INKWELLart and literary magazine

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To Our Readers,

T h e idea for this magazine

was borne out of the desire to showcase the literary and artistic talent of the Montclair

High School student body. We kept submissions open to all students ensuring that everyone had an equal oppor-

tunity to participate. As leaders of the Montclair High School Creative Writing Club, we have lovingly coopted some of the writing

done in the club over the past two years. Originally we had the idea to create a magazine of exclusively Creative Writing Club work, but as we toyed with the notion of expanding the publication, we realized the sheer amount of talented individuals eager to get involved. Over the past month, we have hounded our friends and neighbors for submissions, typed piles of handwritten work, and formatted aesthetically pleasing

pages in order to make this magazine the best it could possibly be. We are proud to present to you the culmination of our efforts

and hope that you take pleasure in exploring its content. We hope that self-expression through the arts will

continue to thrive in the future due to the efforts of dedicated students.

Thank you,Anna and Hannah

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CONTENTS“...what

I wanted to do was

forbidden.”

LIFE COUNSELOR

SOME-THING

ELSE

LOVE THE

PSYCHO

62

58

30

25

22

15

THE POWER OF LANGUAGE

26

34

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA BONESTEEL

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SILENT & DEAFENING

Everynight.I sit and listen.

I listen to the silence around me,the absolute quiet.

It’s almost deafening.But if you sit there long enough,you start to see how amazing it is.

That moment when so many people are asleep.And you, you alone,

feel like the only one up.This is the time or darkness,

where night turns to morning,and everything is either outer space quiet

or firework loud.There is no middle.

There is no in between.There is just you and what you make of this time.

WORDS BY SARAH DIBENEDETTO

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THE LIFE COUNSELOR

Coffee shop with huge windows with all white scenery. Young man sitting in the middlelooking in wonder. He is in his pajamas and sitting at a table with a coffee.

A man comes from the register with his drink in hand, asks to sit down,he begins a conversation.

INFINITY: Are you enjoying your coffee?

NINETY-NINE: Yea, I guess. What am I doing here, where am I?

INFINITY: Here and there. What did you get?

NINETY-NINE: A grande white mocha extra hot latte, you?

INFINITY: Unsweetened ginger tea, very relaxing.

NINETY-NINE: Doesn’t sound that good.

INFINITY: It’s more than what you think. The ginger cleanses the body and relaxes the mind. Let’s me think about things clearly. It’s the most natural thing I can possibly get.

NINETY-NINE: The sugar and caffeine are exactly what I need after a long day of… well I don’t really know what I did today.

INFINITY: What do you remember?

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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NINETY-NINE: Absolutely nothing.

INFINITY: Alright, then we can start completely fresh.

NINETY-NINE: What do you mean?

INFINITY: Nothing. What are those things plugged into the wall?

NINETY-NINE: They are my iPod, my cell phone, laptop, and my digital camera. What’d you think they were?

INFINITY: I don’t know. What do they do?

NINETY-NINE: (Laughs out loud)

INFINITY: (Blank stare)

NINETY-NINE: Oh my god. Are you serious?

INFINITY: Why would I joke about that?

NINETY-NINE: Well everybody knows about these things. They are some of the greatest inven-tions of our time. How could you not know about them?

INFINITY: I stopped caring about technology after the radio. Why are they so important to you?

NINETY-NINE: They help me organize my life, make it more entertaining. I have friends, loads of those but they are flakey. Those possessions won’t ever leave me.

INFINITY: Maybe you should try and find some different friends.

NINETY-NINE: It’s not just my friends. My family too. You can’t count on things that will die at any given moment. You should always find something renewable to put effort into.

INFINITY: You can’t find companionship in materials. They don’t feel emotions, they can’t compute feelings. You have to stop connecting with those possessions.

NINETY-NINE: Don’t sit there and pretend to know me. I have a hard life. I put effort into those things because they’ll never turn on me. If they break or die, I can always get a new one. How many people do you know that are like that? Don’t sit there so calmly, pretending to know who I am.

INFINITY: (pulls out a book) See this? In these pages is everything you have ever done. I have it countless times to prepare for this meeting. I know you.

NINETY-NINE: (snatches the book, flips through the pages and throws it back at him) You can’t be serious, why is it so small?

INFINITY: Well you are just one person, who has not really done much but take up space. Ev-erything you have accomplished to date is in here.

NINETY-NINE: (points at the book) That has to be a summary. There is just no way my life has amounted to a book of only 200 pages.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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INFINITY: Trust me, it’s very detailed with footnotes. Every single “important” thing you have done.

NINETY-NINE: This is the biggest load of shit I have ever heard, you can’t even begin to under-stand how stupid you sound. 20 years has to have amounted to about 60 pages per year.

INFINITY: Well some people’s books are like that, but if you do the math correctly your book averages about 10 pages per year.

NINETY-NINE: Is there anyone who has a bigger book than me?

INFINITY: Of course.

NINETY-NINE: Well, I guess I should work on that. How do I make my book bigger?

INFINITY: It kind of depends on if you pass my test.

NINETY-NINE: (sneers) What test?

INFINITY: A test for those with small books. Periodically, those with small books are tested to see if they have the potential to make their books larger.

NINETY-NINE: So what if I fail this test?

INFINITY: (ominous voice) Your book doesn’t get any larger.

NINETY-NINE: This must be some awful joke. There’s just no way that this is happening to me. What was I supposed to do to during those 20 years to not have this test?

INFINITY: Maybe if you read over a few chapters you will…

NINETY-NINE: No, I have lived everything in that book. I remember everything. (Awkward pause) Reading over something like that is not worth it.

INFINITY: So what are you your options? I’m trying to make this as easy as possible. You could think of it as a cram session. Just one chapter.

NINETY-NINE: How can a book about my past help me with anything?

INFINITY: Here. Just… take the book, read a chapter. I can guarantee that it will change your perspective.

NINETY-NINE: I SAID NO! There is nothing to be learned from that book.

INFINITY: How can you be so sure?

NINETY-NINE: Because it’s my life in that book. I know everything about myself.

INFINITY: But it’s not written in first person.

NINETY-NINE: What does that mean?

INFINITY: It’s like a biography, with the writer’s opinion of you.

NINETY-NINE: And even that only amounts to 200 pages. How could anyone pay such close attention to my life, that… that they could write such an in depth book? My whole family is gone. How could somebody know so much about me?

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INFINITY: He has had a lot of help. That’s where I come in, but that’s not what is important here.

NINETY-NINE: (exasperated) What is?

INFINITY: Your test.

NINETY-NINE: Back to this test?

INFINITY: Your passing or failing of this test all depends on me.

NINETY-NINE: On you? This is crazy. What importance is this test supposed to have?

INFINITY: You could say it’s life or death.

NINETY-NINE: Heh? You were about to give me a five minute cram session for a test that is as important as life and death?

INFINITY: I must have forgotten to mention that tidbit.

NINETY-NINE: (mocking) Must have forgotten. This is my life you are fucking around with. This is important. My life is important.

INFINITY: Your book says otherwise.

NINETY-NINE: What does my book have to do with the importance of my life? How can that book tell you how much I value my life? This is just too insane for words. I’m leaving.

INFINITY: (sits back in his chair) Well if you really valued your life as much as you said then you would have lived life, instead of doing the bare minimum.

NINETY-NINE: I valued my life enough to do the bare minimum. You don’t know me, you have no idea what I have been through.

INFINITY: I have, I read your book remember. Time is running. You still have the question for your test.

NINETY-NINE: What is it? I’ll do anything to get away from your insane ass.

INFINITY: Prove to me that you deserve life.

NINETY-NINE: (Stands up, walks in a circle. Hand runs down his face as he falls to the floor) What did I do to deserve this?

INFINITY: It’s simple.

NINETY-NINE: It’s not that simple. I ask myself everyday why I’m here and not her.

INFINITY: What are you talking about?

NINETY-NINE: (Back in his seat) How can I prove something that I don’t deserve. My sister, she’s the one who deserved to live. It’s my fault she’s gone, I should have warned her not to leave the house. Murdered by some psychopath, it’s all my fault. She was living her life, all the way until the end. I am alone because she loved life so much.

INFINITY: She reached the maximum on her pages.

