The Oracle (Fall edition)

The Oracle Editor: Kara Schaffnit Moderator: Mrs. Charlotte Smith

Fall 2017 1

Index Sophia Charron : page 1 Rebecca Fitzharris: pages 3, 4, 9, 21 Schanelle Saldanha: pages 5-6, 18, 20 Emily Price: page 6 Kayli Sheridan: pages 2, 7 Charles Rakaczky: pages 8, 9-11, 18, 22, 27, 31 Brianna Caridi: pages 12, 22, 23, 26, 27-28 Alexis Zarnick: page 8, 13 Katerina Mertz: page 11 Olivia Clark: pages 14, 20, 21, 24-25 Kara Schaffnit: pages 15, 17, 18, 19, 31 Danielle DiPaolo: pages 30, 31 Wenting CHEN: page 30 Shea O’Neill: pages 13, 16 Jack Mickle: pages 25, 29 Emily Brosky: pages 21, 23

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A Fake Smile

by Rebecca Fitzharris As the voices became more harsh and loud, She began to scream her lungs out.

As warm, bitter tears rolled down her face, She lost control.

The walls she tried so hard not to recall, The horrible people she tried to forget, All of them rushed into her mind at once.

Her heart began to beat so fast and loud, You could almost mistake it as someone beating a drum.

Her whole body began to shake with anxiety.

She couldn’t do it anymore, Put on the cheerful smile every day, Making the world believe that she was truly happy.

Pretend

by Rebecca Fitzharris I pretend I do not hear, I pretend I do not see, so I do not speak.

I’m great at pretending.

It’s probably because I’ve had so much practice.

I would pretend that I was somewhere else So I could not hear the shouting that would make the walls quake.

I would pretend that I didn’t see how people would treat me Because I wished to not be alone.

I did not dare to speak for I feared that my words Would only make it worse Yes, I am great at pretending but I wished that I wasn’t.

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Anxiety

by Rebecca Fitzharris It seems to never truly go away, This little voice in the back of my mind, Even when I think I am finally comfortable and happy It starts its quiet whispers of doubt “How could they possibly like you? You are too weird.”

“You are going to say something stupid.”

“I bet they talk about you when you leave.”

“You’re so awkward. Nobody wants to be your friend.”

I try to suppress it and make it go away.

I reassure myself that it’s all just in my head But it seems to be an endless cycle.

Some days I’m fine and there is no voice, no doubts.

But other days I’m drowning in those whispers.

I can only hope that tomorrow is a good day.

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Thirteen Ways of Looking at Failure

by Schanelle Saldanha I Amidst the roaring crowd Lies one second place That cannot rise an inch more II Bleeding with piercing silver hues Like a dime Inferior to the gold intently staring down III The minuscule envelope interrupting your self-proclaimed story The words “rejection” felt within and seen above IV Second place reality is inescapable For many But failure and subsequent triumph are only possible For few V Humanity cannot escape its plight Warriors and princes alike fall short No one to knock down its tower And prevent failure’s roots From planting seamlessly around us VI Failure breathes with fire Tongues of necessary servitude It knows your suppression And intently waits to prow In your defeated soul VII Our victories cease to permanently exist We fail to understand our humanity Even in a moment of certainty

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Failure piercingly cries aloud VIII But, as easily as it rests, failure flies Out of the depths Waiting to find refuge again IX Your breath is suffocated Under its engulfing waves Desperate for air, failure whispers Its truth Its purpose X I believe in fighting your fight forever Fail once or twice Or five hundred fifty-one times Pick yourself up Dust yourself off XI For dust collects too quickly Even on gold And failure is merely temporary Keep walking the bumpy path The hills are Silhouettes of your struggles A proven resiliency XII For failure is a beacon of persistence And from that beacon you learn, you grow XIII So, acknowledge the second-place ribbon On the mantle Let failure take its course And you, too, will rise.

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ABC Story

by Kayli Sheridan As I wait for you, I walk into the coffee shop and find a place to sit. Between the two tables in the coffee shop, I wait for you. Cups are being filled with various drinks and people are rushing in and out of the place. During my time that I sit there, I watch the people coming in and out of the shop and the baristas rushing to get their orders made.

