Cover Art: Explore, Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20
A reminder to families: This magazine’s content reflects the thoughts and experiences of seventh through twelfth grade students at LREI. We ask that you keep that fact in mind as you consider sharing it with younger children. - Phil Kassen, Director
(i.e.)
In Other Words... A magazine featuring the creative work of the students of LREI 2019-2020
Little Red School House & Elisabeth Irwin High School
(i.e.)
In Other Words... The creative magazine of LREI EDITORS Sophie Bremer Luke Cameron Olivia Cueto Madeleine Louisell Alexa Moskowitz Lily Parks EDITORIAL ADVISOR Jacqueline Baker ARTS ADVISORS Shauna Finn James French Stephen MacGillivray Susan Now PRINCIPALS Allison Isbell Margaret Paul Ana Chaney HEAD OF SCHOOL Phil Kassen
Table of Contents
3 Studio Art
29 Short Stories & Essays 53 Photography
69 Poetry 85
3D Art
95 Film
99 Cityscapes
113
Middle School Art
118
Acknowledgements
Wriley Hodge ‘20, oil on canvas
1
Cover Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20 1 Wriley Hodge ‘ 20
Oil on canvas
4 Kate Startsev ‘21
Ball point pen
Jane Olsen ‘20 5 Lia Perry Wiggins ‘21 Wriley Hodge ‘20
OIl on masonite Acrylic on canvas Oil on canvas
6 Molly Voit ‘20
Acrylic on canvas
7 Amouri Edwards ‘20
Acrylic on canvas
8 Solomon Karpati ‘21
White colored pencil on paper
Wriley Hodge ‘20 9 Lia Perry Wiggins ‘21
Watercolor Acrylic on masonite
10 Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20
Oil on canvas
11 Katie Rich ‘20
Mixed media
12 Tatsuya King ‘23
Mixed media
13 Amelia Langton ‘22
Six-panel autobiography
14 Wriley Hodge ‘20
Oil on wood panel
Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20
Scratchboard
Kate Woolsey ‘21
Scratchboard
Jane Olsen ‘20
Ball point pen
15 Anna Mueller ‘20 Gus Green ‘20 16 Lia Perry Wiggins ‘20
Block print Acrylic on masonite Acrylic on canvas
Tibeau Ferguson ‘20
Ball point pen
Nina Gerzema ‘21
Watercolor
17 Kate Startsev ‘21 2
Watercolor on paper
Acrylic on canvas
Studio Art 17 Nina Gerzema ‘21
Scratchboard
18 Alexa Kennedy ‘21
Ball point pen
19 Jacob McKinnon ‘20
Acrylic on masonite
Anna Mueller ‘20
Scratchboard
20 Io Weintraub ‘22
Six-panel Autiobiography
21 Sophie Bremer ‘22
Six-panel Autiobiography
22 Amouri Edwards ‘20
Acrylic on canvas
Emily Nally ‘20
Oil on canvas
23 Peter Mamaev ‘20
Block print
24 Meadow Magee ‘22
Six-panel Autiobiography
25 Ben Connolly ‘22
Six-panel Autiobiography
26 Ruby Wexler ‘22
Six-panel Autiobiography
27 Oni Thornell ‘22
Oil on canvas
3
Kate Startsev ‘21, ball point pen
4
Jane Olsen ‘20, oil on masonite
Lia Perry Wiggins ‘21, acryllic on canvas
Wriley Hodge ‘20, oil on canvas
5
Molly Voit ‘20, acrylic on canvas 6
Amouri Edwards ‘20 , acrylic on canvas
7
Solomon Karpati ‘21, white colored pencil on paper
8
Wriley Hodge ‘20, watercolor
Lia Perry Wiggins ‘21, acrylic on masonite 9
Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20, oil on canvas 10
Katie Rich ‘20, mixed media
11
Tatsuya King ‘23, mixed media 12
Amelia Langton ‘22, six-panel autobiography
13
Wriley Hodge ‘20, oil on wood panel Onaje Grant-Simmonds ‘20, scratchboard
Kate Woolsey ‘21, scratchboard 14
Jane Olsen ‘20, ball point pen
Anna Mueller ‘20 , block print
Gus Green ‘20, acrylic on masonite
15
Lia Perry Wiggins ‘21, acrylic on canvas
Tibeau Ferguson ‘20, ball point pen
Nina Gerzema ‘21, watercolor
16
Nina Gerzema ‘21, scratchboard
17
Kate Startsev ‘21, acrylic on canvas
Alexa Kennedy ‘21, ball point pen 18
Jacob McKinnon ‘20, acrylic on masonite
Anna Mueller ‘20, scratchboard
19
Io Weintraub ‘22, six-panel autobiography 20
Sophie Bremer ‘22, six-panel autobiography 21
Amouri Edwards ‘20, acrylic on canvas
Emily Nally ‘20, oil on canvas
22
Peter Mamaev ‘20, block print 23
Meadow Magee ‘22, six-panel autobiography
24
Ben Connolly ‘22, six-panel autobiography
25
Ruby Wexler ‘22, six-panel autobiography
26
Oni Thornell ‘22, oil on canvas 27
30 Stella Propp ‘21
Literature of Medicine
32 Sophia Gregoire ‘23
All I See Is Green
33 Oscar Chun ‘20
The Sandwich
34 Amouri Edwards ‘20
On Being Amouri
36 Tatsuya King ‘23
The Hotel
Foster Hudson ‘20
28
obituary
38 Isabella Marcellino ‘21
Pasaporte
39 Caleb Kohn-Blank ‘21
Snow Monkey
42 Navah Goldlum ‘21
The Pregnancy
43 Peter Mamaev ‘20
The Fog Above
50 Spencer Rosenblum ‘21
Adam’s Window
Short Stories & Essays
29
Literature of Medicine Stella Propp ‘21
Drab walls, smells of soap and cleanli-
ness, pagers beeping, feet screeching as they rush to their next destination, tears hitting the floor, screams around every corner, my mother wailing “not again, please don’t take him.” I was back, but this time it was not to get my ear stitched up from a horseback riding accident or to bring my crying sister for an arm x-ray. This time was different: serious, pressing, somber. It was my Grandpa Sam. Kind, loyal, passionate, hard-working Grandpa Sam. I was not some clueless fourteen year old; I knew what was going on. The day my mother discovered she was pregnant with me, my Grandpa had heart valve replacement surgery because his original valve was not working properly. The doctors’ prognosis was not overly optimistic, but he pulled through. For years, my family said it was a sign that he wanted to meet his future grandchildren. He was prescribed blood-thinning medication to prevent clotting and protect his weakened heart. However, years later he had a tennis accident and cracked his head open on the court. He was rushed to the hospital and had emergency brain surgery to stop the bleeding. He made it through, but had lost some of his facul30 ties and would have a long road to recovery,
we were told. We were just so happy that he was still with us. The doctor also explained that he would be off the blood thinners for a week to prevent the risk of further bleeding. We visited him in the hospital every day that week. He was slowly regaining his strength and was beginning physical therapy to retrain his muscles. We were overjoyed when he was transferred from the ICU to the rehabilitation unit as we thought that meant that his health was in no imminent danger. I remember visiting him in his new hospital room. We brought him a delicious homecooked meal and all sat around eating and laughing. We went home that evening filled with optimism and excitement. It was 1:00 A.M. the next morning when my family and I entered the hospital. We had just been notified that my grandpa had gone into major cardiac arrest and needed immediate open-heart surgery. I had my horse pajamas and my light blue pumas on. I brought Cowy, my beloved stuffed animal whom I still have to this day. My hair was a bird’s nest. My eyes had trouble staying open until I entered the hospital grounds. None of this mattered though. All that did was that my grandpa was safe and well. “This will be a long and difficult operation. We will do our best,” I heard the doctor say solemnly. He and his team wheeled my grandpa’s portable bed out the door and towards the OR. I froze. I did not know what to do or say.
Would this be the last time I saw my grandpa, my best friend, my role model? I ran to the doors as they closed and watched his bed roll away. Our family of thirty sat in the waiting room for six hours. Some put in headphones to block out the sadness, some sat by themselves and tried to calm down, and some of us, including myself, went around telling our favorite Grandpa Sam stories. Finally, the doctors came out and told us his heart was working but that his brain had been without oxygen for so long that he would most likely not wake up. My mother and her sisters began to wail, their cries ringing in my ears. “I know my grandpa,” I thought. “He is strong, a fighter. He will make it through.” I entered his room. The pervasive beeping of the IV machine intensified as I timidly approached his bedside. A single narrow window sat directly above the headboard of his mechanical hospital bed, while sunlight shone harshly through the vertical blinds against the dingy white walls that surrounded him. He looked uncomfortable in his twin-sized bed with stiff blue sheets and a paper-thin pillow. I pulled a plastic chair from the wall next to his bed, sat by his side, and held his hand. “Careful please,” the nurse said softly. I kissed his hand. It was soft, wrinkly, and pale. I just lay there and tears began to roll down my cheek. It was then that the severity of his condition finally resonated with me.
