Other Voices

The owl has one note, The crow another -Erasmus

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Izzy Jerome '17

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John Knapp, English faculty member

I hope you don’t mind a suggestion for the future good of Albuquerque Academy. If our leaders simply follow the latest marketing plan of the always unfailing McDonalds Corporation, there's no end to the benefits that lie in store for us!  All we have to do: rebrand the Charger, our school’s underutilized brand ambassador (formerly known as a "mascot")! (Less this. . . )

(more like this . . .) 

(and this . . .) 

Last spring, with a lot of fanfare and in reaction to shrinking profits, McDonalds announced that it's welcoming back from exile the child-entrancing spokesclown, Ronald McDonald—complete with a "hip" new makeover and a heavy social-media presence. Ronald's now got cargo pants, a vest, special bowtie, and a "whimsical red blazer" with earbud cords twirling impishly out of the pocket. (Breathe easy: the giant red clown shoes stay.) Later this year, we'll all have the pleasure of being bathed in the humble flow of new Ronald promo material—TV and internet ads, restaurant interiors, packaging, and more. The new Ronald will be a regular on social media, as well, spreading the corporation's platitudinous gospel that "Fun makes great things happen!" (that's serious). In a press release, Ronald says he's thrilled and eager to connect with people online and via Twitter, proclaiming, "Selfies . . . here I come!" http://news.mcdonalds.com/Corporate/news-stories/McDonald%E2%80%99s-Unveils-New-Mission-and-Image-for-Brand Now, most of us at Academy aren't marketers, technically, but we could follow McDonalds' prescient example and rebrand our mascot, the Charger! Surely, doing so will keep our school hip; heighten its media profile; and trigger (in students, alums, parents, and other donors) a good-zombie singleness of philanthropic purpose toward our institution! Here are some ideas to kick off what I'm sure will be an active, serious discussion; we can sift through our collected ideas soon in breakout groups. First, there's a lot of confusion about Academy's spokescharacter that we could clarify toward big bucks. What is a Charger, anyway? Just a horse? (Boring!) A horsehead? (Too Godfather-like.) A lance-wielding knight? (Gender biased, even Freudian.)  Well, common sense suggests that people like whole horses more than bits and pieces, so we'd be wise to use a full-horse body for our mascot. The rebranded Charger, designed by our talented visual-arts students, should convey strength, determination, and a high tolerance for a lot of AP classes without making too much of a big deal out of it. To balance resolve with hipness, we could give the new Charger an ironic grin, sideways baseball cap, interactive hoof, sunglasses, yoga pants (with tasteful hole for the tail), and a dyed & dreadlocked mane. Instead of being at full charge, the horse could be laid back, standing on its hind legs but resting casually on its elbows (if horses have elbows), as if to say, "Albuquerque Academy is a cool place to kick it!"—think Chester the Cheetah, the brand ambassador for Cheetos (see above). In the official Academy logo, a scroll could unroll in a graceful semicircle beneath the reimaged Charger, but we should have a new, trendier motto than Scientia ad facidendum ("learning through doing"—snooze!). Retaining the cache that Latin brings, we could update the message to be more modern and relevant: Scientia ad deprimendum ("learning through texting"; literally, through "pressing down"). Students could chant the hip new motto at sporting events, while banging coconuts to together. Note: if we decide against a horse, we could always go with another relevant character—say, a smart, devil-may-care student wielding a credit card (you know, a "charger"), or a walkin', talkin', freewheelin', mischievous Charger for a laptop or smartphone (again, with sideways baseball cap).

Right now, our brand-ambassador horse doesn’t even have a name! How can we hope to control consumers' responses to us if we don’t decide what they should call us? Here are some ideas:

Mr. Ed–jication

AP-biscuit

Floggy (as in "flogging a dead horse")

Pony Up

Houyhnhnm  (pronounced "Win 'em!"—hard to spell, but good for a chant at a football game or fundraiser. It's from Gulliver's Travels: horses who have no word for "lie" and make humans look like boorish yahoos)

Kanthaka (Buddha's horse; died of broken heart when Buddha decided that enlightenment wasn't consonant with having a horse)

Incitatus (hard to say, but cool. "At full gallop" in Latin. Also, the very special horse of Caligula, who wanted to appoint the horse as consul; he bought it a house and lots of bling)

If none of these work, fantasynamegenerators.com will come up with free "heroic" horse names in the click of a mouse.

Finally, and of course, our new mascot will be expected to be a presence online. Like Ronald McDonald, he'll (or she'll) Tweet, blog, backchannel, and mashup, driving home an edgy but relatable mission like: "Up with knowing stuff!" or "Smart good; dumb bad!" or "Be hot-to-trot for learnin'!" (Be sure to follow Chester Cheetah’s nuggets of philosophy on twitter https://twitter.com/ChesterCheetah.) Academy’s rebranded, reimaged spokescharacter will appear on everything from coffee cups and sweatshirts to lecterns, uniforms, and letterhead. It represents us all, just as we are, exactly. We should embrace the notion of a rebrand, taking it with the utmost seriousness and inventiveness, as, hopefully, exemplified here.

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Visit Original Link

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Elisabeth Kennedy '17

“Walk with me, Kris. I have something I have to show you.” Jessica grins over to her best friend, gesturing behind her. “It’s really important, alright?”

“Sure, whatever. Show me, oh wise one.” Jessica laughs, causing Kris to smile widely. She missed this, ever since the accident Jess has been different. Now, apparently, she’s finally back to her old self.

The two walk side by side, laughing and telling stories, talking about what happened while they were separate, Kris telling most of the stories, walking deep into the woods behind Kris’ home. Eventually, Kris sighs and glances to her friend in frustration, “Alright, Jess, where are we even going? How’d you even find something in this mess?”

“Shh, that would be telling, dork. Just trust me, okay?” Jessica’s eyes plead almost desperately, as though she absolutely has to show Kris whatever she found, no matter what.

“Fine, fine. We have to get back before 10 though, don’t want to cause my ‘rents to throw a fit.”