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NINETY-NINE: (Walks over, pulls infinity by the collar and says) Don’t talk about her life in terms of pages. You insensitive bastard! I don’t know who you think you are but her life was so much more. I don’t care about that book (points harshly). It doesn’t have my feelings or my thoughts. Whoever wrote that book knows nothing about me. That book is not my life. I’ll give the son of a bitch who wrote that book a cramp with how much I am going to do. I’m done here.

INFINITY: (whispered) You passed.

NINETY-NINE: (spins around looks for Infinity, sits down chuckling) That bastard. (Takes Infinity’s tea, takes a sip) Wow this isn’t half bad.

WORDS BY VICTORIA HALL

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY HELEN LASER

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ARTWORK BY HAFSA AMBREEN

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LOVE THE PSYCHO

Greymatter Insane Asylum, the name alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine, houses many mentally unstable patients. The outside is just as menacing as the name, made from large grey stones full of cracks and few windows. The melancholy of the building is only increased by the ever present layer of fog and thick steel doors. The inside is dimly lit and has long thin hall-ways, along which are doors with small barred windows.

On the top floor, outside room 237, a nurse is giving a tour to a new nurse. This is Mary Pend-erfield,” said the nurse, whose name tag, at a close look, said Nancy. “She is one of our highest priority patients.”

“All right,” the other nurse said. Her name tag said Laura.

“She gets three meals a day and is on anti-depressants,” Nancy said, as she glanced through the window.

Laura looked through the window, as well, to see a girl with big blue eyes, jet black hair, and a heart-shaped mouth rocking back and forth on her chair.

“How long has she been here?” Laura asked as she turned to look back at Nancy.

“Ten years,” Nancy said shuffling the folders she had in her hands. “And, she hasn’t talked once.”

“Really?” Laura glanced back into the room. “Ten years of silence. So what’s her story?”

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Nancy let out a sigh, then said, “It’s a sad one. Here,” she said, picking out one of the folders and handing the rest over to Laura. “I’ll read it to you. All back stories are in the case files.”

“All right,” Laura said, as she took the folders and leaned against the wall.

“Ten years ago, Mary was living in Helen, Massachusetts. She was nearly half- way through her senior year of High School, and she had already gotten her early acceptance letter to Yale.” Nancy paused. “Smart girl.”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed. “Yale is amazing, so what happened?”

“Well . . .” Inside the room Mary could hear her story being told, and, in her mind, she pictured the day just as if it were yesterday and not ten years ago. Helen was a small town and it was a cool, crisp fall day, just cool enough to wear a light jacket. Mary and her two friends, Molly and Me-gan, were chattering to each other as they walked down the street. A cool breeze blew past them. Mary tightened her jacket around her as Molly and Megan kept talking.

“We told you that you would get in,” Molly, a redhead with striking green eyes and a ski slope nose, gushed. She turned her attention to Megan. “Didn’t we tell her she’d get in?”

“Oh yes, and you’ll be the only girl in that program. This is huge,” Megan, a striking blonde with grey eyes, exclaimed.

“Stop,” Mary said, blushing. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Oh yes it is,” Molly said. “We should go have some fun with Yale’s newest student.”

“What time is it?” asked Mary.

“6:30,” Molly answered, after glancing at her watch.

“Sorry,” Mary said, starting to turn the corner they had come to. “I have to go babysit for the Cunninghams.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not fair,” Molly whined. “You get accepted to one of the top schools and then you have to go babysit?”

“Hey, I want money when I’m at school,” Mary said. “Bye.”

“Bye college girl,” Molly and Megan called after her in unison.

Mary turned the corner and started walking down the tree-lined street. As she walked, she passed big, beautiful Victorian houses. About halfway down the street she turned up the walk of a bit, white Victorian house with a wrap-around porch and big white double doors. “Hello,” Mary called out as she pushed open the door.

“Hi Mary. We’re upstairs. We’ll be down in a minute,” called Mr. Cunningham.

“OK,” Mary called back.

“Hi Mary,” said a flustered Mrs. Cunningham, coming down the stairs in a pretty floral dress with her hair done up. “Dinner is on the stove, and we’ll be home late.”

“OK. You mentioned that,” Mary answered.

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“Hello Mary,” Mr. Cunningham said, as he came down the stairs. “I hear you got accepted to Yale. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, as she blushed. “So, you’ll be home around midnight?”

“Yes. About that time,” answered Mr. Cunningham.

“Connor. Mark. Come say goodbye,” Mrs. Cunningham called out.

From the kitchen, two identical twin boys came running in.

“Hi, Mary,” the one in a blue shirt said.

“Hi, Mark.” To the other one, in a green shirt, she said, “Hi, Connor.”

“OK boys. You know the rules. Go finish your dinner and, then, be in bed by 8:30,” Mr. Cun-ningham explained.

“All right,” the boys groaned.

“Goodnight boys.” Mrs. Cunningham said to them.

“’Night mom,” Mark and Connor replied.

That night after the boys had gone to bed Mary decided to read on the couch in the living room. The entire house was quiet as she read her book on the cream colored couch. She was fully im-mersed in her book only to be brought back to reality by rapid knocking on the front door. She turned around looking from the living room to the door. The knocking started again. Slowly she got up and moved to the door, opening it just enough to see the figure on the other side. Standing under the porch light was an old man who must have been in his late sixties. He was wearing a white shirt with black pants and a coat to match. His hair was white and thinning, his eyes were empty, and his mouth was in a thin line across his face.

“Yes?” Mary said as she peered out at him. He didn’t respond so she repeated herself, louder this time, “Yes?”

“Oh, hello.” He seemed slightly startled. As he responded he didn’t really look at her. “Is Mimi here?” He asked. Mary opened the door a little more.

“No I’m sorry there is no Mimi here,” she replied. This time he looked at her straight on, and as he did his mouth turned into a smile and his eyes brightened.

“Oh, Mimi,” he said. “Sweetheart, I have been looking for you. Where have you been?”

Mary became aware that the man thought she was his wife and started to close the door a little. As she did she said, “I’m not Mimi. I’m very sorry, but there is no Mimi here.”

“Oh, are you sure?” He said this in a way as though he had not heard her.

Mary nodded and then said one last time as clear as she could, “There is no Mimi here. I’m sorry you must be confused.”

“Oh well,” he said in an oddly cheerful way, “have a good night.”

Mary closed the door all the way and went back to the living room. She had just started reading when a chill ran down her spine. She had the odd feeling that someone was watching her.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY GRACE ROSSI-CONAWAY

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She turned around and faced the window, but found nothing. She shook off the feeling and continued to read. It had only been a few minutes when Mary heard a scratching at one of the windows in the kitchen. When she went to investigate she found that it had only been a branch from the tree outside. She went back to the couch and tried to calm herself down. As she read she began to drift off. She fell into a deep sleep, that was abruptly interrupted by the phone ringing.

“Hello,” she said into the receiver rather stiffly.

“Hi Mary,” Mary relaxed as she recognized the voice on the other end. “It’s Mr. Cunningham.”

“Hi Mr. Cunningham.”

“Mary we’re going to be a little later than we planned is that all right?”

“Oh yes. That’s fine.” she said into the phone.

“Okay. Good. Well, we’ll see you soon. Bye Mary,” he said.

“Bye, Mr. Cunningham,” she replied and then hung up.

Mary settled back down and started to read again. Not very long after that the phone rang again. Mary picked it up thinking it was Mr. Cunningham, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mimi? Is that you?” Mary froze, holding the receiver to her ear, her mouth hanging open. “Mimi? Please come back to me.”

“Please sir.” Mary said into the receiver, “I’m not Mimi.”

“Oh, but you are.” The old man replied. “You sound and look just like her.”

This gave Mary the chills as she said very slowly, “I am not Mimi. Please don’t call back.”

As she said this the line went dead, leaving her only with the dial tone. Mary sat on the couch, shaking. This is too much, she thought. As she was thinking this she heard a loud thump from upstairs. Then another one and another one. THUMP THUMP THUMP. She slowly got up and cautiously made her way upstairs, and down the hall. She went into the boys rooms to see if it was them. Both Mark and Connor were sound asleep. As she stood in the doorway of the room she got that odd feeling of being watched again. When she turned and found no on there she made her way back downstairs to find a horrifying sight. On the mirror in the living room the name “MIMI” was written across it in black marker.

Mary made her way back to the couch to try to figure things out. On the couch she again had a feeling that someone was watching her. This time though when she turned around she did find someone. The old man was standing there in the same clothes, but with a crazy look in his eyes.

