Scratchboard 2024, a collection of works by young writers and artists.

Scratchboard 2024

“...” “Is that your second one?” “I’ve got time. I don’t think I’ll have to go back in for a long while. Got a light?” “Of course.”

The latte and its similarity to his girlfriend, the rain, and the pleasant vibe of the cafe suddenly sparked inspiration in him. He sat up straight, more awake now. He finished the latte quickly, thanked the young man once more, and hurriedly exited the cafe, almost forgetting his umbrella. He walked quickly back the way he came, back to his apartment–he’d call in sick from work. A strike of inspiration like this can’t wait. 	Once home, out of breath and soaked, he sat back down at his desk with fresh eyes and a clearer head. He took out his paints and paintbrushes and resumed his work of art for the one he loves.&nbsp;

Stolen Leo Stewart

It was taken away, stolen at night, when I wasn’t looking, which isn’t right. It was pulled from me, as I lay asleep, taken like a wolf would take out a sheep. I had offered it up, as a precious gift, but now in my chest is a giant rift. A thief I had loved, turned away from me, and let the true nature of that thief be. How do I get it back, I want a fresh start, but how do you replace a stolen heart?

Love

Love is a girl. A girl who has beautiful curly hair and bright brown eyes. She has a smile that can light up any room, and a calmness in her voice that can serenade a whole room to only look at her. Her presence resembles a whole bunch of butterflies and bunnies in a beautiful spring flower field. She is a Pisces; they’re known to be the most romantic and devote everything to their partner. She always has the nicest outfits on with beautiful light shades of red, pink, and white. And sometimes has a flower behind her ear which makes her look more magical than before. Her pets are a white cat and a bunny with the bluest eyes and most pink heart-shaped noses. She grants herself to only the happiest of people and forms the deepest connections of all. When trouble erupts she is the one person that you can ensure will keep your connection glowing in even the darkest corners. She is someone that people are introduced to when they’re young, and may forget as they grow up. But never disappears. Love can be misinterpreted as lust but that doesn’t change her strength.&nbsp; 	Love is patient yet kind. It is something that cannot be found but is something you’ll always want to find you. Love is within everybody, especially you.

He observed his surroundings as he walked. The lights of the buildings shone in puddles on the sidewalk. The trees that lined the sidewalk were beginning to bloom with green leaves and pink blossoms. The air smelled faintly of coffee and baking bread as Alex passed a coffee shop with, surprisingly, its frosted glass doors wide open.&nbsp; 	As he walked past the open doors, he glanced at his watch: 7:10 am. He had some time before work, and he desperately needed a caffeine boost. He decided to enter the coffee shop and turned around. Inside, the air was full of the sweet aromas of bread, coffee, and chocolate. The air in the shop was as warm as its yellow floral wallpaper. Classical music played in the background, and the lighting was a soft white, imitating sunshine on the rainy day. It was a very comforting, welcoming little shop. Alex closed his soaked umbrella and placed it next to the open door.&nbsp; 	A young man stood at a white counter, with a similar expression to Alex’s; dark eyebags, unkempt hair, and a downturned smile. He glanced up as Alex approached and forced a friendly grin. 	“Definitely a Monday morning, huh?” Alex said. 	The young man sighed with eyes half closed and replied “Yep.” 	Alex looked up at the menu above and ordered a hot vanilla latte. He sat at a small table by the shop’s windows and stared out the window at the rain. He listened to the rhythmic raindrops and the classical music as he fought the urge to doze off.&nbsp; 	Shortly after, the young man brought him a mug with the latte and Alex thanked him. Alex looked down at the coffee and saw, swirled on top, an intricate rose drawn from steamed milk. It was so detailed and beautiful, he didn’t want to ruin it by drinking it. He looked up at the young man, who was back behind the counter and gave him a now genuine smile. He admired the artwork for a few minutes while it cooled, before taking a sip. 	Strangely, while drinking, the latte reminded Alex of his soon-to-be fiancee. She had a bold personality when he first met her, and as she let him in after some time, she softened and became more sweet like the latte, more delicate like the rose.