“Yeah, whatever, hurry up then!” Jessica breaks into a sprint, joyful laughter, a wide smile emanating from her face. Kris makes a face, looking over her shoulder before shrugging and running after her. She crashes into the other at the side of a small stream. “Careful, dork, don’t want to hurt that head of yours,” Jess chimes.

“Oh shut up,” she sighs, annoyed, “Why’d we stop? Are we there yet?”

“Almost...” Jess trails off, looking over her shoulder, “Just a little farther. We’ll be there soon.” Jessica starts to walk, grimacing slightly and her hand flies to her side almost instantly, and Kris raises an eyebrow in worry. “Hey, you alright? I mean, if this is too much movement for you, we should probably head back. I don’t want you to, like, fall and RE-INJURE yourself or anything.”

“Don’t worry about me!” Jessica growls, before a wide smile forms on her face, “It’s only a bit farther anyways. You have to see this.” Kris stares in shock, that growling was more like the new Jessica, the vicious, plotting, manipulative one. What if this is just a trick? What if Jessica is just tricking her? Kris feels fear course though her, but she shrugs it aside, Jessica WOULDN’T actually hurt someone. Just scare them. Besides, Jessica is her best friend.

She follows behind Jess slowly, trying to ignore the horrible feeling pooling in her stomach. Jess is my friend, she chants to herself, she won’t hurt me. She repeats the mantra over and over to herself. The feeling of dread begins to dissipate, and she finally smiles. “Hurry up, Jess. I want to see whatever you’re so excited about.”

“Well, you won’t have to wait much longer, come on, we’re here!” Kris runs over, entering a small, moonlit clearing. A single stump lies in the center, with a small, almost bronze colored statue sitting upon it. A child stares at the two of them, dressed in old, almost ceremonial looking clothing. Kris stares in horror, however, for the child is lacking a face, replaced instead with a mask of an animal skull, and the mouthing seems to be stuck in the shape of an eerie smile.

“Jess, what is that? Why are we here?” The feeling’s back in her stomach and no amount of reciting her mantra is reducing it. “Jessica, answer me!” She turns around, shouting. But the place where her best friend was is empty.

 “Haha, Jessica, very funny! You got me! Come out, and let’s go! Jess, I’m not having “fun” anymore!” She turns to look at the statue, quieting down considerably, “Please don’t leave me in the middle of the goddamned forest. Come back, please.” No answer, she sighs, wishing now she paid more attention to her surroundings as she was lead here.

She walks over to the statue, sitting beside it on the stump. “Guess it’s just you and me, freak.” She sighs again, as her hand bumps into a small plaque. “How nice, let’s find out more about freak here, and hope it tells me how to get out.”

She sighs and begins to read:

Welcome to my forest, for now you’ll never leave.

Lead here by a spirit, summoned by your grief.

I hope you paid attention, and did not get turned around,

For if you did, my friend you’ll be, trapped in this sacred ground.

And then you’ll become a monster like me,

And see,

No one can save you now.

A chill runs down her neck, feeling almost like a breath. Her head snaps up, and she tries, and fails, to hold back a scream. The statue moved, now facing her instead of where she thinks she entered the clearing. And slowly, the mouth begins to move, and a childlike voice fills her ears, “Friends are nice... It’s been so long since I’VE had a friend... Will you replace him...? My friends never seem to last long... Could you be my friend...? I want to have a friend...”“N-no... That’s not possible... You’re a statue! Statues can’t move!” She stands up quickly and begins to run, taking three steps before falling to the ground, for a cold, metallic, boney hand is wrapped around her wrist.

“Be my friend... You are so much like my best friend... Why are you scared...? Am I scary...? Do you... Fear me...? Be my friend... I’m so lonely... Why don’t my friends stay with me...? They always break... Will you break too...? Please stay with me... Don’t break... They all become old... They all become grownups... I hate grownups... I hate adults... Be my friend... Don’t make me break you... Adults hurt me... Will you hurt me too...? Be my friend... Be my friend... Be my friend... Or else... I’ll break you...! Be... My... Friend...”Kris freezes in her attempts to escape, a new question forming in her mind. “What did you do to Jessica?” she asks in a panic, eyes wide in fearful concern.

“Who...? The spirit...? The dead girl...? I helped her... The adult had her body... The body’s safe now... The adult won’t hurt anyone anymore... I saved her... and she gave me a friend in return... There was so much blood... See...?” It moves quickly, flinging blood covered hands in front of her, several drops splattering onto Kris’ face. “I helped her... She helped me... We’ll help you... You need a friend... Be my friend... I want you to be my friend... Please... Be my friend... Krista...”“How did you know my name?”

“The dead girl told me... She told me a lot about you... Be my friend... Krista Moore... Age 15... Freshman at Jefferson High... No friends besides Jessica Smith... Alone... Always so alone... You don’t have to be alone anymore... Be my friend... We both need friends...”Kris falls to her knees. “Shut up. Stop talking. Stop acting like you know me! Let me go! I hate you!”

“Don’t... Don’t make me break you...” The grip on her wrist tightens and she cries out, “Be my friend... Otherwise... Dead girl won’t be free from her deal... Dead girl wants to die... Krista... Let her be free...”“Keep her out of this! She’s not dead! She’s at home, laughing at the prank she pulled! You’re not real! Let me go!”

“Now, now, Krista. You don’t have the power to make demands in this. You’re just a bargaining chip. Let me pass on, demon. We had a deal, my best friend for my afterlife.” A familiar voice surrounds them, a cold, monstrous voice. Kris’s breath freezes, Jessica.

“She... won’t... listen... She won’t stay...”“Then kill her. Do with her as you wish, let me pass on!”

“Break... her...? No... She will be my friend... Shut up... silly dead girl... Do you really want my afterlife...? So be it... Join me in my forest... stay here forever... Stay with your evil adult... Welcome to my hell...”“We had a deal!” Shrill shrieking quickly turns into an ear blasting scream. “I gave you what you wanted!” And then the screams are cut off, and there’s just an eerie, heavy silence.

