PVHSLiterary Magazineilliterature

A New Year Edition for 2013

Lit Mag People:

Audrey Malek, Madison Hamilton, Nicole Christmas, Sarah Sperling, Sara Zadrima, Joe Hertlendy, Dimitri Tomais, Yoshi Abe, Katie O’Leary, Jadyn Marshall, Sam Alper, Emi Suzuki, Sofia France, Tristan Merlino, Tyrique Scantlebury

Editors Extraordinaire:

Madison Hamilton, Audrey Malek,Sarah Sperling, Nicole Christmas

Advisor: Mr. Lathrop

Cover: Audrey MalekArtwork by Emi Suzuki

illiterature

The Putnam Valley High School

Literary Magazine

January 2013

Table of ContentsTitle Author

Where Does A Forgotten Thought Go? Audrey Malek Knitted Soul Cozy Madison HamiltonSam’s Haikus (25 of them) Sam AlperSpeak With Me Old Friend Madison HamiltonLittle House On The Hill Joe HertelendyFlight 505 Sofia FranceFlesh and Pages Nicole ChristmasWearing My Words Jadyn MarshallSeason Changers Sara ZadrimaThe Reader Jadyn MarshallColors of My Future Emily WeiseDear Bully AnonymousLooking Glass Katie O’Leary

Phot

o by

Tris

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Mer

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Where Does A Forgotten Thought Go?by Audrey Malek

I really, really don’t want to write. I don’t even know what it is, I just…don’t want to write. Nothing to write about, I suppose, but maybe that’s life. A series of things that should be written about, but aren’t, and things that shouldn’t be written about ever, but are. It’s distinguishing between those two things that I find difficult because, to be completely honest with you, whoever you are, most of the things in my day-to-day life are even too mundane to remember. Brushing my teeth, I remember that, that’s mundane, and why do I remember that? Routine? But everything else that I guess I’ve forgotten is routine as well, but that’s gone…somewhere. As Freud wondered, where does a thought go once it’s forgotten? Or something to that effect. I’ve wondered that from time to time. There’s no thin air to vanish into, no vacuum cleaner to get sucked into, no bed to get shoved under. It’s just…a forgotten thing. Is there a box tucked away in your brain for all of your thoughts to go, and in your afterlife does it all come rushing back? Dumped into your arms without a second thought, all for you to sort through, and say, “Damn it, how did I forget where I left my keys that day? They were right there all along, and I was late because of it!” or “Well, how the hell did I forget that the word for second-to-last is penultimate?” Is it in a box, or a trunk, or something much different. A kind of vortex, like a black hole. Tinier than the head of a pin outside, but an entire universe of forgotten thoughts on the inside?

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I do not wear

My heart on my sleeveDeep into my sweaters

The strings are carefully wovenWrapped tightly and closely

Cocooned around meBrilliant blending colors

Worn for all to see

Photo by Audrey Malek

Knitted Soul Cozy By Madison Hamilton

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My dear friendsThey come and goLike firefliesOr winter’s snow

I love them dearlyBut they melt awayAs time goes onThere is much to say

So many years are goneThe stories could never endYet I am speechlessWhen I see an old friend

I have no wordsOr maybe they do not existThere is no making upFor all the time we missed

Photo by Audrey Malek

Speak With Me Old Friend By Madison Hamilton

Little House On The Hillby Joe Hertelendy

Little House On The Hill, I wish to own you one day.Raise a family in you, and have a place to stay.Little House On The Hill, in my vision you’re not far.Maybe I’ll buy you soon, maybe I’ll become a star.

Little House On The Hill, you I have yet to own.Time is running out, you stay young while I become grown.Little House On The Hill, now you just taunt me.I’m broke, loveless, in debt, and now you’ll always haunt me.

Little House On The Hill, my vision was just a lie.While I get old and without a home, I’m stuck to ask why.Little House On The Hill, I know you’ll be sticking by.Move on to a younger buyer, while I sit down and die.

