Elysium2009 Vol. VIII

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2009

Volume Viii

We would especially like to thank

Mr. Scott McKinley who, along with his

art students, critiqued the magazine as

a class activity. Your advice has been

invaluable. Additionally, we appreciate

the wonderful help o� ered by Ms.

Collete Stemple and Mr. David Ernsberger.

Elysium literary/art Magazine

Editorial Policy:Elysium, Coral Reef High’s literary/art magazine, is an annual publication that showcases the creative work of students grades 9-12. � e art and literary sta� s, who meet a� er school each � ursday, select exemplary work from school-wide submissions. Each piece is judged anonymously and is chosen based on style, uniqueness of theme, and overall quality.

Colophon: Our 25 member sta� created 96 pages using Dell computers and Adobe so� ware : InDesign CS2, Adobe Photoshop CS2 , and Adobe Illustrator CS2.

We used two fonts on the cover, Edwardian Script ITC and Verdana. � e body of the magazine incorporates an additional two fonts, Trajan Pro for titles and Minion Pro for text.

Rodes Printing in Miami published 250 magazines on 100 lb linen paper for the cover, 80 lb glossy paper for the inside pages, and 4 vellum inserts to introduce each section. � e magazines were distributed free of charge on a “� rst-come, � rst- served basis”. For past issues and performance art clips visit our website: http://crhs.dadeschools.net/elysium.

Zeitgeist

Editor-in-chief

Coral Reef Senior High 10101 S.W. 152nd St.

Miami, Florida 33157 School ph: 305-232-2044

Elysium Sponsor: Amy Scottamyscott@dadeschools.net

School & Contact Information

Editorial Staff

2009

Volume Viii

Time escapes our grasp every day, and we can do anything we want with it – except claim it. Stop watches have perfected the ability to record passing moments to the nearest millisecond, yet they still do not possess a sliver of the power that belongs to time. Once it is gone, there is no way to retrieve it, and it is lost to the ages forever.

As time progresses, society evolves along with our perceptions of it. In our primitive state, personal concerns overwhelm our

consciousness so that we think ourselves to be the very marrow of society, its most vital component. But our perceptions change with the motions of time and we learn to mirror our surroundings, to re� ect on our actions and relationships.

Soon we expand, envision-ing instead of emulating and turning an empathetic eye to the world at large, the endless potential of tomorrow. While at � rst the spirit of the age guides us, we grow into the world and truly become a part of the community, shaping it with our vision and actions until it becomes our Zeitgeist.

School & Contact Information

Miami, Florida 33157 School ph:

Information

Miami, Florida 33157 School ph:

Information

Editor-in-chief :

Literary Editor :

Layout Editor : Art Editor : Promotions : Webmaster :

Mitra Hosseini

Amanda Hudson

Audrey Gonzalez

Noel Kassewitz

Cecilia Cabrera

Jorge Buitrago

Artist Credits and Sta� Page

Zorba and Apollo // John DigiacomoLe� over // Catherine ZawPerfume of the Streets // Valerie DorerDancing with Memories // Leah SingerTo Read before You Die // Amanda HudsonHe Was Told // Leah SingerLait // Daniella CarucciOpen Window // Kimberly Berkley� e Archeologist // Danielle WierengaDenial: � is Poem Is Not about Sex // Victoria MelendezYou’ll Understand When You’re Older // Karla Cobreiro Re� ection // Amanda Nichols

Of Butter� y Blues // Anna MebelDedication // Amanda HudsonPerception // Barbara UchdorfWither // Victoria MelendezBlue Nails // Anna MebelSomewhere To Nowhere // Adriyan RotatiScholastics Art AwardsPatient(s) // Marilyn Horta1-800 Damage Control // Nafeesa BhanjiUn� nished Masterpiece // Catherine ZawBargaining // Kimberly BerkeleyA Dip in the Mud // Nafeesa BhanjiScott McKinleyLegacy // Marilyn Horta

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Table of Contents

January 20, 2009 // Mitra HosseiniA History // Barbara UchdorfTangerine Twilight // Amanda NicholsYou Made Me Write Bad Poetry // Daniella CarucciBystander E� ect // Catherine ZawBlack History Month // Victoria MelendezCoincidental Fate // Sonul RaoStrange Ways // Michael AkinlabiFeed Me // Daniella CarucciBagboy // Marilyn HortaComic: Sourtongue / / Andrea Espinosa

Architecture // Jorge Buitrago & Mitra HosseiniTransient Delight for String Quartet // Jiwen Lei

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artist credits

artist credits elysium staff

Table of Contents, Folios, and Inserts by Audrey Gonzalez pg. 11 pg. 13pg. 15pg. 17pg. 19pg. 20pg. 22pg. 25pg. 27pg. 29

