Page 1

Drew Kopicki



by Sydney Goggins They have stunted the smallest hints And proclaimed a centre In the cutting edge of its origin, Knowing it’s bound to something bigger In the distance: To render down the source before it dries My total urge has centered, But every gleam at first betrays a setback: The borrowed newness of the words confounding everything, The moulds of passion not yet cast, So to start at all I trust whatever happens In the gap between sight and memory, That scripted rim I know I’ll have to breech To fathom a course and follow it, unguided: a world astray From its essence extends within me, knocked askew in the finite But now restored beyond my expectations.



Volume 1, Issue 1. Spring 2010.

What used to be called Friends’ Central’s Litmag is now called Ink Magazine. Ink is the creative outlet for the Friends’ Central community, dedicated to presenting written and artistic work created by the student body, for the student body. Ink is a celebration of all the creativity harbored in our community. This is the first time in five years that anything like Ink has been published, and it has been quite an adventure to get here. It was both fun and exciting to be part of this renaissance, this revival of Friends’ Central literary and art spirit. Through months of hard work and dedication, the Ink team managed to piece together and form this magazine in hopes that it would be enjoyed by everyone in the community. Ink would like to thank everyone who contributed, be it through submitting work or serving on our staff. Ink would also like to thank Ms. Novo and Mr. MacFarlane for helping to make what started only as an idea, a reality. We would also like to thank you, the reader, for whom this magazine was made. Furthermore, we would like to invite you to join us on our foray into the online world as well as a second issue. We hope you visit us on the web at, where we will publish a digital version of this magazine, as well as new content as it becomes available. Enjoy! —The Ink Team


Staff of Ink. Senior Editors

Angelique Benrahou Max Dweck H.J. Gaskins Chris Green

Junior Editors

Matthew Block Sam Ellis Sarah Katz


Jonathan Adler Paula Burkhardt Mary Chawaga Nick DeFina Emily DeLisle Bill Fedullo Sydney Goggins Anna Lynn-Palevsky Liz Phillips Jibreel Powell

Faculty Advisors

Tom MacFarlane Laurie Novo

Top: Matthew Block, Liz Phillips, Emily DeLisle, Angelique Benrahou, Jibreel Powell, Anna Lynn-Palevsky, and Sarah Katz. Bottom: Sam Ellis, Mary Chawaga, Paula Burkhardt, Chris Green, and Nick DeFina. Not Pictured: Max Dweck, H.J. Gaskins, Jonathan Adler, Bill Fedullo, Sydney Goggins, Tom MacFarlane, and Laurie Novo.


Table of Contents = art = literature

Drew Kopicki Rebirth A Biography Think about... Aengus Culhane David Monsters of Grace A feather is... Veronica Hall Emma Shaw Fire Five Silhouettes Rachel Weissman Veronica Hall Huffy Masked So Close Angelique Benrahou Drew Kopicki Next Stop Immortal

......1 ......2 ......6 ......6 ......7 ......8 ......9 ......9 ......9 ......10 ......11 ......12 ......12 ......12 ......13 ......14 ......14 ......14 ......15 ......15 ......15

Entry 38 Don’t Leave I Look Outside Aengus Culhane Becoming a Public... Angelique Benrahou Hidden Sam Karpinski Drew Kopicki Coming Home Acoma, Sky City Haikus Veronica Hall Fortunes Mary Chawaga In Matthew Block’s... Your Fate Has Gone... Untitled Drew Kopicki Swaggerless Veronica Hall

......16 ......18 ......18 ......19 ......20 ......21 ......22 ......22 ......22 ......23 ......24 ......25 ......25 ......26 ......27 ......28 ......28 ......29 ......29 ......30 ......30

Cover by Angelique Benrahou Doodles by Chris Green

All submissions copyright © 2010 by their original authors. All other content © 2010 Ink Magazine.


A Biography

by Paula Burkhardt By the time Clara Marie Vant was sixteen years old, her hair was bleached beyond repair. That is why she shaved it off, and her bare head glistened in the Saturday afternoon sun while she walked along the river from choir to the soup kitchen. From 1 o’clock to 3 o’clock Clara sang, and the other sopranos reached out their hands so that they almost touched her head. Then the singers gave each other looks and giggled behind their folders. From 3:30 to 5 o’clock Clara transferred oatmeal from a large pot into lots of small bowls. People did not giggle at the soup kitchen. They were under-staffed. Clara did not care what people thought of her. She liked to make them feel uncomfortable (I suppose in this way she really did care). She wore lacy tights with very tall socks and flimsy shoes with no arch support. Since she had no hair on her head she wore hairylooking coats from the back corners of thrift stores. They would have looked more at home on angry elderly heiresses, but at least they were warm. When Clara thought people were talking about her (and they often were) she stared at them and smiled, even after they had become silent. She did not have many friends. This was okay, though, because then she moved to New York and they appreciate strange things there. By the time Clara was twenty-four, she had developed a close group of friends. They liked to meet in the evenings and go to various coffee shops. There they would write poetry. Clara liked to write about mushrooms, but the mushrooms were symbolic. They stood for solitude and grief and many other profound things. By the time she was thirty-two, Clara had written a few books and acquired a few fans. Her hair had grown back and she was married to a man who made films about owls. He gave the owls names and tracked their lives from birth to death. It was normally quite depressing. Clara and the man who made films about owls adopted two dogs from a shelter and one cat from the alley behind their apartment building. They chewed and scratched the furniture, but that was fine. Most of it was pretty beat up anyway. Clara had gotten most of their furnishings from her friend who was a very passionate abstract artist. He was the sort of person who threw chairs around when he was angry. By the time she was forty, Clara and her owl-enthusiast husband had a son. They named him Damien because they liked the letter “D”. By the time Damien was four, Clara had developed a routine. She dropped him off at the daycare and then took the dogs for a walk. When she got home she made the beds and wrote books. Around 5:30 she made dinner. So you see? Everyone is normal.

