Boston University Academy Literary Magazine May 2010

Table of Contents

I Need To Pee, Josephine Massey 1

Versus, Eliza Zhitnik 2

Artwork by Sophia Wedeen 3

A Thousand Roads to Paradise, Alessandra Davy-Falconi 4

A View of Spring, trans. William Maness 17

The View in Spring, trans. Jonathan Chau 17

Under the Moon, the Wine is Poured in Solitude, trans. Ben Wilsker 18

Magic Man, Marshalle Grody 19

Artwork by Emily Clancy 22

Sister, Dagny Dukach 23

Ghosts, Dagny Dukach 24

Artwork by Josephine Massey 25

Solitude, C.J. Masdea 26

Nothing’s Secret, Nassim Hosseinzadeh 29

Provisions, Nassim Hosseinzadeh 30

Side Effects, Nassim Hosseinzadeh 30

Artwork by Samira Alam 31

Endgame, Eliza Zhitnik 32

Artwork by Alessandra Davy-Falconi 34

Untitled, Gianpaolo Carpinito 35

A Brief Excursion into Fiction, Nassim Hosseinzadeh 39

Artwork by Reif Larsen 41

Disgusting, Nassim Hosseinzadeh 42

Snakes, Eliza Zhitnik 43

Orange Ooze, Josephine Massey 46

Indian-Boy, Alessandra Davy-Falconi 47

Thoughts on E, Eliza Zhitnik 50

Empty Hall, C.J. Masdea 53

Exhale, Lauren Mandelbaum 54

Front Cover: Alessandra Davy-Falconi Back Cover: Ariela Tisdale

Josephine Massey ‘11

1

I Need To Pee

I am afraid to go upstairs

For I will probably go to sleep

This works with the amazing induction that if I see my bed

I will lie on it

And if I lie on it

I will fall into the oh-so passionate safety of sleep

Which takes me away from my work and my worries

Why would you need drugs when you have TempurPedics and pillows?

To make you illusioned into divinity times three?

I don’t know... but I do know

I need to pee

And the bathroom is in my room

Which also contains my bed

Surprised by my bluntness three lines ago?

You would be too if you needed to pee as a consequence of caffeinated tea and gummy frogs at two in the morning

Damn life and damn Vonnegut

I bet once I dream tonight, if I ever do reach that sublime state,

All I’ll be able to think about are Tralfamadorians

And time

and how I have no time

right now in this sinking chasm of mortality

which includes the sad condition of needing to pee

I mean what retard invented the bladder?

Seriously?

I need to pee

Eliza Zhitnik ‘13

2

Versus

Mother stared down at daughter. "See that?" she said, pointing toward the distance." One day all that will be yours."

"How unfortunate," the daughter replied.

"Oh, come on."

"No."

Both of them peered back over at the far off horizon, faces expectant and apprehensive, respectively.

"And," the mother said, "you're smart: you'll make a mark on the world."

"You know what else made a mark on the world? The atomic bombs we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Actually, they made indentations."

"But you're smart."

"Hitler was smart."

"... He didn't go to private school."

"Oh, that makes everything better."

The duo still gazed outward at the blazing line of the sky meeting the earth.

"But," the mother tried again, "you're creative and open-minded; you'll help people."

"They have robots that do that now. If they can grade MCAS tests, they can dish out money."

"But they can't care.""Neither can people."

"... Sure they can..."

"Nice try."

Once more, their eyes met the distance and it seemed so far away.

"Still," the mother said, "all that's going to be yours one day."

"Still," the daughter said, "that's unfortunate."

Sophia Wedeen ‘13

3

Alessandra Davy-Falconi ‘12

4

A Thousand Roads to Paradise

“Are you depressed?”

“No.”

Her answer was recorded in three places on a page of blue. The lady had a packet of papers, Vivian had a packet of papers, and if they ever ran out the lady had piles of packets of papers on her desk, in her desk, and on her shelves. And for all of their different colors and purposes and frames, they all asked the same questions: first name, last name, nickname, do you burn yourself, harm yourself, consider ending your life, etc. Have your parents beaten you? Raped you? Verbally abused you? Have you been told not to describe your beatings, rape, and/or verbal abuse? Maybe that’s all they did in preliminary sessions: had people enter their lives in neat little rows, in checked boxes and phone numbers and an x for every line that applied.

“Do you have any friends?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I have one person I talk to.”

“Is it because you feel—weird?”

“No. I generally,” she smiled and half-laughed, “dislike people.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” the lady sat back in her chair and scribbled a bit more with her pen. “It seems to me that you have a grumpy, moody attitude. Does that sound accurate?”

Vivian smiled.

“Did your parents graduate from college?”

“Yeah. So?”

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“It’s on the form.”

She felt out of place, among the quiet elevators and the people with their sickly brick-wall smiles; everybody who didn’t work there felt strange. Mental hospitals were for movies and art and ideas, not for the people themselves.

Every person who enters a mental hospital is ill, unless he is a doctor; every visitor in Vivian’s was in a constant state of evaluation, families and patients alike, all the nurses noting which area the intruders belonged to: residential, placement offices, group therapy, danger of elopement.

The insane were under the universal thumb of the sane, blank sheets of people without personalities inside the outlines given by other people, lost and retarded and meant to be pitied. They had to be given instructions and treated kindly without real consideration for what they did because they didn’t know what they were doing. It was almost like being shamefully back in preschool; the adults had two voices, one normal and one stern yet loving, and it was a good thing the kids were finally there so the world didn’t have to think for them.

Vivian could think. More than anybody else, about unknown things, worlds only she could see, filled with all the magic she’d ever read about in books or seen in movies with a bit of her own sparkled onto them. And because she still believed in fairies, her mother had brought her to that special kind of hospital nobody likes to say they need.

“What kind of a student are you?”

“Average.”

“As, Bs, Cs?”

“Not bad. Average.”

“Hmm. Is school hard?”

“No.”

“Why not As, then?”

“I’m not interested.”

“So you don’t like any of your classes?”

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“No.”

“So what interests you?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders. It was fun. She was angry.

“Did you have any interests before?”

“Before what?”

“Before anything, any time in your life, any partition you’ve put up…”

“Not particularly.”

They paused.

“Do you have frequent mood swings?”

“‘Mood swing’ is just what stupid people say when they intervene in complicated peoples’ lives.”

“So—do you have mood swings?”

Vivian smiled. “Do you? Do you ever get really angry over something you think is small or feel anything more than lukewarm because of something somebody else tells you is the wrong reason?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Neither did you.”

She nodded and marked again. Vivian looked at her hands.

“Oh, here’s another thing you have to sign.”

Vivian looked at it. “What’s it for?”

“It’s your bill of rights.”

“Does it do anything?”

“Nope.”

Vivian signed it. She made every letter different: one i-dot with a circle, one v without a point at the bottom, the sides of the n going in

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different directions. Name-drawing, she called it, but Malabyn always told her she shouldn’t do things like that.

“Was it your idea to come here?”

“No.”

“Whose was it?”

“My mom’s.”

“Did you come willingly.”

“Yes.” It was a useless lie.

She put her clipboard on her desk and sat back in her chair, letting the back lean.

“So tell me, when did you start having hallucinations?”

“Never. I have never hallucinated in my life.”

“Okay. How about the dreams?”

“I don’t remember if I’ve ever dreamed in my life.” Vivian always remembered. There just wasn’t much difference between being awake and dreaming.

“What about day dreams?”

“I don’t day dream.”

The lady folded her hands.

“It seems you haven’t realized you need some help right now.”

“I don’t think I’m mentally ill. Everybody else does, though. Even people I don’t know who couldn’t possibly know a thing about me.”

The lady smiled and ran a hand through her hair.

“So what do you see that bothers your mother?”

“Lots of things.”

“Such as?”