“Be my friend... Krista... Or join your friend... Be my friend... or go to hell... Your choice...”Kris stared in shocked fear. “D-don’t do this... please... Don’t, just let me go!”

“I can’t do that... Krista... Stay... or... Die...”

“Don’t kill me, p-please!”

“Then be my friend... Don’t make me have to break you...”

“A-alright! Fine!”

“Walk with me... Krista... walk with your freedom... one last time...”

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Maria Vianco '16

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Blythe Johnston '15

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Kathleen Torrez '15

The pictures on Grammy’s 1992 Nokia were of each of my family members, seated one-by-one at her brocade-tableclothed dining room table with grins on our faces– and forkfuls of food shoved in our mouths. Holiday after holiday, mouth after mouth full to bursting with her crock-pot corned beef or dad’s enchiladas. Oh, those enchiladas. Not a Christmas Eve would go by without her calling to remind him to bring them to dinner the next day. I could almost hear the desperation in her voice across the room when she’d say through the receiver, “Mike! Two pans of them! Lots of green chile! Yea yea I have a ham but don’t forget your enchiladas!”. Dad chuckled and sighed each time. Maybe he’d pretend to forget only to give her a heart attack. But we all knew he slaved over those enchiladas all day- boiling the chicken stock himself and peeling the chiles meticulously. Christmas at Grammy’s was crazy. In fact, all our holidays spent at her house were almost quixotic. No matter how old we got, even that last Easter when none of us believed in the Bunny and we were all old enough to hide the eggs ourselves, she insisted on holding a full blown hunt in her front yard. The eggs were hidden in stupid places like that little gnome by the wall on the left side, or under the scrupulously trimmed Boxwood on the left. Still, every time I found an egg I showed it off and kind of slouched so that I wouldn’t puff my chest out such an embarrassing amount. Each year after the hunt Grammy set out easter baskets that we were never too old for because she packed them full to bursting with Reese’s chocolate eggs and Jelly Bellies in every flavor and obscene amounts of Hershey’s Kisses, and, well, some hand recorded VHS copies of our favorite movies. Her standing Christmas list consisted of Nestle Chocolate Turtles-her all time favorite- and a pack (or three) of VHS tapes. She used them all. Usually when we came over she had the TV on downstairs recording a Harry Potter special on ABC Family. Or the entirety of Disney’s Planet Earth series. Or every last one of the Star Wars saga– in order. Then she loaned the movies out like her own in-home movie library. At home we popped them in and actually watched the VHS’s together until someone inevitably walked in and complained, “Gahd, not another Grammy tape”, only to schlump down on the couch and join us in trying to ignore the constant static lines that ran across the screen. Grammy’s lending tendencies started when she worked in the New York State Library with my mom’s dad right after they got married. I used to picture her as a young girl in New York who maybe drank Earl Grey tea and had thick glasses, like me, tick tacking between the shelves, answering questions sometimes, reading always. One thing was fact, that she absolutely hoarded books. Probably every weekend she went to a used paperback sale and perused through the yellowing pages for hours to find exactly the copies she was looking for. And for our birthdays, without fail, Grammy gave each of her grandchildren a box full of books. After opening packages of clothes and cards with money we’d come to Grammy’s gift and say the age-old line, “wow! I w o n d e r what it is!” and then we’d tear it open knowing just what we’d find. Some were staple- The Oz books and Lewis Carroll were given to each of us as coming of age tokens as we journeyed into ages nine or thirteen. But the rest of them were always hand- picked. She knew what books we liked (or what books she wanted us to like). And I always rolled my eyes and smirked and moved on to the next present but those nights, I ate those books for dinner. All those books, I thought, they made me smart like her. Grammy was a member of Mensa, and when I asked mom what that was she said it was “A group for really smart people. With really high IQs”. I knew it was true that she had a high IQ because when she was fifty and all her kids were grown up, she went back to school and became a lawyer and you had to be smart if you were a lawyer. And I knew what an IQ was only because mine was high enough to be “gifted” by one point. So for months afterwards I walked around telling everyone that my grandma was a member of Mensa. She had a high IQ. Subsequently I asked my sister Eileen if Grammy was a genius because she was in Mensa and she sneered at me and said “You basically PAY to get into Mensa, KathLEEN.” And I realized Grammy wasn’t as famous and honored as I had imagined. But she was still one of the smartest women I have ever met. So starting then, each time I read a new book I asked The Expert what she thought of it. And I laughed at her little particulars while secretly hoping that later I’d have them too. And I tried to listen to her talk politics with mom and dad but I was always lost and the only political statement I can remember her making was “I hate those damn hippies”.