Audrey GonzalezTatiana JacksonRaye NgNoel KassewitzRaquel KiddNoel KassewitzTatiana JacksonAdabel MaldanadoKeilani RodriquezRaquel Kidd

BlindedAlice in WonderlandWaveGraphics//DancingPyre of KnowledgeBestial Rami� cationsBlarghHistory of DressesOf Suburbia� e Violinist

Cover

pg. 31pg. 32pg. 37pg. 39pg. 41pg. 42pg. 44pg. 47pg. 51pg. 52pg. 55pg. 56pg. 58pg. 60pg. 61pg. 62pg. 66

� e EscapeVanity ShotAphasiaLittle LighthouseOn the Back of my MindWith the Passage of TimeSome Lucky KidInk MountainLock AbstractionsShattering SymbolsAnorexia NervosaCharcoal SkeletonSurviveP.D. Lee at JasperBurning at Diego FlatsGraphic/ LegacyObama Button

Ronel ConstantinJenny CifuentesTatiana JacksonJacquelyn Garcia Audrey GonzalezNoel KassewitzRaquel KiddCecilia CabreraCecilia CabreraMaria ArteagaTatiana JacksonCecilia CabreraRaye NgScott McKinleyScott McKinleyRaquel KiddSchuyler Polk

pg. 67pg. 69pg. 71pg. 73pg. 75pg. 77pg. 79pg. 80pg. 82pg. 86pg. 88pg. 92pg. 93pg. 94pg. 95

Inaugural Parade Film2 Face JoeFather TimeBored and SickCold MorningI Am MeLeaving My MarkBreakGluttonyVegetablesSourtongueArtist Dwelling � e Sky in FrontTransient Delight pg. 1Transient Delight pg. 2

Mitra HosseiniDanielle GaroneDanielle GaroneCecelia CabreraKeilani RodriguezRonel ConstantineIsabel ConoepanEduardo MorenoTatiana JacksonAudrey GonzalezAndrea EspinosaJorge L. BuitragoMitra HosseiniJiwen Lee Jiwen Lee

Kim BerkleyJorge BuitragoCecilia CabreraDaniella CarucciMichael CisnerosValerie DorerAudrey GonzalezMitra HosseiniAmanda HudsonTatiana JacksonAyodele JoliboisDeanna Kalil

Noel KassewitzRaquel KiddEmma KingElliot LevyDavid LiAnna MebelAmanda NicholsAdriyan RotatiJolie ShapiroEmma SingerSteven UruetaDanielle WierengaMatthew Westland

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MARROW

ZORBA AND APOLLO� e creatorand � e thinker

� e creator: Whose hands have intimated cra� ed structured and moldedArt in the likeness of Man

� e thinker: Whose hands have scanned searched perused and cra� ed wordsAs he postulated the conditions of Man

And yet they are joined by fate:In having taken such care such time and such prudenceTowards such a passion� ey have forged manacles of the mind� at bind them to icy chisel and frigid quill

For neither painting nor book statue nor manuscript sketch nor essayCan wrap the cold hands of their creators And warm them like the ardor of fellow man

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John DiGiacomo

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Audrey G

onzalez, Blinded, Oil on C

anvas.

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Leftover

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Neglected piece of delight Still wrapped in the protective foilPlainly in view, tempting to the womanWho is contemplating—balancing the worthOf the lusciousness

Chocolate half undressedCoaxing for more creamy skin to revealUnobstructed view of satisfactionAnd wet growing anticipationIn the captured prisoner’s mouth

Narcissistic bit of candyStealing all the attention of � e restrained woman who is About to break her self-set rulesHer � ngers twitching because they know

One movement could hide the treat And tear her eyes—divert her life—O� the persuading voice calling And reminding her what tastes Could tickle the tongue’s pleasure

But that other actionWould let her elopeWith a sugary high echoing � rough her mind, fake shot at Bravery to step outside the law

Reluctance winsAnd the last bit of silver shield Is tossed away� e poison of diet tucked Disappeared between lips curved wide—

Temporarily—smile fading as the bliss Melts out, dragging the victim Back to the cold, hard earth and despair Where her stomach pushes Past the limit of her jeans tight embrace

Still whining for more

Catherine Zaw Catherine Zaw

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Tatiana Jackson, Alice in Wonderland Syndrome, Acrylic and Installation.

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Perfume of the streets

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In the southern hemisphere, in the country of Brazil, in the state of Amazonas, I collected my � rst memories. � e city was Manaus, a colonial relic of unlikely and now faded prosperity. � e neighborhood was “Jardin Europa.” � e street I can’t remember. At six, my dead-end street seemed a private playground where I spent my early childhood. A Street, a lane, a way, a boulevard, a court, a road, an avenue, a circle, a place, a terrace, a drive. One whose name I don’t recall and need not know. I know its scents, its odors, its faces and sounds and emotions.

