R E DR E D

I N C .I N C .

R E DR E D

I N C .I N C .

REDINC.

THE TAFT SCHOOLSART AND LITERATURE MAGAZINE

A. MIND/BODY B. YEARNING

D. CLOCKSC. VENTURE

2 Emily Crouch .............................. photo3 Tawanda Mulalu .......................... Votre4 Camilla McGarry ............................. photo5 Anoymous ............................ hands8 Natasha Cheung ........................... artwork9 Gabby Gonzalez ............................. I Am10 Jake Wasserstein ............................... photo11 Tristian Chaix ............ Writers Block12 Maggie McNeill ............................... photo13 Olivia Wivestad ................................ photo14 Justin Kwon ......................... Solitude15 Lauren Fadiman ................................. foot16 James Chun ............................. photo

18 Berkeley Brooks ................................ photo19 Hannah Kallin ........................... artwork20 Aaron Dillard ................... The Angel21 Katheryn Moya ..... Goodbye, Farewell22 Alli Kalvaitis ................................ photo23 Wendy Osborn ............................. artwork24 Kayla Kim .... To My Stranger25 Louise Gagnon ........................... artwork

27 Marisa Mission ......................... Maybe29 Ivy Salisova .............................. photo30 Stephanie Sze ............................... photo31 Nick Burnham ........ Survivors Guilt32 Juste Simanauskaite ....................... photo33 Lidia Gutu ........................ Equality35 Ai Bui .............. For Paris36 Abokor Ismael ............................... Islam

38 Louise Gagnon ............................ artwork39 Chandler Houldin ......... Three Semanas40 Pam Armas .......... 10:15 Sign In41 Wendy Osborn ............................. artwork43 Nina Garfinkel ................................. photo44 Felicity Petruzzi ..... Connecticut Gothic45 John Magee .......................... untitled46 Eliza Denious ................................ photo47 Sumi Kim ... New England Winter48 Nina Garfinkel ................................. photo49 Collaborative .. The Spirit of Study Hall

MINDBODY/- 1 -

Emily Crouch 19- 2 -

I N C .I graduated fresh and bloody from my mother's womb,a gift, greater than any other.My sister before me too.My brother after me was swallowed up by Him mere hours after drawing his last breath his first. Behold:This is my unambiguous declaration againstthis universal truth: my unparalleled defense of the dignity of man against the temperature-empty, relentlessly inhumanuniverse unconcerned with these ventureswhich characterize knowing it

not. For one day I shall callmy teachers by their first names. One daythey shall call me doctor. This is the totemdeclaring the worth of the living and the dead,my sister and my brother: myself. The totemof the disenfranchised and barely and disabledand black. Even also less including I guessthe enriched the cup overfloweth and mightyand colourless. Our skin and bones and gravesand blood and virgin and lust and chest andbreasts and being and nothing and isness is

beautiful

regardless of everything. It is mine.It is yours. It is yours.

Votre.

V O T R E

Tawanda Mulalu 16- 3 -

I N C .

Camilla McGarry 19- 4 -

pale and stretchingreaching outwards into a new world feeling the soft itchiness of the blanketthe warmth of unknown skinonto the small innocent hands

digging diggingdirt under nailsskin darkensfingers dive down and downas if taking off into waterwashing and rubbing washing and rubbingwith warm soothing suddsready to use shiny spears in handfor mamas cooking

smooth, yellow wood held by the digitsbrushing away the pink fragments of mistakeswinging new grips up and downup and downover and under into the world of informationtyping writing erasing with hands

tap taptap on the bottom of the dense chair

extremities of the clock countingcountinguntil its timeone step two stepgraspingholding onto the silky gownonto childhooduntil its timethe rough rolled paper grazes fingertipssnap snapflashand over goes the tasselnow hands onto the steering wheel of a new ride

that was the bellthe bell ranglate soo latepinky to thumb pinky to thumb the professor beat on the deskirritated taking a seat creaakof the chair SLAM of the booksall eyes on youjust sit down

