Pegasus

Pegasusthe meaning of the title

Pegasus is the famed winged horse of Greek mythology which has come to symbolize poetry and the creator of the sources from which poets draw inspiration. �e Rancho So-lano mascot is also a horse: the mustang. For these reasons we have chosen Pegasus as the name for the Rancho Solano literary magazine. It is our hope that, like the titular winged horse, the creativity of our student body will take �ight through this publication.

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A NOTE FROM THE EDITORDear Reader,

We, at the Pegasus editorial sta�, regard this literary maga-zine as more than a showcase of our student body’s immense tal-ent. �is magazine is also a glimpse into the sheer diversity of our student community; a community comprised of talented young individuals who are given the opportunity to learn from the unique perspectives and backgrounds of their peers. �is diversity of ideas is essential to the education of a student who wishes to integrate his or herself into an increasingly globalized world. It is our belief that our literary magazine is re�ective of the success of the Rancho Sola-no administration in fostering a truly international education here on campus. �rough Pegasus we have preserved a snapshot of this resulting community, which we hope will help you to fondly remem-ber your time spent at Rancho and those you shared it with.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my fellow edi-tors, Shir Czopp and Colden Balfour, our advisor and English teach-er Mrs. McCarty, and our Art teacher Mr. Sieg - for his help in docu-menting student artwork. �e Rancho administration, our principal Mr. Green and our Head of School Dr. Johnson speci�cally, are also deserving of our deepest gratitude for their commitment to the suc-cess of this magazine and their continued support of the arts. �is magazine was truly a collaborative e�ort, which has personally been among the most enriching aspects of my senior year. It is the hope of the Pegasus editorial sta� that this literary tradition be kept alive in the years to come at Rancho Solano. In an institution home to such talented students, there will always be a need for it.

Sincerely,

Edward King Gaylord IIIEditor-In-Chief

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�is year, our overarching theme of Pegasus isInteriors. �is theme was chosen because the work we have decided to include has provided a glimpse into the private thoughts and re�ections of the indi-viduals comprising our student body. �ese works have all been deeply personal, exploring a diversity of emotional states, cultural identities, and forms of expression. To publish such work requires a certain amount of courage on the part of these artists, to ask that their readers engage with them on a deeper level than that normally conveyed through more exterior expressions. In art, what the individual chooses to convey is almost always a more accurate re�ection of their interior selves than other more direct forms of communication because, in art, the mediums in which this self is displayed allows for a more expan-sive canvas on which to paint one’s own thoughts and ideas. �is process, and the innate vulnerability of the artist attached to it, is the central focus of this year’s issue of Pegasus - as we seek to explore the interiors of our school’s community.

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Interiors

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Volume I2016-2017

Poetry:Corrosion - Jana Vandenberg - 1Foxes - Yuna Shprecher - 5Body - Jana Vandenberg - 7A Child - Madeleine DeBrabant - 9Together - Max Harrington - 15Isolated - Will Dickerson - 19Little Star - Abigail DiSalvo - 24Blossoming - Rafaella Rocha - 26Identity Theft - Myra Kamal - 28Trapped - Hunter Ruck - 31Childish Cares - Christopher Reichlin - 32Be There - Sam Roberts - 34Contrast of the Classes - Gilles De Roo - 35When... - Abigail DiSalvo - 39All - Josh Kaplan - 40Apart - Emma Cone - 42Chatoyant - Avina Naqvi - 44Postcard - Amelie Clark - 48Capuchin Crypt - Christopher Reichlin -52If She Were Welcome - Josh Kaplan - 56Light of the Lion - Myra Kamal - 60

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Volume I2016-2017

Where I’m From - Kathy Chen - 62Moon - Christopher Reichlin - 63Refuge - Madeleine DeBrabant - 66Knowledge, Like Ignorance, Speaks - Jennifer Peed - 68The Awakening - Richard Gonzales - 70Dream Girl - Tyson Legner - 72The Secret Keeper - Christopher Reichlin - 77Lead Skin - EK Gaylord - 84Sugar Cane - Jacob Woodford - 85Shadows Into Light - Willow Nash - 87One - Olivia Schumacher - 88Chercher... - Jana Vandenberg - 91Persequor Noctem - Connor Gurley - 96In the Dark - Christopher Reichlin - 99Je Me Rappelle - Jana Vandenberg - 103...in the cage... - Shir Czopp - 106Hurricane - EK Gaylord - 107

Prose:All I Had - Shir Czopp - 3Man With No Limbs - Jena Vandenberg - 12By the Beach - Dylan Hoffman - 13

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Volume I2016-2017

A Lone Loss - Christopher Reichlin - 17The Little Brown Boxes - Raven Padgett - 21You can’t Reach the Stars - Sam Roberts - 27Something in the Air - Ethan Monahan - 36Colors of the City - Rishita Shah - 45Amen - Rafaella Rocha - 50Awaited Appointment - Sam Roberts - 54Gliding on Water - Hunter Ruck - 58Symphony of Shrapnel - Josh Kaplan - 64Papa - Tyson Legner - 74Chicken Soup - Bingo Peng -75Midnight Run - Caden Hoffman - 79Neruda’s Juxtaposition - EK Gaylord - 81Mistake - Adelina Bidasca - 89The Chance - Angelina Wang - 93Langour - EK Gaylord - 97Gift - Cyrill Cheng - 101

Illustrations:Stairway to Light - Matthew Youngs - CoverIn Chase - EK Gaylord - 6Introspection - Janne Rempe - 8Flower - Cherlotte Yu - 11Bastet - Kateryna Koliesnikova - 16Valley - Matthew Youngs - 20

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Volume I2016-2017

Sunrise Wings - Josh Folz - 23Branches - Cherlotte Yu - 25Das Skeleton I - EK Gaylord - 30Hope - Matthew Youngs - 38Das Skeleton II - EK Gaylord - 43Cityscape - Matthew Youngs - 46Shoreline - Matthew Youngs - 47Wilting - Cherlotte Yu - 49Das Skeleton III - EK Gaylord - 53Lion - Bianca Hjertstedt - 61Neon Impersonation - EK Gaylord - 67Grief - Lauren Puryear - 71Cosmos - Adelina Bidasca - 73Waterfall - Matthew Youngs - 78Desert Plants - Kateryna Koliesnikova - 86Skull Still Life - Nghi Dong - 95Chaos - Nghi Dong - 100Birdcage - Cherlotte Yu - 105Island - Matthew Youngs - 108

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CorrosionJana Vandenberg

Free Verse

Between the northern hills and southern slopesWhere the growth of trees is blocked by boulders,Where streams are drained and dammed,Where light ceases to shine through rocks,�at is where I �nd myself.When life is but a blocked roadBlockaded by steep hills, and even steeper mountains,�e whispering wind becomes a gustful discourse,Branches snapping --

I watched the hatred �y from their branches.In a meadow where trees stood tall and proud,Where hope seeped through the veins,Where prosperity and truth were seedsIn apples on the trees in this orchard of life.Now I see darkness,And watch the heat su�ocate the dreams,Decimate the hope,Steal the prosperity,And corrupt the truth.Where a small white �owerPeaks through the green tall blades,It is robbed of fertility and nutrition.Its light is stolen,Its growth broken.

I see no way out

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Of this cave, this meadow of darkness, this forest of despair.�oughts caught in the branches of surrounding trees,Growth deteriorated by the roots

�e streams that once fed are now dry.�e soil once so full is now barren.�e land has been corroded, like metal by air.

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All I HadShir Czopp

Prose Poem

It was a car crash. �e windows caved in on her as she was hit by a force of 30,000 kg. A news truck. Her head was spinning and her hands were shaking. She was screaming in a blur of confusion, chaos, and dysphoria. Her head was pounding, but her heart wasn’t. Her heart stopped a�er him.

Wait, the car is still MOVING! Why am I still driving? Why can’t I steer or honk or brake? Am I okay? Am I alive? Should I jump out and tumble? It works in the movies. I don’t know where to go. Do I have anywhere to go? I can’t just go with the wind. All I had was him.

It was a robbing. He took everything. He took her make-up, her heels, her money. He took her glasses and that award that was in the back of her drawer that her mother loved. He took one shoelace from each and every one of her shoes. And the ones that he did leave, were le� polka-dotted with mud. He reset the alarm in her house so that every time she went inside, the alarm went o� for at least three times before she could get to the heart of the prob-lem. And even then, a�er she stopped the alarm; there was always that faint ringing in her ear, reminding her that nowhere is safe.

My house isn’t safe. My room isn’t safe. My home isn’t safe. I can’t let anyone in. Not now. Not next. Not soon. Not a�er him.

It was a hurricane. �e wall of heavy water blocked all sunlight; even the tiniest spec. Waves came crashing down like sirens in the night. She became enveloped within the storm and obsessive over the pattern of the lighting that accompanied the crash of the symbols. Zing! Zing! Boom! Zing! Zing! Zing! Zi-Boom! However, there was no pattern. She was helpless. She was more than helpless, more than hopeless, and much more than everything she told herself she was without him.

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What would happen if life had its own metronome? Would it play to the beat of my heart or my mind? I hope it would listen to my mind because if it listened to my heart we’d all be crying on the o�-beat. We’d all be playing in di�erent keys. No rules. No balance. No cues. All I had was you.

It was a broken rollercoaster. Going up was holding superman’s hand but coming down was being a captive to Lux Luther, his arch nemesis. She was light and smiling. Even though a tree of nerves was growing inside of her, she couldn’t help but water it by grasping his hand tighter. �e roots would get tangled and twisted but, it was okay. She knew he wanted her that way. She knew that she was going t—ALL. MOTION. CEASED. �e rollercoaster stopped.

What happened? I thought we were �ying? On top of the world. I thought WE were the world. He was mine and I was his. . . Right? I don’t understand.

�e rollercoaster stopped when it was at its peak. She knew she hadto come down. Gravity would yank her from her throne and throw her to the dull unsteady cement. She knew she couldn’t �y forever but, like most things, her heart’s logic outweighed her mind’s and she jumped.

I jumped too early. I tried to free fall; thinking that if I was bound to him, he would catch me. Everything moves towards gravity, right? He was grav-ity. All I had was everything. All I had was nothing. All I had was air and that was all that I was losing. All I had was skin but no bones to �ll my shell. I wasn’t even a skeleton but a mere case of broken organs. I wasn’t even a medicine. No cure to cure my suddenly sprung choices. I jumped and I fell. I lost and I could see and tell. I lost my emotions. I lost the remnants of myself. All I had . . . was him.

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FoxesYuna Shprecher

Free Verse

Tears blurred her eyes as she �ed from the taunting voicesTripping over the knobby cobblestone paths

Panting as she went, for she could not run fastShe did not stop to smell the wild�owers as she so o�en did

Not the bluebells painted as rich as the royal skyNor the roses and the tulips kissed at their petals’ tips

With bright crimson lipsShe did not halt and listen for the tranquil forest sounds

Not the quaking of the aspens’ delicate leavesNot the musical colloquies of the colorful birds,

Flapping their feathered wingsShe did not, could not yield to search for curious creatures

Hiding between the weathered trunks of trees and glistening grassNo, none of that today, as she stumbled along the rocky, winding, path,

She burst through the paint-chipped door of her homeAnd was enveloped by her bed’s tattered blankets

Nothing else but the so� summer’s breeze playing hide and seekWith the torn-up curtains as the dusty �oorboards creaked

One of her yellow ribbons was missing from her hair, but she did not careAs the words of those laughing boys and girls rang in her head:

“You’re nothing but a silly weird girlWho reads to animals because they are your only friends

And doesn’t talk to people for days on end.You silly weird girl! You silly weird girl!”

Soon the world was quiet, but for the gentle windsDrying her hot tears, brushing her hair, and whispering so�, kind words as

they went: “It will be just �ne, it will be just �neFor you are now stronger than yesterday

Do not listen to those who cannot understand.”

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In ChaseEK Gaylord

Collage

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BodyJana Vandenberg

Free Verse

He who was cra�ed by the sands of the Sahara,Carved and carried far away.

She who was polished by the river Rhine,Smoothed and dri�ed far from source.

She who has bloomed like a Sakura cherry blossom,So� even when fallen far from her tree.He who has lived under the Incan sun,

Bright even when hidden far from the rays.

He has heeded the sand’s might.She has endured the river’s �uid limbs.

She has faced a blossom’s caress.He has confronted the sun’s glare.

Now,All shaped by the same sand,All forged by the same river,All brushed by the same bud,

All gazed upon by a single sun.

Here in heaven, we know not a face, but a body.