Think about something

by Anonymous

Think about something That comes from you Straight from you You are told that if it is From you, then it must be True, is that the case? This I am not sure Your feelings are true They come from your soul And they sometimes control Your reactions So they must be true, They come from you. Correct? But to tell a lie To perform a false feeling Is that still true? It comes from you I disagree Nothing comes from you But from the people Wise enough to pass On something memorable Enough for you to use, Least expected. Until you pass it on to another You cannot say it is from you But how do you know the effect Your words, actions have on another Exactly you don’t So how can you call it your own? If you are unsure that you have in fact Passed it onto someone else You cannot. Nothing comes from you But from the people around you Who self-consciously Feed you their thoughts.


Aengus Culhane


by William Fedullo So there’s this man, see? And he tells you these things that are unbelievable and of course you dismiss him at first because, well, you’d really have to be insane to listen to any of that seriously — and I’m not insane, whatever you may think. But then these things start coming true. The guy says the stock market is going to crash and the stock market crashes. The man says that Tampa Bay is going to go to the World Series and they do. The man says that America is going to elect a black man President and he wins. These things confuse a man, right? Right? So this guy — he said his name was David, and that he was from Texas — you’ve really started to wonder what is going on with him. I mean, he’s just an average looking guy, just another client. He wants work done, he gets work done. That’s me — I get work done better than anybody else in the whole firm, better than anyone else in this whole damned city, maybe. David’s obviously a very important man — he knows things somehow. I don’t know, maybe he’s got connections with the government, maybe he’s like one of those fellas who was involved in UFOs or JFK or something. Whatever it is, he starts asking me to do things for him. I mean, he had already been having me do work for him — accounts and such, yeah, but he starts asking me to do real work, real jobs. They’re minor things at first — finding out about some other guy at my office, donating to a certain politician, helping a guy move some stuff. I’m not into physical labor at all — I’m not small or anything, but I’ve always had these problems with my back. That and the fact that I have a pretty good brain was why I became an advertiser instead of following dad’s business, you see. But he was just so charismatic, so nice, so friendly, that I felt I had to do whatever was asked of me. I was rewarded, in good time — more hints about what was to come (even got wind about the swine flu before it hit) and I got more business — big accounts, interesting accounts, accounts that could make me a big man, a man who people respected throughout town, who was known at every club around, who was wealthy and cool and had beautiful women on his arm and all of these things that a man should want. No officer, don’t stop me, please, I’m not done. So David keeps asking bigger and bigger things — he wants me to tell him about my other accounts, wants me to screw up an advertising campaign, whatever. I start to think maybe he’s one of those corporate spooks, you know, those guys you hear about who are like Walmart CIA. He asks me to hurt a person, a person whom I didn’t know at all, this tall and really lanky guy, kind of like a scarecrow, some guy you could lay one hand on and he’d be on the ground. And I did, I did bad things to this guy, and all I could remember is this pathetic look on his face, like he was just pleading with me to stop, but I couldn’t because I knew David wanted me to do this, and I knew David was right because of course David had to be some real important man or maybe he was like an angel or a prophet or something like that. So David says that I did real good, he says, “Harvey, my friend, you’re going to be great one day, and I’m going to make you great.” And he shakes my hand real tight, gives me more accounts, introduces me to a few women who model for this real high-class magazine, and he doesn’t ask anything of me for a while. He still tells me stuff, because we’re real family and that kind of thing. I mean, David was the guy who cared about me, who wanted me to do well for myself, who really knew my potential, you see. I love David, love him like the brother I never had, like that one friend who might as well be yourself, who you’ll tell anything to, no matter what. So things are going along real well, I’ve gotten a big promotion, am dating a woman who poses for all these big magazines. My dad is proud of me, this is the American Dream, you know, sons being better off than their fathers and all that. I think what in the world could be better than this, and then David asks of me one thing, one real important thing. He asks me to kill my boss — yes, officer, that’s the guy who’s dead — and I do it. I go with my boss to lunch, wait for him to go to the bathroom, then follow him in and I hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him until there’s no more him left to hit and my boss is dead and then I run, you know, like the Devil himself were chasing me, run straight halfway across the city, you see. And then one of you boys stops me and I can’t say anything because, well, I did kill the guy, yeah, I killed Pete Brudwick, he’s dead, dead as you can get. So, yeah, officer, I confess but you see that obviously it wasn’t my fault. If David wanted it then obviously it was right, you follow me. Big important man like him don’t do things wrong, you’ll see yourself, the government you know, the men in black, those guys with the sunglasses and the earpieces, they’ll be coming to bail me out. (continued on pg. 9)


A feather is undoubtedly for tickling

(continued from pg. 8) soon. But again, I can’t be responsible. I didn’t want to do it — no sir, Pete Brudwick was a friend. You’ve got to understand — No officer, I’m not crazy. No, please, by Gabriella Capone listen. I didn’t mean to do any harm, and what A feather is undoubtedly for tickling I told you is true as the gospels, no, no, I did Only effective if trailed lightly across the skin things right stop, stop, don’t leave, please, A bashful form of tortuous hilarity don’t leave! David, it’s all his fault. David made me do it.

