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Staff Members

Rachel Tokarski, Co-Editor-in-Chief

Jacquelyn Brouillette, Co-Editor-in-Chief

Ryan Aghamohammadi, Editor

Sam Austin, Editor

Sam Bard, Editor

Oniesha Clarke, Editor

Trajada Jackson, Editor

Erka Kodra, Editor

Maggie Parker, Editor

Olivia Pettinichi, Editor

Rachael Pettinichi, Editor and Artist

Isabelle Raffin, Editor

Dani D’Aversa, Artist

Maia Demirs, Artist

Abigail Manville, Artist

Gabe Pietrorazio, Artist

Riley Rising, Photographer

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Letter from the Editors…

Chase Collegiate is a community in which artists of all kinds thrive. Our literary

magazine takes great pride in the diverse submissions we’ve received throughout the 2014-2015

school year. The individuals here at Chase are represented within their work of art; whether that

be a poem, a drawing, a short story, or even a photograph. Our magazine is rich in creativity and

originality, which mirrors the personalities of our community.

Exceptional literature is beautiful in all forms— no matter if it be in a book or on a

computer screen. It should be noted that our generation is more familiar with the latter. With

technology rapidly advancing, online literature (esp. fiction and poetry) has reached new heights.

Therefore, we’ve made the transition to an electronic magazine this year.

To conclude, we’d like to thank the authors, artists, and photographers for all the hard

work that has gone into the publication of this magazine. To the editors, thank you for the

thoughtfulness you all brought every Tuesday afternoon to our meetings. To Mrs. Gusenburg,

this publication would not be possible without the love you have for your students and your

passion for literature.

“A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,

but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”

— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Congratulations to all the artists and authors!

Jackie and Rachel

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5

Tea bleeds through hot water,

and I am infused.

With what-

passion, admiration, a cure for all loneliness?

This state is unspoken

but not unnamed.

It slips through my hands

like sugar or smoke,

and my fingers are stained pink.

I scrape this impurity from under my fingernails

with little success.

This confusion, this question, this confirmation of fears

is simply the beginning.

A tentative touch to the water,

which will soak me body and soul.

And I am aware this may never happen again,

a single soap bubble that was once the entire world.

But your sweetness will cling

to my tongue,

my teeth,

the back of my throat.

By Rachael Pettinicchi

Violets

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Electronics and social media have become a growing problem in our society. Those once

valued objects are now a cause of teen obesity, lack of concentration, and insufficient

communication. The use of social media, such as Facebook and Twitter, gave us a tool in

diminishing intellectual and communication skills from teenagers. Twitter and Facebook are

channels which have allowed their stationary bodies to mold into their bed. The only solution to

this dilemma is to abolish electronics and social media completely.

The recent solutions of raising prices on meaningless devices that people want and will

eventually buy is not a proper solution. The government has to take control of this evolving

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problem by wiping it off this Earth. This needs to be taken to the extreme to obtain any sort of

result, even if it means melting batteries down. Strict laws can be implemented making use of

social media or any form of electronics as illegal. If one is found carrying such device or social

media, they will receive a first-offense warning, but the next encounter could lead to some

serious jail time, maybe even for life. The banning of electronic devices will lead to miraculous

results. 20/20 vision will increase since teenagers are not staring at the screens for hours on end.

The obesity levels of young children will change and be brought down to acceptable levels. But

most importantly, the youth will be able to really laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing if

they want to without being constrained to the use of tweets and text language, like LOL or

ROFL. Teenagers will now experience face-to-face conversation with someone in the real world

rather than text and chat, which allows society’s youth to become far better communicators.

Society has overlooked many options to solve this problem for too long now. Getting rid

of electronics and social media can save the world from mass destruction. Abolishing electronics

and social media is the best solution to create a thriving society and save the intelligence of our

youth, where LOL and TTYL no longer exist.

By Sam Bard

A music note slowly floats in front of me and transforms into a spherical object darker

than myself. I touch it, not knowing what will be the result of my actions. It thins into a line

drawing me to follow it. Hesitant, I turn around and glance at the other half of me, yet, the pale

version of myself sits unaware of what is happening. So I follow it not knowing where or when

it’s going to stop. I quickly catch up to the shape. It sporadically moves until it stops and hovers

feet in front of me.

Standing with my hands outspread, ready to grab at the concentrated black mass, I wait.

My fingers retract and I observe. Nodding in acknowledgement, I know at that moment that I

will not physically touch the mass, but instead manipulate it into something more. Evoking a

Nothing But A

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sense of potential and possibility, I sweep my hands forward, carving the air by expanding the

small, black blob. With the melodic curve of my hands, the art of conducting is more than just

swinging your arms.

Red. The color that pierces the atmosphere around me, rising to the surface, awakening

her memories, red. Such energy and passion starts to consume the restful emptiness of the

indistinct, black mass. The growing red and black static memories still illuminate my skin as it

moves by itself, aware and conscious. This is proven to be memories. Memories of one now lost.

Now pieces float by me as I continue to gesticulate around the indefinite mass.

A music composition. As music pours forth, I conduct her memories. I see her strangely

walking through a dark place of her mind, a void. Nothing to remind her except for small voices

of reality, in her desolate void, her mind just as empty as the day she was born. Withdrawn and

alone, solemnly walking through an undesired emptiness of her mind with practically nothing.

Disconsolate, solitary, and muted. Progressively deteriorating while she’s losing herself.

Oh, how diluted of a world she must be in. Her memory was her coherence. Her reasons, her

feelings, the connection to herself dissolve away. She tries to escape the perpetual state of

suffering only to be continuously stuck. The oppressive and defining illness slowly crawls and

enraptures the faintest of memories.

No longer able to reconstruct the moments in some of their sensory detail, and relive it, as

it were, from the inside. Not there, amid the sights, sounds and smells. No longer a time traveler

who can return to the past as soon as the demands of “then” intervene.

My skin is illuminated by the seemingly interminable mass. My conducting shapes the

nature of the memories — how vivid, how delicate — informs me as to what kind of images will

be produced at the given moment. I smooth out choppy memories by moving through the music

in a sweeping manner. Trying to communicate through memories with sound by the movement

as my arm strokes grew broad at vigorous times.

My fundamental goal is to bring these memories back to life as she slowly loses hers. I

see the final recollection, making a clear entrance for me to be engulfed in everything she’s ever

experienced. When she looks into her own eyes, red is the color that drains from her heart when

she realizes that she is losing herself. Red is the color of her pulse as her heart slips into a slower,

steady pace. Red will be the last thing I see before I come to an end.

9

My arm quickly dissolves into the cool, red substance as I tried to grasp one of her

memories. While I attempt to grip her memories, I anticipate shock, but only emotions flood my

being and I am at ease.

As I fully embrace what she can’t remember, I am at peace. Conducting the music to her

life, so critical and precarious, I now am with no visceral response to death. Though thought of

as intangible, I become nothing more than a part of her memory.

By Oniesha Clarke

She is fearless

She is selfless

And gives without suspicion

She is patient

She is joyful

And she does not let jealousy rule her

She sees the beauty in each day

And observes the good in every heart

This I promise:

One day, I will be

The girl I want to be

By Rachel Tokarski

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I Want to Be

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But, most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool

Though tumultuous feet run about

The mind feels no more disrupted than before

Stop - a muffled word - forlorn - desperate to be voiced louder

Chaos - Commotion - Cease

You - tell me I am Dreaming

Blinking - cannot awake from reality

Though Chaos is around - I am aware of Nothing

By Oniesha Clarke

A sequoia in a shoebox

lifts its shaking limbs to the heavens.

It does not want to be seen as ungrateful,

(because that would be bad to be)

But fluorescent light and

distilled water

have failed to save it for many years.

There are others;

the topiary, the bonsai.

It looks to them with a pang of jealousy

at their apparent satisfaction.

Despite this,

the sequoia cannot bring itself

to tear its roots from the tiny pot

that is the only place it has ever known.

The consolation of the watering can

Sequoia in

a Shoebox

11

instead of the frost and the fire and uncertainty of the elements

make this worth it.

(it thinks)

The window is slightly ajar,

a few drops of rain fall onto its needles.

It hasn’t learned that happiness isn’t just avoiding pain.

