FLASH 2011

Winter 2011

The Blake SchoolLiterary and Visual Arts Magazine

Minneapolis, MN

FLASH

Editors-In-ChiefKate AbramMiel Jasper

Natcher PruettFrieda Yeung

Graphic ArtistsJohn Chipoco

Justin MillerMiel Jasper

Frieda Yeung

Contributing EditorsNgoc Bui

Rachael HertzbergEric Holton

Janhawi KelkarBarbara Laco

Dharani Persaud Maddy Williams

Faculty AdvisorsChristina Colvin

Kate Sullivan

Cover Image by Samantha Cohen

Flash Staff

Author

Alexandria HerrRiele ShortKi’Tana EverettKate AbramKate AbramKatie EmoryVasiliki PapaniklolopolousTaylor WicklundKrista RudDharani PersaudFrieda YeungFrieda YeungVasiliki PapaniklolopolousNatcher PruettTaylor RoseJustin MillerKate Abram

Title

Untitled PieceDreamy WonderlandPhotographPhotographThe Prayer FlagUntitledPhotographGrandfather ClockRunawayPhotographFalling Daylight/Height of DarknessAbyss of a Butterfly Pinned to a RotwallPhotographScrap MetalDrawingPhotographPhotograph

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

C.K. FlanaganMariel BolgerRiele ShortBeatrice LimFrieda YeungNatcher PruettCarolyn PattersonKatie EmoryFrieda YeungAbby MoricalVasiliki PapaniklolopolousNatcher PruettJustin MillerKate AbramKate AbramMariel Bolger

Right Here in Zanesville, OhioPhotographThe Last LetterThe Scorpio RacesPhotographCollapsePhotographUntitled (13 September 2009)MortalitySculpturePhotographThey RollPhotographWhile Beginning an EssayPhotographPhotograph

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Author Title

1

Untitled PieceSo palaces become boxesSo thrones become chairs(and it’s just a matter of diction, who cares?)

The children grow olderAnd grow common senseAs the days become driven by dreary defense

These newborn adultsThey put off their dreamsThat were so enchanting as toddlers and teens

Because now there’s ‘grown-up’ problemsWith which to occupy themselves(Meanwhile fairy tales rot up on their shelves)

They rush to and from their nine to fiveNever stopping to wonder What it is to be alive

Perhaps this is the wisdom that comes with age(Afterall, These are just words on a page)

Alexandria Herr

Alice in WonderlandLooks up at the sky

I watch from the shadows,Luna is the night.

The ocean dances before usRippling with beautiful energy

As the slave ship rolls by,Away from Africa,

In the Luna lit night

Dreamy WonderlandRiele Short

2Ki’Tana Everett

3 Kate Abram

Above my headthe sky has turned to a prismatic nestof fluttering wings

Here, the air is thickwith incense and pine boughs and the dangling frayed strings of long-faded writings

It is overwhelming, I thinkto consider each oneeach florescent feathera ragged piece of one heart

It is too much, I thinkto know that there are in this worldso many prayersyet unanswered

The Prayer FlagKate Abram

4

5

Untitled

J’ai un lit à dormirMais je ne dors pas

J’ai de la nourriture à manger Mais je ne mange pas

J’ai un cerveau à penserMais je ne pense pas

J’ai un cœur à aimerMais je n’aime pas

J’ai le monde au bout des doigtsMais je ne touche pas

Katie Emory

6

Vasiliki Papaniklolopolous

7

Grandfather ClockTickTickTick

The hand hitsA babe cries as his first breath omits,

The security he had

TickTickTick

They pound his backSubmerge his head

To wash him of his original sin

Tick TickTick

Alone,All dayHe sits

They surround himThey laugh and smile

They walk around his drone

TickTickTick

Taylor Wicklund

The Cheshire cat smiles so dearTime falls back and whooshes by his ear

The sand hits the bottom symmetry of the glassThe drowning sorrow of the girl stuck

