светлина - The Anglo-American School of Sofia

светлина
the AAS LITERARY REVIEW
2011-2012
Anglo-American School of Sofia, Sofia, Bulgaria
2012

a note from the editor
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the first edition of LUX светлина. Welcome to the
first step of this excursion through the creative minds of the Middle and
High School AAS students (grades 6-12). This book contains a variety
of stories, poems, photographs and much more that will take you on a
venture. An international journey full of discoveries, of other cultures,
of other languages, but mostly of other people. This book will, hopefully
light your path along the way and make you travel to foreign places.
LUX светлина (svetlina) are the Latin and Bulgarian words
for light. Chosen for different reasons, the title is now a reflection of
this book, a reflection of its purpose, and a reflection of our hopes. The
theme that emerged is the seen and the unseen... the elements of nature
and the elements of our psyche. LUX светлина is here to guide anyone
who so desires down a road of creativity, but it is also to tell a story. The
story of a group of students who had no experience at the beginning of
this year and became wonderful editors. However, no story can live unless
someone is there to listen and for that you are very important.
This could not have taken shape without the abundant help
from the perfect team of editors that surrounded me. Each and every
one of them brought something unique to the group and allowed
for more diverse ideas to come along. Their abilities as editors
and as artists were invaluable and can be sensed throughout the
pages that follow. Their creative lights, always present, led the way.
Also, a word has to be spared for the artists. They were
the ones who made LUX a possibility. The number of wonderful
submissions we had was overwhelming. Thank you for unveiling
your creations, your prized possessions. By doing this
you have allowed others to see a little bit more of you, and have
helped contribute to the beautiful expedition LUX has become.
Now that the journey is coming to an end, I will cherish the memories
that LUX has brought me. And that is why I say a final thank you.
Always,
i
Laure Moscheni
Editor in Chief

Volume I
2011-2012
Poetry:
Briar Mills, HS - Troubled Thoughts in a Motionless Mind - 1
Alexander Kamberov, HS - The Frozen Lake - 2
Hanna Halmari, HS - Nature’s Mischief - 4
Seung Chul Lim, HS - Memory - 12
Jamie Le Roux, HS - Monster - 13
Claire Freij, HS - Snowdrops - 19
Alina Krumova, HS - Fading Away - 20
Boyana Doneva, MS - Rain - 21
Preslav Bogdanov, HS - Spring - 22
Hannah Godding, HS - 23
Mai Maamoun, HS - A Day Can Change A Whole Year - 24
Maria Roncero, MS - Dream of Flight - 26
Matyas Cserfalvi, HS - Never Give Up - 28
Inca Cunningham-Reid, MS - The Flu - 29
Ventsy Yosifov, MS - Rain - 32
Umay Amarez, HS - Love - 33
Kartika Le Roux, MS - Painless - 34
Anwar Douad, MS - Clock - 35
Christina Liveretou, MS - Life - Not People - 36
Kadi Kukk, MS - Rejected - Hüljatud - 37
Claudia Natola, MS - Being Young - 40
Kartika Le Roux, MS - Chainsaw - 42
Roderick Pieplenbosch, MS - The Bear Spirit - 45
Lara Gueorgiueva, MS - A Sad Memory... - 48
Hanna Halmari, HS - Sade Ja Paiste - 50
Elise Sutherland, MS - The Rosewood Cutter - 52
Lukas Panayotopoulos, MS - Before New York - 53
Ivan Dimitrov, HS- Naivete and Defeat - 54
Juliette Berg, MS - Buttercup Sun - 56
Hamad Al Noaimi, HS - Dirt Road - 59
Christopher Swann, HS - The Silent Hunter - 60
Vlado Panov, HS - Protest Poem - 62
Barbora Slosarikova, HS - Story of Life - 63
Martin Koupenov, MS - The Incas - 64
Meggan Conley, MS - Vanishing Spots - 65
Chris Kkissia, MS - Top of the World - 67
Poetry:
Kristian Radev, MS - Fate - 74
Nathan Godding, MS - Things My Cat Does - 76
Olivia van Aalst, MS - Beyond Science - 78
Hannah Berg, HS - Untitled - 85
Kendra Reiter, HS - Waiting - 86
Nathan Myers, HS - Worry - 87
Umay Amarez, HS - Hate - 100
Barbora Slosarikova, HS - Passion - 103
Anna Neydenova, MS - War - 105
Rosalyn Rudy, HS - Best Friend - 106
Elena Evgenieva, HS - Escape - 107
Martin Slosarik, HS - Life in Time - 110
Cameron Pindur, MS - Oh Snow - 113
Radi Skipp, HS - I Know, and I’ll Try! - 114
A. J. Myers, HS - Drought - 116
Jamie Le Roux, HS - A Smile Before Death - 118
Zoltan Cserfalvi, HS - Beginning of the End - 120
Peter Neyra, HS - Longing - 121
Laure Moscheni, HS - Les Vagues - 122
Anna Neydenova, MS - Earthquakes - 130
Annette van Aalst, HS - Masquerade - 132
Drama:
Briar Mills, HS - Mono-logue - 90
ii
iii

Prose:
Marie van Aalst, HS - The Beginning - 6
Alexander Kamberov, HS - Sands - 14
Hannah Godding, HS - White Room - 16
Magdalena Zhelyazkova, HS - An Unexpected Encounter - 30
A. J. Myers, HS - The Shot Heard ‘Round the World - 38
Marie van Aalst, HS - I Believe in a Smile - 46
Nathan Myers, HS - Homecourt Advantage - 68
Theodore Tenev, HS - Analysis of “Sixteen Plus Sixteen” by Nedyalko
Yordavov - 79
Hannah Godding, HS - Epilogue - Lord of the Flies - 88
Radi Skipp, HS - The Colonel - 94
Hannah Berg, HS - Snowy Day - 124
Illustrations:
Marie van Aalst, HS - NYC - Front Cover
Desislava Alexandrova, HS - End - 3
Christina Liveretou, MS - Bulgarian Landscape - 5
Leona Re, HS - Palmarum - 11
Samuil Sarandev, MS - Smoke - 15
Kadi Kukk, MS - Hills - 18
Desislava Alexandrova, HS - Seagull - 27
Desislava Alexandrova, HS - Paris - 41
Claudia Natola, MS - Bansko - 43
Desislava Alexandrova, HS - Walking on Water - 44
Alina Krumova, HS - Sketch of a Tree - 49
Desislava Alexandrova, HS - Innocence - 55
Samuil Sarandev, MS - Vintage - 58
Mitchell Carswell, MS - Borealis - 61
Vlado Panov, HS - Eyes - 66
Steven Slavchev, HS - Self-Portrait - 73
Hannah Berg, HS - Violin - 75
Léa Subrenat, HS - Wind - 84
Vlado Panov, HS - Calvariam - 99
Léa Subrenat, HS - Strength - 101
Mai Maamoun, HS - After Degas - 102
Ali Bingol, MS - The Soldier - 104
Dina Kancheva, HS - Marilyn Monroe - 109
Elena Evgenieva, HS - Winter - 112
Kartika Le Roux, MS - Church - 119
Alexandrina Mateeva, HS - Deep in Thought - 123
Samuil Sarandev, MS - Binka Vazova’s Self-portrait - 131
iv

Troubled Thoughts in a
Motionless Mind
Briar Mills
Poetry
“For once, then, something.”
-Robert Frost
Could I wake in a different place
-in a different life
-in a different world
to feel what I haven’t felt,
to touch what I haven’t touched,
to love what I haven’t loved,
see existence in a different light
stray from the natural order of night
want that tears me apart
Yetconstricting
my very heart
the growing, increasing, thriving feeling of disdain
for my reserved, mute, silent campaign
to wish you were a crystal leaving the eye
to escape and be no more when you met the ground
to vanish into thin air, leaving oblivion behind.
I woke in the same place
-in the same life
-in the same world
For once, then, nothing.
1

The Frozen Lake
Alexander Kamberov
Poetry
Dark, impertubable, obscure,
A frozen lake with no single crack atop,
With no single window or door for you to look through,
It glares at you and blinds your eyes and sense.
It’s fragile with its thin ice cover,
Yet it never cracks.
The pressure of the mounting snow,
The beauty of its thick white cover,
The complexity of a hidden soul.
It shouts,
But this thin translucent armor never lets the voice through.
The stifled shout attracts and dies unheard.
Or shall I tell them
What you told me
Revealing the key to an eternal human quest,
A quest most vague and futile.
Yet you are not so steady,
And I can see the cracks now on your surface.
The snow’s away,
And so is your enigma.
You blind no more,
Yet they still can’t see in you.
Your waters shout the key to a quest most different,
Yet no one dares submerge in your voice.
End
Desislava Alexandrova
Photograph
What are you trying to say, most dear lake
All that everyone wants to know
Your voice is smothered,
But can I hear
A message no one ever got.
Or shall I ignore you,
And pretend not to know,
Easing off into a puerile indifference
2 3

Nature’s Mischief
Hanna Halmari
Poetry
Bulgarian Landscape
Christina Liveretou
Drawing
Sweeping across her stage,
She strips the trees down bare,
A flurry of golden colors,
Floating, flying everywhere.
Re-painting with gold hues,
She’s an act we can’t refuse,
Her performance is remarkable,
But her lines we never choose.
Ushering in the cold,
Not daring to put him on hold,
The unwelcome guest is let in,
His story starts to unfold.
Holding all the power,
What she wants she devours,
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
As night becomes the dominant hour.
After Vessilev Zalhariev’s landscape of a typical Bulgarian village,
mid 20th century woodcut.
4 5

The Beginning
Marie van Aalst
Short Story
As my “Seguir Adelante” playlist finished, I looked up and restrained a
deep sigh. I still had at least four, if not five more hours of hiking left. And as
much as I loved my encouraging playlist, even my favorite songs became repetitive.
I quickly hiked up to the nearest rock and sat on it to rest. Once more I
looked up, for just one second, and the sun blinded me. “Really” I asked myself
while laughing. “After all you’ve done to get here, you even think of hiking
down” I closed my eyes, leaned back into the morning sun, and thought of my
friend who had raved about this thing she called a bucket list.
“So, you know, I mean basically, like, yeah.” Mercedés said. She is one
of the most beautiful girls I know. She had thick natural red hair; her eyes were
dark green with a hint of blue near the center. Her smile would light up anyone’s
day, but the moment she opened her mouth to speak, nothing intelligent
came out. She talked for ages, always going on about her current obsessions,
which at that moment was a bucket list. I had known Mercedés since we were
little; both she and I went to the same English private school in Alicante. Since
both of us were the only Spanish students in the whole middle and high school,
we bonded. After many years of struggling, I had become an expert at translating
her stories to common English for our friends. She was aware of her ongoing
stories, but all she said about it was “Love me for me, and I mean, like, if you
don’t then don’t listen.”
“So basically, according to you everyone should, like, make a list before
God kicks their bucket” Great, now even I sound like her. Instead of giving me
a straightforward answer she smiled and went on about what would be on her
list. My thoughts trailed off thinking about what I would put on my bucket list.
I thought about the mountain right outside Alicante; how its shadow towered
over our city when the sun would rise; how its height appears discouraging, yet
the mountain seemed to hide a secret. I opened my eyes and took out my
phone. My background was a picture of Mercedés, my parents and me the day
before I left on my trip. Mercedés was the only one smiling. The chilly wind
reminded me to continue hiking before it got too cold although the weather
forecast said the sun would be shining all weekend. I untied my jacket from my
waist, dropped my bulky bag on the floor, and put it on. I stretched my back to
relieve it from the heavy load I’d been carrying. “You will freeze up on the mountain!
When you return don’t tell me that I didn’t warn you!” My mother’s voice
haunted me as I reached some big boulders that would be really tough to hike
up.
“Alexander, what is this stupid piece of paper There is coffee spilled on
it and it’s all wrinkled. Here, take this filthy thing back.” My mom tossed it on the
coffee table.
“Please, Madre, it is not stupid. It is a list of things I want to do.”
“So I don’t care.”
“Mamá, this means a lot to me. I want to complete this list before, well,
before God kicks my bucket.”
“Kicks your bucket” Both she and my father looked at me in disbelief,
and started laughing. Not at what I said, but at me. I had never gotten support
from my parents. I thought back to when I was four and all my friends knew
how to ride a bike. I asked my dad to show me, but he was too busy working. I
had to teach myself and when I succeeded; neither wanted to come and watch
me. I grabbed my piece of paper and opened it.
“I want to…” My father cut me off, “Listen, you should know that whatever
you do, do it in your free time. Don’t try to include us, we have our own
problems, and you don’t have to add another one to it.”
“Look at yourself, you could be in so many girls’ dreams. Nineteen is
young; you are tall, your dark curls appeal mysterious to girls; and let’s not forget
that you have the same gorgeous green eyes like me,” my mother added,
“You are a bit too skinny though. You should go to the gym and work out instead
of making lists about things you want to do. Find a girl like Mercedés.”
I heard my father whisper “Like he can get a girl like her.”
“And settle down before you get too old.” My mother finished. I stood up
and walked out, I didn’t even want to reply, nor did I try to. All I could think of
6 7

