Chiaroscuro

L.A.V.A.Woodrow Wilson High School - 2014

Volume 8

*playing with light & shadow

volume eight

CHIAROSCURO

PeppersMarissa Donnelly

Clusterf*ckLuke Cameron

Cover Art:

*playing with light & shadow

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Woodrow Wilson Senior High School3950 Chesapeake Street, NW

Washington D.C., 20016

wwhs.lavamag@gmail.com

L.A.V.A.literary and visual arts

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Editor’s Note

No two people share exactly the same experiences, however our collective under-standing of the human condition manifests itself in chiaroscuro. This Italian device ex-plores the relationships between light and shadow, which reflects the variations within our daily lives. This year, L.A.V.A., Woodrow Wilson’s literary and visual arts magazine, strives to capture the complex range of human experience. High school is often an isolating and hectic time and it is hard to remember that one’s experiences are not singular. L.A.V.A. has taken on the challenge of creating a palpable depiction of individual experiences as they relate to the community. We have used light and shadow as a literal device to depict each person’s perceptions and expressions of a journey.

The magazine progresses from dark to light both in content and in visuals. It was important to us not to limit ourselves to a strict, literal definition of chiaroscuro. We did not simply want to contrast heavy, sad, dark work against light, elated, bright work, rather play with nontraditional variations. For example, we wanted to explore the range of darker pieces and contrast those with the depth and intensity of something of a lighter nature. This exploration has led to the understanding that each person’s journey is individually based but intertwined in a communal path. We want the journey of the magazine to be an explo-ration of our deepest selves.

As the 2013-2014 school year draws to a close, we would like to thank our ever pres-ent and encouraging staff, our phenomenal fellow students, and, as always, our wonder-ful faculty advisor Ms. Sandra Wright. The constant support and encouragement of these people makes this magazine a reality.

L.A.V.A. EditorsEmma Keyes, Anita Montero, Elana Steinlauf, & Mattie Friberg

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Staff List

CO-EDITORS IN CHIEFEmma Keyes

Anita Montero

MANAGING EDITORSMattie FribergElana Steinlauf

STAFF

MANY THANKS TO

Sandra Wright

John Wright

Principal Pete Cahall

Woodrow Wilson’s Parent Teacher Student Alliance

Gabrielle JacobovitzBeatrice Mackay

Zoe MillsRachel PageIsaac SellarsEva ShapiroMarla Solow

FACULTY ADVISOR

LAYOUT SUPERVISOR

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Table of Contents

writing

poetry

prose

dramatic scripts

essays

Contingency Plan Emma Keyes 48

The Hurricane Eileen Connor 9Zombies Abbey Pechman 10Sans Everything Elana Steinlauf 11

Harbingers Anita Montero 19Proeliantur Elana Steinlauf 29

Baby Brother Kenny Hahn 17

This is About My Cat Mattie Friberg 384 a.m. Mattie Friberg 33

Apple Pie Mariah Fraker 44Warm Eyes Sarah Torresen 47

Pretty Anita Montero 26Home Mattie Friberg 31

Sacrifice Mattie Friberg 10Wax and Feathers Emma Keyes 39The Lost Man Zoe Mills 42Plans, Not Well Made Eva Shapiro 45

Gallery Walk Rachel Page 34Pancakes Gavrielle Jacobovitz 22

Skeletons Jamilex Forty 15

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artphotography

drawings

paintings

mixed media

Imbrication Isabel Mota 8

Cynosure Isabel Mota 28

Lake Superior Isabel Mota 32

Vertex Emma Keyes 36

Burned Out Emma Keyes 14Midden Charlotte Hovland 20

Fog Beatrice Mackay 29

Blurred Landscape Zuri Jordan 40

Tumult Anita Montero 34

Untitled Claire McLaughlin 30

Red & Gold Claire McLaughlin Adams Morgan Gena Basha 44

Sea Witch Oriana Carletto 38

Old Man Julia McGurk 49

Geometry Julia McGurk 23

Peppers Julia McGurk 51

Shattered Marissa Donnelly 43

Metropolis Abbey Pechman 47

Untitled Zoe Krupa 12

Confidence Zoe Krupa 41

Untitled Sasha Gates 13

Untitled Sasha Gates 11

Inner Map Nell Bayliss 27Beyond Nell Bayliss 41

Tetsuoooooooo Jack Price 19

Me Marissa Donnelly 24Mother Nico Artiga-Oliver 18Rainbow Stripes Luke Cameron 16

Untitled Sasha Gates 48

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Isabel MotaImbrication

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A hurricane strolled throughand I’ll never really be sureif that was the final blowor if it was already festering.That home we had built was gone,only debris in our pocketsof the place we’d made together.But our artifacts reveal separate existences.The home we thought we had was only a façade.The hurricane awoke what we should have known all along.

