Stray Shot 2016

Stray Shot 2016

CONTENTS Cover art by Tony Haoran Zhang Venus de Milo by Emma Wang…………………………………………………………………..1 Stolen Poem by Cayetana Roca de Togores……………………………………………………….2 Photo by Miranda Jingqiong Yang………………………………………………………………..3 Prisoner by Rammy Xu…………………………………………………………………………..4 Robespierre by Rammy Xu………………………………………………………………………6 Rain by Kat Carey………………………………………………………………………………..11 The Time When You Were Gone by Jui Ling Lynn Wang……………………………………12 Haiku by Cameron Donaldson…………………………………………………………………..13 Bath Time by Zoe Cameron……………………………………………………………………..13 Steve Bailey by Jack Mullen…………………………………………………………………….13 Disasters by Sean Tronsen………………………………………………………………………14 Through the Arc by McKay Flanagan………………………………………………………… 15 My Family by Larisa Wilber…………………………………………………………………… 16 Post-Apocalyptic Villanelle by Matt Murphy…………………………………………………..17 Al Capone by Chad Varney……………………………………………………………………..18 Leo by Kat Carey………………………………………………………………………………...19 I prefer by Sabryna Coppola…………………………………………………………………….20 Hopeless by Sabryna Coppola…………………………………………………………………...21 A Summer Love Note by Sabryna Coppola…………………………………………………….22 My Childhood by Miranda Jingqiong Yang…………………………………………………….23 Poem by Lucas Gosman…………………………………………………………………………27 Shoes by Jack Liu………………………………………………………………………………..28 16 Years by Mikayla Michals…………………………………………………………………...29 Three Poems and Haiku Series by Jinuk Mark Choi…………………………………………..30 The Desert by Walter O’Connor………………………………………………………………...34 Psycho Killer by Jake Mosher-McGraw………………………………………………………...35 Queen Ant by Levi Mercier……………………………………………………………………..36 How to Become an Adventurer by Sean Dowd………………………………………………..37 The girl with the white dress by Laura Espinos………………………………………………..41 Three poems, painting & legend by Laura Espinos……………………………………………42 When I Was Painted Red by Kat Carey………………………………………………………..45 Big Pimpin’ by Joe Pesce………………………………………………………………………..48 The story of my first job by Kevin Sun………………………………………………………...50 Painting by Emily Williams……………………………………………………………………...52 Four Haiku by Philippa Solf……………………………………………………………………53 Poem by Joe Pesce………………………………………………………………………………54 Poem by Bei Dao translated by Arthur Zhaodong Li…………………………………………...55 Elephant by Emily Williams……………………………………………………………………..56

Poems by Rufus…………………………………………………………………………………57 Broken by Phoebe Coppola……………………………………………………………………..58 The Enigma by Phoebe Coppola………………………………………………………………..59 Fire and Ice (after Robert Frost) by Maya Coppola…………………………………………….60 Shoes by Maya Coppola…………………………………………………………………………61 Haiku by Kasper Endreny……………………………………………………………………….62 Photo by Miranda Jingqiong Yang………………………………………………………………63 Untitled by Chloe Coppola……………………………………………………………………...64 Painting by Reilly Haskins………………………………………………………………………65 Holding On (after Adrian Baillie) by Lily Mandl………………………………………………66 Photo by Skylar Cluett…………………………………………………………………………...67 Haiku series: Shoes by Lily Mandl…………………………………………………………….68 Photo by Skylar Cluett…………………………………………………………………………...69 I prefer (after Wislawa Szymborska) by Zoe Davis-Bowers…………………………………...70 Five Poems by Christian Kummer………………………………………………………………71 Two Poems by Eleni Kolpak……………………………………………………………………74 Screaming Man by Jack Cary…………………………………………………………………..75 What Would I Rather (after Wislawa Szymborska) by Jack Cary…………………………….76 My Shoes by Jared Rainville……………………………………………………………………77 Poem (after The Scream by Edvard Munch) by Yuanshu Sylvia Wang……………………..78 Photo by Skylar Cluett…………………………………………………………………………..79 Three Poems by Skylar Cluett………………………………………………………………….80 Dream Game by Michael Kassis………………………………………………………………..83 The Starry Night Knight by Kenyon Kay……………………………………………………...84 My Print Story by Patrick Sullivan……………………………………………………………..85 Shoes by Fangwen Cheng………………………………………………………………………..86 My Room by Fangwen Cheng…………………………………………………………………..87 Family History by Dana Ross…………………………………………………………………..89 Keys to The Past essay by Ataman Enver Ugur………………………………………………...93 Haiku by Lara Kessler…………………………………………………………………………..96

The editors thank the faculty of the English Department, Mr. Richards, and Mr. Yurgeles for their assistance with this issue. For back issues of the Stray Shot, see the website of The Gunnery, Students, then Student Publications.

Venus de Milo by Emma Wang

Sail across the Aegean Sea, She lay quietly in the mud.

Millennia after the Hellenistic Age, Aphrodite’s beauty will not fade.

Her sensual curve remains the way it was Back to the Hellenistic Age. Her arms never found, The goddess is shrouded in mystery.

Was she holding an apple, The Judgment of Paris?

Or a mirror, In which she admires her reflection?

She relishes her Louvre shrine, Enigma accompanies her glory.

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Stolen Poem (after Edgar Allan Poe) by Cayetana Roca de Togores “I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.�

Always careful and precise, My worst enemy was always that unwise moment.

That moment when I always came back, After a quick impulse influenced by fear of loneliness.

Yet nothing had changed, and I kept throwing myself into the sea of opportunities and uncertainties, Just to find a dry and empty hole with vague traces of hope.

Never made the wrong choice except upon occasion When my mind was inebriated with hope.

And although aware of the inevitable, When regret will be louder than love itself, I always gave into the temptation of the idea That maybe this time things would be different.

Yet knowing deep down that nothing had changed, I kept throwing myself into the sea of opportunities and uncertainties, Just to find a dry and empty hole.

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Prisoner by Rammy Zikun Xu April 6, 1995, sunny. The city finally got the first beam of sunshine it desires after a cloudy hundred years. I eventually dated her, as my first love, after knowing her for three years. It was a nice trip to the funfair – I do not only mean the breeze was just right and temperature was exactly comfortable for my fifteenth birthday– as a start for our new relationship. Actually, it was the first time I saw that she was so shy. I felt thirsty at that moment; maybe a little wine would serve perfectly. She said she would love me forever, and I believe her promise, and it will make a difference in my life.

April 6, 1995, rainy. There is never such a storm in Refery ever. It is really cold as well, so I put some jacket on. I kind of enjoyed the sound of nature without going out. It must be a disaster for the sewage system. The lightning is pretty impressive as well. It is impossible to believe the strike carries a temperature five times greater than the solar surface; moreover, there is a three thousandth chance that a person will be struck by lightning during his life. Interesting fact. By the way, she broke up with me today via a letter after a three month relationship, and unfriended me on all social networks.

April 6, 1995, cloudy. On the train to the capital of Refery for college, I found out the works of Nietzsche were amazing. “What does a philosopher firstly and lastly require of himself? To overcome his age in himself, to become ‘timeless’.” This estrangement from the world, so cold and so objective, purifies his soul and frees his mind of all the vulnerable human emotions. No wonder he wrote “There cannot be a God because if there were one, I could not believe that I was not He.” Just a note for later years, assuming I care then, my first long journey made mother and father cry, though I don't feel that sad at all. I just moved to a new city, not a New World.

Even if it is a new world, with rationality, it is unchangeable so the tears makes no difference as well. The weather gets a little bitter this autumn; probably I should wear a sweater.

April 6, 1995, cloudy. Not too much in the fifteen years of my career. Have dated several girls but things just don't work out. When I told them I have a hard time getting used to a romantic relationship, they all replied they understood that. They understood. Yes, they understood, and forgot it, or naively believed I could be a playboy the next second. And when a tough time comes, they just cast me out like a leper. So I’ve come to give up trying. Properly numbers are simply more adorable to me. “When it is cold, put on some clothes” is all I need to know to live alone.

April 6, 1995, cloudy. Today is mom’s funeral. Fall is a good season for falling. Fallen leaves of sycamores whisper Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s words - “We reach. We grasp. And what is left in

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our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow — misery.” I just don't know what I should feel. Maybe I need therapy.

Epilogue I have been tasked with psychoanalyzing this man for months after he came here. In general, he recalls his life very accurately. He can even remember some trivial details. The first problem is, in the hypnotherapy, he uses “April 6, 1995” for all the important dates.

He describes himself as a loner, and that makes sense - he is barely social. There is something inside him resisting all the human emotions. Consequently, his emotional connections with others are extremely weak. In other words, he tries to avoid building links to other people.

I try to explain what has happened to him with a new hypothesis: after a strong emotional stimulation, a person’s inner mind will be frozen at that emotion, and stay the same way, basically, for the rest of life. In other words, this person is imprisoned in his mind.

With some effort, we find this in his childhood diary: “April 6, 1995, I had never seen mom being so fierce, ever. The behavior of dad was actually usual. It was raining outside, and all aiming on me. My only fault was getting a B minus on a stupid math quiz. Suddenly, father blamed me for all my free time play, and mom was furious at my carelessness, when I was already feeling deeply guilty. Wait. Weren’t those the people saying they would love and support me forever? I guessed so, as an eight-year-old boy. Maybe I was just wrong. Poor Tom is cold.”

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Robespierre by Rammy Zikun Xu Seeking I – Justice What is happiness? Hopeless people ask this question with despair, especially during the worst of times. What is meaning? Too many trivial matters engage the mind of the human species, especially during the epoch of incredulity. What is justice? This word seems to be so isolated that it is already forgotten, especially during the season of Darkness.

So, what am I? A simple person who wants to be a good man, I guess.

I am a representative in the Estate General, living in the deteriorating country of France.

Yesterday, after the assembly had been closed for tens of years, King Louis XVI called the Estate General. With the magnificent noble representatives of Second Estate, with the so holy, sanctimonious clergy representatives of First Estate, I enter the grand consoling room with all the citizen representatives.

You know what? That man on the rostrum owns all of these buildings and builds the fortress, and fortress other nations. And he wants to put more taxes on the people, with cake in his house while the populace don't even have bread. And the clergies want to walk out free because His property should not be interfered with by the mortal king; and the nobles want to pay no duty because they are related to the family who is taxing. Only we, only the lowest, only the poorest, supply this meaningless war for the amusement of the king.

And this is considered the normal state of this empire, justified by the word of the rulers, and has been accepted in this winter of despair. The whole nation is just directly going down toward to Pandaemonium.

Welcome, this is my motherland. I sincerely feel like I need to do something for her. You know, this is just not right. I want the society to be just and fair. In this nation, every human individual is happy because of social justice and finds his meaning by serving this social justice. The Estate General is an opportunity for me to begin.

