Wordflirt 2013, Upper School Literary Magazine

Word Flirt 2013BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL

Wordflirt 2013FINAL covers:Layout 1 5/30/13 10:28 PM Page 1

Word Flirt is an Upper School activity that cele-brates the literary, creative, and visual arts atBrooklyn Friends School. e magazine is pub-lished at the conclusion of each academic year.From the fall through the spring, the editors, staffand faculty advisors work to encourage students tocreate and submit their work for publication. eWordFlirt editors and staff review, edit, and choosework. We strive to include all grade levels in theUpper School and thank those students who haveshared their voices and their talents in this 2013edition.

Word Flirt 2013

EditorsCindy Chen ’14Anna Emy ’14Sam Miller ’14Fiona Sharp ’15

Ayanna Whitehead ’14Staff

Kira Barrett ’14Chloe Burton ’14

Jillian Feinberg ’14Liza Kruth ’16

Xiana Quadrozzi ’16Faculty Advisors

Sidney BridgesJon De Graff

Gillian Bagley

CONTENTS

1 Sonnet 219, Adam Ginsberg 2 Growing Up, Aria Cato 3 Untitled, Christeline Velazquez 4 e Battle of Five Faces, Sage Meade 5 Maiden of the Spring, Daisy Feddoes 7 Singing Sacred Songs in Secular Spots,

Julian Franco8 Hold Onto*, Olivia Parnell8 Wolf Girl, Olive Wexler 9 I Called Upon a King in Mourn, Kira Barrett 10 Inside, Clara Siegmund 11 Untitled, Herron Hutchins 12 Dear Chairman of the Parks Department,

Sophie Adelman13 Shutter/Shudder, Elinor Hills14 Devotion, Ayanna Whitehead15 Comfort in the Shadows, Rosalind Major16 Dedication to My Mother, Bianca Rhea17 East and West, Jacob Swindell-Sakoor18 Street Art, Adam Ginsberg19 e Real New Yorker, Sam Miller20 Why e Sky Is Blue, Fiona Sharp22 If You Are Very Still, Olive Wexler23 School, Raphael Norman-Tenazas24 Not A Story To Pass On, Evan Novick

Cover by Asia Kaul ’13

Allison Falikman ’14

Sam Botwin ’16

Wordflirt 2013 replacement IFC:Layout 1 5/31/13 9:57 AM Page 1

WordFlirt / 1

Sonnet 219Adam Ginsberg ’14

Copious thoughts: think! Start! Just go!

Incessantly echo, causing Avalanche like collapses

When you really need to let go.

Cognition is worn, tired and torn,

Stretching 14 into marathons

And seconds to decades from being born.

Subjectively gridlocked by the setting of involuntary indirection,

From palm trees to Burt’s Bees to bees knees to plead and please to Resurrection?

But then it hits, clicks, clockwork begins to tick,

The majestic realization when you know you found… “It.”

Living vicariously through your pencil, it’s pouring out,

Cerebral rain can’t be stenciled, replicated by anything but your mental,

Liberations. Broken through the wall, circumscribed around the freedom of innovation.

Brainstorm’s over. Let the inundation of motivations occur. No hesitation, just words.

Elinor Hills ’14

WF2013 jm:Layout 1 5/30/13 10:08 PM Page 1

Growing UpAria Cato ’14

As I gaze out into the blank, open spaceI see nothing

Nothing but deserted smilesAnd abandoned eyesI see withered dreamsAnd unanswered calls

I smell the smell of old rustic childhoodsWhere everything was once golden

As we embark on this journey of adolescence It’s no longer about bruised knees and scraped chins

Or popsicles dropped on the ground

It’s no longer sadness that lasts only for a second It’s not those genuine smiles and those happy screams of laughterIt’s not those days when we come home and go straight to bed

Because we have so much to look forward to tomorrowIt’s different

It’s more like grumpy and angered expressionsAnd teacups filled with sadness and remorse

No longer that genuine smile and those happy screams of laughterNo longer am I that little girl that has so much to look forward to tomorrow

