Montage 2015

m o n t a g e

2015

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other ashley lee piece

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montage 2015

Volume LV

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table of contents

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The Assasin Michelle King Image Sarah Simon

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The Beast of Man WT Greer Image SARAH MATTHEWS

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1500 Miles aryn Henderson Image danielle black

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Standing in the House of God Mose Kane Image eileen Skeen

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El Reloj Camille andrews Image danielle black

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To Withhold for the Better leah witheiler Stilll from Short Film Human Feet alex raphael

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On That Hong Kong Flight fahad khalid Image benjamin stromberg

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Second WT GREER Image MADELINE MONTOYA

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Love vs Lust Sofia babool Image madeline montoya

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Walking Through the Streets of Austin at Night Getty Hesse Image zachary lillard

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Katie Dai

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Reflections by a Fire michelle king Image benjamin stromberg My Morning Routine Alex raphael Image madeline montoya F Poem nanda bhushan Image ariana zhang Anatomy Mose Kane Image mira fradkin

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No More anonymous Image Anusha kurapati

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I sold the love that you gave me nicholas cannon Image ashley lee

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The Prize Shot rachel davis Image zachary lillard

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Clouds Nathan contreras Image Eileen skeen, ashley lee

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Just Words grace snyder Still from short film Fickle mansi kumar

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Danger eileen skeen Image carly raskin

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Eyes Closed, Dreams Open varun gupta Image sydnie schindler

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July Hymns rachel davis Image tanvi shah

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A Consortion natasha suterwala Image mansi gaur

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The Horse and The Hawk rekha sharma Image benjamin stromberg

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Metal Blues nicolas cannon Image mansi gaur

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Morning Forecast sohum daftary Image katie dai

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Highway Gypsy brooke bulmash Image avery jane williams

60 Image ariana zhang

Little Venice ricardo jaramillo

62 Image tanvi shah

Clockwork aryn henderson

64 Stills from short film Black Noise evan o’brien radhe melwani 66 Control Image evan o’brien

68 Image katie dai, sarah kim

La Dictadura ricardo jaramillo

70 Image seven benjamin-wright I’m Me nitish jindal

Pawn Over King varun gupta

72 Image tanvi shah

Video Production Posters

gray deuber, alanna jaffee, zach kern, 74 Birthdie mia krummerman, evan o’brien

Poster: benjamin gaye MSG alex gilmour Poster: Alex Gilmour Spring Love gray deuber Poster: Sigmund hooligan Shelly hanna arata, alex gilmour, dustin wilen Poster: Alex gilmour As Needed jonah goldberg Poster: Ariana zhang Consider the Hacker adam konig Poster: dirk czarnecki Snotfetti hanna arata, lexi gachman Poster: phyllis gore Michelin gray deuber, caila pickett Poster: gray deuber

Other Road sohum daftary 76 The Still from short film Alyssa dirk czarnecki Maya muralidhar 78 Falling Image morgan grimes

Cover Image Ashley Lee Inside Cover Image Ashley Lee Inside Back Cover Image Eileen skeen 3

Sarah Matthews

Sarah Simon

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THE ASSASSIN Swirling inky depths of blackness With shafts of sunlight peeping through Walls of fire roaring madly And spears made from the icy blue

And my mind inside is raging Though calmness is its natural state Before open, now it’s closing And thoughts slip past the closing gate

Knives are silent, swift, and deadly Assassin’s hand released and threw With each death a new load added I killed a man; its what I do.

Michelle King

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The BEAST of Man

I recall a day in which I dreamt of trumpet blasts and throngs rejoicing: a day in which I, in the fleeting immortality of youth, steadfastly thirsted for the sweet nectar of the victor’s chalice, a day in which the ceremony of battle held its gilded scepter as the lord of all honors.

I recall a day in which the pride of men burst forth in war: A day in which that wretched beast awoke and came to fore, A day in which the world stood still, as sky and earth and heavens tore, A scene no story could depict, in fiction or in lore.

And now within the present I do tremble with incessant awe, Of those who stood in days long past as teachers of the law, Of those who did not speak to me of gnashing teeth, within the maw of that unbridled thrashing beast, I swear that day I saw.

With hide of steel and breath of fire it reared its mighty snout, and with a horrid, thund’rous cry released a deaf’ning shout that turned to dust all men who stood with strength and fought devout, commanding fear in men who saw, thus filling them with doubt.

‘Twas not the last I saw of it, as I took flight with sail.

For just as I escaped the breach, I met its gruesome wail.

It closed in fast, my mind shrieked, “Dodge!” but all to no avail, until my will to live rose up, to one day boast this tale.

I parried left … One, Two, Riposte! It fell severed in twain.

But as I sang “The beast is through!” I felt a sudden pain.

The blood of man, not blood of beast, upon my hands did stain.

The monstrous truth: a youth like me was he whom I had slain.

‘Twas then I truly knew the beast as I gazed down in shame.

Fear was what it fed upon, and War its given name.

WT Greer

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Sarah Matthews

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…and I really hate you for making me rant for making me cry for making me wait I hate the way your hands can caress, your lips can inspire, your eyes can assuage I have so much to say.

It’s nothing.

“Today.”

“Tomorrow.”

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I’m going away away

1500

miles

…and I really love you for making me care for showing me love for teaching me trust

I love the way your smile tears me down, your words break me up, your laugh keeps me humble

You’ve got nothing left to say.

I don’t care.

You’re a lifetime away.

I wish you were here.

I guess I’ll just wait Ayrn Henderson

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Danielle Black

Standing in the House of God

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Eileen Skeen

Standing in the house of god honey i vow to cherish every single moment of truth be told I hate growing old and saving money while we’re still in youth and at the age of twenty five the minivan i drive to the store for pregnancy tests when i’m in my prime to be alive but instead knowing i will think this again sitting beside you on a hospital bed as these things come creeping out of you in a scene that fills my eyes with dread with baby one and two i buckle my shoes and upon seeing three and four i walk out the door as you peer at me sadly with flushed cheeks and furrowed brow i feel regret i never felt before which i should have now on the alter is it better to be mute or in two years have to wash four dirty bibs that come down the laundry chute?

He awoke. And decided not to tell his fiancĂŠe in the morning.

Mose Kane

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Hay un reloj en la pared, Hace tictac, tictac.

Todos los días está observando, Él sola estás observado, sin una palabra.

Me pregunto que el reloj haya visto, Quien el reloj haya observado, Cuando está haciendo tictac tictac, Sin una palabra.

Es posible que el reloj haya visto demasiado y no quiera ver nada más.

Ha visto el bueno, el mal, y la fea Cuando está haciendo tictac, tictac, Sin una palabra.

Pero el reloj se queda en la pared.

Me pregunto que pasaría si no habría relojes, Me pregunto si el mundo se desmoronaría.

Y por eso los relojes se quedan.

Están lamentando nuestra existencia Sin una palabra.

Camille Andrews

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El Reloj 13

Danielle Black

TO WITHHOLD FOR

THE BETTER As I chew a rather large helping of chocolate flavored cake with sweet, rich icing, Ollie scratches at my ankles from below. Disturbing my trance, he begins to circle my chair, his eyes glistening with an unforgettable expression of sadness and desire. His lengthy tail swings from side to side, accompanied with highpitched, optimistic whimpers. How I would love to tear off a piece and share the pleasurable flavor, but it is apparent to me that if he were to consume it, he would become extremely ill.

However, Ollie is just a naïve Cocker Spaniel, and will never fully grasp this concept. He eventually gives up, his head hanging low, as he dolefully walks toward his bed. As he wanders away, I suddenly realize that when one does not immediately obtain what they wish for, maybe it is for the better. So as I endure my freshman year of high school, I try to keep this theory in consideration.

After spending fourteen years at the same school, socializing with the same people and living in the same home, I certainly was not familiar to the concept of change. Once attending Greenhill School, I was surprised how welcoming, kind and willing my peers were.

