The Cu rrent 201 5
Editor’s Note
The Current is dedicated to providing the Rivers community with cultural enrichment as well as a strong appreciation of the arts through poetry, prose, and artwork produced by Rivers students. This year, we decided to choose an underwater theme. We incorporated both literal and abstract elements to achieve our design aesthetic. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted or contributed in any way to help make this magazine a success. We could not have produced this issue without you. Thank you to all the dedicated Current members whose help, skills, and enthusiasm throughout the entire process is greatly appreciated! Also, a special thanks to Rindy Garner, who has been there for the editors and the staff every step of the way and has never failed to make us laugh even in times of unusual challenges. Lastly, thank you to our readers for acknowledging all the hard work of Rivers’ artists and writers. We hope you enjoy this issue of the Current! Editors: Saipriya and Victoria Staff: Ellen, Kate, Alex, Aidan, Nina, Jen, Sara, Caroline, Maya Judges: Prose: Dorothy Vosburgh Poetry: James Lowell 2D: Renae Cimillo 3D: Ari Berenson Photography: Joney Swift
Faculty Advisor: Rindy Garner
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Table of Contents
4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Cattails Rhea Teng Robin Seamus Cullen; Illinois’ Bell Jackson Barno Grasping Alexandra Gaither; Jen Lowell Lidded Jar Julia Sprofera; Ice Cream Maggie Barrow Blue Bowl Molly Eden; Pierced Bowl Ben Pasculano Always A Loss Luke Picher; Amalgamate Alexandra Gaither 75% Off Confessions Anonymous
12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
Painting the Walls Razzi Hawley; Emergence Alexandra Gaither More Than Lexie Masiello; Snapshot Olivia Thomajan Henry Lexi Sisitzky; Long Bay Jen Lowell Haikus for Sixteen Silvia Curry; Reflected Ride Caroline Rakip A Lake of Wonderous Glass Alex Klein; Web Aidan McAnena Gravity Matt Paul; Cape Cod Meghan Morgan The Fire of Ferguson Hunter Taylor-Black; Swift Pedro Oliveira; Water on Fire Anonymous A Betrayal Maria Burzillo; Guidance Matt Cronin A Close Encounter Omar Frometa; Leaf Portal Alex Sidell Tropical Bird Sam Adams; Montana Wiley Holton The Addict’s Guide to Love Razzi Hawley
24 25 26 27 28 29 30
Some Bunny That I Used to Know Kendall Young; Seaglass Wiley Holton Anxiety Kendall Trovato; Shrouded Caroline Rakip Quarters for Carl Chloe Smith Clock Christine Yang A Different Sun Derek Wang Rosa Naranja Alicia Bellido; Mountain View Lauren Heuer In Defense of Video Games Jackson Barno
32 Stardust and Silhouettes Abi Warwick; Laminated Box Laura Schmidlein 33 The Second Bathroom Stall Ashley Burgarella 35 the lone-star state Ellen Marius; Clock Natalie Schoen 36 10/31 ; 6:23 Lyndsey Smith
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Award Winners
Prose 1st- In Defense of Video Games Jackson Barno 2nd- The Addict’s Guide to Love Razzi Hawley 3rd- 10/31 ; 6:23 Lyndsey Smith Honorable Mention- The Second Bathroom Stall Ashley Burgarella Quaters for Carl Chloe Smith Poetry 1st- A Different Sun Derek Wang 2nd- Haikus for Sixteen Silvia Curry 3rd- A Betrayal Maria Burzillo Honorable Mention- Anxiety Kendall Trovato Always a Loss Luke Picher The Fire of Ferguson Hunter Taylor-Black 2D 1st- Reflected Ride Caroline Rakip 2nd- Some Bunny That I Used to Know Kendall Young 3rd- Seaglass Wiley Holton Honorable Mention-Cape Cod Meghan Morgan 3D 1st-Laminated Box Laura Schmidlein 2nd- Amalgamate Alexandra Gaither 3rd- Pierced Bowl Ben Pasculano Honorable Mention- Blue Bowl Molly Eden Photography 1st- A Lake of Wonderous Glass Alex Klein 2nd- Emergence Alexandra Gaither 3rd- Grasping Alexandra Gaither Honorable Mention-Illinois’ Bell Jackson Barno
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Cattails
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Good Morning Mr. Williams! The Bicentennial Man! You played around with Flubber; You were World’s Greatest Dad.
Robin
Seamus Cullen
You showed us What Dreams May Come, Dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire too. You played the game Jumanji, We were Hooked through and through. You wished us a Merry Friggin’ Christmas Showed the World According to Garp. You were our favorite Mr Keating, But Happy Feet wasn’t too sharp. You took Good Will Hunting, You had the License to Wed. Though our Genie has sadly passed, He will live forever in our hearts and heads.
Illinois’ Bell
Jackson Barno Honorable Mention
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Grasping
Alexandra Gaither 3rd Place
Jen Lowell new ice s Crackle of aking knee h s y m h g ou Echoes thr hole is nigh d e p a h s n Ma
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Lidded Jar
Julia Sprofera
Ice Cream
Maggie Barrow
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Blue Bowl
Molly Eden Honorable Mention
Pierced Bowl
Ben Pasculano 3rd Place
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Always a Loss Luke Picher
Honorable Mention
They call us arbitrators, called to intervene, At the beginning, they knew it would be ugly For the better of the world, they call it, But that seemed worth the consequences, Yet, from a bird’s eye it’s not so clear, Yet as it dragged on, it got blurry. As tears run like the blood on faces of the beloved, It’s all okay though, peace was the goal, Gunfire spits, like the pat of rain. And sitting on their perch, amateur and inexperienced, As they sit on their high perch looking down, Were those whose hands were controlling it all. They think about the faces that await, Yet, was peace even the light on the other side of the tunnel? Lost in emotion looking at Men, Or was it their prestige and rank above their call? Whose political agendas fall far before they do. Their experienced though, the guilt doesn’t phase them. Ignorant and stubborn aloft the equilibrium, Brush it off because it is all part of the job, right? Justice and common sense thrown into the abyss, As they sit on their high perch, hands clean, As they ran through the opaque world, They ignore the irony that is beneath it all. They passed the families that hadn’t kissed in so long.
