Pegasus Issue No. 35

Jared Hoefner | Toby Ma | Chris Hyland

PEGASUS

Gavin Burke | Nelson Liu | Michael Schlarbaum Kenneth Pham | Gaspard Vadot | Noah Rubien Charlie Baker | Robb Soslow | George Rengeppes Ben Gerber | Winslow Wanglee | Barrett Spragg Junius Jones | Michael Clymer | Mark Gregory Charlie Towle | Carson Rooney | Tyler Campbell Matthew Wilson | Grant Sterman | Myles Mason Sarah Michaelsky | Robert Manganero | Myles Scott Sebastian Bilash | Troy Gibbs-Brown | W.D. Ehrhart Yeshwin Sankuratri | Jake Weinstein

The Haverford School Issue No. 35

“As if an angel dropped down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus And witch the world with noble horsemanship.�

- William Shakespeare

The Haverford School 450 Lancaster Ave., Haverford, PA, 19041 610-642-3020 || www.haverford.org Upper School Population: 438 || Issues Printed: 150

P

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS A literary magazine needs superb writers, skillful artists, and strong editors to be successful.

Pegasus underwent change throughout the years in both layout and design. This year, we decided to drift from our flowing pastel inkblot design into a bolder tone with strong colors. We attempted to create alluring eye-candy for the artistic set.

The staff for this issue was mainly underclassman, giving us a chance to paint our picture of the Pegasus magazine. None of this would have been possible without the fantastic faculty assisting the process. We are excited about the new look of the magazine under the guidance of Mr. Daniel Keefe, Mrs. Taylor Smith-Kan, and Ms. Emma Hitchcock.

We received over one hundred unique submissions this year. Our magazine would be nothing without our fantastic Art and English Departments, and we send special thanks to students that decided to submit.

Numerous free periods and double lunches went into crafting this issue, and we hope you enjoy the magazine as much as we enjoyed creating it. Thank you for reading.

Warmly, The Pegasus Staff

Money Problems

P. 6 - 7

The Encomnium of Mittens

P. 8 - 9

It Follows

P. 10 - 11

Silenced By America

P. 21 -23

Panic

P. 28 - 29

Riddle of a Man

P. 32 - 33

Burnt

P. 34 - 37

Race, the Genetic Head Start

P. 40 - 41

Jared Hoefner

Michael Schlarbaum Chris Hyland Mark Gregory

Grant Sterman Toby Ma

Michael Schlarbaum Kenneth Pham

Un Pendiio Scivoloso Gaspard Vadot

P. 42 - 45

Prose

Poetry I Used to Play Viola

P. 12

No

P. 53

Susan

P. 15

Atticus

P. 54

Fall, Winter

P. 16, 17

At What Cost

P. 56

Slow

P. 18

North Philly Folk Tale

P. 57

The Garden

P. 25

The Following Scenario

P. 58

From the Night Shift

P. 26 - 27

Divinity of Myself

P. 60 - 61

The Birds

P. 30 - 31

Mannerism

P. 63

Song of the Earth

P. 39

Envying the Grass

P. 64

Mommom

P. 46

The Same Dream?

P. 67

Lighter Fluid

P. 48 - 49

Silence

P. 68

Diamond Street

P. 50 - 51

The Right to Bear Arms

P. 69

Noah Rubien Toby Ma

Charlie Baker Robb Soslow

George Rengeppes Michael Schlarbaum Ben Gerber

Winslow Wanglee Michael Clymer Gavin Burke

Charlie Baker

Charlie Towle Carson Rooney Tyler Cambell Tyler Cambell

Matthew Wilson Nelson Liu

Robert Mangenero Barret Spragg Junious Jones

Grant Sterman W.D. Ehrhart

5

Jared Hoefner

Money Problems

The wave hit me like a truck, leaving me dumbfounded for a few seconds trying to process what had just transpired.

There were so many questions going around inside my head.

Who? Why? What? Could this really happen to me? It was as if time stood still, indulging me, until I finally understood the gravity of the situation.

Let me start from the beginning. It was a typical summer day. I was spending most of my countless hours cooped up inside my “office” playing video games. For I had just completed building my very own custom computer from scratch, and I was ready to test just how far her limits could stretch. I strained my eyes at the monitor whilst artificial sounds of gunshots blared into my ears. The computer itself was almost completely silent except for the dull hum of the internal fans. It’s ironic because most would assume that the sounds of the game would block out such insignificant noises, but I remember every single one.

No word escaped my ears that day as I was confined by the light blue, paper-thin walls that surrounded me. I heard everything.

Every. Single. Word.

I sometimes find myself at times locking onto words I hear like a radio transmission. I surf through the frequencies and stop once I hear coherent sounds. It all started with a simple “Hello” by my mother. I immediately started to switch frequencies as I assumed it was simply another work call, but just as I started to hear static once again. I began to hear her informational tone switch gears. I understood immediately that it was someone close. Who is it this time?

My brother. He’s just calling about his day? He got another A on a test? What expenditure is it this time?

I perked my ears to hear what was before inaudible whispers. “We can’t. No. No, Tom.” With these few bits and pieces I immediately understood what was going on. I am typically content with the things I have and have little to no interest in lavish items. My brother, however, is the polar opposite. There is not a piece of clothing in the world that can sate his abysmal hunger.

The process is always the same- simplistic, yet cunning.

First, my brother finds some extravagant object that he “desperately needs”. After this, he starts to act nice to everyone around him, calling home every single day just to see how we

“

How am I furthering my own life right now? All I’m doing is playing video games. I’m wasting their sacrifices.

are doing. Eventually, he strikes, finally bringing up the item that he desires. At first, my parents resist, but he counters with his constant pleas. After a long fought battle, my parents ultimately concede, giving in to his demands and the cycle repeats itself.

The conversation went on for what seemed like hours while I sat straight in my chair clinging to every single word. I could tell my brother was pressing on, asking, “Why not?” or, “Please?” but the same response was repeated over and over and over. Just get it through your head! I wanted to scream; however, to my awe, it was my mother who finally snapped.

“We can’t afford you.”

My hair stood at its ends. Why couldn’t we afford that thing? Is it because of the college and high school tuitions?

I went over each variable over and over again, trying to piece together what tiny, yet gargantuan information I had just obtained.

Those words had always been tossed around before, such as in regards to an expensive car, but I had never heard them on such a frivolous thing such as clothes. That is not to say, however, that the response was not completely unexpected by me. I always knew there would be a breaking point. From all the cardboard boxes I found strewn about a vacant room or by looking at my Amazon purchase history, I knew it was too much.

“

This experience, however, brought repressed feelings I tried to hard to drown out to the surface I clenched my fists. How could my brother do such a thing? Why would he push us to such a breaking point? “Please Tom,” My mother’s voice began to crack, “you need to stop. Just for a few weeks.

That’s all.” Why doesn’t he just listen to her? Who does he think he is? My mind, however, began to shift.

Perhaps this breaking point was a fault of my own. I’ve been at Haverford almost my entire life, draining my parents’ own savings and for what? So I could get into a good college? How am I furthering my own life right now? All I’m doing is playing video games. I’m wasting their sacrifices.

When is my mother going to beg me to stop?

I sat there, contemplating what had just occurred. The light shining through the windows quickly began to die out as day turned to pitch black night, but I remained unmoved. Liquid running down my knuckles dragged me out of my trance and I began to move on from my uncharted emotions. All that was left were four even red lines ingrained in the palm of my hand- already beginning to clot.

7

The Encomnium of Mittens ‘Twas dark when I found it. I stumbled upon it whilst I whisked through old boxes in the attic. Dust had created a fine silt that coated everything in the room, as if some quiet volcano had erupted in it some years ago, and the people had all left, never to return to clean up the mess. The old cat paw kept as a token of remembrance for my long lost Mittens, my first friend, my first pet, my first cat, sat in my hand.

“Oh, Mittens,” I said to no one. “Dear Mittens,” I said to memory. My voice reminding me of the day he passed and mixing there. To me, for just a moment, the two were one. My mind fell beneath the tides of consciousnesses, as I slipped quietly into the reverie.

‘Twas dark when I found Mittens too.

I had been out in the backyard tumbling amidst the rocks and bramble, exploring as young boys do. I had been gathering rocks for the collection that was laid down on a table in my room; each stone precisely labeled by my mother’s fine print as I dictated to her the precise location, date, and time of discovery as well as the name of that particular rock (which I always made up). I had been out for a long time picking amidst the dirt. My clothes were tattered and muddy. My knees were scraped. Mother’s voice called me home, and I followed it with a child’s innocent enthusiasm.

I scampered through the woods and muck, but as I did, I heard a rustle and a

bustle in the undergrowth beside me. As I turned to greet it, I was surprised to find the source of the commotion was a young kitten.

Such is the story, I told myself anyway. I was quite young, too young to have memories, but as my mother tells it, I did return from my exploration one day with a kitten in hand, and I said to her with a soft pleading voice: “Oh, mother. He’s such a sweet creature.

Look at the way he licks his paws, look at those divine eyes, his fur, that small lopsided tooth. Can I keep it?” She, unable to resist my pleas, and thinking me an oddly mature toddler, obliged me.

“Yes, son. You may keep it.”

And so from that day on, until Mittens untimely departure, we were inseparable. He followed closely behind me each night as I explored, and when we returned - covered with grime and goop - he’d follow me gingerly to the bathroom. I would bathe him as I did myself. At night, he would curl up beside me and purr with contentment as we sailed off to the land of dreams together, paw in hand.