Within the passing months, the attention and thoughtfulness began to deteriorate, and those with whom I wished to form relationships seemed apathetic towards my presence. Regardless, my efforts were not convincing enough to disturb the resilient friendships formed since the 2nd grade. Of course, I did not want to accept this fate, but it seemed inevitable, so I gave up.

Now, as I recollect these two slightly unfortunate events, I must consider perspective. Just like Ollie craved what he thought was a treat, I desired friends, but unfortunately neither of us obtained our rather simple requests. As I withheld this dessert, I considered, “Maybe when I desire something so deeply, I lack the awareness and overall knowledge of its capacity to wound me later on.” What if I were to become friends with those particular peers? What if they were hurt me in an emotional or physical way that is impossible for me to foresee? Perhaps there is an external force withholding my metaphorical ‘chocolate cake,’ pained to watch me struggle, but clandestinely knows it is for a better outcome. This concept, along with hope, destiny, and purpose, allows me to remain at peace with myself, and accept situations more positively and graciously.

Leah Witheiler

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Alex Raphael

Flight Flight On That Hong Kong Flight On that Hong Kong flight Going at it day and night.

Listening J. Cole And Beyoncé Knowles Cause I can’t go to sleep.

Not even a peep, My thoughts go way too deep.

Will I fall or will I leap?

What will be my claim to fame?

What will become of my name?

What will be my legacy?

I can’t wait and see.

I don’t take this shit light.

I want my future to be bright.

Heads always in the clouds, How do I make my father proud?

How do I make it through this crowd?

I can sit down, shut up, and pout, But I have no doubt That if I do that I will lose the bout.

Sure, I may preach About hustling to own that house on Miami beach.

But it’s not for you to hear.

I only say it out of fear

That I will waste day and night On this Hong Kong flight.

Fahad Khalid

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Benjamin Stromberg

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second Be it fate, that I so stood upon the cursed second place?

That I not high, nor even low had faked for sake a smile? Woe! ‘Twas when I looked upon my plate that I did feel the stagg’ring blow.

A crippling doubt had stole the gold, soon leaving me no pride to show.

For even if I must set chase through hell itself, I will not tire.

No challenge now can slow my haste, No pit in hell out burns my fire.

The gold must be snatched— Snatched from the midst of those who scoff, from disbelief and raised aloft.

Rejoice! For now the thief is slain.

The golden plate is mine to claim!

A doubt— Oh reasonable doubt that crept up from the depths of Tartarus— with honeyed words had me accept the gold was not worth all the fuss.

But, gold is not all that I’ve won now that my journey’s o’er and done.

Now that I have the gold I see the mystery, the final key.

“Your time will never come. It’s spent.”

The people scoffed, “You thirst for gold?”

The forces of my passions rent, the fire once within me, cold.

The gold was won that day I swore to hear the voice of Doubt no more.

That day I swore I’d never stand again upon the second brand

Around me Doubt’s voice drowned all hope.

He, grimacing with sallow brow.

But I will stand, I will not mope.

My day will come, I shall not bow!

that labeled me the one before, who couldn’t find his way to shore.

Gold’s path to me, now plain to see: when Doubt is slain, the mind is free.

“Bewitching bandit’s burbling bark!

Retrieve to me the gold that’s mine,” I so command into the dark.

He runs, he’s fast, but I’ll not whine.

WT Greer

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Madeline Montoya

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Love & Lust Love, to me, is a rose that is wise not to pick, since it only grows on a vine. But once picked, thorns erupt everywhere, showing a mistake was made somewhere in between its growth process. I believe that love and lust are often misinterpreted as illusions that people lose them-selves in. Not only do people drown in that boundless sea, but too often, they find themselves hardly able to stay above water surface. However, I do believe there is a clear distinction be-tween lust and love, which is often misunderstood, and it would be useful to distinguish between these two.

However, sometimes I wonder if I am the one who is misunderstanding it. I think that love leads to the two people involved in a relationship to become victims of nature’s beautiful way of reproducing. Although lust is a factor of the arduous journey of love, I believe many peo-ple stop the journey there, and have been meaning to reach that destination all along. With this, my definition of love is not only one of attraction merely towards the physical body of another, but also one that overflows with compassion for another being, as well as patience, and maturity through the gift of time.

My mom once told me a story in order to make me realize the beauty of love, something she knew I would have a difficult time understanding. As she began, I tried my best to keep my mind open, but very quickly, did it close, when she said that the story was a Persian love novel. Before I continue, I must be honest with my opinion on this unreal emotion.

I personally believe love can lead to mistakes that can so easily be avoided. I think that it is an emotion that traps the people involved, if it is not maintained properly.

The story begins with a young and wealthy woman named Laila. Her family was in the highest status of society, and she had now approached a marriageable age. However, little did her family know that a young, and poor boy from a status to low to marry in to, had unlocked the key to Laila’s heart.

This boy’s name was Majnu, which can be translated to literally mean “mad-man”. By writing poems for her, and repeating her name constantly, Majnu had made Laila’s name his meditation. He woke up with her name on his lips, and slept with dreams that consisted of nothing but her flawless face. However,

soon Majnu realized that to truly make her his own, he would have to take a step ahead. He realized that this marriage would be one of two families, not only of two people. As the two families met at a specific location in town to finally be known of the secrets that were being kept from them, they broke into an argument about status, and pun-ished the lovers for their reckless behavior. However, just before parting, Laila told the disheart-ened Majnu to wait for her in a cave not to far from town, in two days. On the second day, he would see a caravan with her in it, and they would then escape. Majnu, blinded by his love for her, quickly agreed and they set off on their individual paths. After two days, he waited anxious-ly, thinking about the time they would spent after in each other’s arms. However, Laila did not appear for a full year. Nonetheless, when she reached that cave, she saw her lover. A man she could not even recognize.

Shriveled, weak, starved, feeble, and almost near death. However, she tried to wake Majnu up, as tears filled her eyes, hoping that he had saved at least one breath for her. She finally was able to wake him up by repeating her name to him over and over, telling him that she had finally arrived. However, when he stared back into her eyes, he said, “I think you have made a mistake. If you are Laila, then who am I?” At the end of this story, I told my mom exactly what she expected me to say. I told her, quite blatantly, that these types of stories cause young and immature adolescents, and young adults, to fall for the trap of love.

Looking back on this experience, I often think about the passion that was really present between Laila and Majnu. Was it reasonable love, or passionate lust? What is behind the curtains of the stage that is set when one believes they have found their better half? Often times, I reflect on this, and constantly alter my definition of love. To this day, no definition has been solidified, and I believe that no matter who I ask, no one will be able to give me the definition. Yes, love does include lust, and attraction, but it is a flower that has so much color, if one makes sure to water it, and pull out the weeds when necessary. Love, in my opinion, is multifaceted. Not only does it differ in intensity, but it is also an emotion 20

that requires sacrifice, and the maturity to face reality.

Do you love your wife, or your husband more than the sunset you see every evening? Or do you love your friends more than the songs of the Nightingale that you hear outside your win-dow?

The bonds here are all based on the word “love,” but the intensity of which they are felt with, differ significantly. Now, not every relationship will be a pair of good socks without holes. Under the umbrella of love, not only lies compassion and humility, but also sacrifice. Can sacri-fice be considered a flower from an oak tree that took years to grow? Is sacrifice giving up someone or something for the betterment of yourself and others? The ability to sacrifice in love is one that is very rare among many spouses. However, in some cases, that love is so stable, and strong, that it is the very basis and the very ground root of that relationship. Loving someone is a gift that is wrapped in the most expensive paper of trust, honesty, and friendship. Although open-ing that gift and receiving something that we desire brings immense joy and happiness, one day you have to wake up and tell yourself that that moment is simply a memory now. Also, loving a man or a woman, is not only about the ability to sustain that love, but also about the ability of surviving financially, supporting and nourishing children, as well as the merging between two families. Often times, immature folk believe that love is the basis and the surface of a life-long relationship. Sometimes, there will be a hole in the sock, sometimes you will slip and fall, and the trust and compassion that erupts from those mistakes, sets the groundwork for any relation-ship.

