Epic Winter 2013

epic

letter from the editors [ruthie and ben] “I had nothing to offer anybody, except my own confusion.”

–jack kerouac

It is a bit unfair, really, that our names our listed as the editors-in-chief of epic. In reality, this book has very little to do with us.

It’s not a reflection of us, but rather, of you.

Your creativity and your inspiration.

Our efforts do not compare to the many heartfelt and artistic submissions that we received for our winter edition. It was overwhelming and we appreciate you for it. Without you all, we would have nothing to work with. So, in honor of your hard work, we are declaring you honorary editors-in chief.

Well not really because then we would be out of a job.

But in all seriousness, thank you very much. We’re not always the best at expressing gratitude, so you will have to believe us when we say we appreciate you.

While we have your attention, we’d also like to thank our staff for their incredible hard work and Asha for those sandwiches. Shout out to Ned for his illustrative illustrations.

A special thank you to Joe the publisher man. He rocks.

[1]

table of contents underneath the highway, above the river.........................3 my new and improved adult musings...............................4 perspective........................................................................5 wishing for white...............................................................6 abstraction...........................................................................7 self portrait..........................................................................8 flutter...................................................................................9 to the three........................................................................10 dancing flowers..................................................................12 whither away.....................................................................13 cat.....................................................................................14 for whom the dj plays.......................................................15 bella...................................................................................17 pinhole series.....................................................................18 new york city.....................................................................19 echo...................................................................................20 quechua..............................................................................21 song of sappho...................................................................22 pastel portait.....................................................................23 they say hospice zephyr fish.............................................24 waves.................................................................................25 plumes...............................................................................26 time in memoriam.............................................................27 home..................................................................................28 pieces.................................................................................28 the power of a phone.........................................................29 turtlenecks.........................................................................30 olivejuice............................................................................31 weary skin.........................................................................32 [2]

underneath the highway, above the river [claire halloran]

[3]

my new and improved adult musings [ruthie dannehy]

I really meant to write something wonderful for epic. Seriously, I did. Really and truly. After careful study, however, I have learned that adults are not funny, witty, charming, o r g e n u i n e . And legally, I am an adult now so supposedly, I should not be witty, charming, or genuine, but rather be focused and serious.

And writing is my reflection of self. And I’m entirely bad at being focused and serious, so logically speaking (I’m bad at logic, too), I’m bad at writing now too.

I liked to think my poems were filled with my energy and my wholehearted belief that everything I do is important, which makes me such a teenager. Now, I think I am comprised of skim milk, coffee, and a weary sense of being caffeinated. So my poems are skim and weary.

Which is why I am not submitting anything to epic this year. Because my poems, in all their skimness, boil down to what I am currently thinking, which is usually sort of tired.

I could try to carve out a time to write some poetry, but that is a difficult time to designate. Poetry is a bad thing to write before going to bed. It’s almost as bad as writing after waking up, or after the end of eighth period, or any time between after dinner and before bed.

Unfortunately, prose is almost just as bad.

[4]

perspective

[matt guerrera]

[5]

wishing for white [mary lessard]

Snowfall There is none at all.

Snowy dreams, Torn apart at the seams Where is the snow?

Where did it all go?

Wishing for White, Just a little would be alright.

Or give me a storm Let the sky perform.

[6] [6]

abstraction

[catherine eatherton]

[7]

self portrait [mia zilahy]

[8]

flutter

[brooke goldsmith]

[9] [9]

to the three

[anya delventhal] To The Strong One A mountain who will not sway Yet never casts me in the shadows A voice that could crumble castles Yet never trips me over You are the strong one You watch over the whole planet For fear that someone there hates me You stand still and tall before me For fear that someone wishes to harm me You are the strong one A first born, an heir to inherit much Yet you will always offer me the world An ox, who will rage and strut Yet to me you will always be gentle You are the strong one To The Laughing One A fox who nips at heels Yet never makes me bleed A laugh like the strongest winds Yet never knocks me down You are the laughing one You trip and fall and groan and grunt Just to see me smile You howl at the moon at night long Just to hear me applaud

[10]

You are the laughing one A child made of wind and air Yet who never lets me fall A smile full of imp-like mischief Yet to me you will forever be kind You are the laughing one To The Loving One A gentle smile and a kind voice Yet you never let me tremble A pair of strong arms full of warmth Yet you never cage me inside You are the loving one You hold me back from the edge So that I know how to fly free You whisper stories in my ear So that I know you will always be here You are the loving one A protector who can stand tall Yet who is always beside me A statue never moving and never quaking Yet who is always happy to take my hand and run You are the loving one

[11]

dancing flowers [emma waldman]

[12]

wither away

[molly papermaster] Keep on going, keep on moving.

Never stop.

The endless heartbeat.

Hope is no more.

Lost and unreachable.

We kiss yesterday goodbye And prep for another day.

