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Rhapsody Literary Magazine

Upper Dublin High School 800 Loch Alsh Avenue

Fort Washington, PA 19034

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Growing up, I read a lot. I loved Cam Jansen detective stories and spent long hours poring over non-fiction animal books. I visited the library almost every day, returning home with armfuls of words — some loosely bound, others crammed on dog-eared pages. It continues to amaze me how much talent exists within our school. Reading through the collection of submissions always brings on a wave of nostalgia, like stepping into younger me’s library. After intense review sessions and sleepless nights, this magazine was brought to life with stronger representation and passion in each genre than ever before. Our hearts overflow with gratitude to those who entrusted us with their works of art, and let us marvel at the bits of ink sing on paper. What I’ve absorbed from this experience is unexplainable. It feels unreal to leave, but– alright. I agree that this has been sufficiently sappy. Alas, we present to you this issue of Rhapsody, neither loosely bound nor dog-eared (not yet). We leave you, dear reader, in hopes that you will enjoy each of these carefully selected pieces as much as we do.

with love,

Iris Chan

SENIOR EDITOR

Rhapsody 2013 upper dublin high school | volume xxxviii | est. 1975

editor’s note

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rhapsody 2013.

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Grace McInerney

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editors & STAFF

senior editor junior editor

art & photography editor poetry & prose editor

front cover art back cover design

faculty advisors

general staff

< title page FLOWERS

iris chan emily zauzmer andrea jin amber zhang christina mun iris chan mrs. kaplan mrs. ippolito julie baldassano, mazzy bell, natalie berger, emma cardwell, calvin chan, michael deng, claire fishman, gloria han, emily hershgordon, sam hotchkiss, jason hu, jenny kerrigan, berenice leung, amy li, kayla mullen, elena press, casey reed, hannah rifkin, samantha samuels, emily won, kevin wu, shela wu, jennifer xiao, alan yang, david zeng

christina mun

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Table of Contents

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art & photography

christina mun alyssa adoni larissa leyes julianne lee

kyle rasmussen chrissy bresadola

alyssa adoni valerie wan

sloane o’reilly tovah kaiser

mazzy bell sophie greenbaum

kimia sadeghi julianne lee devon beitel

kelly toner alan yang mazzy bell

kyle rasmussen shela wu

soyoung park grace mcinerney

watercolor on paper colored pencil on paper film photograph pencil on paper mixed media on paper charcoal on paper colored pencil on paper pencil on paper pencil on paper ink on paper digital photograph ink on paper mixed media on paper pencil on paper film photograph film photograph pencil on paper digital collage ink on paper pencil on paper oil on canvas pencil on paper

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The sea reflects the sky That’s why it’s blue. But what if the sky reflected the sea? What if we could see the ocean wherever we were? How lovely that would be. But what if the sky changed as much as the ocean? What if it had waves? What if it wasn’t constant?

Maybe a little constancy is good. Things change, but the sky is always there Keeping the sun safe until it rises in the morning.

Sea and Sky Anonymous

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Soyoung Park

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poetry & prose

the great and terrible unknown fair summer

one blind mouse a faceless book

sometimes egghead’s lament

cupid-bow lips liv and let di

the rinse cycle sleep

her eyes tedium

choose your own haunted house just a passing stranger

heavy weight thanks

monsters sea and sky

elena press iris chan emma cardwell emily zauzmer jenny kerrigan julia hassan christina mun elizabeth christie anonymous aleksandar obradovic blake heckler leah cuker jen xiao bria bowman jenny kerrigan sam hotchkiss sam hartey anonymous

7 8 11 12 15 16 19 20 27 28 31 32 34 39 40 43 47 49

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Alyssa Adoni

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Monsters never sleep. They never eat, they never stop. Monsters never go away. They are always in the corners. Screaming and beating. They find your imperfections And rip them apart. Nothing is safe.

Nothing is sacred. They never stop Until everything is destroyed. They light the fires of hate. They plant the seeds of loneliness. They won’t leave you alone Until everything is in ruins. Or you leave them.

Monsters Sam Hartey

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Shela Wu

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I brought a tomato to lunch. A tomato. Grown in Italy I believe. I brought my tomato to lunch. It was fire-hydrant red and juicy to the touch. I revealed the tomato from my lunch bag.

“Why do you have a tomato?” was asked, as if it wasn’t lunchtime. “So you’re just going to eat the tomato, like that…” Yes, I brought a tomato to lunch. Perhaps it is not typical to eat a tomato whole, but does it really differ so vastly from a cut tomato? Does cutting it somehow make a tomato socially acceptable to eat? Can the brand of weird now be revoked because I have simply scored my tomato? I brought my tomato to lunch. “You know, my mom has a friend who eats a tomato like you do.” Why must they criticize a whole tomato devoured solely by the mouth? I ate my tomato at lunch. The slight shift from a smile to a taut line. The eyes that quiver, certain in their disapproval, but have no means behind the accusation. Maybe that’s why I brought my tomato in. Maybe I brought it in because I wanted to see and feel the hate upon this poor fruit and the consumer of it. To prove that people can only be blinded by something obscure and turn it into disdain. Caught off guard and unsure of what to think at the sight of a simple, uncut tomato.

The Great and Terrible Unknown Elena Press

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fair summer waved hello like a distant grain of sand you’d seen with your eyes pressed under an umbrella of dark lashes. quiet-mannered she blossomed as the tides pulled you in by the collarbones, tempted by her laugh bubbling over

and salt-tinged hair all merry like a lazy afternoon. but she, versed in thieving time, vanished untraced

since fair summer never waves goodbye.

FAIR SUMMER Iris Chan

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Kyle Rasmussen

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stretching his arms. After filling his tank with Regular, Frank sloshed across the lot and to the convenience store itself. Just as he approached, an older man opened the door on his way out. After exiting, he kept his gloved hand on the door, holding it open for Frank. Deep in thought, Frank offered a quick “Thanks” and walked into the familiar smell of the Circle K. After a few paces, however, he stopped. Did I just ignore that old man? I’m no better than Paul! Frank turned around and ran through the door, catching the old man at his car. “Hey, I just wanted to thank you for holding open the door for me!” exclaimed Frank. The man looked back at him, surprised. “Oh! You’re welcome. No need to tell me twice, though.” He opened the car door. “But I didn’t mean it the first time. I just wanted to tell you that I really appreciate it.” “Son, save the gratitude for your girlfriend. If you send everyone who holds your door or tells you the time a thank-you note, you won’t have time to thank the people who really matter.” The old man sat down, closed the door, and drove off. Frank walked back into the Circle K, triggering the usual “ding-dong”. He made his way to the back of the store, threw open the refrigerator, and grasped a quart of eggnog with his rough hands. He made his way to the counter, behind which a middle-aged Asian man stood in uniform. The man mumbled “Hellohowareyoutoday” and scanned the nog and gas receipt. Frank replied with a “good” and his credit card. After a few moments, the cashier put the card and a receipt on the counter. “Thankyouhaveaniceday”, he attempted while sorting the cash register. Looking the cashier in the eyes and smiling, Frank offered, “Thank you. Enjoy your weekend.” He then took his card and walked out. After a moment, the cashier smiled. “You too!” he shouted through the door.

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Larissa Leyes

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Julianne Lee

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“T hanks.” “Oh… uh, no problem, boss,” said an absent-minded Frank. He had just given Paul, his manager, the TPS report he had requested before leaving for work that day.