Many adolescents believe that lust can be compared to small, and ideal pleasures that do not align with reality. Lust, in my opinion, defines a person’s goals from the very beginning of a relationship. Since love is a journey that includes

more than sexual relations with a person, I be-lieve that a person who would like to continue on with a partnership for this reason, is one that is stopping at a path that has so much more to offer. The lack of compassion for one another, and rather the egotistic view on self-pleasure that is ever-present, is the mindset that shows a trans-parent path of separation, and detachment. A lustful relationship is a garden that has bad roots from the very beginning. Those roots eventually give in to the burden that they are forced to car-ry. Therefore, I truly believe that a loving relationship versus a lustful relationship simply grow from different roots. These two concepts, although often misunderstood, hold the same ground.

Love is a journey that lust is a part of, however, lust is not a concept that should hold all the meaning of a relationship. From a true, and honest relationship, blossoms dignity and respect for one another, as well as the ability to see the world as it truly is. Lust often causes a clouded view on reality, and that, in my opinion, is an unwise path to follow.

However, love even pos-sesses the power to make a person vulnerable. Nonetheless, that vulnerability is one that induces strength and courage in oneself.

Vivian Greene once said, “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass...It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” What a quote. This has clung to me since the day I read it. But how should one face these difficulties? Facing love’s difficulties with compassion, humility and maturity only blossoms from the audacity, and the courage that one must find within themselves. This is my point which I steadfastly believe, whether or not the world agrees. My point has sprung from the roots of my history, and I cannot determine the reaction of others. However, my point was not to impress the world, but to rather portray, clearly, my thoughts on an emotion so unreal, unless the ability to sustain it is accompanied by it.

Sofia Babool

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Madeline Montoya

WALKINGTHROUGHTHESTRE

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W

e’re walking down the street at night with lamps like grungy angels and the storefront lights illuminating us and the street and the sidewalk that we walk, the six of us, laughing at the glass heart in the shop window that’s not a heart but a bong, laughing at how I insist it’s not a bong but a heart, laughing at the cars that howl past like frightened monsters frightened of us the wolves of the oddity shop, the costume shop, the shop abandoned with windows defiled by spray-painted testaments to love and apocalypse and Hopdoddy burgers.

Getty Hesse

EETSOFAUSTINAT NIGHT NITSUA 23

Zach Lillard

I look into the hearth and see The inferno that gave life to me A crackling rage of impending doom The gentle glow that lights the room.

I see the embers in the blaze, Upon the fire mine eyes do gaze, I see the turmoil below, Lit bright by an unearthly glow.

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I gaze upon its soft warm light Disguised in a fury glowing bright And I feel the comforting warmth Emerging from the burning hearth

A two-faced Janus in the sparks Illuminated by glowing arcs I look into the hearth and see The fire that gave life to me.

Michelle King

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Benjamin Stromberg

Madeline Montoya

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veryday, Günther Strauss wakes up at exactly 7:04 to the tune of his favorite song, “What’s New Pussycat” by Tom Jones. He exits his bed on the left side (facing towards his bathroom, yet away from the collage of family reunion photos hanging on his wall). Glancing at the collage with a twinkle in his eyes that is nearly – yet not completely – masked by his fatigue, Günther turns off his alarm and walks to his bathroom in the dark. He makes sure not to scratch his butt along the way; Günther is a big believer in routine, but he knows his idol, Charles A. Lindbergh (or, “Lucky Lindy”), would never have been that crass. Thus, after avoiding the less-desirable aspect of his morning routine, Günther enters his bathroom and turns the lights on. The line of light bulbs in the bathroom have been replaced by Günther in such a way that their brightness increases gradually from one end to the other.

Günther has done this to mimic what the lights of a runway look like, for he is currently in the final few months of flight school at Emory-Riddle. After first seeing an air show at the age of seven with his late father, Günther eagerly awaits the coming of the next stage of his life – a stage he will spend as an airman.

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Günther picks up his toothbrush and toothpaste (this toothpaste had been given to him by his uncle, for it is still in development yet said to be “revolutionary”), wets his toothbrush, and applies just slightly too much toothpaste (this is purposeful, of course) upon the bristles, squeezing from the bottom of the paste bottle. As he habitually lifts the brush up to his mouth, his eyes widen and his mouth lets out a gasp. Dropping his brush, he turns around wildly, tightens his buttocks, and looks in awe at what stands before him.

He first sees long, slightly reptilian feet. They remind him of hooves, yet strangely of an ant’s pincers as well. The feet are covered with blue hairs that grow in spiral patterns.

This hair is not blue like the ocean or the sky, it is of the saddest blue possible – the Crayola color (if they ever discover this shade of blue) would most likely be named something along the lines of “despair” or “purgatory”. Following the spiral pattern up the legs, he looks upon the knees and sees that they bend backwards, and are covered with mold. Still not believing his eyes, Günther continues his visual scan, reaching the pelvis. The pelvis is covered by a cloth that appears to have been fashioned out of some sort of animal hide, or is it skin? The blue spirals of hair continue up the body,

trying to communicate with me via possession of the severed head, I realize its just my cell phone on vibrate.

I answer to a very familiar growl, “Where are you?” My mother asks.

“I just had breakfast, ma. I’m leaving now.” I answer sweetly. I’ve always been a mama’s kid.

patterned about the red skin in a near-beautiful, yet certainly monstrous pattern. This red skin seems to have suffered from repeated burn-wounds, and is dotted by boils, warts, and crawling with tiny beetles, only about a millimeter in length that gather around the pours and lay eggs. Looking at this creature’s torso, Günther sees that all of the blue spirals of hair converge upon the sternum. The sternum is quite concave, and if it weren’t for the concentration of blue fur might appear to be some sort of hole or tunnel. The arms are short, stubby – as if borrowed from a T-rex – and speckled with scales and the same blue hair patterns. Pentacle tattoos cover this being’s forearms and its hands are a different shade of red than the rest of the skin. This red appears to be painted on, and it reeks of death. Realizing this red is blood, and observing the cracked talons, Günther at last looks up at the face of this being. The head sits between its shoulders; it has no neck. Quite peculiarly, despite being able to observe every other characteristic of the creature before him (Günther may be the seventh most observant person he knows, and at least the third most observant in his flight class) he is unable to comprehend the face. He cannot fathom that such features could coexist in such a space. He sifts through his memories of fairy tales and horror movies yet cannot recall anything that was even remotely similar to the face before him. Günther’s buttocks unclench and his shoulders droop, his mouth still agape. Never before has he been in a situation akin to this, and since his every action is pathetically based upon previous experiences, he shuts down mentally, as if having run into a brick wall lathered with confusion-flavoredcyanide. The unidentifiable face, upon the horrendously satanic body standing before Günther this morning, at 7:06, is, of course, myself.

I devour Günther. First I gorge out his neck, decapitating his head. It’s customary for my culture to eat the limbs first, thus being able to enjoy the screams for longer, but I have a busy – and quite honestly, stressful – day today, and would prefer to just get the essential nutrients and then be off; plus, I’m dining alone so manners are not really an issue. I pick out the eyeballs (these are supposed to be eaten last, but I really can never resist) and store the rest of Günther’s head in the new satchel my boyfriend made for me. I quickly finish up Günther’s torso and legs, discarding his feet, arms, and hands in the disposal (for they are generally only eaten by the lower classes). I light a few wwcandles, say my incantation (this is really just a formality) and smile. My day is off to a good start.

As I am leaving Günther’s apartment, my satchel begins to vibrate. At first thinking it’s Beelzebub rudely

“Was it that Cruz fella’? What’s his name? Fred? Ed?” “No ma, it was that boy studying to be a pilot.” I never really lose my patience with my mother, despite her constantly forgetting the everyday details of life. She is more focused on the big picture, and is a very active member of the community.