One more, one less.

Don’t look down, don’t look up For fear of too much optimism.

Roll more, step more breathe more.

Never cease to exist, always go.

If we stop, then what becomes of us?

Do we wither away like a plant without nourishment?

Without going and moving we halt.

Stopping our breath, stopping our hearts.

Feeling no more.

Gone in a flash, Wasted time and energy.

[13]

cat

[rudy deberry]

[14]

for whom the dj plays: a hemingway parody [maddie pazzani]

It was a cold October night and our dresses were too thin for the weather. We went into the dimly lit cafeteria and stood at the edge of the room. We arrived fifteen minutes after the designated starting time, so we were far t o o e a r l y a n d on ly the chap erones and student government representatives were there. Someone had pushed the salad bar to the side and pulled curtains over the serving area to hide that it was a cafeteria, but we all ate lunch there every day and we knew that it was still the cafeteria.

“I thought more people would be here by now,” said Megan.

“Me too,” said Julie.

Then we were silent and we listened to the music the DJ was playing. To pass the time we decided to go to the bathroom. No one needed to go so we just looked at ourselves in the mirror. I checked the time, shook out my hair, and washed my hands. Megan put more toilet paper down her bra and Julie was examining her pores up close in the mirror.

“Can I use your lip gloss?”

I pulled the tube out of my wristlet and gave it to Julie.

“ I d o n ’ t k now . Do you th in k it ’s too pink?”

“No, I think it’s just pink enough.”

“Me too. That’s what I thought. I think it’s a better pink than the one I have.”

She made a few swipes at her already-glossed lips and we left the bathroom. More people had arrived, and a few of them were attempting to dance but mostly everyone was standing in circles. The girls complimented each other’s [15]

dresses and the boys pushed and shoved and laughed at nothing and insulted each other to make it clear to their friends that they were not taking this seriously and that they only came because everyone else had.

Finally the crowd reached its peak. We were too small to fit the space and everyone was too spread out. It was hot. Most of the girls had taken off their shoes. A third of them had so r e f e e t, a t h ird of th em d id n’t like being taller than their friends with sore feet, and a third of them thought they were too tall in heels for the boy they liked. Megan was in the middle of the dancers with bare feet and her makeup running. Julie was off to the side trying to talk over the music with a group of people I didn’t like, and I was leaning against the salad bar taking a break.

The music changed to a slow song and the girls who hadn’t been asked to dance formed a loose circle around the edge of the dance floor and stared at the boys who wouldn’t dance. Julie joined me by the salad bar. When it was too far into the song for someone to pick me up I asked Bridget if she wanted to go to the bathroom again.

“No, go ahead,” she said. “Danny keeps looking over here.”

“Maybe he’s looking at me.”

“He asked me if I was going to the dance yesterday.”

“But he’s been dancing with Emily Fields all night.”

She shrugged and didn’t move and I left the cafeteria with all the other girls who had given up. A girl was crying in the bathroom. There is always a girl crying in the bathroom. When I returned to the cafeteria it was quieter. Megan had [16]

di sappeared into the parking lot with a boy she knew from her math class, and a lot of the seniors and popular juniors had left to get drunk at someone’s house. The DJ called the last song and everyone danced. The music stopped and the lights came on so everyone could find their shoes and put them back on. We left the cafeteria in one giant pack and tried to find our rides. My mom was going to pick us up but she was late. Everywhere people were on their phones and hugging goodbye like they wouldn’t see them again on Monday and pretending that they had more fun than they really did. Eventually it cleared out.

“That was nice,” I said.

“Nice! I didn’t dance at all,” said Julie.

“No one says you have to dance to have fun.”

“What’s the point of going to a dance if you don’t dance with anybody?”

“It gives you something to do on Saturday night.”

We got into my mom’s car and told her the dance was great. We complained about the DJ and the decorations and planned on watching a movie later.

bella [hailey guyette]

[17]

pinhole series [caley henderson]

[18]

new york city [lexi banasiewicz]

[19]

echo

[hope kim] the tip of my pen bleeds for me word by word by word humble little traces with no meaning only a faint outline of who this paper doll wants to be she does not want to be toyed with but what choice does she have? she is only pretending to be we are all little girls on the inside we have our own voices to share whatever they may be but no one is willing to listen who wants to hear the tears of a broken heart? surely, they mean nothing hopeless fools, I am only pretending.

[20]

quechua

[claudia udolf]

[21]

song of sappho

[cat flaherty] a translated and edited poem In her youth (98a), the one with violets in her lap (21), Girl sweetvoiced (153), delicate woven cloths covered her well (100) Whiter by far than an egg (167) [and] transparent dress (177) I am broken with longing for a boy (102); a kind of yearning has hold of me (95). Innocent no longer (68a), not knowing how to pull the cloth to [my] ankles, (57) into desire I shall come (96). Bitten, seized (58), barefoot (10) On a soft bed you would let loose your longing, (94) Cloth dripping (119), you take your fill (3).