Asking many questions for those above us, Fighting on their homeland with the help of a democracy, Keeping it protected like a concealed weapon. Yet, downstream it will no longer be considered a civil dispute. High in the chain of command, questioning. The cause, no longer the same before it ensued. No one will know if they made the right decisions, Hearts were broken, bodies were broken and nations too. But the questions will remain forever. They sit on their perch above it all
Amalgamate
Alexandra Gaither 2nd Place
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75% Off Confessions Anonymous
I am ashamed to say that I am a Person of Walmart. A national joke of sorts, isn’t it? That admittance to frequenting Walmart is so innately shameful? I remember when I had true Walmart Pride. In fact, I recall a specific argument with a friend in elementary school, me advocating for the Haven of My Lower-Middle Class People, and her saying, “Target is much nicer. Walmart is so trashy.” Besides grief, humiliation is perhaps the human emotion most predisposed to leave a permanent Sharpie scrawl on an impressionable child. Ever since that conversation, the feeling of materialistic, unabashed anticipation of Walmart’s abundance of Things has been somewhat shadowed by embarrassment. Embarrassment that my family doesn’t have very much money, coupled with guilt because many others have much less. The fear of seeing someone I know in a public venue is heightened exponentially at Walmart. The shame, the utter shame, of bumping into a familiar fellow Walmarter! What could I possibly say to them with any semblance of dignity? “Hey, man! We’re saving money, living better! Living the American dream, bro!” I think not. Even the knowledge that, well, duh, he or she too is there doesn’t make things better. I love the smell of the Walmart Subway’s popcorn--used to rave to my dad over how much I loved it--the sticky aisles, the racks of sweatshop-produced clothes. I can even calculate Walmart’s influence on my life by simply looking in the mirror: my makeup, my socks, my hair clips are all from Walmart. And Jesus Christ, I think my sunscreen, too. My deepest secret is that I still get genuine enjoyment from going there. This is a sort of depressing enjoyment, but nonetheless, a fairly consistent presence in my life. I get some sort of positive buzz from trotting down the makeup aisles, browsing the clearance one to see how much stuff I could possibly never need, and just taking in the new, plasticky “I have the means of owning this object” feeling. Sometimes I put in my basket a bunch of random desirable shit just to magnanimously and incredibly decisively put it back, probably not in the shelf it came from. I have even been mistaken as an employee before. Talk about rock bottom. And no, dear Reader, I did not get a positive buzz from that. And if we’re talking about Walmart, then hell, we need to be talking about Target. Target gives me a higher-class illusion that Walmart does not. I do not mind so much seeing acquaintances there because shopping at Target, at least we are participating in a slightly class-elevated
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activity. Even if we’re buying the same exact toilet paper made my the same exact Guatemalan laborers, since it costs a little more, it must be a little classier, right? Sometimes I dream of the day when my professional success, and as a result, monetary security, renders it unnecessary for me to shop at Walmart. Isn’t that what social mobility is about? Education, a better job, and the ability to be a better consumer? I envision myself supporting the independent, endearingly quirky small businesses, and maybe this will cancel out everything else. But Walmart is too embedded in the seams of my childhood: my childhood visits, possessions, recollections, desires, and torments. At least in private school, there is a stigma around places like Walmart. What’s the word my friend used? Oh yeah, trashy. The only place I’ve seen where the stigma surrounding Walmart was torn down was in the book (made into a movie starring Natalie Portman) Where the Heart Is, in which a teenage girl lives in and then gives birth in a Walmart in the American South. Now, I am obviously not going to aspire to that, and neither should you. But I don’t think that a lot of people realize that most shop at Walmart not out of choice (okay, yeah, maybe a lot of people do like buying inexpensive non-necessities), but out of financial situation. And for me, because of that financial situation, Walmart was a store that I was exposed to. Thus, I have an emotional connection to it. This attachment, this relationship, to the store makes me bittersweet. The fact that I’ve chosen to make this piece anonymous implies that even I, who just dedicated a full page to talking about, of all things, Walmart, am not comfortable with something that virtually everyone in the country experiences. Yet some of my most cherished memories are of spontaneous late-night visits to the store with my dad, both of us joking that one day we would be those unfortunate suckers featured on peopleofwalmart.com, solemnly surveying the crap we were about to buy at the expense of the heckling internet. You may be laughing at me right now, or trying to figure out who I am so that you can mockingly shout, “YO, IT’S WALMART GIRL!” in the hallway next time you see me. No, Walmart is not where my heart is. But I would be lying if I were say that it does not claim a small corner of it. Still judging? Put things into perspective. Dude, it could be worse. It could be Job Lot. Alternatively, get a part-time job at Walmart. It’ll probably be an enlightening experience for you.