“Ah I see. He is a very handsome and ambitious young man. Did you save your old mom an eye?” Her growls were so sweet, it’s no surprise she tends to get her way.

“Of course!” I know it’s never good to lie, but she’ll forget about it anyways, and I never like to disappoint her.

“Wonderful! All right listen, I’m volunteering at the daycare right now so I have to go, but I wanted to remind you about your interview today. Are you wearing the new skin I sewed for you?” She always did remember the important things.

“Yep, I’m heading there now. I love you ma.”

“Yep? I think you forgot to say, ‘yes ma’am’, young one!

Ok the kids are here now; I have to go. Good luck, remember to look them in the eyes! Oh hey kiddos, my name is Zerstörer and we have such a fun day planned…” Those kids are really going to love my mom. I know I do.

I place my phone back into my satchel, and continue on my way. Today is a big day, of course, because today is the day of my interview. For the past three years, I have worked as the one of the assistant biologists of the River Styx. Every other week, we take samples of the river to make sure the soul count and suffering levels are high enough. The head biologist recently got promoted to tend to Cerberus, and they are now interviewing for a replacement. I may not be the senior assistant, but I work the most hours and, in all honesty, Beelzebub owes me a favor. I’m not a big believer in nepotism, I’d prefer for this whole thing to be fair and wholesome, but I know I’m the best demon for the job. Despite the chances, I am still nervous for my interview.

Luckily, my morning routine has gone very well so far and I’m off to a great start to the summer solstice.

Alex Raphael

MY MORNING R O U T I N E 27

F Poem

You seemed frightened by my exuberance.

Have you forgotten that I am equal?

Or have you been blinded by ignorance?

Don’t worry; my sovereignty is no cause for upheaval.

The world expects us to be something we’re not.

Billboards with unrealistic expectations, Accommodating to standards is taught, Our generation seeks for confirmation.

I’m not an object, I’m not a threat.

I’m not here to absorb your every word.

My smoke will rise just like your cigarette.

Just for you to know there are no lines blurred.

And until she can admit it was not her fault, I will hold in my right, a grain of salt.

Nanda Bhushan

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29

Ariana Zhang

I. Cerebrum “The Brain is a magical oasis.”

Ha. That’s what all the scientists say.

But will the people ever realize they’ve all gone astray?

I’ve seen bodies bludgeoned and statues toppled at the expense of just one mind, throwing skulls of species in the dust so they could call themselves mankind.

I hear the rapists and killers on the 9 o clock news called inhuman and insane, but with one cut of a scalpel, all our membranes look the same.

II. Cerebellum Cells that sparked religion and spirituality of the masses, started the same wars that scattered their ashes.

Cells that inspired billions with plethoras of art, are equally responsible for ripping canvases apart.

Cells that nurtured values of friendship, love, and trust, jointly conjured feelings of betrayal, anger, and lust.

Cells that make up the magical oasis, write every word of my convoluted poesis.

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ANA

Mira Fradkin

III. Limbic System The oasis makes me lie and cry while sustaining pockets with memories of days gone by telling my body to ache as my bones break yet I continue to ponder as I quiver and quake when it’s fight or it’s flight in the middle of the night and all I know is coiled in my head so tight until the dawn breaks and the mind it forsakes becomes utterly and completely commonplace

IV. Stem From the oasis we drink, through the annals of time, launching innovation, religion, reason, and rhyme.

But the scientists will realize, despite how they try, the people are thirsty: Haha.

Yet the oasis is dry Mose Kane

OMY

31

nymous

32

I have cried, I have lied,

But no more.

I have cried, I have lied, But no more!

The truth is an unwieldy burden But I must I must I Must carry it to Find myself, I must carry it.

There is no other way.

There is no short path.

The path ahead is long and treacherous and many pitfalls stand in my way.

But I must.

I must.

I Must!

No more!

Anonymous

33

Anusha Kurapati

i sold the love that you gave me I didn’t realize what this part looks like Nothing prepares you to be on your own Where it’s alright To let nice things go

“Will you be mine?” was the end of the road So I sold the love that you gave me I almost cried as he took it from me But now I’m alright At letting nice things go Nicky Cannon

34

35

The Prize Shot

The sun had been ambling its way over the flat horizon for a full hour before Jimmy Cram woke to a pain in his cheek.

“Shit,” he mumbled, lips sticking. He licked them, tasted dust and winter air, and decided he didn’t care. He rolled over.

Old Sam prodded at him again with a steel-toed boot.

“Get up,” he said. “Hell, molasses would outrun you in the mornings, boy. Get up, and get movin’.”

“Molasses yourself,” Jimmy muttered. His hands seemed to have turned into claws overnight, his fingers frozen through, stiff and angular like icicles. “I ain’t gettin’ up yet.”

On the other side of the fire, Jimmy saw Bat Langtry look up. “Out of bed, Jimmy,” he called. “Dawn’s come already, and it’s past time we were movin’.” Spurs clinked as the ranger did a once-around of his horse, checking already-immaculate straps and saddlebags. “It’s Christmas day,” Bat added after a second, as though the fact required consideration. “You and Sam’ll be wantin’ to get back and get your pay before the ranch closes.”

Groaning, Jimmy forced his frozen limbs to move. After having lain still for so long, the movement made his vision shiver. He pulled his bedroll over his shoulders like a blanket, then dragged himself over to the black circle where the fire had been. Jimmy lifted the lid of Bat’s black cooking pot, fingers numb to the cold metal, and took the last two biscuits congealing in the bottom. One he shoved into his mouth

36

whole; the other he dropped into his pocket. It hung there like a heavy stone.

Bat and his spurs clinked their way over to the fire as soon as the lid went back down, dismantling the cooking spit, packing it away. Old Sam joined him, and together they kicked out the ashes into the dirt beneath the frost. There was snow in their hair that had not melted yet. As they worked, some of it shook off and fell, dust-like, to the ground.

Kicking at a clump of slush, Old Sam asked, “Can you see Donnell yet?”

Bat looked out at the wide skies and the thread of gold that was the horizon, searching for what Sam Cobb’s single eye could not see. “If he’s headed back, I ain’t seen him. Or else he’s dead and a ghost now, or aims to sneak up on us.”

Jimmy swallowed a lump of biscuit. “Where’s he gone to?”

“The hell I know,” the old man said. “When you’re rich, you do as you please.”

Bat shrugged and went back to work. “Yankees and rich men will not change their ways for love or money. Donnell is both. He’ll come when he comes. No sense worryin’.”

Jimmy gave his bedroll a shake. Unable to let it go, he muttered, “Christmas day and he ditches us for a ride.” Two sticks clinging to the fabric fell to the ground. He caught one on his boot, then kicked it off. “That ain’t Christian spirit.” He fumbled with the bedroll, nearly letting it slip from his slow

mount, a adappled relic as old as he was, Old Sam fussed with the straps. “That was just stupid.”

Bat shrugged. “I don’t mind a lick. Betsy here’s my love and my pistol’s my kid. I don’t need any more family than that.”

“But you ain’t even tried,” Jimmy persisted. “How many times have you courted a girl, huh? Once? Twice? Not at all?”

Old Sam narrowed his eye. “That don’t matter.” “’Course it matters. You got to try to have a family, at least.

Hell, even if you mess it up—“ Jimmy’s lips went white as he pressed them together. “—even then, you tried, and you got to get credit for that.”

“Some of us ain’t cut out for families.”

“But we got to try,” the young man repeated. He rubbed at his forearms where a thin, spidery web of silver scars stretched across his skin. “You got to make the effort. Bat’s just sittin’ there like a dead log.”

“He’s a happy log,” Old Sam said. “Ain’t you, Bat?” Jimmy snorted. ”Logs ain’t happy. Logs ain’t anything.

They’re just logs.”

“Donnell’s comin’,” was all Bat said.

All eyes turned to the horizon. There, where sky met land and the snow glowed redder than cattle’s blood, a smear of black approached the camp. It swiftly materialized into a man on horseback, one hand raised in greeting. Old Sam grunted

Zach Lillard

hands before he managed to pack it away.