Trust Stevie D. Rosenfeld

I don’t think I could ever truly trust someone who’s never drowned before. Someone who’s never hit their head on the sand and still picks the scar when they’re nervous. Someone whose every breath doesn’t feel cold from when the salt water first filled their lungs. Someone who never opened their eyes to see nothing, Inhaled to breathe no air, Swam to not move at all. I don’t think I can trust someone who’s never given up. Someone who’s never opened their eyes and seen the shore, Who’s never coughed up salt and foam before taking their first real breath, Someone who’s never jerked awake and alive on the sand. Someone’s who’s never started over again. So no, I don’t think I can trust someone who’s never drowned.

But I kept going 	Failure eventually leads to results, and I kept that in mind as I worked towards discovering what I truly wanted to do. Even when I failed, I loved the work I was doing with technology just like I loved the work I did with music. By persisting through failure, I discovered two continuous interests that have given my life a path and a purpose. 	Oh, yeah that makes sense. Let’s try it again.&nbsp; 	Creativity is something that manages to amaze me every day. I have, through hardship and years of work, developed the skills I have now. All because I had the drive to pursue what I want. Now this poses the question of: “What now?” 	Those are my two favorite words, because my response will always be: “Anything now.”&nbsp; 	I can pursue anything I want, create my own path. I love to learn and explore who I want to be, and I cannot wait to see what the future holds. 	No. no that’s not it;&nbsp; that's not the solution. Maybe if I… yes yes, yes I get it now!

You breathe. You stare into the sun. You breathe. One of you blinks. You breathe. You stand up. You breathe. You dive into the water. This is body surfing.

Flowers Kaylah Adam

Flowers speedily sprouting now Chasing melting snow Upward they climb Simply, without enough time. As they run towards the surface, The snow has found another purpose. As rain it will now fall, in clouds it will now stall. Flowers childishly chasing tales&nbsp; Never to prevail. Yet still they come and go, Embracing sun and rain as warm wind blows. &nbsp;

Body Surfing Stevie D. Rosenfeld

Body surfing, although it seems like a thrill for free-living hippies your parents make fun of, who float through life without plan or protection, is actually quite repetitive. It goes a bit like this: You’re floating. Drifting. Relaxed and staring at the sun, Waiting to see who blinks first. (It’s always you, but sometimes you feel like he winks.) You decide it’s time, take a stroke, kick a bit, Catch a wave.

The Party Sumaia Khan

Loud music echoes through my ears. My surroundings make me feel as if this scene is mythical, something unreal, rather than a fond memory I recall every time my mother’s phone screen opens the second she receives a notification. As I waltz through the bedazzling scene with reluctant admiration, I hold my head high and chin straight. “I will not cry,” My scarlet dress with gold trimming and beads sags against my body as my heels clink on the marble floor. The wind from the open door of the large balcony breezes through the hall, and I feel the sensation of November flush. I feel my cheeks tint crimson at the gust of air, and I breathe a sigh that’s somewhere between relief and resignation. This is due to the memory of opening the window at my house two nights ago when I recall my mother’s willingness for me to attend this party. Why she wanted me to attend is still unknown to me, but her tone hardly left room for argument, so I, playing the role of the doting daughter (which I chuckle at despite myself and being surrounded by staring individuals), made the executive decision of attending. Needless to say, it has turned out to be an enormous mistake, considering this is not how I usually spend the November break. Ideally, I’d be on my morning run with my ancient gray sweatshirt and matching sweats. By the time I returned, my mother, sister, and I would prepare breakfast and eat together as a family with my brothers and father. I would continue my chores throughout the morning, and, by dinner, the macaroni and cheese would be ready for our annual celebration. We would each go around the table of delectable treats, boring into one another’s faces, as if trying to read the emotions behind our kind words and recite what we were thankful for. My mother, a woman who runs our household like a tight ship, establishing her beliefs based on spirituality and cultural togetherness, was quite fond of this tradition. Needless to say, it was a constant in my life that I looked forward to. Although my family and I were invited every year to our family friend’s annual Thanksgiving celebration,

