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Wm g z n O R D


letter from the editor

Unfortunately, we were not able to print this issue of WORD in its traditional magazine format. The machine in the Horace Mann copy shop, where WORD is usually published, cannot print any more magazines until a replacement part arrives. So for now, we’re making do with other avenues of publication. However, the work which has gone into WORD is still remarkable. I’m proud to present next year’s masthead: editorsin-chief, Vasilia Sokolova and Juliet Zou; managing editor,

Mia Farinelli; and layout directors, Baci Weiler and Joanna Cho. Horace Mann School, you gave us feedback on our last issue—and we listened. For those who were confused about the origins of WORD, there’s an F.A.Q. box on the back cover. For writers and artists looking for outlets beyond HM publications, we included a run-down of high school creative awards and contests (see last page). I will miss you all, but WORD had a good run, and I hope its next will be even better.

goodbye and good luck,

Megan Lu (‘11) Editor-in-Chief

WORD MAGAZINE online at ISSUU.COM/WORDMAGAZINE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Megan W. Lu (‘11) CREATIVE DIRECTOR Alice Taranto (‘11) FACULTY ADVISOR Dr. Adam Casdin JUNIOR/SOPHOMORE EDITORS Mia Farinelli (‘14), Vasilia Sokolova (‘13), Baci Weiler (‘12), Juliet Zou (‘13) WRITERS & ARTISTS Greg Barancik (‘11), Sinai Cruz (‘14), Zoe Fawer (‘14), Phoebe Gennardo (‘14), Kylie Logan (‘14), Danielle Marcano (‘11) Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Ana Siracusano (‘14), Gina Yu (‘14), Juliet Zou (‘13) EDITORIAL STAFF Joanna Cho (‘14), Sinai Cruz (‘14), Miranda Jacoby (‘13), Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Melanie Totenberg (‘14) Horace Mann School 231 W. 246th St. Bronx, NY 10471


WORD magazine | horace mann school

TABLE OF WORDS 4 .......... ALL THAT YOU COULDN’T REMEMBER by Gina Yu (‘14) 5 .......... ODE TO BE A SHEEP (BAD POETRY TRIBUTE) by Ana Siracusano (‘14) 6 .......... THIS LAND by Rebecca Matteson (‘12) 8 .......... THE APPLE TREE by Kylie Logan (‘14) 9 ..........THE WAITING ROOM by Juliet Zou (‘13) 11 .......... INSTRUCTIONS by Phoebe Gennardo (‘14) 12 .......... POSTCARDS FROM MY SISTER’S MADNESS by Rebecca Matteson (‘12) 13 .......... ATHENA by Sinai Cruz (‘14) 15 .......... WINTER CRYING INTO SPRING by Zoe Fawer (‘14)

many thanks to dr. kelly, dr. casdin, dr. delanty, elynor o’malley & the copy shop, and horace mann school for helping to make this magazine possible

early spring 11 | vol. X issue 1




he sk y above me was a spilled golden red chased by lavender. There were no clouds. The grocer ies I’d bought for me and Lyla were weight y in my arms. The lake glimmered, each glint rolling gently atop another. The evening air, the quiet, the scent of the lake—this was exactly how it was in my memor y. I think we were seven at the time. I had been walk ing my bicycle at an arm’s leng th ahead of me. I’d fallen of f, my legs had been scraped and br uised, and they ’d hur t. I’d angr ily w iped my tears away before they even had the chance to leave the r ims of my eyes. Lyla had peered at me worr iedly behind her head of glimmer ing hair, which shone just like the lake. “Do you k now what the f ishes in the lake say to each other?” she asked. “No.” “Blublublue! Get it? It’s because the lake is blue!” She had smiled at me hopef ully. I’d laughed. Then she had made a f ish face at me. I had laughed again. I had lef t home when I was eighteen. I had had to leave; I couldn’t have borne another hushed conversation about how Lyla wouldn’t get any bet ter.


