HAYWIRE Issue 10 Fall 2017

CONTENTS 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE 

by Lucy Defty, 11a 

VIGNETTES 

Grass by Paul Friedrich, 12a 

Road-Movies by Eli Goodman, 11a 

Inertia by Lucy Defty, 11a 

An Uncommon Collection of Thoughts by Riva Greinke, 11d 

POEMS 

Looking Glass by Marie Bohl, 11a 

Well by Marie Bohl, 11a 

Long Gone Anonymous by Marie Bohl, 11a 

In the Distant Distance by Marie Bohl, 11a 

Tired Eyes by Ailie Gieseler, 11a 

The Mikado by James Gromis, 9c 

Untitled Poetry by James Gromis, 9c 

ESSAYS 

“FAKE NEWS” 

by Ailie Gieseler, 11a 

SHORT STORIES 

“EXPEDITION LEADER’S LOG” 

by Paul Friedrich, 12a 

“SALEMTOWN” 

by Zahavah Zinn-Kirchner, 12a 

MASTHEAD

Publisher’s Note 

HAYWIRE Issue 10 Fall 2017 

darker, the weather becomes exponentially 


“You may not control everything that happens to you, 

but you can decide not to be reduced by it.” 

-Maya Angelou 

There are so many things in our color palette of our magazine is a visual 

lives that we cannot control; Berlin grows representation of this duality. We are expressing 

a desire for simplicity and minimalism. 

During winter, 

worse, and stress accumulates, 

no matter how 

hard we work against it. 

Even as editor, I have 

very little control over 

how this magazine turns 

out. People make art 

that reflects how they 

haywire |ˈhāˌwīr| 

adjective informal 

erratic; out of control : 

her imagination went haywire. 

ORIGIN early 20th 

century (originally U.S.): 

from HAY + WIRE, from the 

use of hay-baling wire in 

makeshift repairs. 

the season of comfort 

and warmth, we often 

find ourselves rushing 

around buying presents, 

writing thank you 

cards, and attending 

the 110th holiday party. 

feel, they submit it to us, and we curate 

it. In this way, Haywire is a direct representation 

of opinion and one can learn 

a lot by simply looking at it. That is the 

beauty of the magazine; it shapes itself. 

2017 has been a year of opposites 

and opposition; Abitur v. diploma, democrats 

v. republicans, black v. white. The 

Seldom do we stop, take a breath, and enjoy 

the smell of Glühwein and gebrannte Mandeln 

in the air. Stress is a growing issue not 

only in schools and the workplace, but leaks 

into our daily lives as well. Art provides a 

much needed escape in times of distress 

So while you read this magazine, I hope 

you sit down, unwind, and take a breath. 

3


Grass 


Carriages uselessly heavy, dead wiring think yourselves those higher entities. It was you, 

contained within, a relic of a time gone by that at least your people that made those stories stories 

leaves only the aftertaste of an enigma. That’s all by doing something as simple as splitting an atom. 

my thoughts could produce when contemplating The grass is always greener on the other 

what I now know to be the ruin of an early car. side -- or less radiated, as would be more befitting 

I’ve learned about many things ever since I crossed the situation, I can’t quite remember -- the elders of 

the sea on a trawler, hidden between rotting barrels 

reeking of fish and dry, wooden crates that tor- 

the meaning of that: grass. I felt the dew-wetted, 

my tribe told me. On this side of the sea I learned 

mented me with splinters and contained biscuits. ductile blades you have known from your earliest 

I know your fascination with it and honestly, 

it bores me, yet I will indulge you yet again. seem very strange to you, children, unimaginable 

days for the first time at age twenty-two. That must 

Yes. The people on the other side, my people, live even. But it might just serve to demonstrate to you 

in tribes. Hunting the mutated remnants of animal the injustice done to me when the ancestors of the 

life, gathering berries, roots, scavenging the crumbling 

monuments to our past for any artifact that missiles onto mine. And over all those years since 

men this side of the sea fired thousands of nuclear 

may still be of use. And always the hunger for the it was not that they forced us to live like cavemen 

stories the eldest among us knew from their mothers 

and and fathers and those before them. They by two decades, or even that they killed billions 

again, nor the radiation that shortened our lifespans 

told of a time when we lived in castles, ate food that that one cataclysmic day half a millennium ago that 

came to us, rode horseless wagons and drank water 

without dysentery. They told me that the people simple fact that they took away the solace of wit- 

makes me hate them most, no, it was the grass. The 

across the sea still lived that way. That we had been nessing these blades of green hope rise again from 

punished for our sins by a higher entity, the exact the dry, rotting carcasses of their snow-smothered 

nature of which each self-proclaimed bard fabricated 

between their dentureless, old, fuzzy jaws, were committed on them last year. Human exis- 

brethren every spring regardless of what atrocities 

wrinkled and spotted and drooling as they talked. tence can be meaningless, our progress void and 