Two states of mind in me (51), having encountered [sin], I call out (60) in a thin voice (24d)‑ from every care you could release me (23).You burn me (38), stir up still things (43), having been stained (4).

Do I still yearn for my virginity (107)?

Weeping, he left me (94): my tender, frail [heart] (96).

I swear I did love.

Strike yourselves, maidens, and tear your garments. (140)

[22]

pastel portrait [rachel dietz]

[23]

they say hospice zephyr fish [cole adams]

You’ll like it. Just wait and see.

It was a fishing trip, me and him, him and I. Something new, because I never knew him well.

But the problem was that my eyes and hands had never wanted to make friends with each other. They’d always been enemies at war, while my conscience and I argued over what was real and what was fake.

I didn’t really want to go. But I grinned anyway.

He took it to mean I had welcomed him in.

Does that mean my face was the welcome mat?

I slithered into the back seat of the petroleum carnivore while he loaded two crimson poles into the trunk; I couldn’t help but notice how much they looked like the fingers of a slender giant.

And when he flew into the front like a bald vulture, I couldn’t read his animal visage—it seemed plastic and contrived, as if mocking me, pretending to be me.

We drove to the lake in silence, and as we walked to the water, he wrapped his arm around me, clasping the adjacent bicep with hairy knuckle crab pincers like I was a fish.

He forced a pole into my hand and told me to watch him. He caught one on the first try.

I imitated him because that’s what I’d been told to do.

But when I drew back my line, the hook stuck in my arm like an angry bur.

Or maybe my arm stuck in the hook.

[24]

Blood (was it mine?) dripped and dripped; crimson rain seeped into the squelching mud, then disappeared.

(Was it ever there?)

I wailed and clutched my sides like a bivalve holding in its viscera as he tried to calm me with whispers of whistling teapots and words that percolated my mind as vaporous memories.

I think he took me to the hospital next.

And I think they stitched me up like a crying ragdoll.

But now, that part of my mind is sleeping shatterglass.

The warm zephyr that twirled off the lake that day feels now like frigid twine. And I don’t know which is which.

I’ve never truly known what’s pretend and what isn’t.

Sometimes it feels too real.

waves

[natalie goldstein]

[25]

plumes

[tom fisher] Eyes sharp and true Always onward Beak vicious and slim Piercing the sky Feathers, dark and foreboding Slicing the wind Heart of fire raging within Begging for release Plumage thick and black Casting darkness upon the day

[26]

time in memoriam [claire halloran]

[27]

home

[joanna williams]

pieces

[allie kyff] kisses morning sun dewy drop pieces of you and me purring cats hum melodies taking afternoon naps we listen by the chestnut tree dinners ready gather round we eat at kitchen tables without we the dream catcher above my head knows my dreams sees the memories of morning sun dewy drop kisses pieces of you and me

[28]

the power of a phone [max bash]

Phone buzzes all day Maybe it just needs a muzzle Bell rings Phone starts to sing That annoying ping One new notification 3 3 3 3

seconds seconds seconds seconds

of of of of

bliss shock confusion just about anything

A breakdown of emotions The endless locomotion of faces Embracing wonderment Looming curiosity It drags you further I hate to procrastinate But I’m in a state of shock The message I’d never intended to receive Now appears in the human inbox The key suddenly turns opens the lock Two people Connected By The power Of a phone

[29]

turtlenecks

[caitlin hettrick]

[32] [30]

olivejuice [eva stys]

Your eyes are brown.

Like melted milk chocolate.

They sparkle when they look at me.

Your hair is brown, too.

A welcoming playground for my fingers.

Your skin is slightly tan, Tanner in the summer.

I like it when it touches mine.

Your hands are big.

T h e y ’ r e m old ed p erf ectly to my hipbones.

Our hands are magnetic.

You’re tall.

Tall enough that my head tilts back when I look at your face.

You have a nice smile.

That’s the understatement of the year.

It recharges my batteries.

You have these two veins in your forehead.

They look like a two year old tried to write a ‘V’.

They come out when you laugh really hard.

You have big arms.

They wrap around me like a blanket.

They sweep me off my feet.

You have soft lips.

Kisses feel exhilarating.

Whispers in my ear send shivers down my spine all the way to my toes.

You like rap music.

But stuff that people don’t know about.

You like to drive.

Holding my hand the whole time.

You like movies from the 80’s and 90’s.

The Breakfast Club and Clerks.

You dance with me in the park.

Slowly and under the stars.

You know when I’m upset.

And you tell me it’s going to be ok.

And it always is.

You make me smile.

Even when you’re not trying to.

You’re mine.

“Olivejuice” [31]

title [author wearyname] skin

[caley henderson]

the font is size twelve, the font is euclid. the font is centered on the page.

[page number]