Jabberwocky

Jabberwocky2016

The Art and Literary Magazine of Scarsdale High SchoolScarsdale, New York

Editors In ChiefAnshi Barmecha Zachary Tesler

EditorsAva BradlowChristian BishopPatrick DwyerIsaak GreeneSteven OrlofskyMegan ReynoldsSofia TardifLucas TeslerNina Zacharia

Faculty AdvisorJeanne Cooper

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AcknowledgementsSpecial thanks to...

Jodi GirouxGreg Leong

Stephen BogardusDave Berry

The Students Activities Committee

Club MembersKathleen Bishop, Sam Blieden, Simon Bradlow, Marc Chase, Snesha Day, Gaby

Dickson, Vicky DiSalvo, Caroline Donat, Alex Hart, Melanie Holmes, Sarah Jathas, Kathleen Kantor, Morgan Kim, Lyndsey Morton, Sydney Kula, Clement

Lacoudre, Tali Lesser, Skyler Lewis, Clare McInerney, Miku Morikuni, Emily Natbony, Kingsley Nwokeji, Sloane Pick, JT Rosen, Karina Schepis, Kristen

Schepis, Genna Shuster, Ben Stevens, Ilana Tamir, Netali Zaff

Cover Art: Yarden WiesenfeldTitle Art: Zachary Tesler

Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my sonThe jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;Long time the manxome foe he sought—So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll

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Ode to a Houseplant / Sarah Jathas / 1Untitled / Sofia Tardif / 2Untitled / Anshi Barmecha / 310:38 AM / Lucas Tesler / 4Untitled / Clare McInerney / 5Untitled / Steven Orlofsky / 5Piano Man / Sofia Tardif / 6Summer in the Park / Steven Orlofsky / 11Perpetual Motion / Zachary Tesler / 12For a Friday Night / Sam Rosner / 12Untitled / Ava Bradlow / 13Wild / Abigail Haber / 13Shower Thoughts / Nina Zacharia / 15Untitled / Sydney Kula / 16XVIII / Megan Reynolds / 17Untitled / Daniel Tucci / 17Untitled / Lena Proctor / 18Untitled / Kylie McRobie / 19Fate of a Tree / Patrick Dwyer / 20Angel in Waiting / Genna Shuster / 21A Trip Through the Woods / Alexandre Neishtadt / 22Untitled / Yarden Wiesenfeld / 23Camp des Milles / Marie Ceske / 23Untitled / Daniel Tucci / 25I am Tired / Ike / 26Penultimate Euphoria in 5 Parts / Lucas Tesler / 27Boys R Dumb / Sarah Jathas / 29I Hate Poetry / Megan Reynolds / 30Untitled / Ava Bradlow / 30Untitled / Ariel Kachuro / 31

iiiTable of Contents

II / Zachary Tesler / 32Untitled / Clare McInerney / 32Dr. Conspira-Seuss / Steven Orlofsky / 33Untitled / Steven Orlofsky / 34Radical / Sydney Kula / 35Untitled / Zachary Tesler / 36 Untitled / Clare McInerney / 36 Narcotics: A Glossary / Marie Ceske / 37Untitled / Lena Proctor / 40Slaying the Dragon / Kimberly Plath / 41Untitled / Alex Hart / 42Untitled / Anshi Barmecha/ 43The Glance / Sam Rosner / 44Untitled / Anshi Barmecha/ 45Nightmare in Paradise / Emily Wang / 45Untitled / John Seider / 48The Primitive Knight / Patrick Dwyer / 49Papá’s Girl / Sofia Tardif / 50Ulysses, Page 423 / Steven Orlofsky / 56Untitled / Nina Zacharia and Zachary Tesler / 57Tea Party / Geffen Segall / 58Flowers / Sarah Jathas / 59Untitled / Sydney Kula / 60Decomposing / Gaby Dickson / 61Roots / Lena Proctor / 62Red Pills / Nishna Singh / 62Thursday Night ((Haikus)) / Steven Orlofsky / 63Nonplussed / Zachary Tesler / 64Haikus / Genna Shuster / 65Haikus / Zachary Tesler / 65Untitled / Yarden Wiesenfeld / 66

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Ode to a Houseplant

For Brendan

Oh the things you must see!Although in the same place every day you notice more than could be conceivedby us silly humansStuck in the same spot for yearsYetYou continue to grow!How wonderful you are with your ever-expanding green wingsYou make no judgementsYou majestically reserved being You see it allOh the secrets you must knowWhen people think no one is watchingOh we silly beings, we brought you here and expect younot to observeBut we forgive you, plant,For it is you that comforts us when all we need is silence.

Sarah Jathas

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Sofia Tardif

2

Anshi Barmecha

3

10:38 AM

I DIDNT SLEEP VERY WELL LAST NIGHTsee, I woke up before 6 AMand tried to go back to sleep

but noMy nose

My throatTumble out of bed,

103FEVER.

Mouth, sandpaper.Nose, stuffedto the core.

My irides1 sagso many pills

How many Motrin did I take…?I don’t remember.

My test for Influenzawas positivefor Type B.

My mind is a thick cloudMy eyes ask to close.

I will submit tothis request.

1. Plural of “iris.”

Lucas Tesler

4

A most glorious end it was. Down in flames. Out with a bang. Sweating and nervous. Lungs heaving and throat burning.I couldn’t feel my arms.The sign hoisted high above my head like the Stanley Cup, I jumped and flailed like never before.I became a human rag doll. I developed a herd of similarly moving people around me.“WILL SING ANY SONG FOR $1”So it had to come to this. Our baked goods simply weren’t enough of a draw.We needed more; AFYA needed more. The poster we’d made in September,That had served us well in February’s edition of the Club Fair,Had met its maker.Exhaustion and humiliation and a thirst for funds. No one has seen It since that fateful day.

Steven Orlofsky

Clare McInerney

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Piano Man

“Sing us a song, you’re the piano man,Sing us a song tonight.

Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody,And you’ve got us feeling alright”.

I heard him sing through the mic. Slowly, and slightly raspily. He had stripped the song down to solely him and the piano at a slow tempo; no har-monica. He wasn’t the best singer, but he didn’t need to be. The single spotlight that shone down on him made him seem divine. “Piano Man” played loud and clear through the auditorium. I sat in my hard, plastic seat unable to look away. His skin glowed as his fingers danced across the keys. He leaned into the mic with pure emotion and need. The words spilled out of the speakers gently and thoughtfully. As if every word meant so much more than it actually did. The song, one I had heard a million times before and never really cared about, now felt as cherished as a fond memory. The song felt as though it was made for him to sing and it was destiny for us to hear it. The way he moved us was dreamlike and surreal. And when he finished, when he delivered the final notes flawlessly, I remember crying. I didn’t cry until my mascara ran or sob, but a few tears fell in appreciation and respect. I couldn’t believe what I had witnessed. It was beauti-ful. Mesmerizing. Everyone stood up and clapped. And not out of pity. This performance, one I’ll never forget for the rest of my life, had been given to me and the crowd, generously, by one of the boys in the special ed pro-gram. His name was Avi; Avi Bergstein. He was a lanky boy with thick, brown, messy hair. He wore plain, long-sleeved t-shirts and dull-colored athletic pants. I remember hearing that he had some sort of neurological disorder. But it wasn’t the type of disability, like ADHD or autism, that is usually talked about. It was the type that makes you quiet and shy. He needed an aide not because he would act up, but because he needed to focus. He was lost in his mind, pensive and silent. His brain was constantly in default, or so my friends at the time told me. But on that stage, he seemed as if he was giving us something he didn’t need to focus on. Something that was natural to him. Almost as if it was the piece of his mind he was always wandering in. It was emotional, deep, and left me thinking for a while. It felt as though he was sharing what he had wanted to say all this time. After the performance, I went backstage to keep assisting the talent show crew. I had performed earlier in the day with my friends. And, since we were in eighth grade and leaving the middle school that year, we had decided to take a day for ourselves.