8

“Her dyed hair, her old pajamas, her husband’s rotten qualities. Her taste, his ideas, her servitude to him…”

“Vivian, I think you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

“Your mother mentioned that you see this unicorn called Malabyn, along with ‘magical’ beings she says you talk to. She used words like ‘obsessed,’ ‘infatuated,’ ‘possessed—’”

“So.”

“She also mentioned that you’re often in a daze where you speak to these various creatures and that this has been happening more lately. Is she right?”

Vivian looked down at her hands.

“I find it hard to believe that your mother would make this up. It’s not easy for her to bring you here.”

“I know it. I also don’t care.”

“So you’re not going to tell me today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well,” she straightened her above-knee-length skirt and folded her hands again. “That’s okay, we can wait a little bit. I’ll just call in your mother so that we can wrap up this visit and schedule the next one. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure.”

When Vivian’s mother came in, she looked like the ideal worried parent, dark eye-circles and all. And she was worried, but stupidly. Vivian had no need to be worried about; she was safer than the world and all its false reality.

Vivian, quiet, peaceful Vivian, was there, at this institution of sad-faced people who would rather be dead than alive, and who were escorted about by happy, confident people who thought they were on top of the world. She should never have shared her world, she knew it then, but step into an asylum once, and the footprint remains for eternity; time was too far gone to go back.

9

They would be back in less than a day, and sitting in their old car as the outside blended by, Vivian remained silent. Her mother spoke to her, reminding her they were only trying this out to see if it would help. It wasn’t right to believe in these things at her age, she said, it wasn’t healthy. There was a whole world out there she was missing.

“And they’re so sure, Malabyn, they really believe it. Sometimes I could almost laugh, they’re so dead serious when they look me in the eyes and say the dumbest things and think that I—and then I remember where I am.” She had her arms around the unicorn’s white neck, out in the garden at one in the morning, just the two of them.

“It’s not easy for her, they say. But me? I long for it, Malabyn, I long every day for the places I can never stay in. My heart is given these rays of joy and utter happiness and all they do is slip through my fingers and leave me here. I want to go home.”

“Soon…”

“I hope so. I love you, Malabyn.”

She was always in that little garden, with the tree in the corner. Either there or in her room, but the room was, for the most part, no longer safe.

Mornings and evenings, in the deepest of dark and when the hints and spreads of light appeared in the sky, she spoke with them, with her dear unicorn, saw the worlds she wished for in her deepest of hearts, worlds filled with castles and wizards and fairies and creatures and beings no human had seen, no human knew of. Yet they were hers, hers alone, hers in her mind, and the world wouldn’t allow her to have them.

During the day, she visited the grave of the living, from noon to two, becoming an empty shell of impenetrable anger. Sometimes it frightened her, how hard she could be, until she remembered what they were trying to destroy.

By the second week, she had still refused to speak.

“Vivian, I feel that these meetings of ours haven’t been as productive as we would have wished. Do you agree? Disagree?”

“Sure.”

10

“So—what do you think we should do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything I could change—”

“No.”

“Well, tell you what. I think we should keep these private meetings of ours, but maybe also try a group class. Maybe that would help you to open up a bit more, and have the chance to hear what others are going through. This doesn’t just happen to you, honey,” she said, leaning forward a bit as she wrote something down on a piece of paper, “Lots of other people your age are handling very similar problems.”

“So—are we done for today?”

“I think so. I just wrote down the name of the class so that your mother can sign up for it.”

“Should I give it to her—”

“I’ll give it to her,” she said with a smile as she stood up. She should have worn stockings.

Vivian had stopped speaking to her mother after she first said they were going to see someone for help. Vivian had never expected her mother to take advantage of their conversations, even though she should have known the recipient was too weak to accept it. She had loved her; that was all.

“Mom, wouldn’t it be easier to just forget it?” she asked once.

“It’s not right for you to go through life half-heartedly because you’re obsessed with figments of your imagination.”

“They’re not my imagination.”

“Honey—that’s the problem.”

“It makes me happy, Mom. Maybe I’m happier believing something false than living with the truth.”

“I hope that’s not true.”

11

She wept that night. It would have been nice if someone could have been on her side; lonely fights were difficult.

“Is it getting sooner, Malabyn?”

“Yes, dear one. You’re nearly finished.”

“I’ll miss her. I trusted her.”

“It was right.”

“Was it? Going there is like going past death, past the furthest reaches of pain and sorrow into this endless abyss. It’s unending, that place, there’s no water in the desert or even the comfort of a mirage. It’s all such stark—reality.”

The group class was interesting. It was two hours long, with about eight of them sitting in a half circle, with a proctor in the center. They talked about everything, from the school bullies and unfaithful friends to the voices they heard telling them to slice their skin into tiny slivers and the aliens they saw walking into their bedrooms at night. And when they got to Vivian, she’d tell them stories, stories about gentle knights and beautiful princesses and fairy godmothers. Sometimes the proctor would ask if that’s all she had to say, if she had anything to say about personal experiences, but she would only shake her head and they’d go to the next one.

“I don’t get it. Hospitals were made to make people better. They give them treatment, they keep them alive, they try to make them comfortable. But these places—I don’t know. People take away their chances, they kill whatever’s left inside, crushing and spiriting away their identities. It’s like they’ve made some big mistake, and we’re the ones who suffer. Maybe we’re all mad, maybe it’s like the mad are trying to treat the mad. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t work.

“Malabyn, I think—I think they’re killing me. They’re trying to kill you.” She sat in her tree one afternoon, talking to the great white unicorn. She was leaning against his flank, watching the golden sun set behind the brittle green trees.

“What do I do?” He laid his head in her lap, letting her run a finger to the top of his horn, watching it sparkle in the dying day. “I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough, Malabyn. Every day, every day I go there and I try to pretend I can stand everything. But I can’t.” She

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gently kissed his velvet nose and watched as her gentle sun dipped into the comforting darkness.

It was August when the time came.

She was in the lady’s office again, sitting there as she had every day since June, staring at the smiley face clock as its mechanical eyes followed the second hand, ticking around and around again.

“So, Vivian, how are you?”

“Great.”

“That’s great to hear. Tell me, what did you do that made your night so wonderful?”

“I dreamed.” Vivian sat back in her chair.

“Oh?” The lady had another packet. “Do you remember what you dreamt about?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Wonderful!” There was a clear rise in tone; she thought this was her doing. They always think it’s their doing, as if the people become a project, an experiment. “Can you tell me about it?”

“I will.” Vivian leaned her back against the purple chair and put her jacket on.

“Are you cold?”

“A bit.” She crossed her legs and began. “It started out in black, just pure black. It wasn’t flat, it wasn’t three dimensional, just empty black. And there were voices, hundreds of thousands of them, all whispering viciously. But I couldn’t understand what they were saying, or trying to say. They may not even have been speaking, for all that I know. Then again, they might have.

“I found my body, my legs at least, and I felt myself being. I wasn’t standing, and I wasn’t floating, but I was able to walk. I don’t know what I was walking towards, or what direction I was going in, but I kept trying to go forward. And then, I felt the ground.

“I was walking for an awfully long time, for what felt like longer than the night. But then the black on my left side ended, sharply, just

13

like that, and I was in this beautiful green field. It was surrounded by an emerald green forest, like the kind in fairy tales, filled with fairies, little ones, dancing and playing with the mice and flying on sweet little songbirds.

“I danced too, skipping and playing and sleeping, and watching them all. And then, a young man came. He looked like a very tall elf, and he motioned for me to get up. He never said a word, but led me deep into the forest, finally arriving at a little stone hut.

“I got to meet her. She was sitting at her desk, in a room filled with thousands of books and old wooden tables and the strangest contraptions I’ve ever seen. She was dressed in long blue robes, and had black hair, just like the boy, except the boy had turned into a wolf, and was sitting by her feet.