The Hurricane

Eileen Connor

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He lay on the ground, breathing in and out, trying to slow the rapid sound of his lungs gasping for air. He heard the footsteps approaching.

At first, just the soft crunch of one set of feet walking over decaying leaves was audible. As they neared and the sound grew louder, the vibrations of its approach shot through the earth and down his spine. Another set of feet and more behind them.

Soon the boy could feel thousands of bodies moving in a steady march towards him. He breathed in. And then back out. His bare skin was damp from sweat, though the air danced over him in a cold current.

He stared in to the dark abyss behind his closed lids. A disturbed murmuring filled the atmosphere with the thousands that had now surrounded the boy in the clearing.

The more who came the faster his heart raced, forcing the blood through his veins, pounding oxygen into every fiber of his existence, thrusting life into a body that felt like it was collapsing in on itself with every second that rolled by. Soon, all he could hear was the sound of a heart with an expiration date it was determined to outlive.

And yet he was grateful. Though he was frightened, this was his choice.

Before him lay infinite paths. Only moments ago, he could visualize so many futures that this world might yet hold for him. But now he lay, with only one path to follow. It had a cold end. He breathed in. And then back out.

In.

And out.

His veins were on fire, but his body was calm.

He opened his eyes.

Around him was the shadowy forest. Mist curled across the rotting ground, seeping from every hallowed tree. The bare branches above him hid most of the sky from view, only a few stars twinkling through their frozen bones.

Sacrifice

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The clearing appeared empty, but he knew better. He had felt them coming as surely as they had felt his defeat. They felt his sacrifice. His fall.

They crept towards him now with their thick presence. The low rumble of the invisible pa-rade grew, it twisted and writhed, ripping the air until the night was filled with the howl of those thirsty for defeat.

And then they were upon him.Mattie Friberg

UntitledSasha Gates 11

Admittedly,

I never should have bitten your head offbut I was afraid to let you speak,to see your full lips parting to reveal my insecurities in your stomach my cracked, rotting lips split to reveal browning teeth ‘round your neck

Baby please don’t look at me with those glossy eyes I’ve always been the one with glossy eyes

You shouldn’t have laughed at me when my arms fell off

Zombies

Abbey Pechman

UntitledZoe Krupa

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Finality is emptiness stark to the point of false hope.Connection profound enough to see salvation in your jaundiced, hunched shoulders.Separation not found in the seam of my skin; and so I believe.

Believing timeless words will perpetually flow from my tongue to your fingertips.My blood will dance jubilantly beneath the roots of my hair until you blow out the sun with your palms’ sonic boom.

The base of my skull is rubbed raw by your dilated iris.

My thread unravels until I am chapped bone on a plywood pedestal.

Exeunt.

Elana Steinlauf

Sans Everything

UntitledSasha Gates

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Burned OutEmma Keyes

I’m scared of what thesewalking bones will do carrying my secretslike weapons of mass destructionwaiting and getting ready to bury me at a moment’s noticejust like I did them.

Skeletons

Jamilex Forty

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Rainbow StripesLuke Cameron16

Baby Brother,Every morning I wake up and taste the traces of torture on the lips of the sunshine kissing my face,This body God gave me isn’t strong enough to bear the burden of worlds spinning out of orbit,Baby Brother, everyday I try to smile and hide, to pretend that I’m fine, I try:with stabbing in my stomach and piercing in my back,with pounding in my head and shooting in my heart,I can no longer promise I’m not dying.If God has any mercy he’ll come take me home.I think I will go.Because I am seventeen years old dear broth-er.I am broken.Body and soul baby.I need to tell you these things I know as a last gift for you before I go.

One.Never let anyone tell you that you aren’t good enough.I know that people are cruel, but baby never let them get to you because you’re gonna go far.Remembered by stories and family.

Two.Your mother and father love you.When I’m home you see the fighting and hear the screaming, and I know it is scary and I am so sorry.I’m sorry for letting you see and I’m sorry for running away.

Three.Be brave.Braver than I ever could be. Live like you love it even when it’s unbearable. Don’t run away from slaying dragons for fear of getting burned. Never die before you’re dead.

Four.Count your blessings.I’ve never been much good at that, so I chal-lenge you to be better.Wish on a star and don’t drown in the darkness.