II - The Hanged Man With my best preparation, I enter the luxury palace again. The meeting is going, without progress. The ridiculous fact of the unfair tax system needs to be changed. However, Third Estate can’t fix this huge problem by ourselves; we need allies.

Clergy is the only potential ally I can think of. As the servants of Him, they should be merciful to the suffering people and should take the responsibility to promote justice. So I personally come to a bishop, who is a leading representative in the First Estate, and ask for his help.

Unexpectedly, he laughs and replies, “I believe Third Estate should not only join with First

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Estate, but also work with Second Estate. Look! Starvation is haunting the whole nation, and the honorable King is struggling to fix the financial problem of our nation. As a result, I suppose all three Estates should work under the leadership of the king.” Seeing my unhappy face, he adds, “You, respectable representative, as the communicator, should be awarded. Help the king out of this dilemma, and I believe he will entitle you.” I refused this political trick and walked away, with a smiling face and a disappointed heart. How could a servant of Him ignore the unfair reality and try to bribe me with a title? This ridiculous nation needs a new birth, and I will never be one of them.

During the Estate General, I give speeches 276 times, promoting equal rights for all Estates, backing the civil right movement for Jewish people, and against the veto right of the king. I am regarded as The Incorruptible One by the coworkers and become one of the leadership in the party.

Now is my time to be a good leader. On the political ruins of the old empire, I will establish a new shining nation, in which people can live with meaning and happiness. Or maybe, more tangibly, just every good person can happily live in this nation.

III – Death Several months have passed since Estate General closed. The revolution stormed Paris and established a new nation with constitutional monarchy. The temporary assembly tried to fight a war with other monarchs to spread the revolution; however, without a doubt, this glorified plan will fail, because they did not notice the complaints within the nation, the hatred toward King still-in-reign Louis XVI. Understanding the disappointment, I made my party take over the government with all the support of the people.

We are the people. We are the people who want to be good. We are the people who want to build a fair nation.

We are invincible.

Today, the former king will face his delayed fate.

The flurry goes, and the crowds cheer. Louis XVI is going on his way to the guillotine, and I am standing by the window of the attic.

What a travesty!

The blood springs, and the sun shines. The decayed branches are burning to dust, and the phoenix is being born from the fire.

The Great Republic!

For the rebirth of France, for a better land after the purification, maybe some people have to be put to death.

Then I will be him.

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Members of Committee on Public Safety are sitting in the office, waiting for my order to take down every single betrayer. The crowd of Paris is assembling at my word, and preparing for the war against darkness.

I walk away from the window, without glancing at the crowd anymore.

IV - Temperance The nation still runs poorly over the past month. Everyone is still living meaninglessly for their own sakes, and justice is far from retribution.

The nobles try to get back their priority, denying the equal rights of human. The clergies use Father again, denying their share of contribution to the country. The remaining royal family members dream about past privilege, denying the hurt they have inflicted on this nation. Their lives are meaningless, and they are impediments to the happiness of the public.

Consider that the material, the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival of the least fit.

What sort of cesspool may our poor world not become?

I have to clean it, to clean them all, for my nation, the nation with happiness and a meaningful life. That is the only way, the way I am devoted to.

V - The Devil I call the meeting of Committee on Public Safety again. Since I established it, it is best for me to find and sentence the traitor of the Republic. Now it works one more time.

Later, I am on my way to another larger meeting. Walking in the street, the blood-smell-filled Paris. Dark red appears and disappears from time to time in the fog. Thousands were executed at my order. They are the traitors of the Republic, the obstacles of happiness. They desire it, at least in my eyes.

Through the crowd, I step up to start an assembly meeting. In the eyes of the listener, I could find fear, dread, resentment, and hatred, but no more respect than the first time I stepped in. Just at that moment, I am filled with an irresistible tiredness. But just that moment, I still have to walk on, for the Republic, the nation I am devoted to. “...I get another list of traitors from some reliable sources. My coworkers in Committee on Public Safety is confirming it, so it would be released later today...�

They look at me with dread and hate, as I am Azrael.

To them, I am Azrael.

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VI - The Tower A few hours later, my house, my office, and the Committee on Public Safety has been surrounded by the troops. Then, they break in, arrest my party members and look for me.

When I realize the condition, I have already been controlled by the military. Ironically, the leader is one of the Third Estate representatives who used to be a coworker with me.

“Why do you have to do this?” I shout to him with indignation, “You used to be a representative of Estate General, I know you. Could not you see the revolutionary changes under my reign?

What I want to do, is to establish a nation for the great happiness of the public and the meaning of life for the millions of average people. Why can you understand my dream? Why can’t the public understand my dream?”

Silence for a while. Then he begins to talk, “Actually, I am very clear about what you are doing, and what I am doing. The mistake you make is that happiness is never defined by the greats, but found by the individuals unconsciously; and so is the meaning of life. Be awake, my friend, you are a tyrant now. You are just imposing your rules on all individuals!”

What a travesty!

Babel collapses.

Epilogue “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so. Far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.’

“Two hundred years later, a red storm swept the whole world. A group of idealists tried to build just and fair nations for the good people, the diligent working people. They got rid of all the enemies and gave the citizens equal rights and equal pay, and assigned work for them. They believed that their actions could make the world a cleaner place. The system of sin is not created by sinners, but by those who are convinced that the only way to heaven has been found. They are fearless in defending this path, and thus they have claimed many lives. But after a certain period of time, things become very clear - the original heaven does not exist, and those who are active turn out to be murderers.

“Actually, when we talk about justice and fairness and happiness and meaning, we are talking about totally subjective concepts. Feelings, traumas, personal experience and first-person perceptions construct our worldview, view of god, view of history, view of justice, etc.; these views subsequently limit every individual in their own subjective world. As a result, the story of

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Robespierre can be viewed as that of a tragic hero; however, in some aspects, he is a demon in the first place. He experienced the anger of his ‘justice,’ disappointment from his ‘worry,’ and helplessness from his ‘incapability’ when he was a no-name. All these traumas made him a demon, even before he was in power. All this fear, despair, and ineffectiveness drove him to ‘clear’ the world; this ‘cleaning’ is, I suppose, the only way that he unconsciously believed he could be cured of his trauma. In conclusion, the only way to render him harmless to other humans is to give him a world belonging to him.

“The graver fact is that, as vulnerable human beings, everyone has more or less experienced some similar trauma,” said Tom.

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The Time When You Were Gone by Jui Ling Lynn Wang (after Robert Frost, “The Time When You Were Gone”) It went many years, But at last came a knock.

Spring to winter, winter to spring Tick tock, tick tock.

There had not been anyone At the door.

But the wind blew hard against the floor.

At last came a knock.

Bursting into tears, Anxiety, excitement.

I said “Coming” And ran to the door.

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Haiku by Cameron Donaldson Force of buoyancy Equals mass times gravity I know my stuff too

Bath Time by Zoe Cameron My rubber duck floats When I take a bath at night Thanks to buoyancy

Steve Bailey by Jack Mullen Steve Bailey is cool He likes to float in his pool And hang with Bernoul

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Disasters by Sean Tronsen

A Clap A clap of thunder The creation of embers Man is now homeless

Torrent A groan caused my wake A loud crack sends me flying Water rushes in

Surge Man is left only With woe when the Tsunami Comes into view

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Through the Arc by McKay Flanagan Forever alone in the dark Nowhere to go but down the road Nothing to hear but the blind man’s hark Their futures unknown end with a question mark What more will they see on their journey west Forever alone in the dark The man pulls out his weapon as he sees his next mark Hoping that this food will last a little while Nothing to hear but the blind man’s hark Onto to the next trip the man says with a snark He is only thirsty, nevermind his remark Forever alone in the dark As they pass the everlasting Arc The two men sit and pray for something to come Nothing to hear but the blind man’s hark All of a sudden one lets out a bark As he has fallen victim to the road Forever alone in the dark Nothing to hear but the blind man’s hark

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My Family by Larisa Wilber When my family gets together, It is crazy and loud like a circus.

My uncle always knows how to make us laugh, Making funny faces, telling jokes Sharing stories about his sisters.

Opening a lot of gifts, laughter surrounds us in my living room, Music playing, Christmas tunes, Eating traditional Italian Christmas food, Crab sauce with pasta.

Looking forward to it every Christmas Eve, Happiest time of the year, When we are all together.

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Post-Apocalyptic Villanelle by Matt Murphy

Silence The silence hung like a wafting scent as the two settled in for the night, hearing each breath as it came and went.

Dreams of the times once well spent never to return, but never forgotten.

The silence hung like a wafting scent.

The dark was consuming all light the sun lent, till they felt like shadows in the night.

Hearing each breath as it came and went.

The concept of morals was bent to the point where murder was the main source of food.

The silence hung like a wafting scent.

Neither understood what the new world meant.

Walking together, searching for hope; hearing each breath as it came and went.

The two pressed on in search of something new.

Through the dark of the night the silence hung like a wafting scent, hearing each breath as it came and went.

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Al Capone by Chad Varney Al Capone was not a good guy A Brooklyn boy, born and raised He stole a lot of money, he made a lot of people die He smacked his teacher when he was 14, that's no lie He got kicked out, he joined a gang Al Capone was not a good guy His nickname was scar face, he never did cry First arrested for tax evasion but he didn't stop there He stole a lot of money, he made a lot of people die He was the crime czar of Chicago, that's no lie Prostitution, gambling, gunning down rivals..

Al Capone was not a good guy He was finally arrested in March of 1929 At last, down went one of the biggest gangsters of all time Al Capone was not a good guy He stole a lot of money, he made a lot of people die

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I prefer by Sabryna Coppola I prefer blue to pink. I prefer baseball to shopping.

I prefer books to phones. I prefer horrors to chick flicks.

I prefer the clear laugh of a friend to the incessant buzz of fifteen.

I prefer science to faith, the brain to the heart, plans to dreams.

I prefer vanilla to chocolate, and I prefer to sleep in.

I prefer to sit in the crowd and listen to the whispers to sitting in the deafening silence of my own house.

I prefer Beethoven to Beyoncé, insight to Instagram, Ray Bradbury to John Green.

Not to say I don’t like the side swept options.

They sit in the back of my mind like furniture under dusty sheets.

I prefer an authentic life to one threaded through media and wires and contouring with makeup.

But a life like that becomes one of my two options.

A life of glitter and litter and Kardashian and ACT scores, normality.

Or, a life of books and fireplaces and friends and sun and homemade ice cream. Outdated, unrealistic.

I don’t want to be cut off.

Is a life I don’t want better than one lived alone?

I’d prefer not to be alone.