Mary screamed a gut wrenching scream. He came closer.

“COME BACK TO ME!” he screamed, “COME BACK TO ME MIMI!”

“I’M NOT MIMI,” she yelled, but he had already come around the couch. She got up and tried to move away. She moved towards the telephone table and reached for the phone. She tried to dial, but he got closer and closer. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons not knowing what to dial. He was right near her. She tried to get away, but he grabbed her.

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“COME BACK TO ME MIMI,” he said as he started to grab her neck. “STAY WITH ME! LOVE ME!”

“I’M NOT MIMI!” She screamed this at the top of her lungs as she was able to grab the lamp on the table. He was still strangling her when she threw the lamp down on his head, but when it made contact, his hands loosened and he fell to the floor. Bleeding from his head and face, he was lying there motionless, eyes wide open, and Mary watched as he took his last breath and the life left his eyes.

When the Cunninghams came home they found the old man dead on the floor and Mary crouched in a corner rocking and saying, “I’m not Mimi. I’m not Mimi.” Over and over again.

Mary remembered this well and now back in the asylum she could hear the nurses talking.

“I’m not Mimi?” Laura, “Who was Mimi?”

Nancy looked at her then answered, “Three years before Mary was attacked that man’s wife died of cancer. She looked a lot like Mary, and, therefore, he thought Mary was a younger version of his wife.”

“That poor thing.” Laura said as she looked in.

Mary was still rocking, but now her lips were moving and Nancy and Laura could hear her mum-bling something. Nancy entered the code into the keypad next to the door, and the two nurses went into Mary’s room. As they got closer they could hear the three words as clear as anything.

“I’m not Mimi,” she mumbled. “I’m not Mimi.”

The mumble soon grew into a whisper then a chant and then a scream at the top of Mary’s lungs.

“I’M NOT MIMI!!!!!!!!”

WORDS BY SARAH DIBENEDETTO

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PHOTOGRAPH BY HELEN LASER

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DIVIDE

There I was, just standing there, when what I wanted to do was forbidden. The gate, strong and rusted barred me and so many past figures from passing through, from making our lives infinitely better than they were, from associating with the types of people that had been picked so long ago as the chosen few who would have every wish granted, every need tended too. I sat there for hours as a little girl, examining the wildflowers and weeds that grew on my side of the gate, and looking through at the immaculate fields and lush green grass that occupied the ground on the other side. On a clear day, when there were no clouds in the sky, you could sometimes see the city in the distance, it looked remarkably like another mountain, and I’m sure if you had never seen it before you would pass it by easily, thinking it was just another ancient rock carved by the elements. I had seen pictures of it, in school. I think they showed them to us so that we knew our place, so that we knew that they were better. That, or they were meant to give us some hope, because that was all that would keep us alive. Children that could hope for a better future that the adults knew would never happen. None of us would ever get over that gate, we would never see the city for ourselves, nor have a conversation with a person outside our province.

- - - - -

He was skating on thin ice - that’s all I can say. If he were found out, he’d be sentenced to death. I saw him first when I was sixteen. I was spending another day by the gate, reveling in the brilliance of the Other Side. This spot had become somewhat of a thinking place for me after all these years. No one dared come near in case they were accused of trying to break into the Royal

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Province, but I had come here long enough to know the sound of the Royal Patrol’s horses, and I had carved out a hiding spot behind the pillar of the gate, so that I was just out of their eyeshot, and I could still hear enough to know when they’d gone away. I wasn’t, however, acquainted with the sound of human footsteps, and I was startled one day when, as I was picking a particularly perfect poppy, a voice sounded behind me, and for a moment, I thought I was as good as dead.

“I wish we had wild flowers over here.” I looked up to see a boy, probably a bit older than myself, it was hard to tell, standing on the other side of the gate, his hands around the bars, eyes fixed on me. I thought for a moment that it was impossible for him to be addressing me. I had been invisible to most everyone my entire life, and certainly I never expected to be addressed by an Astuate. “Would you pass one here?” Without thinking, I handed him the poppy in my hand, still dazed at his casual tone. He examined the plant for a moment, before bringing it up to his nose, “Ah. It smells so different than the ones we get over here. They’re all grown in greenhouses, never exposed to real nature. Never having been dirty or wild. Like me, I suppose.”

“You’d rather live like me?”

“I’d like to know what it felt like. To have dirt under my nails, sweat on my brow. As a boy I wasn’t allowed to roll around in the grass, or run through the fields. I’ve been dressed in these ridiculous clothes for as long as I can remember.” He gestured to his own colorful silk garments, and I was suddenly very aware that my own clothes were the same I’d had since I was twelve, sewn together out of rags. The boy seemed oblivious to my garb however, and continued speaking, as though I were someone he spoke to on a regular basis. “I’ve only been out of the Royal Province once in my life, spent a weekend in Duluth. Of course, that doesn’t really count, since it’s tech-nically a royal resort. It was freeing, nonetheless. What I’d give to get out of here once in a while. I’m Griffith, by the way.” He pushed as many fingers as he could through the gate, and I shook the tips of three of them.

“Why are you here? Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Probably. I’ve been here a few times before. Do you spend all your time here? Because every time I’ve come, you’ve been sitting there, talking to yourself.” I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I always blushed too easily, and for once I hoped my face wouldn’t turn beet red.

“Yes. I mean, I spend a lot of time here. It’s the only place I can get away.”

“You and me both.” I shot upright.

“You better get out of here, the Royal Patrol’s on their way.” He became rigid at my tone, and suddenly, he was gone. Confused for a moment, I looked right and left, but I couldn’t see any sign of him. I stole behind to my hiding spot and sat there for the rest of the day, replaying the encounter, even long after the horses footsteps had died away.

WORDS BY ANNA MOORE

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ARTWORK BY CHELSEA NEWMAN

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THE POWER OF LANGUAGE

My study of Arabic began independently, and it really took off when I received a State Depart-ment scholarship to study in Morocco this summer. I have long been fascinated by the patterns of languages. Immersed in Arabic, one of the first things I noticed was how often Moroccans mention Allah. I wasn’t used to referencing God so often, but in Morocco, every plan is left up to God by saying insha’allah, God willing. After eating, Moroccans say alhamdulillah, praise be to God. After sneezing a Moroccan praises God, then all present wish God’s mercy for the sneezer, who then wishes that God guide those present and set their affairs in order.

As a Jewish American living and speaking in a Muslim country, I wondered about how the per-vasiveness of Allah in speech affects culture and thought. I discovered that these religious phrases are a shibboleth when I sneezed in a taxicab. Once I finished the exchange of expressions with the driver, he asked me if I was Palestinian. Those seemingly trivial phrases were powerful enough to temporarily assign me a new identity.

Many Moroccans deliberately reference God with respect to the future. They say insha’allah, putting their plans in God’s hands. Preparing for a trip to the mountains, my teacher told us in Arabic, “Tomorrow, God willing, we will meet at eight, God willing, at the bus stop by the Kutubiyah mosque, God willing.” This linguistic pattern does not exist in English, but in Arabic the repetitive use of Allah makes every action contingent upon God’s will.

The relationship between language and power is integral to both religion and politics. Moroccans explain that they say insha’allah both because it is mandated in the Qur’an and because they

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know that ultimately God has control over their lives. Next to me on the plane to Morocco was a Palestinian who had immigrated to the U.S. and who was involved in Egypt’s revolutionary movement. He told me that he rejects the religious element of Arabic, especially insha’allah. To him, insha’allah reinforces a passive attitude. He thinks that always leaving things up to God stops Muslims from believing in themselves.

I believe that it is true that constantly referencing God shapes Moroccans’ world-view, but reli-gious language does not prevent empowerment. The pro-democracy movements across the Arab world are the prime counterexample. Morocco passed a new constitution in July. I was caught up in a lively demonstration surrounding the referendum, which made it clear to me that Moroc-cans believe in their power to effect change. Allah is part of that power.

Today, months after leaving Morocco, I still sometimes say alhamdulillah when I sneeze, and in-sha’allah when I make plans. Referencing Allah does not make me a Muslim. Indeed, the Hebrew Elohim shares its triliteral root with Allah. In this religious language, I experience the power of a few short phrases to affect my thoughts, and I am reminded that while I certainly have significant power over my life, I am not in complete control.

