LANCE

Spring 2015 Volume 54

Worcester Academy

Student Literary Magazine

81 Providence St Worcester MA 01604

Editor’s NoteLance is a literary publication dedicated to celebrating our peers’ creativity by allowing them to share their works with the Worcester Academy community. We accept submissions of art, photography, poetry, or prose from Worcester Academy high school students, faculty, and staff. Through this outlet we the editors and staff hope to spread our love for literature and art and encourage all to pursue these activities.

Worcester Academy adheres to a longstanding policy of admitting stu-dents of any race, color , religious belief, gender, protected sexual orien-tation, nationality or ethnic origin to all the rights, privileges, programs and activities generally accorded or made available to students at the school. Worcester Academy does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religious belief, gender, protected sexual orientation, national-ity or ethnic origin in the administration of its educational policies, admission policies, scholarship programs and other school programs.

Copyright © 2015Worcester Academy Worcester, MA 01604

Editors

Staff

Advisor

Technical Supervisors

John (Jack) Chase Rowen Price

Sarah PotterAnna KesslerEmma Yanco

Lauren Kuchnir

Aaron LiewSean PiersonZhanna Shalabayeva

ReAnnen Hogan

Christine Thorn

Sidharth SadhujanDivinity Sebag

Table of ContentsPhotograph by Xu ‘15 10

Nothing but Spilt Coffee, Emma Berry 11

Photograph by Polletta ‘16 12

A Single Complication, John (Jack) Chase 13

Photograph by Emus ‘16 16

Violated, ReAnnen Hogan 17

Photograph by JJ ‘15 19

Battle of One, Jocelyn Emus 20

Photograph by JJ ‘15 22

Is This “Happy”?, Megan Kralj 23

And some day, Julie McDermott 24

Photograph by Lockbaum ‘16 25

Photograph by Rogers ‘15 26

That’s Poetry, Miriam Tanenbaum 27

Photograph by Wang ‘16 28

Photograph by Renzoni ‘17 28

A Collection of Things I’ve Learned in my 17 Years, Siobhan Herr 29

Photograph by Mullaney ‘16 30

Quake, ReAnnen Hogan 31

A Romance, Rowen Price 32

Photograph by Hogan ‘16 33

Photograph by JJ ‘15 34

Untitled (Because I’m Unimaginative, Not Because I’m Artsy),

Miriam Tanenbaum 35

Photograph by Mullaney ‘16 39

A Wise Trick , Aaron Snyder 40

Photograph by Fenner 40

Photograph by Su ‘15 41

The Sunflower, Kylie Lavine 42

Addicted, Emma Berry 43

Photograph by LaMarche ‘15 43

Photograph by Emus ‘16 44

Inexplicable Warmth in Us, Sean Pierson 45

The Cold Cement House, Caleb Dimenstein 48

Photograph by Hogan ‘16 49

A Page of Night, Qiyuan Zheng 50

Lord, Forgive Me, Mackenzi Johnson 53

Photograph by LeMarche ‘15 55

Time, Jocelyn Emus 56

Photograph by Emus ‘16 57

Looking Up, Catherine Paul 58

Photograph by Fenner 59

Pretty Darn Lucky, John (Jack) Chase 60

Photograph by Wang ‘16 62

Next Time , Hannah Lowe 63

Photograph by Emus ‘16 64

3 Haikus, Michael Papetti 64

Done, Isha Mayor 65

Photograph by Pijaca ‘16 66

Photograph by Hogan ‘16 67

Photograph by Mullaney ‘16 69

Photograph by Price ‘15 70

Whittled-Down, Miriam Tanenbaum 71

Photograph by Malloy ‘16 72

The Nameless Ruler, Emma Berry 73

Photograph by Price ‘15 75

Box, Megan Kralj 76

Photograph by Price ‘15 77

That Pulled Pork Sandwich From the Old An Ode to Forgotten Zip

Codes/The Food Truck on the Corner, By Anonymous 78

Crop Circles, Michael Papetti 80

Photograph by Renzoni ‘17 80

Photograph by Malloy ‘16 82

In All My Contemplation, Mackenzi Johnson 83

Photograph by Pijaca ‘16 84

Dream Chaser , Min Jun “Ryan“ Kim 85

Photograph by Fenner 86

The Wall, Raymond Reeves 87

Photograph by Mullaney ‘16 89

Lingering, ReAnnen Hogan 90

Photograph by Azizi ‘15 91

The Declaration of (Semi)Independence, Hiliana Melo 92

Photograph by Emus ‘16 93

Photograph by DePersio ‘15 94

Innocence, Moira Mullaney 96

Photograph by Carroll ‘16 98

A Crisis of the Wandering Mind, Olivia Lockbaum 99

Photograph by Pijaca ‘16 101

Underground, John (Jack) Chase 101

Stress, Jocelyn Emus 102

Photograph by Su ‘15 103

Cleansing Ritual, Emma Berry 103

Philophobia, Mackenzi Johnson 104

Photograph by Carroll ‘16 104

Photograph by Renzoni ‘17 107

Stigma, Megan Kralj 108

Photograph by Carroll ‘16 109

How To Be Happy And Have Lots of Friends, Michael Papetti 110

Forsaken Destiny, ReAnnen Hogan 116

Photograph by Carroll ‘16 117

Photograph by Romanova ‘16 118

Escape, John (Jack) Chase 118

Photograph by Kessler ‘17 119

Photograph by Price ‘15 120

Alone, Moira Mullaney 121

The Cricket, Miriam Tanenbaum 122

Autumn has Wind, Julia Harvey 127

The Rye, Michael Papetti 128

Photograph by Hogan ‘16 128

Photograph by Renzoni ‘17 129

Photograph by Castro ‘15 130

Starry Night, Yadi(Andy)Wang 131

Asthma, Jack Baker 132

Decomposing Thoughts, Megan Kralj 133

Photograph by JJ ‘15 135

The night at Maunakea Peak, Una Zhang 136

Photograph by Isackson ‘15 136

Photograph by Sebag ‘15 137

Photograph by Sadhujan ‘15 139

8

9

Xu ‘1510

Nothing but Spilt CoffeeEmma Berry

Empty and broken, coffee cups cover the porchnext to me.

I think of the unturned pages of our book. That will never be re-turned.

Our book we once readtogether, is nothing but-  dust that now covers the porch.

You left me; with nothing but, spilt coffee.

11

Polletta ‘1612

A Single ComplicationJohn (Jack) Chase

We made it through the desert without a single compli-cation. Ea’s map was sound, and our provisions held up just as planned. The raging river of the desert ran straight through to an abandoned settlement that lies at the very edge of the desert. It seems that the run-away slaves of Walden’s age did indeed find a safe haven. When will we find the cause of this crazy mass-disap-pearance? We have not come across a single resistance since the very beginning of my reign. I must admit: I have thought quite a bit about our first battle. Will they see the justifications that I see? Will they understand equally that death is just a part of life? These enemies have been the glue that keeps our empire together, surely they all remember my words: “save your ire for the wars of to-morrow because today there will be peace.” I would not have said such words if I did not believe them myself. My entire existence is geared to the destruction of these traitors, and I will not battle with myself.Yet, now… something’s wrong. Ever since we entered this swamp, something has been wrong. The light-bug appearances of torches in the distance give me my only sense of safety. The silhouettes take the shapes of trees and the creatures of this horrific swamp. They move unlike their walking master. The flickering of those light-bugs on the horizon give them a ghostly dance. These ghosts surround me on all sides paired with their lovely light-bugs. No eyes, no ears, no such solid appearances to ground them. The hairs stick up on the back of my neck. Their fellows, the goosebumps at their base, rise like rolling hills. An icy cold pair of fingers runs slowly down my back like icy water. My brain, normally bogged down by the horrible humid heat, becomes quick and calculating once again. I only return to questioning the silhouettes, which are taking more solid shapes. I hear the slurps and sloshes of bare feet in the ravenous muck. Each step is a battle against the tantalized hands of the

13

dead. They pull, hoping that fresh blood will reach their decom-posing mouths. The muck has taken countless boots and several men. I ordered the men to remove their socks and boots in order that at least some provisions will make it through this swamp. That’s when we realized that if we stopped, death’s grasp would prevail. The very ground pulled in all those men who didn’t jump up in time. We can never stop to sleep. My eyes and ears perk up in peculiarity. Interesting. The wind has not been so chill in this sticky, hot mess of a swamp in any of the weeks we have spent trying to pass through it. The air normally rests on our skin like we’re walk-ing at the bottom of a lake of tongues. Normally the moisture saps my kindling heart, but this rush of frigid, dry wind feeling like death’s grasp of my very soul revives my fire. “Attention! Enter formations.” I shout. Any mortal’s voice would be absorbed by the starving swamp, but my voice clearly resonates to each individual ear without fail. We swarm into ac-tion like bees around a bear. I heat the ground below our stopping feet hoping it will silence the dead, just long enough to deal with the incoming threat. “Who would dare challenge me and my mighty men? I am not one to enrage; I say we will engage,” I announce. My men search around for the threat; their minds have sprung forth like mine, ready for the challenge. Even under my righteous authority, they question my judgment. Their blind eyes don’t see the shad-ows, but they do notice the silence. The swamp is filled with creatures of the night. They dangle from trees, slither through muck, hop from branch to fallen branch, and some stay hidden from sight. Their calls, hisses, croaks, and other eerie vocations are our ambient noise, our marching drum. Now there is no such music. My men may be blind, but nature sees the terrors approaching. The quiet rings through my ears louder than the thump, thump, thumping of my heart. My vision is tunneling, my grip is tightening around my sword, and my mind is clear. I’m ready for battle. A blood-boiling scream shatters the murky night. I leap three men high, twisting myself toward the ground. I plummet,

