LFCDS 2017 The Oak

The Oak

The Wishing Tree

Lake Forest Country Day School 145 South Green Bay Road Lake Forest, IL 60045

Introduction

The Lake Forest Country Day School 2017 issue of The Oak is titled The Wishing Tree. When deciding what to call our magazine this year, we were guided by the beautiful poems, stories, memoirs, and artwork that were submitted, as well as by our desire to capture something significant about the writer’s journey. When we thought about the roots of imagination and inspiration, we realized that every piece of writing or art starts with a single moment in which the creator says, in one way or another, I wish. As writers, we wish to share our insights about the world, and even to change the world through our creations. Wishing helps us to tap into our deepest hopes and our most passionate beliefs and, at the same time, brings to mind one of the most innocent acts of childhood. All of us can recall the moment as young children when we picked fluffy dandelions and made wishes as the seeds blew away. With this issue of our magazine, we wish to send seeds of inspiration out into the wind, and we wish to see what else will grow from them.

This year, we received an impressive array of submissions from across all grade levels of the upper school. We were stunned by the quality of work and the amount of thought put into each piece. The pieces we chose were those that really inspired us to think, to dream, to hope, to cry, to laugh, and, most of all, to wish for a better world.

The literary magazine staff would like to express our gratitude to all those who submitted their work and to extend our congratulations to the authors and artists who were chosen to represent the creativity of the LFCDS community in these pages. We hope you all enjoy this year’s LFCDS literary magazine. It is composed of your wishes.

Contents Cover Art Introduction

Pamela Shattock Calvin Osborne Kim Bell

The First Line

Noa Paige Bremen

Part I Wish List Artwork Poetic Direction If Lilac Purple was a Person Artwork Memory Transmission Indrillius vs the Ocean Artwork Grief Aristotle Pieces Open Difference?

Lake Thompson Pier One Imports Artwork Seasons Artwork What’s in My Locker Autumn Evening Artwork Wish List

Naomi Fleisch Allie Woldenberg Mimi Osborne Noa Rollman Max Collins Ben Kelliher Vilius Indriliunas Cameron Wacker Sydnie Blumenau Maria Johnson Allie Woldenberg Allie Woldenberg Naomi Fleisch Emma Pasternak Namita Aluvila Ellen Roloson Genevieve Farrell Genevieve Farrell Will Blodgett Sam Erulkar Sofia Falls Max Fleisch

Part II Need Book Life Aristotle Untitled.docx You Can’t Write a Poem about Gino Artwork Cringe Writer’s Block Colors Artwork The Door Famous Wish Wish List

Will Pfeifle Nate Woldenberg Luke Larson Pitman Alley Genevieve Farrell Gino Farrell Ben Whelan Emma Berti Evalyn Lee Lily Steinwold Carla Accogli Grayson Salata Emma Sturgeon Paige Roby

Part III I Wish Directions Artwork Sand Just Like You Will Artwork Camp Sick Camp First My Dog Silver is a Wonder Old Playground Artwork Swings Solid Artwork Famous Nature Artwork What Was It Like While You Can Artwork Wish List

Allie Woldenberg Arianna Griffiths Ben Kelliher Anton Walvoord Arianna Griffiths Simone Sawyer Avery Fleisch Marie Giambrone Hanna Cobin Asher Bremen John Nikitas Eleanor Larsen Hanna Cobin Jessie Pasma Will Meyer Ben Kelliher William Smith Leo Anderson Molly Kelly Kate Danaher Will Meyer

Part IV My Wish List Dare Resistance Artwork 9-Word Poem I Am Muslim Alone Artwork The Jewish Boy Blue Eyed Girl Aristotle One Million Women Artwork Out of the Box The Soup Kitchen Hidden in a Box‌ Love is a Paper Clip Artwork I Wish

Hanna Cobin Allie Woldenberg Conner Keene-Gefvert Max Fleisch Nick Lubaev Hana Uddin Leo Anderson Emma Berti Max Fleisch Bella Farag Mimi Baeseman-Smith Sofia Falls Morgane Garrick Evalyn Lee John Nikitas Akhil Kommala Naomi Fleisch Zach Kaplan Francesco Accoli

Part V Wish Video Games Artwork

Sydnie Blumenau Vilius Indriliunas Maggie Andrea

The Sun Artwork My Thanatophobia Shelby’s Home Down the Rabbit Hole Artwork Wish List

Allie Woldenberg Morgane Garrick Eli Zuerlein Will Pfeifle Naomi Aluvila Emma Sturgeon Mimi Osborne

Part VI I Wish Artwork Stand Up Rosemary Artwork Trigger Guinea Pig Flashback Ivy’s Kindred Cuddles Artwork Wish List

Kate Danaher Francesco Accogli Kevin Taylor Eleanor Larson Evalyn Lee Natalie Putzel Anna Satter Ava Trandel Posy Connery Arianna Griffiths Connor Keene-Gefvert

Part VII Wish Poem: Thrills Artwork Chipotle “What If I Hadn’t Tried It?” Adventurous Artwork The Half of my Basement The Basement Familia Box Doritos Artwork Always Famous The Medals Delicious Wonders Ode to Roxy Unseen Ripples Artwork Aristotle Artwork Final Wish

Marie Giambrone Connor Keene-Gefvert Ben Kelliher Namita Aluvila Bia Leffingwell Marie Giambrone Eli Zuerlein Noa Rollman Emily Nocella Nick Hawkins Shelby Pruett Arianna Griffiths Gabriel Costa Nate Wehner Emma Pasternak Clare Kaplan Annabel Kriger Blair Flavin Leo Anderson Emily Newman

Noa Paige Bremen The First Line My fingers grasp the grip of my pink Up-and-Up Mechanical pencil. The slanted line of shimmering Lead peaks out. Preparing, waiting For the right moment to start.

My blue eyes stare At the perfect unblemished paper in my notebook With precise blue and red lines Like a perfectly ordered room.

I am thinking about what to write What those first lines should be.

The shimmering lead touches the precise lines.

My fingers grip like it’s a fragile piece of glass.

Suddenly, words flow out of the pencil Each one bringing new meaning.

It’s completed, the first line Has been written. More will follow.

The words stream out of the tip of my pencil Like water in a stream descending Over large magnificent rocks.

The story begins.

Part I

Naomi Fleisch Wish List I want to ascend into the clouds knowing that I’ve changed the way a river flows. I want to climb the ladder of courage so that when I exhale my final breath I am fearless. I want to pour love on the fire, so the hate rises with the embers, perishing in the air. I want to dream like a child. I want to hold life like an orange, squeezing all the meaning out of it and selling it on the side of the road for a quarter. I want people to gulp down my cups of meaning and I want them to find purpose. I want to wake up in the morning with the rays of light lying beside me, hugging me. I want to hear the dusty grandfather clock chime at the top of the hour. I want to escape from your hands like a firefly in the inky sky, rising above, until I’m free.

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Allie Woldenberg

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Mimi Osborne Poetic Directions The city streets smell like the first time You walked in that candy store.

The smell of lavender and mint An old town on the other side of heaven With farmers whose straw hats say, “Howdy” Who never get tired of telling their stories.

Who never seem to fade A town so small that it’s not even on the map But it’s where you’ll find me.

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Noa Rollman If Lilac Purple Was a Person If lilac purple was a person she would be four feet and eight inches, slender, but sturdy, and pixie-ish.

She would have that Luna Lovegood-ish curiosity and wonder to her, Balanced with a tough side.

She would smell of Honey and Lavender, And her skin would be Smooth and warm, As sunny as the sand On a hot day.

Her voice would be light and peaceful, And she would have purple hair (of course), And dreamy eyes.

Oh, those eyes!

When she looked at someone They’d melt, Filled with her humble kindness and grace.

And if you held her gaze, There’s a rumor that you might just see your greatest desire.

Her favorite foods would be Berries, Waffles, And Honey.

She would be bookish and smart, Always in the library, Her favorite book being Into the Land of the Unicorns,

By Bruce Coville.

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Overtime, She would gain many friends, And start a family.

Her husband would be light blue, Her compatible color, And they would walk down the streets, Content, With their wonderful colors, And their kind smiles.

“Oh, the Bluish-Purple family?

I know them.

Isn’t that Lilac Purple just so…

Wonderful?”

Their legacy, Of good deeds and happiness, Of choosing kind, Would live on forever.

And I wouldn’t be surprised If you see her name In your history book.

Oh that sweet Lilac Purple!

With her knowing little smile I’ll never forget Her eyes, That saw through the sky.

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Max Collins

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Ben Kelliher Memory Transmission I tell him to lie down on the bed next to the overstocked bookshelf and to take off his shirt. I walk over, feeling the luscious carpet between my bare toes. The silence of the room filling my ears. I place my hands on him, his cold body sending chills through me. I say to him, “Just try to relax, this won’t hurt.” I begin to transmit the memory, and I watch as he experiences the ocean.

Leo woke up on a beach and looked down. He saw grains spilling through his feet.

Sand. He felt his dripping clothing, clinging to his legs. Wetsuit. Leo feels the red cap squeezing his head and the rope from it cutting in to his chin. Leo looks around the sand dunes sprouting patches of underbrush as he shades his eyes from the hot Australian sun. He then turns and sees the sparkling ocean, waves breaking on the rocks. Children splash around, ride the waves. Ocean is the word he receives. Leo begins to hear the chatter of everyone else in his group and the talk of the instructors. “Alright boys. When we go in the waves, go in when a wave is receding away from the beach. Go around the instructor and then catch a wave in.

Got it? Ready, set, go!”

Everyone else sprints off into the ocean, making a weird motion with their legs to move faster over the breaking waves. Wading. Leo then takes off after them, splashing into the cool water. It washes away the sand, cleansing his feet. He tries to wade and does so successfully, feeling his feet cut the tops of the waves off.

The splash from his wet, shining feet sprays up onto his wetsuit. The ocean floor drops away.

Everyone else in front of him dives underneath the ten-foot tall waves, their splash spraying him. Seeing the massive waves coming at him, Leo copies the motion.

He dives underneath, gripping the sand. He feels the surge of the wave pass over him, and then comes up, blinking the salt out of his eyes. He then sees the instructor with their hands out, beckoning Leo towards him. He starts to move forward, trying to run but slowed by the deep water. He ducks under another wave, feeling the even bigger surge pass over his head. Leo comes back up, pushes himself around the instructor, and begins to swim back towards the shore. When he feels the first wave come up behind him, he starts swimming even harder, pushing the water around him. He feels the wave push him along the top of the water, skimming the surface. It makes him feel like he’s flying over the surface of the water. Bodysurfing. Leo falls off the back of the wave, but he rode it halfway to the shore and up near the other boys. He wipes the water out of his eyes, feeling the droplets slide down his fingertips. He begins to swim even harder, determined to be the first kid back. He ignores the numbness of his legs.

Leo senses the wave behind him, but ignores it, hoping to get to shore before it catches him. He is fifteen feet away from the shoreline when he gets swept up by the wave. He feels himself being pushed under but keeps moving towards the shore. Leo’s toes scrape the bottom of the ocean, searching the sand for something to stabilize him. When he finds nothing, he tries to dig his toes in the sand to no avail. Realizing he’s not going to stop, he braces himself for impact. Just as he is about to hit the sand, a thought flashes through his mind. At least I’m going to be first.

