number. I dialed the operator and asked to be connected to “AMERICAN SOCIETY, specifically the sexualization and objectification unit,” but they said there was no one by that name.

And I don’t think the company who made this product will hear my feedback. And if I write a letter, the postman won’t mail it.

It’s funny, when you watch those antidepressant commercials they always say, “May be habit-forming.” I’m, I’m just not sure we can stop using it.

And I think we might be addicted.

Generations of addicts, slaves to this mentality. Little girls born to be addicted.

Old ladies die in the throes of addiction.

But if they can have Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, why can’t we have Objectified Anonymous?

Maybe it’s because we just don’t have a space for the 158 million women in this country.

Or maybe because, as females, we’re too brainwashed or afraid to detox.

Like the cliche goes, “I can stop whenever I want to.” And the whenever is now.

Word Flirt / 17

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La Femme de la Mer AFTER JOHN KEATS

Chloe Burton ’14 Why wand’rest thou, lone fisherman, So lost, bewildered and forlorn?

The dawn breaks in the boundless sky, Thou must set forth.

Why wand’rest thou, lone fisherman, So wasted, anguished and bereft?

The fish do call from boundless depths, Gulls do soar and cry.

Upon thy chalk white ashen face With trembling lips and hollow eyes, Appears a torment oceans deep With aching cries.

I gazed upon a maiden fair, Who shimmered in the morning light, Whose form and face did stop my heart, Ah! A wondrous sight.

I gave to her a precious pearl, And seashells rare, and trinkets old, She took my hand and whispered low, “Thou must be bold!”

I set my sail and forth we went Upon the clear and shining sea, Beyond the rocks, a cave appeared Where we would be.

She welcomed me and held me fast, And sang a love song sweet and new, Her loving eyes bewitched my heart “Be ever true.”

I pledged my troth and we did kiss, A passion grew and lingered long That none could ever break this bond, My love grew strong.

I dreamed a while within her arms, But lo! A troubling darkness came, So fearful, strange, love seemed no more, Ah! A flickering flame!

18 / Brooklyn Friends School

Ayana Kai Whitehead ’14

I saw her ‘twined with lovers new, These phantoms moaned and cried aloud – “Never love La Femme de la Mer, She’s Death’s dark shroud!”

Their flesh did melt away to bone, As fire consumed their hopes and dreams, I woke with such a fear and fright, Is this what it seems?

O, this is why I wander here, So lost, bewildered and forlorn, The gulls will cry forever more On this grim shore.

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Just Like Sliced Bread AFTER E.B. WHITE

Tyler Clarke ’14

I

am pondering the use of this cell phone in my apartment. It came in the mail this morning from one of my readers. He wants me to write about the endless opportunities that this phone offers. As of now I cannot even turn on the device. It is packaged in a small rectangular white box. It seems as if the entire phone is made of glass.

This reminds me of when I gave my father sliced bread. He could not fathom the fact that the bread was already sliced before I bought it. I felt as if the same experience was happening to me. I did not understand how a glass rectangle was supposed to make my life simpler. I press the big round button at the bottom of the screen and nothing happens. I then press the button on the top of rectangle and then a bitten, white apple appears on the screen.

I am staring at this bitten apple and then suddenly sixteen squares appear on the screen.

How is a stocks app any better than the newspaper with the stocks listed? How is the calendar any better than my calendar in my kitchen? My frustration reminded me of my father. It was hard for him to accept the fact that sliced bread symbolized great change in his future. It was hard for me to accept the fact that this iPhone by Apple was the great change in my future.

I decide to go out and make use of the iPhone. Turtle Bay was just a part of the Manhattan grid so the iPhone should be able to navigate me around it. I click the square that had a map in it and I type in Times Square. Within a half hour I was in Times Square. I am surprised that this phone knows my whereabouts and is able to direct me. I spend the next few days figuring out its different capabilities. I find out how to take a picture of myself without turning the phone around. Checking the weather became much easier and I was able to research information more quickly. The iPhone was surprisingly useful.

My father soon acclimated to the idea of sliced bread. I soon acclimated to the iPhone. I guess the cycle will continue. Maybe my son will acclimate to the idea of a phone that can slice bread.

