Red Inc Fall 2015

R E D I N C .

RED

INC.

THE TAFT SCHOOL’S ART AND LITERATURE MAGAZINE

A. MIND/BODY 2 3 4 5 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Emily Crouch .............................. photo Tawanda Mulalu .......................... Votre Camilla McGarry ............................. photo Anoymous ............................ hands Natasha Cheung ........................... artwork Gabby Gonzalez ............................. I Am Jake Wasserstein ............................... photo Tristian Chaix ............ Writer’s Block Maggie McNeill ............................... photo Olivia Wivestad ................................ photo Justin Kwon ......................... Solitude Lauren Fadiman ................................. foot James Chun ............................. photo

C. VENTURE 27 29 30 31 32 33 35 36

Marisa Mission ......................... Maybe Ivy Salisova .............................. photo Stephanie Sze ............................... photo Nick Burnham ........ Survivor’s Guilt Juste Simanauskaite ....................... photo Lidia Gutu ........................ Equality Ai Bui ..............

For Paris Abokor Ismael ............................... Islam

B. YEARNING 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Berkeley Brooks ................................ photo Hannah Kallin ........................... artwork Aaron Dillard ................... The Angel Katheryn Moya ..... Goodbye, Farewell Alli Kalvaitis ................................ photo Wendy Osborn ............................. artwork Kayla Kim .... To My Stranger Louise Gagnon ........................... artwork

D. CLOCKS 38 39 40 41 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

Louise Gagnon ............................ artwork Chandler Houldin ......... Three Semanas Pam Armas .......... 10:15 Sign In Wendy Osborn ............................. artwork Nina Garfinkel ................................. photo Felicity Petruzzi ..... Connecticut Gothic John Magee .......................... untitled Eliza Denious ................................ photo Sumi Kim ... New England Winter Nina Garfinkel ................................. photo Collaborative .. The Spirit of Study Hall

MIND / BODY -

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Emily Crouch ‘19

V O T R E I graduated fresh and bloody from my mother's womb, a gift, greater than any other.

My sister before me too.

My brother after me was swallowed up by Him mere hours after drawing his last breath his first.

Behold: This is my unambiguous declaration against this universal truth: my unparalleled defense of the dignity of man against the temperature-empty, relentlessly inhuman universe unconcerned with these ventures which characterize knowing it not. For one day I shall call my teachers by their first names. One day they shall call me doctor. This is the totem declaring the worth of the living and the dead, my sister and my brother: myself. The totem of the disenfranchised and barely and disabled and black. Even also less including I guess the enriched the cup overfloweth and mighty and colourless. Our skin and bones and graves and blood and virgin and lust and chest and breasts and being and nothing and isness is beautiful regardless of everything. It is mine.

It is yours. It is yours.

Votre.

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Tawanda Mulalu ‘16

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Camilla McGarry ‘19

H A N D S extremities of the clock counting counting until its time one step two step grasping holding onto the silky gown onto childhood until its time the rough rolled paper grazes fingertips snap snap flash and over goes the tassel now hands onto the steering wheel of a new ride

pale and stretching reaching outwards into a new world feeling the soft itchiness of the blanket the warmth of unknown skin onto the small innocent hands digging digging dirt under nails skin darkens fingers dive down and down as if taking off into water washing and rubbing washing and rubbing with warm soothing sudds ready to use shiny spears in hand for mamas cooking

that was the bell the bell rang late soo late pinky to thumb pinky to thumb the professor beat on the desk irritated taking a seat creaak of the chair SLAM of the books all eyes on you “just sit down�

smooth, yellow wood held by the digits brushing away the pink fragments of mistake swinging new grips up and down up and down over and under into the world of information typing writing erasing with hands tap tap tap on the bottom of the dense chair

