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SALT

Newtown High School's Literary Magazine

Art from Quarantine

2020 - 2021

We asked Newtown High School students to submit the writing and artwork they

created during the Covid pandemic. Here is the work we received.

Time to Forget, acrylic

Karolena Rafferty

Dream Journal

Zachary Macey

I remember 1st grade.

The sky is sunny, the water is calm, and the grass is green. I’m at the vacation home in Lake Champlain. There’s an island off of the shore. Mom says it’s walkable when it’s low tide. We wade along a slimy outcrop of rock, just visible beneath a shallow veil of water. There’s cracks in the rock. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something: there’s something behind me in the water. I slip, and my leg is sliced by an unlucky zebra mussel. We continue to the shore of the small island, and it is only then we realize the sand beneath my leg is crimson.

I remember 2nd grade.

I like to help my Mom in the kitchen. Atop a stool, I learn to crack eggs the right way, and how vanilla can go in everything when you bake, if you want it to. My brother comes in. He says I should go with him and climb the old fiery-red tree in the backyard. Despite my objection, I am forced to follow my brother. I don’t have a choice. He just wants the company. I sit beneath the tree and laze in the shade as my brother ascends.

I remember 3rd grade.

When I look out the window at the falling snow, I tend to shiver in sympathy. I don’t like the cold when it snows. Behind me, the fire crackles in the hearth. We didn’t go to Lake Champlain this year. I won’t think about it. Back then, in the late and muggy days of July, ash fell to the ground in place of our quaint vacation home. There was no way to stop it. I have no way to stop it.

I remember 4th grade.

The rain is falling.

This is the hardest I have ever heard it batter the ground. It makes a harsh and enveloping sound. The house creaks. I can feel the storm pressing down on me. Angry winds roar, and lightning scorches the earth. A tree falls.

It smashes onto the wall behind me. I feel it before I hear it. The world is hostile once more.

I remember 5th grade.

My dog was mauled on Halloween night. I was carving pumpkins when it happened. I couldn’t help, but the neighbor could. She was a veterinarian.

It’s difficult to carve an eye into my pumpkin. I try to, but sometimes it’s just too much to handle. When the eye was drawn, I knew I had to carve the eye at some point, but now I’m at a loss of how to do it. Maybe the trick is that it’s too early to carve the eye. I’ll give it a few hours, or months perhaps, and then check back in on the eye. Maybe then I can handle it.

I remember 6th grade.

It’s late autumn, and the bonfire glows in the dusk light. It is a wonderful evening. My brother is burning his marshmallow over the fire, and my mom is answering a call. Why is her face so strange? Why are her words so strange?

Mom has to leave to go see Dad in the hospital. His car hit something strange. I look up to the sky. It looks like it’s about to break. The stars stretch down to me to whisper strange things into my ear.

I look back to my brother. He’s still burning his marshmallows. At least that’s stayed normal.

7th grade.

Today is far drier than yesterday. In the torrid air, heat accumulates rapidly, and hangs in the air long after its due leave. It’s in these dog days of summer that you listen to the trees, rustling softly in resignation. But the trees have gone quiet, and the air has gone still. For an infinitesimal, ineffable moment, the world goes deaf. Then, the tsunami hits, and all goes dark.

8th grade.

I cannot speak. I am not allowed to speak. The festival is silent.

Somewhere in the crowd, I know that my mother must be seeking me, too. I need to find her, but something is behind me. I know what it is. I cannot scream. It is forbidden. I search through the crowd. The crowd is so large it’s nearly too dense to navigate through. I need to find her. The stars are falling, faster than before. I duck under the red lanterns, hanging from places I cannot see. Beneath me, the stone crumbles away. It’s under too much pressure. One by one, they are falling to the ground. Step over the bodies. They’re behind you. It is behind you. Run.

