English 9/10 Course One Anthology

ENGLISH 9/10

HGHS

Spring 2017

English 9/10 Course 1 Horace Greeley High School Instructor: K. Keener 2016-2017

Table of Contents

The Corner of My Eye 3 My Second Home 4 My Little Four Year Old Sister 6 Our Rolled Up Ball of Grades 8 Letter to Future Self 10 Time Travel 13 1

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My Uncle’s Junker 15 Dominoes 16 A Brief History and Informative Paper on the Brick 18 True Friendship 21 Fear Drives Me More Than Ambition 22 Place That I Have Lost 23 Recognition 25 Best Friend 26 The Power of Music 29 See Ya 31 Kill 33 Her Face 35 Affliction 37 Holding the Door 38

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The Corner of My Eye Sami C. Out of the corner of my eye I see him get pushed against the lockers. I watch them take his books and kick them down the hall, the pages ripping on the jagged tile. I am the witness to this bullying but I don’t turn my head, because if it was only out of the corner of my eye did it really happen? Now they start tugging at his oversized sweatshirt and calling him names. I can tell he’s upset with his face turning red and his eyes watering. I stand at my locker and watch this everyday. The tugging, the teasing, the namecalling, it’s a five day cycle that starts on Monday and ends on Friday. His facial expressions bother me the most. His head lifts and his eyes look at me as if I’m supposed to help him. As if I’m supposed to go over and tell them to stop. But why me? There are others around, they see this happen just as much as I do but he doesn’t look to them for safety.

One time I was walking through the courtyard to get to english, and I thought I was alone. Little did I know that I wasn’t actually alone because he was laying on the ground bleeding from his nose and they were laughing and going through his bag. As I walked past the crime scene I looked straight and didn’t turn my head. I didn’t want him to know that I saw, I didn’t want him to see me and try to draw me over. Later that day I saw him slide into his mom's car leaving early. Lucky! I thought, but then I saw the defeated look on both their faces and the bandage that covered his nose. It was broken. They say there is one person that always manages to catch you at your worst moment. I am that person for him. I’ve seen him at what I think is embarrassed, hurt, alone, and upset and yet I have never seen a smile on his face, or a laugh break through his lips. The ones who see you at your worst, that’s all they ever see of you. They never get a glimpse into the happiness that you feel or the joy that you take in. If any.

I see her and I know she sees me. It’s like she’s always there when I’m at my worst. At the lockers in the morning, in the courtyard sometimes, she never lets me down. I can tell that she notices me when she walks by, because she purposely doesn’t look 3

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Even though it’s only out of the corner of her eye, I know she can see it.

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over, but my eyes always drift to her because, looking at her takes the pain away. I wonder if she knows that she’s never seen me smile or even laugh. The truth is, there no reason for it. Between getting beaten up constantly and breaking my nose, I guess I haven’t been happy for a while, but how could she know that when she has never met my eyes. I look to her and I try and speak but when their rounded fists strike me over and over I lose my words. I can’t hear myself think over the edge of their knees slapping me upside the face and making me bleed, or their foreheads knocking against mine and forcing me backwards. Sometimes I try and avoid them by getting to school a little earlier, but if it’s not in the morning, then it’s before lunch or as I’m walking to my bus in the afternoon.

They always find me, they never give in.

Yesterday, I became angry because I’m sick of seeing her pass and not doing something about it.. She notices me, she sees me, but she doesn’t protect me. As I was getting shoved against the dumpster in the senior lot, she was walking to her car. Even though it’s only out of the corner of her eye, I know she can see it. It’s really happening, right there in front of her and she just walks on by like nothing is wrong. I started to realize that looking to her when I need help doesn’t take the pain away, it makes it worse. It was just a different kind of pain that trumped the physical wounds and bruises. How can somebody just keep walking like it’s any ordinary day? How can someone see what’s happening to me and still not say something or do anything to help? I used to want her to see me, but now I need her to see me. I need her to walk by and feel bad for not doing anything and ignoring it, I need her to feel guilty, and she will.

My Second Home Sage It is the place where I am the happiest. The place where my mom and uncle are from. The place my mom grew up and was raised. It is Hungary. Nobody really knows what's there, some people have never even heard of it. It’s this little country in the middle of Europe, surrounded by land with a population close to 10,000,000.

Every single summer I go and visit all of my friends and family in Hungary. For The past 14 years in my life I have gone and this year for the first time ever I won't be going to Hungary.

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When the plane is landing you see these little one floor homes, all next to each other lined up surrounded by tall fences, with a small backyard.

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Everything is so different in Hungary compared to here. Right from the moment the plane lands everything is different. When the plane is landing you see these little one floor homes, all next to each other lined up surrounded by tall fences, with a small backyard. This seems a lot like New York, but it’s not. You also see a bunch of farmland that is usually flat in the summer. Sometimes you might see a huge plot of land that has hundreds of sunflowers all lined next to each other facing the bright sun.

My mom grew up in Hungary. When she was little the country was communist. She lived in communist Hungary for about 12 years and then it turned to a Parliamentary Republic. She said that everyday before school would start she would go down to the pastry store and get the swirl chocolate pastry called kakaos csiga.

It would be swirled together like a snail shell, with chocolate in the inside of the swirls. She would get it right hot out of the oven.

Then my mom would go to her friends house and walk to school with her. After school she would walk home. She lived a small apartment with her mom, dad and brother. It had two rooms, with a living room, a kitchen, 2 bathrooms, and a terrace. She lived in the same apartment till she moved to New York. She was eighteen when she went to New York for the first time. It was her first time flying on a plane, her first time crossing the Atlantic Ocean. She came to New York to visit her best friend Gabi, who moved away six years ago. She lived with her for a little bit. She was expected to come back home, but she fell in love with New York.

When you get into a car and start to drive around you see all these different things. There’s a food market every ten blocks. There are hundreds of people walking and taking the bus. Life is so different there. The people rely on the buses and subways in every town not just in the big city. In Hungary everyone goes to bed at around 8:00pm. You go out onto the streets and it is dead silent. Unlike here people are always on the street. This one time I had to go to the hospital overnight, and there were no cars or people. It looked like it was a ghost town. In Hungary every single place you look has history. It goes all the way back to the thousands. Every single street you turn on can send you back to the communist times that my mother grew up in, or the vast history of Hungary.

My mom's childhood was so different. She had much more freedom. In high school she would take the public bus into school 5

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every morning, and go out partying all night. You could leave the house at anytime and go anywhere. I would be able to go anywhere, it’s just that I need my mom to drive me. My mom was just able to hop a bus and go as far as she wanted The first real moment I feel like I am in Hungary, is when I walk into my grandmas house. The kitchen walls are covered by pictures of my brother and myself from when we were born. Some of them are fabulous pictures and some that look horrible. After we get settled in, the first place we go to is the city. We hop on the big blue new buses. They just changed out the buses into brand new ones, but a couple of times you will get an old one, the ones with no air condition. Then we hop onto the steaming hot subway. After a couple of stops you are there. All the buildings you see are are hundreds of years old. Even though here we have some buildings that are hundreds of years old, the ones still standing survived through two world wars. Some buildings look like they are about to fall apart right there, but that's the cool thing about it, it has history.

Every time I am in Hungary, I can’t wait to go back home to New York. But when I’m here home all I want to do is go back there.

Sometimes I ask my mom that if she ever regrets moving to New York and leaving Hungary. She tells me “I don’t. I do miss Hungary, but everything is so different here. You can never compare the two places together.”

My Little Four Year Old Sister Isak She always gives me a big hug when she sees me after football practice. And she always jumps on my bed when she is ready to play.

My little 4-year-old sister Maya is stubborn, kind and caring. She is the only one in the family with blue eyes. She has blonde hair and chubby cheeks. She always carries her Frozen Elsa wallet around with her filled with whatever coins and secret treasures she could find. When she grows up, Maya wants to become a Veterinarian like her favorite Disney character, Doc McStuffins. She always gives me a big hug when she sees me after football practice. And she always jumps on my bed when she is ready to play.

