Rye Review 2015

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RyeReview

Volume 2 2015

1 | Ou t d oor M agazi n e Oct 20 14

Tableof Contents Warren Kennedy-Nolle

Cover Art Page 1

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Page 2

"Ferguson Speaks"

Warren Kennedy-Nolle

Page 3

"LA"

Grace Casale

Page 4

Untitled

Will Cousin

Page 5

"Aroma"

Anya Zaretsky

Page 6

"Aroma" continued

Page 7

"Cherry Blossoms"

Tess Asness

Page 8

"Perseverance Pays"

Victoria Llanos

Page 9

"The Taste of Guilt"

Maya Prabhu

Page 10

"Easy Come, Easy Go"

Jaume Pujadas

Page 11

"Tiger"

Ellie Stevens

Page 12

"Speak of the Devil"

Anonymous

Page 13

"Speak of the Devil" cont.

Page 14

"Turtle Paradise"

Reece Haft-Abromovitch

"Basketball"

Alexander Nichols

"Swish"

Mick Bronsky

Back Cover

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Ferguson Speaks

In our town, you learn

to walk, don?t run, ever

to respect the police

we believe in

keeping your hands out of your pockets

not disturbing the peace

and never turning your back

Let law and order prevail

?cause we don?t need to go to jail

On our streets,

look both ways and stay on the sidewalks

We know a criminal when we see one, so

keep your hoods off and your shirts on

We don?t want any trouble

stay in the house, boy

The gangs are gone in Ferguson, so

if you go outside, go with a friend or two only

No probable cause exists to file an indictment

The law allows all people to use deadly force To defend themselves in certain situations

sometimes we have to take

?cause we?re gonna make some noise

when you can?t speak ?cause there?s a gun in your face

My hands are up!

the law into our own hands Say your prayers for everyone

I say you, Truth, mamma

Don?t shoot! Don?t shoot ! Don?t Shoot!

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Aroma ?Coming through! Move it! If you don?t want to get hit, outta the way!? I shrieked, zooming past everyone at a breakneck speed.

All I did was slide across the frozen water with no control. I thought that waving my arms up and down in the air would give me stability, but I guessed I must?ve looked like a maniac. I tried not to crash into anyone, using the ?secret? technique of flapping arms. None of the romantic couples bothered to help me; they were too busy staring into each other?s eyes with blind love. I ignored that odd longing feeling in my gut when I saw the couples' happiness, and I concentrated on braking. Cheerful Christmas music blasted through the speakers, masking the screeching of my skates. Coming to a complete stop, I sighed with relief and began stomping my way to the exit. It was difficult walking on ice? in skates? with absolutely no skating ability whatsoever. I managed to reach one of the ice rink exits and climbed out. At that point, the wind decided to torment me even more by sending down a rather violent gust. The frigid wind bit my numb face and shivering hands. Whenever I exhaled, I could see a puff of carbon dioxide.

My fingers shook as I removed my skates and returned them to the Bryant Park renting stall. It was the holiday season, and the many stalls were packed with Christmas ornaments, sweet treats, and employees trying to catch your attention. I rubbed my hands back and forth to create some heat. I needed something warm. I was afraid I would start showing signs of frostbite. There was a three-story tall Christmas tree smack dab in the center of the square that looked as if a Christmas monster vomited on it. It was decked with glittery orbs, angels, and yards of white fabric. I passed by it and brushed the prickly pine needles. The Christmas stalls were decorated with red, white, and blue colors. People loitered here and there, chatting, laughing, and singing carols. I was drawn like a moth to light towards all of the shops, searching every one for anything that would save me from the cold. Spotting a stall called Aroma, I ambled over and scanned the menu. ?Would you like to sample some Aroma hot chocolate?? the salesclerk offered. ?Thank you!? I squealed and scurried away.

I enjoyed the tiny sample of scrumptious hot chocolate and continued browsing the shops. The scent of fresh pastries from nearby bakeries concealed the gasoline fumes of the honking cars alongside the square. I tilted the sample cup entirely backwards, obscuring my view. I was attempting to slurp up the last remnants of the treat. I bumped into something, and it startled me. The cup dropped out of my hand in surprise. Before I knew it, I had a complete stranger covered in heavy chocolate. ?I?m so sorry! I wasn?t looking where I was going! Oh, and now your scarf is all? I?m so sorry!? I rushed.

I was blushing like a tomato, humiliated. This was Christmas Eve, and the negligence on my part could ruin the Christmas spirit for this young man! He had roasted corn colored hair, piercing blue eyes, and his bright red scarf was stained with the chocolate.

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Aroma cont. ?It?s okay; it?s just a scarf. I can always wash it,? his deep and milky voice answered.

I raised my head. How could I make up for my blunder? I looked into his eyes and saw clear forgiveness. Finally at peace, I grinned and held up my hand. ?Merry Christmas,? I said. ?Merry Christmas,? he responded with a smile and shook my hand.

