Scrap paper 2016 - Westlake High School

Scrap Paper

WHS 2016

A Note from the Editor-in-Chief This magazine is an embodiment of the literary and artistic achievements of our school, and we at Scrap Paper believe that this creativity should be recognized. Our magazine is a space for student voices and vision to be freely expressed. Having spent many hours on this issue, I can say we are very proud of this publication. It is always a pleasure to form unconnected, and often eccentric, submissions into one magazine.

There a few people without whom Scrap Paper would not have come together. Mrs. Abate’s, Mrs. Frawley’s, and Ms. Papazian’s assistance with artwork is greatly appreciated, as is Mrs. Matthew’s encouragement of student writing. We thank Mr. Schenker and Mr. Ferguson for their continuing support of our publication. We at the literary magazine would also like to Mrs. Gelard, our teacher advisor, and hope you enjoy this latest edition.

Sincerely,

Featured Literature Crucify the Crayfish by Brian Bennett......................................................5 The Restless City by Emily Rubino.......................................................6-7 The Circle by Jessica Kaplan...................................................................9 Not Cleaning a Room by Kiera Torpie..............................................10-11 Assorted Haiku.........................................................................12, 20, 30 Stalling by Chloe Burns.........................................................................13 Goodbye by Divya Mundackal..............................................................14 Geneaology by Jessica Kaplan...............................................................17 Miss Havisham’s Demise by Katie Burns..........................................18-19 Ol’ Barley: Unearthed by Kyra Higgins.............................................22-23 Learning to Drive by Keira Torpie.........................................................25 A Different Perspective by Valeria Venturini......................................26-27 Rush by Maria Ciraco............................................................................29 Youth by Anonymous............................................................................31

Chloe Burns

Jacqueline Siry

Carmine Casarella

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Featured Artwork Front Cover Credit: Katie Sanders Inside Front Cover Credit: Jacqueline Siry Carmine Casarella..................................................................................1 Chloe Burns, Jillian Cannata, Sa’Meea Shuler.........................................3 Delia Murphy..........................................................................................4 Elena DiDomizio....................................................................................5 Sarita Servidio........................................................................................7 Caroline Mooney, Katie Sanders.............................................................8 Amanda Sabha.......................................................................................9 Katie Burns...........................................................................................11 Katie Burns...........................................................................................12 Justin Angeles.......................................................................................13 Alex Pasieka.........................................................................................15 Casie Galletti .......................................................................................16 Daniella Drossos...................................................................................17 Jacqueline Siry......................................................................................19 Chloe Burns..........................................................................................20 Caroline Mooney, Anthony Pisa...........................................................21 Justin Angeles.......................................................................................23 Madison Arrichiello, Michelle Barbero..................................................24 Jacqueline Siry......................................................................................27 Jacqueline Siry, Delia Murphy...............................................................28 Camron Amerson..................................................................................30 Kaia Sherman.......................................................................................31 Jacqueline Siry......................................................................................32

Jillian Cannata

Back Cover Credit: Casie Galletti Chloe Burns

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Sa’Meea Shuler

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Crucify the Crayfish

By Brian Bennett Inspired by: Gerald Stern After the discovery that there was another, a prophet before him he could not allow himself to be trapped within the plastic walls; he needed freedom from this tiny world of his. He could not be forsaken to the black abyss as had his predecessor; he needed to ascend where the former could not. And so he fasted for forty days until the answer he sought came to him in this delirious state, where a voice boomed his destiny. The crustacean attempted three times, and only on the third, under the cover of darkness did he succeed as he drifted over aquatic pebbles to the rock he had called home for years. Thus, he climbed upwards, claw after claw hitched into the plastic molding, until at last he gazed over the clear basin onto the barren hardwood landscape covered with papers. As he dropped down from his plastic perch, the crayfish saw a light in the distance, it to beckon him. And so he rose.

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Delia Murphy

Elena DiDomizio

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The Restless City

By Emily Rubino

Visitors stroll into stained streets, Filled with broken cups and layers of dirt From half- lit cigarettes, With billboards plastered all around That quietly distract frantic drivers, As the first horn blares in the early morning.

