Friendship
By Brian Zhang As warm and generous a place the world may seem It is a two-way door Man can choose to be alone But it is he who has further to fall. A shattered soul unaware of its own happiness Bearing the chains of society The mightiest beast cries for consolation at a time of darkness and despair, Only when he seeks the same pain in another Shall his dreams become reality. Man can choose to share his cup of coffee For he has discovered the sole key to success. A rejoiced soul whose happiness is held together by the strongest force living to its heart’s content Friendship A priceless treasure buried in the deepest point of my happiness Only to be dug up By you
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Been There. Done That
By Imkay I can hear them say One day you will be alone I already am Ode to Eight Hours
By Maggie Liu If there ever was a miracle Then it happened yesterday I was borderline hysterical That I somehow found a way Every second was a melody Every minute was a tune I couldn’t believe this happened to me And it wasn’t even June I set out to do the work that was due And in an hour I was done I swear to you this story’s true Lies, I have none I went to bed at nine p.m. You could imagine my surprise I woke up, five-thirty a.m. And I was energized You may not consider this truthful But believe me I beseech Not procrastinating has proven fruitful Because I got eight hours of sleep Thief By Veronika Kowalski I got off the train, early, at Atlantic Avenue-Barclays Center, with an adult friend. I was telling her why I had caused a scene as we walked up a grassy hill. She was listening intently. She agreed with my course of action. There were video cameras scattered around the sides of our path. They were surrounded by white plastic in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s face. We were heading toward the forest. I saw a slender, tall, blonde girl running our direction. Then, we saw a boy running after her. He was shouting, “Thief!” so I started running after her, too. My friend said when someone is running into a forest, it’s usually because they’ve stolen something.
I was running after her for about a couple of minutes. The trees got taller, the woods got more dense. The trees were actually really skinny. I remembered the article that mentioned how longer strides made faster runners. I made longer strides. I could feel the ball of my foot digging further into the ground. I leaped over a dried-up creek, caught the girl, and we fell. The boy who was calling her a thief caught up to me. He reached into the reusable grocery bag the girl was carrying, and took out a box of cookies or something. “I would help her up,” the boy shrugged, “but she has the flu.” If he was implying I would get the flu, I didn’t really care. I told the girl. Almost without thinking, I said, “Go home and get something to eat.” But maybe this was her home. And maybe that was her something to eat. As I released her, I noticed that one of her elbows was further down her arm than the other. It's Easy to Break Things By Vanessa Lam Rage slams down, spirals out
Be careful, an earthquake is happening It’s tearing through pride and hope Through wispy dreams anchored by tears And the glass walls keeping everything in (hadn’t they been designed with concrete?) There’s the shock wave, look There are glass shards being thrown out Remember not to let them go Your cloudy dreams can be found another day And hope and pride can be restored But if you hit others with those shards Well, Broken trust is not easily repaired Sweetheart
By Jessica Jiang because you know i am only Alive with my greased stained Hair and with my blood-stained Shirt. because you are Loved. but only because you are Beautiful. they look upon you and only see cupid shaped Lips. and only see a belly button, Crop Tops. they say, show some skin, Darling. i want to see all of You are nothing more than a Mirage, a reincarnation of a forgotten Ghost. show some love, Honey. but they only need you for your Looks. and you’re just a parade, full of fireworks. and then, Nothing. no more love, for you, Sweetheart. Man Named Amy By Veronika Kowalski I’m in a subway car in on a dimly-lit B train. There are a couple of people standing here and there. I’m reading, or doing a workbook, or something. I realized I had fifteen dollars on my lap; a ten and a five. I stuffed them into my coat pocket.