We walked our separate ways. Little did we know, we?d meet again in different circumstances, but our very first meeting was on Christmas Eve. Perhaps it was the magic of Christmas that started it all. Or maybe just the hot chocolate.

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PerseverancePays There comes a time in everyone?s life when a challenge must be faced. The pressure and frustration of doing so can weigh down on a person like heavy chains. Such chains may drown some. Others have the ability to escape their binding chains and drift freely.

My struggle was feeling comfortable in mathematics class. On the first day of fifth grade math, I noticed some of the word problems were troubling me. I contemplated, with little success, problems that appeared simple to my classmates. At one point, I gave up trying to solve a problem and just stared intensely at the assignment before me. The stress poured into me like water into a glass. It took all my energy to keep myself from overflowing. Although I worked with several of my peers, I acted as a bystander, always relying on them to solve every equation. I was afraid to ask questions and look ignorant. The silence was endless. My mouth was motionless as if it were stitched together. I wanted to participate, but whenever I wanted to say something, the words rose up and seemed to get stuck in the back of my throat. No matter how loudly I was yelling on the inside, nothing would come out. I felt invisible, and occasionally I wished to be.

I received a disappointing grade on my first assessment. Moreover, I tried to avoid getting it signed because I didn?t want my parents to be angry with me. Eventually, I had to get it signed, and when I confronted them with the issue, I was ashamed. However, they were very understanding. I informed my parents on my experiences in math class. They told me to speak with my teacher and ask for assistance. The next day I was comfortable enough to seek my teacher?s help during my free period. I told her of my concerns, and she proceeded to advise me on how to improve them. After speaking to her, I was relieved of my chains; their burden vanished along with all my fears. My soul was light and my spirit soared as if gliding through air on a peaceful, breezy day. I felt more self-assured and made sure I understood all the lessons and homework before I left school. I no longer was afraid of asking questions and requesting assistance. For the rest of the year, I enjoyed mathematics class. I learned to focus on my abilities and not what others might be thinking of me.

Despite the stress, I proved I was able to overcome my fears and feel confident and secure in mathematics class.

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T he Taste of Guilt As I opened the plastic Tupperware filled with chicken tikka masala, the smell of all the strong Indian spices blasted my nose, but my eyes were filled with sadness as I saw starving homeless families through the window of my chauffeured car. I am 11 years old and have not been to India, my birthplace and the home of my family, for two years now. I am in Mumbai where my parents used to live and my grandparents live now. Right now we are driving to visit my orphanage in Pune, and we have been driving for half an hour. In the morning the hotel staff packed the food for our trip: chicken tikka masala, a popular chicken dish; naan, a type of bread that is always homemade; daal, a sauce made from grains and vegetables; and Navratna Korma vegetable curry, which is a curry with vegetables.

I was very hungry because I did not have time for breakfast, and it was now one o?clock, but there were people starving outside the car window. My biological parents did not want me to have to starve, so they put me in an orphanage when I was an infant. I was adopted at five months, and my future completely changed. Now when I visit India, it is like an opposite world. My family and I stay in five star hotels, with butlers and rooms so big that ten people could sleep in them. There is always a car waiting for us every morning to take us around the city to shop, sight see, and visit family.

Whenever I am hungry, I know that there is an elegant restaurant nearby where I can devour spicy, healthy, and delicious foods.

The fork filled with chicken tikka masala was almost in my mouth. Since there was a family with two infants begging for water on the other side of the car window, I gave them two water bottles. They were so grateful, but my driver said that you cannot do that because then everyone will want some water. When I tasted the homemade food, it tasted awful due to my guilt.

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Easy Come, Easy Go Raindrops pound the hard concrete sidewalk, exploding into a thousand shimmering droplets that scatter and bounce across the rough surface before sliding into the massive stream of water leading toward the gurgling storm drain. A car zooms by, sending a tidal wave of water crashing over the curb.

The surging wave of muddy water washes over the sidewalk and wets my feet as I skitter a few steps away from the edge of the sidewalk. A tall dark skinned man turns the corner and begins walking quickly down the sidewalk, the raindrops bouncing off his sleek black shoes at all angles. He stops and sits down at the bus stop. I notice the sandwich he has produced from his bag. I hop over underneath the plastic covering of the resting area and position myself in front of the man?s feet ?Hello, little birdie. Would you like some food?? the man asks in a deep baritone. ?Cooooooooo. Cooooooo,? I answer eagerly in reply. ?Well, here ya go,? the man says as he tosses the sandwich?s crusts on the ground for me. I peck at the crusts, taking small bites until a bus rounds the corner. As it draws nearer, I ruffle my damp feathers before taking to the sky. I fly down the street and perch on a restaurant balcony.

After looking around, I hop down and begin snatching up soggy crumbs, left on the balcony from the night before. I pause for a second, listening to the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain as it pours down on the roof above me. I am struck for a moment with a sense of peace and tranquility. The perfect roundness of every glimmering water droplet. The soft blanket-like greyness of the clouds above.