WORDS BY AIDAN KAPLANPHOTOGRAPH BY MARKUS WELLS

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PHOTOGRAPH BY MARKUS WELLS

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PHOTOGRAPH BY GRACE ROSSI-CONAWAY

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pale [peyl]: colorless or whitish

spec·i·fy [spes-uh-fahy]: to mention or name definitely

crash [krash]: to make a loud, clattering noise, as of something dashed to pieces

half-moon [haf-moon]: the moon when, at either quadrature, half its disk is illuminated

rogue [rohg]: a dishonest, knavish person; scoundrel

Josh stared at the visage half-obscured by blood, numbly replying to the paramedic, “Yes. That’s – that’s her.” He’d received the phone call over half an hour ago, and rushed out to the highway, blinking sleep from his eyes. Above them, the half-moon’s thin, silver rays were the only illu-mination to the grisly scene, and the light made Emily’s face appear even more lifeless and pale. Presently, the sheet, already bloodied, was pulled up to cover her face. Perhaps fifty feet away was the blue Ford Taurus, ticking noises emanating from the cooling engine, and the entire roof crushed into the cabin by a two-foot-wide indent. The crash had taken place around two or so, they’d said, and Josh had only just arrived. He glanced black and forth from the smoking wreck to the silent ambulance, only dimply registering the police man’s narrative. What did it matter what had happened? His wife and daughter had been in that car, and now they both could be dead by morning. His wife already was. Josh surfaced in time to catch the word “elephant.” And blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, what?”

The cop cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. “Well, we believe that it’s escaped from the zoo about five miles west of here, and gone rogue. It trampled the car, which had pulled over to the shoulder. Your daughter has sustained…severe injuries. Yes. Severe…severe injuries.” Josh, gritting his teeth and trying to stop from shouting, said. “Could you specify?”

The cop coughed. “We’re not sure, sir. African or Indian, probably, but the zoo hasn’t called yet.”

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

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WORDS BY HANNAH LIU

A huge deer with antlers crashed through the brambles with a noise like porcelain falling from a shelf. The net meant to impede it hadn’t held and in the light of the half-moon held no more.

Sally was frustrated for the fifth night in a row. Her English teacher didn’t specify the format for the paper she was required to write, and so each night became a torture session of tedious correc-tions and reformatting. Something unidentifiable crashed to the floor downstairs, perhaps a dish or pan. Turning back to her computer, Sally realized it had gone black, fallen asleep. She only now noticed how dark the world had gotten since she began her tedious task, and now only the light from the pale half-moon illuminated her room. Shoving the extensive notes she had taken back into her English folder, Sally gave an exasperated sigh and slammed it closed; her mind made up. Sally was going rogue.

A roguish smile is what I remember most of the man who stole my fortune. I found him on the street one day, a man wearing a tall black silk top hat and a red velveteen overcoat with shiny silver buttons. That his blue jeans were faded and torn didn’t seem to matter.

WORDS BY ANNA MOORE

WORDS BY HANNAH LIU

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ARTWORK BY JACQUELINE BARNES

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PHOTOGRAPH BY GRACE ROSSI-CONAWAY

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ROUND ROBIN EXERCISE

10.26.10The meerkat sat on the ivory sands, basking in the warmth of the morning sun. A man walked by slowly, cautious enough to know that there was something out of the ordinary going on. What did this man want with me? Did the mean well? I was so tired and thirsty after days in the desert that I would accept any kind of human company, good or evil. But I was really hoping for good.

I coughed. The man stopped, tensed his shoulders but didn’t turn around, didn’t show his face. His body was rigid and he slowly revealed himself to me, turning around only enough to see me in his peripherals.

I heard the click of a shotgun, and I tensed. This is a bad guy. I grimaced, waiting for the final blow. I might welcome it at this point, so close to death anyway. When no shot rang out, when no pain pushed through my body, I opened my eyes. I found myself looking at the shadow of a standing meerkat. It was never a man, good or bad. The click I heard had been the tittering of the meerkat. I sighed, passing the poor creature by, and headed toward the nearby lake. But then, it too could be a mirage.

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WORDS BY THE MHS CREATIVE WRITING CLUB

10.12.10We weren’t like concrete or the Great Pyramids of Giza, but we were there, at least, tangibly con-nected even if only by Elmer’s Glue. Though at the beginning rather spiritual, the magic soon faded and grew worrying. I risked a glance.

When I glanced, it was heinous! The most hideous thing I had ever seen! My eyes were burning in their sockets. I simply had to look away. I felt lost. His eyes were too much to take in all at once. It was as if his soul were pouring out into me with a single glance. The connection I had felt earlier was corrupted. I felt him take me in. I hadn’t planned for this. He walked away. I walked with him.

10.12.10I found an umbrella in my attic yesterday. I belonged to my great-grandfather – a decorated veteran. He smelled like mothballs and musty closets, but the umbrella was somehow odor free. The umbrella was dark green and only had two tiny holes. Tentatively, I opened it, eager to see if the ancient fabric still held life; it creaked open, but what fell out of the tattered patched device I will never forget. A little green man jumped out of the fabric!

He was smallish – like I’d imagine a garden gnome would be, but his face was rather gnarly and his skin had more of a greenish tinge. I stood still – afraid of moving, but it was he who moved first, he spoke, and he told me the story that my grandfather never got to tell.

10.12.10Before I knew what had happened, the octopus had already gotten hold of the telephone. New to me, the president began to shout, “No! Please! Have mercy! Don’t kill me!” But it was too late. The evil plan was already in action. His tentacle was getting closer and closer to the red button. If he hit it, everything would end. Something caught my eye, something in the window. Phew! It was just another flying pig. For a moment I thought we were in real danger.

The Octopus had his sucker on the button when I decided it was time to strike! I pulled out my hacksaw and ran at the mollusk’s slipping arm. One down, two down, but just as I raised my axe to de-tentacle a third extremity, I felt a slippery tentacle slither around my torso and squeeze. I suppose then there was a loud crack, an intake of breath – but I only saw darkness.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY MARKUS WELLS

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PHOTOGRAPH BY GRACE ROSSI-CONAWAY

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It’s there, it’s with you, and it’s still, silent and alive

Drawn out, big pieces obscure

Unwanted and unknown, it shines through, even when the darkness fights it

Just to tease you, so that you could spite it

Disappear, and come through like a feeling, of lost ones before the kneeling,

One silence passes through the next, gripping down on your chest,

Veins exceeded and ready, scars, in the beginning form,

Bruises and cuts are up heaving, rather at the gathering of the storm

See the thing most wanted, feel the need to breathe, dream of all it taunts,

and bring forth the pain it delves,

Each shadow that it castes is only an illusion, to make your eyes see despondency

Like you’ve never before peeped, don’t try to cover it up, cause the pain will only soar, up and out of the skin, reaching within, til’ it grabs all it needs, to make each pity dream come to an

end

It’s the fight that makes it happen, the wanting to escape,

The power that withholds the apple that Eve will surely take,

Forbidden in the battle, now hell must awake,

No pain is unforgiving, no blood is never ending, no time will freeze with caution

When you are spiritless and gone, while those around you moan

Everything around you sinks in, until there is a little spot,

A little light in the passing darkness that seems to get bigger

As you enter the Kingdom

With those who have forgiven, forgiven through life, and forgiven through death,

The darkness outside has finally sealed itself.

SEALED ITSELF

WORDS BY MORRISSA MITCHELL

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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“NOBODY’S EVER LOVED ME AS MUCH AS I LOVE MY-

SELF...”Some people have good looks. Some people have kind eyes. Some people have nice hair. I wouldn’t say that I have ‘nice’ or ‘good’ anything; that’s much too specific. My problem with trite compliments is that none of them really express the depths of my incredible self. I am without a doubt the best, most amazing, most incredible, most perfect person that I have ever met.

On that other hand, I am a total loser. I want to eat dinosaur chips on the moon. They are salty and krusty, but muy delicioso. I don’t have friends. Everybody at school is scared of me, but I am determined to change that. They will learn the greatness of dinosaur chips and they will be my friends. I will be the coolest kid in school, despite my wicket heart, my dark eyes, and my frizzy hair. The world will join me on the moon and devour the salty, krusty, delicious dinosaur chips. They are my path to popularity and respect, and I am well award. As I walk down the hall, I see the looks on their faces. I see the covetousness in their eyes; they are jealous of what I have. I see – I see dinosaur chips.

