Omega 2014

2014

2014 • Rye Country Day School

Omega

Omega

Rye Country Day School

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Omega 2014

Rye Country Day School Upper School Literary Journal

Ω Co-Editors Christine Campisi ‘15, Katherine Ellis ‘15 Submissions and Publications Chair Special Projects Co-Chairs Secretary Additional Staff Faculty Advisor Cover Art

Ruiy Shah ‘16 Catherine Walker ‘16, Sarah Loewentheil ‘16 Melissa Gonzalez ‘16 Amanda Cutler ‘16, Edward Kim ‘16 Jennifer Chen Abstract Man by Zoe Kost ‘16

Contents Note from the Editor

1

College Board Satire / Thomas Ragucci ‘15

2

Home / Kyle Eagan ‘16

5

/ Jason Goettisheim ‘14

6

/ Mimi Chiquet ‘14

7

Winter Day / Rohini Sinha ‘16

8

My Secret Place / Paige Codrington ‘15

10

In My Dreams / Sarah Loewentheil ‘16

11

Concealed Paradise / Luke Cappellano ‘15

14

Silent Then Loud / Michelle Haut ‘15

15

Beholder / Charlotte Böhning ‘16

17

Catching Fish / Liam Dalton ‘15

19

/ Tyler Kaye ‘14

20

The Magnolia/ Austin Weber ‘15

22

Seeds / Nathan Spring ‘15

23

The Butterfly / Sophie Beshar ‘15

24

Stranded / Nicole Moysak ‘16

25

Too Long a Time / Catherine Walker ‘16

26

The Fire Truck Dance / Gabby Johnson ‘14

27

A Continuation of Coleridge’s Rime / Luke Cappellano ‘15

29

It sucks sometimes to be queer. / Ruiy Shah ‘16

30

Le Puits d’eau / The Water Well / Kate Kassin ‘16

31

Sunday Morning / Talia Mandell ‘16

34

Frank Hammelton / Nikki Gendelman ‘16

35

Clock / Daphne Mandell ‘15

39

Reaction Time / Yana Lee ‘15

40

The Attic / Sofia Aklog ‘15

41

A Fettered Soul / Carl Shuck ‘16

44

At the Back of the Plane / Carl Shuck ‘16

46

Nan / Lily Velona ‘14

47

Out of Place / Hugh Reynolds ‘16

48 / Anna Guo ‘17

49

Meaning / Karri Hay ‘15

51

We Walk Along / Ro Nelson ‘15

52

Note from the Editor

Welcome to the 2014 issue of Omega! The Omega team is so thrilled to have this publication back in the RCDS community for the first time in several years. The yearly Omega issue has been a way for students at Rye Country Day to share their writing since the 1950s; however, it began to die down around 2008. This year, our team and incredible advisor Ms. Chen decided to put a stop to this lull in creativity and revive the Omega issue that has brought students through the ages a sense of pride in their literature. Through every poem-o-gram sold, every book collected, and every child inspired in our Upper School-Lower School poetry activity, this year’s Omega team has worked extremely hard to help every member of the community connect with his or her inner author and creator.

I view literature as a way in which we can all express ourselves. Just as reading opens our eyes and our minds to new experiences, writing allows us to expand our horizons in a very personal way. Writers have a special power, I believe, to understand themselves at a far deeper level than most. We write when we are distraught to help mend the sadness, we write when we are overjoyed to relive the excitement, we write when we are bored to pass the time and always seem to wind up discovering a new adventure, a new planet, a new part of ourselves we never knew existed.

Through the sharing of our writing, the product of our hearts and minds, we are able to connect with other authors and readers and share a part of ourselves that is so immensely personal, yet so widely understandable. My dear reader, whoever you may be, wherever you come from, and whatever your story is, I hope you finish this book having learned at least one thing. I hope you find a piece that speaks to you and an author that you feel for. Most of all, I hope you enjoy reading this amazing work of art as much as I do. Keep reading. Keep creating. Enjoy!

Sincerely, Christine Campisi ‘15 Editor Omega 1

The College Board Announces Redesign of the SAT® Reasoning Test

by Thomas Ragucci Austin, TX - March 5, 2014 – The College Board® President David Coleman held a press conference today in which he laid out plans to revamp the SAT® exam to better assess students’ readiness for college. The overhauled exam was announced in concert with new “success driven” initiatives, which aim to help students “achieve even more” success during their college careers. Coleman was joined by students, community leaders, and board members of the College Board in Austin, TX. Only members of the press with a combined critical reading and writing score of 1450 or above were allowed entry.

“What this country needs is not more tests, but one single test that can accurately report to colleges and prospective employers how successful a student will be in the future,” said Coleman. “However, the real news today is not just the redesigned SAT,” he continued, “but the College Board’s renewed commitment to providing a fair and realistic assessment of students of all ethnic, socioeconomic, and religious backgrounds.”

Coleman cited recent complaints from former students and college admissions officers that the SAT was nothing more than a “glorified concentration test” as well as news reports that employers were requesting SAT scores from job applicants as the two main reasons for the 2

massive renovations that “will bring the SAT exam into the 21st century.” In response to accusations of the SAT’s alleged inefficacy, Coleman spoke bluntly. “Forty-seven percent of students will complain about the test’s alleged ‘inefficacy’ simply because their scores weren’t as high as they would’ve liked. These are the students who play the victim after neglecting to buy our official SAT study guide, the students who don’t study to the test at all. These students who simply expect the SAT to assess a student’s true knowledge of academic subjects will always complain about its supposed ‘inefficacy.’ We can’t change that; those folks will always take the ACT.” Coleman then proceeded to announce a few of the major changes to the exam.

The vocabulary section will no longer be composed of a surfeit of words that students will likely never hear again. Instead, the SAT will focus on words that are more banal and prosaic, words that students will use consistently in college and beyond. To help facilitate this redesign, the College Board has partnered with the website Urban Dictionary in order to provide the vocabulary section with popular slang in use today.

