cat's tales literary magazine: form (2014)

QUINCE ORCHARD HIGH SCHOOL2013 | 2014 Cats Tales literary magazine

1CATS TALES VOLUME XXIVQUINCE ORCHARD HIGH SCHOOL15800 QUINCE ORCHARD ROADGAITHERSBURG, MD [email protected]

FORM20

13 -

2014

II

STAF

F EDITORS-IN-CHIEFHaley Lemieux, Emma RebholzWRITING EDITORSydney Cunniff

PUBLIC RELATIONSMeredith Pennypacker

ART EDITORErin Moroney

BUSINESS MANAGERAnnette Anderson

GENERAL STAFFJackie BennettHannah DietzMari MillerMadison MoeAmy MusserBrendon Perdikis

Eve PoetzschkeLilly PriceKathie RogersSarah SchmidCassidy SolomonKate Threat

CLUB ADVISORMarisa Trettel

III

EDITORS NOTE The ancient philosopher Plato conceived the idea that there are two worlds: the physical world and the world of forms. The physical world is the one we experience. Imperfect, malleable and constantly in flux, it is a mere shadow of the world of forms. Unlike our reality, the world of forms cannot be experienced by the senses. This unchanging, eternal reality can only be reached through understanding. Throughout our magazine, the contrast of these two worlds is evident. Side by side on our pages are pure forms (rectangles, triangles, circles) juxtaposed with our reflections of reality. Dark and light spreads are intermixed to mirror the balance of our shadow world and its twin ideal. Using the mediums of writing, art and music, we reach toward an advanced understanding of the undiluted truths of the world of forms, to gain insight into the nature of our reality and of ourselves. Each piece within our magazine reflects a unique and wholly personal conclusion. Following our consideration of various definitions of form, the Cat's Tales staff opened submissions for original music and video compositions for the first time, striving to archive a myriad of diverse pieces. As you read through the magazine, the staff invites you to question your own interpretations of our physical world, and the unknown potentials of the world of forms.

| Haley Lemieux, Emma Rebholz

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COLOPHONCats Tales is a publication written, edited, and designed by the literary magazine staff members comprised of Quince Orchard High School students. The magazine is prepared annually and distributed to students, staff, and the community free of charge. Each year the magazines advisor selects an editorial staff of experienced writers and artists who have shown dedication to the magazine through their application and commitment in previous years. All are welcome to join the general staff. Students are encouraged to submit original art and writing through the editorial staff or advisor. The pieces are then anonymously critiqued using a set criterion. Editorial staff members then review the pieces to select which best fit the magazines annual theme. For the first time this year students were asked to submit videos and original music compositions. Readers can access these by scanning the QR codes included on certain pages with their smartphones or by going to youtube.com/user/qohslitmag. Form was produced using Adobe InDesign CS5.5. The paper stock is 80lb dull coated and the cover stock is 100lb silk opaque. The fonts included are Adobe Caslon Pro, Kalinga and Corbel. The magazine was printed by MCPS Electron Graphics and Publishing Services. The cover art is by Jenna Chen.

VTABLE OF CONTENTSPROSE

CLEMENTINESLily Milwit

9

FUTILE DEVICESAnnette AndersonTHE CREEKSloane GallagherNEVERLANDAlice LiCHANGE IS IN THE AIRCosette Miller

LOOK AT MEAnnette Anderson

MEMORY OF A HURRICANEMichael S.EYE OF THE BEHOLDEREmma RebholzAPPASSIONATOElena AsofskyDONT EVER HURT A SNOWFLAKESloane GallagherEMPTY SPACESSydney Cunniff

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24

37

50

59

60

70

81

85

POETRY10 A REGIME CHANGE

Nicole BeltranESCAPEBen Gross

12

BATTLE CRYKathie Rogers

21

DADDY WHOErin S.

22

SEPTEMBERHannah Dietz

26CODESydney Cunniff

15

VI

REMEBERCio Defngin

28

HELEmma Thomas

31

YEARS OLDSarah MacPhee

32

POSTCARDS FROM ITALYHaley Lemieux

34

OCCULTATIONLily Milwit

38

CELESTIA LUNANatasha Kline

40

FATHOMS OF SEA AND MINDSarah MacPhee

43

YES OR NOWeihan Wang

56

SUNSETSLily Milwit

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FOREIGN WATERSNicole BeltranMAKING BRUISESElena AsofskyBEFORE YOU GOKate Threat

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47

48

FORGETCio Defngin

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CROSS FOR THE SEASONSCio Defngin

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BLUE SKY, GREY EYESElena Asofsky

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ROCOCOHaley LemieuxCIRCA 1900Sydney Cunniff

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66

TRINIDADEmma Levrio

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PUCKER PUNCHEmma RebholzTWO STRANGERS MEETTony DangDISSIDENT OPINIONEmma LevrioWHITE FLINTEmma RebholzTHE FIELDBonnie WeissADOLESCENT MINDSMadison WakefieldINNISFREEEmma Levrio

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8| Madison Moe

9LOOK AT ME | Annette AndersonYour mind perceives what youve taken with a glance. Not at all me, but more of what you wish to see. A side reflected to please. If youve planted me into your flower pot of companion dreams, then I may have to break your hearts illusion. You can water me with words and let me bask in the sunlight of your general love, but I wont be able to grow with your expectations. You may trust your eyes and mind but I can clearly see them tainting your feelings. False feelings. Rub your eyes clear and try not to be too frightened by what you really see.

10

A REGIME CHANGE | Nicole BeltranYknow,I hate saying words like Jock, Prep, Nerd - its not what I prefer and for lack of a better term,I just go with what Ive heard.Which sucks.

But you know what, its okay,because Im going to redefine what the stereotypes sayand Ill find a word for this redefinition - itll be a word so delicious and ripe, you wont believe its not fiction,and no one will be fixed in a category anymore,Ill melt down all the labels and theyll be mixed in together to forge a word so pure,itll make Merriam-Webster insecure, like an unbreakable blade of diamond vernacular,Ill cut down the medias ignorance, thats for sure - spectacular, thats what well be.

