1. education
2. high school

pnwboces
Putnam | Northern Westchester
A Digital Anthology
Table of Contents
1
ANATOMY 101
By Emma Frattarola
Putnam Valley High School
13
Istanbul
By Mia Jacobs
Byram Hills High School
25
The Only One to Observe You
Olivia Schmidt
Putnam Valley High School
2
bad poetry
By Sophia Greenberg
Clarkstown High School North
15
Midnight Dreams
By Victoria Aviles
Westlake High School
28
The Swing At The Edge Of The Earth
By Sydney Katz
Yorktown High School
3
Chores
By Haley Rosenberg
Briarcliff High School
16
New York Kind of Love
By Mikaela Harmsen
Clarkstown High School North
29
the outsiders
By Allison Greenberg
Briarcliff High School
5
Defining Moment
By Brian Danuff
Briarcliff High School
17
Maybe If You Listened
By Mikaela Harmsen
Clarkstown High School North
30
THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE
By Emma Frattarola
Putnam Valley High School
7
Discrimination
By Justin Jacksen
Valhalla High School
18
S.H.A.K.E
By Mairead Kilgallon
Rippowam Cisqua
31
Unforetold
By Chloe Burns
Westlake High School
8
Dream on (Maybe)…
By Matt Lacey
Rippowam Cisqua
20
Sail Away, Sail Back to Me
By Mikaela Harmsen
Clarkstown High School North
32
Untitled
By Kelly Haberstroh
Yorktown High School
9
Eve of seventeen
By Dalton Kearney
Clarkstown High School South
21
Senior Year
Anonymous
Valhalla High School
35
Warrior
By Divya Mundackal
Westlake High School
10
How Do You Know
By Lucy Israel
Putnam Valley High School
22
SOLSTICE
By Emma Frattarola
Putnam Valley High School
36
weltanschauung
by Chloe Burns
Westlake High School
11
I Will Not Tell You That I Love You
Anonymous
Valhalla High School
23
SPRING TIDE
By Emma Frattarola
Putnam Valley High School
12
I am the Monarch
By Kathryn Mirdita
Yorktown High School
24
The Hardest Part
By Jackson Harrower
Byram Hills High School
ANATOMY 101
BY EMMA FRATTAROLA
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
fingers like calluses
fingers like she’s never worked a day in her life
fingers like i’m not to blame
fingers like an eighty dollar manicure
fingers like a disappearing act
fingers like i can fix it, maybe
heart like a lockbox
heart like a canvas ready to be painted
heart like a life sentence without a backwards glance
heart like an apology
heart like i should know better by now
heart like a forever untold secret
brain like crying for no reason
brain like she doesn’t need any help, probably
brain like she cant know herself
brain like can’t function properly
brain like she needs to pick her battles
brain like maybe she already is
maybe there’s just too many
hands like emotion
hands like you really didn’t mean to
hands like a magic trick, like do you believe?
hands like an insult, accusation
hands like you’re too comfortable in your own skin
hands like the grand finale
1
bad poetry
BY SOPHIA GREENBERG
CLARKSTOWN HIGH SCHOOL NORTH
the way I love you
is not red hot
it does not shoot flames up my spine
it does not burn or bite
it is not the kind of love that
leaves bruises and scratches and scars
this love is not romantically traumatic
the way I love you
is sinking into my bed
after a long day,
it is a warm cup of my favorite tea
this love is gentle and kind
this love waits patiently
for you to find the right words
the way I love you
is cliché
it is full of butterflies,
it is head over heels,
I can’t help myself.
this love is the kind of love
that makes you want to write bad poetry
2
Chores
BY HALEY ROSENBERG
BRIARCLIFF HIGH SCHOOL
The morning I died was unusually warm. While
weather on the farm was cold—brisk on the best of
occasions—that morning it was close to sweltering.
There were chores to do, more chores than my family
could ever hope to accomplish, especially with Father
gone. Folks all through the town were falling to the
Illness, and soon its icy grips would strangle me as well.
I had been confined to bed for a fortnight by this time.
Mother and Sister could give me little care between
the chores that the farm demanded doing. The fields
needed to be plowed, the seeds to be sown, the cows
to be milked, the produce to be sold. There was no
smiling. There was no talking.
I woke up to sweat covering my sheets. I almost smiled,
thinking that my fever had broken and I had escaped
the terminal grasp of Illness. My joy was short lived,
however, when I attempted to swing my legs out of
the bed and found myself equally as incapacitated
as I had the day before. It was at this time that Sister
walked into the room, expressionless as always.
“It’s hot out today,” she said, tucking the sheets back
under me.
“Hot?” I questioned.
“The animals aren’t taking to it well. Jessabell hasn’t
moved all morning. She’s not used to it,” she explained,
feeling my head. “You’re still hot. Hot as this day. It’s like
the world has caught this fever,” Sister remarked.
3
“Where’s Mother? I want Mother,” I demanded.
and the copper bowl hit the ground with an earpiercing sound. Sister sprinted out of the room without
cleaning her mess, instead leaving the meal to sit on
the floor and become food for the flies buzzing in
through the open windows.
“She’s tending Jessabell’s calf. It’s overheatin’. I should
go help her; will you be fine on your own?” she
inquired. Three years. She was three years younger
than me but tended to my whims as if I was as helpless
as a fawn born in a wolf den.
Mother didn’t rush in like Sister did. Sister sprinted to
the bedside and laid her hands on me, but Mother
hovered by the door, gripping the frame for support.
She softly called my name. She called a little louder.
Then she cried. And then she screamed. She stumbled
over to the bed, placing a hand on my forehead and
sucking back mucus. Sister tried to lay a hand on her
shoulder for comfort, but Mother wheeled around
like a horse away from a coyote and slapped Sister
sharply across the face. Sister stopped crying. Tears still
ran from her eyes but she did not snivel, she did not
convulse in pain. Mother’s body hunched over mine
told Sister that she had to give her some alone time.
Go away. Shoo. Go to your room. Your Mother is crying.
“Will you stay here with me? Get Mother?”
Sister refused to make complete eye contact and
instead flicked her eyes from the oil lamp to the
uneaten bowl of oat mush on the bed stand. “There
are chores to do, you know that. They can only wait so
long.”
I felt a catch in my throat but faked it as a cough, and
allowed my sister to part from me to continue the
painstaking tasks of the farm. I wriggled underneath
the suffocating binds of the blankets and kicked my
legs on top of them. The windows were propped open,
only allowing more humid, stifling air to flood into the
room to sit heavy in my lungs.
The next morning was cold. The animals were acting
as they usually did, and the coats were taken off the
hooks by the kitchen door, like they usually were.
Except for the day before. Mother and Sister mourned
for one day. One day, because the chores needed
doing. There was only so long they could wait.
Sister returned to the room soon three hours later,
carrying a freshened tray of meal like she did every
evening. She came over to me and tried to shake me
awake. Then she shook me and shook me. And then
she screamed. The tray dropped, the meal spilled,
4
Defining Moment
BY BRIAN DANUFF
BRIARCLIFF HIGH SCHOOL
“Whether you step toward it is not up to you,” his grandmother added. “Just
remember, it will follow you where you go.” This quote from The Street of a
Thousand Blossoms by Gail Tsukiama means that it is up to the person to accept
their fate or what has happened, but no matter what they decide, it will follow
them for life.