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painting the walls Razzi Hawley
Someday - it will be different, then, filled with unnerving discussions and hands soaked in tar and sunlight we will leave this room. will I see you, then? and through the window, you can see the rabbits (I have surveyed philosophers running through the grass (there are fewer and fewer each spring; no one believes with inconclusive results.) me when I say they are dying out.) when you come home, shut the door. do not let the cold air in. no one will bother us here, there are things to be done, nobody dares, we have descended into madness colors once unknown to be now and forever, I suppose. spread across the dreary walls. the rock wall secluding us is high and wide, (who built it, and when?); children climb on it and trepid strangers at night-time, but during the day, no one touches it for fear of moving a stone. I’ve been painting the walls in charcoal and dust; when you come home, lock the door behind you. there are things to be done,
I will steal the moon for you and melt it into a hundred oil pastels, in the hope that our mural may soon be complete. we will unlock the door.
Emergence
Alexandra Gaither 2nd Place
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More Than
Lexie Masiello
It can hold a memory, good or bad, they can make you remember or even make you sad.
What can be black and white, or yellow and blue, cropped and scaled, and makes someone go ooh?
Although your feelings towards it will change as you age, you would not give it up no matter the wage.
I will give you some hints, about these lavish prints. They are more than the balance of the light, or how wide the aperture to make it bright. It acts as a mirror of that snippet in time, some can be bland while others sublime. You have favorites that you have framed, or uploaded to Facebook in an album that you named. During the holidays, families glue them to four by six cards, some taken from vacations and some from front yards. They come in all sorts of fonts and designs, but look closely at them, do not just read the lines. It is more than just tiny pixels and ink you would ruin the purpose if you were to blink.
Snapshot
Olivia Thomajan
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No matter when you look at it, you cannot alter it one bit. The snapshot of that moment will never range, no matter how much you or anyone in it were to change. Whether taped onto your bedroom wall, or stashed away in the basement that one can reach if they are very tall‌ A picture is a picture, you should keep them all.
Henry
Lexi Sisitzky
Long Bay Jen Lowell
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Haikus for Sixteen Silvia Curry 2nd Place
A drought of boys, sĂ, The testosterone desert, This adolescence. Beards coat teenage chins The rustle of hair and skin Please, for God’s sake, shave. Heart emoticon Sincerity fills my screen It took but one click.
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Reflect ed Ride
Carolin e Rakip 1st Pla ce
A Lake of Wonderous Glass Alex Klein 1st Place
Web
Aidan McAnena
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Gravity
Matt Paul Honorable Mention
Cape Cod
Meghan Morgan Honorable Mention
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The Fire of Ferguson
Hunter Taylor-Black
Honorable Mention
a suppressed spark ignited by their blood dripping onto cold pavement fueled by twelve falling shells from a gun held in a white hand spread along a line of the oppressed kept burning by anger at the white hand still free forced onward by fear of joining corpses forever without killers
Swift
Pedro O liveira
- turned to inferno
Water on Fire Anonymous
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A Betrayal
On the lonely path I Met with you On that dark and dreary day
Maria Burzillo
3rd Place
With your final step You neared me close and smugly Grabbed my hand
A terror I faced Stopping me dead in my place What to do, I could not say.
As I cherished it tight You cackled with might And threw me back on the ground You walked away I needed you, my friend, And there I stayed My dear, to chase this monster away Stuck on the dead dirt, dumbfound To drive out the black clouds Push out fretful doubts As I gasped in shock, in pain, in fear And help me back on my way And lay there helpless alone The only sound that I could hear, You emerged from the west Your laughter resounding windblown. Your muddy footsteps could attest Glowing on that ugly morn’ Your halo of light Fought off my grim fright To help you had come as sworn My troubles, my trials, my thorny pains You would vanquish with your touch My heart beat upon your approach I did hope you would rush But alas! How wrong Was I to think that You would understand
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Guidance
Matt Cronin
A Close Encounter
Omar Frometa
Staring into the eyes of death, I felt my mind go numb. My brain seemed to slow as the barrel of the gun stared at my head. Oddly enough, I felt at peace, and fear was just not a factor in what seemed to be my demising. The gun seemed to smile, and I was waiting for the wolf to bite. Looking into the eyes of the cold metallic beast’s master, I saw something I’d never think to see in a murderer’s eyes. Compassion. Love. Raw emotion seemed to seep through the ironic bond established between cat and mouse. Killer and victim. This was not in cold-blood, this was out of love for a third party. A mother doing anything for her children. Looking at my situation in another lens, I could not help but notice the tears welling in her eyes. I detected a slight trembling of the hands, a slight swaying in the posture. The sweat that seemed to erupt through her pores violently and spontaneously. Reality set in that I was going to die. But I remained calm, placid, unphased by my looming fate. I knew what it was to do anything for my children, and knew that this was the case for my assailant. Apparently my understanding was acknowledged by the desperate mother, whose shaking had reached an epiphany. Her head swiveled towards the picture of my family placed next to the cash register. I was a parent too, succeeded by three kids and a lovely dachshund. I closed my eyes embracing the darkness, engulfing my self in the never ending tranquility and empty void that is nirvana. Before the end came I heard a hoarse, tearful apology and the click of a trigger. The sound of sirens was the herald of a new life.