“And then, it all disappeared, and I was in a castle ballroom, dressed in a beautiful blue gown, the color of the sky, and I was dancing. There was a feast, and a handsome king and a beautiful queen, and little gold men serving the prince and princess. I danced alone, sometimes, sometimes with other people I couldn’t see the faces of, for the entire night.

“And in the middle of the dance, I woke up. That was the end. But it was beautiful; it was paradise. And I know that place exists, that world, or worlds, and the boy and the girl living in the middle of the woods with their magic. It’s real.”

Vivian heard a click as the lady ended the recording.

“I think we’ve made progress today.”

She didn’t look at her.

When Vivian’s mother came in, the lady pulled out a folder from a black filing cabinet and held it on her lap, pulling out bright pink and orange packets.

“We had a great meeting today.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Vivian’s mother looked at her.

“I have an idea about something that might help Vivian with her dreams.” She nodded her head. Maybe she was like one of those

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mechanical dolls, nodding yes and yes and yes, even when the answer was no.

She pulled off a piece of paper from a blue pad and handed it to Vivian’s mother.

“This is a prescription for sleeping disorders, hallucinations, and depression. It’s a combination; she’d have to take two per day five days a week, and only one of them for the remaining two days. Of course, I’ll still have to see her to narrow down her individual nuances, but I think we should start with this.”

Vivian’s mother turned the paper around and looked at the doctor’s handwriting.

“I’ve never heard of these. Are they safe?”

“I was just about to get to that. These are technically mind-altering drugs,” she made her last phrase quiet and directed only to the mother, as if Vivian were so ill she couldn’t hear quite well, “but I have used them on occasion with other patients who had cases similar to Vivian’s,” a hand opened towards her, “And the results have been very positive. If you’re not happy with them, you can always stop. But my suggestion would be to try these, while continuing the group class and our visits. Eventually, the group classes can stop, if she’d like, but it would probably be best to keep our appointments so that we can monitor her progress.”

The tiny room was quiet for a while. Vivian looked at her hands, turning them over in her lap, tracing the lines with her eyes. This is me, this is my mind, remember me. Remember Malabyn.

Her mother finally looked up, as if she had been scrutinizing the prescription paper, as if she knew anything about medicine.

“Thank you so much.”

And that was that. The medications started, and Vivian never said a word again about her dear unicorn, about her secret worlds. If she hadn’t forgotten them, the pills wouldn’t have worked.

And every two weeks, she saw the lady. She told her everything she could think of, or at least, everything she thought she could think

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of. Vivian’s sureness was becoming a thing of the past, and her mind grasped only one thing clearly: her prescribed cure. She needed it.

The years turned hazy, a milky stream of life in Vivian’s head, interrupted only by the painful headaches of the morning before she took the pills. For all that her mind had softly released, the medicine had remained.

Somewhere through the time she’d gone to some college, studied something and had a job, but if she’d been asked she wouldn’t have been able to say what exactly it was she was doing. Vivian didn’t see many people, she didn’t talk to many people, and she lived in a city

she could never remember the exact name of. She was always confusing it with jumbled parts of other names from other places.

And even with the pills her life was rather … lifeless, as she herself wrote in her diary. Vivian had started keeping a diary years ago. It had helped the lady keep track of her thoughts, but thoughts were what the book was basically empty of.

She didn’t tell people about the medicine. Her mother called, sometimes, her doctor talked about it once a year with her, but she didn’t know why she took them anymore. She went to one little pharmacy, near her apartment, once a week to get the strange red and yellow capsules.

There was one pharmacist, with a false brass tag on his shirt that read Joe. You had to ask him something before he’d tell you something back. And since Vivian didn’t have anything to say, she never said a word to him until she was thirty-three years old, soon to be going on forty, she felt.

But speak to him she did, on one of those mornings when the sun was shining and she wished it were black or the other way round. It was her pill morning, and she was always the first customer on pill mornings. She came before the young girls, before the old people tottering around on their walkers, before the middle-aged men. Vivian had always been first.

“Joe, tell me something.”

“Yup.” He loved his monotones.

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“Would you care if I died? Do you think anyone would care? Seriously.”

“No one would be happy.”

“Would—anyone be sad?”

“Don’t know.”

“Would you?”

“Nope.” He didn’t look up from the shelves he was scanning. Her prescription was there, but his eyesight wasn’t.

“Would it matter to you if nobody were sad if you died?”

“What?” he shouted from across the store. He had turned the corner to the back shelf. Hers was at the end of it.

“Would it matter to you if nobody was sad when you died!”

“No!”

“Why not!”

“Because,” he said as he moved back to the front counter holding the two orange bottles, “I’d be dead. I wouldn’t have to care anymore.”

Vivian looked at him for a while, holding the white paper bag. There was a name on the tip of her tongue; it started with an m, but she didn’t know past that. She swallowed the pills.

Malabyn. His name was Malabyn. And he was dead.

Du Fu, Trans. by William Maness ‘10

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A View of Spring

Nations broken, but mountains and rivers remain Thick with grass and trees is City’s spring; Feeling these times, the flowers weep softly And in painful desolation, birds suffer shaken hearts. Beacons burned for three months straight Endless gold was never worth a family’s letter; Faded white hair, even shorter with scratching Soon will not be there to hold a hat pin. Du Fu, Trans. by Jonathan Chau ‘10

The View in Spring

Amidst the schism, rivers still flow through mountain passes. Spring in the city brings deep oceans of foliage.

Should the flowers have to endure the passage of time,

They would sprinkle the ground with dainty tears.

My heart is pained; I resent the disappearance Of the songbirds whose melodies once sweetened the air.

Flames shine out through the darkness for three whole months.

For news from home, I would gladly give a fortune.

Age slowly litters my thinning hair with flecks of silver. Soon I will no longer be able to fasten it with a hatpin.

Li Bo, Trans. by Ben Wilsker ‘10

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Under the Moon, the Wine is Poured in Solitude

Among the blossoms, beneath the moon, I pour from a single jar of wine. Alone without another to fill my cup, I raise the jar, inviting the moon for company, Now two, now three with my shadow. My moon is ignorant of the way of wine; My shadowy disciple can only follow my movements. Moon and shadow are only momentary companions. In song I wander aimlessly with my moon; With my movements, my baffled shadow flickers. Sober, we are joyous friends; Drunk, we are scattered and divided. We will roam forever, bound with compassion, But only come together in the heavenly river.

Marshalle Grody ‘10

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Magic Man

I pride myself on being spontaneous, of-the-moment, always on my toes and ready for anything. But not this. This one came at me from way out there, like that time in middle school when I took a line drive straight to the jaw. The crack knocked me right to the ground, both times. But this wasn’t just some broken jaw.

It happened like this. I was standing with Jeri waiting for the bus, because even though we were in high school, it was still a public high school and we still took the bus. I was excited, because I was wearing my favorite hat, the one that kept my head warm and looked cool, and Jeri didn’t have a hat. If she started shivering from the wind, I could offer her the hat and it wouldn’t be the weird-looking knit one that Grandma made me, and it wouldn’t be the itchy wool one that Mom usually makes me wear. No, this one I could whip off my head and toss my hair that needed a trim, and she would smile and thank me and I would be one step closer to asking her out.

So I got to the bus stop, red-cheeked but exhilarated, with snowflakes on my shoulders and, well, not quite a song in my heart, but it was close. The potential for song died instantly when I saw that Jeri wasn’t there waiting as usual. I took the opportunity to readjust my hat and give myself a pep talk. I glanced in the direction of Jeri’s house, down an adjacent street. I didn’t see anyone. I told myself that maybe she was just late, maybe her alarm clock malfunctioned. I smiled to myself, proud to use a vocabulary word from yesterday’s quiz.