Thanks for what?, thought Frank. Doing my job? “Alright, see you on Monday,” the manager concluded. He hadn’t looked up from his monitor since the conversation began. “Yeah. See you.” Frank exited the office and walked over to his cubicle to pack up for the day. He didn’t even look at it. God, I hate that guy. Frank donned his leather jacket and walked into the hallway. He boarded the elevator, followed by a brown-haired woman, who wore an unrevealing business suit and a look of professional indifference. The heavy doors slid shut. Frank firmly pressed the button for floor “L” with his sausage-like finger. “Two, please,” demanded the woman, already focused on her cell phone. “Sure thing,” returned Frank with a coldness that sucked any energy from the kind expression. She looked over at him. “Thanks,” she said with apparent sincerity. A smile seemed to corroborate the sentiment. It was only then that Frank noticed the woman was in her early thirties and moderately attractive, with dark brown eyes and thick lips. But those lips all too suddenly relaxed into apathy, and the dark brown eyes were again focused on the handheld screen. With a crisp “ding”, the doors shoved open, and the woman walked off hurriedly. “People these days,” grumbled Frank as he trudged through the slush-covered parking lot. The snow had been lightly falling all day in Kingston, which was normal for November. The chilling winds were not, however, and made Frank regret leaving his gloves and parka at home as he climbed into his car. There’s just no gratitude. A passing “Thanks” is just a formality, an excuse not to care. Frank’s red Prius rolled into the Circle K across from his office. He pulled up next to pump number 5 and emerged from the vehicle, yawning and

Thanks Sam Hotchkiss

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Mazzy Bell

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T he Palmolive potion has turned to a murky brown color like the water in the ocean, weary and stale, that settles around your ankles at low tide when the sea foam is thinning. The broken shards of the sundae glass I should never have dropped plunges

toward the metal bottom of the sink and my hand refuses to settle as my mouth forms shapes but not sounds that bring to attention only the hairs on my arms. My coworker is telling a story about George losing Kramer’s hat and our boss is chuckling and this whole brownnoser thing smells like the sour, fermenting ice cream that he has yet to scour from the split dish. He shoves me with his gaunt elbow, whipping the hand south of it outward and knocking the dishwashing detergents down off the shelves, cracking his vocal chords, yelling, “Classic episode!” over the gushing tap. A Cascade bottle joins my loser at the bottom. I wish less fabric freshener saturated the sleeves of his soft cotton shirt, that his fingers weren’t so long and graceful, that his fresh, intoxicating energy found space only in our boss’s chubby and diseased heart, nowhere else. Then her authoritative air wouldn’t bind itself around my lustful hips in an unyielding knot, her cheeks wouldn’t inflate, her chest wouldn’t heave, and the “did you break that?” wouldn’t defeat me the way it is now that I have let him win. I’ll never be employee of the month, not with him standing over me like Brutus over Caesar. The boss speaks to him like a cat to a mouse. Does he remember when we shared the crumbs off the floor, whispered sweetly in the corners with quiet giggles and warm breath and refused the cheeses she dangled? I wait for a furrowed brow or a sympathetic gasp, but he continues to pace back and forth at her every command. And my hand won’t stop bleeding.

One Blind Mouse Emma Cardwell

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When a real book has faces, the reader cannot like or poke them. When a face owns books, the visage reads them cover to cover. Birds that tweet do so in a way measurable not by number of characters but by the way a sprightly chirp brightens a morning. Behind a screen, we post our personal information and lose our personal touch. Anything ending in .com cannot fully .com-municate. A smiley face emoticon with pursed lips does not say “I love you” like a warm hug. To flick her in person is painful, to Flickr online is remote. An Instagram photo never captures a smile that looks like a smile does right next to you, when you can smell fresh mint on breath and see dimpled crevices in cheeks. We are LinkedIn to a world in which Myspace is Yourspace and yours is mine, but can we ever truly share this world together?

A Faceless Book Emily Zauzmer

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Alan Yang

The ugly traits and cold memories just leave them all to me And if you care, a single pinch, don’t add a single weight to this. If you don’t, I have no blame to share.

Just let me be, don’t pretend to care.

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I’ll take the blame, the heavy weights, my feelings, thoughts and dismays.

My bones are used to carrying such things, they’ve carried them before.

Your empty words can’t hold these pounds; they float like feathers to my feet. So shut your mouth, and let me go, to carrying alone my heavy weight. I am not simple, I never said, for why add to the pile a list of lies?

Just let me lug, alone until it breaks and buries me beneath its weight. Don’t reach to lessen my constant pain if you’re just to set it back again.

Don’t tease my arms and back and legs, they need not to be distracted. If you’re to go, leave right away, my love don’t torture my soul.

If anything inside me breaks,

it is my core and that can hold no weight Just empty, lifeless bitter pain that can only swell,

not go away. And if you could love with a thousand winds, if you could truly care Maybe, maybe I’d be whole again, but we both know you couldn’t dare.

So leave me be to take it all, the heavy weights, atop insecurities

Heavy Weight Jenny Kerrigan

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13 Kyle Rasmussen

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C an I help you? I thought as the young girl’s cold eyes fell on mine. Her clothes were tattered with visible holes. The dirt under her finger nails along with her pale skin and greasy skin showed that she hadn’t

bathed in a while. I quickly looked away. I remember the bags under her almost closed eyes. She was still appealing with a natural beauty. She had three freckles under her right eye and a repetitive, hoarse cough. Every time she coughed I saw her breath in the air. It began to fog the car windows. “Help me. Please, I need money,” she whispered. I heard her trembling voice through the cracked frost-covered window. I was shaking and tense, just me alone in the car. It was dark and cold out. She looked cold; she was shivering. My eyes shifted to my left. I spotted her still standing there helplessly through my peripheral vision. I pretended not to notice her standing there. I pretended to busily move things around in my car preoccupying myself with anything, but it was too late, she knew I had seen her. A few moments later, there were sirens in the background. The girl jumped. She was startled. Was she in trouble? Scared for her, I turned to my wallet to slip some money through the cracked frost-covered car window; I didn’t have much, only ten dollars and eighty-nine cents. I planned to give it to her, all of it. Searching for some more loose change, I turned to give her the money, but she was gone. She was just a passing stranger.

Just A Passing Stranger Bria Bowman

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38 Kelly Toner

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Sometimes I dream about getting wrinkles and having my skin turn pale and gray like the ash on the end of a cigarette. And when I do I think of the ocean, How I’d like to smell salt water, While someone holds my shaking hands. I want them to be gray and weathered too and I want to dance with them to records and reminisce on days when our skin was smooth and our lips were red and our eyes were full of life. Then I want them to tell me that my eyes still are.

Sometimes Jenny Kerrigan

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F looding guilt surged through my veins, setting my scalding blood alight with the thick rust of anguish. The crack, the crunch of the splintering shell hardened in my ears. A thousand microscopic shards lodged beneath the brittle

rubber sole of my sneaker. And I knew. This was no game. This was no lazy Sunday stroll through the park. The cloying, briny blood of mine enemy doused my wretched fingertips in the lifeless fluid of the kill. Because that’s what I’d done. I had killed. That’s what had become of me. A murderer. I stooped low to the pavement, mindless pebbles embedding themselves into the chapped skin of my knees. Feel the raw sting of the wound. Taste it. That’s what you deserve. The brilliant blaze of the tangerine sun glared down upon the mess, the turmoil; withering away at the charred shambles of my flesh. I was nothing more than a hungered, sweltering beast, stewing and brewing in the fever of the dog days. All traces of humanity were ebbing from my restive limbs in painful, plodding strokes. I was nothing. And then, my wary gaze wilted downwards, the unholy pedestal of shame rising as if ascending from the bottomless depths of Dante’s Inferno. Here lay but a humble snail. A daughter—a son, perhaps. Feasibly even the blessed mother of all snails. No longer would her children linger at the doorway for her return. No longer because Mother Snail was no more.

Egghead’s Lament Julia Hassan

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nothing interesting here and you shrug and continue out. It looks like no one’s here. You walk back out, squishing through the mud as you pull out your cell phone to call another one of your friends. “Hey Lacy, have you seen Brittany or Jace?” “Not since school today, why?” she asks. “They asked me to meet them here at this haunted house, but no one’s here,” you shrug. “I thought maybe they went to the mall or something without telling me.”

“Sorry, I haven’t heard from them. Do you want to come over, though? We still have that scrapbooking project from English class to finish,” she sighs. “We might as well knock it out tonight.”

You readily agree and drive over to Lacey’s. You two spend most of the night finishing the project and by the time you’re done, it’s well past midnight, so you end up staying the night. It turns out though, that your house was robbed while you were there, most likely by a notorious man who prefers to murder his victims as well. It was quite fortunate that you chose to go to Lacey’s and that your parents were away for their anniversary trip. Brittany and Jace, it turns out, had meant for you to meet them at the other haunted house on Hawthorne Avenue, not Hanethorne Drive, and forgotten their cell phones. You might’ve lost everything of value tonight, but at least you’ve survived! Option A-A-C You run as fast as you can, and you make it to your car in record time. Thank god for gym class. Wow, that’s probably the only time you’re ever going to say that. You’re still rather shaken up, so you stay and rest a little,

your head against the steering wheel, before driving home. Your parents are out of town this week, and while you’d be tempted to hold a party, you’d rather not deal with the mess that it would inevitably come with. You drive home carefully in the dark before realizing that you’re still too spooked by the spiders to want to stay alone and call up your friend Steve. He’s been having issues with his parents lately and needs a place to stay most nights; you might as well offer him yours.

