Montage 2017

M o n t a g e 2017 Consciousness

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Cover & Back Cover Oil on Masonite Noah Richmond

Inside Cover Prismacolor on Bristol Board Brooke Bulmash 4

Consciousness

M o n t a g e 2017 Consciousness

Volume 57 Greenhill School

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Table of Contents Four Line Poetry

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Becca Hain

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Monoprint Courtney Saqueton

Photograph Brandon Aptilon Joey Mallory

Polychromatic Pencil Anais Zhang

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June Turbeville Tintype Kyle Malone

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Sudeep Bharghava

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Handmade Developer Photograph Chandler Crates Samuel Bovard

Gelatin Silver Evan O’Brien Alex Witheiler

Digital Photograph Kevin Hoare

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Fiction

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Dead Man Found in Graveyard Addie Gomez

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Prismacolor on bristol board Brooke Bulmash

Digital Photograph Rithu Sreenath

Fear Shreya Agarwala Digital Art Peter Diaz

King Possum Sofia Babool

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Digital Art Grace Doyle

Plotting Rachel Friedman Sabattier Evan O’Brien

The Amber Butterfly Sophia Brisbon Gouache on Watercolor Paper Elli Dassopolous

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Poetry

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Age of Reason Brooke Bulmash

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Mixed Media on Toned Paper Elli Dassopolous

Mixed Media Sonali Malik

Algea Sloan Touchet

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Photograph Alex Rose

None Adam Weider

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Pinhole Solargraph Chase Brown

And We Rode Anonymous

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Metal Sculpture Matthew Zweig

Adventuring Anonymous

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Analog Film Kyle Malone

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Fairytales Yesenia Avalos Digital Art Shreya Agarwala

As I Like It Scottie Pearson-Thompson

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Digital Art Amy Yang

Is This the End? Jack Carroll

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Photograph Cate Baker

Bathtime Samuel Bovard

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Digital Photograph Mira Fradkin

I Once Imagined I Would Be A Star

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Michelle King

Mixed Media Rachel Friedman

Checkmate Sofia Babool

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Acrylic on Canvas Board Emily Caplan

Untitled

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Veda Velmuri

Mixed Media Meera Jayaseelan

History Zayna Syed

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Digital Photograph Maya Desai

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Everytime I Look At You I Rot Caroline Sasso Digital Art Andrew Glick

New Power Matthew Davidson

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Photograph Evan O’Brien

My Name in 59 Lines Caroline Sasso Photograph Transfered to Glass Maddie Drossos

January Samuel Bovard Tintype Erin Puckett

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Prenatal Americanization Anushe Sheikh

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Untethered

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America Addie Gomez, Kaavya Venkat and Sudeep Bharghava

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Sculpture Rachel Friedman

Acrylic on Canvas Board Jaclyn Goldstein

Digital Photograph Elise Andres

Adam and Eve Are Not My Parents Rochita Chatterje Sabattiers Simra Abedi

Figure Skating Zayna Syed Digital Art Drake Heptig

Lessons Not Found in Textbooks Mira Fradkin Mixed Media Richa Sinkre

Oppression Anushe Sheikh Chine Colle Max Mendelsohn

God Lauren Stock

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Digital Art Drake Heptig

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Film

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Afterparty Isabel Chavez

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No Strings Attached Ariana Luterman and Courtney Rawitcher

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Film Still Sam Bovard

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The Case Files of: Tobby Straddle Private Eye Amy Yang

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Potholes Jaclyn Goldstein

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Imagery Table of Contents

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Monoprint Brooke Bulmash Oil on Canvas Jaclyn Goldstein

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Digital Art Andrew Glick

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Glass Matthew Zweig

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Oil Pastels on Colored Paper Veda Sree

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Photograph Kate Bendalin

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Digital Art Drake Heptig

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Acrylic on Paper Leah Witheiler

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Staff Biographies

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Oil on Monoprint Noah Richmond

Colophon

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Digital Art Peter Diaz

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T Four Line Poetry

his year, while going through submissions, Montage received an interesting poem, composed of four simple lines with a surprising amount of significance. The entire staff enjoyed the impact of such a short work and continued to think about the concept of four line poetry. After brainstorming, the team decided to have a little fun with the submission process and challenged the Greenhill Upper School to write their own pieces of four line poetry.

The following four line poems are the works that the Montage Team determined as the best and most creative four lines.

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Courtney Saqueton Monoprint 7

Brandon Aptilon Photograph

So the world is changing, my darling, So you’re filled with fear?

I was scared of new places So I have always been here Becca Hain

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Anais Zhang Polychomatic Pencil

The pitter and patter of the keyboard at night The scared student whose face has gone pale The unfinished essay fills the disciple with fright As she realizes the due date is long past stale Joey Mallery

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Ariana Luterman

Kyle Malone Tintype

i have to admit my advisory’s alright but when i look around i see nothing but white June Turbeville

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Chandler Crates Handmade Developer Photograph

My friends threw a party.

They called it “friendsgiving” It was fun.

I wasn’t invited.

Sudeep Bhargava

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Evan O’Brien Gelatin Silver Photograph

i’ll take these painted fingers you can regret the word you said i’ll drive the knife between your ribs your blood tints my nails bright red Samuel Bovard

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Kevin Hoare Digital Photograph

A tormenting tornado hits a town, An old wooded hovel flames quickly The end was near, with no end in sight.

Alas, nothing was saved: Another life claimed.

Alex Witheiler

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Fiction

rose is the literary form that houses the most realistic pieces of work, as well as the works that make you question reality. Its endless versitility is what makes fiction so rich to read, because it can become anything.

The prose pieces selected by the Montage team allow readers to get caught up in these mystical, often whimsical rabbit holes and allow their imaginations to run free. Fiction is about suspending disbelief and going where the stories take you.

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Brooke Bulmash Prismacolor on Bristol Board

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Dead Man found in Graveyard

Harold pulled his thin hair back with a faded red baseball cap. It was foggy and he had to wipe off his glasses after every heave of the shovel. The dirt was packed in tight after each burial, which made his job more difficult. Thankfully, there was a ditch nearby deep inside thickety woods. The bed of his truck screeched under deadweight as he tipped the excavated bodies into it, casket and all. The extra lumber would look suspicious, you know? Then it took quite minimal effort to gracefully lay down his own remains to rest in their place. After, he would sing to the bodies.

A song his grandfather used to sing, sunk into the depths of a sullen, fraying futon, frustratedly plucking notes out of his guitar as if the strings themselves were the barbed wire entrapments holding him fast to a desolate and dying farm.

I am a poor wayfaring stranger Traveling through this world below There is no sickness, toil, or danger, In that bright land to which I go.

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What remained of the new body thumped against the limestone bedrock ten feet below.

Harold could barely move he was so tired, but the gnawing hunger had finally subsided. He was full. He crouched to the ground, waiting. He watched the tips of his bony, pale fingers slowly grow pinker, felt his vision grow clearer, you could even say he grew a few inches closer to the sky.

Testing his newly regained energy he reached out and brought his fist down on a faded bottle of bud light that was resting on the forest floor.

It crushed into glass shards so small you could only call them dust. The engergy was everywhere, surging through him. He sat back into the earth and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Shannon had ten more houses to go and

already the weight of the boxes was making it difficult to pedal. She stopped on the side of the road, downing the remainder of her Gatorade and cursing Mrs. Johnson for having bought eighteen damn boxes of cookies. First off she was ancient and couldn’t eat that many. Second off they were freaking do-si-dos! She contemplated giving up, but that eighteen extra boxes could mean finally taking down Charlotte. So, she pedaled onward up and down the hilly side of the freeway, squinting into the fog, hoping to see Mrs. Johnson’s turquoise porch at last.

