Plaid 2018: Sonder

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Sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk. via the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

table of contents

*contest winners

poetry Summer......................................................................Sena Noaman................................................8 (love)...........................................................................Margaret Balich...........................................10 To Margaret...............................................................Derek Li.......................................................14 Six Million Tears.......................................................Kate Chaillet................................................16 The Earth is Full, We Need Our Space!...............Elie Stenson.................................................22 250 Miles Up.............................................................Drew Fingeret.............................................24

Summer Vacation..............................................Adriana Catalano................................................114 Goodbye.............................................................Christina Vlachos...............................................116 You Make Me Feel Like I’m Dying................M. Washington....................................................119

Family Ties................................................................Maddie Glackin...........................................28 The Cellist of Sarajevo............................................Yanming Cui................................................33 Winter Woods...........................................................Yixin Cai......................................................44 The Buddha and You*............................................Catherine Tian.............................................46 I Don’t Like Tiramisu..............................................Jivak Nischal................................................49 Skies...........................................................................Christopher Porco.......................................52 Pause..........................................................................Rivers Leche.................................................61 In Numbers..............................................................Meredith Warden.........................................65 Constituency.............................................................Maddie Glackin...........................................66 confession; or the day the sun erupted................Brenda Theresa Hayes................................68 Past Lasting...............................................................Sophia Lebiere.............................................71 Underexposure.........................................................Hefei Tu.......................................................74 In The Street............................................................Griffin Gordon............................................76 Snapping the Swim of Life....................................Aria Eppinger..............................................78 alone in my own thoughts......................................Liz Grossman..............................................86 A Dwelling Family...................................................Stephanie Shugerman.................................88 Valor at the Precipice..............................................Maddie Glackin...........................................90 What told..................................................................Rachel Sadeh................................................94 Time...........................................................................Drew Fingeret.............................................97 Rise.............................................................................Joey Creiman.............................................100 Reflection before Breakfast....................................Emily Pollock............................................103 Lovesick Primal Blues.............................................Mason Miller..............................................106 Destination: Giant Eagle........................................Sophie Choo..............................................112

prose The Keeper.................................................................Evie Jin..........................................................12 Splashed......................................................................Sena Noaman................................................20 Piano............................................................................Reilly Jackman...............................................27 The Orphan Nurse of Ithaca..................................Anna Nesbitt.................................................30 One Plus One.............................................................Kate Chaillet.................................................34 Upon a Cozy Afternoon...........................................Derek Li........................................................36 Great Blue...................................................................Danny O’Malley...........................................41 Sonder (Light Rail).....................................................Tricia Sarada.................................................42 Artillery Horse After a Battle...................................Isel Pollock...................................................50 Choices.........................................................................Joey Creiman...............................................54 Antinous and the Underwater Wisps......................Julian Rubin..................................................62 When The Light is Gone..........................................Evie Jin.........................................................73 I Love You, Peter Harper*.......................................Brenda Theresa Hayes................................80 Charlotte and the Freak Cafe...................................Nicole Shigiltchoff......................................92 Not Just Dust.............................................................Margaret Balich...........................................98 Calypso’s New Man...................................................Ayisat Bisiriyu............................................104 The Monster You Know...........................................Jack Robinson............................................108 Swans at Blutsee........................................................Reilly Jackman............................................110 Inner Mongolia, China.............................................Catherine Tian............................................121

two-dimensional art Cover Art..................................................................Emily Pollock..........................................Cover

Flower in a Mustard Jar............................................Sophie Choo.................................................75

Silk.............................................................................Rivers Leche...............................Inside Covers

Untitled......................................................................Rocco Turano................................................77

Fence.........................................................................Ayanna Townsend...........................................9

Glasss Pond...............................................................Daniella Shear...............................................79

After Picasso’s Buste de Femme Au Chapeau....Brenda Theresa Hayes..................................11

Optimist.....................................................................Emily Pollock................................................83

Serenity*....................................................................Rachel Kuzmishin........................................13

Maine Lighthouse.....................................................Kate Chaillet.................................................84

Young Creator*........................................................Maya Husni...................................................15

Oh Maine, My Maine!.............................................Alexandra Friedlander..................................85

Weeping.....................................................................Evie Jin..........................................................17

Crevices.....................................................................Christopher Porco.........................................87

An Imitation of Monet’s Water Lilies...................Yixin Cai.......................................................19

Heart Lake*...............................................................Lynne Irvin....................................................91

Galapagos..................................................................Nadine Oury................................................21

Lights..........................................................................Isabel Lowry..................................................93

Man on the Moon*..................................................Jafar Turner..................................................23

Air and Feathers........................................................Isel Pollock....................................................95

Untitled......................................................................Mo Moeslein................................................25

Doublethink..............................................................Ilana Hollifield..............................................96

Ma Chéri....................................................................Esmé Bessor-Foreman...............................26

Warm..........................................................................Coco Chen....................................................99

Love Locks................................................................Maite Sadeh..................................................29

A Day to Remember................................................Benjamin Gutschow...................................101

Divinity......................................................................Emily Pollock...............................................31

Distance.....................................................................Coco Chen...................................................102

Don’t Stop at One...................................................Tricia Sarada.................................................32

Pretty in Pink............................................................Mirisa Alfonso Wells..................................105

Auschwitz; Survivor.................................................Meredith Warden........................................35

Checkpoint................................................................Isana Raja.....................................................106

Fairy Land.................................................................Kate Chaillet................................................36

Forgotten...................................................................Evie Jin.........................................................108

Elephant....................................................................Sophia Scheatzle.........................................39

Avocados...................................................................Lynne Irvin..................................................113

Goliath.......................................................................Isel Pollock..................................................41

Birds...........................................................................Danny O’Malley..........................................115

Metropolis.................................................................Evie Jin........................................................43

Bisous.........................................................................Emily Pollock..............................................117

Solitude......................................................................Alexandra Friedlander...............................45

Weeping Souls..........................................................Nadine Oury.................................................118

Prayer.........................................................................Alexandra Friedlander...............................47

Left to the Winter Breeze.......................................Lila Ost.........................................................121

9-9-17 435.................................................................Rivers Leche................................................48 War Dream................................................................Emily Pollock.............................................51 Bridges in The Sky...................................................Hannah Woo...............................................53 Rebel Rebel...............................................................Emily Pollock..............................................55

three-dimensional art

The Hill District.......................................................Margaret Balich..........................................58

Borosilicate Frit Pendant and Soft Glass Beads...Julia Bulova...................................................18

Proud..........................................................................Margaret Balich.........................................59

Untitled......................................................................Angela Hayes.................................................38

A Step Back...............................................................Christopher Porco.....................................60

The Screaming Pot...................................................Sophia Lebiere...............................................64

Sistiana........................................................................Isana Raja...................................................63

Wild Things*.............................................................Isel Pollock....................................................70

Untitled......................................................................Dulce Sappington......................................67

Wooden Cheese Knife.............................................Lynne Irvin...................................................89

Lightbulb....................................................................Ilana Hollifield...........................................69

White Mountains......................................................Bridget Hughes...........................................111

Station Square...........................................................Rivers Leche...............................................72

SUMMER Sena Noaman

The birds sing sweet lullabies to me as the fireflies light up the night Protecting me Drooping eyes, I can see the petals landing on the blue cushion of the pond The butterflies whispered sweet secrets to me earlier like dreams of white lace twirling and swirling As the sun dozes off, the moon comes up to dance once again the stars are laughing I smile and Sleep

FENCE Ayanna Townsend

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(love).

Margaret Balich

I.

the color of your eyes when you smile. paper cuts. that sunset in November.

II.

all of the puzzle pieces I find when I clean under my bed.

III.

dirt under my fingernails. the pain in a glance. in a smile.

IV.

made-up stories. whispers. wisps of your hair and your tired eyes, staring. your favorite number like an overplayed song, stuck in my head.

V.

goodbye, goodbye, hello, goodnight, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t mean to hurt myself, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

VI.

boiling over.

After Picasso’s Buste de Femme Au Chapeau Brenda Theresa Hayes

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The Keeper (excerpted)

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Evie Jin

Day 978 In nine hundred and seventy-seven days, six hundred have been golden ones, days outlined in sunshine and brushstrokes of bright blue, but today, the sky is grey, painted over with thick swirls of clouds. The sea is a metallic sheet, and the wind shrieks across the distant hills, high and lonely. The few trees on the island bow to its rage.

Beside me, my closest companion shelters me from the gale, an arm wrapped around my shoulders. Here, I feel protected and safe, unreachable by the wild might of nature and just a bit more loved. From our strikingly similar positions— both rooted powerlessly to the island, both constantly fighting nature’s fury—it is no wonder that we have become friends.

Together, we inspect the bleak scene laid out before us.

“Will a ship come by today?” I ask.

The tree makes no reply, but seems to nod ever so slightly, and a thrill of anticipation rises up inside me. Perhaps, finally, the lighthouse will fulfill its purpose.

It is built at the northernmost tip of the island, which itself is simply a heap of rocks rising out of the frothing sea, all rugged cliffs and wind-stunted trees. Its size is well suited to its population; it takes only eight minutes to walk from one end to the other and back.

Apparently, this island also has a reputation of driving its inhabitants insane; indeed, I have been informed that the previous keeper of the light lasted barely a year before throwing himself off the cliffs. And the one before him—well, the tallest tree on the island still bears a tightly knotted coil of rope.

It is the loneliness that makes them mad, people say—the seclusion that begins with dejection and heartache and eventually manifests into voices in your head, sounds when no one is there, mysterious shadows that crawl across the walls at night.

Fortunately, I have not yet experienced any of these terrors, so I imagine that I must still be decently sane.

The sun sets early in autumn, and when night begins to spill across the sky, scattering a fine sprinkling of stars, I climb the set of two hundred closely spiraling steps to the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse. The large lamp in the center lies still and dormant, presiding like a king over the glassenclosed chamber. At the moment, it slumbers in shadow, but after it is lit, the flame will slice open the night, straight to the horizon twenty miles away. Two and a half gallons of whale oil scaled the steps with me; the lamp will devour it all by dawn.

Serenity Rachel Kuzmishin I busy myself with the lamp, performing the movements meticulously, as it is the one thing in the world which I am able to do well. I take particular care with the massive glass lenses that surround the lamp, wiping them down with a soft cloth until a face that resembles my own peers out at me, shifting back and forth in its transparent cage; except this face—with its unfamiliar, sunken cheeks and hollow eyes that seem to gaze at nothing—cannot possibly be mine.

I light the lamp with a flourish and step back. And instantly, the sea is illuminated; the light cuts a path of flame through the darkness, and as it rotates, it sets the island and the surrounding ocean ablaze. It will burn steadily through the night and into the morning, watching over the seas like a single, lost and lonely eye, waiting for something to fill the blackness, for any reason to go on shining.

It is a solitary life, this. An empty, forlorn, hollow sort of life, always searching, always waiting—for something that may never come.

Several hours later and well into the night, I find myself staring into shadowy oblivion with watering eyes, unable to sleep. The ocean sighs in my ears, and the tide flings itself ceaselessly against the rocks. Salt spray stings my skin, slapping me with tiny hands. At the moment, this small pain is the only thing that keeps me grounded to this world; without it, I would already be floating away.

Then, at the very edge of the lighthouse’s glowing beam, a shape disturbs the stillness. I squint, trying to decipher it, but the light has already turned away.

It takes an agonizing seven heartbeats for it to spin around again, but at last, I am able to make out a looming mast . . . three white sails . . . a great, curving prow.

The ship slices the dark water in half as it glides, all shadow and fog, toward the island.

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Young Creator Maya Husni

To Margaret Derek Li

Weary Soul, Dream Fantastical, Scaffold Hope, Betake and Behold.

Miscellany of bridges, Faint and gall.

Billows of resonance, Deliver or enthrall.

Thy unfluttered apparel, My lowly bow.

Thy glamorous rose, My vacillating ideal.

I dismiss the ennui of philosophy And deem it beauty.

I tread the path of imminent dusk in peace And bid my farewell.

I render the divine strains to summon the luminous herald.

I retain the eyes of youth and ears of summer to subdue and yield.

And now, As the elements of nature Descry us beneath the arbor, I lull the wind’s whisper And dispatch it abroad, To coo beside thy golden wisp: Beloved, thou love me not?

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Six Million Tears Kate Chaillet

How do we cry six million tears?

How do we hold each one in our hearts, When each one had a different name and a different face And a smile and a laugh This one liked cream in his coffee But this one, he liked it black He was strong and fearless He used to climb the tallest trees and dream the biggest dreams And this one, she liked to read Mostly mystery novels But she couldn’t turn away a good romance Oh, and this one here, can you believe she broke her wrist on her wedding day Maybe the heels were a little too high Or the drink a little too strong I see you looking at this one over here His smile was… the brightest Faces turned when he walked down the street But he already had a girl in his heart I can’t remember what she was like.

I can’t remember his name.

I can’t remember her face.

I can’t remember.

I can’t remember.

Weeping Evie Jin

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An Imitation of Monet’s Water Lillies Yixin Cai

Borosilicate Frit Pendant and Soft Glass Beads Julia Bulova

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Splashed Sena Noaman

The large droplets of water came streaking

into view. Skye jumped to his feet, aimed his bow,

down from the sky. The wind howled through

and fired. The pixie dodged it. Skye gaped and

the sparse trees and the smell of mushrooms and

then drew himself up.

moss was overpowering in the light air. Skye ran

“You’ll never take me alive,” he said. He re-

quickly through the ferns, chancing another quick

alized he probably looked ridiculous, completely

look around. He knew his bright red wings made

soaked with his wings drooping.

him stick out. Skye shuddered to think what a pixie would do with him if they caught him.

Skye, being a fairy of the Flower Meadow,

“Oh yes, the fairy with a bow and no arrows and no sword is going to kill me,” the pixie said sarcastically. Skye opened his mouth only to

knew better than to go into pixie territory, namely

be interrupted. “I’m going to take a nap, fairy.

Toadstool Woods. Unfortunately, owing to a

And you are not going to interrupt it.” The pixie

series of unfortunate accidents, there he was with

stalked past Skye and fell back into some moss.

his bow, one arrow, and his soaked wings. While

“I’m River,” he said after a moment, grinning.

pixies were strengthened by the rain, fairies’

Skye couldn't help but smile back.

wings became useless.

“I’m Skye.”

Skye tried to shake out his wings only to get splashed by a raindrop a second later. He suddenly heard a swish of the air and ducked under a fern, holding still and trying not to breathe. He could see a cardinal’s feet land on the ground a second later and to his horror, a pixie jumped down as well. Skye moved slightly to the left behind a leaf and decided that he would die fighting. Readying his bow, he waited. The pixie came Galapagos - Nadine Oury

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The Earth is Full, We Need Our Space!

Elie Stenson Should NASA go, it’d be a shame, Of course the government would be to blame!

No more rovers, no more shuttles, No more answers for our endless rebuttals.

To the heavens we’ll no longer look, Only pictures in a forgotten book.

No more robots or trips to Mars, Only politics played in bars.

It’s lost its glint, its shimmery glean, Of astronomy this world has been wiped clean.

The saving grace hides in us, Our love of space, the power to discuss, For it’s the deep sky that we respect, Our need for space we must protect!

Man on the Moon Jafar Turner

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250 Miles Up Andrew Fingeret

You wouldn’t think, when looking at the world from 250 miles up that it isn’t perfect.

You don’t look at this blue marble, from 250 miles up, and instantly know the bloodstained mess of a history.

You look at the mountains, the plains, the rivers, from 250 miles up, and you see the striking, shining beauty shaping them.

You don’t know the terror, the fear, the violence, and bullshit excuses for starting it, the pain of the innocent, the sorrow of the guilty, the madmen who execute whole nations, just because they’re afraid, or angry, or suspicious, or filled with endless amounts of hate.

Untitled Mo Moeslein

You don’t see these things from 250 miles up.

It’s no wonder so many people have their heads in the clouds.

