“Distance” by Regan Doherty / “Untitled” by Shashank Salgam

Shashank Salgam

“Distance”

Regan Doherty

It’s suffocating

being so alone.

Surrounded

but separate.

Within

but without.

An onlooker

who stares instead of sees:

there’s no understanding

in this isolation.

Some cruel captivation

where one is the attraction

but neither is noticed.

Any feeling of belonging evaporated

when I realized it has always been

and will always be

their lives: my intrusion.

Their gaze: my wound.

Their music: my noise.

Their forms and figures never known –

never understood –

let alone picked apart from the crowd.

The inescapable throbbing from sounds

that fly and marr instead of mean.

Too hard. Too fast.

Hitting where it hurts because

these wounds have festered.

This noise pains.

There is a silence to this sound.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2022

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

During Christine’s high school years, she showed great promise as a poet, and the hope of her parents is that this award will encourage other students to pursue in their writing the spirit with Christine so beautifully demonstrated in her own.

A faculty committee has chosen

JEremy laparl

to receive this year’s award.

EL Camino

I used to wonder what it feels like.

There were endless possibilities

on what it would be.

Was it at the coffee shop?

I wondered.

Was it to be found in a swirl of

endless artificial flavors which would

all add up to what you call a

“Venti American Pie Frappuccino?”

Now the flavors had tasted real at first,

but once I had a closer look, almost every flavor

that you promised me was real in this coffee,

turned out to be fake.

The more I drank, the more I realized,

and I wish I would have found out sooner

that everything you told me about how authentic

this drink was, about how good it tasted, about

how it was worth the money, was all a false

reality.

Since that day, I’ve never gone to a coffee shop.

It reminnds me of just how fake things in life can be.

Okay, so it definitely wasn’t felt in the coffee shop.

What about at that steakhouse?

I wondered.

We both got the “Top of the line,

Extra most-fabulous, Can’t beat it,

New York Strip Steak!”

Or at least, that’s what they

called it.

To be honest, it didn’t just live up to

the name, it exceeded it!

I thought it was perfect.

The seasoning was just right,

the taste was outstanding,

and it was cooked to a perfect

medium rare, just like I asked.

It was everything I had ever wanted

in a steak, and

I loved it.

But you; you didn’t love it.

You liked it.

Or at least, you said you did.

But most people usually finish

food they like.

They’ll even take it to go if they’re

not hungry enough to finish it.

You didn’t.

And the thing is, you were hungry;

just not for steak.

You wanted a burger,

a slice of pizza,

a pulled pork sandwich,

maybe even seafood,

and whatever else it was

that you said you craved.

Just steak wasn’t one of them.

I ended up paying a whole lot for

your uneaten dinner that night.

Now, at first, I’d never thought I’d

be able to find it at a car dealership.

Still in debt from the steakhouse,

I walked into the shop with little

to no expectations in

finding anything at all;

and then, I saw her.

El Camino.

Made in 1979.

Now, she wasn’t perfect.

Her once sleek crimson red color

had faded quite a bit.

She had bumps and bruises

all over her.

And I was told her windshield was

broken beyond repair,

yet the closer I looked at it,

it was just cracked.

Even I was hesitant to take

her for a test drive at first,

and for good reason.

The ride was bumpy, at the start,

and we hit a lot of roadblocks.

I almost went back to the dealership,

and thought it was time to give up

on her.

I was seconds away from the dealership,

and just then,

the wheel got a bit easier to control.

And so I thought to myself,

“Maybe she’s not so bad.”

So, I drove past the dealership.

All of the sudden, it was as if

the on cracks windshield slowly

fixed themselves, onne by one,

Making the view as clear as day.

And every time I put my foot on the

gas, the ride felt smoother and smoother,

so smooth that I floored it.

All the way home.

I used to wonder what it felt like.

But the day I took that car for a ride,

I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

I found out.

I know now.

