2015-2016 Senior Stories & Reflections Collection

Stories & Reflections
Class of 2016

Maspeth High School
(ABRIDGED for online publication purposes. Page
numbers will not correspond to the Table of Contents.)

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TABLE of CONTENTS

Note to readers 3 Koziolek, Jacob 28 Sutton, Brandon 54-55
A Letter to the Class of 2016 4 Kwapisiewicz, Sylvia 28 Tabor, Jade 55-56
Agriogianis, Ashley 5 Lam, Vincent 29 Tamer, Tamer 57
Ahmed, Sadia 5-6 Lamourt, Kianna 29-30 Tameta, Paula 57
Almonte, Julio 6 Laska, Daniela 30 Thant, LattPhyuPhyu 57-58
Alonso, Melissa 6-7 Lauren, Rapha 30 Thio, Randy 58
Arellano, Isael 7 LeDu, Marc 30-31 Truszkowski, Paulina 58
Bahamonde, Cesar 7 Leong, Emily 31 Tutasig, Leonela 58-59
Balazon, Neil 7-8 Lin, Jenny 31-32 Udvarhelyi, Petra 59
Binay, Ashley 8-9 Majcher, Joanna 32 Valiente, Jacqueline 60
Bundrant, Shane 9 Malecki, Jakub 32-33 Valle,Cesar 60
Cahyadi, Erlina 9-10 Manji, Raunak 33 Vallejo, Francisca 60-61
Campos, Gustavo 10 Marcial, Dania 33-34 Walsh, Ciara 61-62
Campoverde, Giselle 10-11 Mayorga, Melbin 34 Walus, Karol 62
Candelaria, Justyn 11 McCurdy, Aiden 34-35 Weng, Anson 62-63
Carrasco, Zeidy 11-12 Mehta, Jainam 35 Younas, Sahira 63
Castillo, Ana 12 Melo, Gabriela 35-36 Kwon, Peter 63-64
Cedrowski, Natalia 12-13 Napiza, Samantha 36-37
Ceman, Irina 13 Nitchman, Susanna 37-38
Centurion, Clarissa 13 Olenick, Hunter 38
Chau, Tiffany 13-14 Ona, Chaia 38-39
Chen, Amy 14 Orozco, Melanie 39
Chen, Xin Yi 14-15 Paliogiannis, Georgia 39-40
Choudhury, Zabia 15 Panata, Victoria 40
Cielo, Celine 15 Perez, Crystal 40-41
Ciron, Nicole 15-16 Petrovic, Uros 41
Colon, Bernardo 16 Pozo, Samantha 41-42
Cortes, Wilfredo 16-17 Punjabi, Shweta 42
Cortese, Justin 17 Rahaman, Emily 42
Croce, Richard 17 Realpe, Maite 42-43
Culetu, Matthew 18 Rendon, Justin 43
DiMino, John 18 Rivera, Brandon 43-44
Diolata, Anthony 18-19 Rivera, Chastitie 44
Elashaal, Laila 19 Robalino, Paul 44
Farrell, Thomas 19-20 Rodriguez, Liana 44-45
Feng, Juliana 20 Rojas, Genesis 45
Ferris, Laura 20 Russo, Serena 45-46
Ferrufino, Samantha 20-21 Samra, TJ 46
Gajamer, Rashmi 21 Sanabria, Rocco 46-47
Galarza, Justin 21-22 Sanchez, Noah 47
Gallegos, Arielle 22 Santana, Paloma 47-49
Garzon, Johanna 22 Seda, Brandon 49
Gassambe, Faissal 23 Shapon, Raphin 49-50
Giocastro, Brianna 23 Sierzputowski, Oliver 50
Glacy, Ashley 23-24 Silva, Francheska 50
Gomez, Jose 24 Silva, Jennifer 50-51
Guo, Wei Hao 24 Skenderi, Albana 51-52
Hakobyan, Vahe 25 Slattery, Catriona 52
Hernandez, Andrea 25 Smith, Matthew 52
Jacome, Karla 25-26 Solano, Beret 52-53
Jankowski, Magdalena 26-27 Soos, Luiza 53
Jiang, Amy 27 Stafa, Anda 53-54
Khan, Hafsa 27-28 Starlin, Snay 54

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*******

Note to readers

Dear Readers,

As you read, you may notice—first and foremost—that each student-writer
writes with vulnerability and honesty. They have been tasked to select a memory, a
reflection, or a small part of their lives they feel comfortable sharing, and this collection
you now hold is the summation of their contribution.

You will also notice flaws: spelling errors, grammar mistakes, typos. They were
left as they were on purpose, though you have no idea how hard it was for me to bear
the itch of needing to correct the wrong tense, the misspelled word, the awkward use
of diction. The idea first came to me when I asked myself, “What is the purpose of this
collection?” The answer, surprisingly, had very little to do with demonstrating writing
skill; instead, I wanted this collection of stories to serve as a kind of historical record
that shows who each student is as well as how each student wrote, mistakes and all, in
the year 2016. Think of it as looking at an awkward photo of yourself ten years ago—
the obnoxious t-shirt, the crooked teeth, the rebellious lock of hair. There is a sense of
endearment and sincerity in that photo, for the photo shows you as you were, not as
you wish to be, and you realize that it’s okay to be imperfect. These works you are
about to read will hopefully evoke those same sentiments.

Thank you for turning these pages. Thank you for being an audience to the
wonderfully unique lives of Maspeth High School’s Class of 2016.

Sincerely,
Mr. Peter Kwon
English Teacher

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A Letter to the Class of 2016

Dear Students,

Every time you reminisce or reflect on your high school years, I hope that you remember most not the
short-lived successes or the lingering failures, nor the rare amusements or the everyday ennui—instead, I
fervently hope you recall the laughter, the applause, the wide-eyed smiles of friends and staff and other Maspeth
students, all of whom without would not have given you the experience you have had.

Here, in this collection of works, you will discover and witness slivers of the real people behind the
faces you saw sitting near you, jotting down notes in their notebooks. Perhaps you cannot recall their faces
clearly. Perhaps nothing but the color and the style of their hair stand out in memory. Perhaps it is only the
sound of their voices or the look in their eyes that encroaches your senses. And as the years inevitably tick by
like the hand on the eternal clock, the classmates who once were so vivid and alive devolve into gray, benign
inhabitants who dwell in the recesses of your mind. And all of this is natural.

And it is not sad.
For as you discover and witness through these stories the slivers of the real people behind the faces you
saw week after week, month after month, you will be reminded of that vivid picture of him who raised his hand
in eagerness only to answer the question wrong, of her who—with both hands in her purse—typed and sent a
quick text, or of them who always sat together and giggled at things only they knew. Each story reveals a
snapshot, a framed photo, a video; it is but an instrument to evoke the music of your memory. And through
each memory, may you be touched by a sense of warm nostalgia, if only to re-appreciate your time at Maspeth
High School.
I hope also that these stories and reflections guide you on your path forward—because each story
reveals a road already taken, you may be better equipped and more willing to venture down the road not taken.
Indeed, these stories can serve as a compass: take the experience of others, internalize it, and make your own
careful and calculated way through the brush and the branches of the struggles and wonders of your grand life.
And when you do, do not be afraid of the dark unknown—it may be where your greatness lies, hidden by the
twigs of indecision, covered by the leaves of change, masked by the fog of fear.
However, these stories can be a source of comfort as well because there is nothing else more relieving
than finding evidence of someone else who has once reached that point of unknown where you are now or
soon will be. So as you read the words carefully crafted by your fellow peers, may they serve to lift the
heaviness on your shoulders, to ease the strain in your legs, and to disperse the cloud over your eyes.
This is a collection of both individuality and solidarity.
May you uncover what you’re looking for.

Always,
Mr. Kwon
[email protected]

5

Solitude
By Ashley Agriogianis

Here I stood, on top of the world, on this 100 year old tree stump. My fiery friend with thoughts of blue on my right,
and my icy hair friend with thoughts of red on my left. And me? Oh I wouldn’t even be able to describe whatever thoughts
were raging through my head, but I can tell you they weren’t any specific pigment. Instead they were every color, and when I
say every color, I mean every color in the spectrum.

I hopped off my ancient pedestal and walked the dingy dirt path to the highway view; the fire and ice followed. The
sun radiated a golden hue that glowed over every car top and illuminated the mega millions billboard across the expressway.

“119 million dollars huh?” I thought “Gambling is ridiculous, I mean people don't even expect to win right? They
just hope they'd win, hope they could escape whatever reality their in. But, wining would be nice wouldn't it? What would I
do with that kind of money? I guess it doesn't really matter, money isn't worth anything anyway; America hasn't had a gold
standard in decades. Yet people would sell their souls to win pieces of green paper, sad isn't?” I looked over at the ice as if
she could answer my unheard questions, but her and the fire were dancing to whatever garbage was coming out of her phone;
so I joined them of course. With no word exchanged, we synchronized our bodies creating some ridiculous dance routine that
we wouldn't remember in a week. I wasn't having my rainbow thoughts at this time until I spun around to the ice, and noticed
the sun's rays reflecting so harshly on her edges that I could have sworn I saw her beginning to melt. “I wonder why she's
getting mushy right now, maybe she's thinking about how much shes going to miss us, or maybe she's feeling insecure” I
thought, admiring her hidden soft spots. But, I think she noticed that I noticed.

“let's get pizza” the ice commanded
“no no we have to get Wendy's” the fire refuted.
“well I'm not driving to Wendy's like this so you can walk” the ice argued growing increasingly irritated.
“Ash, what do you want?” the fire asked.
“eh I don't really care whatever is easiest” I mumbled while waving goodbye the cars on the highway.
We left the spot, the music died off in the distance, the sky was now a tension filled purple, and the ice was no where
near melting anymore. But, I didn't really mind; the music had no meaning to it anyway, and the purple sky reminded me of
Aran's bedroom (which is where I'd rather be by the way).
Neither the fire, nor the ice spoke, but words were not needed. As the fire's flames grew on my right, and the ice's air
chilled to my left, I, Switzerland, stood in the middle once again projecting the atmosphere within my head to my
surroundings attempting to recline in a half-assed solitude.

Who am I?
By Cesar Bahamonde

There's 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in one day, 7 days in a week, 12 months in a year,
and yet I still can’t concentrate on the fact i'm living in the moment.
Now 17 years later and here I am. I've always been expecting to be stress free after pretty much everything. A rough exam I
studied hard for, a rough breakup that i spent most of days thinking about, and that by next week I’ll be able to be happy. But
what is happiness ? What does it mean to be genuinely happy? For me to be happy it means to feel good, to have a certain
feeling where I feel like I am myself. Life, as you’ve been told or already know, is full of ups and downs, twists and turns.

Senior year gave me a downhill that I never thought was possible of happening. Throughout this year I’ve been
through an emotional rollercoaster with myself, I’ve been in constant war with myself, I wasn’t myself this year. I’ve always
heard people speak about how they would “find themselves” in high school, I always thought that was so ironic until it
happened to me. Senior year explained to me that there are two things that are essential to a successful life, make yourself
priority and think day by day.

I consider myself someone who cares for all, who cares for others, who wants to put others before them. My family,
my friends no matter what i would have to do, anything to please them and just them. There would be times I would do
things that didn't make me happy at all, but as long as it satisfied the other person. I ended up tricking myself into thinking
that by making others happy I would be happy.

However it got to a certain extent where i was simply not happy with my actions. I was trying to make other people
happy when I wasn't focusing on how happy I was. Why did I do that? Why didn't I care about myself?

I would wake up sweating and panting in the middle of night, feeling nothing but my wet sadness. Shaking, steps
away from my school knowing that the people that I would try so hard to make happy didn't want me in their lives. I'd be
anxious sitting in class, seeing them happy without me, while I was miserable and depressed. I was making other people
happy and giving them my all, when in return I got hatred and lies. No one is worth making you upset, no one.

Sure, senior year is suppose to be the best year of your life, but mine was honestly the worst year i've had in so
long. However , I learned so much from this one year that i wouldn't trade it for the world. I think i finally learned how to be
happy. Just always remember, that at the end it'll all be okay, and if it's not okay then it's not the end.

Am I ready for this?

6

By Neil Balazon

It was an utterly cold winter day. I dig inside my pocket with my corrupt hands fetching out my overly sized wallet.
I sigh. Nothing but ids and an over-used debit card to hide my pain.

