Lit Page March 2014

Table of ConTenTs

Page one & Two.............Writing a Story: a Writer’S guide to ProcraStination by rachel Minkovitz

Page Three.....................................................................bruiSed by Mckenna Polich

Page four.......................................................................the SWitch by taylor reeSe

Page five................................................................................droP by vanna raMirez

Page six.....................................................................QuickSilver girl by blair iSken

Page seven...................................................on SnoW dayS i drink hot chocolate and Find PlaceS like theSe by aurian carter

Page eighT................................................................My FirSt SnoWMan by eMily yin

Page nine...............................................................hot chocolate by ann guzzetta

Page Ten.......................................................a Wanna-be Wizard by aniMagi kai

Page eleven.........................................................................ProSPerity by blair iSken

Page Twelve.................................................................untitled by aurian carter

Page ThirTeen...............................................................huMan race by Sara broWn

Page fourTeen......................................................i aM and i love by kalee kennedy

Page fifTeen....................................................................coMForter by taylor reeSe

Page sixTeen.....................................................a Final deParture by buh-bye kai

Page sevenTeen...............................................nature vS. nurture by kali Sullivan

Page eighTeen & nineTeen...........................................a good talk by Julia reith

Page TwenTy................................................the long arM oF the laWn (a eulogy) by Mr. kirby SMith

Page TwenTy one.................................................there Were So Many WaterFallS i don’t reMeMber Which one thiS WaS by aurian carter

Page TwenTy Two......................................................the Wart by vanna raMirez

Page TwenTy Three..............................................................ago by Mr. kirby SMith

cover art by vanna raMirez

co-editorS: taylor reeSe & vanna raMirez

Faculty adviSor: coleen hubler

A note from the editors: In this issue you will find a selection of works from the Tower Hill faculty, as well as students.

Writing a Story:A Writer’s Guide to Procrastination

by Rachel MinkovitzYou say you want to write a story. Okay. Start with a notebook and a pen. Also, a pencil, in case you don’t want to use the pen. There’s an unsettling permanence to writing without a way of changing your words. It’d be nice if you had a computer, since your hand might cramp and you’ll need to finish the story somehow. You could sub-stitute a typewriter for the computer, unless you have an intense fear of vintage writing instruments. In that case, stick with the computer. Paper and pencils may be hazardous to your health. The mere act of handwriting your story may give you cardiac arrest.

A cup of coffee for you to stare into, comparing its depths with the sea, or someone’s eyes, or a mug filled with hot brown liquid that has three bubbles in the curve of the rim, like a mother holding a baby. Or it might just be like coffee. Hopefully, the coffee will grow cold, since you’ll be too busy writing to have time to thoughtfully sip the beverage. You probably don’t even like coffee, but everyone who’s anyone in the writing world drinks coffee, so you’ll need to emulate them.

Reflect on how the process of making coffee is similar to the process of writing a story. You start with raw mate-rials, putting them into a machine to press them and grind them down and pass them through a filter, so you can have the finished product, something refined. Sometimes, your story doesn’t taste quite right, so you may need to go through it again or add things to it, like sugar and cream and figurative language and adverbs, but with time and hard work, it’ll get there.

Bring a picture of a little boy, since his innocence will inspire you to create a similarly naïve character whose goodness eventually leads his or her unfortunate demise. You might want tissues for that. Don’t forget your watch or a clock, so you can worry about how much time you have left before you need to return to the real world, which is filled with mundane people you are unable to control with your words. It will also remind you of your impending mortality, and the sense of humanity will add to the grief of the parents of the dead child. Your phone will become a necessary distraction from the grueling effort you invest in your story, and you will also need something to play soothing music that fills your senses and lifts your spirit. Or something.

Find a nook or a corner and settle in, only to discover that you really don’t want to write in a nook/corner. Go to a large, empty room, but since its vibe is weird, leave the room. Find a different large, empty room. Chastise yourself for wasting time while you unpack your writing instruments. Laugh at people who sit in cubicles all day. Arrange anthologies of poetry and famous novels, so they build walls around you. Realize that you are hungry, and go find a snack, preferably a biscotti or an apple. Reminisce about something while you munch.

Attempt to glean ideas from staring at plants for two hours. Your notes may include “green, leafy, flower, STILL NOT MOVING.” Throw your shoe at the plants in frustration. Apologize profusely to the plants. Put your head in your hands and cry. Throw your shoe at the wall. Acknowledge your fatigue and admit defeat. Take a nap for inspiration from your dreams. Wake up three hours later with visions of train-driving dinosaurs and tuba-play-ing cats running through your mind. Fail at trying to mold that into a substantial story.

Make dinner and talk about your day with your family. Yes, you were productive. No, you didn’t actually write anything, but you have a lot of great ideas. Yes, you’ll do some writing tomorrow. After dinner, watch reality 1

television shows with the intent of meditating during commercial breaks.