It was 11:30. As I normally did on Saturday, I woke up in the middle of the day,
trying to get as much sleep as I could before getting back up at 7 on Monday
morning. While I adjusted my eyes to the incredible brightness shining through
my windows, I heard my Grandma downstairs. “That’s right!” I told myself. “She’s
baby-sitting us today!”
I ran down stairs and gave her a big, warm hug. I looked outside and it was
beautiful out; it felt much more like July 8th than March 8th.
“Did you go outside yet Brian?” my Grandma asked. Of course I hadn’t; I was still
in my PJs. But with a polite answer, I said no.
I started to fetch myself some breakfast. Yep. Cinnamon Toast Crunch sounds
good. Halfway through pouring the milk into the bowl, the phone rang. I found
the cordless phone and looked at the screen. It read “GRANDMA – HOME”. Clearly,
my Grandma was right here, so it had to be my Grandpa, calling to see how
everything was going. Nearly spilling the milk, I answered the phone.
“Hey Grandpa,” I said. The last time I saw him was the Super Bowl, when we
watched the Saints beat the Colts. So every time he called, I made sure to talk to
him for a long time, whether it was about sports or just my life in general.
“Can you put Grandma on the phone?” He asked in his normal, cheerful voice.
This was nothing out of the ordinary. My Grandpa always called to speak to
her, and they were coming up on their 51st Wedding Anniversary. I passed
Grandma the phone, grabbed my bowl of cereal, and went inside to go watch
SportsCenter.
Little did I know, it would be the last time I spoke to my Grandfather.
5
The next night, my Grandma had left and I was just trying to finish up the
math homework I had to do. The Yankees spring training game was on,
and everything seemed completely normal. And then, the phone rang.
Pressing my face into the covers to avoid people hearing me, questions
flew threw my head.
“Why was this happening to me?”“What did I do?”“He’s only 79, he can’t
die now!”“Why couldn’t he have just lived to see me in the play?”
My dad picked it up, as both my brothers and I were doing homework and
my mom was working. Continuing to try and divide these last couple of
fractions, I tried to listen to what he was saying.
I heard my parents come upstairs, and my mom walked in and handed me
a tissue, she too starting to cry. It really felt like a horrible dream, but one I
couldn’t pinch myself and get out of. This was reality.
“He did?..…What?…..How?…..Where?” My dad kept repeating these same
four words. Still thinking nothing of it, I finished my homework and walked
into the kitchen to have some dessert.
By the time I got there, my dad had hung up the phone. He seemed sort of
panicked, and jumpy. I opened the fridge and was blasted by the cold air.
As I took out a pudding cup, my dad rushed by me.
My parents explained to me that my Grandfather had an aneurysm
in the worst possible place of his brain, and was basically in a coma. With
a Do-Not-Resuscitate request made by him, it was only a matter of days
before he passed.
“What happened?” I asked, letting him know I had heard his repeated,
unanswered questions.
It was a truly indescribable feeling. There had never been a major death in
my family, or at least one while I had been alive. I knew death was a thing,
and that my friend’s grandparents had died or famous celebrities had
passed, but no one who meant a lot to me. No one who I really, genuinely
loved.
“Grandpa fell….he’s at the hospital.” I froze.
“He’ll,” I stuttered, “he’ll be okay, right?” I was actually almost used to this.
My Grandpa had had a stroke a few years back and was in the hospital
for a few weeks, and was back two years later with a blood clot. He had
recovered fully from both, and I thought it was only a matter of time,
maybe an hour or so, before he was back home.
I could barely talk for the next week or so. Though he still was technically
alive, my parents re-iterated he was not coming back. I cried myself to
sleep night after night, thinking about the plans we had made, the stories
we told, the laughs we shared. All things I would never experience again.
Seemingly taking an hour to answer, my dad said “Yeah” in a quiet, kind of
flustered tone. I was a little taken aback by his short and odd response, but
still, I thought everything was okay. I went to bed a couple hours later, and
continued on with the normal routine of my life.
My Grandpa passed away on Tuesday, March 16th, at around 6 in the
morning. At that point, a week and a day since he went into the hospital,
I had accepted what had happened. I spoke to my mom about when she
lost her father when she was nine years old, and to my dad about when his
grandparents died. I realized death was a part of life, and that it would all
happen to us eventually.
The next day, everything changed. I got home from school, and my
Grandma was there. I originally thought everything was okay, and that she
was here to tell us my Grandpa was fine. Well, though she told us exactly
that, I was able to uncover what she was holding back from my brothers
and me. She seemed so lethargic, sad, and not herself. Trying to convince
myself of otherwise, I understood that my Grandpa was not coming home.
But with that, I learned a valuable life lesson. That, from a song by the band
Cinderella “you don’t know what you got, ‘till it’s gone.” I took that to heart,
and tried to reverse that thinking. Since my Grandpa’s death I appreciate
my family and friends so much more, and take every opportunity possible
to talk and hang out with my Grandma. Because I do not want to look back
in thirty years and wish I had done something more with her. I love both
my grandparents very much, and miss my Grandpa dearly, but it taught
me an important life lesson I will remember forever.
I tensed up. My eyes started to water, and before even giving my Grandma
a hug, I bolted upstairs, flung myself onto my bed, and just started to cry.
6
Discrimination
BY JUSTIN JACKSEN
VALHALLA HIGH SCHOOL
Why.
No.
Stop.
Enough.
Who cares.
White
Black
Yellow
Brown
Pink
Blue
Green or
Orange.
Who cares.
The world needs peace.
The world needs love.
The world needs acceptance.
The world.
A world.
A world free
Of
Discrimination.
7
Dream on (Maybe)…
BY MATT LACEY
RIPPOWAM CISQUA
Dream on and don’t turn back.
Dreams make the world go around.
Dreams are what we need to succeed.
Maybe down in our Earth’s core,
Dreams roam free.
Slowly but surely spinning our planet.
Maybe there is a creature,
that consumes our dreams.
And in return,
it spews out life.
Maybe every time we dream,
we get to see the sun
...again.
Maybe our dreams
are essential for life.
Or maybe we aren’t supposed to know.
Maybe we shouldn’t define it.
Maybe dreams are just here for a reason.
...Maybe we should just
Dream on and not turn back.
8
Eve of Seventeen
BY DALTON KEARNEY
CLARKSTOWN HIGH SCHOOL SOUTH
On the eve of seventeen, I, sat alone
On the floor of my room; purgatory.
A glimpse of the moon that shone
Through the blinds of a sightless window
Painted me in such a light that, I,
Felt as art must before it is made.
Primordial clay long left to bake
In the heat of the frenzy of life.
Lust for youth and lust for wisdom
Leave such a hollow yearning heart.
“A life over, before it had a chance to
Start?” I wonder.
And how I pitied myself on that night.
How I thought of love lost, love misguided.
And so, I, began to dream of myself falling
Into a state of knowing. Knowing what it
Means to be seventeen and awake in a world
Where to sleep was to be at peace and peace
A home to grace.
9
How Do You Know
BY LUCY ISRAEL
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
How do you know?