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Hopeless by Sabryna Coppola (after Roy Lichtenstein) Glassy eyes fill with tears, still framed by sharp eyeliner, which brim and spill onto the bed A pretty face in front of a sad heart, blue eyes hide the desperate thoughts in her head American beauty, broken and dashed against the rocks, like a discarded dream Round lips, blond hair, what did they do to help her? As cool as she seemed, He left her in the gutter, nothing left to show, nothing but some smudged makeup Sky blue eyes staring listlessly into the ground, she lies, crushed by a breakup What is it with people these days?

Pretty girls get hurt going after boys with best interest tossed aside China dolls lay strewn about, broken, but crying is ugly, so they have to find somewhere to hide.

Crying is ugly. But so is a broken heart.

No one ever talks about that part.

So we put on the lipstick, the high heels, go out looking for the next boy to tell a lie, Tell us we’re beautiful, build up the dreams, break them down, watch the hope in her eyes die.

A culture of girls, raised to find men who want to get some, and then leave.

Maybelline conceals a broken heart like you won’t believe.

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A Summer Love Note by Sabryna Coppola Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

But also like the months that follow May You make me itchy and desperate To be as far as I can be from you Bundled up in the cold comfort of snow Spending just a day with you Makes me more stifled than you could know.

You are everything I hate about summer; please, You pester me like the mosquitoes and bees.

You are the hot sun burning my back.

It’s your absence I crave, but lack.

Don’t tell me you miss me or our trips to the beach Or the salty taste of my hips.

You’ve sucked my life out like a leech, And the only salt you’re getting is from my lips.

You say you’re hot for me, and yes, I can feel it burn But I wish you’d get away from me; you make my stomach churn.

You said you never wanted this to die, But Shakespeare’s wrong, honey; it’s time to say goodbye.

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My Childhood by Miranda Jingqiong Yang

When I first started to plan this essay, I immediately turned to my parents asking for facts and seeking inspiration. Since my family didn’t keep lots of records, my parents hardly helped.

However, in my blurry memory and in vivid stories told by my parents, there are plenty of memorable events I can write about. In all seriousness, my family history and first-ten-year childhood experience have shaped the person I am today: an independent, driven, and persevering young lady.

Before I was born in 1999, my parents and grandparents were like most of the Chinese in that time; they were workers. Knowing the significance of technology in developing China in the next decades, in 1990, in the countryside, my grandfather took charge of an eight-person printing business with two ancient movable type printing presses. My father, a famous technician in the

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town, though without a degree from high school, along with my mother, who quit her job in a labor-intensive clothing-manufacture factory, and my grandmother, good at taking care of daily stuff, all focused together on this family business. In 1998, they moved into a new factory in the town with 20 workers.

On August 16 , 1999, I was born, with high-pitched crying in the hospital. While all doctors th

complimented me as a vigorous girl, my family hoped I would be gentler. Thus, in my name, they gave me the Chinese character “jing,” which means “quiet.” My parents were already exhausted both physically and mentally from their work during the day, but they had to take care of me at night, which was an equally tough job. Being as naughty and picky as possible, I could only be quiet and fall asleep when I was in a constantly moving car. My parents rode the car around slowly on the empty streets from 7 pm to 12 pm. At midnight came my grandparents’ shift. The majority of my sleep in the first year took place in the car.

The punishment for being such an annoying baby was to be sent to a private daycare at the age of 19 months. After my grandmother dropped me off in a dank and dark room on the first day, I kept crying as a way to protest by bothering other kids. So the babysitter took me outside for a walk. When my father flew by on his purple motorcycle to buy an accessory, I recognized him and begged him to take me home. Yes, four hours after entering daycare on the first day, I returned home with swollen red eyes and a cracked voice. For the next three months, I whined with constantly falling tears on my face at the daycare, except during meal time. In addition, I got a nickname from my babysitter, “the kettle,” because I made loud noises regularly. However, in the past 16 years, being away from my parents since I was a 19-month-old, and crying relentlessly for

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three months have been two things I am proud of. I tell myself this kind of perseverance and strength is genetically deep-rooted in my body.

My next four years in kindergarten were way less annoying because I started to know things.

I don’t have a specific memory of my life in kindergarten. Yet, I recall clearly how I spent countless nights sleeping on the cold floor of my family’s factory. My mother was doing her work alongside other colleagues under a dim light next to a printing machine that was running at a terrifyingly high speed. While waiting for her, I frequently fell asleep on a piece of clean paper on the dirty floor that was full of scrap paper, dusts, pungent ink and other unknown oily chemicals. Whenever I think of my previous sleepovers today, my mom sighs and regrets that she let me sleep in such a dangerous place. For me, growing up in the factory and witnessing the enormous effort my parents put into their business were valuable lessons. I understood not only that they were great parents by working hard to support the family, but also they were ambitious entrepreneurs who endured all the pain and kept up their 100% enthusiasm in their fledgling business to make it stronger step by step. Their performances in their jobs left a lasting impression on me and impacted me profoundly.

My childhood adventure kept going on; when I entered primary school at age of seven, I started to live with my Chinese teacher on the first school day, just as if I were going to a boarding school. My typical day was like this: I had breakfast in my teacher’s house, departed for school at 7 a.m., was picked up by her father in a small three-wheeled vehicle at 3 p.m., headed to her apartment, worked on my homework, had dinner with her family, and went to bed at 8:30 p.m. On weekends, I went home. This exact same series of activities repeated for four years; at that time, it seemed like an endless circle. I remember when I first got there, I pretended in front of people that everything was going fine, but I secretly wept in my bed in the dark night. Although I knew my

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parents had definitely sent me there for a good cause, I couldn’t resist missing them. Day by day, as I got along with my teacher’s family better and became friends with her kid, I was distracted from thinking about my family and truly immersed in this new environment with no reservation.

Over my four years there, I developed the basic skills of taking care of myself, socializing with others, and dealing with difficulties calmly and wisely when my parents weren’t by my side. I didn’t realize my growth in personality and my parents’ real purpose until I started to study abroad in America in the eighth grade. I appreciated the 4-year-boarding experience and the deliberate nurture of my parents.

As my family’s business started to get on the right track and developed into a big company with state of the art equipment, extensive business partners, and an increasingly sound reputation over 15 years, the burden on my parents’ shoulders has lessened a lot. Having grown up in a caring and daring family, I am able to take risks to become my best. I know I wouldn’t have been molded into the person I am today without the unique experiences of going to pre-kindergarten at the age of 19 months, routinely sleeping overnight in a filthy factory, and going to live in a stranger’s house when I was seven. I am looking forward to the next challenge, with the support of my family, and the passion I feel in myself.

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Poem by Lucas Gosman We looked upon the world With fresh, bright eyes Like the fireworks on the fourth Or the full moon at night With books and candles We studied in concrete rooms With bittersweetness in our hearts And the future in our thoughts Regaled with tales of heroes and legends past Just like that, the old age faded fast We ascended as quickly as we came Released into a world Eager for fortune and fame Paving the way for those after us Tools of antiquity are near superfluous Newly fangled pens, contraptions, and vaccines To imperviate our descendants from harm A new generation ready to be rearmed They will improve on our designs And we will watch the coast line Drifting towards a brighter future Yet in old age, ever wondering “Will they remember us?�

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Shoes by Jack Liu Shoes, the keeper of my foot, the dirtiest of them all, on the bottom of my closet, but undoubtedly the most useful thing during rainfall Dirt covers my shoes Boots twice my size cling to my foot I could care less about the look I don’t seek anyone’s input Shoes illustrate who we are The footprints of our lives Wherever I go, whatever I wear Other peoples’ judgmental opinions – I do not care

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16 Years by Mikayla Michals I have been running for 16 years.

The blue lights flashing in the distance give me a shake.

Hiding deep in the shadows, filled with fears.

I left Boston, leaving behind people in tears, Trying to escape the life of crime that’s haunting my criminal mind. After running for 16 years I am now in a jail cell, frail and old, I have no peers.

Sitting in the cold empty room writing this poem, I am filled with fears.

I killed many back in the day, grinding the gears of those who failed to stop me. Now I will be locked away, never to run for the rest of my years.

I thought after a while I could sit back and drink some beers, but my life ended the day I appeared.

I knew that day would come. Filled with fears and worries did not describe me. I heard cheers when I was captured. I spoke: “You know who I am; I am Whitey Bulger.

I have been running for 16 years.”

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Three Poems and Haiku series by Jinuk Mark Choi

Night My day is finally over, And night has finally come to me – It is time to say goodbye to today It is time to prepare for tomorrow It is a magical time My day is finally over, Yet, I am still awake It is time to do some titration problems It is time to do read about Khomeini It is a magical time My day is finally over, Yet, I cannot go to bed From the headache I got from reading From the headache I got from writing From the headache I got from thinking It is a magical time My day is finally over, I finally go to bed I must go to bed I cannot think clearly I cannot see clearly I cannot read clearly I must go to bed It is a magical time My day is finally over, Yet, I wake up again Unsettled and disoriented I scream and cry I am running and running Who are you?

Why are you chasing me?

What did I do wrong?

What did I do wrong to you?

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It is a magical time My day is finally over, So please, please Leave me alone Because it is my magical time

The World I Live In (a poem based on Wistawa Symborska’s Possibilities) I prefer honesty I prefer integrity The world we are living in today is busy The world we are living in today is superfluous The world we are living in today is excessive Everything is just too much – The world we are living in today is rambunctious The world we are living in today is pretentious Everything is just too much – People talk about money, power, and sex I don’t see any point of that I prefer silence I prefer stillness I prefer absolute silence I prefer solitariness I prefer loneliness I prefer eating alone to eating with others I prefer listening to Gospels to going to the dance party I prefer being alone in my room thinking I choose to be alone I prefer being a reclusive monk to being a bombastic millionaire I prefer impoverished Bangladesh to noisy America I prefer silent forests to hectic New York City I prefer a spring zephyr to the artificial air conditioner I prefer being beaten to beating others I prefer being cheated to cheating others I prefer being honest over everything The world I live in today is too much for me Isn’t it?

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She loved three things (a poem based on Akhmatova’s He Loved Three Things)

She loved three things in her life: Watching her son growing up, Going to a Sunday mass with her son, And taking a photo with her son.

She hated it when her son went through puberty, She was sad when her son yelled at her, And she was heartbroken when her son left her. ‌And I was her son.

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What is Haiku?

How do I write a haiku?

I don’t know what to write about – Hah, I just wrote one.

To My Nightmare I wake up at night Unsettled and disoriented Can I go to bed?

Confession Today I must confess I must confess that I miss you And I loved you, dear Expectation People think I am smart People think I can do everything Well, I am not the one.

