THE PASSAIC

iSSUE 2 /august 2014

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What is Art?

Editors’Letter To further promote the significance of Art in societin society, The Passaic was created as an outlet for up-and-coming artists and writers. The Passaic start-ed with a vision that “art should be free.” Our team discovered that art is not visualization; it’s interpreta-tion. We strive to connect with our reader through in-terpersonal conenctions of art. Art deserves recogni-tion in this technologically dominant world, and should be shared freely and appreciated with others around you. Our magazine, established in Spring of 2013, has grown in ways we’ve never imagined. With a growing team of staff and and supporters, The Passa-ic has found much success throughout the creation of this issue. Most of all, we wanted to thank our viewers for continuing to support our magazine. We do what we do for the arts and you. Once again, art is not visual-ization, it’s interpretation. Reading through this issue, you’ll feel the true definition of art.

Bria WoodEditor-In Chief

/ärt/

noun

the quality, production, expression, or realm, ac-cording to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance

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The Woman by Melissa L - pg 1“Remember When” by Monica R. - pg 2Hands of Creation by Samantha P - pg 3Coffee House by Junta N - pg 5Ocean by Bria W - pg 7“Faster” by Bria W - pg 9“Roots” by“Roots” by Yaramo D - pg 10“Me-Thica” by Alex D - pg 11Elephant by Alexis C - pg 12“Time” by Adrienne R - pg 13Eye See Everything by Alexis C - pg 15“Hazel Eyes” by Monica R - pg 16Human by Adrienne R - pg 17“Emerald Green Eyes” by Shubha “Emerald Green Eyes” by Shubha P - pg 19Butterfly by Samantha P - pg 21“August Days” by Bria W - pg 23

Untitled by Lorianna I - pg 24Motivation by Oliver M - pg 25Marilyn by Samantha P - pg 27“Plight” by Asheley A - pg 29“Seeking” by Yaramo D - pg 30Frozen by Frozen by Katherine B - pg 33“Icebreaker” by Genesis O - pg 34“Icebreaker” by Genesis O - pg 34Untitled by Oliver M - pg 35“His Love” by Samanatha P - pg 36Violin by Oliver M - pg 37Natural Clarity by Karen A - pg 39“Beehive” by Bria W - pg 40In My City by Ryota N - pg 41“La Belle” by Gloria G - pg 42“La Belle” by Gloria G - pg 42“Dark Paradise” by Hak Ja D - pg 43“Nyctophilia” by Hak Ja D - pg 44One Love by Ryota N - pg 45Team- pg 46

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Am I going to die?Is this how I end?This was all I thought about as the white haiThis was all I thought about as the white haired man from the van stared viciously back at me. In two single motions, I am running. Breathing. Panting. The white haired man is gaining on me. I push myself harder, running faster until I literally can’t breathe anymore. I still go on. I am so close to safety, home, when the white haired man grabbed me.“LE“LET GO OF ME!” I shouted before his sweaty palm covered my mouth.“I am not going to hurt you—” the white haired man says before I interrupted him with my muffled screams.“RAPE! HELP!” No one comes to my rescue.I started kicking the

FasterBy: Bria W.

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man until his hold on my hands loosen. I break free of his hold, and kick his private area with all my strength. This makes him stumble onto his knees. I give him a whop-ping punch to the nose, almost breaking it, and another punch to his jaw. I continue running, not worrying about the pain in my knuckles or the lack of oxygen reaching my lungs. I’m home, running up my doorstep. “MOM! DA---”The white haiThe white haired man grabbed me again but instead by the neck. I stumbled backwards into the white haired man’s arms. I continue to stare at the red painted porch step, thinking of ways I can reach my goal. A piece of cloth is tied around my mouth with a weird smell. Then I realize, this has chloroform on it.

I am from blindingly sunny days and winter coatsFrom white rimmed Hello Kitty glasses in the window to the "mommy please?!" that followedFrom Blister giving plastic sandals and comfy flatsI am from the hope set in bed nets to repel malicious mosquitoes

I am from griots and guidosFrom first pumping and story tellingFrom Jayhood and "Jerseeeey"I am from scorching hot summer days that required Icee's for our bodies to be sustainedI am from brown dirt and grayish concreteFrom wind driven dust and gravely blacktopI am from cough coughs and "mommy i got a boo boo"sI am from the King, X and Gandhi books that my father would never let dustbecause it was from those that we were all inspiredI am from silent racism and high expectationsI am from declarations of independence and foundations passed down generationsI am from rainbows cultivated in oil and sunshine hidden in shadows

I am from single stuffed Oreos and gunshotsFrom colorful insides trapped in black skinFrom sleepless nights and "you act white"sI am from the toss and turns of insomnia and the creeks of the floorboards as Imigrate to mommy's room

Hazel EyesBy: Monica R.