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The talent show took place the day before the last day of school. It was the staff’s way of winding down the year after finals. We were still technically in school, but we weren’t doing any work other than handing mics to the tech crew and giving moral support to nervous upcoming performers. But I was glad we had stayed behind. As I walked up the stairs to the stage, I saw Avi’s aide at the bottom waiting for him. So, knowing he was still on the stage somewhere, I looked for him. And when I found him, I approached him. He was being walked off stage by one of the crew members and I offered to switch places with her. When she agreed, I walked off with Avi. “That was the most amazing performance I’ve seen all day,” I suddenly blurted out as we made our way down the stairs. “You did an incredible job.” “Thank you...,” he said meekly. His big eyes peered up at me through his bush of hair. I smiled back. “Do you have a Facebook?” I asked. He nodded and tried his best to smile. “Great!” I continued. “Promise me you’ll add me!” He nodded again. Then, he suddenly turned around and walked off with his aide. That day, I replayed the performance in my head a hundred times and hummed along. And the next, I found myself a new friend on Facebook. Avi had made his account about two months before. He hadn’t posted much. Most of his wall was made up of tags from his relatives and pictures of him at family events. But I was glad I would get to see him in school after summer break. Since we were both graduating from middle school, I wanted to maybe do a duet or something at the high school. I was looking forward to collaborating with him musically. But I never got to. The day after the talent show, the eighth graders went to the annual pool party. But when I asked my friends if they had seen Avi, none of them had. Until I talked to one girl who was in the special ed program with him. She told me he had moved. Disappointed and defeated, I went back to my friends and tried to have fun at the party. I succeeded, and found myself forgetting about Avi. However, not completely. For the rest of my life, every time I heard the song “Piano Man”, I was moved and turned the volume up. I would forget it later on in the day or that week, but when the song played, I remembered the performance. In high school, I always played it when hanging out with friends, and it was always in my “Chill” playlist. In college, I met my husband. He majored in music and was exceptionally good with a piano. I asked him to play “Piano Man” one night while hanging out and he did so; beautifully, in fact. Later on in life, he told me it was our singing the lyrics together that made him certain that he liked me. And on the day of our wedding, my little brother played the song at my reception, knowing my fondness for it.

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Around that time, I realized how much I cherished the song and decided to go back to Facebook and check on Avi. It had been at least fifteen years since I last saw his profile. Now, the paper-thin boy who had been fifty percent hair was a tall, fuller man with a better haircut. However, he still wore bland colors, and his eyes were as big and brown as ever. As I looked through his profile, I also saw that he had started a piano school. I read the ad he had up and suddenly became happy for him. I didn’t know how he operated a school, but I was glad he was doing something that related to his talent. Feeling fulfilled by my search, I closed Facebook and carried on with my life. At twenty-seven, I had a wonderful baby boy whom I named Marco. And on his tenth birthday, he asked me if he could be signed up for piano lessons. He thought that since my brother and husband could play, so should he. So, of course, I thought of Avi and the ad he had posted on his wall ages ago. I checked his Facebook page for his school information and called up the building. A young man answered the phone. He sounded like he was in his early twenties, so I knew he wasn’t Avi. Nonetheless, we set up a lesson for the next day. I later found it funny that I was as excited to go to the lesson as my son was. That night, I tucked him into bed with smiles on both our faces. Tomorrow was going to be a good day. When we woke up, we held that happy attitude all morning until we arrived at the school. Marco was usually intimidated by places he’d never been to before. But he seemed confident when we walked up to the building. It was between a pub-like restaurant and a well-known clothing store. An American flag hung over the entrance proudly and the white door seemed to welcome us in. And in big gold letters, a sign read: “Avi Bergstein’s Piano School” as it rested on a white board above the door. Taking a deep breath, my son and I walked in. There was a front desk with no one attending it. Then an elderly woman walked out of the back room. “Can I help you?” she said with a smile. Marco tugged at my cardigan gen-tly and the woman cooed over him. “Oh, yes.” I smiled back. “I’m looking for Avi. My son has a lesson sched-uled today.” I was excited to see him after all these years. Maybe even catch up a bit, if he remembered me. But the woman’s expression said otherwise. Her smile dropped at the sound of his name. In her eyes, I could see pain. And then she answered with another smile. But this time, it was sad. “I’m sorry, dear, but Avi passed away last year. My other son, Michal, now teaches the lessons.” The smile now disappeared from my face. I had never actually known Avi well. Even if his performance was unforgettable, I really knew him only through

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his scattered Facebook posts, his old profile pictures, and his job description. But the sadness I felt in that room was real. I couldn’t believe I had missed him by a year. “Mrs. Bergstein, please don’t be sorry. Instead, I should be saying that. I knew Avi, actually. We went to middle school together.” I offered my own sad smile. “Really? Oh my... you have some memory!” she chuckled softly. “Well, we didn’t know each other very well.” I looked down at my lap. “But the first, and last, time I heard him play the piano, I was mesmerized. I still remem-ber it today.” The woman smiled meekly again. “Ah. Avi always had that effect on peo-ple. He had the unbelievable talent of putting his soul into a song. And when he sat in front of the piano, he showed his world to whoever would listen.” We smiled at each other again and a man walked into the room. “Oh, hello,” he greeted us. I shook his hand and Marco did as well, a bit reluctantly. “I’m Michal, the head piano teacher. What brings you two in today?” To my surprise, Marco spoke up. “I have a lesson. I want to learn how to play piano.” Michal laughed and checked the schedule on the desk. “Are you Marco?” My son nodded. “Well, your lesson’s now! Come on in.” Michal gestured to the back room. Marco looked back up at me and smiled. “Be good,” I told him with a smile. He nodded again and ran off with Mi-chal trailing behind. As he approached the door to the other room, Michal looked back at me. “I’ll have him out in forty-five minutes. It was nice meeting you!” He waved. Then he turned around and shut the door, leaving me with Mrs. Bergstein. She told me that Marco was adorable and we continued to talk. Through our conversation, I learned that Avi had died in a car accident. A drunk driver hadn’t seen him on the street one night, and he had been killed on impact. Both of us got upset and consoled each other. But she then asked me how I knew her son. I told her about the performance and how much it had meant to me. She then explained how much the piano meant to him. It was a translator to his unique mind. Only he could really understand his own language. But with the piano, he communicated to everyone what he wanted to say. Later on in his life, his family had found some medicine that helped him focus as no other had. With that, he went to college and founded the piano school. I was blown away by his achievements, and proud for some odd reason. The conversa-tion we had made me happy. Mrs. Bergstein and I got into the routine of talking whenever I dropped Marco off. Some days she would tell me about Avi, and on others, we would just chat. It was nice. And going to the school was natural and almost essential for Mar-co. He learned to love the piano as much as his other relatives and teacher at the school did.

