Epic Spring 2018

EPIC

EPIC

2018

epic 2018 Kingswood Oxford West Hartford, CT

Staff Page Executive Editors Skylar Barron Chiara Rego Phoebe Taylor

Staff

Molly Baron Sydney Dwyer Taline Norsigian Gabrielle Ruban Janvi Sikand Lian Wolman Amiya Young

Faculty Advisor Mrs. Frye

Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, The making of this issue has been something of a bumpy road, but in your hands is the fruit of all those hours and weekends of work put in by our staff. We decided to do just one issue this year, and we made that decision because we wanted the magazine to have some more weight to it– some more gravity. In your hands is a year’s worth of prose, poetry, photogphotog raphy, and artwork that your peers have submitted. Also in these pages are the 2018 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize winners, and the 2018 HemingHeming way Parody Contest winner. As always, we as editors of the magazine hope that you will enjoy flipping through these pages. We hope that you will take a rare moment to appreciate the types of art that are not often showcased as easily as other forms can be. We hope that you, too, may be inspired to create as well. That’s our goal, ultimately. We want our readers to feel a little tighter with their peers, a little less alone, and a little more likely to make something genuine and new.

Please enjoy this Spring 2018 issue of epic magazine.

Sincerely, Phoebe Taylor (Executive Editor)

Table of Contents 1

The Great Index Card Wave

Ellie Bavier

2

You Are...

Dakota McMahon

3

Ankle Deep in Shells It's Not a Bee

Michael Aronson Christina Lu

4

Perched Verde

Michael Aronson Skylar Barron

5

Winter Wood

Chiara Rego

6

Winter's Delight and Sorrow

Sydney Dwyer

8

Havana Good Time

Molly Barron

9

A Glimpse Between Bars Nacho

Taline Norsigian Skylar Barron

10

Bailando Blue Eyed Babe

Skylar Barron Skylar Barron

11

Restart

Alyssa Pilecki

12

Morning Light

Taline Norsigian

13

Views from the Guay

Eloise Bavier

14

A Figure 8

Haley Gervino

15

She's Got Her Head in the Clouds

Esha Kataria

16

No Worries

Esha Kataria

17

Free Milk

Neil Hemnani

18

Monsters Inc @Mr. Hild

Ben Tauber

19

Fresha(vine) compilations

Janvi Sikand

20

Goofy

Neil Hemnani

21

Negev

Nell Schwartz

22

Welcome to The Desert

Nell Schwartz

23

Homeland A Night in Shanghai

Nell Schwartz Linda Chen

24

Over 21 Sunshine

Christina Lu Molly Baron

25

I Song of the Flower Boy

Ben Tauber

26

Miamii

Molly Baron

27

A Lil #Sketchy

Eloise Bavier

28

Things Not to Tweet Street Art

Dan Carroll Lian Wolman

29

Yin + Yang

Dakota McMahon

30

What's Wrong?

Alyssa Pilecki

31

Self-Scrutiny

Phoebe Taylor

32

Sums up a Marriage

Christina Lu

33

Canyon Cliffs

Taline Norsigian

34

Turtlenecks Barking up the Wrong Tree

Emma Kate Johansen Chiara Rego

35

Art(sy)

Molly Baron

36

Igloo Melting Ice

Noah Gibson Taline Norsignian

37

Squinting

Michael Aronson

38

Rules for Wandering in the Woods Alone

Molly Carroll

39

A Winter Night

Kevin Wan

40

Moonlight

Chiara Rego

41

And the Calm

Phoebe Taylor

43

Everyone’s Arsenal

Christopher Morris

45

Thanks, Mr. President

Olivia Coxon

46

Change Is Coming

Nell Schwartz

47

Just Love Agents of Change

Ali Meizels Nell Schwartz

48

Kylie Vibes

Eloise Bavier

49

Song to a Woman Cotton Candy Skies

Victoria Vasquez Lian Wolman

50

Look

Phoebe Taylor

51

Quite Frankly

Juanita Asapokhai

53

Reflections Manhattan from Brooklyn Bridge

Lian Wolman Linda Chen

54

Feeling Blue

Lian Wolman

55

Lost not Lost

Nicholas Choo

57

Millenium Bridge

Elise Gendrich

58

Car Troubles

Risha Ranjan

59

Larger Than Life

Phoebe Taylor

60

Top of the London Eye

Elise Gendrich

61

Because I Gave It

Christina Lu

62

The Window in the Cafeteria

Felix Fei

63

Joni and the Archives

Juanita Asapokhai

64

Deep Blue Sea

Lian Wolman

65

The Perfect Crane An EPIC Night

Marwynn Somridhivej Janvi Sikand

66

Family Feathers

Elan Stadelmann

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winners 68

Vicissitude

Juanita Asapokhai

69

The Last Time I’ll Say It

Phoebe Taylor

70

benthos

Janvi Sikand

71

Untitled

Sung Min Cho

72

Unapologetically Black

Elly Alleyne

73

Why Do You Write?

Nora Eckert

Hemingway Parody Contest Winner 75

A Farewell to Food Rushing Water

Erin Bowen Cover Photograph

Taline Norsigian

The Great Index Card Wave Eloise Bavier ’18

1

You Are… (imitation of Billy Collins) Dakota McMahon ’18

You are the sun and the moon, The twinkling stars and the sky.

You are the ocean salt on a seashell And the sandy dunes of time.

You are the drop of honey of the tea, And the rain suddenly in midst.

However, you are not the grass in the fields, The bananas in the cereal, Or the lyrics on the radio.

And you are certainly not the clean-scented laundry.

There is just no way you are the clean-scented laundry.

It is possible that you are the stone skipping on water, Maybe even the ink in the feather pen, But you are not even close To being the field of roses at morning.

And a quick look in the mirror will show That you are neither the sneakers in the closet Nor the umbrella asleep in its rain.

It might interest you to know, Speaking of the calming tranquility of the world, That I am the sound of laughter in hearts.

I also happen to be the sparkling constellation, The morning newspaper thrown on a step And the bowl of candies on the kitchen counter.

I am also the wind in the soul And the eyes of many people.

But don’t worry, I’m not the sun and the moon.

You are still the sun and the moon.

You will always be the sun and the moon, Not to mention the twinkling stars and–somehow–the sky.

2

Ankle Deep in Shells Michael Aronson ’19

It’s Not a Bee

Christina Lu ’21

3

Perched

Michael Aronson ’19

Verde

Skylar Barron ’18

4

Winter Wood

Chiara Rego ’18

5

Winter’s Delight and Sorrow Sydney Dwyer ’21

Fall fades away into the semi solid ground Along with his dead leaves.