The knight didn’t save her quite in timeThe formidable sorrow of a cry

TickTickTick

He tries to reset, the time he was off,The minutes the seconds

His golden halo missed with each swingOnce he does

He only falls back again

TickTickTick

His old withered handTouches the ashes

The gravestone they buildThe time passes

The clock stops

Grandfather ClockTaylor Wicklund

8

9

Runaway

He embraced the ground in one smooth motion. Lying on the solid and comforting wood floor, he stared at one single light fixture secured on the blank ceiling, a small glow overhead to illuminate the room. Jude breathed in, then out, then in some more. It was as if he was trying to take in his whole world in one moment, as if he could inhale each and every trouble and wandering thought out of the small empty room. He tried and tried again to take away every motion of his past. Awake. He wished neither to be awake nor asleep. Somewhere within the seemingly empty space, there was a clock. Jude was still and listened to the faint ticking that appeared out of thin air. He focused his movements, his thoughts, his mind and his entire being on the steady rhythm of an unseen ticking clock. Part of him hoped for it to disappear, that one more sound would bring an end to the miniscule ticks and tocks that prevented him from leaving these four small walls. But the clock ticked on.It measured seconds, minutes, hours, as Jude lay across the floor and measured nothing. He weighed the difference between seen, unseen, and invisible. He studied every inch of tangible and make-be-lieve. The weight of the world was his to discover as the clock vocalized time. The rhythm he tried so hard to escape slowly led him into a shallow sleep on the hard wood floor under the single dull light of a square room.

Krista Rud

Jude awoke to the contrast of bright sunshine spilling through an open window against the lonely dull ceiling bulb. Rapidly, he searched for a reference point. He found no alarm, no technol-ogy, and no everlasting watch upon his left wrist to guide him. But he heard it.A curious case, as he was desperate to get out but knew no motion would interrupt the oxygen circling infinitely around him. He was running, speeding down a track with every fiber of his being without contracting even a single muscle. Within each passing moment he actively opposed and rejected the small square room. He was certain his own thoughts would never be enough to break four walls, yet he continued at high speeds. He ran from himself, from whatever kept his feet grounded and the Earth turning. Grappling with his very existence, the runaway could not force himself to physically move. Jude’s mind chased itself around in circles like a dog just discovering its tail. But there was no result. As long as he tried to catch what was following him he would become further away from his pursuer. He was long gone but could obtain nothing. No matter the amount of space, breath, focus, or artificial light, Jude could not escape time.

RunawayKrista Rud

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Skyline fades, noise blursDirt roads replace city streets

Fleeing to be free-Emily Moore

I can’t think right nowIt’s kind of a problemThis doesn’t work, fail

-Anonymous

“Snow”It’s quite cold outside.

I can feel it in my bones.Slowly, falling, snow.

-Dion

Old Man in chimneyflyin reindeer and cookies

what world are we in?-Ryan McElrath

“Silence”Whisper of the wind,

disappearing with a voice,shatters like thin March ice.

-Nicole Link

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Dharani Persaud

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Falling Daylight/Height of Darkness

Wax drips down my fingertips until the sun comes up and extinguishes my flame.The white walls have become gilded golden and shiningand I draw the curtains to create anartificial night.My flame ignites once againleaving meto dwell in my dreams,for,when we floatacross rainbows and in the net of safety or despair—And yet I can see imbued in my mind:Lightning. Thunder.Rain.Crystals melt in the air as they falland they splash light up that once belonged to the Moon, who,today, is wearing a pale, wan blue mask.

Lightning reaches form the moon to our feet;The heavens have sent electricity to charge usand you and Iwe stare into the sky

Frieda Yeung

and run into a boltof lightning.Up in the sky we land on the moon,our ghostly blue skins a sign of surreal intensitythe bloom leaping around usTinglingElectricityHearts touching, meeting in the vast eternity of blue crystal, sapphire fires lit inside me—And Suddenly it’s coldI slam into the grassmy knees shakingmy fingers frozenmy body trembling like a golden leaf which the rain has troubled.

I get up and open a window.I hear rain falling in the distance, the clap of thunder, the swish of lightningAnd then I open the curtains.Sunlight floods the room.My flame is extinguished.I can breathe again—And I fall once more.

Falling Daylight/Height of DarknessFrieda Yeung

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Abyss of a Butterfly Pinned to A Rotwall

I need to get on a train away from this mess away from this sorrow looking over at my desk holding things which used to have importance; what’s buried under the dust? only tears that have long dried out.

It’s time to get out, crack the shell that’sholding me back and stretch my wings.I can see the lights shining there like a million stars up close, blinding.

I sit here and contemplate my doomWhile festering whispers surround meWhile bitter frost overtakes the flush of a roseWhile the skin is peeled awayWhile the sky becomes polluted with everyday leftovers and manure.

And a twig snaps under my feet so I can’t help thinking about my neck snapping like that. I don’t mind, rather let night swallow me whole;the glow of the sun through the curtains once lit my room into one candle, glass.