Leaf Portal Alex Sidell
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Tropical Bird Sam Adams
Montana
Wiley Holton
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The Addict’s Guide to Love Razzi Hawley
2nd Place
You will tell him on the fourth date. We always tell them on the fourth date. By and large, the fourth date statistically yields the best results, and believe me, we have a fair amount of data on the record. You will be dressed well, but not in such a way as to overstate the occasion. Pencil skirt. Casual top. Or maybe pants that are particularly curve-hugging—whatever looks best to you; this is, of course, your date. Red tends to look nice on everyone. Bright prints are distracting. How are you planning on getting to his apartment? Should he live near by and you choose to walk, we would suggest flatter shoes—but that’s just common sense. Should it be snowing, snow boots on the way there, then change into something nicer, but not too nice—this can’t look too artificial, in the way you may have been able to get away with on the first date or two, but there’s a certain put-together sort of look that tends to put people at ease, and that’s just what you’ll need in this moment. Should you choose to drive to the apartment, heels will certainly be an option, though high heels are meant to impress, and you’ve already done three dates worth of impressing. Look yourself over in the mirror. Rehearse the words. Run an eyeliner pencil over your top lids only, mascara as well—you do not need lipstick. Look yourself over and think of the person you used to be, at your skin that was once horribly pale and covered in marks and your hair that was oily and falling out from the stress of it all, look now at your powered nose and silky locks, and know that this, while somewhat difficult, is entirely doable. We are sure of it. This image of you in the mirror, in your red casual top and pencil skirt (or maybe curve-hugging pants), will be the one that greets him as he opens the door. This, believe it or not, is one of the most crucial moments of the entire thing. You must be calm and collected, casual, but excited to see him— why wouldn’t you be? This is just a normal day, in your normal life that is somewhat difficult but entirely doable. He will offer you cheap beer and you will ask for Coke instead, and he will only have Diet Coke, will that be okay? (It’s totally okay—they only ever seem to have Diet Coke.) And you’ll begin talking, because he’s so easy to talk to… There’s one part of all this that perhaps should have been addressed at the beginning, but makes as much sense to do here as anywhere else, and that is to ask yourself the question—is this really worth it? It’s totally doable, understand, but it is somewhat difficult, and we wouldn’t want to see you put this much effort into telling someone who really isn’t worth the time. Then again, those in our situation tend to figure these things out pretty early in the game—it’s a necessity for the long-term planning.
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As to the question of how what you have to tell him will be received, we relish in our many success stories, which really do come in quite often. But it would be unfair to mislead you into believing that these things always end well. Most often, they take it pretty well initially…but as your calls stop being returned, and plans unexpectedly fall through, you’ll begin to realize what has happened. Sometimes, they won’t react well at all, wondering why you didn’t tell them earlier (clearly they haven’t examined our data) or professing that they feel unable to take on this “baggage” right now (we put the “baggage” in quotes, but it really should be the “right now” quotated, as those who say this to you now are likely to say such things for quite a ways to come.) Should things not go according to plan, it is imperative to remember that it is not a poor reflection onto your character or desirability. Remember the what the program leader says at the beginning of each of your weekly meetings: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the strength to know the difference.” Look into his eyes. They should have a warmth to them, the warmth of promising beginnings and the fear of new uncertainties. Open your mouth, and say the words that you rehearsed in the mirror. “There’s something I’d like to tell you about myself…” Begin.
Reflection of Soweto Josh Kirson
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Some Bunny That I Used to Know
Kendall Young 2nd Place
Seaglass
Wiley Holton 3rd Place
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Anxiety
Kendall Trovato
Silently, It rises off the coast in the distance. Harmless. The future, merely a speck in the iris of our eyes. The wind nips at our cheeks as our feet sink below the suface.
Honorable Mention Above our successor shall we rise? Or away will the riptide take us into the dark, mysterious, questioning sea?
Aware are we of its presence, In the back of our mind as we stare, and breath in the ocean’s air. Do not let the calm fool you, for the worst is yet to come. We are blind to what happens underneath the surface, surging, swirling, crashing. The impact; it finds us, and suddenly we are swept away. Trapped, underneath the darkness; thrashing, panicking. Expected are we by those on the shore, to crash through the milky surface; laughing, smiling, safe. Our hands reach upward; begging for a miraculous hand to pull us up. It does not come. On our own we must try to break through the very surface that holds us down; its hands wringing tighter against our throats as time passes on.
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Shrouded
Caroline Rakip
Quarters For Carl
Chloe Smith
Honorable Mention
Anyone who interacts with Grandpa Carl arrives at the universal conclusion: he’s a dull man. The sad thing is, he only “socializes” with family. Hardly anyone knows Carl, or his evasive personality. The saddest thing is, I have visited Grandpa Carl once a week over the past five years; which is fifty-one times more than any other relative has. But now, it’s not Grandpa Carl’s introverted personality, nor his tedious lifestyle that depresses me. It’s his frayed clothing, stained by seven years of wear. As a little girl, Grandpa Carl’s silent demeanor baffled me. I didn’t understand how such a muted man created my rambunctious family. I was frustrated by what appeared to me as his evident disinterest in conversation. Grandpa Carl rarely contributed to family discussions, mostly because he had nothing to say. I despised the way his kind eyes fixated upon my lips as I spoke, as if the non-existent food hanging from my lower lip was the most interesting crumb he’d ever seen. Grandpa Carl immediately became engrossed in his left pinky poking through his sneakers as I finished speaking. I would observe his unusual behavior with ignorance and wonder why he hadn’t bought new black Nike sneakers, like a normal person. I loathed his flat facial expression, which shouldn’t even fit into the category of facial expressions. His permanent composure showed no emotion. He had the posture of a dying camel, a beer belly that jiggled, and minimal hair to cover his flaky scalp. As I remember, Grandpa Carl had many flaws. He did, however, have two talents, the most impressive being his ability to constantly piss me off. His other talent was concealed from me at ages one through ten. I only became acutely aware of this appealing quality after spending one-on-one time with Grandpa Carl. It all started when Grandpa Carl asked if I wanted to go for a walk with him on Sunday. I felt my throat tighten with repulsion. As I contemplated all the things I would rather be doing, my ears perked up at the mention of dessert. Carl had me enthralled. To my ten-year-old sweet tooth, it seemed as if Grandpa Carl had only one thing to provide me with. He had money, and that money was used every Sunday afternoon to buy my favorite dessert: chunky monkey ice cream. It took me a few hours of one-on-one time with Grandpa Carl to realize how just how much he had to offer. The relentless irritation I felt from Grandpa Carl’s subtle presence in my earlier years faded. His attentive silence and dependability captivated my ten-year-old self. I soon pleaded my mother to drop me off at Grandpa Carl’s tattered condo every Sunday around five. He owned a one-bedroom shack, with a front door that squeaked and a popcorn ceiling that had a tendency to fall. As we walked three blocks to “Brightman’s Ice Cream”, I would allow for his cold palms to wrap around my scrawny fingers. I rambled on about my week, elaborating on the joys and difficulties of being a fourth grader. While Grandpa Carl rarely contributed to my one-sided conversation, he would occasionally bob his head up and down to indicate he was listening.