“Hey, Steve, do you need a place to stay?”

“Yeah, Jordan, how’d you know?” He laughs easily. “Why, you offering up yours?”

“Actually, yeah,” you laugh too. “That haunted house really spooked me.”

Once he comes over, you get out of your car and go in together. Just in time, really, because someone’s trying to sneak in the window directly across from the front door. Everyone seems to realize that they’re not the only ones coming into the house together and everything seems to happen in slow motion. The stranger pulls a gun, you run upstairs with Steve, barricading the door. You know what? Gym class saves lives. You are officially never complaining about gym class again. You pull out your cell phone and call the police, nervously whispering the situation to the lady. By the time the police arrive, it’s too late to catch the guy, but at least you and Steve are both alive.

Brittany and Jace, it turned out, were at the other haunted house, but you have to thank them, you guess, or you might have gotten killed that night.

Nice job! You’ve had an extremely stressful night, but you’re alive!

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the tile falling through the ground into an underwater river. Are those crocodiles!? You reach hopelessly towards the solid ground, but your fingers slide off the mud easily. Those are crocodiles, by the way. You’re dead. Option A-A You head straight into the hallway. The spiders scurry around, and you shudder. “Brittany?” you call with your hands cupped around your mouth so that the spiders won’t somehow get in. “Jace? Are you here?” No one answers. The hallway splits into two sections as a spider falls nearly in front of your face: straight ahead and to your right. What will you do?

A Just keep moving forward. It’s easier to exit this creepy place that way.

B Right is the right decision… Right? C SPIDER! IN! YOUR! FACE?!?!.

Arachnophobia has always been a rather large fear of yours, and this is the last straw. You’re going to make like a banana and split the heck out of here.

Option A-B You go into the room, but it seems like no one’s there. You glance around and your gaze lands on a small jewelry box. Huh. Interesting ornament for a place like this. You open it slowly to find a small, plastic ring. It seems about the right size for your pinky, and you slide it onto your finger. You feel a bit of a prick as it hits the end of your finger but you pay it no mind and keep checking the room. There is nothing else of interest in here and you turn around to head out. The movement makes the room spin… Or is that just your head? There’s

suddenly a rhythmic pounding in your head. Bum-bum-badumdum, bum-bum-badumdum. You try to take another step, but your legs are no more supportive than wet paper-mache and you crumble to your knees. You open your eyes for a last glimpse of life but all you see is swirling colors before everything turns black. You’re dead. Option A-A-A You have to duck beneath a few long hanging webs in order to keep going straight It’s not long before you hear moaning. Ew, are there really people doing… that in a haunted house? This place is actually really gross and you frown at the thought of it. Could it be Brittany and Jace though? You sigh and open the door, expecting to find your friends making out or worse, but instead, a ghastly, rotting mummy leers out over you and laughs. You scream, turning around without a second thought, tearing through the spider webs as you go. You manage to make it out of the house before the mummy does, but as the adrenaline wears off from your run, you feel a sharp prick on your forehead. You slap it, and after checking, you realize it’s a spider. You’re not sure what kind it is, but it’s probably no big deal. As you head towards your car, you slowly realize that your body isn’t working and you’re in a terrible amount of pain and the world is blacking out around you. Well, that mummy approaching isn’t going to help, either. You’re dead. Option A-A-B You head right and end up in the kitchen. A dusty table and several chairs are off to the left, while a stove, sink, and ice box are on the right. There’s

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Choose Your Own Haunted House Jen Xiao

I t’s late evening as you trudge up the hill, the clouds making everything look grim and the recent rain making the ground mushy under

your feet. Quite frankly, you have no idea why you’re here, but here you are, in front of a haunted house. Your friends asked to meet you here, and you have no idea where they are. You did get here five minutes after you said you’d meet them… Maybe they thought you weren’t coming and went in ahead of you? You sigh as you realize that it would totally be a thing they would do. What will you do?

A Go inside. Your friends are probably there and you might as well catch up. It’s not like haunted houses are that bad anyway.

B Stay here and wait. Maybe they’re later than you. You wouldn’t be too surprised by that, either, considering Brittany’s car’s tendency to break down.

C Go home. You didn’t want to be here anyway, and by the looks of it, your friends obviously aren’t here.

Option A You’re here, so you might as well go in. Your sneakers squish with every step you take, pretty much the only sound you hear besides water flowing, likely from some sewers. While there might be animals in the dark trees besides this place, you don’t hear any, and the eerie quiet unsettles you. You have to give

the designers some points for this: they really know how to build a mood. The door creaks when you push it open and it’s rather musty in here, like no one else has visited for a while… But you’re sure your friends are here, so you’ll keep going. This is a pretty big place, though, so you’ll have to make a choice. Where to go?

A Straight forward. It would make sense for your friends to go as deep as possible.

B Into the room on the left. The door’s slightly ajar and the ground looks slightly less dusty there as though someone (your friends, maybe?) has gone in recently.

C Home. It’s too dusty here. You’re starting to doubt they really came here. Maybe they went to the mall instead.

Option B You sigh and stay put. If they aren’t here in a couple minutes, you’ll call and check up on them. But for now, you meander around, looking for a nice spot to sit that isn’t muddy, wet, or crawling with bugs. Oh, there’s a pavilion by those weeping willows. There’s even a rather large, conveniently tiled path towards it. Why couldn’t the owners of this place have added one of these up to their house, too? You head towards it, stepping on a tile that pushes slightly more into the muddy ground than the others, but you ignore it. Bad choice, obviously, considering that the next step you take on this particular tile results in

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i like boys with sad eyes. cupid-bow lips and broken hearts. the slope of their shoulders meeting the curve of shoulder blades. curled fingers around your waist, pulling closer and closer. scruffy shoes, clean hands. remembering all the things you forget and always being the first to ask if you’re okay. easy smiles that soften when meeting your eyes, warm like sheets just out of the dryer. comfort. quiet. no need to fill silence with empty words, because your hearts are too full anyway. never trust a boy with bright eyes. they’ll take your heart and rip it right out of you and swallow you whole and won’t think anything of it. i like boys with sad eyes. sad means they know things. sad means i’ve hurt, been hurt, and promise to never let it happen to you.

cupid-bow lips Christina Mun

his

i like girls with soft hands. cupid-bow lips and gentle eyes. the curve of their necks meeting the top of their spines. long hair that just barely reaches the small of their waist, begging to be held. narrow wrists, big hearts. the first one who knows just what to say and isn’t afraid to say it. open laughter that quiets to whispers meant only for your ears, loving like moonlight through the window. comfort. trust. no need to fill silence with empty words, because just three are needed to be said. never let go of her. she’ll rip out your heart and show you how it bleeds, make you understand all the whys and hows. it’ll hurt, like pain you never thought would touch you. but this pain is different, like heroin for your soul. because the only way to make you sad is to make you love first.

hers

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[Lights up on OLIVIA LEBEN– a short girl, in her early twenties– arranging flowers in a vase on a podium. In contrast to her vibrant hair, she is sporting a black dress, which is fitting given the surroundings– a funeral parlor. The owner, DMITRI DECESSO, a tall, thin man in his 50s, dressed in a black suit, approaches her.]

DECESSO: Olivia? I need to talk to you.

OLIVIA: Yeah, sure. I’m just adding a few extra accents to this arrangement.

DECESSO: I thought we agreed against the Venus flytraps.

OLIVIA: Yeah, well… I was looking for a way to liven this place up a bit.

DECESSO: Liv, that’s actually what I need to talk to you about. As you may recall, on Friday I asked you to fill in for Di.

[OLIVIA nods]

OLIVIA: Uh-huh.

DECESSO: And how do you think it went?

[OLIVIA stops arranging and faces DECESSO]

OLIVIA: Well?