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Vilius Indriliunas The Ocean I hear the ocean's mighty lion roar Its magic pulls me closer Its huge waves a tsunami for an ant I run in the cool water And feel it surround my bare ankles I sink into the sand like it is quick sand I step forward and the rip tide pulls me under And feel the salty water sting my eyes The pain disappearing after a while I let the water take me where it lowers itself rubbing against the sand I stop on the shore line My back all sandy I stand up on my legs And get ready for the next wave to push me under And push through all of the walls hitting me to get me to go back I make it to through To where the waters relax And go under a wave that almost knocked me over I get pushed back to the shore And grin like a three-year-old on his birthday

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Cameron Wacker

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Sydnie Blumenau Grief Grief is like diving in an ocean A loud splash With the salt water disseminating Across your skin Eyes focus on the depth All clarity rushing past Sometimes, bereavement sucking in Never making it out Treasures are lost Wretchedness spreading like ink Throughout the floor Somberness overwhelming the haze As time passes The surface rises Lucidity returns a moral And the tide crashes Creating a new beginning.

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Maria Johnson “Aristotle” after Billy Collins This is the beginning.

Almost anything can happen.

This is where you uncover the plot and the background of the main character Think of a child, James, and the perfect family, Charles the father, all of it Told from the mother’s point of view a “too good to be true” family as the plot develops you see the story unfold This is the very beginning.

The first-character introduces herself, tells us about her son James, His eagerness for learning Exploring nature She shows us the sandbox Introduce us to the family This is early on Before the innocent child is lost.

This is the opening, the gambit, a loving mother losing something not even a part of it yet.

This is just your first sign that something may happen, your first question about the story This is the first part, where the mothers begins to show her love toward James, where every mother’s story begins.

This is the middle.

Things have had time to get complicated, Everything and everyone, really. Nothing is simple anymore.

James has gotten back from camp full of energy He wants to go play in his sandbox Charles went off golfing, again, You are alone at home This is the sticky part where the plot congeals, where the action suddenly climaxes or swerves off in an outrageous direction.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph to what she was doing that day A paragraph to where she went wrong Where did James go? She asks again and again.

She turned her back for a minute

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This is the thick of things.

So much is crowded into the middle Of just one sandbox—there is too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end, What went wrong: James is gone The mother freaks out Calling the neighbors Breaking down crying Calling the police and James is still gone What do you do?

The reader tries to figure out what happened This is the final bit thinning away to nothing.

You find out the truth only years later‌ Charles lifts up the sandbox Slowly so the reader starts to think about it The sandbox goes As well as all the memories Under the sandbox, a scrap of James' shirt The day he went missing he wore that shirt The truth is out and James is dead.

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Allie Woldenberg Pieces Life is a puzzle Always meant to be solved Sometimes easy Sometimes hard Sometimes simple Sometimes pretentious Sometimes the pieces just won’t fit And sometimes they slide swiftly into place Sometimes you lose a piece But manage to find your way.

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Allie Woldenberg Open I am the dull golden key in her torn dress pocket as her mud streaked hand reaches down to lightly pat me She runs, and I bang against her thigh.

The sharp cold feeling. A quick tap.

Suddenly she stops, leaves me untouched.

I long to open. To touch and turn in the key hole I beg her to bring me to the cupboard.

To feel what I once felt. Shining.

In despair, these frigid times, she leaves me.

Torn apart, and broken.

This world, it doesn’t open.

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Naomi Fleisch Difference?

I ride my blue bike to school and so does she.

But she doesn’t have a yellow star sewn on her blouse.

I have straight A’s and so does she.

But she has blonde hair and blue eyes, a perfect Aryan.

I have a purple backpack and so does she.

But there is a cross when you enter her house.

My dad owns an antique shop and so does hers.

But the wall on her father’s shop doesn’t have “Jude” painted on it.

We both hang out with our friends after school.

But she can stay out as late as she wants.

We both walk the halls with a little skip in our step.

But she can do it without being called a “dirty Jew”.

We can both go back to our houses and fall asleep after a long day.

But she can do it without the threat of the Nazis rounding her up during the night. We both go to camp.

But she goes during the summer. She goes for fun. We both take showers at camp. But when she turns the valve left, water comes out.

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Emma Pasternak Lake Thompson The cold water is Refreshing Against my skin The warm sand is Relaxing Against my feet I can see swimmers in the water doing backstroke And skiers Z O O M I N G Blowing away their fears in the wind.

This is the feeling of hope and peace I can almost grab the magic lingering in the air and water.

It feels almost like pixies are shooting across this beautiful body of water When I’m here, I believe that magic is real.

The smell of sunscreen lingers around me.

And the gleaming white dock is as hot as the sun.

The sun sets down on the beautiful horizon And‌

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across the whole lake,

“BLAST” The horn blows, My water activities are Over, done for, GONE I grab my towel and slip on my flip-flops I wish that I could stay here With this magic forever.

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Namita Aluvila Pier One Imports I sink into a fluffy white cloud of a bean bag Looking around at the familiar setting But wait!

This is all wrong!

What has happened to the ocean-scented candles and fragrance oil?!

Where are the seashell-themed bracelets and notebooks?!

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO SUMMER?!

I peer at the sparkly black and orange Halloween decorations At the mini pumpkins and—are those Thanksgiving decorations?!

This used to be a pristine summer beach!

Now a Thanksgiving dinner table and An unintimidating haunted house meet in the middle of the store making chaos The elevator music fades to the background I look around at this strange new terrain Then rise out of the bean bag Relearning my home of Pier One Imports As I do each year when the seasons change Just a little too quickly for my liking

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Ellen Roloson

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Genevieve Farrell Seasons White blankets cover Towns and villages Streets and homes Where tiny shredded 6-point paper Glistens from above Dazzling in the sun Melting into shades of blossoming figures And the sun wraps me In its warm glow Warm on my skin Out in the hot air, kids throw Water balloons that splash Rainbows all over them Where large flames erupt From a pit, smelling of burning Sugar and chocolate When school is out When kids’ eyes Are filled with delight and joy Finally, trees loose Their green friends The air gets a chill Time for sweater weather And school season begins again

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Genevieve Farrell

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Will Blodgett What’s in My Locker In my locker Scattered papers With green and red marker Completed math homework Notecards, money in wallet, phone flickering Aron’s thinking putty spreading Golf ball rolling, binder stuffed Chargers hanging (Computer uncharged) Locker shut

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Sam Erulkar Autumn Evening As pumpkins wait to be carved on the doorstep I hear the chirping sound of crickets Leaves rustling on the ground And the howl of the wind As it gives me chills I stare and see Multicolored leaves falling Broken oak limbs Trees swaying Acorns scattered around the yard I smell The orange and red mums In the garden The crisp air Making my nose burn The scent of burning leaves Surrounds me I feel The cool breeze on my face as My eyes water and A shiver runs down my sweatshirt As I take in the fading sun And realize that winter is coming I appreciate everything An autumn evening brings

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Sofia Falls

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Max Fleisch Wish List I wish To turn back I wish to be like The stork in the sky Who knows when to migrate Or the Dove And the swallow who Know the season of return What human instinct knows When to turn back When do we know That we have gone too far I wish for the stars To light the pathway home To guide us to where we Belong

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Part II

Will Pfeifle Need I want a book that will never open just to wonder what’s inside I want to buy a model I will never build just to wonder how it will look I want to do something I hate just to prove that I can.

I want a light I will never turn on just to know it’s there and to embrace the dark I want a picture I will never look at Just to save the image forever I want things that I will never need To wish for

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Nate Woldenberg Book Life It sits on the arm of the couch Its binding scarred Like a once towering mountain That crumbled in an avalanche Sad and alone Unread and untouched Until It is picked up And inside is a sea of endless creatures and life A meadow with no end A mountain with no top A place where imagination runs free Like a herd of wild caribou with no bounds Where great legends and heroes clash in a world of mystical wonder And stories unfold Mysteries and adventure Past and future Leaving its reader in a storied trance

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Luke Larsen “Aristotle” after Billy Collins This is the beginning Almost anything can happen This is where you get the plot and the background of the main character Think of the dad, strong and smart, As told from the narrator’s point of view Just a daughter and her dad Until you see the story unfold This is the very beginning.

The first character, Jason, gets introduced, He is standing in front of Big Ben The dad loves His daughter Gives us time to understand the terrible thing that happened to his daughter This is early on, innocence.

This is the opening, the gambit, a loving dad losing his daughter.

This is your first look at the worried dad Your first question about the story This is the first part where the dad begins to show how scared he is where the story begins to wind up like a clock.

This is the middle.

Things have had time to get complicated, Everything and everyone, really. Nothing is simple anymore.

Jason goes on the hunt for is daughter Sam He takes a bag the villains left behind Jason catches a cab and now This is the sticky part where the plot congeals, where the action suddenly climaxes or flies off to Italy with a fake passport.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph to what he is doing in Milan.

A paragraph to where he went wrong.

In Milan: He has landed now in the thick of things.

So much is crowded into the middle— too much to name, too much to think about.

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And this is the end, He fights the villains What do you think? He wins.

The reader tries to figure out what happened The daughter is breaking down Crying, happy, they are driving away Into the distance This is the final bit thinning away to nothing.

You find out the truth They take a left instead of going to the airport The reader starts to think about it They go to Paris. Of course.

That is where all the memories go Under their smiles, Jason is still concerned But the day she was kidnapped is gone They live happily. The story concludes: They tuck their normal lives back into their bags.

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Pitman Alley Untitled.docx I sit here, thinking about this poem Mrs. Zaleski said we had to do.

I’m Stuck, I’m trying.

I’m staring at my blank paper.

I hear the sound of my classmates’ chairs they squeak wildly while they peck away on their black Lenovo Windows 8 Pro computer.

Oh, Gosh. Her size 10.5 Keens pounding on the ground she walks towards me.

A lot of things pass through my head.

What will she do?

I have done something wrong.

I’m trying, I can’t go farther. Zaleski could just wreak me with one piece of “positive criticism”.

She Says, “Pittman, you need to work harder on your writing it needs this and that… bla bla bla.

I wish she would say “Pittman, your work is absolutely miraculous!

You’re the best writer ever!

If that happened, that would not be Pittman in English.

I see my classmate, with his computer charging.

He has a look on his freckled face that says I’m concentrating, but this is hard I want to be funny.

I wish for inspiration for my writing, but I can’t get those thoughts.

(That stinks!)

I click save as, it becomes the title of this page.

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Genevieve Farrell You Can’t Write a Poem about Gino Mop haired, not pleasing to the eye. A short being almost like a prairie dog Fast though, cheetah-like Humorous as a laughing monkey His Mr. Potato Head glasses squeeze his face until He wears real glasses And then contacts To his very first tablet From toy cars To the iPod that he holds in his hands And the shiny golden Saxophone That squeaks each time he blows And the scratched one He never plays anymore Always there by my side Even when I scream at him Always showing his love for me Even when I hit him Each toy he puts away In the toy basket Is another year gone by

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Gino Farrell

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Ben Whelan CRINGE Cringe, Verb To bend one’s head or body in a state of fear or in my case annoyance, clichéd, or spoiled things Ah cringe I knew it would appear in black and white eventually There are so many things that grind my gears Like dabbing and the cringiest item of all: Hamilton music If I could mention all the things that force me to recoil this poem would be no less than 50 full pages Cringing is not a good feeling I wince, grimace, shudder It can make you either want to punch a hole in a wall or throw up The cringing feeling is so bad that I am warning you Stay away from chalkboards and people with fingernails don’t listen to a song too much And pretty please never dab or whip now I am telling you me to you every 60 seconds 700 people around the world cringe we need to stop cringe together

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Emma Berti Writer's Block I’m Stuck I’m Clueless No Ideas No thoughts Just questions flood my brain “What should I write?”

