Scratchboard 2022

Samantha Herrick

I don’t think my hands can fumble over yours for much longer, Your gaze makes me feel flayed. And I am not going to pretend&nbsp; Like I'd be lost without you. Because I already know what I'd do— I'd sit in my room writing sad poems about you. I almost wish that I was lonely again, Because at least I know how to deal with that. What I don’t know what to deal with is when my cup hath runneth over with happiness, so much it makes me cry. Because I'm not good enough for you (I think I've said that before.) I don’t deserve you. No, I don't,&nbsp; Not you.

THE END

Art by Miguel Cuevas

Antique paper texture

&nbsp;A light bulb went off in my head, “Wait, so this place might actually exist out there?” He nodded his head. I went on, “Yesterday there was this woman following me, she brought me out to the end of the dock. She gave me a shell and kept pointing to the sea. But I couldn't understand what she was saying. Could that have something to do with it?”&nbsp; “She gave you a shell?” He stared at me, invigorated. &nbsp;“Yeah.”&nbsp; “Was it a conch shell?” &nbsp;“Yeah why?” &nbsp;”Where is it?”&nbsp; “It's In my bag.” “Let me see it.” He demands. I take it out and hand it to him. He takes a good look at it, flips it over and reaches inside to pull out…A chunk of seaweed. He reaches in again, and this time pulls out a ripped piece of paper. A faded and old piece of paper. He unfolded it and by some miracle it was what I was hoping for: the missing piece of the map “We found the map!” He stands up excitedly, and I follow suit. He collects himself, and becomes determined. “We need to get to the beach.”&nbsp; “But how?” I ask, “We don't have a boat, and the map says it’s two miles out to sea.” He stares at me for a second, “Can’t you swim?” I stare at him. “Are you crazy? Swim?” “Come on, it’s only two miles.” “Only two miles? We’ll drown!” “But what if we don't?” He looks straight into my eyes. “What if we discover that it's real, and better than we could have ever imagined? What if it's paradise?” I can’t believe him. “But what if-”

Blue geometrical pattern

Reflection Anonymous Salt air fills the world, moonlit skies take over the night A chill follows me as I walk along the road Thoughts consume me, spinning around my head Is it really true, could it be? The person I longed for wasn't them. The loneliness that took over my thoughts The feeling of being loved for myself The cold air froze my thoughts I was lost in a sea of emptiness I was still searching. Searching for the feeling of grace and acceptance I stumbled upon a dirty broken mirror I look inside the mirror and see a reflection A reflection of light, happiness A reflection of me.

Watercolor texture 1

Orange-Violet is: Tied up curly hair, Over new cotton clothes. A smooth marble counter, As you pull at creased leather boots, Goosebumps pricking up, As the day begins anew. Orange-Violet is: Light music swimming through your ears, On your parents' rotting wooden porch, Hearing high-pitch bells on teenage bikes, Chirps of lonely birds in a shallow lonely forest, And the voice of a neighbor Experiencing the same, Orange-Violet Feeling.

Sara Mirarchi Creative Crafts, Ms. LaVelle

Sheet music paper

Piano Sarah Beggins

     A pianist plays the keys of a piano and every lever and pivot pushes against another to create a beautiful tune. Pieces of lifeline up just perfectly to create a symphony of love, joy, and sadness. Every time I sit at the small keyboard piano that was gifted to me, tunes of memories play over and over in my head, inspiring what I believe to be the purpose of my life.&nbsp;

     My earliest memories come flowing in like sunlight through the blinds early in the morning. The small hand-crafted wooden bench I sit on every afternoon makes the floorboards creak, reminding me of the memories captured in my room. The first time my fingers hit the keys of a piano, they were immediately attached to the movement and creation of music. Creating music is undeniably important to a girl living in a small town, building up her life one note at a time.

      Staring at the endless pages of work in my notebook as a grade school student, I wondered why it was so hard for me to concentrate and get any of my words down on the page. I realized there had to be something I was missing. That missing piece was the melodies I listened to every day. Having a neurological issue presented problems my parents and I thought were impossible to overcome, but when I began to pop in my headphones every time I worked, something changed. The feeling of the rhythm and lyrics consumed my procrastination, and my hands started to move on the paper to the beat of the song. The music made it easier for me to get work done, as if it were a tutor, the music helped me with schoolwork and everyday tasks. As time progressed and I got older, the music intrigued me more and more, and I started taking chorus in school, singing lessons at home, and I also began to learn my first instruments. Over time, I have taught myself how to play the acoustic guitar, electric guitar, electric bass, and of course, piano.&nbsp;

Olivia Chen

Watercolor texture 3

In his room was now a tall man, a bright man. A man covered in vibrant reds and passionate blues, noisy lavenders and secretive purples, deep greens and elegant ambers; in plain sight for all to see. The Bandit’s mouth was agape as he stared in shock. Was this man colorful?&nbsp; The Man made his way to the Bandit, the Boy. He reached out and held the Boy’s hand in his own. A wave of pure bliss rushed over him, his pale skin grew tan and rosy. He was colorful at last! No longer stuck in his prison of colorless depression, he was finally colorful. All because a stranger reached out to help him. Someone had seen him drowning, and thrown him a life preserver. The Boy, the Colorful Boy, felt like the world had something out there, waiting just for him. And as for the Man, he was simply happy that he could help someone, the way he had been helped, so long ago.

