Dear Reader,

All of the work in this issue was submitted throughout the 2022-2023 school year. Thank you to everyone who submitted and participated in the process!

~ The Editors

Banner Art: Inverted Landscape by Isabel André

The Boy Downstairs

Down in my basement, there is a boy who lives on my wall. He has brown hair and hazel eyes that follow your every move. The boy has freckles in the same place as the ones on my face and he is wearing a sailor costume. He is an abstract of blue, brown and yellow covered in a thick layer of dust.

The boy's painting hung on the wall, high up, just out of my reach but still present. The painting possessed my dreams at night, burnt into the back of my mind. His eyes haunt me, following me around each corner. The boy was my uncle. He died in 2000 in a car accident. He lived in North Carolina for the final few years of his life. He was a free spirit, just living to live, my Dad says that if he was alive today he would have no money and live in a tent somewhere, cause he really didn't care. He liked cross country and cycling, he even had a dog named Marathon Mary. She was a retired Greyhound, a Christmas gift from my Mom; Mary and Scott used to run together. 

Dad says he was the apple of my Mom and Grandma's eyes. My uncle Scott was driving to Maine from North Carolina on Mother’s Day to surprise my Grandma. His friend was driving the car that night and saw headlights and swerved off the road. The car flipped and landed in a marsh. Scott hit his head on the windshield and died instantly. Dad says he looks so peaceful laying in his casket, it almost looked as if  he was only sleeping…I bet a lot of people wished he was only sleeping. He and his friend passed away when they were twenty-five years old.

Grandma says the hardest part was having to identify her bruised son lying dead on the exam table or having to clean out his apartment. On May 18th, only four days after his death, all my family gathered for his funeral. That day the sun didn't shine like it used to. His death not only brought my Mom and Grandma closer together, but now I’m able to see Grandma at least one time each month. 

A few years ago my Grandma, Mom, sister and I went to North Carolina to visit where he died. There we met Scott’s past girlfriend; her name is Leslie, and she’s beautiful and very warmhearted. She and Scott loved each other so much. Scott would tell my Grandma how much he cared for Leslie. We all decided to stop by the road where his car crashed. I felt sick on the way down; “Why do such good and innocent people die?” I still ask myself. The road was narrow and long. The tree branches hung low, barely letting any sun through. We finally made it to the edge of the road. It was covered in dirt and different size rocks. My mom mentioned the guard rail and how it wasn't there before. What hurt the most was the white cross that was never replaced when the rail was built. 

I still feel connected to Scott today, I see bits and pieces of him in Mom and Grandma. I’ve heard stories about him when I was younger; he used to make my cousin laugh so hard she would soil her pants; he could also mimic Jim Carrey extremely well, and was loved by all and considered a ray of sunshine. Today that painting I was once so afraid of sits on my dresser in my bedroom. My uncle is my hero, even though I never got to meet him. He may be gone, but never truly forgotten.

By Ava Gennari

Hair

Another broken hair tie. I sigh and I toss the worn elastic into the trash. The second one this week. I looked at the mass of black hair that sat atop my head. It looked so wild, so untameable. It was a mountain of curls. Tangled up like vines. My mom told me that my hair doesn’t look good down so I always put it up. I wish my hair was like the other girls at school. Soft and straight, pretty and light. Easy to take care of. I wish I could run my fingers through my hair without getting caught in a knot. One of many. My hair doesn’t look like the models in shampoo commercials, so perfect and put together. It’s messy. My hair is not super curly like corkscrew curls or wavy like beach waves. It's not entirely straight either. It can’t decide what it wants to be so it tries many things. It doesn’t fit into one group but has a little bit of each. Like a boat that is not tethered to a shore, it wanders freely through the waters in between the various masses of land. If I looked into the soul of the wild beast that is my hair, I only see a reflection of myself. Or what I want myself to be. Stubborn and free, no ties, no strings. Nothing can withhold her from who she wants to be. She does not conform to a group but she is her own. Unique and beautiful. I used to wonder why I was cursed to have this kind of hair. Hair that does not submit and obey. I now realize that I was given this hair because only I have the power to command it.

By Hannah Zachariah

The Layers Underneath

The cocoon I have turned my bed into 

has become a war bunker from the streets.

Here, the words can't fight past my soft sheets 

that protect me—since my heart is so blue. 

Shame snuck up on me like a thief

no matter how many cracked begs and grieves—

the needy mugger denied all my pleas.

Stole my cash—leaving me with no relief.

Layers of sheets hide me for the meantime, 

Mom said: “Face yourself sooner or later.”

And allow all my pointy words and lines

to take their sharp dagger and razor 

and destroy my muscle—to undermine

shame I wad up.

By Anonymous

the world is a watercolor canvas

damp strokes of blackness drip in streaks,

painting the gloom in stark rays of darkness

as eyes leak the grief of the world on cheeks:

a portrayal of the tale of human harshness.

yet amidst the shadows a portrait takes shape—

the misty fog cuts stencils out of pain,

and splattered ink blotches dot the landscape,

sprinkling the starless sky with hope of change.