Harold sprinted through the trees, his hat forgotten on the forest floor miles away. He yelled with all his might. It came out as an embarrassingly warbled gurgle but his lungs burned alive. Something nearby smelled like rotting meat but he was too ecstatic to investigate. He simply kept moving; the pounding of his beating heart sounding across the hills like a trumpet.

Shannon was lost. Really freaking lost. The gravel road she turned down had looked like Crookedneck Lane. But this road became increasingly narrower until it disappeared into the trees completely, a dead end. She was so tired.

She sat down in the mud defeated, her vision blurring with exhaustion. Screw it. She reached into her box and pulled out a package of do-si-dos. As she drifted to sleep on the ground, she felt something prickly under her cheek. She wiped her face with a sweaty palm and withdrew her hand to see that it was covered in tiny pieces of broken glass.

Harold returned to his ditch at dusk to find that a living one had walked right up and fallen asleep in front of it. Granddad would’ve called that providence. He promised himself that he would be patient. It is wasteful to eat when you are not hungry. The rotting smell was getting stronger.

Hunger began to creep into his vision so he sat with his granddaddies’ pocket watch waiting for 7:30. He was known to be the hangry one in the family. Then, mercifully, 7:30 arrived and he went to go get his knife. Teeth were just as effective, but his had started to fall out at a near alarming rate. He really did need to remember to go see the dentist. Harold approached the living one. Its eyelids fluttered gracefully in its sleep.

Shannon awoke to the sound of crunching leaves and a horrible stench. She sat up abruptly, her eyes widened and she began to scream. The thing was approaching her slowly; its gaping hole of a mouth curled into what could have been a smile. She leaped to her feet, looking for a weapon.

The living one was making noise, too much noise; it hurt.

She ran, but after no more than two paces her sketchers caught on a hard metal bar in the leaves. She toppled to the ground but pushed herself right back up. Her hands caught around the bar; pulling it from woody debris she raised the rusty shovel above her head like a softball bat.

He was getting tired. It was time to feed. He staggered towards the small girl and reached out to grab the shovel from it, but he could not take the handle in his hand. He realized that he had no hand. Where his hand had been stood a mangled stump with a jagged bottle shard embedded within it. He let out a warbled cry of frustration, which was cut off abruptly by the rusty shovel swinging fast into him with a heavy crack.

The thing tumbled into the ditch disappearing from view, its foamy mouth sputtering and its oozing limbs flailing. Shannon ran home in tears, leaving her cookies behind. It was the beginning of the end.

Addie GomezR

Rithu Sreenath Photograph 17

FEAR Usually when she went to sleep it took a while.

First she had to find the most comfortable position. Next she had to rearrange the blankets so enough heat went to each body part, but not too much. Finally she had to close her eyes and make up stories, waiting for her body to shut down for the night. It was a long and uneventful process, ending with her waking up the next day. Yet tonight, she dreamed.

Her eyes flashed open and all around her was neon colors and flashing lights. Screams could be heard nearby, children laughing all around.

She was in her favorite amusement park. Her plan of action was to go to every rollercoaster she could because for some reason, every time she went to one, the lines disappeared.

Climbing into the cart, she realized it was the highest rollercoaster in the park. As it climbed the tracks, she looked forward to see when she would reach the top. Then suddenly in a split second she fell into nothingness as the tracks unexpectedly disappeared. Screaming her head off, she plummeted, eyes squeezed closed, heart pounding hard. Soon she felt weightless and cautiously opened her eyes.

She was in an airplane this time. Looking outside her window, she noticed a glint off the side of the plane. Upon further inspection she realized the aircraft was on fire. The plane began to fall out of the sky and just as it was about to hit the water, she felt the heat of a new location.

She was in a ballroom. Couples danced around her and the room was the definition of elegance and sophistication. She looked down at her clothes to see a flowing ball gown and sparkling jewelry. Before she had the chance to finish processing the situation her arms were suddenly taken up and she was moving, dancing with a stranger. Looking into the stranger’s eyes, all she could see was black pits. Suddenly, everything began to fall apart, the people became grotesque, and the decorations were decaying.

The stranger held his hand out for a handshake, “Hello. They call me Fear.”

Shreya Agarwala

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Peter Diaz Digital Art

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Grace Doyle Digital Art

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A

my mother’s dreamy voice urged me into falling asleep, fear knocked on my door, reminding me of the life I lived upstairs. Urging for a few minutes of reality’s warm embrace, I was strictly summoned to go to bed that instant. As I travelled upstairs, I could hear the carpet’s menacing laugh bleeding through the fabric. The rosewood railing, I now used as support as I travelled upstairs, electrified me with its diabolical hiss. My last step towards my room had always been the most difficult. I touched my doorknob that once again snickered at my fear for the dreams my slumber brought me. As I apprehensively climbed into bed, I held the covers over my head asking Divinity if he could place a blanket over my mind as I slept. Nonetheless, the dream once again materialized, and I found myself suddenly running out of breath.

I would keep sprinting till I actually woke up in reality, but for how long was I expected to do such a thing? This was a dream after all. I couldn’t get wounded no matter what happened. As I stopped in my tracks, I turned to face the animal who had haunted my very slumber.

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I turned to nothing but a simple opossum racing through the tracks. Relief flooded my mind till I realized that this was a pure distraction for the possum that stood behind me. Dare I look? Suddenly, a mirror appeared in front of me, giving me clear sight as to the beast that stood behind me.

Then, it suddenly occurred to me that my dreams were my…fears. Whatever I had feared so far had materialized, but now the dream was in my control. I would decide where it would go from here. As I turned to face the beast, fear tried to sweep my heart in all its glory but my fearlessness overpowered it, causing me to suddenly wake.

Once again, I was in the forest, dashing away from a creature I had not known or seen before. As my breath shortened, my heart raced to keep up with my chaotic, and wretched running. Why did this moment in my dream constantly haunt me and rob me of my sleep? Then, I realized that the only way to break the dream was to stop running and face… it. Dare I? Dare I? Dare I stop?

Sofia Babool

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Evan O’ Brien Photograph

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Plotting With trembling fingers, she raised the joint to her lips. She was hoping that she wouldn’t have to do this. She needed her mind to be clear, but steady hands were more important. The scent of weed mixed with the mild dog-food scent that permeated the tidy interior of her 2001 Toyota Corolla. She let the feeling wash over her. She knew the plan and was determined to execute it.

She slipped on the ski mask and pulled up her black hoodie before stepping out into the vacant parking lot. The key in her ketchup-stained jeans jabbed into her thigh as she strode across the wet pavement to the bank.

Only a week earlier, she was fixing the heating system in the fire station. Antonio was trying his best to get in her pants. She was nearly gagging on the smell of his aftershave as he stood over her.

She responded with polite “uh-huhs” to the long-ass, humble-bragging episode about his workouts as a firefighter-in-training. She tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear and slapped her palms onto the knees of her torn jeans. She stood up suddenly, purposefully bumping into Antonio.

“Done!” she announced. She picked up her toolbox and made her way for the door.

“Hold on, let me walk you down to the office,” Antonio insisted.

She walked in front of him so that she could roll her eyes. They walked through the garage past the shiny red trucks. A small black box with a red stripe across the front hung open on the wall.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Oh that? It’s just the Knoxbox key. It gives us access to all the buildings in the area, so we don’t have to smash windows or whatever to get in,” Antonio explained. “Pretty neat, right?”

“Yeah, pretty neat,” she agreed, looking up at it.

He moved closer, pushing her back up against the wall. He leaned in to kiss her, and she let him. She reached up the wall before pulling away. He closed his eyes and nervously rubbed his neck, “Jess… uh… would you wanna…maybe… I dunno… get coffee or something?”

