Wings spring 2013

“Not Alien” by Laura Porat

WINGSLiterary

Magazine

Volume 1 Edition 1

Spring 2013

“Lion” by Ashley Sauer“I love drawing animals and

drawing this was a challenge because I wanted it to look stylized yet accurate, but I was happy with the effect

that it had.”

“Unfair Justice” by Jason Alper

“My inspiration was the law for the gay marriage laws. I

was really moved by how un-just this was. I was inspired by the song “Same Love” by

Macklemore which is quoted at the bottom of my piece.”

“Hour of Light” by Jessica Helou

Framework of beingCrumbles in piles.Loads of a single hourLeak out my eyesClose my throatShake my hands, familiarly. My desperate,IdleFingers search for the pillow. Drown myselfConceal my collapse From realityWith the lock of the doorAnd eclipse of my haven.

And yet I still fearOutsider knowledge of personaldisasters.Bite the pillow, I order.Droplets dry to trickleRedirect sight to the moonSitting in her own dark abyssSeemingly nothing.

“I’ve always loved the honesty of the night against the complexity of the human mind. One night after an emotionally difficult day, I looked out my bedroom window, and just began writing.”

“Dark Like Vanilla; Hushed Like a Scream” by Neda Davarpanah

He’s a shadow on a leather boulevardWith the voice of Lou Reed and the face of Bécquer. I burn by the light of his silvery glow,Pine for the smell of his cedar co-logne,Which tastes of his touch and looks of him too – The man who can sing just like dusk turning blue.I hear in his smile the brown of his eyes.His name is not Dean and he’s not from Van Nuys,But his eyes are much more of a hazel or green.He’s dark like vanilla; he’s hushed like a scream.

But horses for courses, I guess you could say,‘Cause he’s played the guitar for most all of his daysAnd we’ll sock it to ‘em ‘fore they tear us apart.The rugged tattoos of Nietzschean love, and the Fervor, the passion of lacing up boots as we Look to each other, then down at our soles…I simply can’t tell how he swims through the streetsBut he’ll lasso the moon so his sweet girl will grinAnd he’ll always to this because, well, that’s just him.

His sinewy blushes will lead me astrayAnd he’ll move me too fast, with the speed of a train.Il a un peu de ce “je ne sais quoi,”For we’ll hear the music of the bricks in the walls,Of the smirk of his blazer and the laugh of my shawl,Of the joining of souls as we two become one,And the voice of our passion as it blasts like a gun.We’ll always and always burn up by the lightOf each other’s shadows, as they glow in the night.

“I came across a picture of a musician in a magazine and the image captivated me. I imagined his back-ground and what he must have felt at that moment based upon his expression and I just felt compelled to

write the poem.”

And I am egotisticalAs I paint spheres of similaritiesMyself to a celestial bodyAnd soon transcendence encompasses my soul,The only welcomed company.

She stands aloneTrailing a heavenly globe Never achieving individualism. Yet, truly similar are the moonand IAs we are stuck Here.

Stuck in these walls till dawnGreeted with the morning latebell.Inhabiting others, followingthem.To escape the penitentiary Has escaped my mind for the momentIn the miles of the lighted landscape

Only to catch A single glimpse Of the resplendent, star-sprinkledDark abyss of the moon.

Onlookers and by-passersRid themselves. They are blinded. Evidence is the gift to the Lonely.

But the moon and I differMy gravitational pull to by-passersMortal. Attachment to precedents falls Lifeless.

My world is brightBut the lights of othersShine too brightTo see it.

