cymbals 2018

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cymbals

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“Rainy Day” by Amom DeVane, XI: photography

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cymbals Each year, cymbals receives a myriad of literary and visual art submissions. The editorial team reads, contemplates, and discusses each submitted piece based on artistic vision, individual voice, and polished craftsmanship.

Due to a generous gift from the Löfdahl-Fruchter family, the faculty advisors of cymbals are able to award yearly cash prizes of $100 each to one literary and one visual art submission, based on their connection to a theme. This year’s visual arts award recipient is senior Mary Schafer for “Degenerate Generation” (cover). This year’s writing award recipient is senior Nate Jones for “Like Bugs to Darkness.” This year’s theme is “Pleasure and Pain.” The theme for 2019 will be “Space, Spaces” in honor of the 50th anniversary of the moon landing.

cymbals seeks to reduce its impact on the environment as much as possible. The cover is printed on Futura 100# Gloss Cover with a UV coating. Futura supports responsible forest management. This product line carries three chain-of-custody certifications: it is FSC certified, a member of the Sustainable Forestry Initiative, and a member of PEFC, promoting sustainable Forest Management (it is also 10% post-consumer fiber). The inside pages are printed on 30% post-consumer fiber Roland Opaque 80 lb., which is FSC certified and manufactured using renewable biogas energy. The cover title of cymbals is set in 27 point Avant Garde Book, the text is set in 10 pt. Times New Roman, and captions are set in 8.5 pt. Helvetica. The cost of each magazine is financed entirely by cymbals’ annual budget.

This year we printed 350 copies. cymbals is the literary and visual art magazine of Princeton Day School in Princeton, New Jersey. Our submission period lasts from November through February each year; students may submit work at cymbals.submittable.com.

Each submission is reviewed by the editorial team without knowing the identity of its author or artist.

Princeton Day School, 650 Great Road, Princeton, NJ 08540 • (609) 924-6700 • www.pds.org Cover artwork: “Degenerate Generation” by Mary Schafer, XII: mixed media

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Table of Contents “Degenerate Generation” by Mary Schafer, XII: mixed media................................................... cover “Rainy Day” by Amon DeVane, XI: photography.............................................................................. 2 “Welcome (Back)” by Jaclyn Gary, XII: poetry................................................................................. 7 “Paper Mirror” by Hallie Hoffman, XII: poetry.................................................................................8 “Distortion” by Michelle Leung, XII: photography........................................................................... 9 “Broken” by Raina Pahade, X: pencil...............................................................................................10 “Fifteen” by Sara Chopra, XII: poetry.............................................................................................. 11 “And We Were Eternal” by Bryn Aprill, XI: short story.................................................................. 12 “Frozen Impact” by Amon DeVane, XI: photography...................................................................... 13 “Yusuf and Maria” by Anisa Lateef, XII: poetry..............................................................................14 “Witch Hunt” by Nina Kanamaluru, XI: poetry............................................................................... 15 “Storm in a Bottle” by Raina Pahade, X: pen and ink......................................................................15 “Midnight Daydreams” by Bryn Aprill, XI: prose............................................................................ 16 “Love” by Hailey Young, XI: poetry................................................................................................ 16 “Flower in the Abstract” by Elizabeth Brennan, XII: photography.................................................. 17 “Investigation of a Site” by Hannah Su, X: architecture.................................................................. 18 “Tree’s Company” by Thomas Batterman, XII: short story............................................................. 19 “Shade” by Julia Sclove, X: photography ....................................................................................... 22 “Stuck” by Nate Jones, XII: prose.................................................................................................... 23 “Angry Sweater Letter” by Spencer Knerr, X: prose ...................................................................... 24 “Joan of Arc Chair” by Calvin Caputo, X; Evan Dries, X; and Chad Sprague, X: furniture design.............................................................................................. 25 “Dear Apartment D17” by Nate Jones, XII: prose . ......................................................................... 25 “Peppermint Flavored Everything” by Bryn Aprill, XI: short story................................................. 26 “Generations” by Michelle Leung, XII: paint on printed canvas..................................................... 27 “Galaxy Thoughts” by Raina Pahade, X: pen and ink . ................................................................... 28 “Existentialism” by Tarika Kumar, XII: poetry................................................................................ 29 “Plastic Immortality” by Julia Chang, X: poetry.............................................................................. 30 “Patterned Shadows” by Michelle Leung, XII: photography........................................................... 31 “Sorta Like Writing, See” by Walt Emann, XI: prose...................................................................... 32 4

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Cabinet by Giulia Gerschel, XI: furniture design.............................................................................32 “Good Luck Writing” by Raina Kasera, XI: prose...........................................................................33 “The Weaver” by Emma Dries, XII: photography............................................................................34 “Still” by Anisa Lateef, XII: prose....................................................................................................35 “The Ache and the Hiss” by Ella Baseman, XII: short story............................................................ 36 “Under Red, White, and Blue” by Lea Namouni, XI: photography................................................. 38 “Fierce Public fiGirl” by Ella Jackson, IX: pen and ink................................................................... 39 “Ain’t Personal, Just Need the Money” by Daniel Tang, XI: short story......................................... 40 “It Was the Devil That Was Abroad” by Ella Baseman, XII & Tarika Kumar, XII: mixed media.......40 “Munch” by Emma Dries, XII: photography....................................................................................42 “Watching the Clock” by Hallie Hoffman, XII: short story.............................................................43 “King’s Leopard Long Bow” by Declan Rourke, XI: woodworking...............................................44 “Fish Head” by Michelle Leung, XII: photography.........................................................................45 “The Cleat” by Zoe Jackson, XI: architecture..................................................................................46 “The Boy at the Park” by Nashleen Salazar, XI: poetry...................................................................47 “Photographic Constellations” by Joseph Hudicka, X: photography...............................................47 “A Good Peach” by Ella Baseman, XII: Oil Pastel and ink on paper...............................................48 “Frozen Fanta/Agent Orange” by Alec Berger, XI: photography.....................................................49 Tea Pot Set by Mary Schafer, XII: ceramics.....................................................................................50 “Empty Calories” by Julia Chang, X: poetry....................................................................................53 “Color Touch” by Flynn Gorman, XI: ceramics...............................................................................51 “Cereal Milk Sunday” by Ella Baseman, XII: poetry.......................................................................52 “Ridgefield Park” by Anisa Lateef, XII: poetry................................................................................52 “Metal Milk Pot” by Mary Schafer, XII: charcoal ..........................................................................53 “Sunday Drive” by Charlotte Meyercord, XI: poetry.......................................................................54 “Slipstream” by Vibhu Singh, XI: photography...............................................................................54 “Ribbon” by Vibhu Singh, XI: photography.....................................................................................55 “The Other Squid” by Bennett Emann, IX: ceramics.......................................................................56 “Have I Been in this Place Before” by Daniel Tang, XI: flash fiction..............................................57 “Geometry of a Blueprint” by Hannah Su, X: architecture..............................................................58 “Reverie” by Skye Harris, IX: poetry...............................................................................................59 “A Cynic’s Take on Love: A Pantoum” by Sanjana Dugar, XII: poetry...........................................60 “Natural Serenity” by Rebecca Kuzmicz, XII: acrylic on canvas....................................................61 “Dog Dreams” by Annie Zhang, IX: pen and ink.............................................................................62 5

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“Taffy” by Julia Parks, XI: short story.............................................................................................63 “Investigation of a Site” by Adayliah Ley, X: architecture..............................................................64 “Writing” by Luke Franzoni, XII: prose...........................................................................................65 “DoDici” by Giulia Gerschel, XI: furniture design..........................................................................65 “Cold” by Sara Chopra, XII: flash fiction.........................................................................................66 “Light + Shadows” by Elizabeth Brennan, XII: photography.......................................................... 68 “Who’s the Sinner Now?” by Lydia Pamudji, XI: flash fiction........................................................ 69 “Skyline Table” by Abby Weinstein, IX: furniture design................................................................70 “Waiting for the Wilsons” by Alec Berger, XI: poetry..................................................................... 71 “What To Do When You’ve Suddenly Gone Blonde” by Lydia Pamudji, XI: prose........................ 72 “Minor Contact” by Sophie Cohen, X: photography........................................................................ 73 “Fever Dream” by Hallie Hoffman, XII: prose................................................................................74 “Breathe Easy” by Alec Berger, XI: photography............................................................................75 “And Now, Me” by Mackenzie ElKadi, XI......................................................................................76 “Bent But Not Broken” by Flynn Gorman, XI: ceramics.................................................................77 “The Complicated World of Materialism” by Lucy Bailey, XI: brush and ink................................78 “The Snake in the Salad Bowl” by Hallie Hoffman, XII: short story...............................................79 “A Girl and Her Purple Hair Fantasy” by Anisa Lateef, XII: poetry................................................80 “Sparks Fly” by Amon DeVane, XI: photography............................................................................81 “Man” by Anjali Bhatia, IX: acrylic on canvas................................................................................82 “Free and Dying” by Audrey Liang, X: photography.......................................................................83 “Lessons from a Wise Man” by Sanjana Dugar, XII: prose.............................................................84 “Portrait of Frank Gehry” by Sasha Sindhwani, XI: architecture.....................................................85 “Live Edge Music Stand” by Thomas Batterman, XII: furniture design.......................................... 86 “What to Say at Grandpa’s Funeral” by Nate Jones, XII: poetry.....................................................87 “Filters” by Kate Bennett, XII: flash fiction.....................................................................................88 “Glance” by Madison Sings, XI: charcoal........................................................................................89 “Life, Society, Valuables, Love” by Ella Jackson, IX: pencil...........................................................90 “Like Bugs To Darkness” by Nate Jones, XII: short story............................................................... 90 “Big Little” by Jimmy O’Connor, XI: prose..................................................................................... 94 “Beetle” by Nina Ajemian, XI: photography.................................................................................... 95 Index............................................................................................................................................... 100

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welcome (back) 3 slithering snake eyes are met by waiting waxy irises nuzzled in the curve of lifted cheeks 2 swaying trees reminiscent of mother’s lullabies, the moon a sleeping watchman 1 hello.

— Jaclyn Gary, XII

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Paper Mirror My pen scars the perfect white paper, Tearing at thoughts until they unravel And I forget where I am going.

I don’t recognize the writer Or the strange voice in my head As it forces my hand to move Just to get rid of the pounding in my ears.

I write until I am empty And the words are mine but not mine.

My brain rips letters apart to put myself back together, And I want to punch the words, Bloodying them until they are disfigured, Twisted reflections of what they used to be.

Then I can blame someone else, because Truth is messy when I see myself on a page.

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— Hallie Hoffman, XII

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“Distortion” by Michelle Leung, XII: photography

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“Broken” by Raina Pahade, X: pencil

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Fifteen Fifteen feathers, maybe sixteen, like floating fibers of a fluttering dandelion, each seedling arm reaching up to the wind, left behind, bristling between earth and trunk and trunk.

They duck as winter unhinges its jaws frost dusting its teeth as it clamps down and the ground rumbles, humming through the earth and dirt sending up a buzz and a ruffle.

Three land atop a ragged trunk, capped with snow they vanish fluffed flakes, into the eyes of a fox or a hawk.

Slip along ice and recline, angels in downy powder, like Fuzz. Chalky, jousting with day and blinding the sun, they flit and fall silk-thin parachutes on their backs.

Soft, they cling, baker’s flour in a bowl mixing in with the cracked egg of the sun,

they thrust their bodies forward until they land, silent leaving no handprints between whispers of snow.

The next gust comes and they float, the chill flinging their bodies into the woolen forest of my mittens, thick with warmth and the laces of my boots, frozen into a knot.

For a second they linger, like snowflakes each point precise, each strand fanned out before iced wind blasts from below and they are holding on, just barely, their fibers losing friction And they’re gone, weightless as they fly up weaving in with snowflakes and frosted shards picking up powder and pollinating treetops, they sail, unseen, never seen as I dust my mittens on my stiffening sleeves and go between snow-dusted trunks, a final feather hanging tight holding fast like sugared lint to my shoelace.