The essay portion will be revamped to provide a more seamless experience that removes the majority of the fluff that dominates the current essays. Coleman elaborated, “We realized that essentially two-thirds of the essays that we receive each year are functionally identical, so we decided to streamline the writing process.” The new essay section will be comprised of a fill-inthe-blank style system, which allows the essay’s duration to be decreased to 12.5 minutes. This simplification allows the exam to better test students’ ability to create believable and rational arguments under pressure.

The test’s math section has been enhanced to reflect students’ increased use of portable electronics in their day-to-day lives. The College Board has published a compilation of TI, Casio, HP, and Sharp calculator compatible programs that further aid students in their problem solving on the math portion of the SAT. “We hope that this emphasis on testing students’ calculator proficiency will accurately reflect the skills that students need in our increasingly computerized world.”

Lastly, the standard confidentiality agreement that students must sign before beginning the test has been modified to allow for students to copy the statement in standard print rather than cursive. This is in response to recent studies that have concluded that forcing students to copy the covenant in cursive instead of print does not reduce cases of cheating or information sharing. Also, SAT proctors will no longer be provided with script capital G tutorials, and elementary school teachers will no longer be required to teach students cursive “because you’ll use it in high school.”

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Coleman further discussed measures that the College Board is taking to modernize the testing process itself. “Our most exciting modification to the current SAT testing process involves the score retrieval process. We’ve integrated one-click sharing to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and LinkedIn directly into score reports. We hope that this will decrease the stigma surrounding SAT scores and promote openness and positivity among students.”

Coleman continued, “Our writing implement policy has similarly been updated for the st 21 century. The College Board has partnered with Dixon Ticonderoga to launch a line of SAT-certified pencils, which will be required during SAT testing. This extension of our established No Mechanical Pencil initiative aims to decrease both cheating and the variances among test takers that can result in unfair advantages.

“We think that these extensive changes and updates to the SAT test and the SAT testing process have resulted in something truly special: a universal assessment that is more equitable and accurate than any other standardized test in the world. Therefore, starting in 2016, with the first administration of our new and improved test, we will begin storing scores in an easily searchable online database that employers can use as a supplement to traditional credentials.

Five or ten years down the road, however, we hope one’s SAT scores will be a standard metric of job candidate evaluation.

“Our last topic of this press conference,” said Coleman, “has nothing to do with the SAT, but so much to do with the world of standardized testing.” Coleman then revealed plans to launch a lawsuit against ACT, Inc., for their “repeated and categorical infringement” of the College Board’s letter-based multiple-choice answering system (US Patent 685957 A), which was pioneered by the College Board in 1926, thirty-three years before the creation of the ACT. Coleman named the growing presence of the ACT in the mid-west U.S. as the company’s stimulus. “We can’t just sit down and allow the ACT to steal market share with a stolen product.” No hearing date has been set.

Coleman concluded, “On April 16th, we will release the complete specifications for the new exam and provide an update on our negotiations with ACT, Inc. Thank you.”

4

Home

by Kyle Eagan They always say “There’s no place like home.”

But what if I have no home Why should I find A house The shade of a tree Or just a riverside bank?

Nowhere is my place I wander Along the stream of life And I do not stop For me, there is No place like home

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by Jason Goettisheim There is a place Where I am happiest.

Where I can be myself A place I remember When I sleep When I dream.

It’s a place I sometimes have to leave But where I can always return.

It is not a place I travel to But a place where I have been A place for hot summer days And cold winter nights, A place of my own, And that is the most interesting place to be.

It isn’t a place you can see But if you close your eyes You can.

This place is home.

6

by Mimi Chiquet

My favorite place to most people isn’t even a place. My favorite place is in my head.

There, I can do whatever I want to do, and I don’t have to care what other people think.

Really, although in life I have to deal with people I don’t like, these people aren’t welcome in my head.

I know that sometimes I have problems there like anger or sadness, but I like being inside my head because these are problems I can solve by myself; I don’t need to rely on others. Also, I can go inside my head every day. From now until I die, I will always have this place, and it can never leave me. This is the most important, because in life, we can never have anything that won’t change.

Although it can be said that in my head isn’t a real place, in my opinion, it is the realest place in the world.

7

Winter Day

by Rohini Sinha One last leaf floated to the ground and lay frozen in white, Captured by a cold, milky blanket.

The last remnants of fall were dead and buried, But new scenery came to life, cast by winter’s spell.

The girl ventured outside one late afternoon To encounter the smooth, thick, white fluff lying on the ground, Soon to be ruined by her footsteps.

She reluctantly took a step, hearing the soft crunch underneath her foot And looked back to see the pattern of her shoe indented in the snow.

Gazing across the yard, She saw a stray, deflated soccer ball frozen by winter’s wrath.

The girl took a minute to marvel at the beauty of her surroundings.

The naked trees were lightly coated with white powder, And the roofs were plastered with glistening icicles.

Suddenly, she felt something wet and heavy land on her head.

The snow travelled down her back, And the dampness sent shivers up her spine.

She looked up to discover the culprit was a squirrel scurrying up the trees.

The girl sniffled through her cherry red nose and let out a breath, Seeing the fog curl up and drift away in front of her.

Glancing at her house, She saw a warm, inviting, yellow glow come from the kitchen window And decided to head inside.

She trudged the way back, her frozen hands gripping the soccer ball, And stomped the ground before entering her house.

The heat instantly warmed her flushed cheeks, 8

And she savored the sweet aroma of cinnamon wafting through the air.

After climbing into bed, she wrapped the covers around her small frame, Snuggling into the warmth.

Letting her droopy eyes slowly fall shut, She determined that there was no place better to be, Than in her cozy bed on a chilly winter day.

9

My Secret Place

by Paige Codrington In summer, spring, and fall, Or any warm time at all, My secret place is the place to be, not for you, not for Jimmy, Just for me.

On the first level of my backyard tree, Out of trouble you will see Me sitting quietly, Totally free.