There is broken glass everywhere. I can hear an ambulance siren in the distance. In the background I realize that they are taking her away. How did it get to this? How could I have not pieced together all of the signs to realize what was going on? Marisol had gone home sick today from school. She had told the teachers that she wasn’t feeling well, but when I had seen her she seemed fine. When we chatted before class she was very closed off and clipped in our conversations, but Marisol was always quiet and brief when she talked. She was naturally a shy girl and, as most everyone called her, the school nerd; a school nerd who never missed or skipped school, even when she was sick. That should have been my first sign. I had decided to visit my dear friend and knowing that she would want the homework, began walking along the trail that lead to her house. Usually the trail would be crowded, but today there wasn’t a single soul there. Instead there were these strange red marks all over the ground. Ignoring the anxiety eating at me, I finally reached Marisol’s house. There were no lights on and the door was wide open. Marisol was always a very careful girl. She had a lock for her window just in case anyone tried to sneak in. But her front door was wide open; yet another sign that was overlooked as I causally walked into the house. Silence; that was all I could hear. There was no music, no talking, and definitely no Marisol. Her house was never quiet. Whether her par-ents were screaming at each other for a divorce, or if Marisol had her music blasting from the speakers, Marisol’s house could never be de-scribed as quiet. This time it was silent; no breathing. An ear-piercing scream brought me out of my reverie. Rushing to the bathroom, I real-ized why my friend had gone home early and what the red marks were. I finally understood the signs, but it was too late.

“Signs” by Anonymous

The revving sound ofthoughts driving by—Scraping the sky’s blurryclouds andRoaring across paved lines,Thudding and growling.The silent cries of sharpclangs and crashes,Pulling along beside classicmodels

With mirrors mercilessly reflecting the past.Emissions coat the pavement,Staining transfigured pebblesThat radiate harsh reflections,And warm with molten heat,Forging links of chain.

“Daily Commute” by Andrew Austin

“In this short poem, I wanted to capture the

grimy sensory cacophony that is the

modern freeway.”

“Broken Doll” by Shruti Aggarwal“I was thinking of Ideas for surreal picture and

hit on the idea of dolls. They are puppets in their master’s hands and can be forced down any path. This picture emphasizes the bond

between perfection and corruption.”

“mmMm” by Orr Amran

“I wanted to do a picture based on the artwork of

Sarah Sitkins.”

“Skate” by Nichole Baffone

“clairBear” by Orr Amran“My favorite childhood movie was Mulan and due to my fixation on the movie I tried to find

images that related to it.”

Watch me take it.Watch me take the pill,

That sits under the window sill.Out the vial it was spilled,Capable as any man to kill.

Man-made, who was made by god.

Just watch the pill get up,Walk to me and jump into my

chestTo fill an empty space left by

memories.It’s no addiction,

The emergency brake is within reach.

The completion of mind and body

Cemented by blood.Place a camera upon

My helmet of self-consciousness.

Stick a tape recorder in my mind,

To capture pain and doubt.That grows stronger as the pill

loses trust.Numbness wares off after

mental battles.Once it does feelings become

as passionateAs the first true tears of three

years.Never has true love struck me,But its burning sensation has

been felt.

The flame has faded away,Taking the route of dead cells.

Brain cells never being re-placed,

Leaving gaps and scars.As these cells leave,

They buy new locks for my trust’s door.

Can impair my vision,The pill is still in sight.

Thick air and bad waterWon’t mend my scarsOr stitch up my gaps.

They fill them up and drain.These gaps small but numer-

ous,Encase my passion,

That is too large to be released.This passion which is never

spoken of,Only allowed to roam free in

solitary confinement.The strength to pull the jail

cell’s bars apartIs missing from the attributes,

No amount of dilutionThat are listed on a business

card.Let alone the strengthTo even pick up a fork.

Once the tainted blood rushes through,

No amount of dilutionThat are listed on a business

card.Let alone the strengthTo even pick up a fork.

Once the tainted blood rushes through,

The body becomes more magnified to the ground.

Too much has the opposite effect.

Only if I could let out these thoughts at night,

Without these mosquitos sucking my blood.

To spread my disease to the innocent.

That’s why I stay inside,That’s why the presence of

darkness is feared.No sight of dangers or conse

quences.Want to see me take it?

Take the pill?Sadly, the moon can’t cast a

shadow on the pill.And the walls of my house are

too thick.Trust me,

It’s hard to see in this self-proclaimed darkness.

“The Pill” by Collin Butke

I sit down behind my desk

6 o’clock

The same time I sat here yesterday

The same time I will sit here tomorrow

So why is it my muse won’t come

She’s always been sitting on the windowsill

But today she is missing

I stare at the blank papers in front of me

And try to write something cohesive

But all I end up with are sparse feathers of thought

“a vacuum cleaner turned on somewhere near my heart”

“a laugh louder than the sun”

“I cry for yesterday’s ghosts”

Nothing complete, nothing done.