By Rachael Pettinicchi

A person’s silences are just as significant as her words. In William Faulkner’s “As I Lay

Dying”, what Dewey Dell keeps to herself defines her relationships with her family members,

especially her father and her brother Darl. In addition, it influences the decisions she makes

throughout the book and her panic over it characterizes the role that she plays.

Dewey Dell is closest to her brother Darl because he intuitively knows her secrets, but

does not tell about them. She says, “…I knew he knew because if he had said he knew with the

words I would not have believed that he had been there and saw us” (460). Here Dewey Dell

explains how her relationship with Darl is beyond words- It does not need them for

understanding to pass between them, nor can it be described by words. She continually uses

phrases like “knowing” and “without the words”. This is very similar to the way in which Addie

discusses the inadequacy of words to capture the true emotions that human beings feel. The

secrets that Dewey Dell and Darl share strengthen the bond between them.

In contrast, Dewey Dell’s secret pregnancy serves to alienate her from her father and

causes strain in their relationship. On page 532, when Anse asks Dewey Dell to elaborate on

where she got her money from, she repeatedly says, “Pa. Pa.” She is pleading with him, not only

begging him not to make her hand it over, but also not to force her to explain. Even when it is

clear to her that he is going to take the money, she refuses to tell him. This shows her fear of

Anse, as well as her determination, even obstinacy, in keeping her secret from him, even though

she knows that her secret will come out eventually if he takes the money.

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Dewey Dell spends the entirety of the novel attempting to hide and reverse her

pregnancy. It consumes her every thought. Even when her mother has just died, all Dewey Dell

can think about the doctor is, “He could do so much for me if he just would” (469). Dewey

Dell’s pregnancy is what defines her character in this novel, and so the reader never understands

what she was like before it. Although she is panicked about it, Faulkner never once pens the

word “pregnancy” or “pregnant”, instead writing simply “it”. This single pronoun indicates that

Dewey Dell cannot even admit her situation to herself, as well as distances her from her unborn

child, making it less difficult to attempt to terminate the pregnancy.

Through the subtlest of diction, Faulkner molds Dewey Dell’s relationships with Anse

and Darl, as well as her tumultuous interior monologue. This simplicity makes the writing more

authentic, and it is beautiful that these word choices could hold such gravity. In this way, it is

ironic that Addie Bundren says that a word is “just a shape to fill a lack”, because Faulkner

creates tremendous complexity of meaning with the simplest words of our language

By Rachel Tokarski

13

Father, the day has come.

I'm no longer a child young.

Father can't you see

It's time for this little bird to fly away,

But know I'll be back someday

Know I'll pay my way through life

With blood, sweat, and infinite strife.

I'll be okay, and I'll get through days

Of good and bad and sometimes sad

Father, I must go.

I must leave this place that I call home.

I'll roam the lands with open eyes.

I'll keep my head up to the sky.

It's time for me to take fate’s hand.

Know that I'll always stand tall

Even if I fall

Because you taught me how

And showed me the way.

Because of you

I am who I am today,

Strong, wise,

And a little bit brave.

Thank you, Daddy,

Is all I have left to say.

So now watch me fly away.

By Maggie Parker

Father

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Dear Journal,

My name is Mike. I am here in what I believe to be heaven. The walls are white; the beds

are white, even my roommate, Gabe, has a halo. He says it shocks him, but I think it is just the

pain that comes with being an angel. I was given this journal by Miss Emma. She said writing

down my thoughts will help to “understand that I am confused” and “remember what really

living life as me felt like”, which I don’t get… I’m dead aren’t I?!

There is a young girl on this level;her name is Margaret. She keeps to herself and doesn’t

make eye contact with anyone for more than a second. Her tummy has a slight roundness to it.

She walked in my room the other day, and sat at the edge of Gabe’s bed. I closed my eyes and

pretended to be sleeping, but eavesdropped on the conversation. She asked him what was

happening. She never took a health class, and after that rave she went to, a health class would

have been helpful.

Gabe mumbled ever so slightly, “Do you believe in the word of the Lord., our Savior and higher

power”?

She said yes, then he told her something any 14 year old would throw a fit after hearing. He said

she was one with God, and was holding the son of God. And rather than throw a fit, she slowly

stood up from his bed, walked out of the room, as slight sobs were heard coming from the

hallway.

From the words of Matthew.

Dear Journal,

I haven’t seen her today. I haven’t seen her in months. I asked the nurse, and she said,

“She is no longer with us.”

She is dead? We are all dead. What is that supposed to mean!? I got out of bed and left.

They tried to stop me, hold me by force, but it was no use. Whatever those drugs were, they

really kicked my adrenaline up, and it went down.

I walked down the street and spotted a church. It’s been a while, and by the way I have

been acting, I thought I would pop in for at least some free food. It was quiet, and there was only

one person in there. I walked up to the altar, bowed, then looked down at the girl praying; it was

Margaret. As she raised her head from prayer, she stared at me and asked for my help. She was

such a nice girl…

Untitled

15

We left. We walked a couple of blocks and stopped at another hospital. She asked me to

go in with her; I agreed. She walked up to the front counter and whispered something. The only

word I got out of the conversation was abortion. If I were her, I would be doing the same. Screw

being a teen mom, but maybe getting some extra money from MTV wouldn’t be that bad.

Especially having the son of God! She might even get a reality show on E!. The conversation left

her in a fluster. We walked out of there, and she began screaming in the streets- either from

anger or kicking...possibly a combination of both. We continued walking until we found

someone that could get the job done.

From the words of Mark.

Dear Journal,

It’s been two days now, and no luck. We have even tried going to a couple of schools,

asking if the nurses could do something. The only thing they did was threaten to call the cops.

We walked until it happened. Yes. IT happened. Margaret’s water broke. I attempted to carry her

to the nearby dark alley, so she could at least sit down, but I was too weak, to so I helped her to

trudge over. I laid her down on some soft garbage bags filled with substances so putrid only the

bag should know. She screamed louder and louder as the walls began to throb from contractions.

As her voice continued to roar, nearby strays began to howl back and surrounded her. She

prepared for the inevitable, yet felt intimidated by the mutt’s eyes staring back at her. She asked

me to get them away, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t risking getting some incurable disease from some

mongrel. She pushed, and she bled all over the dark pavement… and that’s all I could remember.

From the words of Luke.

Dear Journal,

I am awake now. Apparently, the sight of blood is a trigger for some people to pass

out...including me. She explained that she cleaned up the mess after giving birth and brought us

back to her house. She said she knew her parent’s would be mad, knowing she had just given

birth to the child of a convict, so she named him Jesus (hey-soos). This way, she can come home,

her parent’s believe that she is the mother of the second coming of Jesus (G-sus). Do I think her

parents will buy it: no, but at least she can finally go home to those who will love her (and get

this crazy woman off my back). After the explanation she thanked me and showed me the door.

As I walked out, I felt freer than I ever was in the hospital. They used to call me “Mike”

there. Who the hell is Mike? My name is John! I don’t know who these other people are that

16

used my journal, but this is JOHN’S! Being off those medications makes me feel the most like

myself and not the person they wanted me to become. It is as if they tried brainwashing me into

being a clone of some sort. Anyway, I am off to find my friend, Moses. He believes that “God

has spoken to him” and that he has told him “The ten rules for getting away with murder.” He

says it’s like the Ten Commandments, but instead of God punishing you, you punish others

while getting away with it.

From the words of John.

By Morgan Carlotto

They are peeled paint and cracked mirrors

Wounded, not broken.

But they are quite lovely.

You’ve clapped

your hands

over your mouth

more times than you can count.

And to be honest,

they would be the ideal conversationalists,

but to be honest

it’s not unlike having a paper cut

and asking for a bandage from someone with a gunshot wound.

But we're all lost here

So for now

let's push the skeletons off of the table

and accept another chip

to celebrate our sobriety from death.

By Rachael Pettinicchi

A Support Group

For Reality

17

Some people just don’t know how to let go. We can’t all live lost in a fairytale

world with a happy ending; sometimes we have to be practical. Sure, we all have dreams and

aspirations and beautiful memories, or so I’d hope if at least for nothing more than my faith in

humanity, but at the end of the day we all have bills to pay. We all have to make sacrifices. It’s

just the way it is. I guess some people just don’t get it.

