The Ivy | #3 | December 2014

1

Editors’ Letter Every year, right around October, Princeton High School begins to settle into an all-toofamiliar rhythm of long-winded weekdays and weekends that never (ever) last long enough.

Issue Number 3 of The Ivy marks a similar transition for the magazine, as we finally begin to come into our own. Much like the plant we’re named after, we can only go up (HAHA)!

These past two months, our fifteen-strong staff has worked tirelessly to amass both visual and literary art submissions, review the submitted works anonymously, and assemble the 32-page publication you currently hold in your hands. We were overjoyed and humbled to have received over 110 submissions from students throughout the school - a new personal record! If you submitted, we thank you for sharing your incredible work with us.

As you peruse the coming pages, we encourage you to take note of the names of the brilliant artists and writers walking the halls of PHS! This issue showcases the work of thirty-six student-artists. As always, we strive to allow their work to speak for itself by keeping our design simple and clean. In The Ivy, the students’ visual and literary pieces are always the central focus.

Finally, we’d like to take this time to thank Ms. Buckley for her continued support of The Ivy! Thank you for all the help in encouraging and gathering submissions!

That said, we hope you all enjoy this issue of The Ivy! Sincerely,

Vicky Gebert & Haley Clark

2

Staff

Editors-in-Chief: Haley Clark Victoria Gebert Managing Editors: Asher Wulfman Sarah Spergel Secretary: Caleigh Dwyer Review Board/Copy Editors: Phoebe Whiteside Talya Shatzky Business: Stefan Pophristic (Manager) Winona Guo (Secretary) Public Relations: Katie Vasquez (Manager) Jasmine Charles (Secretary) Technology: Claire Schultz (Manager) Angie Keswani Isabelle Joyce Maha Hadaya Advisors: Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça

Table of Contents Piranha Girl Urban Prey Fireflies; Untitled Lucid Dream; Fireflies (con’t.)

Anita’s Print huhughhughuhgh Trustworthy; Night smim smallabim zim wow bim Untitled; Still Life A Faux Fake Facebook World Jenny Lake; Raindrops Learning Disability; Untitled Untitled The Soul Girls of August Girls of August (con’t.); Untitled Brooklyn; Why I Write

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21

Scotland’s Finest; This Day and Age 22 Super This Day and Age (con’t.)

This Day and Age (con’t.); Broken Mirror Burned Down Depot Mutual Interest; Plastic

23 24 25

THE FOREST Untitled; Untitled Uh rant @ Grammr not Z’s What We’ve All Been Waiting For

28 29 30 31

26 27

Cynthia Ma Kate Schofield Claire Schultz; Cami Poniz Halle Copeland; Claire Schultz Anita Garcia Elizabeth Meyers Katie Vasquez; Caroline Forrey Julie Clement Fia Miller; Alana Chmiel Lisa Knigge Griffin Hamilton; Anonymous Tatianna Sims; Brynn Laurash Noel Xie Elizabeth Spadea Anonymous Anonymous; Caroline Smith Nathan Drezner; Sofia Blackwelder Katie Vasquez; Hannah Semmelhack Kadi Cier Hannah Semmelhack Hannah Semmelhack; Victoria Gebert Stefan Pophristic Campbell McDonald; Angie Keswani Rutha Chivate Cheyenne Setneska; Elle Klein Caleigh Dwyer Sydney Crowe

The Ivy began in the 1960s, but its serialization began in 2014.

3

Piranha Girl, Cynthia Ma

4

Urban Prey, Kate Schofield Scurrying down a damp concrete sidewalk With my head hung and skirt worn low Quiet as a mouse For fear of becoming prey A murder of men perch themselves on broken steps “Hey, honey! I know you want some of this!”

They crow.

“You’re lookin’ sexy as hell today, baby!”

They squawk.

A mere glance will ruffle their feathers, my father always said Don’t bother with them; Say nothing.

Act later Better yet, act never.