The paper yawns and eats my words

As if to say

“what’s wrong with you today.”

“I’m sorry!” I scream at it in return.

“Writer’s Block” by Ashley Siavoshi

Emerald eyes sparkle as she sings the lyricsThat matches the tone of her heart And her big smileBrims with a confidence that sometimes even she cannot see

She’s in love with her beat-up Perks novelThat’s been folded and warpedMuch like the nine others who have read it

And maybe even cried over it

Red velvet dyed her hair years before it was ‘in’And she cursed at the conform-ists That tried to make it appear original

Her infatuations bring in an influx of soulsMusicians, smokers, the hopeless, the dreamers

But her love for an innocent blonde And a distorted brunetteRemains unchanging

There is no such thing as too many docsJust as there are never enough catsAnd she will never go to law schoolBecause her world is a kaleido-scope

“Doc Strides” by Hannah Exler“I wrote this poem as a birthday present to one of my really good friends.”

Deprived of friendship

Due to other’s haste

A stain left on his heart

The sadness on his face

The child of shadows hides

Away in the back of the school

From the kids that hurt him

His misery is their fuel

The children’s weapons are sharp

I watch him die

With a sword of words

I watch him cry

Never once did I

Keep him away

The sticks and stones

I did not delay

I realize now

My eternal mistake

Being only the witness

Baring this dull ache

That boy, now a man

Still recalls that day

How he now fears others

And stays out of their way

His eyes tell a story

Yet, I keep a distance

I know he wants help

But, I am only the witness.

“Witness” by Shruti Aggarwal

I am the girl from the mental hospital. That girl who no one wants to befriend is me. Why? The answer is simple, really. I live in an asylum. People don’t want to know me. They worry that they will be contaminated. They believe they will get my illness. Don’t they real-ize? You can’t. No one can get my illness.

I am sure you are wondering why no one can. That is because I am not sick. The doc-tors tell me I have Schizophrenia. They think I can’t tell what the reality is. They are wrong! These doctors don’t see the reality. Otherwise, they would see her.

I ask them to look for her every day. She wanders past my window at night. She is by my side when I wake up. She is like the friend that I have never had. Yet, I don’t know who she is. She won’t tell me. I ask her, but she only nods and disappears. I ask the nurse, who comes in to check my blood pressure, where my dear friend goes. Her answer is the same every time. “Have you taken your medication yet? I am sure your friend will come back when you do.” No, she won’t. She never comes back when I want her to.

Today, a doctor came in to talk to me. He asked me, “Do you know why you are here?” I answered that I did. I was here because I needed to help my friend. On hearing this he in-formed me that I didn’t have any friends. He said that I used to have one. She used to be with me always until she died. I asked him to describe her. But I couldn’t focus on his words for as he spoke she appeared outside the window.

I pointed to her and whispered softly that she was there. She was standing right there, with her golden locks swaying slightly from a breeze that I couldn’t feel. Her brown eyes were dull and contrasted with her blood red dress. I begged the doctor to tell me how my wonder-ful companion died.

I watched, bewildered, as my friend opened her mouth and the doctor’s next words flew over my ears. “She died because of you.”

“Because of You” by Anonymous

“Who am I?”I am at the point where I only stall

No full answers given.I lie to the person I should be true

to the most,Myself.

The bush has been beaten with varieties of weapons and ways

The bush cannot be broken,And the only way through

Is through it.

Sadly once you get throughYou face a maze.

As you progress scars are etched onto your body

So you can retrace your stepsDepicting wrong turns and dead

ends.Once the exit has been reached,The scars spell the words TRUTHAnd following the letters is the

only way out.

Looking at my pastI have been fronting like a head

wind of a plastic monsoon.Lying became such a habit, words

that were so unworldly falseThat I regretted them as they

slipped from my lips.So fake that The Truman Show

director had hopes ofA sequel.