When he drives ten hours straight
So you can sleep in late
When he carries the bags,
Even their heavy tags
When he writes you notes at the break of dawn
When he trims the hedge and mows the lawn
When he beats the clock until it sleeps
When he steals your heart, it’s his to keep
When the stars aren’t bright
He is your night-light
He tries to fix the printer
Makes hot cocoa in winter
When he loads the washer
And empties it too
You know he’ll be forever true
He has his many faults
But he always shares his malts
He is your favorite limb
Your life is with him
When he hums your favorite tune
And it always makes you swoon
He wipes his boots on the rug
Morning coffee fills your mug
10
I Will Not Tell You That I Love You
ANONYMOUS
VALHALLA HIGH SCHOOL
It’s a common thing for people to tell each other that they love one another.
Let’s not do that.
I do not love you. When I think of you the word love turns acrid on my tongue,
withering to cigarette ash that makes curdling bile creep up my throat.
I do not love you, however, I would much prefer that we endure this life…together.
I want us to be considered a single unit.
I want us to take up the same space.
I want to be with you.
I want to be with you.
I want to…exist with you.
I want to be with you through all the large moments that are whirls of color and light and sound i
n which nothing will keep still and everything is glorious.
I want to be with you through all the small snapshots, the black and white stills that are valued for their
negative spaces and shadows rather than their centerpieces.
I want to be myself with you. I want to fall into the familiar patterns of myself and reveal the corner of my soul
that only shows itself when I’m alone.
I want to feel something akin to being alone with you, because I want us to be so entwined that I can no longer separate
your parts from mine, that it is no longer You and I, it is youandi.
I want to feel like I am alone because the only other person in the room is you and yet you are not another,
you are not alien, you are a part of me like my eyes or the slope of my neck and your parts are my parts and my parts are yours
and so I am alone in that my warm breath only dusts parts that I consider my own, though really they are yours too.
I want you to make me feel alone without feeling lonely.
I want to know the exact shape of your silhouette, and the precise length of your shadow cast
by a streetlamp at five o’clock on a Sunday evening.
I want to know what your breathing sounds like late at night when you listen to music.
I want to know if you pour the milk into the cereal that’s already in the bowl, or if you add the milk first.
I want to know the way you drape your lines over the couch when you’ve been reading for more than an hour.
I want to know if you lace up your shoes every time, or if you pull them on already double-knotted.
I want to continue living, as I always have, and I want you to continue living, as you always have.
I want very much to make room in our collective lives, to learn to fit each other into whatever nooks and crannies we have empty.
I want very much to learn how to properly be with you.
11
I am the Monarch
BY KATHRYN MIRDITA
YORKTOWN HIGH SCHOOL
I am the Monarch
I flutter through the sky
My beauty is heart warming
as I grasp the wind below
My wings spread summerthe bright, airy light
My color is delicious
Like a melted popsicle
What may be unknowncovered in a sheet deep below
Is that my warm summer feeling
doesn’t always show
My life, all beauty and grace
holds a colder meaning beneath this face
Darker than any corner
or closet space
My bright orange face turns blue by night
And my free spirited wings lose their flight
But the hardest fact to face
is that this grace and beauty goes to waste
12
Istanbul
BY MIA JACOBS
BYRAM HILLS HIGH SCHOOL
I rarely sweat and the lack of air movement inside the Grand Bazaar caused
the back of my lime green t-shirt to stain shades of a temperate rainforest. I
held what was left of a once-chilled Diet Coke to my scarlet cheek and images
of incandescent lights and maroon-tinted rugs reflected off the silver can.
They bent and warped through the water droplets that raced down the
drink and onto my wrist. I turned a corner within the maze of the market
and paused to admire hand-crafted bracelets of brass and stone and
sipped through a pink straw. I once read that many of the vendors within
the Bazaar were foreigners from faraway places like Afghanistan or Mongolia.
Istanbul represents such a conglomerate of cultures and peoples who make
the city unique, and even though I was merely a tourist, I felt as though I
belonged in this city of welcoming spirit and diversity.
I came to a dead-end and when I finished the Coke, I handed a lira to a
shopkeeper in exchange for bottled water and I held it to my face. The man
glanced at me through a glazed-over stare and motioned to enter his shop of
stained-glass lanterns and blue evil-eyes and I walked in. The enclosed space,
lighted by a single bulb that shone orange left the room drenched in a simple
glow that barely reached the corners of the chamber. The man followed me
inside and held a mahogany cane encrusted with bits of tarnished metal
and it lifted and wobbled with each step. His eyes caught the light as he
approached a stool in the back of his shop. He stared at me and his face
remained motionless-- as if he was so ancient that the deep wrinkles around
his forehead and mouth had petrified into stone.
The room brimmed with treasure coated in layers of grey dust, and a fadedcrimson transistor radio lay buzzing behind a glass counter that held semi
precious jewels sheathed in tarnished metal. The Bazaar was so large that
it was hard to envision many souls venturing so deep into the labyrinth. I
imagined being the man’s only customer of the day as I watched him drink
amber tea from a glass mug. A wooden plank door stood left of the room and
when I glided past, I noticed the etched-in Tuvalet sign within the grain.
“Can I use this?” I spoke softly.
13
The man’s eyes shifted and suddenly the fixed glare of a thousand
evil-eyes hanging from the carpeted walls turned toward me.
He lowered his head once, watched me touch the door, and it
effortlessly creaked open. I faced the shop while I closed and bolted
the entry. This barrier which stood before me could not mask that
static hiss of that radio, as it proceeded to resonate throughout his
corridor and now mine. My head throbbed in unison with the beat
of my heart and I peeked through a small drill hole in the wood that
revealed a portal to the shop. Other than that I was encapsulated
by a realm of darkness. I pulled a beaded cord that illuminated the
room and—
Think Trainspotting-- without the drugs. I was Renton and out of
spontaneous direness, I made the decision to use an unfamiliar
toilet. But rather than it being known famously as “The Worst Toilet
in Scotland”, make that Turkey. Yes, it was a hole in the ground and
No, I didn’t use it. It was as though my appetite and innate need
to go had disappeared, and more naturally, I turned to unlock the
door and leave. I flipped the rusted latch, twisted the knob, and
pulled. No budge.
The man sat upright with a jolt. He looked toward the left corner of
his shop and his eyes shone bright. He reached for his cane which had
been propped against a series of copper pots. His wrinkled forehead
formed waves and the untrimmed eyebrows beneath were caved
inward. The elder frowned and approached the bathroom door. An eye
appeared through
the aperture and
there was a pause
as the man took
in the image of
tumultuous alarm.
He sighed and
shook the handle
and I watched
it turn before
me. A rush of air
that smelled of
spice and mold
brushed over my
face and my eyes
remained wide and
frightened. The
evil-eyes leered.
I forced a smile,
nodded my head
and began to leave.
Once more, I tugged at the handle and yanked. I squinted through
the opening and scanned the room for the man. He had migrated
outside of the shop and perched on a tattered lawn chair by a water
cooler as his former self. The evil-eyes stared back at me and I turned
to look for a window. The walls of the bathroom were once painted
a fiery red but had been dyed a shade of brown from dust and the
linoleum tile floors were coated in tissues and a grey mop bathed in
a pool of dirty water. No way out.
His bony hand grasped my arm while the other raised itself and
revealed a bracelet depicting an open and golden palm that had
been threaded through a onyx silk cord. I flinched and his clutch
tightened. He fastened the clasp around my wrist.