Everyone seems to be unaware of what is going on around them, as if everything around them is a blur. Finally you arrive, with your coat wrapped tightly around you.

Glad to see you, I stand up and hug you. Happily, you hug me back, asking how I've been. I tell you about my new job that I just got and ask you about your life. Just as I expected, your life hasn't changed that much at all. Kindly, I smile as you tell me about how your week has been. Like me, you enjoy your job and your apartment. Many months have passed since we last saw one another. Never would I have guessed that we'd drift so far apart. Obviously we would at some point, but I never thought so soon.

Patiently, we wait in line to grab something to eat and drink. Quietly, we stand in line, not speaking another word until we are ready to order. Realizing that there is an open table to sit at, we rush to that spot as fast as we can. Suddenly, your phone rings in your pocket. Turning to the side, you answer the call and I wait there until the conversation ends. Unable to process what happens, you tell me you have to go and that there was an emergency at the hospital. Very quickly, you grab your coat, say your goodbye to me, and head out the door. What just happened, I thought to myself. XXX that's how many minutes passed by, thirty minutes. You come rushing back into the coffee shop to tell me the news. Zac has just passed away.

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Cars Poetica

by Charles Rakaczky Indolent, I stumble into my icy automobile, My steaming coffee as my fireplace.

The blinding glow of the parking brake indicator, An affront received to my very core.

The blissful blackness of being under blankets, Obviously the only acceptable lighting for seven in the morning.

Lugubrious light drips, spills through the windows, The changing green light makes for a better sunrise.

A soft voice beckons unto choleric ears as I switch on the radio, Peanut butter chocolate cake with kool-aid could fix all problems of this insipid morning.

Deep bass and bubbly melodies cajole me to wake up for real, My physiognomy like rays slowly emerging through parting clouds.

My mouth finds its jovial voice and I sing, My body finds its warmth and I dance, I dance so hard.

Though it stops playing, the song resonates in my brain as I enter the school building, But I’m met with blasÊ faces and the daily tedium resumes.

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Thirteen Ways of Looking At a Tree Leaf

by Charles Rakaczky I In a pale grey sky, Also falls a single Caramel-brown tree leaf.

II I am of many hearts Like a tree In which leaves all brown, wilt, and fall differently.

III The leaves tap along asphalt, Quick taps, leaves running late.

IV Leaves blow Along the ground Leaves blow and stick to my pant leg Along the ground V I do not know which is of more importance,

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The leaves remaining on the tree, The falling leaves, Or the things they cover.

Or a memory of a spring tree, green leaves.

VI Snow fell under moonlight, Chilling the air.

And stacked upon wet leaves, Brown scales turned to white The crunch of walking on The small pages of parchment Softened and forgotten.

VII Oh, pink cheeked people of Green Tree, Why think of the flowers?

Give as much thought to the leaves capturing sun together, Thriving and falling together.

VIII Feel the hearth fire of blinding passion and blood in your heart But feel also The respite of crisp leaves On the soft heart.

IX When the leaves rustle in autumn, It is the applause for finishing a year of hard work X At the sight of dank leaves Gathering on tombstones, Even the children, Feel the weight of dark earth.

XI I let my eyes grow red, In a lonely wooden desk.

And I surrendered my attention, When I felt, In the pocket of my sweatpants,

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The portions of crushed leaf.

XII The sun shines, The leaves prepare for the spiral fall back to earth.

XIII It was autumn all spring.

I was working, And I had been working.

But leaves fell And one by one, lightened the load on the tree branches.

Deception

By Katerina Mertz

A lie, a ruse, a trick, a fake, A bluff, a hoax to make or break A little word, it may be true A little deception, looking at you.

Faker, liar, trickster and joke Wrapped around your neck, like a choke A hold on your life, afraid for the dead, Hoping deception’s not one step ahead.

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Eulogy of the Beautiful

by Brianna Caridi “but he has never called you beautiful― how can you love him?”