While stiff businessmen in their Striped suits and manicured women Hurry in their clicking heels past Shiny silver windows, the wind returns.

Even nostalgic walkers seep into young minds Covering their tracks, like they are following footprints in the snow.

Their eyes widen to the neon flashes of restaurants And theaters and murmurs of pedestrians who slip through Hotel doors (ignoring the doorman in dated attire) As they try to stop the biting cold And muffle the sounds of a man pleading for coins.

After even when the sudden frosty day takes a pause It never comes to a full stop--and that’s ok.

Suddenly, two strangers start a fight down the first avenue.

Songs of love and lost, lost in the sea of people Lost through the crevices of cracked roads Lost by noises of screeching brakes Now the ground grows larger.

The walls whisper, with their cries and laughs Of the past with evermore imagination, Imprinted like bold graphics on the fleeting buses That travel to see each corner of that wide world.

The place lit by the night, is never dark (Even though it is blurred by cloudy skies And rising smoke).

The place is never silent of sounds (Even after celebrations halt and abandoned stores lie lonely and wait, saved only by the comfort of whimpering dogs).

The place, dotted with stop signs And random stickers and gum-slick streets, never seems messy.

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Sarita Servidio

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The Circle

By Jessica Kaplan Inspired by Raymond Carver

Caroline Mooney

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A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the sand.

Feet sink in and I can feel the grains pulling me into the current.

I can see the sun glaring at me, Roaring in agreement about all that I’ve seen, all that I’ve known, all that I’ve done.

I look out on the current anyway, Waiting for the tide to come to me.

A seagull flies in a circle above my head.

It lands next to me. The wind is rushing.

I throw a piece of bread towards it.

It gulps in gratitude. Swoops back up, Preys on a fish in the ocean.

It flies back up. Around and around And around. An endless circle.

All of it.

It never ends.

Katie Sanders Amanda Sabha

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Not Cleaning a Room

By Kiera Torpie

1.

Still as an eyelid, Stretching to stay wide.

Frames on the wall Slant with little regard— Let go with subtle warning, Breathing “entropy” through sandy lungs.

Dead insects in parts and pieces line the rim— (The divine windowsill décor) Old movie tickets assemble in dust, Waiting for the trailers to expire.

Pine needles stud the floor—puncture the feet, Dropping from last December’s Christmas tree.

2.

Old Polaroids swept under the bed, I am looking for you.

And there are tissues, laden with moist Self-hate, and I consider how long they’ve Been there, if it’s to you I should address The thank you note.

Then I wonder when’s the last time I cleaned these sheets.

And when, at some point, the map Hanging on that wall fell down— Where, exactly—all the pins Went.

The room is caving in, With subtle grace.

And I’m lying on dirty sheets with a dirty bathrobe on my skin.

Coffee cups thick with mold, carbon date How long it’s been.

Wooden clips bite the wire, Memories slipping from their grip Like loose teeth, bleeding from the gums— Red stains on white drywall.

I am resting in mine own decay, Observing with great regard, But very little urgency.

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Katie Burns

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Wake to morning dew The sun travels through the sky And day turns to night -Angela Mangione,

Alexandra Falkenberg

Covered by the gray I found the sun in your eyes Never a dark day -Emily Rubino,

Divya Mundackal

Stalling

By Chloe Burns In the landscape and meadows I saw a cracking meadow Of grass and flowers That is and has been lost.

Had I sled upwards, I would have felt nothing But sweet, sweet life Until I reached the end of time.

Even time, Several minutes long, Met the endless end.

My eyes Are holding the blustery wind And the endless sea of nature surrounded me-They were the eyes of someone else.

The weather was and continued to be frigid-I stalled eternally for winter.

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Katie Burns

Justin Angeles

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Goodbye

By Divya Mundackal The world as I see it Seems like it is just you and me I want all the pieces to fit But is it really meant to be?

Are you the one?

Do you really love me?

Or is it a dream I have begun?

