Mikaela Liotta, Cake Head Man, mixed media

The Cauldron

Senior Editors Grace Jaewon Yoo Muriel Leung Liam Nadire

Staff Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck Phoebe Danaher Daniel Fung

2015 Sally Jee Prim Sirisuwannatash Angela Wong Melissa Yukseloglu

Faculty Advisor Joseph McDonough

1 Poetry

Emma Woodberry Remember 5 GyuHui Hwang Two Buttons Undone 6 Khanh Nyguen I Wait for You to Have Dinner 8 Angela Wong Euphoria 9 Sabi Benedicto The House was Supposed to be Tan 12 (But was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Canvas Li Haze 15 Adam Jolly Spruce and Hemlock Placed By 44 Gentle Hands Jordan Moller The Burning Cold 17 Grace Jaewon Yoo May 18 Silent Hills 40 Lindsay Wallace Forgotten 27 Joelle Troiano Flicker 30 Jack Bilbrough Untitled 31 Valentina Mathis A Hop Skip 32 Jessica Li The Passenger 36 Daddy’s Girl 43 Eugenia Rose stumps 38 Brandon Fong Ironing 47 Ryder Sammons Mixed Media, Ceramics New Year’s Cold 48 Mikaela Liotta Shayla Lamb Spine 7 Senior Year 50 Mermaid 46 Teddy Simson Elephant Skull 16 Prose Eye of the Tiger 53 Muriel Leung Katie I A Great River 20 Imagination 19 Zorte 52 Sabi Benedicto Geniophobia 32

2 Photography

Rachel Choe More Please 8 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck DEAD 2 Spin 12 Swimmingtotheschor 22 Bigfernfloating 41 Lydia Stenflo LA as seen from the 14 Griffith Observatory at Night in March Beach Warrior 58 Meimi Zhu Reflection 30 Jessica Li Juvenescence 37 The Last Door 42 Brandon Fong The End is Neigh 38 Sunday in Menemsha 53 Liam Nadire Hurricane Sandy #22 47 Pride 58

Painting, Drawing Katie I Risen 4 Oban Galbraith The Divide 9 Joni Leung Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, DEAD, photography HK – The Street 10 Venice 21 Start of an Adventure 25 HK – Lan Kwai Fong 34 Phoebe Danaher Katherine Liu Triple Skull Head 16 The Forbidden Temple 39 Light Pollution 49 Rachel Cho Sentinel 53 Boom 52 Muriel Leung Phoebe Danaher Quiet Space 18 Synthetic Jazz 52 Angela Wong Natasha Lee Away 27 The Chandelier 26 Alisa Wan Apple Tart 27 Moonlit Lighthouse 28 Hannah Pesce Summer Garry The Three Graces 44 9 am: Boy Reads Gun 57 Catalog 3 4

Katie I, Risen, oil on canvas Remember Emma Woodberry The bitter tonic of January Mingles with our blood. Pinprick stars speckle the night Like trailing crumbs of the Swollen moon. A nocturne symphony Flickers in the silence.

We can see the horizon, where The celestial crust ruptures At dawn. We breathe, And squint our midnight-crusted eyes Against the naked light, ripe in the Adolescent morning.

So are we. Mourning. Remembering the stumbling snowflakes, The snow-caked spruce trees, The bitter tonic of January.

5 Two Buttons Undone GyuHui Hwang Through my window, I see some grown-ups hurry. Trying to look like businessmen, Trying to look comfortable in awkward black suits, They struggle to figure out how to work their buttons on their shirts. I would laugh at them if I could, I would call them naïve if I could, Yet I am afraid that one day I will be one of those who believe that Figuring out how to work the buttons means figuring out their future.

I see a tall man walking along the sidewalks. He looks like a freshman in the fake grown-up club With a suit not black enough and two buttons undone. He slowly runs to join the other men in darker suits, With eyes like those of a puppy that wants to be loved. As soon as he joins the other men, they walk further into the dark.

6 I know they would not listen to me, For I have not eaten enough birthday cakes to join their group. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I would like to tell those men in black suits that every day They are getting closer to the funeral of their own.

But I know they would not listen to me, For they ate more birthday cakes than I did. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I’m not sure if I will ever see the man with the two buttons undone. Maybe he’ll be too close to his funeral to return.

I put the black suit that I got as a gift away in my closet. I shove my cake in my trash can. I take out a photo of me laughing while holding my parents’ hands. I smile at the little me. And hope that remembering my childhood Will stop me from joining the men struggling with their buttons.

mixed media Mikaela Liotta, Spine , 7 I wait for you to have dinner Khanh Nguyen I wait for you to have dinner The moon is already there, shining A ruby piece on the orchid tree Would see you on the empty road

The moon is already there, shining You might still be cycling Would see you on the empty road Is the gloaming unfolding on the golden field

You might still be cycling The cooker with steamed rice is waiting Gloaming unfolds on the golden field You might be thinking of home?