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sword-first, into the shadow lurking in the murk not a hand’s breadth from one of my soldiers. Even in my slaughtering, my men are put out like candle flames. How can I help them? How does they see nothing? Why can I alone see the enemy? How does one remove their own shadow? ...light! I set fire to their swords, which I have done only in practice with my full concentration on each individual flame, so the fires don’t spread out of control. I yell, “Surround me!” I sit on the ground as they rush toward me. I reach out with my mind, latching onto each blade with my very life. I feel the life ebbing from my body, feeding into each sword a powerful flame. A flame that could consume just as easily their armored bodies as the enemy’s shadowy souls. The fire takes some of the men by surprise, but most are too fo-cused on the enemy that encroaches to care about anything else. I feel their slimy grips as their enemy is finally visible. The shadows, ten feet high, with disformed backs, heads, and limbs of all kinds. Truly, I don’t know how my men could react if they could see those faces behind the shadow. The first swing. Falls like lightning from a cloud, burning to hit anything. It cleaves the shadow in half, and the two halves disappear instantly. Cheers rise up from the men around, they gain confidence in themselves and in me with each enemy slain. I grant more and more of the men, who were too far away before, some of my precious flame. They’ve seen too many of their com-rades fall in this swamp, they grit their teeth and fight the horrify-ing monsters. I feel each adept parry, each heroic slash, and every enemy fall. Then, I fall unconcious.

15

Emus ‘1616

ViolatedReAnnen Hogan

His eyes burn into herevery time they meet hers.She avoids them at all costs,yet somehow they always find her.

Seeing him sends a boltof anger through her,and she is reminded once againof her regrets.She wonders how she could have ever beenso ignorant,so oblivious.

She could have stopped it,but she didn’t-she went along with it untilthe last possible moment,when they were the only two in theisolated room;when she was completely vulnerable.

But she finally stopped it.He persisted,but she could no longer take it.She lashed out,twisting his arm backwards,almost hoping it was enoughto make it break,and not caring if it did.

…

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The fire burns inside of her,and acid fills her eyes,as she looks into his,and remembers.

18

JJ ‘1519

Battle of OneJocelyn Emus

A double sided mirror On the sides reflecting our lifeMe myself and IAll in oneTrying not to tear apart’Stitching togetherYet gaps in seamsTrying to remember what was forgottenIn me? Or myself?I don’t even knowI’m never okay, I never will beIt’s life, my lifeChaotic and swirling of blinded paths and blinding lights To fall under or fall off ofWhere am I? I lost myself againDo I know? The best and worst?Do I have a light and dark?Or shadows I wish to leave untouched?Restless demons?Or relentless feelings good and bad alikeFlowing like rains from the heavens Or fires from hellHell is inside me it is myselfYet I try to escape it but I myself am unable toI wish for salvation but it isn’t there for meMy hopes my fears all take meSewn into my skin such as ink of my ideasIdeas from a different timeA different meYet I am the sameStill frozen in darknessUnable to find the lightTill light come forth and shine behind my eyesUntil I slay my demons

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And swallow myselfAn eternal battleThat I shall one day winBecause I refuse to give upI will fight till the bitter endIt’s a battle against myself I shall reignIn hopes of being okayBecause I am I

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JJ ‘1522

Is This “Happy”?Megan Kralj

Pulling at my roots’ and screaming my throat dry,I desired to count each of my pennies like each of my steps.As I hand-pick conveniences and waste all of my time,I realized that I was flying upside down through an adult world.

Smiles and virtues were shattered carelessly on the ground.With a haughty scoff and an boisterous laugh,Erupting forth like bile that won’t dissolve the residual tensionWas my own comical fairytale ironies, and a flinch too.

My head is filled to the brim with nothing but girly fantasies…It looks like a disgusting “game over” in the third degree.With no beginning nor end in sight, please take me to tomorrow,So mold me into aspiration, and I can’t dare to make a move.

All of these indecent words of advice: they have no meaning.I can’t understand the understandable rhetoric of understanding.I don’t even comprehend the magnitude of my own mistakes!Spinning in an infinite loop, this tachycardia won’t relent.

I’m waiting for answers that won’t return. Is this “happy”?

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And some dayJulie McDermott

And some day,When the sun explodes, Shooting fire across the galaxy,But the moon isn’t shining,When it won’t be seen again,When the planets collapse and crumble,Don’t come to me.

When the stars go dark,And black holes snatch everything important, And you can’t run anymore,While you’re still searching for the sun and the stars,Don’t try to find me.

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Lockbaum ‘16

When you can’t find your way back,Because you’re closer to Neptune than to earth,And all of humanity is gone, And the sky has split open,Spilling broken rings and ugly asteroids. Don’t call to me.

But when the sun comes back,And the stars are aligned, And when the earth is whole, And humanity is safe,Come home. Come back to me.

25

Rogers ‘1526

That’s PoetryMiriam Tanenbaum

Poems contain stanzas.This is a stanza.What I’m writing, right now,Is a stanza.And what you’re reading,Right now,That’s a stanza.You are indefinitely trapped within my stanza.

You are no longer trapped in that stanza,But you are now trapped in this stanza.[Insert convoluted and clichéd comparisonOf your predicament to that of a caged bird]

Congratulations, you are not trapped Within any of the previous stanzas.And, when you finish this poem,You will not be trapped within any stanza.

But that isn’t to say you won’t be trapped.You’ll be trapped within the sentence you’re speaking,Or the sentence you’re hearing.For your sentence is a sentence, and you are doomed within it.You are attached to it, wrapped around it in a never-endingTethered rope, that, when you try to cut, you find yourself bleed-ing.

You are trapped within all that you do,And, for now, that which you do is that which you read(see: this poem).

So, yeah,That’s poetry.

27

Renzoni ‘17

Wang ‘16

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A Collection of Things I’ve Learned in my 17 Years

Siobhan Herr

Some days you might feel particularly sad,But remember that life isn’t all that bad.

Always study for that upcoming test,Because when you feel confident, you’ll do your best.

Don’t throw your gum outside on the ground;Birds choke on it and it would be too quiet in the mornings with-

out them around.Be a good friend because you get what you give,

And having lots of close friends is the best way to live.Stop wishing to grow up; it’s no fun to be old,Respect your parents and do what you’re told.

Before it’s too late, forgive and forget,Otherwise you’ll miss that friend I bet.

Grades are not everything; don’t let them stress you out,You’ll get into college and that I don’t doubt.

Take risks and try things that are new,Because it will make for a more interesting you.

We all have this idea; we lived for 17 years and we’ll live for 70 more,

But the scary thing is, you can never predict what’s in store.So live every day as if it’s your last,

Because unfortunately, things can change very, very fast.Play a new sport, try out for the play

And tell people all the things you’ve been wanting to say.Say hi to a stranger or try a new food,

Take risks, and to conclude:My question for you is, with your life thus far, would you be sat-

isfied,If tomorrow,

You died?

29

Mullaney ‘1630

Quake ReAnnen Hogan

The volume as high as it goes;that’s just how she likes it.Surrounding her. The vibrations move through her whole body. She closes her eyes.She sits on the floor.

It does all the work for her;it pounds,it cries,it screams.

It’s all she hears;the rest of the world is gone.

She just has to sit there feeling itwhile it takes her pain away.

It’s over,it’s quiet for a second,and she realizes she’s a little bit calmer.

With one button,she’s free.

31

A RomanceRowen Price

Her sheets of tresses brown inspire heat,Her heat in turn does fill my heart entireWith thoughts oh so deliriously sweetThat I must struggle to contain desire.Her molten smile like a radiant sunAllows me hope with which I carry onAnd fills me ‘til my work’s completely doneWith dreams of her – not there, but never gone.And as I drift throughout my lonesome day,I think of her, no longer on my ownAnd loudly laugh, my day no longer gray.For with her I can never be alone.Alas I cannot keep her all to me;The chocolate fountain sits, for all to see.