“I love you,” I whispered. “So so much.” I left the room slowly, shaking a bit. I had said goodbye, that was it. But I knew that no matter how I was feeling, I had to be strong for my family. I had to be their caregiver as I had been for my grandfather before. I knew I was lucky to have had fourteen years with him, longer than my younger sisters and cousins had. Salmon sushi dates every Friday at six and my running into his arms whenever I saw him; we had a special relationship. When he lived through what could have taken so many others, I knew that he had waited for me and for our family to grow all those years ago. We got our time with him, we shouldn’t be greedy. But, it was hard not to be. He was an incredible man, who I will try to emulate. Grandpa’s illness changed me. I had been an optimistic little girl, full of hope for his recovery. I thought he was immortal. Though I now know that he was going to die eventually, I can see that his illness never held him back. He continued on with his everyday activities, worked even harder than before, and continued to show his family loyalty and love. His life empowers me to live my life for a purpose. The people that you love and who love you deserve everything that you can give them. Though he is gone now, his example is immortal.
31
All I See Is Green Sophia Gregoire ‘23
All I see is green. Running past all kinds
of leaves, thickets, brambles and bushes the only thing appearing in front of my weary red eyes is green. Everything blurs together, as I run faster and my legs work harder the varying shades and tones all fade into a leafy oblivion of bottle green. I want to stop, every part of my body is screaming for me to stop running. The soles of my feet feel like they’re ripping in two, my thighs are sore, the stitch in my side is begging me to stop and my lungs are barely keeping up with my legs. But I can’t stop running, because if I stop running, I think I might die. the tears attempting to slide down my cheeks frozen in place, unmoving as the air pushes against them as I keep running forward. The salty droplets still sitting in my eyes stay there, making my eyes glaze over and the whirl of green even more of a blur. I don’t know how long I’ve been running, but it feels like my whole life. Just running and running and running and never being able to stop. I’m not even sure if I’m running away from something or toward a destination. When I started on this path it was flat. there was a slight incline but I hardly no32
ticed. When I started running, I could see the trees, I could count the pinecones and hear birds singing instead of the rushing wind. But even then I never stopped running. Then the hill started getting steeper, and I started running faster. The trees disappeared and all I could think about was how I had to keep running. I trip over gnarled tree roots, falling head over heels scraping exposed kneecaps, as I ignore the steep slope of the tree downwards. I can’t see the path, all I see is the green blur of the trees. As I run, a thorn bush attacks me with its long stinging limbs. The brambles reach out and drag small scratches across my face and forearms. I’m able to stumble out of the monstrous arms of the bush, some of its claws still stuck; constantly stinging as my sweat seeps into the small scrapes. My heart beats like a hammer pounding my chest, trying to break free from the caged prison of bone. Every inch of skin on my body feels as though it’s being pierced by knives. With each breathless step I take, they only sink in deeper. At this point, I can’t hear the air as it presses against my eardrums. Even as I run faster, all I hear is the sound of my tortured heartbeat, as it slams with all its force into my chest. I’m running and running and running. And then I’m not. In all the green, I miss the small stripe of blue snaking across the ground. With a pounding step, I fell face first into a shallow stream. Old leaves and
twigs swirl around with the water. My nose, forehead and chin all met rough rocks as they were startled by the rocky floor of the stream. Small scrapes mark where I was attacked. I try to stand, I try to crawl, I want to keep moving along my path, but my slender body is defeated. All my arms will allow me to do is flip over. Now that I’m lying in the river looking up at the slivers of blue sky that peak through the green, my lungs finally begin to function. I lay there on the round rocks, the stream runs over my body, small waves splashing against my cheeks, only droplets remain on my skin as the water reunites with its body. For a second, everything stops burning. My hot skin, red eyes, and bleeding heart. For one second, the water heals. But then its stops, because now even the cool of the water is painful, and my only option is to run. Struggling to stand on Rickety Rocks, finding my balance in the blowing breeze; I make my way to the leaf strewn side of the stream. One wet, muddy, step after another, the crinkled fallen leaves on the forest floor stick to my shoes, socks and ankles. .
The Sandwich Oscar Chun ‘20
Erin sat down on the park bench and
pulled a sandwich out of her backpack. After a long day of work, she felt as if she deserved a reward. This sandwich was made by her friend Jayden. Erin had to skip lunch because of an office emergency about one of the printers catching on fire and someone getting burned, again. Erin didn’t care, she was too hungry. Luckily Jayden, who prepared for this, made two sandwiches just in case there was an emergency and gave one to Erin. The sandwich itself looked incredible with an excessive amount of melted cheese dripping from the sides, chicken, and pork covered over lettuce, and a pickle sticking out from both ends. When she took her first bite it was like she was touched by God. The blessing of flavor it gave her almost made her want to go back to church, but then she remembered she wasn’t allowed inside after getting drunk off of “Jesus Blood”. As Erin continued eating she heard a couple fighting on the bench next to her. Instead of being bothered she took it as a form of entertainment. She remembered when Jayden would fight with his boyfriend on the phone at work. His boyfriend got a promotion and the opportunity to move to Florida, but Jayden refused to go. He wanted to stay because moving meant he had 33
to give up his job and he enjoyed his work, somehow. Erin, who could hear everything and didn’t want to do work, convinced Jayden to break up with him. She didn’t really want to help Jayden, she just saw an opportunity to get rid of his boyfriend. Erin never liked him because all he did was brag about his work, she was tired of hearing about how he’s saving the planet. Also, Florida sucks. As she listened to the couple in the park argue, she overheard that the man had another apartment he didn’t tell anyone about which caused the woman to aggressively confront him about it. Erin didn’t understand why the man wasn’t creating a reason for the apartment even if he was lying, and why the woman never asked to see the apartment to see how he would react. To Erin, the solution was simple. Unfortunately, she never helped them because to her that would ruin the show, plus her mouth was full. Erin was a little disappointed that they made up, but she wasn’t going to ruin a nice moment, maybe. She continued to eat her sandwich when a loud crash echoed through the park. A car had crashed and flipped on its side hitting three pedestrians. However, Erin was too focused on the piece of salami that fell out of her mouth. Glued to her seat, she finally turned around and saw the car burst into flames as the injured victims screamed for help. Amused by the situation, she watched 34
as people rushed in to help. Erin then saw one person still in the car. It was a little girl, trapped inside, and nobody noticed her banging on the window. Erin then got up and walked out of the park. She had finished her sandwich. .
On Being Amouri Amouri Edwards ‘20 (An excerpt from the memoir collection)
As an incredibly self-deprecating child
already, it seems I had come across an obstacle. Aside from our singular bathroom, no other space in the house has a mirror. It’s wide and tall, and you can’t escape seeing yourself from your head to your toes. So I don’t use it. My mother and sister both use it promptly each morning before leaving the house: adjusting their outfits or the clothes they’re wearing, but I don’t. If I were to stand in front of the mirror, I know this activity of speculation would become sport, so I seclude myself from the smaller reflection within our restroom as to only speculate on my face: a smaller area to inspect. Pinecone colored skin sits upon my back like pomegranate peel. I’m content with my skintone today as I tanned nicely over the summer. I don’t care about skin tone based
on societal norms, yes yes, the darker the berry the sweeter the juice, I just care more about how easily my darker complexion exposes my lack of lotion on a very hurried day. I grant myself a sigh of relief. Aside from the ash I know trails down my legs, I’ve made sure to moisturize my face, at the very least, today. I can tell the medication has made me fat faced again, when I smile with no teeth I kinda look like a turtle, but overall I can feel my cheeks are more plump than usual and I hate those damn pills for it. In retrospect, the steroid has subsided the discoidal lupus down my face that I promptly yelled at a classmate for inquiring about. When he said, “What happened to your face?” I gave zero fucks and spoke my mind, for once. Quite a rare occurrence. In all fairness, the darker pigmented patches of skin weren’t hidden, but I was very much done with people probing about the various whereabouts with my body and so I snapped. And I did feel instantly bad about that, it wasn’t their fault for inquiring of course, but I got on their case and now this anxiety will rule my body until I can redeem myself in some shape or form. I don’t like attention, I don’t want, unwanted, negative attention and now I’m thinking of the possibility of this person maybe telling other people I yelled at them like that or that I spontaneously blurted I have lupus. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a surprise to people as I continuously limp through the halls, with knees
swollen up like two sandbags; succumbing to an old womanish wander, or maybe I’ve subconsciously already told people and have lost sight of it. Either way I now linger on the possibilities. Spitting out the frothy toothpaste-saliva mixture into the basin below me, I stood. I smile, and not to my surprise she smiles, though I must admit, the girl in the reflection looks more confident than me. I try to truly see myself with these two almond shaped eyes, windows into the world with a tinted-vellum lens. Yes, I can literally see myself, but it’s like I can see myself but not who I am. Nevermind that, I don’t look outright ugly today, so that’s decent. The pieces of this puzzle, we call life, are slowly but surely coming together, even if I’m kinda cheating sometimes and forcing the paperboard cutouts where they just won’t fit. It seems things are steadily coming together, even if the process is long and slow: It took sixteen years of denial, an everlasting identity crisis, until I could finally come to terms between my frontal cortex and my moral compass. Prior to, my body was no more than a carcass, an empty container where a soul, and a heart used to be. Like, before I had temporary amnesia or something, and kept constantly losing track of what I wanted.