Dedications

English Director Dr. Michael

Club Advisor Ms. Lang

Art Coordinators Ms. LaVelle Ms. Dimasi-Coppola

Editors Isabella Calvao StevieDonna Rosenfeld

Featured Writers Daniela Francisci Stevie D. Rosenfeld Isabella Calvao Jessica Pisk Julianna DeCicco Parker Smith Sarah Beggins Ella Utano

Featured Artists Olivia Chen Alexa Shafy Kenneth Johansson Laura Lima Samantha Herrick Sara Mirachi Ashley Son Helen Yao Isabella Calvao Teresa Dau

Red geometrical pattern

Arrhythmia Daniela Francisci He ran faster and faster Past the ‘no running’ sign Through the halls of the large, white building Fear coursing through his veins He’s scared Scared of what will happen when he reaches the room The room his sick and sad other resides in When he made it, he felt relieved That the one lying in the bed wasn’t… He couldn’t swallow the thought They exchanged greetings with each other Spoke of the worldwide news Blissfully, and carelessly They felt young again Until a grim look appeared over his other’s face He frantically prayed that it wasn’t happening His other said goodbye “I love you,” they said Before they passed on

“Sorry miss, didn't see you there,” says the inconsiderate fool who bumped into me, not even looking me in the eye. &nbsp;“Oh no!” I shout as I watch the wind carry my map higher and higher into the sky. I need get that map back!&nbsp; I ran through crowds and alleyways, over bridges and in between traffic, around bends, up and down sidewalks, bolting through restaurants, stores, shops, hotels, everywhere. I've looked all over this island, again, and again, and again. Maybe it isn’t meant to be. But why can’t I stop thinking about it?&nbsp; I’ve stumbled across the entire island, not even knowing where I am, looking for this map without having a clue of what it even is. Maybe if I could get the map back, I could figure out why I’m here. But my search will have to wait until morning.&nbsp; The sun sets with an orange and pink glow. I’d made my way back to the hotel near the airport. Using the money I had on me, I got a room for the night. Ring…Ring…Ring… The sound of the phone ringing blares like an alarm.&nbsp; “Hello?” I mutter, half-awake. “Good Afternoon Miss, this is the front desk just calling to- “Wait afternoon?” I interrupt, “I’m sorry, what time is it?” &nbsp;“It is almost 1:30,” the woman replies, confused by my confusion. “We are just calling to make sure you know that checkout time for all guests is three pm.”&nbsp; “Yes, ok, yes, I’ll, um. I will be out by three. Thank you.” I hang up without waiting for a reply.&nbsp;I can't believe I slept past one! I have to get outside and start looking for the map or I will never find it! Ding &nbsp;

Laura Lima IB Art, Ms. Lavelle

Me and My House Julianna DeCicco I live in a quiet house on the beach. No neighbors; just me and my house. My house is filled with windows and I always love to keep them open to hear the beach waves crashing. Sometimes I sit on my windowsill with the big windows wide open, while the curtains sway to the wind, watching the waves crash and spread out onto the warm sand. The sunsets and sunrises here are very colorful, lots of pink in the sky, pink like a fresh rose. The beach is very quiet, the waves and the seagulls are the only ones who make noise around here. There are no roads for miles; just me and my house. Today, I bring my plastic folding chair out onto the beach to relax and watch the sunset. I step out onto the sand and my bare feet are hugged by the warm sand while the sun is beaming on me, making me feel warm and comfortable. I sit facing the water while the cool breeze blows my silky blond hair back. I feel safe here; just me and my house. The sun starts to set, with beautiful pinks, purples, and oranges filling the sky around me. The sunset surrounds me like a big warm hug. I move to lay on the warm sand and I watch the colorful sky slowly fade into darkness. In this darkness I see stars, lighting up the sky like a flashlight. I look around, and start creating pictures with the stars. I stand up and run into the water with my clothes still on and I start dancing in the ocean, just me. Laughing to myself, I run up the stairs to my house, open the backdoor, and hop in the warm shower. All the sand comes running off of me and into the shower drain. As I bathe, I sing softly to myself. I stop the water and wrap a towel around my body, preparing to make myself some food. After I eat, I change into some warm comfortable clothes and hop into my big bed, surrounded by open windows. I lay on my side, looking out the window. I watch the stars glisten all around me like tiny people waving to me as my eyes begin to flutter closed. Today was a peaceful day; just me and my house.&nbsp;

Alone Stevie D. Rosenfeld It’s best to be alone at sunset. Then, you can watch the day leave Alone. Alone, you can feel all your thrilling endeavors. Alone, you can resent all your enemies. Alone, you can mourn your mistakes. At sunset you should just release Everything. Every primal, Wild, Untethered, Violent, Crushing, Aggressive, Depressing, Religious, Lonely feeling. But to feel any emotion the way it was meant to be felt,&nbsp; Meant to be felt by the thing that makes us feel, It can’t be stifled by Grabbing Piercing&nbsp; Prying Eyes. So it is always best to be alone at sunset.

