Plaid 2014: delta

pl ai d m agaz i n e v o l u m e l v i i 2 0 1 4

d e l t a

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delta In science, it indicates a change of some kind.

In nature, it is a geographical feature that forms at the mouth of a river as it flows into the ocean or some other body of water. As water rushes through a delta, it leaves behind a rich and fertile deposit of sediment, brimming with promise. It is here where potential is greatest, where inspiration is most prevalent, where the greatest art is created.

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ta b l e o f c o n t e n t s

literature

I Am a Literal Being, damn it!

Listening through the static Dream Sonnet The Concrete Revolution Thursday Stable The Coming of Spring Complex No Light for Miles, No Light to See Gren’s Dill Digging for Dust Hello?

Polarity Musician Oxford * Unrequited Sparks of your Life (To my Grandfather) The Mouse I Am Mirror X-Ray How to Be a Writer Salmon Sonnet Fear, Fight, Fate The Beast Lonely On the Brink The Peddler of Dreams I Am What I Am To Grammy Chapter Cold Fur * Powder Blue Bed Sonnet Then Regret Lone Star State of Mind Awakening Existence A Place of Divine Nature The Pitfalls of Seeing Double Organic Hope Numb Love Smile

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Summer Devlin Landin Delaney Karolina Karagyozova Aki Nace Maia Rosenfeld Sophie Miller Leah Ettensohn Fay Blelloch Anastasia Landman Anna Vlachos Maia Rosenfeld Carrie Mannino Ella Rosenblatt Luke Vacek Anna Vlachos Molly Campbell Alexa Lehman EJ Eppinger Jack Waters Anastasia Landman Krithika Pennathur Abigail Wollam Maia Rosenfeld Jessica Wittig Molly Campbell Summer Devlin Abigail Wollam Ella Rosenblatt Summer Devlin Drew Klein Sean Holmes Carrie Mannino Noah James Sophie Miller Sofia Rella Sophie Miller Sophie Miller Will Farnsworth Kristin Kozar Matthew Moore Joshua Siktar Maia Rosenfeld Abigail Wollam Emma Famili Summer Devlin

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Film photograph by Noa Jett

* indicates plaid contest winner

visual art Cover watercolor Inside cover painting Splashed Girl Lamp Daisies Public art Hands Flower Origami Swan * Sneaker Light and Darkness Staircase Rusted pole Heart Apple Girl’s hair Elephant Silhouette Peacock Dust on Dresser Clothing Bottles Green-eyed Girl Stone vase Sparks Girls Tiger * Chinese Painting Fierce Weeds Flying Manta Ray Violin Collage Palm Trees Vintage figure Folded Book Mirror Rope Ocean Double Exposure * Walkway Pottery Record Clockwork Altered Advertisement Book Oil Painting * Girl with Butterflies Ceiling Space Delta

Noa Jett Maggie Swartz Ella Rosenblatt Cecily Milligan Lilah Hilliard Sara Fierstein Noa Jett Bill Fox Molly Urbina Lindsay Gorby Maggie Swartz Rachel Dubner Noa Jett Alexandra Uribe Maggie Swartz Maia Rosenfeld Elizabeth Siefert Elizabeth Siefert David Friedman Elizabeth Siefert Ua Hayes Summer Devlin Rachel Dubner Sean Holmes Lilah Hilliard Jessie Zhang Lucy Chen Cecily Milliagan Aki Nace Aki Nace Joshua Siktar Noa Jett Manoli Epitropoulos and Carly Heywood Molly Campbell Noa Jett Taylor Thomas Anastasia Landman Elizabeth Siefert Anastasia Landman Stephanie Skelly Joshua Siktar Lily Nguyen Carly Heywood Maggie Swartz Wanyan Ma Karen Ou David Friedman Alexandra Uribe

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I Am a Literal Being, damn it!

Summer Devlin

I am a small girl Small of body, carting about a small, conniving mind Skin pooling over twitching muscles, Which in turn snarl themselves around Fragile, chalky bones I live inside a thick skull, Conscious only of the thoughts, Ungraceful electrical pulses jostling about for space Rattling at their cages like ugly beasts, Roaring silently in the night I am an animal, Reptilian green eyes blinking leisurely On a flat, simian face Constantly reassuring myself Of the feel of air in my throat And the sound of my own heartbeat I am weak and immoral, I fear often, and when not afraid, I fear that I should be When a violent movie plays, Its goal to corrupt our youth, bloody our minds, I smile, the smile of voyeur and torturer and crusader My mind needs no bloodying I am not a songbird, flitting on powerful currents of sky, Not a haunting melody, played in the near dawn light, Nor a child, knee high in rustling golden grass My body is too bulky, my mind too fluid To be wrapped up in a cheap, brittle metaphor And though I have read ravenously, Drank music like wine in the desert, Bathed in the rank and desolate ocean Until my hair was crusted with salt, But I am none of those small, foolish things I am a haze of the biological and chemical, My mind still partially fitted for the ancient And primal ape I descended from Lacking any feeling heart or immortal soul Only immortal atoms, forged in the ungodly heat Of burning gas, and the void of the universe

Drawing by Ella Rosenblatt

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Digital photograph by Cecily Milligan

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Listening through the static Landin Delaney

You and my dad are sitting in the back of the Blue Hornet It is the middle of a warm August night and everything is simple Your camera sits in the backseat and reminds you of the one you used in Vietnam At this moment, work is a distant thought Dad messes with the radio dial and Willie Nelson comes through, “On the Road Again” you reach forward to adjust the dial so you can hear it more clearly.

As the scene unfolds in my head I imagine what it would have been like to meet you I wonder what you would think of me, my mom and brother. my mom and younger brother blonde, and me with brown hair I wonder how you would have affected me as a young child what advice you could have gave me, the stories you could have told I wonder what it was like in Vietnam, all the things you saw and never spoke of I notice your 6 E shoes special order from a catalog Your red brown Goatee around your mouth that you sported before it was common my dad climbs into the backseat and reaches under it grabbing your old lacrosse stick from high school it is now used as a tool, but it reminds you of your days in a military high school in Maryland how that lead you to enlist in the army, and find photography, a lifelong passion you feel a pang of nostalgia, and now you’re lost in old memories As the scene comes to a close in my head a few thoughts cross my mind I wish you could see our family today All the things we have done and accomplished.

I wish we could have shared it with you I wish I could have just met you once, even if it had been during your final days in a hospital I wonder what it would have been like and that is all I can do

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Dream Sonnet Karolina Karagyozova

The dusk falls dark behind the wind’s swift heels.

She whispers goodnight and kisses the moon Night, in a chariot with silver wheels, Across a darkened sky where stars are strewn.

Tugged by their strings, gossamer dreams float by Like balloons they bob through the inked twilight Drift in windows, awaiting sleep’s soft sigh They bless closed eyes with incredible sight A vision, perhaps, of the one you love Or fears of what may be looming ahead Hear the cooing cry of the mourning dove?

You’re in luck, its time to get out of bed I’ll have you know you weren’t the only one, Many had dreamed as our blue planet spun

Film phograph by Lilah Hilliard

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Digital photograph of public art by Sara Fierstein

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The Concrete Revolution Aki Nace

The day that humans invented concrete, I doubt they thought it would take over the world. But it did, with time. All of the big cities were converting their big brick buildings to walls of concrete. Little towns were expected to do the same. Miles and miles of fields were to be dug up and replaced with miles and miles of flat, grey stone. One day our mayor made the announcement that we would be joining the modern era. We would be a small town ready to face the future!

“We wouldn’t have to bother with mowing lawns or pruning bushes,” is what he would say when he was interviewed about the installations. The only people that really protested were those weird ones that live on the edge of town that always seem too happy. Everyone else ignored it. I think they were tired of mowing their lawns. So the mayor brought in the trucks and big machinery to take out all of the trees, all the roads, the fields and playgrounds, and soon, the whole town was a shade of cloudy grey.

And I have to say, when summer rolled around, I didn’t have to mow the lawn or prune the bushes, just like the mayor said, so I was happy. So were the neighbors, except for Mr. Jensen down the street who would forget about the concrete and mow his front lawn anyway. We didn’t have to worry about dirt on our clothes. There was no mud to get our shoes wet. There weren’t even any trees that shed their leaves.

When winter came, the snow and the concrete blended together, and all we could see was white blended with grey. Everything looked the same, except for our houses, and it looked like the snow went on forever.

