Word 2011 Issue 2

WORD

Am g z nA I E

2WORD magazine | horace mann school

letter from the editor

Unfortunately, we were not able to print this issue of WORD in its traditional magazine for-mat. The machine in the Horace Mann copy shop, where WORD is usually published, cannot print any more magazines until a replacement part arrives.

So for now, we’re making do with other avenues of publica-tion.

However, the work which has gone into WORD is still re-markable. I’m proud to present next year’s masthead: editors-in-chief, Vasilia Sokolova and Juliet Zou; managing editor,

Mia Farinelli; and layout direc-tors, Baci Weiler and Joanna Cho.

Horace Mann School, you gave us feedback on our last is-sue—and we listened. For those who were confused about the origins of WORD, there’s an F.A.Q. box on the back cover. For writers and artists looking for outlets beyond HM publica-tions, we included a run-down of high school creative awards and contests (see last page).

I will miss you all, but WORD had a good run, and I hope its next will be even better.

goodbye and good luck,

Megan Lu (‘11)Editor-in-Chief

WORD MAGAZINE

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Megan W. Lu (‘11)

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Alice Taranto (‘11)

FACULTY ADVISOR Dr. Adam Casdin

JUNIOR/SOPHOMORE EDITORS Mia Farinelli (‘14), Vasilia Sokolova (‘13), Baci Weiler (‘12), Juliet Zou (‘13)

WRITERS & ARTISTS Greg Barancik (‘11), Sinai Cruz (‘14), Zoe Fawer (‘14), Phoebe Gennardo (‘14), Kylie Logan (‘14), Danielle Marcano (‘11) Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Ana Siracusano (‘14), Gina Yu (‘14), Juliet Zou

(‘13)

EDITORIAL STAFF Joanna Cho (‘14), Sinai Cruz (‘14), Miranda Jacoby (‘13), Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Melanie Totenberg (‘14)

Horace Mann School231 W. 246th St.

Bronx, NY10471

www.horacemann.org

online at ISSUU.COM/WORDMAGAZINE

3early spring 11 | vol. X issue 1

TABLE OF WORDS

4 .......... ALL THAT YOU COULDN’T REMEMBER by Gina Yu (‘14)

5 .......... ODE TO BE A SHEEP (BAD POETRY TRIBUTE) by Ana Siracusano (‘14)

6 .......... THIS LAND by Rebecca Matteson (‘12)

8 .......... THE APPLE TREE by Kylie Logan (‘14)

9 ..........THE WAITING ROOM by Juliet Zou (‘13)

11 .......... INSTRUCTIONS by Phoebe Gennardo (‘14)

12 .......... POSTCARDS FROM MY SISTER’S MADNESS by Rebecca Matteson (‘12)

13 .......... ATHENA by Sinai Cruz (‘14)

15 .......... WINTER CRYING INTO SPRING by Zoe Fawer (‘14)

many thanks to dr. kelly, dr. casdin, dr. delanty, elynor o’malley & the copy shop, and horace mann school for helping to make this magazine possible


T he sky above me was a spilled golden red chased by laven-der. There were no clouds. The groceries

I’d bought for me and Lyla were weighty in my arms. The lake glimmered, each glint rolling gently atop another. The evening air, the quiet, the scent of the lake—this was exactly how it was in my memory. I think we were seven at the time. I had been walking my bicycle at an arm’s length ahead of me. I’d fallen of f, my legs had been scraped and bruised, and they’d hurt. I’d angrily wiped my tears away before they even had the chance to leave the r ims of my eyes. Lyla had peered at me worriedly behind her head of glimmering hair, which shone just like the lake. “Do you know what the f ishes in the lake say to each other?” she asked. “No.” “Blublublue! Get it? It ’s because the lake is blue!” She had smiled at me hopefully. I’d laughed. Then she had made a f ish face at me. I had laughed again. I had lef t home when I was eighteen. I had had to leave; I couldn’t have borne another hushed conversation about how Lyla wouldn’t get any better.