Everyone knew this guy was different from the moment he stepped onto the train. The

expression “wore his heart on his sleeve” comes closest, in a surprisingly literal way, to my best

efforts to describe what was so peculiar about him. He had this glowing red ball, which in my

opinion looked like a glob of radioactive red Silly-Puddy, which he held onto for dear life; he

treated it as if it were his child. His love, his memories, hopes and dreams, everything he

couldn’t let go for the greater good to just work with everyone else and be normal, it was selfish

if you ask me. Everyone else was behaving normally; they put their personal life aside and

brought their professional prowess, but not this kid. No sir, this kid wasn’t your run of the mill

worker; he was heading upstream, and I could see it in his eyes. It’s not a good path to go down

in this world, going off the beaten path like I knew he had in mind. You think I hadn’t seen

others try to go down that road? I’ve been in the game for a while now and I’ve seen folks do

just about everything to avoid this duty of ours from the men who try to run before it starts, to

those who don’t realize they can’t take it until they’re already on the train, and have nothing left

to do but jump. But this kid wasn’t one of those either. There was something different about him.

If I had to place it, I’d say he wasn’t running from this job, but rather running to somewhere else.

But whether it’s to or from, it’s running all the same, and let me tell you, it leads to nowhere but

trouble. I turned my back and got as far from this kid as possible. The train couldn’t be big

enough and it sure as hell wasn’t growing.

When the train stopped I could just feel it. I just knew the kid with his heart on his sleeve

was going to stir up some trouble. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.

Just keep thinking it, just keep doing it, nothing else to it. I kept telling myself don’t think about

him don’t worry about him, maybe he’ll settle into the marching and be able to move on. I knew

this was nothing but wishful thinking, as I had seen this kid for maybe thirty seconds before

knowing he wasn’t planning on sticking around, and if he was that would certainly all change

Another Day at the Office

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when he realized he couldn’t hold onto both his heart and his job. He was going to have to

choose just like all the rest of us.

Finally my mind began to wander. The rhythmic marching was steadily getting faster and

faster and my day was beginning to seem like all the rest. Just the way I like it. I had seen it. I

wondered when it would happen, when the pace of the pack would be too much to keep holding

on. And now I knew.

There it was, floating away like the last of the ninety-nine red balloons, the heart on the

kid’s sleeve, further escaping with every moment that went by. Was that it? Had he chosen the

job over his love? Well if he had, I wouldn’t be telling the story of the kid who swam upstream

against all odds. The disruption was palpable even though I was as far behind him in the pack as

I could possibly get. I could practically feel his energy as he lunged for it, as he made up his

mind. And so it started, the swim upstream.

I have to say, I was skeptical of his efforts. His determination was admirable, sure, even a

little cute the same way it’s cute when a kitten tries so hard to catch the laser pointer on the wall

when we all know it’s just not going to happen. Now let me back up. I wasn’t lying when I said I

had seen people run from this job. I wasn’t lying when I said I knew this kid was going upstream

either. I never said anyone had actually made it, and sure didn’t think this little lovebird was

going to be the one to make history. I guess we all get proven wrong once in a while.

I watched with amusement as he struggled against the crowd, just as many before him

had done and many were sure to do in the future. A bump on the shoulder here, a knee to the

thigh there; it starts off looking like you can just push your way back with a few bruises to show

for it on the other side. Once the speed of our march starts ramping up, it becomes just about as

possible to get out of this current as it is for light to get out of a black hole. Or so I thought. And

in fact, so I still think. It’s not that this kid somehow made it possible, it’s that he conquered the

impossible. I was frozen when I saw him reach that little ball of Silly-Putty. I simply couldn’t

keep marching and forget about him. I had never seen it been done before, no one had. What was

going to happen? I had to stick around to find out. Turns out I never found out, and maybe I

never will.

He vanished. Plain and simple, this kid came in, and left. You can’t do that, that doesn’t

happen here. What made him do it? Maybe he had more will than the rest of us, maybe he had

more strength than the rest of us, but all I know is that he had the love that the rest of us couldn’t

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muster in two lifetimes. I said we all have to make sacrifices and I guess he chose his. He

sacrificed everything except what mattered most. Maybe the rest of us are the ones living lost, so

focused on the bills we have to pay and what we define as practical that we lose sight of what

truly matters. Maybe we need to learn to let go of our notion of normal. Maybe we just don’t get

it.

By Alden Landry

The Air so Thick — So Warm

My body lays straight — suspended in darkness

Before Tears, now silence

Before Laughing, now silence

Before Screaming, now Silence - now serene

Now silent, the blood has been replaced

Retracted once before — now Cavity filled

Slowly Air advances — filling the emptiness

Creeping up — at peace — no Fear whatsoever

Syrup climbs to my lips — I shout — no sound

It has silenced me

Panicked — Fear dilutes —

Realization — Reaching for the Door upwards

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Drowning, holding nothing — falling

Alarm of my Name — the Voice pulls

Dragging through thick far — Holding down

Closer to Tears

Closer to Laughter

Closer to Screams

Looking upward — my Body accelerates

Eyes open — now Light

Not regretful — will Return — then to Stay

Now Eyes open — Exhausting — Yet a Necessity

I breathe in — air so cold — so Thin

Will Return — Assured

By Pamela Salisbury

I watch my father pound the masked man’s head with his fist. I gasp as he strikes the

man, the sound of fist hitting bone deafening the shouts of the surrounding men. He looks at me,

and hesitates. I want to run to him, wrap my arms around his bloodied chest and hold him tightly

enough so no one could ever pull me away. I want to shout. Or cry. He sees that I am confused,

but I know he can’t explain now. I search his eyes for answers. I search for something that will

tell me why. He stares at me; I think that this might be the first time he has ever looked into my

eyes for more than a brief glance. My father shows that he loves me: he pats my head when he’s

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proud of me, rubs my back when I run to him at night (nightmares chasing me until I reach his

bed), and kisses me on the forehead when he leaves me...but he never stares into my eyes.

I don’t ever remember seeing my father so upset. He only gets upset over my pants. My

pants are always too short. He says that I grow so fast, but also tells me that, of course, it’s not

my fault. He promises to get me new pants for Christmas, before it gets cold. He doesn’t know

that I see a tear leak out of one eye before he turns away every time he tells me that he can’t buy

me new pants this month. His pants aren’t good, either. They have holes and patches and they’re

too big around the hips. He’d never buy himself new pants, though. Not if mine were still too

short. I tell him that I don’t care if my pants are short, because in the winter, I will have socks to

cover any open leg, and that’s just as good as pants. I wish I could tell him that now. I wish I

could open my mouth and say, Daddy I don’t care about my pants. But I’m frozen. My feet feel

like they are stuck in mud, and my mouth is glued shut.

My father blinks once and shakes. I think he knows what I’m trying to tell him. I think he

knows I don’t care about the pants. His face is all bloody. He’s going to have a black eye

tomorrow. My father isn’t a man who punches people; he’s kind and peaceful. I once hit a boy in

class for making fun of my friend and he said that isn’t how we deal with problems. We talk like

human beings. I wish I could talk like a human being now. Then I could ask him why he’s

punching the man with the mask, who doesn’t remind me of a human much. My dad stands up.

I’m relieved because he can, but nervous that I thought he couldn’t. I blink.

I search through my brain to find something happy. I remember my 7th birthday. We had

a picnic. Just my dad and me. He brought my favorite food, grilled cheese, and his favorite food,

coffee. For most of the day we lay on our blanket and watched the clouds, shouting out the

names of the different animals that we could find in them. We had a tickle fight. I laughed and

laughed and laughed. So did my dad. We laughed more on my birthday than ever before, our

sides aching with stitches. When the sun touched the treetops, my dad stood up. I open my eyes.

He’s hunched over. Blood and sweat trickle down his face. His bones tell me he’s

hungry. His face tells me he’s tired. Again I am filled with the urge to run to him, to cling to him

to protect him against the man with the mask and the men who are cheering, to tell him that I

love him. I can hear my heart pounding louder than the gasps of the watchers. I think that Dad’s

heart is pounding just as loudly, because I can almost hear his, too.

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I remember every time my dad has looked scared: when I broke my arm falling off the

swing set, when we came home to find a yellow piece of paper on our door, when the heat stops

during winter. These images of his panicked face are pushed away when I remember every time

my father has told me he loved me: every morning when I leave for school, before I go to bed, in

the car just minutes ago. He makes sure I know he loves me. I think that he might be trying to

prove that to himself.