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Piano

Reilly Jackman I hear the delicate music of a piano in my dreams. It starts quietly and slowly before building with crescendos and accelerandos to a feverish tempo. Or at least that’s what it is tonight. It changes every night the music I play during the day haunting my nights. This piano though is better than I could ever be and there is so much more feeling in it than normal. Sometimes I wake and my piano’s keys look like they have just been dusted ready for me to try my best to recreate the music of my dreams. Try as I might to hold onto the music in my waking hours though it is never there. Now however as I arise from slumber the music continues and as I blink my way into morning I realize that the music is not in my dreams at all but rather issuing beautifully from my own piano in the next room. I smile in appreciation of the music and lie back enjoying the awakening before all of a sudden I am completely awake.

Not due to the music but due to fear. I live alone.

Ma Chéri Esmé Bessor-Foreman

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Family Ties Maddie Glackin

This important sense of community around him Leaving, or had it been Arriving.

“Go to it.”

Disappeared, and the door clicked shut.

Behind him, set at an angle silver and pearl necklaces.

Tight across my shoulders.

I recognized in his right hand, A cane.

Cream-colored silk slips, the stripes Burgundy Mint green, and pale blue.

On their feet, He thrust his fist to the air.

Rolled it forward, Tipped his head back towards the train.

You folks.

Scattered.

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Around various parts of the table; snorts of laughter.

Someone called out “Brother!”

As if in response.

Chins in the air, heads moved all around.

Batted lashes.

Between the far end, of the table and the windows.

A look on her face, both startled and amused.

Her gaze jumped, Squinting, as if confused.

This was confusion I did not understand.

The unifying principle Behind weird clothes And gestures.

I sensed most did understand.

A step back, rearranged on either side arms linked, Gazing upwards.

Love Locks Maite Sadeh

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E

The Orphan Nurse of Ithaca

urycleia, orphan nurse of Ithaca, walked along the banks of rocky Ithaca, sweet water tickling her slim ankles and sending a stinging chill up her spine. She tightened her grip on the dark wooden crate, crafted from her bare hands using the pine adjacent to her home. Her hand wiped against the stained cream wrap that covered her naked body as she inhaled deeply, taking in the salty air of the Ithaca beach. Eurycleia reminisced on the times with her mother, walking along these beaches, her hand fitting into her mother’s outstretched palm. She was snapped back into the harsh reality as a gust of wind was released from the skies, the lid of her crate soaring into the water. Desperate to keep hold of her rations and belongings, she increased her pace, tripping over the uproots in the Ithaca countryside.

Her destination was the castle of the wise and beautiful Queen Penelope, who had just been blessed with the arrival of her first son, Telemachus. Word of Telemachus’ birth spread from home to home, eventually reaching her family’s remote cottage in the countryside. She pitied the strikingly beautiful Queen Penelope, as her husband, King Odysseus had left for the war in distant Troy before the birth of their next great warrior, Telemachus. Sheep and goats gamboled in the greens next to her, winking their dark eyes to deflect the abusive sunlight that followed her on her abrasive journey.

Five nights and five days succeeding the former, Eurycleia, the slim and ragged orphan, stepped foot onto the stone ground road leading up to the vast kingdom. The sight took her aback; pillars as tall as Helios’ light and doors made of a thousand pine faced her petite stature. She stepped forward and heard a lyrical noise coming from the palace. Her hand pushed against the towering doors as she entered the palace, walking straight into the great hall. An extensive table lined the left edge of the room, a fireplace to the right.

Singing and dancing ensued in the middle of the floor, sheep pelts rolled up against the walls to create an empty space for dancing. The wise and beautiful Queen Penelope rose upon Eurycleia’s arrival and turned to the brown-haired servant next to her. The obedient brown-haired maid dashed through the dancing toward Eurycleia, careful to not interrupt the dancing guests.

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Anna Nesbitt “Come with me, you need to be fed. Queen Penelope requested you be seated next to her.” the obedient maid commanded. Eurycleia felt her heartbeat quicken as she followed her to her seat beside the throne of the striking Queen Penelope. She tried to smoothen the wrinkles in her cream wrap and wipe the dirt off of of her gleaming forehead as she made her way to the shrewd queen. The maid pulled the seat out and Eurycleia sat down. Queen Penelope looked down to her, furrowing her brow as she scanned her body up and down.

“Hello dear stranger. Have you eaten? You look as slim as my smallest finger.” the wise Queen Penelope asked. Eurycleia nodded, speechless, and reached for the bread and roast.

She ate her fill, licking her greased fingers as she finished.

Another obedient maid, this one with hair the color of the rays of Dawn herself, poured the table glasses of dark wine and the beautiful queen nodded as she walked away. Queen Penelope rose from her throne, raising her right hand into the sky, careful to not spill the cup of dark wine that balanced on her palm. “To all seated before me, I extend a warm Ithaca welcome to our slim stranger. I am eager to hear the story of her journey; where the scar to the right of her eye originated and from where the dirt on her temple is found. I now offer a sacrifice of our fattest ram to Zeus, the father of the men before us, the caretaker of the land we call home.”

She sat again as the men of Ithaca slit the throat of the ram, and all who remained seated at the table shook hands and talked in low voices.

The wise queen now turned to Eurycleia. “Slim stranger, where have you come from? What is your story? Tell it to me from the beginning and dare not omit a single detail.”

Eurycleia inhaled deeply, and with a quivering voice began to tell the story of her past. “My dear wise queen, it all began with my mother. My father, lover of the gods and the cattle in his pasture, passed before I was born. It was never a heroic death, just one of disease and enfeebled age. My mother raised me from birth, teaching me to appreciate the greens in the ground, the sharp rocks on the black shore, and the light of Helios himself. We walked along those rocky shores of Ithaca’s countryside, my small hand fitting into the outstretched palm of hers.

On the third day of the fateful summer of my twelfth year, my perfect mother fell ill. Her breath turned forced, her temples moist with perspiration.

I held her hand, weeping violently into her torn apron as she passed. I held her for one day and one night after she passed, unwilling to accept the palpable truth that she was not coming back. On the fourth hour of the second day, I let her lifeless body loose and dug a hole for her in our pasture. I laid her there, weeping into her grave as I covered it with the soil of Zeus’ great land. I fell into a grave depression for ten years, never leaving my land and rarely seeing anything but the walls of my small cottage.

I was brought out of my misery by goddess Athena with bright eyes, disguised as a small girl. She came to my door one dark morning, her small hand knocking on my wooden door. I welcomed her into my home, offering her water and grapes that had been growing on the endless vine above the entryway. I had no cattle to sacrifice to the gods on Olympus, therefore we both prayed for the forgiveness of angry Poseidon, fierce Zeus, and all other powerful gods sitting around the table of the caretaker of all, Zeus.

The young Athena told the tale of a great warrior who could never do good in the land around him in his deep depression. When this magnificent warrior left his house and journeyed to a new land, he became the renowned master of the warriors of all the land. Her ambitious eyes and awe-inspiring story inspired me to pack my belongings and travel here. She told me that I needed to become one to save others, one to raise others to their full potential. The young girl with ambitious eyes did not tell me anything but the first step on my great journey, which was to come here and see you, beautiful Penelope.

So wise Queen Penelope, this story, this tale, is how I came to you with my pine crate and dirty face. I beg you for refuge and a chance at a new life.” Queen Penelope’s shoulders shook with grief, her eyes raining tears more powerful than those of the great Zeus himself. “I am overtaken by your tale. It is one of cumbersome anguish and suffering, one of great inspiration and hope. I feel compelled to follow the orders of the cogent Athena herself, the goddess of ambitious eyes and light feet. I now turn to beg to you, slim stranger, please take care of my dear son Telemachus. I cannot take care of my omnipotent son Telemachus alone. I need help, and I can only give this immense deed to one with the trust of Athena within her mind and soul.”

Eurycleia reached out her slim hand to touch Queen Penelope’s graceful fingers. Their hands interlocked and she used her stained apron to wipe the solemn tears out of the wise Queen’s eyes. “I would love to care for your dear son Telemachus. I thank you a thousand times over for

Divinity - Emily Pollock this new and promising journey that you have provided for me.” Eurycleia began to pull her hand away but the beautiful queen held on tightly. Eurycleia felt a bond grow between them, one as endless than the grapevines that grew above the door to her cottage.

Queen Penelope looked Eurycleia in the eyes and smiled. “My finest maids will bring you up to the dormitories and bathe you in the goldest of tubs with the most expensive silver pitchers in all of the palace.

You will be rubbed down in the highest quality oils that Ithaca has to offer and be put to bed in blankets from the softest sheep on the island.” Eurycleia bowed her head, her forehead lightly touching the rough wood table underneath. “Thank you again, my queen, my friend, my employer. We will become lifelong friends, ones that never die, ones that cry together, lie together, and conquer together.” And with that, Eurycleia smiled once again at the wise and beautiful Queen Penelope while two obedient maids took her by the elbows up the stone staircase.

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The Cellist of Sarajevo Yanming Cui

I play a song for my city, and for the innocents who died under the snipers’ fire, for the ones who are still hiding from bullets; for the orphans calling their mothers, and for the elder waiting for his martyr son’s triumphant return; for the families that have been torn apart forever, and for people listening to this temporary cello song.

I play the song for my city, the song from me to the howling wind, the song from me to the people in long sleep, the song that tears the whole city into pieces, and the song evokes all the goodness in demons; The song that’s heard by many people, and the song that no one understands.

I play a song with my city, the city that puts on her white coat in winter days, the city that embraces ripples of golden sunlight in the summer times. the city, where my home is, and the city, where homes exist no more.

The city, which is bruised inside and out, beyond recognition, and the city, which never changes.

I play a song with my city, I plug my fingers on the strings, breaking her silence, I command cruel battlefield by playing Albinoni’s Adagio.

When I immerse myself in her, I taste the grimace of love.

I lose myself, just by muttering her name.

Don’t Stop at One Tricia Sarada

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I play a song for my city, as if my heart still throbs, as if my blood still leaps in veins.

And as if my body vibrates in tune with the harp-string that thrills every mutilated brick beneath me.

I play a song for my city as if the entire city outlasts a bouquet of fresh blooms, and as if the city has ceased to exist.

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One Plus One

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Six million:“It’s not six plus zero plus zero; it’s one plus one plus one...”

This statement, so universally known and so rarely understood, still resonates with me months after visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau, where it first touched my ears.

The sun beat on us that afternoon, as we walked from one faded brick building to another. Arranged in a neat grid pattern, embroidered with cobblestone streets, and trimmed with flourishing maple trees, Auschwitz I could have been a New England college campus. Clear blue sky; hoards of tourists; not one smile. One boy in my group later said he felt a surreal tingling in his spine that day, that he was hyper-aware of the feeling of his clothes against his skin.

With one sentence, subdividing the number six million, our tour guide had herded together my thoughts, tied up the loose ends, and said what my swirling mind could not. I now carry this statement with me; it is a talisman, and I am lucky to have it. When I was in Poland last summer, on a Holocaust educational seminar for teachers and students, I succumbed to an overwhelming emotional numbness, in which my eyes seemed oddly disconnected from my brain. Never in my life had I so wanted to cry.

Schindler’s List and The Pianist brought me to tears, so why, when I was actually in the camps, did my eyes remain so stubbornly dry? I wondered what was wrong with me; I despised myself. It took me a long time to realize I was not alone.

Months later, in contrast, I am battered by images, by words, by memories and realizations.

It’s like the aftershocks of an earthquake, or the leg cramps that come once the 400 meter dash has finished. In the moment, you are elevated to superhuman status, with adrenaline rushing through your veins, but it is in the aftermath that the lasting ache comes.

Before I went to Auschwitz, I knew, of course, that 6 million was a large, titanic of a number, but I was told once by my middle school

math teacher that there’s a limit to the number of objects, or people, we can picture in our minds.

We can’t even picture one hundred; we don’t stand a chance at 6 million.

When I learn about genocides in school or hear about mass tragedies on the news, I find it difficult to internalize and empathize with the victims. As the tour guide implied, it’s easy, convenient, to wrap up the Holocaust in one neat number, with a ribbon of temporary tears. One six, six zeroes. On our trip to Poland, however, I was struck by how unexpectedly personal some of the sites were, particularly the museum at Auschwitz I.; they displayed locks of hair and piles of shoes, prewar home videos, countless pictures, stories, and names. The exhibits at Auschwitz turned what had previously been an unimaginably large and tragic statistic into individual people.

People with families, jobs, houses, and pets.

People who complained about their work, who bickered with their spouses, who made lunch for their kids, who cried and laughed, disliked and loved.

I guess the way to think about it is like a map of the world. You look at the whole globe, and there are too many lands and lakes and mountains to possibly see and hold in your mind at once. Then you zoom in, and now you can see cities; these are the individual people. Once again, there are too many of them to possibly remember all the names, but the one you’re looking at, there was a whole universe inside that city, that person. They had people they cared about, others they could not tolerate; they had likes, dislikes, hobbies. They had secret desires and selfish thoughts that burrowed in the corners of their minds. They were imperfect and perfect. They were human, just like you and me.

Five months later, unresolved questions linger in my mind. How do we honor the victims, not just their tragic ends but their vibrant lives as well?

Auschwitz; Survivor Meredith Warden

Kate Chaillet

How do we remember each one, as a complete individual and not a staggering statistic? How do we spread the lessons that can be learned from the Holocaust? How can we ensure that a tragedy of this scale happens never again, as dictates the memorial at Treblinka?

In retrospect, what continues to haunt me is not the image of the mass graves or the gas chambers, but one home video of a little girl jump-roping, taken before the war, in the museum at Auschwitz I. Our wide eyes and zombie feet had already carried us through exhibits featuring scenes and implications of death, only to emerge in this room of life. It was dark, but not hostile. There was something so indescribably human about it; warmth glowed from the walls and rumblings of many conversations trickled from the ceiling. Surrounding us, on every surface, were home videos taken of Jewish families before the war. Sitting around the dining room table. Going to school. On vacation. And this girl, jumping rope. Her brown curls are escaping her barrettes, her smile is sparkling and innocent. She is maybe six years-old and has not a care in the world; the universe is spread out at her fingertips, and she can not wait to explore. What was her name? What was her story? There may always be questions we cannot answer. Our minds simply cannot hold

six million names, six million stories.

Keeping that frustrating truth in mind, I think the only, and best, way to honor the lives and deaths of the victims of the Holocaust is to implement change in our own lives. Kindness is a gift we were all granted, a tool we all possess. It is free to distribute, yet it reaps priceless rewards. Though it is not always simple, we must rise above hatred and prejudice, even that which we have internalized.

I look at shoulders. When I cannot understand someone, when there seems an impenetrable wall shoving us apart, I look at your shoulders. Ridiculous and obvious, they remind me that your bone structure is congruent to mine, that we were both born as blank canvases to this world, that the universe has shaped us more alike than unalike. I learned a lot in Poland; places and names and events are crammed into my mind. But what I am truly grateful for is this priceless gift: the ability to see people as individuals.

At times, hatred may seem to tower over our world, but every act of kindness is valuable, and it is in our hands and our words that we may spread it, to every corner of the world.

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36

The path clad in Maple leaves, a few couples tread upon, chattering bashfully. At the garden in front of my casement, an imp, after booting a ferocious stroke on the indolent swing, loses his balance and falls involuntarily into the scarlet sea.

Retired from the tiresome desk, I throw myself upon the couch. Drowsy, drowsy!

May the goddess of slumber, her name be whatsoever you deem, descend and take me, yet let my thoughts be retained for this dwindling moment awaiting the release.

Love, fate, freedom, responsibility… all these abstract nouns, what do they mean?

Of life, whither do they betake? These inquiries of the philosopher perhaps shall never be answered, or are preordained to be broached vainly with abstractions more confounding. Thus let us take our ease of evading this nuisance and actually lay our eyes upon a person’s experience—the reluctant mold of his disposition, and his emotions—the fruits of his nature, in attempt to feel the truth. In response to Thoreau’s request of every writer, I should thereby employ myself as the very subject of the topic, for I too, at present, know no one else with more love and hate.