H A N D S

- 5 -

its happeningtrembling trembling in fearhappy fearscared fearquestion markthe cold metal ring slides on to the ninthsparkling and glistening lightilluminating the skin around the rockthe circle of hope and love forever on a hand

small so smallnew handskind handsthrust forthin hopes of welcome from mother

pullingpulling the bristlesthrough her mop of strandstwisttwisting the limber bandpig talesswish swish in the windher pink purple painted nailsclasping tighttightly onto the straps of the bouncing bagwaving

waving down the yellow beastto a haltwith noisy hands

boxesheavy and lightfill the hallwaysfill the palmsher momentto leave and departfrom one sheltersheltered lifeto crazytoo crazythe reluctance of fingers from hers wave wave goodbye

ouchjust bend bendthe swelling in such minuscule jointsno pens no pencilsarthritisdamn lineage

foldedintertwined

- 6 -

for the finaleno more feelingno more feelingsprintsso many printson the black shinyencasingencasing memymy handsmy mindmy lovefor her for himfor it is the final darkeningfrom lightinto light i reach with worn and tired hands

Anonymous- 7 -

Natasha Cheung 16- 8 -

I A MI amI am not my reflectionI am moreI am every doorthat opened when one closed Weekdays and weeknights,Numbers after letters after phrases,until midnightI am the things I chaseIts a race; I want to win. I am not my reflectionI am moreI am a series of plis and chasss across the floorI am an artist with a testI must do it better - best. But I know more than my reflectionNow, I know moreTo lose a race and fail a testI abhorYet Id explore,standing behind the door,a side to my reflectioninnocent of perfection -I am human.I am.

Gabby Gonzalez 17- 9 -

Jake Wasserstein 18- 10 -

A blank page is beautifulA blank page is meanA blank page is terrifyingAnd everything in-between

Ideas come and goBut nothing will stickThat page will stay emptyWaiting for the words to click

A paper has no feelingsJudgments or moralsNothing written on the page?It has no quarrels

A paper doesnt careAbout your stress and your worriesA paper doesnt careAbout your hurts and your hurries

No matter the lengthThe detail or proseA paper will sit thereLaughing at what it knows

That writers blockIs a plague of us allIt affects everyoneEven the short, even the tall

Your ideas wont formYou start to throw a fitYou burn all your workYou scream, This is it!

Yet a paper still smilesKnowing that its trueThat the only thing stopping creativityIs you

Tristian Chaix 16

W R I T E R S B L O C K

- 11 -

Maggie McNeill 16- 12 -

Olivia Wivestad 19- 13 -

Be wary of the comforts of isolation,For loneliness can often be unkind;Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation. Those who yield into the temptationWill find themselves forever confined.Be wary of the comforts of isolation. Throughout the endeavor comes complications;Fight back for the sake of mankind,Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation. The struggle will surely come with frustration,And the toil will test your strength of mind;Be wary of the comforts of isolation. The few who fight for their aspirationsFind happiness they do not resign,Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation. I failed to live up to my own expectations.Only you can be saved, so bear in mind;Be wary of the comforts of isolation,Or give in, and fall into a pit of desperation.

Justin Kwon 16

S O L I T U D E

- 14 -

i alwaysrun with my

right foot forwards and when

the burningcomes i do

not stop because to stop

is to burnfaster and

i fear thatmy skin is

alreadycharred and the

tighteningcomes next but

that too is

okaybecause

the pain is like

my rightfoot and

I tell myself

that he does not

hurt so

badly

any

way

F O O T

Lauren Fadiman 17- 15 -

James Chun 18- 16 -

YEARNING

- 17 -

Berkeley Brooks 17- 18 -

Hannah Kallin 18- 19 -

The sun kissed her skin as she smild at meI loved her with all of my heart and soulHer eyes met mine as her mouth sang A-DAt that moment I had lost all control

she touched my hand gently - a slow caress and right there I knew that she was the oneshe made me complete, nothing more or lesstogether forever, shed leave for none

I could not find words like a hard word searchBut something about her just felt so righta ring above her head, twas white like birchshe had pretty wings and I saw the light

Id never doubt that she came from aboveeverything about her showed me true love

Aaron Dillard 16

T H E A N G E L

- 20 -

So we say adieuunderneath miles of skinwith veins that run a vibrant blue

Within time everyone knew the different places weve beenso we say adieu

They say it all started with twothat we are the result of sinwith veins that run a vibrant blue