What kills me even more is when I think

“50’s Cartoon” by Collin Butke

“Help” by Shruti Aggarwal

So, there’s this girl. EW. Stop thinking that way. I’m not a guy/girl with a crushy-gushy, lovey-dovey, kissy-face emoticons story to tell. I have a different story. And, I think more people can relate to this than what you initially thought I was talking about. What was that anyways? I’m curious now... Anyway, all I want are your eyes, to see through mine on this journey of disaster, your ears, to hear the heart-crushing words I had to endure, and most of all feel the feelings I had and still have. Welcome to my nightmare. Whoops, I meant life.

When you hear the phrase ‘heart-crushing’ what do you think? A hammer smashing into the delicate organ that keeps us all alive and breaking it into a million pieces? Someone throwing a heart, resembling a head of lettuce out of a two story-building, having it fall to its doom? I guess you’re kinda right. Except instead of a hammer, think bigger, like a piano! And, raise the two-story to a 28-story. Make more sense? Can you understand how much her words hurt me? I guess not. I’m still floating on this boat, by myself, in the middle of my sea of thoughts. I just wanted someone to try and swim out here to provide me with some company. It gets awful lonely. Maybe if I visualize in a different way.

She was a lasso that grabbed me and pulled me in. After a while she stopped choking me, but held me close on a leash of persuasive words. Every now and then she would let me stray from her watchful eye, to live the life I was supposed to. But just as quickly as she let me go, she would take me back. She would tug me around to join conversations. “I agree with her,” were practically the only words that left my mouth. Sure, I wanted to say more, but she wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes I would bark out my own opinions about things or not come when called and I would be punished. After a while, I became nothing but a tired, worn-out soul belonging to her.

I forgot my name. I forgot her name. I was ‘pet’ and she was ‘master.’ When in public, she would keep me close but push me away if I was standing (or sitting) between her and someone much more interesting. I was the dirt beneath her One Direction converse. But, I guess dirt can still be there to comment nicely on her hair or give her a shoulder to cry on. Wait, dirt has shoulders? I guess that adds to my weirdness.

I was nothing to her. And I never really realized why I stayed. Maybe I thought that someday she would finally ask me, “How are you?” after venting about her own life. Maybe she could finally be the one I could confide all my secrets in without them being used to blackmail me or make fun of me with. Maybe she could be the one Best Friend every person in this whole damn universe has except me. But I guess not. She has other dirt specks. She has other pets. I’m nothing special. I’m nothing but a head of lettuce beneath a Grand Piano. And I guess I always will be.

“Nothing” by Mangled Butterfly

“Tools of Art” by Noah Rashba

“I wanted to portray one of the most recognizable art-ist’s tools in its most basic

form. The piece itself is sim-ple and of course, colorful, just as most art should be.”

“Ever-Watching” by Lynn Wang

“This painting is part of my AP Art Portfolio, and features a garden with various facial parts growing amongst the

foliage. I like the eerie feeling the painting gives off, as well

as the bright colors.”

“Snow Devils” by Kailee Canty

“A Balancing Act” by Lauren Zamfir

Northern stars fall down from the midnight sky. They congeal delicately on my pale and excited counte-nance. The flutter of eyelashes is heavy with ice.All four of our voices are masked by the crunches and crackles beneath our boots, trotting down an aged wooden path. Intimate motor chariots bide with anticipation with stares of headlights luring us in, slowly capturing our young and reckless innocence.I grasp onto a comfortably cordial back of a lover, and a friend climbs on behind another. Two to a bike, mak-ing a pair of unlikely but lust gazed couples. Lyrics of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers and Elvis Presley haunt our tongues and our lips, like a muscle memory.Heartbeats are lost forever in the roaring engine, along with opinions, cares, and concerns. Four small town rebels accelerating dangerously into black snow. Pursuing a seemingly infinite road that ignites a raging fire releasing a thousand suns burning with thrill lighting our way through the crisp, dark night. Wide eyes with elation, excitement, passion, adventure, buzz, fear, exhilaration, fright, enchantment, complete and utter felicity. Our hummingbird hearts are racing to be frozen in this moment of compassion, to last forever. If I am to die soon then let it be in the bliss of this Heaven. The faster he accelerates, I am more aware I become of my iced face. I hide my numb self behind his melting body. His warms hands graze my frozen fingers. Then, immediately, the machine jolts to a halt. Barn lights hold my eyes. Dancing through the midnight fall. Be-yond a jammed and broken door. Thick breathes of warm cigarette smoke and hay radiate heat within. Our breathing condensates a near window that once revealed a rebirth: refreshing Montana snow washing away distant California sunshine memories. Now, his gaze is divided amongst the window and I. Anticipation to return to the bike. Contemplation of frozen lips kissing stars.