10

In My Dreams

by Sarah Loewentheil Sometimes I go there in the flash of a smile To a simpler time Or to a time yet to come Dig through the files The pictures The mind Or pick up my paintbrush I connect the dots‌.

Prepared to be transported To the past To the future Embrace my past Or maybe erase my past.

Cover my ears Let my vision grow blurry Ignore all signs of the lively world Release‌.

Think of the forgiving green ground One luscious, velvet sheet That stretches over the vibrant earth To infinity Never reaching any boundaries Uncontained Think of the ocean Vast and deep Whose royal blue waves Roll me to sleep Like a lullaby 11

But just for a moment Because reality has the force of gravity.

Sometimes I go there with the weight of a sigh.

To escape from the world In the midst of life, Complicated life You see, this place keeps me whole And it keeps me together It surrounds my body, Builds a wall around me Like a personal bodyguard Who knows me inside and out Or like a moat surrounding a medieval castle That protects me And then I recover….

Sometimes I’m transported there in the still of the night Unconscious and serene.

My innermost thoughts, The wrong pieces of the puzzle Flood my brain Like the pure water flowing free from Niagara Falls.

For these precious hours, My brain is calm And mysterious images entertain me.

I’m falling through air Floating like a feather in the wind Too tired to move Exhaling every last breath, My thoughts flood out of my body Like the effervescent bubbles escaping a can of soda.

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Welcome this time With open arms Like two best friends.

Need not force my thoughts into this strange and half-lit world.

For my dreams are masters of their own craft.

13

Concealed Paradise

by Luke Cappellano A sound A noise A low steady rumble But from where is the source?

The constant rumble What is it?

The desire to discover: a human emotion Mankind’s curiosity—is it its greatest gift, Or its ultimate pitfall?

Venturing closer, deep into the Lush, green, life-filled forest The eye, no longer a guide, but an observer The ear guides now.

The once faint rumble slowly transforms, An overpowering continuous crash The magnitude of sound in such a desolate, remote location Leaves wonder in the mind.

Ears, they have not led me astray, I have found the source A sanctuary Water cascades down a rock face Slams into a pool below So much commotion yet serenity.

Light bounces from glistening cliffs To rippling water To lush trees.

Serenity Solitude Sublimity A concealed paradise.

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Silent Then Loud

by Michelle Haut Blasting winds.

Swaying trees.

Forceful rain.

The world in an uproar then motionless.

My ears hear the screeching howls.

My eyes see the shuttering light.

My hands clench on to the comfort of tranquility.

My mind, a hurricane of emotion, A chill rushes up my spine.

The world, silent then loud.

Tumultuous thoughts clamor. Terror strikes.

An old oak spirals to the earth’s floor.

The darkness comes.

Its stomach consumes all but the occasional flash that fills the sky.

Into its freezing depths, I fall with a shortness of breath.

I halt as the world goes blank, Blackness surrounds The still fills the empty.

The world, silent then loud.

Frustration grows as I plead.

My knees weaken at the thought.

A world paralyzed by the forces Of the great and powerful.

A rock maintains its grasp, On the slippery green grass Yet I stumble.

15

A grumble reverberates from the black clouds.

Unstable, I grip onto the empty air.

The world, silent then loud.

Swallowed.

I am the tree that thunders.

I am the wind that whips.

I am the drops that descend.

I am the darkness that devours.

I am the world, silent then loud.

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THIRD PLACE IN THE WRITING CONTEST Beholder

by Charlotte Böhning She was draped in blue from head to toe, Her dark wheelchair broke the scene, Pristine sand along the coast, Deep water as far as one’s eye could see.

Her skin wrinkled like the waves before her, Her hair floated like a cloud.

The sun’s lips had met her face And the joy of life had filled many a crease.

She gazed out and I thought to myself, Aged and frail, she strode to the sea, Let the breeze shake her limbs And teach her to walk again.

She was lifted by the wind, Pushed by the sprays, Carried by currents, And returned to the bay.

Neighboring the wheels, Crouched a boy, no more than four, Searching for seashells And pondering more….

The figures created Such a wonderful sight.

Timeworn on the left, Fresh on the right.

In admiration I sat, 17

Toes immersed in ancient sand, Pieces of shell, Broken by the sea’s hand.

The strings of my ukulele Freed calm, light sounds The wind picked the notes up, And swung them around.

They reached her ears And I played what I felt, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” Spilled out and the atmosphere began to melt.

I wanted to change the day, Make someone erupt in delight From the joy that I displayed And allowed to take flight.

Her statuesque pose, Broke for a moment in time, The sweet lady turned ‘round And offered a smile.

18

Catching Fish

by Liam Dalton Walked by the old murky creek, a man, line and rod in hand, the bottom he could hardly see, so he stood beside the dam.

He tossed the line in with quick wrists and waited there for hours: “The rod won’t tug at all!” He winced, enthusiasm ran sour.

Suddenly, a tug on the rod, shocked him out of his dismay, He pulled a bass onto the sod, Then tossed the bass in the bay.

You can teach a man to catch fish, he’ll catch them if that’s his will.

You can teach a man to catch fish, but you can’t teach him to kill.

19

by Tyler Kaye

“

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”

We slowly walked up the mountain. After spending so much of my energy, I knew that I had to continue. I began to mindlessly place one foot in front of the other. I did not know if I would have enough energy to make it to the top, but I knew I had to continue to use my power, my heart, my energy, and even my brains so that I would make it to the top of Wu Dang Mountain. When I finally made it, I thrust my hands into the sky screaming, “I won.” On that day, the mountain was my opponent. I went toe-to-toe with nature, and I won. But I remembered that a man must always respect his opponent.

After I reached the top, I found two cute Chinese tourists. I asked them, “Why are there so many people here? What is the cultural significance of this place?” I was very interested, so I listened to each word of their answer. I had been on a famous kung fu mountain without knowing it.