However, for now, let me forgo this philosophy,to avoid the medias sophistryand start off with an introductory -Hi,Im Nicole Beltran and Im a nerd,or a freak or a geek,or anything that is known to reek of an unpopular group.My troop of braces and gamers are known to jump from hoops just to get in the loop,or rather, a ring of popular preps and jocks alike,and if were not busy with desperation for recognition from our betters in spades,were stuck in a dim basement,playing with faded cards and plotting on how to get laid.

On the flip side, jocks and preps party all too hard,taking hits on two different lines;one on the 50 yards and one thats white and hard to discard,getting filled with buzzing drinks and they dont even need a card,losing brain cells and throwing those who had two to rub in the trash bin,to prove they still own the top and theyre not has-beens.You line up to them and they tell you what youre cast intheir self-entitlement can be seen in the way they walk and their fashion.

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But, not for a second, do I believe we are this divided,the balance of power cant be so lopsided,were not united only because weve never tried it,weve been spoon fed the conventions of past generations,the social hierarchy of 80s teen movies were our foundation,Mean Girls was an instructional guide for a middle schoolers education.Enough is enough.

There is no one to fit a single antiquated label anymoreeverything is different now, our cultures have blended to the core,from two parts self-identity to one part hear me roar!weve turned the tables - comics are block buster movies,nerds are asking for narcotics,jocks cant wait to perform in the next musical,band kids are going to the gym,burn outs are striving for that passing grade,society cant touch us anymore!We tore through their stereotypes and ripped them to shreds,now weve got them scared and worried sick in their beds,tail between their legs because we finally spat out what we were fed.

So if they ever darken your doorstep again,direct them to mine instead and Ill tell them:Grab your pencils and your glassesand get your ass in where my class is,Im here to teach you what the real fact is,because Im sick of you social fascists.And its time for a regime change among the masses.

12

ESCAPE | Ben GrossThe world is so blurry and loud,One giant cloud around my head.Going under the moons spell,Swimming past all my problems,Noise is muffled, sight is focused,But in a few seconds this fantasy ends - Ill take another breath and do it again.

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| Madison Moe

14 | Erin Moroney

15

I. SEA (seattle)she can only sleep when the rain is poundingto distract her haunted mind.PER (perth)my mind is quiet and loudspeak softlythe echoes carry.IST (istanbul)carry your greek fire andset my walls aflame,i know i will live.ALO (waterloo)rosylnn, come dear to me,before the trains arriveand leave before i can.PIT (pittsburgh)i see the factory smokerising almost as ifit were morning fog.

CODE | Sydney Cunniff

II. Whiskey WhiskeyReading Sartre on the rooftopOur toes in the gutterAnd our fingers intertwinedNovember NovemberWe count our heartbeatsPinot arteries pumping Under moonlit wristsAnd you kiss me crazyEcho EchoYou lull me to sleepSinging a lullaby in codeThe last cardinal song of autumn.Romeo RomeoThe night pulses, the light burns strongA stark contrast of stars and void,Reality and the cold lipsOf a comatose Juliet.

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CLEMENTINES | Lily Milwit

I was around two years old when I ate my very first clementine. Mommom bought them by the bag from Trader Joes and peeled one for me, setting it down piece by piece on the table in front of me. I banged my chubby, tod-dler fists and insisted, More, more! I thought the sweet fruit was candy, almost as delicious as the Beacon Nosh Bars that Mommom would usually feed me from her fingertips when Mommy wasnt looking. A few years later, I was six years old and still eating clementines at Mommom and Poppops kitchen table. A few things had changed since my toddler days of citrus consumption. One was that Mommom and Poppop had moved from the big red house on the corner, where Id taken my first steps, into an apartment building. Another was that I now had a baby brother to share my clementines with. And a final difference was that since I was now six and practi-cally an independent adult in my own eyes; I insisted that Mommom not break apart my fruit into pieces. An incor-rigible finger-nail biter, I still solicited her assistance in peeling the skin off of my clementines, but I stubbornly wanted to be the one to break my own delicious snack into bite size pieces. My brother, Tyler, and I would snack on a couple of clementines each while Mommom put on VHS tapes of Wielie-Wielie-Walie. We didnt really understand the language that the puppets and cartoon characters were speak-ing and singing in, but we were nevertheless mesmerized by the childrens program. By the time I was ten years old, I knew a little more about South Africa than chocolate-hazelnut bars and chil-drens variety shows. Mommom showed me pictures of where my mom grew up and of the beach where she and Pop-pop first met. She brought me to the library and helped me find books about Nelson Mandela and Cape Town, where she had lived. And, as always, each visit included a Trader Joes bag of clementines that I could usually now peel all by myself. When I was fifteen, we went on a family vacation to Mexico. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were all in attendance. On one hot day, Mommom and I sat out on the beach, sharing a bag of clementines, these ones purchased at the local market in Playa Del Carmen. The two of us shared small talk for a while, discussing the beauti-ful weather, how calculus was going for me, how art classes were going for her. The chatter would come and go as we peeled our clementines, disposing the skins into a plastic bag next to Mommoms chair, taking in the placidity of the ocean.