My confusion comes back. Why does he have to punch people? Why are people

cheering? I am scared. I think that the men in suits that cheer don’t know our story. Maybe if I

tell them that my dad is only trying to buy me a pair of pants, they’ll understand. Maybe if I tell

them that I see that their hands are stuffed with bills, that I know what they’re doing when they

clasp hands with the person next to them, they’ll understand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man in the mask start to get up. I tear my eyes away

from my father’s, hoping that he’ll be able to dodge the masked man. I try to remember that the

masked man is probably hitting my dad for the same reason my dad was hitting him. But when

his fist connects with my father’s head, I don’t think about the masked man’s reasons. I find my

father’s eyes once more, and I think I now know why. His eyes hold the guilt and pain of too

many missed meals and the fear for his son. I see him ask for forgiveness (I’m sorry I’m sorry

I’m sorry) and his silent scream (I love you I love you I love you). He hits the floor. Something

snaps and my feet are moving. I throw myself to the floor next to him. His eyes are closed.

The things we do for love, a man in a suit says quietly. I’ll never love again.

By Allison Feldman

"Allez allez, mes chéris," she chided.

Stumbling over one another, her

three pups struggled to keep up. Only a few weeks old, they were still gaining

control of their motor skills. As she rounded the top of the snow covered

knoll, she felt hopeful that she might find an oasis for herself and her

23

whelps. Since the banishment, she had been on her own, cast out by her pack,

left to fend for herself and raise her three needy children.

Winter was the worst. A thick

seasonal coat does not keep you warm against the harsh lashes of northern

Québécois wind. It keeps you alive. Barely. Dens keep you warm. But those

take a combined effort to dig. She didn't even have a permanent residence

anymore. Her whelps were only able to survive thanks to their frequent stops to

rest and burrow in the snow to warm up. Food was scarce. Everything she caught

was either half dead or frozen. She gave it all to her ravenous pups. Her own

vitality dwindled for the sake of theirs.

Scanning the now in full view

valley, she searched for a coagulation of trees for protection from the

impending storm. She felt it in her bones, in her muscles, in her gut. A nasty

blizzard it would be. Spotting a patch of about twenty maples, she led her

whelps down into the valley and towards the cover. She hoped to perhaps

construct a temporary den. Her pups desperately needed it. Fearing the

possibility of nearby predators, she shushed her whimpering young.

"Taisez-vous, chéris. Vous devez être muets." After

verifying their solitude, she began to dig. First through the nearly two feet

of dense snow, and then into the ground. She made it about three inches before

ceasing with realization. "Zut," she whispered to herself.

"Quelle nullité."

She expelled a moan of

hopelessness. How was she to provide a shelter for her pups in time for the

blizzard when the ground was nearly frozen solid? Again putting her young

first, she decided she needn't space for herself in the den. She continued

digging at double speed yet half rate. For three hours she clawed, and clawed,

and clawed. Finally the hole was spacious enough for her pups. She ushered them

in.

24

"Venez, mes enfants." Her fatigued whelps clambered into

the small space, curling up on top of each to conserve heat. At least they were

deep enough to not be affected by the angering winds.

With her head inside the den she whispered, "Endormez-vous,

maintenant."

As she lifted her heavy head

she noticed a large flash of black out of the left corner of her eye. She was

not alone. The sun having set an hour earlier certainly didn't comfort her. Her

vision was growing weaker. She called out.

"Qui est ça?"

No reply. She was afraid. Not

for herself but for her pups. Food was scarce everywhere, for everyone.

Predators were hungry.

Suddenly the sharp crack of a

breaking twig sounded from behind her. She whipped around, prepared to fight.

"Non. Pas toi," she whimpered.

"Oui, oui, c'est moi," he chuckled back evilly.

She couldn't believe it. The

very wolf that caused her banishment had returned. It was pure mockery at this

point. The love, the hate, the betrayal, the anger, the sadness. They all came

flooding back. Yet she remained level, boring holes through his eyes with hers.

She would die for the protection of her young.

"Pars. Je ne veux jamais te voir encore," she growled.

"Tsk tsk tsk. Est-ce que ça c'est la façon correcte de parler

au père de tes enfants?" he retorted.

"Arrête. Tu n'es aucun père à mes enfants," she barked.

25

She felt her blood pulse

through her veins at near boil. For the first time since autumn she stopped

shivering. She couldn't bear the arrogance and entitlement he felt. To call

himself her children's father? Blatant disrespect. He took no part in the

nurturing of her three whelp to life other than mere conception. And once she

became pregnant, he denied even that. She hid her pregnancy for as long as she

could, but eventually it was too conspicuous. Simply because of his respectable

position among the pack, his word overrule hers. The others believed his denial

and accused her of having cross-mated with a male of another pack, strictly

forbidden by pack law, and punishable by banishment.

"Tu m'as dit que tu m'aimais. Tu as menti," she said.

"Je t'aime encore, ma chère," he replied.

"Non. Il faut que tu partes."

He sighed. "Je voudrais voir mes enfants avant je pars."

"Non. Ils dorment. Et ils ne sont pas tes enfants."

He stepped closer to the den's opening. She snarled.

"Si tu avances plus près, je te tuerai," she warned.

Though much more powerful than she, she knew her maternal impulses and pent up

fury would prevail. He continued toward the opening.

She lunged. He evaded. She pounced. He slashed. She chomped. He

whined.

"D'accord! D'accord! Tu gagnes!" he sputtered out.

She released her grip on his neck, tasting blood. "Pars. Pars

maintenant. Sinon, je te finirai."

He knew she would. He hobbled

away as quickly as he could, still having trouble breathing and serious neck

pains. It was only now she noticed a sharp pain in her own abdomen. She looked

26

at her side: a full one foot gash was pumping blood like a spigot. Her heart

sank. She knew her demise was approaching. Her worries continued to lie with

her whelps. Realizing that without aid from another, her pups would freeze to

death. The thought was unbearable. She needed to find help. Quickly.

By now the blizzard had reached

its full force. Winds whipped. Cold permeated. She powered through it. A short

while later, rounding the nearest hill, she spotted a small human child. It

appeared lost and hypothermic. Then it fell to the ground. She knew she had to

act now. Approaching the child, she inquired, "Tu t'es perdu?" The

child sprung up, frightened, staring.

"Tu vas mourir. Suis-moi," she said, cringing at the

fire in her side. She turned around and began to walk back to her whelps.

Noticing the child remaining in place, she called back, "Suis-moi si tu

veux vivre."

The child rose, and began to

take heavy steps. She continued. Coming up on the den, she stopped. She was

just out of sight and earshot of her pups, exactly as she wanted it. As the

child approached, she spoke.

"Comme tu vois, je vais mourir bientôt."

She then explained her offer,

describing how she would allow the child to kill her for nourishment and

warmth, if, and only if, the child swore to protect her pups, as she would no

longer be able to do so herself.

"Maintenant," she said, "Prends ta décision."

The child thought intensely for a minute. Then leaned in toward

her, and whispered, "J'accepte."

She nodded, then laid down. The

child fetched a sharp branch. She closed her eyes. It raised its arms.

27

It was in this moment that she

finally felt peace at mind. Assurance of her pups' safety and preservation of

life was greater than any life of hers. She knew trusting a small child was a

gamble, but it seemed to be genuine. At the very least she had to tell herself

that she had placed her faith in a loyal being. Another betrayal would kill her

soul. She prayed that wasn’t the ca--”

By Jason Knies

On the look of Death-

A Babe- Demands- quiet triumph

Exiting-

Concentrated spotlight whispers

Summoning Tunes

Below-

Selfish desires of Broken Hearts-

Suffocate grass below their soles

The Touched Souls cover the Empty Vehicle-

With the Breaths of the Earth -

Eternally caging one- releasing another.

By Brittney Antous

#23

28

It asked a crumb – of Me

And continued to walk

I gave it willingly

A trail bequeathed to them

It follows – to Me – a Mistake

More come – Morsels I Offer –

Beseeching of me – Demanding

Pieces – Taken, Surrendered

Struggle and Run, seal shut my Ears

Relenting – Not Ever,

Much – Required

I mustn't stop to hear

It finds me – Again

No Escape – I turn to face It

Stares to Me – a Question

One fragment – Still – Stolen.

