entropy.A finite amount of energy exists to sustain the infinite number of random collisions that continuously shape our universe.Entropy is the response to a decrease in the total energy avail-able; every naturally occuring system seeks to reduce its de-pendence by moving toward chaos. Entropy is constant force, acting upon each molecule and pulling it away from order.

tab

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Wish by Joshua Siktar In the Dark by Grace Hamilton-Vargo Petrarchan Night by Erica Lange Shouk by Jess Block Crumble by Grace Hamilton-Vargo The Dreamer by Benjamin Chait Urge by Grace Hamilton-Vargo Rouge by Grace Hamilton-Vargo Existence Precedes by Kaila Yallum River Waltz by Lisa Fierstein Pirate Ship by Jess Block Sonnet 1337 by Grace Hamilton-Vargo Neural Mapping by Grace Hamilton-Vargo Reckless Girls by Sarah Waters The Damsel’s Key by Sarah Waters Accursed Femininity by Alex Zukoff Stay Awake by Alberto Sewald Wolves by Benjamin Chait

Amreeka(America) by Amrita Singh

Faces of Strangers by Lisa Fierstein

Journal Entries by Kaila Yallum

The Concept of Fate by Abigail Edenborn

Lace and Leather by Allyson Bartlett

Bridge to Peace by Elizabeth Friedman

On Photography by Aaren Barge

Yellow Awning by Jess Block

War Bride by Allyson Bartlett

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Night Sky by Jacob Block

Bonsai and Brick by Elizabeth Friedman

Faces by Lisa Fierstein

Bird by Connor Uretsky

Stream by Max Herz

Peek-a-Boo by Amrita Singh

The Performer by Benjamin Chait

Green Wave by Amrita Singh

Sunset by Lisa Fierstein

Walk in the Rain by Lisa Fierstein

Fashion by Benjamin Chait

Fall Colors by Amrita Singh

Asylum by Sean Holmes

Dive by Rick Thompson

In Memorium by Lexi Davis-Jones

The Simple Life by Aaren Barge

Smoke by Rick Thompson

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Farm Boy by Josh Loevner

Cascade by Summer Devlin

Leaf Stain by Cecily Milligan

Swirly by Lisa Firestein

Girl by Daniella Borerro

Bowl by Myiya Peters

Murderer by Allyson Bartlett

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WishJoshua Siktar

Who, these days, bothers to look up at the sky,on a clear night,no clouds, no rain, no hail, no fog, only a clear sky too big to find the volume of?

Who even remembered that the night sky existed?Who said anything more than “The sun is ris-ing” and “the sun is setting?”

No, I don’t have a working telescope,but what would that do,other than yield more detail for all the eager excited eyes to spy?

A single eye can’t see the entire horizon at once,let alone the whole sky.

But, despite that depressing ditch in an en-thusiastic stargazer’spassion that was just corroded,you can still see plenty,plenty of space,and plenty of air.

Film Photograph by Josh Loevner 5

In the Dark

I never want to fall in loveas much as I dowhen I sit in the dark.There are people in the lightswho have thrilling adventures and epic romanceswitty conversations and tragic tales.They don’t even notice us here in the dark.I sit in the dark and I stare eagerlyand I wish to be a player as well.I wish to step into the lightsand smile and cry like the rest of them.When I sit in the dark,I want to fall in lovein the spotlight.As soon as the light hits me,I am filled with the joyof being alone.

Grace Hamilton-Vargo

Digital Photographs by Jacob Block

Petrarchan Night

Mazes of stars embedded in the sky,Diffused light puddles shining from the moon.I am bathed in the ling’ring heat of June.Water is sloshing toward the earth where I lie,The trees sway in the wind and sweetly sigh.I feel so blithe in my cozy cocoon,Although I know the moment will end soon,Not yet must I wish this feeling goodbye.The aura of mere peace won’t always last,But pain can wait for a different night.I feel at one with the calm of the past,Now I will bask in the evening’s delight.Time feels like it is passing much too fastBut this instant, in my world, all is right.

Erica Lange

7

Digital photograph by Elizabeth Friedman

!" Hamouda!

Shoulder crash.

Turn around

back into a barrel of

marinating olives.

Spill orange rind, slices

of grapefruit, green

spices,

olive oil

onto bony ankles,

leather sandals.