The cooker with steamed rice is waiting I stand under the orchid tree You might be thinking of home? Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse

I stand under the orchid tree A ruby piece on the orchid tree Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse I wait for you to have dinner.

8 Rachel Choe, More Please, photography Oban Galbraith, The Divide, oil on canvas

Euphoria Angela Wong Falling into white-washed linens That entombed the smile of the night, I faded with the rising sun— Bursts of creamy pink Puckering into blue. 9 oil on canvas , Street

11 Joni Leung, HK–The Joni The House was supposed to be Tan (but was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Sabi Benedicto It’s difficult to dance when our legs are dark with bruises. We can’t remember love if we make love to our excuses. Bathing bare and naked in our ignorance and pride, The toxic water poisons us, and plagues us with divide.

The truth about our childhood is that it must decay. January must expire to thaw the ice for May. The soldiers have no more to eat; they beg to end the war. They question if their covenant is one worth fighting for. 12 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Spin, photography

Yet still we drink the poison, Yet still we dance away. We desperately so wish to love, But I know I cannot stay.

Tell me how we built this home, Lest that we forget, Because after the fires, the floods, the pain You’re all that I have left. 13 photography Lydia Stenflo, LA the Griffith as seen from Observatory, at Night in March Lydia

14 HAZE Canvas Li I always said that I would show you around my city at night, When the dark fell and the streetlights lit. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright.

You said that nowhere you would rather be than the City of Light, So I wished to row with you in my glowing, flickering Beihai when the dusk hit. I always said that let me show you around the city at night.

Sadly, one can no longer breathe the air here and feel alright. Standing on the bridge and looking at the lake, one cannot see a bit. Now darkness comes with the haze, despite the bright sunlight.

When you asked me to name my favorite sight, I could not settle on one answer but I was sure of the time that fit: I would show you around my city at night.

But I’ve just realized, that specific time can’t be right, Since the defining characteristic of the day—daylight—is no longer legit. Darkness comes with the haze, not sunset, when the sun is still so bright.

I hate it when you talk about my polluted city with slight, But now I cannot find any, any excuses to defend it. I always said that I would show you around my city at night. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright.

*Beihai (North Sea): a lake in an imperial garden in Beijing, close to the Forbidden City.

15 oil on canvas The Burning Cold Jordan Moller

Your name burns Ice cold tonight. Triple Skull Head , Triple Phoebe Danaher,

Tonight, your cold name— Ice —Burns.

My ego burnt by long torturous nights spend sleeping on Ice. If only you Were more than a name. I am cold,

pencil and watercolor on a wood board on a wood pencil and watercolor so bitterly cold. Teddy Simson, Elephant Skull , Teddy

16 I’ve built up the fire to burn away a name that drifts in my thoughts tonight. You’re Ice.

Ice breath, spine shivering with cold. Your Telltale burns Tonight Recall a name Name: Ice. Tonight I am reminded by the cold and the burns of a love of yore.

Your name burns Ice cold Tonight.

17

Muriel Leung, Quiet Space , watercolor on paper

May Grace Jaewon Yoo Off she goes again, breaking the morning dew white fences hang too loose, too low, and she walks into the grass. Morning grass wakes at the faint tap of her feet, a quiet dance only the wind knows. Water footprints remember her falling steps all the way from home.

She says she is lost, but I think she likes it here, Floating along the rumpled meadow. She says she likes to walk on grass, perhaps because the fences say no. So in the dusk of May, she walks into the watery bloom.