After everything they put us throughit is impossible to stay withinso we say adieu

As their tensions begin to brewwe cannot help but grinwith veins that run a vibrant blue

It has always been me and yousearching for a place to beginso we say adieuwith veins that run a vibrant blue

Katheryn Moya 16

G O O D B Y E , F A R E W E L L

- 21 -

Alli Kalvaitis 18- 22 -

Osborn: Hearts Mirror Restoration- 23 -

HelloPlease lead me on; Ive lost my way.Tell me were in a castle, in a roomPerched over hollow halls and where, they say,Conspirers met to plot a royals doom.Tell me that past the windows lie the fieldsWhere grazing cows shirk from unruly handsTheir sifting figures fade and lowing yieldsBut your voice shields me still from fleeting lands.All roads are rust, all pastures are now pastThe cows, now dust, have left us on our ownNeither will the plotters whispers lastLest we remain entombed in walls of stone.Tell me the color of your eyes, though vainI know that we will never meet again.

T O M Y S T R A N G E R

Kayla Kim 16- 24 -

Louise Gagnon 18- 25 -

VENTURE

- 26 -

DISCLAIMER/TRIGGER WARNING: This is a fictional piece based off of various gathered facts of soldiers during WWI. I do not claim to know much about trench warfare, and seek only to explore a sensory experience.

Maybe.A soldier, oblivious to the world outside, stands in a trench full of the nastiest water on Earth. His toes ache from constantly being in those darn wool socks not to mention his wool uniform is completely soaked through from the flood two nights ago, and smelling as though it was dragged through the frigid water at his feet. His back is sore, his legs, stiff, and theres a crick in his neck from sleeping standing up last night. Although there are plenty of other guys in the trench with him in fact, more than anyone would have liked his closest friend is the rat currently trying to gnaw one of his slightly frozen fingers off. Its his turn on the front lines again, gas mask and gun at the ready: theres a charge in the air, as if the dread-ed.UP AND OVER! UP AND OVER! The command startles his stale brain, but he scrambles in trained weariness, flinging off the rat, yanking on his mask (but not turning it on yet), fumbling for his gun, and crawling up the trench. Every muscle protests as he misses a barbed wire fence by a hair, just barely stum-bles around a land mine. No Mans Land is as forgiving as the flying bullets, and one move could make all difference in the world.

Death and destruction stroll around him, their putrid scents invading his nose, while the screaming and the pain and the yelling and the gunfire slice through his ears. Forcefully shoving his senses to the side is hard work, but a soldiers gotta do what a soldiers gotta do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the Shoot Reload Shoot Reload commands, it crosses his mind that he should be deaf by now from the guns and the bombs and the screams, but by some unholy miracle, the suffering still manages to reach his ears. Renewed gunfire forces him to flop down, so he does his best to scope out a good position to start firing back, moving only as needed. Although it compromises his safety, he avoids looking anywhere but ahead, and even then a flying arm crosses his line of sight, red blood and yellow flesh and white bone soaring across like a grotesque rainbow. Two agonizing hours later, the command comes: RETREAT! RETREAT! The battle has come to a stalemate, and both sides limp away with tired practice.

Carnage lies everywhere, and the bodies in the trench are piled in the corner for the rats. Despite death ruling the battlefield, there is no place for the dead here. The screams of the wounded and dying have not yet abated, nor will they until the wee hours of the morning. The soldier retreats into the back tunnels, and does

M A Y B E

- 27 -

his best to wash up, trading one rancid uniform for another. Hell take a walk later, cheer some guys up with words of strength and encouragement, however hollow they may be. After all, hes alive and moving, and hes grateful for it. Maybe.

Marisa Mission 17- 28 -

Ivy Salisova18- 29 -

Stephanie Sze 18- 30 -

A man, within his thoughts, is lost at sea;

For voices from beyond keep calling loud.

They beg for sweet release, they want to flee;

to have their feet put back on solid ground.

But man has no response to this assault.

He cannot think of what he wants to say,

To prove to them that it is not his fault,

That they are standing not with him today.

The man, he knows the voices will not cease;

Until the day where he goes to the earth.

