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The Battering Ram

Volue 4, Issue 1

Fall/Winter 2014

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The Battering RamWoodstock Day School

PO Box 1, Woodstock, NY 12498Attn: JD Louis

oremail us at thebatteringramwds@gmail.com

Prose: The Battering Ram gives priority to prose that is between one and three pages long. However, we do accept pieces of up six pages in length if they are of exceptional

quality.

Poetry: Up to three pieces of poetry will be accepted per submission. The ideal poetry submission is up to three pages long in full.

Artwork & Photography: Submit up to three different pieces of your work.

Please do not send us your originals. We will not return your submissions.For more information, visit our website at woodstockdayschool.org/batteringram

Cover Art – By Hyde AlbrightPrinting – DiggyPod, Inc.

First printing is complimentary to all who are interested in The Battering Ram.

Send all questions, concerns, orders, inquiries, donations, and praises to any of the contact information listed above.

The Battering Ram accepts submissions year round from students in grades seven through twelve. Electronic submissions can be submitted to our email, and submission guidelines can be found at our website.

Fonts used:Minion Pro by Adobe

Letter Gothic Standard by AdobeAdobe Garamond Pro by Adobe

Absolutely no portion of this journal may be reproduced or solicited in any form with-out express permission from the author/artist. All rights belong to the original author/artist of each piece, and all publishing rights belong to the editors of The Battering Ram.

© 2015

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Editorial BoardEditor-in-Chief

Managing Editor

Design and Production

Events and Publicity Coordinators

Treasurer

Prose Editor

Poetry Editor

Art Editor

Photography Editor

Editorial Board

Copy Editor

Faculty Advisor

Sophia Foster

Lily Mones

Maralina GabrielJazmin Kay Lily MonesSophia Foster

Nomi KliglerLayla MichalopoulosHazel DunningLula Butler

Siena Howensteien

Dante Kanter

Jazmin Kay

Maralina Gabriel Hyde Albright

Nomi Kligler

Ellie ZurSophia HoverJason EccelstonSiena Howensteien

Jazmin KayMaralina Gabriel

JD Louis

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Table of Contents

Letter From the EditorOne Vowel Piece

Lost in TranslationTrinity

Beauty in BlackAround the Block Once, or

TwiceBut these are the golden days

Hollow HappinessDecay

Darryl’s StoryBlue & Gold

The Sound of His NameThe Mouse Man for E.E.

CummingsBarshti’s Mom Tracy

Ode to a BurritoVagabonds

A + B = No milk, just sugarDante’s Diner

Tries its Best to LivePerfect Man

Beautiful Lies We Tell Ourselvesdon’t get me wrong, I believe

there’s something good in everything I see (just like ABBA)Quality of Life Issues in the City

Walls & Strings “garden”

Sophia FosterAnonymousEliza Siegel Emma Henson Emma TaylorJoe Bassuk

Joe BassukRadhika SharmaKendall WindBelen EdwardsAntonia WeeksNomi KliglerJazmin Kay

Dante KanterLayla MichalopolousJack WarrenJazmin Kay Aj Maniglia Casey HallJulian RouterJack WarrenKaya Nodelman

Joe BassukEliza SiegelHelen Yang

678101316

18192023333436

373940424548515456

586062

Writing

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6912151718212229343940434449 49505355575759636364

Hyde AlbrightDana NitzaniCamila O’BrienFreeda HandelsmanEllie ZurDana NitzaniEmma PittelmanCamila O’BrienCamila O’BrienHazel DunningQuinn CoughlinRachel HonigmanMaralina GabrielCamila O’BrienAndrew RectorHarrison O’ClairAsa SpurlockAsa SpurlockSophia FosterRachel HonigmanRachel PowersSammy StruzzieriAnonymousIan MorseBianca DePietro

Concept ArtThe TouristFloral Dot

FacesCity

UntitledSnake

Sophia + FacesChica Girl

DockWolf

SeriesWhat Are You Looking At?An Impressive Articulation

MushroomsFungiManMan

FairgroundsRoofBody

CityscapeMisty Mountain

ParadiseGreen City

Art

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Concept ArtHyde Albright

Welcome to the 7th edition of the Battering Ram!

For the first time in the history of the Battering Ram, we have had none of the founding members. In addition, only I have ever worked on the journal before this fall. Despite this however, everyone worked hard and has succeeded enormously. Thanks to Lily, who stepped up and managed to be a major part in putting the journal together as well as helping with almost everything else, the editorial board (or “The Breakfast Club”) who have stepped up to manage our fundraising, each of the subject editors who have handled soliciting and who have gotten so many great submissions for us, the events staff who have been instrumental in planning events including our third annual Fairy Tale and Folklore Journey and who have started working with the lower school, and to J.D. for helping us all figure out what to do. Although the prospect of creating the journal was frightening, I’m proud of what we’ve managed to do.

One exciting new development thissemester, is the development of a Literary Journal by the lower school. The Battering Ram events coordinators and members of the sixth grade have been working hard to the create the first lower school literary journal, Sticks and Stones. Look for it soon!

We look forward to another great semester and we hope to see everyone at our third annual LitCon this spring!

Read The Battering Ram. Enjoy it. I hope it means as much to you as it does to us.

Sophia FosterEditor in Chief

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Anonymous

One Vowel PieceWhen ever essence never lessens

Clever deer leeps deep sleep The Excrescent dreem next streem

Her eyes eye endless sky

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Eliza Siegel

Lost in TranslationLooking at a map of theseven continents I can locate you in a momentthe five oceans would prove difficultto a land-bound creaturebut Ia sky-dweller am not hindered

It must be easy for you, thenthey sayand perhaps it appears that way but I assure you that I have not forgottenyour sandpaper mouth and your child’s eyesit’s just that it’s easier to hide behindunfocused staresthan explain whyI’m still half in love with you

we started to decay when our tongues failed to communicateour feelingsyours, shouting behind unspoken wordsmine, unsure of everything except uncertaintyand thensilence that grew like molduntouched until it was far past time to go

it seems your strange humor folded toounder the weight of never speakingand though we are strangers to each other I cannot un-know the vertebrae of your spine orthe curl of your hair

the alignment of our planets was wrong, perhapsor maybe we never quite spoke the same languageeither wayyou sit in the sand on the other side of the worldand I try to rewrite what was lost in translationin another moon, perhaps that will be gone too

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Above: The Tourist Dana Nitzani

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Emma Henson

TrinityHe burned her late one night in September when the leaves

had gone brown but had not yet stopped being leaves. When she was alive, she smelled of the rosebud salve she used like an eraser to remove the day from her palms, and now he is convincing himself that everything is redolent of fire, but it’s really just her flesh, just her blood, just the metallic unbeat of her heart.