Droplets sticking to

sweaty, crowded skin.

Bags and plastic and

white sacks.

Red, yellow, orange,

green spices

and dried fruit

line the path to the

produce,

strawberries, eggplant,

giant squash, melon.

Hamouda!

Underneath the scarves

and

soccer balls

hanging from above,

displayed by the wind,

the stray cats that

guard.

Jess BlockJess Block

9

“Ammuji, pass the daal,” my elderly grandmother says. We have just settled down at the table and finally get a chance to admire the fruits of our labor after hours of cooking. Today is our version of a national holiday rooted in tradi-tions of turkey, cranberry sauce, and football. Desi (Indian) Thanks-giving in my house would probably make the Pilgrims and Native Amer-icans stomachs rumble in their graves. Bland turkey is substituted with one cooked tandoori style, with a long marinade in spices and yogurt. Mashed potatoes are not on the menu. Instead there is aloo gobi, a combination of potatoes and cauliflower seasoned with turmeric and cumin. The recipes for these dishes have been passed down from generation to genera-tion like spoken poetry from a lost time.

Though we have advanced greatly since 1978; the year my father came to this country, there is still much more that can be done. Tolerance for other cultures comes from knowledge. As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sin-cere ignorance and conscientious stupidity”. It is our job to educate people about different walks of life and break down the barrier of xenophobia that separates us from the rest of the world. From my perspective as an Indian-American, I see more of my culture appear-ing in society: textiles from the east inspire fashion, people are begin-ning to do yoga, and eat the food of my ancestors. Right now, all we can do is have hope for the future Dr. King dreamed of with people of all colors being able to walk hand in hand free of racial discrimination and ignorance.

Amreeka (America) Amrita Singh

Photographs by Lisa Fierstein

My family didn’t understand my embarrassment of being differ-ent. To make matters worse, my parents had very strict rules about what I was allowed to do in my spare time when I wasn’t studying. While all my American friends were allowed to hang out on Forbes Avenue whenever they pleased, I was condemned to spending time in places of knowledge such as the library. My parents saw no point to aim-lessly wandering around Squir-rel Hill wasting time. These rules only caused me to have con-tempt for my culture and the way I was being raised. How I longed to have “Amreekan parents” who seemed liberal compared to the dictatorship I was under.

I am grateful to have grown up in the friendly neighborhood of Squirrel Hill, with people who celebrated my individuality and uniqueness rather than mocking it. Due to my sheltered upbring-ing, I cannot feign hardships that I have not had to face. Yes, there are stereotypes— that I must be smart, that my family runs an IT help service and that I am a veg-etarian and worship cows—that I hear all the time. Those are all gross generalizations.

11

I cannot help my inherent intrigue for strangers. I am a people watcher; I like to study people’s faces, body language, and I create scenarios in my mind about what I think the stranger’s life is like. For my film photography class, I designed a project called “Faces of Strangers,” where I interacted with strangers from various neighborhoods in my city and with their permission, captured them on camera. I was able to form quick connections with each person I approached by finding a common ground, and the idea of “stranger” dissolved after our quick moment of human connection--a mutual flash of a smile. I paid close attention to peoples’ reactions, and I was able to tell if someone was nervous, scared, shy, or loved be-ing in front of the camera. Because everyone I captured was unique--their smile, skin color, mannerisms, wrinkles--my defi-nition of beauty was altered and expanded. I went into the project thinking it would result in an interesting collection of faces, but it became much more than just snapshots of strang-ers; a deeper meaning developed because I had formed a personal connection with each person and had a unique story to tell about each of my interactions. This project only further deepened my intrigue for strangers, and allowed me to break the barrier between stranger and friend through the simple gesture of smiling for the camera.

FacesOf

StrangersArtist’sStatementLi

sa F

iers

tein

Digital photograph by Connor Uretsky 13

I held you stillso the dust could gatherand cover you

You squirmed closer to me,but never close enoughI pushed you awayfarther, stiller

Please fade.

Finally I let go, step back,you’re coated in a layer of dustthree inches thick. Perfect.I smile.

Then a rush of movement, like none I’ve ever seena friend runs by with a coy grin,waving the fan that knocked me over before(back when I wanted you dust-free, polished and shining)she shows the weapon’s second side

and a breeze

I can see your eyes again.Good Lord.