But no longer.

I stop dead in my tracks and turn my head I am no mouse I am a tigress with a glare like lightning And the fire in my belly Is stronger than the words in your mouth.

I will pull them from your throat and burn them to ash You dare speak to me as if I am no woman, But instead a piece of meat to play with and dispose of

No longer will I let a man Keep my head hung low and my skirt at knees’ length I stride, not scurry I speak, louder than the oppression I have felt since birth I will not censor myself to keep you content I am not here for your pleasure I am a human being, One who has seen the whipped servitude of women’s bodies In the face of my mother, my sisters, my lovers and my friends My head will be held high Because I refuse to drown in your sexism My skirt will be worn as I wish Because it will always be my choice And my god, if you dare call to me for unwanted attention, I will eat you alive like a black widow And spit out your bones Onto this damp, concrete sidewalk.

And suddenly, a murder of men Look like a nest of mice, Silent and speechless as I spit at their feet.

Don’t ruffle their feathers, rip them out.

Screw never acting, act now Because I will not be your prey or anyone else’s Anymore.

5

Fireflies, Claire Schultz

Mommy told Mary not to go into the woods at night, and never, never to go alone. There were monsters in the woods, and bandits. There were poisonous mushrooms and fallen trees.

No little girl could see the dangers lurking there, no matter how brave she was. But Mary was very, very brave. That’s what she told herself every night when she fell asleep in her little bedroom, despite the monsters quite obviously living under her bed. Mommy never saw them, but they were there. They had yellow eyes and pointy fangs and liked to eat her bunny slippers. She knew they wouldn’t hurt her, so she slept happily amongst them.

The sky that evening was peaceful, the deep red clouds splashed along the pale blue. She couldn’t

Untitled, Cami Poniz Untitled, Cami Poniz

6

help but be reminded of blood, even though it was nowhere so morbid. Mary had always loved sunsets. During this particular sunset, she was in the backyard, right on the edge of the woods. It was late summer and the fireflies were coming out, speckles of starlight falling to the ground.

Mary reached out to catch them, held them for a moment, let them twinkle and fly away. She counted each as they went: One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The fireflies were travelling, and so was Mary, lost in the chase.

The farther they got into the forest, the more brightly they seemed to sparkle. Endless lights, on and on and on. The sky was fully dark now, but Mary wasn’t the slightest bit scared. Nothing could hurt her, not with her legion of guardian stars. >

Lucid Dream, Halle Copeland

She didn’t even realize quite how lost she was until the lights began to go out, one by one. The tiny specks faded slowly, and two gleaming yellow eyes appeared at the end of it all. They were framed by darkness, a scruff of fur and fangs. The night was blacker and blacker and the eyes grew larger and larger. Each guardian fell, and Mary was frozen. It looked so much like her monsters, and yet it was so different. It was darker and wilder, even in the dim light of the vanishing fireflies.

towards the creature. It wasn’t a bunny slipper, but it was one of her favorite Mary Janes, and it would have to do. She waited patiently to see how it reacted, and breathed a sigh of relief as it gobbled it up.

Mary was sad to see her shoe gone, but it meant she was safe now.

The monsters wouldn’t hurt her, she told herself. They couldn’t hurt her. She had given them her shoe.

Finally, the very last firefly winked into nothingness, and those vicious yellow eyes and impossibly sharp jaws were upon her.

The monsters wouldn’t hurt her.

Mary thought back to the ones under her bed and their affinity for her slippers. Quietly, carefully, she slipped off her shoe and tossed it

She was wrong.

7

Anita’s Print, Anita Garcia

8

huhughhughuhgh, Elizabeth Meyers

9

Trustworthy, Katie Vasquez

Trust none Of what you hear.

Trust less of what you see.

Witches line this world with magic.

Trust me.

Night, Caroline Forrey Come and step in to the dark.

Where bad things come to hide ghosts, and ghouls, and hobgoblins all raise their teeth to the moonless sky.