32

Hogan ‘1633

JJ ‘15

34

Untitled (Because I’m Unimaginative, Not Be-cause I’m Artsy)Miriam Tanenbaum

Audrey’s small five-year-old arms delicately cradled the precious doll that she held. Having received it recently for her birthday, it was now her most prized possession. Her mother handed the stuffed doll to her and told her that it was named Zoe. Audrey was mindful of the position of Zoe’s head, having overheard her mother once say that babies weren’t yet strong enough to support their own necks. She raised its head to hers just a bit more and gave it a kiss before she was interrupted by the sound of Evan smashing in through the, thankfully, open backdoor, probably tracking mud on the floor on his way to the kitchen. It had rained last night, and he had a habit of rolling around in the result of the dirt and rain like some kind of uncivilized barnyard animal. She turned on her bare feet, noting that the tiles were just a bit slippery from when her mom cleaned them earlier that day.

Looking toward him, she discovered that he had in fact tracked in mud, but she hadn’t anticipated that he would also be completely covered in it.

“Momma’s gonna be mad at you if you don’t wash that off,” she said, gesturing to the nearest spot of mud on the floor.

“Yeah? Well let her be mad.” Evan said with a repulsive sort of gravitas. It all seemed a bit ridiculous coming from a child cov-ered from head-to-toe in wet dirt, and she didn’t like how, ever since he turned eleven, he’d been trying to act like ‘more of a man’ (his words). But despite what he might’ve thought, Audrey knew that although real men may track in their mud, they always cleaned it up.

It was as she placed her doll on the kitchen counter and stooped down to the floor with a wet paper towel that she thought she may be more of a man than her brother.

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Just as she was finally making headway on the first stain, she heard the sound of her brother’s shoes hitting the floor, making his way toward her. Thinking that he was going to do something like push her head into the mud, she looked up and prepared to defend herself.

What she saw was much worse.

He was dangling her doll several feet above the biggest pile of mud on the floor, holding Zoe’s fragile hand between his dirty fingers.

Evan laughed, a petty, unnerving sound. Although he had no intention of following through and dropping the doll, he reveled in the pleasure of torturing his little sister.

All would have been fine if their mother hadn’t chosen that mo-ment to come back home from the neighbors.

She closed the front door louder than usual, and, startled, Evan dropped the doll.

It seemed to drop in slow motion. Audrey saw it, frame by frame, as it made its way to the mud.

When it finally fell, Audrey was troubled by the fact that it made no noise. Surely such a monumental moment in history should be marked by some form of audible recognition by the universe. Regardless, there it sat-- there she sat, soundless. Audrey saw the blue of Zoe’s soft dress, she saw how it was marred by a shade of brown that it was never supposed to display, and she saw all of the colors begin to blur as tears filled her eyes.

“Oh crap.” Evan’s voice cracked as panic overwhelmed him.

“Language!” Their mother called from the hall closet as she hung

36

up her jacket, as if scolding a rebellious dog that everyone knew was never going to change his behavior.

She made their way down the hall and was troubled at the lack of noise coming from her children. That was never a good sign. And upon seeing the doll and the mess on the floor, she may or may not have let out an, “oh crap,” of her own.

She made her way to her crying daughter, picking her up and de-ciding it would be best to put her down for a nap. “I’ll get to you later.” She said, maintaining eye contact with her son.

…

Although Audrey never quite knew what magic words her mother had said to her brother, she came downstairs several hours later to find a pristine floor and a perfectly clean Zoe sitting on the counter. Next to Zoe sat Evan who was devouring his peanut but-ter sandwich in a way that only a pubescent boy could, and if the nearly empty bag of bread and the jar of peanut butter near him were any indication, this was not his first sandwich and it would not be his last.

Audrey ran to Zoe as fast as she could, happy to note that the the floor was a bit slippery, how it had been that morning.

“She’s clean again!” Audrey exclaimed, any last grogginess from her nap now totally gone.

“I gave her a bath,” Evan reasoned, licking peanut butter off of his fingers, and somehow, Audrey knew that this was his version of an apology, “you gotta wash babies, you know.”

“Of course I know that.” Audrey defended. And with that, she forgave him. Still, she wondered, “hey, if you washed her, why isn’t she wet?”

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He had used a towel. It’d taken him at least twenty minutes of dil-igent drying to finally get her to be what he deemed dry enough, but he knew neither of them would be happy with that answer. Instead, Evan smirked. “I stole mom’s hairdryer.”

Audrey stayed silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m gonna tell mom!” She concluded, and neither of them saw the other’s near identical smile on their face as Audrey confidently made her way up the stairs.

38

Mullaney ‘1639

A Wise Trick Aaron Snyder

What is the warrant of wisdom,The purport of prudence?It has been told throughout our timeThat the most insightful one acquired it through ambition, Just an innocent acclamation, and alacazam: it apparently ap-peared

Or…was it already agile?

The Great Gadfly proudly uttered, “I know that I know nothing”Because surely servility is sharp, and subjugation is scholarly So did the Magician in fact illustrate an illustrious illusion? Or was the real apparition actually executed by the one who asked?

Fenner40

Su ‘15

This is truly a tragic taleBecause the paramnesia was not a placebo as was first thought ofBut a primitive power that was fully present throughout his later yearsFor the power was purely mundaneAnd the invocation was inordinately inane

41

The Sunflower Kylie Lavine

Sunflowers are an even bolderand brighter version of the sun,whose petals emit rays of energy and happinessthat inspire every one around them.

Sitting peacefully and quietly theirsmiles shine as bright as the sunwhile happiness radiates from their soul,they enlighten the atmosphereand accompany one another.

They stand for loyaltyand exude a sense of warmth,comforting, even the most bitterness of souls.They live for the longevity of lifeand for companionship of one another.

They reflect the light of the sunas a mirror,which reflects the nature ofone’s heart.

42

LaMarche ‘15

Addicted Emma Berry

I was addicted to a demon’s love. His poison flowed throughout my body. Lying there together and I could feelthe heat of his fake smile, branding itself onto my heart. He became a disease that hadno cure. The pain came in waves--It just kept coming and comingI wanted it to stop. I just wanted the pain gone. Maybe I wanted him gone,  but it didn’t matter.

The poison made me stay.

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Emus ‘1644

Inexplicable Warmth in UsSean Pierson

Listless she whispers fruits of comfort through the cornstalk vibrations of neuronswaving hello in this pantheon of broken windowsand torn wicker baskets.tongue, a soaked Phrygian cap against my earlobe, almost an embrace, almost.and how strange we become

in morning,stomping grapes for wine somewherewhere the sun lifts its ancient bristled handand caresses, bare of the usual white knuckle clutch.

then,while the light begins to fade into lurid streamsof purples and tangerines, neon pinks and a definitive somber red,our wheels enter revolutions unrelenting against the rotation of ground beneath our feet, always a fallen leaf ahead, but we roll on, we are the lighthousesin a sheet of ice littered with boats carrying fishermen and fishermen’s wives and fishermen’s mistresses and their children and friends. Detached from these little beautiful lives,we shine on, flashing each individual potted plant vessela hopeful, playful, sinister wink. And their roots follow nature’s rule.And their stalk grows, as it has for centuries, in the middle of them all.And we laugh and drink our wine and rest fitting as perpendicular rays doat one pointin a nostalgic concave.in the feeling of warmth,

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yours and mine, two semispheres dug from beneath the leavesmagnetize and click into place; we are frozen in our own placein time, and our breath slows.

Listless she whispers fruits of comfortwake up love, it’s morningthrough the cornstalk vibrations of neuronsrelax, relax, it’s okaywaving hello in this pantheon of broken windowseverything’s okayand torn wicker basketsit’s just time to wake uptongue, a soaked Phrygian caplook, the sun’s high in the skyagainst my earlobe, almost an embrace, almost.okay?and how strange we becomeI love you.

46

Romanova ‘16

47

The Cold Cement HouseCaleb DimensteinThe tangled vines curl around like garden snakes feasting upon a prey.Their mossy green leaves curl, wrap, and fester around the cold cement.As I walk into my house of ages past, the lively family aura has altered into a mystical fairy tail Esque forest.The green array of vines covers my living room from top to floor.The moss from a tree stump that my house has engulfed slowly spreads to the floor where sprouts of grass are popping up like hair on a baby’s head.As I ponder into the European style kitchen my creaking bones echo throughout the hollow eerie house. Dusty frames of black and white photos cover the stovetop.

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As I dust away the photos, I long for the times of past where life was easier.The world was saferThe people were kinderSociety was peaceful where war and genocide were unimaginableAnd this house, my childhood, was not covered in natures prod-ucts.As I gaze outside the cracked windows of the unrecognizable house into the backcountry of my home village I sympathize for the house, feeling as if society has entangled me in its ever-chang-ing vines.

Hogan ‘16

49

A Page of Night Qiyuan Zheng

Deep night an explosion erupts, Losing sight, you feel an adrenaline rush.Among such dangerous and thunderous commotion, you ignore emotions and observe.“Nerves, where are they now?” you scream, “This situation is absurd!”

Finally, you question whether this is a dream.Admittedly, you’re terrified and want to scream.Gleaning your entire brain for facts, you found nothing to verify.Even though you feel wholly drained, this horror is making you feel electrified.