One should continuously introspect, either for compliment or disparagement, for hope or disillusionment. Overall, his own opinion, his own evaluation of himself is that which serves most vitally. As for me, a youth, neither am I too experienced to become weathered by this sublunary world and thus care only about the remaining placidity, nor am I too ambitious and altruistic to forsake my own entertainment. For me, there exists a balance, mainly between happiness and responsibility. Were I to seek happiness only, I would have long seated myself beside the window and indulged in the pageant world of thoughts, not to be worried about the subjects of my study. Yet were I to be fully devoted to my studies, perchance I would not appreciate the beauty of such a languorous afternoon. This balance, ineffable yet conspicuous, reveals itself as a tender

sensibility of accomplishment and satisfaction, an affirmation of self-reliance.

A youth is rather aspiring, freighted with ideals and dreams and thus burdening himself with responsibilities. So am I. Many an arduous morning, sitting beside the windowsill of the second floor library, I spare my thoughts and left fly of my vision ascending to the firmament, and then retreat it to the wistful tree aloof in the garden, dreaming that one day people would behold this window and say: “by this window once sat Derek Li.” Many a quiet afternoon as I walk pass the physics laboratory with its door ajar, I fancy that one day there shall be a new bust standing solemnly at the rear of the room by the name “Sir Derek Li.”

Upon a Cozy Afternoon Derek Li

Fairy Land Kate Chaillet

Alas! How forlorn are a youth’s ideals! Fade as the flower of spring, flow and gone with the rivulet. Many a Saturday morning have I woken up in phony dismay, marveling at the cruel, swift footed and striding clock, oblivious of those “one more minute” murmured not long ago. Oh, the reciting poems by dawn, the replenishing breeze of the early morning, and the productivity while the world is still asleep… All bubble away beneath the sunlight. Would I have undertaken them now? Nay, I have been bereaved of the pleasure. The poems seem to mock my factiousness, the zephyr has died, and time has lapsed inexorably. Flipping the gilded leaf of the anthology, appears the line: “O wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” Though the land girdled with the scent and hues of spring already, my spirit is yet isolated, circumscribed from communing with nature. I go to my teapot. Outside the window, a wood thrush gazes at the top of the tree, occupied by the sparrows. The boiling of water sounds no more as the congenial mirth; the rattling is rather disturbing. I pull the pot near the edge of the counter and flip the casket of tea-leaves ajar. Suddenly there is a knocking on the door, and I reluctantly walk toward it.

It is my host’s daughter.

“Good morning, I knew you were up. Getting up real early in the morning as usual?”

“No, not that early.”

“And having studied during the morning already, as usual, my scholar? What have you accomplished?”

“Actually not much…”

“Come on, don’t be modest, think about me. Anyway, we are going to the park, you want to come along? We are going to be with the little kids.”

“Sorry, I really do have a lot of work to finish by the end of the day. Perhaps I will join you next time.”

How could she be so happy and confident? thought I while retreating to my tea. Maybe I am so absorbed, that I fling my hand right upon the flaming tummy of the pot. In pain I withdraw my hand yet strike the casket.

The tea leaves, mingled with a few petals of flower, are strewed over the floor. Angrily I lean by the counter. Yes, she can be satisfied; she is qualified to, because she has made good use of her time. She claims that I am more diligent only because she doesn’t know me. Oh, me! I look at the mess on the floor. Abruptly, arises a gurgling without, and I look outside the window: the wood thrush has regained its throne. I stroke my imaginary beard.

True, time has been wasted in vain, and happiness bereaved, but you still have the rest of the day. So grumble no more, be devoted to one task at least. Responsibilities

are to be shouldered. Willingly determined, I stride over my tea leaves, superficial accommodation, to my desk. At once I place my Math, Physics and History texts on the table, for they are my main responsibilities as a student.

It is most definitely four, five solid hours as I have plunged myself into the subjects; despite a few stirred and anxious peeks to the clock, I barely even move.

Though I may confess about rambling around my room sometimes, my mind is still immerged, and this time, sparing no idle thoughts grumbling about the short of happiness, and oblivious of the fading brilliance shed from the window. Nevertheless, the youth has his limit.

By dusk, my mind has been stirred with questions and doubts: “Why would have Napoleon abandon Moscow whence his supplies were conveyed in absolute affluence… Is it not supposed that the momentum is only conserved while… For they are infinite, divergence might take place… They are trapezoids… Indeed! They are trapezoids! Not rectangles! Thereby calculus should be wrong… Fallacy! Fallacy…” Like any scientist, I am perplexed by myriads of questions, yet the difference, is, that I am rather, at that moment, irritated by them.

As the anger lingered at the verge of expression, suddenly there fluttered the melody of Croatian Rhapsody from the piano downstairs. I wistfully raise my head: my brother used to play this piece; he would be so absorbed and devoted each time, faintly laughing when making the traditional mistakes he usually made… I walk toward the window, contemplating the splendid margin of the horizon and walk to the tea-leaves which have been lying on the ground the whole day. By now, I worry not concerning things without or within, for the problems shall surely be solved one day and more importantly, I have reclaimed my happiness with peace, with the rest of the evening waiting for me. Silently I replace the tea-leaves. I guess this is what it means by “flower by dawn, picked by dusk” 1.

Alas, how many times have I been aired with void yet my happiness forsake me, and it is responsibility, with its subtle but substantial reward, that revives me! And how many times is the jingling happiness of life which free me from numbness and confinement of responsibility!

Oh, youth, be ambitious on a Friday evening, aspiring to be full and prolific; then mourn for your loss by the subsequent eventide, mourn for the factitiousness and disconsolation; yet spare and forgive yourself upon a Sunday afternoon, and be once again freighted with hope and promises. For the unattainable makes the life.

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Untitled Angela Hayes

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Elephant Sophia Scheatzle

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Great Blue Danny O’Malley

Marsh and shrubs greeted my moment of solidarity with a bitter breeze. Reeds and grasses stood taller than me and swung like a heartbeat, all across the open plain until the line of trees adjourn them, deterring their continued spread as river and swampland ceases as it meets the dense, lightless forest. Neither tree nor grass dares cross that line into each other’s land, hostile and foreign.

The road emerged from the dense green cave, a pointless detour off the main road, asphalt worn from years of neglect. It ends, having no diversions as it curves through the cavernous backwoods and into the open sun of the wetlands, at a collapsed bridge. There to enjoy the eerie feeling of the path, which simultaneously ends and continues on for eternity in limbo, I eventually made my way back to the car to drive back down the ancient asphalt to the real word.

Driving along the cracked pavement I felt every dip, dive, and crevice. Each pothole was like a sheer cliff, swerving slowly around them to prevent damaging the tires. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, it appeared. Its wings pulsed, like the pounding of a heart. The reeds beat in response. The wind became a hurricane and I felt its beating wings echo in my ribcage. It echoed my heartbeat as it rushed in my ears. Potholes be damned, I pressed on the accelerator. We matched pace, the bird gliding across the stop of the crystalline, stagnant waters at a perfect match to my own speed.

The open marshy plains made me feel infinitesimal, yet flying just outside my window, racing along the road’s edge, those very same plains seemed unable to contain it. Though it was many times smaller than my hulk of a car, it seemed limitless, a bygone creature of a forgotten era, an ancient, immortal soul that never ceased to grow as the years went by and it hid in this arcadian glade. Its angular legs graced the water’s surface, its tapered body launching it unabated towards its end.

But that end seemed meaningless in that second. Incessant, unrelenting, and ruthless, it charged across the open plain, and its immensity overcame me. I experienced, in that fleeting second, the vastness of the world we’ve shared.

This bird, though the word does not properly describe it in my mind, and myself, met each other in that moment, shared it, after millennia of story and growth.

It was gorgeous and forceful as it shot across the air, bending the winds to its will, several dozen yards until it disappeared, banking upwards and catching the breath of the sky in its open arms. It pitched forward and away from me as my car passed that line of trees again, leaving the dell for my home once again. It took a second to realize what had happened, and I stopped to look out the window as it continued towards another goal, the only thing I could see were its snaking neck and sharp feathers, and the timeless god left me to imprint those few seconds on my heart for eternity.

Goliath Isel Pollock

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41

Sonder (Light Rail)

Tricia Sarada

At this point, he isn’t able to differentiate between the sounds of the rain against the window and his own choked breathing. Tiredness stings in his left temple, the muscle pulled so tight it can’t take much more of his insomnia. The light rail shakes every now and then, allowing him a bitter laugh as his head hits repeatedly against the window; no weird looks are thrown his way this time.

Sometimes he finds it in himself to look up, observing the signs and reading the people. Some people like to sit down, but will talk to those standing. He’s seen people reunite after a few deadbeat years in the work force, talking about their glory days in high school band practice.

“I was the best clarinetist there, now I’m just on the better side of mediocre” He listens for the fifth stop. It calls for him sometimes, wakes him from his forsaken naps, holds him while he breaks down, drops him during mania. It’s the person that waits for him at the fifth stop. He waits for them, they wait for each other.

Sometimes his eyes look for the lights. In the winter it’s dark early, and the lights are magnetic. They pull at his retinas, coaxing him to open his eyes.

He doesn’t. The eyes stay closed, and it’s all he can justify to his brain that he’s exhausted.

“Is this our stop? Where do you live again? Will we have to walk?”

If he tried hard enough, he can listen to the music of the rails. The AC comes on like the snare drum leading its cohorts into battle. Wheels squeak against the rail, putting shame to the finest piccolo.

Sometimes couples sit next to him, deep in conversation, hands in each other’s hair. He knows that they hold each other’s hearts in a death grip, one slip of the ring finger and it all goes right, a slip of the middle and nothing’s left.

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“Babe, look at our wedding photos my girlfriend just sent me. Oh for Christ’s sake will you get off of that computer game.”

He can feel the pain in his head come through to his mouth. Lock and unlock, the jaw likes to imitate what he likes most, arms left wide open and drawing a body into a tight embrace. Fingers lacing, locked together.

The reflection of the window tells him he’s got dark circles, he tells it it isn’t very polite. He remembers a friend was once told that they looked like they were punched in the face, he forced a laugh from the depths of his cells, telling them he looked worse. No one denied it, certainly not that he was expecting them to. He doesn’t fish for compliments.

Sometimes when he breaks down, people are there to watch. Eyes feel like claws, raking against his raw and unadulterated self. You shouldn’t be here when you are.

Breathing comes out fast and quick, his heart running a faster marathon than he could now, and his mind still has to catch up from last year.

Metropolis - Evie Jin

“It’s like a ghost train, you feel it in your heart and your feet. Chugging away at noting in particular.”

“I’m pretty sure I just messed literally everything up.”

A few stations were swept past his vision. Broken plastic windows cracked and metal benches peeled, fighting against the elements of their own lives. Tangible and intangible, live or simple object. It’s had a background, a purpose, a moment in time where it meant something.

It’s making sure you don’t lose that, drags us all underwater.

He mumbles, talks, hums, sings. It’s the amount of people surrounding and with him that changes, not habits. Habits take us places we don’t want to be and send us home when we need it. Only the bad habits stay, only the good die young. Stars are out, shining while they can, the light we see now is light from thousands of years ago. We don’t realize we needed something until it’s gone, right?

Sometimes he gets on early, and bodies brush against him. He likes to hide, go unnoticed by those who wouldn’t see him otherwise. Forced by purely his will, he stands on the turntable. People chose their seats, standing, sitting awkwardly next to a stranger. Sometimes it takes him a few minutes to find a seat, others he decides someone needs it more than him. Someone who travels to stop seven. Someone like who he used to identify as.

Sometimes he rests his head against the window, paces up and down the waiting area, draws back on little nervous habits that bite him when he wants relief most.

The mind holds us captive, allows us to understand only what we can, like helicopter parents that keep you from being independent. We need our minds, we need our emotions, right?

“Listen to me baby bunny. You tried your best and you still do, don’t let the fact that people are people get too far away from you.”

He looks at his hands, how they’re able to fit so perfectly.

A square peg into the square hole, circle to circle, triangle to triangle, palm to palm, knuckle to knuckle, and skin to skin. They fit.

Sometimes when it gets bad, they ride with him. They stop at the fifth stop. Walk out of the station and into their apartment. Sometimes when it gets good they ride together. Stop at the fifth stop together. Walk out of the station and into their apartment with their fingers entwined. Walk behind the door and land on the couch, one resting on the other, a kiss on the forehead, a glass of merlot.

“Have you ever compared words to wine? Sleek and dark.

They can curl up your spine and make you do things you wouldn’t do, crushing your spirit once you’ve had too much, or letting you fly.”

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Winter Woods Yixin Cai

Winter winds are piercing chill, Fine rain begins to veil the hill, With those frozen feet I stroll down the trail, Making the fallen leaves rustle and tilt.

When I reached the center of the wood, Weathered branches crawl into my hood, I tried to find some greenness as hard as I could But nothing except the deep tawny solitudes.

How changed from the summer scene, When warbler and blue jays sing and preen, Air was soft, and woods were green, Kids still mess up their dress with paint.

But the music remains in my ear, Gathering winds pipe loud rain and footsteps from a deer, It is the winter bringing her souvenir, Because next spring is coming near.

Solitude Alexandra Friedlander

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45

The Buddha and You Catherine Tian

Those moments, I set the sky lantern with my wishes flying to the clouds, I floated the paper boats with red candles shivering onto the river not to pray to the Buddha, but to guide the way when you arrive.

Those dawns, I closed my eyes and sank into the fragrant mists in the palace, I gave up knocking on the door of where I was tightly bounded in not to memorize the truthfulness of my belief, but to put aside obsession and love.

Those nights, I listened to the Buddhist chantings thousands of times, I held my palms together in front of the sacred sculpture not to truly see the world, but to catch a glimpse of your sight.

Those years, I crawled on the path I took to come, I looked beyond the mountain of Heaven not to remind myself of pilgrimaging, but to stay close to your warmth once more.

That afternoon, I stood in front of the crystal window; looked at the mountain covered by snow.

It was pure white, covered by pure gold sunlight, like the brightness once shined in your eyes.

I wondered why the snow doesn’t melt, I questioned if the sunlight is in fact warm.

Tea leaves soaking in the sunshine became cold, the lamp of my heart went out bit by bit.

I stood there look at the snow mountain and sunset.

That’s when I suddenly realized in fact I have lost my home already.

I stood there counting my heart beats and breath, That’s when I finally understand, being alone is not lonely — missing someone is.

I told myself once more to forget you, to forget love.

But that night, I heard the knockings light as fingertips, I smelled the fragrance of you like petals.

When we embraced tightly, I heard your tears dropping onto my heart, you read my heart as I sighed in your tears.

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Prayer Alexandra Friedlander The Buddha has seen so much, love and hate, touchings and betrayals, willingness and giving ups. so She has become cold.

But I kneel down and beg Her To give me five hundreds more years to live.

To watch you. To love you.

Reaching out my hand takes a moment, but holding your hand takes a life of human.

Heaven is a distance of a beating heart.

Home is the beauty of a repeating mistake.

I desire a time when I can embrace you in my left arm, while I can hold the Buddhist Sutra in my right hand.

That day, I flew to Heaven soaring into a God, sitting on a lotus throne wearing a Buddhist monk’s kasaya, not to live forever, but to send you blessings and happiness.

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9-9-17 435

- Rivers Leche

I Don’t Like Tiramisu

Jivak Nischal

Ms. Kovacic wants us to take notes, even though I’m walking so quickly.

Not to mention it’s quite chilly, but I wear my brother’s old sweatshirt that gives me warmth with its soft fleece, reminding me that he’s always helping out even though he lives so far away now.

And you know that.

As I walk down the street I’m greeted by a friendly gorilla, although it’s just a toy that someone left in a bush– I don’t think that’s the fate it deserves.

My feet are almost in rhythm with the birds chirping which is quite a pleasant noise, as opposed to the incessant beeping I hear– what even is that?

