Paid 2015: Synesthesia

PLAID MAGAZINE VOLUME LVIII 2015

Synesthesia

A link between one sensory pathway and another—a union between separate senses, and a visualization of ideas. It is when sound becomes scent and scent becomes a field of starts.

There is an explosion of color hidden behind each letter on the white page. It is the understanding that there is always something below the surface, something more to perceive. In the end, it is the realization that no two senses are truly separate: nothing exists in isolation.

1

Table of Contents

Literature

Artistic Soul Ionatha Worlds in my Mind Stargazer Secret Keeper Sunsets Clockwork Lost My Special Place in Space Tragic News Weekends Lake Erie The Saga of Toast: A Mock Epic Poem Goodbye Dreams Were Dr. Seuss to Give Relationship Advice to WT How I Got Caught Song of Myself Your Government Photos Barb’s Sheets Swing Excerpt From Graveyard of Batteries, Chapter 1 I Think I’m Sorry The Life of Stephen Bishop What Am I The Test: A Satirical Mini-Epic Midsummer’s Afternoon Nick Salt Water Tears The Stream Waves MS. Breakfast Early Morning Dreams Livin’ the ‫ חי‬Life An Ode to Oxygen The Best View A Jewish Cemetery in Poland Courage Under Construction The Viewing Glass Window and Beyond Sketches of Summer

Emily Pollock Qinzhuo Zhang Sam Beale Maddie Glackin Summer Devlin Lindsay Gorby Emma Famili Minna Wu David Scheatzle Carrie Mannino Luke Vacek Emily Pollock Nathaniel Hull and William Lee-Moore Emily Bassett Sophie Choo Noah James Alek Binion Ua Hayes Wells Taylor Maggie Swartz Maia Rosenfeld Hefei (Frank) Tu Summer Devlin Jessica Wittig Jack Chaillet Grant Charney Haydon Alexander Isabel Slaymaker Sofia Rella Marisa Busquets Elliot Hare Roshni Nischal Sophie Burkholder Krithika Pennathur Summer Devlin Maia Rosenfeld Alon Shoval Sophia Lebiere Jack Chaillet Kristen Kozar Carrie Mannino Anna Vlachos Jack Chaillet Maia Rosenfeld

4 6 8 10 13 14 16 19 21 24 26 29 31 32 32 34 36 39 40 43 45 47 48 50 53 54 56 58 59 61 63 64 66 68 70 72 74 79 81 82 84 86 89 90

Visual Art Cover Design Inside Cover and Theme Page Eye Ladybug on Flower Bird in Snow Bacteria Crying Girl Flight Water Bottle in Sunset Sorrowful Woman Blade of Grass Smoke River Lake Beowulf’s Dragon Crush Comic Bare Tree Branches Surrealist Man Lawn Chairs Newspaper Girl Taking Pictures Reading Room Tourists Egg on Scanner Girl in Profile Skeleton Collage Face Sculpture Dark Curtains Butterfly Mountain Scene Girl Drawing Clasping Hands Swan Sculpture Dreaming Girl Ocean Smiling Girl Floating Tree Tear of Words Vase Ballerina Flowers Road in Woods Nostalgia Colophon

Aki Nace Sean Holmes Ella Rosenblatt Tyra Robinson Aidan Place Noa Jett Minna Wu Sara Fierstein Noa Jett Jessie Zhang Nathan McKee Jessica Wittig Wanyan Ma Anastasia Landman Alexandra Uribe Maggie Swartz Aki Nace Jono Coles Anastasia Landman Lucy Chen Taylor Thomas Noa Jett Aki Nace Lynne Irvin Jessie Zhang Drew Klein Lucy Chen Sean Holmes Molly Urbina Lilah Hilliard Wanyan Ma Kayla Small Joan Mukogosi Maggie Swartz Jono Coles Tyra Robinson Maggie Swartz Drew Klein Molly Urbina Maddie Beyer Luka van de Venne Claire Mazur Noa Jett David Friedman

1 4 7 9 10 12 15 16 18 20 25 27 28 30 33 35 36 38 41 42 44 46 50 52 55 57 58 61 62 65 66 69 71 72 77 78 80 82 85 87 88 91 92

Watercolor by Ella Rosenblatt

Artistic Soul Emily Pollock

To be an artist is to see the world in color Not just the blue of the sky or green of the trees But the tawny shade of the shadows The iridescence of a bird’s wing The color of the light as it reflects off the water The golden sunset liquefied upon marble.

Do you see these things?

The dull flame of fallen leaves And different shades of white There are such colors, and you have seen them.

To be an artist is to see the soul in color.

The blazing brightness of individuality The gleam of knowledge gathered And the warmth of love.

The matte colors of thoughts, The shadows and dimensions of a personalityHave you seen these things?

It is impossible to look into eyes of any color and know what they have seen.

But the soul is in color, and you have seen it.

4

5

Ionantha

Qinzhuo Zhang

From holy songs, bright palm room, I enter the quiet rainforest, dim light filtered by the bromeliads.

The air plants anchor themselves onto the tough barks of towering trees, sustaining their lives from water through scales.

These silvery trichomes cover succulent leaves, with pink edges: the precursor of flowers.

Forming clumps tightly bound, fronds stiff but elegant, shining through heavenly rays of light.

Beauty is produced in such simple manner: water through leaves, lit from one side.

Clinging to the host yet self-sufficient, epitome of desirable qualities: never greedy for else.

I return through red poinsettia, my mind filled with a renewed peace, feeling a halcyon contentment within me.

Beatitude like water, silence like waves in evening ocean, quiet dusk.

6

Painting by Tyra Robinson

7

Worlds in My Mind Sam Beale

When I was eleven years old, my family took a trip to Ottawa in the dead of winter. Everything was magic to me then; I had enough imagination to write a million stories, to draw a million pictures.

The parliament building was a castle--and we couldn’t go inside it because it was enchanted. The elegant exterior gave me enough with which to be satisfied; I could make the interior anything I wanted. There was a spiral staircase going up to the big clock at the top. The clock didn’t run on electricity. The clockmaker operated it, every day brushing the dust off of his intricate machinery.

The job was boring, but he didn’t mind because it was his own masterpiece, his passion. The entrance must have had a long velvet carpet. The space was filled with old delicate art and furniture. A comforting and fragrant fireplace stood as the centerpiece. And that part of the castle that’s shaped like a tent? It was a permanent circus. The people who lived there didn’t watch TV, there was no need.

Our hotel was its own city. Attached to a mall, you could live there forever if you wanted. I imagined the indoor pool was an igloo. We were all in there, in our bathing suits, swimming in the warm and silky water while the skylights were covered in snow. I swam around, thinking more and more about Ottawa as if it was a magical, frigid kingdom. I did this everywhere. I had worlds in my mind.

But now Ottawa is just Ottawa. If I went back I’m not sure what I’d do there. The parliament building would fail to spark my interest, I probably wouldn’t bring my bathing suit. Thinking of these places as anything different from what they are would be foolish. I’ve learned to tame my imagination, even though no one ever taught me to.

I know my imagination isn’t gone, just redirected.

Like a tiger in a zoo. But sometimes I wish I knew how to let it free. Can Bar Harbour be a hub for pirates? Can The Hazlett be haunted? Can my dark restrictive boredom ever open back up into colorful optimistic whim? Someday, I hope it will.

