Write in the Middle 2015

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Write in the Middle

The Archer School for Girls Middle School Literary Magazine 2015 !

Write in the Middle Staff

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Caroline Ediger ’19 Editor

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Bianca Baron ’21 Caterina Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer Nobili ’21 Amanda Greene ’21 Faith Hernandez ’20 Rio Hundley ’21 Chloe Richards ’21

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Amanda Freiler Faculty Advisor

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Cover photo: Kelly Tuxpan ’19

Untitled

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Every morning I wake up.

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And a crow Klies behind me. !

It follows me to the bus stop. !

And it picks at my lunch. !

It sits on my shoulders during class.

And pulls at my braids.

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It pulls the tears out of my eyes And laughs when they touch my cheeks.

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And I am trying to be patient. !

But my head is getting sore And I’m running out of tears.

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And I wish that Every morning I would wake up.

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And a butterKly would Kly behind me. ! !

Livia Blum ’19 Middle School Poet Laureate

To Block Oblivion

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When I was

younger, I used to play a game:

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I would look into the center of a bright light,

(any light, really) And see how l o n g I could stare,

! before looking away. !

The sun being my fav-­‐or-­‐ite victim,

of course.

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Any yet, every single time, I would turn away—

(after several agonizing minutes) to block the White/Gold.

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I’m not sure why—

I would still play

after losing to the light.

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You’d think that by then I’d learn. !

But I didn’t—

(I still haven’t) and for ten twenty seconds my eyes still sting,

! before blocking the oblivion. ! !

Aviva Intveld ’19 Middle School Poet Laureate Runner-­‐up

The Secret Only I Know

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An old coin.

That’s what they think as they stare at it.

Maybe they’re right, But… I can’t let it go.

It’s a memory holder, A treasure to me.

Shows those times before me, Passed from person to person, Their happy times and sad.

I promised to cherish it, Keep a place for it in my heart For a glimpse of those people’s lives, Those beloved memories Are in the coin.

It might be just an old coin, But it’s a little secret for me to keep.

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Chloe Richards ’21

Sneakers

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Though I never see with eyes, I feel many things Of coarse brown carpets, Beige crown molding, A forgotten, littered Kloor.

A sticky mess I’ve stepped in Time and time again.

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Many places I have been, And more I shall be, For I am the most comfortable, Therefore more I have yet to see.

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My appearance isn’t new or slick, But not yet brittle and old, For orange is splattered on my laces From substances untold.

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Though I am but an object, I still have much to say, So I would much appreciate Some time out of your day

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To humor me, In my strange consciousness, To tell a story or two

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Of coarse brown carpets, Beige crown molding, A forgotten littered Kloor

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A sticky mess I’ve stepped in Time and time again.

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Rio Hundley ’21

Kelly Tuxpan ’19

The Mirror

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The girl is trapped in the mirror, Trapped in her self.

Staring at a reKlection, Her Klaws exposed.

A single tear runs down her cheek Because she isn’t perfect, And the mirror tells her that.

After she walks away, The shards of the mirror lay on the ground.

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Gwendolyn Hanson ’21

Summer

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The smell of cut grass As I burst out of class.

Near the ribbons I’ll spin, Neatly held pin by pin.

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And as June melts away With its mornings so grey, It opens the door For the summer to come settle in even more.

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The waves are crashing, I feel water’s cool splashing.

Hungry seagulls in Klight, Lovely sounds, lovely sights.

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Giulia Germano ’21

Rose

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Streaks of pale moonlight glossed over her milky complexion, Illuminating her already pearly white smile.

Her long golden hair slung effortlessly down at her waist And never lost its form even in the soft sea breeze.

The stars were no competition for the constellation of freckles on her nose, And neither were the thousands of twinkles in her eyes.

She sang to herself in the dark of night, perched on the soft pad of river grass, Admiring the beads of water dripping off the leaves and branches.

Anyone who saw her looked straight through her like smoke, Ignoring the shy girl who never spoke.