He collects her hair from the earth-rotting floor of the tree-fallen forest. He thinks about a hundred years ago, when all of this was ashes. He thinks about a hundred years from now, when all of it will be dust. He looks at the locks in his hands, the color of relics men had burned when they traveled East the first time, because they were afraid of the things they had never seen before.

He puts the ashes in an old Egyptian urn and places it on the mantle of his older, less-Egyptian house, too far from the road for him to hear the tires and them to catch half-riffs of coffee table jazz on hot afternoons.

He was not in love with death, not until hers, not until she swallowed the world and gagged it up inside out.

Sometimes he missed the way the air moved around her. He sat in the red red rocking chair in front of the sagging

sagged fireplace, looking at the black pieces of what had been her and maybe still was. What if it was more than love, what they had shared, what if it was something more brutal and more terrible and bigger-

Life.He was talking about life. He burned the ashes again on a Sunday. The fields need-

ed tilling and there hadn’t been rain in seven months. The smoke plume was a tall hand touching the veined underside of the sky’s cloud-breast. He used up all of the lighter fluid and made some offhanded comment to no one about God, using the conditional.

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He creaked and groaned with morning. The house creaked and groaned with snow and him. The urn halfbeat with metro-nome rhythm, with entropy, with the decay of the twice-burned and once-murdered. He opened every window which was three. He was hungry and so he ate pieces of the fog.

He tapped his heel in time with the notbeat of the ashes, and thought about what metal feels like when it’s somewhere other than not in you. The ashes turned loud, turned moody, started dancing a flamenco on the kitchen table.

He found matches. He tore up pieces of newspaper, made fast-dying stars. He formed rows, folded the help-wanteds into soldiers, into brigadiers, and made them march on the Rome of his living room. When the blaze grew hungry, he fed it his overcoats and the recliner. When it swallowed the second story, he walked into it.

12Floral Dot

Camila O’Brien

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Emma Taylor

Beauty in BlackBlack.

Smells like tulips,Gin and tonics on a summer’s night

and a trail of hairspray.It’s the 1er arrondissement from her childhood,

Presently the 19thBlack.

A dark bob of hair,Hovering over her black wool blazer,

Owning the streets of Paris.It’s Ysatis by Givenchy,

Strolling down the banks of the Seine.The city, urban life,That’s the smell of

Black.That’s the smell of her,Calm and organized.

Methodically grading papers,A stream of passé composé,

Imparfait, future simple.Pink ink drying on the notecards.

Definitions classed alphabetically inked inBlack.

The Oxford Hatchette French Dictionary,Le Petit Robert,

Robert & Collins,Miriam Webster.

BlackIs the smell of her thumbing

Through thin pages in the middle of dinner,To be sure of spelling.

Colorful Expo markers and 1-inch binders

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in a black leather bag.The red blanket tight and Libération open in Safari,

In Paris. She wishes.Unrolling strings from the wheels of black licorice,

Her hand searching in the other Haribo bagFor the fraises tagada candy.

Black.Like the pots and pans that clankWhen she dances in the kitchen

on March 23rdTo Nicolas Canteloup’s imitations

Of Maité and Nelson Monfort on Europe 1.And she moves to the rhythm

of the music on theBlack

Step in Carol’s Step + Sculpt class,She gracefully strides the black elliptical,

My strong mother,Powerful woman,

Delicate artist.Smells of her black wool sweaters,

Bundled up against a New England winter.She battles for heat

With her ever-changing pairs of warm socks inBlack.

She looks beautiful.And when the sun sleeps,

The moon rises, illuminatingInside our house with a beam of light,

My dark room lights upWith a kiss on the cheek and a

“Goodnight” that chases away the Black.

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Above: Faces Freeda Handelsman

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Joe Bassuk

Around the BlockWell, I’ve missed you. It’s been a long time since our last meeting and I feel pretty badly about forgetting to keep in touch. I remember the first time I saw you. It was at a party, it was on the edge of a lake, it was at the school dance, it was in the hallways of time. There you were, unknown, a figment, mysterious, and beautiful. I was full of hope and words, and dreams, and fantasies. You had no inclining. You knew not who I was but that would change. I wrote my thoughts on your pages by day and upon your dreams by night. I dialed your love into a telephone - push tone and rotary alike - and my mind turned slowly back recoiling thoughts after each number was pressed or turned. We turned. We discovered the tips of our fingers on skin. We discovered the hymns and melodies of the subways. We knew what it felt like to hold hands when we couldn’t even hold our hearts. In the far reaches of Central Park we spied into the future of another park in Queens and raved about the boots of Brooklyn. We were telling truths with a slant and metaphors held those truths so as not to be recognized as something familiar to someone else. On the R train, all rickety - a product of its time - we were warned. In the parking garages and playgrounds - we were threatened and robbed but we still glanced peripherally at each other, as if cheating on a test where we failed to have the answered written and pressed into the folds of our hats, the inside of our thighs, the bottoms of our shoes. Yes, we did the homework because there was a bigger prize. Yes, we enjoyed our lunch because there was an even bigger reward. Imagine, the pavement ran right up to our doorsteps and our weapons remained concealed until needed. It happened in the back seat of car in front of a fire hydrant. It happened over biology on the F-train. It’s a map see. The map is not flat yet not quite topographical either. At the playground there was a hole in the fence that took the chil-dren down to the Van Wycke Expressway. The child made wooden swords and ventured forth into the discarded motorist meals and cigarette cast-ings. The children were worms eating it all, red, squiggly and in need of a balanced environment. The police would later get them with their weap-ons except now, the knife was sharp and passed down through genera-tions, yet officer blah, blah, blah, had a private collection of stolen goods that went beyond the hubba bubbah from the boulevard down under hillside. Hillside! In the yellow bubble of youth - poor Georgie had shit stains and the bullies ate him up. From the back of the bubble we dropped