One day whilst Mittens and I sat and watched the telly, he looked up at me, and I looked down at him, and then over to Spiderman, which had been my favorite superhero as a child, then back to Mittens, then to Peter Parker once more, who had just been bitten by the radioactive spider, and I had an idea. And so it was with much boyish excitement that I ventured into the kitchen with Mittens, and I held him up in front of

City Yeshwin Sankuratri

me, and looked into his beautiful eyes, and said: “You think this is a good idea, right?”

To which Mittens responded with a pleasant meow, which I took as his closest form of agreement.

“You’re gonna be a supercat, Mittens!”

I gave him an unknowingly final pet and placed him into the microwave, hearing the jingle of his metal collar. I climbed onto the counter and buttoned in 10 seconds, and waved at Mittens as I pressed start, envisioning a future filled fighting crime and saving the occasional damsel, Super Mittens never leaving my side. There were sparks and loud noises, and I fell off the counter and smacked onto the floor beneath, letting

out a cry as I did. Mother rushed into the kitchen and scooped me up in her arms and looked into the microwave, questioned, then understood; tears welled in my eyes as she pronounced the end of poor Mittens.

We buried Mittens the next day. My parents never allowed me to see his body, but did give me the paw as a way to remember him, and as a reminder about microwaves and the danger they present. I stood on the edge of his small grave in the backyard in the black suit and tie I had requested specifically for the occasion.

“Oh, Mittens!” my shrill voice wailed into the fog with many tears in my eyes.

“Dear Mittens,” I cried as my head dropped.

Michael Schlarbaum 9

It Follows

Night Crawler Yeshwin Sankuratri

It Follows

Lying flat on his back, he opened his eyes. The orange sky surrounded him like a haze. A single droplet of sweat trickled down his forehead. He did not know where he was or how he had gotten there.

All he knew was that his name was Jason. His throat felt parched from the dry air as he, struggling to breathe, used all the strength he could muster to sit up. This act proved unfruitful as he could only see a cluster of dust that hung low to the ground. The dust made him thirsty.

Jason looked at his hands. The fingers appeared lacerated, and the skin frayed from the knuckles like a peel from an orange.

“Perhaps, I lost a fight,” he thought. The numbers one through seven were tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand.

He stood up in a daze. A figure arose in his periphery vision, but it disappeared over the horizon. As the dust particles settled, he noticed a hill straight ahead. He thought it seemed out of place but decided to approach it anyway.

When Jason reached the hill, he took in the sight below. “Where the fuck am I?” It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Massive tents were planted into the ground, surrounded by rotten trees that sucked the life from the air. The great variety of tent colors created a circus-like atmosphere.

Jason heard something move, then his legs fell out from under him. He rolled down the hill like tumbleweed. Knocked out from the fall, Jason lay idle. He looked up and saw a decaying wooden sign with red letters that read “WELCOME.” The “E” swung lazily nearly falling off. A feeling arose inside him to enter and explore all of the tents. Within seconds of entering the area, metal gates ascended from the ground and locked behind him. The land was silent, with no civilization in sight.

“What is going on?” murmured Jason.

Jason started towards the first tent labeled, “SLOTH.” When he entered, he thought he was dreaming. Faceless people stood on the walls of the tent frozen, watching him. Their pairs of little eyes fell upon him and gave him an animalistic urge to

flee. The smell of marijuana startled him. Feeling nauseated, he covered his nose.

“What is this place? Where am I?” said Jason.

All around, Jason witnessed bodies in motion as people peeled from the walls. They slowly dropped pills and smoked from glass canisters. The smoke curled about Jason’s feet and rose up his legs.

Jason thought to himself, “I don’t belong here.”

Walking backwards, he found himself scattering pill cases and crushing shards of glass under his feet. When he emerged from the tent, gusts of sand fragments tossed him around like a ragdoll. The sand burned his eyes and cut off his vision to a mere foot in front of him.

Jason thought, “How is a storm like this even possible?”

Abruptly, the feeling of sand piercing his skin ceased. He found respite from the storm in another tent. The flaps of a new tent smacked against the backs of his shoulders. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at his reflection in forty different mirrors. Scared, Jason saw himself transformed in grotesque and beautiful ways. He fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and crawled away from the mirrors and back out into the open.

He faced forward toward the path this time. The sand storm was gone; quiet and stillness settled upon him like the dead. Jason glanced up at the name of the tent he had escaped.“VANITY.” Sitting outside of the tent, Jason reflected on what he had seen in the mirrors. “I saw the color of my eyes, the slant of my nose, but I couldn’t remember who I am or why I’m doing here!”

Jason turned to find more tents along the desolate path. He made his way past the other five tents. Deep in thought, he bypassed two tents that read “WRATH” and “GLUTTONY.” When he passed the “LUST” tent, the smells of the sensual wafted from under the flickering

light that beckoned him from the exposed tent flap.

Making a joke to himself, “These tents trap sound but certainly not smell.”

This random thought triggered a laughing spell that brought him to his knees. Losing control, he held his sides tightly as laughter tormented his body.

He rolled on the ground and found himself tumbling into a pile of gold coins. Peering around the curvature of the tent, he read the sign “GREED” painted in luxurious cursive. He ignored it.

He got back on his feet and marched past the final tent without even looking at the inscription. The path came to an end as he was greeted once again by tall metal gates. Suddenly, he felt a rumbling under his feet. Quickly, he whipped around just to see all but the last of the tents caving in on themselves and being swallowed by the Earth.

His mind rushed to escape. “I have to get out of here,” he cried, but his palm pressed against the gate reminded him that he was locked inside. The only tent that remained read “ENVY.” Talking to this final tent as if it were a person, Jason pointed and exclaimed, “What’s so special about you, huh?”

The red tent flaps billowed their velvet folds.

As soon as his toe touched down on the sand inside the tent, he knew he was home.

His memories of his life flooded back.

The beautiful and terrible thing lay before him. He knelt to worship; he had always wanted it. He could never have it.

“It caught up to me.”

Chris Hyland 11

I Used To Play Viola

Raise your bows in practiced unison, Let them fall with an unnatural flow, Strike the strings with the notes you know.

But if you don’t, Stiffen your arms until your time is done, Stiffen your shoulders in mutiny of those who Roll. Forward and back, side to side, for they choose to Show the music through trembling hands. And they’ll Breathe their instruments in on an uptake, while you Linger on a down.

But I favor the dissonance of tuning, The pestering for harmony.

Nestled in the discord is the deepest secret.

Sections raise their voices to tune imperfections, and As the strings rise and fall, As the beat becomes possessed, As order eludes my fingers, I believe this is as music means.

Enter the Conductor.

Noah Rubien

City Yeshwin Sankuratri

11 13

Sizzle Yeshwin Sankuratri

a M y b Toby Ma o T

Susan In a land across the world, in a city kissed by the sea, a susan lazily spins, parading dishes laden with vegetables, soups, and fish.

We sit on a round table lifted from King Arthur’s court, taking a piece from the plates before it passes on to siblings, parents, uncles, aunts, cousins.

Wine flows freely, noise in the room directly proportional to the glasses consumed.

(I was drinking orange juice).

As I ate, I watched it all: the smiles, the laughter, the red faces.

The susan lazily spins, parading dishes, a cycle of unspoken love.

15

Alone Yeshwin Sankuratri

Fall Lying in my hands, one of God’s dying children, a telltale of fall.

Winter Walking outside with the fierce whistle of the wind licking at your skin.

The Garage Troy Gibbs-Brown

Charlie Baker

17

Slow

Robb Soslow

patpatpat familiar stumbles down the windshield my interior has cigarette tar and sweet-burning mouths i see through smoke—look— the streetlights are feeble stars and the sky spills on to the earth patpatpat here’s faith in smoothed eyebrows and speech unfolding like a paper crane uncertain outside, one might see hazy silhouettes (but certain is the rain) drumroll applause feeble stars, a spotlight in the car stars

Who titles things anymore?

Sebastian Bilash

Author Name Piece Name

19

“

I never feared being African American until this conversation. The silence was worse than any sound imaginable. This silence hurt me, yet I was helpless to speak against anything he said. For the first time in my life, I was speechless.

�

Silenced By America

“Mom, I could die here.” When my brother said these words, they stuck in me like a knife.

My brother has always been a big impact on my life, but this moment would change me.

It was the summer of 2012. My family was going to South Carolina to see our cousins and grandparents.

I looked around my room to make sure my bag was packed for the ride. I opened my red bag to make sure I had enough clothing to last for a week. I felt my stomach turn when I thought about the trip to come.

I checked the clock and it said seven p.m. I had a long car ride ahead of me, so I pulled up my blankets and went to bed. I laid in my bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep; I simply sat in silence.

I looked at the clock again and it said eight p.m.

I needed to go to sleep an hour ago, so I could wake up at two. I needed a way to fall asleep so turned some music. Eventually, I drifted to sleep.

When two o’clock came, I struggled to keep my eyes open. I drowsily grabbed my bags and trudged down the stairs. My dad had already been loading the car, so I walked outside to put my bags in the car with him. I heaved my bag into the trunk of our van.

My dad peered around from the front of the car and said, “Thanks Mark. Now, go get ready to leave.”

“I’m already ready.”

“Then why are you wearing PJ’s?” I looked down at myself not realized I had spaceships and planets covering my legs. I just wanted to leave so I could go back to sleep in the car. I stumbled back to the house and changed my clothes. As soon as I closed the car door behind me, I fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke to the sound of my dad’s voice.