Everybody has a bag of dinosaur chips. How? I run past the faces, now leering, leering and chomping their delicious snacks. Now I see. They’ve put in a vending machine! Now any one of these undeserving wretches can enjoy the treat I used to monopolize. Well, I have a backup plan. The petty chips won’t even matter once I take over the world!

Then all the dinosaur chips will be mine! I’ll be the next Kim Jon Il! My face will be everywhere and everyone will praise me and offer me dinosaur chips on moonlit nights! I will be a god! A conqueror! A dinosaur chip deity! Then I realized that taking over the world takes a lot of work,

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so I patiently ogle myself in the mirror while eating dinosaur chips until I gain some type of inspiration.

Now that my dinosaur chips, my one advantage over my peers, have been snatched from me like a teddy bear from a baby, I must devise a new course of action. What do I have that no one else has? What can I use to win them over? I wrack my brains, but nothing comes to mind. Lost in thought, I don’t realize when someone sits down next to me.

“Hi, I’m Kim Jong Il,” she says. We sit in silence for a while. Then she utters the words that so perfectly describe my feelings of everything, my personal philosophy and the one frustration that I have been trying to express my whole life. “Do you ever feel,” she starts, “like nobody every loves you as much as you love yourself?”

One day a zebra fell on the monkey swings and was very discouraged. Mr. Monkey tried to help Zebra practice, but he just wasn’t good. He left the Zebra with a little bit of advice. “You can do it! Never let anyone say you can’t!” said Mr. Monkey. Zebra was so inspired and ran home to tell his family. He noted, “Nobody’s ever loved me as much as I love myself.”

When he told his mother, she wasn’t really listening to him. She said, “I am too busy with the other children right now. You are going to have to tell me later.” This saddened the zebra, but he went to tell his father. His father was watching television; a football game was on. He didn’t notice that Zebra was there. He went to his room, shut the door, and cried to his teddy bear. He felt so alone now that he was apart from Mr. Monkey.

As he spoke, he realize that Dr. Happypaws, his teddy bear, wasn’t listening to him. “You must hate me too!” cried Zebra. He threw Dr. Happypaws across the room. “Everybody hates me, except Mr. Monkey, and he doesn’t even know me. He calls me ‘Zebra.’ Only I even know I’m here!” As ht went to the mirror, Zebra was shocked. He had no reflection. Even he had deserted him. Without a second thought, he headed back out the door, to the monkey swing. Now he knew he had to learn to love. Not anyone else, of course - he didn’t know them, but he knew himself. He was black with white stripes, and nobody ever noticed! He ripped his teddy bear to shreds. They will notice me! The y will understand how great I am! He cut out a crown from yellow construction paper, with the word ‘King’ gracing the front. Yes, ‘King’ he was! “Now to go order around some peasants,” he thought. The ripped up Dr. Happypaws shed a single tear. “I’m sorry my king…”

“No you’re not!” Zebra gave the bear a kick and stormed away. He was really starting to enjoy himself. He climbed up on top of the jungle gym and sat there, panting and surveying his king-dom. It was so grand, so beautiful – a jungle of sunflowers loomed over the great, peaceful prairie of freshly mown grass, which stretched out to meet the great city of Back Porch. They would all love him; he would make them love him. He would be the greatest ruler this place had ever seen. He would be in every history book, every mind. He would never be forgotten!

His first decree was that every subject must call him King Zebra! Second was that every subject must bow to him. “They don’t love me enough!” thought Zebra, “so I must help them see how amazing I am, because nobody loves me as much as I love myself!”

WORDS BY THE MHS CREATIVE WRITING CLUB

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A PRECIOUS PICTURE

I can remember the day clearly. It was a chilly Sunday night in December when my dad’s surprise birthday party took place. Friends and family from all over the tri-state area and beyond were in attendance. Big smiles, great attitudes and joyful responses were all expressed from people there and it lasted all night long until the party finally ended at 7:00 the next morning. I had only a half-hour’s time of sleep but that didn’t stop me from staying energized and awake because I couldn’t wait to tell all my friends in my second grade class all about my experience the day before.

As my mom began to assign roles to each one of my four siblings, I expected to hear “Silas, just go sit down over there…,” which is the response I always received. However, this time was different. I can remember my mom informing me that “…you can take this camera and go inside there to take pictures.” This was a legitimate role and I couldn’t have been more excited. It felt like an opportunity of a lifetime. As people strolled inside, I wasted no time. Immediately, I began to take pictures of every single decoration, every single person and especially, every single moment.

After last minute preparations, we were all set and my dad was due in only a few minutes. When all lights went out, I was thinking about taking more pictures but then I realized that would be a little unintelligent. When the clock struck to the next hour, finally my dad arrived! “SURPRISE!” everyone shouted. You should have just seen his face! He was definitely shocked and guess who was there to capture it? I was! The feeling of being the one who captured the moment in which everyone will look at for years to come was great and one I planned to brag about to my brothers and sisters later on in the night.

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As the night went on , I continued to take a boatload of pictures. I followed my Dad wherever he went and made sure to take pictures wherever he was. My dad’s best friends were in attendance and they definitely had a great time. Uncle James was one of my dad’s great friends and they grew up together. They both were born and grew up in Kenya and they even went to the same college together here the United States. I will never forget the picture I took of Uncle James and my Dad sharing a laugh right before the cutting of the cake. By the way, Uncle James wasn’t really my uncle but because he’s very close to my family, that’s what we called him. Unfortunately, Uncle James passed away a few months after that party. It was a moment that rocked all of our relatives and friends and it was extremely hard for pretty much all of us, especially my Dad.

As we dealt with his death, all I could think of was that picture. The picture that I took that day of the party. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I was the one who took the picture in this case, but it was more so that I was able to capture a moment that will always be cherished .Although I always enjoyed photography, I realized that their was an even greater meaning behind those pictures. It was the whole aspect of capturing the moment. When I think of capturing something, I think of catching something. It was great to know that I could catch this moment and never let it get away but rather have it stay with us for years to come. The fun I found in taking pictures had an entirely new light on it. I made sure from that day forward, whenever I’m given the chance to capture a moment, I should take it.

WORDS BY SILAS KEZENGWAPHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN LEE

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IF THEY’RE MARBLE, THEY’RE IONIC EVEN IF THEY’RE CORINTHIAN

One fine afternoon as I was in my office, reviewing plans for the Department’s potential well to replace the missing statue of Heisenberg, which went missing after being weighed last summer, Dr. Brinklehoff knocked on my door for the third time that day, this time with plans to unionize the science teachers by firing those who threw off the optimist/pessimist ratio. Replacing the plans in my desk as a lost cause for now, I calmly pointed out the columns on the science department’s Monty Hall were ionic, to which he replied that he’d considered taking steps, but was ultimately dissuaded when it was discovered that he couldn’t get in without taking them. I remarked offhand that the frequency of his visits was increasing, a phenomenon he attributed to newfound energy, and I mentioned that, indeed, he was visibly tinting purple. He countered that perhaps he was coming at me rather fast with his ideas, and suggested that, if he lost some weight (presumably, I countered, by shedding mass), he could get the same ideas across as forcefully without having to decelerate. In fact, losing mass was not a bad idea at all, and, despite nothing having come from his unionization idea (indeed, had it come to pass, I fear I may not have held my own position [with rising vending machine prices at the Student Center of Mass, I have been feeling rather overcharged]), much of the excess hydrocarbons seem to have been converted directly to energy, Dr. Brinklehoff having been sighted recently at the on-campus Fitness Center. I saw him there once, myself, while measuring the foci of the elliptical machine, but, considering the speed he was attaining on the treadmill, I fear he may already have left.

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

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A newly born mind at workWho frets over her hair and height

Her words take backseatWhen she writes,

Her thoughts fall into foolish patternsRhymes blot her smooth composition

Like the speckles on a speckled eggWho believes in a greater muse

Whose plastic English chair sits softly,One of many, in the spider-egg room

Stays up ‘till two in search of the “next-great thing”Thinks drawing inspiration from nature is too cliché.

Works the night and day awayCreating the “next great thing”

Lives in the library, playing hide and seek with Ginsberg and CassidyTheir words, an exhilarating fall

The soon-to-be

THE TEENAGE POET

WORDS BY ANONYMOUS

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ARTWORK BY WALKER WALLS-TARVER

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There once was a madman named Myfe, who caused his onlookers much strife.