DECESSO: I beg to differ.

OLIVIA: What do you mean–

an excerpt from

Liv and Let Di Elizabeth Christie

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Julianne Lee

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Raindrops begin to fall, distorting my view On my command, the windshield wipers come alive Like twins, parallel and synchronized Eager to fulfill their purpose Whoosh, thump, whoosh, thump and the occasional squeak Engulf my thoughts in gray monotony I wonder what it would feel like, to live and die in such endless tedium Pushing one raindrop aside, only to find two more in its place upon return All efforts thwarted So small, the rain, so seemingly defenseless And yet in number it stands unyielding against the machines we have built to remove it For those windshield wipers can never clear the glass completely New rain appears the second their backs are turned Limited to their set range of motion Still, we urge them to move faster only to be dissatisfied by the streaks they leave behind in their efforts to comply Endlessly, they push back and forth Exerting energy, but never making progress Never stepping closer to success And I wonder if this is us If our problems are all transparent drops, indistinguishable from one another That we push back and forth as someone else, someone wiser, watches on with boredom If that someone is standing by as our efforts are made pointless, senseless, aimless Pitying our inability to break free from our factory settings And shuddering at the thought of having to live and die in such endless tedium.

Tedium Leah Cuker

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DECESSO: Miss Leben, your behavior was unprofessional at best.

OLIVIA: I– uh. Well, I mean I know I’m not the best at the ceremonies; I’m still just a back-up, but I– unprofessional? What did I do?

DECESSO: You answered a phone call in the middle of the eulogy.

[OLIVIA’s eyes widen in panic.]

OLIVIA: It wasn’t even mine! It was Val’s phone!

DECESSO: And why would you have Val’s cell phone?

OLIVIA: She must have accidentally left it in the casket after she did hair and makeup. What did you want me to do, just let it ring? Her ringtone is “Only The Good Die Young”, so if you had rather I let it ring–

DECESSO: Well, between that or the speech you were giving, I would actually have to sit and tally up which is worse.

OLIVIA: I had never done it before with an actual family present! You always give me the loners! I didn’t know what to–

DECESSO: [Reading from a transcription from the eulogy.] “It says here that Paul McKlance’s nickname was Peppy, and though I did not know him, I feel it is safe to renounce the title.”

OLIVIA: Come on you gotta agree that–

DECESSO: “Paul is now lighter than he’s been in 34 years, but that’s probably due to the fact that he was an organ donor.”

OLIVIA: I did what I could with the little information I was given–

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DECESSO: “According to most studies, the number one fear of people in America is public speaking. Number two is death. So supposedly at funerals you’re better off in the casket than doing the eulogy. Peppy here got the easy job.”

OLIVIA: A silver lining is always–

[DECESSO puts the transcription away.]

DECESSO: And what about the first time you filled in?

OLIVIA: I didn’t know what I was doing! No one even showed up!

DECESSO: There was a man sitting in the back row.

OLIVIA: He didn’t even know whose funeral it was. And afterwards, he asked if there would be a matinee. He–

DECESSO: And who was it that gave him the popcorn, Liv?

Sloane O’Reilly

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[began 3.27.12, 6:07pm / finished 2.21.13, 10:33am] Her eyes, a shade I can scarce describe, are diamond blue,

Only a newborn should have eyes that beautiful and new, I’ve been enchanted by those eyes for nearly five years,

Since 7th grade, I’ve wondered what she sees in mirrors, Does she see this immense beauty that I see? Hell, me loving those eyes, is it meant to be?

Those eyes, they could shine like massive stars each night, Those eyes could bring hope to Blacklight, Every time I see them I forget what troubles me, Does the angel with those eyes see what I see? I hope she knows the wonder and grace she shows, That’s something I think only she could know, Close to a year I’ve been trying to put it on paper, After 8 drafts and 7 scrapped, I hope this isn’t my caper, The poem that is my bane, When looking at those eyes my words begin to wane, She’s wondrous and angelic by herself,

But combined with those eyes, her beauty surpasses even an elf,

She isn’t human, no, She’s an angel, in disguise, I know, With those eyes she could make history repeat the battle of Troy, She makes it seem like the world is a toy, Just like the fall of Seelow, Those eyes pierced my heart like an arrow from a bow,

Those eyes shine with a beauty so strong, They could crush all people with a beauty so pure that it’s wrong, I say, she’s more beautiful than any human or elf, How? By just being herself.

Her Eyes Blake Heckler

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30 Kimia Sadeghi

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23

OLIVIA: W– okay, well, that was–

DECESSO: What about the last bank statement that came in? 235 dollars, unaccounted for. I suspect you are responsible?

OLIVIA: Relax, the family covered it. I left the check on your desk.

DECESSO: For what, pray tell.

OLIVIA: [Shrugs.] I hired a ventriloquist for the ceremony.

DECESSO: Olivia, you cannot hire a ventriloquist to deliver a eulogy!

OLIVIA: Why not? He has it on his business cards. He did a great job! It really looked like the dead guy was talking. Which reminds me, I have a ton of ideas for Halloween specials!

DECESSO: Miss Leben, we do not refer to the deceased as ‘the dead guy’. It is highly inappropriate to treat these events as a celebratory matter.

OLIVIA: Wait so we can cater funerals, but we can’t provide entertainment?

DECESSO: It’s a viewing! Not a nine-year-old’s birthday party!

OLIVIA: Sir, can you tell me who in this world actually wants to spend a day sad and crying?

DECESSO: People who have lost someone they care about.

OLIVIA: True, but chances are they’ve already cried enough between the time of death and the day of the funeral. Chances are, after you lose someone you love, you’ll shut yourself off to the good. You’ll turn a blind eye to it. But if you open them up to it while they are still hurting, it will make healing so much easier.

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24

DECESSO: Death is no laughing matter, Olivia. More likely than not, you’ve probably emotionally scarred that family.

OLIVIA: I don’t think so, sir.

[DECESSO is taken back]

You weren’t there. The smiles on the family’s faces were glowing. They were still sad, yes, but also uplifted. Laughing, together as a family, reminded them more of the man they lost than any amount of emotional depressing obituary can bring.

DECESSO: I don’t care. Death is to be respected.

OLIVIA: Respected, yes, but sad? Does it all have to be so heart-wrenching and destructive? Death isn’t about dying, Mr. Decesso, it’s about reminding others how to live.

***

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29

Sophie Greenbaum

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28

I rose from sleep this morning, bleary, to face a bright new dawn It is a good day, I thought, cheery, and will far too soon be gone

For at start of night I will be weary, with light of day withdrawn.

And as every night I will lie down, quite peacefully, to die For some new man to saunter around beneath the next day’s sky

Treading upon familiar ground, with my memories to apply.

Chances missed and choices made dance fleetingly beyond control Connections made and disarrayed, without a concrete conscious goal

As piece by piece the parts degrade, that when together form a whole My helpless self to then pervade, creating what I’ll call a soul.

The self is gone, the pattern changed, beyond all hope of saving torn

The atoms, they are rearranged; from fatal slumber life is born To go to sleep and be exchanged, dead where no one seeks to mourn.

Sleep Aleksandar Obradovic

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25

Tovah Kaiser

26

26

Mazzy Bell

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27

Visions of Daddy in the huckleberry summer Stain my t-shirt with traces of tobacco and hard candy Kisses on my tummy and scrapes on my knees, Counting ten fingers, counting ten toes, And other things the rinse cycle cannot claim. Gram tells me I have his eyes, So warm and brown the angels could eat them up, Like raisins or maybe chocolate chips. One by one past their blessed lips And other things that make up the stuff of heaven. Mama hides his face, Forbidden from frames; raisin, maybe chocolate chip eyes Glazed over with dust, glazed over with time. I see visions of huckleberry summer and Mama forgets, And other things we do not talk about at the dinner table. I can use the washing machine, Two parts detergent and forty-five minutes, spinning and suds. I am a regular lady with my Clorox bleach, taking up chocolate and huckleberry juice, But Daddy is a special sort of stain, his kisses, my fingers and toes, And other things the rinse cycle cannot claim.

