Packer Current Items Vol. 110

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P A C K E R CURRENT I T E M S V O L U M E

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To D r. M e l m a n , For keeping us on track, and for driving us forward t h r o u g h o u t t h e y e a r. Yo u r w o r d s i n s p i r e u s a l l , a n d w e have learned a tremendous amount just from listening to y o u s p e a k . We w a n t t o t h a n k y o u f o r a l l y o u h a v e d o n e , b o t h a s t h e s u p e r v i s o r o f Pa c k e r C u r r e n t I t e m s a n d a s o u r t e a c h e r. I t h a s b e e n a n h o n o r t o w o r k w i t h y o u .

With love, Paul and Iva

DESTINI ARMSTRONG 12th Dr. Melman 2

PUBLISHING

WRITING

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Archie Caride

ASSOCIATE WRITING EDITOR Hawthorne Ripley

FACULTY ADVISOR Dr. Peter Melman

LS WRITING EDITORS Ruhi Sah and Ella Spungen

MARKETING

MS WRITING EDITORS Yasemin Cag and Delilah Draper

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Paul McLaren and Iva Fehr

MARKETING DIRECTOR Julia McCormick

PRODUCTION COORDINATOR Lucy Simon PRODUCTION ASSISTANT Lilly McCuddy SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR Eve Berrie

ART

SENIOR ART EDITOR Sasha Miasnikova ASSOCIATE ART EDITOR Lucie Bisbee LS ART EDITORS Lucy Alsop and Emily Benson MS ART EDITORS Anya Fonstein and Christina Leonard US ART EDITORS Hannah Goncher and Alex Molestina SUBMISSIONS EDITORS Henry Morgan and Hage Primus

SENIOR WRITING EDITOR Sarah Harty

US WRITING EDITORS Julia Kaubisch and Jonah Sollins-Devlin SUBMISSIONS EDITORS Michelle Abramowitz and Sacha Sloan

SPECIAL THANKS TO Risa Glickman, Liz Titone, Michael Miller, Eric Baylin, Elizabeth Eagle, Elissa Krebs, Ali Boag, The Packer Parent Association, and The US Student Council.

COVER ARTWORK Paul McLaren, 12th (photo) Alex Molestina, 11th (painting) Charles Johnson, 3rd (back cover)

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Hadassah Akinleye..................42 Dario Allais...................................44 Lucy Anderson......................9, 74 Genesis Andrade..............40, 45 Nate Antoine...............................39 Destini Armstrong....................107 Otis Asare-Appiah.....................51 Georgia Bank.............................97 Esme Baptista...........................105 Joseph Bentley.........................25 Eve Berrie....................................34 Lucie Bisbee...............................74 Alexander Bourtin.......................11 Brittany Boyce..........................106 Campbell Burke........................80 Yasemin Cag..............................92 Archie Caride ......................21, 46 Aidan Cleland.............................27 Evan Chen..................................89 Marleina Cohen........................109 Matthew Coletta........................112 KJM Dalmatians.........................34 Lia Di Bitonto..............................95 Rory Dolan...................................47 Delilah Draper............................88 Hank Elsesser............................52 Iva Fehr........................................104 Judah Fortune...........................58 Fourth Grade..............................50 Lucy Freedman...........................17 Zoe Gomez.................................85 Hannah Goncher......................103 Logan Green..............................84 Henry Green..............................22 Benjamin Griffin...................51, 58 Holly Guion.................................38 Henry Guzman-Mitchell........108 Mia Hanna...................................30 Sophie Hanna...........................109 Benjamin Harrington.................31

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Ruby Harris.................................56 Sarah Harty.................................32 Jack Healey................................94 Alex Hermer................................57 Maggie Heslin...........................56 Kristin Howell..............................116 Gabriela Hubner........................93 Nigel Jaffe....................................64 Isabella Jansen..........................62 Adelaide Jaros...........................117 Aidan Jelveh................................16 Lily Jensen...................................115 Adda Jones................................59 Maeve Joyce..............................33 Carden Katz.........................84, 98 Jing Jing Kneale........................60 Phoebe Krebs............................62 Alec Kyritsis.................................29 Cate Lambert..............................93 Julia Latham................................36 Carter Lee....................................67 Charlotte Leibowitz..................66 Diego Lowe................................58 Sebastian Lowe.........................25 Alexandra Lowenstein............35 Marigold Manley.........................18 Lilly McCuddy.............................88 Hannah McKnight.....................90 Paul McLaren.........................6, 86 Zoe Mercado...............................14 Sasha Miasnikova...............12, 13 Isabel Mina..................................43 Alex Molestina....................54, 118 Ana Molestina............................79 Soledad Nadel...........................65 Leila Narisetti .............................43 Dylan Ng.......................................91 Anjali O’Kelley............................58 Eleanor Ovalle.....................15, 121 Dylan Paige.................................23

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Gallo Patel...................................60 Abigail Penalver..........................61 Michael Perlmutter....................89 Nathalie Perra............................24 Lily Pine.................................101, 119 Nathalie Pridgen.......................53 Sarai Pridgen..............................72 Devyn Prieto...............................63 Virgil Ratner..................................111 Keira Reidy...................................110 Delilah Righter...........................26 Nicholas Robinson....................78 Silas Rock................................7, 82 Logan Rosier...............................54 Zoe Rutkovsky...................24, 68 Grace Ryder..................................8 Sadie Sadler............................11, 91 Faridat Salami............................20 Theodore Schiff........................104 Benjamin Schneier..........28, 102 Clara Schott.................................63 Lilian Shor....................................92 Lucy Simon................................100 Harry Slattery..............................48 Zoe Sloan....................................70 Nicole Smith...............................50 Rufus Somerby..........................99 Ella Spungen..............................27 Jake Srebnick.............................10 Lottie Story.....................................9 Julien Strickland.................76, 114 Nate Taplitz.................................68 Thoebelani..................................113 Joseph Tramontin.....................75 Amadi Williams...........................73 Josh Wittstein.............................110 Lea Wong..............................41, 55 Natasha Wong...........................77 Christina Young............................71

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PAUL McLAREN 12th Women’s March

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SILAS ROCK 10th Figure

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GRACE RYDER 12th Untitled

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LOTTIE STORY 5th A Poem on Girls They say You have no reason to rebel Stay where you are But No They will not Strip us of our wings We will soar Only to be knocked Back down again We are nasty women and we will Get back up again Our wings scarred Our faces bruised But complexion is not our mission We will run Jump Fly We will burn up the sky Scream from the roofs We are nasty women We will not back down You may knock us to the ground But we We nasty women Will get right back up again And try again

LUCY ANDERSON 7th Jumping Girl 9

JAKE SREBNICK 8th Fly Guy 10

SADIE SADLER 7th Self-portrait ALEXANDER BOURTIN 7th Alexander the Powerful Alexander. Smooth, sharp, soothing, and sacred. Alexander. The first gift I ever received.