“Can’t. Gotta go.” she replied briskly. Walking off to grab her check from the office, she slipped the key into her pocket.

Rachel Friedman

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The Amber Butterfly A beautiful young woman of small stature and frail frame awoke in a dimly lit garden. She slowly stood and surveyed her surroundings; the garden was quite unusual.

To begin, it was entirely confined by walls, and she could not have found a single handful of dirt even if she tried. Another strange phenomenon was the spellbinding glittering that came from all around the petite woman.

Soon, as her eyes adjusted to the faint light that enveloped her, she realized the source of the glittering. The flowers, the fruit, and even the trees were reflecting the light provided by kerosene lamps and wax candles.

Everything was precious.

There were birds’ nests filled with opaline eggs, and apple trees with deep scarlet rubies the size of a grown man’s fist hanging weightily from the petrified branches. The pathway was paved with brooches of gold and silver, and under her feet she crushed diamonds and sapphires. The rough marble ground that surrounded her was framed with raw boulders of garnet and emerald, and the walls were purple jade. Among these wonders, time was fluid.

Her wandering continued for days, and all she could see were brilliant hues and beautifully cut stones. She was enraptured to the point of self-denial, and it was not until she felt a pain in her stomach so harsh it forced her to the ground, that she was forced from her reverent trance. She was unbearably hungry and her head was spinning, even the slightest movement made her dizzy.

Suddenly the jewels were tauntingly hypnotic rather than regal and mesmerizing. The once seemingly unique wonders had become indistinguishable from one another, and she could not have found her way out of the garden even if she had the strength to try.

On the ground next to her, the woman noticed a sizable chunk of amber; inside was a perfectly preserved butterfly, its elegant wings were frozen mid-flutter. A feeling of dread filled her, because she knew that she was the beautiful delicate butterfly, and that there was no way for her to escape her fate.

At that point in time she would have traded every jewel in the entire garden for a second chance.

Sophia Brisbon

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Elli Dassapolous Gouache on watercolor paper 25

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Poetry

he thought of teenage poetry usually brings to mind pining and angst-ridden verse, but the poetry in Montage this year stands out in its diversity, both in style and subject. Poetry reflects those who write it, and the poems that the team chose to include display the talent and passion of their authors.

Poet William Butler Yeats once said, “We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.� Throughout high school, students face an ongoing crisis of identity. It is through constant internal quarrel, as Yeats describes, that we may arrive at some answers. This section of the book showcases self-discovery and introspection through poetry.

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Elli Desapolous Mixed media

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Perched on the edge of seventeen, Our legs swinging, They don’t touch the ground.

Eighteen looms above us, A ghost of our indefinite futures.

Age of Reason This is the coming of age.

We are so close, Yet so very far.

Painfully ignorant of all that we don’t know.

We watch the world whirl past, As we are caught at the crossroads, Trapped in these aggressively average lives.

Fixed to the bad habits of our hazy youth.

Inevitably motion resumes, Though we find ourselves in an altered world.

This is flux.

The neutral state.

People come and go like fireflies in this jar.

Brooke Bulmash

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Sonali Malik Mixed Media

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Algea He— Is the son of Lupe.

His life predetermined by his lineage.

Trouble from the beginning, Destined for deceit, He weeps softly into the mother that loves him.

Whispers the secrets of his blood Into the ears of those that cannot respond In fear that what Lupe is made of Will be passed on.

He is alone He must be For he is cursed.

The difference, however, between He and Lupe: He considers consequences.

Living a life of torment In a way, different than her He is nurtured by the mother that loves him As he whispers his secrets into her she wraps herself around him and he is one with the Earth.

Sloan Touchet

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Alex Rose Photograph 31

Jaclyn Goldstein Oil on Canvas

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N o n e Across the primordial sea Ripple vast flows of energy Bubbling up from the deep Matter starts to seep Coalescing Condensing Forming One In this subatomic ballet Order comes forth from disarray Charges start to align Freshly entwined Coalescing Condensing Forming Interstellar sand stretches wide One Across the desert, dunes collide Gravity takes the lead To it the sand cedes Coalescing Condensing Forming One Eons pass and giants now reign Knowing how short they will remain This is goodbye The second law has come to pass Void encompasses all at last Free energy now gone The cosmos’ last song Dissipating Decaying Forming None Adam Weider

Chase Brown Pinhole Solargraph 33

Matthew Zweig Matthew Zweig Media Metal Sculpture 34

And We Rode

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e liked to ride together; cool breeze through our hair, the faint hum of a familiar 80s band, empty pizza boxes discarded through the park.

Over and over the artificial slopes we rode, our breaths shaky with exhilaration as the cart screeched across the manicured green.

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There were stars.

We together; were too close to the city for that, e no liked to ride cool breeze through our but we pretended therehum were, suburbia’s hair, the faint ofsprawled a familiarout 80sinband, empty backyard, pizza our backs damp with dew. boxes discarded through the park.

IOver don’tand know why worked so well, the rides.

It was us over thethey artificial slopes we rode, our breaths shaky vs. restless, the the dreamers.

Us vs. a world withthe exhilaration as kickers the cartand screeched across the manicured asleep, green. cruising through stillness, through silence, as if we ourselves were something cosmic and godly.

There were no stars. We were too close to the city for that, It was those rides thatwere, I felt sprawled my own heart and was but weon pretended there out inbeat suburbia’s glad that I our could. backyard, backs damp with dew.

Of course, when weresoover (cart the I don’t know why the theyrides worked well, theparked rides. Itunder was us tree outrestless, front, headlights keys safely thea desk vs. the the kickersoff, and thestored dreamers.

Usinvs. world drawer) and we crawled intothrough 5 days asilence, week 8:40-4, bit asleep, cruising through back stillness, as if we by bit we fell less in love with being alive and less in love with ourselves were something cosmic and godly. each other.

It was on those rides that I felt my own heart beat and was I’m myI own now and I’m doing fine. It was hard at first, but gladon that could. it’s getting easier every day. I know how things have to be but Of course, when the rides were over (cart parked under the I’ll always miss our rides. tree out front, headlights off, keys stored safely in the desk drawer) and we crawled back into 5 days a week 8:40-4, bit by bit we fell less in love with being alive and less in love with each other.

Annonymous I’m on my own now and I’m doing fine. It was hard at first, but it’s getting easier every day. I know how things have to be but I’ll always miss our rides.

Annonymous

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Adventuring My best friend and I stomp through the Public school yard Smack in between our houses Puddles of stagnant water up to our ankles Mud specks our calves.

It feels like adventuring From when I was ten and wanted to be an ecologist Determined I would be the first to discover a new cave in the woods Not sure I knew what an ecologist was

Only that it would be exciting, and earthy, and tough, Just like me.

Dusk envelops us in heavy, warm air The golden light lazily lights up the cracked concrete court Gold, El Dorado right inside our droopy, ordinary neighborhood.

Cicadas lull Some tan teenage boys pass a soccer ball She grabs my wrist,

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Determined I shriek and she laughs.

We never do talk to them; we drive to Braum’s, smile at cute cashier guy, Drink limeades in the parking lot.

After, I drive out past fields Watching the city melt Into a clay roofed, treeless suburbia Sit with old friends as they drink and I laugh at their stories about college Left behind but momentarily found

In a too-small hot tub that manages To feel necessary amidst The warm dark heat of June Where I am silent And kind of lonely but really just Hopeful that there is this future Where time no longer crawls Doubled over in the corner of a bathroom stall Because The world is so much bigger Than him.

Anonymous

Kyle Malone Analog Film

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Fairy Tales I come from a broken home.

I am labeled as a statistic, you leaving only made me a stereotype of what family is where I’m from.