Frieda Yeung

16Vasiliki Papaniklolopolous

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Scrap Metal

The truck comes chugging alongbarely moving, scrap metal piledin the back, threatening to spill

out all over the road,scattering along the asphalt

to sit in the sun until somebodycomes along and picks it up.

The truck comes chugging alongbarely held together, red duct tape

trying to simulate the tail light,the rear view mirror hanging

onto the cab by a threadof rusting metal;

the truck’s paint peeling off,exposing the steel beneath.

It shouldn’t be able to continuedown the road

but it does

Chugging along beneath a loadof scrap metal that tries to

rip its carrier to shreds.

Natcher Pruett

18Taylor Rose

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Justin MillerKate Abram

I. There was a strange manin a strange backwaterin a strange world, andhe kept animals.Not the quotidian sort;the fierce, the foreign:giraffes trawling the oceanic fields,lions lurking behind chicken wire.

A zebra or sowould get loose very once in awhile –a footnote on that blank, pastoral page of a soybean plot,and before phoning animal controlthe neighbors would sayisn’t that beautiful.A she? Well, isn’t she nice.

II.The roads in that strange land were hard. And when it rained, they were wet.And when the mild-mannered folk of the townshipsaw Bengal tigers leaking forth from the edges of the woods,they did as instructed by tinny radio bulletinsand stayed in their cars.Out came the police force, clear-eyed, taciturn, in fiercely glinting vehicles. Surelythey would take care of things.

And the poor, deluded, sweet townsfolksat in a zoo of the strange man’s making,

Right Here in Zanesville, OhioC.K. Flanagan

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Right Here in Zanesville, Ohiotrapped in the exhibit on view.God, were those animals gorgeous. Look at them! They mused. Aren’t they nice?

III.Meanwhile, the news festered.“Night of terror!” headlines proclaimed.“Exotic animals loose!” Perverse delight fell like the thin rain. “Whoever thoughtthis would happen,right here in Zanesville, Ohio? Keep the grandkids in!” And theshrill voices speculated as to what a crazy old man he must have been,and the big, strong policemen creptinto the woods with their cold logic and semi-automatic weapons,acute and soullessas hands on a clock,and they aimed and they firedand they killed every last one.

Well, we should knowas well as anyonethat all things come to an end, shouldn’t we?But it was a pity, everyone agreed.They were so beautiful.So nice.

C.K. Flanagan

IV.And today I wasrunning and runningthrough the thin breeze and staringat the hard, wet veneer of theblue water and thinking about you.

I thought about the old man, too-- how he had let his menagerie freeafter shooting himself in the head.What a way to go – and indeed,everyone got to seewhat he would,the hidden pulchritude: things wild and deepthey’d never before dreamed.

And here I am, a dot on the earth with bones like a cagejust a short ways north of Zanesville, Ohio,thinking about what a crazy old soul I amand knowingthat I’ll never let you go.

Right Here in Zanesville, OhioC.K. Flanagan

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Mariel Bolger

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Please go far awayso we’ll never meet again

because I hate you-Anonymous

Where are you going?This so-called far away land

Why can’t you explain-Anonymous

Imagine trafficonly stopping and goingthat’s what the world is

-Anonymous

I love Babs LacoShe is an awesome person

I’ll cry when she leaves-Dharani Persaud

Minneapolis:I love you, but your sky lacks

NYC sparkles.-Babs Laco

This winter is quitedisgusting in MN statemy ears will drop off.

-Eve Liu

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The Last LetterRiele Short

Lacey, I want to write to you, One last time

I want this to be all you areSo to you:

Lacey, It’s going to be hard, Lacey.

To walk the same school halls, Take boring math tests and eatGross lunch food without you

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo go back to that gym and breath the same air,

Smell the sweat and the tears,See the sun light up

That same airWhere you took your last breath

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo master new tricks, new moves, new dances

On that same beamWhere out picture was taken

Back in the 1st grade

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo not cry when we graduate 5th grade

And you’re not on my leftThe way we planned

The way we practiced

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The way we wereThe way we won’t

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo swing, and jump off the swing

Soar through the airAnd land without hearing

The thud of your bodyA couple of feetAway from mine

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo go to Myrtle Beach this summerAnd stick my head out the window

Skip down the boardwalkAnd stay up late, roasting marshmallows

Without you

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo start and end middle school

