Flame 2016-2017

Flame

2016-2017

Flame is the literary magazine of Castilleja Middle School

Published once a year, this magazine brings together the work of dozens of young writers, artists, and photographers.

Anyone in grades 6-8 is welcome to submit.

Students in the Flame elective work on their creative writing in the fall, then gather submissions and lay out the magazine in the spring. During the 2016-2017 school year, so many students have been involved in Flame that we cannot name them all here.

We hope that you enjoy immersing yourself in the poems, short stories, photographs, paintings, and sketches that you will find in this issue. Perhaps you will find something that grabs your attention, sparks your imagination, and inspires you to create something of your own.

Megan Hutchin & Graham Toben --Faculty advisors

photo by Jenna Razzak cover photo by Mukki Sahiwal back cover art by Riley Carolan

Into the Story —Anna Birman

I am a thoughtful girl who loves to read.

I wonder if I can travel back in time to meet all those characters from the books I read.

I hear the sound of thunder as the brave hero sets out into the night to save her town.

I see her dressed in a dress and bonnet soaking wet.

I want to join her in her adventure and be as brave as she.

I am a thoughtful girl who loves to read.

I pretend to be that girl while I brush my teeth or do the laundry.

I feel worried for our hero as she prepares to set out on the dangerous journey.

Will she survive? Will she save her town?

I touch, I almost feel her faded pink cotton dress.

I worry for the characters when the enemy is about to snatch away the supply ship from the people who so desperately need it.

I cheer when the hero drives them off.

I cry when the protagonist almost saves the town, but the enemy takes over I am a thoughtful girl who loves to read.

I am on a ship It is hurling me about The waves lash out against the hull The sky suddenly turns black And now I am back home, Book in hand Thinking, dreaming of the story world That I would like to be in But that leads me to think My life is my story.




It may not have climatic adventures, those blood-chilling mysteries, You may not fulfill those quests or learn to fight with sword in hand It may almost be better, You can live in your story, through good times and bad And many people will read and remember All those times you had.

I am a thoughtful girl who loves to read.

Closed Eyes —Ashley Ehrenpreis Close your eyes and there it is, your perfect world, where everyone is happy, no one fights, though they all know the’ve done bad. They believe, believe they can do better today, tomorrow, and forever, they live in paradise, with friends, family, and classmates, no frowns, only smiles, happy forever and ever, but remember only with closed eyes.

Close your eyes again. 3 years ago when I wrote this first stanza, I couldn’t imagine the change in our society, in my life. My grandfather died. My great grandmother passed. But all my sorrow won’t account for all of the terrible things going on in our world. Suicide, terrorist attacks, and refugee crises. We can’t give back the lives that have been taken. But we can do better. So, when you open your eyes, forget about your past and live in the moment.

art by Vanessa Munguia

art by Arya Nukala

photo by Sarah Ranzetta

photo by Elizabeth van Blommestein

photo by Devyn Betts

photo by Sarah Ranzetta photo by Sara Baudler

photo by Tallie Molano

Memories - Claire Crowder I am from a quiet town, From Legos and the sound of rain I am from fighting with my sister And playing games I am from the grey house on the corner Whose lagoon was full of birds As if it was their home

Photo by Sophie Lamm

I’m from chores and books Whose words fill my mind I’m from the back of the car And the smell of dinner From “How’d it go?” and “It’ll be okay” I’m from determination Which helps me push through Even the hardest times I’m from chocolate and tea Being kind and honest From the memories of life Which pile in my room And never fade away.

photos by Christina Lee

photo by Leigh Hausman

photo by Piper Galbraith

photo by Joyin Akinola

photo by Noa Goldstein

Tacos

—Aizza Rocha and Areli Hernandez

Many people ask, what is the best kind of taco in Mexican community? Some say it is the slurpy taco, some say the Carne Asada taco, and others may say the taco of chicken. It really depends on the people. The people brought the taco in the first place, so we each have our ideal taco that is considered the best. But how do we know for sure, which taco is truly “the best?” All these types of tacos have three main benefits. They have a good flavor, how they are prepared, and how easy they are to make.

Carne Asada tacos are very different from other tacos. Tacos de carne asada are made from sliced pieces of seasoned meat. Tacos de carne asada are best known for containing beans, lettuce, and tomato accompanied with hot sauce. Preparing this delicious dish isn’t complicated, many of the ingredients can be found at Safeway, Mi Pueblo, and Mi Rancho. These kinds of tacos are traditionally prepared for fancy occasions, because the seasoning is very precious. Not only does the seasoning provide juicy tenderness to the meat, but it also offers enriching of the texture and thickness of the meat. The best kind of recommended salsa that goes with the Carne Asada taco is chimichurri sauce, it is a blend of vinegar, garlic cloves, chili flakes, and parsley. Carne Asada tacos contain a lot of juice from the meat, so they are sometimes called the slurpy taco, because you have to drink the liquid pouring out from it when you raise it in the air. Tacos like the Carne Asada tacos usually go well with a glass of water or orange juice. Although tacos de Carne Asada contain all organic ingredients, if you eat to many of them that may cause the roof of your tongue to go a little bit try, because of the combination of salt, juice, and lettuce, so most people recommend drinking water throughout the meal while still enjoying your delicious tacos.