He would lean on a wall,to confusion of all,

who pondered the leaning of Myfe.

There once was a poet named Finke,

who wrote poems in invisible ink:

they never were read;

the poet, it’s said,

was eventually driven to drink.W

Dr. Randalls cured hoodlums and vandals,

but his brother, a lawyer, caused scandals

by quite often jailing

those crooks who were ailing.

“He’s trying my patients!” cried Randalls.

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

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ARTWORK BY MOLLY GRUNDPHOTOGRAPH BY CODY FITZGERALD

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The critic is quite at a lossdescribing writers’ connection with paws.

Eliot’s were practical,Hemingway’s polydactical,

and Lear, of course, had his Old Foss.

The professors Quicke Lyme and Kersplatter

were coerced by a colleague to chatter.

Said the physicist Lyme

as he stalked off, “No time!”

Said the chemist, while shrugging, “No matter.”

The comma, when all’s said and done,

was already used twice in line one.

I must give a shout

to the comma, without

which this sentence refers but to one.

The apostrophe’s critic bemoans

its dilemma of meanings and tones:

the question still stands:

if one Jones has two hands,

are the extremities Jones’s or Jones’?

The bookshop on our street has fun

by setting sales on poetry:

if it’s not “Tennyson for One,”

it’s “Byron, Get One Free!”

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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The world-renowned Doctor DeFlorengesused fruit juice to oil his door hinges,

but, in comparing two fruit,the point seemed quite moot:

he found they were apples and oranges.

I recall that it’s been told,a poem’s lovelier than gold:

while any fool can strike bonanza,it takes real skill to write a stanza.

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I think that I shall never seea poem lovely as a tree,

for, just as leaves are bound and tinted,a tree’s on what a poem’s printed.

Leaves and branches, bark and phloem:a tree’s as lovely as a poem.

Searching roots and pulsing xylem:whatever way you care to style ’em.

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEFPHOTOGRAPHS BY JAKE EPHROS

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SECRET REVEALED

I’ve always been this way. Well, even if I haven’t, these types of memories are all I remember of my life so far. Secrets; I know them all. The cheated-on-my-wife to the stealing-money-from-my-best-friend kind of secrets. Even the more extreme ones like murders and rape. For me, they’re easy to see. On the back of every neck, a secret is written in clear script. I’ve spent years studying the darkness. Everyone hides. Though, not all of them are as dark as others. I’ve seen such sweet ones like the I’m-in-love-with-him or I-plan-on-marrying-her.

At first, this ability seemed like a gift. For so long I remember spending time enjoying my new ‘super power’, that I completely forgot when it began, let alone how it began. But it wasn’t long enough before this gift transformed into a nightmare.

Sometimes, it’s best to leave things unknown. As they say, “Ignorance is bliss.” I soon discovered this downside to the power. It started with one of my best friends, Sandra. She usually keeps her hair down, so she’s been able to hide her secret for a while now. It kept me curious. I had known her since my innocent youth, growing up together on playgrounds and the backyards of each other’s houses. You’d think by now we would have fallen in love with each other. She’s beautiful, but things just never evolved to that. I’m okay with that, I guess. 

It was August 3rd and the city was a blistering 100 degrees. It would be logical for a girl to put her hair up. We were having lunch during our break hours; our offices were two easy blocks away from each other. Pretty cliché, right? Things have always worked like that. We were getting Chi-potle. A burrito bowl ordered for me and two steak tacos for her. 

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“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick. I’m sure this heat is melting my makeup.”

She got up, turned around, and there it was. Secretive words I have been so longing to read and yet so quickly causing me to regret all my curiosity. 

I am abused many nights by my fiancé.

That no good son of a bitch would hear every last piece of my damn mind I had to give. She deserved the world to me and I was going to make sure that he understood that while he was perishing in the fires of hell. I couldn’t wait to plan what I was going to do to him. But it was already so evident in my thoughts.

I was going to kill him. 

It wouldn’t be too hard, since I wasn’t afraid of the consequences. God could have put me in jail for the rest of my life for all I had cared for. It didn’t matter enough.  I went to my studio apart-ment, probably for the last time. I went through my drawers and found my hand gun stowed in my little black box for safe keeping.  Not sure why I bought the gun. It’s not like I’ve ever been robbed or anything. I guess just a use of protection, if I needed it. This time, someone else needed it.

I decided to use the stairs at the Trump Palace. Their apartment was only two flights up, so I figured I might as well get a little more breathing time for myself until the deed was done. Sure I was a little nervous, but the anxiety was too overwhelmed by the excitement and the feeling of justice in my heart.

I had finally arrived. This was it. I was going to do it. I rang the door bell at 6B at approximately 9:30pm. He answered the door.

“Hello, Devon. What brings you here? I’m afraid Sandra isn’t home yet…”

I raised my gun without a word.

“Oh Jesus. Devon. Lower the gun please. I don’t know what this is about.”

Bang. Straight through the skull the bullet flew.

Thump. Down the body went to the floor.

As I observe the done deed, the blood spilling around the corpse staining the beige carpet, I looked up to find a mirror hanging on the wall. In it I saw the reflection of another mirror hang-ing almost parallel on the opposite wall. With the double reflection I could see my face as well as the back of my neck. It read:

It’s all in my head.

But that’ll just have to be my little secret.

WORDS BY LILLY DUKICH

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ARTWORK BY EVA DEMEO

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ROUND ROBIN EXERCISE

My alarm clock rang shrilly as I snapped open my eyes. Grumbling, I looked around the room – grey walls, bright lighting, and a single window. There was only one problem – this was not my room. The strange surroundings sank in, but I still could not figure out where I was or how I got there. The only thing I could think to do was look out the window. When I got up to look out the window, something made me stumble to my knees. When I turned around to see what had tripped me, I noticed that my ankle had been tied down to the bed.

It was a chain steel gray and cold, I froze as the door to what I realized no was my prison slowly cracked open, showing the face of a grumpy prison keep. He pulled off my chain and attached two others to my wrists; his stench telling me that the place I was in was not a friendly one. He led me out the door into the cool damp corridors to what I assumed was to be my death.

A vast open-air arena awaited me and I squinted in the sunlight. Before I saw who, a poleax was thrust into my hand, and the heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind me, a heavy thud announcing the bolt being driven home. The roar of a crowd of thousands met my ears, and I heard before I saw the person, dressed identically, opposite me. Somewhere high in the stands, a gong rang out.

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The moon shone brightly as the stars met the sky at the line of peace, where the Earth and the clouds stood still, holding hands as one. They came in droves, in all shapes and sizes to gather at this destined place, at the destined time, they would come only when the world was at peace, and perfect as it was now. Now as the time to build. As one, they gathered supplies from the mangled ruins of what had been the human world, and returned with them to the hive. “Yess…good…”He said. “I approve…but I require more materials…mooore…” The beetles clicked their jaws in unison, acknowledging what they had to do. They set out for metal and charred wood, adding more and more to their monument for their great leader. Soon the beetles stumbled upon something remarkable, something that would ruin their plans for the future in one fell swoop. The cry of a child – a human child – echoed in the distance, the sole reminder of a race otherwise lost.

WORDS BY THE MHS CREATIVE WRITING CLUB

The foam from her newly bought Starbucks cappuccino stuck to her lips, bubbling away after a few moments. The chill of the winter air hit her like a wave as she walked into the busy New York City sidewalks. Too many people for anyone to even notice her out of everyone, but if they could have just taken one second out of their busy days, they would notice, except leading man Fabbio, he grabbed her hot beverage, taking a swig of the heady liquid. “Thanks hun!” he said cheerily ignoring her look of disbelief, and walked toward the subway. She had only glimpsed his face for a brief second, but she ahd been absolutely sure that she’d seen that visage before. It was so familiar! She ran after him, catching up to him and grabbing his arm just as he was about to board the 36-E. “Wait!” she cried, and, suddenly terribly embarrassed for comeing this far, ooked at her feet and managed to get out, “I – I think I’ve seen you before…”

For a split second, he appeared taken aback, as if she’d slapped him, but then a wide smile of recognition slowly crept across his face. And his answer, she would never forget.

“I am leading man, Fabbio, the man who you once loved. I was once a lowly Starbucks barista who made your coffee every day. You fell in love with me during out many conversations. How-ever, I was an aspiring model who knew that our love would never work because my contract-to-be forbade me from ever marrying. So I put a drug in your coffee one day that would erase your memory of me. However, it seems to be wearing off. My career was unsuccessful and I am no longer bound by that contract. So…do you want to go out sometime?”