You chose friends over people you should be willing to shed blood for.

At times, I dream about a relationship that I grew up watching like other little girls where their “daddies” love them and teach them life lessons, but life isn’t always rainbows and butterflies, and rainbows come after a storm, and I’m trying to figure out if this storm will ever end or if you stole my rainbow the same time you did my dreams, if this is it or if I’m waiting for us, either way I’m tired of allowing you to hurt me.

I thank god, he blessed me with a mother who was man enough to be father and you are the reason I can never believe in fairy tales, because according to those this crown came with thorns.

You will be forever a part of my blood, but I’m done reminiscing on the past, I’m done wishing for more out of you, because I will be fine without you I just hope one day you will realize my worth for your own sake.

I promise every step I take every move I make is a step closer to my dreams, to making my mom proud of me, to repaying her for the years she was the only one who would tell me I could.

She’s everything you weren’t, she everything you aren’t, she’s my number one, the queen that you as a king failed appreciate and although you failed to be there and you lost her she will always be someone I’d shed more than blood for, she’s my queen.

Yesenia Avalos

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Artist Credit

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Shreya Agarwala Shreya Agarwala Digital Art Digital Art

Andrew Glick Digital Art

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Matthew Zweig Glass

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As I Like It I.

I sit in the bathtub at the age of three, playing in the suds and pretending to be Santa Claus while my mother tells me that I’ll be breaking boys’ hearts as if it will be my primary purpose in life as I age.

II.

I sit in the car crossing into Alabama at the age of six, listening to Willie Nelson with my father in the countryside while he tells me that boys will love me no matter what as if it is my job to satisfy someone else with my looks.

III.

I stand in front of my mirror at the age of ten, hearing my mother’s footsteps approaching my room packed in boxes while she tells me that I need to start concealing my body and my face as if I dress solely for those around me, whose opinions aren’t mine.

IV.

I slouch in my seat at the Clinique counter at the age of twelve, tuning out the conversation between my mother and the employee while my mother insists I need something to ‘cover those horrendous marks’ as if it will break her reputation if I don’t.

V.

I walk confidently out of my room at the age of fourteen, grinning as I hear the sound of my heels tapping the tile floor while my father closes his eyes and grinds his teeth in discomfort as if he thinks I’m a disgrace to everything he stands for.

VI.

I put my foot down at the age of sixteen, rolling my eyes as I hear snide comments about my being opinionated– while my strength and willpower are undermined, my family stares at me as if I need to change.

Scottie Pearson-Thompson Amy Yang Digital Art 43

Is This The End? You work.

Then you work some more.

You work until your eyes hurt and your neck cramps.

You take a break.

Then you work some more.

You lose track of the finish line, but all of a

sudden you are there.

Now you wait. …

And keep waiting. …

Finally you find out

… …

…now what?

Jackson Carroll

Cate Baker Photograph 44

Veda Sree Oil Pastel on Toned Paper

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Katie Bendalin Photograph

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bathtime wearing these rose colored glasses sitting in rosĂŠ colored water with clouds like champagne bubbles my family has a history of alcoholism i submerge myself, only my face touching the air a song floats through the bubbly water the words diving like dolphins, ending up at my ears i have to find my reflection in the faucet to remember i exist Samuel Bovard

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I Once Imagined I Would Be A Star I once imagined I would be a star

And dance up in the heavens with the moon, And look at all my problems from afar I knew that day would have to happen soon.

But now I know that dream is not to be.

I’m bound to earth and cannot reach the sky.

Some dreams are only for the soul to see.

And even though I won’t succeed, I’ll try.

If dreams are dead, and doubting makes them so

And hopes are but a refuge for the mind, Then dreams are false; and hopes can never growI must remember that my dreams are blind.

But even so, I cannot help but feel

That even though it is a dream, it’s real.

Michelle King

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Rachel Friedman Mixed Media

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Emily Caplan Acrylic on Canvas Board

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CHECKMATE Chess, a mere illusion to those who sit as its mercy, A mere reflection as to the trials and tribulations of reality.

The humblest, perhaps, as the pawn? Merely an existence on a board of such intensity?

Do not believe that chess is simply concluded when you depart, my dear.

Patience and humbleness should be your only acquaintances in such a game of deceit.

For chess is parallel to your actuality every day.

Life, itself, is a truly a game board of such disunion,

Transcend the divisions that exist in this world,

Choices, my friend, will guide you to find hope even in the darkest forest you discover yourself in.

And do not be afraid to accept defeat,

Do not be subject to the partitions of the world we inhabit, my dear companion.

Why be like the king, plentiful in title, but limited in travel?

Rather, embrace its merits and commence once more.

Contrary to the game, smear the rifts in your reality.

Do not go gentle into that good night, my friend,

Would you rather be the most beautiful of the pieces, but hold immeasurable power?

Do not go gentle.

Or perhaps a knight, capable of protection, but self-absorbed in intentions?

Sofia Babool

Possibly the bishop, capable of only two courses, heaven or hell?

Perhaps the rook, a governmental position, yet capable of falling into greed?

Authors note: You’ll notice the line “Do not go gentle into that good night” is from an actual poem. Dylan Thomas was an inspiration for that poem.

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Untitled “Houses are imagination’s form of reality” It is peaceful being able to find yourself in all the chaos and havoc It is lucky being able to find a root in all the madness Most people are lost, most are found But the ones who aren’t usually have the same reason, They don’t want to be found.

They look around and see happiness, love, and peace Everything on the outside that will never be within them And when they look inside themselves and each other, They lift up the fabric attached to their souls, And all they see is a hole A hole that is filled to the brim with secrets and problems they hid from themselves.

And it’s like, They are out there in plain sight, But cloaked by oblivion, Hidden by the brightness of the sun.

It is there excuse of a way to say, Being lonely is the same as being alone, Because no matter what, Beliefs are stronger than words.

But beliefs can change, Words can change, People can change.

Because we all have issues, We all have these unsolvable problems that make us lost for a while, And we can’t change them right now, We can’t change who we are right now, We only hope that we make it out of the madness, To cover up our problems for another day, Hiding all the emotions, all the thoughts From everyone and yourself.

Because being free is a gift, Free from all the pain, all the thoughts, Being able to sit in bliss for a little while is all we want to do.

But that will never happen, Because we are human, We are people who change, We are people who change people.

Veda Velmuri

And they look around, Watching their madness combine with the world’s, Watching the people destroy themselves inside and out and together as a whole, To be better than the rest, never unified, And they are spinning in a circle for infinity, Unable to stop the unstoppable, Unable to fix what’s broken in the world, Forgetting about themselves for a moment.

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Meera Jaysaleen Collage on Monoprint 53

Maya Desai Photograph

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History Caressing the leather bounds of Book, I turn to page one.

“Book,” I ask “Can you show me the world?”

“Yes,” Book murmured “I can show you everything.”

Flipping through the pages, Indeed, Book has shown me the world.

“Book, can you tell me about the people of the world?” I ask “Yes, I can tell you about all the people of the world.”

Flipping through the pages, Indeed, Book has told me about the people of the world.

“Book, can you describe the history of the world?” I ask “Yes, I can describe the entire history of the world.”

Flipping through the pages, Indeed, Book has described the entire history of the world.

“Book, what is nuance?”

“Nuance? I’ve never heard of this.”

Zayna Syed

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EVERY TIME YOU LOOK AT ME I ROT (A LOVE LETTER) You pushed me onto the cool blue tiles of the museum and I felt my head crack like an eggshell not soaked in the right kind of vinegar My blood staining my blue wool sweater vest “I’m fine” I said as I got up, “Most of my clothes are red anyways.”

