The Current - The Rivers School

Ceramics
Sculpture
Drawing
prose
Poetry
Painting
Photo

Judges and staff:
Senior Editors - Evan Gallagher // Cara Vanin // jake roth
Faculty Advisor - Dr. Willard
Judges - Poetry // Adam Rubinstein
- Prose // Barbara Ligon
- 3d Art // Ben Eberle
- 2d art // Joney Swift
- Photo // Joseph Aliotto
Printing - Signature Printing
Staff - Tom, osa, marc, bruna, tessa, sarah, haleigh,
erik, jack, katie, Kevin, Cal
Special thanks to - the edge for all the furniture and lollipops!
The Current is dedicated to providing the Rivers community with
cultural enrichment as well as a stronger appreciation for the arts
through poetry, prose, and artwork produced by Rivers students.
1
This year, we wanted to bring The Current back to its roots. We wanted
to keep it simple and clean so that viewers can focus on the real star of
the show - the fantastic art and literature. Speaking of which, this year’s
batch of submissions was one of the best and most competitive we have
ever had. We tried to include as many submissions as we could, but as
always some really great stuff was left out. For everyone who submitted
their work but was not included, please know that your contribution did
not go unnoticed or unappreciated. It is people like you who allow us
to keep printing, so keep it up! For those who did win, congratulations!
Your work stood out because of its quality in an extremely competitive
field. Enjoy your fame and gift cards! Of course, all this would not be
possible without the constant support of our faculty advisor, Dr. Willard,
and without the imput of our team of judges. And credit has to be given
to the entire Current staff. Thanks for putting up with all the shenanigans
and for helping us craft the best magazine evah! With you guys in
charge, we all know next year’s magazine be in very, very good hands.
But for now, take a well-deserved bow. Thank you all for a fantastic year!
- The Current Editors
From the editors...

03 - Jenna Dicicco // reality is dreaming
Table of Contents
- Nick Sia // rusty pipe // 3rd place
04 - Griffin Kay // Fence
- Stephanie Lie // Jordan pond
21 - Ben Marcus // How was your day
05 - Anna Teng // For Theo // honorable mention
22 - Casey Sunderland // falling water // 3rd place
- Stephanie Lie // Rice Bowl
23 - Austin Drucker // forever pond
06 - Kate Bullion // Smoke and Smiles
24 - Elaina Bell // Pouring the colors of summer
07 - Lizzy Southwell // Transitional Moment // 1st place
- Casey Sunderland // Sunny sorrows
- Lizzy Southwell // I taste Society Feeling
25 - Austin Drucker // organic puff
08 - Anna Teng // Suspended // First PLace
- Osa Okoh // Steeple
09 - Sean Gannon // PLate // 1st PLace
26 - Griffin Kay // light at the end
- Ben Pasculano // Lily // 1st PLace
- Cara Vanin // Splat
10 - Osa Okoh // Snowy Woods
27 - Evan Gallagher // Timeline // 2nd PLace
- Annie Reardon // anything but ordinary
- Haleigh Crossman // Libro-mar
11 - Elaina Bell // Pad Thai // Honorable Mention
- Margaret Taylor // Las hojas
- Griffin Kay // Shadows of light // 2nd PLace
28 - Andy Gelb // The four musketeers // honorable mention
12 - Lizzy Southwell // Light Dance
- Casey Sunderland // Polo players
- Bruna Lee // This is where I belong
29 - Stephanie Lie // Autumn Harvest
13 - Tom Rehnert // Crow // 2nd Place
- Anna Teng // Greener things // 2nd PLace
- Summers Ford // The plains // 3rd place
30 - Summers Ford // Me and my memory
14 - Cara Vanin // Casey // Honorable Mention
- Elaina Bell // Woodstock
- Allison brustowicz // ocean pearl
31 - Alejandra Gil // Not always so fortunate
15 - Tessa Kadar // A lifetime’s Worth // 1st Place
- Allison brustowicz // Drizzle
16 - Griffin Kay // Snow
32 - Lizzy Southwell // Engagement
- Phoebe Melnick // ice angels // 2nd place
- Salvatore Sprofera // portrait
17 - Stephanie Lie // Simplicity
33 - Osa okoh // midday church
- Alexandra gaither // Autumn Puddle
- molly steinfeld // absolute sacrifice
18 - Lizzy Southwell // Rolling, looming hills // 2nd place
34 - Allison brustowicz // Short and stout // 3rd place
- Austin drucker // broken fence
35 - Elaina bell // going green
19 - Elaina Bell // Marilyn
36 - Charlie Harrison // dne eht
20 - Brooke Brennan // Nocturnal Jumper // honorable mention
- Stephanie lie // prayer lodge
- Evan Gallagher // Quantum Drop // 2nd place
37 - The 7th grade // martin luther king
// honorable mention
38 - eric newman // final resting place // 1st place
2

Crystallized whiteness
Blankets the ancient earth
Gently painting over a landscape of
corruption
Reality hides behind frigid simplicity
Glowing with organic beauty
Canopying eyes from life’s troubles
Maybe for a second…
Trees’ rusty arms clench onto dreamy
sparkle
For a moment…
Jenna DiCicco // Reality Is Dreaming
The world is still
White wonderland
Walks through a subconscious imagination
Forever flowing
Perfectly precious
Don’t wake up yet.
Nick Sia // Rusty Pipe // Third Place
3