Creativity

Creativity is wild and free. She likes museums and galleries. She loves fields full of beautiful flowers, and stores full of craft supplies. Creativity always carries a tote bag full of art supplies ranging from paints to markers to crayons. She is like a ray of sunshine. She likes to brighten people’s days and lift up their spirits. Creativity is optimistic and hopeful. She tries to find the good in everything. She has many friends, though some keep her hidden. Creativity is around 5’6", with short, wavy hair in shades of golden brown with streaks of bright colors around her head. She wears a lavender t-shirt with a pair of blue, ripped jeans and overalls. Over all of her clothes, there are splatters of all different colors of paint. She wears bright and colorful makeup and a different pair of shoes every day. Creativity has two younger sisters, Thought and Imagination. Her parents, Inspiration and Art, live with her sisters. She visits them very often. It is a blessing to have Creativity in your life, but she is often underappreciated by many.

Stopped Short Stevie D. Rosenfeld

I stopped short at a red light. It was Tuesday, and it was dark, and I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t texting, I was just somewhere else. It was 8pm and there was no one crossing and there was no one behind me and no one in the passenger seats. Was that bad? Is it bad to stop short at a red light on a Tuesday in the dark when you aren’t texting but aren’t paying attention and it’s 8 pm and there’s no one crossing and no one behind you and no one in the passenger seat? Is that bad? Is that a sin?

Don't Call Me Princess Leo Stewart

Like many dads before me, I dreamt about the day that I'd walk you down the aisle and I’d give your hand away. But here you stand before me, With tears up in your eyes. Don’t call me princess, daddy, it all just feels like lies. Well if princess doesn’t work for you, is there something you prefer? As a matter a fact,&nbsp; I'm glad you asked, It’s he instead of her. If i can go one further,&nbsp; dad,&nbsp; But you might not like this one. I’ve never been your daughter, I’m actually your son. Okay,&nbsp; So we’ll change your name, Your hair and style,&nbsp; And those dresses can go away. As hard as that was for me to hear, I know it was so much harder for you to say. But son or daughter, He, she, or they, Know this fact is true. Until that final breath I take,&nbsp; I’ll always be proud of you.

Determination and Personal Freedom

No. No that’s not it; that's not the solution. Maybe if I…yes yes, yes I get it now! 	Life, technically, begins when you’re born. But being alive and feeling alive are two very different things. The feeling of freedom, of being alive, comes when you finally find yourself. The moment I explore my musical and technical skills, is when I am living. 	I’m more creative than academic. While some may look down on this, I've found my true ambition lies within my own creativity; within my own passion, persistence, and determination. Ever since I was young, I have indulged in music. Music made me who I am. I would listen, feeling each rhythm aline with the beat of my heart, eventually sparking my desire to learn the guitar, bass guitar, and drums. Many tried bringing me down, saying I wasn’t as good enough and would never be able to get better. All of this is why I never stopped pursuing what I love and gained skills that take years of practice. 	I love forming my own path.&nbsp; 	Making my own sound.&nbsp; 	Being heard.

Scared

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Being Scared takes patience and time to get over. He is impatient, he is scared, he is a Pisces. He latches onto every little thing someone says, their body language, the way they look at him, everything. He is a writer, a reader, and someone. He is short, has long hair, and is timid. He is scared to let go. He is scared to move on. He's scared to open up. He craves the bare minimum. He is hurt, alone, traumatized. He wants to be patient, he wants time to heal, but he can't. He doesn't have a normal household, nor knows how to communicate. He's scared, feels alone, is alone.

I am from waking up to the Venketeshwara Suprbatham and strolling towards the evening to the rhythm of the Islamic call to prayer. From villages near Vijayawada and Kakinada, and from bustling Hyderabad, biryani on Friday nights and mango pickle on New Year's Eve. I am from stories of ancestors crossing rivers to reach our homeland, from watering vegetable plants under the guidance of my grandmother&nbsp; and playing carrom with cousins. I am from faded photographs capturing family moments. Tiny silver anklets passed down through generations, gold chains and rings gifted to us from&nbsp; birth. I am from the weight of unspoken tensions lingering over the dining table and the promises we made to keep family secrets buried deep within.