Knocks on the door turned to kicks and innocent and questioning
“Hellos” changed to loud yelps of fearful uncertainty. Panic settled
in my stomach and left my head light. The temperature rose within
the room and in a last-ditch effort, I screamed. The resting man
never shifted a limb and I was sure that he could hear the shrill cry,
as its utterance overshadowed the droning radio. I was being held
hostage. Surely he had placed a heavy chair by the door and had
Super-Glued its seams. Tears gathered in my eyes and streamed
down my cheeks and strands of hair stuck to sweat that dotted my
forehead. I wailed once more.
“Hamsa protects you from evil-eye,” he said in a heavy accent.
“You need it.”
14
Midnight Dreams
BY VICTORIA AVILES
WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
The darkest memories
Ignite the brightest flames
Those midnight dreams
Lead to the loveliest days
The blackest nights
Have the fullest moons
And the scariest fright
Leads me closer to you
15
My woman with the scarlet hat
is seated at dinner with a suited man.
She sits with her back towards me,
Though I would love to glimpse her face.
Does she know I’m here? no.
Would she still recognize me? yes.
New York Kind of Love
BY MIKAELA HARMSEN
CLARKSTOWN HIGH SCHOOL NORTH
(INSPIRED BY EDWARD HOPPER’S
“NEW YORK RESTAURANT”)
The light from the windows streams in
casting a glow in the room.
I would feel its warmth if
I weren’t so cold.
This boring suit man fills up the spaces
where I could talk.
Loud chatter fills the room mixing with
quiet whispers.
I wish I would hear her melodic voice
like church bells chiming.
I stay as silent as I can
in order to avoid disturbing.
I place the bland bread on my numb tongue
pretending to be amused.
I shouldn’t but,
I allow my thoughts to drift;
Back to the one who holds my heart,
The one whose place I cannot fill.
I smell her perfume, warm and inviting,
her honey vanilla scent.
I wonder what would happen if
I had the courage…
No. I can’t. I’ve let her go.
I must pay the price.
He picks up his coat and slips away
seemingly unnoticed.
16
I pace and pace and pace the floor.
My guards stand watching at the door,
Ensuring my safety from my enemies.
Little do they know the biggest threat is inside me.
Many come with grievances waiting to be heard.
Asking me to solve their problems, they twitter like little birds.
Where- I wonder- would they be
When there is no new verdict from me?
I’m only a girl not fit to be queen,
Not meant to be heard, only seen.
I flipped that around, you see,
Without a king, they must listen to me.
This heavy crown upon my head
Weighs like an arrow pointed at my chest.
They would rather I were born a boy.
How sorry am I. I’ve turned into a noble’s toy.
I pace and pace and pace the floor.
What will they do when I am here no more?
Part of me could not care less;
Once I’m dead, they can burn the fortress.
My mother tried to marry me off,
But who wants a queen who’s not afraid to talk?
So much weighs down on me,
The life of a queen is one not free.
They envy the life I live
Unknowing how much of me I give.
I shall end all their tiring misery.
By removing the girl not fit to be queen.
I pace and pace and pace the floor.
My guards stand watching at the door.
If I am quick, they will not see,
As I end the life of a broken queen.
Maybe If You Listened
BY MIKAELA HARMSEN
CLARKSTOWN HIGH SCHOOL NORTH
17
I never heard the how. I used to wonder about it myself, coming up
with theories and reasons. I do not anymore.
S.H.A.K.E
BY MAIREAD KILGALLON
RIPPOWAM CISQUA
A. Along the road spread out in front of me are no gargantuan
cracks in the pavement or substantial chunks missing. The cement
crumbles into little pebbles at the sides of the road, almost like the
grass is trying to erode it enough to grow over the pathway once
more. The far edges where the pavement crumbles is darker than the
rest, the angry gray color of a Sky-Blower on the horizon. Two lighter
stripes run down the center of each side of the road, a reminder of a
time long since passed.
A slight tremor runs through the earth, the loose rocks trembling
on the pavement. My steps do not falter. Again, not another warning.
This was an echo, an aftershock of an aftershock, reminding anyone
walking this path that there was an Earth-Shaker here, and there will
be one again.
I crest a small hill and can see ahead that the cement turns into dirt
further down the road. A few more miles, at least, but the change
from the taunting memories of the old world brought up by the
paved path is welcome.
When I first started walking, I travelled on a variety of paths, formed
many different ways. I used to keep track of them, put them down in
a list in my head. I do not anymore.
S. Still watching the sky, I lace up my boots. The storm has subsided,
so I start walking again. My destination is as unknown as my chances
of survival. There have been no major Earth-Shakers recently, but the
fickle mood of nature can never be trusted.
The road before me is the first I have laid eyes on in a long time. The
pavement is the same color as the sky, a strip of light and dark gray
as far as the eye can see. The old yellow lines in the middle of the
path have faded to sporadic, faint bursts of almost-color. The bleak
landscape offers no distraction from the grim state of the world, no
small patch of wildflowers or spot of blue sky peeking through the
blanket of clouds.
The tall grass that is threatening to overcome the road is still bent
from the Sky-Blower that passed through, stalks bouncing slightly
in the light breeze. Their rustling, mixed with the constant thunder
in the distance and my weary feet slapping the cement are the only
sounds I hear, no matter how my ears strain for something new, a
voice, some sign of life.
My feet keep their endless rhythm, far beyond the point of
blistering or bruising. I used to sing to the beat of my footsteps,
arranging my pace to suit each song. I do not anymore.
K. Kicking the pavement with my toe, I notice a piece of splintered
wood sits in my path. I nudge it off the road with my foot, not
wanting to break stride to pick it up. I put my hands in my empty
pockets, warming them against my thighs. In a few feet, there is
another piece of wood. I kick it in front of me, making it skitter along
the pavement before it stops and I kick it again.
Eventually I kick it hard and it goes flying into the grass, where
something catches my eye. I do not stop walking, but I slow slightly,
turning my head. A long black wire and scattered pieces of metal lay
in the grass, just shy of the road. As I move forward I see what looks
like a fallen tree stripped of branches. Then I see another black wire,
this one attached to a cross-like structure at the top. Something
itches at the back of my mind, a memory that has been suppressed
and dormant for a long time.
H. Hours later, the breeze pushes at my back. Not a warning breeze,
one of the ominous ones that always precedes a Sky-Blower, but a
gentle one lacking any mood. Not menacing or encouraging or lazy.
Just wind, passing through on its journey forward. Like me.
It is difficult and at the same time quite easy to remember the
Beginning. When the ground trembled for the first time, and the sky
started trying to brush everything off the earth, like one might blow
dust from an old book. At first, technological scales measured the
impact of the Earth-Shakers, but when the Sky-Blowers began, all
technology ceased to work. I remember hearing scientific theories
about why this and why that but I never heard how. How people
would fix this. How we would stop the world from being shattered
and then blown away.
18
Another breeze pushes against my side, more forceful this time,
almost insistent. I look back up at the sky. The clouds have started
to move, I can make out different layers of them flying through the
air towards the obscured sunset. I almost put my head down to
watch my feet as I walk, but something stops me. A small, barely
discernable patch of clouds seems thinner than the rest. One section
moves faster than the other. My breath catches in my throat. The
last layer of clouds, as though releasing a long-held breath, parts to
reveal a bruised purple twilight. My feet, for the first time in a long
time, skid to a stop.
The small piece of the sky moves with the clouds, staying open and
clear. The purple sky seems to bring life to the world around me. It’s
as if everything begins vibrating, like they are all part of something
more than themselves.
