ZEITGEIST - VOL. 5

zeitgeist.literary.magazine

In this issue, we challenged our contributors to write about "Accepting the past,
living the present, and preparing for the future.”

ZEITGEIST

Thursday, May 16, 2019

A LITERARY MAGAZINE

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Cover art by Ricardo Mercadé (11)

VOLUME 5 - 2018-2019

Academia del Perpetuo Socorro

704 Jose Martí Street

Miramar, Puerto Rico 00907


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A LITERARY MAGAZINE

Thursday, May 16, 2019

LETTER FROM

THE EDITOR

With appreciation to…

The members of Zeitgeist Literary Magazine have

worked arduously to publish this edition. I would like to

thank everyone who helped me to successfully share

this creative project with the student body and make

this issue for Zeitgeist a reality, especially:

To all members of the APS community…

To wrap up Zeitgeist Literary Magazine’s second

year, we’re excited to present our last issue of this

second semester. In this edition of Zeitgeist, we asked

our school community to write about “Accepting the past,

living the present, and preparing for the future.”

Throughout this issue, you will be able to dive into

different times of our writers’ lives. Even though we may

forget it sometimes, it’s just as important we accept the

past, as it is we live our present and prepare for our

future.

All the pieces in this issue were written with a

specific time in mind, and the writers have put a lot of

effort into their art. Each of our contributors has

something to say, and I assure you at least one of the

poems, short stories, or essays included in this

publication will inspire you. In our stressful environment,

we might often focus on either our past, present or

future, when the three are just as important, so I

encourage you to take the time to read our magazine.

Perhaps, you will learn a lesson you can apply to your

life. Hopefully, this issue will inspire you to end this

school year with a new mindset.

Claudia Figueroa - Assistant Editor (10)

Julia García - Secretary (11)

Ricardo Mercadé - Treasurer (11)

Pablo Ramírez (10)

Carlos Méndez (10)

Pablo Rubín (12)

Sebastián Redondo (12)

Diego Redondo (12)

Mariana Rosado (10)

Ariana Viera (10)

Andrea Munn (10)

Amara Villarini (11)

Alejandro Jiménez (12)

Lucía Garrido (8)

Álvaro Ramal (8)

………………………………

Mrs. Mari Vega (Moderator)

Mrs. Enid Pereira

Mr. José M. Leavitt

- Harold Peón, Editor-In-Chief

I encourage students who wish to share their passions

and interests creatively to submit their work!

Printed copies of this second edition will be distributed on May 16, 2019.

Zeitgeist encourages students from any grade that are passionate about cultural and artistic endeavors to join the club or contribute to the magazine!

Academia del Perpetuo Socorro is not affiliated with any of the opinions expressed in this publication.

Images with no credit below them are royalty-free pictures labeled for noncommercial resuse.

All authors reserve rights to their work.

Visit the website for more information:

zeitgeistlitmag.com


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HIGHLIGHTS

Poetry

The Flight of Love p. 5

Bit by Bit p. 5

Past, Present, Future p. 5

On the Field p. 6

How to Rest p. 6

Distractions p. 7

weather inside the house p. 7

Food Dreams p. 7

Me? p. 8

Abstraction p. 8

Stories

Pastʼs Box p. 10

Outside of Plaintown p. 12

Her Voice Could Kill p. 13

A Brief Fever p. 15

Interview with a Communist p. 16

Essays

The Wonder of Old Tunes p. 19

You Are Zeitgeist

A Playlist for Traveling in Sound p. 20


Poetry


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A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019

POETRY

The Flight of Love

Our loved ones fly high

As the years go by

With tears in our eyes

We remember goodbyes

But we move ahead

And forget tears shed

Forever reminiscing

The memories that glisten

And leave only bright traces

Of happiness on our faces

- Lucía Garrido (8)

Bit by Bit

never look back,

you’ll regret it

never look forward

you’ll want to throw a fit

just focus on the now

and live life bit by bit

Art by Ricardo Mercadé (11)

- Ricardo Mercadé (11)

Past, Present, Future

In the present

One can’t change their past

A person can look back

But can’t change it

In the present

One can change the future

The reason being is

To better the past

Art by Julia García (11)

- Pablo Ramírez (10)


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POETRY

April was National Poetry Writing Month. For this reason, Zeitgeist Literary Magazine published a

prompt-based poem every day on zeitgeistlitmag.com. Here are a few of them, but check out the

website to read them all!

