Juxtaposition December 2016

Juxtaposition

An Anthology of Art and Literature DECEMBER 2016

Juxtaposition An Anthology of Art and Literature

Cheshire Academy

Published December 2016

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Table of Contents “Blake’s Religion: A Letter” by Patrick Brown.............................................................................. 6 “Alter Ego” by Cassidy Vinal…....................................................................................................... 7 Untitled by Zhanxiang Huang........................................................................................................ 8 Harvest by Maize Lebowitz............................................................................................................. 9 “Tribute to Polaris” by Henry Melo.............................................................................................. 10 “Ticker Tape” by Jack Palmer....................................................................................................... 11 “Kids Say the Darndest Things” by Corin Porter....................................................................... 12 “Attack” by Caroline Brown......................................................................................................... 13 “Find Love Again From Painting” by Jenny Sheng............................................................... 14-16 “Tell Your Secrets to The Moon” by Michael Davis..................................................................... 17 “PSA from Frankie Alicea” by Jenna Denomme.................................................................... 18-19 Man Playing the Piano by Peter Deng......................................................................................... 20 Piano Keys by Lucey Savino......................................................................................................... 21 “No More Bogeyman” by Amalia Gutierrez................................................................................. 22 “The Monster Under The Bed” by Jesus Hernandez-Cobo.......................................................... 23 Black Lab by Meghan Bouwman.................................................................................................. 24 Cat and Pie by Zoe Genden.......................................................................................................... 25 “Kerri Lynn” by Regina McCoy.................................................................................................... 26 Crying Flower by Malaika Mfuko................................................................................................. 27 Untitled by Mailaka Mfuko........................................................................................................... 28 Untitled by Bella Chen.................................................................................................................. 29

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“Lights of Hope” and “Rain” by Jason Lin................................................................................... 30 Lights of Hope by Alyssa Dillon................................................................................................... 31 Colored Pencils by Emily Marino................................................................................................. 32 Which Way Should We Go by Samuel Silich............................................................................... 33 “Beauty” by Cassidy Vinal............................................................................................................ 34 “Embers to Ash” by Corin Porter and “Circles” by Alexis Holmes............................................. 35 “Trapped” by Jack Palmer....................................................................................................... 36-37 “A Snowman Watching a Sunrise and Melting” by Vivian Jiang............................................... 38 Untitled by Timothy Heinke......................................................................................................... 39 “Mycorel” by David Mathisson................................................................................................ 40-41 Through the Lens by Maize Lebowitz.......................................................................................... 42 Growth by Jack Owens................................................................................................................. 43 “Life From the Andes” by Henry Melo......................................................................................... 44 “Pragmatism” by Theresa West................................................................................................... 45 “Setsuna Lives in My Heart” by Leon Jiang.......................................................................... .46-47 Untitled by Molly Guglielmino.................................................................................................... .48 Arches by Olivia Tacopina............................................................................................................ 49 “What We Talk About When We Talk About Politics” by Shuqi Zheng................................. 50-51 “Universal Geometry” by Corin Porter........................................................................................ 52 Cover art: Red Leaf, Justin Allen PAGE 5

“Blake’s Religion: A Letter”

By Patrick Brown

Your Grace, Archbishop of Canterbury: While I trust you act with the noblest of intentions, there is no reconciling the cold, manufactured, unforgiving hand of the Anglican Church with the vivacious, merciful, natural will of God. The service you claim to provide is not demanded; the human spirit needs no assistance in pursuing the understanding of God which, by your own admission, lies within each of us from the day we are born as His children.

Yet the issue is not merely redundancy. Unfortunately, the doctrine you have endorsed as Archbishop is detrimental to the spirit of God as it exists in our mortal world. This is done in two ways. In the first, it destroys the very spirit it ostensibly reveres by incessantly restricting our access to nature, in which God can be found. In the second, it sponsors belief in some idyllic paradise, forcing your believers to overlook the majesty of our God-given lives, hoping instead for redemption in the afterlife.

I stand firm in my attribution of the mind-forg’d manacles to the repressive nature of the Anglican Church as an institution. For a believer in an omnipresent God, you, Archbishop, must have a difficult time justifying the preponderance of sins that are constituted merely by enjoying the world before us--enjoying the presence of God before us. You claim to help the less fortunate to find the will of God and to live as Christ lived. But then why is it that you place these limits on his presence? Why is it that we must only revel in the presence of God within your cathedrals? Why may we not enjoy God as he exists in nature?

Why must we wait until our ascension to enjoy this grace? God exists before us this very day in our mortal world. In every bird and lamb and hill and valley. The idea that we must not indulge in his joy, that we must wait our entire lives for something greater, once again, does not bring us closer to God, but places him on a pedestal, just outside of our reach.

This is not the God I know. He is not an object of praise, but a part of my life. He is not an instrument of the Church, but a wonder of nature. While you use him to maintain fear over the pious, I trust that the truly faithful will recognize the sincerity of my message through my writing.

Regards, William Blake

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“Alter Ego”

By Cassidy Vinal

Blonde, Encased in flame.

Dresses flowing like waves of the ocean.

Illustrious beauty.

Eyes, Greener, Than any tree in any forest.

Her body dances and moves so swiftly, graceful, it’s almost floating.

Her voice, singing sounds that could only be produced by angels.

A glowing aura that encases her every move.

Tangling in her Rapunzel esque hair.

But, beauty isn’t all that’s seen.

A mind as mathematical as Einstein.

As musical as Mozart.

As creative as Shakespeare.

All hidden away because after all, The world wants beauty, Not brains.

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Untitled Zhanxiang Huang

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Harvest Maize Lebowitz

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“Tribute to Polaris”

By Henry Melo

I

do not recall when I was completely engulfed by this world. It started as a dream. I would lie on my bed and dream of a faraway world.

During my sleep I would visit a community square in a village of rugged stones. The

square was dedicated to a market where useless trinkets were sold to weird looking people. I do not remember why I developed such prejudice against these people. In my mind, humans never looked different from these deformed creatures. The first time I came here, they spoke an unknown language. Words like “selafu”, “vastcro”, and “popati” were constantly spat at me. I was confused, I remember that much. I could not understand the language.