“Be real, this must be your hallucination.” Pangloss1 said.“No, boss, it’s time to call help” Martin2 voiced with dread.“Shut up!” You yelled uncontrollably. “Get out of my head and get lost!”“Get lost?” Martin remarked, “You just want to fly out here like an albatross.”

“Focus,” you tell yourself, “Stop panicking and call for help.”Scrambling back up, you hear a knell of a bell,Bringing your eyes up, you see a hall leading to hell.

You are oblivious of your location,Clueless about your directions,Truthfully lost in this labyrinth,Blue about your future and all your past sins.

The walls around you crumble,Stumbling, towards the hall you tumble,As your surroundings fall, you sprint down the hall like a cannon-ball.

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Past the sorcerer’s corridor, you find a cage that made your insides crawl.

Only now you feel petrified and lonely,It’s like your lifetime’s courage is all phony.You observe and realize that you’re the only one stuck in this trap,“Crap,” you thought, “this isn’t happening, am I here with no going back?”

Observing your surroundings with your sight,You find beyond the cage nothing but deep night.Along came a creature, entering your sight seething in rage.Restraining Phobos3, towards the creature you began to pace.

Imagining you’re on stage,Performing with so much at stake,You put on a confident face, walking to the edge of the cage.The creature hisses in anger, indicating danger of its hate.

It lunges forward, spewing venom.Menaced, you backed up from the demon.Kept outside your cage, it hissed in vexation: “You faulted me,”“Altered my life! This is my only wrathful opportunity!”

“Look around you,” it ordered,“ ‘Tis real, not some nightmare terror.”You shiver, scanning around the place from ground up.What you found around sent an icy blade of fear to your guts.

Here, there, they are everywhere,Screeching so loud you can’t hear.These demons spitting poison and cheering for your death, All at once yelling, telling you that you’ve been their Macbeth4.

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Backing off, stiffened, you realize the cage is shrinking rapidly,Before you can comprehend, you’re suffocating hopelessly.You crouch shrink with the cage, but found a sword on the floor shining bright,Desperately, you grip it, only to decide between suicide and losing the fight alive.

1. Character in the classic Candide by Voltaire, he is extremely optimistic and always hopes for the best

2. Another character in Candide, a pessimistic but extremely erudite philosopher.

3. Greek God for fear and horror

4. Character in Shakespeare known for his brutal tactics and murder of King Duncan.

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Lord, Forgive MeMackenzi Johnson

Your “I love you” isa curse to the Lord,it’s false hope,a black holepulling me in,quicksand, yetso slow,so curious,so angry.Nothing is definite,and with youHis forgiveness is uncertain.So I pray to Godyour “I love you”is not a collapse of a thousand skyscrapersbecause I believe you this time,and the Lord wont save mefrom the rubbleif I curse his name.

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LeMarche ‘1555

Time Jocelyn Emus

Time is flyingTo a destination unknownPassing and rolling in waves around usit skips byTick Tock, Tick TockIt drags us with it to our gravesWhere it passes over for another and anotherThe hourglass dripping sand piece by pieceThe cycle revolvesIt's quite dizzyingStep abroad to be lost in its voyageStart to endEnd to startIt surrounds us beating awayA lifeforce its ownAgeless to give us ageThe stubborn beat,Tick Tock, Tick TockNever ceases to reach our earsTimes wasting

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Emus ‘1657

Looking Up Catherine Paul

Old men drag flimsy lawn chairs onto fire escapesAnd gaze up at the stars.Many moons ago, as children, they looked upAnd searched the sky for the first starAnd chanted, enchanted:“Star light, star bright, the first star, I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I mightHave the wish I wish tonight--”And there was so much to wish for!“Please make me a fireman when I grow up…Or a baseball great, or President of the United States.”But now, the years ahead are fewerAnd the wish, when it comes,Is for peace, is for love, is for someone else.But now as then, despite dreams,That have fizzled and fallen like stars,There is hope that things will be a little betterAnd despite occasional clouds and stormsThat hide them from our view,The stars are always there-- A reminder of heavenWhen we are yearningFor something more.

This is a “borrowed line” poem. I took for my first line a line borrowed from Edward Hirsch’s poem “In Spite of Everything, the Stars.”

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Fenner59

Pretty Darn LuckyJohn (Jack) Chase The night’s air settles on me like viscous sludge. It fills my lungs with dead weight and my head with the incoherent babble of a thousand forest creatures. Plus, it makes my hair frizz up, but that happens in any kind of air. I swat at bugs that evaporate at my touch, but their friends come back in waves. Shlop. Shlop. Even the ground’s trying to pull me under. “What kind of forest is this, daddy?” “The first,” he says. He knows what I mean. Why can’t he just answer my questions with the right answer? I know he’s try-ing to teach me, but how am I supposed to learn if he responds with these silly existential responses. “And why does the ‘first forest’ seem so much like a jun-gle?” “That’s why,” he says as he stops walking and looks up. One tree, whose leaves are more black than the night behind the stars and whose leaves are as wide as I am tall. The damp air seizes my breath with a white mist, and my teeth chat-ter: it’s so much colder under these leaves. “Wow,” I utter. “Under King Walden, people aren’t allowed to come to this sacred place. Walden is afraid that people will regain their faith in Deagon and lose faith in their almighty king. Well, your mom and I won’t give up on this place, nor will we give up on Deagon, so we want our daughter to know... well, about this. And that there is something beyond our little tailor shop and our village and politics. There’s Love everywhere Renna; you just have to find it.” I rest my hand on the tree. It’s bark is smooth like skin and warm like a hug. It’s sheer size should be intimidating, but I feel more safe than anything. “I like it here, dad,” I say, as I slide my back down the trunk, resting my head back as I land on the mossy ground. “You’ve never seen Deagon, have you?” “No,” he responds, “but I believe I will-- some day.” “I think I’ve seen him in a dream or two, you said he’s a dragon, right?”

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“That’s right, the first of the dragons, and the friend to mortals. It’s also said that there are many, many other dragons like him, who look after us for their mother, Jawoh, the world herself.” The leaves rustle. One of those monstrous black leaves falls from the sky and lands in my palms. It covers both of my hands entirely. “Jawoh,” I whisper. As the wind picks up, dad says, “I know it was a long walk, but we have to head back now; we can’t let King Walden know we’ve disobeyed him, even though he’d be walking around butt naked without us.” I laugh and sigh, “Okay, but we have to come back again soon.” Then just above the trees, a brown blur flashes across the sky. Nearly soundless, except for the response of the trees, al-most reaching up to touch him. The animals of the forest make their sounds: squeaking, squawking, howling, chirping, and roaring. The grass becomes a little greener. The sun becomes a little brighter. The clouds disappear from the sky, making room for his majesty. Dad falls to his knees, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Just wait until your mom hears about this. I’ve come here countless times and have never seen even a hint of him, and the first day you ever see his tree, you see him swooping just above your head.” “I must be pretty darn lucky, huh, dad.” “You sure are, kiddo.”

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Wang ‘1662

Next Time Hannah Lowe

CrammedInABoxThatsGettingSmallerAndSmallerAndSmallerLate Nights. Early Mornings. EndlessRambling of unfathomable conceptsListen, take notes, study them, forget them, take a test… maybe you’ll do better next timeRepeat 4 times3 Hours later you’re taking off your sports equipmentAnd taking a deep breath for the first time that dayBut then there are talks of“nobody likes you” “you never try hard” “you don’t deserve this”But then you thinkI guess I do deserve thisBut maybe it’ll be better next time

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3 HaikusMichael Papettii.This time the book seemsA little closer than theSkin pressed against me.ii.Run rampant through streetsKeep the queer eye on my sideAnd watch the sunriseiii.Give me my sneakersI’ll be going out tonightI won’t be back soon

Emus ‘16

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DoneIsha MayorShe who frolicked in the meadowsDanced to every songLaughed at each jestSmiled at every being

Is confined deep inside her heartIrremediable deeds done upon herTactless is a kind thing to say

She who conversed with no soul leftSoliloquizes in fearTremulous mind lost all senseDignity snatched away

He who did this is not humanSqualid delinquent detainedHell is a lucky place for him

Her mind wanders in abject depressionLoss of world; loss of lifeSelf-esteem thrown awayJovial little soul crushed byAdverse destiny

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Pijaca ‘1666

Hogan ‘1667

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Mullaney ‘1669

Price ‘15

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Whittled-DownMiriam Tanenbaum

They never tell you how many times you have to run a knife through the dishwasher to get all of the dried blood off. Honestly it’s something Martha Stewart should cover, especially considering that she’s gone to prison. But maybe she’d only know how to get blood stains off a shiv. Well that would probably still be helpful, I mean they’re both objects made for impalement. But I doubt a prison-shiv is made of metal, it’s probably just a whittled-down toothbrush or something. So I guess that wouldn’t be very help-ful.

Thanks for nothing, Martha Stewart.