Am I ready for this?
I recall back to the conversation I had with my parents. Voices echoing inside my head trying to teach me simple life
lessons--but to no avail. Being the stubborn person that I was I knew I would not listen.
Am I ready for this?
I was always used to everything being handed to me. Growing up the youngest in the family defined me my whole
life. I was that typical spoiled obnoxious kid who got whatever he desired.
Am I ready for this?
And the success of my brothers added even more pressure on me. Growing up I was always compared to them. I
remember the admiration and the respect they received and the discomfort I felt being known as “Jayson or Ervin’s little
brother”.
Am I ready for this?
This ate me alive for quite a while. I wanted to be known as my own person and not live under the shadow that was
casted over me; but it was tough. I knew I had to make a name for myself. Do things that no one has ever seen or expected.
Be original, be unique and honestly just be myself.
Am I ready for this?
Elementary through middle school was hard since my brothers were well known there. But I knew once I entered
high school it would be different and I would finally develop into my own shell. And this is exactly what happened, no one
knew my brothers and in school I was known as my own person. I gained confidence in myself as a person and went from a
shy kid to someone totally opposite.
Am I ready for this?
As I enter my last days of high school who knows where I will be in the future, what I will do for a living, or even if
I’ll have a family of my own. But all I can do is be thankful; thank you all; the ones that left along the way, the ones that
stayed and even the ones who doubted me my whole life.
I am ready for this.

A Smile
Erlina Cahyadi

Growing up, my mother always told me “being beautiful doesn’t make you happy, but being happy makes you
beautiful.”

For many happiness is just a smile, a way to show off beauty and bliss. In actuality, a smile is simply an upward
stretch of the lips. How can it be utilized to exhibit someone’s happiness or appreciation? However, the moment I saw those
waning crescents sitting across each visage—in the streets, in photos, in the televisions—I finally understood. I
instantaneously assumed it was because they were always smiling—they were always happy; they were always beautiful,
with the creases forming on the sides of their glistening glassy eyes.

Happiness was what everyone really wanted to see. At the time, my five foot self wanted to be happy as well, so I
shadowed those around me—thinking I could fit in, thinking I could eventually be happy and thinking I could be beautiful
too. It worked for a while, but soon after, I started feeling like a programmed robot, almost inhuman. I wanted a real reason to
smile. I wanted a real reason to be happy. I wanted to be human.

It was as if I was lost in a dark enclosed maze struggling to find the light at the seemingly endless tunnel. It felt as if
I were destined to be left shivering on my own. While everyone else was outside of the maze, I was left on my own to fend
for myself. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t be with everyone else. I couldn’t understand why I was isolated from the
happiness.

Then at that moment I had found my mother—the woman who I looked up to every single day, the woman that
cared for me since I was born, the woman that gave me life—sobbing by herself in a gloomy corner of the maze. I couldn’t
comprehend what was happening—minutes ago I had just seen my mother shining as bright as the reflections of the sun on
the open waters, outside of the maze, reflecting her joy and happiness onto others. She was beautiful. She was happy. I was
happy. We were happy. What had happened?

At that moment I had no idea what to do. I started thinking about what she would do, if I was in her position. I came
to her, offered a warm blanket of embrace, and joined her in creating sparkling oceans around us.

This was the moment when I realized that not all smiles sounded of joy, laughter, and of childhood dreams. I
realized that she was hiding her pains, her struggles, her life, just like I was. She realized that she was not alone. I realized
that I was not alone. In my eyes, she was this amazing woman, but she wasn’t truly happy. She realized that I wasn’t truly
happy. But when we found out that we had each other, we were stronger than ever. We broke through the cold metal walls
that enclosed our hearts and minds from the human feelings we truly desired. That moment was the moment when we were
the most happiest, when we were the most beautiful—when we were together.

7

Uneasiness
By Clarissa Centurion

The world around me revolved amongst fancy facades and fierce people who eagerly awaited the trials and traumas
that the day withheld. The girl stood upon the freshly finished sidewalk. She vividly relived all that had occurred in her life.

June 10, 2004. She was back in her selfless ways when the only delight dwelled in learning to multiply.
May 13, 2016. The girl resided on the sidewalk—the sidewalk paced here, paced there.
The world around her rapidly was consumed by the jubilance from couples who smiled, laughed and proclaimed
their rosy love for each other. Their adoration swept through, under, and all around the town. For she began to crave a love so
deep yet so far from her reach—love paced here, paced there.
The world around her was fantastically filled with mothers and their beloved daughters whom she proclaimed “te
amo, mi hija.” Yet, the girl found herself unsatisfied and suffocated with the endearing love. As her mother held her in her
hefty arms she emotionlessly gave a quick grasp back—the distressed mother paced here, paced there.
As the girl sat alone on the soothing bus ride home, she quickly was deafened by the overwhelming admiration—
cheerful friends, high school sweethearts here and there—mocking her very existence. The girl scanned the amicable people
trying to conclude where she had gone wrong. Was it my appearance? Was it my ego? The girl wanted to stand out yet was
so willing to conform to the social norm. The girls’ uncertainty dripped off her diluted face—as she sought after the very
thing that didn't even know her name—desperation pace here, pace there.
The girl attempted to dissect and diagnose the mannerisms of the masked mankind—such glee, glory. So bizarre
what a little love absorbed from another can do. The girl scavenged rapidly—Bob, Tom, John—none could elate the
euphoria within her—impatience paced here, paced there.
Love. “So overrated,” my friend proclaimed. Although she had already met her companion, the endless pit of pity
for me was viciously eating me away. All the girl wanted was the very thing she could not control—who would soon fall in
love with her. There she stood stagnantly awaiting the satisfying lover that one day would unto her way.

I Can See Again
By Tiffany Chau

“Mommy, I wish I had glasses…they look cute,” I whined. Ahh…the innocence of eight year old me.
I thought about my early desire for a pair of glasses—soon regretting that my wish came true. Everything became a
blur a cloudy mist of color. Sitting anxiously in the white, bare room, the optometrist shined a white flash of light through
my pupils. I sat there covering one eye with one hand I uttered “A, B, C, D, E, F, G”, whispering the letters of the alphabet
as if I were still in elementary school.
“Miss Chau…you need glasses,” exclaimed the optometrist. I felt the glass of my unborn glasses shatter across my
face—I got up and left the rusted, cracked, black cold chair.
The clear, open glass case—reflecting back not into my eyes, but onto my invisible lenses. What frame should I
choose? Cat eye, diamond, round, heart, square? What color should I choose? Black, blue, green, red? This could change my
life forever.
Spotting people around me wear glasses makes me not want to approach them—what if I become unapproachable? I
could just imagine the infinite amount of inconveniences I would have to face wearing glasses daily. This would last until the
day my grave reaches out, and calls for me. My lenses would occasionally fog up on a cloudy day, and raindrops would glide
down the glass, as the wind attacks my face. When someone taps on my lenses, I would undergo what a fish would endure
bearing confinement inside of a fish tank.
No one wants to be considered having “four-eyes”. And besides, it’s not considered supermodel status when you are
walking the runway with “bug-eyes”. Do you ever see supermodels wearing glasses? No! They wear contact lenses, or they
probably got Lasik eye surgery. No! They were probably blessed with perfect vision, because they have “wings!”
“Miss did you choose a pair yet?” the lady in red commented.
“Not yet,” I sighed.
“Here, why don’t you try out one that has your prescription first, to see if it suits your needs,” she declared.
I tried on the bulky, black, bug-eyes the doctors office was no longer white and bare, but it was yellow, orange,
and green.

My Canvas
By Amy Chen

8

The window to my right has an opening. Whoosh. The fresh breeze kisses my cheeks and flirts with my hair.
Mixtures of greens, blushes, and peaches characterize the blur as I focus on the diverse composition outside. Inside, the
barista elegantly pours the milk into my latte. The smooth lines slide abruptly down to their own world. I am sitting here with
my hands warmly hugging the weightless cup; across from me, my friend appreciates the presentation of her drink as we
converse about our plans after high school.

I take a little sip. For a moment, we were on the topic of studying abroad and enriching our learning experiences and
for a moment, chirps and chatters come and clear—fading away as the tranquil silence covers. A man reads in his own
bubble, driving himself into the depths of his book. A brewer takes his next order from an already inebriated customer.

A moment to observe and absorb is a moment I do not take for granted. In this moment, rambunctious walls and
trembling doors do not exist. I led out a calm, insightful sigh.

She writes her analysis on Darnay’s revival while I begin to synthesize feathery strokes on my sketch paper, yet
unsure about what to draw. As I allow the pen to move freely, I think about creating iridescent colors and everlasting
contrasts with broken, yet connected lines.

I look around once more—possibly to gain inspiration.
“What can I draw? What should I draw?” I think to myself as my friend naturally finishes writing her sentence.
My thoughts seem to follow that there is a story behind even the simplest thing. My surroundings are my canvas. A
drip of warm caramel color drops onto my paper—I let it run. I like to make observations, for only I can see the world
through my own eyes.

A Thank You Letter
By Xin Yi Chen

Shyness, speechlessness, and anxiety are always engulfing my mind for almost my entire life. I had an extremely
low self-esteem because of the language barrier. It portrayed as a sharp needle that always penetrating my throat every time I
couldn’t express myself. Just speak. Just speak. The inner voices in my mind are echoing quietly but barely do anything. I
was an undiscovered wild flower that wanted to blossom but unfortunately, could not. Something was always holding me
back. Until I entered in the Maspeth High School, for the first time I felt accepted from the teachers and friends of my
weakness. I had been discovered and nourished by the community of the Maspeth High School into a better person.
Sometimes all the encouraged words from the teachers can lead to my guilt because I see my tiny improvement might
disappoint them; however I wouldn’t quite anymore and be courage to embrace my imperfection. My inner voices gradually
become confident and loud that stimulate me to become a more sociable person and venturous enough to express my beliefs
in front of people because of this school. It grants me hope and courage by its goodness, truth, and beauty.

Thank you, Maspeth. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your time. Thank you for staying behind to help
me. Thank you for keeping me company on camp when no one else was there. Thank you for not embarrassing me in front of
my friends. Thank you for explaining things until I understand. Thank you for making me do my best. Thank you for being
part of my memories and it turns out to be most precious and inerasable memories of mind. Shyness, speechlessness, and
anxiety gradually turn to confidence, optimism and comfortableness because of you.

Ran Hard
By Celine Cielo

The air was moist, the September sun was raging amongst our bruised bronzed skin. The urge to triumph was
implanted into our DNA. My heart was racing out of my chest as I glanced down to see the rugged ball resting below my
injured knee. The growing fear in the back of my head was the anchor that caused me to be immobile -- “should I make a run
for the goal? Should I risk it? What if my knee gives out again?” All these questions rattled my mind but there was one
thought that stood out of all of them -- no regrets.

I ran hard.
The roadrunner suddenly dashed down the field ignoring the sharp shooting pains it felt. I could not live with myself
if I did not at least try. What did I have to lose?
I ran hard.
The sultry wind played with my hair, the sultry wind slapped my face as I zipped down the field, the sultry wind
stripped me of my fears. As I got closer, I could feel a pair of lens hovering over me as they awaited my moment of failure --I
wasn't going to give it the satisfaction.
I ran hard.
I could hear the wailing of the pair of lens telling each other to stop me, to trip me, to do anything in their power to
allow me to fail. “No la dejes meter un gol”, they said but the speed of sound was not fast enough. I saw the sweat droplets
dripping off their temple, the heavy breaths escaping their chest, the narrowed eyebrows filling with rage and determination
as I dashed right past them.
I ran hard.

9

My target was in plain sight. I shot.
I ran hard.

Endless
By Nicole Ciron

What, where, why. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know where I want
to go. I don’t know why I don’t have the answers. I’m on our balcony of this gigantic cruise and I’m zoning out into the
ocean. What do I see? Well there’s the beautiful pink sky, cotton ball clouds, and perfect blue water but what I see is an
endless body of uncertainty.

Engulfed by water on each and every side and no sense of direction. We are swiftly gliding across the ocean and
time is running carelessly – but our view stays still. The sun crawls down and we savor its warm and fading glow but still
there is that endless body of uncertainty.

Attempting each day to have answers, to know what’s next, to finally touch the warm and radiant glow but it feels
like we are a standstill. We don’t know what’s up ahead, when we will see land, when we can grasp that glow but what I do
know is that I don’t know. The view remains unchanged, we sit, we stare and there still is that endless body of uncertainty.

We can’t seem to advance and I can’t seem to get away – or rather it’s all just me. I can’t seem to advance and I
can’t seem to get away. I am stuck. I am lost. What is behind this endless body is unknown just as how I don’t know what
I’m going to do tomorrow or what I’ll be doing in ten years. Our eyes can only see so much and unfortunately my mind isn’t
a five star psychic. I am sitting here staring out at the deep blue, sparkling, and crisp body hoping to figure out my destination
but there isn’t one. The tide may rise, the sky may rumble, the waves may roar but I remain unmoved staring at the
endless body of uncertainty.

I can’t meet deadlines, I can’t give you an answer, I can’t just mystically appear at the finish line. Sitting there as I
stare at the swaying water, the flying mist, and the fighting waves I think about how I eventually need to get up and face it
all. What is in front of me isn’t going to figure itself out or fall into place on its own. I need to commit. I need to figure out
what I want to do. I need to dig out the answers to my questions and unravel my path through this endless body of
uncertainty.