I couldn’t have handled being her baby-sitter. Any where Lyla had wanted to go, I had had to accompany her, because we hadn’t known when she’d sud-denly forget where or who she was. I couldn’t have borne how our parents cared for Lyla more. It had been a bright morn-ing, when I’d gone up to her room to say goodbye. She had been sit-ting by the window, the book Is-land of the Blue Dolphins in her hands. Her hair had been shining sof tly against the sunlight; she had brushed it out of her eyes. “Lyla, I’m leaving.” She’d put down her book and came over to hug me, t ightly. “Please write.” “I will.” I volunteered to move back home to take care of her when our parents had grown too old to do so. I had watched and arrived with great dif f iculty at the realization that Lyla was getting worse. Even af ter three years, there were stil l mornings when she’d wake up and not rec-ognize who I was. I had had to reintroduce myself to her. “I’m your sister. We were born thirty-one seconds apart. We look exactly alike.” I told her t idbits of our childhood, catching glimpses of something in her eyes, some-thing that told me lit t le sparks

were going of f in the faraway place where she stored her mem-ories. Lyla spent most of her days reading either the letters I’d written her or Island of the Blue Dolphins, a book she had been working on since—no one even remembered. As she f in-ished each letter, she carefully refolded it and put it back into its envelope, only to take it out again the next day. She read by the window where sunlight f looded into our house. When it got too warm, she closed her eyes and slept. We talked about her reading; sometimes, she could remember almost everything she read. Oftentimes, she struggled to put sequential thoughts into sentences. I told her it was al-r ight if she couldn’t remember, and if there was anything that needed to be remembered, I would do it for her. She smiled, the same smile she had had since she was seven, and thanked me. We were together one day. It was warm; I wheeled her to the lake during sunset. She gasped at the glittering water. We were together one day. It was warm; I wheeled her to the lake during sunset. She gasped at the glittering water. She looked up at me and laughed, then shook her head. W

ALL THAT YOU COULDN’T REMEMBER

by GINA YU (‘14)


NEXT

THIS LAND by REBECCA

MATTESON

Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their

poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience

died of internal hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nob-bling Council survived only by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime

Gurgles” when his own major intestine—in a desperate attempt to save life kind itself—leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

ODE TO BE A SHEEP

by ANA SIRACUSANO (‘14)

Oh, am I lonely,Oh! how I weep!Oh if only,I could be a sheep!

A sheep, a sheep.If only a sheep,Then I could sleep, and sleepAnd I could sleep as a sheep.

And when I would sleepI’d dream, I’d dream,And when I would sleepI’d dream, I’d dream,And I’d dream of my love’sEver glowing gleam.

That gleam, of which I’d dream,I’d dream, I’d dream.But when I’d wake, not, to a cake,But to a fantasy that’s false, and fake.

And that fantasy is my life.Oh how I wish it’d be without strife!But now I am lonely,Now I shall sleep.And when I dream,It’ll be of his gleam.

Oh, how his hair!Shines gold in the light,Makes my heart look fairAnd melt without a fight.

For yes! I love him.Yes, I do!And although he has absolutely no idea,I’ll love him through and through!

For he is my love,He is my sheep.And in my sleep, as a sheep, I shall dream,I shall dream,I’ll dream of him in my sleep.As a sheep.

ALTERNATE ENDINGThe cars go beep.As they run over my sheep.And I weep.

Because my sheep is dead.

this poem is a tribute to bad poetry, written at book day 2011 in an attempt to emulate the terrible poetry of the vogon alien race, as thus described in the hitchhiker’s


THIS LAND

by REBECCA MATTESON (‘12)

Zac and I had always gone to the duck pond. We hardly ever thought twice about it. Just about every other weekend, we trekked through the quiet, hilly town whose inhabitants always stayed indoors no matter how nice it was out. We’d meet each other right in front of the sign that said Area Under Sur-veillance. We always laughed and plotted a conspir-acy to put a Welcome sign up in front of it, in the middle of the night, to see what would happen.