“Mark, you’re finally awake.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Seven thirty,” replied my brother, Philip. It was basically routine at this point on our long road trips for my brother to keep my dad awake during the drive. Contrary to Phil, my eldest brother, John, slept in the back of the car. I wiped my eyes and checked my phone. A notification popped up saying, “Phil Gregory shared a link on Facebook.” I tapped the link wondering what it could be. It was a video of a young white girl ranting about the guy who killed Trayvon Martin. I usually avoid Facebook, since it is cluttered with so many controversial videos. I assumed this video would be just like the rest, so I closed my phone.

“You guys heard any news stories recently?” my dad asked to break the long silence.

Before I had the chance to utter a sound, Phil asked, “Have you heard about Trayvon Martin?” I tried my best to avoid the media, but it caught up to me. I intended to stay silent, so I could avoid the conversation. Phil continued, “The black kid who got shot by a neighborhood watch captain.”

“Do you know why they shot him?” my dad asked.

“For carrying an Arizona ice tea and some Skittles,” replied Phil.

“That’s not right... Well that’s probably not the real reason. What actually happened?” my dad asked again.

“The real reason is that we live in America, the home of the free and the land of the white. Oh sorry, I mean brave,” said Phil.

“There’s no need for all that, Phil.”

“No need for the truth?” My brother’s tone began to raise in a crescendo. “We both know the reason he was shot. Because as a

21

young black kid, a white man thought he would magically whip out his gun and destroy his blackness.”

My father raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror and my mother turned to look at us. Phil continued, “The white man was forced to shoot first, to protect himself from the seventeen-year-old boy. The worst part is, his murder was completely unjust. The way in which it was handled judicially was a sham, but also a perfect example of just how little black people are valued in this society. His murder and the following trial follow in the long tradition of murder and abuse of black people within this country. That’s just the beginning of the problems this causes.”

Silence fell upon the car it was like we hopped off the highway, and the car was aimlessly floating through space. Even though I did not want to hear what he was saying, I could not agree more. From the time Phil was stopped by a cop and mistaken for a thug to when I was asked what someone like me was doing in a nice school like Haverford, this truth was undeniably present in my life.

I asked myself, “Someone like me? Do they mean Mark Edward Gregory or an African American male?”

I already knew all about the racist history that shrouded America, but it never hit me like this. I never feared being African American until this conversation. The silence was worse than any sound imaginable. This silence hurt me, yet I was helpless to speak against anything he said.

For the first time in my life, I was speechless. I usually have a million and one things to say and my mouth is unable to keep up. Now my brain is the one struggling. I was struggling to grasp how a good student in a good school with great parents such as myself was in danger of being attacked by the police.

The silence was suddenly broken. “Where are we?” my mom asked.

“We just left Virginia,” said my dad.

The ride continued as normal with small talk here and there but no one dared to bring up

any part of the conversation we had before, as we knew it would provide a catalyst for my brother to go off again. Even though we knew he was correct and there was nothing wrong with what he said, we wanted to avoid this topic as much as humanly possible. That silence was louder than anything he said, and I wanted to make sure it would not happen again. About an hour passed from then the tension in the car had settled and everything was back to normal.

My stomach grumbled. “Mom, do we have anything to eat?” I asked.

She replied in a loving yet annoyed tone, “How are you always so hungry?”

“I dunno.”

“Alright anyone need to use the bathroom?” my dad interrupted. “There is a rest stop in three miles.” We all prepped to get out of the car.

When we pulled up to the rest stop, I rushed to get out of the car as fast as possible. It may have seemed that I needed to go to the bathroom badly, but in reality I just wanted to be alone and contemplate what happened an hour ago. I thought about it for a second then realized that I was probably just making a big deal out of something that annoyed me.

After using the bathroom, I washed my hands and stared in the mirror. Who was I kidding, I knew that this was something important in my life. The mirror stared back judgmentally, as if it were actually alive. I pulled my eyes away from the mirror. This was not something that was only important in my life, it was important in every American’s life. This issue was more than just a black kid being shot.

I understood my brother’s passion for the first time. I realized something about my brother and also America.

We returned to the van to proceed with our long and boring trek. Each tree we passed along the road was a green amorphous blob as we flew down the highway. My eyes wavered, slowly closing. I almost fell asleep until my phone buzzed. I reached in my pocket then stopped. Remembering what happened the last time I checked my phone, I left it there as if it

was what caused my brother to speak. As if I pretended my phone was on silent, my brother would stay on silent too. Ironically, I wanted this silence, compared to the silence before where I had no choice, and I could not speak. This silence comforted me much more, and it felt like if anything were to change it was going to break me.

When we arrived at our destination in Columbia, we unloaded the van and greeted our cousins. I have four cousins on this side of my family. Similar to my family, one of my cousins were strongly opinionated. My cousin Grace shared similar views to my brother and this incited further conversation about Trayvon Martin. After all the formalities of seeing a relative, things began to go where I hoped they would not. Almost like my fear was chasing me, Grace turned to Phil and asked,“So Phil, what do you think about Trayvon Martin?” Though it may have been a brief moment between her words and his response, it felt like hours. It felt like in the split second everyone in the room shifted towards Phil.

“It was wrong, and George Zimmerman is abusing the system by getting away with murder.”

Grace responded, “Was that the name of the guy who shot him?”

“Yes,” Phil responded. Before he continued, he took a sip of his glass like he was preparing to give a long speech. “As an African American in a society where this can happen and all that will occur is a nice news story, I don’t think I can feel safe.”

My mom replied in a loving tone, “Honey, nobody is out there trying to shoot you.”

“But Mom, that’s where you’re wrong.” Phil rose to his feet and his inner actor emerged.

“Mom, what you fail to realize is that I have a target on my back. What you fail to realize is that there’s potential death only because I’m black.”

As he spoke each word came out stronger than the last. “In America, we all are in danger for only the color of our skin. We all can die because of these bodies we were born in. Not

because I’m intimidating or a gangster but only because I’m me. And I can’t be free until I’m safe with being me. Mom, I could die here, this isn’t just an irrational fear. Imagine the headline, 17-year-old African American thug shot on Lancaster Avenue. Mom, I know that you care for me so please listen when I say I’m scared. I’m scared for myself. I’m scared for Mark. I’m scared for all of us.”

Once again the silence returned. This time I was not comfortable with it, nor was I annoyed by it. I simply understood it better and was able to accept it.

I felt nervous because I knew I had a decision to make to speak up for myself or stay quiet. I had so many things I could have said.

Even though nobody was looking to me for a reply I felt all of the pressure of what Phil just said. I felt my emotions swelling up inside of me like a balloon about to burst. I felt like the adrenaline was building in my veins, like I had to fight or flee.

I stood up to face my family. I took a deep breath in and prepared to speak my mind.

My knees wobbled a bit and my feet shook. I couldn’t back down now, I already stood up and everyone’s eyes were already on me. I stared directly at my brother and spoke my mind.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I declared firmly. I scurried down the hall into the bathroom. I grabbed a towel off the rack and wiped off the bullets of sweat that were dropping from my face.

I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “You ran away.”

Mark Gregory 23

Farmer Yeshwin Sankuratri

The long brown hair tickled my neck, As she passed in a hurry. Just a Slight sniff of perfume was enough To_bring back memories. A garden with Blood red tomatoes, emerald green Vegetables flourishing. The colors of passion Covered the backyard. The brown hair, Bent over the plants like a momma bear To her cub. ‘Twas the most beautiful sight To see early in the spring morning. I got

The Garden

George Rengeppes

Up out of bed just to see the smile that Reassures. She took care of our garden.

Watching, thinking we are content, false.

Care, tend, nourish: words that escaped my Kindergarten mind, lying to myself, thinking The plants would be fine. The scent fades Away, and the plants start to die. I never Watered them. Was this the issue? Long nights, No calls, the only trace being the photographs On walls. The soil dries, the plants too, Water escaping them like the tears from her Eyes. There was no incentive, no passion.

The backyard is barren and never to be Planted on again. But her scent let me See the garden again, and the plants alive.

25

5

From the Night Shift Dopamine I look at you, and feel that painful tug in my groin.

It rises up, red hot and seething, louder, more anxious than angry steam trapped in an engine,

pushing relentlessly on snapping pistons; the soft, opulent, glorious flesh I inhale you.

Mirrors would lose their sharp, cutting edges, if I could just resist.

Even once.

Nicotine I bite down on fumes, and breath.

Numbed nerves, tingling, release.

Sucking in poison, my body becomes chaos.

I die, bit by bit, a massacre of ten thousand cells.

If this taste of death can melt the stress of a day, a week, a year, One more drag, the embers burn my fingers.

I inch towards that dark oblivion, that final rest.

imagine the real thing.

A gun, a bullet; a lighter, a cigarette.

It’s all the same, if you wait.

Mahal Yeshwin Sankuratri

Damned Yet, I still feel content.

Your body against mine; I still smile.

Hold me here, While the world damns us.

We are both stolen, you and I; karmic curses rain down upon us from scorned lovers, what goes around, comes around, and all that.

Us, two examples of seducible humanity: lustful, restless, passionate,

Hold me here.

slaves to lust.

25 Michael Schlarbaum

27

Panic

My thoughts fly back-and-forth as if they were the tennis balls at Wimbledon. The intensity of the highstakes match dims the beauty of the British background. Frustratingly, neither athlete can end the point, and the ball continues to be hit over the net with unending fury. Despite the incredible spectacle of the jaw-dropping rallies, one spectator decides to shout at the court; his message: “Breath Grant.” I realize in a further panicked state that I had not been breathing whilst the calamity of the tennis was taking place.

The world seems loud, yet I cannot hear a word. The mouths of passing strangers move to form sentences, but their audio has been muted. To my left and right, my vision slowly fades away, choking my peripherals into nonexistence. My surroundings begin to disappear in a gray haze, so I focus on the ground in front of me, fearing that my dizziness will prevail once again.