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its happening trembling trembling in fear happy fear scared fear question mark the cold metal ring slides on to the ninth sparkling and glistening light illuminating the skin around the rock the circle of hope and love forever on a hand

waving down the yellow beast to a halt with noisy hands boxes heavy and light fill the hallways fill the palms her moment to leave and depart from one shelter sheltered life to crazy too crazy the reluctance of fingers from hers wave wave goodbye

small so small new hands kind hands thrust forth in hopes of welcome from mother pulling pulling the bristles through her mop of strands twist twisting the limber band pig tales swish swish in the wind her pink purple painted nails clasping tight tightly onto the straps of the bouncing bag waving

ouch just bend bend the swelling in such minuscule joints no pens no pencils arthritis damn lineage

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folded intertwined 6 -

for the finale no more feeling no more feelings prints so many prints on the black shiny encasing encasing me my my hands my mind my love for her for him for it is the final darkening from light into light i reach with worn and tired hands

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Anonymous

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Natasha Cheung ‘16

I

AM

I am I am not my reflection I am more I am every door that opened when one closed Weekdays and weeknights, Numbers after letters after phrases, until midnight I am the things I chase It’s a race; I want to win.

I am not my reflection I am more I am a series of pliés and chassés across the floor I am an artist with a test I must do it better - best.

But I know more than my reflection Now, I know more To lose a race and fail a test I abhor Yet I’d explore, standing behind the door, a side to my reflection innocent of perfection I am human.

I am.

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Gabby Gonzalez ‘17

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Jake Wasserstein ‘18

W R I T E R ’ S

B L O C K

A blank page is beautiful A blank page is mean A blank page is terrifying And everything in-between

Your ideas won’t form You start to throw a fit You burn all your work You scream, “This is it!”

Ideas come and go But nothing will stick That page will stay empty Waiting for the words to click

Yet a paper still smiles Knowing that it’s true That the only thing stopping creativity Is you

A paper has no feelings Judgments or morals Nothing written on the page?

It has no quarrels A paper doesn’t care About your stress and your worries A paper doesn’t care About your hurts and your hurries No matter the length The detail or prose A paper will sit there Laughing at what it knows That writer’s block Is a plague of us all It affects everyone Even the short, even the tall -

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Tristian Chaix ‘16

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Maggie McNeill ‘16

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Olivia Wivestad ‘19

S O L I T U D E Be wary of the comforts of isolation, For loneliness can often be unkind; Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation.

Those who yield into the temptation Will find themselves forever confined.

Be wary of the comforts of isolation.

Throughout the endeavor comes complications; Fight back for the sake of mankind, Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation.

The struggle will surely come with frustration, And the toil will test your strength of mind; Be wary of the comforts of isolation.

The few who fight for their aspirations Find happiness – they do not resign, Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation.

I failed to live up to my own expectations.

Only you can be saved, so bear in mind; Be wary of the comforts of isolation, Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation.

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Justin Kwon ‘16

F

O

O

T okay

i always run with my right foot for wards and when the burning comes i do not stop be cause to stop is to burn faster and i fear that my skin is already charred and the tightening comes next but that too is

because the pain is like my right foot and I tell myself that he does not hurt so bad ly an y way

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Lauren Fadiman ‘17

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James Chun ‘18

YEARNING

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Berkeley Brooks ‘17

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Hannah Kallin ‘18

T

H

E

A N G E L

The sun kissed her skin as she smil’d at me I loved her with all of my heart and soul Her eyes met mine as her mouth sang A-D At that moment I had lost all control

she touched my hand gently - a slow caress and right there I knew that she was the one she made me complete, nothing more or less together forever, she’d leave for none

I could not find words like a hard word search But something about her just felt so right a ring above her head, t’was white like birch she had pretty wings and I saw the light

I’d never doubt that she came from above everything about her showed me true love

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Aaron Dillard ‘16

G O O D B Y E , F A R E W E L L So we say adieu underneath miles of skin with veins that run a vibrant blue Within time everyone knew the different places we’ve been so we say adieu They say it all started with two that we are the result of sin with veins that run a vibrant blue After everything they put us through it is impossible to stay within so we say adieu As their tensions begin to brew we cannot help but grin with veins that run a vibrant blue It has always been me and you searching for a place to begin so we say adieu with veins that run a vibrant blue

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Katheryn Moya ‘16

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Alli Kalvaitis ‘18

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Osborn: Hearts Mirror Restoration

T O

M Y

STRANGER

Hello—Please lead me on; I’ve lost my way.