Stephanie Lie // Jordan Pond, Acadia
Griffin Kay // Fence
4

Anna Teng // For Theo // honorable mention
Stephanie Lie // Rice Bowl
5

Kate Bullion // Smoke and Smiles
The little girl sat in her room, puzzled by what she had just seen. She stared out at the spiraling
snowflakes streaming from the sky. Yet her eyes were not focused on the crystals. She had
long forgotten that her original intention upon arriving home had been to check how much
snow her modest little town would be receiving. Alone after school; she had flipped on the
black box sitting on her kitchen counter, praying that the magic screen would inform her that
conditions would make school unsafe the next day. A meteorologist popped out of the black,
in the midst of prattling on about an expected thirteen inches of accumulation. The slight,
nimble figure commenced to twirl around the kitchen table, her laughter sparkling around
the room like the ice outside. The sprite grabbed the phone off its receiver as she whizzed
by, and, stopping mid-spin, she began punching in her mother’s number. But a new image
on the screen interrupted her thin thumb in its descent. She looked upon a photo of two tan,
tough-looking boots at the base of an odd-looking black pole. At the top of the pole rested
a thick inverted bowl. The little girl giggled, reflecting that if she had been told to make a
sculpture it would have turned out much better than this one. However, as she focused more
of her attention on the screen, she realized that the black portion of the arrangement was no
ordinary pole. It was a gun. A big gun. And the oddly-shaped bowl was not something out
of which she would ever find herself eating cereal. It was a helmet. The scenario made little
sense to the young mind, and soon a reporter’s voice floated through her confusion, only adding
to the chaos of the girl’s thoughts. She caught the phrases, “three new deaths this week”
and “withdrawal of troops” along with words she didn’t understand, like “suicide bomber” and
“al qaeda.” The screen proceeded to show images of fiery explosions, heavy trucks zooming
across a desert, crying men and women. The child was horrified. She threw down the phone,
which she had been clutching tightly to her breast, and snatched up the remote. Yet as she
scrambled to send the terrors before her back into darkness, the images shifted again. There
was a low, grey-brown building on the outskirts of a sprawling town. Filing into it were children,
children about her age. The girl’s fears shrank and were replaced by a hesitant curiosity.
She watched in rapture as the newscast took her through an off-white door into a simple
classroom. In the space, the children, and what appeared to be a schoolteacher, were smiling
unabashedly at two men dressed in thick vests and heavy helmets. But despite the busyness
of the scene, the young girl’s eyes were drawn to the men’s footwear. They wore boots. The
same boots as those that had been used in the strange sculpture at the beginning of the
broadcast. These two tall figures were handing out pencils and notebooks to the children in
the report, and the little outside observer was amazed by how elated the students seemed.
They were only receiving school supplies after all, just pens and paper. She watched, befuddled,
as the report ended with a shot of a boy’s dark beaming face. He reminded her of one
of her classmates at school, a boy with whom she had talked not even a half an hour ago on
the bus ride home. Abruptly, a blaring commercial burst onto the screen, and the miniature
body quickly switched off the box. She distractedly mounted the stairs, contemplating in her
adolescent thoughts all that she had just witnessed. A story beginning with death and fire
had ended with smiling faces. Faces so small, so similar to her own. What did those men in the
boots understand that she didn’t
6

Lizzy Southwell // I Taste Society Feeling
I taste society feeling, the quilted emotions I feel,
Those of young girls, each one feeling hers as it bubbles up delicate and shimmering,
The businesswoman feeling as she shrieks uselessly into her cold metal phone,
The father feeling his as he searches for one more way to connect, or to disconnect,
The college grad feeling what belongs to her in her fresh apartment, the grocery store
worker feeling silently at the checkout counter,
The football player feeling as he laughs in a restaurant, the new grandfather feeling as he
weeps,
The garbage man’s passions, the teacher’s subduing in the morning, or at the break of
class or on a soccer field,
The luscious feeling of the proud sister, or of the ailing young boy in his hospital bed, or of
the man smiling or briskly walking,
Each feeling what belongs to his own soul and to no one else,
The evening what belongs to the smooth evening – at night the quieting of all minds,
bouncing, swirling,
Feeling with unlocked chains their secret silvery dreams.
7
Lizzy Southwell // Transitional Moment // 1st place

Anna Teng // Suspended // 1st place
8

Ben Pasculano // Lily // 1st place
Sean Gannon // Plate // 1st place
9

Osa Okoh // Snowy Woods
Annie Reardon // anything but ordinary
It all began when I was told that William Tecumseh Sherman was my great-great-great grandfather. Having no knowledge of the Civil War, I felt a sort of entitlement
that one of my relatives was a Civil War general. However, in seventh grade, when I learned about William Tecumseh Sherman, I was horrified that I was “related” to a man who
burnt the entire South to ash. I kept asking myself, “How did my friend Margaret Taylor come to be related to William Clark, and I had to be related to man who was despised
by the entire South”
My grandfather, known as “Grandpadz” is somewhat of a pathological liar. He does not lie about important things, but instead, about foolish things, for his own
amusement. It was because of him that I carried the burden of my ancestry from ages twelve to sixteen. Last Thanksgiving he sat across from me at the dinner table bragging
about how women with oxygen tanks find him extremely attractive (partly true), or how the week prior, the Episcopal Bishop had given him a spectacular award because of
his beautiful singing voice (the award was a lie, the voice was not). When he paused from his antics, I told him that last week in history we had covered our ancestor William
Tecumseh Sherman. A smile broke from the corners of his mouth as he secretly congratulated himself, for I had given him the assurance that he was still the master of trickery
even at age of ninety-one. For the next ten minutes he went on and on about how William’s rifle had been passed down from generation to generation, and now that he
possessed this historical artifact, he was contemplating whether to donate it to a museum...unless perhaps I had wanted it. I responded with, “Grandpadz, do you really think
I would want to have the rifle that obliterated the South and helped to kill thousands of Americans !” He chuckled to himself for he had hit a nerve, and went back to his
antics.
After supper, Grandpadz and my mom did the dishes. Sitting in the next room over, I overheard Grandpadz say to my mom,“The Sherman legend gets em’ every
time: it fooled you, and fooled your daughter.” I heard my mom laugh, for she knew Grandpadz took great pride in his tall tales such as the Sherman legend.
Grandpadz has mastered this art of fibbing. He can tell you the most ridiculous story but his convincing expression could make you believe that what he is telling
you came directly from a history textbook. Grandpadz has cultivated a family full of fibbers. My family tells harmless lies because we wish to make our lives more exciting--
something more than ordinary. But who are we kidding I come from a family who is the farthest thing from ordinary; let’s be honest, who in his right mind would contrive
a legend that his family is related to a mass murderer
10

Elaina Bell // Pad Thai // Honorable Mention
Griffin Kay // shadows of light // Second Place
11