35
The Hotel Tatsuya King ‘23
The child steps into the muddy street,
his legs quivering from the cold. He nervously dodges puddles, his eyes glued to the grey, concrete floor. Although it is morning, the sun has yet to shine, blocked by a dark layer of clouds, swirling as if spun by some unseen god. As the boy trudges forward, his face pecked by droplets of rain, he is cast into a deep shadow, his peripheral vision fading as his eyes are drawn to a dark building ahead of him. The front of the building stands out like some cursed pillar of dread, its walls stretching out infinitely behind it. The boy’s focus is instantly drawn above the door, to a flickering neon sign, its dim bulbs beckoning him to come closer. As he approaches the door, he notices posters of unknown movies hung around it, the people in them staring into his soul, taunting him for his vulnerability. He tries to turn away but a figure catches his attention. An old man stands in a window on the third floor of the building, his old decrepit body covered in strange disfigured lumps. He doesn’t seem to notice the child staring at him, as he is caught in a dead trance, gazing lazily out the window. As more ghostly figures emerge in the windows of the building, the child realizes the fate waiting for him inside. He struggles, with all his might to break free 36
of the grasp this strange nightmarish building seems to have on him, his eyes, rapidly spinning as he tries to look away. He finally breaks free, breathless from the physical and mental weight of the moment before. When he looks up, he watches as his vision clears, the dark clouds recede and the building brightens. He runs away as quickly as he can from the building, his feet slamming into puddles causing huge splashes. But he doesn’t care, all he wants now is to be away from that horrid place. .
obituary Foster Hudson ‘20
David P. Brunski, passed away Thurs-
day, Feb. 26, 2009, after a brief battle with brain cancer. He is survived by three grandchildren, Foster Hudson, and Lily and Audrey Howard. how strange, to be printed next to death, tethered to a man i barely knew. only in stories: bursting through the door in search of me, as a baby,
naively dreaming in my mother’s arms. “where is my grandson!” was the booming call, the foghorn chasing after my brown gleaming eyes. i was transported to the land of his hairy, muscular forearms, and left there under his watch. he would gaze at me for hours, and when I was put to bed, crawling in my palace of dreams, he told my mother i was going to be an artist. what clairvoyance for a man who chastised me on a mini golf course: seven-year old me, aping the golfers at the masters my father forced me to watch. perhaps he was angered by the presumption that i was in competition for that green jacket. or perhaps it was the misunderstanding, the unused intellect that could not see the difference between this dinky course and the lush emerald 18-hole. perhaps he was doing me a favor, recognizing misguided athletic tendencies and squashing them before they could ferment, suffocating my fragile artistic soul.
he would scare away the competition with his calf-lifts, pulling all the weight the machine would hold with just one leg. playing until the cancer chained him to the bed, his hockey games were a colosseum of battle cries and shoulder-bashing. the Brunski name was nothing if it wasn’t proud, as i could see it, even if my frail lanky body was a shadow in the legacy of a construction-worker’s wake. dying, my grandfather flirted with the nurses. a lion song refused to die in his breast unless it took him with it, and when he passed i had nothing to compare it to: mourning was not yet in my nature, so i had no sense of what was lost. “obituary” was missing from my vocabulary, and as the dust settled and the months turned to years, my grandfather’s mural filled out in my memory.
perhaps if i had known that my name would appear his strength, under my grandfather’s so unlike his sensitive, poetic kin, was his in the newspaper, pride. i would have paid more attention. number twenty-seven for the red back raiders,
37
Pasaporte Isabella Marcellino ‘21
Four children. One passport. Three less
fees. Their white shirts blend together into one curtain of folded fabric, buttons going down the middle. Their original colors have been forgotten. “FOTOGRAFÍA” sits above their heads like the title of their book. They are motionless like a photograph. Their childlike faces have been shaped into those of stern adults. The little one has yet to catch up. The more expressionless they are, the more recognizable they’ll be. Boy, will they be unrecognizable. A year flies by. One long train ride awaits them. Fourteen hundred miles. The name “Mexicali” sits in their heads like a magnet attracted to an invisible force. Two worlds collided under one name. The outline of their passport is visible through their grandmother’s bag. Way up North, their mother 38
awaits. Months fly by. The American Dream is only a mile away. It doesn’t move, but neither do they. If only they could reach it. But their arms are too short. Their hopes are too high up, singing with The Angels. They wait too long. They move a mile a month. The passport moves with them, slow as their journey may be. It is a time capsule, paper thin. Now, they can never forget their past. The day comes. The date is drilled into their heads: January 16th, 1963. It remains like a hole in their curtain, never to be sewn up. The Angels are no heaven. The Gardens do not ring with Bells. Chocolate does not mix well with cold, watered down milk. They mature at the speed of sound, the time it takes for the slurs to break through their glass window. Six humans. One bedroom. And they say you can’t live in Los Angeles without a car. “Is this the American Dream?” they wonder while laying in bed at night, shoulder-to-shoulder. The white picket-fence has been submerged in concrete. The clean-cut green grass has gone brown. The hope in their eyes lives in their passport. They cling on to it for dear life. A moment in time, saved forever. The day they go back, they are still unsure of. Surely that date will leave a stain in their minds, whenever it comes.
Note: “The Gardens do not ring with Bells” refers to the city my grandfather moved to in Los Angeles, called “Bell Gardens.”
Snow Monkey Caleb Kohn-Blank ‘21
Julius woke up on time, 6:51, on the dot,
but there was no alarm. He had known this the night before, specifically not setting the alarm for himself, but despite it all, his internal clock had woken him up. It was his favorite feeling, waking up but being able to snuggle back in bed. Julius grabbed his blanket and pulled it over his head, hiding from the light pouring through the space between his blinds. After 10 minutes that felt like 30, he sprung out of bed, unable to fall back asleep. He went to his closet and pulled out a monkey onesie, the one he had requested for Halloween in place of a real costume, figuring he could get more use out of it. He slipped it on, the stretchy material around the arm and leg holes fitting him perfectly, but the entirety was at least a size too big. When he flipped the hood on, the cartoon-y monkey head covered his entire face. Slowly, he inched his door open, trying his hardest to prevent it from squeaking. With the same amount of caution, he tip-toed passed his parents’ room. It was a Snow Day after all, and as much as he wanted them to get up and make him a nice, big breakfast, he knew they would be angry if he interrupted their sleep. He made his way downstairs to find his sister, Talia, lying on the couch, reading a book. 39
“I thought you’d still be sleeping,” Julius said to her. “Shh,” she warned, pointing up to signal that they should keep quiet. “Do you wanna go outside with me?” she asked. Julius nodded, and Talia motioned for him to follow, guiding him to the door, openening the door a little, showing her little brother the world outside. They were close, the two of them. They thought of each other as partners in crime. They knew each other’s boundaries, and just how far to push. Without talking, they knew best how to annoy their older brother, Julius supplying an annoying antagonism while Talia lied about what happened to the parents. They cared for each other deeply, though neither would verbally admit it. When Julius was younger and scared of sleeping alone, he would camp out in Talia’s room. She would stay up for him, waiting to turn off the lights till she knew he was asleep. It was pristine, a city block of untouched snow. They both knew that by the day’s end, the snow would be slushy, brown, and pushed to the edge of the sidewalk. Talia put on her coat, hat, and gloves, and handed him the same. She stuck a post-it note to the door and slipped out, motioning for her brother to do the same. “If we aren’t back yet, we’re playing outside,” the note read. 40
It was pristine, a city block of untouched snow. They both knew that by the day’s end, the snow would be slushy, brown, and pushed to the edge of the sidewalk. Talia put on her coat, hat, and gloves, and handed him the same. She stuck a post-it note to the door and slipped out, motioning for her brother to do the same. “If we aren’t back yet, we’re playing outside,” the note read. He went outside to join his sister. The time was theirs. No parents, no older brother, no school. They had a short time for complete freedom, and they were going to use every moment to its fullest. After closing the door, he was met with a snowball to the face. He fell over, laughing as he landed in the snow. He lay where he landed, feeling the snow fall on his face, melting and running down to the back of his neck. He stood up, the water running down his back, before once again falling back into the snow, deciding to make snow angels. As he landed on the ground, he could tell something was different. No longer was the snow a pillow, but more of a thin linen. He could tell the snow was melting. He looked out to the road, and how gross, grey snow was being piled up on the sides of the street. He saw people begin to leave their houses, dumping salt over the snow, leaving only a small slush where fresh snow once lay. He called to his sister, who was working on creating tiny snowmen on the roofs of cars, and he ran over to help her. Together, they could create something wonderful,
something that couldn’t be completed by one of them alone in the time they had. They spent the next hour playing in the snow together, continuing to create snowmen, eventually foregoing their snowman army in place of a larger snowman in front of their home.
window before falling back asleep. The onesie hung in the closet.