Tell me we’re in a castle, in a room Perched over hollow halls and where, they say, Conspirers met to plot a royal’s doom.

Tell me that past the windows lie the fields Where grazing cows shirk from unruly hands Their sifting figures fade and lowing yields But your voice shields me still from fleeting lands.

All roads are rust, all pastures are now past The cows, now dust, have left us on our own Neither will the plotters’ whispers last Lest we remain entombed in walls of stone.

Tell me the color of your eyes, though vain— I know that we will never meet again.

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Kayla Kim ‘16

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Louise Gagnon ‘18

VENTURE

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M A Y B E

DISCLAIMER/TRIGGER WARNING: This is a fictional piece based off of various gathered facts of soldiers during WWI. I do not claim to know much about trench warfare, and seek only to explore a sensory experience.

Maybe.

A soldier, oblivious to the world outside, stands in a trench full of the nastiest water on Earth. His toes ache from constantly being in those darn wool socks – not to mention his wool uniform is completely soaked through from the flood two nights ago, and smelling as though it was dragged through the frigid water at his feet. His back is sore, his legs, stiff, and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping standing up last night.

Although there are plenty of other guys in the trench with him — in fact, more than anyone would have liked — his closest friend is the rat currently trying to gnaw one of his slightly frozen fingers off. It’s his turn on the front lines again, gas mask and gun at the ready: there’s a charge in the air, as if the dreaded….”UP AND OVER! UP AND OVER!” The command startles his stale brain, but he scrambles in trained weariness, flinging off the rat, yanking on his mask (but not turning it on yet), fumbling for his gun, and crawling up the trench. Every muscle protests as he misses a barbed wire fence by a hair, just barely stumbles around a land mine. No Man’s Land is as forgiving as the flying bullets, and one move could make all difference in the world.

Death and destruction stroll around him, their putrid scents invading his nose, while the screaming and the pain and the yelling and the gunfire slice through his ears. Forcefully shoving his senses to the side is hard work, but a soldier’s gotta do what a soldier’s gotta do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the “Shoot – Reload – Shoot – Reload” commands, it crosses his mind that he should be deaf by now from the guns and the bombs and the screams, but by some unholy miracle, the suffering still manages to reach his ears.

Renewed gunfire forces him to flop down, so he does his best to scope out a good position to start firing back, moving only as needed. Although it compromises his safety, he avoids looking anywhere but ahead, and even then a flying arm crosses his line of sight, red blood and yellow flesh and white bone soaring across like a grotesque rainbow. Two agonizing hours later, the command comes: “RETREAT! RETREAT!” The battle has come to a stalemate, and both sides limp away with tired practice.

Carnage lies everywhere, and the bodies in the trench are piled in the corner for the rats. Despite death ruling the battlefield, there is no place for the dead here. The screams of the wounded and dying have not yet abated, nor will they until the wee hours of the morning. The soldier retreats into the back tunnels, and does - 27 -

his best to wash up, trading one rancid uniform for another. He’ll take a walk later, cheer some guys up with words of strength and encouragement, however hollow they may be. After all, he’s alive and moving, and he’s grateful for it. Maybe.

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Marisa Mission ‘17

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Ivy Salisova‘18

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Stephanie Sze ‘18

S U R V I V O R ’ S

G U I L T

A man, within his thoughts, is lost at sea; For voices from beyond keep calling loud.

They beg for sweet release, they want to flee; to have their feet put back on solid ground.

But man has no response to this assault.

He cannot think of what he wants to say, To prove to them that it is not his fault, That they are standing not with him today.

The man, he knows the voices will not cease; Until the day where he goes to the earth.

That is his one requirement for peace, Returning to the place where he was birthed.

For from dust we come, to dust we shall return, Where voices from beyond no more are heard.

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Nick Burnham ‘16

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Juste Simanauskaite ‘17

E Q U A L I T Y Someone asked me today about equality And I told her that what we wish for is deeply rooted in our oppression.

I didn't figure this out all of a sudden; it took me days, months to observe the world and to force my eyes see through the creamy veil of privilege.