The next year, the mayor announced that since the concrete installation had been so successful, all of our houses would be replaced with concrete buildings. We would be compensated, of course, but the construction would only take a few weeks, and then we would be in our fashionable new homes.

It was quite exciting. The neighbors would come over for dinner and would talk for hours on end about their new houses. “It’s so practical!” they would say, waving their hands around excitedly, “and modern!”

We were one of the last to get our new house. We lived with Mr. Jensen for three weeks, listening to him grumble about the mayor and his “newfound ideas.” But when we moved back in, our house was practical and modern, just like the neighbors said.

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The year after that, the mayor didn’t announce any new ideas. There wasn’t any more concrete you could add to the place, anyway. All buildings were concrete now, even the old library that had stood over the town for two centuries. He replaced it, along with our houses.

The only place the mayor didn’t touch was the cemetery because it would “arouse the dead.”

I don’t think he knew that ghosts come out to dance every night.

After a while, the cemetery became common ground. We’d go there after school to talk or study, not because we liked hanging out with the ghosts, but because we could sit on the grass, dig our fingernails into the dirt, and look at something that wasn’t grey for once.

The excitement that had surrounded the new buildings had now died down.We didn’t like grey anymore. We missed the mud on our shoes and the crunch of falling leaves.

When the cemetery had to be expanded because people kept on dying, the dead had to be buried under the concrete. I wouldn’t like that. It’s hard for ghosts to dance when buried under stone. Most of the people who went to the cemetery didn’t like it either. But the mayor wouldn’t budge on the topic. Perhaps he was afraid of the dead. Perhaps he was afraid of dancing. So we went into our basements and found old paint buckets. We opened them up and painted the stone cemetery a shade of green, to reflect grass. We thought it was creative, but I don’t think it did anything to help the ghosts come out.

When the mayor found out, his face burned red. “It’s vandalism!” he’d say on our screens. “It’s disrespectful!”

Somehow, his response didn’t stop us. The next night, we painted some of the walls yellow. And the night after that, we added some blue and purple to the houses and the streets. The mayor was outraged. He called us criminals and offenders of the law, and put out an order saying anyone with paint would be arrested. But nobody ever bothered to arrest us, so it didn’t matter.

Every morning, when we woke up and looked out our windows, walls would be painted different colors. Reds and pinks and greens. Purples the color of blueberry juice, bright, mango orange, and fantastic blues that reminded you of the eye of a peacock feather. The colors were everywhere. Soon, it wasn’t just solid colors. Some of the people who were better at drawing started to draw pictures on the walls and streets. Pictures of flowers and trees.

Pictures of roaring waterfalls in the middle of glistening forests.

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Sometimes, you felt like you could touch the water. But when you reached out your hand, expecting to feel water droplets on your fingertips, all you felt was cold stone.

When the mayor announced night patrols, I think some of us were afraid. But it didn’t really stop us. Those people he named as patrols usually would join us and paint. It seemed like our whole town had chunks of dried paint beneath our fingernails.

With time, the mayor’s face grew redder and redder. When he saw how beautiful the dragons on eastern side of town were, his eyes would ignite and flicker. He tried his best to avoid the paintings, but when he did touch the pictures, he would snatch his hand back like he had been burned. He probably thought that when the whole town was covered in our illustrations, we would stop. But we didn’t. We painted over some pictures and added new ones, and every inch evolved into a never-ending easel.

The mayor finally broke when we decided to paint his house. Most of us went, dressed in black from head to foot. It was the middle of winter, and snow was falling, but it didn’t matter. We climbed the hill with our paint buckets and brushes and ladders. We spent that whole night painting, all of us, and we made it the most beautiful house imaginable. There were pictures of birds and lions, pictures of wizards and dwarves, pictures of whales and dolphins. It was a masterpiece.

When the mayor woke up the next morning, I don’t know what he thought of our art.

Probably hated it. But he appeared on our screens at nine o’clock and told us that trucks would be coming in the next day to demolish the concrete and replace it with trees. We could keep our houses if we liked, but if we didn’t like them, we could always build new ones, and they could be made of wood or brick or whatever we wanted.

It took a couple of years, but our town went back to normal. Mr. Jensen mowed actual grass again. The cemetery is now all grass and the ghosts are having a wonderful time again.

The mayor resigned and now we have a new one, who is much nicer and smiles a lot more.

Some people kept their concrete houses. We don’t mind. Sometimes at night, we go out and paint their walls. It’s an evolving art gallery. But no one paints the mayor’s house. It still sits there, on top of the hill, covered in our illustrations. It’s starting to crumble now, with lots of ivy growing all over it. I guess concrete wasn’t very sturdy in the first place.

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Film photograph by Noa Jett

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Thursday

Maia Rosenfeld

She waits.

Waits for the rain to stop, waits for the wine to age, waits for her phone to ring.

She stands on the curb, counting the cars that whiz past and wondering when the moon will swallow the sun.

Sometimes she sings to the wind in a voice so silent it can be heard above the crickets.

She stands beneath the stars, palms outstretched, praying to the moon.

She can’t help but notice how the stars seem to jump away as she tries to hold them in her hand.

She never checks the rearview mirror, misses the exit because her eyes can’t leave the mountains on the horizon.

She sees the future through kaleidoscope glasses.

She lives in a world without Mondays.

Every day is almost Friday, every season almost summer.

She turns away from yesterday, smiles at tomorrow, and forgets today, leaving it to grow stale and moldy.

She will be happy when the bus arrives, when the fighting ends, when the paint has dried.

She will be happy next week.

Happiness is scribbled at the bottom of her untouched to-do list.

But life doesn’t come with a snooze button.

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Stable

Sophie Miller

We were clustered in the cozy cocoon of the Vietnamese restaurant next to our hospital home when my family broke down. I had no training in the art of consoling my entire family as they cried over something I could not fix. As my stable world crumbled into chaos, I looked at the steadily falling snow and thought wonderingly of my childhood, which seemed to be reaching its completion.

Five years ago on that distressing day, the crying began. It was the first Saturday of the worst treatment of my little sister’s Acute Myeloid Leukemia when my entire family seemed to fall to pieces. My mother was sobbing to me in the hospital peace garden, clutching my shoulder as I tried to maintain balance on a small wooden bridge. My grandmother cried to me over Bånh cuon at the local Vietnamese restaurant as I clutched her well-worn hands. The worst tears were those of my sister, as she endlessly sobbed without hope of relief while I held her tiny body in my arms. As I held my sister her fuzzy bald head brushed up against my arm, and I was reminded of what used to occupy the top of her head before it became a blank canvas. Before it all fell off her head in melancholy little clumps, her hair was a mess of platinum curls, little sprouts of excited hair reaching out of her skull and towards her new world.

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A few months before that day the only comforting which had been expected of me was for my friend when her cat Jean-luc went on a wild adventure. I was thrown into an adult world that had prematurely become my reality, forced, not asked, to adapt. As my sister’s hair abandoned her head my childhood left me, stuck in an unknown landscape of maturity, a network of pain which failed to end with her miraculously healthy diagnosis of remission.

A year after Joy’s treatment had finally finished, I got a job at a small local café with a large blue circle on its door, the name Square Café placed ironically in its center. While Joy had spent the past year becoming more healthy and vivacious by the second, I struggled with all the pain I had kept folded into a million pieces in the tiniest corner of my heart.

When I got this first job I felt the rejuvenation of hope, a new beginning with people who didn’t know my sister had been sick, or even my last name. I wore my big gold hoops to work and drank free raspberry iced tea with the other waitresses who were accepting and sarcastic, easier to relate to than my peers. I was dreaming again, not the nightmares of my screaming sister, but the playful dreams of silly circumstances. Adulthood had claimed my name, but instead of suffering under a laborious existence I was excited and passionate about a future that was mine to create.

As responsibility crowded my life so did possibility, and the exuberant prospect of a life I could create. My sister’s hair had altered from a mess of excited platinum curls to the dirty-blond straightness of an angry teacher’s wagging finger, just as I had abandoned my unencumbered childhood for a frightening and exhilarating future adulthood. I chose to embrace adulthood, with a brilliant hope for all the vast possibilities of my brightly shining future.

Drawing by Bill Fox

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The Coming of Spring Leah Ettensohn

The sun now stays and sets the streets aglow, Her hands once red are soft with skin so new, She hears the birds in nests, they greet with crows, To ants who crawl through grass that shines with dew.

The rose will free its leaves and hug the trees, The children peek from home with scarves of wool, Her hair so long will turn and spin from breeze, And berries red like blood she eats her full.