Kamal Goulbourne ’16 Word Flirt / 19

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Untitled SPOKEN WORD

Maalik Dunkley ’15 Raised and born in society’s brutal norms Couldn’t afford, Anymore brand names than the Lord’s Gotta get this out of my system Or be trapped in my own mental prison As the purpose of me living Is too hard to envision What’s to expect from being raised by my Mother and my sister My pops ain’t never here so my heart’s Colder than the winter But that’s cool I’m raised to be a sinner pulling triggers Drinking swimming pools of liquor I now Dive into like a River as I shiver But My innocence Does not make me ignorant

Sage Meade ’15 20 / Brooklyn Friends School

Of the flaws of my pigmentation, Whether it’s forced by us or this nation But it’s just fuel to our hatred Of ourselves and those with white faces But can you Blame us We just I just Want something, something for my brothas and sistas my family our maybe just for me Something for my identity more than just slave ships Who to call for your crack fix Who gets the first tip or my crazy hook shot more than Biggie and Tupac I’m not saying that's bad though, I do listen To kats like J. Cole and KDot But I just want something more for us, or maybe just for me Something for my Identity Who are you Maalik?

Likes a girl each week Too weak Changing like Meek’s Flows, Too deep Down a river Sign sealed my angst is delivered But whether Or not I’m talking crazy like my jaw broke or this is realest I ever wrote Just a strange little boy, With some stubble thinks he’s too grown Gave his heart away when he was 11 years old

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Man was he a fool thinking he could find love in school especially when he’s black He can’t have that Not blond haired and light skinned No sweet voice just chocolate He’s black Black and nappy headed with a forced smile Hasn’t been happy for a while but that ain’t style or my fashion Gotta be rash, forget my ration If I f up, things happen Wanna help people but haven’t Fruits of my labor, gotta grab it but I’ve had enough y’all can have it I remember back when things were happenin’ I was still in We were still friends Had no troubles and More progress Now I’m trapped in my own mess Now I’m stressed I don’t know what will happen next What’s the point of this beating in my chest Is there more to my existence There’s so many questions Left Right before my eyes Cuz the laws worldwide Could be crime in disguise And they use god’s name to sell them pies Because it takes a lot of truth just to sell that lie And as for I, I cannot fathom why All I know is that life’s a b**** and then you die

Olivia Hart-Kobel ’15

Word Flirt / 21

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Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14 22 / Brooklyn Friends School

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The Strange Dream Monet Massac ’17

W

ith her flawless skin and her soft strawberry blonde hair, Madeline Patterson is the definition of perfect. With her 25 friends constantly trailing after her, she is certain to become the prom queen. Her perfectly white teeth, naturally pink lips, and shiny green eyes always make people turn their heads as she walks by. Her sparkly laugh and long eyelashes make everyone beg to be her friend.

Madeline is constantly chatting away with her admirers, and she throws parties every day after school at her parent’s colossal mansion. *** I started hating Madeline at the beginning of freshman year. On the first day of school I accidentally spilled soda all over Madeline’s new shirt. The people around us gasped and laughed. Madeline pulled me towards her and warned, “You will pay for this!”

The day after that horrible morning, we were in science class and I apologized to Madeline for the one thousandth time. She just grinned. The teacher told us to wash our hands before we started to dissect a frog. As I washed my hands in the sink, Madeline came over and dropped a box of dead frogs on top of me. The whole class burst into laughter. I could not get the smell off for days. I became the new high school freak—all because of Madeline.

Another day when I got home, I ran up to my room and looked outside my window. A bunch of girls, including Madeline, were staring at my open window. They lifted up their hands, full of colorful water balloons. Before I could close my window, they threw the balloons and water splattered everywhere. My clothes were soaking wet; my whole room was a disaster. The girls were laughing below, one holding a video camera. “I am so posting this on YouTube!” she squealed.

*** I have finally had enough. This has been going on for too long. This hatred against Madeline and her friends has been growing inside of me. I yank out a notebook and write down everything that I hate about Madeline. I write about all of the names she has called me. I count – there are 27. Then I write down plans to ignore her for the rest of my life. Soon I change my mind and write down plans

on how to kill her. My plans are detailed and clever.