There was this one certain picture on Grammy’s Nokia. An image mom once looked at and smilingly said “It’s my favorite picture of my mama, because she’s there with all her favorite things. Her doggies, her flowers, and her view”. She’s sitting there in a lounge chair on her dazzlingly green lawn with one Bijon Frise under each arm and this preposterous grin on her face. Infinite sunset colored Floribunda and Gallica roses make up the background below the silver strip of Rio Grande blooming into purple Sandia mountains. The dogs’ tongues are out and even those twerps look like they wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world than in her grasp. Frances and Olivia meant almost as much to Grammy as her own children. She stuck to their feeding schedule obsessively: breakfast at eight a.m. and dinner at four p.m. on the dot. She insisted that without their double scoop of Vanilla Blue Bunny they’d get agitated. My dad would groan each time and say “Eileen, they’re just dogs! Ice Cream is BAD FOR THEM”. And she would roll her eyes and look at her babies and tell them that big scary man doesn’t even know what he’s talking about honey just enjoy your dessert. Olivia eventually died from clogged arteries and heart failure but even my dad teared up when we buried her in the backyard and built a wooden cross that we stuck up among the rows and rows of roses. Those roses were gorgeous. In summers I would look on from the bay windows in her air conditioned living room as she worked happily outside, clipping away the delicate dead leaves of the bushes. One particular day she came into the living room and told me to get up from where I was perched on the couch in front of the TV. So I did and she handed me a cotton button up shirt and rough gardening gloves and one of her older straw hats that she didn’t use anymore. And she told me I was going to help her. So we took the outside steps, the ones made of mossy wood, and I helped her down them one at a time until we got to the bottom and she started to lead. She walked like an army general and the roses were her lieutenants. She mentioned each rose’s name as we marched through them, from the delicate white Madame Hardy to the violently violet Tuscany Superb. She taught me not to touch the petals- because I’d hurt them, and not to touch the thorns- because they’d hurt me. This second rule I followed with fearful obedience but the first, well, I couldn’t resist ever so carefully rubbing the frond’s velvety skin between my thumb and pointer finger. After she taught me how to admire the roses, she coached me on how to clip the dead branches right at the roots so that none of them would remain. She helped me fill the colossal turquoise flowerpot and lug it from plot to plot, giving each bush heapings of water to combat the New Mexico sun. That sun. That sun you could see ever so brilliantly from the deck outside her living room. From her deck, you could see things that you couldn’t see from anywhere else in the city. During the day I looked down and watched the river float silently by and I swear, even from miles away I could see the fish jump. I could see tiny people hike up the montaña. At night, though, Albuquerque became something ethereal. Every. Single. Light. From every single house and every car’s wobbly headlight would illuminate the dark. The lights created a horizon stretching on infinitely from left to right. They made the sky so bright it looked like daybreak at eleven p.m.. One Fourth of July my whole family flocked to the deck to watch the fireworks, and without realizing it was happening, I lost myself.

Maybe it came on gradually, but in my memory it was like one day Grammy was shoveling Jambalaya into her mouth on Mardi Gras and then the next, she could stomach only soup and her seemingly infinite supply of pills. Looking back on it my mom always says that they never should have put her through Chemo in her old age. And maybe if they didn’t, I wouldn’t have the image of Grammy, sick, appear on the back of my eyelids every time I think of the Summer of 2011. At first, my mom and her three sisters would crowd around her, joking that they were “her four lovely nurses” which didn’t seem like a joke but they seemed to find it funny enough to laugh. Even Grammy would try to muster up a grimace, probably for their sake. Sick Grammy’s house was different. The brick-lined walkway leading up to her door was no longer covered in chalk dinosaurs. I was so used to seeing fresh perennials on the table that it looked barren without them. Frances still yipped when he heard someone coming but now the barks rang in the silence and I wanted so badly to just make him shut up, shut him up so the noise wouldn’t make the ailing house shatter. There were no movies recording downstairs, no, no friendly buzz because the house was silent except for dull constant electronic murmuring emitted from the Talking Books from the NYS Library. Grammy’s strong, firm, working hands were exhausted by the radiation. Sometimes she could no longer hold the weight of a novel or even turn a page. So she listened neurotically to these books on tape. The months passed in a blur but each time I went to the sick house she was a little further away. In the middle of the night I found Aunt Meg madly ordering new Talking Books because I’ll be damned if Grammy didn’t know what new bestsellers were out and demand to have them. One day, the reading machine stopped working and she didn’t remember how to fix it. She called mom in a frenzy, begging her to come over and help, with the frantic clack of her pressing buttons in the background. Mom took the short drive as fast as she could and walked in the house to find Grammy sitting on the chair listening to the steady monotonous voice of the cassette player as if nothing had happened.

Then, the melody of the machine changed. The narrators voice would continue until it stopped. Then it’d start again and linger until it stopped. Grammy was reaching up and turning the player on and off and on and then listening and then turning it off and on. It became normal to now hear the machine interrupted by an arbitrary click off and on again. After that, Grammy was moved from The Chair to Her Bed. Because when the clicks started, she stopped talking. A click for the bathroom. A click when she knew she was supposed to take her pill. A cry for water. And then no clicks or cries. And then I didn’t go in her room because I couldn’t understand her and I couldn’t breathe. Only Aunt Nica and Uncle Dan and Aunt Sheila and Mom and Aunt Meg could breathe in there, and sometimes Dad, when She wanted him.

The last day replaced, in my memory, all the days before it. It put some gossamer veil over the other days. Aunt Nica never left Grammy’s side that day. She held her mama’s hand as ferociously as I held the railing on the deck when I lost myself in the sky that Fourth of July. I would have heard her breath catch from anywhere in the house, that’s how soft it was. And even if I hadn’t been in the next room over I would have known that Aunt Nica breathed, “Maureen” and I could hear my mother gasp too at her name. I sat up and started to walk and I couldn’t see very well because the air was heavier. But it was warmer. I crossed the doorway into Grammy’s room that I hadn’t crossed in so long. And I looked down at her face and Aunt Nica probably told me to say goodbye or hug her or something. So I reached for her hand and I thought it would be cold like the stories said it would be but it wasn’t and it wasn’t limp because she squeezed mine and I think I kissed hers or I tried to or I wanted to. And I looked up at her face and maybe the air was too thick because I don’t remember what happened next.

One day, before the time when she stopped talking, Grammy gossiped with her oldest daughter. They were as happy to be alone together as only Mothers and Daughters can be. Grammy looked at my mama as if she was about to proclaim the secret of her soul and said, “You know, Baby, I won the lottery once.” And I think time stopped while both their ears devoured her words. And then, My grandma and My mama, they laughed and laughed and laughed.

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Portholes

Aidan Hendrickson '14

Today we learn more about things back on Earth. Mrs. Jackson shows us pictures of the things they built there. Cole tells me how they’re wrong, how they really had eight wheels, not six, and so forth. His father is a mechanic, so he knows these things, he says.

So much back there was clear, the trains and busses and houses all filled with portholes. Mrs. Jackson says it’s because the views were always changing. There was so much to see. I ask why they left such a nice place behind. She says don’t ask silly questions, sweetheart. Cole says that when Mrs. Jackson says don’t ask silly questions, it means she doesn’t know the answer.

