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Oneirata2 0 1 2

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Table of ContentsFront Cover: “Sleep” by Abby Skolnik.Back Cover: “Walker” by Ariana Ray.3: “Face” by Nikko Padilla. Poem by Brent Shaeffer.4: “Platonic Rigidity” by Tom Costello. “Por-trait” by Abi Subramanian.5: Short Story by Ben Torda. 6: “Am I?” by Maria Fuentes.7: “Ferris Wheel” by Sophia May. “Overthink-ing” by Hanna Pennington.8: “There is a Couch” by Miranda Willson. “Leaf ” by Lauren Weiner. 9: “My First Language” by Antonia Barolini. 10: “Fear” by Lauren Wilt. Poem by Dayna Wilmot.11: “All The King’s Men” by Ariana Ray. “Stuffed Animals” by Lauren DeSouza. 12: “Women” by Lydia Lichtiger. 13: “The Sea” by Ivy Hedberg.14: “Unicorn” by Ariadne Bazigos. “Pepper” by Julia Dailey.15: “A Commentary On Life From An Active Member’s Point of View” by Daria Bennett.16: Poem by Gregory Faraone. “Rapunzel” by Johanna Ramm.17: “Horse” by Siobhan Stanton.18: Story by Lauren Wilt. Art by Sophia May.19: “Mouth” by Emily Linn.20: Poem by Iliodor Mustafaj. “Polar Bear” by Adam Willson. “Dancer” by Abby Skolnik.21: “Portrait” by Lia Stephens. “Cryptograms” by Carter McNeil.22: Story by Haley Angell. 23: Painting by Daria Bennett.24: “Knees” by Lilah Tsudome. “The Right Words” by Miranda Willson.

25: “Butterman Begins” by Veronica Erdman.26: “Face” by Ariana Ray.27: “Emily” by Abby Skolnik.28: Story by Sophia May.29: “Fruit” by Hattie Schapiro.30: “Ode From My Deathbed” by Andrew Wolfson.31: “Portrait” by Antonia Barolini.32: Poem by Valerie Shatilova. “How Nice” by Daria Bennett. Art by Ben Torda.33: “Bleeding Stars” by Emily Rogers. “Urban Haiku” by Tom D’Agustino. Poem by Gabby Arce.34: “Liftoff ” by Emily Linn. 35: “Fruit” by Teah Wyman.36: Story by Tom Costello.37: “Hope” by Hannah Stein. “Bottle” by Gab-by Wan.38: “Old Man” by Abby Skolnik.39: “Notes Against A Windshield” by Sam Bogan. “Jesus” by Alex Bazigos. 40: Story by Paul Devito. “Bottle” by Gabby Wan.41: “Beginnings” by Sophia Swiderski. “Turn Around” by Tom D’Agustino.42: “Blech” by Lilah Tsudome. Story by Dayna Wilmot.43: “The Weight of DOMA (On the Body)” by Hattie Schapiro. “Regret” by Lena Rubin.44: “Throat” by Siobhan Stanton. “Johannes-burg, August” by Hanna Pennington.45: “Face” by Antonia.46: Your Turn47: Acknowledgments

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Pulled under you begin to panic.Pushed and pardoned you lose your way And acquiesce to the tide, to the consistent jostling and confusion.You can see the exit, a flickering yellow light rushing towards you.You surge forward with the mass, flowing through the open doors.Cramped and contained you wait for the next stop.

—Brent Shaeffer

Nikko Padilla

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Platonic Rigidity

Back straight, straight, we canbe beautiful together. What arethe sociological ramificationsof teenagers who drink amnesiain deserted parks? I chewed sidewalkfor you. I tell people my acneis sunspots.

I stand with crooked vertebraeand think (stars are track marks,freckles on the back of my neck) of everything but howthe sun bends me likea shadow puppet, and I amtrapped in this shifting cave of a personand I fell in love witha streetlight because itdidn’t love me back andI want to itch my skin off sometimes, because depression isa kind of fire too. But all I do ispick these chunks of gravel out of my mouth andfling them at moonbeams,and ride the subway becauseI love to shake, I want to hollowout my cheeks and stuff themwith everything, everything, everything.

—Tom Costello _____

Abi Subramanian

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A profound thought I had, well rounded and complete, full of room to expand and connected to infinite other thoughts … but then I forgot it. But that was only because it happened right as I fell asleep: the time of the greatest ideas never acted upon. I drifted. Time lapsed on and on, an irrational amount of time, the clutch unengaged, a disconnect between conceived reality and the grandfather clock chimes of time. Slowly I faded out of sleep and I came back but the idea was gone, a wisp, a dream. Unbothered and unmolested because this was fairly common, I meandered toward sleep again, milky, sticky darkness, slowly crawl-ing over the inside of my mind. The tentacles reached toward my consciousness, but after starting to wrap themselves around the rivets and rungs, they were repelled by the series of reoccurring thoughts. A cycle. Awake, I was entirely out of the id and into the forefront of my vision. The back of my eyelids a maze of wrinkles that are made of wrinkles that… a dream.

I woke to the rumble of the floor and the hiss of the steam. A day began, and the sun rose in its futile at-tempt to catch the moon’s tail. I rose to the scratch of the sheet sliding across my dry skin. The heat had been slowly sucking the remaining water from cracked lips. The pores opening and closing, stretching out to the drafts sweeping across the floor, sliding up the feet of the bed and culminating in eddies above my head. The immediate rush of knowing I survived another night jumped across my body, sliding right under the skin, in an electric field. I put a foot on to the hard wood, feeling the basins and ranges under each toe. A step brought me closer to the sink and with it the beginning of another morning. Somewhere a rooster crowing was being blotted out by the backfiring of a car.

The apartment was rectangular. Three copies existed below, and three above, but unlike mine they were full of happy children and slightly less so adults. I envied the ease with which they went about pretending that life was as easy as they made it seem. But that was as much as I had to do with the neighborhood. I did not know about the people when I moved in. I had to take the word of the books, and the realtor. I didn’t know about the hiss from the radiator, or the loose board that was under my foot as I stared at my reflec-tions in my irises in the mirror. I also looked at the nose that I inherited from my mother, and the ears and the mouth and the teeth: a collection of shapes. I stood naked at the sink in the corner of the apart-ment, a window to the left looking out at the street and the milling masses, and slowly commenced my morning ritual of brushing and rinsing and rousing. I was grooming myself to the desired appearance that somewhere people in high office towers and gray cubicles were deciding for me. The same for the clothes I hastily tossed onto my shivering body as the residual heat from the covers and the night was sucked into the ice-air of the apartment, which was only looking for consistency. I surrendered to culture. I decided not to do breakfast because of the health benefits I thought I read about somewhere, and crossed the apartment and down the single step to the door, where the shoes I had bought only to hate were waiting, tied, for the warmth and purpose my foot gave to them, for my foot to slide in. It’s all about ease.

The steps led to another set, which led to the last. The small entryway loaded with peeling advertisements that were pasted up in blatant disregard for the posted signs by miscreants that barged their way in through the unlocked door, but that was before the alcohol-in-open-wound healing of gentrification. Past, I squint-ed in the reflecting sunlight off the windows and moist street still damp from its cleaning. I wondered as I crawled: What should I do to distinguish the time I am awake and breathing from the rest of the time anyone is spending? I searched, but “black” was all the exploratory ships came back to report.

—Ben Torda

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Am I?

I am.I am from the graffiti-ed walls and the perfect attendance.I am from the boarded windows and the safety patrol.I am from the gang fights and the college prep course.I am from the blue and red and the black and white.I am the grey.

I am the grey.I am the in between, the doubt.I am the neither here nor there.I am the most likely, the could be.I am the wishful thinking.I am all that that could be maybe, probably, not likely.I am the chance, the risk taken by the state.I am the case that was buried underneath all the rest.I am the light in the darkness.