I walk through the heavy metal doors of my condo apartment for the first time in three years. I immediately overflow with memories of my childhood, and while I head through the next set
of doors to take the elevator, I think about how this place hasn’t changed at all over the years. It is November 19, 2009, and the same pink and blue abstract paintings that fill the building remind me of
earlier years. I enter the elevator and search for the button numbered 4. It takes me a few seconds to find it, and I think it’s odd that I can’t remember where that button is, even after pressing it every day
for eleven years. The light around the button turns red, and I’m taken back to the number of times I’ve seen that button light up.
I remember being four, coming home after playing at the playground with my grandmother. I had just met a girl from my condo, Carol, who would later become one of my closest friends.
We had played together all afternoon, and I was upset when I had to go back home for dinner. I remember being ten and getting home really late on a summer night after endless games of “manhunt”
throughout our condo. The kids filled that condo with life, screaming and running all night long, always getting yelled at by the staff.
The elevator reaches the fourth floor and I open the door to my apartment. I look around the apartment, searching for changes in what I remember this place to be like. The dull brown
wooden furniture is the same, the decoration of Chinese paintings with animals and incomprehensible Chinese characters is the same, the statue of the Buddha is in the same altar it has always been in
and everything else seems in place, with the exception that the apartment has a different feel to the one I am accustomed to. It seems empty and way too clean and organized for it to be the apartment
I spent the first eleven years of my life in.
Everything looks different, yet the same. I notice the flowery detail of the white curtains and the white stripes of the beige sofa for what seems like the first time. I reminisce about all the times
around the glass dining room table, the many Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. I think about the times I quietly walked into my bedroom, being afraid of waking up my older sister, Helena, after I
had just stayed up all night chatting online with my friends, so that she would not wake up and get into another fight with me. There is a strange feel to the apartment, and yet I know this is exactly where
I need to be: someplace in this condo, living a hectic, yet perfect life.
Later that day I go downstairs and meet up with my friends, who also live in this condo. They are the same three friends I’ve known since I was seven. The joy I feel when I see their faces after
being separated for so long is inexplicable. I have never realized how much I missed them until now, when we are reunited. We walk through the condo, passing by the playground with the slide we played
on, the bright pink color of the slide seeming so familiar even after all these years. Yet the slide looks worn out; the plastic material is no longer shiny against the warm sun on this spring day, but dirty
and old. It is not as big and adventurous as it used to look, but small and fragile. We pass by the all purpose court where we spent so much time playing soccer, where I got hit in the face playing softball,
where I learned how to play volleyball, where I first jumped rope, where I fell and scraped my knees so many times, and then got right back up to keep on having a good time with my friends.
Right across from the court is the game room. My thoughts immediately fly over to my last New Year’s celebration spent in Brazil. On the first day of 2006, after the usual family celebration,
the four of us spent New Year’s in this very room, talking and watching Project Runway all night. The game room looks different; the couch is different from the one I remember, and the TV is now a flat
screen, in contrast to the old silver Toshiba TV we spent hours in front of. All the thoughts about that room make me smile.
We continue walking around our condo building until we reach the pool. I have been waiting to see this pool again
because of all the memories it brings me. The pool is unusually empty for a spring afternoon; there are a few kids playing in the
kiddie pool, but the bigger pool is completely empty. The water is calm and clean, and I can see the end of the pool. It looks a
lot shallower than I recall, making me realize how much I have grown. Then the memories really hit me hard. I reminisce about
using a floatie in order to not drown when I was just seven and could not swim. When my sister and I were not on bad terms, she
would bring me to this pool every day in the summer and help me learn how to swim. Then I think about all the races across the
pool that we had, and I smile at the thought of a group of twenty teenagers waiting for the rain to stop on a summer afternoon
so that we could all jump in the pool and feel the warmth of the water against our skins. Finally, my thoughts go back to just
three years earlier, when the last time I was in this pool was my very last day in Brazil, and all four of us had jumped into the water
with all our clothes on.
I look over at my friends, and I know they are thinking about the same thing. They look different; they are taller,
their clothes and styles are a lot more mature, and their physical features look older and different. Yet when I look in their eyes
I still see the eleven-year old us. I see the earlier version of ourselves, and how strong our friendship was even though we were
so young and innocent. Then I shout, “let’s jump in!”
And so we do. I run into the pool and feel the cool water against my skin as I slowly reach the bottom of the pool
and come right back up. While I am underwater, I hear more bodies touching the surface of the water and I know all my friends
have joined me. The feeling of my jeans and shirt pulling me down feels weird at first, but I quickly get over it and embrace the
moment. I know this is exactly where I want to be, and this is exactly what I had waited three years for. So much time has passed,
and so many things have changed about our lives: we are older, and we have been exposed to the cruelty and hardships of the
world. We know things are not perfect. Yet at this very moment, I know our innocent selves are back and the all the worries are
erased from our minds, even if only for these ten minutes in this pool. I am at peace, and I know that this bliss does not come
very often. So I close my eyes, hold my breath, and go for another swim around the pool, with a huge smile on my face and a
peace in my soul and mind that I have not felt for three years.
Lizzy Southwell // Light Dance
Bruna Lee // This is where I belong
12

I remember when you took me to the ocean
On my fifteenth birthday
The sun so bright overhead.
You said
Tom Rehnert // Crow // 2nd Place
13
Summers Ford // The PLains // 3rd PLace
Look around you, son
This is our home
See the yellow grass
Shaking off the midnight frost
Feel the hot wind dancing around you
See the eagle soaring with the wind
No
Climb up on this hill, my son.
Do you see the yellow ocean now
See how it rolls with the breeze
Can you smell the sweet sunshine
No
You got down on your hands and knees then
Pressed your face into the dust
For a moment you were lost
Behind the tall grass
But then you called out to me and told me
To do the same
So I hid behind the grass with you
You said
Shhh Shh, my son
Be still my son
Wait...
So we waited, I don’t remember for how long
And you asked me
Do you feel it my son
I didn’t
But then
Crouched behind the tall billowing grass
The earth began to thunder
I felt it in my bones
In my heart
In my blood
You rose onto the balls of your feet
Still crouching
And I did the same
Peeking out through the grass I saw
The cloud of black smoke and the metal engine
I saw the cruel mechanical beast
But I didn’t understand
I looked to you for some explanation
But your eyes were so sad
So sad
I remember then you asked
Do you know why we came here son
No
We must remember, my son
We must remember the pounding
Of a thousand hooves
The snorting of a thousand beasts
And the thunder of a stampede
We must remember
For if we forget that this is where we come from
We lose who we are
I still didn’t understand
I remember on the drive home I stared out my
window
Watching the yellow ocean roll by
It looked so empty and desolate
Papa, I understand now
We went today and scattered your ashes in the
yellow ocean
The sun shone golden overhead
And the eagle soared with the hot wind
And as I sprinkled your ashes I felt it
The pounding of a thousand hooves
The snorting of a thousand beasts
And the thunder of a lost stampede
Papa, I understand now