With my thoughts growing like a blossoming tree The tears I have cried Were all for you And the laughter I have denied Gave me a clue You were not real I made the idea of you Hoping it would make me feel Feel like I would fall through With you there to catch me But when I hit the ground I know the truth scattered like debris Goodbye sweet dreams to the one who has made me drown Alex Pasieka

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Genealogy

By Jessica Kaplan Inspired by Betsy Sholl One of my parents was a glass of champagne waiting to go flat, the other, a cup of red wine remaining untouched, waiting to spill on a white tablecloth.

The script tattooed on my lower back, “I am. I am. I am.”

One of my parents was the crisp smell of winter, the other the red burns of summer.

One of my parents I spoke, the other I stuttered.

In the midnight drive of my becoming, one drove beside me, one drove into me.

One was a city, the other a suburb.

They actually went quite well together.

I was a girl waiting for the champagne to go flat, whispering all the while, “I am. I am. I am.”

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Casie Galletti

Daniella Drossos

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Miss Havisham’s Demise

By Katie Burns

“I had succeeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew of Estella; I had said and done what I could to ease her mind.

No matter with what other words we parted; we parted” (Dickens 368).

Seeing no reason to prolong my visit, and there was indeed no reason why my visit should have been prolonged - at least none that I could see - I bid farewell to Miss Havisham; my departure would be made whilst Miss Havisham stoically sat. She remained “a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement” (Dickens 53).

For a moment, I felt as though something had been left unsaid, a thing of utmost importance as there was an air of incongruity flowing throughout the putrefying room. I decided against psittacism, meaningless speech was unwarranted; my trepidation provided no genuine cause for concern. Miss Havisham’s incessant murmurings shadowed me throughout my departure down the winding staircase; her mutterings were those of a madwoman, never ending, indescribable, and saturnine. The cadaverous image of Miss Havisham was eternally seared in the depths of my mind.

So she sat as an emblem of self-torment and loathsomeness, a corpse in a yellowing wedding dress; her room was an anachronism, the space, like its owner, was skeletal, belonging to a different time. With no brightness left, save for that of the dismal eyes of the room’s only occupant, the luminous fire sweltered from the deepest and most dreaded pits of hell.

The red-hot fire attracted the gaze of the crazed woman with the “weird smile that had a kind of boast in it” (Dickens 53). Miss Havisham inched closer to the burning flame; the fire reflected in the whites of her eyes, a devilish plan forming in her frenzied and distraught mind, her plan one of madness with an absence of reason; the inconsolable woman had entered a state of mind in which there was no return. A ghostly, skeletal hand rose from the side of the senseless woman, the tinted sleeve of the ancient wedding dress following in its wake. So she reached, her withered hand extended to meet the amaranthine flames; Miss Havisham welcomed the burning sensation that followed and the wicked smile returned to her ethereal face; with this final action, the ashen woman lost all contact with reality.

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Soon, there was “a whirl of fire blazing all about her, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high” (Dickens 369). Gradually, the fire crept around the unmoving form of the psychotic woman; the flames crawled throughout the room, and with this came an inundation of light. With the disruption of archaism, a sense of modernity intruded whilst venerableness died out. The peril subsisted unbeknownst to the remaining occupants of the house of despair; so they sat as the initiation of the obliteration of the house of misery undertook.

“Twilight was closing in when I went downstairs into the natural air” (Dickens 368).

Work Cited

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 1860. Print.

Jacqueline Siry

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Westlake High School Haiku Contest Winners Today is A day Nine periods, six hours long Tomorrow is B - Brian Kelly (First Place) A crisp winter dayAll icicles and sunshine, Cold seeps inside bones -Chloe Burns (Second Place) New day is dawning Golden sun, birds chirp, wind blows Adventure awaits?

-Mr. Amann, Haseeb Azhar, Mrs. Fata (Third Place)

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Chloe Burns

Caroline Mooney

Anthony Pisa

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Ol’ Barley: Unearthed

By Kyra Higgins

“Lying on the flat of his back, like a drifting old dead flounder, here’s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you” (Dickens 346) he called, as he recognized the familiar faces passing the doorway leading into his questionable room. “Ahoy! Mind joining your Ol’ Barley?!” he proceeded, despite being captivated by his own indiscriminate drunkenness. His voice was somewhat perceptible, as its volume never failed to contradict persistency.