I am the light in the darkness.I am the reason for someone’s existence, although whose I do not know.I am the good among the bad.I am the color in the bleak world around me.I am the hope among the hopeless.I am the truth among the lies.

I am the truth among the lies.I am what isn’t seen.I am what you imagine.I am what you think of but never say.I am the action not taken.

I am the action not taken.I am the truth among the lies.I am the light in the darkness.I am the grey.I am.

—Maria Fuentes

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Overthinking

The thing about musicals is that you always expect to come out of them in some way changed, but once the lights are on and the curtain’s down and everyone gets up and starts shuffling around, all you’ve got is some annoying song stuck in your head, a song about how “this must be love ‘cause I don’t feel so well,” and you realize how that’s surprisingly relevant and then tell yourself to shut up because really, what’s the point? The school’s auditorium looks a lot like the one at Smith. You just visited Smith. This is funny because that’s apparently where all the dykes hang out. At Smith, that is, not here. People wear salmon-colored pants here. They only talk about RuPaul behind closed doors. And the only ones who actually talk about RuPaul are the ones who are secretly gay, who say “I have to tell you something” just before the conversation is so convenient-ly interrupted or are plainly just in awe of how a man could possibly get his cleavage to look that realistic. But those people are probably gay. Then you realize how your own dress is slipping down and wait for someone to say something. The nice thing about going places with your dad is that you can get away with wearing less clothes because he’ll be too nervous to say anything. When someone does, she’s saying “GIIIIIRL! GIIIIIRL!” and then hugging you and keeping you at an arm’s length as you wonder if there’s an acceptable number of times one can say “GIIIIIRL!” before stopping, and that she’s probably exceeded that number. She’s still hold-ing your elbows and keeping you there, at an arm’s length, where you’ve let yourself stay for too many months now. But you let yourself stop thinking about that. People are looking now, maybe more at her than at you, wondering who the subject of all this GIIIIIRL!-ing could be. But you stop thinking about them, and about how you’re wearing way too much eyeliner for a place where people wear pants that are not pink, but salmon.

—Hanna Pennington

Sophia May

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There Is A Couch

There is a couchin the lobby of the worn-out school,overused, even abused, by two, maybe three generations of students. Amidst the sexual talk that takes place, two people, years ago, tried things on that couch. Some poor boy disappointed a girl when he tried, some poor girl disappointed a boywhen she refused.Now the students do not care, becausethat was before their sisters were here,before their sisters’ sisters were here, beforethe posters of the plays were put upto fool visitors into admiring the school.Time has crushed the poor boy and girl. The students here now are jadedby years of seclusion, by being so close and yet so far.The memory of the original boy and girlhas been sunk into the couchalong with food particles and eraser shavings.

But no one knowsthat the same scenario happenedyesterday evening, as the four-part choir sang “When I Fall In Love.” The boy and girlsensed the irony as they felt each other,because neither has ever been in love, nor believesthey ever will be. To them, love is reserved for platonic friends, love isover-expressed in profile picture comments, love iswhat you say back, but never say first.

After ten minutes of awkward foreplay, thirty seconds of supposed ecstasy the boy and girl rearranged, readjusted,engaged in small talk about the imperfect singers,left a couch cushion hanging over the edgefor someone else to put in place.

They acted not for themselves,but purely for the body, as distant from their actual beingsas the city they visit on weekends when they manageto scrounge enough cash.They took advantage of the couchand its availability, its eagerness to be kept warm.It is as meaningless to themas they are to each other,as irrelevant as the school, the posters,and the boy and girl who set the exampleyears before.

—Miranda Willson

Lauren Weiner

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My First Language

One fall day during a college interview I was caught off guard by a question pertaining to my love of art. “When did you first start drawing?” was the question. I paused. I had never been asked that question before, nor had I ever given that question much thought until that day.

“Oh…well, I guess it’s not really when I started -- it’s just that I never stopped. I’ve been drawing my whole life,” I replied. That was the first time that it occurred to me: “Wow! Ever since the time I could hold a pencil till now I have never stopped drawing!” I guess I was a bit impressed with myself at the time. I had never made that re-alization until that day, until asked that question. Art, drawing, painting had been such a central part in my life and family that it struck me odd that anyone would ever stop drawing.

On that day I started thinking; I don’t know why I love art so much, or why it’s on my mind all the time. Look-ing back to my earliest memories, I was always drawing. I would get home from elementary school and im-mediately draw for hours. It surprised me the first time I found out some people didn’t draw, that some people didn’t like drawing! I thought everyone went home and immediately drew, like me. I don’t know why I would always draw so much. It could be because my mother always encouraged it, and that at almost every turn in my house there is a painting. Or maybe it was because my sister would always be drawing, and I wanted to be like her; either way, for some reason I never stopped and I never would dream of stopping.

I remember I loved drawing as a kid, there was something so freeing about it. Art was boundless. As children we all drew, it was something natural that we all did when handed a pencil when we were young. It was never forced. But somewhere along the line it was somehow implied to us that drawing was trivial, or we were dis-tracted with other things, other more “important” things, or we were told we were not good at it and encour-aged to stop. We start to learn how to write instead of doodle, and then there are math problems to be done until we have no time left to draw and create.

In middle school I would ignore most of my homework to make time to draw, but then in the first year of high school something changed. Everyone would always comment on how difficult pursuing an art career was, even though that was not what I had in mind. There would be times when I would be frustrated with my love of art, because I could see that society didn’t value it as much as other skills. Sometimes I would stop drawing for like a day and focus on other things, more concrete things. I wanted my talent to lie somewhere else. I wanted to be good at math, so everyone would praise me, so I would be smart. But every time I tried to turn away from art I failed, because I could never deny my passion for creation. At times I felt I wasn’t talented, and sometimes I’d let perfectionism get in the way of creating a piece. These moments were always short though, because whenev-er I turned a cold shoulder to art it would find a way to creep back in: I would be laying on my bed and looking up at the dinosaurs my mother painted on my ceiling, or I would walk into my sister Darla’s room and see the paint covered floor, I would bump into the sculptures of dancers my mother made that hang from the ceiling, or I would open a closet and all of Darla’s unfinished paintings would pour out. And I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way. I would always love art. So I resigned myself to the fact that no other subject would be more important to me than art, because I couldn’t be without it.

Lauren Weiner

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I could say that the reason I love art so much is because of my heavy exposure to it, or because I wanted to be just like my sister, but I would be lying. The real reason I love art is simply because I understand it. Ever since I can remember it has always made more sense to me than words or numbers or sounds. Grow-ing up I was always a quiet kid and at times painfully shy. I was a slow reader, a horrible speller, and I could never seem to put my racing thoughts into concrete words. On top of that, I did things very slowly and very carefully. I took time to always enjoy the process and was always late for school. The other kids all seemed to know how to put their thoughts into words, and all I seemed to be able to do was mumble. My thoughts seemed to just always be too abstract to fit into words. I knew I would have to rely on art to help me with expression. I knew I would have to train myself in art or my thoughts would be lost and no one would hear what I had to say. In many ways art saved me. Art is a language, and it was my first language. In the end I think I hold art so close to my heart because it was my first means of communication. It was the first thing to give me a voice.

—Antonia Barolini

I think in opposites.You tell me I’m wrong but you don’t knowI only speak the truth.You say the opposite of red isGreen but I say red.When you walk into me you are a walkingSkeleton and muscles ripplingRed. I only speak the truth So when you see me and sayI’m wrong I am the opposite.

—Dayna Wilmot

Fear

I think that fear is cold metal under bare feet,With the warm August air and stems of cut grassIntermingling between my toes

Fear is an intake, an inhale,My pull of breathAnd the tightness between two shoulder bladesDrawing them close together,Straight and strong.

Fear is the steps I took,Calculated and golden in their solidification,In their existence and the momentumThey carried.

Fear is a realization,Cold, potent and aware,And the capacious suppressionDrawing me downwardsThrough the open skyInto the open water.