I fear that I am stuck in this dream. I have been here for three years, or was it three weeks. I can’t tell. Not only because my memory is bleak, but also because I forgot the difference between weeks and years. Time passes quickly in the land of dreams. Is this even a dream? It does not matter anymore. Both answers for this question would imply that I am insane.

I question myself because recently, I realized I am the only one here who speaks the odd English language. This oddity forced me to search for my origins. I tried to recall my past and it was like squinting in a foggy night. As I eagerly waded through my past I found memories I wish I had forgotten. The truth behind this unusual version of reality was unfolded as I deciphered my memories.

The chants of rituals clinged to my mind. Chants that talk directly to god, in an unpronounceable language impossible to translate .

Chants powerful enough to lock my soul in the purgatory: “Popa saluv kolmoon!”

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“Ticker Tape”

By Jack Palmer

T

he rebels were losing ground. Time was running short. The hope of the resistance lies solely on one man, far below in a bunker quietly listening to ticker tape. This man was sitting close to a desk with a pencil in hand, staring fixedly at the ticker tape machine,

scribbling inconceivably. Words like Trentle, penble and rel could be made out in the mass of scribbles.

Beads of sweat were dropping off the man’s face onto the ticker tape. His face furrowed in concentration. The machine went quiet for a moment and the man dared a glance at the door his opposite. It did not open, thank god. Everyone else had already left, fearing the advancement, but he stayed behind, to be a hero.

The ticker tape started again, the man’s eyes flashed back in an instant. Paper was torn off and new scribbles were formed on a fresh pad. The word Tiembes was written down. The man clenched his pencil tighter.

Footsteps could be heard clanging against the metal as they rushed towards the door. The man’s heart thumped, his hands shaking. The footsteps were an immense castrophany, filling his head, getting ever nearer.The scrawl became unraveled as the second word was written, Ventil.

The man’s eyes widened. The footsteps - his jaw tightened - were - tears were pouring down his face - getting closer.

He nearly finished writing the final word as the door crashed open. The man was propelled backward as a cartridge forced its way into his skull. As he lay dead on the floor the notepad fell next to him, turning deep red. The man’s last words were still written there. A message to all who defy. Tiembes Ventil Falle.

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“Kids Say the Darndest Things”

By Corin Porter

J

ust the other day, I heard Jack say ‘Smelon.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. Public school has definitely changed since I attended,” Mary told the other members of her book club. “I’m thinking of pulling him out.”

Oh, kids will learn to curse wherever they are. The principal called me last week when Ariel said ‹Bork

that!› in class. I’m sure she picked it up from me while I was driving. It›s just part of growing up” replied John. “I’m just glad her first word wasn’t ‘Grank!’ I was so embarrassed the first time he called to let me know my child was cursing. At this point, I’m tempted to answer the phone with ‘What the bork did he say this time?’ You know, just to see what the principal says. Maybe he’ll stop calling me altogether.”

They all laughed, but Mary was still pretty mortified at Jack’s new vocabulary. She collected the cups from her fellow book club members and bustled off into the kitchen for some refills. She came back out to the living room with a tray laden with mugs of various shapes and sizes, a mismatched collection of birthday and Christmas presents from her twins over the years.

It’s like they latch onto one trait - Mom likes tea, so we’ll get her mugs and tea pots and strainers. There’s only so much tea I can drink,” she said, shaking her head ruefully. “Still, it’s cute that they care. When I was...” Her foot slipped on something, probably a toy that one of the twins had forgotten to clear away before soccer practice. The tray, with its cargo of ceramic and hot liquid, went flying through the room in slow motion, right into the wall.

“Borking granking smelon!”

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“Attack”

By Caroline Brown

I

couldn’t believe my eyes. My screen displayed words I hoped never to read. The most important of them, korstá, the Yorgippian word for attack. A threat of korstá warranted an official report, but I held off for several long seconds, savoring existence as it was. When the humans arrived on Luna, it wasn’t a ques-

tion of if, but a question of when… when extinction would come. Here was the beginning of the end. The onus fell on me, First Interpreter Suryara, to set our demise in motion.

When I was young, Mother would whisper stories in our bunk after the lights zapped off for the night.

They were stories of her grandparents, their traditions and beliefs; how they worshipped a baby born in a stable who grew to be a man who died nailed to a cross. Despite the prayers of his followers, his magic couldn’t save the Dead Planet. A distant memory of him certainly wouldn’t save Luna now.

“First Interpreter!” My commander marched toward my station. He saluted, as was customary, then relaxed and leaned in close to my face, closer than I expected. I was sure he smelled the terror in my sweat.

“When does your shift end today?” He spoke too casually to have detected anything wrong.

“In three rotations,” I responded. Not long now. If only this textbyte had been intercepted four rotations from now. It would have been out of my hands.

“I was thinking, maybe you and I could consume our rations together…”

“Commander- “ “Suryara,” his tone was soft, “I understand that this is against protocol, but I feel…” He trailed off as his eyes followed mine and both pairs rested on my screen.

“What is this?” he asked, but he knew. “Yôrgi irutïa Luna korstá… my god!” His final words a cry for help, a remnant of the Dead Planet, their meaning lost years ago.

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“Find Love Again From Painting”

By Jenny Sheng

O

ne day, Wendy was having class as usual. The head teacher, Mrs. Lindy suddenly called her to the office. Forty pairs of eyes stared at her and whispered to each other. “Why did Mrs. Lindy call her to the office? Did Wendy do something wrong?”

“Who knows! If she was called, we will be called too. After all, Wendy is the best student in our class.”

There are no perfect people in this world, however Wendy wanted to be perfect. Every night, she came home from school and studied until midnight. She always asked good questions in class. She is good at painting, which is a hobby she learned when she was a child. She won the Outstanding Painter Award of New York City when she was only ten years old. She always wears a smile every day to every person. She looks like a perfect person who is very happy, but the truth is she has no self-esteem because her father left her and her mother has no time for her. When she goes back home after school and stays alone, she always cries by herself.