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Before we knew it, a year had passed by. It was time for me to attend Marco’s first performance. My husband and I squeezed into the church where Mi-chal’s students were to do their recital. It was a cold night, and the wind seemed to bite at us as we walked in. There were many parents chatting away as Mrs.Berg-stein welcomed everyone. We greeted her before sitting down in the front row, to the right of the piano. Then she called out to the crowd that everyone should find a seat because the show was about to begin. As the audience was seated, the lights were dimmed and a single spot-light shone down on her. “Welcome, everyone, to Avi Bergstein’s Piano School recital!” she said from behind the podium. The audience clapped respectfully. “Today, we celebrate what our students have learned and accomplished at this school. How they started off playing ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ and today will play masterpieces like Beethoven’s ‘Sonata 29.’” The crowd chuckled and she con-tinued, “We must also acknowledge the strength it takes to play the piano. Sure, it is not soccer, or football, or any physical sport; but it is mentally demanding.” The audience chuckled again, but the laughter slowly faded away. “My son, Avi Bergstein, founded this school for kids that struggled as he did, but, also like him, never gave up. These two opening songs are dedicated to him. Thank you.” The crowd clapped and Michal walked on. He explained that the song he would play always hit home with him and his family. Michal then, to my surprise, said he would be accompanied by one of his students and welcomed Marco to the stage. Marco tightly carried a folder with him. He took a bow and smiled a toothy grin, then he sat down at the piano with Michal. He opened the folder, but he didn’t immediately start to play. Instead, he turned back to smile at me. Then he and Michal started to play together. A slowed-down tempo, no harmonica, just the pianists and the piano. As the notes spilled out, I felt my heart well up. It was “Piano Man”. I began to get teary-eyed. And, as I shut my eyes, I could almost hear Avi sing it as my son played the keys.

It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,And the manager gives me a smile.

‘Cause he knows that it’s me they’ve been coming to see,To forget about life for a while.

Sofia Tardif

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Summer in the Park

a mother and daughter laugh to each other and stroll down the beaten cobblestone path, the girl a few steps in front of the woman.

a pigeon lazily pecks at an old french fry.

an old lady hobbles around on a walker, a bastion of despair a living token of the creeping inevitability of time

sunshine streams in between ancient tree branches forming intricate shadows on the grass.

a man stands behind an ice cream stand clad in his white hatwhite shirt white pants (as tradition mandates).arm outstretched,he meekly offers ice cream, (delicious! safe!) ice creamto passers-byfamiliesanyoneanyone who will listen to him.why won’t anyone listen to him?

the pigeon stops its foragingstands erectlooks straight ahead,like it’s been drafted into

a long dormant army.it squawks six times.the ice cream is melting now.a slow trickle down his thin, ivory, veiny, shaking arm,collecting in a small pool on the sidewalk.

an old man tosses his sandwichin the recycling bin.he lingers, considering at its contents quizzically. the recycling bin gazes back.

the atmosphere begins to darken, at first imperceptibly, but gradually faster, soon the sky has burnt from a pleasant breezeto a deep, resentful purple.

soon the tentacles envelop everything.

Steven Orlofsky

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Perpetual MotionZachary Tesler

For a Friday Night

Two waxen brothers bask in the deep blue black of nightRadiating a timeless spirit and vigorLiving together, aging together,Illuminating the darkness.

Fatigued, the first brother performs a dance of enervation.Desperately weakened, he flickers out of existence.

The second brother stands isolatedFeeling nothing but the sanctity of the dimly lit evening,He quietly abdicates to his end.

Two wicks and a memory bask in the deep blue black of night.

Sam Rosner

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Wild

We park our car in the lot and jump out.See virgin maries.plain virgins.wannabe virgins.And the boys that follow them.Singing along to the man in the center of the podium.Wide face,big smile, index fingers pointed to the sky.Says he’s seen a lot and is looking for some love. Isn’t that why you come to an Eden, justlooking for some love?

Ava Bradlow

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There is a girl.who believes in Jesusandsixth chancesandthe toxic allure of purple playdough.Hippy, blond, and biblically beautiful.Hips swaying, guitar strumming. Slender fingers, scrunched into blond hair. Blue eyescrinkled, lips parted.

You burn skin by candle to inhale the scent you know you willnever have.Touch. Don’t touch. Hold back. Worship.

sin. I count the ways in which your eyescrinkle. There are many, and I never tire ofseeing you in a

rapture of the flesh.

She can only be for one last night. So, let it all crumble. Stop time to breathe longer. Andlearn how to love her for one final,last,time.

Lord knows that none of you all will ever have thatsiliconewildflowerdeity.

She belongs to herself.

Abigail Haber

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Shower Thoughts

I.My life is just full of mistakesLike a vase that so easily breaksGod answers me notAnd I’m left with one thought:He takes, and he takes, and he takes

II. How funny it is to be To walk on this blue and green peaTo love and to hateAnd bear that strong weight:We’re drops in an infinite sea

III.Why spend all my days in regretI worry, I stress, and I fretBut each day is a toilWhy burn mem’ries like oilTo die is but to forget

Nina Zacharia

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Sydney Kula

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XVIII

You smell of cigarettesAnd high cholesterolDon’t kiss me on my mouthor grab me by my waistBurn in hell

Megan Reynolds

Daniel Tucci

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Lena Proctor

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Kylie McRobie

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Fate of a Tree

It’s SpringLeaves hanging on branchesBeautiful and bright leavesStrong and sturdy branchesConnected to each other through the body of their creatorThe tree

It’s SummerLeaves hanging on branchesColorful and thin leavesHard and course branchesAttached to each other through the body of their creatorThe tree

It’s AutumnThe leaves have fallen off the branchesWithered and crispy leavesWeakened and impaired branchesSeparated from each otherAnd their creator the tree couldn’t do anything

It’s WinterThe leaves have been buried under the snowCrushed and beaten leavesDiminished and defeated branchesThat have lost their bond with their creatorThe treeUntilSpring is reborn

Patrick Dwyer

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Angel in Waiting

You often see her loiteringjust outside the perimeters of her little solo room.You can see roses fighting futilely for precedencejust beneath her ashen cheeks.Clean bandaids avert her sunken eyesfrom translucent arms too poked and manipulated.Sandra so sallow.Her socked and slippered toes long for the sharp coolnessof stark tiling.Her faded floral nightgown swishesjust below her knobby knees.Her knit hat sits, untouched,on the nightstand.Fluorescent reflections dance atop her head.

Most of what happens to her,what everybody is trying to do,is unimportant. Useless— To us and to her.She focuses on only two things:what is festering within her andwhat is not true of the outside.

When she talks, she steers clearof cells and questions and pills and home.She knows all about these thingsand feels no need to elaborate;she understands what is and is not.

She does speak often of alternate realities.And as her tongue maneuvers against the drugsand her lungs struggle to contract, release, contract,her eyes sparkle to bursting.She describes flowers growingin perfect abstraction.All of the children run and fallbut don’t scrape their knees.Mothers cry only from laughing so hard their bellies ache.

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But even in her own realities,hers and hers alone,she remains at the periphery.

Tampering with fate is certain pain.She has learned how to wait without hope,she has learned how to dance,eyes open,in the stern light of the abyss.

Genna Shuster

Alexandre Neishtadt

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Camp des Milles

She wondered how much was lost, what her school had never taught her.

Couldn’t teach her.

She grappled with the newspapers, trying to piece togetherwhat was said then, what is said now. A jigsaw of words and lines she couldn’t place.

Yarden Wiesenfeld

23

None of the papers had been translated, unlike the blocks of English text that accompaniedthe more “historic” writings on the wall.First hand accounts wereburied deep inside the damp and dark museum.

A copy of Charlie Hebdosat folded in her suitcase.“Tout est pardonné.” Illustrations of terrorists, a narrative she tentatively read.

When she brought it home, it dampened the conversation. “I wouldn’t have wanted this,” her mother said, refusing to open its cover. “Why not,” she returned, confused, believing she had obtained a valuable piece of history, a symbol of triumph.

“I just don’t want anything to do with it,” her mom replied, arguing that the magazinecreated offense, that maybe freedom of the penhad gone too far in this instance, althoughviolence is never warranted.