It’s more like coming home and wondering why I’m here Or realizing that growing up comes with so much burden

It’s more like responsibility versus rebellionAnd all childhood happiness is gone

The things that used to comfort me don’t comfort me any longerThe love I used to warm up to doesn’t warm me up anymore The things that used to make me laugh barely get a smile

And everything is different

Instead of counting from one to ten in my story book,I count from one to ten pages of my history paper

Instead of drowning out the cartoons on T.V.I drown in all the responsibility

Growing up is not as great as I thought it would beIt’s just another hard-assed term people use for the trials and tribulations

Of getting closer to going out into the world on your ownAnd it’s different

2 / Brooklyn Friends School


UntitledChristeline Velazquez ’15

Gilded promises Glittering Against the cold floor

And tears Forever Trapped

Within broken dreams Gone Forever

An endless road Taking you Nowhere

Never finding Away To go

Laughter Lost What then?

WordFlirt / 3

Nicholas Ullman ’14


The Battle of Five FacesSage Meade ’15

Monochrome light streaming into a stalemate roomThrashing about the cotton sheetsIf not one is terminated then nothing will be neat.Weep. For,Fiery seas will boil over. Soil the mood. Unable to eat food that was given. Driven to madness.Creating her sadness.Because, Seas will frost under. Send into a mourning slumber. Numbers. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 toelevenconsecutive cries. Repugnant lies. Giving birth to a repetitive “why?”Then, Sighs. Winds will whisper halftruthedexplanations of why! Undefined. Line, of stress. Youwere the best! Yet the tornado left.Except, ripping up the land may be the best. Start anew. Get some rest. YES! For the sun isilluminating. Staying in once place is excruciating. Complaining.Now waiting. The seas’ claps are now debating. Sunshine kissed a lady. Producing anew!Notice the moon! It’s lustful gloom....it swooned?No, it knew! Seas, crash! Smash! Despising the moon’s careless act. For that...Fiery seas will boil over. Soil the mood. Unable to eat food that was given. Driven to madness.Creating her sadness.Alas this, thrashing about the cotton sheetsAdmitted defeat.


Sage Meade ’15


Maiden of the SpringDaisy Feddoes ’15

She fell through a chasm in the sky and I watched her still body lie on the icy ground. Ireached out to touch her, and she turned her head away from me. Regardless, I brushed myhand against her own and felt the steady pulse of her heart. She was unconscious. The peachcolored fabric crinkled in all directions, and with every intake of her breath, it barely con-cealed her chest and legs. I almost didn’t notice how strangely serene this scene was, until Iglanced up to see orange blossoms falling from the chasm. They landed around her one byone forming an abstract outline around her body, a few falling into her hair. Such a scene al-most seemed unfit for the underworld.

I cradled her, and each slight movementcaused the snow beneath my feet tocrunch. Immediately, the warmth of herbody shot through my veins, and I feltstrangely energized in a way I haven’t be-fore. She apparently did not feel the samewarmth, and strange, razorlike, bumpsshot onto her skin. It was cold. Always socold. A short moment later her icy blueeyes shot open and she just stared wide-eyed at me for what seemed like an eter-nity. She closed her eyes and looked uponce more, slowly placing her hand on mycrown. Her hand slid back down and shehugged her arms to her body, tucking herhead inside the crevice that she created. Pausing for a moment, I thought about saying some-thing, but nothing I could think of could help ease the tension, so I settled for creating asmall, floating, blue fire ahead of us. I felt her relax a bit and the bumps seem to have disap-peared off of her arms. ‘Keep away the bumps’ I told myself.

To pass the time, I started listening to the crunch of the snow. I saw a shadow, and right awayI glared above. The hole closed slowly, and some of the pebbles hit my head and caused me toflinch. Logically, I blew the appendages up. My logic didn’t seem as apparent as I thoughtwhen I felt vibrations across my chest. This woman...she was laughing at me! Her eyes full ofmirth and as soon as they met mine she hid her head again but I could still see the blastedsmirk on her face. What a shameless woman. ‘Getting hit on the head...that one will have topass.’ Now only the glow of the fire illuminated once more, this being the darkness I longgrew accustomed to. I start to move more swiftly,masterfully, in the dark, and soon enough Isaw the purple spirits that danced around my castle. I blew out the guiding fire and replacedit with glowing hieroglyphics, pushing them towards the metal door. continued . . .