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His silent, steady presence was all the reassurance I needed to know I could safely express my emotions without judgment. As time progressed, Grandpa Carl was given greater insight into my fears and insecurities. Simply through confiding in a family member, I was soon able to release unnecessary tension in my life. At the end of my ten-minute vent, I was rewarded with a large chunky monkey ice cream, covered in rainbow sprinkles. As Grandpa Carl paid with ten shiny quarters, I immediately indulged in my chocolaty treat. Looking back on my younger years, I now realize my narcissistic nature. I have no justification for my obliviousness towards Grandpa Carl’s challenging financial situation, other than I liked ice cream on Sunday nights. I enjoyed not having to pay for it. I didn’t want to interpret my observations: Grandpa Carl’s repetitive disinterest in ice cream for himself, his ragged clothing and his tattered one bedroom condo. It took my mother informing me of his inability to pay his mortgage due to unemployment. I was finally brought to my senses. I had cared more about my ice cream, than the enormous amount of debt Grandpa Carl continued to accumulate, ten shiny quarters at a time. My throat throbbed with guilt. How could I be so selfish? Each indulgence in my ice cream had eaten away at his savings, however small the dollar amount was. Grandpa Carl would soon be unable to afford a home. He had to cut back on expenses. This is why I now collect quarters for Carl; so that we can continue to walk three blocks to “Brightman’s Ice Cream” every Sunday afternoon, his shaky hand clasped around mine. Because in the midst of my petty desire for ice cream, Grandpa Carl gave me a gift that quarters can’t buy: someone to listen.
Clock
Christine Yang
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A Different Sun Derek Wang
“This is the spirit that Beauty must ever induce: wonderment and a delicious trouble, longing and love and a trembling that is all delight.” —Plotinus
1st Place
A split second of white space in the mind My senses are filled Overwhelmed, until consciousness can process the sight
Her hair Brown, usually but it was golden here
The comely majesty of the valley meadow spills forth As can a resplendent stadium causing the muscles of the face to loosen, instinctively And a panorama fills the very corners of my eyes:
I could have stood there doing that little chuckle men do before perfection, real and true, undeserved by us sinners.
Gentle grass tamed by soft swaying Soundless, flowing stream barely wide enough for a wood bridge
So we kissed tender, soaring unity: Heights from which we glanced down: fear, loneliness and Beauty.
And the muscled mountains Oh, you mountains who in the daytime flaunt such strength Now you let go your pretense “I missed you.” The sun takes his rest behind your guard (a day had gone by and caresses your sides with a smooth, divine hand. since we kissed last) I could have stood there Steeped in solitude Had not the sight of her woken me: We each took in each other for the tenth time, maybe. On the gentle slope of a little hill She sat facing me legs bent, arms folded across her calves Delicately the same way her top draped over her shoulders
So we opened our bodies and minds to each other Like the unwrapping of presents, which until then had been hidden away unsure of the right recipient. So we took our rest as tall Aspen trees guarded us, The grass lent us its softness We lent it our warmth. And in each other’s arms we looked above, at the symphony of magnificence
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Droplets of water, photons of light A slowly melting sherbet now between creamy orange and rose pink.
The sun set.