Five.You’ve said before that you might like boys,boys and girls, and that you’re scared.Well baby, I don’t just need you to listen I need you to hear me because you are perfect.I learned the hard way that it doesn’t matter who you love, only how you love them.Baby, hearts break like eggshells. You’re bound to do some damage, but baby, never stomp.Tread lightly, and don’t ever try to protect your-self by encapsulating your heart in stone.Don’t try to etch “I love you” into skin.Don’t toss around bodies.Don’t let your life become night sweats and thrusting; trying to drown empty feelings with liquor and lust.I’ll be watching wherever I am, and I’ll visit youin a dream or light breeze or even a ray of sun-shine.I’ll never leave you alone, because I could die ten ways to Sunday,But the one thing I know for sure,is that I will never stop loving you.

Kenny Hahn

Baby Brother

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MotherNico Artiga-Oliver18

Oh these crocuses leap, arise from theirstifled silence and once again yearn,to see. We follow suit. Is it harder to stay? Do the hours creep, their shadows menace? Oh can we bear one more day of this aching for the sun? I think ourselves want to run and fantasize of this constantly.

Anita Montero

TetsuooooooooJack Price

Harbingers

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MiddenCharlotte Hovland

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INT. MAY’S CLOSET Here is a closet with not much more than shoes. An exuberance of high heels, wedges, and flats dwell in the dim room, only illuminated by a single light bulb. Here are shoes with extravagant meaning, shoes with no story at all. Many of them still have tags. This closet is by no means luxurious. MAY ALBERT (55) stands in the center, in a wine red dress, draped in pearls. She is not, how-ever, as well put together as she appears. Her thick brown curls are forcibly shoved into a sloppy bun, strands tumbling out. She blows a cluster of white hair away from her face, roll-ing her eyes. MAY hops as she thrusts a black stiletto onto her chubby foot. INT. THE ALBERT LIVING ROOM MAY runs down the stairs, though she isn’t very good at running. She is wearing shoes that are nearly impossible to stand in. To her right, her husband MI-CHAEL ALBERT (60) reads the newspaper on a wooden chair, his eyes blank behind thick black framed glasses. He does not notice his wife pass by. MAY opens the door and leaves. MICHAEL It’s bright out today honey. lots of sun. Wear sunglasses. Don’t look down when you drive. His voice fades out. INT. PANCAKE HOUSE The pancake house is nearly empty. There are thick pancakes, thin pancakes, pan-cakes that are most certainly not real, and

those that are so real, they appear unpalatable. As MAY enters, her attire clashes starkly with the restaurant’s sparse interior. May sits down slowly at a faded booth. She looks around helplessly. All that can be heard is the off-key hum from the COOK (55), flipping pancakes behind the bar. Her hums are gradually joined by those of the WAITRESS 1 who is seating a young cou-ple, and WAITRESS 2 who holds three plates of pancakes. Eventually unidentified hums fill the room like a jar of honey. They form a disjointed melody that becomes louder and louder until an abrupt silence descends. MAY’s POV of ANDREW ALBERT (25), sitting directly across from her, his forehead cov-ered with meticulously gelled blond bangs. He has bleached white teeth. Only the tips of his eyelashes are visible. He looks down at his pancakes fixatedly. At last, their eyes meet and there is silence, an uneasy silence. ANDREWBeginning of a conversation is always awkward. Mara might move in.

MAY It’s about time I guess. Seven years of dating is enough.

ANDREW Time is stupid.

MAY I guess it is.

Pancakes

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Beat.

MAY Her voice quivers. He looks down at his plate. Look up when you talk to me.He looks up. I’ve been thinking, Andrew. ANDREW Have you? MAY Confidently. Yes, I have. God’s put this forked road in front of me. ANDREW He is not amused. Has he?

MAY But you see, one path is the status quo, where we are. He hums. Throwing out her words.

And the other is just a cliff. ANDREW Oh fuck no. ANDREW rubs his temples forcibly. MAY Of course not like that! God wouldn’t be nearly that cruel. ANDREW Then please feel free to fill me in. MAY It’s more that at the bottom of th cliff, I would kind of restart, renew, you know? ANDREW Definitely not. No.

GeometryJulia McGurk

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Marissa DonnellyMe

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MAY Like my husband, but not because of age. Just me. Me and the universe with open gates. ANDREW And how would you reach this... liberation? MAY Well God certainly wouldn’t be that obvious, would she? ANDREW Then how the fuck do you know that the cliff is there? MAY With certainty. Because she told me. Actually, we had a very nice conversation. ANDREW He swallows. Then take a chance.

MAY How?

ANDREW I don’t know. Learn to ride a bike, sky dive, bake a shit ton of pastries.

MAY But, how?

Beat. ANDREW Just don’t look down. ANDREW attempts to lift a flimsy

pancake. Iit slips to the plate lifelessly.