&nbsp;Though I had always dreamt of traveling the world, in my heart I always knew it’s a lot more than simply just traveling. It’s a major investment; financially, sure, but time-wise. Two years ago I went on a trip to Los Angeles for a week and by day three I was incredibly homesick. Given, I was on a trip with my friend, her mother, and six strangers. But in this case I would be thousands of miles away from my safe haven—my home. My family plays a big part in my life; they are the foundation of my personality, my identity, where all my beliefs and ideas stem from. I’m my own person now, but the impact that my family has on my life is hard to take away from me. “How cool would Germany be?” We both exclaimed at the same time, “Going through the Black Forest and the little villages nearby would be beautiful.” &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I considered the map in its entirety—the long red lines that now dashed across my computer screen, the pinpoints labeled “Dream Spot” and “Backup,” covering the originally blank one we began with. The world doesn’t seem that big when looking at it on a map; the inability to fully understand the developments of each small city, every little point on the map is incomprehensible. In every city and every region we looked at together, people were walking around, visiting family, grabbing coffee on their way to work, unaware that two teenagers from Long Island dreamed of doing those same simple tasks in their environment. I want to make the summer before I attend university memorable, and looking at this map told me exactly what I wanted to hear.

Marble

Dinner Party Stevie D. Rosenfeld I was wearing a wool suit and hated myself for it. The only people who willingly wear wool are those who hate the lives of others or those who hate life itself. Fortunately, I had rented my suit. Unfortunately, my host owned his. In a kind, posh house, in a world of no good, I sat for being one. He wore a horrid black suit and drank expensive wine. He talked of stocks and trade because that is all he can see. “He’s good with numbers,” my mind tries to comfort me. But they’re not the kind of numbers that save the sick or end evil, they are the kind printed in thick green ink or on thin white paper, paper that cuts deeper than he’d like to admit.&nbsp; “At least he reads,” the optimistic little mouse that eats at my brain suggested. Yes, you disgustingly hopeful creature, he reads. He reads every day, twice a day, many, many words. But, of course, he would never touch a poem, or philosophy, or fable, or anything to excite a little romantic spark. No, he reads headlines on wars he pays for and houses he builds. Despite all of these things bouncing around in his head like a pong ball on an old Odyssey, there is truly nothing behind his eyes. Unlike his wife. She, ordained in a satin dress that swept the room like a hurricane sweeps the sky and had the color to match, held a pitcher of his expensive wine and served it in glasses far nicer than he deserved. She laughed falsely and smiled unwillingly, but there was a treasure behind her eyes. Behind her beautiful, blinding, pained, obsidian eyes the voices of writers, scientists, musicians, and activists whispered in her ears. She can travel a thousand worlds without leaving this room. The castle in her skull is host to knights and queens, barons and philanthropists, legends and history. Some greater, some worse, but all her. They trained her to fight, to run, to escape. And I could see it all. I could see it all behind her eyes. Well, I’d be lying if I said it was only that. I could also see it in the diamond encrusted glasses, full of a drink that swirled like a hurricane had the color to match. More accurately, I smelled the almond flavor in the drink she served so graciously to him, but never to me.

The elevator door opens and I step into the lobby. I walk to front desk and check out as quickly as possible, handing the receptionist my key. “Thank you ma’am, we hope you enjoyed your stay at the-”&nbsp; “What’s that? “I interrupt again, pointing at a mural hanging above the receptionist’s desk that took up a great deal of the lobby wall. “That’s the coast of Morocco, and the center part is a map of our island,” she replies, unfazed by my abject rudeness. &nbsp;“That's the island? The whole island?” “Yes miss, that's the whole island,” she answers bluntly, but I just stare up in shock. If that's the whole island, why is it so different than the map I had?&nbsp; &nbsp;“Just one more quest-” I look back at the woman, but she is gone, her desk empty. I am standing alone. That is…strange. But I can't get distracted, I need to find the map.&nbsp; I continue my search, this time searching docks and tunnels while still finding nothing. After a while, I notice an elderly woman following me. I try to outrun her, quickly rounding a corner in hopes to throw her off. Somehow, she catches up with me, grabs my wrist, and says;&nbsp; “Shati Bahr.” I think it’s Arabic. I can’t place it, but I’ve heard the phrase before. It means beach. But how do I know that? And what beach? I was on an unknown island surrounded by water on all sides, this “beach” could be anywhere.&nbsp; The woman does not let go of my hand. She leads me to the end of the dock I had just been searching. She hands me a conch shell and points out into the open ocean. But I can’t understand, so I put the shell in my bag. The sun is&nbsp;going down and I decided to sit on the dock, alone. The woman has disappeared, but at this point I’ve stopped being shocked by it. Without any distractions, I attempt to figure out what she was trying to tell me.&nbsp;

Chalkboard

The Plan Stevie D. Rosenfeld Daria Mills is average in every possible way. That is why she is so incredibly shocking. Daria Mills was raised in an inconsequential town by inconsequential parents in an inconsequential home, eventually growing up to attend an inconsequential college and work for an inconsequential magazine. And this is exactly when everything she did became of consequence. One day, a day that seemed completely insignificant to everyone except Daria Mills, she put on a black dress and 2 inch high heels just like the female protagonists of every romantic comedy did before making history. Everyone in the office took a second glance, something they had never done before, completely dumbstruck that someone who was so plain would ever consider dressing so strikingly. They would most certainly forget her face and name, but they would never forget what she was wearing. Secure in her femme fatal masquerade, she adjusted the skull-strangling ponytail, raised a finger to the thinly applied lip gloss, took a deep breath, and pushed through her editor’s door.&nbsp; The man behind the desk was stereotypical of his career: focused, logical, intelligent, painfully self-righteous, and completely unable to hold a conversation with anyone smarter than himself. It was this last trait that caused him to sit silent and stupefied with half of a sandwich in his mouth as Daria placed her left hand on his desk and, in her right, raised a thin black notebook. She stated, with more clarity than she had ever produced before, “I have a plan.”