There’s only six portholes here. I guess it’s because the view never changes. Always the same black, and the same stars going past, four times an hour.

Cole says there used to be lots more portholes, but they closed them all up, one at a time. Someday they’ll close these ones up, too. He doesn’t care. He says stars make him dizzy.

The stars never change, even though Mrs. Jackson says that we move fifty thousand miles every hour. They keep on rolling past, four times an hour, and they’re the same every time. Mrs. Jackson says that they looked a bit different when I was a baby, and they’ll look a bit more different when I’m old. Back there they only went around once an hour or something. They couldn’t see the stars move. They were too slow.

Mrs. Jackson says they had a star up real close, where they could see what it really was: a great big hot ball. It was very bright, and people couldn’t look right at it or their eyes would hurt. It must’ve been hard, to always remember not to look wherever it was.

I ask Mrs. Jackson where we’re going, if we’re going fifty thousand miles an hour. She tells me not to ask silly questions. Mrs. Jackson doesn’t like silly questions.

So when class gets out, I go to porthole number four. It’s not the closest one, but it’s the quietest. I crawl up against the pane and look out at the stars, six inches from space.

There are stars outside. They don’t look how you’d think they would, though. Mrs. Jackson says the stars are great big balls doing something called fusion that makes them glow, somehow. They don’t look like that at all. They look like little specks of dust. Mrs. Jackson says that’s because they’re so far away, miles and miles. Anything looks like a speck of dust when you’re far enough away.

There are smudges on the glass, fingerprints, some of them mine. They stay still, forever, while the stars go past. That must’ve been what the stars looked like back there, as still as smudges.

If I lay there long enough in the quiet, watching the stars, I can imagine that I’m outside, flying past them and it’s not just us who’s rotating, four times an hour. There are so many stars. Maybe we are going to one of them. That’s what I would do, if I were out there.

I watch the stars for a long time. Then I go outside, and fly and fly until I reach a star, a little blue one.

Mrs. Jackson is holding my hand, leading me away from the porthole, away from my star. She says she was worried sick about me, a porthole is no place to sleep, I must be sore, I’m not getting enough rest. She takes me to the dormitory. Everyone frowns when I come in. They got to stay up late, but now it is bedtime.

We learn about organisms in class today. I don’t ask Mrs. Jackson questions, because I might ask a silly question, and I don’t want her to feel bad. I ask Cole instead. He knows these things. His father had an organism once.

I go to the porthole again, to look for my star. I look and look but I can’t find it. There are so many little blue ones. It’s in there somewhere, hiding in all the dust.

Mrs. Jackson takes me away. She tells me I spend too much time at the porthole, and it is not healthy. I need to be playing, and sleeping, and doing everything the other children do. She tells me that she doesn’t want me looking out the portholes anymore, ok? Can you promise me you’ll stay away from the portholes? I say yes. She pats me on the head and takes my hand and leads me to the park where the other children are playing ball.

I don’t look out the portholes anymore. I don’t need to. I can see the stars in my head, floating past whenever I close my eyes. Even all the little blue ones. My star’s in there somewhere. We’re going there. Someday we’ll get there.

Cole says we’re not going anywhere. But I think he’s wrong. Why would we be going, if we’re not going anywhere?

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Gavin Epstein '15

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Cold, Starry Night

Maya Taylor '18

“Hey Mom,” Ava’s voice rang throughout the house. “We’re leaving.” The reply was not fast enough, as the door slammed shut before anyone could have given a word of consent. Outside, the wind howled and ripped at the dry December grass in Ava’s front yard and as I fell into step with her, our blonde ponytails swung wildly around our heads: Ava’s, a low hanging, loosely made, bleach blond one, mine, tightly made, and of a darker shade. I breathed in the cold. It was the kind that was relieving and refreshing, and that would wake you up anytime of the day. Ava and I made our way down the street, my best friend walking slightly ahead of me with a light spring in her step.

“Thanks for coming, Maya.” She turned to me and smiled, her blue eyes sparkling.

“Thank you for inviting me, it was fun.” After a pause, we both sighed simultaneously and laughed. School would soon start up again, and then no more getting together with each other. We had to make it last while we could.

“I am glad I got to spend some time with you, Ava.” I glanced over at her, and she looked at me. There was a sort of somber expression on her face, at least, as somber as she could get. The rest went unspoken, but the silence was a nice silence. It was a silence of two great friends after a long day of play and excitement. It was a silence I would learn to lose.

Ava straightened the straps on her swimsuit and was preparing to pull her pale blue swim cap on when I walked up, already wearing all of my swim gear. Ava stopped what she was doing and looked up at me. Her eyes looked mildly surprised, as I rarely ever spoke to her before swim practice, but she covered the feeling up subconsciously before I said a word. I stopped in front of her, a gold and red wrapped package in my hand, with a card on top. Feeling a little bit out of place, I really realized how much taller than her I actually was. We used to be the same height, though not anymore.

“Here, Ava,” I stuck out my hand with the gift. “This is for all you guys, you know, the whole family.” The awkwardness was still there, but Ava wasn’t bothered by it and immediately became happy and excited.

“Thank you, Maya!” Her face lit up, and I could tell she meant it. My shoulders relaxed. She took the present and looked at the card, on which a black horse was rearing up in front of the moon, its mane and tail decorated with wreaths and Christmas ribbons. The paper was slightly bent: the effect that comes from drying watercolor. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. I smiled and felt all the tension on my part slip away, just like old times, when we were the best of friends. “It’s amazing!! Thank you so much!” She smiled brightly at me and hurried away to put the present in her bag. I turned and rushed back to the pool’s edge, diving into the ice cold water. I had written the card for Ava and her family, written a little note on the end that read: “I know we are not as close as we used to be, but I’m always here if you need me.” I meant it. Bubbles formed in the water next to me, and as they cleared I smiled at Ava who had just backflipped into the the pool. She was still my best friend, even if I may not have been hers.