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IntrospectionJanne Rempe

Drawing

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A ChildMadeleine DeBrabant

Free Verse

It’s over! We’re free!In America, and France

�e South and the North

We, like �owers,Breathe and �y with our excited wings

Just as you, like treesSway your branches in the windAnd together we look to the sun

Who smiles on us all

Our earth feels our feetSeparated far from each other

And feels us come together againOr so people think

Our sun-�lled rivers and so� friendly handsAre mastered over by

�underous claps and blood sucking liliesNo change, since we still live without hands

Under the reign of the �lthy black kingdom of powerKingdom of sick walls and burning thorns

Inside my cageI remember her who was dear

She turned my tears into sweet milkA mother’s hand

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Gently so�ens her Child’s �ngersWith a touch of love

Like silk laced with the bright tender sun

But I will not feel that againSince beasts have taken me

And put me into the earth’s caves of �reBut weren’t we freed?

Didn’t it end?

We must grab from mother earthWith our underdeveloped handsFragile and missing our mothers

We persevere or dieOn these �elds of our ownOwned by foreign brothers

We are still here, we still sit on burning needlesStill wear osnaburg rags

Still receive marks on our backsWe are not free yet,

Not free at all.

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FlowerCherlotte Yu

Drawing

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�e Man With No LimbsJena Vandenberg

Vignette

Twenty three hours and I was in a di�erent world. It was just desert. Jordan was a desert. A desert as brown as co�ee. For miles and miles just des-ert, or so I thought. Separated from my father I was confused. �e mysterious black car waiting in the dark. �ere was a white palace surrounded by sand and camels. My mother told me I must wear long sleeves whenever leaving the hotel room. I awoke to the sun blinding my eyes.

Jordan was a desert but looked di�erent during the day. Women in Jordan treated like children, can’t leave the house without asking. It’s not like home. Confused. Confused. I tried to forget. Leaving the hotel changed my life. We passed by mansions which were gold compared to the abandoned houses on the side of the road. Looking around there were lots of colors. Spices as red as blood and others as yellow as the sun. All the women in the square covered in foreign black burkas. With some you could barely even see their eyes. Under these burkas were women and their secrets of life that were being shielded from the world.

I kept walking and suddenly heard painful yelling. As if someone were dying. “Please, please help, I no money, I have family, I poor, I have no legs, please help.” I saw the man with no legs. �e man had nothing beyond his torso. Yelling in pain, he begged for money all day and got around on his small creaky board with wheels. �e man with nothing still smiled every day like he had all the money in the world. He smiled like a man welcoming a newborn baby into his life, blooming with joy and energy. Regardless of the war and terror. He still smiled.

�is one moment opened my eyes. I am blessed. I am blessed. Liv-ing in a country where I am not hidden like an unwanted mouse in a house. Where I can drive in a car with any man I want. I am blessed. Jordan was much more than a desert. It was a large desert of lessons.

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By the BeachDylan Ho�man

Personal Narrative

It was on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, it was my last day in paradise. �e next day I would have to return to the burning hot desert with-out an oasis.

I was walking between the dark blue sea and the bright city, there were the four boats that had been in the same place the entire time I’d been here. But unlike the other days, there were big dark grey clouds covering the bright orange sunset.

It seemed like the four boats frozen in time were getting deeper and deeper into the sea of clouds. One of the two places I walked beside was pure but dark, while the other was bright but corrupt. One might think brightness is pure but it’s only an illusion at times, in reality you can’t judge a book by its cover. You can’t judge something by its looks, like a black horizon or a land of bright houses. But opposites still have things in common. In both, once you go in, it is close to impossible to get out, like the raging sea or the busy city. You don’t know what’s going to happen next or what other things are there.

As I looked towards the ships I saw them still, the clouds grew with no way out. As these thoughts raced in my head I thought to myself, does this happen or a�ect me? How could it a�ect me in a way if something so real could all be an illusion? �ere is always a boundary between the two but it is hard to tell at times. In most cases, illusions seem better than reality, that’s mostly due to the fact that illusions are commonly used in dreams and perfect outcomes of a scenario. While reality is what is actually going on in real time, like what actually happens in real life. A�er pondering this question for a while and still walking on the gray sidewalk, the area slowly turned darker and darker while the clouds �lled the sky even more. �e boats still caught in a motionless state had all di�erent colors of lights on them, just like the city’s lights turned on. Finding out how late it was, I started to walk at a faster pace, still hearing the so� crashing of the dark blue sea climbing over the sand and still never going far enough. Once at my hotel room, I slept for the night.

�e next morning I went out on another walk down the same grey

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path as before. All the clouds and the colors in the sky and city were gone, as if the whole atmosphere of that night had disappeared.

Looking over the ocean one last time, I could still see the four boats in the distance, still in their motionless trace that had lasted over the night that seemed like a dream -- or an illusion.

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TogetherMax Harrington

Free Verse

Willows weep in the outskirts of the orchard,Coyotes separate from the pack,

Sheepdogs secure the �ock,Mosses �ourish against the bark.

�e whole is constructed,Once each segment unites.

All are dependent,Di�erent.

When trees bear fruit,When buds erupt from tilled soil,When rain gathers in the clouds,

When the �rst rays of light penetrate the deep shadows,

Individuals gather.Uniqueness merges.Together as some,One becomes all.

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BastetKateryna Koliesnikova

Ink and Paper

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A Lone LossChristopher Reichlin

Prose Poem

�e boy rushed home on his bike angry. �e gears changing clumsi-ly as the bike sped up. Why can’t I �t in? What prevents me from talking to them like they talk to each other? Is it the way I speak or that I can’t talk about anything interesting? He struggled with the lock on the front door fumbling in his frustration. You can’t even move your hands right. �ey are slow and clumsy you can’t draw, or catch, and you can’t even write at a normal pace. Your handwriting is horrible.

His feet sliding on the smooth brown �oor, he crashed through the house. �e upheaval of emotions evident on his face, red and strained. He went past his mom ignoring her words of worrying inquiry. Maybe if I was smarter and faster. Maybe if I wasn’t so clumsy. Maybe if I could draw. Maybe if I didn’t have to say maybe all the time.

He struggled and opened up the glass slide door then closed it due to force of habit. I cant seem to get anything right. I just want to �t in, I want to have friends. At least there’s one thing I am good at…Having made his way into the backyard he skipped over the burning hot ground, barefoot, with relief that would re�ect a castaway being rescued, he clambered up the rough pockmarked trunk. I can climb. I can climb away from the laughing, and the inadequacy.

�e tree branches but steps and the trunk the central column of aspiral staircase. As the boy made his way up, leaves soon created a green veil. As he went higher the tree became more and more cluttered with small living brown branches that would easily bleed the life blood of the tree, and with small brittle dead branches cloaked in grey, stood like grave stones of twigs come and gone. No one asks me to draw up here. I don’t have to throw or catch a ball up here. No one asks why I don’t have more friends. No one tells me to go away. �ey don’t tell me my jokes aren’t funny. Up here I belong.

Soon he could climb no higher. Hidden by leaves and twirling brown and grey branches, small �ower pods everywhere, hanging like small unripe fruit waiting, not yet ready to reveal their color to the world yet. So what if no one talked to you today. You can still do things. Even if they didn’t laugh at

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your jokes that doesn’t mean they’re not funny they just don’t get it, right?�e tree whispered of shelter from the hot sun, from the ground and

all who walked it. It spoke of a guarded fortress that protected only the small and thin. It was a soothing voice that calmed the most maddening of vexa-tions. But I don’t want to be alone forever…

Amongst the tear shaped leaves, tear shaped water fell from the boy’s face, evaporating before hitting the ground like the dreams of any small child failing to meet reality as they matured into an adult. I’m not asking much I just want to belong, and I don’t want to have to change to do it. Can’t they see that I’m trying hard to talk to them, to be friends with them? �e mother came out and spoke up to the tree canopy, to the boy she could not see. A voice �lled with concern and reassurance fell silent eventually as she received no response. Go away I want to be alone. I don’t want you to see that I am weak or to see that I am having a hard time. I don’t want to need your words of comfort.

She lingered for a while before �nally heading inside, realizing that the boy just wanted to be alone. �ank you.

�e palisade of green life faded as night slowly encroached, turningan emerald shelter into a fortress of darkness. Maybe being alone isn’t so bad. I don’t have to slow down or speed up for everyone else. At least I know when I can’t depend on myself. I know what’s funny even if the other people do not.

As the comforting sound of bat wings strumming the air �lled the sky replacing the birds’ warbling and sharp calls, the boy slinked down the tree in movements that resembled a slow avalanche. Maybe today wasn’t so bad I still have the Tree and my brother and my mom and my dad and my books.

He trundled in to dinner, into a house �lled with happy noises and delicious smells and the mother exclaiming “Mange!”

Exhausted, he ate in happy company.

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IsolatedWill Dickerson

Free Verse

I stare at the oceanAlone, no one in sight

�e wind blows,With the blue and teal kayak ready

I set sailClimbing into the chilled storage compartment

Squirming side to sideFitting like a glove on a cold morning day

Waves crashing over my headPaddling to stay alive

Repeating in my head “you’ll be �ne, you’ll be �ne”

�en everything �ippedMy entire body submerged,Water rushing up my nose

No longer struggling to stay a�oat,Only trying to breathe,

Everything was stillNot a sound in the ocean

Only my heart,Beating, and beating

Squirming, trying to break the sealSalt burning my eyes

And then,I could only see light,Gasping for a breath,

But still alone,Isolated.

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ValleyMatthew Youngs

Photograph

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�e Little Brown BoxesRaven Padgett

Prose Poem

She stood in a lonely and lifeless room. She stood in what used to be the room she had lived in for the past eighteen years of her life. She was encircled by nothing but the little brown boxes she had crammed all of her belongings into. �e little brown boxes towered over her like dark shadows. �e meager rays of dawn sunshine crept in through the dusty aged blinds,down onto her golden, delicate hair. Crouched on the wooden �oor, she wasembedding every memory she had le� into the undersized chestnut-coloredboxes.

She had tried gathering the last bits and pieces of what was le� of her and the life she was leaving behind. �e little brown boxes were crowded with overjoyed pictures of her and a few people she could barely call acquaintances anymore. Some pocket-sized souvenirs from her past adventures were scat-tered around the edges of the little brown boxes. �e only object that was le� unpacked in her now lifeless room was her silky amber-colored sundress that meant the world to her.

I can’t leave without it. It’s the only piece I have le� of him since he abandoned me and le� me here…alone. But what would mother think? She’d be upset if she knew I was bringing it with me. She knows how badly he broke me.

“You’re not taking the dress, dear?” questioned the mother “It’s still your fa-vorite… right? Or have you �nally gotten over that dreadful boy? Gosh, I still can not believe what he did to you, dear,” the mother said with a troubled look on her face.“No. I can’t take the dress with me mother, you know why!” the young girl said in an agitated voice “I wouldn’t ever dare bring that horrible thing with me. Besides, it’s out of style anyway. And please don’t bring up what happened again, I don’t want to relive the memories.”

I wish I could take the dress. �at’s all I want. �at’s all I need. �at’s all I need to help me keep going. Just hoping that one day he’ll be back. Even

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if it means I can only see him for a minute. �at’s all I need. But Mother won’t understand, she’ll just make me throw it away when we arrive. Or worse.

�e girl stood in front of her tarnished, dim closet. Staring at thesilky amber dress, like a dog salivating over a ball in a long, repetitive game of fetch. �e jagged antique dress was swinging in the breeze that was blowing in from the gaping window on the far side of her empty room, �lled only with the little brown boxes. �e dress was taunting her, as if it knew how badly she wanted to take it with her.

“All right then, I’m ready when you are, sweetie,” the mother said in a gentle voice, as any mother would “I’ll meet you out at the car. Oh, and be sure to put all of your belongings in the car, dear. We’re going to be late for move-in day.”

As soon as the mother le� the room, the girl quickly ripped the am-ber dress o� of the matte black hanger and vigorously shoved it in the bottom of one of the little brown boxes. Forcefully trying to hide the dress before her mother saw, she grabbed the little brown box with the ragged dress inside, and le� her room. Abandoning the other little brown boxes with her memo-ries, her photographs, her souvenirs, and her past.

All I needed…was the dress.

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Sunrise WingsJosh FolzPhotograph

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Little StarAbigail DiSalvo

Free Verse

It gleamswrapped in glittera tiny golden light

amongst a sea of darknessI want to reach out to it

but I’m afraid if I touch it it will shoot away

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BranchesCherlotte Yu

Drawing

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BlossomingRafaella Rocha

Free Verse

She was the smell a�er the rain,She was all colors in one,

She was the midnight sun.Except trapped under her own skin.

If only she knew how ravishing she was.