Paper texture

The End Jessica Pisk

I was once in the woods, just wandering around.&nbsp;The smell of long, tall grass and the icicle breeze of the chilling wind.&nbsp;The tall hollow trees paved my way, while the moonshine lit my path.&nbsp; While walking in the woods, hearing the crunch of the branches and russles of the leaves, I looked into the distance and noticed a shape. A tall black shadow.&nbsp;The closer I get, the darker he gets.&nbsp;My heart starts racing and I start to get creeped out. “Who would be out here at this time of night?” I wonder.&nbsp; &nbsp;I keep walking, until I’m eye to eye with him. He speaks to me, in a soft mellow tone, “Follow me Claire, follow me.” And I do. &nbsp;Regret instantly pushes through me. “Where are we going? I have to get home soon,” I ask in a shaky voice, trying to sound calm as he guides me through the night.&nbsp;I ask again, “Excuse me sir, where are we going?” Still trying to hold in the rush of emotion.&nbsp;After 10 whole minutes, he finally says in a loud, raspy voice,&nbsp; “To the end.” The sound of his words made me want to run far far away from him, and that is what I do.&nbsp;I run as fast and as far away as possible. I glance behind me to see if he is following, but he is back in front of me the second I turn around.&nbsp;Just standing there.&nbsp;Not moving.&nbsp;Not making a sound.&nbsp;&nbsp; He approaches me. I freeze. “I don’t bite Claire, I don't bite. Come to the end.” I believe him, if only for a second, I believe him. If he really wanted to hurt me, I reason, wouldn’t he have done so by now.&nbsp;The rush of adrenaline fades away and I sigh.&nbsp; “Fine.&nbsp;I'll come.”

Index

Olivia Chen.............................................................................1,13,19,20,33,36,39,42

Daniela Francisci.............................................................................3,9,12

Alexa Shafy.............................................................................4

Kenneth Johansson............................................................................5

Ashley Son.............................................................................7

Stevie D. Rosenfeld.............................................................................8,17,25,38,44,

Helen Yao.............................................................................10

Laura Lima.............................................................................11

Sara Mirarchi.............................................................................14

Isabella Calvao.............................................................................15,23,24,29

Jessica Pisk.............................................................................21

Teresa Dau.............................................................................27

Alexandra Ferreri.............................................................................28

The Umbrella Olivia Chen

Purple zig-zag pattern

A collective effort between Hauppauge's writers, artists, and creative minds.

Within 2 weeks the no-name periodical became the most desired magazine in the country. Every newsstand, bookshop, grocery store, and library were desperate to show off their collection of Daria Mills’ great works. Within 3 weeks the editor was financially stable enough to retire to Cabo and become a professional skydiver, making Daria Mills the most powerful and prominent editor in the world.&nbsp; Parts of that title were soon dropped, however. She relieved her position to the next-in-line to focus on her new home essentials company after one year. When the home essentials reached its peak, she moved onto electronics. Then sportswear. Then clothing. Then television production. Then ad design, and so on and so forth until she formed a multi-media, multi-million dollar conglomerate all while donating massive amounts to reforestation, social reform, free college programs, healthcare, and prison reform while capping her personal salary at $100,000 a year. When interviewed about her success, whether being asked about her latest clothing line on E! or questioned about a risky stock exchange of CNBC; she would simply smile, slightly raise the thin black notebook, and say calmly, “It’s all a part of The Plan.” And so, the perfect Daria Mills facade was never broken. No matter how hard they tried, no journalist, employee, or plain old busybody could find a word of scandal about her. Everything surrounding Daria, good or bad, win or lose, strength or weakness, was all a part of the plan. Until she met me.

Grey Parker Smith

In a purely tonal room, a young man sat, equally as tonal as his surroundings. His face was pale, and there was no color in his cheeks. His hair was soft and gray like smoke and fell in swoops around his face. His clothes, all shades of white and more shades of gray, were bundled scarves, sleeves just a bit too big, pants with too many pockets, and deep black boots. On his head sat a pair of leather goggles, the rough brown leather was marred with chipped gray paint and splashes of longed-washed out color.&nbsp; The boy was a Color Bandit. A pickpocket of color and happiness alike. A Color Bandit rides from town to town, sucking away people’s joy, their color, and making them dull. These colors they took would be cast away into the river, or into a fire, or into the ancient trash compactor; never to be seen again. This boy, this Bandit, however, kept his commandeered colors. He hid them in little pouches, sewed them into the hem of his trousers, or tucked into the folds of his scarves. Vibrant reds and passionate blues, noisy lavenders and secretive purples, deep greens and elegant ambers; all hidden away from prying eyes. Procuring these hues was no easy task for the boy, the Bandit. Under the watchful eyes of the Lead Bandit, smuggling his colors away was nearly impossible.&nbsp; He longed to touch the beautiful pinks, add some blush to his lifeless cheeks, or add some cobalt blue to his plain gray eyes. He knew any color he touched would be ripped away, so instead the boy sat and stared at the prettiest colors he knew of, but could never ever touch.&nbsp; As he gazed on his stolen treasures, the Bandit was ripped from his thoughts, and thrown back into his unfortunate reality by a sharp knock on the door. He stashed the colors away, just as the door was forced open.&nbsp;