18 19

Katie I, Imagination, mixed media her own circumstances rolled over her—the trip, Aunt Es- A Great River ther, mushroom and meatball lasagna. It was seven AM. Peter had been gone at the obser- Muriel Leung vatory for two hours. Francesca wasn’t sure what to do with It reminded Francesca of the sort of houses she used herself, in this place that wasn’t her house with these people to draw with Daffy curled at her feet. A fairytale: the little who weren’t her relatives. white box stubbornly digging its stilts into the mountain, a At last, Francesca descended into the living room. In pine sprig peeking from a decorative sled on the red front the wide-windowed room, a reading lamp glowed defiantly door. against the ghostly fog. On the nearby sofa, a golden blob “Are you sure this is your aunt’s house?” Francesca shook with snores. Cheddar. asked Peter. She watched her eyelids twitching under the thick “Number five,” Peter replied, looking at the post-it eyelashes. Off in doggy-land. What had Daffy dreamed on the dashboard. “The instructions say number five.” about—their adventures? They were staying with Peter’s aunt Esther, who What adventures they’d had. When the sun set and lived fifteen minutes away from Drew Laurence Observa- the emptiness at home became unbearable, Francesca and tory, where he would be researching galaxy formations with a Daffy would head out together—Daffy setting a running university professor. pace—to Lyzen peak, the local “mountain.” From the moment Francesca met Peter, she knew Francesca would look down at the houses—glowing boxes that he was in love with the universe. More than he could keeping the icy stars at bay—and imagine herself floating ever be in love with her, maybe. into them, finding herself and Daffy a home. An arc of light washed over them as the cranberry door swung open again. A woman glided forward, loose- The day Daffy died, for the first time, the houses chestnut ponytail and thick wool sweater. seemed as far away as they really were. Unreachable. Just like “Peter, Peter, it’s been years!” She embraced his thin Daffy would always be. body, seeming unfazed when he returned her warmth half- For a while, Frances stared at the untouchable heartedly. And then she was hugging Francesca. “And Franc- lights—and then started running again. Down, down. Usually esca. I’ve never met you, and you’re practically my niece.” she ran because she was bursting with hope and light—this A boy ran out carrying spatulas and trailing cheesy, time because she was drowning. wonderful smells. Peter’s cousin Gus. Gus looked eerily like She didn’t know where she was going. She was on a thirteen-year old Peter—a smiley, eager version. strange road, nice houses with gates and great big swimming At his heels was an enthusiastic Golden Retriever. pools. Francesca thought of Daffy, her old weimaraner. “Hey you!” “Down, Cheddar! Bad, bad girl,” Gus called. Then, Francesca jolted to a stop, looking around. “Hey guys! Do you want lasagna? We got two kinds—mush- A thin boy was leaning out of an overhead window. His pale room and meatball.” face and taught arms illuminated in his window’s light, he re- Esther watched the pair as they walked inside. Thin, minded Francesca of dancers—light, ropey, not quite human. hard runners gliding as if their feet were on clouds. “You should run a little later, when the stars come There was something else about the way they moved. Like out.” they were held together by something old and precious; Was it still light enough to he see her tears? Quickly, something you’d be afraid of breaking. Francesca turned away. “That’s dangerous.” The boy’s white face pinked. He shrugged. “No, its Francesca awoke in whiteness the next morning. awesome. I know because I go every night.” Watching low-lying clouds drift dreamily past her window, “Well, you’re crazy,” said Francesca, and kept going.

20 Joni Leung, Venice, acrylic on canvas

21 “Just try it!”

“What’s her name again, mom?” “Shhh, don’t disturb her, Gus.” Francesca started. The whole house was now in sunny, mid- day glow. Esther was standing by the door in grey and lime green; Gus, electric blue jacket and brown eyes sparkling on a pink face, was inches from Francesca. The air smelled of pancakes. Francesca scrambled up. “Oh—I’m sorry!” How long had she been there, sprawled on the sofa like it was hers? “Dumpling—“ “Do you want to go on a super-awesome adventure?” “Hmm?” Francesca asked, looking at Gus’ mother. Esther sighed. “Well, there’s a slope over there. They call it The Pearl. When it snows its like a slide—makes you feel like you’re flying.” “It’s magic!” Even though Esther’s smile said no pressure, something about the duo’s bright colors and warm expressions tempted Franc- esca. Before she knew it, she was in her own jacket. 22 They followed a slim black road up the mountain until it gave way to a tree-cloaked gravel path. Eventually, the trees drew photography Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Swimmingtotheschor , Boonbaichaiyapruck, Pann