That is his one requirement for peace,

Returning to the place where he was birthed.

For from dust we come, to dust we shall return,

Where voices from beyond no more are heard.

S U R V I V O R S G U I L T

Nick Burnham 16- 31 -

Juste Simanauskaite 17- 32 -

Someone asked me today about equalityAnd I told her that what we wish for is deeply rooted in our oppression. I didn't figure this out all of a sudden; it took me days, months to observe the world and to force my eyes see through the creamy veil of privilege. When your life is beautiful, it's hard to believe that others lives are miserable. Those people are the ones who speak up, who try to seek guidance--oh no, excuse my soft words--who fucking fight for their rights. It's not a coincidence that, in English, a right is something that is right, something that makes sense to a group of people. But we all diverge in our own sense of what rights are right, and my vision of right and wrong can differ from that of a Christian who condemns premarital sex and homosexual couples.

I don't. It's impossible to judge other people based of a fragmented narrative constructed in your head about their lives.Just because you think somethings wrong, it doesn't mean that your opinion is valid in others sets of values, those castles of sand demolished by waves of criticism.

Just because you think somethings a right, it doesn't mean that your granted is everyone elses. People have very complicated existences, and the fact that the struggle is still happening adds to the fragmented narra-tive. Some of us are rich, some of us are white, some of us have a family, some of us have a healthy body, some of us have better education, some of us are HERE, on this planet, ALIVE.In the big scheme of things, these are all privileges. Not all people are born alive, think of that for a second. Someone asked me about equality today. I told her about oppression, but I forgot to tell her about her own privilege: She could breathe.If so few of us make it to life, isn't it pointless to argue against each other? Before we all become equal... let's embrace the idea of life first. We were all produced from a nurturing womb.

E Q U A L I T Y

- 33 -

Hence, we are all humans, born to tolerate or even better, accept each other.We're all born and we all die, equal at the beginning and at the end. The middle is the funky part. Let's start with empathizing first. We are all humans; we all breathe. Is it hard to make each other happy? Yes. Is it worth trying? Definitely. Because, in the end, we all die. And if we love inequality so much, let's keep it in our trials and errors of taking care of each other.

What we wish for is deeply rooted in our oppression. What we love is rooted in our very natures. There is nothing as beautiful as wishing for love and combating oppression with human nature..

Lidia Gutu 16- 34 -

I am scared. You are scared. We are scared.

Can there be innocence in this world anymore, when innocence is crushed into a gushing stream of hot, red blood?

Can there be peace in this world anymore, when the greed for power and dominance bleaches the entirety of humanity?

Can there be me, and you, and us anymore? Will there be?

Bombings here and terrorist attacks there. Sometimes they pass like another buzzword. Sometimes they gnarl like trains heading straight for our innermost fear of loss. And what loss is it that we fear? Safety, liberty, life? Ourselves, our family, our friends? Me, you, us?

I fear the loss of trust between you and me and us. I fear that one day we will pass by each other not know-ing if the other is friend or foe. I fear that one day we wont smile at each others faces and yet turn our heads to watch for the knives behind each others backs. I fear that we will be shut inside a shaken snow-globe of hate

crashing into each other like helpless little flakes

merely praying that the shuddering globe would stand still.

Ai Bui 16

F O R P A R I S

- 35 -

I S L A MI think a lot of people dont know me, so let me go ahead and introduce myself.My name is Islam, and I am a lover of the West.You know, it is funny that a lot of people see me as a potential threat to the West.They say that I am incompatible with Western ideologiesThey see me as an anti-Christ who endeavors the destruction of ChristianityThey see me as an extremist who beheads and kills innocent people.They think I am waging a crusade against the WestBut they dont know that I am always with Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad.