I turn the corner to be greeted by a sign for KFC. I could really go for a KFC right now, and you definitely know that.

I’m more focused than I want to be, for plants wait to smack me in the face with every footstep.

I look up for a moment to see The Cathedral of Learning, climbing out of the clouds to say hello.

Signs jump out at me from every angle, each one delivering me a different message.

“Beer in here!” but I’m underage.

“Don’t text and drive!” but I don’t even have my permit.

“Come inside for Tiramisu!” but I don’t like Tiramisu.

I don’t think you know that.

Some of the roads are oddly quiet– the level of volume where talking is a sin.

As we walk over the bridge it remains that way.

I see a building trying to be modern– I hope it knows it’s ridiculously out of place.

One road has been recently paved, as if fixing one fixes them all.

The clouds disperse.

The sun makes my head hurt.

Or maybe it’s the clang of construction.

Frank O’Hara would be upset if I didn’t mention it, but I think you already know that..

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Artillery Horse After a Battle Isel Pollock

T

he valley was quiet, holding its breath like a hayfield after a thunderstorm. There was a blanket of fog that had rolled over the crests of the hills, drawn over the forest and dripping into the grassy hollows and fields at the base.

Traveler huffed quietly and stared at the withered tree. He rested one foot, his hips cocked to one side.

There was a pain in his flank, pointed and strong but beginning to burn into the muscle. How long it had been since he had been struck, he didn’t know. He could stand, with some effort, but the discomfort was draining. He was exhausted. Traveler’s ears drooped.

The mud on his roan hide had dried and was crusted and hard. He hadn’t the energy to gnaw at it with his huge teeth, to clean his hair of its heavy, itchy burden.

There was barely a sound. It was the stillness that bothered him, though. For the first time, he was well and truly alone. There were no men, no mules, no horses. Only him.

Wind hissed through the dewy grass, playing with his ragged mane. Plunged deep in the lush tangle of plants, he cooled his sore feet. With a deep, whooshing breath, Traveler snuffled at the waving blades.

It tickled his snout, cold and fresh. It did not pique his appetite. He was too tired. When he raised his head and blinked, looking about, there were patches of purple foxgloves all around his thick legs. Thistles and buttercups grew in abundance. Phlox and clover peeked from around the edges of lichen crusted rocks farther up the slope.

He had ploughed a long, deep trail through the field. A trench of torn grass and muddy footprints led back up over the crest of the hill. There was only a faint memory of his wild gallop from the battlefield.

He could remember the constant thud of his platesized hooves, the dirt flying in the air, the smoke on his tongue, then the feeling of wet grass on his hocks.

Now everything was frozen in time, though the memory remained. He still smelled of blood and ashy mire. He turned his ears back at the scent and twitched his bruised, itchy hide. Most of his harness

50

was intact and it sat heavily on his back and powerful shoulders. His traces had caught in the grass and he dragged a large clump of torn vegetation behind.

It released a sweet, grassy smell that brought some sense of peace.

Traveler felt a shiver run down his wide, rounded sides. Something inside of him was calling him to move, to walk, to make his way home and find shelter, companionship, anything. He heaved a step forward and limped slowly up the hill towards the tree, the only large object within sight. Upon reaching the it, he looked up into the gnarled branches, peering at the clouded sky. There were still long fingers of smoke that came from the west.

Heaving like a pair of bellows, he flopped onto his side. His heavy collar dragged at his shoulders, the metal rings dug into the highest point of his withers.

There was a strap that pinched at his wounded hip, but he didn’t move. He had run a long way.

Where was the man? The thought at last crossed his mind. The cannon fire and gunshots had stopped hours ago, the booming fading to the back of his memory. His skin still twitched with fear.

The first shell had fallen on the gun carriage, blasting it to the right. He’d been wrenched off to the side and cast down in the mud. Shrapnel and long splinters had fallen across his flank and he’d leapt to his feet, hooves flying, screaming for his man. The man’s face had held the same terror he had felt when they last locked eyes. A second shell fell between them. Then he had run.

Would the man be back to find Traveler? Would he get warm mash and water and a blanket and a brushing? Would the boy with the drums come to see him? Would the other gun men stand around him and pet his nose and pat his shoulders? Would the slender stallions bask in his calm presence?

War Dream Emily Pollock The valley was cold and quiet as ever. There were no horses or men. It was all terribly wrong. He shifted so his back was pressed into the tree, feeling the rough bark against his hide. He chewed on the bit, rolling the hot metal in his mouth, across his dry tongue. His harness was crusted with ash and mud, and yet it still carried the scent of saddle-soap and the man’s gentle hands.

Traveler stretched his neck out and whinnied, long and imploring and as loud as he could cry. There was no answer. The fog cloaking the valley lay as quietly on the foxgloves as it had before.

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Skies

Christopher Porco I gaze into the sky so blue and bright I wonder what my future holds for me The puffs of white transform to my delight The clouds display the signs that they foresee The dark will reach across the sky in night And gone the clouds my thoughts this afternoon But twinkling stars will arise and fight While constellations tango with the moon A sky ablaze with blush must fall to rest The moon so bright it lights the earth afar The night is worn from sailors and their quest Three kings so wise their guide a bright North Star This mystical and never-ending sky My dreams as well the sky exemplifies

Bridges in The Sky Hannah Woo

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Choices Joey Creiman

“Are you ready, Joe?” I nodded, my batting helmet slipping around my ears. I tried to tighten it, but the chinstrap had a complicated latch that my eight-year-old fingers couldn’t manipulate.

“Alright, here it comes!”

The bright green tennis ball came soaring through the air towards me. I poked at it with my bat, missed, lost my balance, and fell over. My helmet spun around until I could no longer see; the facemask was facing the wrong way. By the time I got it undone, both my dad and the tennis ball had gone. I could only assume that the ball had ricocheted off the glass doors of the counselor’s office and bounded away down the long drive back towards the city. I sat on the low stone wall and waited. Sure enough, within a minute my dad was back, breathing heavily. His hand was clamped around the ball, but he didn’t do or say anything. We sat together for a few minutes, not really even talking; meanwhile, it had started to snow lightly. The chilly January afternoon disappeared into dusk by the time my mother and sister were finished.

As we headed to the silver minivan to head home, I wondered again, “Why am I doing this? Why do I even try?

Will my dad still care for me if I quit?

There’s not much point.”

But I only said, “I’d like to do that again sometime.”

My baseball life was my decision. I chose to play until I was fifteen, working with seven different coaches and ten completely different teams. I always had fun, but it was never really the same without my own style. I hated people giving me advice, only my dad was allowed to do that. I would never ask for help. Never.

I decided to take matters into my own hands when the game was already lost; lining pitch after pitch straight into the backstop behind the plate to wear out the pitcher, finally shooting it into right field and racing to second as the ball was thrown back in (taking the other team by surprise). My coaches hated this, because I was showing my own personality instead of actual strategy.

When I was finally confronted with this, I stopped, but I never had as much fun. The coaches were taking my own style back and never letting individuality shine brighter than the team as a whole.

My team was still in the game; the score was only four to zero in the second inning. Our squad, a ragtag band of scrappy seven-to-nine-year-olds, was held

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together by our love for the game of baseball. The coach, an elderly yet enthusiastic man, had held tryouts a few weeks ago, though I suspected this was to get an idea of how many players he’d actually have able to play- usually he’d become ecstatic if we had nine, just enough to take the field. We only had seven for this game, our first of the season, and my first ever. Having turned nine the previous winter, I was one of the oldest ones there, but I had spent almost an entire year practicing with my dad in the parking lot outside the counselor’s office every Sunday. I was ready to play.

My tryout was patchy, to say the best. At some times I would send the ball soaring over the pitcher’s head, and at others I would miss ten times in a row. I wasn’t used to people other than my dad pitching to me, and I could become a blubbering mess if I felt too miserable about my performance. The coach put me as an inconsistency and I chose to prove him wrong. I never gave up, even after the individuality debacle previously mentioned, and I became one of the best players by the end of the season.

Only when I needed to focus on my academic work did I finally quit, turning my back on what was the most fun I could have in the spring to work out kinks in the harsh grading of my freshman year (physics was especially maddening; I was late for multiple practices working on assignments). I chose quitting over failing, but I worried that I had made the wrong move.

My mother hadn’t turned up, but my dad was there as ever. He was our scorekeeper, but I never knew what that entailed because all he did (in my nine-year-old eyes) was write down random numbers and letters . His pencil flew over the page as Patrick hit the ball right back into the pitcher’s glove, but all that was written was “1-3.”

I didn’t understand it; where was the magical “ground ball back to the pitcher” that had actually happened? I would not learn to keep score until I was almost eleven years old, but I had no time to ask how; I was up next.

My dad’s advice echoed in my mind. “Keep your eye on the ball. Watch it the whole way in. Keep your elbow up.

Don’t cock the bat. Close your stance for more power, open it for speed. Run hard all the way, no matter where the ball goes.”

I know, Dad, I thought. This is my time.

The ball flew towards my head. I flung myself out of the way and the ball passed over my prone body lying on the sandy infield.

The opposing team’s bench laughed. I must have looked ridiculous to them, sputtering and wheezing, dirt all across my jersey. But I didn’t care. I had let the pitch go and the runner on second base had advanced to third. In my mind, the hundreds of hours of practice and honing my technique was all coming to this next pitch. Nothing mattered except the bat on my shoulder and the ball hidden in the pitcher’s glove. I was ready for it. My teammates knew this; they cheered for me as the pitcher went through his windup. He delivered.

Standing there, on second base, was the best feeling in the world. The feeling of satisfaction, of knowing that hard work grants better luck, of disbelief on the face of the older boy playing shortstop was all I needed. We were ahead of the other team for the first time in two years. We could win a game. ** This was not me. This was us.

I did not choose to be depressed, or anxious, or autis-

them, but it doesn’t matter at all, for my life has been defined by others and their views of me, which in turn has shaped my own view of myself. Am I a person who, overall, is kind-hearted but emotionally or mentally subpar? Or am I a dreamer, who floats along through life without a care in the world? I’m not the one to say. My life story, while being perfectly normal, keeps me from being who I want to be.

Choosing the career path of my mother, a researcher for the University of Pittsburgh, or my father, an engineer, is not me. Me is not a person, or an object- rather, a lifestyle. The lifestyle that I choose can be anything, but choices are so complex and diverse that any move in any direction will change the result, be it in ten seconds or ten years.

My first few years were a happy-go-lucky time with lots of good friends and wonderful people surrounding me, but as I moved to different schools with different

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Rebel Rebel Emily Pollock

My friends, who had stuck by me for years, were scrambling around in who-knows-where, while I was left as an outcast in a tiny school with just seventy-two children from pre-kindergarten to eighth grade. My two best friends, who had been my allies from the time I could walk, had both lost touch with me. One had moved halfway across the world to Denmark, his mother’s homeland, and the other was in a public school that I couldn’t even pronounce. I was stuck. The seven other kids in my class had all been at the same school in kindergarten and knew each other well, whereas I was the weird new kid who spoke in an obnoxiously self-centered way and acted out of turn, causing disruptions and pauses during the most routine activities. I was only this way because I was convinced that this was not the right place for me- it was changing the way I acted, learned, and explored the world, and I hated it.

Change was not my world, I said. Obviously, change is necessary and usually lovely, but my young brain was especially outraged that my parents hadn’t even consulted with me during their talks with the school director; choos-

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be rude to my peers and teachers was my way of showing it. Gradually, I adjusted to life there, but still showing signs of outbursts at the slightest provocation. I couldn’t control it, and my temperamental nature never really left. My friends at my new school also adjusted to this, and I grew to like them back.

I turned the test over. There was a red 78 on it: my lowest test score ever. I was in sixth grade, my first year at Winchester Thurston, and hadn’t studied for this test, the second of the year. The first one was a breeze; I scored well into the 90% range with minimal effort. Naturally, thinking the performance would keep was a huge mistake.

I almost broke down in the middle of class. When I got home, I could only think of what my parents would say if they found out. They had been so proud of me the previous year; I had gotten all A’s and nothing less than a 96%.

There was no choice afterwards. I had to study, and I kept at it. Nothing would persuade me otherwise, and only when I got into high school easily with good grades did I stop and think about it.

I had only kept going because my future would be ruined if I had stopped. My low score was a result of hubris, but determination was my savior. I had worked well into the night on some days, other times I had pestered my teachers for help. Then I stopped.

Don’t practice until you get it right. Practice until you can’t get it wrong.

This was my motto after quitting karate to work on academics. It was my motto after a bad piano lesson having not worked on a piece all week. It became my life until I chose to work less, to focus on having a better time. I was just about to start tenth grade.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for help. No one can do everything on their own. Asking is a sign of strength, not weakness.”

I need help. I can’t do everything on my own. My autistic, depressed brain can’t be left alone to its own devices; I turn into a comatose log if I do so. Writing this essay, for example, took me so much longer than it should have because I put it off until I could think of ideas.

My choice. I didn’t want to go for a walk because I had to finish. My choice. It became an obsession over the weekend because I needed to finish. I had dreams about it failing, waking up at 4:00 with cold sweat pouring down my face. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, yet I somehow forgot. I needed help on this essay, but put it off. My own choice. A bad one, but a choice all the same.

“I’m not here to disturb you. Keep writing your essay.” I had already minimized the window and covered the screen with my hands. Thanks, instincts. My choice was not even to ask for help, which I had been writing about at that time. I did need help, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask those four simple words: Can you help me? The answer, in my head, was already no. This was a complete failure of thought, but it was still my choice. It was my fault that I didn’t ask, but I had convinced myself, once again, to never ask. It’s an instinct that needs to be forgotten as soon as it is possible. So, can you please help me write this essay?

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The Hill District Margaret Balich

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Proud

Margaret Balich

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Pause

Rivers Leche

A Step Back Christopher Porco

Why don’t we stop to look at light as he dances through leaves, or plays in crashing waves?

Why don’t we let sounds consume us, spinning us into a hurricane of sadness, or rage, or love, leaving us to crumble into a soft pile of tears?

Why can’t we drive around cities at 2 a.m., basking in the midnight honey of streetlights and the vast expanse of a star filled night sky?

Why haven’t we gotten drunk off of Honeysuckles, and sweetened Earl Grey tea Feeling infinite, open, soft?

Hear the woosh of the wind.

Dive into numbness.

Let yourself breathe the same breath, as the universe Your blood the same she, your heart beats in her’s.

Get in bed with the shadows.

Pause. Take note.

Find new places to be a camera within.

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61

Antinous and the Underwater Wisps

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age,” the first boy stated to Antinous, before haranguing Julian Rubin him with everything extraordinary he knew.

“Understood. What are you called?” Antinous quesAs dawn rose, and the long roads of the world grew tioned the other boy. “I am called Fispeon, son of Ramerbright once again, Antinous stared out at the dark, shifting don. I am known for-” the other boy spoke, but was soon waves in front of him. “Hurry up with your scrubbing this cut off by Antinous, who had studied the boy’s heavyset instant. You cannot play until all the chores are finished,” nature, and told him “You are known for your extraorEupeithes, the boy’s father, remarked walking in from andinarily large sized arms.” With a look of astonishment, other room of the family’s small, but cozy dwelling.