When your life is beautiful, it's hard to believe that others’ lives are miserable. Those people are the ones who speak up, who try to seek guidance--oh no, excuse my soft words--who fucking fight for their rights.

It's not a coincidence that, in English, a right is something that is right, something that makes sense to a group of people. But we all diverge in our own sense of what rights are right, and my vision of right and wrong can differ from that of a Christian who condemns premarital sex and homosexual couples.

I don't. It's impossible to judge other people based of a fragmented narrative constructed in your head about their lives.

Just because you think something’s wrong, it doesn't mean that your opinion is valid in others’ sets of values, those castles of sand demolished by waves of criticism.

Just because you think something’s a right, it doesn't mean that your granted is everyone else’s. People have very complicated existences, and the fact that the struggle is still happening adds to the fragmented narrative.

Some of us are rich, some of us are white, some of us have a family, some of us have a healthy body, some of us have better education, some of us are HERE, on this planet, ALIVE. In the big scheme of things, these are all privileges. Not all people are born alive, think of that for a second.

Someone asked me about equality today. I told her about oppression, but I forgot to tell her about her own privilege: She could breathe.

If so few of us make it to life, isn't it pointless to argue against each other?

Before we all become equal... let's embrace the idea of life first. We were all produced from a nurturing womb.

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Hence, we are all humans, born to tolerate or even better, accept each other.

We're all born and we all die, equal at the beginning and at the end.

The middle is the funky part. Let's start with empathizing first. We are all humans; we all breathe.

Is it hard to make each other happy? Yes. Is it worth trying? Definitely. Because, in the end, we all die. And if we love inequality so much, let's keep it in our trials and errors of taking care of each other.

What we wish for is deeply rooted in our oppression. What we love is rooted in our very natures.

There is nothing as beautiful as wishing for love and combating oppression with human nature. .

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Lidia Gutu ‘16

F O R

P A R I S

I am scared. You are scared. We are scared.

Can there be innocence in this world anymore, when innocence is crushed into a gushing stream of hot, red blood?

Can there be peace in this world anymore, when the greed for power and dominance bleaches the entirety of humanity?

Can there be me, and you, and us anymore? Will there be?

Bombings here and terrorist attacks there. Sometimes they pass like another buzzword. Sometimes they gnarl like trains heading straight for our innermost fear of loss. And what loss is it that we fear? Safety, liberty, life? Ourselves, our family, our friends? Me, you, us?

I fear the loss of trust between you and me and us. I fear that one day we will pass by each other not knowing if the other is friend or foe. I fear that one day we won’t smile at each other’s faces and yet turn our heads to watch for the knives behind each other’s backs. I fear that we will be shut inside a shaken snow-globe of hate

crashing into each other like helpless little flakes

merely praying that the shuddering globe would stand still.

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Ai Bui ‘16

I S L A M I think a lot of people don’t know me, so let me go ahead and introduce myself.

My name is Islam, and I am a lover of the West.

You know, it is funny that a lot of people see me as a potential threat to the West.

They say that I am incompatible with Western ideologies They see me as an anti-Christ who endeavors the destruction of Christianity They see me as an extremist who beheads and kills innocent people.

They think I am waging a crusade against the West But they don’t know that I am always with Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad.

To be a Muslim is to be a good person, to love humanity, to be an environmentalist, philanthropist, antisexist, anti-racist, and antiterrorist.

I don’t teach hate or discrimination, I don’t teach the killing of innocent civilians I don’t teach the subjugation of women, I don’t teach one to terrorize people I don’t teach that one should blow himself up to gain my “Jannah” I am not addicted to creating trauma, but they say that I am backward and cold-blooded.

I teach forgiveness, so that love can prevail I teach peace and love to humanity, but ironically I’ve been criminalized and distorted And they say I am an extremist. Yes, I am an extremist. I am extremely humane.

My soul is always with Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad.

Yes, there are some who legitimize their so-called Jihad under my name, But does that make me a criminal? Does that make my name look evil?

I am also a victim of terrorism, and I am not a sponsor of Jihadism.