Beat.

There is a long pause. It can be an hour because it feels like an hour and because if that’s what it feels like then that’s what it is. The wait-ress knows very well, though, that the pause lasted 1 minute and 13 seconds. MAY Why are you here? Here, eating this pancake that is as dead as this town and as dead as this world and as ready as you and as eager as me. Why don’t you leave and run and hide in the crevices of her fingers and let her hold you tight like Jesus knows she will. And take the grime of the earth and the hums of the sky and launch yourself up to the stars and there twinkle and twinkle and eventually die twinkling in your infinity.

ANDREW Because, Mom, I looked down.

CUT TO BLACK

Gavrielle Jacobivitz

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This is about my thighs.

About watching in horror as my body, all baby fat, quickly blossomed into un-charted girlhood. Petite allegro in ballet class: did my stomach always jiggle like that? I have too often tried to fit myself prettily into polyester homecoming dresses, cheap fabric abrading pockmarked skin.

This is about my hair.

Last spring I cut it all off. Not for any special reason. I was bored. I wanted a change. The upkeep of shoulder length, frizzy, rebellious hair was too much of a time commitment. More often than not, my hair was up in a ponytail anyway. Whatever.

Rebecca’s able fingers secured a damp ponytail at the nape of my neck and, with the snip of slightly dull scissors, a foot of my wavy auburn hair fell to the floor. Gone – replaced by a pixie cut. And let me tell you, I looked super cute.

But everyone around me recoiled in horror. “What have you done?” my aunt whispered at Easter dinner. Boys at school had no qualms about telling me how much more attractive they found me with long hair. And all around me, “why, why, why” churned as if there had to be a dramatic reason for my haircut. As if no reasonable woman or girl would ever want to do something to their appearance that would de-crease their ability to conform to pretty.

Never in my life have I been so forcefully reminded that my body is somehow communal property, subject to the whims of outside scrutiny and fad diets.

We must stop allowing the propagation of this cultural myth that women have to be pretty above all else. Have to be beautiful to be worthy of love and respect.

Tonight, the throb of my voice weeps with autumnal decay.

I write sweet love poems to my palms, their callused grip, sonnets to my fingernails, seismographs of my undulating anxiety. For my flitting, upturned eyes, my father’s jawline, my mother’s singular dimple.

Hymnals for my thighs.

Pretty

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I will not fit their pretty. I don’t want to and never will.

And to my thirteen year old self, already contemplating calories and skipping meals, I would say, “When they shove those myths your throat, spit them out. Yell. Scream. Kick. Tell them: this is my body.”

To my thirteen year old self I would say, “You are strong and courageous, intelligent and creative, interesting and powerful. Put down that magazine, eat that pizza, laugh in that snort-y way you find embarrassing, throw away the blue eye shadow.”

Recently, a friend told me that the best thing she ever did was decide that she was pretty.The best thing I have done is celebrate that I am not.

Anita Montero

Inner MapNell Bayliss

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Isabel MotaCynosure

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You told me I was a god among men.I sat in Jupiter’s throne And enlightened the dead with my fire. I was the face of ancient pagesThat brought life from fading ink. The stuff of legends. You told me the ink was not yet dry- My fire still golden, not yet azure.

With your delicate hands You scraped the skin from my bones.From Olympus’ majesty You hurled me down to the barracksAnd so a soldier I will be.

I will march on.I will fight on.It is Mars’ fury that pumps blood through These scalding veins. So if you see the sea,Know the salt and the stormsCame from me.

Proeliantur

Elana Steinlauf

Beatrice MackayFog

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Claire McLaughlinUntitled

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The train creaks and rattles back and forth, back and forth. Above is a cavern, a rounded citadel, catching and entrapping dreams as the train snakes beneath the city I call home.

The metro is something I complain about almost daily; ask anyone. It’s slow and unreli-able. The staff are temperamental, the escalators never work and I swear the trains breakdown just to set me off.

However, it is where I have spent a major portion of my life. It’s an infuriating necessity, the only way I have to get anywhere that is beyond walking distance.

I have been riding the trains since I was 13, when my dad moved to an apartment across the city. For a short time they were magical, a treacherous place worth exploring. Then I began high school and had to ride the trains daily. The illusions of grandeur soon was off.

The slow back and forth, became a part of my routine, an obstacle as I moved from one place to another. A boring purgatory.

But maybe purgatory doesn’t have to be boring. As I got older and my schedule more hectic there was less time for reading, listening to music, or writing as thoughts flew in and out. Except for the time I had on the trains, those simple yet important parts of my life were pushed aside by the responsibilities that came with growing up. The metro provides tranquility to those who need it.