Too oblivious wishing she was someone else,It didn’t come to her awareness how enchanting she was,

Truly one of a kind.Hunted by her own thoughts --

�e bleeding eventually stopped.

Her chaotic mind was suddenly at ease,She no longer felt the need to �nd herself in the world,

But to �nd the world within her.Now embracing what she previously saw as �aws:

Her exquisite composure,Her eyes that were abnormally large,

Yet sparkled with hope.�e freckles that danced across her face,

Including the chaotic ideas that inhabited her brain.

She saw herself blossoming,Changing,Growing,

Accepting,But more importantly -- falling in love with herself,

Each day more intensively.

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You Can’t Reach the StarsSam Roberts

Vignette

We were climbing up the stairs. Slowly, not too slow. Wouldn’t want to fall and die. Now we were on the roof. It was night. I brought a �ashlight but it was easy to see. Lights, skipping in rhythm, dripping over a black sky. Squint your eyes. You can almost see them move. Do you see it said Liza. No, I said lying. I didn’t want to admit that I could see anything. I didn’t want to admit that something happened. Everything was the same.

We both were there, Liza said, we both saw her body lower deep, deep and deeper. Until we couldn’t see her anymore. I hoped that she would jump out, skip around and dance like a character on T.V. Our clothing would brighten. I was sick of black. �e rain would shoot right back into those marshmallows. I couldn’t see Liza anymore. Just a small mouth and two cat eyes. Her foamy voice rang. She did ascend. She went up up up past the clouds. �en she passed the gatekeeper, Luna. On certain grey nights like these you can see those like her, �ying above the barrier between Earth and Sky. But you can always see the gatekeeper watching, even on sunny days when the heat blazes and you take a drink from a cooler so that the icy waterfall chills you like winter….Yes. �en it’s easier to see her. But only on certain nights can you see those lights. Liza stopped looking at me and looked at the massive marble monument below, taking up space like a monster on the prowl. But…it seemed smaller now. When you think of her, she will be up there, watching. Her eyes are of the beams of light that brighten the world…when she sees you watching she will ask Luna when you can come and she will say one day, one day. �ere there. No need to cry. It is good to live. She is happy, you are happy, what can be wrong? I want to be up there I said. I want to be a little star. Where is the ladder I can climb, up up up. Oh no, oh no. Liza said. She didn’t look at me, but at my house, and tied a knot between my yard and our roof. You must play and skip and dance. Up there is not your place to be. You are a star in this world, a little star, sprinkling beauty...but you can’t reach the stars. Not until the very last moment, the biggest light in your universe, blasts with magni�cent �re…then there will be a ladder waiting for you. And that? It made me happy.

28

Identity �e� Myra Kamal

Free Verse

�ey tried to silence my identityChip it away with every dayI dug in the bleating hot sun

�ey tried to rip it awayMy family, my religion, my culture, my color

And whatever I had le�- that was dignity-�ey tried to strip that from me too

I dug, I remembered,�at was all I could do

For they gave us beds of board�ey gave us food of water

�ey gave us a shovel to work�ey gave us nothing but to remember

Remember what life was like before they cameBefore they took it all away

My identity was stolen like many othersI even gave up the one thing I possessed

I gave up my hopeFor the fences were lined with wire�e Soldiers were armed with guns

�e Camp was a tortureOur fears were growing by tonsHow I could tread another step

I hadn’t known through painI had seen much blood shed

It was inhumane

And to see the cold faces of thePeople I had known

Was something I couldn’t bear

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Something I could moan�e inhumane acts which humans had done

At the camp, innocents there were none --We fell to our knees and cried to the sky

But I was strongSo crying was a lie

Another thing was stolenMy innocence had gone

What was le� was my coreHard again at dawn

All that was taken from meAll that was lostAll I had gained

Because of the Holocaust

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Das Skeleton IEK Gaylord

Collage

31

TrappedHunter Ruck

Free Verse

My �rst step out into the open worldWas met by a sudden chill,

As we dissolved into the bustling streets.Blank, emotionless faces forced their way

Around me, never acknowledgingMy existence. �e constant abuse of car hornsRang in my ears. �e smell of rotten sewage

Penetrated my nose. Nonetheless,�e captivating lights of the city

Entranced me, each monstrous towerPerforming the hypnotic routine

Like �re�ies in the night. I began to wonder:Does this place ever sleep?

�e endless line of vacant facesPassing me, imprisoned by the

Perpetual cycle of nocturnal lights.An apologetic feeling empowered me.

How can one survive with such lack of emotion?

I quickly shook my head and broughtMy mind back into focus.

�ese people are trapped, I thought.But I don’t have the key to free them.

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Childish CaresChristopher Reichlin

Free Verse

Hear me,let us not judge your men and women by their actions, but by the thoughts

of their children.Open your schools and let us hear your children,

Not their strident voices,Nor speak sanguine of their obvious gi�s,

Do not mendaciously speak of what their thoughts hold,I will not wallow in muddled echoed voices,

But listen to their quiet, resounding whispers,Let them whisper of caged truths they dare not speak

Of gilded lies they shall never sell,Hidden in dark labyrinthine minds,

Whisper of their buried sorrows, their hidden struggles,�eir unburnished pride,

Show me their parents’ character,through childish unspoken words,

Show me the daughter,who goes to school with nothing and comes home too tired sighs and

leaves again in the morning with nothing but comforting lies

Show me the son,who leaves to shattered mountains colliding, screaming, splintering bits of

razor sharp anger, cutting the throat of any conversation now and when they are done,

Show me the ones who have everything but their parents’ hallowed attention,Give me their whispers,

�eir pleas and bargains,Let them tell of their sacri�ces for their parents, their silent su�ering,

33

Let them tell of the sacri�ces they ignore for their parents, their welcome burdens.

Do not let them slip hidden, silent, next to a marching band of words and -conversations

show their cricket mouths and their silent thoughts trapped in turmoil.

34

Be �ereSam Roberts

Free Verse

�e wind gushed infrom the north.

And the shutters �ew back in response.“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” He said as he sat.

�e clicking of crickets andthe colorless foam between the yellow leaves;

falling, and then dropping, as they splattered throughoutthe wet ground.

“I can’t think about that. It would take up precious time.”�e rays of orange began to dip down,

as it was moving.“�en why are you here?”

“To think.”Empty darkness began to creep from under the black sky,

engul�ng all,until nothing was le�,

except a small breath of wind.And us. And what could be seen was gone,

in a blink of an eye.And then, it was blind.

Forever searching for what it cannot �nd.Blinded to the beauty and colors of life.

So when you are somewhere, be there.Else it will soon be nowhere.

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Contrast of the ClassesGilles De Roo

Free Verse

Look here�e inaudible laughter

Of the ordinary bourgeoisieShining in the light

Surrounded by �ourishing �owersOver there

Dig down deeperDriven to despair,

�e overshadowed minoritySitting on the side of the road

Obscured by darkness

Illness ignoredNuisance neglected

We’re blinded by lightWhen will we see�ose who can’t?

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Something in the AirEthan Monahan

Personal Narrative

It had been a really long, frustrating day, despite the cool fall air and the colorful scenery outside. It was October, and my family had just moved to Colorado from Arizona. Funny as it seems, I felt that everyone’s mood had been a�ected positively just by the scenery and weather of Colorado. Overall, we got into arguments more frequently in the dry, Arizona heat, than in the more hospitable conditions of Colorado. Despite this amazing setting, my parents and I had gotten into an argument earlier that day, and I was looking forward to doing something relaxing, speci�cally with my friends.

�ere was a party going on that night, and I told my parents that Iwas going to go. �ings hadn’t quite gotten resolved yet though, and I le� the house upset with my parents, and they were upset with me. �e rules were speci�cally, “Be home at 11 o’clock, and don’t be late.” I had an uncertain de-termination to disobey them – I wasn’t going to pick listening to my parents over hanging out with my friends. It was more of an act of de�ance to “get back” at my parents for our previous disagreement.

Later that night, I was having an internal battle at my friend’s house. I was enjoying the party, but I was constantly feeling a chill – like I constant-ly had to look over my shoulder. Next to all the bright lights and music, I couldn’t quite focus on the party. I knew it was because I was feeling guilty for something I hadn’t yet committed. Over the course of the night, I felt my phone buzzing, and I knew it was my parents making sure I got home on time. I answered it a few times, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll be home.” I was try-ing to be as discrete as possible. I knew full well that I was going to stay late.

It was getting later, and I glanced at the clock, noticing that it was getting close to 11 o’clock. However, I was in no hurry to be home. “What time do you need to go home?” my friend asked. “Whenever.” I lied. Looking back, I realize that usually when someone is feeling vengeful or rebellious, they forget to think about the consequences involved. I certainly did, because the next time I looked at the clock, it was one in the morning. I rushed home, knowing that I was de�nitely in trouble.

When I walked through the garage door, the door creaked open like it, too, knew something wasn’t quite right. �e entire house was emanating a

37

feeling of cautiousness, almost like the walls and furniture were staring at me as I walked in. I noticed that it was completely silent. I walked over to the front room, and I saw my parents sitting on the couch. I panicked, but I ap-proached them knowing that something was going to happen. I assumed that they would ground me, yell at me, and explain how they waited up for me and how I would have to make it up to them later. But to my surprise, something else happened. My dad started the conversation o� in a completely di�erent way than I had expected. “Ethan, I love you, and I’m sorry for what happened earlier today.” �is so�ened me up, and we embraced knowing that we could understand each other. However, since I had disobeyed, I did get grounded. Instead of the usual complaint that I would give, I replied with a content, “I understand.” More importantly to me was what they said to end the conver-sation. “Although you were late tonight, we are looking forward to building trust with you in the future.”

I was completely shocked. My parents had never really acted like this before. I knew that that night was going to be a new beginning for me. �e kindness and understanding that my parents showed me had helped me more than the usual chastisement. I promised myself that I would use that experi-ence as a way to learn from my mistakes. However, it hit me that this strange change in my parents could have simply been due to the environment. I did a little research just to see if it could be possible, and to my surprise, I read that location or environment is one of the biggest determining factors to a person’s mood.

I looked outside, and saw the fall-colored trees smiling at me. I took a moment to thank Colorado for giving me a second chance.

38

HopeMatthew Youngs

Photograph

39

When...Abigail DiSalvo

Free Verse

When love falls victim to hate,I reign.

When truth falls victim to lies,I raise objections.

When humans fall victim to abjectness,I guide.

When health falls victim to maladies,I stay.

When peace falls victim to horror,I assist.

When kindness falls victim to malice,I reassure.

When adoration falls victim to maligning,I oppose.

When happiness falls victim to tears,I comfort.

Because I am hope.

40

AllJosh Kaplan

Free Verse

“One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all,”Says the white man,

His hand crossing his unfeeling heartAs if he was trying to �nd

A pulse of compassion.

But who is all?

All is not�ose carrying their dreams in their suitcases,

Waiting anxiously at the bow of the shipLady Liberty’s torch of hope glistening over the endless waves.

All is not�ose who slave in the cotton �elds

To earn a mere penny,As the white man wields his whip of injustice.

All is not�e immigrants who

Labor in the fruit �elds still,Ingenuously feeding the white man’s

Hungry mouth of greed.

All is notMyself, and my family,

My brothers, my sisters, my ancestors,Who will inde�nitely wear the Shackles of color around their ankles and their

- wrists.

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All is not�e people I see on the street

Pleading, shivering,�eir soul drowning in the cup of coins shaking in their hands.

Each night I ask myselfWhen I rest my head on my pillow,

Plagued by my own dreams,Why the white man doesn’t see

�at liberty and justice will never be forAll.

42

ApartEmma Cone

Free Verse

My shirt is loose and hair is wildWalking down the crowded corridors

Covered in the thick blanket of drowsiness.Looking for someone close to my heart.

Someone who has been apart from me too long.Ripped from me, shaking me,

Destroying me like an earthquake.Hearing the clock chime from a nearby shop

I dash to the end like lightning.Quickly dodging chatting people

And around the mounds of over�owing suitcasesReaching the gate,

Only to see a window full of the dull blue sky,Sinking my heart into an ocean of despair.

How much longerWill we be forced to be apart?

How much longerWill time play with me like a toy?

Stretching seconds to minutes like ta�y.�e shrieking of the tires stopping, like a bird in the dawn of morning

Her plane arriving, covering the sad blue skyShe walks into the room looking around like a frightened deer.

We make eye contactCreating a waterfall of tears cascading

Colliding like a tidal wave,Sliding onto the ground, arms wrapped around each other like vines

Grip never loosening on what they cling to.