Monsters of Grace by Nick DeFina

beginnings enjoy lying to my face – like brittle wheelchairs they feel their way blindly across entire landscapes of abstraction – look: touch: feel my cheek: it is an orange leaf unfolding with every {kiss of wind} marred by the global histories of f e a rsome passions such compositions qu/ ak e with verve(brightlikeaburningember) |such that| unspoken heartbreaks tellme secrets of t he nights I was left alone to fall into eternal slumbers just waiting for my taxi cab out of town


Veronica Hall

Emma Shaw 10


by Sarah Katz It wasn’t the candle’s fault that Joanna couldn’t move after lighting the eleventh candle on Scotty and John’s birthday cake. Nor was it the matches’ fault, or Scotty’s or John’s, or the hungry, dirty, nine and ten year olds’ around her. And it wasn’t her husband Mark’s fault either, who noticed her state and gave Joanna, or Jo-Jo, a strange, inquiring look while leading the fifteen or so kids in a song of “Happy Birthday.” Joanna couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “Happy Birthday” sounded to her as if she were under water, sinking further and further down. No, it wasn’t the candles’ fault, or John’s or Scott’s, for turning the age Joanna was when her sister died, ten. It was that book. That stupid, distracting, sleep-inducing book. What was the book? She couldn’t remember. What was it that distracted her so much, that she sacrificed her sister’s life? “Happy Birthday” was over and the kids’ yelps of joy as both John and Scott blew out the candles simultaneously sounded more like the screams of her family than any sound that should be found at a birthday party. It sounded more like a young Maureen. A warm stinging moved from the center of Joanna’s chest up to her throat. Suddenly she was bursting through the swinging door adjoining the dining room and the kitchen just in time for her to vomit in the kitchen sink, trying hard not to be too loud so the kids wouldn’t notice. Being a nurse-practitioner, Joanna came into contact with tons of gruesome stories and strange ailments, but she was known for having a stomach as unmovable as a mountain. No doubt Mark noticed. He’d set the kids up with something to do, he was a school teacher and knew that in order behave kids always had to be occupied, and would be in as soon as they were well on their way. Joanna knew all of these things, but her head was still spinning. The chunky, horrible smelling bile had exploded into the sink, chunks of her breakfast still floating in it. “You deserve to hurl,” Joanna thought to herself. “You deserve much worse…” No she didn’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She was so young, just after her tenth birthday. She loved staying up late, travelling into the world of…what was that book? What did a ten year old girl read then? Judy Blume? Joanna didn’t even know what a forty-year-old woman reads now. She hadn’t been in a book store in years. But it was an adventure novel. She couldn’t put it down. She knew it was well past ten o’clock, but she couldn’t sleep. Her mind simply wouldn’t let her. But her eyes…they had an agenda of their own. Sometime around midnight they started feeling heavy, weighted down by the dim darkness that surrounded Joanna in the closet down the hall that she and Maureen shared. She couldn’t find her flashlight that night, and couldn’t spend too long fumbling around looking for it in her room for fear of waking Maureen. But her mom always kept some scented candles in the bathroom to freshen the air. The matches were in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Joanna never thought that the simplest solution could yield so many problems. Flower scents filled that closet, warm and enticing. Joanna didn’t want to fall asleep; she tried everything Joanna woke up to a world in flames. The air was thick and warm, stinging the back of her throat and lungs when she tried to breathe. Whatever air she could take in came out in short bursts of coughing. Her lazy, sleep-induced arm must have knocked the candle over, setting afire the hardwood floor and the few shelves of linen above her. Frantic, Joanna kicked open the ajar closet door which had already begun to catch fire, sending sparks out into the hallway and right under Maureen’s door. Joanna didn’t notice those details though. About how the sparks slowly but surely began to engulf the door that Maureen was sound asleep behind, blocking her only exit. All she thought about was getting out. By now the fire alarm was going off and people were awakening. But Joanna didn’t notice this either. She just ran downstairs, through the dining room, then the living room, then out the front door, running until she couldn’t anymore, leaving her house and family up in flames. (continued on pg. 12)


(continued from pg. 11) She would be found ten blocks away from her house, hiding in the public park under the jungle gym. She would hear later that the firemen weren’t fast enough. When they got there the house was already beyond saving, along with Maureen. There were a lot of fires that night. We came as fast as we could. We’re really sorry for your loss. The paramedics did what they could for the family, but for them it just was a night of shortcomings. Joanna didn’t even know how the book ended. Joanna couldn’t breathe again, her lungs mimicking the feeling they had survived thirty years ago. Joanna felt her stomach churning. “No,” she willed. “No.” She tried hard, forehead wrinkled in frustration, to keep whatever was boiling in her stomach down. Her knuckles were white, her body felt cold. She tried to keep all her thoughts in order, disorder was the enemy. What would she do now? Could she tell her parents? Mark? Her heart nearly popped out of her chest when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Jo-Jo?” Mark asked. “Hey, you ok?” Joanna couldn’t stand the soothing sound of his voice or his protecting green eyes. She just couldn’t lie to him. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes. “I have something to tell you.”

Five Silhouettes by Anonymous

The moon feels like a newly laid egg, Its big face round and warm, The stars unfold themselves like a parade, Or a cascading, tumbling, shattered glass storm. The black lake looks back up, Secretly hiding the warmth of the day, It stretches out before us, its caught breath Offering a ripple to show us the way. Shadows of splashes pinprick the dark, Laughter tickling the night of my mind, Toe by toe, I jump into the sky, Reflected stars drip, dropping blue air behind. Water intrigues my neck’s beginning, As we dream our way to the middle’s edge, Then, laughing our way, like a basket of breeze, We slowly swim for shore again.