The year has died and led the gray to peace, He left us young with eyes so blue and wide, The eyes are ponds that fill with duck and geese, The Earth once still and mute will wake with pride.

The Earth has missed her friends who sleep and yearn,

She dresses green to celebrate their return.

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Origami sculpture by Molly Urbina

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Complex Fay Blelloch

I am flawed Flaws on my skin Flaws in my mind Thoughts that are flawed, ideas that are flawed I am the failed Euro tests and the never-ending hair tangles The smudged mascara and awkward attitude The jaggedy fingernails and waist a few sizes too big

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Film photograph by Lindsay Gorby

Maryland Avenue is flawed I am Maryland Avenue, temporary residence, left by everyone eventually Filled with cracks and potholes, dirt and grime, flooded during storms, unable to contain the flows of water I am not perfect and nor will I ever be but acceptance of oneself is the key to happiness Acceptance is difficult, yet another flaw I love too easily, fall too quickly Afraid to stand up, scared to stay down, stuck on a seesaw, unsure which way to lean, which choice to make I am made up of flaws, cracks, mistakes I am hidden I am the artist who paints a smile on a face each day to hide the hurt beneath the skin, carefully filling in the lines to assure that no one questions The strong girl who seems to be firmly standing and secure but is ready to crumble at the slightest sound Saddened by the crispness of the autumn leaves the briskness of the fall air For it brings back memories of the quiet October day that Sophia took her own life, making the decision that affected everyone around her No amount of Greek yogurt and Prantl’s star cookies could erase the hurt, the sadness that surrounded one day Not even the firm hugs or the hair caresses from best friends could take it away, only time; the never ending tick of a clock that one day would stop I am thankful Thankful for Anne and Guy who shaped me, prodded me, picked me but have formed me, taught me who I am and who I wish to be For the opportunities of summer precalc classes, voyages to Paris, basketball clinics, Thankful for my rocks-- my friends--Pie, Tootals and Cheese, the ones who keep me grounded but hold my hand, gently, softly when I need them I am thankful for the love that has been shined upon me, illuminates my soul and opens my heart Allows me to be sympathetic, empathetic and understanding I am thankful for my flaws I am thankful that I am hidden I am thankful 23

No Light for Miles, No Light to See Anastasia Landman

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No light for miles No light to see

No light for miles No light to see

Light for miles Light to see

I stumble through The darkness With nothing to Guide me Stumbling I Fall to my Hands and knees Because there’s

But wait!

In the distance I think I see I a shining light upon A hill I’m filled with joy For now I see Now there’s

I ask him why If he was with Me That he Never gave me A hand

No light for miles No light to see

Light for miles Light to see

Soon I am Exhausted I search For a place To sleep I find none Because there’s

I follow the light To the top of the Hill A man sits there By a fire Says he’s been waiting To see me Now there’s

No light for miles No light to see I stumble And fall Growing weaker With every step Finally my body Gives out And I cry out And there’s

Light for miles Light to see

He said I always gave you My hand I picked you up And put you on Your feet I guided you here To my hill To my home So I can give you a place To stay with me For eternity And he took her hand And led her into The house of eternity

Tells me his name And all about myself Says he’s known me Even before I was born Tells me he’s Been with me Every step of the way Now there’s Painting by Maggie Swartz

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Gren’s Dill Anna Vlachos

There is a monster who hides in the rock, Letting the tears drop quickly on his clock.

Rushing water absorbs his growl, Never does he leave to prowl.

His speckled eyes peek out at me, “She who hides beneath the tree, She who dares to wander free...

What dare I ask of thee?”

And I answer slow and soft, Not to disturb the monster in the rock, “O! Monster sweet and kind, What thoughts go through your gentle mind?

Do patterns fall? Do creatures crawl?

How far deep do those teardrops bawl?”

Words so wise had never been uttered, Catching the silence so softly as it fluttered.

Dearest me oh dearest my, I look the monster in the eye.

Film photograph by Rachel Dubner

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Digging for Dust

Maia Rosenfeld

They dig for dignity, they dig for pride, they dig for a place to call home.

Life becomes a side note as they struggle to stand strong against the hateful wind, backs bent with determination.

Gray sketches tell the story of a smoky past, their future is a smudge in the skyline.

The storm rolling in promises to rattle their lives.

They choke on the dust that covers their world.

A sweaty brow, a clenched fist.

A pile of dust is swept aside, then blown back with a gust of wind.

This is their dusty existence.

They have no faces.

Can’t feel, can’t speak, can’t see.

Maybe God only gives eyes to people who mean something.

I wonder if she ever cries to the stars, her tears swaying in the wind with the hem of her skirt.

I wonder if he knows that beneath his shovel lies another mile of dust.

Film photograph by Noa Jett

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Hello?

Carrie Mannino

I place the phone back in the receiver, watching it as if it might jump out again. Turning away, I begin fumbling through my book bag, pulling out my blue math notebook and bright blue calculator. I flip to the first blank page, filled with one-inch square boxes watermarked onto the onion-colored paper. Pencil in hand, I look over the problem set. The first has a circle with two tangents coming off of it and a few labeled variables. “Find x,� the directions command. I stare at the problem, then back at my empty paper. I start playing with my vision, blurring my eyes and squinting until the boxes start combining and dancing around, disappearing completely, then returning in double.

There is a pinging sort of sound, and I leap towards the phone. It lies still in its cradle, sneering at my enthusiasm. I look around and realize it was only the dishwasher signaling that it was finished. I let out a sigh and figure it is pointless to try to sit still. Maybe baking something would be better.

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I tear open the doors of the cabinet, shuffling through until I find the bag of Nestle chocolate chips. I flip it over and skim the recipe. I’ve made these cookies a million times, but the number of cups and teaspoons never seems to stick in my head. I have my hands on the highest shelf, where the brown sugar is kept, when the Mozart ringtone of our kitchen phone begins to sing. Tucking the sticky bag of sugar under my arm, I rush to the phone and press SEND.

“Hello?” I start, trying to check my voice for shaking or cracking or anything else that would sound less-than-attractive.

“Hi, honey.” My heart eases away from its pounding. It’s just my mom. “Sorry for the delay, but the meeting ran long,” she continues. “I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I reply, acrobatically twisting the bag of brown sugar out of the crook of my elbow and onto the counter one-handedly.

“What are you up to?” She asks as I rifle through the drawer full of spices, searching for the vanilla extract.

“Just baking. I was working on homework earlier.” Back to the cabinet for baking powder—no, wait, baking soda.

“That’s nice. Something yummy to look forward to when I get home!”

I laugh, walking in circles in an absent-minded search for the flour.

“Well, see you soon,” she says.

“See you!” I press the red button to hang up, and place the receiver gingerly onto the counter, in close proximity to my work area. Just in case. I realize the room is utterly lacking in tinnily-broadcasted music, so I open a tab for Pandora on my computer and try a couple of stations until I settle on one full of fast-paced, sweet-sounding alternative songs.

I grab the mixer from the closet, cursing silently at its bulk and awkwardness, trying to drop it onto the counter without catching any fingers. I pour in sugar and softened butter, singing along automatically with the cheerful voices of We the Kings. “Check yes, Juliet, are you with me, rain is falling down on the sidewalk”—I stick a pinky into the mixture to taste, mmm— “I won’t go-o, until you come outsiiiide”—I crack in a few eggs, yanking out a smidge of shell with a pointer finger before blending it all together.

I start on the dry ingredients, bobbing up and down to the instrumental riffs before beginning full-blast on the next verse. I struggle with the baking soda container, wishing it was round instead of square and had a lid instead of a ripped side. I finally dump a teaspoon into the mixing bowl. “Run baby run, don’t ever look ba-ack, they’ll tear us apart, if we---crap!”

I guess my whisking was a little too in-time with the song, because flour has puffed over the edge of the bowl and dusted my shirt, as well as the entire surface I’ve been working on. I groan and start laughing at the utter mess a little bit of flour can make. It’s like it expands as soon as it hits the air.

I create a system of dabbing up flour with a cloth in tandem with the melody, and am getting pretty darn distracted from anything of importance, when the phone begins ringing again. My heart jumps like the flour, exploding all over the place, suddenly in my ears and my fingers and my feet and my ribcage, pounding all over. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone, running to turn off the music before answering.

“Hello?”