photo by Audrey Malek

Flight 505

Sofia FranceWednesday, 7:19 PM, March 5th,1974 “Would you put that out?” Rachel snapped, yanking the cigarette out of her husband’s lips. Behind his square glasses, James’ eyes burned hotter than the cigarette. With nimble fingers he pulled another out of his sock and lit it. She bristled, and stormed out of the house. Throwing her nubby maroon coat over the Rolling Stones shirt she had adopted from James’ closet. Nearly choking herself with her striped scarf as she hurried down the frozen front steps. How could he? Her mind fumed. He knows full well how much she hates it. Since high school she’s been telling him. Going to burn a hole in the new couch. He’s going to light their first apartment on fire. That would be a great story to tell. Make her nice clean surfaces sticky with tar. How dare he? After she asked him over and over again. Bought him candy and gum to help him stop. Rachel groaned and plopped down on the slick, cracked concrete curb. She was being too controlling. She knew she was. Was she? She didn’t know. She leaned back on her hands, her exposed palms burned as they touched the icy pavement. She looked out at the desolate New York City Street. She needed to go home. Wiping her hands on her tattered jeans, Rachel rose and started the two-block trek back to her small brick apartment.

James put out his cigarette and made tea to give Rachel when she returned.

Friday 3:45 PM, May 3rd,1966“Yeah, no problem, anytime really,” James’ voice cracked. Rachel handed him

his Rolling Stones record. “It was really amazing.” Amazing didn’t even begin to sum it up. She had listened to it on loop for the

entire weekend. The music, woke her up. It was like Mick Jagger wanted her to escape into his world of recklessness, and freedom and love and life and awake-ness. She couldn’t even begin to explain what it had done to her. But all of a sudden, she didn’t need to be anything. She could just be.

“Yeah, they’re really great, I love “Flight 505” answered James slipping the record into his doodle-covered bag.

“Me too.” They stared at each other for a minute, each wanting to say more but not

knowing what to say. The silence fogged up around them, the lack of conversation condensing.

“Thank you,” she said finally shining a light into the fog. “For showing them to me. I feel like music like this is a very personal, almost private thing. And I appreciate you trusting me with it.”

“Of course.” He said clearing his throat “I have some other stuff kind of similar to them if you want. I mean the records belong to my older sister so. I’m not sure if she would let me lend them out. But if you ever want to come over and listen. I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes my friends come over and we just play records. I mean whatever, completely up to you”

He needed to show her the Animals. He had to. She would love them. He was sure of it. How could she not? They were the best. Say yes. Please say yes. Say yes please. For the sake of rock n’ roll, say yes.

“That would be great, call me when you can,” she rummaged through her huge purple half-her-size bag. “I would give you my number, but I don’t have a pen,” Rachel laughed, “I never have a pen.”

“I’m always prepared,” said James as he pulled a pencil out from behind his ear, cocking an eyebrow like a melodramatic soap star.

“Thanks,” she giggled, scribbling her number on a scrap of homework she had forgotten to do.

“They’re amazingly, mind-blowingly awesome, they really are,” she said, giving a slight wave before trudging down the hallway.

From where he was standing, her lopsided, back-pack-weighs-too-much look looked like the most beautiful, graceful ballet.

Monday 6:32 PM, November 18th 1974

“Shit shit shit!” The smoke alarm’s insistent beeping harmonized with her shouted profanities. As Rachel bludgeoned the fiery stove top with a checkered dishrag, the thrashing towel caught fire too. “Shit!” She dropped the towel on the white linoleum floors and stomped on it, burning her mismatched socked feet. James entered his apartment to hear the high-pitched screaming of the smoke alarm, mingled with the even more high-pitched swearing of his wife. Dropping his doodle-covered bag, he rushed into the chaos. The entire oven was aflame. James grabbed the shower-head sprayer out of the sink and began dousing the flames with high-pressure city water. Rachel followed his lead, choking the flames under the warm afghan they used to cover the coffee stains and cigarette burns on the couch. Still cursing at full volume. Finally after minutes of battle, the fire surrendered. Coughing, James opened the windows.

Rachel slumped down on the kitchen floor. Her hands covering her ruddy face she began to cry. Sliding down next to her James wrapped his arm around her small shoulders. “ I was trying to make a nice dinner… I can’t cook. I’m terrible at it… Just terrible” She whimpered into his shoulder.

“Sure you can…” he responded stroking her hair. “You can make beans,” he tried.

Rachel’s sob turned into a desperate laugh, then a cackle, then a full-out guffaw. “I can make beans!” she laughed doubling over with giggles

“You make the best beans in city!” He declared lifting her to a standing position

“The best beans in the country!” She spluttered, her eyes welling with laughter.

“The world!” He chimed, in stitches.

“The universe!” She shouted pulling the Chinese take out menu from the junk drawer.

“The universe,” he echoed, kissing her cheek, as she began dialing the restaurant’s phone number.