Start and end high school,Experience college,

Without having you by my sideComforting me

With just the sight of your shadowWithout your phlegmy laugh

The Last LetterRiele Short

27

The Last LetterRiele Short

It’s going to be hard, LaceyTo smile, to laugh, to cheer

To make jokesTo dance and sing

To be sillyWhen I’m by myself

It’s going to be hard, LaceyBecause I won’t have you for anything

But memories now

Memories

It’s going to be hard toGo on, Lacey

But I can tell you now, And I can tell you forever,I can scream it in your ear

I can whisper itWrite it on a folded note

Scribble it on my palmEven carve it into stone:

That it’s going to be easy, Lacey.Easy

To remember you

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I miss days of schoolDisappear for weeks on endchase my dreams, skis bend.

-Jack McNeill

I need more coffeeRory heads off to Chilton

Luke and Lorelai-Caroline H. and Alex H

Innapropriate?You know inappropriate

is my middle name.-Anon

The door is now shutwe discuss various things

then, the door opens-Mitch Stauch

Who can hear my speakWho can hear me in silence

Who can see beyond me-Emily Moore

In class today wetalked about comma splices, it was

fun, I learned a lot.-Mr. Barry

Dear Ms. Stiefvater,

If I tried explaining why I love your book, The Scorpio Races, I’d just repeat everything you’ve said. I think if I told you how beautifully written it was, you’d smile and promptly forget my letter. All the same, I feel like I need to try because if I don’t, this book just becomes another ache in my chest until over time, I’ve forgotten why I fell in love. We’re often faced with the question how much we love, which roughly translates to how far will we go for a loved one. Unfortunately, this is the wrong question. It implies that love is grounded on sacrifice and unrelenting devotion. It’s also one-sided, egotistical and inaccurately portrays the effects of love. As we’re reminded constantly, love is a two-way street, and it’s as much a bond as an emotion. It’s like the variable “N” in Physics; N can stand for Newton and Normal force. It can be applied in force, energy, and momentum equations. All these are connected (not just by the letter N), strung together by acceleration and mass. In short, when in doubt, the safest bet is to use N. The same applies for love; love is used for family, friends, lovers, books, movies, and anything else you are emotionally attached to. For example, I love Scorpio Races. I also love the word facetious because all five vowels line up neatly in alphabetical order. In a different way, I love my parents, and in yet another way, I’m sort of in love with Sean Kendrick. My point is half these examples don’t fit the first definition. Some will argue my examples are faulty and misleading, but I believe that love, no matter the context, must have more substance. Why else would people go through heartbreak and insecurity so often? Scorpio Races does an excellent job proving my point. The romantic love, though downplayed, still exudes an intangible something. Besides that, there are other varieties of love just as intangible, but brilliantly lucid; I can feel the tug of the island, of these mysterious horses, of two quirky brothers, pulling me deeper into the world but somehow their essence is always just out of reach. I can feel my heart thud to the rhythm of the waves – slow and contagious – spreading to the tips of my fingers, and when I look down, I see thin silvery cords connecting me to Puck, to Finn, and Gabe, and Sean. The same bonds and threads that connect us to others in reality are present within them, and that’s where love comes from. Love doesn’t just take away; it gives back too, maybe in a different form

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The Scorpio RacesBeatrice Lim

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than we’d expect, but a return all the same. Sometimes, all it takes is a glimpse, like the sight of a girl standing defiantly before an island: “I can’t remember when I’ve been that brave, and it shames me… [Puck’s] both a mirror of myself and a door to part of this island that I’m not… I felt that there was a part of myself that I didn’t know” (176). If Sean hadn’t seen Puck, would he have bargained with Malvern for Corr? Would he have been brave enough to risk everything? In turn, Sean teaches Puck something about herself. He gives her some of his confidence, his still-ness. He teaches her to accept the capall uisce, even respect them. This has always been what appealed to me in books – the little things that speak volumes over any momentous event. Because when you look at the big picture, each small detail adds to something bigger. Psychologists say 95% of communication happens silently. What better exam-ple is there than Sean and Corr – the boy and his water horse, his capall uisce –whose interaction is devoid of words or sounds, yet their bond is stronger and far more profound than any other re-lationship in the story. They’re two parts to a whole, the horse and his boy, the sea and the land. In one of my favorite scenes, Sean wraps Corr’s legs with seaweed, and every so often, he spits on his fingers before patting Corr. Like I said, the small details get me, and Sean’s explanation resonated through my core: “It’s a part of me, it’s a way for me to be somewhere. When the rest of me can’t be” (247). It reminds you how these two belong with each other, though the gesture isn’t grand or sensational. It’s unique, their ritual. I love the quirks, the significance. I wanted to thank you, Ms. Stiefvater, for writing “the book you’ve always wanted to read, but can’t find on the shelf.” My form might be odd, a little like an essay, but this is the only way I know how to communicate my appreciation. I believe that themes can come from other sources besides great classics; your book is one such source. So, thank you once again. As Sean put it, “that’s what’s done” (279).

