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Solstice The Arts Magazine of

Smithtown High School East

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Volume 14

2020

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Editors

Megan Sigismonti

Alexis Yang

Adviser

Mrs. Kliphuis

Smithtown High School East

Saint James, NY

Principal

Dr. Kevin Simmons

Contents

———

Willow Pomisel — art 1 Luke Hampson — poetry 2 Angelina Quinn — art 3 Megan Sigismonti — poetry 4 Chadwick B. — poetry 5 Arianna Felber — art 6 Melissa Kiesel — fiction 7 Melissa Kiesel — poetry 9 Kyle Popko — art 10 John Oliveri — art 11 Gianna DiGiacomo — art 12 Alexis Yang — fiction 13 Emily Penna — art 18 Abigail Reavis — art 19 Marissa Formosa — art 20 Margaret G. — fiction 21 Emily Penna — art 25 Payton Zografakis — fiction 26 Vivianne Lee — art 32 Lindsey Douglas — art 33 Megan Sigismonti — poetry 34

Kayleigh Burtless — art 35 Demitra Inglezakis — poetry 36 Hannah Denenberg — art 37 Keegan Fleming — art 38 Megan Sigismonti — fiction 39 Jaquelyn Gorman — art 43 Amna Hashmi — poetry 44 Amna Hashmi — poetry 45 Amna Hashmi — poetry 46

Solstice Literary Magazine | vol. 14

1

Stones

Willow Pomisel

Solstice Literary Magazine | vol. 14 2

Shattered

Luke Hampson

Your warmth melted my soul

Thawed love

And mended a shattered heart

A touch, a smile

Tender words

Held together a shattered heart

A life strolled by

And the hearth of passion burned on

Melting a shattered heart

But time betrays love

And winter rolled in

Freezing a shattered heart

The winds blew cold

The frigid air

Shook a shattered heart

Alone, the fire faded

snuffed out by time

Until nothing remained

Of a shattered heart


3

Angelina Quinn

Media: Graphite


Fall

Megan Sigismonti

Life is but a Leaf,

It grows, It changes,

It dies…

One must adapt:

Cherish the Leaves,

Rake the Leaves,

Destroy the Leaves.

Acceptance is key,

For while some will pass,

Others will stay—

Stay the same,

It’s almost worst,

No growth, no change.

Without the expectation

Of death

What is there to live?

One must go through life,

Knowing there is an end,

To grow and change.

For to live the greatest,

Everyone needs a Fall—

a Fall to Fall to live.


5

Chadwick B.

Underlying Truth,

Your endeavors will not bruise,

Life’s only a ruse,

Understand yourself,

Pain is only temporary,

Don’t lose the oni,

Live upon the ash,

Your words are everlasting,

Fast the anchor casts


Arianna Felber

Media: Mixed media


7

Dear Cathy

Melissa Kiesel

To Miss Catherine Browning, America

London, England; April 14th, 18 —

I write to communicate the powers of your absence. Sorrows I feel to which I am bound

by ball and chain, which, still blacker in disposition, entreat that you confirm the bloom

of your health and immutable ties to the enterprise of our friendship.

The Continent you occupy, and as you walk its darkening slopes, must suffer the

winds of distance. Are they familiar? Does the nocturnal chill, with its biting arrows and

cruel, infernal claws, which ever presents itself to your mind as having an immeasurable

agony, also devote itself to your destruction? Once I enjoyed the divinities of a breeze

which passed, I believed, through the open windows of the study, and liked the light

pressure on my skin: watched the gale knocking against the frames; listened to the little

bugs clinging to fragrance and fire; but perceived you at the point where the breeze

crossed the candlelight. Cerulean pupils scarcely filled up the eyes which I previously

conjectured to be yours, and a heavy countenance accompanied them behind a dying

flame. Cathy, you whom I had abandoned, who had abandoned me, swayed before me!

An assent to your presence seemed then to me impossible; I uttered no sweet air or words

of affection in greeting. Silence! Oh, thou didst afflict me then, cursed condition — and

the bugs and the breeze endeavored silence.

Presently were my spirits broken: I, perceiving with displeasure the agitation of my

limbs, wept your name; I felt a slight chill; I afforded to the gods that welfare of the fiend

from whom you would withdraw your society, and wept for your continuance. Ah! I try

in vain to deny that my first words of clarity were spoken in sorrow and in bitterness.

“Hast thou remembered me? Nay, this wickeder era of negligence I prefer,” said

I, my mind restored. “Absent in the heart of your oldest friend is her affection for you,

Catherine! I shall not consent to a conversation with thee.”

Whether you would leave or advance towards the desk which I occupied was not

known. Soon, Cathy, the breeze which played on our cheeks became sinister: it blasted


the study; fair hair whipped a little about your face, and appeared to me in tendrils; and

the exchange of our words was muted. I requested that you turn your back to me, and

depart.

“Not so,” was the passionate reply; “I shall stay till you've forgiven me, and

neither cruel tongue nor violent wind nor evil accusation shall shut me out!”

“Was marriage not your favorite plan? Did you not intend to seduce an American

thrice your age with your romantic notions of emigration, Cathy? and supplied the duties

of a friend elsewhere? I shall not consent. Fly from this residency to your American lover,

and nevermore bother me! A servant will return your coat once you are out of doors. I —

Cathy, the cold can kill.”