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I remember looking over at the woman who had spent so many years educating me on the luxuries, beauties, and successes of South Africa and wanting to ask her so many questions about the country she had called home for 25 years. I can distinctly pull apart that moment from all other moments in my life as the instant when I realized there were things I didnt know about South Africa. I realized that there had been things left unsaid and uncharted waters that I was now ready to dive into. I took a deep breath and said, Mommom, why have you never been back? She didnt ask me to clarify. She didnt say, Back to where? Instead, she sighed and pulled out another clem-entine from the bag in front of us. She began to peel it, focusing intently on each pull of orange layering from the fruit. Then she looked over at me, and for the first time ever, told me about the South Africa I didnt know. The one that ex-isted buried underneath VHS collections of South African kids shows and bars of South African chocolate and books about Cape Towns breathtaking landscape. She told me about the apartheid and the turmoil; the silent war that was far from silent by the end. She depict-ed their street, filled with violence and rioting and hatred. She described one day near the end of their residence in the country when they awoke to find their car covered in bologna and their house soaked in egg yolks because of what they believed in. She explained how they couldnt leave right away because Poppops father ran the only hospital opened to whites and blacks in the whole city, and the decisions that they faced with so much to lose. I hadnt been completely ignorant to this South Africa. I had acquired some broad information about the politics of the apartheid from book reports and middle school history classes. But it had never registered that my own family could have been so heavily involved and so tremendously impacted by what happened in the country. My family had never intended for their experiences to become a secret; they had simply wanted to forget one side of the country and remember the beautiful, happy side of South Africa. As Mommom spoke, I silently nodded along, unable to form questions into actual sentences as they flooded my mind. For the first time in my life, I understood South Africa and Mommom, both as forces that had shaped my familys life. South Africa had always been a subtle part of my childhood, but from that day on, it could be a part of my entire life. I knew for the first time what the country had taught Mommom and what kind of person it had forced her to become and without even trying to, she made me understand more about courage, choices, and the importance of family than I could have ever learned from my own life experiences. I vividly remember pulling another clementine out of the bag and watching a tear bounce off its course, orange skin. I remember thinking that there were still ten or so clementines left in the bag, still thousands of bags of clemen-tines left in the market. How many people would hold a clementine today? How many people would learn something today? Grow up today? Look out into the ocean today and wonder how many miles until the next shoreline? Minutes passed in silence and then I smiled at Mommom. She smiled back. The world was a big, big place. And there were many clementines to be had.

| Erin M

oroney

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FUTILE DEVICES | Annette AndersonI could never fully describe his beauty. Not simply in words, anyway. His smile would trick you into believing the way his lips pressed together could be understood through the medium of your mouth. Not enough. Twenty six letters; how futile a chance you have with twenty six letters to put a caption to that golden, picture framed face. Seeing him, I pity every lover who assumed words would do. Trapped within ultimately petty phrases, I envy a world without language stifling our minds from really seeing someone as he is; feeling his beauty without any conscious thought.

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| Julie Gleason

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BATTLE CRY | Kathie RogersThey are coming; Can you not hear them?Already the trees whisper strands of a song,a song of sorrow and strength.Already the green, succulent earth grows hard and cold.The forest grows thick, forming armor,chain mail of needles and breast plate of oak.Already the birds sharpen their claws,stripping layers of skin down to bone,prepping the swords to pierce your soul.For they are coming.Gaea will lead them.Her fortress the mountains.Her kingdom the sky.They are coming to take back their land.Can you not hear them?They are coming.They are coming. | A

manda

Asofs

ky

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DADDY WHO? | Erin S.Daddy who is an open book. Who is a bald head and a toothy smile. Who is like a waterpark on the hottestdays of summer, a bonfire in the winter. Who is a Sunday morning conversation and a coffee with two sugars.

Who met a woman seven years ago. A call six months later. Anger molded onto a shaky skeleton,A deteriorating back and a Miller LiteGo fetch me another one.Achy bones, achy soul. A father who will never be the same. Who is angry and a half-hearted smile. When will you be home?Believe me.Itll be a while.

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| Mag

gie L

oane

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THE CREEK | Sloane Gallagher

My dad would never let me go down to the infamous creek where adventure and imaginations ran wild, the hot spot every summer for anyone looking to explore the depths of the water in search of turtles and exotic fish pets. It never occurred to me just how much I yearned to spend a full day basking in the sun, eating peanut butter sandwiches by the water on a steamy summer afternoon, until the day I ran away from home. My neighbor called me to tell me that everyone was going to the creek and that she would stop by my house if I wanted to join. My little heart leaped at the thought of getting to spend an entire day alone with my best friends exploring the mysterious creek. So I ran to my dads office with the phone tucked to my chest, batted my eyelashes, struck the most angelic face possible and simply asked, Daddy can I go to the park with Leah? He gave me a stern look and replied, Sure just as long as you guys dont head down to the creek by yourselves. The flutter of excitement in my chest quickly boiled into anger as I shouted back to him, How can you be so unfair? and ran back to the kitchen. Before I hung up the phone, I told Leah two words that I would come to regret later that day: Im coming. I ran upstairs to my room, excited about the new plan I was creating in my head. I tore apart my bedroom looking for my swimsuit, put it on under my clothes and started to run out the door. Right before I left I called out to my dad, Im going to Leahs house to play, and slammed the door behind me. Excitement filled me while I was waiting for my friends at the curb. All I could think about was how much I wanted to wade my feet in the cool water while skipping rocks on the sandy beach. I raced my friends down to the creek because I couldnt wait to get in the water. When we finally approached the sand, I bent down panting and looked at my reflection in the water. I smiled. I felt grown up, being down there all by myself. I dipped my toes in the water and the search began for who could catch the most minnows. As the day continued on, I went deeper and deeper into the water and my stomach tightened up with knots of guilt. Soon I couldnt take it anymore and told my friends that my mom wanted me home for lunch. At first I started to run home before my dad could figure out I wasnt at Leahs, but that run turned into a jog as I realized going home wasnt really an option. How could I walk into my house without looking wet and smelling like creek water? When I approached my house I had no other choice but to keep walking until I could think of a new plan. Quickly it grew dark and I still had no idea what I was going to do. I finally just plopped down on a sidewalk and started to cry. I wished that I had never lied to my dad and that I could go home, run into his arms and explain how sorry I was. One of my neighbors finally found me, and after I gathered enough courage to approach my dad, I walked up to our door, petrified and expecting the worst. Instead, I was greeted with huge bear hugs. That was the day I realized how much my parents actually cared about me; I realized they didnt deliberately want to keep me from having fun. They just wanted me to be safe.

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| Uniqua Ugorji

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SEPTEMBER | Hannah DietzMy legs shake up and down,as the world passes by around me.

You told me it was inevitable,as we shuffled past this small park,this diamond in the middle of the city.

The unavoidable truth:I will be leaving youin seven days and seven minutes.

The inevitable truth:an adult in the making,a reality pulling me away.

Seven days and now three minutes,my legs shake up and down. Moments away from being another fresh face, one in the crowd.

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| Julie

Glea

son

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REMEMBER | Cio DefnginPain streaked through crimson knuckles,dry brown eyes gazed blankly at the night sky, his brain shocked by numbness.As an icy talon dug its way into his empty chest,he closed his eyes to relive a silent memory.