was trying to get my parents to come and watch me ride my bike. I drove past
the large window that stretched from one side of my house to the other revealing
the kitchen, where my mom stayed all day, and my dad’s office, where he hid.
Problems. Most people had them every so often and they weren’t afraid
to change something in order to get rid of those problems. My parents’ main
problem was that they couldn’t let go of the past. When I was sixteen, my dad
got promoted and was offered a job in Madrid. My mother begged him not to
leave Alicante because that’s where their roots lay. Never had we left the city,
not even gone to the outskirts of Alicante. We had the chance to discover a new
world, widen our horizon, but my mother persuaded my father. He never got
over the opportunity he allowed to slip away. My father blamed my mother, my
mother blamed me. Eventually, both teamed up against me, blamed all “their
problems” on me and as soon as I turned eighteen, they kicked me out, saying
that they had to spend one-hundred and ten dollars an hour to see their therapist
and that if they’d have to continue going, the bill would be sent to me.
I sat down after hiking up the first boulder. It was two meters tall, and
I had at least thirty more boulders to go. I turned my back towards the top and
looked down. The shadow of the mountain towered over me and discouraged
me to continue. I estimated the amount of vertical meters I had hiked up. I fell
down on my knees when I realized that I had spent more than two hours hiking
up just 400 vertical meters.
For two whole days, after my parents told me they had no interest in
what I did, I locked myself in my apartment. The only person who I allowed to
enter was my roommate Jeffrey. He could relate to what I was going through
since his parents kicked him out when he was only seventeen. Jeffrey was the
brother I never had; he and I were similar in so many ways. We both had moments
where we preferred silence, we both obsessed over Assassin’s Creed, we
both agreed that Coke Zero was the best and that girls can ruin anyone’s day, but
they are the best at making someone’s week. Jeffrey knew everything about me,
so he knew the perfect cure to my talking-is-prohibited policy. He came home
with Mercedés on the third day. Right before Jeffrey sneaked out, we locked
eyes, and I gave him the evil eye.
“Alexander Are you okay” This was the first time I’d ever heard her
be so straightforward, and in my surprise I smiled at her. When our eyes met,
Mercedés did it; she made my day better, just by smiling at me.
“Thank you.” I whispered.
“Follow your dreams Alexander. I mean, you don’t need your parents
support. All you need is willpower and mental strength to continue going. Like,
don’t give up. Don’t become one of those people who quit on everything they
believe in.”
I turned around and looked at what appeared to be a pile of colossal
rocks I had to hike up. “Piece of cake,” I grinned. I would go to the top for
Mercedés and for me. After I finally passed the boulders, there was only one
small path which got me thinking; since the path seemed bewildered, when was
the last time someone left Alicante to come here I continued walking for two
hours. I only had a fifteen minute lunch break where I finished a drinking container
of gazpacho. I was determined to get past the tree line before four in the
afternoon.
Once I looked up and saw that I only had about thirty more minutes to go, I increased
my pace, crossing the dry sand of the mountain quicker. I laughed when
I imagined myself walking so fast to the peak that a cloud of sand followed me.
I whistled to myself while I walked the last 100 meters. It seemed that
the trees on the mountain had evolved from light green, short pines to darker
pines that seemed to challenge each other about who was taller and fight each
other for a strand of sunlight, but near the timber line, they got so short. As my
eyes followed the changing colour scheme of the mountain, my gaze reached the
sand beneath my feet and noticed the sand looked as red as Mercedés’ hair. I
smiled and looked up to my right where I could see my hometown. All I saw was
a concrete jungle with a dark, foggy cloud hanging above the city. The city was
surrounded by sand; all the nature that once surrounded Alicante, had been
cut down to build a ton of apartment blocks, and factories. I shook my head in
disapproval; from up here the city where I had lived all my life didn’t look like a
home.
I had let go of my past, rid my mind of everything that troubled me. So
I turned my back towards the city and let my jaw drop. The view was breathtaking.
Right in front of me lay the infinite Mediterranean Sea; so big that it
stretched across the horizon. The sky was so clear, and such a light shade of
blue that it seemed to be an unreal painting. The sun was so big and bright, I
had to smile at it. I spread out my arms to embrace it all and let this gorgeous
view sink in.
8 9

Palmarum
Leona Re
Birds flew over my head, headed to the sea from the city. I wish
I could fly as well, so that I could be free like them, just leave everything
behind and go wherever I want to. I followed the birds’ path with
my eyes and noticed a tiny harbor.
Photograph
I yearned to look back one last time, but I restrained myself.
I had gotten this far, I had followed my dream of coming here and I
wasn’t going to ruin it. I had gotten out while my parents remained
ignorant. I was going to finish everything on my bucket list; I was going
to prove to my parents that I could do this no matter how much
“trouble” I caused. I looked at the picture on my phone and smiled at
Mercedés. My future was limitless. I held my phone over my head,
capturing the everlasting sea and my raised face, then I texted her the
picture with the words, “Thank you.”
This was only the beginning.
10 11

Memory
Seung Chul Lim
Poetry
Monster
Jamie Le Roux
Poetry
Sitting on the bench reminiscing,
I look around stupefied as if something is missing
Everything has changed; I cannot see any remnants of past shadows
cast here
My childhood playground , the root of my inspiration
Is now lost in the urban jungle.
I dreamed of becoming a warrior when I was young
The playground was the prairie , the forest was the battlefield
Every day was a war with the illusions
Standing proud with dignity and prestige
I felt invigorated , prepared to defeat any foe.
But when did I get so lethargic
I have become so small in this world
Surrounded by the concrete giants standing , trapping me like a
maze
The tree house which was my house of freedom
Torn down , left in debris.
Sometimes the desire to go back is so strong
Where I could lose reality for fantasy
To return back to the golden hours
Before oblivion wipes out those days.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep”
– Robert Frost
It lies in darkness and exists on its own,
Little have seen it, and little has it shown.
It attacks when you’re isolated, helpless and alone,
When you’re far from the place that you like to call home.
When your eyes are closed shut but your ears stay awake,
The monster creeps upon you like a slithering snake.
You snap open an eye in fear of a threat,
But there’s nothing, just you, lying covered in sweat.
In daytime it runs just to plague you at night,
That’s why you keep friends to stave off its bite,
For the mind is the home of this monster within,
And only company can save you from its bittersweet grin.
12 13

Sands
Alexander Kamberov
Essay
Smoke
Samuil Sarandev
Photograph
Everything is yellow. Dusty yellow. The dunes are up, withstanding
the occasional gusts of wind generated by the otherwise
serene waters of the Persian Gulf. The heat is unendurable and
only once in a while a stranger covered in fabric dares meet the
rays of the blazing sun. Occasionally, a funnel of dust and sand attempts
to leave the surface but seconds later finds itself grounded
by the torridity. How ironic!
The sand particles are so many, many more than we humans
are, but probably much fewer than the misconceptions and
prejudices held against the people treading the desert sands of
the Middle East. Some of them are indeed veiled, but their cover
is not a symbol of some dangerous faith or hostility; nowadays it
symbolizes choice, sometimes even necessity for protection. Just
as the dunes go up when the sands mount, so does the dissonance
intensify when the bias takes its toll on human rationality. Astonishingly,
they are still too tranquil and composed to rise up against
the most vocal bigots who vituperate them with ungrounded “arguments”
based on hysterical preconceptions and convenient, beguiling
generalizations about the links between faith and terrorism.
This attitude is unendurable, yet they know how to endure
the blazing comments, just as life has taught them how to endure
the rays of the blazing sun. A sober voice of awakening human
conscience dares challenge the stereotypes about them every so
often. However, just like the funnel of dust and sand, this wake-up
call enjoys the longevity of ephemera – the torridity grounds the
funnel and the masses stifle the Voice. Not always, however, and
luckily.
14 15

Dear Diary,
White Room
Hannah Godding
Epistolary
I want to write about all that has happened to me today, but I
hardly know where to begin. All I can think about is how life will never
be the same again…
I tried it. It hurt. I’m trapped here. I’m frightened and angry,
so angry I could scream. But there is no point in screaming
because nobody is here to listen.
Oh look! It’s an adorable white rabbit! Can’t you see it Oh,
no it blended into the wall again so I guess it wasn’t there in the
first place. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t remember. Never
mind. I can’t remember what a rabbit looks like anyway. Oh look!
A beautiful white horse…
I love home. Even after Mother died, when it was only me and
Father, home was my safe place. But today men in black overalls came.
They stole all of our things and loaded them into their HUGE truck.
Then I was bundled into another car, and we sped off. I remember
thinking that I didn’t know where Father was, but then everything
went blank. I must have fallen asleep.
When I woke up again I was here. I don’t know where here is
or if it is a good or bad place – but there is only me here. Father is nowhere
around here, and even when I cry and scream, nobody comes.
I’m glad I had you to write to dear Diary, or I might have gone mad. I
don’t know how long I’ve been in here but I’m so sleepy now. Really …
really… sleep-
Dear Diary,
Dear Diary,
I have just woken up from the strangest dream. I was a captive
in a white room where there was no way of telling the time
or even if there was a room. Thank goodness it was just a dream.
Now I am awake again I can look around my white room, with the
door that blends into the walls and the walls with not a crack in
them and… and…
Oh! It wasn’t a dream. Never mind, I can always go back to
sleep and dream that I will wake up in my room at home, with the
walls the green colour of sea foam, and the door with the rusted
nail in it for hanging up my drawings. I will wake up when the
clock tower outside chimes loudly at six, and then I will catch the
number 220 shiny, red, double-decker bus with Mother to get to
school...
I have come to a conclusion, just now. I am going mad. I can’t
tell how much time passes in here, or whether I’ve been here for a day,
a week or even years. It must have been a long, long time. They haven’t
fed me in a while. They slide the food in through a flap in what I guess
must be the door. But then it disappears again so I’m not sure. I can’t
get out. And I can’t even know if the flap is in the door, because everything
here is white and there are no hinges or anything or even a crack
in the walls. I don’t even know if there are walls. I could be free to walk
out any time for all I know. Maybe I’ll try that…
16 17
I want Mother to come and comfort me like she used to,
before the cancer. I want Father to come and hug me awkwardly,
like he did every night before I went to sleep. I’m so lonely here. I
just want to go home.

Hills
Kadi Kukk
Drawing
Snowdrops
Claire Freij
Poetry
Snowdrops falling down
‘On the dank and dirty ground’
Ice flakes taking life
Snowdrops falling down
On the bright living flower
That will be no more
Snowdrops falling down
Bringing life then death to earth
Petals wane away
Snowdrops falling down
A break in the clouds, sunshine -
Waking the earth’s core.
18 19

Fading Away
Alina Krumova
Poetry
Rain
Boyana Doneva
Poetry
She feels the pain within her mind and soul,
Yet she puts a smile on her fragile face.
It is stranger that she really lost control.
Who would’ve thought of a flower without grace
Do not touch, for she can easily break -
Like a fading flower’s falling leaf.
She would search for the reason - her mistake
Forget the sorrow - know only relief.
So many times she tried to make a change,
But there was nothing really happening.
So many times she felt like in a cage -
Caged within herself and slowly dying.
The mind is blurred - it cannot clearly see!
That is why she’s hiding all her agony!
A flowing array of water
Hitting the muddy pavement
With the soft touch of a small feather
Or the gale force of the rushing wind
It can make you long for the faraway summer
Lost in melancholia,
Hoping to get out of the dreaful ennui of the bleak sky.
The gentle pat of the summer rain
Can make you dance amongst the sumphony of the elements
Forget your worries
Forget your troubles
And bathe in the light of the blissful force.
20 21

Spring
Preslav Bogdanov
Poetry
Everywhere you look,
You see it.
The change is coming
And it’s fast.
Like the change of seasons.
People everywhere are cheering,
The sight of freedom is everywhere.
The change is coming
And it’s fast.
Like the change of seasons.
But the change seems slow,
It needs its martyrs.
Sacrifice in the name of freedom,
In a time of change of seasons.
Change seems slow,
But spring has come.
And there is freedom for numerous states.
The change is coming and it’s fast.
Like the change of seasons.
Those Who Are Gone
(for the victims of the Holocaust)
Hannah Godding
Poetry
Look upon their faces,
Their mouths open in an endless scream,
Frozen in that single moment of time forever,
Look upon their faces,
Their eyes widened so far that the whites,
Become the dominant features in their complexions,
Look upon their faces,
Their pale lips that are partially open,
To tell last goodbyes,
Waiting for the words to come that never will,
Look upon their faces,
The bruises in the hollows of their cheeks,
Fading slowly, in much the same way that they did,
Look upon their faces,
And weep.
22 23

A Day Can Change A
Whole Year
(for Egypt)
Mai Maamoun
Poetry
You are probably wondering
What it is that sparked the
End of the silence.
How was it that the
People who had been quiet for
Almost thirty years,
Suddenly broke the silence,
Where a single pin dropped could be heard
You see, it all happened so quickly
But it was being planned for a very long time,
Slowly flourishing right before
Our eyes.
Yet it came like a sharp slap across the face.
Millions upon millions
Had taken to the square,
All gathering like ants
In a hurry,
The people’s actions immediately
Boomed across the land.
“People demand removal of the regime”
Footsteps cracked down on the ground,
Marching non-stop
Everything flipped upside down,
Daily operations came to a halt,
The whole world had frozen in place,
The protestors’ demands were loud and clear,
Where one single shout
Could be heard from the moon.
Overwhelming swept throughout homes,
On-going lines of people, all
Standing together strong, tall
Full of emotions
Ready to escape from their hearts
And leap from their lips,
Realization and memory,
Of those who were murdered,
Washed throughout their minds.
Time to make change,
Time to end this corrupted regime.
Bravery shone through,
Although the people were filled with fear,
They kept moving on,
As courage filled their hearts.
“one goal,” they repeated,
“one goal.”
24 25