— Sara Chopra, XII

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And We Were Eternal It was Winter, when the trees were covered in delicate sleeves of white lace. We walked together, hand in hand as the snow fell, the light of the streetlamps bouncing off our eyes and turning them into stars. Cars sped past like ghosts, looking at us with bright eyes before disappearing forever to some far off place, never even daring to look back at what was left behind. Neither of us had the words to speak, so we used our heartbeats. The wind bit at my cheeks, leaving light marks of rose, and so he wrapped me into himself with his arms. We stood there, entwined in an embrace that God himself could not tear apart. He stared at my face, silently taking my wrist in his hand and brushing his fingers over the bandages. For a moment, he made something as ugly as walking back from the hospital seem beautiful. We were children, then, and the sins of the world had not yet caught up to us.

And then it was Spring, when the southern winds began to breathe. We ran together, chasing our hearts over hills and mountains. A ring of flowers sat on both our fingers, kissing the ragged scars on my wrists with their beauty. Our eyes were full of clouds, endless and innocent. When the rain fell from the sky in sapphires we sat by the window, counting each time a red umbrella passed by. In warm afternoons we sat under the oak tree’s shade and sucked nectar from honeysuckles, throwing the empty flowers at each other’s heads when we were finished. I was getting better, I told myself, and I wanted so badly to believe it. But the world was ours to take then, and the sins of the world had not yet caught up to us.

With Summer came crimson sunsets and starlit nights. We sat in front of blazing bonfires that matched the ones inside our bodies. They burned hot and

passionate and swallowed everything in their paths, but we could not see the damage we had brought; only the blinding light. People began to stare like shadows, and I was afraid, so he closed my eyes and kissed me goodnight. In the morning, we brushed off the ashes and turned our heads towards the sky. One day when I had gathered up enough courage, I asked him, “What if one day I’m no longer able to love you?”

He stood in front of me and whispered, “Then I’ll hold your hand until the end.” The sins of the world were beginning to catch up with us.

The fires followed us into Autumn, no longer blazing and loud, but as hot embers that lurked in the background, spewing sparks that could ignite with single whispers. I had grown tired; I no longer ran and chased and laughed; my body had begun to break. Still, we walked together, hand in hand, as our boots crunched over the dry leaves, leaving smoke in our footsteps. I was trembling, and so he hugged me tightly and wiped away my tears, and that was enough. The fires were closing in, and the sins of the world had caught up to us.

And then it was Winter again, but we could no longer pretend. My legs no longer moved, my lips had long been silent, and my eyes shut. And so he carried me, still holding onto my hand, as the fires burned and the snow fell.

— Bryn Aprill, XI

At right: “Frozen Impact” by Amon DeVane, XI, photography

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Yusuf and Maria She carried him down the Hudson cuddling him in a navy blanket of whirlpools as raindrops shot like diamond bullets melting paper corners into puddles and smudging ink into streams.

His hands blossomed like an umbrella to make room for her lavender nails in his clammy palms just to drop his copy of today’s newspaper by his feet because her breath was oh so warm.

News pages lay: “warning, dangerous storm, category 5, seek shelter immediately.”

Porcelain clouds shattered and dusty greys swallowed the sky.

She never left his side, and he was drowning, blissfully drowning

below layers of looping lovepools, lost and splashed underneath the depths and depths of debris, consciously sinking, absorbing her passion, a beautiful mess.

Sink.

Sank.

Sunk.

She swept in unwelcomed like a storm with her seafoam eyes and lips full of lightning seducing him kissing him starting to love him making him blind to the destruction surrounding him.

She is the hurricane trapped between his eyes.

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— Anisa Lateef, XII

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witch hunt you have ley lines for heartstrings, girl, and black holes where your eyes should be. your lips are a stormcloud and your voice an earthquake. you move mountains when you smile, when you laugh, when you dance. your cheekbones are the edge of a knife, and each strand of your hair a garrote. you are no daisy or rose or lily-of-the-valley. you are hemlock, strychnine, deadly belladonna. not a pearl, but a diamond, clear and hard and flawless. when men throw themselves at you, they bleed from your edges.

— Nina Kanamaluru, XI

“Storm in a Bottle” by Raina Pahade, X: pen and ink

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Midnight Daydreams

Love

This is how to stare blankly at the wall with glazed eyes. This is how to make a steaming cup of Earl Gray at 3 in the morning when sleep is dragging you. This is how to balance your skull on the bottom of your palm even though you have no idea which words are going where and why.

This is grabbing hold of a fluffy blanket and wrapping it so tightly it squeezes. This is how to punch someone in the gut and collect their tears in an old Mason jar. This is covering your mouth with cracked hands every time you yawn.

This is a broken pencil on the floor beneath your feet looking at you with a crooked smile. This is floating across an ocean of paper until the sun burns into millions of glass fragments. This is your vision darkening around the edges. Don’t worry what it means, not yet.

I see Nothing, says he, I can find no scar— But there it is, says she, Caked with Gushing blood— He sighs, for he has seen this case, Many times before— There is no blood, says he, Shattering her Soul— So she, with solemn Lips and Brow, Goes crawling back to sleep— And in her Dreams the scar is back, With such a Haunting Mark— She stirs to find an injury, One that he can’t see— A damaged Heart On Blood-Stained skin, Which Tears her Love apart.

— Bryn Aprill, XI

— Hailey Young, XI

At right: “Flower in the Abstract” by Elizabth Brennan, XII: photography

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“Investigation of a Site” by Hannah Su, X: architecture

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Tree’s Company I’m sitting on a small rise and my ears are pink, not red; just slightly embarrassed to be out here and so exposed.

Everything feels a little damp, but my companion—a grey-brown skeleton of a tree—doesn’t seem to mind as it stands solemnly next to me.

I close my eyes and lean forward, against the wind and towards the warmth just to my left. I can hear music.

It’s odd and flowing; more of a river really. In woods and brush, puffs of air travel across the corroded valves of flutes and the wispy strings of harps, all conducted by the fiery calm of an early morning sun.

A group of leaves, refugees from winter, brush by, and I’m jostled out of my momentary fugue state.

The grass is wide awake now, too; after a cold morning shower, it gathers to let air flow through its green clumps and create little ripples and hieroglyphs on the ground.

On the edge of the field where I sit, a wall of sentinels--old, proud, trees--stand guard, not protecting anything in particular besides whatever secrets they might hold.

The grey-brown tree next to me shakes a bit from the chill or the autumn breeze, small whiskers trailing away from its branches, tickling the sky almost shyly. At fifteen feet tall, it’s pretty small; to my right, a much taller tree dominates the skyline with four sturdy legs and attentive limbs. But my relaxed friend doesn’t seem to mind.

Those big secrets of the tallest trees might be too important for me in my humble spot, so a discussion with the younger, hopefully more open tree will have to do. I start small, asking an easy question.

“Does it hurt when your leaves fall off?”

It turns to me, slightly surprised.

“It kind of just feels like when a piece of your hair falls out.”

“But that doesn’t feel like anything.”

“Well there’s your answer.”

“Oh.” The tree continues to shake; its branches shrug up and down with repressed laughter. It’s its turn, now: “What does it feel like to break a bone?”

I look up from some blades of grass’ dance recital.

“I’ve only ever fractured part of my arm, but I can imagine it feels like when an especially large twig gets broken off. Maybe even a full branch.”

“I guess it depends on the severity?”

“Yeah, yeah, for sure.”

“Interesting, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I stare off into space, but I only really see blue; no stars shine through. I close my eyes and try to imagine them instead.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s life out there?”

“As in aliens and flying saucers and such?”

“Not even aliens; just plants or trees like you.”

“I mean, it’d be odd if there wasn’t, especially considering there are one hundred and two billion, nine hundred thirty-five million, four hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight galaxies in the universe.”

“Fair point, fair point--how do you know there are exactly one hundred and two billion, nine hundred thirtyfive million, four hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight galaxies though?”

“I don’t know, I just know.”

“Oh.” The tree continues to sway in the wind, echoing the waltz of the grass at our feet and the more stuffy head-

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bobbing of the tall trees that watch from a distance.

I’m listening to the music again, when my thoughts are interrupted.

“So what do you do?”

“Like for a living?”

“Yes.” “I’m a lumberjack.”

The tree’s branches draw in, afraid.

“What about you, what do you do?”

“I’m just a tree.”

“Oh.” “Do you want to take a walk?”

I stand up abruptly, almost involuntarily, “Yeah, sure, why not?”

My companion stretches, shaking a small bird off of its uppermost branch, and falls in beside me, creaking with every step. The sounds of its joints give me the impression that it could be at least seventy, or just old in general, so I ask the tree if it’s actually been around that long to avoid making assumptions and all.

“Oh no, I’m only six.”

“Oh.” “But you do know what they say, right?”

“They say a lot of things.”

“One year is worth a lot more to a tree.”

“They really say that?”

“Yes.” “But that doesn’t sound like a real saying. Real sayings are, I don’t know, more specific.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Like not crying over spilled milk, or putting your best foot forward.”

It takes a few more steps and then stops.

“What if I don’t have a best foot?”

“Just pick one; it’s not that hard.”

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“I’d rather not.”

“Okay, suit yourself, I guess.”

The tree twists around, bark crackling as it turns and stares into me.

“I get the sense you don’t like to talk much.”

“Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something.”

“Plato said that.”

“He did, didn’t he.”

“Do you want to be a philosopher or something?”

“I tried.”

“Oh. I see.”

I’ve stopped now as well, also uncertain about my best foot but certain that I have somewhere to be. I turn around to head back to the rise I’d come from.

“I’ve got to go back now, you coming?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

I turn around, but the grass is gone, and the tall trees in the back, and the music from before, and the the heat of the sun. It’s pitch black and quiet, except for a distant humming sound, like television static or a seashell’s whisper.

My companion is still present; it continues to move gently and methodically in a nonexistent breeze. Even though it’s dark around us, the tree is glowing somehow; a green-blue aura floats around it and pale yellow sunbursts glimmer as its branches sway. I question the tree once again.

“Where is everything?”

“I don’t know, somewhere, I suppose.”

“Oh.” “You can see the stars now, at least.”

I tilt my head up sharply, but there’s no need. Orange and white-blue pinpricks of light illuminate the dark around us, coronas of green and red and all the colors in

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between explode amidst cloudy halos with their pulsating cores and silvery tendrils of innumerable suns. Cosmic fireworks—sparkling pinwheels and slow-moving comets—shower the two of us in trails of white dust.

I stand there, drinking it all in.

“This is really quite something.”

“Yeah, I see it a lot nowadays. Still nice, though.”

“Oh.” One particularly massive nebula twists and morphs before our eyes, changing from pillars of cloud to a spherical iris. I look over at my companion, who’s still glowing.

“So are you like, God, or something?”

“No, I’m just a tree.”

“But how’d you make all this appear?”

“Who says I made it happen?”

“I don’t know, I guess it just felt that way.”

“Curious. But no, I’m still just a tree.”

“But how’d we get her?”

“Evolution and so on.”

“Oh. Is that it?”

“All men by nature desire knowledge; I’m sure someone else might know.”

“Aristotle said that.”

“Yes, I recall hearing him.”

A supernova explodes fifty billion miles above us.

My companion looks a bit distant, almost wistful. The humming starts to fade.

“I remember when that star was born.”

“So how old are you, really?”

“Remember that saying from before?”

“The whole one year is worth a lot more to a tree thing?”

“Yes, that one.”

“But that doesn’t even make sense; you said you were six.”

“I guess I did, didn’t I. Maybe I got the saying backwards.”

“So you’re not six?”

“Probably not.”

“Oh.” The stars disappear. I blink and sit down in the grass.

The music from before fades back in; wind weaving its way through dirt and fallen leaves and the branches of the tall trees in the distance with their closely-kept secrets.

The green at my feet continues its dance. My companion has lost its glow, and sits down next to me, concerned.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m all good.”

“That’s good. Shall we go back to our little hill?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

We stroll back. I try to whistle, forgetting that I don’t know how, and look up into the blue of the sky. I imagine the stars are back again. Reaching the little rise, the tree settles back into its place and resumes its swaying. I stop and turn.