“It already has,” you said.

It was during not but noon, but winter, that the breeze broke and collapsed into

cessation; the candlelight was snuffed; you faded like smoke. I cannot describe the terror!

— I felt my pulse; it was quick — the memory of a thin, trembling hand caressed my

cheek; it burned with ice. My memory, which will pacify your abhorrence of me, should

join you in the Continent; I am suffering the presence of a specter or fever. Still I see your

face in the perpetual shadows and cold. No more shall I admire another breeze; the winds

of distance need benefit my oldest friend in the least.

Write soon, Cathy. Write to me for a final time. Without the assurance of your

welfare, warmth is impossible.

Your esteemed friend,

Mary Morgan


9

Survival

Melissa Kiesel

Beyond these dainty, dusty lips, slips bliss,

affection lighting the devils of glee.

His soul soars. For little portions of this —

he sips with little lips: red, rough, and free.

The nectar tempers his throat, thus received

from the pool molding thousands of dreams.

Desire, survival, treasures oft ill-grieved,

enlightens the drink he steals from God’s stream.

Darkened gold he drains. What drips from his palm

is Heaven, duration keeping him calm.


Knives

Kyle Popko


11

John Oliveri

Media: Graphite


Gianna DiGiacomo

Media: Fabric Paint


13

Agatha

Alexis Yang

Agatha had begun to feel like she wasn’t real. As an actress, she had spent her life

portraying characters who didn’t exist in shows that were only made up. When her theater

company decided to cast her as a minor role for the umpteenth time ever since she turned forty,

she had begun to think that maybe she wasn’t real either.

It was the fourth night of performing their new play. She and the other actors had held

hands and bowed before a clapping audience; Agatha had spoken a few meager lines, shrouded

in shadow while a younger woman performed in the spotlight. The actors were going out for

dinner again, and Agatha dreaded that she would contemplate her face in the mirror above the

wine rack just she always did, wondering how time had caught up with her.

Agatha wrapped her wool coat around herself and shivered as she walked with the other

actors to the restaurant. It was February, and the New York City air was biting as ever. It was the

fiftieth February of Agatha’s life. Her birthday had passed a few days prior, and suddenly it

seemed that life was slipping away from her.

“You were wonderful,” Nate said. Agatha looked up as if he was speaking to her, but the

young actor was only complimenting Ella, the lead role in their play. In fact, he hadn’t noticed

Agatha at all.

Agatha sighed and bit her lip, gazing out at the busy street. New York was hopping

despite the cold, with young people rushing about to see this movie or that. Agatha recalled

reciting her short lines that night while boiling up inside, wishing she was young again.

Years ago, she had been the lead of nearly every play. She could act extraordinarily; she

worked well with the directors; she was pretty. It seemed to Agatha that she was always running

in those days—running from role to role, from one opportunity to the next. Running to escape

the fear that someday, she might lose it all.

The others found a small Italian restaurant. Agatha went along, feeling like a shriveled

appendage, an unwanted part. The restaurant was full of brick and candlelight and the aroma of

olive oil and tomatoes. She chose a seat blindly, and it wasn’t until everyone was studying the

menu that she realized she’d picked the chair right by the door, where she could feel the frigid

draft.


First was bread, then soup, and then pasta and fish. Everyone else was growing a little

drunk on the red wine, but Agatha didn’t touch hers. “What do you think, Agatha?” Jonas, the

set designer, asked her at one point, and she only blinked, lost in the conversation.

“I think the problem with your script,” Nate said, pointing a fork at Patricia, “is that

there’s no reason to become emotionally attached to the main character. She’s one-dimensional.

She doesn’t have any real connections with any other characters. Just kind of floats around, you

know, carried along with the action. But she doesn’t take any action herself.”

“That’s the point,” Patricia argued, but Agatha had stopped listening. Agatha always felt

like this—alone even in a group, isolated even as someone spoke to her. She always felt like

people were acting around her, pretending to care what she thought, putting on a show to make

her feel included. It had been so long since a man had asked her out on a date. The last one to do

so was David, a dark-haired filmmaker, who one day just stopped answering her phone calls.

Acting made her feel wanted. Under the spotlight, it didn’t matter that she would go

home to an empty apartment or that she hadn’t had a proper outing with friends in a long time.

When she acted, there was nothing but the light and the crowd and the story, the invented tale

that was poignant and realistic and, if Agatha really tried, she could believe was the truth.

But acting wasn’t enough anymore. In the most recent play, she portrayed a character

who had a loving husband, friends and family who cared. Agatha knew that she needed a real

connection. She felt her fingers curl over her kneecaps beneath the table. Could it be possible

that she truly believed those stories? Was it possible that all her worth was held in those plays,

leaving nothing for reality?

She couldn’t breathe. The waiter arrived with the dessert menu, but the thought of sugar

made her feel sick. She got the sense that her life had merely been set up. It was only a series of

plays, and even though she loved those shows with all her heart, they took her over. There was

nothing but the stories. Beneath them all was a hollow shell.

“If you all will excuse me, I’m going outside for some air,” Jonas announced suddenly,

standing and placing his napkin onto the table. Agatha glanced up at him and then found herself

standing too, excusing herself and following him out the door.