The man next to me smiled. “Hi, I’m Amy.” I started shouting. I looked at my dad, who was sitting a few feet away. I started calling him. My voice was hoarse. He looked around a bit, but his eyes didn’t meet mine. I kept screaming, looking for somewhere else to sit. One lady saw me and pointed at the two chairs at the end of the car. Good idea. The man named Amy started coming toward me. If he sat down next to me, I would be trapped. Bad idea. For a couple of minutes, I switched seats, changed places, tried to get in touch with my dad. Eventually, I ended up sitting in the front row of these three rows with three chairs each, all facing the same direction. In the middle row, there was Tahani, and in the third row, there was Allan, and my dad. I talked to Tahani. “Where are you going?” “I’m going trick-or-treating at Union Square.” “Hey, me too! Are you going with Jada, Nawar, and-” Suddenly, I saw the man named Amy was sitting next to my friend. I started screaming, out of fear this time. Everyone else started screaming, too, at each other. It must have been really pleasant for the other people on the train. “See? That’s what I mean,” remarked Allan. I paused. “Wait, Allan, are you the one who’s been following me this whole time?” It was darker than I thought in the subway car. He cringed. “It just goes to show how certain characteristics can make someone look more menacing than they actually are, and how some people can overreact.” “You wrote about this in your Spec article, didn’t you?” I was buying time to think of a legitimate answer. “Well, people don’t usually smile at me on the subway. And I don’t like talking to people on the subway I don’t know. The fact that he smiled at me, introduced himself to me, right after I put some money away, that was sort of telling. So I think my reaction was rational.” Hand in Hand
By Carolyn Fontanez You lustrous goddess, Yearning to be free. Your ubiquity shines into every corner, Every nook and cranny of the human species. You are a spectrum, liberating The enigmatic particles into beams of relief. Giving us passion, revival, the fruit of our dreams, You caress my skin with a touch Barely like the hand of a mother, but so familiar. You caress me. And I, your innocent duckling, cannot caress you back, But instead I hug you, With so much fear, Not deference, but admiration You have guided me, And now it is my turn to guide you. Who Am I?
By Brian Zhang Don't call me a rectangle with punch keys for I am certainly more than just a mere piece of cheese After all, taking the regents isn't a soft breeze But it just so happens that that is my sole expertise Multiply those numbers, one by one Then engross yourself in all this mathematical fun What's even more, There are so many buttons to explore Just press alpha, for example, and type out the word apple! I'm often confused with my scientific friend But believe me, we're not the same! Now, if you're gonna ask me if we once dated, I'mma send you off to play the SYNTAX error game A graphing calculator, my name shall be called For now you see that I’m not so simple after all Plans for Tomorrow imkay -twilight spurs the sinking feeling of sorrow.
-when one realizes today has been snatched away, -and every day after the next is no longer tomorrow. -the morning has been lost, like every other, it has turned grey. -quietly has the night shown its true colors, terror and fear. -but the night must be where my soul lies at rest. -clutching prickling red roses and his memory dear. -this is my home, and I know nothing but the best. this is who you (i) are (am) Fariha Mabud If you are not part
of the solution, then you are part of the problem. This is who you are. --- “That's so gay” She was just a girl I played with sometimes The girl who was friendly to other girls, like me. The way she waves her hands and bats her doe-y eyes like she’s on the verge of crying. What ever happened to the girl she used to be? I never thought about her in all the years she lived somewhere else. Now that she's moved back, she never lets me forget. Because I have a boyfriend, I thought things would be different. Holding hands, Now I’m a girl who kisses and secretly wishes for more. I want to say “Close your lips,” if only to divert attention away but it’s too late. Pray for release from this purgatory of so many things that never mattered before and will never matter again. She has eyes that say, “I'm the hammer and you're the nail.” I Wonder If She's Jealous --- “So, you want to go to the dance with me?” I was so clueless And I said, “Okay.” And that's the way it happened. Love makes fools of us all. At the dance, I’ve never seen such passion Oh, how I love her fire, her mind, her awesome sense of fashion. (Not that I notice what she wears, it's hardly worth the mention; with her skintight jeans and her pouty-pouty lips and the way she moves her hips With her perfect little purse and her perfect phony tan.) --- “That's so gay” is an expression I hate. Some boys