Where the sickly sweet scent of rotten magnolia petals pervades the gruesome and grisly air.

Where a constant shiver slides up your spine, a banshee’s soft finger lingers there.

Orange painted masks glowing glowing from shuttered windows filled with humming.

Shrieks and squeals, haunting laughter herald hated dawn’s coming light.

Walk in magic, work miracles and curses both.

Think of the things you see things that are lost in dreamless slumber and roil through them in restless ecstasy.

The marvelous and the fantastic the strange creatures and stranger people gods and monsters of the hidden world.

Walk softly in the dark and all will see you clothed in daybut turn your back on it not.

Revel in the glory of the night.

10

smim smallabim zim wow bim, Julie Clement

11

Untitled, Fia Miller

Still Life, Alana Chmiel

12

A Faux Fake Facebook World, Lisa Knigge There were messages in code, binary and abbr. words. They begged me to cross over to their world, but I was adamant about my position.

There was the constant bulge in their back pockets that was a reminder of how much they were dependent on something else. There was sadness I felt at an auditorium dotted with faces of artificial blue as a world renowned jazz band played on the stage. There was solitary laughter I had at girls making funny faces toward an outstretched hand knowing that they would never realize how ridiculous they looked.

There was the perpetual ting ting ting of a jumping bird that couldn’t straighten up and fly right.

If I could take away that glow for one night, give photography lessons and feed pigeons in the park, then maybe those dawgs would see... how silly their devices could be.

There was inner screaming of my writer self that could not stand wrds tht were so mesily writen that tey wood confse any ppl who tried ot red it There was the plethora of problems that came with the those who abused the ever changing cyber world to intimidate others There was the constant need for approval that came with a click of a button and a thumbs up.

If I could tell them to call me instead, deal with the bully on actual solid ground and compliment somebody in person, then maybe maybe those peeps would see... what a waste smartphones could be.

There was the unusual respect I felt for my dad having no friends in a world of over one billion.

There was my slow and grudging acceptance of the day when I could do homework while waiting for the train using nothing but my palm size computer There was the wonder I felt at the future of technology knowing that in twenty years, it could only be more fantastic If I introduced my friends to a real book (not fakebook), remembered that I had textbooks and was content in the moment, then maybe my friends would see... how superfluous mini computers could be.

And then there was the satisfaction I felt at being groovy when I set the needle in just the right spot on the record in order to have the song start right away There was the joyous frustration of not being able to dial the numbers on an ancient phone There was the lovely smell of real, tangible, paper books If I could listen to Renaissance on vinyl with my friends, practice my home telephone number and write my own book then maybe you all might see... how cool being a hipster could be.

13

Jenny Lake, Griffin Hamilton

Raindrops, Anonymous A sidewalk, a puddle, A streetlamp, a sign.

The feet have all gone now, The lonely reside.

The raindrops, they fall now, The people, they hide.

For the stars in the pavement show Love that has lied.

Oh, for a small drop Of the light of the stars, Which would tear down the walls Of Love’s painful scars.

That would free them of pain But the world of all hope, For in Love, as in Death, People anguish and mope.

Oh, for a small piece Of the raindrops that fall, I would forfeit my soul For something so small.

But the rain is not mine, Nor will it wash away, But imprint on my soul And there it will weigh.

A sidewalk, a puddle, A streetlamp, a sign.

The feet have all come now, The lonely, they hide.

The raindrops have stopped now, The people reside.

For the night now belongs to The ones who have cried.