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SOMETHING ELSE

I get why she cried so much though, now that I’m older. Sort of. I mean I’m not a parent; I have no idea what the parental bond really elevates or twists a person into. But, I do know that my Dad left my mom and me when I was six. And I do know that that was wrong, “morally iniquitous,” and that my mom thought of it as such. And that she considered my Dad a failure, my Dad who was a lawyer, a general counsel for some big pharmaceutical conglomerate, because of it. He made tons of money and had a job that used all of his legal skill. But that didn’t matter of course. Her idea of success only related to the following of a strict and uncompromising moral code. It only mattered that you did what was right. Not what felt good, not even necessarily what made you happy, only what was right. She was a policewoman, the assistant chief of our town, and she clung to her values for dear, dear life. These are the sorts of things I think about as I clean, you know. Lots of people think of my work as “boring” or “mind numbing,” like somehow it breaks down the cognitive process. As if cleaning bathrooms makes my mind degrade, as if it’s an occu-pation meant for invalids, people who are less than people.

The worst one is “soulless.” Nothing is soulless unless you make it soulless, I think. Sure, granted some jobs are awful and pay next to nothing and don’t seem to mean all that much, but they’re not soulless. I hate it, I absolutely hate it when students see me and flash that cheek tightening polite smile. Like I’m automatically unfulfilled and unhappy. Like I’m five billion light years away from these kids, as if we have nothing at all in common. It’s a look of abject pity. Which isn’t to say I don’t expect it, though. These kids need to pity me. They need to think I’m unhappy. They’re

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ARTWORK BY EVA DEMEO

64 | Inkwell

put under the same kind of ball squeezing vice grip pressure I was, as they need to do well in school and become successes and not janitors because success leads to happiness and happiness leads to a great life. And teenagers, who are by and large a sad and unhappy bunch, are sure as hell pining for a great life, not the stunted drug and sex bastard child of advertising and Holly-wood films they live in that pretty much only produces regret and guilt on a steady basis, being a little stingy as it were with the drugs and sex. God I hate those looks. The worst part about my job is those looks, and the pity. I don’t think I’ve been thanked even once for cleaning the floors. Which is OK, I mean, I don’t expect to be thanked, but its weird. I feel like the students think of me sometimes the same way they think of monkeys: sentient, but not quite there yet. This job isn’t really depersonalizing—even with the blue jumpsuit and everything—on its own. It’s the fact that people assume it’s depersonalizing that screws it and me over. The way their eyes film over when they see me, or how they assume I’m unfulfilled and upset. I’m what mothers want their kids to go to college to get away from becoming, I’m what my mom made me go to college to get away from becoming, which is horrible and depressing to think about. I know if I ever went up to any of these mothers and asked if they thought my job was shameful they’d say no, but at the same time if I asked them if they would be OK with their children being janitors they would smile that cheek tightening polite smile and either say no, in the gentlest and most living undead polite voice possible, or “if that is what will make my child happy” if they’re one of the more equal opportunity liberal parents. Either way the subtext is “HELL NO I WILL KILL HIM/HER” or polite and infinitely sad resignation. None of these upper middle class parents wants to see their kid become a janitor.

WORDS BY THATCHER SNYDER

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ARTWORK BY CAROLINE KUNKA

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man·age [man-ij]: to take charge or care ofclar·i·fy [klar-uh-fahy]: to make (an idea, statement, etc.) clear or intelligible; to free from ambiguityham·mock [ham-uhk]: a hanging bed or couch made of canvas, net-ted cord, or the like, with cords attached to supports at each end

shift [shift]: to transfer from one position to another

raf·fle [raf-uhl]: a form of lottery in which a number of persons buy one or more chances to win a prize

fall·en [faw-luhn]: having dropped or come down from a higher place, from an upright position, or from a higher level

white [hwahyt, wahyt]: a color without hue at one extreme end of the scale of grays, opposite to black

While those around him in his small suburban home left every morning like clockwork for their various jobs, Steve had chosen a more unconventional profession. Every day he would buy a raf-fle ticket for the state lottery at the corner gas station and then lounge around in his hammock, listening to the radio results and occasionally dozing off, as around him his yard grew into a jun-gle and his food rotted in his refrigerator.

Today, he settled into the worn fabric as soon as he got home, popped the aluminum tab of a beer can, and clicked on the radio, slapping it to quell the static. As the voice, sounding excruciatingly bored, almost as antithesis to his audience’s collective excitement, slowly rattled off long lists of numbers. Steve languidly glanced at his own faded white ticket. Detachedly he heard as, one after the other, the numbers matched and he grunted with satisfaction. Before he had processed the information, the radio had already begun to clarify the various details and disclaimers. When it clicked in his head that he’d actually won, it was all he could manage not to have fallen out of his perch. He shifted up onto an elbow and turned the volume up. He wrote down the address to which the crackling voice proclaiming his fortune was directing him, and chuckled to himself.

In his cloud of madly grinning avarice, he hardly noticed the date printed in tiny numbers as black as grimacing death, and only when the stone-faced clerk explained to him his mistake did his grin slowly fade. He exited the office dejectedly, and, when he got home, he untied the tat-tered hammock and brushed the months of dead leaves off of his lawnmower.

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

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PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN LEE

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ro·ta·tion [roh-tey-shuhn]: a turning around as on an axisim·age [im-ij]: a physical likeness or representation of a person, ani-mal, or thing, photographed, painted, sculptured, or otherwise made visibletri·fle [trahy-fuhl]: a matter, affair, or circumstance of trivial impor-tance or significance

Indian summer: a period of mild, dry weather, usually accompanied by a hazy atmosphere, occurring usually in late October or early No-vember and following a period of colder weather.

per·me·ate [pur-mee-eyt]: to pass into or through every part of

Joseph climbed out of the screeching subway car just before the odors closed, elbowing savagely at the other passengers under the flickering underground light bulbs. In the harsh Indian sum-mer, everything existed under a permanent haze, clouding his spectacles. Where drops of sweat serpentined down the matted hair under his gray hat and made clear rivulets in the fogging on his glasses. Emerging from the metal staircase into blinding sunshine and a breezeless, only slightly-less-sweltering Sunday afternoon, Joseph cautiously reached under his heavy tweed coat to tentatively finger the cool, metal barrel, the only thing colder than 80º, and the only thing that seemed truly real under the mind-numbing heat haze and his frosted glasses. Back at his apartment, the short not had already been placed at his desk, and a tearful conversation with his very confused parents over the phone lased less than five minutes, the voices distorted and tinny through the plastic receiver.

Reflecting on his life, Joseph found himself slightly smiling and licking his lips at the thought of the trifle he had had as a child, and, passing an ancient chrome-disguised diner, paused briefly, figuring, after all, that (here morbidly chuckling) he was certainly in no hurry. On the laminated menu scotch-taped to the inside of the hot glass of the plate window, he found a faded, grainy im-age of the dessert, by a description for those ignorant and a price for those avaricious. Sighing, he took his hand out of this pocket, relinquishing the comforting solidness of the pistol, and pushed through the rotating door with a creak. Inside, it was even more brutally bot, and he wiped his sweating forehead with one scratchy, gray, tweed sleeve. Not hanging up his hat (he certainly

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didn’t plan on a long sit) he seated himself at the grey plastic counter, idly fiddling with the steel utensils.

Having ordered (he couldn’t recall, only that he must have as, later, the dessert arrived), he looked around at the few dismal inhabitants of the diner, mirroring the building in age and, unfor-tunately, condition, cheer, and energy. None of them were younger than sixty, and none had before them any food, though one woman, asleep in the vinyl booth, sat behind a tepid mug of black coffee. When the trifle arrived, alone on a white, plastic plate with all the ceremony of a mugging, it looked as sad an insufficient as Joseph’s life. It sat there, a small cube of spongy cake, undoubtedly unfrozen only a minute ago, permeated with a slickly sweet brown sauce. He took a bit, after prodding it a few times with his spoon.