My time on the trains, crisscrossing from one moment to another is a break. A small time when I am out of commission. I can sit without obligation and let my thoughts wander.

Much of the reading I’ve done in the past several years has been in the dark maze of tun-nels, a city of their own.

The walls hold a multitude of firsts and lasts. Within them I have grown up. My ponder-ings on life and school and everything in between have been caught and painted on the ceiling of the underworld, a respite rather than a hell.

The breakdowns don’t set me off; they give me more time to myself. The escalators don’t stop working; they become stairs. The staff are teaching me patience and how to treat others kindly.

The metro is not a chore, a terrible inconvenience; it is a reprieve from responsibility, a place where I can be content, if only for a short time.

Home

Mattie Friberg

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Lake SuperiorIsabel Mota

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sunshine glistens and rain cleansesbut hail that’s the stuff that will pound my words through the surface of your skin and make you feel the way I do every time I wake up at 4 a.m. in a cold bed my heart beating to the soundof words left unspoken and a promise never made because we both know neither of us could keep itso instead of letting the hurricane in my chest tear me open I’ll let the rain wash out my hollow mouthand the sun dry my soaked ribsso we can go on pretending that cold beds at 4 a.m. are all we deserve

4 a.m.

Mattie Friberg

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A white stage with bare walls. A MAN with a moose’s head stands to the left. There is another exhibit with shards of some kind of exotic pottery farther to the right. As the lights go up, a WOMAN enters. She stands in front of the MAN, her back to the audience. A small girl runs behind her, trying to catch up: her DAUGHTER. She stops next to the WOMAN.

WOMAN This is a horse.

DAUGHTER Actually, I think it might be a moose.

WOMAN Horses have hooves. Look. She gestures to the man’s shoes. It’s a horse.

DAUGHTER But do horses have antlers like that?

WOMAN (quickly) Yes. (pause) Only some of them. The male ones. The WOMAN considers the MAN again. Horses and mooses are the same thing, anyways.

DAUGHTER No, they’re not.

Gallery Walk

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WOMAN Don’t talk back to me. A moose is a horse, just from a different part of the country. In the north it’s called a moose. In the west it’s a horse.

DAUGHTER I don’t think that’s true.

WOMAN (snapping) Of course it’s true. She begins to walk on towards the next museum piece. Her DAUGHTER stays in front of the MAN.

DAUGHTER Goodbye, moose. She says it just quietly enough so that the WOMAN cannot hear. The MAN reaches his hand up to scratch his head.

MAN Actually, I’m not a moose. I’m a man with a moose’s head.

DAUGHTER I knew you were a moose. Horses don’t have antlers, do they.

MAN Once somebody thought that I was a deer and tried to shoot me.

DAUGHTER In the museum?

TumultAnita Montero

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MAN That was before they brought me to the museum.

DAUGHTER People can be so stupid. She pauses, looking ahead in the direction of the WOMAN. The WOMAN is in front of the next exhibit. She is motioning to the pottery like she is talking to someone about it. Why did they bring you here?

MAN They thought I was interesting, I guess. And that people would want to learn about me. (pause) Or maybe they just liked my antlers.

DAUGHTER They’re very nice antlers.

MAN Maybe you should go catch up with your mother now.

DAUGHTER She doesn’t care. She never really sees me anyways. She just likes having someone to talk at. (pause) It must be hard to stand here all day without anyone realizing that you’re a man and not a moose.

MAN Sometimes it feels better that way. To know something that no one else knows.

DAUGHTER Sometimes.

MAN It’s like a secret you have with yourself. No one else knows you’re right, but you do.

DAUGHTER I never really thought of it that way. Vertex

Emma Keyes36

MAN Most people don’t. The DAUGHTER pauses, as if thinking.

DAUGHTER Can you take it off? The head?

MAN I’ve never tried.

DAUGHTER Do you think you could put it on me?

MAN On you? The DAUGHTER nods. The MAN reaches up and unscrews the moose head. There is nothing underneath. He puts it on top of the DAUGHTER’s shoulders. I’m not sure if this is okay.

DAUGHTER (muffled, through the moose head) It’s perfect. The DAUGHTER takes her place where the MAN had been positioned. The MAN stumbles to the right, hands out in front of him like a blindfolded person. He stops in front of the WOMAN. She continues talking without looking at him.

WOMAN There you are. This pottery is from ancient Greece. It’s not a whole vase because they always broke them after they made them. As an offering to the gods.

The WOMAN walks offstage, still talking. The MAN stumbles after her. The DAUGHTER stands unsteadily. The moose head is a bit too large on her shoulders. The lights fade to black.