Dream of Flight
Maria Roncero
Poetry
Seagull
Desislava Alexandrova
Photograph
Persisting in the quest,
trying to decode their secrets,
drafted meticulous plans for
propulsion, control.
Images of birds with
Unencumbered essence of flight
ruby-throated humming birds
Glider with curved wing,
lean left or right to turn,
push the control bar for speed,
push the bar to land,
but still augered into the sand.
Always loved to fly,
eyes turning skywards,
strange, lovely moment,
sooty sheer waters,
over buildings, cliffs and buildings.
26 27

Never Give Up
Matyas Cserfalvi
Poetry
The Flu
Inca Cunningham-Reid
Poetry
Apprehensiveness does not affect the man of true courage
He always attacks challenges with a sword,
As if they were his sworn enemies
Has no mercy for them until they are overcome
Rather than to fearfully retreat full of disgrace
And let his humiliation take over his spirit
But when the enemy is victorious
He ignores the wounds
All the pain and suffering they cause
Rises up again
Goes dashing back into battle until it is won
His ambitions cannot be achieved any other way
This battle drags on forever
Where one continuously has to surface from the pool of shame
If not, his reign should come to an end
Finally, relaxation comes only with his grave.
He comes and goes like a nightmare.
He hits you like a bullet fired from the barrel of a gun.
He flings you onto your bed
And burns you like a dragon attacking.
He flies round the world
Like the wind
And tries to catch anybody he can,
Like a cat catching a mouse.
He’ll snatch you any minute now.
He is hiding behind every corner,
Waiting to pounce on his prey.
28 29

An Unexpected Encounter
Maggie Zheylazkova
Essay
Six years ago, my parents and I were coming home in the dark
of night. Although we lived on one of the main boulevards of the city,
at that time, there was no one except us and several teenage boys
who were energetically smashing the wooden boxes outside the shop
across the street. I was slightly scared and drew closer to my father.
“You with the black jersey… What’s your name”
The three of us quickly entered our apartment building.
“Mihail.”
As we waited for the elevator, a heavy silence weighed down
“Everyone, look at how well Mihail is picking up the trash.”
upon us. I sensed something was wrong, but the effort it took to clearly
The boys did not say anything, but began running faster back and
formulate the issue in my head and the embarrassment it would bring
forth to the trash can. I was dumbstruck: by the end they were all
were too great, so I pushed the thought aside. The elevator came, but
competing with each other over who would do the best job. Once
neither of my parents stepped forward to open the door.
the last piece of debris was collected, they automatically lined up
“Maybe we should – “began my Mom.
in front of us, as if awaiting orders.
“Yeah, we should. Let’s go,” finished my Dad determinedly.
“Despite what you had begun doing, you are good children;
We exited the building. While we were crossing the street towards
the booth, I was thinking that my parents had gone temporarily
be proud of what you did at the end. You are free to go,” my Mom
insane and that we could be having our last night together. As we approached
the teenagers – seven of them – my father bellowed:
The boys muttered “Goodnight,” and then walked away. As
dismissed them.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing”
my parents and I were going back inside, an unfamiliar sense of
The youngsters paused and looked at us dully; the element of
pride and shame overcame me.
surprise was on our side, as they had not noticed us coming.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” My mom added.
“Alone in the middle of the night, destroying something that someone
has worked for is outrageous! That is no proper activity for such fine
young gentlemen as yourselves.”
(I privately disagreed; I had never seen shabbier youngsters in
my life.)
“Now you are to clean up the mess you’ve made, or we’ll be
calling the police!” my mom ordered, looking at them sternly. Although
about a foot taller than her, they cowered, and before I knew it, were
doing as they were told. Looking back, I realize the “vandals” were just
boys, maybe a bit younger than I am now, whose parents were not at
home often. We watched them while my mom complimented them on
their effort.
30 31

Rain
Ventsy Yosifov
Poetry
Love
Umay Amarez
Poetry
Rain runs,
hitting hard
like rockets rushing
in a race
to the glass.
Rattling rain,
rattling the
window panes.
The droplets,
dance daintily,
until
they connect,
to a
pool of promise -
for a rainbow.
Like the magic of first snow
Pure white and undying in its belief
Everything is covered in hope
And the cool flakes bring relief
And yet there is fire also
Passionate and true
Burning heat and flickering stars; I believe in you!
Never has such an emotion been felt
As when you believe that love has left
But never has such an emotion been felt
As when you see that love, unlike snow, does not melt
Two hearts beating until the end
Devotion that you cannot comprehend
Like the keys of a ringing piano
The melody will echo on and on.
32 33

News spread
Of a tragic death
A soul rising to the sky
Tears being shed
In the air her last breath
Happiness turned shy
Painless
Kartika Le Roux
Poetry
As I stand amongst the weeping crowd
My emotions dull as rain
My thoughts up in the clouds
Clock
Anwar Daoud
Poetry
I look at the children
Staring at me
Like a bear that’s about to
Catch his prey
The children look as I tick
Through the day
A hand silently waiting
And waiting for the day
To be over
I keep hanging
Waving my arms every
Minute
I feel lonely
Lonely enough to shed a
tear.
Why do I feel no pain
34 35

Life - Not People
Christina Liveretou
Poetry
Life is not
A pile, of neatly folded clothing
Resting in the closet
Hiding until resurrection.
Life is not
The precious cash
Locked in a Gucci wallet
To avoid the people’s stares.
Life is not
A collection of jewelry
Sealed in a box
Away from the sunlight.
That is people, not life.
Life is
A room, with open windows
The cool breeze, chilling the air, warming my heart.
It’s a house, with a family
Eating their meal all together.
It’s the trees, which I will use
To carve a heart, for my friends.
The laughter of the little kids
After doing something silly.
The agony when a grandfather
Retells stories about the wars.
The smiles, when the kids share
Their homework with their parents.
The book you read and can’t wait
To discuss with your friends.
That’s how life should be.
And if they advertise their wealth
You know they are people
Rejected - Hüljatud
Kadi Kukk
Poetry
It wasn’t a very long time ago
When I remember going to
A family that seemed so nice and kind.
I walked up to the door
To beg for shelter,
But what they did wasn’t what I was hoping to find.
When they saw me they started to roar
That I was a filthy and skinny creature,
With injured paws and ugly fur.
Oh, how mean they were.
So, like every day, I just hobbled away,
Not ever looking back that way.
But you have life.
36 37
. . .
(translation in Estonian by Kadi Kukk)
See polnud väga ammu
Kui otsustasin et ma lähen
Perre mis tundus tore ja täis rõõmu.
Ma kõnidisin ukseni,
Et paluda peavarju.
Kuid see mis nad tegid polnud see mida ma lootsin
Kui nad mind nägid nad kisendasid.
Ma olevat kõhn ja räpane olend,
Kellel inetu karv ja vigastatud käpad.
Oi, kui õelad nad olid.
Siis, nagu iga teine päev ma lonkasin ära
Sinna kunagi tagasi vaatamata.

The Shot Heard ‘Round
the World
A. J. Myers
Satire
Originally penned by Ralph Waldo Emerson in his poem
“Concord Hymn” to refer to the first shots of the American Revolutionary
War, the phrase “The Shot Heard Around the World” has,
over the centuries, been used to describe monumental, historically
significant occasions. In sports, this phrase refers to Bobby Thomson’s
homerun to win the 1951 National League Pennant. For those
of you who know nothing about baseball, just nod your heads and
imagine something very important. Now, for the first time in the
history of the Anglo-American School of Sofia, there is an event that
can be included in the pantheon of sports mythology.
At 2:56 on Saturday, January 21st, the Anglo-American
School of Sofia’s high school boys basketball team made a freethrow.
Even more impressive was the fact that they added two
more free-throws to their total before the game was over and that
this sudden ability to get the ball in the basket without anyone
defending them coincided with their second win of the season.
During their first four games of the season, the AAS basketball
team had been unwilling, or possibly unable, to take advantage
of the opportunities presented to them from the so called
“charity stripe.” In fact, their struggles in this area had become
such a problem that Head Coach Paul Brecht refused to utter the
word “free-throw” around his team for fear that one of his players
would start choking, as they seemed to do when faced with the
idea of such an event. In fact, during their first four games, the
team was a combined 0 for 53 at “the line” (or to translate for our
British readers, “the queue” (why does that word have so many
letters)).
However, this all changed on January 21st. The curse was
broken. The lid was removed from the basket. Perhaps the freethrow
line was moved forward twenty centimeters. Whatever the
case, something changed. Two minutes into the game, superstar
guard Kyle Schultz was fouled. After missing his first free-throw,
his second clanked around the rim and rolled in. A giant cheer
erupted amongst the five spectators* cheering on the team. Coach
Brecht and Coach Swann both breathed out a simultaneous sigh
of relief, as they had feared that teams might simply start fouling
on every other possession in order to significantly reduce the
chances of AAS ever scoring. Two more free throws were added
throughout the course of the game: one by the speedy, bolt of
lightning known as Jamie Le Roux and one by the fearsome beast
in the paint, more commonly called Ivan Dimitrov. Admittedly,
the team still posted a measly 8.456% free throw percentage, but
their accomplishments overshadow such statistics.
On a side note. Or maybe on a related note, or an adjacent
note, possibly a note in the same octave, these three free-throws
occurred during AAS’s second win of the young season. They now
sit at an impressive 2-3 record. Making this all the more remarkable
is the fact that AAS currently resides on top of its conference**
and remain a game away from .500. They have already doubled
their win total from the previous season and have the opportunity
to triple, quadruple or even…umm… multiply that number by five
by the end of the season. Indeed, the future looks bright for this
young team that has shown it can inconsistently hit the rare freethrow.
*Five spectators. C’mon AAS. That’s pathetic. Come to the
games and support your team, you might even see them make a
free-throw!
**AAS is a member of BIG 1 conference, which consists of
one team- AAS.
38 39

Being Young
Claudia Natola
Poetry
Paris
Desislava Alexandrova
Photograph
People don’t value,
Being young,
But being young,
Is being free,
You might disagree,
But when you get older,
Don’t complain,
That you miss
Rolling in the hot sands,
Crashing in the stormy waves,
Not minding what others think,
Just going on with your day,
Looking at the surface,
And not in depth,
When you’re scared,
You have friends,
No matter how stuck you are,
People will sort you out.
Because when you’re blind as a child,
It’s others
Who have to guide you carefully,
And while they do,
You can be free.
40 41

Chainsaw
Kartika Le Roux
Poetry
Bansko
Claudia Natola
Drawing
There is an unknown monster in the backyard.
With a flick of a switch it growls loudly,
Angrily, as if to kill its prey.
Its teeth, small but sharp,
Lined up one by one, moving fast
As they shine in the sun,
Waiting.
And when it gets its chance,
It slides through its victim,
With ferocious roars
Until all that is left is a brown stump of memory.
After Vessilev Staikon’s landscape of Bankso, mid 20th century woodcut.
42 43

Walking on Water
Desislava Alexandrova
Photograph
The Bear Spirit
Roderick Pieplenbosch
Poetry
White coated
Spawning fish
Spirit bear
Fur trappers
Shadowy figure
Forested island
tuft of white fur
Salmon
Protective
Grizzly hunt
Reclusive
Open to fish
Wilderness
Rest and sleep
Safe and secure.
44 45

I Believe in a Smile
Marie van Aalst
Essay
I believe that a single smile from one particular person can
make your day. They don’t have to say anything to you, just eye contact
and then seeing the corners of their mouth go up. It could be a smile
from your crush. One smile from him or her won’t just make your day,
you’ll talk about it to all your friends. You’ll think about it, and without
noticing, you’ll smile while thinking.
If your teacher knows you and your best friend shouldn’t sit
next to each other in class, you can still communicate. You smile at
them and express your joy, pleasure, or amusement; or if you grin at
them and they return it with an I-know-what-you-mean smile, which
then is followed by your teacher saying your names. Both you and
your friend will give your teacher an I’m-sorry smile. I believe that
one smile, just like a picture, says a million words.
I love how after a smile, laughter follows. I believe that both
are contagious. I smile at you; you will instantly feel the need to smile
back. Laughter has the same effect. You laugh and I’ll laugh with you,
or just smile at you because I enjoy seeing you happy.
I travel quite often and my knowledge of languages is limited
to English and Dutch. Luckily, wherever you go, everyone understands
a smile. No matter where you go, if you smile at a stranger, you won’t
only make their day, they’ll smile back and make your day. It’s a universal
language anyone understands, despite what culture, race or religion
they have.
I believe that there are plenty of reasons to smile. First of
all, smile, you’re alive. You are surrounded by people that love
you. Smile. Second of all, smiling makes you beautiful; it attracts
other people to talk to you. Smile. You’re reading this. Smile.
It has been scientifically proven that smiling makes us
happy. If you feel down, just smile, you’ll instantly start to feel better.
You must have heard or at least read it before that it takes 50
muscles to frown and only 10 to smile. So turn that frown upside
down!
“Today, give a stranger one of your smiles; it might be
the only sunshine he sees all day.” (P.S. I Love You, by H. Jackson
Brown, Jr.)
I believe in a smile.
Sometimes a smile can express pity; we want to make someone
feel better. A full smile would be too much, so we smile because
we don’t want to break the silence. We let them alone yet show them
with a single smile, hey, I’m here for you. I’m sorry. I love you. Most of
the time these smiles work, and they do feel better. It will brighten up
their day.
46 47