laughed, and some girls, too, one even called me mental. She smiles as if she were my best and oldest and truest and forever friend “If you and I happened to be straight” I never say it, but I think it every time, but it doesn't matter who we are as much as where we are. --- The pounding on the door and the shouting of names LEZZIES! FAGGOTS! FREAKS! After a chance encounter between both her legs. Twirling her hair, dropping her voice, raising her eyebrows. “This is going to be a challenge. But you know me, I love a challenge.” “You should put on a bra.” I will, I say, and I’m out the door, and I know I'm forgetting something Where's my kiss? The thought of it almost makes me laugh --- I have a boyfriend “Shut up for once” And he leaned in before I could say “What are you doing?” I'm wishing I could disprove the words in my head I can't help myself, and now everyone is staring at me. I slip past ashamed to have been caught in the act of being normal --- Writing it down is the way I make it real, the way I find my way into what it is I feel. When I'm afraid, let me keep what I don't want to lose, Say to me: You were here. --- So I walk home alone thinking about how it used to be. I could never keep up with her, and yet somehow we'd always end up with our arms wrapped around each other's waists, kicking like the Rockettes, or swaying like a couple of drunks before we even knew what that meant. Now I walk home thinking the kinds of serious thoughts she helped me to forget. --- When I get home, she has one arm and one leg splayed, reaching for the sky, her eyes squeezed tight, her mouth open wide, crying, “Look at me, I'm flying!” I say nothing back, but run inside to throw myself on the sofa and cry. --- “I’m with you on this one. Love sucks.” She smiles, face breaking out in dimples and I know it's a look that's meant for only me, and I feel my insides flip and my brain flop, and I know I should do better, but so what? So what. I heart love. --- I have a boyfriend? Does it count as breaking up if the words are never said? Maybe we half broke up. Maybe when you half break up, you don't have to say anything. The boy who first clicked the clasp of the necklace, stepped back to check it out, and said, “You look nice.” The master of sly looks and cool moves and smiles that charm the teachers and, sometimes, me. --- I say, “I am not your girl” and he says “I am already gone.” I think we broke up. --- I looked over at her face. Her eyes were closed. She was smiling. Maybe she was thinking. Maybe she was simply glad that I was there. With her hair in a braid, in her high white boots and her short, short skirt. She was a mystery I would never solve, only glimpse in moments she chose to share. --- The flowers, the flowing hair, the flashing eyes, the sun and then the rain and the rain and the rain that never wanted to stop. No clothes at all I blushed. I thought it would go on forever. --- I do not understand this girl, don't understand what I am to her. She doesn't try to hide eyes that have been crying. She says to me simply, “You don't know everything.” And goes to wash her face. My mind is full of not knowing. Maybe that explains the sadness in the corners of your eyes. --- “Remember when we were little and would swing out here in the summer evenings, counting fireflies, pumping higher and higher, racing to the moon?” --- I am a girl that kisses. She is wearing duct tape over her mouth. --- Thinking that she's brilliant and beautiful and amazing and loving the way she dresses and how the heel of her right shoe slips off when she sits on the edge of her desk. What does that make me? --- I ask my grandma, “What were girls like when you were my age? Did they mess with your head?” Grandma's shears go snip, and she straightens herself to look me in the eye. She hands me the tulips and we turn back to the house. “Rise above it,” she says, her hand on my shoulder. The air is turning colder as I tell her, “I’ll try.” --- She lived across the street. The house was empty. The tulips, all but the one dropping in my hand, nodded goodbye as I turned away. --- I go to wash my hands. They aren't especially dirty. Perhaps it's the loneliness I want to wash away. I never even said goodbye. --- A strong, sensitive girl fighting her way out. She got some kind of mouth on her. Pretty as a picture. Now, why do you think I’ve gone and fallen for a thing like her? --- Am I strong when I do not speak, but keep silent and accept the truth? --- If you are (I am) not part of the solution, you are (I am) part of the problem. This is who you (I) are (am).
Blue Scooter By Veronika Kowalski I dreamt I was part of a boarding school. My friends and I were going to visit the public school we went to when we were younger. Most of my friends were taking a big blue bus, one that looked like it was from the city. I wasn’t done packing by the time they all got on the bus. By packing, I mean stuffing a few knicknacks into my volunteer jacket. They kept falling out.