The Taco of Chicken is mostly known for its earthy taste. It is usually served with warm, fresh, soft tortilla. The Taco with Chicken consists of chicken, and vegetables such as mushrooms, corn, bell peppers, and sometimes potatoes. The Taco of Chicken is not usually served on special occasions, it is mostly a rainy day kind of taco. It is easy to prepare, in which it only takes 15 minutes to prepare. It is best served with consommé, which is the broth of the chicken with added salsa, cilantro, and onion mixed in. Usually consommé can be driven as the tenderness of the taco, because it tenders not only the tortilla, but the chicken itself. The tortillas used for this kind of taco are mostly tortillas that are cooked until they are a little bit hard, just for the reason that they will become soft very quickly. In fact, a lot of the ingredients that go into the taco of chicken are slow-cooked, so they are fun to make with family and friends. Not only do the Taco of Chicken bring people together, but the delicious smell of the chicken and vegetables cooking will be wavering throughout your home!

Al Pastor tacos are one of a kind. These tacos are made from vertical thin pieces of cut pork with soft tortillas, freshly cut cilantro and onion. They are known for having salsa verde served with them because the sweetness of the salsa complements the tenderness of the meat. The places these tacos ingredients are found are at local stores such as Mi Pueblo. These tacos are big when it comes to flavor, in fact most people could agree in saying that this is not a taco you would only eat one of. What makes el Pastor the best is that it is easy to prepare and one of the well known tacos to latinos/latinas across Mexico.

In the end, all kinds of tacos are delicious. They have good flavor, they are all prepared in mostly the same kind of style, and they are easy to make. The best kind of taco consists mostly of the kind of palate each individual has, but in the end, I must pick one. I think I am going to go with the taco of chicken. I chose this taco because not only is it easy to make but it has great flavor and smells appetizing while cooking. Not only will this taco be the best taco you have ever tasted but it is one of a kind because of its fresh variety of condiments on the taco.

This taco is organic and delicious, and definitely a go-to taco on a lazy day.

photo by Piper Galbraith

photo by Eveliena Pasmooij

photo by Sophie Lamm

Sticker —Linnea Leaver I saw a diamond once but it was just a crumpled-up sticker on the floor.

There was a pen on the windowsill collecting dust.

All those wasted words.

When I finally find the courage to put pen to paper

photo by Sophie Lamm

Untitled —Monica Sidana Lush forest Sunlight filtering through the trees A rush of wings A splash of color

art by Anna Birman

photo by Piper Galbraith

photo by Gilli Nieh

art by Vanessa Munguia

The Gift of Freedom —Anna Birman If there is no struggle, there is no progress -Frederick Douglass The bird is chirping, chirping, chirping I can hear it tweeting, tweeting, tweeting The pitiful sound of it whining, whining, whining.

Sick of the smell which runs so deep, deep, deep Into the cage in which it is trapped, trapped, trapped.

I see the tears welling, welling, welling In its beautiful sapphire eyes, eyes, eyes.

A separate body part-- my arm It reaches towards the cage-- the door My head tells it to stop--common sense It’s a market--to open it would be wrong My arm is stubborn, it persists My head is smart, it resists I am torn, the bird is stuck Stuck deep, deep in the muck Of its cage, that loathsome cage My hand is ever closer My head is screaming My compassion tries to comfort that sensible head of mine What do I do?

My hand is on the cold brass handle, It’s now or never I see the door opening My head resists one last time; it gives up

photo by Jenna Razzak

The bird bursts out Creating an arc Like a rainbow in the sky-Like a picture of freedom Now I too feel free Like the bird in the sky I want to burst from happiness of seeing that bird fly Now I know what my arm and compassion wanted from me That step towards being free.