“Independency is trail spirit, boy,” Old Sam growled. “I’m a God-fearin’ man, but neither mass or Jesus Christ have got a lot to do with what happens on the road.” With the back of one hand, he rubbed at his eye patch, then slung his bedroll over his shoulder like a burlap sack. “But then, you wouldn’t know about that.”

Bat waited for the others, fixing the saddle of his grey mare needlessly, patting her sides when she nickered and shifted her weight from hoof to hoof.

Tossing the bedroll at his horse’s feet, Jimmy turned to watch the big man as he worked. Bat was half-feral, but the women in town said he was as sweet as sugar and better tempered than a priest, which meant Jimmy got a particular kind of wicked pleasure from getting a rise out of him.

Breaking bits off a nearby bush, the boy said, “I think I know why you ain’t wed, Bat.” The big man did not turn, but Old Sam kicked at Jimmy’s shin as he passed. “Don’t you start this again,” the one-eyed man snapped.

“I think I know why he ain’t wed,” Jimmy insisted. “All those girls talkin’ to him, and he’s still alone. It’s an easy thing to get married, but he don’t. It’s ‘cause he already took that damn mare for a bride.”

“That ain’t even insultin’.” Beginning to saddle his own

37

horse, Old Sam tightened the strap on his mare’s saddle. “Took him long enough.”

Bat and Jimmy returned to their work as well, the former with his usual slow patience, the latter with a scowl. He had been suddenly reminded of his hatred of Donnell – ‘that idjit big bug with the money’. He always made a point to count all the little things he hated about the Yank, and he swept out his mind in preparation for today’s list. Sometimes, if Jimmy thought of a particularly clever one, or if he was drunk enough, he would even list them for people to hear.

As Donnell moved within earshot, he began his count. The first thing on the day’s list was the way the man bobbed up and down in his saddle, posting needlessly, as though they were in some Yankee horse show.

“Good morning, Langtry!” Donnell’s accent set Jimmy’s teeth on edge and became second on the list. “Morning, Cobb, morning, Cram.” Jimmy made the man’s earnestness third.

“Merry Christmas, you three!”

The men looked unenthused. Their minds were full only of brown bottles at the saloon and tobacco fixings rolled shakily into cigarettes.

“Say,” the Yankee began. He had yet to dismount, and gave no sign that he intended to do so. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s new,” Jimmy remarked to his horse. “That’s very new.”

“I think we should catch a bison, and take it back with us for the folks back home.”

Jimmy added Donnell’s ridiculous ideas to his list.

“You ever try to pull a bison behind a horse, sir?” Old Sam asked. “Won’t work, not in a hundred years.”

Bat stepped in. “We could cut it,” he drawled. “If we only take the meat, we could do it.” Something like a smile crossed his face. Watching him, it occurred to Jimmy that Bat might be smarter than he seemed.

But Jimmy wouldn’t kiss the Yank’s ass, no matter what the rest of town did. “Wanna sit in the cold for two hours with a dead bison, cuttin’ it up?” he asked. “Be my guest. I ain’t havin’ none of it.”

“I think we should do it,” Donnell said, a little too forcefully. “Marianne would love it.”

The men fell quiet. If Donnell wanted a gift for his pretty wife to prove he was a real westerner now, they were bound to obey.

Jimmy hated it. He made a note.

Smiling, the Yank turned his reins and walked his horse around the camp to keep it warm. “Who’ll go with me?”

Donnell’s too-wide grin met Jimmy like a challenge.

Suddenly, he felt there was nothing he wanted to do in the world more than to go hunting with him. “Me. Sir.”

They left Old Sam and Bat behind at the camp with instructions not to move. Jimmy smiled at the look on their faces as Donnell lectured them on trail etiquette like they were children, then turned his horse and trotted off into the brush.

He was still smiling as they dismounted and tied their horses to a black-barked tree. It failed a little when they pulled the covers off their guns. By the time they began to creep up on the herd, it was only a ghost of what it had been.

Jimmy could not forget the look of sudden confidence Donnell had given him, the challenging glint in his eyes. The memory worried at the back of his mind. It whispered that if Donnell wanted a duel, whether of guns or wits or luck, the Yank would obviously lose. It was just a question of how. He pursed his lips. They would only fell one bison between the two of them – and in the few minutes he had, Jimmy could think of no better way to show Donnell up than to be the one to make the prize shot.

It would not mean much to the rich man to lose. It would merely prevent him from telling everyone how he bested a real Westerner in a shooting match. Jimmy, however – Jimmy would have something to brag about in saloons for years to come.

38

He turned to look at his companion, hating that he had to turn his chin up to see the Yank’s face. He noted Donnell’s features with an unfriendly eye: a large, crooked nose begging to be broken, dull eyes, and a scratchy beard that grew in irregular tufts along his jaw. Jimmy’s own stubble was not much better, but he didn’t think that his individual faults added up to as ugly a whole as they did on Donnell.

In front of them, the bison, half asleep, stood still. Near the edges of the herd, a few males paced like sentries, pawing at the snow to reach the grass beneath.

The Yank pulled the lever back on his rifle. “Hey,” Jimmy said, doing the same. “You up for a game?”

“A game? This is hardly the time, Cram.” “’Course it is. It’s the best time for a game. You ain’t chicken, right?”

Donnell stiffened, but kept his voice low so as not to scare the bison. “Of course I’m not. What game?” he asked.

“We take turns shootin’. That way we see which of us kills that bison.”

“And why does that matter?”

“It’s—“ he said, “—fun to see who gets the prize shot.”

This seemed to please Donnell. “Good. I can agree to that. Do we bet?”

No bets had been included in Jimmy’s original plan, but he could not refuse. “Yup.” “What are we betting?”

Biting his lip, Jimmy searched for something that he and Donnell both owned, but that he could do without.

“Bet you my horse,” the Yank said.

Color drained from Jimmy’s face. Donnell had a fine stallion. To risk his own was to risk his entire livelihood: there was no such thing as a man in the livestock business who did not have a horse.

But if he won and sent the Yank back to Green Springs horseless— “Done.”

“Damn.” Donnell sounded impressed. “You sure, Cram?”

Jimmy did his best to seem nonchalant. “’Course. You shoot first – or should I?” The other turned, leveled his gun, and fired.

The shot went off, a clap of thunder in the silence. It rolled through the herd and the haze of morning light like lightning, striking the haunch of a young bull. The bison lowed and bellowed, and the entire herd rose as one, lumbering into motion. With it limped the bull, dragging a leg, leaving a trail of red blood and hoof prints behind it.

Jimmy took his turn. More thunder roared; more lightning flashed. The injured bull wavered in its step.

Anxious, he lowered his gun. The smoke from the shot filled the air, mixing with his frosty breath. He could almost imagine that the sound the bison was making was its death rattle, its final call. At any moment, it might fall over and sink into a pool of melting snow and its own blood.

Holding his breath, he waited and watched. Donnell stood beside him, shielding his eyes against the glare of the morning light on snow.

The bison stopped and shivered. Jimmy bit his thumb.

Donnell hissed, impatient.

The bull shook, swayed, and started running as best it could.

It did not fall.

The breath left Jimmy in a single great sigh.

Everything seemed to move quickly then. The Yank lifted his rifle and fired, bringing the young bull down. Drawing out a pistol with which to finish the beast, Donnell gave Jimmy a fleeting, apologetic glance. Then he headed to the bison’s side.

Jimmy’s empty hands shook as shots rang out once, then twice in the empty air.

The bull stopped twitching at Donnell’s feet.

Bending down beside the bison, putting the pistol in his back pocket, Donnell pulled out a knife and set to work cutting out what he imagined to be the best meat. He glanced up after a moment, looking in his companion’s direction and forming words with his mouth, but Jimmy did not hear. His ears were ringing.