back and the mountain plunged down in a white fluff, like a foamy waterfall frozen in time. Half a mile away, the land leveled off and gave way to the sea of trees again. “You have to watch this,” said Esther, breaking Francesca’s out of a trance. “This is my favorite part.” “Cheddar, baby”, she called. “Slide?” Her ears pricked up like she had suggested a treat; her tail whirred. And then, she had lunged into the snow. Down she went crouching on her paws, like she was skiing. She howled—or laughed? Francesca stared. “No way”, she said. “Does she even want to do that?” “Oh, 100% concentrate!”, which Francesca took to mean yes. “She likes companions, too.” Cheddar bounded—or tried to bound—up the slope again. And she was pushing Francesca towards the ledge, huffing and snuf- fling. Esther and Gus laughed. The slope was steep. Francesca didn’t like falling. But every- one was laughing and encouraging her, and she hadn’t felt so light in a long time. “Here”, said Gus. “Hold onto Cheddar. She’s like a lucky charm.” So Francesca wrapped her arms around Cheddar’s toasty 23 frame and letting herself slide onto the incline. Like a rollercoaster, everything started out slowly. But all at things were out of control. A few nights after the strange boy had They were light, streaking across the white ex- talked to her, Francesca went on his run. She panse with nothing to stop them and no stop in hadn’t planned on it, but at night her house was sight. And there was wild exhilaration. Cheddar so heavy with emptiness. When she found the felt it, howling and panting. As Francesca dug boy stretching outside his grey house, she made it into Cheddar’s golden mane, she felt like she was clear she still thought he was weird. riding a unicorn through a celestial storm. Like They stopped at the top like she and she was running with Daffy again. Everything Daffy had. Peter taught her the constellations— would be okay. where the nearest galaxies were and what held them together. He told her he wanted to be an Francesca didn’t know how much time astronaut; he ran as physical training. had passed on the slope, but the sky had faded to Soon, Francesca realized, Peter was alone a grayish blue when they crashed back into the like her. He had parents who were home more cozy house. than Francesca’s. But Peter was like a cat, wan- “You’re a natural,” said Gus, as they sat dering in and out, taking food and leaving. down to hot cups of maple-sugar milk, which Es- He was searching for the Meaning of ther served in big white mugs with bear cartoons. Everything, and Francesca became his com- “I promote you to five star general.” panion. They stared meeting after school—they “That’s a real compliment,” Esther would check out about galaxy formation at the smiled. “If you come with us again, you might library and read them at Francesca’s house while even be promoted to Commander.” she made them meals (nice ones from New York The hum of an engine, a slamming car- Times recipes). Big questions about the begin- door, and Peter walked in. ning of our universe. Francesca felt comforted by He stopped when he saw them huddled their ritual. It gave her the sort of feeling she got together in the living room. running up the hill—creating purpose, forgetting “Hello, Peter, how was everything?” she was lonely. “Alright, thanks for asking.” He stared at Francesca. “And you?” “Come, I’ll show you where the slide is.” Was Francisca imagining hurt in his Francesca had proposed their running tone? there as a substitute route to Lyzen Peak while “We went sliding down the mountain!” they stayed with Esther. She had also proposed Gus crowed. bringing along Cheddar, which Peter had half- “Sliding?” heartedly agreed to. “You should come with us someday. They followed the gravel path, head- Maybe if we go early in the morning.” lamps throwing ghostly shadows and Cheddar’s “I don’t think my schedule allows it. And panting chasing away the silence. you never know about ice… But thank you, Aunt And then they were swimming in the Esther.” He finished folding his scarf. “Excuse stars. The snowy slope, which had been a mighty me; I’m going to go log in my journal. Such an sea in the sun, was now a shadowy afterthought. interesting day.” Francesca suddenly felt lonely. Francesca watched him slowly, neatly “Look…over there’s Vega and Altair.” climb the stairs, and she felt somehow guilty. Peter gestured at the two tiny stars on either side

24 Joni Leung, Start of an Adventure, oil on canvas

of the swollen Milky Way. When had her eager panting stopped? “The Herdsboy and the Weaver Girl,” “Peter?” he said, referencing an old folktale. “Separated He didn’t respond. “Peter! Where’s forever by the great river.” Cheddar?” Peter’s hand no longer held a leash. Francesca laughed at his serious tone. Wild panic. Had she gone after a deer? “They could have just gotten a boat.” She could be anywhere on this dark, terrifying “Well, yeah,” he said distractedly, then mountain. How could she face Esther—Gus? continued. “Think about it, they really are meant While the sky danced, the land remained to be lonely. All those stars. Accelerating away dark and undecipherable. from each other…” Had Cheddar gone down the slide? Francesca felt restless. It was their uni- Even when Francesca shone her phone flashlight verse, yes, but why did they always have to worry over the edge, it kept its secrets like a black hole. about it? Gingerly, she climbed over the edge. She And Cheddar. Where was Cheddar? pushed off, plunging one hand into the icy cold

25 to slow her fall while she clumsily scanned the darkness with the other. “Chess? What are you doing?” “Having fun,” she snapped. “What do you think I’m doing? Looking for Cheddar. What are you doing?” “Why would Cheddar—“ “She just might. Keeping looking up there. Her phone flashlight only carved small slivers of light. It was like Peter trying to understand the eleven dimen- sions from three, she thought. Useless. “Cheddar!” When she got to the bottom, she felt the weight of what had happened. Like Daffy, Cheddar was gone. She met Peter at the top. “He’s gone,” he said. His expression, stark in her phone’s light, made her think of his reaction when she finally told him about Duchess, the year after Duchess died. Peter had averted his eyes, uncomfortable, like a foreigner in a land he couldn’t begin to understand. “I guess we go back and tell Esther then,” said Francesca. They began walking down where they had came from. Their footsteps, quick and free before, where now heavy and too loud. Francesca couldn’t believe herself. That’s what she got for being reckless, she thought—insisting on tak- ing Cheddar along. Peter was never reckless. Natasha Lee, The Chandelier, ceramics And she realized, it was Peter’s fault not hers. Peter had let go of the leash, looking at those stupid stars. When they got back to the house, there was a golden mass on the porch. Cheddar. “Oh, girlie, girlie! Francesca flew to her and wrapped her arms in her sweet fur again. Cheddar’s tail thumped. She looked exceptionally proud of herself. I came home. Francesca looked at Peter, his features glowing in the porch light. That soft, stardust hair and those eyes like swirling nebulae. He was her Northern Star, offering endless wonder. But, she realized, he was fixed in the sky and could never be home for her.

