IE 2015-2016

Table of Contents Stella Achenbach Jaquie Adler Brianna Adu-Kyei Alice Attal James Bleecker Jr. Wilton Bompey Leo Bremond

Ryann Busillo Ming Chen Alexa Code

Eliana Cohen-Orth Reggi Condos Lauren Davidson Weston Delacey Theodora Dotson Myles Dunlop Augustus Duravcevic Cara Eagan Anna Faulkner Patrick Faulkner Dariel Fernandez Lucian Figliulo Amari Fogle Mika Foguel Antonia Frank Antonia Frank

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Oranges Chocolate Bar My Skin Painting Dear Diary Chess Brandon Photography Photography Photography Photography It Is Gone What To Do When You Lose Your Stingray 7 Things I Learned the Hard Way Fire A Revised Definition Photography Photography Just Pretend The Life of Pablo Five No Escape From the Nazis Photography Photography Photography Photography The City of Lightness Photography The Life of Pablo Five Photography The Barbie Inside Me The Loss of Childhood Drawing Drawing Drawing The Third Twin Untitled Pageant Photography Photography

57 52 7 87 24 27 82 15 19 45 73 54 20 6 19 33 73 77 35 25 69 39 40 76 85 80 64 25 26 46 13 4 10 54 78 13 65 5 13

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Antonia Frank Layne Friedman Stella Rose Gahan Nina Gerzema Oliver Gifford Cameron Glass Julien Goldberg Sylvie Goldner Kaleo Grant Onaje Grant-Simmonds Juno Hobbs

Maisy Hoffman Alexa Kennedy Cameron King Dakota Law Nicole Leung Karla Majdancic Benjamin Maltz

Michelle Mardones Nika Marohnic Rachel McCain Ethan McKesey

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Photography I Wanted to Let You Know Photography Photography Photography Painting Painting Behind Paper Suits Hopefull Depression The Little Fisherman A Day in the Life of an Anglican Woman With His Hoodie Up Painting Photography Photography Photography Photography Pause The Story of Post Insanity The Ballad of Eugene I’m Not a Hipster College Process Your Food Drawing Photography Photography Photography Photography Miami: January 18th, 1977 Photography Photography Dixie Drift Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography From the Perspective of My Cat On Turning Thirteen Apology Poem I’m Not Your Average Stereotype

15 63 30 74 74 34 62 84 60 64 72 5 42 7 25 36 57 41 37 4 42 90 34 66 6 77 7 16 18 21 23 32 32 61 73 85 91 67 55 41 17

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Jacob McKinnon Anna Mueller Julia Noonan Pilar Olivieri Otilia Olmedo Young Ta’Shea Parham

Skyler Pierce-Scher Hanna Provost Monica Quirante Gwen Raffo Olivia Reis Carson Rice Olivia Roederer Pierre Roederer Ava Rome Clara Rosarius Isabella Rose Talia Rosenthal Dalton Salisbury Acadia Schimmel Victor Schwartz Elisabeth Seiple Lindsay Seitz Sophie Stomberg-Firestein Ethan Tarpley Charlie Thackway Miles Trumbull Atticus Uyttendaele

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Coming to a New School Ode to Trees Photography Photography Photography Photography Photography Bilingual Nightmares Coming Home Dear Papa Harry (A letter to my grandfather) Cause of Death, Ignorance Untitled (Villanelle) Untitled (Shakespearean Sonnet I) What Makes You Think It’s OK to Overlook Me Peripheral Vision Retreat All I Know Girl Mixed Media The Garden of Mama The Bite Untitled Life as a Photo Twins Flightless Bird Say No to Stereotypes Moving Picture Untitled Drawing Untitled No Fun To Make Someone Happy What it’s Like To Be Me (A Rap) Branches Of a Fear of Loss Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question Photography Photography The Turtle From 7 Years Ago Nail Moonlight

45 23 53 77 81 49 65 31 70 79 1 22 76 86 68 44 5 26 46 62 9 10 60 61 16 58 9 20 33 8 66 40 83 23 50 71 44 56 36 68 41

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Eve van Rens Tallulah Walz Avery Way Sophie Whelan Natalie White

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Scratch Board Alone in Winter Neither The Robin My Mom’s Pancakes The Storm

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Cause of Death, Ignorance Ta’Shea Parham

You pull out your guns, shoot then run.

Claim you were threatened, by a weapon? Found none.

7 billion people in the world, so many dead per minute.

I never knew a cause of death could be ignorance.

Constantly oppressed, can't be who we are.

Yeah we say ‘niggas,’ but we leave out the 'e-r.'

The 'e-r' error, the terror we face even in our own homes.

Say, "I'm an ally," yeah thanks but we're really alone.

I'm sick of pity and assemblies and sympathetic faces.

Would any of you go back in time and switch races?

Would you want to be the only black girl in American History?

Trying to play it cool, being whipped with silent I'm sorrys.

Everyone expecting you to have a special connection.

Have a witty comment about slavery, segregation.

Then you say, "Slavery was so long ago, why are you so angry?"

It's kinda hard to be calm when all throughout history, The ones bowing down, beaten down by society Coincidentally look just like me.

I can still see the bodies swaying in the trees.

Only difference is Eric Garner and Mike Brown were buried six feet deep.

Call me dramatic and I'll smack you with 600 years plus.

That you and your ancestors controlled us.

We built your country, now we can't live in it?

You think millions of Africans wanted to be forcefully shipped to it?

We had a place in the world, you took us out.

How about you tell me what denied freedom is about.

It's about me, MLK, Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman.

You think you're stronger than us, we fought for this "freedom."

You kept us from it, defied it with enslavement and beating.

We're too dark for you, but look inside your soul.

Feel your heart--and like the blood you kill us in--it will be cold.

So many people will be offended by these truths.

But surprised by the intelligent words I've used.

Maybe I'll put it in terms that you assumed.

Yo, my nigga, you feel me, this racism is killing me, Literally, mentally, physically, biblically.

I feel oppressed, depressed, my unrest was inevitable.

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Of good for nothing niggers, illiterate, disfigured.

Now I won't say “fuck you� explicitly but read between the lines.

I've tried to be calm, be patient.

But I'm blinded by anger, the reason is blatant.

I don't care if you're uncomfortable, don't care about unfair.

There will be no more silence, no more crickets in the air.

When you see us marching toward you with a cause, We will be united, no room for hesitance or pause.

Do you hear that thumping noise in your ear?

It's a sign of what you've made us feel all these years.

Yes'sum massa, that be pure fear.

*Winner of 2015-16 IE Writing Contest

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The Ballad of Eugene Cameron King

There was a boy named Eugene He was quite tall and quite lean He was on his scheme To woo the heart of Eileen Eileen was short-haired and very pretty He thought she was the “ting” of the city But when she left for Mississippi Sadly, his heart was left a pity

And without her number or even her Insta, she left and went home It wasn’t his fault, he began to think As his self esteem began to shrink There are seven billion people in the world So someday, he thought, he’ll find the right girl.

So the boy named Eugene The frisky, bored teen Went in search for a queen Who might one day be Irene Irene was cool and knew how to talk She made him queasy with her fierce walk He tried to finesse her, but to his shock She had her heart already locked So the boy named Eugene Dropped the glasses and copped 13s And decided to join the party scene Where he caught a glance of Francine Francine was a babe, tall and shy Awkwardly dancing, he tried to be sly But she looked at him and and simply replied That she just really was not into guys So the boy named Eugene Who had drunk too much caffeine Found himself chasing a girl he had seen In the cafeteria, a hottie named Christine

Patrick Faulkner

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With His Hoodie Up Derick Kaleo Grant

He said he was going to the store but He said he’d be right back.

He said he was just getting a snack.

He said it was just Skittles and an Arizona.

Don’t you worry, Mama I'm too grown for all of that.

He said thanks to the cashier.

He said you're welcome to the lady at the door.

They said you're not supposed to be here.

He said leave me alone but They said no.

He said stop.

They said an outdated word but He didn't get to say anything after that.

He said nothing ever again, but His death did.

Antonia Frank

All I Know

Monica Quirante All I know is that you have exactly 24 freckles smattered across your face.

There's a scar above your left eyebrow from the time you fell when you were nine.

You're always touching it without realizing.

You like staying up late.

You can't stand when your socks don't match.

You love talking about space because it makes you feel less alone.

You believe everyone is on this planet for a reason.

It's easy to make you laugh and hard to make you cry.

I hate that I've managed to do both.

These are the only things that I'm absolutely sure of.

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7 Things I Learned the Hard Way Alexa Code

Number one: Lying isn’t worth all the pain it brings along. Though you may think your lie can conquer 1,000 oceans, someone will always dive into the truth. And even if no one does, the lie will eat you, starting from the bottom of your intestines, working its way up your throat.

Number two: Love seems to come easy, but if it hasn’t gone through storms of tears and fists it’s not ready to be exposed to the hearts who claim to never transform, but end up becoming unrecognizable.

Don’t let love overtake you; if you don’t love someone you’ll know. Don’t convince yourself, it doesn’t work in your favor like that.

Number three: Mourning is a selfish act. You’re tearing yourself apart because someone else has figured out how to stitch themselves back together. Everyone knows the pain of losing someone else; don’t think your feelings are any more important than anyone else’s. It’s not easy to find yourself after breaking that severely; let them go, the guilt will end up destroying you more than Karla Majdancic they ever did.

Number four: Don’t wait until tomorrow to create something you have the chance to create today. Thinking about what you can do tomorrow is almost as pointless as trying to change the events that happened yesterday. Something may mean a great deal to you today but may slip your mind tomorrow.

Number five: Don’t hold on to people that are slowly dissipating. They are using you to hold themselves together until they can learn to use their own skin to disguise the cracks. The more attached you become the more dispersed they’ll grow to be.

Number six: Don’t confuse the people that use your pieces as their own and the people that risk their own pieces to help you breathe. You’ll start gasping, reaching for the parts of you that they claim are no longer yours. You’ll be left to fend for yourself without enough energy to add to your disintegrating physique.

Number seven: Don’t use those who ruin you as an excuse to be defective. Use them as a way to grow taller. Because you walked out on me, I learned that I am no longer a doormat. You can’t step all over me anymore. Because even though you’re not here to see it you have built me up into a person you never wanted me to be.

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My Skin

Brianna Adu-Kyei My skin is the color of the dark earth, that makes everything flourish and grow, that takes life and gives it, as it sees fit, as it whispers possibilities to the winds My skin is the color of the clouds in sorrow, when the clouds let loose their heavy burdens, and let emotions run wild My skin is the color of the night sky, dark and vast and endless, the world within its depths, ever possible, ever free My skin is the color of ancient trees, watching over the world, silently keeping its secrets, for those who would care to stop and listen My skin is the color of chocolate, sweet and smooth and dark and welcoming, a warm mug at home on a winter night My skin is every color, and its own color, the color of beauty And my skin belongs to me.

Juno Hobbs

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Untitled

Talia Rosenthal I know all my enemies, I know what they think of me they push out my miracles and lay me with comfort They arrange fleshy wildflowers one atop a stack and synchronize the stems so they compact my ovaries I know all my enemies, I know what they want from me They place pearls of silky dew atop my head they lock me inside myself over and over again They seep into my velvet thoughts taking me and leaving me Floods of flesh surround me with the flowers that stay inside Morphing into a ladder where my slippery feet stabilize I am my own safety string, I am my best memory I tear, chew, and swallow all I own I know all my enemies, they chase and embrace fallacies They shake me with the might of a storm I'm drunk on my awe of them, I collect and I bury them Snug like bunnies in my bones They take me, they leave me, alone I know all my enemies I love them unconditionally They rape me then escape me all too soon I know you are pleased with me, for I am my enemy It's what you have wanted all along

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Moving Picture Clara Rosarius

The Bite

Liv Reis

I have sharp, big teeth and I’ll bite you, you have soft skin and I’ll break it.

Like you broke that vase at my house.

The soft skin will make a sound, like when your dog bit me, a little crunch It will make a sound, so the world knows what just happened.

Eve van Rens

The world is a moving picture, Each sight a story, Each living thing, Born by nature.

The clouds, White, Raging with anger.

But reflecting the world in its state.

The sun pouring out light, Lining the clouds with glowing beauty.

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Untitled

Carson Rice He knows the way. He would know the way blindfolded, in the dark, in the middle of a hurricane. Of course, he never drove himself. It was always his mom, and once his dad, while he was visiting. Now he drives himself.

He hasn’t been home since school started. He’s always been too busy over breaks.

Sometimes that’s true, and sometimes it’s not; his mom always takes the bait. She knows when he’s lying even when they’re talking through text message. Over summers he’s been to Montana, to Costa Rica. This past summer he went with the boys to London and to Rome. He didn’t tell his mom, but she commented on one of his Facebook statuses.

What she said doesn’t matter— it’s that she commented. That she had seen that he had been out of the country, out of his life, out of their town built on Bruce Springsteen replays.

But this year he decided to come home. It’s only a few days for Thanksgiving, anyway. His mom seemed happy enough to see him. She has her volunteering and the youth program for kids she runs after school.

She’s busy and has a new haircut and a new wardrobe and had the house remodeled. It was over dinner last night, after a few of her college kids had left that she told him.

Alana had called.

Where to begin with Alana was difficult. Alana was difficult. Until a few years ago, Alana had been a constant in his life. Alana had been the constant in his life.

And then she wasn’t.