I finally get up since sitting here, glued to the constant view isn't going to get me anywhere. The ship may have
traveled vast distances and has seen majestic sights but I’m still right where I began. This is when I discover answers that
were there all along. All I had to do was make one decision that I was certain of in order to evoke change. Change of view
and change of mind. To walk away from the endless body.

I may not be at my destination but at least I am no longer wandering in the endless body of uncertainty. In this
moment I can actually feel the warmth of the sun’s glow up against my burnt face. I am finally within reach of the glow.
Alas, I can see the beautiful pink sky, cotton ball clouds, and perfect blue water. I can simply appreciate what is in front of
me with no uncertainty to it. I see land - land of endless possibilities and certainty for what’s to come next.

Orange
By Juliana Feng

How do you know before peeling open an orange whether it is good or not? Do the sweet ones just scream out “I'm
Tasty!” or do they simply just blush the right shade of orange? Before greedily ripping apart the tenaciously tough skin of the
orange, is there a sign that indicates its sweetness?

Yellow, orange, brown—the colors that dot the orange—dictate its past. The brown blurts out the bumpy past of the
citrus fruit no matter how much it tries to hide. The orange opens your eyes and orders you to eat it. The yellow yells at you
to yield and wait for it to mature. The immature side, the mature side and the pained side—the three faces an orange chooses
to show somehow end up being the three faces that we choose to show our closest friends.

The orange—a simple fruit—is a reflection of ourselves. Although it has no reflective surfaces, it proves to reflect
us the best. We hide behind our shells and only wish for someone to take notice of our sweet and sour tang while maintaining
statuesque and poise. Through our masterfully painted gradients, shadows, and highlights, nobody really understands who we
really are. The scars from falling, the pain from laughing, and the will to grow are all shown and shared only to those we
truly trust.

If one looks closely at the skin of an orange when it is peeled, one can see how the orange is relentlessly fighting
and unwilling to let go of its precious skin. The lines of pectin cover each individual slice completely even when the fruit’s
initial defense has been penetrated. It takes a lot of dedication, determination, and time for one to clear the fruit of the pectin
that surrounds it completely and one is rarely actually able to accomplish just that. Thinking about the time it would take to
peel the orange as well as the time it would take to clean up the mess afterwards left me stuck staring at the fruit that was
staring back at me. The time it would take to peel and consume the possibly delicious fruit could be the time spent doing
something more productive. As the reflections of random conversations fling towards me, I stare philosophically down at the
carefully chosen fruit of the day on my table surrounded with my friends and ask, “Are you really worth it?”

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Gypsy
By Laura Ferris

My tailless little creature.
She sits there staring at me with her bright yellow eyes. She tilts her head sideways. A patch of grey on her snout
that stands out from the rest of her golden head that leads into her snow white chest. I call out to her: “Gyps.” She stretches
out her front legs, sticks her tailless behind in the air, and pounces onto my bed where I was lying. She gives a little “meow”.
She sits on my side and stares at me again with her bright yellow eyes. And again she gives a little “meow”. She urges me to
get up and chase her around the house.
My tailless little creature.
Now, restless, she playfully pats me with her perfectly precise painted white paw. Laying on her back, facing the
ceiling, she turns her grey and golden body over, her chest whiter than the first snowfall. Her head leans towards mine. I
place my hand on the purest chest. She grabs my hand and starts to chew on them. She tilts her head the other way and with
her bright yellow eyes, she looks straight through me and sees what no other can. She sees the blackest of winter and the
whitest of summer. She sees what no other can fathom the thought of. She feels what no other can feel. She knows what no
other will know.
She knows everything.

The Happiest Day of My LIfe
Justin Galarza

I had just walked into the building. Everyone was scurrying to get to where they need to be before the bell. When I
swiped in I heard the tune you hear once you hear once a year in this place; the tune that plays when it’s your special day. I
have never heard it before since I always took this day off; however, today was not the average day.

I was not expecting to get anything from anyone but one of my closest friends told me to go to school because she
had a surprise for me and I also had one for her as well.

When the time came to meet her in the hallway I leaned against the wall and waited for her. She decided to sneak up
on me and hug me from the back. I turned around and saw her holding a big gift bag with its contents covered by tissue paper
that crinkled when the bag moved.

She handed me the bag and said that she didn’t know what to get me for my birthday but she hoped that I liked it. I
took out the gift I had for her and it was smaller compared in size but I was sure it would mean just as much to her.

I expressed to her that I was not expecting anyone to even know what today was and that if someone got me
something I would love it just as much as my Xbox. After that we exchanged gifts since Christmas was in two days and we
would be busy with the holidays. I hugged her once more, thanked her for being the best friend I could ever ask for and with
that she scurried off to class. I thought to myself “she is so cute” and smiled on my way to class.

In class I decided to peak into the gift bag and I saw something black. It was furry, stuffed, and had floppy ears.
Even though it’s not really my thing I knew instantly that it was the most meaningful gift I have ever gotten from anyone and
I would keep it forever. This was probably the happiest day of my life.

NO
By Johanna Garzon

Dodge one ball, dodge another… “Hit the ball with your hand and you’re out”, shouted Ms. Bitis loudly yet full of
enthusiasm. Hmmm… maybe I should hit the ball with my hand and maybe then I’ll get out of this stupid game! Jolting
passed me like a stampede of wild buffalo; the raging animals ran towards the rolling black and white ball full of hexagons.
As one runs swiftly across the wooden gym floor with his eye on the goal, whispering murmurs slowly turn into “oooo’s and
ahh’s”.

Suspense builds up as he nears the goal, it’s the same story all the time, he’ll make it in and his friends will be
waiting right next to the goal ready to congratulate the dictator of the game. As he strikes the ball into the net, I pull out my
mask of false amusement as I hide behind it with my true feelings of indifference. Walking on the side of the court ignoring
the stampede, I start to think of all the things I could be doing. I could be studying for a test I have next period, I could be
taking a good 40 min nap, or I could finally be reading Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects. Those are all the things I could be
doing if I had a free period; instead, I’m stuck walking back and forth following the stampede around while acting as if I’m
‘actively participating’.

“Yes I hit the ball!” exclaimed Luiza full of joy and pride.
“Good job!” I said as I gave her a high-five. As soon as I turned around I noticed myself surrounded by others. As
the others looked to the flying black and white ball in the sky, I took cover and put my hands over my head… don't be
ridiculous it’s just a ball. BOOM it was kicked to the left of my shoulder missing by an inch. BOOM it was then kicked
again but this time to the right of my shoulder. I ran away from the crowd with a quick squeal knowing that I don’t belong.

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I’ve always hated gym, or as teacher’s like to call it, ‘Physical Education’. Then I heard a sudden yell, “Come on
Johanna, move and try to kick the ball”, it was Ms. Bitis trying to encourage me from across the court. At that moment I had
sudden flashbacks of my third, sixth, and eighth grade gym teachers. My third grade one would shout, “Johanna, stop being a
turtle and try to win the race already!” little did he know that at the end of the story the turtle always wins. Then in sixth
grade the other shouted, “Get involved!” as my eighth grade one said, “Alright I get it, you don’t like sports, but can you at
least try for your teammates”.

These flashbacks came as quick as lighting. Little did I know that one day I would have to get involved in something
I dreaded, but it should be up to me to make the most out of it.

One day I’ll leave my ‘mask of false amusement’ and actually be amused.

Year I Hate Writing
By Wei Hao Guo

Writing is like trying to build an incomplete house; you never know where to begin. For once moment that I never
like writing or I don’t know how to start it. The thoughts are always something that stuck in my mind. But I saw other student
started writing. I felt left out as in a dark room. Because my mind was lost in the path where is no direction telling me where
to go.

I thought for a long time as for hour, for day, for week, for month, or year. I saved by the bell ring. However, my
pencil hasn’t even touched my paper. I was scared. I was too scared because I worried about writing complete structure for
my teacher told me to. I felt too afraid that even through if I did one wrong or one mistake when I know my teacher as mad
coach was going to scream at me. Just as like we lost the game and now my coach blame on me because I was not focusing
much on the game. I can’t do anything. It is all over. I think I really wish that if I can make my teacher do my work for me.
Nevertheless, it never going happen if I keep likes this way. I know that I will be writing for my entire life and even now. I
heard my thought was trying said something. “If you keep up like this, then will nothing change for you in the future.” My
thought was correct. I have doing something to fix myself.

I walk to the room of 309 for afterschool and I ask for help. This English teacher talk to me about during the class
that I am not doing any work. I told the English teacher about all my thought that what I was worried and it gives me lack of
confident. He said this to me, “I understand about you have a hard time writing. Forget about other student were writhing.
But it doesn’t matter if it is wrong. What matter it is complete done and finish.” I nodded, “Yes, I understand.” The English
teacher said this, “writing is something that you writing down from your own argument. Also, sometime it can be formula
structure.” He said, “If you ever doubt something then listen to heart and write down what you believe in.” I nodded again,
“Yes, I understand.” Suddenly I realize what he meant the word “heart” is something that I believe in. But I never doubt
anything. I don’t know what he really means. The only that I learn my lesson was it wasn’t matter if I make a mistake or
not. I will keep trying to get better. However, I am no longer scared anymore. I will keep writing to follow my long path
journey and intend to find my answer.

Home Away from Home
By Magdalena Jankowski

I take a seat at the table nearest to the street musicians.Violins melodiously speak the tune of “Szukaj Mnie”
(“Search for Me”, Polish song from 80’s) without ever saying a word. The accordion adds in, and suddenly the lyrics rush
back to me, “gdzie jestem, gdzie mnie nie ma, juz nie bardzo wiem” (where I am, where I’m not, I don’t really know). I
chuckle under my breath as I finally begin to piece together the meaning of this song that I’ve been aimlessly singing for
years.
I guess that’s one of the pieces I’ve been missing.

I look around me, the beautiful town square paved with bright colored bricks that lay the ground with elegance. My
eyes follow the path that I’ve danced down countless times when the stars were my guides during the perfectly tepid nights.
My roaming eyes stop when they spot the cathedral in all its incredible sophistication. I can’t help but stare at all the
goodness it stands for and think of all the pains it has seen. But then I remember all the early Sunday mornings I’d spent
there, hand in hand with my grandparents, and my smile can’t seem to get more sincere.

I guess that’s one of the pieces I’ve been missing.
I focus back to the overbearing excitement of the blonde haired children with tan faces and gleaming blue eyes.
Each and every syllable mispronounced of the “sz’s” (sh) and “cz’s” (ch) as they chase each other around the famous
Bialystok fountain. The fountain of what used to seem like miles in circumference when my cousins and I would dizzily run
around. The fountain where we’d always make sure to accidently fall in on perfectly sunny afternoons-- just like today.
I guess that’s one of the pieces I’ve been missing.
The waiter approaches my table in the most delicate manner. His uniform ironed from seam to seam, shoes perfectly
polished, and hair appropriately slicked back. Now where is this culture in the states, I think to myself as I grin.
“Czy moge cos dla Pani zaproponowac do picia?” (May I offer you anything to drink, Miss?) the waiter asks in the
most formal, yet tender voice.

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I answer him with deliberate focus on each accented syllable. He delightedly brings me a sleek glass fizzing with
Oranzada (cherry soda). Tss tss tss is all I can hear coming from a beverage that would be a daily necessity for me as a child.

I guess that’s one of the pieces I’ve been missing.
With every sip, I feel bubbles tickle my tongue and I can’t help but giggle. A sincere giggle-- just like the one I last
heard last summer.
I guess that’s one of the pieces I’ve been missing.
I sit there under the shining sun and ponder why I can’t seem to feel this specific bliss all the time. Why I can’t seem
to find solace back home. Home? The accordion continues to bring me realization through its tune, “szukaj mnie… bo nie
wiem kiedy sama sie odnajde” ( search for me… because I do not know when I will find myself).
Then I realize, my pieces have fit together to paint one picture… my home away from home-- my missing pieces in
one piece. My home.

Dancing Flames
By Hafsa Khan

My feet were glued to the cement floor as I watched the furious flames dance before my eyes. The smoke clouded
around me forming a thick shield, perhaps protecting me from catching a glimpse of what lay in front. The thundering noise
of sirens neared and I felt myself being shoved as muscular men in heavily armed gear frantically scurried to save everything
from being turned to ash. In the midst of raging orange and yellow chaos, I grasped onto my mom’s finger tightly and looked
up one last time hoping to catch a hint of what was once a beautiful brick abode; however, all I saw were my childhood
memories being engulfed in black flames. The house that I grew up in was ablaze.