I walk off, blood running down my back and staining my spine Every time you look at me I rot I didn’t mean to make you cry but you didn’t mean to make me dark and you did anyways I saw the edge of your hairline and I quivered as I kissed it, Yellow fungus creeping over my back and crusting my eyes shut as I fell into the earth, Becoming part of it, Not decomposing, just being, Struggling to get out, to find you I cried myself to sleep that night, thinking of my ruined shirt Every time you look at me I rot If we were cavemen, then I would need you to survive But this is not the olden days and I’m fine on my own, thanks I feed you individual grains of dried quinoa as you lay on my couch A sweaty apartment in the heart of New York City, Things we aren’t supposed to talk about (the mismatched couch cushions shifting under your weight) You made me mad that day, when I fed you grapes I smushed whole vines in my mouth and swallowed them, stems and all Blood and transparent mesh dribbling from my full mouth onto my shirt, Every time you look at me I rot

On my 16th birthday, my late father, god rest his soul, gave me a fur pelt Well, Not Exactly.

(He gave me a pink 22 caliber rifle, He told me to hunt and skin the deer myself) I found a faun, deep in the woods, her eyes crusted shut by yellow fungus I lay on a log, the textured wood pressing into my breast and my legs sprawled behind me I took the safety off the gun, its hallowed face turned to face me It’s yellow legs flickered, like it was considering running What was I about to do?

Did I want to do it?

I relaxed, my body limp, hunching over the gun, not going to go through with it That was when I saw my father, just the ghost of him He was petting the deer.

I saw how he always wanted a son and how no matter how hard I tried I was always the daughter, not the son This would show him, I would show him I shot the deer, the gun kicking back into my shoulder and the gunshot was ringing A silent hush fell over the woods I approached my kill, slowly and carefully, and after it was all said and done, I ate the heart, tearing into it like I was wild, like a son is supposed to I wore that deer until its skin tore This is my trophy, still splattered with blood Every time you look at me I rot Caroline Sasso

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57

Andrew Glick Digital Art

New Power Below the vivacious festivity of the upper deep, Down, far below within the organ of the abysmal sea, A profoundly ancient creature dwells, Complacent in the sedation of its dreaming wells.

The Kraken slumbers upon the bed of the sea; Where the faintest of sunlight comes to flee.

Great, millennial growths impair him As if caged and mewed limb by limb.

Now awake, he is marred by the idle ocean sways, Immune to time’s profoundly grim rot, within an ocean enamored by days.

A prophetic leviathan, baptized in dread, Awakens to lift as if he were weights of lead.

The Kraken now renewed in lengths of height, Stands, removing his millennial cloves of blight.

He stands, a demonic bastion of the sea, To beget a roar, so total in blithe and glee.

Now divorced from the nuptials between creature and ocean, His liberation begins, now in near perennial motion.

The Kraken, now, shall toll the bell For every devout pious man’s heavens and hells.

All men now shall awake to see, The transit of power, to Kraken, from he.

Matthew Davidson

Evan O’Brien Digital Photograph 58

Drake Heptig Digital Art

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Maddie Drossos Photography 60

My Name in 59 Lines My name was conceived when my father moved from argentina to avoid the military draft. at the time that is what young boys would do in his country. my grandmother’s first two english words were $72, the rest she learned from elmo. on the way to california she leant over my father, a newborn babe at the time, and whispered, “name her Caroline, the princess of santa monica.” she had always wanted a daughter but three sons later she was at god’s mercy praying at church every morning and every evening. rapping her knuckles on god’s doorstep, “what will save us?”

and in the middle of a bout of sickness and nasal stuffiness which will make even the strongest person crumble and my dad screaming, “how could you!” to his father that was too much like him for his own good. this happened several times and it must’ve been a regular occurrence because i don’t remember when the screaming stopped in favor of silently exchanging blows. sooner or later a peace agreement had to be reached to avoid any other cinderella suitcases being flung into the wall they made my middle name Marie. a tribute to the middle name of both of my grandmothers.

*** *** My other grandparents the raging left wing atheists were not at all pleased with the fact that their first granddaughter had to be divided between the “correct” and the “republican catholics.” snarky comments would escalate to screaming matches whilst i sat on the stained glass table in a blanket of lambs wool. losing an argument on minimum wage was apparently worth losing a granddaughter. my parents came flying into the room, my mom crying, already 5 months pregnant with my only sister

My last name, Sasso is more of a turn of phrase than anything else of the sort. i like to think of it as the the passing of a kidney stone. unbelievably painful but sort of worth it and i mean you can’t really get rid of it. i always thought that my ancestors got it all wrong, they could’ve killed the romans a lot faster with poisonous darts or something of the sort. but they didn’t because it’s harder to watch polish movies without actually speaking polish.

Caroline Sasso

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January in the mirror i see my mother she is dressing up, getting out her pearls. sometimes in brief moments i feel i see a side of her, visible only through reflections, pictures, or memories, that echoes within me. my mother and i are exactly alike. my mother and i are nothing alike.

I hold a kaleidoscope up to my mother She breaks into a thousand pieces, Repeating and twisting like stained glass.

The sun shines through the crystal, Broken by hard choices.

A beautiful rose stands alone Surrounded by a million of itself Pink like flesh, tender like wounds As we run around like children we complete the pieta. in that mirror we make eye contact as she fastens an earring on. sometimes i feel she sees right through me into the depths of my soul.

Samuel Bovardd

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Chelsea Puckett Tintype 63

Rachel Friedman Media

Prenatal Americanization This is how I lose the weight of my tongue, Mama, I have not spoken urdu in months.

Mama, I’m shedding parts of myself like hair leaving dried Pakistani skin everywhere I walk, strings from my shalwar kameez, buttons, scarves, gold necklaces, promises, immigrant dreams, words words words in urdu. I fear I’ll go bald.

The letters poke my mouth like shy old friends, syllables scrape my gums like sandpaper awkwardness with an aftertaste of sour metal, haunting like the scent of a departed lover, threatening to evaporate.

Mama, how can I pour urdu back into my memory like water in a bathtub when the tub is already filled, with America.

(I’ll lose the syllables first) already cramping in my mouth, ancient echoes I don’t remember how to pronounce, my epiglottis chokes on itself replaced by a borrowed accent, a plastic k mourning the dead body of ‘kh’,

Anushe Sheikh

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Leah Witheiler Acrylic on Paper

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T

Untethered

he human brain loves to categorize. With every observation, it tries to put things into boxes. Good or bad. Black or white. What happens when we observe something that doesn’t fit tidily into a mental box? We challenge our readers to free their minds and free themselves from the need to tie things down all the time.

Some pieces of writing merely exist to be read, spoken, or acted out. Untethered from genre, category, or established structure, these pieces were still crafted with passion and intent.

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Jaclyn Goldstein Acrylic on canvas board

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America

Artist Credit

Elise Andres Photograph 68

Pt.

1

If America had a Facebook, I could update our relationship status every month or so. See America and I, we have an on again off again relationship. We’re in love. But sometimes America’s just too much to handle. America makes me promises she can’t keep. America comforts me when I’m alone. America neglects me but her dream shields me from harm. America says she loves me but then turns around and elects an orange as her president. Replaces me with a small handed misogynistic narrow-minded orange. Well played America. America, you said you’d protect me, offered me purple mountains majesty and demanded my lungs in return. I gave you my voice and all you did was snuff it like you snuffed the candle burning in my heart. America, did you ever love me? Or was it all just an act. A temporary amendment to your exclusive constitution. Feeding us lies and fragile promises waiting to be broken to fatten us up. Because America, you are a slaughterhouse, slaughtering everything we held true about you.

1, 13, 14, 15, 19 who cares if 45 comes in and knocks them down and builds up a wall instead? Two months ago, you showed me what you were really capable of.