That night, I slept on top of the mountain, but I could not sleep. Like a curse, each time I shut my eyes, all I could see the beauty of my surroundings. Therefore, I decided to just sit on a rock and watch the sunrise. As the sun slowly rose, it was the most beautiful picture in my life. However, this picture was not printed out onto a piece of paper, nor was it digitized on my computer; it remained only in my head. Paper can burn up in flames, but you cannot forget your own memories. At that moment, I truly felt infinite.

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The Magnolia

by Austin Weber Blossoms bloom beside my window, The blushing petals curling out of old mangled bark.

The coryphées deftly sashaying across the annals of my mind, I cannot forget their dance, pirouetting with the wind.

He has stood there, the general, for years immeasurable.

In the wood before the orchard, in the orchard before the houses.

When the snows come, the old magnolia is stern-faced, A timeworn general, surveying a bleak battlefield.

He has felt the scourge of the earth, the loneliness of time, His scarred face attests to his troubled years, burdened by fate.

He retires to his bed, a lonely winter looms, Dropping like fallen soldiers, leaves, brown and shaded by war.

When his horse springs briskly up the shaded path, The general’s disposition changes, he sparks into life.

The flowers come again as they have always done for him, The magnolia, rejoicing at the sight of his former steed.

––––––– Yesterday the flowers bloomed as they always do, Choreographed, fanning out into sparks of magenta.

Tomorrow they will be trimmed down by the gusts that stem from the spring rains.

But they will return for my magnolia as they always do.

22

Seeds

by Nathan Spring Beneath the surface of the earth Lie seeds untouched by human hands Never fully known of all worth By those who own small lands Rain trickles slow to feed the roots Soil makes way for seeds to drink Above, men wait for sprouted fruits Their fingers smeared with ink Sunbeams and streams bathe stems of plants Raw buds extend to reach the sun Ownership claimed by men with grants Of life owned by no one Wise men think they know how to learn Read every day until you burst The book can only teach to burn; God’s fruit gives life its verse

23

The Butterfly

by Sophie Beshar The little wings flicker past me They twirl in the blue sky, Fluttering as they’re filled with glee The tiny butterfly.

It explores alone in mankind, While others march in groups As if of one united mind, Like dedicated troops.

As if performing a rain dance It spins in the meadow Living alone to roam and prance It’s unlike what we know.

Drifting past the rolling green hills Leading a life of worth Living for the world’s simple thrills, It’s all alone on earth.

As we live in a constant race, Forgetting how to rest The butterfly slows down the pace, Never feeling depressed.

How amazing is it to find the real key to success hidden in this small little mind, living without excess?

How are they brimming with such glee?

I ask, as they flutter past me.

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Stranded Nicole Moysak I walked through the woods and my mind wandered to the thought of you I remembered things about you that I had kept under lock and key at the furthest corner of my mind before you I was a seed, untouched. with the potential to grow into something beautiful I was alive—but barely living you made me feel like a tree sapling, you watered with sweet words and loving hugs and cared for me every day you took me places I had never dreamt of going higher than the forest canopies where not even a wildfire could burn me down then you promised you would be right back but you never showed I was left alone in the greenhouse broken like a withered branch that snapped off the tree like it was nothing weeping harder than willow we shared a garden together you grew flowers in between my bones but they died a slow death because you stopped watering them

25

Too Long a Time

by Catherine Walker The cold crisp air bites at my nose as I face the mountain.

I can barely see the top anymore; it has faded into the pure, white sky.

I have to squint, for the light is blinding.

As I stare into the light I wonder; I wonder what it looks like, What heaven looks like.

I feel like it is so close; that maybe, if I were on the top of the mountain, I could poke my head through the mystic white layer and breathe in the weightless, clean air.

Or maybe she would let me stay a while.

What would I give to hold her in my arms, just for a second.

What would I give to see her all grown up?

What would I give to tell her I’m sorry?

To show her I still love her Then I am running, the wind rushing through my body as if I were hollow, as if I were empty.

Nothing left but cold blood slowly pulsing through my veins, and my warm tears turning to ice as they run down my cheeks.

My legs begin to numb, but I persist.

Then I can see it, the top of the mountain.

And everything stops.

All I can feel is my heart pounding in my chest, almost as if it is trying to escape, be free from this heavy life of regret and sorrow Then it is silent.

The pure, white light penetrating my soul, cracking open my heart, and letting me in, Letting me into that place.

Letting me into that place of safety and comfort, A place I had not been in a long time.

Too long a time.

26

The Fire Truck Dance

by Gabby Johnson Inspired by “Sway” by Dean Martin

Come this way Oh, which way?

This way I say Why should I I see only you in this room you make me swoon The trombones play drunk with pleasure The pirate scrutinizes his ruby treasure Why should I Come with me— dance with me— sway with me— Why should I On this eve, This cherry night, Move me right She steps in, fire truck on red alert He moves back, heart going a little berserk

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You don’t need me to move Oh, but dear, I really do In this light My heart, he sighs As you twirl your hips Next to mine The stage is set, the actors sigh They glide as the red curtains rise Why should I? Step to and fro Away we go Slower though Like poppies on a breezy summer’s eve, They sway so easily

28

A Continuation of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner

by Luke Cappellano Inspired by Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge “He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.”

He rose as the sun peeked the sky Just as those of before, With a heavy heart he sauntered Down as that new day dawned.

He saw that man, a Wedding Guest And knew he pierced his soul, No longer just a Wedding Guest But one of age and lore.

That same changed man traveled from there Just as the mariner, Towards that land where the sun set, Enchanting men in tale.

Upon arrival on new land This new mariner did land, He sought a soul to tell a tale, Looked for a worthy man.

His piercing gaze caught a curious eye And enthralled me in a tale To which I tell you now as I Impart this age-old tale.

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It sucks sometimes to be queer.

by Ruiy Shah

She’s so kind.

She’s so gentle.

She’s so funny.

She’s so brave.

And she’s clinging to a guy and giggling.

She’s not gay.

Oh well, I guess I never had a chance with her anyway.

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He’s so kind.