Recently I was asked to watch Maya while my parents were out of the house. Of course, I agreed to be in charge of my younger sibling. Who wouldn’t? While I was watching her, she was playing 6

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some games on her iPad and she was bothering me because I was trying to do my homework. I couldn’t leave because I always had to have my eye on her. I told her to turn the volume of her iPad down and at first, she didn’t even acknowledge me. After I got her attention and told her again she said no and continued to play her games. I got very upset and told her that she was supposed to listen to me since I was in charge. I took the iPad from her, turned the volume down all the way and gave it back to her. This, of course, caused her to start bawling as loud as she could so that the whole street could hear her. I had to calm her down but had no idea how to. I ended up calling my parents and had to explain what happened.

Another time not too long ago Maya and I were being driven home after my football game. Maya had begged my parents to come to the game because my parents did not want to come since we had lost our previous 5 games in a row. Finally, my parents said yes and they came to the game. The game was a blowout and we lost again, but every time I looked into the stands, Maya was standing there cheering for us and smiling at me. Anyways, during the ride home, Maya kept trying to cheer me up by telling me that we would win the next one and that I played so well.

Every day after football practice and after all of my homework is done, I play with Maya because my parents are usually too busy at work or doing something around the house and she needs someone to spend some time with. And every day it’s the same routine. She always wants to play the same thing. Doctor. She says she needs the practice for when she gets older and becomes a doctor or vet. We take out all of her stuffed animals and diagnose each one with a different sickness or problem. Sometimes it’s a broken leg, a stomachache or their back itches. We pull all of her tools that she needs to treat her “patients” and get to work.

Sometimes it can take up to an hour for her to carefully fix and mend every single toy’s problem while I’m helping her out and keeping an eye on her to help my parents out as well. My little 4year-old sister Maya is stubborn, kind and caring.

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Our Rolled Up Ball of Grades Toby School with no grades is like a house cat with no yarn. Generations of house cats have grown up for decades with the stereotypical yellow frayed ball of yarn to keep them occupied. The yarn began to have a purpose in the cat's life. Yarn and cats became a connected image, like peanut butter and jelly-- always seeming to be together. Children's books began to present the fluffy white cat with its beloved yellow rolled up ball of yarn. The cat and yarn are inseparable; they have become used to each other to a point where one relies on the other one. A cat's life without the yarn would be bare. However, we only assume that it would be bare because it’s what we are used to. It’s what we interpret the cats to be used to.

Balls of yarn are to cats as grades are to students. In our society there is so much pressure we have to cope with: trying to please everyone, getting things done on time, abiding by social commitments, and, most importantly, stressing about the grades we get. And we are under the impression that one insufficient grade will determine the rest of our future -- while in reality our creativity and capabilities surpass the grades we supposedly need to succeed. A lot of talents in our world are undermined because they do not exceed the intellectual requirements that school enforces.

What happens to the cat without the yarn? What happens to the student without their grades? Over the summer I go to sleep away camp. At sleep away camp we aren’t assessed by academic abilities but instead by our athleticism and our artistic efforts.

At camp our ambitions are different We strive to have fun rather than to prepare for our future. We take in every moment where we swim laps in the dark green swampy lake. We appreciate every moment we spend laughing about the girl who slipped in the bunk on the towels in the middle of the dusty floor. We cherish all our small inside jokes and pranks, even the most classic ones where we unscrew the parmesan cheese lid and simply place it on top, so that 8

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the next time someone uses it the entire bottle of dusty dandruff cheese spills all over their plate. We manage to have fun without competing with each other. We manage to avoid the constant beg of approval. We manage to learn so much, but so differently than at school. The environment we are surrounded by at camp allows us to live in the present rather than worry about our future.

An easy flick, and boom -- they come back to their home town and everything becomes all about school, grades, and the future.

So why is it that so many kids go away to sleep away camp for several weeks and just enjoy everything about it? But then these kids come back home, and it is as if a light switch just went off. An easy flick, and boom -- they come back to their home town and everything becomes all about school, grades, and the future. We spend so much time preparing ourselves for the future, that once we get there we will have missed so much of our past. But there is nothing we can do about this because this is the society we live in.

The issue is that to go from competition and grades to simply learning for the sake of knowledge doesn’t just occur in a flicker of a light. We rely on these grades because we are motivated to do better. We try to do better than the kid with the leopard striped pencil case sitting next to us. We try to do better than the kid across the room who for some reason always seems to know the answers. We try to do better than the radiant reflection of ourselves in the mirror because we know that our grades will allow us to see improvements in ourselves. These grades give us a new source of self esteem that we rely on, similar to how cats rely on the satisfaction of unraveling a tangled up ball of yarn. The issue with grades is that we are not able to feel that way without these grades because, in today's day in age, not being assessed is a radical idea. Even Einstein had grades. Even early Confucian scholars based themselves off a grading system.

We have lived our whole lives reliant on grades, always being graded on one task or another. Without grades -- what's the point? No goals, no improvements, no ambition. But how do we know that? We only know what we’ve grown up with all our lives. Decades ago, house cats were not exposed to yarn, yet they were still entertained. However these house cats were feral.

Without grades we, like house cats decades ago, would be undomesticated and wild. Having so much ambition but not knowing how to express and organize our achievements would lead 9

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to commotion. Without grades there is no logical structure for humans to compare each other. Once these house cats were given yarn, it allowed for another source of entertainment, an addictive way for them to be controlled. Grades seem appealing because they allow for a structured and organized way to display our achievements. However our reliance on these grades hides the fact that they are controlling us.

At camp we don’t focus on improvement, but somehow when we come back to our home town, improving for the sake of perfection is all we strive for. If cats were at sleep away camp with no yarn, they would find another source of entertainment to replace the yarn, similar to how we replace academic grades with artistic and athletic efforts. Leaving cats to play on their own would work for a little while, but it wouldn’t work long term because the cats rely on being controlled by the yarn. The yarn domesticates the cats and gives them a purpose-- they feel the constant need to use sources of entertainment to control them. Camp is short-- that’s how we can manage to go through it with no competition.

School is long, and we need some source of improvement to help us persevere through it. What we need to do is find a middle way, one where we can improve but still cherish all the amazing things around us.

Our lives are dependent on change -- our age, place, and mind. So this act of being the perfect person in order to succeed, it can change too.

City life became the new

Letter to Future Self

norm. Most of the cities in the

Noah

US expanded to account for

My boots sunk just barely into the mossy dirt as I lifted up my flashlight and aimed in the direction the old cement path I would soon be walking on. I smiled, finally seeing my old driveway put me at ease. The driveway used to be a solid black sheet of smooth cement, but that was well over twenty five years ago. Nobody has been in this neighborhood in well over twenty five years. City life became the new norm. Most of the cities in the US expanded to account for more citizens. Everybody moved, and the people who didn't’ at first moved when it was a government issued order. They never disclosed to the people

more citizens. Everybody moved, and the people who didn't’ at first moved when it was a government issued order.

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why moving was mandatory. It just was. I had spent so long in the city, but city life is boring. I wanted something different. I wanted to go see where I used to live. I wanted an adventure. I tried the keypad on the garage door… 0-3-1-8-enter. Nope. Makes sense that it wouldn't work. But I guess it was worth a try. I pulled out my phone to see that my brother had tried to call me three times in the past two minutes. “Shit. Forgot to turn it off silent.”

I returned the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey Sam… you called?”

“Yeah. Have you made it to the house yet? I’m on my way and I just wanted to know if you'd be waiting for me.”

“Yeah. Im by the garage.”

He hung up. I assumed he wanted me to wait for him. I walked to the bench near the garage. Luckily, the bench was able to support my body weight. I waited ten minutes before I pulled out my phone and tried to call him again, to no response. Another five minutes before I tried again, but like before, no answer. I felt a hand on my shoulder It startled me.

“Ahh!” Sam yelled.

I stopped my fist inches from his face. He looked down on me “Hah! Got you! Let's go.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bench. “The keypad on the garage doesn't work” I said.

“Maybe the key in the back is still there?”

“Worth a try.”

We walked on the broken stone path around the back of the house.

“Damn… The stairs and porch are still here? Surprising!” Sam said as he stepped up on the small stairs leading to the back porch.”

His foot went right through it.

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“Maybe we should skip the steps and step right up to the top.” I suggested.

The porch was low enough to the ground where it was pretty easy to just step up onto the porch itself. The old circular clock was still hung up on the outside of the house. I pushed it to the side to reveal the keys hanging right on the wall.