“I guess I’ll head out now.”

“I guess you will.”

I take a few steps and look back.

“Are we ever going to talk again? Or meet at least?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What will you do now?”

“Seek a great perhaps, maybe.”

“Oh. Rabelais, nice.”

The tree shivers once more in the breeze, and stands still. I look back one last time before walking away, but it doesn’t say anything.

— Tommy Batterman, XII

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“Shade” by Julia Sclove, X, photography

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Stuck Maybe that’s why I’m always exhausted. I wasn’t ready to leave the liminal reality of sleepy dreams. They picked me up at Sunday, but the alarm clock jolted me off the boat and dropped me at the gooey drippy land of Monday.

Too early.

Like I was going to the moon, but someone pushed me out the door. Lost in space. With no umbilical cord.

It might not be claustrophobic because space just goes like eternal darkness and my body is a simple cell in its chemical makeup, but I’m not really stuck in that space because space is a vision and there’s nowhere to go. So in essence I’m choking in the confines of my cell. Of my body.

So now I’m swimming swimming, but I’m not getting anywhere because there’s no way to propel.

Isn’t that strange? In space, there’s nothing. You are surrounded by literally nothing which is very hard for me to wrap my head around. I can’t wrap my head around nothing. It has nothing to cling to. There’s so much nothing to the point that you can’t even move because there’s nothing to push off of.

You don’t realize it on Earth, but I learned in physics that every time you exert a force, on let’s say the sidewalk, the sidewalk is exerting an equal force on your foot = movement.

But in space you’re exerting a force on nothing and nothing is exerting a force on you so your forces are nonexistent and your body is still.

Like a black hole sucked away all the movement.

But there’s also these things called planets exerting a force and keeping you in orbit.

Earth sneaks its finger up your shirt and slowly tugs your loose skin, while trying to swim towards the moon. I’m already choking stuck trapped but everything behind me, my whole life as I know it, pulls me back.

That’s what criminals must feel like after jail. Or had therapy or rewired their brains to fix themselves.

They’re trying to start their life over and make it to the next planet, but that one lady they killed in a Denny’s parking lot is dragging them back like deadweight.

So how are they supposed to swim forward when they have nothing to push on. They have nothing. No strong background. No amazing history. No family, friends, employment to exert a force on them.

They’re just stuck. Looking at the stars. Trying to get there. Trying to go.

Paralyzed by the thick amber of exhaustion.

— Nate Jones, XII

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Angry Sweater Letter Dear Aunt Dottie, The sweater you knit repulses me. I can’t bear the sight of it. The style is hideous, the designs are grotesque, and the size is wretchedly too small. You know how I abhor polka dots; whenever I think about those small circles of misery you sewed on so haphazardly and with such carelessness, I want to retch. My imagination reels to think what sort of mutant beast could have produced the exceedingly course and malodorous fiber of which this vile matted garment is composed. If you do know, I plead that you keep the information to yourself, lest the loathsome creature haunt my nightmares alongside grim images of your squinting countenance hunched over ferociously clacking knitting needles in process of perpetrating further crimes against nature. I feel bad for you, making such a sacrilegious blunder, while sitting in a heap of your own despair. It was such a blatant error to crudely experiment with such garish patterns and vomit inducing color schemes; the designs savagely assault my vision, slowly causing an imminent blindness. I am revolted at your very existence; it makes me want to abandon a normal life, like you did, and pathetically retreat into a puddle of anguish and despondency. The whole sweater is a disgusting fiasco, a disturbing, catastrophic, and tasteless attempt at a gift.

With all due disrespect,

Your unloving nephew

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— Spencer Knerr, X

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Dear Apartment D17, I think you live above me, and I think there’s two of you. You’re very loud. And I’m not complaining, I love that sound your toilet makes when it clogs or the Dog (Rufus?) whose bark sounds like the way my Mom used to sigh. But my favorite is the sound you make as you vacuum your floors, the loudest of them all. I would love to buy that sound you make when you vacuum your floors, but I understand if that’s a lot to ask; I’ll counter with the clogged toilet or Rufus’ (?) bark. I know when you vacuum that one of you uses your right hand to hold down the button while the other uses their left to guide the machine; I can hear that. I love how broken your vacuum is. But I’d love that sound for my headphones, because I could play it as I vacuum, and I could close my eyes and hear someone with me.

Guiding my vacuum. It’s been so long since there’s been someone over, and I know B17 can attest to that.

I’m sure they hear loneliness in my carpet and yearn for the partnership in your hardwood floors. And my dog doesn’t bark. And my toilet doesn’t clog. So I’ve lost my mother’s sigh forever. And I’ve lost the plumber that installed my sink. But if you’re willing to seal them in envelopes and slide them under my door, I’ll put the money in your mailbox, and I’ll try to be quiet, so you don’t hear my loneliness.

From, Ms. G. “Joan of Arc Chair” by Calvin Caputo, X; Evan Dries X; and Chad Sprague, X

— Nate Jones, XII

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Peppermint Flavored Everything It’s painfully obvious: snow should be peppermint flavored. It’s like that time when you were a kid, maybe five, and you were sitting with your sister on the couch in your uncle Rowan’s old wood cabin, (that his greatgrandfather built all the way back when they first moved from Norway to Wyoming) while the snow outside piles up thick, like your grandmother’s white down comforter (that you and your brother always huddled up under when it got too cold). You and your sister were watching the tv while your uncle Rowan whipped up two steaming mugs of his famous hot chocolate, each topped with a peppermint stick, five marshmallows, and a nice fat dollop of homemade whipped cream. You and your sister would sip the drink right away, even though uncle Rowan had warned you not to burn your tongues, and when you were finished you’d ask, “Uncle Rowan, can Hazel and I go out and play in the snow?”

He’d smile, looking down at the peppermint stick peeking out of your empty mug. “I guess,” he’d say, scratching at his beard, “But only after you finish your peppermint stick.”

Later you’re both sitting on a bench near the doorway as your mother shoves your tiny hands into heavy woolen mittens (that are almost as big as your head), and when Hazel complains that she can’t move her fingers because she’s so bundled up your mother will mumble something about not getting “frost kittens.” Then you and your sister

waddle to the door (because at this point waddling is the most movement your swaddled body will allow) like the penguins you saw last year at the zoo when your brother Jackson proudly stated that he wanted to be a penguin when he grew up, as your mother tells you to stay where she can see you. You and Hazel run outside into the powdery backyard and are instantly met with a nipping wind, which isn’t really surprising because duh, it’s Wyoming in the middle of winter. You pull your scarf up around your nose (which has already began to turn peppermint red from the chill), and you think of how the stinging ice that bounces off your cheeks feels just like the peppermint stick you ate moments ago when it touched your tongue, as Hazel laughed at the face you made, and suddenly you were turning a shade of peppermint pink because it was your first time ever trying peppermint and how were you supposed to know that it was spicy? And while you’re caught up in your peppermint thoughts Hazel throws a snowball at your back, hitting with a loud “Thwunk.” World War Snowball has officially begun, snowballs gloriously flying left and right, and then you’re both lying flat on the ground, tangled limbs hiding under the snow. As you lie there, your breaths feel frozen and slightly sweet, because the peppermint is still there, and as snowflakes stick to your eyelashes like glue, you think about what they’d be like if they were peppermint flavored.

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— Bryn Aprill, XI

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“Generations� by Michelle Leung, XII: paint on printed canvas

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“Galaxy Thoughts” by Raina Pahade, X: pen and ink

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Existentialism Oceans have tides, so why can’t I? Why can’t I ebb and flow and pull people in Why can’t I reject him with monstrous ferocity The same way he drags me into acres of blue Eyes and blue hair and blue skin Why can’t my face be a canvas of greens and purples And emotions swinging from one end of the world to the next Why can’t I wrap myself around the bodies of many Different colors different sexes different beauties And drag them out into a place where nothing exists But us I want to feel sea breeze running along my fingertips And smell salt scraping my toes And taste life grazing my tongue And feel a blanket of cold water Fit over every curve of my Hips and waist and neck Protecting my body like a shield Why can’t the moon choose to take me Away to an unknown place, Save me from forces of blue skies, Save me from his eyes, Save me from the way he makes me feel Important Why am I stuck in one whirlpool of ocean blue When I want to be all seven seas And live in all times And live with all people And dream of new times and new people I’ve never seen, lonely between these blue walls.

— Tarika Kumar, XII

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Plastic Immortality Her corneas are glazed with spider-web cracks, the bones of glass bottles in the concrete basement or the ones he screamed into the bedroom door.

She spritzed her perfume like peeling posters about optimism at the plant, to mask the reek of gasoline on her hands half-washed out as if in her grim glow reflection she was unsure whether to burn all her splintered bridges or drive somewhere better, unsure if they were the same.

She liked drugstores and their plastic bag permanence, taking stock of fleeting aisles more chances after the demolition

so she breathed in tandem with the labels cradled around the medicine bottles and cried with their futility and the way they must feel to be ignored when the little white rounds and the bright brown eyes slipped down the rabbit holes.

And like the plastic bags or the receipts or the dust at the recycling plant she thought she could live another life through the veins of a screaming eulogy.

One where powdered debris kindled meek smiles like white sleeves over branches, where no one could judge her skin pressed against satin in the finished wood.

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— Julia Chang, X

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“Patterned Shadows”

by Michelle Leung, XII: photography

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Sorta like writing, see?

You can be Jackson Kilgrove, the car insurance agent with a secret gecko-worshipping cult behind the scenes.

You can be Eva Kelbert, the mountain climber who has a crippling fear of filing tax returns. You can be Martin Wesser the maintenance guy who loves adopting twoweek–old kittens in bunches of four. You just have to make sure you are.

And keep a style. Keep a theme. Don’t spill a lame voice all over the paper just to go cleaning it up with a heavy, sad towel of formality. Have fun with freedom!

Say whatever the hell you want! Like “blue ice cream snickerdoodle campus waterwheel!” Well, make it coherent. Come on: that’s obvious.

Maybe keep one specific object through all of your writing. Just don’t make it something important. That takes away. If there’s a chewed pencil, or a torn sock, or, I don’t know, that cup of coffee. It might keep just one person looking for the sequel.

Empty left hip pocket– lip balm, pencil, 2 quarters,

a dime, 3 pennies. Right hip pocket– ID card, phone, blue and off-white lint. Back pocket? Wallet. All starting points. And make note of things that make you want to take note of them.

A friend of mine once said to me of a teacher, “He’s good at heart, like really at his core, but there’s a very thick layer of garbage otherwise.” What sort of garbage?

Used tissues? Last year’s Sports Illustrated? Clamshell packaging? Half-eaten peach cobbler? Compact this stuff into a story.

Click-clack of keys, flowing everywhere like one of those popcorn machines that just keeps overflowing. One big flow. Your voice. Your thoughts. Raw. Then revise, revise, revise. Get the battery down to 34%. No, 4%. And then revise. Again.

Blankets? A given. Pillows? Sure. Coffee? Comes in handy. A lot. More than you’d think. Very pleasing aroma, too. Tons of flavors, very customizable.

— Walt Emann, XI

Cabinet by Giulia Gerschel, XI: furniture design

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Good Luck Writing 1. Rip out a blank sheet of lined paper from the nearest notebook. Grab the black ballpoint pen that always lies in the pencil box.

2. Look down at your paper. Realize you don’t have a word written. That’s a problem.

3. Realize you left your phone downstairs. Should probably go grab that.

4. Cross the kitchen. Snack. Open pantry. Salty or sweet? Let’s go with the pretzels. No, I want chocolate. How about the chocolate covered pretzels?

5. Should probably go back up. Okay. Sit down at desk.

6. Look around the room. See an object? Describe it.

The book with the folded corners and beaten up cover lies on the bookshelf in the corner… that was from the time when, well, it’s a long story…

7. And phone rings. “Oh hi… it’s been so long…” 30 minutes later. Why not check texts and email too?

8. Need some fresh air. Head downstairs, put on shoes, and outside. Let’s walk to the coffee shop. Wish I’d brought a jacket, it’s cold.