Then, swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, Jimmy Cram picked up his rifle and began to cross the clearing to where Donnell was standing.

As they would later tell the sheriff, noon had almost passed by the time Old Sam and Bat saw the black blur of distant riders on the horizon. The men set down the knives they had been sharpening, then rose together to greet the two horses and the single rider.

Old Sam scratched at his eye patch. “Hell,” he said, looking between the horses. “What happened?”

Jimmy slid off his mount, a troubled look painted on his face. “Poor fool of a greenhorn shot himself.”

The horse shifted where it stood. Crossing to it, Bat lifted one edge of the blanketed bundle that had been strapped across the saddle, sniffed at it, and turned away.

Sam Cobb leaned over to look for himself and made a wordless noise in the back of his throat. “Well,” he said, hesitating, “at least it’s cold out. Heat would have rotted that quicker than the sheriff downs whiskey.” His eyes were wide.

“It’s a shame,” Jimmy said, patting his own horse’s neck.

“A damn shame. They shouldn’t have let the greenhorns out here in the first place.”

“Any man who can’t work a gun right ain’t cut out for our kinda life,” Old Sam agreed. He shook his head and pursed his lips, sighing again.

Jimmy gestured to the saddlebags, full to bursting with bison meat. “At least his family’ll be able to eat the bull that startled him, makin’ him trip and turn his pistol on himself.

That ought to be some consolation.”

Bat grunted. “Some. Not a lot.” He rapped one knuckle against the heel of a boot peeking out, then spun the spurs.

“This’ll be one hell of a Christmas present.” ”They’ll think we done killed him on purpose,” Old Sam muttered.

39

“Of course they ain’t gonna think that.” He watched the spur spin around and around, clinking as it twirled. “This kind of thing, though— Makes a man thankful for his life, his belongings, and his horse.”

“And God’s grace besides,” Old Sam added. He licked his lips. “We ought to thank him for leavin’ us our lives even though He took Donnell’s.”

Jimmy’s face creased into something that was not quite a frown. “That too,” he said after a minute, “that too.”

Rachel Davis

Clouds Again the clouds have come to rain, The freezing drops that they contain.

The humid air, They cannot bear, Of mighty pow’r and vigor new.

The clouds rise up from all around, They throw their shadows on the ground, A spell they cast, Of power amassed, Of mighty pow’r and vigor new.

A time before they filled the sky, When the terrain was dull and dry.

It was in need, Of life indeed, Of mighty pow’r and vigor new.

The clouds burst forth with stunning might, From sky to ground did drops alight, The water splashed, And lightning flashed, With mighty pow’r and vigor new.

How lovely rain looked as it went As the drops made their long descent Each glimmering All shimmering With mighty pow’r and vigor new.

After the clouds did rain no more, The air was filled with petrichor, The sun shone through, Came into view With mighty pow’r and vigor new.

Into light came flowers that grew, Shining forth their marvelous hue Life was teeming, Dewdrops gleaming, With mighty pow’r and vigor new.

But yet through time did glory fade, The flowers and plants became decayed.

And as they die, For life they cry, Of mighty pow’r and vigor new.

So now the clouds have come to rain, The freezing drops that they contain.

The humid air They cannot bear, Of mighty pow’r and vigor new.

Nathan Contreras

40

41

Just Words I’m grungy not graceful; I’m clunky not cute, My face is plain, my temper’s not tame, I can kick the shit out of you!

I’m not quiet nor calm I’m loud and I’m proud, I bang my own drum at a million miles a minute and when I toot my own horn the sound is infinite!

—But what if it wasn’t?

I walk the walk and talk the talk and listen to rock.

When I sing I bellow, all my friends are fellows, I do what I please for me, not you—

—But what if I didn’t?

I’m dainty, not daring. I dot my i’s and cross my t’s in loopy cursive, and I believe in binaries.

I speak perfectly, dress fashionably, and stereotypes are all I know.

Everyone loves me. I get all A’s, everyday praise; I think in blacks and whites, not grays.

Just Stop.

Earth’s been here for 4.5 billion years: “this or that” are Just Words.

Grace Snyder

42

43

Mansi Kumar

Danger

Danger

Danger Flirting like teeth flashing pearly watermelon seeds arcing to the grass Flirting like you wish you could knock your own dentistry out so easily Flirting like thirteen rolling skirts worrying about the bulge at your waist Giggling at cat callers old enough to be your father Running away without really knowing why Shivering at night Flirting like charcoal pumping, blood running, hiding away Flirting like eyes flashing teeth gnashing saying I’m okay Flirting like planning the date the dress the destruction Swelling sadness blooms at sixteen, side effects of sugar pills consumed Unsure of whether you feel everything or anything at all Not knowing which to prefer Flirting like dropping grades, like “It can wait�, like framing rejection letters Flirting like mental decay, like reliving elementary days Flirting like panic attacks in bathroom stalls, like failure trembling through your veins Missing class, justifying another hour of unconsciousness Rationalizing your own stupidity, outliving potential and dulling your personality Mediocrity as a philosophy Flirting like taunting the inevitable Flirting like afraid to look yourself in the eye.

Eileen Skeen

44

45

Carly Raskin

eyes closed, dreams open I chase myself, and treasure myself.

And what I search you shall search, For every secret belonging to me as open belongs to you.

I pause for a moment and inhale my fantasies I sleep and pause anxiously, now observing my flawless imperfections.

My ears, every beat of my life, assembled from this imagination, this freedom Sprouted here of disparate pitches and frequencies, but Dreams the same I, now independently accessible with rest resume, Hoping to stand up while lying down.

Stereotypes and slurs on mute, Ending centuries of bloodshed, tears shed I give and receive, free speech tolerated, Dreams without deferrals with original fairness.

Varun Gupta

46

47

JULY

HY M N S

Summer sings in his bones. His fingers tremble, keeping time with the ocean’s drums. He dresses himself in seaweed, starfish, whale skin, driftwood. Oceans swell within him.

Water seeps between his broken teeth; when he smiles, it floods out, it forms pools, then lakes, then rivers. I daily ask him to smile.

The world needs more fresh water.

Light leaks from his spine. In the purple dusk he is the brightest star. My vocation is his joy.

My broad-boned sunburned hands, his rake and spade, My rib-thin back, his table, my cold breath, his wine.

I am learning to scare away angels; Heaven cannot have him.

Earth is harder to fight, as mothers are, but when tides came in to take him home I kissed an anchor into him before they swept him out to sea.

Rachel Davis

48

49

Sometimes I wonder if her lips Left an impression on yours If her permanent scars are Disfiguring the way you Trace me

You’re still alive And that I am here To nurse you back To who you once were

I was flames, she was ice But I learned much too late That you can’t fight fire with fire So she was saved by your touch And I was burned

Sometimes it only takes someone telling you That you don’t matter To remind yourself To be someone That will

I always steep my wounds In alcohol I’m addicted to the sting The singing of my flesh Though I may never heal The searing of my skin screams, Reminding me that

You came back to me Said you were sorry And held me like you once did Trailing your fingers through the knots Of my hair, your lips pressed to My ear, your breath whispering of me, Of longing, of wanting, of promises you

50

Said you’d renew, A glass balanced between your fingertips.

But then my eyelids fluttered, eyes opening to Realize that you had never returned And that seasons change, But people don’t.

Your lips left scars on my neck that look oddly like my own fingerprints.

We both know that I can’t resist you But trying to do so is Enough fun To pass the time For just a night The last realization when Breath parts your lips and you Whisper, “I love her.”

And you tell me that you

Would do anything to keep her, including Lying And leaving me behind.

I don’t know what hurts more: That you finally left Or that you were never really here To begin with Because you had always been Tracing the footprints She left behind.

I’m waiting for the day that Your words will be The hint of a melody I once knew And I can remember How to feel Without you

The distance between us Widens like a gulf.

There’s a river that runs through us, Of anger, lies, uncertainty, That ensures That I will never be able to reach out again And caress you again.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Rather than drown in the seas of what once was, My eyes And lungs Glaze over And I forget how to recognize you.