Cara Vanin // Casey // Honorable Mention
Allison Brustowicz // Ocean Pearl
14

15
I’m sitting by the window in a red leather armchair, boxy and comfortable. Its cushion is soft enough to let me relax,
yet firm enough that I’m not afraid it might swallow me. What’s perfect about it is that I can either sit up, a laptop on
my knees, or recline, my legs thrown over one arm with my head resting on the other, or maybe with my feet propped
up on the footstool that matches both the chair and its partner, which sits on the other side of a small red-mahogany
coffee table. Right now I’m reclining, my knees drawn up nearly to my chest, in order to balance the book that’s open
across them. Light slants through the floor-to-ceiling window, hitting the table and the carpet but avoiding my book.
The canopy of trees, green with summer, numbs some of the light so that it’s not blinding and it doesn’t reflect off the
1st Place
white of the pages into my eyes.
I reach over and take a sip of the hot chocolate that I’m drinking despite the fact that it’s summer. I can’t help it;
something about the hot drink calms me. It doesn’t really matter. There’s nobody here to care, anyway.
I set it back down, my eyes never leaving the page in front of me. I hardly notice the gentle chirping of the birds
outside, or the slightly musty smell of the room around me, or even the room itself. I notice nothing but the book in
front of me and its ever-approaching ending.
Finally, I turn the last page, read the last word. Slowly closing the book, I hold it in my hands and gaze into space,
contemplating what I’ve just read. After a few moments, I sigh softly and shift my legs back around to stand up. I
pick up my mug in one hand and, ignoring the stack of about ten books sitting beside it, endeavor to return the one
tucked into the crook of my arm. I’m careful not to move the armchair, knowing that if I do, it will reveal the deep imprints
it’s left in the thick carpet, and I will have to align it perfectly again, or it will bother me. The carpet, a pale yellow
with a patterned design in the same red as the chairs and footstool, stretches throughout the whole room, and I know
if I were to take out all the furniture, there would be deep, long ridges left by the red-mahogany bookshelves that
take up most of the room. Each bookcase reaches ten shelves high, well over my head yet still not quite tall enough
to brush the chandeliers that will illuminate the room once the sun goes down and the windows spanning one wall
aren’t enough.
I walk past a few shelves then head down a row. All of the bookcases are unmarked, partially because I think they
look better that way and partially because I don’t need to mark them. I know where everything is. I know where to
find every single book in this room, even the ones that I haven’t read. I haven’t read most of them, actually. There’s a
lifetime of books in here; I’m only sixteen. But I’m working on it.
What I do know is that these shelves are full of adventures. There are those books that are so old they’re still
bound in cloth and look as though they might simply crumble into a pile of dust if I open them; there are brand-new
hardcover books whose jackets don’t have so much as a tear or wrinkle; there are old paperbacks with broken spines
and dog-eared pages, the kind that might look abused at first glance but are in fact the most loved of all. And each
and every one of them holds a brand new tale, a shining new world that I can dive into. From Seuss to Rowling to
Shakespeare to Dickens and everything in between: I have it all.
I sip my hot chocolate and run my finger along the shelf, knowing that there will be no dust there. When I
stop, my finger is pointing at an empty spot between two books, one that I’ve read and one that I haven’t. I gently
slide my just-finished book in the space between them and leave it. Maybe I’ll miss it and return to it another day,
maybe I’ll be too caught up in another book. I keep going to the end of the row, idly scanning titles. I know if I get
to the end I’ll see my little nook, tucked into an alcove reached by three carpeted steps, and inside will be my desk,
mahogany to match the shelves, with a red leather swivel chair. Inside, I know, are my notebooks, and sitting on top,
beside my cup of pens and pencils, are both my laptop, for quicker, cleaner typing, and an old typewriter, for when I
prefer the sharp smell of ink and the clackety-clack of keys that give me a sense of accomplishment with every letter I
write. I know that I could mount those three stairs and settle down to write, delving into my own new world, or return
to my armchair and pile of unread books, visiting somebody else’s creation.
I do neither of these things. Instead, I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The shelves, the carpet, the hot
chocolate, and the books all vanish before me, and are replaced with my bedroom, small and messy and real. I stretch
and get up, rubbing my eyes. I’m done meditating: the room has done its work. I’m relaxed enough now to go to bed
so that I can get up for school in the morning.
I reflect back on the room. My library doesn’t exist. Not yet. But I know, instinctively, that someday it will.
Someday I will walk between its shelves, read in its armchair, write on its old typewriter. And someday it will be full
not of books that I intend to read, but books that I have read. And once I close the last cover of the last book and
return it to its shelf, I will open the door, step out into the world, and go find more.
A Lifetime’s Worth
// Tessa Kadar

Griffin Kay // Snow
She sits down crying, fat tears streaming down her face, dripping off the
bridge of her nose, falling silently onto the ice below her wobbly skates.
Sitting there in a puddle of tears, she has a look in her sad, watery eyes
that says everything. It says she is sick of trying, sick of trying and failing.
She is only five, and her helmeted head barely reaches my hip. She no
longer cares that every mother and every father is staring at her with
disapproving looks, each thinking to themselves how glad they are that
they didn’t raise a quitter. But she’s not a quitter, she’s only five and no
matter how hard she tries, she falls, and no matter how many times she
gets up, the world seems to slip out from under her feet. “It’s too slippery,”
she whispers to me, as she lies sprawled out on her back in her pink
snowsuit. I lay down next to her, “is it too slippery to make snow angels” I
ask quietly. She sits up and looks at me, eyes wide and full of life, the first
time I’ve seen her happy, “is it allowed” she asks, still looking bewildered.
I nod my head, and we lay there, in the middle of the rink, making
snow angels. We ignore the longing looks of the other children skating
and the begrudging looks from their parents because they will never
understand the beauty in the simplicity of making a snow angel in the ice.
Phoebe Melnick // Ice Angels
// 2nd Place
16