Only two hours later, and the two of them were tired out. They made their way back inside, taking off their wet coats and snowpacked gloves and laying them out on the floor. Julius took off his boots and rushed himself to the couch, cuddling himself in the fuzzy folds on his onesie, eventually falling asleep in front of an open fire. This was the last time they would be able to play like this. When the next snow day hit two years later, Julius once again woke up with a sense of childlike joy. He slipped on the onesie and went downstairs to seek Talia, to recreate the fun they once found, but he saw nothing on that couch. Talia was in her room, catching up on the hours of sleep she had lost since starting high school. When she did wake up, and the snow had begun to melt, she picked up her pencil instead of her gloves and worked to catch up on a mountain of work rather than make an army of snowmen. Julius tried playing in the snow by himself that year. He knew it wasn’t the same. A year later, there was another snow day. Julius woke up at 9:34 and looked out the 41
The Pregnancy Drama: Monologue
Navah Goldblum ‘21
Yes I’m sorry, I’m sorry about the way
it happened and the way I left her. We’d been dating for almost a year, that’s a long time, especially for a high school relationship, and I really cared about her. One day after school we were hanging out, and she seemed so nervous all day. She was barely saying anything and so when we got back to her house, I asked her. And she started shaking and tearing up so I hugged her. I didn’t know what was wrong and then she said she was pregnant and wanted to go through with it. I really didn’t know how to feel. So, I froze and just looked at her. She was scared, and I was scared; and when I didn’t react smiling and laughing, she got mad. I get it, she wanted me to be happy and say, “Yeah, we can keep the baby,” but I didn’t say that. She started yelling and crying and when I got in my car to drive home, I could practically feel my heart breaking. I’d really never cared about a girl the way I cared about her. And now I was about to lose her. When our parents found out, her dad got mad at me. I swear he was about to kill me like it was my fault, and her mom gave me a death stare. My dad yelled too and so did my mom. Still the worst part was that she wanted to keep the baby; the 42
bad part is not that she wanted to have the baby exactly... it was that she was going to have this baby despite the fact her parents didn’t want it, and my parents didn’t want it, and I wanted ... college … And her - and maybe a baby - oh my god, a baby! And it was up to me, it was really up to me, and I let my parents choose for me. I went to Emerson college the next fall, and I left her. Now a few years later, I … I was thinking there’s some kid, boy or girl, I don’t know floating around somewhere who shares my DNA. I don’t want to say he is my son, because I haven’t helped out at all; but this feeling was bothering me so much that I called her, and she said her parents made her terminate the pregnancy.
The Fog Above Peter Mamaev ‘20
Private James Murphy, British Army
Twelfth Company, quietly scribbled in his notebook, trying to drown out Corporal Keegan’s screams that echoed from the Fog above. The shrieks had long seized sounding human, morphing instead into a disjointed cacophony of every pitch the human throat can make. No man deserves whatever’s happening out there, James thought to himself. He remembered the poor bugger even showed him an old photo of his wife and two wee kids. It was their voices that Keegan heard that consequently prompted him to climb out. Stay in the trench. That became the only rule after the Fog had rolled in. Stay in the trench, surrounded by the mud and the disease and decay, because whatever’s out there is a hell of a lot worse than anything in here. The Fog had other ways of getting to you, of course, even in the relative safety that the trenches provided. Every couple of hours, some new poor sod would start hearing things; voices of their relatives
back home, or the marching of nonexistent feet, or whatever else the Fog could get you with. Murphy saw first hand how the voices wormed their way into his companions’ minds. He recalled poor old Keegan talking about how he could hear his daughters, he could hear his wife calling for help from the fields above. The muttering eventually gave way to gibberish, as the victim’s minds would simply give out. Some would fall into a trance, staring dead-eyed up at the pale grey sky, before jolting back to life and making the fatal climb. Some would be more vocal about their condition, falling into deluded hysterics, screaming, crying, kicking, whatever it took to leave the trench; leave at all costs. Keegan heard his family crying for help. Before that, Peters claimed he heard the marching of reinforcements coming their way. Callaghan, in his hysterics, swore he saw his best mate’s dead face rising up from the mud, taunting him, laughing through the jagged hole where the mouth was. They tried tying the latter down, thinking the fits may pass. They woke up that night to find him already gone, having torn his own hands off to escape the makeshift cuffs. There were only four men left in that trench. Murphy was a Londoner by heart. Hawkstone’s aristocratic drawl seemed almost like a mockery of their current predic-
43
ament. Garthwaite, a gruff highlander had a burning hatred for Germans such as their last unwilling companion, the German. The prisoner, whose real name nobody knew nor cared to ask for, was a scrawny lad no older than seventeen, subject to persistent mockery and aggression from Garthwaite, others making only feeble attempts to stop the abuse. After the last of Keegan’s screams had finally died out, the deafening silence took hold. These weren’t the usual noises of war. There was no gunfire, no distant mines exploding, no bombers passing overhead. Not even a single drop of rain. The Fog drowned out sound as much as it obscured vision. Though the German was their prisoner, the label seemed less and less appropriate. Who were they keeping him from? Would the kid really dare to climb out and try to make it back to his own lines, if given the chance? They might as well have been the only ones left on the battlefield, maybe the only ones left in the world. Not a single bullet flew by in days. Maybe in weeks. Time seemed irrelevant under the Fog, as did this entire godforsaken war. “I bet Ol’ Willie’s having a good laugh at our expense back in Berlin,” muttered Garthwaite, his beady eyes fixated on the 44
German. “Whassa matter, Chamberpot? Don’t like the view from the other side?” “Leave him be,” Hawkstone said, in that calm yet affirming voice all the well-bred seemed to have. “Had this been a plot by the Germans, don’t you think they’d take advantage and attack us by now?” Murphy put his pencil down, having finished writing yet another letter his Lucy would never receive. He never liked Garthwaite. Back home, his kind would always make up the bulk of Scotland Yard’s visitors. Big, angry bullies like him would give Murphy the most trouble on his nightly patrols, starting bar fights or drunkenly harassing unfortunate passersby. Murphy kept this to himself, casually observing the usual debate between his two squadmates. “Oh come off it, mate,” Garthwaite toyed with a rusty pan ladle. “Why go anywhere when this damned gas can fight the good fight for them?” He pointed to the now barren trench surrounding the men. “Look at that - everybody’s gone, an’ they didn’t have to fire off a single bullet!” “That’s captain to you, Garthwaite. You are a soldier defending the British Crown, and if we ever hope to win this battle, you will carry yourself accordingly-”
“It doesn’t matter anymore!” Garthwaite suddenly exploded, towering over Hawkstone’s meager frame. “Don’t you two dobbers get it?! It doesn’t bloody matter!” He suddenly got up and threw the pan lid at the German’s head. He missed, and the ladle landed a few feet away “Look at that!” the Scot frantically pointed at the barren trench. “Everybody’s gone! Everybody! Becket, Callaghan, Keegan, McNess-” he grabbed the German by the hair. “An’ these sausage eaters didn’t even ‘ave ta fire off a single bullet!” “Stand down, private.” Something glittered in Hawkstone’s hand. A Webley. “That is an order.” Fear briefly flashed in Garthwaite’s eyes when he saw the revolver pointed at him. But just as Murphy predicted, the highlander wasn’t the type to show vulnerability for long. Instead, he released the German and sat down on a pile of rotting planks. “We’re all gonna die down here you know. We’re all gonna wander off into that damned Fog sooner or later, just like the others.” Garthwaite whispered something else barely audible, something akin to, “I don’t wanna die like this.” The German, now free, leaned against the
wall of the trench, glaring at his captor like a kicked dog. How quickly they turned on each other, Murphy thought as he and Hawkstone traded concerned glances. Garthwaite never was the most stable type, and his worsening mood swings may very well have been a sign he was next. Deep down, Murphy almost hoped Garthwaite was next. The rest of the day was spent in uncomfortable silence. Hawkstone kept an eye on Garthwaite and the German so as to keep one from murdering the other, while Murphy returned to his letter. It had gotten to the point where he maniacally rewrote the same passage over and over again with the small wooden stub that once resembled a pencil, but he didn’t care. Pointless as it may have been given the circumstances, the writing allowed him to concentrate on something besides the cold filth of the trench or the prospect of unimaginable suffering floating just overhead. Night came just as before. There were no stars in the sky, and no moon. The Fog simply adopted a slightly darker shade of grey, signifying that it was time for the four men to eat what remained of their rations and try, in vain, to drift off to sleep.