WordFlirt / 5

Elinor Hills ’14


The smell of spices and ripe fruit assaulted my senses as I felt the woman stir once more inmy arms. This time, however, I put her to the ground and motioned her to follow. I haven’tsmelled or tasted food in such a long time; it was almost repulsive to my senses as I led her tothe dining hall. To be honest, I don’t even know why I have one. ‘If I don’t eat, and the deadare never hungry, for whose benefit would it be to have a hall of food? Maybe for the sake ofnostalgia...maybe even self-torture.

Hmm...’ I shrugged it off and continued making my way forward, glancing back every fewmoments only to see her conveniently twisting her auburn hair in her fingers every time.This time I laugh and whisper “If I wanted to hurt you, I’m the god of death. I trust you knowthat I could have done it by now, Persephone.” The pair of footsteps became mine alone forthe next few seconds until I once again heard a dragging on the floor. ‘In retrospect, maybethat wasn’t the best way to start communication. I have a feeling this relationship is going totake a long time, isn’t it...’ I glanced back and this time she shrank away before twirling herhair again. ‘Indeed.’


Chloe Burton ’14


Singing Sacred Songs in Secular SpotsJulian Franco ’16

Grand Central Station; Friday AfternoonThe din of the great citadel,

Made soft by rising prayers of gentle voices.Some stop to listen,

Most do not.Because life moves too quickly to pause, and realize the angels in disguise.

Most ramble on with an apathetic glance.Some jeer.

The singers keep on singing.

A few stop to watch as the conductor raises his hands in an eternal dance,His gnarled face assuming the beauty of the music.Some are fortunate to hear the resplendent voices,

Rising,Ascending,Resurrecting,

The polyphonic tones blending.Until out of many, there become one.

They sing hymns, magnificats, psalms, motets; Spiritual music on secular ground.

They sing for beauty, love, and hopeNot for any religious sect or creed

Because true harmony transcends, the harness of all identity.

When the music fades,The trance is broken,The spell reversed.

And those fortunate souls hurry on their usual way,Back to the din of the mundane,

In to the bleak fortress called Grand Central.Are they made better for hearing the sacred music?

No one knows.One can only hope that they indeed realized,

“The angels in human guiseUsually unrecognized.”

WordFlirt / 7


Hold Onto*Olivia Parnell ’14

This old man walked up to me in the park todayHe told me poetry is hereditaryHe looked deep into my eyes, nodded his head and told me I’d be legendary. He told me to take away their fears and kill them with my storiesFill their heads with comic reliefs that make them forget all the b.s. *Make them weep for their lives, for they have been spared To create To forget reason and just run “Reason is crap!” he said. I laughed.He laughed. He laughed at me and tugged my shirt to hell and back. And he told me to wipe away that stain on my blouse “here take this and use it to paint a real picture” he said cryptically holding up a dead pencilTake it and run I thoughtAnd as I turned to walk out of the shade, he whispered“Don’t think too hard about it sweetheart.”The wise words of wisdom from an old man. Just something Just something to hold onto, I guess.


Misha Holzman ’13

Wolf GirlOlive Wexler ’16

Sheathed in the night

she

crawls

calls

to her sisters of darkness

Lonely as the howl she yelps,she curls beneath the starsand slumber steals her

away.


I Called Upon a King in MournKira Barrett ’14

I called upon a king in mourn,

Whose kingdom fell and left in scorn,

And people fled in minds forlorn,

All but the child who came unborn.

And all around the village wide,

Lay rows of flowers piléd high,

In clustered hues of green and red,

There brought to rest the baby’s head.

The king I knew from worlds long past,

With plump red cheeks and hands up cast,

Lay withered, cold and dying fast,

All for his love who had not last.