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Malloy ‘1672

The Nameless RulerEmma Berry

The sound of the crunching frozen ground beneath her feet seemed to echo throughout the woods. She thought for sure that the crunching would give her away. Emily Miller was running as fast as she could. She knew she did not have much time until they discovered what she had done. All she had wanted to do was provide for her family, and especially for her sick father. Her father had been struck ill by the synthetic food that They were providing for them. The citizens of her country had not eaten any real food in years. Her country, or what was left of it after the war, was ruled by Him. All the citizens referred to their ruler as “Him” because no one had ever heard his name. His identity remained a secret throughout the land, and that was one of the reasons that he was so feared. It is hard to start a rebellion to overthrow a nameless leader no one had ever seen. The war had devastated what were once rich and prosperous lands, and now there was barely enough for one person to live on. He had invented a serum that created the synthetic food that the people now were forced to eat. Every month He would send crates of the synthetic food, along with a certain number of water bottles, and a list of what each family of the village would get. At the end of the year at least ten people would die due to a disease that the food caused, including two members of Emily’s family.

Emily had been running for her life. She knew what she had done was wrong, but it had to be done. She knew running from them was hopeless. They would find her and bring her to Him, and she knew He would sentence her to death for what she had done. She was losing stamina and her body ached from head to foot. It felt as if she had been running for hours. She stopped briefly at a near by river to throw some of the cool water on her face. She knelt down and cupped the water in her hands and gently splashed on her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined a life different than the one she was currently living. She imagined large fields filled with endless amounts of grain, and gardens filled with

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an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. She imagined a life where she was not ruled by a man that no one knew the name of. Crack. Her eyes snapped open and in an instant her perfect imaginary world was shattered. She could hear the sounds of the soldiers yelling and marching quickly approaching. She faintly the heard the sound of the hunting dogs barking, and probably sniffing the ground trying to pick up her scent. She nervously looked around trying to find an escape route, but it was too late. They had found her.

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Price ‘1575

Box Megan KraljI was given lonely pack of stationary to move about,Then eventually granted a small box to generate ideas.The spark of a voice somewhere beyond these wallsCan even be turned into an interior weapon.

I better stop struggling so much.

If in the end I am just a number, another demographic,Then I must materialize my box in under 500 words.The simplicity of not wanting to be in the bottom of the stackLeads me to believe that the light will finally enter someday.

This box is much too perfect.

Examining, taking exams, and being examined is fine.In time’s test, I fear that my results will always be false.I am accomplished. I have achieved. I am in a closed box.Swimming like numbers, my prime perfection passes me by

I need to grow up even faster now.

“Can you write an analytical essay on Western philosophy?”“Can you recite every equation and approximation?”“Can you finish the test before everyone leaves you behind?”“Can you recite all of your lost hopes and dreams?”

What does “growing up” even mean?

Intoxicated by a self- induced hypnotism, it reeks in here.My life is a sheet. My personality is a supplement.And if my easy job is to be the best number, I won’t questionThe justice of confinement and the answers to yesterday’s home-work.

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Price ‘1577

That Pulled Pork Sandwich From the Old An Ode to Forgotten Zip Codes/The Food Truck on the CornerBy Anonymous

You always used to pass it, but never ventured in, knowing how bad it might be, how unhealthy, how dirty, how full of chemicals and grease and possibly-toxic barbecue sauce it might be.  But the pulled pork has an allure, one day, you see someone buy one, and it doesn’t look too bad, so you stroll over, tenta-tively, twisting your head left and right, making sure no one sees you approaching the smoking, reviled truck, you walk over in a ridiculous arch, just to be absolutely positively sure no one sees you.  You are excited, but you don’t want to show it.  You are also pretty grossed out by the prospect of putting a sandwich coming from that truck in your mouth, a mouth accustomed to scowl-ing at anything not certified organic. Before you know it, you’ve

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arrived at the ordering window.  The supposed owner has his back to you, a back riddled with hair.  A wife-beater is holding his plumpness together like a squeezed berry about to explode.  He turns around.  An absurd combover is the greasy icing on his cake of a face.  Cake meaning his face is caked with barbecue sauce and bits of pork.  You get it over with, “One pulled pork sandwich please.”  (Probably the first time he’s heard please all day)  “Ugrh, three feefty,” his reply is startling, his accent is oddly unplace-able.  His feet like cinder blocks, he thunders over to a grill in the back.  You see him slop the pork on a flimsy bun.  He comes back and hands you the sandwich on a paper platter.  You shove the money in his face, your hand shivering a bit, though it’s 75 degrees out and humid (nevermind the unbearably warm steam perpetually billowing out of the grill).  You walk away; the encounter was unceremonious.  Out of the corner of your eye, you peer a bench.  Afraid to eat your possible poison standing up, you stride towards the bench, again, afraid of being spotted.  You sit down, take a bite into the sandwich, and groan.  But it is a good groan, the sandwich is delicious.  For those moments of bliss deux sandwích, you forget your irrational fear of being seen with the pulled pork.  You are not in high school, the sandwich isn’t your parent.  It’s gone.  You get up, walk to your car, and drive home.  Later, sitting in an armchair, thinking of the day’s adventure, you realize the thing (delicious yet gross) you ate and quickly forget about it.  It was a one-time-thing, bound to be thrown into the bottomless pit of other forgotten one-time-things.  But, just before you fall asleep, you feel a longing in your stomach.  At first, you think you’re just regular hungry, but then, you know.  You miss the pulled pork.  Eventually, as the year goes on, the sandwich truck becomes a weekly tradition, and you learn to love all the greasiness and smoke of the pulled pork sandwich from the old, rattling truck.  At times, it almost feels like home.

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Renzoni ‘17

Crop CirclesMichael Papetti

We did not understand why it happened. We did not know how it happened. The only thing we could be quite sure of, and that was certainly unsure of us, was that it did happen.

I didn’t see love that night.

The group of us sat in circles,Talked in circles,Traced the circles of our eyes with soot.Lightly grazing fingernails on our skin betweenDesperate clawing.

We inhale the wisps of shriveling siliconeCoating our lungs with the future:Cancer-ful, cancer-free.

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Running fingers through our hair-Running hair through our fingers.Running through the empty fieldTowards a dim light and carbon copy eyes.From our leave-behinds on the road:

Smell the wheat as it burns butWatch the fire as we go.

We traced shapes into our thighs with blades of grass.Each cut we made was deeper than the last;Our faces bled through the air like balsa wood and plastic.Spinning like toy plane propellers-Crop dusters in circles.Circling the fields that we trapped ourselves inUntil the sprinklers came on.

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Malloy ‘16

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In All My ContemplationMackenzi Johnson I put a cigarette to my lips.I’ve been thinking about how he told me I’m a spitting image of toxic,how every chemicalworks together in perfect harmonyto strip the world of its charisma,to deepen the wound.

But his green eyes,they remind me of spring,righteous and alive,an end to a bitter winter,the answer to everyone’s prayer.

Every hand-sculpted column,every statue dedicated to a Goddess,every representation of love,I thought to myself,turns to rubble.Every wave crashes, and every flowerloses a petal or two,or three.

So when every chemicalstops working in perfect harmonyto keep me alive, I’ll wait for the smoke to kill me instead.Maybe, if he were right about me,being an expiration date,a death sentence,it would please him.

In all my contemplation,with a cigarette to my lips,I had forgotten to light it.

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Pijaca ‘1684

Dream ChaserMin Jun “Ryan“ Kim

On a glazing night,I look up to the sky very deep and deep.

I talk to all the stars upon,I looked at the sky,

They blinked and blinked. Filled with dreams and hopes.

I asked if I could reach my goals and dreamsthat I desire everyday.

Stars replied.My potentials. My dreams. My faith. My hope.

Are limitless.Just like the stars out there in the universe.

It is up to me.I can stay here keep dreaming about it orI can go back on my journey to chase it.

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Fenner

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The WallRaymond Reeves

When the Berlin Wall was constructed, families were split in two, workers were barred from their jobs,and military force tried to obliterate all thosewho dared oppose the wall.

Later more houses were torn downto build a buffer zone,filled with barbed wire and guards ready to shoot those who dared to cross.Ninety-six miles long, twelve feet high, the wall cut through the heart of Berlin,tearing apart lives strung in-between.

A year after the wall was constructed my grandfather built a house with an unfinished bomb shelter. He decided never to finish, as a world after nuclear holocaust would not be worth living in.

I was named Raymond after him. When I was 8 years old I played in that concrete bunker and wondered if perhaps that room was never finished because my grandfather had faith that mankind would not annihilate itself.

In my childhood bedroom, my parents allowed me to paint my ceiling with constellations. As I fell asleep each night, I would look up at the stars and give myself hope as I imagine a new to-morrow where I can break down all the walls between us.

Two generations of my family have lived through the Cold War;my mother was born at roughly the same timethe wall was built.A generation of progress stood

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between the truth my grandfather may have believed and me.Walls don’t need to be made from stone,but those that aren’t can still be broken.

At the beginning of the Cold War West Berlin was blocked. There was a massive airliftto help those cut off from the basic necessities for life,food and water. They dropped 8000 tons of material per day –with a plane landing or taking off once every 30 seconds. 