A Sad Memory...
Lara Gueorgiueva
Poetry
Sketch of a Tree
Alina Krumova
Drawing
The tree stretched its arms
And welcomed the spring.
To join it so gracefully and
Bloom,
Cover its long arms with flowers,
And just be a jolly old chap.
But then came the cold.
The winter. The storm.
He was frightened
And lost his beautiful color,
And leaves.
It was time to go,
No more fun.
No more happiness.
Age had taken over,
And now nothing
Could be done.
It was time for him,
to rest in peace.
48 49

Sade Ja Paiste
Hanna Halmari
Poetry
Heart, you beat the rhythm of the soul,
You are the illuminating sun,
Exposing the sparkles and shimmers in the world,
Even the coldest ice glitters under your gaze.
You’ve travelled a long way from our bodies,
So the downward descent is difficult at first,
But slowly you make your return,
And the mind has time to catch up with you.
Your brilliant radiance brings hope,
Your beat as powerful as the rays of the sun.
You sustain life - where would we be without you
When the skies are cloudy,
We confide in you to lead us in the right direction,
We listen to you,
Even though you yourself are dangerous for our vision,
Capable of blinding us with your effulgence.
We want to feel your warmth on our skin,
We want to close our eyes,
And then to open them to admire the beautiful faces of our hopes and
dreams,
And we begin to forget that the sun sets as surely as it rises.
When your rays of light meet the drops of realism,
A beautiful connection is formed,
Revealing the perfect harminy through an alluring arc of colors
against the sky,
Of passionate reds, thoughtful oranges, curious yellows,
Alive greens, calm blues and mysterious purples.
A reflection of the understanding between the body and soul.
For one cannot live without rain or shine,
And can only find peace when body and soul combine.
But then the rain of realism comes pouring down,
Our strong minds, our stable bodies,
Remind you that just as the rain falls from the skies,
You too must come back down to earth.
50 51

The Rosewood Cutter
Elise Sutherland
Poetry
Before New York
Lukas Panayotopoulos
Poetry
Sleeveless on the Onive River
the young man was heedless of the brooding sky and likely barrages
of rain.
He doesn’t like work,
but he has to feed his family.
He calls out while gliding past
the Madagascan city of Antalana.
They holler back from behind the fallen trees
For a finite period the organized gangs pillage the sacred turf.
They are punishing us.
Concluding that the risks are spurring out of control, as expected, the
government had discovered their logs of illegally harvested rosewood.
He knew what he had to do. He ran down - stream in the shallow water.
He moved swiftly, like a slender snake.
One wintry morning
Bronx river, beavers
Clams, oysters, sandy beaches
great nature...
Vanished. Henry Hudson, New Amsterdam
Shooting the breeze,
beaver alarm with tail
transformed into
towering chestnuts, skyscrapers,
asphalt, dumping ground for cars and trash
bulldozed, wetlands paved
tourists, fur trade
nature...
gone.
He reached the vanilla fields. Alas , they caught him and crushed his
skull.
His last thought; “I am the rosewood cutter.”
52 53

Naivete & Defeat
Ivan Dimitrov
Prose Poem
Innocence
Desisilava Alexandrova
Photograph
Naivete
Naivete is kind although very absent minded. She loves to
give people the benefit of the doubt, and greatly enjoys writing
long responses to unusual e-mails from friends. When they ask
for money or favors, she loves to fulfill their wishes. She also avidly
sends along the occasional message to her whole contact list,
so that she is not haunted by Bloody Mary on the coming Friday,
the 13th of the month. She also cried when balloon boy was in the
news, and she still looks back on the event as a sad story. She will
do absolutely anything for a good cause, and she lives in a world
with no evil.
Defeat
Defeat never fights for anything. She constantly feels sorry
for herself, and thus can not make herself do anything. She dresses
only in white, and if you pay close attention to her, you can
see her slightly swaying, constantly. She refuses to play Risk or
Monopoly, and will not play any other game for that matter. Her
face is droopy, her mouth is slanted, and she does not make eye
contact. When she is feeling particularly lousy, she just switches
on some “Winnie the Pooh” just to admire her favorite character,
Eyore.
54 55

Buttercup Sun
Juliette Berg
Poetry
Buttercup sun
You rise over the fields,
Send glow to the river
In the spring time.
Buttercup sun
You wake me in the morning,
Reach your long, scraggly fingers through my window
And tickle my face
And tug at my hair.
Buttercup sun
You heat the air,
Make the grass sweat
And the trees sweat
In the summer time.
Buttercup sun
You bring real to my smile,
And hug me when I’m gloomy
You make me content
I adore you for what you do.
Buttercup sun
You reflect off the snow,
and make it twinkle
like daylight stars
In the winter time.
Buttercup sun
You hide at night,
So I can stay up late and
Slither under my blanket
With a flashlight
And a book.
Buttercup sun
You make the world orange,
Yellow and brown
You make the sky shine pink at sunset
In the autumn.
56 57

Vintage
Samuil Sarandev
Dirt Road
Hamad Al Noaimi
Prose Poem
Walking on the sand where dangerous ultraviolet rays’ heat boils
Photograph
Away the skin layers of a human being’s in wait for night fall, where
Merchants spent most of their long and throbbing days on camel back
Venturing within the same path that people are venturing in this copper-colored
vast land in
Which our ancestors have sacrificed their lives, liberating this deserted
area, this dirt road.
O how peacefully sinful you are, giving the impression that you are
As peaceful as the horizon seems, giving shelter to many life forms, but
do not let
Appearances deceive you, for when it is time to broadcast its news, the
islands in this
Horizon would get the word of tides rising and inundating the peaceful
islands who
Simply crave the knowledge of your whisper that is vacated by the
clouds of secrets.
How painfully cheerful it is to see countless numbers of yourself, in a
state of
Silence waiting to declare war on your enemies by conquering the skies,
making
The skies themselves bleed from pain as the stars are swimming above
you, who with
Its beauty inspires you to be able to go anywhere, to be anywhere, to
enlighten us on
Fascinating stories about heroism, beauty and poetry of the past.
Undiscovered knowledge about this peaceful horizon is as deep as the
deepest trench in
The seven seas where many brave knights have tried to tame you and
figure out your secrets,
Your limitless benevolence which attracted many people which you
have embraced with your pride
People would lift their heads because of the secrets you whisper through
the wind of knowledge,
Still, you are the camel of prudence which people ride.
58 59

The Silent Hunter
Christopher Swann
Poetry
Borealis
Mitchell Carswell
Drawing
Under the cold churning waters of the
North Atlantic, the hunter sits in waiting,
To welcome new people to her
Dark playroom, in the deep abyss of the cold.
Silent beneath the waves,
Unheard by all the world, and to all
Who travel, invisible underneath them,
A violent trap, waiting to be sprung.
Now a shadow passes overhead,
Atop the waves comes a ferry from
America, with passengers to England,
With all manner of happy people
Enjoying a so far pleasant voyage.
But all that is to end as the hunter
Gears itself into action,
Rising up to welcome
People into their new home, the deep
Dark cold abyss, this hunter once hid in.
Up above the waves now she fires twice,
Ripping apart the tranquility, and
Shattering the happiness of people on this voyage,
As screams of terror arise, silence
Eventually reigns, as the hunter returns home
To have a new ship painted on her side.
60 61

Protest Poem
Vlado Panov
Poetry
Story of Life
Barbora Slosarikova
Poetry
Standing still in the endless spiral,
Going forward in reverse,
Perplexed souls move through time like dogs without a bone.
Consciously blind and deaf and senseless,
Or just honestly stupid,
Those flies, persistently try to escape through the closed window,
From the roofless hut.
No matter how many words of wisdom you spit at them,
They will be, at one point, driven by a scent,
To fly away and settle on a piece of … food.
Because that is what they call it
And then they will devour all of it, in swarms, and in a beastly manner.
Let them have all the food they want
And just have patience because the time will come and they will be
splattered in
One way or another.
Life is like a book,
everyone writes their own story.
The opportunities of life,
all of that glory,
help us to create different chapters.
A story of love, tragedy, or sadness;
you pick the genre of your own destiny,
of that scary madness,
by choosing the way of your living.
Choices are what make our character;
choices are what give the spark to our eyes.
Temptation is our life conductor.
All the opportunities that life offers us,
make our decisions even harder.
It’s not easy to choose the right path,
because choices act like a chain reactor.
Your heart will always help you;
you just need to listen to it closely.
Once the heart has its lips sealed,
The brain helps you mostly.
But when you are really not sure of your choice,
just stop, and think.
It’s better not to make a fast and unwise decision,
at one fast blink,
because that leaves all of the possibilities
Opened.
62 63

The Incas
Martin Koupenov
Poetry
Flattering histories,
Destructive earthquakes,
traditions, kingdoms, conquering,
the god lightning saves them all,
wooden tools, mummies buried,
the fiesta, brilliantly colored cloth,
remaking the world,
steep mountain slopes,
looking for gold in contorted poses,
The mighty empire.
Vanishing Spots
Meggan Conley
Poetry
The little one, Legadma and her mother
emerge from the African air.
They walk with stealth upon the thin acacia tree branches, the
mother catching her cub swiftly before the drop to the ground.
Among the long grass their darting eyes are patient, they seek
death and dinner.
Ignoring the screeching squirrels, the two play like siblings, the
cub savouring the touch of her mother’s tail.
A gun shot. A drop.
Legadma scrambles in fright
She runs far, like her mother taught her.
Only when she is atop the acacia tree branch does she realise her
mother is not with her.
She is one of the 5, 000 leopards killed annually.
64 65

Eyes
Vlado Panov
Drawing
Top of the World
Chris Kkissia
Prose Poem
The sugar covered peaks loom below me. I can feel the temperature
rapidly drop below zero. I hear the wind yelling in my face,
warning me to keep moving. A solid structure of rocks stands
above me. Nearly there, got to keep moving. I look down to the distant
world below. The smell of oxygen is in the blue void around
me.
66 67

Homecourt Advantage
Nathan Myers
Short Story
Seth climbed up into his rusted pickup truck. It was nearly April but a
recent blizzard had left the ground covered in a fresh layer of snow. Well that’s
Colorado weather for you. The ancient engine turned over two times before it finally
roared to life. As Seth put the truck in reverse and pulled out of the West High
School parking lot, he mulled over what Coach Troy had said to the team as they
finished the last practice before the state championship. Tomorrow is the biggest
game of your basketball careers so far...The Mountain View Badgers will be tough,
but it’s just another game to add to our undefeated season.
Seth chose to take the longest route home, to delay his return to that hellhole.
He pulled into a truck stop to get a bite to eat, knowing that there would be
no food at home. He savored his burger and lingered around the restaurant for as
long as he could, delaying the inevitable. The whole diner had emptied out by the
time Seth finally paid the bill and walked through the cold air back to his truck.
This time, the truck started on the first try, and he headed home.
“Are you still going on about playing basketball You’re just wasting
your time, there’s no way you’re gonna make it, boy. You need to quit living in
a fairy tale.”
Seth rolled his eyes. I don’t need to hear this conversation again. He
turned around and headed toward his room.
“Don’t you walk away from me boy!” Eric called after him, “Get back
in here right now!”
“Dad. I’m good at basketball. I’ll get a scholarship and go to university,
like mom always wished-”
“University Who needs it I didn’t go to no university and look at me.
I did good.”
Seth let out a small laugh. Eric stood up immediately and faced Seth.
A small vein popped out on his forehead. “You think that’s funny I provide
everything for you!”
Seth rarely got nervous before basketball games, no matter how important.
But he had never been in a state championship game before. Going home
was exactly what Seth did not need before the big game. However, he had no other
choice. The truck had just started to get warm when Seth pulled up to the one
story, two bedroom house at 279 Locust Dr. The only light on was in the living
room. Well here we go. The door to the house was unlocked. Seth ducked under
that rather short doorway into an unlit hallway. The TV was blaring the sounds of a
Friday night fight and Eric Keller was intently watching it, facing away from where
Seth stood.
“Where were you, boy” He questioned without even turning around.
Seth could tell his father had been drinking from the empty beer bottles
and the slurred words. “I had basketball, Dad. I told you that this morning.
We are playing in the state championship tomorrow. It would mean a lot to
me if you would come watch.”
Seth had heard this whole spiel before, but he wasn’t interested in
hearing how his dad provided everything for the family and how Seth owed
everything to him.
“If you provide everything for me, then what’s for dinner Why are
both the fridge and the cabinets empty except for your bottles of beer and
whiskey You don’t provide anything for me.”
Eric took a couple steps closer to Seth. He was a very big man, but
Seth did not back away. Stand your ground, don’t back away. “What did you
just say”
“You heard me, Dad,” Eric stepped closer to Seth until they were just
two feet apart. Seth was an inch or two taller than his father. Eric reeked of
alcohol and many days without a shower. Eric’s right fist swung once and
made contact with Seth’s gut. Seth doubled over but stood upright once again.
68 69