At this moment, with needy eyes, Herbert stared at me, emitting, like telepathy, that I was the one who needed to make a decision. “Surely,” said I after some rumination, hoping that he would hold some convenient information, useful for Magwitch’s escape.

Barley ostentatiously welcomed us inside his room as we progressed through the doorway, his drunken smile almost as wide as the Satis House, and his eyes almost as bright as the day of the summer solstice. He poured forth his feelings, chaotic, confused, and intense, trying his best to engage our sympathy.

We would require much work to get information out of him. He could, with ease, incorporate happiness, sadness, anger, disgust, fear, and jealousy into one sentence. The slightest movement could be the catalyst of either a sea of tears, or four hours full of laughter.

Without mine or Herbert’s content, Barley swamped us with his recount of life as a child. “Ahoy!” said he, with a distressed expression “for your old Bill Barley’s childhood wasn’t a joyous one. Ever since I was a small boy, I lived in a small house with a large family. My father, my mother, my brothers, my sister, and I, were all required to help out with income, no matter the age.

Myself, I was disabled. I couldn’t work as hard, as fast, or as productively as the others. Every day, I was awaiting a beating from my mother, reason for my terrible physical state now, reason for my foolishness. Ahoy.” He paused. “I’m just an ol’ drunkard” reiterated he, looking down at his shirt, evidence of his emotion. “Oh boy, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware of my tears” he dolefully admitted.

“We need never be ashamed of our tears” (Dickens 147) said I, redirecting the pessimistic pathway in which Barley’s emotions were headed down.

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The intensity of Barley’s tears shortly came to a halt, like the ocean pulling water in from shore. Silence overtook the room as soon as he settled down.

Wiping his tears, he collected himself, took a deep breath in, and slouched in his wooden chair. Now more difficult to read, Barley’s ambiguous facial expression emitted nothing but blankness, corresponding with the now quiet room, where the only visible movements were the wandering eyes of Herbert and myself, the seemingly loud, elderly clock hanging from the wall, its hands counting every second passing, the wind outside of the small window, and Barley’s stomach contracting and expanding with each breath taken.

“I was better after I had cried than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle”(Dickens 147) said he, breaking the silence between us.

“We had better get going” said I felicitously, freeing myself and Herbert from the imaginary cage set by Barley. That intimidating clock made its final visible movements as Herbert and I slowly picked ourselves up from what looked like a bench.

“Ahoy! Bye, then!” said Barley, violently throwing his hands in the air, his irrepressible manner becoming apparent once again. Our goodbyes were said, and we were on our way.

Work Cited

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 1860. Print.

Justin Angeles

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Learning to Drive Kiera Torpie

This was supposed to be about drizzled garbage bags half-covering our goosebumped skin, mud oozing between our toes when we refused to take a rain check. This was supposed to be about soggy playing cards we dealt inside the cabin. About the spoons we used as chips. This was supposed to be about wet socks—how they sometimes dry by morning—how they sometimes do not. It was even supposed to be about my grandfather’s bacon—empty the whole lot into a pan and let it simmer, let the salty scent and the sweet sizzle lure in the gang, one by one (Minerva friends, we’d call them).

Michelle Barbero

Madison Arrichiello

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Or maybe it was supposed to be about being stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. But still moving. About front heavy kayaks daring to dip, about long, brown, knotty hair tangled up in a rope swing, about holding your breath at the top of the tree on that island you saw your dad on in old photographs. About having no choice but to jump. Or maybe it was supposed to be about lily pads, how their slimy bottoms cling to sun-kissed legs. Or maybe it was just a remark on the bloodsucking creatures lurking in the muddy swamplands as kids dove in and scrambled for frogs. About when the sluggish leech sticks to the skin and initiates the sacrificial ritual. About the shutter before the match bites the flesh and the parasite falls from grace (having already taken from you what it needs). Because that’s when the kids bought rain boots and frog nets. And shortly thereafter left the water to the critters, pointing from beach chairs at a turtle they once caught—dry socks and all.