Those eyes.

Grace Hamilton-VargoCrumble

Digital Photograph by Max Herz 15

The DreamerBenjamin Chait

Pastel Graphic by Summer Devlin

Dec. 30The mall is like my mind: full. Everyone is running around so caught up in themselves and their styles. Is anyone here like me? Could anyone here ever stop and make eye contact with me and just see my thoughts projected like a movie? Could any-one stop and realize that this is all for nothing? Why buy clothes when they disintegrate in the grave?

Jan. 3This is the itch I cannot scratch. It grows and spreads until it's all up my legs. And it gains intensity until I'm sanding my skin and carving my shins. Even then, the itch eludes my psyche as it jumps from place to place, teasing my sanity. I must learn to control this itch: to ignore it enough to keep it steady without turning off my nerves.

Jan. 12It's like being caught in the undertow. I don't know how to break free and release myself. I should just relax, start floating on my back, and accept that I won't return to that shore. I'll relax into it, feel the water under me, and watch the clouds. I'll take everything in as I drift to the new shores of my life.

The Mall Is Like My MindKaila Yallum

17

There were Gardens full of Greed,And roses, and orchids, and gardenias,And of men, and of women, and moviegoers. And trees of life populated by seals, And dead deer, and little monkeys, Who drank vodka in water bottles by the pool-side,And who biked, and boated, and bit.

There were Fields full of Fear, And Claire, and Tom, And cold places filled with flames, Where outsiders were tied to train-tracks In the middle of the night. Where decisions shaped your life, As did diplomat’s sons, and vulnerabilities, and waking up alone, And being good or being gone.

There were Rooms full of Reality,And of coffee, and of cufflinks, and of cigarettes, and their smoke. The people all had small ears, and big mouths, and wide hips. The lovers could make out,And take off their clothes, and fall asleep. The men could share knives, and apologies, and stories of betrayal. The women could get together, get drunk, get naked, get arrested.

The DreamerBenjamin Chait

There were Deserts full of Dreams, And of realities, and philosophies, and rivers, Where Caesar would take photographs While flappers and vampires swam, And voyaged to Paris, and listened to Videotape, And went hunting with Hemingway, And had threesomes, And contemplated youth, and beauty, And Cristiana, and forgiveness.

There was a Dreamer,And a boy, and a girl,And a flood of carbon monoxideWhich made them waltz.And they danced in the darkness,And in the decay, and in the dreams.

Then came the Symphony of Sirens, And desires, and rockets, and salt water, And the music stopped, As did the dancing, and the quiet life, And the destruction, and the decadence, And grayness, and blandness, And round and cold, and black, and stars.

Still there was the dreamer, and the moon,And no one else.

19

I never understood the need to vandalize,

rip, and destroy until I felt their eyes

boring into me, the few that had them.

I felt the gazes even from the headless

ones, the scantily-clad porcelain

slave-girls who changed at the snap

of the master’s fingers—yet never

changed at all. I felt their slender,

perfect, useless arms reaching for me,

their tendrils slicking softly over the

faces of children who would bow to

them later, through the hair of vulnerable

adolescents who already envied them,

and I wanted to wring every scrap of life

from their cold, limp bodies.

But I still wanted to mold my simple human

clay to look like theirs.

After all, they are flawless, and I am flawed.

UrgeGrace Hamilton-Vargo

Digital Photo by Amrita Singh 21

RougeGrace Hamilton-Vargo

Blood everywhereso much that it coloured my scarlet throneDays of breath arrested by the leaking in my throatI remember how I couldn’t move for fear of seasoning the pain with tears

Didn’t even bandage it—just a flesh wound, please ignore the red stainsthat only I can see

And oh, you loved to grab me by the throatremind me how you tore me upwith a smile on your faceas I choked

SorryI walked too close to your knifeand only now the wound beginsto scab and itch, not bleedon my ruby-encrusted bed.