To be a Muslim is to be a good person, to love humanity, to be anenvironmentalist, philanthropist, antisexist, anti-racist, and antiterrorist.I dont teach hate or discrimination, I dont teach the killing of innocent civiliansI dont teach the subjugation of women, I dont teach one to terrorize peopleI dont teach that one should blow himself up to gain my JannahI am not addicted to creating trauma, but they say that I am backward and cold-blooded. I teach love, justice, and equality;I strive to obliterate ignorance so that no onejudges another

I teach forgiveness, so that love can prevailI teach peace and love to humanity, but ironically Ive been criminalized and distortedAnd they say I am an extremist. Yes, I am an extremist. I am extremely humane.My soul is always with Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad.Yes, there are some who legitimize their so-called Jihad under my name,But does that make me a criminal? Does that make my name look evil?I am also a victim of terrorism, and I am not a sponsor of Jihadism.The world is looking at me with disdain, and when it hears my nameand sees false images on the media, it feels scared and numb. But Hold on, I still believe that there are some kind-hearted people out thereWho can distinguish Good from Evil, who wont be brainwashed by the media,Which portrays me as a psychotic man with beard and turban fighting the West.I believe that some wont judge me based on the recent attacks in Paris and BeirutI believe that some will come out and denounce ISIS or Al-Qaeda without using IslamicCause they know that they are unIslamic, and I believe that love will prevail over hatred.I will always be your side, Paris, Beirut, and Baghdad.

Abokor Ismael 16- 36 -

CLOCKS(TICKING)

- 37 -

Louise Gagnon 18- 38 -

Marga is her name, shes married to XAnd theres Marga and Rober and Jacob:El diablo, who screams and shouts! Margas niche is the cocinaShe sits and she smokes and she cooks.Las tortillas were my favorite.The steam would rise as she pulled the potatoes from the oven.Espera she shouts as I take my first bite.Its hot, she says in English. Hot, hot, hot.Under the Nerja sunOur daily debate was whether or not to take our shoes offAs we strolled along the beach to Burriana.The playa with the rainbow slide boats and cliff jumping on the left. The climb was steepAnd dirt stuck to my hands and feet.YOLO was real so I began to feelScared like I couldnt jump.Five minutes it took while my friends bobbed below.Splash, not splat, I hit the aguaAnd touched the ground. Paddled outThats what I had done

Three helados added upEvery single day, helado andPan from Ortiz at the table thatX would pick up at 4After painting a new toy car I was living a teenage dreamEn Espaawith mis amigosImmersed in the cultureA cultureI had never experiencedBut will again Someday

Chandler Houldin 16

T H R E E S E M A N A S

- 39 -

In a prep school environment one will be confronted with a series of survival obstacles that must be over-come. Here are some essential tips and tricks to ensure ultimate survival.

1. Find provisions for post sit-down nights. Have a set of places from which you can rely for nutrition. Caution: Too much fried food will result in a varied of later complications.2. Salvage those brief moments of sleep. Wrap those little hours in aluminum foil and save them for the Thursday you think you will die.3. Beware of the vendies! It seems like a friendly attempt for sharing fruit snacks, but no. Its a danger-ous trap.4. Forget about figuring out the New England weather. It never stays the same, and snow days are an urban legend.5. Do research because whats Nantucket and whos Lily Pulitzer might put you in gravest range of danger.6. Do not be afraid to make a fire. Spark up discussions that push the boundaries and risks.7. If your health deteriorates, avoid the health center at all hopes and costs. You can get ginger ale and saltines on your own.8. Acquire a skill. It is survival of the fittest, and the fittest play lacrosse.1. Look up lacrosse9. Know when to send signals home. Calling home broken down in a mess of tears over a test will worry your mother. Also because she doesnt know youre really worried about college.10. Finally, learn to create your shelter. In this case, create a tact-team of friends and teachers who will help protect you. When it feels like the walls are crumbling before your very eyes, your foundation will hold you up.

These certain acquired survival tips and skills will in at least some way ensure your greatest chance of survival in the next four years.