It’s hunting you. You cannot see. The air is burning. The trees are silent. You need to face it. A tree falls. It’s behind you. Don’t look back. Don’t stop running. You don’t have a choice. The stars whisper to you. You can’t face it now. Your leg is bleeding. You run faster. One more month. It’s found you. You have to run. It’s growing closer. You can’t run fast enough. Screaming isn’t going to help. It is forbidden. It’s right behind you.

Turn around.

10.

I’m falling. I can’t see it, but it’s just behind me, I can tell. I shouldn’t be afraid. It will be there for me, but I need to let it go. A fire grows within me. How do I continue on? However venomous, it was a crutch I could rely on. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stand after I scorch my back.

I’m moving faster now. I’m in a tunnel. It’s getting smaller, impossibly small, and impossibly fast. I must be falling to the center of the Earth. I know it will follow. My skin burns. I need to let it out. It’s ahead of me now, and at last I see the end of the tunnel. It’s there too, a pinprick of void. I need to break through. Flames fill my lungs and scorch my throat. It’s time.

I breathe out, and the world goes white.

11.

When I was young, I was always told I did everything right. My grades were great, my friends were steadfast, and my family held together. I suppose, perhaps, that being raised in such a way makes it all the more difficult when something goes wrong. After a while, the only avenue you can escape is quiet subjugation of how you really feel.

It’s not here anymore. It was a part of me, and now it’s gone. Despite everything, I’m moving forward now. Walking is painful at first, but I can learn to again.

12.

Dreams are a powerful thing. Some say they’re a window to the soul; that if you know where to look, you can find meaning in the madness, and change yourself for the better.

Wake up. It’s time to go.

Elle, watercolor

Julia Scataglini

Twisted Street, acrylic

Melissa Tagliarini

Wild Magic, acrylic

Puma Marx

My Conscience and Me, digital art

Jocelyn Bazuro

Windancer, acrylic

Puma Marx

Heart of Hearts, alcohol marker on paper

Julia Kaiser

A Reader’s Journey

Juan Mendez

The Closet Doorway

What I remember most is where we were. My sister, tasked with helping me learn how to read, decided that sitting down on the hardwood floor in a closet doorway would be the best location to do so. We could have been situated in any other, comfortable spot in the house to begin this crucial step; however, where did we go? In the middle of a closet doorway, with my fidgety body sitting atop a cool oakwood floor. Funnily enough, I also remember a bed being in the same room. Its soft sheets may have been inviting to any person thinking rightfully at that time, but we sat down in the closet doorway and it was done. My sister chose a classic kids book to help me start to read: Cat in the Hat. Many began their reading journey with this fantastic book by Dr. Seuss, however what I remember clearly is that this version of the book had some sort of audio component along with it. You'd press a button, and it would read out the text in a robotic, warbled voice through a small speaker. Dr. Seuss’s vivid illustrations helped me get into the book: a clash of different colors and brushstrokes making a unique scene that served as an invitation. But I had to focus on the text, because the little voice emanating from the boxlike speaker and my sister’s frown of growing impatience seemed to indicate that that was the purpose of this whole effort.

A Place on the Bookshelf

What purpose does reading hold? One could be out doing tangible, concrete work instead of spending time looking down at inked letters. Looking at it practically, it seems almost as if reading about stories not related to you or your world in any way is a useless endeavor. But, for me at least, reading carries intrinsic power. It can invoke all sorts of different actions and emotions within oneself. A reader may read a book mindlessly, not particularly interested in the content or message the text holds. A reader may also read a book with invigorating passion, their eyes scanning the text profusely, looking for any hidden messages their favorite author might have left for those who look for it. Whatever may be the case, when one finishes and puts down a book, he or she often leaves with something they gained from it. I use this principle as a sort of metric to judge books: if a text somehow affected me such that I now consider or do something differently in my daily life, then that text was particularly compelling. I became acutely aware of this by experiencing it firsthand after my adventure with Fahrenheit 451, making it among a short list of unforgettable novels that have a special place on my bookshelf.