We never did.We’d walk past house after house and point at

them, saying which of them we’d most like to live in. It was sort of a hard pick—tons of really expen-sive places. I suppose it was good that there was no way we would ever afford any of them. If either of

us ever got the sort of money needed for one of those places, we would own only one house; whereas this way, the entire town was ours, and we never had to dust.

Eventually we’d get to the duck pond. We didn’t even look at the Only for Members notice. You see, our duck pond was only supposed to be used by people who owned houses around

there. Of course, the stupid thing about that was we were the only people who were ever there.

Zac and I sat on the wall of the duck pond. The sky was letting down a steady sprinkling of that sort of rain that makes everything seem greener.

I held the umbrella a litt le more over Zac. “I like what the rain does to the scenery,” I said, de-termined to enjoy, even as the water on the wall was seeping up through my pants.

“Makes it wet?” he replied.We stood up for a bit. Getting wet can be fun,

but it was just lousy this time, since we were plan-ning to stick around for a while. There were more ducks there than I’d ever seen.

“Remember how when it rained, just like this, when we were kids, I’d say, It ’s a good day for ducks?” I asked. “As I got older, I decided that maybe they only liked water in ponds. You know, for food and stuff. But it looks like they actually like wet days.”

“It’s good to know,” he said. “It’s good to know someone else enjoys it out here, other than us.”

He tugged at his collar. It didn’t suit him, but you had to dress up at least a litt le, or people could tell you didn’t live there. God, the lengths we went to just to see those damned ducks.

There was a splash. Then, a few feet away, a duck appeared at the surface, coming up again.

“Huh,” I wondered, “I didn’t know mallards were diving ducks.”

It did it again. A couple of the other ducks joined in. The f irst one started chasing the others around. I couldn’t help but laugh; it was the most bizarre thing I’d ever seen. I think that was true for Zac, too, but I couldn’t hear him over my own voice. These were the best times in the world. Better than birthdays.

“I think we’re being watched.”“What, by the ducks?” I asked. Only after say-

ing it did I realize he wasn’t kidding. There was a car parked a few yards away. A man leaned his chin on his hand and watched us intently. We stood and watched the ducks for a while. If those little bug-gers had kept horsing around, I could have stopped thinking about the man. But they hardly moved, and I looked out of the corner of my eye at him. I was careful not to move my head. He wasn’t in one of those security vans you could always see around there, just a normal car. I looked at him again. He was staring at us.

“We should leave,” I whispered without look-ing at Zac. I was terrif ied that the man might real-ize we noticed him. Of course! Who wouldn’t notice someone in a car staring at you like that?

ODE TO BE A SHEEP by ANA SIR-ACUSANO (‘14)

BEFORE


THE APPLE TREE by

KYLIE LO-GAN (‘14)

NEXT

“There’s no need,” Zac responded, v isibly ir-ritated by my caution. Let’s face it—I’m a complete coward. The f irst couple of times we had gone to the pond, I tried to get him to leave. I mean, if I didn’t like books so much, I’d probably be afraid of libraries; that’s how bad it is. But Zac? I swear, he’s a damn revolutionary or something.

“Please, Zac,” I pleaded. He didn’t answer me that time. I could feel the skin doing a tap dance up and down my arms. I was scared. I could tell I was going to say one of those very dramatic things, those ones that always seem like they could’ve been pulled off much better by someone else.

“You can stay,” I said coolly, “but I’m taking the umbrella.”

He looked at me, then shrugged. We started walking, and just as we passed the car, it started to drive away very slowly. We stopped to watch it. Once it reached the end of the road, it turned around to face us. I looked at Zac, and he nodded. For several blocks, I looked behind me every few steps.