I make poor attempts at quick inhales, but the air feels thin and unappealing to my lungs. After gaining a shaky confidence in my ability to intake oxygen, I reassess my unified bodily function in hopes that the worse has passed. Of course, that would be too good to be true, and I immediately notice the sounds stemming from my chest.

My heart is beating with indefatigable thumps, each one more pronounced than the next. I can almost track the sensation of the beats as they echo from my sternum to the tips of my fingers. The rapid pulsation unsettles me; my best thought is to bring my hand over my rib cage, hoping it will heroically protect the rest of

me from my heart’s unnerving wrath.

For a moment, my conscious dislocates from my body. I want to scream for help, to run away, to catch my breath, to stop the madness. But, I am trapped, trapped in a flesh-covered machine on the verge of failure. I remember a friend telling me once about her experience with sleep paralysis. At first, her description of the haunting, existential minutes where her mind was active, yet had no control registered as distant and incomprehensible. In this moment, I share her pain. To see people stroll past, unable to sense the assistance that I require, and be completely incapable of shouting for their attention: that is the true definition of helplessness. Refocusing on the overwhelming heartbeats, I take a deep-breath, praying that somehow the thumping will stop.

Once again, I experience little cooperation. I do, however, begin to shake: a seismic force draining my legs of all stability. This corporeal earthquake, destined to drag me to the ground, fights with an unbridled energy. I bravely decide to fight back, yet all attempts to halt the shift of my tectonic plates only prompt the tremors to rise up the Richter scale. My hearing and my sight, my thoughts and my breaths, my heartbeat and my balance, they all have abandoned me. I cannot ask why, because nature knows nothing of

“

I want to scream for help, to run away, to catch my breath, to stop the madness.

But, I am trapped, trapped in a flesh-covered machine on the verge of failure.

”

The One Yeshwin Sankuratri

good or bad; it just is. I still don’t understand why, in all its soliterraneous glory, nature continues to select me as its opponent. Conceding that another bout in this eternal boxing match had been lost, I close my eyes, waiting for my body to perform a factory reset. Without a remote control, I can only wait for time, life’s referee, to decide when I can return to the proverbial locker room.

I regain autonomy. A wave of painful exhaustion thwarts my return to myself. Ambling towards my car, I shiver from energy depletion, goosebumps spreading exponentially across my frail body. The haunting realization finally hits me: I had suffered another panic attack.

I return home dejected, cursed with the inability to regulate my body during emotional distress. After sulking into the kitchen, I immediately notice an orange bottle in eerie solitude. Its extreme contrast to the monochromatic tile is poignant and alluring. A longer glance at the label reveals a severe case of medical logorrhea, although I am able to pick out my name among a few other things. The name of the medicine, Buspar, is in bold. The word registers no memory, yet somehow, I can sense its mysterious power; I immediately know its purpose.

As I unscrew the child-locked cap, a feeling of control courses through my veins with each

turn. The inside of the bottle is odorless, and the white of each pill blends into the next, forming a snow-like blob. I tentatively remove one, moving it between my fingertips, allowing my neurons to absorb every inch of the ellipsoid. Eventually, I simply lay the pill on the countertop. The presence of the single pill shocks me. I cannot comprehend how this one treatment will grant me self-control.

I cannot fathom how this piece of medicine will end the pain and anxiety. However it works, I am grateful.

Though, the longer I stare at it, its pulchritudinous mystery raises questions in my mind. Am I weak to accept medical help rather than work through my problems? Is it truly selfcontrol if a pill is regulating when I can have it?

Once I start, will I ever be able to live without it?

Problem after problem arises; my anxiety is on the verge of a resilient round two. But, in a moment of serene awareness, I laugh to myself, giggling because these questions are the reason this pill sits in front of me at all. Right there, I triumphantly decide that happiness supersedes anxiety, that my health is more important than my fears.

These pills do not dictate my life. Rather, they simply allow me to live it.

Grant Sterman

29

s d r iB e h T

Thousands of us, a couple hundred thousand, really The most densely populated one mile radius in the world.

For those dozen hours: Standing, sitting, yelling, eating, watching.

But really, most of all, waiting.

Waiting for fifty three men, none of whom we know, to unite us in a way nothing else possibly can.

Us Folks of all walks of life.

The blue collar worker is united with the businessman, creating one of the few consistent things in the tumultuous world we live in.

Here, there are no Democrats, no Republicans.

Everyone wears the same clothes, the same color.

The vast, concrete plain populated by a sea of green.

We are connected for no other reason than this, we have never met before, and we probably won’t meet again.

But on Sundays from September to January, and yes, February on those special years, we are together for The Birds.

er erb nG Be 31

Riddle of a Man

He drove, unthinking, unseeing, down an empty highway. The broken white lines on the road flashed across his field of vision, like somebody typing “s” in Morse code over and over and over again.

The highway ran ahead, unbroken, until it curved around a copse of dark trees. Ed drummed his fingers frantically on the steering wheel, already growing impatient at the hours of driving that lay ahead of him. As long as he arrived in the city, the trip would be worth it. The earlier, the better. Ed would not accept any accidents.

But he did not expect a golden-colored mass to dart in the road in front of him.

“Halt, mortal!,” it said, “You will not pass

seen. It shimmered even under the overcast sky, like a candle in the fog. Despite his best judgment, Ed walked towards the fallen animal, curiosity overpowering his need to call a tow truck.

As he stepped closer to the body, he saw that it was no animal.

In place of a furry neck, there was instead a headdress decorated with alternate blue and golden stripes, running from the top of the creature’s head to its shoulders. But when Ed looked at the animal’s face, he was shocked at what he saw.

It was a type of perfection that is seldom seen today.The creature had a woman’s face, carved from the pure, white marble, similar to statues Ed had seen in museums of classical art. She had dark

What secrets hid in the depths of the sky, the shadows of the clouds? until-” The voice had no time to finish, as several tons of metal and machine barrelled into the creature with a dull thump, sending Ed flying into the roof of the car. The vehicle swerved off the road, but Ed stopped the car before it rolled into a ditch. He looked at his body and found himself uninjured, although his head felt like a nail being hammered into a wall.

When the throbbing between his temples finally subsided, Ed struggled out the car and checked the damage. The entire left side of the hood was crumpled like a ball of paper. He exhaled in frustration; he was going to be very late. It might take hours for a tow truck to arrive, and even then he would have to follow the car to a repair shop.

Turning his head from the battered car, his eyes traced the treads of black rubber to the animal that caused the accident. It lay in the middle of the road, lying in a pool of blood, the golden coat speckled with blotches of dark red. The golden fur struck him as the most mysterious thing he’d ever

eyebrows and dark eyelids, and lips of crimson red.

The gold-and-blue headdress rested on her smooth forehead.

Ed concluded that she must be a sphinx.

The collision had broken the subtle contours and curves of the creature’s face. Her mouth was also painted in the dark red of her blood, and her nose seemed to be knocked in by a hammer.

Uneasy, Ed knelt to stroke the creature’s body. The fur was soft and warm to the touch.

Her eyes burst open and the creature lunged.

Ed fell backward onto the dark asphalt, frantically crawling away from the reawakened corpse.

That would have been his end, but the creature collapsed. Ed saw the human face wince in pain, then let out a breath of resignation.

However, her two eyes still glared into Ed, sparkling blue ovals surrounding circles of darkness, like scalpels penetrating the deepest recesses of his mind.

Using her paw, the creature swept away the blood around her mouth.

“Curse you…Mortal,” said the creature, hissing.

“Should I, help you, Miss?” asked Ed. The creature smiled, revealing a set of pearly teeth stained with red.

“I can hardly believe such a compassionate specimen as you would have the heart to hurt a being like me.”

“I mean, you were the one who ran out onto the road in the first place,” said Ed, rising to a sitting position, “I didn’t want to run you over.”

The creature rolled her eyes.

“Find a way to control your iron steed, Mortal.”

“Well, for a being as intelligent as you, shouldn’t you know better than to run in front of galloping horses?”

The sphinx’s eyes narrowed.

“How dare you speak against me, insolent Mortal,” she said, “I stop those who pass along this road and ask them a riddle. If they answer correctly, I allow them to pass. If not, I feed on their flesh.”

“Delightful. Wouldn’t it be easier to eat every traveler instead of going through the trouble of playing with riddles?”

The sphinx threw back its head and laughed, her guffaws echoing in the trees, and then started coughing. When she finally spoke again blood coated her lips.

“Unenlightened human. I do not ask riddles out of personal need, but out of necessity. What if the Sun and Moon refuse to come out? What if the god of Death refuses to kill? What if the rain god refuses to weep? We beings are not as powerful as you mortals believe us to be. We cannot deny our own nature.”

“So basically, if you guys don’t do your jobs, we all die? What do riddles have to do with all this?”

T he sphinx shrugged.

“Riddles are like humans; they’re open to interpretation,” said the sphinx. She was going to say something else but suddenly coughed more blood. When she found the breath to speak, her voice was weaker.

“Out of the way, Mortal…I do not want to die on this road.”

The sphinx stretched out her paws and struggled to the shoulder of the highway, masking her pain at every movement. Ed wanted to help her, but saw the sharp claws and thought better of it.

By the time the sphinx reached the grass her blood had stained the underside of her body.

The creature’s breathing was already haggard, her lungs struggling for every breath.

“Here…Mortal…let me tell you a riddle,” said the sphinx, “What goes on four feet in the morning, two feet at noon, and three feet in the evening?”

“I’ve heard this one before,” said Ed, “It’s a man, isn’t it?”

Grinning weakly, the sphinx said, “There are many answers; it depends on the path one takes.”