One night, while I was packing my swim bag and getting ready to go, Ava walked around the corner of the locker room, jumped up onto the bench, and jumped off again. She did this everyday, although I had never quite figured out why. She turned around and started walking towards the door.

“Bye,” I said. Only then did she turn around and reply.

“Bye, Maya.” She smiled brightly at me before walking out. I quickly finished packing up, stuffing my wet towel and swimsuit into my bag and slinging it over one shoulder, hoping to catch Ava while she waited for her parents. I hurried out and found her sitting on the metal bar in front of the entrance to the pool. I pulled myself up next to her and set my things down by my feet.

“So, how was skiing?” I asked.

“We skied the ridge, and Al’s run, and…” Ava went on to list all of the fancy and complicated runs she had skied with her friends and brother over the weekend. I simply nodded and tried my best to understand. I had never been much of a skier, but Ava was really good. “The wind was so strong though!” Ava continued. “Alisa and I were hugging each other on the lifts so as not to fall off, and you know the necklaces that we throw onto the trees?” Again, I nodded, but this was something I actually did understand. “Well, we were trying to throw them, but they just went straight down to the ground!”

“Wow,” I raised my eyebrows, “That must have been scary…” Ava nodded. There was movement outside the window and I realized her dad was there to pick her up. I pointed and she grabbed her bag.

“Bye, Maya,” she walked out into the cold. I followed her and stood at the corner of the sidewalk to wait for my parents. “I will call you this weekend. Maybe we can finally get together again?”

“That sounds great!” I replied.

“Okay! I will see you then!” I nodded and grinned as Ava climbed into the car that had just pulled up, waved and drove away. Still moments later, I could see her waving through the window, her silhouette laid up against the starry backdrop.

I stepped into the brightly lit room and set my bag down by the door. Chatter filled the air and people were everywhere, sitting or standing. At one end of the room, I made out a group of girls, Ava among them, filling up one of the long tables. No chair had been left for me, but I pretended not to notice and grabbed some pizza and a soda and sat myself down at the other corner of the room. More people arrived and all of the younger kids on the swim team filled in the seats around me. Our coach sat at the table next to mine and talked with the parents who had come for the party, laughing, eating and discussing the latest time to beat. I knew I didn’t fit in here. This just wasn’t my place to be. Sitting glumly at my table, my shoulders hunched, I watched Ava sit with all of her friends across the room; they were causing most of the noise and commotion, and seemed to be enjoying themselves. How many times had I told myself that I didn’t want to be part of that group? How many times had I drilled the thought that I didn’t want to be friends with those girls? And yet, how many times had I realized that I just wanted to have my old friend back? I stood up from the table and reminded myself to smile as I exited the noisy room.

Ava’s hands were pushed against the hot door of the car. Her fingers were rimmed with red from the cold wind and she pushed them off the warm metal to rub them together, but quickly leaned back down to talk to the driver. After a few moments, she glanced up out of the car to consult the girl next to her. A wide smile spread across her face, and her eyes glistened, perhaps because of the cold, but more likely because of the excitement. Waiting a few feet away, I was standing just close enough to overhear, and, watching the moon climb up over the horizon, I couldn’t help but listen.

“Can we, Dad?” It was Ava. “Can we have a sleepover?” She ran her hand through her damp, mangled hair and looked up again as the girl next to her began to speak.

“We understand we couldn’t tonight, of course, but…”

My mom pulled into the parking lot. I jumped down to the street just as she stopped in front of me and strained to keep my face neutral as I opened the door and climbed in. Turning to the steamed up window just as I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek, I made out the bleary red lights of the city around me. Our car drove out, past the distorted image of the girls standing in the street, and on, into the cold, starry night.

[othervoicesaa]

A Glass Bottle World

 Keira Seidenberg '17

Pancakes with strawberries. Pancakes with chocolate chips. Pancakes with a side of eggs. I watched as she squinted through her glasses at the expansive list. What would she order? Would she get something sweet, like the cheesecake pancakes? Or something savory, like the maple bacon pancakes.

Snapping shut her menu, my grandma sighed, unable to come to a conclusion.

“I can’t choose! There are so many options,” she protested in annoyance. Beaded with moisture, she picked up her glass of orange juice and took a sip of the tart liquid. With her brow furrowed and her lipsticked mouth turned down in such utter despair, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s not funny!” she groaned, the corners of her lips turning up in a slight smile.

While we sat there, surrounded by the sounds of people enjoying their breakfast, plates clattering and children giggling, the waitress brought our neighboring table their food. The perfumed wafts of salty bacon, heavy maple syrup and buttery pancakes reached us on the draft of warm air from the kitchen.

We turned in curiosity as she brought out a heaping tray and set out several plates of golden brown omelets. Steam rose from them in luxurious curls, and our mouths began to water at the thought of the golden mounds of eggs and cheese.

“That’s what I’ll have!” sitting forward in her chair, my grandma said excitedly.

I laughed. An omelet at a pancake restaurant? She never failed to surprise me.

~

“Nice shot!”

The ball flew off the tee, cartwheeling through the air. We applauded. “Would you ever want to give golf a try?” my grandma asked, her blue eyes watching the ball, like a falcon its prey. Interested, I looked up from my sprawled position on the deck chair beside her.

“I’d never thought about it before,” I replied honestly, playing with the tab on my drink.

The ball reached the top of its wide arc and began its descent onto the neatly trimmed green. Striking the ground, it bounced. Once. Twice. We gasped. The flag trembled in the breeze as it took a wide curve, inching towards the hole. The only sound was the cackles of the blue jays in the pine trees above; we held our breaths. With a clatter it fell into place, and we smiled at each other in relief.

“We can get you a lesson if you want to try.” Clutching her cool drink, her knuckles turned white through parchment-thin skin.

I swatted at a fly and wiped my sticky forehead. The heat of the sun beat down on us, turning our matching blonde heads to hot coals, our skin a deepening red.

“I’d be terrible!” Knowing my lesson would be full of missed swings and erratic putts, my cheeks flushed.

“You might enjoy it. Give you something to do when you visit us in the summer at least.”