Moments passed, ragged breaths impaled his lungs,acid dripped from a still heart.Her once beautiful facenow looked down on him with an ugly pity -comforting words piercing his bleeding heartwith ruthless intensity.

Iron mingled with saltas he pressed his hands to his face -his throat raw, his eyes red,his knuckles bloody, his soul beaten,his heart broken.

Punished for his blindness,obsessed with his ignorance,zealous in his hope,obsolete in his love - he hugged his knees,trembling with misery.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes,only to remember.

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| Kathie Rogers

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| Elizabeth Ashford

| Maggie Loane

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1. VIOLENCEShe comes astrideA great wolf, acid teeth dripping Festering drool.Her sword hand cries For vengeance, for suffering,For wounds that ache Until Hel takes you at last.Her shield hand saysNothing at all, but feels Of bright pain, thenNothing.

2. ILLNESSShe comes astrideA great serpent, silent As breath, as a hidden cough.Her goblet, pressed to Unsteady lips, is warm,Unbearably so, but her blanket Is cool, the first reliefIn months, and sleep Comes so easily.

3. AGEShe comes astride A great horse, old andWeaker for it.The torch she lights smellsLike summer nights,So long ago, and the thoughtIs heavy. Her cloak falls,Tired as its mistress, andLethargy settles on shouldersLong ready to leave.

HEL | Emma Thomas

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YEARS OLD | Sarah MacPheeI think that time is measured in emotional growth,not from a flimsy theory of the date you were born.From how much you learn outside of books and studies.What you learn about people and yourself.How you deal with things.The relationships you build.What you take from society; what you give back.If I were to age myself, Id be 26.I feel as if I know my path.Ive experienced grief, heartache, love, and joy.I know myself well, but there is still much more to learn.I still have years to go.

| Cathy

Robison

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I. Oh Mousm, meet me under the olive trees -Make me feel infinite,stuck between a soil and a skystirred to life by the Mediterranean wind.

We cant catch the olive trees,fading white above the soil.They are ancient, gnarled silver,Their old souls reminisce with the earth.

II.Lets disappear to the Japan of the Southwhere the colors shimmer and vibrate against each other;Ears of wheat with green-blue stalks,long leaves like ribbons of green shot with pink.

Oh Mousm, you excite the depths of myhaunting and haunted soul;Hold tight to your oleander buds, they wont last forever.

III.You are a manifestation of God,as you bloom and reproduce and die and scatter out into the universethrough my inhales and exhales.

Oh Mousm, you buried me in sunflowers and I seeped into the ground and fed the treesand dissipated into the universewhere we sang with the olive trees.

POSTCARDS FROM ITALY | Haley Lemieux

35| Julie Gleason

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NEVERLAND | Alice Li At one point in our lives as weary, reminiscent souls, havent we all wished that time could stand still for just an instance? As children we rushed through the years like tag on the playground constantly fleeting, never taking a mo-ment to catch our breath. Childhood seemed to be Neverland. They told us to treasure it while it lasted; we ignored them like gnats on a summer day. When did the years seep through my fingers like sand? I can still see the panoramic view from my dads shoulders. I was on top of the world. Those years were so delicate. Now Im ripping the batteries out of clocks in an attempt to freeze time. I guess my sanity vanished along with the years. Once the waves of the real world come crashing into your mind they knock you down. I shouldve taken the chance to bathe in comfort. But the nave innocence, pure laughter and meaningless tears remain in the kingdom of yesterday, forever resting in peace. The careless child faded, the sleepless nights emerged. Cuts and bruises werent the only things that hurt and scraped knees became wounded hearts. What happened to those days? The memories act like shadows in my mind, following my tracks, resembling me, morphing me into a completely new figure. I was once a believer, a revolutionary, but the blinding lights ahead stopped me in my tracks. It turned out that Prince Charming could come and go like wildfire, that you cant disinte-grate your enemies with the flash of a trident. Endings are not always what theyre made out to be. Mirrors lie, swords entire hearts like knives through butter. Real life is a raging fairytale in living hell.

| Amand

a Asofsk

y

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OCCULTATION | Lily MilwitRemember the first time we kissed?We looked up at the starsand talked about wishesas if we hadnt wasted most of ourson things that will never matter as much asthe space between our hands.

Our gravity was different,our reality was betterand we never woke up from ourDreams.

We measured time indiffractions andheartbeatsand you breathed momentsinto my memory,drew sunsets incrimson and amberon the palms of my hands.

We lived in Eclipseand used up all our wishes.

39 | Julie Gleason

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CELESTIA | Natasha KlineLike the sun,

She rises from her chambers to the world.Light streams from the horizon

And touches every soul,Their chins to the ground as she passes -

Flawless,Skin kissed tan,

Dress sewn white,Eyes amethyst,

Gait steady,Head high

But low enough to admire their devotion.From dawn to dusk she leads them forward

And their hopes grow stronger,Like sunlight peeking from behind a cloud.

Then day drains from the sky,She returns to her chamber

And, like her subjects,She sleeps.

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She wakes,And with the dark

She flies from her tower.The night stretches over the sky,

Like stars popping into existence,And their nightmares evaporate.

From dusk to dawn she fights their fears,But rests long enough to admire their devotion.

Limbs quick,Mind focused,Eyes sapphire,

Robed weaved navy,Skin touched white -

Perfect.With their heads on the pillows as she passes,

She calms every mind.Light glows from the heavens;

She sits atop the sky to watch over them,Like the moon

LUNA | Natasha Kline

| Erin Moroney

42 | Samantha Ernst

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FATHOMS OF SEA AND MIND | Sarah MacPheeSink with me,Down to the deep fathoms of blue.Follow me, it's all for you.It's the prettiest of blue,I understand - Take my hand, it's all for you.

It draws you in,It's a dark fathom of blue.It's crazy, it's insane,It's the perfect mad portrait of you.

Come closer, let go,Fall into the deep fathom made for you.It hurts, I know,But it's a beautiful fathom of blue.

People chase, they follow,Never trust a dark fathom of blue.Silly girl - should have known,Never trust the fathom in you.