The older a member of the tribe got the our race extinct, yet the grass will always grow 

less they believed the stories, leaving such amusements 

to the young. To tell the truth, however, there is no grass. And for that I thank your fathers. 

back. So it seems to you. Yet where I come from, 

they never really got very old anyways, so it never 

lasted long before they gracelessly exited this myself with the oblivious fortitude of nature in the 

I thank your fathers for my inability to comfort 

life amid their own blood and excrements. I’m face of the realization that there is no higher entity, 

sure your education taught you what radiation no justice, no meaning. Because if there was, the 

does to the human body. Just as they taught you world would not have taken the turn it did just because 

some men had nukes and the others didn’t. 

your stories. The tales of the wildlings across the 

sea, the inferior, backwards barbarians. You must 

-fin- 

4


Art by Riva Greinke, 11d 

5


Road-Movies 

by Eli Goodman, 11a 

When I got onto the train today, two 

girls were ahead of me, who looked at the 

available seats and then just decided to stand. 

There was a section of four seats only occupied 

by one ruggedly dressed man in need of 

a shave. I decided to sit down, because I had 

a book I wanted to read. It’s strange because 

you can’t see smells. I didn’t really smell him 

for a while, because my hair hangs in my face 

a lot, so usually all I smell is myself. But at 

some point I got my hair out of my face a little 

bit, and then I smelled him. Before I had 

selected my seat he didn’t look too bad, just 

looked like a man, but to be honest those girls 

who decided not to sit by him had good reason. 

I mean, it’s kinda fucked up that women 

everywhere don’t trust men instinctively 

on sight, but that doesn’t mean the solution 

is forcing them to act like they’re not scared. 

Anyway, my penis-having body just sat there 

debating his smell. It wasn’t quite cigarettes 

and it wasn’t quite just generic poverty, but 

it was definitely an interesting smell that kept 

half of my mind occupied, the half that wasn’t 

already occupied by the book. I was reading 

some Vonnegut, and that always helps me 

think in a way that satisfies my mind. Well 

Vonnegut didn’t really introduce me to that 

feeling though, it was the Hitchhiker’s Guide 

To the Galaxy that helped me start to think like 

this, I forget who wrote that. My mind feels at 

ease when I can think of the whole universe at 

6


Photos by Finnegan 

Wagner, 11d 

once. When instead of having to see earth as 

the most important, I can just see it all, it’s like 

climbing up a mental mountain and looking at the 

scenery below. At this point I’ve probably set up 

a tent on that mountain. That’s usually where I 

sit when I’m sitting on trains, or sitting in chairs 

waiting. They’re both the same though aren’t 

they? Trains and chairs. A train is just a device 

that gets you from point A to point B, and while 

that happens your mind can wander. And when 

you sit down and wait you’re getting from time A 

to time B and letting your mind wander while that 

happens. Every moment that you spend not thinking 

about something specific you’re in a liminal 

space. That’s the road-movie of life, you just 

travel on the open road from second to second, 

always starting at birth and getting to the end: 

death. All the shit you do on the way is what the 

road-movie’s gonna be about, but a road-movie 

where you forget to sit down and let the road take 

you to the next destination isn’t a road-movie at 

all, that’s just too much action. Road-movies are 

about freedom though, or at least that was the 

symbolism behind them originally, you go on an 

adventure to get to the destination which finally 

unlocks freedom. That’s what death is, that’s why 

death is at the end, because we all die, it doesn’t 

matter if you spend your life on trains traveling 

through space and/or time, it doesn’t matter if 

your whole life is spent on the road, it doesn’t 

matter if you spend your whole life not on any 

sort of mental road, we all get to the destination. 

We all die. Five minutes before you die would 

you care about anything? What about the day before 

that? What about right now? We’re all heading 

there, we’re all free to get there how we want. 

He made my train ride better, and it was nice to 

have him there. What more could I ask of him. 

The smelly man really helped me out, for the whole 

train ride I was able to read without anyone ever wanting 

to join us. I wonder what his road-movie would 

look like, I guess a lot of it would be sitting on trains 

and street corners, just cruising through life. Maybe he 

hasn’t achieved anything important in his whole life. 

7


L 

O 

O 

K 

I 

N 

G 

G 

L 

A 

S 

S 

The past has passed 

And become future 

The game has changed 

Why did you ever think it would stay the same 

you choose a winner 

after all you lost 

I hope you pick a sinner 

at least they know the cost 

The price is high 

Be sure to pay it 

You never know 

You might even obey it 

your smile is the asking price 

are you sure 

you want to roll those dice 

I never came to stop you 

I came to watch you fall 

didn’t you know I was the sinner 

B 

Y 

M 

A 

R 

I 

E 

B 

O 

H 

L 

8 

Art by Ella 

Jackson, 9c

An Uncommon Collection 

of Thoughts 

by Riva Greinke, 11a 

I want to exist in my truest form. 