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Das Skeleton IIEK Gaylord

Collage

44

ChatoyantAvina Naqvi

Free Verse

I do belongWith my jaw breaking name

�at I will never �ndOn a key chain kiosk

She does belongWith her throaty voice

Belonging to the land of dunesWhich she once called home

He does belongWith his snowy forest framed jaw

And Taqiyah skullcapPreaching about his misunderstood religion

I do belongWith my wheat colored skin

Ebony, dark-as-night hairAnd my almond-shaped, wide set eyes

We will belongWhen her slender porcelain �ngers

Will interlace with his tender obsidian handSusurrating promises to one another.

45

When most of us think of Times Square, we think of skyscrapers, crowds, and yellow taxis, yet in reality, it is so much more. My experience in Times Square was di�erent than my expectation. Walking through the streets, there was a sense of dismay, of the urgency of drivers blaring their horns, taxis with short beeps, and big trucks and buses with their long ear-splitting bursts of noise. It was almost as if every time they honked, there would be a jump of fear. Smelling the pollution of tra�c from these rambunctious vehicles, the pungent aroma of stale gasoline came from the tour buses and bright yellow taxis. It would wa� over to the insides of the tall skyscrapers. �ick pu�s of smoke in the air made the bright blue sky darker and darker until it turned gray. Restless crowds of busy people walked through the streets of New York, making sure they reached their destination. People went to work in vast, in-timidating buildings, tourists went to sightsee beauties of NYC, and shoppers went to make their purchases at lavish designer stores.

As people scurried across the streets, the di�erent backgrounds and colors of people blended, and distinct tones of foreign languages dri�ed unfa-miliarly through the air. Walking through the streets of Times Square at night was exquisite, with bright, �uorescent yellow city lights �ashing—the over-whelming glares dazing the senses, like the city itself— and intense commo-tion of hustling parties. I can still see the picture perfect skyline of New York, from the lights of Times Square, to the Empire State Building, to the One World Trade Center. My last memory of seeing a lively, vivid, colorful musi-cal, the words “time to trust my instincts, close my eyes, and leap”, still linger in my mind from my trip to New York.

Colors of the CityRishita Shah

Personal Narrative

46

CityscapeMatthew Youngs

Photograph

47

ShorelineMatthew Youngs

Photograph

48

PostcardAmelie Clark

Free Verse

�e sand, the color of the clouds�e white beautiful sand, that falls between my hands

�e ocean, crystal clear�e aroma of the calming salty air �lls my lungs

And leaves me with the essence of the salt�e palm trees swaying,

I hear the wind whisper to the treesA scene of a beach from a postcard lies before me

Yet I feel no enjoymentAs I do not enjoy the white sand

It gets stuck between my toes, and irritates the skin underneath my hair�e crystal clear water is just that,

�e only purpose it serves is having the ocean water dry on my skin,Leaving a layer of unwanted ocean spray

�e palm trees roar as they �ght with the windAnd the fronds lie on the ground

�e parts of the beach form a paradiseA paradise that looks as if it were not real

Like a postcard --

Just like the postcard I received yesterday�e postcard from my sister

�e postcard that was not genuine�at was used to brag,

Not sent out of love, to ask how I was doing

Here I sit below the shadow of the swaying palm treesAnd still hidden under the shadow of my sister.

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WiltingCherlotte Yu

Drawing

50

You’re going to meet new kids today, at one of the most poverty-�lled cities in Brazil, Corupa, said my mom. �e drive was bumpy, it felt as if I was going over the craters of the moon. A�er what seemed to be hours, we �nally arrived at the place where my family and I were supposed to spread kindness, or what I now know means charity. �e place was nothing like I thought it would be. It looked to be hope-deprived and poverty was prominent. Grey as ashes. Everywhere I looked there was trash and used plastic containers. Where are the kids? Mom, where are the kids? I asked. Each question was followed by a don’t be disrespectful, Gabriella. When my eyes �nally met the kids, I wished they hadn’t. Why do all the kids look as if they just came back from the dentist? �e place smelled as bad as my little sister’s diapers. I wanted to go home, this place was so ugly. Every time I asked my mom a question or complained about being there, she would look at me as mad as the time when I broke her vase. You know, there are people who actually live here Gabriella? We are here to spread kindness, if we can help, it is our duty to do so, she said with a �rm voice. Live here? How? Why are all of these kids so di�erent? �ere are no toys or colors, why would you want to live here? I questioned my mother as if she were guilty of a crime.

It was a cold day. �e sky was �lled with grey clouds that eventually started pouring rain. I was wearing three coats of cozy clothing, feeling as warm as a hot bath. But all of these kids, they didn’t have a single jacket on. Nothing but ripped and dirty shirts. �ere was a little girl, certainly younger than me. Shaking. I was wondering why she wouldn’t just put a jacket on. And that is when my mom hit me with the truth, they don’t have jackets because they can’t a�ord to buy one. All of a sudden I felt this enormous guilt cloud-ing up my chest. Why do I get to have three jackets and these kids can’t even own a single one? I proudly took one of my coats and gave it to the little girl, she looked at me as if I was Santa Claus. Her sad look was wiped away and replaced by a warm smile of gratitude.

My mom would always tell me that I should be thankful. But thankful for what Mamae? I would ask her. And she would tell me all the privileges I had. But aren’t all the kids just as lucky as me? Why would they want to live

AmenRafaella Rocha

Vignette

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that way then? See Gabi, these people, they didn’t choose to live this way, that is why you should be thankful you have a food on your plate every day. But why? Why me? Why should I get this lucky and not them? It’s not like I have done anything especial, have I? I couldn’t stop wondering, what about God. Doesn’t he want to help? I’d think but not ask, afraid to upset her. Where was he? Maybe if I just prayed hard enough he would help these people. Maybe if I just prayed hard enough these people would get as lucky as me.

Pai nosso que estás nos céus, santi�cado seja o Vosso nome.Venha a nós o Vosso Reino.

Seja feita a Vossa vontade, assim na Terra como no Céu.O pão nosso de cada dia nos dai hoje.

Perdoai as nossas ofensas assim como nós perdoamos a quem nos tem ofen-dido.

E não nos deixeis cair em tentação, mas livrai-nos do mal

Amen.

I would kneel and pray, over and over again, with my thoughts on the kids in need of my kindness. Oblivious that I had won the lottery and not even realized it.

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Capuchin Crypt in Four Rooms

Christopher ReichlenFree Verse

Let those who would rest not be solitary, butbe watched by those who have yet still life imbibed

�ose who would stand to support this room, stand to inspire eyes of thosestill

passing and standing in guard of dead fellows let lie.

Your backs bore burdens of faith,Your spines with humility and loyalty of faith

Your posture subservient to faithYet still they will provide, to bear eternal your long faded selves

Upon these weary legs we have marched,Upon these weary hips we have strived,

Unto these we now arch to support in life, as in death, our faith evermore,

Here I stand led alive.Shrouded in gloom.

Not in spirit, but eyes.Beholden by those who, upon failure of �esh, still have led others to support

their strength, soul, and faith,

Hung in height, yet low in purpose indeedBorne in light yet quite dim now

In life temporary with unheeded words --In death immortal in their morbid grandeur.

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Das Skeleton III EK Gaylord

Collage

54

Awaited AppointmentSam Roberts

Personal Narrative

We were �nally there. I had hoped that something would stop us from arriving. Maybe we would get a �at, or something would stop us on the road- but that was just a hope. Our car pulled into a parking spot and I was forced out. �en I saw the sign towering above me, its red letters written in bold. My mother,with a scowl, pulled me inside. �e building seemed to stretch out, much largerthan my young mind could comprehend. All the furniture that was supposedto be comforting instead grew in massive size, and stared daggers. Stumblingaround, I tried to get my bearings, but it wasn’t possible. Everything seemed soalien to me, small, docile potted plants turned into unrecognizable colors andhulking monsters sat in chairs. But, the worst of it all, was the tall man. He walkedout from the back door, his heavy breaths mu�ed by his mask, his messy coatdripping behind him as he grabbed my mother’s hand.

“No!” I wanted to scream, “You shouldn’t touch him!” but all I could do was fall into the empty, swelling abyss, and all the memories that I welcomed into my short life le�, leaving me all alone.

�e tall man leaned over me, squinting his jagged eyes, then grabbed meand took me away. Everything around me darkened and all I could focus on was the tall man, his coat painted in red, smearing the �oor and everything we passed. Not a moment later, we moved into an enormous white room through a wood-en door. �e ceiling seemed to stretch away from me, taunting, knowing that I couldn’t be stronger and just climb away from all my troubles. I tried to jump, to escape, but one of the tall man’s henchmen grabbed me and forced me to sit in the chair. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I struggled, I couldn’t escape.

Everything around me darkened, and the faint image of the wooden door beganto shrink. Even if I tried to run, the swirling confusion and the red paint would slow me down and the monster of the tall man would hulk behind. He leaned in closer to me, his mu�ed breaths growing quicker and quicker, and placed a clear vial next to me. I tried to visualize my home. Everything I used to pass by and not notice now became more profound, and when I tried to look back on those images and hold them in my grasp, they would be severed by the tall man’s cruel dagger.

55

As his dagger came closer and closer, the mu�ed breaths of the tall man began to match my own. His henchman’s hand forced me down, stealing all the memories I held dear in my heart, leaving only a primal, pulsating fear. I turned the other way, and looked up towards the ceiling and called out, but the ceiling looked back and made a cruel grin. Nothing could save me from my fate. A sharp pain came next, pushing into my skin. I screamed as if I would never leave.

It was over. Dazed, I looked around. �e darkness had subsided and a warm light began to emanate from the door. �e tall man looked at me and spoke in a clear voice.

“�at wasn’t so bad, was it, Sam?”

56

If She Were WelcomeJosh Kaplan

Free Verse

I see her as she stumbles her way up the bus steps,Her eyes darting like schools of �sh among an ocean full of white,

Her feet shackled by the burdens of her ancestors.I say to her, “Welcome,”

But I know she is not welcome.

She is greeted with hissesFrom the snakes of discrimination

About to strangle their prey.I say to her, “Welcome,”

But I know she is not welcome.

She Parks herselfNext to a white man,

�e scorn on his face a knifeSlicing into the fruit of justice,

Its crimson juice carelessly staining the bus seat.I say to her, “Welcome,”

But I know she is not welcome.

She stands alone, a singleBlack beacon of hope, of guidance,

Amidst a ravaging sea of white.I say to her, “Welcome,”

But I know she is not welcome.

And when she is tossed to the ground and draggedDown the bus steps like Raggedy Ann

In the hands of a careless child,I sit idly in my seat and

Hug my briefcase closer to my chest..

57

I do nothing and say even less,Because I am already �ve minutes late for a meeting downtown.

I say to her, “Welcome,”And I know she is not welcome,But I still wish she would stay.

58

Gliding on WaterHunter Ruck

Personal Narrative

It was a pleasant cool morning in Kelowna, British Columbia, when my father opened my door and mumbled something about clear, �at water down on the lake… or at least it was mumbling to me. Drowsily, I picked up my phone and checked for meaningless noti�cations, for I was too tired to make anything of them. When I �nally dragged myself out of my warm, invit-ing bed, another call came from my father, this one somewhat clearer to me. He told me something about meeting him down at the dock in �ve minutes, and to bring a towel. Responding sharply, mostly because it was much too early for a comfortable conversation, I voiced my understanding and slowly staggered to retrieve a towel from the fragrant bathroom.

A�er what seemed like seconds, I was at the end of the dock next to my grandfather’s white and yellow boat, which was being hastily prepared by four men. I hopped into the boat and it was slowly lowered into the clear, frigid water. �e boat slowly rumbled its way into the lake. I was chosen by my elders to be the �rst victim of the arctic waters below us. Still caught in my lethargic fantasy, I slipped on a lifejacket and began to soap the heels of my ski. A�er some di�culty my feet snuck their way into the cramped boots and I stood on the back platform of the boat, trying to maintain my balance. I blindly leaped from the boat into the icy-cold water.

Within a second I was snapped back into reality, for my body was momentarily shocked by the sudden chills seemingly reaching my bones. As I sat there in the numbing lake, the boat was slowly idled into position. Just then, I looked away from the challenge before me to recognize the absolute beauty around me. �e surrounding rolling green hills created a unique feeling of isolation, one which I had never experienced before. �is feeling of isolation closed o� the valley of Kelowna from the complications of everyday life, a getaway from my own reality. �e water, in the center of this peaceful paradise, was calm and glistening under the dazzling orange-yellow sunrise. �rough my eyes, the whole valley was without a �aw.

Turning my attention back to my current occupation, I struggled to steady my ski in the water. When attempting to straighten it, the ski would simply fall to the other side. Finally, I was able to keep it in line for just long

59

enough, and the cue �ew out of my mouth in an anxious hurry. Suddenly, my arms were jolted forward and I began to feel the ski plowing through heavy water.