Fispeon replied “How could this fact possibly have been As he strutted towards the shining windows displayknown by you, a boy I have never spoken to in my life?” ing the unreachable world in their glow, Antinous prayed Pondering quickly, Antinous declared “I am Antinous, son to the deathless gods that the shining windows would be of Eupeithes. I am known for being able to read the minds empty of the must and dirt he had scrubbed as a chore of beings,” and his effort to deceive the boys did not apevery day in the twelve years thus far of his life. Yet to pear to have failed completely. his dismay the windows were covered in the soil of the “That is absolutely incredible,” said Lentious, the beach. Antinous picked up a dripping rag and began to intelligent boy, in awe. “How could that possibly be fact? wipe the no longer shining glass. As the dust dripped away, The way this boy believes he can make us play along with the waves were once again visible in Antinous’ young eyes. his foolery,” Fispeon, the boy with the heavyset nature, Antinous stared at the cool waves, content, at the moment, shook his head. “Don’t mind him, Antinous. Fispeon, silly, with only watching and not entering. When a particularly unintelligent brother of mine, do not open your mouth dark patch of the dust was wiped, Antinous caught sight if you have nothing good to say,” Lentious said, striking of something shiny glinting in the water. Peering closer, Fispeon across his extraordinarily large sized arm. Fispeon it appeared as though it was the top of a structure, remistayed silent at this time. “I was pondering just now whethniscent of the palaces in Ithaca, which resided quite close er the three of us could explore the palace that appears to to the island. But this was something odd indeed, to be be sticking out of the water,” Antinous reminded the boys sticking out of a large body of shifting waters. “Mother, in a kind manner. may I please explore?” Antinous asked in an unusually “I have been pondering this as well. But how could warm tone of speech. “Is the scrubbing done?” his mother we possibly get there?” Lentious replied to Antinous, who replied. Antinous scanned the large shining windows with gestured with his head to the line of boats and oars lying his large shining eyes. Earth and soot encrusted every by the dip in the sand where the dark waves came crashcorner of all but one. “Of course I am mother!” Antinous ing down. “How do you know those boats are free for the yelped back, dashing outside through the backside doors taking of the public?” Fispeon wondered aloud. Antinous of the house. found himself at a loss of what to say, but in his benefit, Outside, his bare feet hit the warm touch of the Lentious suddenly bellowed “Don’t mind him, Antinous. beach’s yellow sand. Still glinting in his eye was the shinFispeon, silly, unintelligent brother of mine, you must by ing building, seemingly the same measure of distance away now know that Antinous can read minds, thus reading no matter the distance he dashed towards the water. Two those of the boat owners, who must be thinking to themyouthful brothers stood by the water, staring at it like a selves that these boats are free for the taking!” striking cow studying a butcher. Approaching the unmoving boys, Fispeon hard across his back. Fispeon stayed silent at this Antinous stated abruptly, “Have you caught sight of that time. glint in the water as well?” They turned their heads to face The three children proceeded to drag a rough, woodAntinous. en boat and oar off the dock and sail away in the direction “Indeed we have,” the first brother replied. “It apof the palace through the dark, cold waters. Out of the pears to be the top of a palace, resembling those in Ithaca. edge of his ear, Antinous heard the yelp of a boat owner.

But why would such a thing reside in the water?” the “Thieves! Petty young thieves bring my boat back!” Out second brother added. “This is exactly what I was ponder- of the corner of this eye, Antinous noticed that Lentious ing,” Antinous replied, thankful he was not the only being could hear the man as well, but perhaps not as well as Anto see this in the water. The children chose to introduce tinous could. “What is that boat owner so angry about?” themselves properly to Antinous. “I am Lentious, son of Lentious asked Antinous. “Something that appears to be Ramerdon. I am known for being extra intelligent at my out of my power to read.” Antinous replied.

Sistiana - Isana Raja

Fispeon continued to row until the boat reached the object of the journey, short in length, that would end up changing the life of one of the boys sitting now on the boat: the tip of the palace. “The two of you may keep yourselves stationed here above the surface. I will dive down and report what I find,” Antinous instructed. Fispeon began to open his mouth, but flinched at his brother’s threatening stare in his direction, and closed it once more.

Taking a deep gasp of breath Antinous plunged himself deep into the waters.

The icy touch of the surface preceded by the chilling temperatures of the ocean, made Antinous shiver as he swam downward. Now that he was under, Antinous was able to see a fully constructed palace residing underneath the waves. Unsure of what to make of this, he swam towards the entrance. To his great surprise, the closer Antinous neared to the entrance of the palace, the more he could truly breathe, until when touching the admirably large doors, his breath returned to him in full.

Opening the admirably large doors, Antinous saw the sight of a large dining hall, but with an empty table, where hundreds of women sat. The women, however, were colorless, as if products of the water. “Welcome to our table, young friend. Would you like to sit with us?” one of the women asked. “Why I’d be happy to,” Antinous replied, pulling up a cushioned, leather chair and letting himself relax into it. All of the women stared at Antinous inquisitively. “What is it you ladies do here in this palace?”

Antinous asked the women inquisitively. “We can read the events yet to happen to younger mortals like yourself,” one of the woman at the end of the table said. “But first we must know the past,” the leader, who had first welcomed Antinous, told him.

“Well, I have just recently tricked some silly, unintelligent brothers into coming out here with me,” Antinous declared. For a single moment, the expressions on the faces of the women turned to one of surprise, but quickly returned to their previous warm glow. “I have seen your future, Antinous. Your true love will be named Penelope.

Seek the woman named Penelope and you will find your true love,” the leader of the women instructed Antinous.

It took him a moment to ponder this, before he found himself transported back up to the boat with Fispeon and Lentious. “Antinous, what is it that you found beneath the waves?” wondered Lentious.

“Nothing at all. Time to row back, I would say,” Antinous deceived once more. “Nothing under the waves?

Then what is this structure right here?” Fispeon gestured to the top of the palace sticking out of the water, resembling those in Ithaca. Antinous was glad to hear the expected response from Lentious, “Fispeon, my silly, unintelligent brother.” But, this time, Lentious struck Fispeon so hard, that he fell off the boat and into the water. “Oh no!

This occurrence is horrible!” yelped Antinous. Now that Fispeon had fallen into the water, he would see the palace and discover Antinous’ deception. So, to protect his own lies, Antinous forced his hands under the waves and held Fispeon there until his body went limp.

As Antinous and Lentious rowed back, Antinous bracing to face his parents who would be furious he hadn’t finished his scrubbing, little did he know the wispy women had knowingly cursed him, appalled at his short tale of deception and trickery. Antinous would now seek out a woman called Penelope, resulting in a brutal death at the hand of Odysseus, son of Laertes, similar in pain to the one just experienced by Fispeon, at the hand of Antinous.

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The Screaming Pot Sophia Lebiere

In Numbers Meredith Warden

Millions Of pairs of shoes (a child’s pair sits off to the side) Tons Of ashes in a massive mound (sunlight glints off of a piece of glass peeking out) Thousands Of portraits on the wall (men, women, children, and one girl who looks just like me, who is my same age.)

A room of books filled with thick pages, all with Hundreds Of names on each.

There are too many pages, too many portraits, not enough time, to look at each name, each picture.

Three: (Aandagt, Jacob. murdered at Auschwitz.

Warech, Mosze. murdered at Treblinka I. Warda, Luba. place of death unknown.

Bleiberg, Janina. imprisoned in Auschwitz, survived.)

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Constituency Maddie Glackin

You feel the eyes gaze up at you, sets of gray, hazel, blue, green ignited with a familiar pleading starethe same look your toddler has when she wraps her chubby fingers around your own and bargains with her dimples.

You want to reach out, and touch the hearts of everyone before you to learn of their desires, their hopes, And charge into battle for their defense.

They are your followers, and you are their face: an idol.

You swore to protect and uphold not an age old document, faded in the minds of the masses, but the faces of every American sheltered from the storm by democracy.

You are to find guidance from them, traced paths in the lined faces of the old, and hope, from those whose lives have just begun.

Without them you become Don Quixote, engaged in battle with a dream and long to rid the world of its monsters, without knowing where they hide.

In the face of the masses, you see a future of upheld dreams and trusted government, a promise, pledging protection over all.

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Untitled Dulce Sappington

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confession; or the day the sun erupted Brenda Theresa Hayes

this poem is a confession. i used to walk along the edges of my house and listen to the trains pass by, feel the tremors in my walls, my shaking mirrors in the bathroom. i used to eat iced animal crackers and laugh out loud. i still laugh, i’m just angrier. it’s my way of saying listenlistenlisten i am still here. i am still angry. this poem is a confession. i used to wedge myself between today and tomorrow and exhale with the cold dark earth. i watched my tinfoil stars crumple up into the big blue black bruise called the sky.

Hello stars, i said. They winked back.

We flirted with each other until the sun came up. you told me i had crescent moons at my fingertips and sunshine hanging from my ears.

I could feel them, heavy with light, i just don’t understand how i didn’t notice them before you did. this poem is a confession. one day, the sun erupted. the trains ran off their tracks. the moon turned her face away. everything looked different, but their shadows stayed the same. the sweetness in my smile turned opaque. congealed somehow, i don’t know. my new, waxy, plastic jaw. this poem is a confession.

you told me i shouldn’t think about the future, but it pisses me off, keeping my head down, not being curious. but you told me not to think, because expectation lets us down, and no one will catch me. this poem is a confession. i laugh at what i can’t change. i laugh at everything. everything is offended. everything and i have something in common. this poem is a confession. when the world falls asleep, my eyes stay as open as june, observant as a sunday, sleepy as a flower, restless as a rest stop on the way to visit the estranged half of your family. this poem is a confession. the day the sun erupted, you told me you loved me. the flowers stayed still and i was a fortress, fielding an attack. the day the sun erupted, my chest cracked open and butterflies tickled my wrist as they sighed into the future. the day the sun erupted, i loved you too, but i didn’t say a word.

Lightbulb Ilana Hollifield

it’s difficult to clench everything in a room full of people. it sucks to suck in my teeth. to pretend and breathe in and breathe out.

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69

Past Lasting Sophia Lebiere

Nothing gold can last So build your life out of silver and brass Or better yet, timber and grass Stone and granite work nice With lots of holes for the mice Fill the cracks with dirt and seeds And watch it bloom with vines and weeds

Wild Things Isel Pollock

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71

When The Light is Gone (excerpted) Evie Jin

24 September

There are five of them, all suffering through varying degrees of insanity. A man who babbles incoherently to himself, day after day, not seeming to notice or care if anyone is listening. An older man with long, ragged hair and fingers like claws, who leers evilly at me with bloodshot eyes. A woman whose eyes are only angry red holes, staring blankly without seeing. A young man, hardly more than a boy, with ugly scars crawling all over his body. A dark-haired girl who sits rocking in a corner, knees hugged to her chest, ignoring the world.

They welcome me to their cell.

It is tiny and uncomfortably cramped. There are no windows, no ways to escape, and the walls link arms around us. Through steel bars, we catch glimpses of the hallway beyond—a hallway just as dreary as the cell itself. Peeling paint crumples toward the floor, defeated, and rusty red stains creep up the walls.

There is no sunlight here to greet us upon waking, no birds humming sweet melodies in our ears, no twinkling stars to herald the night. There is only the gloom lurking over our shoulders, the despair peeping around the door, the constant chill pressing in from all sides. It seems awfully crowded here, stuffy and confining, and every day I gaze upon the faces of the mentally insane, knowing I can’t possibly belong with them, that there is no way I am that far gone.

“Just for a little while,” the doctor had said, features molded into an encouraging expression. “Everyone’s going slightly mad these days, you know, what with the stress and all…nothing to worry about.” But his eyes seemed scared as he looked at me, as if he saw some horror in me that I couldn’t, and I wonder if that is what caused me to be brought here in chains.

Either way, I want to get out. This can’t be my home. The girl I left behind—she haunts my dreams. I think of her laugh, a chain of golden bells ringing; her sweet, lilting voice calling my name; the sadness in her face when she pleaded with me to find help. I came here for her. Days are dull, lonely, monotonous; nights are even worse. Night is when the noises echo down the halls, shrieks and groans and high-pitched, maniacal laughter. Night is when chills creep down my back and shivers flutter across my spine. Night is when the shadows on the walls morph into demons, fangs bared, claws extended, hot breath damp on my neck.

Night is when the whispers start.

Station Square Rivers Leche

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Underexposure Hefei Tu

I’m annoyed at the harsh wind when I only wear my checkered shirt.

Few people stagger on the sidewalks, yet they all hide their hands in armpits wobbling like matryoshka dolls.

I step on a squashed water bottle and kick it away in crackling sounds.

I walk through the delipidated coldness of Bloomfield, fancy cars zoom by, drivers glimpse through the window cracks.

Reflective jackets, denim jeans, and bright yellow helmets outline construction workers’ healthy bodies.

I’d always tell you how I dream to be an artist of a city like them, brushing and splashing strokes of paint on narrow alleys and rambling dorms.

A young black woman in a cozy Steelers robe leans on the porch, chatting with an old lady in an armchair about politics and price of potatoes.

I remember you and I, we’d waste all day prattling, with coffee and kisses of curiosity.

Now it’s sunny on Millvale Avenue but the Italian taverns and bars cast shadows.

West Penn Hospital glows in sunlight, a gatekeeper for Garfield.

I see a doctor in blue scrubs smoking a cigarette hurry by a patient.

Old and scrawny, with one arm stretching on the back of the bench, the other resting on his crutch.

The patient’s grey eyes trail the azure suit until it strolls away to the center of Garfield.

Like a yacht misses the dazzling flare sent from a sinking boat.

It doesn’t take long for me to arrive at the gallery.

The rooms are small and the light is warm.

I look at the photos.

I see vandalized mills, thick smoke, and dust on the cogwheels.

I see grand mansions, clear sky, and snow on the railroads.

I receive a photo book for the visit.

I hold my gift tight, the way I used to hug you.

Pictures in The Forbidden Reel were shot in a theatre.

We always enjoyed the movies, but you’d complain about salt shards on the pretzels.

We overcome thousands of miles across the earth, yet can not disperse the slightest shade between us.

Flower in a Mustard Jar Sophie Choo

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75

In The Street Griffin Gordon

The first step sends Lightning bolts through my thighs.

A sharp crack as My foot connects with the Concrete beneath. My knee Buckles before breaking. It Shatters, tearing through my skin.

The bone must be everywhere.

The honks and screams Blend together, but pass Around my ears, sliding across The surface of my eardrums like Soft, smooth sand through my fingers are the next to go.

I feel them leaving me.

Breaking carrots. Plucking the Petals off a flower. I gasp For air but can’t push anything down on my luck, I guess.

My ribs open up One by one.

I am completely exposed.

My ears are limited to The gushing travel of Blood through my veins.

My heartbeat is erratic Like a broken metronome.

I reach in my chest to Regulate my functions Excavate vindication But my palms only find The asphalt below.

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My body stops breaking Begins sinking into the ground, Mingling with the raindrops that Sting my face as it melts From overly compassionate Words. Stems from my own mouth.

I’m soon to be all gone…

Hey, asshole!

My pseudonym splinters past my barriers and Bursts the bubble surrounding my consciousness.

My legs have returned but still Feel like already-gone dead tree stumps. I reach My left hand out and Test the familiarity of my fingers.

I place my hand on my chest and Find it fully intact. My heart Brutalizing my ribs like A jackhammer. I manage to tear My roots from the pavement And take a step forward. Something Connects with my hip and Forces me to regain my balance.

More honks blare in my direction.

I must be in the street again.

Untitled Rocco Turano

77

Glass Pond Daniella Shear

Snapping the Swim of Life Aria Eppinger

I am the fish that swims tirelessly upstream, each scale, each flesh, each atom advancing.

Floating onward and backward, enjoying the stretch and limit of each chain link of life, both when driving goalward and bobbing upward.

My eyelid clicks and flashes, to capture the momment, each light ray, bending and turning, steady like the dawn of each new day.

Yet, there will be no camera, no lens, no pinhole, no view, to make my existence still.

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79

I LOVE YOU, PETER HARPER

I

Brenda Theresa Hayes

don’t sleep anymore. If I slept at all, I don’t remember.

The mists are all I know, and the Hissing Voice tries not to remind me of anything. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to remember.

The Hissing Voice echoes in and out. Somewhere, there is a door that only the Hissing Voice can see. Sometimes it is open, and sometimes it is closed. It is closed now. I can’t find it. ...

Something is here. It walks. It comes closer to me, and I see it materialize from the endless swirl of fog. It sees me, and it melts into a silent scream.

I stare up at it, the thing.

“What are you?” My voice rasps. I only use it when I talk to the Hissing Voice. The thing blinks, surprised.

“I’m Peter Harper?” it replies.

It says this like a question, then again, more firmly.