The world is looking at me with disdain, and when it hears my name and sees false images on the media, it feels scared and numb.

But Hold on, I still believe that there are some kindhearted people out there Who can distinguish Good from Evil, who won’t be brainwashed by the media, Which portrays me as a psychotic man with beard and turban fighting the West.

I believe that some won’t judge me based on the recent attacks in Paris and Beirut I believe that some will come out and denounce ISIS or Al-Qaeda without using “Islamic” Cause they know that they are unIslamic, and I I teach love, justice, and equality; believe that love will prevail over hatred.

I strive to obliterate ignorance so that no onejudges I will always be your side, Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad. another Abokor Ismael ‘16 - 36 -

OC L C KS (TICKING)

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Louise Gagnon ‘18

T H R E E

S E M A N A S

Marga is her name, she’s married to X And there’s Marga and Rober and Jacob: El diablo, who screams and shouts!

Marga’s niche is the cocina She sits and she smokes and she cooks.

Las tortillas were my favorite.

The steam would rise as she pulled the potatoes from the oven.

‘Espera’ she shouts as I take my first bite.

‘It’s hot,’ she says in English.

Hot, hot, hot.

Under the Nerja sun Our daily debate was whether or not to take our shoes off As we strolled along the beach to Burriana.

The playa with the rainbow slide boats and cliff jumping on the left.

Three helados added up Every single day, helado and Pan from Ortiz at the table that X would pick up at 4 After painting a new toy car I was living a teenage dream En España with mis amigos Immersed in the culture A culture I had never experienced But will again Someday

The climb was steep And dirt stuck to my hands and feet.

YOLO was real so I began to feel Scared like I couldn’t jump.

Five minutes it took while my friends bobbed below.

Splash, not splat, I hit the agua And touched the ground.

Paddled out That’s what I had done - 39 -

Chandler Houldin ‘16

1 0 : 1 5

S I G N

I N

In a prep school environment one will be confronted with a series of survival obstacles that must be overcome. Here are some essential tips and tricks to ensure ultimate survival.

1. Find provisions for post sit-down nights. Have a set of places from which you can rely for nutrition.

Caution: Too much fried food will result in a varied of later complications.

2. Salvage those brief moments of sleep. Wrap those little hours in aluminum foil and save them for the Thursday you think you will die.

3. Beware of the ‘vendies!’ It seems like a friendly attempt for sharing fruit snacks, but no. It’s a dangerous trap.

4. Forget about figuring out the New England weather. It never stays the same, and snow days are an urban legend.

5. Do research because “what’s Nantucket” and “who’s Lily Pulitzer” might put you in gravest range of danger.

6. Do not be afraid to make a fire. Spark up discussions that push the boundaries and risks.

7. If your health deteriorates, avoid the health center at all hopes and costs. You can get ginger ale and saltines on your own.

8. Acquire a skill. It is survival of the fittest, and the fittest play lacrosse.

1. Look up lacrosse 9. Know when to send signals home. Calling home broken down in a mess of tears over a test will worry your mother. Also because she doesn’t know you’re really worried about college.

10. Finally, learn to create your shelter. In this case, create a tact-team of friends and teachers who will help protect you. When it feels like the walls are crumbling before your very eyes, your foundation will hold you up.

These certain acquired survival tips and skills will in at least some way ensure your greatest chance of survival in the next four years.

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Pam Armas ‘16

Wendy Osborn: Plaster Mirror Restoration (before) - 41 -

Wendy Osborn: Plaster Mirror Restoration (after) - 42 -

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Nina Garfinkel ‘17

CONNECTICUT (LITCHFIELD COUNTY) GOTHIC

i.

In Litchfield County, all roads are back roads. You drive and drive, through thick forests and alongside miles of open farmland. Didn’t you pass those cows earlier? Is that a deer in the woods or something else entirely? The sides of the roads are lined by haphazardly constructed stone walls and split-rail fences. The stones walls are crumbling—why does no one fix them? The split-rail fences are falling down—why does no one stop to pick the pieces up? You wonder briefly how they got here, the stone walls, twisting and turning back and back and back, disappearing into the woods. Who built them? You ask your father but he doesn’t know, you ask your grandfather and he says they’ve always been there, that they’ve always been crumbling. His response is sufficient, but it leaves you cold. You, too, are crumbling, but you are helpless to stop it. ii.