Rachel Page

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I eye your approach with the same fear and trepidationAs a sailor who watches the kraken as it shakes the salt and brine from its limbsand rises from the sea

This Is About My Cat

Mattie Friberg

Sea WitchOriana Carletto38

All Cian wants is to be able to taste the wind again. Feel it ghost across the back of his neck like a reluctant prayer. There is no use in praying anymore. The gods stopped listen-ing long ago. Even the hope etched across the skin of his wrist is beginning to fade. Nothing but feathers and wax allow him to think of the future. A permanent prison in a claustropho-bic room has not gotten easier to take. So back to the feathers and wax.

* * * One day he is taken to a different room. To a room with a view. To a room with an-other boy with too much soul and too little hope. A boy named Shihab with stars in his eyes and secrets nested against the dip of his collarbone. Both boys glow bright. Shihab glitters like the galaxies. Cian shines as bright as the sun.

* * * “How do we get out?” It has been one week and Shihab is starting to dim. Cian focuses on breathing. “How long have you been here?” “Eight days.” “You don’t know anything.” “How long have you been here?” “Five hundred and ninety-four days.” It comes out a gasp. Shihab stares. “How do you know?” Cian shows the other boy his arm covered in hundreds of tick marks. The dried blood never fully disappears and the scars will be there until the day Cian fades to oblivion. It is Shihab’s turn to gasp. “How have you made it so long?” Cian looks Shihab right in the eyes, chin up. “I’m building wings.” “How?”

Wax and Feathers

“The feathers and wax.” “You’ll die.” “I’ll be free.” The boys drift into silence. Shihab closes his eyes and sinks to his knees. Cian fights to quiet the sound of his heartstrings. Blinks back tears. Shihab lifts his head. “Let me help.”There is a note of discord in Cian’s heart as the words sink in. “How can you?” An almost innocent grin breaks out. “I’m the labyrinth boy.” Cian has been locked up so long, he has a hard time differentiating between myth and reality, anymore. The labyrinth boy has only ever crossed his ears on the echoes of whispers. “Genius”, the air breathes, “Good.” Cian has learned to trust the memories of the wind. “Okay.”

* * * The thing about feathers and wax is that they hurt. Cian has never been good with pain, but nearly six hundred days will dull all senses. Happiness, love, anger, despair. Noth-ing scares him more than the monotony of not feeling. The embers of his soul have not yet gone out. Cian screams to make sure his heart is still beating. He screams until his voice tears and the racking sobs overtake him. He whis-pers curses on every god. He curses every last one and hopes that their mountain crumbles beneath them. Shihab strokes his hair until sleep grabs hold of him.

* * * “My name means shooting star, did you know that?” Shihab looks up from his sketch-ing. A rare moment of peace has descended.

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Cian smiles ruefully, “Painfully coinci-dental, isn’t it?” A shrug. “Maybe it’s not.” Cian sighs. Belief in divinity is no lon-ger possible. “I know words. I speak the meaning of names.” “And what’s mine then?” Cian’s voice wavers, with a hint of a challenge to it. “It’s funny, you know,” Shihab touches his temple, “It means ancient.” A shadow falls across Cian’s face. “Why is that funny?” “This has all happened before, hasn’t it?” The room is so silent that a pin drop would reverberate like a gunshot. “That can’t be true.” Shibab just shrugs and returns to sketching.

* * * Once Shihab has been there for fifty-two days and Cian for six hundred and thirty-eight, the wings are finished. It should have taken longer since there are two now of them, but Cian always hoped that he would not be alone forever. So it takes only forty-four days until Shihab and Cian both have wings.The moment is surprisingly bittersweet. Cian does not want to admit that he is scared, but he is and Shihab knows. “It’s okay Cian. The sky will take care of you.” “It’s so vast. What if I lose myself out there?” “I’ll be right next to you. Nothing to worry about.” “What if I fall?” “It won’t happen. Just don’t fly too close to the sun. The heat will melt the wax.” “But what a spectacular way to go out.” “Don’t talk like that.”

Emma Keyes

Blurred LandscapeZuri Jordan

Shihab pulls him into a hug and holds him hard, whispers in his ear, “You jump, I jump. It’ll be okay.” Cian breathes deep. “Let’s go.”

* * * The sky is everything and nothing that Cian remembered. It is blue blue blue and the water below shimmers with sunlight.The wind welcomes him back with an em-brace as sweet as poison. It whispers its secrets in his bones. It draws promises from his lips. He loses sight of Shihab against the background of freedom. The sun is a beacon. Cian feels warm for the first time in nearly two years. It has been so long. He cannot help but go closer. All warnings leave his mind. His sole pur-pose is to reach the light he has only been able to feel in dreams. He’s so close he can taste it. The dis-traction of single-minded purpose blinds him to the feathers floating past his finger-tips. Close enough to snatch back if he only looks down. It is not until it is too late to stop from plummeting that Cian stretches his wings and realizes that they are nothing more than arms. The metallic taste of blood on his lips is his final prayer. The water rushes to catch him. Darkness. Freedom.