Sincerely,Beatrice Lim

The Scorpio RacesBeatrice Lim

31 Frieda Yeung

It fallsAn ideal felled by mechanical failure,Felled by gears wearing out and wiresDisobeying the will of the maker,Felled by fire run rampant.

And as it fallsPeople point up and lookAnd maybe even laugh, ignorant,Never to know what went wrong,Never to bother caring.

After all, it falls.Isn’t that enough to know?

CollapseNatcher Pruett

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33Carolyn Patterson

A raindrop falls andSoftly hits your head;It travels along a singleStrand of hair, crawlingTo the tip, where it dropsLightly to your forehead.It trickles down your skinAnd over your brow,Minding its own wayIt falls into the foldsOf your eyelids, thenFinds its way to your lashesCurving with themAnd hanging at the endFor only a momentBefore falling into the creaseBetween your nose andYour cheek, tickling youIn a way that you can’tHelp but smile, and When the raindrop hitsThat smile, those lips,It soaks into a part of youAnd when you press your lipsAgainst mine, it becomesA part of me too.

Untitled (13 September 2009)Katie Emory

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35

MortalityKilling sprees can only soothe the wintry heartA short intake of breathTriggers the gun.

A walk down the lane revealsSo much more than what is really thereAnd try you may notBy walking on the wrong side of the road.

Take flight, take hasty flight,Get thy armor-covered valor away, get awayNever return; the first bullet has sunken into already mottled flesh.

Frieda Yeung

Abby Morical

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Vasiliki Papaniklolopolous

The hills, they roll,blue-green waves beneath the watchful gazeof the mountains.

The hills, they rollwhen it’s a hundred degrees outside,when it’s so humid you can barely think,can barely breathe.That doesn’t stop the hills.Never has. Never will.

They roll beyond the windows of that restaurantwhich rests above the bridge marking that placewhere county ends and city begins,family-owned since ‘62 and showing it.And when you look out those windows,you have to look over the used car storewith its big lot of shiny things.Beyond there, the hills stand.They won’t be gone in two weeks.

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They RollNatcher Pruett

They RollNatcher Pruett

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The hills, they roll, and the rolling, well, it becomes a part of you,like your breath, in a way.And it’s going to be a part of youthat sticks around.

Somewhere else, the land is flatand people’s voices sound different,and the everything feels cold and strangeand it might be because the air’s a bitsharper(rolling’s the opposite of sharp, plusit helps when it’s not 100 degrees)and you can’t see the hills.You can see the street lights.You can see the cars,the planes, the sky.But you can’t see the hills.

And even then— The hills, they roll.

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Justin Miller

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Oh juicy orangeYour tough peel protects your flesh

sweet and succulent-Anonymous

Red and yellow, pinkand green, purple and orange,

and blue my rainbow-Anonymous

I have an orange catHe is cuddly and awesome

His name is Tari.-Anonymous

Red is a colour.Sometimes it’s a feeling too.

Or it’s a stop sign. -Anonymous

I can be purpleOr blend with my surroundings

a cameleon. -Anonymous

Fun size m and mToo small to fulfill hunger

made to dissapoint.-Ali Ahn

I have an assignment

a something else I was supposed to write

but all I want to do is write the red

of the leaves in autumn

It is not so very red

as to spark envy from the cardinal

or to mimic the lights of early December

strung up amongst the pines

No, it keeps much better company

with the age-spotted bricks

that provide the knobs and footholds for the ever-climbing ivy

or perhaps even with the felty construction paper

that sits so unassuming

faded in the sun

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While Beginning an EssayKate Abram

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Kate Abram

Without a topic My thoughts gather like a crowd Who is first in line?

Fourteen years at Blake Students, teachers, parents yes Love of learning still.

Minnesota now New York City will be next Minne-apple max.

Northrop hallways buzz Smiles and greetings we pass The people I’ll miss.

– John Gulla

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Mariel Bolger