8

Digital photograph by Aidan Place

9

Digital photograph by Noa Jett

10

Stargazer Maddie Glackin

They live above beaming bright nestled comfortably in the heart of the night a plethora of radiant stars cutting through the sky like faded scars an undimmed beauty always stark never dulled or faded by dark

She gazed upwards to the sky the icy wind whipping by eyes focused on the stars above whispered wishes, hope and love crossed fingers pleading heart newfound hope can never depart

Life bound to their celestial charm a faith too far from any harm an astonishing sight they truly are each and every gleaming star beautiful gemstones of the light intertwined with the fabric of night

11

12

Painting by Minna Wu

Secret Keeper Summer Devlin

It started out small a slender shred of ugliness swallowed quickly, before it could be seen It stayed there, roiling inside me Bottled up, never to expire And thus, all of my small sins wormed their way softly into my flesh making it heavy, sinking like iron through the depths And each day I open myself anew Pry my ribs apart, Wrench away the earthly bounds Of fragile skin, brittle bone And reveal the boiling dark beneath That which must be kept in Where others may not see Yet I know that someday I will open myself for the last time, And scrape from myself the secrets Nestled in my lungs, Weighing upon my stomach Let them pour out in wrath and multitude to gasp in the open air And die writhing And so I await, in dread in longing For the day I will be empty The day I will be light

13

Sunsets

Lindsay Gorby

From the outside-in, My veins look blue.

“Like the sky,” I like to think.

From the outside-in, Your life flows in sundown shades.

“The evening sun,” You like to think.

I will prick my finger Until you see the sunsets in my skin.

And you, unscathed, Will never know the oceans in your blood.

14

Film photograph by Sara Fierstein

15

Clockwork Emma Famili

I counted the minutes Until I would see you With broken hands On broken clocks I found out We were broken too

16

Digital photograph by Noa Jett

17

18

Lost Minna Wu

The forgotten piano was somehow thrown into a corner, Covered in dust with my bygone childhood.

Carousel became the most cruel game buried in memory, Chasing each other but eternal distance would always remain.

The line for maturation was such a long way.

I hold my entrance ticket in vain, Lost, Waiting for somebody.

Drawing by Jessie Zhang

19

20

My Special Place in Space David Scheatzle

I’ve always been a fan of nature, but not the open stretches of moor, or the swirling dunes of the desert. I’m a fan of trees. They provide excellent shade, and are great for hiding away from malevolent creatures. Also, they are loads of fun to climb. When the breeze is blowing, I can hear the warm, pacifying sound of the leaves rustling, and the moaning of the trunks. I always challenge myself to see how much of the tree I can scale before the branches become nothing but bridges suspended above the chasm of death. Some people say its dangerous, but that’s okay, because it’s good to take some risks once in awhile. Once, I was standing on a branch aloft, swaying along with the wind, and I heard an ominous creaking noise. The next thing I knew I was falling straight towards the ground. The wind was rushing through my ears, and I felt weightless. I could hear the forlorn spirits of the deceased calling my name, waiting to embrace me if I hit the ground. Luckily, I was able to twist a little in mid-air and land on a more steady branch. I had ceased the descent and was safe, but my stomach felt like it was falling without the rest of me. After I steadied myself, I hopped down the rest of the springy branches, and headed deeper into the mysteries the forest holds.

There is a place, hidden betwixt the wooden arms of the forest, than used to catch my fancy. It sports patches of silky creeks and humble pines whose scent can open up the sinuses and turn one’s attention to the details that they were oblivious to before. The reason I like treading on my little forest island so much is probably because when I am there I hear nothing but pure silence. I can’t hear any industrial noises like cars or phones or anything else that is part of the modern world.

21

Since I’ve lived close to the city my whole life, my vision of reality has been distorted by flashing lights and buzzing machines. Escaping the mecha drone of the modern world feels just like splashing cold water on my face when i’m tired. It gives me the freedom to mull over the past events in my life, and to prepare for the future.

Once I walk into nature, I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. A weight that I didn’t realize was there until it is gone, but once it is, my senses become more acute.

I feel as if I could float away with the torrent of the wind, just like the rainbow of insects and birds that polka-dot the sky. I feel the most at home when I’m high in the air. It is one of the things that sired my love for climbing. When I’m up at the top of a tree, I feel safe and secure, even though I could easily fall, because no force of evil can sneak up on me when I’m all the way up there. I feel connected with the earth, because I can put my hand on the tree and feel the life pumping through all of the branches. I can feel the creatures that take refuge in the tree’s warm embrace, and the roots that run through the ground allow me to sense the beat of every living creature in close proximity. I feel connected to the sky because when I stand up on a high branch, I can feel it swaying along with the untamed currents of the wind, and I can smell all of the wild aromas of the forest as they float upwards and off into the distance. I feel as though I could jump straight off that branch and soar into the sky, becoming one with all existing matter. That power may yet exist in this world, even if we haven’t a way to access it yet.

Being alone in my own world allows me to be my free, unfiltered self. The trees block me from the prying eyes of the creatures of the world, making it so I can do whatever I want without being judged by anything or anyone.

Without the distractions and and pollutions of the modern world, I can feel the constant beat of the blood as it circulates through my body. Each circulation stimulates my senses and makes me feel like something more than human. When I’m by myself, not only can I hear sounds that would normally pass undetected, but I can feel the itchy, sharp, metallic rattle of the sounds as they pass through my ears. Sometimes, when I stay very attentive, I can perceive the world around me more clearly than usual. It’s like wiping the 22

smudges off of your glasses and then putting them back on. You begin to notice all of the great gifts you have been given that you took for granted before.

As I feel the life pumping through my body, I can feel the specific tempo that the universe marches to, and then I can begin to dance. And when I say dance, I don’t mean a bunch of fancy choreographed moves that take months of training to preform. It can be whatever you desire, whether it’s leaping through the air or sitting down and letting the mind be free. When I am truly feeling the beat of life, I begin to understand what it means. If I listen hard enough, I can hear everything, living and breathing together. Only then, can anyone be truly connected with nature. If you take the time to stop and listen for just a second, then you can create your own dance, and it will be an experience you will carry with you for the rest of your life. As this wonder of the world progresses, there is no form, and no planning. The moves come naturally, and with every ounce of your being you will soar through the air displaying the kind of grace and precision that even the most experienced gymnasts and dancers will envy. When I am dancing and absorbing the world around me, there is nothing that could stand in my way. At this point in time, I am one with all existence.

This experience is probably what caused me to be such a deep thinker.

I’m a person who likes to experience the true essence of things. And even though Mr. Garcia told me I will never get to understand the full spectrum of reality due to the limitations of my body, I feel the most alive when I’m surrounded by millions and billions of living creatures. They seem to give me extra bursts of energy. When I’m alone in the wild, the energy reveals a part of me that is kept secret from the rest of the world. The energy exposes my true form, although what that form is, I’m of really sure. I can’t say who I am, because there are no words to describe me in this purest of states. I’m me, and that’s all I need to be.

23

Tragic News

Carrie Mannino

Dedicated to Nathan Hurrell

Standing in front of the mirror I stared at myself.

I exist, I thought.

Strange.

Cold lay on the edge of my arms, frost cracking along my fingers as they batted water against my dull eyes.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until I turned off the faucet Funny how noticing made it worse.

I wasn’t crying.

My body wanted to, I could feel the sobs clawing up my throat but somehow I’d twisted the tap and nothing was coming out.

The voice in my head amplified speaking in cool, level tones, like it was outsourced to a call center somewhere far away, somewhere without email, without guns, without loss.

I wondered whose voice it was, mine still chained to the table, filled with sand, unable to gasp for air and crawl out.