He’s so gentle.

He’s so funny.

He’s so brave.

And he’s talking to a girl and she’s giggling.

He’s not gay.

Oh well, I guess I never had a chance with him anyway.

HONORABLE MENTION IN WRITING CONTEST Le Puits d’eau

by Kate Kassin Perché sur l’étagère du haut de la grange était assis un seau neuf et lustré. Le petit garçon grimpa sur une échelle et il prit le seau. En portant le seau, il marcha sur le chemin au puits d’eau. Il attacha le seau à la corde et tira jusqu’à ce que le seau était dans l’eau en bas. Il tira la corde et il détacha le seau d’elle. Il saisit le seau par sa poignée et retourna à la grange, déversant de l’eau sur le chemin. Au moment où il retourna à la grange avec le seau, il avait seulement des vestiges de l’eau. Il entendit son père qui l’appela. Son père lui eut demandé de chercher de l’eau dans le puits pour les animaux de la grange, mais le petit garçon n’avait pas assez d’eau pour eux. Il retourna au puits, et peu à peu, il ramena plus d’eau pour les animaux.

Dans ses petits bras, le petit garçon pouvait à peine tenir le seau plein d’eau. Il alla en vint au moins dix fois avant qu’il ait eu assez d’eau. Chaque jour, le petit garçon retournait au puits.

Il devenait de plus en plus fort, et il renversait un peu moins d’eau chaque jour. Le puits donna au petit garçon plus qu’il en avait, mais le puits savait qu’un jour, le garçon serait assez 31

fort pour porter le seau à la grange sans rien renverser. Comme le garçon se renforcait, le puits affaiblissait chaque jour et perdait de plus en plus de son eau. Mais le puits était encore fort sachant que le garçon devenait plus fort et il pouvait enfin porter le seau sans renverser une seule goutte. Le petit garçon devint adolescent et l’adolescent devint rapidement un homme avec sa propre famille. Le puits était vieux et la corde grinçait quand elle se deplaçait.

Le garcon, qui était maintenant un homme et surtout un père, vit que le puits, qui eut été là pendant toute son enfance, était en train de s’effondrer. Le puits lui eut tant donné durant toute sa vie et n’eut jamais rien demandé en retour. Comme un enfant, il eut gaspillé tant d’eau du puits et vit maintenant qu’il devait au puits de le restaurer. Le puits regardait le garçon grandir et maintenant il était temps pour l’homme d’aider le puits. Les deux parents de l’homme moururent, mais le puits était toujours là et le puits était là pour l’homme pendant toute sa vie. L’homme travailla à restaurer le puits. Il regarda sur le bord du puits, remarquant l’eau en dessous, et se mit à pleurer. Il pleurait et pleurait et quand ses larmes coulaient, le puits commença à se remplir. Dans ses larmes était la reconnaissance de l’homme pour le puits. Le puits était si rempli de joie que l’homme réalisa finalement ce que le puits avait fait pour lui. En ce moment, le puits vit le petit garçon marchant à la grange renversant de l’eau alors qu’il marchait et si le puits avait le choix, il ferait tout recommencer.

The Water Well Perched on the top shelf of the barn sat a new and shiny bucket. The boy climbed a ladder and took the bucket. Carrying the bucket, he walked on the way to water well. He tied the rope to the bucket and pulled until the bucket was in the water at the bottom. He pulled the rope, and the bucket detached from it. He grabbed the bucket by its handle and returned to the barn, pouring water out on the way. When he returned to the barn with the bucket, he had only traces of water. He heard his father called him. His father had asked him to fetch water in the well for the animals in the barn, but the boy did not have enough water for them.

He returned to the well, and gradually he brought more water to the animals. In his little arms, the boy could barely hold the bucket full of water. He went back and forth at least ten 32

times before he had enough water. Each day, the boy returned to the well. He became stronger and stronger, and he spilt a little less water each day. The well gave the boy more than he had, but the well knew that one day the boy would be strong enough to carry the bucket to the barn without spilling. As the boy grew stronger, the well was weakening each day and lost more of its water, but the well knew that the boy could finally carry the bucket without spilling a single drop. The boy became a teenager, and quickly the teenager became a man with his own family. The well was old, and the rope creaked when it moved. The boy was now a man and, above all, a father. He saw that the well, which had been there throughout his childhood, was collapsing. The well had given him so much throughout his life and never had asked for anything in return. As a child, he had wasted so much water from the well and saw now that he owed it to the well to restore it. The well had watched the boy grow up, and now it was time for the man to help the well. Both of the man’s parents had died, but the well was still there, and the well was there with the man throughout his entire life. The man worked to restore the well. He looked over the edge of the well, looking at the water below, and began to cry. He wept and wept, and as his tears flowed, the well began to fill. In his tears was the recognition of the rights to the well. The well was so full of joy that the man finally realized what the well had done for him. At this time, the well saw the little boy walking to the barn spilling water as he walked, and if the well was given the choice, it would do it all over again.

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Sunday Morning

34

Talia Mandell

Frank Hammelton

by Nikki Gendelman Inspired by Sunday Morning by Talia Mandell

There comes a time in every person’s life when he must look in the mirror and assess the person he has become. Don’t get all soft on me, okay? From the moment we are born, we strive to succeed in everything we do, whether it is to better ourselves or impress those around us. Different standards are held for different people depending on where they are from. You may think, yeah, duh, that’s obvious, but the truth is, it’s not. It’s not obvious what standards each person is held to. A little bit of failure in everyone’s life is a good thing, but when it is knocking on your door late at night and shoving liquor down your throat, failure can drive the car that is your life off the rails.

As I sit here outside my favorite, basic coffee shop, I see people walking back and forth, contemplating whether or not they want a coffee to boost their energy, or disregard it as a waste of time. I drink my latte in quiet and “people watch,” as the kids call it. When those in their preppy late teens and twenties walk by drinking caramel mochas and sporting Vineyard Vines, I see motivation, drive, and a craving to succeed in the rough waters of “the 35

real world.” When I see those in their late thirties and forties draped in sweats with packs of cigarettes bulging out of their pockets, I see lost hope creeping into their dark, black coffees.