The bus started to leave. It drove onto the sidewalk, then it flipped to the right, then it teetered all the way to the left side and I yelped. Somehow, it got back on track and kept driving perfectly. I continued to pick up fallen items from my pocket, such as my hair tie. When I finally got my stuff together, I started walking in the direction of my public school. There was a police officer talking to my friend. She was telling him, “There’s something on your wrists,” as she pulled out a pair of handcuffs. My friend stared at his wrists as if there was actually something there. I went up to the policewoman. “Excuse me, Officer, but do you know the directions to the school?” She looked at me. “It’s right there,” she explained, pointing at my boarding school. “No, no,” I started, “I’m visiting the public school. I go to the boarding school. And as you can probably guess, my friend Timothy is going too.” The police officer put away her handcuffs. There was quite a conundrum about from where to where we were going, but finally, she came to the conclusion that we weren’t runaways. Gregory came. “Do you know where you live? Diamond Street? Henderson Street?” Tears ran down my face. “I don’t know,” I admitted. I should have just blurted out one or the other and let him correct me if I was wrong. The police officer now wore a tank top with horizontal yellow and orange-pink stripes, and jean shorts. She started telling me about her family problems, how her mom had blue lips. I turned, and saw her mom and her sister. They were riding small bikes. We were in a park. I wasn’t interested in her conversation. I kept glancing at my brother, who was trying out bikes, and my dad, who was helping my brother pick a bike. The officer said something along the lines of “Well, I better tell my supervisor;” she was off duty now. My brother had picked out his bike and was sitting on a park bench. All the bikes were lined up from the kids who were in the park. Of course, they were all too small for me. Most of them had training wheels, or wheels on alternating sides. I liked a blue scooter that was about three feet tall, and had a large footpad. I was thinking, “This is stealing. I don’t want to steal. It’s dishonest,” but none of the bikes were locked or tied down. They were all in a row for anyone to take. Stuy Says Enough! By Caroline Magoc I'm standing a corner of my seventh grade history classroom, my back leaning against the old wooden closets, engraved with names of old students. Some of them watched the towers fall, I think. Others hid in these cruddy closets during lockdowns.
I'm bored with this. I’m looking down at my feet, rubbing my eyes when I see her. She's strong-willed. Her eyes are knives. I can hardly keep mine open as I swipe through countless articles on my phone. If there’s any shred of humanity left, I want to find it. She runs on hatred, on the idea that others just don't get it. She asserts what she believes via MAGA caps and mounting piles of evidence. I wouldn't call it fake news, per se. It's just a different piece of evidence than what you're used to. Damned statistics. They so rarely give you a clear answer, so you're stuck reading in between the lines. You end up grasping for only the conclusions you desire, so rarely what's beyond that. I read the news, but I don't know what to believe anymore. She does. But she speaks on account of people she has never met, about guns she's never seen. She didn't hide with her group of friends, cowering in fear, as rumors of a truck driver, gun in each hand, swirled around her school. She didn't sit cross-legged, eyes glued to the TV screen, through shooting after shooting, listening to the same narrative on repeat, like a broken record which tells you the same thing over and over again without giving you the chance to process it, to see a grey area. All the news denies the grey-- it is all black and white, red and blue, us and them. She didn't want to speak up for change. She just wanted to be the loudest voice. She hated being clueless so much she drew her own connections and called them fact. She had experienced nothing, but knew everything. Today, I increasingly feel like I've experienced too much and still know nothing. Snow Day Andrew Ng Ring-a-round the rosie
Pocket full of posies, Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down! Bright lights, Little wide eyes, Faint rays of the sun, Playing, Laughing, Bursting with joy. Then we stopped. Heard something. Something in the forest. Hushed whispers. Jenna’s mouth is wide open. Emma is shivering. Joshie is bleary eyed. Five heaps of shivering bundles, A frigid chill hanging over me. Finally, Annie speaks. “We’re going in.” Collection of gasps. We’re staring at Annie. Finally, she started to shuffle towards the forest. Motionless. Finally, we’re wading. Big, steady steps in the snow. How to be Sad Amy Halder First, attempt to be “unsad”. Imagine yourself being joyful and gleeful, imagine yourself as angry and explosive, imagine yourself as content and blissful, but realize this doesn’t work. Fail so hard, like you’ve never failed before. Sadness, you come to understand, is mind-numbing, back-breaking, pain-inducing, and you just savor it. You’re a cat enjoying its tasty, warm milk. You just can’t do anything else, you love your milk, stubborn as a rock. You realize it’s best to be insecure, scared, and timid. This