While listening to her classmates talk, Wendy also got confused and a little nervous. “Did I got the worst grade on my latest test?” she asked herself. When she walked into the office, Mrs. Lindy saw her, and she said: “Come here!” Wendy’s legs shook in one second. She slowly walked to the seat near Mrs. Lindy.

“How are you doing?” Mrs. Lindy asked.

“Good,” Wendy said.

“Ok. Sure. I just want to know why you never have the signature on your daily school journal? I require you to do this because I want you to learn how to track your progress every day, and also make sure that your parents know how you are doing in school. It is the first month of your senior high study, I think it is important for you to follow directions. Also, I can see you do not have any messages from your parents in your journal. It is important for me to build the bridge between your parents and school. This should be really easy for you because I am sure your parents are very proud of you,” Mrs. Lindy said patiently.

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Wendy started to think about what she should say to Mrs. Lindy. She did not want her to know that she does not have a complete family. Her parents broke up their marriage when she was in junior high. At that time, Wendy could not accept this fact, and she was depressed. Her parents divorced because her mother is a boss of a stock company, and like in TV dramas or in movies, the marriage could not work with her mother as a super woman. Wendy thought, Should I tell Mrs. Lindy all of this? Should I tell her my father did not like this lifestyle so they always had quarrels? In order to have a peaceful life, they chose to break the marriage? Wendy wondered should she tell Mrs. Lindy that after her parents’ marriage broke, she lived with her grandparents. Her mother barely saw her and her father never did.

“Er…...Er…… I know why you required us to do this,” Wendy said while touching her hair.

“But why didn’t you do this?” Mrs. Lindy got a bit angry.

“Because…...” Wendy was not sure whether she needed to tell Mrs. Lindy because if Mrs. Lindy knows, maybe more classmates will know. She did not want to share the situation in her family.

“Do you have some secret sorrow?” Mrs. Lindy seemed noticed something was wrong with Wendy.

It touched Wendy’s heart deeply. She was not able to hide her sadness and she said. “My mother did not sign the journal because she does not stay at home. She spends most time on her work.”

Tears were falling down.

“I am sorry. I suppose I should have learned about your family first, do not cry. I think I can help you solve this problem,” Mrs. Lindy comforted Wendy as much as possible.

Soon after the meeting with Mrs. Lindy, the message was spread everywhere as Wendy imagined.

Many of her classmates talked about her family. Wendy thought she lost her proper pride. At this time, her best friend Kristina put herself forward. She wanted to stop the people who talked about Wendy’s family, but no one reacted to her.

Wendy tears fell from her face as she went home. When her grandparents saw her, they walked toward Wendy and asked her what happened. She did not want to talk to anybody anymore. Going directly to her room, she put her face down on her desk to calm down, and then she released her sadness through the thing she is good at—painting. She prepared one piece of paper and lots of colored pens.

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She put her hand on her head and tried to draw everything she had not said for several years.

Thinking back on her past, and all of the heart wrenching things that accumulated in her mind, she took her painting pens and started painting. She drew her mother and herself having a picnic at the park. How warm the picture was! Maybe Wendy had dreamed this scene many times. Then she put the picture on the wall of her room and pretended she was in a family like this.

“Wen…….Wen…….” One day Wendy’s mother came back home, and when she looked around Wendy’s room, she saw the picture which Wendy drew on the wall and could not restrain herself, and she cried. Her mother suddenly felt she did nothing for her daughter during these few years, and there was a far distance between them. They needed a deep talk to break the barrier.

Wendy was invited by her mother to have a meal. One day, her mother got home early and prepared the meal. She saw her mother busy preparing the meal for her, and it made her excited and moved. It was the first time she saw her mother do this. She stepped slowly to her. Then they sat down. Her mother spoke first, “My honey, I am sorry that I have not cared for you much, and I think you really need me in this period of your life.” When her mother stopped speaking, Wendy said, “I think I need you, too. You know sometimes I was always said I do not have a father. I think I need a wall to lean on when I am teased by my classmates. ” “Eh…...I think I will free-up more time to spend with you. I hope we can have the life you drew in your picture,” her mother said.

“Sure, I love you mum.” As they were talking, the sound of laughing was there.

As a result, Wendy was hopeful for the future. She will not be sad when her classmates laugh at her; she will not keep the cold war with her mother; she can meet with her mother more.

The thing that gives her hope is her hobby-painting. It helped her find love again.

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“Tell Your Secrets to the Moon”

By Michael Davis

When you have no one left to tell your sorrows to When you have no more strength to live off of When you can’t find a reason to carry on living When all hope seems lost and there is none to be seen on the horizon Tell your secrets to the moon When the door to happiness finally closes When the hard rain that was falling before, turns into hail When the beaten trail you’ve been traveling on suddenly ends When no pleasure comes out of living anymore When the clouds cover the sky and you can’t see the stars Tell your secrets to the moon When the bridge holding up your hopes finally collapses When your wings don’t work and you can’t fly When the haze of your own sadness clouds your vision When the sounds of your own sobbing clogs your hearing When love seems lost and there seems no reason to keep going When the sun don’t rise in the morning and all you see is black Tell your secrets to the moon Wherever you may stand today, there will always be sadness When this sadness that you carry with you cannot be vanquished When this burden you bear upon your shoulders does not seem to disappear When joy seems like an illusion and you’re drowning in sadness When your dreams seem to high and the stars are out of reach Tell your secrets to the moon

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This was written based on an experience from this past summer when I was at Wesleyan University for a four-week program called Center for Creative Youth (CCY). It is dedicated to one of the teaching assistants for the courage and compassion he showed.

“PSA FROM FRANKIE ALICEA”

By Jenna Denomme

I’m sitting in the front row of the cinema Waiting to go to a Jimmy Greene concert The songs for which were written for his daughter Who was killed in a school shooting.