I nodded in agreement and considered my options, weighing them each in my mind for a moment. Would I like it? How terrible could I really be? I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I traced the rim of my drink with my pinky. A seed of interest had been planted. Yearning to grow, it niggled its way into my mind.

“Alright, I’ll try it.”

~

“Are you sure there will be fireworks tonight?”

“On the last night of balloon fiesta they always have them. Now where in the world are we going?” my grandma asked, taking a sharp turn to the left. The cold night air rushed in from the open windows and sent my damp hair flying about like sea foam.

“Over there somewhere.” I pointed into the distance with a giggle. “To get a better view of them.”

“Always driving off somewhere crazy,” she smiled at me from the wheel.

“Faster, we’ll miss them!” Casting my hands out the window, as if to grasp the stars, I threw my head back.

On the horizon, a flash of light flew into the air, and a firework went off with the muted sound of a champagne cork. We held our breaths as several more lit into the sky. It was as if we were staring at them through a glass bottle. Distorted, their colors appeared to us through our own transparent walls, enclosing us in a private world. Excitement sparked through my veins.

Pale yellow light bathed the room, casting dappled shadows against her lined face. Each crevice held a story, and as she smiled at me, they rippled like water.

Side by side, we lay under the warmth of the comforter, staring up at the ceiling like a sky full of stars. We talked about my friends, about the coming snow, about what we were going to do next summer. It was like the times we had shared when I slept with a nightlight–nothing had changed but the roof we were under. As we began to drift off, the simplicity of it all struck me. How easy it was to escape all the distractions of life, by just sharing this moment with my grandma.

As the light switched off, and the room settled into a drowsy darkness, I squeezed her hand under the covers. The lined surface of her palm felt rough upon my own smooth one. Hand in hand, we fell asleep.

[othervoicesaa]

Sliced

Katianna Zaffery '14

The soul of the fruit lover rejoices at the sight of the torn flesh of a hardy orange, salivates when the serrated blade clicks the counter top after dicing an apple, and is silenced when the two are placed side by side. Citrus permeates the air, buzzing vibrantly. The faint odor of the apple slithers lazily into the nostrils. Both wait patiently, spilling golden liquid from every pour.

Vitality. Temptation. Fertility. The apple rolls onto the floor as if Snow White herself has released it. Wobbling in the spotlight, it shimmers—the original fruit. Its name arrives from Old English, meaning “any kind of fruit.” Like offerings from the sun, apples gleam in mythology as sacred objects. These Greek and Norse apples speak of victory, marriage, trickery, and even war. Not only famous for frightening away the family physician, the red fruit also plays a crucial role in the first book of the Bible. The maligned apple, known as “the forbidden fruit,” is complicit in the discovery of sin. Although the Bible does not specify which fruit was actually forbidden, painters and misconstrued meanings pin the blame on the apple. Exposed, the apple leans into sex. Perched in the flawless hand of the goddess of love and fertility, it comfortably settles into yet another role. As a fruit of the neck, the apple can also be used to determine a human as male. Soft and fluid in the hand of the fertility goddess, yet prominent in every man, the apple advocates for both genders. The spotlight dims, the apple is split with an arrow shot by William Tell, finally ready to be consumed.

Shyly, the orange comes to the forefront of the West. Friend to any pirate, the orange is stripped of its leathery exterior each time it is consumed. Newly naked, the timid orange serves as a Chinese offering for good fortune. Patiently, the orange makes its way across the globe. The vibrant orb turns from green to gold on a tree in Southern China, is plucked by a Spanish man, cherished by an American woman, and nestled in the shoe of an eager German child. Mysteriously, the orange rolls past the gaudy lights, arriving in a Haitian fairy tale. The orange tree comes to a distraught girl praying for help: “The oranges ripened, and the whole tree was filled with golden oranges. The girl was so delighted she danced around and around the tree...” (The Magic Orange Tree, Diane Wolkstein). The exotic Persian roots of the word “orange” curl gently around the tart fruit. Soft but pungent, the orange is separated and ravenously devoured.

With fervor, the apple flings itself down onto the head of an unsuspecting physicist. Leisurely, the luscious orange follows, its bold citrus scent the only protest against the flashy performance of the apple. Yet neither fruit holds the spotlight. Flavors fade, flesh bruises, and skin rots. The fruit-lover scrambles frantically. The curtain drops, leaving the world with a fresh appetite and a faint smell of the mangled bodies.

[othervoicesaa]

Anonymous

[othervoicesaa]

I've Felt Your Force

Emma Easom '15

Time has loosened its grip on me, I’ve felt your force Casually thrown on moonlight, Carried on as night is dying, Before life split us at the seams. I’ve felt your force I tried to change my feelings, but I’ve felt your force For so long, time has gained its strength. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, But I’m leading you on because I’ve felt your force.

[othervoicesaa]

Kobrina Boslough '16

[othervoicesaa]

Discourse on Kissing (Thematic Post)

Calvary Fisher '14

[othervoicesaa]

A World in Which to Stay, A World from Which to Leave

Lauren Highstrete '15

As he patches up the gash across his thigh, Sehun feels like some part of his conscience should have known that it was all just a bad trip, that he should have had some idea none of it was actually real. He feels like his head should have stayed with him through it like it sometimes did. He firmly believed he’d have some knowledge that it wasn’t reality, but as the ratty, crusty couch slowly morphed into a pillow and the floor was suddenly a churning storm of blue all he could feel is a rush of adrenaline that wiped out all other thoughts. In retrospect, Sehun knows he probably shouldn’t have taken as much as he did, and he scolds himself out loud for it before hissing in pain, cold soap-water seeping into his wound. He eyes the kitchen knife on the floor next to what he hopes isn’t vomit before jumping down off the kitchen counter and placing the utensil back in a drawer. God knows how he got ahold of it, and God knows what he thought it was a few hours ago. He glances around at the molded room, filled to the brim with dirty dishes that have been there for months. He eyes the various splatters of crimson leading into the living room, staining the moss colored carpet, and momentarily wonders how much blood he’s lost. However, he soon pushes the thought aside and throws a damp towel to the ground, mopping up whatever mess he’d left during his previous escape into nowhere.