By the end of August, the leaves have changed, and your parents are reminding you how lucky you are to live in such a beautiful part of the country. On the weekend, your mother piles everyone into the car and you travel around the county looking for covered bridges to drive through. By October, you know winter is coming. You can feel it. By November, the leaves are gone. It snows on Thanksgiving and doesn’t stop for months. It is March, and UCONN makes the final four of the NCAA championship once again. No one in your family has gone to UCONN, but everyone is cheering. You cheer with them. Why are they all cheering? It is April, and you are trudging through campus in your Bean Boots when the snow turns into rain. It is May and the mud is swallowing people whole. By July you have forgotten all about the months and months of snow and bitter cold, and are wondering how such a northern place can be so humid. Your hair is frizzing into a disaster, but you can do nothing to stop it. iii.

Visitors disappear into the Indian Reservations, never to be heard from again. iv.

Main Street. Colonial houses and churches. So many churches; their steeples piercing the air, charming everyone with their beauty, warning outsiders that they are not welcome. The Main Street in your town is the same as in the next town over, and the town after that, and the town twenty miles up the road.

You do not question this. This is how things are. v.

Everyone knows the story about the oldest house in town. Children run happily through its rooms on tours, teenagers lurk in the cemetery, and adults take care of it. This is how it has always been.

This is how it always will be. It has been nearly 400 years and nothing has changed. vi.

Everyone feels trapped. Adults remind you how lucky you are to live so close to The City. What city are they talking about? How can you leave? Your whole world is here: changing leaves and hot apple cider and pumpkin picking and county fairs. Your world is stuck in perpetual autumn.

Felicity Petruzzi ‘16 - 44 -

In November in Litchfield County the night comes early The Housatonic cuts through the hills, at this spot running with the Appalachian trail, whose head is in Maine and whose tail reaches into Georgia

I followed his noiseless flight and even watched his black wings arch and his great tail fan as he landed in the bracken behind over the next twenty minutes these great silhouettes would appear sometimes one, often one right after another

Late afternoon the steep hills lose light quickly and the world becomes a black and white photograph the river runs silver after the last pink tint of the fading sun goes down in the west I sat on the bank, warm in my down vest, but my hands felt the chill of the November air and the occasional breezes called me home from the far bank somewhere high in the trees the silence gave way to a solitary crack; the sound of a brittle branch giving way to the lifting turkey that materialized high above me he glided above the water and passed overhead to the rising woods behind me

I felt as the boy or old man (because everyone else was gone) must have felt back in England, back in the war as night fell and the Liberators came back across the Channel, noiseless in the altitude, black against the grey English sky plane after plane touching down somewhere inland dissolving, disappearing into the Hampshire silence

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John A. Magee

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Eliza Denious ‘17

N E W

E N G L A N D

W I N T E R

The New England Winter is white. It’s whiter than a blank sheet of paper, whiter than the inside of a yorkshire peppermint patty, whiter than the light of the stars. It’s the kind of white that makes you want to freeze.

The New England Winter is cold. There is no other way to put it; it’s numbness blurring the tip of your nose away and layers upon layers of clothing to cover up exposed skin. It’s pale finger tips and burning your lips on hot chocolate after a day outside. It’s seeing your own breath before your eyes.

The New England Winter is not a surprise. It does not sneak up on you, or don a disguise, like a criminal. When you see the pale leaves shivering and fluttering on the paler trees, you know it’s here. And for the next four months, it will remind you that it’s here with nips to your toes and snow on your cheeks and a feeling that gets in your bones and sits with you and keeps you company.

People will warn you about the New England Winter. They’ll say it suffocates you. The weather gets to your head, and every day becomes slower, and every day becomes longer, and before long you find yourself struggling to escape the stark routine you have allowed yourself to slump into. With every day the same white pallor it was the day before, the lines separating one moment in time from the next seem to bleed into one another - days into weeks and weeks into days. When was the day you made yourself soup? When was the day you went to church? When was the day you missed your mother’s call? When was the day you last saw your mother? Up and down? Right and wrong? Everything is blurry. Everything is white. That’s what people will warn you about.