“What’s my next class?”

“When is English over?”

“I’m hungry… when is lunch?”

I’m too stumped I feel sleepy I look annoyed Everyone is writing so fast While I sit here sketching on the paper Drawing puddles And filling them in.

I can’t think About poems class Or work My brain won’t function Writer’s Block is like a locked door Blocking me from all the Creative ideas But I don’t have The key Everyone else has ideas popping into their head Like balloons popping Everyone is just going through that door Like it’s no big deal While I’m still Stuck

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Lily Steinwold

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Evalyn Lee

Colors Colors segregated in palate yet swirled together create art.

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Carla Accogli The Door The door Is the only thing I see Me and the door The spotlight shining on the door Around there is only dark The door can be black like coal Silver like mist Its orange & blue striped or it could be pink dotted If I want to stay like this, I’ll do so but I want to search for the key, in all the worlds in the universe, in all the fairy tales and stories, I know, I listen to all the characters and take precious teachings, then . . ., I’ll do so The key is never the same twice different color changing every second the key can be old . . . rusty... and scratched it can be NEW smooth… and shiny The door is as black as space In my room when I’m sleeping The key is as bright as a star in my fairy tale world I need the two of them to succeed My rough hands touch the handle I twist the key If I find the right key,

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I’ll open the door and if I open the door my task is completed and if my task is completed there will be . . . another door

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Grayson Salata Famous The roots are famous to the soil Which shelters the plant The basketball is famous to the net Which it couldn’t hold on to The blood of the deer is famous to the forest floor Which the hunter killed, stuffed and hung On his prize wall with all his other kills The light is famous to the eye When the eye is struggling to stay open The hand is famous to the pencil Which grasped it Using the graphite The quarter is famous to the slot on the vending machine Where it will stay a while until it is collected The finger is famous to the key When the keys are being pushed around The cleat is famous to the turf When the turf is being beaten down We can all be famous In our own small ways

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Emma Sturgeon Wish List I want to meet a pirate that sails upon the seas. I want to take a ride on his ancient vessel. Waving goodbye to the lonely town I used to wander around.

I want an old record player that only sings about the truth. I want a house on the beach so I can sink my feet into the soft squishy sand. I want to feel the salt from the ocean blowing in the wind and sticking to my hair and my skin. I want to feel the feeling of winning a game whenever I want to, exactly the way I had felt it before. The crowd cheering me on.

My team picking me up and giving high fives.

I want to go home to my family to a game of Monopoly, and play like I never stopped.

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Paige Roby Wish List I want to bump around in a little golf cart with my friends, frying under the sun, on an island.

I want a little fever of stingray to swim past my calf, touching it as it passes.

Their little stingers and me so close to touching.

I want to go somewhere I’m not allowed to be. Maybe I climb the big Ferris Wheel at night; or run across a golf course at night, filled with adrenalin.

I want to see my orphan friends.

To wake up and know the responsibility of taking care of a cursed, little human that isn’t mine.

I want to sleep on the beach. Drifting away as the waves sing me a lullaby. A crisp, sand filled breeze washes over my heavy, warm blanket.

I want to relive the time I would bounce in my toddler swing. I want to wake up my papa with my stupid little harmonica and for him to scold me. Then I go back into my cardboard house, and lay down on my cardboard bed with a real pillow. Or relive the time I waddled to the living room in my yellow dress, snack ready 42

and dance. I want to be scared of grass again and wish I was on Toddler and Tiaras. I want to throw a fit, laying on the hard ground, all because we had to get groceries. I want the moment back when I finally got up after I was offered a lollipop I want to run outside at the sound of an ice cream truck. I want to sit on the cold stone steps with my mean neighbor and eat our delicious treats. I want my childhood.

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Part III

Allie Woldenberg I Wish To search for happiness in the lonely darkness to find hidden objects far away to see the season changing through the eyes of the sun.

In the pitch dark, to see a shooting star blaze by I want something more valuable than money more than sun and sky, more than me but less than you To sink under water in salty ocean and see a life I’ve never seen before One moment with him to say good bye.

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Arianna Griffiths Directions Pass the rugged, sharp mountains. Roam along the winding road rolled out like tape on the foothills.

Pass the ranches of grazing cows and wild horses.

Continue through the treetop-covered lanes until you reach the pass.

All of the elk roam free beside chilly waters.

A rustic, yet beautiful town lies below your feet.

Follow the meadow lane, lined by wooden fences weathered and worn.

Pass by the friendly men who shout, “Howdy, partner�.

Swoop through the various peaceful communities and turn where the river meets the trees.

And you will soon find yourself in front of a cozy wooden house where I await you.

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Ben Kelliher

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Anton Walvoord Sand Distant booms shake the air Two lights saunter along the road Illuminate cracked plates of asphalt The parchment-colored sand, Black Unreachable Distant starbursts of blues, purples, yellows, and reds Elucidate the black sky’s story Hidden memories Untouchable Screams of rockets Mix With waves’ soothing crashes Telling stories of the beach My father And I Alone, Silent, Two grains of sand.

His stories untold, Hidden in shadow, Unreachable.

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Arianna Griffiths Just Like You Will (What They Were) What were they like?

Did they commit crimes?

Did they get distracted, just like us?

Did they make mistakes?

They were adventurous, took risks, and learned.

Everyone pushed that one kid off the swing, watching him run away with filthy mud on his knees they tried to get away with it.

Distraction is part of life They distracted themselves and others.

It is all just part of growing up.

Just like you will.

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Simone Sawyer

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Avery Fleisch CAMPSICK: A Memoir I was in the rec center with my friends all gathered around in a tight circle; we were saying our last good-byes and crying and laughing and taking pictures on our Polaroids. I looked outside and saw the heavy rain pouring down on the bunks like a rain magnet, and I realized that just an hour ago, I was sleeping in one of those bunks. I sat next to two of my best friends from camp. We were talking about how we would call each other RIGHT when we got home. I realized the overrated, not-so-amazing chocolate croissant in my hand might be the last one I tasted. The weird smell of our clothes—maybe it would be the last time I will smell that. The cracked, dirty rec center floors might be the last thing I see before I leave. I had never felt so empty and deflated.

I remembered the first week of camp when I was so homesick and shy, and all I wanted to do was see my parents; I would cry sometimes because I wanted to see them so much. Then, I got introduced to the trapeze, waterskiing, dance, camping, and swimming, and suddenly I wasn’t homesick anymore. Now, it’s kind of funny, because now I’m crying because I have to go.

I got over the worst homesickness I’ve ever had, and now I get to lie in a big, comfy bed, in my own room, with no girls laughing or yelling. However, I would give all of that up to be at camp right now.

50

Marie Giambrone Camp Driving up the bumpy, curving roads To the gate that opens to small lake With water as fresh and cold As the Pacific on a perfect sunny morning.

Through the woods, green as emeralds.

Past the turf field boiling On a hot day.

By the dining hall, That wiggles with laughter and Jell-O Past the bright blue pool Painted neon green inside.

We get out of the car and walk down a hill of woodchips, past the tree carved into a bear Down the small steps, That trip you in darkness.

Then we’re here.

Dark brown wood cabins Where stories sleep in bunks.

Down the balcony and stairs, And onto the pavement.

Looking down, To see the hand drawn chalk art The creaking door, where gnats flood in at night.

This is where my next two weeks will be Filled with laughter and joy.

Where endless memories are created And friendships made and made closer.

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Hanna Cobin First Does anyone remember the first time they stood?

The first time they spoke or the first time they heard?

The first time they fought?

The first time they cried?

Does anyone remember the first time they loved?

Does anyone remember anything before they die?

No one knows when their legs first grew into a way for them to walk to you.

When their words first spilled onto the floor.

Or when sounds first beat on their eardrums and heard the songs the birds sang.

Maybe some remember a day later in life when they first tried.

Yes, they remember when a scream first hunted their dreams.

Or when water first filled their eyes and flooded their life.

Of course they remember when they first fell onto the special pavement called love.

I don't know if they remember before they leave us‌

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Asher Bremen My Dog Silver is a Wonder She loves to cuddle like a baby Snuggling with her mother Silver curls on my lap And licks me with grateful love Silver has eyes that sparkle like a diamond, blue as the ocean on a beautiful day Her creamy white fur is like the center of an Oreo, dappled with bright brown spots a gray spot marks her chest, Where dirt has gathered She loves to wave her tail, She stares and begs for petting With a sad face She loves to lay her head on the ground It makes her look sleepy She is a wonder.

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John Nikitas Old Playground The breeze wrestles with my hair As I look at the Rotting frames of wood The dirt-covered metal And the wounds and scars of love I still remember the rainy day we bought The “Rainbow Playset” From the Guy on 41 I remember….

The polished wood, The gleaming metal And excitement lighting a young child’s face As he races down the slide for the first time I sit On the double swing Facing front Built for two Used by one I look at the daddy long legs That found a home in the splintery wood He scuttles away as my finger caresses the cracked wood My brother is inside Watching Pokémon GO videos on YouTube I kick off the ground The swing groans It matches my mood perfectly I go faster Back and forth Back and forth Back and forth I stop Along with the breeze A single leaf floats down and flutters to the ground A season is over But a new one will begin soon…

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Eleanor Larsen

55

Hanna Cobin Swings The breeze, a windy friend from home It combs my hair as I swing As I go up I am teleported into the galaxy For just a second, I see The milky way, crystal stars, and the soft moon As I float back down to earth I hear a quiet symphony in the distance It blurs my vision I see nothing but the music Once again I am back in space There are no stars this time The moon is replaced a short ostinato The milky way, substituted by a calming melody Gravity pulls me back to earth I don’t stop falling The symphony has vanished Instead I am humming I am lost in the music I can't find my way home through Foggy layer harmonies I open my eyes I am back on my swings In my backyard I am home

56

Jessie Pasma Solid I stand, shaking. At the top of my treehouse. My heart, pulsing. My stomach, churning. I look ahead to the tree that seems so far away. My dad throws me the zip line, new and shiny. My heart and stomach are yelling, screaming, shouting for me to turn back, turn away from the tree, from the zip line. I swallow hard.

My heart and stomach stop. I grab onto the handles and sit on the clean blue seat.

My dad shouts, “3, 2, 1…GO!” My heart skips a beat as I am launched into the damp cold air. I can’t take my eyes off the tree. It comes closer, too close. I start to slow down but not enough. I collide with the tree. Not hard but enough to start a small sting in my knees and hands. Blood slides down my knee. I wipe the blood from my knee, and head towards the treehouse. I pull myself up the ladder. I look at the tree that is so far away. I grab the zip line. Heart screaming. I grab the damp handles. Stomach yelling. I sit on the damp seat. My heart and stomach stop singing. This time I yell, “3, 2, 1! GO!” I am yet again thrown into the damp, cold air. This time I see flowers and trees. Colors blend together making art. Pinks, purples, blues, greens, and yellows. I look ahead the tree is in sight. It comes closer. I extend my legs. My feet hit the tree, solid. I rebound off the tree, solid. I slow to a stop, solid. My feet touch the grass and now I feel, solid.