When I see happy children, I also see hope that one day they will grow up to be a perfect mother or a perfect father who always helps and supports his child. Those are the ones who slurp down their chocolate frappaccinos and vanilla beans with, wooh, a warm inviting smile.

All of these different kinds of people struggling to decide what kind of coffee they are, and then there is me. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier. So rude of me, I apologize.

Sometimes I start on these rants, and—whatever, I’m Frank Hammelton.

The beginning of the destruction of my life started way back in ‘98 when I graduated from high school. I had big hopes of becoming a famous movie producer, celebrities begging at my knees to feature in my films, and a big, white house to share with my family. I went to Columbia University and received a degree in filmmaking and producing. I knew I was on the right track to make both my parents and myself happy. I got my first movie job, out of pure luck, and it earned wonderful reviews. My mom was ecstatic. From then on, the offers started coming. I was the new “it” guy in town, meeting high-end people, going to secret clubs, and attending major red carpet events. I met a girl, Kristie, who soon became my wife.

I thought we were in love, but I’ll get to that later. *Sigh* Life was good. Actually, life was amazing. I was high on happiness.

So, you are probably wondering, how could a guy with a terrific life be discussing failure and expectations, while sitting at a table on the street surrounded by Range Rovers and iPhones? What does he know? Well, it all started when I produced Lola’s Girl. It was just all around terrible. The reviews were crap, and the hell I received from my agent was endless.

Kristie started drifting away as soon as the cameras did, and the incoming offers began to slow down. My “it” status was fading rapidly. The movie business is a tough one to make it in, and an even tougher one to stay in. Ask anyone.

Shortly after the peripeteia of my once glorious world, I had to switch to the job those who cannot stay in the movie business take: television shows. And worse, a kid’s show. I was forced to drag myself out of bed. Let’s just say, it did not make me the happiest man on earth.

It was there, during the hour break of producing Rachel’s Physic Vision that I met my good ol’ pal Jack Daniels. We spent a lot of lonely nights together, drinking to make the pain go away.

I know what you are thinking. Wow, this sounds horrible. Yes, unfortunately, I am afraid you would be right. It was a sad time for me—a time in my life that I can never take back, or forget.

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As I sit here outside my favorite, basic coffee shop, I see myself during this dark time, layered in black and nursing a hangover. I wore my sunglasses inside and ordered a regular coffee with soymilk. I had my headphones in my ears, but nothing was playing. This was to block out the rest of the world without adding to my pounding headache, and an attempt to pull myself together before I had to go on set. My hat fit perfectly with the hood of my sweatshirt. I have to admit, I thought I looked pretty cool at the time, like I didn’t care about anyone or anything. Now I realize that I just looked ridiculous. Kristie and I had filed for divorce, and she admitted to me that all she ever wanted from me was my money. That was a slap in the face. It probably should have stung more, but I had put the truth together long ago when the paparazzi began to flee my house.

Just when I thought all hope was gone, I met Suzan Beeter. She was sitting across from me at a bar downtown, scoping out the place. I was sitting alone with excessive amounts of alcohol, and she asked if she could join me. Reluctant at first, I said okay, and she sat down. Why she was so friendly, I have no idea. Maybe she thought I would be a fun charity case to clean up, or maybe she was just bored. Whatever it was, her sitting down was the best thing to happen to me in a very long time. We skipped the small talk and ended up sitting at that bar all night. There was something about her that made me want to cut my bad habits and try to impress her. She must have liked me, considering we continued to go out on many dates afterward. She always encouraged me to hop back in the saddle with my movieproducing career. I would always just shrug. Now, I would have all of these new expectations if I did not succeed. Or, given the chance that I did receive a job, the pressure from Lola’s Girl would break me. I did not tell her this. I simply nodded and said, “Yep.” “Fraaaaaank! I set up an interview with you at the coffee shop this afternoon for a new movie job. My cousin is a friend of the writer. I said you would be perfect for the job.

His name is Joe Dracos. Good luck!”

My heart pounded when I heard this from Suzan. I must have tried on seven different outfits before the interview. To be honest, I felt quite emasculated by the amount of effort I was putting into my appearance for one meeting.

As I sit here outside my favorite, basic coffee shop, I try and analyze the different types of coffee the people around me drink. I am anxiously waiting for my meeting. I drink my latte in quiet and “people watch,” as the kids call it. I feel my muscles tensing with stress.

It has been a long time since an opportunity has come my way. I know, for Suzan’s sake, and my own sake, that I am going to give it all I got. I have dug myself out of the deep, deep hole 37

I was in. I have no intention of burying myself back in it. My fingers pound on the table, reminding me of when I first met Suzan. Suzan. Calm down, Frank. Calm down.

I’m really going out on a limb with this interview. My friend insisted that I go.

Personally, I saw Lola’s Girl. It was awful. What if he messes up one of my movies, too? Is that a chance I’m willing to take? It’s not that the producing of the movie was terrible….It’s just…the actors and plot of the story were not good. So, I guess it’s not really his fault.

Whatever, let’s just get this over with. I see a man pounding his fingers on the table and sipping his coffee. He looks a little nervous, but like he is trying to play it casual. Interesting.

This must be the guy. Okay, here goes. “Hi. I’m Joe Dracos….”

(The End.)

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Clock

by Daphne Mandell That fickle little devil The killer of all dreams The friend that once seemed faithful Proves he’s not who he seems Once a trusty friend of mine With a boundless gift to share Has since trampled over the line And discarded any care Haughty atop his perch on the wall Or mocking me from my wrist The entitlement on his face appalls Yet I’m unable to resist Peering at his outstretched hands And pondering what’s to be Only to inwardly recoil at my demands And sigh disheartened For the clock’s the kind of friend That can never hold a date He marks a finite start and end Yet always slips by just a little too late

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Reaction Time

by Yana Lee The wind bellows, echoing through the winding alleys, An eerie sliver of the moon Flickers like a dim candle.