Smack —Blair Migdal It had finally come. After months and months of waiting, this was it. The grand opening of Spalding Park, the first baseball field in Spalding, Minnesota. My older brother, Sam told me all about baseball. The rules, the players, the teams, the history, the ball, the bat, the glove, everything there is to know about the game. I loved listening to him chatter up about the ballgame but what I really wanted to do was hit the ball. Sam told me about this part too. Going up to the plate with all your teammates cheering you on in the dugout. The look the pitcher gives you, glaring at you like you are a rotten egg or moldy sock or something else really disgusting. The dirty home base with years of memories etched into it with dirt and determination. Bringing your bat over your shoulder and feeling the weight of it hovering over your back. You look back into the pitcher’s eyes, the sun smiling on your helmet and suddenly the ball comes barreling forward and you swing with all your might and hear the sound. SMACK! The ball flies into the distance and the rays blind your eyes looking at where the ball went so you run. Flying down the dirt watching first base and finally you cross it. The adrenaline slows down down inside of you but you still feel like Babe Ruth inside like nothing in the universe could touch you with that hit, like you are invincible.

Of course there wasn’t exactly a dugout or fancy bats, or a stadium, or anything like that where my brother played ball with his friends on the Spalding Bulldogs team. We had a community “park” but it’s more of a dirt patch in someone’s old barn with some hay mounds to sit on where the baseball teams play. Well, actually that’s any boys baseball teams, Spalding didn’t have any girls sports teams at all, but that will change from today on. Today, is the opening of the field. The field where I could finally hear the smack just like Sam told me.

Father and I left the field and decided to walk over to Larry’s Sandwiches on 6th street. As we passed each house the only difference between the brown roofs and white walls and windows was if the American flag was on the right or left. As we walked, we saw 2 Model Ts,

both blowing waves of dust from the street in my face, but it was still surprising in Spalding, Minnesota. The aroma of cheese, lettuce, and cold cuts surrounded us the moment I opened the door. I ordered some root beer and fries and waited in line. There were two big men behind me who both ordered the Beef Jelly sandwich which sounded disgusting. I mean it had pig’s foot and tongue in it, that’s gross! After I got my pop and fries, I walked home with Father looking at all the fancy stores along the way.

When we returned home, Mother had already plated supper, which was chicken cutlets and peas. I fed my peas to Winston under the table as Mother and Father talked all about the new automobile, the Ford Model A. Personally, I didn’t care much about Ford or automobiles so I headed to my room after clearing the dishes. In the maple tree outside my window where Sara, my best friend who I’d known since I was in diapers put messages in, I found a letter. It was a pamphlet from school about the new girl’s baseball team that would practice at the new field.

“Yes!” I whooped and began dancing around the piles of stuff in my room like I’d won the lottery or something.

“Kat! What is going on up there?” Mother called from the kitchen.

“They’re starting a girl’s baseball team at Westside!” I exclaimed.

“I can’t wait for you to try out, it’ll be so fun with Sara.” Mother replied with a smile.

“I know, I can’t wait either, and the tryouts on Thursday!” I blurted. Mother laughed and told me to hurry into bed before Father told me to quiet down. I climbed up the stairs and brushed my teeth and hair and got into my bed.

The next morning I woke for school and met Sara outside as we raced off together chatting about baseball and which positions we were each going to play. As I struggled to pay attention in my History of Sewing lesson and my Learning to be a Lady class, I was not excited to have to go to Manners after school, where we were learning about how to eat salad “nicely.” But when Sara and I caught up for lunch she had an idea.

“Kat! Let’s go to the field after school!”

“But what if we get caught,” I replied nervously.

“It’ll be fine,” he assured me.

We were both so eager to step on the diamond. Just thinking about the crunch of the dirt under my shoes gave me the jitters. I kept imagining stepping out on the grass and hearing a crowd roar as I hit a homerun.

Straight after school, Sara and I practically ran to Spalding Park, our eyes flashing and our hearts racing. We crept inside the huge park and stayed there watching the boys’ team practice until the sun started to set.

Each boy had his own uniform, glove, bat, helmet, and hat. I wanted my own uniform with big red fancy letters on the front spelling out Spalding Bulldogs and, on the back, my own last name in blue: Mayfair.

“What number would you be, Sara?” I asked.

“I would be 11 because it has two 1s like the two As in my name.

What about you, Kat?” Sara replied.

“I would be 18 because it looks like a bat and a mini snowman which is always a plus.” I responded. Sara laughed and said one day we’d hit snowballs with our bats and watch them explode.

“Mine would break right on top of you.” I giggled, picturing a flurry of snow over our heads holding our helmets high like we were Babe Ruth.

Chapter II When Sara and I finally returned home that evening it was dark and late. I hadn’t done my cursive homework yet and I still needed to finish my purse for Sewing tomorrow. I finished dinner quickly that night and rushed through cursive so I could have plenty of time to finish my purse. As I struggled through stitches, I couldn’t stop thinking about tryouts the next day. I wondered who else from our class would show up. I bet Hallie or Eve might but most of the girls just couldn’t wait to be married and show off their sewing skills. Me on the other hand, just dreamed of playing baseball for Carleton college with Sara.