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Will Meyer

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Ben Kelliher Famous Nature The sun is famous to the plants Reviving them every dawn The snow is famous to the mountain Blanketing it every winter The water is famous to the rocks, eroding away as it spills over them The wind is famous to the wings Ruffling the feathers, uplifting the bird above the treetops The roots are famous to the earth Clutching it for a lifetime Soaking up wisdom The vivid stars are famous to the black night Shining brightly against a dark canvas The tree is famous to the leaves Hanging onto them until it is time To let go

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William Smith

60

Leo Anderson What Was It Like?

Were the children dancing and playing in the sun?

Before the terror, were the elders praying Each night to see another morning?

Did they smell the gas and the burning flesh not so far away?

Did the children think it was a dream?

Did the dreams of all the people get crushed?

History takes its course, as life takes its days Yes, children Were just playing in the fields by their homes Where Discrimination slept Yes, the elders were praying Their bones thin and brittle Yes, everyone heard the terror Of the burning flesh, in the gas chambers Staggering wishes and lives crushed of smoke The children knew They just couldn’t bear Thinking about tomorrow was an unembraceable wish And yes, the souls were slowly diminishing As casualties, casually leaving the earth,

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Molly Kelly While You Can Rocking in Grandma's tan hammock as she clutches me to her chest I squint at the bright blue sky Together we point out airplanes cold wind hits us shiny metal poles clang together music to my ears Together we pick the best peaches draw her rusty metal knife with chipped black paint she pulls out my Dora plate Cuts the peaches into itty bitty pieces the juices spill out as I gnaw Splashing 100˚ water in our faces a buzzing noise surrounds us thin strips of yellow and black I wave my hand back and forth a sudden pain in my neck I choke on the saltiness of my tears “Oh those darn bees,” Grandma says pulling me out of the water wrapping me with love Grandma lifts me into the air my face sticky from crying “Which peaches look good?”

I point to the orange ones inside, we wash peaches in the deep, silver sink bowls, spatulas, the smell of peaches surround me like a hug The metallic smell of the hospital the white sheets match her face snuggling up over her thin mattress her shaky hand reaches to grab the glass but drops it I stare at the blue hydrangeas next to her bed I listen to her steady, fast breaths 62

The bark peels from the tree Moldy peaches fall to the ground Little black dots take over then And just like grandma They’re suddenly gone forever

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Kate Danaher

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Will Meyer Wish List I wish for a room That’s alive That whizzes and whorls as its gears shift I want a view Of the ever rolling plains Never to see anything but crystal sky And green shimmering grass I want time Where time stands still And I am its caretaker As it sits motionless I want to find worry Pain Hate Watch it shatter Its body feeling what it produces I want to see what others can’t see And feel what others feel When they can’t themselves

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Part IV

Hanna Cobin Wish List I want to ride the wings of a broken dove. I want To escape the cage of the lost. I want to sing Words written on papyrus. I want to free The thoughts trapped by imagination. I want to walk One million miles away from broken hearts.

I want to forget the thoughts that wash over me in misery.

I want to jump into the air and never fall back. I want to travel To the moon and take off my helmet then breathe in the starry air.

I want to feel safe, wrapped up in a fluffy blanket. I want to touch The cold fire on the stove. I want to see a different mirror.

I want to write with a feathery quill and never stop. I want To see a wilted field of flowers. I never want to say goodbye.

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Allie Woldenberg, Dare I dare you to dream a dream Of smoke that rises in the sky Of friends who sing as the brightly covered tree tops Drip away from sight Close your eyes and dream I’m not here You’re not there Our lives remain separated By my broken heart.

Dare to love?

Dare to connect?

I see you dreaming the dream that I never dared.

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Connor Keene-Gefvert Resistance The way I joined the resistance Was By Accident I ran into a member Living alone on the streets Since then I have been part of THE RESISTANCE We are living just below THE RESISTANCE We are slowly rising out of our layers THE RESISTANCE We are changing the world like silent ghosts THE RESISTANCE We are the voice for the voiceless THE RESISTANCE I am learning behind closed doors THE RESISTANCE I am racing on unmonitored streets THE RESISTANCE My unmentioned objective THE RESISTANCE Kill the hydra THE RESISTANCE The final head is nearly cutoff THE RESISTANCE For who it is I don’t know THE RESISTANCE

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Max Fleisch

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Nick Lubaev 9-Word Poem Military Uniform Size 10 Stained, Bloody Sealed in Closet

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Hana Uddin I am Muslim September 11th, 2001 The buildings crash down Thousands Killed Heroes come to help hurting themselves As another plane cuts through the air The second building crumbles with hope from many families Gone.

Reports of Muslim terrorist groups Then…

We are labeled “Muzlams are terrorists!”

Shown on the millions of flashing screens all over the world a young student staying with her grandparents tears dripping on to the pan as she flips the golden brown pancakes Sobbing With sympathy for the thousands of mourning families She thought the faces behind the flickering cameras and flashing computer screens Were smarter You are told that its immature Selfish Unjust To be so general But as a young child, you couldn’t help but think it was your fault Your parents, aunts, and uncles Rush to the hospitals To heal the wounded Yet patients can Be So Naïve You, a little kindergartener 71

Teased for who you are At a catholic school all you could ever do was duck your head and Blend in And now A little girl afraid to say “I am Muslim.”

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Leo Anderson Alone I’m alone In this world No one to talk to No one to laugh with No life to share I had a career as a doctor As a role model As a parent As a friend For 20 years Now I’m invisible My face Dreaded Sorrowed Scared Forlorn Beat up Scar-covered I walk the lonely road The road that goes On and on For years I’m sick Throwing up outside alleys in trashcans Begging for money Eating trash Makes me think of how mom and dad died They couldn’t bear to live in this world Alone Waiting for an opportunity I lie On the dusted sidewalk Dying inside Organs stop Heart stops I stop Being alone

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Emma Berti

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Max Fleisch The Jewish Boy How does a Jewish boy speak with no voice? How does a German soldier follow hatred that leads him down a bloody path?

How can a man watch his friends fall to the ground when they go to take a shower and still be a bystander?

How can a country know so much but do so little?

The Jewish boy, they put his voice in striped pajamas and starved him until he collapsed The soldier has left the man and the fear and hatred has taken over.

He doesn’t think he is like the other men but they are all just men.

As long as it’s not them, they don’t mind.

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Bella Farag Blue Eyed Girl Nazis separate us People who despise the Brown Eyed Girl People who embrace the Blue Eyed Girl A series of forbidden images Full of torture and cries for help Known all around the world Told to people who practice Judaism Who go to school to learn the story That labels me The Blue Eyed Girl I want to be the girl That can stroll in the street Sleep without a Nazi Banging on my door, And take a shower Without worrying About what will come out The shower head

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Mimi Baeseman-Smith “Aristotle” after Billy Collins This is the beginning.

Almost anything can happen.

This is where you find, A kid who was alone, A kid named Jeffrey.

He has no friends, Nobody to talk to.

Think of an egg, the letter A, Laughter, hatred This is the very beginning.

But one boys’ life will soon change The third-person narrator introduces himself, tells us about Jeffrey’s lineage.

This is early on, before the tragic night.

Words like anger and revenge do not appear.

This is the opening, the gambit, a pawn moving forward an inch.

This is the first party he was invited to, This is the first part where the wheels begin to spin on gravel, a tree filled road that leads to a clearing still in the distance. This is before the doors lurch apart And out he steps.

This is the middle.

Things have had time to get complicated, muddy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.

This is the sticky part where the plot congeals, where the action suddenly reverses or swerves off in an outrageous direction.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph to what really happens to Jeffrey.

Here the aria rises to a pitch, The pitch of laughter, thoughts of betrayal, salted with revenge.

This is the bridge, the painful modulation.

This is the thick of things.

And this is the end, the car driving away on the road, Hitting him that they left him

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And he had to walk home This is the final bit The dark thought of revenge Thickening into something massive This is the end, according to Aristotle, what we have all been waiting for, what everything comes down to, the destination we cannot help imagining, a streak of light in the sky, and “See you next year�

The one sentence that makes it all worthwhile.

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Sofia Falls One Million Women She scrolls through social media Cruel names, unfriending Friends, mocking her videos Reposting her fails, her most unliked Liked picture and on and on Repost, unlike, repost, repost, unlike Now a woman She feels ugly, owned She wants a new mirror Reflecting beauty, intelligence To stand in the corner of her own body And she is not just a woman Inside her are one million, every day.

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Morgane Garrick

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Evalyn Lee Out of the Box Dedicated to all the girls trapped in boxes Of course Glasses, dark hair, thin limbs Couldn’t possibly be anything more Of course Honor student, shiny braces Just what I am…but no Must.

Breathe.

No more.

An empty box awaits I could walk away, as expected But I make my choice Because of all the other girls in boxes, needing to breathe As soon as my foot lands in the box Game on I must break out of the box that suffocates me To break out you need to be trapped I grip my bat Breathe in And out The fielders edge up closer Thinking I don’t belong Breathe in And out The pitcher rolls her eyes and the fielders slump The parents watch, expecting disappointment I must prove them wrong Breathe in and-BOOM I break out of the box as I see the fielder fumble with the ball Shock stamped all over her face I round to home Of course

81

John G. Nikitas The Soup Kitchen Of course I knew that people who weren’t as fortunate as me struggled. Every day they fought for their lives, facing man’s worst opponents: hunger, poverty, and sickness. I knew (because my parents kept telling me constantly) that I should help these people. I foolishly thought I understood what the circumstances were for these people. I didn’t know how scary it was for them or how real their struggle was. But, I would soon realize that no one can understand the circumstances without experiencing them in some way for themselves.

The fear of the unknown gripped me as the Webalos of Pack 43 trudged down the carpeted stairs of the soup kitchen in Waukegan. I got the feeling that everyone gets when they’re doing something scary but exciting. It was late afternoon on a Friday. We all cleaned the dining area until it was spick and span. We had just finished prepping the tables and taking down the chairs when the first few people came in. I raced to my position on drink duty. I put on a friendly face as the people grabbed something to drink and walked away to sit down with their trays of food.

Some had shaggy beards and rugged hair. Some had no hair at all! They had grateful gap-toothed smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. In their eyes I saw sadness revealing the struggles they faced. I wondered what their stories were.

Were they from another country? Did they speak a different language? In every single persons eyes I saw there was gratitude beyond compare. I will remember that scene for the rest of my life.

The rest of the time I was working very hard. I was running from serving water, milk, and chocolate milk at the drink spot, to helping wash dirty plates in the kitchen, to serving broccoli, spinach and more at the buffet, to looking in the food storage, and then repeating the process all over again. The last few customers left and we cleaned the dishes. Afterward, my whole pack had dinner at Noodles & Co. in Lake Bluff. When I got home I went straight to my room. I didn’t have any homework because it was a weekend. I was exhausted and, after briefly reflecting on the experience, I drifted off to sleep within the hour.