Outside, the bitterly cold air hit her like a slap. “Sorry,” she apologized to Jonas, and he

squinted at her as he rummaged in his pockets for a cigarette.

“What for?” he asked, lighting it. “No harm if you’d like some fresh air too.”


15

She watched him smoke and decided that she wanted a cigarette too. “Did you really

come out here for the fresh air?”

“Oh, hell no. I couldn’t stand Nate’s complaining anymore. I mean, he was tearing apart

Patricia’s play. Can you imagine how she feels?”

“Mm,” Agatha replied, because she hadn’t been listening to Nate at all.

“Want one?” Jonas asked, holding his cigarette box out to Agatha. She accepted, glad she

didn’t have to ask him. She often worried that others would judge her, even for a benign question

like, “May I please I have a cigarette?”

He shook one out of the box and lit it for her. “Thanks,” she mumbled around the

tobacco and smoke. Jonas leant against the brick wall of the restaurant, watching the cars pass.

“I’m making another model,” he said. Agatha was used to small talk like this; she didn’t

know anyone in the theater company terribly well, not enough for any meaningful conversation.

“I’ll show it to you sometime,” Jonas suggested. “I think it’s a little too dense. Not enough air.

The set needs to breathe, you know?”

“Yes,” Agatha replied, feeling like she couldn’t breathe at all right now, like she had been

gasping for breath ever since she turned forty and was living off the remaining oxygen she had

left. She began to swallow back her fears, but there was Jonas standing there right next to her, a

young man with hopes and dreams. Maybe, just maybe, he would understand. “I’m afraid of

losing this,” she admitted.

Jonas’ forehead wrinkled. “Losing what?” he asked.

“Acting. My role in the theater company. Everything.”

“You won’t lose all that, Agatha,” Jonas replied politely.

“This is my everything. I don’t have anything else.” Agatha watched the cars pass, trying

to memorize the order of their colors for no reason other than to do something, to have some

kind of purpose in this moment, in every moment. Acting had been enough for a long time, but

now she needed more. Not just stories, but something real. “I always wanted to write a play,” she

admitted. “It was my dream, next to acting. I wanted to write it and maybe direct it. I have a few

incomplete manuscripts, but I haven’t touched them for ages, and it just never… I suppose it

never came about.”

“So, why don’t you try it again?”

“I’m afraid people won’t like it,” Agatha replied instantly, like a reflex.


Jonas studied her face. “What do you mean, people won’t like it? Of course they will. And

if they don’t, you try harder.”

“I’m too old.”

Jacob shook his head and laughed a little, flicking ash onto the ground. “I’m sorry,

Agatha, but nothing you’re saying makes any sense. You’re too old? What does that have to do

with anything? It’s never too late to start.”

“I’m useless,” Agatha said. Words began to pour out of her mouth like an unstoppable

flood. “I’m not wanted anywhere. So what if I have some fragments of manuscripts lying around?

Nobody would want to read them. Jonas, you don’t understand. Nobody has asked me to go out

for dinner in a long, long time, not alone. This evening, I’m just an extra addition. I—”

“No, no, no,” Jonas interrupted. “Agatha, you are the most brilliant actress I’ve ever met.

And I’m not just saying that to be nice.”

“You don’t understand. There is nothing inside me but the plays, all right? Nothing.”

Agatha saw Jonas’ surprise, and she brought her hand to her face. “I don’t have anybody.”

Jonas was uncomfortable now, unsure what to say. He was the best set designer that

Agatha had ever known. She knew without a doubt that he saw his future as a bright one. A

talented young man like him could achieve whatever he wished. She doubted that he imagined a

future like Agatha’s: bitter and biting like New York in February.

“I’m sorry if I shocked you,” she apologized quickly.

“No, no,” Jonas said, but she could tell that he was thinking. “Everyone deserves

somebody.”

“I wasn’t only talking about a husband,” she clarified. “I meant a friend.”

He looked at her for a long time. He’d stopped smoking his cigarette; it rested between

his fingers and glowed. “You don’t have a single friend?”

“No, I do. I suppose I do. I keep in touch with a few people, and occasionally we’ll have

lunch, but I don’t have anybody to really speak with.”

Jonas remained silent for a long while. Agatha was ready to apologize again when he said,

“Let’s produce your play.”

“Excuse me?”

“Finish up that manuscript of yours. I’ll design the set. You can be the lead role, or you

can direct, or whatever you want.”


17

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Agatha laughed. She opened her mouth and released a bright, full laugh into the icy air.

In that moment, she wanted everybody to hear that laugh—Jonas and everyone in the cars and

on the street. “Thank you,” she said.

“Sure,” he answered, taking a drag from his cigarette again. She smiled at him and he

smiled back.


Flower Petals

Emily Penna


19

Abigail Reavis

Media: Digital art


Beads & Bands

Marissa Formosa


21

The Hard Part

Margaret G.

Late summer nights roasting marshmallows by the firepit with my best friends have

always made me feel like I was in a coming-of-age movie. Heat from the fire burned even with a

two-foot stick and a marshmallow between us. It was the perfect summer night. The sky was

completely clear but we still weren’t able to see any stars. A blackout tonight would’ve been

perfect, I thought to myself. We were almost done with our summer, almost back to school books

and migraines, you know, the important stuff. None of that mattered yet. For the moment we

could just be here in this moment, ignoring the realities of the impending school year and

pretending that our summer could last forever.