America, I’ve given you everything. My lungs for you to breath, my hands for you to create, my flesh so you wouldn’t starve, my teeth to help you digest, my legs for you to walk, my feet for you to dance though I didn’t realize it was gonna be a solo act. I’d still give you my eyes if you asked so you could see how much we’ve given, how much we’re hurting, how much we still love you for some reason. So you could see that you have become an addiction I can’t shake. This masochism I’ve attributed to you.

Oh say can’t you see that I’ve taken each part of my body, each thought in my head to conform to your standards? You said I’m free so why does this relationship feel one-sided? Oh say can’t you see that half of us are drowning in the so-called love you’ve shown us? Cause only a few of us are privileged enough to spread the wings we were all born with. America, give me the key so I can break out of this prison! This freak show has us pressed up against the cages hoping to be seen as individuals. I am me and no one else! We are just waiting to be shot by someone who couldn’t care less. School, nightclub, neighborhood, zoo, driving in our cars, churches!

We are never safe! Can’t you see? Land of the free? Only if you match this description. Why does the color of my skin determine if I’m a terrorist or a patriot? America, take a look in the mirror. This relationship is dying and I am trying to keep us from falling apart. America, it’s up to you.

Sudeep Barghava

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Pt.

2

We were lied to and mistreated.

This year, we were defeated.

But we tried , remained hopeful.

Let’s talk about Aleppo, Let’s talk about the crying children, lets talk about corruption.

When faced with problems, we ran away. The only betrayal that occurred was the one that happens within. Let’s talk about how no one wants to listen. We run away even though our legs are bleeding.

We run away, leaving.

All of the people we love... They are not our problems.

The problem is us.

Impatience is like bandages. Patches can’t always heal the wounds of betrayal.

Genocide.

Crimes against Humanity.

Where is the sanity?

We were abandoned by our own ignorance.

We create the demons, and then fear them.

It’s time to stop running. It’s time to reflect.

Betrayal should only come once before we learn the lesson.

Together, we can bring unity.

Together we can do so much better.

Kaavya Venkat

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Pt.

3

After the announcement of the election results, There was a call for unity, Acceptance of our country’s choice, Acceptance and Unity, Or should I say silence and unity, Unity as a means of silencing.

Because without action, without questioning, without the inclusion of the voices who lost, Unity is a meaningless collection of syllables.

Countless fissures hundreds of years wide that once crumbled under the weight of oppression, murder, enslavement, imprisonment, and a cycle of poverty cannot be bridged by the mere idea of unity.

By blindly trusting the system, By an abstract sense of patriotic duty, In fact I would say that historically, American patriotism lies not in silent acceptance, not in unity of opinion, but in protest, in change, in the radical assumption that if we believe something is not working, it is our duty to try to fix it.

I wanted to build an island and take everybody who agrees with me, to a new America.

But that too is wrong That too is silencing.

Because this didn’t come from nowhere.

It didn’t come from a unit of time, Or from Russia, It came from us.

So I’d say if unity means anything to me, it means listening And being open, but continuing to speak your truth.

It means that one person’s problem is my problem too, And that as an American, passivity is not an option I have.

After the election, I saw fear that I can barely comprehend I also saw Joy that I did not understand, I saw hatred be given legs on which to stand, But I saw hope, that whatever choices we made, we won’t let this be our end.

Addie Gomez

Benjamin Stromberg Photograph 71

Adam and Eve Are NOT My Parents The pungent smell of the cafeteria makes me crinkle my nose in disgust and I am itching to be dismissed for recess. Lunch is my least favorite part of the day; the food always smells bad and it is horribly loud everywhere. Along with the smells and noises, it is difficult to contribute to the conversations my classmates are having, they always cut me off, and I end up awkwardly talking to myself.

Today, the topic of discussion was siblings and the struggles of having them. As I am about to chime in, hoping to take part in the complaining, the severely sunburnt girl besides me matter of factly states, “We are all brothers and sisters because Adam and Eve are everyone’s parents.”

Stunned and slightly irritated, I look around to see how everyone else is reacting to this nonsense and am even more surprised to see my fellow second graders nodding in agreement. Utterly confused, I pipe up and say, “That is not true, my parents’ names are not Adam and Eve.” I wait a few seconds, expecting a response from somebody, anybody, and instead am greeted with silence and blank expressions.

Finally the sunburnt girl says, “No silly, Adam and Eve are the mom and dad of everyone because God made them the first people on Earth, it says so in the Bible.”

I open my mouth to respond, when the boy across from me cuts in and says, “Yeah, we learned about it during Bible study at Church last Sunday.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure how to respond, “Well I have never read the Bible, or been to Church, so how was I supposed to know, I’m not even Christ...”

But once again I am rudely cut off by the tiny girl at the end of the table, “Well, my mom says if you don’t go to Church every Sunday you’re going to H-E- double hockey sticks.”

I could feel a warmth crawling up my face as she finished her sentence; luckily the dark pigment of my skin prevented the others from seeing my embarrassment. Horrified by this revelation, I chow down my PB&J in silence as I process what I have just been told.

Rochita Chatterjee

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Sabattiers Simra Abedi

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g e r n i u kat g i F S

I

started skating because of Ice Princess. When I was eight years old, I watched the movie Ice Princess and decided I wanted to be exactly like Michelle Trachtenberg, the graceful lead of the movie. The glamor, elegance, and glitter were all enticing to my unathletic self who longed to claim a sport, but didn’t want to engage in anything too physical. I didn’t realize that the physical part of figure skating would be facile compared to the mental.

Drake Heptig Digital

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I was now twelve years old and had yet to master a scratch spin, one of the “starter” spins in figure skating.

It would haunt my dreams. One dream in particular made a lasting impression on me.

It was of a secluded barn, with ice in the place of a floor. There weren’t any of the typical hockey rink markings, but the ice was flat and had been surfaced. I started to skate. Suddenly, my coach appeared.

“Try a scratch spin,” she said.

I did it without thinking, and the spin was perfect.

“Now try an axel,” said my coach.

Axels are the cornerstone of any figure skater’s career-- once you’ve landed your axel, you know you’re good. But despite the difficulty of the jump, I did it without thinking and landed it perfectly.

The same process occurred for a multitude of other jumps: loops, lutzes, salchows, etc. I was able to do them all, and felt more and more euphoric with each perfect landing or spin.

Then I woke up.

A few days later, I was back at the ice rink—the real, tangible one. I warmed up with a few laps around the rink, some edges, and a couple of waltz jumps. Then, my coach barked:

“Lets start with the scratch spin!”

I groaned.

“Ugh, okay. But it’s not gonna be good!” I groaned with resignation.

I got into T-position, pushed off into a one-foot glide, hooked the three-turn, lifted my other leg and started to wrap it around, but then my hip started to cock to one side and I fumbled.

“Why can’t I do this? What am I doing wrong?”

I exclaimed with a huff.

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“Try going a little faster. It’ll help you get a better edge and gain more balance,” encouraged my coach.

“I can’t! Then I’ll fall!”

“Why are you so afraid of falling?” she asked.

I had no answer. Because—it’s falling! I thought.

Whenever someone tries to measure how ‘good’ I am at ice-skating, the first thing they always ask is, “How often do you fall?” Falling was implicitly bad because it meant failure. And no one likes to fail.

But the next question the person asks is, “What jumps and spins can you do?”

I realized that while I would look like a success when answering their first question (I rarely fall), I was lacking in the second, ironically enough because of my fear of falling. I wasn’t able to move forward with my scratch spin and other jumps and spins because I was afraid of falling and thus, failing.

“Why are you so afraid of falling?” she asked.