The Rinse Cycle Anonymous

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26

Mazzy Bell

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27

Visions of Daddy in the huckleberry summer Stain my t-shirt with traces of tobacco and hard candy Kisses on my tummy and scrapes on my knees, Counting ten fingers, counting ten toes, And other things the rinse cycle cannot claim. Gram tells me I have his eyes, So warm and brown the angels could eat them up, Like raisins or maybe chocolate chips. One by one past their blessed lips And other things that make up the stuff of heaven. Mama hides his face, Forbidden from frames; raisin, maybe chocolate chip eyes Glazed over with dust, glazed over with time. I see visions of huckleberry summer and Mama forgets, And other things we do not talk about at the dinner table. I can use the washing machine, Two parts detergent and forty-five minutes, spinning and suds. I am a regular lady with my Clorox bleach, taking up chocolate and huckleberry juice, But Daddy is a special sort of stain, his kisses, my fingers and toes, And other things the rinse cycle cannot claim.

The Rinse Cycle Anonymous

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28

I rose from sleep this morning, bleary, to face a bright new dawn It is a good day, I thought, cheery, and will far too soon be gone

For at start of night I will be weary, with light of day withdrawn.

And as every night I will lie down, quite peacefully, to die For some new man to saunter around beneath the next day’s sky

Treading upon familiar ground, with my memories to apply.

Chances missed and choices made dance fleetingly beyond control Connections made and disarrayed, without a concrete conscious goal

As piece by piece the parts degrade, that when together form a whole My helpless self to then pervade, creating what I’ll call a soul.

The self is gone, the pattern changed, beyond all hope of saving torn

The atoms, they are rearranged; from fatal slumber life is born To go to sleep and be exchanged, dead where no one seeks to mourn.

Sleep Aleksandar Obradovic

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25

Tovah Kaiser

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24

DECESSO: Death is no laughing matter, Olivia. More likely than not, you’ve probably emotionally scarred that family.

OLIVIA: I don’t think so, sir.

[DECESSO is taken back]

You weren’t there. The smiles on the family’s faces were glowing. They were still sad, yes, but also uplifted. Laughing, together as a family, reminded them more of the man they lost than any amount of emotional depressing obituary can bring.

DECESSO: I don’t care. Death is to be respected.

OLIVIA: Respected, yes, but sad? Does it all have to be so heart-wrenching and destructive? Death isn’t about dying, Mr. Decesso, it’s about reminding others how to live.

***

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29

Sophie Greenbaum

30

30 Kimia Sadeghi

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23

OLIVIA: W– okay, well, that was–

DECESSO: What about the last bank statement that came in? 235 dollars, unaccounted for. I suspect you are responsible?

OLIVIA: Relax, the family covered it. I left the check on your desk.

DECESSO: For what, pray tell.

OLIVIA: [Shrugs.] I hired a ventriloquist for the ceremony.

DECESSO: Olivia, you cannot hire a ventriloquist to deliver a eulogy!

OLIVIA: Why not? He has it on his business cards. He did a great job! It really looked like the dead guy was talking. Which reminds me, I have a ton of ideas for Halloween specials!

DECESSO: Miss Leben, we do not refer to the deceased as ‘the dead guy’. It is highly inappropriate to treat these events as a celebratory matter.

OLIVIA: Wait so we can cater funerals, but we can’t provide entertainment?

DECESSO: It’s a viewing! Not a nine-year-old’s birthday party!

OLIVIA: Sir, can you tell me who in this world actually wants to spend a day sad and crying?

DECESSO: People who have lost someone they care about.

OLIVIA: True, but chances are they’ve already cried enough between the time of death and the day of the funeral. Chances are, after you lose someone you love, you’ll shut yourself off to the good. You’ll turn a blind eye to it. But if you open them up to it while they are still hurting, it will make healing so much easier.

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22

DECESSO: “According to most studies, the number one fear of people in America is public speaking. Number two is death. So supposedly at funerals you’re better off in the casket than doing the eulogy. Peppy here got the easy job.”

OLIVIA: A silver lining is always–

[DECESSO puts the transcription away.]

DECESSO: And what about the first time you filled in?

OLIVIA: I didn’t know what I was doing! No one even showed up!

DECESSO: There was a man sitting in the back row.

OLIVIA: He didn’t even know whose funeral it was. And afterwards, he asked if there would be a matinee. He–

DECESSO: And who was it that gave him the popcorn, Liv?

Sloane O’Reilly

31

31

[began 3.27.12, 6:07pm / finished 2.21.13, 10:33am] Her eyes, a shade I can scarce describe, are diamond blue,

Only a newborn should have eyes that beautiful and new, I’ve been enchanted by those eyes for nearly five years,

Since 7th grade, I’ve wondered what she sees in mirrors, Does she see this immense beauty that I see? Hell, me loving those eyes, is it meant to be?

Those eyes, they could shine like massive stars each night, Those eyes could bring hope to Blacklight, Every time I see them I forget what troubles me, Does the angel with those eyes see what I see? I hope she knows the wonder and grace she shows, That’s something I think only she could know, Close to a year I’ve been trying to put it on paper, After 8 drafts and 7 scrapped, I hope this isn’t my caper, The poem that is my bane, When looking at those eyes my words begin to wane, She’s wondrous and angelic by herself,

But combined with those eyes, her beauty surpasses even an elf,

She isn’t human, no, She’s an angel, in disguise, I know, With those eyes she could make history repeat the battle of Troy, She makes it seem like the world is a toy, Just like the fall of Seelow, Those eyes pierced my heart like an arrow from a bow,

Those eyes shine with a beauty so strong, They could crush all people with a beauty so pure that it’s wrong, I say, she’s more beautiful than any human or elf, How? By just being herself.

Her Eyes Blake Heckler

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32

Raindrops begin to fall, distorting my view On my command, the windshield wipers come alive Like twins, parallel and synchronized Eager to fulfill their purpose Whoosh, thump, whoosh, thump and the occasional squeak Engulf my thoughts in gray monotony I wonder what it would feel like, to live and die in such endless tedium Pushing one raindrop aside, only to find two more in its place upon return All efforts thwarted So small, the rain, so seemingly defenseless And yet in number it stands unyielding against the machines we have built to remove it For those windshield wipers can never clear the glass completely New rain appears the second their backs are turned Limited to their set range of motion Still, we urge them to move faster only to be dissatisfied by the streaks they leave behind in their efforts to comply Endlessly, they push back and forth Exerting energy, but never making progress Never stepping closer to success And I wonder if this is us If our problems are all transparent drops, indistinguishable from one another That we push back and forth as someone else, someone wiser, watches on with boredom If that someone is standing by as our efforts are made pointless, senseless, aimless Pitying our inability to break free from our factory settings And shuddering at the thought of having to live and die in such endless tedium.

Tedium Leah Cuker

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21

DECESSO: Miss Leben, your behavior was unprofessional at best.

OLIVIA: I– uh. Well, I mean I know I’m not the best at the ceremonies; I’m still just a back-up, but I– unprofessional? What did I do?

DECESSO: You answered a phone call in the middle of the eulogy.

[OLIVIA’s eyes widen in panic.]

OLIVIA: It wasn’t even mine! It was Val’s phone!

DECESSO: And why would you have Val’s cell phone?

OLIVIA: She must have accidentally left it in the casket after she did hair and makeup. What did you want me to do, just let it ring? Her ringtone is “Only The Good Die Young”, so if you had rather I let it ring–

DECESSO: Well, between that or the speech you were giving, I would actually have to sit and tally up which is worse.

OLIVIA: I had never done it before with an actual family present! You always give me the loners! I didn’t know what to–

DECESSO: [Reading from a transcription from the eulogy.] “It says here that Paul McKlance’s nickname was Peppy, and though I did not know him, I feel it is safe to renounce the title.”

OLIVIA: Come on you gotta agree that–

DECESSO: “Paul is now lighter than he’s been in 34 years, but that’s probably due to the fact that he was an organ donor.”

OLIVIA: I did what I could with the little information I was given–

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20

[Lights up on OLIVIA LEBEN– a short girl, in her early twenties– arranging flowers in a vase on a podium. In contrast to her vibrant hair, she is sporting a black dress, which is fitting given the surroundings– a funeral parlor. The owner, DMITRI DECESSO, a tall, thin man in his 50s, dressed in a black suit, approaches her.]

DECESSO: Olivia? I need to talk to you.