White water parted underneath me as I began to rise out of the lake, moving faster and faster. With a �nal push, I shi�ed my hips forward and my shoulders back to try and establish a steady balance. I felt the ski begin to shake. �e shaking then grew into larger and larger sweeps back and forth. Fi-nally, my feet swept out from under me. Far from gracefully, my body lunged sideways and my face made a sudden and powerful collision with the water. When I resurfaced, I felt a mixed sense of pride. I lasted three seconds!

60

Light of the LionMyra Kamal

Free Verse

Shall I compare the Lion�at places himself in royal manner

Whose blue eyes say things as deep as the sea�e victim of con�dence

�e king of prideA hardened core of yet so�er eyes?

His mane of golden light trickles downAnd his tenacious gaze searches the skyOh, the lion’s thunderous growl and roar

Whilst the harsh pounding rain does not move himHe stands tall, as proud as ever

As the Earth starts to cryNothing will change his forever certain mind

He need not endeavor,Not just yet

He out shines the rain with its gloomy skyAnd for miles and miles of land

�e one thing seen is a beacon of �re in the dark rainA �re that does not get put out

�e lion’s light makes him stronger�e light he embraces with not an ounce of refrain

�e light that’s in him�e lion is within us all.

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LionBianca Hjertstedt

Drawing

62

Where I’m FromKathy Chen

Free Verse

I am from the ringtones of loud phone calls,the ding of text messages.

I am from the oily keyboard,the bright screen and voices of YouTubers.

Being able to see the world, at the touch of my �ngertips,�nally able to see the exploding bombs and harmful words

I am from the rushing students, the frazzled teachers�e sounds of books falling, lockers slamming loudly

I am from quiet secrets spreading,�e truth �nally being told.

Lost friends, the feeling of having only books to turn to,Struggling to be in a sea of all the other school �sh

I am from the sharp pain of pointe shoes,the red blisters on my feet and the salty sweat trickling down my face

I am from belting my voice, �ghting against the voice cracks,just so my voice can �nally be heard.

�e hard work and e�ort I have poured into my cupWill all be worth it when I take a sip.

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MoonChristopher Reichlin

Free Verse

Did you see the night the moon cried?Did you see the pain deep in her eyes?

�e way she le� silvered tears in the dark deceiving skies?How she sulked, melancholic, fading away from the light?

Did you notice when the shaggy, worn, and scarred coyoteYipped, pranced, jestered, and cried

So he could see the moon laugh and smile,As he worked the darkness, numbness and fear

Away from her mind?

Did you sigh when the sunrise cameAnd they both vanished,

Till the next time her sad, sweet, gaze �lled the skies?

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�e Symphony of ShrapnelJosh Kaplan

Prose Poem

8:19am.

�e sturdy oak front door swung open with its usual creak. He knewhe was late. He needed to be in Sderot by 9, and the bus ride would take him more than an hour. He swiped away the strands of his wife’s chestnut hair, revealing a pale forehead wrinkled from years of worry. As he looked into her eyes, he reminded her, as he did every day: “Don’t leave the kids alone. You remember what happened two years ago, right?”

She nodded her head, her translucent blue eyes glimmering with the memory. Of course I remember. �ere’s no need to worry, Chaim. We haven’t heard from them in two years. We live in Israel, but we are safe.

“Yes, Chaim,” she said, the indignation in her words slicing the air like a crys-tal blade.

He walked out, his footsteps imprinting the grass with his hesitancy. She moved to the playroom where their three small kids were playing. She could hear their laughter, a reminder of their innocence, from down the hall-way. Sticking her head inside the doorway, she saw Barbies and Legos and toy cars strewn across the ragged polyester carpet.

I cannot believe how well they’re getting along. �ank God.

She remembered the day—two years ago yesterday, to be exact—when the Israeli o�cials visited their house, ordering them to build a bomb shelter. Chaim had the playroom converted, covering the peeling sky blue wallpaper with thick concrete to meet city code. �e window was barred, and nothing adorned the stark gray walls. It wasn’t pretty, but they hoped it would be enough.

A toy car crashing into the wall snapped her out of her thoughts. A faint smile spreading across her lips like a rosebud opening with the sunshine, she ran her delicate �ngertips over the wooden mezuzah on the doorframe and le�, her skirt rippling behind her with an invisible ocean breeze. She

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began to get ready in the bathroom, the cold travertine underneath her feet sending a shiver up her spine. She reached for the shower handle, relieved that Chaim had le�, and that the children were, for once, enjoying each oth-er’s company.

�e warm water enveloped her like a hug from an old friend. She massagedthe fragrant shampoo into her tired scalp, the glint of her silver Magen Davidring amidst the bubbles forming atop her chestnut hair. A tuneless whistle be-gan to escape her chapped lips. She forgot about her husband and how uneasyhe would feel if he knew she had le� their young children to play while sheshowered. Her mind began to wander.

I still have to so much to do… the dishes need to be washed, and I have to do the laundry before Shabbat. And I can’t forget about �xing dinner for the ki—

�e ever-familiar rocket sirens began to scream at the top of their smoke-�lled lungs, begging her to listen.

Emma, you only have 15 seconds. Emma, you need to move.

But her tuneless whistle silenced the sirens bellowing in the distance.

Emma, do you hear us?

�e symphony of shrapnel reached a crescendo, shattering the window likeviolins frantically bowing to keep time with the conductor. �e rocket’s disso-nant chord crumbled the concrete walls. �e kids, surrounded by Barbies andLegos and toy cars, disappeared underneath the wall with the barred window,their smiles indelible amongst the rubble.

�e sirens cried, their invisible tears �owing like the water from the shower.

Another Hamas rocket engulfed the house in �ames, the explosion like a train car going o� the track. �e roof surrendered to Death’s iron grip. Emma’s whistling stopped.

Chaim, still at work, tuned into the news during his break. “Hamas has claimed responsibility for the bombings in Sderot. House hit on Chesed Bou-levard. Twenty killed.”

He frantically picked up the phone, the silence between rings an a�rmation of the nightmares that have kept him awake each night.

I need you to pick up, Emma. Please. Answer.

But nobody answered.

Nobody will ever answer.

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RefugeMadeleine de Brabant

Free Verse

When the earth is crackling,When my home is shatteringAnd I trudge to you for help,

You throw the rain and thunder at my feetWhen I arrive at your city

You stomp your feet in my faceYou drag my body into a warren

Alike to our old bosses,Where impotency becomes our ground

�e hubris that you protectMoulds my soul into black ice

So I cannot regenerate

To come and make my life better,You seize my hand

And slice it o� a thousand times.

What devils do you coerce into evil?�at you bear to watch, smile and look afar while I weep

Because of your plunder

We will waitWait, pause, and halt ourselves

Perhaps our greatness will be recognized

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Neon ImpersonationEK Gaylord

Sculpture

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Knowledge, like Ignorance, SpeaksJennifer Peed

Free Verse

StandingAgainst the crowd.

“What are we other than human?”A blur

Faces suddenly interested in their shoes.“What are we other than what we are?”

An old woman whispers to her grandchildWarning her of the danger of curiosity.

“Why do we treat one another the way we do?”A young face passes slowly

Digesting his words.“What makes you any di�erent from me?”

He points at the blur pushing past him.“Why is it that nobody questions equality until they face inequality?”

A man with dark skin stops at the curb, letting the words sink through his skin.

“How can we say that America is the land of the free,When our sense of freedom is in question?”

�e blur fadesFaces beginning to look his way.

“Why do we shame men for the color of their skin or the country of their birth?”

Red and blue �ash across his face.“When did freedom become criminal?”

Metal on his wrists.“You have the right to remain silent…”

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�e young man stood at the curb“Look at me!”

Sunlight on his face“What are we other than human?”

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�e AwakeningRichard Gonzales

Free Verse

Hear my call to armsMy Brothers and Sisters

For far too long we have ignored the alarmsAnd watched as thy neighbor withers

�ose in power have made us kneelHave kept us under control through hallucination

By feeding us false information, of what’s real.

�e truth has steered clear of hereAnd success has found the greedy fewPreserved facades and grinding gears

Which caused pain and crushed the new

Support our causeAgainst our division fueled by sel�sh hateSo that we may walk together: free of laws

And live together without the state

For far too long we have ignored the alarmsAnd watched as thy neighbor withers

So heed my call to armsMy Brothers and Sisters

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GriefLauren Puryear

Drawing

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Dream GirlTyson Legner

Free Verse

Her smile shines bright, day and night.If only she knew how I notice the simple things,

�e little things that make her stand out --

A tulip in a �eld of roses.I see her walk by, catching a glimpse of the twinkle in her eye,

Like a star on a quiet cloudless night.Like when the sun’s beam of light

Sparkles o� the crystal blue ocean water in the Caribbean.Her hair �ows down her shoulders in the most beautiful way,

As if she was a princess at a ball.Her personality captured my heart.

She is intelligent,She is independent.She has awakened,

In a world full of illusions.Hearing a simple “hello” �res o� a hundred �reworks of emotion inside me.

She is thrilling,She is scary,

She is nerve racking,She is mysterious.

She is the one.�e girl that my heart desires,

She is my light in a pitch black room.My dream girl.

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CosmosAdelina Bidasca

Painting

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PapaTyson Legner

Vignette

One day you wake up and they’re gone. Dissolved from the earth like sugar, or salt in water. Don’t take your grandparents and what they do for you for granted. Papa. When I woke up, I could hear the birds chirping their happy melodies. Today is Sunday I thought, today I will see Papa. Except, I wouldn’t. He was gone. I was all dressed up and ready to go like a nervous boy waiting for his prom date. Time for church I thought, I wonder how long till Papa is here. Papa. And then my mom entered my room, looking sad like a child with no home.

Sit down kiddo my mom told me, but why I demanded, I want to go with Papa. Papa won’t be coming today, there will be no music, no church, no smiles, no ice cream, no, not today. I saw my mother’s eyes start to tear up. Something is wrong I thought. Papa. Your grandfather is in another place right now kiddo, a better place, with family and friends and no pain. So he isn’t coming today mommy? No Tyreese, Papa has passed, he is with Jesus now. He has no more pain, his hair came back, he can jump high again, and he will forever be looking over you, proudly. Papa.

�e doctors don’t know why my mother told me. He went to sleepand never woke up. Grandma said it was peaceful and he had no pain. Papa. �at was a sad day for my family and I, he was our rock. He made everyonehappy and laugh like a clown at a carnival. We all found closure, comfort,security, and warmth around him.

�e birds, they stopped chirping, the melodies dissipated into thenew dark day as if the sun had been sucked into a vacuum and the moon never woke up to come out. Papa I thought. If only I could’ve said goodbye, I hope he knows I love him. My mother told me don’t take your family and what they do for you for granted. �is knowledge stuck in my mind like a spider reappearing in its horror to feed on the insect stuck in its web. Papa.

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Chicken SoupBingo Peng

Personal Narrative

My father loves me. However, his love brings me unnecessary troubles due to his excessive attention to my welfare. While studying in the United States as an international student, I went back to China for two weeks during my winter break. It had been a long time since I saw my parents. As soon as I got home, my dad became extremely obsessed with taking care of me because I am the only child. However, this time, I rebelled against his excessive kindness.

On the dark morning a�er the day that I arrived, the sky was �lled with clouds and my dad asked me what I wanted to eat for breakfast. I was really tired because of the jetlag so I told him I just wanted to eat a little bit. When he �n-ished making breakfast, I saw plenty of Chinese food on the table such as steamed buns, shrimp dumplings, egg-tarts and soy milk. �e food looked heavenly and usually I would want to eat it so badly that I even dreamed about these foods when I was in the United States. However, at that moment I only had a bird’s ap-petite. So I asked him, “Why did you buy that much food? Didn’t I say that I don’t want to eat that much?” His face went dark, “I already bought this food, just eat it!” Eventually, I ate all the food on the table owing to the fact that I didn’t want to break his heart.

Before I arrived, my father rented a place to raise chickens in another city composed of �ourishing buildings because he thought the chickens raised by a family were healthier and tasted better than the ones that we can buy in the super market. I had no idea that he went to such extremes to prepare for my homecom-ing. Needless to say, I ate chicken every day when I was home because he raised ninety fat snowy white chickens. Basically, boiled chicken was the favorite dish of my parents. Putting the cleaned chicken in the pot, my parents boiled it until the �esh turned to gold. Boiled chicken is eaten with soy and is a typical traditional Cantonese food, but I don’t like the �avor of soy. I have eaten this for more than ten years. As a result, I had no desire to eat boiled chicken, especially since I had to eat it ever since I was a child. I tried to tell them I don’t like boiled chicken with soy, but they never listened. One night, the table was well-organized with boiled chicken, white pearl scallops, fresh stir-fry vegetables and steamed rice for dinner. My father kept using chopsticks to put food on my plate saying,

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“You are as skinny as a chopstick so you should eat more! You can eat much better at home than you can in the US. Junk food is not healthy at all!” From my perspective, fried chicken is better than the food that I’ve su�ered with for ten years in China. However, I ate like a horse in spite of forcing myself to painfully swallow the chicken so that my father wouldn’t be disappointed.