Then I thought of Tony Bennett And a beloved softcover a sonata of Brahms on one side, a sonnet of Shakespeare on the other And wind, open-canopied wind running fingers through our hair Sitting together on a golf cart
Rosa Naranja Alicia Bellido
“It’s a heartache… …either way…” The next day the sun rose in the east But it was a different sun
Mountain View Lauren Heuer
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In Defense of Video Games Jackson Barno 1st Place
It’s as predictable as the sunrise. My parents’ constant refrain: “No video games. It’s a waste of your time.” They see no redeeming value in video games, but I consider games to be a form of skill development – and of course a lot of fun. I have never had any real evidence to rebut their contempt for gaming…until now. I am learning to fly a twin engine airplane. It’s challenging, and the reflexes, peripheral vision and instinctive responses that I have learned while gaming are good practice for flying an airplane. When you are playing a video game, you might be fighting off hundreds of zombies, racing against a dozen crazy drivers or flying a simulated airplane or helicopter. To succeed at video games, the player must keep track of dozens of rapidly changing variables. You have to act fast, but stay cool. These are similar to the skills needed to fly an airplane. The airplane I fly is a vintage Piper Aztec. Twin engines, retractable landing gear, nose and tail trim, it is a fun aircraft to fly. But flying is intimidating, and much more complicated than driving a car. A plane is faster, there are three dimensions to worry about, not just two. The repercussions of an “oops” are much more compelling, too! To fly safely, one must think ahead, and concentrate on the flying. This means constantly shifting your attention from the view in the windshield, to the primary gauges including the artificial horizon, air speed, rate of climb/descent, altimeter, course deviation, and more. Then it is back and forth, constantly scanning the sky, and scanning the gauges. Like gaming, flying requires good reflexes, good vision, and no distractions. It also requires something called “flight awareness”. You have to “feel” the aircraft. I actually began flying by playing a video game of sorts. It’s called a “flight simulator”, and it is a very specialized video game that mimics every aspect of flying. You even sit in a simulated cockpit, with actual airplane controls. When I started flying, the cockpit and the wall of gauges were overwhelming but practicing in the simulator made me feel much more comfortable with the gauges and controls. Yes, I had a couple of simulated wrecks, but fortunately they did not hurt a bit. During a recent actual flight, my instructor Dirk told me to go into a steep climb. Then he suddenly barked “cut the engine!” What? He repeated the order and in a flash, we were in a “stall”, spiraling straight down at the water a mile below. The wind whistled as we accelerated toward the water below in a nosedive. My throat went dry and I couldn’t swallow. Suddenly, the water was all I could see, and it was coming up fast! After what felt like an eternity, Dirk’s voice crackled in my headset “pull hard on the stick!” I strained to pull back on the steering wheel, but it took all my strength. It felt like the wings might tear right off, or like my seat might push through the floor.
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Finally, the nose of the plane grudgingly came up to the horizon, and we were flying level again. Dirk was chuckling. I started breathing again! It really got exciting when we entered a ‘controlled airspace’. Within 10 miles of San Juan International airport and under 10,000 feet, Ground Control ‘squawked’ on the radio and barked out our “vectors” – route, altitude and speed. No joyriding now. I confirmed the instructions and did as I was told. “Copy that San Juan Ground, 2323-Alpha turning to 085, descend and hold at 2,000 feet.” There was a lot of air traffic around the airport, and I had to be precise. I flew past the airport on the “base leg” of the landing, and then turned onto our “final approach”. This is when it got tense. I nervously descended on the glide-slope toward the runway from 2,000 feet, staying perfectly aligned with the runway. While doing this, I had to constantly adjust the air/fuel mixture, manifold pressure and throttle. As we descended, the air became heavier and the engine had to be adjusted to avoid stalling out. Then just a few hundred meters from the runway, the airplane picked up speed and started going too fast! Using the flaps, I slowed our air speed, but nearly forgot to put down the landing gear! A gusty crosswind tried to raise the windward wing, and push us off course, so I had to use the rudder and trim to fight back. No harder than handling a hundred zombies. Suddenly WHAM! Turbulence! We were following a large jet airliner, and the wingtip vortex smacked us like a left hook. Our plane instantly flipped on its side, and I had to fight to level the wings with the stick (steering wheel) and rudder pedals. We were so low, it looked like the wing would scrape the ground. When I finally flared out and touched down on the runway, I was drenched in sweat! I still had to taxi to the terminal through a maze of airplane traffic on the tarmac, but this was easy after the excitement of landing. My head was swimming but Dirk yelled “Great job!” The skills I’ve learned playing video games are indeed helpful in learning to control the aircraft. Practicing in the simulator made my first landing feel like something I had already done. A lot of things are happening at once when you are flying, and you have to stay calm and make quick decisions. Of course the risks of flying are much more serious than losing a video game! I like flying, and I hope to complete my Visual Flight Rules (VFR) training next summer, and eventually go on to vertical (helicopter) flying. My dream is to fly a sea-plane and land on the water. I have patiently explained to my parents that playing video games is a good way to practice for flying, but so far, it doesn’t seem to be working.
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Stardust and Silhouettes Abi Warwick
Laminated Box
Laura Schmidlein 1st Place
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The Second Bathroom Stall Ashley Burgarella Honorable Mention
The girl sat in tears on the floor of the second bathroom stall. As she silently sobbed, people came and went, most oblivious to the fact that someone was breaking to pieces just feet from them. The few who did notice her near silent anguish either said nothing, or rolled their eyes. They didn’t understand the pain the girl had undergone. If they had, they would be in tears as well. It started when the girl was young, just mean looks or nasty remarks. It soon progressed to physical abuse in her middle school years. She would be shoved around, or slapped. Still, the girl endured the torment and cried by herself in the second bathroom stall. One particularly shocking incident happened when the girl was twelve years old. She went to a friend’s slumber party, happy to have been invited, only to find the rest of the guests very unhappy to see her there. Not wanting to appear weak, the girl stayed against her better judgment. The next morning, she woke up with her hair cut a few inches shorter. The girl never told anyone what really happened; she pretended that she had tried to cut her hair herself. If others knew of this, they would understand. As the girl entered the eighth grade, it steadily got worse. She would weep in the second bathroom stall almost every day. After just the first month of school, the girl’s hair began falling out, and long, horizontal gashes appeared on her left wrist. No one paid any attention to this; they thought she was overreacting, or looking for attention. Their slightly unkind words couldn’t have caused this? At the start of freshman year, every day the girl would climb the stairs to the school’s roof, and stand at the very edge, thinking over her life. That year, every day but one, the girl quietly went back down the stairs and walked home; every day but one. On that one day, the girl ran to the roof possessed by grief, and before she could change her mind, jumped. She survived the fall, as the school was only two stories high. As the girl lay in the hospital, no one sent her cards or flowers, no colorful balloons. Instead, she received one anonymous note bearing the message; you should have died. The girl wished she had. She didn’t tell anyone, about the note, or what she had been doing on the school’s roof. If people knew this, they would understand. Near the end of her first year in high school, the girl’s physical wounds from her suicide attempt had healed, but her emotional wounds still bled freely. As the girl lay in that hospital bed so many months ago, she hardened, and put up walls. She didn’t want to be hurt by others, or do something irrational ever again. She never cried in the second bathroom stall. Not once. Even though the entire school knew she had jumped, not one person tried to correct their behavior. Not one person ever thought to make amends with the girl. They didn’t stop; they didn’t know how it felt to be the victim.