He finds a bed among ginormous gnarled roots, Deep underneath the soil.

A smile graces his face, As his eyelids flutter shut.

It’s Winter’s time to shine.

When Winter stirs from her slumber, She sheds her layered brown furs for a gossamer gown Crafted of frozen fractals.

With great care, She takes her dainty diamond tiara off of its pedestal And pins it in her burnt umber ringlets.

Frost coats her pouty red lips As she exhales.

Her glass stilettos echo As she saunters around her castle, Set high in solitude.

Her magic whizzes inside her, yelping with glee, At the endless opportunities.

She can’t help but wonder if this year will be the same.

Every year, she tries To make humans grasp The beauty of her season, Somehow, always managing to fail.

She leans forward off the railing on her balcony.

And takes in the pale light Flooding the cracks of her mountainous home.

She closes her eyes and loses herself in the endless pools of her diaphanous power.

And with a single thought, The icy winds burst from her fingertips, Raging in an uproar.The cold jumps from the winds she released,

6

Quickly dimming the threads of rising heat.

Winter has officially woken.

She allows the snow fairies to play.

They flip off the gray puffy clouds And tumble gently to the ground; Floating on Winter’s gentle sighs of happiness.

So completely immersed in her element, She feels the war within diminish.

Satisfied for a fleeting moment.

Winter’s magic wraps cities in an embrace With good intent.

Creating peace all around.

Or so she thinks.

Humans need to reschedule their carefully crafted plans Because of her unpredictable craftiness.

They resent the cold, the ice.

They resent the death.

They resent the beauty of the season, The putrid green taint to the everlasting snow Which haunts them As they wait for Spring to arrive.

They need to buy layers of expensive clothing, To keep them from freezing.

The people Absolutely Hate Winter With each year, Winter’s heart cracks Destroying her innocence, Freezing her.

7

Frozen tears cling To her flushed cheeks.

She hunches over, Hiding her pain.

As Spring awakens, Winter’s tears Water the buds and seeds.

She sheds her gossamer gown And dons her timeworn furs.

She lies down on her bed Of solid ice, Tired and full of pain.

She curls up, And forces her heart to slow Putting her in a deep sleep, Not to be broken again until next year When she has another opportunity to shine.

Another chance to be happy In the comforting throes Of her inner magic.

Havana Good Time Molly Baron ’19

8

A Glimpse between Bars Taline Norsigian ’19

Nacho

Skylar Barron ’18

9

Bailando

Skylar Barron ’18

Blue Eyed Babe Skylar Barron ’18

10

Restart

Alyssa Pilecki ’20 i once used to believe that everyone including me could get a restart button an imaginary button they could “press” to shut down one day and then start over again i don’t mean that i believed everyone could go back in time and redo their lives because i also believe the past is the past and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that no, i mean that one day a person can just wake up and say i’m going to change who i am i’m going to be different and i’m going to do different things and everyone else will accept that but now i see that that is just silly and could never happen

11

because the past shapes who we are

every decision and action we have made counts so we can’t totally change ourselves it’s impossible and anyways people rely too much on their old habits so no one would really even believe that anyone else changed but sometimes i still think wouldn’t it be nice to have a restart button and to be able to do that? i think it would but i also think it would set everything off balance and it would be a lie

Morning Light

Taline Norsigian ’19

12

Views from the Guay Eloise Bavier ’18

13

A Figure 8 (imitation of Billy Collins)

Haley Gervino ’18

I find an infinity symbol on a city wall and run my fingers along the edges, this is everlasting love I say to myself.

This is self empowerment, the amount of atoms in the universe.

This is the clock of Kronos and the center of a black hole I say to the strangers around me, the classic businessman, the woman holding groceries, the man sleeping on the ground, the child next to him.

This is the star with its exploding rays and the polar planets.

This is the infinite number of pi.

I say to the weed growing in the sidewalk, to the rats skidding across the road.

This is the 8 that Wallis invented to control the universe’s unknowns I say touching my finger to my chin.

14

She’s Got Her Head in the Clouds Esha Kataria ’20

15

No Worries

Esha Kataria ’20

16

Free Milk

Neil Hemnani ’18

17

Monsters Inc. @Mr. Hild Benjamin Tauber ’18

18

fresha(vine) compilations Janvi Sikand ’19

19

Vines for when half your brain is procrastinating by watching vine compilations and the other half is screaming for you to get up and do something productive already Vines for when you stub your toe so hard that your soul exits your body entirely, enters the astral plane, and your mortal form decays Vines for when the mall is about to close and the Forever 21 employees are giving you a death stare but you’re using that coupon tonight, dammit Vines for when your best friend hasn’t spoken to you in five months and you still don’t know why Vines for when it’s the night before the SAT and you realize you’ve lost your calculator Vines for when the most perfect dog you’ve ever seen (well, ALL dogs are perfect) walks right up so you can pet it Vines for when someone said something really hurtful but didn’t even notice Vines for when school lunch isn’t some variation on pasta and potatoes Vines for when they smile and you know that they’re that thing you’ve been missing most but just couldn’t put your finger on it Vines for when you’re on an awkward date and there’s nothing to talk about so you go to the bathroom and watch vines for a solid seven and a half minutes Vines for when you’ve been listening to the same song over and over for the last two days and you’re SO close to figuring out the hidden meaning Vines for when you weren’t recommended for that AP class you really wanted to take Vines for when the sunlight makes your eyes glow in just the right way Vines for when he wants to be friends again Vines for when you buy that perfect pair of pants at a thrift store Vines for when the thought suddenly occurs to you that this time, maybe you won’t be

able to claw yourself out of the pit Vines for when it’s taken a year, but you’re finally on solid ground and on good terms with yourself Vines for when the college search is freaking you out Vines for when you just can’t wait to leave for college Vines for when you just wanna say, “is that allowed?!?!”

Vines for when you want to say you love them but you don’t know how Vines for when it’s two a.m. and you should really be sleeping and… hey, what’re you doing awake at this hour??

Vines for when you could keep going and going and could point out infinitely minute yet somehow relatable moments but hey, this Gen Z has got to catch some Z’s so, well, goodnight and enjoy this compilation. :)

Goofy

Neil Hemnani ’20

20

Negev

Nell Schwartz ’19

21

Welcome to the Desert Nell Schwartz ’19

22

Homeland

Nell Schwartz ’19

A Night in Shanghai Linda Chen ’19

23

Over 21

Christina Lu ’21

Sunshine

Molly Baron ’19

24

I Sing of the Flower Boy (imitation of Walt Whitman) Ben Tauber ’18

I sing of the flower boy, upon a hill, tall and prominent, standing, filled with bright yellow sunflowers, gleaming like the the great big star in the baby blue sky I sing of the swarm of gigantic bumblebees buzzing their wings all around him.