It is the avenue beside which I sat with my brother on rainy a� ernoons, camou� aged by our untrimmed hibiscus bushes. Digging into � ooded soil we attempted to form mud balls from what felt like pancake batter that had yet to be mixed. A� er careful inspection, a verdict was rendered on whether the soggy mixture was su� ciently spherical. If the creation was ruled adequate, we quickly hurled it in the other’s direction, hoping the sloppy lump would make it into the air without more than half of its contents sliding through our � ngers and past our wrists. Elbow deep in mud we would giggle at the sound of our mother’s voice calling our names. As the seconds passed the giggling rose to hysteria and our swamp-like battleground was revealed.

It is the terrace down which I marched with my mom, dad, and brother in tow, following the aroma of grilled Picanha and fresh cut mangoes to Tio Claudio’s house for his weekly Churrasco. Dexter and I would burst through the gate, race to the pool and heave ourselves in, joining our laughing and screaming friends. � e music played on those nights was soulful and always accompanied by the unending hum of adult conversation.

� e exchange on those nights was not, however, of the reserved, polite sort that might take place in an o� ce break room. It was apparent, even to us at the tender age of six, by the high pitched shrieks and booming gu� aws of sporadic laughter that the glasses scattered around us held something slightly more potent than the water we were encouraged to drink.

It is the drive that leads to Amacom, the electronics store owned by my mother and father, where my brother and I would mount the wealth of cardboard boxes in the storage room, uninhibited by whatever speaker set or television we may have had to trample in our wobbly race towards the peak of this geometric Everest. � is is the same angular wonderland I so greatly resented on weeknights at eight o’ clock, when my seemingly unending struggle against sleep would begin. I anxiously awaited the “click” of my rotating

the streets

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doorknob signaling the ultimate arrival of my ever-tardy parents.

� e drive to the giant yellow shopping center that held our packaged playground was less mystifying. Rarely were we allowed to roll down the window, for instantly the sti� ing heat penetrated our air-conditioned haven. � e heat was a perpetually present lover mixed with the poignant and highly chemical aroma of gasoline that the locals called “cheiro da rua” or “perfume of the streets.” Now both sweating and coughing, we were accosted by an overwhelming number of tra� c vendors; locals whose originally mahogany toned skin looked now, a� er years of pacing the streets under the searing warmth of the sun, almost violet.

Impervious to the blistering heat they would beam gap-toothed smiles in our direction and o� er

anything between once cold bottles of water, shabby stu� ed animals, and designer imitation watches which were of course, “Pure silver, the real thing!”

� is exceptional place seemed unremarkable to me then. Didn’t every child chase hummingbirds and � sh for piranha? My priorities were games in the pool, coconuts on the beach, and picnics on the Amazon River. Su� ering never crossed my mind, because we were comfortable. But, it was everywhere in this impoverished river town.

Valerie DorerValerie Dorer

Raye Ng, W

ave, Digital Photography.

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Dancing withfrom his eyes, remembering when his hair had been thick and black. What he could not push away was the feeling that he was slowly disintegrating, like a sand castle at high tide. He walked to the end of the room and stared out of the dusty window overlooking the city. The view was the same but his eyesight failed him. As he breathed in the still, lifeless air of

The old man cautiously hobbled across the deserted room. It was as dark as the ocean at midnight, but his memory lit the way. The creaking of the swollen floorboards told him that the rich, red carpeting had long ago been stripped away. He brushed aside a cloud-like wisp of silvery hair

the desolate ballroom, he asked the empty space in front of him for a dance. The air acquiesced. At first his feet hesitated, but then he remember-ed the long forgotten rhythm. His heart beat faster and the years melted away like snow on

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Memoriesfrom his eyes, remembering when his hair had been thick and black. What he could not push away was the feeling that he was slowly disintegrating, like a sand castle at high tide. He walked to the end of the room and stared out of the dusty window overlooking the city. � e view was the same but his eyesight failed him. As he breathed in the still, lifeless air of

� e old man cautiously hobbled across the deserted room. It was as dark as the ocean at midnight, but his memory lit the way. � e creaking of the swollen � oorboards told him that the rich, red carpeting had long ago been stripped away. He brushed aside a cloud-like wisp of silvery hair

the desolate ballroom, he asked the empty space in front of him for a dance. � e air acquiesced. At � rst his feet hesitated, but then he remember-ed the long forgotten rhythm. His heart beat faster and the years melted away like snow on

the � rst day of spring.