“Nice!” Sam yelled. He was so enthusiastic about the whole house exploration thing. I hadn't seen him this happy in months. I had to use a little more force than intended on getting the key to fit into the back door’s keyhole because of the rust, but it fit. Sam had to pull some of the moss and vines off of the door before we could open it. The door creaked open as the eerie moonlight from outside flooded into the house. He took a step into the house. The feeling of the house was… off -- to say the least. The house was warm… very warm, and extremely well preserved for the time the house had no hosts.

“Hey Noah! Check these out!” Sam walked over to what we called the “family room.” He waved me over to see all the pictures of us when we were just kids. I laughed “You looked so stupid back then Sam.” “And you're one to talk?” Sam joined in on the laughter “Ok ok you're right. Let's go check out the top floor first.” The hallway atop the stairs was still carpeted with red, brown, and gold diamonds intertwining, but the carpet was different in a way, dirtier, older. The railway once there to keep us from falling over was broken. Parts of it were now leaning off the hall in the direction of the stairs. Some of the wooden supporters for the rail had broken down already, while others kept the broken ones in place.

We started at Sam’s room. Which was one of the only rooms we were able move things out of before going to the city, so it was fairly empty. His bed was still there, as well as his dresser and desk, but his night table was gone, and his closet doors couldn't even be considered doors at this point. One had been reduced to a pile of decaying wood on the ground, while the other was only half eroded, with the other half hanging off the wall. The hinges kept it up from its immediate death. He also had two 12

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Mistakes are worth more than everything you could’ve done right.

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windows, both of which were broken. One looked like somebody physically broke it, with a clean cut out in the glass. Vines and moss crept through that window onto the carpeted floor, while the other window was just heavily cracked, but not completely destroyed. His desk still had a lot of the trophies he had won as a kid on the top. His old rubber mouse pad was still there as well, though his computer was gone. Sam looked uneasy at the sight of the room so I tried to lighten the mood. “Only other living things besides us in here are the vines.”

He smirked and started walking out of the room. I guess it was my turn.

Time Travel Ava Let’s say today the power to travel back in time was available, and all you had to do was close your eyes and think back to the moment you wanted to revisit. Would I change myself ? Of course if I realized I didn’t like the outcome of my decisions I could always go back and change it again, but then I’d get stuck in some infinite cycle of possibility. Figuring out what would happen if I changed the smallest thing, watching my life play out in front of me. Suddenly I’d become numb, stuck in one carousel of dangerous touch ups. To be honest, I don’t think I would go back, but I know some people would.

For one, I would not take back my mistakes, at least the short term ones. Mistakes are too priceless to throw away, too important. To me, mistakes are items of collection. Made to sit on dusty shelves and become more valuable with the passage of time. Thumbs can trace their borders, and eyes can stare at them for eternity, and still with every minute their rightful worth is slowly more recognized.

When you’re in the sudden aftermath of a mistake, all you want to do is take it back, and start over, and disappear. Mistakes are powerful like that, driven with the feeling of responsibility, whispering, you did that, you did. Later on in a person’s life it’s easier to understand that mistakes are gifts and not abominations.

Another reason why people would travel back: to change their future for a dream they once had. A dream they cradled in their arms and nurtured, until it became too big and had to be tossed 13

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aside. Every person has to make some sort of decision in their life.

Sometimes their decisions are the “wrong” ones. Sometimes their decisions are small ones that escalate into huge stories led by an invisible force. Human nature is to wonder what if, it’s our minds telling us we’re not good enough, doubting ourselves, asking what we could have been. Maybe if I had studied longer that night I would have gotten into a different collage. And well, maybe if I hadn’t taken that wrong turn I wouldn’t have shattered my legs, and maybe if I had just...the list goes on and on. With time travel that secret could be shared, hence why it would be created in the first place.

However, later in life when perspective has changed, and reality is so easily accessible, mistakes are worth so much more than just the sting of self disappointment. Mistakes are worth more than everything you could’ve done right. They’re worth the better half of you, and the future answers. They’re worth everything you are. I feel like to see past that worth, and to take back the mistakes that shaped who you are today, would be betraying yourself. It would be like changing who you are.

Regrets are powerful, and some would give anything to go back in time. There are three categories of regrets. The things you did that you wish you hadn’t, the things you wish you had done but didn’t, and the amount of precious time wasted (1). You want to believe that on your deathbed you will regret nothing, but most people commonly regret certain things in their life. For example, most people wish that they let themselves be happier, didn’t work so hard, lived a life true to themselves, and stayed in touch with their friends. (2) Everyone wants a second chance, and deep down, everyone wants to know what they could have been because it's instinct to be curious, and that is one of the reasons the ability to travel back in time would be explored and created. Most commonly the mistakes that most people would take back are the long term ones. Research shows that the mistakes that stuck with people forever haunted them on their dying days. Some common mistakes that people wish they could go back and change range from romance, to profession, to family, to health. It turns out most people regret the things they realized they had the power to control in order to give themselves a better life. For example, a lot of people regret not 14

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changing their mental attitudes and letting themselves worry less (3). In fact, worrying was the most regretted thing by people on their death beds (3). It turns out, worrying is just a feeling in substitute for stress. Stress is the feeling you get when there’s actually a problem. Theoretically, worry is a useless emotion because it is the feeling of stress when there’s actually no problem, and when we worry ironically there’s actually nothing to worry about (3).

The truth is you can’t go back in time, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make a difference in the present. As I mentioned earlier the regrets that are spoken by people dying tend to be things that they always had the power to control. Things like their happiness and mental state, and the amount of effort they spent trying to lead a healthy life. In the end it is never too late to change, even if the past feels far too long behind you.

Roese, Neal J., and Amy Summerville. "What We Regret Most … and Why." Personality & Social Psychology Bulletin. U.S. National Library of Medicine, Sept. 2005. Web. 29 Mar. 2017.

Steiner, Susie. "Top Five Regrets of the Dying." The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 01 Feb. 2012. Web. 29 Mar. 2017.

Pillemer, Ph.D. Karl A. "The Most Surprising Regret Of The Very Old -- And How You Can Avoid It." The Huffington Post. TheHuffingtonPost.com, 04 Apr. 2013. Web. 29 Mar. 2017.

My Uncle’s Junker Andres The door opens with a click. I duck, as I get into the seat. I place my hands on that comfortable leather I am so used to. My right hand digs into my back jeans pocket, looking for something that is usually there: the keys. It’s the key marked “GC” for Go Crazy.

With a click it fits into the lock. I feel two small vibrations from the key, signifying I have passed over Start I and to Ignition. The shifter is in N for Neutral and the clutch is fully depressed. A hum erodes from out front. That all too recognizable slight vibration in 15

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Keeping my right foot on the brake, I move the heel over onto the gas and press in about 55%.

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the worn seats as the engine warms up. My left hand extends out to the shifter. From muscle memory, I snap it into 1st gear. Letting off the clutch, and slowly onto the accelerator, I can really feel the power of this car. I watch the tachometer slowly rise. 1000 RPM. 1400 RPM. 1900 RPM. The needle steadily climbs to 2500 RPM. I already subconsciously know that this is the perfect time for shifting. My left foot goes off the accelerator just slightly, but enough for the engine to slow down. My eyes flash up to the tachometer. The meter has dipped to 2200 RPM. Pushing in the clutch to just the right spot, where it is engaged. My left hand does the job it’s already been trained to do. The little shifter knob comes out of first gear and slides into second. I feel the car slant forward a little as the speedometer climbs. Before I can notice, I’m already in third gear. That perfect equilibrium of 4500 RPM and 65 miles an hour is just so pleasing to the ear. Now comes the heeland-toe downshift. Approaching a good, clear open space just after the long mile straight, I push in the brake. Here is where all the beginners mess up. It is not a mashing or stomping in of the brake pedal. It is a delicate press, almost. Engaging the clutch, I rapidly shift back into Neutral. My left foot automatically gets off the clutch. Keeping my right foot on the brake, I move the heel over onto the gas and press in about 55%. Only slightly does my leg have to move for my right foot to move off the gas. Pressing the clutch back in, I move the shifter back into 2nd gear. I already have memorized that the 2nd gear is a small movement to the left and upwards. Finished with downshifting, I let off the clutch and press into the gas heavily. This is the only rough movement I will allow myself to make in this car. This magnificent car. A fifth generation Toyota Celica hard top. Making 133 horsepower, it may not be as strong as the cars of today. After all, it is just a 1998 Toyota Celica GT-S. But it runs. It is...running. Running away? Running away from us? Running forward to pass another car? Running on and on?