I lock my eyes with my grandmother,
her own yellowed with disease. And there I am,
my feet tucked under as I lie trapped
in the screeching train taking me
to the foreign land of her death. My tears
are fists thumping on the windows as all
normality streaks away behind the glass.
I can visit grieving relations,
I know how to be a tourist.
Hear the call, make my travel plan and take the next
flight over. Gawk at the strange inhabitants, try to speak
the language of the eternally marred which seems
Stephanie Lie // Simplicity
sit in the seat cushioned by relief.
impossible to understand. I take the flight back to my life,
I can go home, I’m not bound to that charred landscape.
But what if With guilty, contraband wondering I ask,
how would I inhabit that alien land
I could always wonder, but now there’s no time.
The train doors have shut, the swarming nurses keep
filling and filling the suffocated house. The relentless iron wheels
turn beneath my feet in their flip-flops and my grandmother asks for
a milkshake. Just let her have what she wants, said with a knowing look.
And with a final crash, the noise stops. The kitchen phone rings,
my mother’s screaming sobs are the train doors that open. The minister
17
Alexandra Gaither // Autumn Puddle
at the funeral hands me a sermon as I stand smothered in confusion.
Welcome, you have now reached your destination. Here is your passport.
Now I’m a citizen.

I can’t stand the time change, wandering through the rooms of
my new home. It’s my house, but I’m still a stranger. Sometimes
I can’t remember I’m not at home in my old life. Every day
I wake up and, with my eyes still bleary, I look around. I remember
my new citizenship.
Austin Drucker // Broken Fence
I can shut myself away. I close the blinds
of my thoughts, try to forget the painfully looming landscape
behind the gauzy curtain. I convince myself I’m back home
when loneliness bites, but this practice falls away
just as I forget the language of what used to be normal.
Sometimes I explore my grief. People reveal themselves
in the streets of my new world to offer condolences, to
say hello. I’ve gone my whole life never knowing this person’s
true residency, thinking he lived just down the street.
He lives secretly and far away. He had to pound his fists
on the screeching train. A sigh escapes my lips,
warmth fills my heart. I’m not alone in this far-off land.
The gleam of a watch still lingering
with the smell of death, an anonymous old
woman in a squeaking wheelchair on cruel white hospital floor,
Lizzy Southwell // Rolling, looming Hills // Second PLace
and suddenly I look up and there it is. The sky of my new world,
painted in dull gray and sharp black, arches over me. My eyes wander.
I’ve learned the language, I live off of the food,
but sometimes I still don’t understand the place.
What I carry as a citizen of loss can’t be
forgotten, surrounds everything.
18

19
Elaina Bell // Marilyn

In this world, people have learned to manufacture time. Boxes of it can be found pretty much anywhere. Gas stations,
convenience stores, supermarkets: any store that hopes to remain competitive has to stock at least two or three major brands.
Of course, the time purveyed at such stores is usually low quality time: the best stuff is generally reserved for those who can
afford it. These luxury brands are crafted in small batches and sent directly to distributers from remote, undisclosed locations in
Siberia. Their recipes are closely guarded secrets, and the companies that create them spend large portions of their revenues
trying to improve their designs. After all, when people are willing to spend millions of dollars for a month of extra life, they
expect it to be high-quality time. Glitches and bugs are acceptable when one buys Costco-brand time, but the million-dollar
stuff has to be perfect.
In this world, the men who make time dominate all aspects of life. Their trade has made them rich beyond measure,
and their influence is everywhere. Politicians are figureheads for the time corporations, exchanging their morals for a few
years of extra life. Products are defined by how they interact with time: hot new fads include cars that come with extendedlifetime
guarantees and moisturizers that actively prevent the aging process. And no one above a certain monetary
threshold can really say how old they are. When they begin to feel weak or sick, they simply buy themselves a new
lifespan. For them, time inflates just like money. As the decades go by, each passing year loses its identity and becomes
a tally mark. Cherished childhood memories become dots on a rapidly receding horizon. Best friends fade away and are
forgotten. Indeed, some of the patriarchs of time have lived for so long that they can only remember trends, their human
memories failing to match the artificial longevity of their bodies. Incidentally, these same men are the ones who cling
most dearly to their lives. The ones for whom each year is worth the least are the same ones who are most frantic to live
as many years as possible.
Of course, most people in this world cannot afford the luxury brands, and no one really trusts the gas station
varieties after that one kid got stuck in 1642 for seventy eight years a few months ago. So those who don’t have
fortunes to spend save up their meager wages for small, precious boxes of luxury time. They are given as presents on
very special occasions, and those who possess them are very careful with them. A high-school junior uses his to make
his first kiss last 20 seconds longer. A college senior uses hers to give her some extra thinking time on the big exam.
A 95-year-old grandfather uses his to ensure that he has enough time to kiss his grandkids goodbye. Of course,
some people misuse their time and regret it for the rest of their lives. Those people live in the past, wishing they still
had the little box that they squandered on some trivial matter long ago. They find misery in even the happiest of
moments because they are so fleeting and because they know that they could have lasted longer.
And then there are those who can’t afford any extra time at all. These people live short, natural lives,
but they are happy with their lots. They live their lives free of constriction and rejoice in that freedom. They live
their lives with purpose but without desperation. They live their lives in acceptance. For they have come to
embrace the idea of natural time, and have decided that time doesn’t have to be connected to happiness.
Every joyous moment is something to treasure, and every new year brings the promise of new
opportunities. These people worry little about the length of their time, having neither the
means nor the desire to extend it. They take what is given
to them, and ask for nothing more. The rich wonder how
they can ever get anything done in so little time. They
wonder what the rich can possibly do with so much.
The generations come and go at their own
pace. Time rolls on.
Evan Gallagher // Quantum Drop // 2nd place
Brooke Brennan // Nocturnal Jumper //
honorable mention
20

Ben Marcus // How was your day
“Fine…” it’s the now common absence of vitality
So here is the reality
Just the same, it was no abnormality
Each time, the young boy responds with “fine”
He, simply just wasting his time
He’s not the overachiever
They thought he would be…sorry.
Keep the idealism in check,
He’s a nervous wreck
Their irrationality
A one dimensionality
“I told you, it was fine.”
He’ll tell his parents another time
It won’t alleviate the bad
Face it, He’s just a tad
Under-average…
Done being mad
Camouflage it all,
At 5’5”…seems
Ten feet tall,
Just leave him alone,
He’ll try to atone for
What he left un-known.
Disapproval,
Scoured away
with his pumice stone of emotion.
Someday he hopes it’ll end
He tries endlessly to transcend
To ascend above
The expectations
Away from temptations
Beyond his limitations
And empty congratulations
The incessant evaluations
A mental degradation
He longs for the day
When he’ll no longer feel the obligation
But for now, his life is simply one negative connotation
21