I kept looking at myself.

I fumbled for eyeliner and pressed it against my lashes, smearing the edges to prevent mistakes.

It’s not waterproof, I thought.

You can’t cry.

24

Film photograph by Jessica Wittig

25

26

Weekends Luke Vacek

Sweet scents of warm kolaches waft out the window.

Grandchildren rush inside like the waters of a flood, Yearning to sink their teeth into her food.

“NO RUNNIN’ IN THE HOUSE” a stern voice greets them, A tray in her hand, the childrens mouths begin to water, The beautiful bulbous pastries with bright berries in the center.

The kolaches are too hot to eat, the filling is scalding, So she and the children migrate to the family room.

The Zenith television flickers as it blares Wheel of Fortune, As she sits down, aching from a long laborious day.

The cattle, spotted brown and white graze in the fields.

The corn has been planted along with the cotton.

On her parents old farm outside Smithville, Texas.

A small, slow, and simple city rooted in religion.

A third generation Bohemian, she’s fluent in Czech.

Reserving her English tongue for her grandchildren.

Only speaking Czech to the children she raised alone.

The scent of kolaches once more graces the children nostrils.

They must be cool now, a race to eat begins.

I wish she knew her traditions live on.

From the Easter gathering with farm fields sprinkled with eggs, To “Camp Vacek” where the next generation learns life on the farm.

Even though I never met her, her legacy left joy.

Stomachs filled by kolaches, the children scatter like seeds, Heading home to Houston, Dallas and Austin.

They’ll be back next weekend to share in the treats, Of warm baked kolaches and Wheel of Fortune.

I wish I could ask you about life on the farm The simple life without the distractions of technology.

What changes when scintillating screens are replaced with verdant fields?

To Mary (Mimi) Kana Vacek

Painting by Wanyan Ma

27

28

Lake Erie, Spring 2012 Emily Pollock

I found a rock on the beach one day, I don’t know what kind, just a smooth pebble, unbroken, fitting perfectly in my palm or in a cup of soft sand tossed by the never-ending water.

There was something about it, something I felt.

It had meaning, was precious.

I was just a girl, Delighting in the vastness of sky and lake Running back and forth Seeing so much, but perhaps not enough.

I didn’t want to stop Happy in my sphere of influence.

I look at the rock again, remember one day, remember the beauty of the water and sky all from one rock.

Digital photograph by Anastasia Landman

29

30

The Saga of Toast: A Mock Epic Poem Nathaniel Hull and William Lee-Moore

Falling, the grain-sheet dropped away into the yawning abyss.

It shot through the silver slot like an excited child on Christmas morning Down into the crumb laden depths Down deeper down it fell, passing the metal coils: the great flame-wires Crashing to the bottom with a thunderous roar, It settled into the metal cage, the crumbs surrounding A grim reminder of those who came before.

Heat, a hot, harrowing hell.

The bread burner began to work; electricity coursing through its wires, Like a thousand writhing snakes giving the groaning construction life.

A red glow filled the death-chamber; the metal bars casting eerie shadows Throughout the dough-cage, illuminated by the crimson heating coils.

Overwhelming flames: waves of searing pain engulfed the tortured victim.

Its cries of pain distorted by the chamber: an unearthly sizzling sound.

Each ray a spear, thrust into the heart of the bread, browning, breaking, baking.

Its flesh charred, crumbled away into black ash. It convulsed in pain, Its heart faltered… and began to fail…

The light grew dimmer as its life began to slip away.

Its breath stuck in its throat, a final cry for help.

It was so distant now, rescue almost an impossibility.

As all hope faded away, it closed its eyes.

Then, a heavenly noise. A dinging sound like God’s doorbell ringing.

But it was not the toast’s fate to meet death in those hellish fires.

With God’s saving grace, the toast was lifted free.

Crumbs fell away as it was carried out of the blackened gulf.

The hand pulled it through and it breathed free again.

It opened its eyes, barely daring to believe it was alive.

Then, it saw the mouth…

Colored pencil drawing by Alexandra Uribe

31

Goodbye Emily Bassett

If you love someone you let them go Even if you’ll miss them so As you make your way out the door The rain outside starts to pour I sink to my knees and start to cry I didn’t even say my last “Goodbye”

Dreams Sophie Choo

Dreams are like people: you meet them, and all of a sudden they disappear, never seen again.

Although some may come back as a good memory or a fear.

32

Digital art by Maggie Swartz

33

Were Dr. Seuss to Give Relationship Advice to WT Noah James

There comes a time In teenage life Where you find the perfect one You stop right there, dead in your tracks Your searching is now done You nurse this brand new love right then With caring and finesse But over time the extreme love Has no room to progress If goal is set and loved at max from day one, on and on Then goal will wither, drowning fast In love that came too strong The secret of relationships is rooted at the start You must reciprocate the thoughts that then are in her heart It may be useful gesturing And see if she does back If just as hard she gestures then You know you’re right on track If you see a gesture come from someone you adore Gesture back and just as hard You match the gesture for Once you know she gestured you It’s your turn to talk back Talk a little harder now To see if interests crack though you picked your one to love and love without request There comes a time when too much love Is something one detests You attach to this one person now Unwilling to let go But in vain of loving every ounce of them Their love to you will close.

34

Digital photograph by Aki Nace

35

How I Got Caught Alek Binion

36

From ages 5-7, every meal was war. While I enjoyed the dinner, staples such as mac n’ cheese, bread, and candy, there was one food which I could compare to hell itself - raisins. After every meal, my mom would essentially force-feed me the contents of a crucible-esque dish containing exactly 12 raisins. The initial raisin count was a manageable 4, but due to what I could’ve assumed was my mother’s desire to break me, she upped the total by a staggering 200%.

After a few months, it was clear that she had succeeded in smashing my will.

The increased raisin count was more than my 6 years could bear. I shuddered at the sight of the California Raisins. I started discriminating against purple products, I couldn’t even look grape juice in the face and say that I loved it. I was half a boy.

When all seemed lost, and I had resigned myself to just force back those raisins everyday like a common coward, my savior, like a divine light, covered the floors of my family’s dining room.

My mom went through a bit of a Persian rug phase, and while it took out a big chunk of our savings, our floors could not have looked better. One particularly beautiful rug, a dark red Heriz Serapi, was placed at the center of my family’s dining room.

This rug was gorgeous, and it tied the room together like nothing else could, but it took me time to realize its true potential. One fateful evening, as I choked back my nightly nemesis, I accidently dropped one of the twelve devils and noticed that it had essentially disappeared. The rug’s deep crimson perfectly matched that of the raisin, and thus served as the perfect raisin camouflage.

From then on, I would gladly accept my raisins, knowing where their true resting place would be. My raisins consumed per night steadily decreased from 12, to 8, to 4, and ultimately to 0 (I liked multiples of 4). I started going mad with power. Anything dark red would be in the crimson void within seconds of touching my plate; craisins, grapes, even a beet, I didn’t care. Mountains of invisible edibles built up around my seat, and nobody was the wiser. I held all the cards, I was pulling the strings, and I was in control over my destiny (regarding dark red foods, that is). However unbeknownst to me, that was all soon to change.