—Lauren Wilt

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All the King’s Men

The following is an excerpt from the logbook of a king’s aide:A ceremony has been called for the abdication of the king. What a glorious thing, my lord, what a novel concept! This is truly the age of equality, when a king gives up his throne for his country. There will be parades and fairs and the country will be ablaze with the fervor of a newly born ideal.

But wait, my king, there is a snag! See here, in the bylaws of olden days, that there is no mention of abdication, so unimaginably unimaginable are your actions. There are no ceremonial traditions, no rules set down! You in your infinite wisdom must see that the public must have a role that it knows by rote. How else can it function? We advisors have thus devised a brilliant (if we may so) plan for your ubiquitous self to follow. As there is no ceremony for abdication, we have gone alphabetically down the list of ceremonies and found the next closest match…

My lord, a ceremony has been called for the adultery of the king! Is that not a glorious thing, a novel concept? This is truly the age of infidelity, when a king gives up his queen for the common—why do you shake your head at me thus?

Ah, my omniscient liege, you are not contented? You do not wish to have a ceremony for adultery? It would certainly intrigue the public! No? Well, my lord, never fear! In anticipation that adultery might not meet your high standards, we have a second option for your majesty. See here, my speech:

A ceremony has been called for the aggrandizement of the king! What a glorious thing, what a novel concept! This is truly the age of obesity, when a king gives up his diet for the calorie-filled—my lord, my lord, alas! Is this still not enough? Oh ubiquitous presence, understand me, I beg you! The public must have tradition! Tradition! Long have kings been aggrandized thus—there is no shame in it! Ac-cept, my liege, please! Nay, you will not? Here, then is my last speech:

A ceremony has been called for the asphyxiation of the king! What a glorious thing—Nay? Nay? Is it not a glorious thing? Well, your majesty knows best.

Ah, my lord, I must admit defeat. You will not permit the public to have its rituals. How then can you successfully abdicate?

But wait, you will not abdicate? It is too complicated? Too convoluted? Ah, the public will be upset. But do not trouble yourself overmuch, great king. Your father and his father before him said much the same.

—Ariana Ray

Lauren DeSouza

12Lydia Lichtiger

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The Sea

He sees her first, and afterwards he sees her eyes avoid him. She is young (they usually are, he reflects), a little stupid, and wary as hell. He is a fine man but he looks suspicious, and she has been taught to avoid people like him. She keeps her eyes trained forward mostly, but for a brief moment, they slip slightly and the two make eye contact. It is only a split second—she can tell he has caught her looking, and she hurries past where he sits on the low wall, takes the stairs up to where the chairs and grass and picnic tables are.

Fortunately, one split second is all he needs. He closes his eyes, leaning back a little as he wraps her around himself like a cloak, or a neatly pressed sweater, torn freshly from its packaging.

It is a hot day, and she has come here mostly carefree, a takeout sandwich from the kosher deli in a paper bag and a Terry Pratchett novel in her purse. It is cloudy and grey out, and hot; a thick, heavy heat that she can feel surrounding and pressing in on her. It is everyone’s least favorite weather, which is exactly why it’s hers. No one comes out these days; they’d prefer to stay indoors, with the AC turned high, wishing it was sunny or less hot. It is the weather of young, burgeoning storms, still developing and growing in the womb of the atmosphere. The heat is almost, but not quite, oppressive, the humidity high, and flowers are blooming, big fat white ones that the gardener sowed however long ago, spilling their heavy scent to the world.

She was not planning to come here originally—she wanted to eat inside the deli, where it is cool, but she didn’t like the way the old man in the back corner looked at her as she was ordering her turkey-and-mustard, and so after paying she absconded directly, now seeking a new place to set up camp. She considered the benches nearby, but they are too open air, a place where people may come by. She instead chose the field with its many chairs turned away from the street, devoid of people because the day is not suitable for picnics.

He can feel how nervous he made her, but she forgets him straight away as soon as she unwraps her sandwich and opens her book to where a worn ticket stub to an old, mildly successful romcom is nestled. She settles back, kicking off her flipflops and curling her legs under her, doing her best not to drip honey mustard onto the book, which she got from the library a few days ago.

It is only June, but she has steeped in summer long enough to be used to the carefree luxury of the open days, and that means her guard is down.

He turns her life over in his mind, considering it carefully, weighing it.

When she returns, sometime later, she takes a new path, ignoring the sidewalk that leads to the stairs and the ledge where he lies and opting instead to go through a small patch of trees, her feet brushing past chunks of crumbling bread left long ago for the birds. It is the path that takes her furthest from him, and he watches her go, noticing the neatly folded but nowhere near empty bag, the purse with its zipper just a little undone, the way her stomach now protrudes just enough to cause the already small tank top to ride up a little bit, reveal-ing the smallest area of skin between the hem of the shirt and the top of the shorts, which are barely clinging on to her hips. On anyone else that bit of sandwich—because he knows she did not finish it, nor did she even make much of a dent in it—would not have mattered, but on her skinny form it is like a pregnancy, and she is starkly aware of it, sucks in her stomach and straightens her back once she remembers to.

He raises a hand to his forehead, a pain growing there like a small, wriggling seed.

For a moment, she hovers at the crosswalk, ripe, trembling, like a fruit ready to be picked, a coin balanced precariously on a precipice, then steps out.

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Officials afterward would not understand exactly what happened, but would consider it a case of mutual negligence—the girl was not paying attention, nor was the man in the SUV. Later he would describe a fog that clouded his mind momentarily, but had seemed, overall, not much trouble. But when it lifted she was in front of him, and it was already too late to do anything but press forth. She had looked at him, he said, and time had seemed to slow around them until, very suddenly, her eyes cleared and she suddenly was looking right through him, her gaze piercing like a clear blue spear right into the very center of him. In that moment, he said, she was everything. But then, of course, it was too late. It would flee her eyes as fast as life when the car finally greets the body.

Now the man in the SUV gets out and screams, and suddenly everywhere there are people, and police cars, and lights and action as the curious wine red spreads across the street.

Unmoved, the blue eyed man hops from the wall and resolves to purchase a sorbet from the store down the street. The flavor today is ambiguously pink, like fresh meat, and he enjoys it immensely.

—Ivy HedbergUnicorn

When I was young I wasa Unicorn.

I walked on four legs,wore horns made out of paper,whinnied,and told people, “I ama Unicorn.”

I made people laugh,I cheered people up,I made new friends,I wasa Unicorn.

The other kids were jealous.They wanted my super powers.They made fun of my Horn,and said girls don’t walk on four legs,horses do.I said, “So doUnicorns.”

And even though my kneeswere bruised,my Horn ripped at the corners,my voicegrowing hoarse,I was stilla Unicorn.

And they laughed. —Ariadne Bazigos

Julia Dailey

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A Commentary on Life from an Active Member’s Point of View

If anything, physical beauty is a fortunate happenstance. Like the inheritance of a great sum of wealth, it is a convenience that the privileged are born into -- something some people obtain by chance and without effort that makes life just a little bit easier.

Natural beauty is not something that can be worked toward, or an accomplishment that only people who do or do not observe it obtain. Yet somehow it is treated as such. Somehow a beautiful face automatically is equated with adoration and/ or resentment.

Beauty is complimented -- and ugliness condemned, for that matter -- as if a person should feel good or bad about the specific order in which his parents’ alleles were randomly shuffled way back when, when he was merely a zygote. Heck, people win prizes for beauty all the time. It happens.

The other day I was in the school library with my friend when I saw this really surprisingly pretty middle school girl who was sitting at the neighboring table with another girl her age. So naturally I pointed her out. Wanna know what my friend said? “Wow, you’re right—she is pretty. I’m impressed.” Shall I repeat that? Because I’m going to. I’m impressed. And to be honest, I was impressed too. I admired her for her beauty and was jealous that I lacked it. And I guess it makes sense, really, that we should feel this way—it’s purely human. When getting a bad roll in Monopoly, it’s hard not to feel gypped and resentful, joyful when getting a good roll. The thing that gets me, though—the thing that really mystifies me—is that it’s not gypped we that we feel when regarding and analyzing our own rung on the aesthetic ladder of society, it’s self loathing. It’s pride.