By Clarice Drexler

Photo by Riley Rising

1776

29

Time never ceases to end

Father Time seems to depend

So long the hands of time continue to grind

The past was then and will not unwind

Live in the present and destiny will be divine

Once time is defined the paths of destiny will shine

From within the mind and through the soul

Will cause the almighty grandfather clock to ring the final

toll

By Gabe Pietrorazio

The

Inward

Clock

30

That perches in the soul —

Radiative beings, tainted

By the intellect of Darkness,

Hunting for light, never gathered —

Passion oozing

Naught but Vitality

By Jackie Brouillette

Internally ruined —

Grows such Foreign Flesh,

A body of water

Inhibited only by sand —

Every particle — slips through,

Grain by grain — they fall

I dwell in possibility —

Carvings in the clock —

Lunacy is to mend

A scar of lone regret

Desire — the glass of water

Able to breed a flood —

A fueling poison

Permeates our Blood

Choice in moderation

Severed in the Mind —

Untitled

31

When is more too much

Eyes — blind

By Jason Knies

Human, a being scientifically defined as “a member of the species homo sapiens having

or showing the positive aspects of nature and character regarded as distinguishing humans from

other animals,”, or in a literary sense, one who explores the meaning of life through mundane

actions. In our lives, we each experience identical emotions, behaviors, and a variety of similar

situations. Likewise, humans all cope with loss, tragedy, and anguish; while we equally handle

love, compassion, and happiness. In times of desperation, human reason and logic seems

irredeemable, yet it is through literature where we submerge our conscience into an escape world

to evade the fearsome real one.

A fictional landscape in which characters re-establish a society through a deadly

epidemic is a prime example of humans’ literary escape. Boccaccio exploits a historical event,

such as, the Black Death, where humans are surrounded by pain and suffering. Fictional

portrayals of the world away from the plague include stories of strength, comforts, and remorse.

Boccaccio’s story, the Decameron, is an original result of the plague where Europeans dropped

like flies, while the epidemic ravaged their continent:

“Later on, the symptoms of the disease changed, and many people began to find dark

blotches and bruises on their arms, thighs, and other parts of the boy, sometimes large and few in

number, at other times tiny and closely spaced. These, to anyone unfortunate enough to contract

them, were just as infallible a sign that he would die as the gavocciolo had been earlier, and as

indeed it still was” (Decameron 1331).

Purpose of Literature,

With a Twist

32

People not only questioned their social and religious morals, but also everything they believed in.

Families were torn apart, and hope was extinguished like a raging fire:

“. . .this scourge had implanted so great a terror in the hearts of men and woman that

brothers abandoned brothers, uncles their nephews, sisters their brothers, and in many

cases wives deserted their husbands. But even worse, and almost incredible, was the fact

that fathers and mothers refused to nurse and assist their own children, as though they did

not belong to them” (Decameron 1334).

Once the reader recognizes the extent of the plague, Boccaccio introduces many tales, which are

split into groups of ten stories told over ten days. There is one narrator who shares a story

corresponding to the chosen topic of the day. It wasn’t until Boccaccio expressed the importance

of determination and resourcefulness during the darkest of days, that some victims and even

readers could gain a new sense of hope.

“And at the center of this world we find humanity, in all its variety. People are seen as

victim of jokes, victims to human cruelty, or survivor to misfortunes. But what stands out

in all this is the triumph of intelligence” (Introduction to Boccaccio).

Boccaccio had already described the horror of the plague in the introduction of the Decameron,

yet it isn’t until later in the stories where human intelligence triumphs tragedy.

It should be noted, that the author’s purpose plays an essential role in the meaning of

literature. Readers thrive on the familiarity of a story’s plot and resolution; in which it provides

readers a literary connection and escape.

“In Medieval teachings, literature was not meant to be read for pleasure it would provide

in diversion; it was supposed to be constructive towards a further end. Even Boccaccio

claims that the Decameron is not simply for amusement, that the readers can find in it

what they please, which may very well include a lesson on life” (Decameron Web).

It can be argued that the Decameron explains Boccaccio’s personal crisis of faith. Not only does

he question religious and social morals, but he also lists the deadly effects of the plague as if he

cannot grasp the depth of devastation. Boccaccio brilliantly structures a novella in which

numerous characters escape the savage plague to survive in a fictional refuge. Through literature,

33

the characters not only outlive the plague, but also reconstruct a world dominated by happiness

through mental and physical rehabilitation.

By Jacquelyn Brouillette

My

Life had stood – a Loaded Gun

the Trigger – still –

with only myself to surrender.

Afraid that everything that ever was –

will no longer.

Loaded –

Charged – untouched.

Possibility diminished or augmented?

What will this Bullet pierce?

Will I cripple a soul, or shatter a heart, or Fail beyond repair?

Unwavering power – yet - without faith – insignificant.

To launch oneself into the depths of a Crazed

and Mad

and Dangerous world,

To muster up Bravery –

Will such an investment be profitable?

But what is the use of a gun if not shot?

By Madison Jensen

W

a

s

t

e

d

?

34

To an admiring bog!

Admired --- so are you,

But I --- admirer and admiree

Must ask to you --- who?

Who are you to steal my sleep?

A bandit in the night?

You --- and your friendly frogs

Deal me quite a slight

Who are you with your stench?

Away you turn all folk

To pass by you --- none shall

For to smell you is to choke

Yet who are you to showcase beauty?

Untouched you are by me

A true hero to the world --- And

Forever you shall be

By Thomas Brayton

35

It was a desirable disease, some may go as far to say a pleasant plague, but I quarantined myself

nonetheless. The infected dressed in flowing red robes and danced through the night around a

fire in a haze of merriment. Their laughter was contagious; their joy an extraordinary

epidemic. Even we who skirted around the edges in our pure white attire couldn’t help but smirk

and chuckle in response. They were relentless in their festivities, their energy never waning as

they feasted on the apples picked from the surrounding garden. They would dance to celebrate

life and revel in their independence and decadence. As the night grew old they toasted their

youth. As the air grew cold they valued the warmth of each other's enamorous embrace. As the

sky turned dark they gazed at the stars that had come out in each other’s eyes. They were

infectious and despite our strength we could not resist for eternity. Although by the end some of

us escape, we are not all so fortunate. Occasionally one from our ranks would venture into the

crowd, a perfect white blood cell amidst a sea of vibrant red life, and would be lost. They would

mix and as they did their burdens would melt away and their worries would wither. Their white

garments would give way to red robe. They would be lost to those they had left behind, but they

were lost in a temporary world of pure joy and excitement. However, the revelers glow was not

eternal, and as the light of dawn approached, they would dim in her presence. Their movements

would slow and their minds meander. They would grow weary and faint and eventually

succumb to the delirious disease they had so long grasped. And as they fell we would

approach. We would walk through the smoke and count the casualties. People we knew or

thought we knew were always among them. But we couldn’t stay long. For even a short time

among the fallen would cause our dress to tinge pink and our will to wane in the wake of our

own indomitable desires.

By Thomas Brayton

Red

Revelers

36

Imagine having wings. They move. They flap. They look normal, just like other wings.

But there’s a problem with these wings. You can’t use them to fly. You can glide from here to

there, but you can’t fly. You can stand on a tall building and look over the city in all its glory.

The beautiful blue sky seems so close, so tangible, but you can’t have. You can’t reach it. It’s

beyond you.

My legs are my wings. They move. They look just about normal, just like other legs. But

there’s a problem with my legs. I can’t use them to run. I can walk from here to there, but not

very far and I sure can’t run. I can stand on the edge of a soccer field and watch the game

developed in all its excitement. The game looks so fun, so exciting and so simple, so tangible,

but I can’t play. It’s beyond me.

This was my life for 14 years. I stood at edge of every field and watch every game. I

wanted with all my heart to be in the game, but I couldn’t be. As a young kid, I watched others

play tag and run and jump. It was all I wanted. I wanted to run. I wanted to jump. And most of

all, I wanted to go fast.

After watching others play games and do the things that I wanted more than anything for

10 years, I found swimming. My fins worked slightly better than my wings, but still not good

enough to compete with the other swimmers. I would practice every day and occasionally be put

into a relay where I would lead my relay team to a loss. Soon swimming became just another

way to make me realize that I was different from the people around me. The sport became more

of an aggravation than an accomplishment. I had still not gone fast.