As my watch counted down the time to when the bus would arrive, my glances down Jeri’s street became more and more anxious. I didn’t know whether I should run across the street to get her and risk missing the bus myself, or assume I would meet her at school, which had never happened before. I became jittery as well as cold, hopping from foot to foot as I tried to decide what to do. The street I was standing on had a sharp curve, so that when the bus came to pick us up, Jeri and I would jump as it seemed to appear out of nowhere. As I dallied on the sidewalk, I listened for the sound of an engine, but if one was approaching, it was muffled by the snow. I looked at my watch, and decided that if I was going to rescue Jeri from a tardy slip, I had to act now.

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I jumped off the sidewalk to cross the street, and the bus rounded the corner at the same instant. My feet left the road as I heard a terrible crunching sound and a roaring as the bus skidded to a halt a few feet past me. I couldn’t breathe; the wind had been completely knocked out of me. I couldn’t see anything but the gray of the dirty snow on the pavement. I heard voices behind me and some sort of commotion, but I wasn’t sure what it was about. Then big boots were standing near my head, and their owner was talking to someone I could not see. The man sounded alarmed, panicky; he was talking about someone who was badly hurt, someone who needed immediate medical attention. I wanted to get up and help whoever was in trouble, but I was still in shock from whatever had made me fall, and I didn’t seem to be able to get up. So I just lay there, waiting to regain use of my body, waiting for something to happen. The dirty snow in front of my face started to get dirtier and dirtier; little black spots were appearing, getting bigger and bigger until they blocked out my vision entirely.

When I came round, everything was white, and I was in a lot of pain from the waist down. A less-white shape grew larger in my vision, fuzzy and unfocused. I felt a sharp prick in my arm, and then nothing. No pain, just blankness.

It was a long time until I could see and communicate, and the nurses told me I had had a pretty bad concussion. I also had a broken arm, and when I asked, “anything else?” they looked at each other sadly and told me to rest. I wiggled my fingers and ears, making sure everything worked. Then I tried wiggling my toes, and couldn’t. I looked over the top of the hospital blanket down to the foot of the bed, and saw a whole lot of flatness. I peeked underneath the sheets, and saw that I had no legs. That’s when I passed out again.

Later, I pieced together what happened from what various nurses and my parents told me. I had slipped on a piece of ice, and the bus had hit me mid-fall, so I actually was thrown a few feet. The bus had crushed my legs from the knee down. I had hit my head on the pavement, and broke my arm when I tried to catch myself from falling. I had been rushed to the hospital after the bus driver called the ambulance, and was now in the intensive-care unit. The doctors still had to do some brain scans to make sure everything was working okay. I didn’t say anything; I only listened. They were talking about someone else, I knew it. They had brought in one of those magic men who sawed people in half to make me laugh, make the hospital stay seem not so boring. That’s why I couldn’t see my legs. They were hidden in a

21

wooden box, waiting to have a star-spangled tablecloth thrown over them to be reunited with my body.

I look for that box all the time. Sometimes I think it’s hiding underneath the chair in my room, but when my mother puts her hand down and feels under the seat, there is only air. I bet there’s a trick door or a secret passageway where they’re keeping it. I just hope they give my legs back soon; I want to tell Jeri about all this craziness. Maybe she’ll sign the cast on my arm with a heart.

Emily Clancy ‘12

22

Dagny Dukach ‘11

23

Sister

Is it wrong to play psychological games on my sister?

Perhaps you would call it lying. I wouldn't; I'm curious. I want to see how far she will go To deny what she Knows. I told her there was a song. Was it wrong To pretend? A good friend would never do that. But this isn't sin, it's an Experiment: Self delusion, How far you will go To show You know Why things happen that don't make sense, Why she used the past tense? Was it for the rhyme? maybe. Sometimes You need to lie For the greater good God! It isn't wrong To test the reaction of your fellow man Or child Or sister Little sister Baby sister How can you lie to something so much shorter than you, unhatched, raw, impressionable? Horrible. Why would you do that? a sister isn't an egg in a test tube To be spilled and splattered and sifted. Stupid. Stupid thing to do. who would do that? would you?

Dagny Dukach ‘11

24

Ghosts

They fly like ghosts on angel wings

The wisps of song that no one sings

Reverberating silence rings

In celebration

Thoughts flutter by in meditation

Tearing through their own negation

Whistle shrieks a regulation

No one hears

Your dying song is in my ears

The fleeting hand that caught my tears

And now the laugh of demon sears

The icy skies

I never knew a man who cries

I never saw a man who tries

Today I met a pair of eyes. Alive!

In celebration.

Josephine Massey ‘11

25

C.J. Masdea ‘11

26

Solitude

It was a typical day in the middle of February. It was time for me to get up. Looking at the clock at my bedside, I saw that it was 6:00 am, twenty minutes after I was supposed to get up. Pulling the covers off of me, I felt the cold air from the drafty windows near my bed. As I got up, I glanced out of the window. It was still pitch black outside. The sun would not rise for another hour. “Man is not meant to be in this climate,” I said to myself as I showered and dressed. Like a zombie, I slowly stumbled downstairs into the kitchen. I then turned on my radio, which for some odd reason was blasting heavy metal music. “Damn it! I told him not to touch my radio,” I said to myself, referring to my immature roommate Brad. Changing the station to the news channel, I went to go make some coffee. I opened the cabinet. No coffee. I guess I have to go buy some more, I thought to myself. Already not looking forward to the day, I grabbed my coat and stepped outside into the bitter cold ice box. It had snowed the previous evening. Yet it was not what you’d expect it to look like. There were already twenty foot snow banks that were as grey as ash on the sidewalk. The scraping of shovels and snowplows on pavement and the hum of snowmobiles created a symphony of noise which was the last thing I wanted to hear at the crack of dawn. I found it odd how there was a time in history when snow was actually pretty to look at. It used to ice the trees, giving them a chilling yet mesmerizing image. The still and crisp air would have warmed anybody’s spirit. Now, these images seem to only exist in traditional Christmas carols.

***

I decided to walk to work since it would be a pain to drive in the snow among the rush hour traffic. It was now 6:50. The sun was just beginning to rise above the horizon. I looked up. The sky was bright orange and pink. It was quite beautiful. I looked to the east. The first rays started to appear, making the contrails appear yellow. It almost made me feel alive again.

27

Like I was a part of something. Like I was someone who mattered. It reminded me of when I was a child, where Alice, my best friend at the time, and I would watch the sunrise while walking to school. She always used make me feel like I exist. Until… BEEP BEEP!! “Hey, buddy! What the hell are you doin’?! Are you gonna move or are we just going to stand in the middle of the street, huh?!” Returning to reality, I realized that I actually was in the middle of the street. I moved out of the driver’s way while he sped off, ranting and cursing about how I was trying to make him late for work. It’s a shame how so many people do not take a moment out of their day to look outside. Instead of yelling at me, that driver could have simply looked out his window and looked up, toward the east. Perhaps he would not have been upset that he was now thirty seconds behind schedule. Then, realizing that I would be late if I did not walk on, I proceeded, arriving to work with a minute to spare.

*** My office is part of a city of cubicles, where, at least when working, the workers keep to themselves. I frequently asked my boss Edward to renovate the building, making it look more like an office building than a bunker. But he always said no. “Look, Tom,” Edward told me yesterday. “I appreciate your trying to be creative. But, your suggestion goes against our policy. You don’t think we can simply reorganize the building without bothering the C.E.O. do you?” “No,” I quietly said. “Now good,” said Edward. “I like you, Tom. But sometimes you can be too creative. You do not get paid to determine how the company is run. Now go back to your cubicle and continue to do what you get paid to do.” With this still fresh in my mind, I decided not to bother him about the redecorating. I thought to myself, what would happen if Edward did not base his decision on worrying that he would bother the C.E.O.?