Rachel Weissman

Veronica Hall





I tell myself I do not miss you But now that you are so close Beside me again by Chelsea Mastrocola My heart refuses to be rational You don’t know how I feel It races to speak the truth. I’m sure you hear that all the time Don’t you dare! But you are not aware I miss you, and although you say Of how I have disguised myself from you We are nothing You don’t know how I feel I am driving to be anything Or even the real me at that Something! Because letting you go You are familiar with the mask I wear is more unbearable than not telling you this at all Familiar, if that So don’t let go so quickly It provides me the shield I need Grasp me please To protect myself from your harmful emAt least until brace You can give me some closure You don’t know how I feel Don’t do it. You have asked me many times before You’re an idiot I want so badly to give in to As I turn to confess myself to you Your restless plead You stand up, turn to me and smile But I know better I cannot let myself become susceptible to you My eyes shadow you as you walk to the door You turn back You do not know how I feel Last chance You would be surprised You smile, our eyes collide With my obsessive heart Last chance If you knew the truth Stop him, tell him. You would no longer feel the urge What are you waiting for? To criticize my intentions The door shuts slowly Apart we shall remain. Good girl. Now I will never know.

So Close

by Chelsea Mastrocola So close You sit beside me The first time in a long time You are so close I forgot the way it feels To sit with you in reach But you are still incredibly far away I want so badly to tell you The intentions of my curious heart You are just friends, My mind reminds me You are just friends, Nothing more Do not utter those words I know you want to, but don’t! You will end up pushing him away

Angelique Benrahou


Drew Kopicki

Next Stop

by Anonymous I am from stumbling I am a lost cause and donut holes From the museum of Modern Art From weather maps and meow mix From boy bands and Cosmo I am from the roof of the Executive House On City Line Ave From the family business I am from blue eyes, brown eyes Big curls I am from Fig Newtons, turkey chili, ramen noodles From the happy little birdy Goodnight Moon I am from under a Hanukkah Bush From the belly of a bulbous yellow bus From strawberry bikinis, the center of the lake from the Butler from the wide street with speed bumps. Long and winding, leading to the train station.


“Next stop!” Where I am going. To the four corners of the earth. I am consumed I am sea foam, a boat engine 1 am sand and stars I am palm trees, a golden breeze I take away, At Ease.


by Anonymous Immortal, immoral, eternally wrong. I don’t wanna know what you did to the sun. Boom, lights are out, I’m under the sheets, I’ll always be there, please come visit me.

12/17/08: Entry 38: Poetry by Max Dweck

Note: Last year, I took Writers’ Workshop. After concluding that my more recent writings were inappropriate for school, I decided to go back into old files and see what I could find from journal entries. Most entries were very angry rants. This one was not. Once again beating the dead horse that is the subject of why my journals are all rants and not varied, I’m going to share my feelings on poetry. The thing is, it’s incredibly difficult to write, and I can’t usually choose how to write it. But I’m going to just go straight into the difficulties of writing poetry... in poem. Just go with it. I like poetry. I think it’s pretty cool. But I don’t really know what to do when I write it. I mean, when we get down to it, what is poetry? So many different styles and types, So many ways to write it, So many ways to read it, Which should I use? Does writing a poem mean I have to rhyme? Really, I don’t want to force that all of the time, And I find it a personal crime, That these words of mine, Are weakened and twisted to make each line, Match with the last because some feel it sounds fine. Why’s there a pattern needed for everything? I just don’t understand. Should I just make my poems limericks? There was a boy who lived near Philly Who had trouble writing poetry After looking around, The boy just had found That most forms just made him sound silly I do like Haiku It’s pretty easy to write But it’s way too short There’s sentence fragments From the lack of syllables And more space is neeAnd what’s with iambic pentameter? Why do I need ten syllables per line? When I don’t have much to say... on a line, Forcing in extra words pisses me off. Maybe my poems should make a symbolic shape? (continued on pg. 17)


(continued from pg. 16) Society Is similar To a pyramid Few people are seen At the topmost point, but When you fix your view towards The bottom, there’s much more to see. But what about poetic elements? Should each line have a simile, crafted as masterfully or strangely as the works of the great painters? Should every line be intricate, vague to all but the few elite able to work through its trials in seeing it for what is like a 1,000,000-piece puzzle? Should every word be large and complex, an enormous mass of syllables and varied sounds that even Webster would be unable to define? Should all that’s said be forceful and glorious, a marvel from afar that you would have trouble getting close to, like.., um.., a sperm whale? I don’t know, I have no idea what the crap’s talking about, so I doubt I could write it. I mean, so many poems and bits of spoken word don’t seem to have any real pattern at all. According to the New Oxford American Dictionary, the definition of poetry is this: “Literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.” So I don’t know what poetry is. I don’t know what constitutes a poem. I don’t even know if this is a poem, or just a stylized rant. Maybe it’s in the presentation, but I don’t know. What is poetry?