I have been called beautiful by others that just wanted to cajole me into satisfying them I know now that “beautiful” isn’t love Beautiful, if anything, is an affront against love A simple word that glows like the sun but burns out far too quickly He does not call me beautiful Yet that gaping hole where a word should be does not stem from him being indolent For if beautiful is the sun He is iridescent As the artist admires his muse He tells me “you are more intelligent than you know” I would so much rather be intelligent Than be described with the blasé attribution that is “beautiful” So to answer your feckless question I love that he does not encumber me by calling me beautiful He doesn’t slowly wrap the ropes of routine around me And tell me that I am beautiful while also saying that I am nothing For I will look into his eyes with that rage That can only be associated with being reduced to one thing And he will look back with an expression that could calm the seas And he will say “it’s okay. i know you.”

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Patience

by Alexis Zarnick Patience. It was her name. It was her gift. She was beautiful and kind in her own little ways. Her smile said it all when she looked at you. You would get lost in her eyes, wondering how can someone like her be alive. She would light up a room as soon as she entered. She was a whole new kind of different. She seemed so happy, but something was stopping her from smiling at night. A man she would go home to would treat her not right. He would tell her she’s beautiful then hurt her in too many ways to say. The bruises she would hide on her body had stories that needed to be explained.

Her patience was what was so sweet about her but once someone has taken advantage of that patience, all is lost. Then soon the spark in her eyes has faded.

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Are You Speaking My Language?

by Olivia Clark Poetry is a language, An impetus to communication, Vacillating between showing and seeing, Speaking rhythmically with the heart, And hearing a calliope of sentiments.

Emotions are explained eloquently in stanzas, Not by words of mouth, That are received through finite ears.

Poetry finds home in the boundless mind, Nurtured, appreciated, understood.

This language is historic, Preserving past philosophies, Protecting true past culture, Existing so that history is never reduced to Objective words in a book.

It encapsulates many dialects, Altercations, adoration, education.

While some may understand and speak one fluently, Others may require an interpreter.

There is disparity between every life.

Those who speak poetry Are easily separated from others, For their words softly seep into existence, Like ink into paper, Without restraint or difficulty.

Those who are foreign to the language, Interlopers to beautiful and complex thought, Speak vacuously without purpose, Like a pen dry of ink carving into paper, Empty words remaining lassitude.

Should it ever become moribund, And require hospice from the last fluent few, Those final words of poetry, Would hold more significance, Than any epistle or novel ever written.

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A Day in the Life of a Pair of Glasses

by Kara Schaffnit I need to be cleaned! My owner is laying here on the couch, passed out. She took me off as soon as she got home and now I've been sitting on this coffee table for hours. I can't see clearly! Everything is blurry! She left our favorite show on, and I can't even watch it! I'm so upset. I'm running away. I'll never speak to her again. I --Oh, she's awake! She's picking me up! Thank God. She is taking the end of her shirt and is finally cleaning away the blurriness I have been dealing with. Nothing but clear skies from here on out. She puts me on after being dressed and is ready to go. I'm in the best mood now! Nothing can bring me down!

Oh God. The defrosters. The human's best friend and my worst enemy. I'm so upset. I can never recover. The fogginess I feel makes me want to cry my lenses out. I have no idea what to do. Things can only go down from here. My seeing career is completely ru ---Oh, they're off now... I'm clearing up. Thank goodness.

Summer

by Kara Schaffnit Sunny days Under the water Moving through the pool line, Moving fast to spread your towel out Excitingly running away from your friends who are Rushing to push you in

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winter months

by Kara Schaffnit hello to december, my warm winter friend i love when you snow, never want it to end your cold temperature sends chills down my spine but i don’t mind hello january, the colder one your snow falls down harder i pray for the sun i stare out the window at the white blankets i close my eyes to rest hi february, it’s been a while i look toward a couple, and can’t help but smile i think of the person who gives me glee and i am happy.

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always

by Kara Schaffnit

as always, your fire eyes stare into mine as always, i stare back, cos it makes me warm as always, we go down to the river as always, i find myself caught in your storm you're my always

My God

by Schanelle Saldanha

My hero rests above the soaring clouds, below the darkest of depths, beside the blooming trees, Within the human souls.

Before my time began, I was His. In this earthly dwelling I found life, yet my refuge remains in Him alone. His measure cannot be counted, as He graces infinitely. While His power remains infinite, I often doubt His plan. Extricating state of confusion in my hero ensues.

However, that confusion – although captivating – is minimal compared to my hope -- a hope in my hero that He allays the poverty from my innocent brothers and sisters, that the swollen hearts of the suffering may once again palpitate with His love, that those who lack opportunity may one day have a propitious life in His name.