Digital photograph by Alexandra Uribe

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Polarity Ella Rosenblatt

They are so close Close enough To reach the point When their own gravity Is infinitely larger than The pressure of outer forces And they can’t help but blend into One Two water droplets Polarity Is what draws them together Their main difference And their one similarity

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Drawing by Maggie Swartz

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Musician Luke Vacek

I am a musician first, A lover of sound.

My mind endlessly desires, To make mellifluous melodies.

When I make music, My eyes close, And in the darkness, All that’s left is the music.

The music reminds me, Despite electronic roots, Of forests, and rainstorms.

And natural beauty.

I blend the virtual with the actual, Instruments sing side by side with synthesizers.

The endless possibilities of sounds, Is what draws me to electronic music.

I am melodic dubstep.

The calming Pianos, The energetic Basses, and the beautiful super-saw pads.

Music creates a world where I can be myself, By myself.

Where I am not judged for who I am, Where I am free to be myself.

Where I am free to be my music.

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Film photgraph by Maia Rosenfeld

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Drawing by Elizabeth Siefert Drawing by Elizabeth Siefert

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O

X

F

Anna Vlachos

O

R

D

There once was a boy who sat with one foot perpendicular to the other and his hands parallel on a desk while he tapped an unappreciated rhythm on the wood with his calloused palms. This boy’s name was Oxford. His friends called him Ox. His parents called him Oxford. His girlfriend called him Oxy. He preferred Ox. Oxford liked to doodle very much. He liked to paint and color, to shade and to sketch. He was a very talented young individual who applied himself well to the arts. Unfortunately, his parents were not too happy about his unique dexterity.

Mr. and Mrs. Oxford’s parents were very intelligent human beings who preferred to spend their time reading scientific journals and trying out new recipes for chicken tikka masala. They believed that visual art was a waste of Oxford’s time and energy. They believed that he would be better off learning how to become a successful neuroscientist or chemist, not this foolish Picasso daydream that he had.

Oxford disagreed. Oxford thought that his work was more Frank Stella, not Pablo Picasso (who was the only famous artist that his parents knew). He got quite frustrated at his parent’s dubiousness about his future and started painting them in his work. He would paint their distorted shapes hanging upside down and frowning, he sketched their cookbooks and journals catching on fire and being tossed off Minas Tirith. He even tried just drawing their portraits and crossing out their faces. Oxford was not in a good place.

One day he screamed at his mother, “Why O! Why must you badger me with such insults? Doesn’t my work please you? I have moved mountains with a spot of paint and destroyed villages with another. I have sketched Charlie Chaplin moustaches on King Louis XIV and had him slay a dragon with a scimitar so sharp that the blade nearly ripped the page! Surely this must satisfy you to some degree!”

His mother tutted, “Oh hush now, Oxford, you illiterate mush.

When will you learn that the skill that you have is not a skill at all. This so-called talent of yours is not one that can bring you to success. You must find passion in something other than this ghastly tomfoolery.”

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His father agreed, “Listen to your mother, Oxford, she knows what is right! For was it not she who ascended to the highest level in her scientific career? And I, who have mastered all but one of the world’s greatest culinary tasks. Our talents, our competence in these deliberately brilliant occupations have led to you and your deliberately incompetent obsession. O! How do you expect us to be satisfied? To feel pride? When we have such a burden in our hearth?”

At this moment Oxford began to feel a pain so harrowing that he fled away from this distressful home. His heart seemed whip so violently against his chest as he ran as fast and as far as he could. The air around him seeming sharp and frozen, as if Time itself had stopped working to dispatch the ice stuck in it’s clockworks. He ran and ran until the soles of his bare feet stung from the cracked sidewalk and his calloused palms were stiff and begging for warmth. He slowed down and stopped at a brick alleyway.

There he sat down next to the dumpster bins and on rotten pavement. The only life to be seen was a weed protruding out from behind a smelly trash bag. Oxford pulled it out of the ground and threw it at the opposite wall. He sat in silence and stared. The harder he stared the harder he found it not to cry, and soon he felt the tiniest bead of tears rolling along quietly down his cheek. He coughed and a sob escaped his lungs. He was alone and he was lonely. He had no one to bear his weight with him, to tell him that his art was good and his arguments were fair. No one to wipe away his filthy tears from his filthy black jeans and whisper, “Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” And the thought of that voice made things worse. He was blubbering now, snot and tears running over him and sweat and pieces of his hair were sticking to his face. What a mess. What a cruddy, disgusting mess he was.

Oxford soon decided that he was done. He didn’t want to deal with any of this anymore. The rejection, the pain, the desolate feeling in the pit of his stomach when his mother criticized his life. He decided he was gonna sit here, behind the dumpsters, next to the pathetic weeds, and in his own crumpled self forever. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Oxford drew forth a pen from his jacket and started drawing on his arm. When his arm was covered he moved to his legs, then his other arm, his feet, his stomach and chest. He doodled and sketched until he couldn’t no more. Then he put the pen back in his pocket, still shivering from the vitriolic cold and closed his eyes.

They found him the next morning.

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Unrequited Molly Campbell

The jacket you gave me on that cold November night has never been washed.

I just wanted to be close to you.

We live in a big city but I cannot seem to break free of your heart beat.

It has been three months since the last time I saw your face.

I have every part of it memorized.

The way your skin creases by your blue eyes when you smile.

How your eyes blink slowly when you are tired and the way you looked at me.

The smell of your room cigarettes and Abercrombie cologne is something I will never forget.

It is burned inside of me because of the moments we shared in your small white walled room.

There has been so much between you and me and I am sorry for everything I put you through.

I never intended to be just a memory.

I wanted to be the one who saved you but I had to do Drawing by Elizabeth Siefert what was right for me.

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Sparks of your Life

To my Grandfather

Alexa Lehman

From laboring in a deathly steel mill so precisely, Adjusting the heat of the fiery, molten steel so exactly, Beads of sweat run down your face, falling onto the cold concrete floor To reconstructing antique cars so meticulously they looked like new, Chevy’s, Fords, and Thunderbirds held so much meaning to you, I wish you knew how many traits we share.

I’ve heard time and time again that you were particular, Insisting that even the grass was cut in a certain pattern each time, Keeping your room full of car replicas tidy and neat, Blue Thunderbirds and Red Corvettes Line wood-paneled walls of the room, They long for the man, who was so passionate, Who was given so much joy by sheer sight of them.

Your room continues to be one of my favorite places in grandma’s house.

You lived with a spark throughout your life, Sparks of blazing steel flinging across the mill in a disorganized frenzy, Working with car parts from carburetors, mufflers, spark plugs, Even retaining your spark through your sickness, No one imagined you fighting through for that long.

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Doctors decided to remove a lung, An organ so vital to any person’s life.

It was in the operating room that surgeons realized, The true extent of your cancer, which threatened Your life by reaching the pulmonary artery.

Faith and prayer brought you through miraculously.

But the scars, both mental and physical, You carried with you for the rest of your life.

Grandma told me, on your bad days, you said breathing with only one lung, Was like breathing through a straw.

Still so strong, As you took over the job of working the stove, When you were no longer capable of being the sole provider.

Filled with so much life and spirit, In a time when many would have given up hope.

I keep my fondest moments with you close to heart.

Splashing around in the baby pool I loved so much, Sitting on the tractor with you in the garage, Having you push me on the swing you hung on the maple tree, Are all but faded memories.

And I can only wonder, Are you proud of the person I am becoming?

Digital photograph by David Friedman

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The Mouse EJ Eppinger

A mouse walks across the road in front of me, its tail glistening in the moon-

light, taunting me with its freedom, not being bound to a spouse. I envy that mouse.

It has nothing to nag him in his life: No real problems. Just a dumb bliss of simple thoughts and desires, all of which are easily attainable. I’d like to think of humanity

like Charlie Gordon from Flowers for Algernon. We became more stressed and unhappy with intelligence.

My husband became enraged the other day because I was no longer being an

acceptable wife. Ever since I retired, he expects to maintain the house in perfect order (because it is the 1950s and men are the only conscience beings on the face of the earth). When we were first married, he was sweet and loving. He showed me that the only way life was worth living was by the seat of your pants.

Life was perfect, or at least it was in comparison to now, until the war. Society

said that the US needed to go to Vietnam. Being naive, he went, unsuspecting of what the future would hold. He was in the Air Force and started flying missions a year after he was drafted. Two months later when I heard the news; it broke my heart. In the two years he was missing, I lived like I hadn’t for five years. When he finally returned, all lop-shouldered from being hung for months on end, he had changed, hardened by the walls constructed inside his brain to protect him from the horrors that he had experienced in the North’s prison. At first, I was overjoyed to see him; I can’t believe that I felt bad, having done what I did in his absence. But looking back, I realized that they were the best years of my life.