April 3: Write from the perspective of a

sports ball.

On the Field

As I prepare my spherical frame

For the rush of the incoming game,

My pelt glistens with great mirth

At the approaching feet on the earth.

A whistle is blown; my robust exterior

Deforms as a force far superior

Impacts me fiercely

And I fly up the sky with full trust.

As I rise, I wave to the sun and birds,

Gracing them with my aerial gymnastics.

Wind currents decide to waltz alongside

My dashing performance.

However, my elaborate dance routine

suddenly changes its course

As it decides to tango with gravity.

Gravity’s strong and passionate pull

Drains the bountiful strength

That my soul previously indulged in.

As exhaustion overpowers me,

My glistening spots lose their shine.

Drowsiness gradually possesses me,

Numbing my entrails and leaving me blind.

Senseless I feel after I finish my trip.

Lifeless I am until the next kick.

- Diego Redondo (12)

April 5: Write a poem on how to do a

simple task.

How to Rest

Close your eyes

Take my hand

Follow me into the mist

Let the fairies flutter near you

Let your body rise; levitate

Become weightless among these meadows

Smile in the comfort of the fresh, spring

morning

That scent, maybe tea leaves mixed with rose

petals

Let it surround you

Feeling silk upon your fingertips now,

Rest in the darkness

Close your eyes

Sleep.

- Claudia Figueroa (10)


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POETRY

April was National Poetry Writing Month. For this reason, Zeitgeist Literary Magazine published a

prompt-based poem every day on zeitgeistlitmag.com. Here are a few of them, but check out the

website to read them all!

April 6: Write about the things you need to do,

like a project you’ve worked on for a long time

or items on your bucket list.

Distractions

I probably could

considering that I definitely should,

but the Mind wanders,

demanding attention be paid to an undeserving distraction

and although I shouldn’t,

I still could.

- Julía García (11)

April 8: Imagine weather indoors.

weather inside the house

Clouds gather near the ceiling

Lightning flashes and thunder booms

Darkness signals that rain is nearing

It splashes down and floods the rooms

The formerly made bed now in tatters

The vase on the sill falls and shatters

The wind blows as strong as the waters

That fall with unstoppable splatters

But slowly the rain starts to cease

And the house is finally at peace

All that’s left are the sodden sheets

And more than a few upturned seats

April 21: Write a poem about food.

Food Dreams

With my recent operation

Food has been just a dream

I can eat only liquids

While I yearn for some meat

The sweet taste of meat

Of chicken

Of fish

Of anything other than Ensure

Would bring a smile to my face

- Mariana Rosado (10)

- Lucía Garrido (8)


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POETRY

April was National Poetry Writing Month. For this reason, Zeitgeist Literary Magazine published a

prompt-based poem every day on zeitgeistlitmag.com. Here are a few of them, but check out the

website to read them all!

April 28: Write a poem about yourself in

which nothing is true.

Me?

As he stares at the mirror

The mirror stares back at him

The reflection he sees

does not reflect what he feels.

Is he really the happy, smiling boy

the mirror makes him out to be?

Does the reflection reflect the truth?

Or does he want the facade to be true?

Sadness and anger build upon his eyes.

The glass mirror shatters

As he strikes to the reflection

of the boy, he does not consider himself.

- Lotus (anonymous)

April 29: Write a poem based on

your interpretation of abstract art.

Abstraction

When a painter yields colors

When a writer yields characters

When a poet yields rhythms

When a sculptor yields realism

When an artist yields

Control

And all that’s left is

You

Do you run?