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BeyondNell Bayliss

ConfidenceZoe Krupa 41

He awoke with a start, as if from a nightmare in which he had just plummeted towards his death. For a moment, he lay back, chest heaving with the unsteady pounding of his heart, not possessing the courage to move just yet. Straight above, the wispy dark clouds moved to and fro, in and out of sight. They were stark against the blue sky behind them. Finally he wedged himself upright, propping himself up with his forearms. A panic swept over him as he realized his lack of familiarity with his surroundings. Ensconced by greenery, tufts of mangy grass jumped out at him and browning splotches and patches of sandy dirt were as frequent as the tufts. He was surrounded by trees. Something was wrong. Nothing looked quite right. He began to pry himself from the ground and his voice cracked as he cried out weakly. He felt the pain of his black and blue bruises before he noticed them. Some were splotches of navy and yellow. Others were patterns; those of a tightly wound hand, around his upper arms and wrists. He looked around once more. The chilling idea that he had been placed there seeped into his thoughts. He climbed to his feet and started heavily towards the outskirts of the forest. When he reached the nearest tree he noticed they were rotting, but the remaining leaves were still quite green. He held onto the rotting mass for a moment, realizing the utter silence that encompassed him. There was nothing. There was no snapping of twigs, no soft beating of a bird’s wings, and no scuffle along the forest floor of chipmunks or squirrels. There was only silence. A dead silence that he could not escape. He crept on, barefoot, wandering slowly across the sticky dirt and fallen leaves. Hours passed and the sun had set and the darkness was just as vast as the silence. His mind had been wandering all day, but he did not ask questions. He knew that the reason he could not remember was because something did not want him to. It was hopeless to try. There were no tidbits of a past or a violent encounter. His memory had been wiped like the hard drive of a computer. Not even the consciousness of who he was remained. The world was dark and ill tempered. He wondered if it had always been like this. Was it always so eerie? Had he always felt an emptiness hovering, and following him like smoke? No, it could not have always been this way. That is what he hoped as he continued to trek in the darkness, for anything that might sooth

The Lost Man

42

his burgeoning fears. In that moment, as faint as the blink of a firefly he spotted a dim glow. It was no more than thirty feet to his right, and steadily weaving around the trees. The light hovered slightly, and for a moment he believed that this person or thing may not be what he hoped. It continued on after a moment and he did not hesitate to follow. Could this be? Could this be someone else living in this wretched forest? Or could this be the person who had put him here, checking to make sure he was as miserable as they had planned? He picked up his pace. They were ten feet apart now. Surely they could hear him ap-proaching? Suddenly their footsteps sounded closer and he consciously made the effort to reach what he now recognized as a lantern. With an outstretched arm and a final gasp he clasped the soft shoulder in front of him. The phantom whipped around and the lantern illuminated the rosy cheeks and gaping mouth of a young woman. A sigh of relief melted her face and in a quick mo-ment she grasped his hand. “Come with me”. He did not ask questions. He ran with her as she darted away, following the floating, shimmering light with the weight of the unknown. He felt lighter now.

Zoe Mills

ShatteredMarissa Donnelly

43

Adams MorganGena Basha

Being a good citizen is like baking an apple pieYou follow all of the directionsPutting your heart and soul into it And they’re both pretty American When you’ve finished the pie you can share itLike good citizens do with money that they raise You can give the pie to someone who really needs itLike helping the hungryAnd if you look at things a different wayYou can even help someone you don’t like You can throw a fresh, hot, pie at your enemyAnd it will keep them warm,If it doesn’t burn them first And if they don’t burn,They can eat the pie off of themselvesThat knocks out 3 categories Helping the cold The hungry And your own satisfaction

Apple Pie

Mariah Fraker

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For one exhilarating moment, Rafael Singer thought she was lost. A moment later she found herself staring up at a street sign, proclaiming she was no further from her house than when she had started. “Maybe a left?” Noah shook her head. A left would take them within a block of their former elementary school. “Is it time to give up?” Noah shook her head again. Pushing, she was always pushing to keep going. And bossing, Rafael thought, as her sister began to speak again, with the authority granted to the elder child, and the oc-casional politician.

“If you were going to run away, how would you do it?”