Whenever I finally confronted him about his behavior, he just said, “Look at

yourself...you are a wreck: career in ruin, trouble raising the kids, an outrageously audacious attitude, and the gall to confront me for acting ridiculous.” But I was confronting him for the way that he had changed while in that prison. The change is that it made him more like me, a reflection of me. Before, he was the leash that kept me out of trouble. Now, we are two pit bulls with no one to look after us.

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Film photograph by Elizabeth Siefert

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44

I AM

Jack Waters

I am the first line of a poem before anything is really said. The first page in a book before anything is really read. The first bar in a song before anything is really sung. I was who I was and I am who I’ve become.

I am the embodiment of perfection, and self deception. The eyes staring back at their reflection. I am the product of rejection and the hate that hate created. I am where I am and I’m thankful that I made it.

I am the first one up and the last one in. I am the faithful nonbeliever that avoids committing sin. I am the morality found from deep within. I am the last finishing touches before the show begins. I am who I am and I have found my kin.

I am unsure, raised in the dark and pierced by the light. Never told what was wrong, just had to learned what was right. My eyes see well, but they sting when in sight and I cannot imagine peace when a muzzled dog wishes to bite. I am who I am and I am in the fight.

I am the last song in your favorite record. I am the final words in a thought provoking lecture. Who are you to say I am weak? I am who I am, and I know what I seek.

Film photograph by Ua Hayes

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Mirror

Anastasia Landman

I look upon a mirror I’ve heard this mirror will bring beauty I ask it to bestow its powers upon me I stare in the cold reflection Of the cracked and tarnished surface And wait I wait for a lifetime A lifetime of staring I finally turn from that mirror Away from the cracked and tarnished surface I turn to see a man He had white hair and beard He had a smile on his face He asked “what are you doing?”

I tell him of the magic mirror He laughs at me And hugs me Tells me I’m a foolish child He looks me in the eye and tells me, "Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, but the beauty inside is forever” He says I am beautiful inside and out I thank the man We part ways from that cracked and tarnished surface I leave that mirror On a perfect pathway With no flaws Digital art by Summer Devlin

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X-Ray

Krithika Pennathur

Soft sensitivity radiates the page, With pieces of the soul, Splattered within the strange spectrum Of neon colors In the mist of the canvas, Paint strokes Breathe sharply As they are added, One by one.

The outer surface, Adopts a human figure.

The human figure, Appears to be pure, Pure as the unaltered ocean, Or as a newborn child enters the world.

A real personality emerges-Her whole hearted laugh, With her kind eyes, And the freckled nose, Come from her intricate facial features.

Her style is impeccable, From head to toe.

She is beautiful, But she is hidden.

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Her hidden part, Is beaming within her heart, She claims to be happy, And content with her looks, But her images fades, As her flaws emerge, Tears brim her eyes, And her smile looks crooked, And underneath her winter clothing, Her body is filled with scars, And her brain is filled with thoughts, Thoughts that reflect pain Thoughts that make us want to scream Thoughts that make us want to be released from the world, And adopt a new role.

She is impure.

But she is like her artist.

Her artist painted her To reflect her own sorrow And to see her reflection.

They are both dynamic, intricate, passionate-Yet they are unsatisfied, So they deceive.

Deception kills us all, Internally and externally, By revealing woven layers Layers like an x-ray.

An x-ray that seems to tell whether you have a broken bone, But at a second look it is indecisive.

Complication, mishap, madness you may call it, But it is true, Within art and the artist.

Film photograph by Rachel Dubner

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How to Be A Writer Abigail Wollam

I can get you drunk enough to infect your bloodstream with demons that you run from during the day.

Seeing you kick, scream, and shy away from ingrained fears sets fire to a page, flames lapping just below the suface.

Find what freezes your bones to stone and invite it home to tea.

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Relay that screaming you hear in your head when the world is silent, surrounding you utterly and completely.

Scratch and itch your paper and the walls around you, begging for mercy as you become the scribe for the thieves, the beggars, and the lusters that reside in your organs.

Break down walls and barriers that separate you from everyday pain and emotion.

Sensitise yourself .

Open up to feel it; wrap around your pen and relate it.

Digital photograph by Sean Holmes

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Salmon

Maia Rosenfeld

We used to eat salmon on Wednesdays.

My mother told the story of the little fish who wanted to be eaten so badly that he swam from the sea, up the pipes, through the bathtub drain, and all the way to the kitchen table, so he could be served on our cracked red plates beside green beans and mashed potatoes.

My sister said the story was true, so my brother and I finished our dinners without complaint.

But soon the salmon stopped swimming, dinners came from the microwave, not the ocean, and I began to doubt the determination of that little fish.

My sister cried when we pulled away from the dorm, leaving a piece of our puzzle lost between the cushions of someone else’s couch.

That night I watched tears roll down my mother’s cheeks as she stroked my forehead and made me promise to never leave home.

I wondered if the little fish would be able to swim all the way to college-it was far for such a small pair of fins.

My brother leaves next, without a trail of bread crumbs.

I set the table with five cracked red plates, habits die hard and instincts die harder.

I must have forgotten napkins, or maybe the table is missing a leg.

Something is incomplete, unstable.

Maybe that’s why the fish doesn’t come anymore.

We sit in this big empty house that misses its children, misses the bustle and the chatter and even how my sister left the door unlocked and my brother left the stove on.

If home is really where the heart is, then maybe my home is in this poem.

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Maybe these words are my roof and the paper my door that keeps out the future.

Maybe this rhythm is my family; it slows down, speeds up, keeps on beating like our bewildered hearts.

On Friday night we light the Shabbat candles, two for God and one for each of his angels, miles away--who cannot feel the warmth of these flames on my face, cannot taste the bittersweet wine that pours from the golden kiddush cup, cannot lose themselves in the melody of prayer flowing from our mouths and twisting into an endless sea of hope.

This is the shadow of a family.

The Thanksgiving leftovers--a bite of reheated turkey, a slice of pumpkin pie.

We are the fingers of a hand, once cupped, now widespread.

Water pours through the cracks.

We were a family.

We are a family, fraying along the seams but still woven together.

Last Wednesday I found my mother’s salmon recipe, cooked dinner for five and set the table for three.

But my father had to work and my mother was too tired.

They forgot about the little fish who had braved an upstream journey to make an appearance on our table.

It’s Wednesday night.

I think I’ll just make a bowl of cereal.

Film photograph by Lilah Hiliard

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Drawing by Jessie Zhang

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Sonnet

Jessica Wittig

The words are formed in thine eyes not your mouth, And hearts will ache in time and none can stop the way in which you unknowingly go south.

Escaping your untruths to get on top How you seem to live like a God Is past my own concept of real and fake; In time you’ll find your world will soon be flawed

By Love and Truth and all that is Great No soul you see will ever be able to trust the likes of you and your selfish conduct; thy heart and mind will bleed and cry in just For lies will not be held in forms of luck.

Beyond your pain there must be righteousness No one should walk without any brightness

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Fear, Fight, Fate Molly Campbell

When asking someone what his/her biggest fears are, common responses include

insects, animals, and failure. My biggest fear has been deep rooted inside me since I was in seventh grade. The fear is not something physical, but something that forms inside of us. Being afraid of something like this is hard to explain because some people have never dealt with it. This fear is so strong it wakes me up at night with thousands of questions overwhelming my mind. Strugling with accepting my fear of Alzheimer’s disease is difficult when I see it killing someone right in front of my eyes.

When I was growing up, my grandmother never forgot anything. She would remem-

ber where I put my toys and that I liked to eat applesauce every day. When my grandfather would lose his keys, my grandmother would hand them to him with a smile on her face because she always kept track of everything. She had an incredible mind and I was mesmerized by it. Starting middle school was when I realized my grandmother started to become forgetful. At first, she forgot little things, like getting laundry out of the dryer and making the beds.

I thought about the possibility of her having Alzheimer’s, but I did not want to admit it.

Eventually, the things she would forget became such a problem that my parents and I started talking about the possibility of her no longer being able to live independently. The moment that we decided she could not live on her own anymore was when she left a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove for so long that the smoke alarm went off. My parents and I took my grandmother to a doctor, and after a few tests, it was confirmed that she had Alzheimer’s disease. Knowing that my fear had come true was terrifying.