Leah Singer

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Her rigid inability to discuss a matter so lighthearted had frightened her, and her face was now buried in his chest. It was hard and warm, a living anchor. What books do you know you have to read before you die? She kept it there longer than was comfortable for either of them. � ere was something unnatural and violating in what she was being asked to do, though the question had been no more than a casual invitation to conversation. She wriggled under the sheets and o� ered clipped phrases into the hollow of his chest as she tried to explain what she herself did not quite understand. She did not want to answer. Indignant with her sudden state of vulnerability and angry with him for being its cause, she lay exposed, feeling childish.

� ere were books she wanted to read with a great deal of eagerness, but no books she had placed on a pedestal as he now suggested. She saw reading as the embodiment of intellect: the source of all knowledge and culture, the heights of human achievement. It was a reverence she had cultivated as a child and had not been able to shake o� since. She knew her love of literature gave her nothing that was not given to anyone with a singular passion, but she felt as though it should. � is was her habit, her joy, the string whose ropy bow tied her to reality; as a gambler has his dice and a painter has his brush, so she, a reader, had her books. She knew that to name books that she absolutely must read before she died would ruin her passion, turning it from a thing of passion to a thing of obligation; but she suspected that it could do worse even than that.

Her reason for life was rooted in her own sense of worth, which was informed, in turn, by her pride. � is is the case for many humans, fallible and in need of � attery, but she was willing to admit it: she needed her pride, and it so happened that its greatest sources were in being loved and feeling intelligent. Without one, she � gured, she would always have the other to catch her. But what if she lived and died without ever being ultimately and honestly loved? Even if she thought she was in this fortunate position, how could she truly know?

� ere was a dense vagueness to love that she could not stand. No matter how in love she felt she was, there was never a moment when she could not imagine a love more enrapturing, more fantastic, more simple and enduring. Does the capacity to imagine a thing make it possible? � ough she moved through the world a � gure strong and proud, her heart was as so� a piece of meat as any, and it tore at its roots in throbbing curiosity to think of the problem of love. Perhaps a gypsy should � nd the answers for her in the lines of her hands, or maybe she could make it out in the tapping code of his mu� ed heart as it beat now in her ear. She pressed her head closer, and did not answer.

But there was no gypsy, and no cordial rhythm to inform her. Should she live and die without the certainty of love, she would need intellect more than ever to sustain her con� dence in life and so� en its travails and, knowing with rather too much certainty that she possessed no real genius

To Read Before You Die

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of her own, this could only be had by associating her own mild intelligence with the genius of others. She would wear pages like robes of redemption and play the part of the biting cynic: respected yet resented, admirable but troubling. If she would not be loved, she would have to be above love.

She did not want to answer, because if she should set out for herself any number of books which she must read before she died, it would mark the end of what sustained her. Having accomplished the meager goal and having ful� lled the potential she herself determined she had, her limits would have been reached, so that reading anything a� er those books would be empty, void of meaning and nourishment. � e creation of a new list would be out of the question. To read all but one of the books would not save her either: she knew loose ends could not stave o� mortality, and that it would only leave her feeling unful� lled and anxious for far too long a time. So inevitably, if she named the books she must read before she died, she would have no choice but to follow through, and by following through, reading would be ruined for her. � e conciliatory lifestyle of a cynic would no longer be possible either, as someone with such limited aspirations could not � ll the role’s spacious bitter shoes. Keeping her face pressed on his chest she shook her head, untangling their legs to move away. She did not want to answer. � ere would be nothing to look forward to except the love she did not think would come.

except the love she did not think would come.

Amanda Hudson

Raquel Kidd, Pyre of Know

ledge, Oil.

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Noel Kassewitz, Bestial Rami� cations, Charcoal.20

He Was Told

Leah Singer

He was told by his parents he was adoptedHe was told by his father she had loved himHe was told by the agency the orphanage’s name and addressHe was told by the taxi driver thirty-two dollarsHe was told by the nuns her name and number He was told by the voice on the phone she’ll be home laterHe was told by the graffiti-covered street sign it was the correct place to waitHe was told by the screeching of tires she was speeding and was lateHe was told by their similar features that she was the oneHe was told by the slur of her words the reasons for what she had doneHe was told by her broken eyes and heart that he was not her sonHe was told by his falling tears he should not have come

Leah Singer

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Tatiana Jackson, Blargh, Sharpie Marker w

ith Tempra.

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Tatiana Jackson, Blargh, Mixed M

edia.

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Lait

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Her screams sounded anything but human. It was like a band of wolves crying to the moon, each howl lost and sorrowfully afraid. Except, she wasn’t astray or terri� ed. She was angry. Her rage was misplaced with the gnashing of teeth, but shaking with the frustrations of her adolescence. How cliché. She cried so hard her jaw shook, rattled, and quaked. � e resonance of her teeth chattering paled in comparison to the guttural reverberations being emitted so freely into the air. An entombed monster of a creature wouldn’t have thrashed so liberally against his ball and chain. How audacious.