Pit pat, pit pat, pitpatpitpat The thundering footsteps quicken behind me As the dark shadow begins to engulf mine, Stealthily creeping towards me, Leaving me no escape.

I turn sharply, tripping over my feet On the uneven cobblestones And see a dead end A path leading nowhere.

The blood rushing through my veins freezes, My limbs numb, paralyzed with fear.

The monster, so close I can sense It’s breath on my neck, Sends shivers down my spine.

My eyes open wide Brimmed with terror As I hear the creature grind its teeth.

My heart unable to beat My mind unable to think.

It latches on to me It’s slippery touch Triggering my heart to pulse against My quivering ribcage, and Flood myself with the desperation to live.

My mind unscrambles, and reason reenters Telling my legs to run and my arms to unlatch.

I regain, reunify my body And the monster disappears.

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The Attic

by Sofia Aklog The stairs creak in protest as my feet maneuver up the too-steep steps. A musky kind of smell, like unpolished wood or my grandmother’s perfume, fills my nostrils as I climb farther up the eerie stairwell. It’s daylight but the strange lighting of the hall mixed with the unsettling feeling that I’m being watched makes it feel like it’s much past midnight and I am one of those stupid people in a horror film who goes farther upstairs to get away from a murderer. The lights flicker.

“Cut it out, Scotty! It’s not funny!” I shout down the stairwell. Why would you put the light switch of a creepy attic stairwell in the outside hallway? Seems like a recipe for disaster in a house with three pre-teenage boys. I hear snickering outside the door.

“It wasn’t me, I swear!” Scotty shouts, trying to contain his giggling. Hilarious. Why did I ever volunteer to come up here all my myself? Scotty, my older brother, said that I should “scout it out to be safe because I am tallest.” I should have made Noah do it.

When I finally reach the top of the never-ending stairwell, a sudden flash of cold 41

rushes through me. This area of the house must have a separate heating system. The room in front of me looks straight out of a typical eighties sitcom about an awkward ten-year-old boy destined to play major league baseball. Matching baseball themed beds, set with actual baseballs on the headboards sit across from a large desk sporting baseball bats for legs. I halfexpect to see a poster of Topanga from Boy Meets World on the desk corkboard.

I scan the floor some more and my eyes stop at a peculiar little door right across from the bathroom. It looks like all of the other doors on the floor except for the fact that it only goes up to my waist.

“Hey, Scotty come check this out!” I yell down the stairway, walking closer to the door. It feels like it’s getting colder as I walk to the door but I might just be imagining it.

There probably isn’t even anything behind it. This isn’t Narnia. It’s most likely just where the air conditioning unit is. That would explain the cold. But for some reason I can’t get the idea out of my head that there is something behind the door. I hear Scotty feet thumping up the stairs like a rhinoceros stampede. It always shocks me how one twelve year old boy can make so much noise.

“What is it!” Scotty says, panting from the run up the stairs. I turn to look at him and point in front of me. Scotty walks towards the door and stares at it for a bit. This is probably the most pensive I have ever seen him.

“Well do you think we should open it?” I ask him, snapping him out of his weird trance. He looks at me for a little bit.

“Of course we should open it dim-wit.” He looks at me, rolling his eyes. He looks back at the door. “There is definitely something behind it.”

I expect Scotty to open the door, but he just keeps staring at it like it’s going to just open by itself. I look at him expectantly. He raises his eyebrow and nods his head towards the door daring me to open it. There is no way I am opening that door by myself with the creepy vintage poster of Babe Ruth staring down at me from across the room. He always makes me do these kinds of things because I’m younger. Ah wait! But I’m not the youngest!

“Noah, get up here now!” I scream down the stairwell and give Scotty a smug look.

He rolls his eyes at me and turns back towards the door.

We hear the small patter of Noah’s footsteps running up the stairs and in no time Noah’s smiling face is looking at us expectantly. Me and Scotty both look at the door and then back at Noah. He stares at us blankly.

“Cool room,” Noah says. “Why did they leave all this weird baseball stuff up 42

though?” Scotty and I exchange looks and look back at the door. Noah finally gets it and comes and stands next to Scotty inspecting the door.

“What does this door go to?” he questions.

“We don’t know,” I say to him. “You have to open it.” Noah looks at me and then back at the door. A worried look flashes across his eyes but he doesn’t question us. We both look at him expectantly and he inspects the small wooden door.

“It’s not going to open if you just stare at it Noah,” Scotty says, annoyed. Noah looks back at him and nods quickly trying to mask his fear with a stern look, but I can see his hands shaking. He slowly steps forward standing right in front of the door. The door is only slightly smaller than his short seven year old stature and he reaches for the door knob easily. The knob twists and the door slowly opens. Scotty and I rush to see what’s there as Noah stares inside.

“Holy crap,” Scotty finally lets out as we all stare at what’s in front of us. Neither Noah nor I even look at Scotty. Holy crap, indeed.

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A Fettered Soul

by Carl Shuck Inspired by Beowulf

So. The bells of death tolled in the air as the cruel scythe of Death was unsheathed.

And the subject of Death’s coming had a tale to share.

Rasmus sat quietly, confidently casting away all hope, And the pitter patter of tear-pearls struck the ground as Rasmus sat knowing six teutons were a floor below.

Barbarossa would take him to his mound in a forest shade.

And so his past became present.

Young Rasmus saw Jose Capablanca as his hero for the Cuban’s speed, simplicity, and breadth of success captivated the young Russian. Innocent idealization.

Rasmus vowed to live and inspire like the zestful Cuban: making the most of the invaluable gifts of mind and soul, to entertain and inspire generations, so as to outlive life.

“Inevitable death, the great live longer than your judgment.”

The second game of lives, however, changed the boy.

Rasmus’ world went mute. His family dead, country ruined, life a travail just for survival. It was as if he alone existed in a hail of piercing bullets, putrid blood, and fallen brothers.