Do you look away?

Do you close your eyes?

Do you stare?

Do you... stare?

- Pablo Rubín (12)


Short

Stories


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A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019

STORIES

Past’s Box

Peter’s defiant, baby blue orbs clashed head-on with his mother’s barely restrained scorching glare,

refusing to back down even after an unexpected visit to the principal’s office and a hefty discussion over his

last report card. Now at home, verbal whiplashes rained amongst the two but, with agile parental absolutism,

his mother, Caroline, gave him a final ultimatum - stripping him of his car keys indefinitely as punishment.

No matter how much Peter fussed and fretted, his mother’s silence spoke volumes of her resolve.

Frustrated with indignation, the teen finally raised his voice and, sporting wild gestures, he hollered: “How can

you do this to me? I hate you!”

Then he spun away, with tears threatening to prick his eyes, running up the stairs to lock himself in his

room and slamming the door. After a few calming breaths, Peter let his gaze wander to the window next to his

desk, considering escape as the only viable solution to all his problems. Darkness. Strangely, not a sound

could be heard beyond the window, not even the seemingly mischievous tapping of its glass by a tree branch.

Everything appeared deadweight still with the exception of Peter’s rhythmic heartbeat as the sole

resemblance to life inside the room. Such odd tranquility made shivers dance along Peter’s spine as he drew

a paused, shaky breath. For some strange reason, he felt the room getting darker around the edges, but

blamed the uncomfortableness on exhaustion from his earlier argument with that woman.

“I will apologize later,” Peter thought. “She’ll forget it.”

Again, Peter glanced around his room and noticed an old, wooden crate (vaguely remembering it once

being an enormous toy box) pressed against the far end. It looked like any other ordinary toy box - built with

hardwood and polished to pristine glossiness. In itself, the box was an artistic masterpiece with its little

engraved floral designs and wonderful swirl patterns splayed around its husk making it stand out proudly

amongst the room’s plain furniture, the fading mahogany paint, and the occasional small scrape as the only

indication of age. As if lulled in a trance, Peter heard the soft thumping of his feet carry him towards the box

and a faint rustling as his fingers fiddled with the latch, the box’s woodsy smell hitting his nose like a truck.

With a mighty push, the lid slid backwards suddenly, lifting a thick layer of dust into Peter’s face as he

coughed and waved his hands in circles, trying to clear away the blinding particles from his eyes. He gave

another heavy sigh, as if pained. The box still contained many of his used and broken toys - good memories

of a distant past when eating, sleeping, and having fun were his sole priorities. Peter sighed for the third time,

wistfully, longing for times when his mother wasn’t so strict and reminiscing about long past memories of his

childhood.

“It was a nice life,” he thought.

Curious yet again, the boy rummaged through the sooty, miniature wooden horses, the plastic racing

cars with missing wheels, and the grimy action figures in search of his long-forgotten and most favorite

partner-in-crime: his precious stuffed shark.

The more the boy searched, the denser the toys became and the harder it was to keep his feet planted

outside. As time passed, his body was already a bit more than waist-down inside the toy box without

managing a single glimpse of a stuffed animal, barely touching the floorboards. It only took a near-intangible

tap and fate’s own shrewdness to rob his legs of their balance and cause them to jerk upward, accidentally

closing the heavy lid with a loud thump! Gathering his bearings, the boy immediately started to kick the lid

desperately but in vain attempt, for the latch was locked from the outside. Then he opted for screaming,

hoping that his mother would hear, thinking it better to face her wrath again and apologize, rather than die

from suffocation. No response. The boy tried again. Nothing. Minutes felt like hours and sweat leaked

profusely from his temples as images about his slow and torturous death intruded his thoughts. He also


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STORIES

realized his body was somehow immobilized, and his short, rapid breaths did nothing to help in this

predicament. Dizziness crept up on him because the smell of decaying wood soon violated his snot-filled

nostrils in large quantities, constricting his throat. Just when the boy thought he was in delirium, a deafening

flush sound reverberated through the walls of the enormous casket. The boy stilled, eyes widening as big as

saucers as they looked straight ahead into the darkness. An infinitely small swirl of light was encroaching at

an alarming pace, swallowing up all the toys in its path; such dreadful vortex looked similar to the whirlpools

toilets make when you flush all your necessities down the drain, lost into oblivion. If the boy was scared

before, now he was downright terrified. He wailed until his lungs gave out and even then, his attempts were

drowned out by the ever-encompassing sound of flushing.