Her oral cavity escalated to the size of approximately one third of her face, with so collect a sound; the screams, the bitter ranting of broken dreams! It was America’s blares for a Democratic president, an infant for its mother’s lactation, and the world for stillness. Her tonsils ached severely, but she never thought so clearly. Why is she whispering? � ere was no rationale for her to be so disconnected. Nonetheless, her temple furrowed, eyes narrowed, and the balls in her cheeks were

never so apparent. � e yells were so resounding, the tears dissipated on her face, shattered by noise. But this was not n o i s e . Whispers are turning faint. � is was the nightingale’s lost song. Temples did not splinter, but the echo reached the heavens.

Just when you thought she stopped, there came another howl. Too re� ned for blubbering, she cried with form. � e waters from the rivers � ne, it was the sadness of the world being released. Da� girl, it was only spilt milk.

Daniella Carucci

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The Open WindowFinally, I thought to myself, � nally I’m

getting somewhere in this dreadful case! It won’t be long now till this thing is solved—for good. I clutched the letter in my gloved hand like an eager child clinging to a new toy, oblivious to the morbidity of it all. You might think it strange —disturbing, even—that someone could be so gleeful, so desperately overjoyed, over a letter that would, at best, hold all the gruesome details of an impending murder. But, if it followed the pattern of the previous messages I’d read, and was indeed written by the killer I’d been tracking so carefully, so dedicatedly, for the past month and a half (I shuddered to think otherwise!) I would have been happier still.

But, before you deem me, Elizabeth Copperton, a madwoman, consider the following. � e letter I then held in my hand, the letter which I hoped so fervently was written by a murderer, could have been the key to uncovering the true identity of said killer, and thus, could have ended the mystery once and for all. It was not through a morbid fascination with the creature that wrote the letter, but rather through a virtuous determination to put him behind bars that I had found that letter and therefore felt a small measure of triumph and hope rising in me—hope that this would at last be the one to lead me to the author of so much evil during the past few months.

While tracking this abhorrent man, I had intercepted and discovered a small quantity of handwritten notes—about four in all—which had been people who were close to past victims, describing in detail how his prey would be killed the night before the murder would be uncovered. It was, then, my dearest wish that the letter I had just acquired would be another of the series, and would lead me to the victim—and her potential murderer—before the crime actually occurred.

My hands trembled something awful as I lit the candle on my desk. � ough the seal on the letter was plain, without any incriminating design to help identify its author, and the envelope was

blank save for the name of the person the letter was addressed to—my neighbor, Sara Finney, of all people!—I knew with a dreadful, yet thrilling certainty that it was from him. From hell.

Gently, I broke the seal on the envelope and slid the letter out. Putting the envelope aside, I let my eyes rest for a moment on the still-folded note, imagining the message I would � nd waiting for me inside. I took a deep breath, gathered my wits (which I was sure I would need most of all on that night of nights), and opened the folded letter.

I see they still think I am a doctor haha. I love to watch them when theyre looking for me in the streets, its so funny to kno how close and yet so far they are. I wonder, have you read about my latest jobs—I think I’m getting better don’t you? And the next ones going to be the best yet, I think. She’s a real pretty thing with curly blond hair and big blue eyes. I bet I can make her a nice red necklace to wear, haha Do you like red?

I stopped and stared. Was he saying the victim was Sara herself? With a new sense of urgency, I continued reading.

Now I know this may be hard for you but please don’t stop reading this when you get scared, I want you to read it all before the end.

Again, I paused. � ough it was a murderer’s letter, and therefore bound to be hair-raising and spine-tingling, this particular one was going somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to follow it to. � e other letters, I thought, were not like this.

You see I have your addres. Safely assume then that I will make good use of this infomation. I cleaned my knife last night and I can’t wait to get some fresh color on it. I might even send in a kidney or a ear to the police, another teaser to keep them on their toes. It’s time I got around to this. You know she’s been rather a nuisance lately. I think I’ve let her follow me long enough.

Catch me if you can.I slammed the letter down on the desk at this

point, frustrated and de� ated. � e sense of

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triumph I had felt earlier was gone, no more than a ghost of a memory, and I was frightened and sad for the victim that was once again beyond my help despite the fact that I had received the letter before the killing. Sara had gone out some hours ago; even if she were the intended fatality, I had no idea where to look for her or when she would return. Chewing on my lip and blinking away tears, I raised my head to stare at my own re� ection in my mirror.

At this point, a very blunt, very startling, and very awful truth became clear to me as I gazed at myself in the glass. In my excitement over the letter, I had forgotten a few seemingly minor details about myself—details upon which my fate suddenly hinged. My hair was a deep golden color and fell in looping curls past my shoulders. My eyes were as blue as the sky. Next to the mirror sat a portrait of Sara and me out in the park a few summers ago. Sara had blond hair, too – but her eyes were a deep, dark brown. � e killer’s description of his next victim echoed jarringly in my head. She’s a real pretty thing with curly blond hair and blue eyes.