He gives me peace. My resilience is propitiously awakened by his overwhelming love, my fears are mitigated by His passion, my world is fulfilled because He is my guide.

My hero is my God. At the cross he rescued me then and forever.

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Drowned

by Kara Schaffnit

I feel like I’m drowning. Everyday. I’m drowning in his fake smiles, in his soft eyes, in his lies. I drown, but I don't know it. I feel this hollowness in my chest as I try to take deeper breaths, but all I can do is listen to my own staggered breathing as I breathe him in more, more, more. It becomes addicting, like a drug, like reaching the point of losing all of the air from my body is similar to reaching some sort of chemical high.

We’re different outside of school. Outside of school, you're constantly all over me. You don't hide how you feel from me or anyone else, whether it's something you've admitted to yourself or not. Your friends are fine with it, and you're fine with it, too, outside of school, at least.

In school, the hollowness I feel comes from not being near you. Sure, we communicate, but it's where you ignore me in the way I need you most. I know why you don't like to give me attention the way you always do when we're in school, too. You say it's because you're afraid of what everyone will say, because you're not ready, but I know. I know it's only because you need to make sure I still stay addicted to you.

Drowning becomes regular for me, until it isn't. Until nothing becomes regular for me. Until drowning becomes drowned.

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Power of Poetry

by Schanelle Saldanha When our thoughts are moribund, unable to sustain its safe solace in our mind, the pen begins to form stanzas of words to compensate its loss for a mere feeling. Poetry morphs our mind's deep, structured comprehension into a colorful haven for free expression and power. A perpetrator, poetry forces the intellect to vacillate between reason and emotion; that is, until they can exist in harmony. Poetry is an instructor, whose avocation is rooted in highlighting the disparity between the reticent and those who seek to dig within to find the core. Poetry is a canopy, delicately covering the beautiful freedom that exists on a canvas of silence. For it is this encapsulation that is the impetus for one to feel a fire, a storm, or a truth with words that are far deeper than what that pen once had the power to do.

A Brown Girl

by Schanelle Saldanha Adventure, a Pearl of Great Price, ran rampant through my veins as the final suitcase was packed; a new beginning emerged for the timid little girl within.

Although rooted in my foundation of trust, I felt like an interloper navigating a foreign land. The country of boundless promise, permanently dented with the lessons of the past and the hopes of the future, would unveil its upholding truth to me as I spent my new life under the 13 stripes and 50 stars. Beguiled by the degree of my potential, I worked hard to be an envoy for who I was and who I wanted to be: A sister, who occasionally resorts to crass utterances after several attempts of trying to patiently deal with the shenanigans of a little brother. A daughter, whose goals are never forced to be the vicarious products of her parents. A student, who believes that persistent passion and effort surmount any form of innate intelligence. An ambitious, stressed out brown girl, who feels propelled to laugh at nearly every joke, and who has never forgotten where she came from.

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Rainbow

by Emily Brosky Rain dripped onto the roof Creating a rhythm with its drops She felt safe and dry from within her home A fire was going and a blanket covered her Her dog was nuzzled against her leg She had to leave her comfy spot To take her dog outside She put on her hat, coat, and boots With each step, she squeaked She opened the door and her umbrella Her dog ran out right away The rain made her hesitant Finally she went out She could hear the thumping of raindrops against her umbrella And her boots touched the cold, wet leaves Her dog was done They went inside And cuddled by the fire Eventually the rain went away and along came the sun accompanied by a beautiful rainbow

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The Lamp

by Emily Brosky A knock was heard at the door He opened to find no one there A box was on the ground Entitled "Please handle with care" He brought it inside Carefully, so not to hurt it He put it on the table Making sure it didn't get hit He opened it to find a lamp This wasn't just any lamp It was a leg And it had a special stamp The stamp read "FRAGILE" "Must be Italian," he thought So he took it out and put it in his front window His wife was becoming distraught She hated it But he loved it She was embarrassed Then it was lit Enraged, she broke the lamp "An accident" she called it He became sad and frustrated However, he did not quit He taped it together And finally back up it went To show his prized trophy to all the neighbors She wished it had never been sent