Image by Cecily Milligan

I rebuke the concept of fate. I once clung to it like a frightened child, always filled with fatalistic notions of my future decisions, and utterly con-vinced that I could only pursue a life as an artist and a linguist and nothing more. Any other choice would inevitably lead to a future of hollow achievements and all-consuming regret, because the love that I harbored for Japanese language and art was unlike any other emotion that I’d ever felt: in drawing, I could be free of worldly fears, separate my mind from the self-deprecation that held me back from so many things in life and feel pride in having painted a beautiful world that I could feel some semblance of joy in making. It was my one respite from a life that I utterly rebuked, filled with parents and teach-ers with high expectations, a group of peers that I had no way of connecting with due to incompatible interests and beliefs, and most of all, my personal, unrealistic expectations of who I should be. I was utterly convinced that

The Concept of Fateby Abigail Edenborn

be that I will never be able to appease. The first school that I attended from kindergarten to ninth grade pro-vided an isolating experience. My obsessive interests in illustration and language left no room for what the rest of my peers embraced, and my personal beliefs were not typical of the highly religious area I lived in; as children tend to do, I was bullied as an iconoclast. Placed in an environment where I felt unaccepted and was too weak to make an attempt to make compromises in my presentation of myself for the purpose of making friends, I receded into art and translation, promising myself that, one day, I would go to college and be able to wholeheartedly focus on my true passions. I was utterly convinced that my unhappiness stemmed from a lack of an artistic environment alone, and as soon as it became a viable possibility, I chose to leave public school in favor of online schooling so as to have more time to focus on my true goals.

23

In total solitude, I began to accept that it was fated that I was to seclude myself from society and become a master of illustration, as rav-ing mad as the classic painters whose names still linger in the forefront of society. To a disillusioned teenage girl desperately searching for something to aspire to, it seemed to be an ad-mirable rejection of society, a sign of a greater pursuit of self-fulfillment in lieu of allowing one’s sense of self to evaporate until said person became a hollow corporate drone. There was no room for expansion, even in the face of other interests I held. I had wholly accepted that anything less than an artistic major would be an irredeemable failure, and the pressure of this goal mounted daily. Somehow, though, I began to find that I couldn’t draw anymore. My progress in Japanese came to a halt. No matter how many projects I start-ed, none were good enough; I stared night

after night at fifty hours of work on one page, completely unfinished im-ages, half-translated books I had only vague certainty in, then would throw them all away and repeat the process endlessly. I felt incapacitated and con-fused. I had no finished pieces to speak of despite working around the clock, and couldn’t justify my own classification of myself as an artist. What was I if not an artist? I had little else left that I could cling to for emo-tional support in my world. The char-acters I drew were my substitutes for any friends that I might have had, the stories that I made were shadows that overpowered my actual life. I used art and Japanese culture as a means to run away from everything that frightened me: the people who ha-rassed me at school, my own insecuri-ties about myself and my future, the simultaneous ugliness and beauty of reality that I could not comprehend.

Artistically depleted, I realized that I had deprived myself of so many things that I had dismissed as irrelevant to my ultimate goals: social connec-tions, attention to my other interests, and a greater understanding of who I was beyond a person who was capable of drawing and speaking languages to no one. Who was I to betray fate? But looking back on every op-portunity that I had rejected in my life in lieu of locking myself in the perfect world inside my head, the holy mean-ing of the word “fate” began to shatter; my notion of fate had doomed me to the same one-track treadmill towards nothingness that I had so anxiously wanted to avoid, barring all other expe-riences that had the potential to, ironi-cally, make my actual life more like the one inside my mind. And thus, in my junior year of high school, I stepped outside of my home and entered a private school. Even as a senior nearing my gradua-tion,

Paintings by Lisa Fierstein

I am still terrified to be here, but every day I feel the fear diminish in unique ways. I can now speak of myself as someone who has made friends, can name aspects of my character beyond merely technical abilities, and can func-tion in day-to-day society as a normal person for the sake of pursuing what I find important. Perhaps this is an un-impressive task, but compared to the person I was for fifteen years of my life, it is somehow unimaginable to me that I could ever exude confidence in situ-ations or find comfort in aspects of my life besides fiction. Perhaps I have missed out on many opportunities that others may boast of, but if I have faith in one aspect of myself, it is that I am able to ad-dress my weaknesses and make every attempt to surpass them in hopes of living to my full potential. I know that I have the passion and dedication for my respective fields of interest that are necessary to succeed, and I am ready to face this next challenge.