I am sitting silently when a young man whom I only met less than two weeks before this event steps out from behind the podium.

I immediately sense his discomfort And I ask myself, “What did we do?”

Because I’m certain some other CCY student broke a serious rule And now we’ll all be lectured for it.

That sort of situation is familiar to me.

Then he says, “For those of you who don’t know” In a hesitant voice that zooms out my perspective.

Something monumental has happened, Something truly terrible, And I’m right.

It is here that I learn of two new, unconnected cases Of a black man getting killed by police officers Both instances in the span of the past thirty-six hours.

I can’t help but look around the room At this outstanding group of over 100 talented art students,

Diverse in nearly every sense of the word.

Then I turn back to the fidgety speaker With his curly black hair and skin a darker color than printer paper And I instantly understand.

He stands in front of a theater full of high school students And reassures us with words we’ve heard before, especially here.

“You’re wonderful, you’re beautiful, you’re special,” and the like.

The whole time I wait for him to say, “You’re safe here,” The same thing all of the administrators said At my high school one afternoon last year When, according to student rumours, a homemade bomb was reportedly made in one of the dorms.

It is a patronizing statement that hides secrets behind the locked bars of teeth, A comfort none of them can confirm with 100% accuracy.

But today’s speaker never tells us, “You’re safe.”

Instead, he says something both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

“We will protect you… ferociously.”

Despite the gap and the instability of the words,

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They ring truer and stronger than anything else he could have said And while at first they fill me with hope, It quickly shrivels up when I realize the implications Of what will come to pass if he and the others ever have to put their lives where their mouths are.

I may have barely gotten a chance to know these temporary guardian angels But I care about all of them, likely more deeply than I realize even now.

Throughout all of this, something feels wrong in my gut Because I know that all of the speaker’s words Are not primarily for me.

This is for the people in the room who, as he puts it, Could potentially be seen as dangerous based on the color of their skin, Those who are outsiders in one way or another, Not for a white, straight, middle class, teen girl like me, Who lives in a suburban town where any crime is a rarity.

I can’t help but wonder if this isolation, this loneliness, Is something those not like me feel often.

It gives me a sick feeling of shame.

After hanging my head, My neck weighing with guilt that does not belong to me, I look back up at the speaker And I recognize in him, His inability to stand still, His wrung hands,

His warm, wavering voice with an unconfident confidence, That we are all in the same boat.

We are all, whether consciously or subconsciously, Scared of the evil that permeates this world, For ourselves and for other.

We are all disgusted with the world But we also find hope in each other, And when we are determined To protect and multiply that hope, That is when we are at our strongest.

It is the strength I see in our speaker And in the aftermath of the meeting With teenagers streaming outside, I want to go talk to him, To thank him for giving me the inspiration I didn’t even realize I needed And also to give him what little strength I can muster up Because in this moment, I figure he needs it more than I do.

But I never get the chance.

So I decide to write it down for an assignment instead.

Whenever I see people like Frankie Alicea from CCY, I find myself thinking, “How can I become that strong?”

And after this, I think I know.

It takes support from those who care about you As much as you care for them.

We are unified by our shared strength And thus strengthened by our unity.

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Man Playing the Piano Peter Deng

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Piano Keys Lucey Savino

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“No More Bogeymen”

By Amalia Gutierrez

I leave sugar cubes on my windowsill When sleep takes hold, anticipation grows New trophies, nightmares gallop nearer still My goal? To capture causes of my woes The little bastards don’t ruin my heart Such cheap things they use to bolster their pride Now I’m immune to being torn apart I take revenge, I’ll tear their awful hide And now, so cruel, they march to my sly trap Their last wicked hurrah, I grab their reins Of future dreams, I leave them not a scrap I rip away drive, I take out their manes

The tables have turned, their skins I now wear But now I gallop as a new nightmare

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“The Monster Under The Bed”

By Jesus Hernandez-Cobo You read about it in history books You talk about it with teachers Maybe you hear about it from your grandparents Or watched a movie about it You may even have seen it on the news as it pays a visit to lands you may have or may not have been to But you do not really get to imagine it with much detail You don’t know what it smells like Barely can sense what it feels like How can you?

How could you?

But suddenly you do Suddenly you are walking on the streets and you find yourself looking for signs that will allow you to save your life given the moment After all, that is what they advise you to do It is what you have to do They ask you to find any suspicious activity, as if you were a cop But maybe everyone’s a cop Everyone needs to protect everyone Suddenly you read and watch the news with fear When did you even care about the news that much?

You see people get divided over views that are further apart every second They are angry, they are scared They hate each other, they hurt each other It spreads like a disease It explodes like a bomb And you fear When you would imagine it, the images were almost as if time had stopped and it happened in a vacuum But then you realize life always goes on, in spite of it and around it Nothing happens in a vacuum Now you look at it in the eye, as it wants to happen And you fear And you beg for it to go away Just like when you were a child and feared the monster under the bed And you fear “Please go, don’t stay, go away, leave us alone, leave me alone” You beg for everyone to send it away And I fear I fear you, war.

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Black Lab Meghan Bouwman

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Cat and Pie Zoe Genden

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“Kerri Lynn�

By Regina McCoy

Marbled fragility blooms like flowers She gave me when we thought we were in love, But were never watered, so they wilted and died.

Her emotions felt like glass and I was always scared of saying the wrong Thing in fear the feelings would shatter and The shards would imbed in both our skins.

She was changing like the caterpillars We picked off ripe leaves in grade school.

I would incubate her and watch her transform Into something that had wings but would never Let her go in case she decided to leave and not return.

Butterflies are only supposed to live for ten days.

I spent every waking minute waiting for her to die.

But she was a trick candleNo matter how hard you tried she would never go out.

I missed her even when her hands were in mine.

We would play out our lives in silence that replicated Like cells until our bodies laid in each other without a word.

She was like spring in Florida.

She was eternal.