The engine of the small white Mclaren revs below the hill with its butterfly doors open.

The sky has turned from its aqua blue coloring to more of mellow blood orange shade, still standing under the massive cumulonimbus clouds, thinking, confused.

He sings of kissing white boys since two thousand and four, his audience listens confused He does not know what to do, little does he know he has the most magnificent fans in the world.

He sings of potholes, gardens, boredom, seeds, glitter, love, depression, loneliness.

He grabs hold of the heart in a way no one else can,and at the end of every 4 minutes, He twists it in a new way creating emotions never experienced before.

He does this all whilst standing upon the hill surrounded by bees and sunflowers, still confused.

25

Miamiii

Molly Baron ’19

A Lil #Sketchy Eloise Bavier ’18

27

Things Not to Tweet Dan Carroll ’19

I have bad memories associated with listening to Divide by Ed Sheeran.

Because I remember hating it. Teens are smart but not articulate, John Green.

Note from Prom: 5:17: Everyone’s taking pictures of me and I feel like a fraud or like Lil Uzi Vert. I don’t have a favorite Vine. I was at the movie theater and halfway through I got this gap in my chest that seemed unfillable. It was during Pacific Rim: Uprising and I’m not proud of that but I’m not proud of a lot. I have a notebook I use to write jokes but I also use the back as a mental health diary. Only a matter of time before they’d meet in the middle. Sometimes I feel like the Flint Police Department.

I think I was raised by wolves. I’m not explaining that. There are too many Metaphors so just say what you mean. I need more notebooks. I am proud of that. I can’t get angry anymore. Take this seriously take this seriously.

In 17 years I’ve come no closer to figuring out what other people are like.

Street Art

Lian Wolman ’19

28

Yin + Yang

Dakota McMahon ’18

29

What’s Wrong?

Alyssa Pilecki ’20 every time she cried, every time she hurt, every time she broke, no one noticed. no one noticed the real pain underneath the happy face she put on each morning. it stayed throughout the day until the night, when she cried into her pillow, so no one would notice, so no one would ever wonder what was wrong. everything was wrong but if anyone was to ask her if something was, in fact, wrong, the answer would be nothing, nothing at all. it would be a lie, and even though she hates to lie, she would still tell it. because the truth is, that the truth hurts, and she doesn’t like to feel the pain underneath the happy face that she puts on each morning,

30

which stays throughout the day, until the night, where she cries yet again, in secrecy, hiding from the cruel question, “what’s wrong?”

Self-Scrutiny

Phoebe Taylor ’18

31

Sums up a Marriage Christina Lu ’21

32

Canyon Cliffs

Taline Norsigian ’19

33

Turtlenecks

Emma Kate Johansen ’19

Barking up the Wrong Tree Chiara Rego ’18

34

Art(sy)

Molly Baron ’19

35

Igloo (imitation of Gerard Manley Hopkins) Noah Gibson ’18

I built this igloo’s inferior interior, unfortunately unimpressive and bare, Shivering, shaking in the shimmering shelter nothingness in there.

Cold, crisp, chilling, thrilling, the howling harsh air, Snow so white, illuminating light, very bright as you stare, Whistling wind whirling, with a glistening glittering glare.

Spend a desolated dawning day in the icy igloo lair.

Melting Ice

Taline Norsignian ’19 36

Squinting

Michael Aronson ’19

37

Rules for Wandering in the Woods Alone Molly Carroll ’21

Stay on the marked paths, follow the saffron marks on the trunks Drink plenty of water, but take care not to run out The water in here is not safe.

The swallows might stare at you a moment too long. Let them.

If you look back, leave while you still hear the cars from the highway.

Do not look into the owl hollows. Something else makes its home there now.

Finding carcasses is normal.

Run when you don’t find them at all.

If you have chosen to stay, even now, steel yourself.

For the river likes to talk.

Don’t answer her questions.

You cannot lie to her, and you cannot tell the truth. Continue walking forwards, until you reach the circle of stones at the bank Take three lefts.

The empty eyes of a ram’s skull gaze back at you.

Its cries still echo through the boughs.

Your dress is catching on thistle thorns. Let it tear Do not try to pull it free. (you realize you were not wearing a dress when you entered the forest) You do not remember this place. You think you remember this place.

You’ve always been here, you live here. Why would you want to leave? (you miss the sun) Keep walking, Keep walking.

If you reach the edge, do not turn around.

You aren’t meant to see what lies behind you.

38

A Winter Night (imitation of Robert Frost) Kevin Wan ’19

Once I was walking on a forest trail: The clouds had cast a shadow on the moon And dimmed the hardened snowfall on the ground.

The skinny limbs of trees, being stripped by wind.

The little nests between the branches were bare, The scurrying underneath the trunks wasn’t heard As I paused to search for other lives that Accompanied me on this lonely trip.

At sometimes I would like to turn around, For the wind is too harsh for traveling, The season so complete of loneliness: Life is too much like a walk in winter, A man must bear a loneliness himself.

At sometimes I would like to turn around, For the wind is too harsh for traveling, The season so complete of loneliness: Life is too much like a walk in winter, A man must bear a loneliness himself.

39

Moonlight

Chiara Rego ’18

40

And the Calm

Phoebe Taylor ’18

41

Every year, for one week, my extended family and I retreat to small rented vacation homes near our favorite beach, packed into houses far too small for 22 people, 2 dogs, and recently, a mercifully well-behaved infant. For one week a year, my life consists of raucous dinners, poison-ivy infested dunes, and library books with sand permanently entombed between their pages.

But this is not a story about the strange amalgamation of personalities that is my family.

This is a recounting of my ongoing battle with the ocean.

We arrive at the beach every day at noon, our caravan of New-Yorkers, Mass-holes, and… people from Connecticut, which doesn’t actually have a distinctive name like the other two. Anyway, this also is not a story about how I’m a rugged outdoorswoman, with an undying love of the ocean or a strange obsessive love for surfing. In other words, I am not Peter Heller.

The story of my first time surfing should explain that well enough: I was 11, my brother 15, and he had finally convinced me to try a ride on one of the calmer days. He brought the board passed the break for me, lined it up, helped me on, strapped the lead to my ankle, all that. Like a good brother, he watched the beginnings of waves rolling in and waited for a good one for me to catch. And, like a real brother, when a good one took shape and came barreling closer, he let go of the board and yelled “Okay, Pheeb, paddle as hard as you can! Dad said a great white was spotted off the coast yesterday, and you look an awful lot like lunch! Don’t think about that right now, though!” Then he dove under the oncoming wave.