He’d known this was going to be a bad idea. Cleanup afterward was always the worst, especially when he felt so dull and tired. He’d known he was going to regret it yet he did it anyway, popping pill after pill in a fit of panic. He’d told himself he’d needed it, which was still true in his mind. Although, now he was beginning to think even the worst of days didn’t warrant that sort of abandon. He’d come home from the absolute worst day of his life at work, having been laid off for smoking on the job. Apparently “I only smoke pot because my life is literally in the toilet” is not a good thing to say to your boss when trying to keep your job.

Looking back, Sehun doesn’t really remember how he’d gotten started with drugs. His memory isn’t really something he prides himself on, and he thinks his brain will probably be completely fried by the time he’s thirty. He makes his way into his bedroom in the corner of his apartment and collapses onto the stiff futon lying rumpled on the ground. Burying his face into the acrid, thin comforter he begins to think. He supposes it started in his first year of college. He’d never been very enthusiastic about school, and it was clear his parents did not have the wealth to support him in university. He was your typical dropout, leaving college to move into some crummy apartment in the city slum and making just enough to support rent and basic food with multiple menial retail jobs, most of the time at gas stations or convenience stores. Sometimes when he takes a shower and wonders why the water is so cold, or reaches for a bite to eat and his hand fumbles in empty cabinets, he remembers that he’s spent all his money on hundreds of tiny pills

.He’d cut off all connections with his parents long ago around when he first moved in. He doubts they’d want to know him now anyway. No tears prickle behind his eyes at this thought. He’d soaked his share of blankets with his sorrows long ago; he was finished with that now. Only numbness comes as he opens his mouth to take a shallow breath, coughing slightly when he inhales smoke. Sehun sits up, biting his tongue in surprise, and turns his body toward the doorway. He’s mildly shocked, to say the least, to see his roommate, Jongin, is leaning against the doorway of his bedroom. He’s surprised that Jongin is even home at all for that matter, for the bum spends most of his time wandering the streets selling joints and slinking around in alleys near the outskirts of Seoul. Jongin leans against the door of his room, staring at Sehun with a thoughtful yet amused look. He takes a long drag from his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and grinding it into the faded linoleum with his heel.

“That was one hell of a trip you had earlier, Sehunnie.” Jongin sneers, almost spitting the nickname off his cracked lips. “Life got you down? In a pickle?” With that, Jongin’s lips stretch into a smirk, a breathy chuckle rumbling in his throat.

Sehun bites the insides of his cheeks in annoyance, eying Jongin lividly. “As if you’re any better.” He manages to choke out, sliding out from under the comforter and standing up.

Jongin chuckles again before replying. Ignoring Sehun’s comment, he bites, “I saw you cleaned up after yourself. Good little Suhunnie, learned from your mama I see. Maybe if you clean this entire dump it’ll make up for all the tabs you’ve been doing.”

Sehun starts heatedly across the floor with clenched fists, but before he can reach Jongin, the other man barks out a wheezy laugh and slams the haggard door in Sehun’s face. Sehun’s fist comes into contact with splintered wood and he lets out a shout of agony as he cradles his throbbing hand to his chest. The anger comes in waves, hot and heavy, and he quivers with contempt for his flat-mate. He eyes the crumpled bag partially buried under a pile of soiled clothes and tries to hate himself for having it, but he notices his anger slowly ebbing away and he finds can’t come to think of himself that way. Confusion grinds the gears of his mind as he slumps back on to the stained futon, reaching out with his uninjured hand and throwing a pair of dirty pants out of the way to grab the bag. The dim, pink light of dawn streams through the small window on the wall next to him, illuminating the wall by his head. He leans quietly back against the small cabinet by his pallet and sifts through the pills mindlessly with clammy fingers.

He begins to wonder, in that grey, dirty old flat room, why he doesn’t care. He wonders why he feels the way he does about his daily escapades. He can’t bring himself to feel misery or resentment, not even shame. Instead he can’t feel at all, and he searches for any sort of emotion to pull him to the surface of this hell and set him free. He fingers the yellowed gauze bandage on his thigh and picks at the fabric, littering the floor with tiny strands of cotton. As he thinks of his wound his mind drifts back to the crimson puddles he had mopped up. Earlier in the night he’d taken little interest in the matter, but as he continues to erode the fabric covering his cut he can’t seem to take his mind off of it. Surely it was impossible to lose as much blood as he had cleaned away and still not feel sick. He starts to wonder why he cares about his blood loss as he should be happy he survived such a dangerous trip and move on, but he does and it puzzles him.

Frustrated and bemused, he violently rips the medical fabric off his leg and watches the blood trickle down the side of his thigh from the disturbance, painting a vivid contrast against his pale skin. For a moment, he feels pain, and he grabs onto it as it’s the strongest emotion he’s felt in a while. He notices for a while how nice it feels, this pain, and the realization hits him quite suddenly and with such great force he can feel himself flinch. He suddenly knows why he does what he does, why he comes home day after day only to slip away into a world of nonsense. He realizes that it’s because, for a brief amount of time, Oh Sehun dies. From now on, when he wakes up and feels worse than the day before, he’ll know why. He’s so afraid of death yet he wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted before. He’s so afraid of dying that he can’t seem to inflict death upon himself, so he hopes before he slides away that the end will come to him then; that he’ll happen upon that knife on the counter and, finally, he won’t come to. As he stares fixedly at the tattered wallpaper lining his bedroom he realizes that, until the day when he finally snaps, he’ll do the same thing again tomorrow and that he’ll do the same thing again the day after, and the day after that and on for eternity. He realizes, with a sinking bitterness in his gut, that he’ll leave the knife out on the counter every time and he knows that he’ll always be disappointed when he wakes up. Now, more than anything, Sehun wishes the numbness had masked the pain once again.