By Melanie Sciammetta

Winter

The twilight hours stain the day

and a soft white shroud coats the ground,

cold sheets muffle every sound. 

Then the world fades to shades of gray;

the black forest punctures the snow,

and the world seems bleak and somber

but the pale moon gives Earth luster

and the deadened scene starts to glow.

Ev’rything seems serene and still,

now a place far less depressing

than the void I thought it to be.

I hear a distant owl’s trill,

and I begin reassessing

the wintry world in front of me.

By Anonymous

Application Status Has Updated

“Go join lots of clubs” they always told me;

it never meant anything until now.

Thinking back, all I can say is “Oh wow,

they were right,” and all I can hear is “Seeee.”

Surely there’s a perfect community:

Sizable, small, or somewhere in between

Where students sit and relax on the green

and enjoy playing Wii Monopoly.

I sit and wait for the long fated Ping!:

The decision eagerly awaited.

Rejection will most definitely sting,

I don’t want to feel humiliated.

My stomach does a series of handsprings…

Application status has updated.

By Prerna Karmacharya

The Tempest

if we were faced with a storm

could the sky open up and swallow us whole?

could the downpour drench our ratted coats and waterlogged shoes

and cleanse our souls from the past?

could someone— anyone— feel sympathy towards us

and offer us their home?

we, the poor pitiful people with worn minds and troubled spirits:

we need a home with someone to care for us and someone to love us;

we need to matter as we never have before,

or the waves will carry us onwards through our continuous cycle of grief.

so, to save us from ourselves,

would you help us?

would you call a sorrowful storm to rescue us?

would the lightning split the sky as the thunder sends violent tremors throughout the world

so our souls can rise up and escape from the suffocating cage of our earthly bodies?

help us,

we plead to you:

carry us to the safety we know your heart offers—

and right the wrong we have led ourselves to.

By Melanie Sciammetta

Stranger

I was at an art festival when I saw my best friend from my childhood. I had been admiring a delicate gold necklace at a crowded jewelry stand until I spotted her from a distance. Ella. My wandering eyes stopped dead in their tracks as they focused on the long, blond hair that cascaded down her back in wavy locks. She wore a light blue dress and sandals that shimmered in the sunlight, making me question if I had seen someone who just happened to look similar. But as I watched her make her way through the crowds of people I knew it was her. She traveled through the art stands with a familiar confidence in her movement that would command attention without words. 

She always used to wear her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Back when we were an inseparable pair, she decided to dye it purple after school one day to match the color of her soccer uniform, which caused a screaming fight between Ella and her mother when she arrived home. I used to envy her hair. I suddenly remembered to blink.

“Would you like to purchase that, ma’am?”

I looked down and realized I was still holding the necklace in my fingers.

“No… I was just looking,” I managed to mumble to the seller after a brief pause. 

I walked past her stand in confusion, straining my neck to see where Ella went in the midst of the crowd. I frantically stumbled around, trying to catch another glimpse, but I couldn’t find her. I wished I could have gotten a better look at her face. 

I wondered what she was doing at this point in her life. She had always said she wanted to become a pilot. We were opposites in that way. She was a headstrong, independent girl who always had to be the best at everything. I was her loyal companion who wished I knew who I was as well as she knew herself. 

I wandered around aimlessly, trapped in the deep fog of our past. I regained focus of my surroundings again when I felt my arm accidentally nudge another person walking next to me.

“I’m so sor—” I mumbled, turning around to apologize to the person. That’s when I saw her blond hair.

“Ella!” I exclaimed, feeling my heart bursting with excitement, “It’s so great to see you after all this time!”

Ella looked up from her phone in confusion. 

“Oh…. hi…. How do I know you again?” 

She glanced down at her phone again, muttering something under her breath.

“We were best friends since kindergarten. Remember, we were in all the same classes in high school too?” I told her, cheeks becoming redder by the second. 

“Lara, right?,” Ella replied, looking distracted as her fingers rapidly texted.

“Yes! How have you been doing? I feel like I hardly know you anymore!” 

I  felt an intense sense of desperation rising in my stomach.

“It would be great to grab lunch together if you’re free… to catch up,” I told her with a slightly tense voice. 

“I actually have to take a call now… but it was nice to see you again,” Ella told me, “Say hi to your family for me.” 

She gave me a small smile and half-hearted wave and then started speaking to whoever was calling.

There was a brief moment of silence, where I couldn’t even hear the sounds of people talking around me. I walked back to my car and sat in the driver's seat with my hands on the wheel, staring blankly at the windshield. 

I remembered hearing the news that Ella’s family was moving. She never said goodbye. I never held it against her. I always knew there was a lot that she hid from me. I wondered what she must have been feeling in those moments. Embarrassment? Jealousy? I would probably never truly know. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have approached her. I had followed a sudden urge without considering the fact that I now knew this memory would place a taint on my entire friendship with Ella. I allowed my defeated emotions to slowly settle into the base of my chest.