The Closet Doorway

Every reader has a different, unforgettable story as to how they first began to comprehend text. Many learned with the assistance of teachers, their calm direction and sense of purpose guiding the process. Others learned from their family members, with a gentle, loving hand guiding a young reader’s first endeavor into a book. More curious minds perhaps explored text on their own, scouting the endless bookshelves of libraries and classrooms based on fascination of what these musty, seemingly worthless pieces of paper held. Whatever the method, learning how to read marks the introduction into a world of complex thought and beauty, and I know that the experience I had with this introduction will never leave my heart.

“The person who doesn’t read lives only one life. The reader lives 5,000. Reading is immortality backwards.”

-Umberto Eco

Paradise

I can recall my eight or nine year old self reading a Magic Treehouse book with my mom in bed. The feeling of the cool linen sheets and warm bedspread wrapped around me as I read about a magical adventure in a far-off land is unforgettable, and this pleasure I felt was only compounded by the presence of my mother reading some other book next to me. I became further immersed in the text, content with the fact that someone was having their own adventure in another book while I was enjoying my own. Background noise of my dog barking or a car beeping became muffled as I tracked the text closely with my eyes, the story seemingly entering through them. A sort of family joke arose from one of these sessions when the ease I felt caused me to blurt out “This is paradise…” while reading. Now, whenever I go to read a book with my mom, she always refers to it as “paradise.” We make our own little paradise, but not the typical paradise one might think of. Instead of relaxing on a vibrant beach chair next to crystal clear waves pushing against the sandbar, it is a paradise of two people sitting on a bed or couch exploring worlds where our brains get pushed, not the sandbar.

The Closet Doorway

I do not particularly remember the minute details after this. What I do remember is my sister’s delicate hand guiding my finger through the text, pushing it gently. I also remember that there was an air of success that day, that we managed to make some progress in Cat in the Hat. While I may not have realized it at that time, perhaps going back to play with LEGOs or fooling around in some other manner, that funny looking cat had introduced me to an entirely new world. A world of everlasting emotion and thought, a world that dictates a major component of humanity.

A Place on the Bookshelf

Humanity is messy, tumultuous, chaotic, and this was on full display in the world around me as I started reading the novel, which I suppose was fitting for Fahrenheit 451’s setting. It was very early on in the COVID-19 pandemic, around March or April of 2020. Chatter was spreading as the hushed voices of nervous kids in the lunchroom regarded this new virus that was starting to infect the globe.

“It’s only like a 0.5% death rate, what’s the big deal?” I recall one student saying.

“I think it’s just like a worse common flu.”

I myself did not think that the outbreak would be as severe as it is at the time of writing, November 2020; I knew it posed a danger due to the fact that no medical group had found a way to treat it, however I by no means thought it would spread like wildfire and instead believed it would be suppressed soon enough as scientists studied the virus further. I, like many others, was taken by surprise as the months progressed and the virus soon grew to be a serious threat. Due to this spread, school was cancelled. This accompanied a wave of many other cancellations. Classes now had to adjust to distance learning, and a tense air filled the room whenever the news was on, promulgating more grim statistics. Among the time of rigid muscles and eyes affixed to the TV and anxious phone calls to relatives, reading Fahrenheit 451 proved to be a memorable experience, and, as noted previously, a timely one as well.

Paradise

Now I took passion in sitting curled up somewhere in ways perhaps a chiropractor would cry at as I read Harper Lee’s phenomenal work. I was excited to take my ideas that I interpreted from the text to the class and share them in a perhaps restrained, hesitant voice at first but a voice no less. And what played a critical role in this was reading with my mother. With To Kill a Mockingbird, it was not until I discovered the true beauty of the book that I decided to reread from the beginning with my mom. She had made attempts to read it before in the past, knowledgeable of the book’s significance but not interested enough to pursue its pages. I convinced her to try again with me, and we found ourselves sitting on the couch reading the novel as I awkwardly tried to hold it in a way that would allow both of us to see the text clearly. I still remember the groan of the couch suffering under both our weights and the ache in my hand of holding the book up for hours. I can even remember the setting outside, the beautiful yellow and red fall leaves covering and contrasting against the dark pavement of the driveway.