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Murphy was laying there, his eyes shut. He wasn’t sleeping - far from it - rather, listening to the overbearing nothingness around him. What he wouldn’t do for just one distant gunshot, one faraway explosion. Some indicator they weren’t completely alone. And then he heard it. A wet, dull thud, like a butcher’s mallet tenderizing the fresh carcass. And then another. And another. Something was happening. The first thing Murphy saw when he opened his eyes was Hawkstone’s grim face. The captain’s look said it all - Garthwaite. Getting up and quietly peeking around the corner of the trench, the two men saw their brother in arms towering over the German, malevolent triumph on his face. Garthwaite held the prisoner by his collar, holding something in his other hand - a shiv, carved from the rusty pan ladle. “Sit there and mock us, will you,” Garthwaite murmured in a low, borderline growling voice that Murphy never heard from him before. The shiv drifted over to the German’s face and the boy howled in pain, his scream dulled by the dry hoarseness of his throat and Garthwaite’s rapid muttering. “murderousgoddamnedbastardsILLTEACHYE-” “Private Marcus Garthwaite, Highland Light Infantry,” Hawkstone commanded, 46
slowly raising his hands up as he inched toward the soldier. “Let that prisoner go. That is an order.” “Ah. Ye two show up just in time. I think I’ve finally gone through to ‘im.” Garthwaite pointed to the whimpering German, who was now sporting a long, bloody gash across his face. The boy was muttering something resembling a prayer in his native tongue, cut short by Garthwaite’s fist colliding with his jaw. “Ah, don’t let him fool ya. These Germans are a sneaky type they are.” “I do not permit torture in this unit.” Hawkstone tried to uphold his commanding demeanor, but Murphy could see his voice was on the brink of cracking. “You are not well, Garthwaite. This Fog… this damned Fog… It’s taking advantage of your anger. Making you think irrational things. It did the same to Keegan.” Hawkstone slowly reached out toward Garthwaite, but the Scot recoiled in rage. “Don’t you dare talk about Keegan!” he growled, his voice growing more and more animalistic. “Yer responsible for him as much as this goddamn German is!” “What?” A mix of shock and indignation appeared on Hawkstone’s face.
“You.” Garthwaite triumphantly pointed his meaty at his superior. “Yer entire kind, matter o’ fact. Prancin’ around in the uniform yer Daddy paid for, thinkin’ it gives you the right to sit back an’ order men to their deaths like they’re toy soldiers?” “He’s lost it, sir,” Murphy whispered to Hawkstone, trying to gesture for him to stand back. “I’ve seen this before. We need to apprehend him. Now.” “Lower your weapon now, or I will have you court martialed for disobedience and war crimes,” Hawkstone commanded, either unaware or blissfully ignorant of the danger he was in. “It’s you that got all them boys killed!” Garthwaite continued his mad tirade, swinging his shiv around like a machete. “Ye don’ have the guts ta go an’ fight yerselves, can’ even properly interrogate this German swine,” he suddenly turned and struck the German across his bleeding face, landing a series of punches with each successive word. “Even when yer entire! Unit! Is gone!” Hawkstone seized the moment and reached for his revolver, but before he could fire, Garthwaite lunged at him, pouncing like a wounded tiger and pushing the shiv straight into his commanding officer’s throat.
Hawkstone’s eyes widened. It wasn’t pain, nor shock that was on his face. Rather disbelief. He tried to say something, but only let out a single throaty gasp, as blood poured from the newly formed hole in his neck. He took one step forward, and then toppled over, collapsing right at his killer’s feet. Garthwaite stared at Hawkstone’s corpse, then at his own bloodied hands, then at Murphy. “I - I didn’t wanna do it…” he mumbled almost incoherently. “He… he had a gun… I had no choice… Murphy, I had no choice…” After a momentary pause, adrenaline surged over Murphy, and he sprung on the murderer, knocking him to the ground. Garthwaite no longer had the size advantage, so Murphy blindly railed on him. “Murderin’ bastard! Degenerate!” Murphy shouted landing punch after punch after punch. “You’re the damn monster here!” He was suddenly interrupted by a loud click. The combatants turned to find the German sitting to the right of them, holding Hawkstone’s revolver in his trembling hand. “Ah, look what ye’ve done now, boy.” Garthwaite said, dark glee on his battered face. “I said we should’ve killed ‘im when we had the chance.”
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Murphy stared into the dark barrel of the pistol, almost hypnotized by it.
thinking, stabbed wildly at the air, hitting Garthwaite square in the shoulder.
“Don’t do this,” Murphy quietly said to the terrified kid who could end both their lives with the twitch of a finger. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please do not do this.”
“AaAAah!” Garthwaite bellowed, loosening his grip on Murphy as he tried to pull the splintering wood out of his arm.
“E-Ein kugel.” the German finally muttered, his voice shaking and on the verge of tears. “Ein kugel.”
Seizing the moment, Murphy grabbed the murderer and, tapping into the strength he never knew he had, pushed him upward, into the deadly Fog.
The German suddenly raised the barrel to his own chin, and without any hesitation, fired. The shot echoed through the empty ravine, as a trail of blood erupted over the muddy wall. A few droplets flew up into the Fog, seemingly vanishing.
Up until this point, nobody really knew what happened to those who went into the Fog. By the perpetual smell of burning flesh in the wake of someone’s demise, Murphy theorized that the Fog must have been acidic in nature. The reality was far, far different.
“No!” screamed Garthwaite, pushing Murphy off of himself in a fit of primal rage. “He could’ve told us how to get out! You just doomed us, you mad bastard!”
Garthwaite’s head simply… dissolved. Not melted nor exploded, but rather completely disassembled down to the smallest detail. Fibers of skin, flesh, bone and brain matter faded into the air, each layer simply dissolving into a red mist of particles, mixing in with the milky whiteness of the fog. The process lasted no more than ten agonizing seconds. Garthwaite’s mad screaming stopped as his vocal cords faded away. The man didn’t struggle. Eventually, nothing was left but a stump in place of a neck, and Garthwaite’s body collapsed on the floor.
He jumped on top of Murphy and clasped his calloused hands around the Londoner’s throat. As his vision blurred and his head started to spin from the lack of oxygen, Murphy, suddenly out of the corner of his eye, spotted something - his old pencil. As animal instinct took over, Murphy reached out for the pencil, and without 48
Murphy lay quietly on his back, motionless, surrounded by the corpses of the men he fought alongside and against. How long had he been laying for, he didn’t know. Was it minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
British Army Twelfth Company, made it. He finally stood up. The sun welcomed him. It beckoned him towards it, to life, to safety, to the world he thought he would never see again. Come Brit, come German, come Russian; it didn’t matter anymore. He would see his Lucy again. He was saved. Still shaken, Suddenly, something new caught his at- Murphy carefully climbed out of the trench, tention. His eyes, so used to the surround- into freedom. The fresh air welcomed him, ings painted dull grey by the Fog, now saw a he felt ecstatic, he felt free, he felt… color. A sharp, crisp yellow cut through the monotony of grey. Pain? A sunbeam.