I couldn’t have handled being her baby-sit ter. A ny where Lyla had wanted to go, I had had to accompany her, because we hadn’t k now n when she’d suddenly forget where or who she was. I couldn’t have borne how our parents cared for Lyla more. It had been a br ight morning, when I’d gone up to her room to say goodbye. She had been sitting by the w indow, the book Island of the Blue Dolphins in her hands. Her hair had been shining sof tly against the sunlight; she had br ushed it out of her eyes. “Lyla, I’m leav ing.” She’d put dow n her book and came over to hug me, tightly. “Please w r ite.” “I w ill.” I volunteered to move back home to take care of her when our parents had grow n too old to do so. I had watched and arr ived w ith great dif f icult y at the realization that Lyla was get ting worse. Even af ter three years, there were still mornings when she’d wake up and not recognize who I was. I had had to reintroduce myself to her. “I’m your sister. We were born thir t y-one seconds apar t. We look exactly alike.” I told her tidbits of our childhood, catching glimpses of something in her eyes, something that told me lit tle spark s

were going of f in the faraway place where she stored her memor ies. Lyla spent most of her days reading either the let ters I’d w r it ten her or Island of the Blue Dolphins, a book she had been work ing on since—no one even remembered. A s she f inished each let ter, she caref ully refolded it and put it back into its envelope, only to take it out again the nex t day. She read by the w indow where sunlight f looded into our house. When it got too warm, she closed her eyes and slept. We talked about her reading; sometimes, she could remember almost ever y thing she read. Of tentimes, she str uggled to put sequential thoughts into sentences. I told her it was alr ight if she couldn’t remember, and if there was any thing that needed to be remembered, I would do it for her. She smiled, the same smile she had had since she was seven, and thanked me. We were together one day. It was warm; I wheeled her to the lake dur ing sunset. She gasped at the glit ter ing water. We were together one day. It was warm; I wheeled her to the lake dur ing sunset. She gasped at the glit ter ing water. She looked up at me and laughed, then shook her head. W

WORD magazine | horace mann school


this poem is a tribute to bad poetry, written at book day 2011 in an attempt to emulate the terrible poetry of the vogon alien race, as thus described in the hitchhiker’s Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived only by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “ disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles” when his own major intestine—in a desperate attempt to save life kind itself—leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

Oh, am I lonely, Oh! how I weep! Oh if only, I could be a sheep!

Oh, how his hair! Shines gold in the light, Makes my heart look fair And melt without a fight.

A sheep, a sheep. If only a sheep, Then I could sleep, and sleep And I could sleep as a sheep.

For yes! I love him. Yes, I do! And although he has absolutely no idea, I’ll love him through and through!

And when I would sleep I’d dream, I’d dream, And when I would sleep I’d dream, I’d dream, And I’d dream of my love’s Ever glowing gleam. That gleam, of which I’d dream, I’d dream, I’d dream. But when I’d wake, not, to a cake, But to a fantasy that’s false, and fake. And that fantasy is my life. Oh how I wish it’d be without strife! But now I am lonely, Now I shall sleep. And when I dream, It’ll be of his gleam.

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For he is my love, He is my sheep. And in my sleep, as a sheep, I shall dream, I shall dream, I’ll dream of him in my sleep. As a sheep.




ALTERNATE ENDING The cars go beep. As they run over my sheep. And I weep. Because my sheep is dead.



Zac and I had always gone to the duck pond. We hardly ever thought t w ice about it. Just about ever y other weekend, we trek ked through the quiet, hilly tow n whose inhabitants always stayed indoors no matter how nice it was out. We’d meet each other right in front of the sign that said Area Under Surveillance. We always laughed and plotted a conspiracy to put a Welcome sign up in front of it, in the middle of the night, to see what would happen. We never did. We’d walk past house af ter house and point at them, say ing which of them we’d most like to live in. It was sor t of a hard pick—tons of really expensive places. I suppose it was good that there was no way we would ever af ford any of them. If either of us ever got the sor t of money needed BEFORE for one of those places, we would ow n only one house; whereas this way, the ODE TO BE entire tow n was ours, and we never A SHEEP by had to dust. Eventually we’d get to the duck ANA SIRpond. We didn’t even look at the Only ACUSANO for Members notice. You see, our duck (‘14) pond was only supposed to be used by people who ow ned houses around there. Of course, the stupid thing about that was we were the only people who were ever there. Zac and I sat on the wall of the duck pond. The sk y was letting dow n a steady sprink ling of that sor t of rain that makes ever y thing seem greener. I held the umbrella a little more over Zac. “I like what the rain does to the scener y,” I said, determined to enjoy, even as the water on the wall was seeping up through my pants. “Makes it wet?” he replied. We stood up for a bit. Getting wet can be f un, but it was just lousy this time, since we were planning to stick around for a while. There were more ducks there than I’d ever seen.