Before Ed could inquire further, he saw the sphinx’s eyes fade, followed by the eyelids closing with finality.

Ed did not know how long he sat by the dead sphinx, but when he stood up to return to his car, his eyes sparkled with new light. The forest, once a backdrop of leafy vegetation, seemed to beckon to be explored.

What secrets hid in the depths of the sky, the shadows of the clouds? Ed noticed the black shapes of vultures , no doubt attracted to the corpse below them.

Surprisingly, the car roared to life when Ed turned on the engine. He slowly eased the car onto the highway, gradually speeding up as he left the vultures to their feast. A feeling of exhilaration washed over him, as if he was the subject of a black and white photograph who stepped into a world of color.

Soon a sign darted past, informing that the next exit was in one mile. Once he might have ignored the notice, but what had once been a distraction was now full of optimism. He’ll take longer to reach the city, but perhaps a mechanic lived off the highway who could look at the car.

Perhaps there will be a rental agency.

He exited the highway, his head full of the possibilities.

Toby Ma 33

Burnt Thomas came home early to prepare. He removed the gas mask and the oxygen tank attached to it from the trunk of his car. His breath gave off plumes of white steam in that New England winter air. It bit his lungs as he trudged towards his house, all white light and spectacle.

The sunlight reflected off the snow in blinding waves. His feet left deep tracks as he struggled with the weight he carried, the mask, the tank.

“Tabitha,” he growled when he entered his house. He heard a thump upstairs but no feet coming down the steps.

“Tabitha, goddamnit, get down here!”

“Yes sir, right away!” she yelled from the top floor. “What do you need sir?” she said hesitantly, eying the tank that stood beside Thomas. He saw the fear in her eyes that had taken root there recently. It wasn’t just her. He’d gained quite the reputation amongst the staff as of late. They whispered behind his back, about his temper, about his loud ranting, about how recently he had been staying in a different part of the house than his wife, about why that was, about how he’d snap at the slightest provocation, his voice lashing out in sharp waves, his open hand close behind it.

They talked about the palpable tension that existed at dinner each night with Mrs. Pent. He glared at her from across the long wood table, eating his food with an angry determination.

Sometimes he’d burst into the room that held his wife, exclaiming “I got you!” only to find her talking to a member of the staff. Last week, he fired all of the men.

“Help me get the firewood from outside. I’m going to make a fire tonight.”

He watched her put her coat on over her uniform and together they walked outside. It took them several trips to get enough wood for his satisfaction, a six foot wide and waist high stack.

“That’ll be all Tabitha,” he said. “I’d like you and the rest of the staff to leave as soon as possible. I’d like to be alone tonight.”

“But sir, what about dinner?” Tabitha asked.

“Don’t worry about it. We won’t be eating.

You are dismissed.”

Tabitha left the room. He heard her finding the other servants. Within ten minutes each and everyone of them had left. Thomas remained with his thoughts in that massive thing he had called his home. Feels cold in here, he thought. Better change that. He took the mask and the tank up to his study first.

Then he began bringing the wood.

The room had gotten hot. Hotter than burning furnaces full of bright embers. It radiated in waves that stretched outwards like the hands of some ghost from hell. Thomas sat and relished in the heat, the anger he felt inside burning with it. He heard Jimmy open the door and walk up the stairs.

“You alright there, Mr. Pent?” Jimmy asked as he fought through the heat, leaving the door open to let some of it leak out.

Photograph Sarah Michaelsky

“Aye, I’m fine Jimmy. Close that door behind you, please.” Jimmy did.

Thomas glared at him, his face brightly lit and red on one side, and completely black on the other, hidden in shadow. He felt the last of the fresh air seep out of the room.

“Do you know why I summoned you today, Jimmy?”

“No, sir.”

“No?” Thomas paused, grabbing another log and throwing it into the inferno that burned in his fireplace. It ate the log with a shower of sparks.

He squatted down by the fire. Jimmy could not fathom how he could stand so close to the flames.

The light of the fire bounced off the smooth bright silk of Thomas’s crimson robe in orange showers.

Sweat lingered on his skin, his face turning a deep-burning red.

“Are you sure you’re-” “I had a dream about you last night.” Thomas interrupted.

“A dream, sir?”

“Yes Jimmy, a fucking dream.” Thomas snapped. He walked toward Jimmy from the flames. Veins bulged out from under his skin. “Do you know what my dream was about Jimmy?”

Thomas said rising.

“I can’t imagin-” “You can’t imagine it? Oh, come now Jimmy.

We’ve known each other for a long time now. You must have an idea.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Ah, of course. How could you? Was my dream after all.”

Thomas grabbed the end of a fire iron that lay beside the hearth. His skin gave off an angry hiss as he gripped the burning medal.

“I’m beginning to think myself a bit mad these days Jimmy,” he said with a wild look in his eyes.

Jimmy staggered backwards, a look of horror crossing his face. “Sir, you’ve got the wrong idea!” he said, as he backed towards the door, fumbling for the handle behind him. His hand found it and gave it a twist, but it would not budge.

“Ah, Jimmy. The door locks on the inside when you shut it. But you already knew that didn’t you?”

“Mr. Pent listen-” “Sit the fuck down, Jimmy. Sit down in that chair there.”

Jimmy sat in the chair.

“That’s it, Jimmy. Nice and close to the fire.

35

It’s cold out Jimmy. I wouldn’t want you to feel cold in my house. That’d make me a rather awful host now wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose, sir” Jimmy mumbled, sweat starting to trickle down his neck. His heart began to pound in his chest, rattling the prison that held it.

“Care for a drink, Jimmy?”

“I’m alright.”

“Ah, come now, Jimmy. I insist. You see this bottle here?”

Jimmy turned. Thomas held a bottle of bourbon in his hands.

“It’ll burn your throat like boiling water Jimmy, but oh the spice of it all. Magnificent.”

He offered Jimmy a glass. Jimmy shook his head, but Thomas just shoved it further.

“Cheers, Jimmy!”

Thomas paused to watch him drink, and grinned as he did. He saw the pangs of pain cross Jimmy’s face as the bourbon worked its way down his throat. He began coughing as Thomas downed his glass as well.

“Having trouble breathing, Jimmy? Come now, catch your breath, catch your breath.”

Thomas patted Jimmy’s back, a little too hard for it to help in any way, getting harder with each subsequent cough, til he pounded Jimmy’s back with great closed fist strikes.

“Come now, Jimmy! Catch your breath, man!”

Jimmy fell to the floor, sputtering.

“Now about that dream, Jimmy!” Thomas roared, his eyes alive with a burning rage. He walked towards his desk, grabbed the mask and the tank, and returned to sit by the fire.

“Jimmy, my boy. Jimmy, my young friend...” his voice was quiet and quick and mad. “Do you remember how we met? You came to me all smiles and good intentions all those years ago. You had a boogie man on your back, but I brought you in and set my men to their dreaded work. I ripped that monster right off your shoulders. Do you remember, Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded.

“I brought you to this very room, and we

celebrated. And you said to me, “How is your wife, sir?” and I saw that look of menace in your eyes, I saw that devilish smile in your lips, and then, last night, in my dream, there you were as I burst into the closed doors. There you were, Jimmy, your body shining in fire light, your body, pressed against my wife. You looked at me with that same smile, Jimmy, and began to thrust. I can still hear those treacherous moans, Jimmy. And it was then I realized that it was you. All along Jimmy. It was you.”

Thomas stood and slammed the flume shut with a snap of his arm and slipped the gas mask over his face and turned the knob on the tank.

Jimmy began to scramble away, but Thomas grabbed him by the shoulders, towering over him, a masked monster, a man drowning the closest thing to a son he’d had.

“All along, Jimmy! I’d thought it was a member of the grounds crew, or her fucking tennis instructor. But in the end, it was you.

You’ve been fucking my wife.” Smoke began to build in the room, billowing out from that orange flame in black puffs of breath.

“I saw those secret smiles, I heard the shuffling downstairs in the night! I noticed the way the conversation seemed to vanish upon my entrance, all the laughter gone!”

Jimmy began to convulse. His face twisted as he shook his head side-to-side, mouthing words but unable to speak them. No he seemed to be saying, his eyes filled with guilt and regret, but pleading still.

“I’m going to watch you burn, Jimmy. I’m going to watch you burn.”

Jimmy gasped for air as his lungs filled with deadly smoke, the room itself becoming a furnace. Jimmy kept struggling, but Thomas held him in a vice. He brought Jimmy up and smashed him to the floor again and again.

“Struggle on, Jimmy! That’s it boy, fight!

Fight Jimmy! Feel that rage!” Thomas cried out, his voice an unintelligible garble behind the mask, coming out like a growing growl. Thomas watched the light leave his eyes and dropped Jimmy back to the floor. His body landed with

a dull, lifeless thud. Thomas opened the flume and tossed the corpse in the fire. As he opened the door, the inferno sucked in the air with a whoosh, giving off a burst of flames that set the chairs beside it aflame.

Thomas walked out of the house cloaked in steaming vengeance, his skin the pink of lightly cooked meat, his face a deep red. As he walked out of his soon-to-be-burning house waves of heat radiated off his burnt body.

He saw a flicker of lights in the pool house.

Into the Woods Troy Gibbs-Brown

Heard the laughter of his wife, and the deeper laughter of a man. Or perhaps it was the hum of the wind. Or a dog’s growl. It really didn’t matter anymore. Thomas glanced back towards the window of his study where Jimmy’s body burnt.

He grimaced, walked towards the car, pulled out the revolver in the glove compartment, and set off towards his wife; the night’s work was just beginning.