I couldn’t say I understood why this was hap-pening to us. I mean, we were dressed nicely, and we weren’t hurting the pond or anything. I bet none of the members of that community knew they probably had the only diving mallards in the coun-try. I started to feel bad about making Zac leave like that. It was a really long time before we even spoke.

“I just hate that he beat us like that,” he mut-tered.

“They’ll only beat us if they get us for tres-

passing,” I said, try ing not to sound as disappoint-ed about the whole thing as I was.

“I guess that’s a point,” he said. I really didn’t like the way he said it. Let me tell you, I wished he didn’t think I was right. So much so that, af ter only a few minutes, I started to sing “This Land Is Your Land” under my breath.

“Oh, stop that,” he said.Back to silence. We walked down

the hill to the edge of the property. Zac stood at the base of the sign and stared up at it. He bent down and picked up a rock. He took a few steps back and chucked it at the sign. We ran like hell, hooting and shouting all the way down. We were on wheels. Once we had run out of breath, we sat on the curb and breathed. You’d have thought we were eighty or something.

“Why is it that the most pointless things al-ways feel the best?” he asked. I smiled, because I was too out of breath to laugh. After a while he stood up and gave me his hand. We sang “This Land Is Your Land” all the way back to that part of the world where the rain makes things gray. We even sang that verse that people never remember, and never believe it ’s there when you tell them.

“…said ‘No Trespassing.’But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing,Now that side was made for you and me.”Sometimes I really do wonder why it ’s so hard

to believe.

SUMMER SHOWERS

photos by Megan Lu (‘11)

W


BEFORE

THIS LAND by REBEC-CA MATTE-SON (‘12)

THE APPLE TREE

by KYLIE LOGAN (‘14)

Sara Ann half-heartedly carried herself up a small hill. The only reason even half her heart was in the climb was because of the tree right in the middle of this hill—an apple tree, holding many reddish-pink apples in its old but strong hands.

Sara Ann was feeling hurt and bruised like the apples on the tree—apples where worms squirmed through the fruit’s sweet flesh like moles. She needed a place to sit.

She was having a bad day, because, for the first time, she had learned who her real friends were. But learning this, much like learning math, necessitated some stress.

In order to find out who her real friends were, she first needed to find out who they weren’t. And this knowledge had come to her, uninvited.

So Sara Ann reached the top of the hill and dropped to her knees. She let her heavy bag slide down her arms and off her back, then she crawled under the tree. The nice, quiet apple tree.

There she sat, with arms wrapped around her legs and sticky tracks of fallen tears lining her face, like stripes of tree sap. Like stripes of apple juice. She knew she needed to let go. She needed to let go of those who weren’t her friends, but it was too hard. She needed a push.

As she sat and thought, a slight breeze swept across her face and dried the apple juice stripes. The small breeze picked itself up and gathered its friends, and soon, wind was brushing through Sara Ann’s hair, brushing through the tree’s leaves. Presently, an apple fell beside Sara Ann, and she picked it up. She shivered and let it fall from her hand, for it was rotting, and holes speckled its surface.

Sara Ann raised her head to look at the apple tree’s fruit, and its leaves, and its old, strong hands and arms. Then, she glanced back at the fallen apple.

“Maybe,” she pondered, “I can be like the apple tree.”Sara Ann stood and walked around the apple tree. She stopped

when she spotted a ruby red apple with barely any blemishes in sight. Jumping, she picked the apple off the tree and put it in her jacket pocket. Then, Sara pulled her bag onto one shoulder and bent to pick up the diseased apple. Touching the apple tree tenderly with her free hand, Sara Ann ran down the hill and threw the troubled apple away.

She felt a whole lot better, and she knew the apple tree did, too.W


THE WAITING ROOM

by JULIET ZOU (‘13)

NEXT

INSTRUC-TIONS by

PHOEBE GENNAR-DO (‘14)

He had been waiting for weeks, maybe even months. It was hard to keep track of time in the windowless room.