AP Chemistry It’s Friday morning, Exhausted by acid and base I’m sorry, Mrs. Fisher Grandmother I miss my grandmother She smiled at me no matter what My being meant something Kimchi I miss eating Kimchi

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I miss that piquant and spicy scent Which I no longer smell

The Desert by Walter O’Connor The sands consume all Time washes away Cities last a day Kingdoms rise and fall in the unforgiving Desert Water is not to be found If you see any it is too late You are in a sorry state Buzzards will pick you from the ground in the unforgiving Desert Though most things wither and die Some species learn to survive An ecosystem can thrive in the ground amazing things lie In the unforgiving Desert

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Psycho Killer villanelle by Jake Mosher-McGraw The voices inside will always call, They get louder every time I ignore, No point in fighting, I’ll always fall.

As I beat my head against this wall, I think of everything I’ve done to be in here, I used to be a man that could stand tall.

The voices have played me like their doll, This empty room is getting boring, What do I do? I have to stall.

The voices inside will always call, It’s not my fault they told me to do it, I have to get out of here, I miss it all.

They told me I killed a man but I don’t recall, The voices took me as their slave, Now I’m in here for 25 years overall.

I’m just a passenger in here watching the downfall, There’s nothing I can say or do, it’s over, I promise you; the voices inside will always call, But who would trust me, I’m just an oddball.

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Queen Ant by Levi Mercier The world he inhabits, Unjust and unfair.

Death all around him, Yet he lives without care.

From one hill to another, From one hole to the next.

Going through the days, Stuck in a hex.

He climbs the hill, And delivers his bounty, To a woman who moves not, For I am the queen you see.

I am the mother of thousands, The overlord of this metropolis, Like an old ancient city, With its center the Acropolis.

The vast expanses of the world around, Do not catch his eye, For he has his duties, Quickly before I die.

I am getting old now, My days are soon numbered.

But you must carry on, Do not feel unencumbered.

Your days will end soon, Sooner than mine.

For you are a peasant, You drink water and I'll drink wine.

I the queen, shall not be questioned, My words mean everything, every breath.

Your words are nothing slave, Prepare for your death.

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How to Become an Adventurer (excerpt) by Sean Dowd Chapter 1 I see nothing but darkness, a darkness greater than the pitch black night. My body is frozen. I look to see and get a control of my limbs but I see only the mist covering them. This darkness is uncertain--it’s a solid, a pit, an ooze. I can’t tell if I’m frozen in ice, drowning in tar, or floating aimlessly in a dark void. I feel my body burning in places and freezing in others. My ears play tricks to taunt me. I hear silence in one ear and noises in the other that I can only describe as faint whispers and screams of pain. Nothing is certain except for one feeling that shivers down my spine and throughout my entire body: pure unbridled fear. I want to curl up into a ball just to give me a shrivel of safety, but my body refuses to cooperate; it only intensifies my fear. Then the noise amplifies. It consumes both of my ears as it gets louder and louder I just want it to stop but it keeps ascending in noise like it is reaching towards some sort of climax. I feel my eardrums about to burst when finally, I wake up.

I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Once I regain my breath I examine the room.

Its dark is nothing compared to what I hesitate to call that nightmare, as that feels like an understatement. The ground seems to be made of sand and the walls made of giant gray stone bricks. I look down at my feet, glad to see that I still have all four limbs still intact. My body is draped in some sort of rags, something only made for the purpose of covering the body. Then I examine my right foot to see it has been chained to the floor. I look to the one source of light that seems to be two torches outside the iron gate which seems to be the only entry and exit to this room. My vision still fades in out a bit but I saw a figure hunched over yelling “He’s awake” in a weird high-pitched rough voice, which was then followed by the heavy stomping of metal boots followed by the sound of a metal door opening. I got a better view of the hunched-over figure; he appeared to be an elf but he looked disfigured, battle-scarred, possibly. The guards themselves look like morphed humans there from the bridge of their nose to the top of their forehead seem to protrude out to form some kind of organic helmet, it even reached over the eyelids so my ground position seemed to be the only spot you could make out the bloodshot eyes. Their skin is a flesh red with visible dark purple veins. Their armor is that of a gladiator with one shoulder pad and a plate of armor on top of the opposite pex protecting what I assume to be their heart. And from the waist down they are covered in plated armor.

“Take him to our lady” he said with an evil gurgle I was grabbed by the arms of the guards and they dragged me off without giving me the chance to stand. As I was dragged down the hall. The hall to my sides were covered by barred doors to cells and torches. At the end of the hall was a tall woman dressed in an armored cloak, as if she was an armored sorceress she had gray skin and blood red eyes. Next to her was a shorter female with red skin like the guards; she had a glowing orb over her shoulder long finger nails, black hair, and horns slick in the back of her head. She reminded me most of succubus, but she seemed to have a different feel from a normal succubus. The Sorceress looked at me with a blank expression, while the succubus just smirks and giggles.

“What is your name?” The Sorceress asked with no care for what the answer might be. I thought and something dawned. What is my name? I thought, but it was all gone all of it my

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name, where I came, from my own parents’ faces I tried to remember but all I saw was that darkness.

“What is your name!?” She asked again with a little more impatience in her voice. I started to panic as I had no answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Amnesia is it then. Dardrey!” The sorceress commanded the succubus. She reaches out with her hand and grabs my face, I feel her tap into my memory as if she is sucking the life out of me. “Your name is Sirus. 12 years of age, human and you reign from- ahhh!!” She pulled her hand away from me and I could tell she saw the darkness that possessed my dreams. “Oooh” She said in a childish tone “Now I see why my lovely Kiersuil has brought you here.”

“What is it?” Sorceress said eagerly.

“See for yourself my dear mistress” The sorceress just lifts her hand and without even touching me she performs the same feat as the succubus, but only with a lot more pain inflicted on me.

“Well out of all my time in looking at you rats come into my kingdom I never thought I would find one with such potential. You might become one of my elites that stand next to me. If you can survive your training.” My vision is going hazy again I still feel weak I don’t think I am still able to stand. “Fuir give him a potent health potion, then bring him over to Cato for training.” I see the elf bring over a red potion, he opens it and forces the red liquid from the bottle down my throat. It has an initial bitter taste as it goes down my throat, but it becomes sweeter and extremely refreshing as it goes down. All the while the elf mutters.

“Why must we waste a potent potion on this lowbie can probably be just as find if we were to give him a minor potion.” Once I had consumed the entire potion I felt the energy to stand again but was not given the chance as I am immediately dragged by the guards with elf walking beside us. I noticed with my increased awareness that elf had a necklace made of elf ears. Why would someone of the same race have severed ears? As we were walking down the hallway he started dancing and speaking a poem.

We all have our vices A Faerie a trickster a fool Any shape he wanted, with only one desire A real elf was what he wanted but a fake he was shunned Taking the parts of butchered elves he became real Under lady Evelyn has ascended to greatness We all have our vices A human girl a beggar a fool Had nothing to her name she had one desire A husband is all she wanted A noble faked it for a night than she was shunned A STD and a slaughtered man was what became real Under lady Evelyn cured and transformed into greatness We all have our vices A Girl who thought life was perfect, a fool She had no desire

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She had all she wanted Until it was taken from her now bloodlust and revenge was real She is Lady Evelyn and she will lead us to greatness.

We finally reach the end of the hall. I’m thrown into the room and the door slams behind me. As I pick myself up off the floor I notice I am in some kind of training room with a humanoid race I’ve never seen before. He had a blue purple tinted skin irises with the color of a rainbow ears that seem to double as horns. This stranger had a sword in his hands. He places it on the ground as he walks over and sticks his hand out to me.

“Hello my name is Cato. Yours” “My name is Sirus nice to meet you. So who were those lovely three I had the pleasure of meeting?” Cato starts giving me this small expression of shock.

“Well you got to meet three of them that's a very special privilege.” He starts walking around a training dummy and seems to have a very carefree tone. “Fuir the court jester he is a sadistic fellow that enjoys torture and creating awful poetry and I mean awful like the worst.

Dardrey the mistress of seduction master of illusionary magic and has control of a mystical orb that enhances her magical abilities her ways are more subtle that Fuir’s. Then there is are lovely lady Evelyn a sorceress whose power knows no bounds. Some call her a witch others call her a demon. She runs this lovely arena.”

“Arena?”

“Yes our lovely ruler enjoys training kids by having them compete in her arena against beasts and various other things that are going to try to kill you. And if you survive and finally prove yourself worthy, be blessed by her powers and an elite soldier of her army.” He continues to say this in a very calm almost joking tone. It worries me.

“Now then they brought you to me to train you for your evaluation fight.”

“What’s that” I say, with more growing concern for this horrible scenario that's being delivered to me nonchalantly.

“It’s a simple fight just to see your basic combat skills. Ninety percent of kids pass it. Oh wait you had all three come inspect you, so they might give you the more challenging fight that only forty percent survi -- ah never mind, it will be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Please stop talking” Cato begins pushing to the training dummy and gives me the sword he has in his hand.

“Alright you have thirty minutes to practice and 5 has been spent talking so enough with the chit chat, show me your best sword fighting stance.” I raise my sword outward from my body and my open hand close to my body. “No! Reverse your hands, bring your sword close to your body.

This is the only thing keeping you alive it's part of you leave your open hand out leave it as a decoy, or a way to counter strikes this is a short sword so you hold it one handed. Bend your legs keeping yourself close to the ground make it hard to push to the ground and easy to dodge out of.

Now then let’s see you strike.” I raise my hand and give an angle slash at the dummy. My blade gets stuck half way through the dummy’s armor. “That was weak! Remember this sword is a part of you if someone strikes you, you must counter it with equal force this is a dance a game of mimics its not who’s got the best sword or most strength it’s a game of reading and observations you do whatever your opponent does until your opponent screws up and creates a weak point you abuse that weak point till the other guys defeated because you may not get another shot” I strike

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the dummy again going all the way through this time. I continue to practice remembering that this sword is a part of me where each strike just starts to feel like my arm.

“It’s time.” We see a guard interrupt our training. My time’s up, so now it’s time.

“I know you can do it Sirus. Just remember what I told you.”

I leave with the guard and as I am walking I can hear the chatter of a crowd. We reach a big gate.

The guard waves me to the gate and I push the door. Both doors open. It requires all my strength to open these doors and as they open a blinding light starts to pierce through the crack between the doors. Its light is so strong I can see nothing behind the light. It makes me wonder when I was last exposed to sunlight--when this darkness began consuming my dreams. The light feels like a portal and I am being transported to my new life.

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The girl with the white dress by Laura Espinos She used to be scared of leaving home. She didn’t have any motivations or reasons that could lead her to escape from her own world. Her family and her friends would never leave her.

Her schedule would never change. Her daily life would just be the same way as the past 4 years.

Or at least that was what she thought. She was happy about it, and she didn’t want to fight against it. Her belief was that she had to appreciate what she had, even if her life was not as exciting as she wanted. She learned to accept that love was not about passion; it was about caring. And she used this love to keep up with all the situations she had.