“What do you think, Winston?” I asked our border collie who then walked away in search of food. After dreadfully completing my purple mess of a bag, I read The Secret Garden until I fell asleep.

That morning, I slept in a bit so I was in a rush for school. I packed my knapsack quickly and hurried down the stairs. Mother had already made my favorite breakfast, egg in a hole to cheer me up for the tryout although I didn’t think I needed much cheering up I was so excited already! Father was reading the paper with a coffee cup in his hand, eating warm steel-cut oatmeal. I finished up breakfast and grabbed my cursive homework and my awful chaos of lavender thread as I heard Sara ring the bell and stumbled outside.

“Bye! Love you!” I called inside.

“Bye sweetie!” Mother cried out as I closed the door.

Sara and I passed my house as we continued down Maple Lane.

For March, this morning was chilly. Even bundled up in a scarf and mittens I could still feel the cold air painting my nose and ears pink. The trees seemed to shiver as wind and dirt flew from the street. Sara and I talked and talked to keep away the chill. We went inside the corner store to buy some gum and stay warm, but there was no luck, the cashiers were huddled around the small heater as their refrigerator whirred in the background. Chomping on bubblegum, Sara and I turned the corner and the big brick Westside building came into view.

We struggled to pay attention in Social Studies currently about the American revolution (sixth amendment) but finally it was over. At recess, Sara and I played on the swings, the metal rings nipping our fingers with bitter frost. The big yard was filled with kids, playing, talking, or huddling like penguins in the raw air. I hoped by the time the day was over, the sun peek out from the clouds.

After four more classes, we couldn’t wait to get out of Westside and get ready for tryouts. The sun was feeling a bit more confident but I was still pretty shivery. Ms. Morgan rounded up all the girls for tryouts, we walked over to the field together. All the girls walked in little groups of two or three, like a marching band minus the instruments. We got to Spalding Park and everyone got in a line by the fence.

“Hallie Evans.” Ms. Morgan called from a clipboard as Hallie walked up to the plate.

“Sara Brown.”

“Eve Mcfadden.”

“Julie Mellen.”

“Emma Breton.”

“Bella Seeney.”

“Katherine Mayfair.” I walked up behind Bella.

“Girls, watch me. First, you will throw overhand to Mr. Lopez.

Second, you will throw underhand to Mr. Huttner. Next, you will catch the ball from Mr. Clarke in the air. Then, you will scoop the ball from Mr. Liddell. After, you will run to the base and back. Lastly, you hit the ball thrown from Mr. Mcnair. After you will get in line to see if you made the team. Got it? Good.” And with that Ms. Morgan walked away to sit on the bleachers with her pencil ready.

Overhand, underhand, catch, scoop, run, hit. Overhand, underhand, catch, scoop, run, hit. I kept repeating the steps trying to remember. Each girl went, completing the drill. Some girls dropped it, missed the hit, fell over trying to throw, or just gave up and began crying.

I wasn’t paying attention, I was just concentrating. Overhand, underhand, catch, scoop, run, hit. Overhand, underhand, catch, scoop, run, hit. Then, I heard it, “Katherine Mayfair.” I climbed out of Cloud 9 and quickly walked up to the plate and grabbed a ball from the bucket. Pulling my shoulder back and extending my arm forward and I released. The ball threw in the air at high speed as Mr. Lopez’s glove closed down on the ball trapping its velocity. Breathe, Kat, breathe. I walked over to the next station. I wrapped my hand are the red stitches and swung back like a softball and threw. Once again the leather closed down on the ball. Continue walking Kat, you are almost done. As the next coach threw the ball, I was the one to trap the ball. My brown glove feeling the ball shivering with force. I continued down the field completing each task along the way Finally the last drill was up, hit the ball thrown from Mr. Mcnair.

Okay, Kat, you got this, just hit. I grabbed a bat from the bag and felt its weight and wood gripped by my hand. It was heavy and as I brought the bat over my shoulder, I understood why Sam loved the game. The ball came towards and dug my feet into the dirt ready for attack like I was some sort of spy. I whipped the bat forward and heard the sound.

SMACK!

Untitled —Elise Hayek

art by Arya Nukala

You would think That if you Could actually Speak to dogs Your little

Fuzzy friend Would play with you And not run away Whenever you came near You would know that he’s thinking “What’s for lunch” “What’s for dinner” “What’s for lunch” “I’m tired” But that would get old Really Really Fast So

I guess There’s a reason You can’t speak dog Or you would probably Die Of boredom

photos by Devyn Betts

Hello —Hadley Nunn and Gabi Winer Hello Hi buddy What's your name?

Moose? That's perfect.

You get to come home with me Hello Happy first birthday!

We get to go walking in the park Don’t worry I’ll protect you I love you, ya know?