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bombs and sang songs like the wheels on the bus. The path was a standing broad jump into the short-term memory banks and the process involved in promoting material - or nominating the material for recognition and awards down the line. I’m not sure that makes sense. Basically, what goes into the long term parking lots of thought? If we bunch it all together it looks like the first time I saw you in Brooklyn with that short skirt and those platform boots you now use for your Halloween costume. They did not see the stores but we patronized that specific one off 12th street, and that one with the matchbox cars remembered by the swings - somewhere under Overlook. At the carousel we bought a time that no longer exists and the memories of lice and short hair. At the stationary, we moved hastily through generations, and birthdays, and graduations, and news-paper articles. A dollar for a dream. They did not see the houses get torn down and rebuilt into a home depot with fences and faceless people. They watched instead the trees fall on parked cars and wondered about insur-ance and whether or not the city would replace the trees. Upstate they cut the trees with fears and tears - 30 at a time - they wanted the snakeskin to shed their shade and the ironwoods to remain tough. The paths they cut are much like the paths of old and lead right from the bottom of the stars. Fires burn once in a while and they congregate around these stories. The stories still meld together and actually change each time around. Not one person wants to write them down out of fear that they will die on the page. And here we are. I’ve missed you and it’s been nice to work with you again.

Once, or Twice

Backgroud Image: City Ellie Zur

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Joe Bassuk

But these are the golden days

I am lost in this crowd of animals andscoundrels, shrouded in the moment –an object of past wants – an heirloom –devil like, and aching. My excitementis waning at-any-rate and my head isjust out of bed – seriously – these little dancing legs of mine are searchingfor a warm room, a cave, the black matches that produce white flame. I’mweary of this moment and I’m draggingmy feet – watching the window – waitingfor results.

Above: UntitledDana Nitzani

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Radhika Sharma

Hollow Happiness

While away my hours in the lap of indulgence,Surrounded by silk so soft and exotic ornaments,

Bed of green paper and I’m plastered in gold,Carpets of gems and riches untold,Inside, this heart is still the same,

Blood, tissues, spirit so plain,No depth, just false peace and joy,What’s the point of all this wealth?

When the soul of us remains destroyed,Ignored, forgotten, not given time,We lose ourselves with every mile,

And every penny that we earn and boast,Ego and pride makes us pay the cost,

Family, ties and love remain,Buried in our greed and our games,

As we go on, everything we lose,Purity or paper, you have to choose.

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Kendall Wind

Decay

The fog was heavy.

It spread mile after mile, passing through the carved rock that was strategically placed so not one would be disturbed. He did not take that into consideration. He walked until he reached her mark.

They were together for about 10 years so of course he took it heavi-ly. He never took the time recover from the shock. One foot planted in the grass and the other resting on his shovel. Pile after pile of dirt until he reached it. Wrong one. He kept looking. The only problem, it had been 40 years. Of course her flesh was gone.

Right: SnakeEmma Pittelman

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Sophia + FacesCamila O’Brien

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Belen Edwards

Darryl’s StoryPooh Bear is working the afternoon shift again. He glances

at the door to the Can-Can diner as it opens, a small bell ringing softly in the Chicago heat. The customer is no one he recognizes, so he puts his head down and finishes wiping the ketchup off the din-er’s counter, straightening a menu on his way back to the kitchen.

The cooks don’t mind as he takes an ice cube from the freezer and rubs it on his forehead. Ever since the air conditioning broke, they’d been using up the ice supply at any moment possible. Customers were constantly complaining about the lack of ice in their drinks, but Pooh Bear thinks that a customer would rather have a slightly lukewarm drink instead of a grumpy, sweaty waiter.

Not that Pooh Bear is grumpy in front of the customers. The smile appears on his face right as he crosses into the diner proper from the kitchen. And it doesn’t disappear until he is well out of sight. He always draws a smiley face on the back of the cheques, and he always laughs at the customers’ jokes.

He can’t get a moment’s rest today; not because the restau-rant is terribly busy, but because there’s only one other waiter there today and he is slumped in the kitchen corner from the heat. Pooh Bear grabs his notepad and gets to work taking orders and relaying them back to the chefs, dancing between the tables and alongside the countertop, reeling in tips with each smile that graces his lips. He balances burgers and baked beans, french fries and fried chick-en.

But when he’s not working (which is rare), he’s fiddling with a pen in his pocket, watching the door, waiting for the little bell to ring.

Pooh Bear’s real name is Darryl. He’s 17 years old, and he lives in Evanston, Chicago. He’s very studious, and didn’t have too many friends for most of his life, just because they subtracted from his work. A part of him has always wanted to take risks: go down that waterslide, try out for the team… or maybe something more.

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He’s never done anything of the sort.He’s worked four jobs in his life. He was a babysitter at 13,

an assistant lifeguard at 14, and a waiter at 17. But his longest run-ning job was working from the age of 15 to 16 and a half as a Pooh Bear mascot wandering the streets of downtown Chicago taking photos with tourists. He scared more people than he amused.

It was this job that earned him the nickname of Pooh Bear. He had spent three months on the job when he noticed a girl from school following him around with a camera. The girl’s name was Jessica, and she would soon become one of his best friends. But he didn’t know that at the time.

He’d posed for photos with young children, but he would al-ways be watching her out of the corner of his fuzzy yellow costume. He’d fallen to sleep at night wondering why that girl was following him around.

Jessica worked for the school paper. She’d seen Darryl slip on his Pooh Bear head one day after school and had decided to fol-low him around for a scoop. She got a lot of blurry photos of chil-dren running away from him. She wished she could have recorded the kids’ screams of, “Mommy, the bear is chasing me!” It would have made a great podcast.

She talked to Darryl for the first time after the story ran in the paper. Or rather, Darryl talked to her. He stormed towards her at the end of the day waving a paper in her face. On the front page was a photo of Darryl unzipping his costume, revealing his freckled back.

Darryl threw the paper at Jessica. “What the hell?” She threw her hands out in front of her to

fend him off. “It’s a good story, I’m sorry, I should have asked you first,

I know…” He’d shushed her. “Why did you put in the photo of me stripping?”

“You’re not really stripping…”“Fine, disrobing, whatever you want to call it. Why?” Jes-

sica’s hands began to tremble as she tried to explain herself. Later, Darryl would realize that the closer she came to laughing or freak-ing out, the faster her hands would shake. It was one of those things

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that he’d grow to appreciate as they became friends. Although it embarrassed her to no end, he thought it was cute, and he would tell her so in the months to come.