The innocent rosy walls of my room were now replaced with charred darkness. What was once my sanctuary was
now nothing but a room full of void memories – or perhaps it was all destined to be? Perhaps the flawlessly symmetrical
faces of my countless Barbie’s melted away for a reason, only later to be replaced by polished metal trophies that I treasured
just as dearly. Perhaps the numerous coloring books I stacked up in my room turned to ash, only later to be replaced with the
various AP and SAT books. Perhaps it occurred because I needed a push into the kind of world where responsibilities parade
above your head and you need to tackle each one head on. Perhaps the fire signified a new chapter in my life. And so,
although the purging flames snatched a massive chunk of my childhood away from me, they motivated me to move onto
other things – far better things; they motivated me to look onward and upward and required me to leap into the world of
responsibilities with full force.

A couple weeks ago, I found myself walking towards the clock tower in the picturesque campus of Queens College.
I stood in front of it and looked up as the sun’s golden rays beamed at me from above providing a sense of warmth and
comfort. In that moment, I remembered the fire – the fire that gave off the same warmth but stole a piece of me in return and
that’s when I knew that this was the right place for me. The fire that once took my childhood away and helped me discover
my way into adulthood now unintentionally also helped me make a significant decision in my life – a decision that was going
to either make or break me. I glued my worn-out white converse to the cement floor and chuckled lightly because I knew – I
knew that I will be back here this fall to set things ablaze.

The Pursuit of Happiness
By Vincent Lam

The pursuit of happiness, a constitutional right given by our forefathers, yet there are so many people who seldom
make use of this liberty.

Why?
People race, working so hard to make money that they often forget to enjoy life.
But then again, what is happiness?
Scientifically speaking happiness is the release of dopamine in the brain triggered by an event which creates that
jovial feeling.
Actually, happiness can be found in anything. Many people have their own unique definition of what bliss is—
eating delicious food, receiving an A-plus, hanging out with friends. All these types of pleasure are hidden within our lives,
but none of them were the kind I desired. I, like many, had not experienced true happiness yet. I wanted a joy that could take
my breath away, and leave me in awe; the kind joy a skydiver experiences jumping out the plane, the kind of joy a chef
experiences zipping around the kitchen creating a delicious masterpiece, the kind of joy a figure skater experiences gliding
around on the ice and landing a triple axel, that's what I sought out.
True happiness lies within everyone; however it remains dormant in a common 9-5 day. I am methodical. I scarcely
changed my schedule—wake up, go to school, eat, homework, sleep—a never ending cycle. I rarely went out to do
something different, I just didn’t have the time or energy.
One day I decided to make a change simply because I was free and bored. So I went to the bustling streets of
Manhattan standing there like a tourist, soaking up all the sounds and smells. The subway trains screeched on the track, the
droning of the speakers telling everyone to stand clear of the closing doors hypnotized, the aroma of hot dogs and honey

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roasted nuts polluted the air, this is New York. Dozens of people shoulder to shoulder passed by, rushing to get home from
work, dead set on their destinations. I had no idea where I wanted to go. I just wandered and explored—around every street
corner was a new scene waiting to be discovered. I felt content in what I was doing, learning new things and seeing new
sights, it gave me an indescribable thrill. I felt like a mad scientist toying with his concoctions fiending for new reactions.

That's it! Or Eureka! as Archimedes would have exclaimed.
Life is not about what you do know, it’s about what you don’t know. It’s like space, yes, what we are able to observe
is exciting, but what we aren’t able to observe, what we can’t see, that mystery, that’s the most exhilarating part of life.
Uncovering the unknown and learning new things, that is my happiness. Finally, the smog of uncertainty engulfing the jewel
of happiness within me was no longer a mystery, for the first time in my life I was happy.
If you’re reading this and have not yet found your true happiness I leave you one question: when was the last time
you did something for the first time?

CIA Agent, Ready for Action!
By Kianna Lamourt

Today was the day agent Lamourt will complete the ultimate mission: Operation Feed That Cat! As quick as a
cheetah and as agile as a lioness, she furtively scoped out the area. COAST CLEAR. No invaders, no secret attackers, or
ninjas in jet black super suits out to get her. Most importantly though, there was no mingy grandmother to stop her from
pulling through.

The unwavering window in grandma’s kitchen just awaited Agent Lamourt, eager to allow her to execute the
mission. Day or night, spring or fall, rain or shine, it’d very likely spot a few stray kittens through grandmas kitchen window.
Some had thick zebra stripes print stained up their spines and tummys. Others were as white as the sweet scented Johnson
and Johnson baby powder. Then there was one, dark as charcoal, with murky fur and stiffening xanthous eyes- that one’s
name was Night. Some day’s agent Lamourt would see one or two of those cute little kittens. Other days momma cat with all
her kitties were visibly and anxiously purring what sounded like, “Feedddd meeeeee” right outside of grandmas window. Yet
no matter how many kittens were outside, practically meowing the agent’s name, she always made sure Operation Feed That
Cat –grandma’s food- was always a go!

With ease, she sank low to the floor and made way towards her secret weapon which, of course was grandma’s cold
cuts. Provolone, cheddar, mozzarella, turkey, ham, all in great abundance! Lamourt would catch herself mumbling aloud
“Night likes provolone cheese but Marty doesn’t, so I guess I’ll take the cheddar too. Ugh but Sugar doesn’t even like cheese,
so I guess I’ll bring her turkey, she likes turkey. Okay. Provolone for Night, cheddar for Marty, and turkey for Sugar…”.
After shed assign one cheese to one cat and one meat to another, Operation Feed That Cat was ready for action! But wait.
*flap-boom-flap-boom* *THUMP* *THUMP* You could hear the fear instilling flapping flip flops pounding the 1970’s
wood panels, practically breaking the floor, zooming closer and closer to agent Lamourt. Oh no, Grandma caught me! My
fearful fingers froze around the pastrami, and the sweat from my forehead sliced my blushing cheeks. She caught me. The
meow’s of all 60,000 kittens, awaiting their cold cuts, increased in sound. With her stern stature and irate look in her wrinkly
eyes, she ripped the cheddar slice from the agent’s hands and started her 40 minute bilingual lecture, “Ay pero Kianna Lee,
why can’t ju listen to me! They won’t leaf you alone! Ahora necessita decid a tu mama what you did porque ju don’t respek
me! Once años and ju swear ju are an adult!”

She went on and on exclaiming the deceptions of her granddaughter, but as she rambled on, the agent’s focus went
elsewhere. Still steady on feeding the cats, Lamourt scoped out pantry and alas, found herself a scapegoat. The loaf of bread
was waiting there, anxious to be fed to the kittens. From that moment on, grandma’s ongoing lectures, became the agent’s 3
second pep-talks, and made her use her cat feeding skills victoriously; Operation Feed That Cat was executed in full
effect…for today.

She Never Left
By Daniela Laska

I found her in the grid like organized dish towels in the second shelf under the kitchen island. She always made sure
my clothes were as neatly folded as her dish towels were. I found her in the neat display of photos, each frame a significant
distance away from another––perfectly coordinated. She had pictures of all her children and grandchildren, but for every
picture of someone, there were two of me. I found her in the vivid pleasant smelling soaps––taking shapes of hearts and
creatures––arrayed alongside the bathtub. She was 62 yet her youth and inner child remained. I found her in the lustrous egg-
shelled colored curtains etched with a vast majority of spirals and curves. She would ask for my opinion on whether the
curtains matched the theme of the room, if not then she would change them. I found her in the assortment of festive two-
toned teacups that she served guests tea in on multiple occasions. She was a social and talkative person, the room filled with
her booming laughter and dramatic tales. I found her in the tasteful elegant skirts that loosely hugged the hangers. She always
matched her skirts the color of her necklace. I found her in the cold but delicate and exquisite selection of pearls in her
jewelry box. She preferred gold but felt that a woman should have a wide selection of jewelry. I found her in her handwriting,
neatly floating on the back of photographs––the year and location on the back of each one. She would constantly nag at me

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stating that my handwriting was just a jumble of scribbles. I found her in the resplendent selection of orchids showcased
alongside the window sill. She valued her plants, always calling me to help her.

I found her not just in things that are materialistic but in the silent sobs of my grandfather. This reminded me that it
wasn’t just me who loved her so deeply. I found her in the kind words expressed by neighbors. This reminded me that she
was loved by many. I found her at church, the priest asking to pray for her during Sunday mass. This reminded me that she
was a religious woman and expected me to be the same way. I found her in laughs of her friends who reminisced on all the
adventures they used to have. This reminded me that she was someone who took risks and had no regrets. I found her in the
stories of her children, who exchanged stories of how she scolded them in their youth. This reminded me that she was a great
mother.

Despite people telling me that she is gone I continue to find her in a variety of places. Despite people telling me that
she is gone, she found me. I feel her watch over me; she is not gone. My grandmother never left.

Hear
By Rapha Lauren

It takes just one motion, one swing, and one swipe for the melodious sounds of our works to pierce through the veils
of silence lurking around the entire room. It is by our own hands that our masterpieces are made entirely anew; they bring
forth emotion, influence, and satisfaction to those that hear our performances. I remember playing many wonderful pieces
ever since the beginning; the class that came together with me became the firm basis of our resolute might. However, as we
draw near the end of the horizon, the musical quality starts to deteriorate—I now know nothing of the sounds that were once
in possession of us.

It has been a great year in Maspeth, all of us with our own memorable, exciting, and extraordinary highlights; we
make the sounds that let us all hear our own adventurous tales. Now, as I step towards to try the taste of college trends, I will
never forget an endearing friend—who holds a special place in my heart—producing the sounds that lie on the strings as I
begin to depart.

Only a matter of time before I hear the sounds fade into irrelevance. Should I be sad to hear that our journey is
almost over? No, as a matter of fact, I’m quite joyous actually. With all of us coming to an end of school days—our last
masterpiece is made simply with portraits of our smiles.

When I Last had a Quiet Night
By Aiden McCurdy

In a city like New York it’s hard to find a quiet night.
For someone who wasn’t used to the light pollution and amplified sirens that seem to come from Manhattan, I
missed the stars, crickets chirping, and the peaceful nights that were filled with memory.
This backyard became what I was looking for quiet, stars, and a friend. We lay on the concrete with sheets and
blankets that made the ground just bearable to lie upon for hours.
Six became nine that became a sleep over because the time wouldn’t stay still for a minute but that’s okay; there
were more nights to come.
While the stars are still hard to see, we enjoyed what we could see. The quiet was comfortable, warm, and
meaningful.
You told me you wish we could stay like this forever and that’s what it felt like, something that could last forever. I
honestly want one more night like this with you before I go.
But I’ve come to learn, nothing lasts forever.

Vignette
By Jainam Mehta

It is exactly 8:16pm Eastern Seaboard time. Vahe has just messaged me “I still got nothing for this vignette :/.” It is
very strange; I thought he would have written about his pie eating competitions or maybe even his excessive visits to Boston.
I will say this assignment might be one of Mr. Kwon’s most tedious tasks.

8:17pm Eastern Seaboard time. I reply back, a white page with a blinking cursor, “Thas all I got” and “I been sitting
here for the entire day.” That’s a complete lie – the vignette has been on the back of my head the entire day and instead I
spent the day watching a rather cheesy India flick. “Excuse me, there is a message for you.” Vahe responds, “Same.”

Oh shit. I have to make the brownies for tomorrow. The thought of buying something on my way to school sounded
enticing but the students at the school have gotten smarter. Buying a donut for a dollar is cost inefficient when twelve donuts
can be bought for san dollars. Wait, why did I just say three in Mandarin? Never mind that… “Mom, brownie mix ka muku
che?” (Yo mommy, sup, what’s good, where da brownie mix at)

“Tane kaa lage che.”(Why you so stupid, be more like your brother, and also it is in the kitchen honey)
I race from my room to the kitchen. Much like a vulture, I scavenge the room plucking up supplies. Brownie Mix,
check… Medium size bowl, check… Baking pan, check… Measuring cup, check… wire whip, check, and finally with one

15

magnificent swoop, water, oil, butter, and an egg. An egg, I don’t have that – my swoop falls tragically short and I lose sight
of my meal. I don’t want to ask my irritable neighbor and I don’t want to buy an entire box of eggs that I will never use.
“Supplements,” I said, those work, I think.

“Ok Google… supplements for eggs” A gratuitous amount of choices come up – I could use flour and milk, plain
yogurt, flax seeds, and many more. Which one do I use? The easiest one to find is plain yogurt. I jerk open my fridge and
empty its contents until I discover what I am seeking. The fridge casts a spotlight on the yogurt, ever so ready for the duet
with the brownie mix.

9:05pm Eastern Seaboard time. All whipped up and ready, I carefully placed the brownie mix into the oven. “Ok
Google, set a timer for thirty minutes.”

9:15pm Eastern Seaboard time. “Ok Google, what is a vignette?” The only thing that is on all the websites is the
word: snapshot. So old photos might help. I helplessly squander through old photos looking for an idea, any sort of spark.

9:30pm Eastern Seaboard time. The blinking LED on my phone grasps my attention as I walk into my room. 2
messages from Vahe:
9:12pm: “I still got nothing” and “This is so upsetting xD.”