“Anyone want an ice cream sandwich?” Mike asked, standing alongside the pool only to

be cut short by Jason ramming into his side, pushing him into the cold water. A roar of laughter

exploded, probably waking up the entire neighborhood. “You’re dead,” Mike growled playfully

as he splashed his way out of the pool. He began chasing Jason around the lawn, slipping and

sliding against the already damp grass.

“Those two are never going to get sick of each other, are they?” Vicky asked me quietly

as she watched her boyfriend, Mikey, race around her backyard in a hopeless attempt to catch

his abnormally fast best friend.

“No, I don’t think so. You know how they are. But don’t worry, I’m sure Mike will at

least let you be one of his groomsmen at their wedding.” She laughed quietly. Vicky and I have

known each other for the better part of ten years. Half of that time was spent hating each other,

and the other part was spent being absolute best friends, almost inseparable. Vicky is the type of

person most people are immediately drawn to. Everyone wants to be her friend. Whenever

you’re with her she makes you feel important. The past few months have been a rough time for

us, but rough patches happen. We’ll get better, I thought to myself. “I think it’s sweet how

they’re so close,” I uttered in an attempt to lighten the already tense mood. “Everyone needs a

best friend, you know?” I tried to catch her eye, remind her that she’s my best friend. She

nodded shyly. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong.

Jason and Mike made peace, finally, and were making their way over to us with that

mischievous look in their eyes they wear oh so often. Jason swiftly lifted me from my seat, Mike


did the same with Vicky and they were running with us in their arms over to the pool while we

kicked and laughed and screamed. These were my people, I thought to myself. July was getting

all of this on video and laughing hysterically, and all I could think of was how I would be able to

remember this forever.

Vicky’s parents came outside as Vicky and I were searching for dry towels and decided

that waking up the neighbors a second night this week was not an option, so we were exiled to

her bedroom. We all made our way upstairs in somewhat of a hurry. Some of us sat on her bed

while others gathered on the floor. For about an hour we sat there in her room talking and

gossiping.

During our first intermission, after several dark secrets were spilled and many tears were

shed, Vicky stood up and went to the bathroom. Once she was gone and everyone else seemed

mostly preoccupied, July motioned me closer to her.

“Meg, there is something you need to know.” Her eyes had gone wild with what I

believed to be either worry or fear, quite possibly both. She was whispering in my ear, leaning

across the bed and several of our friends, not very inconspicuous. I didn’t take it seriously. She

always tried to scare me like this, and in the end it usually turned out to be a joke.

“Yeah, sure, what’s up?” I said, entertaining this.

July leaned closer, “Vicky outed you.” The words hung in the air.

At first I laughed, giggled. It was a joke, I thought to myself. That kind of thing only

happens in movies and TV shows to further a boring plot, not in real life, it’d be too terrible.

After everything, all of the late nights I talked her to sleep when the alternative was her death,

standing up to her attacker, all of the times I stood up for my friend—my best friend—I couldn’t

believe she would betray me like that. My laughs stifled when the look in July’s eyes did not

change, her somber expression now transforming into pity.

Staring at the wall above Mikey’s head seemed like the only appropriate response at the

time, the only thing I could really bring myself to do. I couldn’t cry, not here, because then

everyone would know and I couldn’t bear for that to happen. Laughing no longer seemed

possible. My sense of humor was lost. Screaming would do no more than wake up her parents

and annoy everyone. There was nothing left for me to do but wait to face her.

“Hey guys, I’m back,” Vic chirped, seeming to be in a better mood than before. “What’s

the matter, Meggie?”


23

“Don’t call me that.” Now there was nothing but anger. A deep black pit of fury had

filled my stomach and was consuming my entire body. She didn’t know that I knew. She had no

idea that she had been found out. I finally understood how little she cared for me. After all the

late-night cries about her parents, about mine, midnight walks to Mike’s house talking about how

hard it is to feel alone, waking up at 5 AM to watch Titanic for probably the hundredth time

with our chocolate icicles, I never thought she’d jeopardize our friendship. None of that mattered

to her like it mattered to me.

I turned back to July with tears in my eyes, suddenly very thankful that the lights were off,

and asked her with a shaky voice, “How long ago?”

“About a month.” My heart dropped. July reached over and wiped a tear from my

cheek. “What do you need?” she asked me tenderly. There was nothing she could do. I didn’t

know what to tell her. Everything seemed to be going at a hundred miles per hour and all I

wanted was to slow down.

“Vic,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear. Now I wanted to make a scene.

“Yeah?” She said it so innocently. The anger had turned from black to a fiery red,

making my head boil.

“You outed me.” The whole room went silent, all eyes were darting between the two of

us, wondering whether I would scream or cry first. “How could you?” I said in a sort of scream-

cry as my hand started to shake.

“I—” she began and then took a long pause to compose herself. “It wasn’t that big of a

deal, Meg.” Tears were streaming down my face, leaving trails of mascara running down my

cheeks.

“I was there for you!” I cried. I didn’t care who heard or if I woke her parents or even the

entire street. “I was there for you when no one else was, when you felt your most alone, it was me

that brought you out of that pit. It was always me.” I took a minute to stop myself from

completely breaking down. “We’re done.”