The spot of sky moves one more time, shifting to reveal a single,
shining star. In that moment, I can see the fire at the center of it, the
colors within that burning beauty thousands of miles away from this
fractured planet. I feel like starlight, pure and bright, has been poured
into me and is running through my veins.
The clouds shift, and that rare, beautiful patch of sky is obscured
again. The feeling fades only somewhat. I am humming with an
energy I have not felt in a long time.
Ever since the Beginning, I have never allowed myself to be the
optimist, the dreamer. I never wished. I never hoped. I do now.
Telephone. A telephone pole. That is what lies broken and
abandoned before me. Another memory surfaces with the first one,
as if one had pulled the other from the bottom of a deep ocean to the
surface. Hundreds of these poles, all connected by slithering black
wire, hanging lazily between each structure. They all passed by quickly,
blurring my vision until all I saw were streaks of black and brown.
I remember that I used to count them as I went by. I do not anymore.
E. Evening approaches. I turn my face toward the sky, speeding up
my pace again. An endless field of steely, cold gray stares back at me.
It is as unforgiving as the earth I walk upon, pounding everything
in sight with rain and wind and lightning, drowning out any kind of
hopeful sound with incessant thunder. It washes any color out of the
landscape, making scenery look almost like a black-and-white image.
My own skin looks ashen in the pale light, lacking any darkness from
exposure to direct sunlight.
The world begins to darken, evidence of an unseen sun beginning
to set. I continue to walk and stare at the blanket of clouds above me.
I want to reach up my hand and rake my fingers through them, blow
them away like they have been trying to do to me. I want to see blue
again, see the sun and the moon. But most of all, I want to see the stars.
One side of the sky has already faded to a deep gray, nearing the
pitch black that comes with night. A breeze picks up, coming from
the direction of the gathering darkness. For unexplained reasons, it
sends shivers down my spine. I shift my gaze back to the road and
notice that it turns to dirt soon. When it does, I will stop for the night.
19
Sail Away, Sail Back to Me
BY MIKAELA HARMSEN
CLARKSTOWN HIGH SCHOOL NORTH
(INSPIRED BY EDWARD HOPPER’S THE LEE SHORE)
Go my love, follow your dreams.
Hoist the sails, Sail away from me.
Be cautious my dear, of the rough seas.
I worry that you won’t return to me.
Flee my love, escape this life.
Find adventure, take your knife.
Be careful my dear and avoid strife.
When you come home, I’ll become your wife.
You feel trapped here, so leave, go away.
This life of ours is too mundane.
You packed your bags, now I want you to stay.
Without you, all skies seem gray.
The salty water calls out you,
The turquoise seas and cloud’s white hue.
Look to our lighthouse when you say adieu.
The light will be shining the whole night through.
Sail away, my love, you have to try.
I know you need to climb this climb
Hold me my dear, one last time.
Ignore my tears as I cry.
20
Senior Year
ANONYMOUS
VALHALLA HIGH SCHOOL
After four years of high school college is near
from every senior there is a loud cheer
These last ten months, well this is it
then we will move on to what is the right fit
These discussions go on each and everyday
the next thing you know the month is May
Senior year was supposed to be a time of fun
But the opportunity is gone and the year is done
Going to college now that’s all the talk
you hear from classroom to classroom whenever on a walk
I want to stay close or I want to be away
this is what all the seniors say
Hopefully fun times and adventure will be your fate
no matter what it is you will have to wait
You will enjoy the future and I guarantee that
but when living in the now you don’t want to fall flat
21
SOLSTICE
BY EMMA FRATTAROLA
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
i. hot
with spring comes
the feeling of newness
refreshing reinvention
everything is born again
the earth learns
its capability to regrow
after many months
of bare land
and frozen tears
and for those creatures
not of the dirt or water
everything is still the same
this is a chance
to reinvent themselves
be born again as
someone who blossoms
and stands tall
throughout the summer
and does not decay
when comes the fall
stice
ii. cold
when the frost
in the air
finally kisses skin,
it is a victory after
many months of waiting
and wishing
the contrast of
hot and cold
by the fire satisfies
a deep desire
to be constantly changing
constantly changing like
fall leaves that still cling
desperately to their trees
holding on for dear life
this is what reminds us
that consistency is
not a requirement of living
you are not obligated
to stop changing your colors
22
SPRING TIDE
BY EMMA FRATTAROLA
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
When you make another person your god,
you lose all that is most important to you,
even if you don’t understand just how
important it is.
He will learn to control you,
his faithful follower, to make you bend and break
and he will re-mold you into the
soft push/pull of the water against
the sands of the beach.
You will lose the trust your family has given you,
but never their love.
You will lose the love your friends have given you,
but never their presence.
You will lose the right to speak up, but never your choice.
When you make another person your god,
you must always live with your choice.
And when you inevitably become
a tsunami or a hurricane,
he will learn to use that as well.
He will turn you on the civilization
built up strong behind you.
You must live with the solitary life of monotheism,
of listening to but one person,
of putting someone else’s decisions before your own health.
He will slowly become your moon;
and you his tides.
The civilization that swims in your waters
and makes your feel useful.
He will tell you to destroy it,
and you will listen.
But when you look back at the
damage you have caused
you will not want to listen anymore.
You will ask “why, god?”
He will answer “because you love me”
and that will, somehow, be good
enough for you.
23
evident to her yet so foreign to me. For the first time in my life, I
wanted to be bad; I wanted to make fun of those below me, to
talk behind other’s backs, to say dirty things to girls when I got the
chance; to be mean, aggressive, and insensitive–anything to not
ever be called a “nice guy” again. In that moment I hated myself
and everything I previously stood for. I wanted to scream.
I calmed down again. My anger melted into melancholy. I knew
who I was, and I was not about to change. I fell into the most
pathetic sorrows of depressed and disgusting self-pity possible,
more commonly referred to by my vulgar grandfather as full “why
me?” crap.
I had to move. I needed to go somewhere or do something just
to feel alive. I threw on a sweater, a pair of sweatpants, and some
old, dirty sneakers and went outside. I started walking down my
street, very slowly at first, my feet crunching against the light layer
of snow on the ground. The world was still–the light low. It must
have been about six in the morning. I sped up a little, then a little
more. I broke into a light jog; I took off, running as fast as I could
for about a half mile, icy wind whipping across my face and obscuring my vision, causing the roadside to move by in a gray blur. I
stopped, exhausted, and resumed a leisurely walking pace. I loved
the way the frigid, winter morning air felt as it filled my lungs and
then rushed out when I exhaled. I saw two black squirrels scurrying through the tree tops high above the empty street, bounding
from limb to limb, leaping and just barely catching the tip of each
branch that they aimed for. Suddenly, one of the squirrels missed
its target; it fell helplessly out of the tree and onto the asphalt below. It did not move. I went up to it and saw that it was dead. The
other squirrel still in the trees paused for just a moment to look
down at its fallen compatriot, and then continued on its way, just
as recklessly as before. I felt very much alive and very much okay.
The Hardest Part
BY JACKSON HARROWER
BYRAM HILLS HIGH SCHOOL
The quiet made it that much worse. I yearned to hear the piercing buzz of my alarm clock. I desperately wished it was already
Monday, that I had to get out of bed and get something done.
Frost bordered the windows; it was pre-dawn on a cold, gloomy,
Saturday morning in December. It would be hours before even the
dog arose for his morning piss. I stared through the ceiling, waiting
for something from nothing. My stomach was in a knot, and the
percussion of my own thoughts pounded my skull.