Michael Schlarbaum

Piece Name Author

37

Above Yeshwin Sankuratri

Song of the Earth You find me inside covered with dust As if I had never been before, As if the sun’s rays never scorched my surface, As if the darkness enveloped me for all eternity And smothered me with intoxicating fumes.

But yes! You have found me alive Inside the deepest crevices of the mind Behind the darkest corner of the sky Underneath the dry, dusty land That you call home.

I am the celestial light that brightens the night The calm of the wind after a storm The buzz of songbirds on a midsummer’s morning Echoing throughout the woods and hills Surrounding each being with natural beauty and grace.

‘Tis I who melds all who toil in the earth And those who sleep under the moonlight’s gaze With hearts so large and pure That they are destined to find me Just as you have looked all your life.

The ghosts of yesteryear all fade away.

The black bile pours out the insides And blood runs free Pumping and pumping out.

Steadily, the heart’s beat increases.

Winslow Wanglee

39

Race,

the Genetic Head Start

Equal, but not fair.

I realized difference between these two words as a kid while still understanding the intricacies of the world. “Hey, mom, how do people get freckles?” I asked while walking home from my elementary school. “The same way people get white skin and black skin; they’re just born with it,” my mom replied. As I continued to ponder about this topic for a little at the table, I kept getting more confused about the concept of genes and inheritance. The dry, rickety, sound of my unoiled ceiling fan raged, only letting me think in small incomplete intervals. “But mom, can I grow freckles over time, even though I wasn’t born with them?” I asked.

“No, son. Everyone’s born a certain way. You can never change,” my mom said.

Until that day, the term “race” was never a part of the enigma known as my childhood mind.

I understood that everyone’s unique skin color made them stand out, but I did not understand what it entailed yet.

After the discussion and lunch with my mom, I went into my room a little upset. Not because I couldn’t get freckles, but because for the first time in my life I realized that some of my unfavorable characteristics could not be changed.

This would not have been as big of a deal to some of my classmates, but as a short and awkward kid growing up, it saddened me. Do I not get to be tall? Can I be funnier? Could I not be shy?

No. The feeling was like that of an astronaut who dreamt of going into space, only to find out he could not due to a minor health problem he got from his parents.

After some deep thought about the topic, my mom wanted me to help her run errands, so I joined her. I grabbed my typical graphic tee, red basketball shorts, some oversized black sandals,

Timeline Yeshwin Sankuratri

and left my house. It was hot that day, and as soon as I stepped out my door, I instantly regretted not asking my mom to just drive.

The multitude of cars provided a hazy sight for us passersbys with their exhaust pipes while the the radiant summer sun beat down on us, escalating conditions from bad to the worst possible. I harassed my mother with questions ranging from “Mom what are we having for dinner tonight?” to “Why are ladybugs red?”

As a result of not getting enough sleep that night, my mom replied with the same answer for each question, “I don’t know, shhhhh.”

On the way back home, after we finished shopping, I continued to bother my mother.

“Mom, are you sure I can’t change the way I look? Can’t I like use permanent paint or something?” I asked.

“Son, I already told you this. You physically cannot change what makes you different. Being different isn’t all about looks.

There’s a lot more to it,” replied my mom.

This question bothered her; however, it was not like the other pointless ones. It was as if she was just stabbed with a knife, and the only way to rip it out was to not avoid my

question anymore. “Son, the way you look says a lot about you to people in this time and era. You are not like your friends from school with white parents. As Asian people living in America, we have to work harder to be able to compete with others.”

“Mom, are you crazy? I’m the smartest in my class, and I’m faster than at least half of them,” I naively replied.

“No, son. I don’t mean compete in that way. When you start looking for jobs or applying for college, it becomes more difficult because you’re not white.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would people not choose to hire someone just because of his color?” I asked, more confused than ever.

“You wouldn’t really understand it right now, but basically if a company or college has too many people of a single race, it reflects badly on their reputation by favoring a group of people. Colleges will always take a much smaller number of Asians than white kids so that they won’t be seen as an “Asian school,” explained my mom.

“I’ll just have to work harder then, and be

one of the few Asian people to succeed.”

I look back at this day as a catalyst for me trying to be the best person and student I can.

I felt like I had a grasp of the impact of being Asian as a child. I was wrong. Not only did I just tread the murky waters of this topic, I was flat out clueless. My mom’s words echo more and more as I grow older and get ready for college. The constant feeling of needing to work harder, just to be ABLE to compete with people of highlyaccepted races is stressful. Getting a B in a class feels like an absolute failure because I know I’m slipping behind my many competitors who could easily take my spot. My biggest hope in the near future is to succeed in getting where I want for school just to show that with determination, equal can be a synonym for fair in my eyes. My biggest hope for the far future is to be able to not have a dialogue with my kids like I did with my mom, and for the term “racial quota” in business and colleges to be obsolete. I want them to be able to succeed without barriers. I want them to start a race at the starting line, not behind others.

Kenneth Pham 41

Un Pendio Scivoloso “Relax a little, man. There’s no one here.”

Mateo quickly looked outside the van then closed his eyes and laughed nervously, putting his head back against the headrest and sinking a little more in his seat. The lot was empty, just as Luca said it was. But it still didn’t feel right. It seemed like every time they were together the two of them were always drinking or

Gaspard Vadot

smoking or both. He wanted to go back to the time when he could have fun and a clear mind at the same time.

Luca handed him the bottle of whiskey he had stolen from his dad’s study the day before. Luca looked amorously at the joint in his hand, resting in perfect balance between two fingers.

He then stretched out his legs onto the dashboard of the old vehicle, his other hand behind his head, like the cowboys in the American Westerns he loved to watch. He was sitting in the passenger seat, with Mateo in the driver’s seat. Not that it mattered. This van’s engine hadn’t started in years. The tires and the engine were

already missing when the two boys had found the rusty vessel of the Volkswagen bus ten years ago in this abandoned lot.

Mateo placed the bottle in between his legs and took a breath. Almost like a sigh, but more timid and filled with longing. He rested his hand on the steering wheel, remembering the times he attempted to drive the old bus when he was younger. There was Luca, sitting next to him, speaking in an imaginary radio, looking outside to spot any imaginary sirens chasing them down after the pretend crime they had just committed. He remembered the lightness of being a child and playing robbers, not having to worry about consequences, the comfort of not knowing any better. For Mateo, there was none of that lightness in the air now. Just the stench of marijuana.

“Do we really always have to be stoned? I’m worried about you, Luca.”

“I wish you’d just call me Lu like everyone else,” Luca answered, ignoring the question as well as Mateo’s worries.

“I’m serious, Lu.” Mateo never liked the diminutive, but he needed to be heard. “I’m tired of this shit. And you’re not helping.”

“Oh, Little Mateo is getting angry,” Luca said, reaching over to ruffle his boyfriend’s dark brown hair.

“Don’t patronize me,” Mateo snapped, unamused.

He had stopped growing early in his teenage years, and constantly felt emasculated by his shortness. He and Luca looked very similar when they were eight, when they first climbed into the abandoned van, but now the picture was different. Luca, tall and muscular, made Mateo look like a little girl, and he knew it.

The grin disappeared from Luca’s face.

“You know I need this,” he said, “If you really love me-” “Don’t throw that shit at me, man,” Mateo said to a wide-eyed Luca. “I’m done with this.”

He swung the door open and jumped out. The bottle of whiskey that was between his

legs fell to the ground, crashing into a puddle of alcohol and broken glass.

“Hey, what the fu-” Luca’s disbelief was cut short as Mateo slammed the door shut behind him.

The van was a sacred spot for the two men. It was where they celebrated and they mourned. It was where they had their agreements and their arguments. It was where they kissed each other for the first time when they were just boys.

But Luca had turned it into a temple of drug and drink.

Mateo knew he had to run. He couldn’t be around Luca any longer. He wanted to be alone for a while. He had a spot to go to where he would be alone, a house he knew of with a roof with a good view where no one ever went. It was on the other side of town.

The late afternoon sun sat hidden behind low clouds, a few stray rays shining down on the urban maze below.

Following that afternoon’s heat, the town began to wake up just as a boy ran through the narrow streets in a white linen shirt, unbuttoned, the light fabric flying behind him like a cape. His feet were rapidly hitting the paved streets, his steps echoing against the walls or the stone houses, his heart flying double the beat of his steps, his vision blurred by the tears filling his eyes,

43

Spring Has Sprung Jake Weinstein

When Luca woke up in the van, alone and still not sober, the moon had risen above the pitched roofs. Far away, sirens resonated in the darkness. Dazed, he propped the door open and hopped out, a shadow in the darkness. He leaned back on the side of the bus, bent over with one hand on his knee and the other across his stomach, laughing, alone in the obscurity.

He fumbled to take his phone out, entered a number and slowly brought the phone to his ear, his fingers clasped tightly around it. No answer. Shit. He dialed again. Let it ring twice, then suddenly hung up. Nah, he thought. Fuck Mateo. He dialed another number, without calling it. He looked at the screen on his phone, at the numbers he had just typed in. He put his phone back in his pocket, and bent over, with both hands on his knees.

“Come on, Luca. What are you doing with yourself?”

He stood up, walked away from the van, turned around, put his chin up and looked towards the sky standing there for a good bit of time, his eyes closed, motionless until he turned around again and walked in a circle with his head in his hands, then towards the Volkswagen. The abandoned vehicle stood idly by, witness to the drunken absurdity of Luca’s conflicts.

Luca was angry at himself for letting Mateo run away, but furious at Mateo for running away; angry at himself for drinking and smoking, furious at Mateo for not drinking and not smoking. He knew Mateo was probably right. He knew that he was being inconsiderate, a bit of an ass. He knew that he deserved to be walked out on. But he didn’t know how to apologize.