People will praise New England Winter, too. They’ll say it’s beautiful. There is a certain magical quality about the sky: wake up and you will find the heavens the palest shade of blue, go to fall asleep and you will find the sky the purest shade of lavender, look up at any point in between and you will find a watercolor whirl of hues. And when snow begins to fall, people take time to stop and remark and reflect. You can see a whole community, a whole town of people, stop what they are doing and simply watch each flake as it flutters down, mesmerized. Everything is clear. Everything is white. That’s what people will praise.

You can read the words about New England Winter. You can listen to the stories. You can sit for hours and hours and picture the white and the cold. You can, you can, you can. But you will never understand it. Why is it so cold? Why is it so white? Why does it suffocate? Why does it mesmerize? Why is it people can never decide the nature of it?

Go outside. See the cotton candy hues of the sky and feel the prickle of cold as it bites at your skin.

Listen carefully. Listen -- can you hear the Winter whispering to you?

I am what you think about me, it says. What do you make of me?

Sumi Kim‘17 - 47 -

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Nina Garfinkel ‘17

T H E S P I R I T OF S T U D Y H A L L When you stalk the library between the hours of eight and ten, you may not get much homework done, but you will get something far better.

I beg on my knees: Write me some instant haikus!

The subjects agree.

-Kayla Kim

Kayla Kim asked me: So I wrote one. This. Thing. Here.

I hope she’s happy.

-Tawanda Mulalu

Oh how to spend these Last few weeks, the lonely months, I shed tears of joy.

-Audrey Lam Adventure is life Get what you are looking for And life will be full -James Darling Leaves crackled and crunched While the hot fire exploded And colored the sky -Chandler Houldin

Potato Gravy Microwave Global Warming Refrigerator -Dylan Kim

Poems evade me.

Some english major I am -I’ll never get it.

-Sumi Kim

Now I sit and think Of how to write this for you I think I did fail -Mr. Reiff

Rand Paul is winning life is real and so am I Banana paper -Tom Hubregson

Conrad and Sonny Take on the World Together Hand in hand they rule -Sonny An and Lexi Walker

Nikhil and Tom stand Tom is a lovable wolf Nikhil is a whale -Maggie Swomley

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Where art thou some ask In the trees or the fires But the time is now -Nikhil Wadhwa

oh tennis and squash such rivals they are and yet similar in sport -Conrad Cassier

Do they hear themselves lie when they reject my words For we know I’m right -Tyler Dullinger

I-write-haiku-now Haiku-is-really-really-goo I-wrote-haiku-now -Becker Ewing

So you wanna be Spiderman huh kid?

A moment of joy then boom Yay. Pain.

-Maya Shrestha

Head, and shoulders knees and toes knees and toes, eyes but Van Gogh has no ear -Natasha Cheung

Hawaii is nice The beach has very large waves All those scary sharks -Mani Capece There once was a man Boobie gibson was his name he loved to toe wah -Tennant Maxey

Stars shine bright outside While we slave over our work Sweat shines like diamonds.

-Audrey Lam

Night spills over Wu Dorm room lights spark and dwindle The magic hours sleep.

-Kayla Kim

T H U S C O N C L U D E S F A L L 2 0 1 5 - 50 -

H E A D H E

E

A D

O F

W R I T I N G

D

O

I

T

F

A O

R R

K

A

Y

L

A

K

I

M

‘1

C H E U N G

6

T

N A T A S H A

’1 6

S

A U D R E Y L A M ‘1 6 L A U R E N F A D I M A N ’1 7 S U M I K I M ‘1 7

r e a d i n k @ T A F T _ R E D _ I N K

F A C U L T Y A D V I S O R S

L I N D A S A A R N I J O K I S T U A R T G U T H R I E

C O V E R

B

P H O T O

B A C K C O V E R

P H O T O

E

L

A L L I

L

A

S

U

S

I

K A L V A I T I S

‘1

7

’1 8