A haphazardly taped together configuration 

of opinions, emotions and actions. 

And yet when I look at my reflection I force 

myself into a blueprint already handed to me. 


I fall into the shattered looking glass and 

envelop myself in the flawed concepts of 

human existence in order to fit into this 

outline. 

I don’t want to be defined 

by the ideas of another. 

It prohibits room for growth. 

It would be best to be 

an uncommon collection of thoughts. 

Girls 


I want to tell all girls that self worth is not a size, 

Or the width of the gap that lies between your thighs. 

It isn't hair that grows from legs like grass 

Or developmental scars on your legs and ass, 

Not wrinkles, or cellulite could ever detract 

Or make you less of a woman. 

Beauty isn't measured through numbers on a scale, 

Or by the symmetry of your face 

Not impacted by sex, religion or race. 

I feel like everything that's beauty in one, 

But through one word all that feeling is gone. 

So I want to tell all girls that self love is not an option. 

In a world where mothers call daughters fat 

And a girl gets bullied because her chest is flat. 

Art by Ariane 

Schmidt, 11a 

9


Well 

by Marie Bohl, 11a 

My sunshine, you must be a dreamer 

why else would you fly so high 

when it rains 

I wonder 

About you in the sky 

When it’s dark 

I need to know 

I must 

Does this lack of light belong to you or us? 

Lightning is your passion 

Fire is your love 

What is it like up above 

I’m curious 

Do you see me 

Do you know me anymore 

Or am I just a shadow 

Who stopped knocking on your door? 

10 

Photo by Gwendolyn 

Campbell, 9a

the flowers fall 

and then bloom late spring 

the leaves grow 

and then wither again 

the earth rains 

and the sky erupts 

the wind carries 

forget-me-nots 

Long Gone Anonymous 

by Marie Bohl, 11a 


a promise rots 

under the sun 

an undertaking 

long forlorn 

Drawing by 

Artist 

a lie buried 

since I was young 

overgrown with grass 

alone too long 

a rose champion 

lychnis coronaria 

living in the grampian 

128 miles away a scorpion 

caving in conspiracies 

empty rooms 

and vacancies 

just where my life should be 

cryptopine delirium 

dreams of mine 

quite wearisome 

I just want to go home again 

So 

Simply Put 

Time Was Against Me 

I Was Simply Too Jaded 

Simply Too Tired 

In Need Of Rest 

Art by Ella Jackson, 9c 

My Most Sincere Apologies 

To You 

11


The Mikado 

I. 

Non-wilted cherry 

Blossoms upon the concrete 

Marked by gasoline 

II. 

Old stars drawn from ink 

Simplistic glory in calm 

Meditative strokes 

III. 

The moon speaks kanji 

To the cornfields that answer 

Its melodic call 

IV. 

From the village shrine 

To where Fuji meets the sun 

There’s tranquility 

V. 

Faces in the tea 

From steam rise prophetically 

Touch liquid surface 

VI. 

The ceramic pyre 

From the cups set aside 

By the tall green trees 

Poetry by 

James Gromis, 9c 

Untitled 

What stubborn 

Deference 

Must be conjured 

From an aching mind 

To heal the 

Wounds from the 

Past to let be 

The scabs of the 

Present and to 

Feel the juvenile 

Skin patches of 

The future 

Untitled 

The bar is too cold 

The club is too cold 

The alcohol is too cold 

The damn world is too cold 

Screams the hot headed 

Skinhead lantern hiking 

With Jack Daniels 

The hall is too hot 

The club is too hot 

The hippie bags are too hot 

Screams the cool headed 

Angelic bouncer 

Drawing symbols in coke 

Untitled 

Like a cornucopia 

Of fruit 

Dost the mind 

Spill rich, seedy 

Thought quelling 

Of lyrical juice. 

Exotic reds 

Citric yellows 

Filling conscience 

Beyond the brim 

Of comprehensibility 

12 

Photo by Henri Jackson, 11a

Tired Eyess 



There you are again, tired bloodshot eyes 

Dark, angry circles dragging at your lashes 

Then again, what i see is no surprise 

Don’t all of us burn ourselves to ashes? 

For that chance, that mere chance of 

The dazzling life of a dying, falling star 

We set hungry visions, sharp as a knife 

Golden stars, representing all we are 

Don’t cry with that surgical knife-like eye 

It’s made for medical precision and 

Or is that really all that is at hand? 