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FOREIGN WATERS | Nicole BeltranYou were the calm sea that chipped away at my shorewith every ebb and flow,taking a piece of me with you every time we would connect.I soaked up all that I could of youand trapped those memories of usin my granules.

But now, its different.The current has shifted.You surface very little on shore,and you pull back even more.

With every drag of your water across my land,youre taking more of me away.Your withdrawing seas are polluted with apathy.

The wet touch of my soaked memoriesonly remind me of my tears that becomemixed, lost, meaninglessin your current.

Just bring me back the seasthat used to drown me in adorationand surround me in affection.Just bring me back the waters I loved.

45 | Maca Roman

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| Madison Moe

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MAKING BRUISES | Elena AsofskyTake it step by step.Wrap yourself in blue-cloth lies and bandages.

Take your voice and set it free, like wind it soarsand like wings it breaks,plummeting back into silence.Strip it raw,spend hours repeating the same letters looping from pen to paper in a carousel of lost meaning.I fell,You say,and people believe you.They dont see you when the blow connects.They dont see the moments spent,Holding your fist tightly,Afraid to knock.

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FORGET | Cio Defngin Cracked hope surrounded him -false relief whispering sickly sweet,peeling words stripped of their meaningencircled his head in a thorny crown.Dead eyes peered at him maliciously,and he cried.

They came to him in the inky night,silent and menacingbaring long fangs of nightmarish proportions,shredding his skull with vicious ferocity -memories. He remembered,and he slept.

His hollow heart sealed shut,the uneven stiches stretched tightagainst worn skin.Nothingness leaked into the gaps,filling him with frozen fire,and he struggled to forget.

BEFORE YOU GO | Kate ThreatBefore you go, gather up all youve used to blacken this atmosphere. Every pair of dirty shoes and every wrapper littering a surface. Double check in every corner, every crevice, even under the bed (all the monsters seem to end up there). Delete your voicemails and your messages. Cut all the strings showing you the way here, so you can never find your way back. Restart all the clocks that I know you stopped when you got here. And, baby, dont forget your keys.

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| Sophie Lipman

50

The taste of fall was budding, winding down the temperature while picking up the wind. Leaves were pirouetting in the air, a slow waltz electrifying each dancer. Dressed in traditional colors, the golden and maroon trees slowly waved the dancers on. Even the sky was participating, shining its spotlight onto the performers. The weather was a perfect crispness, full of soft gusts of wind and the light crunching of leaves underfoot. At the delight of the season, an elderly woman slowly continued on her path down the street and arrived at the bus station just as her ride pulled up. It took her a minute to ascend the stairs and hand her ticket to the driver. Smiling in an apologetic way, she finally reached the summit and headed down the aisle. She found her usual seat halfway back and sighed as she gracefully sat. The familiar old blue kaleidoscope seats flooded her vision, along with businessmen in suits and teenagers in jeans. The bus took off with a slight shake and rumble. The faint whoosh of cars outside was soothing to the woman, and she began to reminisce about her past. Things were much simpler back then, she thought, when cities werent overextending upwards and people werent obsessed with celebrities or wealth, but rather with family. Times change, she knew, it was just a fact of life. But she felt that people needed to sort their priorities out. Deciding not to dwell on those thoughts, the woman turned to her usual tradition of simply watching out the window as the world passed her by. This journey was always special because it meant seeing her family once again, even though she couldnt make it often. She sometimes thought about moving closer to her daughter, but the simplicity of where she currently resided was too appealing. Trees flew by the windows, seemingly in the perfect in-between shade of greenish orange. Autumn was coming slowly here, but it was beginning to trickle into the city. As she woke up to the world around herself, the woman realized the bus had stopped and it was time for her to depart. She stepped out, and the quiet of the bus was stolen away as the sound of people walking and heels clacking and horns honking filled her head. Car fumes and coffee stains bombarded her as she marveled at cars stopped in traffic, stretching on for eternity. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, the woman finally caught sight of her daughter and the two wandered into the sea of people. Her daughter had been changed by the hectic city life, but she was sorting out her priorities, and at the top of her agenda was to reassemble the relationship they had once enjoyed.

CHANGE IS IN THE AIR | Cosette Miller

51

| Erin Moroney

53

CROSS FOR THE SEASONS | Cio DefnginAs I cross my fingers,Blue edges of hopeExpand with bands of shadow on the growing horizon,Delicate swirls of leaf and color.

As I cross my fingers,Golden lines of happinessShift with ribbons of flame on the heavenly realm,Fiery spirals of ember and sun.

As I cross my fingers,White fringes of hubrisDrift with columns of snow on a frozen field,Cold tendrils of icicle and frost.

As I cross my fingers,Green outlines of harmonyBroaden with pillars of light on a quiet plain,Soft whorls of flower and cumulus.

| Alex L

ee

54

BLUE SKY, GREY EYES | Elena AsofskyIts silly how easily Im distracted by the sky. On its best days, its so blue it doesnt look real;Blue enough to make me sighAnd people joke about being lovesick.

I look up at the sky and I think,There must be millions of people doing the exact same thingVacantly, through a windowOr longingly, over the horizon,Perhaps tipping their chins up to see.

All around the world they see The same sky as I do.There must be millions of people just looking at the skyIn every color it can be.

Still, in this city of mine,Surrounded by millions of people,I feel like the sky is mine, and only mine.Just for a moment.

55 | Jenna Chen

56

| Maggie Loane

YES OR NO | Weihan WangIts never about yes or no,he said.Really, its about the probability0, 2, 15, number, math.Its always about these.Its never about yes or no,she said.Really, its all about how and why.How it happened; why it happened.Its always about these.Its never about yes or no,they all said.Really, its about matter and perspective.The way you see it; the way I see it.Its always about these.Its never about yes or no,I learned.Really, its only about me.Every day I see, I feel, I get.Its always about these.

58

| Sean Quick

59

MEMORY OF A HURRICANE | Michael S. The hurricane was ghastly. Wind blew trees to steep angles and the rain left the streets with layers of water darkening the pavement. The lights flickered, leaving a ghostly feeling shivering down my spine and fear for the stabil-ity above our heads. My fear didnt hover in the hurricane though was it safe to go outside? Could I venture into the storm? It was a consecration devoutly wished. What if I went partially outside? Under the deck, outside but with the roof still covering me and my thoughts to comfort me. I knew the storm was dangerous, but I couldnt keep away. I imagined the epiphany of my other half. This storm and your future dont they mix? Are they the same? We dont know what our futures hold, none-theless I sought comfort in mine. If only it were holy.