1 0 : 1 5 S I G N I N

Pam Armas 16- 40 -

Wendy Osborn: Plaster Mirror Restoration (before)- 41 -

Wendy Osborn: Plaster Mirror Restoration (after)- 42 -

Nina Garfinkel 17- 43 -

i. In Litchfield County, all roads are back roads. You drive and drive, through thick forests and alongside miles of open farmland. Didnt you pass those cows earlier? Is that a deer in the woods or some-thing else entirely? The sides of the roads are lined by haphazardly constructed stone walls and split-rail fences. The stones walls are crumblingwhy does no one fix them? The split-rail fences are falling downwhy does no one stop to pick the pieces up? You wonder briefly how they got here, the stone walls, twisting and turning back and back and back, disappearing into the woods. Who built them? You ask your father but he doesnt know, you ask your grandfather and he says theyve always been there, that theyve always been crumbling. His response is sufficient, but it leaves you cold. You, too, are crumbling, but you are helpless to stop it.ii. By the end of August, the leaves have changed, and your parents are reminding you how lucky you are to live in such a beautiful part of the country. On the weekend, your mother piles everyone into the car and you travel around the county looking for covered bridges to drive through. By October, you know winter is coming. You can feel it. By November, the leaves are gone. It snows on Thanksgiving and doesnt stop for months. It is March, and UCONN makes the final four of the NCAA championship once again. No one in your family has gone to UCONN, but everyone is cheering. You cheer with them. Why are they all cheering? It is April, and you are trudging through campus in your Bean Boots when the snow turns into rain. It is May and the mud is swallowing people whole. By July you have forgotten all about the months and months of snow and bitter cold, and are wondering how such a northern place can be so humid. Your hair is frizzing into a disaster, but you can do nothing to stop it.iii. Visitors disappear into the Indian Reservations, never to be heard from again.iv. Main Street. Colonial houses and churches. So many churches; their steeples piercing the air, charming everyone with their beauty, warning outsiders that they are not welcome. The Main Street in your town is the same as in the next town over, and the town after that, and the town twenty miles up the road. You do not question this. This is how things are.v. Everyone knows the story about the oldest house in town. Children run happily through its rooms on tours, teenagers lurk in the cemetery, and adults take care of it. This is how it has always been. This is how it always will be. It has been nearly 400 years and nothing has changed.vi. Everyone feels trapped. Adults remind you how lucky you are to live so close to The City. What city are they talking about? How can you leave? Your whole world is here: changing leaves and hot apple cider and pumpkin picking and county fairs. Your world is stuck in perpetual autumn.

Felicity Petruzzi 16

CONNECTICUT (LITCHFIELD COUNTY) GOTHIC

- 44 -

In November in Litchfield County the night comes earlyThe Housatonic cuts through the hills, at this spotrunning with the Appalachian trail, whose head is in Maineand whose tail reaches into Georgia Late afternoon the steep hills lose light quicklyand the world becomes a black and white photo-graphthe river runs silver after the last pink tintof the fading sun goes down in the west I sat on the bank, warm in my down vest, but my hands feltthe chill of the November air and the occasional breezescalled me home from the far bank somewhere high in the trees the silencegave way to a solitary crack; the sound of a brittle branch giving wayto the lifting turkey that materialized high above mehe glided above the water and passed overhead to the risingwoods behind me

I followed his noiseless flight and even watched his black wingsarch and his great tail fan as he landed in the bracken behind over the next twenty minutes these great silhou-ettes would appearsometimes one, often one right after another I felt as the boy or old man (because everyone else was gone) musthave felt back in England, back in the waras night fell and the Liberators came back across the Channel, noiselessin the altitude, black against the grey English skyplane after plane touching down somewhere inlanddissolving, disappearing into the Hampshire silence