“A Dream Called Hope” by Isabel Fowler / “Nurturing” by Lucy Lee

A dream called hope

Isabel fowler

Our Hope feeds our Dreams

Like the muse feeds the artist

Like the sky feeds the bird

Like the sun keeps us alive

Hope is a lightness

Centered in your chest

That expands

And contract with every second

We breath it in and out

Our breath has been stifled

Blackened by the same smog blocking our light

Suffocating us

But I still feel Hope

I still feel Hope

I covet it,

Smuggle it

Hide it under my pillow at night

Hold it tight to my chest

The Hope

That one day,

I will see children and not mourn for them

For the life they’ll never have

The life robbed from them before they ever reached the cradle

But Hope

It’s the best type of flowering weed

Growing in the sidewalks

Up concrete walls

Out of the ashes

But Hope

It’s a prayer whispered

When a babe is born

A blessing given

In hard times

A cry in our chest

Carried across the world

And a heart that beats

We will change this

nurturing / lucy lee

“Safe House” by Joseph Razzano // Weathered by Evan Fecko

weathered / evan fecko

Safe house

joseph razzano

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they widened in surprise. The inside of the house was not like the decayed exterior, reflecting nothing the ugly words of the town bore onto her. Because the smell was unique. The first hit was one of dust and mold and rotting wood, but had undertones of beautiful, french cooking. Because it was warm and dimly lit and a fire blazed in the fireplace to fill the room with dancing shadows. Because the stairs were grand and had carved designs that couldn’t go unnoticed. Because the carpets were foreign and had woven colors that the people in this small town couldn’t name. Because it seemed like a different world; I have never seen something so beautifully ancient in my life.

I feel safe.

“Gaia” by Faiz Shaikh / “Natural History” by Ansley Teal

natural history / ansley teal

GAIA

Faiz Shaikh

When a man brags about his love– claiming:

“She is more lovely than a summer’s day” I state

with greater pride: “Not so–” boasting: “Earth’s

beauty be greater, though it won’t stay.”

“Why–” says he “the sun shines the birds still fly.”

“No–” (quod I) “mankind be like a plague– a

Disease– polluting Earth’s sea, land and sky;

When was the last time you heard the blue jay?”

“But all’s not lost sir if you go outside–

Plant trees, go green, help to stop pollution–”

Say I with hope for Earth where we reside

“Don’t neglect the Eco Revolution.”

“Earth can be saved if we do not blunder;

Remember that Nature is our Mother.”

“Build Up” by Ronald Bailey / “Halfpace” by Olivia Wilson

halfpace / olivia wilson

Build Up

Ronald Bailey

You can never have too much sky.

Buildings stand so high, so proud, defiant. No cracks. No waver. No weakness.

The walls stand so high, nothing gets through them.

They are made to hold against pressure and hold everything inside

Every crack is seen as an error or failure; patched up just like that, but the mark is forever

internalized.

They hold up against it all, or, do they?

They fall so fast, so loud, so messy, so emotional.

All it takes is time and pressure.

One by one,

the cracks form,

and no one can see them

Why do they fall, why do they stand, why do they weather all that pressure?

Because they are forced to

3,..2,..1

They fall, They crumble, They are a mess.

Are they weak?

or Strong,

or Both

“May There Be No Rain” by Porter Ninstant / “Untitled” by Carl Warren

Carl Warren

May There Be No Rain

Porter Ninstant

Born innocent not knowing right from wrong

I was naive

A child in my thoughts so pure but can’t perceive

As I grew I knew the sky was blue with trust all round

But as I flew I saw reality for what it is

IT made no sound

Any place I looked it seemed so safe so free

Yet every year that changed life swallowed the dream

That same dream that gave US speech

not just a voice

it’s pain that we speak

Pain driven by in-difference

Pain rectified and availed to win wars with

Pain is all we know

NOW…no more of this

I wondered for a time where do I go from here

The times of woodchips and bruised knees is far from near

Childhood memories achieved through innocence

A cold world brought up between lust hate and Ignorance

Will not blemish the signs of change

that we now live with

Suddenly change will be upon us

wanted or not we must see the past that haunts us

I don’t believe history will repeat

Only we can overcome us

Only we can stop the light from burning at the end of that tunnel

Only we can keep that flag waving in support of not

who we are

who we were but

who we will be

It is every I us and them that needs to see

That it is we not the individual that is free

No more

My heart began to change and views seemed surreal

OUR vision saw the ugliness of what was truly real

Why did this happen

Why is there fear

Why so much anger

What is it that we’re doing here

WE will make the difference and let the whole world see

My hope is that’s tomorrow

though I doubt that it will be

For now I’ll make truths and strive to do my part

I’ll fight and search for hope in the dark

May peace reign

May we feel no pain

May there be no rain

May we feel no strain

Make US great again.