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, what a beautiful pair of hazel eyes.Do you enjoy capturing people's attention?Do you enjoy seeking only perfection?

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, what a beautiful pair of hazel eyes.When I look at you, will I find some lies?When I look at you, will I find some lies?Or will you stare at me with your disguise?

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, what a beautiful pair of hazel eyes.Will you look at me with affection?Or will you look at me with discretion?

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, what a beautiful pair of hazel eyes.Will you ever learn to leave my mind?Or are you taking your precious time?Or are you taking your precious time?

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, please leave me alone hazel eyes.I finally know what I needed to find.I figured out I'm no longer yours, and you're no longer mine.

Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, this is our goodbye.Hazel eyes, hazel eyes, this is our demise.

Eye See EverythingBy: Alexis C.

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Mama tells me to go sit next to you. But I hide behind her legs and hold her hand.She says it's okay and tells me It's still Grandma,?But I know you're not. You're not who I once knew.I thought you were tricking me the first couple times, but not anymore.I don't understand whI don't understand why, but I know you really don't know me.I told Mama something was wrong. She asked me how I knew. I said, "It's her eyes."

They used to be bright, emerald green, but now they're empty, tarnished eyes.I am reminded of the warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies I am reminded of the warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies I used to snatch from your hand.I'd take them when they were still fresh out of the oven and your eyes would twinkle and you'd scold me.But now I look over at you Grandma,And I feel like I don't know you anymore.And I know you won't go back to who I used to knoAnd I know you won't go back to who I used to know.

You finally speak, “Are you someone I know? ”You're talking to me, but not even looking at my eyes.I want to scream, "Yes Grammy! Don't you remember any-thing anymore?"Instead, I take your hand. "It's Eliza. Do you remember, Grandma?Do you remember me?"

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You just keep looking past me. I can tell you do not remember. You do not know.I remember when I used to run around the kitchen and play with you, Grandma. We'd laugh and laugh and I can still see where the skin crinkled around your eyes We'd prance and dance, hand in hand.I know we won't be doing that anymore.

I wish you'd not look through me like I'm air anymore. I wish you'd not look through me like I'm air anymore. I want you to know who I am and remember me.I dream that you'll wipe away my tears again and hold my hand.Your eyes comforted me, loved me and let me know,That you and your precious beautiful eyes,Were more precious than you'll ever know Grandma.

Emerald Green EyesBy: Shubha P.

Our family sits in a circle around Grandma.No one is talking or smiling or laughing anymore.Jaws are clenched and fists are balled, while tears threaten our eyes.I lift my heavy head to find Mama looking at me.She does not have to say anything. She knows. I see a clear droplet sliding from Mama's eye, but she quickly brushes it away I see a clear droplet sliding from Mama's eye, but she quickly brushes it away with her hand.

My hand shakes as I reach over to Grandma. I know I shouldn't hope or dream anymore.But then, she looks at me, with those emerald green eyes.

ButterflySamantha P.

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kk

UntitledLorianna I.

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'I want to write about you' is what she said. I've spent countless hours dis-secting each word, searching for a hidden message, and memorizing the way she looked at me. Her dark brown eyes stared deep into mine when the

phrase appeared in mid air, captivating all of my time.

The mystery girl.I don't remember her name or the way the rest of face looked. I've only had one class with her from memory, but we never spoke. I only remember her

eyes and the phrase. But to me, that's all that mattered.This girl saw me as something noteworthThis girl saw me as something noteworthy, as a piece of art that has to be published. But I, Avery Allan Wood, could not even remember her name. Then, I wondered why she would take such an interest in me. A girl who seems so cultured and different, one who remains to stay uninfluenced, takes an interest in a guy like myself. A guy who is boring, shy, and a little rude.

"Mr. Wood?" Mr. Lew ponders my current focus on his class. "Uh. Yes," I reply.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't wander o"I'd appreciate it if you didn't wander off as much and paid attention to the lesson at hand." "Sorry, Mr. Lew"

"Yeah, yeah." Mr. Lew waves off and continues to teach about Trig.