25

Dig

ital P

ho

tog

rap

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y B

enja

min

Ch

ait

Existence precedes essence, Sartre defends.Only at the beginning, creating the ends.Take this moment and make a definition.

Take this instant and make it a sense.

The dragonfly flutters,It must be the telling truth.

The fox disabuses,It is the framed falsehood.

The world is yours,Build your own bridge.

The broken triangle,It must be the ideal answer.

The timeline belief,It is the supreme lie.

The world is yours,Build your own bridge.

Existence precedes essence, Sartre defends.I’m only at the beginning, creating the ends.

Take this moment and make a definition.Take this instant and make it a sense.

The world is yours,Build your own bridge.

Existence PrecedesKaila Yallum

27

River WaltzLisa Fierstein

This is the River Waltz So sweetWatch as she dips her feet Into the blue river, so deep Be careful because it might be steep.

This is the River Waltz So nice In winter it will turn to ice Nature’s gloss will cover the moss And the bugs will beg for sunrise.

This is the River Waltz So cold This body is an old soul. It has flowed to New Mexico And has left behind a stain of gold.

Old river wrapped around her skin Moving at the speed of the wind The rip tide decides which bodies collide The quicker the current the less time there is To survive.

This is the River Waltz So still Listen and you will hear her trill as theWaters ripple over a hill So succumb to the current for that is its will.

Photograph by Amrita Singh

29

There was once a time when I was a pretty little girl.I tried desperately to show my love for everything. I was innocent. I was stupid. Nothing was wrong and everything was right. I wore lace dresses and drank tea. I fought with my older sister and craved attention. Dote over me! Love me! I am everything you want and everything you need! Then something happened. A mutation of my character. I grew up and people no longer loved me. Their attentions were drawn to others and I was left behind. I called out for them. For family. For friends. Neither replied. I crawled up into myself and felt myself die. My innocence was lost. My thick, mournful cries remained unheard, and they drowned out into silence. Soon I no longer wore the soft and delicate lace of my youth; I donned the hard leather against my body and grew strong. My love poisoned into hatred as I was corrupted. Sickened and bloodthirsty, I now claw and tear at whoever comes close. I lash at anyone who dares try to tame me. I grow accustomed to hate and pain, and I lust after suffering. It is the temptation that draws me forth now that I cannot return to my innocence. It is the feeling that I long for now that I cannot feel anything else.

Lace and Leather Allyson Bartlett

Drawing by Daniella BarerroPencil Sketch by Daniella Borerro 31

My memeories are filed away within the archives of my mind, waiting for the ghostly hand of nostalgia to finger through the snapshots, sketches, and hurried scibbles until it finds the match. There are days, much like today, when my memories are strewn about the confines of the padlocked vault like confetti tossed about in birthday glee. Very few know the combination to my mind’s lock, for it contains everything I’m made of. When I spot a memory much like one that was recently filed this summer, I am astounded. Floating on the wall in a ornate, weathered, chiseled, sandy frame, it is the bridge to peace: the stringent lines of family ties form the lighthouse skyline, with the soft sea foam hues and arched waves storming the bridge. It is here that wor-ries melt and fade into the lavender background, hoping to avoid the archive.

Inspired by “Waterloo Bridge, London” by Claude MonetElizabeth Friedman

Bridge to Peace

Digital Photograph by Lisa Fierstein 33

Last night is the beginning of not goodbye.The beginning ofit-may-be-a-long-timebefore we meet again. Meet under the sails, amidstthe creaking, the pecking, the singing, the language, thenonsense,the flames—flashing through a curtain of Eucalyptus.Tel Aviv skyline flashing anddancing, blue, purple, red, light. Reflecting on the river.

This ship, not yet sailing, but stationary in the sand. This ship,perfect to commandeer, waits.Waits for the next two pairs of devouring eyes, or it waits for the same to return:to the same place,the same point,but never the same time.

Pirate Ship Jess Block

Digital Photograph by Lisa Fierstein

35

But what caused me to fall in love with photography was not the formula, but the art. Not the laws, but the freedom. Being such an analytic person, I let the camera change my perspective; it is a break away from my typically orderly view of the world. With my right eye pressed against the view-finder, shooting the landmark red-rock of Sedona out the window of a moving car seems natural. Here, kinetic energy and electromagnetism become the soft red streaks of tail lights speeding across a moonlit landscape.