It tasted worse than it looked, caking to the top of his mouth in a hot, pasty mass. He ate no more, but left, leaving his wallet as a tip, and slowly continued walking. By the time he got to his apartment, it was early evening, and, as he reached into his coat pocket for the gun, he felt something crinkle and brought out a small white plastic bag, emblazoned with a red smiling face (circle, really), and the words, “we appreciate your patronage! Thank you and come back!” He stared at the bag for some time, before tossing it aside and opening the Styrofoam clam it con-tained. It was the rest of the trifle; the waitress must have given it to him as he had blearily left the diner. Cocking his head, he ate it, his fingers sticky with the sauce, only when it was gone slowly walking to the desk and replacing the gun, crumpling the tear-stained note into the dustbin.

WORDS BY DANIEL GALEF

The image of the waving branches of the tree outside blurred and twisted as Alice stared through the heat rising from the old fashioned radiator. The boy in the seat in front of her removed his Yankees cap in order to pull his sweater up over his head. Alice smiled to herself when she saw him nervously pull his t-shirt back down, and rotate in his chair to be certain that no section of unsightly skin was revealed to Alice. He quickly balled up his sweater and stuffed it in his school bag. It had been a hot summer, and now, at the beginning of school, It was still warn. Alice’s father, a highly successful prosecutor, had said it was “shaping up to be an Indian summer,” what-ever that mean. Alice’s younger brother had promptly stood up and started hopping around the breakfast table in a highly offensive imitation of a rain dance.

The heat of the unusually warm day along with the heat from the clanging radiator was finally permeating her school-sanctioned sweater. She picked at the fraying edge of her skirt and con-templated removing her own sweater. She did not follow through. The heat made it hard to concentrate on her teacher, and Alice’s mind wandered, her foot mindlessly tapping.

The boy in front of her noticed the soft sound of rubber soles hitting pristine blue tile. He turned around and said, “Do you mind?” Startled, Alice jolted in her seat, and returned to staring out-side, at the image of the branches through the roiling heat.

WORDS BY HANNAH LIU

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1/11/12

The train station is bustling with people, and there is barely any room to stop for breath. I’m walking at a fast clip, but he’s even faster. I can feel him come up behind me. My heart throbs until I can barely see straight. I look away, scratch my head, pray for a miracle. He walks past me! I breathe a sign or relief, my hands shaking. I smile nervously. The hunter has become the hunted.

I can smell the blood on my hands now. It’s sweet and salty at once. The color is bright like an apple, but when it cools, it dries and blackens. He can small the blood too; he walks faster. I smile with glee. He runs like a scared rabbit. I am excited and deathly calm all at once. Death will meet him today.

I walk faster. When he turns the corner, I run to catch up. I turn the corner, and he is there. We leap at one another; I with two hands on my weapon, he only with one. Overconfidence is his death. I am victorious. Oh how I love the smell of blood on my hands.

WORDS BY HANNAH LIU

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA MOORE

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i·so·bu·tyl·ene [ahy-suh-byoot-l-een]: a colorless, very volatile liquid or flammable gas, C 4 H 8 , used chiefly in the manufacture of butyl rubberfair·y [fair-ee]: (in folklore) one of a class of supernatural beings, generally conceived as having a diminutive human form and possess-ing magical powers with which they intervene in human affairs

oth·er·ness [uhth-er-nis]: the state or fact of being different or dis-tinct

pre·emp·tive [pree-emp-tiv]: taken as a measure against something possible, anticipated, or feared

sta·sis [stey-sis]: the state of equilibrium or inactivity caused by op-posing equal forces

Ever since my sisters and I were little, we had always believed in fairies. They believed in young women dressed in leaves and gauze with magic wands and butterfly wings. I believed something different. Just the right amount of horror movies as a kid had led me to realize that those creepy crawly fairies were sent here from Jupiter to kill us all! One day, out in the garden, my sisters caught a fairy. They had resolved not to tell me, but the youngest one caved when I offered her chocolate. They were hiding the creature in the basement.

I snuck downstairs in the dead of night and found Dad’s hidden stash of isobutane. I knew that to protect my family, I had to take a preemptive strike. I didn’t give myself a chance to even dis-gust myself by looking at its otherness. The fairy was lazily blinking, thinking itself safe in the stasis of sleep. I cracked the jar open just enough to led in the isobutane and a match. The deed was done.

It is a few months later, and we’re still living at a bed and breakfast while our house is rebuilt. They say it was arson that blew our house to bits (some accident with isobutane). I know the truth, but safety, as always, must come first.

WORDS BY HANNAH LIU

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ARTWORK BY PHOEBE GRACE

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ROUND ROBIN EXERCISE

As I ran for my life, I caught a brief glimpse of my pursuers in a puddle as the rain came down in sheets; the headlight gleamed ominously.

I dove for cover in a shrubbery, praying that I would not be seen. The truck drove past, then suddenly stopped, backed up, and sat on the road right beside me. Before the door could screech open, I ran further into the woods. I heard some object fly by my head as I turned around.

Whatever they were throwing at me started leaking, fog consuming me and causing my eyes to tear. I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, but all I knew for sure was that I needed to get out of there – fast.

Afraid to make any other movements, I stood behind a tree catching my breath. Whoever this was would have to face me soon ‘cause there was no way that I would keep running from them. It as time for me to stand up and fight, it is a chance that I would just have to take.

I dove out of the bushes towards my pursuer’s now empty truck, my calves and thighs strong enough to keep me a safe distance from my assailants. The key was still in the ignition, and I forced the cold, dark vehicle to life, my pursuers and I drove onto the road. The shadows of my assailants did not bother to follow me; feet are not a good match for a van. I took a breath and entered highway 39. I would go somewhere, I thought, anywhere to get away.

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It was dark; the only thing that was visible through the thick layers of night was the ocean, and the eerie pale white moon that sat in the sky where the sun would normally sit. She had been here for a while; she sat on the soft gray sand, her eyes unbothered from lack of sleep. As she slowly got her bearings, and shadow in the moonlight passed over her face, and the harsh, yellow beam of a lantern shone in her eyes.

A number of crunching footsteps approached her across the beach, and, as the waves softly lapped at the shore, a gruff voice said, “We heard the blast from the village, and decided to search for survivors and salvage. Frankly, we didn’t think anyone would have been able to swim to shore, but…would you like some dry clothes and shelter for the night? We can investigate the wreckage in the morning, and you’ll tell us what happened to make the entire ship just…go up like that.”

She nodded dumbly and followed the group. She shivered slightly as she made her way off of the sand and onto the worn path to the village. She noticed that the leader of the group carried a gun, and she could only hope that the village did not belong to the famous group of outlaws in the area. Her mind raced as she thought of the terrible wreckage and the exhaustion of swimming to shore, but she realized that she had more of a problem when she noticed the strange markings on one man’s face.

Tears were inked down his cheek, and as his rough upbringing had taught her, that could only mean one thing. Reaching a clearing, the leader brushed away the final branch and revealed a spectacular scene. People all around the place, some dead some alive but all injured and hurt, yet they were all laughing and helping each other up, what happened, what could make these injured people happy? Maybe just the thought of this being over.

WORDS BY THE MHS CREATIVE WRITING CLUBARTWORK BY CAROLINE KUNKA

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June 1, 2012

Office of Admission

P.O. Box 123

Anywhere, State 12345-6789

Dear University,

I am sorry to inform you that I am unable to accept your offer of admission this year. The deci-sion process is a difficult one for all colleges and universities, and I realize that you are likely to be disappointed with my decision. I received offers of admission from nearly half a dozen accredited institutions, some of which were in the admissible range. In fact, I could have had four or five college experiences, considering the number of colleges that offered me admission.

I appreciate how challenging it may be to understand why I have not accepted your offer of ad-mission. Over the past twenty-four hours, I have considered all I know about your university in a most diligent, thoughtful, and careful manner. I made every effort to weigh each school’s location, amenities, and attitude in a scholastic context, as I have never done before. I took into consideration the vast differences among the 3 states and single country represented in the pool. Ultimately, the strength and size of my options dictated my choices. Even the schools with the best credentials were not guaranteed a spot.

Unfortunately for you, my decision is final; I do not entertain appeals, begging, or bargaining. My conclusion is not a judgment about your worth and it does not imply that other students will not choose to attend your university. Reading your statistics made it clear to me that you have many students knocking at your door. I imagine that you are hearing from other students this month, and I am confident that you have many suitable admits.

Thank you for your interest in me and for giving us the opportunity to review your institution more thoroughly.

Sincerely

Hannah Liu

Student

REJECTION LETTER

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ARTWORK BY ANDRA OLKOWSKI