14

Learning Disability, Tatianna Sims

Untitled, Brynn Laurash

If learning was easy, everyone would have a degree hanging rightfully in its display case But that is simply not the way for people in my place Our issues with comprehension Has been misused for ammunition for discrimination Always kept in the constant hub of support and special ed classes While our unchallenged brains rot to please the masses An invisible sign stapled to our foreheads read that our learning patterns are different from yours Yet that doesn’t mean that when we turn in our homework we are unsure Every answer on that paper is correct Still our signs of improvement are unchecked Annually tested to see if we can understand But what you failed to comprehend is that we are blessed to see outside the box Einstein, Eminem, and Whoopi Goldberg prevailed with the ability to accept what many see as a disability But these unflawed people are subject to others ignorant mockery How dare you poke fun at a person with a learning disability Giggling at the fact someone learns differently I hope one day you realize the wrong you’ve done Because in the grand scheme of things we already won We are leaders, inventors, and global innovators Where would we be Without the influence of a person with a learning disability

15

Untitled, Noel Xie

16

The Soul, Elizabeth Spadea

17

Girls of August, Anonymous Love is born in the type of light that lies in­between.

I met you there. And summer trickles onward, or perhaps it leaps, and blurs, all dappled evening­light and morning dew and there is a hint, a taste, a twinge of autumn in the air, barely present but unmistakable, crisp in your throat.

We dance and lounge supine amongst the grasses and call out our prayers to indifferent clouds, until, hoarse, we run homeward, barefoot, dusk and nostalgia crowding our vision with grey. The moon is silver and the nights ethereal, and stretch longer than the endless darks of winter. Morning sun, mother, becalmed. Hands clasped and feet muddy and soon, too soon, fingertips, and space, and we will only have sweet words and dim memories.

Maiden, matron, crone. Fleeting. Dandelions in dusty August wind.

Come sing me down once more by the dust­dry grass Where we used to search for heaven in each cloud and shaft of light.

Tangling up our fingers in thistle and weed Amongst chirping cricket­armies and the dull ache of adolescence Screaming out our souls to the hazy sky To prove that we were still rough­edged, alive, Inscribed in the lost strands of your hair When I wove it, in and out, between my fingers, gold, white, gold And never more deserving.

We sang of life, and the stab of each dim star as it burnt out, Eyes like stones rubbed raw by running streams.

The fire on your tongue flickered and died Each time I let my fingers trace and dance across your spine.

Sun­cracked stalks ‘neath bare dirt­patterned feet Whispering silk­spun takes and ragged verses.

Your hand in mine was loose and gossamer­light Our feet made dust rise up in swirling clouds.

We ran like young strong horses, chased by wolves And cried out if a shadow crossed the sun.

We were mortal Breath thick in the humid air, sweet as clover­honey, Skin damp with beaded sweat like sudden rain, Hearts thudding with the rhythm of hot blood.

We inhaled the heavy scent of death by fire And watched the heat hang silent in the air But children we were not in face of summer’s thirsty end.

Nor women yet; graceful in­between creatures All narrow angled limbs and serious eyes And fingers crossed behind our freckled backs.

The sun devoid of mercy in its snow­white blinding blaze > 18

Untitled, Caroline Smith

We played along with pain and love and youth And yet-Even then we knew the sky had hairline fractures And soon enough our heaven would crack too.

We’d tie up chains of wheat and dried­out flowers in our hair And pretend to be queens of the fairies, small and free, Like young girls ripe with carelessness and light.

Watching you mouth my name, I swear, was a prayer.

And I promise, every time we counted cloudsI saw the sunrise.

19

20

Brooklyn, Nathan Drezner

Why I Write, Sofia Blackwelder I write to fulfill an assignment sometimes, but when it is truly for writing, I write to make peace with the monsters in my head.

I write to evoke. I write to express.

I write to record what I love in who I’ve lost.

I write because I can show I’m vulnerable and weak, and strong, and empowered.

I write as a daily act of improvisation.

I write to record. I write to sing. I write to share.

I write to mimic the birds.

I write to capture and surprise or sunrise.

I write to express gratitude or anger.

I write by accident. I write to mark up, a wall, a body.

I write to connect thoughts and make them physical. I write to be remembered.

I write in a world thats living in oppression and I write to change that. I write for women and equality.