Alexander. A title of power. A title of strength. A title of leadership. In Greek it means “defender of the men.� Long before I was ever conceived, my parents knew if they had a boy, they would name him Alexander. A classic name. A name thousands of years old, but yet the flame never runs out. Alex. The most common nickname. The one that most people call me. Short and sharp. Xander. My favorite nickname. Only some people call me that.

Ale. What the kids in Italy call me because Alex feels wrong in their mouth, like a pebble in your shoe. Allieboy. A name I was given by my father as a small boy. He named me after a Mafia boss that he threw in jail. Alpal. What my friends called me in the lower school.

Some still do now, but not very often. Alexander. A name that conquered the world over 2,000 years ago. A name that ruled the Catholic church on many different occasions. A name that wrote the papers that convinced the country to come together and support our Constitution that created the country we live in today. Alexander. Me. Myself. And I.

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SASHA MIASNIKOVA 12th Woman Sitting 12 12

SASHA MIASNIKOVA 12th White Light SASHA MIASNIKOVA 12th White Light (Booty) 13 13

ZOE MERCADO 9th Personal Revolution Throughout most of my life, I’ve struggled with the societal beauty standards in America.

When I was younger, life was easy and carefree and my only problem was that I had to wait after dinner to eat dessert. I wasn’t exposed to how women conventionally should look like up until middle school, where it was finally revealed to me. I suddenly wanted to look like the girls showed in magazines and praised on social media. I coveted the hairless figure with “good” hair that is long and silky straight, a thin pointed nose, tan skin, and a slim hourglass figure. I didn’t like my thick S-shaped curls anymore. I became very self conscious of my body hair and hated the summer because I’d have to wear short sleeve shirts and shorts that would put my hairy arms on display. I avoided being in the sun because it that meant that my skin would get even darker.

In my middle school, the girls that the boys always thought were pretty had those features.

And even worse, 7th grade was the year that I created an Instagram account, and I was surrounded by inconceivable euro centric beauty standards for women. Equally important, when women of color were praised, especially black women, they usually had long loose curly hair, light skin and thinner noses that made them eligible to pass as being “racially mixed”. If the ideal beauty standard for black women is the stereotypical woman that is mixed with black and white, then the majority of the female black community, which didn’t have these features, stood no chance. The effects of these factors slowly unfolded and made me believe that women like me, women of color that didn’t fit the typical beauty standard for their ethnic group, could never be beautiful.

However, as time passed and I found affinity accounts on Instagram for women of color, I finally began to realize how messed up beauty standards are, because what society doesn’t often praise is just as beautiful. Everyday I viewed memes that reminded of how diverse type 4 hair is, how beautiful brown skin is, and how lucky having body hair is because it comes with thicker eyebrows and hair which society praises. I loved seeing photos that said to support young black and Latina girls with wide noses, narrow hips and dark brown skin that struggle with their self esteem. The power and courage I had after reading notes like that was surreal.

I was amazed by the beauty of overlooked black models who I had never heard of. I finally began to see women who looked like me, and were considered beautiful by many people and who did not succumb to the American epitome of a desirable woman. Right there is where my revolution ended, and I no longer hated my thick s shaped curls, brown skin, wide nose, and body hair because they make me the strong independent black woman that I am now.

Beauty standards are make-believe, you just have to challenge problematic societal norms and social injustices to discern that.

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ELEANOR OVALLE 12th Puerto Rico

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AIDAN JELVEH 9th Untitled

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LUCY FREEDMAN 12th Bean Bag

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MARIGOLD MANLEY 1st Cow Jumped Over the Moon...

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FARIDAT SALAMI 9th The Eyes of the Hubble Telescope I look into the sky and I see space; an abyss of darkness, a gulf of nothing.

I see all my thoughts, dreams, and hopes stretched into the emptiness. I realize there are some things I will never be able to reach, hearts I will never be able to touch, and eyes I will never be able to meet.

My whole being begins to wane, with the futility of my world caving in on me, and the importance of my existence seeming to be severed.

I look into the sky and I see space; sometimes I swear I also see the face of fear, and I feel smaller than ever.

I look through the eyes of Hubble Telescope and I see space; a macrocosm of matter and a totality of substance, balls of luster decorating the darkness, engulfed by magenta stained light.

Wavelengths of beauty relentlessly painting nothing; a synthesis of magic and reality, a beautiful birth of illusion and truth.

I look through the Hubble Telescope and I see the charming cosmos, and I make a connection: Stars are exploding orbs of gas bursting with energy and structured with hydrogen; hydrogen being the most abundant element in the human body.

Meteors soaring swiftly through the observable universe made of iron; iron coursing through my own veins, flowing through my body.

Carbon floating in the gases of the galaxy, while simultaneously resting in my lungs.

I look through the Hubble Telescope and I see the universe: I realize I am not apart from the universe, but a part of it.

A shooting star passes that is made up of the same elements that exist within each breath I take, and I realize that I am part of something greater, something outstanding, something immense, and my whole being begins to explode.

The importance of my existence seems to expand, and reach and grow, until I feel as big as ever.

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ARCHIE CARIDE 10th Lines

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HENRY GREEN 10th P.E. Taxi

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DYLAN PAIGE 12th Cliff

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ZOE RUTKOVSKY 9th Lighthouse NATHALIE PERRA 7th Far Far Away He goes by John now because his name got lost in American culture. Too difficult to say or spell. John’s close enough, just call him John. But he is also 할아버지, my grandfather. He is a totally different person standing in the sepia photo that doesn’t have the glossy and sticky texture of the photo paper we use today. It’s just smooth like thick paper. He is standing on a staircase with some man who I don’t know someplace I have never been far, far, faraway.

Both their hands resting perfectly on the railing of the stairs as if it was a movie set. Standing straight and tall. Different than how he stands now, different than how he struggles to walk with his cane and his back bent low now. Straight and disciplined. That’s what people have to do in war, stay disciplined and pinned down while you watch the people around you die. You have to keep a straight face and not take the bait of letting your emotions catch up to you.