I had a sudden feeling that I would never see her again. My car engine started and seemed to drive itself home as thoughts ran through my mind like tumbling waterfalls.

By Erin Delaney

Gatsby Missing Chapter

Preface: This chapter is a unique take that recontextualizes the ending of Fitzgerald's original novel. It would not do justice to Fitzgerald’s work if I were to include this ‘missing chapter’ after his beautifully written conclusion to the book, so in my imagination, this chapter would have to take place following Nick’s final encounter with Tom.

The rest of that day I spent my time brooding, wandering around the winding and rolling streets and alleys of New York City. Right after my brief encounter with Tom, I felt a wave of relief flow through every part of my body, for in my mind I had confronted him and served as judge to his deplorable actions, even though he never expressed any guilt. Yet soon, I began to question my own role in the events that played out in those last few days of Summer.

I should have never involved myself in the affairs of neither Gatsby nor Tom, and I began to imagine what could have been if only I had stayed out of that damnable business. The more I roamed and reasoned with myself, considering the role I played in Gatsby’s death, the more I felt an abominable headache coming on. Eventually, everything began to look one and the same, as though I was in some sort of concrete maze, turning left, then right, then left again until I knew I was lost in those streets. Part of me began to hope that I would run into Daisy and lay my final accusation upon her and that her condemnation would make me feel some sort of comfort. I could feel a monstrous amount of pressure building in my head, the clamor of the city became deafening, and my vision slowly began to meld into one and sway all around me. It felt as though the buildings everywhere were growing, and growing, about to collapse down upon me and crush me with their accursed mass. I stumbled onto a bench, receiving a brief moment of respite from the abysmal reality that had come crashing down upon me.

At that very moment, I knew I had to leave that vile city behind, but I was still too flustered to make such a rash decision. Looking back, I realized that the East Coast was no place for Westerners. That It was a place that sickened and corrupted, that the streets of New York were no better than those of the Valley of Ashes, the air just as thick with the taste of the burnt and grayed; the only difference being that everything and everyone in New York City was still burning. Mustering all the strength I had from my recess, I began to wade through and against the close-packed crowds, the same as I had at Gatsby’s, eventually escaping into the night.

When I arrived in front of my home I knew I could not dare enter it and break its peaceful sanctity before resting my mind. I climbed out of the car and looked longingly into the night, through the untrimmed bushes, at Gatsby’s mansion. Alas, I knew that it was best if I left my final visit for another time. I turned and felt the soft sea breeze upon my face and I could feel myself being cleansed, bit by bit until I looked across the water and I saw the green light. The green light was enchanting, almost enticing, but upon closer inspection, it was obviously a sickly green color, one that was shared by a wilting plant. It was an unusual sight, the light had been out since the night Gatbsy had died; or rather the night the Buchanans had left the residence, and I realized that there too was a light burning within the mansion. The dubious questions that had been burdening me earlier all flooded back into my mind from the nether regions that they had retreated into.

As I approached the beach to get a closer look at the house I caught a curious occurrence in that solitary glowing light; that same light had flashed, turned off and on again, as Daisy had promised Gatsby. I was left to wonder who could have disturbed the Buchanan mansion at dead of night, but in my heart of hearts I knew who it was, and I knew what I needed to do.

As I drove up and over the hill leading up to the mansion, I could see the same yellow car that Gatsby had driven Daisy in on that twisted evening. The mansion itself was silent and solemn. In fact, the grounds around it were just as quiet, nothing disturbed the grave atmosphere that had begun to form. A dark cloud had moved in to cover the moon’s holy rays and it seemed as though the only light emanating from all the world was of that upstairs room, to which Gatsby had devoted himself, and had never received an answer from until now. Too late now anyways.

The doors were already open when I entered, and although I fumbled around in the dark for a short moment, my eyes adjusted quickly, and I found my way up the stairs.

The door into Daisy’s room had been left slightly ajar and flowing out between the cracks was an immaculate frame of light. I gently pushed the door open, and my senses were overwhelmed by an almost saintly scene: the angelic white dress flowed around her, and the light produced the warmth that she once had when I first met her. Her skin radiated a blessed glow, and her gaze searched outwards, upon the gentle sea for Gatsby’s mansion. But the darkness that had been hidden by the door drained into the room, and the holy facade was quickly replaced: the dress hung limply around her body and took upon a ghostly quality, a breeze flowed in and chilled the room and I began to shiver. The light was cast in such a way that her skin became shockingly pale, and it became clear to me that her gaze was searching no longer, but rather staring at a fixed point that was now otherworldly in nature. It was a sort of crude suspension, her thin neck wrapped around by a long white sheet taken from the bed. I gently lowered her body and laid her to rest, and left the mansion to recover from the dread and morbidity that had been welling up inside me since I had first come to New York.

I came to the attractive green light upon the dock and stood by it wondering if it could be the cause of all the suffering I had encountered here, and hoped to God that I would be the last to look into its emerald depths. I pulled the switch and turned it off, enveloping me, and the sea, in darkest night’s sweet and soft embrace.

By Akim Abramkin