Natasha Lee, Apple Tart, ceramics 26 Forgotten Lindsay Wallace Games of icy dance left your fingers bare— You, caught in the whirl that left your mind blank, So entranced you were that you left me there And so alone and empty I grow rank.

While once I was good for gentle tracing For shielding your skin from bitter wind. My world is now naught but the blade’s racing I’m solitary while once I was twinned.

I am unraveling at all my seams, Empty and useless, a lonely reject. I won’t last much longer, amongst these screams But I’ve no fear, as I’ve naught to protect.

With this rink my grave, my tale unwritten Will die with me, your forgotten mitten.

Angela Wong, Away, watercolor 27 28 oil on canvas Moonlit Lighthouse , Alisa Wan, Alisa Wan,

29 Flicker Joelle Troiano Of all the things that shine unsteadily in this grand and terrible world, you are one. (breaths snagged on the icy horizon, starlight like thorn bushes clawing at scraps of the air around you) You are on. You are off. You are a candle dancing in the wind.

You are a string of firecrackers in the rain, The dampened explosions of a thousand heartbeats, and there is nothing wrong with that. I think we all live somewhere along those lines— either a nightmare or a dream between the loony bin and a junkyard— either life or death as the water climbs high.

We are the leapers and the makers of wings on the fall towards flying. We are the echo of empty space, we are all the words unsaid, and we are all the moments for which words are mean- ingless. We are On. off. On. Off. We are a flicker, and, I swear, we are magnificent.

30 Untitled Jack Bilbrough It’s pointless—you realize that, right? The way we cover ourselves, acting as if we could stay warm— As if our coats, crafted by unsteady fingers— Could serve some purpose. Although we lie to it, plead with it, the Wind cuts right through us.

And us!—we sit, Approaching education in front of a board, You only know January is passing. Skipping building to building— Wearing coats, and thinking of integrals, The icy air defies us The Wind rips right through us. We know life in a steady flow, A glow, oozing out of the windows across the valley.

We are reminded, by the spruce and alder Of our fathers—working in dim basements. The smells of cedar chips, the dark weight of oak. We feel the horizon stretch at sunset, An ominous hum in the air A sinking feeling no one will admit to. We are reminded of the creeping evils of night. We are reminded of the death that hides behind the trees, Wild and strong.

We turn from the wind, hands shaking, and walk inside.

31

Meimi Zhu, Reflection, photography A Hop Skip Valentina Mathis Tap, Tap, Tap Tap Tap, Tap, Tap Tap

Footsteps Back And Forth We go on Runningalong we don’t stop —it’s getting harder to stop

No one stops They Keep Going

On and on and on again Swooosh (But we run off—so we don’t have to stop ever again)

32 Sabi Benedicto, Geniophobia, digital imaging

33 34 oil on canvas

35 , Fong Leung, HK – Lan Kwai Joni The Passenger Jessica Li He was a passenger unallied. I asked him what was his destination, He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.”

But we were all headed to a side, Determined to succeed. Always searching for our location. He was a passenger unallied.

No matter what direction. Like a high tide, Crashing, not afraid of speculation. He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.”

Then he said: “come with me and we’ll ride into the night,” the stars, they shine in the sky. Be confused without hesitation, Lets both be passengers unallied.

I wanted to cast my doubts aside, leave my dreams behind, say goodbye to those obligations! Because he told me: “I’m just along for the ride.”

But I am afraid. We all have our own war cries. We were not all meant for liberation. He was a passenger unallied, He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.”

36 photography , Li, Juvenescence Jessica

37

Brandon Fong, The End is Neigh, photography

stumps Eugenia Rose waves crash with the wind over the sand howling,

a blanket working, always trustworthy proceeding to play

in the fields, watching, people lying to the stars.

shelter filled with dust serving to protect and waiting for the eye,

siding with the hypnotized, 38 satellites fall to sleep.