Stay in the trench, that was the rule. Stay in the trench, and don’t give in to the Fog’s Murphy’s eyes traveled with the tiny gold- illusions and its tricks. Don’t let the Fog get en ray, desperate not to lose sight of it. Then to you. another one appeared. And another. Turning to the sky, Murphy saw the very last The empty trenches lay in dead silence. thing he expected: a clearing. A small yet There was nobody left to listen to Murphy’s rapidly expanding blue opening amidst the screams, echoing like a mad cacophony as greyish-white. the Fog claimed yet another victim. Pushing Garthwaite’s corpse off himself, Murphy stared in disbelief as the Fog, the damning, suffocating, ghostly fog that confined him and his mates to the trenches, forcing them to hide like rats in the filth, was vanishing. Already, the sun, that wonderful yellow-white disk, was peaking from out of the clouds, bathing the entire battlefield in life. He made it. He, Private James Murphy,
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Adam’s Window Spencer Rosenblum ‘21
Adam had always lived in a cramped
space. As a child, his parents, looking at his distressingly small and undecorated room, decided that he needed an escape from the confines of this small world. They gave him a whiteboard and a small box of dry erase markers and told him to use it as his “window on the world.” Adam, being a rambunctious six-year-old, tended to use it more as a smorgasbord of his own creation. He drew massive T-Rexes, clenching two or three markers at once in his small fist to create a multi-color mess. He also drew superheroes, baseball players, and most of all, his dream job: rock n’ roll star/astronaut and part-time velociraptor trainer. His mother, concerned that her child did not seem to understand the point of the whiteboard, sat on the cold grey carpet and motioned for Adam to sit by her side. She then carefully separated the whiteboard from the wall and placed it in her lap. In large broad strokes, she erased the masterfully doodled rockstar/astronaut riding a velociraptor, and carefully placed a cool blue marker on the board. In calm strokes, she dashed a small scene onto the whiteboard. The whiteboard became a window that looked out on a large open field, a small 50
tree, and a little river. Adam’s mother carefully pointed to each aspect of the board and explained how they reflected how she felt. Adam just sat wide eyed staring at the gleaming sky, with storm clouds at the back of the horizon. Being six years old, he was amazed by his mother’s ability to so accurately create this scene (although most would insist the picture was closer to cartoon-like). She did the same the next week. And the next. And the Next, until she was sitting on the carpet every week, drawing her world in a new way. Some weeks, there would be flowers and trees. Others there would be dark clouds and lightning storms. One night, when Adam had just turned seven, and his whiteboard was a carefully drawn rendition of a cake in the rain, his father peeked in through the doorway, illuminating a sliver of light onto his head. He then carefully glided over to Adam’s bed resting his hand on his shoulder to gently wake him. He leaned into his ear and told him that he was leaving, but that he’d see him soon. Being seven, he gently nodded his head, and let his heavy eyelids return him to the realm of sleep, not knowing if what just happened was a dream or reality. The next morning, Adam’s mother returned to create the world outside his window. This time, the harsh bags under her eyes reflected the hues of blue and black that
were splattered across the board. Horrible flashes of yellow roared like thunder and light ning. After finishing this dark masterpiece, she carefully lifted it, remarked how bleak it was, and placed it on the wall. Adam’s mother turned to him and promised that they’d redo it when she was “less busy.” But suddenly, Mom was always busy. He spent hours. Then days. Then weeks, and eventually a whole month carefully pleading with his mother to help him redraw his window, but the response was always the same. “Not now, I’m busy.”
Outside was a lush meadow, with sheep and a small stream. This time he separated the clouds and drew a small rainbow spanning the distance. Adam then carefully rehung the whiteboard, and pouted, realizing that his almost-eight-year-old artistic abilities were nowhere near his mother’s. Removing his whiteboard, he marched into his Mom’s bedroom, whiteboard in arm, and sat down next to her. He neatly placed the new drawing into her lap and watched as she glanced down at the window. Thick wells of tears then filled up her eyes as she turned to Adam and said “Ok. Let’s draw your new window!”
Finally, after being seven for almost ten whole months, Adam carefully removed the window and redrew the picture himself.
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54 Alexa Moskowitz ‘21
Zimbabwe
55 Ari El Gharsi ‘20
Super Wolf Blood Moon
Aidhan Astrachan ‘21 56 Jonathan Ziebarth ‘20 George Boulukos ‘21
Luna Katonah, NY
57 Sophie Bremer ‘22
Catch
58 Ruthanne Stastowski ‘21
Summertime on the Ranch
Rosina Kling ‘21 59 Alexa Moskowitz ‘21 Cameron Krakowiak ‘20 60 Sarah Katz ‘21
White Horse Botswana Sunset Over Matunuck Cherry Blossoms
Mia Schulte ‘22
Looking Up
Acadia Schimmel ‘21
Beach
61 Annabelle Hatsav ‘21 Cameron Krakowiak ‘20
Love In My Eyes A Discussion
62 Lily Parks ‘21
Taos
63 Olivia Cueto ‘21
Otis
Jonathan Ziebarth ‘20
Morgan
Olivia Cueto ‘21
Eyes
Freddie Fine ‘21
Ringo
64 Oni Thornell ‘22 Ely Silverman ‘22
Ronaldo Hold the Line
65 Ayanna Mitchell ‘23
Life Imitating Art Imitating Life
66 Ariella Mendal ‘20
Stormy Beach
Cameron Krakowiak ‘20 52
Through the Magnolias
67 Henry Boone ‘21
Boating Cow Island
Photography
53
Zimbabwe, Alexa Moskowitz ‘21 54
Super Wolf Blood Moon, Ari El Gharsi ‘20
Through the Magnolias, Aidhan Astrachan ‘21
55
Luna, Jonathan Ziebarth ‘20
Katonah, NY, George Boulukos ’21
56
Catch, Sophie Bremer ‘22 57
Summertime on the Ranch, Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
58
White Horse, Rosina Kling ‘21
Botswana, Alexa Moskowitz ‘ 21
Sunset Over Matunuck, Cameron Krakowiak ‘20
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Cherry Blossoms, Sarah Katz ‘21
60
Looking Up, Mia Schulte ‘22
Beach, Acadia Schimmel ‘21
A Discussion, Cameron Krakowiak ‘20
Love In My Eyes, Annabelle Hatsav ‘21
61
Taos, Lily Parks ‘21 62
Otis, Olivia Cueto ‘21
Eyes, Olivia Cueto ‘21
Morgan, Jonathan Ziebarth ‘20
Ringo, Freddie Fine ‘22 63
Ronaldo, Oni Thornell ‘22
Hold the Line, Ely Silverman ‘22
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Life Imitating Art Imitating Life, Ayanna Mitchell ‘23 65
Stormy Beach, Ariella Mendal ‘20
Boating, Cameron Krakowiak ‘20 66
Cow Island, Henry Boone ‘21
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70 Gav Langer ‘20
give your daughters iron skin
Jacob McKinnon ‘20
The World Is Mine
71 Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
Loss Compounded
72 Ethan Oliver ‘21
Summer Sestina
73 Cosima Dovan ‘21
Daughter
74 Max Zinman ‘20
Rebirth
76 Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
Growing Up, “The Greatest Adventure”
78 Marcus Moise ‘21
At Last
79 Gav Langer ‘20
youtopia
80 Amelia Langton ‘22
Missing New York
Nina Gerzema ‘21
seas winter
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81 Luke Cameron ‘21
Telemachus
82 Alex Cueto ‘24
“Equal”
Poetry
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give your daughters iron skin Gav Langer ‘20 give your daughters iron skin. as they learn to be quiet, teach them not to lose their loudness, but to keep it, hold it crackling under their skin. distill it. teach them to lose it when the time is right, to bring down worlds with it. give your daughters brambly names and sturdy shoes. as they learn to be homemakers, teach them how to make themselves home. teach them that they can be unmakers. teach them to break things and hide the glue. give your daughters granite hearts and steely spines. as they learn to gloss their lips, teach them to love freely but with care, to take who they want but give to few. teach them to pose a danger. give your daughters iron skin, and let them play with knives.
The World Is Mine Jacob McKinnon ‘20 I was in 11th grade and on my way home from a long day of school, I was blasting ‘The World Is Yours” by Nas in my ears. Lyric after Lyric flooded my head and bounced off my brain, as my steps fell in the same distinctive rhythm on the sidewalk. Time stopped I stopped And the same line replayed over and over in my head “I’m out for presidents to represent me” I’m out for presidents to represent me I gained a clarity I’d known only a few times before And found myself in my apartment on the 14th floor Staring out of my window and watching the cars go by The sky began to glow. Dark golden lines of light stuck to my wall, and time resumed The world was mine, The World Was Mine.