I didn’t realize until much later how the soup kitchen has changed me. It has boosted my generosity to a new level. Now when I reflect on my boy scout service trip, I not only remember the experience itself, but I also remember how it has made me a better person. Now when I see I poor person out on the street I almost always give them a dollar or more. Once my mom and I were in New York City and we had just finished eating at an Italian restaurant. We had half a pizza left in a take-out bag and we were walking back to our hotel. On our way to the restaurant I had seen a man with a white bucket asking for some money. We turned a corner and there he was, sitting on the steps to an apartment building. A memory appeared in my head. It was of the people ferociously attacking their food in the soup kitchen. How hungry they must have been. Suddenly, an idea formed in my head. I whispered it to my mom and she approved. As we walked past the man, we stopped and gave the bag to him. He looked up and 82

immediately recognized us from when we had walked by before. He looked at me in wonder, then he took a peek inside. He looked up at me, a mixture of surprise and gratefulness on his face. He seemed to choke on his words before he responded.

A “thank you” was all he could manage. “No problem.” I replied and I turned and walked away with my mom.

The soup kitchen helped me help the other person. Without going to the soup kitchen, I never would have thought about helping that man in NYC. The soup kitchen helped me recognize this person as another human being just like me who wasn’t as fortunate and needed a little help. Before I saw these people as a little scary. I usually just walked by them and took no notice. Now I realize that it is not hard to help them, and that I can them help myself. The soup kitchen stands for more than a fun time with my friends. It stands as a symbol of how I can help people and how I can appreciate the life I have.

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Akhil Kommala Hidden in a Box Hidden in a box, There is‌ An eradicator of the dark, The coldness of hate A positive force stronger Than any blood soaked sword All the joy in the world Imprisoned in the dark With a bow as the guard Something that can change the world for one human And the same for the benefactor A powerful punch of pleasure And a formidable fist of fun Hidden in a box, There is An item built on compassionate thoughts A colored box that can elevate spirits through the clouds A grand act of kindness

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Naomi Fleisch Love is a paper clip Love is a paper clip The metal twisted, Paperlight but heavy with meaning Love is a paper clip When all else falls apart, it holds Love is a paper clip Bend it, there is always a little memory of the hurt Love is a paper clip The gold one, loved by everyone, Admired, idolized The small grey one is forgotten, Stepped on Love is a paper clip That many will lose Only a few lucky ones once again find something shiny Not as bright, but they still Pick it up just the same

85

Zach Kaplan

86

Francesco Accogli I Wish

I wish I could say the world was okay I wish I could say we learn from the past I wish I could say no war anymore I wish I could say all the children are safe I wish I could say I don’t want to run away I wish I could say we are different but same.

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Part V

Sydnie Blumenau Wish I want to walk through the cold tunnel to enter the airplane that takes me the place I’ve been dreaming of for years Each time my delicate eye blinks, I imagine all the new sites I will see. I want to land feeling the island air against my untanned skin Charming voices repeatedly saying ‘Aloha’ Putting a smile on my face, with years of tears Finally drying up. I want to be in the salty crystal ocean leaving behind The dirty lakes back at Chicago. I want to be swimming with the slick bottlenose dolphins With the high tides washing me further away from reality. I want To be lie on the warm, uplifting sand with a refreshing drink in my hands Building sand castles, digging for sand dollars, and exotic seashells I want to glide in my shiny red 1999 Ferrari, looking at the endless mountains While the sunsets bursting with juicy pinks and reds.

I want to climb the ancient volcano, to imagine hot lava spewing out And watch it dry out for future generations to explore As the sun sets, the mystifying moon lights up Maui And I am reversing my tracks and walking back on the airplane Wishing this was my reality.

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Vilius Indriliunas Video Games Boom! Bang! Clash!

I sweat One life left Will the boss defeat me Will I stand up and fight him My fingers rapidly pressing buttons I stare at the glowing screen Taunting me I concentrate And try to win Half a heart left I stand up pressurized I twirl!

I kick!

I punch!

I‌ I...

Lose I collapse into the springy dark grey sofa I remain in the darkness I feel empty inside I reach for the remote Clutch it consider turning the screen off But see the next game I want to play So l pop Forsa 6 in the disk holder The screen shines its colors I start playing the game I race my car overlapping everyone And I win A joyful smile spreads like water on my face My mom yells—it's time to go outside I sigh. I climb up the steep stairs From the dark basement to the living room light I step out of the basement like a zombie That leads outside into the sunshine And go outside to play in the real world Maggie Andrea 89

90

Allie Woldenberg The Sun Maybe I’m the sunlight, shining down on the earth, water, and land, the largest star in the milky way, yet I feel like I’m the smallest.

I shine on the earth but no one ever sees My rays shine through red leaves, and green leaves the ones falling the clouds cover me up and I disappear.

I’m invisible to everyone just floating, waiting my turn. people feel me within them, a sparkling feeling spreads.

I warm up the earth and the planets But who will warm me?

I was here before anyone, watching life grow older and older.

I try to tell them, but no one really listens.

I’m here all day long watching the grass grow green and the tidal waves splash.

Watching lives come and go.

I’m here, but no one sees me just noticing the snow fall from the sky.

“The sun will come out tomorrow” some say.

I’m here.

91

Morgane Garrick

92

Eli Zuerlein My Thanatophobia Thanatophobia haunts me like a puma who has found the perfect meal I have had thanatophobia since my great grandma died I was 6 very young very emotional It got better but in 2015 my grandfather died of a heart attack (only 60) when I heard I was quiet but at his service I broke out crying every day it makes me think what happens when you die?

I worry that happens to me a lot every night I think of death the fear that one day I will die maybe tomorrow maybe in 80 years I don’t know what will happen but I am scared that the cat will pounce

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Will Pfeifle Shelby’s Home You were the only one who didn’t Bark, bite, run You were the only one who stopped Looked, pointed, took me Silently riding in the back of the car Slowly walking up the steps To our home, yours And soon you relaxed I saw the home Sturdy with brick walls But small with warm Welcoming rooms It was for me You began to whimper Solemnly eat your food Curl in the corner We paced around the house The shelter took its toll It was hard to walk My leg felt like a brick Getting heavier each step But I couldn’t tell you I’m not like you We took you to the vet With its cold interior And dog smell The needle was hard to watch But you got better I could run again The wind whipping my ears behind me I fallow you around the house And patrol my rooms Now I sit at school Now I sit at home

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And bounce my foot And wag my tail And think And think Until the door opens that separates your world From my world

95

Naomi Aluvila Down the Rabbit Hole The children stared at the rabbit curiously. It was summertime. Its soft square nose twitched once, then twice, as its round glassy eyes perused the surrounding grass.

Oh how the children were entranced by the little creature! They marveled at the insides of its velvety ears, its bushy tail, and how the rabbit sat oblivious to their wonder in the damp grass littered with tiny droplets. The children would pass by the clearing on their way to school early in the morning, and lean on the fence, yawning, faces rested on their hands, elbows jutting outwards as they silently watched the rabbit continue on with its daily activities. They all found the rabbit quite irresistible; its calm yet lively demeanor just made them love it even more.

But there happened to be one girl who loved the rabbit, in her opinion, the most.

Each and every morning she would arrive at the clearing before the other children and come see the rabbit. She would climb over the wooden fence, the soles of her shoes leaving faint imprints in the soft wood as a content smile made an appearance on her lips. There she waited, crouched by the fence, her eyes following the small animal as it played and hopped with the breeze. Some days it would approach her, its nose twitching in excited curiosity bouncing on the springs of its feet. The girl always thought the rabbit liked her best. No, she knew it liked her best. Why else would it only come close to her, only play around the grass where she was sitting, only turn its soft, buttery gaze to her face? Of course it loved her as much as she loved it!

On a typical afternoon, the girl would trudge home from school unhappily, watch the rabbit play for a little while, and then head home with a lighter heart. But on this particular day, the girl’s life would be changed forever. Today the girl was in an even worse mood than usual. Mean old Sally Donkiss had purposely spilled lunch all over the girl’s one good shirt and then tried to make the stain worse by rubbing water all over it.

“Papa’s not going to be very pleased,” she thought to herself miserably.

She slowly dragged herself over to the little clearing where she knew the rabbit loved to play. She sighed to herself scratching her arm nervously as she plopped down in swirl of colored leaves. Suddenly she saw a movement. It was the rabbit!

Bright-eyed it leapt between the blades of grass and came to a sudden halt before her, it seemed. She stared into its eyes sadly. A tear slid off her cheek. The rabbit shifted its weight to its hind legs. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. A waterfall of tears crashed down her face. She felt so alone. The rabbit simply stared at her with its great big eyes. She scooped it up and held it close to her body. The rabbit’s squirming was drowned out as the sound of sobs shaking her small frame echoed around clearing.

“Why is the world so against me?” she thought to herself, as she clutched the small animal close to her chest despairingly.

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She laid her face flat on its back, its downy fur caressing her tear-stained cheek and took deep breaths as her hiccups slowly subsided. The rabbit lay there motionless, comforting, staring up at her. She smiled.

“What would I do without you in my life?” she whispered as she lovingly stroked the fuzz on its ears.

Its ears remained down.

Suddenly the girl had a thought, “Why should I just leave you here?” “You could come and live with me!”

The rabbit simply stared at her with its large dark eyes. The girl’s heart filled with joy as she skipped delightedly back to her house. The girl squealed; the rabbit squirmed, perhaps in excitement, the girl thought! The girl had just found herself a new best friend.

The girl reached down, rabbit cradled in one arm, the other reaching for the latch of the gate. The gate creaked open wearily on its hinges, a strange sound to human ears. The rabbit’s small nose quivered.

“Papa!” the girl shouted, “I’m home.”

Her father peered down the stairs and sighed.

“Petra, what is going on?” he asked dully.

The girl offered a secretive smile, a giggle almost bursting through the cracks in her chapped lips. She ran up the steps to her room.

“This is where you will live,” she told the rabbit.

In the corner was a small gray cage. The girl had found it in her mother’s room.

The girl remembered playing in that room, at a time when her mother still loved her, a time when her mother didn’t shriek at the walls and scream at her in garbled speech to get out, her eyes bloodshot. The girl looked down and shook her head.

The rabbit wriggled in her hands, perhaps excited to live in its new home. She laid a soft blue cloth at the bottom of its cage and then tenderly placed the little creature inside. It stared at her pleadingly.

“Oh you must be hungry!” the girl exclaimed.

She raced down the stairs and came back with a carrot, a misshapen orange mass.

The rabbit had forcefully pushed the cage over onto its back.

“Oh what a silly rabbit,” The girl giggled. “Here,” she stuck the carrot, through the bars in front of its nose.

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The rabbit stared at her, unmoving. The girl’s eyes narrowed. She shoved it closer prodding it in the nose. It leapt back. Her hands shook. She felt tired all of a sudden.

“Oh well,” she thought to herself “You can eat in the morning.”

And she changed into her nightdress and snuffed out the candle. The rabbit sat there in the inky darkness, its small nose twitching.

The girl woke up in the morning fresh-faced and ready for school. “Today is going to be a good day,” she thought to herself. She slung her worn book sack across her shoulder as she crouched down in front of the rabbit’s cage and watched the furry little creature in its peaceful slumber.

“Bye, bye…” she whispered softly.

Today was a good day for the girl. Even though mean old Tommy Bueler had purposely bumped into her and then bared his teeth at her, she was still happy.

She bounded off the path and into the clearing. “Oh wait,” she exclaimed, “I don’t have to stop here anymore”! The girl sprung open the latch and pranced into the house, ran up the stairs and into her room, only to find that the rabbit was missing!

The girl’s happy demeanor collapsed. She sprinted frantically down the stairs out onto the porch, and there was the rabbit! For some reason, it was trying to wedge its furry head through the wooden fence surrounding her house. She dropped to her knees, clasping its body between her hands and tugged. It popped out of the slit in the fence. She pulled it towards her, breathing heavily. The rabbit squirmed.