Unable to scream anymore, I resorted to glaring viciously at the vortex who, in all its white, swirly glory,

gobbled me up like a hungry crocodile. Once I entered inside its ethereal jaws, my poor senses were rattled

by somersaults and vehemently disoriented with my body taking the brunt of that wretched whirlpool. Nothing

seemed realistic anymore: flashes of colors swarmed my vision as the toys I saw falling with me came alive.

Blank, painted pupils stared me down as endless misshapen and segmented arms forced me to attend

thousands of tea parties, mischievous toy hammers clonked and battered me everywhere, and escaping

death from an armless Superman’s scorching laser eyes became a constant. I was conscious enough to

know that I was falling for what appears to be several hours’ worth of time but, who knows? Maybe my mind

was betraying its own sense of reason by creating its own conception of time. As I rolled on and about, fading

in and out of consciousness, a long, bulky figure swam towards me slowly, almost predatory, and, after my

vision focused, Mr. Shark offered me the mechanical, saber-toothed smile always permanently etched into his

face and raked his dark, beady eyes over my body; an indescribable sense of numbness encased my heart in

a vice grip as my senses dulled, my body lost all its feeling, and my mouth spewed out humorless laughter.

Laugher at my demise. The portal continued, drowning out my cackles yet again with its incessant humming

towards a place where children who desire the past, stayed forgotten.


Abruptly, Peter woke up, and, faster than he himself was aware, jumped out of the toy box, and ran

wildly towards his mother, incoherent apologies tumbling out of his trembling lips.

- Sebastián Redondo (12)

Art by Ana Laura Pérez (11)


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A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019

STORIES

Outsde of Plaintown

Those old, worn, shabby houses were always such a bore for the young girl, Annie. Every morning, she

would walk across the same old city hall on her way to school. Every morning, she would see the small and

decrepit abandoned church that her parents had told her to stay away from. The same cheerful students,

waving hello as they passed by every afternoon. It was always the same thing for Annie. She had always

longed seeing a new world, but her wish was clearly outlawed in her dear old little hometown. She always

wondered, asking herself the same question over and over. “Why can’t I go outside of Plaintown?”, she asked

her mother once. She was quickly shushed, but she didn’t understand why. Even though the little girl wished

that she could go outside of the town gates, she knew the outside world was bleak and dark, as all of her

teachers described it when students asked about such a “forbidden” topic.

After another dream of the little girl lost in a mysterious space, she woke up. The clock read that it was

eleven in the morning. Annie needed a small moment to settle down after the awful recurring dream had

disturbed her sleep yet again. After some moments in utter silence, the agitated girl sneaked a quick glance

at the clock, and a sudden realization came to light. Annie was late. Unlike all the other mornings in which she

dressed in such a fast way that she always forgot something, this time she made the wise decision to take

her sweet, sweet time preparing for school. After getting dressed in a slow and sleepy way, the indifferent girl

took a glance at herself on the mirror. She observed herself closely and studied her body in a very careful

way. Her messy black hair, hoisted up in a quick, badly done ponytail gave away how distracted her mind was

that morning. The bags under her brown eyes and the grimace on her face showed how tired she was and

how awful her sleep was the night before. The rest of her body though, from her neat uniform that consisted

of a white polo shirt with a blue plaid skirt, down to her spotless black shoes, looked perfect for a student.