Casey Sunderland // Falling Water // 3rd PLace
22

23
Austin Drucker // Forever Pond

The faint cries of seagulls intertwined with the subtle mourning of humans. I sat there fluctuating with the gentle bob of the ocean trying to grasp
the actuality of the moment at hand. The gentle putter of boats’ engines and clinking of tacking sails filled the thick August air. The warm breeze swept over
my face while I heard the faint echo of the fluttering American flag raised at half mast. The sun sent her beaming rays across my face, sending my eyes into a
somnolent daze. Mother Nature was on our side today. I sat off the stern of the boat and dipped my feet into the cool ocean feeling a faint tickle as schools of
minnows slid over my feet and around the tips of my toes. The shock of the cool water sent shivers up through my body, which was soon alleviated by the soft
aroma of flower petals littered across the surface of the ocean. The seagulls’ cries dimmed and complete silence instilled the air. I then heard the distant sobs
of Quatro’s family, the family of an instructor at the sailing club, echo across the harbor.
Wooooooosh. Waves lapped against the shore and then receded over the crackling seashells. I couldn’t make out many of the words of the speeches
given as they were interrupted by the steady ocean breeze and rolling waves. As more friends and family made their way out to the harbor the sounds
of mourning were all that could be heard in the world during that moment. These sobs, sniffles, and whimpers couldn’t help but make me wonder what
happened on that very August night. How did this happen The bridge was only fifteen feet high. I had just seen him yesterday! These thoughts and images
whirled throughout my head desperate for an escape as they caused my temples to pulsate. I felt the tears well up around my eyes and stream down my
salt-covered cheeks. The world fell dark and it had finally hit me. My heart was pounding from underneath my shirt. I didn’t even know Quatro very well, but I
had a peculiar feeling deep within me as I heard the opening of the vase containing Quatro’s ashes flittering to the surface of the water. A heavy wind stirred,
carrying away the sorrow that filled the ocean air.
Casey Sunderland // Sunny Sorrows
Elaina Bell // Pouring the Colors of Summer
24

Austin Drucker // Organic Puff
Austin Drucker // Arbitrary Title 1
Osa Okoh // Steeple
25

Griffin Kay // Light at the End
Cara Vanin // splat
26

Libro - Mar // Haleigh Crossman
Evan Gallagher // timeline // 2nd place
Abro un libro y es como el mar.
Las palabras surgen a través de la página
La marea de las letras sube y retrocede en mi mente
Por un momento, estoy en otro mundo
Me embelesa una vida que no es la vida mía
Y por sólo un momento,
El mundo es tranquilo y perfecto.
Nacidas en la primavera
con el poder de las lluvias de abril.
Vividas por el verano
balanceándose con las corrientes del aire.
Barridas de su casa para lentamente secarse y morir.
Después de la temporada de frío
nacidas otra vez .
27
Las Hojas // Margaret Taylor

Past midnight, we, The Four Musketeers, dressed in chain mail and with swords wielded, walk through the shadow of the valley of hell in search of foul beasts and hidden
wonders. Gray, Conor, Benj and I are the Four Musketeers, and together we are a legion. During the day we are just ordinary school children, but this Friday is not like most
other Fridays because tonight we are having a sleepover.
The clock is nearing midnight, and nothing stirs within the house except in the basement. At Conor’s house, we always have to sleep in the basement because we tend
to be noisy during the nights. However, this basement is not like any ordinary basement. Divided by good and evil, the basement is. We fearless four sleep on the outskirts of a
labyrinth; the evil within the basement. We lie on the rugged ground near the staircase and we are safe here. But if we wander too far past our territory, we enter the realm of the
oil room. This oil room looks like a maze, and it is filled with giant furnaces and oil tanks that take up sixty percent of the basement. Most of its secrets remain a mystery to us, but
we do not care to know what darkness dwells in that area. No soul has dared to venture there before. I think it is the scariest, creepiest, monster infested dungeon on the planet. I
am sure that a plethora of evil creatures and beings lives there.
As we all lie on the carpeted floor in the bleak basement, I look out the tiny window in the upper corner of the room and I see darkness outside. We are playing a peaceful
game of cards to help us fall asleep, but little do I know that our night is only just beginning.
Out of nowhere, a slow and soft slithering sound is heard from the oil room. It is as if something is moving across the floor. We all gasp simultaneously and look into the
half open door to the dreaded room, then back at each other, fear in each person’s eyes.
“Did you hear that” I ask out loud.
“Uh-huh” I hear from someone else.
We wait for a moment, each of us holding our breath. After a second sound is not heard, our shoulders drop and we relax for the moment. We continue our card game,
everyone silent.
Every few minutes, I glance over my shoulder, beyond the carpeted area and into the cement floored oil room. I can only see about ten feet into the room because
everything past this is consumed by black night. All the territory out of our sight remains un-chartered by mankind.
Our card game carries on, quietly, and I decide to eat some of the food we brought down earlier that day. I rummage through the remains of our Fritos supply, and
salvage whatever scraps are left. I stuff the salty chip crumbs in my mouth and scatter the fallen crumbs around the carpet. I hear and feel the loud crunch in my mouth, and as I
am chewing, I slow down because a louder sound overpowers me.
This time it is a creaking. My chewing slows to a halt as we seem to hear a rusted door within the realm of the oil room open or close. As the creaking stops, I swallow
the chips and gulp. There’s not going to be any sleeping tonight, I conclude.
“Guys, what was that” Benj asks.
Nobody knows what to do, but after a moment, Gray stands up and begins suiting up. I watch as he puts a pillow under his shirt as armor. I stand up and do the same.
I find a small flashlight and put it in my belt loop, then I scavenge for a plastic sword, and I grip it tight in my hand. I swing it left and right while maneuvering my feet in complex
motions.
It is now just past midnight, and all plump from our pillowed armor, we meet in the back of the basement and huddle in a circle.
“Okay guys, time to see what’s out there” Gray says.
“We are the Four Musketeers!” Conor shouts as he raises his sword to the heavens.
“We have no fear!” Benj says with a trembling in his voice.
I take a deep breath and then after making eye contact with each of my three comrades, I nod and we walk forward.
As we make our way across the floor, I check my peripherals, and
stare into the face of the oil room. We pause briefly at the half open door,
and quietly crack it fully open. I turn on my flashlight, and my eyes widen
at the mystery. All I can see are two doors and lots of crevices and nooks
around me. I swing the flashlight around and view the ceiling chipping with
ancient paint. I decide we must split up into groups. Conor and I go into the
left door while Gray and Benj go right.
Conor and I silently salute our comrades, and we watch as they
disappear into the abyss. I hear myself swallow and my mouth dries up as
I take my first step through the foreboding doorway. I look around and see
that thousands of oil furnaces the size of skyscrapers are surrounding us.
A reeking stench of mildew and cement pierces my nostrils. One furnace
grumbles quietly, and we go to investigate. Our swords are fully brandished,
and we walk side by side up to it. The furnace towers over me, and I am
amazed by its vast age. The furnace emits a subtle heat that only makes me
sweat more and become more nervous. I turn quickly with a gasp as I hear a
mouse scurry across the floor and with a feint squeal hide within the wall.
I start breathing heavily and Conor and I turn and we both see
the shadow of a blob standing seven feet beside us.
Andy Gelb
The four Musketeers
Casey Sunderland
Polo PLayers
28