It must have been so excited to be back in her arms, she thought. She scratched her arm wearily as she carried it up back into the grasp of its steely home. She knelt down close and whispered firmly, “Don’t do that ever again, you silly rabbit!”

The rabbit curled up quietly in the back of its cage.

But alas, the girl’s wish would not come true. Every single day the rabbit would try a new way to escape, but always its efforts bore no fruit. Every single day the girl would get more and more exasperated and confused. She didn’t understand why the rabbit kept trying to escape.

One afternoon, on a good day, as the only bad thing was that she was reprimanded by the fat, old schoolmaster, the girl sat on her bed reading one of her favorite books. Her mother had always loved books; Mama used to read them aloud when she was in one of her good moods, the girl thought wistfully. The autumn season was coming to an end and the withered leaves dropped from the dangling branches outside her window. The girl smiled. She was happy. The silent cage in the corner caught her attention.

“Maybe I could take my rabbit outside to play since he has been so good today,” she thought to herself blissfully.

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She unlatched the cage and gingerly pulled the small animal out, holding it in a soft but tight grasp so that it would not run away again. She scratched her arm.

The rabbit sat in her grip almost contentedly. She sighed in relief. Suddenly, the rabbit leapt, landing on the bed. Or did it pounce? The girl felt a sharp sting on her lower arm.

“Ouch,” she blurted out.

There was a small red mark on her arm. A single drop of dark red liquid leaked out. Her pale eyes widened. The rabbit sat the bed looking up at her, almost smirking at her she thought. She grabbed it by its fluffy tail and quickly stuffed it into it cage. She grasped the edge of her bedpost, her heart sputtering frantically.

Her breathing quickened. Something was terribly wrong.

The girl woke up the next morning with a start coated in a cold sweat. She shook her head, disoriented. She turned her head and there was the rabbit in the corner, staring back at her. She jumped back, her mouth heavy and dry. She dragged the sleeve of her baby blue nightgown haltingly across her clammy forehead. She finally pulled on her school clothes, casting a weary glance at the rabbit in the corner as she slowly backed out the door.

Today was not a good day for the girl. Mean old Patty Marksman had tried to sit with her at lunch to make fun of the fact that the girl didn’t have any friends. Why was everyone so mean? The girl unlatched the gate, and dragged herself up to her room, shoulders slumped. She sat on her bed and rubbed the plush ivory quilting between her fingers, in a soothing motion. All of sudden she remembered. The rabbit. She peeked over at the cage in the corner. There was rabbit, sound asleep.

Her heart softened.

“Poor creature must be hungry,” she thought to herself, tenderly gazing at the sleeping animal.

She sighed to herself contentedly and padded down the stairs to fetch some fresh baby tomatoes, carrots and a cold pitcher of water for herself. As soon as the girl got back with the food, she set it down on the bed and wiped her hands together gingerly. The girl changed into her nightclothes and shut the door. She looked for the cage in the corner. Her eyes widened. The rabbit was gone! Her heart plummeted into her stomach. She looked around cautiously for any sign of the animal but there was none. She crawled into the bed and buried her face into the pillow. Her nostrils hurt. She inhaled deeply then pulled the covers up and tucked them under her chin. Her breathing was becoming more rapid. She didn’t want to think about the rabbit. A cold breeze whooshed through the room and the comforting light from the candle vanished, leaving her in the dark. She was alone.

Moonbeams filtered in through the trees eerily like grains of rice through a sieve.

The girl was silent. She pressed a sticky hand to her cheek and gripped the top of the quilt with her other as she shrank back in her bed surrounded by the inky 99

blackness of the dark room. The girl clutched the quilt to her chest her heart pounding with every tick of the clock, every breath she inhaled. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of something. A shadow. The girl pulled her head under the covers, not daring to peek out.

She heard a faint scratching sound. She squeezed her eyes shut, as tight as she could. The sound was gradually becoming louder and louder as it neared her bed.

Her body started to shake. All of a sudden the sound came to an abrupt halt. She was still. She didn’t hear anything. The girl slowly pulled the covers off her face and looked from side to side. Nothing. She was probably being paranoid, she thought to herself. She reached out and grabbed the candle with its box of matches from her bedside table. Hands shaking, she struck the match across the box. The flame spread across the tip. Its soft wavering fingers reached for the candle. She lowered the match toward the black wick, her breathing speeding up. The flame danced across the face of the candle. This candle was small; it only illuminated the far wall. The girl’s hand faltered. The candle cast a flickering shadow across her bedspread and the creature calmly sitting there. Its eyes were bottomless pits of blackness as the candle lit up its face.

The girl’s face was a mask of pure terror. She peered closer in the weak light.

Something dripped from its sharp canines. A strange reddish liquid leaked from its mouth, and with a plop landed on her bed spread. The rabbit bared its teeth and hissed. The girl screamed at the top of her lungs her heartbeat beating out of control. The candle dropped out of her hands and onto the bedspread. The flame sprinted across the middle of the quilt. The girl tripped over herself hysterically sobbing trying to get out the door.

“Papa! Papa!” she shouted, her eyes wild.

“Petra!”

Her father rushed into the room his eyes darting about. He grabbed the pitcher of water by its handle and threw it across the bed dousing the flames as they licked the edges of her pillow. He knelt down and sighed in exhaustion.

“Not again,” her father murmured.

The girl whimpered in the corner. The rabbit was gone in the commotion. She hoped the wretched animal would never return.

Alas, the girl’s wish would not come true. Without warning, the rabbit would appear in her room at night, waiting for her, its sharp incisors bared. There were always red marks on her arms in the morning. Sometimes it would scratch at the door nonstop, keeping her from sleeping. She would see its shadow drifting about, 100

its dark eyes glowing. She would see them everywhere, in school, at the playground, in the woods, and even in her dreams. It was surely going to kill her she thought to herself fearfully. She was always on edge; her hands twitched at random times; she had bags under eyes from lack of sleep, and she was afraid.

She could not decipher fear from reality. Her fear of the terrifying creature ruled her life. She had never been so scared.

Today was not a good day for the girl. Everyone was looking at her strangely and the mean old teacher kept on asking her intrusive questions. The girl unlatched the gate and stomped through, her boots soaked with gray slush. Oh how she hated her life and the stupid rabbit who ruined it. She tossed her scarf to the side as she stomped up the stairs.

“Ste doma, Petra?” her father yelled from somewhere in the house.

The girl did not respond. She yanked open the door. No rabbit. She ground her teeth together. She grabbed a stale carrot off of her bedside table, a reminder of a time when she was happy and had not a care in the world. She savagely ripped off a chunk of it with her teeth and chewed, spitting out an orange mass. She waited for the animal to return to her. She knelt by the bed, crouched, watching the vicious beast sniff the remains. She reached out and grabbed it around its stomach.

There was no more fear in her heart. She held the creature up to her face. It wriggled around searching for a way to escape, a way to inflict pain on her. No more, she thought. The rabbit looked at her with its soft buttery gaze, wondering what she was thinking. It opened up its mouth; its pale teeth glistened. The girl’s face contorted.

“AAARGH!” she screamed, hurling the rabbit against the wall. She viciously kicked it and it flew across her bed, landing in a heap by the cage in the corner. It started to pick up its head but the girl grabbed it, forcefully wrapping her hands around its neck and squeezed. Yes, she squeezed with all her might. The rabbit’s eyes bulged, its body flailing about helplessly. It was still staring at her with it huge dark eyes. Suddenly the girl ‘s grip loosened. She dropped to her knees, her eyes widened in shock. Her nostrils hurt.

“What am I doing?” she murmured to herself. “No, no no,” she whispered.

She dropped the rabbit and sunk into the floor her eyes filling with tears.

“No!” Her whispers had turned into shouts, becoming more frantic by the second.

“Papa!” she cried in anguish, “Papa.”

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Her father rushed into the room and saw his daughter kneeling on the floor her eyes wild and wide, flooded with tears. He fell to his knees and held her close.

Her sobs turned into hysterical laughs. Now she was laughing so hard she could not stop.

“Shhh, shhh,” her father whispered.

“HA HA!” she laughed. “I’m sick.” She laughed between breaths. “HA,” she cried, “How have you not realized this before!” “Are you going to send me away, like her, to the place where they keep the crazy people.” “HA!” she exclaimed her face streaming with tears. Her hysterical laughter echoed through the house. Her father clutched her close to him.

“Shhh, you’re going to get better,” her father kissed the top of her head.

“HA!” girl laughed louder. “HA HA HA AH HA HA.” Her father’s heart sank. He had no choice.

The rabbit sat watching them in the corner, with it great big glassy eyes. It turned around and raced out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the house as fast as its little legs could carry it. It leapt joyously onto the snowy ground vaulting atop an icy wind. Its coat coated with a light dusting of snowflakes, it pranced along the path to its clearing. Its small, square nose twitched once, then twice. The rabbit passed a group of children building a snowman, their noses red and rubbery as it raced jubilantly towards its wintery home in the clearing where it belonged. The children stared at the rabbit curiously.

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Emma Sturgeon

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Mimi Osborne Wish List I want to turn invisible.

So those times when people see me As a disappointment I can just disappear Into the walls surrounding my failure.

I want to be able to live forever Even though I would have to watch Everyone around me start to flake and crumble like a cake That has been left on the table for too long.

I want to be able to turn back time So I can be the perfect child I strive to be.

I want to leave and come back like the sun.

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Part VI

Kate Danaher I Wish‌ I wish to do whatever I want To soar high and swim deep.

I wish to not care To live here and live there.

I wish to be remembered To stay in hearts and in prayer.

I wish to be wise To see through disguise.

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Francesco Accogli

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Kevin Taylor Stand Up “You’re going to have to cut your hair.”

It took a few seconds Before the meaning of that sentence Hit My ability to do anything Vanished Like I was in a trance He met my stare With a serious face And a nod of the head My scrambled mind raced for something to say Something to let him know that I did not want To succumb to his power But my mind and my mouth Disconnected Looking back I see the memories of a kid Free to live life Without burdens, expectations, or limits Now Every time I look at myself I see what I once was How I was always different from the rest What the real me used to be I am confined in new borders Forced to be a normal, average kid That doesn’t stand out from the crowd Now Every time I look at myself I see a person Who was afraid to stand up For what they knew was right And now has to pay the price

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Tragedy of the past A valuable lesson for the future Now I know To stand up

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Eleanor Larsen Rosemary I walked into a stuffed animal wonderland past a blue dog No A pink raccoon No! I did not like anything Out of the corner of my eye I saw her A vibrant pink bunny with big floppy ears and a white fluffy tail Sitting there among all the others Buried in the pile of multi-colored fluffy animals neglected The white little nose and a shy stitched on smile I felt as though she was meant for me I loved her I named her Rosemary after Rosemary Beach She went everywhere with me Tucked in my bike basket Clutched under my arm at the Field Museum And cuddled at sleep away camp when I was homesick Now she is faded, flat and dirty And I refuse to wash her for the fear that it would wash away the cherished memories of my childhood

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Evalyn Lee

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Natalie Putzel Trigger The peak is famous to the mountain Climbers pierce their spurs into the icy snow As they strive to reach the summit The deer is famous to the dog Gazing through the window Wishing to run down the ravine To chase the deer And then return safely home Back to that same window To repeat the next day The stars are famous to the dark sky Shining through the weak spots The picture is famous to the frame That holds all the memories Life is famous to all the dead The memories are famous to the girl Without them she is naked and cold The trigger is famous to the gun Which shot you down My imagination is famous Thinking you are still here, hoping Because you, reader, are Famous in my heart.