I write about religion and its harms.

I write to meditate. I write because I am one and we are one.

I write for those ready to listen.

I write to souls far away.

I write the things i hear and the way i hear them.

I write to my mom apologizing and I write to myself in 10 years.

21

Scotland’s Finest, Katie Vasquez

This Day and Age, Hannah Semmelhack The park bench was cold and wet, and leftover rain dripped from the trees above, making little wet spots, blurring the words on the page as the book created a protected little warm spot on my criss-crossed legs. Next to me, a man sat, not looking at anything. He was wearing a gray trenchcoat, the same color as his hair. He was sitting and looking, but not at the same things as I was. I was looking at the stream of people who marched their daily lives down the gray streets, none of them running into the other, a big sea of gray and white colors, gray clouds overhead, clear drops falling from the sky, green leaves trampled and yellowing on the ground. The people all appeared prehistoric as they hunched over their electronic devices, protecting them from the falling water.

But the man next to me wasn’t looking at that. He was staring almost into space, eyes focused on some indeterminate point. But I knew he wasn’t thinking. He was listening for the start of the broadcast. The daily broadcast that people listen to or watch. The antique-looking, silver-rimmed glasses the new style - sat upon his nose, and his eyes were focusing on the images flashing across the little screens, not even an inch from his face. > 22

Super, Kadi Cier

23

And he saw nothing of the world. And the sea of gray did not part, as the Red Sea did for Moses. And a woman walked up next to me, and looked a little confused.

“Sorry ma’am, would you like to sit here?” I asked politely.

“Why, young man, what is that that you’ve got there?” She said, hardly bothering to look up from her cell phone as she tap-tapped into it. It was as though she hadn’t heard me.

I looked down at my book, with a sigh.

“This Side of Paradise. F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

The man next to me did not seem to notice the change of atmosphere around him.

The woman looked up from her device. She glanced down at the book, and looked back up at me, pulling a smile that so forcibly reached her cheeks, I wondered for a moment if her face would crack in half. Perhaps the pale gray porcelain of her cheeks would splinter, and the bottom would fall off, to reveal the whirring machinery, like the device still held in her hand, instead of a brain; with zeros and ones instead of words and thoughts.

“Well.” She finally said. “How… lovely.” And as I watched, the fake smile broke down piece by piece, and her eyes clouded over, turning as unfamiliar as night. She turned back to her device, and turned around, as though she were going to sit right on top of me.

I swiftly got up and brushed some clinging raindrops off my light-colored blue jeans. She sat down right where I had been.

“Sorry to upset you ma’am…” I mumbled. Her glazed-over eyes seemed to stare right at me, but when I moved my hand, they did not follow. She no longer registered my existence.

I was invisible. And as I walked away, book in hand, many other eyes set in pale, gray faces hooded by gray coats, also ceased to see me.

And then I was running. It always unnerved me, the way their eyes seem to turn black and rotten. It made me think of all my flaws; my love of books, my love of color, my creativity. I was running, and the stream of people began to part for me, and for that one second I was Moses, and the sea was not red but gray, and I felt something like sadness, but I was proud too.

And then I was falling, and hitting the soft wet ground with a heavy thump.

I opened my eyes, and there was someone below me, who I must’ve hit.

And then her eyes were open, and they were blue, and wet, and shining with untold stories. They did not cloud over as they focused on my book, which I had hugged as I ran, and had become sandwiched between us as I fell. > 24

Broken Mirror, Victoria Gebert

And I looked at her book, and my fingers felt numb because they were squished between This Side of Paradise and Harry Potter, which she had been hugging as we collided. And as we looked at the books, and our eyes did not glaze over, there was this perpetual moment where the air was clean, and her coat was red, and there was just us; one tangled spot of color in the sea of gray. And then I stood up, and helped her up, and she smiled, a proper smile.