When looking in the mirror, it is impossible for us to distinguish between facial features—obtained through a completely random, out of reach role of the dice—and self-worth. When complimented on beauty we say “Thank you.” When criticized on ugliness we say “F@#k you” and cry. We just can’t seem to get past the fact that when someone says “You’re hot,” what he’s really saying is, “Hey babe. I’m really diggin’ the manner in which you exist.” And it sucks that we can’t just get over it and focus on other stuff that matters way more—or at least appreciated beauty without immediately pinning self-worth up there up there with it.

I don’t know, just something to keep in mind I guess. —Daria Bennett

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I breatheI breakI walk I shakeBut everything stays the same,

I talk I speakEvery dayEvery weekBut nothing will ever change,

I gainI loseI twitchI snoozeAnd booze heals all the pain,

Living my life like this,One would think that I’m insane,But the truth isI’m just playing the game,

Risk or fakeChoose or takeI’m just playing the game,

Create and destroyLust and fateFollow the rules or the shame.

Follow the rules or the shame,We’re all just playing the game.

Some will winSome will loseEnjoy it while it lasts‘Cause when it’s doneThe credits rollBut it’s all over in a flash,

Last or firstCrash and burnPeople never change,What I claimLies for truthHonor and personal gain,Nobody cheatsFollow the rules or be swallowed by the shame In the end we’re all just playing the game…

—Gregory Faraone

Johanna Ramm

17Siobhan Stanton

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She took the baby at night, and it lived in her sock drawer for a week. During this time, she would slide the small door open, expecting to be greeted with soft, clean linens and instead would be met with the fixed face and raised plaster arms of the child. She was constantly reminded of its presence. Even the lingering patches of snow on the ground triggered a recollection of the night she stole away with the mass huddled in her arms, and merely gazing into the peaceful expression painted over its round cheeks twisted her stomach. Perhaps in a way the glances she stole were precious, calcu-lated. Even when she was alone, she couldn’t bring herself to touch the child, to lift him out of the drawer where his proportions fit so snugly. She had touched the infant only once since he had taken up occupancy, on the morning she woke up with her head throbbing and her mouth dry, to discover socks scattered all over her room. Through half-opened eyes she scanned her askew surroundings, rising from her bed and scooping the fabrics into a messy armful. She pulled the drawer open with nonchalance, but blanched as she gazed down onto the occupant. Her eyes widened with the shock of sudden memory and her heart quickened, creating a leaden undulation in her temples. She reached out her fingertips, tracing from the rosy lips to the lashes and down the outstretched arm to the balled fist, shuddering as she realized the fleshy, healthy tone painted so carefully onto the figurine gave no indication of the cast-like reality of the child’s skin. However, the removal of her touch frightened her, as the figure’s likeness to a living infant was so profound that she almost believed the cherub prone to break into a loud wail at any time, prompting discovery and thus forcing her to surrender this accidental prize. And so she shut the drawer, packing the petite figure away in the darkness until the next time she could admire it.

It was dusk. The night was brisk, made clean by the snow that had begun to fall. A group of teens occupied a corner, laughing and jostling one another. They stretched their mittened hands over the transparent clarity of the water bottles they clung to, bottles whose individual contents revealed liquids in various shades, some fluo-rescent, others opaque and murky. The group, not large in number, stood under a tree, one of the many decora-tive lit shrubs rooted evenly and sporadically down the sidewalk. This lent the street the ethereal appearance of being encrusted with golden bulbs, lights that cast a glow about the leaf-less branches. The youths seemed to have followed this trail of luminosity down the street, guided by the eminence, and, coming to the last glittering display, had stopped short, uneasy about which path to take into the darkness. They leaned on each other for support and adjusted scarves more tightly around their necks as the intensifying night brought with it a bitter frost that gave bite to the powdery flurry.

The group began to split. Singly and in groups of two they stumbled away, their parting words ringing garishly in the space only one jacketed frame now occupied. The remaining figure stumbled towards the next source of light, an intimate entity whose proximity the large group had not collectively considered for refuge from the

Sophia May

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cold. Staggering close enough to its smooth stone walls to hear not only the hymn warbled by churchgo-ers, but also the steam hissing from radiators between the pauses in the carol, the youth was drawn to-wards the peaceful, mellow atmosphere of the church. A composition of muted reds, yellows and greens, the large stained glass window on the oaken front door pulsed invitingly, projecting the figure’s silhouette onto the frost coated ground and creating a dark patch among the well-lit periphery.

There was another being outside the church, someone kneeling on the ground at the top of the hillside where the light could not reach, oblivious to the careening strides of the figure and deaf to the crunch of its footsteps through the thick, grounded frost. The youth swayed closer with endearing inquisition, and as it reached the woman on the hillside it found that the huddled mass did not pull away from the sud-den intrusion but merely stayed frozen, head bent in reverence. The close proximity had given the figure a new perspective, and, despite the darkness, it was now clear that many joined the mysterious woman. All who stooped on the ground were bent, the thickening snow collecting on the plateaus of their shoulders and the peaks of their heads. They were angled towards a bassinet in which a newborn rested, swaddled in a thin blanket and staring blankly upwards towards a peaked wooden roof, vaulted over where the child lay to offer meager protection from the elements. The figure stumbled past the entities towards the baby and knelt before it as it lay in the crib, stooping down and for a moment assuming the position of the bodies it had just weaved through. As the shadow joined their ranks for this moment, everything became immovable.

The figure broke the stillness when it reached into the bassinet. Shaking fingers, white with cold but de-termined none the less, gripped the baby under its arms and around the back of its head, lifting it out of its resting place into the air that glimmered with flecks of soft snow and something less malleable, night. When the figure in the darkness possessed the child, the watchful bodies should have leapt to their feet, shouted in protest, demanded that the babe be nestled back in the soft hay. But instead they just stared, transfixed on the now empty crib, powerless to do nothing but focus on the negative space that now shel-tered itself from the elements under the vaulted roof.

—Lauren Wilt

Sophia May

Emily Linn

20

It pounced,emotionlessly barking hatred.

Stricken, I stood frozenincapacitated by my own self control.

Eyes attacking, black and empty,puncturing, a cancerous endocrine

injected through canines. Blood in my veins throbbing,

muscles seizing, head spinning,sight fluctuating,

disaster and death knocking:I should have run.

—Iliodor Mustafaj

Polar BearThe ice cold temperature

would freeze almost anyone yet it doesn’t bother the Polar Bear.

Maybe it’s the thick furwhich protects the bear

from what’s inside. Maybe the fur covers

the pain and lost secrets indented deep in its brain.

Unlike other animals, the Polar Bear

never loses its winter coat. It never gets a fresh plate,

and no one sees its bare skin.

It may look harmless, happy and well from afar,

but the truth lies beneath the fur,buried in years of loss and denial.

—Adam Willson

Abby Skolnik

21

Lia Stephens

Cryptograms

I’m on a highway for humansI keep walking, they keep watching,

I feel their eyes watching me,When I’m alone,

When I’m asleep.Their voices echo through the forest,

Through the pulse of the sun’s heat,There I lay, somberly at peace

Out in the open so they can seeAcross the Universe, they won’t stop loving me.

Possessing and caressing meWe dance inside the raining light,

Smiling at the passing time,We aren’t alone tonight.