Work of Art

It was Monday, April 9, 1984, 5:32 in the morning. It was pouring rain in the Upper East Side, and the windows were wide open, curtains damp and rippling in the breeze. Alex, a 28-year-old aspiring art school graduate, was asleep at his desk in his bedroom with a plush comforter draped over his shoulders, head slumped forward. The TV had been left on, still playing an episode of Bob Ross’s “The Joy of Painting”.&nbsp; 	Alex stirred and awoke, unwillingly. He only slept for 2 hours and had to get ready for his office job. He had been up late the night before working on a painting for his girlfriend; he was planning to propose next month on their sixth wedding anniversary and wanted to give her the painting along with a marquise-cut diamond ring. He stood up, neck stiff from sleep, and stared blearily at his work-in-progress painting. Bob Ross’s soothing voice teased Alex’s eyes with sleep, but he forced himself to stand. 	The painting was barely half-finished. Although it was supposed to be a wholesome activity, he was frustrated. He knew he had been struggling with art block for some time now, and he wondered why he decided to start this project in the first place. Then remembered the love he had for his girlfriend–that’s why he started. He wanted to visualize the passion he had for her and put it on canvas. 	Two hours later, Alex was walking down 5th Avenue in the downpour, a black umbrella in his right hand, a briefcase in his left. The streets smelled of wet rubber and cigarettes. A gentle breeze blew into his eyes, making it harder for him to keep them open. Cars sped past him, spraying water up onto his coat and shoes. He huffed in frustration over his now wet socks and pants. The gloomy day reflected his sleepy, apathetic mood; quite fitting for a Monday morning.

Index

Assorted Anonymous Art ~~~ Cover, 4, 9, 13, 14, 17, 22, 26, 27 Marukh Rana ~~~ 5 Srihan Adabala ~~~ 6 Kaylah Adam ~~~ 8 Stevie D. Rosenfeld ~~~ 10, 15, 18, 19 Leo Stewart ~~~ 24, 25 Sumaia Khan ~~~ 28 Amani Toribio ~~~ 23, 31 Assorted Anonymous Writing ~~~ 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40

Scratchboard

No. That’s not right. Try it again, come on. One, two, one-two-three-four!&nbsp; 	Never letting failure overtake your passion is what separates the average from the creative.&nbsp; 	I have that drive. 	It is more evident now than it ever was.&nbsp; 	When I started percussion in 5th grade band, I didn’t really practice much. As time progressed, certain things started becoming apparent. I couldn’t sit still, feeling like I had to move my hands and legs to match the drum rhythm of a song, or just whatever was in my head. Over time, practicing helped me progress and explore my own abilities, and to realize that music is what I love. 	This has become more apparent within recent years. I began not even knowing what separates a monitor from the computer, to building my own computers and creating original software. Finding solutions to problems, creating passion projects, learning how to edit, observing strands of code, making small changes to better my computer and the software running on it; alll of this developed from trial and error. You don’t typically get code right the first time (or the first hundred times), which also applies to the learning process of music. There were times where I would wonder; 	Why haven't I done it yet, what am I doing wrong?&nbsp; 	I've been trying for hours now; I'm frustrated.&nbsp;

Lovely as it is, I force myself not to break into tears upon viewing my mother’s excited face at seeing so many individuals ask for her mac and cheese recipe. “I have to be strong,” I think to myself, “For her.” Though my feet stay rooted on the ground, watching the ideal scene, I somehow end up sitting at the table surrounded by my family. That’s when I feel it, the sentimental feeling rising in my chest. It’s something between happiness and nostalgia. This is what I wanted. Exactly this scene. My family surrounding me as I sat through my twelfth year of Thanksgiving. I breathe a sigh of relief and blink back tears. Perfect. That’s the word I feel captures this moment—complete perfection.&nbsp; 	As I recall this memory three years later, my mind never falters from recalling the pang steadily growing in my chest as I recall my family’s elated faces at being together. Together was the word. The word I searched for all my life. The feeling I believed I had initially lost that night. But it was there, that night at the party. I just had to find it.