One night after a long day on the job, my father took off his shoes and noticed a surprisingly large amount of raisins wedged into the grooves of his shoe sole. He brushed it off and life continued as usual, but the next day the same phenomenon occurred. After a couple of weeks,, it got to the point where raisins were mashed into essentially every foot-related article of clothing owned by my family, and nobody understood why. My mother and father scoured the house for “raisin leaks” and considered whether or not their respective offices had any raisin containment issues. My father even took apart the washing machine to check for what he thought was some sort of raisin deployment mechanism (he didn’t find one). Nobody suspected me, and therein lay the problem. I had committed the perfect crime, but nobody knew. Villains don’t monologue to warm up their vocal chords; they do it so that their genius is appreciated, and like Alec Trevelyan in Golden Eye, I needed somebody to know just what I had done. I told them everything - the months of raisin tossing, the discovery of the perfect camouflage, even the strategies I used to have them look away while I pitched the erstwhile grapes (saying that there was a blue jay outside). And predictably, with that, my days of raisin tossing ended.

So how did I get caught? I was betrayed, betrayed by my own hubris.

Painting by Jono Coles

37

38

Song of Myself Ua Hayes

I celebrate myself, and sing myself Pushing and shoving forward I celebrate and sing With each step Tripping and stumbling I search and I search For something more And With each find I celebrate and I sing Walking further and further into The foaming black waves of my life I celebrate myself I sing myself As they Crash over me

Buying more and more Sweet nothings Space fillers Purposeless luxuries You celebrate me, You sing me For my Material objects You celebrate me, you sing me For my Clothes and skin and hair Fighting and Yelling Do not celebrate yourself Do not sing yourself For Hating No one will celebrate you For that

We celebrate ourselves, We sing ourselves For Being loved And If you celebrate yourself If you sing yourself If you love yourself I will celebrate you I will sing you I will love you.

Digital photograph by Anastasia Landman

39

Your Government Wells Taylor

Your government Forgot me Justice has sight My black skin is my guilt My independence has been ripped from me My freedom enslaved.

My virtue is a vice.

Country of plenty is starved. country of Liberty is enslaved.

My justice has been raped.

My liberty has been violated.

My community filled with drugs.

The Republican God declared war.

White rock poisoned my people The police beat us The country ignores us The American dream is far away.

40

Draswing by Lucy Chen

41

42

Photos

Maggie Swartz

I take photos to save each moment, To preserve what is fleeting and beautiful, To stop time for a split second.

When I took that photo of you, I managed to capture your smile, A precious thing.

The look in your eyes reflecting the moment we shared.

I forgot that I had taken it, A snapshot lost my endless camera roll.

And it stayed there, As things tend to do.

While life went on.

Things changed.

People changed.

We changed.

But looking back one day, I found the old photo, Containing multitudes, And my heart stopped To see your perfect face again, To look at the memory I had cherished.

And while people grow apart, I will always have my photos As mementos of the past.

Film photograph by Taylor Thomas

43

Barb’s Sheets An Excerpt

Maia Rosenfeld

44

Harry rolled over towards the other side of the bed, surprised at the distance he could travel without colliding with Barb’s soft figure. And then he remembered, for the four-hundred seventeenth time. He wondered how long it would be before this was no longer his first thought every morning.

By this time next year, would he wake up to a different realization?

Harry outstretched his arm and fumbled around on his nightstand to find his glasses. His large, veiny hand landed on the thick frames, and he wiped the lenses on his floral sheets. The sheets were smothered with a colorful array of flowers, skillfully embroidered across the fabric on twisting vines of dark green thread. They were so—Barb.

The edges were graying, though. Smudges along the perimeter of the sheets marked Harry’s favorite spots on which to wipe his glasses. The sheets hadn’t been cleaned in four-hundred seventeen days, and that was not because Barb had been the only one capable of changing them. No, Harry had assumed the rest of his wife’s tasks. Washing the few dishes he used and cleaning the house on the rare occasion that a visitor dropped by had become routine. The sheets, however, had not seen the inside of the washing machine since last July. They still held her smell, hidden among the magnolias and roses. Harry clung to the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume, mingling with the chemical tinge of her chemo and the sanitary smell of the saline the nurses used to flush her IV tube before a treatment.

It was woven into the garden sprawled across the comforter, and Harry knew that Barb was tangled in there with it. The washing machine could untangle her from the vines, stealing from Harry the last piece of Barb. Washing machines had the power to wipe away memories, remove a person like a stain.

Digital photograph by Noa Jett

45

46

Digital photograph by Aki Nace

SWING

Hefei (Frank) Tu

I stared at the sky, ‘Why did you cry?’

I asked, with tears in my eyes dry.

‘Because I was born with the deep-blue, Tear-like eyes.’

She said that as a reply.

My motherland, I had to say goodbye, Ditto my swing.

I heaved a deep sigh.

I arrived at the destination at night, An utter dark night without single glimmering light, Once I was there, And now I am here.

The difference was inevitable, The yearning was undoubtable.

I endeavored to memorize the embrace of my hometown, Where there was once a beautiful park lying in the downtown, In which the wind breezed and the plants boomed, And my beloved swing swayed in the faded dim, It was the one with the gambol of a delightful nipper, It was the one with the giggle of an airy mother.

It was the one embellished by rust and flaking paint, It was the one regarded to be elegant and fragrant.

Under the swing grew the colorful flowers and the greenish grass, Thriving and beauteous.

Yet the game came to its end, And the swing and the boy had to be apart.

I saw the little kid follow his dear mother, Unwillingly and with complaining murmur.

Finally He ran away from the lone silent swing, Which was immediately occupied by other children’s cheering.

The sun was still shining on the glorious park stage, The creek was still trickling beneath the single-plank bridge, The vegetation was still flourishing everywhere insight, And the kids were still swinging there with delight, Yet there was no longer a little boy, screaming aloud, Just because of the excitement of leaving the ground.

There was no longer a joyful mother, holding ropes, Just to make sure her little boy was under aegis.

The little boy had moved to a remote place, Even then he didn’t possess absolute confidence.

Maybe sometimes he wanted to come back, Back to the place where he began his risk, To the place where he could see the gleam of the swing, swaying in the gentle wind, Albeit only a dream exist in the boy’s deep mind.

47

Excerpt From

Graveyard of Batteries, Chapter 1

48

Graphic novel excerpt by Summer Devlin

49

50

I Think I’m Sorry Jessica Wittig

I’m sorry that I’m not easy to love that I am a rumbling thunderstorm cleverly disguised by beautiful purple clouds in a sky that seems either welcoming or mysterious whichever you need in your life.

You also came to realize that I am not like the dainty blue flowers that grow on the side of the road blooming just as beautiful and innocent each year that instead I bloom passionately and emotionally and always heartbreakingly to everyone around me.

I Think I’m Sorry

Digital art by Lynne Irvin

51

Drawing by Jessie Zhang

52

The Life of Stephen Bishop Jack Chaillet

Stephen Bishop was born in the light, somewhere in eastern Kentucky, where the Green River runs transversely to its line of travel. Ponds arise in this area, ponds from an unknown source about which no ordinary man would care to ponder. As one walks through the forest, he or she may notice a cold breeze arising at variable intervals. There lie entrances to a deep cavern.

The boy may not have been reared here, but Stephen Bishop, the figure, was born here. The boy’s owner was a man, but Stephen Bishop belonged to the earth.

As he learned to navigate the dark, with its hidden passageways and unfathomably deep abysses, he was able to penetrate deeper into the earth, all the while approaching its core. In the River Styx he discovered his purpose, on the precipe of the bottomless pit, staring downward, he saw the answer.

His master hindered his discoveries (or perhaps let him vaunt about them), for he had to perform the quotidian action of pulling hundreds of white sightseers’ arms into his coveted abyss. They would not have budged easily, had they not been able to inscribe themselves into the walls of the place (perhaps for want of fame).