“I’m Peter Harper,” The smog glares.

“What are you?” it asks me.

I don’t know.

“What’s a Peter Harper?”

The Peter Harper is tense. I start to look at the Peter Harper. Its figure feels like a faint memory. I step closer, and it coils back in disgust. It is repulsed by me.

I am hurt, somehow. I turn away, losing myself further into the froth and losing the Peter Harper.

“Wait!”

The Peter Harper is fast.

“What is this place?”

I shrug.

The Peter Harper looks around wildly, its EYES wide. EYES. I forgot EYES. I think I had EYES. Or do I have them now? Did I keep my EYES? “It’s so cold.”

I do not understand. The Peter Harper moves its.. its ARMS. It moves its ARMS up and down itself.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Cold. What is it?”

The Peter Harper blinks at me again, with its EYES. There is something in them, I think.

They called it COLOR, I think.

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Maybe BLUE? RED? PURPLE? I look around again. There is no COLOR. Only frothing clouds of nothing and no one else.

Except the Hissing Voice.

And now, Peter Harper.

“How do you survive out here?”

In here, I think.

“What do you eat for food?”

“Food?”

A dull ache begins under my skull, where Peter Harper does not face me.

Is it the Hissing Voice?

“Yeah, food. What do you eat if you’re hungry?”

“What’s a HUNGRY?” The Peter Harper looks at me, the EYES on its FACE getting bigger. It is looking at me.

“You mean you don’t get hungry?”

“Um,” I don’t know what to do with the Peter Harper. I don’t want it to leave, and the RED (or maybe this is PURPLE) that swirls in its face suggests Frustration. I never lost that word.

“Not anymore, I guess,” “But how is that possible?”

I shrug at the Peter Harper. It turns REDder or PURPLEr. “You’re changing COLOR,” I whisper this, into myself, almost.

“What?”

I try again.

“Your FACE. It changes COLOR,” “Oh.” It is quiet. Not just the Peter Harper, but the yawning Emptiness is resting.

Sometimes it howls. Sometimes it scratches at my FACE. Sometimes it whispers and gossips.

That is where the Hissing Voice first emerged, I think. I do not want the Peter Harper to hear the Hissing Voice. ...

Did the Hissing Voice bring the Peter Harper here? ...

Sometimes, Peter Harper looks so tired. He closes his EYES and wraps his ARMS around himself. Sometimes, his EYES leak so hard his BODY shakes.

Sometimes, he smiles at me. I ask him questions, and he answers me. I am afraid because I do not want him to hear the Hissing Voice.

He breathes softly. I think he is sleeping. I can’t sleep anymore. I try to, but something burns and keeps me awake. The fog laughs. ...

Peter Harper holds onto me. I don’t want to ask more questions, but every word is another memory.

“What are those?”

“What?”

“Those on your HANDS. They come out of them.”

“Oh, those are fingers.”

I think, hard. Fingers.

FINGERS FINGERS FINGERS FINGERS FINGERS. I open and close my HAND. I have them, too. I take Peter Harper’s HANDS and count all of them. There are 10 FINGERS. I look at my HANDS. I have 10 FINGERS, too. ...

“Did you bring the Peter Harper here?”

“The what?”

I fill with rage.

“The Peter Harper.”

“Oh.” The Hissing Voice hesitates. I wait.

“No, of course not.”

The rage spreads to my FINGERS and swells in my CHEST. ....

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I am curious.

“Peter Harper,” He raises his wrinkled FACE to meet mine, “Yes?” “What do I look like?”

He stares at me patiently, and I am embarrassed at my own question.

“Never mind, never mind,” I say.

I look down at my HANDS and FINGERS. There are still 10 there. I feel his FINGERS trace my FACE. I can see in his EYES that he is concerned.

For me.

“You are magnificent,” he confides. ....

I love you, Peter Harper.

The words catch in my TEETH before I can spit them out.

It doesn’t matter.

He is gone.1 ...

“Did you take Peter Harper away?”

“Who is Peter Harper?”

My HEART is fury, rattling, rattling, rattling. .....

“You said you would never lie to me.”

“That’s right.”

“If you ever lie to me, I’m free, right?”

“Yes.” “Did you lie about that too?”

Silence. It is Agitated. The word feels prickly on my tongue.

“We only want what’s best for you,” it whispers, and then I am alone again.

I am suspended in omniscience, knowing nothing, nothing at all. ...

These are my HANDS with FINGERS.

These are my FEET with TOES. This is my FACE with EYES and LIPS and a NOSE. I also have TEETH. These are my ARMS. These are my LEGS. They are made of BLOOD and BONES and MIRACLES and SKIN. These are the things Peter Harper taught me. They are all magnificent. ...

I waste in the winds for such a long time. They coil around me and never let go. ...

“Would you like to see what you look like?”

The Hissing Voice mocks me, but I do not care.

I want to know. I have not known anything at all for such a long time.

“Yes.” Everything shifts. The wind scratches at my FACE in tiny, sharp strokes and confiscates my breath. ...

I hesitate to look. I turn to the mirror.

I fear what I see.

My EYES are black and wet and round; they swallow up most of my FACE. My SKIN sags to the ground, and the wrinkles in my FACE are ancient and demonic in my swollen cheeks. They are not anything like Peter Harper’s.

I am not like Peter Harper. I lost the HANDS and FINGERS after he left. I see my terrible, terrible TEETH. They are jagged, brown, and Angry.

My MOUTH is a gaping hole that hangs open. A thick trail of BROWN falls from it.

My TEETH rip through my yellowed SKIN. BLOOD rushes out, RED. Memories flicker like small tongues of flame: RED is BLOOD and ROSES and APPLES and LIPS and FIRE and RACE CARS and STRAWBERRIES and SOCKS and LOVE and PETER HARPER and PETER HARPER and PETER HARPER. ....

The Hissing Voice howls, but I do not know the words it screams. I do not care.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I feel something that must be very close to Happy.

Not completely there, but very close.

Happy was learning I had EYES and HANDS and FINGERS. Happy was a wrinkled FACE. Happy was Peter Harper telling me I am magnificent. ....

The Emptiness pulls at me, gnaws at my EYES, boils my SKIN. I am so tired.

I fall asleep.

A watery, stinging Sadness claws at my throat, but so does Anger, RED and burning. ...

Optimist Emily Pollock

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Maine Lighthouse Kate Chaillet

Oh Maine, My Maine!

Alexandra Friedlander

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alone in my own thoughts Liz Grossman

Surrounded in an endless pit of leaves They are all warm muted tones of yellows, oranges, browns, and what was once a vibrant crimson red I am alone in my thoughts, isolated, in complete fear I cannot blurt out to everyone whatever pops into my mind My first thought, completely alone, in the cold bitter isolation, as the wind hits my face Is “I love you�, but do you love me too?

I think about you, like a hopeless daydream I try to daydream and think about the beauty the coming months will bring But it is quite hard when the woodpecker is squawking and the deep brown log from an ancient tree is too damp for comfort It is hard to daydream when you are taunted by the majestic nature surrounding you The trees ranging from evergreen to the one in the distance, naked, covered in frost The young branches with leaves of green and yellow atop my head I just want to think about you, your warm eyes, warm as the leaves on the trees But I cannot There is no love song pumping into my ears, nothing to block out the harsh wind and mad sounds of the birds perched in the trees There are no cities to surround me with white noise and distractions of retail and attractions I cannot be alone in nature- it’s silence and loudness, I just want to be reminded of you in the way the city that never sleeps constantly does I need the city, the congested traffic, bright yellow taxis, expensive shops, constant commerce and all I cannot be in isolation in these large, muted yellow leaves, constantly crunching everytime I move, the completely still brown logs that mock me, and the simple puddles too beautiful to jump in with their murky gray water I just want to think about you You, you, you who consumes my thoughts, my daydreams, and my dreams But I do not have the ability to without the city streets we both love so much

Crevices Christopher Porco

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A Dwelling Family Stephanie Shugerman

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A dead end street makes a perfect place To learn how to ride your bike.

Rarely visited by other cars, And feels kinda like a race track.

Figure-eights, narrowly missing each other.

“No hands, mom. I can fly”

Driveway concrete perfect for foursquare, Even though we only ever used two A game played on a hill is still subject to gravity, Chasing our ball down the street as it rolled away Half the fun of every game, was who could get it first Before the ball could beat us at its own game

A house so cozy, though some may call it small.

Full of memories made if the house could talk It would never run out of good things to say.

Smiles caught in wallpapered paint, Twinkling eyes, lights in chandeliers that never burn out.

A lacrosse field out of the front yard Certainly started with innocent intention Never ended well, a broken window, a dented door But of course, all worth the game Things like that are easily fixed Small enough payment for big enough memories

The sound of silence never heard, Laughter a constant noise Resonating through each room.

At dinner, no rules against talking with your mouth full Just be careful as you chew, Conversations only interrupted for your next bite.

Sturdy roof, more than just shelter.

“The wi-fi actually plays music better up here” Where summer skies are best to watch, When we’re far above the ground.

Catching neighbors off guard, waving from above Their heads, laughing when no one notices.

Backyard games, swings and bonfires.

You’d find that same set of swings to stand there still today. After all the years of use, they finally get to rest and watch as the children once small enough to call them a mountain Now look fondly down at their frail swaying rope.

A home more empty now than before An echo of memories sing in the doorways Laughter whispers through the halls As life flows in and out of its windows But everyone comes back to laugh A tether too strong to snap or sever

Wooden Cheese Knife Lynne Irvin

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Valor at the Precipice Maddie Glackin

Heart Lake Lynne Irvin Her fingernails sink deeper, pressing into the grain of the wood panels, the lectern her shield, and the microphone her sword.

Rancorous and chaotic, voices surge below churning the dark waters ahead while she peers over the edge from a stage set high enough to send her mind sprawling back to stories of damsels, high in their towers waiting to be saved by a beloved prince.

But there is no ship in sight, no shining armor glistening in the distance.

She must slay the beast herself, set her teeth, and rewrite the happily ever after.

Yet, so it goes, along the way, she was told there was a better chance of becoming a princess than a politician.

Drowning criticism into white noise, she forsakes the crown for a lapel pin, with strategists and advisors to make up her court, determined that she will reign as king.

Unwaveringly she writes through high and low tides words oscillating through the microphone ebbing and flowing through the currents, until her inky words stain the water.

She then begins to speak, and the auditorium falls silent.

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91

Her anticipation of the dream was not in vain: as soon as Charlotte fell asleep, she found herself back in the familiar strange room, filled with small tea tables and wooden chairs. The muted pink and copper striped wallpaper was just as she remembered it, and the polished dark wood floor was still covered with small scuffs. The stained glass windows and lamps were just as radiant as expected. Charlotte was back in the Freak Cafe.

The public in the cafe was just the same as she remembered, too: there was the lady dubbed Madam Pigeon by Charlotte for her head of a pigeon, elegant as ever, dressed today in a Victorian-style dress of grey silk with matching gloves, as well as her customary reptilian companion with his usual moustache that stretched well beyond the edges of his face. His worn, dark-green tailcoat was present as well, Charlotte noted, as he and Madame Pigeon conversed politely over their cups of coffee. Sir Wolf, called so by Charlotte for his head being that of a wolf, was present as well: his spectacles still balanced precariously on his long snout, and he was just settling into his chair at his customary table with his friends Charlotte called Mr. and Mrs. Swan, whose matching creme and black suit and dress perfectly complemented their snow-white swan heads. A man dubbed Mr. Squint for his extremely narrow eyes was playing cards with Lady Lizard, an elderly lady with the head of a Gecko that was covered by a lacy white bonnet. The other frequenters of the Freak Cafe, all mostly human-animal hybrids, were there as well, all clad in their best Victorian attire. After taking it all in, Charlotte looked down at herself to make sure she was dressed appropriately as well. She was: her gown of maroon silk and velvet sleeves, with the full skirt covered in elegant ruffles, was perfect for the occasion, and the small hat she could feel on top of her tightly curled locks was a perfect addition to the look.

A waitress, clad in the attire of a Romantic-era ballet dancer, waltzed over to Charlotte’s table and placed a cup of mango tea next to Charlotte, as well as sweet crumpets covered in apricot marmalade on a blue and pink dish. These were Charlotte’s favorite things in the entire world, and the waiters at the Freak Cafe had always known without asking. Charlotte smiled at the waitress, who nodded her head and twirled away.

Only then did Charlotte notice that the atmosphere in the cafe was tense - muted, but strung tight.

Madame Pigeon and her friend looked very grave, and their French seemed faster than usual. Sir Wolf and the Swans were not laughing about their youthful gallivants,

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and instead spoke in muted tones with serious faces.

Charlotte wished she was sitting closer to the latter, so she could catch the reason for the tension. But she didn’t need words to know that something was very, very wrong today.

Though Charlotte knew that butting in to strangers’ conversation was impolite, her curiosity got the best of her. After eating two crumpets and drinking half of her cup of tea, Charlotte headed over to Sir Wolf and the Swans’ table to ask what was going on.

“- unheard of before,” Mr. Swan was saying worriedly. “It has been around for thousands of years, but now...” Mr. Swan paused, and Charlotte took her chance.

“Good evening,” she began tentatively. Mr. Swan’s head snapped towards Charlotte. She fought the urge to shrink away as his eyes bore into hers, obviously offended that she had interrupted his monologue.

“Mr. Swan!” Sir Wolf chastised, noting Charlotte’s discomfort. “You’ve scared the poor young lady half to death!” He turned towards Charlotte, who was frozen in place with embarrassment, with a polite smile. “Please, do sit down. We have an extra chair.”

Charlotte was still unsure of what to do, and could still feel Mr. Swan’s gaze shooting needles at her, as well as the pinch of the revelation that his name was actually Mr. Swan.

“Yes, yes, dear,” added Mrs. Swan with a smile, noticing Charlotte’s embarrassment. “Please do sit down.

Mr. Swan does get a bit...” she paused, smiling further, “intimidating, sometimes.” She lay a hand on her husband’s shoulder lovingly.

As Charlotte finally sat down on the extra chair, Sir Wolf looked her up and down, and asked for her name, as well as where she was from.

“Charlotte, Sir. I’m from America - the United States.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sir Wolf stuck out his hand human hand - and Charlotte shook it firmly. “My name is Sir Wolf, as you may have guessed, and I hail from England. My good friends, the Swans, are from South Africa.” Mrs. Swan smiled warmly, and Mr. Swan nodded. “Now, what brings you to our table?”

Charlotte took a breath. “I have been frequenting this cafe since I was ten years old - it’s been six years since I first appeared here.” She saw Mr. Swan nod, seemingly in approval. It gave Charlotte enough confidence to continue. “I noticed today that the atmosphere was quite tense, and I was wondering if everything was alright.”

Charlotte and the Freak Cafe, or The Night Magic Nicole Shigiltchoff

Charlotte bit her lip, thinking, when she remembered that the ravens’ migration pattern had been delayed this year. “There are flocks of ravens that migrate through my neighborhood every fall, and this year, the migration was later.”

Mrs. Swan nodded, her smile faltering. “Humans are destroying the Night Magic.” The way she said it made it clear that the first letters in “Night Magic” were capitalized. “They are destroying nocturnal elements, one by one. In the days when the stars were more visible at night, the darkness was much darker than it is now, and the ravens migrated in accordance only to the laws of nature...” Mrs. Swan was now near tears. She took a breath to continue, but, with one look at Charlotte, she burst into tears. Mr. Swan put his arm around her gently, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Times have changed,” Mr. Swan continued in lieu of his wife. “The Night Magic is being diminished. The stars, the darkness, the ravens, and all other things that gave power to the Night Magic are being destroyed by the sounds, lights, and other poisons - ” he spit the word like he had gotten some in his mouth “ - you humans are using to disrupt the natural cycles of darkness. The pesticides you use to increase the bounty of your crops are destroying the populations of ravens, crickets, rats, and other night creatures that thrive on darkness. The darkness is wounded, and is curling in on itself, making its magic diminish by the day.” Mr. Swan flicked a tear off of his feathered cheek, and Sir Wolf patted him on the shoulder.