A photograph is simple: light information recorded by a digital sensor and translated into an organized array of pixels. It follows that taking better pictures should also be simple; there are only a few variables to manipulate. Reduced to a procedure.

On PhotographyAaren Barge

Photograph by Benjamin Chait37

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Digital photograph by Amrita Singh 39

Digital Photograph by Sean Holmes

Neu

ral M

app

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Ham

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There’s a place in my mind where we’re kissing in an elevator;recently renovated place: that coat of paint’s just six months oldthat I painted when I lived there, before I was evictedand before I became a homeless person in my mind.

First couple days out on the street, I bled out painful thoughts,and visited the house most every day.I used to stroke the doorframe once an hour, on the hour,but now it’s just another place I pass by on the way.

I have to look at it, though, give it the nod it deserves,because it still looks so pristine on its dilapidated street. Three other lonely houses,each with sad old roofs caved in, that I never even sniff at anymore.

The street is in the neighborhood with the little yellow housethat I used to want to live in, but I never think of now. I go past all these places on my everyday routine, but I never even turn my eyes their way.

I used to plan extensions on the mansion of back then,eternal pictures you would move into.But as I mapped our future, I found one deep fatal crack.It went straight through the foundation and I knew I couldn’t stay.

It still looks just like a perfect place, which is why I always glance,it has yet to crumble, but it will someday.For now it stands, a monument to that old naive imagein which you’re strong and noble and I’m delicate and yoursand your eyes look straight down at me and make me feel like I’m swimmingand even though it’s just a picture, I can feel your body’s warm.

When I was newly homeless, I came up with crazy schemesto build around the faultline or to justifysome mistake in seismographic readings that had warned me of it,but the shrines I made all crumbled with a shiver.Now I am quite accustomed to my homey cardboard box,

the walls of which will one day carry scribbles of the plansfor the house I’ll build for next time, the next time I have an imagethat seems perfect as I build it but conceals a grim death trap.

And I know the elevator image is going to crumble,and among the rubble a superior garden will grow,but until that day I glance at its superior facadeand give that retired smile that now does just non-profit work.

41

Reckless girlswhen therapyis a plot deviceand pushing people awayjust brings them closer

Reckless girls whose disasters make them deep and screwing up makes for higher ratings

Off-screen, Those reckless girls are nothing like all the wrecked girls that I know.

Truth is, they aren’t popping pills Because they’re strong. They aren’t passing out Because they’re beautiful.

They tell you aboutthose reckless girls.Those girls who, with smudged eyeliner,look glamorousthe morning after.

Those reckless girls,when holding their hair backis a high privilegeof sharinganother wild night.

Those reckless girlsstrutting over in leather bootsand chain bracelets to slap their illegally older boyfriends

Those reckless girlsmaking you feel guiltyyou don’t have the willpower for anorexia,the courage for cocaine.

Reckless GirlsSarah Waters

Digital Photograph by Rick ThompsonDigital Photograph by Rick Thompson 43

Yellow AwningJess Block

Photograph by Lexi Davis-Jones

I find refuge in a café that is ninety degrees that coats my skin with a thin layer of sweat as soon as I walk in, where I serve up orders asking my standard question: “Would you like chips or cucumber sauce with that?”

On my first day I was greeted with a gesture of hospitality within limited language parameters. “Do you like tea?”

“Sure!”“Good, Ahmed will make you some.”

I came in for training thinking that I would learn in a “here’s- how- you- shave- shawarma” type of way. Instead, Frank, my Syrian boss, only taught me how to work the cash register and introduced me to Ahmed. I learned how to fry falafel, but not because Frank explained the method to me in English. It was because Ahmed and I learned to cross a language barrier.

Frank, being only slightly taller than I and heavily mustached, has put a lot of faith in Ahmed and me—leaving us to do what we will, the welfare of his business left to hang in the balance. Ahmed works in the basement kitchen—the prep area— and continually runs up and downstairs, checking on the oven or stirring onions, listening to a cassette tape of the top ten hip-hop songs that a friend of his dropped by to give him—promising they would help him learn English.