Dariel Fernandez Graham turns down her street. His BMW hums at him and he pats the steering wheel once. He knows. Even though his car never knew her, the BMW can feel Alana too. Alana’s house looks the same. Kat is a landscaper by business, and so Alana’s front lawn has always looked nice, like someone had drawn lines and nature had grown inside them.

Graham parks the BMW by the curb out front of Alana’s family’s Craftsman. He wants to sit inside with the heat on and mull over going up and knocking on the door, but he knows they probably have seen his car and know he’s here, and if they haven’t seen it, they heard it. He gets out and clicks the remote once, so the lights flash. It’s now or never.

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The doorbell is different. This is the first thing that strikes him. Graham never used to use the doorbell, just banged on the door until someone answered it— usually Alana. He can almost see himself now, a dingy little kid with rumpled blonde hair in an oversized flannel shirt and ripped blue jeans from Goodwill. He blinks. He reaches for the knocker, partly obscured by the Thanksgiving wreath on the door. It’s Kat’s work, he can tell because of the little copper wire sticking out an inch or two from the side. He knocks three times, for old time’s sake.

Alana opens the door.

Graham thinks he might fall backwards off the porch. When they were growing up, Alana was always wearing dresses and leggings, mostly from the Children’s Place or H&M. He knows because Kat used to take them shopping. The Alana in front of him is barefooted, wearing some sort of fitted sweatpants and a slightly oversized white t-shirt.

Her hair is out of its ever-present braids she wore through grade school and hangs down past her shoulders. She wears a beanie and those hipster glasses with thick frames.

“Oh my god,” she says, pulls him into a hug. “You really came.” Alana’s chin fits over his shoulder now. She was always so much smaller than he was.

Graham laughs a little. “Yeah, I really came.” When she bring her arms back down, Graham notices her wrists. They’re wrapped in black leather and underneath the leather are lines and lines of dull green ink, tracing up toward her elbows.

The inside of their house is still beautiful. When they go into the kitchen, Kat looks up from her book and laughs a little disbelieving laugh. She looks the same. Less fake than his mother does.

“Graham.” Kat’s voice still makes him feel warm inside, like when he’s drank too much Swiss Miss and he knows it.

“Sam will be here soon,” Kat says. This is for Alana.

“Boyfriend?” Graham asks while Alana ushers him to the TV room.

“Um,” Alana says.

They watch a James Bond movie that came out a few years ago. Alana eats a packet of kale chips. She offers one to him and he declines. They used to share packages of Twizzlers in here. One of the boys messages him. He puts his phone in his back pocket.

They’re watching the beginning of a holiday movie when the doorbell rings. Kat opens it. There’s laughing behind them. It’s Rob and someone else. Alana turns around in her chair to watch them. Rob goes into the kitchen. The girl behind him disappears down the hall with her duffel bag. When she comes in, both Graham and Alana turn around to look at her. She’s dressed even less girlish than Alana is, in a sweatshirt and muted jeans.

Her short hair sticks up in the style Graham wants and she has a ring through her nose.

Graham is almost certain one of the boys has that sweatshirt.

She grins at Graham. Her teeth look very white.

“Graham, right?”

“Uh,” he doesn’t know what to say.

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She puts her hand on the back of Alana’s chair. Alana tips her head back toward her.

“I’m Sam,” “Yeah,” Graham says. “You are.”

He doesn’t stay for dinner. When Kat asks, he pretends his mom has just texted him.

He knows she’s at the new Thai place a few towns over with some of her friends. Alana walks out after him. She’s shoved her feet into Sam’s sneakers. Every single one of his friends at college has a pair just like them.

Alana stands on the porch, folds her hands. He doesn’t like the way it looks with her leather and her snaking tattoos.

Graham smiles.

Alana smiles back. She took her hat off sometime during the movie. She looks more like Alana when she was younger.

“She’s your…”

Alana flips her hair back.

Graham nods.

The house is going to be cold when he gets home.

Benjamin Maltz

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The Loss of Childhood

Untitled

Anna Faulkner

Loud sobs Streamed through the door Screams Cries Never seeming to stop Teeth gone Feelings provoked Screams Cries On and on No stopping For me The loss of a tooth Was a joyous time Not for Lily The thought of growing up Seared her little heart The first step To being a big girl Seemed to be The loss of a tooth A single tooth And childhood was gone No pride In seeming older No pride In more freedom Just the deep Screaming Sorrow From the loss Of a tooth

Amari Fogle

Train passengers The passengers aren't human Their eyes are hollow Devoid of all life and passion Their hands wrapped tightly around briefcases Their knuckles breaking through their skin Their faces twist in snobbish sneers Whenever someone bumps into them Can we really call them human When the only thought they have is distaste?

Antonia Frank

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Neither

Avery Way “Hey, do you remember that time up in Cheboygan when Dad and Lois rented that motorboat and Aunt Susie tried to teach you how to water ski?” the older sibling said in the still darkness of the tent.

“Yeah, what about it?” replied the younger one.

“Remember how you screamed like a girl?” he giggled.

Ryan laughed nervously, followed by a stressful “Oh, shut up, Kai.” Silence filled the little tent, surrounding Ryan in a mist of awkwardness, all of which went unnoticed by Kai. The cloud filled Ryan’s lungs, trying to push them to tell their brother something they had been keeping to themself for a while.

Kai was eighteen now, about to go off to college someplace far away like California or New York and leave 15-year-old Ryan behind in Traverse City. The two had a generally okay relationship. A few arguments here and there about things like doing the dishes and which movie was more likely to happen in real life, Star Trek or Star Wars.

Besides the time at their Dad’s wedding when 9-year-old Ryan began to cry because they missed their mom, the siblings had never really bonded. But Ryan was sick of being something they weren’t; of being something fake.

“Kai?” The question hung in the air for a moment.

“Yeah?”

“What defines a person’s gender?”

“Pfft, what kind of question is that? It’s all about what’s in your pants, stupid.”

“Is it though?” A pause stirred through the air as Kai leaned his body onto his right arm to face Ryan.

“What are you saying, Ry? You’re not a--” His voice lowered. “--transgender, right?” He said it like it was an insult or a slur which irritated Ryan but that wasn’t it.

“No--” “Oh, thank God.” “I wasn’t finished.”

Kai put on a puzzled look.

“I’m not a boy. But I’m not a girl either.” Ryan took a breath.

Kai’s expression intensified.

“I’m sort of neither.”

Kai raised an eyebrow that Ryan couldn’t see in the dark. And then he did something that terrified Ryan. He laughed. Ryan sat up and turned to him in shock.

In between bursts of sound, Kai managed to say “You’re kidding, that’s just hilarious!

You can’t be neither, you can’t even be both!” His voice steadied. “Ryan, what have you got between your legs?”

“But tha--” “Answer the question, Ryan.”

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“It doesn’t matter--” “No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter how small it is.”

Ryan rolled their eyes.

“But it doesn’t make you any less of a man, I promise.”

The younger sibling sulked, now wallowed in disappointment.

“Don’t worry, Ryan, you’re just confused…. and I’m sure it’ll grow eventually.”

Leo Bremond

Antonia Frank

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Flightless Bird Ava Rome

She dives swift, weeping with the swaying leaves of the cherry blossom trees.

She falls, a lilting petal drifting towards an unceasing tide.

A chorus of cries and whimpers escape her mouth and fasten their sorrows to the gentle limbs of a viscous wind.

The strain of unrelenting sobs escalates and harnesses their existence on the wings of the lost bird making her rise and fall with the vibrations of her own sadness.

A woeful melodic song intertwines the textures and sounds of nature’s essence and rise through the branches, enticing a passionate squall.

Her wings spiral uncontrollably, mirroring a soul adrift.

A whisper coming from the clouds tingles its way through the air and envelops her soul.

The clouds part and reveal a vibrant glare radiating from the sun.

Benjamin Maltz A throbbing ache swells in the support of her left wing, reminding her with a sympathetic thud of her inability to fly.

Her claws are extended, and outstretched for someone to save her.

She pulls them back, finding her grasp empty.

The truth of her loneliness inspires a fierce bout of dismal sorrow.

She lets herself fall willingly now, harvesting the last piece of her being into the bed of a sticky sap that waits below her in tangled wads.

Signs of tiny dewdrops reveal themselves on the foot of a radiant and brilliant day.

There is nothing left for her as she descends through the open air.

Soon she is colliding with a glittering oasis. Crashing to her death.

But somehow she continues downward, deeper crashing into a sweet lonely abyss that could not exist in the world she was exposed to just moments before.

Slowly her soul begins to wither itself into the fragments of only a dreamer’s own imagination, absent of pain and sorrow.

No longer is she flightless.

In that moment she flies with an angelic brilliance that stirs the deepest roots in the earth’s core and shutters through the eldest oaks in the forest.

She now belongs to the earth’s beauty. Her energy reverberates through its dirt and soil foundation and her life is reinstated in the form of the dazzling branches of a young shrub.

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I’m Not Your Average Stereotype Ethan McKesey

I’m a literate kid I’m not just smart because I go to a private school I don’t own a gun and use it for fun I don’t sell drugs And I’m not from the ghetto And I don’t speak Ebonics or talk Black You think I’m a gang banger?

I might wear red and blue, That doesn’t mean I’m Blood or Crip too.

I might be athletic, But I’m not good at every sport I might be good at dancing, But I can’t do all the dance moves I don’t have the latest Jordans I don’t eat watermelon every day And I don’t only listen to rap I’m just like any other kid in this world I might have soft hair No, I’m not Nigerian No, I never been to jail Yes, I’m African-American Thanks for asking me personal questions Goodbye, Later, See you soon or maybe not. ` Inspired by “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question” by Diane Burns

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Miami: January 18th, 1977 Benjamin Maltz

The seething sun climbs over the horizon, its arms fragmenting through feathery palms.

It was the first time in recorded history, And it has never happened since.

Grey masses cloud over the city, muting the endless summer.

A light drizzle flourishes, swaying this way and that as if it were a lazy curtain.

Eyes are pulled towards the zenith– the sky begins to whisper, It bites.

Then, it coats the city like sunscreen yet they are too stunned to rub it in.

“Extraordinarily white rain,” they call it, because they have never seen it before.

Joshie huddles under a glossy cabana, watching as time slows to a dim crawl.

David lowers the volume on his radio as the streets quiet.

Sandra looks long and hard for a blanket.

Sitting on a cool plastic chair in her retirement home Margaret gazes outside with yearning eyes.

The scene brings back older, distant times she had moved south to escape.

Foreign stinging dust– it disappears just past the hour.

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Leo Bremond

Fire

Alexa Code We live with emotions that are impossible to melt, but we will never stop burning ourselves trying. We need to convince ourselves this emotion is just like you or me.

Putting a label on something gives you the memory of its existence. When you name a fish that is about to fuel your bones you can no longer swallow without the creature reviving itself in your conscience. The guilt is staining your blood, starting at the fingertips that were used to remove its head from its body.

That’s what this label did for us. I now had your whole identity scratched into my flame, only allowing it to shine when you were there to feed it. You were now a part of me, but your fingertips started to lose their touch. It’s not as satisfying to use my dead flame to relight my burnt out match.

We were moving at the speed of light, hoping this sudden change in temperature would be enough to warm this stubborn feeling. But that’s when my flame stopped providing heat for those who yearned for it.

No matter how hard we tried our souls were soon devoured by the greedy light coming from the sun.

You thought ours was the type of love that could always reignite. You thought your flame would form again if you used my match to light it.

Your touch would linger on my skin, but you carved into me another person’s flame and left me with a hidden scar.

That’s why you felt no shame stealing my light, because your light only shines when her smoke is your key to oxygen.

I would love to rewind to a time before the word touched your lips, even if it would mean I wouldn’t be the only person that got to set you ablaze, I would still be the only person you would allow to dance in your flames.

I wish removing this label would make you forget, even though our souls are already burned, you said you loved the feeling before I called it “fire.”

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What To Do When You Lose Your Stingray Ming Chen

If you’ve lost your stingray or want to prevent losing it in the future, you’ve come to the right place. First and foremost, DO NOT PANIC. Panicking will only make your stingray never want to come back. Stay calm and check where you last saw your stingray. Perhaps it is in your local swimming pool, your bathtub, your kitchen sink, your toilet and in rare cases, under your bed. Stingrays’ flat bodies allow them to dig and hide from predators on the ocean floor. If you look like a shark or a seal, you might not have wanted to buy a stingray in the first place. Fun stingray fact: in the wild, stingrays can live around 15 to 25 years; in your house, they can live around one to four years.

Stingrays are very sensitive creatures, so if you’ve lost yours it might feel dejected and hide from you. You have to show your stingray that you love it. Knit him or her a sweater, and lay a nice glass of warm milk on your kitchen counter. If your stingray comes back you might want to cuddle with it for a few minutes. However, if it doesn’t come back, try whistling its name. Look around other buildings in close proximity to yours; stingrays, when their feelings are hurt, can walk very far. If you really cannot find your stingray, you might want to contact local authorities. Loose stingrays can make some people very mad. Hopefully, your stingray will show up if you follow these steps. I myself have lost my stingray a few times. His name is Keegan, but I call him Keegs for short. At first, it can be terrifying, but once you find your stingray again, all will be back to normal.