Katherine Liu, The Forbidden Temple, scratch board

waves crash with the wind over the sand howling,

a blanket working, always trustworthy proceeding to play

in the fields, watching, people lying to the stars.

shelter filled with dust serving to protect and waiting for the eye,

siding with the hypnotized, satellites fall 39 to sleep. Silent Hills Grace Jaewon Yoo I see these hills falling on me, standing (I am) but barely. There is no end to the beginning of this imaged being. I am swallowed alive, chewed to square bits, tastes (too flat) and spat. It is a great silent hill that eats me whole, strips my skins. I am bare, weighed on by a rolling weight. I see the great hill silent on me.

40 photography

41 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Bigfernfloating , Boonbaichaiyapruck, Pann

Jessica Li, The Last Door , photography

42 Daddy’s Girl Jessica Li The snow, like tiny dancing fairies tap danced on my nose. I let out a Breath. I remember that January night in North Dakota. I remember my breath fogging up the car window, Waiting. Santa stood on the sidewalk drunk. The deafening sound of his salvation bell, I clapped my hands to my ears. I remember that January night, my breath fogging up the kitchen window. My face smushed against the window-pane, Watching. The flickering light from someone else’s TV screen. My mom she pulled me close. I remember that January, you sang me a sweet lullaby your hair brushing my eyes as I closed them and drifted Away. I remember that night. I remember, You left.

43 Spruce and Hemlock Placed by Gentle Hands Adam Jolly

Spruce and Hemlock placed by gentle hands The sun now long-gone, dotted the environment around us. leaving everything The trees flew by, in a moonlit haze. bent by the distortion brought on The cold air rushed around us, by a speeding vehicle. however, I glanced over my shoulder, we continued into the wind. I looked at you, Losing control now, I quickly looked back. the icy roads soon took over. Clouds of condensation became clear, Drifting in between the houses, the passenger window now and over the sidewalks, fogged by my breath. you pulled me close. Words that should have been said When we came to an abrupt stop, went by silenced, my legs, and my heart and a layer of dark told me to run. painted over the world. I ran.

mixed media

44 The Three The Three Graces , Hannah Pesce, photography Liam Nadire, Hurricane Sandy #22 ,

45 Mikaela Liotta, Mermaid, mixed media

46 Ironing Brandon Fong On Friday nights, she works late.

Beneath the wavering glow Of a halogen too long gone Hunched low over her canvas She becomes slave to creases.

Cuff to shoulder, shoulder to pleat Together with soul, she sways with her entirety Her emotions carry her through the full stroke Waist to ankle, beginning to end.

She presses, down the drifting sidewalks Of her no-good Midwest childhood – she thought she would never escape – She meets a man to take her away.

She sweeps, and in correspondence, words blossom Into something most unexpected Under trivialities and polite inquiries They discover the subtle madness of love.

She flees, down the calf, and the crease grows deeper Desperately she yearns to smudge every inconsistency, Words said and unsaid, wrinkles in the fabric of time Verifying the injustice of hindsight.

And as I watched on, she bore the final blow Her momentum seemed to carry her Beyond the crease, and vanished into the dark And God, how she yearned to follow.

But the flickering light beckons her return.

47 New Year’s Cold Ryder Sammons Remember our breath that January, As if a ghost in the light from your door, Our lips just mere inches apart. Wary You pulled me close in the night. The cold bores At our bare hands, our skin, our beating hearts. I wonder if something can come of this, In this light, in this night. It is like art; Brushstrokes tracing your eyes, capturing bliss In our bodies, our beating hearts. Our time Together is wonderful. The light from Your door looks inviting. A doorbell chimes Across the street, breaking our silence. Some- Thing clicks in my mind; I must go from here, From this light, I have places to be dear. 48 Phoebe Danaher, Light Pollution, oil on canvas

49 Senior Year Shayla Lamb A lone crinkled leaf falls like a shooting star No point in catching for it’s simply too far. The wind pushes now, testing you, So much to do that you never knew. All is bare, and quietly quivers, Night’s silence is eerie and makes you shiver, But you count your blessings and hold on tight, Gripping his hand with all your might.

White crystal snow falls like gems. It’s the beginning of all the ends. A swirl of dancing and dazzling delight Or an unwanted icy plight. You’ve started to learn just how to deal By learning who is fake and who is real, And as the ice chilled wind whips at your face, Your arms open up to his embrace.

Soon budding blossoms bloom everywhere the valley’s echoes of laughter fill the air, And the sun begins to rise ever higher, You smile with tears, knowing your time here is soon to expire, So slower now you sniff each and every flower With a little more patience for the occasional rain shower. Like the bittersweet symphony of a flower soon to die, You just can’t believe it’s time to say good-bye.

Then emerald fields whisper and you answer their call, The smell of green grass lingers over it all, You slip into the creek—cool droplets dot your skin, Now he follows and your mouth curls into a slight grin. Into the sun you flop, Hoping this date will never stop. You look up to see the last sunny beams radiate Your long tan legs hang off his truck’s tailgate-- Under a now purple pavilion sky, But you’re not ready to say good-bye.