Death seemed at times panacean in this orgy of horrors, But Rasmus was initially afraid of the Scythe and so anger set in.

He killed Germans in cold blood, raped women in temptation, And let winter’s grasp clutch onto brethren in confusion.

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Rasmus became a creature who acted on emotion and it was the developed meaninglessness of his life which drove him.

He was alone and so gravely wanted someone to hear him scream.

And so the teutons turned the corner Rasmus had thought about his departure from Capablanca and his arrival at animalistic menacing as a lost soul.

Oh how a war changes a young man’s mindset for life, A war where dreams vaporize and isolation dictates.

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SECOND PLACE IN THE WRITING CONTEST At the Back of the Plane

by Carl Shuck You cannot begin to comprehend the wretched silence that plagues me day after day.

The truth lurks in the shadows, and it’s time to diminish the unrelenting pain. I speak the truth—I shine light on the pain. I was twenty. I was sitting on the aft of the C-130 transport plane. Ten minutes and I would be heading east—to sand and poverty. My father sat next to me. He hugged me, told me that he loved me, and that he would give his life for me in a heartbeat. That was the first time he told me he loved me. He was a tough dad, a poor boy from Chicago who didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep it together. I was a six foot five, two hundred and thirty pound U.S. marine crying on his way to war—to fight in the infinitely dangerous front in Afghanistan. I cried not because of fear, but because Daddy told me he loved me. At the back of the plane.

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Nan

by Lily Velona I’m in the silent bedroom of apartment 6H, where the skeleton of a woman begins to speak: Precious, Ican’tIcan’t TAKE IT anymore burden: I’m a burden on everyone and on myself I nod until her eyes suck my body in and through to another time You can’t keep suckin’ on Jolly Ranchers, Nan—ya look like a kid, he said.

His Italian hand fished around for a cigarette to fill her young lips She is infatuated, if overwhelmed, by the deep, crooning song that comes with this new gentleman.

Everything is new: her job, her apartment, her name: It’ll be the same city, the same gentleman who will turn her stomach and impregnate it It’ll be the same city, the same gentleman’s son who will dial the judge, patiently asking for alimony at age seven It’ll be the same city, the same gentleman whose old love will be waiting for him to come home years after he’s left for California years after he’s died She’s talking about Boehner, it’s been seven minutes.

I assure her she’s beautiful and kiss her starving body before she asks me to leave 47

FIRST PLACE IN THE WRITING CONTEST Out of Place

by Hugh Reynolds Where is my place?

Where do I have to look to find it?

I’ve looked so long And so many times had I believed I had truly found it Only to be pushed somewhere else But what if I never find it Or worse, what if I do And it doesn’t fit Like a shoe two sizes too small Is it real?

A place for everyone Where they can be themselves With everyone around them It’s the uncertainty that kills me I feel like it would have to be Everyone else had found theirs Or maybe they hadn’t And they can hide it better than I can

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HONORABLE MENTION IN THE WRITING CONTEST

by Anna Guo .

I have not been to many places. .

But, the places I have been have meaning. .

I went to a place where I felt very happy.

Once place , My heart opened, , My eyes were very big My brain grew. .

My ears couldn’t listen because I felt like I was the only one there. , This place was very interesting .

Because the green forest and the blue ocean was very beautiful. .

One place has a lot of meanings.

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.

I was small compared to the place, but I felt big.

Because in the place I used my brain and heart, I felt extremely good.

Use your brain, not your heart, it is difficult to give life knowledge Use your heart, not your brain, also is not good Use your brain, and also use your heart, extremely good.

The places I have gone are interesting.

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Meaning

by Karri Hay The best things in life Are not of the dollar or coin But of those with plenty heart, Who are willing to fill the empty cases Of other’s souls.

The best things in life Come from those whose gold overshadows the bronze The men and women of the hand Which gives to those with empty bowls That they may be filled.

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We Walk Along

by Ro Nelson we walk along with legs made of stone we walk along with hearts full of dread, we walk along numb feet, heavy eyes backs bent, hands cold we walk along into the fiery sunset we walk along a never ending march of pain and sorrow we walk along doomed to death and knowing it all along, we walk along it is futile, you may say but yet we walk along we’re poorer than our enemies in both body and mind, but we walk along we starve in the ocean and drown in the desert but we walk along

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we walk along we don’t care what they say we walk along marching to our death our doom our suffering but also our salvation our freedom and everything we ever wanted and cared about we walk along we walk along because there is really nothing else left that we can do, that we want to do demoted to our pitiful lives outcasts in a world so diverse shunned by people who themselves are always shunned and looked down upon by the lowest of the low we walk along we walk along not really sure where we’re going not really sure where we started and having no clue where we may end up we walk along hated on and frowned upon by every rational human being we walk along

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we walk along you may ask why we try when there’s no hope but I really don’t have an answer we just walk along we walk along as a group of peoples who have never met and have nothing in common except that fact that we’re walking together so we walk along we walk along falling one by one yet new people join the march each and every day they come out of thin air and start walking along, too we walk along each on a separate path with separate stops and separate terrains with its own unique, separate gifts and its own unique, separate sorrows we walk along knowing that there are others out there also walking and taking comfort and pride in who we are and that we walk along 54

we walk along some in silence some in darkness some in complete and utter hopelessness we walk along each person representing a hundreds and a hundred making the image of one person we walk along marching marathon after marathon sometimes barely pushing through as we walk along we walk along marching ‘til our feet bleed and our hearts hold no more joy marching until we drop to the crusted, dry ground which refuses to yield fruit for us we walk along in vain walking from our sick world and the sick norms and sick morals that are strapped to our backs by society walking from life in a march for freedom knowing that there’s no chance for us but knowing we have to try we walk along we walk along many of us giving up we walk along scared by the nasty lie of a life the world offers us if we stop walking 55

so we walk along from everything and towards nothing at all the only important thing being that we walk along we walk along

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