When he was at his leisure, he would quietly lead Charlotte, his second love, into his domain. He would show her the vast numbers of crosslinked corridors, and they would sit upon a stone and engrave their names into the wall with far more care than any rightful American could have done.

If they had inscribed their names so well on a white man’s wall, he would either have them whipped to death or sold them for a hefty profit.

Some may have written, from their plush recliners and heated rooms and under a muted, homely light, that Bishop was hiding from the reality of the world around him. They said he hid himself from the light, yet they refused to enter the dark. His travels were called worthless by a world that counted its worth in substances found beneath the ground. They called him lowly society when high society found infinitely fewer passageways.

Stephen Bishop was willing to walk straight in the dark while others floundered in the light.

In the Mammoth Cave swim eyeless, all-white fish. They had no sense of human life for thousands of years. However, they felt a torrent in their veins when their human discoverer, Stephen Bishop, ran his hands through the water.

53

What Am I Grant Charney

What am I? I am a bad decision, A couple of broken bones, That take too long to heal.

I am a bridge from my city, Sturdy at first, But slowly caving in, I am a man who’s rusted steel.

I am a facade, False emotions plastered on me.

I am all over the place, Yet to you, completely intact.

I am trying so very hard, But my stigma says I’m slacking, I am a play being written, Still my life is all an act.

I am zen on the inside, Yet a riot on the out.

Happiness is the key to life, Someone still locked the door.

So you’re asking me, What am I? To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure.

54

Collage by Drew Klein

55

So the weakest of the learner-monkeys lay weeping under desks, Screaming up and down the halls and even many of the strongest study-jocks shook the ink-dispensers in their hands as the time traveler moved students forward far too quickly, and the board-scrawler sat reading, and the cruel mistress of ages moved forward, And the board scrawler chimed out, 5 minutes.

The Test: A Satirical Mini-Epic Haydon Alexander

So down to the room, God-cursed teacher came greedily loping.

The desk cackled at all, endless purple of the surface swallowed all known information.

The paper-blackener felt heavy in his hand, the text in inch too far away, the endless din of silence befell, And the board-scrawler chimed out, One hour.

So the going was slow, and the papers, filled with scribbled death bore down on them.

The innocence of the white ruined by the inky blackness, And the board-scrawler chimed out, 30 minutes.

So the study-jocks lie in ruins, and the endless papers of death stacked on each other, And with no warning, the stalwart leader of the study-jocks emerges triumphant, The evil prophets of memory lie defeated on the page, the board-scrawler sits, defeated.

So the defeated board scrawler cried out, This is over!

And the hero of the study-jocks stands on the purple endlessness, knowing that it was defeated.

And the hero yells, “We make our own hell, paper death, Welcome to yours!�

So the time-stealer slowly took the weakened learning-monkeys, the analysis confounding them, the essay eluding their grasps.

But the few pen-users stayed above the inky death, the knowledge-askers slowly being weakened by the study-jocks.

And the board-scrawler chimed out, 20 minutes.

56

Scultpure by Lucy Chen

57

Midsummer’s Afternoon Isabel Slaymaker

I walked the whole way home, kicking the same pebble along the cobblestone.

Behind me I left a breadcrumb trail, only made out of water drips that the blazing sun would soon erase. The small houses lining the street smiled at me, winking.

Two more blocks. The walk was familiar, like mom’s mashed potatoes waiting for me at home. I dropped my towel as I passed my best friend’s house. I could smell the pie cooling on the window sill, and longed for the summers from last year, swimming and playing every day. They never caught the man who ended those days.

One more block. I wipe a tear from my cheek before I notice it’s there.

Something feels off as I walk across the porch. I wait for mom to greet me and scold me for my lack of shoes. I stand shivering in the doorway, waiting for her to wrap me in a warm hug. She never comes.

58

Nick

Sofia Rella

There was a quiet yet noticeable tap from inside the closet. The girl’s eyes darted up from her math homework to stare intently at the door. Her family had just moved houses, so she still felt an uncomfortable uneasiness in her new and unfamiliar bedroom. With eyes glued to the closet door, she slowly placed her homework down beside her and stood up from the bed.

“Nick?” she asked quietly, inching towards the closet. “Is that you in there?”

There were more noises from inside the closet, as if there was somebody- or something- hiding inside. She came to an abrupt stop and took deep breaths to try to keep herself calm.

“This isn’t funny,” she added, trying as hard as she could to not sound as frightened as she truly felt. She then closed her eyes, continuing to breathe heavily as she mumbled to herself reassuringly. “It’s probably just a bug or something...

Nothing to worry about.”

A loud, sudden bang from the other side of the closet door made her jump back and let out terrified shriek. Her hands instinctively shot up to cover her mouth in order to keep herself from screaming. “I told you it’s not funny, Nick!” she said shakily, speaking with the small amount of confidence she had left. “Come out from there and stop trying to scare me! If you don’t stop, I swear, I’ll tell mom as soon as she gets back home that you’re messing with me again...”

The closet door slowly creaked open and the girl gasped, the color draining from her face as she held her breath. A transparent ghost-like figure with dark eyes and a blank expression in the shape of a far too familiar boy stepped out, staring right into her eyes. The monster that stepped out of her open closet was the dead silhouette of her brother. The girl screamed.

Digital photograph by Sean Holmes

59

Salt-Water Tears Marisa Busquets

She cried silently Raindrops from her eyes Caressing her face as they fall Perfect She got them from the blue She carved a sliver from it Drank it in a glass Salt embedded in the crevices Sparkling humbly Wind in her heart Cold as ice Salt water tears Snowflakes threaded Through her eyelashes Lids blinking out the ice Eyes dripping salt water A river forms At her feet It’s cold and she’s frozen For the rest of her life she thinks Salt water made scars On her cheeks But she cries again And for once she cries sunlight

60

Digital Art by Molly Urbina Digital art by Molly Urbina

61

62

The Stream Elliot Hare

My paddle dips below the surface of water The scene envelopes me Oh! what color the stream seems to have white breaking splashes shiny wet rocks under a clear blue sky, broken only by clouds The occasional red or green leaf and small glowing fish, mirror-like nothing ever still, but perpetually moving Pushed by the epic force of water, Flowing like time moving forward, Always forward What say, have I, in its motion? we are helpless, minute beings under the weight of Time we float along like a fallen branch in the Stream it will never stop the driftwood, stone, the fish dancing in water

Digital photograph by Lilah Hilliard

63

Waves

Roshi Nischal

I live in a world that questions my actions, but who is to question what I do but myself?

I will not allow the wave to drown me, I shall teach myself to swim against it, to stand tall like the trees in the treacherous wind.

The wave might soak me, But I will not allow myself to absorb it.

The bird in its nest, Surrounded by others.

Singing to its heart’s content, Humming to the sweet melody of happiness.

The bird is I, yet I forbid the others to block my view from the nest.

The ripe juicy apple may be eaten, through my expressions and thoughts, But no one will get to the core.

The seeds of my soul will remain untouched by anything.

Particles of the wave are strong, But not as strong as I. They are incapable of washing my mind.

Waves are not as powerful as they seem, or as they think.

For they are just a drop in the ocean.

And I am more than that.

64

Drawing by Wanyan Ma

65

MS. Sophie Burkholder

From a very young age my mother always told me, “Work as hard as you can in school because no one can take your education away from you.”

And back in first and second grade, I didn’t really understand what this meant, and I definitely didn’t realize that I might be at a disadvantage in life because of my gender.