I ran down the stairs, unlocked the front door, and ran outside. July chased after me and

got there just in time to see me fall on the ground with my head in my hands.

“This can never happen again,” I said more to myself than to her. I lifted my head just to

see if I could. “I can’t keep doing this, giving her everything and her hurting me. I don’t deserve

this,” now I was sobbing into July’s shoulder. Too many times I have let others hurt me like this,


I have given too many chances just for them to let me down once again. Now I had to do what

was right for me. I owed that to myself.

“This is never going to happen again.” And that was a promise I intended to keep.


25

Emily Penna

Media: Colored pencils


In His Eyes

Payton Zografakis

The waves crashed violently, without remorse, onto the footsteps left within the blackened

sand. Children were all gathered outside, having fun, while I sat, perched, on the swing of my

doorstep. If it was any normal day, I would’ve been with them. However, it wasn’t. And I got

some pretty major news dropped on me; not the good news that you’re getting a new toy or

we’re going away. No, the bad news. Well for me, at least.

In his eyes, I saw joy and fear. But no way that I was going to feel that same joy. Not a

chance.

You’re definitely clueless right now because you need backstory, so I should probably

start at the beginning.

Three, long years ago…

——

I was brought to him on a cold, windy day. The kind of day that you would love to take

your T.V. remote and click on that skip button until sunshine comes. But let’s not be silly.

Anyways, I shyly stutter-stepped until I reached a grand, blue house and was welcomed by a

man. The man, who I would come to know as Jonathan, was way taller than me and it hurt my

neck to look up at him. Jonathan had a smile that lit up his entire face and eyes as blue as the

ocean that viewed his lovely house. In his eyes, I saw youth and opportunity. As I began climbing

the stairs, he greeted me with the kind of personality that makes you feel funny about not being

as outgoing.

“Hey buddy, I’m Jonathan,” he spoke, excitedly with a voice that must’ve rose seven

octaves, “welcome to your new home.” It was obvious that he was nervous, but so was I.

In the next year, we bonded so immensely that it would’ve been crazy to think that day

ever happened—crazy to think that we weren’t always a part of each other’s lives. Jonathan was

my favorite person and I was his. We’d, what’s the word, binge? Well, late at night, when the

moonlight illuminated the entire beach, we would walk down and Jon would carry his laptop and

I would carry a blanket with my mouth. We would shake the blanket out and then smooth it

down like icing on a cake between ridges in the sand. Then, we would watch what Jon described

as the “funniest show to air.” It was The Office and I wanted to disagree, but the man was


27

wheezing at every Dwight part. I still don’t get it. We would take long walks and have races

towards the end, which I would always win. And some days, he would be gone the whole day at

work, and in his eyes, I could see how much he hated it.

I had gotten so used to it just being me and him. Just us pals. Just us men. But one day, he

did his laundry and dressed in something other than gym shorts and a stained t-shirt. I mean, he

was wearing khakis and a polo. He looked like Jake from State Farm and I wanted to tell him,

but it was kind of funny. The only part that wasn’t funny was the amount of cologne he sprayed.

Stupid Axe. As well as how long he was gone for. Around the fourth hour, I got really mad and I

peed on the floor. Yes, I did feel instant regret, but I couldn’t clean it up.

When he got back, his smile stretched to his ears and that’s putting it lightly. My pee

didn’t even bother him. I tried to find his eyes and in his eyes, I saw something I had never seen

before. I guess you could say it was love, but that couldn’t be it. It had to be friendship, right?

Well, wrong.

He would go out, dressed like Jake, almost every weekend and come back with that same

goofy look. And when I nudged him to go to the beach because it was beautiful out, we ended up

watching The Notebook and he bawled like a baby. I mean, I would be lying if it didn’t make me

question if someone was cutting onions, but we don’t talk about that. And to top it off, whenever

his friend, Chris, would come over, he would repeatedly say:

“Dude, you’re whipped!” All I wanted to scream was what the heck and why the heck.

But in Jon’s nonchalant way, he would just respond with a shrug, followed by that smile.

This weird, newly emotional, whipping thing went on for months, until this bright, red

Jeep pulled into our driveway. While I had hoped it was the pizza guy, since I knew whatever Jon

was trying to cook was going to come out funky, this lady came out. I tried to convince myself

that delivery people are trying to step their style up, but she was wearing a bright yellow dress

and shoes that were taller than me.

“Okay, you gotta be good tonight,” Jon asserted, “don’t think I didn’t notice the times

you peed!” I looked down at the floor and plopped. “You’re meeting someone really important

to me,” he said and his voice rose seven octaves. Frick, he’s nervous. This is definitely not a

delivery person.

We both peeked through the window as she walked up to the door and when she rang the

bell, Jonathan jumped up like she was some celebrity.


“Hi Miriam,” he spoke softly, “welcome to the bachelor pad.” I saw her smirk and in his

eyes, I saw the same look that I brushed off before. This was going to be a long and cringey

night.

“Really, a bachelor’s pad, hmm maybe I should rethink this,” she giggled. I rolled my

eyes and prayed that they would stop with all this uncomfortable, prolonged eye contact. And my

prayers were answered when the smell of burning pasta weaved its way throughout the house.