“Remember how when it rained, just like this, when we were kids, I’d say, It’s a good day for ducks?” I asked. “A s I got older, I decided that maybe they only liked water in ponds. You know, for food and stuf f. But it looks like they actually like wet days.” “It’s good to know,” he said. “It’s good to know someone else enjoys it out here, other than us.” He tugged at his collar. It didn’t suit him, but you had to dress up at least a little, or people could tell you didn’t live there. God, the lengths we went to just to see those damned ducks. There was a splash. Then, a few feet away, a duck appeared at the sur face, coming up again. “Huh,” I wondered, “I didn’t know mallards were div ing ducks.” It did it again. A couple of the other ducks joined in. The f irst one star ted chasing the others around. I couldn’t help but laugh; it was the most bizarre thing I’d ever seen. I think that was true for Zac, too, but I couldn’t hear him over my ow n voice. These were the best times in the world. Better than bir thdays. “I think we’re being watched.” “What, by the ducks?” I asked. Only af ter saying it did I realize he wasn’t kidding. There was a car parked a few yards away. A man leaned his chin on his hand and watched us intently. We stood and watched the ducks for a while. If those little buggers had kept horsing around, I could have stopped thinking about the man. But they hardly moved, and I looked out of the corner of my eye at him. I was caref ul not to move my head. He wasn’t in one of those securit y vans you could always see around there, just a normal car. I looked at him again. He was staring at us. “We should leave,” I whispered w ithout looking at Zac. I was terrif ied that the man might realize we noticed him. Of course! Who wouldn’t notice someone in a car staring at you like that?

WORD magazine | horace mann school


photos by Megan Lu (‘11)

“There’s no need,” Zac responded, v isibly irritated by my caution. Let’s face it—I’m a complete coward. The f irst couple of times we had gone to the pond, I tried to get him to leave. I mean, if I didn’t like books so much, I’d probably be afraid of libraries; that’s how bad it is. But Zac? I swear, he’s a damn revolutionar y or something. “Please, Zac,” I pleaded. He didn’t answer me that time. I could feel the skin doing a tap dance up and dow n my arms. I was scared. I could tell I was going to say one of those ver y dramatic things, those ones that always seem like they could’ve been pulled of f much better by someone else. “You can stay,” I said coolly, “but I’m taking the umbrella.” He looked at me, then shr ugged. We star ted walking, and just as we passed the car, it star ted to drive away ver y slowly. We stopped to watch it. Once it reached the end of the road, it turned around to face us. I looked at Zac, and he nodded. For several blocks, I looked behind me ever y few steps. I couldn’t say I understood why this was happening to us. I mean, we were dressed nicely, and we weren’t hur ting the pond or any thing. I bet none of the members of that communit y knew they probably had the only div ing mallards in the countr y. I star ted to feel bad about making Zac leave like that. It was a really long time before we even spoke. “I just hate that he beat us like that,” he muttered. “They’ll only beat us if they get us for tres-

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passing,” I said, tr y ing not to sound as disappointed about the whole thing as I was. “I guess that’s a point,” he said. I really didn’t like the way he said it. Let me tell you, I w ished he didn’t think I was right. So much so that, af ter only a few minutes, I star ted to sing “This Land Is Your Land” under my breath. “Oh, stop that,” he said. Back to silence. We walked dow n NEXT the hill to the edge of the proper t y. Zac stood at the base of the sign and stared up at it. He bent dow n and THE APPLE picked up a rock. He took a few steps TREE by back and chucked it at the sign. We KYLIE LOran like hell, hooting and shouting all the way dow n. We were on wheels. GAN (‘14) Once we had run out of breath, we sat on the curb and breathed. You’d have thought we were eight y or something. “Why is it that the most pointless things always feel the best?” he asked. I smiled, because I was too out of breath to laugh. A f ter a while he stood up and gave me his hand. We sang “This Land Is Your Land” all the way back to that par t of the world where the rain makes things gray. We even sang that verse that people never remember, and never believe it’s there when you tell them. “…said ‘No Trespassing.’ But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing, Now that side was made for you and me.” Sometimes I really do wonder why it’s so hard to believe. W