Don’t Leave

I Look Outside

by Anonymous

by Anonymous

She sat next to him as he slept, gently holding his cold hand. He had gone to sleep early; he had been exhausted from the anxiety of leaving. He looked beautiful and serene; it augmented how strongly she didn’t want him to leave her for the war. She didn’t want to have to say goodbye to him not knowing how long until she would see or hear from him again. She didn’t want to have to wake up the next morning knowing he was going far away, where he would not be able to comfort her through the pain. Her heart pulsed heavily even considering it as tears slowly rolled down her cheek as she stared down at the man who had changed her life. She vividly remembered the day he told her he was going back, and as she thought of the moment, it consumed her vision forcing her to relive it. They were on a picnic, beautiful and peaceful and she sat leaning against his chest for support as they sat together talking. There were a few moments of silence when he suddenly said it: “I gotta go back,” he said pained and unwilling. “What?” as all the color drained from her face and she sat up to face him. “I...” he exhaled, “They’re sending me back.” “No,” she said, hoping there was a misunderstanding. He stared back at her in silence as tears welled up in her eyes and slowly poured over and with his thumb he softly wiped them off of her cheek and smiled weakly, trying to comfort her. “It’ll be fine, just a few months.” “Hasn’t your time been enough?.. Haven’t you done enough?” she choked out as her emotions overwhelmed her. “I guess not...” he said quietly, for he didn’t want this anymore than she did but he knew it would do her no good to express how much this was torturing him. “But...but it’s so long, so much could go wrong...if something were to happen to you.” She broke down, unable to finish as she cried and her breathing quickened with anxiety. He took her face firmly but gently between his hands and kissed her. He pulled away from her and held her face tight between his two hands as he looked into her eyes, inches from her face, gazing into her eyes expressing more than he ever could through words. As he began to speak, an unfamiliar voice spoke, “Miss, you need to take your seat, the service is about to start,” as he silently mouthed, “I will be fine.”

I look outside my window. It’s that type of weather where you can feel the temperature even when inside. The leaves gleam with rain, and though everything looks dull in this light, all I see is what I always see when I look out of my window. I see a little girl, shutting the door silently, eager with her shoelaces tied tight, a new skill she has mastered. She is scampering over to the playset. She gets on the swing, and she swings so high she feels like she’s flying. She talks to herself, she sings to herself, everything is a fantasy. Those days when everything is unreal, the blissful innocence of childhood glistens in her eyes, the smile on her face brightens up the damp reality of the weather, of the world. Some days go by when she’s climbing her favorite tree. She shuts the door quietly, hoping that no one heard her leave. Everything is an adventure, everything part of her game. She climbs and swings and smells the sweet scent of wood. She plays, she dances, she twirls. Everything is okay, everything will always be okay. She gets older, and she runs out of the house in frustration. She runs around the block a couple of times to run out her anger and climbs into the tree to hide. She cries. She traces the branch with her hand that once supported her little self, physically, that is now supporting her every being. It’s funny how little pieces of your childhood complete you when you need them the most. The playset is rotted and has been untouched for years, the tree died and has yet to be removed. When I look outside my window I see what adolescence has made me see: the dampness of the world outside.


Aengus Culhane

Becoming a Public Enemy by Anonymous

She got what she came for and got in the long curved line, when she saw him a couple people in front of her. He was a relatively attractive kid, around eighteen like herself. Sensing her gaze, he turned to meet her eyes then turned back sharply after a brief millisecond of eye contact and quickly crossed his arms, holding them tightly across his chest. Noticing the tension in his arms she stared curiously, wondering why he would be so rigid, when she spotted it. Around his neck hung a large clock about eight inches in diameter, and immediately her attitude toward him plummeted into disapproval. He continually glanced over his shoulder to see if she was still staring and continually gripped his arms more tightly, trying to conceal the symbol of his shame. His head hung, staring into nothingness on the ground trying to escape the shame she was imposing on him simply by her gaze. She had heard about this young man on the local Freeport, Long Island news recently. What was his name? She racked her memory until it came to her: William Johnathon Drayton Jr. She was not sure why she remembered the boy’s full name, but perhaps it was to be always able to place a name to the boy with no respect; the boy whose only respect and concern was his own sense of time, causing him to always be late and disrespect the ones waiting for his company. Even more so, it did not help him during his trial that each time he was late there was not one remorseful part of William Johnathon Drayton’ s body, his arrogant, narcissistic attitude took up too much space. The final decision for his punishment was the unmistakable clock, the new addition to his public attire. He did not need to wear it in the privacy of his own home, but anytime he was in the public eye he was required to sport the clock on the outmost layer of clothing, so as not to be hidden, Suddenly it came to her, and she swiftly checked her watch: 1:49, with curious excitement she looked back at the boy, but more importantly the clock hanging low around his neck, obscured by his dark arms. Sure enough, no more than thirty seconds later, three noticeably loud beeps issued from the object the boy was so strongly trying to conceal. He winced at the sound, for the clock had found that one moment of silence in the surrounding chaos to alert everyone to his shame. He peered around looking at the faces that stared back at him with cold distaste; he finally reached hers and held it for longer than the rest. She could see the sorrow, the longing to be free from the tremendous weight of social disconnect caused by the feather-like weighted clock around his neck. Hidden under it all she saw William Johnathon Drayton’s anger boiling up inside him, unable to handle the public embarrassment and emotional harassment. He could not handle the fact that the clock sounded every ten minutes before the hour to ensure his arrival on time, the fact that the whole community needed to know about his chronic lateness and disregard for it. Apart from the obvious embarrassment and shame, the punishment was having the opposite effect on his attitude, instead of him believing being late was an unacceptable behavior, it had begun to irritate him to the point beyond his previous disrespect. His arrogance and self-pride were much too strong to allow this type of routine embarrassment, by the look in his eyes she could tell he would no longer stand the constant shame that was being cast upon him. He turned away sharply breaking eye contact as it was finally his turn at the cashier. After paying he hastily walked out of the store with his head bowed, but this time it was not shame that was plastered across his face, but boiling indignation, and that was the last time she saw person. *** William Johnathon Drayton disappeared for a while, as he immersed himself in lawless activities, possibly caused by the resentment of the object that became a part of him. The clock remained around his neck, as a constant reminder of his tardiness, which never ceased to frustrate him. It eventually led him to co-start the rap group “Public Enemy”. The group’s lyrics were highly political, for William Johnathon Drayton had a lot to say because he was still required to wear the clock in public. After joining the group he took on the stage name “Flava Flav” to reduce the chances of people recognizing him because of the notorious clock hanging around his neck. He had turned it into a popular stylish item, but every ten minutes before the hour, still to this day, it lets out three audible beeps leaking his true identity to the people of Freeport, Long Island.