Four years go by and finally I catch a glimpse of what I have been missing for all these

years. In July of 2013, I first stepped foot in a boat with a novice rowing team for people new to

the sport. For the first time I was going fast without anything but sheer muscle power. I loved

every minute of it. But I didn’t stop here. When August came around, I joined Chase Rowing as

a coxswain. My job was to motivate the crew, keep them informed of all information they

needed, and most importantly steer the massive vessel that cut through the water like a knife

through butter. I was playing a key role in making a crew of 4 guys, a boat and myself glide

across the water like a hockey puck on ice.

When working with an adaptive ski instructor named Grant, he asked me, “Just so I know

what I’m working with, what is the strongest part of your body.”

This I Believe

37

I answered him with, “my brain.” My brain really is all I have had to work with when

trying to accomplish any task in my life. This is why I immediately fell in love with crew. The

sport allowed me to use my brain to make me an athlete. An athlete. The boy who was supposed

to be confined to a wheelchair permanently by the age of 12 is now an athlete. My being able to

become an athlete despite the fact that I can hardly walk up a flight of stairs tells me that

anything is accomplishable. Anything. The sky that seemed so tangible but was unreachable has

now become yours. You can fly, you are in control.

I have fixed my wings. They move, they flap, just like other wings. But there is still

something odd about them; they only work in the water, because my wings happen to be shaped

like oars.

By Johnny D’Aversa

38

There isn’t something that she physically carries. No purse or phone or backpack. She carries

something more personal. Pride. Dignity. Strength. Confidence. She carries these traits along

with herself that pull in to what and who she is. She knows she isn’t perfect and she knows she

won’t always be right, but she carries the strength and confidence to show she won’t ever stop

trying to become better. She shows respect and thoughtfulness for when she is put in times of

either trouble or happiness. She understands that it is okay to get mad and to be wrong and to

sometimes show dishonesty, but more importantly knows when she needs to fix things that she

knows she shouldn’t have done. She carries these things to make her who she is; not what other

people want, but what she wants for herself. She understands that love is passionate and must

only be shown to the ones that love her, but also understands that not everyone will love her,

though she must still show understanding and compassion to everyone. Out of all things she

carries, there is one that is more important than all of the others. She has the ability to learn, and

laugh and make the best of her life no matter what.

By Maddie Hall

I looked back on my life, with blurry eyes.

I realized that time went so fast, that I've wasted too much time,

Some people will never find true love,

But I have, and I've destroyed it.

In a blur, out the door I ran, To you, my love,

but I was too late.

You had moved on.

My purpose, my light, was now gone.

I've spent too much time in regret, so now I'm going to love again.

I love you, but you're gone now.

By Sydney Wyatt

39

There will come peace again

When War finally meets its end

Death floating through the air

Desecration arrives without a care

While innocents blood is spilling

I don’t want that blood to be yours

As he wipes his tears to the floor

Shots being fired galore

The loss of our loved ones what for

When War finally meets its end

We won’t be separated again

By Malcolm Purefoy

There Will

Come Peace

Again

40

From a very young age, music has been important to me. I received my first MP3 player

about the age of eight, and I made sure to carry it with me everywhere. I did not know how to

download music, so my dad just downloaded most of his music library on it. Almost all of the

songs were released decades before I was born, but I listened to primarily classic rock my whole

life, because that was the genre of music my parents liked, so I didn’t mind. That MP3 player

was my prized possession and, unlike the rest of my Christmas gifts, I used it for almost a year

and a half.

But it had been thrown to the back of my drawer when I received a real Apple iPod. My

sister and I sat down at the computer, iTunes gift cards in hand, and opened the iTunes

store. When the page finally loaded, my eyes lit up in delight. I had never imagined the

collection of music available, and what we bought was up to us. We used up the first gift card

almost instantaneously, buying every song we could think of.

For every holiday and birthday, iTunes gift cards were always on our list. I was always

listening for new music to download, often obtaining many suggestions from friends. But one

day, we decided we had enough music. We had iTunes gift cards lying around, not being used.

The gift cards were left off our lists, and as time went on the amount of the money in our account

dwindled.

It has been almost three years since then, and the amount of money in our account still

hasn’t changed. Both of our iPods have been upgraded since then, and the way I buy my music

has changed, too. Instead of digitally downloading it, I now buy CDs and vinyls and import them

to my iPod.

Music has also become a more prominent part of my life. It has become an escape, a form

of comfort, an inspiration, an ice breaker, and has remained a form of entertainment. Wherever I

am it is always guaranteed that I have my iPod with me. While working, reading, and especially

when I’m not doing anything, I will be listening to music, whether from my iPod, the radio, a

music streaming website, or my record player. Some songs remind me of people that I care about

or happy memories, and I cannot help but to smile when I hear them.

Pleasant in a World of Unpleasant

41

“The radio doesn’t have the best reception; do you want to put on your iPod?” My dad

asked me that as we were getting in his Corvette to drive up to a campsite where his band was

performing.

His question was answered as I grabbed the cable to connect my iPod to the car radio,

and I began plugging everything in. My dad and I have an unspoken agreement that I can play all

of the new bands I like, as long as I still play the older music he likes. That is no problem for me;

I love both options.

We had a long drive ahead of us, and I was looking forward to every minute of it. We

drove for almost two and a half hours, the top of the car down, and the music blasting. Let me

just say, that you’ve never lived until you’ve ridden in a convertible, driving as fast as legally

possible, with loud rock music playing. It was exhilarating and now I constantly want to do it

again.

My sister was checking Facebook late one night during the summer of 2013. As she

scrolled through her feed, one post caught my eye.

“Can you scroll back up?” She slowly began scrolling and I saw a post from my cousin’s

husband.

“Really excited to start working with Panic! at the Disco…”

I had to reread it. My cousin’s husband has traveled all over the world doing sound for

many famous bands in the past, but this time was different. Earlier that year, I had found a Panic!

at the Disco CD and, within a few months, they became one of my favorite bands. My mom had

told me stories in the past about the bands she had seen, because my cousin’s husband was doing

sound with them. The next tour the band would take part in was opening for Fall Out Boy,

another band I really like. I had the chance to see two bands I love, and I couldn’t contain my

excitement.

Since my mom was asleep, I had to wait until the next morning to inform her. After I

informed her, she let my cousin know that I was interested in seeing them, and three months

later, I was on my way to the Mohegan Sun. That concert was the first arena show I attended,

and it is still one of my favorites.

Every concert I have been to has created one of my favorite memories. From meeting the

members of Journey, waiting in line in the freezing cold so we had good spots at Panic! at the

Disco, to breathlessly singing along to Fall Out Boy and Paramore with two of my best friends

42

these are memories that I will keep with me for a long time. If I don’t feel great, thinking about

those memories can brighten my mood.

Talking about how I feel can sometimes be difficult for me. It isn’t easy for me to unload

all of the feelings that I have, like the little things that I hate or the things eating away at my

insides. Those emotions may sometimes be bottled up, which will inevitably become too much

for me to handle, and I will have to find some way to expel the leftover feelings. Sometimes I

can easily tell someone, my sister or a close friend. But other times I won’t know how to say it,

and it will continue brewing inside me. Something will happen, and the lid will pop. When I

reach this point, I can sometimes sob, and it’ll help. But when I normally reach this point, the

prospect of talking it out is gone. Fortunately this doesn’t happen too often, but when it does,

music is there to help me out.

When some people are upset, they listen to calming music, where as I am the exact

opposite. Loud, angry songs help me calm down much better than calm, subdued songs. I listen,

head bang, and sing along, and most of my anger is displaced with the song. I use the song to

drown out my thoughts, to try and forget the feelings I lock inside myself. Even at my lowest

point, a song filled with pure anger can make me less despondent. I also use music to make sure

I don’t get to that point. If my day isn’t going great, I will find a place to sit, put earbuds in my

ears, and turn the volume up loud enough so I cannot hear the world around me. It can help me

think things out or even silence my mind. Like a good book, a good song can transport me to a

different place. It can be an escape from whatever I’m dealing with at the time, and instead of

thinking about what is bothering me, I think about the lyrics.

“I love that band!” Most of my recent friendships have begun with that sentence, either

from me or the other person. I proudly wear many shirts that display some of my favorite bands

on a regular basis. But when I can’t wear the shirts, I have other ways of making the music I like

known, usually through rubber bracelets with band logos or song lyrics written on them. When

deposited into a group of people I have never met before, I look out for other people wearing

band shirts, knowing that I can easily start a conversation with them. People sometimes have the

same idea and have come up to me complimenting me on my shirt, or saying how they also love

the band I’m currently displaying. A conversation usually starts, and I now have someone to talk

to. A common interest in music is an icebreaker for me and helps cut the awkward small talk

short. I have also became closer to one of my friends through music.