Digital photograph by Claire Mazur

66

Once I made my way up to middle school, I met my first hardcore feminist. I remember finding it weird that she used “Ms.” instead of “Mrs.” or that she didn’t take her husband’s last name, because we all knew she was married (I thought maybe she was trying to keep it a secret). Sometimes, I purposely called her Mrs. McDowell because I thought Ms. was so strange.

Ms. McDowell wore loafers, long pants, and Doctor Who teeshirts on dress-down days. She enjoyed meditation, Patti Smith, and taking care of her two pure-bred collies. Come to think of it, I really enjoyed Ms. McDowell’s personality, but I never wanted to actually be like her. I loved her history classes; she made them so exciting and challenging at the same time. And she really helped me improve my writing along with my middle school English teacher Ms. Vudy (there were a lot of “Ms.” teachers at my school). But I couldn’t get past that Ms.

In high school, I met even more feminists - this time, they were actually my age. This time, they wore New Balances, bright-colored leggings, and striped sweaters. I thought they were really charismatic when I first met them, but people started calling them weird, and I didn’t want to be weird, so I kept my distance. I mean I’m all for women’s rights and everything, but hey, I’m not going to screw up my social life by becoming friends with those weirdoes, right?

Wrong.

It’s taken me over 17 years to find my own feminism. Over 17 years to understand what my mother meant. Over 17 years to respect Ms. McDowell for her feminist pride. Over 17 years to finally do something about the anger that bubbles up inside me when people throw around the words “bitch” and “slut” and make rape jokes and laugh in my face and tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about when I say that’s not right. After 17 long years of apathy, I’m passionate about simply being a girl. And though I now understand what my mother meant all those years ago, I must add on to her original statement in saying that education is only one of the many things that I refuse to let anyone take away from me because of my gender.

And after all this time, I’ve come to the decision that if and when I ever get married, I will retain the name Ms. Sophie Burkholder.

67

68

Sculpture by Joan Mukogosi

Breakfast

Krithika Pennathur

My tender, makeup-free face stares itself into the mirror.

Himalaya Face Wash, Vatika Shampoo, Grandmother’s “Youthful” Perfume.

Standard body-odor smells.

My mother braids my hair—she wishes she can put Mallipu in it Mallipu, the precious Jasmine flowers that grow in the rural places in India, “Sweet smell of Mallipu,” she fondly reminisces.

She puts a bindi on my head and touches my chain with God Balaji on it.

I pray quietly, Vibudhi and Kungam, white and red powder are gracefully put on me.

Smiling. Reminiscing. Sacred.

I’m the physical embodiment of South.

Indian.

Outside.

“Namaste!!” someone yells in the cold, I don’t speak English— In their eyes.

Aveeno, Pantene, Chanel—not India Foreign smell.

Weird.

Hair is straightened or in a ponytail.

Perfectly neat, unnatural.

“What’s that weird dot on your head? I think you have some colored powder on your face.”

Glares and stares lay on my skin, seeping into my intellect Vulnerable to questions, threats, judgment.

I’m American— But prone to receiving negative comments about my culture.

The culture that is written all over me.

Lunch.

I bring rice with peas—strong with spice And Curry Traditional. Typical.

The aroma fills the room—“What is that smell?”

I cover it with my lunchbox to hide the obnoxious nature Mother cries when I tell her to give me only the spicy rice…

No more Indian food.

“What smells? Why?” Those smells—perception American food. I’m American.

I decide to bring yogurt and bread the next day.

Dinner.

The smell of tamarind spice combined with rice Lingers over my clothes and in my hair As I slowly take off my shoes I notice the powder, the bindi, my clothes Are worn out.

My lunch box doesn’t smell of India anymore.

My chain is lopsided— I’m Indian American.

69

Early Morning Dreams Summer Devlin

6 AM and the cold lies thick upon the hedges I am wrapped up, all in silk, Besieged by the morning rapture That makes gossamer of a hair shirt And tames all ills of the world to kittens Through narrowed, morning eyes And each exhalation rises in multitudes Clogging the air like cobwebs Breeding dreams, lush as jungle leaves Static in the humid atmosphere And I am all royal purple All blood and wine mixed on skin The lines of myself, bent, stretched Spiraling into greater shapes Bending towards the light like greedy seedlings parched under the velvet orange moon I am under deep water, gasping in Brine and salt and stricken sounds Pulling myself through deep currents Amidst the fireflies reflected Upon the surface, like midsummer stars But suddenly, a single limb strays Crossing that phantom border And I am awake, the strands of dreams Still clinging to my fingers The breath of sleep still frosted around my lips I rise, and look into the mirror To see a face, all chapped lips and smudges of yesterday’s mascara so grey and bleary in the morning light But I smile nonetheless For it is still early And there is still some color yet In the waking world 70

Acrylic painting by Maggie Swartz

71

Livin’ the ‫ חי‬Life Maia Rosenfeld

I am from dark curly hair that falls down my back, never long enough, never smooth enough.

My grandmother frowns when I weave it into a braid, “Hitler Youth wore their hair like that, you know.”

I am from sesame bagels with light cream cheese—hold the lox, kugel and blintzes and matzoh ball soup that is too hot, but I eat it anyway.

72

I am from August afternoons spent schvitzing in cabins and praying for grilled cheese sandwiches and air conditioning.

I am from warm summer nights that taste like the stars, bare feet pounding on the basketball court to Israeli beats that shake the iPod speakers.

I am from bat mitzvahs and the view of balding heads and kippot from way up high in the chair. So this is what it’s like to be God. I am the little girl who runs in circles inside the unrolled scrolls on Simchat Torah, surrounded by walls of scripture.

I am from “Shabbat Shalom, mani-pedis for two, please,” an excuse to sleep in on Saturday mornings, sometimes sleep is holier than synagogue.

I beg for a ride to the movies on Saturday, try to explain why my parents won’t drive, can’t drive, must sit curled on the couch at home under electric blankets, surfing the Internet.

I am from “Oy gevalt!” “Oy gefilte!” “Oy vey, baruch hashem!”

I am from loud conversations and interrup— “Did you hear what happened in Israel last week?”

I am from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and floating on water while my skin burns with confusion.

I am from falafel in the shuk, tahini that dribbles down my chin and stains my IDF T-shirt.

I am from the peanut powder on my fingertips that gives away my secret stash of Bamba.

I am Adam Sandler and Albert Einstein and Anne Frank and Jesus! I knew that if I’d waited it would go on sale.

I am from baruch atah adonai please God just let me find a nice Jewish boy over five-foot-six.

I am from soft R’s and H’s so hard your spit flies through the air.

I am from Channukkah and chutzpa, and challah and “Chave you set the table?” and “Choney, be chappy!”

I am from apples dipped in too much honey, for a year sweeter than the dimples in my little cousin’s cheeks

73

I am from “Merry Christmas, I’ll have the vegetable lo-mein,” I celebrate Christ with chopsticks and fortune cookies.

I am from “Mazel tov on your calculus exam!” and “L’Chaim!” over red Solo cups.

Of course I know Leah Stein and David Silverman and Rachel Weinberg and our neighbor’s cousin’s college roommate’s stepson’s ex-rabbi.

I know enough Schwartzes and Katzes and Weisses to fill your address book eighteen times.

My soul is kosher.

I live by my own commandments: Don’t eat bacon, Don’t take Beyoncé’s name in vain, Don’t covet thy neighbor’s Lululemon yoga pants.

I am from “Be home for Shabbat dinner,” and “You’re such a mensch,” and “Is he Jewish?”