28

Would he have agreed with me then? Or, would he have redecorated the place before I brought it up? After what seemed like decades, I went to take my lunch break. I went to the nearby Panera Bread to get a sandwich and a chocolate cookie. It was quite delicious. Sitting there, I thought about my childhood. The fact that Edward implied that I was too creative made me think about Alice again. As I sat there, I remembered her as if I had just seen her. She was tall and thin with short curly hair. We had been friends since we were toddlers. As we were growing up, neither one of us had the interests or played the same games that typical children did. While they listened to pop, we listened to Bach. While they played kickball, we played checkers. We were closest friends until the ninth grade. I would never forget the day when a group of girls were taunting her. “Hey weirdo, why do you listen to classical music?” asked one of them. “Because it’s soothing and nice,” mumbled Alice. They then laughed and she started to cry. “Alice. Don’t worry about them,” I said coaxingly. “It’s their loss, not yours.” “Tom,” said Alice. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being the oddball. I can’t just simply let others mistreat me. I have to learn to love what others like. To learn to do what others do. Listen to the same type of music. I’m sorry, Tom. But I don’t think I can ever talk to you again. You are too different. I cannot be seen with you in public. I’m sorry.” The next day, I saw Alice talking and laughing with those same girls who were making fun of her the day before. I called her name several times. But, she just looked at me before she resumed laughing. I cried nonstop for weeks straight after this episode . . . . How could this have happened? I never saw her again after I graduated from high school.

Returning to my senses, I realized that it was time for me to return to my cubicle. Edward would not be happy if I were late.

Nassim Hosseinzadeh ‘11

29

Nothing’s Secret

Oh your demons may be howling but they are not mine

Oh your days are trimmed with tea leaves

Oh your fingers lie stale and purple with frozen dogs at your feet

Oh from the desecrated graves of chubby chiefs, let the dogs sing

Let the lady in the plants run deep into some forest

Let the barracks crumble and send their men ravenous into the arms of plump women

Let their little boy hearts succumb to the pull of the blondes’ thirsty eyes

Let them be shocked by bitter bites from the juicy virgin fruit

May your children be wide-eyed and green

May your wives wait, cradling salt-water bottles

May your daughters never leave the walls

May the voice of some pockmarked saint

Come into your wooden homes and whisper,

Come embed your fears in ice

Come let’s run back to those brown legged summer girls

Come sing to their upper thighs, for in this day and age

Nothing's secret.

Nassim Hosseinzadeh ‘11

30

Provisions

I carry with me at all times A book of matches and a pocket bible And when she reappears like a blonde gun Painted on my eyelids I pull the bible from my pocket and press it to her cheeks And burn her gasoline tears, oh, I taste only ashes.

Side Effects

Because your lips are made of supernatural glass, I imagine that if I clumsily crashed into them With my own glass lips I would feel a crunch between my teeth And I’d spit something out And then, turns out it's a small blob Of blood and spit and ground glass And it forms into some of cobwebby paste Which is now sinking into my skin Like a poison and in school They tell you if you draw on your hands The ink will seep into your veins and kill you But they never tell you that if you fall in lust With some beautiful girl Your glass-lips-blood-spit will seep into your veins And kill you But they also don't warn you that When you're gone, girl, The glass putty will still clog my veins Causing many problems with My circulatory system.

Samira Alam ‘13

31

Eliza Zhitnik ‘13

32

Endgame

One day I came upon your sin, and hated you from there on in; despite your angel's woeful vies, you painted life with scarlet cries. I ache to witness your falling sound, to see you writhing on that ground; and due to all your vile ways, I hope you watch as the vulture preys. To see your grin of mortal hate come crashing down upon the slate; and I would laugh to no near end if that smile never appeared again. Your life is doused in callous black, and all men hate you to hell and back; the women of the diamond stream lie in grief as you do scream. And all the gods with onyx eyes, pensive as the menace thrives; they all know the be-fanged threat that eats until its maw is whet. Your inner being wails and grieves, strapped down tight by those looming eves; the crows with imposing sable beaks disperse along the cobblestone streets. And the Maple looms with imposing dread, gnarled and black like the living dead; and you stand there with that blaring stance, as though this were a deciding dance. I myself can barely say, with any conviction about that day; the day you threw that one last stone, raped that last woman, broke that last bone. The horses reared and thrashed about, screeching in shock and calling a shout; as the clash of metal rang like glass, soared down the lane and ended fast. Vermillion spilled upon the ground, and the goddess grinned as she stared down; the frigid wind that refused your pay, came gusting by in a sneer of play. The shard of life that hangs with you, is simply thin and bland and true; the path on which you chose to walk, it sings of death and blood and naught.

33

Drapes of violet part the ways, strung up with pearls and silver rays; divinity is nothing seen, as the wings of life are a mere screen. Your acceptance of the sharpened thought, so full of demons you so sought; it clings like silk and weaves like thread, as you keel over in your shallow bed. Serpents laugh and plant their seed, soaking with filth and envy and greed; apples that glowed with eternal light, seep deep black like the very night. Your necklace of perfect chains and bronze rests here quietly as the mongrel longs; the canines of your alleyway bare their teeth and loudly bay. So you dress the sky with all your lies, and fill the cup with emerald die; and as you turn the final bend, I curse you straight to hell, my friend.

Alessandra Davy-Falconi ‘12

34

Gianpaolo Carpinito ‘10

35

Untitled

He was a strange boy though he liked to think of himself as a young man. A dark complexion accompanied by a long, plain-looking face described his complexion. He had a weak frame but an adequate posture that spoke for him. A lack of facial hair seemed to inhibit success, and the nervous habit of shaking his leg admitted his insecurity. He never acknowledged the growing desire for maturity bubbling up through his skin, but no one could scold an adolescent for such things. In spite of all this, however, he still felt a sense of entitlement. Attainment of the feeling anticipated by undulating praise had named itself his goal as though it were a birthright.

A long day had concluded in story telling. As he finished the knight’s tale concerning the thrill he experienced when he turned over his test to “see an A- staring me in the face,” his shortness of breath and glimmering eyes contrasted the demeanor of each other child sprawled out across the room.

One girl replied, “That was such a stupid story. You’re so weird.” The rest of them sat and, careful to otherwise remain statues, nodded their heads judiciously. It did not matter. To him, “weird” was just reinforcement that he was a genius, that he did not belong among these people. Most famous people had been called weird and strange; it was this difference that in fact placed them two steps ahead of the rest. As a result, his smile remained unchanged.

Hours spent reading alone in his room seemed to be the answer. His line of thought was that interesting people read interesting things. Not just any type of “interesting,” but specifically high-brow “interesting.” He didn’t read magazines or dime novels. Philosophy and literature replaced those things. Books that appeared sophistication incarnate, or so as it appeared to him, decorated the floor, which was much less a floor than a work of modern art.

36

At times he imagined himself a James Bond though at most times such imagining was his goal. The dream languished in a crimson robe while it smoked what was left of a Cuban cigar. To the dream’s left a hot-tub full of attractive women and to its right a carpet doing a poor job of supporting a cognac glass. In another scene it garbed itself in a black tuxedo and discussed theology with a like-minded individual at a social rendezvous. He had conceived an amalgamation of gallantry and intellectualism so beautiful it was ugly

“I’m not exactly sure that’s true though.”

“Sure it is. I don’t see why not. You simply can’t have a utopia. Look, Machiavelli said that it’s better to be feared than loved. His point was that someone is always going to rise up and take power, and they’re not going to use love to do it either.”

“But look at Plato’s Republic. In a well constructed society, what keeps everything moving is interdependence between the social classes, all of which aim to serve the state. If you just fix everything the right way, groups of people will depend on one another, and that will keep everything moving the right way.”