And unto him there was then said,

“Oh royal lord, you must not dread,

The coming tide of winter’s grief,

For love is short and time a thief.”

The organ played and hymns were sung,

And subject’s hands were vastly wrung,

For in the little box she lay,

The female heart of just one day.

And in his chamber left alone,

The mourning king sat on his throne,

And with one quick and fatal groan,

He went to join his love unknown.

And that is how a love is met,

Through life or death the heart is set,

It follows to the darkest shore,

And never leaves with want for more.

WordFlirt / 9

Cecilia Emy ’16


InsideClara Siegmund ’14

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you.” A harsh voice. A hard, angry voice.The kind to shy away from and hide away from and cower away from. A heavy weight to pinon the edges of a mind. The sort that drags, emanating a strong presence. “Don’t. Don’t.” Awhisper of a shudder, a secret of a movement, snakes through the body of the boy at thesound. He hides it. Wants to hide it. Tries to hide it. He confines it to his mind, his weightedmind, in a way that strips it of being. He can’t let his father see. Don’t, he says. Don’t, don’t.But he needs to talk. About death about his mother about love about what is left. He needs tohear comfort and feel it wrap itself around him and wind itself about him and twirl itselfthrough him.

The needing is great. The needing grinds him and rips him apart. He can feel it as it tugs athis limbs and pulls his extremities. He can feel it when it trails icy through him. He can feelthat he needs to speak and listen or he might burst might shrivel into nothing but tearsmight waste violently and silently away. The needing weights his mind.

“I don’t want to hear it! Don’t!” The voice is desperation and pain and rage. “Don’t!” Don’t,don’t. Each utterance of the word cuts the boy. Don’t. And his need becomes desperation andpain and an absence of rage. Emptiness. More empty and so empty and more empty again.Don’t. Not now. Not ever. Don’t.

The father’s anger overflows, oozes out of him. It drips audibly. Splashes and splatters and pools where it falls. The ground embraces it and sucks it in greedily and grows from it,enveloping the boy and his father, walling them in with rigid disgust until the father breaksand escapes and rushes from the room with a roaring wind.

The boy feels himself falling, the weight of his mind pulling him, the wind of his father pushing him. His body droops and wilts and folds in shaky creases.

And time passes. The boy lies there on the ground between the walls of rigid disgust and time passes. It screeches and slithers by and the boy can’t tell if it’s moving fast or slow, thetwo speeds feeling the same as he shivers fiercely and weakly and steadily. It is a long timeand he can’t get up and he can’t escape as his father did and he is trapped, lying there andlying there.

Finally, finally he sits and stands and is silent, standing there. With a heavy weight he stepsforward. One step and then another, slow and silent. He approaches the doorway. He doesnot know where his father went. His hand brushes against beading on a tablecloth as hepasses and they clack loudly and violently and angrily against each other. His ears are full ofthe sound and it is violence and anger and despair and loneliness that is breaking the silence,but he can only register “Don’t! Don’t!” and so he leaves quietly.



WordFlirt / 11

UntitledHerron Hutchins ’13

Never ending thuds of crushed ribs echo,

Creases in her loathing eyes bat their wings,

Cynical laughter of denial stroke freckled knees,

Porous skin just short of gentle please.

A mounting fear bubbles and sings,

Tight fists wrap loosely around dreams,

Furrowed brows sleep with frustrations,

Stewing knowledge begs for restoration.

Ignoring the thud and crush of ribs, folding her creases as nicely as bibs,

enjoying her laughter rooted with hate, accepting so sweetly this bitter fate.

Tim Wheelock ’13



Dear Chairman of the Parks Department,

I write to you on behalf of a newly formed organization: Dads Against Field Trashing, orDAFT as we call ourselves for short. Many of our members, while taking nature strolls meantfor serene contemplation, have noticed something truly appalling in our parks. The wreckedand razed condition of our local park is nothing short of stomach churning. Where do thesehorrifying conditions come from? They come from recreational sports hooligans tearing upour beloved terrain with their cleats.