We’re more than stars on a fiifteen point scale 

So live that crying life, ‘fore it goes stale 

Photo by Ailie Gieseler, 11a 

13


14 

Photo by Ailie Gieseler, 11a

In the Distant Distance 

by MarIe Bohl, 11a 

A raindrop dropped 

On my windowsill 

And had nowhere to go 

A tip-top tip tapped 

On my shoulder 

And had nothing to say 


My thoughts danced 

On the balcony 

And paid themselves no penalty 

A stone itself 

Lied to me 

And left me in the dark 

A grave graveyard gave 

to me 

a question left unanswered 

The petals of a lily stargazer 

Left alone in pristine rain 

Asked me how to be 

Art by Kater Becker, 12d 

15


The smell of wet paint hangs in every 

room like fog, filling my nostrils 

and mind. 

My brain registers a dull pain 

behind my eyes when 

looking at these empty 

walls, 

This door frame 

used to have 

Inertia 

by Lucy Defty 

paintings taken down, 

boxed up, 

sent away. 

pencil lines 

marking where 

he grew 

I push my 

thumb into 

the 

The floors shiver, 

naked 

wet paint satisfied when my 

thumbprint remains and 

my finger comes away 

wet 

now that 

and white 

sticky. 

and 

their colourful carpets and 

cushions are gone. 

of the room surprises me, 

now that it is empty and 

devoid of lif, too big yet 

devoid of life 

The vastness 

suffocating. 

with two cut-out holes over 

their head, waiting 

Can I paint over, box up, ship 

away the memories I made here? 

They stand in a corner 

a white sheet 

Art by Gwendolyn Campbell, 9a 

for me to get in my car. 

16

Expedition Leader’s Log 

Today marks the third anniversary of 

our arrival here at Sol III. So far, I have established 

several observations pertaining to species 

X. Before excitement overtakes you, let 

me assure you I could not be any more disappointed. 

Probability states at least one of these 

primitive creatures would differ even slightly 

from the others. Probability has failed us. 

These beings all appear uniform, act 

Photo by Anonymous 

Stardate 2017.245 


alike, and ultimately, die vapidly, leaving nothing 

but the echo of a nonsensical whisper. The 

word “individual” means nothing. They enter 

this world as wrinkled pink sources of clamor 

lacking any control over their bladder, then are 

herded into learning facilities like cattle. Here, 

mature members of their species prime them to 

believe each one of them is special and unlike 

any other, only to inscribe the exact same knowledge 

into all of their brains. I feel tempted at 

times to toss one of their young an animal treat. 

Once the young have transcended the educational 

conveyer-belt bottler, they enter some sort of 

profession where they receive thin paper-rectangles 

for their toils, reminiscent of how we 

might reward a pet. Most then trade these slices 

of dead tree for essentials they require for living, 

such as consumables or body-packaging, as 

to prevent their starvation or freezing to death. 

What follows initially puzzled me, but I 

now ascribe it to this species’ primitive nature. 

“Individuals” reaffirm their existence through 

purchase of essentials to increase their stockpile 

of what I now know to be “money”. In essence, 

the ultimate intent of their toils is to survive, 

which in turn serves to ensure the continuation 

of their labor. Species X lives trapped inside an 

endless masochistic cycle of meaninglessness, 

where unsavory activities derive justification 

from their necessity in continuing said occupation. 

It seems ordinary here to suffer through 

work in order to live and live in order to suffer 

through work. This mundane rhythm continues 

throughout their lives until at some point, they 

inevitably die. Most leave nothing meaningful 

behind, slowly disintegrating to dust along with 

their potential to create anything consequential. 

Instead, these self proclaimed “sentient” 

beings channel their entire brief lives towards 

purely ensuring their existence. I would find it 

quite amusing were we not as a species condemned 

to eternal universal solitude in the 

face of the insignificance of these “humans”. 

17 

HAYWIRE Issue 10 Fall 2017


people 

18 

Photos by Marco Gomez, 11d

people 


19


“Fake news has always 

been around – from American 

independence leaders 

publishing stories of British 

troops massacring peaceful 

citizens to the New York 

Sun claiming to have discovered 

a civilisation on the 

moon in 1835”(Armstrong). 

The struggle to find candor 

amidst barrages of propaganda 

could be said to be 

an inherent fight in any democracy, 

or even any civilization. 

However, the precipitous 

drop that occurred in 

media control with the popularization 

of online news 

sources reduced the amount 

of hurdles someone would 

Fake News 

In Politics 


have to mount in order to 

publish a seemingly credible 

piece of information, 

and hailed the rise of pseudo 

scientific studies and untrustworthy 

websites. The 

time pressure that journalists 

face in an era so used to 

instant updates has also created 

unique journalistic phenomena, 

like for example 

‘cyclical journalism’. This 

occurs when a media outlet 

will bring out an article, then 

another source will write an 

article on the same event, 

enabling the author of the 

original work to cite it as the 

source of said information. 