After taking what seemed like hours to prepare her uniform and her look, the youngster took another

eternity to stroll down the stairs. Her world seemed as if it was in slow-motion. The youngling walked out of

the door without even eating breakfast, ready to confront what the day had in store for her. Surprisingly, on

her way to the school, the people she encountered were not as cheerful and happy as they usually were.

Instead, they looked grim, almost as if they’ve had the same nightmare that the young Annie had. She tried to

ignore it, yet the striking image of those sad, disturbed, grim faces kept nagging her mind. She had finally

arrived at school. The sight would never leave her mind. It looked abandoned, decrepit, and deserted. It was

almost as if the people’s spirit had been stolen the night before. “Did the outside world attack the wonderful

community that was my town?”, Annie wondered. As she entered her classroom, her eyes immediately

switched to search mode, as she looked for her friend. There, in the first chair of the row farthest from the

door, the normally cheery child sat. Yet, she was now as sad as everyone else around her environment. Annie

made her way through the classroom and sat behind her friend, just as the second was about to start. “Did

you hear? Mayor John died last night.” Annie opened her eyes wider than ever as she realized the reason as

to why everyone looked so grim. Yet, for some reason, Annie felt a hint of relief in her heart. She tried

searching deep inside her as to why she felt so relieved, but she got distracted when the professor walked

into the classroom. Needless to say, he seemed grim as everyone else. After a few seconds of utter silence in

the classroom, the class began.

After another eternity passed, it was finally time for recess. Annie skipped lunch, as usual, and instead,

she headed to the woods behind the school. She spent about half an hour there trying to climb the trees

around her. After several attempts, she gave up and decided that it’s probably for the best since she could’ve

gotten a serious injury. She instead began to reflect on what has just happened on that dreadful morning. She

reflected on what the Mayor’s death could now mean for the rest of her life. Saddened by the whole ordeal,

Annie gave up on trying to hold off the tears eating at her throat and began to cry. She remained motionless,


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STORIES

with the tears still coming out of the eyes until she fell asleep. When she woke up, it

was dusk, with the sun starting to set. Annie knew she was going to be in big trouble if

she arrived late to her home, but she felt as if that didn’t matter at the moment. All she

could think about was how the Mayor wasn’t going to be part of her life anymore. The

Mayor was a quiet young man who was friends with everyone in town. Even though

he was not elected, he was still loved by the community, as he always helped the

poor and was very charitable. Yet, something felt wrong about all this. Annie gazed at

the woods, and in the distance, there was some form of light that blinded whatever

was on the other side. Trying to forget about the grim matter, she walked towards the

light, until she was able to see the wonderful world outside Plaintown.

- Andrea Munn (10)

Her Voice Could Kill

Find chapter 1 of this story in Volume 3 of Zeitgeist, available on zeitgeistlitmag.com.

CHAPTER 2:

“It’s your break, child” Nonna said facing towards the clock that read 2:30pm beside the counter. She

suddenly turned and caught me with my hand in the ice cream freezer. “Stop eating the Cornetto algida,

those are for the customers,” Nonna said as she pushed me out of the kitchen. “Okay, okay stop pushing,”

I said, licking the Cornetto algida in one hand and adjusting my bag with the other. My break lasted the

entire afternoon, I just had to be back by 7 to help my Nonna close at 9. I look around the plaza and see

how truly beautiful Cura Syren really is. Once I finished the Cornetto algida, I got on my bike and traveled

through town to a beach called la Casa della Sirena. I spent most of my time here, as it is a beach filled

with lore. A myth that goes through town says that every day a siren goes there to sing. Ever since my

mother died, I have come here every day to listen to the waves crash and sing where no one can hear

me.