“No, you’re wrong!” The discussion became angrier and louder, “You’re putting people in a hierarchical system that will necessarily crumble as the most powerful class begins to selfishly abuse its power!”

While he waited for the right time to interject into the debate between his two classmates, he had tried to put his thoughts into motion. He felt like there was something he was grasping for, but all he could clench in his fists was air. He could not translate the nothingness into words.

“What’s going on here?” A rather attractive girl classmate had approached him.

He had become a bystander and was disappointed about it. He had tried to think of something clever to say, but the growth of self-applied pressure to appear smooth had caused him to burst out with the only words he could seize with that imaginary fist. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh,” she said.

37

They stood there for several moments, and the two classmates continued to debate. Silence remained. He had finally managed to say something of substance, but it was too late, and the wrong string of words: “It’s so silly that people argue about these things.”

“What are you talking about?” she replied. “I happen to think discussions like this are quite interesting.”

“Why did I say that,” he thought. “This discussion is obviously something I am really interested in too and… everything—s**t.” Frustration had encroached upon his soul, but it was overtaken by the discomfiture imposed by awkwardness. It started in his stomach and from there had spread through his body. It pulsed. It made his face contort in odd arrangements and caused him to mouth random words, most of them curses. He could only stop it by stopping to replay the scene, but he could not stop. He had acquainted himself with the feeling a long time ago, but had yet to master it. It did not matter though: this was just a small step backward.

Some friends had called him to ask about hanging out. It was Friday night. He had struggled with the idea but deferred the request because he’d rather read. “If only I had had more information,” he thought, “then I wouldn’t have stammered or anything like that today.” The obvious solution was to read more.

Now, his eyes were bloodshot. It was past midnight. He felt tired, so he laid himself on the book-laden floor. He began to get the same feeling in his stomach as he had experienced earlier that day. It was not because of the same incident, though: he just knew. It began to manifest itself as what can best be described as nausea, something it often did. As he drifted in and out of sleep, he began to remember his younger self. The nausea had caused him to remember.

He was on a fishing trip with his father. He had started to become nauseated by the waves two hours earlier and had vomited over the edge of the boat several times. It was around 11 am, and the sun’s hot rays blinded the men and made the ocean appear a sea of light. He sat on a bench under a roof which was protecting him from the sun. He pushed back the oversized baseball cap resting against his head and stared at the small hands that his father told him were not strong enough to reel in a fish. This nausea was not the same as that caused by the awkwardness; it was more physical.

38

The fish were jumping out of the vast, illuminated sea. They went for the bait; the men reeled them in and let them flop around the deck while they reeled in more. After, a boatman opened what he imagined to be a trap door like that out of a cartoon. It was, in reality, a chamber filled with water. They loaded the fish into it. He watched them close the door and wondered about the fish. They remained in the dark chamber, unmoving, still.

He asked his father, “Daddy, what do the fish do in there?”

His father said, “Well, nothing I guess. They put them in there to keep them fresh.”

Land came into sight, and one of the boatmen broke his stride over the hidden compartment filled with fish. The little boy had ventured out onto the deck to observe more closely what the man was going to do. One by one, the man took fish out of the dank pool. He put one under his foot, and it flailed, but it stopped when the man revealed a long, saw-tooth knife. He buried it into the fish’s gills and jerked it. Blood spurted onto the deck as the fish struggled. The boy stood in horror as the man continued to repeat the process with yet more fish. An unexpected wave crashed, and its spray had found its way into the boat. The red-brown, water-soaked blood spilled across the deck and soiled the new, white sneakers of the boy.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ fish for a long time,” he heard his father state light-heartedly in the background.

“What a time,” he thought. “That boat ride was hell.” The nausea had subsided, but the general discomfiture lingered. As the pulsing continued, he began to link it with the rhythm of his heart, imagining a levitating mallet beating a drum with each throb. He thought to himself that he should have gone out with his friends, but another voice uttered that it would be a waste of time: he would have nothing to say.

Nassim Hosseinzadeh ‘11

39

A Brief Excursion into Fiction

The man I’m sleeping with is leaning against a concrete demi-wall on the edge of a second-story parking lot. He pulls a crumpled cigarette from behind his ear. He digs his long fingers into the narrow pocket of his jeans to find a lighter.

It’s weird to think that two people who have seen every piece of skin on each other’s bodies are wearing clothes together.

I’ve run my fingers over every patch of epidermis that covers every splotch of ink that’s been injected into his dermis.

He’s pressed his finger into every oddly placed freckle on my body. One time he used a black pen to draw eyes all over me. My freckles served as their pupils.

He finds the lighter. Instead of lighting the cigarette, he drops it to the ground and grinds it into the tar with the heel of his worn sneaker. He holds the lighter in his palm and looks at it.

He’s getting strange again.

I look past him. I always thought that the view from this lot would be beautiful. It’s not, really. It’s the same buildings I see every day. I’m just seeing them from higher up.

I realize that while I’ve been staring at these buildings, he’s been saying something. I ask him what. He picks at the skin next to his thumbnail. He bites down on the skin, a little too hard, and a thread of blood begins to weave itself over his flat thumbnail.

He does not answer. His thumbnail is bruised and gray. He sticks his thumb in his mouth and tries to suck up the blood. I can hear his salivating tongue grating against his teeth.

An angry driver below us leans on the horn. Commonwealth Avenue at five in the afternoon is a Petri dish. In the heat, we all turn into fungi. The nearness of June is unbearable.

Time moves especially slowly during the last few months before summer. I try to subtly wipe the sweat off my forehead.

40

The heat distracts me from the fact that he’s distracted, too. It isn’t very important. We don’t talk much and never have. He’s distant.

So am I. This is why our system is flawless so far. Neither of us were born talkers. We were born thinkers.

I forget what I wanted to talk to him about. That’s the whole reason we came up here. It probably isn’t anything important. I think that’s what he asked me when I was forgetting him.

We are two people who would always rather be alone, except for in certain situations. This is one of those few situations: standing on a rooftop in the heat with your lover, or something, when the hot city is howling so loudly beneath you that you can’t hear a thing. It’s quiet here.

Reif Larsen ‘12

41

Nassim Hosseinzadeh ‘11

42

Disgusting

I, like a private investigator,

(or dumpster diver)

Sift through some stranger’s prom photos

Wedding photos

Keys,

Doorknobs,

And books I buy for married men,

And other pieces for a home.

You disgust me for collecting disciples like some plastic Jesus

And I disgust all for collecting things that do not pertain to me.

You make me sick.

Garbage is my only disciple; I am a prophet only to trash.

A musician in ink slithers up the arm of some man who is nine years my senior (or so).

This is why I spew clumsy words and cantankerous phrases, etc. etc.

All of which I push down through the center of my spine, etc. etc. and some of these

Do not fit. These are the ones that will be stuck inside my back until someone squeezes my body

Until I cannot stand.

You will love me hard and

I will love you wrong

In sickness and not in health

And our love is

Disgusting.

Eliza Zhitnik ‘13

43

Snakes

Every night, I've dreamt of snakes. Ones with long, thick serpentine bodies and eyes of steel; with whip-like crimson tongues and voices of poison; with black diamonds on their backs, and needle-sharp fangs that grow to unreasonable lengths. I couldn't escape them; they were everywhere. Not that I minded, seeing as I had grown accustomed. But the way they slithered into my mind, freezing like ice, and coiled into tight balls around my thoughts and conscience undid me. I once told Lily about them and she, as always, gasped: "My god, Jake, that's serious! There's things you can do for that." But they won't go away, they never will. They're part of me, of my weird, glazed expression, and of my incandescent eyes, the ones that Austin always says he hates, but the ones that Caddy likes. They saturate my beliefs with their whispering and that odd, echoing laughter that surrounds them—the knowing, strangled laughter of that guy who they recently 'got rid of,' as E says. But it has nothing to do with him, I didn't know him, and the snakes don't really matter much. I'd rather focus on my martial arts and my loud music and that massive trampoline I got when I turned 15. But, every night, I've dreamt of snakes.