43

During the end of seventh grade I became very vocal about the bands I like, talking about

them as often as I possibly could. But my friends had no idea who these bands were, and I was

usually babbling about something none of them cared about. That all changed in eighth grade,

when my friend of five years suddenly started listening to the bands I constantly talked about.

My group of friends had also picked up another member, who, to all of our surprise, also liked

those bands. The group of six was obviously split down the middle for taste in music, but none of

us minded. We would sometimes argue about what music to play, while hanging out together,

but we were used to the arguing and, in the end, we would create a system. In some ways it hurt

my group of friends, making us more divided than we were before, but it also brought certain

people closer together, which in some ways kept us together.

Most people would describe music as a form of entertainment or a way to pass the time.

Though I agree with that statement, music is so much more to me. I have not only made friends

through it, but also strengthened bonds I previously held. Music has helped me deal with matters

that were upsetting me; it has improved my mood on multiple occasions. I have made amazing

memories because of music. It is not only something that is really important to me, but also an

oasis. The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines an oasis as “a pleasant place that is surrounded

by something unpleasant.” In a world that I can often describe as unpleasant, music is my

pleasant place to go.

By Olivia Pettinicchi

There will soon be no summer air,

rushing through my wavy hair.

There will soon be harsh weather ahead

with many days cuddled up in bed.

There will soon be fair weather we wish would last,

while icy winter is pushed to the past.

There will soon be flowers fading away,

but I can’t do anything to make them stay.

There Will Come F

a

l

l

i

n

g

44

There will soon come crispy air,

with falling leaves dancing everywhere.

Twisting, twirling, whirling through the sky-

all of the seasons have passed right by.

By Brooke Varnum

The result of an important decision in life will always lead to change. Change can be a

great and terrible thing, and sometimes it’s comprised of both at the very same time. When

people change residency, they are subject to this force, for better or for worse. I experienced this

influence when I was required to move from one town to another, creating a difficult transition.

With this monumental change in my life and the hardships that came with it, I was able to find

comfort from a relatively mundane object: a cup of tea.

The announcement of this event came as surprise to me, as one day I was aimlessly

moving my regular routine at school, and the next I was sitting down with my parents and other

siblings, when the words, “We’re moving,” were spoken.

The next day everything seemed unbalanced; I was unnerved and anxious. The shallow

wind barely blew, the sun seemed to shine with a brilliance that was just a shade too sanguine. I

kept the burden of my knowledge until the end of the day, when I muttered the words, “I’m

moving” to a few of my friends.

To my confusion, a great majority of the responses were, “Oh.”

Leaves

45

The final days of school passed in a blur, a never-ending smear of disappearing furniture

and the distance I felt growing between my friends and me. It seemed that all at once, I didn’t

belong to the area, and when the time came, I vanished.

The transitions were quick strokes against the canvas of time. I lived in a pale yellow

house against a bramble of trees, anxiety brimming to my core. Hot summer days gave way to

the first of September, when I entered the region’s school. The day was an endless parade of

transitions, from the people to the environment itself. Suffice to say, the entire process was

slightly overwhelming, and by the time I returned home, I was exhausted both emotionally and

physically.

When asked how my first day was, I choked, “Okay. It was okay.” I was reluctant to

return to the school the next morning, nervous that the kids would ask too many questions or that

the teacher would assign too much work. And it did happen.

I was assaulted with, “Where did you come from?” and “Do you play any sports?” All

well-meant, just exasperating.

To relax when I arrived home, I decided to drink a beverage and have a snack. As I was

rummaging around pantries and drawers, I noticed a paper square, and placed it in my hand. I

tore off the top and placed the tea bag into a mug, allowing the string to drape over the edge. A

button on the coffee machine was pressed, and the hiss of hot water emanated from it, as the tea

was being drowned in a sea of boiling water.

I lifted the warm liquid to my mouth and let the aroma flood my senses. A taste

reminiscent of Indian spices coated my mouth, a combination of cardamom, cinnamon, and more

making up the flavor profile. With each sip, I felt more comfortable, and oddly, safer in a way.

On the third day, I walked into school with a different attitude, each stride hardening my

resolve. To my absolute surprise, I was able to complete the day without becoming too anxious.

On days that I did, I drank a cup of tea, and everything seemed fine.

This event was a pivotal moment in my life, effectively uprooting my life in my old town

and planting a new one. Not only did the experience help me develop my love for tea, but it also

increased my confidence and altered my personality. The “past me” could be called meek and

quiet, and perhaps I still am, but change is constantly happening. It’d be highly unlikely that I

would stay the same if I hadn’t moved, through environment plays an important part, too. Being

in a small town forced me to become more outgoing, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to

46

handle it all. All in all, the event influenced me in some shape and form, in a way that probably

wouldn’t have occurred otherwise. And of course, that small paper square that altered the events

of my life, at least a little bit.

By Ryan Aghamohammadi

Photograph by Riley Rising

47

“In all this chaos, we found safety”; according to the song, Brighten, by the performers,

We Chose the King, the band found their oasis. It’s true! I found my safety in the meaningful

lyrics that dig deep into my heart, mind, and soul when bad things happen in life, when I have

difficulty in school or at home, or whenever I feel stressed. For me going to concerts is what

calms me, even just listening to music on an iPod or computer is relaxing. When life is just

rushing ahead of me, all I have to do is listen to a song and I feel all my worries slip away.

An experience to me that made me realize that music is truly my oasis occurred when I

attended a concert in August before the start of school this year. I had been stressing about the

start of high school and the summer work. I was nervous and unsure of upcoming events, but as

soon as I stepped out of my mother’s car, my nerves faded. The excitement and adrenaline

kicked in, and all my worries became irrelevant; they were quickly forgotten.

“I’m so excited!” I yelled exuberantly to my mother, as I jumped out of her silver

Pathfinder.

“I know! You have been talking about this concert for weeks!” Mom replied, completely

amused, laughing at me as she got out of the vehicle as well. It was true, though; I had talked

about it nonstop to my family, friends, teachers, and even my friends’ parents. The concert

occupied my mind when I wasn’t worrying about school.

“What do you want to eat?” Mom asked, as we walked around the plaza next to Gillette

Stadium near Boston, Massachusetts, the location of the concert.

“5 Guys,” I replied, smiling at her, as I had pointed to the fast food restaurant across the

concrete walkway. I felt like as if I were gulping water on the hottest summer day of July. I

couldn’t get enough of my surroundings! I drank in all the colors, people, smells, and stores.

There weren’t any sidewalks in the middle of this particular plaza, just a large number of roads

and intersections with clothing stores, restaurants, and seemingly random booths with

advertisements and contests.

Everywhere I looked I saw excited preteenagers and teenagers with or without their

parents. The excited fans wore their band t-shirts, held posters, and painted their faces, along

with anything else to show their dedication!

“It smells amazing in here!” I exclaimed excitedly, just loud enough for my mom to hear.

In My Soul

48

“There are a lot of fans in here,” my mother replied after a few seconds of observing the

inside of the restaurant.

“There are,” I agreed nodding my head.

The small restaurant was absolutely packed with preteens, teens, and their friends and

parents! It was nearly impossible to move, and it was enough to make me feel claustrophobic.

As my mother and I moved further into the restaurant, we walked in different directions.

My mom fell in line to place our orders and I snagged the only two seats available next to each

other in the room.

“Do you like your food?” My mom asked after spending the first few minutes eating in

silence.

“Yes, but I can’t wait for the concert! I don’t think I can wait three more hours for the

concert to start!” I was almost whining.

“That’s because we got here so early,” Mom laughed at me for what was probably the

tenth time tonight.

We shared a smile that only a mother and daughter with a close bond could understand. I

leaned over and hugged her tightly.

“Thank you so much for taking me to this concert!” I said contentedly in her ear.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied pulling away.

As soon as we finished eating we went outside, to make room for the fans that hadn’t yet

eaten.

We walked around and browsed in the outlets, munching on leftover fries while we

talked, laughed, and just enjoyed each other’s company.

Without me realizing it, the two hours that were still left breezed by and soon we were

waiting by admissions with tickets in hand.