Miguel Cuevas

I am average in every way, possibly even more average than Daria was. I grew up in an inconsequential town with inconsequential parents in an inconsequential town with inconsequential parents in an inconsequential home, before graduating from an inconsequential college. There are, however, 2 distinct differences between the lovely Miss Mills and myself: The first being that I am unambitious. When we had first met, I was on my 4th secretary job since graduating college and had no intentions of climbing the corporate ladder any time soon. I wasn’t happy in my position, far from it actually, but I couldn’t see myself taking joy in anything else. So I stayed with the company. I stayed with Daria Mills. The second difference (and this one much starker) is that I was, and maybe still am, incredibly nosey. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had to know the things no one wanted me to know, listen in on the things I shouldn’t hear, look at the things I wasn’t supposed to see. And that’s why I did it.&nbsp; The book was on her desk, the door was open, and she was down the hall deliberating with a manager about some strange detail of a schedule. The thin, black notebook. The Plan. The Plan that could tell the world just what would happen next, The Plan that could turn a poor man rich and a rich man poor, The Plan that turned a no-name columnist into the most important woman to ever exist overnight.&nbsp;

Orange-Violet Stevie D. Rosenfeld Orange-Violet is: A flower in a pot on your window sill, A rusted can of water beside it, Petals covered with ink stained monarchs, Moving their wings softly and slow, Sipping nectar like sunshine spiked wine, And glancing up At the rain spotted sky. Orange-Violet is: A spoon full of creamsicle sherbet, Meltling on your tongue As you melt into a diner chair, Looking into the eyes of someone you love. Orange-Violet is: Her perfume wafting over lilacs, Wet fall leaves over the muddy ground. Smelling candles and lotion, While you gossip over coffee and tea.

She interrupts my yearning with casual conversation. Where she goes to school, where she works, and where she got her boots. The ones with a thousand buckles, and the spikes on the heel. I stroke the high platform just to feel. Feel her. Feel the narrow sliver of stomach Visible in her almost-cropped-top. Feel through the holes in her jeans, and through the ripped fishnets underneath. Her smirk is encased in black. I gaze upon her porcelain teeth,&nbsp; and her porcelain skin, then my eyes dart back to the lilac. I could really use something like this. I could really use somebody like her.

Stars pattern

Waking Sleep Julianna DeCicco I’ve been laying here for hours. I sit up to look at my clock across my bed,“12:42”. I have school in the morning. How am I supposed to focus with no sleep? I turn my head to the window and open my white silk curtains. I stand, watching the wind blow the trees in the pitch dark, my whole street lit by a single lamp post. I go to unlock my window, gingerly moving my hands and silently begging the latch stays quiet. I pull my window open and start to climb out. I lower one leg down at a time, and as my bare feet touch the wet grass I sigh with relief, thankful I did not wake anyone. It’s very quiet, not a car in sight. I sit down on the lawn, suddenly conscious of my pajama pants and old sweatshirt. I hug my knees to my chest, gazing at my silent and sleeping neighborhood.I fall to my back, grass hugging my body as the stars glimmer down at me.&nbsp;I trace pictures in the stars, mapping out familiar constellations like the Big Dipper, the Belt of Orion, and Cassiopeia. A shooting star passes by, and a smile grows on my face. Sensing I’d been away for too long, I decided it was finally time to go back inside. I climbed back through my window, closing and locking it quietly. I brush off the grass which remained on my clothes, and amble back into bed. With a newly relaxed and keen eye, I look at the time,"1:13”. I lay my head on my pillow and crawl under the blankets. My eyes start to feel heavy and then, blackness.

“Just take a chance!” He shouts. “That woman chose you, she gave you the map, she gave you the chance to unlock whatever it is across that water. That must mean something, right?” “Ugh, fine. Fine!” &nbsp;“The map starts on the ‘X’ and ends at the island. ‘X’ is on the other side of town, so let’s get going.” He picks up my bag, and my hand, and begins our trek. We talked as we walked, about nothing in particular, but finding joy in each other’s presence. Comfort in our common goal. &nbsp;“Hey,” he exclaimed, “I never got your name.” &nbsp;“I’m Aaliyah,” I say. &nbsp;“I’m Aamir.” He replies.&nbsp;“Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you too!” We laughed, realizing we had just introduced ourselves after talking for hours. “I think we’re here.” Aamir and I stand still, staring at nothing but sand and water. “Are you sure?” I ask nervously. “Let me see the map.” I take it, hoping there is another destination we should go to. “Yeah,” I sigh, “I guess we’re here.”. “We better get swimming then.” Aamir takes off his shirt and throws it at me, tossing his shoes in all directions. In that moment, we shared the last laugh we would ever have together.&nbsp; We had been swimming for about a mile. Aamir was a few strokes ahead of me the whole time, holding the map above the water with one hand and side stroking with the other. “Aamir? Aamir?” I cry out. “Yeah… yeah?” He swims over to me. “I don't think I can do this anymore,” I say desperately. “I’m really tired.”&nbsp;

It’s best to be alone at moonrise. Then, you can watch the night arrive Alone. Alone, you can wash away your mistakes. Alone, you can forget those who hate you and those you hate. Alone, you can imagine a calmer place. At moonrise you should just detach from Everything.&nbsp; Every Floating, Dreaming, Free, Divine, Lonely feeling. But to feel any emotion the way it was meant to be felt, Meant to be felt by the thing that makes us feel, It can’t be stifled by&nbsp; Cruel, Ignorant, Prejudiced Eyes, So it is always best to be alone at moonrise.