ara Ann half-heartedly carried herself up a small hill. The only reason even half her heart was in the climb was because of the tree right in the middle of this hill—an apple tree, holding many reddish-pink apples in its old but strong hands. Sara Ann was feeling hurt and bruised like the apples on the tree—apples where worms squirmed through the fruit’s sweet flesh like moles. She needed a place to sit. She was having a bad day, because, for the first time, she had learned who her real friends were. But learning this, much like learning math, necessitated some stress. In order to find out who her real friends were, she first needed to find out who they weren’t. And this knowledge had come to her, uninvited. So Sara Ann reached the top of the hill and dropped to her knees. She let her heavy bag slide down her arms and off her back, then she crawled under the tree. The nice, quiet apple tree. There she sat, with arms wrapped around her legs and sticky tracks of fallen tears lining her face, like stripes of tree sap. Like stripes of apple juice. She knew she needed to let go. She needed to let go of those who weren’t her friends, but it was too hard. She needed a push. As she sat and thought, a slight breeze swept across her face and dried the apple juice stripes. The small breeze picked itself up and gathered its friends, and soon, wind was brushing through Sara Ann’s hair, brushing through the tree’s leaves. Presently, an apple fell beside Sara Ann, and she picked it up. She shivered and let it fall from her hand, for it was rotting, and holes speckled its surface. Sara Ann raised her head to look at the apple tree’s fruit, and its leaves, and its old, strong hands and arms. Then, she glanced back at the fallen apple. “Maybe,” she pondered, “I can be like the apple tree.” Sara Ann stood and walked around the apple tree. She stopped when she spotted a ruby red apple with barely any blemishes in sight. Jumping, she picked the apple off the tree and put it in her jacket pocket. Then, Sara pulled her bag onto one shoulder and bent to pick up the diseased apple. Touching the apple tree tenderly with her free hand, Sara Ann ran down the hill and threw the troubled apple away. W She felt a whole lot better, and she knew the apple tree did, too.

WORD magazine | horace mann school


He had been waiting for weeks, maybe even months. It was hard to keep track of time in the windowless room. The room was rather large, but completely empty of furniture, with the exception of a single threadbare couch and a tall, teetering bookshelf in the corner. The walls were a dark shade of jade with gold detailing near the ceiling. Three times a day, meals were pushed through a small door in the wall. It was just too small for him to fit through, not that he would have tried anymore, anyway. The meals were plain, but nice enough. At night, the couch could be pulled out to form a bed, and after he had gotten used to the strange loneliness of the room, he slept soundly every night. It was the bookshelf that fascinated him. Almost as if it were mocking the emptiness of its surroundings, it was stuffed tightly with the strangest books he had ever seen. The books were on all different topics, but none of them had titles. They were not divided into chapters, but consisted of random clips of disconnected text. Spread out through the pages were photographs that seemed to have been placed there at the whim of the author; they were never related to the accompanying text. With nothing else to do, he pored over these books. He read and read and thought. He had almost no interaction with his captor, and he spent days with the people of the books. With a little boy and his imaginary friend. With the struggling actress who had been disowned by her family. With the kindly old lady who had secretly murdered her next-door neighbor. At first he had been angry. Of course he had been. Why had he, of all people, been taken? He wasn’t wealthy; he wasn’t famous; he wasn’t important. So why had they taken him? At first he’d also wanted to go home. To his parents, who had undoubtedly worried when he hadn’t showed up for Thanksgiving dinner. To his girlfriend, who would be waiting dutifully for him at home. As he spent more and more time with the books, though, he had changed his mind. What was there to gain by going back home? What exactly? He had secretly resented life with his girlfriend, who talked all day of her clothes and nothing else; with his overprotective parents, who had guilted him