The room was rather large, but completely empty of fur-niture, with the exception of a single threadbare couch and a tall, teetering bookshelf in the corner. The walls were a dark shade of jade with gold detailing near the ceiling. Three times a day, meals were pushed through a small door in the wall. It was just too small for him to fit through, not that he would have tried anymore, anyway. The meals were plain, but nice enough. At night, the couch could be pulled out to form a bed, and after he had gotten used to the strange loneliness of the room, he slept soundly every night.

It was the bookshelf that fascinated him. Almost as if it were mocking the emptiness of its surroundings, it was stuffed tightly with the strangest books he had ever seen. The books were on all different topics, but none of them had titles. They were not divided into chapters, but consisted of random clips of disconnected text. Spread out through the pages were pho-tographs that seemed to have been placed there at the whim of the author; they were never related to the accompanying text.

With nothing else to do, he pored over these books. He read and read and thought. He had almost no interaction with his captor, and he spent days with the people of the books. With a little boy and his imaginary friend. With the struggling actress who had been disowned by her family. With the kindly old lady who had secretly murdered her next-door neighbor.

At first he had been angry. Of course he had been. Why had he, of all people, been taken? He wasn’t wealthy; he wasn’t famous; he wasn’t important. So why had they taken him? At first he’d also wanted to go home. To his parents, who had undoubtedly worried when he hadn’t showed up for Thanksgiving dinner. To his girlfriend, who would be waiting dutifully for him at home.

As he spent more and more time with the books, though, he had changed his mind. What was there to gain by going back home? What exactly? He had secretly resented life with his girlfriend, who talked all day of her clothes and nothing else; with his overprotective parents, who had guilted him

into getting a job near their home, instead of a higher-paying one two hundred miles away. What would they even say if he ever went home? Of course they would all be glad initially, but then the questions would come. What were you doing out so late? Why were you even in that part of town? Why didn’t you give us a call when you got lost? He had no answers for any of those questions. No answers that they’d be happy to hear, anyway.

It was partially his fault that he had been taken. He was the one who had willingly taken a detour into the shadier part of town, because he’d wanted some adventure. He’d wanted a break from the dullness of his life. This was why he had al-most gone willingly when he was forced into the back of a car. At 6’2 he probably could have overtaken the two women who had grabbed him, but he didn’t even fight back.

In the first few days, he had tried to break out of the green room. When he’d found that he was too large to fit through the door through which he got his food, he had almost torn apart the room looking for another exit. When that failed, he squeezed near the door everyday, trying to catch a glimpse of the out-side world or hear a snippet of their conver-sation, to figure out what exactly they wanted with him. He’d shouted to them through the door, shouted until his voice was hoarse. But they had never answered, and eventually he’d stopped asking. Based on what little he heard of their conversation, they often left the house in the afternoon. He probably could have used that time to find a way to leave or to call for help. But he no longer tried.

Because in a way, this was what he needed. He had need-ed an escape. There was no doubt that his parents and girl-friend loved him, as they were obligated to. But he doubted they really cared for him. He had always sought something more, although he was not quite sure what. All he knew for sure was that he had no desire to return to his old life.

So he stayed obediently in the room, reading and just waiting. Expecting. W


DYNAMIC LIGHT

photos by Greg Barancik (‘11)


NEXT

POST-CARDS by REBECCA

MATTESON (‘12)

I know this must be hard for you.I understand, I really do,But what do you want from me?

Do you want me to hand it to you On a silver platter?Or would you like it on the moon?But platters are for butlers, And the moon is for spacemen,And love, I am neither, so what can I do?

Would you like me to wrap it in a pack-age,And send it off to Cali?I could buy you a one way ticket and You could meet your package there.But packages are for businessmen, And Cali is for rock stars, And honey, you are neither.So what am I to do?