is necessary torture, so you can proceed in being sad. Next, feel the tears accumulate as you think about everything that went wrong today. Struggle to keep the tears from falling out where they can see. If they see, it’ll confirm your biggest fears, they’ll know you lacrimate, they’ll stare at you like an elephant in the zoo. Think that they’re right for demeaning you. Realize you can’t keep it in, there’s too much pressure accumulating under your poor, sensitive, hurting eyelids. Run. Push your chair over as you get up from the table as fast as the last time you sped down the stairs at Penn Station, running to catch your 2 train before it left the platform. Run to the bathroom, it’s the only place that they can’t see. Start to cry, just as soon as you close the bathroom door. Turn the exhaust fan and the shower and the sink on all at the same time. Try to mask the pain of the tears streaming down your face and the lump in your throat with all the noise around you. Sit on the toilet and make seal sounds, gasping for air. Hoping that your lungs would shut off, that you get away from this madness. Hoping that they don’t knock on the door. Hoping that you would disappear. Hoping. You hear the thump, thump against the door. They know, you think. They know that you aren’t okay, that there’s something wrong with you, that you need help. You hear them say: “Are you okay? Do you need help?”. Through the noise you tune them out. You love this sadness, you feed off of it. You continue to cry and think about the implications of opening the door. What will they say to you? These are questions to ask yourself: Will they laugh? Will they make you see a therapist, with a pedophillic smile and machine-gun cackle? Will they call your friends? Will they ask why you’ve been acting off recently? You know you can’t change: the questions, and the crying, and the noise, and the pain, it’s who you are. From birth, it’s what you’ve been. With a sad brain that’s been cemented with sad concrete. There’s no going back. You feel like a failure. You haven’t put every piece of paper in your house in its proper spot and you haven’t made your teeth impeccable. You understand these despondent thoughts are necessary to have perpetual sadness. You remember that it is your goal to feel this way. You may want to die. You may wonder if you can jump in front of your 2 train tomorrow. But you know, if you do so, you can’t feel sad. You, apparently, can’t feel sad when you’re dead. Shut off the exhaust fan and the shower and the sink. Wipe your eyes. Open the door. Remember that you love to be sad. Numbers Jessica Jiang I do not understand why numbers dictate our lives. 100's and 90's and 80's and what did you gets and how did you dos. I do not get why titles personify us or why digits defines who we are. Don’t tell me that you don’t get that sense of exhilaration when you smile, cock your head and say “I got a 95, what ‘bout you?” Because you tried so hard to get that grade. You went to the AIS tutoring session, you went to an ARISTA peer-tutoring session, and you studied the material a week in advance. But in the end of the day it’s just a number. Your report card is just a number. Your college application is filled with numbers. Your. Life. Is. Filled. With. Numbers. And why, what for? To get into Harvard, to get into Columbia, to get into Yale, to get into Princeton, to get into what? To get a good job, to get married, have kids, to live the American Dream. But you don’t need numbers for that. You don’t need the titles and the reputation that an Ivy League college brings. And all that stress, all that sleep deprivation and for what? To get a good job? To marry right? To have kids? But that person to your right... He’ll marry, he’ll have kids, and he will eventually die. That person to your left... She’ll also marry, she’ll also have kids, and then she’ll also die. So why are you letting that 65 define who you are if everyone in life ends up exactly in the same place? What are your afraid of? Ending up as a late-night shift Walmart worker? Do you see that 65 as an omen that you’ll be a McDonald's employee some point in your future? It isn't. Numbers don’t foretell what you are in life. A math test or an SAT score doesn't determine your goddamn salary number. A Cold Friendship It never snows in California, and that’s why I was very excited about this winter. My family had just moved to New York from California because they got new jobs. I was a little too excited about the fluffy, cold, and whit-- nevermind, they are not white. My high expectations were met with well, not-so-high reality. The snow was muddy brown in the worst possible way and I was really upset. Like really, really upset. I asked Siri why the snow in New York City are not white. Of course Siri was being dumb and only gave me results on the web for why is the snow brown in New York City. I asked my mom too and she told me that when it first snows, they are white but as the day passes on, people step on them and they melt so it changes color. I went up to my bedroom and set the alarm clock for five, cause that’s the time this dude on the weather channel said it will start snowing. The next morning I woke up before my alarm clock did. The weatherman had lied, it had started snowing a long time ago. I wasn’t upset though because the snow is still crisp white on the ground. I throw on