You have to make sure that you move on. My haraboji doesn’t smile, he has almost no expression on his face. He is a blank piece of paper. Nothing written on it to show what it has gone through. He is dressed in a dark uniform with shiny buttons closing it. The uniform is crisp, sharp, and not wrinkled, like how he must have been. I know he was different than the generous and smiley person he is today.

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JOSEPH BENTLEY 12th excerpt from The Red Jacket

I looked down the mountain, turned to my father and said: “Are you kidding me?”

Dad nervously laughed, “No, this will be fun!”

My mother stared in disbelief. “This is not a good idea, Teddy should not be going down this steep of a trail.”

In response, my little brother said, “mom, don’t worry. I can do this!”

My dad took a deep breath, and we all looked out at the open sky and the huge walls of snow that towered up into the cloudless atmosphere, and then down the slope.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’re going to do this and love it. Trust me.”

This was our second family ski trip to Montana. Our first was last winter, and we stayed for a week. This year my parents made plans for another week’s vacation, renting a small cot- tage in the center of a rustic ski resort.

I knew my mom wanted us to have fun as a family, my dad too. And Teddy? He just wanted to have fun. Our family was pretty cooperative with one another, and we all looked forward to a great vacation every year.

I knew this ski trip was a privilege. Even at 22, I knew this. I knew that I was very, very fortunate. We lived in Manhattan, both of my parents have impressive jobs, and my brother and I attended top private high schools.

Even the trip out to Montana had been special. When we checked in at the airport, the attendant announced a first-class seat was available.

My mother turned to me, “Ben, why don’t you take that seat? Your birthday is tomor- row, and it could be an early present.”

I smiled sarcastically, “well, if I must...”

“You’re so lucky!” Teddy said. My mom then kissed me on the head and said, “Yes honey, you are very lucky.”

At that moment I felt cautiously excited. Yes I was lucky, but maybe SEBASTIAN LOWE 2nd Branches too lucky.

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DELILAH RIGHTER 12th Kid

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ELLA SPUNGEN 10th Paralyzed in Color Leaves crunch on the ground, flattening as you roll over them. Blood red on gold on chartreuse blending into one shade of brown, if you squint hard enough. You wince as the sharp sounds of fall snap into place in your ears. It smells alive, awake, aware—everything you are not.

You are pushed slowly, fingers trailing the grooves of your rubber wheels as they cleave through undulating fields of leaves. The colors are too bright. You are struck by the intensity of these deep, rich hues: browns, dark reds, coppers coming alive in unprecedented ways. Swirling around you and you feel like you are tumbling and there is no bottom and no chair below you.

Vertigo.

You hold a trembling hand up, fingers outstretched. Raphael, attuned to your every movement, stops abruptly, sending you jolting farther into your chasm. He puts a soft hand on your shoulder, grounding you, and you breathe. You are still in your chair, strapped in, although you are straining against your bonds and your stomach feels as if it is dashed along the bottom of that abyss. Your eyelids, your only barrier between you and this inexcusable beauty, flutter.

There is a jagged stone in your throat.

Raphael’s voice pipes in from behind you.

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?” You nod, an almost i m p e rc e p t i b l e ac k n ow l e d ge ment that you are still in your body and not tumbling past the warped walls of a canyon

AIDAN CLELAND 6th Untitled 27

BENJAMIN SCHNEIER 12th Untitled

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ALEC KYRITSIS 9th excerpt from The Long Walk It was dark when I stepped out of the subway station, and a slight drizzle fell from the heavens, making the world glitter. Light from the few stores that were open danced off the gleaming streets. Tightly packed houses lined either side of the road. A few cars drove by, breaking the silence and disturbing the beautiful array of luminescence with their headlights.

I slowly began my favorite part of the day: the long walk home. It was just me, and the mask of of darkness that I wore. No one else. I did not care about the few strangers that I met on the street; I did not judge them, and they did not judge me. We simply walked in the cover of darkness. Each of us in our own world, blissfully ignorant of the future or the past. To each other, we were only shadows, only walking in the now, only walking forward.

And yet in that moment, I was no longer untouchable by my problems. The future and the past collided together, pinning me between them. The fear of the game tomorrow had already started growing. I did not want to go. I did not want to be humiliated on the field. I did not want to play a game that I despised, a game that I was afraid of. My instincts told me run, to hide until it was over. I could barely lift 100 pounds. And yet I imagined the look of hidden disappointment in my parents’ stone faces. Their emotions were distinct, and I struggled to read them, to feel them. Yet it was impossible, an unfeasible task.

A raindrop fell into my right eye, blurring the light show in front of me. Red, yellow, green and white lights all turned into circles of color, perfect droplets of bright paint on a dark mundane canvas. It was so beautiful. Slowly the lights and my thoughts swirled together, and my conscience became clear. I realized that it did not matter what my parents wanted, but instead what I wanted. I had to do what was right for me.

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MIA HANNA 4th Untitled 30

BENJAMIN HARRINGTON 4th Untitled 31

SARAH HARTY 12th excerpt from Paradise Lost In the deeper parts of Brooklyn, far enough from the hustle and bustle across the river, Frank Alpine was wandering the streets. He was a mostly capable young man, a fast learner, too, and eager to please. Unfortunately, that hadn’t gotten him much. At the moment he was cold, hungry, tired, and out of a job that could ameliorate his troubles. He felt around in the pockets of Levi’s for his last week’s pay, wondering if he had enough left to get some dinner and a cup of coffee to revive him. He came up with forty-seven cents worth of change.

Those cheapskates, Frank thought uncharitably. They’ve got enough dough to expand across California, but won’t even give me a decent paycheck when they kick me out the door.

Frank walked around aimlessly for the next hour or so. He’d only just arrived in Brooklyn a few days ago, didn’t have a place to stay lined up, had no friend he could call on for any sort of help. His recent epiphany that he was, in fact, a man of great importance and potential, tore him away from the thought of crawling into the nearest cellar to spend another night not fully asleep. When he saw the lights headlining the billiards bar across the street, he figured he could make his half-dollar into at least enough for a few nights in a motel.

Grabbing onto the railing for balance and then letting go as he felt the stickiness on his palm, he entered the bar. It was dark and smoky, the neon sign on the back wall blinking through the haze. He played a few games, but when he counted his money after the last round he was dismayed at his grand total of one dollar and twenty-five cents. Frank felt about ready to give up when he felt someone behind him. He turned around.