“That’s the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet.”

-Jhumpa Lahiri

Paradise

While getting through the introduction might have been sluggish, my mom was soon engrossed in the novel, just as I had felt when I first read and thought about the text. Our collective interest in the book’s themes and concepts led to collaborative discussions where I would mention ideas I and others thought of from class, while she provided her insight. We would discuss the book over dinner, with homemade food softening my tongue and new analysis invigorating my eardrums. Everytime we went back into the text, opening the novel and digging our noses into the musty pages, we would find new understanding and embark on further thoughtful adventures as we followed and lived the lives of Atticus Finch and Tom Robinson, these lives so beautifully told by Lee.

A Place on the Bookshelf

I absolutely loved Bradbury’s brilliant way of portraying the book’s themes in a straightforward, blunt manner. From Mildred’s attempted suicide to the old woman lighting herself on fire alongside all of her books and possessions, it was all so beautifully and directly told. Even more compelling were the silent concepts that accompanied these brusque events, and I can still recall my enthusiasm diving back into the book, scanning the text over and over to look for symbols and ideas I may have missed. What is most important is that the book almost served as a call to action for me. I became more entrenched in the world of politics, in part because of concern for the pandemic, and in part from reading this excellent book. While I already expressed some interest in politics beforehand, Bradbury’s text motivated me to think deeper about what I was watching on the news. Moreover, I loved to synthesize my writings on the book for English assignments with the events that were happening in the world at the time, typing away on my noisy keyboard with vigor on subjects relating to things such as the perception of news and the rhetoric of politicians as I sat vigilant in my office chair, getting ready to present my thoughts to my mom, who was always nearby. Lack of education and manipulation by lawmakers had led both the general public of Fahrenheit 451 and COVID deniers to be the way that they were (and are, unfortunately). Fahrenheit 451 had effectively changed me significantly; now, I apply a new body of thought concerning the political landscape, with Bradbury helping me to realize some of my own blindspots and exposing me to core concepts surrounding our political world today. My literary and academic career was directly furthered by the words of Bradbury, an achievement few authors can claim.

The Closet Doorway

What is important to pay credence to, of course, is who was there with me, helping: my sister. She has always been a major driving force in my academic career, right there from the beginning. She was young too at that moment, perhaps ten years old, however there she was, gripping the textured cover of Cat in the Hat, triggering the robotic voice to come out from the speaker, all while sitting on the floor, helping her little brother learn how to read. My sister’s voice has always been a comforting one, whether it was entering my ears then learning how to read or much later in the future, giving me advice on an essay. Every now and then, while reading a book on a calming afternoon or perhaps distressingly writing an essay for a school assignment, I recall my roots in literacy and remember that scene holding Cat in the Hat with my sister. I will remember the blues and blacks and reds and greens of the illustrations, the warbled voice telling me it is time to move on to the next block of text, my sister’s soft hand guiding me as I read out the words. I will remember all of those things because they were the groundwork in my literary career that allows me to write this piece of text now, and express my voice in a way that will be heard. I will always be grateful to my sister for helping me with this important foundational step, as well as Dr. Seuss and maybe even that little speaker, interjecting the air with narration, reminding me that it was time to continue to learn one of the most important skills one can give to a human.

A Book

He ate and drank the precious words,

His spirit grew robust;

He knew no more that he was poor,

Nor that his frame was dust.

He danced along the dingy days,

And this bequest of wings

Was but a book. What liberty

A loosened spirit brings!

-Emily Dickinson

The Sword, pencil and eyeshadow

Hannah Ruhs

Rocky Balboa, pen and ink

Kendall Reed

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