Salvation for me came in the form of a black Cadillac SUV that careened around a corner and skidded to stop in front of my trailer. The license-plate belonged to California--I'd never been there--and the blocky, red letters read 'Scream.' I remember that the windows were dark and the tires were large, like the ones in my backyard, but I'd never seen a car like that before. It contained a woman, now considered my savior, who wore sunglasses and a wide, vicious smile that reminded me of prisons. I don't know why to this day. She carried a gun and wore a lot of rings, but her voice was sickly sweet, and she called my mom an 'ignorant b*tch' and told her she was taking me back to California. I liked her from the moment she stared over at me with the sunglass-shielded eyes, but I was afraid of her as well. When she opened her mouth to speak, I could almost imagine fangs jutting out in deadly pairs, and the long, forked tongue that plagued me. But her hand was cool and firm as hers grasped mine and, when she motioned me toward the black car, I felt that fear subside. My mom couldn't do anything, but I wasn't listening to the reasons why not, and I didn't care now. The woman got back in the car and shut her door, locking us in the compartment of leather and lights. "Jake," she said in a heady, drawling tone, "we're leaving. Got anything left to say?"

44

"No," I said, "who are you?"

"Good, buckle up," her voice told me, ignoring my inquiry. I could see her hands grip the steering wheel so hard the knuckles turned white and her arms tensed up. Her head turned back to me for a second, and she pulled off her sunglasses. Staring back at me were two brilliant green snake eyes, set in a face wearing an all-knowing, malicious smile. "Don't ask where we're going, because I'm not telling you until we're there. By the way, I'm E," the snake-eyed woman informed me, the devious smile unwavering. I couldn't even swallow enough to speak, but E turned away anyway and sped off down the road.

Since then, my name's been put on twelve lists. Ten of them were the usual archived documents that Lily so covets and the other two were for that damnable adoption paper. The one where I have to sign my name in black pen and hope to whatever god is out there that I don't get chosen. But, I've been chosen two out of two times, and it's almost more horrible than the expression Blaise gets on his face when he's in one of his modes. But, that aside, I've been a permanent addition to North Branch since the day E slammed open the car door and pointed violently at the front gates, saying, "There. You're living there now." Still, if there's one thing that I hate about North, it's that it's an orphanage. I mean, I have a mother, and my father exists out there somewhere, so I'm not technically an orphan. But if you squint really hard, and think even harder, I can pass as one.

The first person I met there was Lily. She was, and still is, a frail young woman with pale blue eyes and even paler blonde hair—in some lights, it's white. She's E's assistant, and she's the keeper of the files and archive room, which is about as big as the Library of Congress. She also is in charge of West Wing, which is the place that people are kept if they are 'unfit' to live with the rest of the kids, and something tells me she's horrified of that job. In her hands is always a blue clipboard and she only wears shades of blue and purple. E once told me that Lily was the first orphan she ever met, but E isn't famous for telling the complete truth.

Lily was the one who told me what I was doing there, at the giant campus-esque building park called North Branch. "You're here," she said, voice quiet and meek, "to let go of whatever your family did to you. The doghouse: you can forget that." Poor Lily, having to memorize every vile thing that happened to every child in the place. "You'll be able to re-grow yourself like you've always wanted. This is a place for recovery more than placing you into a new family setting."

45

That sounded nice, and it still does. Caddy once told me that she's the one who gives the welcoming speech to incoming kids, and even to her it still sounds nice. Caddy was also the one who introduced me to the rest of the North family, and to the people in West Wing and East Annex. East Annex is where Paige and Austin spend most of their time, tampering with computers and memorizing voice patterns. They both have IQs over 140, and to say they're 'normal' would be an insult to their existence. Austin's the tech-oriented one, and Paige is the psych-oriented one. Both have blond hair, but Paige has one blue eye and one green eye, and Austin's eyes are such an incredibly dark shade of emerald they're hard to look at. The three of us get along, but I often pride myself on getting along with everybody at North.

Paige gave me list of all the people at North I should be aware of. It read like this: BLAISE, Angel, Indigo, Cadmium (Caddy), Tabytha, Saffron (Saffy), Tom, Esther, Devin, RED, Taz, Ray, CLARK, Johnson. I soon figured out that the names in all capitals were the most dangerous, and the names in parentheses were the ones you should call the people who had the parentheses next to their names. In fact, if you call Saffy 'Saffron' she'll most likely beat you. Blaise, as I discovered, has Schizophrenia, as does Angel and Clark. Devin has some weird form of OCD mania so that he comes off psychotic. Red has SPD, or Sadistic Personality Disorder, and, even though it's not actually considered a diagnosable mental condition, E still says she has it. In other words, when I'm not alone in my room, I'm surrounded by potential killers.

Josephine Massey ‘11

46

Orange Ooze

I am falling into a giant pot of yuckiness

It slowly oozes over me, sticking to my fingers

Making me flinch with its repulsion

It’s not only his words that stick like sugar gum

Rotting my brain like claws scratching at my skull

It’s those wide eyes that pretend childlike innocence

Pretend disinterest in the world that similarly hides its face

But really they stand straight in scrutiny

Crossing over the line of respect to the land of null appreciation

For expression of liberal thinking

For the investigation of what is true

Those open eyes betray judgmental blindness

Experiencing the buds of reason but failing to observe the flower

That is standing like a deer in the headlights of his thinking

About to be run over by the absurdity of his mind.

Do not dare to be that deer

For you will get stuck in orange oozing

Pouring out of him

But somehow he’ll convince the world

That it is coming out of you.

Alessandra Davy-Falconi ‘12

47

Indian-Boy

I don’t really get to be the Indian. Or the cowboy. Or anything real, except for a guy in a weird white spacesuit who walks on ugly, c-r-a-t-e-r filled dirt stuffs. And I don’t like science, and I don’t like the color white. It’s boring.

I wish everybody else had left something over for me.

Sometimes Dad tells me I was born in the wrong century: that I should have been one of the pioneers of America, traveling around in a dust-filled wagon and breathing the air of new places and finding hidden hollows in the secret-filled mountains. I like Dad’s words; they sound cool when I say them.

You could say I’m o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with it, the old things, the horses and the sunsets and America. I like America. My doctor says I’m fixated; but she’s a girl; what does she know of exploring.

Sometimes I watch riders on television, just to see the old-ness of the horses. It’s kind of weird, though; they just run around in circles. They don’t go anywhere anymore, just around and around and around again.

Mom hates it when I dress up. I dress up every day, in my favorite Halloween cowboy pants and Indian feathers. She tells me I’m going to break a leg, tearing around the house like I do, but I go anyway. I have to discover new lands, new places. The world counts on me all the time.

When I’m at Dad’s house, it’s harder. Katie doesn’t like me to run around; she spanks me sometimes. I don’t like her, and I had to say sorry for breaking a vase. Who cares about a stupid old vase, anyway, when I protected everybody from the scalping Indians.

Sometimes I pretend I’m the cowboy, making my way alone on my horse, my sharp eyes out for trouble. And sometimes I pretend I’m the Indian, king of the land and smarter than everybody else because I can survive. And sometimes I’m just both; they’re all fun to be. Anyway, I have to be somebody.

48

I fight all the time. I fight so much I can’t even hear everybody else’s fighting. And they only fight when I’m around, for some reason. I wish they wouldn’t; it hurts my ears.

Sometimes I have to invite Mom into my wagon at night so she won’t get scared by the coyotes. Mom’s like that; sometimes she just starts to get sad. I think she’s lonely, but she says she never is when I’m here. Mom’s not the smartest person, but I love her.