I wipe my sweaty palm on my shirt and firmly grasp my weapon. I squint my eyes and let out a
sigh of relief as I see Benj and Gray emerge from the other side of the room.
“You guys find anything”
“No”
We proceed once again as the Four Musketeers deeper and deeper into the seemingly
endless room, and we stop at a giant furnace. This must be the king furnace.
We pause and eye the beast up and down. We have our weapons ready and we are
eager to fight. All of a sudden a huge “WHOOSH” and then “VROOOOM” sound comes from the
furnace, and me and Conor and Gray and Benj scream at the top of our lungs while hopelessly
flailing our swords like madmen. We turn and make a break for the door, our only escape. I can’t
help but feel that there is something chasing me so I try and run faster. We scramble through the
doorway, each of us pushing to get through first, not wanting to be consumed by the monster
that is surely behind us. We fight for our lives, and eventually break through the doorway and
collapse on the carpeted floor. I get up, turn around and slam the door to the oil room with all
my might and it closes with a smash.
“I think it’s gone,” I say as I press my ear to the door.
“We scared it away!” Benj remarks.
I turn to my cronies with a smile, ready to celebrate, but we are interrupted by the
distant sound of footsteps coming our way. The monster Conor’s parents Oh no! It is Conor’s
parents! We were supposed to be asleep hours ago!
“Everyone go to sleep. Now! Now!” Conor whispers as loud as he can.
We take the pillows from our stomachs and toss them to the ground while we
clumsily clamber to find blankets. I see Gray plummet to the ground and become engulfed by
a red blanket. Conor turns off the lights and I see his shadow collapse. I watch as Benj becomes
one with the ground. As the footsteps come closer, I enclose myself with a blanket, and hit the
decks in my sleeping position. The door opens, and a dark figure walks down the stairs. Out of
nowhere, Gray starts snoring, and I join in. The figure stands there for what seems like an hour,
and then retreats back up the stairs. We all toss the blankets from ourselves and give each other
quiet high-fives and congratulations. I chuckle to myself because this is not the first time I have
gotten away with “fake sleeping”.
“Well done, men, well done,” someone says as Gray searches for something behind a
couch.
Gray turns around holding four cans of Coke which we had pilfered and stored in
the basement earlier today, and with a cheers and smiles all around, we sip our well deserved
reward. I let out a belch as the cool bubbles trickle down my throat, and I smile to my friends.
Another sleepover, another adventure for the storybooks.
Anna teng // Greener things
2nd place
29
Andy Gelb // The four Musketeers
Honorable Mention
Stephanie Lie
Autumn Harvest
Anna Teng // Greener Things // Second Place

The teacher said,
Go home and write
A page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true
I wonder if it’s that easy
I am seventeen, young, born in
St.Louis, Missouri
I moved to Washington, then Philly, then here
To a town near the city of Boston
Sometimes I miss our old houses
I visit them in my memories
Back down Washington St., to Philly
Then back to DC and on to St. Louie
Where I can find my way to Log Cabin Dr.
And then to house number fifty-five
Where I walk down the hall, turn left
And find my yellow room
Where I will sit down by the window, and write
No, it’s not simple to remember, not easy
At seventeen, my age. But I guess I recall what
I felt and saw and heard; my memories
I remember them, remember me
I remember, on this page
I hear them whisper to me, what
Well, childhood games and imaginary friends
Secret hiding places, hushed arguments
And favorite books—Dr.Seuss, Silverstein, and Berenstein Bears
I guess being old doesn’t keep me from remembering
Even though it all happened so very, very
Long ago.
So I wonder, who am I
Being me, am I not made of memory,
But of what will come to be
A part of me, made from past
It is gone, but not lost
Kept still, in my memory
That’s Human.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to remember
What has been.
Nor believe that our memories
Have shaped us, me and you
But they have, that’s true!
As we are shaped by them,
We also grow
Although we get older
We still remember who we are
Where we come from
Memories
This is my page for English AP
Summers Ford
Me and my memory
Elaina Bell
woodstock
30

Those tan and fragile boys on Main Street, that are too
young to make the distinction between addition and
subtraction from the poorly taken notes in their used and
torn up math books, but that are the same boys that are
old enough to hide behind the dumpsters of the mosquito
filled marsh behind the Coca-Cola factory, and hold a
cigarette properly decide to play outdoors in the hot boiling
sun, at mid afternoon, holding stolen melting popsicles
that form a sticky concoction of sugar and dirt under their
fingernails, and they play games of war and throw vulgar
language in the air that mists into clouds never seen again
because their Mamas pretend to listen as they stand on the
balcony, but in reality are too preoccupied as they calculate
the possibility that their cheating husbands will arrive from
work THIS TIME and bring enough money to feed the boys
when the sun sets and the clock hits 6 and they charge
up the crumbled stairs, holding onto the rusty railings of
the front stair case that takes them into the empty dining
table facing the pale yellow toned bricks that outline the
house and embrace these young boys and their rumbling
stomachs that haven’t been able to taste a decent plate
of food in days without feeling guilty that their best friend
from birth is drooling over the undercooked rice and soggy
potatoes begging to share, and so the boys raced up the
stairs just as Mama expected, but this time they were
welcomed to a feast and gave thanks for the meal they
had, because it wasn’t every year that they could do so.
Alejandra Gil // Not always so fortunate
Allison Brustowicz // Drizzle
31