Have a large bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream and complain about your failed life to your cat. Jot down some notes about a new book called Letters to a Cat. Throw away those notes; it’s a terrible idea. You notice that the clock says 12:48. It’s too late to start writing now. Stare into the mirror while you brush your teeth and contem-plate your failed career as a writer. Go to bed; you’ve had a long and busy day. Watch the ceiling as you think about new ideas that you will never remember in the morning. Dream about your wish to be a great writer de-spite all previous fails. Wake up. Repeat.

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Bruised by McKenna Polich

Scholastic Art Awards Honorable Mention

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The Switchby Taylor Reese

I am sitting on the bed, and you are brushing your teeth. I watch the way you move and bounce, dancing to a song in your head. Toothpaste is foaming around your mouth like you’ve got rabies. You look in the mirror and laugh; you think it’s the funniest thing in the world. I watch you with a grin; I love the way you can find humor in everything. I am still watching, but now your laughter turns to tears, and I cannot understand why. I do not get up. I do not move. I do not know why you are crying, and I do not know why I don’t help. You look at me, helpless, practically begging for a hug, for me to hold you, for anything. You spit out your toothpaste as the sobs take over, and you try to rinse your mouth out. I am fro-zen, but you are a flurry of motion. You are melting down, but I am frozen. I have never seen you switch like this. You told me it happens sometimes, but I’ve never seen it. I slowly reach in my pocket and grab my phone, as if I’m afraid to spook you. Like you’re an animal. You notice and turn on me, tears stream-ing down your face. You’re right in my face, screaming at me, telling me how awful and worthless I am; and I am trying to call your sister, your brother, your best friend, anyone who can help me. You snatch the phone and put it in your pocket. My eyes are wide with fear, and suddenly you change. You stand up straight and a look of worry is in your eyes. I don’t understand how you can do this so quickly -- it’s like there’s a switch in your head-- and that’s all there is to it. Maybe there is. Now you are trying to kiss me, but I am still wary. You could switch again. I reach around and grab my phone and search my contacts for your therapist. You are fighting with me for the phone— I knew you’d switch again— and you win. Your hands are around my throat, and I don’t know why. Ev-erything is getting dark around the edges, and the room is spinning around, but all I see are your eyes. They’re crystal clear. I’m looking for some piece of your soul to see me, to come back to me. I wrestle your hands off just enough. “I love you,” I say, and you kind of stop, cocking your head to the right. I see you coming back to me now. You pull your hands from my throat and are shaking and looking at them. You are coming back to me. You are screaming about how you’re a monster and that I should just leave and you are crying again. I take the phone once again and call your therapist while pulling you into a hug, one strong enough that as I feel you crumbling, I hold you together. I will always be here to be your glue, no matter how many pieces you fall into, no matter how many switches flip. Because I love the way you find humor in everything. I love your sleepy smile, and the way your fingers intertwine with mine. No matter how many of your switches flip, I will always be here to flip them back. And you will never have to worry about mine, because no matter which way it flips, it’s always set on you.

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Dropby Vanna Ramirez

World hangs―like dew drop on wet black;delicately,transparent cocoon of dawnbottom heavy―small grasp,falls lightlytiny splash.

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Quicksilver Girlby Blair Isken

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On Snow Days I Drink Hot Chocolate and Find Places Like These

by Aurian Carter

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My First Snowman by Emily Yin

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Hot Chocolate by Ann Guzzetta

Hot Cocoa:With all the snow we have been having recently, take some time to sit down and enjoy a hot cup of cocoa. A simple and easy fix, it only takes a couple of steps. This recipe will surely keep you toasty. Ingredients/Tools Needed:• ¼ cup of cocoa powder (any kind that you prefer)• ½ cup of granulated sugar• ⅓ cup of hot water• ⅛ teaspoon of salt• 4 cups of milk (any kind that you prefer)• 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract.

Instructions:• Combine the cocoa, sugar, water, and salt in a medium-sized pan. Feel free to add any extra flavoring you may enjoy.• Over medium heat, stir thoroughly until the contents boil. After it boils, continue to stir for a minute more.• Stir in the milk and heat.• Remove from the stove and add vanilla; stir well. Enjoy!