OLIVIA: Yeah, sure. I’m just adding a few extra accents to this arrangement.

DECESSO: I thought we agreed against the Venus flytraps.

OLIVIA: Yeah, well… I was looking for a way to liven this place up a bit.

DECESSO: Liv, that’s actually what I need to talk to you about. As you may recall, on Friday I asked you to fill in for Di.

[OLIVIA nods]

OLIVIA: Uh-huh.

DECESSO: And how do you think it went?

[OLIVIA stops arranging and faces DECESSO]

OLIVIA: Well?

DECESSO: I beg to differ.

OLIVIA: What do you mean–

an excerpt from

Liv and Let Di Elizabeth Christie

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Julianne Lee

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Choose Your Own Haunted House Jen Xiao

I t’s late evening as you trudge up the hill, the clouds making everything look grim and the recent rain making the ground mushy under

your feet. Quite frankly, you have no idea why you’re here, but here you are, in front of a haunted house. Your friends asked to meet you here, and you have no idea where they are. You did get here five minutes after you said you’d meet them… Maybe they thought you weren’t coming and went in ahead of you? You sigh as you realize that it would totally be a thing they would do. What will you do?

A Go inside. Your friends are probably there and you might as well catch up. It’s not like haunted houses are that bad anyway.

B Stay here and wait. Maybe they’re later than you. You wouldn’t be too surprised by that, either, considering Brittany’s car’s tendency to break down.

C Go home. You didn’t want to be here anyway, and by the looks of it, your friends obviously aren’t here.

Option A You’re here, so you might as well go in. Your sneakers squish with every step you take, pretty much the only sound you hear besides water flowing, likely from some sewers. While there might be animals in the dark trees besides this place, you don’t hear any, and the eerie quiet unsettles you. You have to give

the designers some points for this: they really know how to build a mood. The door creaks when you push it open and it’s rather musty in here, like no one else has visited for a while… But you’re sure your friends are here, so you’ll keep going. This is a pretty big place, though, so you’ll have to make a choice. Where to go?

A Straight forward. It would make sense for your friends to go as deep as possible.

B Into the room on the left. The door’s slightly ajar and the ground looks slightly less dusty there as though someone (your friends, maybe?) has gone in recently.

C Home. It’s too dusty here. You’re starting to doubt they really came here. Maybe they went to the mall instead.

Option B You sigh and stay put. If they aren’t here in a couple minutes, you’ll call and check up on them. But for now, you meander around, looking for a nice spot to sit that isn’t muddy, wet, or crawling with bugs. Oh, there’s a pavilion by those weeping willows. There’s even a rather large, conveniently tiled path towards it. Why couldn’t the owners of this place have added one of these up to their house, too? You head towards it, stepping on a tile that pushes slightly more into the muddy ground than the others, but you ignore it. Bad choice, obviously, considering that the next step you take on this particular tile results in

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i like boys with sad eyes. cupid-bow lips and broken hearts. the slope of their shoulders meeting the curve of shoulder blades. curled fingers around your waist, pulling closer and closer. scruffy shoes, clean hands. remembering all the things you forget and always being the first to ask if you’re okay. easy smiles that soften when meeting your eyes, warm like sheets just out of the dryer. comfort. quiet. no need to fill silence with empty words, because your hearts are too full anyway. never trust a boy with bright eyes. they’ll take your heart and rip it right out of you and swallow you whole and won’t think anything of it. i like boys with sad eyes. sad means they know things. sad means i’ve hurt, been hurt, and promise to never let it happen to you.

cupid-bow lips Christina Mun

his

i like girls with soft hands. cupid-bow lips and gentle eyes. the curve of their necks meeting the top of their spines. long hair that just barely reaches the small of their waist, begging to be held. narrow wrists, big hearts. the first one who knows just what to say and isn’t afraid to say it. open laughter that quiets to whispers meant only for your ears, loving like moonlight through the window. comfort. trust. no need to fill silence with empty words, because just three are needed to be said. never let go of her. she’ll rip out your heart and show you how it bleeds, make you understand all the whys and hows. it’ll hurt, like pain you never thought would touch you. but this pain is different, like heroin for your soul. because the only way to make you sad is to make you love first.

hers

18

18 Valerie Wan

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35

the tile falling through the ground into an underwater river. Are those crocodiles!? You reach hopelessly towards the solid ground, but your fingers slide off the mud easily. Those are crocodiles, by the way. You’re dead. Option A-A You head straight into the hallway. The spiders scurry around, and you shudder. “Brittany?” you call with your hands cupped around your mouth so that the spiders won’t somehow get in. “Jace? Are you here?” No one answers. The hallway splits into two sections as a spider falls nearly in front of your face: straight ahead and to your right. What will you do?

A Just keep moving forward. It’s easier to exit this creepy place that way.

B Right is the right decision… Right? C SPIDER! IN! YOUR! FACE?!?!.

Arachnophobia has always been a rather large fear of yours, and this is the last straw. You’re going to make like a banana and split the heck out of here.

Option A-B You go into the room, but it seems like no one’s there. You glance around and your gaze lands on a small jewelry box. Huh. Interesting ornament for a place like this. You open it slowly to find a small, plastic ring. It seems about the right size for your pinky, and you slide it onto your finger. You feel a bit of a prick as it hits the end of your finger but you pay it no mind and keep checking the room. There is nothing else of interest in here and you turn around to head out. The movement makes the room spin… Or is that just your head? There’s

suddenly a rhythmic pounding in your head. Bum-bum-badumdum, bum-bum-badumdum. You try to take another step, but your legs are no more supportive than wet paper-mache and you crumble to your knees. You open your eyes for a last glimpse of life but all you see is swirling colors before everything turns black. You’re dead. Option A-A-A You have to duck beneath a few long hanging webs in order to keep going straight It’s not long before you hear moaning. Ew, are there really people doing… that in a haunted house? This place is actually really gross and you frown at the thought of it. Could it be Brittany and Jace though? You sigh and open the door, expecting to find your friends making out or worse, but instead, a ghastly, rotting mummy leers out over you and laughs. You scream, turning around without a second thought, tearing through the spider webs as you go. You manage to make it out of the house before the mummy does, but as the adrenaline wears off from your run, you feel a sharp prick on your forehead. You slap it, and after checking, you realize it’s a spider. You’re not sure what kind it is, but it’s probably no big deal. As you head towards your car, you slowly realize that your body isn’t working and you’re in a terrible amount of pain and the world is blacking out around you. Well, that mummy approaching isn’t going to help, either. You’re dead. Option A-A-B You head right and end up in the kitchen. A dusty table and several chairs are off to the left, while a stove, sink, and ice box are on the right. There’s

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36

nothing interesting here and you shrug and continue out. It looks like no one’s here. You walk back out, squishing through the mud as you pull out your cell phone to call another one of your friends. “Hey Lacy, have you seen Brittany or Jace?” “Not since school today, why?” she asks. “They asked me to meet them here at this haunted house, but no one’s here,” you shrug. “I thought maybe they went to the mall or something without telling me.”

“Sorry, I haven’t heard from them. Do you want to come over, though? We still have that scrapbooking project from English class to finish,” she sighs. “We might as well knock it out tonight.”

You readily agree and drive over to Lacey’s. You two spend most of the night finishing the project and by the time you’re done, it’s well past midnight, so you end up staying the night. It turns out though, that your house was robbed while you were there, most likely by a notorious man who prefers to murder his victims as well. It was quite fortunate that you chose to go to Lacey’s and that your parents were away for their anniversary trip. Brittany and Jace, it turns out, had meant for you to meet them at the other haunted house on Hawthorne Avenue, not Hanethorne Drive, and forgotten their cell phones. You might’ve lost everything of value tonight, but at least you’ve survived! Option A-A-C You run as fast as you can, and you make it to your car in record time. Thank god for gym class. Wow, that’s probably the only time you’re ever going to say that. You’re still rather shaken up, so you stay and rest a little,

your head against the steering wheel, before driving home. Your parents are out of town this week, and while you’d be tempted to hold a party, you’d rather not deal with the mess that it would inevitably come with. You drive home carefully in the dark before realizing that you’re still too spooked by the spiders to want to stay alone and call up your friend Steve. He’s been having issues with his parents lately and needs a place to stay most nights; you might as well offer him yours.