How about I put it in a box of choco-latesTo make it seem bittersweet?I can present a diamond ring to youWith the answer coded inside.But love, chocolate boxes are for lov-ers,And rings are for something more.And baby, we are neither.So what

can I

do?

INSTRUCTIONS

by PHOEBE GENNARDO (‘14)


BEFORE

INSTRUC-TIONS by PHOEBE GEN-NARDO (‘14)

POSTCARDS FROM MY SISTER’S MADNESS

by REBECCA MATTESON (‘12)

POSTCARD FROM A BUS LEAVING HOME

The talk to my righthas great gray wallsall painted on the inside.The Garden State’s smog pushesagainst the window to my left.So I go forwardand away.The trees thundering past,groaning under ice.I see horses in the fieldand, thinking how you love them,I watch them nuzzle through snowand pull up grass.

POSTCARD FROM A PARKING LOT NEAR VERSAILLES

I could have pressed myself into the wallslistening to the litany of tour guides.About how Louis’ legs are not his legs, but someone else’s,young and lean,And how the noblewoman’s face paintdestroyed her face.I wish I could have brought you,hamster-like in a coat pocket,fragile, soft, and safe.

POSTCARD FROM AN INDONESIAN MARKET

Since I knew you’d never see themI hoped to bring the islands home.The masks in their accusatory rows,the stripes and swirls of skirts,a knife, swerving side to sidelike an unfamiliar path.“Everything’s broken,”the shop lady cries.“Take it now!”I would have bought you clothesbut forgot your sizechangeable as you arefrom world-filling to frail.

POSTCARD FROM WITHIN YOUR HOUSE

I’ve just finished drinking the tea you’ve made,wondering how long until you’ll notice.I am lost.Your eyes show little reflectionswhite rectangles of computer screen.I try to remember if I saw you eat dinner.You turn the screen so I can see,“Isn’t it cute?It shouldn’t take long to save up.”I smileand nodAnd bend my cheek to your shoulder.

POSTCARD FROM THE OUTSIDE

The rain falls through my umbrellamaking your house seem far away,farther than it ought to,as I watch the lights go outone by one.The rain seeps through my shoes,whispering how you don’t know—you can’t know how I’ll stay here.Waiting to help you escape.


A thena sat on her tower-ing throne, her head rest-ing heavily on her slender hand. Her icy white hair, streaked with gold, curled

around her head in thick, individual locks and fell over her immortal face. She had the appearance of a young woman, deep into her late teenage years, yet the slight smile of a bored child was firmly on her face. Her clear grey eyes wandered into every corner of the room which she had already ex-plored a million times before. This was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, quite bored and feeling rather useless. She had sat in her court for too many idle years, and although any other god would have been impa-tient, she had learned patience from her eternal wisdom. She felt her owl shift from its resting place on her shoulder, hoot-ing softly. She smiled and sat up, her senses alert; her owl was lazy without stimulus and remained motionless. She faced the entrance of her temple and waited. After a few seconds, she finally heard the the sound she had wanted a century for: the patter of feet on the smooth marble floor outside her throne room. Aphrodite rushed in, bring-ing with her the smell of roses and passionfruit. Athena’s eyes sharpened into a thoughtful glare as she evalu-ated her younger sister. It was not like Aphrodite to have sweat on her beau-tiful round face. Her long strawberry

blond hair was not even done; it pooled around her shoulders and stuck lightly against her forehead. The light-footed goddess had tears in her large violet eyes, and her lashes were heavy with moisture. Athena sat straight, mo-tioned for her to come forward, and stood up to meet her. Aphrodite staggered forward into her sister’s arms and whispered the news. “Our father Zeus is dying.” Now, gods don’t die, of course. Athena’s usually calm countenance broke. She ran to get dressed. She slipped her armor on wordlessly and hurried to the door. A silver helmet topped off her swirling gold gown. She grabbed her spear off its holder near the entrance, and the two sisters ran. They had to rush to the most celestial room in the sky. It resided on the oth-er side of the mighty Olympus where all but two of the gods were watching Zeus with drooped heads. The once mighty Zeus, his wife Hera at his side, had to force every breath into his gold-en body. Athena and Aphrodite, as soon as they burst into the room, fell to their father’s bedside beside their sister, Artemis, who maintained her stoic expression. The three silently held hands, a quiet vigil at their fa-ther’s bed. But they were gods; unlike the mortals, they had no one to pray to. “Maybe he’s not dying. Maybe it’s another child.” Athena, as illogical as she sounded at the moment, tried