She looked down at the cover, feeling guilty that she held it in her hands. Then she thought about the newspapers, drawings, and writings preserved on the walls in Provence.

The walls that artists, writers, families used as a call for freedom, love.The words nearly lost in the darkness of a cave, left behind as those trapped inside were hushed away to the final solution.

Marie Ceske

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Daniel Tucci

25

I Am Tired

Sometimes I live in fear of what may happen on the streets.My parents have taught me well, how to live like a young boy should.But how can a young boy live when he’s haunted in his sleep?People don’t think I’m serious.People don’t think it matters to me.People may think I’m delirious.But no, it does scare me when I see a young black blood gunned down.When another Treyvon is shamed, when another is gunned down I do so much more than frown.I cry, I tremble underneath thisProtective layer that is my skin because I cannot take this.I am tired of being seen as a threat an animal.I am tired of being seen as a villain when I can be a hero.I am tired of hearing of all these tragedies to young men just like me.Young men who are me.I am tired, mom and dad I am tired.I see this vicious game continuing itself and myself as a player.Playing until I’ve reached the last life possible wishing so hard that I had been born differently you could call it a prayer.I am tired of wishing that.I want to live in a world where I as a black man can be accepted and no longer be scared.I want to be able to walk out my door without fear riding on the hairsOf my arms to the point where I cannot enjoy life.Mom, Dad, I am tired.

26

Ike

Penultimate Euphoria in 5 Parts

iis it really early or really late?At this moment I cannot decide.On one hand the ringing has stopped.The hum in my ear remains, ever-present.On the other hand, my foot is asleepand it is causing mea substantial deal of discomfort.It’s a between time.I think I’m a between time right now.

iiThe shadow of my sparkling water dragsonto the soft marble countertop.It slides down, carrying my eyes with it.The floor is pink,much like unsweetened cotton candy.I wish it would devour me already.Sooner or later,Something will.

iiiI see everything pointing to one horizon at the end.The vanishing point is where I’m headed.To that, I nod.But to now?To now I say,Lumpy pancake mix.

ivYou. Yes, you.Your hands are the softest silk on my face.The tenderness of human skinrenders my system incapacitated;I cannot move,I cannot breatheIn fear that I will scare off that fleeting handthat reaches out and touches me.

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vI can feel you.

Yes, you.The light you generate has no equalthat is not a sun.You,My dearest one.You hold this light;Allow yourself to release it.

vihere we are again.we are between againmy eyes feel more open with my eyelids shut.describing your radiance approaches impossibility.You’re my asymptote.

viiCalm lake, nice daySun is high, kids at playAt the park, there was a soundIt was small but without bound.An wise man rose and began to speak:“It was I who made the squeak!Yes, I farted, I must admit.Burritos are good, but I’ve been trying to quit.”

viiiGood morning, dear one.The early sky shines like your eyes.I can feel your warmth in my chest andyour laugh in my ears.When I wake up, I think of youThinking of me.Be gentle with my heart.

ixI think I’m in love

Lucas Tesler

28

Boys R dumb

You said I was cute So is a porcupine

You said you loved me Never to my face

You said never to worry Yet I was in tears

You said you like the cool ranch Doritos I bought the red kind

You said I was the only one you’d ever consider How’s your new girlfriend?

You said we should kiss in the halls Yet threw my hand away in public

I told you I like my tea black You put milk in it

I told you the truth You wouldn’t listen

I miss you Yet I’m glad you’re gone.

Sarah Jathas

29

Ava Bradlow

I Hate Poetry

I hate poetryI don’t get the symbolismor the metaphors or strange connection to “something bigger”alliteration makes me want to vomitand don’t get me started on similesbut every word you write make my heart beat a bit fasterand my hands shake and my thoughts raceit fills me up with an unfamiliar feelingthat scares and excites mecraving more, as if each sentenceallows me to see a bit more into you

ugh, gross.

Megan Reynolds

30

Ariel Kachuro

31

II

My duvet was crisp. 

You wrinkled it yesterday.

Please stay forever.

Zachary Tesler

You don’t call someone at midnight

from the beach

when you know they’re alone,

because you’re “friends”.

I don’t care about your

“boyfriend”

You dig me.

Clare McInerney

32

Dr. Conspira-Suess

A conspiracy truly isa revolutionary idea.From the postal service,to the People’s Republic of Korea.

The Boo Bugs on the Bolopolis treebuzz under the early dawn sun.Their tiny brains secure in knowingthat JFK was killed by Johnson.

And the Gruffican Snurplesburrowing in their Ragflarp holesAll know about the government basesat the north and south poles.

Reptile overlords control the government.It’s true.We’re surrounded by them;Obama, the Queen, Beyonce, and you.

For all we know they could be reading your (or my) mind right now!The U.S. government assassinated Chairman Mao.

You can dismiss this ideaas a crazy man’s thought,but just keep in mindhow easily votes can be bought.

“It’s rambling nonsense!”“Imbecilic dreams!”

You’re sure that it is,but keep in mind thatjet fuel couldn’t evermelt hardened steel beams.

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Democracy is a lie.God isn’t real.And boo bugs are ticklish,so don’t make ‘em squeal.

Tin foil hats,oh so comfy at night!Remember to keep ‘em onand wrap yours up tight.

Nothing you say or do matters,try hard as you might.The Illuminati are watching,sweet dreams and goodnight.

Steven Orlofsky

Steven Orlofsky

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Sydney Kula

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You had lazy eyes.You fixed our grill. It was cold.Now the meat cooks through.

Your breath was so warm— just like the grill. Burn me up, spit me right back out.

Why so insincere?You’ve made your bed. Go to sleep. Wake up and find me.

Bullshit synthesis. You tore me apart, shithead. Oddities remain.

Why are you still here,plotting against my neurons?I am not sorry.

Zachary Tesler

You were the vampire.I was the polar bear. You attached yourselfto my future HalloweensAnd then my future Thanksgivings And don’t even get me startedOn what you’ve done to Christmas Is this permanent?

Clare McInerney

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Narcotics: A GlossaryIntroduction to Biological Psychology

Axon:He was bound by Obligations, expectations, peer pressures.“Work hard.” “Make friends.” “Live a little.” All wound, wrapping him tight.

Myelin sheath: She saw herself as fat. She thought she could ignore it.But the mirror revealed a simple truth. Anorexia. Bulimia. Depression. Prozac.Raise serotonin. Raise norepinephrine. Pills travel fast through fat coated fibers.

Soma:Mom worried about him. Why did he disappear, trip up stairs, laugh it off?Who were the friends who lurked in the dark?Mom warned, reprimanded, prayed. But she had no control.

Threshold:They were told to meet certain standardsThat seemed like giant, suffocating barriers. Drugs lowered the bar. Success: neural impulse released.

Synapse / Synaptic Gap:She waited - Empty bottle balanced on the sink. Evidence:(photographed, bagged, examined)She looked in the mirror, waiting. Wondering. Lost. Directionless. At the mercy of her nervous system.

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Neurotransmitters: I. Gamma-aminobutyric acid (GABA) It started when she was 14. Anxiety, low self-esteem Alcohol made it better. But she built up tolerance, Needed more and more and more And turned to stronger and stronger drugs…

II. Endogenous opioids … Oxycodone, heroin, morphine. Didn’t cut it. Her moods faded. Depression grew.

III. Acetylcholine, Endogenous Cannabinoids, Norepinephrine, Serotonin, Dopamine He started with cigarettes– So seemingly innocent, harmless The smoke turned to sweet fumes But soon he snorted cocaine, shot heroin through his veins, swallowed LSD. Stronger, more addictive, more dangerous, More fatal.