If you would like to prevent losing your stingray in the future there are also a few tips I have. Be compassionate towards it, stingrays need lots of love. Constantly feed your stingray: stingrays love salt and vinegar chips, scrambled eggs and chai tea lattes. Lastly, make sure your stingray is well groomed. Using a wide toothed comb, lightly caress your stingray’s back. DO NOT use any harsh chemicals on your stingray. I wish you all the best if you have lost your stingray. Thank you for reading.

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Untitled

Clara Rosarius While I was at the beach and the sun was slowly sinking into the horizon line, I stared out at the ocean. Small ripples of white foam and that green blue effect of the waves reflected in my eyes.

And then I looked up to that blue endless line of waves and realized how endless the world was.

The knowing that the world was almost all untouched.

It is a comforting feeling.

Benjamin Maltz

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Untitled (Villanelle) Ta’Shea Parham

An unrequited love is just as well.

I lit a candle that soon blew out.

I want to will a thing which is unwell.

Your voice, will tinkle like a bell.

Then rust at the mention of doubt.

An unrequited love is just as well.

My glimpse into the past had been swell.

I do not wish to know what the future is about.

I want to will a thing which is unwell.

I prayed we would float, nay we fell.

Hearts swell like the joints plagued by gout.

An unrequited love is just as well.

Is it I who this love has quelled?

Maybe my lips are to blame for the candle blowing out.

For I wanted to will a thing which was unwell.

Apologies implied for an untimely peril.

Back to you, I will find the route.

An unrequited love is just as well.

I wish I never had willed a thing so unwell.

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Ode to Trees Anna Mueller The trees bursting out of the ground into the fresh air Growing faster than a race car can drive White blossoms bloom amongst the leaves making it look like a fresh snowfall The bark has lines and creases as is if the trees are grandparents

Benjamin Maltz

Branches

Elisabeth Seiple The lace of trees waltzed in the newly born wind. Their leaves intertwined and then separated again, like summer lovers that met for a sweet blossom only to depart again to themselves. I watched the branches as they swung and dipped. Nature seemed to be a never ending dance. Even in the stillest of storms, you will always find a lone flower tilting to another one’s submission. I drew what I saw in my notebook. My notebook was as my mind, a scattered collection of thoughts that were bound together by a tight leather string. Now, our strings were fraying in time to each other. When I was nothing but a little girl, my notebook was filled with more rudimentary collections. I might think that I cherish these more than any of my more sophisticated observations. I write what I see, in all situations. If I wake in the middle of the night, I will write about the way the shadows play about my walls and jump from chair to chair as if they are children. If I am witness to a conversation, I will write about the intricate emotions displayed only through details of one's existence. Thus was the case when I was nine years old, watching my mother and father have their final argument in the drawing room of my old house.

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Dear Diary Alice Attal

Dear Diary, Today was my first modeling job! I got in The New York Times and I am freaking out. I’m looking forward to seeing how my friends and family are going to react to this.

Dear Diary, Today I told just a few people who were close to me because I didn’t want to brag about it. I was expecting different reactions. I was expecting things like, “That’s so great, good for you!” or just a “Congratulations,” but no. Some people were very excited for me (all of my close friends were). However, other people started coming up to me and telling me that the only reason I was accepted was because of my famous parents. I knew that was true in a way, but it felt like they were telling me that one of my greatest accomplishments was all because of someone else…that it wasn’t really “my” accomplishment. I didn’t know how to respond to that because yes, that may be true, but it made me realize how the truth hurts sometimes.

Dear Diary, Today I wanted to know what it would be like not having anyone know who my family is. I wanted today to feel great, like everybody would be trying to get to know me for me, not as “my parents’ daughter.”

Dear Diary, Today people kept telling me that I’m so lucky, that if I want to be a singer or a model when I grow up, I have the push. People didn’t say it like that, they said it in a way that made me feel like it didn’t matter if I had no talent--that it’s all about my parents. So my whole future is based on them? Something about that bothered me.

Dear Diary, Turns out everybody knows my family is famous. So I went up to people and asked them if they even knew what they were famous for but most of them didn’t know, all they knew was that they were famous and I was their daughter. Who my parents are--how does that define me? Yes, it’s true that they are a part of me and I love that part of me. I love my parents, but something about it bothers me. I hate the label.

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The Life of Pablo Five

Augustus Duravcevic and Reggi Condos Sway Jizzle spitting rap Man, I'm killin this track Spit beats harder and better I'm a dope trend-setter You're uglier than a Christmas sweater I always move around Never stand down I rule this town Now bow down to the crown Your hopes are jokes They’re a hoax I'll slay you Keep afloat Now I’ma let my boy Spit these raps Peace Now that I let Sway Jizzle hit his verse I’m comin in harder but I’m still rollin out the black hearse leavin’ these mistakes on the church steps, no regrets yet better than the rest, uncanny visionaries that were eating out of cans, filthy hands, the best of man, we part of the clan, check it.

Put two and two together like I put two in the dome chrome teeth like Flacko scary thoughts now that you done heard my story, killin em, and I murked this track just like that we brought back rap.

Juno Hobbs

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Girl

Monica Quirante She started off with things I already knew, don’t be rude, don’t interrupt an adult when they're talking to another adult, or anyone for that matter. Be sure to watch your mouth and talk like a lady should, I interrupted then, going against what she had just said, but you know I’m no lady, she ignored me but understood what I meant and continued.

Every girl has the ability to be a lady, watch your posture when meeting someone, actually watch your posture at all times, I try, you see, but it’s hard to remember.

Inspired by “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid

Cara Eagan

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Chess Game

James Bleecker, Jr. William flicked the cigarette butt onto the grey mud, stomping the embers out with his rubber boot heel. Without thinking, he lifted his knight from the chess board.

He wrapped five fingers around it and, brandishing it like a mace, swung it in the air, bringing it crashing down beside his opponent’s white pawn. The slight figure sitting across from him raised an eyebrow. Rays of sunshine illuminated the billowing dust shaken from the unsturdy table. William watched with an almost pouty satisfaction as the pawn that he had smacked from the table rolled onto the dirt and came to a halt beside the squashed cigarette. Then the white bishop slid out from behind the castle. William watched in horror as Nicki, his opponent, pressed a forefinger against the base of the tall, lanky piece. William saw the tendons in Nicki’s finger tighten. Temple throbbing with anticipation, he waited to see what prey this chess piece had identified. Nicki was barely touching the bishop, only his fingertip grazed its smooth, elegant surface. It advanced slowly towards the gap in William’s defensive line.

William stared at the ivory attacker. He was frozen, like a man staring into the toxic eyes of an arched king cobra. He silently mouthed, “No, no”, as the bishop passed through the gap opened in his defense by the careless movement of his knight.

It was 1916 and William was at war. Although it was the Great War that raged around him, it was the war of the chess game that now invaded the farthest corners of his consciousness. The artillery pounded and the officers shouted, but the two rivals could have been sitting in a peaceful meadow in Elysium for all that the outside world mattered.

In this world, the sun was bright, but not too bright. The crickets and bees buzzed, but not too loudly. The cool breeze ruffled the stocks of goldenrod, but did not threaten to knock over the chess pieces. Chess, to these men, was not a game but a reality. But chess pieces were not captured, they were killed.

The two figures were shrouded in black against the glare of the sun. There was a sudden movement of the hand from the slighter but more majestic of the two silhouettes.

Nicki clutched the bishop between his thumb and forefinger. It tapped gently against the black queen, making a delicate but piercing and authoritative clink. It was the sound that would emanate from glasses of wine held by toasting aristocrats. Without warning, Nicki’s fingers struck out and snatched the piece before retreating back to the friendly side of the board.

The generals of the checkered battlefield locked eyes. Nicki smiled, not maliciously, but warmly, almost pityingly. He had won, they both knew. But Nicki was not one to revel in victory. Upon returning to reality, after games of chess such as these, Tsar Nicholas and Kaiser Wilhelm were good friends. As their peaceful green surroundings melted away into grey wasteland, another war was fought: a war fought across a diseased battlefield, checkered with trench lines and shell holes, where the black and white pawns, alike, writhed and died in the mud. But it was still just a chess game.

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The Storm

Natalie White As she recalled the day, Emma thought about how happy she was. It had been unusually beautiful. The warm air added to her excitement as she ran about the playground with her mother and father like they did every Saturday, looking for flowers to smell.

Emma and her father had gone for tea and Emma felt a hint of maturity as she sat on the plush velvet cushions, her back straight just like her mother constantly told her to do. Unlike their typical Saturday tea, Emma’s mother didn’t attend because she had visited her mother at her black and white apartment that ironically represented her heartless nature. Someone called her father’s phone and by the sweet smile on his face, Emma could tell it was her mother. But later in the conversation his expression saddened and he appeared tired and much older than he was.

Exiting the cafe and returning to the car, the previous zephyr had become colder and surprised Emma as the wind appeared out of place on such a lovely day. Walking to the car Emma noticed the delicate flowers on the cherry blossom trees had lost their grip on the branches as the wind had grown harsher. She began to gather the fallen ones that still appeared alive with their pink color. Emma was careful to resist the temptation to pick any off the tree despite their appeal because she felt they had feeling and emotion.

She didn’t want to steal them from their home because this would cause them sadness.

She was seven, and Emma didn’t want to inflict the pain of separation on the helpless blossoms. She had a slight grasp on the consequences of loss even though she didn’t fully understand the results of it.

Looking forward from her car seat into the passenger seat, she imagined herself older, as a young woman who would sit in the front of a car. Emma eagerly peered out the window of her father’s new car, noticing the dark clouds of a storm approaching them.

She rolled down the window and let her untouched hand move up and down according to the rapid columns of air. And it seemed that she was inviting the storm, beckoning the rumbling clouds to envelop the clear sky. She didn’t mind the darkness; she appreciated the change in color and how the pink of the cherry blossoms sharply contrasted with the sounds of thunder. Thunder scared her mother, but Emma didn’t fear the rumbling and she wondered why the sound caused her mother to tremble in fear. She always had a difficult time relating to her mother; she felt that they were on two separate tracks that didn’t meet. This did not upset her, it was just how their relationship was.

Pulling up to her grandmother's apartment complex, the thunder clouds threatened to envelop the surrounding sky. Emma decided to leave her cherry blossoms in the car because her grandmother would suffer from the pollen they released. She placed down the still vibrant flowers and kissed each one of them, making a silent promise that when she returned the flowers would still be alive despite their ephemeral nature.

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floor where her grandmother lived. Emma could hear angry voices yapping at each other and while she was used to the anger these voices had a different tone, one with defiance and sadness and the other with pure hatred. Inside there was a whimpering like a small puppy dog roughly disciplined by its mother. At that, the pitter patter of rain began and the door to her grandmother’s apartment swung open with the angry old woman peering at Emma and her father.

Emma’s mother sat on the couch slumped over, a red mark forming on her face.

Her shoulders were hunched and she had one hand on her forehead with the other limp at her side. Emma approached the figure of her mother and sat next to it with her back stacked tall against the couch. She addressed the figure as if nothing had happened while the redness on the woman's cheeks faded. Getting up, her mother hugged Emma and the rain decreased to a drizzle.

Emma’s father went home, leaving Emma at her grandmother’s with her mother, the three generations sitting in a tripod at the circular glass table. The anger Emma had seen on her grandmother’s face dwindled and all that was left was the wrinkled skin of a woman who was long past her time. Her grandmother always said that one could tell a great deal about an individual by looking at their hands, so that is just what Emma did.

Her mother’s and grandmother’s hands sat there on the table at disjointed angles. Not that Emma had expected them to move but they just sat there without a tremble. These were not hands that Emma recognized. While these hands were limbs of two different people, they looked as if they belonged to the same body, in the same coffin, in the same hole in the ground. This disturbed Emma. And few things disturbed this seven-year-old. In fact, it disturbed her so much that she felt compelled to say something about it. But the moment she opened her mouth the women withdrew their hands in disgust. That’s when the rain picked up once more.

Emma’s grandmother receded from the table excusing herself because she was going to serve Emma and her mother Frosted Mini Wheat cereal. Even though her grandmother was aware of their allergies to gluten, she insisted on serving Emma and her mother the cereal. Emma’s mother warned Emma not to eat the treat even if the old woman insisted. When the bowl was placed in front of Emma, she saw the delicately frosted cereal and quickly took a bite, thinking her mother wouldn’t notice. But her mother did notice and violently whacked the bowl off the table. As the porcelain smashed onto the linoleum floor, the wind picked up and the rain pounded down on the fragile building. Emma winced in shock as her mother glared down at her, the mother’s shadow looming over the quivering child. Emma’s grandmother ignored what had just occurred and began to sweep up the turning milk and shattered bowl.

The storm continued. The rain pouring down sounded heavier and heavier every time a droplet landed on the windows. The mother, standing above Emma, maintained her position, and so did Emma, sitting in the slowly shrinking chair as the shadow grew.

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couch across the worn carpet and sat, her shoulders hunched, one hand on her head and the other limp at her side. Her eyes found their way to her hand. The hand didn't appear to belong to a little girl. But she wasn't startled. She just looked at it, acknowledging its foreign nature but not surprised at its presence. Thunder struck and she huddled up into a tighter ball against the couch but now she sat in between her mother and grandmother.

Once more, the three generations sat side by side, their worn hands and fear of thunder in common.