Salvatore Sprofera // portrait
Lizzy Southwell // Engagement
32

Osa Okoh Midday Church
Molly Steinfeld Absolute Sacrifice
Alone. He sits alone. He jiggles the handcuffs that restrict him to his own personal hell. He can see the deep red the cuffs have already left on his
wrists after hours of sitting; thinking about what he did; how he ended up here and now. He raises his head in shame and looks curiously around this new
room he knows will be his final home. The jail tender walks back towards him and unlocks him from the walls that seem to grow farther apart. They walk
backward to the door of the cell that the jail tender unlocks. They back away and he pulls the tender along with him, straining to not enter this abode; wishing
for a second chance.
They walk backwards up the stairs. Once reaching security, he retrieves his only belonging: a picture of her. They walk back out the front door of the
prison and the door of the car swings into the hand of the jail tender and he slides into the car. The car shifts into drive and they journey backwards to the
courthouse. They cross through intersections and wait once they reach the other side for the light to turn red. He sits in the back seat horrified by what has
just occurred and distraught by his new situation. He pulls the picture out of his pocket and a tear comes off his shirt, touches his face, and returns to his eye
as he reads “reverof dna syawla”. He reaches to his pocket, picture in hand, yearning to see her face again.
As he lifts his head he sees for the last time the front steps of the courthouse covered with people holding video cameras and microphones describing
the results of the trial. He walks backwards out of the car, up the stairs, through the courtroom, and to the witness stand with his head down the whole
time and a police officer on either side holding him with unbearable force. He just now realizes the ramifications for the answer he has just given to the
question of who committed the crime at hand. “I”, he said. He looks up from the stand and sees her, maybe for the last time before what he is about to do. He
admires her childlike features. The way her eyes reflect even the most dismal of light found in a courtroom, and even now have hope streaming out of them
where he could find none before. He remembers the night it happened. Her eyes had looked the same then except for the hope. The hope had disappeared.
She thought it was the end, but here she is now sitting in the courtroom and as he entered the stand he knew that whatever punishment was given was worth
seeing that look of hope in her eyes just once more to know that she was safe.
He backs away from the stand and sits in his chair behind the desk. His lawyer preps him once more for the questioning he is about to endure. He
recalls the night perfectly. He knows he cannot lie or even bend the truth. He knows what he must do. He remembers how he felt the same way when it was
happening. How it felt like the right thing to do at the moment and for him that was all that mattered. Except on that night, the feeling that felt right was one
of watching the bullet as it returned to his gun as he loosened his grip on the trigger.
33
Absolute Sacrifice // Molly Steinfeld

allison brustowicz Short and Stout // 3rd PLace
34

Elaina Bell // Going Green
Stephanie Lie // Prayer Lodge
35

Things were perfect. The sky seemed as though it shined on every moment. Every Sunday drive or bike ride into town
was covered in a sort of light that didn’t hurt your eyes, but illuminated them. You experience all time and all emotion at once, absorbing
everything you’ve learned once again, then twice. Time shuffles past you like a flip book. Some moments you wait longer
in, some pass you by with a wave and a wink. Here you face yourself and come to terms with everything selfish and wrong in you.
Do you care Usually not but this case is special. It’s your last chance to love. Yourself Time will tell perhaps. In your peripheral you
can see your face, as if in a mirror. The mirror is cracked but you smile back. You don’t feel alone. You walk on and find yourself in a
hallway, with flipping images floating above and below you. You float with them, and gravity loses its pull. I can see on your face
how you remember your first lost tooth. A gapped smile stays with you for a moment and is gone. Watching you bathe in a sea of
memory, I close your eyes. You feel peace. Perfect peace.
Things were beginning to lose focus. That could be a good thing, but you forget. What were you thinking again It was as
if a storm cloud met a dust buster deity and they pitted it out for you to watch the fireworks. If your mouth worked you would smile.
So far every attempt resulted in a numb resistance. A part of yourself was missing, of that much you were sure. But how much And
what You hurriedly hope that it wasn’t anything important. You don’t feel all that different. Maybe a little nauseous, but that could
just be from lack of sleep. You haven’t been sleeping well recently, remember You smile and thank yourself that a little insomnia is
the least of your worries. The man could have cleared things up if he just opened his mouth. He kept cold silence around him like
an icy blanket. Did he tell you a name You forget. You get a shiver down your spine for an instant when you remember his coat. It
reminded you of winter.
Things had frozen in time. You couldn’t focus on what was ahead, only on distractions. You were seventeen again, and
procrastinating in any way possible, anything to keep from this ever approaching deadline. Your dead line. You noticed the water
boiling. You were making tea, it should be ready now. The bubbles were frozen too. Did you remember to tell your wife that
you love her You should have. It’s important to do things like that, in case you have an unexpected deadline. What would she
remember You don’t want her to feel shame, do you
Things were crystal clear. Your heart rate tripled in your paper chest.
You were going to die. It was the swiftness of your realization that surprised you more than the whirl of action in front
of you. You didn’t question the motives. Why would you What difference would it make anyway, whether or not your death was
justified It was going to happen. Why waste the thought
The man in the black coat is here. I crawled through the open window in the baby’s room. You take your last breath as I point my
gun to your head.
It takes you a second to die.
Charlie Harrison // Dne Eht
36

37
The 7th Grade // Martin Luther King // Honorable Mention

Eric Newman // Final Resting Place // 1st place
A sweltering heat creeps
though window screens
the door creaks open
and with a crack
like bat on ball,
a heaviness hits,
hopelessly fanning
simply circulating discomfort.
sweat drips
from brow and
chin.
smooth stones
surround the
cool
blue
lake
smooth
to fingertips
and eyes
turned over
in wet, warm
palms
gripped tightly
and with a sidearm
toss
the heat is relieved
a stone
skips swiftly
with silvery splashes
across the flawless
surface of the
cool
blue
lake
coming to
a final resting place
away from such
heat.

The Current // 2011
2011
1