my jackets and went outside. My dad told me that kids normally build snowmen with snow so that’s exactly what I did. After a good hour, I was finally done. I named the snowman Dylan. Everyday, Dylan and I would talk about different things and he became my first and only friend in New York. We go on adventures to fight the invading pigeons and creepy neighbor next door. However, nothing last forever. The dark ages soon came and I had one last playdate with Dylan before the dark ages arrive. By dark ages, I meant spring. When I woke up on the first day of the dark ages, I opened my window and saw a puddle in the front yard. They took Dylan from me. How did I know this? Dylan told me it happens every year. But he said he will visit next year and we can continue our adventures. That never happened. My family and I moved back to California because they got new jobs again. I really miss Dylan, I talk to my friends about him all the time. They got really jealous that they don’t have such a “cool” friend. 12 years later, I got accepted into Columbia, packed up my bags and got onto a plane flying straight for New York. The owner of the house I use to live in is renting it and was kind enough to give me the offer. I walked into the front yard and saw a pile of snow. Immediately, I dropped everything and knelt down in the snow. After some playing around with the snow, I see Dylan, he’s back. We immediately began to talk about what happened to each other for the last 12 years. It’s as if I never left. home pour that sweet cup. we all sit down just stare out that window hearing the stairs creaking, the wind blowing, hearing the cat purr, the kettle whistle. all the sounds of home they float with the clouds far, far away until no one and nothing can be seen until all that is left is the little light the light that is you shining in the sky. around you go, between the planets, around the moon, everywhere and nowhere, until you come right back; back to where it started, back with the sounds, all the sounds of home. Mend Syeda Rahman Your calendar has a date For Valentine's Day And yet you don't You're full of hate Anything that you say To help yourself, won’t Christmas has passed And you still act like the Grinch Something from your past Prevents you from being able to grin You can't keep that chin high You ask yourself why You're so lonely You're one and only You want those chocolates Those heart-shaped cards Those big-sized teddy bears But material objects Won't mend your heart You've had too much to bear You hate yourself Wanna find love again It's not on a shelf To buy or easy to spend Can't keep that heart warm Thoughts caught in a war Because you need some self-love You're fighting a battle, it's tough I, Dreamer Andrew Ng *NOTE: This piece was previously submitted as an essay for Euro Lit class. Many thanks to the editors, Veronika Kowalski, Bernard Wang, and Mr. Grossman, who contributed to this work and made it as polished as it is. This essay is based off of the novel Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, so if things feel out of context, that's why. Il neigeait doucement, mais j'étais entre ses bras[1]. Slow, rhythmic dove-white splotches scattered the bitter wintery sky. My heart was fluttering, a deep murmur of the soul. His arms, slipped around my shoulders, enveloping, and emanating warmth. Through a dreamy haze, deep empathetic sea-blue eyes stared back at me, his electric blond hair slightly ruffled, his smooth, porcelain skin slightly paler in the frosted air. His cheeks also had small blotches, rosy red, a faint brush of colour against an empty canvas. I could even hear small bits of his dialogue. His voice, a velvet-coated croon, soft and slippery, could slide smoothly against my ears. He would talk about art—yes, art was certainly romantic—he would be rambling on about The Birth of Venus painted by the masterful Botticelli. “Cette peinture est très romantique[2]!” he would proclaimed, expressing his burning passion for the piece, and he would stare up at the wintery gray sky with his eyes flung wide-open, the sea-blue eyes: smooth, sunken, curious orbs. And then he yawned. My dreamy eyes fluttered in a flattered surprise. His pink-red lips parted and slowly revealed his cheese-colored teeth. As he was lightly salivating and letting out the cry of a fallen mule, I was falling in love. But suddenly, the blinds started shuddering, a slight rattle against the window. A light gust gently blew through the pages of my copy of L’Amour Sous La Neige[3]. Every chapter always contained a poetic phrase about the charm of his voice and the sensitivity of his soul. Books. Sometimes, I would be tearing through one, enveloped in the black-and-white words, and I would turn the page—albeit lost in a foreign world—and my mouth would form a small ‘o’ in surprise. One time especially, I was walking through lands you imagine you can see. I merged with the character; my heart beating so hard within the clothes he was wearing. I was weeping in the streets of Yonville, my heart torn in the tragic storm of the words into a thousand-and-one pieces, my tears tiny droplets on my peasant garbs, when all of sudden, a disregarding arm yanked me by the back of my shirt, and then my eyes were greeted by the four blank walls of my monotonous bedroom. I sulked for a brief period of time, staring out through the window, gazing at