My mother was truly beautiful, black long straight hair accompanied by tan skin, dark eyelashes

suiting her dark eyebrows that structured her face. Nonna says I look just like her, but I hardly remember

her. I just remember that her death is my fault. That’s why I will never sing in public again. I take out the

small beach blanket out of the bicycle basket and lay it on the sand. As I am placing my leather bag on the

blanket, I hear a bicycle bell that makes me jump out of my skin. No one ever comes to this beach. The

tourist I saw back at the bakery rides over to me, now I could make out his figure in more detail. He placed

his bike beside mine and walks over to where I still stood. “Ciao, I’m Mateo,” he said extending his hand

out to mine, his piercing blue eyes looked strangely familiar. “Hi, I’m Alicia.” “Can I join you?”. Flustered, I

just nod my head to motion him to sit down. “Were you the one that was singing?”, Mateo asks as he sets

a leather satchel on my blanket. “No one was supposed to hear me,” I answer perplexed on how he heard

me from such a distance. Taken aback by my answer he says, “could you sing again?”. “I can’t…” I try to

look anywhere but at him. “I really shouldn’t,” I say, grabbing my stuff and placing them in my bad very

untidily. Mateo noticed and grabbed my hand, making me look at him. His green eyes seemed to read me,

as if he knew more about me than I knew myself. His eyes seemed to hold all the answers to the world,

they showed a certain comfort that compelled me to stay.

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STORIES

Her Voice Could Kill

CHAPTER 3:

“What would you like me to sing?”, I asked while playing with the sand, afraid to meet his eyes and

nervous because I haven’t sung for anybody in a while. “What’s your favorite song?”, he asked grabbing my

chin gently, pulling it upwards to look him in the eyes. I searched my mind. Suddenly, Mateo brightened up

and rummaged through his leather satchel until he took out a parchment. The parchment was a light blue, it

looked old and very familiar. Everything about Mateo felt familiar. “How about singing this?”, Mateo said while

opening the parchment. The inside of the parchment held drawings of fish like women in a cave near a

beach. It all felt so familiar it was making me dizzy. The lyrics read:

“Odysseus, Odysseus

Forget where you’re going

Forget what you’re doing,

And come to us.

Odysseus, Odysseus

Come live with us

Our island has everything

Every wish, every dream

Waits for you

They’ll all come true

You hear our song, you feel us calling

You hear our voices, rising, falling

It’s so hypnotic

As we all sing for you

Just for you

Only you

Odysseus

You’ll come to us,

Odysseus

No man can resist

Once his ears have been kissed

By the siren’s song”

I stopped there, I hadn’t realized I was singing the song. I look up at Mateo and notice he isn’t looking at

me but at the sea, as if expecting something to come out of it. Nothing did, and Mateo looked back at me with

a glazed, happy look in his eyes. He grabbed my hand and walked me over to the sea. He looked at me and

said, “You are one of them, you are part of me.” Strangely, I didn’t feel weird about this situation, I felt at ease,

as if I were home. His piercing, a trident, glowed, and he disappeared. I saw the earing fall into the water and

sink into the deep, blue ocean. With the next wave came a six-feet tall trident. I instinctively grabbed it, drawn

to it. The second I touched it, I saw them. The half-fish, half-human beings were playing in the water until they

noticed me and started to talk with each other. I could understand them, even though they spoke a foreign

language. A woman, who looked just like my mother but with a teal fish tail, swam towards me. I walked

halfway towards her. A tear dropped from her eye and she hugged me and grabbed the trident from my hand.

I hadn’t realized I was also crying. She said “μεταλλάσσω” and my legs turned into a green tail. “It has been

too long, I am so happy we could reunite.” She said, her voice so familiar to my ears. It had been too long

since I last heard it. I threw my arms around her and smiled. She smiled back and handed me the trident. She

grabbed my hand and led me farther into the sea.

- Ariana Viera (10)


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STORIES

A Brief Fever

Day by day, through sunny streets bathed in wine, I saw hounds dressed up as bunnies, and bunnies

dressed up as hounds. Longing for the dead flesh of memory, these are not your average menace, bloomers of

late and early who want nothing more than to bloom again,

who run through hallways shouting “id! id!” in tucked flannels and follow their Narnias.

whose masks fall off to reveal the spare masks underneath the spare masks’ spare masks’ spare masks’ spare

masks that resemble an out of tune radio.

whose Van Gogh eyes reveal psychedelic infatuations of the soul yet untouched by image.

it did not matter! The keys of that soothing song did not faze me as I pulled out another dreamer by the

conscience.

it did not matter! Who were you to force me to observe unblinking, to face its face?