Photo by Audrey Malek

Nicole Christmas

Flesh and Pages

I want to read you like a book.

You will open up slowly, leaving me gasping for breath and the

promise of another word. You will be quiet at first, slowly easing me into

your exposition; you will take my hand and lead me, intriguing me and

enticing me to continue turning your pages. I won’t be able to put my finger

on it, but there will be something there. It will be like an itch at the back of

my mind, and talking to you will be the only way to scratch it.

But no matter how much I scratch, I will need to scratch more,

digging my fingers into my head, into the far corners of my mind where

you’ve managed to embed yourself.

As we talk, I will become invested in your story – in your life. Your

sentences with their excellent vocabulary will pull me in and make me eager

to reach the next. I will need to think when I am around you, but when I ask

questions, you will not immediately answer them. In your soft smile, you will

promise me everything if I only stick around to reach the end. Your subtle

foreshadowing will leave me satisfied and strangely frustrated, as I flounder

and guess at yours thoughts, lost somehow in your eloquent words and your

complexities. I will only have pieces of the whole, and the pieces cannot

account for all of you. You will not be a simple thought; it will have taken

ages to create you, long nights of the Creator bent over his desk and

pondering your lines and nuances with his poised pen and flesh-colored ink.

I want to hang onto your periods and linger on your words, attach

myself to your commas and follow your stream of consciousness. I want my

thoughts to revolve around why your sentences were cut off, or why your

voice was soft instead of loud. I want to wonder about your word choice.

Each word will turn over and over in my head until I have them memorized,

all of them carefully crafted with purpose and forethought. I will wonder on

your riddles and long to find the meaning behind your symbolism. The

sweatshirt that you always wear will tell me even more than your words

could, becoming worn from long days and tireless nights as I watched your

story unweave like the fraying fabric.

I will stay up long nights talking to you, eager to learn more and

terrified that it will end. Every word that you speak will fill me with elation,

because you will make me think and feel again, taking me away from the

superficial and the meaningless day to day sludge. I will become breathless

at your semicolons and weak at the knees from your similes. Nothing will

make me happier than your twists and turns, the places where our fingers

touch and I can feel us becoming connected. I will mix your life with mine

and blend your words into my own.

And when I have learned everything that I can, when the new book

smell has faded into a musty smell and your pages have become worn and

yellowed, I will hold you close on cold nights and attempt to linger in your

comforting fantasy again. Each time I look into your eyes and see your last

secret, my heart will clench with heartbreaking, bittersweet melancholy that

leaves me wanting to cry and needing to smile.

But you have already been read, and I will need to place you back on

my shelf, because you are made of flesh and bone and skin, and there is no

comfort in that. I can read you like a book, but I cannot keep you like one.

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Artwork by Jadyn Marshall

Season Changers by Sara Zadrima

In November  When the trees are bare

And there's frost everywhere But there's no snow

And things feel rather dull Ask her what her favorite season is.

She'll surely tell you it's winter. 

For the peaceful snowfalls And the skiing and the sledding

And the hot cocoa by the fireplace And bundling up And rosy cheeks  And the holidays

But ask again in February,  When it's been cold for so long 

And your cheeks are too red  And the rest of you is white as what's left of the snow And the chill has permanently seeped into your bones

And the trees are still bare 

Ask again.  And it'll be spring. 

When the trees grow their buds And your bones start to thaw 

And your cheeks aren't so red and frozen anymore And maybe a hint of color comes back to your skin

And the wildlife comes out of hiding

But if you ask again in May That spring fever will have evolved

Into a passion for summer 

When the warmth of the sun will seep to your bones And melt away any cold that remains

And your cheeks are burnt red When there are sleepless nights 

And adventures

And you donʼt have to worry And you can taste the salty air And the sun sets on the lake

Ask her now Her answer will definitely be summer. 

And this answer will last Even through September, 

When routines return And freedom is exchanged for classes

And summertime insomniacs must learn to sleep And you still long for the beach

And the lake And the adventures

And the fun 

It will last until October, When you've settled into a routine

And think maybe it's not so bad anymore But you stop in the madness for just a brief second

And you look outside  And you see the first leaves change from green to yellow

And soon enough the reds and oranges and browns chime in And everything is beautiful And you'd almost forgotten 

How much you loved the fall And the earth

And how wonderful the world really is. 

And her answer to your question will certainly be fall. 

That is until November comes again.

Photo by Tristan Merlino

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Photo by Tristan Merlino

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Photo by Tristan Merlino