After moving my grandmother into an assisted living home, my parents and I had

to sell her house. By the time I was a freshman in high school, the house was sold and my grandmother had adjusted to life in the home. Everyone in my family had accepted the daunting reality of my grandmother’s disease but me. I would hide in my room and refuse to see my grandmother. I could not bear to see her as a shell of the woman she once was.

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Running away from my problems was something I always did, but never to this extent. Looking back, I cannot imagine how hard it was on my grandmother to not see me for so long. My parents understood that I was dealing with the tragedy in our family in my own way. After a few months, I came to terms with the fact that my grandmother would soon forget who I was.

I started going to see her with my parents every two weeks and that helped me a lot. Knowing that my grandmother was happy living in the world her mind had created gave me peace.

Even though she confused my dad with her brother on most visits, seeing her smiling face made me realize that I cannot waste anymore time not seeing her.

Now, fast forward to my senior year of high school. As I am writing this, my grandmother is ninety years old and will be turning ninety-one in a few months. I still visit her every two weeks with my parents and cherish the time I have left with her. Even though my grandmother has forgotten my name, she recognizes my face and the feeling of love she evokes is still there. I have come to terms with my grandmother’s fate of death from this horrible disease.

Seeing the happiness my visits bring her is what keeps bringing me back to the assisted living home and what enables me to accept the fear I once had.

Painting by Lucy Chen

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Digital photograph by Cecily Milligan

The Beast Summer Devlin

Like all other true beasts, it had its illusions: colorful skins and dyes for its hair and hide, belts and cloths and ropes and canvases to keep it upright, scented water to mask its scent, even a whale bone comb for its hair. All in all, it was not without the niceties of refined society. It had been taught to stand and walk upright, speak prettily, hold the pen and the fork as well. And yet, it had not been even remotely broken from its ancestral traits. It had been born knowing how to hate, and maim, and what it was to die. It had coveted things, and imagined taking them by means it understood deep in its twitching muscles and belligerent tissues. It had never tasted true flesh, eaten raw and untainted by the culinary process, but such tastes spoke to it in dreams.

The beast understood neither bravery nor cowardice but was possessed of the sort of cleverness that is least approved of in opinions of any merit: the sort that lends itself to scheming and waiting, groveling and lying, hiding and creeping upon one’s belly until one is strong enough to brutalize the enemy. It was the sort of cleverness that villains of the literary variety clung to, who where nobly defeated by its failings. But only because they were trapped in their paper worlds were they defeated, for otherwise such strategies often bring dishonorable victory down on the head of their bearer. The beast itself was clever enough to conceal its cleverness, for one can’t go about flaunting such forbidden things. Only a fool goes about being clever in the open air.

Its peers walked in row and file, politely pretending that they did not see the beast, when it occasionally lapsed back into its ungraceful lumbering. To them it was a project to be improved, and I assure you dear reader that improvement is always possible, even in the most hopeless of cases. However, the beast saw nothing in itself that needed to be cropped down, stitched up, or carefully painted over. It was fit and healthy of body and mind, as vivacious and ugly as befitted a beast of its age. And thus it sought out times to be without the shackles of pleasant company, to cast of its mincing gait and stride about, a merry shadow licking at its heels. Unenlightened as it was, it resented its wellwishers, and inwardly bristled when they insisted on pandering to it with the pet name of ‘human’.

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Lonely

Abigail Wollam

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I took a walk with tumbleweed Under our friend the sun.

I felt the clouds point and laugh; I had lost all that I loved.

The trees that sang the forest light Stood guarding as we passed.

Mud that had once hugged my boots Was dry and tightly packed.

A meadow once strewn with lavender, Now lay bare under my feet.

I crouch down, on my knees, With my dear friend tumbleweed.

Digital photograph by Aki Nace

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On the Brink Ella Rosenblatt

I’m standing behind this curtain I’m afraid for when it swishes aside I’m standing feet below the top I’m afraid to take the last few steps I’m standing on the edge of the ocean I’m afraid to take the risk and dive I’ll stand and wait forever On the brink of the rest of my life I’ll stand and wait for so long I won’t remember I’m alive So tomorrow I’ll slash the curtain Unafraid of the blinding lights I’ll run to the very peak Unafraid of the dizzying height I’ll drench myself in the seven seas Unafraid of the wicked pirates

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Drawing by Aki Nace

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The Peddler

of Dreams

Summer Devlin

He coasted into the city on a rusty velocipede, with a cart, black as a polished casket, herded relentlessly onward by the front wheel. In one clawed hand, he held a black and white checked umbrella, whose crooked obsidian dome completed his moving fortress. Upon his face was a mask, and though all saw it, none could quite agree upon its appearance. Some saw a red and white harlequin piece, others a grimacing demon made one of wood, gold, and ivory, and others still shuddered at the sight of a great black silk bird’s outline, as worn by the plague doctors of old. In his wake followed men, women, and children of all sorts, the poor tripping on the tailcoats of the rich, and the little lords and ladies stumbling over the children of the desolate.

And the peddler laughed, and threw up his arms before the crowd as his velocipede ground to a halt. He fixed the umbrella to the front of the cart like a shield, and threw open one of the liquid black doors, revealing its contents: vials upon vials of thin glass, full of an amorphous substance, colored in exotic shades indescribable in that gray city. It swirled about in its glasses without prompting, glittering from its depths as it did so.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present, the wonder of our times! The miracle of dreams, captured, refined, and bottled for your enjoyment. Travel to distant lands and witness the beasts that live there! See all the wonders of this world, and even others!

Every luxury and convenience, every pleasure imaginable, all right here at your fingertips.

And only three pence each, to boot.”

And the people on the streets rushed to the cart, squabbling and squawking like geese, their famished hands pecking and grabbing at the air. The peddler strutted in between them like a pheasant, shouting over the throng. “Dear sir, could I interest you in some of this miracle elixir? Or perhaps you miss, I could cut the price for someone so lovely.” And thus the cart was emptied, every glittering bottle obscured by the vulgar pinkish flesh of a hand, stowed in linty pockets, or carried home by the armful. Within an hour the merchandise had spread itself far and wide across the city, until it softly coalesced in the medicinal cabinet of each and every home.

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That night, dreams ruled the city in a tremendous chaotic empire. The urchins in the alleyways laughed silently, seized by visions of royalty. The bored dreamed of adventure, the hungry of feasts, and the lonely of company. It was a glorious night to be alive, and in a way not, the mind taking over the body and fulfilling the desires that the world had refused to grant.

When a misty pink dawn dripped down from the horizon, it did not see the usual residents of the city. The bustle that ruled even in the earliest hours was entirely absent. Only the silver flickering of pigeons proved that there was still life left in this deserted land. As time passed, the nests of the pigeons grew into colonies. Their white downy feathers covered the streets like snow. They were alone with the crumbling stone buildings and glass windows, misted with the heady breath of dreamers. For the original people of the city had never returned to the harsh grey world after experiencing the living color of dreams. Even to this day they can be seen, lying silent in their beds, pupils darting to a fevered reverie of which the living know nothing.

And the man who wrought such disaster or such paradise, he coasted on to the next city, humming quietly and laughing to himself. The smile upon his face was very small, and all the more terrible for its subtlety. For in the end, his was a face people trusted and put their faith in. They were convinced that the mask covering his features was concealing utopia, the very paradise they stretched their arms out to grab every day, only to have their grubby fingers trampled as it retreated out of reach. He adjusted his mask ever so slightly, covering the sliver of pale, unhealthy skin that had been momentarily revealed. And thus the world slumbered on, and the lithe forms of the peddler and his cart dwindled until they disappeared entirely into the grisly red dawn.

Collage by Joshua Siktar

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I Am What I Am Drew Klein

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Film photograph by Noa Jett

I am what I am I am a snow covered mountain with wind blowing through my hair.

I am going by at the speed of light I am what I am The bowl calls me while I mix non stop.

I am the chocolate chip in the cookie dough which melts in my mouth.

I am what I am The object that hangs from my neck reminds me, of me.

The heritage which stays with me all my life.

Its a hand close to my heart.

I am what I am.

I am the older sibling someone to look up to.

Responsible, helpful, caring.

Always able to put a smile on someones face.

I am what I am I am part of a family.

Strong, lively, loving.

I am one of 3.

The glue.

The tape.

I am what I am I am a brush with a free range of thought.

Color moving on a page, creating emotion, feeling.

I am how I am and who knows who I will be.

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Digital Art by Manoli Epitropoulos

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Figure by Carly Heywood Digital art by Manoli Epitropoulos

To Grammy Sean Holmes

I’ve never been to Miami, what was it like?