The girl's father returned, and coaxed the girl and her mother out of the apartment and into the parking lot as it was time to go back to the normalcy of the morning. As the girl approached her father’s car, she opened the door expecting to see her lively flowers in their vibrancy like they had been when she arrived at the apartment. While the blossoms were there, they were not pink but rather a dirty brown that oddly matched the new skin on the girl’s hand. There was no longer a purpose for them so the girl smelled them for one last time and tossed them away. Driving home, the girl noticed that the rain had ceased, yet the dark grey clouds remained. She felt the clouds would soon dissipate as well. And as she rolled down the spotless window she acknowledged their slowly fading nature and let her memories of the terrifying thunder drift away with the departing thunder, as she knew she would be reminded of the storm next Saturday.

Stella Rose Gahan

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Bilingual Nightmares Otilia Olmedo Young

How foreign the words seem, leaping into the other page shape-shifting from the regal-looking woman in her crown to the middle-school child with knobby knees and bony elbows Se desapareció la magia de las palabras The spell has been broken.

Las palabras quieren ser las flores más bellas de la primavera because they don’t know they are just words.

Quieren iluminar la cueva más oscura but they are only what is left when the stars have fizzled out.

The words waddle about in their mother’s heels, not quite filling them They stumble around your mouth, sounding like the crunch of autumn leaves Or the crunch of an apple, sweet but bitter, un bocado de fruta inmadura, dejando un sabor agrio en la lengua Las palabras son la pesadilla del bilingüe The right side mirrors its left counterpart but the ink on the page tells two different stories.

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Dixie Drift

Benjamin Maltz When I was little and first heard of that little argument in 1861, a particular image always surfaced.

The Dixie folk, saws in hand, cut through the mud along the border as if beginning to rebuild a house after a storm blew it down.

The people faltered this way and that, until one by one, untethered from their moorings by the meek saw, the states were severed and began to drift out to sea.

Benjamin Maltz

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A Revised Definition Alexa Code

Love is the numbness you feel right after you break your bone and the pain hasn’t hit your nerves yet.

Love is the salt scrubbing tears and the blinding vision as you choke on your medicine.

Love is the bolt rushing through your veins, connecting your toes to the tips of every strand of hair.

Love is the rain forming goosebumps on the stomach that used to be so immune to the cold.

Love is the smoke in your eyes as you release the guilt trapped beneath your tongue.

Love is the clouds in the broken sky as the sun cuts its perception through the waves in your thoughts.

Love is the red and the blue and the yellow surrounding the stain from your encounter with hatred.

Love is the yes and no that confuse themselves with the letters on your tastebuds as your eyes dance.

Love is the up and down, the running throughout your bones and the piercings throughout your muscles.

Love is the moments that don’t feel normal but don’t blind your view in agony.

Isabella Rose

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Your Food Dakota Law

Your food, I must say, was delicious.

I thank you for sharing, though I may have taken more than a piece.

You probably wanted to savor it, but were forced to hide it from circling vultures.

But you see, you always have what I want, at the right time.

I suppose I should just go with you.

But I think taking your food is better.

Nina Gerzema

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Just Pretend

Eliana Cohen-Orth Thank goodness that girls Can have heart-racing fun Without crossing the border of “friends” And sure you can joke, Tease and provoke But don’t worry, it’s all just pretend ’Cuz hugging and kissing and Touching and loving Is practice for when it is real It won’t count as cheating While he thinks it’s hot Until you dare let yourself feel Since pain in your heart Is a stain on your conscience You’ve strewn the rules into this mess And the butterflies mean That you’ve fucked up this scene You succubus, sapphic seductress But, shush, it’s okay You can still have your play If you laugh off your tears to the end Don’t question what matters Or think that you count Remember it’s all just pretend.

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The Turtle From Seven Years Ago Charlie Thackway

I sit on my chair in the corner of the room in my small house. I can see the lake. I remember the small turtle that I saw all those years ago. I haven't seen a turtle since then and the same with my sister. She passed away seven years ago, only a day after we saw the turtle. I am 83, but I made a promise to go out on the small rowboat every day until I saw another one of the turtles. The lake is a melancholy place for me, with the memories of all the amazing times that I used to spend there. But now the trips are filled with sadness, with the loss of my sister. I sit up, hearing a creak from the chair that’s older than me. I walk down to the lake, sit in the boat, pick up the paddles, and row slowly out into the deep black water. I reach the spot where we saw the turtle all those years back. I close my eyes and when I finally open them, there it is: a turtle sitting on a rock.

Juno Hobbs

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The Story of Post Insanity/Pre-Understanding Alexa Kennedy

Does she love me?

She doesn’t feel a thing Do my friends like me?

Friends? What friends?

Am I doing this right?

Aren’t you the one answering these questions?

What were people doing when I wasn’t watching them?

So so many things Why was I asking these questions?

I tried to let go of this religion no cult of loneliness and confusion but sometimes it all makes sense all over again at the worst moments when only I seem to make sense Maybe this is because I have problems Maybe I see wrong Maybe other people are just more advanced than I am Maybe I can’t handle them Maybe everything really is a lie Maybe I’m right when I’m alone and it’s dark out and I swear I hear voices outside I make voices in my head to cover their sound it feels like the hero fighting the villain but then they combine and I can’t tell the difference anymore Maybe everything is really a lie Maybe I am right Maybe it really is dark [37] FINAL.indd 37 59711_LREI_B_TEXT_r1.indd 43

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I don’t honestly know how these beliefs make me seem inconsiderate probably stupid?

But honestly It’s hard for me to understand people because I wonder if they are real and if they think like me you you were reading this at least you read a part of it somewhere I wonder what you think but remember you could never tell me if I was wrong or right I would never be able to believe you because people may not actually understand people may not actually be r e a l now prove to me you’re not a robot

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Lauren Davidson

Lauren Davidson

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To Make Someone Happy Acadia Schimmel

After the fire nothing was left but a clip, an unharmed diamond clip. Though the bottom didn’t click in the right way, it was still perfect on top. Its diamonds were still in place and its silver untouched. I took the clip and rolled it around in the palm of my hand. It was mine now, but it used to be someone’s. A woman maybe, with blonde hair, deep green eyes, pale skin and a loving soul. Maybe she had kids, a boy and a girl. They could have been adopted from a different family that couldn’t love them like she could. The girl with dark brown eyes like chocolate, and the boy with cheeks red as the roses in the garden.

Maybe she had a husband and a house with white shutters and a blue door. The husband could have been waiting for her to come home every day to hear about what she did at work. She could have been a doctor, at a hospital taking care of kids. The kids could have loved her, and the lollipops she gave out after a shot. She could have cared for each one of those kids like her own. She might have come home from a long day at work, and sat on the sofa with her daughter and her chocolate eyes, her son with the rosy cheeks, and her husband, with the diamond clip in a box. He would have carefully taken the clip out and placed it in her blond hair and she would have been happy. Maybe she would have worn it to the work party that night. She would have talked and talked the night away. She could have been dancing when the smoke hit her, and when she hit the floor breathless leaving nothing but a diamond clip in her place. She might have left it for someone to find and to pick up. To make someone happy as she had done in her short life of caring, joy, and love.

Weston Delacey

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Moonlight

Atticus Uyttendaele She lay in the dark and cried.

I saw her from above.

Watching.

I wanted to help.

But I couldn’t move.

Not by myself.

The earth moved me.

I was spinning far away.

But my moonlight shone on the girl I used to love.

Pause

Maisy Hoffman Faded bare water through glass blue window grey soft

Apology Poem Rachel McCain

Just yesterday I saw you your face pale crumbling like a stale scone I made no effort to help I watched you fade away your eyes in another world

floating woody light old washed damp green dry quiet pause.

Forgive me If I only know what I know now

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I’m Not a Hipster Cameron King

My name is Cameron Ythan Alex King. I’m 6’3, Black, a bit doofy looking, chubby yet sexy, and full of ‘swag.’ I could write about my identity in terms of race, my height, or my gender, but everyone already knows the struggle of a big black guy living in America too well, so I’ll leave it at that. I could identify myself by the groups I associate myself with, but it’s easier to simply state who I am not and I. Am. Not. A. Hipster.

For those of you who don’t know who Hipsters are, they are simply foul beings. You can spot a Hipster riding their hybrid bike wearing what they may call an “ironic” t-shirt and unbreathable skin-grabbing more-than-just-tight jeans. A Hipster has no more than 2% body fat, but there are some exceptions. The trademarks of the Hipster are the over-played “nerd” Ray Ban glasses, the slouch beanie and neck scarf.

The Hipster walks among us in daily life; however, he is not a part of us. He shuns us.

He refuses to reduce himself to like the kitsch of anything we as a society may enjoy.

He may be found in a local coffee shop or any non-corporate business. The Hipster is one who can be smart enough to brief you on philosophy, music, politics, art, but not smart enough to see how narrow minded they are. With as much smarts as they think they have, you may find them unemployed and living off their parents’ trust funds.

Despite how many times I prove that I’m not a hipster, I am constantly told that I am. Everytime I say, “you probably wouldn’t know about it,” I’m told that I’m a Hipster.

Everytime I leave Urban Outfitters having spent $200, my friends claim that I’m a Hipster.

Every intellectual argument I have–after winning of course–I am insulted with the invective that I am a Hipster.

Yes. I’ll admit it. I buy overpriced t-shirts with unknown, trendy, rising brands.

Onaje Grant Simmonds

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Stussy. Obey. California Republic. Diamond Supply. Empyre. But you’ll never catch me wearing Supreme. I jumped off the Supreme bandwagon when it got too popular. “Too mainstream.” It’s not that I don’t like when things are too popular; I want to be original.

But no, I’m not a Hipster. Yes, my outfits are obnoxious. They may be flashy, exuberant, and flamboyant one day, and dull and mundane the next. It’s a mix of soft-grunge, indie, and what my mom may call “distasteful.”

I like to dress unpredictably, but I do not dress like a Hipster. You might find me with perfectly cuffed maroon chino pants pin-rolled below my calf with a beige canvas collared shirt with cyan scorpions and cacti, buttoned up all the way to the top button.

Another day you’ll find me in a galaxy print tank and some ‘meh’ looking cargo shorts.

I’m aware not everything looks good on me given my large stature, but when it does, I look godly, if I must say so myself. Either way, no one can imitate my style; it is original/unique.

However, don’t confuse my metrosexuality with being a Hipster.

I’ll admit that my music choice is that of a hipster, but that doesn’t make me a hipster. I mean just because Christians read the Old Testament, it doesn’t make them Jewish right? I listen to Top-40 music just as much as I listen to underground rap and artists you’ve never heard before. I’ll gladly introduce you to the genre, until it gets too popular; I just hate it when artists’ music becomes catered to the general public. It loses its authenticity. I am also familiar with love songs, dancehall, soca, rock, jazz, funk, and classical; you can tell by my long varying playlist labeled “train tunes.” But no, I’m no Hipster.

I’ll admit my social life is geared toward trends. But I’m also a trend setter; I make things cool before they are. You must be thinking I’m a textbook Hipster, but I’m not. I’m authentic. I’m my own self. Just because I live in the “whitest side” of Brooklyn, carry around a skateboard I don’t really know how to ride, and have a strong opinion on everything, does not make me a hipster.

Okay, maybe I am a Hipster. Fine! Maybe I fit the stereotype–just a little bit. But I am an independent thinking, counter-culturing, music appreciative, and witty individual.

If that makes me a Hipster, than I guess I am.

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Coming to a New School Jacob McKinnon

Let me go back to the very first day. I remember it like it was only two months ago-wait it was only two months ago. On the first day…Okay: new school, fresh start, stay positive. Wow, all of these kids fit into this one tiny building. I’m so tired, I guess I’ll just sit right here. Who are all these people? Yes, I’m wearing shorts--stop looking at me! Why do these girls keep looking at me and giggling? Yeah, I’m Jacob. I’m the only new face here--duh. Why is everyone smiling? What is wrong with you people? It’s seven o’clock in the morning! Stop stepping on my sneakers, kid, these are fresh out of the box. Finally it’s time to go upstairs--stop smiling at me, I feel creeped out already. Maybe I should just go to the principal’s office and call my mom, and I’m being pushed. So apparently this is my homeroom. Okay it’s official--these people have smiling disorders. Okay, I’ll just coast through the day and try to remain unnoticed. That has become a problem: there is only one new kid in the grade, and it’s me.

Ethan Tarpley

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Retreat

Hanna Provost There was a time When I was nine or ten When I thought to myself What’s the point In all this, All this work All this hardship All this effort When it will all end the same way anyway And nothing will ever really matter And the subject swallowed me It dragged me in, Collapsing around me And drowned me in a black hole of nothingness And so I retreated Scared and alone To my room Hiding from people Hiding from life Hiding from my imagination Because maybe, Just maybe My fears couldn’t get me there

Leo Bremond

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The Barbie Inside Me Cara Eagan

Gwen Raffo

Their hair lay artificially dead on the floor. I lifted my Barbies with their new haircuts up to the window to see the first red leaf of fall. Their pink necklaces and fingernails rested on the ledge of my brown windowsill. My barbies were my salvation. They were the item that showed me just how different I was. Showed me my rightful place in society. Alone.

My barbies were the reason no kids wanted to play any games with me. To them I was the game. I was the hot lava that no one could go near. I was the peanut butter that half of my 3rd grade class was allergic to. I was the poison.

After school everyday I traveled up the stairs from my third-grade classroom to claim my rightful spot on the third swing from the left. I would swing my legs back and forth until I was convinced I could do a 360 and flip over. I never reached that point but it didn’t matter. When I got to the highest I thought I could go I would let my head drape backwards. The wind would brush through my hair sending tingles through my spine. I would watch as I would get closer and closer to the sky. I believed that the world looked different upside down. That in that world my Barbie’s hair would grow back or my brother would smile more. He’s hidden his face ever since they came over. It just hasn’t been the same. In that world my brother’s friends wouldn’t have come over.