Often, she used to wear that beautiful white dress. She looked good on it; her hair contrasted with the brightness of her brown curly hair. The dress had a cut on the back, which showed her pale rose skin. It made her classy and different. It even gave her the joy and brightness that she didn’t have for herself.

I only saw her from behind. She was caressing lightly her hair with a really sensual pose. I fell in love with her before she could even turn around. She looked like a delicate and mysterious flower that had never been disturbed before. And I was really nervous about finally seeing her face. I knew my dreams could vanish in a second, in a minute or an hour. But before that moment came, I quickly appreciated her beauty, and I left, vanishing from the crowd.

That was my only and last precious memory that I have about her.

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Three poems, painting & legend by Laura Espinos

My quilt I want to share something with all of you. Most of you have not really experienced what it is like to make a quilt from scratch. Well, I’ll teach you its mystery. Its difficulty doesn’t rely on the repetition process; it’s about choosing your color combination carefully. The right choices will enhance your quilt; the wrong ones will dull the colors, which will hide their original beauty. There are no rules that you have to know. You just have to go by instinct and what your heart is telling you to do. You will never find out if it meets with your satisfaction until you finish it, and I guarantee you that you will be shocked by your end result.

When it comes to love, it’s the same, or at least to me. Love can be hard to find, to keep, or to forget. But while you are trying to make your choice, you have to be cautious. Every move you make, every step you take, will give you a completely different future. And the meaning of love is too important not to become a responsibility in your life. However, you have to let it flow, because most of the little miracles happen when you don’t even expect to come across them.

Fiction versus reality That poor woman made me cry. She seemed she had lost everything in her life: her family, her friends and now her true love were all gone. She used to paint; now she couldn’t even get herself out of bed. She would order Chinese food, eat it, and finally sleep for hours. I was watching her from my computer, in that movie called “Becoming Grace”. And I was crying with her, desperately. Everything felt so real that I just wanted to talk to her, to make her understand life wasn’t over. There was still light in all that darkness; she just had to try to find it. Maybe the only way to survive it was to escape. Escaping from that world flooded by sadness could be her chance.

And she did it. She decided to go to Paris, to have an adventure and to start a new life, getting rid of her old memories. And I was jealous of it. I also wanted to change everything around me.

However, I couldn’t. I was living in the world of reality, and she was in the middle of a fiction story that was coming to an end.

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Ode to New York Oh! New York!

The city of business, Celebration and popularity.

I dream of you, every single day, With your lights, your enormous buildings This full atmosphere made of Glorious fashion.

You are the golden star, That all the population contemplates You do belong in this planet, You shine.

Oh! New York!

The city of liberty, Opportunity and love.

How long am I going to wait Until I see you sparkle?

Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx Aren’t they magical enough?

Oh! New York! I wish I could feel your vibes tonight!

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In the mist of fog and confusion, She stood tall and strong And though it may seem like an illusion, She was the one that was never wrong

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When I Was Painted Red (excerpt) by Kat Carey

“Oh Ronan, you look so beautiful in your dress,” my mom said to me, with a smile stretched across her face. She had just bought me a beautiful baby blue gown, with white lace trim. The sleeves were long. The neck square, and there was a shiny blue sash across my waist. My new blue shoes matched the dress perfectly. My ash blonde hair was pulled back in pig tails.

“You girls ready, it's time to go into town!” my father shouted from the front door with a bit of a chuckle.

“Yes Vince we are!” my mom shouted back, she grabbed my hand and walked me to the door. She helped me put my coat on since it was mid-winter.

We walked together holding hands into town, my father on my left, facing the street, and my mother on my right. She was smiling, looking at all the shops. Dad said she had an eye for fine things. We were going out to dinner to celebrate my seventh birthday. The restaurant we were going to was called Alvia's Lounge.

“Welcome Mrs. and Mr. Mortem, glad to see you this evening. Please follow me,” the man at the door said to us. We followed him to a private table in the back of lounge. We were seated at a black leather booth. A young woman came to the room a few minutes after we sat down.

“I will be your waitress this evening,” she told us as she lit the candle on the table.

“What do you think you are going to order Ro?” Dad asked me as we all looked at the menu.

“I want the cheese pasta,” I said, smiling at him.

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“It's your birthday, you can have whatever you want,” my dad said back to me, reaching over to hold my hand. My mom, who was sitting next to me, nudged me with her shoulder smiling down at me.

“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, I think we are,” Dad answered her.

Within fifteen minutes, our food came and we ate, laughing and telling stories. We stayed a while after we finished eating, just celebrating together as a family. We left and began our walk home. It was after dark; the moon was full and the stars were shining. The gas lanterns lit up the streets, and light layer of snow laced the ground. The snow continued to fall lightly. I looked up and opened my mouth to catch snowflakes. I was twirling trying to catch them, my dad was laughing behind me. My mom bent down and balled up snow, and threw it at my dad. It hit him in the chest and we laughed together.

We continued on walking home. My parents were swinging my arms as I walked. We were laughing, the snow still falling. I looked up at my mom and dad to see them smiling down at me. We were happy. Everything was perfect. Then Came around the corner, there was a loud sound from behind us. I heard my mother scream, reaching for my dad. I heard the sound again as I felt my mother’s body fall, her fingers brushed on my cheek. I saw her face as her body fell, the joy was fading from her eyes. She was smiling; a single tear ran down of her face falling into the snow. She fell onto me, her blood seeping into my dress. My hands, face, and chest covered in it. My hair was stained. My father was behind her lying in the crimson snow. He was on his back, his skin was pale and his blue eyes were now dull, lifeless. I couldn't keep the tears back,

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they flooded my face. The cold white snow was replaced by the deep crimson. My parents’ blood -- I, I could feel it on me. I was painted red.

Then I heard it, footsteps, they were running. I shouted, “Help! Please, they aren't moving!” A man came around the corner, he had dark hair was well muscled, he had deep brown eyes, and a large mouth with a strong nose and thick eyebrows. He bent down asked my name.

His deep voice echoed through the alley.

“My name is Ronan Mortem, who are you?” I asked, trying to sound strong.

“I am Lord Hugo Dominus” he said, wiping away my tears.

“Did you see who did this?” he asked.

“No I didn't see anything,” I responded as I tried to stand, but I stumbled, falling into him.

“I got you, don't worry,” he said. I started to tear up again. He walked me back to my house.

“We will find out who did this,” he said, on his way out.

I think of this every day; it replays in my head constantly. It's been ten years.

I'm seventeen, the Lady of the Mortem Manor, and the head of the family. Every day I see my parents’ murder. The color of their blood soaking into the cloth of my dress. Feeling the warmth leave their bodies. Every year on my birthday this haunts me. The day that I was painted red.

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Big Pimpin'

by Joe Pesce They call me sugar daddy J aka the show stopper I subjugate the beat like a fat man eating a whopper When i freestyle I never write it with a pencil When i come up with these raps the dome is my utensil Everybody wants to know why I got so much peso’s you got beef with me i'll serve ya with a side of queso If you didn’t know by now queso is spanish for cheese, When i ask your girl out on a date she says “yes please” Last man that stepped to me i told him watch his tone, One week later i was the background on his girl’s phone The rumors you heard are true, me and Jennifer lawrence are more than friends, If ya don't believe me i got her riding shotgun in my benz Yeah i said it jennifer lawrence is riding in my benz Take a better look fam or get some new lens Jennifer lawrence Katniss everdeen same thing, Yesterday she told me i was the best looking man she's ever seen I told her to relax or i'll drop her like a bad habit Call me a magician because i'll pull another girl like a hat with the rabbit Jeremiah asked me to rap about the money, just check the forecast, it's not looking sunny That was a pun about me making it rain I’m big pimpin but i don’t have a cane Jeremiah also told me to rap out race talk bad about koreans i’ll put a scar on your face Scar on your face, no Tony Montana Say hello to my little friend than i pull out the blammer Tony Montana said “first you get the money, than you get the power” I got power, call me young schwarzenegger flexing’ in the mirror than i hit the shower

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When i'm in the shower i'm singing Carly Rae Jepsen, she should call me maybe, I’ll have her squeezing on my bicep saying “wow, fantastic baby” My rhymes are so crazy like a rally for trump, They should put sugar daddy in office because donald is a chump Call the Uhaul truck for Barack because i'm the new president Tell the maid make my bed cause i'm the new white house resident

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The story of my first job by Kevin Sun My story ends in the divorce of my bosses.

Within 24 hours of getting home for the summer, I got my first job, working at a Turkish restaurant. At first I thought the hardest part of my job was going to be the 11 hour days six days a week. And while this may have been the most exhausting, it was not the hardest part of my working days.

The first day I started my job, I was a confused, spoilt kid who had never had a real job.

So it was a big adjustment from seeing my friends all the time and lying around the house to long, strenuous days putting on a fake smile, being subordinate to people. The first thing I ever had to do was vacuum, mop the floors and wipe down countertops. And throughout the day I proceeded to follow orders from someone I had previously regularly encountered as a waiter and nothing more. By the end of the first few days, I started to sympathize with people who had waited on me in the past and see the other side of the story at a restaurant.

I didn't meet my bosses (a married couple) until a couple of days after starting, but by the end of the week I could see that my bosses had become very attached to me. But the strange thing was, I could tell that my bosses saw me as more of a friend than an employee. I couldn't say the same about them. As time went on, my bosses really started to open up to me about their lives and their problems, and started to give me advice about life. Within the second week of my job, one of my bosses revealed to me that they were having relationship problems. This is when my job started to get hard.

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One day, one of my bosses asked to go for a walk with me. We walked around the plaza and this is when she revealed to me that her husband (my other boss) and she were having problems. I politely listened but wasn't able to say much, due to me not having any experience in the topic or how to resolve this type of issue. A couple days after that, my other boss thought he revealed to me that they were having relationship problems. Again, I politely listened, but struggled with finding words to say. My bosses were telling me about their relationship problems behind each other's backs for about two weeks. They had at this point almost completely stopped talking to each other and almost exclusively communicated to me.

I remember my female boss telling me about one of their fights that was so cataclysmic, she started throwing anything she could get her hands on at her husband. This obviously caused him to get even angrier and, not wanting to take his anger out on her, as she did on him, he started taking his anger out on one of their many cats. THIS. MADE. HER. LIVID! The only thing she could think to do to punish him for punishing the cats for her actions was to ram her head into the wall as hard as she could. This ended up with her having to get stitches in her forehead leaving a permanent scar.

As I stated at the beginning, they ended up getting a divorce.

This whole experience was my first harsh punch to the face by life. And I know it's not going to be the last. Within a month of working my first job, terrible realities were revealed to me like a mummy's disgustingly ugly face is revealed to the world when an archaeologist peels off the bandages.