“This is very unfortunate for this lovely cafe,” Sir Wolf proceeded, beginning to answer Charlotte’s next, yet unspoken question. “This cafe is fueled by the Night Magic. If the Night Magic shrinks far enough...” he paused, taking out his own handkerchief and mopping at his eyes. Charlotte realized that she herself was close

Lights Isabel Lowry

to tears. “The cafe will die with the Night Magic, and so will we.”

The destruction of the environment had always disappointed and unsettled Charlotte very much, and she had volunteered at every event she could find that would in any way help nature continue to survive. She had gone on so many litter-pickups and tree-plantings she had lost count. But now, knowing that her favorite place could be destroyed if humans wouldn’t stop violating the environment, she felt even sadder about this. And all of these lovely characters? She couldn’t stomach them simply shriveling into nothing like clover torn from the ground.

She hardly knew anyone, but to know that they were going to die, just like that...

As with every time the dream was ending, the lamps in the cafe began to dim. “Wait!” Charlotte called, though she knew it was futile to stop herself from waking up. “How can I help you?!”

Mr. Swan smiled through his tears in the most gentle way Charlotte had seen all night. “There is nothing you can do, Miss Charlotte. Fate cannot be changed.”

He sighed as the lights were being almost completely extinguished. “We all bid you well, and wish you a good night.” There was something depressingly final about the way he spoke.

The alarm clock and Charlotte’s mom were screaming at Charlotte to get up and go to school. In a daze, Charlotte followed their instructions. She moved through the school day in that same daze, unable to shake the feeling that Mr. Swan’s words had, indeed, been final, and that she would never again dream of the Freak Cafe she loved so much.

Charlotte was right. The Night Magic was withered beyond repair, and Freak Cafe never appeared in her dreams again.

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What told...

Rachel Sadeh

What told this gaggle of geese what to do?

Whether staying in V-like formations during flight, or an organized mob down below...

What told these black-headed birds who to follow?

The strongest of the flock, The fastest, or the smartest...

What told this family of feathered creatures where to stand?

Gathering in public parks to rest, Leaving webbed footprints imprinted in the mud...

What told these Canadian sky-cruisers it was time to go?

To fly far away from home and head down south, Every fall for the winter...

What told me to watch this huddle of honkers in the rain?

Why stop my workout, Just to see this?

Air and Feathers Isel Pollock

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Time

Andrew Fingeret i used to think that time was unstoppable. i used to think that time was different that there were different minutes l o n g or short. i used to imagine the months and the days stretching by without a thought without a care in the world. yet as different as i imagined time, i always knew it was infinite, it would never stop and no one ran out of time for time was a friend and was kind.

Now, I guess, I’m not so innocent.

Doublethink llana Hollifield

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Not Just Dust Margaret Balich

“Do you believe in God?” you whisper into my hair.

We’re sitting cross-legged on the bottom of the empty Schenley Park swimming pool. The “No Trespassing” sign couldn’t keep us out on this humid, mid-July night. We tried to outrun the thunderstorm that raged in the sky at noon, but we could only outrun our voices. I think you remind me of that storm, or all of them. Overwhelming and loud and always trying to catch up.

I turn to your silhouette in the night so dark I can barely see your mouth. You’re looking at your muddy shoelaces. “I, I don’t know. Well, I mean, I guess,” I stammer out. You turn your face to look at me. The moonlight reflects off of your eyes and I realize just how tired I am.

I wonder if God knows how I see you, how your eyes are stars. How I could look at them forever if it didn’t hurt.

How I would never say that out loud. I wonder if he created the universe with you in mind.

“Why?” you ask. Your eyes cut into me even more.

The wind picks up and I think it might start raining again.

I break your gaze. “Why?” you insist. I look at the trees rustling distantly above your head. Then, suddenly, it starts pouring. “Come on! Let’s get out of here!” you yell as you jump onto your feet. We climb out of the pool and start towards the fence, our backs already drenched in water.

I can feel my tee shirt sticking to my skin as I shove my feet into the gaps of the chain link fence. I scramble up and over, and then you do. We sprint to the underside of a bridge, conveniently located right by the pool.

Breathless, I sit down on the damp pavement. You lay down next to me and put your head on my knee. Your hair is already starting to curl from the rain.

“That was fun,” you say sarcastically, and you smile at the underside of the bridge. Your teeth are so white that they spread a little light. It’s hard to focus on anything except your head on my knee and my knee underneath your head and your breathing. Even the weather blends into white noise.

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“Yeah,” I say, “so much fun. In fact, probably the most fun I’ve had in my entire life.” You think I’m being sarcastic and giggle a little, and while I laugh along, I know I’m not. I’d rather be next to you than anywhere in the galaxy.

“You never answered my question,” you say, almost under your breath, still looking up. “Why do you think God is real?” I think for a minute. I know that it’s time to just tell you.

“Because of you,” I say. “Because of you. If there wasn’t a God, you wouldn’t be here because you are too much like thunderstorms. You’re too close to the sky to just be made of dust. You make me dizzy like I’m looking at the ground from an airplane. And after we all die, I can’t stand the thought of you being permanently gone because I want to stay close to you forever.

Because I care too much about you. Because I love you and the storms you bring. I’d rather die in your chaos than live in peace.”

Your starry eyes meet mine again and I still love you. Almost too much. Our faces are just floating in the dead of night. It’s so humid, and I can’t breathe until you open your mouth. “Hey,” you whisper. “Everytime you talk I fall for you more. Maybe we’re constantly running towards each other. Maybe we are made to love each other again and again. And every time God, if he’s up there, sees us, he thinks, ‘They’re why I did this.’ We are a product of outer space, because we fill space with each other. And I’ll never let you float away.”

Warm Coco Chen

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Rise

Joey Creiman

Falling on brick Umbrellas are out over bent heads fighting against the wind Futile.

Rain Drizzles down on the cobblestone path Gravel and leaves slick with water Slipping underfoot The outdoors deserted Abandoned Tomorrow The sun rises over the clouds The towers illuminated with the joy of morning Climbing over the colorful arch hanging around the sky Cheerful greetings thrown around like Baseballs or Branches in a storm The bakery wafts aromatic treats into the air The harbor clamors over a new ship that has arrived on the river Rain is left deserted Rejected Today

A Day to Remember Benjamin Gutschow

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Distance - Coco Chen

Reflection before Breakfast Emily Pollock Beauty exudes a yellow glow, you think as you watch the weak winter sunlight filter through the dusty kitchen window.

The garden is beautiful to you, despite the rusted chair and the forgotten red ball, because beauty to you is bright and round and comforting and only ever home.

It’s still too early in the morning, too early to take the trash out or scrape jealousy out of your pockets.

Later today you will walk to do your work, and then come home with your hair tied back and your eyes tired.

Success gets lost before it is finished, and this is true for you but you mostly don’t mind.

In a moment, your lover will tell you open the kitchen window and you will, letting the cold winter’s breath break the soft shell of warmth the lungs of your radiator provide.

Trust between you holds thin

and smooth and beautiful and whole

like skin, like the house around you wrapping you in.

There is a cardinal bobbing on the bush by the windowsill, making your lover laugh, and you kiss their cheek, breathe them in, holding faith lightly between the fingers, wondering where life exists

outside of something like this.

You don’t look for much beauty in the face of your lover, because they’re so familiar standing by the coffeepot rubbing sleep from their eyes.

Beauty, anyway, flattens like keepsakes, and they are too whole to press between a page.

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Calypso’s New Man Ayisat Bisiriyu

Calypso graciously walked into her nursery and looked into the small room, for which one cradle and chair stood. Her eyes almost brimmed with tears, remembering her short love with the giant killer Odysseus, even though he didn’t love her back, how she’d wish she could have children of her own with the mortal man. But now was not the time to think if such things, now were the time of action. Using her godgiven magic, Calypso began to make easy work, crafting the man that would be pleasing to her eyes and her soul, one that even Aphrodite herself would envy. Soon after, Athena showed up at the ravishing goddesses’ side, ready to do whatever it would take to make her old friend happy again.

Calypso conjured the power of many gods and goddesses, reciting the ancient passage of her spell book, from the top of Mount Olympus itself to the deepest, darkest bowels of the underworld. “ I call on thee spirits of the universe. I know I am just a nymph, but I ask for the power, the need, to build my own being, a new species of man. I ask thee, oh gods give me power!” An eye blinding light ripped through the courtyard, damaging the eyes of even the deathless god Athena. A giant ring of glowing heat spun around, descending from the heavens about. It slowly nestled itself right by Calypso, and the goddess nymph continued her plea. “Give this man my love and world, hair curlier than a sheep’s wool, skin as tan as if he was had been bravely fighting his entire life, eyes as brown as the bark of an olive tree shining so bright that it would almost blind any onlooker. Give him the build of a great warrior, tall, more massive to the eyes.

Give him wit even greater than the smartest mortal man, part of a godly power, and the cunning that would shock even Odysseus. Make him deathless, strong, independent. But also make him intelligent, caring, sensitive, and adoring of me for all my days. I shall not resent you oh gods after you answer this prayer, αγάπη και φως oh ισχυροί θεοί*, and with that I end my prayer” The light flashed even brighter, which in turn made Calypso and Athena crouch down low, the light of the gods almost blinding them. A figure started to form inside the ring of light, first the hair, then the massive build, then the smooth feet, all coming together to make a new type of creature, one specifically special to an immortal god. Then in almost an instant, the light was gone. The circle was closed, and the bright glistening light from the heavens was swept away. Calypso and Athena slowly rose up to look at the new creation. Like a newborn baby, slowly rising up from the bosom of his mother, the creature arose. Straight into the eyes of Calypso he looked, and with a dashing smile, and a giant dimple on his left cheek, he spoke these words. “What a journey, I’ve traveled to get here.

My bones feel so fresh, so new. My name is Aeson, now, who is the blessed one in charge of my creation?”

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Pretty in Pink Mirisa Alfonso-Wells

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For vain to be the love Then the needles are now the bed Cowards are the heroines And sweet is bitter instead Go sleep where you will But please do know this The gun has replaced the blade The growl has replaced the hiss Since attempt becomes a failure A good swing will get you nowhere The maximum isn’t good enough Once grown, again you’ll never share The boatman swings his oar, spanking the heads of the used Who have all gotten infected with the lovesick primal blues

Lovesick Primal Blues Mason Miller

If to feel is to suffer Then pleasure hurts more than pain And passion is a curse As loneliness has claimed The appetite is king And it’s boundaries have no end And all are chained the same And each too tight to bend The red heart shakes confused As the animal spirits go wild Through the pounding streams of those Who can’t bear to face their child The boatman swings his oar, touching the heads of the used Who are all trying to get sick with the lovesick primal blues

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Checkpoint Isana Raja

The angel’s fatal step The morn is beginning to spawn The roof is breaking in And the night is begging to dawn All the hands are up Everyone has pledged their own But the next question asked is Who will break their bones?

For those trying to get a ride Each must raise their thumb Before they’re begging by the road And responsibility does come The boatman swings his oar, cracking the heads of the used Who are all trying to get a cure for the lovesick primal blues For success to be slavery Hard work has to equal damnation And toiling on for hours Is not worth it’s own creation Those who are not saved Gather round and pray to God That whatever it is you choose Will at least get you some job Stop and see at the cliff The phantom rise before you But don’t jump once it’s in sight And don’t worry much now too The boatman swings his oar, breaking the heads of the used Who are all trying to die after getting the lovesick primal blues

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The Monster You Know

Jack Robinson

108 108

One late autumn evening, the man with the dead eyes turned onto Mercer Street. He walked past the rusty fences stained with the heavy drops that had fallen from the dark sky all afternoon. His thin shadow slunk before him underneath the cracked streetlight with its splintered beams like a spider’s web beneath an abandoned bed. On he went, past the rustling piles of maroon and brown leaves, pushed aside by families, now slowly rotting away, returning to where they belonged. In the distance, the weary beams of an old yellow cab cut through the chilled air, illuminating the gaunt frame of the man with the dead eyes and the long-fingered dark glove that signaled the cab. As the lights of the vehicle blinked in recognition, the man with the dead eyes’ twisted his pale lips, into a smirk revealing the bone-white teeth beneath. Everything would soon return to where it belonged.

“Khszs khsz khss - The Governor was pressed for a statement regarding - khzs khsss - Repent my followers for God sees all sinners! - khss - Ooooh I’m the biggest monster that you’ve ever seen! My eyes are purple and teeth are green - khsz khsz khzzs - a tumultuous economy with no hope of-” The driver restlessly flicked through channel after channel as his tiny eyes darted around the interior of the darkened cab like a cornered boar desperately searching for some way out.

“So...” the driver’s voice cracked as he licked his puffy lips “You’re goin’ to the Iceberg Lounge right?”

The man with the dead eyes gave a slight nod in recognition. For the last ten minutes those dead eyes tracked the hapless driver’s movements as he uncomfortably fidgeted back and forth. Tapping the grimy wheel. Adjusting the fogged mirror. Glancing quickly at the sack in the passenger seat. He had watched the sweaty palms wiping across the cloth seat, leaving a dark stain behind. The driver’s beady eyes darted back and forth, set on avoiding the dead eyes that stared unblinkingly forward. He’d been relishing the discomfort and unease that crept throughout the interior of the cab like a low lying fog that smothers all it passes over, but the sudden stuttering sounds of the driver stopped the man with the dead eyes from indulging in the anxiety.

“Damn, well you’re a lucky one then.” The driver laughed uncomfortably, as he quickly continued, “That’s a real upscale joint on the nice side of town, they’d never let someone like me there. I just don’t have the money for that yah know? Yeah it’s been really hard for us cabbies since the economy tanked, and all of those fancy chauffeurs yah know? Running us out of business and that’s all that rich folks want to drive in now.

N-No-Not that there’s anything wrong with being rich, of course not! I’m sure you’re a nice rich guy and all.” The driver’s agitated ramblings echoed throughout the steel frame as the dead eyes stared forward. Outside, the cab sputtered past the boarded-up houses and closed storefronts towards the neon glowing lights in the distance.

“I’ll soon have a bit more money after tonight, though. Maybe I’ll see you around the Lounge eh?” The driver forced his quivering mouth into a tight-lipped smile as the leather sack let out a small yelp in response.

“Hey! What did I tell you about noises!?!” The driver’s violently jabbed the side of the bulging bag, causing muffled sobs to replace the yelp. The dead eyes narrowed like a shark when it smells blood in water.

“Sorry about that. That’s just a-- never mind. We’re almost there, so where’d yah like me to pull over?”

The ancient cold voice snarled from the back-seat like nails dragged across a dark frozen pond. “Did you scare her?”

“Wha-What? I d-don’t kno—” “Shut up human. Answer.” The cruel voice cracked through the air cutting off the stammering sounds.

“Maybe?” The cabbie’s weak voice could hardly be heard over the crackling radio. The long-fingered gloves reached up to grasp the grate dividing the passenger from driver, “Look man, I don’t know what you mean! You can have th’ ransom money! Take th’ kid!” A horrible noise of warping and cracking metal cut off the driver’s next increasingly plaintive pleas, “I’ll help you! I swear on all that’s holy! My ma’s grave! My dad’s memory! Please anything!”

The long-fingered glove reached through the shattered grate, “ I’ll do anything just don’--!”

The sickening crunch of the driver’s snapped neck was the dead eyes’ response.A small stream of blood ran from the driver’s mouth as his slumped head against the wheel while the long-fingered glove reached for the shaking sack.

“SCREEECHHH” The front of the cab slammed into the side of a neighboring dingy building as the longfingered glove tightened around the leather sack, holding it firmly against the stained seat.

A sputtering streetlight illuminated the smouldering wreck as the man with the dead eyes climbed out of the car carrying the sack. Gently he placed the sack upon the wet ground before opening the two rough drawstrings, letting the small figure crawl out.

“Dead-eyes? Is that you?’ whimpered the petite girl with long brown hair as she clutched the side of one swollen cheek, and stared up at the tall dark outline above her.