“Hey, Steve, do you need a place to stay?”

“Yeah, Jordan, how’d you know?” He laughs easily. “Why, you offering up yours?”

“Actually, yeah,” you laugh too. “That haunted house really spooked me.”

Once he comes over, you get out of your car and go in together. Just in time, really, because someone’s trying to sneak in the window directly across from the front door. Everyone seems to realize that they’re not the only ones coming into the house together and everything seems to happen in slow motion. The stranger pulls a gun, you run upstairs with Steve, barricading the door. You know what? Gym class saves lives. You are officially never complaining about gym class again. You pull out your cell phone and call the police, nervously whispering the situation to the lady. By the time the police arrive, it’s too late to catch the guy, but at least you and Steve are both alive.

Brittany and Jace, it turned out, were at the other haunted house, but you have to thank them, you guess, or you might have gotten killed that night.

Nice job! You’ve had an extremely stressful night, but you’re alive!

17

17 Alyssa Adoni

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16

F looding guilt surged through my veins, setting my scalding blood alight with the thick rust of anguish. The crack, the crunch of the splintering shell hardened in my ears. A thousand microscopic shards lodged beneath the brittle

rubber sole of my sneaker. And I knew. This was no game. This was no lazy Sunday stroll through the park. The cloying, briny blood of mine enemy doused my wretched fingertips in the lifeless fluid of the kill. Because that’s what I’d done. I had killed. That’s what had become of me. A murderer. I stooped low to the pavement, mindless pebbles embedding themselves into the chapped skin of my knees. Feel the raw sting of the wound. Taste it. That’s what you deserve. The brilliant blaze of the tangerine sun glared down upon the mess, the turmoil; withering away at the charred shambles of my flesh. I was nothing more than a hungered, sweltering beast, stewing and brewing in the fever of the dog days. All traces of humanity were ebbing from my restive limbs in painful, plodding strokes. I was nothing. And then, my wary gaze wilted downwards, the unholy pedestal of shame rising as if ascending from the bottomless depths of Dante’s Inferno. Here lay but a humble snail. A daughter—a son, perhaps. Feasibly even the blessed mother of all snails. No longer would her children linger at the doorway for her return. No longer because Mother Snail was no more.

Egghead’s Lament Julia Hassan

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37 Devon Beitel

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38 Kelly Toner

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15

Sometimes I dream about getting wrinkles and having my skin turn pale and gray like the ash on the end of a cigarette. And when I do I think of the ocean, How I’d like to smell salt water, While someone holds my shaking hands. I want them to be gray and weathered too and I want to dance with them to records and reminisce on days when our skin was smooth and our lips were red and our eyes were full of life. Then I want them to tell me that my eyes still are.

Sometimes Jenny Kerrigan

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14 Chrissy Bresadola 39

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C an I help you? I thought as the young girl’s cold eyes fell on mine. Her clothes were tattered with visible holes. The dirt under her finger nails along with her pale skin and greasy skin showed that she hadn’t

bathed in a while. I quickly looked away. I remember the bags under her almost closed eyes. She was still appealing with a natural beauty. She had three freckles under her right eye and a repetitive, hoarse cough. Every time she coughed I saw her breath in the air. It began to fog the car windows. “Help me. Please, I need money,” she whispered. I heard her trembling voice through the cracked frost-covered window. I was shaking and tense, just me alone in the car. It was dark and cold out. She looked cold; she was shivering. My eyes shifted to my left. I spotted her still standing there helplessly through my peripheral vision. I pretended not to notice her standing there. I pretended to busily move things around in my car preoccupying myself with anything, but it was too late, she knew I had seen her. A few moments later, there were sirens in the background. The girl jumped. She was startled. Was she in trouble? Scared for her, I turned to my wallet to slip some money through the cracked frost-covered car window; I didn’t have much, only ten dollars and eighty-nine cents. I planned to give it to her, all of it. Searching for some more loose change, I turned to give her the money, but she was gone. She was just a passing stranger.

Just A Passing Stranger Bria Bowman

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40

I’ll take the blame, the heavy weights, my feelings, thoughts and dismays.

My bones are used to carrying such things, they’ve carried them before.

Your empty words can’t hold these pounds; they float like feathers to my feet. So shut your mouth, and let me go, to carrying alone my heavy weight. I am not simple, I never said, for why add to the pile a list of lies?

Just let me lug, alone until it breaks and buries me beneath its weight. Don’t reach to lessen my constant pain if you’re just to set it back again.

Don’t tease my arms and back and legs, they need not to be distracted. If you’re to go, leave right away, my love don’t torture my soul.

If anything inside me breaks,

it is my core and that can hold no weight Just empty, lifeless bitter pain that can only swell,

not go away. And if you could love with a thousand winds, if you could truly care Maybe, maybe I’d be whole again, but we both know you couldn’t dare.

So leave me be to take it all, the heavy weights, atop insecurities

Heavy Weight Jenny Kerrigan

13

13 Kyle Rasmussen

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When a real book has faces, the reader cannot like or poke them. When a face owns books, the visage reads them cover to cover. Birds that tweet do so in a way measurable not by number of characters but by the way a sprightly chirp brightens a morning. Behind a screen, we post our personal information and lose our personal touch. Anything ending in .com cannot fully .com-municate. A smiley face emoticon with pursed lips does not say “I love you” like a warm hug. To flick her in person is painful, to Flickr online is remote. An Instagram photo never captures a smile that looks like a smile does right next to you, when you can smell fresh mint on breath and see dimpled crevices in cheeks. We are LinkedIn to a world in which Myspace is Yourspace and yours is mine, but can we ever truly share this world together?

A Faceless Book Emily Zauzmer

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Alan Yang

The ugly traits and cold memories just leave them all to me And if you care, a single pinch, don’t add a single weight to this. If you don’t, I have no blame to share.

Just let me be, don’t pretend to care.

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Mazzy Bell

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T he Palmolive potion has turned to a murky brown color like the water in the ocean, weary and stale, that settles around your ankles at low tide when the sea foam is thinning. The broken shards of the sundae glass I should never have dropped plunges

toward the metal bottom of the sink and my hand refuses to settle as my mouth forms shapes but not sounds that bring to attention only the hairs on my arms. My coworker is telling a story about George losing Kramer’s hat and our boss is chuckling and this whole brownnoser thing smells like the sour, fermenting ice cream that he has yet to scour from the split dish. He shoves me with his gaunt elbow, whipping the hand south of it outward and knocking the dishwashing detergents down off the shelves, cracking his vocal chords, yelling, “Classic episode!” over the gushing tap. A Cascade bottle joins my loser at the bottom. I wish less fabric freshener saturated the sleeves of his soft cotton shirt, that his fingers weren’t so long and graceful, that his fresh, intoxicating energy found space only in our boss’s chubby and diseased heart, nowhere else. Then her authoritative air wouldn’t bind itself around my lustful hips in an unyielding knot, her cheeks wouldn’t inflate, her chest wouldn’t heave, and the “did you break that?” wouldn’t defeat me the way it is now that I have let him win. I’ll never be employee of the month, not with him standing over me like Brutus over Caesar. The boss speaks to him like a cat to a mouse. Does he remember when we shared the crumbs off the floor, whispered sweetly in the corners with quiet giggles and warm breath and refused the cheeses she dangled? I wait for a furrowed brow or a sympathetic gasp, but he continues to pace back and forth at her every command. And my hand won’t stop bleeding.

One Blind Mouse Emma Cardwell

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Julianne Lee

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“T hanks.” “Oh… uh, no problem, boss,” said an absent-minded Frank. He had just given Paul, his manager, the TPS report he had requested before leaving for work that day.