� at letter wasn’t talking about Sara Finney.I lowered my gaze back to the letter, my

frustrations replaced with a growing dread… and stared. � e letter, which I had placed face-down on the desk, had something extra written on the back. My heart in my mouth, I shakily picked it up and moved it back into the � relight

of the � ickering candle. � e back of the note held only a single line, but that alone said more than I wanted to know.

PS: Check your windows, Elizabeth.At � rst, I felt nothing, just a dull, numbing

confusion, but when I read the words a second time, and understood their meaning at last, my blood ran cold, and my heart all but stopped. � e letter fell from my hand, � uttering to the ground like a dying butter� y, taking my hopes with it.

� is can’t be happening, my heart whispered. � is can’t be happening.

Propelled by a force far greater than my own free will, I turned slowly towards my bedroom window. � ough I had closed and locked it before leaving home earlier that day to retrieve the letter—that godawful letter!— it was now hanging wide open, the broken lock indicating a forced entry.

My throat went dry. I clutched desperately at the edge of my desk, hunting for a glimpse of reason in a night now devoid of sanity. Something moved in the far corner of my room. I swallowed, my hands shaking now from terror rather than anticipation. Taking one last, deep breath, I turned and bolted for the door, stumbling in my blind panic. Even before I reached the door, I knew I would not make it. All I could think was, So close. I was so close!

� e next morning, the police found me in the hallway leading to my front door, my throat cut and my right ear sliced clean o� .

� ey searched my room for clues, but the letters I had worked so carefully to collect were gone. � e only evidence of the killer that remained was the open window, swaying with a gentle creaking noise in the autumn breeze.

I bet I can make her a nice red necklace to wear, haha Do you like red?

Kimberly Berkley

Adabel Maldanado, History of the Dresses, Mixed Media.

The Archaeologist

Danielle Wierenga

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� e sound of brush on stone,And the feel of the hot sunOn the back of his neck andOn the blades of his shouldersHad le� him angry.And the sweat falling from his brow,Onto his legs,Onto the stone,Onto the groundLe� him dazed and searching.

But in the heat of the day he saw fantastical things.On the horizon: � e Sphinx, Stonehenge, Montezuma,� e Burning Monk, � e Great Wall, � e Capitol,A car, a train, his wife.

And common sense compels him,To look down at his work and try again,He frowns then breathes,Presses brush against rock,Feeling the urge to look again at that skyline.

And when he does succumb,He instantly throws his head behind,And resumes that breath and frown,And says, “What a fool am I.”

Danielle Wierenga

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Keilani Rodriguez, Of Suburbia, Photography.

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Why can’t I � x you? I try and I try but you’re wrong again. � e sound is o� .� e string low,� e other � at.

My � ngers dance across your body, Holding you down to � nd the right notes,But you don’t respond as I hoped. And so I say you’re wrong again. Of course, it cannot be me.I’m going by the book. I’m doing this right. I chant the spell, � e incantation Flawlessly, My wand moves Gracefully, With � uidity, But no rabbit comes from the hat.

It cannot be me. I who studied the arts, � e sciences, � e ways of the unknown. I who have learned all there is to know. It cannot be me!

And yet, No matter how I strum the chords, And though I say the words just right, You do not respond Soundlessly, And my hat Remains Empty.

DENIAL: THIS POEM IS NOT ABOUT SEX

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Victoria Melendez

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Raquel Kidd,Violinist, Graphite.

You’ll Understand When You’re Older

� e air on the coast just outside Havana was still and smelled of sea and diesel, but the ocean was far from calm and steady. It was the fourth time that my twin sister and I accompanied my mother to a desolate location in the middle of the night. � e long wait, unfavorable maritime conditions, and pending sunrise were causing the crowd’s hope to crumble one more time, until someone noticed a small dim light rocking back and forth in the distance, gradually growing more and more visible as it got closer to shore. � e twenty or so who had been waiting on the shoreline gathered their few belongings and began to walk out into the ocean to meet the undersized boat. In the

passengers’ eyes, the small vessel seemed more like a luxury liner. Many had already desperately taken the same venture in a much less promising cra� , a scanty ra� made only of wood, tires, and rope. We were among the last to reach the vessel: my mother, my sister and myself, and my grandparents. In a matter of seconds, the boat would begin to pull away from the shore, taking her from the island to Miami where she’d reunite with her husband. My mother le� her career as a doctor along with the houses in which she had grown up. She le� behind her language and everything she had known. Now she was in the hands of fate and the Atlantic Ocean.