Angelique Benrahou


by Anonymous I am secretly an ocean, Living as a lake. Giving more to others, Than I will ever take. I am secretly an ocean, Living as a lake. Instead of roaring endlessly, I whisper quite transparently. I am secretly an ocean, Living as a lake.

Sam Karpinski

Instead of thrashing to and fro, I ripple lightly when the wind doth blow. Instead of jade and green, I shine with pollution’s sheen. Instead of whales and dolphins swim, Fish and children jump right in. I am pushed around and jostled ‘bout, Instead of crashing ships right out. I do not tease and capture lives, But watch while stagnant, catching flies. I sit here, surrounded by land, Instead of holding the world in hand. I am enclosed in concrete of city grand, Not lapping at ancient, porous sand. In me is abandoned piss and shit, I cannot flow and clear the grit. I am cut off from the rest of who I am, Diminished and pitiful of what I can. I do not blame nature or anyone, Nor their grandfathers and their sons, For I am secretly an ocean, Living as a lake.

Drew Kopicki


Coming Home (For Margo Timmins) by Nick DeFina

I told you, Jimmy. I always told you: I ‘spect you knew that, but believe me I couldn’t tell for the longest time. I’d sit across from you, I don’t remember where, the bed maybe, or a table, and I’d sit and stare into your eyes, and I’d ask myself what you were thinkin’, you know? just what you were thinkin’ at that very moment. And I’d sit and think, and wonder, and I’d just be kept in the dark. All the time. Out in the cold, the dark. Like that time I went out for a beer with Michelle, and you told me you’d be outside waiting and I went to find you, and you was gone? was it after a gig you did? Well, who remembers? I’ve become your memory, Jimmy, you know? You forget everything, don’t you? You forget birthdays, anniversaries, all that shit. You forget, or do you ignore it all? Is that how you stay out of harm? You just stay away from everythin’. Stay away from me. From Michelle. You even stay away from the goddamn cat now. Jesus. What the hell’d I do wrong? Huh? What horrible wrong did I do you? I’d like to know. Sometime soon. I guess. Well, it’s so hard, Jimmy, just sittin’ here thinking, you know? Keeping me in the dark, I hate the dark, Jimmy. Been terrified since I was little. You know? TERRIFIED. I’m so scared, Jimmy. I’m scared of what, of what you’ve become, I’m scared of, oh hell, of what you’re turning into maybe? I donno anything now, for christ’s sake, Jimmy. What is it that you told me before? That we don’t need to share everything? Well, Jimmy, that’s a downright lie, We need to share. To communicate. Because it’s healthy. Because it’s right. Because it’s good. What the hell do you think I wanna talk so goddamn much for? To chew your ear off ? What? Well, that ain’t the reason. I have a reason, Jimmy, I found one a long long time ago. Hell, Jimmy, I should be asking if you gotta goddamn reason why. Why are we still here? Huh? Why we still together? Please, tell me, tell me so I have something to live for, something to work with. ‘Cause now I got nothin’, Jimmy, zero. Friggin’ zilch. Was it maybe a year ago you told me, you said ‘Jane, we got a great thing goin’. How’s about we get married?’ Should’a just goddamn ran in the other goddamn direction’s what I should’a done. What the hell was I thinking, runnin’ off with you, your mother a goddamn mess, your daddy practically beating me with a frying pan. What did we run away on? Goddamn nothin’, just that shoddy DeSoto you got before your goddamn voice cracked, I got no idea. What the hell, do I mean a goddamn thing to you? I mean, what the hell? I work so hard to keep us afloat, Jimmy. I work at the goddamn diner, I got the janitor job on weekends, I got the, the friggin’ paintin’ job thing every Sunday mornin’. I mean, how the hell do I waste my free time? Well, tell me WHAT free time I could possibly waste? I give up every waking moment of my life so you can, what, make goddamn noise all day with your goddamn drinking buddies? I mean, what’s wrong with this picture, Jimmy? What the hell’s wrong with that! She’s waiting. She leans against the rusted lamp post, a lost dog ad shaking above her head. She rolls her hands through her beautiful hair, hair that looks like earthy red roots springing from a great tree. She curves her back forward, watching two men walk past her, eyeing her legs. She smiles suggestively. She welcomes this, even though she detests all whores. It‘s fun to pretend. She’s been waiting. She’s been told to meet Jimmy here precisely at two. After a gig. Of course she can’t go to it; her work doesn’t permit it. Never. She has never seen him play. She laments to him sometimes, but he always tells her that it doesn’t matter, that she can’t go because her reasons are legitimate. She hates her life. She hates the waiting, the suspense. She was born in a town that lived on suspense and gossip. She wanted normalcy, predictability. Some days she wished she were more predictable than how she turned out to be. She was erratic, inappropriate, a sinner. She wanted to disobey her husband, her mother. Yet she felt safer when she was doing what she was told. She had difficulties. She could not choose between living safely and living fully. She would wait. It was the only thing she knew how to do the most. When she was a girl, her momma’d bring her to the store with her, and tell her ‘wait there, wait, go sit by the table, I’ll just grab some things’ and whenever she’d complain, her momma’d say ‘Now, sugar, you stay there. Be a patient good girl, honey, wait for momma’. She didn‘t want to wait. She smelled beer wafting through the open window. There was laughing coming from inside, the door left open by a drunk or a whore. She smelled the tight, burning smell of hemp, the dry, sharp scents of alcohol. She smiled. These were the smells of her childhood. She grew up learning that these smells were not illegal acquisitions. These were the perfumes of her forefathers, the beautiful medicines inherited to ease pain. She had seen her mother waste away her young years with a corner of her mouth stuck to the head of a beer bottle. Her daddy’d always say he’d go out for a smoke, and wander out into the black, velvety night, leaving her in the house alone. Waiting. (continued on pg. 24)