“I’m just not ready for that right now,” she had said.
I wished for anything that I didn’t know better. I desperately wanted to believe what she told me, but no, better to be just a loser
than a loser and a fool. Still, I could see it so vividly. His lips pressed
against her lips, his thighs against her thighs. His hands enveloped
her body, exploring increasingly personal space by the moment,
his weight now subduing her, the disgusting serpent of his tongue
contaminating the virgin soil of her mouth. I squirmed in the sea of
limitless cruelty that was my imagination, gasping for breath. I was
drowning.
“Stop! This is absurd. Get over yourself.”
I uttered these words over and over again, but they held no meaning. I didn’t understand the hurt. I was healthy. I was safe. I was
warm. But I was a mess.
“It’s not you James; you’re such a nice guy. I just think we should
stay friends.”
She said this with just enough hesitancy to make me almost
break down right in front of her. I already knew I was a “nice guy;”
I prided myself on being a “nice guy.” What she meant was so self
24
“Goodbye, Lizzie,” came the reply as the 15 year-old girl stepped out
of the music store, and walked down 59th on the Upper West Side.
The bustling noise crowded the notes from her head as she passed
by, but her hands still fingered them when she headed down into
the subway entrance, and stepped on to the A train to go home.
The Only One to Observe You
OLIVIA SCHMIDT
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
“Faster!” he cried, enthusiastically destroying her eardrums as she
pounded the keys. “Energy! I want the music to resonate in the soul!”
She flew across the pattern of black and white, her own person,
and yet one with the piano. As it finally ended, slowing down with a
ritardando, she let out a heavy sigh of relief. The last note rang out,
and she slumped, panting. After a pause, he stood and applauded
loudly, “Bravo! Bravo!”
He kept on before sitting down again. “That was, by far, the best you
have ever played it! Bravo!”
She smiled, thanked him, and then waited silently for the criticism.
“But at measure 256,” he started, “you trilled down instead of up. It
was hard to tell, but it was still there. Fix it for next time.”
There it is, she thought, and smiled, standing. “Thank you Mr.
Knotes, I will remember that.”
“You are very welcome, Lizzie. See you next week?”
Lizzie nodded, and moved to gather her music and bag. “See you
next week, Mr. Knotes.”
The train was crowded. Lizzie, with short, cropped hair the color of
dry autumn leaves, and the thin awkwardness of a teenager, was
standing very close to a man with terrible body odor. Thankfully,
the man got off quite quickly, but was replaced with many more
people. She was squashed against the door, and of course, at the
most inopportune time, she received a text from her mother. She
retrieved her old flip phone (her parents refused to buy her an
iPhone, for which she was relieved) and opened it to find:
Lizzie,
Be home late. Call your dad. We’re having scallops for dinner. Finish your homework,
and study for your test. We’ll talk when your dad gets home.
Mom
§
25
Her home was a small apartment, too crowded for its own good,
and yet much too quiet. Her cat, Comet, was napping when she
entered, but as soon as the key clicked in the lock, she sprinted
towards Lizzie and jumped onto the shoulder strap of her bag,
meowing with happiness, and what sounded suspiciously like “Feed
me, human!” Lizzie sighed, and said, “Kitchen, Comet!”
She watched the bullet of black and white streak across the wooden
floor to the tiled one. Lizzie dropped her bag and followed. The
hallway was a thin, dimly lit passage. It was tastefully decorated with
antique art, mainly stills, featuring women, men, and fruit in bowls.
The kitchen was more modern. It had granite counters, with a tiny
island. The walls were lined with wooden cupboards. To the right
of the entrance stood Comets’ various food necessities. Two bowls
were the vessels for her nutrients, one for water, and the other for
Fancy Feast™. Lizzie personally abhorred it, but to Comet, it was
nectar and ambrosia. Lizzie filled her bowl from the can, and took
a hurried step back. Comet had been known to be brutal when
someone interfered with her gorging. Lizzie smiled, and approached
the fridge for her own snack, when she saw a note in her mother’s
handwriting.
“Dad!”
He turned, and smiled, and walked toward her. She embraced him,
as customary, and he stepped back.
“Look at you!” he exclaimed, holding her at arms length. “You’ve
grown so much since I last saw you.”
Lizzie stared at him dubiously, until he added, “Into the ground!”
She sighed, smiling and followed him into the apartment.
Lizzie placed her bag on her bed, and proceeded to walk into the
kitchen, where her mother was taking roasted vegetables out of
the oven and her father was pouring himself a glass of Cabernet
Sauvignon. She opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of melon
soda, and popped the marble. As she did so, her father said, “So,
Lizzie, what have you done while I was away? And I mean besides
getting shorter.”
She took a gulp, and smirked, “I at least don’t act younger than
my age.”
Her father rolled his eyes, and said, “Let’s eat.”
“Delicious,” her father said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with
his napkin, and taking the last sip of his Cabernet. “So, let’s talk.”
Lizzie tensed, and scooped the last of her rice medley into her
mouth, chewing hurriedly. Her father began to speak.
“As you know, I was raised in Aberdeen. Aberdeen, South Dakota.
And, you also know that my job has gotten much too involved.
Working in retail has gotten harder than ever, even in Paul Stuart.
The hours are ridiculous, and I am rarely at home.” He paused in his
narrative, and Lizzie took the time to jump in.
“So what are you saying? That you’re quitting your job?”
“Well, yes. I am quitting. I already did. I gave in my three-week notice
last Friday.”
“So, is that it?” she asked, surprised.
He hesitated. “No,” he said slowly, “that’s not the entire story. I know,”
he paused, and then restarted. “I know that that you have all of your
friends here, and you like your school, and the city, but–”
“We’re moving?” Lizzie interrupted. “Why? I thought you loved it
here!”
Lizzie,
Clean out the fridge like you promised. And don’t eat any leftovers for your snack.
Your dad will be home soon, and will want to eat early, so have some fruit to tide you
over until then.
She sighed, grabbed a pear from the fridge, washed it, and went to
study, thinking she would never have the end of odious tasks.
§
The library was cool and dark and offered little light for reading, but
Lizzie still appreciated its sanctuary. She was disappointed when she
had to leave. But her father was to be expected later that evening
and they had to discuss something. She left, and walked the ten
blocks to their apartment. Lizzie buzzed in and went up on the
elevator. She stepped out to see her father entering their apartment
and called out to him.
26
Her mother chimed in. “We do, honey, but we think,” she said, then
took her husband’s hand, “that the change would be good for us.”
Lizzie realized she had stood. “Where are we moving?” she said in a
quiet whisper.
“Honey, why don’t you sit down?”
“No! Where are we moving?”
“Calm down, Elizabeth,” her mother murmured, trying to stem the
anger emitting from her daughter.
“Why? Why should I calm down? I’m leaving everything I’ve ever
known, and you’re asking me to calm down? I’m moving to a godforsaken place, and I’m supposed to just say ‘Okay, whatever you
want’? This is all I’ve ever known, and you’re taking it away from me!”
Lizzie stormed out of the apartment, not even bothering to put on a
coat or shoes.
Her mother stood, and was about to run after her, but her husband
stopped her.
“No. Let her go.”
“But–!”
“No,” he said, “let her be. She’ll come back.”
hundreds of them, and there was tiredness about him, but his bright
blue eyes were alive and clever. She sighed, and replied, “I’m not
running towards anything.”