60

His hat was on fire. This much was clear as it hung off of the rack next his coat, the flames circling the brim in a sort of ritualistic dance. He checked the clock once more. One hundred and sixty-three hours and counting without sleep. Days more to go. He toyed with the notion of throwing on his smoking hat and taking a quick run down the hallway to spook whoever he happened to pass by, but he let this thought drift away. There was time to be wasted else-where, and the door was almost certainly locked. Tripp, how are you holding up in there? The voice came from a speaker directly above the armchair he was nestled in. The chairs spine bent back at an angle that made every position just frustrating enough to diminish any comfort it might have provided. He swung his legs over the side, let his torso sink down into the seat, and rested his chin against his chest. Not sleeping in there, are we? the voice prodded him again. You can see plain that Im not sleeping, Tripp replied, sinking even further into the dark leather. Hed lost his patience for these routine check-ins thirteen hours ago. He saw his hat dissolve from the corner of his eye. He pon-dered announcing the fire to his diligent friends but decided against it. His advisers would stop it when it got out of hand. They were watching him, after all. Until then it could be a source of amusement, something to keep him active in the claustrophobic space. And besides, perhaps this would become a more favorable alternative to continuing his test-ing. Why dont you take another shot at our assessment, Tripp? His advisers phrased everything like a question. The last time he had refused a physical test they had blasted a siren so loud that he swore his ear drums had popped. The silence that had followed for the next hour left him shaking on the floor, and the only distraction then had been the blank white walls. He clambered down from his perch, scrambled across the floor, and took a seat at the desk in the middle of the stark room. Alright. Hit me. A projection appeared on the white wall directly across from him. The light flashed red, then blue, then settled on yellow. Our studies show that yellow is best associated with memory, the voice explained. Wonderful. My studies show that its best associated with cat piss, but I guess thats why youre the experts here. Tripp could feel the clock running on madly behind him. It broke the silence of the dead room. The seconds passed almost as clearly as individual raindrops falling. Just empty your mind, Tripp. We are confident your results in this trial will prove to be quite useful to our research. Clear my mind to be done with your word association mumbo-jumbo? You should have offered ages ago. The beauty of random samples, eh? He drummed his knuckles out against the desk in solid eighth notes. Someone remind me how much Im getting paid for this, for my sake.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER | Emma Rebholz

61

The fire in his hat had spread to his coat. It still hung suspended on the rack, but clearly wouldnt hold on for much longer. Blue and white mingled with red and orange along the tattered strips. Sparks leapt fearlessly from the cotton to float gently down to the floor. It reminded him of a painting he had seen in a magazine feature when he was younger. Something nameless. Easily forgotten. Something a group from his college had given out on campus, maybe, but certainly nothing he would be able to find now. The colors had no boundaries. They melted into each other without thought or reason. Such a thing was so taboo now, a relic of the past. Order, that was where real beauty came from. Mathemat-ics. Science. This ridiculous testing. That was beauty. Even the white walls that surrounded him were beautiful in their own way. Systematic. Comforting, yet maddening. This fire, a thing born solely out of misfortune, could not possibly be beautiful. It was a threat. All it could offer was destruction. He could feel the heat rising in the room. Fire said the projector. Chaos White Walls Sparks Beauty Order Ashes Burning Freedom. The words blurred out of focus, too fast to read. Tripp wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. One hundred and sixty-five hours without sleep and counting. The clock struck him again. Were very pleased with your results, Tripp. Your thought patterns are completely unique from the other sub-jects. Their only significant results were sleep and yellow. We have increased your priority in our research. Oh boy, Tripp replied, obviously distracted. The rack had turned to dust. Now the flames moved to the grey of the carpet. The white molding of the walls. They inched closer to the desk. They were marching their way closer to him, leaving only ashes in their wake. Only destruction. Tell us Tripp, are these images usual to your thought patterns? Our readings for you are extremely abnormal, but we dont have data for you outside of our testing period. The fire circled him. It moved up the legs of the table. The desk was completely engulfed. His image in the heat bent and twisted. He became dark, ghastly, almost undead. The screen blurred with words. The yellow faltered, then gave in to jet black. There was too much data to process. His thoughts moved too fast. Can you hear us, Tripp? The fire found his legs. Up his torso. Down his arms. He was swallowed whole. His scream bounced back at him from every piercing angle of the tiny room, but he was underwater. The sound morphed into ungodly wails. His name was distorted beyond comprehension. He couldnt perceive it. He collapsed to the floor, convulsing wildly. He was blinded. He had lost even the comfort of darkness. There was only destruction. Tripp? Tripp, can you hear us? Whats happened? God damn it, someone unlock the doors. Men burst into the room in lines of two. Systematic. They jammed in tight, shoulder to shoulder, leaving a small circle around Tripp on the floor. Tripp? There was no reaction. One man bent down, taking his wrist in his hand. No pulse. Only chaos. Only destruction.

| Erin Moroney

63

SUNSETS | Lily MilwitDecember warned her arrivalWith a cursory glance,Her soft teardrops on the soles of my shoesHer chilled breath creeping Underneath my sweater

She whisked away autumnWith one gust of windAnd scattered her lightless eveningsAnd icy sheetsWhere there had once been a sea of crimson

And the people rejoicedSinging their songsAnd wearing their coatsMaking footprints in whiteAnd embracing that endless night

All while I sat by the window And watched her cry and cry,Whispering, Its okayI miss the sunsets too.

| Sophie L

ipman

64

| Amanda Asofsky

65

ROCOCO | Haley LemieuxThe mandarin sunrise shimmered and poured

kaleidoscope stories on broken homes;her brothers baseball bat smashed the stained glass

as she laid waste to Sunday morning.

The shards animated the monochromestain that was the soundtrack of her summer.

She lit a cigarette to warm her bonesand shook off the ashes of the colors.