Running in any case. It may just be a junker, a nine year old junker, but it’s my uncle’s nine year old junker.

Dominoes Luca Life is like a line of dominoes. Each individual block is a moment or milestone lined up in the design that is your life. The second 16

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you are born the first domino begins to fall, and as life progresses they begin to knock each other down for each important moment you have. Once the domino begins to lean, there is no putting it back up. This applies to life in a way. When an important decision or action is made, you cannot simply undo what happened. Once that domino has fallen, the only thing left to do, is watch the others go down as well. One part of life that I believe is essential is to have no regrets. I might be zeroed in on one single domino that already fell and I won’t be able to appreciate the rest of the dominoes that have yet to tumble.

Each and every domino effects you, either in tiny amounts, or a lot more than you’d expect. I always remember being in elementary school when I was entering the fourth grade. Out of the five fourth grade teachers at Grafflin Elementary School, two of them were men. Since all the other teachers in the school were women, I guess all the kids kind of wanted a male teacher just because it was different —or at least I did—.

On a summer day in August, my mom, brother and I had just finished food shopping at the local Shoprite, and we were on our way to the post office to pick up the day’s mail. It was about the time of summer when the schools would send out the list of kids in your class along with your teacher. My mom turned the bronze key in the postal box. I stood there anxious to find out who was in my class and who was my teacher. She pulled out the pile of papers and assortments of People and National Geographic magazines that rested in the box and the suspense was killing me (in elementary school I was always excited to receive my class list). “Can I see it Mom, can I see it please,” I exclaimed, jumping up and down to try and see it on the tall marble countertops. “Just a moment,” she replied. As my mom stood at the counter, she took a glimpse at the class list and handed it to me. It read: Grafflin Elementary School, Student: Giardina, Luca A. Grade: 4, Teacher: Mrs. Larkin and the student list followed. I stood there, somewhat disappointed that I didn’t have a male teacher —again I don’t really know why. Perhaps my almost nine-year-old self thought is was cool to have a man as a teacher— yet it was not the end of the world.

As the school year began, I made new friends and once again reunited with old ones. Some nights, I would think to myself; what if I go back in time somehow and start the school year fresh, with 17

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If I had a choice to redo it all and start fresh, I would never say yes.

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a new teacher. As I moved up from grade to grade, every year I would think about that thought I had in fourth grade. Over time, I began to realize that I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t have the teacher that I had. Even now, six years later some of my best friends were in that very fourth grade class. I can’t even imagine going back and starting all over. I still remember how we used to make designs with the dominoes during indoor recess and at the end we would knock them all down. I remember one of the specific ones we made, and we even took a picture it with us. If I remember correctly it was called “corn dog” or something weird like that. That class formed bonds between all of us, and strong ones too, considering we’re all still good friends now. If I had a choice to redo it all and start fresh, I would never say yes. There were too many good experiences we’ve had in between now and then and they’re not worth losing.

I guess my point is that regrets are unnecessary. (With a couple of exceptions —like when you wake up with a strange tattoo on your arm that says some random person’s name—). If you think about it, no decision you ever make could be that bad. Because if it was: someone would travel back in time to alter your decision (kind of like Back to the Future). Perhaps, you may have made a wrong decision, but instead of regretting and wishing you never did it, you should instead think of what you could do next time. A decision is a decision and you’re supposed to learn from them whether it’s good or bad. Don’t waste your life thinking about what you could’ve done; waste it thinking about what you can do. So what if you made a risky decision. So what if your domino didn’t fall exactly how you wanted it to. Dominoes fall quickly and if you focus one too long, you could miss the best and most intricate parts of your domino design.

A Brief History and Informative Paper on the Brick Cameron According to Google.com’s definition, a brick is a “a small rectangular block typically made of fired or sun-dried clay, used in building.” This paper will inform you not only about the commonly looked at side of bricks, but at all 6 sides if you will.

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The history of the brick is a long one.

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There is more to bricks than color, shape, and weight. In fact, there is much so more to learn about bricks and their history that this paper is really a summary of what you can find online.

Although they have many uses, bricks are most often seen in buildings, most notably in walls and supports. Even at Horace Greeley High School, we can see that bricks are the main outer material used to build the structure. When it comes to color, modern bricks often times have a red shade, but can vary more towards grey, purple, or orange depending on the type and make.

But what can separate bricks from other bricks? Bricks can vary in composition, shape, color, layout patterns, strength, size, and more.

The history of the brick is a long one. As far as we know, the earliest bricks were made sometime around 7500 BC, in the upper regions of the Tigris River valley civilizations. The first record of bricks being made is actually in the Bible. It says how Israelites made bricks out of earth and straw for their Egyptian rulers.

These bricks were sun-dried, and when they were hard enough, they used them. As civilizations became more advanced, so did the brick. While the first bricks ever made were left to dry in the sun until strong enough the use, the later civilizations fired them in kilns and ovens (known as fired bricks). Bricks were first used on a large scale by the Zhou dynasty in ancient China, around 3,000 years ago. Back then, the process was tough, and it took a lot of manpower. First, they had to mix clay and water together.

Next, they trampled it with oxen to make a thick paste, and then filled wooden frames with the paste. Then, they removed the wet clay from the frames, stamped in a marking to indicate from where and who the bricks came from. After that, they stuck the bricks in kilns (fueled by wood and possibly coal), and then took them out while the kilns were still hot to cool them off. This was most likely the job of a slave or peasant. Fired bricks provided a much stronger material that was more durable and faster to make. The Roman Empire is possibly the most notable when it comes to use of fired bricks. This is no surprise considering the Roman Empire was also one of the greatest of the ancient empires. Their legions even had mobile kilns!

In modern times, bricks are produced and used much more than in the past. Their production really started to increase during the 19

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Industrial Revolution, when producing goods became easier.

During the revolution, since bricks were more efficient and better for the economy, many buildings that were being constructed during that time were made of brick over brownstone or rock. The first mass producing brick machine was made in 1855, and could produce 25,000 bricks per day. From there on it just blew up. In 2013, Britain produced a whopping 1.73 billion bricks.

An underlying question here is “Why are bricks used so much in building, and why don’t I already know?” Well, the answer to the second part of that question is easy. It’s because we take bricks for granted. We see them everywhere, and don’t look twice.

They often keep the roofs over our heads, and buildings where they are. Aside from that, the answer to the first part of the question is a little more in-depth. Bricks offer a broad array of advantages, and although bricks really aren’t the best in any one quality, they provide just the right amount of each, at least for most situations. Not only are they aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but they are strong, and can bear a lot of weight. They are great at taking in and expelling moisture at just the right amount to keep the inside of a building or structure at the right level of humidity and temperature. They are not very flammable, and insulate better than some other building materials. Finally, they are so durable and resistant to wear that you really never need to replace them.

To encapsulate, our world is filled with little red blocks that keep our buildings standing and our economies going—bricks. They date back to the early ancient civilization times, and have a tremendous and lasting effect on our world today. It is extremely hard to express the importance, history, and general information of bricks in one paper, but the important thing is to carry the information with you, and the next time you see bricks, which may be sooner than you think, think about the history and story behind them. Realize it goes much deeper than just that one brick.

Works Cited "Brick and Tile." Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

"Brick History." Brick History. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

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"Brick." How Products Are Made. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

"Brick Sizes." Archtoolbox.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

"Bricks around the World." ET Clay Products Ltd :: Bricks around the World. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

"The History of Bricks." The History of Bricks. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

Rodriguez, Juan. "5 Types of Bricks: Applications and Advantages."

The Balance. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.

True Friendship Garrett Everyone gravitates towards sameness.

Roaring Brook Elementary School in the library, a little boy with sports glasses that didn’t fit his face sits reading a book called Frog and Toad. A little boy who played every sport possible, didn’t have a care in the world. He loved the story as it showed him true friendship. They were very different, but still respected each other and even learned from the other. As a kid everybody could be your friend. It didn’t matter who you were, what you looked like, or what you did, everyone was friends with everyone. This demonstrated true, pure, genuine friendship, frog and toad didn’t care about their differences as long as they were friends. They accepted each other as they were.

Today, a sophomore in high school, much has changed. Friendship seems to depend on what you do, how well you do in class, what clothes you wear and how you look. Everyone gravitates towards sameness. If everyone was like frog and toad, accepting and tolerant, many problems, not just in school but in the world could be minimized. If everyone could be like frog and toad, there would be fewer political problems and the could would be a better place.