Hello Don’t worry, I won’t be gone forever This is a nice home for you It’s just a week I’ll always come back I promise Hello I have to take you to the vet today I can’t go in with you Mom says you're going to be ok, I know it hurts a lot But be strong Hello We are on the way to the vet Mom says to say goodbye I don’t really know what that means But you will be there when I do Right?

Hello I know it still hurts The doctor knows a way to help Just close your eyes You’ll see me again I promise Hello Goodbye

photo by Piper Galbraith

art by Vanessa Munguia art by Finley Liu

art by Christina Lee

photo by Sophie Lamm

Sense of Calm —Sara Baudler It happens to me while underwater; Bubbles of air don’t tarnish the smooth, glassy water I can see the pitch-black sky Sometimes, I can see by reflection, rippling slightly; It is this sense of calm, One that I believe you can only achieve by letting go This magical thing, That when worrying, or thinking; It is the thing that allows you to drift away, and be stable; Staring into the wind, listening to that roaring sound in your ears; Squishing sand beneath your feet, feeling the rough and the smooth; Looking up at a full moon, knowing things go full cycle; Or even running, just taking things one step at a time.

These paradises of calm are places we can reside to, Places to retire to when we must, When life is a little heavy, Just stop to smell the flowers.

photo by Saayili Budhiraja

photo by Elizabeth Van Blommestein

photo by Gilli Nieh

photo by Devyn Betts

photo by Lishan Carroll

photo by Arya Nukala

photo by Saayili Budhiraja

photo by Piper Galbraith

Haiku —Blair Migdal The quiet bird flies Spreading wings into darkness Soaring above sky He sees the whole world The hills, the trees, the green leaves Higher than beforeÂ

photo by Natalia Cossio

My Name —Divya Ganesan

Divaya? Deevia? Diva? The letters come out short and tentative, fear leaking out. Not again. The familiar sound of a jumbled name.

A name that starts with D, ends with a, but otherwise I don’t recognize. Sinking low in my chair, I’m forced to say...here. Just loud enough so the teacher can hear it, soft enough to not call attention. I know I can’t blame them. How are they to know? Know it’s not Divaya. The “ay!” sounding like what my Spanish teacher says when she drops her textbook. Not Deevia, with the “e” going on and on and on, the bee that won’t stop buzzing. And definitely not Diva, not me. The “y” managing to pull a disappearing act in my name. Instead leaving it a word meaning a temperamental or high maintenance individual.

And then there’s the way my grandmother says it, the “d” sounding almost like a “th”. Soft and loving like a wisp of wind whistling through the trees. Because when my grandma says it, it no longer refers to a narcissistic performer. When my grandma says it, it is an ancient language. It is a beautiful word from Sanskrit, meaning divine or heavenly.

The way my sister Sahana says it, the “a” has two syllables. Divyaaa! This version is heard throughout the house when her shoes are mysteriously missing or when the secret stash of sweets has been strategically hidden. The “aaa” brims with annoyance, frustration, anger, but underneath it all love.

When my dad says it, it is one fluid motion. Calm and smooth, like a wave after it’s crashed on the shore and slides back into the ocean.

But not with Mom. As she speeds around the house making sure everything is right in the world, my name becomes Div. As if two

syllable words take too long to spit out, so to save time the -ya is told to stay in the waiting room until there is enough time for it to come back in. I don’t know how, but that one syllable says a million things at once. How was your day? Remember to do your homework! Love you, it says.

Mom says she always planned to name her first daughter Divya.

The name of her close friend, and dance partner. A name isn’t just letters strung together like macaroni on a necklace, Mom tells me, it’s core to your identity. Maybe I was bound to be a dancer because of my name. A name rhythmic, like the beats in a song. Yet, a name soft and melodic, almost like a string of notes, if it’s said right and you listen hard enough.

So whenever I hear my name, whether it’s pronounced Deevia, Divaya, or Divyaaa, I am reminded of my grandma speaking like the wind, Sahana yelling at the top of her lungs, Dad with a voice like the ocean, Mom running all about. And the beautiful word from that ancient language meaning divine.

photo by Genia Goldwasser

photo by Mia Wurster

photo by Natalia Cossio

photo by Sarah Ranzetta

Windows —Eva Salvatierra Of all the things an objects seen A window’s seen the most It’s felt the weight of a fingertip Squeaking secret words onto a moist fog Of shrinking breath.

A window has kept a forehead up When the forehead felt like falling It’s had cold salty tears Dribble down its stained glass And never once break away A window kept the barrier Between There and Almost there.

It guarded the sorrow of falling faces And pressing palms Watching feet Slowly walk away from home.

photo by Genia Goldwasser

photo by Keely Washington

Untitled —Ashni Sheth So I was at someone’s house last night.