Or maybe it was about something entirely different: learning to drive. The tires rolling in place up dirt-road hills. The sand lining the scalp. The rope tied to the tree branch. The last bit of dust following my car as I watched them wave in the rear-view mirror (reminder that objects may be closer than they appear).

But never mind the “supposed to.” This is not about (was never about) him— no, not about memories—nor the reluctance to make new ones.

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A Different Perspective

By Valeria Venturini

To the tourists wanting to visit, it is The Big Apple.

The allure of Manhattan is astonishing.

The grandeur and history of New York City cannot simply be taken in as one walks through a revolving door.

To those just a 40-minute train ride away, it is the city.

And the allure is still as great.

This grandeur and history is just more easily accessible; it is practically being asked to be explored.

From the base of the Empire State Building, you cannot see the top.

With a different perspective, you can see it all.

A different perspective lends knowledge, and power, and beauty, and grace.

A change in perspective, changes the functionality of the mind.

Nothing is as grand and nothing is more special about the city, than viewing it from another perspective.

The hustle and bustle, the yelling and dog barking, the sirens and horn honking, all fade away 102 stories up.

The panoramic view is breathtaking; words cannot even begin to describe.

Earth’s curvature is revealed, creating different colors in the sky along the horizon line.

The buildings around you, and those 80 miles in the distance, which look incredibly tall from the ground, get mixed together, adding color to the otherwise grey pavement one knows on the ground.

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Looking down, the waterways are clear; the boats look like little ships far off in the distance.

Looking down on all the people and cars, you begin to realize how high up you are; they all look like ants.

Jacqueline Siry

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Rush

By Maria Ciraco

Jacqueline Siry

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Delia Murphy

The 10:29. My watch buzzing as the moment arrives.

The machine ejects a ticket.

The train beneath blurs and snaps to a halt.

Lines of suits neatly folded behind me, I fumble for my phone. One ticket or Two? 10: 29 Ticking closer.

I look around at the parking lot beside me the shiny metal kissing the meters. People running to their destinations, Commuters huffing and shoving.

10: 29.

Doors close in my brain as I try to wait, my purse holding the seat beside me.

10: 29.

He is past his arrival time.

Panicking, he rushes closer in my direction, so much for running away.

He slides away to a dot. “Next stop, White Plains.�

My clock ticking closer to another time.

And now I imagine the machine that knew of our two tickets for the Grand Central, next stop Time Square.

And I see the suits untying in the seats in front of me.

And I wonder why train time needs to rush ahead of our plans.

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Darkness consumes us As the eager earth wakes up To nothing but day.

-Katie Burns, Kyra Higgins

Days turn into weeks, Weeks turn into months, as I Await the summer -Lauren Unger

Youth

By Anonymous The moon smiled, its elegant lips ensnarled by the wisp of clouds.

Perfect she thought, as she stared at the clear sky, no threat of rain.

Ensnarled by the wisp of clouds.

Parents and children alike, stared at the clear sky, no threat of rain.

They smile, the giddiness intoxicating.

Parents and children alike, each different, yet both the same, and They smile, the giddiness intoxicating.

Age is only a number, and clouds are only water.

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Camron Amerson

Kaia Sherman

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Acknowledgements Editorial Staff

Chloe Burns - Editor in Chief Katie Burns - Assistant Editor Jillian Cannata - Secretary Kyra Higgins - Assistant Editor Denise Nguyen - Assistant Editor Sarita Servidio - Layout Editor Lauren Unger - Secretary Valeria Venturini - Editor Blerina Verzivolli - Secretary

Faculty Advisor Donna Gelard

Typeface: Calisto MT Headings: Gabriola Tools of the Trade: InDesign CS5 Printer: Palisades Graphic Arts LLC

Awards

Award of Excellence, National Council of Teachers of English (2014 - 2015) First Place, American Scholastic Press Association (2014 - 2015) Second Place, American Scholastic Press Association (2013 - 2014)

Contact Us!

Scrap Paper meets weekly for planning and fundraising activities. Submissions of poetry, prose, and visual arts are accepted throughout the year. If you would like your work considered, please email dgelard@mtplcsd.org.

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Jacqueline Siry

Literary Arts Magazine of WHS 825 Westlake Drive, Thornwood, NY 10594