It’s changed, like all things.

Your father’s club, secretly a speakeasy, is gone.

The music has died down and the taps have stopped flowing Mellon Arena, here in Pittsburgh, is gone, too.

I know you loved going to the Pens games.

Dad loves the beach, just like you did And Thomas has one of your bracelets in his dresser.

Dad shares your love of Poodles. and wanted to get one when Thomas and I asked for a dog.

We gather around and gaze at the TV broadcasting The Westminster Dog Show every year.

The same as you did.

It’s changed, like all things.

I never knew you met Granddad on a blind date.

What was he like when you first locked eyes with him?

What did you two chatter about?

There’s a picture of you downstairs, Next to one of Granddad, and below Dad and Aunt ‘Nee. Your head tilted slightly to the side.

A pearl smile caught right at its apex.

Dad said that when you were younger you looked like Audrey Hepburn.

I can see the resemblance, the look, the flair, the glamour.

I look a lot like dad.

Sometimes my stubble grows in red just like his hair.

I wish you were still around.

It’s a shame we never got to talk to each other.

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Chapter

Carrie Mannino

I picture myself somewhere loud, a place where the night is brighter than the day and the air feels crisp and fresh and even though you know a million other people breathe it in you feel like this breath is just for you.

I imagine I’ll be reading, learning, writing in the small alcoves of my drafty shoebox.

The smell of vanilla and melted butter will permeate the hundred-year-old walls and flour fingerprints will dash the cabinets in snowy cascades and every morning I’ll drag myself out of bed unwillingly but it’ll be worth it.

I’ll walk into the grimy tiled basin that sits below six-lane streets, hear the roar of that monster tamed by the electric third rail, stand alongside the tired mothers facing another day’s work, the rich workers who can’t understand their emptiness, the excited hopefuls like myself.

Music will echo off the walls, a different flavor every day, peppered and sweetened and raw, tasting of the tunnels that never quiet.

The air will rush past me, brakes creaking, and depending on the time of day I’ll sit on plastic tubs or press against the jam-packed bodies clinging to clammy metal bars and door frames and the luggage pulls hanging down from the ceiling.

I’ll feel the stories surrounding me, the stories of people I’ll never know and people I’ll see every morning but whose names I’ll never ask.

And in that city that never sleeps I’ll write my story, or maybe somebody else’s, or maybe a little of both, and I’ll be imagining again, and breathing.

I envision it’ll be different from now, I’ll sit in my bedroom, watch the colored walls vibrantly lift me away from a doubt in myself, in the world.

I’ll be surrounded by people, just a few, but they’ll be real, not the paper kind that bend and rip and disappear when you reach into their carbon shell.

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And on the days when there’s too much to do and I don’t have enough time, and on nights when there’s enough silence to fill the whole snowglobe city, and when the happiness bubbling inside of me needs a place to spread, I’ll have someone to call.

And in that big empty skyline, someone will listen.

Folded book by Molly Campbell

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Cold Fur Noah James

Film photograph by Noa Jett

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Hearing the frigid gray sound

Of snow too white Falling

On snow far too red

And reaching down Where the color A glaring crimson Is the deepest

Brushing aside powdery snow Knowing that I didn’t really want to know

Our eyes met For but a brief moment And out came its dying whisper Its last breath But it’s eyes stayed open

I put the snow back On innocent black and white fur Which had surely seen warmth And surely missed it

I closed its eyes A piercing blue They stared through me A soul now colder than the corpse You’d think it could still bark It looked like it could

The snow kept falling

As loud as I ever heard it

The noise of cold white innocence

Meeting the reality of the ground

Was as deafening as the anger

Screaming a hole through my Skull

I learned that day Tears don’t vanquish blood out from snow Time does

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Powder Blue Bed Sophie Miller

So you bought everything they sold you in high school, and you’re still searching for

that Great Perhaps. Well wake up darling. I hope that while you slept in your powder blue bed with mom’s freshly made sheets you dreamed of hell, because you have arrived. As you spiral down to our depths you will learn to live as we do, with dreams that have evaporated as quickly as the devil’s tears. You will learn to live in a world where hopeful pink roses have long been tinged by a disparaging mold. As their petals crumple and disintegrate you will watch in morbid fascination, your own ruin tilting your head back in a condemning laugh. Find peace in your degeneration.

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Film photograph by Taylor Thomas

Sonnet Sofia Rella

“The greatest fear someone should have is time, For time goes by and brings us lots of change.

We must stay joyful as we’re in our prime, Because it’s certain that we will all age.

Before looking forward we must see now.

Ask “Who am I?” and “Who will I soon be?”

Life’s far too short to always wonder how; Sorrow chains you down- smile and you’ll be free.

Identity is hard to figure out.

What others see is only one small part; No one but you knows what you’re all about.

Knowing oneself gives them a big head-start.

Live fully and keep fighting ‘till you win, For time eats lives as soon as lives begin.”

Digital photgraph by Anastasia Landman

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Then

Sophie Miller

Finding hope was the sweetest melody Dark feathered wings Brought me beautiful insanity And I died Only to be reborn In the blinding sun

Regret

Sophie Miller

You were the first To populate my overindulgent dreams And you are the last Thought in my head Before I fall asleep Film photograph by Elizabeth Siefert

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You arrive in Galveston with 1,000 sheep that you’re about to drive north. Not too long ago you were on a ship headed to a land filled with mystery, now you carry on with that hope that you must lead those sheep to a land of mystery that carries hope but no promises. You have dirt on your face from the sheep kicking up dust in the heat of the hill country. Much like the soot that covered your face as a boy coming on a ship from Ireland, willing to go through anything to get to your ideal destination. You will taste failure twice before you ever taste success. You have Indians to fend off, drought, floods, and coyotes threatening to take away everything you’ve established. This has pushed you to the point of almost giving up. You still carry on with that hope that you can sustain this ranch that carries hope but no promises. That New York banker must have had some nerve to give you two extra loans in order to persuade you to stay. I have to ask you what made this quick-witted banker so convincing? The immigrant boy is now a hard-nosed Irishman who’s grown into one of the pioneers of ranching on the vast frontier known as Texas. I can imagine you speaking in what’s evolved into a Texan accent with grit to that hotel clerk that you fired and bought a hotel from one night. You made it known to him that you don’t mess with Texas. There are so many things you don’t know, like the fact that your ranch is still standing and that I carry on your name. All your life there were things you didn’t know, but your gut instinct is what propelled you into success and built your fortune and legacy. You were that lone star that lead those sheep over the rolling hills of big sky country.

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Lone Star State of Mind Will Farnsworth

Digital photograph by Anastasia Landman

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Awakening Existence Kristin Kozar

The ground is moist, our imprint makes a mark.

A trail unfolds and we follow the path.

The trees are tall and shadows form at dark.

A clearing makes the sky an open gash.

A silhouette of stars is shining bright, A fire is lit, and s’mores are heating up.

The treat is warm, our sight is gone at night, The fire is dim and soon our sweet is done.

The dipper scoops the moonlight from the clouds, We sit on separate logs, there’s magic here!

The fire crackles, the lonely grey wolf howls.

We jump and laugh and we no longer fear.

The flashlight up above shines for our sight, The earth is still; we must walk with the light.

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Pottery by Stephanie Skelly

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A Place of Divine Nature Matthew Moore

Art by Joshua Siktar

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The warm sound of my father’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. “ I have something for you” he says as he hands a CD to me. “I thought you might like this.” I stare at this peculiar looking fellow gazing at me from the album cover. I read quietly to myself “ Jimi Hendrix.” I hand it back to my father, who pops it into the CD player. My ears wide open, a brief moment of silence as the disk loads. Then a wall of sonic fuzz rips me out of my seat and into a dimension of elastic color and abstract shapes. I can feel a wonderful burning in the bottom of my stomach, a beautiful and surreal warmth that at five years old I have never felt before. This sound is different than all the music I have ever listened to. This sound doesn’t bounce off my eardrums; it seems to hit me right in the heart where it makes itself at home. My reality is forever changed.

I had known for a year before my encounter with this extraordinary sound that I wanted to play the guitar. But I had a very acute sense of the guitar; I could only see it as a beautifully crafted piece of wood with strings. After hearing Mr. Hendrix I realized that the guitar could be anything I wanted it to be. And this comforted me.