“Hey,” the man said. Frank took him in: his imposing stature, the way his face seemed to be slicked with oil, the grip of a handgun peeking out of his hip pocket. He wasn’t sure why, but he made as if to reach for his own. He’d spent weeks working in that chain store out west, saving up to buy something he felt could get him somewhere. That gun was more his ticket east than the train he rode in on. The big man smiled, a large, toothy grin that Frank didn’t much like. It was like if a snake came up and smiled at you - more than a little unnerving.

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MAEVE JOYCE 2nd Untitled

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KJM DALMATIANS Pre-K Collaborative Earth Poems Earth, Earth, Earth The most important planet

Growing trees Reducing, Reusing, Recycling

The Earth is loved The Earth is our home The Earth is for everyone The Earth is for animals

Earth, Earth, Earth The most important planet!!

The Earth gives us…..

Oxygen Trees Food Water

Take care of the Earth Don’t destroy the Earth Celebrate the Earth Pick up trash Don’t litter….Litter hurts the Earth

We love the Earth Take care of the Earth by… It is where we live The trees give us air Giving it soil It keeps us on the ground Picking up litter The Earth is our mother!

Making homes for all EVE BERRIE 11th Women’s March 34

ALEXANDRA LOWENSTEIN 3rd Untitled

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M 8 th M y s te ry A H T A L IA L U J

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HOLLY GUION 5th Stickball

NATE ANTOINE 12th Beat 39

GENESIS ANDRADE 10th Girl MAGGIE KIM 2nd Courage Courage is being brave at a sleepover.

Courage is going in a dark room.

Courage is eating spicy food.

Courage is doing homework.

Courage is going on a zipline for the first time.

Courage is taking the blame.

Courage is letting someone else go first.

Courage is learning how to read.

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LEA WONG 8th Yellow Dress 41

HADASSAH AKINLEYE 10th Tangible Ghost I guess I’ve always thought of you as a glass- half empty sort of person Searching for something maybe you lost in another life, Something you can’t quite remember, But you also can’t forget the way it made you feel.

I think you’re really glad someone invented headphones Because even though your head bops to the beat foot taps to a funky rhythm, There’s no music playing.

The sounds of your thoughts and the electricity sparkling along your brain keep you occupied enough that there doesn’t have to be.

I don’t even think you feel.

Not that you aren’t capable of doing so, But the force field around you’s too connected to the barbed wire you wrapped around you heart, And if you were to let either go, You wouldn't know what to do with yourself.

I know that you tried.

You tried to give me what you thought I wanted.

You dazzled me with metaphors so beautiful I would forget you never told me “I love you.”

was asleep, Unguarded.

It went well for a little while.

Until I realized that I never seemed to put you at a loss for words.

You’d always have something beautiful to say to me, Though slightly distant and impersonal, Like you stored everything I wanted to hear in a catalog somewhere up there, And you could pick one out whenever you wanted.

It wasn’t until you told me something that I’d remember you saying to me years ago, The exact same way That I knew something was wrong.

It was like one of your recycled sayings popped back up to the top of the pile and you didn’t realize it.

That night, sleepily, I asked you to tell me what you really thought of me.

No metaphors, no calculated dazzling. You didn’t answer, but I was too tired to focus on anything but your soft kisses.

When I woke up, there was the note there.

It said, “I’m Sorry.”

Every morning, I’d wake up to a yellow note, Telling me I was most beautiful when I 42

ISABEL MINA 7th I-S-A-B-E-L Isabel. I-S-A-B-E-L. That’s my name. Not Isabelle with two l’s and an e, not Izabel with a z, not Issabel with two s’, and not Isabella. Apparently it’s not “American enough” but that’s okay.

Maybe I can never find my name on souvenir keychains. Maybe no one spells it right even a lifetime after meeting me. Maybe my gym coach called me Isabella for the whole year during the fourth grade. But that’s okay, because my name doesn’t have to be “American enough” for you.

Isabel. I-S-A-B-E-L. Ese es mi nombre. No es Isabelle con dos l’s y una e, no es Izabel con una z, no es Issabel con dos s’, y no es Isabella. Apparently my name isn’t “Mexican enough”, but that’s okay. Maybe in Mexico, Isabel isn’t supposed to be a first name. Maybe Isabel is supposed to be sandwiched tightly between a bunch of other names no one can remember; yet another thing that makes me not “Mexican enough”. Maybe in Mexico wherever I go people ask me “eres gringa?” Gringa. I’m seen as a foreigner. I don’t fit in. But that’s okay, because my name doesn’t have to be “Mexican enough” for you.

Maybe my mom and my dad wanted a name that worked in English and Spanish. Maybe they didn’t need it to be “American enough” or “Mexican enough”. Maybe my name is different in my two worlds.

But that’s okay.

Maybe in America my name is dragged too long and the vowels are sloppy, and maybe that’s still not “American enough”.

Maybe in Mexico my name is pronounced with vowels as sharp as tin, yet it’s still not “Mexican enough”. Maybe it isn’t perfect. But that’s okay.

LEILA NARISETTI 9th Clay Portrait 43

DARIO ALLAIS 6th Hot Dog Stand

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GENESIS ANDRADE 10th Untitled 45

ARCHIE CARIDE 10th Flowerboy

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RORY DOLAN 10th Mr. White’s Whale It had been a long day at work and at this point, Frank was almost considering turning the car right out of the small BP gas station he had been waiting at for the past 20 minutes. The engine of his 1989 Honda Civic made a low sputtering as he inched closer to the pristine bumper of the car ahead of him. A sadistic part of Frank was so tempted to floor the gas into that bright red bumper, but his sparsely filled wallet warned him otherwise. His hand glided unconsciously towards the radio only to remind him that it had been three years and he still hadn’t gotten the damn thing fixed. Frank had gotten off work an hour ago, expecting to be home by 10:00 pm. It was now 10:47 - 10:43 he corrected himself, his watch was four minutes ahead - and Mr. White’s brand new red Jaguar had made no signs of moving.

Mr. White, Frank’s neighbor was an object of extreme annoyance in Frank’s life. Living off of his father’s fortune, Mr. White had bought out the house next to Frank’s and spent his days there on his front deck painting or writing without a care in the world. He listened to stuffy classical music and made a show of really blasting it through his state of the art sound system.

But Frank was a tolerant man, you have to be when you work in a call center, and he obliged these superfluous showings of decadence. But what really got Frank going was the paper. Every morning for the past month, Frank had opened his door to find a distinct lack of paper lying on his doorstep. He had assumed it was just a mistake until he noticed the large paper mache whale that had erected itself on Mr. White’s front lawn.