As the band War once said “Why Can’t We Be Friends.” That song had a powerful message and it spoke of a time when there was a huge fight for equality. That song and its message is every bit as relevant today. Anyone can be friends with anyone. While some friends may be better than others we can all recognize the good in others and be more accepting and tolerant. We might even learn something from someone who looks, acts and feels differently than 21

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we do. The truth is that everyone has different opinions based on their upbringing and their experiences, but if we only have friends that are just like us, how can we grow and learn? Frog and toad’s friendship endured and flourished despite their differences. While it might be simple and written for very young children and there are many more complicated and more sophisticated books that address the same topics, Frog and Toad Are Friends still makes me think. Friendship transcends differences. It seemed so obvious, even to a little boy just learning to read.

Fear Drives Me More Than Ambition Meredith

tunnel, but by the

Fear drives me more than ambition. Ambition is being able to go after what you want. It’s going to extreme lengths to achieve your goals. Whether that’s studying till twelve to do well on a test or doing the same ice skating move over and over till the door to the zamboni room lifts up, it’s pushing yourself till you’re more than satisfied with whatever you are working on.

insignificant

But ambition doesn’t pull me, fear chases me.

I’m not propelled forward by the light at the end of the

creeping noise I maybe heard in the darkness of the cave behind me.

A “What if ” is like a funnel that people give their kids coins to roll down at the zoo. The coin starts off slow, making big slow circles around the top. But then it spirals progressively tighter and closer to the black hole at the bottom, until it lands in a pail underneath and the whole machine lets out a roar because it’s the tiger exhibit.

It starts when I’m alone in my room. It starts with my computer catching my eye from it’s spot perched on my white painted desk.

There are few things I want to do less than taking notes on my global textbook on a Sunday night. But then I think what if I don’t know all the facts about Mansa Musa on the test and I fail the test and I fail global and I have a low GPA so I don’t get into a good college and I’m an overall disappointment to my family and myself because while my sister is curing cancer, I’m scraping out a mediocre living in a cubicle at a mediocre job. All because I faked one homework in high school. That chain might seem a little drastic, but what if one test is reflective of every test from that point on? What if ? I’m not propelled forward by the light at the 22

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end of the tunnel, but by the insignificant creeping noise I maybe heard in the darkness of the cave behind me.

I hear and feel ”What if ” in an anxious voice the most at skating competitions. What if I don’t bend my knees enough so I fall and I can’t get back in fast enough so we get five points off and we don’t even place and we don’t qualify for nationals and I let my team down all because I didn’t bend my knees. But at the end of the day, it can be anyone who falls.

Anybody could be clipped by their neighbor and go sliding across the ice far away from the rest of the team, anybody could catch their toe in the ice and faceplant. But I don’t always trust my crisis management skills. I don’t know if my body will fail to be up before it is sliding across the ice or if my instincts will fail to alert me that I am going down. Not knowing if I can recover from a small toe out of line scares me the most. Because I am afraid I can’t stop myself from spiraling out of control. I’m afraid I won’t know how to recover and I will be forever chasing my line across the ice while the judges deduct points. I’m afraid I will forever be disappointed.

Place That I Have Lost Dylan M. When had I last lived a day with the beach as the back yard and the cool morning breeze drifting through the house serving as an alarm clock, to go outside and stare at the bright radiant sunrise full of pastel colored reds and oranges.

With your feet sinking into the sand making you feel the million tiny pebbles attached to the bottom of your foot, slowly falling off as you take each step farther into the water.

With the cool water bending itself to you as you go farther in until you are one with the water and it fully surrounds you.

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When you are

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With the breeze that makes the tall deep green grass sway as the winds pick up in the afternoon.

invincible to all pain, suffering and worry. These

With the sweet song of the little birds in the trees as they sing their melodies one more time before heading out to find dinner.

moments are the best in the world and they may only last up to a minute

With an evening kayak trip out to the coast to watch the sunset and the strong glow of orange and red fade into a strong luminesque white.

in your lifetime, but the time you may spend

With the sharp chirps of a cricket as the stars set in and the moon glows strongly enough to illuminate the entire world.

thinking about them can add up to a lifetime.

With the tinge of sulfur created by the roaring waves earlier in the day.

With the equanimity and peace provided by the gentle waves hitting the rocks and true belief that everything is perfect in the moment.

There are brief moments where everything is perfect.

Where all your troubles disappear into thin air and nothing can bring you down. When you are invincible to all pain, suffering and worry. These moments are the best in the world and they may only last up to a minute in your lifetime, but the time you may spend thinking about them can add up to a lifetime.

Being out watching the sun set with my cousin on my eighth birthday is one of those memories. Even though it was so long ago I can still hear the crickets chirping in the background, I can still see the gentle waves lightly bashing against the side of the canoe. But… the most vivid memory is the sun set. The strong red glow almost like a blood orange color. The blend from red to orange to yellow almost like something that could be seen in a Van Gogh painting.

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In that moment of looking up to the sky and the sun I can remember the feeling of immunity and the ability to put all things out of my mind and just look up at the sky. I could just take in the colors that would be in my dreams for months. There was no thoughts on family or drama over friends, There was only the faint trace of the moon starting to be more clear the longer I watched.

That moment showed me what it must be like to be enlightened. What it is like to be free and have nothing to hold you down. Nothing to make you regret your choices.

Recognition Elise But the snowfall covered my tracks, and I can no longer ask “what if?” because there is no path leading back to my old self, it’s hidden away under mountains of snow.

It’s possible to lose yourself. To not know who you are or where you’re supposed to be. Even how you got there. It’s that feeling when you don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, but you continue to do it. It’s possible to not recognize yourself, but the feeling doesn’t come all at once. The feeling comes in waves.

Slowly does the feeling start to grow, it becomes a part of who you are, it takes over you as a whole.

The first wave is action. There’s something that you did or said that you just can’t believe came from you. It takes one motion.

From stepping into that new store in the mall, to skiing down the hardest course near your house in Vermont. It’s a baby step in this big process. But, it starts the path to not recognizing who you are, or where you’re supposed to be.

The second wave is repetition. You start to repeat the same action over and over again, until it becomes a part of you. The one action that you would never imagine coming from you, is now part of your routine. It can take a while for all of this to happen. The repetition stage can last for months, maybe even years. This continues the path to a whole new life and a whole new you.

The third wave is stepping back. Realizing how much this one action has effected you. Stepping back to see what has happened and wondering if there’s any way to fix it, if it can’t resolve on its own. The trail of footsteps you left behind leading from one place to the next seems infinite. You look over the horizon at that trail of footsteps, wondering if it ever ends, and where it might lead. I 25

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was a crazy little kid, my teachers weren’t so pleased. So I changed myself slightly, altered my personality. I often look back to see what would have happened if I didn’t, wondering where I would be at this moment, what I would be doing. But the snowfall covered my tracks, and I can no longer ask “what if?” because there is no path leading back to my old self, it’s hidden away under mountains of snow. Once a track has been covered, it can never be uncovered.

The fourth and final wave is grief. Realizing what you’re doing is not what you want. Discovering that changing is not what you wanted to happen. Annoyed by the fact that you let yourself get this lost. Grief takes over your whole body and takes control of how you live your life. The life you now live is not the life that you could have lived.

It’s possible of not knowing who you are or where you’re supposed to be. To not recognize who you’ve become. To lose yourself to the point where you can’t quite seem to find your way back, and the only option is to keep going in the direction you’re headed. The only option is to adapt to the new circumstances. But when you don’t recognize yourself, there’s a problem. A problem where there is no solution. No way to find yourself again.

Best Friend Julia

This means that out of the 7 billion people in the world, you choose only one of them to be your best friend.

Having a friend means to know their likes and dislikes, their hobbies, and the people who are most important to them in their life. Having a best friend means to know and understand the way they interact, the way they move, the way they dress, and most importantly the kind of person they are. It means that you spend too much time with them, that eventually you begin to adapt to their mannerisms without even realizing it. You see yourself change just because of the amount of time that you spend with them. You have the same sense of humor, you both are way too comfortable around each other, and you have a connection stronger than anything else in the world. This means that out of the 7 billion people in the world, you choose only one of them to be your best friend.