The doorbell rang and my heart began to sing as I bolted down the stairs to reach the door first.

“You can’t play with us if you answer the door first!” My brother shouted from his room. I walked to his doorway to see his hair becoming stiff in sections as he spread gel

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through his quaff. He winked at himself in the mirror and rubbed his hands together. My father stared back at him in the mirror. I knew Jake could hear him saying “They won’t like you if you don’t act like a man.”

“Put some hair gel in. You will be cooler.”

“Be a man, Jake.”

He began to walk toward the door shaking his hands. He took a deep breath and opened the door. The screams of Jake’s name filled the foyer with the smell of dirty feet as Connor, Peter, and Anthony took off their shoes. My father smiled at me. Not the innocent kind that told me I was safe but the one that told me he had a plan. That no matter how hard I tried to resist it, his plan was sealed in my fate. Without any hesitation the boys headed down to the basement. “Manly things,” Jake explained to my parents and me, as if those were the code words for us to stay away. The gel in his hair carried his confidence to lead his friends to the “manly” sports and games that awaited them downstairs.

I let them have some alone time. I figured an hour was enough. I played house upstairs with my dolls until the clock read “1:00” and headed downstairs. I ran down the stairs holding my Barbie. I slowly opened the door. If you open it too quickly the door squeaks open announcing your arrival and if you go too slowly it makes a loud groan.

After many years of practice from spying on my sister and her boyfriend to listening in on my brother’s conversations with his friends, I swiftly opened the door and closed it behind me. My brother has never been the most masculine guy. His twig-like bones wrapped in skin differentiated him from all of his friends. As Anthony was basically ducking to survive in our basement Jake had feats to go to reach that point. I liked to sit and watch as my brother’s playdates unfolded. My father reminded me it was nice to observe Jake’s friendships because that would be me one day. I knew that one day Nina and Hayley wouldn’t be okay for me to have. That I would have to find the kids I could fit in with. So I watched and observed. My father warned me that one day I would play like a man just like them. As they roughed things up in the basement through wrestling and tackle football.

Peter jumped on Anthony pounding him to the ground. Peter’s knees began to transform into shades of red until his skin looked bare from the rug burn. After he got up he laughed off the pain that rested on his knees. The aches my body has gone through from that same carpet. The stinging that was transcending through his body had to be ignored. He told everyone he didn’t care. That it was whatever. I had my knees close to my chest hoping I would never ever have to feel that pain again.

“Jake! It’s your turn,” Anthony yelled. Reserved and afraid, my brother said yes.

He walked to the middle of the basement.

“3...2...1…Go!” Connor screamed as Anthony grabbed my brother and hit him.

Nothing came out of my brother besides the shooting pain I saw underneath his blank expression. Anthony’s clenched palms of manliness met my brother’s face and body. Peter and Connor watched too afraid to say anything while also relieved they weren’t Jake. Jake began to let little sounds of pain escape his mouth and he took another hit. I couldn’t take the stinging that was in my eyes as I tried to hold back my agony. I could never do this. I [47] FINAL.indd 47 59711_LREI_B_TEXT_r1.indd 53

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could never be that. I don’t want to be a man. If that’s what it means I don’t want this. My aching bones pounded up the stairs hysterically screaming for my mother. I sat back on the corner of the stairs where Jake couldn’t see me but I could see him. Anthony began to back away and the room was silent. I buried my head in my hands repulsed by what I had just seen. I began to sob. I felt so frightened for my own life. I will never be a man because I can never do that. The room was still dead. No one moved. No one made a sound. The earth didn’t move until a whimper shot out of Jake’s mouth. My ears echoed that sound over and over again on replay in my mind. It was the only thing more comforting than the silence that still remained in the room. My ears perked up as I heard steps. Jake crying into his hands ran to the bathroom. The sound of him switching on the lock amplified throughout the room. I squeezed my Barbie so tightly I feared she would snap in half. When I released my grip the print of her face and hands were imbedded on my palm. She had left her markings on me. The marking read: you will never be them.

My mom had all the boys go upstairs and watch television. I sat outside the bathroom waiting for him to come out. I just wanted to see his face. I wanted to tell him it would be okay. That I could take them. I wanted to say anything to him. I just wanted to see his face.

I just wanted to hug him. To tell him how much I loved him. That’s all I wanted. To tell him I love him. I knocked on the door countless times.

“Jake?”

No response.

“Hey, Jake! It’s me.”

No response.

“I’m really sorry about what happened.”

No response.

“Please come out. I promise you they are gone.”

Besides the choppy sounds of crying and snot flying into tissues, there was no communication between us.

Fifteen minutes, nothing.

Thirty minutes, nothing.

Fifty minutes later the rusted up lock came undone and Jake emerged. His shivering hands handed me the tissue box.

“They are empty,” he muttered. Without hesitation I bolted upstairs, grabbed two boxes of tissues just in case his heart hurt that much, and handed them both to him. I wanted him to know that I would do anything for him.

The brother I grew up with playing baseball and hide-and-go-seek with was not the frightened boy covered with roughness I saw in front of me.

“You okay, Jake?”

“Yeah,” he said “I’m a man. You don’t understand but one day you will. When you’re a man these things barely hurt.”

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of what it means to be man. In that world my brother can cry when he’s hurt. In that world my brother could have said “stop.” In that world my brother could have been weak without feeling an overwhelming amount of guilt. In that world Jake’s friends never came over. In that world Jake is friends with so many people that make him smile all the time. In that world Jake smiles. In that world Jake smiles so much. My head begins to tingle as the wind sways my hair in different directions. I bring my head back to normal where the bright blue sky rests at the top of the world with the dirt on the bottom and my brother’s smile tucked away behind his manhood.

Pilar Olivieri

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Of a Fear of Loss Lindsay Seitz

When I was little I was asked the question: “Would you rather be the first or the last to die?” At the time I wanted to be the last to die because I wanted to live the longest (and win the “who can live the longest contest”). I don’t fear many things. I have anxiety, but I’m not afraid of many things. Yes, I do fear doing adventurous or dangerous things, but that kind of fear is on a different level from my fear of losing the people I care about.

I don’t want to be alone.

I don’t really fear death or how I die. Death is inevitable–it’s something that we cannot escape, as hard as we may try. Death is something that we either don’t want to talk about or something that is used as an emotional trigger in fiction. I have read and watched fictional depictions of death, and before last year, I hadn’t really experienced many “personal deaths,” so death was more of a far away, intangible thing. In the past year two people that are, were, close to me passed away. Gisella and Thad. Gisella was my art teacher from Greenwich House Music School. We kept in touch and when I was in 9th grade she took me to the Hampton Jitney every Friday, and my family invited her to our house out on Long Island.

When Gisella had grown very sick, there was a time when my mom offered for us to go see her in the hospital. I said no, I had homework to work on, when actually I just didn’t want to see her sick or in pain. It was selfish of me. And she passed away about a week later. The last time I saw Gisella we were playing Bananagrams and I showed her “Once More, with Feeling,” my favorite episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. We were laughing and I had this warm feeling that I don’t feel that often anymore. Contentedness.

Happiness. Bliss.

Then there is Thad. When I was in the teen program, Alive, at Hidden Valley Camp, two years ago, he was one of my counselors. It’s a place I can easily call “home.” Whenever I think of Thad all I can think about is his smile, his laugh, Alive, and the last time I saw him. I’m not very good at remembering people as a whole. I have specific memories of them. The last time I saw Thad, my friends and I were having him sign our white books (like a yearbook) and talking about how we couldn’t wait to see him next year. Next year.

In the first week of the new school year, one of my friends from camp told me Thad had died. My initial reaction was anger. I was angry that I didn’t know sooner. He apparently had an accident while rock climbing about a week after camp ended. I was later disgusted with my own feeling of relief. It’s not that I was happy Thad had died–that was devastating, but I couldn’t help but think to myself “thank God it wasn’t someone else even closer to me.” With some exceptions, we all form close relationships. We all want those relationships to last forever. We don’t want to see the people we care about in pain. We all have that selfish need for more time and the selfish anger of how it’s just unfair.

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I don’t have to go through the pain of losing two such important bonds (assuming you are close with your parents). Cursed because it is the only relationship I have. If my mother died I know that I would probably shut down. I don’t have siblings, I don’t have a second parent, I only have her. I have a fear of my mom dying. I care about her so much. Last year she was hit by a taxi. It took me ten minutes to understand what she told me. She was hit by a taxi. She was okay. I had to go to the hospital with her. It was terrifying. My mother is not young and my mother is not the healthiest person. I often find myself wondering when she doesn’t respond to a text if she is okay. Is she hurt?

My dreams are normally just black, and then I wake up. But when I do dream, more often than not it’s a nightmare. At camp this year I had a nightmare of my mother dying. I didn’t see her die. They told me she had a heart attack. It felt so real, my reactions in my dream were the same kinds of reactions I would have if it actually happened. I can just remember thinking: “It’s not fair, I haven’t finished camp yet, I wasn’t home with you. I haven’t graduated high school, let alone college.” Even though I knew it was just a nightmare, and it wasn’t very clear, I couldn’t help but feel like it was real. I woke up crying, sweating, and I broke down. I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was that my mom died in my dream.

During a meeting for my adoption honors project, my teacher, Joy, had described adoption as “life [starting] with loss.” This is true for a lot of people. I was left near a police station, and I was adopted when I was about one year old. I never got to meet my biological parents. While I may still not care to meet them, I still started off with losing my biological parents and a potentially important relationship. She offered that I may be more sensitive to loss because my life started off with loss.

Whenever you lose someone, it can take a while before you register the news.

“They died,” or “they passed away,” or “there was an accident,” it normally doesn’t hit me for another five minutes. When it does hit us, we realize we’re never going to get the chance to see them again. Do we remember what they look like? Will we remember their laugh, their smile? What was the last thing we talked about? Wait. Why did they have to die before I could–why did they have to die? I never feel like I had enough time to say how much I appreciated them. We want time to stop for us. We didn’t have enough time.

We all deal with loss in our own way. I feel like I’m suffocating once I’ve realized that they died. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. We all feel this empty space, like something is missing. We hate that feeling.

We hate being alone.

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Chocolate Bar

By Jaquie Adler When it was first placed there By the sales lady on the cold rack It seemed it would be there forever Like a forgotten trinket, treasure or treat.

There was a cold gust every time The bell chimed and the door opened.

Hoping someone would find it, but no one did.

People dressed in their coats With frost on their shoulders, Walked right past, Ignoring the colorful red wrapper.

When the door opened that evening Something was different.

Two young people approached, With a glow on their faces On a gray and gloomy night.

The girl lifted it up, She didn’t say a word.

She made a connection At that very moment.

It was part of their love, It was finally chosen to be in someone’s life To be in someone’s love.

A shimmer of light in the darkness.

Placed down on the counter, Under the shining bright counter lights.

The boy took a nickel and an orange out of his pocket, Even though it cost 10 cents. The sales lady looked down at it, The nickel and orange.

It was all crashing down Hopes and dreams, As the lady’s eyes softened And she accepted the orange and the nickel.

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Cars rushing by.

Unwrapped, naked and freezing.

The cold hurt.

She took a bite.

Inspired by “Oranges” by Gary Soto

Julia Noonan

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It is Gone

Ryann Bussillo I have broken your toy that was brand new and from grandpa.

You deserved it after our namecalling fight.

It was so fun to play with too bad it was the last.

Sorry for the Legos sprawled all over your bed.

Dariel Fernandez

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On Turning Thirteen Nika Marohnic

Thirteen?

I’m a teen Officially.

What does that mean?

Am I supposed to look at life in a deeper way?

Should I be worried about death?

Life is a race against death Right?

And you are always ahead of death Right?

And at one point death catches up to you Right?

That is how I’m supposed to think now I’m supposed to think like a grown up.

Am I supposed to feel different?

I feel like I’m in the middle I’m not a child I’m not a full grown up I’m in the middle I’m a teen That magical switch When every number ends with teen.

I was allowed to play with toys But now that I’m gonna be a teen I have to get serious The day before I’m a teen I sit on my cozy bed waiting And waiting And waiting For the clock to yell midnight Then I can say hello to my teen years Most of my friends are teens And they seem to like it What is not to like?

What is not to like about being in charge?

Being older and grown up?

My mom said that I’m gonna be cranky How can you be cranky when you are a teen?

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Teens are happy, they are in charge and they are in the lead.

The first morning of my teen years I wake up cheerful I walk tall and proud in the cold air Everything should be perfect for the start of my teen years The big bag of cupcakes slams against my legs I pick up my paintbrush The paintbrush runs over the paper Cheers to the teen years!

Inspired by “On Turning Ten” by Billy Collins

Ethan Tarpley

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Juno Hobbs

Oranges

Stella Achenbach Softly weighted sitting perfectly in the bottom of a pocket.

Softly swaying.

As if it was sitting in a swing.

I am warm but a cool breeze makes its way through the holes in between the wool.

As I peek through one of these small holes I see the gray sky. The frost covered trees and the bare branches floating like motionless arms in the wind.

I see a girl with bright pink cheeks.

She seems to light up the street like a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds.

We turn a corner and a warm wind comes over me. I hear faint music which very well portrays the mood outside.