Wernicke’s and Broca’s Areas:His friends laughed at the slurred babbling, Incomplete sentences. Incomprehensible. Smiles, drifting focus, comically Inexpressive.

Cerebellum: Slight swaying, small stumbling,Violent and aggressive. Arms extended, gravity re-centered - Localized to the person trying to help. He fell up stairs, down stairs, over bumps,Over nothing. The ground began to spin, Feet unknowingly mis-planted.

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Cerebral Cortex:The world slowed, vision blurredAs though his eyes were covered by thin cataracts. He blinked – forcefully. Bugged his eyes. Think. Just think. Where am I? What am I doing?What have I just done?Where are my friends?

Medulla:Her eyes began to droop, Her heavy head to swing in small, Haphazard circles. She stumbled over to her bedWhere the she lay, letting her Eyes close over.

Refractory period:Paralyzed. Snippets: Screams. Eyes. Sirens. Scrubs. Gurney. Oxygen mask. Heart rate.

Beep, beep, beeeeeeppppp. Flat.

Marie Ceske

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Lena Proctor

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Imagine having a sickness that comes from nowhere, isn’t contagious, isn’t curable, has no physical symptoms, and gets worse every day. Can you? It’s best known as clinical depression. It feels like pressure on you that is increased every day. It feels like you’re a hamster on a wheel; no matter what you do you won’t get anywhere. It feels like you just woke up and your bones are broken and nothing anyone does can fix them. That is how much it hurts. And getting better isn’t like curing a sickness. It’s a struggle, and it feels at the beginning like you’ll never get better. There was a time when I thought I would never be truly happy again. Luckily, I was wrong. Everyone thought that they could somehow make me better, but in the end, the only person who really made me better was me. My official chart says that I’m in partial remission. Remission--that word is full of hope and healing. But when people say remis-sion, they usually mean from cancer. It all started in May, 2014, but by no means ended there. It’s still end-ing. Being in remission means that I’m getting better at a pretty solid rate. But that doesn’t mean that I’m fine. I still take medications that are dangerous to miss even one dose of. Up until about January of this year, I thought that this would just be my life. Miserable and bleak. I don’t know exactly what happened, but suddenly I started feeling okay again. Maybe not normal, because I don’t really remember normal, but okay. I could be happy without feeling guilty, and I wasn’t spending most of my time miserable. Some people think it was because of the extensive therapy I did, but I know that the meds definitely played a part in it, so even now that I know I’m okay, it’s not all me. Also, I had some friends, both from the hospital and school, that un-derstood what I was going through and didn’t just tell me it was all going to be okay; they helped me to make it okay. I never thought I could recover, but I am. If my depression was a mon-ster, it’s dying, and I’m hoping that it never comes back.

Kimberly Plath

Slaying the Dragon

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Alex Hart

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Anshi Barmecha

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The Glance

A quiet light in the realm of tranquil isolation Two vestiges of the clear sky on the sad and mighty countenance Of a dream holy and profane Unattainable.   Alone and comforted By the somber smile Of an imagined past An incomplete future Enveloped in the winds of time –   Great seas above  Stoic and gentle Jewels in the heavy earth In a faraway land   uncharted, omnipresent traveled by my rare glimpses Into a fleeting and long lasting embrace   The sky is in me I fade away from the sky  To yearn is to be

Sam Rosner

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Anshi Barmecha

Nightmare in Paradise

How is it that sunshine can turn to storm in a moment? That paradise can transform into a terrifying nightmare with a single move? That one moment you can be perfectly fine, and the next, you are thrust into darkness, never to resurface? Four years ago, I witnessed something that changed the way I see the world forever. That day, my family and I were on vacation on the island of Aruba. The morning was pleasant and full of promise as we boarded our Jeep for the is-land tour planned for that day. There were two other families sharing our Jeep: one with a bright-eyed six-year-old girl, and the other with a teenage son. With the rumble of the engine starting, we took off for a long day full of adventures. To say that the morning was uneventful would be a lie, for it was filled with excitements and rushes of adrenaline and tiny joys that would soon be cherished as memories. The memories of bouncing along bumpy roads, exploring mysterious caves with heartbeats racing, sipping freshly squeezed coconut juice under palm trees, breath-ing in the salty air of the rocky Natural Pool, and smiling at the antics of the little wild goats prancing beside the street were still fresh in our minds when we arrived at our last stop: the Baby Beach. It was called the Baby Beach, by locals and tourists alike, because supposedly, the water was so calm and shallow there that even babies could wade safely.

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The sun was beginning to slip from its apex, signifying the afternoon hours, when we jumped from the parked Jeep onto the warm, white sand. We all expected a relaxing afternoon sunbathing on the gorgeous beach and wad-ing in the sparkling water. To our surprise, the tour guide told us that life vests were not necessary, even if we went further than the shoreline to explore the cor-al reefs. “It’s only a few feet deep,” he said assuredly. A few hesitant steps into the warm water, I realized that the whole bay was probably as safe as one of those kid-die pools I used to play in, for the water hardly rose above my knees. An ocean-sized kiddie pool sounded amazing to my eleven-year-old self. Eagerly, I splashed as fast as I could to reach the deeper water. Then, I held my breath and dove in. It was an underwater paradise. Multitudes of colorful tropical fish wove in and out of twisting, castle-like coral. I let the turquoise envelop me as I reflected on the wonderful day. Memories of the Natural Pool floated into my mind, the abso-lute awe of watching the massive waves slamming into the jagged boulders again and again. The family with the teenage son had climbed the boulders together, which had seemed rather risky at the time but ultimately quite rewarding, and stood trium-phantly at the top. Another memory surfaced in my mind, the pure, sweet taste of co-conut juice. Everyone had sat together under the breezy palm trees, holding the rough coconuts in our hands and sipping their refreshing juice through colorful straws. The man selling the coconuts had been kinder than any street vendor I had seen in New York. He had even given me a free bag of roasted peanuts. In that moment, I truly believed that this atmosphere of genuine kindness and happiness could last forever. I was just beginning to realize that being lost in a reverie in the middle of the ocean might not be such a good idea when I looked up. The shore seemed a mile away. I had only swum a few yards out, but somehow I had ended up deep in the ocean’s expanse. The tide was pushing me out. Squinting through the blind-ing sunlight, I could barely make out the tiny Jeep parked near the beach. Panic shot through the veins in my body and balled up in the pit of my stomach. When I looked down, the ocean floor seemed to drop below me into a chasm of darkness. I tried desperately to find a place to stand, but there was nowhere to stand, nowhere to be safe. Frantically, I struggled to swim in the direction of the shore, but I felt a tremendous force pushing against me. All the thrashing and pad-dling of my leaden limbs was futile. The once-friendly waves threatened to pull me down into the abyss. Saltwater stung my eyes and crushed my lungs. I was too far away from any chance of rescue. I was alone against the vast ocean. I was at the mercy of powerful, unpredictable nature. This was a matter of life or death. Somehow, by a stroke of luck, a streak of arbitrary waves pummeled me back to shore and left me on the beach, coughing and gasping for air. I sank into the damp sand, exhausted but grateful for life. I stayed there for a minute, lying there catching my breath and looking at the now stormy, overcast sky. “Call 911!” I sud-denly heard someone yell. I was so startled that I thought I had misheard. What was happening? Why did they have to call 911? Over the restless wind, I heard a voice say that the teenage boy’s mother had drowned. The mother and the boy had been swimming when the waves had thrown the mother out of the bay area