to convince herself that this was not happening. It was bad enough that he was her father, worse that he was a god, but the ultimate impossibility was that he was the most powerful god of Olympus. Athena pried herself from the bed and came to Hera, bowing her head. “Are we sure that he is dying? Could it be something else? A mischie-vous god tormenting him? Something he ate?” she asked. Hera’s soft pink eyes were shadowed. She shook her head. “The Fates themselves came to us. They told us that his string... had lost its immor-tality. He will be dead in a matter of days. We don’t know why, but there are rumors that the humans are leaving us, and that is why...” Hera broke into sobs that echoed in the chambers. “Why was I not summoned? I am one of his eldest daughters. I should have been here!” Athena was not angry like a mortal, but she was a bit displeased. Before Hera could reply, the gods felt a shift in the wind. The sky outside the room turned a stormy black and the ground turned cold and grey. Hades entered the room proud-ly, barely managing to keep the smile from his ash-colored face.

more ATHENA by SINAI

CRUZ (‘14)

NEXT

ATHENA

by SINAI CRUZ (‘14)


“My cousins, sisters, broth-ers, nieces, nephews! My beloved aunts and uncles! It is good to see you again!” he announced smugly. The gods parted for him, leading him to the bedside. They knew that he was here to collect his younger brother’s soul. All left the bedside except for Athena, who, as soon as Hades had entered the room, had buried her head on the golden sheets at her father’s feet. She glared at Hades. The heat of her russet-colored kin brought soft drops of sweat to accu-mulate under her helmet. Hades met her glare with an even smile. “Uncle, if I may have the plea-sure of asking, why are you here?” She did not hide her scorn. “I am here to retrieve my dear brother. You know that.” He knelt at the bedside and grinned as Zeus sud-denly began to pant. His black hair became streaked with grey and his skin seemed to age before their eyes. “Get away from him!” Athe-na lunged at Hades, but Apollo and Artemis held her back. “We must let Hades have him.” Artemis said, her eyes still holding their cold expression. Apollo said nothing but bur-ied his face into Athena’s armor, let-

ting fine tears trace the scales.

Zeus’s majesty left him quickly, but he uttered no more sounds, until his chest took one final heave and stopped completely. Hades smiled and touched his brother’s arm, lifting the newly dead spirit into the air. It swirled around Hades silently. The large god lifted himself from the bed and made his way through the swirl of clamor-ing gods, who had started wailing the moment they felt the mightiest one among them die. Athena broke free from her brother and ran to her uncle and her father’s soul. “Hades! There must be some other way! Can’t you give him life again? Please! Without him, Olym-pus will fall into ruin.” “I know,” Hades laughed vig-orously. Athena, who had not yet cried, turned glassy-eyed. “Uncle, I ask you, as family—is there any way to bring my father back?” Hades smirked and rummaged in his cloak. He took out a clear blue bottle. “The Fates told me that the twelve mighty gods of Olympus will die first. I will hide their souls across the mortal world, in the stars, and even in my own kingdom. You will die last of all. If you want to revive them, you must find all their souls and put them in this bottle. If you find them