A�er dinner, he brought over a big pot of delicious chicken soup as I was lounging on the couch comfortably, not able to walk because of my full stomach. I was really “happy” to see this big surprise. I asked him sharply, “Dinner had lots of food, why did you still make chicken soup?” He shouted intensely, “I am doing good things for you! You need more nutrients to main-tain health. Come on and drink it as if you were drinking water!” His face �ushed with anger.

�is time, I chose not to behave like an obedient child and yelled,“Why did you make so much food for me? I am not an eight-year-old child, and I am going to be an adult soon! I don’t need you to take care of me like a baby!” I felt like an exploding volcano.

He asked sadly with a loud voice, “Bad kid! If you don’t want to eat it, just leave it there! Why does my kindness always come to no good?” I screamed, “I endured enough of the chicken. Your kindness makes me su�er every day! Can’t you see you are being annoying?” I went back to my room and shut the door loudly. I le� my dad alone in the big, isolated dining room.

A�er that and until the end of my winter break, our family didn’t cook chicken for the rest of time I was there. My father still took care of me, as always. My mother told me that my father spent lots of time on raising those chickens and he killed them by himself. He went to the farm that he rented every day in the morning, so he needed to wake up at four o clock. You can’t imagine how much e�ort he spent on raising those chickens.

When my mother told me this a few days later, tears poured out of my eyes and they tasted like the bitterness in the chicken soup. It was only then that I realized the love behind the soup.

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�e Secret KeeperChristopher Reichlin

Free Verse

�e day fades,As the walls fall,

Whispers seep through.Suddenly light and dark shine through the clouded façade.

Stories of joy, bliss, passion,confusion, despair

and change.�e �ne weave of each thread slips,

�rough the �ngers,How delicate they think it to be as they pass it to me.

Into the tapestry they’re melded,Reassuring them as each �ne string is connected.

Oh,Like a spider

that light dance through the thread,taking care not to tangle myself sympathetic into sticky doldrums,

Instead swi� I use the net for Sight,And to listen,

To use the threads for connection and understanding,

I feel the collected net,Seeing past false visions,

Revealing the hidden secrets.

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WaterfallMatthew Youngs

Photograph

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Midnight RunCaden Ho�man

Personal Narrative

As I was hopping into my truck on a cold Saturday night, my mom was quick to remind me for what felt like the hundredth time that curfew was 11:30 and no later. I rolled my eyes and nodded my head and we exchanged some quick “I love yous” and I was on my way. �e party was so far away but I was used to the drive as I had made the familiar trip to my friend’s house hundreds of times before, I just rolled down the windows and let the cold air blow my hair around. �is is where my tale of rebellion begins.

I had to park all the way down the opposite side of street for the house where the party was, which was super annoying, but I guess that’s what you get for being late. I hopped out of the car and the chilling air hit me instantly. �e rustling of the dried leaves and the thin silence that hung in the air gave almost a spooky feeling as I hopped out of the car. Each step I took seemed to echo throughout the entire neighborhood.

�e walk from my car to the front door seemed to take an eternity as thefreezing wind made my hands numb. I could hear the beat of the music and the laughter of my friends from almost all the way at the end of the street, this got me excited for a thrilling night and what was shaping up to be the best Saturday night imaginable.

As I entered the large, almost mansion-sized house I was immediately greeted by my girlfriend who pleasantly surprised me just inside the door. My girlfriend and I winded down the long halls and massive rooms jumping from friend group to friend group, having casual conversations with each. “He really went all out for this one” is what I thought to myself as I walked through the home. �e thumping beat of the music echoed through the packed halls inevery room, there were �ashing lights of green, red, blue, and almost every color that would blind you if you looked straight at them. Various activities could be seen going on in every corner of the house. I eventually made it to the main room of the house where I spotted my friend wearing his standard Hawaiian style but-ton down shirt and khaki shorts.

I walked over and we, of course, did our signature handshake and then we proceeded to talk about the party and all the other drama or rumors circling around. As the night went on, the party began to die down as it started to get

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pretty late. I believe I le� the party around 11, “�is should give me enough time to get home”, I thought to myself. A�er saying goodbye I went outside and the cold air hit me once again as I walked to my car. In fact it was so cold I began to run to my car because I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt. On my way home I realized how hungry I was, I hadn’t eaten since before I le� for the party and I was starving. My phone had died so I wasn’t able to call my mom and ask if it was alright to stay out past curfew to pick up some drive through. I made the decision to pick up some food before going home and I believe I walked into the house around midnight, so only thirty minutes past curfew. I walked in and saw my mom sitting watching TV,

“Hey Mom”, I said. “You’re late” she replied. “My phone died and I was really hungry so I thought it would be ok if I stayed out a little past curfew to get something to eat”. “Two weeks grounded you know, that’s the punishment” she blurted at me.

�at’s when I became upset, I held my breath, and my whole bodyseemed to shake with rage, “My phone died! I would have called but I just �gured there wouldn’t be any food at home, I’m sorry but there is no way I should be punished for this!” �e intensity of my voice even surprised myself a�er I yelled it.

My mom stared at me for a little bit, there was a weird silence in the crisp air that seemed to hang there for an eternity until �nally my mom said “You know what, you’re right, you were very responsible tonight and you have been good all week… I’ll let this one slide”, and she smiled, said goodnight and walked to my parents’ bedroom.

I stood there stunned for a little bit, I thought for sure that would have been the end of me. I slowly made the quick walk back to my bedroom in complete and utter confusion. As I lay in bed my exhaustion seemed to have a �ght with the pounding headache I had. I lay there and honestly, I felt proud of myself. I had rebelled and stood up for something I believed in, and it paid o�! I smiled as I dri�ed to sleep, “It was a good night” I thought to myself, listening to the cool wind that brushed the large oak trees that rustled just outside my room.

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Neruda’s JuxtapositionEK GaylordLiterary Essay

Pablo Neruda utilizes the juxtaposition of natural and man-made imagery to convey his views on society and nature in his poetry. �is use of symbolic imagery is utilized in “Heights of Macchu Picchu: I”, to explore the divide between nature’s relationship with the indigenous peoples of South America and the Spanish colonialists. Here, Neruda creates a two-fold narra-tive which criticizes society’s mutilation and repression of nature (embodied by the Spaniards) while in the process praising nature as a rejuvenating and liberating entity by contrast. His condemnation of the Spaniard’s colonial exchange with nature, which is viewed as destructive and parasitic, reveals Neruda’s passion for the natural world. �is is also seen in Neruda’s reveren-tial tone towards nature, which is most clearly enunciated in his descriptions of the indigenous people’s bond with the natural world. �is commentary, which praises nature and criticizes society, is continued in “Walking Around”. In “Walking Around” Neruda juxtaposes natural and man-made imagery to explore society’s isolation and repression of the individual, in the process praising the freedom found in nature. As in “Heights of Macchu Picchu I”, the force of civilization represses and overtakes nature. In the process this alien-ates the speaker of the poem, who becomes increasingly attracted to a more carnal state wherein the speaker could develop a closer bond with the natural world he has been deprived of. Both of these poems reveal a recurring theme in Neruda’s work which seeks to condemn society’s repressive and alienating qualities while praising the importance of nature as a liberating force essential to the health of the human condition.

In “Heights of Macchu Picchu: I”, Neruda explores the divide between a colonial and indigenous population’s relationship with nature using the juxtaposition of symbolic imagery. Nature’s relationship with the indigenous peoples of South America is described as almost maternal, with nature acting as a providing entity. “From the leaves, and between Spring and the wheat, / that which the greatest love, as within a falling glove, / hands over to us like a large moon” (4-6). Here natural imagery is described as providing “the great-est love” (5) to the indigenous people. �e phrase, “like a large moon” (6), illustrates the immense generosity of nature in its giving to these people.

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�e inclusion of “wheat” (4) in the passage also speaks to the giving quali-ties of nature, as wheat is a crop which would sustain much of the diet of theIndigenous peoples of Latin America. �e phrases “from the leaves” (4) and“as within a falling glove” (5), paint nature’s endowments to man as an almostheavenly gesture – as its gi�s come from, geographically and symbolically,above man’s position on the ground. �is exchange, importantly, is entirelyconsensual as evidenced by the phrase “hands over to us” (6). In addition toproviding for the indigenous people, nature also acts as their rejuvenatingforce. “I leaned my head into the deepest waves, / I sank through the sulfu-ric peace, / and, like a blind man, returned to the jasmine / of the exhaustedhuman springtime” (21-24). Here, the speaker’s peace and rejuvenation isbrought about by a literal, as well as symbolic, immersion in the natural world– “I sank through the sulfuric peace” (24). �e speaker’s relationship withnature is peaceful, and the bene�ts he gains from this exchange do not comeat nature’s expense. �e same cannot be said for the Spaniard’s exchange withnature however.

�e Spaniards develop a parasitic relationship with the environmentthey invade, in stark contrast to nature’s peaceful transactions with the indig-enous peoples. �e speaker laments “of bodies; steel transformed / into the silence of acid” (9-10). �is passage illustrates a scene where a natural ele-ment is deteriorated, an allusion to the Spaniard’s destructive interaction with nature. �is theme is continued in the passage, “nights unraveled to the last �our: / assaulted stamens of the nuptial native land” (11-12). “Nights unrav-eled to the last �our” (11) speaks to the excess of the colonist’s bere� of that which nature provides to man. �e phrase “assaulted stamens”, speaks to these colonists lasting impact upon the environment they denigrated – as stamens hold the pollen of a plant and are therefore necessary for the reproduction of the organism and the continuation of its species. �e phrase, “the silence of acid”, speaks to the corrosive presence the Spaniards present in this environ-ment. In these passages, the Spaniards present a force seeking to impose “civ-ilization” upon the indigenous people, which in turn denigrates the natural world. �is juxtaposition of imagery associated with the Spaniards conquest of nature with the indigenous people’s relationship with nature demonstrates Neruda’s alienation with the forces of society; a narrative which is continued in his poem “Walking Around”.

In “Walking Around” Neruda’s commentary regarding nature and so-ciety is furthered, wherein themes of the isolation of society and the freedom to be found in nature are explored via the symbolism of imagery pertinent to these ideas. �e speaker of the poem is an individual belonging to society who has become alienated from it, and now seeks a return to nature. “Comes a time I’ check out the tailor’s… / shriveled, impenetrable, like a felt swan” (2-3). �e image of a felt swan juxtaposes natural and manufactured imagery. A felt swan is an image which represents society’s in�uence upon nature; a

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semblance of reality. �is contrasts with the supposed truth found in the natural world which Neruda so o�en praises. In the same vein, as in the likes of the swan’s felt. A felt swan is also symbolic of society’s attempt to recreate the majesty of nature to �ll the void le� in its absence, with super�cial results. �is falsehood leads the speaker towards despair. “I don’t want to go on like aroot in the shadows, / … down down into the dank guts of the earth,” (18-20). It is important that his isolation is conveyed through the use of naturalimagery, suggesting that nature is also something that –like the speaker- hasbeen repressed by society. More than repressed, nature has been mutilated bysociety as evidenced by the line, “there are sulfur-colored birds and horri�cintestines” (35). �is line speaks to the e�ects of society’s industrializationupon the natural world, a common theme in Neruda’s work. �e associationbetween the “sulfur colored birds” (35) and “horri�c intestines” (35) is sym-bolic of the death of nature at the hands of rapid industrialization in SouthAmerica. It is important is that both animals referenced in the poem arebirds, “the felt swan” (3) and the “sulfur-colored birds” (35), as birds are sym-bolic of freedom; as such their mutilation is symbolic of society’s repression ofan individual’s freedom. �e freedom of an individual is always closely tied tonature in Neruda’s poetry, with society acting as a deterrent to the ful�llmentof this basic need.