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into the open ocean, leaving the boy alone to struggle back to shore. Irecognized teenage boy crumpled on the ground, crying. For a moment, our eyes made contact, and the agonizing pain I saw in his eyes was something nobody should have to suffer. I looked away. Stunned and fearful, I could hear sirens in the distance, and then I could see the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances. All in a blur of chaos and dread, they found the woman washed up on the other side of the rocks. They carried her pale, lifeless body in a stretcher to the ambulance and drove away. The sky was turning dark with the rapidly approaching night as we waited on the beach for hours. The tour guide and the afflicted woman’s family had gone with the ambulance, leaving us alone on the deserted beach. In our radius of sight, there were no houses, buildings, or any evidence of civilization. Fear and sorrow set-tled on all of us. The shadowy beach had taken on a menacing feeling. The endless hours slowly dragged along. What was going to happen to us? Hungry and tired, sitting on the cold sand, searching for comfort but not finding any, nobody knew. The little girl in our group whispered that she wanted to go home. We all did; we all wanted to go home and forget what was happening, but that was not an option. The little girl looked so forlorn that in a moment of uncharacteristic maturity, I felt the urge to help her and reassure her as much as I could. I shared my bag of peanuts with her and told her that it was going to be okay, but I did not believe my own words. False words and crumbly peanuts were the only bit of comfort I could offer. When the tour guide finally returned, the sky was dark as midnight. We all rushed up to him, both relieved that we weren’t stranded and dreading what he might tell us. When I got closer, I realized from the distress on his face that it was bad. I braced myself for the worst, but when the words came out of his mouth, the truth hit me much harder than I ever could have prepared for. The woman in our Jeep had died. Tears welled up in my eyes, and grief struck my heart. I mourned for her family, how they had been so excited for this once-in-a-lifetime vacation, how just a few hours ago the woman had been sipping coconut juice with her son with a smile on her face. And I realized how much more this had been than just a death. Things are not always as they seem. People say it all the time, but now I think I really understand what it means. Who could have thought that the Baby Beach would claim a life? Who could have known that such a beautiful day could end so tragically? Tragedy can touch anyone. After all, it could have been me who had drowned if the ocean had decided to end me with a single destroying wave. Some-times, although we do not always realize it, we are completely powerless. One mo-ment we might feel in control, and the next, we are at the mercy of nature’s wrath. Yet, in some ways, we are powerful. Tragedy has a strange way of pulling us together, of sparking compassion in our shared grief and rousing gratitude in our shaken lives. Life is fragile. Life is precious. We should appreciate every moment of our lives.

Emily Wang

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John Seider

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The Primitive Knight

As I stand before the castle of sophisticationI overview my rags and clothHaving crawled through the dirtBeaten my way through rubble and rootsThese royals say I am primitiveThese royals think they know meYet after all this time they don’t know one thing about me

Forever looked down onNever equal levelRespect is a simple word to sayBut a difficult action to carry throughThe royals have little to none to giveBut all of it to takeBut for what reason?They’re “pretty”?They’re “smart”?They’re “better”?They’re “sophisticated”?Well I beg to differ

To be pretty is to look goodYet these royals spoil their looks with their actionsTo be smart is to understand all perspectivesBut these royals can only see their ownTo be better is to be above averageBut how can these royals be above average when they never try new things and stay in their little bubble?To be sophisticated is to be aware of and understand complex issuesBut how can these royals do that when they can’t understand the simplest of actions?Like kindnessCivilityOr graciousness?

These royals think they’re better than primitive peopleBut how can one be better When you don’t even know the other person’s potential?

Patrick Dwyer

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Papá’s Girl

“You can’t come with me today,” my father told me as he picked up his work bag. Every Sunday morning he’d come to my room and wake me up with a warm smile. He’d tell me to get dressed and, when I was done, I’d call for him and we’d play until breakfast time. Then we’d go out for the day. But today, my hero and I could not go on adventures. “But, why Papá? I always go with you!” I protested. My father sank down to my eye level and held my small hands. Father’s hands were enormous. They could completely make mine disappear if he just folded them. They were warm. And that’s just how Papá was. Ángel was his name, and he truly was an angel to us. Even when leaving me at home for the day, he was still sweet. “I’m sorry, Rosalia,” he said as he kissed my cheek, “not today”. He got up, patted my head, and went downstairs. I heard the thumping of his big feet on the staircase and the opening and shutting of the front door. I was upset. He said he was going to work today! On a Sunday! What work could he possibly have to do? I thought. Stubborn and mad, I jumped down all the stairs with a loud “THUD”. “Hey, can you keep it down?” My sister Neli poked her head out of her room door. I stuck my tongue out at her. She sighed in annoyance. “Damn eleven-year-old.” I ignored her words. She never understood my connection with Papá. I always knew I was his favorite. As I went to have breakfast, the maid told me I had a playdate. It was just down the street so I could walk. Then I got an idea. I thanked the maid for telling me and rushed out the door. I couldn’t see my dad, but only a few minutes had passed since he had left, so he couldn’t have been too far away. I ran in the direction of the stop for the bus he had to take to work. And then I saw him at the end of the road, at a kiosk. He bought a newspaper, his favorite chocolate, and tipped the owner as he always did. I trailed behind quietly. I didn’t want to reveal the surprise yet. I’d do so at the bus stop so he’d HAVE to take me. I kept following him until he was at least two feet away from the bus stop. Then I went into a sprint to catch up to him and meet him with a hug. But he didn’t stop walking. He took a right, and I was left dumbfounded. Where is Papá going? I wondered. I continued to follow him curiously. We walked for several more blocks until he suddenly stopped in front of a house. I crossed the street to observe from afar. My father opened the gate with a quick click of a key that he took out of his pocket. He stepped into the yard, closed the gate behind him, and rang the doorbell. A woman opened the door and greeted him with a smile and a hug. As the woman hugged him, I saw a kid that looked a year older than me peer out the front house window. She excitedly stepped away from it and seemed to head towards the door. I then saw her with two other kids, hugging my dad. One girl looked younger than me, and one was a toddler boy. I didn’t know any of them. They weren’t family friends or

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familiar faces at the parties my mother held. I didn’t know them at all.But when the woman kissed Papá, I knew why. When the kids clung to him in the way I did, I knew why. And when they all embraced as if my dad was being welcomed home, I knew why. I didn’t want to draw erratic conclusions. I didn’t want to suspect my dad of sins like this one. And I really didn’t want to believe the truth before me. So I ran. I ran through the streets, past the bus stop, past the kiosk, to my house, and into my room, crying. I thought of telling mother, my sister, and my brother that my dad was a traitor. That I had seen the betrayal just from across the street. That my Papá, my Papá, had another family. But then I saw him. I saw him playing with me, listening to my friendship drama, buying me gifts at random, supporting me when I was down, combing my hair with his fingers before I went to bed, never forgetting to ask how my day had been, sneaking me dessert when my mother said I could not have any, and generally being an amazing father. I loved my dad. I loved him so, so, so much that I couldn’t fathom the thought of his having a secret life. A life where he did the same things for his other daughter. But he was my caring Papá. “Rosalia! Dinner’s ready!” the maid called. I walked out of my room to the top of the stairs and peered down at the dinner table. Father was sitting in his usual spot, the head chair. He looked up and smiled at me. He called me down and I sat by his side. I hadn’t wanted to budge. It felt wrong pretending that everything was normal. But, during that dinner, I concluded that I would not say a word. This was dad’s secret and mine, even if he didn’t know it was. I saw him at the end of the table, smiling at me. I saw my sister feeding my baby brother and laughing as Martin giggled and dropped his food. And I saw my mother, graceful and gentle, calmly talking to my father. What we had now was nice. I didn’t want to break it. Even if it meant break-ing myself. That day, I promised myself, my father, and the rest of the family, that I wouldn’t say anything. But... I also vowed to find out who those people were. As soon as I got the opportunity, I would visit the house. I’d sit across the street and wait to maybe catch a glimpse of the woman or the other kids. I saw them once in a while. As silhouettes in the windows, or right in the front yard. I could recognize them now. The kids played outside on the weekends after four. Other than that, I could only see their dark figures through the front windows. But I saw the woman all the time. She loved to garden and was always tending to her flowers. She had red, orange, and yellow tulips planted in the front yard. I couldn’t see them well from the other side of the street, but they looked pretty. I was eleven and didn’t know better. So I crossed the street after checking if the coast was clear and tip-toed up to the house. I peered over the brick half-wall to see what the flowers looked like up close. They were pretty flowers organized by color. Red, orange, yellow; just like the start of the rainbow. “Are you lost?” I froze in shock. The girl that seemed a year older than me was standing across the yard. Her brow furrowed as my father’s did when he was