my family kindly declined every year, representing their belief that family should be together on this night.&nbsp; 	Tonight, however, the tables have turned on me, and, shocker, here I am, standing in the middle of a banquet room, bored out of my mind. Similar to my dress, the theme of red and gold takes over the rented wedding hall’s already heightened sense of decor and beauty. My mouth begins to water when I become aware of my proximity to the buffet. My gaze shifts to what appears to be a well-cooked turkey, and I feel my resignation from attending this party already escaping. Although the season of giving thanks may seem like a typical American holiday with the usual turkey placed on the dinner table, my mother’s actions have already described from our dinner each year that our culture tends to take the sentiment to the extreme. Thankfulness, as expressed by my mother every year when she practically forced my siblings and me to recite our gratitude lists, is a pillar of our faith and the extreme celebration I’m currently attending is evidence of that fact.&nbsp; 	Although my initial thoughts of sneaking through the rented wedding hall unnoticed still harbored in my mind, the minute I walked in the main door of the party room, all eyes landed on me for what appeared to be hours to my pain-stricken face. Although I put on a good show, every person in this room likely has the ability to see right through me. To see the darkness surrounding my mood on this supposedly thankful day. “I’m not ungrateful,” I want to shout. But I don’t want to be here either. I want to be home next to my family. I want to sit on my comfy sofa chair and eat mac and cheese until three in the morning when my mom wakes to the sound of me reheating it for the third time that night. Although the handsomely decorated wedding hall speaks louder than my insignificant feelings, the culture that I smile at, that I annually look forward to, consists of my dinner table and the people surrounding it.

“Well, you should get some credit too. Would’ve flooded themselves all over again if you hadn’t gotten things back on track.” “Sometimes I think I put them on the wrong one.” “Wrong what?” “Wrong track. Put them on the wrong track. I think…I think I could have done some things differently.” “So do they.” “Well I am their son.” “Apple, tree, all that?” “Sounds right.” “But they’ve got nothing against you. It’s the Boss they’re angry with.” “It is in their nature.” “Not in mine.” “You’re not His son.” “...” “They’re made in His image, you know.” “So the story goes.” “Just makes you think is all.” “I try not to think about them too much.” “It is in your nature.” “Funny. Just makes my job harder is all.” “I understand.” “I’m sure you do.”

I Am From Marukh Rana

I am from pomegranate seeds From flatbread and spices &nbsp;I am from the melting pot, rich in flavors from around the globe Vibrant, lively, sometimes loud I am from jasmine, its delicate petals wafting into evening air I'm from Eid celebrations and resilience&nbsp; From Yasmine and Saira I'm from the love of poetry and storytelling&nbsp; From “Respect your elders” and “Keep learning” I'm from Islam, a mosaic of beliefs and cultures intertwined I'm from New York, with my roots in a nation across the Indus River valley and the second-tallest mountain in the world Mangos and sugarcane juice From the courage of a family during Partition&nbsp; The hard work of an immigrant Father in a new world&nbsp; Preserved in each braid my Grandma does for me, or each henna design growing on my hands and arms like vines up a tree.&nbsp;

Apathy

Apathy sighs heavily and drags his feet. He dozes at his desk with a dark cloud over his head. He says “Don’t worry about me, I’ll get it done” and then doesn’t. He is so tired. He picks at his fingernails and taps his foot. He sips his bitter coffee out of a plain white mug, leaving a ring of brown on a piece of paper. Apathy is so uninterested and burnt out over his work that he would rather lay on the floor staring blankly at the ceiling. He can’t make himself sit up, so he lays on the floor for hours. He debates quitting but then remembers his promise to himself. He walks into work, with eyebags and an upside-down smile. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked. As he walks past his coworkers, they mumble, “What’s up with him?” He tries to work, dozes off again within the gray walls and fluorescent lights of his office, leaves work in the dark, and goes to bed just to do it all again the next day in an endless, mind-numbing cycle.