He smiled, and then asked, “What are you running away from, then?”
She looked at him, and sat next to him silently
“Leaving the only place I’ve ever known,” she said after a moment or
two. “Here.”
“Here?” he inquired.
“This,” she answered, gesturing at the tall skyscrapers and crowds of
people, “is all I’ve ever known. And my parents are trying to rip me
away from it all.”
“Where to?”
Lizzie sneered. “Aberdeen, South Dakota, right in between to
nowhere, and desolation.”
He smiled, looking at the sky. “They aren’t different at all.”
“What? What are you talking about?” she cried. “They’re as different
as night and day!”
The old man chuckled. “Well, try to live in the night then.” He
turned to her. “Do you think you can really live the rest of your life
wondering ‘if’? ‘If I had taken the chance and changed everything,
would my life be better, or worse?’ You will live with regret for the
rest of your life. Can you bear that?”
She looked at him. For a long time, she just looked at him. Then
she leaned back to look at the sky. She spoke to it, saying, “I
have never liked change. Ever. If my mother happened to put a
certain Christmas decoration in a different place, I would never be
comfortable. It would turn my eyes to look at it every time, and I
would only think of the past, when things were how they were. I
wouldn’t look forward. Only back. I would stay stuck in time, never
moving forward. Never even daring to look in that direction. I was
caught up in the past. I still am.”
“I guess this is your chance then.” He turned back to her, and smiled.
She ran. She just ran and ran and ran. She ran as fast as her heart
could beat, as fast as she could think. Her thoughts spun in her
head, and she couldn’t stop. She finally slowed a bit, but kept a
steady beat nonetheless. She ran.
As fast as she could.
Faster and faster.
Away from everything.
She finally stopped, exhausted, but only mentally, even though she
had never run that far in her life, nor that fast. Feelings take you
away, she realized. She could have kept running, and was about to,
but the voice of someone nearby stopped her.
“Where are you running towards, child?”
Lizzie whirled around, and spotted an old man sitting at the bus
stop just behind her. He had a snow-white beard, long, but not dirty,
or untrimmed. It covered his neck, but it couldn’t prevent her from
seeing the wrinkles that adorned his face. It seemed as if he had
27
The Swing At The Edge Of The Earth
BY SYDNEY KATZ
YORKTOWN HIGH SCHOOL
The swing at the edge of the earth
Where all the children came to play
One by one they take turns
But only when parents are away.
Once they try it they all yearn
To ride over the end
Just for the fun
And the thrill of what’s beyond the bend
They each fly back and forth in the smiles of the sun.
But when mommy and daddy come back
The children climb again to the ground
For the fear of a whack
They leave the fun that they had found
The swing at the edge of the earth.
28
the outsiders
BY ALLISON GREENBERG
BRIARCLIFF HIGH SCHOOL
those kids who say they “fear oblivion”
will one day fully understand what they are
saying, and what will become of them? they
are filling a void with false acceptance.
they say they “fear oblivion” so as to
fit in with a mob, but they
are still golden, never having
stared into the maw of destruction.
they say they “fear oblivion” but
have not yet fathomed the void they
shout into; they’re masking their fear
of being alone, without a niche.
we all go through stages
and eventually we all learn nothing gold can stay
but we wish it could.
29
THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE
BY EMMA FRATTAROLA
PUTNAM VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL
Smoke
Grey as the cloudy day
dangerous as a viper
the smoke slithers and chokes
and bites your lungs
until you can
no longer
Fire
The tendrils will lick and whip
and ruin
so you must learn to control
the heat or else
become part of the ash
beneath the grass
Ash
Burned black fingers touch
silk white dress
wonder how dress is not demolished
how it did not turn to
dust under charred fingertips
how it rose again just
like the hand touching it
like the tears
falling on it
Burn
After everything ignites
and burns out again
you can find nothing
in the ruin
except the hope that whatever
was set ablaze
will come back better and stronger
in form of something new
30
Unforetold
BY CHLOE BURNS
WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
Fenris
Fenris is
Fenris is a
Fenris is the monster
But Fenris is not the only monsterOdin is a
Odin is the monster, too
Odin is the monster king
(Creators are as monsters do);
Fenris bides his time
at Ragnorök;
The wolf answers Loki’s call, Loki the monster,
Unchained;
Fenris is the last to dieFenris dies after swallowing Odin whole,
Fenris dies after his uncle’s nine thunderous steps,
Fenris greets his sister at her bone throne
Where Odin-monster cowersHela is the monster too
(Children of brothers of monsters, all);
Fenris is the monster, dead
Fenris is a
Fenris is
Fenris
31
Millicent sighed at the thought, a cloud of her carbon dioxide
visible in front of her due to the low temperature, as she made her
way down the hectic streets of NYC to the New York Public Library.
She was heading there for a multitude of reasons. Mainly, Millicent
has been trying to receive a full scholarship to an elite boarding
school since she was in the 5th grade. Although she’s been accepted to Millbrook Middle School every year she’s tried out, she’s
never done well enough to be eligible for a full scholarship.
Their standards were high even for the middle school, which was
why Millicent never ended up with the full scholarship she needed
to attend. Only the smartest and the richest were accepted into
this school. This year, she was absolutely determined to receive a
full scholarship because she was going to be starting high school
this upcoming year and has been dreaming of Millbrook High
School since she was a kid. Millbrook provided their students with
clothing, since they had uniforms, a meal plan, and heated rooms
during these cold months, essentially everything her mother
couldn’t provide for her no matter how many jobs she applied for.
Untitled
BY KELLY HABERSTROH
YORKTOWN HIGH SCHOOL
A gush of cold September air sent a shiver down Millicent
Murray’s battered spine. Her long, greasy, knotted brown hair flew
all around her face. She hugged her frail arms tighter around her
thin figure in the hopes of warming herself up. Her family couldn’t
afford to pay for a winter coat, so she was bundled up in layers of
thin sweaters given to her family by Good Will.
She lives in a tiny, crowded apartment with her mother, Greta,
her older brother, Leonard, and Greta’s boyfriend, Peter. Millicent’s
father abandoned her and her family with her other brother when
she was infant with no explanation known. Greta refuses to even
acknowledge his existence, leaving Millicent and Leonard dying to
quench the thirst of wondering who their father is.
32
Millicent’s best friend, Callum Hawthorne, was accepted to
Millbrook the previous school year with the full scholarship she’s
longed for. She and Callum had been friends since the 4th grade
because Callum was the only one in their grade who didn’t judge
her based on her financial status. Since they were only 9 years
old, most people steered clear of Millicent because of her physical
appearance because she typically smelled, had unkempt hair, and
wore the same regular outfits on repeat in the same week, rather
than the simple fact that she was poor.
Callum is a technological genius; he knows the ins and outs of
essentially any type of computer. Because Callum is so technologically advanced, he’s been attempting to help her and Leonard on
their expedition to find the other half of their family.
One of the main reasons it was so difficult to find Millicent’s
father and brother was because she didn’t know what their names
were. Millicent and Leonard had taken on their mother’s maiden
name because it was the only surname available, and their mother
probably gave them her surname so that it would be more difficult
to find their father.
As soon as she got close to the library, Millicent ran over to the
payphone, put in her quarter, and dialed Callum’s room number at
Millbrook.
Before the phone could ring twice, she heard someone pick up.