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A Wanna-Be Wizardby Animagi Kai

Why can’t I walk on water?Or be a Harry Potter?If I could just make some magicYou wouldn’t be in a situation so tragic

Helping you is all I wantI could be your own savantTime will tell if I succeedIf only we could walk to Hogsmeade

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Prosperityby Blair Isken

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Human Raceby Sara Brown

The capacity of the human race clearly surpasses the invention of science.We exist beyond the hoards of the directional and categorizing DNA etched into our vulnerable skins.We operate not as a single, polished life form,but as a collection of dismembered minds:pondering the unknown,with hands outstretched, begging under an arbor of wisdomand praying for the fruit of enlightenment to grow within reach of our needy grasp.As inventors, we devise the impossible,and contrive the inconceivable in vain attempts to seize that which does not yet belong to us.In these hours of manic ingenuity, and crazed creativity,only the fearful clutches of the night quell the frantic imaginings within our brains.For fear itself halts the steady procession of inspirations,and ceases the seeking of dreams.We claw at the silence that envelopes our soulsfor that which haunts us lastfrightens us mostuntil the dawn arises-sprung from the bindings of its undeserved countenance.For silence always withholds rights to the very last,ineffaceable,word.

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Untitledby Aurian Carter

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I Am and I Loveby Kalee Kennedy

Scholastic Writing Award Gold Key WinnerNote: Some parts of this story quote Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Waking up is a constant struggle for me each morning. I pull myself out of bed and schlep on the outfit school has predetermined for me. The girl in the mirror worries me. The dry, wrinkled skin, the matted hair, and dark sullen eyes are characteristics of the girl. They all say I’m curious, a gift from above, and destined for great things. They don’t know. They don’t see – the suffering. The tears. The self-inflicted cuts hidden all over my body. The imperfections that have shaped the girl in front of me. I can’t recognize myself through all the torment. My feet move as if through mud. I grab a quick breakfast before heading off to school. I walk down the street and crush crisp fallen leaves underneath my feet. My prospects for this greaten, when I happen to see the town’s bible thumper, Louise Ackerman, on the corner. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Ackerman asks me. I am positive she was waiting for me. She won’t stop. I stare straight into her eyes. I cannot fathom how this girl’s spirit is constantly positive. I look away from those eyes. They remind me too much of the earth –bountiful with vegetation and lively. “Leave me alone, Ackerman.” She is blocking the sidewalk; I can’t get around her. She has blocked me in. “I pray for you. Every single day, you know,” Louise says. I know she’s not going to let me go unless I say it. Until I finally admit. I’ve come this far and avoided her every day this year; I’m not going to give in that easily. “What’s the point? I can’t accept that God exists. You know that!” I shout at her. “He has brought me too much hurt and pain just for kicks. There is no God, and there is no justice in the world.” “The point is you’re suffering. I see it. I feel it. It’s evident. I want to help,” Ackerman replies. “Are you kidding me? You think a little treatment and religion is going fix me? I’m a basket case. There is no fixing me. There is no cure for a sinner whose identity relies on the sin.” Louise flinches and is taken aback by my admission. Maybe she will finally leave now that she realizes the stu-pidity of her cause. But to my surprise, she composes herself and replies, “There is a cure. You’re just too blind to see it right now. I stare at her with my mouth agape. “It’s love.” I close my mouth and a smirk grows on my face. The sound of my hands clapping made her jump. “You’re pathetic,” I reply. “You think love is going to fix all the messed up parts of the world – even me? I’m sor-ry to burst your bubble. I can’t be fixed. Love is just an excuse people tell themselves to give themselves a meaning for living. In reality, it’s just a lie.” I am done with this conversation. I try to move past her, but she catches my arm. She moves the sleeve of my sweater up my arm and turns my arm over. She looks at my scars and stares into my eyes like she’s taking peek into my soul. She leans down and kisses my scars as a single tear escapes her eye. She says, “Forgive me. Please forgive. It is my fault that you won’t listen. It’s true that it is hard. ‘Sin is strong, impiety is strong, the bad environment is strong, and we are lonely and powerless, the bad environment will dampen us and keep our good endeavor from being fulfilled.’ Right now, I understand you feel like you’re in hell. You are. Hell is the ‘suffering of being no longer able to love.’ Yet, I feel you can rise above this destiny you’ve laid out for yourself.” Her sudden confession stuns me. I stare at her and then at my scars. I pull away from her grasp, rearrange my sweater. I walk around her and head for school. As I walk, I find myself crying. I don’t know why, but I feel it’s the right thing to do. When I arrive at school, I have to go through security. “State your name,” The security demanded. “ Abaddon Malus,” I reply. “School ID,” she requests. I search for my school ID in my pockets. I feel a crinkle in my sweater’s pocket, and there’s a note with five words on it: I am and I love. 14

Comforterby Taylor Reese

She jumps in bedletting the tide of blanketscover her.She drowns in cotton,in fleece,in tears.Plunging into the waveswatching bubbles riseshe chooses to go the other way.