50 Brandon Fong, Sunday in Menemsha, photography

51 So up close, the desperate melody was Zorte dizzying. Ned closed his eyes, filled with pain, Muriel Leung humiliation and hatred. “You have to get used to this, Ned,” his Ever since Ned was little, the ocean father said when the fish had finally died. “This sang to him. Barely a ship’s length from his is our—your—life.” house, its melodies shaped his dreams every “You can’t make me like what we do.” night: sweet fairytales when the seas were calm The words surprised Ned, who had never spoken or, during dark storms, nightmare lands where back to his father before. demons overwhelmed him. When ten year-old His father’s sea-glass eyes went as still as Ned risked telling his mother, she laughed and the ocean before a storm. “And you think its fun said maybe he had a musician in him. She took for me, Ned?” him to the town’s Christmas concert, where “It—it’s different for you.” Alameda Benson, the First Selectman’s daugh- It was the contempt hard on his father’s ter, played a Greensleeves solo. face—contempt for the son who channeled He was transfixed. Not just by the everything inside himself into doing what he pure, fluid notes but by her movements—how hated—that kept Ned talking. He explained the she swayed with her music like she felt it, the music. way Ned almost physically connected with the When he was done, his father was ocean’s melodies. looking at him strangely. “Well I never thought When his mother saw Ned come alive to call it music.” He looked down, traced the at the concert, she tried to sign him up for the Zorte’s outline. “But I can sense the fish too.” school’s orchestra. But his father said Don’t Ned stared. His calm, predator-like fa- confuse your son about who he is, Elsa, and so ther could hear the same sounds that made Ned she never did. nervous and weak? But Ned continued going to concerts, “But what you got is a blessing. Its mostly to hear Alameda. Listening to her, he something that gives you an edge on all these felt he’d found a kindred soul. other boats out there with the same engine and Then Ned turned twelve and started nets as you. Its why we are the only ones who helping his father fish, and had to forget about can catch the Zorte fish—its why we live a little music and other things that didn’t really matter. better than all the other miserable men out here.” Yet he couldn’t forget. To be on the “But I hate it.” water was to be lost in an infinite orchestra, His father’s features hardened once dizzy as its oboes, flutes, and violas pulsed again. through his bones. “Well, then go out into the meadow and And every time the nets raised the weave daisies. We’re here to make a living, not to fated fish out of their element, Ned cringed as enjoy ourselves, and the sooner you start being a screaming violins and piano played on burning man the better.” metal. His father would watch Ned’s pale Alameda Benson did not move as Ned face with disapproval and tell him to get used told his story. to who you are. “It’s funny,” she said when he was done. Yesterday, while he adjusting the net’s Her eyes, colors layered like ocean water over cod-ends, his father appeared beside him car- crushed oyster shells, stared earnestly into his. 52 rying the flailing silver body of a Zorte fish. “But I always noticed you. Before you stopped Phoebe Danaher, Sentinel, oil on canvas coming to concerts. You always sat up front and you always always looked…so involved. When the violin cried, you tensed like it was part of you.” She paused. “And I couldn’t help think- ing that you were like me. That you feel music too.” “Doesn’t it ever hurt you?” Ned demand- ed. “I hate it. I feel like I’m dying with the fish. It—it makes me weak.” Alameda glanced behind her. Everyone had already cleared out into the lobby to enjoy beer and wine and gossip and to forget the music. “Let’s sit.” They walked to the first rows of seats, farthest away from the doors, and stared up at the clarinets and saxophones, glittering on their musi- cians’ chairs as if sharing jokes in a secret language of light. “I’ve never hated it, but my grandmother did. Sensa Glenn. She could hear the ocean, like you. She was a fisherman’s daughter.” And Alameda told him a magical and terrible story. The Glenns had been the wealthiest fishers in the town, like Ned’s family now. Their specialty was the a very valuable fish—a fish that brought them a fortune. But it wasn’t talent that brought them the fish, not really. Because the Glenns had discovered a powerful secret. While buyers would pay glorious prices for the fish’s delicious meat, the Glenns discovered that the bones, when boiled into a broth, could enhance the senses. The more one drank, the sharper one’s senses became. All the Glenns did it, and they could feel the fish moving through the water like vibrations on cello strings. They were almost superhuman—and unstoppable. Only Sensa wasn’t happy. The oldest child in a generation of Glenns with no sons, she was barely ten when she first went on the water. The problem was that she didn’t just hear, she felt the music. And when the fish died, her ears were filled with chaos and breaking and terror. Eventually, Sensa couldn’t bear it any- more and stopped taking the broth, which maybe 53

Teddy Simson, Eye of the Tiger, scratch board and watercolor saved her, because one day her father—drinking his broth with fennel, just the way he liked it— went into a terrible seizure and died. When she grew up, Sensa married Tay- lor Benson, who served as the town’s First Select- man just as his fathers had been before him. But although Sensa no longer drank the broth, she couldn’t undo the hearing. The ocean’s siren song followed her, the same wonderful music that had seduced and betrayed her father. And so she began playing piano. With her own sweet notes, she learned to drown out the ocean’s voice and her memories with it. All the Bensons were now musical by tradition, but for Sensa it hadn’t been a choice. She played to survive.