Enter the center of the city, and walk to a tall building with a briefcase in your hand, shielding the blinding light that’s reflecting off of the windows. Take the elevator to the twenty-second story, walk down the corridor and enter your room. It has three walls, and the wall behind you is actually the window looking outside. It’s so high up you feel like you can see the entire world, limitless possibilities. You sit comfortably at your desk, working on a document your boss told you to write. Suddenly, a shot rings through the silence. You jump up and look out the glass wall. Looking down, you see chaos. People are being shot and stabbed; blood is everywhere. You watch. I’m down there, fighting, trying to keep them out so that you won’t get hurt, but I can’t help you for long. Watch. Eventually, you can’t bear looking any longer. You contemplate coming down and fighting, but you’re too afraid. You’ve been hurt before, and you don’t want it to happen again. So, you pull out a bucket of paint. You start painting over the window, covering the entire thing. You paint a beautiful landscape of green hills and butterflies and a rainbow and the sun and you look at it and think that your mind has been opened to new ideas. You paint a dragon and a unicorn and you keep going, ignor-ing the shots of death down below. Avoiding reality, hiding from it. You think you’re doing the right thing, it feels good. It looks good. You like it so much better than watching the pain, and risking anything that you could lose. If you take the paint off the window, you feel vulnerable- people will be able to see you. What if you fall? Will you be able to pick yourself back up? It’s easier to live in this world, one that you created. It’s convenient. I call you, and you answer. ‘Chip away at the paint!’ I say, ‘Look at the world, its infinite opportuni-ties! It’s a struggle, to fight on a day to day basis, but maybe, just maybe, its worth it.’ I keep fighting, but if I keep trying to protect you I’ll get hurt. I might even die. You look at the small knife that you could use to chip away the paint. It would take so much effort, so much work to keep chipping, chipping away at the paint. You’d have to look outside and see the pain and risk the life you knew. Is it worth it? Painting was so easy. This was easy. But what if they got past me and they got to you. You wouldn’t know what to do, you’ve never learned, never experienced the effort. When you go down and fight, you learn how to defend yourself. You become strong. You grow. But you’ve never learned. You’d die. It’s a struggle. Chip, chip, chip away the paint. The pain. And finally, you look outside. The fight is over. The sun is shining upon the road that can take you wherever you want to go. All you have to do now is walk. It’s all just a balancing act.

Staff Members Mission Statement

Editor-in-Chief

Ashley SiavoshiLayout Editor

Shruti AggarwalPoetry Editor

Vani BharawajShort Story Editor

Juliana FurgalaArt Editor

Lynn Wang

Letter From the Editor

Dear Reader,

When we announced that we were accepting submissions for this edition of Wings, my team and I were not expecting so many amazing submissions. From creative short stories to emotional poems and visionary works of art, we have seen that Oak Park is not only strong in its acedemics and sports, but also in its creative minds.

I would like to personally thank every person who submitted something for this edition of Wings, even though not every piece was published. It is because of artists, writers, painters, and poets like you that this magazine was even made pos-sible and my team and I are inspired to continue our efforts to make it available to you. Please consider submitting pieces for our next editions and joining the editing team.

I would also like to thank my amazing team for sticking with me through tight deadlines and a stressful few weeks of intensive work.

- Ashley Siavoshi, Editor-in-Chief

The Wings literary magazine’s purpose is to promote teen creativity through writing, art, and photography. Editions are published twice a year.

We welcome comments on any of the pieces featured in this edition.

Please email all comments, questions, and ideas to [email protected].

Interested in joining the editing staff next school year? Email [email protected] to be added to the mailing list.