I am eight nights, no more, no less. I don’t need oil to burn brightly.

I am chetzi, half-Israeli, my Abba is tall with baby blue eyes and an accent I can’t hear.

But I know it’s there, they all say so, and sometimes I taste a hint of it fried in the latkes, catch its scent mingled with the besamim on Havdallah, feel its soft tickle, the tassels of the tallit on my cheek.

I am from Friday night lights leaking through fingers that cover my eyes, flames of faith that don’t go out until long after the wax has melted.

I am from the buzz of the microwave that chimes in with our Shabbat prayers, humming the harmony to the song sung from memory.

I don’t know what the words mean, but the rhythm means family. The melody means home.

74 Digital art by Jono Coles

75

An Ode to Oxygen Alon Shoval Eight on the periodic table, one in my heart.

This gas, this magnificent gas. Tasteless, colorless, un-smell-able, Yet I am thankful.

While you don’t have these aspects, you have a thing that beats everything; Love.

One day you will be gone, so wake me up before you go.

The way you use hemoglobin to travel on my blood cells, the way you enter my brain and fill me with sadness that someday, you will be gone. I know that people treat you as something that will be here forever, but not me. Not today.

You are usually found in a molecule of two. Is it because you don’t want to be alone? I’m Alon, and I assure you I will not take you for granted.

One day, you will get the appreciation you deserve, for you are a humble and amazing gas.

You’re not snobby like helium, or krypton, or xenon. (I can go on and on.)

You are one of a kind, you are O8. Oxygen.

Don’t let anyone tell you different. Without you I’ll die. Literally. So I am thanking you on this day.

I love you.

76

Film photograph by Tyra Robinson 77

Acrylic painting by Maggie Swartz

78

The Best View Sophia Lebiere

Looking out from my bedroom window ten feet off the ground for me, ten feet below for those at the top of the hill. I can hear their dogs, their voices, the birds that inhabit their trees, but of their homes I can see only rooftops and treetops. The smell of chill autumn leaves and grill smoke mix with the comforting smells of home. A crowing scream from below jerks me alert. As I move to look at the chicken coop below, the sun appears from behind a cloud, setting everything alight with white fire. Recoiling, I turn my attention to the soft interior of my room. Blue light filters through the curtains and reflects off the yellow walls, making everything seem soft edged and giving the impression of being underwater. An orange-brown smudge on a sea of green covers stirs and lifts her head, blinking and inviting me to adore her more than I already do. Rousing my stiff muscles, I move to sit on the bed. As I begin petting her, she readjusted herself and begins to purr. The low rolling vibration and soft warm fur only serve to lull me further into my waking dream. If only the door did not open onto a brick-red world of quick movements and sharp minds. If only it opened onto a world that preserved the fuzzy, smooth bliss that I had perfected in this room.

79

80

A Jewish Cemetery in Poland Jack Chaillet

See vines run over stones in graveyards vast, Still waiting for complete abandonment, When we forget the horrors of the past; The final bell tolls, lacking sentiment.

Through iron fences green, opaque from vines, Through piercing flocks of rooks, black as from ash, Obscured by panaceas, healing times’ Virus, few scour land for remembrance.

The cunning philosopher reprimands, The wise historian informs. “I say, Let wastelands linger, blackness always stand, And most of all, ashes not fly away.”

As, upward, vines begin to quickly pull, Another shot strikes, another bell tolls.

Digital art by Drew Klein

81

Courage Kristen Kozar

Courage, That’s what Andy had, And they told us to have Courage too.

I didn’t understand Courage, Or why Andy was gone.

His copper mane illuminated Over the stillness of his undeveloped body, Stagnant.

It was like he was in hibernation, Frozen as a flower blooming in winter; The delicate lily never grew.

Before shutting his eyes for the last time, He had the courage to roar out Once more into the world.

82

Vase by Molly Urbina

83

Under Construction Carrie Mannino

At my old school, we had a picnic table, peeling and damp on the inside, standing uneven next to our prehistoric mosaic.

I sat there on days when it didn’t rain, and in the grass, my wall began.

Its foundation lay below my feet and to the right, around the bullseye asphalt that led to gnarled trees and a seat out of sight within their arms.

Where I had asked to write and was told to play, but didn’t anyway.

I guess I already knew that kickball was dangerous.

The first story was built between the buildings, at that table surrounded on three sides with glass.

The mortar began slopping in with white-blonde hair and brown-pink glasses with dragonflies on the sides.

And an anger infused with sticky loneliness and surprise settled inside the bricks and sealed quickly but never dried.

The second story was less jagged, less raw, saw the cracks and holes in the bricks below and realized that that wouldn’t do.

And with cement made from boys churned with water and flecked with LOLs, the barricade molded into shape.

Bits of sandwiches and chair legs lodged themselves inside the gravel, pebbled tear drops.

And the first time I got broken the wall broke a little, too, crumbling at the top, crouching down like moldy hope.

But by the third time, the ace bandages tightened around my fortress and the girl behind the wall sat for lack of standing.

The last story was built when I walked again, alone, tripping over guitar strings and empty classrooms, scraping my knuckles as I climbed upward.

The wall shook, and I was afraid, but I knew better than to look down.

84

photographs by Maddie Beyer Digital photograph by Maddie Beyer

85

The Viewing Anna Vlachos For Nathan

I think I hear your voice from the corner of the room. I can’t really tell if it’s actually you or not though because there is an old man in front of me and his covered shoulders are too tall for me to see past. I look at him instead. He has thin vertical lines for hair that dip into the collar of that dark jacket. His wrinkled hand raises to point something out to his wife and in his fist I see a wad of tissue balled up and crinkled. This man is sad, I think, but then again I’m pretty sure everyone here is sad.

The line moves a step forward. I think this whole line business is a little inappropriate in these circumstances. A strip of dark gray and black, spiraling through the building. All these sobbing, breathing humans rubbing it in the face of the one who can’t sob or breathe. The line moves again.

I finally catch sight of you sitting in a chair in front of an adolescent crowd singing with a voice so sweet and proud that it dips and rises like a sailboat floating pleasantly on a sea of bittersweet melted chocolate. You’re playing a guitar, too, and even though I’m not close enough to see properly, I can still imagine your round, calloused fingers pressing and releasing each note you strum. Then there is some static and your voice falters and someone rewinds the tape.

I turn to my left and right to see who else had been fooled by the reminiscent video playing on the television but they all seem busy with their own endeavors. A young boy in a dark shirt and pants is holding his father’s hand and staring up at the grown ups in the room with his knuckles in his mouth. He doesn’t know what’s going on, he probably won’t remember this or you. But that doesn’t matter because he is here, and unfortunately so are you.

The line moves once again and, look, there you are once more.

You don’t look like yourself at all, you’ve slimmed down and combed your hair. I’m not quite sure where your glasses have gone, but that doesn’t even matter because your eyes will never be the same either way. Oh God, they shaved you. Your prickly, dark beard is replaced with your pale, snowy skin. Why would you let them shave you? You were so angry when you had to shave it the first time. You told me, remember? You told me that you looked like a twelve year old boy and yeah, you kinda did. Why is it that you look even younger now?

I’m stepping closer and my knees are shrinking, weaker and weaker. If I get too near, if I walk too close to you I will fall and I know it. My mother pulls me forward despite my resistance and it appears I’ve forgotten what strength is. I’m shaking, I’m trying so hard not to cry. You never cried, not once, I never saw you cry. If you opened those eyes of yours for just a second you would smile and tell me not to cry. You’d open your arms to me, with the palms of your hands tilted slightly upward, and offer me a soul-soothing hug. And I would accept it with no hesitation whatsoever knowing that embrace could shield me from any bad feeling I have ever endured. What would I give for just one more of those hugs? I look at you tentatively again.