“Hello?” the voice asked in an exhausted tone, as if they ran across
the room to answer.
“Hey Callum!” she greeted him without double checking to make
sure it was him. “Get any more info yet?”
He laughed slightly. “Millie, patience is a virtue, remember?”
She rolled her hazel eyes at him, although he couldn’t see her do
so. “You wouldn’t be so patient if you hadn’t spent so much of your
life desperately trying to figure out who you were and what your
background is!”
“Fair enough,” he replied without any objection. “I’ll email you
anything I find. You’re going to be at the library for awhile, right?”
“Right,” Millicent told him with a giggle. “Thanks Callum. Talk to
you later.” And she placed the phone back on the receiver.
*****
On the other side of the financial world, but residing in the same
city, was a teenage girl of the same age, Savannah Goldheart. From
looking at the surface, you would think that she lives the life that
every kid dreams of. Her family has the extravagant mansion with
enough rooms for three families, expensive sports cars, an indoor
movie theatre, an elevator in their house, as well as a pool, trampoline, and playground in thpooeir backyard. There wasn’t one person that knew of the Goldhearts who wouldn’t trade everything to
have the possessions they have.
Despite the money and the material items, none of this truly
made Savannah happy. Temporarily, it might’ve, but nothing hurt
more than the people who wanted to be friends with her for her
money. Typically, that was short-lived because Savannah wasn’t
the friendliest person, so her personality ends up driving them
away. Her brother, Neil, always said that she subconsciously drove
them away with her rude behavior because she was afraid they
only stuck around for her family’s wealth.
Neil is currently 18 years old and the epitome of perfect within
their family. He’s attending Harvard to become a doctor, has the
perfect personality and appearance, is the life of every room he
walks into, along with a beautiful girlfriend. Savannah had always
felt inferior to him growing up because no matter how hard she
tried, she could never compare to him academically or socially.
Recently, Savannah’s unpleasant personality got her into some
deep waters. At a family gathering, Savannah insulted her impressionable younger cousin, which enraged her father, Alessandro,
who insisted that she be on her best behavior. Her father felt that
since he was a single parent, he had to be double the parent he
already was to make up for the lack of a mother figure. Savannah’s
mother and other older brother had left her family when Savannah was an infant. She never knew why she left with just one child,
or even if she and her father were officially divorced. Alessandro
refused to talk about her, saying she wasn’t important anymore
and that his fiancee was the only one who mattered now.
His punishment for her was to ship her off to Millbrook High
School, which her family could very easily afford. Although Savan-
33
nah didn’t have any friends at her current high school, she was
still adamant about leaving behind all her luxuries at home to
get the bare minimum at school.
To clear her head, Savannah decided she would take a walk
around the city and reflect upon her previous actions that led
up to this fate. Before this, she never had to walk into the city;
her family’s driver, Andre, took them wherever they needed to
go. Savannah wasn’t interested in getting a pep talk from Andre,
so she opted for walking.
It was a weird feeling for her. She felt out of her element
as she took each cautious step down the sidewalk. Her prior
knowledge told her to expect someone who would kidnap, rob,
kill, assault, and much worse to people like her, especially in
New York City. Savannah just kept telling herself that she would
just have to get used to this lonely, paranoid feeling because
she would always be walking down the streets alone.
Her hazel eyes kept flickering from side to side as she hung
onto her Coach purse like death in the fear that someone
would try to rip it from her grasp. People all around her were
speed-walking down the streets, trying to reach their destination as soon as possible, while Savannah was slowly trudging
along with no direction or purpose.
All it took was those couple seconds of daydreaming and
directions to allow Savannah to become a victim of her own
klutziness. Out of nowhere, she crashed into a sickly, disheveled
girl about her own age and height.
“Oh my god!” Savannah cried out sheepishly as she reached
out for the girl’s hand to help her up. The girl seemed reluctant to place her hand into Savannah’s because when the girl
clasped her hand into Savannah’s, she felt the ice cold fingers
that were faced with poverty. She was also able to feel the true
weakness the girl had from lack of nourishment. Savannah
slightly flinched at her touch, not just because the girl seemed
as physically damaged as she was emotionally, but because
there was something odd about their interaction.
Savannah began to see a front yard of a typical suburban
home. There was a moving van all packed up to drive away.
A man was walking away to his car, holding a little girl with red
hair identical to Savannah’s and a young boy trailing behind him.
Standing by the door of the house was a woman, holding another little girl who had brown hair, and a petite boy clutching his
mother’s leg.
Savannah took a double take and snapped out of her thoughts
as she pulled the girl up from the concrete. “I’m so sorry! Are you
okay?” she asked nervously, as if the girl had broken her bones
during the fall.
The girl nodded her head quickly, obviously distracted by
something. “Sorry about that. I didn’t see you there,” she mumbled, stuttering over her words.
“It’s fine! It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention,” Savannah
assured her as she glanced up and down at the girl’s appearance.
Her clothes looked incredibly worn and ripped, the straps of her
backpack looked as if they were going to give out, and her hair
looked as if she didn’t own a brush. Savannah began to rummage
through her purse until she found the first bill she could find, a
$20 dollar bill.
Savannah placed the dollar bill in the girl’s shivering hand.
“Here, take this. You’ll have better use out of it.”
“Are you sure?” the girl asked her in a surprised high pitch tone.
“This is so much. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Savannah replied with a smile, glad she was able to
perform a good deed. “I’m Savannah, by the way.”
“I’m Millicent,” she answered back with a smile similar to the
one she received.
And the two didn’t cross paths for another 3 months, never
once thinking that it was possible that they were sisters.
34
Warrior
BY DIVYA MUNDACKAL
WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
Empty void
Deep in the pit
I am not dead
I do not feel alive,
Trapped like a bird in a cage
Never set free
The window of time is rapidly closing in on me,
There is nothing left for me.
I am nothing but pain for the ones I love
This disease
Seven letters,
One word,
Gradually chipping its way into my soul
Before it discovers my weakness
Through long nights and cold winters
I have been strong.
I will fight like a soldier
My life on the fringe of death
Ready for victory
But in the end it will defeat me.
So why should I even try,
Try to get myself out of this war?
If I am going to die anyways?
I dress in battle gear everyday
Warriors are
Although I know I will lose
Going through the same things I face everyday
I have hope
We will unite against fate
Although it shatters into a million pieces
And leave a lasting impression on the world
The reason why I try
Separately we will all fall deep into the pit,
The reason why I care
But we will fall hand in hand
Is because I know I am not alone.
And as one we will rise up
35
weltanschauung
BY CHLOE BURNS
WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
just as death fights heaven
love does not cognize knowledge
and cognitive angels do not exist
(not even with mechanics)
venomous brains hold no poison
no matter will endure
only antimatter until the end of time
both explode on first convergence
leaving no trace of anything behind
matter melting down
antimatter creeps up behind
slow and steady the race decides
matter melting down
lost to the hearth of time
antimatter lingers in the air
bitter aftertaste
explosions matter not
for matter melted down
when antimatter crept up behind
antimatter lost to time
crying through the nuclear night
only emptiness until the end
so if you have queries
direct them towards dystopias
the only realities to ever exist
for this species of homo sapiens
no utopias to be found here
so, leave me be
36
Write On Time
A Digital Anthology
pnwboces
Putnam | Northern Westchester
www.pnwboces.org
Service and Innovation Through Partnership