She was a blooming rose amidst a dark sky, Neither lost nor found, just in the moment here and now.

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Beatrix Freeman ’19

Nature

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Waves crushing against the rocks, Swallowing gigantic landforms, Spitting them out again.

The waterfall crushing against the river, Tears of joy facing the intense colours of nature, The everlasting older trees who care for the little ones, As they grow and become wise.

Green painting the ground, Giving it life.

Blue infusing the sky, Making it an endless place full of wonder and mystery.

Soon the snow will cover, Tucking in the nature, Until the love of the sun warms it again, Awakening life.

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Caterina Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer Nobili ’21

The Other Side

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I stare out Towards the blissful, turquoise water And slowly dip one foot into the warm, swirling ocean.

The humid island breeze sweeps through my hair The white sand grinds beneath my feet The gentle waves lap at my ankles A nimble bird Klutters above me And I think.

I think about the world, and everyone in it People, different than me, live on the other side.

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Samantha Raucher ’19

Beatrix Freeman ’19

Untitled

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As the days go on and the nights come to an end, The sun and moon will always come again, Pushing the water to shore and pulling it back, Causes the waves to break their backs.

Over and over the waves will Klow, Over the stones that the children throw.

The seaweed sparked and the sand swishes Into the ocean is all she wishes.

And although her wishes have not taken her far, She hopes for that one wave that will take her away, Take her away to a place she will stay.

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Dylan Shumow ’19

The Wind

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The wind hurtles itself into the trees And doesn’t care who sees.

He’ll come knocking at your door, But beware of his mighty roar.

For with a Klick of his wrist A tree will fall, And with a puff of his breath A tornado will form.

Because the wind has no boundaries And will show you now respect, Because he is the true master, And the world is his pet.

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Juliette St. Antoine ’19

Untitled

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I step into the cool darkness, While the house is dormant.

The morning glories Have opened their sapphire blooms

The cool dawn air hits my face, And exhilaration courses through my veins.

But are usually seen closed, And not wondered about.

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I walk outside, noticing everything.

In this time where nothing is awake, But nothing is sleeping, either.

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The spider webs, with dew that sparkles like diamonds.

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A soft trill, Hopeful, but somehow tinged with regret Already, though the day hasn’t started yet.

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A lone beam of moonlight Breaking through the darkness.

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And a breeze making the trees Klutter Like the wings of a thousand butterKlies.

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The silence, That is not really silence at all,

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But the noise of natural things which has faded into the background.

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None of this wondered about. !

Why? ! !

Anna Brodsky ’20

Strangers in the Park

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A Klock of birds carelessly Klying around.

Strangers gather to watch.

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Sparkling water dancing in the fountain, Strangers gather to watch.

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Tulips and roses sprouting in the sunlight, Strangers gather to watch.

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A pack of dogs running about Strangers gather to watch.

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Everyone seems to be entertained By the nature all around.

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And there I am, singing a song, Waiting for my crowd.

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Just as I think to leave, My senses tell me to not.

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And when I can’t think of any other audience, Nature gathers to watch.

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Kelsey Mumford ’19

Vivian Shay ’20

Rubies and Pearls

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The wind rushes along the shoreline, and the waves coil and break onto the damp sand.

The white lightning Klashes along the sky, and the thunder roars like the lion of the dry savannah.

Cold pearls of rain touch the surface of the earth, and the waves bolt and capture them into the cruel hands of the ocean.

The ruby red roses are crumpled at my feet, and the hum of my dress is torn and ragged.

The ocean has decided to punish me— And so I will seek revenge.

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Doris Sandberg ’19

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The Crackling Flame

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Out of crushing darkness the match is lit, setting the world aglow.

Flame wavers, then Klares.

The blaze glows bright and true.

A small inferno Roaring, yet soundless The candle weeping, wax seeping downward.

Dripping, falling, obeying the pull The pull that we all must obey.

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The Klame reKlects off an astounded face, But, too soon, the realization comes.