“Oh shoot,” Jon screamed as he ran to the pot and brushed away the steam. But Miriam

just laughed again. From the kitchen, he shouted, “and that little rascal is Scott.” Oh no, here

comes.

She dropped to the ground and gave me this weird baby voice. Me no likey. “Hey

sweetie, who’s so cute?” Miriam managed to get out, while trying to pick me up. Her smile was

beginning to look like his, so I did the only rational thing I could think of, I bit her. “Ouch!” she

stammered and Jon rushed over and scolded me.

The rest of the night, I stayed in my bed, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t hear them. I

mean, sure she’s pretty and nice, but I’m cute, she even said so, and I’m a delight. There was no

competition and that mentality stayed with me, until he grabbed his computer and gave her a

blanket to carry. I ran to the door to block it, but I was too slow. Sure, I was a little jealous, but

more importantly, where’s the supervision? He shouldn’t be whipped!

When they came back, they said goodbye and got real close for the longest minute. I’m

disturbed, especially when I heard through the thin wall…

“I love you, Miriam,” Jon announced. Don’t say it back, lady. Don’t do it.

“I love you too,” Miriam responded. As if my night couldn’t have gotten worse. I knew it

was time to turn away when they started getting close again.

After a couple minutes, the Jeep sped away and Jon came back in, starstruck. I couldn’t

even look at his eyes.

“Scott?” Jon called, “you okay buddy?” I’m just peachy! But, instead of answering back, I

just stayed in my bed and pretended to sleep. And he even had the nerve to give me a goodnight

kiss on the head. I know where those lips have been, mister, and I never said I approved.

——

Miriam came over a lot after that night. I thought it was too much, but Jon thought

otherwise, evidently. Alright, so maybe I warmed up to her. A little bit. A lot a bit. Alright, I see


29

why Jon loves her. She does give me more food, when he isn’t looking. But I wasn’t ready for him

to get on his knee like he was praying and stick this huge, shiny rock in her face. My sense of time

isn’t so good. But when he kept telling Chris that when you know you know, Chris said it’s only

been a year.

“Will you marry me?” he asked. There was an awkward pause. So, I peed. I’m kidding.

She answered right away. Or, not really answered but was crying a lot and nodding.

She finally managed to get out a small, “yes!” above her sniffles. She’s an ugly crier. He

slid the rock on her finger and I wondered why I had never seen that on the beach. I looked up

and in his eyes, I saw everything. It was in hers as well.

——

Though the planning for the wedding made me want to sleep the day through, I gotta

admit I was a little excited. Except when she moved all her stuff in and it was a never-ending pile.

I even heard Jon call her a hoarder, under his breath of course. She was a bridezilla.

——

When the wedding came, I really started to feel like family with her—not quite like me

and Jon—but still. Even though I hated how much prolonged eye contact went on when they slid

the rocks on each other’s fingers, it was still kinda cute. I was cuter though. I hope.

In his eyes, I just saw tears and I wanted to go cheer him up but I was tied to my chair

and Jon’s dad was eyeing me like a hawk. A hawk who couldn’t see me too well.

——

I’m skipping all the boring honeymoon stuff because despite my best effort and my puppy

dog eyes, they wouldn’t take me. Rude, but I get it. Anyway, I got attached to my new family.

Even if it used to be a guy’s thing, all three of us would have a binge session on the beach. And

jokes on you Jon, because Miriam is iffy about The Office too and she can actually tell you that.

Pretty soon, before I even realized it, I couldn’t remember a time when Miriam wasn’t

there. I saw in her eyes, this hope and love whenever she looked at us. That was the best feeling

in the world. The only bad thing is she tied me every time we raced. But we did dust Jonathan.

——

So, back to the present. You’re probably thinking, this guy has got the perfect life. Perfect,

my butt. I just got the worst news. There’s going to be another Miriam. And don’t give me all

that miracle of life stuff—it took me weeks to get used to having this chica! What the hell we


gonna do now? I have absolutely no idea and I have to pretend like I don’t know because I’m

waiting for Jon to tell me. Bros come first. I’m starting to get impatient and she’s starting to get

mean. I keep thinking back to that candy commercial where the slogan is “you’re not you when

you’re hungry” so she’s gotta be hungry. But I can’t eat chocolate and I think she needs more

than that. Just imagine a baby like this, definitely not a delight. They should’ve just stuck with

me.

——

Okay, so here’s the update. The little Miriam is coming home today from the hospital.

And if you were wondering, no, Jon didn’t tell me. If you’re not saying “how rude” then I’m

disappointed in you. Oh, and yes, I did skip those months because it would probably give you

some beef about Miriam and that wouldn’t be cool. Miriam isn’t the problem.

They’ve been gone for three whole days and I had to rely on Chris to feed me. Not only is

my separation anxiety through the roof, but my caretaker can’t even remember to bring his key.

The dog days of my life.

When they finally arrived home, I thought I was going to pee out of excitement because

I’m passed the vengeance stage. I’m just excited to see my family, not the addition. Except she is

really cute and I felt my eyes widening. Don’t get sucked in, don’t it. You’re a macho man. Stop.

Do. Not. Look.

I’m not the sentimental kind of person, but Jon’s baby is a whole new level. And in his

eyes, I see Jon. Even though she kinda smells sometimes and takes all the attention—I’m not salty

at all—we bonded. Plus, I get the good parts of her, like when she’s playful. On the other hand,

Jon and Miriam have to deal with her crying and pooping. Which I’m pretty sure she just did.