I panicked, utterly, and paddled as hard as I could, but then realized no one had bothered to tell me what to do next. Needless to say, I was not going fast enough, was not in the right place, and could not for the life of me figure out how to get to my feet as my brother always did.

I was, however, in just the right place to be hurled up onto the crest of the wave just as it broke. This was not the best place to be. The board and I parted ways, and I freefell from the crest as it crashed, landing just ahead of the wave.

Let me tell you one thing: sand may feel soft when you’re squishing it between your toes. Sand is not soft when you are squished between it and several thousand gallons of angry water. Sand is really fucking hard in that scenario.

Anyway, I was rag-dolled, tossed around, I may have done a split, I don’t know. When I finally came up for air, I realized my mistake. I had been clobbered by waves before, that wasn’t new. The new part was remembering

a moment too late that a strap was still velcro’d around my ankle. I had all of one gulp of air before the ocean grabbed my board and punished it, too, pulled it beneath a crashing wave and dragged me into the tumult as well.

Up and down were indistinguishable. I managed to keep my mouth shut, because I knew what happens when you don’t, but my lungs were screaming, burning, aching, and whenever I found the surface, a wave found my board.

My dad or my brother pulled me out–I don’t remember which–but I do remember plopping down in the warm sand above the waterline and looking at the ocean like… was that really necessary, asshole?

Like I said, I feel like I’m always fighting with it. But, I also said this isn’t a story about surfing, and it’s not. I just digress. This is a story about floating. About my love for the break-zone because I am much more afraid of the calm beyond the whitecaps.

Our parents call my cousins and me seals. We used to spend so much time in the water I sometimes wonder how we didn’t catch hypothermia, or dissolve like the salt and brine and drift away.

Hours and hours.

And here’s my secret: I have an irrational fear of swimming in lakes and ponds. No matter the logic, my heart beats fast, my breathing gets quick. But whitewater. Whitewater I love. I’ve tried surfing a few times since the first, but I never liked it as much as just my body and the waves. The roaring makes sense to me, somehow. Maybe to the part of me that recognizes where I came from. I love body-surfing, feeling the power of the sea vibrating my bones, pulling me with it instead of sucking me under. That makes sense, too, somehow.

When my cousins and I were little and made of rubber, we used to sit right in the break, play chicken to see who would dive under first, to see how sloppily we could jump into the wall of foam and still break through, to get tossed but avoid hitting the sand, just turn with the water and hold your breath and see what happens.

Hours and hours and hours.

Some days, though, the waves didn’t come. Stayed far offshore and gave the sand a rest for a while. I had to fight to jump into the water on those days. Had to fight myself: the quick heartbeat, the fast breathing, the locks in my muscles. I had to fight to chase my cousins into the water, treading without effort, lying on our backs, and just, floating. My heart would beat so fast I wondered if that shark was coming to see what was the matter.

I waited for my feet to hit something solid that wasn’t sand.

See, most nightmares are afraid of the breakers, as they should be.

But nothing except me is afraid of a calm blue day. I do battle with the ocean on those days. I do battle when it stops punching back. (cont.)

42

This isn’t a story of loving the sea, I suppose. It’s the story of my love for its fury. And my desperate fear of just treading water.

Everyone’s Arsenal

Christopher Morris ’21 Words can hurt, Sometimes they are barely anything.

Sometimes they’d cut deep like it’s making a flesh wound, But when it’s really a wound to the soul.

People then use the sticks and stones platitude, To make you feel better.

To give you confidence and hope.

It’s all a lie But you don’t get told it’s a lie.

You have to find that out, I had to.

People blasted words crushing my soul.

Dropping n-words and demeaning insults.

Insults chipping away at my confidence and self esteem.

Names, fired from the mouths of kids I’d grown up with.

They’d call me a phony mofo, They’d say made feel like I’d betrayed them, Because of my accomplishments.

They’d try to cut deep, And they would.

43

The world is full of those snakes.

They would be friendly to you, Until you achieve something they want.

They would then slice at you with a butter knife insult, Barely damaging.

Until it’s the hundredth time

CRACK! Your final pillar of hope and happiness breaks, You asked to be excused to the bathroom.

You sit right by the urinal, Curl into a ball, And you cry.

You cry your heart and soul out.

You cry until you see your savior, Nate. Your best friend since Pre-K. Apparently it’s been ten minutes since you left.

Your teacher, worried and tired of waiting, sends him.

He tries to cheer you up, Tells a joke about how he expected you on your phone, Playing Marvel Contest of Champions, Not his best friend crying.

You smiling, tears still rolling down your face.

You tell him to be quiet, And you laugh It’s the first time you laugh like that in a month.

Those snake-like assholes Took away the thing you love to do, Laugh.

They put you down.

You can’t let them do that anymore.

Nate leaves to get your teacher.

You stand up, Look in the dirt covered, damaged mirror, And tell yourself to cheer up.

You look at your tear ridden, white dress shirt and burgundy tie, And smile.

Your in a new place now though.

People here are nice.

You learn to trust again.

You also learned to leave snakes, And you will NEVER let snakes use words to affect you again.

44

Thanks, Mr. President Olivia Coxon ’19 45

Change Is Coming Nell Schwartz ’19

46

Just Love

Ali Meizels ’19

Agents of Change Nell Schwartz ’19

47

Kylie Vibes

Eloise Bavier ’18 48

Song to a Woman (imitation of Walt Whitman) Victoria Vazquez ’18

O What a Relief to be a woman, to be a vulnerable woman, to be a always anxious, forever worried or far too loving woman, To be a moment grasping, attention seeking, heart aching, super delicate, insecure, over passionate, soul throbbing yet always grabbing, over appreciative, powerful, breathtaking, independent, beautiful woman We aren’t given enough credit where it’s due and in no way am I asking for acknowledgment, It’s just important for a woman to know her worth, for a woman to value her worth It’s important for women to celebrate themselves, to speak for themselves, to continue to educate themselves, to stand up for themselves, to care for themselves, and most of all, to love themselves for ourselves