The candle is vanishing into smoke and ash.

Happiness turns bitter, But the Klame that burns so bright Can only last for so long.

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Anna Brodsky ’20

Obstacles

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Life is an obstacle course.

With every obstacle you overcome, There is another Just waiting Right in front of you.

Waiting for you to trip and fall over it.

But You will get back up and try again Like a bird in a rain storm, Just waiting to get back up and soar the clear sky.

But When you Kinish the course you know It is time.

The storm is over, And the little brave bird inside of you Wants to get back up And soar…

Until the next obstacle course Pops right up And stops you in your path, Waiting for the little bird to trip and fall again.

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Bella Bernhardt ’21

Tears

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Rivers and lakes everywhere Come together And pour from my eyes, Rolling down my face, Splashing on the ground.

The tears keep coming.

They never stop.

Because this is the only thing I can do To show my loss, To show my fear.

So the tears keep coming, Chasing each other Constantly.

The tears keep coming.

I am still sitting there when they stop, I hadn't even noticed.

I wonder why they stopped, Then I remember.

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And then come the tears. ! !

Louise Hale ’21

Embarrassment

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The burning glass, painted with dull wear, it grows and warps and begs to shatter, to explode and become nothing more than cast away, to become a fading memory.

The melting glass, it cried, silently, hoping to drip its soul away, drop away its feelings.

The glowing glass, a cavity opening in its chest, a red Kilm covering it, protecting it, destroying it.

The Kiery glass, feeling the paid of its red, weeping drops of violence, crying into unforgiving voids.

The blazing glass, it feels the paint of its warmth and shrieks as it feels the sudden cold.

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Lola Wolf ’19

Hate

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Hatred is a Kire burning in my chest, Whose only purpose is to conquer until nothing is left, Whose spirit alone is strong enough to overpower one hundred suns.

Like an imprisoned jailor, he sits there silently, Knowing his next escape is near.

Waiting, Waiting, Waiting.

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Until Kinally the steel walls come down like lightning, And no time is wasted as the Kire blazes across the land.

Without hesitation devouring every hope, every dream, every feeling, Hatred grows and grows until in every direction for miles and miles is aKlame, And the sky is black with thick smoke.

The smog blankets the sky and watches sorrowfully As its creator destroys what is last left of the world, That is left of their home.

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Through all grief and depression, the dark stormy smoke starts to cry.

No one is left to comfort or reassure her that it will be all right.

Trickling tears turn to sobbing and sobbing then turns to wailing, Thunder rumbles in the sky, and the tears come faster and faster, Until water completely douses the land, and the Kire shrivels, Because everyone knows that water kills Kire, Just as Sadness will always corrupt Hatred.

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After hours and hours of Klooding the land, Sadness is left to grieve over what has been lost.

All those burned, scarred hopes and dreams are pointless Nothing is left but the ground: now solid, coarse dirt That nothing will ever grow on.

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Far off in the distance sadness sees a faint speck, As she looks closer and closer at it, She begins to realize that what stands there is an old tree.

The oldest and wisest tree of them all that has escaped the Kire.

Sadness gazes down at the tall, decaying tree in desperation, And a tiny light starts to boil inside of her.

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Sadness knows that in front of her is a starting point Into a long, solemn path of healing her valley.

And just like that, the dark smog in the sky turns into the sun, A bright, burning, loving sun who cares, And Sadness becomes Inspiration.

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Amanda Greene ’21

Sage Brand-­‐Wolf ’19

Bittersweet

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Like the purest, darkest chocolate, Soft and warm and bittersweet.

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Hides the shadows inside Along with everything else, Withdraws behind a mask of nonexistence.

Disappears in plain sight.

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The advisor, Behind the scenes, Always at someone’s right hand, Never absent, never there.

Eyes slip right over.

People don’t see unless they look, And no one ever looks.

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Caroline Ediger ’19

About Time

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Time’s a funny thing.

How it can take years for someone to change, And seconds for someone to break.