Everyday since the appearance of that fateful paper creature, Frank’s hatred of Mr. White had only grown. He would often fantasize about the whale’s destruction (or even Mr. Whites), but never acted on his urges. Instead, each morning, Frank would chuck small pebbles from his driveway into the creature, creating small yet satisfying holes.

Even more satisfying was Mr. White’s reactions upon finding these holes.

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HARRY SLATTERY 12th Doodles

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NICOLE SMITH 10th Atmosphere

FOURTH GRADE Gold Sculptures

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OTIS ASARE-APPIAH 2nd Branches BENJAMIN GRIFFIN 4th excerpt from The Tale of Mule Mountain Little white snowflakes fell from the early morning sky and settled gently on the ground. The sun had not yet made its appearance over the tall mountains that loomed over the tiny Moroccan village. Hassan slowly creaked the door shut and made his way down the snowy path that lead away from his humble three-story mansion. Hassan was a plump, squat kid who was known for his running skills, but not in a good way. In fact, he was probably the slowest kid in the village.

He approached the tiny stable that stood at the end of the path and slid the heavy wooden door over with the chilly brass handle. The butt of an overweight mule named MO backed into Hassan’s face and he stumbled backward.

He walked down the side of the stable trying--but failing--to avoid MO’s outward kicks.

He grabbed the big basket that sat on a shelf at the back of the stable. Hassan’s mother had weaved the basket when Hassan first started the business of leading tourists up Mule Mountain, the mountain that stood over the village. He strapped the basket to MO’s back and led him out the stable door.

The call to prayer suddenly sounded, breaking the dead silence. The words of the Koran echoed around the valley like a ball ricocheting between two big walls. Then, all was silent again. Hassan made his way out onto the hard, mud road and up the hill to the village. Hassan was the last to arrive. He tied MO to the donkey post outside and opened the splintery wood door.

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HANK ELSESSER 7th Untitled

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NATHALIE PRIDGEN 7th Untitled 53

c e o f S h* t ie P l a u t c A lls an e too blue wa 1 1 t h Yo u’r e Th .

A m o IN T ro d S e E b L t y dimly li you, and ALEX MO stcard from m ly won’t reach

b u this po t know it proba I . e m e I’m writing yo v nd it ’s way ou o fi b r a e r v e e n w to ly e m k roo st li s way to you, mp, it will mo of my too bare it a s st d n m fi a d it d d o n g it, a find a writing it even if I mail ’m d I even if I can n t u A B r. . e it ss sh re d ce of on my can se you’re a pie u of the rubble a c e b . I hate that. I u it o y d a to re y ’t sa n o n w is eve you probably rget about th t sure what to fo o n n a c ’m I I . d is n a it , re ave ll anyway. So he ne like you h underneath a o d e e m sh so ru d c n g fi in l be at I’l e room, slowly only hope th lu b o to y m en in postcard, hidd my dresser. the rubble on

LOGAN ROSIER 4th Rats 54

LEA WONG 8th Hands

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MAGGIE HESLIN 2nd The Time the Bay Froze One winter day, I was in Long Island. My friends were coming over. When they got there we all put on our winter jackets. We wanted to play in the snow. We sprinted outside. The door slammed behind us. We ran down the stairs. I thought I was going to slip. When our moms were coming down, we were throwing snowballs at each other. The sound of our snowboots went slush slush. When we looked at the bay, we saw that the bay was frozen. We begged our moms, “can we please walk on it,” and they said, “yes.” So we walked down to the beach. I stepped onto the bay. It felt wobbly at first. We all walked around. Next we pretended we were explorers. There were little islands of snow and we pretended to be mermaids. We found shards of ice. We went back up to the house and put the shards of ice on our snow fort and took our snow gear off and sat down by the fireplace and drank tea. Next year I hope the bay freezes again.

RUBY HARRIS 9th Mountains 56

ALEX HERMER 9th Home

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ANJALI O’KELLEY 1st Brownstone

BENJAMIN GRIFFIN 4th Chinatown

JUDAH FORTUNE 5th CITY Those city buildings I know that I'm in Times Square The screens light the way.

DIEGO LOWE 4th Gift Shop 58

ADDA JONES 8th Skyscraper

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JING JING KNEALE 10th Forgetting I know you may have forgotten me, But I will never forget you.

I love you as my own, That will never be broken.

The bond between us was so grand, As I was your little "turkey" in your hand.

You made feel so happy and laugh so hard, This connection will never break not even with a shard.

It might be your time, I knew it was coming.

I will never admit how much death hurts, But I hope it's lovely and peaceful for you.

Please don't leave me, I can't let you go for you are my heart walking outside my rib cage.

I love you to the moon and back.

GALLO PATEL 8th Self-portrait

Please don't leave me, This earth has so much to offer.

I want to share so much more, And have a last word.

I just want a second more, Minute more, Hour more, Eternity.

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ABIGAIL PENALVER 7th D is for

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PHOEBE KREBS 6th Hug

ISABELLA JANSEN 11th Hippo 62

CLARA SCHOTT 2nd Sun set

DEVYN PRIETO 12th by sunset

her name reads like heartbreak by sunset a descent into darkness with shades of purple and blue bold light obscured by horizons, or a crescent moon’s shadow when my heart is full but draining – listen to the bellow of the ocean as it swallows it whole and cracks the sun like a bell. i don’t wish on shooting stars anymore, but on the lilac hues of a common blue sky even when she takes my hand and says, “doesn’t it ache to feel this way?”

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NIGEL JAFFE 10th excerpts from A Bird

I.

At least now you know all that stuff about your life flashing before your eyes is just bullshit— well, you didn’t see anything. It’s really cold up there, and you may be in shock. You can’t hear a thing but that damn ringing, your ears ringing so loud it hurts.

You think maybe you should open your eyes, but not yet. Not yet. Your hands sting but you think all your fingers are there, they probably just hurt from gripping so hard, you hope. Something wet is on your leg— you must be bleeding there. You should look and see, but not yet. It’s unbelievably windy and that nice leather jacket you just bought last Wednesday is fighting savagely to stay on and it’s whipping into you over and over again and it hurts like hell but at least you can feel it. You hope you can hang on until they get you down. You should look, just to see where you are. But not yet. Not yet.

5.

You wish you could hear. There might be fire trucks down there already. You must be dripping blood on the emergency squad. You imagine the droplets of blood will freeze before they hit the ground, congealing and crystallizing as they fall, crimson snowflakes that dance on the wind like falling stars as they plummet towards the earth. It’s probably only been a few seconds. Things happen so fast— in the blink of an eye you can go from a typical secretary to a dead woman, blown into little pieces that scatter on the wind for miles, surprising livestock in surrounding counties okay stop it now you’re still alive. For the moment.