“I wanted to show the hypocrisy of the mascot business… The character’s all a shell, you know? Like, you’re killing some poor kid’s dream by dressing as his childhood favorite and parading around as him for money.”

“You just wanted to put a photo of someone stripping in the paper, didn’t you?” Jessica hadn’t denied it, and Darryl had laughed. “You could have at least told me. I would’ve been able to work out beforehand, get ripped.”

“Whatever you say, Pooh Bear,” Jessica replied. The nickname stuck. Darryl grew to like the it and gained

some kind of affection for it in the end. Sometimes he’d wear a red shirt and yellow pants to resemble the bear, just for fun. Some-times he would ask people for honey, practically throwing himself at them, just to keep the joke going. “Pooh Bear,” he decided, “was definitely a honey junkie.”

He was a good sport.Jessica brought him into her group of friends: Carl, Tammy,

and Steve. Darryl had a hard time adjusting, especially after Carl emptied a bag of colored feathers into his locker as a joke. Months later, Darryl was still getting rid of bits of plumage he found in his binders. He never really forgave Carl for that.

Tammy was Jessica’s friend from first grade. She was shock-ingly beautiful, but never used her looks to make other feel inferior. She never tried to emphasize her looks either, opting to help Jessica with her hair instead of brushing her own. It didn’t stop guys from giving her looks in the hallway, but she didn’t care. She was happy with her boyfriend Steve.

She and Steve were pretty quiet together, but it was plain they liked each other a lot. Darryl liked how they could express their feelings with a nudge of the shoulder or a squeeze of the hand. He still wishes that he could find the courage to be like that around the person he loves.

The bell rings, and Pooh Bear knows it’s him without look-

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ing up. The new customer doesn’t know Darryl, but Darryl feels finely attuned to him, like he’s known him his whole life, like he can predict his movements, almost.

The guy walks in, following his routine. Darryl hears him reach up and jingle the bell with his hand, laughing as he makes his own music. Then, there is the customary scuffing of the shoes, a brisk 1-2-3 on the “Welcome” mat at the entrance. Darryl follows along with the scuffing, in time with with the new arrival.

Darryl hears him as he crosses the floor, running his hands along the diner countertop until he reaches his spot: seat E-12, a stool at the far corner of the diner. What’s the guy’s name? Darryl doesn’t know, too shy to ask. For all intents and purposes, he nick-named him E-12. After all, he never sits anywhere else.

“Pooh Bear, can you get the guy who just came in?” The other waiter, slumped in the corner by the refrigerator, is usually the one who covers E-12’s orders. Too hot and too lazy today, he leaves the task to Darryl, who takes it and runs with it. He smooths his hair back, then ruffles it a little. He can’t decide what looks bet-ter. He chooses the unkempt look.

From where he stands, he can see E-12 waiting. He is tap-ping a small rhythm on his wrist, something Pooh Bear has noticed and grown to love. With motions that reek of both excitement and nervousness, he picks up his pen and pad, straightens his apron and ties a little bow in the back, and steps into the diner, approaching a boy he loves, but who doesn’t know him.

Darryl was 16 when he came out to his group of friends. “Pooh Bear gate”, as he liked to call it, had happened a few months back. He’d invited his friends over to watch a movie, some indie comedy that they’d been too lazy to see in theaters.

Darryl had spent the whole day in front of his mirror, prac-ticing. What words should he emphasize more? Should he move his hands around, or keep it low-key? He got it down, word by word. He minimized his movements but maximized his sincerity. He per-formed it for himself, to himself.

When he and his friends stopped watching the movie, he pulled them into a circle and requested that the “talk. Just talk, real-

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ly talk.”At first, Darryl stuttered a little. “I’ve got something to tell

you,” he whispered under his breath. The he repeated it, a little bit louder. Jessica put her hand on his shoulder. He gasped out a small laugh. “I don’t think I can,” he muttered.

It was quite different than performing in front of a mir-ror, because it wasn’t a performance. He was stupid to ever have thought that. It was more sincere than that. He was opening up to his friends, not to his carbon copy reflected in a bit of glass.He was laughing a little bit as he realized that. “Oh, god... I thought I was ready, but...”

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,” said Tammy.

There was some silence as Darryl collected himself, patting his knees in an erratic rhythm to calm himself.

“Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case I think we have the right to know,” joked Carl, breaking the silence.

The nervousness subsided as Darryl laughed. “I’m not a serial killer. I’m gay.” And it just happened. There was a brief pause, then Jessica hugged him, Tammy and Steve joined in the hug, and Carl gave a little clap of surprise. He then proceeded to bowl every-one over in a massive bear hug. Then everyone was laughing and Darryl was laughing with them, and soon everyone was patting him on the back and saying how relieved and proud they were of him. And he smiled, because it was so much better than talking to his mirror, and he had taken a risk, and it had paid off.

Coming out had been the hardest thing Darryl had ever done up until now. Talking to the guy at E-12 is a lot harder, he realizes as he takes his order.

“Could I start you off with anything to drink?” His voice falters a little when E-12 looks up.

“Hello… ,” he smiles, then peers at Pooh Bear’s name tag. “…Darryl. I’ll have a 3 musketeers milkshake.”

To Pooh Bear, his pen is louder than usual as it scratches across the paper, writing down the order. He wonders whether he looks too tense. He tries relaxing his hand, leaving a messy scrawl.

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Is he sweating? He probably is. He hopes that E-12 can’t smell anything.

“Actually, can I order my food now?” E-12 asks. Darryl nods, but he knows already what E-12 gets. He gets the same thing every time. “A cheeseburger, medium, with blue cheese fries on the side, and a salad with ranch.”

Pooh Bear gulps. What if he’s writing too slowly? Will he suspect anything? He looks up at E-12, who is smiling happily out the window. He doesn’t even see me, he thinks.

Darryl snaps up his notebook, and manages to force out the words, “Your food will be here shortly,” before he turns and half-walks, half-runs back into the kitchen.

He leans up against the counter, wiping sweat from the tip of his nose. “Totally unprofessional,” he murmurs. One of the cooks swears as a burger goes up in flames. It takes all three cooks to put the fire out, but the burgers on the grill are ruined. They turn to Darryl. “Did he order the milkshake again?” Pooh Bear nods. Other people noticed E-12’s order as well. Does that mean something? He grimaces. Too possessive.