Paradise Anonymous

The door slams shut, and I'm up.&nbsp; Babies crying, loud chitter chatter, and anxious discussions all fill my ears: &nbsp;“Do you need help with your luggage?” “Just landed in-” &nbsp;“All passengers exit to your left-”&nbsp; “Watch your step!”&nbsp; “Excuse me!” Silence. The noise becomes meaningless and confusing static as I am pushed out of the plane and into the airport. How did I get here? And where am I? I look up, and see a sign above me that reads: &nbsp;“Welcome to Morocco.” I’d heard of it, but I know very little about this country. What am I doing here? I follow the crowd to the exit. I stumble outside and see what looks like a fantasy. Such beautiful architecture, bright blues and earth tones, arches that stretch as far as the eye could see, across the uniquely designed buildings. I am in a truly foreign place. A magical place. A place that could only exist in dreams.&nbsp; The warm air blows through my hair, and suddenly I feel something graze my foot. I look down, to see an old crumpled up piece of&nbsp;paper. I pick it up and there is nothing to see. I think it must be blank, until I flip it over. I find what appears to be a faded map. Is this the tourist guide, I wonder, or did I just stumble upon something important?&nbsp; THUD!

Misc texture 1

If you or a loved one is struggling with an eating disorder, contact the Eating Disorders Associates at 631-724-152

A 3am Conversation With Myself Daniela Francisci I’ve never had a reason to hate my body. When I was a kid they told me I was thin, And isn’t that the ideal? When I look at my reflection I don’t see it reflecting me, Maybe it is, but I still ask: “Who is she?” Intake 300, and run off 1000, Step on the scale four times a day, Cry into the mirror and see the real me, The me who knows she can never be skinny. “You look good, you must have lost some weight!” Are you saying I was heavy in the first place? Now that won’t do. That won’t do.

Craft paper border

The Ramblings of a Professional Actor Daniela Francisci There are things I enjoy, That I can't speak about,&nbsp; Because they aren't aligned with who I should be. My Father wants me to be a star, So I play football and I play a fool. But I'll still be valedictorian because you want me to. Mother wants me to go away. She told me so herself, But I just want her to love me Is that too much to ask? I really like movies, not that they care. I can play a few instruments too. Did you know that? I went to the hospital because mother wanted me to. Institutionalized for months, paralyzed by desperation and fear. She didn't pay me a visit, But she would pay me to disappear. I never had any real friends, Just people who use me and abuse me. They're all infatuated with my name. I'd rather they punch me in the face.&nbsp; But they all tell me to come over again, Not that I would ever say no. I love the attention

Alexa Shafy Creative Crafts, Ms. LaVelle

Kenneth Johansson Advanced Drawing and Painting, Ms. Dimasi-Coppola

Travel Ella Utano

“What do you think about France?” I asked, already searching for fares from JFK to Paris on my phone. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My best friend and I sat around the white wooden desk in my room, looking at an untouched, clear map of southern Europe. We’d always talked about doing this - meeting up one day and planning our dream vacation: a month-long tour around all of our dream destinations in Europe, and now that school was over, we finally had the time to plan. I’d always been interested in looking into other cultures and exploring different sides of the world; growing up I had always wanted to travel the world. Part of the reason that I still want to look for schools in New York, the lodestone of multiculturalism, is a perfect example of this idea carrying over; hearing different stories from different backgrounds and cultures plays a huge role in my life and is something I really enjoy. “Southern France would be cool,” he pointed out, “Then we could go into Italy, pass through central Italy and go down to Sicily that way.” &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ever since my grandmother told me stories of her parents’ immigration from Italy to America when we were kids, I had always wanted to go see San Donato. She described her ancestral homeland with such a great and vivid joy that was unlike anything I’d ever heard come from her usual quiet and shy persona. The passion I now hold for genealogy, thanks to her, is unlike any other hobby I’ve had in a long time; I love discovering what are now ghost stories from the past because they help me understand the future. Signing up for an “ancestry.com” account was perhaps one of the best and most dangerous decisions I’d ever made. From then on I devoted myself to learning about the stories of the ancestors of the people around me, taking in every part of family members both past and present. “But from Sicily, where to next? Athens?” I asked, “I feel like we could try the eastern Mediterranean and push back north from there.”

The Metamorphosis Isabella Calvao

“Ugh, my back.”&nbsp; I sit up, and realize that I had fallen asleep on the end of the dock. It’s quiet. The sun has not yet risen and the water is peaceful. I notice a boy on the far end of the dock, closer to the shore. He seems young, possibly my age, maybe a little bit older. He was holding something. Wait, is that- &nbsp;“That’s my map!” I yell, running off the dock and onto the beach. As I run, he sees me approaching and stuffs the map in his back pocket. I finally catch up to him and demand “Where is it?” &nbsp;“Where is what?” he asks.&nbsp; “The map.” ”What are you talk-”&nbsp; “Save it, just let me see it.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled up map. Half of a crumpled map. &nbsp;“Dammit! I can't get there with only half the map!” &nbsp;“Get where?”&nbsp; “To the beach,” he said.&nbsp; “What beach?” &nbsp;“The beach.&nbsp;Have you ever heard of the myth?” &nbsp;“What myth? “The island myth. It’s a magical place. With crystal blue oceans, and a rainbow of fish below the surface. Endless jungles with the most tropical fruits, pools of icy water and boiling hot springs, all glistening from the sun's reflection. A perfect view of Morocco's beauty, without the clutter of people. An island of magic and beauty and secrets that is only ever seen in our dreams.” He sighs and sits down in the sand, holding the torn map. “No one knows if it really exists, but I intend to find out. The only issues is I only have half the map. I’ve searched everywhere but I cant seem to find the missing piece.”