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Crying FLower Malaika Mfuko

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Untitled Malaika Mfuko

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Untitled Bella Chen

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“Rain”

“Lights of Hope”

By Jason Lin

Weather, weather, don’t be frustrated.

Shining, shining, faint but strong

Whether, whether, you know how I feel.

Twinkle, twinkle, crystal clear,

Falling is your fate.

May you bring the warmness to my heart?

Crying is my way.

Lightening the dark,

You are making the sound of water,

Burning the night,

I am telling the fact of the matter.

Paper bag standing,

You are crashing the ground,

Standing straight,

I am kissing the wound.

Straight as if cannot be blown off, as if will stay in perpetuity

Dawn will come,

Perpetuity unable to disturb, unable to extinguish

You will fade, You are so pure that you can’t be seen.

Lights of hope,

Lights of love, Shining, shining, crystal clear, Burning, burning, lights of hope.

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Lights of Hope Alyssa Dillon

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Colored Pencils Emily Marino

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Which Way Should We Go Samuel Silich

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“Beauty�

By Cassidy Vinal

T

here is beauty here, right in this very object. The funny thing is, that even though it is so beautiful it could tear you apart in one second. Now, think of this as a woman.

This woman, she is so beautiful, so illustrious in her gown. The slight wind that brushes against you both, picked up the wisps of her golden hair, throwing it back into the cavern she stands in front of. She is angelic, with the sun heating the land, it somehow caressed her head, giving her a halo.

She had wings, soft like silk, tougher than steel. They sprouted from her back, winding through her hair. One word could describe her now.

Angel.

But, the clouds rolled over, and her once so flawless face contorted into something sinister. The white feathers fell from her wings, Black skin threaded through bones, a sickening sight as the feathers piled on the crumbling rocks beneath her. Her smile turned into a smirk so deadly only the devil himself could make. Those beautiful blonde locks turn into a silvery metal, like swords stacked in a room. The dress that adorned her delicate from began to shred, and fall away; Leaving nothing more than a short dirty dress that was ragged and torn at the edges, and the sleeves had completely ripped from themselves. Scars and tattoos now coated her skin, A plunging neckline, and a single scar that ran through where her heart once had been, now leaving her soulless.

This once beautiful innocence had now morphed and become a beast; but nonetheless, she held her audience captive.

She Was Beauty.

Though her beauty could no longer be seen, nor felt from her cold frame, nor touched it was held there all the same. It had to be there, had to have stayed. Because it begged to be, experienced.

She was that the angel of death.

She took lives without a second glance, and she had no love for anything in the world.

But, she, the Angel who would take my life. Had showed me what it exactly what it was to have a life.

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“Ember to Ash”

“Circles”

By Corin Porter

By Alexis “Lexe” Holmes

Rivers of waxy skin form rippled puddles below action set in stillness, cascading paused.

A woman becomes a widow, a first kiss has just been given.

Fire is a hungry passion: activating dancing revealing flickering guttering dying smothered.

At times when you feel sorry, another has been forgiven.

When someone has to die,

Even smoke soon disperses: ember to ash, cylindrical perfection gives birth to a disfigured ruin, light devoured by darkness, energy expended, exhausted in a futile fight against the inevitably victorious entropy.

a new life has been conceived.

What goes around comes around.

New life, new beginnings.

Is it any wonder that moths and humans, ephemeral both, are attracted to the same flame?

Fleeting life yields to implacable time.

Only in death is immortality achieved.

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“Trapped�

Jack Palmer

W

hen life gives you lemons you make lemonade. This quote has no place within a world of inferiority. How am I supposed to make lemonade when someone stole all of my supposed lemons? I write that as I sit in a chair that costs fifty thousand dollars a

year with my laundry bag that cost a further thousand. Who am I to talk about stolen lemons when people literally live their life as sex slaves held captive by abusive and dangerous men? To be completely honest, I think I was handed the wrong cards. My life would be better placed in someone else’s hands.

I should have been born into an abusive family with a drunken father and a neglectful mother.

Perhaps you think I am romanticizing this life because I want some kind of excitement in mine.

You would be wrong. I want it because I am a terrible person. A person of terrible morals because I have none. I rationalize all my actions no matter how wrong they are and deal with the consequences. Not to say that I want to punish myself. I want to live a life that does not bind me to the guilt I feel towards those who care about me.

The things I want to do are locked away by guilt towards my mother and my friends. There is nothing really stopping me from leaving Cheshire Academy and doing whatever I want to do besides these ties. If I did not have them there would be nothing stopping me. I would have reason to leave if I did live in an abusive family. This sounds rather extreme for the simple goal of freedom, but it seems as if my life is planned out by people who do not understand my motives or actions.

I am stuck in a cycle. A cycle that is guided by false principles and an impossible ideal. You get good grades to go to a good school. You go to a good school to get a good job. You get a good

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job to get good money. You get good money so you can get good things and eventually send your kids to a good school. Many Americans follow this cycle yet this cycle for supposed prosperity has made the majority of Americans unhappy. A lot of college graduates make less money than the mentally sane hobo. Yet people still follow this cycle like it works, and perhaps it used to, but it does not work anymore. My fellow classmates scoff at me when I say I do not want to go to college.

Why would I want to be captive inside another school for four years? What skills would I learn?

I would spend tens of thousands on an education I could care less about, to be a part of a culture I detest and listen to people I despise tell me how the world works. Yet I am being pushed in that direction. I cannot say no to it, my destiny has already been laid out for me. My hands are tied by my empathy towards my family. They have gave given me this gift I call a curse. They gave me a path to follow, one I feel I was not made for yet one that would give me no reason for sorrow. I hate it. A man chooses, a slave obeys. I am that slave, chained by other people’s good intentions and my own inability.