My fear of failure was actually what caused me to fail.

“Try again,” said my coach. “Except this time, don’t think about it. Don’t be afraid to fall.”

I took a deep breath, got into T-position, and cleared my head. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought to myself. Everyone has to fall sometime.

I pushed off into a one-foot glide, hooked the three-turn, lifted my other leg and started to wrap it around, and then I started spinning. And it was perfect. Well, almost—but a few more weeks of practice would take care of the kinks.

Zayna Syed

Lessons Not Found in Textbooks The first time you learn that your body does not belong to you, it will sound like a compliment.

It will sound like a rolled down window and a wolf howl and a thirst that you have not heard before.

Part of you will want to smile will want to turn around and say “Thank you, I think I look good today, too.”

The other part will want to run.

Will want to sink into the ground you stand on, will want to hide.

Do not hide.

The second time you learn that your body does not belong to you, it will sound like love.

It will sound like a familiar voice reminding you it bought you dinner that night and your body is the only accepted form of gratitude.

“I love you” will roll off of their lips sounding more like accusation than affection.

“I love you” will roll off of your lips sounding more like apology than appreciation.

Fake smiles and forced words stuck in the air between you making it hard to breathe.

The third time you learn that your body does not belong to you, it will sound like a broken record.

It will sound like the news that keeps reminding us that a victim’s life is lesser than.

It will sound like how they use every word from “athlete” to “student” but dance around the word “rapist” to a song composed of frat parties and not enough jail time… will tip toe around the word “rapist” as if it is a sleeping beast not to be woken.

God forbid they lay their hands on something that does not want to be touched.

However there will come a day...

The day you learn that your body does belong to you it will sound like celebration.

It will sound like dancing to your favorite song in whatever clothes you wanted to wear that day.

It will sound like new beginnings like “I love you”s to yourself in the mirror over and over...

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It will sound like “no� having finally reclaimed its true meaning and you having finally reclaimed the skin in which you were born.

The day you learn that your body does belong to you it will sound like a freedom song.

Will sound like a birth will sound like a joyous scream will sound like a battle cry out into the open.

Out into the rest of your life.

That day that day will come.

And I cannot wait for you to hear it.

Mira Fradkin

77

Richa Sinkre Pencil and watercolor

To all the people who think my mother is oppressed, because she wraps her faith around her head and arms her intellect, instead of her flesh.

If she chooses any other pills than the ones you’ve prescribed, then I guess she is oppressed, right?

Oppression is painted nude and pink and placed in the hollow carcass of a Barbie doll.

Oppression is the punch line of a sick joke with two women on a subway. Both covered head to toe but only one of them is the finger that pulls the trigger of people’s mouths and it’s not the nun.

It’s the Muslim woman who didn’t wear a bright hijab today because she was afraid that the red would resemble a target and that her body would become a shooting range.

The secret of Victoria is that you have the right to wear whatever you want as long as it’s above your knees and below your chest.

Oppression is a corrupt government peppering lies in the name of a religion misinterpreted.

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A millennia of muted voices and mutilated torsos stain the hands of these governments and not Islam.

Islam gave my mother her voice back; it’s not the noose around her neck but her wings.

Islam told her that if man is an island, she is the ocean.

Islam taught her that the words she was searching for are already inside of her and that her blood is ink and her heart is a pen. Islam taught me what feminism looks like.

Feminists are more than bra burning neo-Nazis, forcing cyanide pills of “we hate men” down your throats.

Feminists are people like my mother, people who refuse to bury women in the graves that the world has dug for them, who put one foot before the other and hold their hearts in the conch of their fists and fight.

Don’t tell me Islam is oppressing my family because our liberation is not a choice for you to make.

Anushe Sheikh

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Max Mendelsohn Chine collé

God Lights come up on empty stage and within seconds, “The Hustle” begins. After about 30-40 seconds, there is a sound cue and all of the actors exit leaving one actor on stage.

The lighting becomes dark and blue creating an remote night feel.

CARLY: Just breathe?

ILYSE: Just breathe.

CARLY: That’s it?

CARLY follows ILYSE’s gaze up at the stars. There is a long silence.

ILYSE: Well, when was the last time you just sat down and really just took time to yourself to breathe. I don’t mean anything like meditation, I’m not trying to achieve a level of personal peace or some crap like that but I don’t feel like I breathe during the day.

I just get so wound up in every little thing and it’s exhausting but I just keep going because I feel like when I start something, I can never just give up.

CARLY: So...

CARLY: You can.

ILYSE: I’m looking at the stars.

ILYSE: Thanks. (sarcastically)

CARLY: Gotcha.

(pause)

There is another long silence.

It’s not that easy.

ILYSE: It makes me feel like I’m home.

After another long pause,

CARLY: Home?

CARLY: Do you ever pray out here? Or do you really just sit and breathe?

CARLY: Hey ILYSE: Hey (barely acknowledging CARLY)

ILYSE: Camp.

CARLY: Gotcha.

There is another long pause.

ILYSE: Pray? Like talk to God? CARLY: I guess.

ILYSE: Not really, I mean, I don’t know if I believe in ILYSE: Every night at camp, I take a couple minutes to God. just sit outside and look up at the stars. I don’t see CARLY: That’s so weird... them much when I’m not there, living in a city, you know?

ILYSE: What is?

CARLY: Yeah, for sure.

CARLY: Not knowing, just, the idea of being able to doubt God’s existence. I’ve grown up believing in Him; ILYSE: So when I look at the stars, it makes me feel like it’s always been a given. So it’s weird to think that I’m back at camp and that makes me happy. someone else would see Him as an option. (pause)

ILYSE: Well, I certainly don’t believe in “Him.”

ILYSE: Sometimes, I feel like I go all day without just CARLY: Huh? slowing down and taking a breath. So whenever I can, I just sit out here and look at the stars and I force ILYSE: I don’t think God is a man. myself to breathe.

Drake Heptig Digital Art 80

CARLY: Oh sure, I mean, I don’t actually think God is a person. But Him is just an easy way to talk about God without having to say “God” every time. It doesn’t mean that God is a man.

ILYSE: But it means that God isn’t a woman.

ILYSE: Well, if that’s true: if we are made in the image of God, then, logically, God must resemble us in at least some capacity.

CARLY: So you think God looks like you?

ILYSE: Not exactly. I think either, God has to look like all of us, or have a very confusing image, or look like nothing at all.

CARLY: Not necessarilyILYSE: How would you feel if someone referred to you as “him” or “he”?

CARLY: But maybe God looks like you?

CARLY: Confused mostly. (laughing a bit)

ILYSE: I like to keep my options open.

CARLY: Hmm...

ILYSE: But you wouldn’t feel like you are you.

CARLY: So? ILYSE: So, I don’t know if God is a man or a woman or a ball of energy or something else or if God even exists at all, but if God does, I’d want the possibility of God being a woman.

CARLY: What?

ILYSE: Well, you know, there’s the whole idea in Genesis where God is like, creating man and the world and all that fun stuff, and God decides that man will be “made in the image of God.” In Hebrew, “b’tzelem elohim.”

CARLY: How do you know that?

ILYSE: If we refer to God as “He” then we are saying that God looks like my dad or my brother or Mr. Samuels.

CARLY: And you don’t like that?

ILYSE: I don’t have any problem with that at all! I love my dad, I love the idea that God could be just like my dad. But I also like the idea that God could look like my grandma, or my mom, or you. I at least want the possibility of God looking like me. And maybe God doesn’t, that’s totally fine. But some of the strongest people I know and some of my greatest role models are women so how could I not want God to look like them?

CARLY: What if God is a man? What if some day, someone proves that God is a man? What would you do then?