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High School’s Journey

by Olivia Clark You may start out unsure Not knowing where to go No one said it'd be easy At least you're never alone So many choices to make And they all come so fast Four whole years of high school come And they too will quickly pass You'll meet the weirdest people Who will end up being your friends Because these crazy times with them Are four years well spent But how can I choose a college When I don't know what I want I can't even fill this page With size 12 Times New Roman font How can I be an adult so soon I don't know how to pay a bill At least I know that mitochondria Is the powerhouse of the cell You will never get enough sleep And you may even cry in school Well, it looks like everyone's doing it So I guess it's pretty cool And through all this suffering You'll come out as someone else After this process of positive changes You'll finally find yourself But the only way to do that Is to go out and have fun Don't waste your time worrying About everything under the sun Who cares if you failed one test So did the majority of the class And I hate to be this honest But it probably won't be your last Grades will come and go 24

As long as you did your best And they can't measure your character By the results of a single test No one said high school would be easy But there's one thing I want you to know That everyone else is suffering too And you're never alone.

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The Necklace

by Brianna Caridi He likes when I paint my nails red Not cherry Wine He says it reminds him of the wine we used to drink Out of paper cups on the fire escape.

That wasn’t me, but I don’t mind I’ve always been good with dissimulation.

When I don’t respond he laughs a droll laugh And each time I think That I am his own personal Pygmalion That I am a pet that he never learned how to take care of.

A few days ago he gave me a necklace with his name on it He clipped it around my neck Making sure to first palpate the skin of my collarbones.

And I think I’m supposed to like that he owns me now.

I’m supposed to be happy that his name hangs from my neck Like a sign reading “do not touch.”

Once I didn’t wear it Just to see what would happen When he realized it, he quickly expressed his censure In a way that made spots of purple appear on my ribs.

With every piece of me that vanishes, he becomes more peremptory.

I’m not sure how much more of myself I can give him Before I disappear completely.

But he doesn’t seem to think that I’m giving a surfeit of myself Because the only word I hear him say now is “more” So I paint my nails red And I let the silver glisten around my neck And when I wear shirts that cover his name so only the chain is visible I tell everyone that it’s a dog tag.

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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Coffee Cup

by Brianna Caridi I The plastic seat covers of the booth Scratch against my legs uncomfortably She sets down an empty white coffee cup in front of me.

II I glance inside the coffee cup Countless rims of different shades of brown swirl within Ghosts of red lips that have suddenly turned brown.

III She is in front of me again― filling my coffee cup The ghosts vanish.

IV My lips and the coffee cup Are one.

My lips and the coffee cup and the lips of the ghosts Are one.

V When I finish, I look again inside the coffee cup And see nothing but the ghost of me.

I can’t leave her here I take the cup with me when I go.

VI I feel odd getting on the subway With the ghost of myself in my hand No one else thinks it’s strange They think I’m holding an old coffee cup That’s stained and crumbling and Unworthy.

They are wrong.

VII When I open the door, he is there.

“Why are you holding that?” he wants to know “Don’t you see me Within this coffee cup?

Why am I invisible to you?”

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VIII The door slams behind me.

He asked if I had seen Dr. Robin lately He wants me to talk to him later But I don’t want that I want to save myself from this coffee cup.

IX The bruises on my wrists don’t hurt as bad the next day But tan doesn’t cover purple As brown covers the white of my coffee cup.

X He told me he wished he didn’t have to do that And then he kissed my cheek as he left for work.

He’s making me stay home today, which is okay I can enjoy my coffee cup without him.

XI He hid my coffee cup When he got home that day.

He told me I could have it back When I start acting like myself again.

When will he learn I am trapped inside that cup.

XII I found my coffee cup, but he took it out of my hand.

It flew past my head and shattered against the wall behind me.

XIII I cleaned up the broken ceramic Which was okay I threw away pieces of myself Which was not He brings me gas station coffee cups now.

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The Oracle is a proud member of the Pennsylvania School Press Association and a charter school member of the Quill and Scroll High School Journalists' International Honors Society.

We would like to thank all the people who contributed to The Oracle, in both big and small ways. You have helped to make The Oracle what it is, and we are grateful for your participation and submissions.

An extra thank you goes out to Sophia Charron for creating the artwork on the cover!

Look for the spring issue in May, 2018.

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