X.

You get up from your desk. Exhale. Stretch. The clock ticks. The seconds pass too slowly. Time for a break. You get up, walk back to the coffee machine. Pour a cup. Open the fridge. Get the milk. Next, the sugar...

Something seems off. You go to the window, look down at the street. A rush of air behind you— Boom.

At least now you know all that stuff about your life flashing before your eyes is just bullshit— well, you didn’t see anything.

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SOLEDAD NADEL 1st Untitled

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CHARLOTTE LEIBOWITZ 5th Untitled

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CARTER LEE 1st Humpty Dumpty

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ZOE RUTKOVSKY 9th excerpt from Instagram, Missles and Chicken Cutlet The house is luminous from the same light that brushed my skin moments earlier. My sister and I smile at the children who shy from the entrance, now standing behind their parents. I am introduced to the girl who is the same age as me, about the same height and stature. She tucks her wavy butterscotch hair behind lightly tanned skin. I wave at her. Her younger sister is the same age as mine and smiles at us upon our entrance. I am about to speak to the girl my age, when I am told her English is not very strong. I give her a kind knowing smile, for I am in the same position.

After meeting the girls, we are introduced to the grandmother. Her weathered face bows over a wooden cane as we greet her. I learn that she is a Holocaust survivor and see that her arm is still tattooed with dark numbers from a concentration camp. She smiles warmly towards us.

Before we sit down to lunch, the father (friend of our tour guide) offers to show us around his house. As my parents file into the living room, he gestures to the small kitchen where lunch is cooking. He explains to us how all houses in the area are built with safe rooms to protect against missile attacks. He explains that when the warning siren goes off, they all have  68 68

NATE TAPLITZ 5th Untitled

four minutes to reach a safe room. Due to the area's proximity to the Gaza strip, all homes and schools have at least one re-enforced room. The terrorist group Hamas launches Mortar missiles into their region four to five times per day, so the alarms are commonplace. His tone remains casual and relaxed in explaining this, a fact I do not comprehend until later.

The father asks us if we would like to see their safe room. My parents, sister and I curiously reply yes, in awe at the relaxed manner of this offer. I expect to be led into a basement or a cellar, and am shocked when the father walks towards his daughters’ bedroom.

The walls are freckled with pink and blue butterfly stickers and flowery designs spread up the wall. The room is the furthest from what I had imagined a bomb shelter to be. The younger girl leaps onto her floral bedspread tucking her tan legs under under her cotton shorts. My eyes follow a grouping of stars decals on the wall to a large cat sticker. Suddenly, I hear a metal clanging sound. I turn towards the one small window, and watch as the father bangs on the shutter. I learn that the shutter is made of thick steel and that the glass is shatterproof 69

ZOE SLOAN 8th Friend Friend. noun. “a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations.”

That described us right?

Not really You knew I loved you, But you wanted to just be my Friend. noun. “a person who is not an enemy or who is on the same side: she was unsure whether he was friend or foe.” friend or foe? the line is blurry now You drew a line in the sand between friends and foe, but I’m going to rub it out I just want to be Friends? “(often as a polite form of address or in ironic reference) an acquaintance or a stranger one comes across: my friends, let me introduce myself.”

That’s it.

The awkward small talk is better when we don’t I don’t want to be your Foe. “an enemy or opponent: join forces against the common foe.”

That’s probably how you see me We’re balancing on a tightrope and I think I’m going to fall off I just want to find the middle ground Somewhere where you don’t ignore me in the halls Somewhere where you love me back

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CHRISTINA YOUNG 9th Flowers

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SARAI PRIDGEN 8th Superhero Poster 72

AMADI WILLIAMS 8th Untitled 73

LUCIE BISBEE 11th Self-Portrait

LUCY ANDERSON 7th Note to Self Hold your head up high. Smile lightly. Look confident. Tug your shorts down. Not low enough to be out of fashion, but not too high or you might get dress coded. Adjust your bra straps.

Tuck them out of sight, slightly off your shoulders so as not to be seen by any wander- ing eyes. Take one last look in the mirror, but make it quick, and then leave before anyone catches you there. Walk with everyone else. Don’t go out the glass door, follow everyone out the metal one. Find a big crowd to mingle with. Try to stand next to people who are taller, it will make you look less out of place. Don’t tug on your shirt, or play with your hair. Look for people you know. Walk over to them. Make polite conversation. Don’t brag about your sum- mer. Keep talking long enough to find Tulip, your best friend. Say goodbye. Do it nice and quick, and then run over to your friends. Make a big show of how happy you are to see them. Do the mandatory thing of asking them how their summer was. Pretend to be interested, nod your head, and gasp when they stop for breath. Now you may brag about your vacation. Make everything sound exciting. Keep everyone interested long enough for other people to join the 74

conversation. Then go find your other friends, Marigold, Lydia and Kylie when you lose interest in the talk. Remember to hold your head up high as you walk past the popular crew. Do not make eye contact with any of them, especially not Dove, Cam or Apple, just in case they take it as a challenge. Even if they glance your way, keep walking towards Kylie and Lydia. They will introduce you to the new kids. Be nice, they could one day become really popular, and you wouldn’t want to be on their bad side. After that, choose a place to sit, somewhere where you can see cute boys in your grade who are hanging by the basketball court. Say yes to anyone who asks to sit. Make a joke. Don’t spill any cream cheese on your new shirt, eat daintily. Talk to any teachers who say hi, you might have them this year, and it’s good to get off to a friendly start. A few boys will run by. They will throw their new hats at you. Pick them up, hold them for a few seconds. Make them ask for them back, then make a perfect throw and roll your eyes at their immaturity. Let your gaze wander to the boys by the basketball court. You can stare at your crush for only a few seconds before one of the boys will sense your gaze. Watch how Mike Peterson shoots a perfect three-pointer, then re-engage with your friends. Scold yourself for a few minutes. Remind yourself that he is a much more popular than you will ever be, and then you may return to admiring his cute dimples and long, tan arms shooting baskets.

JOSEPH TRAMONTIN 8th Self-Portrait 75

JULIEN STRICKLAND 11th Islam

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NATASHA WONG 11th Shapes

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NICHOLAS ROBINSON 10th Milk

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ANA MOLESTINA 10th Pools

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CAMPBELL BURKE 5th Cracked!

