1 Vintage 2011 Literary Arts Magazine of G.W. Hewlett High School 60 Everit Avenue Hewlett, New York Cover Art by Gina Marie Graffeo Literary Club Leaders Faculty Advisor Yanina Nemirovsky, Chief Editress Darla Smyth, Ph.D. Gabriel Alfassy Jennifer Bard Lauren Altus Contributors Visual Art Prose Nicole Caparelli, 22, 50, 73, 99 Jonah Greebel, 1‐4 Abigail Cottler, 52, 97 Matthew Locker, 94‐ 95 Lindsay Fox, 31, 66, 79 Gina Marie Graffeo, cover, 17, 55, 83 Samantha Kirschner, 35, 47, 71 Benjamin Klyachman, 92 Chris Loh, 28, 58 Sherry Mackie, 7 * Vlad Nemirovsky, 39 Gaelyn Rosenberg, 45, 61 Noam Skiddell, 10* Caroline Smyth, 42 Antoinette Tiam, 12 Ariel Williams, 37, 69, 81, 91 *Selected as co‐winners of the first place prize for Visual Art 2 Poetry Gabriel Alfassy, 23, 27* Lauren Altus, 15, 16, 18, 19 Anonymous, 70, 80 Jess Aroose, 30 Adam Barda, 56 Saverio Bosco, 64 Jordan Browdy, 25 Janine Coelho, 41, 43, 44, 48*, 84‐85, Abigail Cottler, 33 Zach Dukoff, 68 Rachel Fisher, 59 Lindsay Fox, 46, 49, 51, 53, 87, 89 Mariam Ganny, 82 Leor Ginzburg, 34 Jonah Greebel, 13 Sean Han, 26, 74‐75 Benjamin Klyachman, 67, 92, 93, 96 Mala Lall, 24 Dave LaRosa, 57 Daryl Last, 54 Matthew Locker, 88, 90, 98 Cherie Luo, 72, 75, 77 Zaria Mayers, 65 Spencer McFarlane, 36 Yana Nemirovsky, 5, 14, 20*, 35, 86, 100 Margo Rieman, 60 Gaby Rivas, 63 Daniel Rothblatt, 32 Alex Ruano, 21 Samantha Samant, 40 Hayley Siegel, 38 Noam Skiddell, 6, 9, 16 Sri, 8 Antoinette Tiam, 11 Ben Weiss, 78 Julie Weiss, 29 Robert Zimmerman, 62 Selected as co‐winners of the prize for Writing “Flames to Dust” by Gabriel Alfassy “The Reckoning” by Janine Coelho “I Looked into the Mind” by Yana Nemirovsky* 3 Hark!” Chimes the Harbinger ‐ The vine slithered across the untilled topsoil; a field, fallow and decrepit, crackling under trudging boots. From my lowly view atop the dry earthen floor, soldiers’ footing rhythmically trekked, mindfully averting the singular grape, rapidly swelling from its humble vine. A deep purple, swirling in its voluptuous orb, grew and grew to burst! The ruptured grape spewed its juice across the arid expanse, and from its vessel sprouted a rose. Then, from my slumber, I awoke. ‐ ‘Twas routine that this went about, up from my head, this dream would clout. Awaken did I to a frightfully cold sweat, meeting the cold stone floor my feet carried me to the door. Candle flickered in my grasp; descend the stairwell to dark dwellings did I. Alas, why question my ponderings? Were dreams not of norm, or for what purport did such a vision reoccur nightly? Perhaps, to call it a haunting would be a delusion, yet lest I ignore down further delusion, oft to obscure in entranced confusion. Pitter pat, pitter pat. My feet rapped against the planked floor and scuffled into the dirt dungeon depths. ‘Awaken witch!’ I would bellow towards yonder cell. From the omen cast shade, the gnarled knuckles withdrew, into my vision hobbled the shrew. The necromancer huffed, a grin she did share; beneath her dirt‐matted hair, her wicked smile carved wrinkles into her expression. Clicking her tongue, her enchanter hum, took me off to her trance. Fog rolled from ‘neath her cellar gate and in its mist she bore the answer to my query. From her dance spoke words, yet her lips remained sealed: ‘What seek from nether realm; speak of evil beyond the helm. Accost the occult, bids of a horrible tiding. From farther cliffs, your enemies are riding. To your gates! The gates of thine! Deal with this threat, plucked from the vine!’ She receded into her shade, as she was wont to nightly do. Speaking in riddles offered no true comfort, yet I saw meaning in her babbling. ‘Shoo! Back to your quarters,’ I would assure myself. Return to your sleep, for it offers no good by moonlight, to weep. 4 Rise by the break of dawn, to my tower I await my herald. Gazing towards western skies, bare. Eastern seas, void. Southern woods, unfilled. Northern cliffs, he comes. ‘Hark!’ chimes the harbinger! Bearer of news, delivering my calming wish. Unraveling scroll, he would daily recite his report: ‘The witch from the abyss is surely amiss, warped by years of no sun. Sanity lack, put her off to the rack, for no men approach toward thine gate!’ ‘Twas what I thought ‐ day in and out ‐ the news he had brought. Why let such dreams perturb me? ‘I shall not ask the witch, leave her to the ditch,’ my thoughts shouted as I ended the day. By candlelight I pray, goodbye sunlit day, to my dreams I will return. ‐ The grape pulsated, its hue saturating from a deep violet to an obsidian pitch. Its swelling sought no cease. Bursting yet again, the grape oozed blackened tar. This peculiar occurrence went unnoticed, for no soldiers scampered these fields. ‐ Again, this is where I awoke. I swore to myself, ignore what the witch had spoken. Yet, even still, a possession drew me towards her cell. Downwards I scurried. ‘Awaken witch!’ And from her motionless lips, she spoke: ‘What seek from nether realm; speak of evil beyond the helm. From northern sky, the enemy is nigh. To your gates! The gates of thine! Ready your arms, warns the divine!’ Returning to her corner in the dungeon depths, the hag left me with her unspoken words. Only daybreak would sooth my fears. And so, the sun did soon rise. The western skies were bare. The eastern seas as well. The southern woods were empty. Yet, from the northern cliffs, he comes. ‘Hark!’ chimes the harbinger! His scroll, unrolled in his leather‐studded grip. He recited: ‘The witch from the abyss is surely amiss, warped by years of no sun. Sanity lack, put her off to the rack, for no men approach toward thine gate!’ Trusting his burden, the hike to mountains on the horizon, settled me with ease. No men approach, least not toward my gates. Even at rest, I dare not jest, 5 with what I have been warned. Ready the men, prepare to defend, who knows if enemies rise? ‘Tis better to be armed, rather than alarmed, and so it was as the witch had warned. I was consoled by this preparation, although confident that no blood would be shed. Even so, this allowed for sleep to descend upon my head. ‐ The herald raised his arm, a protruding beacon from the engulfing black of night. Bearing torch, my messenger returns. His face, blood‐spattered, was worn and rough. In the other hand, he clutched a withered vine. – Awaken to cold sweat, the fright to consider what my thoughts had met. Up from my bed, candle flicker and lick in my grasp, pulls me down the winding stairs. The dirt floor, lifting in plumes about my dirtied feet, swept clouds across the corridor. Clang clang! The sound of metal rapping against iron wrought bars. ‘Awaken witch!’ And so, she did. With inquisitive stare, tossing back her sheer hair, the witch again prophesized! ‘What seek from nether realm; speak of evil beyond the helm. From enemy crown, towers torn down. To your gates! The gates of thine! Set out to battle, these threats not benign!’ What a fright this did give, how could one ignore? To my bed I would await the morn, then, to my barracks would I. The sun stirred me, lifting the veils from my eyes. Approaching the window, I set and wait. Western skies desert. Eastern seas call for no alert. Southern woods alone. From northern peaks, he rides. ‘Hark!’ chimes the harbinger! Riding to my gates, the parchment declares, ‘The witch from the abyss is surely amiss, warped by years of no sun. Sanity lack, put her off to the rack, for no men approach toward thine gate!’ This, to normally sooth me, was quite out of place. The churning of events had seemed to skip a pace. To be cautious, to be safe, send my men to the north! Soldiers’ boots trudged over arid expanse, approaching the kingdom of the north. ‘tis better to strike first, warned the witch. And in such victory, such clairvoyant reward, a feast shall be had for all. 6 Rounding the tables, jesters spread merriment. Laughing we share all around. The banquet, hardy and whole, was emptied eagerly from every bowl. What is this raucous, from across the table? Ah, ‘twas but my messenger, preparing a toast. Raise our glasses, our goblets and mugs. “Long live the king!” Such a pleasant thing, I last had heard, before strangulation beset in my throat. My wine, plucked from the vine, had surely been tampered with. ‘Poison! Poison!’ I choked, yet no one paid me any heed. ‘Hark!’ chimes the harbinger, as he chuckles when all turns black. I speak to thee from beyond earthly means or design. I, a ghost of my former host, bare a lesson to gain from this. Hark, please listen, I pray you possess more wit. For man often meets his end on the road he took to avoid it. Jonah Greebel 7 I awoke with a strange misconception Of how I viewed the world What used to seem so beautiful Is not as nearly bold And what I saw with gleaming eyes Is now just black and white I can’t understand natures true colors Without fighting my own mind And these daily routines now seem redundant An overwhelming bore I have a need to break away In search for something more Yana Nemirovsky I am your irrational fears Your cravings and lustful desires I am your impulses; I send the adrenaline trickling into your bloodstream I am your dreadful nightmares The cold icy grip onto your mind I am your hidden wishes Immoral and heart wrenching I am your phantasm Seeking to withhold your aspirations I am your forthright demeanor I am your truth.