“You okay?” asks the cook. Pooh Bear nods.“Good,” says the cook. “Could you make the shake for him? We’ve been set back just a little bit.” Darryl nods again, but inside, he’s screaming.

He knows how to make the milkshake, but the possibility of failure is too real, and Pooh Bear is too nervous. He clenches his hands and walks toward the milkshake machine.

The 3 musketeers milkshake was the reason E-12 kept com-ing back to the Can-Can diner. The first time Pooh Bear had seen him, he had been raving about the milkshake.

It had been a busy day at the diner when E-12 had walked in and situated himself at the counter that would soon be considered as his. Darryl had seen him walk in. He’d admitted to himself that the guy was attractive. But he didn’t let that stop him from doing his work.

He had ordered a 3 musketeers milkshake, which had sur-prised all the waiters. The shake had been placed on the menu, but no one had ever ordered it. The cooks were apprehensive about the

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Above: Chica GirlCamila O’Brien

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guy’s choice, but they’d fixed the shake anyway. All service halted. The milkshake was made for the first

time ever. Darryl and the other waiters stared as the cook mixed marshmallows and chocolate ice cream and 3 musketeers bars. The shake was topped with a generous helping of whipped cream and a fun size 3 musketeers bar. Darryl had watched as one of the waiters brought it out to the guy at E-12.

The guy stuck a straw into the whipped cream and took a long slurp of the shake.

The diner had never been so silent. Darryl watched as E-12. closed his eyes and smiled, setting

down the milkshake with a small clink. Then he opened his eyes. “My quest for the perfect milkshake is officially over!” He turned and addressed the kitchen staff. “Thank you for the best milkshake ever!” He seemed almost giddy with joy as he continued drinking the milkshake, kicking his legs back and forth to a tune it seemed only he could hear. Darryl examined the guy at E-12, his heart beating a little faster. He seemed so happy, shameless, free. Darryl wanted to be like that.

And watching this guy finding so much joy from a milk-shake, Darryl though he was in love. And when E-12 stood up and made a move to leave, Darryl wanted to rush out and ask him to stay. But the guy looked back to his empty milkshake glass and smiled. He turned to talk to one of the waiters passing him, and when the waiter came back, Darryl listened eagerly to his words. Apparently, the diner had gotten itself a regular. And it was the word regular that lifted Darryl’s spirits. He knew that he would be seeing the boy from E-12 again.

Pooh Bear grabs a 3 musketeers bar with shaking hands, placing it in the blender. What if he does a bad job with the shake? The guy at E-12 may not come back. He quashes the thought. Don’t be silly, it’s just one shake, he reasons. But it’s my shake, the shake that I’m making him, he continues to think. How will that make me feel if he doesn’t like it? His hands clench as he takes three scoops of chocolate ice cream and watches them fall beside the chocolate bar. A handful of mini marshmallows joins the mix, and Pooh Bear

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finishes everything off with a quarter cup of milk. He doesn’t check anything over, he just puts the lid on the blender and pushes the go button. The ingredients jump and swirl around, making Darryl feel nauseous. His hands sweat, but he doesn’t let go of the button until the milkshake is creamy and thick: the perfect consistency.

Quickly, without thinking, he dumps the milkshake into a tall cup, sprays whipped cream on the top, and places a fun size 3 musketeers bar at the center of the whipped cream swirl, just like he’d seen the cooks do it. He poked a straw through the cream and grabbed the glass, hurrying over to E-12 and placing the shake down. “Your food will be here shortly,” he says, trying to smile. E-12 nods and takes a sip of the milkshake, completely forgetting the straw. He closes his eyes. Darryl keeps his open, watching E-12 as he drinks. At the last second, he turns away. You are such a creep, he tells himself. The sip seems to last forever, and Darryl wonders why. Is the shake so bad that the drinker can’t speak? Maybe he’ll offer a refund. That’s what he’ll do, he thinks, just as E-12 speaks.

“They get better and better each time I come here,” he says. Pooh Bear turns to find E-12 staring at the milkshake with a strange kind of reverence on his face. A face which Darryl can’t help but notice is covered in whipped cream. He laughs in spite of himself.

“You got a little something...” He points at his lip. E-12 wipes at the cream.

He laughs. “It seems that I do.” He makes a great show of licking the whipped creams from his lips, which makes Darryl smile even more. He taps his feet on the ground in elation because he did not mess up the milkshake, and he is laughing - actually laughing - with E-12. For that moment, they are friends. And it is the happiest moment of Pooh Bear’s life. Until the cook rings the little bell that signals that an order is ready. Darryl rushes to the kitchen to bring E-12 his food, then he retires to the back, replaying the memory of the laughter in his mind. He fiddles with the pen in his pocket, an idea coming to mind.

When the guy at E-12 gets his cheque, he won’t find Darryl’s trademark smiley face on the back. He’ll find a number. Pooh Bear scribbles down his phone number, not thinking about any of the consequences if he gets rejected. This is the risk he’s wanted to take

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for so long now. He slaps the cheque on the little black tray, brings it to E-12, smiles, gives the “Have a nice day” spiel, and leaves. Back in the kitchen, he doesn’t watch the guy’s reaction. He doesn’t watch him leave, but he hears the door close and knows that he is gone. He jumps up and looks toward counter seat E-12. The cheque is gone. E-12 took the number.

Darryl resists the urge to do a small dance, returning to his state of professionalism for the last ten minutes of his shift. He is walking home at the end of the day when his phone vibrates. The number is unknown, but Pooh Bear has a feeling that he knows who it is. This is the first time he’ll be talking to E-12 as not a wait-er, but possibly a friend. He breathes in and answers the phone. “Hello?”

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Antonia Weeks

Blue & GoldIt’s carcassCovered in blue. Tinged with Gold.Smeared with greasy fingerprints from hands searching for answersTime and time again.

It holds the lyrics to your favorite song, the lines from your favorite poem, the words from your favorite book.It holds the answers to every test, every question ever asked. It holds every emotion yours and mine, it cradles them in its pages. Filled

It can read your thoughts, it can judge you, and it will. It gives people power, every one of its pages, can give someone so much power, so much power to hurt, and misuse, and mistreat.