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SILAS ROCK 10th Art

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CARDEN KATZ 11th Ops

LOGAN GREEN 5th Js 84

ZOE GOMEZ 6th Diary of a Dead Man Hands up don’t shoot The police have a new recruit Today I tried helping a man but instead I was in court talking at a stand there was no plan I stood I shook I was triggered that is if I survived when he pulled the trigger the police officer who busted a cap in my head and now i’m dead Instead my family is suffering their world is buffering because of me because I came out my mother's womb and I was labeled black no you've got it all wrong that's not me you were just taught to call me that and You call me a nigger Yet You are no better No bigger no stronger No longer

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PAUL McLAREN 12th Until Proven Innocent 87

LILLY McCUDDY 10th Untitled

DELILAH DRAPER 11th Sun Set I spent all my time at the window Waiting for the sun to set But when it did I blinked, I saw it coming How did I miss it in the second I took to step away?

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EVAN CHEN 10th Bottle

MICHAEL PERLMUTTER 5th Haiku Five syllables here Seven more syllables here Five more syllables here 89

HANNAH McKNIGHT 11th Untitled 90

SADIE SADLER 7th My Mother’s Clothing My mother’s clothing. Dark and depressing. Dull and dead. No color, no sparkle, no pizazz. Like a cloudy sky in the middle of the night.

My mom. Sad and somber.

Saggy and sunken. Stuck in a world where there is no escape. Wishing for a better life. A life where her dad isn’t abusive, where her brother isn’t sick, where her husband is present. A life where her mother is still there to comfort her.

Always leggings. Always working. Always blouses.

Always pressure. The same clothing, the same old story. A story filled with a billion walls and a million fences, thousands of locked doors and hundreds of barbed wires. My mother’s clothing. Layer after layer after layer. Problem after problem after problem. The never ending list of things to do. My mother. Always stressing out. Always running around to help others, and not herself. Buttons, never zippers. Buttons,

with holes. Never filled. Life never fulfilled. Time always filled. My mother’s clothing. Always a hint of the latest trends. Always a hint of happiness. Of hope. Of relaxation. My mother, gloomy clothes, gloomy life, yet a spark of light.

DYLAN NG 9th Grandma

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YASEMIN CAG 10th Tomorrow, hopefully The morning light through my windows Warms my heart with hope I dismiss yesterday's worries And spend my day smiling with my mouth.

And sleep brings me nightmares about tomorrow.

The night is my best friend and my greatest confidante For in the darkness I can see myself My eyes smile behind their My expectations rise with the sun closed lids And vanish at sunset Till the morning light.

I dream during the day

LILIAN SHOR 2nd Bouquet 92

CATE LAMBERT 7th Untitled

GABRIELA HUBNER 12th Elizabeth

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JACK HEALEY 8th Untitled

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LIA Di BITONTO 12th Self-portrait

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GEORGIA BANK 11th Mr. Baylin

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CARDEN KATZ 11th Waxman

Waxman was a man made of wax Now his name may make that obvious but it’s important to state the facts As the fate of Waxman has become something of urban legend, And I’d hate any alternative wax fax offending his waxy ears in waxy heaven.

Yes; This story ends with Waxman’s death.

I hate to be the one to break it but he’s breathed his last waxy breath In short; I want to secure Waxman’s legacy what he meant to me And to show that wax’s capabilities stretch far beyond the ability to be melted over the cap to seal a bottle of Hennessy.

His father was a non wax man, his mother a non wax lady Much to the surprise of his normal kin, his skin was made of wax and as soft as, well, a wax baby Now, Waxman was no product of immaculate wax conception In fact he was an act of adulterous deception See his father would often catch his mother staring at the mantle As it turns out she was having an affair with a candle.

Her husband handled it quite well, raised Waxboy as his own Until his wax son to a wax man he had grown Covered in wicks, Wax would be lit for anyone He didn’t care if it was out of necessity or just for fun When Bethany’s lips were chapped, he gave her his thumb He burnt the tips of his hair until Dave’s candlelit dinner with his date was done.

He was the kind of favors; there was nothing he would complain about or not take on He did once swing at a kid he thought was bullying his little cousin, but that just turned out to be a crayon See Waxman never put himself above others He’d lend his wax hand to any non wax man as he would his own brother He was the definition of selfless He just loved people And I wish people loved him back But they took advantage of his generosity they took advantage of his wax But the cost of the constant courtesies did not push that kind philosophy off track And while on the outside he was smooth as ever, on the inside he began to crack.

While everyone was focused on themselves, and what Waxman could do for them They failed to noticed they were killing the man they called their wax friend And he melted, and melted, and melted Like butter in the sun And before anyone could mutter thanks Waxman’s short life was done He was reduced to a pool of melted wax And people still stepped all over him, but now it left tracks.

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RUFUS SOMERBY 12th Pollock

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LUCY SIMON 12th My Fair Lady (US Spring Musical)

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LILY PINE 12th Meme

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BENJAMIN SCHNEIER 12th Up

MATIAS REINHARDT 3rd Untitled

up another floor, far above the roof of the building clouds swirl around as me, or us as we sit down, exhale, laugh, talk, you, me chill, hang out listen, nod, mumble, talk loud think, contemplate, burrow inside my head but with a blank faรงade snap back as that begins to go away hopefully I land softly back on the building

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HANNAH GONCHER 10th Untitled

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IVA FEHR 12th excerpt from Just Kiefer His parents still hadn’t decided on a name when he was born. For the first couple of hours, they simply referred to him as “The Baby.”

Later that evening, the nurse handed his father a birth certificate with just a last name. She said, “Don’t worry, you can handwrite the first name when you’re ready.” The Baby went home the next day with a small bracelet.

BABY 0.

Baby Zero never actually got a first name. Turns out you can’t just handwrite on a birth certificate, it doesn’t go into the computer. Of course, between themselves, his parents had decided on a first name, Noah. And a middle name, Raphael. His grandmother was Italian.

But none of these were official.

Baby Zero’s mother died when he was seven years old, so she never knew that her son didn’t have a first name. It was only when Baby Zero was sixteen years old that his father realized.

But since Baby Zero already had a driver’s license, a passport, and a school I.D. with his full name printed on each document, there wasn’t really any need to revise the birth certificate.

Plus, his father thought it was a funny story to tell at extended family dinners.

Noah Raphael Kiefer.

Legally, Baby Zero’s name was Kiefer.

Just that. Kiefer.

THEODORE SCHIFF 4th Rat 104

ESME BAPTISTA 6th Women’s March

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BRITTANY BOYCE 12th Untitled

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DESTINI ARMSTRONG 12th Untitled

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HENRY GUZMAN-MITHCELL 7th Tarantino

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SOPHIE HANNA 6th Untitled

MARLEINA COHEN 12th Happiness, Warmth and Goodbyes Verdant leaves and tall trees, Beaming sun and chirping birds.