I decided I would teach myself. I struggled at first. I couldn’t seem to get my ear and fingers to cooperate. I could only fantasize about the places I wanted to take my music. After months of constant playing, I started to get it. All the hours of practicing, listening, and attempting to play to Hendrix, Zeppelin, and countless other records paid off. I finally could start to piece together my own sound and music, and participate in a broader musical community.

As I grew in to a teenager the music gave me a place to fit in. It gave me comfort and distraction from whatever was going on, whether it was family dilemmas or social problems at school. No matter what happened I could escape to sonic landscapes, or to the dusty porch of a quiet Mississippi farmhouse belonging to a blues titan. This was a paradise like no other. It was a place better than home, one of an organic and divine nature. The only place that I wanted to be.

The sound of my father’s sharp voice snaps me out of my mindless trance of routine.

“It’s three in the morning, go to bed,” he says bluntly as he disappears through the black hole that is the hallway. I look at the clock on the wall: 3:08 exactly. The grim reality sets in that I have work in four hours. I finally allow my bloody and calloused fingers to let go of my guitar.

I realize that I have been playing since about five this afternoon. I stand up to go to my bedroom, and the weight of a full day’s work pushes down on my shoulders. I head for the door, but before I turn the lights out I take a second to admire the guitars, amplifiers, CDs, and records that inhabit my floor. As I finally crawl into bed, I feel a sense of accomplishment. Music bounces around the walls of my cranium. As I slowly fade away into sleep, one last thought creeps into my mind: “I hope I dream in music tonight.”

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The Pitfalls of Seeing Double Joshua Siktar

Glance upon this mirror, Right in front of you.

This mirror, the one you tiredly gaze into every which way.

You try to ensure you look tidy and polished, Lest your friends laugh at you for a bad hair day.

Apart from the steam that fogs up your mirror, A mirror image of yourself will befall your eyes.

While you may think this is your twin, Beware these thoughts that deceive the masses; Calling this anything but an image is a virulent sin.

“Twin” has yet to mean “identical;” The term “identical” is but an illusion.

Sure, twins’ outsides may be the same, But are they identical? No! Their insides burn with the nonconformity flame.

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Painting by Lily Nguyen

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Maia Rosenfeld

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Let me introduce you to the organic me.

Free of pesticides and preservatives, stamped and certified.

You saw me in the farmer’s market on Monday, the one in the parking lot of the zoo where the sellers know my grandmother and the rain washes away my mother’s mascara.

I am unfiltered, uncut, unprocessed, unbleached flour kneaded into doughy candor.

I am raw with passion.

I am whole milk, rough drafts, fresh tears, the film you forgot to develop.

I leak potential.

I am Cinderella’s pumpkin after midnight, orange with simplicity, honesty, disappointment.

I am locally grown, born and bred in a blue city with a matte finish.

I am April and Wednesday and the moments before a thunderstorm.

I am unhemmed skirts and creamless coffee.

I am your cat’s rough tongue against your palm and the sting of a grade before the curve.

I am the look in your father’s eyes when you told him you wanted to be a writer.

I am unabridged, the real deal.

No Autotune in my melody, no CliffNotes summary for these four hundred pages of truth.

I am all-natural, freshly squeezed, no added sugar.

Your tongue has to search for my non-artificial sweetness.

I am organic, overpriced and still on the shelf.

Collage by Carly Heywood

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Hope

Abigail Wollam

The time after the sun goes down Before the dark sets in, The colour of the atmosphere Emitted from her lips.

The moons envied her glowing skin And shadows grasped at her light.

No matter how the weather wore, That bird kept her alive.

A dove with snowy wings, Shimmering, here and there.

The girl named it “Hope” Because it never disappeared.

The cold used its blade As the darkness held her still.

Shadows hushed the moon But the bird sat and trilled: Notes for the morning, A dusky, purple, calm.

The whistle of a kettle Reasons to live on.

Film photograph by Maggie Swartz

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Numb Love Emma Famili

He t o l d me He w as d r u nk I n l o ve I wonder I f h e w o u l d get So b e r O f f me

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Pa inting b y Wa nya n M a

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Smile

Summer Devlin

I am sure If I was possessed of A better smile, Then surely I would be beautiful My mouth pulled to my temples, Flexible skin stretching and coiling, Muscles forced back, revealing Rows upon rows upon rows Of slender white ivory, needles of teeth Glistening and bristling Back towards a yawning pink gullet Perhaps I shall grow great fangs, Yellowing like the tusks of mastodons, Their grooves and hollows flowing like unearthly white rivers, From the warped and aching gums Past my jaw line, Down to my collarbones: protruding from under my skin My skeleton forcing itself to the surface A red stain upon my lips, crusting to black Near the curved outer edges of my Glorious, unforgettable smile

Drawing by Karen Ou

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letter from the editor

This has been another whirlwind of a year, but isn’t every year? Much to our surprise, the staff grew dramatically. (There is a

picture below, taken by Rachel Dubner.) My two coeditors, Summer and Molly, and I spent much of the year training our new members and teaching them the ins and outs of the process. We were fortunate enough to receive a newer edition of the Adobe Suite, but it took some getting used to. Overall, I think the Plaid cohort is stronger than ever and, with the addition of our new members, will continue to be an integral part of the Winchester Thurston community for years to come.

For the second year in a row, we held a contest to generate excitement for the magazine. It was an overwhelming success;

the contest submissions, plus a few stragglers, numbered well over one hundred. There were six categories: 3D art, digital art/photography, drawing, painting, poetry, and prose. The winners (respectively) are: Molly Urbina (’16), Elizabeth Siefert (’15), Jessie Zhang (’16), Wanyan Ma (’16), Noah James (’15), and Anna Vlachos (’16). The winners are also noted in the table of contents.

We started brainstorming theme ideas back in September. The contest was so successful that we were able to close

submissions by late January. We had so many entries, however, that we could not fit them all in the magazine. We were very impressed by the overall quality of the submissions. After that came one of my favorite parts of the process: pairing the visual and written submissions. Finally, we spent much of March and April working on layouts.

For the past three years, Plaid has provided me with an outlet to express my creativity and meet like-minded people. It has

given me a break from the frenetic rush of high school. Plaid is unique among school clubs in that it brings together people from different social circles to share their love of art and writing. It has indeed been quite the whirlwind, but a very rewarding one as well. I can’t wait until next year to start the process anew!

With love, Noa Jett Editor-in-chief

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Digital photograph by David Friedman

mission statement

Plaid is meant to represent the abundant creative capabilities of the students at Winchester Thurston School. It aims to

celebrate student artistry. It is a place for exploration, a place for the upending of expectations. Plaid receives many more submissions than it can fit within its pages but attempts to highlight as many pieces as possible. Dedicated to representing our varied students’ voices and in the spirit of inclusivity, Plaid is a forum for personal expression, discourse, and communication. It is a celebration of artistic visions and the minds that produce them.

staff notes

Plaid Delta is the realization of the deliberate and dedicated efforts of many. Editors Noa Jett, Summer Devlin, and Molly

Campbell worked alongside staff members Aki Nace, Alexandra Uribe, Carrie Mannino, Cecily Milligan, David Friedman, Drew Klein, Ella Rosenblatt, Lilah Hilliard, Lindsay Gorby, Maia Rosenfeld, Margaret Rizk, Margaret Swartz, Sara Fierstein, Sean Holmes, Sophia Miller, Taylor Thomas, and Ua Hayes, creating layouts, generating artistic insight, and crafting a coherent magazine.

colophon

Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Delta was created using

Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6. All text was set in Ebrima. Body text was set in size 12, attributions in size 11, and

titles in size 20. Plaid is a free publication, available to all students and faculty at Winchester Thurston School. It is created entirely by

its student staff. All Winchester students are encouraged to submit all forms of art and literature. Submissions are chosen by the staff based on quality, length, and available space, while featuring as many types of pieces and students as possible. All non-digital work is either scanned into the computer as a digital file, or photographed digitally. Plaid is an award-winning member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Council of Teachers of English.

thanks

Plaid would like to thank everyone who submitted creative works and everyone who supports the magazine. We are

indebted to Mr. John Charney, Mr. David Kallis, and Mr. David Piemme for their technical support and assistance. We are also deeply grateful to Ms. Sharon McDermott for her guidance this year. She has been an invaluable resource in the creative process and a

wonderful advisor. The pizza and snacks are much appreciated. We would like to give a special thanks to Jesse Flati for donating his time to help us. Finally, thank you to Mr. Dave Gilbreath and Mercury Printing, Inc. for making the publication of this magazine a reality.

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