the starless urban sky. I slowly placed my foot against the cool, wooden floor and slipped into bed. Eventually I dozed off, consumed by the warmth of the silky white sheets. Today, however, was different. After reading L’Amour Sous La Neige, I rolled around in my bed, thinking about him. I forced my eyes shut, trying to force sleep to slowly slip across my mind, but to no avail. I always had wanted to be in love with someone like him. I had always believed that love came suddenly, with loud thunder claps and bolts of lightning. Maybe, one day. *** I felt the tepid warmth of the morning sun against my eyelids, and slowly, I opened my eyes. Through my window, broken rays of sunlight, filtered by my blinds, trickled into my bedroom from the December sun. I slowly climbed out of my bed, and slipped on a wool cardigan, my favorite skinny jeans, and my pink knit scarf. Soon enough, I was out the door, headed for the town square. In Willow, a small suburban nook in the evergreen forests of New Hampshire, the town square was definitely the place to go if one wanted to hang out with their friends. In a sleepy, boring town like Willow, where you can find worst seafood of the Northeast, where even old Bertha’s art, the town ‘aspiring artist’ is without expressive emphasis--the town square has all the posh boutiques, the town bank, Willow High School, town hall, and all other essential facilities. Snow scattered the sky as they fell atop houses, lawns, and great taiga trees in the forest surrounding the town. Somehow, the scene from L’Amour Sous La Neige bestowed me an unfamiliar appreciation for the typical lackluster snow of Willow—as if the monotony of the town had somehow contributed to that. I marched through the snow in my leather boots and eventually reached the square. My boots sank softly into the freshly fallen snow, crisp soft plop-plops in a silent winter morning street. After a short walk of 5 minutes, I reached the square, and I immediately let out a small gasp as I stopped in my tracks. The benches looked normal, albeit covered with a crisp velvet layer of snow; the boutiques, closed for the weekend, were normal as well. But standing in the center of the square was a lone figure, painting on a somewhat dingy canvas. That electric blond hair, slightly ruffled and coated with airy fluffs of snow, seemed a bit duller than I had imagined. For a moment, my mouth hung open, until he turned to me. I gasped as I looked at his face—big, ambitious sea-blue eyes stared at me, in confusion—but on further inspection, his eyes were instead a stormy gray. It was him from L’Amour Sous La Neige—except...worse? He walked slowly towards me, and then, arriving about a meter from my foot, he stopped. “What is your name?” he said, softly, in a half whisper. “Kara” I said, my voice, also a half whisper. And the next thing I knew, I was lost in conversation with him. I was babbling on about the wretchedness of earthly affections and the eternal isolation in which the heart remains entombed. To show himself to good advantage, naturally imitating my melancholy, he declared that he had been prodigiously bored throughout his studies. By the end of our conversation, my eyes were tearing up, moved that he had been so bored going to school. Deep inside me, I had an epiphany—I was so bored about my studies too! How romantique! *** Hands were shoving me around, I groaned as I opened my eyes, and stared around, and saw my mom manically shoving me to get up. “What are you doing, Mom?” I screamed, frantic, confused as to why I was in my room again. “You weren’t getting up, honey! I was so scared! Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes lit with concern. My head heaved in confusion, as I gasped to grip some words to answer my mother. “Yea, mom. I just was really tired.” I said, thinking of the safest reply. “Okay honey. School starts in 30 minutes, you better start getting ready,” she said, as she walked out the door. And I looked, an empty gaze staring back from the vanity. My dreams, were certainly only dreams. And then, I laughed. I flung my head back and burst into laughter, horrible, frantic, despairing laughter, no doubt re-experiencing the lost ecstasy of my first mystical yearnings. [1] It was snowing softly, but I was in his arms. [2] This painting is very romantic! [3] The Love Under Snow (Fictitious Novel) Next To Me Alice You call the day and the day before asking, “hey, I’d like your help” Those few words always make me feel like I would swoon and melt I know you do not look at me the way I’d like you to It’s just enough to be by your side but I still hope you’d take a clue You call the day and the day before asking, “what chocolate should I buy?” It’s not for me, yes I know that’s true but still I’d want to try I sat next to you all day yesterday to pick a card he’d love It was blue with a hint of pink complete with a nest of doves You call the day and the day before with a shout of “HE SAID YES!” I smiled a genuine smile I’m happy for you, I guess You call the day and the day before saying “thanks for your support!” And I can’t get mad with a ‘thanks’ so glad so I pretend it doesn’t hurt. Dear Mr. Wind Maggie Can you hear me? I've been calling your name but you never answer. Where did you go? I live in New York now, the city that never sleeps. Please find me. I know, the buildings are tall, and the streets are crowded. You might get lost within the subway tunnels or skyscrapers. I know I have. Maybe you'll mistake another face for mine. After all, there are more than 8.5 million souls inhabiting this city. Regardless, please look for me. I will be the one calling for you. Remember the first time we met? I was all alone, standing in the middle of an empty parking lot with tears trickling across my skin. I asked you if my parents would arrive soon. "Blow strongly if the answer is yes. Cease if the answer is no," I instructed. "Please?" I remember how my words floated up into the air, bouncing softly off the unoccupied concrete before reaching your ears. There was a moment of silence, drowning me in a gut-wrenching feeling of stupidity and despair. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a powerful gust of wind blew the tears off my face and brought a grey Toyota into the parking lot. "Thank you, Mr. Wind." After that, you became one of my best friends. I talked with you about everything: school, family, friends, cute boys, etc. You were my confidant, my rock, and the answer to all the questions that nobody else could respond to. I remember taking a walk each day, even when the weather was below -15 degrees, just to talk to you. That's how important you were to me. That's how much I trusted you. But then I moved. I guess it was partly my fault. I forgot about you, and replaced our time with the mounds of homework that school burdened me with. However, I remember you now. Maybe it's because I'm alone again, standing at the center of empty space and homework packets. Maybe it's because my head is swarmed with questions that have no clear answer. Maybe it's just because I miss you, and I want to hear your voice again. I've been calling for you, but you never answer. Mr. Wind, where are you? Please find me. Sincerely, Maggie. Dream Journal: Origami Boats Veronika Kowalski Join Veronika in her quirky, elaborate, and cinematic dreams in this recurring series. I dreamt it was a rainy day and Ms. Saugin was supposed to keep the entire freshman class. We were put into tiny classes, and the walls were all blue. Occasionally, Ms. Saugin had to check in on us. Connor O’Malley was in my classroom. He wanted to leave but Ms. Saugin wouldn’t let him. She would bring us arts and crafts to do, like making origami boats. When she saw I had something she didn’t bring me, she’d ask whether I brought it into school to see if her activities were keeping us busy enough or if she needed to give us something more to do. There were about five people per classroom. I showed my classmates my tiny playing cards that I couldn’t put back in time. Standoffish Grace Goldstein You say that I’m standoffish Because I’m not the best at communication The truth of my feelings gets lost in translation But you can’t tell me that there’s nothing for me to stand off to When people have read me the wrong way so many times That I’ve gotten into the habit of closing the book I try to figure out which person I want to be But I change my mind too quickly Breaking the mold before the clay can set Nothing about me is ever cemented Even with all of the truths that I’ve vented I change myself for every person I meet It doesn’t always make them like me more They don’t get to know what I have in store When people told me I was boring I believed them When they told me I was low energy I believed them When they told me I was stupid and uncool and childish I believed them But I don’t anymore, I won’t anymore I’m old enough now to draw my own map I’m rapidly learning now how to fight back And I am not the best at communication My feelings will often get lost in translation But I have spent most of my life being told who I am Changing myself for you When I’ve worked nonstop To make myself amazing just the way I am So you can tell me I’m standoffish And maybe you’ll be right But you can’t tell me that there’s nothing for me to stand off against Lessons (A Palindrome) Corinne Pita Don’t waste your one life forgetting what truly matters.
Act like the smart one you are. Try to live out your days Efficiently Not Joyfully. You have to spend your time Trying to pursue everything society tells you to pursue And not wasting it Enjoying every second you get to walk on this Earth. What’s most important in this world is What car you can afford to drive, not something as ridiculous as Feelings and self-respect. Doesn’t everyone know that humans live of off A bank account full of zeroes, As opposed to A mind at peace. Everyone should aim for Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Princeton. That’s where the key to bliss lies, not with Your freedom Your soul Your heart. Those things don’t mean a thing when you think about it. A mansion, wealth, and a Ph.D NOT Love, friends and family Are All you need to be satisfied. I wish everyone could see Life is meant to be hard. It’s not true that There are no truer words said than “Happiness isn’t all we need” If everyone wants to look back on their life with no regrets I believe people have to Think of life as a constant struggle. And not Concern themselves with happiness. People have to Some say “Shouldn’t we enjoy what little time we have here?” Why should we? I don’t get why people ask this. “Why bother with stress” people say Do people not want to live a good life these days? |
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