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into getting a job near their home, instead of a higher-paying one two hundred miles away. What would they even say if he ever went home? Of course they would all be glad initially, but then the questions would come. What were you doing out so late? Why were you even in that part of town? Why didn’t you give us a call when you got lost? He had no answers for any of those questions. No answers that they’d be happy to hear, anyway. It was partially his fault that he had been taken. He was the one who had willingly taken a detour into the shadier part of town, because he’d wanted some adventure. He’d wanted a break from the dullness of his life. This was why he had almost gone willingly when he was forced into the back of a car. At 6’2 he probably could have overtaken the two women who had grabbed him, but he didn’t even fight back. In the first few days, he had tried to break NEXT out of the green room. When he’d found that he was too large to fit through the door INSTRUCthrough which he got his food, he had almost TIONS by torn apart the room looking for another exit. When that failed, he squeezed near the door PHOEBE everyday, trying to catch a glimpse of the outGENNARside world or hear a snippet of their converDO (‘14) sation, to figure out what exactly they wanted with him. He’d shouted to them through the door, shouted until his voice was hoarse. But they had never answered, and eventually he’d stopped asking. Based on what little he heard of their conversation, they often left the house in the afternoon. He probably could have used that time to find a way to leave or to call for help. But he no longer tried. Because in a way, this was what he needed. He had needed an escape. There was no doubt that his parents and girlfriend loved him, as they were obligated to. But he doubted they really cared for him. He had always sought something more, although he was not quite sure what. All he knew for sure was that he had no desire to return to his old life. So he stayed obediently in the room, reading and just waiting. Expecting. W



photos by Greg Barancik (‘11)


WORD magazine | horace mann school


I know this must be hard for you. I understand, I really do, But what do you want from me? Do you want me to hand it to you On a silver platter? Or would you like it on the moon? But platters are for butlers, And the moon is for spacemen, And love, I am neither, so what can I do? Would you like me to wrap it in a package, And send it off to Cali? I could buy you a one way ticket and You could meet your package there. But packages are for businessmen, And Cali is for rock stars, And honey, you are neither. So what am I to do?



How about I put it in a box of chocolates To make it seem bittersweet? I can present a diamond ring to you With the answer coded inside. But love, chocolate boxes are for lovers, And rings are for something more. And baby, we are neither. So what can I do?

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The talk to my right has great gray walls all painted on the inside. The Garden State’s smog pushes against the window to my left. So I go forward and away. The trees thundering past, groaning under ice. I see horses in the field and, thinking how you love them, I watch them nuzzle through snow and pull up grass.

Since I knew you’d never see them I hoped to bring the islands home. The masks in their accusatory rows, the stripes and swirls of skirts, a knife, swerving side to side like an unfamiliar path. “Everything’s broken,” the shop lady cries. “Take it now!” I would have bought you clothes but forgot your size changeable as you are from world-filling to frail.




The rain falls through my umbrella making your house seem far away, farther than it ought to, as I watch the lights go out one by one. The rain seeps through my shoes, whispering how you don’t know— you can’t know how I’ll stay here. Waiting to help you escape.

POSTCARD FROM A PARKING LOT NEAR VERSAILLES I could have pressed myself into the walls listening to the litany of tour guides. About how Louis’ legs are not his legs, but someone else’s, young and lean, And how the noblewoman’s face paint destroyed her face. I wish I could have brought you, hamster-like in a coat pocket, fragile, soft, and safe.


POSTCARD FROM WITHIN YOUR HOUSE I’ve just finished drinking the tea you’ve made, wondering how long until you’ll notice. I am lost. Your eyes show little reflections white rectangles of computer screen. I try to remember if I saw you eat dinner. You turn the screen so I can see, “Isn’t it cute? It shouldn’t take long to save up.” I smile and nod And bend my cheek to your shoulder.

WORD magazine | horace mann school



thena sat on her towering throne, her head resting heavily on her slender hand. Her icy white hair, streaked with gold, curled around her head in thick, individual locks and fell over her immortal face. She had the appearance of a young woman, deep into her late teenage years, yet the slight smile of a bored child was firmly on her face. Her clear grey eyes wandered into every corner of the room which she had already explored a million times before. This was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, quite bored and feeling rather useless. She had sat in her court for too many idle years, and although any other god would have been impatient, she had learned patience from her eternal wisdom. She felt her owl shift from its resting place on her shoulder, hooting softly. She smiled and sat up, her senses alert; her owl was lazy without stimulus and remained motionless. She faced the entrance of her temple and waited. After a few seconds, she finally heard the the sound she had wanted a century for: the patter of feet on the smooth marble floor outside her throne room. Aphrodite rushed in, bringing with her the smell of roses and passionfruit. Athena’s eyes sharpened into a thoughtful glare as she evaluated her younger sister. It was not like Aphrodite to have sweat on her beautiful round face. Her long strawberry