—Carter McNeil

22

Her name was Terrance Swarov. She drove an unnecessarily oversized Range Rover from home to school, school to cheerleading practice, then from cheerleading practice to her new boyfriend Todd’s house, everyday. It always pissed me off that she had such long, perfectly healthy golden hair. I could barely get my hair past my shoulders without it getting brittle split-ends. She wasn’t just thin; she was lean with perfect proportions. I was a twig. If it weren’t for my height and my matured voice I would’ve been forever prepubescent. It’s been 10 years now. I’ve been especially reminiscent for my teen years since I got the invitation in the mail; I’m dreading the unavoidable encounters with ex-boyfriends, old bullies, and, of course, Terrance. She was probably off in some big city like L.A. or New York doing something of great importance that benefited the world in some gigantic way. All the while looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. Bitch. What would I say? “Ohhh, Terrance, darling, how I’ve missed you!” Sorry, hold on. Vomit. No, she would never allow me to get that many words in. She never did.

*** There I was, with my husband, in the tightest red dress I could find on the clearance rack at Macy’s, sip-ping fruit punch out of a plastic wine glass at a glorified cafeteria table. This was already dreadful. I occasionally caught a glimpse of a few vaguely familiar faces in the glimmer of a tacky disco ball the faculty – for God only knows what reason – felt they should turn on. I couldn’t get my mind off how much better this punch would be if I had remembered my flask… “Hey Scott, I’m gonna go in the little girls room; my lipstick could use a touch up.” And with that I ran… No, just kidding, but that would’ve been awesome. Instead I was boring and actually went to the bathroom drag-ging my feet all the way there to fix my lipstick. I unclasped the knock-off, black patent leather Prada clutch I got from some guy on some sketchy side street once when Scott and I went to New York and pulled out my favorite lipstick. As I reached for the handle of the all-too-familiar cafeteria bathroom door, it flew back and me and, “Whap!” there went my balance.So I was lying there – with my eyes still closed, mind you – and I heard that voice. It was far too close for com-fort. I thought to myself, If it was her that knocked me flat on my ass in front of everyone I went to high school with the shit is going to hit the fan. Then I sneezed. “Oh, thank God! Okay. Phew! How’s your head, Olive?” “Worse than a hangover, thanks for asking, Terr.” I sneered the nickname that I’ve called her since I learned how I learned how to speak, for effect. “Well, I can see that I’ve helped enough; you guys enjoy the rest of your night.”Scott helped me up and I glanced up at her, and when she looked back I saw something in her expression that screamed “I’m sorry” for more than one reason. We had been inseparable from birth until the summer after junior year of high school, and I still knew what her facial expressions meant after 10 years. “Nooo…wait, I’m fine, Terrance. Come sit with us, Scott was boring me to death anyways.” I elbowed Scott playfully in the gut and led the party over to our table. I really hope I don’t regret this.I introduced Scott and Terrance, blah blah, all the formalities, but what I was really digging for was and apology. Out loud and with Scott as my witness. Closure for all the backstabbing and lying, and most of all, I wanted to hear her grovel over how terrible she felt for stealing Todd – sadly, the boy that gave me my first kiss. I know what you’re thinking, “You didn’t even kiss a boy until after junior year?” Yeah, I know. I believe I already went over how I looked back then in the beginning. I knew Scott could see all of this brewing in my head, and I could see him starting to get uncomfortable and kind of scared. That’s when he blurted: “You need a refill, Babe? I’ll get us all refills. Er, be back in, um, a minute,” he said, snatching up all three plastic wine glasses. We both watched him go an before I could even get a word out she said what I had needed to hear eleven years before, when I found out she had slept with Todd.

23

“I was such a stuck up whore! I know you hate me, and I hate myself for it!” “Yeah, you were.” The whole time I’m chanting in my in my head, I win! I win! “I know I should have said this years ago, or better yet not even have done it to begin with, but having just gotten divorced I know what kind of hell you went through.” “It’s all in-” “No. My husband went and knocked up one of his coworkers, and I want you to know that karma is a bitch and I hope that makes my apology more acceptable and sincere, I am so incredibly sorry, Olive.” “It’s all in the past, Terr. I’m sorry, too.” Just then something glared in my eye as she fussed around in her bag. “What’re you digging for?” “Back with the punch, ladies,” said Scott as he placed the drinks on the table. When she finally pulled out what she’d been searching for, I burst into hysterical laughter. Laughter filled with déjà vu, relief, and contentment. Laughter at the incredible irony of it all. “I figured I’d need this bad boy tonight,” she said. It was a flask…

—Haley Angell

Daria Bennett

24

Lilah Tsudome

The Right Words

We don’t talk about it.At first, I didn’t look them in the eyeand they noticed, and waitedfor me to grow a pair and speak.Now it’s known that I can’t handlerejection, embarrassment, disappointment.Now it’s known that I’m fragile,that I can only speak if I’m singingat the same time.

Instead, we talk abouthow I dance alone like a goonhow I wish I had rhythm and souland an afro and a giant asswhen really I wish I didn’t careand didn’t think about things.What do you think about on car rides? someone asked. Nothing, I said, and laughed, and felt cool,but I knew it wasn’t true.I think about the things we don’t talk about,the words we leave floating around the roombut never confront face-to-face.

I think about the right words,the words that make itso no one really knows what I’m saying,so no one really knows I’m insulting them,so everyone nods because the words sound nice.I type these words on Sunday mornings. Before I deal with a woman asking about the mess in the kitchen,before someone blames it on the cleaning lady,before I put a bra on, before I confess what I did last night (disappoint-ing a boy who wanted to hear a good story),before I say a word aloud, I try to say what I can’t saybecause I don’t want to seem fragile,pitiful, spiteful, or too beautiful,and if I’m lucky, I find the right words.

—Miranda Willson

25

Butterman Begins

One day, as I went to English, I spotted Shamus Bruce, the senior, and realized that even from the rear view his perfection was all-encompassing. It hit me that his points as a ladies’ man probably transferred to his vigilante credits—he had to be a superhero. I’d finally found Butterman. Sham’s head cocked when I said it aloud—he couldn’t help but respond to the name he bore at night. His shoes mesmerised me. They were like the sun, or a buttercup. Shoes Butterman would wear. I recalled the night when it began raining as I walked. The road, suddenly doused in water, gleamed in the moonlight. Rain drenched me. My shoes squirted every step and fabric clung to my skin, streams of water issuing from my clothing without pause. My hair was plastered to my face. Pushing it from my eyes did nothing. In panic I began to scrape at it with my gloves— Then he appeared. Silhouetted against the streetlamp behind him, his form shrouded in darkness, he stood before me, sweeping hair from my cheekbones. I felt his fingertips past the rain. They were so soft, I figured he must moisturize. I was transfixed. He turned, so abruptly I started, and left. As he fled with his lemon-coloured hood over his head, all I perceived was a half-eaten prism of butter impaled on a stick in his hand and a flash of gilded footgear. Tucked in the crook of my arm was an umbrella I hadn’t had before. After that day I scoured the news every minute for word of a mysterious do-gooder and scrutinized the night sky for the Butter Signal, thinking a superhero couldn’t go unnoticed by all but me, but my vigilance was in vain. By now I had almost entered into a state of despondent confusion at the absence of notice given to Butterman, as I had deduced his alias was. Then all of a sudden, I had found my saviour, though it had been months since he’d rescued me. Although I couldn’t see much of Butterman at the time of the rescue, as a superhero he obviously must be the quintessence of male beauty. It seemed to me that Butterman’s retreating shape had resembled the chiselled body I now watched. My eyes flooded with gratitude. Momentarily blinded by my tears, I ran into Sham. He hollered as soon as my body blindly thudded into his back. As my eyes streamed with happiness he swivelled (Butterman-style, I thought to myself), muscles tense. Realizing immediately there was no threat, he relaxed, looking slightly chagrined that he had given away his superhero reflexes. “Sorry,” he confessed, his piercing black eyes boring into me, “I’ve been a little high-strung ever since I fell down an old well full of bats and developed a crippling fear of them.” As I watched him leave, vaguely pondering how bats related to superheroes while simultaneously admiring the subtle dignity with which he wore his all-black attire, complete with a yellow belt and shoes, a mass of violent yellow in my peripheral vision drew my eye to an obese man with long, unkempt hair and an unwashed yellow hoodie carrying a stick of butter in his right hand.