When Ned returned home, his father was sitting by the fire with the Zorte-bone broth he always made Ned drink with him before bed. Rachel Choe, Boom, digital imaging Ned felt sick. He didn’t want to believe it—didn’t know if he should. “Where have you been?” his father asked without turning. Ned couldn’t move. “Ned?” His father stood up, turned to him. His muscles and bones cut lean, hard shad- ows in the flickering light. “I was…I was a little too harsh with you yesterday.” “I just want you to be strong, you know that. Its all for your good.” It always was, wasn’t it? “I’ll be right back.” And his father van- ished down the dark corridor to his room, a swift and sleek predator, leaving his cup glowing in the fire light. Ned stared into the amber liquid, feeling sick. Until now, he had never understood the ap- peal of its bland, innocent flavor. His father was back—carrying a silver CD player. “I felt a little bad today. No matter what I said, I know you work hard even if you aren’t happy. I try but I can’t make you. Maybe one day 54 Phoebe Danaher, Synthetic Jazz, mixed media you’ll realize…” he trailed off. Instead of going up to his room, Ned “So I went around looking, because I slipped out the door again after his father re- know you really like all that music-stuff. Asked treated with the broth. The silver box swung in Rob Duke down the street what I should do his hands. because... His wife, she’s really into the radio. Down the road he went, the bay lapping He gave me her old model—she has the newest sleepily to his left, until he came to their boat. one for herself now—and it’s still got a CD in The feisty green Lucinda-May. Bobbing up and it. Classical, what you like.” down, eager for another day at work. Ned didn’t move. All the way home, He climbed into the matching green he’d forced himself to face what he’d always rowboat attached to Lucinda-May by rope, known—he was just a machine to his father, freed it, and paddled away. The music, rising up primed with Zorte broth and kept in line with from the water, was so beautiful when it was at harsh words. And now, in his father’s extended peace—softly thrumming drums, melancholy arms, impossibly, was hope that maybe there clarinets, the steady cello chorus of the Zorte. was more. The Zorte his father might die for. “Thank you. I….appreciate it.” The radio, set down beside him, glowed What was in his father’s fire-illuminat- silver like a fallen moon. Ned turned it on. ed expression…surprise? distrust? Happiness? He started. Pouring out, graceful and “Well don’t start tearing up.” He pushed the painful, was one of Alameda’s compositions. Rachel Choe, Boom, digital imaging CD player into Ned’s hands. “Time for us to get Selectman Benson must have sent a recording of to bed. Tomorrow’s stormy.” He began gliding his daughter’s music to Rob Duke, who was his away. cousins. “Father? Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t And then the ocean’s music changed. drink so much of that broth.” The deep, velvety sounds of the Zorte were fad- His broad shoulders tensed. He turned ing, as if the fish had paused to listen to Alam- slowly back to Ned. eda’s music. “Why do you say that?” But then slowly, the strings reunited in “Well—well you don’t know what’s in their refrain, more powerful and beautiful than it. I mean too much of anything is bad. Remem- ever—almost as if it were meant to comfort ber Riley Oaker getting mercury poisoning?” Alameda’s soaring, crying violin. His father relaxed. “Well, Oaker’s a fool. And then the melody began to fade Anyone knows you shouldn’t eat so much of again. The fish were leaving. All of them. As if the big fishes. Our broth’s all good minerals. It something in the music, some ancestral sadness makes us stronger.” passed down from Sensa Glenn, was asking His voice was as smooth and guiltless them to. as a weather-man’s. Ned turned up the volume and listened “But…,” Ned began. as the Zorte’s music grew softer. Faster and faster “Yes?” now, the fish were fading into the distance. His Ned’s words caught in his throat. What family’s livelihood—and curse—disappearing. could he say? Have you been drugging me all He turned the volume all the way up, my life? His father would never admit it. And letting the music pour and pour, like golden light their relationship, already fragmented, would be at sunrise, over the ocean that would never sing broken. again.

55 Phoebe Danaher, Synthetic Jazz, mixed media Lydia Stenflo, Beach Warrior, photography

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Liam Nadire, Pride, photography