I reply back, “Word I’ve been looking through old photos to see something that I might want to write bout.” I catch
a glimpse of the my computer, still a blank white page. Despite my procrastination I had hoped that what the elves had done
for the cobbler, they would have done for me – cobbled up a very lengthy and promising vignette.

9:31pm Eastern Seaboard time. Vahe messages “XD.”
Three minutes later the smell of delicious, home baked brownies reaches my room. The aroma causes my brain to
properly assess the situation. And then I begin typing…
It is exactly 8:16pm Eastern Seaboard time…

Do I Belong Here?
By Susanna Nitchman

The steely gray streets of the city wield angry people who slash by me in cars and on foot.
The pavement provides close proximity to purchasing power for provisions.
But in the dead of night, the cacophony of motors interjects my train of life.
Do I belong here?

The green of nature hugs my being possessively, unwilling to give me up.
My eyes breathe it in and my nose sees a fresh, open world.
The lull of the birds washes over me as I drown in the tall grass.
Do I belong here?

My white school is bursting at the seams with hundreds of minions,
Some fighting to get to their next class on time—others fighting against the rules;
The difference distracts me as I stumble to my next destination.
Do I belong here?

The dirty wooden stable sounds of happy horses, rhythmic hoofbeats, and peace.
Desperation screams at me to be brave and become a better rider;
But the layer of grime and cuts that hug my body after another fall mutes it.
Do I belong here?

The urban church, so gray with its cloud of chatter, but a bubble of silence encircles me.
Videos from a recent past, crawling through time, attempting to connect with the present,
Peers who embrace me, but leave no warmth in their wake.
Do I belong here?

The rural church, awake and gushing with a bright orange glow of a new start.
Face-to-face contact, jovial “hello’s” and genuine “how are you’s”;
People with a genuineness that echoes throughout the walls of the building and my heart.
Do I belong here?

Life swirls before me in a myriad of sounds and actions,
The world changing the view every so often,
Opening my mind up to the possibilities of a different life.
Can I belong here?

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The Sounds of My Future
By Chaia Ona

Beep. Beep. Beep. The dull, monotonous tone of the IV monitor screamed in my ears. I was confined again; I was
imprisoned again. With sharp needles, cold tiles, and dimmed, fluorescent lights, the hospital welcomed me back – a
vacation, a home away from home. White linens that felt soft like a puppy’s coat, yet coarse like a cardboard box, encased
my sickly self. It was another day in paradise.

Pitter. Patter. Pitter. Patter. The echoing footsteps outside my room distracted my empty thoughts. Another
unfamiliar face walked in, claiming to be my doctor. I named her Doctor Number 6… of the day. She did what she had to do
– a routine she’s performed a million and one times. Looking at her stress-ridden, color-drained, emotionally-numb
expression, I knew exactly who I did not want to be when I grew up.

Tick. Tick. Tick. She flicked the syringe effortlessly, making me cringe. Another dose of some unknown liquid I’ll
never bother to learn about. I rolled my eyes with every metal she stabbed me with; she poked me with several needles that
after the third one, I became immune to them – if only it was the same with my sicknesses. I don’t think Doctor Number 6
knew just how much power she held between her twiddling fingers, either.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The next few days flew by with the same sounds, same sheets, same shit. It wasn’t until my
second week in the hospital that all the sounds became calming, the sheets became crisp, and the shit became cool. I think it
might’ve been Doctor Number 4 (of the day) that changed my mind about the environment that I once perceived as
depressing, lonely, and isolated. She came in the room with every hue of the spectrum shooting rays out of her slender body
that it was almost blinding. She greeted me with the widest smile that showed just how much she loved her job. Performing
each task with such grace, care, and patience, she made me feel comfortable – a feeling that the other doctors never instilled
upon my deteriorating being. I was amazed at how differently she executed her job from the others; I was amazed at how she
made my perspective do a complete 180.

Leaving the hospital after almost a month, I was a completely different person. My last days consisted of finding a
newfound appreciation for the people and the environment around me that every minor injury that I would have in the future
made me want to go back. I was no longer bothered by the needles, the tiles, and the lights. I greeted everybody with as much
enthusiasm as Doctor Number 4 showed me. I learned that my own emotions reflected upon those that interacted with me,
which explained why the past doctors seemed nonchalant, indifferent, or careless. Once my attitude changed, everything fell
into place. I wanted to learn about every unknown liquid that they pumped through my veins, every medical term that always
went unexplained, and every step for every process that a doctor needed to take. I knew exactly who I wanted to be when I
grew up.

Rise
By Melanie Orozco

Whoever came up with the brilliant idea to picture the audience in their underwear when speaking in public was full
of crap. Not only is my entire body still shaking like a junkie going through withdrawals and my face still burning with the
fire of a thousand suns, but now I also have a seriously unpleasant vision of the kids in the front row.

I try to act normal, even though my hands are doing that weird twitching thing again. When did that even become a
thing, I think to myself. I mean sure, I've always been awkward in social situations and nervous when put on the spot, but to
lose control of my body and feel helpless in front of an audience is definitely a whole other level. I concentrate and try to
channel my inner Dr. Phil. Could I trace this back to some kind of dramatic childhood social ostracization or torment?
Probably. Could my stupid insecurities and fear of looking like an idiot fuel my anxiety? Well, yeah; that's textbook. I've
always felt like I—

“Melanie? We’re waiting for you.”
Crap. Okay. Here goes nothing.
“Okay... so...I’m doing an excerpt from Anthem...” My voice trails off. Its feeble sound startles me and sends a
shiver up my back, flashing the memory of a nervous little girl.
I recite one word. Literally a single word. And my voice cracks. It’s a weird mix of a crack and a choked sob. The
tears roll down like it’s a damn race, and my, are they competitive.
A heavy silence fills the room; I can feel every single pair of eyes shoot me a puzzled, sympathetic look. My teacher—
the one person who always knows what to say—stares blankly. I can’t stand here another second; I drag myself out of the
room and into the girl’s bathroom across the hall, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact until I find shelter in one
of its stalls. I rest my head against the stiff stall door, shut my eyes and take a deep breath, stupid tears still refusing to back
down. That went well, I chuckle lightly to myself.
The tears finally settle down, leaving streaks of my new maybelline mascara in their wake. What now? How do I
walk out of here and forget I just freaked out my entire English class? Or worse, myself? They’ll probably forget the whole
event by lunch, but I'm the one who has to stay behind to pick up the pieces. The sounds of chatter and quick footsteps fill the
hall behind the heavy bathroom door, indicating the end of the period and reminding me of the life beyond my stall. The
world stops for no one, huh? No matter how many times we fail—or embarrass ourselves, in my case—the clocks keep

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ticking, the earth keeps spinning, and the moon keeps setting to give the sun, and ourselves, the opportunity to rise again. But
your anxiety won’t just disappear, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind. Yeah I guess it won’t, but that doesn’t mean
I have to let it win, I yell back.

I wipe away what’s left of the ragged, black streaks and open the stall door. I abandon the girl’s bathroom and slip
into the peaceful chaos, falling into the world’s indispensable persistence in always pushing forward.

A Little Life
By Victoria Panata

The woman to my right cradled her head in the palms of her hands, gently whispering to herself what I could only
imagine were prayers to the Almighty.

The man in front of me, teary-eyed and adorned in leather skin, bore holes into the ceiling of the cart we mounted;
his eyes looked at the ceiling as if it were heaven, but all I found when I looked up ahead were scratches, dents, and the
remnants of the workers who sold their souls to build this train.

The door opened, and in came another batch of slaves; I smelled the grief, pain, and desperation off of them - though
that could’ve been my own stench - and made my way across their faces and bodies, assessing those who have been hurt by
the obstacles that lie outside of our present confinement.

The family to my far left - uncomfortably squished together - tirelessly shushed each other.
The adults of the group hissed at the screeching 5 year old, shoving a toy that had previously fallen onto the subway
floor into her mouth.
Her older sister helplessly tried to preoccupy the younger one, retaliating the glares her parents sent towards her with
a determined desperation to handle the baby girl. After a few moments, she gave up and flinched at the harsh scolding from
her parents.
The baby continued to scream.
I sighed and reached into my jacket pocket; I increased the volume of the music I was listening to.
“Ladies and gentleman, if you could please give me a moment to spare, my name is…” the advertiser, seeker, or
scammer began to say.
My eyes drifted towards my lap as I unsuccessfully pretended to convey a sense of indifference.
As I felt this man pass me by with a baseball cap turned outwards for donations, the phone in my pocket suddenly
felt heavier.
I thickly gulped at the faint noise of his pleas; he continued travelling across the cart, asking faces he’d never seen
before for help.
I stood up and looked around me.
The woman to my right gathered herself together.
The man in front of me stood up as well.
The family to my far left noisily shuffled to their feet.
The beggar placed the cap back onto his head.
The train conductor had announced our stop; it was time to leave.

The First
By Uros Petrovic

I feel my apprehensions wash away as the buzz of adrenaline takes over my body. I run the plays I practiced with
my coach, mentally anticipating my opponents even before they come into sight. The stage reeks of strange body odors, old
books, and feigned confidence; everyone is set and the seats are full. I make my way to my desk, politely greeting my
adversaries; I quickly discard my masks. Revealing a new version of my self, I try and expose the ruthless preparation to
subjugate those who oppose me. Weeks of reading studies and practicing my articulation in front of my bathroom mirror
have led me to this defining moment—thus, the round began.

Piece by piece, they decipher my arguments in search for the unique implications and then use that information to
lay out a framework necessary to conceptualize the resolution. Like gladiators, they set up an armor of contentions, carefully
choosing their words, knowing that they will be vital to defeating me. Like a well-oiled machine, my opponents worked in
unison searching for chinks in my armor. Then shape refutations as swords to cut at the cracks, exposing them to everyone
and ultimately delinking my faulty arguments from my case. Throughout the round, they switch from active speakers to
active listeners, carefully studying every claim I make, staying on their toes so as to use evidence, analyses, and logical
reasoning to strike me down.

As the round ends and the storm of passion within them subsides, all that is left is a young frustrated boy, confused
as to where things could have gone all wrong. With egotistical smirks across their faces, my adversaries look at one another
with confidence as focus shifts to the golden throne my judge sits atop. Finally receiving the thumb of approval indicating
their victory in argumentation and rhetoric.

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I reevaluate my notes as the mumbled voice of a judge tells me what I already knew-I lost. I look up and thank him
for his comments and leave the room. Head hung low, feeling as though I was falling between the cracks of loss; however I
quickly cleanse myself of these thoughts, realizing the value of this learning experience, realizing I had a team to help me
regain myself, realizing there was another round in a mere 10 minutes!

I look over my notes again and I see my mistakes and prepare for the next round. Once again the same buzz of
adrenalin takes over, and the same apprehensions wash away. I walk into the room knowing I could only lose so many times
before I start to win for myself and each loss is really just a new opportunity to discover something I didn’t know before.

Change
By Emily Rahaman

As I walked into the student welcome center of my university, I was struck with a series of mixed emotions.
Do I belong here?
Will I fit in?
The unreal feeling of stepping foot into the building I dreaded the most. This wasn’t my dream; it was my parents’
dream. All I could think about was my life in New York. The memories I had created would soon become a figment of my
imagination. The uncontrollable laughter I once had was now silenced as I walked further and further into the building.
“This school is incredible!” Shweta enthusiastically exclaimed.
I looked at her impassively wondering if I would ever come to loving this school as much as she did. I must admit,
it’s beautiful. Palm trees surrounding me at every angle possible and fountains glistening in the sun, does it get better than
this?
As we go on our tour around campus, the dubious feeling I previously felt started drifting away. The tour guides
made it feel like a safe haven for me, something I needed in order to feel comfortable. I finally thought, “This is the school
for me”.
“Change is inevitable”, I thought to myself.
Change is necessary in order to grow.
The anxious pain I once felt turned into tranquility. There will be other introverts like me. There will be eccentric
girls like me. There will be loudmouths just like me.
The tour was finally over and a whimsical smile flew over my face. It was an uncontrollable expression.
As Shweta and I broke out into hysterical laughter, I came to the realization that even if I am thousands of miles
away, we’ll always be the best of friends.
That day was unforgettable and it was the day that changed my outlook on college life.
I’m ready for the next chapter of my life.

Alone Together
By Liana Rodriguez

The bittersweet taste of mint, chocolate and pure bliss sunk into the blankets; warm with the heat our intertwined
bodies generated. This was all new to me, but it felt like a vivid dream. Everything was engraved in the crevices of my skin.
The way his fingertips gently kissed the flaws I desperately tried to hide. The way he used to make me laugh with little to no
effort. The way my heart never ceased to skip a beat when I was around him. He made me stronger and loved me when I
couldn’t love myself. I have never felt this way before, I was happy. Happy with myself, happy with my life, happy with this
idea that it was us against the world. I always remember how I would trace patterns on the soft cotton of his shirt, creating
new and undiscovered constellations. Every day was a new adventure that filled my stomach with butterflies. I knew I was in
over my head but I didn’t care. As cliché as it sounds, I had fallen hard. Down the rabbit hole, my mind began to wander. We
weren’t perfect, but that never mattered to me. I yearned to fight his demons and pick apart the monsters that haunted his
thoughts. I wanted to bring light into the depths of his darkness. There comes a point where I have to assure myself that I
have done everything I can. Despite the fights and the pain, I couldn’t have asked for anything better. I can only hope that he
will pick up my fallen petals and turn our photos into a beautiful gallery of art.

