Write in the Middle
The Archer School for Girls Middle School Literary Magazine 2016
Write in the Middle Staff
Zoe Bush ’22 Aiea Clark ’22 Paola Hoffman ‘22 Isabella Ionazzi ‘21 Olivia Looram ‘21 Chloe Richards ’21
Amanda Freiler Virginia Wooten Faculty Advisors
Cover photo: Sabrina Kim ‘22
Untitled
A cold white coat Lined with satin Dry cleaned Creases smoothed Frayed threads tucked away A stain erased Pockets empty What was an identity Is now a hollow shell Faint scent of sweat gone Replaced with sickly sweet lilies So many lilies
Anna Brodsky ‘20 Middle School Poet Laureate  
Ode to the Weeping Willow
Your tears, Long strings of leaves covering A cavernous space, Where only you alone wander. An echoing sound, That breaks the eerie silence That only you have the ears to listen to, The lonely sound, Where the silence is too loud to bear And where you continue to call, But you only yield a sound like a whisper, That is easily carried away By the shivering breeze that haunts And no one comes. How heavy is the weight that you carry? How do you cope with such a life? Such a mind full of tiresome lethargic thoughts? I know the answer, Your soul, A secret protector Which helps the wandering mind grasp, Calmness. Your massive trunk is weary, Its bark slowly peeling away, The smoothness now rough The new now old And I’m aware.
I know you’re tired, I know you’re sad, I know you long for another willow But one who does not weep like you do, I can see, And I understand. A small sliver of the sun peeks in, Only one small ray, Coming through your limbs so heavy, And although you don’t want it It’s there, Peeking in through your door full of Darkness, You know it’s here Waiting for you to open it.
Alejandra Ayala ‘22 Middle School Poet Laureate Runner-up
Alessandra Aragon ‘22
Running Girl She is running Windblown hair and tear stained cheeks ripped jeans and a silver locket dangling from her neck Muddy shoes pounding across the dust the ground littered with broken glass shattered mirrors and empty bottles An alley cast in shadows She is running from it all. She still runs The cuts on her knees bleeding Biting her tongue, repressing a scream Holding in a storm, Holding in herself. She runs from herself. Running, still Over the hills cast with shadows Into the darkness, she runs fearlessly Running far from all she knows She is an outcast. Why is she running? Is she falling, crashing, stumbling into the abyss? Or is she flying, flying higher than herself? Into the infinity, the promise of perfection Is she running to escape the shattered life, stitch the scars? Or is she running with hope? The wings of a fallen angel? Trying to become the image of herself she doesn’t see? Or maybe, just maybe, she is just running.
Paola Hoffman ‘22
I Wrote This In My Ban.do Notebook
I believe in Ban.do notebooks. I met my friend at Starbucks at 3:45 like I do every Wednesday after school. After we left Starbucks, we walked over to the library and studied for a few hours. I finished all of my homework in about twenty minutes, and I didn’t have any tests to study for. But I did have my little Ban.do notebook: this little notebook that Anouk got me for my birthday a few years ago. So I started writing. At first, just short poems. Then I went home and wrote a short story; maybe a page or two. And I kept writing. Soon enough, the notebook was full, so I moved onto another one. Then I filled that one. And the next one. And before I knew it, writing was printed on my arm in a permanent marker. I believe in writing. I feel the life that pours onto the page as I write, I feel the meaning of every word that I write. I believe that one word written on a page can mean the world to someone, and I believe in making everything that I write count. I believe in throwing my ideas out onto a page, not worrying about spelling or grammar or what anyone would say if they read it, just my ideas and my pen and my paper. I believe in jumping out of bed at one in the morning because an idea came to you in your dream and you don’t want to wait until the morning and risk forgetting it. I believe that lives are stories; stories to be told to our grandkids, stories to relive in our heads every night. These life stories are written by people. I don’t know who is writing my life story; it could be a middle aged man typing away at his laptop in a cafe, or a 12 year old girl writing in her pink, glittery notebook with her sparkly gel pens. Some might say that it’s God, or a god, or gods plural. Maybe my mom, or my dad, or my sister. It might be me. I believe in writing in red pen. Whenever I write in my Five Star, College Ruled, 100-page notebook, I use a red papermate pen. The people that I’m writing about don’t have a say in what their lives are like: that’s all me. And, just like my life, their lives aren’t written in pencil; you can’t go back and erase something that you messed up. Lives are written in red pen. Red pen stays forever: there’s no changing what was written, no changing what you