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A Final Departureby Buh-Bye Kai

Far away in the DistanceAbove the illuminating FireTime waves goodbyeLife is near

Pouring from the MountainsThe Moon stares backShadows creep underNothing is heard

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Nature vs. Nurtureby Kali Sullivan

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A Good Talkby Julia Reith

The soft blue-green glow of the clock on the stove and the yellow warmth of the street light dimly illuminated the kitchen. Two girls, a blonde and brunette, sat on the floor. Each wrapped in a colorful fleece blanket and clad in comfortable pajamas, they had already been talking for hours. It was now two in the morning and the conversation was only getting deeper, more thought being put in to each word. Having been the closest of friends for years now, one would think that they would lose the intimacy of their relation-ship. However, despite the blonde having always attended a different school from the brunette, the two girls remained in touch. They only got to see each other once or twice a year, during the Christmas holiday and sometimes over the summer, but they texted each day, sending constant reminders of how much they cared for the other. “Y’know, I have known you for years, but I feel like I don’t really know you. What are your opinions on life? What are you scared of?” the blonde suddenly questioned. “Um, I don’t know. You’re right. We’ve never really talked like this before, have we?” the brunette thought out loud, thrown back by the forwardness of the question. “I guess… I guess life can just be hard sometimes.” “Yeah.” “Like I mean, there is so much you see on movies or on TV, and you think ‘Oh, that could never happen to me!’ but then it does. What do you do then? It’s hard sometimes to not curl up and hide from the world, so you put on a smile and pretend like it never happened. You deal with it only when you have to. No one outside of a small circle of people ever needs to know. But then it eats away at you, and people can start to see through the disguise. It’s just… hard, y’know?” the brunette rambled. “I know what you mean. There have been so many things that have happened growing up: losing a grandparent, moving schools, new friends, emotions. I guess I have just bottled it up for so long. Then I got to boarding school and there were so many outs. So many new things to try with new people, and you just want to be liked. I never have told you that. I never have told anyone that.” “I feel the same way,” the brunette began. “High school is weird. You just want everyone to like you, and what’s the point? Popularity is dumb. Name brand clothing is dumb. It’s all worth nothing, but we worry about it. And then stuff starts happening at home, and there’s so much to worry about all the time.” She began to tear up, and her friend embraced her in a warm hug. “I know. It’s hard. But it will be okay.” “Yeah, I guess everything happens for a reason. I really do believe that, you know? It’s easier to think that way. It helps me stay optimistic.” “I like to think that way too. It’s nice,” the blonde smiled. “Love happens for a reason, you lose family for a reason, you make the friends you make for a reason. Everything is better that way. There is no need to constantly run yourself into the ground to impress people.” The conversation progressed further, the topics being discussed more and more. Suddenly they looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly three in the morning. They decided they had better get to bed, for they had to be up and about in just five hours. Once in bed, they struggled with falling asleep. They were restless, shaking vigorously. “I can’t sleep,” the brunette whispered, careful not to wake anyone in other bedrooms. “Same,” the blonde sighed, turning to look at her friend. “I can’t stop shaking. My body is like freaking out,” the brunette chuckled. “You know, it’s like we released so much tension and emotion from our bodies that we have all this

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freedom now, so we shake.” “Yeah. It’s like everything is erupting out of me tonight. It’s so relaxing. I just wish I could calm down. I’m so tired.” “Me too. I just want to sleep!” “Why don’t we just try?” “Okay,” the brunette smiled. “Thanks for being here tonight. I love you.” “I love you too. Thanks for being a great friend.” “Wait!” the brunette exclaimed. “I figured out my biggest fear.” “Oh, what is it?” “Not being loved.” “Why?” “Well you see in the movies all those romantic scenes where the girl finds the guy and she just knows. I just feel like it’s never going to happen to me. I’m scared I’ll never have a family.” “You’ll find someone. We’re still so young. We haven’t even been to college or experienced the real world yet. You are a great person. After tonight, I know you’ll find someone. You have so much to offer. Just get some sleep.” “Alright. Thanks, you’re the best.” “You know, this conversation went full circle. From talking about fears, to life, to love, back to your fear epiphany. That’s nice. I feel like we did something amazing tonight,” the blonde suddenly realized. “Yeah, we should be proud.” “Thanks for being you. That’s all I could ever want from you. Never be afraid to be you,” she said before the two girls finally drifted off to sleep.

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The Long Arm of the Lawn (a eulogy)by Mr. Kirby Smith

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There Were So Many Waterfalls I Don’t Remember

Which One This Wasby Aurian Carter

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The Wartby Vanna Ramirez

Winster’s wart finally fell off his toe last night. Crawled away in his sleep he said. Warts don’t just crawl away in your sleep I told him. Then where did it go? How should I know I replied. Then you can’t tell me it didn’t crawl away. Fine, whatever.

* * * * *

I was washing my hands when I noticed a bump on my pinky. Wart. I didn’t remember having one before then. Maybe...

* * * * *

Next morning it was gone. Crawled away...

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Agoby Mr. Kirby Smith

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