(continued from pg. 23) After a while she wrapped her jacket around her shoulders. Rain began falling. She leaned back against the pole, letting her face be bombarded by glassy drops of rain. She listened to it hitting the tops of bars and hardware stores, the roofs of trucks and trailers. How many years she’d listen to rain hammering over her head, keeping her awake well past her bedtime. The sounds her house made were ethereal, rustic sounds, like an oak tree being hacked apart by an axe. She felt safe around these sounds. They lulled her to sleep with the electric power of a lullaby. These sounds mothered her through nightmarish nights, when her mother was out, or her father was stoned behind the shed. She would sit and listen, and then she would fall into a deep, irretrievable place, where no sound could reach to disturb her. Hey, Jimmy. It’s me. I’m out front. Yeah, I missed you too. Yeah. I been waitin’.

Acoma, Sky City

by Anna Lynn-Palevsky There used to be clean water in these holes, The tour guide said, In six of them in fact. And when we lived here all the time, Through all seasons of the sun In houses made of earth from here and far away (Brought here even without cars, can you believe?) We drank the water that pooled here, in these holes (Don’t look like that, it’s not unclean) Right from the Earth and Sky. Now we live down with cooling And electricity And we can turn the sun and wind On And Off, And now water comes from Wal-Mart In a bottle Not in Earth Look at how we’ve changed. But that doesn’t make our old city near the sky mean any less.

And in an open space That wasn’t air above, or rock below The tour guide said, Town Square, And here we dance our traditional dance To a saint imposed upon us By the Spanish that came long ago. Now, they could make us add Could make things change, Could take away, But they could not make us lose. That oldest house, right there, You see it? It was there before the Spaniards came. It stands there still. You feel it? And then he took us down a road Lined with houses, all the same In how different they were from our own The tour guide told us, Vendors, They craft it all themselves Not everyone appreciates it But if you can match these aged houses And these younger faces, Maybe you might get it. The bus that took us up Went Down And I wasn’t on it. I took the first made path As old as it was dangerous I walked right through the mountain And I felt like I’d left something ancient there, Behind, Although I only had just gained it.



by Sasha Mitts Make you positive Corrupted inside and out Cells are dying. . . dead Dance with the devil Moonlight walks by the lakeshore Don’t let him push you

Veronica Hall


by Angelique Benrahou “Bartholomew, let’s partake on a voyage.” “Why?” “Because this fortune cookie says so.” The crinkled paper crackles with laughter. Ask a friend to join you on your next voyage. Bartholomew scribbles on a small piece of paper, his long fingers smoothly gliding. He holds up the paper. Have sex with your boyfriend Bartholomew. “Why did you scribble that?” “Because you obey everything that fortune cookies command.” He drawls. His grin is crooked like piano keys. “See, Bartholomew, a delicious Chinese dinner with grease and noodles did not prelude your fortune cookie. So your fortune cookie has no history, it is an illegitimate cookie and thus has no merit in life.” She puffs back into the white, cubic armchair, the sagging of the air and the skin slacking conforming to her stuffed body. “We’ll show you.” Bartholomew snips under his breath, which smells sweetly of Moo Goo Gai Pan. His white journal lies out on the glass table. Grease stains fleck the pages. He cradles his fortune cookie. “So, what shall we be today, Bartholomew?” Prudence asks, her toes tapping on the edge of the table, barely able to reach. “How about people who actually have worthwhile discussions about life?” he says, glancing over his book, a thesaurus he’s had since he was six. “Oh, that’s no fun, we need something riveting, adventurous,” Prudence says, leaning forward, her hands interwoven in a crisscross of fingers. “As long as it does not consist of something comparatively stupid. Like cowboys,” Bartholomew says, a set of very manly and coarse chaps and one very pale white bottom flash before his eyes. “We have not gone on a voyage together, have we? I feel as if we must experience life, connect and bond on all levels! Mentally, emotionally, creatively! We must bond, dear Bartholomew!” Prudence says, erupting in a rocket of enthusiasm and passion. Bartholomew responds by holding up his small piece of paper. “Oh silly, silly. Intercourse is overrated and underperformed. I dare not waste an afternoon on such drivel!” Prudence proclaims, “Eureka! Inspiration has planted me with its seed!” “Oh, so inspiration gets that particular privilege...” Prudence runs and turns the corner, shouting ‘I shall return’ over her shoulder and her abundant and poorly conditioned hair, Bartholomew inspects his backside in the reflection of the glass. He wonders if the lunges have worked out and if Prudence has noticed. “I have returned from the Seven! Her salty brine and wild winds have hardened me to the harsh weathers of life! I have seen men die and be thrown overboard! Mermaids flashing their tails and Seducers lie on the rocks and serenade me with their melodious voices! I have had tea with Poseidon, and visited with Odysseus! I have even had a ship named after me and her masthead carved in my honor!” Prudence announces her presence. She shuffles in, her hair in ten wild braids down to her waist, shells entwined in the locks. Her visage consists of: a wide-brimmed black hat, white men’s shirt, torn, (which her father will not be happy about), black vest, puffed and cut-off black slacks, (also her father’s) 17th century pilgrim square-buckle shoes and a curved Indian blade of aluminum and broomstick handle. Bartholomew no longer cares about his toned bottom. He knows where this is going, and he wonders if he can outrun a pirate. He also wonders if it is just better to surrender his already shrinking dignity, since that would be easier. Fifteen minutes pass. Bartholomew is dressed like a mermaid. He has no idea how this happened. He is cold, paper plates as a shell-bra, mop head as a wig, a green sleeping bag encasing his legs, which underneath are hog-tied. His mouth is duct-taped. He wonders why he dates this girl. He is lying on the sand-colored couch, blue pillows scattered and carted about. (continued on pg. 27) 26