Cotton Candy Skies Lian Wolman ’19

49

Look

Phoebe Taylor ’18

50

Quite Frankly

Juantia Asapokhai ’20 We’ve been honest with one another about this much: if worst comes to worst–if women come to women and refuse to deign themselves to our level–even before that: once girls start laughing at our advances and instead of smiling seductively when we ask for their numbers, laugh politely and recite one through ten back, like a mother affirming her unsure child, that’s when we stop wearing cologne and start wrapping our arms around with each other, tight as logs bound by wire, so as not to get swept up but rather burn together in the inferno that consumes our emaciated love lives. Our variation on a suicide pact. Mason thinks this day is coming far strung along the line, but quite frankly, I know Mason in the Winter is a Mason who yearns for a place to pour his affection into, sweet and chunky as hot chocolate, if not at least a companion to watch him drink it all up. Me I can manage loneliness. I swing it like a pair of earrings dangling from a lobe. It’s my accessory. I bought a real earring as a consolatory gift for myself with the money stored on a gift card I had been saving for a date night, but I haven’t gotten to finding the bravery it will take for me to wear it, and subconsciously I worry I never might, so much so I’ve begun to mentally recount the day I purchased it every morning, in case I forget it happened, which I swore I never would. It was the first time I shopped in the women’s section and felt ashamed – because I no longer had the shield of a woman to shop for – under the pellucid eyes of diamonds and pearls. They looked at me in quiet derision and asked, What’s

your purpose? What’s your business touching what won’t respond to your touch? So I began to hum the first song Genevieve and I danced to at our

wedding, some Barry White, something her dead father loved, something I hated but now suckled on the memory of, like hard candy, and bought a pair of tiny silver hoops any way.

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The cashier named Lois had smiled and asked me, “Anniversary?

You know we’re fifty percent off all anniversary items. And, we’ve got a gift box.” She reminded me of my ex-wife in the shallow way all women do now, a shell of her; somewhere in Lois’s pencil-drawn and smudging eyebrows and freckly chest–maybe symptomatic of skin cancer, which was the only cancer Genevieve’s family pedigree didn’t make her more prone to– was a bitesized piece of my ex-wife, obscured in plain sight.

Just like there is in my chiropractor, who is fifteen years younger than Gen but feels so much older while cracking your back like a walnut

between her hands. Leathered hands. Deep creases in her forehead that would have to be chipped off with stone to erase. But her teeth were curvy and gapped, like Gen’s. Perhaps this is an insult to her memory–Gen’s a dark and silk skinned woman, whilemy chiropractor is the kind of light skinned woman who loved herself best when in contrast with dark skinned women like Genevieve. Beautiful only when caught casting a shadow over another woman’s face. But then again I also see the bridge of Gen’s pretty and wide nose and upturned mouth in the clouds, which are whiter than the white my chiropractor is reaching for somewhere high up, and in the oily rainbows that puddle on asphalt. Genevieve’s favorite color is ice grey, near silver, the absence of. I can even see her in Mason – same left-cheek dimple same stilted jaw and brown upper lip, bottom one pink and bubblegummy. I look past the beard and globe-like Adam’s apple and find a shard of woman. Sure, Gen had braces as a child, but quite frankly, Mason rarely smiles, so it’s easy to imagine a set of glossy and geometric pearlies beneath his lips. And so I do while he drives me to his childhood home and my daughter sits in the backseat texting my former wife, who flushed her wedding ring down the toilet before going to work one month ago. I look at Mason and sew a new life for us together, with the strings I pulled from her weathered jackets in our bedroom closet.

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Reflections

Lian Wolman ’19

Manhattan from Brooklyn Bridge Linda Chen ’19

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Feeling Blue

Lian Wolman ’19

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Lost not Lost

Nicholas Choo ’20 The engines started to spool up.

I was thrusted in the back of my seat.

Tears falling from my eyes.

The city lights below us, turning into thick, dark, clouds.

The only place I called home.

The only place I knew.

We landed in a place that wasn’t my home. A place I knew nothing about. The whispers of the fall breeze brought chills to my spine. I wasn’t used to this weather. I wasn’t used to this place. The driver picked my Mom and I up. I went to open the door on the left hand side of the car. To find a steering wheel. It then hit me. There was no going back.

This was a new place.

This was a new life.

This meant new friends.

This meant change.

This wasn’t what I wanted I didn’t want new...

I wanted to go home….

We passed over the Willamette River using a bridge. I didn’t see bridges back home. The sign said Portland, Oregon. This was a place I was supposed to call home. But, this “home” wasn’t home. At my home I woke to warm weather begging you to come outside. My “home” now had deathly cold winters. I couldn’t even see the car anymore. It had been covered with snow.

A new school. People that I didn’t know. People that didn’t know me. I was scared. I was terrified. I didn’t know this place. My home wasn’t home. I was in a situation that I never wanted to be in.

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“The new person”...

“The new kid”...

“The new student”...

I was new. In a place that I had to call home. My home wasn’t home. People were nice though. I got to know them. They got to know me. School was fun. Even though, my home wasn’t home. Teachers were nice, and the classes were easy. The place that I once didn’t know, became clearer. The thick, dark, and gloomy clouds that once loomed over, were gone. I wasn’t “the new person” anymore. I was just another person. I wasn’t “the new kid” anymore. I was just “the kid.” I wasn’t the new student anymore. I was just “a student.” Crossing the bridge now didn’t even arouse my mind. I felt as though I had built my own bridge. What was once a cliff I was forced to jump off, was now smooth tarmac that I could drive across. Connecting my distant home to a place that I now knew. I now also got into the car on the right side. The cold winters weren’t cold anymore. My house didn’t seem like a empty box anymore. For the first time, my “home”, felt like home.

The engines started to spool up.

I was thrusted in the back of my seat.

Tears falling from my eyes.

The city lights below us, turning into thick, dark, clouds.

The only place I called home.

The only place I knew.

Now I started a new adventure. Now I started a new chapter. I now was “the new person.” I now was “the new kid.” I now was “the new student.” This time though, I wasn’t scared.

From building my last bridge: 1. I gained confidence.

2. I was excited.

3. I was motivated.

I was excited to build an extension to my bridge.

I saw the thick, dark, clouds that covered the path ahead.

But, I now I knew, Home will always be, Where my home is…

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Millenium Bridge Elise Gendrich ’19

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Car Troubles

Risha Ranjan ’21 Private high school, SAT prep, SAT, Pre-med, and med school, both at Harvard, Years of preparing for this moment; And now, finally, internship.

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be a doctor, Never afraid of the needles and blood.

Recently, I have discovered my passion For saving people with scalpels.

It was just another regular morning in Seattle, Rushing out the door with coffee and my scrubs, Because I had to reach the hospital By 8 AM sharp.

I got into my old car from 2007 Which was my mom’s before she Gave it to me as a Graduation Present.

I was casually driving down The very busy I-82 south to Grey- Sloan Memorial Hospital, I looked out the window to see a Purple Martin It tugged at my heart To see that it was hurt.

This is why I wanted to save lives.

I wanted to live in a world Where people or animals alike Don’t have to die from diseases or injury.