9. “I’ll get a cappuccino… To go, please…”

10. Back home. Head upstairs. Time to write. Again.

The cool air was crisp and clean… The faint sounds of the lawnmower buzzing in the distance… The large, furry dog ran in circles, chasing its tail…

That’s cliché. Cut. 11. 10 minutes. I’m still thirsty. Grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Maybe juice? I’ll have some apple juice.

12. At the sound of the lawn mower, the squirrel in the tree jumped out and ran across the yard… the dog followed… Didn’t that band come out with a new song?

What was it called again? Let me grab my laptop…

13. This time focus. No more distractions. The dog barked, loudly… the squirrel ran into a flowerbed… now the dog is stuck in a tree… How did that happen?

14. And then you have to leave. I need to get to my doctor’s appointment in 20 minutes.

15. So leave it all on your desk and step out the door.

And know that you will be back. And maybe finish.

Maybe not. I know I won’t.

But good luck writing.

— Raina Kasera, XI

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Still Zeynab’s hands fall into my palm with the force of a wounded deer. Her rosy cheeks drizzle with tears as my fingers stroke through her curls, like wind caressing frosty bristles of a dandelion. She tells me about the girl in her class with the sparkliest green bean eyes— the girl who trotted up to her patch of sidewalk scribbles, pointed to a nearby pile of dirt, and then at Zeynab’s arm.

Dirty Brown! Dirty Brown! Brown like dirt!

Then, Zeynab started to think about how no one photographs the pile of dirt beside the sunflower, below the meadow, beneath the swamp because nothing beautiful is Brown: None of the names on her beloved ticket stubs, book shelves, and movie screens are Brown. Brown might as well be the twin sister to Invisible, she confesses. Zeynab complains about the boringness in Brown but she’s never noticed how the tones of untouched earth— a swirling spectrum of blossoms, buds, and willow shade— spread across her skin like honey on bread, and how her eyes are pots milky cocoa beans, steaming, waiting to warm you up hours after the first crisp snowfall. I rub the back of her hand with my thumb, her skin smooth like a tulip petal, and talk about the clouds, how during the day, they glide and watch as all forms of budding life lay their homes atop the tan terrain— seeds grow roots, animals foster families, and people settle stories. So at night, the clouds dream of one day waking up to fluff radiating the color of coffee and coconut shells. They pray of finally being sought out as nature’s shelter.

The clouds are jealous of the treasure sewn in our skin so why Zeynab, should we copy them and cry?

— Anisa Lateef, XII

At left: “The Weaver” by Emma Dries, XII: photography

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Note: This story is a literary exercise in imagination. There are many resources at PDS (and elsewhere, such as the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline tel:1-800-273-8255 and the National Alliance On Mental Illness 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or info@nami.org) available to address mental health concerns in a positive, productive way.

— The editors of cymbals.

The Ache and The Hiss When she was ten she took a kitchen knife to her stomach. Her parents found her in the bathroom of their new house, sitting in front of the spotless mirror, innocent as if she was playing with makeup for the first time, drugstore smudgy blue eyeshadow and lipgloss. She cut with careful concentration and precision even as her fingers flooded with liquid the color of rust, channels traced in an elliptical battlefield around her navel, organs and skin like a child’s scribble. Yet still she did not look up as her parents entered. She was too busy.

She wanted to find the root of the ache.

She traced the thick scars that slalomed down her tummy as she stood again in front of the mirror, nude and bitten with goosebumps, waiting for her shower to heat. (She would take a bath, but there were none in the new house).

They cut across her in parallel and perpendicular lines soldered together roughly, the rust of her blood never really fading; she wondered when it would turn green like The Statue of Liberty.

(She couldn’t pinpoint any feeling this way or that way about it. There was no conscious guilt or regret. You could say it was an accident or potentially a youthful curiosity she couldn’t blame. The kind of curiosity that killed the cat).

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The ache beat now behind her eyebrows, weighed on her ten year-old twin collarbones, itched up the backs of both her knees, cramped at the arches of her feet. Still she couldn’t find the origin. (It was this, in part, that stopped her from shaming her innocent self).

It wasn’t long after they had stitched up her belly that she heard the hiss. It shook with the same stealth of bubbles exiting lips underwater, slowly at first, experimental, but potentially explosive. She initially mistook it for the electric rumble of hunger, though it didn’t gurgle with the friendliness of an easy solution.

She had just turned eleven.

By twelve, the hissing had swelled into a second body. She named it her Invisible Friend, and it sang her siren’s melodies throughout the day, hushing her to sleep, buzzing through her fingertips and crawling into her ears. The hiss soothed with a parasitic twist; it was mostly a sweet whisper of a sound, but there was something sharper beneath, a note of betrayal, maybe.

(My friends, don’t think for one second the ache had disappeared. My goodness, you have no faith. The ache was still there. Like a period or a constant cough, it is unpleasant, but it is soon absorbed into routine. Our sweet young lady does not feel the need to dwell on it– perhaps she has assumed that every other youth in the world feels this ache. The hiss, on the other hand, is fresh with new discovery and evolution).

At thirteen, she dreamt she was giving birth to two cottonmouths alive from the pool of her uterus. The hissing was so loud and the ache so real, her stomach reverberated and the scars threatened to splice themselves open, revealing lagoons of squishing tissue.

When she awoke from her nightmare, the cottonmouth’s

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wet slither real against her inner thigh, she found her underwear stained brown and rust. She knew it wouldn’t turn green.

She stopped answering her parents when they spoke at fifteen. At first, they assumed it was teenage angst, a phase of ignorance and isolation, and so they didn’t ask.

But then the school called, saying they were having the same problem, saying the other young ladies were doing just fine, and so the parents were forced into the difficult position of inquiry. Her parents didn’t understand the response (if they did, I don’t know if they would’ve cared). Neither did the school.

The hissing was so loud, it drowned out everything else.

At sixteen, she realized her Invisible Friend was not normal. She stopped calling it her Friend.

At seventeen, the aching became impossibly painful, though she thought she knew it couldn’t get any worse.

It anchored her to her bed, sucking her into the nautical pools of her sheets.

On her eighteenth birthday, she rented a motel. She needed to get away from the new house that still smelled like new house and take a bath. She hadn’t had a bath in over 12 years and she could feel the goosebumps gathering in a biting culmination of anticipation.

She had stolen a kitchen knife from the new house, from the kitchen that still smelled like fresh paint. She took it out now in the blue fluorescence of the motel bathroom, standing like a milky phantasm in front of the mirror, sloughing off her clothing. She drew the bath, releasing steam from the faucet, a constant needle, an untamed howl of wet. For the first time in 12 years, the Invisible Friend was inaudible over the roar of water, its lullaby softer than ever.

She lowered herself ceremoniously until she was graced to her collarbones. The knife slipped in in whorls and swirled around her navel and amongst the tendrils of wet hair. The water, Invisible, was suddenly red and rust and there was no hint of green and the ache was releasing like venom in a vein, and forgiving, because she was returning it to the water where it came from, where she made it, where, at six, she pressed a palm on her sister’s forehead when her parents turned their back and felt the rattles of wet hair in desperation and watched a hiss release from her throat like bubbles from lips underwater– controlled at first, an eruption, and then nothing. And, finally, (as the true nature of things is to come full circle) in the innocence of the blue bathtub, the hissing would sing our sweet young lady to sleep, as it had her sister, and the seed of ache would disappear like a child’s red spinning top down the drain.

— Ella Baseman, XII

She pulled up in front of Motel 6, the sign blue and red and white against black night; dichotomies and dualities of colors born from the same mother, blue-red primary or white-black nothingness. Cement lines snaked in parallel through the rust exterior, slaloming through brick, inverse blood trickling with the viscosity of water down the walls.

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“Under Red, White, and Blue”

by Lea Namouni, XI: photography

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“Fierce public fiGirl” by Ella Jackson, IX: pen and ink

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Ain’t Personal, Just Need the Money Apartments are expensive in Hell. It’ll cost you three thousand Drachinos® for somewhere that is not engulfed in flames. Considering nobody works when they die, it becomes quite pricey.

So before Death became Death, he went to Hades.

“Listen man, living here’s like hella expensive, and I don’t want to live in a damn fire pit for the rest of eternity.”

“Then get a damn job. I don’t have time to be your guidance counselor.”

“Don’t you give out the jobs?”

“No. Who told you that?”

The sign outside of Hades’ door said “Career Advisor Business Guide Extraordinaire!” in glowing neon lights.

“Well nevermind that. I do have a pretty nice job lined

up. Pays ‘bout a hundred a year. All you gotta do is find some people, kill them, collect some souls, bring ‘em—” “Wait. You want me to become some tax collector?”

“No, of course not. I’m my own tax collector. Duh. You’re gonna be Death. The old Death quit after being able to buy his dream apartment. Now it’s your job to be Death.

Up for it?”

“Can’t be too hard right? Find people, kill them, collect souls, and bring ‘em back. That all?”

“Yup. Now here’s your scythe and some slick threads.

Put ‘em on and we’ll get a going. Just roll the die, and it’ll take us to our target.”

“Wait. You’re telling me Death kills people based on… a die?”

“It Was the Devil That Was Abroad” by Ella Baseman, XII & Tarika Kumar, XII: mixed media

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“Yeah of course. Death doesn’t discriminate. And c’mon, Death. Die. Get it? Cause y’know, the people go and—” “I get it.”

Death threw the die on the ground and watched it bounce to a stop.

“Uh Hades, I think you messed it up. The die has no—” Poof. New York City. January 7th, 1993.

“Whew. I don’t how you Deaths do it, but I’ll never get used to that.”

“I think I’m going deaf. How did we get to New York?

Why is nobody moving? Can they see us? Can I get a hotdog? I miss hotdogs.”

“Nah. When Death does his job, time freezes. Gives you all the time in the world to choose how this fella goes.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Slice through him with your scythe. The death you picture in you head will happen to him and his soul will be stored in the scythe until you return.”

“Seems awfully cruel. I mean he could have done nothing wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter. The die determines where, when, and who. Not you. Just kill him, it’s part of the natural cycle that keeps the heavens from imploding.”

“Alright. That sounds like a decent motivator.”

Death took a deep breathe and prepared to reap the probably innocent man in front of him.

“Sorry man. Ain’t personal, just need the money.”

— Daniel Tang, XI

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“Munch” by Emma Dries, XII: photography

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Watching the Clock Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I watch the hands move, just like my own. My fingers communicate with secret agents across the room in Morse code, tapping out SOS over and over. No one responds, but that’s because they don’t want to betray me.

Only they know that I have given up.

Time is frozen, but I’m supposed to keep working.

I feel too guilty being a spy, so my hands become artists. My fingers trace patterns of Bach, Mozart, and then something new that belongs only to me. I don’t know how it sounds on the keys, but it feels right against the desk. The cold, quiet rhythms in my head are carved into the wood as my fingertips bounce up and down.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. It’s a game. How long can I go without looking?

Suddenly I’m doodling, because finger paint is fun but pen lasts in more than memory. Circles, squares, lines, all mashed into something that looks purposeful.

I add in colors to give it life. I can feel the red blood pump with agitation in my veins, making my face pink like the paper.

The annoying clicks fill my ears, reminding me that time isn’t on my side.

Now I’m wandering through fields of curiosity. Since when do math problems have more letters than numbers?

Why is that girl looking at me? Why isn’t he looking at me? What am I doing in this classroom? When can I just stop?

Too much. The clock is screaming at me like a fire alarm telling me to get out.

Don’t give in. Breathe. Hold. Let it out slowly.

Now explode—jump up, throw the desk, scream, run in circles of panic around the room. Launch papers to the ceiling and jump out a window and fly through the air until everything is gone, and I’m all alone, far away from lectures and tests and fiddling hands and annoying thoughts.

Only 20 more minutes.

— Hallie Hoffman, XII

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“King’s Leopard Long Bow” by Declan Rourke, XII

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“Fish Head” by Michelle Leung, XII: photography

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“The Cleat” by Zoe Jackson, XI: architecture

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The Boy at the Park He reads a hard cover book under the decayed oak tree.