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concerned. And she had my dad’s brown hair, nose, and even his freckles. As she watched me, I took a sharp breath. “Oh, who’s this, Neli?” Neli? I remember thinking, That’s my sister’s name. The woman stood in the doorway smiling. I could now see her features better. Her eyes were a somber, deep blue. Her mouth held teeth that were slightly cooked, and her lips were painted a bright red. And she had a decently sized and noticeable scar under her chin, close to her throat. I didn’t say anything and ran away from that house as I had the first time. But I couldn’t stop thinking back to the girl’s name. Had my father purposefully named her that? Was it just too hard to give those kids other names? Well, I learned years later that he had named all the other kids after us to avoid confusion. He thought it all out like that, even though I couldn’t have imagined him to be a cruel mastermind. And it was emotionally wrecking for me, because I would return home to my family and we seemed normal. But I sat in my usual place brooding, knowing that nothing was right. I became depressed, angry, and most of all, conflicted. Some days I wanted to get up from the table with a start. My chair would screech back and I would tell my father he was terrible, lying straight to our faces with no shame, and destroying the family and our wellbeing. But he wasn’t. He was only, and not knowingly, hurting me. And if I said anything, my sweet sister, my lovely baby brother, and, most of all, my kindhearted mother would not be able to deal with the truth. The days where I played the fantasy in my head made me feel defeated. The secret was slowly whittling away at me and pushing me to break. I didn’t want to be the hero who kept everyone blissfully unaware. I wanted to be like one of them, living in a dream. Not the one who had nightmares. For years, even after the confrontation, I still visited the house to make sure I was not hurting in vain. I grew up going over and over again but remembering to never cross the street. In my teenage years I tried to dive deeper and hear what they said in their conversations, in hopes of piecing my puzzle. I’d pass by on my way home from school with a hoodie on, or in my car when I got my driver’s license. Over the years I picked up more information. I learned that the ages of the children were only one year apart from those of the children in my family. I learned that my dad had met the woman before I was born. They had met because my dad hit the woman with his car. She had gashed her chin, down to her neck, on the front of his car. When the ambulance arrived, she had no immediate family to contact, so my father had of-fered to go to the hospital with her. They saved her, of course. But, by all means, the woman was still mad at my dad. And he knew it was his responsibility to follow up and make sure that she was fine. So he visited her every day, during lunch while he was at work. He was the only person that would visit her, since her family lived up north. So naturally, they fell in love. All while my mother thought he was simply being the best husband he could be. Blindly unaware, with her new daughter, my sister, in her arms. And to think I was born after this whole affair sickened me. Was I the product of his trying to make both households have the same number of kids? I felt like I had an imposter that was cheating my life. His other daughter with my name. Thus, my adolescence was filled with a mix of hate but sad love for my Papá.

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He was still such a great father and that’s what hurt the most. We’d go out for coffee, he’d buy me clothes, he taught me how to drive, we’d go on small trips to Europe, we’d go to the theater, we still had our Sunday schedules, but modified for my age, and we would just enjoy each other’s company. I never brought up his secret, of course, but he was always there to listen when I had a problem with friends or even the rest of my family. One Sunday, he came to wake me up. He had told me the day before that our plans had to be cancelled because he had a doctor’s appointment. Naturally, I became suspicious. The last time he changed our Sunday plans, I had found out about the lie that now was haunting me. I rarely saw him when I visited the house, but the few times I did made me drive away. I couldn’t see him do it again, walk in there as if he didn’t have me. So I offered to drive him. If he was planning to see them, I was going to make sure he wouldn’t. I’d drive him up to the doctor’s office and make sure he went in. It felt wrong to think of my plan as trapping an animal, but the metaphor wouldn’t be too far off. He surprisingly agreed to let me drive, and then we left. I made sure to pass the house on our way to the doctor’s office. My eyes watched his slide across the face of the house. He grunted as he sat back and told me he hoped his appointment would go well, since he had missed the last two. I wished him luck as we pulled up at the doctor’s door and we said our goodbyes. I stayed in place until I saw him walk in. And when I couldn’t see him through the glass door, I drove off to the house. Just in case, I told myself. When I parked on the other side of the road, I saw no one move in the house. The yard was empty; only the tulips were standing in the sun. Since there was no sign of the other family, I took the day for myself and ran errands. By the time I got home, it had already been an hour since I had dropped my dad off. I opened the door with my signature, “Hey, I’m home!”. But I didn’t get my family’s signature groan of, “Hi, Rosalia”. I heard what I thought was muffled laughing from the living room so, I went in. However, I did not find laughter. My father was sitting in his plush green armchair while my mother stood snif-fling across the room, facing away from him. My sister was on the couch next to him, crouched forward and sobbing. My little brother stood, his tiny hands pressed on one of the arms of my dad’s chair. “What’s going on?” I asked, worried. My mother turned around suddenly. Her red, puffy eyes streaming with tears. She tried to say something but it got caught in her throat. My sister, in pain, blurted out the news. My father had cancer. I stopped visiting the house, and started visiting my dad at his new, and now only, home, the hospital. He was weak and fragile. I would tell him not to move much, because everything he did gave him pain. We couldn’t believe the doctor when he told us the cancer had spread all over already and my father was dying. Like a sand-castle, he would slowly disintegrate with time. Six and a half months was all the time we had before he got washed away.

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I stayed many late nights. I remember my senior year partly as one giant visit to the hospital and the other half, the day he died. My mother had been with him all day and had picked up Martin from school. Neli had gone over with pastries she bought across the street from the hospital. I had stayed after school to hang out with my friends. Just once, I told myself, give yourself a break. But life was never like that for me. As soon as I lay my head down, it was time to wake up. I got a call from my mom as soon as I left the school building. She was pan-icking; I could hear it in her voice. Shaky and desperate. She was feeble when it came to delivering bad news, but religion always helped her get her point across. Thus, when she told me my Papá was growing wings, I understood. And I ran. I ran the way I had all those years ago. I ran through the streets, past the bus stop, past the kiosk, to my house, and into my car. When I had discovered my father’s secret, I had run away from him and his deceit. But now, for the first time, I was run-ning to my true Papá. I didn’t cry driving down the roads. I just sank my nails into the steering wheel as if I had claws. My knuckles white, my mind jittery. I didn’t want my dad to live up to his name before I got there. I couldn’t let him go without telling him I knew. As I passed that damned house, I knew I could not let him leave without telling him what he meant to me, even though what he did was unfair. It was the one time I could tell someone I knew. And he was the only person to tell. So, it was now or never. When I got to the hospital, my car was taken care of by one of the staff that knew me. She gave me a pitying look as I stumbled out of the car clumsily and anx-iously. My father was on the fourth floor, but I could not care less as I ran all the stories up. As soon as I got there, I barged into room 425. My mother, sister, and brother surrounded the bed. They all looked up at me, worried and afraid I wasn’t going to make it. I went up to the bed, out of breath and choking up. My Papá didn’t look like the hero I had known all these years. He had no hair, his freckles looked like dark spots on his paling skin, and his eyes wore dark circles and seemed to sink into his skull. But then he looked up at me and gave me one last, kind smile. Teeth, wrinkles around his eyes, and all. That’s where my Papá had been hiding all along. He dropped the smile slowly, however, and his body relaxed. His eyelids slid down smoothly. And my tears started to fall in a similar way. I cried as if I were a child again. Softly at first, but then the pain in my chest grew too immense. My face was wet, snotty, and warm; and now my Papá was not there to wipe it all away. I choked out sobs and gasped in grief. I had lost him. My daddy was gone. The man that would take me on strolls, try his best to braid my hair, tell me stories when I went to bed, surprise me with sweets when I came back home from school, and stayed by my side. Now he was no more than a sad box of souvenirs. All the memories I had collected were the only things keeping him alive. So I moved closer to my Papá. He lay there as if he were dreaming. Almost as if he had been reading the paper and had fallen asleep. I kissed his forehead. I told him I would miss him and that he had been a good dad. That he had made mistakes, but somehow seemed to make everything ok. And when I squeezed his hand one last