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blond hair was not even done; it pooled around her shoulders and stuck lightly against her forehead. The light-footed goddess had tears in her large violet eyes, and her lashes were heavy with moisture. Athena sat straight, motioned for her to come forward, and stood up to meet her. Aphrodite staggered forward into her sister’s arms and whispered the news. “Our father Zeus is dying.” Now, gods don’t die, of course. Athena’s usually calm countenance broke. She ran to get dressed. She slipped her armor on wordlessly and hurried to the door. A silver helmet topped off her swirling gold gown. She grabbed her spear off its holder near the entrance, and the two sisters ran. They had to rush to the most celestial room in the sky. It resided on the other side of the mighty Olympus where all but two of the gods were watching Zeus with drooped heads. The once mighty Zeus, his wife Hera at his side, had to force every breath into his golden body. Athena and Aphrodite, as soon as they burst into the room, fell to their father’s bedside beside their sister, Artemis, who maintained her stoic expression. The three silently held hands, a quiet vigil at their father’s bed. But they were gods; unlike the mortals, they had no one to pray to. “Maybe he’s not dying. Maybe it’s another child.” Athena, as illogical as she sounded at the moment, tried

to convince herself that this was not happening. It was bad enough that he was her father, worse that he was a god, but the ultimate impossibility was that he was the most powerful god of Olympus. Athena pried herself from the bed and came to Hera, bowing her head. “Are we sure that he is dying? Could it be something else? A mischievous god tormenting him? Something he ate?” she asked. Hera’s soft pink eyes were shadowed. She shook her head. “The Fates NEXT themselves came to us. They told us more that his string... had lost its immorATHENA tality. He will be by SINAI dead in a matter CRUZ (‘14) of days. We don’t know why, but there are rumors that the humans are leaving us, and that is why...” Hera broke into sobs that echoed in the chambers. “Why was I not summoned? I am one of his eldest daughters. I should have been here!” Athena was not angry like a mortal, but she was a bit displeased. Before Hera could reply, the gods felt a shift in the wind. The sky outside the room turned a stormy black and the ground turned cold and grey. Hades entered the room proudly, barely managing to keep the smile from his ash-colored face.


“My cousins, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews! My beloved aunts and uncles! It is good to see you again!” he announced smugly. The gods parted for him, leading him to the bedside. They knew that he was here to collect his younger brother’s soul. All left the bedside except for Athena, who, as soon as Hades had entered the room, had buried her head on the golden sheets at her father’s feet. She glared at Hades. The heat of her russet-colored kin brought soft drops of sweat to accumulate under her helmet. Hades met her glare with an even smile. “Uncle, if I may have the pleasure of asking, why are you here?” She did not hide her scorn. “I am here to retrieve my dear brother. You know that.” He knelt at the bedside and grinned as Zeus suddenly began to pant. His black hair became streaked with grey and his skin seemed to age before their eyes. “Get away from him!” Athena lunged at Hades, but Apollo and Artemis held her back. “We must let Hades have him.” Artemis said, her eyes still holding their cold expression. Apollo said nothing but buried his face into Athena’s armor, letting fine tears trace BEFORE the scales.

more ATHE-

Zeus’s majesty left him quickly, but he uttered no more sounds, until his chest took one final heave and stopped completely. Hades smiled and touched his brother’s arm, lifting the newly dead spirit into the air. It swirled around Hades silently. The large god lifted himself from the bed and made his way through the swirl of clamoring gods, who had started wailing the moment they felt the mightiest one among them die. Athena broke free from her brother and ran to her uncle and her father’s soul. “Hades! There must be some other way! Can’t you give him life again? Please! Without him, Olympus will fall into ruin.” “I know,” Hades laughed vigorously. Athena, who had not yet cried, turned glassy-eyed. “Uncle, I ask you, as family—is there any way to bring my father back?” Hades smirked and rummaged in his cloak. He took out a clear blue bottle. “The Fates told me that the twelve mighty gods of Olympus will die first. I will hide their souls across the mortal world, in the stars, and even in my own kingdom. You will die last of all. If you want to revive them, you must find all their souls and put them in this bottle. If you find them