He runs his elegant fingers across the page as his hair flutters with the wind, his blue eyes scan every word, unaware of their surroundings.

I want to swim in the salt water of this boy’s eyes, be at peace in the clear shimmering waters.

But, instead, part of me knows that his luminous blue eyes could turn hard and flat and dark like my father’s.

Eyes that came home at midnight, screaming and cussing and lying, speaking the heartbreaking truth that he did not love his family.

Then I see that the dark waters of this boy’s eyes are not rushing currents, but clear and blue and electric.

Cowardly eyes that walked out on four hungry bellies, dozens of unpaid bills, and my younger sister’s pleading words:

With all my courage, I step towards this boy

Please Don’t

go.

Where he once sat, a girl cries under the decayed oak tree in Columbus Park.

Yellow bitter tequila pollutes the blue water.

My lungs burn as they fill with water.

but…

— Nashleen Salazar, XI

“Photographic Constellations” by Joseph Hudicka, X, photography

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“A Good Peach” by Ella Baseman, XII: mixed media

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“Frozen Fanta/ Agent Orange” by Alec Berger, XI: photography

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Teapot set by Mary Schafer, XII: ceramics

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empty calories i trace the lines on your palms and think about how rivers merge with a thrashing panic. how the clouds look strange or how today feels like a sunday. i hear my own heart beat next to yours like the precautionary mumblings of nostalgia in the present, hushed and indistinct but there nonetheless.

and before these seconds i believe this kind of sunken joy is impossible, not meant for someone like me then your honey-coated laughter tells me it was so i believe it.

— Julia Chang, X

backs to soft fingers of grass i think about how nothing interests me besides how close the taut sheet of blue seems to your nose

“Color Touch” by Flynn Gorman, XI: ceramics

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Ridgefield Park cereal milk sunday when i squint my eyes the ground is cornflakes and milk. rise and shine, sunday morning, lazy, fat and free. fat-free milk numbs away the top half of my feet, though there is no direct contact. thank you boots. there is a song i know called “thank you” in lace-like words she lists her thanks: a romanticized version of real life, her voice is crystalline sugar and tastes like a lullaby, i lose myself in her rose-colored lens. i am thankful for such a song. i think about how grateful i am to live so close to cereal and milk. to saturated blue skies. to black trees like scribbled ink. to hear the crunch of golden grass like frosted flakes under feet. thankful to touch sunday morning, lazy, fat, and free, snow, actually, kicks up in tornadoes by unseen forces. (thank you wind.) the top half of my feet flop like ice and i shiver. i am thankful to be cold. i am thankful to go home.

— Ella Baseman, XII

Every cousin crams into any seat, and a few make up their own, just so that they can ride in the “cool kids” car also known as Grandma’s cherry Subaru driven by one of the college twins down three lanes and a street blasting a milkshake of Fifth Harmony & Kanye out the windows while the rest cruise in Auntie’s blue raspberry minivan for the cupholder space to cradle the takeout styrofoam trays for everyone back home at Grandma’s brick Bed & Breakfast.

The newest generation always races to fill every available vehicle and tag along for a ride to the Dairy Queen below the big red barn plastered with the same menu from when our parents splurged on banana splits after school.

The college twin studying business and my little sister orders the cotton candy flavor, except he gets two adult scoops that vaguely resemble mystical hills in his giant palms and tiny car keys while she wipes rainbow sprinkles off her Hello Kitty top.

He was the first of our generation to get a job and make money and get a girlfriend before he was supposed to, so we make him pay at the next open window.

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— Anisa Lateef, XII

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“Metal Milk Pot” by Mary Schafer, XII: charcoal

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Sunday Drive My eyes flutter back to one of those coffee-stained Sunday mornings in dad’s pick-up truck.

The seatbelt scrapes the bottom of my chin gently, the carseat long forgotten.

Sunlight ricochets off his favorite CD like an old-fashioned disco ball as he slides it into the reader.

A soapy laugh, one that sends bubbles from my battered pink converse to my little bow clipped to the top of my golden brown hair.

I don’t blink but I know that if I close my eyes I will be safe.

His voice fills the car with his easy happiness.

“Slipstream” by Vibhu Singh, XI: photography

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— Charlotte Meyercord, XI

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“Ribbon” by Vibhu Singh, XI: photography 55

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“The Other Squid”

by Bennett Emann, IX: ceramics

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Have I Been in This Place Before?

1. Welcome back. There are several likely events that

have just happened. Either you are dead, the universe is dead, or the perfect set of circumstances have occurred to cause the collapse of physics. For the first two cases, please start from step one. If the third case is true, please prepare to be transposed onto the nearest black hole.

2. Everything needs to happen on the first try. First start

a connection with “The Network.” It should appear as a regular Wifi network. Failure might fry mainframe.

3. Picture several events before you plopped into this

8. Notice the new keyboard that has lowered on your left. Please enter the exact same pattern of shapes you observed in step three. If a voice prompts it, smash the “Thumbs Up” button.

9. Adjust the “Shearing” knob to Gear V. If jamming occurs, pull the brace on your right. If you need to use both hands to pull, use the secondary steering wheel under your left foot. Failure to keep the vehicle straight will melt you into a warm puddle.

10. At the end of the tunnel, please click on your right

seat. Now shorten them to the important words and phrases. Failure to do this within a minute will crash the whole Internet..

turn signal. Since other beings are traveling through the intergalactic wormhole, please don’t cause an accident. An accident in the intergalactic wormhole could result in becoming a pancake. Again.

4. Bang those keys on the keyboard in front of you. Don’t

11. Exit the wormhole. See a greenhouse on your left?

worry. It’s not a language you know. Let the shortened words and phrases guide which keys you press. As you type, notice the shapes appearing before you.

Remember them now for a later step. Failure to type in the correct keys could collapse the cabin or erase several galaxies.

5. The final key is always the one your right pinky rests on. Press it as you pull up on the lever beneath your chair with your left hand. You’ll begin traveling forward. Failure will result in being stretched into a fourth-dimension pretzel.

6. Please remember to buckle the five-point safety harness.

Failure to do so will cause you to start pancaking.

7. As you accelerate past the speedometer’s maximum, ensure the light meter reads a positive value. If the value is negative, replace the power bulbs beneath the gauge cluster. Failure could result in the collapse of gravity.

Shatter it. Failure means you will deleted from this universe.

12. Rebegin activation by pressing the big red button with

your left hand. With your right hand, flip the switches above your head. Don’t bother reading what each one does. Just flip the ones that seem right.

13. Hit the “Backwards Eject” button. If successful, your current self will be deleted and a past self will receive the message. If failure occurs, make a microwave dinner in the reactor core.

14. Please record these exact instructions on the nearest

sheet of paper. Throw it out the chute in between the locking mechanism and computer.

15. If you wake up in 2016, sign up for Chemistry. Recite

the numbers on the back of this sheet. Help your professor start Future Mechanics, Inc.

— Daniel Tang, XI

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“Geometry of a Blueprint” by Hannah Su, X: architecture

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Reverie in my dreams our fingers touch, warmth emanating from your hands. your smile vibrant and contagious and i can’t help but look at you, a stupid grin unfastening my tightly-shut lips we are so close that i can breathe you in and i smell summer, fresh rain, grass, clean pajamas, vanilla, and butterscotch, then i taste salt and wetness when i open my eyes it is no longer you but a watercolor: red to blue to purple

— Skye Harris. IX

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A Cynic’s Take on Love: A Pantoum The line between love and fear is blurred.

Both bring our world to its knees and Place blazing hearts on the guillotine, One sword’s kiss away from eternal rest.

They bring our world to its knees, Like soldiers’ tepid marches. We fear we are One sword’s kiss away from eternal rest, so We stitch our hearts into fiery suns.

Like soldiers’ tepid marches, we fear we are but Characters in God’s game, vessels of amusement.

So we stitch our hearts into fiery suns, Aching to be wanted, to be needed.

We are characters in God’s game, vessels of amusement.

And so we place blazing hearts on the guillotine, Aching to be wanted, to be needed.

The line between love and fear is blurred.

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— Sanjana Dugar, XII

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“Natural Serenity” by Rebecca Kuzmicz, XII: acrylic on canvas 61

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“Dog Dreams” by Annie Zhang, IX: pen and ink

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Taffy “Hey, Jonah? You gonna move up to A-class next year?” Polly asks me. “’Cause then we wouldn’t really see each other.”

I pop a grape Laffy Taffy into my mouth and hand Polly the wrapper. She always likes to make them into paper planes. She folds the corners down, revealing the wrapper’s white underbelly.

“I don’t know,” I say. I rip a blade of grass out of the ground by its purple roots and roll it into a little ball between my thumb and forefinger.

Polly and I became friends in Hebrew school, or at least that’s what my mom told me. It’s one of those things that’s always been, like the horrible jokes on Laffy Taffy wrappers.

“If I have to move down to C-Class next year,” she says, “you’ll fail your finals so you move down with me, right?” She stops crinkling the wrapper, her eyes exploring the woodchips beneath our bench.

“I mean, no?” I say, chuckling awkwardly. “It’s not like I’m definitely moving up anyways. I still have to get my math grade up to an A-.”

Polly looks up at me and blinks, her lips pursed in a painful smile.

“Really though, you’d come with me. I know you would.”

I pick at the grass wad with my fingernail.

“We’ll see each other at lunch, and I could help you study—“ Polly’s hand makes its way onto my knee. This is new.

“I’ll miss you,” she says, her eyes returning to the woodchips.

“I, uh,” I scoot away. “I’ll miss you too, but in A-class they do a poetry unit, and a field trip to the—“ “It’s like this.” She stands quickly. “You’re one of those people who recites Thoreau and does spelling bees and I get that.” She turns to me. “I just thought I was

more important to you than all that. I know I’m not some A-class genius but I’m smart enough to know that you’re losing interest.”

“Interest?” I say, flicking the grass wad into a puddle.

“I’m not, like, your boyfriend.” I chuckle again.

She stares at me, her hands stiff and empty at her sides like a Barbie doll.

We’re silent for as long as it takes for a breeze to lift her hair, whisper in her ear and gently put it back down.

Her fingers retreat into fists and she rubs her white knuckles with her thumbs.

“Um, Polly?”

“Yes?” “I’m really sorry.”

Her hands are still stiff at her sides.

“Yes.” She nods slowly, a ragged smile suddenly shaking her body into a laugh. “I’m so sorry! I’m so dumb, I’m so dumb!” She shakes her head over and over.

“Polly, did you think we were—“ “No!” She waves her hands in front of her in unnaturally wide arcs. “It’s just me being dumb! Forget I said it!”

“Please stop calling yourself dumb.”

“It’s nothing! Please, forget it. Let’s talk about something else!”

We fidget uncomfortably when she sits back down, like the bench is a bathtub full of ice cubes. She unfolds the crumpled Laffy Taffy wrapper and starts reading the joke.

“What do you call a pig who does karate?”

“Polly—“ “A porkchop!”

We laugh because we have no idea what else to do.

— Julia Parks, XI

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“Investigation of a Site”

by Adayliah Ley, X: architecture

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Writing Writing. I mean, it’s just like... annoying sometimes.

Finding the right words. Like putting peanut butter and jelly on a hot dog. Or ketchup and mustard on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And trying to make it taste good? It’s like a haystack. And a needle. Or more like a needlestack. Like deep sea diving with no snorkel. Or goggles. It’s like playing baseball with no glove. Hitting without a bat, but hands instead. Ouch. Don’t even wanna think about that one. It’s like the times where you’re eating, but the spaghetti with red sauce keeps falling off your fork right when you’re about to bite it. And looking around to make sure no one saw it. But obviously someone saw it. And now splattered red sauce on your shirt. Am I the only one that happens to? Or when you try to throw something in the garbage, but there’s no bag.

Just throwing it into the bagless garbage anyway. As if the garbage fairy would make a bag suddenly appear.