And I smiled back, and the rain continued to fall and the sea of gray swept around us, and even then I wasn’t looking at the sea of gray, I was looking at the world, which seemed very, very bright.

25

Burned Down Depot, Stefan Pophristic

26

Mutual Interest, Campbell McDonald

Plastic, Angie Keswani

27

THE FOREST, Rutha Chivate It’s winter And the forest is sleeping Blanketed in a coating of silken white snow The forest is breathing Steady, slow breaths A gentle breeze A flurry of flakes I feel it

It’s alive I feel it It’s fall And the forest is changing It’s growing The colors vibrant as the setting sun Sway among the branches But then something shifts I feel it

It’s spring And the forest is rubbing its eyes Stretching its branches to test out the sky The rain brings out the hues The rosy red cheeks of the pale, wintered forest Iridescent, the spring The season of birth of new life, new hope The forest is drawing a breath I feel it

Still fall But the forest has changed yet again The shrieking howls of frigid, icy gusts pierce the night And all at once the trees are bare No leaves to brighten the endless shades of brown And the forest is calm At last I feel it Back to winter And the forest continues to revolve Through the seasons that make it A puzzle to solve It’s features so natural Beautiful beyond compare It’s demeanor so graceful I cannot even bear To leave it The forest I feel it

It’s summer And the forest exhales The forest is alive and ready To play like the child that it is The flora are dancing The fauna are prancing And now the breaths are quicker Everywhere, there is movement Not a moment of silence

28

Untitled, Cheyenne Setneska

Untitled, Elle Klein

29

Uh Rant @ Grmmr not Z’s, Caleigh Dwyer

I hate grammar nazis. It’s not because I’m jealous of their superior intellect or even that I’m hurt by the implications of my own inferiority, it’s simply because I am irked by people who stand behind causes just to stand for something at all. What are grammar nazis standing for, anyway?

Okay, sure, grammar and mechanics, in their purest forms, serve as the glue holding together our thoughts, our hopes, our ideas, and our words. The complexities of modern day communication (modern meaning post-intro to written languages) are made possible by the standardization grammar provides. But here is where we run into issue. Which matters more to society, written or spoken language?

Perhaps it would be more fitting to ask which is more important to humankind. That’s right, language isn’t just society’s tool, it is a basic human necessity that predates the creation of society itself. Pretty remarkable that just by speaking we carry out a millennia or two or three old tradition, passed down from the first croak of a caveman. But we forget how beautifully organic language really is. A word, a phrase, a sentence are the verbalized progeny of the head, nursed by the heart and birthed by the vocal chords. When we speak, we give life. We construct worlds. But how soon we take for granted this procreation of the mouth. How easily we cram our offspring into standardized boxes labeled “past tense” and “participle,” or leave them behind for a second draft, crossed out and doused in red ink.

But if words are our lifeblood, then why all the abuse? It’s all because what you’re reading now (and what you’ll always read) is the fossil of a thought, bones kept preserved, polished, and in their best possible condition. We abuse our written words in the same way that we take for granted any other inanimate object, be it a pencil or a lampshade. What gives words flesh and blood is that which characterizes them as spoken: tone, tempo, pitch, inflection. In fact, the spoken language and the written language are so fundamentally different that they might as well be different languages.

So how is it that we have come to expect them to follow the same rules? We expect speakers to live up to the preciseness of the written word and all its formalities, and yet few readers expect the books they read to express every intricacy of a spoken word. And, in the end, what does it say about our grammar rules if people are naturally inclined to break them?

If the written word cannot, by grammatical law, accurately articulate our intent in its raw, genuine form, then it has failed in its central purpose: to communicate. So go ahead, pick through this rant with a fine-toothed comb and pinpoint every tense clash and misused punctuation mark. Circle every subject-verb disagreement and cringe at all the run-ons and sentence fragments. Because at the end of the day, you heard me. And that’s all that language ever set out to do, to make people heard.

30

What We’ve All Been Waiting For, Sydney Crowe

31

32