Last year, I had a friend like this. I couldn't spend a day without talking to her. We laughed with each other until we had cramps 26

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that were unbearable and shared secrets that could potentially ruin our lives if others figured them out. We had sleepovers and stayed up just talking about everything. I wasn't able to do that with most people. Our conversations never got boring. There was always a hot topic that kept the conversations flowing. That was one of my favorite things about us. She was my person. I chose her over anything and everything. She knew me better than I knew myself.

I never thought that anything could get between us, until one day something did. This was the day our friendship was shattered into pieces. Our memories, laughs, and secrets disappeared as if they were never real in the first place. It’s funny how one day your whole world can change without any warning. The moment I found out that she had been lying to me for months, my world froze. I could hear my heartbeat in my own head, drowning out all of the outside noise. My stomach dropped, I was going to throw up I thought to myself. Nothing mattered anymore. I didn't feel anything, I didn't want to feel anything. If I did I would have lost it. I would have cried until my eyes were unable to produce any more tears. The feeling of betrayal is something that can't even be described on paper. I didn't realize how much she had impacted my life, until she was cut out of it for good. My days seemed longer after our friendship ended. They seemed boring and pointless. I felt as if I had nobody to talk to anymore, even though I had plenty of other friends that I could go to about anything. But the thing was, I didn't want to talk to anyone else about my bad test score, or about my parents being on my back about everything. I only wanted to talk to her, because she always knew exactly what to say to me.

Day by day, old friends become more unrecognizable to a person, and you can do nothing about it but sit back and watch this person change before your eyes. This is what happened between me and her. Â She became more unrecognizable to me day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. I used to be able to predict her next move in every situation, but as more time went on, so did she. It was like she was a new person. I didn't know who she was anymore, and I felt helpless not being able to stop this horrible feeling. We passed each other in the halls, not making so much as a little eye contact. I gave a quick glance to see if the girl wearing the Brown sweatshirt that she wore constantly was still there, she wasn't. I thought that we would soon reunite as best friends again, 27

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but to this day, it has not happened. I used to be able to pick her out of a crowd of people, making instant eye contact, sending mental messages just through our facial expressions. As days, weeks, and even months passed, it even seemed like she walked differently. She now blends into a crowd when I used to be able to pick her out of one in a split second. I knew I was just exaggerating and making things up in my head because after all, she still and will probably know me better than anyone else. But I feel as each day passes, I can see less of our friendship. It's hard to think you can know somebody so well, decide you will be friends forever, and then watch your years of bonding fall to the ground because of one stupid mistake. I wanted to forgive her, I really did, but I just couldn't bring myself to do so. I almost felt embarrassed for holding this grudge for so long to just finally come back to her one day asking to be best friends again. Now looking at it I feel silly for reacting the way I did. But at the time it felt like she had stabbed me in the back when this now irrelevant boy came between us. You're never supposed to choose a guy over your best friend, but apparently I was wrong about that. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I forgave her a couple of days after the incident, but there is no turning back now, so I had to stick with the decision that I had made, and make the most of it. The friendship that we once had was slipping from my grasp as I tried to hold on to what was left of it. It was a foreign feeling to me, to seem this lost without a person in my life. It's like she was the half of me that I needed to be myself. She formed me into the person that I was. It was like I couldn't function properly without her presence.

After a while, I had lost her completely. She was gone. I would pass her in the halls and sometimes not even realize what we once had.

Her bright blond hair grew darker, little amounts of makeup turned into a whole face of makeup, and for some reason her smile seemed fake when she passed her new friends in the hall. I know-well at least I used to know--what her real smile was like. It was effortless. It made her seem like she didn't have a care in the world.

That was gone too. It’s weird to think that we were once best friends considering that I hadn't talked or interacted with her for nearly over a year. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thought about the friendship that we once had, but I push that feeling as far away as I possibly can because I can’t think about her anymore. I knew 28

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that I had to move on and let go. She no longer had the title of “best friend.” She has now become, “stranger who I sometimes pass in the halls.” From the day our friendship ended, people ask me if I miss her. I deny it, but deep down I know that I am lying to them and most importantly to myself. I don't know why I lie to them. I guess I want to seem strong. I thought I would come off weak if I told people the amount that I still thought about her and how it scared me not to know her anymore.

I passed her in the hallways a couple days ago. I thought it would be the same “pretending we didn't see each other” thing but to my surprise, she smiled at me, this time the real one. The one that made me flash back to when we were best friends. For a second there I knew who she was. I remembered that smile, that walk, that confidence. I don't know why, but for some reason, I allowed myself to smile back. Now, instead of being sad about what we once had, it makes me happy. I'm happy to know that I was able to have that friendship with someone like her. I'm glad that I had someone like her to talk to during that time frame. I'll forever be thankful for the friendship that we once had. She may seem unrecognizable to me, and I may be unrecognizable to her, but I will forever know the girl in the baggy Brown sweatshirt with the gawky long legs, and immense amount of confidence that it could overwhelm a person, because afterall she was, my best friend.

The Power of Music Katherine The first thing I remember loving is playing the piano. I still remember my Mom dragging me to my first lesson at 5 years old. I remember not wanting to go, not wanting to wake up early on a Saturday. Not wanting to spend time with a woman I didn't know for a whole 30 minutes—which to me felt like a lifetime—but my mom drove me a couple houses down the street and made me go in.

I hated the piano up until I played for the first time. I didn't like the way a piano sounded, and I had no desire to learn how to play.

However as soon as I played my first piece I was in love. It was fascinating how just by lightly pressing a key I was able to make this huge daunting looking instrument become soft and beautiful.

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The notes fluttering in my ears, the butterflies I got in my stomach, it was the most beautiful noise I had ever heard.

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The notes fluttering in my ears, the butterflies I got in my stomach, it was the most beautiful noise I had ever heard. I thought that day would be the first and last time I ever played the piano but as soon as I started playing that day I never stopped.

Ten years later I’m still playing the piano, and I still love it with all my heart. I still get those butterflies, I still lose my breath, everytime I play a new piece it's like the first all over again. Music has been such a huge part of my life. Every time I’m sad, or angry, or happy, or feeling any emotion really I go to the piano, sit down and just play. I remember in sixth grade having a huge fight with one of my bestfriends, I came home crying so torn up about what had happened. The first thing I did once I got inside was run to my piano, it helped to calm me down and clear my mind. I could sit on that piano bench, my fingers flying for hours, and I would never get tired of it.

My first experience with music was very similar to the one Louisa Clark had in the book “Me Before You”. Louisa went to an orchestra concert for the first time, and she was amazed. At first she didn't think she was going to enjoy it, saying it wasn't her type of music. But as soon as the concert started she realized how wrong she had been “I felt the music like a physical thing; it didn't just sit in my ears, it flowed through me, around me, made my senses vibrate. It made my skin prickle and my palms dampen.” I can relate to that exact moment. Although she was listening to an orchestra and me a piano, it still felt the same. The feeling of being introduced to something so mind blowing, and magical. The music washing all over your body. Music can transform you, it can make you feel refreshed, excited and like a new person.

All of the world should be able to have the same experience with music that Louisa and I had. To hear something so incredible that it makes you want to cry. The feeling of being so amazed by wood and a couple of strings is priceless. I have never felt anything like it, it’s such a common yet unique experience, that everyone should have at least once during their lives.

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It was hard not seeing my

See Ya

family for 2 months, it will

Jessica

be nearly impossible to go

Finally, after 7 weeks of waiting, 49 days, 1176 hours, 70,560 minutes, 4,233,600 seconds, it was time. The day had finally come.

At last, the wait was over.

without seeing my new family- my camp friends for 10 months.

My first summer at sleepaway camp had come to an end, and I had a great time. But sadly, all great things must come to an end. The excitement and eagerness to go home and see my friends and family was overwhelming. I could almost taste it. My moms big bright smile with her dimples that carve into her cheeks. My dad’s contagious laugh where if he finds something funny, everyone will end up laughing. I guess that runs in the family. And my little sister Emma, so young and innocent to the world. The way she was so optimistic. The way she wanted to take on any adventure possible.

I missed them so much. To jump from a one night sleepover to a 49 day sleepover was a big step. All campers went to the basketball courts to say our final goodbye’s to our friends and the ground at 56 Nice People Place (yes, that’s the real address). I found my best friend Carly and gave her a hug and said “see ya.” But in that moment, buried in her warm and comforting arms, the world seemed to freeze around me. Absolute silence. Absolute darkness. I felt my heart beating and pulsing through my whole body. All I could hear was her soft yet booming, high pitch yet low pitched, scratchy yet smooth voice, as she repeated back to me “see ya”.