I was one of the last to be born in a hospital two blocks away, a building that no longer exists. Its new walls were erected eight blocks from here, so you see, I’ve come full circle. Keep in mind that not all walls are bad; these walls give life, comfort and aid the people in this neighborhood.

So, if you are to tell me that walls are to keep me from my dreams, I’ll remember the 5,000 Berliners that went over those walls to accomplish their dreamsreuniting with their families for a better future.And I’ll remember that twenty-eight years later the people tore down the wall, brick by brick, leaving no stone between.

So when I meet you, be patient while we tear down the walls together. No matter what reason there is for one, a wall is just a wall. It doesn’t matter how you get over it, whether with help or by yourself, just remember to ask for a hand if you need it.

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Mullaney ‘1689

LingeringReAnnen Hogan

I love the way my nameslips off your tonguelike honey in the heat of summer. I love the way you make it sound likemy name belongs to you and it’s safe between your lips forever.

I love the way your scent lingers on my skinlike rain in the air after a storm.I love the way it smells likeyour scent belongs to me and it’s safe in my skin forever.

I love the way your smile sticks to the back of my eyelidslike flower petals on the water.I love the way you make it look likeyour smile is because of me and it’s safe between your dimples forever.

I love the way my heart beats for yourslike autumn leaves to the ground.I love the way it feels like my heart belongs to you and it’s safe with yours forever.

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Azizi ‘1591

The Declaration of (Semi)IndependenceHiliana MeloForty-five dollars and eighty-three cents, that’s what the cashier says. I swipe my brand new debit card and sign my name. With this gesture, I declare my independence. For the first time in my life, I went to the supermarket by myself to buy groceries and other useless luxuries that would only belong to me and no one else, the world never seemed so scary. I could almost feel the um-bilical cord being ripped off as I walked alone through the store. Not long ago my mom would knock on my door on a Saturday morning and ask if I wanted to go shopping with her. I always went shopping with her. It was my favorite Saturday activity; even though I had to spend the whole morning listening to her say that inflation was going to make us starve to death. Now as I walk by the shelves, I find myself wishing that my mom was here with me, and I realize that this single wish goes against all the efforts that I have made to fight against my Latin American heritage.    I come from a traditional Latin American family. I’m the second child of four children, with parents that are distant cousins and have been married for almost twenty-five years; I also have a maid that has been working in my house for at least fourteen years and who I see as a second mother. We can be considered the perfect example of a Latin American family: numerous, loud, and above all very close. It is widely agreed in Brazil and all other Latin American countries, for that matter, that our first responsibilities are within our families, or as we say in Brazil: a familia vem pri-meiro. (the family comes first). This was statement that I always tried to fight, but like a riptide it always pulled me back. If you would ask me four months ago what I really wanted, I would say be dragged out of that dependent, family-based reality in which I was part of.After I came to an American boarding school all of that changed. Friday’s family dinners became late night hang outs with friends; the laugh of siblings became the smirk of people that I had never seen before and mother and daughter grocery shopping time became lonely walks through supermarkets. That was when I realized what freedom really is. On the one hand I had my new-

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ly gained independence, on the other, the fear and insecurity of being all by myself for the first time. What those first four months taught me was that independence is not acquired instantly. It is a process, a wall that is build block by block. It also isn’t an all or nothing situation, now I feel like I can wish for my parents to tell me what to do without hurting my short wall. I will probably never get used to this independence-mad world that I wished for when I was younger and now is my reality. Nevertheless, I would never be happy if I had stayed at home and done what thousands of people have done before. Even if I change and become some-one different, I know that deep inside I will always be the good child from the well respected Latino family, and like we say in Brazil, good children always come back home.

Emus ‘16

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DePersio ‘15

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InnocenceMoira Mullaney

As my vision is blurred by the snowflakes glued to my eyelashes The world is silent but I hear my heartBeating out of my chest

Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear visionNeed a clear mindNeed a clear heart

You are all that I seeYou are all that I feelYou are everywhere

Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear visionNeed a clear mindNeed a clear heart

I wish I could erase the scars on my heart with a shake of an Etch A SketchEvery mistake, every broken promiseComes crashing down on meThe weight of the world is on my backMy knees buckle from the pressureI fall to the groundMy lungs are being crushedI can’t breathe I can’t seeThe recipe of snow, tears & mascara creates a beautiful disaster across my faceA heartbreaking piece of art

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Heart beating Eyelashes beating Must get a clear visionNeed a clear mindNeed a clear heart

Shining snow crystals gleam & with every step I take there is a wink in my directionI stop.Laying down on my back in the snow

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Carroll ‘1698

A Crisis of the Wandering MindOlivia Lockbaum

What will you do with your life?Or on the smaller scale,

What will you do with today?The question

Is not a matter of what you can doIt is a matter of what you will do.

What’s stopping you?Stick it to the man

Screw the fedsGet a tat

Give yourself dreadsSit in a tree

Go on a hikeSpend $1000Ride a bike

Across the statesTravel far

Sleep outdoorsWatch the stars

Search the GalaxiesSearch your mindMake a mixtapeTry being kindKiss a friendTake a strollSkinny dip

Search your soulDive through the sky

Sail through the cloudsPray to something

Make yourself proudBuy a ticket

Going one wayProtest something

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Carpe diem//seize the daySing

Take a tripGo to churchPierce your lip

Learn what you wantForget what you don’t

Climb a peakDo

What you normally Don’t

We all crave adventureGo after it.

Just don’t conformYou weren’t created To be anyone else

Fear nothingFor that’s what holds you back

Laugh a lotDo something new

So what’s preventing you?Money?

Money is created to be spentPeople?

Who cares what they thinkRemember

Opinions are finiteBut memories last as long as you do.

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Pijaca ‘16

Underground John (Jack) ChaseThe man across from me sits plain and ‘lone.Two scar’d eyes upward ‘ligned do read while red;their faded blue stare through the cracked stoneunphas’d they see true what all live to dreadA tear rolls down his cheek but not of fearI ask, “Are you alright, sir, you’ve just shed--”“For all my life I have been blind, my dear,today my wife passed, but I’ve seen clear:she told me, ‘All is right,’ when all was not,‘your eyes show black as night when all is bright,’but only when she’s out of sight, I grasp:in love, she steer’d me to what I’d forgot,‘but sight does show life’s old pieces and fightsall human’ty’s sought,’ I see now God at last.”

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StressJocelyn Emus

The pressure is on,An inevitable force,Forced upon us all

Boulders resting atop your chest,Getting underneath the bone,Underneath the nerves

To drag you downAdding weight by weightSinking into the abyss of no return

Heavier the world becomes,Never resting, eyes blood-shot,Open to the black flame

As the gray mist sets in,Resting in our lungs,Gravity clings to us

Ready to make the greatest fall,To crack our insides open,Clinging on until the end

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Su ‘15

Cleansing RitualEmma BerryAs she let the steam fill up her lungs, she looked upseeing the pattern of the tiles clinging to the wall. Her naked body let the tumbling showers caress her. The hot drops comforted her, not letting a single piece of skin be untouched. She closed her eyesand held her breath. As her pulse began to slow, her mind came to a stop. Those thoughts that haunted her, became absorbed by the cleansing waters. Trickling down the ends of her hair, to the tips of her fingers, sliding down her legs and into a puddle surrounding her feet. She stepped aside, opening her eyes, and watched as the thoughts slowly make their way to the drain. She gasped-- As she let the steam fill up her lungs.

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Carroll ‘16

PhilophobiaMackenzi JohnsonDo you fear a whirlpool? Even if it spirals into glory?Do you fear a nebula?Even if the star is the most beautiful light your eyes have ever known?Do you fear the crash of a wave?Even if your skin embracesevery grain of saltthe ocean has to offer?

Philophobia:the intense fear of falling in love,resulting in solitude.

You clench your jaw,and your hands tremble

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at the thought of him.You’re alone in this universe,surrounded by dead air,just trying to catch your breath.He touches you, and your skin tingles with unwanted excitement.Everything is spinning now,the way you imagine a tornadoreaching for every window,every nail, every leftover crumb,so unforgivingly appreciating what you overlooked,but you were never actually scared,because you never actually expected it to touch the ground.

For fear of oblivion,or for fear of heaven,for fear of drowning,or for fear of floating,for fear of the unknown,or for fear of knowing all there is to know,you ran.

Nothing was safe there.

So you put yourself into the middle of the ocean,where the waves rose above the moon,where you had nowhere to run,where he couldn’t reach you,where your skin embraced every grain of saltthe ocean had to offer.Stars would explode,in the name of love,but not you.You would crawl into

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a whirlpool of glory,and spiral into the ground,having loved every day of your life,without even knowing it.

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Renzoni ‘17107

StigmaMegan KraljMy world reeks of parasitic rancor,With no chitin to hide my bitter laughter.The roach –micro monster –merely waits forMasses to trod upon dreams sought after.Stepp’d on incessantly, casting sighs deaf—Crush the stigma, whose hydraulics betterAdorn splatter’d flooring. 6e 6f!This decaying fate is its fetter.The sole hero is that, “degradation,”Guarding the door to her true corruption,Arised from that disease: human cruelty.She wields the key, a thousand year naivety.