It holds secrets, memories, whispers, colors, feelings, it holds your hatred, your sorrow your love

It feeds off of all of this.

It is thin it is thickIt is small and far too bigIt goes Up and DownLeftwards rightwardsNever backwardsNever forwardsWhatever you search for, you were or will beIt knows

The never endingDecomposingForever dead

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Nomi Kligler

The Sound of His NameHe can’t stop repeating his name. A constant mantra of Calder Calder Calder steadies his heart rate and pumps oxygen into his lungs. Over and over. If he stops saying his name, it will die along with him. And Calder wants to be remembered. He wants someone to remember that his favorite smell was lavender, and that once he tried to make waffles but he mixed up the salt with the sugar. He wants someone to remember that he got 88% on his Chemistry final.

But Calder knows. He doesn’t want to, but he knows. Soon every-thing, not only himself, will be forgotten. Nobody will be capable of memory. There will be no one here to remember Star Wars, or Obama, or to stop and smell the roses. No one will remember the world record of ski jumping, or the nuclear bomb, or the hairstyle of 2014. Still, Calder sits, his face in the stars, trying to save it. To save it all in his one tiny name. Calder Calder Calder. Presently, ev-erything will continue on its way. It will disintegrate, and turn into stars and swirling particles of dust. Calder’s name sinks into the wet grass and curls up with the smoke from the chimney. No one hears.

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Background Image: DockHazel Dunning

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Jazmin Kay

The Mouse Man for E.E Cummingsin Just-august when the world is filled with a-candy-apple-breezethe man with no name andfive layers of Christmas-card-sweaterssleeps with dry eyes draped upon the cobblestone corner

and joeandmarcy comelaughing and pinching the bridges of their silk-shined-nosesinhaling each other’s spit, smiling, and it’s augustwhen the world is filled with a-candy-apple-breeze

the mouse manwith no name sleeps with dry eyesdraped upon thecobble stone cornerand joeandmarcy’s parents come plump scolding pointing“never go near him- never go again”

andit’s still augustand

the

lint-lustedman with no name awakenswith dry eyesdraped upon thecobblestonecorner

37Dante Kanter

Barshti’s Mom Tracy

I fall out into sheets of cold air and night sounds with Barshti, an Indian kid with a sharp nose and a hefty stomach, because Barshti’s mom jumped off the walkway over the Hudson, and my mom stuck her head in the oven. It makes me mad and him mad with a bounc-ing noise that we can only get out by screaming, and that’s what we did, went screaming with our shirts off through blankets of snow and deep blue star-skies.

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39

Layla Michalopolous

Ode to a Burrito

Oh, you beautiful Mexican delight,With your abundance of wondersAnd your magical warmth that makes me shake when I hold you in my hands.You are like a food that gives itself hugs.Your glorious, circular tortilla,Your little grains of comfort and hope you call rice.Your sensual meat.Your beans are the delectable glue of your fragile existenceAnd your cheese, oh lord, your beautiful cheeseThe juicy pico de gallo, my refreshing salvationYour guac, oh, your guac, makes me want to live and die all at once.I will tuck you into your warm tinfoil bedUntil I am ready to devour youAnd love you.

Left: WolfQuinn Coughlin

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Jack Warren

VagabondsWe have not kissed and I have not seen the pale contour of your hipcascade moonlight and melt into the warm palm of my hand.

But together, we are a house fire. Dancing and licking at particles of dustcasting shadows on the cold forsaken walls.

There we sleep. The satins of whispered conversation enwrap us like blanketsand the fluttering feathers of fingers furtively interlockedrest beneath our tired heads.

We are not lovers.And still, we live in each other’s eyes,hearts racingwaiting for the other to be the first to breathe.

We are not lovers. We are vagabondsclutching eachother in the infinite darkness.

Right: SeriesRachel Honigman

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Jazmin Kay

A+B=No milk,just sugar

the W, arch of his brow, dried sweat creased in-between his origami skinSipping a coffee Au laitRRRipping a sugar packet against his Yellow teeth Emptying the remains onto his saucer“NO MILK, JUST SUGAR”The waitress, B, beautiful, like bamboo sheetsWaits for A, the final customer of the NightB, wants to go- spoon with her dog

They waitSensing the others presence, just only speaking when B pleadsB: “Anything else? A: NO MILK, JUST SUGAR” hovering over his mUgEven, at the End, when the coffee glazes the bare bottom of the white porcelain And B comes close, putting her hand on the table, mesmerized by the morning-glory-blossoms peeping through the last remainder of foamyetA + B are close, near the same, lonely, but never touch.

Right: What Are You Looking At?Maralina Gabriel

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An Impressive Articulation Camila O’Brien

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Aj Maniglia

Dante’s DinerWhen it began, it began (as these things often do) in the

sticky back booth of a Denny’s rip off diner; Dante’s at three AM. Miles Hong and Virgil had just traded sweaters and Milly had fallen asleep on Tank’s shoulder as the waitress dropped another plate of Frank’s four dollar all you can eat pancakes in front of him. Frank eyed them with lust, and then turned to the waitress. She bulged out of her apron in every direction. Her eyes were spaced too far apart and they seemed not to see him. She had on a name tag that read “Sparkle”. Frank started, and then looked away shyly. Sparkle blinked. “Do you think...” he started “Could you...” Frank Spoke in a tone that one reserves for asking someone to do an es-pecially degrading sexual favor. “Could you bring me another side of bacon?” Sparkle’s eyes narrowed. the little beady black balls of pupil peeked out and scanned the seven stacked, sticky and syrup covered plates. Tombstones of pancakes without name. Ghosts of bacon past.

Her eyes moved back to Frank ( or at least on either side of him) and the skin above became uneven. one eyebrow cocked she emitted a sassy “mmhmmm” type noise that decreased Franks appetite, but didn’t obliterate it. Not much could have. He watched her ass as she swaggered off and harpooned another pancake, then stopped and looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Judges. Miles Hong was playing candy crush and Virgil was no-where to be found. Milly was still sleeping and Tank seemed to be smelling her hair. Sparkle was hopefully off getting the bacon. That left only four other people in the restaurant, all dining alone. Even though all of them could have seen him if they’d wanted, three quarters of them were homeless (one was a construction worker vacuuming up his hash browns) so Frank decided he didn’t care if they saw. Slowly and carefully he packed butter and syrup into a pancake before rolling it up like the world’s biggest breakfast joint. Then he leaned his head back and deepthroated the potcake, swallowing it practically whole. Eyes watering he lowered his head

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down to see homeless man number two staring at him through the steam of his cheap untouched coffee. No one likes to be stared at, especially not when they’ve just engulfed their fifteenth pancake, so Frank looked away, but he could still feel homeless man number two’s eyes resting on his face. Frank felt a queasy, heavy feeling in his stomach, and waddled off towards the bathroom to take his own number two. The eyes followed him.