I am jolted back to reality by the angry shouts of a janitor rapidly approaching, broom in hand. I take to the skies once more and encapsulate the whole of my life as a pigeon down to four words.

Easy come, easy go.

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Speak of the Devil Looking back at the time I tried cow tongue for the first time, I feel like I acted like it was a little taboo when, in reality, it is actually a Mexican delicacy. I don?t know how I digested it. I was turning five in November, but my parents had an important meeting on my birthday, so we decided to have my birthday party in October at my cousin?s house. I remember thinking that walking to my cousin?s house was quite a task because the weather outside was frigid for me as I was only wearing a bright pink tee shirt that read ?My Dad Is The Best Dad In The World? in bold blue ink. My cold, red nose took in my sister?s strong scented, vanilla bean perfume behind me, which forced me to speed up. Her perfume made me want to hurl up my breakfast.

As I was nearing my cousin?s house, I noticed how far up her house is. It?s on a hill that is seemingly a mountain, but it was worth the cake I was going to get later on in the day. There was a pile of brown, crumpled leaves before the lengthy steps that led up to the house. I was tempted to take a big leap into the pile. Unfortunately for me, I was already late and had to sprint up. When I walked inside the house, my cousin?s dogs were growling like rabid animals because they were fighting over food. My family, as they always do at parties, were screeching out pop song lyrics. I also saw and heard my grandparents cutting this unidentified, pink colored meat on a wooden cutting board. Thunk, thunk, the kitchen knife sliced. My nose scrunched up at the peppery smelling, mushy, mystery meat. It crackled on the modern, gas stove in vegetable oil. I never eat anything if I don?t know what it is, but my parents put it in a taco, and tacos are usually really good! Every taco that I had ever eaten was pretty delicious. What harm could a taco do? I remember asking, ?Do I have to?? and ?What?s this??

With the soft tortilla in hand, I took a big bite into the taco, thinking that it would taste better. The texture in my mouth was all wrong! It was bumpy and chewy. Every time I took a bite, I felt something pop like bubble wrap. It was a texture I had never felt before, and it tasted like roast beef, my least favorite flavor. It was stuck in my throat as if the tentacles of an octopus were latching onto my epiglottis. I eventually got it down, but it came right back up along with some of the acid in my stomach. It felt like it was crawling up and down my throat, just like a spider. I politely spit it into a rough, white napkin. It was disgusting.

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?Wendy! Don?t be impolite! It?s just cow tongue! Your grandparents spent a lot of time making this meal just for you!? my parents angrily said. ?WHAT?! EW!! What are the bubbles and bumps on it?? I quickly replied. ?The ?bubbles?and ?bumps?are what happens to taste buds when they are cooked,? my parents answered.

Why would anyone choose to eat tongues? I mean, we need our tongues every day. No, I am not a vegetarian, but I?m talking about cow tongues. Many people say that tacos de lengua, or tacos with cow tongue, look so appetizing that they can?t imagine how someone would not like it. My family prepares it like they cook steak. They add a little bit of pepper while it is being cooked. After it is made, you put it on a very smooth corn tortilla, sprinkle a pinch of fresh cilantro, chopped onion, three cut radish, a spoon full of spicy sauce called Chile Verde, squirt some lemon juice, and you are all done. My parents say that it tastes the best like this, and that it looks its finest when prepared this way. I don?t say that the tacos de lengua don?t look delicious; it?s just the taste that I don?t like.

As the rowdy children on the school bus quiet down to say goodbye, I am awakened from my flashback. I rush off the bus because I see my hardworking parents?cars in the driveway. My parents told me that they would leave work early to start a special meal. I walk into my house and there is a very peculiar smell lingering in the air. It is the smell of cooking vegetable oil. I walk into the hallway packed with shoes and throw my backpack onto the hardwood floor, accidentally hitting my dog, causing him to whimper loudly. The scent becomes stronger as I approach the end of the hallway. When I enter the kitchen, I see familiar ingredients, such as chopped onions and tortillas. My suspicion rises, and I soon realize that the special meal is actually cow tongue. I stand in the middle of the doorway. My jaw drops low enough for my cockatoo to fly in. ?What are you guys cooking?? I howl. ? It?s cow tongue,? my parents remark. ?I asked you not to cook it again!? I call out. ?We?re adults. We?ll do what we want,? they proclaim. ?What am I supposed to eat?? I wail. ?Cow tongue,? my parents bluntly reply with a straight face.

Speak of the devil!

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Basketball (w hist le) The gam e has st art ed, an d everyon e has p art ed.

Racin g up an d dow n t he court , p ure- heart ed, t hey t ake shot s t hat lan d in t he p ot s, lot s an d lot s, t yin g st om achs in t o kn ot s.

Back an d f ort h t he score goes, m akin g p eop le clen ch t heir t oes.

But in t he en d, it w ill dep en d on w hich t eam can ult im at ely en d it

Th e Rye

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