“Wednesday Morning” by Jaxx Parsons / “Ghosting” by Tyler Murphy

Ghosting / Tyler Murphy

Wednesday morning,

Jaxx Parsons

Sitting in my well worn office chair, she stares at her half-empty room and what’s left of her bed. A few old blankets left on the end. The pillows they couldn’t take with them left to collect dust until she comes back for the holidays. They fiddle with Garlic, a white goat their dad bought them when they were eight. His legs shriveled from the years of make-believe and pretend adventures. A yellow eye lost to one of the cats. Though they would eventually sew the eye up they never stopped feeling guilty about it.

Tomorrow she’ll be at college, 186 miles away from home. Away from the safe confides of their bed and her weighted blankets. Where they drank their mom’s hot chocolate. Where they collected bugs like the ones in her mother’s office. Where they found Nymo and Oscar and where their dad taught them how to crochet. They twist Garlic’s ear and their bottom lip quivered. Fighting back tears.

“Moonlight” by George Brizzell / “Untitled” by Zayne Abdullaeva

Zayne Abdullaeva

moonlight

George Brizzell

As we sit around the bright orange flame

It shimmers and dances moonlight.

And shakes under the

You look around at all your friends and family,

And they’re laughing and you laugh

At the conversation going around.

But your attention returns to the crackling, chard logs

That sits glowing red at the bottom of the ring.

They fascinate you.

How their colors change from

Brown, to black, to white, to red,

Then…POOF…gone.

The dancing flame dwindles down

Until she dances no more.

When all the logs are gone,

You say farewell, until tomorrow.

As the hot coals cool, you walk home

And can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

When the flame will dance again,

Under the moonlight.

9th & 10th Grade Writing/Art Contest – A Single Place

9Th & 10Th grade writing/art contest: A single place

eva berglund (winner)

Dozens of gray plastic desks line the room in rows and large round tables line the back wall. Hard blue chairs matched neatly with each one, metal baskets underneath the seat. The squeak of whiteboard markers on the board, notes written from period to period. A large desk tucked securely in the front corner of the room with dark wooden drawers and nicked table top. Sunlight streams in from the windows, illuminating dust specks that float through the hazy afternoon air. Faded maps decorate the walls, showing the world in shades of every color in the rainbow. Afternoon class.

neko lin (runner up)

Kőbánya cellar system

josiah mo (runner up)

The looming vaulted arches, uniformly situated, perpendicularly casting their shadows upon the pathway below. Eerie torches allocated at the base of the wide arches, humming gently as they give off their radiant glow. The moist ashen limestone walls, their insalubrious contents infested with mold, their dilapidated quality quid autem pulchritudinous. A well trodden passage, saturated with water on both sides, as if they contain the souls of those who walked here of yore. Gloomy shadows, looming over the path, all is quiet bar the gentle pitter patter of loose water drops.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

sriman iyer

THERE’S AN EERIE SILENCE ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN

hannah berkun

There’s an eerie silence on the top of the mountain.

Peace before everyone awakens.

With the sun in its early stages,

fighting the moon for power.

It’s the first day of spring

and yet the weather feels far from it.

I can see my breath.

Snow is still visible from the peak.

But when the sun rises,

Illuminating the sky with its yellow rays.

The ice seems to melt away,

The lake becomes vibrant and blue.

In a few minutes the whole world

goes from silence to booming.

Looking down from the summit

Reveals a forest bustling with creatures.

The sky now filled with colors,

Is something I could look at everyday.