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Four Haiku by Philippa Solf Looking down on you A window up in the clouds It begins to rain You look up to me Wondering if I am there It begins to snow I can see your pain Why can’t you understand me?

It begins to bloom You knock on the door I assume you could not wait The heat was too much

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Poem by Joe Pesce More Than Just a Monkey ChaCha was his name and he was more than just a monkey He was bored at the zoo and wanted a vacation He just wanted to be a human and do human things like play rugby ChaCha was well-known at the zoo for being courageous and spunky He gathered up his posse of monkeys and got to persuasion Except ChaCha was laughed at because he was cute and chunky The monkeys would not follow him out making ChaCha sad and grumpy ChaCha wanted to escape and began his jail break creation ChaCha knew he can do it because he had opposable thumbs unlike a donkey Thinking of all ways he can distract the employee Knowing if he escaped he’d be a hero of the monkey population Luckily, the dirty zoo keeper was distracted by a beautiful woman from Kentucky ChaCha stealthily reached into the keeper’s pocket snatching the zoo key He was freed from prison & exited the zoo on the city’s public transportation Riding on the bus everyone thought “That’s not a human, that’s a monkey!”

To blend in more he tried to do human things like eat at the chunky monkey He did more human things and bought cigarettes from the gas station He played sports and ate at restaurants when he was hungry Doing human things made him feel fortunate and lucky He never wanted to return and had no temptation ChaCha hated the zoo and thought it an abomination Unfortunately he was hotly pursued by the zookeeper named Tony He was brought back to the local zoo crowned king of the monkey population His name was ChaCha, and he was more than just a monkey

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Translation of poem by Bei Dao translated from the Chinese by Arthur Zhaodong Li Portrait of Young Poet Those inspirations pulled out from sleeves Endless, you Day and night traveling through long sentences And allies, you Aged the moment you were born Although ambitions still grow Following the edges of a bald head, Take off your false tooth, you Are more like a child Turn around to write your name On the wall of a public bathroom Because of maldevelopment, you Swallow pills of hormone To calm the voice Like the cat in estrus next door Nine sneezes in a row All fell in the same piece of tissue, you Don’t mind repetition Also, money is not clean necessarily But everyone likes it Fire truck screams like crazy Notifying you to praise The well-insured moon Or to praise the uninsured Axe, heavy in weight Heavier than thoughts The sky is cold, blood Darkened, Night Is like a frozen toe, Numb, you Crippled Enter and exit the small forest To meet the fellows with crowns of laurels Every single tree The owls that each own a tree It is frustrating to meet the old acquaintances They all like to talk about the past In the past, you and I We were all rotten fish

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Poems by Rufus

A Secret One Action One Beautiful Action Your Lips They Haunt Me The Feeling of You Follows Me Everywhere One Beautiful Action that Caressed Me and Killed me Caressed Me and Killed Me at the same time You Feel It Too Don’t You? You Must Feel It Right?

It Can’t Just Be Me Just Me * I want to be found.

I don’t want them to know.

I want to be saved.

I don’t want to be embarrassed.

I want to be understood.

I don’t want to be that girl.

I want to help others.

I don’t want to talk about it.

I want to be a role model.

I don’t want someone to look up to me.

I want to be healthy.

I don’t want to stop.

I can do it.

No, I can’t.

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Broken by Phoebe Coppola Lying, thinking Last night I contemplated leaving this world.

The world I once loved with every part of me, But now I see no beauty in this place.

To think I used to feel a rush from the little things seems ambiguous, Because now I see no delight in anything.

No happiness, no joy, no positivity, not anything good.

All I feel is anger.

All I feel is sadness.

My insides are so empty that if you cut me open I would look like a bottomless pit.

My solitude is my dark place.

When I am alone I experience thoughts of my unworthiness.

I see no use in living.

I see no good in myself.

My tears seem never ending And my thoughts the same.

Now there is no beauty.

Now there is no point.

I lie in bed every night, a mess.

I am broken.

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The Enigma by Phoebe Coppola He was eleven years old.

A boy full of enigma yet pure magnificence.

His ardent qualities were exhibited if you knew him well But for many, he was an unknown creature.

The kids that knew of him thought he was crazed.

Yet the people that truly knew him noticed how he struggled.

He was deprived and minimized.

His family thought nothing of him.

He dwelled in a small town with his parents and five siblings But he was always left feeling desolate and oppressed.

He somehow kept his grandeur and charm through this Until one day when it all became much too overbearing.

He left his family, he left his home, and he left his youth at the young age of eleven.

He fled to what he hoped would be better, a life that could be more endurable.

He remains a mystery, and he remains alone somewhere in this complex world.

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Fire and Ice (after Robert Frost) by Maya Coppola Some say the world will end in fire Some say in ice Those who say fire sure may have done a vice.

I believe it’s complicated, Who’s to say who’s right?

Either just might.

Fire means burning, leading to violence and fights.

Ice means frozen, leading to bitterness & hatred all right.

The cruelness and the violence, The kindness and the peace.

One who wishes neither may say the hatred must cease.

We live in a world of hatred, A world full of segregation, inequality, and ignorance.

A world that seems to have no other solution Than fire and ice.

One may ask what about the good, The happiness and peace.

Well, to be honest, that is quite a reach.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice, The world we live in today, Either answer will suffice.

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Shoes by Maya Coppola Heel, sole, laces, tongue, collar, Pieces of you that support me.

The foundation of countless memories, The transportation of myself.

Protecting and comforting, Useful and unique, you resemble infinity.

Infinite memories, places, sights, and strolls.

Infinite obstacles, opportunities, and streets to cross.

You resemble things to come and conquer, And you are individuality.

You are my shoes, and I wear my own shoes.

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Haiku by Kasper Endreny

Moving through the brush Searching for the hidden cave Family to care for me

Chaos surrounds me Feet slamming, heart pounding Mayday! man down

No worries, no pain Floating through oblivion Engulfed by blackness

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Untitled by Chloe Coppola Singing songbird, why the hell do you have to haunt me?

Your shrill, ghastly noise penetrates my eardrums Pounding and chiseling and eroding my very soul.

Stop pecking on my neck, stop thrashing your wings on my chest.

Stop singing that stupid song.

Singing songbird, your claws are digging into my shoulder now.

My muscles are entangled in your nails.

If I rip your talons out of my flesh, won’t you leave me alone?

Or will you hover like a hawk?

Will you circle your helpless prey?

Singing songbird, stop tangling my hair.

Each dive, each swoop, Rips hanks of my locks away from my head.

The follicles snap as your beak convulses And you sing that stupid song.

Singing songbird, am I the only one who can see?

See your eyes change from blue to red?

Who can hear that menacing tune?

Who knows you’re trying to rip me to shreds?

Am I the only one who knows you?

Singing songbird, my cuts have healed But your talons remain inside of me.

Flesh over flesh, you scream in my ear.

I wish I was deaf.

I wish you were dead.

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Holding On (after Adrian Baillie) by Lily Mandl

In every room of our time together there is a box, We packed each box full of dates and names Of memories we shared And I always left them open, Even after you were gone I would shut my eyes and breathe in, Remembering the smell you once wore Oh, how I miss that smell So strong and so addicting I’ll find it again one day Even if I have to travel around the world and back again That’s why I never closed the boxes, Although maybe it would have preserved them all better; I know you are coming home to me eventually When you return I can shut all the boxes At 11:11 each night I close my eyes and wish for that The dates, the names, the memories I just can’t wait until then Will be the best day With millions more to come Because you will be mine forever That one day, One Day.

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Haiku series: Shoes by Lily Mandl

I trip over my My laces and fall down down Feet pound around me

All these shoes, strangers To me as they hurry by.

I recognize some.

I see the white vans Off the wall and on the floor And these strange thoughts come to me.

I know it’s Daniel.

He is back at it, I lie motionless.

Finally I rise Using a hand to get up And I stand, slowly.

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I prefer (after Wislawa Szymborska) by Zoe Davis-Bowers I prefer big dogs I prefer tiny apartments I prefer the window seat I prefer long hikes in the woods I prefer being surrounded by people I love I prefer the sound of wind blowing in trees I prefer being happy I prefer long hugs I prefer the smell after it rains I prefer the time of day when the sky lights up with colors leaving the trees like black silhouettes I prefer staying up late I prefer the thought that being kind to others and doing what makes you happy are the keys to a good life

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Five Poems by Christian Kummer

Imprisoned You tell me to hush.

So I scream even louder.

This cellar is cold.

Carefree Crank up the music.

Rip off the clothes of the past.

We’re naked and free.

My Identical Supporters At three, you were as small as a mouse.

I’m surprised you weren’t lost, within my once big house.

At five, you lit up like the fourth of July, But when it came to seven, I had to say goodbye.

At eleven, our relationship started to change.

Soon I only cared that you were at the top of the price range.

You used to be my sense of expression, and I guess losing that led to my footgear depression.

Now at fifteen, you’re just used for practicality.

Maybe that, too, has affected my mentality.

Maybe at sixteen, I’ll start to see that “cool little supporters” are all you need to be.

Society shouldn’t make me choose, I love you, my shoes.

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Mad Boy’s Love Song (after Sylvia Plath) The air in of my lonesome is just so stale, I need to explore and raise myself from my personal hell.

I walk to the field of tombstones, eyes closed and heart open.

You reach out and grab me close, telling me we're going to have some fun.

You blindfold me with the eccentric acid of your spontaneous spirit.

You take me to the wheat fields, and we spin and twirl and prance, because my mind doesn't have a chance.

You pull me close once more, but this time you fill me with mischief.

You bite my cheeks and lick my lips, entrancing me with the taste of your evil.

My eyes still red, you hand me the ignition to all horrors.

You start to laugh and I start to cry, of laughter, as the world around us burns in flames.

Now we have to run quick, you hold my hand and we escape.

I tell you I want to show you to my home, and the glint in your eye shimmers.

We sneak inside to my playroom, and I show you my toys.

I’m really happy we don't have to do any chores since we killed my mother.

And my brother.

And my sister.

And my father.

And the neighbors.

And the town.

And the state.

And the country.

And the continent.

And the world.

It's so quiet, as my toy cars' engines roar.

And as I reach the finish line, my back turned to the truth, I see that you've vanished.

But I'm not worried my satanic angel, I'll never forget what you whispered to be in the moonlight.

When I sin, when I kill, when I destroy, I just have to lift my lids and all is born again.

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The engines have shut down now.

The silence is so piercing my ears are bleeding.

I'M REALLY SCARED NOW. HELP. PLEASE. I think I made you up inside my head.

Why'd you staple my lids shut?

Psycho The reverberation of your voice smashes on my eardrums.

I can hear your soft cries and dead laughter drifting through the sharp screeches of the nighttime air.