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These walls the girl had built held up against all unkindness for an entire year. For all of her sophomore year, the girl stayed strong. She never shed a single tear. She didn’t let anything get to her, no matter how horrible it was. But towards the end of that year, the girl’s one and only friend decided she just didn’t like the girl any more. She was needy, and had no other friends. She certainly didn’t want to be friends with that. She joined the tormenters and the evildoers, and ridiculed the girl with them. When the girl saw this, sadness, a huge wave of immense depression washed over the girl, and the walls came crashing down. She quietly went to the bathroom stall she had not set foot in for so long, and wept. All alone, she cried until she could cry no more. After the girl finished sobbing, she slowly got up, and walked out of the restroom. She made her way down the hall, and up the stairs leading to the roof. As she passed, the girl left a little yellow sticky note stuck on the door to the roof. Then she strode to the edge of the building, and stood there on her tiptoes, swaying back and forth. As she stood there, the girl wondered to herself, what had caused this? Who had caused this? It could have been the girls who cut her hair as she slept, it could have been all the mean comments she had heard over the years. It could have been her friend abandoning her. What it really was, was having no one to turn to, no one to cry with. It was all the sadness that had built up all her life, all the sorrow that had been suppressed. She had never lashed out at anyone no matter what they did. The girl realized that she had already made this decision long ago; she just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. She stood on her tiptoes, swaying back and forth. Then, without a bit of hesitation, she leaned forward and dropped. This time, she didn’t survive. What people don’t understand, is that any amount of kindness, no matter how small or insignificant, could be the difference between life and death. If the girl’s friend hadn’t left, if the bullies hadn’t been bullies, perhaps the girl would still be alive. Perhaps she would have been happy. The girl’s parents found the suicide note she had stuck on the door to the roof, and they finally understood why the girl always looked so sad, why she was so silent and never smiled. Gossip as big a suicide spread through the school like wildfire, and soon everyone knew her story. The bullies finally understood, but it was too late. The girl was gone.
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the lone-star state Ellen Marius
stooped over by the weight of life the old farmer groped in the dirt paper thin tan skin permanently creased formed a grimace across his face
he could not find what he was looking for his hand came up empty from the land that he had tilled for decades
panic flickered across his eyes betraying his fear worn hands once strong began to shake
Clock
Natalie Schoen
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a lone tear salty as the sea glided down the leathery skin and moistened the parched dirt as the ominous clouds rolled by shutting out the sun
his mind too could not find what it was looking for in the land of his memory
he could not remember his past.
it had flickered out like a candle suffocated by the darkness
he was alone left deserted by his past but surrounded by darkness.
10/31; 6:23
Lyndsey Smith
3rd Place
Amy is looking at me again. I look back, and she makes a weird smile and keeps blinking her eyes really fast. Five blinks in one second. She looks like she might be in pain. Maybe she has something in her eye? She is distracted by the ringing of the telephone. “Hi, you have reached J.P. Owen Accounting. This is Amy speaking.” She answered it differently this time. I look back at the spreadsheet in front of me. The symmetric grids are filled with numbers. Calming numbers. They float through my brain. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377 Seven minutes pass, and I feel her over my shoulder. I turn, and yup, there she is. Standing at 5’7’’, she is big and round, almost like Santa. Amy wears a big dress with a bunch of roses on them. Red, blue, and yellow. Recently applied red lipstick covers her thin lips. She does the weird smile again. Why does she keep smiling like that? “Hey Martin,” Amy says. “How has today been?” Her voice is more high pitched than normal. Maybe she is in pain. “Hello.” I look over Amy’s right shoulder, past her big body, to the clock pinned crookedly on the beige wall. 11: 26 A.M. Amy bobs her head in my line of sight. I shift my eyes over her left shoulder, to the copy machine. Amy stands at my desk, shifting her weight from one foot to another, swaying like you do in a wave pool. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377 “So Martin,” she says while looking down at the ground. “How was your weekend.” “I watched the baseball game at 8:03. ESPN said it was going to start at 8:00, but they were three minutes late.” No one spoke for twenty-one seconds. I say, “Did you hear about Giancarlo Cruz Michael Stanton’s new contract?” “No.” Amy’s voice softens at the end, and her shoulders slump. She looks down at the ground again. “With his new contract of $325 million over the next 13 years, he will make $68,449 per day. That’s $16,525 more than the median household income per year in Miami. It’s the most lucrative contract signed by a player in North American professional sports. But that’s totally worth it because his stats back it up. Since 2010, he has 619 hits, and 154 of those were home runs. In 2014 alone, he made 155 hits, and 37 of those were home runs. That’s 23.871% of---”