But then, somehow, the ketchup on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich tastes good. Then it’s pretty cool. And you’re wearing a red shirt, so you can’t see the spaghetti sauce. The type of cool where you find one last piece of Kit Kat in the bottom of your Halloween pillow case when you thought there was none left. It’s halfway melted and the chocolate sticks and grabs the wrapper. But you eat it anyway, cause Kit Kats are your favorite candy.

And goopy chocolate drips from your fingers. So you get to lick that too. Yeah, that type.

— Luke Franzoni, XII

“DoDici” by Giulia Gerschel, XI: furniture design

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Cold You hear your skull resound as it collides with asphalt.

Fingertips, knuckles, wrists, arms go limp and you feel your feet go fuzzy and knees lock up and hips sink into the ground. They’re walking over now, boots clunking closer as they drop into a kneel and lean across your body.

There are shouts and a sudden pinch as one of them knocks aside your jacket and digs into your stomach, probing around until you hear the bullet clink on the asphalt. Pain floods through your limbs for half of a moment, bringing them to life and shutting them down again. Numb.

They’re yelling again and through your onion-skin eyes you see the sky darken as four parkas crowd your vision. Cold air dries up your eyes and you can’t blink, can’t squint as you feel hands on your hand, your wrist, unbuckling your watch, twirling your wedding band.

Hands flip you over and dig into your back pockets, sift through expired credit cards, a fuzzy photo of Julia, outdated business cards, a faded, linty Post-It from Harriet, the office secretary. The parkas glance at each item before throwing them on the ground and grunting.

You stare straight ahead, eyes glued open, as they tower over you. Their voices are low and gruff and their shoulders block out the last spasms of sun and you see nothing. Come on, from the left and this way, this way, from the right. Hands latch onto your shoulders, under your knees, and you feel the rough

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asphalt beneath you give way as they hoist you up. Your chest, your undershirt, your coat is slippery and cold, uncomfortable, wet.

They give a groan and you feel your body land on a cropped, crunchy carpet. Eyes bore into the gray ceiling of the van; jeans rub against the rug as they shove you across the floor. As they pile in next to you, wiping blood from their hands and onto your jacket, the back doors slam shut and the van begins to move. Words swim in and out of your ears as a speed bump knocks your head into the air. Your body throws itself onto its side and you wait for the thump of your head against the floor. You close your eyes. It doesn’t come. You blink.

The kitschy orange backsplash blends into vision as Julia walks into the room, holding the phone to her ear.

When she sees you, she mouths one minute and you sit down at the kitchen table, rubbing your temples as your eyes catch sight of the hundred blank cards piled across from you. With a sigh, you undo the top button of your shirt and pull off your tie.

She’s wearing a gray sweater and soft black pants that flare around the ankle. I talked to Jenny, she says, setting the phone on the table. I thanked her for the blender. And I made us squash soup in the pot your parents gave us.

It’s on the stove, she says, gesturing to the range and its orange backsplash. As you rise and cautiously carry the pot to the table, Julia sets the utensils and reaches for a card from the pile.

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You spoon soup into each bowl and watch her as she picks up her pen, curling the tails of her t’s and y’s. Her wrist, freshly bronzed from your honeymoon in Costa Rica, flecks out Mr. and Mrs. at the bottom of the card.

As you place the bowl of soup in front of her, she licks the letter shut and takes your hand, the quarter carat on her finger glinting.

Your head knocks against the dusty rug of the van as it slows to a stop and the door opens, pouring light into your open eyes. Grunting, they pull you up and throw you onto the ground, face in the frozen grass. As they slam the door and idle, spewing the thick stench of exhaust behind them, you hear the click of a lighter in your left ear and the slow drip of a creek in your right.

They pull back onto the road in a cloud of cigarette smoke as you lie on the ground, icy dew cutting into your frosted face.

Water drips into the creek and you imagine it comes from an icicle, melting in the day. The hole in your stomach aches and you try to groan but you don’t even squeak. That’s when you realize it, you figure, and you wait for the god you never believed in to claim your body.

Your cheek is frozen against the earth. You can’t feel your hands or your arms and you remember today’s green Post-It note from Harriet, crumpled tightly in your fist: Let’s meet tonight?

You smell blood, the same blood you’ve been smelling. Your blood. It makes you want to retch, and

you can’t, because you’re dead and if you were alive enough to speak, you’d say it. You’re dead and your death is all over you, pouring out from the hole in your stomach, pouring into the ground. Julia would say some metaphor, something deep about you absorbing the earth and the earth absorbing you, but she’s too smart for you. She spends her whole day learning—thinking about things, writing things down while you’re at work.

She’ll think and she’ll write and then she’ll call up her mom while you’re at the office. She’ll tell her about your next vacation together. She’ll tell her about the offseason and the deals she can get. She’ll talk until you come back from your late night at work, your late night at Harriet’s desk, and when you roll into bed next to her, you won’t be able to tell the two of them apart. But Julia will wake up the next morning and you’ll do it all again: days, weeks, months.

The front of your jacket begins to stiffen. You remember the weather forecast from this morning: snow tonight, twenty-seven degrees. Maybe you’ll see it. Maybe it’ll cover you, or maybe you’ll freeze before night rises.

Your fingertips are not your own anymore. You imagine their calloused knuckles, blue and bloodless, and they fall, heavy, into the earth. You’re sinking by the toes of your shoes, sinking into the ground, molding into cold dirt, inheriting its frost as the drip of the creek slows to a stop and the first snowflakes melt onto your neck.

— Sara Chopra, XII

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“Light + Shadows” by Elizabeth Brennan, XII: photography

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Who’s the Sinner Now? In my kindergarten year at Cornerstone Christian School, where I pretended to like carrots, the same way the teachers of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ pretended to not be revolted when the orange chunks bombed their lady shoes after I got nauseous that one lunchtime, so I learned everything about my religion from VeggieTales, the real animated Bible, then I would march the blessed hallways in my tragedy of a plaid uniform, pretending that Larry the Cucumber and Bob the Tomato could stop me from sinning, which, by the way, involved a lot of musical numbers by vegetables pretending to be nutritional missionaries of sorts, so I guess it made sense to sing in the literal house of God and pretend that the show was an excuse to not eat vegetables, as one should never ever eat their teachers, but Christians eat bread, or the pretend physical body of their Lord and Savior, so who’s the sinner now? The whole religion thing was never easy, so I assumed it was just teachers, vegetable or not, pretending they had all the answers, and during those lunch times when they called me to say a prayer before eating, I pretended that I was thankful for God for giving me this daily bread instead of my mommy who paid for my whole meal plan. Amen.

— Lydia Pamudji, XI

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“Skyline Table” by Abby Weinstein, IX: furniture design

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Waiting for the Wilsons We sit on those branches together.

And they never pay attention to us.

We hear them.

They talk and talk without a point, without an end.

We sit above the gutters, And chatter to fill the time Waiting for the Wilsons to press the button, to open the garage, so that we may watch.

We wait.

For the dogs to be let out, so we can climb down the bark and drive them up the wall.

We know that they could slaughter us with a single bite, our blood staining their teeth.

We’ve always known.

The only excitement we know is this: the Wilsons are the only channel on the television.

And the trees—the only armchair we have.

So we wait.

And watch our lost nuts grow into the giants that tower over us.

And we stand and watch on our hind legs, the Wilsons crouching, waiting for our pillars of oak and willow come crumbling down.

— Alec Berger, XI

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What To Do When You’ve Suddenly Gone Blonde 1. Try not to cry in front of your hairdresser. He doesn’t speak English well, so maybe your “a little light on the bottom” to him sounds a lot like “a whole head of brilliant flaming gold” in his language. Hey, mistakes happen.

2. Avoid looking at yourself in the mirror for the next twelve hours. You won’t recognize yourself at all, and you’ll be knocked out by the biggest identity crisis of your life when you have hair that’s brighter than your future.

3. If people come up to you, stare at your dyed hair, and ask, “Whoa, did you dye your hair?” act like you have no idea what they’re talking about and twirl a lock of fresh yellow around your index finger.

4. Get sunglasses for your judgmental relatives and peers. Sometimes the brightness can be blinding to their eyes, and they can be diagnosed with chronic Opinionsyoucoulddowithout Syndrome.

5. Go up to your enemies and use the intensity of the bright glow to melt their eyes in their sockets.

6. Come up with a new name for yourself. For example: Lindsay, named after the hair color Lindsay Lohan sported in her mugshot.

7. Take pictures of yourself as you stand under the light in your bedroom, then the one in your mother’s closet, then the one in the pizzeria’s bathroom, then the one in the cereal aisle in Target, then the hot one outside in the sky. Also take lots of pictures of yourself because you’re a narcissist. Note that you look pretty cool for someone whose head is on fire. Send pictures to friends for validation.

8. Disprove the “dumb blonde” stereotype. In fact, with all those enlightened roots, you should be more 1

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intelligent. Do research on how 2 b smart. Read lots of smart people political news articles about how the president claims to have a much bigger and more powerful nuclear button than Kim Jong-Un (and that his works!). Simultaneously pat your head and rub your tummy. Challenge your friends to some vicious tic-tac-toe and demolish their dreams. Boggle their minds with a card trick you found on Wikihow.

Memorize the dictionary, especially the words that don’t sound like English (for example, the word boondoggle1). Brag to your friends about how you’ve mastered the art of boondoggling.

9. If #8 doesn’t work, utilize the “dumb blonde” stereotype to the fullest and beyond. If your teacher asks you to finish an assignment, tell him/her, “Sorry, I can’t, I’m blonde.” Repeat for similar, no-fun circumstances.

10. Crack witty jokes about how two brunettes walk into a bar.

11. See if blondes really have more fun. Sign Lindsay up for dating websites. Dance like you’re good at dancing, but not really. Increase social interaction.

But, blonde or not, nothing beats staying in bed for an entire weekend.

12. When people ask you if you’re okay, just respond, “Yeah, I’m just a little light-headed.”

13. Realize that while you look pretty spectacular your parents pay for you to go to a school whose one-year tuition is worth a Tesla Model 3.

14. Go back to your hairdresser the day after and play charades and beg him to extinguish the vibrant flame on your scalp.

Boondoggle: to do work of little or no practical value merely to keep or look busy

— Lydia Pamudji, XI

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“Minor Contact” by Sophie Cohen, X: photography

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Fever Dream The house across the street is engulfed in fire, the grass writhing like a sea of red-brown worms when they lay dying on the pavement. I think perhaps the sun exploded on my neighbor’s lawn. What’s wrong with this picture?

Not the flames, not the blood-red cloud. No. It’s the broken-down mail truck on the curb, the fire reaching forward to stain the white metal like a toasting marshmallow. Maybe it stopped to help but was swallowed by the fire instead.

Or maybe, like me, it just couldn’t resist watching.

I wonder if my neighbors are home, if they are trying to call for help and I just can’t hear them through my window. Or maybe they are at work and will come back to find their house simply gone, replaced by gray, smoky shadows.

Will they know what happened? I worry that I’m the only one who will see the tortured flames, the stranded truck, the rivers of smoke hovering in the air.

But then I look away—just to prove I can—and when my eyes return everything is gone. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and I remember that the mail was delivered hours ago. It is me who is burning up, but I can’t leave my lookout in case the house catches on fire again, so I sit on the floor writhing like those red-brown worms I tried to save from the sun.

— Hallie Hoffman, XII

At right: “Breathe Easy” by Alec Berger, XI: photography

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And Now, Me Once I met a guy who claimed to have a third nipple. This has nothing to do with me, I just thought it was weird.

When I was little, I had a rock collection. Now I have a seashell collection. When I grow up I will collect money.

My favorite breakfast item is the cinnamon roll.

Sometimes I think about how weird it will be to just not exist anymore.

When I was little I had a stuffed animal dog named Biscuit after a puppy in a book I liked called “The Adventures of Biscuit.”

I dislike the phrase “vertically challenged.”

My favorite quote of all time is, “You’d think that killing people would make them like you, but it doesn’t. It just makes them dead.”

I’ve never been able to keep a diary. I always give up after the first few pages.

When I was seven I had a pet frog. One day he hopped away while I was trying to feed him and he turned up dead a week later. I still think about him sometimes.

I despise icebreakers.