The voice of my personal insanity gossips with my vulnerable psyche.

I break through the walls of my insecurities and trepidations and crawl, barefoot and blistered, to meet your pale skin in the twilight.

Your pallid physique spins around to face my desirous lips.

You’ve hidden from me for a ceaseless period of time but your pulchritudinous has been revealed and your chance of escape is gone.

You’re so alluring, my bluestocking beauty. But that is not what I crave.

I want you bloodied, tied, and screaming for mercy my slave Your perfection is your downfall and I will make sure you suffer.

I awake.

You’ve evaporated into the realm of my vengeful heartache.

The straightjacket is rigid.

You appear.

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Two Poems by Eleni Kolpak

The Drops from the Sky The trickle of rain Stems on the trees channel the water Helpful in spring time

The Moment (after Margaret Atwood) The moment when, after many years Of hard work and a long voyage You take it all in And the feeling of accomplishment takes over.

Your heart beats a mile a minute And your hands sweat As if you still feel You’re on the road that took you to the accomplishment.

The feeling of being able to tell people What you have done kicks in Like Advil kicking in when you have a headache.

Lastly you can be proud And own every bit of it.

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Screaming Man by Jack Cary Open mouth and hands to face, A sign of distress or awe?

Tilt the painting and look into the soul Distress or awe you ask yourself.

Beautiful backdrop, The ocean and the beach.

The blue ocean, The tan of the beach, The deep brown of the dock.

Blue, brown and tan.

The dock, the beach, the ocean.

Can’t forget the sunset, The beautiful orange and yellow sky.

What is the focus of the painting?

The screaming face, The dock, the beach, the ocean, the sunset.

They all come together to form a vivid image with beautiful colors.

But what are you focused on?

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What Would I Rather (after Wislawa Szymborska) by Jack Cary I prefer sleep.

I prefer not to study.

I prefer to get good grades.

I prefer people to like me.

Or do I even care?

I prefer home.

No, I prefer school.

I prefer spring.

I prefer things to be easy, But that isn’t fun.

Maybe I prefer a challenge.

I prefer the steady.

I love consistency.

I prefer sunny days.

I prefer self-confidence, With self-awareness.

I prefer history.

I hate politics, Or do I love it?

I prefer debates.

I prefer long, tireless discussions that can go on forever— Or do I hate them?

The reasons we hate things are the reasons why we love them.

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My Shoes by Jared Rainville My shoes, as loyal as an old dog Always keeping me up no matter what Walking me step by step through life And keeping me grounded to the Earth.

My shoes, as comfortable as a cloud As fresh as snow on a mountain Change when the years go by And the boy gets older.

My shoes, protector of my feet Keep my arches round As I walk day by day Through the concrete jungle.

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Poem (after The Scream by Edvard Munch) by Yuanshu Sylvia Wang The light-hearted chatting, the sweet voice of tweeting, Hot summer evening, fantasy, Crushing into reality.

A scream bursts out, Fear strikes the world.

The river passes by, Whirling away the innocent calm.

The sun melts down, And brings the sky over, Altogether turning into a stream of bloody dreams.

Boats tumble into the ocean, Time vanishes.

The scream, later, Fades away.

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Three poems by Skylar Cluett

In reflections past glassy eyes Fields of dead flowers below Darkness hovering in dead skies Never knowing the hows and whys Above us, a god we question In reflections past glassy eyes The end has come so here we lie Among the graves of those whose death is Darkness hovering in dead skies Those we love, do you hear our cries?

Mother, Father, Sister, Brother In reflections past glassy eyes Aggression, ignorance, duplicity, selfishness, we blame for our demise As in the souls of tormentors Darkness hovers in dead skies From this dead earth we cut our ties To be lost but never to be found In reflections past glassy eyes, Darkness hovers in dead skies.

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Silent winter words unheard in the silence of your ignorance you breathe my name to an air that shows its appearance grays and whites outline the tension between our foreign bodies lips nearly touching cigarettes you said you’d stop looking at her and then getting caught.

They said it would last forever That feeling That taste you get when you wake up in the morning Missing you.

Forgetting The last line of the song The poem I’m too busy writing about why It’s been too long Since I told you This.

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cover my eyes I’d beg you not to who am I if not to cross you a curious child with nowhere to run make up your mind do you believe my rhyme? cover my eyes but not now it’s the best part the world he said is nothing like art I’d push away your hands and beg to see what I thought I’d be missing if it wasn’t for me cover my eyes I’ve changed my mind the world is what they’d said it would be endless crime and eternal lies begging you, make me blind.

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Dream Game by Michael Kassis The crowd roared as #8 threw a shotgun pass to #32 for a first down on the fifty yard line.

The clock read two minutes. It was the 4th quarter and The Gunnery was trailing by 3. If The Gunnery offense could score a touchdown before the whistle blew, it would earn a playoff spot.

If not, it was the end! The quarterback, #8, called for a huddle. Surrounded by his teammates, he knelt down and opened his playbook wristband.

“Alright guys, here's the play. We're gonna run the Split Backs Double Right 41 Dive, so Al get ready to run the ball – and run hard,” he said calmly.

“Don’t worry, no way will these guys stop me!” said Al as the others laughed nervously.

“Alright break.” said #8 and the players moved into formation. #8 took up his position behind the center, #56, and waited a second before calling hike. The ball hit his hands and he turned, handing it to Al who ran for a gain of 15 on the 35 yard line. Realizing the clock had only a minute to go #8 called for a second huddle.

“Guys, the play will be Split Backs Double Right Throwback F 35 and 23. Jerry and Fred head for the end zone running a zigzag formation.” shouted #8 as he tried to be heard above the crowd’s noise. The team moved quickly into position.

“35, 23 double right, set, hike!” called out #8. As the ball hit his hands, he looked up to find a defender who had broken through the line of scrimmage, bearing down on him. #8 calmly side stepped that defender as he searched downfield for his receivers, then he found Fred cutting right into the end zone but surrounded. #8 knew if his throw wasn’t perfect it would fail.

Calmly, he let the ball fly. The crowd cheered as the ball sailed right into Fred’s waiting hands.

With that touchdown, Gunnery spectators rushed onto the field. They lifted up #8, parading him around the field, chanting his number.

Just then, a voice broke through the mist of the dream. It was the voice of #8’s English teacher.

“Thomas, do you have your homework – your essay on James Thurber?”

Thomas took it out and handed it to his teacher.

“Very good. Now class, please take out your Walter Mitty packets and let’s begin.”

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The Starry Night Knight by Kenyon Kay The Starry Night Knight, covered in bronze and gold, Defending the stars, and acting so bold.

The Starry Night Knight, who lives in the tall church, just beyond that hill, Who, day after day, defends that palace beyond his will.

The Starry Night Knight, with his sword dipped with blue pigment, Creating a part of his imagination, merely a figment.

The Starry Night Knight, hard of hearing and beard of red, Making barely enough money to afford his own bread.

The Starry Night Knight, who enjoys the olive trees and sunflowers, Spending his time with different brushes, simply passing the hours.

The Starry Night Knight, the creator of the world, maker of mood, Settles his thought of the sky, instilling the viewer with a certain attitude.

The Starry Night Knight, Oh why must the moon be so bright!

When the night is so dark, the stars shining with light!

The Starry Night Knight, Oh why must you tease us with hope!

The romantic scene causing the towns villagers to elope!

The Starry Night Knight, Oh why must you die so young!

Just as the world of art had your name in their tongue!

The Starry Night Knight, Oh how I wish you didn't have to go!

We lost a guardian of the night, the great Vincent van Gogh!

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My Print Story by Patrick Sullivan My prints are like waves crashing on a shore, With many unique ridges and islands.

Every print is different, compared with each finger before.

Prints are things that cannot be bought in stock or store.

The ulnar loops create both crests and troughs, My prints are like waves. Crashing on a shore, Sweat exudes like ocean mist from each pore.

Prints tell stories; it’s the owner’s job to share them because Every print is different. Compared with each finger before, Defines a culture and past that some unfortunately ignore.

Everyone has their own particular marks My prints are like waves, crashing on a shore.

Spiritually water can mean life and a single print is life to its core.

Life comes in many forms like a print, sometimes smooth or rough with unpredictable turns and endings.

Every print is different, compared with each finger before.

So, what do you see? There is history to be told with relevancy to whom they wore.

With many unique ridges and islands, My prints are like waves crashing on a shore.

Every print is different, compared with each finger before.

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Shoes by Fangwen Cheng

I got a new pair of shoes, Black and leathered I wore them every day to school.

Days passed by, The shoes got a muddy stain.

I stored them under my bed.

For days, I left the shoes in my room And started to wear a pair of New and nice shoes.

Till one day, I found them again Under my bed During a house cleaning.

They were covered with Years of dirt.

I bought cleaners, And tried to clean them.

The years did not affect Their countenance.

After cleaning, they were like new And I wore them every day to school.

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My Room by Fangwen Cheng At The Gunnery, my favorite place is my own room. The room is small with piles of books in it.

It’s the best place for me in the world, because everything starts there, including this prose about my fantastic room.

You are welcome to my room, knock on the door and enter my world. Please shut the door after entering, and make this a serene place. When you enter, you have a feeling of the beach: you feel yourself drinking coconut water, and smelling the sea peacefully. This is the odor absorber working. The absorber not only absorbs bad air, but also any ill aura. In here, you can feel your heart being purified and you can clear your mind. Stay calm, stay patient. Some of the things in the room are piled up and some are dispersed on the floor. Each pile has its own category: in one pile in the corner, are the crystals of wisdom, and in the other pile on the drawers are my daily basic needs.

The piles create a maze in my room, but the finish point is clear and direct: the chair in the middle of the room. Sitting on the chair, you can feel you are in the center of this world, and you are the only dominator here. On the right hand side, there is a map of the New York City Subway, which gives you a feel of traveling on your own life path. In the right corner, there is an air-giver, which refreshes your air and cools you down. There are also drawers on the right hand side, where there is plenty of literature and books about philosophy. Every book in the drawer is a great book and takes a long time to finish. On the left side, there are more piles, drawers and a wardrobe. To your back, is a bed, with a poster above it. The poster is a Boeing Dreamliner lifting off, showing this is the place where my dream takes off.

This is a simple and a crude room, which lacks decorations and a sense of settlement. The Chinese poet Yuxi Liu said in his Loushi Ming, “And so this humble hut of mine, may shelter virtues half divine” [“The Open Court,” in The Scholar's Humble Dwelling (Poem) by Liu Yu Hsi. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Oct. 2015. <http://opensiuc.lib.siu.edu/ocj/vol1911/iss3/7/>]. This room is a place where you can express your spirit and it emerges. Sitting on the chair, you face a desk in front of you. There is an electronic-brain on this desk, and you can use it to access the world.