—Veronica Erdman

Lilah Tsudome

26 Ariana Ray

27Ariana Ray Abby Skolnik

28

Jacob realized that he had forgotten about the winter months in Emery Harbor. The whole time he had been away, he had been focusing on the life he had made for himself, with his job as a newspaper editor, his apartment in the rising neighborhood next to the river, and the occasional dinner parties that he and his girlfriend Stephanie would throw. He was completely absorbed in his current life, but Jacob had failed to remember how much Emery Harbor had been a part of him while growing up and had shaped who he was today. He had not just lived there for the first 17 years of his life; he had thrived. The sea had nurtured him; the cliffs where Jacob had spent endless Friday afternoons, climbing high to then dive into the crisp, salty water, were a comforting relic of his childhood. At the same time, as Jacob was driving alongside them, they loomed over him, their jagged scales of mica reflecting the blurred glow from the car’s headlights.

The sky was striped in thick shades of grey, the way it always stayed in winter. The choppy waves expanding to his right reminded Jacob of knife blades, and the whistle the gale made when it brushed past his sedan contained that hint of forsakenness that seemed to take residence in everything in Emery Harbor during the winter. Jacob could feel it slowly seeping into his bones as he came up on the dented, hand-lettered metal sign that read Emery Harbor – Stay Awhile! in bright block letters that matched the color of the sea in summertime. Jacob slowed down as he drove into the town. As he passed cottages that closely resembled the one he grew up in, the nostalgia hung over him like one of the thick clouds in the sky. It was paining him, having to recall so many memories at once, each having a sentimental meaning to him. To his left was Morris’ Bait and Tackle Shop, and Kennings Cove lobster shack. He could just sense the taste of the crabmeat combo, previously his favorite Saturday night staple, creeping into his mouth. Jacob began to pick up speed as he drew nearer to the bay, and he tried to shield his eyes, to no avail, from the houses he had to pass once again. He passed one house and remembered painting it, his best friend’s cottage, a bright, saturated purple – that was the thirteenth- no, fourteenth, summer. Jacob tried to shake the memory out of his head. That was behind him, literally. He took a deep breath as he recalled the summer after that, his fifteenth summer, when Michelle arrived in one of the waves of tourists that would flock to their cottages on the island in June, July, and August. They would clear out after Labor Day, and Jacob had dreaded the moment when she too would have to depart, but to his surprise, she remained, both in Emery Harbor and his life – not that the two were any different from each other back then. He pulled into Forner’s Beach, just off the main road. Jacob got out of his car and slammed the door. The frayed brown leaves, still stiff with frost, hovered in a trance above the ground. The slim shoots of grass breaking through the sand pulsed and shivered as the wind blew. Jacob started to venture across the pebbly grey sand to the woman in a white sweater. He approached her cautiously, and for two minutes, they stood in silence.

Her voice was shaky as she spoke. “We miss you here, Jake. Come back.” The wind was lashing her silky brown hair against her face like the whips used on horses. Michelle pulled the sleeves of her cable-knit sweater over her hands as a gust blew over the waves, flattening them. He hesitated, fumbling for the right words, and cleared his throat to break the menacing shrieks of the wind. “I am here,” he said, and grasped Michelle’s hand. She retreated. “You may think you are,” Michelle breathed, and looked out at the murky water. “But all of us here know that you don’t truly want to be.” She now took his hand and looked up at him, her brow puckering. Her eyes churned with emotions that he couldn’t decipher. They were cloudy and grey. Just like today. Just like the winter. Just like everything in Emory Harbor now. “Maybe, buried inside you, is the longing to return here for good, but you already know that you’re probably never going to.” The words stung Jacob’s ears. His head began to throb and he could hear a loud ringing sound. He knew it was true. Michelle continued. “But Jake, it’s not like it’s always going to be the same here. Someday, you’ll regret your decision and want to come back, but we’ll have moved on, and you won’t be able to deal with the change.” She stared into the distance at where the sea met the sky, at the grey smear of nothingness. Michelle was wrong, Jacob thought – Emery Harbor was a place where time seemed to stop. It sat,

29

shielded, as if it had been preserved in a jar years ago, or in a distant corner of Jacob’s mind. Maybe in 10 or 20 years, the people there will have already moved on from the Jacob they had once held

so dearly. Maybe in 10 or 20 years, Emery Harbor will just be a speck in the sand, washed away by the ever-powerful waves. But Jacob could always return to Emery Harbor, his Emery Harbor, to plummet from the cliffs and to be fostered by the waves, and when he does, he will be forever protected by the memories of what used to be, tucked away in his head.

But for now, he turned to face Michelle, gazing into those sparkling, mournful eyes he had previously forgotten, and assured her once more, though now sincerely: “I am here.”

This time, she knew it was the truth. —Sophia May

Hattie Schapiro

30

Ode from My Death Bed

I fell to the floor, resting my chin on the dirtThis buzzing sound reminds me of your little black shirtThe one you used to wear almost all of the timeNow it’s in the back of your closet and the back of my mindIn the back of our lives and the back of your eyesIn the back of what we love and we truly despiseIn the back, with things that we’ll never rememberLike summer salt dreams and an early September Like the first time that I saw that little black shirtIt must have been the day I had my chin in the dirtIt must have been the day we talked about getting older“All we need is to grow up” is what I had told herAnd now that time flew because of all of our funI can barely even grasp what we had doneI can barely even grasp my life in this instant For egos so large, we didn’t even make an imprintNot a scratch or a mark or a dent on the sideOr a scar on its head or a bruise in his eyeAs we grow older with each year, I forget a little moreLike what I had thought our lives would surely have in storeLike the dreams that we had or the promises we madeFrom here, life seems so awful just watching it fadeLife was once just a gift that we never unwrappedNow we rest in the dirt and we learn to adaptBut go back to our lives and back to your eyesAnd go back to what we love and we truly despiseThere you’ll find a little black shirt that you used to wearIt’s been in the back of my mind, so I know that it’s thereLeave me in the back of your mind where it’s cold as NovemberWith all the other things that you will never remember.

—Andrew Wolfson

31Antonia Barolini

32

There is no logical way,That we, human beings,Terminate when our pulse stops,And the production of impulses halts.It just cannot be feasible,We are much too complex,We are much too intricate.Our bodies align with the horizontal,Nature towering over us,And we continue on in the kingdoms above.Our multilayered minds,And overly crowded brains with ideas,Have enough velocity to ascend.Everything continues far awayFrom the site of last exhaleSomewhere, what we don’t understand yet,Somewhere where continuationEnsures the materialization of dreams.

—Valerie Shatilov

How Nice

Canned peaches: golden syrup, charming and slurpy; like the sweetness of summer and world war two and nostalgic novels of dusty children.

—Daria Bennett

Ben Torda

33

You are my desireRama and Sita have nothing on usYou have the key to my heartYour lips your face your eyes your laughAll make me swoonYou make me weak in the kneesYou will always have the key to my heartMy heart will always be open to youNo one will ever be able to break us apartIf loving you was death and not being with you was lifeThen I’d much rather be dead than alive

—Gabby Arce

Bleeding Stars

We are only bright orbs of light,Scars of time,Far off in space,Shining down on the equally bright souls.They bustle through citiesLate at nightAnd walk,Hand in hand,Down the shore.We look at themAnd dreamAnd have them to keep us companyIn the suffocating darkness.At the end of infinityWe spill our silver tears on the sky,As they share a night kiss.Goodbye.But How many of them look up at us?Not enough.

—Emily Rogers Urban Haiku

There are bricks missing,The graffiti stretches far,Many hands speaking.