I smile – writing everything down really helps. After a few more minutes of scribbling in my notebook, I drift off to sleep. *** I am awake, outside in the pouring rain, wearing just pajamas. I do not remember how I came down here. Oh! I see now, I am sleeping. This is all just a dream. I walk a little outside. I look around. I see the old dock, I see my house, and I see Madeline coming out of her favorite clothing store. It is dark, close to midnight, I suppose. What is Madeline doing out so late? I walk towards her – she rolls her eyes and flips her hair. I grab her dainty arms using all my strength. Her mouth looks like it is gasping, but I cannot hear a sound. I yank her, and she stumbles. I drag her close to me and start pulling her to the old, creaky dock. Her lips move as if she is screaming, but I hear nothing. She flails around wildly, kicking, punching, and scratching me with her long, perfectly painted nails. But I do not worry about it, because this is just a dream. I see Madeline with tears in her eyes, mascara flowing down her cheeks. She is limping. Her perfect hair is tangled.

I yank her arms one more time. She is unsteady and barely standing. *** I am done with my dream. I start trying to wake myself up. I slap my face a couple times. I pinch myself a few more times. I pull my hair to wake myself up. Then I realize something:. I did this. I, Jenn Johnson, have killed Madeline Patterson.

The sound of police cars blare in my ears. I killed her? I killed her. Me. I did it. I DID IT. Am I mad? No. Yes. No. YES. A sharp ringing noise hits my ears. I AM MAD. I am the freak. I am the weird girl. I am the killer. I drop on my knees.

“Hands in the air!” a policeman yells. I sit and stare. “I said, hands in the air!” he repeats. I stand slowly and my hands tremble in the air. A different policeman dashes towards me – he grabs my wrists and stuffs them into handcuffs. Then everything starts to go in slow motion. I hear my heart beat slowly. I have killed Madeline. The policeman lets go of my hands for a split second and I make a run for it. I run towards the end of the dock and jump.

I see the dark blue sea, and then—darkness.

Word Flirt / 23

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An Autumn Splendor AFTER E.B. WHITE

Evan Novick ’14

I

have come to find that autumn is my favorite of the seasons. The brisk, chilly air of late October is always a gentle reminder of its return. This of course leads to my digging out my dusty old bomber, an annual ritual that is as enticing as it is euphoric.

Truly nothing is more enjoyable than throwing on an old, battered coat, and walking amongst the leisurely cascading leaves of red, orange, yellow and green.

The backdrop that is Mount Vernon is particularly ideal I might add, as it holds a serenity that is unmatched by the frantic agitation of urban life. The day a burgher puts his feet up will be the day I put my pen down. Placidity and simplicity are truly two of life’s greatest pleasures, and two that I hold very near and dear to my heart. The tranquility of a New York fall is a tonic for these tired eyes.

It was only last week, however, that the turmoil of urban life invaded my humble abode. I received a package about the size of one of my young piglets back in Maine. It was a mysterious parcel, and one I approached with great caution. I stared down at it on my front porch with an obscure mix of trepidation and intrigue. I noticed no return address on the creaseless and evenly positioned mail sticker. My intrigue quickly began to overpower all feelings of trepidation, and I swiftly picked up the box and brought it into my home.

As I placed it down on the living room coffee table, I took a whiff of the box’s manufactured cardboard exterior. It had quite the distinct odor that began to quickly fill the room. However, it never quite overpowered the pleasant aroma of the sweet autumn air.

I began to open the box, first on each side, bare-handed. Inside, was a small, metallic device: A cell phone.

To say I was disappointed would be quite the understatement. I would expect that if any other lucky mail recipient were to find themselves in my position, they would be overjoyed at the idea of receiving such a parcel. I did not have such a response. As I stared down at the device, I couldn’t help but feel a blatant sense of disgust. I began to wonder what I had done so wrong to receive such a punishment. But I digress, for I did appreciate the gesture. However, I am a man of life. I am a man who cherishes both the concept and practice of human interaction. Why include a middleman in such a sacred practice? I am a man who lives to preach carpe diem, and I will let nothing—man or machine—stop me from doing so.

As the days went on, I came to love my new cell phone. I began to take walks through the autumn leaves talking to friends and family miles and miles away. Although it initially felt unbearably awkward and downright blasphemous to do so, I soon became accustomed to the equilibrium I had established for myself. I can even recall the times where it would be the high point of my evenings. I would put my feet up, my pen down, and chat merrily into the autumn night.

24 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Anna Emy ’14

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Julia Greenwald ’14

BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL 375 Pearl Street and 55 Willoughby Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201 718.852.1029 / brooklynfriends.org