did or said or believed. Sure, you can scratch it out; erase the memory or refuse to think about it, but you can’t erase what was originally written. I believe in writing in run-ons. I was writing a story in my sixty-page, polkadotted notebook that I got from the ninety-nine cents store, writing a random story about a random girl in a random situation, when I looked back and realized that I had one sentence, taking up the entire page. I was writing her moment, with just pauses and slight breaks for her to catch her breath, but I kept going until the moment finally ended. You need to go along with the moments in life, going with the pauses and the breaks, going with the flow of life. Our life stories are composed of moments that make up sentences that make up paragraphs that make up pages that make up our lives, and these moments make up run-on sentences. There are pauses, a brief second where someone hits the breaks so we can catch our breaths, but the moments continue and go on and on and faster and faster and more things happen and more people are introduced and then suddenly there’s a period and the moment’s over and you can start a new sentence. I believe in writing. I believe in the life stories that my writing tells, I believe in writing in red pen so that no mistake can be unmade, I believe in writing in run-ons so that a moment can go on and on and on and on and on until suddenly it just stops. I believe that someone is writing my life and that every person that dies is a finished story and every unborn baby is a blank notebook and every moment is a sentence and every day is a page and every month is a chapter and every finished lifetime is a story and these stories can be told and passed on and become legacies, legacies that were written in red pen and run-on sentences by a random person out there. So, yeah. I believe in writing. Madeline Fenster ‘22
Dreams
I look at the door To find darkness Fear wants me to turn away From the unknown So I walk closer And I can’t turn away I can’t turn away for sadness The shame of never Finding out who I am I look at the door With only fear on my mind I want to turn away For fear that I am not brave enough Of not being strong I want to turn away But a light keeps me looking At the door To see who I am To do something That I’m not sure about To do something that I’m scared of To see if I’m brave and strong To see who I am Though through all the uncertainty There is one thing that is clear I want to walk through that door For a long time I’ve wanted to walk through that door So I will because that is the first step To see if I’m strong and if I’m brave I will not let myself vanish Into the blackhole of fear I will walk through that door.
Chloe Richards ‘21
Untitled
Life is an ocean. The waves of response follow the current onto the shore, angrily bubbling over the rocks. White foam spreads epidemically over the coast. Jubilant, it retreats, peacefully swaying back and forth. When the hinder of others steps in its way it stops, and withdraws or collapses over them, an indestructible force of pure wrath. Sometimes it ponders that’s when it is trapped in the middle floating between needs and wants between heart and mind. Life is an ocean.
Milan Umansky ‘22
Leah Abazari ‘22
Curly
MY HAIR is curly-curly like a forest of dense trees. As the seasons change so does my hair, brightening and darkening with the sun. So much color and then suddenly not enough. With a streak of white curls almost as if I was struck by Elsa. I am proud of my hair. I love my unpredictable, crazy, uncontrollable, messy hair. “It looks like a bush.” “How does it fit in that little bun?” “It’s a giant poof!” “It’s so fun to play with!” “Is this your real hair?” There’s more. There can always be more. More criticism. More questions. More words that sting. When they speak, I see the words coming slowly out of their mouths like bullets out of a gun. The bullets move faster as I slow down. No way to dodge them. I stay and watch them hit me one by one, “It’s so weird.” Those bullets hurt the most. Stinging like alcohol on a cut. Not everyone has curly hair and most who do don’t embrace it. They straighten their hair to look like everyone else. I don’t want to straighten my hair because I don’t want to fit into other’s molds of pretty. But nobody understands because they constantly say, “Have you ever tried straightening it? It would look so cool.” Then saying, “It looks so weird, how do you get it into a ponytail?” I am sick of the attention! I hate everyone touching my hair all day long. I feel like an animal confined in a cage at the zoo. Everyone pointing and talking about me, while I’m stuck behind a wall of hands. I want to escape my cage and run through the wall. I would like one conversation with another human being without my hair being mentioned. If even just one person changed, stopped
focusing on my hair, I would feel unbound. I could have a mountain off my aching back. MY HAIR is curly-curly like a forest of dense trees. As the seasons change so does my hair, brightening and darkening with the sun. So much color and then suddenly not enough. With a streak of white curls almost as if I was struck by Elsa. I am proud of my hair. I love my unpredictable, crazy, uncontrollable, messy hair.
Kaiya Jefferson ‘21 
Purple
They lied They lied when they told me we were all the same They said that it is purple, when it is really pink and blue I thought I could do it But I can’t I was sitting in math class I was sitting in the back Where the boys sit at the desks with legs like tree trunks and my backpack leaning confidently against the table I didn’t want to sit in the front with the girls anyway The legs of their desks were like twigs that were unsure of themselves and shaking I raised my hand like they said I could All I said was five They told me I wouldn’t be questioned They lied when they said that Why did they laugh Their laughs were thick, full of mud I was right Five was right The kids laughed even more They lied They said we were purple They knew we were pink and blue Then I sat at the front Where the girls sit at the desks with legs like twigs that are unsure of themselves
And shaking.