It is for this reason that our coalition has taken the re-sponsibility to file a complaint. Our grass-roots organi-zation will not tolerate the disrespect that our park’sground receives. Outdoor sports, such as lacrosse, foot-ball, badminton, and that vile activity of soccer shouldhenceforward be banned! To these ten-year-old buf-foons, nature is but a joke, a place to trot along andcompletely demolish. But, fields are not meant to bewalked on, let alone touched. Why were paved walk-ways built? Obviously, they were crafted to observe thefields from. The pathways are there for the very pur-pose of not walking on or touching the grass. Nature ismost certainly not a force to be reckoned with and thedangerous conditions of torn up grass that the athletesleave behind should not be tolerated. It is too importantto maintain the pristine conditions of our local park.

Now, the question is, what can the community do as an alternative to destroying nature’sfields? After brainstorming this very question for months on end, we at DAFT have decidedthat the most fulfilling and realistic replacement for outdoor field sports is simply a videogame console. Why ruin the real grass when one can simply play the sport of his or her choicevirtually? Why, in this day and age, should we continue to destroy the environment? Everyoneshould take advantage of the technology that is readily available, and buy the sport of theirchoice for PlayStation. In this fantastical yet fictional world, the grass is just as green, the phys-ical activity just as strenuous. The virtual sports experience is even better than real life, be-cause not only does one get the satisfaction of playing the sport, but one now knows that he orshe has no longer hampered Earth’s pure beauty. With the parks untouched and the people intheir houses playing video games, we at DAFT would feel not only as though we saved an en-tire community, but also protected grass’s rights along the way, upholding our environmen-tally conscious motives.

Sophie Adelman ’14

Lotte Walworth ’14


Shutter / ShudderElinor Hills ’14

With the light through the lens

The agony glutted his veins

Stalked by a vulture

He was all but a pile of a boy

The agony glutted his veins

The atomic bomb waiting in his palms

He was all but a pile of a boy

Crumbled under a weeping tree

The atomic bomb waiting in his palms

As the brutality pulled threads from his

sanity

Crumbled under a weeping tree

He was set to unravel

As the brutality pulled threads from his sanity

He felt the wrath like growling whips across his chapped back

He was set to unravel

He was the boy

He felt the wrath like growling whips across his chapped back

His work became him

He was the boy

Stifled by the exposure he couldn't rescind

His work became him

And he became his work

Stifled by the exposure he couldn’t rescind

A thrall to his pulsing mind

And he became his work

Stumbling in the blackness

A thrall to his pulsing mind

In a moment it would be over

Stumbling in the blackness

Stalked by a vulture

In a moment it would be over

With the light through the lens.

WordFlirt / 13

Anna Emy ’14



DevotionAyanna Whitehead ’14

The day had been dim and dreary as you cradled him in your arms,

Tears staining those satin cheeks, eyes red and wild.

In the threshold the figure stood, claiming you had been lost to his charms,

Lifting your chin, proudly, you shouted “There is nothing wrong with my child!”

For in all of God’s great Earth there wasn’t a more perfect being,

And a Mother’s Love surely surpassed that of His own.

Hatred and anguish stripped away to reveal the loneliness that you were seeing,

You would stand beside him and remove the bitterness that had been sown.

So would you be at his side while he dug trenches at night?

Would you pick up the pieces that had long since fallen apart?

Smiling, would you say “I’m proud of you, I love you, it’s alright,”

And in your naïvety hope to mend his ailing heart?

Red roses blooming in puddles that seeped into ground,

Precious things that he could marvel at, a new love that he had found.

Tim Wheelock ’13


WordFlirt / 15

Comfort in the ShadowsRosalind Major ’14

I’m staring out the window across the rainy Louisiana highway. We still have approximatelytwo hours before I become, for lack of a better term, an only child. I have two older siblingsand I’ve spent the last sixteen years living behind them. For most people it’s hard for themto come to a new place where nobody knows them. For me, it’s harder to come to a newplace where people do know who I am. People prejudge me by automatically tying me totheir perceptions of my siblings. There has been no single day where I haven’t been mistak-enly called one of my siblings’ names; or asked one of my most anticipated, and most hated,questions – “Oh, you're Blank's Sister? How is he/she?” Or “How's Blank? Do tell them theymust come visit, this school just isn't the same without them.”