This makes the simple act of 

‘fact checking’ far more difficult, 

and its effects are seen 

in people’s online activity. 

However not only the 

simple existence of untrue 

information harms the political 

sphere. Propagating a 

widespread rhetoric of fake 

news destabilizes the belief 

in the mainstream media 

outlets and allows partisan 

inclinations to rule an 

individual’s vote. “Gallup 

polls reveal a continuing 

decline of ‘trust and confidence’ 

in the mass media 

‘when it comes to reporting 

the news fully, accurately, 

and fairly’” (Alcott 

& Gentzkow, Journal of 

Photos by Finnegan Wagner, 11d 

20

Economic Perspectives). 

The deterioration of trust occurred 

particularly amongst 

Republicans in 2016 as a 

possible effect of the republicans’ 

presidential candidate, 

Donald J. Trump, 

thematizing his distrust in 

mainstream media repeatedly. 

This, along with the oversaturation 

of information 

from various media platforms 

lead to filter bubbles 

in which an individual can 

pick and choose 

the tidbits of information 

which he 

or she is partial to. 

Especially the bipartisan 

party system 

established in 

the United States 

can lead to the alluring 

nature of 

believing this rhetoric, 

and discounting any 

news outlets that criticize 

a persons beliefs. 

Confirmation bias and 

a lack of fact-checking then 

leads the recipients of both 

fake and valid news to only 

brand the articles in their favour 

as credible. In a political 

system where two parties 

present a very polarized and 

emotional pair of values this 

subconscious phenomenon 

occurs even more frequently, 

since the notion of accepting 

information in the favour of 

opposition puts most people 

in a quite vulnerable and uncomfortable 

position. Adding 

another element of doubt 

in certain media outlets, and 

suffusing the market with 

fake news in a certain party’s 

favour then suddenly 

becomes a quite plausible 

strategy, since most individuals 

will lack the critical 

motivation to check whether 

the information they have 

consumed includes a trace 

of authenticity. Instead they 

Photo by Finnegan Wagner, 11d 

allow themselves to dismiss 

or believe something on the 

basis of whether it applauds 

their already set morals. Professor 

Patrick Leman, executive 

dean at the Institute of 

Psychiatry, Psychology & 

Neuroscience explains this 

quite cohesively. “People 

are always looking for information 

that confirms their 

beliefs, in the short term, 

fake news can even help 

with self-esteem. But it’s a 

quick fix - the more you do 

it, the more you need it and 

the more you move away 

from reality.” In any situation 

the realization of logical 

flaws in one’s conviction 

subverts the own ego, and 

so the notion labeling anything 

else as false presents a 

uniquely seductive opportunity. 

However this behaviour 

provokes fatal consequences 

when it leads people to 

support political ideologies 

that do not benefit them. 

This art of manipulation 

changes the media 

landscape and 

maneuvers it into 

a position politicians 

can benefit 

from. It corrodes 

the credence attributed 

to the 

more reliable and 

established media 

outlets by allowing 

people to 

choose the most comforting 

message while dismissing 

all else as fake news, which 

can be almost even more 

dangerous than the simple 

naivety of believing a false 

story. It can also lead to a 

certain parties’ or individuals’ 

image being heavily 

distorted. Overall the anomaly 

of fraudulent reporting 

destabilizes a political system 

by causing an increase 

in disbelief and paranoia, 

and enabling people to act 

on their inherent biases and 

feelings instead of logic. 

21 



22 

Salemtown 

by Zahavah Zinn-Kirchner, 12a 

Art by Kater Becker, 12d 

I have taken it under the wings of my authorial 

duty to recount this tale in a manner so phantasmagoric 

that even the most 

valiant of men will shrink 

at its besom emoluments. 

The fabric of this chronicle 

is wound as tightly 

around my heartstrings as 

would a snake be, around 

its charmer’s staff. Its arrival 

within my plateaued 

and weathered cerebrum 

was deemed the most sensational 

cause of the time. 

The townspeople flocked 

from yay and hither to 

hear a sermon so ethereally 

spoken that the angels 

who, with their goldstrung 

lutes, hated the sin 

and loved the sinner. Thus 

I now venture into the unknown 

seeking redemption 

from above. It seems 

a humble price to pay for the for all the ignominy 

I have yet beared. Though my innermost sight 

may be reprimanded for the telling of this tale without 

debarring fallacies, I believe it to be sensible 

to begin with a few bon-mots on my late mother. 