The rain saturated clouds yawned overthe morning. The congregation huddledin the swirls and eddies of light, crying

Oh, Jesus Christ who could do such a thing?

She listened to the sound of the sirensfading, and she was already bored.

66

CIRCA 1900 | Sydney CunniffMorning come softly before the poppies bloom,Before the fly buzzes against the windowIn a room aglow with the dust of noon.The bluebells ring as the train tracks are laid

And blades of grass spring in the fissuresOf the road and the ruins of old churches.Can the day lilies feel the circularMotion within the veins of their palms just as

67

I can feel the wind exhale across my petaled lips?I understand now how the heliotropeSees past the trains fog as the light cleaves through,How the water pads float atop darkness.

The train tracks climb up toward the stars and the skyReaching for stars that float atop darknessAnd crushing the tulips underfoot.

| Kathie Rogers

68

TRINIDAD | Emma Levrio"My apologies, I did not mean to concern you, sir," lucid were his words. Leaving at 6:07 made him late. Making hours weep without chronological order. Clearance above quarantine. And he dropped.

| Jenna Chen

70

He gently grasped the underside of the stool, pulling it towards him deftly. He took a seat, placing himself care-fully, almost uncertainly. He raised his hands. The silence, the kind that is strung tight with anticipation, was stifling. It choked the air back down his throat. For a few moments, his hands hovered in front of him. Slowly, he let himself relax, let his fingers brush atop the cold keys - a tremor ran through him on contact. He let a shaking breath part from between his lips. He felt about the floor with his foot until he found the pedal, and then pressed it down. He moved his hands, changing positions, lifting his foot and hearing the dull echo of release only to press down again. And again. He couldnt decide which movement, which piece, which composition. And so he took his mind a step backwards. A chord. Focus on the form. He let his fingers fall softly, this time feeling the keys and letting the sound resonate - but it all sounded wrong, awkward, and clumsy - he instantly regretted it. The simple string of notes resonated painfully through the air. He tried to change it. A few notes here. Play softly. No, that sounds awful. Play brightly. What about a 4/4 time signature - no, no, its wrong, its all wrong. He felt a tightness in the back of his throat but pushed himself to keep playing, forcing the notes from the pi-ano, keys heavy and fingers stiff. His form was perfect. He followed every rule, sat up straight, stuck to the tempo. His hands marched blindly on in an unfeeling progression of improvvisato. He became gradually more and more unsure and uncomfortable with how the song was turning out, but he couldnt stop. He had to keep playing, and just hope itd get better. Try to steady himself. Just keep going. He felt something building, impending - like he did when someone was standing over him to watch, or as if he were about to trip, or like in those moments right before his mother yelled. He was surrounded, suddenly, by the sound - crowding up against him, too close. It was then that he withdrew. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hands and stopped the piece right in the middle, letting the pressure of the air around him fall and cover him. He lifted his foot from the pedal and the music stopped short, struck once and ren-dered silent. Shaking, he placed his hands in his lap and stayed still. For half a minute he stayed like this in silence, reassuring himself that he was indeed alone in the music room.

APPASSIONATO | Elena Asofsky

| Kathie

Rogers

71

SPEAK | Andrew Yesnick

He took a deep breath. The knot inside of him tightened and then his tears began to fall, uncomfortably hot, down his face. It was as if the pressure inside of him was pushing up until it forced its way out from behind his eyes. Slowly at first, the weight began to lessen. He took another breath, opening the places where his throat had closed and tightened, trying to calm down. Then, more gradually, it became easier to breathe. The weight lifted away completely and with the relief of release the tears came easier. They spilled over his cheeks without restraint. He didnt bother to wipe them away. Instead, he let himself take shape. He let the countless hours spent perfecting himself and his perfor-mance slip away. He felt every mindless second matching time to a metronome fill his head, all at once, and then let them fade from his consciousness. He felt the air around him clear, and again sensed something building - but rather than press over him it swelled from within, and his heart fluttered in excitement. He exhaled and a hesitant, uncertain smile formed on his lips. Fidgeting slightly, as if settling in, he once again reached forward for the piano. This time, he didnt need to choose a piece, select a chord, or feel for the right notes or tempo - he thrust all of that out and away from himself. Now he played freely. He ignored the proper posture; he shook off every rule and regu-lation that had been pounded into him. He played only from his heart, felt the music in every fiber of his body right down to the core. He swayed, leaning into each crescendo and laying into the piano, pounding it out - and yet the next second his fingers flew across the keys effortlessly, weightlessly, as if they werent there at all. It was so easy, suddenly. All he needed to do was feel it and it was there, in front of him, on the beautiful instrument that had so long been his prison. And now it was now his liberator, his saving grace. Imagine! He felt music in the deepest parts of himself and pulled it free, throwing it out onto the piano in revere, crying, and filling the entire room, unbound, with song.

72| Nicole Beltran

73

PUCKER PUNCH | Emma Rebholz Never fear ladies, as always, were here with the answers to all of your burning style questions. This week were talking makeup. Not just any makeup, mind you, but our very favorite - lipstick. What better way to pull together a new look than with a bit of fabulous color on your lips? Now, the key to the perfect lipstick is the perfect color. If you skimp on the scarlet, you might as well be wearing nothing at all, but if your pucker is akin to a fresh wound? Well, thats when you know youve gone too far. What shade will satisfy every need then, you ask? Why, its simple. The blood of your enemies, of course.

Steps for application:1. Select a target. Recommended are those who overlook you as nothing but a housewife. Its best you destroy this weak perception along with his or her weak body. 2. Your weapon of choice should accentuate your personality just as much as your lucky string of pearls. Be it a mace, an axe, or a blowtorch, it should scream style just as loud as your victims final cry. 3. To avoid any mess on your Sunday best, bring your work apron. Transform your look in just one easy step and say, Bye, bye to bloodstains! 4. Heels are not an option, they are a necessity. Stiletto should be taken literally. 5. Pucker, apply, and repeat. Happy hunting!

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II. SHE WATCHES MEIce, frozen and cold.Its cool breath calms my anger.It melts in my hands.