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Loss Compounded Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21 When she opens the door Her mom’s face says it all A forced smile and her puffy eyes Confirm what she already knew Hesitantly she enters She takes off her coat And begins to unpack her books Silence fills the room like smoke And an unspoken reality weighs down on them both Her mom asks, “how was your day?” “It was fine, I couldn’t stop thinking about…well you know” “How are you mom?” “Okay, I had a hard day” Watching her mother start to cry She hugs her tight in an attempt to comfort her Finally, she is unable to hold it in any longer Her emotions pour out of her like the tears streaming down her face She cries for her loss For her mother’s loss And for the gaping hole their loss has left It hurts But what hurts even more Than losing a loved one Is having to watch someone else you love Lose that very same person 71
Summer Sestina Ethan Oliver ‘21 Sparse raindrops fall as the young boy is flying past on his skateboard. Where to go? A lazy afternoon drags on slowly as the tide of the sea recoils and crashes down again. As the lifeguard waits patiently for the beach day to end, the young boy ponders the end of summer, pure doom. Skating to a friend’s house: “I’ve heard 7th grade is going to be our doom” As if when the kites stop soaring the seagulls will stop flying as well. It only started yesterday, how is it almost over today? His friend’s mother comes in with two nice tall glasses of lemonade. Life will go on. Harder challenges will come, heavy burdens sit like unlifted weights collecting dust. All to be washed away by the disinterested sea. The sun will always shine no matter your troubles, when will you see that? Life is constant plight, but it will not be your doom. Moonlight shines bright on the two friends, one waits for the other to fall asleep. Then he lifts off flying into the night sky. Still nowhere to go. He will return from the stars when the sun rises for the new day I’m flying high not knowing where to go The sea below me sparkles, its deep darkness waits One day soon, I’ll plummet to my doom
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Daughter Cosima Dovan ‘21 She is steam rising on bathwater -dark night you hid from in your bedroom, she is guitar hum, the one who lurks in the bunching of blankets at the end of a bed, she crawls out of bleached sunrise She rose from the dirt in my hand, she is my little star, she shines so bright, she is a dream, she walks out of my eyes, I want to catch her She rises like smoke from the kiln, cleanses the air with a cough, she is soft like baby, cool like salt, she is callous, careful, clean, she is dirty She is rising in the high tide of the afternoon she breaks rocks in her teeth, she looks through smudged windows, like one who sees the far side of the moon and hopes to stand there and look back only to say I once was there
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Rebirth Max Zinman ‘20 You made me. With a blood red scarf, and a posse of friends. The sun glinted off the monkey bars as you ran to him. A swift blow sent him to the ground, Sprawled and gasping. Afraid. They grabbed his arms, Ripped him to his feet. You held the scarf, Wrap once, Wrap twice. Form a loop, Wrap around. He started to fight back, His light battling your dark influence, So with another blow you banished him to the shadows. Tie it tight, leave one end free. You had the strong friend lift him, And the tall one toss it over a bar. One. Two. Pull. The light begins to fade. One. Two. Pull. The knot comes undone. The body falls to the ground. He’s gone. And I took his place. You fled And left me to learn. Alone. This body doesn’t fit right, My fear trying to squeeze into the hole left by his joy, My apathy wandering the cavernous void born of his infinite curiosity, And nothing to replace his kindness. You walked up to him on the play deck that day, And like the mad genius you were
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Deconstructed everything he was, and made me to fill his tiny, innocent shoes. Then you left me to derive meaning from my stolen life. After you were gone, I, in his body, Was broken, never to function again. I still feel an itch where you put the scarf To lift him towards destruction. Your friends’ words still burn my ears From the ritual used to forge me from his ashes. You won. I’m broken. But then he came back. Tattered, Frail, Alive. You failed. Now we’re fixing ourselves, And fighting your influence: The bright red scarf chaining me to the past, The jeering friends salting the Earth, That no future may grow from it, Your terrible visage scaring me into submission, All relegated to desk jobs in the back of our fresh new mind. You are a nightmare, But now I am awake. Your influence will be forgotten: Who you destroyed, And who you created. We will build our own future, And live for no one But ourselves.
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Growing Up, the “Greatest Adventure” Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21 Part I A little girl builds a model ship with her dad The humming of their voices fill the room As she passes pieces to him, he glues them together “It’s almost done,” he says, “we just need to paint it.” “Will it float daddy?” “No, it’s just a model.” He gives her the paintbrush and the paint, saying “Here you paint it.” Excitedly she grabs the paint Already able to envision her masterpiece in her head However, her young unsteady hands Produce the messy work of a 5-year-old It’s a blurry jumble of black, red, and white But, somehow to her, it’s perfect Her dad picks her up and places her on his lap Together they stare at a somewhat distorted model of the Titanic Smiling her dad says, “I love it,” in a warm and affectionate tone The two of them set it on the shelf in her bedroom to dry And the model ship has stayed there ever since
Part II A little girl walks down the beach with her dad Head down she checks the ground for little treasures “Look, daddy, it’s a hermit crab shell! Can you put it in your pocket to save it for me?” “Anything for you, darling” He takes the shell, safely tucking it away in his coat pocket And she runs ahead looking for more shells
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She can feel the cold wet sand between her toes As she walks closer to the water’s edge Then, a wave breaks and the icy water rushes towards her feet She lets out a high pitched scream running back up the beach towards her dad Once her feet are no longer tingling from the cold she asks, “Daddy, can you race me down the beach?” “Sweetie, Daddy’s getting older, he can’t do that anymore, let’s go back home” Slightly disappointed she says, “okay” and they set off down the road When they reach the front door he tries to take the shell out of his pocket Fumbling with it he drops it on the concrete porch And just like that, the pristine shell is broken He picks up what remains of the shell Placing it on the porch, cracks and all Part III A little girl sits in the living room playing with her iPad Her dad watches over her, thinking there are better things she could do He asks, “Would you like to go play outside with me?” Remember how we used to have ‘great adventures’?” Finally, she looks up from her game And she remembers all the times they would play in the canal outside their house Knee deep in mud, trying not to fall in the water They would pretend they were on a jungle safari or a crocodile hunt Avoiding the dangerous creatures that might lurk in the murky waters Every time they had the same end goal Make it to the sandy beaches of the island at the end of the canal There they would try to find the shells of clams and the claws of crabs Before eventually making the “great adventure” back home The little girl looking down at her game and up at her dad Says, “I think I’ll pass for today” This happened the next time and the time after that And so on, until one day her dad finally stopped asking her
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At Last Marcus Moise ‘21 On a train ride home I listen to sad songs that remind me of you As I look at my camera roll full of you Bryson Tiller and Drake speak the pain That the wall I’ve built prevents me from saying “Why” you ask? Because big boys don’t cry I cover my tearful face Even though the only other person in the car Is so far away from me It’s like they’re on the other side of the world “Why” you ask? Because big boys are supposed to suck it up I begin to feel more and more fragile Like a man of glass trying to benchpress The only other person in the car finally leaves At last, I am alone With more than 5 minutes until the next stop The man of glass drops the weights Breaking down into a million pieces I let my tears fly without wiping my face The wall within begins to fall apart And the release of sadness brings happiness
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But when the train reaches its next stop I don’t wipe my face Nor do I rebuild the wall Instead, I leave the streaks “Why” you ask? Because you’ll never grow up If you’re always a big boy
youtopia Gav Langer ‘20 this town (youtopia) is made on rivers. we are her rivers. we are her watery streets, paved in blue and varicolored tile we feed the grass here. we feed the eternity, and the truth of you, you have to look at us, at the rivers mirror smooth. don’t worry, lovely, we’ll wash away the rough. but you have to look at us. come into the center, the silence, which sounds like home. if there is enough noise there is quiet, and you can be quiet here, or you can scream. listen: you can run from old love here. from honey lips and shining teeth, from every biting thing. you can stand on solid ground here, where the people are beautiful and you are one of them.
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Missing New York Amelia Langton ‘22 Tikki Beach Dumbo like gumbo At Dumbo beach we all feast On rocks and stinky waves
seas Nina Gerzema ‘21 if the seas could draw me in and drown my esoteric fears that’s where i could see as clear as a summer day in a world as light as pastel blue
Spring in Brooklyn Pollen raining like A cry of the cherry blossoms I sneeze in amazement
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Spring in Brooklyn Continued: Dominican Ice Cart
winter Nina Gerzema ‘21
The chime of the lime Rainbow was always too sweet She’s here. It’s ice time!
i wish the frost of winter’s icy breath could freeze all my fragility and leave only ardor and independence
Telemachus Luke Cameron ‘21 Over the past years The universe tells me I am the son of a king A great king A genius A hero An interest of the gods. I am told Since I am the son That no matter how distant we are No matter the 19 years in which I’ve not seen his face My fate is somehow intertwined with his A man who I do not know. I am bound Tangled up with a life that isn’t mine I can’t free myself I can’t fight my destiny I can’t break the bond of father and son I can’t stray from my story I can’t, even if I want to. I am his son.