For if wisdom reach’d her, like a cruel tune,We should fall to that corruption too soon.

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Carroll ‘16109

How To Be Happy And Have Lots of FriendsMichael PapettiYou sit alone tapping in your room. You’ve noticed that the keyboard clacking you make has begun to keep tempo with your clock.You stop.It hangs on the wall. They synchronicity bothers you. You decide to take a break. You’ve been typing all night on something that will never get done. Hopeless. Take a breath. Stop what you’re doing and notice the light has been peeking from behind your curtain for some time now. You can tell because the beams of light have reached the corner of your face. It keeps patches of your cheek warm as you have been still for quite some time now. The rest of the house is cold. That is the best way to describe it. Not a nail biting event in which you require every blanket in your household. It is a raw type of cold. Your skin is chapped as you look around your room. Bottles of things, books, cups, a blanket on the floor. Pants strewn on chairs. The phone rings.“Hey, I have an idea.”You ask what it is.“Come outside and I’ll show you.”You pull on some clothes and wander down into your house. You open your refrigerator. It doesn’t have much in it. A bottle of mustard, milk, various types of alcohol that you like to keep refrigerated, a half dozen eggs, and some bread. You grab some alcohol and an egg. Breakfast of champions.You walk outside with a glass and a hard boiled egg some minutes later. Your friend has been waiting for you. He seems different some how. But you don’t know exactly how different. It’s definite-ly something though.“Hey, looks like you had a good night.”You explain to him how you were working all night on a book.“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep working like this. Why don’t you just take a break. It’s been months.”He’s right. You just don’t want to admit to him. He’s always such a jerk. He always tries to help you but it’s never for just you.You ignore his last comment and ask what his idea was.

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“Okay, listen. Here’s the thing. You know that?”He points at it. You look and nod. You are perfectly aware of it. It is there at every second. It waits and does nothing. It has for your entire life. Before your parents, before their parents. Before everyone. It has slipped through the cracks of time and space and remains there waiting for you. For you.It bothers you sometimes. Most of the time. It’s there though. When it doesn’t bother you, it’s only because you forget it’s there. You’ve lived with it so long, you’re only ever aware of it when people point it out now.“It’s been here as far back as I remember. It’s ever present, always waiting. Somehow cant avoid it, right?” He doesn’t wait for you to nod this time.

“I found a way to get rid of it.”

You laugh at him and tell him he’s full of it. You begin to walk away but he’s usually right, right about everything. You don’t want to know what happens when it goes away. You’ve never wanted to know.“I know you want it to go away, everyone does!” he calls after you.You know.You turn around on your doorstep. He is twenty feet away from you. You ask him to tell you how. You notice once again that there is something different about him.“You can kill it.”Realization.It’s gone.Well, his is. You look around to the people walking down your street. Theirs are there. Yours is here. His is gone. There is nothing there where it usually is or, was. Why. How. You ask him these things.“You think about killing it.”Everyone has thought about killing it. If they didn’t, they were dead early. You live with it. It is yours forever. Much like a best friend, you think about killing it and the consequences. Would

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you miss it? “It’s much better without it.”You ask if you can write about it.“Yes. Just focus everything on the urge to kill it and it will die. You will never have it again. It’ll be gone for the rest of your life.”It sits there close to you. You don’t know if it can hear him. If it does, wouldn’t it do something? It never does anything. It just waits for you. And follows you, like a sad red balloon held by a little girl. But the string is stapled to your mind. Someone, some-thing put it there when you woke. You know it couldn’t be just you. You thank your friend and go inside.You go back into your house and sit back down on your comput-er and begin typing.You forget.The next morning you call your friend. It’s still there in the morning, waiting. You get frustrated at him and tell him that it’s impossible to think about killing it.“Fine, alright, maybe I’m asking too much. It took me a while. Okay, stay inside tonight and just look at it. Try to focus as much as possible toward it.”He hangs up.You look at the thing all the time, you could draw it right now if you wanted to. You try thinking about what it looks like.You can’t remember what it looks like.It was dark. This is the only thing you can remember without looking at it. You turn around and it’s there. It takes a while to try and focus on it as though it’s translucent. It is shapeless, you think, although you are unsure because you try to trace the shape of it with your eyes. Each movement of your corneas moves it to your peripherals and you lose focus with it once again. Staring at the middle of it makes the rest of it disappear. You discover how terribly hard it is to look it head on without losing it.After a few hours of sitting on your bed staring at it, you begin to sort out the best way to follow it.As you look in the middle, the edges disappear so look at the top of it. It will drop down so you can only feel it hovering below your nose. Watch it from below but look ahead. Just as you just now became suddenly aware of the sides of your nose, you be-

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come aware of it resting there too. It tries to swerve and wobble its way around but you have your eyes ahead and moving back and forth so you it balances right below you. You stare at it for who knows how long but it starts to move back into your vision and none of it disappears. It is entirely in your vision. The black translucent shapeless thing that sits in front of you is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever set eyes on now that it exists in the forefront of your mind. Your entire life has felt this ever present thing hover behind you just in your peripherals waiting for you. As you look to it, I looks into you, or it feels like that. It is morn-ing. Maybe it was already morning but something in the back of your head made you realize it was morning. Maybe you could see that too eventually.You call your friend and tell him that you can see it now. It’s always in your vision now.“Now kill it.”You forgot that that was the goal. You have grown awfully fond of it as it is in your vision now. You hang up without a goodbye.It comes closer to you. It has never moved before now but yet it always has moved. It always moved closer but you never re-membered it. Soon, it is so close that the only thing you see is the shade of it. The translucent black. The shapeless horror. It encapsulates you. Holds you close. It is cold but comfortable. It is natural, it is present. It is company. You realize that you could never kill it as it has always been there. It always will be there.Then it scratches you.You only feel a small pain at first but soon, each of it’s countless fingers dig into your skin. You try your hardest to push it away, to kill it. You cant move as it sinks into you, an infinite number of tiny daggers peeking into a gap where it used to be long ago, before your humanity could ever fathom. Where it was before all this. It looks into you one last time as it disappears, the shapeless-ness seems to turn to smoke as the last whips of it fall down your throat.It is where it has always belonged.You call your friend and explain what happened.“I know,” he says, “I’m sorry. It happened to me too.”

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You realize why.After it leaves the sides of your eyes, your awareness and into you, the only way to describe how you feel is alone. It is not by your side waiting for you anymore. It does not sit at the horizon of your consciousness. You realize the true vastness of your sur-rounding as you look around and see that there is nothing occu-pying this space.You sit on the phone in silence with him. Then you have an idea: simply tell everyone about it. Soon they will all know.You hang up and open your computer, go to the internet. You begin typing.You sit alone tapping in your room. You’ve noticed that the keyboard clacking you make has begun to keep tempo with your clock.

You stop.

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LaMarche ‘15

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Forsaken DestinyReAnnen Hogan

Waves crash unto me.Salt burns my remaining scars,As I escape fate.

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Carroll ‘16

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Escape John (Jack) Chase

A nap at noon under the sunthe tangles of stress unknot, I human anvil on weary lidsa grassy bed for a locked kidI dream of mages, masters, sagesdragons locked in timed cagesaway from desk, societal staresI drift away, the darkness snaresA genuine smile cross my facecramping muscles stuck like paste

Envy, contagion, broken heartsmy eyes are dams, but never parta hero, brave, an honor’d manfighting ‘gainst himself, a sham

Romanova ‘16

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Dams look into sky for helppainful pressure consume, engulfa diversion play’d night by nightstarry actors, moon ends the plightthe hero made it through this fight

Frozen inhale, energysteamy exhale, synergyIt takes me back to fantasylong ‘nough to end introspecttime is up, circumspect

Imagination made your chains.Fire reigns and fire rains.To home anew to better pains.

Kessler ‘17119

Price ‘15

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AloneMoira Mullaney

Do you ever just feel alone?LonelySitting in a crowded roomLaughing with a group of friendsLonely Alone in your roomAlone in your head Lonely

Sometimes being alone is peacefulOnly your own thoughts to hearPeaceful Sometimes being alone is scaryOnly your own thoughts to hear Scary Sometimes being alone is safeNo one to hurt you Safe Sometimes being alone is cruelNo one to help you Cruel Sometimes being alone is beautiful Dancing around the room Beautiful Sometimes being alone is overwhelming What is lifeOverwhelming

Being alone is the worst and best thing to be.

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The Cricket Miriam Tanenbaum

7:34 PM 9/3/14:

There’s a cricket outside my window. It won’t shut the hell up. Shut the hell up, cricket. No one wants you here. I told Dennis to go outside and kill it, but he refused. Of course he did. He’s too nice to do anything like that. Hopefully it’ll go away by the time we go to bed.

2:28 AM 9/4/14:

It didn’t go away. Dennis is fast asleep.