all before you die and bring them to me, I promise to give you their souls back.” He gently placed the bottle into her hand. “However, be warned. The Fates told me that even if their souls return, they will only die again. You gods thrive on prayers from the mortals. What happens when the mortals move beyond you? Trust me my child; you’ll only work in vain. Unless your noble mind figures that it is better to try and to make them live for a brief second longer than never to try at all.” He shrugged and held his brother’s hand as they made their way to the gates of Olympus. He turned back to his niece and waved, disappearing from her blurred sight. Athena stared at the bottle that rested on her palm, feeling its steady weight. She turned quickly and galloped to her father’s room. With horror, she saw her great uncle Poseidon on the floor clutching his chest. Everyone was beside themselves with fear, either mourning or raging or claiming they felt weak. Athena viewed her broken family and held the bottle to her chest. She knew, without a doubt, the Fates’ prophecy would come true, but she also knew that she would do everything she could to stop it. W

NA by SINAI CRUZ (‘14)


by Danielle Marcano (‘11)


WORD magazine | horace mann school

GET RECOGNIZED! Scholastic Art & Writing Awards WHAT: WHO:

recognizes student creativity in everything from poetry to playwriting to videogame design at the regional and national level high schoolers and middle schoolers

former HM recipients include Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Spencer Whitehead (‘11), and WORD’s editor-in-chief, Megan Lu (‘11) FUN FACTS: national winners are honored at a Carnegie Hall ceremony while the Empire State Building is lit gold in their honor; previous Scholastic award winners are Andy Warhol, Sylvia Plath, Robert Redford, Zac Posen, and Truman Capote AT HM:

River of Words Contest WHAT:

encourages young artists and poets to incorporate elements of nature into their work


artists and poets ages 5 through 19


former HM recipients include Caroline Dean (‘10)

FUN FACTS: contest went on hiatus this year due to lack of funding but has since resumed; one of the judges is Pulitzer winner and two-time U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Hass, who visited HM last year

YoungARTS Foundation WHAT:

recognizes artists in nine disciplines, including various visual, performing, and literary arts


high schoolers or high school aged teens

FUN FACTS: winners are nominated to become Presidential Scholars, a title given by the U.S. government’s to honor exceptional graduating students and their teachers at a White House ceremony

Paul Block Award for Creative Writing + Alan Breckenridge Prize + Edward H. Simpson Essay Award WHAT:

a trio of year-end awards given out annually by the HM English Department, whose faculty members chose a creative writing piece, a personal essay, and a critical literary essay from student submissions


primarily seniors, although in years past, recepients have included HM students from other grades

early spring 11 | vol. X issue 1

WINTER CRYING INTO SPRING by ZOE FAWER (‘14) A frozen pond Frail and attacked, Robbed Of her snow white coat Powerless Against the raging sun A snowflake Weak and afraid Drifts down Waiting For her inevitable farewell An icicle Grasping With his long slender fingers Scraping The rough wood roof And descending into Death A heartbroken block Of smooth and wintry ice Sheds large tears Of grief and sorrow Down cheeks Of fragile frost


WORD F.A.Q. WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WORD AND MANUSCRIPT? Manuscript publishes only poetry, while Word publishes primarily prose (but also a few poems). The publications also differ in format, illustration, size, and frequency of publication.

IS WORD A NEW PUBLICATION STARTED THIS YEAR? No, Word is the continuation of former HM publication Legal Fiction, which did not come out at all for several years. The first issue of the revamped and rebooted Word came out last year, followed by two more issues this year, one in early spring and this end=of-year one.

I WANT TO WORK FOR WORD! WHAT CAN I DO? Word wants to showcase your talent, whether you’re a writer, artist, editor, layout wizard, poet, photographer, or sombrero-wearing ninja pirate! Email us to be added to the mailing list.

email next year’s editors-in-chief juliet zou + vasilia sokolova to get involved plus, check us out at ISSUU.COM/WORDMAGAZINE

Profile for Horace Mann School

Word 2011 Issue 2  

End-of-year (Graduation, SBP Assembly, and Class Day) issue of 2010-2011 school year.

Word 2011 Issue 2  

End-of-year (Graduation, SBP Assembly, and Class Day) issue of 2010-2011 school year.