But it does! It does matter!

Never lasts...

You observe from above,

The rules are now clearer,

A line is drawn nearer

As you turn into a dove.

Burning the bridge, I shove

it all down, promising reader.

Though structure’s now cleaner,

Rhyme and sense fell out of love.

With eyes closed and lips sealed I swim,

I do not understand

What it means to dance, to stretch limbs.

Sleeping as I’m swept by red winds,

To the Great Now I lend a hand,

This is where I end, and You begin.

- Pablo Rubín (12)

Art by Mariana Salinas (10)


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STORIES

Interview with a Communist

Beatrice McClintock was unlike other women. Under her seemingly shy and introverted appearance

was a woman who was once part of the highest ranks of the Communist Party. She was once a woman who

burned banks and proclaimed, “down with the rich.” Nobody knew this. It was her dark secret. She was not

ashamed though. She did not consider her past a bad thing. Beatrice still considered her former cause fair

but was now aware that many might differ from her. She knew she would face discrimination for her former

ideals. Especially at her job. She now worked as governess for the Locke family, one of the wealthiest in the

country. The story of how she made the transition from communist poster child to governess of a wealthy

family is one that is fascinating and full of intrigue.

“Are you prepared for the interview, Beatrice?”, I asked her. Your name will be changed to protect your

privacy. “Yes,” she exclaimed. Beatrice had a shy disposition, piercing emerald green eyes, porcelain skin,

and dirty blonde hair. She was dressed in all black. Her face had an aura of sadness and mystery, of a

person whose life was a tragedy. “Tell me about your childhood, Beatrice,” I said.

Beatrice took a deep breath and began to speak, “I am the youngest of two children and the only girl.

My mother died when I was 4. I do not remember how she looked, or anything about her. My father was a

sexist man that believed that the role of women was to serve the household. I attended school, but my

father, from an early age, announced that he had no intention of paying for my higher education. He barely

believed women deserved to be educated. He could not care less about me. He would often yell at me,

always talking about how he wished I was a boy. He really could not care less about me.”

“That seems like a harsh childhood,” I said

“Indeed,” said Beatrice. “We were a lower-middle-class family, on the edge of poverty, but we were

among the fortunate ones. During my early childhood, I saw many of my peers eat one meal per day. I saw

families losing their homes to foreclosure. I witnessed suffering, I witnessed penury and poverty.”

“Did this have a role in you becoming a member of the Communist Party afterwards?”, I asked.

“Absolutely,” Beatrice said. “My first encounter with the Communist Party was when I was in high

school. The public school that I attended had a chapter of the Communist Party. I was lured by their ideals.

The promise of an egalitarian society seemed

appealing to me. I became a member of the

Communist Party at the young age of 15. According

to Fatima Asencio, the leader of the Communist

Party, the advantage that I had over other members

was my ability to pass as a member of the high class.

I supposedly had a bourgeois name and appearance.

This led to me being promoted to be an undercover

agent for the Communist Party. As an undercover

agent, I had to spend time with the bourgeoise and

reveal their secrets to the Party. My job entailed

gaining their trust in order to have access to their

money, steal it, and give it to the poor. I did this by

becoming acquainted with their daughters or dating

their sons to manipulate them.”

“When did you decide to desert the Communist

Party?”, I asked.


Thursday, May 16, 2019

A LITERARY MAGAZINE

p.17

STORIES

Beatrice looked at me profoundly, “While doing this, I realized that the Party’s vision was not what it

seemed to be. The Party portrayed the rich as evil, heartless beings. Undeniably, some rich people were

corrupt and greedy; however, many had a kind heart. Caterina was one of them, the youngest member of the

Borgia family, who were investment bankers that ran a massive corruption rig. She was different from them

though, the most kind-hearted person I’ve met. This caused her to have conflict in her family. She condemned

her family’s activities. She became my first real friend. It was after meeting her that I learned that everything I

had been taught was wrong. There were nice rich people, and evil poor people. Your social class has nothing

to do with what kind of person you are.”