At times, as Frank looks over my shoulder when I’m wrapping falafel or ringing up a customer, I’ll hear him whispering in Arabic to Ahmed and strain to hear them talking about my progress—I pick out the words I understand here and there. Ahmed and I continually struggle to find common words, let alone communicate. I feared it would be impossible at first, that my knowledge of Arabic could in no way eclipse Ahmed’s knowledge of English.

We patched together different ways to communicate I feared it would be impossible at first, that my knowledge of Arabic could in no way eclipse Ahmed’s knowledge of English. We patched together different ways to communicate with each other—smiles, him tapping my shoulder when the falafel is done frying, some French, some Arabic, and silent clues. Ahmed stands with his arms at the ready whenever I look distressed even if the distress is the result of customers lined up out the front door; he comes to help me manage however he can. I taught him the word for paper towel when we were cleaning up a messy table, and he now uses it whenever he can. He has taught me the phrase for “no problems” in Arabic: mish mooshkala—which I make ready use of. Although the two words we’ve taught each other might seem insignificant, they mean something to me. They mean that we’ve made progress, that we’ll continue to teach each other, that if Ahmed and I can communicate there is the promise of communication with whole other worlds of people not currently in my grasp, and that communication—unconventional as it may be—can work. And does.

45

Sarah Waters

Black and white filmWide fearful eyesYour damsel is waiting Villain in disguise

Mouth is tapedHands are tied Clock is tickingYou’re just in time

You let me speakYou break me freeYou capture the villainWho’s always after me

You tighten your gripGun ready to blastCrossing my fingersYou pull off his mask

I recognize his faceWhen it moves into the lightI look at my handsNo longer black and white

I try and reach for you But I no longer canOnly the villain is hereAnd he reveals his plan

The Damsel’s Key

“You always look for heroes,They’ll only disappearYou do not love from love,You merely love from fear

Searching for that someoneTo save yourself from meWho am I? You know very well.All your insecurities.

He comes and then he goesHe briefly breaks you outBut he can’t save you from your ownConfinement of self-doubt.”

Villain collapsesThe lights turn onA new hero appearsThe vision is gone

Still in the cageHe dangles the keyBut I remember Darkness,His words speak for me.

“I thank you for your bravery but only I can get me out of hereI do not need you, please do go.I am the only one I fear.”

Digital Photograph by Aaren Barge 47

Pottery by Myiya Peters

I can feel the smooth, cold metal all around me when he holds me in his arms. The war has been over for three years, but my husband is still a factory to me. His grey eyes show no emotion, no love, only the pursuit of labor and smog. Before the war, when he proposed to me, when he first put that tiny metal ring on my finger, he had warmth and substance in him. He was a human being to me then-he could understand my happiness and sadness. Now the emotions I show to him mean nothing. He is the tempered steel. He is the cool metal. The only proof that he is not his job comes from

Allyson Bartlett

his warm body and steady heartbeat, but even those aspects of him I can easily confuse with the heat from liquid metals and the constant clang and hum of machinery. Our marriage is industrial, our love is consumed by grinding gears. He should be human again. He should be feeling the gentle creases from fabric and the purity of life. He is tarnished. He is dirty and grungy. Any resemblance to a human being that he had is gone. When we are togetherwe are a mixture of white and black, of dirty and clean, of healthy and diseased. My husband is not my husband. He is a machine.

War Bride

49

There are times when I think that I would rather fall away than flyBecause it weakens meWith every chance I’d never seizeWhat kind of cruel device is this?Eyes fixed on lips, envision kissThis is a curse, this isn’t blissYou must admit

They give us hormonesTo rattle our bones

II get lost inEach sun-soaked smileAnd it softens meBut not the blows That rain downWith every frown that showsII can’t perceiveNo ICan’t even believeThe hold that you have upon me is so strongMight as well be on my way

Accursed femininityThe price I pay for just one peekA glance upon a fragile cheekSo soft but not gentle to meAnd I am lost within the cascadesSatin fire, and my mask cavesIn on me and I cannot speakI only can gaze

Accursed FemininityAlex Zukoff

Digital Photo by Rick Thompson 51

Uprooted from my crowded isolation,I’ve woken up from the longest hibernation.I’ve been locked out of my own imagination.But I’m just one of an entire population.

I wish it wasn’t this way,But I see it every day.