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Anna Satter Guinea Pig When my friends turn to ash I weep longingly for another To be found weeks and weeks Go by I slip into a Noisy place Full of life and furry friends As I wander around My eyes peer at a fluffy ball Squealing with fright Hidden in hay I scoop him in my arms He is frozen with fright That gently melts away I cuddle him close His eyes twinkle like stars So bright My love soaks Into him I feel the fear of losing another wash over me But it seems to fade away with The warmth of his heart In a flash I seal the Small Fluffy Brown Ball Of fluff Into my heart.

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Ava Trandel Flashback We lie, Side by side, On the cold hardwood floor.

My strong body next to your riddled one.

I stoke your silky, chocolate hair, on your small warm head.

I wonder if there truly is no pain.

I think back…

I rest, on the cold hardwood floor.

I feel no pain, but I wonder why my body is so weak and I am so helpless.

I can hardly stand up, Walking is a struggle, And I don’t Even Know Why.

Two weeks ago, I was running and jumping like when I was a puppy but now, I can hardly Bark.

I think back…

Cradled in my mother’s arms, I sleep.

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One of the only things I can do is sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

Suddenly, I wake to the sound of Barking.

I hear voices too: “Coco sit!”

“Coco stop!”

“Coco calm down!”

Coco.

That is Her name.

Coco.

I have a feeling we will get along just fine.

Something is different.

Very different.

My masters are gone almost all of the time.

I sit in the sun room waiting, anticipating colorful exploding lights.

I also, mostly am waiting for my masters to return home for good.

An hour seems like a day, and day a week.

I sit, still waiting when something startles me.

It is not the exploding lights, no it’s, it’s, my masters!

My mom is holding something, something small and fragile.

I must go over and lick, look, and smell it to see what it could possibly be.

I run full speed over to my masters, then hear the usual: “Coco sit!” “Coco stop!” “Coco calm down!”

Then I smell something.

A baby.

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I see it very clearly.

A baby girl that I love instantly.

“Bye, Coco! See you later!”

Later comes.

The phone call comes.

The sadness comes.

The fear comes.

The dread comes.

The worst comes. “… she was dead for 2 minutes … might not make it … ” “ … may be blind … may be wild … “ What will Become of Her. I walk into the room.

The room of dread.

I think of Everything that could go wrong.

I know though, deep down, even though I don’t want to know, That this is in my best interest.

I lay lie on the unforgivingly cold table, And I

Don’t Wake Up. “I have the results.”

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The results.

The dreaded results.

My stomach churns, my throat burns, and my head is heavy.

The results.

“The tumor is benign and the removal of her spleen was successful.”

Benign!

She doesn’t have cancer.

We’re safe.

I sleep for a long time, then I wake.

I feel better than ever, like a heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

I can run, jump,

I can do anything, I am unstoppable.

The door opens and, on the other side of it is, My mom!

I hurdle at her at top speed, Jump in her lap, And bark until she rubs my stomach and scratches my head.

We are at the vet again.

The last time we will ever drive to the vet with Coco.

Sadness sweeps over me like an ocean wave.

She stands, suddenly.

Perceiving.

Sinks down.

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Her eyes close.

My eyes tear.

I scratch her head, Rub her stomach, Get out of the car, And burst into tears.

Just like that.

One second she was here, the next, Gone.

Gone forever.

My Coco.

Gone.

Never To Be Seen Again.

I lie there, weak as ever.

I realize, my time is almost up, So naturally I stand.

Take one last look at the world around me, The one I have known and loved, The one that I have been living in for 12 years.

I lie back down, And close My eyes 117

For the Last Time. when I wake, I am not in the car, at the vet.

Instead, I am in a big yard, Similar to the one at home, that I will never return to, And I am Gone.

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Posy Connery Ivy’s Kindred Cuddles I jump on the couch Ivy dashes after me Her paws on the backs of my legs Attempting to jump on Ivy keeps on trying Not yet big enough I see her little puppy eyes and I want to pet her soft fur She starts crying and I can’t not get her I get up to fetch her bed Ivy monitors me, with ears perked Jumping on my legs I come back with her bed Ivy’s tail wags back and forth Knowing that she has scored I pick Ivy up Her tail still wagging Put her in her bed on the couch Ivy comes to cuddle, licking me continuously Rolls over and waits for me to rub her tummy Ivy’s tail eventually stops wagging Her eyes close, and she snores quietly

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Arianna Griffiths

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Connor Keene-Gefvert Wish List I want to see the world working with itself, a child apprenticed to an adult. I want to own Pontiac Fire Hawk, a 1991 Pontiac Fire Hawk T-top convertible. I want to see the next generation combating all that ails humanity. I want to see a writer sitting in his workshop, opening up a new world to venture into. I want to see the moon make a star appearance as it blocks out the sun. I want to see space, an infinite real to be explored. I want to have a dog, a dog that can join me on the adventure of life. I want to be able to slip in and out of time, like a ball rolling through a tube.

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Part VII

Marie Giambrone Wish Poem: Thrills I wish to jump off a white and yellow winged plane and to pull a trigger glued to my side just to be shot up by a huge red white and blue starred parachute And to whirl down into the icy blue water to gaze and be surrounded by animals that are only seen here. I wish to meet my adventures. I wish to wake up in the gentle morning to the stunning shadow of a skyline. I wish to put on my creamy pink helmet and get on my indigo polka dotted Vespa to ride into the sun on the shore. I wish to one day have my gold printed, small, blue book covered in so many colors and shapes there is no more room to stamp. I wish to hoist up my oversized backpack and hike the rocky mountain just to set up my home for the night. I wish to stay up at night and walk to the logs where we watch the breathtaking sunset with our steaming hot chocolate, singing the songs endlessly stuck in my head.

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Conner Keene-Gefvert

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Ben Kelliher Chipotle I open the door The smell of tacos Burritos and quesadillas Salsa and sour cream Overwhelming my nose My knees begin to buckle But I straighten myself out Desperate for food I sprint to the growing lines My mouth watering I am transported The clouds, tacos The trees, burritos The ground, quesadillas The oceans, guacamole The rivers, chips and salsa The rain, sour cream I bend my knees and spring into the ocean Using my mouth To eat away the guacamole Pushing myself forward I propel myself out of the guacamole Flying through the air Filling my mouth with sour cream rain I land on a taco And begin to indulge myself With the glorious flavors I jump off Land headfirst in a chips and salsa river Gobbling down, hopping out Diving into the burrito Eating my way through The beef Rice and beans Lettuce, pico, guacamole Cheese, salsa I move towards the tortilla And try to eat my way back into the world But I’m trapped The burrito has eaten me

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Namita Aluvila What If I Hadn’t Tried It? “No way are we doing that,” Naomi says, her voice one of disbelief.

My dad simply replies, “Why not?”. I turn to Naomi the look on my face saying, I’ll back you up if you have a real reason not to. But even if she didn’t have a reason, I knew I’d still help her.

She says, “They’ll expect us to be able to do cartwheels, and backflips, and… other stuff that we can’t do!”

Then I realize the problem. “They’ll want us to be super flexible, and they’ll make us do the splits!” I cry triumphantly. “I can’t do that either,” I say, more softly this time.

Naomi’s excuse was a bit over the top, with the backflips and all, but I felt mine would start a conversation in which we could convince Dad not to make us do Tae Kwon Do. I always defended my sister when I was little. Always. I didn’t know why, but I did it anyway. I was also the type of person who didn’t like change. Because of that, I started judging things before I tried them. I would think, “Oh, that seems so different from what I am doing right now. I probably wouldn’t like it”. Now that I think about it, it seems kind of dumb, that I would judge something that I don’t know about.

My dad ended up signing my sister and me up for the one-day trial. As we walked into Yu’s Martial Arts, the first thing I noticed were the belts. Along one wall there was a line of belts, from white to black. As I looked at the belts, I felt a little queasy, knowing that if I joined I would probably not let myself quit before getting all the way to black belt. And that would take a long time. A very long time. I saw the bright red cubbies for shoes, the American, Korean (Tae Kwon Do is Korean) and Yu’s Martial Arts flags hanging side by side together on the wall inside the dojo. One of the masters welcomed us and gave us the clean, fresh white uniforms.

Naomi and I didn’t say much. We just walked over to the changing rooms. I was ready first. To pass the time, I got a drink of water and watched the class before us. They had just finished, and were listening to the masters make announcements for the week. Naomi was out soon, and we were invited in. the masters told us to bow to the flags on the wall before stepping into the mat/dojo area. The mat/dojo place was kind of like a building inside the building. There was no door to it, just an open entrance, like a doorway with no door, a rectangular opening in the wall.

To me, it was a portal into a world I thought I would hate.

When we got in, the masters started by introducing us to the rest of the class. Then we started doing stretching, and my sister shot me a look. We did different types of stretches. To my surprise, they didn’t need us to be able to do the splits at all!

Actually, most of the other people in the class weren’t able to, and the masters just helped us get a little further, slowly improving our flexibility, which made me feel bad for assuming that we had to be super flexible.

The real class was much different than I thought. We did a few exercises and ran a little bit. It wasn’t that tiring. Then, after a quick water break in the middle of 125

the class, we started learning actual Tae Kwon Do. First they taught us basic kicks like front-snap kick and roundhouse. They left us to practice a bit while they helped the other students with their various kicking-combinations (a series of different kicks), form (different kicks, punches and blocks), and breakings (techniques to break boards for testing). When they came back to check on us, we practiced with the targets. They were small, and had two plastic parts on the inside that clapped together making a loud sound when you hit them hard enough. It felt good to hear that sound. I don’t know why, but it did. When class ended, we bowed to the flags, and to the master and instructor saying, “kamsahamnida” which, as they taught us, is thank you in Korean.

While we were driving home, Naomi and I both agreed that we liked Tae Kwon Do. We decided we would do it anyway. My dad said, “What if you hadn’t even tried it?” Those words stuck to me. I thought about it. What if I hadn’t tried it?

“What if my excuses had worked?” Now when I think about what my dad had said, it horrifies me. As a black belt, I am now at the end of that line of belts. What if I hadn’t tried it? If I hadn’t, I would have never become a black belt, would have never made those new friends. I would have never found the sport I love so dearly.

This makes me think. If I judge something before trying it, I may miss out on something fun. If I don’t try anything new, or different, my life would stay the same forever. It would be absolutely boring. Change makes the world exciting, and change can’t happen if I refuse to try something new. Don’t ever judge someone or something by the way it looks or seems. If I had done that, I may have missed out on something wonderful.