I’ve lived my whole life in these shadows, knowing what to expect and silently trudgingalong in the ruins of my siblings’ paths. That’s why this day, when I am finally the only onehome, is so iconic in my lifetime. It might in fact be the most important day in my life todate. Today is usually a younger sibling’s happiest day; the day that they finally are allowed torid themselves of these labels and shadows. That was my expectation at least. For longerthan you could even imagine this day is the only thing I have looked forward to, especiallyon the days when I feel the worst. It was the only thing that cheered me up when my mindclouded over with the vicious attacks that my sibling had purposely planned out to make mefeel the lowest I’ve ever felt. I sit here now staring out at this rainy highway with tears, sud-denly and rudely aware of the huge change that is about to happen. I close my eyes, as I al-ways do when I don’t want anyone in the car to notice me, when I want to be left alone withmyself.

My brother and dad are debating the hottest topic of the time, politics and the upcomingelection. I sit here, thinking how ridiculous I must be to have quickly left in the past, to getaway from these petty arguments they have at least once a day. I find myself now sitting andtrying to calculate all of the time that I have lost with my brother in the last year because ofmy aversion to conflict. I’m the quiet one in my family; something that I am sure wouldshock my friends or really anyone outside of close family. I am always scared of saying thewrong thing. Both of my siblings are loud, able to stay whatever they want to at the appropri-ate time. I’ve never been like that, and so I say quiet, and the shadow grows.

I’m used to having a certain older brother in the face of any conflict. Since I can remember,even if he did not agree with me, he was there, always on my side, having no consciousnessof the consequences of conflict, as long as at the end I felt safe. That is just how it has alwaysbeen, with naïve little me thinking that this was just how my life would always be. I feelscared now, while I sit here in the midst of the argument with my eyes closed. The conflictwashes over me and I shiver, feeling the cool, spiteful words flow along the river of conflict.As if perfectly attuned to my feelings, my brother reaches over and pulls me sideways into ahug. I place my head on his shoulder, my eyes still shut. I feel safe once more.



Dedication to My MotherBianca Rhea ’15

Mother’s faceHas lines that stretch from Hamburg to Berlin

Mother’s faceHas Deutsche humor, and deutsche song

Mother’s faceHas eyes like the lightning that strikes the surface of our earthCasting judgmentCalling out to her Oma across the sea“Beate, please, come back to me”

Mother’s faceWas young some time ago

Mother’s faceWas crazed as she delved into art

Mother’s faceWatched as she drew the sound of beesThousands of dotsBlending color to muckStriving to live her dreams with the support of beginner’s luck

Mother’s faceHad a nose splattered in red, black, and blue

Mother’s faceDriven to twist in crazy snarls

Mother’s faceHad white ears that heard the buzzingHeard it screeching in her earAnd so her mentor said,“You must get out of here.”

Mother’s faceHolds the ridges of our landscape

Mother’s faceHouses thin, opinionated lips, and an invisible brow

Mother’s faceIs that of an unwavering martyrShe eats a meal for negative oneAnd works all day and nightConstantly reminding her child that all will be alright


WordFlirt / 17

Mother’s faceIs seen as NaziMother’s faceReads Gestapo, Mein Kampf, and the SSMother’s face

Is inquisitiveJust like her daughterBut is afraid that her curiosityWill draw undeserved animosity

Mother’s faceSmiles sweetly, inside she’s a little childAnd her face loves me dearly, eternally young and wild

Samantha Liebeskind ’15

East and WestJacob Swindell-Sakoor ’15

We leave our very emotions for love.

We are parallel lovers for the time being.

We will disguise our passion for others,

We will leave the familiar,

We will chase the unknown,

We will dismiss "me" for "us".

We can have everything�

We can leave with nothing.

We will come to hate "us".

We will desire "me".

We will become public enemies,

We will lose our simplicity.

We are separated for time's duration.

We have all the energy for hate.