The bathroom had all the fine trappings and elegance one would expect in a Dante’s bathroom, by which I mean Frank’s Birkenstocks stuck to the floor. He grimaced at the thought that abandoned urine might launch from the tile cracks, lashing out fallen hair and lint at his unprotected toes like a Kraken pulling a ship below murky waters. Frank picked up pace flopping across the floor until he reached the third stall in a line of them. He closed and locked the door in one fluid motion and threw off his pants which crumpled on the linoleum. Frank liked to take his pants completely off for this. boxers adorning his ankles he sat and... Well... Did what one tends to in these situations; gave the restaurant back it’s pan-cakes.

As he sat, Frank became more perceptive. He listened to the sound of the air conditioning, and the muffled pop music playing outside. Becoming bored his eyes scanned the walls for literature, and he was not disappointed. A fine selection of writers had been there leaving their mark on history, in phrases such as “Weed Wolf loves cock,” and “call Beatrice for a good time,” and the unforgetta-ble “Fuckle.” This of course made the giant, satanic, three headed dog carved into the stall door seem a bit lost.

The dog looked like a rottweiler, but bred for war, staring straight into Frank. It was like a biker tattoo in a halloween cos-tume. Frank couldn’t help laughing at this, even though it was a little unsettling. Then his laughter stopped as he heard a low, low rumbling from somewhere in the pipes. He sat frozen, the thought of sewer alligators and toilet snakes sneaking it’s way into his mind, but what was really coming was much worse.

There was a gurgling sound, like a rabid deer might make, steadily rising closer and closer to Frank. Suddenly the toilet started shaking. the tile started shaking. the whole damn bathroom

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shimmied. The drain in the middle of the floor started coughing and spitting, chunks of something Frank didn’t care to look at too closely flying upwards and onwards. Frank held on to the sides of his porcelain roller coaster for dear life. Then in an instant every-thing was still. The drain was quiet. The pipes were quiet. Only the muffled pop music from outside could be heard. Baby you’re a fiiiiirework! Come on let your… Frank felt water hit his ass.

It was a while before the other restaurant goers found Frank or rather smelled him. The stench was unbearable. Fresh and lukewarm, seeping into the carpet from underneath the men’s room door. It took two gas masked firefighters to pull Frank’s limp, drowned, shit covered body out as everyone stood holding their noses in disbelief. Sparkle turned around from the action. “‘notha plate of wasted bacon” she mumbled and slid Franks leftovers into the trash.

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Casey Hall

Tries its Best to LiveCan you hear it? There’s a heartbeat, in this hall. Can you feel it? There is blood rushing, oozing and staining between your toes. rushing under the soles of your feet, a sliding carpet of red-hot red.The tang of metal is sharp, salt is staining your eyes. Feel the walls. Feel the cracking bone, expanding. contracting. This organism, this house of wonders, tries its best, to live. Walk down this hall, this hall of beating hearts, try to find what you’re looking for. Can you hear it? That is the sound of your own laughter, why didn’t you didn’t rec-ognize it before? Look at your reflection, sitting pretty on that vein in the wall. Do you see yourself? Or are your features some grim caricature of a face on the street somewhere? Twisted and ground into something that is painful to see and to feel and to think and to be and to say………Can you feel it? You can feel your bones breaking and splitting in two as you turn, your head around, to look back at the entrance, you’re only a few steps away, and it’s a good idea to leave.

Top Right: MushroomsAndrew Rector

Bottom Right: FungiHarrison O’Clair

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Above: ManAsa Spurlock

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Julian Router

Perfect ManOne fluid black strokewas the genesis, her own personal “in the beginning,”She created in him the heavens and the earth.The perpetual Fraulein savored that first mark,permanent, chasing away the stark whiteness on her canvas,her life. The quivering brush issued forth blackand orange and green, vibrant purple echoed and crimson life’s bloodpoured into him. When she was finished, peering through the old maid’s glasses:The perfect man.Her husband: a notion long postponed and now an impossibilityfor virgins are sought after in summer, but never autumn.Originating from her, embracing her, forever tied to her.A lover, brazen locks courting the stoic visagebeneath the warrior’s brow, fiery orbs bespeaking courage and tenderness.Short of breath, she put awaythe stained rough and elegant tools that made her a private God.Scraped the multicolor residue of a dedicated life from her handswith sand and boiling water,scoured her legs and face and breasts,tamed and smoothed sheafs of wheat-rough hair.In the maiden’s dress she’d never worn beforeshe presented herself to him. The kiss he gave readily, wet red coming off upon her lips,it dripped down the canvas suddenly, rapidly,virgin’s blood but in no sacrifice, staining the hem of her pure gown.And the black and orange and green, the vibrant purple with it, all streaked and bubbledsplashing around the crimson that danced and twisted upon the flat white surfaceAnd she was hurt by the man who emerged from that surface and clasped his red armsabout her frail neck and they were strong and sinewed as she’d made them,and he choked her and she lost her lungs

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her sight, all but his eyesher life would stream black like ink into the pond of fire set hoveringbefore his hungry faceraw and Hell she had given life to Helllet blind evil loose on the worldall because of a pitiful whim; all because she wouldn’t die alone.clawing fingers clawing desperate weak old weak quivering virgin artist’s handstoo weak too unlovable too alone nothing left nothing left to live forbut no more must suffer, only she deserved this.Quick thinking, a well placed straight razor and a cup of paint remover.Well away went the arms into the oblique whiteness,And the dear Fraulein wept.Ever after,it was only blues and whites and grays and blacksthat played themselves across her life’s canvas,for her muse was not a consuming fire any longer but a pile of melting iceher heart much the same.She painted no more forms true to life,only shapes and lines and dots, abstract has no deception beyond its own admission;no more sculpted brows, no more warm eyes,no more arms made for tenderness.