I found a potato on the streets of Dublin. I found another one on the streets of San Francisco. It may have been the same potato.

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When I was younger, I had a recurring nightmare about a hospital and a never ending corridor. I kept waking up before I saw the ending.

I am 100% positive both that the avocado is a fruit and that hot dogs are not sandwiches.

I once saw a picture of a text book cover which featured a picture of students smiling while holding a text book with a picture of them smiling and holding the textbook whose cover had a picture of them smiling and holding the textbook on it.

All dogs are puppies no matter how old they are.

When I was little, I used to throw tantrums whenever someone complimented me. Now I just feel uncomfortable.

I used to have my ears pierced, but now I just have bumps and scars.

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I have never broken anything except for my foot, my wrist, one of my ribs, two of my little toes, and my childhood friend’s heart.

The word naked makes me feel uncomfortable when said out loud.

I am exactly four minutes older than my brother. I was born at 3:12 and he was born at 3:16. I will never let him forget this.

If you give me homework and give me thirty-four years to do it, I won’t start it until the night before.

I am allergic to cats. I have known that I’ve been allergic to cats for 10 years. I still really, really, want a kitty.

Be honored. I’ve shared more right now than I ever do with most people I meet.

— Mackenzie ElKadi, XI

“Bent But Not Broken” by Flynn Gorman, XI: ceramics

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The Snake in the Salad Bowl From the plastic jail cell, I could still see its eyes. They pierced in the same way I imagined its fangs did—a quick motion that seemed to last forever. As hisses erupted through the clear walls, its rosy tongue slapped the air, reaching toward me. And the snake just looked at me.

It was my fault it had been discovered. I had peered under the sofa, looking for a game, but had found a snake instead. It was the sound I noticed first, like the whisper from a fire when the logs are too wet and steam rises out.

It had found this perfectly warm, dark home, and now my Monopoly board was its new bed.

This was its reward. After overcoming its claustrophobia to wriggle through some drain or pipe, it deserved this. It had followed a trail of warmth, or some smell wafting from our abandoned refrigerator, or maybe just a tasty mouse. And now it was my fault for disturbing its nap. The snake blamed me for not warning it about this game of hide-and-seek.

It didn’t want to hurt me—not right away, at least. The warning hiss told me to stay away, but its eyes, the pupils like dark ravines tearing through the sun, dared me to come closer. It wanted me to to stick out a hand or a leg, or to let out a scream so it would have an excuse to sink its fangs into my soft skin.

It stared at me from behind the tassels of the sofa, piecing together my scared but excited four-year-old eyes from the strips that were visible. I should have been terrified, but this was better than Candyland or Chutes and Ladders. I wanted to tell everyone about the snake I had found, but I worried it might run away from me. The snake watched me carefully inch away as though I was laying on a bomb, our eyes still locked. It saw my face disappear from the horizon, replaced by my tiny feet tiptoeing away.

It heard the murmurs, the gasp, the extra sets of running feet. It heard the scrambling, the fear, the shock, the excitement. And then light shattered the darkness and the roof lifted away. The snake never saw it coming.

Perhaps the mouse was too heavy in its stomach, or the light was blinding, or it got tangled in itself and was busy considering what it would feel like to have legs. Maybe it wasn’t expecting these two-legged creatures to lift a sofa, or maybe it expected them to grab a bat or a shotgun or a knife instead. The salad bowl was a surprise.

The plastic sky descended and closed itself around the snake In this new glassy reality, the snake wondered what its fate would be. Was this the end? Would it ever see its family again, or have the opportunity to make a family?

It watched the humans relax now that it was trapped— contained—but they seemed confused about what to do next. I didn’t want anything to happen to the snake. I had found it, so it was now my job to protect it. I had a mission.

And then a cardboard floor slid in like a horizontal elevator in an airport, and the snake was lifted into the air and cradled as a terrified parent holds a baby. The world was a blur of brown and green and blue, and the snake thought it saw trees but was too dizzy to be sure.

Then the world stopped moving, and the crystal dome disappeared to reveal the sky. The snake remembered what it felt like to be free, to taste the smell of grass and dirt, to feel the ground gently scratching its scales. It slithered away, but the cardboard was still on the grass, and my dad held the salad bowl, and I wondered if the snake was like me.

— Hallie Hoffman, XII

At left: “The Complicated World of Materialism” by Lucy Bailey, XI: brush and ink 79

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A Girl and Her Purple Hair Fantasy I beg for a violet hair masquerade to better frame my hazel eyes, but Grandma combs my black waves to cascade like Indus swirls and palm tree shade.

Last night, I dreamt of amethyst and dragonflies.

I beg for a violet hair masquerade.

She showed me shalwar kameez, replaced H&M suede, lentils were always dahl, and sweets meant silky rasmalai; but Grandma combs my black waves to cascade below her burgundy scarf and coconut kissed braids, with calloused palms cradling mugs of chai.

I beg for a violet hair masquerade.

The anchormen graffiti her green and white with grenades, cremating the crescent and star in the sky, but Grandma combs my black waves to cascade and for a moment, I play a Pakistani Princess charade as every jewel glimmers, every bite blooms with spice.

I begged for a violet hair masquerade, but Nani combed my black waves to cascade.

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— Anisa Lateef, XII

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“Sparks Fly” by Amon DeVane, XI: photography 81

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“Man” by Anjali Bhatia, IX: acrylic on canvas 82

“Free and Dying” by Audrey Liang, X: photography

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Lessons from a Wise Man Six years old, wide-eyed. I looked out at the world with a Sense of purpose, a yearning to understand everything at its purest form Because I was in first grade now, a big girl by definition. A grown-up kid.

I stared out the window as my father drove 50 in a 35, a sparkle in his eye, A boyish glint of humor and precociousness from his own childhood.

He turned around and wagged his finger, pointing to the speedometer.

Do as I say, don’t do as I do.

Some years later we stood in the kitchen while sandesh, freshly out of the pan Steamed on the counter, laughing at us, taunting and teasing us.

Only after dinner, my mother had warned, and the sandesh knew this.

My brother and I watched with mouths agape as my father, fluidly as a water arc, Snatched the knife, cut a piece off, and dropped in into his mouth.

Just then mother came back, suspicious of her children’s contorted faces, stifled giggles.

Dad turned around, a cheeky smile spread on his face and whispered into our ears: Do as I say, don’t do as I do.

I was seventeen, a newly-minted driver with the ink on my license still wet.

Pushed my dad into the car, eager to show him the adept motorist I’d become.

Stomped my foot down, smashing the accelerator. Soon I was going 50 in a 35.

My father turned to me, wagging his finger at the speedometer.

Do as I say, don’t — I finished for him.

Do as I do.

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— Sanjana Dugar, XII

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“Portrait of Frank Gehry” by Sasha Sindhwani, XI: architecture

Frank Gehry Take 7 Sasha

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“Live Edge Music Stand”

by Tommy Batterman, XII: furniture design

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What to Say at Grandpa’s Funeral One day I’ll be “ancestor” puffing out dust that collects itself into clawfoot tubs and chipping gold frames while children hunt in my attic for things to say about grandpa They look up and examine each nail hanging necks from the ceiling They think of me My skin was sharp They’re afraid they’ll get paper cuts in their eyes so they crawl around the boxes full of wrinkly corsages & boutonnieres clinging to life and melted candles like the faces of wax businessmen parading under the New York sun

Mirrors are really just windows for the dead I watch them dance with forced memories and wrestle with those remembered Spitting jazz to my own tempo I splinter my feet across the uneven floors In the center there’s a pillar of concrete They could bang and bang but never get in I’m ready though I want it to suck up the floating remains of my soul and drag me to the stars I want it to light me on fire so I can swim to the moon as smoke but to them— I’ll be coal

— Nate Jones, XII

Molding book pages for blankets discarded bike chains for swings

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Filters A single day rooted in a thousand just like it. A bird-girl perches on the chair her grandfather built and painted white at a matching table made for children. Mom reigns next to her. It’s bright outside. The light filters through the panes and sets fire to the dust mites that glide above the woman and child’s heads. Her hand clenches her utensil in an iron-grip, tongue pressed between teeth. A triangle follows the million drawn before it.

“K’s” follow triangles and squares and pizzas. She can count to 10 easily.

Puzzles and games. So many games! Each activity is an adventure. Stories aren’t just inventions about the ocean, they describe the animals that lurk under the water we view from our jetty seats. The library beanbag chairs by the windows protect us from the rainstorms outside that Jack and Annie brave in their treehouse. The fireworks that pop above us echo, pop, and whistle like the American Revolution soldiers’ bullets did.

We adventured to the library. To the park, the beach, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Benjamin Franklin, the Pittsburgh Please Touch and Children’s Museums, the Philadelphia Aquarium, arts classes at the rec center and Handwork Studio, the pool, soccer fields, Chinatown. The temporary events like the Flower show, end of summer sales, and eventually the first day of school.

Everything was touch, and taste, and feel. Observe the way people move, read how they think by what they show.

I sucked up from the straw we were supposed to blow through. The heavy paint went in my mouth and coated my throat. I forgot to tell anyone when I went home. Then, a couple days later, Dad was angry when he heard, but I think he was actually mostly scared.

Remember when time used to be forever too long?

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— Kate Bennett, XII

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“Glance” by Madison Sings, IX: charcoal

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Like Bugs to Darkness

“Life, Society, Valuables, Love” by Ella Jackson, IX: pencil

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On weekdays, moms and dads (which was nearly everyone except me and Ronald, the man who owns the cable company) took their kids to school and picked them up. But that seemed to take the whole day. There was one school where we lived, and it was close to everything which made it okay, in Dave’s mind, to drink his morning mouthwash and dance through the backstreets of town in an SUV with four kids and three seatbelts. That’s why we don’t have a reverend. People think Dave scared him away, but I think he hit him. Threw him in the river and clicked on his seatbelt and drove away. They tried for years to find someone to replace him, but no one would do it. No one holy ever made their way into Orange City, Iowa. Like bugs to darkness.

But most people that wanted more never actually did anything about it. But like the Reverend, I was going to.

I promised myself that if I wasn’t out of Orange City, out of Iowa, by age 50, I’d drift down that river just like he did. And with 47 years of age behind me, I’m on my first flight to New York City where things, I hear, are bright and loud.

I leave the airport and catch a taxi to a downtown neighborhood where I’ve found a bar that’s supposed to have the best bourbon in all of New York, and that’s not even just the city, but the whole state. I think bourbon tastes absolutely horrible, but I love to drink it; it’s my favorite drink.

“What’ll you have?”

“Why the best damn bourbon in New York. The state I mean, not just the city.” I reply to a man that washes out clear drinking glasses with a once-white rag. He dresses like a gentleman in a barbershop, and his mood is at first prickly and gets under my skin.

“Best bourbon around.” He slides me the drink across the counter which looks like a bowling alley. It washes the dryness and itchiness I often find in my mouth.

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“In the whole state.” It tastes fairly terrible, but certainly the best bourbon I’ve ever had.

“Where are you from?”

“Not here.”

“Figured.”

“How?” “Luggage.” I had left my luggage near the entrance of Jack’s Place, and Jack kept eyeing it. I’m sure he was used to the rhythm of newcomers throwing down their bags in a thirst for the best bourbon in New York. Which might just be the best bourbon in the country.

“Another.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Another.”

And then a girl walks in who is certainly not from Orange City, because I would have known her and she is very cute.

“Know her?”

“Nope.” But it’s clear that Jack wished he had, just like the only other man in the bar who sat in the corner and left upon her entrance. Like her face filled the entire room with thick beauty and he didn’t want to drown, or she reminded him that he had kids to get home to. She takes off her jacket and hangs it on the one remaining hook on Jack’s coat rack. She exposes the black dress she wears underneath which clashes against her white skin. It’s a little revealing at the chest, but it makes up for it with the length at the bottom. In the store it might not have looked modest, but on her, it is. This girl became a woman with just the removal of her jacket, and her cuteness turned to elegance. But her innocence remained pure. Even though Jack kept the place dimly lit to hide the grime, one could tell it was dirty. But her purity took a sponge to all the tables, the counter, and the floor, and baptized Jack’s Place into a Church of Alcoholics.