Not for a sleepover or slumber party or pillow fight.

It was more like captivity or hiding of some sort, More like trying to get somewhere, but always being two steps too short.

So let me tell you what happened, the night I was stuck, When I entered a lone house, in which lightning had struck.

It was dark and scary, and it wasn’t my choice to have went, But because of my bad choices, it was there, my night was spent.

So we were out playing baseball in my backyard, But the pitcher was new, so I swung the bat hard.

It went all around us, our eyes full of fear, While my poor little bat had to shed a painful tear.

Finally, when it stopped, we were ecstatic, but confused, Since the baseball wasn’t where we had started its abuse.

It wasn’t in my yard, nor my neighbor’s down the block, But then I heard glass break, and turned to… a rock?

I stared at the boulder, then my friend said, “Go around!”

So I tentatively pushed the boulder to the ground.

And then we all gasped, for it was the house no one dared, To enter, for it had been struck by lightning, and we were all much too scared.

Fast forward to an hour later, I pushed the door, With a creak, it opened and spiders fell to the floor.

I then slowly entered, stepping through the large cracks, And went to the room in which the baseball got to relax.

It was there, and I smiled, for the scare was all done, But as I picked it up, I thought I heard someone.

So I ran as fast as I could bear, But the door had already locked me in this lair.

I was afraid, but daring, and I realized I’d be stuck.

So I decided to look past all the dirty muck.

I first went to the bedroom, and picked out a blanket, and cuddled up inside what looked like a basket.

I tossed and turned, and couldn’t fall asleep, So I picked myself up, then my heart skipped a beat.

I saw three little rats, staring right back at me, So I screamed, and hoped they would let me be.

When I calmed myself down, I heard knocking at the door, I smiled and laughed; my friends weren’t afraid anymore!

But when I opened it, it’s not my friends who I saw, It was a lady with gold teeth, and one giant claw.

She screamed and she said, “What are you doing here?”, And she grabbed me and pulled me away by my ear.

I cried out and told her the story of the bat, And she gasped, fluttered, and fell on the mat.

Shocked, I looked down, and saw her unconscious.

Well, that’s what I thought until she sat up, her face far from bliss.

She said, “You entered the bedroom? You fool, oh you fool!”

I was about to reply to that, when I saw some drool.

It wasn’t the kind that humans would make, But dogs who were hungry, and our lives they would take.

The lady said “You’ve awoken the dog!

The dog who has slept here, ever since the lightning smog!”

I was afraid, at that moment, but I didn’t have much time, For the dog had already picked me up, from my collar far behind.

He shook me and threw me, then the lady mustered some courage, To punish the dog for behaving in a way one wouldn’t encourage.

She said the heroic words, “Bad boy, you leave her alone!”

So he whined, dropped me, and went farther back into the home.

I smiled at her, and she smiled at me, And she told me the story of how the dog came to be.

But I mustn’t tell you, for the suspense will die out, However, if you wish to know, just go to the house.

So this is how I spent my night, all alone in that lair, And I’m glad I’m finally out, and me, the dog decided to spare.

photo by Sarah Ranzetta

Untitled —Nina Fearon Waves rushing all around Pushing side to side Crash! You’re underwater Salt up your nose Summer Boogie boarding is fun Almost too fun, So fun you don’t want to leave Why not stay forever?

Summer Barbeques at the poolside Lemonade and watermelon Juice on your face, Sticky to the touch Summer Heat seeping into your skin Severe sunburns, But who really cares The fun will never end Summer Swimming for hours Under the hot sun Waiting for time to stop Enjoying it while you can Summer Overnight camps, Mosquito bites and all New friends by the fire, Roasting s’mores Summer Staying up late, Sleeping in

photo by Emmy Apfel

The sun is always there Ready for the day Summer Swimsuits always wet, Sunscreen everywhere Shorts in the washing machine, Tie dye in the carpet, Summer Everything that starts, Needs to end It starts getting darker, July is over Summer August begins, School soon starts, No time for barbeques, Swimming, or lemonade, Summer is over.

photo by Tallie Molano

photo by Anusha Gupta

The Woman —Eva Salvatierra

I remember the night was cold.

Icy gelato stung our mouths and chilly air washed Against our faces Cheeks growing pink and Rosy.

Maybe it was the sunkenness beneath her eyes.

Or her skin that had lost its youthful luster, Hanging onto her bones With reluctance.

Perhaps it was way her neck held her head, Low and pitiful Or the way she slowly picked up each piece of food And chewed it as if every bite Tasted like dust.

We burst into the store Laughter filling the dim, lifeless air With color and shape.

Our thick puffy jackets Rustled and unzipped As we made our way across The chipped brown tiles Smiles and chatter melting Our frozen cheeks.