Maybe one day, I’ll catch my breath And start anew.

Just know that I once loved you.

Natasha Suterwala

51

W

tired hands remained limp at his sides, and as he

hat is wrong with you?!” A young man

tugged his unruly horse along an empty trail.

drew nearer, the young man noticed a vacancy

He stopped walking and turned to look back

in his brilliant blue eyes. Suddenly the tree tops

down the path they had come. The scattered

rustled and the hawk’s piercing screech echoed

footprints of their struggle decorated the dirt as

throughout the forest once more. The horse again

far as he could see. The young man wiped his

balked and rolled its eyes back into its head with

face with a filthy hand and sighed. Suddenly,

terror, straining against the rope in the young

a hawk swooped down from the treetops and

man’s fists. The young man raised his whip at the

narrowly missed the horse’s head. The horse

horse and growled, “Calm down or I swear you’ll

panicked and tossed its head in the air, quickly

regret it”. The horse reared at the threat, nearly

backing up in fright. The man urged his horse

knocking the young man over. As he stumbled

to go forward, smacking it bitterly. The crack of

to gain his balance, the wanderer walked up to

the whip resonated throughout the forest and all

the horse and steadily reached out a gentle hand,

grew lifeless and tense. Eventually the two both

his eyes glowing their soft, vacant blue. The

quieted as the hawk’s screeching faded in the

horse stopped its anxious dance and stood still,

distance.

breathing quickly. Something curious stirred in a

The sun leaked through the treetops and gently

nearby bush as the horse gradually leaned into the

illuminated the silhouette of a person just down

wander’s touch.

the road. The young man squinted his dark eyes

The young man looked at the stranger’s peculiar

and waved uncertainly at the figure that had

face again and asked, “Sir, are you blind?” The

begun to slowly amble forward. The wanderer’s

wanderer turned his head in the man’s diretion

52

and smiled kindly, revealing a lifetime of

towards the treetops and whistled a soft melody

wrinkles. “Well be careful with this horse, it’s no

that rang along the trail. The small birds sang

good,” the young man cautioned. But the blind

the tune even brighter, and the hawk, suddenly

man kept rubbing its neck soothingly until the

perched on a tree nearby, glided down to land on

horse had been lulled into a half sleep, its eyes

the blind man’s outstretched arm. The young man

closed and body swaying. The young man cocked

dug his fingernails into his palms and breathed

his head and parted his lips curiously. The hawk

heavily. The horse sluggishly opened its eyes

sounded again, this time nearer, and the young

to see the hawk and panic flashed before them,

man instinctively jerked the rope and raised a fist

but the blind man quietly murmured kind words

at the horse in anticipation. But the horse did not

into its ear, bringing the horse back to serenity.

move, hypnotized by the blind man’s soothing

As the horse’s breathing slowed once again, the

presence. Slowly the forest seemed to awaken

blind man put the hawk onto the horse’s back

harmoniously as a young deer poked its head

then stepped away. The young man’s cruel hands

around a tree trunk and small birds emerged from

fell limp at his sides, realizing the gentle power

the treetops, singing softly to each other.

in them that he had suppressed. The blind man

The young man stumbled in his loss for words,

turned to the young man, staring into his watery

amazed by the docile creature in front of him

dark eyes. “You see now?” The blind man asked

and the beautiful world that such peace revealed.

silently. The young man smiled kindly, and the

The tree leaves illuminated light shades of green

horse’s eyes opened.

and yellow as the sun shone brightly somewhere above them. The blind man turned his head up

Rekha Sharma

the Horse and the Hawk 53

Ben Stromberg

Metal Blues There I stood. Nicholas James Cannon. Feeling uncomfortable as shit on a stick.

My friend Chloe had invited me to a Yellowcard concert in the middle of October at the House of Blues. The nostalgia and angst of middle school Nicky couldn’t resist such a temptation, so I went wholeheartedly. What Chloe had failed to mention, however, was the extremely aggressive metal opening act whom had an immense Dallas fan base. (I do not remember this band’s name, nor do I ever care to.)

I was just an innocent and fragile little rich, who was simply in attendance to hear some electric violin playing. Instead, I was suddenly bombarded and blasted by a wave of screamo music and rioting. People were forming mosh pits and throwing each other onto the ground and punching their friends in the face. Visible bruises and broken blood vessels splotched their skin. The blare of guitars and busted vocal chords rattled the air. This was a fight club.

Chloe anxiously glanced at me as she did her best to avoid being sucked into the vortex of fatality inches away from her. I did the only appropriate thing I could think of and began snapping my fingers and pretending I was at a jazz venue just to make myself giggle. Maybe this band would have a short set?

They didn’t.

However, my luck started to turn around as their third song was playing. A Boy my age was head-banging in front of me, when out of nowhere he turned around and saw my uncomfortable state. He chuckled, and had a surprisingly cute smile. He then very boldly leaned in and whispered in my ear.

“I can tell this is your first time at a metal concert,” he laughed.

His cheek was scratchy as it intimately brushed up against mine, and his voice was oddly soothing amongst the chaos.

“Yep,” I replied meekly, unsure of his end game.

The screamo band continued to scream. After each song they would give an inspirational anecdote that sounded straight off of an annoying Internet blog about how “Everyone is beautiful!” and “Fuck the haters!” During this time Boy would turn around a say something else in my ear. Usually he was explaining the background of whatever song the band was playing, and his personal memories attached to it. It was nice hearing someone passionately care about music as much as he did, whether I liked the genre or not. Chloe kept eyeing me with a half-smile.

I wasn’t looking to make a connection in this setting, but when God knocks on your door, you answer. This guy was cool in his own special way, and I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know what it was like to kiss him.

That was when the band starting playing their most intense song. It came deafening notes screeched out of the amplifiers and the

54

mosh pit raged on, more belligerent than ever. Everyone, including my new friend, was jumping up and down with their fists in the air and blood in their eyes. Chloe and I huddled close together, praying the end was near. All I wanted to focus on was Boy’s soft red jacket in front of me.

Almost on cue, he turned around and witnessed my awkward stance. Boy frowned. He then broke in-between Chloe and I in order to shift directly behind me. He grabbed my waist and began shaking me up and down in an effort to get my mood augmented. I let myself go and began springing alongside the crowd. Boy kept his grip on my hips as he bobbed too. Now, I don’t know much about the metal scene, but I don’t think gyrating on a person’s backside is standard protocol. I certainly wasn’t complaining, though. At last I was letting myself be free and let my body loose. His hands held me close and tight, perfectly placed to let me be nimble but near. I might just get something out of this strange night after all.

But that’s when it happened. The severely loud song came to a close, and after a short monologue about how self-harming isn’t cool, a soft ballad began to play. Yes! A slow song he can pull me close during. Maybe during the emotional catalyst in the bridge he’ll let go of his inhibitions and just kiss me already! That would be so romantic, like in the movies. It would be that one defining moment where everything became clear. The character’s eyes say it all, and they know what fate has brought them. Oh, how exciting! Adrenaline and hormones surged. I turned to face Boy, and he held my shoulders as his lips neared by ear.

“This song is so gay.”

And then he vanished into the mob. I never saw him again.

It would be wrong of me to say that I didn’t love him. I think I did, if only a little bit and if only for that small pocket of time. But that is all. He is trapped in my past. In that beautiful and closed ended space.

Which I think is rather wonderful and breathtaking.

Nicky Cannon

Mansi Gaur 55

With a flick of the tongue, And the skip of the mind, Oh baby, this could end any time.

Good intentions, But bad receptions Or misinterpretations, That’s how wars start.

I don’t even know If the sun will rise Tomorrow.

Would it even matter If all I saw were clouds?

I can see it now, Illuminating the blue sky, Eliminating dark alleys.

But I remember one day When it was raining and gloomy, I was stood on a sidewalk, Drenched Because I left my umbrella.