Weird Awakening
By Serena Russo

Walking through the empty house something felt different but I couldn't put my finger on it. The couches were
untouched, and the television was off I held my sweater tighter around my body. From afar a single dimly lit light can be
seen into the dining room. As I make my way towards the light it becomes colder with each step. ‘Maybe a window opens’ I
think to myself instant my stomach drops when my eyes land on her. My nose begins to tingle, throat starts to swell I wipe
away a stray tear with my trembling hand she was sitting there ever so peacefully, her long black hair perched over her
shoulders.

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Sensing my presence her eyes met mine my heart fluttered in my chest. Her smile comforted me but I couldn't make
my legs moves towards her still in complete shock. She must have sensed my dismay. Her cold hand wrapped around my
trembling one. Nothing was said as she applied her makeup she was always so fond of cosmetics. “I’ve missed you a lot you
know” my shaky voice manages to say.

Nodding her head she smiles sadly “I haven't been myself these past couple of months…everything happened so
fast…” my voice cracks just thinking about it “everyone’s a mess I can’t say your name without breaking down..” her eyes
become watery but still she continues on with her makeup Speaking becoming too much for me there are so many things I
want say, but nothing else comes out. I bring my arms closer against my body as the cold air filters through the room.

Picking up the phone she signals to give her a moment. Turning around curios as to where she went. My eye are
met with a dark shadow casted on the wall shocked i move back in my seat ‘It’s okay’ is whispered in my ear. I look around
frantically but no one was in sight.

The phone call ended as she steps down form the wall becoming whole again. Frowning she reaches me from behind
i can feel her arms interlock my body. The warmth radiating from her making me feel warm again i smile sadly. Knowing my
time is up she whispers in my ear “you’ll be okay…I’ll see you soon” giving me a final thigh hug she lets go. I watch as she
walks off in the distance becoming nothing but a blur in the bright blue sky; flinging the blanket off my body my eyes are
met with the darkness of my room patting myself down where her hands were.

It felt so real… silent tears make their way down my face I whisper into the nothingness of the night “I love you tia
cookie…” and in that moment I felt whole again my mind was finally at peace as a smile graced my features. Before closing
my eyes again I felt one last touch and closed my eyes drifting off into sleep once again.

Progression, Dedication, Tenacity
By Rocco Sanabria

A green light jolts up in the top corner of the ring, sitting above an alluring and motivating poster of Muhammad
Ali, followed by a quick and reassuring three second alarm. I hark to the cue and protect my face-

“SLAP”
The mitts slap one another, vibrating through my ear drums, resonating throughout the combination.
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
I put this to muscle memory.
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
Shots of fast breaths fire out fiercely like bullets for each release of a punch as we dance in the ring
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
My arms poetically chase the rhythm as my eyes lock on the mitts- the mitts stare back. My short heavy crosses snap
the air, but my jabs are losing their speed. Tears of sweat roll off my cheek and compete with my feet; who will bounce off
the ring first? My hands slip and the mitts leave an impression on my face.
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
All my energy is withdrawn, but the voice in my head and the voice screaming encouragement behind the pads
continue to tell me to keep hitting my target. I know what my target is- I’m told it would be the highlighted dot centered on
the pads, but I know what my target is.
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
The beauty of this combination is the progression,
The beauty of this combination is the dedication,
The beauty of this combination is the inability to give up yet.
Progression, dedication and tenacity will become the combination to hit my target.
The green light has faded, thrown over by the crimson red refulgence that is meant to heal my fatigue- but I don’t
stop, instead my ring only becomes larger.
I am no longer staring at the Muhammad Ali poster alongside the green and red boxing round timer, yet I continue
to hit my target.
I am no longer punching the highlighted dot centered on the pad, yet I continue to hit my target.
I am no longer confined by the red, white and blue ropes that gravitate along the edges served to protect me, yet I
continue to hit my target. I am on the outside, and there is no more training- this is the main event.
Like boxing, life only guarantees unpredictability. You may be against the ropes with loss of all hope and the
inability to look past the darkness that just doesn’t seem to quit, but just then an opening will present itself and you are now
back on your feet and your hitting that target. Or it could easily be the other way around; it’s unpredictable. Like boxing,
there are your wins, your losses and your draws. The wins feel great, the losses hurt but the draws suck the most. The draws
are the days where you’ve exhausted all your energy but still fall on the ropes of mediocrity. The days you spend tired- tired
of the vexing doubts, the perpetual losses and the repetitive motions that begin to forge itself into a mundane routine, but like
boxing, it’s the expectation you set for yourself and the reward you yearn that keeps you hitting. It becomes a battle of will.

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I’m not always going to win throughout life, and I am very okay with that now, because I know that I will always
continue to grow and hit my target- happiness. It’s a fight. It doesn’t have to carry brutality or barbarism. It’s just a sweet
science- life, boxing, both.

So here comes that green light bragging about its purpose, and there’s that Muhammad Ali poster standing right
aside it, followed by a quick and reassuring three second alarm

“SLAP”
“One-Two-Slip-One-Two-Three-Roll-Two-Pivot.”
Progression, dedication and tenacity-
I put this to memory.

The Block
By Raphin Shapon

It was the resounding swat that still rings to this day, the tenacious roars of the bloodthirsty swarm watching the
game, the cheers of support from my teammates that had made Raphin Shapon a basketball player, a Maspeth High School
Varsity Basketball Argonaut. I sat on the bench, meticulously studying the game before my eyes until I heard a sharp
“RAPHIN! LET’S GO!”. My head snapped immediately towards the source of the stringent shrill; Coach Anastasia Bitis.
My stomach had moved in a very different direction, however, sinking well below my feet; she wants me to check in?
NOW!? The adrenaline-spiked words of my teammates picked me up off of my feet and flung me to the score table. The
substitution was mere seconds away.

The ref trilled the whistle and called in the subs with an austere beckon. I jog onto the court to take Jared Lugo’s
spot in the game. He meets me with a firm handshake, and his responsibilities, his role, and a little bit of his height channeled
throughout my veins; I was ready. I meet my other four teammates on the court, and we hastily discuss our plan defensively.
Time was short. Our opposition was coming down the court. We get into our positions. Was I actually ready? Was our 2-3
defense actually enough to push back the offense that’s coming down with the swagger of a Hall Of Fame roster? Hell yeah.
My lungs rose to the ceiling, barking out to my teammates every footstep of these five noobs, prancing around with my
basketball. She swings to the right corner of the court into the crusty fingers of number 22. Our 2-3 barricade suddenly
collapses as 22 begins to drive baseline towards my rim; the only thing that stood between two points and 22 was my pride,
my confidence, and my hand, the very hand that spread wider than my eyes when I first watched Dwight Howard, Serge
Ibaka, and LeBron James play their own brands of defense. It was now my turn.

22 comes down the baseline and his feet left the ground as my own two feet rocketed me off of the hardwood. 22
gently tosses the ball up towards the basket; everything seemed perfect, like the two points were destined for the scoreboard.
I wasn’t having it. My palm smashed the ball mid-flight, sending it flying in the opposite direction with an earsplitting crack
that rippled through the air. The noise that the ball made, however, paled in comparison to the vicious uproars of the home
crowd it had triggered. The gymnasium trembled as the visiting team was battered by the buzzing horde stomping it’s feet
and celebrating the pride we all shared as Argonauts. I felt empowered, letting loose a deep bellow myself; my nerves no
longer plagued my body. Did they ever hinder the work of Jason or his Argonauts? My team and I were as dynamic as the
legends themselves, and that moment ingrained within my brain the one word that defined Maspeth Basketball as I know it;
vehement.

USED TO IT
By Francheska Silva

Another casual day…I’m used to it. I didn’t see any difference with myself because …” I’m used to it.” My teacher
hands it over, I hesitated once again. I cringed as I slightly open the white paper folded in half, I lose myself with all the
words and numbers typed on it. Disappointments come quite in handy when there are times like this; it was every ones
least favorite day of school. On a sunny morning, I walk to the bus stop I was used to it … I swipe my school ID I say to
myself “late again it’s okay…” I’m used to it”.

As a short slip of paper prints out from the scanning machine, I look at my slip and shrugged my shoulders. My
teacher looks as I arrive to class, I say “good morning”, and find my seat. I loose myself in a daydream. When I finally catch
myself again, the clock strikes 2:35 mid-afternoon the day ends …but I’m used to it. the bus consisted of different cultures,
desperate faces, and whisper conversations filled the bus… “I’m used to it”. soon after I get off the bus, I walk half a mile all
the way down to my destination, as I’m walking the sunlight the sunlight follows towards my direction as it shines it my
eyes, I then say to myself with a smile …” I’m used to it”.

21

Untitled
By Albana Skenderi

Dear Reader,

In my very first few days at Maspeth High School the topic of mindset was constantly brought up. I never thought
much of it; I just assumed it was another blurb on a syllabus that I was just supposed to get signed and handed in. I would’ve
never thought how shocked I’d be four years later when I realized its importance. High school is a time where everything is
way more dramatic and emotional than it should be, and I can probably speak for most people when I say that these past four
years have handed me a rollercoaster I was not prepared for. On that first day alone, I felt like I had gone through an entire
lifetime of events. I was late to school because the Fresh Pond feast was still talking place. I walked into this beautiful and
new building only to follow the schedule for Monday when it was Thursday. Eventually I found my first period class; I
must’ve looked completely flushed and disheveled. I saw the familiar and always friendly face of Raphin, the intimidating
and foreign face of my teacher, the inviting and attractive face of a boy I swore I would end up marrying (I didn’t), and the
scared and innocent faces of my fellow classmates. Trying to be as social and warm as possible I went out of my way to
introduce myself to certain people and the positivity in response was absolutely overwhelming. In a matter of 20 minutes
alone I had already experienced a whole slew of emotions- I got through it though. I got through it and I thought I was ready
for the next four years of my life. Little did I know…

High school wasn’t anything I was expecting it to be, to say the very least. My freshman year was filled with
innocence and purity and nothing but love, but that was only my freshman year. We all started to “grow up”. We started
doing things we promised our parents we’d never do, we started isolating and forming cliques, we began to change and we
began to mask who we truly were. Freshman year was the easiest time of our lives and as we aged, we were hit with
situations and feelings we never would’ve thought of on our first day. Crushes became toxic relationships, group chats
became unread text messages and friendships became memories. That’s what “growing up” meant. We can all say that
looking back on that first day of freshman year, we have all changed. What becomes of that change now is in our hands.

We are graduating in a few weeks and I can’t remember the last time I stopped and thought about and appreciated
high school- until now. As different as things have become, it was a beautiful transformation to watch. We are all now young
adults, brave and toughened to experience college and whatever it has to throw at us. We have all hardened our fragile and
young exteriors and we have matured to the point where we are all paving the way to the rest of our lives in our own way.
Despite all the distress, change, and unexpectedness of it all, one thing has remained constant: we are all closing this chapter
of our lives and opening the next with a new and open mindset, just like we did in 2012. In the midst of it all, past all the
failed tests and unexpected grades, past all the assignments I never handed in and all the days I didn’t show up (  ), past all
the love and friendships and hardships, I have salvaged the remains and hold them with me as I look to my future with a
clean and new mindset. In a few months we’re all going to be freshmen again and we are all going to ride the same
rollercoaster again- only this one is much bigger and much faster. All we can do is brace ourselves for that first day of
freshman year and anticipate the days after with as much positivity as possible.

Look! A Street Fair!
By Beret Solano

“Look! A street fair!” one of my friends said as we walked through the busy street of Manhattan. I don’t know if it
was my hunger, peer pressure from friends, or the tiredness that followed from the college fair but I somehow found myself
staring at an array of stands and crowds of people. Walking through a street fair seemed as though I was exploring the world.
As I walked down a street that seemed to never end, I smelled the hickory smoke of Asian style marinated barbeque, the
sweet scent of churros, buñuelos, and flan and the familiar smell of Halal food trucks that seem to be everywhere. I saw
stands with people trying to sell their items as if Donald Trump was looking to buy them. Cute little trinkets, antique jewelry
with “real” gemstones, and basic “I ♥ NY” were some of the finest treasures sold at the street fair. As we walked – constantly
stopping at jewelry stands – hunger finally set in for all of us and we saw what can only be described as dessert heaven for us
– crepes!