Street ArtAdam Ginsberg ’15

Street ArtO’ wondrous illusion!

Can I fathom the falsity you flaunt?What foul deception, a cloudy mist of doubt!

Remove the fold before my eyes and let me see the truth

At first glance: a vast ocean littered with dancing waves.Out of once timid waters a storm erupts

How to bare the pure beauty of this startling incident?O’ how to drift into Poseidon’s kingdom!

The steamy white engines ripple, paying heed to lifeFlawlessly navigating the dark depths of the undoing sea

Am I mistaken, to envy those forever journeyed?To covet climbing on deck, and beginning my astonishing adventure starboard

The once deep waters are swallowed and shriveledThe vessel, once scorching with momentum has abruptly stoppedMisleading fables, images of lies, a kingdom demolished in falsity


Grace Ives ’13


Hey, are you there?I know you’re sitting on a chair.

You are curling your hairand breathing in your -

my air. Why do you deserve to be

trapped in a mind of despair?We are struggling in freedomto deal with weight we all bear.Well, on this train of course.

We’re all going the same course.This is the A train, right?Just thought I’d ask.But are you there?

Fully there?Aware?

Why don’t you get up to checkto see if we arrived at your station yet.

Stare at me all you want,implying random non-sequiturs

like “nonchalant”.Hold on, you mean that you are nonchalant

by sitting and looking down?

And not caring if you frown?Not caring that the shirt you wear

isn’t green, but brown?Suppose so.

Well, here’s my stop.See you later,

Sayonara, ciao, or whichever wordyou want to be used right now.

“Nonchalant” is the new word for: ...Me standing up, and you

sitting down.There’s more to the train than that.It’s about knowing when to pitter-patyour feet to train braking and leans.

That stop up there is 59th. It’s where I get off and live off my life.Stay trapped in your bubbled-up strife,

I mean, if you want, but I’vehad enough of you tonight.So what if you’re the mayor?

If you plan to lead withThat frown you have - It just ain’t right.It just ain’t right.

WordFlirt / 19

The Real New YorkerSam Miller ’14

NicholasUllman ’14



Why The Sky Is BlueFiona Sharp ’15

The child asked why the sky was blue.

The man with walnut eyes began to spew words like atmosphere, and gases,

and molecules,

But the child’s small brain had not yet ripened enough, and the words slipped like smoke

through his fingers.

The man with robin’s egg eyes whispered that the sky was blue because God made it so.

But the child’s honeycomb eyes remained clouded.

He asked why, and the man’s eyebrows knit together, because even in all his piety, he

could not answer

him.

Lastly, the child turned to me, and I knelt down to look into his eyes.

And, stirred by my gentle breathing, the fog began to flutter in wisps, before a single

word had

even escaped my lips.

“The sky is blue because you believe it to be so. Perhaps there is a man in Australia, or in

Egypt, or

even in this very town, who believes the sky is green. And it is.”

And the child with eyes as clear as the water in the brook looked up at the sky, and he smiled.

Ten times, I watched as the leaves on my oak tree withered and browned, only to be

resurrected by the

sweet whispers of the first spring breeze.

The child let his textbook hit the table with a thud, for he did not care for it the way he

did his novels.

His words like atmosphere, gases, and molecules thudded as well, laden with the weight

of his apathy.

He believed his brain had ripened, but I could see the tinge of green that still lingered at

its edges.

But the ring of golden fire that had encompassed the dark abysses of his pupils ten years

earlier had

dimmed with the burden of the age he was bringing upon himself.

Five more deaths and resurrections had come and gone when I heard that the gnarled

roots of an

unknown illness had enveloped the child’s body.

I heard his bones had become frail. his face sunken. His brain had begun to wither as

soon as it had

finally ripened.


I heard that he had been seen kneeling beside his bed each night. his hands, glowing in

the lamplight, the

only youth left in him.

I was watching the world from my kitchen window. It was coated in white, and so cold

that I feared

this time the leaves would not return.

A great bough was bouncing in the wind, when suddenly there was a deafening crack and

I cried out as

the branch tumbled to the ground.