Maybe my family is right and I am wrong. Maybe my fellow classmates are right and I am wrong. Maybe everyone is in the right and I am in the wrong. I don’t care, all I see is impatient people ready to unveil the next chapter of their life while I want to wallow in it. My goals in life do not align with the majority, and I am probably the only one within my minority. I was given the opportunity to create a cohesive narrative about something that mattered but instead went on a rambling and perhaps inane spiel. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

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“A Snowman Watching a Sunrise and Melting”

By Vivian Jiang I open my eyes White pure white with strokes of black and grey What time is it Five or six Bright yellow is poking out its head Like a little child playing hide-and-seek Bright yellow Bright as white Making the black fear Making it becomes darker As it knows its helpless destiny White is devouring everything Brighter, bigger, bolder As a greedy shadow monster Step by step, little by little patiently, silently I can feel its warm breath Black sighs and steps back reluctantly It fails and runs Leaves two stubborn dots of black on my face Leaves a trail of black that is hidden behind me Leaves me under the white Pure white without black and grey Bright yellow is so excited for its brilliant triumph Its body turns to bright orange and hugs me Closer, closer, closer Pressing me into it It is enthusiastic as fire I cannot breath My two little arms are going to fall I lean and try to rescue

Struggling, fighting, and groaning with colorless tears Dripping, dripping, dripping Please, let me go, let me….

I beg silently The Black is running away to my side shrinking itself to hide Fears make its face turns grey I reach and lean further, trying to protect my thin arms I fail Tick As silent as a leaf touching the ground As silent as the hand of a clock moving a step The orange turns a little darker It is laughing Laughing with slight Standing on my side with arrogance It is pushing me to lean further The same side where the black is Down, down, down Devouring, swallowing I can almost touch the black hidden underneath me Black, dear black Please hold me as you are holding the white little stars Flop!

Laughter becomes even wilder I am tired I curl up like a baby I curl myself smaller and smaller I have to sleep With no choice Good night To the black underneath me With the stable smile on my crying face Black Pure black I close my eyes PAGE 38

Untitled Timothy Heinke PAGE 39

“MYCOREL”

By David Mathisson

Prologue Once, before the world was called Urian, there was nothing but Destiny.

So Destiny created the four elements, and with them, four gods.

Helos for Fire, Aquos for Water, Gaeios for Earth, and Iryos for Air. From these life was created.

But the world was locked into a never-changing cycle.

So Destiny created Death.

And all humanity was Death’s Child.

Chapter 1

M

ycorel stood on the sun-drenched shores that had once been stained with his blood. He had arrived at the lake at last.

It had been a week of travel up into the mountains, but it would all be worth every second soon.

He walked over to the spot where he’d fought and lost his duel. It had been many years ago. But he still remembered the shores of this very lake, tasting the cold, clean mountain air, the tall grass reaching towards the sand on the edge of the water, and the way it glistened in the morning sun. The angels’ lake wasn’t exactly as he’d remembered it. Many angels were lying on the ground, passed out with bottles of ale surrounding them. Mycorel gazed longingly at an unguarded coin purse, heavy with copper points and a few silver diskuses. He removed his pack to see if he had room, then shrugged and jammed the rest of his things deeper in the pack, fitting the purse in. Years ago, he’d mastered the trick of keeping the coins from jingling around.

Mycorel had grown up in the slums of Delion, forced to work eighteen hours a day, and still unable to pay his taxes, let alone buy food. He scanned the ground for more coin purses, seeing one set of footprints instead. The angels had clearly been tricked, and Mycorel wished he could have been part of the scheme. Mycorel had been the crafty one. He’d cut purses, picked pockets, and conned outsiders to stay afloat. He’d steal fresh fruit from the farms, running from the men paid to chase his kind. Once, he’d hid in a sewer, the alternative being a knife in the gut, a club over his head, and his body floating by the docks in the morning.

He had promised himself never again. He’d done all sorts of unsavory things to live that way, but the worst thing he’d done by far was the murder and impersonation of the ambassador of Delion. It had brought him to the Winged City. But now he was

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back without a single golden vare on his head.

He’d been stabbed through the chest by the bodyguard of a diplomat, who’d been a good friend of the dead man. He unsheathed his dueling sword, watching the sun’s light ripple over it. It hadn’t saved him then, though it had served him well more times than he could count. He sheathed it, grinning. He wouldn’t need it today.

Mycorel walked over to a sandy clearing. He had dragged himself there as he lay dying. He stared at the now-blank ground, taking a moment to remember when he’d written ‘HELP’ with his own blood before he passed out.

It hadn’t been the angels who had saved him.

He saw the sun’s glint on something far away. Smiling to himself, he walked over to the object. It appeared to be a sword, and a valuable one at that, with a large ruby in the pommel. He almost didn’t notice the dying angel behind it.

An angel was lying in a puddle of his own blood on the shore, staining the white sand. He was unlike the others, with dark hair, tanned skin, red and orange wings, and fiery eyes. His longsword lay surrounded by the encroaching tall grass, wet with the morning dew, half buried in the sand. The hilt was invitingly leaning towards Mycorel’s hand, almost like a gift.

“Please help me, sir. I need a healer.”

Mycorel stared at him, then laughed. “And I need a drink, but you don’t see me shouting it out to all Urian.”

“I’m dying. Please. My ancestors would be ashamed of me.” The angel’s eyes looked hollow, almost sunken with despair.

Mycorel shrugged. “The angels left me to die on these shores once.”

The angel continued to beg. “I’ll do anything if you save my life, sir.”

“Why should I consider you worth anything? Your sword however… Truly admirable craftsmanship. Not like the Delian garbage they try to pass off there.”

The angel did not stop. “Sir, the ancestral sword is precious indeed. But I’ll give it to you if you’ll save my life.”

Mycorel shrugged. “Wouldn’t the ancestors be displeased, angel? I’m sure they’d be happier with you if I took it when you weren’t able to stop me.”

“My name is Ja’harel. Please. Carry it with you if you’d just leave me here. But I can help you. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

Mycorel stared up into the sky for a moment, pulling the sword from the sand and testing its balance. “Anything, you say?

So you’ll follow any order I give you?”

“Yes. Please, sir. I shall do anything.”

Mycorel nodded. “I think I like that idea. In fact, I might even like it enough to help you.”