I. I WATCH HERHer hands reached upwards,touching the soft, falling rain.Drenched, pain drips away

TWO STRANGERS MEET IN THE RAIN | Tony Dang

RAIN | Kevin Rose

75 | Maggie Loane

76

| Juli

e Glea

son

77

DISSIDENT OPINION | Emma LevrioShe was receiving pay for a waste of time.Nothing more, nothing less - she could not acceptThe money now.Far from prostitution, but everything in between.She was receiving pay for a waste of time.Cold hard cash seemed to stagger and melt between her fingers,Beneath, so cold.Not her body, but her time, recovering from beyond repair.And she valued now, what had slipped between her fingers,What stretched her open book.Her mind was an eraser,But her time was everything between the obvious.Nothing could force her to be.Nothing more, nothing less.And she trembled.

78

| Julie Gleason

WHITE FLINT | Emma RebholzFrom a window seat on the red line,once pointless equations seem to hold more weight.So consider: If a train leaves the station at sixty miles per hour,and another follows at seventy miles per hour,how many passengers are thinking aboutthe boy singing hymns on the floor?Glory on his lips like sweet red wine,he has been drunk with verses sinceSunday mornings services.God must be missing a boy like this.His arms are littered with eloquent graffiti,so much so that his empty skin seems to sinkunder the weight of such heavy measures.I wonder if he could float in holy water,but I forget the equation for densitywhen the doors open.

80

| Kath

ie Roge

rs

81

There were exactly 312 tiles on the floor in the small, enclosed room. I knew because I had counted them at least five times. The room was almost pitch black by now, and I had only just realized I had been waiting for hours. I looked up at the clock for what must have been the thousandth time, but it was still broken, although I could still hear the tick-tock sound. I turned my chair around to the small, pathetic window in the room. Through the bars I could make out the snowflake flurries attacking the ground below. They painted a plain, white canvas, as if they were just waiting for people to ruin them with their muddy boots, leaving tracks all over the perfect cloud of white. I started to concentrate so hard on the snowflakes, watching them race each other to the bottom. I pressed my hand up against the window and tried to clear the frost so that I could see the cloud of enchanting, white snow. I lifted my finger to wipe away the combination of dust and frost and started to count each snow flurry that passed by. I made a game out of it to pass the time and quiet the tick-tock sound. I decided to give each snowflake a name. I kept think-ing about how the poor little crystals wouldnt be special anymore when they hit the ground. They would just become part of the pack of plain white, ready to be trampled by someones dirty footprints. I didnt want to end up at the bot-tom like those snowflakes. As I counted all my snowflakes, I remembered something I had learned way back in third grade. My teacher had taught me that all the snowflakes in the world were unique. I found this to be absolutely hilarious; no one ever bothers to notice a snowflake. In fact, most people couldnt care less about them, they only crush and destroy them underneath their sleds. Its truly a disgrace to kill something so valuable. Suddenly, the door barged open. I jumped out of my seat, landing on the cold floor. The police officer walked into the room, took one look at me, and started to laugh his head off. I had dragged the chair I had been handcuffed to along with me. The smell of cigarettes and garlic poured out of his mouth as he laughed. My stomach turned and I felt as if I were going to vomit. After what seemed like forever, the cop remembered his purpose and coughed into his sleeve to hide his laughter. He wiped the rest of the garlic off his face, tucking his sleeve back to hide the stain, yet ignoring the two greasy blotches on his shirt pocket. Get up, he barked at me. Stop messing around. I tried my best to lift myself off the ground, but the chair was too heavy for me to lift. I fell down again, notic-ing the tick-tock sound. As it grew louder, I put my hands over my ears, but nothing could silence it. The cop con-trolled himself and helped me stand up. A rush of relief washed over me as he turned and reached for the handcuff key. The tick-tock faded into the background. I told you I wasnt a murderer! He scoffed and my heart sank down into my stomach. I had spoken too soon. He thought I was guilty. He handcuffed both my hands this time and led me out of the building. As he read me my Miranda rights, I started to think of the snowflakes again. The world had stopped spinning. The people who had gathered around to stare at me disappeared. Dont hurt the snowflakes. Please dont step on the snowflakes, I repeated as I was dragged away.

DONT EVER HURT A SNOWFLAKE | Sloane Gallagher

82

THE FIELD | Bonnie WeissFallen angels overhead

Gently kiss the windswept landingGolden girls with feathery heads

Wait with pleasure for the cool white rainNever imagining the massacre that would follow

83| Kathie Rogers

84

| Nich

olas Y

oung

s

85

EMPTY SPACES | Sydney CunniffThe air is empty space. Sure, theres some oxygen, some carbon dioxide, quite a lot of elemental nitrogen, but most of it is nothingness. And I find that incomprehensible, when I think of such emptiness (moving like coastal winds off the ocean) touching our skin. I have yet to find the empty spaces in the human body our lung tissue sealed airtight, our capillaries and the subtle exchanges. Our bodies are solid and soft and complex and alive. A terrestrial landform touch-ing the vast expanse of ocean, empty space.

86 | Erin Moroney

ADO

LESC

ENT

MIN

DS

| Mad

ison W

akefi

eldWe are adolescent minds,Deceived by the real world.

Making our own rules,Driven by motivation

With a taste of rebellion.Seeking for a need to be loved by someone.

All these feelings adding to insanity.

Love is said to have no age,But how do we find it,

When we cannot find ourselves?Do you truly love me?

Have you found what love is?With this passion to express our personalities,

Does love paint this canvas?We, the leaders of tomorrow

Cant lead our lives on our own!Not trusted to steer the wheel,

Choose the path. People say we can do great things,

But we are never given the opportunityTo show what we can do.

They are afraid of what we can beFor we are adolescent minds.

87

INNISFREE | Emma LevrioHaving your heart broken is the worst part about being a teenager. "I never said that." "I never loved you." "Not now." "Not yet." "I love you." "No." "I'm sorry." But just as we learn from our mistakes, our heartbreaks allow us to learn more about our own hearts. Independence in a smoke stricken democracy. No. Having your heart broken is the best part about being a teenager.

cat's tales literary magazine: form (2014)

Documents

world of forms

physical world

shadow world

cats tales staff

editorial staff members

year students

quince orchard high

original music compositions