I can’t show him weakness. I can’t let him control me. Eric threw another
punch, this time hitting Seth on the cheek and Seth started to taste blood in
his mouth. I can easily beat him, but that would only bring me down to his
level.
“You think you don’t need me Then I want you out of this house right
now! Pack your bags and get out! I mean it!” Seth had a bag packed for a time
like this. He had been expecting it for a long time, he just did not imagine it
would be on the eve of the the state championship game. The bag included
several changes of clothes and toiletries. All Seth had to do was put in his basketball
shoes and his basketball uniform. Within fifteen minutes of arriving
home, Seth was back in his old truck, leaving for what he figured was the last
time.
The Sunnyside Motel was the hangout place for teenage drunks and
drug addicts. And although Seth was neither, it was the only place he could
afford, even for one night. He was given room 45. The room was tiny, with a
double sized bed in the middle and a nightstand on either side. There was a
communal bathroom down the hallway. Hopefully I won’t have to be using
that in the middle of the night.
The walls of the hotel were paper thin, and Seth was in a world of
sounds. He could hear the man in room 47 snoring. He could hear the lady
in room 44 argue with her drug dealer about the products she had just been
sold. He found it difficult to get any sleep, instead he looked back over the
past season. How he, as starting point guard, had led his team to an undefeated
season for the first time in school history. Next he looked at the last
three games they played, the playoffs. First there was the blowout against
the Lincoln Knights . The next week, the Vikings played possibly the worst
game of the season, almost losing to the Franklin Bulldogs. The third game of
the playoffs, the Vikings managed to pull off an upset of the heavily favored
Delta Warriors. And finally, the championship that would be played tomorrow
against last year’s champions, the Mountain View Badgers.
***
“One, two, three Vikings!” The whole team cheered in unison. Seth lead
his team out of the changing room and onto the court. This is it. The crowd erupted
as the team jogged onto the court and began layup drills. The stadium was packed,
dozens of scouts from various universities and hundreds of fans coming to watch
him play. There was only one person that was missing, and until he came, none of
the fans mattered. He glanced over to where the Badgers were warming up and
caught the stare of Derek West, the starting point guard for the Badgers and the
man Seth would be up against tonight. This will be tough but I’m ready for the challenge
.
“Three minutes,” the referee called out.
“Alright boys, bring it in!” Seth jogged over the the bench to join the rest of
his team standing around Coach Troy. “Most coaches would give you guys some inspiring
speech but I’m not really one for all that emotional crap. Just play hard and
this game is yours!” Seth looked around but could not find his father anywhere, not
that he expected to.
The game started out well for the Vikings. Seth hit an open three to start
the game. Then Fred, the center, intercepted a pass and threw it up to Seth who
made an open layup. Then West made a highly contested three pointer to start the
scoring for the Badgers. The rest of the half continued on like this, teams trading
baskets, no one pulling ahead. At halftime the Vikings were up 34-32. Seth had 15
of the points and added four more assists. He had also done a fairly good job at
stopping West.
“Okay guys, that was a decent first half,” Coach Troy said back in the locker
room, “but we need to play better defense! Move your feet! Don’t let your man
past you. Other than that, just keep doing what you were doing. Bring it in.”
“One, two, three Vikings!”
The third quarter continued just as the first two had gone. No team was
able to pull ahead by more than three or four points at a time. Midway through the
third quarter, Seth’s had twenty five points. Throughout the remaining five minutes
in the quarter, the Vikings hit a rough patch. Seth had three fouls and Troy
had to sit him on the bench so he would not foul out. Without their star player, the
Vikings had a hard time keeping up with the Badgers.
They blew their five point lead and fell behind by six when the second to
last buzzer sounded. It was all Seth to start the fourth quarter. The Vikings cut into
70 71

the deficit and even managed to pull ahead by four midway into the fourth quarter.
Although Seth was playing the best basketball he had ever played, he knew he
needed to play harder. The Badgers stuck with them, never falling behind more
than five points. With three minutes left in the game, Seth had thirty five points.
Coach Troy called a timeout. Seth was breathing heavily, sweat dripping from every
pore in his body. I need to take my game to another level if I want to win. The
Vikings had possession coming out of the timeout. They passed the ball around
before Seth was able to shoot another three. They now lead by eight points, the
biggest lead either team had all game. Seth was only two points away from breaking
the record for most points scored in a state championship, but that was the last
thing on his mind. All he was interested in was winning the game for his team. He
made another layup and drew the foul, the free throw was automatic. Seth had 41
points, breaking the previous record. Time was winding down, only one minute
remained and the Vikings lead by six. Only a total disaster could ruin the game for
them now. Seth made two more easy jump shots. He looked up at the scoreboard.
78-68 for the Vikings. The scoreboard also showed that Seth had scored 45 points.
He chuckled, remembering the Sunnyside motel. That’s the game. All that’s left to
do is waste time. Seth slowly dribbled the ball down the court. Something caught
his eye, or rather, someone. Eric Keller stood leaning against the wall, hands in his
pockets, watching the game intently. Seth was jolted back to the game with the
sound of the final buzzer. He attempted to make his way over to his father, but was
swarmed with teammates, fans, and scouts.
Self-Portrait
Steven Slavchev
Drawing
“Great game kid.”
“Hey Seth man! We did it!”
“I am a representative of Redding University”
Seth pushed his way over to where his father was standing just a few moments
earlier, but Eric was gone. Seth ran over to the doorway into the cold night.
Huge snowflakes were falling from above. It was so cold that the sweat dripping
from Seth’s forehead froze almost immediately. Seth searched around but Eric was
nowhere to be found. However, Seth saw a pair of taillights pulling out of the parking
lot onto the street and into the cold Colorado night.
72 73

Fate
Kristian Radev
Violin
Hannah Berg
Drawing
Poetry
As I stand here in the middle,
between red and white,
my fate is now written,
my answer given to me.
I have realized
my purpose,
my goal,
my destiny.
All I need now...
is that question I began with.
74 75

Things My Cat Does
Nathan Godding
Poetry
Monday
Wake Up
Wake up people by nudging their nose
Make them give me breakfast
Meow by the door
Scratch the sofas (“bad girl”)
Now disappear up the stairs and go to sleep
Tuesday
Wake up
Wake up everyone by meowing loudly
Eat breakfast
Look cute
Nudge them to stroke me
Growl at the birds feeding on the balcony
Scratch the table (“bad girl”)
Find a comfy bed to sleep on
Wednesday
Wake up
Bat people’s nose until one of them gives me breakfast
Knock the fork with my food in it onto the floor
Step in my water bowl
Scratch the boot box (“good girl”)
Use the litter tray
Lick my bottom in public (“EEEEW!”)
Practice my purring
Go to sleep on someone’s suitcase
Thursday
Wake up
Jump on bed and purr loudly until someone feeds me
Put up with getting cuddles from my people
Set the house alarm off by jumping, through the banisters
Investigate next door’s garden
Go to the toilet in next door’s garden
Meow to let in
Run into door/window/wall
Sit by fire
Go to sleep
Friday
Wake up
Clean my people because they are dirty
Get fed
Sit on the chess table and swipe the pieces off with my tail
Allow my people to exhaust themselves running around the
house after me
Get my claws caught in the net curtains
Sit on the computer keyboard
Go to sleep on computer keyboard
Move from computer keyboard after being rudely woken up
Go to sleep on someone’s lap
Saturday
Sleep all day.
76 77

Beyond Science
Olivia van Aalst
Poetry
Down a crater
Through a war
Prevent a catastrophe
as raindrops sizzled
the molton rock
had hope to transform
ground was shaking
inside a subwoofer
shoe melting
air as acid
capable of unleashing
splattering lava
rising, burning, boiling
top of it all
eye to eye
lava to lava
unbelievable
beyond science.
Analysis of“Sixteen Plus Sixteen”
by Nedyalko Yordanov
Theodore Tenev
Essay
Original Poem:
За кой ли път по този бряг преминаха
едно момиче и едно момче,
живели по шестнадесет години,
а значи общо тридесет и две.
За кой ли път те спореха разпалено
по темата, наречена съдба,
и мислеха, че всичко са узнали,
щом знаят, че съдбата е борба.
И мислеха, че много лесно скриват
това, което крият всеки път,
но вярваха, че докато са живи,
те никога не ще се разделят.
А от безкрайно старо време знай се -
животът има свое странно Не:
шестнайсет и шестнайсет е шестнайсет,
а никога не тридесет и две.
Но има ли значение, когато
света се гледа с четири очи
и радостта е двойно по-богата,
а мъката наполовин горчи
За кой ли път по този бряг преминаха
едно момиче и едно момче,
живели по шестнадесет години,
а значи общо тридесет и две.
Край тях се смееше незабелязано
морето, този вечен великан -
голямо като обич неизказана
и синьо като път неизвървян.
78 79

Poem in English: (translated by Theodore Tenev)
For the umpteenth time on this coast passed
a girl, and a boy too,
lived for sixteen years last,
and together thirty-two.
For the umpteenth time, they argued in a flare
on a topic called destiny
and thought they had become aware
that fate is struggle, heavily.
And they thought they can easily hide
what they hid every single time, righted
They believed that while they lived,
They will never be divided.
But from ancient times it’s known -
Life has its strange NO!:
sixteen plus sixteen is sixteen, though
and never thirty-two.
However, does it matter when
the world is viewed by four eyes
and joy is double-wide, and then
every grief is left aside
For the umpteenth time on this coast passed
a girl, and a boy too,
lived for sixteen years last,
and together thirty-two.
Beside them laughed unnoticeable
the sea, this eternal giant -
as great as love unutterable
and as blue as way defiant.
Original Analysis of the poem in Bulgarian:
16 Плюс 16 е стихотворение от постмодерната или
модерна българска литература. В него Недялко Йорданов
съпоставя променливите настроения на тийнейджърите и
мъдрата разсъдливост на възрастните. Обаче те са осъзнали
красотата на любовта, но и са разбрали, че човек сам гради
съдбата си. Темите, засегнати в стихотворението, са любовта,
личната съдба и живота на младите.
Лирическите герои са 16 годишни тийнейджъри. Те
с надежда вярват, че винаги ще са заедно. Разсъжденията
на лирическият говорител и философското твърдение, че
„шестнайсет и шестнайсет е шестнайсет, а никога не тридесет и
две“ , ни внушават святостта на любовта и съвместният живот.
В същото време ни убеждават и че животът е независим и посуров
отколкото го виждат двамата влюбени с розови очила.
Композиционната рамка,
„ За кой ли път по този бряг преминаха
едно момиче и едно момче,
живели по шестнадесет години,
а значи общо тридесет и две.“
Утвърждава красотата на възрастта на героите.
Литературният въпрос в рамката, поставен анафорично,
акцентира върху възхищението на лирическият говорител
към двамата тийнейджъри, а анафората подчертава идеята за
трайната привързаност между тях. След това „разпаленият им
спор“ подчертава наивността с която те възприемат живота.
Твърдението, че „съдбата е борба“ поставя въпроса за гледната
точка на младежите и тяхната надежда, че с борба ще постигнат
мечтаното от тях.
В следващата строфа образът, който лирическите
герои „крият всеки път“, е символ на мечтаното, скритата
красота на любовта и нейната свенливост. Тук жизнеността е
противопоставена на философията на живота. Лирическият
говорител е убеден, че всеки сам се бори, за да постигне това,
към което се стреми.
80 81

Накрая, песимистичният, но реалист разказвач, за пореден път се
прекланя пред споделената любов, символизираща младите хора:
„ Но има ли значение, когато
света се гледа с четири очи
и радостта е двойно по-богата,
а мъката на половин горчи“
Чувството на радост е смесено с болката от суровия
живот и горчивата реалност. Тази реалност е откроена ясно
извън композиционната рамка с метафората „морето, този вечен
великан“. Тя напомня за безкрайните проблеми в истинският
свят, а широта символизира свободата на 16 годишните да
извървят живота си пълноценно и с някого до себе си.
В заключение, морето се надсмива „незабелязано“
на наивността, чистота и свенливостта на чувствата на
тийнейджърите. Но инверсиите „обич неизказана“ и „път
неизвървян“ свидетелстват възхищението и удоволствието
и насладата от споделените мигове на героите в тяхната
романтична и идеалистична връзка.
Analysis of the poem in English:
“Sixteen Plus sixteen” is a poem of modern or postmodern
Bulgarian literature. In it, Nedyalko Yordanov correlates the variable
moods of the teenagers and the wise adults. However, the adults have
appreciated the beauty of love, but they have found, too, that one
builds one’s destiny. The themes, addressed in the poem, are love, destiny
and the shared life of young people.
The lyrical characters are two 16-year-old teenagers. They believe
and secretly hope that they will always be together. However, the
thoughts of the lyrical speaker and his philosophical statement that
“sixteen plus sixteen is sixteen and never thirty-two” suggest the purity
of love and shared life. At the same time, he claims that life is independent
and rougher than the two lovers with pink glasses see it.
The compositional frame:
For the umpteenth time on this coast passed
a girl and a boy
lived for sixteen years,
and then thirty-two.
affirms the beauty of the characters’ age. The rhetorical question within
the frame, set in an anaphoric way, stresses the lyrical speaker’s admiration
of both teenagers and the anaphora usage emphasizes the idea of
the strong relation between them. Then “their fierce dispute” emphasizes
simplicity with which they perceive life. The claim that “destiny
is a struggle” raises the issue of the teenagers’ point of view and their
hope that their dream could be achieved with will and determination.
In the next stanza, the image that lyrical characters “hide every
time” becomes a symbol of their dreams, the hidden beauty of
love, and its purity. This vitality is opposed to the philosophy of life
expressed in the poem. The lyrical speaker is convinced that everyone
alone and separately is struggling to achieve what one seeks.
Finally, the pessimistic and realistic speaker once again shows his
respect and appreciation of shared love, a symbol of the young people:
“But does it matter when
the world is viewed by four eyes
and joy is double-wide, and then
every grief is left aside”
However, the feeling of joy is mixed with the pain in life and
the bitter reality. This reality is highlighted outside the compositional
frame by the metaphor “the sea, this eternal giant.” It is reminiscent
of the endless problems in the real world, symbolizing freedom, as
well as the breadth of the 16-year olds to walk their lives together and
share the best moments.
In conclusion, the sea laughs “unnoticed” at the naive lovers,
the purity, and shy feelings of the teenagers. Nevertheless, the inversions
“unspoken love” and “way undone” show the admiration, pleasure,
and enjoyment of the shared moments of the characters in their
romantic and idealistic relationship.
82 83