“Another.”

She takes the stool next to me at the bar, and I don’t even think the leather poofed down when she sat on it.

She’s just floating there like the Holy Angel of this Newly Founded Church. Jack slides her a coaster. Though once I thought his coasters were ugly, they became appealing in the light that radiates off her glowing, pale skin.

“Have a bourbon with me.”

“Bourbon?”

“The best in the whole state.”

As Jack pours two more bourbons, he stares at her lowcut dress. I think he’s searching her chest for his wife that had left him four years prior to this moment. Maybe he thinks he’d recognize her heart as Tammy’s, back to find him, or maybe he’s just searching her chest to see if she has a soul.

“Reilly.”

“Robert.”

“Jack.”

“Another.”

In these first moments, Reilly and I had fallen madly in love. In two years, we’d be married. In six years, we’d have two kids, and in eight years, we’d have four.

We’ll name them Rebecca, Ryan, Ross, and Rosie, and Rosie and Rebecca will get along, and Ryan and Ross will get along, but Ryan and Rosie never will. Rebecca, our oldest, will beg for a dog until she’s fourteen and we finally give in and welcome Rufus to the family. We’ll go on vacations to Martha’s Vineyard, and after all the kids get through college, Reilly and I will move out there fulltime. Reilly could never not work though, so she’ll be a part-time librarian for the local high school. Eventually, she’ll get too old to carry the books, and we’ll have a marvelous retirement party where Reilly and I can’t decide on a flavor of cake. All our friends will come, and the kids will come, now with their husbands and wives and their kids, and we’ll all laugh about the dumb dog we once had named Rufus. But not long after, Reilly will get sick, and she’ll only have a year to live. We’ll be dedicated to spend this year fulfilling our dreams, so we’ll go to California and bike the Golden Gate Bridge,

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and we’ll be in a weekly cooking class. We’ll read all the Harry Potter books and then criticize the movies, and finally we’ll go to Argentina. In Argentina we’ll chant ‘this is the way I want to die this is the way I want to die’ and parachute off a cliff holding hands as we fall to our death. Reilly and Robert. Robert and Reilly. Some people just go out together.

“I’m done with this whiskey—” “Bourbon.”

“Bourbon. I’ll take a glass of white wine.” And our life is gone. I could never marry a woman who ordered white wine. Rebecca, Ryan, Ross, Rosie, and even Rufus, slip through my fingers as they all turn to white wine.

“I’d love to go whale watching. I’ve always wanted to go whale watching.”

“I’ve always wanted to go whale watching.” Which is true, I always have, but I would never go with this girl who sat next to me at the bar. We want to go for different reasons. She wants to go to spend money and make a day out of it (with morning-packed tuna sandwiches in plastic Baggies), but I want to go to gain a sense of perspective.

I have imagined that whales are absolutely gigantic, and I think I need a whale to make me feel small. To remind me that my bones are breakable and my life is fragile and that my skin lacks the proper amount of blubber. I want the whale to flip out of the water and come so near to crashing down on our boat that I realize life could, at any instant, crush under the weight of a whale. I don’t even imagine the thing fitting within my eye sight.

“Another.” I’m glad she’s gone. Jack could become his own pastor once again. I notice the dirt on the floors, and I absolutely hate the coasters.

“Orange City a nice place?”

“It’s simply the worst place I’ve ever been.” But I’ve only ever been two places, and one of them was here.

——————— Two years later, I think of Reilly on a train to Boston where I will be whale watching for nine hours this next

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Monday morning. I associate her thought with crappy bourbon which is an injustice to the country’s best drink, because I should see her face and think ‘white wine white wine white wine.’ But Reilly and Bourbon and Jack’s place and Jack were all that first night in New York City, so they’re all swished around in the same glass that Jack is probably still cleaning with his once white rag.

The people on the train with me are not going whale watching, and they are certainly not from Orange City, Iowa, where I once lived. One woman is mostly plastic.

Like her husband played with Barbie Dolls as a kid and graduated Cornell Medical School to become a plastic surgeon and inject this woman with his childhood jar of fantasy. I wonder if she has any human left in her, or does he just drag her around church parking lots? I also see a woman that keeps grabbing at her neck that looks in terrible pain. It looks like she holds her whole life in her neck. And an awfully heavy one, too. A woman who powders her nose. But the most fascinating to me by far is the woman who sits across from me who is so very pregnant. I’ve never seen a woman so far along; I think I can see the baby pressing his face against her stomach, and if it were only water, he could make his way to me.

I get on the boat which is quite small, perfect for my perspective studies, and I meet Captain O’Flannery who resembles the sun in his fluorescent yellow rain jacket; he could light up the night sky in that thing, or at the very least, slow down traffic. The Captain is old and scratchy.

His skin hung as hammocks like the sun had pulled at it, and his teeth seem modeled after shipwrecks. With all the water around me, I’m reminded that my mouth is dry, and The Captain has forgotten his cooler back on land.

“You ever meet a girl named Reilly?”

“Why I’ve met a lot of people.”

“She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“I’ve met a lot of gorgeous people.”

“She probably drank white wine and ate tuna fish sandwiches out of plastic bags.” The hammocks droop

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some more in confusion. Whatever passes through The Captain’s eyes just spins around in his head a little and then comes out his ears.

“I hate white wine. Sweet and grape-y.” Says a woman across from me.

“And bourbon?”

“Absolutely dreadful. My favorite drink.”

Even though her face is covered in sunglasses, I can tell she is stunning. I walk to her across coiled hoses that resemble rubber tubing. Makes me itchy and my nose runs a little. We had fallen madly in love, and if the man next to her is any threat at all, I will throw him over. Bait for the whales.

“Whale-watching is an exciting outing for you?”

“It’s not for the fun of it. I’m here for research purposes.”

“As am I.” “What for?”

“Perspective.”

“Time.”

Time is an odd concept to come study in my mind, but four hours later, without even the hum of a whale, I understand.

“Three bedrooms, so the boys can share and the girls can share. They’ll become companions that way.” That was exactly what I was thinking. Her sunglasses are now off, and I was right about her features. Her jawlines must have been crafted by some architect she met back in Connecticut. She says it was a lovely place to grow up.

“And the countertops will be marble.”

“And the floors will be hardwood. Wide.” That was exactly what I was thinking.

“And the backyard patio?”

“Perfect for dinners as we watch Ross and Ryan wrestle in the backyard.” That was exactly what I was thinking.

“I must work overtime to pay our gardener, because the grass must be fresh-cut or the boys will have allergies.”

“And you must pay the painter, because white gets dirty quite often. And the outside of the house must be white.” That was exactly what I was not thinking. The outside of my house will never be white. It will never have a steeple and never sound with ringing bells. I fish whalebait out of the water as my life with Robin turns to white paint and slips through my fingers.

At the end of my nine hours, I have not learned perspective, but I have most certainly learned time.

Which I guess is quite valuable. I can sit on a boat feeling large without any whales, and I can listen to a woman sing ‘white paint white paint white paint’ without even throwing her in.

Four women vomit into the depth and darkness of the water due to dehydration, motion sickness, and general boredom. But as we make our way back to land, we turn to crashing in the night sky. We lift our heads—even the women whose stomachs now float in the sea—to the fireworks which illuminate what was once unseeable. Like God throwing down the gift of light. I had quite honestly forgotten today was the 4th of July; it was a much bigger deal in Orange City, but it never meant much to me. The fireworks are all I truly care about, or, to be more specific, that moment when the pockets of light burst and you can look slightly down-wind to can see the smokey drips of what was once so alive. I never watch the popping explosions, but I watch so intently that dead body of the firework. I realize I am that dead body. The Carcass of a Firework.

— Nate Jones, XII

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Big Little I would knock on his kitchen window and wait until he tied his shoes which felt like an eternity because I just wanted to play.

Our backyards met at the big tree that we climbed like the mast of a pirate ship. We could see almost anywhere from up there or at least everywhere that mattered because right down the hill was the big scary school that we had to go to next year.

Our world seemed so big in our backyard because we were still pocket people. We held our moms hands when we crossed the road and stood in their shadows when they talked with their secret grown up language to other giants.

Our flashlights could meet each other at night from our bedroom windows. One flash for Hi, two flashes for my mom is coming.

He had a really really really big dog named Marcy that could make thunder with her mouth. It scared us both but when Marcy stopped barking we could pet her fur that felt like what I imagined clouds to feel like.

Everything was perfect in our big little world.

The only thing a little funny about him was that he didn’t have a dad at his house. When I asked him where his dad was he would say that his mom was a Mets’ fan and his dad was a Yankees’ fan so they couldn’t live together anymore.

I was glad that my parents didn’t watch baseball.

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— Jimmy O’Connor, XI

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“Beetle” by Nina Ajemian, XI: photography

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cymbals Staff

Index of Contributors Nina Ajemian, XI, 95 Bryn Aprill, XI, 12, 16, 26 Lucy Bailey, XI, 78 Ella Baseman, XII, 36, 40, 48, 52 Thomas Batterman, XII, 19, 86 Kate Bennett, XII, 88 Alec Berger, XI, 49, 71, 75 Anjali Bhatia, IX, 82 Elizabeth Brennan, XII, 17, 68 Calvin Caputo, X, 25 Julia Chang, X, 30, 51 Sara Chopra, XII, 11, 66 Sophie Cohen, X, 73 Amon DeVane, XI, 2, 13, 81 Emma Dries, XII, 34, 42 Evan Dries, X, 25 Sanjana Dugar, XII, 60, 84 Mackenzie ElKadi, XI, 76 Bennett Emann, IX, 56 Walt Emann, XI, 32 Luke Franzoni, XII, 65 Jaclyn Gary, XII, 7 Giulia Gerschel, XI, 32, 65 Flynn Gorman, XI, 51, 77 Skye Harris, IX, 59 Hallie Hoffman, XII, 8, 43, 74, 79 Joseph Hudicka, X, 47 Ella Jackson, IX, 39, 90 Zoe Jackson, XI, 46 Nate Jones, XII, 23, 25, 87, 90 Nina Kanamaluru, XI, 15 Raina Kasera, XI, 33 Spencer Knerr, X, 24 Tarika Kumar, XII, 29, 40

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Rebecca Kuzmicz, XII, 61 Anisa Lateef, XII, 14, 35, 52, 80 Michelle Leung, XII, 9, 27, 31, 45 Adayliah Ley, X, 64 Audrey Liang, X, 83 Charlotte Meyercord, XI, 54 Lea Namouni, XI, 38 Jimmy O’Connor, XI, 94 Raina Pahade, X, 10, 15, 28 Lydia Pamudji, XI, 69, 72 Julia Parks, XI, 63 Declan Rourke, XI, 44 Nashleen Salazar, XI, 47 Mary Schafer, XII, cover, 50, 53 Julia Sclove, X, 22 Sasha Sindhwani, XI, 85 Vibhu Singh, XI, 54, 55 Madison Sings, XI, 89 Chad Sprague, X, 25 Hannah Su, X, 18, 58 Daniel Tang, XI, 40, 57 Abby Weinstein, IX, 70 Hailey Young, XI, 16 Annie Zhang, IX, 62

2018 editors sara chopra, xii (alice) tori sullivan, ix (caterpillar) alec berger, xi (white rabbit) madison sings, ix (gryphon) jaclyn gary, xii (queen of hearts) ihea inyama, xii (dormouse) anjali bhatia, ix (mock turtle) ella baseman, xii (jabberwock) jessie lin, ix (lobster) daanial haris, ix (king of hearts) abby weinstein, ix (porpoise) Staff (flamingoes and hedgehogs) sanjana dugar, xii sofia bae, xii jenny zhang, ix rebecca tang, xi anisa lateef, xii oishika ghosh ray,xi raina pahade, x sachin patel, x tarika kumar, xii hannah su, x mr. mcculloch, (cheshire-cat) mr. quigley (mad hatter)

cymbals 2018 Published by Princeton Day School

cymbals is printed on 10% and 30% post-consumer recycled paper

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Inside back cover blank

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