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Karla Cobreiro

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Ronel Constantin, � e Escape, Acrylic Painting.

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Reflection

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Jenny Cifuentes, Vanity Shot, D

igital Photography.

I stare at her. Shadows above her eyes,not under them; brighthalf heart and crescent moon painted magenta; nightcascading past her shoulders, down her back; sightperfect, large windows with clean glass.

I stare at her. Crooked window frames, wry smiles favor my right – her le� , smoothporcelain I might touch, but only feel cool sand, melted and dried.

I stare at her. A veneer, gilded and fake, sparkling brightlyand beautifully, a deception. Might I remove her? Allow ocean of day, the ocean of nightrinse her away and no longer hide what sightcannot reveal?

Amanda NicholsAmanda Nichols

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MIRROR

Todd was a boy who collected butter� ies, � lled his notebooks with careful sketches. He liked a girl. A slight, blond one that was a bit too quiet, but had gray eyes and smiled like a purring cat. � ey had clandestine meetings on the Sunday grass. Leaning on a tree trunk Claire would tell him of Renoir and Nabokov. He would listen, drawing butter� ies on her wrists. � e butter� y names were small enchantments she whispered in her sleep, “Junonia villinda, papillio homerus, paranssius phoebus…” When they argued, it was about God. Claire found her to be a silly, benign creature: one that watched over the world like a lazy Buddha. Todd shook his head, waved his hands, and cried, “Science!” She would shush him, gesturing to a butter� y on her wrist, “Only a god would come up with this shade of blue.”

Anna Mebel

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“When they argued, it was about God.”Of Butterfly Blues

Tatiana Jackson, Aphasia, Acrylic.

Tatiana Jackson, Aphasia, Acrylic.

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Across the room, calls tore in rasps over the thick smell of seeds and sticky-sweet fruits which, already hard and dried, now sat listless and uneaten as their last stores of moisture dri� ed out of the tough skins. � e � oor of the cage was covered in newsprint from which the smell spilled; it had been laid in the cage with care some time ago, fresh and grey-white with newness.

Now it was an ornate lace of seed shells and fruit peels and countless � owers formed by punctures in the yellowed paper. “I love you, I love you,” it called, � edging its advances with a bright � utter of wings. � e old man across the room made no response, choosing instead to continue dabbing paint with incredible care onto the canvas perched before him.

His skin looked like paper in the sun, the marks on his arms like co� ee spills and spots of ink, and while he painted he frowned so that his brow was held tight and low over his eyes and his lower jaw craned past his upper, as if his face were chasing his line of sight in the eagerness of concentration. “I love you, I love you,” the parrot insisted, beating the air, “I love you! Pretty boy!”

� e old man’s frown shi� ed in frustration, and turning back to face the bird he shouted, “Shut up,” stood, and again, “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, you ugly bird!” � e parrot turned on its rough perch, its tail scraping the copper of the cage’s bars. Satis� ed with this, the old man returned to his seat.

On the canvas there was a painting of the sea.

� e bird watched the old man hunch with intensity over the painting, and wondered why. � e � at, ugly thing did not love him, it did not tell him so. It said nothing while the parrot sung, keeping him company as the old woman who always wore the shawl had said: “Now, you take care of him when I’m gone. Will you do that, pretty boy?”

� e parrot liked the old woman and her natty shawl, its shoulders pulled and discolored from years of the parrot perching there as she went about her work. � e old woman had been gone for a long time now, and the parrot wanted her back.

“I love you, I love you,” it called, but the woman did not come. “I love you,” it cried, day and night, but the old woman stayed out in the hallway and the old man did not let the parrot

onto his own shoulders to go about the woman’s work. He bent perpetually forward in his chair, squinting and frowning at the sea which he created and loved, but which could never love him back.

� e old man paused and held the long, thin brush away from him. He rose, took a few steps beyond the chair and turned to stare at the sea from afar. He cocked his head and let his arms hang limp at his sides. � e parrot wondered why the old man had to look at it this way. He caught a pair of bars in his beak and curled his rough-ribbed talons around another, clinging sideways on the cage to see what the old man saw. � ere was only the sea, and he returned to his perch in a commotion of sti� plumage.

He hoped the old man would look at the sea and be happy, set down the brush, walk to the door and call down the hall, “I’ve � nished!” so that the old woman would come back. She would hurry into the room from the hall and tug at her shawl, smiling as she and he stared at the canvas, and they would kiss and tell each other, “I love you,” a� er they’d both looked at it long enough.