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Sofia Tardif

time, I told him I loved him and that that would never change. As I bid my Papá goodbye before I buried him, I knew I had to leave. I had said what I needed to and I needed to go before changing my mind. So I got up and headed towards the door, daring myself to look back. And, when I got to the door frame, I knew I had to. Then I saw them. All in a line, waiting, across the lobby. The woman’s hair had been dyed a new, artificial copper color, but I knew it was her. Her eyes, tired and droopy, could still send a shiver down my spine as they had years ago. Her eldest daughter held her hand. She looked almost the same as when she had spoken to me in the front yard of her house. She now wore a frown of concern for her mother and not for a “lost” girl. The boy, who was now (I guessed) in school, had his hands buried in his pockets. He looked outside the glass hospital doors, appearing lost in thought. And the other girl, the one with my name, was filling out papers with the most con-centrated face. I wondered what she was signing, but whatever I had guessed could’ve been a correct answer. A court order, a claim to my father’s will, part of his medical bill, etc. I sighed shakily. I knew this was going to get terrible. But, for that first min-ute, I thought I was going to have to deal with what I had dealt with for years on my own again. Then I remembered my family behind me. My mother, sister, and brother. All of them soon to see their replacements. I couldn’t let that happen. After all the heartache I had put myself through, keeping the secret, it was unacceptable for them to learn it. So I turned around and stood directly in the middle of the doorway. And I did the stupidest thing. I held my arms out. Almost as if I had the magic, the strength in my arms, to protect them. But I was weak after crying, after seeing my dad die, and after living through that entire part of my life where I had to hide. I was weak because I had used my strength for the worst and there was nothing I could do about it now. I couldn’t look at the bed where my father lay, because I knew all the love I had felt for him a minute ago would disappear. I’d become the only child that knew of her father’s secret, which would eat her from the inside out again. And I couldn’t let that happen. “Move out of the way,” my sister said through tears as she approached me. I stood still and firm in my last efforts. “Really, I don’t have time for this!” And as she walked past me into the lobby, it all slipped away. White noise filled my ears until I heard the woman’s voice, cold, and meek. “Are you Ángel’s daughter?”

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Steven Orlofsky

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Glass blown by Nina ZachariaPhotograph by Zachary Tesler

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Tea Party

Spider-vein fractures wrap like ivy,‘round each dream clutched so tightly.

Ebon wide-eyed stitched smile,please sit and join us for awhile.

Today’s specials: a boy’s shattered piggy bank of a dream--and a mother’s empty mattress of a scream.

Some symbolical six-pack-bound wings of a dove,cooked without soy, gluten, milk, and love.

Our dessert, “the chef ’s tongue,”succulent stolen, such irony.

Enjoy the ambience my friends,the decrepit rancid smells.

You came here to thrill, to bleed,to suck on our mother’s pap,‘til the death of she.

I promise to fill your cups,to redden your cheeks.After all, life is what you seek.

Geffen Segall

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Flowers

I didn’t want itSo i gave it to youbut ended up withyours

I thought you couldkeep it safe. Justfor me. i guess I’mwrong

Now it's lost i guessyou could say. Butyours is not. I’ll keepit safe

It was never meantto cause trouble. ijust thought you likedi(me)t

I’m sorry that youprobably deservedbetter

I’m just not toosure

i should’ve trusted you

Sarah Jathas

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Sydney Kula

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decomposing

grief is like a venompoison to the touchtendrils of gas move unseenthrough the atmosphereairborne painitpierces my eyessuffocates my throatsears my skinsplinters my bonesrakes its nails against my heartcrushes my lungsrips apart my stomachparalyzes my blood

my body foldsas if it will snapit will crack openand my grief will pour out of methere is not enough room in my bodythere is not enough strength

I have left him behindand he cannot follow

Gaby Dickson

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Red PillsNishna Singh

27 June 2015Roots

You planted trees in my lungs They’ve been growingThey have exceeded my chestAll over my bodyThe flowers are bloomingThe petals falling to my eyelidsStaining my lips with a pretty rose colorThe roots are stretching Down to my fingertips Around my hips

Honey oh honeyIt’s getting so hard to breatheThe trees you’ve plantedOh they’re so beautifulBut they’re killing me.

Lena Proctor

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Steven Orlofsky

Thursday Night ((Haikus))

Why do we still have security guards? Nothingis secure really.

they’ve returned. Again. these dreams of an empty field, and regretful moon.

I float down the aisles;a supermarket at night.Where is the super?

i roll in the sand. mom told me to play with you. i said you looked sad.

Kaleidoscope sight.Rows of meat and people juice.Buying milk is hard.

deep conversation. thinking you’re part of something. but you’re really not.

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NonplussedZachary Tesler

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XV1-800 BurnTell me, please, what to do next.You have two minutes.

XXXLest you forget howit all sang in harmony,I will ebb for you.

XXIIOf capable mind,Of feeble and muddled will,she walks and counts stars.

XXXIToday I, content,brew my coffee and sip it.Another dawn screeches on.

Genna Shuster

XIXSub-surface bruisingThoughtless, fruitless discussionDisgrace, last embrace

XXII drove past your houseagain. Not really sure why. Nothing was different.

XXIIIBirds in trees. Fleetinglooks. Pull the shades. Dim the lights.The charade begins.

Zachary Tesler

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Yarden Wiesenfeld

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Anshi BarmechaEditor-in-Chief~crisp bedsheets and sunny blue skies~

Meet the EditorsWhat’s YOUR ~aesthetic~?

Zachary TeslerEditor-in-Chief~blue cheese and video streaming~

Ava BradlowArt Director~Melodrama and Seinfeld~

Patrick DwyerEvents Editor~perfectly aligned concession stands~

Isaak GreeneEvents editor~jazz hits and pizza socks~

Christian BishopPublicity editor~a shirt with the tag still on~

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Steven OrlofskyProse Editor~small town stranger with a mysterious past~

Megan ReynoldsBusiness Manager~cashmere matte and cat hair~

Sofia TardifPhotography Editor~a clean watercolor kit and overusing the sparkle emoji~

Nina ZachariaPublicity Editor~excess of flannels and chunky earrings~

Jeanne CooperFaculty Advisor~rooibos tea and fresh high-lighters~

Lucas TeslerPoetry Editor~sunset sour pickle funk~

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