A small hand grasps me and I am lifted and put in a pair of other hands.

And just like that they leave.

I watch as they walk away.

A grin over the girl’s face and an empty space in a boy’s pocket.

Inspired by “Oranges” by Gary Soto

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Say No to Stereotypes Ava Rome

It’s not okay that the moment you enter double digits, you’re informed of a reality causing men to make you fidget.

It’s not okay that women are expected to wear tight clothing and embrace our sexuality, but not retaliate when others try to tear down our mentality.

Smother your lips with lipstick is what is expected, but the moment we open our mouths our words are rejected.

I like tight clothing and I like loose clothing, but somehow that’s transformed into my attire being judged as one of a slut with no fair middle ground.

It’s interesting how society has embraced the term “flaming,” often overlooking how very wrong it is to engage in body-shaming.

Society sets an unreasonable and high standard for women, to the point where our own personalities begin to fade and are in question.

Medicine was once seen as a form of treatment, a prevention of diseases, a helper to those in need, however gradually it has transformed itself into weight loss pills, enhancing creams, plastic surgeries and serums that promise things it cannot deliver.

Not only do they promise a satisfied customer but a complete alteration of a body, a face, and a mind that’s been deemed by society as not beautiful in one way or another.

I yearn for a society in which it’s okay to be different because it doesn’t make you any less of a woman.

I don’t have an obsession with motherhood and babies just because it’s part of my being female.

I don’t know how to cook and I don’t desire to clean up after you.

I love food and anyone who thinks that because I am a “lady” means that I should only eat salad needs a reality check.

I can carry this box on my own thank you.

And guess what, I wear makeup and I love to play sports.

I’m on a travel volleyball team, and my nails aren’t the first thing I worry about breaking.

Why is it that when I type “why are women...” in the search bar on Google the first thing that pops up is, “Why are women so emotional”?

I don’t comply with these ridiculous stereotypes so why am I continuously labeled as if I do?

I am a challenger of stereotypes but also a participant in human desires and a victim of social persuasions.

I am an aspiring activist and a recovering bystander, I know I have not always stood up for others, but I’m trying to change.

I am a consumer of romantic novels and romantic movies, but also a believer in the capability of a woman living happily on her own.

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order to figure out who I am.

Society portrays a girl’s first kiss as a monumental and defining moment in her life It is supposed to be nothing short of magical.

Imagine the perfect scene and the perfect guy, But then imagine how you would feel when you realized you weren’t opposed to kissing girls either.

I will not continue to accept the limitations and stereotypes that society has linked to women.

It’s as if women have signed a binding contract holding us down.

I am tired of being told that who I am is wrong or that it doesn’t fit.

My first bra, thought to be my first sign of womanhood, Revealed itself as my first attempt to fit society’s expectations of a body image I just couldn’t portray.

The stretch marks that slither their way across my hips, intertwined and intersecting one another are my first encounters with scars that go deeper than my skin and penetrate an embarrassment and shameful insecurity that probably won’t ever go away but that I’ve accepted.

No longer will I let the idea that beauty is unreachable and unattainable pollute my mind.

I don’t and won’t believe that women can only be successful if they seduce their way through life.

I accept my imperfections because they make me flawed and vulnerable and they allow me to connect with so many people and feel an undeniable compassion towards others.

It’s not okay for these standards to criticize and disrespect women and my identity.

It’s not okay that women are blamed for getting pregnant.

That the role of protection as well as the blame automatically falls on women simply because they are the ones expected to not get pregnant, to not make mistakes.

You weren’t on the pill, he demands, and yet he didn’t use a condom when there are so many brands.

It’s not okay that we’re accused of being unprofessional flirts, but when we’re alone we’re suggested to pull down our shirts.

It’s not okay that when I say no, you still won’t let go.

And it’s definitely not okay that starting from the young age of eleven, girls think about decisions that can cause them to end up in heaven.

I’m not settling anymore and I’m not just a body.

I am not a prototype, and I’m not society’s stereotype.

I’m tired of women being marginalized.

I am tired of being underestimated.

I am empowered yet scared.

Confident and insecure.

I am a woman and nothing less.

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Hopeful Depression Cameron Glass

Imagine a world Where people don’t worry Where wars aren’t fought And where words are more powerful than actions.

Imagine a world Where suicide is never faced Where violence becomes peaceful resolution And where art is more valuable than currency.

This world Is one that all have at one point dreamed of.

This world Is one that is only created in one’s mind.

This world, Which we all hope for every day, Is impossible.

At least we can try.

Life as a Photo Olivia Roederer

If life were a photo it would start with a simple snapshot.

A photo that can be a year’s worth of memories.

That photo might be blurry at times or maybe clear.

Maybe rough around the edges but focused after all.

That photo will be something to look back at and cherish.

Sometimes you don’t need words to tell a memory.

It is all in the picture.

The picture that has the day you will never forget.

Or maybe the time where things were forgotten.

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Twins

Pierre Roederer People always ask why we don’t look alike People always ask who’s older There’s always a competition who’s taller who’s stronger who’s smarter who’s better People think we have telepathy People think we always fight People think we never fight It’s true that we’re passionate about similar things and we like spending time together It’s true that we have the same friends It’s true that I always have someone to talk to and someone to comfort me

Benjamin Maltz

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The Garden of Mama Gwen Raffo

My Mama said I’m pretty. She said it when I had the flower wreath and when I didn’t. My Mama made the wreath out of flowers from our garden. When I miss her, I walk in the garden for a little bit. I walk past the lilies and through the petunias, around the roses and the violets. The garden was my Mama’s, but now it is mine. That is what she said before she left and went to live with the angels and Papa. She wanted me to have the garden and she wanted me to take care of it. When the flowers look thirsty, I fill the metal watering pot up to the top to make sure all of the flowers get enough. It is heavy and Uncle George always wants to help. But I always say no. Mama said that she wanted me to take care of the garden. I love the garden and the garden loves me back. The garden always gives me beautiful flowers to look at, and when I think they don’t want to be in the over crowded garden anymore, I pick them ever so carefully. I dig up the roots at the bottom so I don’t hurt them. Then I use them in my room to make strings of them, or sometimes I make flower crowns for my dollies. I don’t know how I am going to take care of the garden when it is time for school. I won’t be able to see the flowers during the best time of day.

I won’t be able to see them at noon and eat lunch with them and talk about the angels up with Mama. I will have to leave them during the day and come back at supper time. I hope the flowers will still love me even if I won’t be with them the whole day long. This winter, I want to cover the flowers with a tent so they don’t die. Uncle George said that would be hard to do. I said that I would do anything for the flowers. Mama was still here last winter, so she took care of the garden. I don’t know how she kept them alive because I didn’t like the garden that very much. I only liked it when Mama wanted me to have it. I think Mama had a special power to help the flowers grow. I think I have that power too.

Nina Gerzema

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Alone in Winter Tallulah Walz

I looked out my window I could see mostly white It was going to be a cold day I could feel the frostiness Through the walls of my home I heard the doorbell ring I opened the door to see him I grabbed my jacket and left As soon as I walked out the door The winter hit me We started to walk I didn’t know where we were going I just followed him I couldn’t handle the cold

I Wanted to Let You Know Layne Friedman

The shower water is now cold.

I used it up.

I’m very sorry.

I know you wanted to shower next and that now you need to wait.

The warm water felt so good running through my hair washing away all the bad parts of my day.

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Myles Dunlop

The Little Fisherman Julien Goldberg

A little time has passed and I’m still fishing. I’m waiting for someone to come, to tell me something, to make me happy, but they still haven’t yet. My hands are cold and I bet I won’t catch anything soon. It’s still pretty early in the morning. I’m sitting on the edge of the dock when a man comes up to me. He’s big and strong-looking and his face tells me that he’s sad.

“Little man,” he says.

“Yes,” I answer.

“I have something that you need to know. Your parents have been abducted, you need to come with me immediately.”

I am scared, but I don’t know what it means to be abducted. He carries me to his car, and tells me his name.

“My name is John and I was a very close friend of your parents.”

He puts me in the car and we start driving. I have no clue where we’re going. I want to see my parents but he keeps saying that I can’t. We drive until we stop at a place called an orphanage. He brings me in and the man at the desk asks, “What’s your problem?”

“This is my friend’s son. His parents have just been killed. I’m leaving him here,” John states.

I am speechless, I’m frozen, and I feel like I’m nothing anymore. What will happen to me now? Who will take care of me? Who will love me?

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Pageant

Mika Foguel Sometimes I feel as if I am in a beauty pageant trying to win a prize.

But the prize isn’t self-confidence or happiness, it’s just me trying to win more.

They talk about feminism when in reality they don’t even know what that means.

They hope a guy will tell them how beautiful they are because their ego needs boosting.

They can’t achieve happiness without someone else telling them so.

They’ve become so numb to the meaning of their own words.

I hear this every day but cannot make a change.

I carry all these thoughts but have nothing to do with them.

I feel as if I am an alien isolated from the rest of society.

Still I give in.

Trying to make sure my hair is perfect and my clothes look good.

It’s a symptom of a disease: perfection.

Perfection is what makes girls shy in class, what makes us afraid.

Perfection is everything.

And I can’t change it, but I wish I could.

I am in a beauty pageant, trying to win a prize.

Pilar Olivieri

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No Fun

Dalton Salisbury Who’s the girl wearing the leather jacket I think she’s the best I’ve seen Over done and medicated And she’ll make or break and drive the world insane She’ll douse in gasoline She lit a match just to watch a flame She’s the rebel in me Kicking or screaming Yelling anarchy No fun no fun Well she’s no fun Who’s the girl wearing army fatigues Who’s she looking at, is she looking for me Source of the voices in her head Praying to God that the world should be damned No fun no fun Well she’s no fun…

Nicole Leung

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From the Perspective of My Cat Michelle Mardones

Ugh. Why does she want me to come all the way upstairs just so she can pet me?

Does she really think I like her squeezing me and speaking in that Mickey Mouse voice?

Saying I’m so fluffy that she wants to die? Why would she say that? See, that’s why I’m a little concerned. Does she really want to die? That’s why I try to avoid her sometimes. So she doesn’t die.

I stare at her as she does her homework. She looks so stressed. She looks tired. It’s almost 11 PM and she’s still studying for that test. Why does she do that? Why is she so concerned about this “school” thing? I simply don’t understand. So I try to make her happy.

I sit right on top of her math workbook so she has no possible way of looking at it. I meow and rub against her iPad and meow again. Why isn’t she petting me? Is she mad at me? For some reason, instead of being happy and speaking in that high pitched voice, she gets mad.

“Move,” she says. She picks me up and puts me right down. And she continues to move her pencil. Why does school matter so much to her? I don’t get it.

But that’s not all. When it’s the weekend, she sleeps so much. Her head is pressed on the pillow, her arm hanging off the bed, and even when I walk across her she doesn’t move.

By now, I’m starving. And FYI, cat hours are so much longer than human hours.

So first, I jump right on her stomach. I expect to startle her. Step two: she’s startled and yawns. I meow and meow and meow until she’s wide awake. Step three: I let her pet me, so she remembers that I am a cat and I can’t physically feed myself. For some reason, like magic, she always has food for me. From chicken strips, beef, and my favorite--salmon!

Ugh, but I hate that dry food. It comes in different shapes so you think the food is good.

But in reality, it’s nasty.

Anyway, by now she’s coming down the stairs and taps her fingers against the can so I know it’s TIME TO EAT! Yay! She opens the can slowly so she doesn’t cut herself.

But oh, I have no patience. Thanks, human. Although I don’t understand you sometimes, thanks for loving me. Thanks for being my human.

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Nail

Miles Trumbull Wall to wall I stay, then fall Today’s my curtain call I’m empty like a doll Compared to others I feel so small, Loosening up will make me tall Inside I’m deflated, like a basketball

Peripheral Vision

Skyler Pierce-Scher I feel it again, the black hole. It stands just out of sight. Just out of reach. I can’t prove it’s there but I know it is. It is sucking me into a dark, dark place. It’s not dark in the sense that it’s without light. It’s dark in a way that I feel free, in a terrible way. I am free from my emotions, at least the ones we consider. I am free from happiness and sadness.

Usually psychopaths are said to be emotionless. I don’t believe a word of that. They are not happy, or sad. They are scared, scared of fear itself. They have a hatred deep in their hearts. I am not a psychopath, at least I don’t think I am, but I sometimes like to travel through that deep dark place just to get a sense of it. I come back to reality as soon as I feel it trying to suck me in forever. I hate coming back to reality, but I don’t want to fall down there forever either. It blends in with the world around us, so only the special ones know it’s there. Maybe everyone knows it’s there but chooses to ignore it. Everyone has their dark hole just out of reach from their peripheral vision. Some people fear it, they keep as much distance from it as they can. Some jump right into the void, careless of what will happen to them. Then there are people like me who just lurk around the edges.

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No Escape From The Nazis Reggi Condos

My grandfather was eight years old when the Nazis invaded Varvitsa. His village was in a state of chaos and shock. All members of the village decided they should flee before the Nazis came. The whole village went north, but his family went east because they were fearful of getting caught. While interviewing my grandfather, George, about his experience, he described what happened to him and his family: “We walked and walked, hill after hill. Until all of a sudden we heard machine gun fire. The Nazis were shooting at us; we panicked and ran down the ravine to find a place to hide. Luckily, this ravine had many trees and bushes, which would make it hard for the Nazis to locate our exact spot. We tried to find the ideal place to hide, but had a tough time doing so. The sun was slowly going down, and we still didn’t have a place to hide.