all before you die and bring them to me, I promise to give you their souls back.” He gently placed the bottle into her hand. “However, be warned. The Fates told me that even if their souls return, they will only die again. You gods thrive on prayers from the mortals. What happens when the mortals move beyond you? Trust me my child; you’ll only work in vain. Unless your noble mind figures that it is better to try and to make them live for a brief second longer than never to try at all.” He shrugged and held his brother’s hand as they made their way to the gates of Olympus. He turned back to his niece and waved, disappearing from her blurred sight. Athena stared at the bottle that rested on her palm, feeling its steady weight. She turned quickly and galloped to her father’s room. With horror, she saw her great uncle Poseidon on the floor clutching his chest. Everyone was beside themselves with fear, either mourning or raging or claiming they felt weak. Athena viewed her bro-ken family and held the bottle to her chest. She knew, without a doubt, the Fates’ prophecy would come true, but she also knew that she would do ev-erything she could to stop it. BEFORE

more ATHE-NA by SI-NAI CRUZ (‘14)

W

ART PARTS

by Danielle Marcano (‘11)


GET RECOGNIZED!

Scholastic Art & Writing AwardsWHAT:

YoungARTS Foundation

WHO:

FUN FACTS:

Paul Block Award for Creative Writ-ing + Alan Breckenridge Prize + Edward H. Simpson Essay Award

A frozen pondFrail and attacked,RobbedOf her snow white coatPowerlessAgainst the raging sun

A snowflakeWeak and afraidDrifts downWaitingFor her inevitable farewell

An icicleGraspingWith his long slender fingersScrapingThe rough wood roofAnd descending intoDeath

A heartbroken block Of smooth and wintry iceSheds large tearsOf grief and sorrowDown cheeksOf fragile frost

WINTER CRYING INTO SPRING

by ZOE FAWER (‘14)

recognizes student creativity in everything from poetry to playwriting to videogame design at the regional and national levelhigh schoolers and middle schoolers

national winners are honored at a Carnegie Hall ceremony while the Empire State Building is lit gold in their honor; previous Scholastic award win-ners are Andy Warhol, Sylvia Plath, Robert Red-ford, Zac Posen, and Truman Capote

WHAT: encourages young artists and poets to incorporate elements of nature into their work

WHO: artists and poets ages 5 through 19

WHAT: recognizes artists in nine disciplines, including various visual, performing, and literary arts

WHO: high schoolers or high school aged teens

FUN FACTS: winners are nominated to become Presidential Scholars, a title given by the U.S. government’s to honor exceptional graduating students and their teachers at a White House ceremony

AT HM: former HM recipients include Rebecca Matteson (‘12), Spencer Whitehead (‘11), and WORD ’s edi-tor-in-chief, Megan Lu (‘11)

River of Words Contest

former HM recipients include Caroline Dean (‘10)

FUN FACTS: contest went on hiatus this year due to lack of funding but has since resumed; one of the judges is Pulitzer winner and two-time U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Hass, who visited HM last year

AT HM:

WHAT: a trio of year-end awards given out annually by the HM English Department, whose faculty members chose a creative writing piece, a personal essay, and a critical literary essay from student submis-sions

WHO: primarily seniors, although in years past, recepi-ents have included HM students from other grades

WORD F.A.Q.

email next year’s editors-in-chief juliet zou + vasilia sokolova

to get involvedplus, check us out at ISSUU.COM/WORDMAGAZINE

WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WORD AND MANUSCRIPT?Manuscript publishes only poetry, while Word publishes primarily prose (but also a few po-ems). The publications also differ in format, il-lustration, size, and frequency of publication.

IS WORD A NEW PUBLICA-TION STARTED THIS YEAR?No, Word is the continuation of former HM publication Legal Fiction, which did not come out at all for several years. The first issue of the revamped and rebooted Word came out last year, followed by two more issues this year, one in early spring and this end=of-year one.

I WANT TO WORK FOR WORD! WHAT CAN I DO?Word wants to showcase your tal-ent, whether you’re a writer, artist, edi-tor, layout wizard, poet, photographer, or sombrero-wearing ninja pirate! Email us to be added to the mailing list.

Documents

Word 2011 Issue 2