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“Equal” Alex Cueto ‘24 I can’t walk down the street without hearing a whistle These cat calls and stares make me feel so little They think that I like it They think I don’t care I just feel so useless It is so unfair The anger inside me is brewing like magic The way we are treated is insanely tragic Life is already hard when I’m told nothing new That I cook and I clean and that’s all that I’ll do. You expect me to give life To a new child But without equal rights I won’t do that for a while I won’t raise a baby under this current system If my baby had problems I couldn’t assist them Or, I couldn’t guide them and I couldn’t make them hope Because this world is a mess that can’t be cleaned off with soap. Why bring an idea that their future is bright That there’s no harm that’s coming and there’s no harm in sight. America’s freedom was always a promise But no one is free Come on let’s be honest If we were all free and if we were all equal Then making my own choice would always be legal 82
My rights are important, my words should be too So how come people in power think that this isn’t true? Why do people define me by the body that is mine? The clothes that I wear somehow cross a line?! They say “boys will be boys” but what does that do? Does that help me, save me, hurt me, or degrade me? They haven’t a clue If people would hear what the kids had to say We wouldn’t be fighting for peace every day. If people would listen, they would understand that a person’s a person in a just land
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86 Michelle Mardones ‘20 Gav Langer ‘20
Glazed earthenware
Cayla Robbins ‘21
Glazed earthenware
87 Olivia Roederer ‘20
Glazed earthenware
Molly Voit ‘20
Glazed earthenware
Sophie Kielian ‘20
Glazed earhenware
88 Skyler Pierce-Scher ‘20
Super Sculpey & cardboard
Gwen Raffo ‘21
Glazed earthenware
Sophie Kielian ‘20
Glazed earthenware
89 Olivia Roederer ‘20
Earthenware, unfired
Hannah Provost ‘20
Glazed earthenware
90 Katie Rich ‘20 Olivia Roederer ‘20 91 Gwen Raffo ‘21
Bisqued earthenware Glazed earthenware Glazed earthenware
Elisabeth Seiple ‘20
Glazed earthenware
Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
Glazed earthenware
92 Nika Marohnic ‘20
Glazed porcelain and earthenware
Cosima Dovan ‘21
Glazed earthenware
Sophie Stromberg-Firestein ‘20
Glazed earthenware
Sophie Reif ‘20
Glazed earthenware
93 Rei Weintraub ‘21 Wriley Hodge ‘20
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Glazed earthenware
Earthenware, unfired Glazed earthenware
3D Art
85
Gav Langer ‘20 glazed earthenware
Michelle Mardones ‘20 glazed earthenware
Cayla Robbins ‘21 glazed earthenware 86
Olivia Roederer ‘20 glazed earthenware
Molly Voit ‘20 glazed earthenware
Sophie Kielian ‘20 glazed earthenware 87
Skyler Pierce-Scher ‘20, Super Sculpey & cardboard
Gwen Raffo ‘21 glazed earthenware 88
Sophie Kielian ‘20 glazed earthenware
Olivia Roederer ‘20, earthenware, unfired
Hannah Provost ‘20, glazed earthenware
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Katie Rich ‘20 bisqued earthenware
Olivia Roederer ‘20, glazed earthenware 90
Gwen Raffo ‘21 glazed earthenware
Elisabeth Seiple ‘20 glazed earthenware
Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21, glazed earthenware 91
Nika Marohnic ‘20, glazed porcelain and earthenware
Glazed earthenware, clockwise from above: Cosima Dovan ‘21, Sophie Stromberg-Firestein ‘20, Sophie Reif ‘20.
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Rei Weintraub ‘21, earthenware, unfired
Wriley Hodge ‘20, glazed earthenware 93
96 Ajahni Jackson ‘21 Jack Hillyer ‘21
FOMO
Cole Dorsey ‘21
Friendship Cancelled
Isabella Marcellino ‘21
Home Sweet Home
97 Dylan Zajac ‘21
94
En Route
LREI Robotics
Jack Hillyer ‘21
The College Process: The Musical
Nate Simon ‘20
The Messenger
Cameron Krakowiak ‘20
Tommy K Productions
Film
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En Route
En-route is a short documentary that documents the commutes of three NYC high school students. It shows how a long commute can affect a student’s life both inside and out of school.
Friendship Cancelled Cole Dorsey ‘21
FOMO: Fear of Missing Out Jack Hillyer ‘21
FOMO is a documentary about an experiment in which 20 people were asked to quit social media for two weeks. Only one person (Alexa Kennedy) was willing to participate. The film explores her experience during those two weeks.
FOMO
En Route Ajahni Jackson ‘21
Home Sweet Home Isabella Marcellino ‘21
An energetic young girl who wants to reconnect with an old friend faces one problem - a lack of listening.
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Home Sweet Home
Friendship Cancelled
Terrified of participating in an exchange program in Singapore, Sam decides to live in his high school instead, unbeknownst to his mother.
LREI Robotics Dylan Zajac ‘21
The College Process: The Musical Jack Hillyer ‘21 A comedy about a student who tries to make a hip-hop musical about the college process.
The Musical
LREI Robotics
The LREI Robotics Team’s ins and outs along with the journey to compete in The First Robotics competition.
The Messenger
A bored student must deliver a mysterious package before something bad happens.
Tommy K Productions Cameron Krakowiak ‘20
The documentary encapsulates a day in the life of a film crew, Tommy K Productions. The short film also discovers the secrets to the industry and what makes this band of coworkers so fundamentally compatible.
Tommy K Productions
The Messenger Nate Simon ‘20
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100 Caroline Maltz ‘21
The Vessel
101 Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
A Look Back in Time
Noah Roussel ‘21 102 Joe Rosenblum ‘22
NY At Night
103 Julien Goldberg ‘21
NYC Street Art
Caroline Maltz ‘21
Witnessing Through the Window
104 Noah Roussel ‘21
Cloudy Manhattan Skyline
105 Oni Thornell ‘22
NY State of Mind
106 Joe Rosenblum ‘22
NY After Dark
107 Amouri Edwards ‘20
Japan 2
108 Joe Rosenblum ‘22
NY At Sunset
Henry Boone ‘21
Houston Ball Park
109 Olivia Cueto ‘21
Chelsea
110 Olivi Cueto ‘21
Hong Kong Skyline
Julien Goldberg ‘21 111 Caroline Maltz ‘21 Amouri Edwards ‘20
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Spring Sailing
Chelsea Landscape Blue Skies Japan 1
Cityscapes
99
100
The Vessel, Caroline Maltz ‘21
Spring Sailing, Noah Roussel ‘21
101
A Look Back in Time Ruthanne Staskowski ‘21
102
NY At Night, Joe Rosenblum ‘22
NYC Street Art, Julien Goldberg ‘21
Witnessing Through the Window, Caroline Maltz ‘21
103
104
Cloudy Manhattan Skyline, Noah Roussel ‘21
Empire State of Mind, Oni Thornell ‘22
105
NY After Dark, Joe Rosenblum ‘22 106
Chelsea Landscape, Julien Goldberg ‘21
Japan 2, Amouri Edwards ‘20
107
NY at Sunset, Joe Rosenblum ‘22
108
Houston Ball Park, Henry Boone ‘21
Chelsea, Olivia Cueto ‘21
109
Hong Kong Skyline, Olivia Cueto ‘21
Chelsea Landscape, Julien Goldberg ‘21
110
Japan 1, Amouri Edwards ‘20
111
Blue Skies, Caroline Maltz ‘21
114 Daniel Olusheki ‘25 Layla Grant-Simmonds ‘24
Oil pastels
Sofia Ulrich ‘24
Acrylic paint
115 Raine Robertson ‘25
Acrylic paint on canvas
116 Oona King ‘25
Pencils
Rubie Goldner ‘24
Acrylic paint on canvas
Imagen Notaro ‘25
Pencil 2-point perspective
117 Anais Cornfeld ‘26
112
White charcoal pencil on paper
Watercolor on paper
Studio Art
Middle School
113
Daniel Olusheki ‘25 white charcoal pencil on paper
Sofia Ulrich ‘24, acrylic paint 114
Layla Grant-Simmonds ‘24, oil pastels
Raine Robertson ‘25, acrylic paint on canvas
115
Oona King ‘25, pencils
Rubie Goldner ‘24 acrylic paint on canvas 116
Imagen Notaro ‘25 pencil 2-point perspective
Anais Cornfeld ‘26, watercolor on paper
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Acknowledgements
The special circumstances under which this magazine is being published are remarkable, to say the least. If it were not for the strong community at LREI, this publication would not be possible during the lockdown. So, firstly, we want to thank the LREI community for its incredible resiliency in this time of crisis. It was simultaneously challenging, exhausting and exhilarating to create the magazine this year … from deciding what would be feasible in these circumstances, to soliciting and editing student work, learning graphic design, collaborating with other departments, and so much more. It was indeed a true team effort. Thank you first and foremost to Phil Kassen, Allison Isbell, Margaret Paul, Ana Chaney, and Josh Marks without whom the annual publication of (i.e.) would not be possible. To all of the students who submitted work this year and even continued to do so during the lockdown – we were truly blown away by both the quantity and quality of your creative genius. This is your magazine, and you should all be incredibly proud of the work you have done. An enormous and heartfelt thank-you to the art teachers, James French, Shauna Finn, Susan Now, and Stephen MacGillivray who were generous with their time and who provided invaluable guidance, assistance, suggestions, and feedback over the course of the year. Many thanks to Ileana Jimenez, Jane Belton, Ann Carroll, Rohan Cassells, and Jeremiah Demster for recommending and assisting in the collection of student work for the magazine. Our profound thanks to Mark Silberberg and Stephen MacGillivray for making the first digital edition of the magazine possible. Special thanks to Joan Jubett, Ann Carroll, Joy Piedmont, and Matthew Milton for helping with the launch of the magazine at the Lit Mag Coffee House. Also, special thanks to the readers who answered the call to read their peers’ work at the launch. We appreciate all you exceptional, talented people!! Gratitude! 118