The oak’s bones had grown too fragile and weak. the snow too burdensome.

It was forced to give in to the earth’s vices, while its rings still numbered few.

I sat at the foot of the bed, my eyes lowered. I could not bear to look into his eyes. to see

how sunken

they had become. how the color had drained from them.

I knew his brain was aching. All his short life he had sought answers, and there was a

dull, throbbing pain within him, for he believed he had never received them.

“The sky,” he rasped, “is blue because it is brimming with the tears of the woeful and the

heartbroken.”

And I realized.

“You lied to me that day.”

His brow furrowed as he waited desperately for acknowledgement.

“No.” I replied. “I may not have told the truth, but never have I lied to you.”

There was no response. He was a leaf, withering right before my eyes. But for him, there

would be no

resurrection.

A single tear meandered down my cheek to join the others in the vast, blue expanse of

endless sorrow.

WordFlirt / 21

Glyne Harper ’14


If you are very still, you can see her. Lady of the Wild Things.

Shoes?Who needs them?

she likes hertoes

unconfined by leather.

Lady of the Wild Things,her curly cue curls

traildown

her backbouncing and laughing.

Lady of the Wild Things,They say

each one of herfreckles

are a heart she hascarelessly broken.

Lady of the Wild Things

she wears shorts in the winterfloaty skirts in the summer.

School?Who needs it?

the trees teach her all she needs to know.

“Lady! Lady of the Wild Things!”

you call,but she never

comes.

Instead, she doescartwheels, and climbs trees

and paints her facewith berries.

She skips, and runs races,hides even though no one

is looking,she picks beautiful flowers

and weaves them into her hair.

If you are very still,the Lady of the Wild Things

will quietly slip a daisy behind your ear

and then sprint away,

giggling as shegossipswith the

Babbling Brook.


Tim Wheelock ’13

If You Are Very StillOlive Wexler ’16


WordFlirt / 23

HenryKillen ’16

SchoolRaphael Norman-Tenazas ’14

People, they don’t care about schoolThey want to drink alcohol

They want to go out with their friendsThey don’t care about geography

What's wrong with teens?Their parents give them presents

For nothing, for being aliveBut in fact, they are just survivingNo work, no work for someone lazy

Employers are fed upWith these kids who don’t like life

With these kids who don't know how to live

It's an error of a generationWhen will it stop?Live fast, die young

They want to make moneyBut how does one do thatif one isn’t intelligent?They lie to their parents

But it doesn't help them, it’s obvious

They sell drugs in schoolIt’s bad, but it seems to me that it’s protocol.

They want to go to a party schoolWhere there isn’t an ‘imperfect’

Where you don’t workAnd where alcohol is your meal.But no school will accept themWith at least one C, B or A.

It’s an error of a generationWhen will it stop?Live fast, die young

But whose fault is it?They don’t have dreams to be astronautsTheir dreams are money, money, money

And maybe gold chains.But when will they pay the rent?

“Next month”It’s not in their DNA

It’s in their environmentIt’s not something which suddenly

kills their development.The cause is in the mediaThe problem is immediate.



Samantha Liebeskind ’15

Not a Story to Pass On Evan Novick ’14

I saved her from the life she would have had.I saved her from the life that I once knew.A home so sweet, it’s sour, rotten, bad.

Away from here, I sent her. Here she flew.

I hope one day to leave the thought behind.Of ends quite justified, but not the means.

Yet solace in my life, I will not findWith her lurking, resting stagnant in my dreams.

It hurts to think that lovely girl of mineWill never come to meet me on this earth.

But through the muck and mist and gloam and pineI feel her in my waters of rebirth.

I pray one day I’ll re-embrace and covet,

the venom of my one dearly Beloved.


Anna Emy ’14

Elinor Hills ’14


BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL

375 Pearl Street and 55 Willoughby Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201

718.852.1029 / brooklynfriends.org

Glyne Harper ’14


Wordflirt 2013, Upper School Literary Magazine

Documents

word flirt

e battle

e magazine

theupper school

pm page

olive wexler23 school

sam miller20

sam botwin