Thanks for what?, thought Frank. Doing my job? “Alright, see you on Monday,” the manager concluded. He hadn’t looked up from his monitor since the conversation began. “Yeah. See you.” Frank exited the office and walked over to his cubicle to pack up for the day. He didn’t even look at it. God, I hate that guy. Frank donned his leather jacket and walked into the hallway. He boarded the elevator, followed by a brown-haired woman, who wore an unrevealing business suit and a look of professional indifference. The heavy doors slid shut. Frank firmly pressed the button for floor “L” with his sausage-like finger. “Two, please,” demanded the woman, already focused on her cell phone. “Sure thing,” returned Frank with a coldness that sucked any energy from the kind expression. She looked over at him. “Thanks,” she said with apparent sincerity. A smile seemed to corroborate the sentiment. It was only then that Frank noticed the woman was in her early thirties and moderately attractive, with dark brown eyes and thick lips. But those lips all too suddenly relaxed into apathy, and the dark brown eyes were again focused on the handheld screen. With a crisp “ding”, the doors shoved open, and the woman walked off hurriedly. “People these days,” grumbled Frank as he trudged through the slush-covered parking lot. The snow had been lightly falling all day in Kingston, which was normal for November. The chilling winds were not, however, and made Frank regret leaving his gloves and parka at home as he climbed into his car. There’s just no gratitude. A passing “Thanks” is just a formality, an excuse not to care. Frank’s red Prius rolled into the Circle K across from his office. He pulled up next to pump number 5 and emerged from the vehicle, yawning and

Thanks Sam Hotchkiss

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stretching his arms. After filling his tank with Regular, Frank sloshed across the lot and to the convenience store itself. Just as he approached, an older man opened the door on his way out. After exiting, he kept his gloved hand on the door, holding it open for Frank. Deep in thought, Frank offered a quick “Thanks” and walked into the familiar smell of the Circle K. After a few paces, however, he stopped. Did I just ignore that old man? I’m no better than Paul! Frank turned around and ran through the door, catching the old man at his car. “Hey, I just wanted to thank you for holding open the door for me!” exclaimed Frank. The man looked back at him, surprised. “Oh! You’re welcome. No need to tell me twice, though.” He opened the car door. “But I didn’t mean it the first time. I just wanted to tell you that I really appreciate it.” “Son, save the gratitude for your girlfriend. If you send everyone who holds your door or tells you the time a thank-you note, you won’t have time to thank the people who really matter.” The old man sat down, closed the door, and drove off. Frank walked back into the Circle K, triggering the usual “ding-dong”. He made his way to the back of the store, threw open the refrigerator, and grasped a quart of eggnog with his rough hands. He made his way to the counter, behind which a middle-aged Asian man stood in uniform. The man mumbled “Hellohowareyoutoday” and scanned the nog and gas receipt. Frank replied with a “good” and his credit card. After a few moments, the cashier put the card and a receipt on the counter. “Thankyouhaveaniceday”, he attempted while sorting the cash register. Looking the cashier in the eyes and smiling, Frank offered, “Thank you. Enjoy your weekend.” He then took his card and walked out. After a moment, the cashier smiled. “You too!” he shouted through the door.

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Larissa Leyes

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fair summer waved hello like a distant grain of sand you’d seen with your eyes pressed under an umbrella of dark lashes. quiet-mannered she blossomed as the tides pulled you in by the collarbones, tempted by her laugh bubbling over

and salt-tinged hair all merry like a lazy afternoon. but she, versed in thieving time, vanished untraced

since fair summer never waves goodbye.

FAIR SUMMER Iris Chan

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Kyle Rasmussen

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Shela Wu

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I brought a tomato to lunch. A tomato. Grown in Italy I believe. I brought my tomato to lunch. It was fire-hydrant red and juicy to the touch. I revealed the tomato from my lunch bag.

“Why do you have a tomato?” was asked, as if it wasn’t lunchtime. “So you’re just going to eat the tomato, like that…” Yes, I brought a tomato to lunch. Perhaps it is not typical to eat a tomato whole, but does it really differ so vastly from a cut tomato? Does cutting it somehow make a tomato socially acceptable to eat? Can the brand of weird now be revoked because I have simply scored my tomato? I brought my tomato to lunch. “You know, my mom has a friend who eats a tomato like you do.” Why must they criticize a whole tomato devoured solely by the mouth? I ate my tomato at lunch. The slight shift from a smile to a taut line. The eyes that quiver, certain in their disapproval, but have no means behind the accusation. Maybe that’s why I brought my tomato in. Maybe I brought it in because I wanted to see and feel the hate upon this poor fruit and the consumer of it. To prove that people can only be blinded by something obscure and turn it into disdain. Caught off guard and unsure of what to think at the sight of a simple, uncut tomato.

The Great and Terrible Unknown Elena Press

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Alyssa Adoni

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Monsters never sleep. They never eat, they never stop. Monsters never go away. They are always in the corners. Screaming and beating. They find your imperfections And rip them apart. Nothing is safe.

Nothing is sacred. They never stop Until everything is destroyed. They light the fires of hate. They plant the seeds of loneliness. They won’t leave you alone Until everything is in ruins. Or you leave them.

Monsters Sam Hartey

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Soyoung Park

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poetry & prose

the great and terrible unknown fair summer

one blind mouse a faceless book

sometimes egghead’s lament

cupid-bow lips liv and let di

the rinse cycle sleep

her eyes tedium

choose your own haunted house just a passing stranger

heavy weight thanks

monsters sea and sky

elena press iris chan emma cardwell emily zauzmer jenny kerrigan julia hassan christina mun elizabeth christie anonymous aleksandar obradovic blake heckler leah cuker jen xiao bria bowman jenny kerrigan sam hotchkiss sam hartey anonymous

7 8 11 12 15 16 19 20 27 28 31 32 34 39 40 43 47 49

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Table of Contents

1 6 9 10 13 14 17 18 22 25 26 29 30 33 37 38 41 42 45 46 48 50

art & photography

christina mun alyssa adoni larissa leyes julianne lee

kyle rasmussen chrissy bresadola

alyssa adoni valerie wan

sloane o’reilly tovah kaiser

mazzy bell sophie greenbaum

kimia sadeghi julianne lee devon beitel

kelly toner alan yang mazzy bell

kyle rasmussen shela wu

soyoung park grace mcinerney

watercolor on paper colored pencil on paper film photograph pencil on paper mixed media on paper charcoal on paper colored pencil on paper pencil on paper pencil on paper ink on paper digital photograph ink on paper mixed media on paper pencil on paper film photograph film photograph pencil on paper digital collage ink on paper pencil on paper oil on canvas pencil on paper

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The sea reflects the sky That’s why it’s blue. But what if the sky reflected the sea? What if we could see the ocean wherever we were? How lovely that would be. But what if the sky changed as much as the ocean? What if it had waves? What if it wasn’t constant?

Maybe a little constancy is good. Things change, but the sky is always there Keeping the sun safe until it rises in the morning.

Sea and Sky Anonymous

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Grace McInerney

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editors & STAFF

senior editor junior editor

art & photography editor poetry & prose editor

front cover art back cover design

faculty advisors

general staff

< title page FLOWERS

iris chan emily zauzmer andrea jin amber zhang christina mun iris chan mrs. kaplan mrs. ippolito julie baldassano, mazzy bell, natalie berger, emma cardwell, calvin chan, michael deng, claire fishman, gloria han, emily hershgordon, sam hotchkiss, jason hu, jenny kerrigan, berenice leung, amy li, kayla mullen, elena press, casey reed, hannah rifkin, samantha samuels, emily won, kevin wu, shela wu, jennifer xiao, alan yang, david zeng

christina mun

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Growing up, I read a lot. I loved Cam Jansen detective stories and spent long hours poring over non-fiction animal books. I visited the library almost every day, returning home with armfuls of words — some loosely bound, others crammed on dog-eared pages. It continues to amaze me how much talent exists within our school. Reading through the collection of submissions always brings on a wave of nostalgia, like stepping into younger me’s library. After intense review sessions and sleepless nights, this magazine was brought to life with stronger representation and passion in each genre than ever before. Our hearts overflow with gratitude to those who entrusted us with their works of art, and let us marvel at the bits of ink sing on paper. What I’ve absorbed from this experience is unexplainable. It feels unreal to leave, but– alright. I agree that this has been sufficiently sappy. Alas, we present to you this issue of Rhapsody, neither loosely bound nor dog-eared (not yet). We leave you, dear reader, in hopes that you will enjoy each of these carefully selected pieces as much as we do.

with love,

Iris Chan

SENIOR EDITOR

Rhapsody 2013 upper dublin high school | volume xxxviii | est. 1975

editor’s note

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rhapsody 2013.

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Rhapsody Literary Magazine

Upper Dublin High School 800 Loch Alsh Avenue

Fort Washington, PA 19034