Anyways, suckers.

I guess family comes when you least expect it. And I already said I’m not sentimental and

gosh darn, someone better stop cutting those onions, but this is my family.

“You know Jon, me and Scott have come a long way since he first bit me,” Miriam

chuckled.

“Scotty is a good boy, Miriam,” Jon replied, “I raised him good.” Oh yeah you did. Look

at me now. An absolute stud. “I guess it’s true that a dog is a man’s best friend,” Jon continued.

Oh, did I forget to mention that I’m a dog? Whoops. Now, the story is gonna make much more

sense.


31

“Ahem,” Miriam coughed.

“Also, a woman’s best friend?” Jon quickly answered.

“That’s more like it,” Miriam agreed.

In all of our eyes, I saw love. Gosh darn, stop cutting those onions, I don’t wanna seem

like a chump. Anyways, I gotta go play with the baby, before she gets cranky. Ha, suckers again.

THE END.


Vivianne Lee

Media: Ink and watercolor


33

Lindsey Douglas

Media: Graphite


Pencil

Megan Sigismonti

I smell of slightly burned wood,

In my boyhood, I once was tall,

And above all—but I was cut.

Now I hardly know what’s what.

I rise early, and sometimes I’m

even a little swirly, or plain choppy—

a miscopy. Erasing, what an excellent

invention: facing a mistake is too much.

I create yet get no credit—

might as well see me on Reddit, unless,

unless I impress, and maybe give

you luck, to make a quick buck.

Without me, how would this great

world spin? I make up the within

of society—the life of big men.

How dare you write this in pen?


35

Kayleigh Burtless

Media: Graphite


Haiku Poems

Demitra Inglezakis

Clouds are in the air

As the sun rises above the clouds

The old woman is dying

The flowers are laying still

As the wind blows their petals away

Someone threw up in class

They lay underneath the ocean

As the shells move with the sand

My dog is getting hungry


37

Hannah Denenberg

Media: Mixed media


Keegan Fleming

Media: Graphite


39

Rocks at the Window

Megan Sigismonti

Tony threw a fastball at the window. The little pebble bounced from glass and dropped

down into the gutter that outlined the second floor of the tiny white house, with a distinctive

clunk.

That was his fifteenth pitch of the night, his arm was beginning to cramp, no wonder he

never picked up baseball. He raked his hand through his jet black curls and huffed into the thick

midnight air. He looked up at the moon, a small crescent surrounded by thousands of little dots,

and then he looked back at the window. He muttered a “c’mon” and picked up another pebble.

Maybe a curveball would do it, he thought to himself. He wound up for the pitch, his arm

wailing for a break, and he released the pebble. This time there was no clunk, rather there was no

sound at all. The window was open, he had hit the screen.

“Tony?” A delicate voice trying to mask exhaustion called. “What are you doing here?”

“To see you of course!” Tony grinned. “Is that your window over there too?”

Anna responded by opening her other window on the opposite wall. “Tony, you haven’t

answered my question yet. What are you—Tony!”

Tony climbed up the chain link fence that separated Anna’s driveway from her backyard.

He stretched on his toes to reach the roof of her garage and hoisted himself up with a deep grunt.

Tony stumbled onto the triangular surface until he was face-to-face with Anna Denton, who was

peering out of her window in a confusing mixture of rage and suppressing her own grin.

“Tony you could have fallen!”

“But I didn’t!”

The Death Glare. Her eyebrows met her eyelashes and the grin turned into a flat line.

Bright blue waves turned into stormy hurricane eyes. Tony couldn’t help but giggle a little.

“I am here to talk to you Anna Denton, and if you don't want me to fall I suggest you let

me inside.”

Anna opened the window all the way and stepped out of the way. Tony entered with a

loud thump, and Anna contained herself by pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Would you like to wake my parents up too? I can go get them for you if you want?”


Now it was Tony’s turn for the Death Glare, except in his case it was more of trying to

hold in a laugh or a smirk. Tony isn’t really capable of being serious for too long. He sat down

next to Anna on her bed and let out a sigh.

“What you did to Randy the other night,” he turned to big, waiting eyes, full of hope.

“That was wicked.”

She laughed and looked down. “Yet it felt so too.”

“I mean, the way you led him on only to shove him into the office—golden, Anna,

golden.”

“Yeah well, someone had to put him in his place. I mean who is he to think he can stomp

into where I work like the big brat he is, and make demands. I’m telling you he gets drunk by

both booze and creating problems. Maybe this time he’ll finally leave me alone.”

She laid her back onto the bed, her legs still dangling off the sides, and looked up at the

ceiling. Tony mirrored her movements.

“He’ll leave you alone.”

“That’s what Mary said last time, after the party.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll make sure of it myself. Randy will have another thing coming next time

he tries to mess with you.”

“Tony, don’t get yourself into any trouble, we both know it won’t end in your favor, no

matter the circumstances.” She put her small hand on top of his. “Promise me that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Randy never kept his promises to me. So you better, or else I’ll shove you into an

office too.” She giggled while Tony turned to her dumbstruck. Randy seriously messed with

Anna’s head. Yet, she was able to laugh it off like it was nothing. Tony turned his hand so his

palm faced hers, and he intertwined their fingers together.