9:21 PM 9/8/14:

I’d clearly thanked my lucky stars far too soon. The cricket is back. After a five day respite, my faith in god is now dwindling thanks to this goddamn cricket.

12:46 AM 9/17/14:

I’m kind of coming to expect this from the cricket. Apparently it’s been nine days. I’ve been able to sleep soundly, so that’s a plus. So has Dennis. He’s had no problem with it, as usual. That man always sleeps like a baby, and he gets pissed when I’m grumpy in the morning. It’d been good to not be as grumpy in the morning. Getting sleep is good. I have a feeling that, that may end now, though. Well, here goes nothing.

9:12 PM 9/18/14

I slept alright last night. The cricket chirped, but it wasn’t too loud. It was okay.

7:53 PM 9/21/14:

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I saw a big green bug while I walked Panda last night. I think it might have been the cricket. It didn’t chirp at all, it just looked at me a bit. It was kinda cute. Panda tried to chase him, but the cricket just stood still, so I took Panda into the backyard and played fetch for a while.

8:31 PM 9/27/14:

Dennis broke up with me today. He took me out to a nice dinner, too. That asshole. Even when he’s being a dick, he has to do it nicely. Thank god for the industrial-sized tub of Ben & Jerry’s I have in the freezer. Well, that, and Panda. And the Cricket. May-be when I’m going to sleep tonight I won’t feel as alone after all.

12:23 AM 9/28/14:

The Cricket’s been chirping for about three hours straight. He’s always been nothing if not persistent, but this is new for him. It kinda seems like he’s telling me goodnight. Thanks, little buddy.

10:43 AM 9/28/14:

There’s a kind of calm that washes over you after you cry for a good, long, while. It makes you feel like maple syrup, sinking, slowly but surely, into whatever surface you are placed on. Shit. Now I’m hungry. I’m gonna make pancakes.

11:30 AM 9/28/14:

I gave a pancake to Panda. Maybe that wasn’t the greatest idea, but his tail wagged a lot when I did it. It’s good to know I can still make someone happy. I don’t know if crickets can eat pancakes, but I put some outside, too. Just in case.

2:29 PM 9/28/14:

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I think there may be a few bites out of the pancake.

9:32 PM 9/28/14:

The Cricket’s really loud tonight. Maybe it’s a sugar rush.

7:17 PM 10/7/14:

It’s getting dark earlier now. I like it. It means that the Cricket comes out earlier. He just started singing for the night.

8:34 PM 10/10/14

I think Panda is starting to like the Cricket, too. He’s sleeping in my bed again, which he hasn’t done since Dennis moved in.

9:53 PM 10/24/14:

Dennis called me today, he said something about how he missed me, I think. I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the Cricket. I hung up the phone and deleted his number. All-in-all, I’m glad it’s over between us.

11:12 PM 10/31/14:

Some kids came over to the house to Trick-or-Treat tonight. They were cute. There were a bunch of ghosts, vampires, and witches. None of them were particularly original, but I gave them candy anyway. I hope it makes them happy. One of them said he could hear a cricket coming from my backyard. I smiled and told him that he was a smart kid.

6:43 PM 11/09/14:

The days are getting short now, and it’s getting cold. I like this weather, it changes things. We’re supposed to be getting some snow on Tuesday night. I’ve started running in the mornings, and

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sometimes I hear the Cricket. IPods are overrated, anyway.

10:45 PM 11/11/14:

I’ve only recently noticed that I’ve started going to sleep earlier. I don’t know whether or not this is a good thing. The Cricket is chirping pretty loud tonight, maybe it senses that a storm is coming.

9:10 AM 11/12/14:

We wound up with a foot of snow! Jeez, and all this before Thanksgiving. This is crazy. The Weatherman did not tell me about this.

9:10 PM 11/12/14:

I can’t hear the Cricket.

10:32 PM 11/12/14:

I don’t hear him chirping.

11:43 PM 11/12/14:

Where are you, little buddy?

12:02 AM 11/13/14:

There’s so much snow. I went outside, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I’ll check again tomorrow morning.

9:32 AM 11/13/14:

I still couldn’t find him.

1:42 PM 11/13/14:

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I brought Panda out to help me find the Cricket. He sniffed around a bit, but didn’t find anything other than a comfortable place to pee.

8:39 PM 11/13/14:

There’s no sign of The Cricket. There’s no chirping.

11:43 PM 11/13/14:

It’s too quiet to sleep.

1:42 AM 11/14/14:

Come back, little buddy. Please.

3:21 AM 11/15/14:

Please.

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Autumn has WindJulia Harvey

Autumn has windWinter has frostSpring has many flowers And Summer has blue skies

The four seasons leave behind a profound impression for each person

Autumn’s wind is strong but calmingWinter’s white frost looks like a winter wonderland.The many beautiful flowers of Spring are all bloomingAnd Summer’s pleasantly warm air makes everyone happy

秋有风冬有霜春有好多花儿夏有蓝天

四季给每个人留下很深的印象

秋天的风又凛冽又平静冬天白色霜看起来像冬季仙境春天好多美丽花都绽放夏天的温暖的气候暖和空气让大家很惬意

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Hogan ‘16

The RyeMichael Papetti

What really happened in Chicago was all a lie to meThe warmth, the warmthFelt like orange juice for a dollarThe air reeked of keroseneShe died in the summerOf 85 along with Grampa and they all went to Her funeral.

Don’t cop a feelBear like hands Sunk into seduction oneLast time.No, we wont.We wont go ridingWith that one.

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Lack in kissesAnd caramel dollar billsTasting plastic and Drinking corduroy.

Teddy wasn’t old enoughTo drown in orangeJuice and liveIn kerosene.

Renzoni ‘17129

Castro ‘15

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Starry Night Yadi(Andy)Wang

Sometimes alone I look up at the starry night, and the onlything with me is countless stars from the sky.Remember old days you and I, peaceful town and the same sky, but brilliant dreams are too easy to die. Lonely is missing someonewho is not by my side. Millions of peoplemet in my life, but only a few did not say good-bye. Someone and Itogether laughed and cried, who left and no longer back to my life. O, starry night, forthousands and thousands of years, neitherchanges nor lies. O, starry night, your beauty of eternal silence is hard to describe. We’reall connected in your gentle eyes. We’re all relaxed in your charming smiles. O, starry night, pleasehold me tight; I know one day all my secrets and memories will be about to die, but you will still stay alive.

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AsthmaJack Baker

“You are only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.”

A great friend of mine used to say that.I didn’t exactly know him. Although, he did talk to me very often.Years ago, madness sparked upon me.I couldn’t bear to go on with my life anymore.I found it too extreme to breath the same air as the pricks on this planet.I tried to see what a clean slate would be like.Help from others was like an emotional inhaler.Now I have been breathing easy.My friend inspired me to do as he had done.It was only until he couldn’t bare the breath that we had inhaled.My cards fell from my hands like a bridge that had reached its breaking point.My heart had skipped a beat, from the miss of oxygen that my lungs had weaped for.My friend started over.Look at his face on magazines, you’ll see the pain eyes like a dried up ocean.I guess for years he has been struggling with this asthma of pain.I didn’t know Robin, but I still feel that we knew each other.

“If heaven exists, to know that there is laughter, that would be a great thing.”

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Decomposing ThoughtsMegan Kralj

Sole contact with glistening tilesPlease work your magic, cold integrityA shiver travels up my spineWhile cleanliness weaves itself through the air

Not truly being, yet consuming reality Cellular snowflakes searching for soulsHow do I respond as the populace raise their heads?My trembling fingers graze the walls

The why do we truly seek ourselves?What about our idiosyncratic paradoxes?Is there truly an orthodox hatred?

So what do we make in light of this world?How about the technicolor stains on the wall? All of this miserable bliss is incomprehensible

Told you so.Ha ha ha ha ha.

Numbers and words conceptually blendSynthesizing an organic sound.Life will love me to bits‘Till there only remains pulsing, fleshy cubes.

And we can paint a future by smearing the past. And we can evaporate both smiles and tears. For the sake of sanity For the sake of eternity For raw, dripping emotionI stand here and remain as a concept.

So how do we truly understand?

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Is there even a defined infinity for our minds? What about the idea of a real knowledge?

Why are these thoughts decomposing? Will this rotting mess ever be cleaned up? I definitely don’t want it to be.

Well, there. You. Go.Ha ha ha ha ha.Ha ha ha ha ha.

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JJ ‘15135

Isackson ‘15

The night at Maunakea PeakUna Zhang

The night at Maunakea peakThe sun is rushing to the other side of the seaStage is left for the super starsTo shining all over the placeLightning people all over the mountainTwinkling and twinkling, shining and shiningLike a hundred fireworks burn at onceLike a hundred glowing confetti falling and dancingNot even one single spot is left for darknessAll reserved for those blinking diamondsAmazed people growing up among forest of concrete and steelsOnly lights and neon take the rolesAmazed people like meLooking into the skyThinkingSomewhere in the spaceSomeone must be also astonished by the starry nightJust like me

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Sebag ‘15137

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Sadhujan ‘15139

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