There are moments when I wonder if time even exists, If it’s possible that everything can change in the break of a wave.

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Sometimes I want to stop the clock, and I do.

I go to a place where worries Kloat away like petals on an autumn day.

Where the gears in my head go round and round.

Endless mounds of possibilities pile up.

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I have to make a choice.

Which path to tread, which mountain to climb.

Change sounds mystifying, But the voice in my head tells me it’s the right thing to do.

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I take a deep breath, and everything comes alive.

The clocks start to tick, My gears still hit, but not in a fanatic fashion.

Bursts of voices echo around me.

Where to now? I don’t know.

But I put one foot in front of the other, And begin this new journey.

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Ella Charles ’20

A House for Ghosts

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A house for ghosts A thirteenth hour In the yard, a hidden Klower That’s where the little girl was.

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Rotten shutters hide the glory Of a misty, forgotten story That’s where the little girl was.

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Grass grown wild in all these years Grass grown strong on long-­‐lost tears That’s where the little girl was.

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A county jail, a shadowed prison Blocky, empty, madness risen From the corners, from the bars Insider you never see the stars Keys are distant, voice near In your head, but you can hear Closer, closer, every year That’s where the little girl was.

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I was barely ready to vein Fresh Klower, hidden in the grass No one ever moved in Ghosts and Klowers, prisons, eyes Tell me secrets, secrets lie She was imprisoned, now she’s free Now the one in prison is me “Are you, are you, coming to the tree?”

No, it’s a house, it’s not a tree Where the little girl was When I set her free.

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Caroline Ediger ’19

Just For a Moment

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She is caught in the moon’s gaze, body taught—

an arrow poised for Klight,

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With hands clamped over her eyes, as if the world burns her very being.

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The cliff she is on—

(dotted with eyes)

(do they look like mine?)

Rocks jutting out near the base, seems as thought it is Kloating,

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while littered beneath her feet— billions of eggshells,

darkened fragments, are crunching as she walks to the ledge.

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And far below, twenty, thirty, Kifty gasps down lies the lake— reKlecting the shaking girl above.

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She drops like a stone.

And yet, just before she hits the water,

just for a breath, she pauses—

(but only for a moment) before slipping in.

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I have yet to see her surface. ! !

Aviva Intveld ’19

Madison Dea ’19

The Coming Awareness

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Her eyes are black and wide, Expansive voids stretching toward the horizon of her eyelids, Gentle legs jutting out like sticks, So graceful against the meadow’s face.

A warm brown like an oven, Wrapping her in solace and heat like her mother used to.

If snow fell in the springtime here, It would be the dapples on her coat and the mayKlowers.

Her ears, so wide and curious, Picking up where others left off, carrying the music of the bees.

There is nothing more innocent than she is, A child, a baby, amongst a million evils.

It hurts me that she doesn’t understand the world.

It hurts me that I can hear the world quite clearly.

It hurts me that I know the trigger is all mine.

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Lola Wolf ’19

Untitled

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The sun in the sky Sees it all.

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I wonder Why doesn’t she do something about it?

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Livia Blum ’19

Freedom

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A free young girl breathes in the fresh salty air and feels like a soaring seagull.

She feels the breeze and across her knees and gazes upon the ship on the horizon.

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The sun shines on the vast ocean but its rays do not reach him.

He is down below the deck where its dark and wet and the chains are heavy on his hands.

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Is that the howl of the wind in the sails?

Is that the sound of the rolling pails?

For it is the cry of the slave who has lost his family and is heard on the distant hill for the slave cries of freedom.

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The young girl skips along and hums a catchy song and does not think a moment about what the boat is carrying.

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But the slave looks down and makes a sound while he struggles to get the ropes off his feet.

His hands are red as he sits on the bed, he opens his mouth to cry.

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Is that the howl of the wind in the sails?

Is that the sound of the rolling pails?

For it is the cry of the slave who has lost his family and is heard on the distant hill for the slave cries of freedom.

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Camilla Marks ’19