We just decided to hide under some ferns because we were exhausted. I don’t recall how many hours we were there because I was too frightened, and worried about staying alive.

Everything was blurry to me. I was just eight years old at the time. Shortly after dark, we heard footsteps. It was the Nazis. They walked within twenty meters of us. I almost fell unconscious. Soon after they passed us, they decided to camp for the night. They stayed really close to the ravine, so close we could hear their voices from where we were hiding.

The Nazis stayed there for about a day until they left; we fled immediately after. We luckily escaped unharmed.”

The German occupation proved to be life-threatening for many Greeks, but the wits and courage demonstrated by my great grandparents and grandfather, who was just a young boy, “is why I am alive today,” he told me. Many people see my grandfather as an average man, but I see him as a hero of his time.

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Coming Home

Otilia Olmedo Young She came to America for all the right reasons Leaving her children behind for so many seasons She just wanted the money to raise them right So she saved up for a flight When she first came here she worked as a maid Without English or a green card she was barely paid So she took on more jobs to pay the rent But her paychecks hardly made a dent Later she becomes upset When she turns on her TV set Politicians scream and shout They want to keep her people out They call her people rapists and thieves, Forcing undocumented people to leave, Generations of families torn apart Unfairly punished for making a new start In a country so United How could a people have been divided By these governmental plans Of barbed-wire, boundaries, borders and bans What the politicians don’t understand Is that this is her people’s land And as the memory of her children becomes less exact She thinks: how could providing for them be a criminal act?

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Sure You Can Ask Me A Personal Question Sophie Stomberg-Firestein

Hello.

My name is Sophie Stomberg-Firestein.

No, Stomberg is not my middle name.

My last name is hyphenated.

Stomberg is not a German last name.

It’s Swedish.

I’m not, but my mom is half-Swedish.

I’m Chinese-American.

I’m adopted.

No, I wasn’t born or adopted in China.

I’m from Mesa, Arizona.

I’ve never met my biological parents, and I don’t want to.

I’ve never even been to an orphanage.

A family took care of me for 4 months before I was adopted.

Of course I don’t remember. I was just a baby.

My parents treat me the same as my sisters.

Neither one of my sisters is adopted. I’m the only one.

I’m not ashamed or embarrassed.

No, I don’t do tai chi.

Not kung fu either.

I do ballet.

Yeah, classical ballet.

I dance at the Joffrey Ballet School.

It’s pretty intense.

Six times a week.

I don’t plan on becoming a professional ballerina.

I dance because I love it.

English is my first language.

I’m not fluent in Chinese. I’m learning it in school though.

No, math and science aren’t my favorite subjects.

I prefer humanities.

Yeah, I’ve always enjoyed reading and writing the best.

Oh, I see. Your Chinese friend is a genius, huh?

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Oh, so you eat a lot of Chinese take out with him?

No, I don’t eat Chinese food very often.

It’s not because I’m allergic to MSG. I prefer fettuccine alfredo.

Well anyways, I’ve gotta go do some homework.

So what if it’s too early? I work hard, and I’m proud of it.

Inspired by Diane Burns' "Sure You Can Ask Me A Personal Question"

A Day in the Life of an Anglican Woman Sylvie Goldner

It is a chilly November morning in Jamestown but I am fast asleep, ignorant to the cold. Clement taps my shoulder, which wakes me up. He says, “I’m taking you on an adventure, but you can’t tell anyone. Put on your boots because we are going outside.” I reach down and grab my deer hide boots and slip them on. I slowly get off my bed to make sure it doesn’t creek and follow him outside in my nightgown. When I step outside, snow is flying everywhere. I open my mouth. It is chilly, but slowly, as it sits on my tongue, it starts to lose its cold. It is flavorless. Clement takes my hand and starts walking; I follow. We near the edge of the fort and we’re soon next to the palisades. He says, “Squeeze through the two palisades that are broken.” Of course I normally wouldn’t. It’s preposterous to leave the fort without a reason, especially if you are a woman. But Clement can get anyone to do anything, which at the time I love.. I squeeze through the two palisades as fast as I can and then see that my nightgown is ruined, covered in dirt from the wood. Clement then appears and I instantly forget about it. We run across the powdered forest. I soon see homes but they are unlike ours--made out of straw instead of wood. I see a man who looks different from the English men. He is wearing a deer skin coat, which falls to his knees. He looks at Clement and nods his head. He rushes us into one of the straw homes and inside is a baby deer whose leg is missing. There are a couple of women who are bandaging the deer.

“It’s a doe,” Clement says. I look at the baby. It’s eyes blank and heart crying. The men in Jamestown would have already killed it, but these people are saving it. Clement whispers to me, “I found the doe outside the fort with a musket ball in her leg. I knew that no one in Jamestown would care for this baby, so I brought it here. Everyone deserves a chance--deer or human, man or woman.” I look at Clement who is watching the deer. His eyes alert and empathetic.

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Benjamin Maltz Leo Bremond

Alexa Code

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Stella Rose Gahan

Stella Rose Gahan

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My Mom’s Pancakes Sophie Whelan

My mom always loved Christmas. She loved the music, food, decorations and spending time with her family. I remember how every Christmas morning she would play her favorite Christmas songs and bake us pancakes. I will never forget baking in my kitchen with her. As a kid, I baked in that kitchen every day. When I was younger it was nothing special, but that Christmas was the last time I ever baked with my mom.

Mom always made her special pancakes on Christmas morning. Christmas was special that year because it was when I received my first American Girl Doll. However, looking back on it, I realize it was the last Christmas I had with my mom. I remember running down the stairs on Christmas morning meeting my mom in the kitchen, ready to make breakfast. My 5-year-old face grinned up at her, ecstatic to make the special pancakes.

She pulled up a chair to the counter so I could reach the mixing bowls. I slid my pink apron over my head as my mom tied the ribbon around my back. I began to help my mom get the ingredients out of the cupboard and line them up on the counter. Christmas music was playing and my mom and I sang along to “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” and finally, it was time to start baking. My favorite part was always cracking the eggs and I remember my mom putting her warm hands around mine to guide the yolk into the bowl. I poured the rest of the ingredients into the mixing bowl and mixed it all up. My mom poured the batter into the pan while I snuck my tiny fingers into the bowl. Once they were ready, she told me to go sit down. I joined my dad and sister at our small white table. My mom stood there in the warm kitchen, gently sprinkling powdered sugar on top of our pancakes. She began to swiftly walk towards the table with our Christmas breakfast. She smiled at my dad, my sister and I, then sat down at the small table near the window. Biting into the warm, soft, buttery pancakes was amazing on Christmas Day. It was cold outside but my mom made it warm: she always did. She made the frosty winter nights seem like warm and wonderful summer days. We all sat there eating our pancakes and opening presents. We spent the day playing with our new toys and watching Christmas movies under our warm, fuzzy blankets on our old, grey couch. Christmas was always my favorite holiday, and it still is, but it was better with my mom.

I love Christmas because it made my mom happy. When my mom was sick, she was still smiling. The last time I saw my mom, minutes before she died, she was smiling. My mom gave me faith. In tough times, she always had hope and happiness. Even though I can no longer hear her voice, I have memories of her that I could never forget. I will always remember my mom and her unconditional love and happiness. My mom is gone now, but she is always here with me in my heart and memory.

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Weston Delacey

Untitled (Shakespearean Sonnet I) Ta’Shea Parham

Whispers. All I can hear are whispers now.

I begged the trees to bring you back to me.

My heart and ears pound, yet I hear no sound.

I begged the ocean’s depths to set you free Do you wish to come back to me, my love?

Your essence shines like the purest of gold.

I bet you are in a treasure cove.

I should not have sold you, should have took hold.

I begged the rain to send me your rainbow.

This winter has prolonged lonely slumbers.

The dark cold nights have stolen my fight.

I shed a tear as you lay in my arms.

We shall never part or at least not far.

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Karla Majdancic

Julia Noonan

Alexa Code

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The Third Twin Lucian Figliulo

We shared everything, my brother and I. We were twins. We got so close because both our parents were alcoholic druggies along with everyone else in our lives. But we, we were the ones that did not fall to the abuse of methadone or cocaine but we still did fall to the drug of love, not with each other, but with the love of my life. We both loved him, but he only loved one of us…

My brother and I had been through thick and thin--the best and worst times. But my love, the boy, the third twin, our Elizabeth Bennet, our love triangle, was our story of love, lust and hate. We both knew that the boy was the best person on earth. He was the joy of both of our lives, the shining star in the dark abyss that is my own life. We were in love, we were high school sweethearts. Then he left me for that boy, that boy who is my brother, the one that I loved most in the world. My brother betrayed me and he took away my shining star. He took away my third twin. They left me by myself, the one and only twin.

I remember the first time my brother told me, told me that he liked boys the way everyone wanted him to like girls. How he was so happy to get it off his chest and how he made me swear that I would never tell anyone. I knew from then on that we would be best friends--well, we already were, but now I knew that he trusted me more than anyone else, more than our parents, who weren’t addicts at the time. We grew up in a small Christian suburban town so I can understand why he would not want to tell anyone. When he told me I was skeptical at first, only for his safety, only because I knew he would have a much harder life than anyone else in this horrible town. I knew that he would be the one to suffer and the one to experience pain although he didn’t deserve it. Everyone else in his life does though. Even the boy who played with both of our hearts as if they were little soldiers who needed to obey. He made those soldiers follow every command he said. Though I love both of them I knew I could only keep one, but the problem was that neither of them wanted me.

Neither of them loved me the way that I loved him, I loved him, I loved him. I loved him so much and he…

My brother was so innocent at the time before the boy died, everyone thinks that I killed him, but I know who did. And as they say, “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” And there was only one left: me.

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Dear Papa Harry (A letter to my grandfather) Otilia Olmedo Young

I remember you sitting in your blue and white striped chair laughing and telling stories with us I remember when you took Izzie and me to Sundae School to get ice cream leaving with big smiles printed across our faces, hers with chocolate covered corners I remember the too-sweet smell of your favorite breakfast, Honey Bunches of Oats with one percent milk, a banana, and a small bowl of canned peaches I remember you bringing me to the track and watching me run laps you were the first to tell me I had potential I remember you leaving the house at night to go play softball even though you were eighty years old and couldn’t run anymore and you still played even when you got sick I remember Izzie and I celebrating our birthdays with you for the last time we both blew out those thirteen candles with you even though it was a few days before my birthday and a few months before hers I remember laughing with you and eating orange popsicles in the kitchen not knowing I would wake up the next morning and you would be gone Now, when I go back to your house, the walls echo with your presence and although your chair has been moved into your old bedroom, I still see the space in the living room where you used sit

Juno Hobbs

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The City of Lightness and Darkness Combined Theodora Dotson

Your first taste of Paris is bitter black tea sitting in a styrofoam cup. You’re thousands of miles up in the air, and the milk in your tea probably never saw the inside of a cow. The man sitting next to you doesn’t speak any English, and your French skills are limited to bonjour and baguette. You watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and slowly drift asleep to the soothing sound of Audrey Hepburn’s voice. When you get off the plane, you inhale the non-processed air and look around you. Everywhere you look, you can see police. They are dressed differently from the ones at home, and they have weapons hanging off of them like ornaments on a Christmas tree. They seem more like a SWAT team, their faces are hard, their eyes steely. They look like they are searching for something, something that the rest of us can’t see. Your mother rushes you through customs, where the fat man sitting behind the glass stares at you, wondering how it was possible that you’ve changed so much since that fifth-grade passport picture. Sometimes you ask yourself the same question.

You race out of the airport to make it to the taxi line, and the cold, crisp air comes like a shock wave to your face. You sit in the back of a taxi, listening as your mother speaks in high-school French to the driver. You can tell she’s making up some of the words, using her Spanish to compensate, and adding a very stereotypical accent to the mix. Your hotel is near the Luxembourg Gardens, and you spend the afternoon walking along the cobbled paths, watching old French people play tennis in designer whites, life going on here as usual. But at the same time, it’s not. You sit on a bench, wondering how people can live normally while feeling the complete opposite.

Thanksgiving dinner here is not the same as Thanksgiving at home. You lie on an old faded couch, your plate full of excessive sweet potatoes and pie, listening to your grandparents’ French friends laughing and mingling, their accents lulling you to sleep.

Your mother drags you home to the hotel around midnight, but you can still smell the lingering scent of cigarettes and strong red wine.

The next morning, you spend half an hour standing in front of the brightly colored Lady and the Unicorn tapestries, wondering how something that appears so simple at a glance can be so complicated and controversial in its entirety. As you walk through the shopping area, you watch the faces that pass by you. They are all beautiful, but all just as sad. You think about all the people that were lost or could have been. All the people who have seen the people who were lost.

To say that the entrance of the stadium is crowded would be an understatement. The scent of cigarette smoke is everywhere, you realize, all over this city. There are faces all around you, pushing to get in. The heat is overwhelming, you can feel strangers breathing down your neck. You give up trying to push further and settle into moving with the masses.

This is what it was like, you say to yourself, the realization falling into place. Everybody here is different, no two alike, but everybody is experiencing the same thing. The same sorrow, the same loss. The same confusion, the same anger, and blame. No matter what.