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Amy puts her hand on my forearm. I stop talking. “Oh Martin, you know so much about baseball.” Her voice is high pitched again. Why is she touching me? Why would she do that? I didn’t ask her to do it, I didn’t want her to do it, I don’t like it. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377 I back away from her hand. It hovers in the air for two seconds, then falls by her side. She stands at my desk for seven more seconds, then turns and walks away. Her face turns the color of her red lipstick. I am alone with the spreadsheets at last. I am alone with my numbers until 5:30. That’s when the Halloween party starts. It is 11:42 now. I have 5 hours and 48 minutes. … The hour hand of the clock rests almost directly between the five and the six. The minute hand seems to be millimeters from the six. The second hand passes the nine, the ten, the eleven, and now the twelve. It’s 5:30. The employees shuffle into the breakroom. Someone hung paper bats from the ceiling and put fake pumpkins in the center of the tables. People mingle in groups and talk. I walk over to the pretzel bowl on the snack table. Cynthia and Ann and Veronica and Heather and Amy hang out at the punch bowl. Twenty-four minutes pass. It’s 5:54. Amy and the other women are still at the punch bowl. Amy drank a lot of punch. She is talking louder than before. Her cheeks are very pink now. Amy stumbles and loses her balance. All of the women laugh. Amy laughs the loudest. Amy looks at me again. I look down at the pretzel bowl, and look back up. She is still staring, but her eyes can’t seem to focus on me. Maybe she has something in her eye again. She starts walking towards the pretzel bowl. Left foot in front of right, right foot in front of left, then she stumbles. Seventeen steps, two stumbles, and she is in front of me. Her face is six inches from mine. Her breath smells like a doctor’s office, kinda like the moment right before you get a shot. Without any warning, she grabs my face and pulls it towards hers. Her lips crush mine. I can feel the hairs above her upper lip brush against my face. I hadn’t notice them before. I don’t like that. I want to get away. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377
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I just want to get away. I push her off me, harder than I expected. Everyone stops talking. Amy falls to the ground, and her rose dress flies up. Amy starts crying. Maybe she has something in her eye again. Cynthia and Ann and Veronica and Heather gather around Amy. I’m still at the pretzel bowl. Cynthia looks back at me and squints her eyes. She looks mad, I think. “I just wanted to get away. I didn’t mean to push her.” Everyone is looking at me. I leave the Halloween party, leave the office, leave the building, and head for the 6:15 bus around the corner from Kite St. … I don’t really remember how I got to the bus stop. It is all just a blurr. But I am here now, and sitting on the bus bench is a young boy, maybe six years old. His head is down, but I can see him look at me out of the corner of his eyes. He taps his fingers on his leg. I sit down on the bench, eight feet away from him. The bus should get here in eleven minutes. It’s 6:04. Nine Harry Potters, thirteen witches, a few minions, three Supermans, and five Elsa’s pass us. I look over at the boy. He is in an orange and blue shirt and tan shorts. Both are dirty and crumpled. I don’t think he is wearing a costume. I hear his stomach growl, and he looks at my lap. I look down too. I guess I grabbed the pretzel bowl mid escape. I offer the bowl to the boy. He takes it, and shovels handfuls of pretzels into his mouth. After two minutes, the entire bowl is gone. The boy looks up at me and says, “Hi, my name is Charlie.” “Hi, I’m Martin.” “Thanks for the pretzels.” “No problem. I got them from a Halloween party at my work.” “I wish I could go to a Halloween party.” He looks down at his feet, swinging them in the air. Charlie might be tired. “That’s okay. I didn’t have fun.” “But it’s a Halloween party, how could you not have fun. There is candy and music and pumpkins and everyone is dressed up and having fun.” “Yeah, but Amy kissed me and I didn’t want her to kiss me.” I don’t know why, but I want to talk to this boy. Charlie nods. He slides five feet towards me. He stares out at the street. “Last week that hap
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pened to me on the playground. I was climing on the jungle gym and Lila Jones just came up to me and kissed me. I didn’t want her to kiss me, but she did. Then everyone started chanting that Lila has cooties.” He moves his hands when he talks. “She had cooties?” I don’t even know what cooties are. Are they a type of toy? “No, cooties aren’t real, but it made Lila sad. And even though I didn’t want Lila to kiss me, she is always nice to me and I didn’t want her to be sad.” “Amy is always nice to me too. I like talking about baseball with her. And I think I might have made her sad when I pushed her off me.” “Yeah, maybe. You just have to treat girls like you treat your mom and be really nice all the time. And when they are sad, you give them presents like flowers or drawings to make them feel better.” “How do you know all this stuff?” He seems to know a lot about girls. Charlie looks down at his feet again. He taps his fingers on his leg again. He doesn’t speak for thirteen seconds. “My mom is sad a lot. She stays in bed all day and I try to make her feel better by picking her flowers and drawing pictures of things that make me happy. Sometimes it helps.” All around us, kids are trick-or-treating with their parents. I look at Charlie. He’s alone. His stomach growls again. He is alone and hungry. “I’m on my way to the park to pick her flowers. She really likes daisies.” Down the street, the bus turns onto Kite Street. It must be 6:15. It doesn’t feel like eleven minutes have passed. “Charlie, I have a really good idea. Why don’t I go with you to get your mom flowers, and I can get roses for Amy. Then, we can stop somewhere and get some food because it’s thirty-four minutes till dinner time.” Charlie looks up at me and smiles. His face is really dirty like his clothes, but his blue eyes are bright and clear like water. “Yes, let’s do that Martin.” The bus stops in front of the bench. I take seven steps, Charlie takes eighteen, and we get on the bus. We sit nine seats away from the bus driver. The door closes and the bus pulls away. … Four stops later, Charlie and I walk down six steps and get off the bus. To the left is the park. I start walking. Charlie catches up to me and slides his hand into mine. I stop walking and get really stiff. I count in my head. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377. I relax. We start walking down the street to the park again. Charlie holds my hand. His warm hand kinda feels nice in mine. It’s 6:23.
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