Anna faced him and smiled. “My parents liked Randy a lot when we started dating. Said

he would get me a great big house on the west side, with a bunch of little kids running around.

They figured I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life, but I like working. It’s good for you. I

want to make my own money, mom does, after all. Being dependent on someone just isn’t my

style. It may be Susan’s, but it definitely ain’t mine. Mary’s still a toss up.

“Anyways, I liked him a lot too, in the beginning. He’d get me flowers every once in a

while. We’d go on super expensive dates. There was this one time, I offered to pay half the tab. I


41

never saw Randy get so red so fast. It was the little things like that. I always wanted him to go to

one of my track meets, just one. Somehow the guy never had the time. But when it came to

parties, his attendance was perfect.

“The little things add up, Tony. I stuck with him longer than I wanted to, longer than I

should of, all cause my parents were happy. They thought the rest of my life after high school

would be set, that their worrying would be finished. I couldn’t break their heart, so I never told

them we broke up. Now it’s been so long, I’m afraid.”

“I think you should—you know, tell them.”

“But—”

“But what Anna?” Tony sat up. “You can’t go around trying to please everyone! That’s

not living. This is your life Anna Denton, not Randy’s. Screw Randy! Anna you got great parents

who care so much about your future! Sure, they may have been a lil’ blinded by the dough, but

that was only cause they care about you!”

“I’ll tell ’em.”

“Promise?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now besides that, I also wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Now, don’t go shoving me out the window.”

The Death Glare Anna shot back quickly joined Tony’s laughter. She shook her head

trying to suppress her laugh.

“Okay,” he sighed. Tony could feel the butterflies knocking into his ribcage. “I wanted to

know if you well—you see, our break times at work sorta match up, and well, I wanted to know if

you wanted to spend yours with me.”

He scrunched his eyes slightly, as if he were bracing for impact. Anna was blank, so Tony

quickly filled the silence. “Doug would be there too, of course.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, Tony.”

“Really? Cause you don’t have to, but if you—”

“I said I want to. Stop complicating things Tony. Now you know what I’d really like to do

right now?” Anna sat up and leaned towards him. Tony stiffened in confusion.

“What?”


“Go back to sleep.”

“Oh you’re a funny one Denton.”

“I try.” She suddenly shot up from the bed and grabbed something off her desk chair.

“Here’s your jacket, by the way.” Her hand stuck out, holding the brown leather mass.

“Keep it.”

“You sure?”

“I said keep it. Stop complicating things Anna.” He mimicked her tone. She put the

jacket down and crossed her arms.

“You’re funny too.”

Tony smirked and stood up. He walked towards the window and swung one leg out and

onto the roof of the garage. Anna followed him, arms still crossed. She hated when he mimicked

her. His voice was always an octave too high.

“Goodnight Anna.”

“Goodnight Tony.”

He stuck his head out the window and looked at the moon. He closed his eyes tight and

made a tiny prayer. Then he stuck his head back inside the window and kissed Anna on the

cheek. The last thing he saw was her deep blush before he flung himself out the window and

down the garage.

She watched him run down her driveway from her window. He stuck both his arms in the

air in triumph. She shook her head smiling, and closed the window.


43

Jaquelyn Gorman

Media: Ink and Graphite


Caged

Amna Hashmi

I lie and rest silent.

I attempt to escape,

but there is no way.

There is no future,

So there is no point.

And if I make my escape,

I only cage myself once more,

Because I make light where there can be none,

But I find darkness where I make light,

For light comes with a price:

The burden of a shadow.

Even so,

What good is it to live in the dark?

What good is it to cower with fear?

What good is it to listen when you’re not being heard?

What good is it to live when there is no life?

Anything is better than living.

Because I want life, not to live,

But I have been cursed to live,

And spared from the burden of life.

Woe be to those who live.

Woe be to me.


45

Silent Snow

Amna Hashmi

I don’t love, so I don’t cry

I don’t need, so I don’t break

And I do not speak

For if I speak, words do not evade my lips

Only a thundering silence escapes.

If you were me, you would fight.

You would break the deathly silence

Which impales the lust for freedom.

Simply because you cannot handle it.

But I can and I do.

But I can handle it for one reason only.

If I break the silence, then I will need and I will love.

So I would make myself break and cry.

So I let the crowd speak,

They think I will wilt like a flower in the bitter cold,

But I return them with silence,

And like the snow of the bitter cold

I fall. And I fall.

But I fall with grace.


Night Light

Amna Hashmi

The night is a time of magic.

Which other time could bring the gift of mind?

The day is filled with the responsibility of reality.

It consists only of that which you are,

And that which is.

But the night holds a different responsibility,

That responsibility which you serve to yourself:

To dream.

It is within dreams that you are capable of endless fantasies and adventures.

The wildest of creativity is drawn to existence,

Blissful are the dreams that you are at peace with yourself.

Alas the joy of wonder dies with the rise of the sun,

Light bleeding into the sky and into the mind,

And I awake once more to find myself in the shadow of day.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to

Ms. Stephanie Kostopoulos

Mrs. Christine Kuletsky

Mrs. Alyssa Santangelo

Ms. Dianne Shanian

Mrs. Kim Sundberg

The English Department at Smithtown HS East.

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