The man with the dead eyes moved slightly in confirmation.

“Oh, I knew I was right! Mommy always would say that you weren’t really under my bed. That I was just imagining it, but I guess you were there the whole time?”

The man with the dead eyes started as the sound of sirens could now be heard in the distance. Turning quickly he began to hurry with long, loping strides towards a side alley away from the red and blue flashing lights, and away from the young girl.

“Don’t leave!” The girl cried, “I’m not scared of you anymore. Please, I want to thank you for saving me from the monster of a driver!”

But the man with the dead eyes could not turn back; the other humans would take the girl back to where she belonged, and now the man with the dead eyes needed to find a new place to belong.

Forgotten - Evie Jin

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Swans at Blutsee Reilly Jackman

They glide across the lake, silent angels in white, bobbing along as they make their way around. They seem from afar the epitome of laziness as I walk along the shore line. The moon illuminates them from above like spotlights on the darkest stage. I can hear the song they would play in my head. The peaceful calm resonates in my heart and head for it has not been with me for so long. My cloak trails behind me and I wonder if I will ever see this place again. I lived here most of my life inheriting the lower house from my father and it was where my mother still lived. Would she remember me? Would my brother? What would he be forced to do in my absence? He never had been of this world always in his own head. But many have said the same of me. My obsession with the beautiful leading many to poverty and ruin. They called me mad for chasing the otherworldly dreams. Maybe I did not belong in this world and maybe I did not deserve my crown, but it’s too late for that now. The swans followed me as I skirted the shore pursuing me like those who wanted to take my life. I flee tonight to get away from the dangers that I face. If I can get to my cousin she will protect me. For now I will head to my mountain lodge, the one good thing I made in the world, to seek refuge until I can figure out how to make it there safely. The swans are like those I wanted for the underground pond of my lodge -- a full spring lit by dancing lights and with swan boats sweeping people away for an escape from reality. Suddenly I am jerked to the present as I am thrown off my feet and hit the water flailing and gasping for breath. I turn to face my attacker and feel a knife plunge into my stomach repeatedly the squelch as it enters and is retracted incessantly. I burn in pain and finally detach from the figure falling limply back to the water. The figure retreats into the darkness and I slowly sink into the shadows of the lake. I look up. Tears are leaking from my eyes, and I see the moon above me as I take center stage. The last thing I feel before I enter the darkness is a swan’s feathers brushing past my face and blood filling my mouth.

White Mountains Bridget Hughes

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Destination: Giant Eagle Sophie Choo

We start our adventure with the crinkling of a candy wrapper.

It’s almost Halloween and Ms. McDermott gave us candy, so as we walk some of us are eating candy.

I follow my classmates to a location I’ve never been because they seem to know the way.

I’m not part of their conversation but they say the weirdest things.

“You can smell the decaying bone through your nose,” Emma says.

How did talking about the dentist become a topic of conversation I wonder.

Our class then passes by one of the many UPMC buildings nearby.

Cigarette smoke wafts by as a woman smokes one while walking down the street.

Isn’t it ironic how we were by a cancer research facility, and this woman is just smoking?

The day is warm but cold.

I notice the trees are green, yellow, or barren.

It seems like they’re confused by this weather.

Is it the summertime?

Is it fall?

Is it winter?

They must be thinking.

Ivy crawls on a church It’s red and green leaves Climbing and climbing Up the side like it’s ready to devour the place.

It’s pretty but at the same time, I feel as if it can be maintained.

But then I notice a for sale sign.

It’s abandoned.

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Avocados Lynne Irvin

I look down over the edge of the road and a lone red public transportation bus speeds down the road next to the train tracks.

It’s as if he didn’t need any friends to have his own little adventure.

We’re still not at our destination yet and we keep walking As more time passes by.

To me it seems like we’re never going to make it.

But eventually we reach the parking lot, And I see it, Giant Eagle.

We’re here.

I see a RedBox machine.

What an old relic.

I didn’t know they still existed.

No one ever buys DVDs anymore.

It’s why all the Blockbusters went out of business.

Do people still use RedBox? We enter Giant Eagle.

The Halloween and fall spirit seems to be upon us.

They entice us with all of the colors associated with fall.

The flowers have a theme of reds, yellows, and oranges.

Even the popcorn is artificially colored to match the season.

And of course you have to have those jack o’lantern balloons.

Halloween is quickly approaching.

Brightly colored birthday balloons are tied by fall colored vases.

It’s not all about Halloween, the happy, celebratory balloons seem to be saying Even though they’re overpowered by their surroundings.

I then start to notice the smell of popcorn by the apples.

You would think I would have noticed the smell earlier, but I guess not.

And I continue on near the strawberries.

A mother tells her little boy to smell them.

They pick a carton of strawberries, and the mother puts her arm around her child as they continue to shop.

Nicholas and Cameron are nearby, so I approach them.

I guess we were near some spices because Nicholas says, “Old bay reminds me of my old bae...spicy” I tell Nicholas I’m going to write it down and he says no.

So now I’m putting it in this poem just to spite him.

The pineapples are worn, wrinkled, and gray and the pumpkins bruised.

One pumpkin seems even more yellow than orange.

The pumpkins at the front of the store Seemed happier.

It’s as if this section consists of Rejected items.

And there placed in front of me Are the Lacroix boxes.

Their aesthetic soda water box colors are stacked taller than me.

Why am I so short?

I hate being short.

After eyeing the sad pumpkins and pineapples, Varieties of tomatoes and onions come my way.

A man who seems careless about his job pushes and stacks new bags of onions Slowly onto the top of an overgrowing a pile.

A few moments later, I see another worker Maybe taking his break walking away from the seafood station with his baggy fish pants.

I guess it’s appropriate because he does work with seafood.

And thereafter I reach the end of the market.

The constant beep of the cash register signals that Giant Eagle has sold yet another product.

The end of the store... that means the journey of my destination is nearing to an end.

I’m not ready for this field trip to be over, But we have to go back to school And learn.

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Summer Vacation Adriana Catalano

Everlasting nights filled with magical memories.

Every night leads to marvelous mornings to be awakened by.

A kiss as wonderful

as the smell of breakfast

lurking through the hallways.

Joyous long beachwalks

hand in hand, As the salty aroma of the water

fills my taste buds as we jump in.

Enduring afternoon bike rides,

music fills our ears

like waves crashing onto the sand.

Continuous laughs echo

as we splash each other

with the water.

Smiles as bright as the sunset over the horizon.

Florida.

Birds Danny O’Malley

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Goodbye

Christina Vlachos

It was not until we sat Amid the dirt and grass Our own little hilltop overlooking the world My legs splayed all over yours Sun spilling onto our backs You looked up to the azure above Released a hearty laugh And in that moment all I wished for Was the runners down below to pause The dogs on their leashes to sit Your watch to stop swiping the seconds Our phones to power down and freeze And for you to never stand up But you did.

And you extended your hand Pulled me up And wiggled your fingers into mine As we giggled our way down the hill Back into the world Back into the runners on the trails Back to the barks of happy pups Back to your ticking watch Back to billions of messages Back to actuality where you pulled me in Kissed me differently And I knew I was saying goodbye Regret it? I never thought I would But I did.

Bisous Emily Pollock

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You Make Me Feel Like I’m Dying M. Washington

Weeping Souls Nadine Oury

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You make me feel like I’m dying.

Not for any bad reasons, That’s just what it feels like to fall into something unfamiliar.

As you sink into the abyss Frantically flailing, Chest contracting, Reaching for something, Anything, to grasp.

Stomach sickening as you Slowly sink deeper into depths you didn’t know could get this deep.

Cold clammy skin contrasting with Feverish fire burning inside As your face flushes And your heart hates its hiding place And your eyes envy the sight they lost long ago Before the descent.

As your body begins to accept your new fate, Your soul realizes that this is what it wanted anyways; You just could never realize what you didn’t have.

You make me feel like I’m dying.

Not for any bad reasons, That’s just what love feels like.

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Under the canopy of the sky, I stood still and looked at one green stretching into infinity. The grass was so green, the sky was so blue, and the air was so clear. The green was endless, and the blue was endless. It felt so different being in between the green and the blue than looking down at areas of colors from above during my flight here with my family. The sense of a distant beauty varnished, and the feeling of being sewed into this beauty now filled my chest. The golden sunshine spilled all over the land and hills like accidentally overturned paints. The nature, an artist, freely expresses herself with no brushes but with countless colors and a true heart.

The colors were under my feet, surrounding me, grabbing and wrapping me around, and twisting me into their world. I reached out my hand toward the sun. For a moment I felt I had grabbed rings of sunlight. Not so far away, herds of sheep went down and up the hills, and wherever they went was like embroidering an endless green carpet with huge white flowers. Those lines of the hills were so gentle and so soft, just like paints applied to a drawing without sketching the contours. A river on the hills was shining in the sun, like a crystal ribbon around the waist of a tender girl who is dancing in the brightness of sun. The green was about to drop out of the painting, running into the clouds and sky. Everything was so alive, and I was alive. I wanted to stand here for hours watching and trying to carve everything into my memory, but also to dance freely in between the blue and the green. ***

It was a lovely trip. We drove for hours in the endless grass. The roads crawled deeply into the heart of the land. The whole land was

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Left to the Winter Breeze Lila Ost

illuminated by the huge golden sun. It was vibrant but fiercely quiet. The sky was so clear and serene; the air so fresh and sweet.

Sometimes wind quietly came into the scene and quietly backed off. Nobody could see her steps, but when my hairs blocked my sight, when I saw the river rippled, when I felt the susurrations of the grasses and saw the grasses that were darkened by shadows being dipped to cyan and golden, I knew wind was here. In this world, even horses and cows were sometimes standing still, forgetting to feed themselves with the grass but trying to taste the the joyfulness of the evocative grassland. On my right was a herd of running horses, breaking the silence but forming the balance. The long manes behind their necks were like silks, flying around the horses like colorful flags announcing their ownership of the land. ***

I felt alive for the first time. I felt like catching a wisp of light from the sun in my palm, like being free from every inhibition in my life. I felt like riding one of those horses and running swiftly on the grass. The sounds of horses neighing, galloping, and of the growing thoughts of being free in my head mingled to form a roar toward my heart. This is the grassland in Mongolia, located in the very north of China; this is where for a moment I truly understood what it means to be unrestrained, what it means to be free; this is where all thoughts about freedom came to me - an onslaught toward me; this is where I decided that in my next life I am to be unrestrained. ***

Inner Mongolia, China Catherine Tian

Freedom is a running horse with no rider on top; freedom is a swallow flying to where she wants without a string on her foot to pull her back to the cage; freedom is the shifting of clouds, is the wind in a valley, is the air in a grasses. Freedom is to be away from the fickleness, to hide from the pollution, and to give up the dishonesty.

Life should be like sunshine, water, and air.

Maybe in this life, I am not meant to have a life like those simply but happy inner Mongolian people, because I cannot turn away from what I already have in a city, or disappoint everyone who loves me and who I love in return. I pray for a next life. In the next life I want to be running and riding on the grassland, toasting and rejoicing as it pleases, talking and laughing as I want; in next life I want to be unrestrained. I want to be free.

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mission statement

Plaid is a representation of 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 professional-level forum for personal expression, discourse, and communication. It is a celebration of artistic visions and the minds that produce them.

colophon

Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Sonder was created using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6. All body text was set in Garamond, and all titles in Brandon Grotesque. Art and writing attributions were in Garamond (Italic) and Brandon Grotesque.

Plaid is a free publication, available to all members of the Winchester Thurston School community. It is created entirely by its student staff, with help from our faculty advisor, Ms. McDermott, and our technology advisor, Mr. Kallis. All WT high school students are encouraged to submit their work throughout the year. Submissions are chosen by the staff for publication based on quality, length, and available space; we aim to publish the best work by as many artists and writers from all four grades in as many mediums 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.

thank you

We would not be able to create such a wonderful magazine without the help of so many people, whose talent, time, energy, and determination brought this magazine together. We would like to thank the following:

countless hours of hard work to make this magazine come to life. To our senior editors, thank you for leading the way. To our junior editors, thank you for meeting this new challenge head on. You will go on to do amazing things.

Our passionate Plaid staff: Julia Bulova, Sophie Choo, Isel Pollock, Sophia Lebiere, Reilly Jackman, Nadine Oury, Ilana Hollifield, AJ Molder, Isana Raja, Mirisa AlfonsoWells, Danny O’Malley, Meredith Warden, Daniella Shear, Liz Grossman, Yixin Cai, Olivia Sobkowiak, Bridget Hughes, Angela Hayes, Rivers Leche, Tricia Sarada, Esme Bessor-Foreman, Margaret Balich, Sydney Gray, Anisa Callis, Nicole Shigiltchoff, Mikayala Leimer, Ian Frank, Isabel Lowry, Lila Ost, Sophia Scheatzle, Zoe Soteres, Katie Slaymaker, Shuyi Li, Anna Nesbitt, Rose Li, Emma Stewart, Jizhou Jiang, Coco Chen, Lily Jerome, Eliott Boselli, Sam Sitkar, Julian Rubin, and Dulce Sappington.

Mr. David Kallis, for his technical expertise, patience with our questions, and kind guidance in all computer-related aspects.

Mr. Jesse Flati, for his InDesign instruction and assistance. We’d be lost without you!

The English and Visual Art department faculties, for helping to facilitate our love for writing and art of all kinds.

Mrs. Klein and the Winchester Thurston Upper School faculty and administration for their unwavering support and promotion of this publication.

letter from the editors Dear Reader,

Once again, this year our Plaid Magazine had many record high numbers. With a staff of over forty members and over half a hundred layouts, we began our endeavor to craft this magazine. We started our year off with our annual school wide contest. our winners in the following categories-- Painting: Lynne Irvin (‘18), Drawing Jafar Turner (‘19), Photography Rachel Kuzmishin (‘21) , 3-D Art Isel Pollock (‘18), Digital Art Maya Husni (‘19), Poetry Catherine Tian (‘19) , and Prose Brenda Theresa Hayes (‘18) are noted in our table of contents. All works featured on these pages were created by students here at WT, and all layouts were designed by our stellar editorial team, and staff members. Following suit with last year’s professional style, we embodied a more consistent aesthetic, through the usage of minimalism and white pages. Many hours of passionate hard work and design have gone into the creation of this magazine. In addition to producing our magazine this year, we’ve hosted writing workshops and poetry readings, both in and outside of school and providing both novice and experienced writers a chance to work and share their creations in a supportive environment. We wanted to draw the WT community into the awesome world of Plaid and to encourage everyone to appreciate and hone their creativity and that of others.

It’s hard to believe this is our last year working with this beautiful publication and this lovely group of talented young artists and writers. Working on Plaid has been a formative experience for both of us. It taught us how to lead, listen, and cooperate with others--not to mention how to use the ever-frustrating Adobe InDesign. It gave us great friends to help us through pairings, deadlines, and layout revisions. Plaid has been a highlight of both of our years at Winchester Thurston, and we could not be more grateful for the experience.

To our young staffers, we challenge you to be curious and devoted to your art and writing. As we have been preaching to you all year, ask questions and don’t be afraid to admit that you need help. It shows that you care. Take pride in what you’ve helped create, too: this magazine is a collaborative accomplishment.

Our years on Plaid have been absolutely, positively rad. We’ll miss these experiences for sure, and we can’t wait to see what’s in store for ourselves and for the magazine for years to come!

All our best, Maddie Glackin and Emily Pollock

Mr. Dave Gilbreath and Knepper Printing for transforming our magazine into a beautifully printed product.

We would lastly like to thank Ms. Sharon McDermott, for her time, guidance, patience, tenacious spirit, and devotion to this publication. We are so grateful for all you do.

All our talented students who contributed their work to the magazine and contest, we would not be able to have such an outstanding magazine without your beautiful art and writing.

Our editorial team: Kate Chaillet, Evie Jin, Christopher Porco, Emily Pollock, and Maddie Glackin for their

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