John A. Magee- 45 -

Eliza Denious 17- 46 -

The New England Winter is white. Its whiter than a blank sheet of paper, whiter than the inside of a yorkshire peppermint patty, whiter than the light of the stars. Its the kind of white that makes you want to freeze. The New England Winter is cold. There is no other way to put it; its numbness blurring the tip of your nose away and layers upon layers of clothing to cover up exposed skin. Its pale finger tips and burning your lips on hot chocolate after a day outside. Its seeing your own breath before your eyes. The New England Winter is not a surprise. It does not sneak up on you, or don a disguise, like a criminal. When you see the pale leaves shivering and fluttering on the paler trees, you know its here. And for the next four months, it will remind you that its here with nips to your toes and snow on your cheeks and a feeling that gets in your bones and sits with you and keeps you company. People will warn you about the New England Winter. Theyll say it suffocates you. The weather gets to your head, and every day becomes slower, and every day becomes longer, and before long you find yourself struggling to escape the stark routine you have allowed yourself to slump into. With every day the same white pallor it was the day before, the lines separating one moment in time from the next seem to bleed into one another - days into weeks and weeks into days. When was the day you made yourself soup? When was the day you went to church? When was the day you missed your mothers call? When was the day you last saw your mother? Up and down? Right and wrong? Everything is blurry. Everything is white. Thats what people will warn you about. People will praise New England Winter, too. Theyll say its beautiful. There is a certain magical quality about the sky: wake up and you will find the heavens the palest shade of blue, go to fall asleep and you will find the sky the purest shade of lavender, look up at any point in between and you will find a watercolor whirl of hues. And when snow begins to fall, people take time to stop and remark and reflect. You can see a whole community, a whole town of people, stop what they are doing and simply watch each flake as it flutters down, mesmerized. Everything is clear. Everything is white. Thats what people will praise. You can read the words about New England Winter. You can listen to the stories. You can sit for hours and hours and picture the white and the cold. You can, you can, you can. But you will never under-stand it. Why is it so cold? Why is it so white? Why does it suffocate? Why does it mesmerize? Why is it people can never decide the nature of it? Go outside. See the cotton candy hues of the sky and feel the prickle of cold as it bites at your skin. Listen carefully. Listen -- can you hear the Winter whispering to you? I am what you think about me, it says. What do you make of me? Sumi Kim17

N E W E N G L A N D W I N T E R

- 47 -

Nina Garfinkel 17- 48 -

T H E S P I R I T O F S T U D Y H A L LWhen you stalk the library between the hours of eight and ten, you may not get much homework done, but you will get something far better.

Kayla Kim asked me:So I wrote one. This. Thing. Here.I hope shes happy. -Tawanda Mulalu

Oh how to spend theseLast few weeks, the lonely months,I shed tears of joy. -Audrey Lam

Leaves crackled and crunchedWhile the hot fire explodedAnd colored the sky -Chandler Houldin

Adventure is lifeGet what you are looking forAnd life will be full-James Darling

Poems evade me. Some english major I am --Ill never get it. -Sumi Kim Rand Paul is winning

life is real and so am I Banana paper-Tom Hubregson

Potato GravyMicrowave Global WarmingRefrigerator -Dylan Kim

Nikhil and Tom standTom is a lovable wolfNikhil is a whale-Maggie Swomley

Now I sit and thinkOf how to write this for youI think I did fail-Mr. Reiff

Conrad and SonnyTake on the World TogetherHand in hand they rule -Sonny An and Lexi Walker

- 49 -

I beg on my knees:Write me some instant haikus!The subjects agree. -Kayla Kim

Hawaii is niceThe beach has very large wavesAll those scary sharks -Mani Capece

Where art thou some askIn the trees or the fires But the time is now -Nikhil Wadhwa

oh tennis and squashsuch rivals they are and yetsimilar in sport -Conrad Cassier

There once was a manBoobie gibson was his namehe loved to toe wah-Tennant MaxeyI-write-haiku-now

Haiku-is-really-really-gooI-wrote-haiku-now -Becker Ewing

Do they hear themselveslie when they reject my wordsFor we know Im right -Tyler Dullinger

Stars shine bright outsideWhile we slave over our workSweat shines like diamonds. -Audrey Lam

Head, and shoulders kneesand toes knees and toes, eyes butVan Gogh has no ear-Natasha Cheung

So you wanna be Spiderman huh kid?A moment of joy then boomYay. Pain. -Maya Shrestha

Night spills over WuDorm room lights spark and dwindleThe magic hours sleep.-Kayla Kim

T H U S C O N C L U D E S F A L L 2 0 1 5- 50 -

r e a di n kr e a di n k

H E A D O F W R I T I N G

H E A D O F A R T

E D I T O R S

K A Y L A K I M 1 6

N A T A S H A C H E U N G 1 6

A U D R E Y L A M 1 6L A U R E N F A D I M A N 1 7S U M I K I M 1 7

F A C U L T Y A D V I S O R S

C O V E R P H O T O

B A C K C O V E R P H O T O

L I N D A S A A R N I J O K IS T U A R T G U T H R I E

B E L L A S U S I 1 7

A L L I K A L V A I T I S 1 8

@ T A F T _ R E D _ I N K