And as we passed table after table I saw her.

Maybe it was Her hair.

A matted mess greasier than The french fries on her plate, lying in a pool Of their own oil.

Across her hairline were silver, wiry strands receding into Brightly dyed orange.

But I think it was her eyes, Hidden behind dark circles and sagging skin; With no glint, No sparkle Left in them.

And I wondered how Youth could be stolen so quickly How the lust and joy of life Could be snatched Like a slippery fish Right from your grip And be replaced with a pasty stare And an empty chair That you knew No one was going to fill.

photo by Elle Giannandrea

photo by Charlotte Yao

photo by Eveliena Pasmooij

photo by Charlotte Yao

Alice

—Eva Salvatierra

Ragged breath pulsed through my lungs as I tore through the streets, whipping past stoplights and shoving past people. The shrieks of car horns, pedestrians and the glaring lights faded into a dull blur of color and noise. I was fingering the only thing that mattered, the only thing I cared about; a tiny velvet box buried into the folds of my pocket.

As my feet slapped the pavement, memories began to fill my head.

Alice and I in the bathtub, our fat infant arms slick with soap and water. A tiny, iridescent bubble floating onto a lock of Alice’s wild brown waves.

I moved faster, my arms cutting through the air as I pumped them back and forth.

Alice’s big green eyes wide with wonder as I reached up and carefully popped the swirling rainbow sphere. A burst of soapy sparks flying through the air. Alice’s big, bubbling laugh bouncing off the mustard colored walls and sleek tile floors of the bathroom.

The large cement building and its gleaming automatic doors came into view. I raced through the entrance and into the drab gray waiting room, passing the speckled chairs and greasy magazines and families talking quietly.

I slammed my hands down on the gray desk. The receptionist jumped, then gained her composure, adjusting her oily bun and loose blue sweater. “Alice Carterson,” I spoke between gritted teeth, my voice raw and raspy. “Alice Carterson. I need to see her.”

Bright, humid summers and endless hours romping through the woods. Dirt under Alice’s fingernails and sweat on her brow. Dashing through dappled rays of sunlight, feeling my heart swell with freedom.

Weaving around trees, fishing out rocks from the dirt and wrestling berries from bushes, grime smearing our faces and purple juice staining our clothes. Watching as Alice smiled in the sun, her cheeks flushed and glowing and freckles staining her crinkled nose. And I wondered if there was anyone else in the world more beautiful.

The receptionist slightly sucked in her cheekbones and let out a small whoosh of air. She placed her fingers on the computer’s crunchy keyboard, careful to avoid eye contact.

“Are you a blood relation to the patient?” Her voice was tinny and hollow.

“No,” I replied between a clenched jaw.

Tacky music thumping through the gymnasium at the middle school dance. Alice, huddled in the corner, with her eyelashes caked in mascara and lips coated in a sticky gloss. My stomach tied up tight in a knot, so many things I wanted to tell her clawing at my throat. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t need makeup for a boy to think she was pretty, that someone who wanted to dance with her was just half a gym floor away.

“I apologize, sir,” the receptionist droned. “But only family are allowed to-” I took off down the white, shiny hallway, adrenaline thrashing through my blood, my heartbeat ringing in my ears. I stopped to check through every filmy glass window on every thick metal door, each move fueled by the one thought racing through my head: find Alice.

Kissing Mackenzie Freeman at a party in the beginning of ninth grade.

Hanging around with her everywhere for the first two weeks of the school year; holding Mackenzie’s cold, bony hand, sticky, gloss-covered kisses planted on my cheek, and her empty, high pitched laugh that echoed through the corridors. Having her call us a “couple” as we walked around the hallways of the school, glued to each other’s sides. Laughing with my buddies as I’d tell them how hot she was.

But every flip of her long blonde hair, detours for makeup touchups, and endless chatter constantly reminding me that she wasn’t Alice. She could never be Alice.

The receptionist’s faint shrieking trailed after me down the halls. “Call security!” she crowed. I felt heavy image by Sarah Cowell footsteps and strong, angry hands gripping my biceps, pulling me back, low, husky voices threatening me to stop.

My face hot and forehead slippery with sweat, I tore out from beneath their grasp and rounded the corner of the hallway, my hip narrowly missing the wall.

Daniel Baines offering to help Alice carry her books to history class one day. Watching she and Daniel giggle and make googly eyes for the next few months, my stomach

twisting with jealousy as they held hands and exchanged kisses.

Screaming at Alice, pulling questions from the black rage from my mind, asking why she liked him, that Daniel wasn’t good enough for her. Alice wailing at me back, tears glistening in her eyes. “Why do you care so much, Max?” And knowing that I could never bear to admit it.