A woman of noble French birth, Amélie 

Durante travelled across vast seas to find a secret 

that she, kept hidden from me all my life, wished 

to bury in the churchyard of an insignificant town 

in the New World. She kept her modest truths under 

lock and key, and were it not for a particularly 

loquacious drunken personage, I might never have 

known of them. She spent her youth in northern 

France, the daughter of an archbishop with a great 

love for everything unhallowed - wine, women, and 

fishing. After his untimely death, my mother was 

sent to live with her relatives in the British Isles, 

which presented a dull landscape when compared 

to the lush pastures with which her young persona 

had acquainted itself. When she had attained sixteen 

years of age, she made it her highest priority to 

refuse conformity. She rid herself of her matrilineal 

accent and was no longer 

franco- nor anglophile. Every 

month, upon the day of 

the full moon, would she 

venture out into the thicket 

behind the weathered 

cottage of her obsequious 

grandmama and grandpapa. 

Yes, one could imagine 

them now. My own progenitors 

with storied pasts and 

worn eyes,—walking but 

upright enough so as not to 

indicate a kind of submissive 

respect to those meek 

souls that tried to pry inside 

their modest quarters. 

In old age, my mother 

was the reflection of most 

profound sorrows; emaciated, 

with unruly tufts of 

vermilion; long, bony fingers 

that clawed at aching flesh. She was not beautiful 

- she never had been, but for her pearly eyes, 

that now hang out of sunken sockets. Amélie waged 

wars against her own pneuma, leaving marks not on 

the skin, but on vast expanse of her buffeting heart. 

It came as a surprise to all, when a sprightly lad appeared 

round the maypole one fine spring day, and 

took that selfsame heart for safekeeping. He was of 

a strange ilk. Small, with pointed ears and of keen 

perception. My mother felt protected in his company, 

and when they cast their vows on their wedding 

day, there was no discordance among the heavens. 

Shortly after, they begot a son. He was small, 

like the husband, yet with lungs powerful as those 

of mythical dragons. He did, without question harbor 

traits of an occult warrior. His father taught him 

the values which had, likewise, been instilled upon 

him at a young age - a reverence for G-d, a respect 

for manual labor, and wariness of the supernatural 

realm, which my mother, in contrast, was so very

fond of. She adored the ancient plants that snaked 

their way through the mind and made two sworn 

enemies fall at one another’s feet, begging for forgiveness. 

She kept their tendrils hanging from the 

ceiling. To ward off ghosts, she claimed. Her little 

son could not comprehend the meaning of her fireside 

chanting, and to this day, I have refused to see 

its propagation. The Lord himself sets precedents 

that ought not to be tampered with, and dappling in 

the world of magic, it may often become difficult for 

anyone earthly candidate to see it being disseminated. 

It may be seen as detrimental for the essence of a 

town to be concerned with a cause albeit sanctioned. 

One must admit that at a time so exigent, 

it is imperative to bethink oneself with 

what remains of the past; one must hold fast to 

the glimmers of promise and passion that might 

once have guided a hand now so rheumatic. 

* 

In late April of 1797, I arrived on the 

doorstep of a forlorn pub in the centre of an undignified 

conurbation that had the audacity to call 

itself a town. Men of lost strains milled around 

its oak doors, fumbling towards me with pitchers; 

most with scruffy faces and wheezy breath 

that reeked of Dutch courage. The bartender sat 

on a rickety stool - his head drooping slightly under 

the weight of thick brown locks and whatever 

dark thoughts might dwell upon his mind on long 

winter nights,—a wife who no longer loved him, 

a daughter who resembled more the town beggar 

than his own sallow face, and his inability to remain 

sober for longer than a fortnight. He dreaded 

confrontation, as did I,—which is perhaps why he 

payed me no attention, as I wound my way around 

the high table and seated myself in a dark booth 

that was musky and smelled of cigars and apples 

gone sour. There was a man asleep across from me 

smoke still pouring out of his mouth from a halfburnt 

gasper. He started when I set my beer down 

on the stained wood and removed my hooded veil. 

“Blime. I think I’ve gone mad. Those 

eyes - those are Amélie’s.” He moved his hand 

through matted hair and rubbed bloodshot eyes. 

I shifted uncomfortably. One often feels 

that time stands still in moments like these, 

though falter it does not. Nor does it remain stoic 

like a raven atop a stone hill. It rushes in gasps 

and tears open chasms yet in those two ticks 

I felt utterly vulnerable, so far removed from 

the air of masculinity that I usually conjure up 

around myself, as my late father had taught me. 

The man stared,—the long thumbs met at 

his temples and though his speech was slurred, 

he continued with as much linguistic precision as 

one might warrant from a university professor. 

“I assume you’ve returned to collect the 

contract. It is no longer in my possession. I suggest 

you turn to Master Gibbins, though I cannot promise 

you’ll be satisfied. He’s picky.” I leaned in, intrigued. 

“What is this contract you speak of?” I 

asked. 