Parchment

Burning At Both Ends Stevie D. Rosenfeld “Just try” Pain screams from where he’s fallen, The boy looks to the sky. “Just try,” He sobs, flaps his wings, and climbs ever high. “Just try.” He starts burning, and wants to cry. “Just try!” The man continues to shout, But why? “Keep going.” His movements start slowing, “Don’t stop.” It looks like his head's gonna pop, “Better, faster, stronger.” I don’t think he can last much longer. . . . wax drips from the clouds, blood from his chest, the boy begs out loud, before he collapses, like all the rest. melting in the water, the wax man starts to die, and as the inventor of his slaughter, all Daedalus does is walk away, and sigh.

Graph paper

Rejection Isabella Calvao

Bunting border

     I began to realize that learning different instruments and working with this artform helped me make sense of my world. I didn't even realize I was good at it until others started commenting about how talented I was. My sister has always told me that I can make an impact in this world through my art, and one thing that always sticks is the word impact. I understand now the talent I have, but I never thought I could do anything with it. 

The Beautiful Creatures of The Forest Olivia Chen

The Shadow Figure Juliana DeCicco I was stranded in what looked like a city only lit by dim street lights. Despite the massive urban area I found myself in, the only noise I could hear was my own breath. I looked around at the tall buildings and noticed there were no doors or windows, just bricks. A whole city, made only of bricks. I walked along white line in the center of the road, glancing around. I turn around to see a tall black shadow a few feet behind me. I stand in silence and fear, the lone sound of my breathing getting louder and louder. The shadow moved closer and closer to me, but I was trapped and exposed in the middle of the dark and quiet road. The closer the shadow gets, the louder and faster my breathing becomes. I was frozen in fear, the only movement being the rise and fall of my chest. It was like my feet were glued to the floor. I looked down at my unmoving, uncovered feet, and then dared to&nbsp;slowly look back at the shadowy figure, now hovering over me. No eyes, no mouth, just a silhouette of what would be a man. I tried to scream but nothing came out, just breath. Loud and fast breath. My feet still cemented, the man still towering above me. My breathing only got quicker, and the thing lifted its arms towards me. With a speed never shown before, the thing’s arms quickly grabbed me. I found that I could scream for the first time in that moment, as I sprang from my pillow, painting and sweating, awaking from a nightmare. I sat by myself, breathing.

I walked in the office, feeling like an invisible tether was pulling me towards it. And that rope around my heart pulled me to the open book. And then the tether was cut. And the book dropped from my hands. And all I could manage to say as I stared at those blank, blank pages was, “There’s no plan.” “Of course not.” I spun around, and there she was in the doorway. Unexceptional, unimportant, inconsequential, plain, boring, beautiful, intelligent, incredible, amazing, creative, wonderful Daria Mills. And she was crying. She had closed the door behind her and she was crying.&nbsp; “You think there’s one plan? One answer that will tell you how to deal with every problem the universe could throw at you? Of course not; it’s all confidence and coffee and… and dollar store notebooks.” I stared at her, and she stared at the floor, the empty notebook on the ground between us.

&nbsp;We start walking, and talking.&nbsp;Just as I’m building up the courage to ask the “who are you” question, he stops us at a ledge.&nbsp;The view is amazing. The sunrise shines off the water, and the waves crash into the light stone wall.&nbsp;He turns to me, “Do you wanna see the end Claire?”&nbsp;&nbsp; I shake my head, I just want to go home. Hoping to appease him, I ask&nbsp;“Where is it?” I look into his vacant eyes, but he just stares over the edge.&nbsp; “There.” He isn’t pointing or gesturing or indicating at all where I should look, just staring. I try to see what he is seeing, but it’s all just empty space to me.&nbsp;&nbsp; He pulls himself from the view long enough to look at me with his dark, gloomy eyes. Without warning, he kisses my forehead. “Goodbye Claire.&nbsp;Go find the end.”&nbsp;And just like that he is gonna, faded away. Leaving with just as much mystery as he arrived with.&nbsp;I desperately look around to see where he’s gone and, in my fear and flurry, I fall from the edge.&nbsp;&nbsp; I close my eyes, not wanting to see what happens as I get closer and closer to the water. For some reason, following a compulsion I couldn’t explain if I tried, I open them again. I open my eyes just as I’m about to hit water. &nbsp;&nbsp;I'm in my bed.&nbsp;“What the hell?”&nbsp;I think. As I’m trying to process what just happened, mother comes into the room.&nbsp; “Claire! You have to go to school. Let's go!”&nbsp; &nbsp;I can’t process what just happened. I go about my business, pretending that I’m not freaking out.&nbsp;What was that?&nbsp;A man?&nbsp;A ghost?&nbsp;A shadow?&nbsp;I don't know.&nbsp;All I know is: it's over.&nbsp;It’s the end. It's finally the end.