August DaysBy: Bria W

MarilynBy: Samantha P.

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Frozen By: Katherine B

IceBREAKERBy: Genesis O.

Her tattered countenance is tattooed with images of what used to be her identity. Now, it is a fading memoir of what used to be her beauty. The wrapper that once hugged her warmly earns, gleamed with brilliance en-ticed her audience with its lively pigmentation. The deli-cacies that castes spells of enchantment on those that had her gave her a purpose. She had something to hold, something to protect. But now, she is an empty void. Her hollow soul reeks of the mint that once fulfilled her. Every night, she silently cries from hunger and despair, but she hasn't seen a glimpse of hope arise from all of her suffering. Her generosity was repaid with neglect and a replacement. But no one pities poor Ice Breaker. No one cares.

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His LoveBy: Samantha P.

Love hangs from a tree with His head bowed Love hangs from a tree with His head bowed low. With His eyes He sees blood, none but His own. His tongue tastes only vinegar; His body knows only pain. It is fitting; they call this place Calvary, the place of the skull; where my Savior for my sake broke.

They say that love is patient, love is kind, and it They say that love is patient, love is kind, and it does not take offense. But Love is more than this. Love is selfless, Love is suffering, Love is bleeding on the cross. His heart beats only slower. He shouts, "Eli, Eli, lama sabactani?" and cries out to His father.

But Love was sent to suBut Love was sent to suffer. He was not sent to live in peace but instead to die for those who were undeserving. Love allowed Himself to be brought mute as a lamb to His slaughter. He did all this; and He left us the hope that comes with such love. The reminder that: "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

UntitledBy: Oliver M.

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ViolinBy: Oliver M

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Natural ClarityBy: Karen A.39

BeeYellow as me, the bee is happyEnergetic to flee, the world has much to seeFloating in the air, trying to find time to spareFor freedom and love to roam aboveFinding time for itself is very rare

The Queen Bee commands it to bring honeyThe Queen Bee commands it to bring honeyAll the bee wants is a payback in moneyIt sucks the nectar from the flowerOnly tasting bitter and sour

Ow! It stings! The bee stings. Don't make it too angry or it will ringAnd charge towards you with no remorseUntil the bee has finally found its course. Until the bee has finally found its course. On your arm. It ends its’ flight.And eventually back homeending its’ flight.

BeehiveBy: Bria W.

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In My CityBy: Ryota N.

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La BelleBy: Gloria GLack of color, Lack of soul,It is she, but without the whole,Tattered and torn,FoForgotten and sold,That is the story of the girl "Unknown."

Nurtured from birth,Cultured to girl,Nothing to count,Nor nothing to spell, Was handed her blessings since a belle, Kissed with farewells by momma and hell,Kissed with farewells by momma and hell,That is the story of the girl "Adele."

Missed her meals,But twirled the pole,Anything for a fair share of all that is gold,Forgot how to count,And forgot how to spell,TTwisted her fate for the love of a male, No momma to spare or poppa to hold, That is the story of the girl I've known.

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NyctophiliaBy: Hak Ja D.She fell to her knees beside the back door in her kitchen.Her hands tugging at her hair,Her eyes were stained red and flooded with tears.The fear choked her until she was on the ground struggling to breathe, with her The fear choked her until she was on the ground struggling to breathe, with her perpetual banging of the walls.Her knuckles red, with blood dripping onto the white marble floors, seeping into the cracks left by heavy objects being thrown carelessly.The tears stopped as her anger was magnified by the images of her merciless past.Her sandpaper tone screeched in attempts to project her voice.The room grew darker and blanketed over heThe room grew darker and blanketed over her, until she was no more.It was just the darkness.The room illustrated what she allowed herself to be. Nothing, but what she felt and in her stubbornness everything that surrounded her took over her identity as a person.She was no longer a she.She wasn't a person.She wasn't even darkness.She wasn't even darkness.

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One LoveBy: Junta N.

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The Passaic Team

Bria WoodHak Ja DeSousa Gloria GomezJunta NaitoKimberly JahkariaGenesis OsorioCydni MooreCydni MooreRyota Naito

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The passaic © rwc2014all rights reserved

cover: untitled by oliver mWhat is art: edge by francis legra