I had to continue on my way...

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Hit the front-left tire Of my beautiful car The rock was a mountain.

My tires we not strong enough; To face the tallest of pinnacles, The greatest of obstacles It had ever faced.

My carriage did a full 180.

Trauma victims have said that they Smell lemons when they were about to die.

I inhaled and the only scent I could process was the smell of Gasoline.

Why was this happening?

Maybe someone had called 911, I don’t know anything, Except that I Reached the hospital at 8 AM sharp.

Larger Than Life Phoebe Taylor ’18

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Top of the London Eye Elise Gendrich ‘19

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Because I Gave It Christina Lu ’21

I bought the pack of twelve for a dollar fifty.

He had seen what I had and asked for a piece.

I drew the pack from my pocket gently, swiftly.

The packaging exhaled notes of minty sweet.

Colors swirled on the surface, an emerald green.

One that caught eyes while on aisle seats, Who was I to turn down a request?

The air he exhaled reeked of death.

I’ve always lived by the bible teachings of my youth.

That a man should help man and will receive rich gratitude.

I tossed the new pack across the room Into his hands.

I’ll see my pack of eleven soon.

Right?

I watched as he tore The package open.

And ripped a piece from the glue binding.

He stripped the piece of it’s captivating silver.

Crumpling it in his fist, Until the silver coating rubbed off.

He opened his hand to throw The unembellished paper across the table, Back at me.

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I look straight at the Wandering Jew Hanging at the window.

Dreaming of an escape.

A gentle tap on my shoulder Snapped me out of it.

I looked behind me And Right there on the floor Was my pack.

My pack of four.

My heart decided to rest in my stomach, And the tears decided to pool.

I turned the other way covering

my eyes with the dignity I had left.

It is embarrassing to cry over something as stupid As this!

After all, it was only a dollar fifty.

How could my trust of humanity pulmate over a dollar fifty?

The tears kept streaming.

I quickly wiped them away With tissues I always had with me.

I’m strong I say.

I really truly am the strongest.

Who else could I blame But myself?

I gave him the pack in the first place.

And the crying?

Well im a women, Of course I cry.

When do I not?

The Window in the Cafeteria Felix Fei ‘21

I don’t know when the big window of the cafeteria becomes my place.

As I always sit down, look out the window, and begin my daydreams.

From why I am here, to maybe the tacos in my plate.

Or put on my headphones, classic, pop, electronic, drum & bass.

And of course I’m alone, staring at the bird flying pass the lawn.

While people here prefer cuddling together, They come around me, pull me back from own world.

I was not pleased, but still tried to act like I appreciated.

Gradually, I get used to sitting with people, Eating together, and making words for every little events.

But some days, when all the people left, I will still sit next to the window, watch the leaves fall from the tree.

I again sit alone next to the window.

The view outside seems familiar, but yet so strange.

I take several breathes and found out The unnamed joy loneliness brought me.

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Joni and the Archives Juanita Asapokhai ’20

I’ve been reading the newspaper. My ex-boyfriend’s column went up smoothly, without a hitch, two days ago, which is great for him. A hitch meaning they garnish his wages and ask him to return his computer after writing 20,000 words for the publishers in two days, so his fingers tingle and singe with the echo of keyboard keys. His fingertips all marked up with those black and white kisses. A hitch, to keep him under their spinecrushing thumb. I hear he’s up to 83¢ a word–good money for the immaculate 26 reconfigured hundreds of times. If I, too, were a rich man, I would carve out my own column in stone. The Dailies and Dirges of A Man Who Wrote the Zeroes Into His Own Paycheck. The reader will consume it vicariously, with music or in silence or preceding an alcohol-less dinner date with a wife or husband making much more than them, and think, What nonsense, look how even the forever-more financially sufficient are foolish enough to believe lament gives birth to progress. And they’ll titter andcurse and feel a little less contempt for their lucky and unlucky spouse, and that is how I will become a marriage counselor after dedicating four years to intensive yearning and then intensive study of microbiology, in an environmentalist context. For love of love and pushing the boundaries of direct correlation. Who is to say some 2,000-odd words of mine did not birth a whole family, cinched an economically divided couple at the heart and then the waist, so they eventually begot four children in appreciation?

If a collegiate institution can take greedy credit for every breath escaped from the lips of an alum whose wallet has widened past the confinements of campus greenery, then so can I.

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Initially reading it was absurd because in high school I was the typewriter lover and he the amorous bookworm. I was editor of the features section, infamous for the lexical caricatures it sketched of people we saw every day but had not held up to the all-seeing eye of an article. We had dates on the weekends we called Scour Saturdays, where we’d lurk parties and the schools archives – and then the mall near the school, and the bars that were lax enough to let teenagers enter them once every couple of months – for the perfect candidate, the next organism we wished to examine with a writer’s microscope. I learned about the strange string of pregnancy scares that ravaged the senior girls one month before prom. The successive food poisonings that caused the lunch woman to be fired and the first Lunch Man to be hired, Mr. Patel, who was also the first staff member to

quit because of the insidiously racist students and passive faculty that contaminated the school like E.coli. About which teachers had made lecherous attempts on which students and exactly which students lechered back, in what ways, for how long, where, why. My calc grade sucks. My boyfriend cheated on me. I’m afraid he’ll get too angry if I stop. Whose father showed up on campus and broke which pedophile’s car windows.

Whose mother slapped which teacher in the face, so their nose bled like a broken faucet, and cried in front of which principal that has since been dismissed, because they watched students slip into dark rooms and closed the door instead of turning on the light. Whose big sister screamed at which younger one to stop rolling her skirt, they already look at you like they’re looking for you. Are you looking for them?

But what to do with a victim of almost. What did to do with the one who was able to oust their memory, out-sing the horror song of the past. How do you carry a burden that isn’t quite yours–underneath the string suspending your tongue like a hard-swallow pill, or in your left hand.

I’m attempting to talk to myself through the mouths of others. It’s an exercise in perspective–I can never see Me as much as the She I trap under my thumb, not the girl that’s on display, but one on the opposite side of the lens. You were almost assaulted sexually by your ex-boyfriend, Toni.

Does your food taste different now?

Deep Blue Sea

Lian Wolman ’19

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The Perfect Crane

Marwynn Somridhivej ’20

An EPIC Night

Phoebe Taylor ’18

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Family Feathers

Elan Stadelmann ’20

This day started like every other for Rive Praxis. He woke up, put on his shirt and pants, and went downstairs. Every day started this way, and Rive was comfortable within this cycle. Today, unbeknownst to him, would change everything. Almost instantly when he walked downstairs, he could tell something was different. His mother Moirai, usually cooking and singing to herself, was only standing, watching the stairs, waiting.