�ese poems utilize the juxtaposition of this imagery so as to man-ufacture a narrative pertinent to Neruda’s naturalist sensibilities, which in turn reveals the purpose and essence of much of his work. �e central theme of many of his poems, such as “Heights of Macchu Picchu: I” and “Walking Around”, is the inherent con�ict between the natural and the manufactured in relation to the individual. In Neruda’s works the relationship between nature and the indigenous peoples/individuals is seen as mutually bene�cial. �is is clearly seen in “Heights of Macchu Picchu: I”, where the speaker’s relation-ship with nature is described as sensual, and deeply personal: “I plunged my turbulent and tender hand / into the most genital terrestrial territory” (19-20). Conversely, a life separated from nature within society is condemned in Neruda’s “Walking Around”, with passages describing the ensuing isolation and hysteria which follows a separation from the natural world. In these po-ems by Neruda, the self is always viewed in relation to the natural other, with its well-being tied to the state of the natural world.

Neruda’s juxtaposition suggests that individuals – and by extension groups separated from contemporary societal dynamics and power struc-tures - and nature tend to have a positive, almost symbiotic relationship. At the same time forces of society and civilization tend to have a parasitic relationship with nature, especially in the context of a colonial exchange and its resulting industrialization. Although written in two di�erent periods of Neruda’s poetry, these poems are both de�ned by their examination of man’s relationship with nature.

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Lead SkinEK Gaylord

Free Verse

You cried, “�is world is broken”Beneath weight and form made void

Folding unto raspy, grating sounds of dawnScattering a chorus of muted voices,

Le� wandering in the moonlight

But how could I comfort you?Ne’er was I cursed to carry the weight of your skin,

Or to be swallowed whole by nightfallAnd, like prey, devoured by howling kin

So how could you forgive me?My ilk have buried your face in dirt

And now mock the silt which de�les youI cannot li� the burden of their sins

From your scarred and shaking shoulders,Still �inching from my embrace

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrowTo the last gnashed, distraught syllable

And slurred cackle of leather�e past, unburied, stalks the �elds between us.

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Ivory teeth sink into the sweet �bersLazy eyes gloss over crashing waves

Swi�ly.Boats choke out the horizon

Turbulence causes luster to dissipate

Herbs picked and sharedCalloused toes si� through crumbling sand

Now.Land, she is exploited

Hard leather compresses the white sandHerbs picked and Sold

Ivory teeth sink into the tough �bersStrained eyes make out trade in the distance

Obstructed.Ports and trade overshadow the horizon

Lacking luster, jewels are traded on the water

Sugar CaneJacob Woodford

Free Verse

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Desert PlantsKateryna Koliesnikova

Ink and Paper

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Shadows Into LightWillow Nash

Free Verse

�e history books of America consist of a rainbow of individuals,Saddened blues, bold reds, and quieter, more modest hues.

�e imprints of my ancestors were never bold or brash,�eir colors were never painted in the likeness of the great tears and tragedies

of the Arabs and Israelis�e horri�c prejudices facing the African Americans,

Bathed in the reds of their past blood and rightful anger.

Although associated with the warm sun of heritage,Rich wealth from admirable work ethic,

Yellow is seldom mentioned in the rainbow of America.Surely, all colors have faced their trials and tribulations,All faced with the scale of justice and perceived morals.

Landscapes, photographs, and lives all incorporate colors of many kinds,We cannot �ourish without the light of the sun, the nourishment of the rivers

and oceans,

�e warmth of �re, the hope and happiness a rainbow inspires.

It is important to step back,Look in the shadows,

Remember those forced into hiding and bring them into the light,Where all can be truly and equally honored.

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OneOlivia Schumacher

Free Verse

If I could �y…To be one with nature, I’d soar above the highest mountaintops with the bald

eagle.To reach the stars that twinkle through the night casting a so� light on all

below.To see what they see from up above; how small yet interconnected we all are.

To soar through the air,From coast to coast, passing over the Statue of Liberty, across the Great Plains,

And reaching the shining blue of the Paci�c Ocean.From high above I’d see, that among all of the di�erences, there is unity.

From pine trees to palm trees I could go.Observing the lives of those down below.

Seeing there is beauty in all.

Looking down from up above, it is easier to see that despite our di�erences, we

are all one.We are one people living under the bright blue sky.

We are one people warmed by the shining sun.We are one people looking at the same glowing moon each night.

Together, we are one.

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Mistake?Adelina Bidasca

Personal Narrative

Mistakes. We all make mistakes, right? In my case, my mistake hap-pened in Romania when I was about fourteen years old and I stood up for myself. Even you, the one reading this, I am sure you have some memories of when you did the same thing in your head. Now imagine feeling like any bad choice you could make would drag you down and down, to an in�nite chain of events. Now I suppose you would be scared to try anything new, keeping in mind you could fail and feel sunken with yourself.

November 22nd 1999. �at’s when I was born in a little town in Romania and everything started. I was raised by my grandma, Bunica Mea, with so much attention and a�ection, but something was missing. Something so small, but so big at the same time. My parents. I didn’t feel their presence so much, because my grandma took care of me better than anyone else would. She would wake me up and braid my hair every day to go school. She would walk me to school and back without being late once. We would take the long way on an alley full of colorful roses; dark red, bright yellow, pure white and trees that looked like they were dancing in the breeze. We would inhale their strong perfume while talking about what I wanted to eat that day. She would cook Romanian food for me with so much love that when I would enter in the broken-down building a�er school, I could smell the tasty food; meat rolls, homemade pasta, Romanian chocolate cake, everything. For the �rst eight years of my life, I had this perfect life with my grandma, but at the same time I had no clue what “mother” or “father” was. �e concept of parents was a total enigma for me. How are they? Do I have the same eyes as my mother? Do I get my impatience from my father?

A�er eight years of watching the grass grow, my parents �nally arrived for me, appearing in front of my grandma’s apartment, taking me to live with them. Same country, same city, but not the same house. Seeing them standing in front of the old wooden door, I turned to stone for a few moments. I wasn’t expecting to see them. Surprised? Yes. Angry? Yes. Happy? Not really. So here I was, under a lot of pressure because I had to live with two people I had never spent more than a few days with. I entered the apartment slowly, shy and a little bit scared. �e combination of grey and red attracted

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my eyes while “my dad” was taking me to show me my room. As I entered my heart started beating so hard that I couldn’t control the excitement on my face. All I wanted was to play with the dolls and stu�ed animals that looked like they were alive. �e �rst few days were perfect, I would spend most of my time in my rose gold room, not thinking about anything, but something was missing, again. My grandma. �e one that I considered father and mother and still do.

Years passed by and I still had no feelings for my parents. I grew up not seeing them as “my parents”, but more as strangers who were trying to buy me everything to make up for the years they weren’t there, but not to o�er me what I needed the most; a�ection and attention. Does a child need money and only toys in his �rst years of personal development?

My parents wanted me to succeed, but with their choices and not mine. �ey would try to get me involved me in many activities, from swim-ming performance to playing the piano. I wasn’t good at playing the piano, actually I didn’t even have the intention to be good at it. Swimming? I’m not athletic. I can’t do it if I don’t have the desire. But I wasn’t just a normal kid with no hobbies or attraction to do something more productive. I liked art. I loved to paint all day long, and would for the rest of my life. I wanted to go to art and design school. But guess what? I wasn’t allowed, because “You can’t earn good money by doing art! Art is unnecessary and without a fu-ture! You need something more stable!” my father said with an angry look. And this was the moment where I realized that I want to be happy in my life, and not only rich. �e conversation was intense. My parents on one side of a room and on the other side, me, standing alone trying to prove my point. I started making my point in a calm way, but we ended up screaming at each other. “Adelina, you can’t choose for yourself! You are only a child who needs a shown path!” “I can choose for myself! I can feel what I want to do and you are blocking me from being happy! Rules over rules. Fights over �ghts. Forcing over forcing. �at’s enough! I have had enough! You have never been there for me when I was young and you have the courage to tell me what to do? How do you know what I like if you weren’t there when I needed you the most? You can’t just come in my life a�er eight years and tell me what to do. I was quiet till now because I had respect, but that’s it. I’m done.” I went straight to my room a�er I said everything that was in my heart.

For a few moments, I thought that was the biggest mistake of my life, but later on I realized it was only the beginning. It was a melancholic day. �e big window in my room showed me the rainy day outside and I could hear the raindrops slowly falling down. I did nothing, but wonder “What did I do?” “Was it a mistake?” “Are they going to leave me again?” Everything inside of me was falling apart and I could do nothing but wait.

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Chercher...Jana Vandenberg

Free Verse

Vous cherchez la vie comme moi?Vous cherchez dans toi ?

Moi, je combatte les démons dans mes rêves,Et les lits sont mes camarades.

Vous aimez les �eurs et les choses,Qui sont les fruits de terre ?Moi j’adore ces choses aussi,

Moi j’adore la vie.Mais, aimez-vous la nuit aussi

Avec les étoiles et le noir ?Moi je pense beaucoup à la nuit,

Des choses que je ne savoir.Mes espaces sont pleins

Avec les livres.C’est comme mon cerveau

Qui est rarement vide.Moi je parle beaucoup des choses

J’espère que toi aussi.Moi je cherche,

Et toi tu cherches.J’écoute à toi,

T’écoute à moi.Oui, il y a des momentsQue nous n’aimons pas.

Mais je la con�anceQue tu connais toi.

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Are you looking for life like me?Are you looking in you?

Me, I �ght demons in my dreams,And the lights are my allies.

Do you like �owers and things�at are the fruits of the earth?Me I love those things as well,

Me I love life.But, do you like the night as well,

With the stars and dark.Me I think a lot at night

Of things that I don’t know.My space is full

With books.It’s like my head

�at is rarely empty.Me I talk about a lot of things,

I hope you do too.Me I am looking,

And you, you are looking.I listen to you,Listen to me.

Yes, there are moments�at we will not like.But I have con�dence

�at you know who you are.

Looking...Jana VandenbergFree Verse (translation)

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�e ChanceAngelina WangPersonal Narrative

My mother always supports me in doing whatever I want to do. She always tells me “Do not give up what you like.” When I was young I really liked dance, even now I still love it. I wished I could be a famous dancer one day, it was just like a target in my mind and the goal of unremitting struggle in my childhood years. But a�er I gave up that chance, I would never dance again.

When I was four years old, my mother found out that I was really sensitive to music and I could always dance to any kind. She asked me if I wanted to learn dance and have a great teacher teach me, I said YES. �en my dance life started. When I came to the studio the �rst time, the practice room was spacious and pretty. I saw a lot of girls who also had the dream of dance in that room. When they danced I watched the smiles on their faces, they looked like me. I decided I would be one of the students in this class and make my dream came true.

At the beginning of the week we learned Chinese traditional dance it was a highly varied art, consisting of many kinds of modern and traditional dance genres, it was very interesting and I had a lot of fun in the class. Ev-ery time the music started it would make me full of con�dence. Gradually, I had the �rst performance of my life. I still can remember a�er we danced, all of the people clapped for us. A�er that performance, I practiced harder every day. My mom learned dance for a few years so she always helped me to practice every movement and I had to stay a�er class to practice every day. My mother would guide practice over and over again, until I did very well. It was very easy to get hurt when I danced, the black and blue marks on my body were everywhere, but I never regretted my choice because I enjoyed the applause from the audience for me and the proud look in the eyes of my mother. In the following years my dancing won various awards. �e trophies were everywhere in my room.

In 2008, I quali�ed for my �rst solo dance competition in Hong Kong. A�er I got this news I jumped with delight, because only the best six students from all of the classes may, as our province representative, get this chance to dance their solo dance in the competition. I was one of the six stu

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dents! For this performance I had to practice every day a�er school for four hours in order to have enough physical strength. I needed to add some physi-cal training, something like one hundred push-ups, three hundred jump-ups. It was really hard, basically every time I would be tired and cry. I kept practic-ing for almost �ve months. I used all my strength to prepare for the compe-tition because I wanted to win, I wanted to get applause from the spectators, and I wished I could delight everyone!

�e competition started, I could see every dancer had adequatelyprepared. �e dancers wore national dress which looked beautiful and exqui-site, their special headdresses showed their unique ethnic characteristics, the dancers timed their steps to music. Now it was my turn. I was nervous, my hands were sweaty and shaking. I heard familiar music that I had heard thou-sands of times ring, the light from the stage was �ashing. Because of the light, I couldn’t see even people sitting in front of me. I used up all my strength to dance with the music, make a commitment to the stage, keeping my mind fresh to prevent making a mistake. Everything is going to be well, I thought to myself. �en the music stopped. Every person in the audience applauded for me except my mother.