ILYSE: How do Christian people somehow know like every single verse of the bible and you can call out like “Steve 7:21” and they just know exactly what you’re talking about?

ILYSE thinks in silence for a long time.

CARLY: (teasing her at the randomness of “Steve”) “Steve 7:21”?

Lauren Stock

ILYSE: Not the point.

CARLY: So anyway...? (prompting her) ILYSE: So anyway, I know the verse “b’tzelem elohim,” “we are made in the image of God.” CARLY: But... What’s the point?

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G

Film

reenhill’s Film program has had a remarkable year, with five films accepted into SXSW Film Festival’s High School Shorts, the most by one school for the ninth year in a row. Overall 24 films made by Greenhill students have 58 juried acceptances so far, in festivals all over the world. But more than these accomplishments, the film program is about telling stories. Filmmakers combine breathtaking art and superb writing, the two things Montage celebrates. The films showcased here represent the breadth of stories told this year.

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Samuel Bovard Film stills

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Afterparty A film by Isabel Chavez What is the meaning behind the title?

The storyline of my film is based on a woman who pops balloons to decide someone’s (deadly) fate.

In “Afterparty,” “after” comes from the concept of an after life and an after thought, and “party” comes from the balloons she uses.

Describe your film in one sentence.

The one party you’re okay with not being invited to.

What was your inspiration for your film?

“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson and the television show “Dexter” are the two major sources of inspiration for my film. I merged those two and then included my interest in true crime stories to make a film that is truth-based with an element of fantasy.

Who is your main character?

She is a nameless antihero who gets the urge to seek justice and avenge the death of others.

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No Strings Attached A film by Ariana Luterman and Courtney Rawitscher What is the meaning behind the title?

The title is No Strings Attached because its a play on words because the doll has strings attached but the doctor has no connection to the dead bodies.

Describe your film in one sentence.

It is about a demented doctor that turns dead bodies into marionette dolls.

What was your inspiration for your film?

Our inspiration was Ariana’s Halloween costume from 6th grade and my dad’s old work tools.

Who is your main character?

The main character is Ariana’s younger sister, Gabrielle Luterman.

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The Case Files of: Toby Straddle Private Eye A film by Amy Yang What is the meaning behind the title?

The title is exactly what it says. Toby Straddle is your typical private eye, solving crimes. He’s gonna make the world a better place one case at a time.

Describe your film in one sentence.

Detective case gone wrong What was your inspiration for your film?

A great conversation with the one and only Sarah Nunez LaFontaine. The film would be much duller without her.

Who is your main character?

Toby Straddle. He’s a real female homosapian’s man.

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Potholes A film by Jaclyn Goldstein What is the meaning behind the title?

When the girls run over the “pothole� it is the turning point of their night and the punchline of the film.

Describe your film in one sentence.

Three pasta lovers run into a surprise visitor during a late night golf cart ride.

What was your inspiration for your film?

My friends and I go on golf carts late at night and I’ve always found that entertaining and wanted to do a film about it.

Who is your main character?

Pete the Pothead.

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Staff Bios Brooke – Editor in Chief Brooke Bulmash is a senior at Greenhill. She will be attending Washington University in St. Louis next fall and pursuing a degree in either environmental policies or architecture. She has been the editor in chief of Montage for the past two years, and enjoys participating in AP studio art. She absolutely despises the taste of marmite. Unfortunately, she does not think she will ever discover how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop because she is impatient and usually ends up biting into it.

Julia – Content Editor Julia Halm is a senior at Greenhill, and she will be attending Oberlin college in the fall. She loves participating in Greenhill Dance Company, Theater, and Advanced Video Production. She intends to study environmental science, and her lucky number is 17. Julia despises the word crustal, and the longest she has ever been without sleeping is 30 hours. She is a cat lady.

Michelle – Production and Editorial Contributor Michelle King is a senior at Greenhill. Her favorite subject is Biology and she plans to study it at SMU in the fall. In her free time, she enjoys reading and is involved in Muay Thai, a form of martial arts from Thailand. Michelle likes to natural dry her hair instead of blow dry it, and her favorite pokemon is Absol.

She’s always been partial to the number 54.

Sam – Production and Editorial Contributor Sam Bovard is a sophomore at Greenhill. He enjoys participating in Greenhill’s Theater and Advanced Video Production programs. His favorite subject is English, and in his free time he loves to bake. He has prophetic dreams and much prefers to be O’s in tic tac toe. The only thing that he hates more than the font Avenir is answering incessant questions that have no bearing on his life.

Caroline - Production and Editorial Contributor Caroline Sasso is a freshman at Greenhill. Her passions lie in poetry and creative writing, but she also loves to participate in Theater. Her favorite subjects are English and chemistry. She was born with an outie belly button, but had surgery on it to make it an innie. She can do a front flip on the trampoline and had a secret admirer in 5th grade that would always leave anonymous notes in her locker.​

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Colophon

Peter Diaz Digital Art 90

One of three student-led publications at Greenhill School, Montage is a unique survey of the creative abilities of the student body. Unlike the yearbook and the newspaper, Montage operates as a bi-monthly club for the majority of the year. A small but incredibly hardworking team of students then spends the last three months of the school year putting together a representative investigation into the poetic, artistic and thematic abilities of the students at Greenhill School.

For our theme this year, we chose “Consciousness” because of the carefully organized social cognizance of our submissions. Consciousness demonstrates the ability of the student body to write with wit, passion and moxie, while still respecting fundamental freedoms of expression. This edition covers issues of identity, religion, politics, and the familiar aches of becoming an adult, all aspects of entering a state of awareness about the world around oneself.

As this is my last year as Editor in Chief, I must acknowledge that Montage will always hold a very special place in my heart. I am profoundly grateful for the tremendous impact of this magazine on my development as an individual. My hope is, for the future, that Montage will continue to have the same deep significance in students’ lives as it had in mine. I have a great sense of pride in this edition of Montage and the work that the entire team put in to get us to this point. It has been an honor to lead such an incredible group of talented writers and artists.

This book is typeset in Avenir Book 10 pt. with all bylines in Avenir Light Oblique 9.5 pt., and printed on FSC certified Cougar Opaque Stock.

There are a number of individuals who have been instrumental in the development of this magazine. Mrs. Emily Wilson and Ms. Lesley Rucker, without you both, this publication would be impossible to complete.

From bringing treats for meetings to constantly providing invaluable advice and assistance throughout this entire process. Mr. Lopez and Mr. Doyle, thank you for helping with the compiling of imagery for the magazine and the irreplaceable support. Noah Richmond, thank you for your beautiful artwork and your incredible contributions to the magazine. You created an image that embodies this year’s theme in every sense. Sam Bovard, though it breaks my heart that my involvement with Montage is coming to an end, I know that you will do a spectacular job with the publication next year. Scottie Pearson-Thompson, thank you for your constant support and encouragement, I’m glad you will be a part of the leadership team next year. Julia Halm, You’ve kept me sane these past two years, I am so grateful for everything you have given to this team and to this magazine. You truly do not get enough credit. Thank you for being such an integral aspect of this magazine. Senior Class of 2017, thank you for being such a big part of Montage this year, especially those who contributed to the magazine these past few years. Photographers, sculptors, painters, filmmakers, artists and anyone that submitted this year, thank you for allowing us into your creative worlds.

This book is for you.

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Consciousness embodies the ability of the student body to write with wit, passion and moxie, while still respecting fundamental freedoms of expression and displaying a profound sense of care for the world, acknowledging the systemic issues facing our generation.

This edition covers issues of identity, religion, politics, and the familiar aches of becoming an adult, all aspects of entering a state of awareness about the world around oneself. It is these voices that will go on to change global consciousness, and affect real transformation of societies divided by differences.

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