When he finally reached the bottom, she began to speak. Rive had heard this talk before, but never directly to him, only to his brothers. “Today’s the day, Rive,” she began, as she repeated the script. ‘Today is the day you become a man. The knife and the dove are waiting,” she said, motioning to a cage in the corner, a sheathed knife resting on top, waiting menacingly.

Rive couldn’t believe his ears. Today? His Ceremony? Today? Rive knew that he shouldn’t say anything, should just take the knife, the dove and leave like his brothers; however, he stayed. He didn’t say anything to his mother, he just looked at her. Almost as a symbol of destiny, Moirai urged him on. “Come on now, don’t you want to fit in? Don’t you want to finally belong? Our family has done this for years Rive. It’s time to accept your fate and perform the ritual. Take it,” she said calmly, through her tone barely disguised the fury in her voice. Rive did not know what was driving him to move towards the knife, to pick up the birdcage and leave the house. He felt as if an invisible hand was pushing him, forcing him to go and do as his mother asked him. He left the house without saying a single word to his mother.

Rive knew which way to go. Just follow the border of the town, make a left, and you’ll arrive. Rive took one moment look at the town. It was small, so small you could see where it started and ended. The town was circular, and you could make out every curve just by looking at the horizon. It seamlessly began and ended, a perfect constant circle. Rive was so lost in his thoughts that he did not realize he was moving. Again, the invisible hand seemed to be pushing him, guiding him to his destination.

The dove in the cage fluttered, hopeful to be released into the beautiful countryside. The knife however, wasn’t so content. It seemed to pulse in his left hand; it seemed to beg to be unsheathed. Eventually, curiosity got the better of Rive, and he set the cage down to unsheathe the knife. Once unsheathed, it looked all the more terrifying. Its steel seemed to shine 66

brighter than the sun, dimming everything around it in comparison. The blade was chipped, and even slightly rusted. The knife seemed to speak with the voices of all the ancestors that had performed the ritual before him, all of them shouting in discordant tones. They were shouting at Rive, urging him to do what they had done. With every word the knife said, Rive felt he lost more and more control. Every word he heard sunk into his brain, and pulled at his muscles, urging him to keep going. Without his own volition, he began to walk again, picking up the dove, driven with new purpose. Rive couldn’t think, for he could only hear the screams of his ancestors, which seemed to cloud his vision and judgement. Before he knew it, he was at the clearing.

This clearing was small, like the town. It was an almost peaceful area, safe surrounded by tall trees. The sky seemed small and far away, dwarfed by the forest all around. Ironically, this seemingly peaceful area was wracked with past sins. The ground was a carpet of white feathers and blood. The grass seemed to be choked by the smell of death, so whatever patch of ground was not covered by feathers was only gray, ashen dirt. Rive broke through the trees, stirring up some feathers at his feet.

The dove, seemingly unaware of the what was about to transpire, cooed excitedly. Rive, still being possessed by past spirits, set the cage down and opened it. Giving the dove no time to react, he grasped it by the neck and held the knife near its head. Rive was scared. He did not want to kill this dove, but what choice did he have? He was crying now, tears falling from his face, wetting the dirt at his feet. The dove looked at him, cooing softly, it’s black eyes looking at Rive with complete innocence. Rive stared back, his eyes blackened by the corrupt and immoral ways of his family. The knife seemed to be trembling with excitement. Rive was about to live up to the Praxis name. And suddenly, Rive was free.

Yes, the voices of his ancestors were still shouting in an unholy chorus, trying to force him to continue, but Rive was unaffected.

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Their words seemed to fall flat at his feet, no longer having a grasp on his life. He relaxed his grip on the dove, and threw the knife as far away from him as he could. The shouts of his ancestors faded away as the knife fell into the underbrush. Rive let go of the dove, who flew towards the sky with reckless abandon. With the spirits no longer guiding his body, he collapsed. He was free! He was no longer a slave to his family.

Slowly but surely, Rive crept away into the forest. The only audible sounds was that of flapping wings, far in the distance.

Vicissitude

Juanita Asapokhai ’20

casts shadows in the middle of the day. We call it crush because such knowledge takes pestle and mortar to common sense, a needle through the fat red balloon of logic – tina screams into the good book and the pages writhe in tongues flings a sharp bead of sweat from her brow, slings it at the crowd ‘what’s love got to do with it?’ and this is how a female priest rings in the rapture– knocking flame into a match

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

Man might very well be the unwanted navel of the world and still whitney sings ‘how will i know’ still michael says it’s just human nature to take sweet shortcoming in the morning with tea, panadol for the blanched heart the torch that illuminates nothing

galvanizing the box from which it came from leaving a socket soaking with eye the glitterati say ‘amen’ take the blessing in the mouth

pass their dreams up the aisles green as tithes: 10-percent of what’s mine in exchange for yours, coin for coin, memory for memory, passion patted down for passion stomped out faster than flames under good shoes. wonder counselor, lily of the valley, ancient of days, shoeshiner there burns a white paschal candle in the chest of every man and none is too certain the shape of his feet.

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The Last Time I’ll Say It

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

Phoebe Taylor ’18

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My body is not a temple.

I was not erected by the hands of men And left to crumble when they lost interest in the holiness of my bones, My body is a forest, As raging and untamed as the sea.

When you cloud pollution into my skies Until I cannot see the stars I breathe it deep into my roots until it chokes me.

But I am evolution, And like a rainforest I create my own downpour And I let it fall And I let it wash your festering poison away You set me on fire, With a carelessly discarded cigarette And I burn And I burn And I burn And you sneer at the ashes, But I am evolution.

And like the grasses on the plain I have learned to sprout shoots When the old growth is dead.

You may take an axe to me, Cut me clear to the horizon But I am not a temple Of stone And glass.

I am divine not because you pray inside of me, But because I do not answer to you.

And I do not bend to your blade.

And because I evolve.