(continued from pg. 27) “Foolish maid! Trying to seduce the great Captain Prudence! You will never overpower me, I have stuffed seaweed in my ears!” No wonder she’s yelling three times louder than what’s normal. “I see you, thinking snide comments! Feel my dagger!” She pokes Bartholomew in the stomach, his pale skin flinching. Prudence dances around Bartholomew, singing about rum and walking planks even though he doesn’t have legs anymore. He decides that he rather dislikes fortune cookies and Chinese food.


Mary Chawaga

Matthew Block

In Matthew Block’s Time of Dyin’

Your Fate Has Gone to the Dogs

One day I’m gonna die and fall into a ditch and there the Devil’ll meet me meet me on my rocky death-bed Quilt sewn with the naughty dreams of little boys who stood awake at night and sold their little souls to the man with the red tie.

Your fate has gone to the dogs to be eaten by mouths that taste of smoke your fate has gone to the dogs to be ebbed between full rosy lips like prostitutes’ dumb cigarettes your fate has gone to the dogs to be sold for five dollars a bottle slid across a sable counter into unfriendly charred hands and arms your fate has gone to the dogs to be the Devil’s battle-wound to be mind scorched by fire to be red with anger dead with love your fate has gone to the dogs to be snorted by creep-crass characters your fate has gone to the dogs to be stalked in the black night by large men in white hoods your fate has gone to the dogs to be stomped out on the sullen streets a victim of the darkness your fate has gone to the dogs to be missing to wake up scared and alone along the nature trail nude where all you can do is cry cry for revenge that’ll never come your fate has gone to the dogs missing all pieces of you.

One day I’m gonna die and smash my head on some pristine automobile palace and there the Devil’ll meet me sitting in the back seat martini in one hand done-lit cigar in the other puffin’ pure little rings of smoke that sift out into the night sky. One day I’m gonna die frozen in hell’s south pole a mere penguin puck block of ice eyeballs blue and wide and wandering wonderings of the creature and there the Devil’ll meet me marred by the malicious brittle cold that cakes and curves and condescends while the Devil is warm in a winter jacket—blood red for the holidays. One day I’m gonna die and run into a knife seven or eight times, I’ll be mutilated and all sanguine juice flowin’ from my gut and there the Devil’ll meet me and he’ll stare with those great red eyes that glow— he’ll stare and say simply one word: Son.



by Chelsea Mastrocola He looked in at her through the lit white framed window. They were outside on the patio passing around a freshly rolled joint, the numbers had dwindled down slowly, they had been at this party for hours now, “survival of the fittest,” only the most tolerant persisted on. The window was at the top of a half flight of stairs, the glass smudged from the fingers of the drunken girls that had unsuccessfully grasped the smooth surface. She was talking to another boy, their conversation looked interesting enough, their eyes twinkled with the possibilities of where the conversation could end. On any other night he would have seen their encounter and immediately stomped inside to claim her. He would have been smooth and confident while the impostor was still in sight and then pounced on her for even glancing at another boy. They would fight because she would claim to not have done anything wrong. She would at first be angry because he accused her, they would scream and guilt one another and then she would begin to cry and confess her endless love for him, and his heart would immediately break in half because he cannot stand to see a tear drop from her beautiful porcelain face. He would give up and apologize, and then they would kiss, forgetting their fight, putting their endless devotion for one another on display for everyone below them to witness. On any other night he would have gotten up, he would have disregarded his joint to fight for the only thing in his life worth fighting for. He would have gotten up, but they were currently on a “break’ because of his impulsive accusations. They were on a break because she was sick of being hurt by the man that was supposed to make her happy. He would have gotten up, but he had already ruined things with her and could not bear the thought of pushing her even further, possibly into the arms of someone else. He looked up at her glowing porcelain face, her bright smile and twinkling eyes beaming at this other guy. He closed his eyes and pretended that glance was directed at him, he took a hit of the joint and pretended he had never screwed things up, he pretended that his heart was not broken.

Drew Kopicki 29


by Julia Feldbaum I’m sitting at the table with Chris and Sam Ellis I can tell by your faces that you’re all real jealous HJ tried to peek, but I shooed him away ‘Cause this is a bad poem that I’m writing today Nicole comes to visit and talks to Chris Who’s in a bad mood and gives her a diss We are waitin’ in anticipation of what’s gonna happen ‘Cause Wilder and Hassan are ‘bout to start rappin’ But everyone knows that it should be me ‘Cause I’ve got swaggerless* swag that cannot be beat. *Swaggerless taken from Charles Hamilton

Veronica Hall



Ink Magazine: Volume 1, Issue 1  

The arts and literature magazine for Friends' Central School.