I caught my breath as I came to an abrupt halt. A door with a small nameplate on the side of it was just inches from my nose. “Alice Caterson,”it read in thin, pointed letters. My trembling hand moved slowly onto the cold metal handle, fuzz filling my brain as the door creaked open.

I stumbled inside. The room was blanched in white, bare walls lingering with scent of sanitizer. Beeping monitors droned quietly in the background. in the middle of the room was a still, sullen figure, laying on a thin white cot.

“Alice,” The word escaped my lips like a breath. I hurried to her side, tripping over my own feet and shakily exhaled. My trembling hand moved to grasp her bony fingers as I carefully examined her face.

Alice’s skin had lost its golden glow and now hung pale against her face. Her eyelids were closed and thick lashes played across her pasty cheeks, and underneath, her big, beautiful lips drained of color. My stomach tightened when I saw the blood crusted in her hair, and the scratches that blemished every inch.

Pain prodded my chest and I hung my head. I let the tears fall, running from my cheeks and dripping in between my lips, tasting the sorrowful salt on my tongue. My mind flashed back to this morning, watching the news. Big letters filling the screen, words describing a car accident, that the passenger, a girl named Alice Carterson, had gone into a coma. That she was staying at the hospital a mile away from my dorm. My mind clogging and heart racing, adrenaline soaking my every move.

“I tried to move on, Alice,” I choked out, biting my lip and shaking my head. “I told myself I might forget about you, that it was just a childish crush.” I paused.

“But it wasn’t. You were my everything.”

I released a deep breath and brought a hand to my mouth. Alice.

Perfectly imperfect Alice. Her books filled with astronomy, pencils that were never sharp, socks that were never matched, and that one hair by her ear that never stayed in place. Laughing with her, screaming at her, wiping away her tears one by one.

“I love you, Alice.” I said, swallowing and laughing as tears dribbled down my chin. I inhaled, and reached into the linty folds of my pocket. My fingers wrapped around the velvet box, and with a swoop of my stomach I lifted it out. The lid slowly popped open and revealed a

glinting silver ring. “So for me, Alice,” I spoke, my shoulders shaking with sobs. “Please, wake up. I want to marry you.”

Silence hung in the air. I quietly lowered my head, letting my hands slam down on the cold hard ground, soft waves of tears rolling out of my body, hitting the floor one after the other.

Suddenly, a machine buzzed.

I bolted up.

Alice’s eyes were open and staring right into mine.

art by Sara Baudler

Clouds —Blair Migdal Made of molecules so small we cannot see them But together those molecules create something bigger Something that can make water fall from the sky Or enhance a picture-perfect rainbow Clouds can hide something as powerful as the sun Or disappear and let the moon and stars take center-stage Clouds can be mystical and open for perception Looking like a fish then a bird They are cotton candy Wispy and sweet They are stone Dark and heavy They can be anything you want them to be

photo by Sarah Cowell

photo by Paloma Oliveri

Beach




—Elizabeth van Blommestein

The roar of the water, The whistling of the wind.

The sparkle of the sun, The squish of the sand.

The squeaks of the dolphins, The laughs of the children.

Each has its own story.

It is told wave after wave, Footprint after footprint.

And it never ends.

Each shell is lazily placed Each footprint is faintly pressed.

First Light

—Emmy Apfel

My father used to say “Look how they shine for you.”

I never knew what he meant until I looked up into the sky I saw my first light in the stars They glistened with the reflection of the hope in my eyes the stars shining for me Illuminated for me, burning for me My father forgot to tell me that It takes 4 years for light to reach Earth He left out that little detail just like he left me He said he would come back But I haven’t seen in him in what seems like forever My first light slipped away faster than I saw it The stars lie They don’t shine for me, for you For the past, for the future, For 4 years, or for now They shine because they have to Because they have no other choice

photo by Daniella Henderson

The Plumeria Tree —Claire Crowder Among twenty miles of land, The only visible thing Was the tree full of plumerias I was of three emotions, Like a waterfall Torn about it’s meaning.

The plumerias dripped with morning dew The tree blew in a soft wind A branch and a leaf Are one.

A branch and a leaf and a plumeria Are one.

O, you trees of hope, Why were you being destroyed?

Do you not see how you Once brightened the world?

I understood your purpose Trying to create happiness, But suddenly failing.

I knew That plumerias have saved me, And many others.

Thank you plumerias, For shaping my well-being.

Even though you’ve finished saving, I will never forget how you once lightened the sky, even though you darken it now.

I do not know which I preferred, The bright colors Or the calmness of the dew, Which slowly fell from the petals.

Wind circled the tree Where the plumerias grew.

They fell slowly Onto the soft grass.

The shadow created A mood That seemed to darken the sky.

photo by Rylie Gabriel