A high of 76 and clear, sunny skies, They had said.

Sohum Daftary

Morning Forecast 56

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Katie Dai

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Avery Jane Williams

Highway Gypsy Hurtling down the highway, Beams of white-hot light spewing into the obsidian air, The needle quivering halfway on the dashboard.

A frenetic compulsion to reach home, But wavering.

The soft lyrics singeing the darkened space in the otherwise quiet car, Restless.

Rushing headlong into the inky expanse of the asphalt arteries, Streaming, Further and further away from the trembling soul of the hollow metropolis.

A love letter to the wide-open spaces, The mistress of the spasmodic wanderers, Yearning for solace.

They carry a flame alight for her velvety touch, The great absolver of the daylight’s sins, Under a spattering of tiny illuminations.

The road bears subtle curves, The conclusion of a thousand lives, And a thousand more to come.

The jumble of the night rolls through the wayfarer’s muddled brain, She has grown tired of the paralyzing dullness, Longs for a break from the lifeless monotony, From the concrete wasteland, With its plastic daisies and vacant inhabitants.

So she keeps driving onward.

Brooke Bulmash

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Little Venice

Inspired by “Bilingual Blues” by Gustavo Perez Firmat

Soy un hervido1 de emociones2 Some things are very hard to figure out Take the fact my father is Mexican But I root for la vinotinto3 Como un Venezolano 1 Hervido de res is a Venezuelan soup involving meat and corn 2 I am a hervido of emocions 3 Vinotinto means “red wine” – Venezuela’s national soccer team is referred to as la Vinotinto because of the color of their jerseys

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Soy un hervido de deseos4 I have a lot of dreams My latest role-model is Leopoldo Lopez5 Harvard-educated, illegally-targeted, charismatic I hope he is remembered in history Mi educación es distinta6 You say embargo I say bloqueo7 You say Washington I say Bolívar Don’t even get me started about Atlantic experience Es muy claro8 : Latin American education is not a priority Venezuela stands for little Venezia Canals of blood, come take a ride with the colectivos9 A young boy far from little Venice Que nunca aprendió a nadar10 (cha-cha-chá.)

Ricardo Jaramillo 4 I am an hervido of wishes 5 Venezuelan opposition leader who was imprisoned 6 My education is different 7 blockade 8 It’s very clear 9 Colectivos are the armed motorcycle gangs that the government is using to oppress the protestors in Venezuela 10 Who never learned how to swim

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Ariana Zhang

Tanvi Shah

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Aryn Henderson

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Control?

The joy rose in her chest until it burst onto her face, overwhelming any other thoughts. Nodding at the scene she grins, and saunters away.

Kicking one foot with another he scratched his head, glanced up, and looked away quickly his eyes shifting not focusing on anything but the bile is rising in his stomach.

Another leaned back with his arms crossed, and a smug smile crossing his face. A chuckle escapes his lips and he reclines farther back in the shadows.

The fire empowers, suffocates, and licks as it struggles to escape only vanishing when each one has been embraced.

Radhe Melwani

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The last is kneeling on the ground, a dead guttural sound escaping her throat. Eyes wide and unseeing she falls backwards.

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Katie Dai

La Dictadura

1

Una dictadura Como la cubana2 Sends a whole country In a downward spiral Two thousand miles away And for some reason I wish I could be there To be part of something great than myself The stories come pouring out Faster than my mother’s tears No food, no medicine, no power Bienvenido al socialismo del siglo XXI3 The pictures seem surreal Is this really where I was born?

How many people have died there now?

Can Venezuela ever be my home again?

I don’t know what it’s like to spend hours in line waiting to see if the store has any toilet paper in stock Kroger sells the jumbo packs I don’t know what it’s like to live in a city where a homicide happens every half hour My gated community recently hired a new guard I don’t know what it’s like to have no freedom of speech I get to publish protest poems in Montage I won’t know what it’s like to live in a never ending wave of drug violence Happy red ribbon week Ricardo Jaramillo

1 2 3

The Dictatorship Another dictatorship / like the one in Cuba Welcome to 21st century socialism

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69 NEED NAME

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I’m me Machine guns echo in the stadium, Soft and loud like exploding radium.

Shrieking pings ring in the far off distance, High pitched with little to no resistance.

Crowds cheer loudly over one another, With people cramming closely together.

Friends hype every bit of intensity, Fam’ly in love with this activity.

Yet. They asked me, why I waste my time?

I told Them—why not?

They would never understand.

Viscous sweat flows down my tan sunburnt skin, With blood boiling through his soon to be kin.

Hours consume the hardships and rations, Resulting in ten minutes of passion.

Memories fill my white skull and settle, Drilling the field hitting bits of metal.

Heat bears down unyielding in its power, Yet yielding to Neptune’s sacred water.

Yet. He asked me, why I want this?

I told Him—why not?

He would never understand.

And I will never understand.

I’m me and He’s he.

Nitish Jindal

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Seven Benjamin-Wright

Pawn Over King A falling soldier left me quiet As the bayonets met the flesh with a kiss And the harvest on the horizon turned to riot, leaving every man for himself, thrown into an abyss.

No one hears the saw, but dead is the tree.

As time elapses, the sun passes into June.

Built from straws, savor the peas Claimed the throne, suck sweetness from thy prune A hard works day: one shard of crystal Or tomorrow just buy a gold bar.

The recoil of a ruler’s pistol Or the strum of a beggar’s guitar.

The past is history some have brooded Yet humans make history I have twice concluded.

Varun Gupta

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Tanvi Shah

VIDEO

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PRODUCTION

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The

Other

Road The pleasure of exploring it.

I ponder the journey with you, Holding your hand Feeling your love.

What traps lie In the undergrowth?

What stormy river Will interrupt the journey?

I have no idea.

All I know All I can say Is that this poem Would entertain another’s eyes If you were not The road not taken.

You are the road not taken, The path I glimpsed The path I rebuked And the path I yearn.

I travel now A different path Holding another hand Feeling another love, But I look back sometimes, Glancing over my shoulder And past the trodden path To see that point of divergence To imagine another history.

I think on the other path Its curves and its bumps

Sohum Daftary

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Dirk Czarnecki

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Falling The leaves that once blazed like fire in the sun have fallen softly to the ground.

The breezes that once caressed us gently have brought their bitter chill.

I will hold you in my arms and keep you warm with my promises.

I’ll breathe life into you as you exhale death into me, But I know you’ll still be far away, like the fallen leaves from their branches.

The unused fruits of summer fall hard onto the cold ground, but they plant seeds of bright young dreams, wondering, wishing, crystalline, just like new frost cast over the water or your beautiful eyes.

Maya Muralidhar

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Morgan Grimes

colophon Montage is a collaborative student production that dedicates time throughout a year to celebrating and showcasing student work of all kinds.

This year was a special one. The 2014-2015 school year saw Montage spread its wings and transition from a club to a class, joining Evergreen and Cavalcade as Fine Arts credits. More time, love, and effort was poured into the magazine than ever before, and we feel this is evident in the book you hold in your hands now. The staff was moved by the raw honesty, creativity, and talent in this year’s submissions, and strove to give each piece a layout that would highlight its unique strengths and showcase individuality and identity above all.

This is our gift to you: a celebration of the Greenhill community that we are honored to help create. May you enjoy it as much as we have.

This book is typeset in Times New Roman 9 point font, with all bylines in italics, and is printed on FSC Certified Accent Opaque stock.

staff editors

Rachel Davis, Madeline Montoya, Maya Muraldihar

production

Alan Bliss, Rachel Davis, Madeline Montoya, Maya Muraldihar

sponsors

Lesley Rucker, Emily Wilson

editorial contributors

Brooke Bulmash, Sam Cowger, Kate Crotty, Annie Diamond, Rachel Friedman, Julia Halm, Getty Hesse, Ricky Jaramillo, Emma Pillow

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Eileen Skeen

TODAY was a good writing day, and on the good writing days, nothing else matters.

Neil Gaiman

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