There’s nothing new about the question, almost every long winded talk devolved into these sort of conversations. “Well” Rafael said, dragging the syllable out to think of an an-swer; one she hadn’t given last week, or the week before.“I guess I would do it on a school day. You know, that gives you until late afternoon before anyone notices. Except you, I guess. But I would have told you already.”

There is only the barest hesitation in Noah’s voice before she answers. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to leave on the weekend? You know, because then no one would miss you at school, no calls home. And the news is always slow on the weekend. You know, if you make it onto CNN, or whatever.” Which took Rafael by surprise, because she had never thought of their game leading to headlines on the ten o’clock news, or pictures stapled roughly to telephone poles, ink bleeding purple in the warm rain.

“The problem with hypotheticals,” Rafael said “is that it would be a whole lot easier to know what I would do if I knew why I was leaving. Like, do I have to avoid everyone I know because they might spill where I was?” Noah has her answer promptly “Just until you’re eighteen, then you can do what you want.”

“Which is in a year and a half ” Rafael said “which is an awfully long time to hide out in some cave in the Appalachian’s. You wouldn’t have that problem though. Everyone’s still asking for birthday presents, by the way. We’re kind of running out of time to get you any-thing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that” Noah’s voice had taken on a dreamy quality. “Wouldn’t it be nice though?” Rafael paused, trying out practicality like new clothes. “Not really. Not if you’re sleeping in the Appalachian’s or whatever. It wouldn’t be easy, you know.” Noah smiled.

“Not that bad. I’d just take those hiking boots of yours and I’d be fine.”

Plans, Not Well Made

45

“Sure you would, new cities by day, Greyhound bus by night, I can just see you.”

“Can’t you though?” Noah turned to face Rafael “Wouldn’t it be wonderful? Of course there would be all sorts of practical problems. Cell phones and credit cards and food and the like. But still.” “Still” Rafael agreed. They had found themselves, much to their disappointment (but not at all to their surprise) in front of their house again, where a slightly frazzled but mostly relaxed Ms. Singer was gardening, as she did every Saturday. Smiling, she told them that their father was at work again, and would they mind terribly if they set the table for dinner and waited until he got home?

Rafael woke late the next morning, walking downstairs to find her mother reading the Sunday paper. “Where’s Noah?” Ms. Singer didn’t look up “Oh, she had some project she was working on with a friend. You know how they pile on homework towards the end of the year. She said she wouldn’t be back until late--is there anything you want to do today?” “Yeah,” Rafael mumbled, “I mean, no. One moment.” She turned and walked back up to her room. Pulling open the closet door, she saw that a few things had been misplaced. Shuffling around, Rafael found the cause. One pair of scuffed and well worn brown hiking boots, missing.

Eva Shapiro

46

MetropolisAbbey Pechman

I like warm eyesFlushed with excitementToasted, golden brownWarm eyes that crinkle and puff Like peanut butter cookies in the oven

Warm Eyes

Sarah Torresen

47

I am invincible.

If the world were to endseventy-two hours from now,I’d laugh.Maybe to keep from screaming,but I’d laugh.

Three days is plenty of timeto engineer a party whose only intentionis self-destruction.

As the clock ticks down:Objects, Hopes, Wasted Opportunitiescease to matter.

This is true freedom.

When there’s four hours to go,I want the people I loveto cover my bodyin inscriptions and quotations and decla-rations.Made as permanent as if tattooed.Circumstance is everything.

Three days hardly seems enough timeto get done the things deemed necessary,but the beauty of impending nothingnessis that whether or not the panic sets inchanges nothing.

So we might as well dancein the face of our judgment daybecause judgment has already been passedon every single one of usby each other.

And nothing makes a face look prettier than laughter,so why waste the tears?

We only get one chanceto go out in a blaze of glory,so let’s set something on fireand jump into the oceanas the darkness presses down.

Our very own modern day funeral pyreto light our way into whatever it isthat’s ahead of us.

No god could do it better.

One last breath.

We are invincible.

Contingency Plan

Emma Keyes

UntitledSasha Gates

48

Old ManJulia McGurk

49

Claire McLaughlinRed & Gold

50

PeppersJulia McGurk

L.A.V.A., Volume 8, was produced by the magazine staff at Woodrow Wilson High School in Washington, DC and was printed by Silver Communications in Sterling, VA. The magazine was printed using Parishish, Savoye LET, and Minion Pro fonts and printed on 100% Titan gloss. L.A.V.A. was produced using Adobe® Photoshop® CS5 and Adobe® InDesign® CS5, on an Apple® iMac® computer with 4 GB RAM with a 500 GB hard drive. The 120 copies of the magazine were sold for $10.

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