He removed a few items from his pack. A needle and thread, bandages, and a vial were laid on the rock. Mycorel placed the vial on the ground next to the lake.

“If you want me to bandage and later stitch the wound, then simply pour the contents of this vial into the lake.”

Every last drop of the murky greenish black liquid fell into the water, quickly dispersing.

Mycorel laughed as he got to work on the bandaging.

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Through the Lens Maize Lebowitz

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Growth Jack Owens

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“Life from the Andes”

By Henry Melo

B

risk air brushed face. I can still remember. The height of the mountain caused nausea. From the top of the world I could see a small village, a dot on the white canvas. Something could be seen leaving the village.

It was one person, maybe two. They walked fast, almost running.

“From up here people are like ants” said the tour guide, breaking the

heavenly silence only a mountain can provide. I glimpsed again at the moving blob and saw that there was another person in it. The running group paced as if they forgot something, deep in the snow. They hasted as if a family member had died, deep in the snow. I shivered in the cold. As I watched the moving group, I realized that no matter how ant-like it looked, it had its story. It had a life.

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“Pragmatism” Theresa West

“T

oday we will study SAT vocabulary,” Ms. Kradding said. “I will teach you prefixes and suffixes. I don’t say this in a braggadocios way, but once you know word parts, discerning the meaning of individual words becomes quite simple.”

“Braggadocios?” Frank asked. “You made that up. Be honest.”

“I most certainly did not, Frank. This is precisely why it is important to study vocabulary.

Words are the medium through which we communicate ideas.”

Ms. Kradding projected “in-” on the Smartboard. “ ‘in-’ means not. Insecure, inadequate, incompetent and so on. ‘Dis’ also means not as in dispassionate and discontent. Now please look at the provided list of vocabulary terms. Find a word starting with “in” or “dis.” Research your word’s meaning. Then write it on the flashcard I have provided and hold up your card.”

Slowly students raised their index cards.

Ms. Kradding scanned the room, observing the words.

Incident Insisted

Intuition Perhaps the words starting with “dis” would better illustrate the lesson Ms. Kradding had hoped to elucidate.

Disguise Disingenuous “What the Flark? This just shows how dumb this test is.” Frank said.

“No swearing!” Ms. Kradding retorted.

“That isn’t actually a swear…” Frank rebutted.

“It’s a nonsense word I made up in place of a swear. I like it. Flark!”

“You’re defying the spirit of the rule against swearing.”

“What the fichus tree? Is this a fascist state?”

“Frank, you’re still defying the spirit of the rule. Do you even know what fascist means?”

“Fascist…” Frank said. “a way of organizing a society in which a government ruled by a dictator controls the lives of the people and in which people are not allowed to disagree with the government …like this… right now, Ms. Kradding.”

“Flark!”

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“Setsuna Lives in My Heart” Leon Jiang

I

t was an unforgettable time when I was studying in my junior high school. It left me with a deep impression of rapture, sadness, anger and ecstasy. From my first step into the school, to meeting thirty-seven strangers and letting these strangers become friends, and even family, was a cherishing experience. Also, I appreciated my class teacher,

my math teacher, who was not only teaching me knowledge, but also led me to become a good person. However, the person I miss the most is my best friend, Setsuna. We were friends, we are friends, and we will be friends, forever. And we will obey our promise of collaborating on careers when we finish our studies, which is one of the motivations to encourage me to be better.

When I was first introduced to Setsuna, he was a shy and timid boy. Our head teacher asked us to introduce our-

selves. When it was his turn, he stood up, looked to everyone with a timid smile, and said, “I am Setsuna and I am graduated from 6th Elementary School.” It was a brief introduction, however, he looked experienced and mature when he was looking around. This feeling attracted my curiosity and interest. And I was sure he was a teenager with a complicated and different story.

I showed my special talent and ability in mathematics and was successfully noticed by my math teacher. I became a special tutor, teaching competitive math problems. This was fortunate because I had a chance to engage with Setsuna, even though the only thing I could do was to test his math ability. I gave him some problems to solve and tried to discover how good he was in math. He was good at math. His answers depended on logic and mathematics methods very well, even though he made some silly mistakes, probably because he was sometimes careless. I asked him about his previous math study. He told me that he was a little talented, not excellent, and he was interested in my skills. I saw he was zealous to improve his skills, so I tried to figure out what types of mistakes he makes and how to solve them. We studied well together.

During the first semester, we were just normal classmates. I was still doing my job as a tutor. Everything changed at the end of my 6th grade year. He asked me who I think is the most reliable person in the class. I was confused about why he asked the question. He explained that he thought I was a reliable person and he wanted to be friends, close friends with me. We took a walk together after school. He told me lots of stories of things that happened in his childhood. Generally dark stories! I felt sympathetic towards him. I could now understand why he looked experienced. We chatted a lot and defined our goals for future together.

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We became utmost close friends, even though sometime we argued over academic problems and $10 food. We always had lunch together. One year later, I started to think about studying overseas. I invited him to have dinner and asked him for advice. He looked disappointed. He was looking at me seriously, without any words. I felt that he did not want me to study overseas, and I was sure of my feelings.

“Leon,” said Setsuna, “I think you have already have a prediction about what my advice will be. If you ask me whether you should study oversea or stay here, my answer will be absolutely no. And the only reason is I want you to stay here with me. However, on the other hand, I may encourage you to study oversea. You can be better educated and cultivated. Remember! No one can take all your time, all your energy, all your mind and all your treasure, except you, yourself! For me, absolutely I want you to stay here, but for you, you should go. I encourage you to study oversea is because I can only take up a part of you, but you can decide your whole life, 100 percent of your life. You will study abroad, not me. Therefore, it is better and more important to make decisions for you than for me. In addition, for me, I will be proud of you. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.” I knew, clearly and completely knew. But it was very difficult for me to imagine that I played an important role in someone’s mind, more important than I imagined. He thought for me first, and taught me that I should make decisions for myself. I was speechless for a long time, not because I was poor at organizing sentences, just because I did not know what to say, I did not know how to reply to him.