One or two go well, One goes very well, One or two go poorly. And then, inevitably, One goes very poorly and you’re slammed. Your head’s on the ground, your mouth is full of sand, shells cut your arms and legs. And you’re angry at yourself for not catching it right, at the water that was once your friend for betraying you, and everyone else for watching you fail like voyeurs.&nbsp; So you sit in the sand for a while, hopeless, feeling it crease between your toes. You lie down to feel the sun hit your stomach and your arms and your face. You close your eyes for a while, and when you open them you don’t know if you had been crying or had fallen asleep.

Selflessness

She is social, with many friends that she cares for dearly. She treats everyone with respect, and always puts them first instead of herself. She believes everyone is deserving of the same respect. Yet, she leaves herself out of this belief. She puts herself last. She considers herself friends with Selfishness, even though they only use her. Blinded by her innocence, she is ignorant of the way others take advantage of her. Every time she is hurt, she forgives. No matter how many times the same person will hurt her, she still forgives. Her purity is never tainted by the harshness the world serves. Her sincere words tend to never reach the heart of Selfishness, their mind only focused on how much Selflessness can do for them. The moment Selfishness believes she has lost her worth, they toss her away without a second thought. She wonders what she did wrong, what she could have done better, but she doesn’t realize how easily she had been fooled. She believes she has done wrong, when truly it was her childish and blind trust that allowed them to take advantage of her. And yet, she still puts them first.

I Am From Srihan Adabala

I am from a world where stainless steel tiffin boxes and colorful kolams grace our home, From cupboards adorned with ancestral portraits and shelves filled with recycled jars of lentils and spices. I am from the aroma of sambar simmering on the stove, filling the kitchen, from crispy dosas served with coconut chutney as an evening snack. I am from stray dogs barking outside a gate at night, while I lay awake, haunted by the tests of tomorrow&nbsp; and the grades. I am from the music of Ghantasala, M.S Subbalaxmi, and M.M Keeravani echoing through the halls of our home during weekend chores that stretch late into the evening. From the rhythmic swish of the broom as I sweep the veranda, struggling to clear away the fallen leaves. I am from the mango tree and jasmine bushes in our backyard, from marigold flowers blooming in vibrant hues and the neem tree offering shade with its graceful branches.

Club Advisor Ms. Lang

Art Coordinators Ms. Lavelle Ms. Dimasi-Copolla

Editors Kaylah Adam Stevie D. Rosenfeld

Jesus &amp; The Devil Take A Smoke Break Stevie D. Rosenfeld

“Can I bum one?” “‘Course. Didn’t know you still smoked.” “Trying to cut back. Just needed a break.” “Lot going on in there?” “Opposite actually. They’ve iced me out, essentially.” “Not calling on you so much anymore?” “They don’t need me anymore, they haven’t needed me for years.” “That can’t be true.” “I started to suspect it after the Triangle Trade, I knew it when they made the A-Bomb.” “You had something to do with that though.” “No, I didn’t. All them, and now they’re making movies about it.” “Which one? Trade or the Bomb?” “Both.” “Any good?” “Some of ‘em.” “They couldn’t have done it without you though. You’re the one who got ‘em started. Gave them their first taste.” “First bite.” “Exactly. Don’t get down on yourself.” “Maybe you’re right.” “I usually am.”

Thou shalt not lie, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not stop short at a red light on a Tuesday in the dark when you aren’t texting but aren’t paying attention and there’s no one crossing and no one behind you and no one in the passenger seat? Is that a sin? Does God care? Does God care that I stopped short at a red light on a Tuesday because it was dark and I wasn’t texting but I wasn’t paying attention even though there was no one crossing and no one behind me and no one in the passenger seat? Does God care? Does it matter? I care. Does it matter?

Name

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