My adrenaline was kicking in again as I bounced on the balls of my feet and played with

my fingertips. I could feel the excitement in the air as the hyped up fans sang songs, bought band

merchandise, and conversed with each other. I smiled exuberantly at the people around me,

feeling the love emanating from us all.

In a few short minutes we had been ushered past security and I was trying my best to

breathe properly. As we reached our seats, I vaguely heard my mom complaining about how

49

overpriced the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee was here, but I can’t be sure. I was way too excited to

even pay any attention at all.

Suddenly, it was silent, and then I heard the very first guitar riff, the first drumbeat, and

the first note from the beautiful voices of the band members. I vaguely heard the screaming of

the fans, and then I realized that I was screaming, too! I had even caught my mom rocking out to

a few of the songs. I just sang along to my heart’s content, and I was so far out there that nothing

in this world could take me down from where I was right then and there.

All too soon, the night was over; I wished it could last forever. The music and I were

harmonious. It truly was amazing! For me, fans are like family; we relate by loving the same

music, and allowing the music to have its own impact on our personal lives.

By Samantha Austin

A large vessel built of wood and cloth

Glides across the sparkling sand

into the watery abyss-

carrying

hundreds

of sailors

with dreams

of conquests and riches.

But, the mischievous sea has other intentions.

Waves crash and pound the gunwales with great force,

As if Poseidon were hitting the walls

with his own two hands.

Zeus’s mighty thunder roars above them;

fire breaks loose.

The mast breaks in two.

Siren Song

50

Sailors fall overboard.

Their screams drowned by the waves

pulling

them

b

e

l

o

w.

The ship takes its last view of the horizon and sinks into the dark waves,

Forever lost to the ocean’s siren song.

By Kelly Garris

“You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just twenty

seconds of embarrassing bravery,” is what Benjamin Mee claimed in the movie, “We Bought a

Zoo.” My grandmother, my mom and I watched that movie on a frigid Wednesday in

January. The next day, my grandmother experienced an unexpected stroke. The ruthless stroke

had come without warning and without mercy. The theme of the movie, “We Bought a Zoo”

taught me, when we are experiencing times of adversity, we must be brave and face even the

toughest times of our life with courage.

I immediately realized something was wrong, when my grandmother did not come to

pick me up that day at school. Ever since I was five years old, she has picked me up from school

and brought me a sour green apple lollypop for the car ride home. My grandmother experienced

a stroke earlier that morning, and was now hospitalized, paralyzed and mute.

Twenty Seconds of Courage

51

Among the many things my grandmother and I loved to do together, piano was definitely

our favorite. I would practice with her every day after school, and she would give me

corrections. So, when we couldn’t communicate with words, piano was our next option.

One day, my mom and I lugged an unwieldy keyboard through the hospital halls. One nurse

commented, “Are you bringing that keyboard into a patient’s room?”

My mom looked at the nurse and insisted, “Well, what else would we be doing with it?”

When we entered my grandmother’s room, she smiled at the sight of the piano. She

pointed to an empty corner in the room, where she wanted the keyboard to go. I plugged the

keyboard in and played her favorite song, “Ballad Pour Adeline.” As I played the song, I didn’t

realize that both nurses and patients standing outside of my grandmother’s room. Every day

when I visited my grandmother, I played a song while the patients waited outside and listened.

The piano forced me toward the realization that what I do matters. And that I can make a

difference, even if it is in the smallest of ways. I had brought joy and happiness to this very

unhappy place, just by playing the piano.

The keyboard traveled with us from the hospital, to Gaylord to Glendale. Gaylord and

Glendale were rehabilitation centers, merely stops on the path to the day when she would finally

return home. When the saddest moments of my life occurred, I turned to the piano to help me

through them. I find safety every time I sit and play. Before the experience, bravery was a word

meaning courage; a state of being when you are ready to face pain. After, I understood bravery

can neither be defined nor accomplished. Bravery is a state of mind. Bravery is when you want

to succumb to emotion and confront your fears and sadness anyway.

My grandmother is now receiving twenty-four hour care. She remains mute and

paralyzed in the legs and left arm. However, every time I play the piano, I know my

grandmother is listening. And although she cannot speak with words, I hear her every day

through music.

By Samantha Crone

52

There will come hidden beauty in the ugliest places.

A peaceful silence in the loudest locations.

Childlike innocence in the most war hardened cities.

A glowing glimmer of hope in the most somber of stations.

A crack in the sidewalk creates the smallest of life.

Even nature returns after a disaster.

Light’s slight soft touch will absorb the dark

And trails of tears will someday dry.

At times life might seem dark but those who fret,

Do not know that all this is temporary.

Life is too short to be spent feared,

For even errors can end happily.

By Olivia Pettinicchi

There

will come shallow dreams with threads of gold,

And light that shimmers from stars of old.

Of

flames that burn with a silent crackle,

Of ice that grows on a prisoner’s shackle.

Forests

that grow with an absence of trees,

Yet still can be heard the low buzz of bees.

And

the sleeping will stay in their dreamless slumber

53

And

no force on Earth can rouse their endless numbers.

As

all the children look up at a sky so gray,

The rustle of calendars marks the end of days.

The

eyes of the planet will wink to bed,

Even it will know when we are dead.

By Ryan Aghamohammadi

I traveled a great deal for my age, but I never actually took the time to embrace the

beauty in everything I saw, because I was too worried about my objectives. What did I want to

achieve? I wanted to do well in school and to become knowledgeable. Later, when my father and

I were traveling, I did what I usually do: read.

He was driving and wanted to start a conversation with me, so he asked, “Why do you

read so much? Why don’t you take a look around you?”

I replied as I usually do, “Because I don’t want my Turkish to languish, and I want to

improve my English.”

There was a long moment of silence; that’s when my father gave me wonderful advice:

“I’m not trying to say that it’s not important to study. I just want you to experience the world and

its glory, because staring at a screen isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world.”

That’s when I realized that if I opened my eyes and looked at the world around me, it

could be just as educational as reading a book. On the other hand, there are also great fables that

talk about these experiences.

In the story, The Alchemist, the author writes a part that is very similar to what happened

to me. In the old man’s, story he was trying to teach the boy that he has to see the beauty in the

castle, but at the same time, maintain the drops of oil in the spoon, which symbolizes my life.

The Experience

54

We all have goals, which is wonderful, but we can't be oblivious to everything else.

Everyone needs to find the balance between chasing our goals and acknowledging the beauty in

life. I can imagine that we have all had an eye-opening experience at one point in our lives.

Wasn't it amazing? I only had a couple in my life, and every time I did, I felt like I was a

different person, but I couldn't keep up with my goals. I would stumble and fall, because I was

paying too much attention to the beauty in life. I needed to find my balance between what life

has to offer and chasing my goals.

For some people, this skill is very easy to obtain, but for people like me, it’s not easy,

either. Although I haven't fully mastered this skill, I am learning and understanding how this all

works out. I do have all the time in the world, but if I don’t manage my time wisely, I won’t have

enough time to see the beauty in life as well as reaching my goals. I always wanted to be bold;

never ordinary - I have one chance to make my mark on the world. I promise that during the

next four years, my dreams will come true.

By Sean Kurutan

There will come a calm night,

Bright sun and pale moon will fight.

The moon will win,

And the peaceful night can begin.

The stars and the moon will glow,

Illuminating the soft sky like a show.

The frosted moon glances down,

Examining the dreaming town.

But I watch as the moon gleams in the sky,

and I see a shooting star fly.

Make a wish, don’t tell a soul,

To watch it come true, would be my goal.

I can watch until the morning sun will rise,

And the glowing moon will shut her eyes.

By Samantha Crone

The Night

Sky

55

She left her mark on the world,

Into our lives and our minds she twirled.

In the way of her snowmobile, a tree took form;

It was the day that my life transformed.

On a cold February day, I learned she was gone;

Sad tears streamed down my face until dawn;

I haven’t seen my angel in four unbearable years;

I try to stay strong, but I can’t fight my fears.

We relate to her as a blue butterfly;

I love her, and I’ll need to find my wings and fly.

The loss of her was terribly painful,

But, one day will come my glowing angel.

By Samantha Dassatti

And it ripped like paper

my heart

As easy as it is to say “I love you”

my heart

As simple as it is to think

As common as disappointment

As sweet as everlasting dreams

my heart

it bleeds

a dark red

By LitMag

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O

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Photograph by Riley Rising