Flowers in bloom and children’s laughter, Spring is here.

A few short weeks remain, For us to be together, In the same building.

In a couple of months, We are off to different places.

Different states. Different countries.

Different and new homes.

Our minds, trembling with anticipation Are unable to cease to think about the final moment.

The moment where we say goodbye and see you soon.

The moment that we have worked for for four years.

The moment where 85 friends are forced to part ways, Until next time.

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KEIRA REIDY 6th Untitled JOSH WITTSTEIN 10th The Land of Milk and Honey wtih a Slice of Apple Pie I am a child of the Americas, born to two transplanted Cincinnatians turned New Yorkers.

The child of a convert and a Rabbi, a dual citizen of America and Israel, thanks to my father’s birth in Jerusalem.

An American capitalist, I am a socialist at heart, following in the footsteps of the kibbutzim, each summer living and breathing this way of life for two months at machaneh, drinking in the morals and ethics passed down since the inception of my faith: as if after one of the extended droughts of my spiritual homeland.

There I can be a socialist, a zionist, and wrestle with the equality issues of today.

I study Hebrew, the language of my heritage 110

and try to help it redress the pitfalls of a gendered language.

I wrestle with Arabic, the language of those with whom I hope one day to find a path towards peace, helping me engage with those with whom we are locked in a pointless, ageless struggle.

My roots extend through this land, criss-crossing the continent, tracing back to the Mayflower.

They transcend this land reaching to Norway, Ireland, England, Scotland, Poland, Ukraine, Germany, and Russia: I have never know these places.

I am the culmination of Northern and Eastern European immigrants of generations past, Jews and gentiles, scholars and milk men.

They all course through me with each beat of life from my chest, each a home I have not claimed, though each has claimed me.

VIRGIL RATNER 6th Untitled 111

MATTHEW COLETTA 12th I Saw a Ghost I saw a ghost I saw him the other day Wandering back and forth Visible one second, And vanishing the next.

It seemed like he had Nowhere to go No one to turn to Nothing to look forward to He stopped In front of a man, a woman, Another woman His eyes Focused on them Their eyes Stared through him as if he wasn’t there at all.

By just talking to him, or looking at him, Just looking at him. would turn them all to stone.

Am I in the presence of a supernatural force?

Why is nobody looking at him?

Am I seeing a ghost?

No, he’s real. I see him. He’s real.

He was a very polite one, But most didn’t react to the ghost, Or even acknowledge him.

Had he done something to these people?

He opened his mouth in front of one woman, But nothing came out.

Nothing at all

But a faint whisper “Anything to spare?”

As the seconds passed by His eyes went from hopeful. to defeated.

“Thank you anyway.”

The ghost wandered along With each person’s distant gaze With each person’s silence He became more hopeless When the ghost stopped in front of me I looked into his eyes.

And in that moment, He was no longer invisible He whispered.

So quietly, I had to read his lips to understand what he said: “Anything to spare” I smiled at him And held out my hand.

He smiled back at me And mouthed: “Thank you” The car doors opened.

As quickly as he appeared, He disappeared, With a smile on his face.

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THOEBELANI, ArtWorks For Youth Student Still I Rise

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JULIEN STRICKLAND 11th Union Sq. 114

LILY JENSEN 10th Dog Days

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KRISTIN HOWELL 12th Red Listen to it rumble in your chest Feel it spread its long arms and Painted nails on your back As it gives you heat As it makes your veins Pulse With Her wrongdoings And His sadistic breath.

It will threaten to drown you In rage It is anger.

While it rolls you In the sharpest dissatisfaction For this blessed life Dissatisfaction with the blue Skies The people you love The forevers that keep Your fleet planted on The ancient soil It will suffocate your dreams.

It poisons your unique experience And it locks away your heart As it consumes you in fire And burns you and your home to ashes Before you are only a memory And turn to gleaming black dust Remember that it also Sets your desires on fire Remember that behind its rage And unrelenting chaos It is passion.

As the heat threatens to reshape you

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Mold you To a crumbled stone Remember that flame inside you That drives you to climb the Highest tree Cross the most rickety bridge And Forgive those who have wronged you It is strength.

This red demands your selective attention Do not befriend its most distant cousin But instead love It is love.

When it says let go Do it.

Rest in its beauty as it Shades in hues As it paints the dawned sky Feel it Illuminating a reverent sunset That falls over the earth at a glorious end

ADELAIDE JAROS 2nd Red Red is the taste of strawberries that are sweet.

Red is the smell of things that are burning.

Red is the feel of anger.

Red is the sound of fire.

Red is the sight of volcanoes erupting.

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ALEX MOLESTINA 11th Untitled

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L I LY P I N E 1 2 t h E x t r a c t I feel it rise in my throat like the burning of a cigarette or maybe the taste of grass or vanilla when you’re three and still believe everything must smell like it tastes. Yes, less like a burning cigarette that still carries with it the slender fingers of your mother and the musky smell of your aunt, and more like vanilla.

He has never tried it. Never ventured off into the kitchen to explore what would be handed off at age thirteen. Tan legs still doe thin pressed into the cool granite in July. Windows open. Empty house.

Fingers covered in a sticky bitter substance.

It’s easy to forget that their eyes are not trained to see the white crosses on the side of the road, garage sale signs, misplaced pens. He will never feel the horror of a red door or a sock worn thin in February—the overwhelming fear of dust and light and the smell of lemons on a Sunday morning.

And so, when he asks you at noon— noon exactly and noon always— why you look like glass about to shatter or an egg on the verge of spoiling, lick your sticky fingers and kiss him with vanilla still around your mouth.

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ELEANOR OVALLE 12th Alfredo

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Once on a peaceful island, I would awake to the sound of my mother calling me from the kitchen to get out of bed. Just realizing the time, I would jump into my clothes and rush into the kitchen for breakfast.

Once on a peaceful island, I would hop into a car and my uncle would drive me to the local diner where we would have a second breakfast.

Once on a peaceful island, I would arrive at the docks to meet my dog Libby. We would ride out to what was called South Ferry. Every time, we would catch a sea robin.

Once on a peaceful island, I would arrive back at the house. I would let Libby out on the porch. Then I would let them out on the lawn.

Once on a peaceful island, I would jump into the pool. Then I would sit in the hot tub.

I would have dinner and go to bed.

I never want to be anywhere else.

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