Wind
Léa Subrenat
Photograph
Untitled
Hannah Berg
Haiku
Lone weed in the wind
Swaying to the beat of time
Surviving the odds.
84 85

Waiting
Kendra Reiter
Poetry
She was sitting there, waiting,
nobody knew.
She was sitting in the darkness,
surrounded by the silence,
interrupted only by the moonlight,
occasionally sliding through the thick foliage around,
like a snake,
making its way through the high grass fields nearby.
Her arms,
while sitting so still,
moved only to touch the soft
feathers of her black wings,
hanging so distinct by her side,
like a shadow,
(always there)
the only thing with her,
while she was waiting.
She was waiting for the sensation
of love.
Night after night,
sitting and waiting,
but never finding.
Waiting for him,
but all that was to come was pain.
The dark hours turned darker by the minute,
The pain in her soul grew greater,
but there was nothing she could do,
no one to help it cease.
During the long hours of darkness,
all she did was wait,
and when the morning dawned,
she began to disappear.
fade away -
Like she had never been there.
She shifted into the darkness,
enfolded by the shadows, and
dragged by an unseen force.
She will be back.
Worry
Nathan Myers
Haiku
Uninvited guest
He’s always right beside me
Wishing me to fail.
86 87

Epilogue
for William Golding’s Lord of the Flies
Hannah Godding
Pastiche
The building stood in front of him, towering, snowy coloured,
and as unforgiving as an iceberg. The starkness of the white paint
almost blinded him. Around him the air was chilly and still. It rang
with the noise of a waking city, but he was almost deaf to the clamour.
With a deep breath, he stepped forward, through the slowly spinning
revolving door, into a pleasantly warm foyer.
“Good morning Mr. Merridew! Have a seat; Dr Smith will be
right along.”
Jack grimaced at the false cheeriness in the voice of the receptionist.
He slouched over to the group of chairs behind the desk and sat down
to wait. He leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, so that he could see
through the window where a tiny sliver of natural light came in, grey
and bleak, as if even the sun had given up hope. It began to snow. As
the soft, delicate flakes drifted down to the gravel, Jack thought about
the first time he had come to this place, almost exactly eight years ago
to the day. He had been twelve. And he had just come off of a ship, the
ship which had rescued him from…
“Jack! How lovely to see you again!” His thoughts were interrupted
by the psychologist, who had come out of her office to indicate
to him that she was ready to start. Jack got reluctantly to his feet and
shuffled down the hall. He stopped at the door to give the woman a
half smile, and then stepped into the drab office for the very last time.
***
Ralph looked over the edge of the bridge into the churning waters
below him. He let out a long moan and faces within the crowds
of people pushing past him on the pavement stopped for a second to
stare with expressions of compassion in their faces and fear in their
eyes. He turned to speak again to the boy sitting on the railings next to
him.
“I’m so sorry Piggy. Really I am. I should have done something
to stop them, to stop him from hurting people. I could have done
something to save you and I didn’t.” People turned to look at Ralph,
but he ignored them and they walked on wondering about the man
who talked to nothing.
Piggy smiled thinly and sighed. “But Ralph, you were just a
boy then. And look around now. People were killed in the war, lots
of them were. But the ones who survived are smarter now and
they have rebuilt the world which was almost destroyed. I died,
but you can go on and be a stronger person. You can learn from
other’s mistakes, not just your own.”
Ralph looked away into the murky depths under his feet.
When he looked up again his eyes were shining with tears. “But I
can’t Piggy. I’m not smart like you and I don’t know how to make
things better. I should never have been chief, it should have been
you! I live in the past, trapped on the island inside my mind. And I
can’t bear it any longer!”
With another anguished cry Ralph stood and felt the wind tugging
at his clothes, pulling him forward, closer to the precipice looming
before him. “You drove me to this! You hear that Jack! It was
all your fault!”
Hours later when the police dragged the body out of the river, his
clothes had lost all their colouring; the dyes had washed out in the
water. The only colour left on the shell of the man was his golden
hair. Among the swarm of people surrounding the bedraggled
body, nobody noticed a pale child dressed all in white, smiling
sadly at the broken face.
88 89
***
Far away on a burnt out island in the middle of an ocean, a
sharpened stick, worn away and rotten, lay buried under mounds
of sand. Next to the mound was a shard of white bone, part of a
skull. Somewhere on the island, a pig scrambled through the undergrowth,
running fast away from something terrible. And the
island itself seemed to howl like a beast in the night.

Mono-logue
Briar Mills
(first perfomred; April 2012)
Original Script
I know I don’t have the right,
I have parents and a bright future and a dog plus a boyfriend
I am pretty much set.
And yet I am travelling on this downward spiral to an inevitable end that sees
no cure.
Then why do I feel like this
Can you answer me
Because I honestly can’t,
Hence me talking to you silent lot…
Arena stage, as a raised cage is flooded by soft blue light. Lying down
on the ground looking at the ceiling and occasionally glancing at the audience
members. Before starting the monologue, lift self up and lean back on arms.
You know,
Thinking back I was never like this,
I mean I was never actually like this.
It makes me wonder what I was thinking of back then,
Oh I wish I could get it back.
Because this,
This isn’t that great.
Laugh mockingly
I’m only sixteen,
But I’m craving to remember back then.
It’s actually quite sad
I should be living in the moment not trying to bring back the past, right
That’s for old people,
Ones that are going to knock off pretty soon,
Ones that look forward to color coding pills,
Ones that can’t walk to the mail box in the morning,
Ones that gum the crap out of biscuits,
Me!
I have got my entire,
Full,
Total,
Wholesome,
Untouched,
Wonderful,
And continuous life ahead of me,
Why complain
Oh right.
You have no idea what I am talking about, do you
Stupid me!
Laugh mockingly
I warn you it might be hard to grasp, not because I think you are ignorant,
But because, well ok maybe it is your ignorance and there really is no use talking
to you.
Sit back on middle block, biting nails and looking at audience, turn around on
block to get away from the audience staring at character, after three turns continue
monologue.
I take that the reason you’re still sitting here is because you want me to explain
your ignorance,
Let me tell you a story to back up my “theory” of you being very ignorant
A man, who was balding, wanted to talk about things,
The thing is I don’t talk very much,
I’m actually quite quiet
But this man wanted to talk, this man wanted to talk
You could see in his eyes that he dearly and honestly wanted to help me
With the down curved mouth,
And the pulled in brows,
The crossed legs,
Cross legs
The metaphorically extended arms
Extend arms
But what I didn’t see in his dear eyes, his mutated brows nor his metaphorical
movement was understanding
I could pin point judgment.
He kept asking questions like:
Why would you do this to yourself
Do you not appreciate what you have
90 91

Do you think about your family
Do you think about the consequences
Run at the side of the cage, grabbing the side of the cage, shouting the
questions at the audience.
WHY
WHY
WHY
I DON’T KNOW!!!!! Shout
Listen,
I didn’t ask for this to happen,
I didn’t ask to not enjoy life,
I didn’t ask to want to KILL MYSELF!
Gasp
I know,
So surprising
All of a sudden those very questions that a bald man asked me are flipping
through your mind like T.V. commercials on Sundays. Buy this for
34.99 in the next 5 minutes and you’ll get suicide for free. Oh the stupidities
of life, everything evolved around money. But still most live in
poverty, I’d cry for them, but I don’t think I care. But don’t judge me
considering the rest of the world doesn’t care either, or else poverty in
Africa wouldn’t exist. It is not a matter of not being able to, but really
just not wanting to. This is why I guess I should die. What do I know, I’m
only sixteen.
Sit on block
My question being: what is the point of living
Of course all of you will have answers like: because living is wonderful,
something better will tomorrow, positive things will surely come, life is
beautiful, death is an easy way out, other people have reasons to live,
why shouldn’t you have one.
Scream and drop onto knees grabbing the cage reciting monologue to
the eyes of an audience member.
I think your hopelessness is killing me, because these views of life are
so shallow, that I don’t even think I could convince someone that wants
to live that they should continue living. How do you not hate yourselves
for thinking this
What is the most typical day for someone
You wake up
Go to school, that decides that you’re going to work for the rest of your
life,
Come home, do homework or care for kids
Go to sleep.
Wake up
Go to school
Come home
Go to sleep
Wake up
Go to school
Come home
Go to sleep
Wake up
Go to school
Come home
Go to sleep
Just saying it, let alone living it, makes me want to jump off a building.
Unless of course you’re unemployed, but this isn’t much better as instead
you’re criticized by society for being of no help to the greater good.
I don’t know which is worse, either one seems like I’m stepping into a
fire. Perhaps I’m just jealous and I do want to live, but who knows, nobody,
not even I.
So, people, I am lingering in this theater of life pondering on my existence
and the existence of others and whether we should exist at all. I
am stuck in a stalemate with life and the only action I see out is what I
have explained to you here.
Blue light fades, red lights come on, focused on face.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s really nothing wrong with
me, but something wrong with all of you.
Blackout.
92 93

The Colonel
(Based on a true story told to me by my parents about my great-grandfather,
Colonel Peter Canev, who was poisoned by the Nazis.)
Radi Skipp
Historical Fiction
He sat quietly in the overstuffed armchair, which he had turned to
face the wall, rather than the harbor. ‘So much pain, so much sadness, yet
there is still joy, love, devotion in the eyes of all of these people, despite the
terror in which they live.’ He was a well-built colonel of the Bulgarian army, in
his late forties. He had a stern, titanium face, a strong jaw, a man ready to fight
for his country. But despite the real reason he was here with his regiment, he
had another, underground task which he carefully took care of day in, day out.
Although he was deployed there to fight against the Allied Forces, the front in
Kavala, Greece, was relatively quiet. Instead, he was a collaborator, in a dark,
yet forgiving sense. He was there to help the Jews escape from all over Europe
to Palestine, where they would be much safer than they would be in the Nazi
controlled parts of Europe. Thousands of Jewish families had made their way
through this port to safety, to somewhere where they could live without fear
of mass persecution and extermination.
‘So many people, so many families, so many lives. I can understand
why they come through here, is a life in slavery even a life Is it worth living
Sometimes risks just have to be taken for a better future,’ he quietly thought in
the corner of the room while smoking a rich cigar. Just then, he heard shouts
from outside, speaking in a very distinct Russian accent, trying their best to
make out some basic Greek words “Sir! Sir! Please, may we meet sir! Please!
Sir, are you home sir!” The cries were becoming more desperate and afraid
with every word, he jumped out of his chair, and ran to the door, without even
looking at who was outside. It was obvious already. “Greetings! Please, come
in,” he said proudly to the family waiting outside on the stairs leading up to his
front door. There was a man and a woman, who looked to be in their late thirties,
and a girl who was no more than eight years old, who was wearing a light
green sweater. As they walked through his front door, bitter tears filled his
clear eyes. ‘So many people, so many families, so many lives. I can understand
why they come through here, is a life in slavery even a life Is it worth living
Sometimes risks just have to be taken for a better future,’ the thought echoed
in his head as he wiped the tears from his eyes, and closed the door.
“You have come to escape to Palestine, haven’t you” he said, trying to
sound as undisturbed as possible. The lady looked at him, and slowly replied,
“Yes… We are come from Russia, is it possible to escape by today We know
the police are close to us.” Both the family and the colonel cringed as they
heard these words. “Police” was a bad word to hear if you were Jewish, but it
was also a treacherous word to hear if you were in the army, and were helping
Jews escape! He stood there for a second, and walked over to the small table
by the dusty window overlooking the harbour. He picked up an old notebook,
and looked at the shipping schedules for that day. “I think I can get you on
the evening trade ship back to Palestine if we hurry, it’s nearing six, they’ll
be here soon, and the police check every ship before it departs. We must find
you a good place to hide.” He looked out the window, unable to see the trade
ship just yet, but he was sure it would appear on the deep horizon in just a few
minutes.
“Sir, thank you! Thank you very much! We would die without your
help, we would be sent to work then die, this way, we may live, thank you!”
The man was crying at Canev’s shoes. “It is okay, this has been going on for a
long time sir. But please, make sure you have a safe way to go after you reach
94 95