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Bia Leffingwell Adventurous I want to glide through the Grand Canyon with her No parachutes, just wind smearing hair off our faces I want to stand at the peak of Mount Everest with her Raising our hands and peering at the world Laughing with my best friend I want to gallop through a field of flowers with her Our lives tied together because of horses I want to stand in the Amazon The air soaking our skin Watching the butterflies and searching for a macaw Back in our home country I want to remember every moment I ever laughed with her Every moment I realized she was as good as it gets I want her to come back Make that plane go backward I want her to come back From the opposite end of the world I want to fly through the air To climb the highest mountain To gallop through a field of flowers To gaze at the beauty of a rainforest And bury my face in her crazy hair

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Marie Giambrone

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Eli Zuerlein The Half of my Basement It was flooded and torn down before we came It feels like a dungeon When I go down there the dust and the pull lights annoy me I get out as quickly as possible I feel like something is watching me like Count Dracula stalking me in the night I’m scared that monsters live down there nestled in nooks and crannies My dad says that there is no such thing as monsters but I don’t believe him in a lot of movies that are scary they jump out a little bit after like they want you to know a lot of things needed in a house are there plumbing electrical security system are down there I check the pumps then go to the other end Careful of other things

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Noa Rollman The Basement As I make my way down the dark, grey, carpeted stairs, I can feel the paint flaking off the railing.

My heart starts beating faster than normal.

Why? Things that would normally be comforting, Like the buttercream-colored walls, now have no effect on me.

When I get to the bottom, I hesitate.

The people are probably down here today.

The characters that litter my nightmares, That haunt my dreams.

People dressed in black, With their deranged eyes, And their malicious grins, As crazy as the Mad Hatter.

The Basement is where nightmares originate.

They hide behind the bookshelves and the treadmill.

What if one day I open the closet door, And they all jump out at me at once?

While I’m looking for “Chutes and Ladders”, They’ll suddenly stab me from behind?

But no, I’m just being childish.

There are no people hiding in the closet.

Right?

Suddenly I get a little sweaty.

C’mon Noa! You’ve been down here before!

All you have to do is grab the frozen pizza from the freezer.

Ugh. The freezer.

My least favorite part of The Basement Is the freezer room.

With its timeworn door, as creepy and weird as The Joker’s smile With its FREEZING cold floor that make me feel like I have frostbite.

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With the old-fashioned light switch that dangles down from who-knows-where.

I gulp.

What if some kind of creature is holding it up?

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

I quickly push open the door, Cross my fingers I don’t die of hypothermia, And step in.

Instead of the upbeat Hamilton songs that are usually playing in my head, I get the creepy nursery rhymes that they play in horror movies.

I force myself to yank open the freezer door, And scan the fridge for the CPK Barbecued Chicken Pizza.

I can’t look too hard though.

My brother has a snake, And guess what he feeds it?

Yep. Frozen mice.

And guess where we keep them?

Yep. In the downstairs freezer.

I give an involuntary shudder.

Why am I taking so long?

I quickly grab the sunshine yellow box, Get out of the freezer room, And run back Upstairs.

“Here you go. One Barbecued Chicken pizza.”

I announce, proud as a hen, when I finally lay the pizza on the kitchen counter.

“Did you remember to close the freezer door all the way?”

My dad scolds.

I sigh.

Life is hard.

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Emily Nocella Familia Box My family exists in a wooden recipe box I carefully open the container…

I pull out the first card I see my poor great-grandparents in Sicily Sitting together at an uneven stone table Fireplace burning While boiling the red sauce They carefully take little bites of pasta My great-grandpa limps to the wheat fields Lights a cigarette While my great-grandma wipes the table down I flip to the second card I look at Uncle Lou in front of his store in New York Now celebrating 99 years Todaro Brothers, Italian gourmet food Cheese imported from around the world Panattoni hangs from the walls during Christmas time I imagine Dad as the manger at 24 He makes phone calls for special orders Fresh vegetables in alphabetical order line the walls Families crowd around the butcher station, waiting for their number Uncle Lou greets his local shoppers Workers speak in Italian saying “Andare al lavoro” The last card I pull out is us surrounding the long table Green folding chairs And fancy leather chairs Grandpa humming to Frank Sinatra While soft music plays in the background Uncle Lou shifts his attention to my cousins,” Have some mozzarella!”

We dig into the large plate “Wait, don’t forget about the Prosciutto!”

“Cena,” my grandma demands We chew with cheeks tight From being in the sun all day Plates full of red sauce, rigatoni too I add sprinkles of parmesan Glasses raised, dad makes a toast We clink…our charms dangle from glasses My family exists in this little wooden recipe box 132

Nick Hawkins Doritos I enter Target’s automatic door My mom tells me to search for a snack I’m pumped I think of The jalapeño specked chips My mouth waters like an ocean I sprint to find the snack aisle I hear angels as I scope out red, blue, and yellow bags of Doritos I stress all cost $3.94 but which one to pick to be my snack?

I pick…

Nacho cheese and feel saddened leaving Cool Ranch and plain behind I need to go back I wish I could save them all But I can’t.

Cool Ranch and plain lost to unknown mouths I’m barraged with feelings of disgrace and anger but I check the nacho cheese nutrition facts I confirm that this is the best pick I feel like I struck gold Because heaven is red dye 40…

Doritos

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Shelby Pruett

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Arianna Griffiths Always Famous The paper is famous to the rings of the binder, that always hold it together.

The lens is famous to the camera, letting in the colorful outside world.

The flowers are famous to the bee, blooming to show the bee its purpose.

The floor is famous to the chair, always supporting it.

To be famous to you.

I will hold you together, and let you see the outside world.

I will help you show your purpose, as mine is always to support.

For you will always be famous to me.

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Gabriel Costa The Medals Oh, how my great grandfather has medals telling of his honor He fought for the right thing, for the Allies for that he is my hero My aunt tells me stories about how he commanded his platoon into battle and how he led an army of horse men into battle He has an honorable gold sword to recognize the battles he fought a steel sword plated with gold from the great battles he fought He was a leader in the Brazilian army and served his country honorably and before my aunt told me stories I thought he was a regular person but now he is a leader and savior I have one of his most important medals – it’s more important than diamonds to me it means that he is always in my heart and that he fights with me in hard times.

I feel that he should have lived longer and better and I wish I could have met him.

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Nate Wehner Delicious Wonders The pot sizzles The chicken in it pleads to be taken out I am feeling ecstatic about making dinner I pour water in the pot And wait for it to start boiling I start to see little bubbles forming at the bottom Just like the Sprite I drank at lunch I grab the spaghetti CRACK! It breaks It plunges Down Into The Pot SPLASH! SPLOOSH! SPLOSH! bounces The water vigorously now Like it’s jumping on a trampoline I wonder when it will run out of energy I am starving from looking at the food The smell of spaghetti sauce fills my nostrils I turn the warm nob on the oven to low Everything starts to settle down The room feels quieter I hear the HUMM of the chicken being taken off of the pan I put on the warm glove Then, I lose track of time My hands do the work for me Without thinking I make the salad Dishes are flying together Plates are being served The five us sit down at the table We say our prayers and dig in Thankful to be together

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Emma Pasternak Ode to Roxy She lays on my bed, cuddling with me.

I keep her warm, soft body right next to me.

I take her on walks and I play fetch with her.

I feel needed to care and be responsible for her.

Even though she can’t speak, I can only imagine, what her words to me would be like.

Maybe, “Thank you for taking good care of me, I love it when play fetch and go on walks together.”

She licks me and I kiss her back.

She nibbles on my finger and I pet her back.

She loves me and I love her back.

Roxy is the love of my life and My family is the love of her life.

When I look at her, her eyes are twinkling with happiness.

When we are together, we are peaceful and content.

I know that one day, Maybe in ten years, Maybe in two years, Roxy will pass.

I will be heartbroken and I know that there is nothing that can replace her.

Our whole family would fall apart.

Life would feel gloomy and sad.

But I know that right now I have her right now I can do whatever I want with her.

I just wish it could be that way for me for and infinite amount of T I M E

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Claire Kaplan Unseen Ripples She lifts her paws For the groomer A rain-soaked cigarette dangles From her mouth She will always lick my toes When given the chance Except for now I look away But even so I feel her shivers And pants Uncontrollable I examine her eyes Usually so bright And lively Now blank And glassy As she struggles To take A single step To watch her struggle It’s like watching My Grandmother’s neckless Passed down for countless generations Silently slip Into the ocean Without A single Ripple

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Annabel Kriger

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Blair Flavin “Aristotle” after Billy Collins This is the beginning.

Almost anything can happen.

This is where you find Margot, innocently saying goodbye, Not knowing what is coming.

Margot and mom plan the girls’ weekend because He was only supposed to be gone 5 days.

This is the very beginning.

The first-person narrator introduces herself Tells us about her lineage.

How she felt Sitting in the cold beige room Sobbing over her mother’s shoulder But you have not yet learned the father has died in a plane crash.

This is the opening, the gambit, an ant moving a step.

This is your first ant-step, your first time meeting your best friend.

This is the first part where the plane begins to take off where the kids graduate before the first day.

This is the middle.

Things have had time to get complicated, emotional, really. Nothing is simple anymore. a million feelings, a million wild emotions.

Sadness unshoulders his knapsack here and pitches his ragged tent.

This is the sticky part where the plot congeals, where the action suddenly reverses or swerves off in an opposite direction.

Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph to why she couldn’t speak at the funeral.

She took hours to write a speech And wanted to perform it without choking up Here she gets up to the podium And can’t even utter a word This is the bridge, the painful modulation.

This is the thick of things.

So much is crowded into the middle—

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The family upset, the daughter sad The mother with her newborn child The things most important to him Aren’t there with them – too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end, The road coming to a stop The family brought together again New members have entered As old members have left Here the stage is littered with A bittersweet kind of happiness, the narrator brings everybody together, in the wreckage in an airport but the family will be happy again there is a big feeling of relief that they can go on and live like they did before It is the time where the reader is no longer wondering About what is going to happen next This is the final bit thinning away to nothing.

This is the end, according to Aristotle, what we have all been waiting for, what everything comes down to, the problems are resolved nothing else to worry about the reader has changed and has experienced a new point of view and now it is time for the author to begin another story.

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Leo Anderson

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Emily Newman Final Wish I want to meet my future self, ask her how my life is going, So I can choose the right path instead of the left. I want to ask G-d for forgiveness, so I can feel free. I want to look in the mirror and not be sad about the way I view myself. I want to be rich with happiness. I want to be wealthy but share with everyone and help those in need. I want To be super good at something so people admire me For my talents. I want to have a super power that will make me invisible so I can make miracles in disguise. I want To climb a mountain and look down from a great height at what has been created.

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Acknowledgements

As the Editors of The Oak 2017: The Wishing Tree, we would like to express our gratitude for the poets, writers, memoirists, and artists represented in these pages.

Reading their work has inspired us, and we appreciate their commitment to beauty, language, and insight. We would also like to thank our parents, friends, and teachers who make every day at LFCDS possible. We would like to recognize, in particular, the teachers in the English department—Mrs. Mann, Mrs. Bell, Mrs. Polonsky, Mrs. Zaleski, and Mr. Haight—for the many opportunities they give us to express ourselves creatively. We also want to acknowledge our very talented art teachers, Mrs. Vernard-Darin and Mr. DeBernardi, for the ways in which they stretch our imaginations and add vibrant colors to our lives. Finally, we want to honor the organizational and stylistic gifts of Mrs. Murphy. Without her help, this magazine would never have come into existence.

To everyone who ever dreamed a dream and wrote it down or wished a wish for a better world, this issue of The Oak is dedicated to you…

Editors

Annie Bartholomew Morgane Garrick Taylor Gilbert Racheal Boardman Emily Hawkins Maria Johnson Tatum McBreen Calvin Osborne Betsy Reagan Abbe Shanley-Roberts Pamela Shattock Mia Springer Maddy Sturgeon Chloe Whelan

Faculty Advisor: Kim Bell