—Tom D’Agustino

34

Liftoff

The kiss my wife had just given me lingered on my lips as I turned and forced myself to not look back. I had chosen this fate and wasn’t about to disappoint everyone. The air reeked of a mixture of suntan lotion and fuel, a sickening combination, which made my already nervous stomach churn.

We reached the platform at the same time and simultaneously turned and gave a grand wave. I avoided my wife’s eyes and the cry of my youngest daughter as the crowd cheered. Smiles were plastered to our faces as we heard our cue to leave through buds in our ears. I knew it wasn’t only me; we were scared shitless.

I was suddenly bombarded with memories from my childhood. I remembered seeing the numerous attempts at exploring space that ended with huge explosions and a quick apology from the news anchor. Failure was definite. So why was I being shadowed by an enormous spaceship and saying possibly my last goodbyes?

My father has been an astronaut. He, too, had studied for years, preparing himself for liftoff. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find him asleep at the kitchen table with his head resting in a ship manual. He looked so pitiful, with clenched fists and a lined forehead. Studying space had turned my father into a stressed and overworked man. I hated this man and longed for the computer technician who would read me stories and make me breakfast.

I would complain that his becoming an astronaut made him into a bad father. At such a young age, I never thought that these harsh words would ever hurt him. He would respond with a kind smile and say something about how it was his duty to explore the unknown.

The day of his departure had finally arrived, bearing great humidity and my mother’s attempts at covering up sobs in the passenger seat. Us kids sat in the back, gawking at the enormity of what our father would be piloting in a few hours. That day I really grew to admire him, as cameras flashed in his face and he modestly answered the reporter’s questions.

With a stern hand on my shoulder, my father whispered that I was to be in charge of the family now that he would be gone. I proudly accepted this, and that was when I decided that I, too, would become an astronaut. I wanted to wrap my arms around his space suit clad waist one final time, but thought it was inappropriate considering I was now the man of the household and men didn’t give hugs. If only I had hugged my father one final time.

I remembered standing miles away from the shuttle, clutching my mother’s hand as we anxiously awaited the countdown to end. The fire beneath was ignited and they were released.

*******

The ascent up the steel runway felt especially long as my mind raced with opportunities to escape from this future. I could barely make out the immense crowd in the distance as I took one last look before stepping through the door. No going back now.

“Let’s do this!” said Frank enthusiastically. He had already strapped himself in while I lingered in the doorway, feeling regretful. Years of training were supposed to have given me the certainty that Frank had, but all I could imagine was the probability of failure.

“Joe, sit your sorry ass down before I strap you in myself,” Greg teased. His expression softened when he sensed my nerves. “Think about what we’re doing today. The first men to leave the atmosphere, explore the galaxy, and make solar history!” I smiled and sat, preparing myself for the flight of a lifetime.

The countdown began as we triple-checked the dials and levers that were positioned around us. And then, we were in the air.

“We have liftoff,” declared Frank triumphantly.

No training could have prepared me for the things I would be feeling in space. The darkness was thick and peaceful, only being cut by the nearby sun and the glow of our planet. Pride rushed through my veins when

35

it occurred to me what we had just done. Our names would be in history books as the first men to ever leave the planet, and hopefully return.

***

About eight months had passed. Everyone was healthy and the ship seemed to be in perfect conditions. Suddenly, after an uneventful trip, we picked up signs of life from a small, nearby planet. Excitement was shared between the three of us as we made our descent onto a green and blue planet. Upon exiting the ship, we used our scanners to detect the life.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the aliens: they were everywhere! They appeared to be weak with hairless bodies, eyes facing forward, and pointed noses. They wore garments. Our scanners detected other life on the planet, but the bald creatures seemed to be the dominant organism. We also detected water and vegetation. But unlike our planet, their atmosphere was an unusual blue color with floating white puffs.

Before any of us could interact with the creatures, one let out a piercing scream.

“Aliens!!!”

—Emily Linn

Teah Wyman

36

There were never any clean breaks.

We exploded into ourselves, with fire and brimstone and alcohol, the shapes we chose serving only to demonstrate our momentum. On summer nights we took to filling deserted parks in the hope of recreating the vintage photographs we’d seen in magazines, always grainy and clouded.

The blocks on which we were to build upon were too sturdy. What if it was us that caused them to fall, even when they fit so perfectly together; it’s much easier to run from yourself as quickly as possible, in search of a tragedy to dignify your ragged edges.

These coveted personalities we cover ourselves with, this music that is earplugs and clothing that is the gleaming armor we saw on the fictional knights who were men when we were just boys. I still see them in technicolor when everything else is sepia. Armored and earplugged, our senses are dulled, numb to touch and sound, and in this mottled moonbeam of self we deem each other invincible, free to tiptoe on ledges and writhe naked together in the moonlit grass. When loneliness bellows from the pits of our stomachs that “we are not who we say we are,” and “who will catch us when we collapse?” We pour whiskey and cigarette smoke into ourselves and nod off to sleep.

The day I was born, they said I was moonfaced. LOOK AT ME. I am a trample-faced reflection, chalky white and wavering. A bastard of a full moon. Sculpted by porcelain angels who fixed my cracks with bubble gum. There is no such thing as a clean break. There is no such thing as a broken circle. I was covered in scars from the day I was born, you just called them craters; they were hard to see at night, and I hid from you during the day.

So here I am, ragged edged, ambling, dented barefoot toeprints chasing themselves across my chest like an infinity sign, ribs furrowed, still not dignified or defined, but I think I found my tragedy. And it wasn’t anything you did, don’t worry. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you about it someday. Till then you can nest in my shadows, and maybe creep into my craters if you’re careful. You said we fit like puzzle pieces and congruent angles but I think you curled up against me like two question marks spooning. There is no such thing as a broken circle; you just helped pick up my pieces because they were the same as yours.

—Tom Costello

37

Hope

Sitting, waiting, watching the trees shed their color, the plains seem to stretch for miles before melting into the orange horizon outside the oval double plastic window. Rolling forward at first-steps pace, we gradually gather speed. My heart pounds the beat of the engine’s roar. Air. The metal beast’s feet are lifted off the ground through cotton ball clouds and rain and wind, and when the turbulence comes and my stomach is churning and all I can do is wait until the sun peeks through the hell and my abdomen stops its rattling. When the glowing seatbelt reminder goes off and a communal sigh is shared, my heart rises back into my chest. We soar thousands of feet above the ground. Miles above sense and reality, above all reason. Crazy. Why did a person ever try to fly? Descent. Gradually decreasing height to a final thud, roll, then resting point. We unload. Feet shaking and air so fresh, I watch the lights of another plane take off.

—Hannah Stein

Gabby Wan

38

Abby Skolnik

39

Notes Against A Windshield

A song is played in a car.The car, it’s filled with teenage girlsRevving their angst alongside their engine,And before they know the song’s meaningThey hum.Each individual note hits them.The music transcends them far before the lyrics do;Lyrics about a rather simplified version of what they each call love.

I could capture the feeling inside that car in three chords if inclined to do so.They’d be strummed from six steel strings.But if I was inside that car and I spoke I’d run the risk of letting out a wrong word,A peep, maybe three that would have been misspoken.You see I’m no verbalist, I’m just a musician.I understand you but I fear that you might not understand me.So I’m methodical with every note I write, assuring that I capture the moment.

Words do not come easily when they are born of my lips.An overactive mind, constantly editing and slashing my thoughts and reactions,That mind is at fault for this.But when my words, conceived in my mind, are strewn onto a pageI can be methodical.Alongside the melody that I could play alongside those girls in their carI could tell them to shut up,And maybe they would listen because beforehand I’d tell them, “I wrote this.”