“Damn it.” He punched the van. “Damn it, damn it dammit dammit dammit,” he continued to exclaim, his voice turned into a slur, his fist repeatedly punching the door at each expression of his anger.

He pulled out his phone again, looked at the dialed number and called it. A woman’s

voice answered: “Luca, were you with Mateo?”

“Nah. Fuck Mateo,” Luca said.

“Luca. This is serious,” the woman said, her voice almost quivering. “What happened?”

“Honestly don’t want to talk about it,” Luca replied immediately. “You alone?”

Silence on the line.

“Sofia?”

“Come on by,” Sofia answered.

Luca hung up and turned off his phone, not wanting Mateo to contact him. He looked at his hand, his dry knuckles now red and beginning to swell. He wiped the blood and began walking towards Sofia’s house, just up the street.

Luca, serene, still drunk, stole his way through the darkness, leaving behind the bus and the lot. The place where he once felt safe, where he discovered his ability to love, now seemed absurd to him. He wanted to let it perish, fall from his consciousness along with his childhood memories. In his calm abandon, he may have even thought he left Mateo behind in that dark abyss. He may have thought Sofia would be enough to make him forget.

Sofia was one of those innocent women who never did anything wrong herself, yet she seemed to always be present when other people did terrible things. Maybe her long, brown hair and those blue eyes --she had the most wonderful eyes-- attracted the worst kind, or she enjoyed the thrill of being an agent of chaos. Or both. She and Luca shortly dated a couple of years ago, and he went back to her every once in a while, to forget his problems.

She didn’t sleep around that much, it just happens that she always slept with the wrong people.

“You alright?” Sofia asked, opening the door for Luca when he knocked.

Luca winked back with a smile. “Now I am.” He leaned down to kiss her, which she returned, but without a smile. She rubbed his arm and looked at him with a sad expression on her face.

“Wanna talk about Mateo?”

“No, Azure. Fuck Mateo.” He had started calling her Azure when they were dating, because of her eyes, of course.

“You can’t jus-” she tried to interject.

“I said: Fuck Mateo. That’s it. Now. Room or couch? Or did I come here for nothing?”

“You’re drunk, Luca. I know it’s tough right now but this isn’t you. Lemme take you home.”

“I’m fine, Azure. Don’t worry about me” “You need to go hom-,” Sofia insisted.

“I said I’m fine!” he yelled, grabbing Sofia’s arm. “Now why did you let me come here if you’re just gonna be a bitch like this?”

“I thought you wanted to talk about Mateo…”

“Why do you keep talking about Mateo?” he said, still yelling.

“He loved you!”

He pushed Sofia’s arm away and threw his own arms into the air. “Just go fuck him instead of me if that’s what you want.”

“Luca, how can you even say that right now?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t you know?”

Luca ran through town all the way to Mateo’s house, pushing people and things aside, nearly tripping over sidewalks and poles and children playing marbles on the pavement. Out of breath, tears in his eyes, his heart no longer sounding like a distinct beat but more like a constant hum.

Sofia told him Mateo slipped from the roof of an abandoned house uptown.

The police said a shingle gave out from underneath his foot. They were looking for him for details on Mateo’s day so he told Sofia he was going there--she would have never let him leave otherwise. But he had passed the station long ago. Why, Mateo, why? It can’t be.

How can it be?

Luca, legs trembling, arrived and knocked on the door with the palm of his hand, hitting the door hard. “I’m sorry,

Mateo,” he said quietly to himself, panicking, hyperventilating. The door remained unopened. Another knock. They say he dropped from over ten meters. His voice turned to a yell. “I’m sorry!” Luca, now hitting the door full force, his knuckles still bleeding from earlier, had tears flowing from his eyes, his face twisted in a grimace of pain, but not from physical damage to his hand.

The door opened. It was Mateo’s mother, in tears. She shook her head and hugged Luca, crying uncontrollably. Behind her, Luca saw Mateo’s shirt. His white linen shirt, balled up on the floor, had turned red.

45

Broken Down Myles Scott

Mommom

Before I go, I wanted to leave you with this.

My emotions running wild, falling into a deep, endless abyss.

This time, it wasn’t a joke. There was no happy ending.

Till death do us apart was a friend request and it was pending.

On to the brink of tears, 55 years, gone in a few short weeks.

This demon was relentless, and it was something she could not defeat.

As she sat there, I knew she was in no more pain.

The morphine hooked to her bloodstream, like drops of last night’s rain.

12/1/12

Michael Clymer 47

Lig hte rF luid A fire burns within, Constantly begging for more air.

The more oxygen that fills our lungs, the more we desire, Never thinking about anything else.

The fire within burns us to a crisp.

Brings us together.

Rips us apart.

Cannot be satisfied.

We will never be content.

Running through each day surrounded in a foggy smoke, 6:30 to 11.

Day break till the last light, Day by day is the same, Running through each day chasing our tails, Throwing twigs into our fire

Love is an odd thing.

It grows like a ripple in a lake, cannot be touched, cannot be seen, Yet we know it’s there, Poking at the back of our heads at the worst times.

Do you see someone else when you gaze into the mirror, Someone more articulate, Bigger, Someone who looks so slightly different, Or do you see yourself?

What do I want?

A wallet too thick to fit in my pocket, A quarry on my wrist, Or to drench the fire.

Gav in

Bur ke 49

Diamond Street I’ve always been told that words and pictures have meaning, That long speeches and huge paintings have power, That a single photograph and a single word can change lives.

I say that’s a load of crap.

I live on Diamond Street in the middle of Philadelphia, The poorest part of the poorest major city in the US. There ain’t no diamonds on diamond street I can tell you that much.

Just a few run down buildings with eviction notices hanging up everywhere.

I’ll tell you something, if you wanna get me mad, really mad, All you gotta do is put up a few more eviction papers on Diamond Street.

Cause guess what?

None of us got anywhere else to go, so stop telling us to leave.

I work my ass off for minimum wage everyday, I sweat and toil hoping for a better tomorrow, praying, Yet it never comes.

Basically Philly Troy Gibbs-Brown

I stare in Malcolm X’s eyes every time I walk out my front door.

His stupid glasses looking too big for his 10x10 foot face, Yet I feel like I know him, and I trust him, look after my family I tell him.

My wife who works so hard and, like me, hopes for a better tomorrow, My kids who cannot comprehend what their father does for a living, Cleaning up shit for a preppy school where all the kids where blazers.

One day my kid will wear a blazer like that, and get a good education.

That blazer Malcolm wears so proudly on his shoulders, That education he holds so proudly around his neck, They will have a passport to the future.

Charlie Baker

51

No

Charlie Towle

Thoughts Yeshwin Sankuratri

I said “no” to my brother’s affection, his yearning for acceptance.

His sincere preservation of our relationship, unable to perforate my lukewarm attempt to maintain that which we share in common.

He looks back as if he forgot something, I do not act.

He has desires of me and of him in harmony.

I do not meet him in the middle.

Could an amorphous emotion transform into a superficial appreciation?

Or the fear of mutual redamancy repel a perpetual admiration?

An unparalleled love in his voice rings like a lullaby.

It is nurturing, but I chose not to listen.

He begs to open my ears, and match his effort, but I now resist an eternal vulnerability.

As his chords reverberate a melancholic hymn, no longer do I hear tranquility, only the fatigue of an empty heart.

No longer am I protected by a myriad of affection, only the lingering memories in my periphery.

His face, once so recognizable, is now foreign like an unfamiliar hue through the lense of a newborn.

53

Atticus

His name unknown, as is his story.

Squatting by the creek, washing his hands, thickly caked with dirt.

I’ve seen him before, always the same as our last encounter: Tattered blue overalls, a red and green plaid shirt, blue hat, a pair of black boots.

The boots stand out to me, looking brand new.

He must take good care of them.

His gaze always strong but kind, piercing through a wrinkled face and white beard.

His tone always the same, sounding as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Howdy!” he’ll say when we cross paths.

He always seems to be happy enough and busy, As if he has a mission for the day.

I have much respect for the man who has continued to work well into old age.

He seems like a man with respect for himself and the people around him.

He seems like someone I’d like to know and learn about.

Next time I see him, we will talk.

I haven’t seen the man in weeks.

In the paper there was a name in the obituary column.

It stood alone and had no writing under it like the others had.

Atticus G. Mcintyre He’d seemed like an Atticus, but his name is unknown, as is his story.

Message Yeswin Sankuratri

Carson Rooney

55

At What Cost I saw the best minds of my generation — Puerto Rican Einstein, Afro-puff Steve Jobs, and Gold-grilled Shakespeare — driven insane and morphed into mailboxes.

Cold as steel, they give nothing, only taking what wasn't wasn’t theirs.

Always posted on the corner.

Sunup to sundown, they became the night.

Entrenched in a sadistic cycle that takes no prisoners, only life sentences.

Forgotten and cast aside, deemed murderous by the world that needed them most.

Self-medication for the trauma.

IIwent wentto tohigh highschool; school; they went to school high.

Pulls from the blunt stronger than single mothers.

We used to be the same.

Now I stress over SAT’s; them, rubber bands to bundle dead white men.

I see them go in pieces, but I know they would rather come in peace.

Tyler

North Philly Folk Tale When I used to ask my grandmother how old she was she used to always tell me, “Child, I am as old as the trees.”

But exactly how old are the trees?

They had trees during times of slavery.

I read once, in February, that the runaway slaves used to shroud themselves in the great big leaves of oak trees.

I wonder if Harriet Tubman knew my grandmother.

“Nah for real, Grandmom. Quit playing. How old are you really?