Stay

Digital Photograph by Noa Jett

Alberto Sewald

Awake

I was devoid of all inspirationUntil I woke up, met by a frightening revelation.We’ve shifted our focus to a new fascination,

We’ve got to make a change,But then we’ve got to stay awake.

How did we get into this situation?Everything’s gone wrong with human conversation.No it’s not art if it’s an uninspired imitation,Fabricated to steal the wallets of our nation.

Stay awake.

Song Lyrics by

With anything that will bring us monetary gratification.

WolvesBenjamin Chait

“You too could be eaten by cannibals,”The little boy was told.

It is possible to be caughtIt is possible to be eaten.It is possible to die.

53Watercolor by Allyson Bartlett

letter from

the ed

itors

For Plaid, it has been a crazy year for Aaren and I. Our staff started out to be the size of three Plaid staffs, and ended up being a workable size. The year started out like herding cats: we had artwork, themes, ideas, but they all went in different directions. The staff this year, unlike previous years of Plaid staff, was for the most part all new to being on a literary magazine. A new staff entails a lot of learning, learning how to use InDesign, learning how to pair artwork, learning how to lay it all out so it all looks beautiful. Staff this year has been through a lot. A lot of hollow threats from us editors, snacks, printer ink, and begging for submissions. Plaid is a rare niche in the world of high school clubs; a literary magazine staff consists of different types of people with different zest, different talents, and different artistic outlooks. The Plaid staff works to incorporate all of the different artistic views and personalities into one well-oiled literary staff extraordinaire. And, although entropy is a gradual descent into chaos, Plaid staff this year was the opposite, and Aaren and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Aaren started working on Plaid his sophomore year, and I have been working on Plaid for my entirehigh school career, from freshman to senior year. We both love this magazine; it has been an essential part in our high school experience and will have all of the memories of the meetings spent inhaling Trader Joe’s snacks provided by Ms. Kaz, meetings spent doing creative writing activities, meetings spent with printed out submissions covering the walls of the English classroom, meetings spent talking about anything but what we actually had to accomplish, even meetings spent doing the last-minute crunch—stressed out of our minds. We will miss you everything about you, Plaid. We had a great year, thank you so much to our staff and Ms. Kaz for making it so. Cheers! Love,Jessie Block and Aaren Barge

thanks

mission statement

colophon

Plaid Magazine is meant to showcase the many creative capabilities of the students at Winchester Thurston School. Its goal is to celebrate student-produced literature, visual arts, and everything in between. Plaid receives more submissions than fit within the pages, but attempts to feature as many pieces as possible. Plaid is an outlet for personal expression, discourse, and communication. Plaid is a celebration of student artistry all around and the artists that are responsible.

Plaid Magazine would like to thank everyone who submitted their artwork and everyone who supports Plaid. We would like to thank the staff, consisting of Emma Bangs, Sam Russell, Alex Zukoff, Josh Loevner, Grace Hamilton-Vargo, Elizabeth Friedman, Lisa Fierstein, Noah Vito, Noah Lafferty, Benjamin Chait, Erica Lange, Myiya Peters, Amrita Singh, Noa Jett, Sean Holmes,Summer Devlin, Joshua Siktar, and Emma Place, for putting this whole magazine together. We would also like to thank WT alum Morgan Gilbreath for copy editing in our time of need. We would like to thank Mr. John Charney for his technical expertise and assistance. We would, in particular, like to thank Ms. Jill Kazmierczak. Without her dedication, her patience, her inspiration, and her ideas, this magazine would not have blossomed to be what it is, this year, or throughout the years of her reign as Plaid Goddess. We will miss her. Finally, we would like to thank Mercury Printing for making the publication of this magazine possible.

Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Entropy was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and Adobe Photoshop CS3. All text was set in Eras Medium. Body text was set in font size 12; attributions were set in font size 11, and the font size of the titles varied. Plaid is a free publication available to all students and faculty at Winchester Thurston School. It is created entirely by its student staff. All Winchester students are encouraged to submit all forms of art and literature. Submissions are chosen by the staff based on quality, length, and available space, while featuring as many types of pieces and student as possible. All non-digital work is either scanned into the computer as a digital file, or photographed digitally by staff. Plaid is an award-winning member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, and the National Council of Teachers of English.