But the truth is I won’t “see ya” soon. I won’t “see ya” in your bed right next to mine every morning. I won’t “see ya” as we make funny faces at each other from across the flagpole attempting to hold in the laughter at lineup. I won’t “see ya” as we race side by side to breakfast to be the first camper to get the salad bar pass. I won’t “see ya” as we have high school musical dance parties in the bunk during clean up while trying to make being sweeper or garbage more appealing. I won’t “see ya” and the look on our faces as we fail inspection every day. I won’t “see ya” after completing a lap around the lake on water skis for the first time. I won’t “see ya” as we fail to hit tennis balls over the net, or as we make matching 31

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bracelets in arts and crafts. I won’t “see ya” as we stare gaze on the tennis court for hours on end. I won’t “see ya” on the “Don't Push” swing, that everyone pushes anyways. I won’t “see ya” as we sit side by side watching the sun set over the prettiest lake in the world, without a single worry or single stress. I won’t “see ya” or everybody else being their perfect self, being confident in who they are, and confident in everything they do. The harsh truth is, I’ll “see ya” in 10 months, after the long school year, when camp begins again.

Instead, I’ll “see” my homework agenda filled from top to bottom with assignments, tests, and projects to be completed. I’ll “see” 2 hours of Hebrew tutoring twice a week to prepare me for my bat mitzvah 3 years away. I’ll “see” tons and tons of girl drama about who is sitting with who on the bus, at lunch or who is playing with who at recess. I’ll “see” a long list of chores to finish that my mom expects me to do around the house. I’ll “see” an empty room at night, filled with absolute silence rather than a group of 13 girls with the loudest whispers filling the air. I’ll “see” a sense of emptiness inside of me, nobody to apply sunscreen to spots where I can’t reach, nobody to tie my bracelets around my wrist, nobody to argue my fights for me, nobody to always be on my side, and nobody to have my back, no matter the situation and no matter how badly I screw up.

A tear streamed down my face. Struck by surprise it didn’t make sense. “Don’t leave me.” I cry into her ear. “Don’t leave me.” She cries in my ear. She lives in Bethesda Maryland. 261 miles away from Chappaqua. I feel empty. Without her, I have half a heart. I am excited to see my family, but terribly sad to be leaving my new home. It’s bittersweet. It was hard not seeing my family for 2 months, it will be nearly impossible to go without seeing my new family- my camp friends for 10 months.

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Spring 2017

Kill Daniel Remove all obstacles.

As my mind starts to corrupt again, I try to remember.

How many have I killed now?

Complete the mission.

The king’s instructions beat in my head, breaking my own thought.

Cleanse your mind.

Follow orders. Finish the task. Complete the mission.

Kill.

Kill.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I don’t have time. The sun will come up soon, so I better get there fast.

Racing through the village, I hop and skip around all the carts and animals on the street while my katanas slice and dice through the occasional night strollers before me, creating piles of bloodied meat cubes. It’s a bit fun, but too slow. I jump onto the straw roofs, and I continue running. There. The town’s center. The lord’s house.

Wait. Why am I doing this again?

Ah. The king’s orders.

I must go. I must hurry. The sun is rising soon.

I run again at a new pace. Dashing from roof to roof, I am but a black blur from the quiet, still houses. The night still cloaks me with darkness - I can move without interruptions. The straw covered roofs crunched from under my light feet as I ran and lightly flew from one house to the other.

I reach the town’s center in no time.

Kill.

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Her eyes were still closed when her head rolled off her pillow.

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Spring 2017

The orders beat into my head, almost painfully. I enter through the door, surprising the guard and piercing him with my sword. The sword runs right through him, through his light grey armor, through his heart. After all, practice makes perfect.

The night patrols are still strolling around, but they’re lousy. It’s almost time for them to be off their shift. I swiftly impale each of them, leaving them in a pool of blood. I start running again, making my way to the sleeping quarters. Too easy. I catch my breath, and I open the door.

I’ve already thought about this kind of situation. Will the lord be alone? I will have to kill everyone and everything else in this room.

Luckily, everyone was sleeping.

I tiptoe to one room, and I find his daughter. Damn, she’s tempting. I hesitate for a bit, but I give her a quick death in bed.

Her eyes were still closed when her head rolled off her pillow.

I then find the lord’s personal servants, and I easily wipe away their lives. I wipe away the curtains of the grand bed to see my target.

And his wife. Probably doing something the night before... an act of... what was it called again? Love? I push away the curiosity from my mind, and I step forward to take care of the wife. I go right for her heart - so she can feel just a bit of extraordinary pain before going into her afterlife. She didn’t scream, though, so that was fortunate. I was about to wake the lord, when I heard a high, squeaky bark in my direction. The dog had woken up... I wanted to spare it, but I would rather have no noisy interferences around me.

In all honesty, the dog was outrageously cute - large eyes, fluffy and chubby, with a little white dot on his head - but my situation doesn’t allow me to feel any sympathy. The puppy began to whimper as I raised my sword against it. I killed the little brown puppy as it went quieted, but when I turned back to the lord, he was wide awake and trying to crawl away from me.

As I slowly walk towards him, the lord scurries back into a wall, looking for a way out of his inevitable death.

“Why do you do this?” He whimpered, almost like the puppy as it was meeting its death.

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I tilt my head as I search for an answer, even though I don’t even need to answer it. He’s going to die anyways, so why should I bother? But the question burned me. Why am I doing this?

I don’t know.

“What have I done?”

I don’t know.

I answer in confusion without speaking a word. My blade at his throat, I start to doubt myself. My orders come blasting back into my mind. But this time, I question. Why am I doing this?

I struggle to keep my head straight, as my heart beats furiously.

However, it’s not long before I lose my thought again.

Kill.

My blade pierces straight through his throat, spilling blood everywhere. For a second, the puppy flashes back into my mind bloody, dead, and pointless. Blood gushes everywhere on the floor, and I quickly leave the scene. My mission cleared, I think freely. I can’t remember, however. I can’t remember what I came for. For a mission, a purpose, and that was all. But why?

Her Face Dylan S. A face, so smooth, perfect. To have seen it glisten in the moonlight, the world seeming to spin around this face. Eyes open, blue as the navy sky above her. Her mouth was relaxed, almost in a grin, but slacking just enough. Eyebrows were perfectly trimmed, plucked to a slim dash above each eye, placed like the atmosphere over the Earth.

Her face was so innocent. There were no signs of discourse, shame, fear. The face was calm, and light. There was no hate in her eyes, just an ocean of color. The pool of sapphire was glossy smooth, like marbles of a stuffed animal’s eyes. She truly was like a plush toy, still, seeming to move out of the corner of your vision, but will never move. Never again.

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The slow crimson ceased to pool, her body an everflowing chalice of sanguinary majesty.

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Spring 2017

Her hair was parted awkwardly, but it seemed to flow with the face. Such thick brown hair, messy on her head. It seemed as though no comb had touched it for years, yet each strand seemed a silk blanket streaming from the skull.

Her shoulders were aligned, even and resting. There was no tension, just peace. The shirt she wore was a light cerulean, with a small tear at the tip of the left shoulder. There were no wrinkles in the shirt. Just a pristine field lay upon her. Like the lips of a great chasm, her body was smooth and sturdy.

The ground beneath her was rocky, yet it oddly balanced this human on it perfectly. It seemed as though the pavement was built just for her body. The arch in the bump cradled her back as her head rested in a rogue patch of grass, erupting from the pavement.

Such a shame that she could never again be gracing the pavement with her form.

There was no wind. I heard parties in the distance and usual sirens wailing. A single strand of her hair stood up, as if listening to the echoes of the life of the night, then fell lifeless once more.

The air was cold and frigid, as though each breath expelled small shards of ice. The air and the perfect form were one, frozen over, still as a picture. Her body was a chilling pale, a mix between the living and dead. Rosy cheeks, lightly closed eyelids, yet the colour drained from the rest of her face. She was the epitome of a medium between life and death.

I stared back down at this perfect face, this perfect figure. Â So blue and pure, but the red was spreading from a tear in the center of her shirt. A tainting, like oil spreading throughout a puddle, a delta of impurity. The slow crimson ceased to pool, her body an everflowing chalice of sanguinary majesty.