“My child, I done already told you! I am as old as the trees.”

Funny, I thought trees lived forever.

But just like the trees, I watched as my grandmother was cut down to a Stump.

Campbell

57

The Following Scenario They looked down and pronounced it dead.

Stinking of disease and deferred dreams, But maybe life.

One even said they should leave and pursue other schemes.

We’ll call this one Steve.

Steve snarled his normal snarl And stared his deathly stare.

We all knew Steve.

Steve believed the world was made to serve his greed, And his needs should always be received.

Steve was the hound in a herd of sheep, The king in a game of pawns Controlling each one To its inevitable death.

They glanced back at Steve reluctantly.

And, as Steve believed, They all wanted to leave.

Except one boy, we’ll call him Paul.

Paul called on his stronger side, Refusing to abide by Steve’s beliefs.

Paul left his status along with his innocence To tend to this dreamless entity, And hopefully save it.

For if the world had less Pauls and more Steves, Then maybe it would be dead.

Message Yeshwin Sankuratri

Matthew Wilson

59

Divinity of Myself Why elevate the Divine?

That which shrouds itself in fog of mystery, Swallowing the inquiry of mortal mind In darkness and Sucking the life and spirit of This world From soul and mind?

Why relinquish time of life, Beauty of nature, Symphonies of pleasure, Gifts of sensation, Harmonies of man and world To that which holds itself in oblivion?

For seasons countless and blurred I held in my heart passions of Church and Faith, Unwavering in conviction that through Love of God, Love of His glory, His majesty, His greatness, I may come to know beauty in this world; That this beauty may bestow happiness and joy upon my Soul.

But nay, happiness and joy eluded my ever-straining hands, For I falsely placed my worship and love onto He who I cannot see.

But I can see myself.

And I can love myself.

I can see the contours of my body, Feel the keenness of my mind, the straining tendrils of thought and contemplation, The sensations of flesh and sinew, wondrous in their multitude and delightful in their diversity.

I can hear nature falling upon my ears and I can taste the gifts of nature upon my tongue.

I myself can See these things, I myself can Feel these things, I myself can Taste these things, And I can love them.

And I can love my Self.

Suddenly, a wondrous ecstasy befell my Soul.

Ah, I can not describe the feelings which swept over my Self at that moment, So ferocious was the strength of the storm, The revelations of euphoric love, delightful beauty, rapturous joy.

But beauty not of God, not of Church, not of Faith in the Divine, But beauty and love and faith in My Self, in My Soul.

Blossom Yeshwin Sankuratri

I elevate not the Divine; Not God; I elevate myself.

I elevate my Soul.

For my Soul is Divine And the Divine is manifest in my Soul.

Nelson Liu

61

Classic Cane Yeshwin Sankuratri

Mannerisms Living isn’t about a golden moment.

It’s not about a grand finale or anything that superfluous.

It’s about the mannerisms of life; the pulling of the currents when you’re swimming in it, feeling it swell on your belly and watching it dissipate shortly after.

It’s about the little things– shimmering smiles and invaluable moments of silence.

Don’t fall into the gentle lull of complacency or you won’t be able to keep afloat.

Life may be beautiful but it doesn’t believe in warm welcomes or peaceful goodbyes.

Appreciate whatever drifts your way, and become a master at navigating the vast ocean.

Take the comforting breeze and the harsh tempests; they’re what make you human, what make me human.

Robert Manganaro 63

Envying the Grass Barrett Spragg

The grass does not stand collective Each sweet blade exists on its own accord

But the grass sways together when pushed by a calm breeze Like one organism, never out of sync People think we are not like the blades of grass Individual in nature and cut at our roots The grass blooms, thrives, and lives together The grass hurts, suffers, and dies together The grass knows its purpose Where it belongs in this cold world People think we are not like the blades of grass Individual in nature and cut at our roots Scared of our commonalities We seek something that makes us unique We should envy the grass and its connectivity For we are selfish and poisonous like a weed We will not survive if we cannot harmonize We must take the grass as an example But we are not without hope, I feel the roots connecting our heartbeats We will wilt away without the moist ground We are separate and different but united as the same All on the same side in this game of life or death We must move together when pushed by a calm breeze Like the grass sitting peacefully on the hill

Teacher Yeshwin Sankuratri

65

Ride Yeshwin Sankuratri

What another dream My bad I meant the same dream Trapped within some husk of my memory That’s stagnant and filled with simplicity Can’t get out no matter how much I scream Can’t get out how can this even be called a dream This world is so fake All that’s here is me on a lake Sparkling blue And a spot of green to stand on too But what is there left for me to do The same dream again and again Maybe I should just jump And leave my little stump

The Same Dream?

The water is cold like ice Is the least I could say to suffice I sink and sink and sink.... and sink I don’t dare to take a small drink A dream this must be Because I’m not drowning see

Junius Jones

But that thought is stopped abruptly Because now I can’t breathe Can breathe can’t breathe can breathe can’t breathe This dream is changing the script at an incredible speed And it begins to make me seethe And then I can breathe And as if that was a joke it drags me down All the way to subzero ground Takes away my breath And leaves me there to drown

67

Grant Sterman

Silence.

Yesterday you demanded that I corroborate persecution Because my anecdotes could not defeat “Well, I’ve never seen it.”

Humiliated to come to this, I search for the same charts That somehow validate prejudice.

Yet, each time I show them to you, Evidence that anti-semitism Is alive and kicking, You expect me to be triumphant, Having confidently proven my rightness Against arrogance and ignorance.

But you do not seem to understand.

My eyes dim when I see those numbers As the destruction of culture is realized.

I am reminded of the tacit hatred So many have fallen victim to.

You apologize for not knowing, Not for making me worry When that invisible wrath will find me too.

A child sits at home with the TV on.

The world tells them that they are loved, That in America we celebrate differences, And that hate has no home here.

But the child knows better.

After watching the DNC plot To attack their own candidate On the basis of his Jewishness, After watching Donald Trump Refuse to even mention Jews On a day about their remembrance.

There is nowhere for the child to seek comfort Because in all directions the hate prevails Disguised as jokes and ulterior motives.

In the end, the child must cry alone.

You wouldn’t dare tell that child they are loved, Not when their graveyards are being vandalized, Not when all news sources are thoughtlessly broadcasting Neo-nazis screaming, “Down with the Jews!”

Well, maybe you could tell them that Because you must be blind to it all, Or else why wouldn’t you comfort them Like you would your other brothers and sisters When their individualities are maligned.

Maybe it’s because you don’t care And you will never even get to this line.

Besides, I’m sure you’ll just ask me the same question again tomorrow.

(a found poem)

II. 2018 Christian Era

Typical weapon of the time: AR-15 (aka “America’s Rifle”)* Length: 3 feet, 3 inches Weight: 7 & ½ pounds Action: semi-automatic with 10, 20, or 30-round magazine Rate of fire: 60 rounds a minute (in the hands of a rank amateur) 120 rounds a minute (in the hands of an adrenalin-charged killer) Muzzle velocity: 3,300 feet per second Effective range: 600 meters

W.D. Ehrhart

Typical weapon of the time: Land Pattern Musket (aka “Brown Bess”) Length: 4 feet, 8 inches Weight: 10 & ½ pounds Action: muzzle-loaded flintlock Rate of fire: 3 rounds per minute in very skilled hands Muzzle velocity: 785 feet per second Effective range: 50 yards

The Right To Bear Arms

I. Anno Domini 1789

*nickname coined by the National Rifle Association

69

COLOPHON Front cover text is Arial (Black) 78pt; back cover text is Palatino (Regular) 22pt; table of contents text is Palatino (Regular) of various font sizes; All body text is Minion Pro (Regular) of various font sizes; all photo credit lines are Times (Regular) 10 pt; all poetry title text is Palatino (Regular) of various font sizes; all prose title text is Palatino (Regular) of various sizes; the software used is Adobe InDesign CS6. Cover photo is provided by Myles Scott.

Awards: Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist 2013 Silver Medalist 2014 Gold Medal Winner 2014 Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors 2015 Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors 2016 Gold Medal Winner 2017

Editor Mike Schlarbaum

Advisors Mr. Dan Keefe Ms. Taylor Smith-Kan Ms. Emma Hitchcock

Editors Emeritus Satch Baker Gee Smith Robb Soslow Jonathan Hanson

Staff Sunny Yu Charlie Baker Jared Hoefner Toby Ma Noah Rubien Kenneth Pham Obaida Elamin Mitchell Hark MJ Atkins

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following: Dr. Nagl and Mr. Green for their support; The Haverford School English and Art Department faculty members for their encouragement; Dr. Ehrhart and the Poetry Club for their frequent contributions; The Haverford School Custodial Team for accommodating our late hours; Lulu Publishing for its press resources; Mr. Keefe, Ms. Smith-Kan, and Ms. Hitchcock for their extended patience while advising the meetings and all of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent.

In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.

Jared Hoefner | Toby Ma | Chris Hyland

PEGASUS

Gavin Burke | Nelson Liu | Michael Schlarbaum Kenneth Pham | Gaspard Vadot | Noah Rubien Charlie Baker | Robb Soslow | George Rengeppes Ben Gerber | Winslow Wanglee | Barrett Spragg Junius Jones | Michael Clymer | Mark Gregory Charlie Towle | Carson Rooney | Tyler Campbell Matthew Wilson | Grant Sterman | Myles Mason Sarah Michaelsky | Robert Manganero | Myles Scott Sebastian Bilash | Troy Gibbs-Brown | W.D. Ehrhart Yeshwin Sankuratri | Jake Weinstein

The Haverford School Issue No. 35