“What was the Party’s reaction to your desertion?”, I asked.

Beatrice answered quickly, “I told Fatima that I could no longer be a part of the party due to personal

illness. She believed it. I knew that I had to get as far as possible from the Party. I asked a friend, John Pines,

whose dad was the gardener for the Locke family, if the family was hiring. He informed me that there was a

position of governess available. I accepted it. However, my vision has not changed. I believe an egalitarian

society should exist someday, as violence and separation are never the solutions. Union and cooperation are

the way to a more equal and just world. People like me can serve as mediators between the rich and the poor.

In other words, we can function like the heart, the mediator between the hands and the head.”

- Emilia (anonymous)


Essays


p.19

A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019

ESSAYS

The Wonder of Old Tunes

How many of you have heard the song Bohemian Rhapsody? I

suspect that all of you have, and I don’t blame you. Queen rocked our

world and continues to inspire us today. How about “Cause this is

thriller, thriller night”? Does it ring a bell? It probably does. It’s Michael

Jackson. What about Hotel California, Here Comes the Sun, Sweet

Caroline, and Stayin’ Alive? Are you getting my point? Every single one

of you knows at least one of the songs that I mentioned. What is it about

the music of the ‘70s and ‘80s that makes it live on in the twenty-first

century? Maybe it’s because our parents are attached to the tune of

their generation, or maybe our friends have influenced us. Either way,

the music from the past forty years has had a fantastic effect on us and

our century.

Let’s analyze different artists and their songs… Elton John’s

songs have the particular power to fill our souls with joy when we are

sad. Aerosmith’s Walk This Way and AC/DC’s Highway to Hell are the

perfect songs to listen to when you find yourself bored and in need of

excitement. Queen’s We Are the Champions and We Will Rock You

prepare us for the unknown and the hardships in life. Each and every

artist from the ‘70s and the ‘80s has a purpose behind their songs. They

didn’t write songs just to become famous, they wrote songs to send a

message to the world. In their own way, they were trying to make the

world a better place. Most of the artists from these years used their

platform to spread awareness of different themes. For example, Elton

John has an AIDS foundation which helps raise money for people with

this disease. So, is it a question of amazing music or good intentions?

What is it that makes this music live on until today? Well, I believe it to

be both.

I believe that music from the ‘70s and the ‘80s has incredible

lyrics with heart-smashing instrumental sections that touch anyone who

has a soul for music. Take into consideration Billy Joel’s Piano Man. I

have never heard a song with such amazing lyrics, also accompanied by

an astonishing piano tune. Let’s look at this song from another

perspective… If you analyze these lyrics, Billy Joel is narrating a time in

his life which seems to have impacted him significantly. He chose to

share this experience with the people in hopes that it would serve as a

lesson for some. In my opinion, this is one of the most heartfelt songs in

history. I know some readers may find this article too personalized or

biased, but I challenge you to listen to at least one of the songs I

mentioned and think about its meaning for a few minutes. Then, let me

know how you feel. I hope you truly try listening to this music and dive

into what it really means.

- Mariana Rosado (10)


p.20

A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019

YOU ARE ZEITGEST

A Playlist for Traveling in Sound

A playlist that speeds through five decades in a

little over twenty minutes.

Title: Life On Mars?

Artist: David Bowie

Released: 1973

Title: West End Girls

Artist: Pet Shop Boys

Released: 1984

Title: Gypsy Woman (She’s Homeless)-

Basement Boy Mix

Artist: Crystal Waters

Released: 1991

Title: Time to Pretend

Artist: MGMT

Released: 2008

Title: À tout à l’heure

Artist: Bibio

Released: 2013

- Julia García (11)

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