Art by Ailie Gieseler, 11a 

“That is why thou art here, is it not? It’s the 

only matter anyone ever cares to discuss with me - 

after Amélie’s passing.” 

“What meanest thou?” I inquired. “Is she 

not among the living yet?” 

The man looked up disbelievingly. He 

gave a terse laugh. “What nonsense letst thou 

slip from between thine lips? Why else wouldst 

thou be here? No one visits this sad outcropping; 

a freak of nature. Its life died with your 

mother.” He regarded me as one might expect 

a bishop to look at a particularly lazy altar boy. 

“Your mother buried the chest hither. After 

your father left. She was tired of his incessant criticisms. 

She deserved someone much better, of course. 

She was a pure being devoid of all earthly passions 

and desires,—of a tough brand that one finds not in 

the modern day.” He sighed and removed a small 

paring knife from the front of a strange pouch-like 

contraption that hung around his neck and down onto 

the table. He scraped a thick layer of dirt from beneath 

mildewy fingernails and ran his finger over the 

blade, crushing the muck between calloused digits. 

“Thou hast known my father?” 

23 



24 

“Aye,—the selfsame. He used to visit, sometimes. 

Alas, many years have since passed and my 

head is no longer quite so sturdily perched atop my 

spine. Yet his visage has made quite the impression in 

the deep abyss of my wit. He was a liar and a fool—“ 

“How darest thou accuse my father 

of these things when thou hast hardly 

known him?” I demanded, outraged. 

“Ah young man, I hath known him for many 

a winter before thou wast conceived. Doubt not my 

intellect and keenness of perception. He claimed to be 

a doctor and yet slunk his way into offices he sought 

to do no good to.” 

“What meanest thou?” 

“Thy father was not of noble birth nor a 

particularly eloquent speaker. He spent his days 

in waiting,—lurking behind closed doors. He was 

a fraud. He sought to acquire the ways of those 

learned in the arts and humanities, though his temperament 

and restless hands kept him away one 

night too long. Your mother decided that she simply 

would not tolerate his insomnolent self any longer 

and cast him away. His mistress along with him.” 

I regarded him skeptically, though a 

cobra curled its way from my gut up toward 

my heart. “And what knowest thou of my 

grandparents? If thou art so well informed?” 

“I cannot pretend that I am an expert in the 

history of your family,—in fact, far from it. Especially 

on the subject of your grandparents. Your grandfather 

died early and no one ever knew of his spouse. 

Your mother often told me of how she would find 

him laying in bed with a stranger, both in a drunken 

stupor, no less. Much like your father.” He smirked. 

“I refuse to believe this nonsense. Thou 

art a strange man in a strange place that my parents 

might once have called home. This gives you no 

right, however, to assume the role of storyteller.” 

“If not I, who then? I knew your mother 

better than anyone. Better than your own father, 

even.” The man watched as a fly drowned in my 

beer; he looked amused. 

I coughed, impatiently. “Now what 

is this contract that thou hast spoken of? 

And what of that mysterious treasure chest?” 

“Ah, yes. The contract your mother signed 

with him. The devil himself. She promised to walk 

the winding roads of the underworld forever, if 

thou beest absolved from your terrible personality.” 

I blinked. He chuckled. “Thou dost not appreciate 

my wit. Just like thy mother. Alas, she must 

eternally suffer for the sins committed by us all. The 

Art by Ella Jackson, 9c 

chest contains her heart. It beats in a wooden trunk 

buried in the woods beyond this very alehouse.” 

“Thou art lying. What kind of a fantastical 

fairytale is this?” 

“Ha! But how I wish I were. I once encountered 

her there - on a gloomy night in late 

November. There she sat—“ he pointed to a large, 

flat stone outside the tavern. “Her hair and eyes 

ablaze. She told me I might encounter thee upon 

a day; that I would be responsible for thy knowledge 

on the most holy of divine truths. Magick.” 

“RUBBISH! I refuse to listen to an 

old, sad man who spends his nights at bars 

and days,—well, the Lord knows where. 

I came here for insight, not counseling.” 

“Oh please. Hear me out, young lad. Let me 

show you your mother and then you can decide whether 

or not thou wishest to go on hearing my stories.” 

I attempted to make an exit, but the man 

had gotten in my way before I could blink. “Let me 

show you the way to thy mother.” I pushed past him 

impatiently. When I arrived outside the man was 

standing on the road,—impossible, he had just been 

standing behind me, with both feet planted firmly on 

the ground. He started towards the forest and against 

my better judgement, I felt compelled to follow. The 

woods were dark and smoky,—like a wildfire had 

gone rogue. The man stopped at a clearing, where 

the moon shone through a break in the trees. When 

I arrived at the place in which the man had formerly

stood, he had disappeared. There was a rustling in 

the eaves and a bird sang its last lament. The smoke 

in the wood thickened until a putrid smell of burnt 

flesh surrounded all and drenched my gangly frame 

in a perfume of death. A shadowy figure emerged 

from the fronting side of the trees and stood just 

outside the puddle of moonlight, stretching out it’s 

hand out, so as to be illuminated. The hand was 

thin as a skeleton and smelled rotten and old. Its 

stench reached all the way to where I was standing. 