Our mouths watered as we saw the bananas and strawberries roll around on Nutella spread with an ice cream
mountain on the side, all tucked in by a thin pancake-like blanket. We ordered our rewards and found a spot nearby to eat
them while having the street fair in sight. We watched the street fair work its magic. We saw little kids drawn to the dessert
stands, women trying on jewelry, and men eating to their heart’s content – as if they all had nowhere else to be. We saw
stress and worry get kicked out to be replaced by curiosity and excitement. People, who seem to never stop for anything,
come together in this one little street fair to make constant stops at different stands.

When I was a little girl, I watched my mom get pulled in to street fairs as if they had a hold on her. I never
understand what was so great about them. As I continued to stare at the street fair and finish up my crepe, I began to
understand. Street fairs make you feel like you have all the time in the world to explore. I saw this realization when our
mothers constantly texted us where we were and why we’re taking so long. We knew then that we should’ve been on our way
home…but we weren’t finished yet. The street fair went on for a couple of blocks but they look like they went on for miles –

22

considering the length of Manhattan blocks. We continued our journey through the fair, stopping for any stand that caught
our eye along with the constant stop for refreshments. We walked and walked until finally…we reached it – the end of the
street fair. It was over. No more stands, no more food, and no more treasures to be sold. There were only policemen with
their barriers, moving cars, and the rest of the busy city. That was our cue to start heading to the trains.

But as we started to walk away, I stopped, looked back and said, “The train station is on the other side of the street
fair”.

Why?
By Luiza Soos

Dear Teacher,

Why?
Why are you out of dress code? Why don’t you have your homework? Why are you late? Well why don’t you try
being more understanding? To answer the first question, I am not out of dress code. I have been wearing these clothes for the
past three years and never had a problem. Suddenly I come into your class and the first thing I hear is, “Is that dress code. Go
and ask Ms. Henry.” I’m not changing my collection of clothes to cater to your consent when this is my concluding year in
high school. To answer the second question, I probably had plenty of things to do. Maybe my mom needed help with laundry,
maybe I had a lot of homework that day and did the ones that mattered most, maybe there was a family emergency. To
answer the third question, I wasn’t late on purpose. When I’m late to your class I run up the stairs and don’t go to my locker
like many others do.
Why?
Because I care.
Why is this incomplete? Why didn’t you answer the question fully? Why is your outline so short? Well why do you
expect so much? Every student learns differently. Maybe I learn with diagrams, maybe with minimal words explaining the
main idea, maybe with my auditory senses. When I ask for help, “read the directions” is all you say, but there is no
information in the directions and then you wonder why my questions aren’t answered fully. I swear sometimes you make no
sense. To you my outline may be short, but to me that’s as good as it’s going to get. My handwriting is small and I don’t like
wasting space on my loose-leaf, so I’m sorry if my diagrams don’t fill up half a page like other diagrams do. Even though
you give me a grade that makes me feel like Donald Duck inside, I compose myself into Mickey Mouse and try again.
Why?
Because I care.
As I look at you rummaging through your ransacked desk, papers flying freely as pencils fall to the floor, I wonder
how you manage to keep everything together. Finding our tests through the endless piles of paperwork to hand them back as
quickly as you can, finding our homework through the countless stacks of loose-leaf to give us the grade we “deserve”,
finding your lesson plans through the ginormous bundles of sheets to keep us active throughout the period, you manage to do
it all. Although you manage to be a pain in the butt with your famous sky blue shirt and khaki pants, you’re a good teacher.
Why?
Because you care.
You have your hands full with coaching a sport and supporting a family and yet you still put in the time and effort to
be there for your students. Never taking the negative things students say about you to heart, you’re admirable in that sense.
Although you’re at times angry, you never show it in our class as you crack corny jokes and take time out of the period to
talk about our personal lives.
Why?
Because you care.
I don’t know care what other classes say about you; as I look at you sitting in your spinning chair in front of me,
smiling at something a student commented, I smile as well.
Why?
Because I’m going to miss you.

Glazed Over
By Anda Stafa

When we were young, we were quick to experiment with our bodily movements, our physical abilities. We crossed
our eyes ever so slightly and we viewed the world in two overlapping lenses, showing us the same familiar faces, the same
familiar places, but in peculiar doubles. We giggled and placed our hands in front of us, as if we couldn’t tell the difference
between reality and its fake counterpart. As if we were going to bump into one of the wobbly desks, one of our rowdy
classmates, or even something as obviously visible as a wall. Then, before our little heads began to ache, we stopped crossing
our glossy orbs of naivety and we went about our days, continuing to be mini, mischievous monkeys – flickering around,
oohing and ahing, and living in the moment, not in the past and not in the future.

23

A decade later, and I still find myself crossing my eyes, ever so slightly – but, of course, not in a way in which I
look like one of those silly, little monkeys. Just enough so I can see the haze, glaze over reality, focus on my thoughts - and
only my thoughts.

On my way to school, Mami goes on and on about starting college, my upcoming career, my potential to be
something great. All I do is cross my eyes, ever so slightly, and step into the haze; I allow her words to seep into my present
and fill it with my future.

I’m in class as my eyes give up on resisting the urge to dart towards the clock - to count the minutes, count the
hours, count the days, count the months until… until what? I don’t know. All I do know is that if I cross my eyes, ever so
slightly, and think of yesterday or tomorrow, last year or next year, I can make the time fly. As long as the day is over and my
future is here and this pointless period of in-between is done with. After all, comfort lies in the haze, and I want to lie in the
comfort.

Summer comes and I sleep. I dream and I sleep. I hope and I dream and I sleep. I hope and I dream. I hope. For that
exciting tomorrow, that brand new adventure, that peaceful day during which I no longer glaze over the beauty that lies in
front of me. The beauty of nature. The beauty of presence. The beauty of life. So – just for now I tell myself – I’ll glaze over
the now and live in the later.

Now becomes later. Tomorrow becomes today. Next year becomes this year. And I continue to lie with comfort and
with comfort I lie in the haze. But, just for now I tell myself, I’ll succumb to the haze. I’ll succumb to the prison of lost time
and lost days.

Lyrics to Learn From
By Jade Tabor

Dear Reader,

I spent most of high school finding solace in music. If you know/knew me, you’d be fully aware that when I was not
in my classes, I could more than likely be found in room 200- the music room. Something about music has always resonated
with me. I played the keyboard when I was little, and I never learned how to play the recorder the way that I know most kids
do, but I did get lucky when I was given the opportunity to play the violin in 4 years’ worth of Mr. Di Meglio’s string
orchestra classes and ensembles. As cliché as it sounds, it’s an escape that never fails me.

But I’m not going to talk about that. I’m going to tell you a few things that I learned on my own from music - not
from notes or from rhythms or from melodies, but from words. There are a few lines from songs and spoken word poems
(that I listen to as if they are songs) that have stuck with me throughout my four years at Maspeth. They’re always in the back
of my mind and I’m glad that there are artists out there who have put my thoughts out there for other people to consider. Just
a warning- you’re going to read clichés, but bear with me.

I’m going to start off by bringing you back to my childhood. Maybe yours, too, but hey, I’m writing this letter.

“Look for the bare necessities- the simple bare necessities; forget about your worries and your strife.” –The
Bare Necessities, Terry Gilkyson

This is going to sound really dumb, but keep in mind that the problems you’re dealing with now, and probably for
the rest of your life, are likely temporary. The petty little issues that you think result in the ending of the world as you know it
really aren’t that big a deal. You’ll lose people here, you’ll meet new people there, and you’ll come to the realization that we
all have flaws, different goals, and dramatic tendencies. Keep yourself grounded. Remind yourself that you should always be
your own #1 in your head and your heart; keep that in the back of your mind when you think that everything is crumbling
around you. Look for the bare necessities. Look only for what you need and forget about the things that seem really terrible
(at least once in a while). You deserve to be happy with even the simplest things.

“I told you something. It was just for you and you told everybody. So I learned to cut out the middle man,
make it all for everybody, always. Everybody can’t turn around and tell everybody, everybody already
knows, I told them.” – That Power (outro), Childish Gambino

This one is a little bit more self-explanatory. I learned throughout high school that if you don’t want everyone to
know every little detail about your personal life (especially at a small school like Maspeth), you probably shouldn’t say
anything about it, period. And if you are going to tell someone, cut out the middle man. Don’t let people assume anything.
Make your intentions and your actions clear. Make it all for everybody. Tell them yourself.

“Future you is just past you with new molecules; we shoot the old ones out follicles; and hair is dead cells,
so our faults get shed well; meaning our parts that are hard to adore; get mopped up on the barber shop
floor.” – Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self, George Watsky

24

People grow and change, and that’s okay. You’re always going to be you. Your flaws and mistakes are like hair:
they’re a part of you for a long time, but eventually you outgrow them. When you do outgrow those faults that Watsky is
talking about (because you will), you’re still you. Your hair continues to grow and you’re always learning new things from
your experiences- both good and bad. You’re constantly rebuilding yourself and that’s okay. You can still look back on those
days when your hair was a little bit longer and you were a little bit more naïve, but you can reflect on those days fondly with
an appreciation for those extra inches of hair.

“At the end of the day, day, you can't regret it if you were trying (if you were trying); at the end of the day,
day, I'm walking with a heart of a lion, yeah” – Heart of a Lion, Kid Cudi

I can’t be the only high-schooler who had a Kid Cudi phase in which every other song I listened to was performed
by “the man on the moon” himself, but if I personally learned one thing from Scott Mescudi, it was that solitude is not the
worst thing in the world. Even being alone with your thoughts, though intimidating, is not terrible all of the time. This
particular line, however, always made me feel a little bit better about my decisions in high school when I was alone. Every
day is a gift in my opinion, and my dad never lets me forget it. Nobody is guaranteed a tomorrow- not even you. Don’t end
your days with regret and never be ashamed of something that you were proud of. If you thought it was worth something, it
probably was. And even if it wasn’t, find comfort in the fact that many of your actions are carried out with good intentions
and a strong heart, like one of a lion.

“Manage me, I'm a mess; turn a page, I'm a book, half unread; I wanna be laughed at, laughed with, just
because; I wanna feel weightless; and that should be enough; but I'm stuck in this f*ing rut, waiting on a
secondhand pick me up; and I'm over, getting older” – Weightless, All Time Low

Embrace not knowing and embrace not caring. You’re only this young today, and even a minute from the moment
you read this, you’ll be a little bit older. BUT, until the day comes when you decide that you’re ready to be an adult, be
thankful for your youth. Take advantage of spontaneous day trips, go on adventures with people you’d never expect yourself
to get along with just for the hell of it, try new things, and express your appreciation for the adults in your life who helped
you become the person you are. Maybe even fall asleep on a train on purpose and see where you end up, I don’t know.

"You know to get a good job, you need a good degree and these subjects will help you get a degree; we
never had this opportunity when I was younger".
And he will reply:
"But you were young a long time ago, weren't you mum?" …
… “So this one is for my generation: the ones who found what they were looking for on Google, the ones
who followed their dreams on Twitter, pictured their future on Instagram, accepted destiny on
Facebook…” – I Will Not Let an Exam Result Decide My Fate, Suli Breaks

These lines are pulled from a spoken word poem my dad showed me a year or two ago about the reasons why
sometimes school is not the best indicator of abilities and skills. As a side note, I encourage all of you to listen to the poem or
read through its entirety because it will likely help you feel better about that one failing grade that sticks out in your mind (for
me, it was my first algebra test in the eighth grade. I got a 38% on it and I cried.) This poem focuses a lot on how times have
changed since our parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and maybe even older siblings went to school, and how we
should not let our grades define us. The lines I highlighted above are lines that have always stuck out to me because they are
representative of this generation. I know you’ve all met someone older than you who has complained about “kids these days,
always on those smartphones” or about how “back in my day, we read books… in libraries.” Ignore them. Take advantage of
the resources that the world has to offer. Google your questions. Take pictures of things and post them on Instagram if you
want to. Share news with your friends and family via Facebook. Wikipedia is a fantastic source. That last one is a joke. But
seriously, if you scroll down to the bottom of a Wikipedia page while writing a paper, you’ll find your citations there- you’re
welcome.

Sincerely, Jade

Life- What Exactly Is It?
By Paula Tameta

Sweet crispy leaves, soft pink blooming tulips, and sharp yellow beaming rays of sunlight. I jubilantly skipped into
the massive unstained white boat filled with unknown adventures.

Surrounded by glowing and sparkling waters- I couldn’t resist but to stop and see beyond the silent horizon; it was
loudly hushed.

25

“Something didn’t seem right,” I questioned. I shrugged and ignored of what seemed to be a possible factor of what

could ruin this moment for me.
Teeth flashed, eyes glimmered, and lips welcomed. The sweet sugary smell of pina colada aroused in my nostrils as I
casually walked in between the busy bar and chlorine pool. “Let’s go to the top deck! It’s lunch time!” mom yelled. An

abundance of cultured dishes caught my tongue.