Palestine, after going all this dangerous way, you do not want to be in trouble
in a land which should be safer!”
“Sir, of course we have way to go, but we must reach Palestine first,
for this, we thank you for your help. Here, take this.” The lady was looking
through her large, heavy bag while talking to him, and she took out a golden
ring. Slowly, she walked over, and handed it to the confused looking colonel.
“Why” He was confused. He had helped so many people, and received
so many gifts, but nobody had ever given him a golden ring before. He looked
at the shiny object in his hand, no doubt about it, it was pure gold, eighteen
karats at least!
“Sir, you have granted us our lives. You have given us the right to live,
but this is not only why we give you this ring. Not only have you helped us out
of a certain death, but you have also helped so many others, please, it is yours.”
“Thank you,” it was all he could say, trying once again to hold his
tears back as he walked to the door to open it, and walk the people out.
***
collaborator! The only trouble was, that whenever he sent any letters,
they were often opened on the way there, and the contents read, or they just
weren’t delivered at all! Either way, he thought, the postal services must be
overwhelmed due to the war, and as he was asked not to mark his letters as
confidential, they probably just thought they were postcards and therefore
unimportant.
He opened the letters his wife had brought the evening before. They
looked damaged, as if they were sitting in the bottom of a damp ship for a good
few weeks, so he opened them carefully so as not to destroy the delicate paper
inside which could be very important. He read through the first one, somewhat
annoyed at the fact that he had been denied the extra medical supplies
he so needed, but relieved to see that he had been assigned a personal doctor
to come all the way from Nazi Germany should any expert medical help be
needed. He was a strong and fairly young man, so he hoped he wouldn’t need
it, but he kept the doctor’s details just in case something should go wrong with
any of the people he was helping. Looking at the clock, he quickly scanned
through the remaining mail, most of it appeared to be some sort of postcards
from his family in Bulgaria, he decided to leave them to his wife, put on
his boots, and left to meet his troops.
As the trade ship pulled out of port, people began to fly white flags,
or whatever else they could find. Finally, they were free, and were headed towards
a better life, a free life, something which could at least be called a life!
He stood there, looking out at the dark horizon, the illuminated ship, which
looked almost like a ghostly apparition floating on the water. Among all of the
white flags being flown, there was a bright green flag, flying high above all the
rest.
***
The following morning he woke up feeling slightly uneasy. He had
skipped dinner last night, and was hungry, but above all there was a strange
feeling about that morning, a morbid feeling which seemed to make the entire
house seem damp, and the weather outside gloomy. He had no time to
pay attention to it though, sure it would pass soon. He sat down to have a
quick breakfast before reviewing the latest papers sent to him from the front
line. He was relieved, since the army was sending him such confidential papers
and such sensitive information, he was sure they had no idea he was a
***
It was already coming up to late afternoon, the sun tentatively preparing
itself to set into the velvety Aegean sea underneath. It had been a boring
day, nothing new or interesting had happened, no new people to come
through. He dismissed the men and gave them the next day off, as he was almost
sure nothing much would happen on a Sunday! Before going home, he
sat down at his desk, put his papers away and locked the drawers of his oak
desk. There was a cup of tea on his desk which had been there since the morning,
it was cold now, and it looked like someone had tried to stir it around to
see if it was any good. ‘Come on!’ he thought, ‘not even the desperate prisoners
who came to him for help weren’t desperate enough to look at one’s cold
tea in search of something to drink!’ Still, he could understand, some people
were desperate, in a hurry. He drank what was left of the tea, which for some
reason, tasted faintly of something he couldn’t quite understand. Peaches
Pecans Olives! No, it was a strange scent, that found in chocolates when
they try to put almond filling into them! Yes, that was definitely it, it tasted of
old, rotting almonds. Now even more disgusted, he drank the tea, and started
briskly on his was back home for dinner.
96 97

Even after the delicious easy dinner his wife had prepared for him, he
still could taste the disgusting almond scent in his tea no matter how faint it
was. He felt limp, his wife had also noticed, telling him just how pale he looked!
Although he was sure it was nothing serious, his wife insisted he called his new
German doctor. It would take a day or two for him to come from Prague, where
he currently was, to Kavala, but even if he was fine by then at least the doctor
could stay in Greece and be on hand in case anybody else needed him quickly!
Calvariam
Vlado Panov
Drawing
It didn’t take long to get the doctor to agree, and just a day later he
was already at the door, and well on time, but he was feeling no better at all!
Of course he was worried, who wouldn’t be, but he was feeling better now that
he knew he had a doctor on hand. Even though it was late, he could at least
give some basic medicine until the morning came. His wife showed the doctor
in, he was dressed in brilliant white doctor’s overalls, obviously recently
cleaned very well. He sat down on a chair, and declined the tea he was offered,
while listening to what had happened.
“He went to gather his men together and discuss the latest plan for
the war, and, he was just fine! He was hungry, but nothing else. He just finished
off his tea and came home. I cooked him a large dinner that night, maybe it
was the ingredients He’s just been lying there the entire day, he can’t even
talk Oh what could it be doctor, what could it be!” his wife pleaded. A faint
smile seemed to appear on the doctor’s face when the story was finished, but
he turned serious once again. “Shhh,” he whispered, “you’ll see, you’ll see.”
***
The Colonel lay there, silent, on the bed, thinking of all the prisoners
who had died, who he was unable to save. His wife, sitting in the corner,
silently, looked at the doctor in the room, on the chair, with his arms crossed,
looking at his watch, waiting patiently for death to cast its opaque shadow.
He was sent over specially to deal with such cases, so why was he just sitting
there not doing anything! After what seemed like hours of silence, the doctor
slowly lifted himself up off the chair, and went to feel for a pulse. “That’s it,” he
said, “now I can sign the death certificate.”
***
In memory of all who perished in WWI and WWII, and all those who
put their own lives on the line, to save people they never knew, and never did
get to know.
98 99

Hate
Umay Amarez
Poetry
Strength
Léa Subrenat
Drawing
A darkened cloud nestled right in your heart
It won’t be overcome by simple words
The strokes of a paintbrush; the finest art
Poisonous emotions that the heart herds
Coated in envy, sealed with anger
Everything suddenly becomes sharp
Although it may make you feel much stronger
It is like plucking the strings of a harp
The strength lasts only for a short second
Before fading into a memory,
And although happiness may have beckoned
We leave it for a much sadder story -
And if ever it begins to take form
You must then learn how to weather that storm.
100 101

After Degas
Mai Maamoun
Drawing
Passion
Barbora Slosarikova
Poetry
Passion is the strongest feeling;
step, point toes, turn,
it’s for your soul’s healing;
kick, hand to the side, head.
It is a temptation;
turn, step, step,
of new creation;
jump, turn, ground.
It emphasizes peoples’ desires;
toes, heel, hand,
and it never expires;
stand up, kick, jump.
Passion can take many forms;
step, turn, hand,
it is pushing beyond your norms;
hand, together, preparation.
Someone might love art;
turn, turn, leg,
passion comes out from your heart;
Step, step, step.
And I have a passion too;
kick, step, pose,
dance is what I desire to do.
102 103

The Soldier
Ali Bingol
Drawing
War
Anna Neydenova
Poetry
Blood,
splattering on windows
Gun powder,
filling my lungs.
Crazy screams of
tortured victims
Pounding steps of the light
running away
Ruins of houses
everywhere
No food
No water
No dreams
No fun
No kids
No laughter
But lots
of blood
Your whole world’s
crashing
The reason,
My friend,
is war.
104 105

Best Friend
Rosalyn Rudy
Poetry
Escape
Elena Evgenieva
Poetry
We had been best friends for a lifetime
Since he was small enough to hold in my arms
His sloppy tongue and playful paws
Always in perpetual movement
I would toss the ball for him in the yard
We would run and play for hours with no worries or regrets
He would go everywhere with me, by my side
Always standing near, never letting me down
We wandered the wide world together
Exploring forests, rivers, and caves
He protected me from monsters and bad guys
Even when I left him alone,
He was filled with joy to see me at the end of the day
No one could ever be as loyal as him
Until the day he broke my heart
Shattering it to tiny pieces
He left without even saying goodbye.
I would give anything for one more day, hour, minute
Seeing his body there, knowing it would never move again
Knowing he would be gone forever -
If only I could turn back time
The only semblance I have left
Is the bittersweet memory of my best friend.
I am trapped in this box made of flesh and bones.
To others this box is a sanctuary, a place to flourish.
To me though, a hinderance to which somehow I am attached
And I cannot escape.
A prison cell
With walls made of hatred and fear.
A fireball filled only with anger towards all that is dear.
This agony inside
As if burning in hell-fire.
This excruciating pain that tortures this being
And that does not allow it to live at peace
How can such a fragile creature contain so much destructive emotion
A cloak of invisibility is hung over all that is beautiful.
Its impenetrable concealment
Makes foreign this body,
Love and all that is worthwhile.
So lost in bitterness and hatred,
Engulfed by the shadows
Conquering the world as the sun dawns,
The body is slowly entrusted to the devil.
106 107

Marilyn Monroe
Dina Kancheva
Or will it manage to fight back
And resurrect when the light illuminates
The face that has been drained of emotion
So that the soul can find its way back
Painting
Yet, I continue to struggle.
This heart has been chained by thorns.
The body remaining a cage of steel,
With no doors or means to escape.
I am trapped in my home of flesh and bones,
Oppressing and dark,
Doomed to an eternal struggle to set myself free.
108 109

Life in Time
Martin Slosarik
Poetry
They were some creatures,
In a coop with no air to feature.
“Their bodies were nourished!”
Their keepers brag, forgetting
To pull out from the half-truth bag:
“Still, their souls were starved!”
Captivity doesn’t leave the body resigned,
But twists and bends and wrings the mind.
Forty years they lived in ignorance of time.
When a ray of light,
Slipped in through the door,
Piercing the darkness of the sight and the soul,
The animal stood incredulously.
The gate unbarred contumaciously,
Then more and flung wide open!
The bull sang an aria of a new era.
With no past, they entered the world of now.
Disregard that timber means lifeless future forest,
And the stained, drilled and polluted mountains
Remind distantly the former pristine life fountains.
A bribe in the wallet and slacked work are our dearest.
Blame the shortness of our lifespans:
Death comes before the real future drafts its plans.
Yet, remember we are not the last in the line -
Your grape may grow into your son’s vine!
But souls are
Still famished - by the present.
The animals in us have strayed far
From moderation. We found content
In owning. Abundance overlaps with overmuch.
Just ignore that today’s more can easily get out of touch!
110 111

Winter
Elena Evgenieva
Photograph
Oh Snow
Cameron Pindur
Poetry
Oh snow,
How I love
To watch you fall,
Fluttering
Slowly and softly
To the ground.
Yet at the same time,
I dread that I will have to
Tread through you,
With you biting
At my numb toes,
Like a bird
Pecking at the worms in the ground.
I hope
That you will keep falling,
Yet I pray
That you will stop.
You give me
So much joy,
But you bring me
So much trouble.
112 113

I Know, and I’ll Try!
Radi Skipp
Poetry
Nobody can save me now
I want to save myself but how
I didn’t seize that moment,
And now, everything is torment.
When something comes flying along,
Remember, it won’t stay long…
A young kitten, alone in the dust,
A small dog, lost along the road.
Now I know how it must feel,
To stand in the desert, slowly to kneel.
To pray for forgiveness,
For yet another chance.
I remember, when I was young,
I thought I was invincible,
No one could ever touch me!
No one could ever push me!
Beautiful like a Hawaiian sunset,
For money yes, but for love I have no debt!
If only you knew,
Truly, how much I love you.
But now I realise, “hey I was wrong”!
Bad things happen to everyone,
But at least I can try,
Never to cry,
And remember, life goes on!
I’m not so young any more,
I know I’m not invincible,
But at least I can try to be,
Yes, yes I’ll do it for you!
I feel so alone now,
Like a spring in the desert,
Precious, I want you but how
I should’ve taken that chance,
So now, with you I might dance.
But I’m going to try again now!
114 115

Drought
A.J. Myers
Poetry
Water, you are the lifeblood of our world.
The cruel master in whose hands holds life
and death, our souls are under your control.
All the power in the world is yours, forever.
In the dusty ground we see our future
Our footsteps leave no mark in the dirt,
There is nothing to show we were ever here.
Not a soul is present, never was and never will be.
The parched ground longs for a drink,
It cracks, as if opening up for a taste of water.
But none is coming, and everyone knows.
The slightest glimpse of a cloud offers hope,
Which is soon dashed as the wind clears it away.
The world begins to accept its situation, after all,
What else can it do besides resign to the inevitable
The world begins to die, but it is at peace.
Change comes slowly, but it is better than not at all.
It starts as a mist but ends as a downpour.
The cracks in the ground gradually disappear.
Colors begin to replace the dead, grey dust.
The earth gulps down the gift falling from heaven.
He who holds the power of life and death
has decided to bestow a new life upon the world.
Our souls drink, and our bodies live once more.
There is a curse hanging over all of us,
As if someone enjoys the scene of death,
Of desperate acceptance that is playing out.
What is the point of living, when all is against life
In death is it possible to find life
This thread of hope, so desperatly sought
Is it of substance or simply a mirage
The only truth: nothing is certain.
116 117

A Smile Before Death
Jamie Le Roux
Poetry
The greyed hairs lie still in the last moments of his life.
They mourn for his death, for his absence, for his wife.
As the silence surfaces, the shivering slows,
And a stillness of a dying body slowly, slowly grows.
They ask: “What of the trade, his workers, his gold”
“and the wife, of a future which lacks anything to hold”
“Who’ll attain assets”
“Which son shall succeed”
They concern over the animals he now cannot feed.
But as they wait for their coming day, holding their breath
James lies in bed, with a smile before death
He’s content that his family is with him today.
While the trees rustle gently, and the world peacefully sways.
If he learned anything, surely, it was this:
That the moment which we live in is always the most bliss
For comfort isn’t found in looking ahead
Because to cherish tomorrow, is to cherish the dead.
Church
Kartika Le Roux
Drawing
Older brothers, sisters, nephews, and sons,
Gather, in mourning, for the old passing one.
Bad thoughts plague their minds,
Soon is it my time
One less today, one less tomorrow.
Am I next who the reaper will follow
For this reminds them that life is too short.
And that tomorrow’s another battle to be fought.
After Vessilev Staikon’s landscape of Bankso,
mid 20th century woodcut.
118 119

