2011-2012

Car

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Caroline Megerian

Dear Readers,

We are so excited to release this year’s edition of Laurel Loop! Thanks

to all those who submitted. We hope you enjoy this magazine just as much

as we have enjoyed making and publishing it.

Keep creating over the summer (and submit next year)!

Sincerely,

Laurel Loop 2012 Editors

Caroline Donnelly Molly Easly

Annella Fernandez Sara Hull

Kathryn Lynch Sarah Manuszak

Maddy Massey Mallory Orr

Sophia Ruttenberg Natalie Thomas

Tristan Whitt Christina Stanek, faculty advisor

Mo

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Nikki Preucil

Exploration

The cracks grow bigger,

as I trace it, with my hands

The doorway opens

Inside,

it’s musty and damp

I kick at the mothballs

Cobwebs are hanging,

from the tunnel’s crumbling walls

Leading into black

It beckons me,

“Come”

By Maddy Massey

Kat

hryn

Lyn

ch

Vivian Loney

Bethany Husni

“Forever” by Elena Householder

Author’s Note: This piece is based on the Civil Rights Movement, during the segregation of

schools, when the new black students were often threatened by lynch mobs. Several people put them-

selves in the way of the mobs to protect the rights of black people, so this is based on those actions.

For more information, read Warriors Don’t Cry, by a black student who went through these

times in Little Rock, Arkansas and who was one of the first nine to integrate Little Rock High.

“My So-Called Enemy”

The tall white woman beside me smells of freshly baked bread, wafting off

into a peaceful garden where the strong smell of lavender is carried by a gentle

summer zephyr. Her arm is warm and real against my back, not pushing, just guid-

ing me toward the bus, using her body as a fragile shield from the angry looks and

rocks ready to be thrown. Her arm is an entry into my real world, a shield from

rocks, but she cannot hide me from the angry shouts, words that cut into my very

core and rip the right I thought I had to a worthwhile education into tiny paper

shreds to drift off into the harsh window of the crowd. Nor can she hide me from

the looks, loathsome and trampling, as though I am a pig someone has let destroy

their pretty picture of the way life should be. I feel that they instead are the “bull in

a china shop” destroying any childhood innocence and my picture of equality and

the truth, instead leaving this enemy whom I must hate, whom I am a warrior

against. My normal posture shrinks; because I am defenseless in the face of waves

of these people, these destroyers, save for the woman next to me, because she is

providing me more than purely protection against a lynch mob, however vital that

protection is. She is opening a window for me to believe. To believe that I may not

look at them as a group, bitter and lacking of personality save hate, allowing me to

know, to know that the bitterness is not right, that the white people are not by col-

lection evil. Because I am protected I may know that someday this will spread,

someday this will be ancient history- someday my people may go to high school,

and lynch mobs will not demand the courage of. . . My So-Called Enemy.

By Sophia Downey

Caroline Megerian

Vivian Loney

India Cora

Crocs

I see her face

weighed down with sadness

I know how it feels

She looks at her crocs,

down at her feet

The gator flipped over

seeming to go from up to down

smile to frown

I can almost taste her tears

Salty sweet, like the ocean

They roll down her cheeks

like waves washing the sand

Over and over

A rhythmic pattern, almost

I understand

By Maddy Massey

Stare

They look

at me

glancing

then

turning back

“How?”

their eyes

seem to say

“How?”

I walk

away

that’s for them

to answer

By Maddy Massey

Daniela Plana Trajtenberg

“Grown?” By Maddy Massey

I’m a flower still in bloom

I’m a tadpole not yet fully grown

Many things I still can’t do

Many things I can do on my own

I’m a sunset

I’m a star

That you can only see on clear nights

On my way to shining bright

On my way to spread my own light

That’s when I’ll say, “I’m grown!”

Author’s Note: In Japanese folklore, there is a teakettle that can turn into a badger.

This story is about what would happen if you opened the lid.

When you open the teakettle you would see a land, a whole new world. Most would

choose to shut the teakettle and run away, but if you crawled inside you would end

up in this magical world. There would be flowers of neon, rivers of sequins and grass

as soft as silk. There would be a dirt road with stones in the middle. If you were to

follow the road you would come across a little stone hut. Even at the hut the road

still went on. In the hut there would be a stone podium covered in ivy. Most would

be too scared to touch it or even stay in there because of stories and darkness.

But there are some, few though, in the world who are truly brave. If it were you, the

truly brave one, the next time your eyes shut and then opened there would be a

sparkling ball hovering over the podium. It would be dark blue on the outer parts

and lighter as your eyes followed to the center. The origin would be a pearly white.

The tips of the ball would be raggedy. It would look dangerous and gentle at the

same time. If you were the chosen one, you would feel a strange need to touch it. It

would be smooth and creamy like frosting. It would hover between your hands and

you wouldn’t want to put it down. All of a sudden, without you actually doing any-

thing you would be yammering the equations scientists thought made up magic.

Your mouth would be moving so fast and the letters and numbers would be flying

out of your mouth so fast you wouldn’t have time to think about stopping. By the

time you were done talking you would realize the ball was gone. Then your finger-

tips would turn light blue. Then your whole hand. It would crawl up your whole

body until you were completely blue. Then you would feel sparks in your stomach

flaming up towards you heart. Then all would be well again.

Now tell me, are you the chosen one?

By Ellie Piszel

Nikki Preucil

Nikki Preucil

My Grandmother’s Window

I watch the rain fall and the sun rise. I watch the seasons come and go. I smell the cher-ry pie cooling on the sill, and the early autumn leaves shed their green to introduce their yellow. I press my mud- dried feet on the screen, letting a cool breeze trickle though my multicolored toes and sneak up my scrawny legs. The rain falls in a light pattern, covering the grass like dew in the morning. But the dewy yard is now a river as the clouds pour their hearts out over the land. The walkway up to the house is now a mudslide, a hangout for the earth worms that live in the soil. But I still watch from my Grandmother’s window. I watch the tiny drops cling to branches on the old beech tree and a chipmunk hurry to the brush for cover. I watch the chain reaction as a droplet hits a leaf and then trickles down to another and another until it hits the soggy ground. I watch the still world until the clouds part to reveal the sun. The wet leaves sparkle, and I observe them until something catches my eye. The front door clicks shut, and I run across the lawn, the mud now rising up to my ankles. The beech tree stands tall before me, immersing me in mysteries. I peer in to the thicket of its lower branches, the excess water on the leaves from the storm pouring down on me. Except for one. I gently pull off the leaf by its steam and touch it. Dry. This leaf is dry. Not a single drop of water had touched its skin. Impossible. Holding it in one hand I take the old tape from Grand-mother’s drawer and carefully paste it to the inside of the sill. I step back and look at the miracle leaf in Grandmother’s window, and I smile.

By Bridget Napoli

Vivian Loney

Natalie Thomas