By Alexandra Ferreri Sculpture Ms. LaVelle

Blue polka dot border

Late! Julianna DeCicco I woke up facing my alarm clock, and my eyes widened. I realize the power must have gone out in the night, and the thing hadn't gone off. I rush out of my bed and run around gathering the rest of my belongings. I rush to grab my coat and run out of the door with a thousand bags in my hands. I jump into the shuttle and let out a sigh of relief. I’m sitting in the backseat staring out the window, hoping I get to the airport on time. My driver doesn’t talk much, so the only thing I hear is his GPS narrating directions. “You have arrived at your destination,” it finally says. The driver wishes me good luck in New York as I quickly grab my suitcases and sprint to security to get my bags checked. I look at the massive clock on the wall of the airport and gasp upon realizing how close I was cutting it. I beg the baggage handlers to let me cut the line, and thankfully they agree. I shove my way through security and race through the metal detectors. I run around the entire airport trying to find where my flight is boarding. I finally find my gate and make a beeline to the door. The flight attendant was just about to close the doors until I screamed “Wait!” All the workers looked at me in shock. The flight attendant judgingly checks my ticket and opens the doors back up for me. I apologize for being so late and make a mad dash to my seat. I rush to put my bags in the overhead compartments and, realize I have the window seat. I feel bad as I watch the two people stand up so I could get to my seat. Finally I sitt down, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and begin to get comfortable. But suddenly, I have a realization. I open my eyes, sit straight up, and whisper to myself. “I forgot my jacket in the shuttle.”

Too Good For Me Isabella Calvao Your kindness towards me doesn’t fit in with my fantasy, I'm not good enough for your accolades, for your subtle nicety. You’re too good for me. And when you put your hand on my back, And when I flinched with fear, It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault. Thank you for apologizing, but it wasn’t your fault. I love you with my heart's full ability, I love you more than my brain can handle. I can’t stand to look into your eyes for too long, I think I'd get too attached— A moth to a flame. (Alternatively, a lemming to a cliff.)

I don’t know why I did what I did next. It was like, something in my brain clicked like a light switch in an empty room and the bulb blinded me. I suddenly realized that this incredible, god-like being I had been working under for months was human. But I still thought she was incredible. And I wasn’t mad; I was impressed. I don’t know why I did what I did next. It was like, something in my brain clicked like a light switch in an empty room and the bulb blinded me. I suddenly realized that this incredible, god-like being I had been working under for months was human. But I still thought she was incredible. And I wasn’t mad; I was impressed. So, in a moment of emotional head rush and possibly just pure stupidity, fueled by confidence, coffee, and a dollar store notebook, I said, “Do you want to go out sometime?” And, by some blessed twist of fate, she did. And we did. Then we did some more. Then we didn’t have to go out, because we could stay in. Because we were living together. Then, I was on one knee proposing, and in 2 hours we’ll be having a wedding. Daria, my Daria, tells the press I’m “the one thing she didn’t plan for,” and maybe that’s true. But I know that since that day, since that moment we shuffled out of that poorly-lit office onto the poorly-lit streets, laughing at ourselves because there was nothing else left for us to do, that this moment, this day, is the one thing I’ve bothered to plan for in my entire life.

“We’re halfway there,” He pleads. “I’m right here? We can make it there.” &nbsp;“I can’t.” I struggle to stay afloat.&nbsp; “Just a little bit longer.” My treading becomes weaker. “I….I…” I sink deeper and deeper into the water. Aamir swims closer and tries to grab me, but it’s too late, I’m too far under. I start heading towards the light. “Allie…Allie! Allie, wake up!” “Aamir!” I shout. I stared at the older woman towering over me.&nbsp; “What? Who’s Aamir? Allie your surgery is over. They removed your tumor, you're going to be okay sweetie. Aren't you happy? Allen is even coming to see you soon.” A woman in a lab coat looks up from her clipboard. “Allen?” The woman looking at my bed, turns to her “Oh, Allen’s just her boyfriend. Isn’t that nice?”

Pale Purple Isabella Calvao The first thing I notice is her hair: Lavender. With the roots dark. And then her eyes: Piercing. Her stare makes a mark. There’s black lace around her throat, and a silver spider creeping down her neck. Her demeanor is severe, yet seductive at the same time. I think I love her.

Samantha Herrick.............................................................................31

Julianna DeCicco.............................................................................32,34,37,43,

Parker Smith.............................................................................40

Ella Utano.............................................................................56

Sarah Beggins.............................................................................58

Brianna Byrne.............................................................................Front Cover

Miguel Cuevas.............................................................................Back Cover

Leaf border

Autumn Winds Anonymous The chill morning breeze blows right through my hair&nbsp; My skin turning red because it is fair&nbsp; Autumn Winds begin to blow&nbsp; Colored Leaves fall high and low Leaves flow through the air&nbsp; They blow past my feet, and on to the street&nbsp; Kids go out to trick or treat&nbsp; In hopes of getting something sweet to eat&nbsp; Eat a ton and have fun But beware of the fear&nbsp; Halloween is here.

Name

Safari may block some audio or video from playing automatically and ‘read to me’ will skip these. You can configure this in Safari’s preferences.