Chocolate powdered brownies, bright red stained watermelons, and hot sizzling pork chops- this is exactly what I

am looking for. This is life. As I picked up my full plate, I turned around violently and collided with a sweet stranger in a
blue polo, bland khakis, and black shoes. “Oh my apologies ma’am! I will take care of that!” he said worriedly. I couldn’t
help but notice that there was something about his smile that was vaguely flawed. I couldn’t help but notice that the usual
spark in an eye was strangely dimmed in his. I couldn’t help but notice that there was something stirring up inside of him that

affected his hesitant movements. But until then- until I figure out what it is exactly- he slowly faded away distant from my

sight.

The very next morning as I reflected on whom I have encountered the day before, I made sure that this time- I
wouldn’t miss a glimpse of him. And ironically- there he was. Cleaning up the mess that passengers left behind, he was
aware of my presence. I advanced towards him.

“Hello.” I said, “How are you doing?”
“Good morning, I am doing well.” He replied. I saw lies sowed on his brown lips.
“How do you like working on the cruise?” I asked urgently.
“Well it definitely pays the bills . . .” Finally, some honesty. “It’s an eighth month trip. After this, I plan to renew
my contract and sail again for another.”
“Eight months! What about your family?” Pity fills up my heart.
“I don’t get to see them. I do what I do for them and that’s enough for me to move forward.” This time, sadness

really did win its victory.
“Well at least you would have the weekend to spend some time resting, right?” I hoped.
“Oh no, definitely no I do not. We work seven days a week in the whole eight months. We do have an hour break

during lunch time when the ship docks. And from that we have two choices, we either sleep or go out and enjoy the day.”
My heart sank deeper into the ocean. I couldn’t take this any longer.
“However, I am happy. I take joy in discovering new places and meeting so many people. I get to serve you and

others everyday. Since I know what loneliness feels like, I resisted for anyone else to feel it too. This is life, dear.”

I stood up, stared at his hopeful eyes, and I offered him a hug. I then walked away into the life I thought it was. Life
was supposed to be filled with good things, wasn’t it? I was now left clueless as I walked out the glass doors and made way to
the tip sharp point of the ship. I took a deep breath. Released. The wind blew and covered my face with confusion.
Surrounded by glowing and sparkling waters- I couldn’t resist but to stop and see beyond the silent horizon; it was loudly

hushed. What I thought was the best day of my life, turned out to be the worst day for another. This is life.

Bittersweet Disposition

By Petra Udvarhelyi

I descend down the steep steps in hopes to successfully escape soon. Sweet scents and sounds of sewer rats

scattering swiftly. Some man plays a saxophone and his son the cymbals, cents and singles sitting in the soup can.

Step, swipe, sit.

My patience is scarce as I am still seated expecting the subway. Cinema posters plastered side by side and senior
citizens softly sing The Sound of Music. Silent smiles shared and synchronized texts sent, social in so many aspects. “So are
you seeing Civil War this Sunday?” “The SAT last Saturday was so easy!” Excitement for some leisure time and students

reminiscing on a successful assessment.

Sorry to disappoint, but I can no longer express myself using sibilance. So if it comes up from here on out, I
promise it’s an accident. I board the congested cart and squeeze myself in between a man with an obnoxiously huge

backpack and a young woman who appeared just as claustrophobic as I. We approach the Union Square station, and before I
knew it, the cart was virtually empty. I sit down across a mother with a fairly large box-- in the box is a black Shark
vacuum. Another middle aged woman, who is no less than 15 feet away, yells, “Hey, is that good?”

The new vacuum owner responds, “What?”
“The vacuum-- how is it?”
The puzzled lady, in pure concern says, “I just bought it...”

I giggle to myself at the realization of how not-so-well-thought-out of a question that was. Come on, it was still in
the box.

I’m not too sure about where I’m going with this, but please just bare with me. I am very observant and pay

attention to my surroundings at all times-- maybe too much. Not only do I love observing, but I tend to quickly glance at
people and wonder. Where are you from? How old are you? Are you employed? Are you a student? What’s your

name? What are your hobbies, your dreams, your aspirations? But why do I focus so much on others; people that I see for a
total of maybe 10 minutes in my life?

26

“Just live life.”
“Allow things to fall into place.”
I am split between whether or not my life is coming together at all or not. 4.0? Check. College
acceptances? Check. But let’s be serious, who cares? I guess the college part does matter, but there’s so much more to it
all. I need to learn to drive to get to class. Do I even have my permit? Nope. Do I have a job? Nope.
“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” I don’t know. Happy? Successful maybe?
“Have any interests?” Interests? I sit and I stare and I start to think about the things I want to do. That’s what I
do. I browse the internet and make lists of places I want to go and landmarks I’d love to see. I aspire to be like those who
travel the world and live carefree lives and are capable of supporting themselves by essentially doing nothing but having
fun.
I digress.
I digress an unnecessary amount.
I can never quite put into words how I feel or what I think or who I am.
I can never write without experiencing a headache or two.
I can never talk about myself without becoming emotional over the fact that I am lost. I am lost mentally.
I get off; I refuse to get lost physically. I have a long way to go.
I ascend up the steep steps in hopes to successfully discover myself soon. I breathe in the polluted air and absorb the
city and what it has to offer. My inherent qualities of mind and character are ones of excitement for a future but discontent
over my entirely disoriented state.
Stop, breathe, live.

High School
By Ciara Walsh

Dear High School Freshman,

I’m sure you’ve heard this many times before, and is such a cliche to you by now but high school will be the best and
worst four years of your life.

You’ll make the best of friends that you keep for a lifetime and some that fade away after a semester until your classes
have changed, and suddenly when you see them in the hallway are complete strangers to each other. You’ll get slammed with
countless amounts of homework that you believe is stupid such as, preparing an argument you don’t agree with for an upcoming
debate, pointless equations that you know will never be used later on in life, and of course the infamous annotating of classical
works you swore you would hate. You will make the team you tried out for and be intoxicated with joy until that 5:30 a.m alarm
goes off 5 days a week for morning practice making you ponder on the idea if this is what you really want to do anymore. You will
get to meet a plethora of teachers, some who you hate with a burning passion and never come around to but some who you entrust
your whole life with and maybe call them “dad” because you never had a father figure at home. You will cry. Cry when you fail a
test you spent all night studying hard for. Cry when the overwhelming stress is eating you alive. Cry when it's 2:00 a.m and the
project you had a month to complete still hasn’t been started. Cry the night before your SAT because, “your whole life depends on
this test” and “this test defines who you are”. Cry the moment you viciously tear the college letter you've been eagerly waiting for to
find out you just weren't good enough, but “try again next year”. Just when you think high school can't get any worse and that
you’ve seen it all it hits you hard with the unexpected. You're thrown into these what seems to be impossible obstacles - make sure
you get to school on time, but don't eat your breakfast in class. Make sure all your homework for every class is complete. Make sure
you're in at least 3 extracurriculars and have a job.

But one day, when you're a senior and you're sitting in class counting down the short amount of days until you get out of
this place for good you will realize that you really don't want to leave. The past four years will run across your mind like a
stampede, all at once reminding you of the struggles and hard work you put in to get you this far. You will look over across the busy
classroom, to see your friend who lives 4 short blocks away from you in that familiar brick house and shed a few tears at the fact he
will soon be 4 long hours away in a completely different school that is foreign to you. You will look at the teachers who you were
once infuriated by because they called your mom everyday and finally come to understand it’s because they just wanted you to
succeed and be your absolute best. You will suddenly cherish the sweet rhythmic sounds of Mozart and Tchaikovsky's The
Nutcracker while leisurely walking down the hallways you were once intimidated by. You will live to wake up hearing that
obnoxious iPhone alarm at 5:30 a.m for morning practice that you once dreaded because you are now aware this will be one of the
last times you are brought together with your tightly knit team and show the love you have for the game who made you the person
you are today.

In a few weeks you'll be taking the four years of high school along with you - moving the tassel from right to left - and
going on to discover great endeavours. It won't be until the moment you give your best friend that last tight goodbye hug, or you're
standing in front of the empty white walls of the new room you will grow to call home that you realize that high school was the best
and worst four years of your life.

From,
Someone who wishes they could do it over again.

27

Venting Terror
By Anson Weng

Darkness. All we saw was darkness but we would not have it any other way. We depart when they sleep in, we scour
the neighborhood when they are tucked in, and we prattle on and on while they are far into REM sleep. It was our routine; we
would meet up every dreary Friday night and go on interminable walks. This is what kept us sane.

“You guys ready to go?
“Hold up imma get dressed real quick.”
“Let me know when you guys are near so I can leave my house.”
“K.”
As we entered the park it was already 9:30 PM, we always went right instead of going straight, we always walked ¾
of a whole rotation and sat at our spot. Then we would start.
“What you guys do today?”
“Went to the dealership to see that 2005 Civic again but my mom and dad don’t approve because they afraid it might
crap out on me.”
“Nothing much, I went into school during lunch and left like a period after. What did you do today?”
“Today I stressed about doing my vignette, I think I will hold off on it since it isn’t due till Sunday night”.
The night seemed to mock us; it was so vast and free while we were microscopic and drenched in strain. The night
didn’t have to deal with vignettes, the night didn’t have to deal with disapproving parents, and the night did not have tangible
encounters with dreaded school assignments.
“Guys do you see that light flickering on and off?”
“You ever heard about the Japanese slit mouth woman?”
“NAH chill Anson.” Shrieked Johnny, while Zhan showed the slightest signs of fear but deep down I know he was
at least a little terrified.
By the time I finished the story we were already freaking out. Every time we heard a little shuffle we jumped, every
time we saw the light flicker we quivered, and finally when we saw that guy run into the swings and hung onto the bar we
booked it. We all concurred to not walk in the direction of the “assailant” so we took another route. We then come to find a
lady pushing a cart staring at us from a distance and we decide to walk another way. We were trapped but managed to find
out way out of the park.
Since we left in separate directions I wasn’t there for Zhan and Johnny’s conversation but Johnny asked, “What if
something takes Anson?” Zhan replied, “I am not going back”.
HE WASN’T GOING TO COME BACK FOR ME. What a guy. I freakin love you two.

The Run
By Sahira Younas

Flash. The bright light quickly appeared and captured the couple’s still poses wrapped around each other showing
off their voluminous hair and party-ready attire.

Click clack. My neon 4 inch heels tapped the wooden floors as I walked toward my white framed door.
Tap tap. Juan’s Men’s Warehouse dress shoes followed.
“WAIT”! My mother screamed as her hairs flew up, her eyes widened, and her already pale face was as white as
bleached sheets.
Gasp. “Your father is OUTSIDE”!
“Run downstairs and go out through the backyard and into the alley way; meet me at the top of the hill, GO!” We
scattered picking up our belongings and trying to escape the wrath of him with 1 minute on the clock.
Click clack-tap tap-click clack-tap tap-click clack-tap tap.
“Hide!” We hurriedly went behind my neighbor’s tall off-white/beige shed that allowed to see but not to be seen.
Giggle. Juan excitingly whispered behind me while jumping jovially, “This is the best relationship ever”!
Vroom. There it is, my father’s white Honda piolet, parking next to the shed. Instilling fear, shock, and stillness into
my body.
Tap, tap, tap. Juan ran across the alley way, forgetting all belongings, into the darkness of 9 p.m. It was so dark that it
in my mind, the darkness played tricks on me to make me imagine eyes staring from beyond; as if something were there
waiting to grab me and drag me to its dark hollows to torture me.
Click, clack, click. I ran slowly to him as my heels flirted with the gravel beneath me attempting to make it sound like
only a pin drop. I moved forward into the darkness of the unknown behind another shed rather than face the consequences of
the true monster himself.
Rhythmic beating 2x. Peeking through the side I wondered, “Is he gone?”
Rustling rocks. Juan furrowed his brows and confusingly asked, “Is that your mom crouching down and getting our
stuff”?
Sigh. “Yes!” I replied feeling safer, “Let’s quickly-”

28

Tap, tap, tap. Before I can even finish my sentence, he ran across like Usain Bolt and jumped into my mom’s
Mercedes at the top of the hill.

Click, clack, click. I carefully followed behind, once again, leaning backward trying to run across without allowing my
heels to sound like 1,000 bottles of shattered glass.

Rapid breathing. “I.. ha..te runninggg” I thought while looking up at my window and praying that he would not look
out into the darkness and see my bright, neon heels click clacking along the alleyway.

CLICK, CLACK, CLICK, CLACK. “RUN; DON’T LOOK UP. NIKITA WOULD MAKE IT” I thought to myself
while running 1 mph no longer caring about the obnoxious noises made.

“Get in!” Juan opened the door to grant me access to safety- even though he only cared about his own skin. Away
from the monster and darkness, I bolted into the car and slammed the door shut.

Deep sigh 3x. “Okay. Time to party”.