Silence was overwhelming. I could not hear any sounds. It was the most serious and silent dinner I had ever had.

After dinner, we went to a tea stop to buy two cups of tea. I held the cup tightly, looked at him seriously, said, “Sorry Setsuna. I decided to study overseas, so I cannot accompany you for about the next 10 years. I will try my best to study for good grades, and I hope you do too. Remember! We were friends. We are friends. And we will be friends forever. I cannot promise more. The only thing I can promise, is that I will return, and I will meet you, and try my best to meet you every year. Sorry and thanks.” Then I wept. Tears flew down from my eyes. I felt guilty for my decision, it was not the best decision for him. I gave him a hug.

“I will wait for you, for 10 years”, said Setsuna, “No. I will wait for you longer than 10 years, I am looking forward to collaborating with you on careers!”

We took a walk together, the same walk we did one year ago, without speaking. I stared at him, for several minutes, until he disappeared from my sight. I began to remember the times we discussed math problems, had dinners together, fought over $10 food, and everything that took place between us. I said to myself, “I promise I will return.

And I promised I will keep the friendship in my heart, forever. And I appreciated the world for endowing Setsuna as the warmth for me in the chilly and freezing winter.”

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Untitled Molly Guglielmino

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Arches Olivia Tacopina

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IN THE STYLE OF HARUKI MURAKAMI

“What we talk about when we talk about politics”

By Shuqi (Emma) Zheng

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to start with the characters in my book. As most of you may know, most main characters in my books are males. They live alone, they read, drink and listen to music a lot. They are usually talented in some ways but have no ambition. They have depth to their characters but they barely have friends. They attract certain girls and talk to them about love and life. Some of them, especially the ones in their youth, are of perplexity. A lot of them are what they call “anti-heroes”.

They are numb and indifferent about the society, politics or justice, and they are most concerned with their inner self, where “every sight, every feeling, every thought comes back, like a boomerang” to themselves.

They were more or less reflections of me. I hated politics, left or right wing. I opened a coffeehouse and a jazz bar, I listened to jazz, I talked to the people who came into the bar and I spent time with my cat. I invented the phrase “a small, good thing”, which stands for some small but tangible happiness. These small good things could give profound meaning of life, too. For me, they are things like ironing my shirt on a sunny day and eating fried oysters with beer and writing about these small happiness.

But as I matured, I’ve come to realize that life is not just about the small good things. Or, in other words, if all we cared about are the small good things, they would be exactly the ones that we can’t secure——Diving into philosophy or Jane Austen, being a pure academic, a creative job and a cozy life…...they could be taken away from us at any moment. And there are loads of people who don’t get to enjoy their small good things from the start, there are ones who can’t pursue their interests, ones that are politically oppressed, ones that are forced into terrorist groups, ones that are suffering in a way that some of us could never think of.

I’ve come to notice this ”wall”, the wall named system that is often used in literatures, especially dystopian novels. For example, 1984, which is about how the system of ideological control crushes a person’s faith and hope and soul, manipulates the truth of history and moral of a society. In the book Delirium by Lauren Oliver, love is classified as a disease and everyone has to go through a brain operation so that they lose the ability of proper emotions and are hence “cured” from the disease.

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This wall of system, where everyone are supposed to be protected from the danger of love and the society the cruelty of war, is a big lie. This wall called “the system” strives to maximize efficiency, the so-called “greater good,” this wall that is built to organize the society and protect us.

But it often times does exactly the opposite.

The wall is both a powerful a powerful notion and a physical existence. The one of the American president candidates Trump talked about between Mexico and America, the “Great Firewall” of China that censors information on the internet.

And if we were to immerse in our little worlds, don’t care enough to even find out what is going on around us, and just believe in the things the authority wants us to believe, who would be the one to go against the system that deny us the basic rights? How long would we still be able to sustain our “small happiness”, which is what we see as essential to our uniqueness?

Talking about the wall, starting to pay attention to politics, is the only way we could secure our small good things, and stop other people’s small good things from being taken away.

Talking about politics isn’t just about being able to tell the difference of the policies and underlying ideologies between different parties, criticizing the economic policies and health care, or perceiving a politician’s distaste of something from their subtle speech.

Talking about politics is about passion, belief, and justice; it is about people’s well-being, about preserving the culture and human nature, about protecting our souls from being reduced to the tame, vulnerable, uniform and helpless individuals by the “system.”

And the most important question is, if we don’t talk about politics, Who will? If we ourselves don’t stand at the side of the eggs against the high solid wall of the system, who will? For us to preserve the beauty of the loneliness and uniqueness of our souls, we need to care, we need to talk about politics and what is going on in other countries. So that we preserve each other’s souls, so that we, the eggs are not crushed by the wall.

As a novelist, I would like to use one of Ai Weiwei’s lines, “everything is art, everything is politics.” I talk about the small happiness in my book so people realize how precious and yet fragile the small happiness are, the love, the perplexity------the luxury and the absolute beauty of life; and how we should stand together, and not let the wall take over us.

Be the change you want to see in this world

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“Universal Geometry”

By Corin Porter

No one can hear you scream in a vacuum but you can listen with every atom of your body every molecule of your soul to the music of the spheres and rejoice in the symphony

Take a walk through stars and your mind, stretching fingers wide as your arms reach towards distant pricks of light against an infinite black Gravity and reality limit you – so take flight from harsh certainty and blow past physics with its silly boundaries

Play your fingers along the orbits and push planets along like beads on a child’s toy or an abacus counting to infinity

Let the Milky Way be the torch to light your path and stroll through its solar systems

Come back to Earth and return to your body refreshed, a new perspective, with the knowledge that problems are dust motes in a ray of light and that universal geometry is a beautiful thing

Be careful to skirt the edge of black holes, irresistible wells – unless you want to take a dive, dive into an abyss and see through to the other side

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Juxtaposition An Anthology of Art and Literature Cheshire Academy

Published December 2016