—Sam Bogan

Alex Bazigos

40

The next train was due in five minutes, but I wasn’t getting on. I made a slow about-face and then advanced. The once active station was now frozen and littered with decay. Somehow the ancient thing was still standing, dodging lawsuits like bullets on a battlefield. Half the lights weren’t even working. The other half dimmed and flickered at irregular and irritating intervals. The cracked asphalt provided a maze for cats and the concrete steps might as well have had explosives strapped to their thin, rusted railing. No one used them anyway.

I checked my watch and then began to walk. Upon realizing that I had no direction or destination, I found the nearest bench and sat. Part of the seat was drizzled with jelly and bird droppings, and one of the arms of the bench was jutting out, threatening to leave behind nasty splinters, but it didn’t matter. I clasped my hands, then ran them up my face and through my hair. I gazed past the rough iron fence into the grotesque clump of savage trees, their branches twisting and contorting around each other, their leaves already turning a nasty autumn red. Crusty brown leaves of the same variety clustered around the rails, blowing in the slightest breeze like dusty parasites. But none dared venture to the station, with its prehistoric walls and arches that formed a barrier against time and age. Everything was still. All motion ceased, but the leaves took no heed of the situation and continued to dance and juggle themselves on the wind.

I glanced at the ticket machine. It glowed blue and yellow, sticking out like a cancer against the faded beige wall. All I had to do was make one small purchase to save myself months of pain, but such an idea was irrational and hardly plausible. I could wait. Easily. There was a rumble from farther down the tracks, followed by a hiss. Then again, the option was there, and it slowly became more feasible as the 8:17 train pulled itself nearer to the station. No, I needed to leave. As a patient man, I was going to be fine. I told this to myself, and as the train wailed to a stop, I remained seated. Dark figures spilled out of the wounds that opened in the train’s side. Black umbrellas were tossed like ragdolls as the crowd descended from the platform. I held out a shaking hand. It was pouring. I lost track of how long I had spent waiting and even how much time I still had left to endure on my own. However long it was, I could wait. I could be patient. I could last. That’s when the leaves blasted over the platform in an angry cloud of red, infecting my sanctuary and slapping me back to reality. I stood up. Every fiber of my clothing and sanity was drenched and sagging. I peered across the empty tracks. The next train was due in twenty minutes. I checked my watch, and then began to walk.

—Paul Devito

Gabby Wan

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beginnings

i am writing a storyabout sunrises and windburns andtwisting branches, about agirl who fell in love once forten minutes, and never did again.it is about the colored window panes and the smell of burntpancakes, and sounds oflaughter from behind aclosed door

i am writing about the way theblossoms of the cherry willow look asthey fall, the twitch of mouth corners,the purple spots in the puddles,about the hiss of thefire, the shiver of guilt, thesilences that screamed the thingswe didn’t know howto say

but mostly, i am writingabout the dreams i lose in themorning, those whichrattle me awakeand swirl colorlessly down theshower drain.

—Sophia Swiderski

Turn Around

What are you holding in your hands?Crouched above the sink.

Your hair is knotted gold, Your shirt is stained.

You are beautiful.

We are hungry.Please.Why won’t you listen?Why won’t you turn around?You mumble unfamiliar words and point to yourPurse.The unbearable lightness of beingWeighs down upon youAnd we can feel it too.

Let it go.Let it go like you have let yourself go,Like I pray you haven’t let us go.The memories of Sunday mornings andFruit Loops.

Let them go.Like our pet goldfish that starvedFrom too much food.

Push the weight from your shoulders,Undress the pain.Let it spiral down the sink likeRotten wine,Like baby formula.

Stay here.With us.

We are hungry and your purse is empty.

Just turn around.

—Tom D’Agustino

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Down the cavernous hall, two pairs of footsteps. The woman emerged, austere, with a pinched face, dressed in a lab coat. She continued to speak: “…her only major symptom is severe arachnophobia. There’s also something up with her diet. When we searched her house we found four cartons of milk, expired October 25th.”

The man counted back. October 25th was four weeks ago. “She’d been drinking curdled milk for a month?”

The woman smirked. “Apparently. We’ve had her checked out by the doctor – her system is so acidic the juices should be burning a hole through her stomach. We tried to neutralize it, but no luck.”

The two stopped in front of a glass partition.

“She won’t eat anything, either. Had to crush up vitamins into her milk every day to make sure she didn’t pass out.”

The light from the lanterns behind them gave a murky view into the room behind the glass. The man could make out stone walls, dark, spotted and moldy with numerous watermarks. Half the room was in shadow, so he pressed his face against the glass to try and spot the girl. Squinting, he saw her, slumped in the corner of the room, sitting on a rickety wooden stool. Her face was round and ruddy with brown, curly pigtails plastered to her sweaty face. Above her pug nose sat huge, staring eyes. Her ruffled dress was torn and dirty and she looked up at the pair through the glass.

The man turned. “She’s a small thing, isn’t she?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What exactly did you expect?”

He shrugged, not liking the question. “Let’s move on, shall we?” He wandered off.

The woman followed behind him.

Missy stared.

—Dayna Wilmot

Lilah Tsudome

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Regret

it’s a recollection that comes during quiet moments,like a daydream, but lacking the fuzziness and serenity.with its jagged edges and garish technicolor,it screams from the quiet and blurry omnipresence that is the past,back to haunt you -many times buried but never completely erased.your contemptible actions rise all at once from the cold murky depths of your unconscious.

it’s a version of yourself that you glimpse in this vision,but a shameful likenesslike catching sight of your limbs and features distorted in a funhouse mirror.everything you thought you were confused, wholly unfamiliar.

it will send your entire world spinning on its axis,a lifetime set to revolve around one moment,this moment you wish, in futile frustration, you could change.

it immediately inspires a spreading flush in the cheeks.a colony of scarlet ants, scampering.a shuddering of the head like an epileptic’s convulsion.the brain’s inner workings hastening to bury the agony,but to no avail. —Lena Rubin The Weight of DOMA (on the body)

Why? Why? Why?Drops that fall in an empty bucket, never filling.She knows of those threatened by change, scared of accepting.Scared. Scared. Scared.Rain hitting a vast ocean, affecting nothing.The knowledge of injustice grips the walls of her stomach.Like the ‘colored’ of the 18’s,The women of the 19’s,The pieces don’t fit.Why? Why? Why?Scared. Scared. Scared.We are all human.“But they are different.”We are all different.Living with injustice, a pain in my spine.“What injustice?”The bucket is still empty, the ocean no bigger.She wishes for a tangible rain,A wash of reasonThat will leave her painless. —Hattie Schapiro

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Johannesburg, August

Camilla made us chicken in the dark, and I told her it was the best I’d ever had. Had I seen the city? It was late, I think, when we got in. Thinking about the tall gate and the entry code, I was almost embarrassed. They said the crime rate was high, but they didn’t say it like that. It’s all about division, still. Have you ever slept in a rondoval house? I forgot the walls were there until I lay awake, jet lagged in the middle of a giant circle. I was the center point. It was so round, I was almost spinning, and as slivers of sunlight slithered through the cracks between the fibers of the woven roof, I realized with that feeling (I think it’s called groggy?) that it was morning, time to eat unfamiliar jam on intercontinental toast. The eyes of the children on the floor of the crèche were very white. Outside, boys played soccer on the red dirt. In their house of corrugated metal, they are enclosed, and I wonder in what way have we enclosed ourselves at home? But we’ve brought school uniforms for the children. My father takes pictures of the children. There are so many children.

—Hanna Pennington

Siobhan Stanton

45Antonia Barolini

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Write Something

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Editors: Hanna Pennington, Ivy Hedberg, Miranda Willson, Sophie Swiderski, Daria Bennett, Dayna Wilmot.

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Draw A Picture

Special thanks to the kind folks who helped us out this time around: Mr. Adipietro; Mr. Merchant Sr., for teaching us the fine artistry of InDesign; Mr. Shandroff; Ms. Ferrara; Mr. Blum for giving up his time to sup-port us; and all our wonderful contributors who made this year’s Oneirata possible.

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