But the old man was not

Dedication

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happy with his sea, and he returned to bend before the easel. � e frown set itself on his face once again, and his brow hung low as he painted and thought of his son, at whose house the picture of the sea he was now painting had been taken. It was a large house, and his son had paid for all of it himself: he was a successful businessman, as the old man had never been. He wanted the old man to move away to a home with other old men who had no wives and no children nearby, “so you can be where you’re taken care of.” � e old man’s successful son had stayed away from the old man’s home for many years now, staying instead at his large home

with his young wife and his own son for holidays, an arrangement of which they both approved.

� e old man was concentrat-ing on the white heads of foam that lay on the water where waves had broken, sea ghosts. � e par-rot scratched something against the bars, sending waves of bright pings to catch the old man’s at-tention, though it refused now to be caught.

A piano stood next to the easel, pushed up against the wall and looking so� under a thick layer of dust; the rest of the house also rested so� ly under dust which had settled because the old woman was not there to wipe it away or send it back into the air with a quick, sure

motion of her wrist. “I love you, I love you.” � e old man’s wrists had trembled when he tried to go about her work, and when the trembling had � nally spread over him so that his body bent and shook with sobs, he decided that the piano and the lamps and the house’s many quiet rooms looked better so� and dusty anyway, and that he had his own work to do.

He squinted past his long, narrow nose as today he laid down the whitecaps. Tomorrow he would feed the parrot, clean its cage and work on the gulls. � e day a� er that, the rocks that stood above the water; the following day, those on shore; then a� er that and a� er again for many days, the sea would hold him in its silent gaze and it would in turn be held by his own until the painting was complete.

� en he would set down his paintbrush, clap his hands and say to the cruel and taunting parrot, “I’m � nished!” because the old woman would have had it so.

Amanda Hudson

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I had seen this one before.Him over me,

Our bodiesEntwined

Like trees with brittle branches.Only the earth could hold us then.Her face looked sullen, apologetic

Almost,But she still had the horns and

Never againCould I stand

To smile at them.

� ey waited there,Looking down

Like angels doing God’s work,Waiting for reaction.

� ey waited and I stood.How similar we both looked.

And yet how di� erentWhen in the end I was alone

And sheWith child to bear,

And meWith none but men to coax me

Into their traps.

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Perception

Barbara Uchdorf

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I had seen this one before.Him over me,

Our bodiesEntwined

Like trees with brittle branches.Only the earth could hold us then.Her face looked sullen, apologetic

Almost,But she still had the horns and

Never againCould I stand

To smile at them.

� ey waited there,Looking down

Like angels doing God’s work,Waiting for reaction.

� ey waited and I stood.How similar we both looked.

And yet how di� erentWhen in the end I was alone

And sheWith child to bear,

And meWith none but men to coax me

Into their traps.

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Audrey Gonzalez, O

n the Back of My M

ind, graphite.

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Noel Kassewitz, With the Passage of Time, Acrylic and alkyd oils.

It’s cold outside,And as I walk past the sugar cane and reedsI see how they have withered.Withered in the path that the wind blows,Dying in someone else’s direction.But then I see one � xed against the wind,One that died strong.

And so I think of you,And how you withered.Slowly becoming someone I did not know,A being I could no longer understand,A being I felt so much for,But was probably incapable of feeling for me.

And I remember how you fought,Refusing to follow any path other than your own.No matter where it led.

And as the shadows pass and time � ies byI think of all the things you’ll never see,And all the things you’ll never know,But then the light passes through the trees,And the sun kisses my cheek just as you did before,And I remember.

I remember your life,Your love,And all that you taught me,While withering in your own direction. direction.

Wither

Victoria Melendez

While withering in your own direction. direction. direction.

Victoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria MelendezVictoria Melendez

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Noel Kassewitz, With the Passage of Time, Acrylic and alkyd oils.

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Raquel Kidd, Some Lucky Kid, Mixed Media.

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Blue Nails

Anna Mebel

to dress up her obsessions inneat verse and snappy meter-

her in� uences were set:Eliot, Yeats, never Austen,never pink-skirted waltzes.

In school, she painted her nails blueand doodled Salvador Dali

in her math notebook, wishing thatdri� ing eyeballs and melting clocks

would replace derivatives.A� er school she wished

Instead, she decidedto twist her syntax into jazz

to make furniture come alive,to make her sonics spit and cackle

like a witches cauldron;

but most earnestly, she swore to never taint her nails a proper peach.

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Where once mountains rose

To’ards valleys stretched

To skies—(too plain!) . . .

Now rests my pen-dripped land,

Seeping, leaking thought:

Ink bled in vain.

Where once words played

On dreams that starred

All frets but death,

Now lies us—sundered stars

By hope’s sweet madness,

A paradise once met.

Where all but at once,

Your story stops,

But life moves still,

Here fades this writer’s gaze—

Now time dyes twilight,

And I fulfill.

Somewhere to

nowhere At Age 18

Adriyan Rotati

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Cecilia Cabrera, Ink Mountain, Ink.47

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