I walked backstage and my mother, in a very serious tone, said to me “Did you know how bad your dance was? You didn’t even smile, everyone did better than you! What were you doing?” When she told me this, I could feel how strong her language was. I didn’t say anything and I had nothing to say. It was just like all of my e�orts were denied in a moment. A grievance welled up in my heart. I didn’t get the gold medal I got the silver medal. A�er that competition I lost the con�dence to dance, I didn’t want to work hard anymore because I felt all of my e�orts were ignored. It was a low ebb to me, I started to be lazy in the class, I didn’t practice anymore. In order not to let my mother �nd out, I lied to her. I told her I was practicing really hard but I was not. Gradually, I did not go to class anymore but had some parties with friends. My mother found this out very soon and we had a very serious talk. “Why don’t you go to the class? Where did you go at that time?” my mother yelled. “I don’t want to learn dance anymore, I want to stop it.” I said “No way, you have to go! You can’t stop what you have learned for nine years. Go to class tomorrow!” she shut the door and was gone. She was so quiet. �e next day, she came to my room and asked me “�is is the last time I will ask you, do you really want to give up dance?” I said “Yes.”

A�er that talk, I never went to dance class anymore and my mother never talked about dance with me any longer. I put all of my trophies in a small cupboard and never looked at them again. It was just like dance never happened. A�er two years I cleaned my room because I was leaving for over-seas study. I found my cupboard in that corner and I wondered how I could have so many trophies. I looked in the mirror and rotated my rigid body. I found that when you make a choice, you never get it back.

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Skull Still LifeNghi Dong

Drawing

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Persequor NoctemConnor Gurley

Free Verse

To be forgotten, few know the feeling�ose who bleed are glossed over by the bold strokes of history’s brush

And fade from the icy will of timeSwept away like dust from a mirror

Only remembered in the rotting granite slab bearing their forsaken name�ose who live watch as they rot in the ground they walk

While sanity is peeled from their minds like an appleDeformed by the darkness into a bloodstained beast of a man

Like crows pecking and tearing their soul from themBut we �ght not to be remembered

Not heroes, nor martyrs, not to shine through the strokes of history’s artBut as shadows that dance through the pages of infamy

We are the stained blade gliding across your throatWe wear a mask that is burned into your nightmares

We are the specters that vanish into oblivionPersequor Noctem

To hunt down the nightIs what we say

So we keep our minds apartAs we march on our path wading in the death we cause

For the mind is a wonderful thing to tear apartAnd no longer the �ery demon of man’s fears and devils desired

I am all that is le�Le� to rot in the grinning darkness

And for my once sharp blades to dull and rust into shards of decrepit frailtyAnd be forgotten as a crow �ying into wailing night --

I wait for death’s vast embrace and to join his ranksTo greet him as a friend that I know well

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LangourEK Gaylord

Prose Poem

�e sun cast a so� orange glow to the air and the waters below them, givingthe men a sense that the river itself was ablaze. �at despite the calm of thewaters and the so� breeze that spoke to them, they were bound to be swal-lowed by the depths that lay beneath their humble vessel. To be consumedentirely by the world.

�ey were calmed by the aching sounds the night brought them andfound rest beneath a pale moon and a weathered sky. Clinging to their fellow sailor, with desperate shaking hands.

It was a terrible thing to think, but they all thought it the same.

-“If I am to be swallowed, surely they will be as well!”�is small comfort le� them as the sun rose above the horizon, piercing thegrey sky with a terrible red light that seemed to beckon them downward.With equal parts reverence and terror they looked onto its gaze, blinded bythe unholy blaze which so cast itself upon them.

-“At least it isn’t raining.”Cha�ed a young sailor, as he shaded the sun from his so� white face.

�e captain was almost angered by the sentiment.Oh youth, are you not terri�ed by the stillness of these waters?

I tell you, to the ocean, as well as the soul, peace is a dire state.Salvation, our only tangible salvation, is forged in turbulent waters - plagued with roaring waves and crackling thunder.

Hysterical musings, he might dismiss. I promise you I have not yet been taken by these waters. If I had I might be satiated, content with this lan-guor that claims us.Perhaps he wouldn’t understand. So, how should I presume? And how should I begin? �e truth, by God, I’ve felt it within a stormy morrow at sea - as I pled for even a moment of mercy. Since then, I’ve come to understand that in the depths of all things…My heart beats with the pulse of this world.

Its tempo demands that a body must fold under the weight of deliver-ance. �at much has been attested to, by the conquerors of old. By the proph-ets. �e Gods. But here…

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Here, in this stillness, will it ever �nd me?How I long for the dark clouds of great storms and the crashing of waves, tearing this ship apart. �e roars of my boys, echoing across the heartless sea.

It is this silence that haunts me. �at clings to my soul.I grow weary in its presence. Diminished. Emasculated.My men feel it too, surely they must.

As they stare restlessly upon the horizon.

Now even the wind has ceased. �e waters lie still, unmoved. Ambivalent to the presence of their vessel.

�e only ripples of this sea are born from their oars.As they beat on against the impassible current their hands grow blistered and weathered. Together they wait beneath the burning sun and su�ocating silence, as their souls rasp against the eternal void. Dri�ing in this purgatory - suspended between the abyss and the heavens. �eir only company the fragile vessel cradling them, cracking and moaning alongside their withered frames. All in the audience of an azure canopy, dripping into starlight.

We carry on regardless.

Praying for a glimpse of shore.

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In the DarkChristopher Reichlin

Free Verse

In the DarkWould you follow us into the night?

Take our hands,As we whirl about with a crazy glint in our eyes

We laugh and smile ignoring the harsh streetlightsWe who would dare to be clouds in the night,

Floating, away from sight.

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ChaosNghi Dong

Drawing

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Gi�Cyrill Cheng

Personal Narrative

Like the other Chinese kids the same age, I was forced to join many so-called “interest classes” when I was eight years old. Not only my moth-er, but almost every Chinese parent thought that their kids needed to have perfect grades in school and at the same time their kids needed to study many di�erent kinds of skills in the “interest classes” such as drawing, music and Chinese chess. Because my grandfather used to be a great music teacher in the university, my mother wanted me to study music in the “interest classes.” I actually agreed with my mother’s idea, and I told my mother “I want to study music like my grandfather.” But a�er that, my mother never asked me what kind of musical instrument I wanted to play.

Finally, my mother decided to let me join the violin classes. My mother said “You will become a great young violinist, just like Ming.” She always compared me and one of her friends’ sons. I told him about my violin class. “�is is not what I want! My mother never cares about my mind! I really don’t want to go to this class” and he told me “If you don’t like it, just skip it, like I did for my math class.” I knew this was the most terrible advice ever, but I actually did it, I skipped. It was my �rst time disobeying my mother’s order. A�er my mother took me to the class, I went to the restroom rather than go to the classroom. I stayed in the restroom for two hours. Unfortunately, my mother found out I skipped the class.

“I can’t believe you did such a foolish thing!” my mother shouted at me and beat me at the same time. �is was also the �rst time I didn’t cry when my mother beat me because I thought I didn’t do anything wrong, I really hated the violin class.

“I remember you told me you wanted to study music like your grand-parents, right? If you can play the violin very well, it will be the best gi� for your grandparents,” my mother kept shouting at me.

“Yes, but not this kind of music! I want to study the Chinese musical instru-ment like my grandparents!” I yelled.

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“No one likes these old ugly antiques! Every kid plays piano and vio-lin!” my mother shouted at me.

“Why do you want me to become exactly the same like other kids!” I tried to refute my mother, but my mother didn’t care.

I felt angry and sad, I couldn’t believe my mother called the tradition-al Chinese instruments “old ugly antiques”! I knew that it would be impos-sible for me to make my mother change her mind, I didn’t want to talk with my mother anymore. I ran back into my room and locked the door. Two days later my mother brought me to the violin classes again, this time she kept watching me in the car until she made sure I went into the classroom. �is time I had no choice but to stay in the classroom and listen my teacher’s bor-ing talking. Everything in this class made me feel uncomfortable, my teacher looked like an old man who was in the hospital for many years, he never smiled and he would call the kids “idiots” when they made mistakes about musical notation. I had already lost patience, I decided to skip the class again. �is time I ran back to my grandparents’ home. I told them everything aboutmy violin class. I knew my grandparents would feel angry about this, but atleast they would not beat me like my mother. What surprised me most wasthat they didn’t know anything about my violin classes. A�er that, I told themI skipped my violin class two times.

My grandfather went back to his room and gave me an old instru-ment. “Why don’t you try the erhu?” I saw my grandfather give me two-stringed bowed musical instrument with a long thin neck with two keys at the top, one for each string. A�er that we spent the whole a�ernoon playing this instrument. At night my mother came to my grandparents’ home with an evil face and kept calling my name. I felt so scared and hid in the kitchen. My grandfather tried to calm my mother down and took her to the bedroom and spent a long time talking, I don’t know what my grandfather told my mother. I didn’t talk with my mother for an entire week. I almost forgot everything that happened during that time. I just remember my mother’s face looked very ashamed a�er talking with my grandfather. One week later, my mother helped me join the Chinese instrument (erhu) classes and I found that the erhu is the instrument that I really liked.

Last year in China. I joined my grandfather’s 80th birthday party. I played the erhu in front of all my family members. A�er the show, everyone applauded for me, including my mother. A�er the party I asked my grandfa-ther “What did you tell my mother that time? How did you change my moth-er’s mind?” My grandfather said: “I just told your mother what my de�nition of a ‘gi�’ is.” I couldn’t understand what that meant at the time. Until recently, I read an article called “Traditional Chinese Culture is Disappearing”. I realized the best gi� for the older generation is not their children’s success, but their children’s continuation of Chinese culture and family traditions.

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Je Me Rappelle Jana Vandenberg

Free Verse

Je me rappelle les jours avec ma mèreDans un pays ver et en or

Je me rappelle les jours avec ma mèreDans le pays de sa jeunesse

Elle dit à moiCe n’est pas un choix.

Je me rappelle les jours avec mon pèreDans un pays vert et en or

Je me rappelle les jours avec mon pèreDans le pays de sa jeunesse

Il dit a moiCe n’est pas un choixJe me rappelle aussi,

Une jeunesse sans de soucisJe me rappelle un temps sans d’idées d’appartenir

A une place, seulement.Mais ces tems son passes

Mes mémoires sont un part d’un temps vraiment passe.Le pays vert et en or, le pays de ma mère.Le pays vert et en or, le pays de mon père.

Non mama, non papa,C’est vraiment un choix.

Pour ma mère et mon père. J’adore vous.

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I RememberJana VandenbergFree Verse (translation)

I remember the days with my motherIn a country green and gold

I remember the days with my motherIn the country of her youth

She told meIt isn’t a choice.

I remember the days with my fatherIn a country green and gold

I remember the days with my fatherIn the country of his youth

He told meIt isn’t a choice.

I remember as well,A youth without worry.

I remember a time without ideas of belongingTo one place, only.

But those times are passedMy memories are a part of a time truly passed.

�e country green and cold, country of my mother.�e country green and gold, the country of my father.

No mother, no father,It is truly a choice.

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BirdcageCherlotte Yu

Sculpture

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Solid steel rusted bars of 1940 are my viewBut my vision is the salty air of freedom waving past my feeble cheek

�e Star of David guides my pathKicking the hermit crabs out of the shore line, the seashells mock me

Walking and crawling and sinking�e sand is a pillow and embraces my spirit�e great waves of hello welcome us warmly

�e �ne wind is a muzzle in the breeze

Dirt-white-stripes are my body but the dove is my soulSinking into my shivering skin

�e sand is a block of wood�e waves are ice cold cement

�e shrill of the cement screeching against the wood, cutting the wind intodark disintegrated ash

�e splinters in my sole�e burns on my body aching, the broken belittled ones inside

�e havoc on my home

�e steel rusted bars of 1940 will not only be a memoryA burnt �ngerprint of humanity- branded on society

Like the animals they treated�e inked-numbered-soles they cheated, repeatedly

. . . in the cage . . .

...in the cage...Shir Czopp

Free Verse

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HurricaneEK Gaylord

Free Verse

�e sea waited beneath my vessel, longinglyAnd rocked me asleep, as if I were adri� in my mother’s arms

Le� dreaming of a distant shore

While the wind above the waves spoke so�ly:“She must envelope you

Rest you tightly near her depths,For to love is to consume”

But I, not wishing to perishPleaded for her mercy

And the ocean replied voraciouslyAs I plunged my paddle against her

And still hopeful, fought the tide she sent meWith aching, blistered hands

But the storm clouds rose to accomodate herSo I too was trapped by the heavens

Beckoning me downward, along its vagrant rainAlit by distant, gazing moonlight

With bursting lungAnd gurlged scream

I pleaded:“A moment more

For all my loveA moment above the surface”

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IslandMatthew Youngs

Photograph

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�e Editorial Sta�

Faculty Advisor: Pamela McCartyEditor-in-Chief: Edward King Gaylord

Assistant Editors: Shir Czopp, Colden Balfour8th grade apprentice: So�a Trujillo

Pegasus@ranchosolano.com

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