Right: ManAsa Spurlock

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54

Jack Warren

Beautiful Lies We Tell OurselvesClimb the mountain, they tell me my hair long, my hat knitTo see Santa Claus, the real oneMy mother nods with earnest She suspects I’m taller today, a quarter inch.My hair grows shorter.

Climb the mountain, they say,Heart held by a girl with milky way eyes,see the Seven States, see them glow.But how, I sayAs I stand atop a manmade waterfalland cry.I am torn asunder. I want to staybut my heart lies in Seven States.

Climb the mountain, they whispermy hat locked in some faraway closetKnit by a false mother in a foreign land with bloody hands,mass producedand sent to my closet.They tell me to go to Lover’s LeapWhere truth fell in love with liesAnd together died for cheap romance novels and late night latino soap opera. I sit and see a waterfall.I swim, collecting the red cardiac pebblesthat fell so long ago. They shine bright with Santa’s coat

The real one.The false mother.The beautiful fiction.

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Background Image: Fairgrounds Sophia Foster

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Kaya Nodelman

don’t get me wrong, I believe there’s something good in everything I see (just like ABBA)

don’t get me wrong, I believe there’s something good in everything I see (just like ABBA) everything’s spinning out of control with bird nests made of hair and fabric and cameras full of mountains and bedsheets and posters. poetry lines walls when meant to be adventuring away away from the irregular and into a quest filled with slaying beasts and attempting not to make the addams family references and ending up curling up and planning other people’s answers for situations they’re not in and never will be but they’re closer to it than you so that’s probably why. and browns and greys fill the air in foggy smudges and everything’s louder except for the things you actually want to hear like wind and cats ungraceful-ly crashing into plates that come out of a tom waits song. but no, everything is salad out of tupperware and laughing at something that probably isn’t even that funny. rusted bicycles get covered in debris and songs are quoted to the annoyance of the scorpios. the writer of this has no idea what they are doing and it’s late and the world is swirling and they are making no sense whatsoever. and yes this is part of the non-poem that has no capitalization because now it looks all artsy and is somewhat disorienting but really it’s just rambling on and on and when should it stop the writer of this never quite knows when to stop. let’s all just sing songs we only like ironically we swear and sail off into the sunset hoping no one gets seasick.

Top Right: RoofRachel Honigman

Bottom Right: BodyRachel Powers

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58

Quality of Life Issues in the City

Get a job drunklarge nose city type of snot—

Can you hear it?The women and lips and hungry teeth like dancing drums selling their wears along the streets—

goods tucked in cabinets of glass

arms outreached overbalconies of smoke ovens

and fire—

logic and This is tourism—words This is carcasses and

bulls and finger printsgods in the shadow of

brushstrokes over manegocentric dots of red vibrations

andThis is dancing drums shredded thoughts—

the heart— fog— imprinted whispers dusty support beams spiced textiles

and wild life

Yank it open – quote the limpSmile

Joe Bassuk

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Background Image: CityscapeSammy Struzzieri

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Walls & Strings Months and daysyears, seasonsseconds slippingwhen I look behindat hazy, hollowyesterdays

so many were spent building,stacking bricksforging ironan indestructible blockadea castle, a fortress

the wall built itself before I couldlearn the pass code to its onlyentranceand the masses lined up alongthe perimeterstapping curiouslyat the barrierpeering through the crackswhen night fell

the crowds went homefeeling a little dejected, forthere were hours wasted“we’ll never get those back”and the stars twinkled from theirdusky perches

you are the echo in my vast emptinessfor when I sigh into the stillness,you sigh tooa sound like wind-weary grassand in the cellar, dust motes swirlawoken from their century slumbercastles, built on foundations ofsilence, must break down

crackssplit the crusted blocksand walls, heavy,crumble to dust again

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Foolish,I was,

to leave them,hollow and sick on the ground

pulled by stringsand looking

down

I can sense their sorrowas I am lost

to the sky

there is no crashing orcrumbling

up hereonly silence and wind

thunder and spacediscarded letters thrown about

on the cusps of currentspaper clouds and lantern stars

we are alone here,you and I—

forsaken by the ones we left behindbut I guess it feels less lonely

than when we were among them

I think you knew all alongthat I was biding my time

you call my name as thestarlings dart past

black specks on the white horizonand I do not answer

already they summon me back,their silent moth wings

gentle in the darkbut before I go

won’t you tell me, darlingare we free?

Eliza Siegel

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Helen Yang

“garden”when I was four years old,I planted seeds in the depths of my core,hoping they would blossom into a beautiful womanI watered them every daywith optimism and positivity,and I swatted away angst and rebellionas if they were mosquitoes and waspsmy mother gave me a bag of fertilizer,desperately urging for sunflowers --possibly daisies,maybe peonies or dandelionson my tenth birthdayI felt the stems radiating from the soil of my heart,and I felt an inordinate amount of gleeabout the growth of my gardenbut no flowers were to be found,plucked, or destined for a bouquet -- only mounds of colonizing weedsand emerald ivy that hugged my bonesso I ripped them out and uprooted them from my psycheand prayed for clouds of gaiety,sun rays of jubilance but I got lightning bolts of woeand rainbows drained of color;thunder bolts of solemnity echo and boom with such ferocityjune 24th, 2014roses grow in my ribcage,and while their petals delicately decorate my soul,their thorns have bled me dry

6363

Top: ParadiseIan Morse

Bottom: Misty Mountain Anonymous

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Special Thanks To

Heidi Turk, Adrian Hood, Nancy Finelli, Xhosa Frazier, Colleen Schropfer, Jack Warren, Katia Michalopoulos, Ava Mateo, Kaya Nodelman, Casey Hall, Lindsey Pittelman, Tonya Dechar, Bianca DePietro, Katya Freedman-Bush, Dashiell Hastings-Ward, Katie Wolgamuth, Mark and Karen Howensteien, Heidi Dippel, Robin Shornstein, Amy Mottola, DiggyPod, Lox of Bagels, Thursdogs, The Club, The Golden Notebook, Lower School Faculty & Staff, GoodLife Youth Journal, the WDS Media Department, EsopussuposE, Elaine Conroy, Early Childhood Faculty and Staff

We truly appreciate your help and support!

Left: Green CityBianca DePietro