When I go to Dad’s house, she stands with me on the steps and holds my hand until Katie comes to the door. Then Katie smiles, opens the door so I can come in, and Mom says, ‘I hope you enjoy your two weeks of Alex. I’m sure you’re just as good a mother as I am; after all, you have two and I only-’. I don’t hear the rest because Katie always closes the door before Mom finishes.

Dad says I should be making friends with the other children. I don’t want to; David only likes ice hockey, which makes me cold, and Lisha only likes boys. I like cowboys and Indians. Katie doesn’t like cowboys and Indians; I don’t think Dad likes them too much either.

Mom likes cowboys and Indians. She wishes I weren’t one, but she likes them. Sometimes we tell stories about them, under our tent. Once we even sang a song about them. I’m glad Mom can see my tent; Katie always makes me put it down.

Dad and Katie fight when I’m there. They fight a lot. Dad says they’re just settling differences; I hope so, because it’s a lot harder to divide four into three than into two.

Mom says she misses me all the time when I’m not there. I tell her my big-bear spirit stays wherever I go. She says she loves me better than my spirit. I don’t know about that; my spirit’s a lot bigger than I am. It could protect her better.

*****

Katie and Dad were fighting a lot the last time. Something hit me; I think it was sharp, but I hadn’t been looking. Nobody’d ever thrown anything before.

49

I woke up with a headache; I could hear Mom and Dad and Katie, all together. They were yelling. It hurt. I had something sticky on my face. It hurt a lot.

I don’t go to Dad’s anymore; I just stay with Mom. I like Mom. I like Dad too, but I think he’ll be okay with Katie and Lisha and David. Mom needs me. And I need her sometimes, too, since it’s awful hard to run around the prairie when you can’t see anymore.

Eliza Zhitnik ‘13

50

Thoughts on E

Well, she's strange. Her eyes most likely belonged to some cobra that was accidentally summoned from hell; her hair is a pitch-black mass of curls that only exemplifies the fact that her irises literally glow. And she smiles a lot: a wide, toothy grin that borders on malicious more often than not. I think she's about 5'4", though she wears heels all the time so it's hard to tell. Something about her image—a short, devious, inhuman thing—reminds me of Peter Lorre's character in M, but as far as I know, she doesn't kill the kids in North. The first time I ever really saw the 'true' face of E was at the same time that I met Tom. E was showing me to my room on the very first day of my being a North Branch orphan, and it involved winding our way through an endless number of dark hallways. "You know," she had said to me, still wearing her smile, "there's an easier way to get there." And she said it as if she enjoyed the labyrinthine detour. I couldn't fathom why anyone would want to walk forever like this, but now that I think about it, E could do anything forever. Finally, there was a door. It was a tall, pale wooden door with a gold-veneered doorknob and nothing else. Beside it, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, was a small, dark-haired boy that looked to be about ten years of age. He was staring intently at the wall opposite him and had a delighted smile on his pale face, which I found to be on the verge of disturbing. Slowly, and almost cautiously, he looked upward at E and me, and the smile grew curious. "Anne," he said, "do you know who that is?" I blinked at E, who was staring down at the boy with something akin to interest. There was a following silence in which the boy nodded his head once or twice and then finally made a sound of recognition. "E," he said with much uncertainty, "Anne doesn't know who that is." "It's Jake," she replied, and remained statuesque. Then her slit pupils tilted toward me. "This is Tom; he lives here, too." "And Anne," Tom interjected with a bright smile.

51

"Yes, and Anne," E repeated back to me. Her eyes were boring into my face as if to force me to see that there was, in fact, no Anne. But I could already comprehend that. "Imaginary friend?" I asked her quietly, stealing a look at the sitting boy. "No," she countered, looking euphoric at the fact that I didn't understand Tom's Anne. "She's real." "Yeah, she's real," Tom beamed, and looked back toward the white wall opposite him at where I assumed Anne to be. "Real," E reiterated, looking positively demonic. It occurred to me that she was well aware of Tom's issue, and took great joy in it. In fact, it almost seemed that E herself was as mentally unhinged as Tom was, if her crazy, wild staring was any indication. But it all changed when Tom stood up. "Anne and I have to go," he announced, shrugging his shoulders beneath his brown corduroy blazer. "Lily said she has a job for us to do." And he moved to pass E and me down the endless corridor. "Tom," E said suddenly, and her voice had become a low, threatening drawl, "you know where Lily's office is, right?" "... Yes," Tom replied in a voice that was—all of a sudden—shaky and weak. "Near Esther's room." "Y-yes," he replied again, as though the combination of E's voice and the thought of Esther made him sick. "You are to be quiet: she's painting, and earlier I had to stop her from—" E paused then, rethinking her words. "She almost attacked Indigo." "Okay," Tom whispered, reaching his hand up to hang awkwardly in the air. I turned his movements over in my mind one too many times before realizing that he had taken Anne's hand.

52

"Good," she finished, her tone still intimidating and droning. Then the snake eyes turned toward me and she grinned again. "Jake, you'll see Tom later." "Goodbye," Tom said with a small wave at me. "Bye," I offered, greatly confused. This was before I had met Esther, the young girl who was—as it turned out—feared for more than she was feared herself. I then let my head loll back on my neck and closed my eyes in thought. "You," E's usual voice said with a smirk in the tone, "have eyes like mine." I let my pupils focus in on her simpering face, and all I could see were her sharp canines and those venomous viridescent orbs. "Do I?" I inquired warily, feeling my chest tighten. If I had eyes like hers I was royally screwed. The dark-haired young woman nodded slowly as if to mock my hesitation. "Obviously; they look like a wolf's." Then she grinned again and it looked rather manic. "Nobody has gold eyes." It sounded almost like she was reprimanding me. "But, of course, you were raised like one . . ." When I jolted and frowned, her smile sharpened and her slit pupils dilated. Such an unearthly, haunting leer. "I know," I forced out, shoving my hands in the pockets of my black jeans so she couldn't see me clench them.

C.J. Masdea ‘11

53

Empty Hall

As I sit here in this Empty Hall I wonder How I can make you listen To a single voice drowned by a large crowd of gulls. Your ignorance has caused you To see only the cover Of the Anthology. I tried to befriend and to talk to you. But, laughing, you spat in my face, Before running off and hiding Behind a tall man twice your size. As I stood there and cried I asked: What have I done wrong? Then one day your nature changed; You approached me and we talked Like long-lost friends from the Great War. But then, something strange happened: You screamed at me to leave you alone Before you left for good. Many months have now past Since I last heard from you. I since traveled the world and beyond, Even to Saturn and back. But as the weeks go by and the Leaves turn Brown I ask: Are you still there?

Lauren Nicole Mandelbaum ‘11

54

Exhale

She breathes in

and with one long, slow puff

the balloon inflates,

expanding in short bursts

in time with her breath.

It grows bigger and bigger quickly

past nose, eyes and ears . . .

finally past brain, past skull into

the expansive sky above her head.

She knows it can’t keep going like this

but she can’t stop

the feeling is addictive

she is lightheaded

she sees the stars

and with one long, slow exhale

the balloon pops, and so does her ego

falls to the ground

little pieces of colorful plastic that never existed

as a whole

fragments of imagination

trampled by city walkers

and she cries, and she knows.

LitMag Editorial Board 2009-2010

Nassim Hosseinzadeh ‘11

C.J. Masdea ‘11

Eliza Zhitnik ‘13

Alessandra Davy-Falconi ‘12

Lawrence Bandoni ‘12

Josephine Massey ‘11

Victor Orlov ‘13

Meghan Boyle ‘13

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Lauren Proll

Special Thanks To

Ms. Paige Brewster

Mr. James Berkman

Our Fantastic Contributors

Mr. Jay Arthur, ProPrint

www.buacademy.org