More importantly, this desk is the place where I can start to put effort and soul into every work made in this room. There are no distractions, no loud music, but nice quiet melodies you can play on the laptop. Everything in this room is peace and tranquility. Feel free to grab one of my books from the right hand side and start the therapy on your mind of reading those letters and characters in the books. Enjoy yourself in this wonderful “monde.”

Let me show you some small details in this room. This room used to belong to someone else. In the desk drawer there is “y-y₁=slope m(x-x₁)”, the point-slope formula, and on the head of the bed, there is a signature “Eric,” which shows this bed belonged to him in past ages. There are boys who worked in the room, and from this crude room, they stepped out and became great citizens in society. All the stains on the walls and desk encourage me to step out and work hard.

From here, I have to accomplish my dream, and achieve own my happiness.

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This room will be dismantled after this year. The crude room will be replaced by new and fresh rooms, and be forgotten by everyone. However, my memories of this room will never be discarded, because this is the place where I started flying to the sky, deep and bright. The room will be dismantled, but the spirit of it will never get â&#x20AC;&#x153;dismantled.â&#x20AC;?

I believe that my own simple and crude room will always exist, wherever I am standing in time and place.

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Family History by Dana Ross

May 3rd, 1996. On this day in the history of my family, my elder brother was born.

My parents were waiting for this child for a couple of years. Thus, his birth was a milestone.

It was a hard pregnancy for my mum. She was not particularly healthy. But most importantly, in spite all of that, this kid brought my mum and dad happiness.

June 4th, 1998. On this day in the history of my family, I was born. My parents were not waiting for another child, especially with such a little gap after the first one. Yet, many years after my mum would tell me that it was the best moment of her life. I was not the favorite child, nor did she have any specific mother-daughter connection with me, she just

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knew that I would bring joy into her life, while my brother would not.

My friend defined the word brother, "a male that shares the same parents with you," but there is so much more to "a brother."

Everybody has a different experience, and mine is not extremely unique. Like many other siblings, my brother and I fought each other since as far back as I can remember. He beat me every day for many years. I cried and called my mum, after which we would start "playing" again. It started over every single time.

Fast forward over 10 years, we have both grown out of that age of silly games. Have we changed? Yes. My brother went through a lot in just the last 10 years of his life.

Whether it left a positive or a negative impact on him is up to debate, but he did have many experiences that he will never forget, such as crashing my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s car, for example.

Not long ago, a doctor who was doing an ordinary scan of his brain discovered that my brother had a birth trauma. It was not a shock for my parents, but it was for me. That does explain much of his behavior. Yet, it will never change my perspective.

As a little kid I always wanted a "protector" in the face of my brother, someone who would always stand up for me when I was in trouble. Unfortunately, "the trouble" itself was him.

Anyway, with the passing years I gained an appreciation that he is my blood relative.

For many years to come he will be here with me. I am gradually becoming his "protector," a person who will always be there for you, who will listen, who will help, who will tell you not to do something stupid, who will simply hug you; the person who you can call in the middle

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of the night and cry while being on the phone with. And the truth is: I want to be that person for my brother. I want him to know that he has me, no matter what happens. I can be scared of that "what happens" part but that is the adventure; that is the most interesting part. It will be hard; it will be scary; but at the end of the day, that is the whole experience; that is life.

Although my aspirations have not been realized, I want to believe that "everything happens for the best," and something will work out. Maybe the way you imagine it to be is not the best one. If you were to ask the 12-year-old me, I would never tell you that I loved my brother or that I shared any personal connection with him; but I do. Now I do. Or at least now I know. My brother is important to me, and he has made a huge impact on my life.

In the picture above from approximately 1999, I am hugging my brother. It is almost like holding on to him so he does not do something stupid. I believe in him. I know that I will help him whenever he needs me. I will be by his side for as long as I am physically able to or capable of being there, or for as long as he allows me to. Many people stop keeping in touch with their siblings or other relatives, but I genuinely do not understand people who cut off their close people, their blood relatives. Throughout the 3 years, I will do all that is in my power to never separate from him and fight this battle of life with him.

We might not interact as many of our peers do with their siblings. We might not have night-long conversations. We might not advise each other on different things. Yet. I still have to admit that my life would have been extremely different if I had not had a brother.

A brother, as Urban Dictionary defines it, is "a person who you are stuck being related

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to until the day you die through good or bad." That is particularly my story. And I know I will be there for my brother in the "bad" times. More importantly, with all the history we have made together, I believe that my brother will be there for me too.

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Keys to The Past essay by Ataman Enver Ugur August Wilson’s play The Piano Lesson is a work of art inspired by the collage, “The Piano Lesson,” made by Romare Bearden. By depicting striking figures - Berniece in the play and the two figures in the collage - with the seemingly strong bonds they possess, both works of art show certain aspects of African American life: such as the strength black families showed against adversity. The solitary setting in the collage is similar to Berniece’s sense of isolation in the play; in addition, the motion in the background of the collage is similar to Boy Willie, in that both break the status quo in the two works of art; finally, the piano is significant in both works of art because it symbolizes the familial connection between the characters depicted.

The setting in the collage and Berniece’s character play important roles in creating a feeling of isolation in both works. The house in the collage contains only a few pieces of furniture, and the static atmosphere in the foreground, contrasting with the moving curtains in the background creates a solitary and calm atmosphere; the motion in the background only highlights the calmness in the foreground. There is also a sense of separation between the two figures created by the differences in how they’re portrayed. The similarity between the piano and the older figure’s color suggests that the older figure has a tangible bond with the piano; a bond the younger figure lacks because of her young age making her ignorant to the piano’s significance. Wilson draws this sense of separation from the collage when writing his play, since Berniece initially rejects her family and the piano. She lacks the connection her mother had to the piano; thus she is similar to the younger figure that lacks the connection the older figure has to the piano. Berniece also pushes away Boy Willie throughout the play and makes it clear that she doesn’t want his brother in her house: “Boy Willie, go on and leave me alone” (49). She seems to push everyone but Maretha away. For Berniece, Maretha is a pure and untouched member of the Charles family. Similar to Boy Willie’s goal of redeeming his family through buying the land his ancestors worked on as slaves and sharecroppers from the descendants of their slave owners, Berniece wants to redeem her family through isolating Maretha from, and giving her a life without the burden of, the past: I got Maretha playing on it. [But] [s]he don’t know nothing about it. Let her go on and be a schoolteacher or something. She don’t have to carry all of that with her.

She got a chance I didn’t have. I ain’t gonna burden her with that piano. (70) Berniece seems to think she’s protecting Maretha by isolating her from the piano, since by isolating her from the piano she’s protecting her against what the piano represents; which is their family's painful past. But at the end of the play it is revealed that in reality the piano contains benevolent spirits that would protect the family.

Berniece ultimately accepts the benevolent spirits inhabiting the piano because of Boy Willie’s actions. Boy Willie’s arrival disturbs the peace in the house by bringing Sutter’s ghost with him and creating a conflict between him and Berniece about the piano’s fate. Boy Willie’s disturbance of the solemn and peaceful atmosphere is similar to the commotion in the

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background of the collage, where commotion in both works of art reinforces the connection between the piano and the two figures. The sense of separation between the piano lesson and the commotion in the collage is similar to how Berniece’s viewpoint is different than Boy Willie’s.

While the collage doesn’t explicitly depict a sense of conflict between the two figures and the commotion, the play does. Boy Willie has to convince Berniece to sell the piano, but similar to how the two figures seem to be connected to the piano in the collage, Berniece has a sentimental connection to the piano: “Look at this piano. Look at it. Mama Ola polished this piano with her tears for seventeen years. [...] Every day that God breathed life into her body she rubbed and cleaned and polished and prayed over it” (52). Boy Willie, on the other hand, looks at the piano from a materialistic viewpoint, which sparks the main conflict in the play. When arguing with Berniece, Boy Willie says, “You can sit up here and look at the piano for the next hundred years and it’s just gonna be a piano” (51). Similar to the wind, Boy Willie disturbs the status quo between the people and the piano. In the end, because Boy Willie challenges her beliefs and forces her to reconcile with her past, Berniece embraces the piano as her family totem. By bringing Sutter’s ghost with him, Boy Willie forces Berniece to plead for help to her ancestors that inhabit the piano. Unlike the collage, where a bond between the two figures and the piano is concrete and pre-existing, the bond between Berniece and the piano is in a way forced to form through the peril Boy Willie caused in her home. The wind that is Boy Willie ironically connects Berniece to her ancestors and “the spirits” that live within the piano.

In this way the piano symbolizes the past in both works of art, and specifically in the play the past of the Charles family. The painting itself depicts the piano as being more connected to the older generation. This sense of connection to the past is made palpable by the similar colors of the older figure’s face and the piano in the painting. Similar to the collage, the play clearly shows the strong bond between Berniece and the piano. Not only Berniece’s but everyone’s lives are intertwined with the piano. Doaker’s telling of the story of the piano and their family’s past explains the significance of the piano: “[...] to understand about that piano … you got to go back to slavery time [...] See right there? That’s my grandmother, Berniece. [...] And [my grandfather] put a picture of my daddy when he wasn’t nothing but a little boy” (43-44). The piano symbolizes all the pain and anguish the family went through, but it also symbolizes all the love and strength the family possesses. The play paints a picture of how African Americans, especially ones who lived in the North, seemed to reject their past with slavery and sharecropping in the South. Memories from the past bring back memories of anguish, despair and death. That’s why when Avery asks Berniece why Doaker doesn’t care about Boy Willie selling the piano, she replies, “Doaker want no part of that piano [...] He blames himself for not staying behind with Papa Boy Charles. He washed his hands of that piano a long time ago” (69).

The play finally portrays a similar image as the collage at the end, when Berniece recognizes the benevolent spirits inhabiting the piano by playing on it and calling her ancestor’s spirits to Through their similarities, the collage and the play both effectively depict an image of African American society. The collage makes the piano stand out through the contrasting colors with the background and the vivid and peculiar shape the piano has. It goes further by showing the importance of music and totems in African American society through focusing the viewer's attention to the bond created between the two figures; a bond seen by looking at the warm and

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vivid colors of their clothes, and the similarities in color between the piano and the older figure and the older figureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand resting on the younger figure. This sense of connection is felt in the play, as well, a connection that is similar to a web with many family members, stories, and destinies being tied to the piano. Wilson uses the piano as a tool to describe African American life, struggle, pain, and the ability to survive, persevere and manage to form strong and loving bonds within families under harsh and hostile environments (1353).

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Haiku by Lara Kessler

Chosen Fruit Fall is the best time Apple picking at its prime Reddest of them all So many apples On each branch of the tall tree Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll pick the biggest I then take a bite Hm, the best Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever had Can I have one more?

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Stray Shot 2016