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Julia Noonan

Julia Noonan

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Brandon

Wilton Bompey First of all, let me start off and get straight to the point. I was just trapped under a building in the biggest earthquake on the West Coast ever. I am stuck without water. I have no food. But let me start from where it began. I was at my school, sitting in history class. We were learning about the Civil War and the Battle at Gettysburg. My teacher, Ms. Johnson, was saying, “This was the only battle of the Civil War that was in...” then the ground started to shake. I immediately went under my desk, as we were told to do. At first I thought that this was just a small earthquake, like we have almost every month. But then parts of the ceiling started to fall to the ground.

I might add that I am on the first floor of a four-floor school. I eventually thought that I was going to get out. But I was talking to my friend Palmer, who asked me: “Is today the day that I die?” and then the whole ceiling smashed down in between us. I was officially trapped. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I’m still trapped. I can’t get in contact with my parents because my cellphone is, or was, I should say, across the room in my backpack, which I can’t see. Oh, I should mention that I’m claustrophobic.

I’m already sweating through my BAPE t-shirt. I’m already very tired, and I don’t really want to fall asleep right now. I just want to get out of here. Did I forget to mention that I’m really forgetful? I actually don’t remember my own address. I just know that it’s on Lombard Street.

Now I need to get out of here. Now, how to do that? Well, I do know that I have to conserve energy, and only use my energy if I absolutely need to until I find food. If I find food, I can “throw it out the window,” but realistically, I would only hit a brick wall. So, I might just put it down. Another thing that I know that I really can’t survive without is water.

I think that humans can only survive for three days without water, and in this scenario, there’s a slim chance that I find some. Well, might as well hope for the best.

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What It’s Like To Be Me (A Rap) Victor Schwartz

I’m just a boy in seventh grade 12 years ago I was made My parents never tell me how much they’re paid but I never worry because it’s my childhood and I’m not in a hurry to grow up Right now my friends just say “sup” Not like when I’m older and people talk to me like a grown up But for now I’ll just answer with “nothing, I’m good” Responding the same way everyone would Switchin’ the topic No this rap may not be catastrophic But one thing that is is that parents make sure that their children are never hurt and man, I really wish I would hit a growth spurt Chorus: I am just a boy Who goes to school so that when he grows up he is not a fool Because I’m just a boy living in a world that at least for now I don’t rule Because I’m just a boy But that stuff’s all for later Right now I need to get a good relationship with my grader And when I get home I’ll watch Kobe hit his last fader I’m home every day putting in work So that when I grow up I become something better than a clerk Not foolin’ around on the homework the teachers assign ’Cause I want my grades to be way better than fine Chorus Yeah I’m just a boy But I can still make change happen and prepare for a life much better than trappin’.

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Behind Paper Suits Oliver Gifford

He did not belong here, he thought, as the insane asylum doors closed behind him.

He did not want to spend the rest of his life in a white cage–the voices told him so. They also told him that he was perfectly sane and the he believed everything that they said. He removed his rubber bottomed shoes to better feel the ground. The voices said that this was necessary. The scar was still burning from when the cloaked man poked at it. It obscured his vision. The two guards in blue paper bags grabbed him. He was told to resist them for he was perfectly sane. The guards tackled him. The man heard cracking as he hit the floor and felt a slight warm tingling feeling in his rib. The feeling blossomed into pain.

He stopped struggling against them. The guards took out a jacket. The man decided that this jacket was uncomfortable when it was forced upon him. He could not move his upper body. They forced him to walk. He looked back and saw blood on the white tile floor.

Jesus, where were they taking him? The voices told him that it was bad, they told him to fight. He tried but could not. The jacket was holding him back. One of the guards in blue bags produced a key from his pocket. It made a horrible screeching noise as he inserted it into the lock and turned it. They took off the jacket.

The cold air hit the man and he started to shiver in his white uniform. As soon as the jacket came off the guards shoved him is his cage and slammed the door shut. The voices started to yell at him. He needed to escape, he was a sane person. He was not the same as the screaming person on one side of him, nor was he the same as the person who thought he was a bird. The voices told him this. He panicked and ran around in his cage, looking for an exit that wasn’t locked. He found one on the ceiling, but it was not accessible for it was 30 feet off the ground. The voices said that if he tried hard enough he could fly to freedom. He stood there for an hour, trying to fly. He only succeeded in breaking a sweat.

He brainstormed what he could do. He could attempt to lift the bed and climb it to freedom.

The moment he thought of this the voices told him that he had to do it. He went to bed. The voices said that he needed sleep before he performed his great escape. He obeyed. The man removed his white paper bag and lay down. He closed his eyes and dreamt of the crash.

He opened his eyes and remembered it all. The pain in his left cheek, the pilot, the fall. His scar was burning.

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Weston Delacey

Benjamin Maltz

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What Makes You Think It’s Okay to Overlook Me Ta’Shea Parham

What makes you think it’s okay to overlook me?

Is it okay that I cry as you laugh?

You comment on my hair, my attitude, my ass?

Try to squeeze me into the mold of a skinny girl And sneer in disgust as my curves begin to misshape it Throw me out and give me a special “plus-sized” version Want me flat as a surface but wink at my figure Say you’ve come a long way, but you still crave to say “nigga” Tell me I’m sassy, surprised that I’m classy Say I’m too proud with my shoulders back, then say I’m uncivilized if I don’t do that What makes you think that you can tell me who I am?

Light skin, dark skin, African or American If I came out of the womb this color, I must be just right Don’t act like your problem isn’t that I’m too far from white Look at what I’ve achieved and be honest Did you say “Oh, wow” when I told you I graduated with honors?

Does it make you uncomfortable when I sway my hips?

You’re surprised when an SAT word leaves my lips You say “slavery is over, stop thinking you’re a victim” Yeah, it’s over, but have you really stopped the whipping?

Everyday I’m slammed with stereotypes on T.V. Always think it’ll be a black girl on Maury with a baby daddy Acrylic nails, long weave, slick tongues, is this what you think of us?

Even after MLK, Mandela, Rosa and now Michelle and Obama?

What do we have to do to make you get it?

You weren’t born the masters, you just took the credit I appreciate all of you that really care But let’s be real, racism is still here It’s in the eyes of suspicious store security In the deaths of Brown and Garner The uproar and outcry over the hair of Blue Ivy Carter Think we don’t know what’s going on, we know what it is Have you not seen incarceration statistics?

We have to perm, straighten and relax?

Why is our hair “wild” if we don’t do that?

We walk into a fancy restaurant, you get ready for a noise complaint Say we’re illiterate because of slang, no we ain’t!

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In the curve in my waist, my big booty I refuse to classify as just black I’m a woman, a scholar, a future college grad.

Brianna Adu-Kyei

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The Robin Avery Way

Down I fall, stumbling over my own damn foot, till my face becomes one with the stairs, my jaw now beautifully dislocated. I lie still on the floor for a moment, frozen in my numbness and expectancy. I knew this would happen. I’m just so much of a fucking spaz. I had been wigging out from an anxiety attack which had psychically compromised me. But my mind, however, was in complete control. Oh well, I guess my mind doesn’t matter cuz here I am sprawled out on the fucking ground, drenched in pain and swimming in aches.

My mind must be disconnected from everything. In fact I’m positive it is. I must have gone mad ages ago. Or, at least, I think I did. I can’t remember anymore. I’ve lived so many lives I don’t even remember my first name. Not first name in terms of surnames and stuff, I mean the first name I was called by. The man in the chair with the laptop calls me Rory.

My roommate, Jones says it’s weird for us “ladies” to have such “boyish” names. But my name ain’t “boyish,” it’s just mine, and I’m no “lady,” I’m me. And I guess that means I’m Rory. At least that’s what they tell me. Even if Rory isn’t my name, I still like it. And it’s easy to remember. That’s all that matters to me.

Jones shakes my right arm, which is wrapped around my back; the other is under me somewhere, I can’t quite tell, nor do I really care. Jones picks me up and takes my arm around her neck. Mostly out of it, I’m dragged down the staircase and into the courtyard where the man in the chair holds his group meetings. I think it’s all cult shit, so I usually skip it. He runs up to us, taking me in his arm. I get the feeling of being watched and recognize the path to the med tent. I start wigging out again.

“No more pills.” I spit out. “No more pills, not time yet, not yet, not yet.”

“Rory,” the man in the chair starts, “Rory,” his voice is low and comforting yet always gets under my skin. It’s hard to explain. “Rory? There’s no pills this time. You fell and hit your face, no pills this time.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Now, Rory, can you tell me who I am?”

“Y-you’re...” I gaze at his face, “You’re the man in the chair with the laptop.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Yes, Rory. I’m your therapist, but can you tell me my name?”

“Why? Do you not remember it? Cuz I never remember your name. It’s your name, you should talk to Nurse Bitch if you don’t remember it yourself.”

“Nurse Bitch?” He sounded amused. “Who is Nurse Bitch, Rory?”

“The woman in the tent with the pills.”

“Oh, I see. Well, she is kind of a bitch, isn’t she?” His brow shifts. “Now, Rory, my name is Dr. Greff, remember?”

“Oh! Yes! Greff, it’s like my uncle’s name but with two f’s instead of g’s.”

“That’s right,” he says, almost laughing it off.

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down my chin. Nurse Bitch only needs to glance at me before she scowls.

“Has my uncle sent me any letters?” I ask her.

“Rory.” Her voice is one of your stereotypical cunt. “Don’t you remember? You don’t have an uncle. Not a relative in the world, darling.”

Greff gives her a disapproving glare as if sending a telepathic message for her to shut up. I like Greff.

I blank out for the next few minutes. The process of cleaning up my face is too boring to bother remembering. The next thing I know, I’m back in the courtyard with a bandage around my head and jaw. I vaguely hear the echo of someone telling me that my jaw isn’t actually dislocated, but I honestly couldn’t care less. I’m just sitting in the grass with my legs crossed when I see the red flash in the corner of my eye. I jerk my head to try to see it. Something freshly fallen on the ground is shuffling in the grass a few feet away. I creep up close to it. To my discovery, it is a robin roughly the size of my palm, maybe smaller. It is twitching and twisting itself in pain until it stills. I poke it to see if it is still alive. The poor thing is thin as a twig but blinks when I touch it. I scoop the creature into my hand, gently stroking the bright red feathers. I bring it close to my lap, slowly rocking it back and forth. I start singing a tune of a song I have heard once before but I don’t know how I know it. It is a soft melody that plays with grace.

“How cruel is the golden rule, when the lives we live are only golden-plated.”

The little bird peers up at me, not expecting such sorrow.

“And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me. Though I carried karats for everyone to see.”

The robin tries stretching its wings but they collapse onto its body.

“And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies. And all the lovers with no time for me, and all of the mothers raise their babies to stay away from me.”

I can feel it taking deep, slow breaths in my hands as I keep singing.

“Tongues on the sockets of electric dreams, where the sewage of youth drowns the spark of my teens. And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me.”

My eyes start watering, the colors of feathers blending together like a watercolor painting.

“And though I carried karats for everyone to see.”

My voice cracks as the robin dies in my arms. It’s body goes limp and fills into the shape of my hands.

“And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies and all the lovers with no time for me. And all of the mothers raise their babies to stay away from me.”

Tears trickle down my cheeks.

“And pray they don’t grow up to be...”

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College Process Cameron King

where are you going for college? you don’t know yet? where do you want to apply? will you go for sports? you’re applying to an engineering school? Are your grades good enough? your ACT scores aren’t very good, a 26 is low, are you considering a test-optional college? but small liberal arts schools don’t offer engineering, you know that right? have you made your mind up yet? i’m 17, I just want to eat, sleep, and play sports. with those scores, it’s best you apply early decision. But you only have two more weeks to apply.

Focus, your transcript needs to look really good.

Your grades need to be stellar. It’s best if you quit sports because sports won’t get you into college.

You need to keep up the good work because you’re not accepted yet.

No senioritis, no slacking off– remember you’re applying to the school of engineering.

Cameron! The deadlines are nearing.

How many supplements do you have? Are you going to apply To fly-in programs and preview weekends? Why haven’t you finished yet?

Where’s your list? You’re not managing your time well, your supplements need to be good.

You need to add one more safety. Do you want a big or small, urban or rural college?

Have you gotten in contact with a coach? You’ve spent all of high school playing sports.

You Need To Drop One Of Your Sports For ACT Prep! Cameron! Focus, Are You Even Hearing Me? I Want The Best For You! That’s Why College Is So Important! Yes, Zuckerberg Dropped Out. So Did Bill Gates, Lebron Didn’t Even Apply Neither Has Kylie And They’re Rich And Doing Good But Cameron. Be Practical. Is Your App On The Market Yet? WHY HAVEN’T YOU FINISHED THE COMMON APP ESSAY YET? WRITE ABOUT YOUR KNEE SURGERY AND ITS EFFECTS ON YOUR LIFE AFTER [90] FINAL.indd 90 59711_LREI_B_TEXT_r1.indd 96

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SPORTS. MATTER OF FACT, WRITE IT ON RACE RELATIONS, THAT’D BE REALLY GOOD– THEY’D LOVE TO READ THAT, AND YOUR PASSION FOR ENGINEERING? WHY PENN? HOW WILL YOU GROW? WHY ARE GOING TO APPLY? i don’t know but can we talk about anything other than college?

As long as I get in somewhere, life will be good.

I like art, computer science and engineering so It doesn’t matter where I apply, As long as I can play sports, have a good time, and make money when I graduate from college.

Benjamin Maltz

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