I peered into the darkness to see if the man might 

have made a silent entrance. When I turned back 

toward the clearing the shadowy figure was gone, 

and I suddenly felt ice-cold breath on the back of 

my neck. A croaky voice whispered, “Hello darling,” 

into my ear, as I shuddered. The figure spun 

me around and I looked suddenly, into the eyes that 

had been my first sight upon this very earth, if that 

was the planet on which I found myself yet. 

“Mother,” I said, disdainfully. 

“I haven’t seen you in years child. I’m so 

glad that you’ve finally come to claim your destiny.” 

“What nonsense sayest thou? Thou hast 

always dwelled between reality and the world of 

magick. But I refuse to believe that the woman who 

raised me promises the devil more than her own kin.” 

The woman’s foul breath found its way 

through my nostrils and up to my brain, where I became 

intoxicated. I fought with all the strength I had 

garnered, against the evil forces toying in my head. 

“All my life thou hast hidden something 

from me. Thou art a liar.” 

“Ah, my love! Thou knowest not what thou 

sayest!” She smiled, moss pouring out of her teeth 

like molten rock. 

“Prithee peace! Thou canst not know the 

dark immoralities that lie disguised beneath the 

fond cloak of a sinner. That hellish fire will burn 

immortally blacker than the devil reflects in thine 

milky orbs. Thy face, with ebony complexion, shall 

never more see the starling light of day with raven 

eyes.Thy miserable, lowly life as an alchemist, a 

witch, has come to an end now, for forever hast thou 

misguided my trembling hand on the search for my 

noble father. Why canst thou not enjoy my pleasure. 

My satisfaction in having sought the truth and yet, 

having, after all these years, been led so astray! You 

deserve no higher praise than that which a shepherd 

might instill upon his lamest sheep. Who art 

thou to hold my life in thine shriveled hands! Who 

art thou to mandate my eternal place? Enough!” 

“As thou wishest, my dear.” The woman, 

the smoke and all else disappeared. When I 

awoke, I lay in a dimly-lit passage and stars shone 

ice-cold through cracks in the ceiling above. 

Rapid footsteps approached. I could not stay. 

I stole behind a large outcropping in haphazardly-shaped 

rock, grabbed a piece of the ancient 

artifact and ran straight from the paths of hell, 

to our earthly world. * 

The galaxy swam beneath my pounding 

footsteps and an old crow flew over my shoulder, 

clutching a sprig of elderberry. I raced the sun as it 

ascended from its midnight prison and I beat the lovers 

to their beds. I felt liberated as I took to the skies 

and sought out simpler tales. I watched a boy’s fingers 

trail along the grass, the morning dew streaming 

down his hand into the starched fabric of his satin 

jacket and the fairy castle that existed inside the 

milky bubble cascading down along his veins until 

it came to a stop and buried itself inside his still 

heart. I observed orphans toiling in the fields,—the 

face in the clouds not their mother’s and yet straining 

down to fall up against her. I beheld the woodchuck 

nailing himself into his own timber coffin. 

Alas, I am but a storywriter who longs for 

his mother’s love, his father’s courage. I cannot 

sleep. My head is pounding. I’m warm beneath the 

sheets. I’m worried about what I will stumble upon 

in the morrow yet with my love I you bequeath. 

25 



Art by Ailie Gieseler, 11a 

26


Photos by Finnegan Wagner, 11d 

27


A Literary Arts Magazine of the 

English Department 

John-F.-Kennedy High School 

Teltower Damm 87-93 

14167 Berlin, Germany 

EDITOR IN CHIEF 

Lucy Defty 

EDITORS & CONTRIBUTORS 

Eli Goodman 

Skyler Hardister 

Zahavah Zinn-Kirchner 

ART EDITORS 

Ailie Gieseler 

COVER ART 

Lucy Defty 

DESIGNERS 

Gwendolyn Campbell 

Lucy Defty 

Alec Eastman 

Ailie Gieseler 

Marco Gomez 

Riva Greinke 

Henri Jackson 

PUBLISHER 

Lee Beckley 

WEBSITE 

Miles Grant 

SUBMISSIONS 

haywire@jfks.me 

Published in Germany 

https://haywire.now.sh 

Issue Nr. 10, Fall 2017 (21. Ferbruary, 2018)

HAYWIRE Issue 10 Fall 2017

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