And when you destroy me I will always Outgrow you.

benthos

Janvi Sikand ’19

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

crawl, creature face down along the rocks of my basal compulsions the underbelly of things I won’t think about twenty thousand leagues under and you like the p r e s s u r e, feels like n o t h i n g now creature, rake up the dirt under your nails lick it off and laugh if it tastes like my blood shuffle, creature, you can’t see anything it’s so dark now you know more than I do about the bad me the worse me soft things float by so swallow them whole, creature once you’ve had enough swallowed all the slime and scraped yourself up do not swim to surface you’ll burst, creature you’re not made for the light, creature instead flip onto your back and S C R E A M but don’t let me hear you don’t ever let me hear you

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Untitled

Sung Min Cho ’22

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

i am from here: the brutally cold winters with ice that feels like rainbow flames the grey wet springs where clouds feel like lightning black smog and fumes the painfully damp summers where humidity makes feet swell red and air choke with blue the brief and flirtatious autumns which send the mercury spiraling and condensing within the span of a few months. i know old money and old privilege, driveways sloping to carriage houses. i know new immigrants, new tech, and new standards. i know the screech of the asphalt line as it careens downtown from outlook to trout brook, and i know the bent sign marking kingswood road. the ceiling above our skies is different. it carries a dignified weight to it, something that seems like if you were too close, the museum docent would tell you not to touch it--revered, ancient. the heaviness that comes with our cosmos rings in my earns and burns the back of my neck. it is strut that forms our dreams procrastination love heartbreak tears success life. lives have been changed underneath its elegant cosmic design. to sit underneath this school, this universe, to reach and strive underneath the weight of doctors and scientists, justices and CEOs: it is at once humiliating and humbling. pressure forms diamonds, they say. and so i sit here, waiting for a future to crystallize; the glint of the cupola on oxford hall corrupting the propensity of the white oak ceiling to overwhelm. i close my backpack, and look up, wishing for good things to come.

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Unapologetically Black Elly Alleyne ’23

i am free like a bird, unlike my ancestors back when

people told my ancestors: people like me, would never be free just because the color of our skin, i wasn’t allowed to think of being free but now there are people like me ruling the world, making a difference there are superheroes like me, knocking down the walls that were once keeping us in I can now be unapologetically black

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

they were trapped in cages like the animals in the zoo

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Why Do You Write?

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

Nora Eckert ’22

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“I write because I am a flower who must create pollen for bees, I write because I am an earthworm who must fertilize the soil, I write because I am a spider, who must craft a web to catch flies in.

I write because I am obligated. I write because I am attached. I write because it’s oxygen.”

I wish that’s what I said when she asked me, “Why do you write?”

At nine years old, I sat, wide-eyed, on the cold wooden ground, In a home that I was raised in but felt no connection to, Looking into the eyes of a friend, small, blond, and loud, As she held my shiny journal in her hands, The one which she read while my back was turned.

Not only was it in that moment that I felt like a different species, But for the only time in my life, I understood the cows, who make milk for their young, Only to have it stolen away by the humans who want to exploit them, Who want to add sugar and flour and make a cake out of their hard work, their milk.

The fragile blonde girl was the human, Who was so curious and willing to steal my creation, to smell, taste, understand what I’d wrote.

But she meant no harm, After all, us humans never mean to hurt the cows, We just want their milk for our cakes.

She repeated herself; “Why do you write?”

Embarrassed, nervous, fingers squirming with discomfort, I told her an elaborate lie, That it wasn’t my writing, That I do not write and do not have the wanting to do such a thing.

When in reality, since being three years old, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be a real writer, With real stories and thoughts that entertain, inspire, and guide.

But I couldn’t tell the girl that, for she would not understand.

I have not been able to tell anyone why I write, but I guess I’ll tell you.

It’s because I am a cow, who needs to make her milk to give life to others, I need to write sometimes so I can give life to myself.

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

But, like the cows, I cannot communicate with the humans that do not understand my milk.

By reading this, you are entering the milk.

You are entering something beautiful, rich, and life-giving for me, And before you read on, I ask you to stop being a human and start being a calf, Who appreciates milk.

Who appreciates writing.

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A Farewell to Food

Hemingway Parody Contest Winner

Erin Bowen ’19

In the early fall of that school year we were sitting in the cafeteria in a school that sat on a hill that overlooked more hills. In the tables of the cafeteria they sat. Into their mouths food was shoved. I walked down the row of tables and to the right and sat down. The rest of them looked pale under the dim light of the room. On the forehead of a kid there was a droplet of sweat, moist and glistening in the sun, and on the chin of the kid there was a stream of barbecue sauce, and the sauce was the color of dark mud and dripping swiftly and slowly onto the shirt. A kid looked at me. He was thin. He was probably thinner than another kid who was not as thin.

“There’s a food fight on, you know.”

I said I didn’t know.

“You’re lying.”

“Yes.” “I can see the whipped cream stain very clearly on your shirt.”

I did not say anything.

“Your mama will ground you” I said that was alright. Everyone gets grounded. I will get grounded and you will get grounded and we will all get grounded. A girl leaned over me to throw a pop tart into the abyss of the cafeteria around us. She did not know where she threw it. She threw it in a beautiful arc.

“Beautiful isn’t a pretty word,” she said to me.

“How did you know–” “I’m awfully good, aren’t I?”

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“You are quite amazing.”

“Amazing isn’t a pretty word.”

“Yes.” “Yes isn’t a pre–” I said nothing. I thought she was only a little crazy.

I looked down at my food. They were all cooked. The lunch lady said they were all cooked and that was all right as long as we knew they were all cooked. The green beans were cooked.

By God they were some green beans. I asked about the chicken nuggets.

She said they were cooked too. They were all cooked.

I turned to the kid dripping in barbecue sauce.

“Do you think lunchtime will ever be over?”

“It is never over. We will have lunchtime tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. And the food fight will go on.”

I pulled out a cheese stick and began to peel it. There was a bang and a flash of orange and yellow and the feeling of warm broth all over.

I felt myself lying on the cold and hard floor of the cafeteria and there were week old meatballs and goldfish and puddles of yogurt. I raised my hand, and it felt like it wasn’t my hand. It was covered in noodles and the noodles were Ramen. I tried to breathe but I was choking on noodles and broth and reality. The nurse wheeled me to the office. But in the end it was a good day and only fifty-two kids went to the nurse for food poisoning from the chicken nuggets. They were not cooked.

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Hemingway Parody Contest Winner

A cup of chocolate pudding was thrown from her hand at them. I liked to watch her throw food.

Staff Biographies Skylar Barron loves to shop but has no money :( Chiara Rego is writing this bio while reviewing for APs but would rather be playing with puppies?

Phoebe Taylor is too busy programming something to write this for her to actually write it.

Molly Baron is coming but just running late.

Sydney Dwyer is always successful at failing to be graceful.

Taline Norsigian has goals but is too short reach them.

Gabrielle Ruban came for one layout weekend but it was lit.

Janvi Sikand urges you to take a deep breath when faced with a problem and repeat this mantra: “it be like that sometimes.”

Lian Wolman is.

Amiya Young got distracted by music and is too busy dancing to write a biography.

Mrs. Frye doesn’t get bored–she boogie boards.

EPIC

EPIC

2018