Your fingernails are clean. The flowers match your tie. There is water welling up in front of my line of vision. Damn you.

I miss you.

I don’t know why I’ve waited so long to do it but I need to ask you now that your last dark 86

grin is forced into place and your fingers mimic fallen angels begging for reentry into the clouds. I ignore the unnatural sleep before me, it’s fake. I ask you under my breath, not daring to let anyone hear me now in this state of complete despair. But I need this knowledge so I ask on.

What was the last thought that ran through your head before it was replaced with nothing? What were the last words you uttered through your teeth? Words of sympathy, kindness, joy, and zeal. When was your last laugh? Shortly after you joked? Maybe just as you realized there were but seconds left, you allowed yourself to crack one last smile. To leave as you came, like a daring beam of sun intruding the darkness and claiming it for itself.

What was the last song you sang?

I wonder this the most. Were you humming to your own melody? Did you have a song stuck in your head? In that very instant. What lyric? What chord? Who or what had the honor of being the last piece of music you experienced?

I allow myself to hear you, “Your faith was strong but you needed proof”. I never heard you sing like that before. It wasn’t sad nor happy, it was relief. You released your emotions with those lyrics, singing the high notes longer and the low notes gently. You didn’t stay in place either, you didn’t let someone’s gaze pinpoint you to a single spot. You moved around spreading the song to the walls of the room, serenading every living creature you encountered. There was a pause as you caroled out the final stanza: Hallelujah, hallelujah. Then silence.

Why can’t you just sing once more? Just once, for the world to hear. Just once, so I can leave here with that virtuosic voice stuck permanently in my brain. I never want it to escape. I never wanted that tape to stop.

Digital photograph by Luka van de Venne

87

88

Glass Windows and Beyond

by Jack Chaillet As he walks down his house’s halls at night, Windows Beyond He Glass sees the light offand glass and walls that shine, Jack Chaillet Within this glint he sees his eyes so bright, He notes “How great are those bright eyes of mine!”

As he walks down his house’s halls at night, He sees the light off glass and walls that shine, Within this glint he sees his eyes so bright, He notes “How great are those bright eyes of mine!”

Through halls and walls he wails and hails his eyes, As sweet, with charm and gleam in mirrors’ glass, Through halls and walls he wails and hails his eyes, LikeAs streams on and pearls white, on scales of pike, sweet, with charm gleam of in mirrors’ glass, streams on pearls ofwhen white, onMarch scales of pike, LikeLike ice on roads has yet to pass.

Like ice on roads when March has yet to pass.

Like circles green around spots glossy black,

LikeAs circles green around velvet smooth on curtains soft andspots warm. glossy black, “My eyes are greater thanon the curtains zodiac, As velvet smooth soft and warm.

Still stars and planets seem so harsh like storms.”

“My eyes are greater than the zodiac,

When sun comes up and stars retreat, night’s past.

Still stars seem sotheharsh like storms.”

He and weeps, planets for now he sees beyond glass.

When sun comes up and stars retreat, night’s past.

He weeps, for now he sees beyond the glass.

89 Digital photograph by Claire Mazur

Sketches of Summer Maia Rosenfeld

I. We lie belly-down on the scratchy grass, kick off flip flops and worries, sip iced tea that tastes like August. Words spill off our tongues and out of our irises, strung along like a twisted vine of Christmas tree lights, we untangle them and watch them glow.

Leaves beneath us tickle our midriffs, maybe that’s why we laugh with the wind, lightly.

We inhale each other’s worries and exhale comfort. We are symbiotic, exotic like the sweet summer sun.

II. My body sinks into the fiery sand, stretched out on the shore, sunny-side-up.

I soak up July and feel my skin scorch as the wind plays cat’s cradle with my curls.

My hair tastes like potato chips, crunchy with sea salt. The sun sprinkles freckles on my cheeks and paints my skin pink.

Here time forgets its numbers and worries sink beneath the sand, grains catch in my eyelashes and I almost don’t mind.

90

III. Polaroids stick together in the heat, just like us, sweaty and smiling, walking quickly so the concrete doesn’t burn the bottoms of our feet.

We worship melting popsicles and guitar strings, evenings sweet as old friends on porch swings.

Bright nails pop boldly against white dresses and tan arms, linked together in sweaty solidarity.

The hot summer air silences us.

Film photograph by Noa Jett

91

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.

S t a ff N o tes Plaid Synesthesia is the realization of the deliberate and dedicated efforts of many. Editors Noa Jett, Summer Devlin, Aki Nace, and Carrie Mannino worked alongside staff members Emily Bassett, Sam Beale, Marisa Busquets, Lucy Chen, Sophie Choo, Sara Fierstein, David Friedman, Maddie Glackin, Lindsay Gorby, Ua Hayes, Lilah Hilliard, Sean Holmes, Drew Klein, Kristen Kozar, Roshni Nischal, Emily Pollock, Ella Rosenblatt, Amanda Siegel, Isabel Slaymaker, Kayla Small, Maggie Swartz, Taylor Thomas, Alexandra Uribe, Luke Vacek, and Jessica Wittig 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 Synesthesia was created using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6. All text was set in Palatino Linotype. 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.

Th a n k s Plaid would like to thank everyone who submitted creative works and everyone who supports the magazine.

We are indebted to Mr. David Kallis for his technical support and assistance.

We are also indebted to Ms. Sharon McDermott for her support and assistance this year. She has been an incredible asset to the creative process and an attentive advisor. The magazine would never come to fruition without her and the pizza she provides.

Finally, thank you to Mr. Dave Gilbreath and Knepper Printing, Inc. for their professionalism and hard work, which makes the publication of this magazine a reality.

92

Digital photograph by David Friedman

L e tte r f ro m the E d i to r

It feels very surreal writing this, my last editor’s note of my Plaid career. Four years ago, when I walked into my first meeting in September of my freshman year, I could never have imagined the impact that this publication and my experiences have had on me. This year has flown by, but I am so grateful to have the opportunity for one final magazine. And what a year it has been!

Our staff increased dramatically, and I’m thrilled that so many of my young and eager peers already show great promise.

For the third 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), Maddie Beyer (’15), Jessie Zhang (’16), Minna Wu (’16), Frank Tu (’18), and Anna Vlachos (’16). The winners are also noted in the table of contents. Additionally, there are several pieces in the magazine dedicated to Nathan Hurrell (’14), a former member of the staff and contributor to the magazine, who tragically died last summer.

Nathan’s exbuberant personality, infectious laugh, and beautiful voice had a tremendous impact on the entire WT community. We miss him dearly.

We started brainstorming theme ideas for the literary magazine 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 submis sions. Finally, we spent much of March and April working on layouts.

For the past four years, Plaid has provided me with an opportunity to express my creativity and meet a community of equally enthusiastic artists and designers. It has provided me a haven from the bustle and stress of 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. I cannot thank the staff and Ms. McDermott enough for their continued passion and support. I’ll cherish my memories of Plaid and I’ll miss it greatly. I can’t wait to see where you guys take it next.

With love, Noa Jett Editor-in-chief

93

WINCHESTER THURSTON SCHOOL 555 MOREWOOD AVE. PITTSBURGH, PA 15213 412-578-7518 www.winchesterthurston.org