Beginning of the End
Zoltan Cserfalvi
Poetry
Longing
Peter Neyra
Prose Poem
“Essence of winter sleep is on the night”
– Robert Frost
Day after day
Walking in the cold weather
Leaves on trees, then not -
Temperature decrease
Like water in a glass
Leaving less and less
Finally, white blanket
Descends on the earth
Covering everything it can.
Longing is the world’s first time-traveller. He lives in the
past, and never accepts that the clock is always ticking, and people
are driving ahead. He wears an out-of-date garment, fully
branded with seals and emblems from his past,, symbolizing his
entire life. He would even agree to cut off the new for the old to
come back. His memories are his jewels, but never has he noticed
that they are what is holding him back from the surprises of the
future. He never moves forward, and sometimes he holds back his
close ones along with him, preaching that change is the meanest
of villains.
120 121

Les Vagues
Laure Moscheni
Poetry
The eternal dance between Adam’s ale and terra firma,
Into a never ending circle that has no clear end.
As if to say that there was no escape,
As if to say that one could not escape.
Deep In Thought
Alexandra Mateeva
Drawing
The waves come crashing on the shore,
The deafening noise lost in the storm.
The lightning tearing the sky apart,
Turning the scene into unseen beauty.
To a simple eye only chaos is present,
But to an eye that can look upon the world
as a if looking upon a heart,
That eye will see what is entrapped.
You may believe to be that eye,
But can you say, with honesty, that you know her soul
Her, this predictable being, just like the waves.
Coming and going in an endless cycle,
Always fitting the same mold, without exception.
Yet, at times, she becomes dangerous.
Letting her waves loose in the wind,
Her soul, engulfed in its passion.
Would you let it blow you away
Or would you restrain yourself
Hiding what it means to be you, far from their eyes.
The most treasured possessions buried deep within.
Your soul, far from the prying eyes.
Your soul, unknown by others.
As she expands until the horizon,
And lets everyone see her,
Her treasures lie far within,
Far away from the touch of her waves.
122 123

Snowy Day
Hannah Berg
Short Story
off snow. She was on the phone at the same time, talking to one of her thousand
friends.
“Shoes off!” she commanded without as much as a ‘hello’, before hustling us into
the kitchen. Brian grabbed an orange, then beat it to his room, while I poured a cup
of water, then sat at the table. Mom sat down across from me, then we both looked
out the window; each trying to avoid the other’s eyes.
We got let out of school early that Friday in January. It had started snowing
in the morning, and was steadily building. It almost covered my feet by the time
my classmates and I were dismissed from fourth period.
“Wow! Amamba boo you thee thith” my friend Kate asked as she stuck
out her tongue to catch the flakes. Kate loves snow. Too bad she lived here in Smalltown,
Georgia, where it rarely does more than dust the hills. She moved here from
Alaska, so she’s like a polar bear that’s been shoved onto a desert island; she’s only
truly happy when it’s below 40.
How could I not see the snow White, delicate, and absolutely freezing!
After Kate and I sped through our goodbyes – promising to be online ASAP– I hurried
onto my bus, already shivering.
Brian, my older brother, was already plugged into his painful music, blowing
into his hands but still humming a low song, or something resembling music.
He never talked, only hummed nonsense tunes to himself. Picture a perfect emoslash-stud
with jet black hair, and you have my brother. He used to be my role
model when he was a straight A student, soccer goalie, lead in the school musical,
but then he suddenly got all sulky and let his hair grow out over his eyes as if to
block out the world.
“It’s really snowing isn’t it” She asked. I nodded. Then her phone rang again, and
she left to answer it as usual. I decided it was time to go to my room as well.
Online, it seemed like everyone was posting about snow. I looked out my window,
and it seemed – if possible—to be snowing even more heavily than before. However,
I was completely set for the weekend, already forgetting the homework that
I had.
“Dad’s going to be coming home early; the snow’s really piling up,” Mom called
from downstairs. Neither Brian nor I replied. I knew Brian and I were thinking the
same thing; that means a formal, healthy, silent dinner at the dining room table.
I was still online talking to Kate by the time Dad got home. For a split-second I
debated running down to greet him, like I used to when I was little, before snorting
to myself.
***
I woke up before the sun the next morning expecting to see that I’d dreamed the
snow, but when I looked out the window it was still falling thick and heavy. My
computer bleeped at me, explaining what had woken me. Low battery. I got out of
my warm bed, and plugged it in and turned it on. Then I logged onto my computer.
It was still snowing when the bus dropped us off. The ground was wet
and gushy and freezing cold, yet somehow still beautiful. I could almost see why
You know that moment in movies when the scream starts in the characters throat,
Kate loved it so much. It covered the ugly beat-up car that was parked outside our
then the screen zooms out, until it covers the town, then the country, then Earth,
neighbor’s house. It covered the bare trees and the roofs of the houses. It made
then a bunch of stars Then the camera shows a shot of the character staring at
me feel like I’d been transported to Narnia. I couldn’t help but smile through my
something with a shocked expression That was me, when I saw that I had no internet.
chattering teeth as Brian and I walked up our street. Brian, still tuned out, seemed
Literally (not really but close enough).
oblivious to the beauty around us.
“This is so exciting!” Mom said when they came running into my room, “It’s like
Mom was waiting with a towel at the front door, shuffling around us and brushing
going back to the Middle Ages!”
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I wanted so badly to snap at her; the Middle Ages had no electricity or
running water, yet I bet they still had it better than me. At least they weren’t stuck
in this family of nutcases.
I went for the not-so-innocent daughter blow; “Mom, did you realize that
if it keeps snowing tomorrow you won’t be able to make your book club”
That got her upset; Mom lived for her book club. She was always trying to
get me to read the pro-woman, depressing books that she read (I’m proud to say I
haven’t opened one of them).
I don’t know why I blamed my parents for the internet cut-off; I was just
in a bad mood. I’d already lost the only thing I was looking forward to all weekend.
I was just about fed up with life (otherwise known as staring at my ceiling)
when Dad called me downstairs. He and Mom had a pile of snow clothes on
the floor in the hallway.
“Try these on,” they ordered. They pushed a pair of five year-old-sized
snow pants in my face. Then a pink flowery snow jacket with plenty of pocket
space, but not enough arm space, extra roomy gloves, and a pair of ski boots. None
of these things fit well, and I didn’t even know where the ski boots came from!
I wanted the hole that I was digging to China to be bigger than his. The five-yearold-me
knew I could outdo him then, but the rather more mature me knew now
that I probably couldn’t.
After another half-hour of shoulder-aching, back-paining work, I walked
over to Brian.
“Are you ever going to stop”
He just nodded at me.
“Well, I’m done. Bye. Want hot chocolate”
He nodded again, so I started to walk inside. As I was shutting the door
on the recently shoveled world; I saw Brian stick out his tongue and catch a
snowflake on it.
I don’t know why but the image of my moody, depressed brother catching
that snowflake stuck with me all day. I thought of him instead of zoning out
online like I would usually do. I had trapped myself back in my room, lying flat on
my back to rest. I was playing solitaire for the hundredth time on my internet-less
computer. I really don’t understand how people can live like this, at home all day
with their family. I had no distractions except for my sore muscles, and stupid
computer games.
“The snow is really deep; we need you and Brian to go shovel it,” Dad explained.
Great I groaned to myself. “Where’s Brian” I asked, just as he waltzed
around the corner wearing perfectly fitting snow gear. Perfect.
hear.
“This is child abuse…” I grumbled below my breath, but my parents didn’t
By noon, I felt like all I’d been doing my entire life was shovel. I shoveled
the front steps, and I shoveled the driveway. I even shoveled the road. Brian was
the only reason I didn’t give up. He just kept shoveling, showing no sign of exhaustion,
or annoyance. I was going to outdo him on this!
We never take family trips like this anymore, but for some reason this
shoveling reminded me of the time we drove to the seaside so many summers ago.
After the call for dinner, Brian and I met on the steps. One look at him,
and I could tell he was as fed up as I was. We needed to do something, because
another day of being stuck at home with the parents was going to kill us both. I
decided to bring it up.
Mom was chatting away with dad about so-and-so is writing a book
about such and such topic, nothing interesting, when I brought it up.
“Why don’t we ever do anything”
No one answered, although my question had gotten my parent’s attention.
Brian kept shoveling rice into his mouth.
“Like, as a family. I mean, even Kate’s parents who are divorced are able to do stuff
as a family.”
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“We do stuff!” my mom said.
“Like what Talk about your book club or your obsession with cooking
Brian and I don’t care about that. When’s the last time you guys even asked me how
I’ve been doing at school”
I could see dad’s knuckles whitening, “How’ve you been doing in school”
He asked slowly. “That’s not the point!” I spluttered. I looked at Brian for support,
but he looked almost embarrassed “Then what is the point you’re trying to make
here” Dad’s voice was louder now.
“My point is that you have kids, and maybe you should make the effort to
know them. Remember how we all used to go to the seaside together When’s the
last time we’ve done anything as a family” “Well, you know we’ve been really…”
Mom started with her excuses but then the most amazing thing happened. “Mom,”
Brian interrupted, “no more excuses. Amanda’s right, we never talk to each other
as a family, and whenever we try to talk to you, you’re on the phone, or won’t listen.”
“Now,” Dad interrupted, trying to calm Brian down.
“I’m not done!” Brian banged his fist on the table, “Dad you’re never home,
and whenever you are we aren’t happy about it! Don’t you think we should try to
act like a family again” Brian pushed out his chair and walked out of the room,
while we all stared after him with our mouths hanging open. I think Mom might
have actually dropped some food out of her mouth. That was as many words as
Brian has said in the last year put together.Mom was about to burst into hysterical
tears, but she rushed out of the room. Just Dad and I were left, but then he swept
out of the room after Mom.
“I know, but what should we do about it” I asked. “We’re going sledding
today,” Dad said, “the snow stopped, and it looks deep but it’s walk-able.”
“And Brian” Just then Brian walked in smiling. (So that’s what he
looked like when he smiled!). It was getting crowded in my room.
“It was my idea,” he told me.
So we all went sledding. It was cheesy, and the snow wasn’t great
because it was too deep. It was absolutely freezing cold and snow got all in
my clothes and I might have to stay home on Monday with the flu, but it was
worth it. Mom and Dad laughed together for the first time in ages. Brian and
I laughed at them and at ourselves when we went toppling off of our sleds.
That’s the exact moment I want to remember my family by from now on. We
weren’t always comfortable, and we certainly weren’t perfect, but we were
together, and we were happy. Just like a snowy day.
I banished myself to my room for the night, and spent a while watching
the snow. It was slowing noticeably. I read a little from an old book, surprisingly
enjoying it, and then fell asleep. I was really getting into the book the next morning
when someone knocked on my door, and Mom pulled her body around the door.
“Hey,” I nodded as Dad followed her around.
“Honey, we are really sorry about all this.” I took the Brian approach and
stayed silent, “I know we haven’t been acting like a great family lately. We’ll try to
work on in. we’re not a perfect family anyways, but we could all try a bit harder,
even you. I’m just being honest here.” I actually admired her for that.
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Earthquakes
Anna Neydenova
Poetry
Binka Vazova’s Self-portrait
Samuil Sarandev
Drawing
When mother Earth is angry,
She shakes the world ‘round.
Sometimes she shakes so hard,
The buildings tumble down.
And people in their beds,
Don’t know,
What has happened.
Just,
When they fall,
They seem to
Understand.
Even though, they don’t.
They.
They’re impulsive,
Don’t forgive,
Don’t try,
Don’t listen.
Like our mother Earth does.
They Rage
They Scream
They Shout
So mother Earth,
Hear my prayer.
Please,
Don’t shake the world down.
After Binka’s self-portrait, mid 19th century woodcut.
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Masquerade
Annette van Aalst
Poetry
The world is a masquerade
An eternal ball where masked souls dance
To the music played by our facades
Reflecting our futile search for apotheosis.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror
All I see is a mask, revealing nothing but crimson eyes
The masked souls condemned to dancing for all eternity
While the body obeys blindly, gliding to a waltz.
Masks in all manners hiding out true countenance
Glittering gold or gleaming silver
Beaded with crystals, diamonds or pearls
In colors so strange you can no longer remember their name
Maybe it is a dream, maybe nothing else is real
The sound of rustling gowns
Dancing in circles in repeating patterns,
All attention drawn to the exquisite disguises.
Somehow, the strings of my mask loosen
And I rip the veil off, releasing myself from this endless torture
My partner’s hand slips from my fingers
And I run away from this masked ball
When the sun rises and offers its protection
I bathe in its lucidity and enjoy the rich scents of spring
My masquerade has ended, a closed chapter in the book of my life
But at night, I await its return.
Apater, you have enchanted us all with your deceit
Trapping our bodies in this room with no end
Sealing our souls into these masks
How will we ever find our way back
The past seems so distant
A sequence of fragile memories of better times
Filled with opaque recollections
Of dancing under the protection of the sun, wearing no mask.
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The Editorial Staff
By Marie van Aalst
Editor in Chief: Laure Moscheni
Senior Editors: Hanna Halmari, A. J. Myers
Junior Editors: Claire Freij, Hannah Godding,
Hannah Berg, Kendra Reiter,
Evgeny Orman
Advisor: Pamela McCarty
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