Drip, drip, on the pavement beside them, as her stomach seemed to welcome the air into it. The sirens got closer, and I despaired. I would leave this face. I would never see this perfection again. The sirens were for her and for me. I never wished this face would vanish into nothingness, yet I had done all that I could. If I didn’t save her from the punishing force of time, it would claim her. I have preserved her, and now I must pay. I only wished I could have

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relished my limited time with this prized person before I would be punished. I hoped others see no crime in the perfection of death.

I watched the cars pull up, the world seeming hazy and fuzzy. I did not resist as I was taken away. Pushed into a car, I only stared. A team gathered a tarp, trying to shroud the flawless form, and I began to tear. A drop as clear as ice glistened upon my cheek, stinging from the cold of the night. The covering seemed to slow as it hid away my love. My kindest act, my altruistic gift will never be seen as such. My offering to appease the beauty that now lay eternally suspended in pristine death. I could never forget this life, this grace upon my eyes. I was jerked forward as the image vanished beneath the tarp as I closed my eyes and breathed, for the first time in what seemed like hours. I had done my last task. I prepared to join my love.

Affliction Hannah My bare feet touch the cold polished tiles and my brown leather bag drag alongside me, I find the way to the dual doors, red as the devil himself.

I walk up the old wooden staircase, the dusty planks screaming with every defining step I take. My hand skims the unsanded railing, a splinter driving farther and farther into the palm of my hand as I go. The spiraled staircase ends and I arrive at the foot of a floor. The clear glass doors slide open and I’m reawakened to the smell of latex gloves and vinegar. I make my way through the sparse crowd. Low spirited souls and downcasted bodies stare at me, their eyes wide with sorrow. Muddled, I continue down the white hall with the outcasts still watching me, their bodies turning slowly away. My bare feet touch the cold polished tiles and my brown leather bag drag alongside me, I find the way to the dual doors, red as the devil himself. I’m greeted by a lady dressed in blue. Her skin the colour of butterscotch, her hair jet black and tucked behind her sharply pointed ears. Her smile revealed a set of white daggers, each one ready to bite into its next victim, the way a great white shark does to its prey. My heart flops down to my chest and adrenaline pours down my body like boiling water. She signals me to go through the doors. One eye on the shark, I push open the fiery crimson doors, walking down the dark, narrow hallway. A bright light descends from the ceiling and shines on me as I walk, my shadow dancing on the walls. The passageway suddenly ends and I find myself standing in front of a door, 37

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flickering beams of light creep from beneath it. I reach my shaking hand out from under my sleeve and turn the tinted gold knob as I enter this quiet room to discover an empty bed in the corner. I am bewildered. Why is the bed empty? I think to myself. Its cleaned and sanitized, the fresh smell runs up my nose. A figure had already washed its used bed sheets. I stand there, staring blankly at the bed, my face pale. A dainty finger taps me softly on my left shoulder, I slowly turn around to find a 7 foot tall man dressed in white, baled, with no face. He looks at me then looks at the bed, an aw rises in his face. Then it hits me like a bullet in the throat, like a knife in the gut. My nose tickles and tears drip one by one down my flushed cheeks. The small room begins to spin and the walls cave in. I scream and cry and I fall down, laying out my limbs on the perfectly polished floor. My heart skipping beats, my chest pounding, the veins in my eyes a cherry red. Petrifying images swipe my mind and I hug my head tightly as I twitch on the ground. Shouting sounds surround my ears and five ladies dressed in blue with masks over their faces, pin my body in an x shape, to the ground. 1,2,3 they whip out a large needle filled with an unknown green liquid and stab it into my right arm. 3,2,1 the room evaporates in thin air and all I can see is pitch black. My body jolts and I awake in a different room, this time a large room. A tiny needle administered in my veins is attached to a large tube running across the room. I rip it out. Hop off the slouchy bed I was laying on, pause to take a sip of water from the tall beige cup on the nightstand, grab my emptied leather bag on the coat rack, and exit the door to the room.

Holding the Door Van Some people hold the door open as if it were an ancient Chinese art. When I was younger I could never figure out what to do when you were faced with the option to hold the door or keep walking.

It's almost the same thing now because of my ever lurking problem and inner conflict with myself of holding the door. Leaving restaurants and constantly getting yelled at by my mom for not holding the door for someone. It is the right thing to do but why should I feel the need to go out of my way to hold the door for someone I've never met or will never even see again in my lifetime.

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And finally the thing I hate the most is when you have to hold the door for someone and that person is so big that they have to squeeze through that you get pressed up against the walls of the door and the excessive amount of extra body. At this point you're basically done there's nothing you can do about it

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Spring 2017

If I'm feeling nice and decide to hold the door open for someone I really wish it were a nice person that I hold the door for. If it is a nice simple person that would smile and say thank you for me having to put in extra work and hold the door for someone. But if they're rude but walk right by and not say anything because of the fact that they feel entitled or might be in a rush. Im then hit with the fact that someone can take half a second to say thank you and go mind their business afterwards. OK, so if the person does thank you and smile then I have to make eye contact with them, possibly one of the most awkward situations you can be put in.

Just the fact that I have to look at someone that I don't know makes me feel uncomfortable and then I have to smile back and say you're welcome after they thank me. On top of that if I can't get the words out of my mouth quick enough and I stutter or my voice cracks because everyone has that every now and then, makes the situation even worse than it was before.

the situation is beyond awkward as you know we can get out of it.

OK so now that I have to stop holding the door someone has to hold the door for me. When someone holds the door that's cool and i appreciate that. But it's not helping me when when they hold the door when I'm 20 feet away and still walking that's what gets me really mad. If I was that far away you wouldn't have to hold the door for me and feel bad about it the door will close and I open it up for myself or my family or whoever I'm walking with.

Plus when they hold the door for you to make even more eye contact so they're watching you from 20 feet away while you're walking up to them. This builds up the tension in the situation and makes it more of an awkward encounter that it's actually supposed to be. To make things even worse people give you a dirty look because you didn't speed up and you were minding your own business walking at a normal calm pace. Â People expect you to go 0 to 60 faster than a sports car just so you can get inside of the building then on top of that you have to say thanks and make the encounter seem less awkward than it actually was. Holding the door for one person or even a few people is bad enough but then when people decide to have a great migration with their whole family extended family parents cousins friends and Holding the door for one person or even a few people's bad enough but then when people decide to have a great migration with their whole family, extended family, their whole local church, their entire 39

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graduating class, their pets their friends, and even other people that they don't know. They think as long as one person is holding open the door everyone can go at the same time. The majority of the time I don't walk around by myself so I either have a group of friends or group of family members who have to walk also, by making me hold the door for your entire excessively large group of people is putting me and my group of people at the disadvantage by slowing us down.

Normally when this happens there's always that one elderly member of the group who takes up the majority of the time being wasted. Don't get me wrong I have nothing against old people it's just the fact that they go through doors extremely slow. And finally the thing I hate the most is when you have to hold the door for someone and that person is so big that they have to squeeze through that you get pressed up against the walls of the door and the excessive amount of extra body. At this point you're basically done there's nothing you can do about it the situation is beyond awkward as you know we can get out of it. This is happened many times in places that only have one singular door instead of two opening doors. This creates a problem and a potential fire hazard for the lack of entrances and exits to the building. Not only is this a fire hazard but this is a hazard to me and anyone who has to open the door or hold the door.

When holding the door for someone for a few rules to doing it.

One never overstay your visit, if you're holding the door try to hold it for us as people as possible and one set stone dip out as fast as you can this can help avoid the fact that you will get stuck holding the door for everyone else. Rule number two, when holding the door try to make the interaction as brief as possible. This means give a slight wave or smile or say thank you or you're welcome.

Anything more you'll be stuck in the mud or stuck in a conversation with this person you've never met before. And rule number three just do it. The fact that people are going to hold the door for you when you're walking from a distance away is awkward enough, but it's even more awkward when you take your Dandy ol time and walk up to the door. This can create excessive eye contact smiling waving saying thank you all things you want to avoid when the situation happens. The best thing to do here is just to speed up your pace get to the door and get through the situation. Overall holding the door for having the door held for you could be a good 40

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thing but they're also downsides to people making an attempt at a random act of kindness.

Editor’s Note: Bridget Mace and Jaime Patrick Sternin, both insightful participants in our class, did not enter a submission to this anthology.

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