Grace Wilson ‘20
Rain is a Cat
Rain is a cat. There are many different kinds. A kitten, just born, innocent and small. Rain drips from above, drizzling, starts to fall. Next comes a grown cat, she’s a pet but older still. The drops get heavier, fast on the window sill. Third is a wildcat, on her own. It starts now, rain is how it’s known. Next comes the tiger, almost there. A storm is brewing in the air. Finally the lioness, queen of them all. A hurricane has started up, rain will fall. Rain is a cat. There are many different kinds.
Lola Vescovo ‘20
The Sky
The sunset, Sun’s fiery kiss to the night. The light fades, Deep blue gaps of night peer through Like an upside-down ocean. The sky grows darker, Painted blue on blue, One stroke at a time, Into deeper and deeper shades. The night is lovely, For the stars come out to watch the daylight die. I wonder, The starry pattern in the sky Are they little pieces of the moon that want to fly?
Hannah Kim ‘20
Katherine Mackay ‘20
Right Left
Who is right? This problem can’t be solved. It didn’t escalate quickly. It’s been going on forever at this point. No one’s tired, Not yet. The screams start. The voices rise. Cries of bloodlust Cut the air. The vicious battle rages. The question has changed: Who is left?
Glorianna Chase ‘22
In the Oil
Lying on my back Against the damp grass Stargazing at the starless sky The moon used to illuminate the trees But it left long ago Leaving only the thick, black oil of night And me
Cecilia Sturman, 20 
Hope
When all seems gone, When you recognize you’ve been played with like a pawn, A spark ignites in the depths of fear. That one spark can burn. Help it burn. Situations can turn. The spark grows as you gather your courage. A flame. A flame, no longer weak and tiny, Burning down everything in its way. Shining bright in the depths of fear. No longer afraid to try and risk. The flame clearing every shadow of fear. Courage shining bright. Not backing down. One small spark Can burn down a whole forest.
Katelyn Chi ‘22
Bitter or Sweet
Love is a lemon. You pick one out of many Not knowing which one is bitter or sweet Starting out from a seed The tree grows, Its branches grow longer Full of leaves and memories And soon the lemon is ready to be held. Love is a lemon. There is no control on your choice, Everyone picks them And everyone will taste them. It’s just a matter of finding The sweet one.
Leila Mirdamadi ‘20
Honey is a Little Sister
Honey is a little sister, sweet and delicate sticky on fingers, but you always love this charming thing, singing spun out sugary songs. Sometimes her feelings stuck in a jar only you can unscrew. Complex, millions and millions of bees when into her a taste of flowers? things drip a bit, but the comb is always there.
Ava Rothenberg ‘22 
Naiobi Benjamin ‘22
The Dictator
It’s looking for the faults in everyday objects even when you don’t want to. It’s drowning in the worry of not knowing. It’s gasping for air when you’re surrounded by oxygen. It’s not being able to fall asleep at night because your brain is filled to the brim with scenarios that will never occur. It’s knowing you should take the change, but shying away anyways. It’s the late night headaches and the falling feeling in your stomach. It’s that split second while you’re plummeting before you hit the ground. It’s the pain of knowing that you are cursed with it—but not being able to do anything about it. It’s not the fear of talking in front of others. It’s not the fear of spiders and bugs. It’s not looking at others and being scared of them. It’s not what others think it is, they think it’s fake, but it’s my reality. Are you okay? Stay calm. Everything will be okay. It’s easier to ignore what you say because no matter how many times you tell me these things it only makes it worse. Are you okay means that others can see my struggle. Stay calm means there is a reason to freak out. Everything will be okay means that something is going wrong. It not only makes me nervous, it makes me twist comforting words into something else entirely. The worst part is that it makes me who I am. It makes me trust others when I can’t trust myself. It makes me reconsider my choices, preventing me from making a lousy one. It makes me ask more questions, and it makes me work harder than I ever thought I could. It’s the most horrifyingly wonderful aspect of me. Anxiety. The seven-letter word that rose to power when I wasn’t watching.
Emma London ‘21
Untitled
I look for colors or my bedroom wall With names like Tidepool and Spring Mint I can smell the salt The seaweed And feel the sand under my toes I can taste the sweetness Of mint-chip ice cream Melting in my mouth I am eager To wake up Reminded of what it feels like To experience life I choose one And all I can smell is paint
Anna Brodsky ‘20 
The Sailboat
Life is a sailboat Floating in the sea Waiting for the wind to set it at ease Life is a sailboat Gently moving along The little vessel always so headstrong Life is a sailboat Going up and down The boat becoming just a tiny bit rundown Life is a sailboat Thrashing in the waves Ready to put sailors in their early graves Life is a sailboat Always finding a path Coming out strong while never fearing the aftermath Life is a sailboat Scared as can be Life is the sailboat churning through me
Celeste Penney ‘20 
She Can’t Be Right, Right?
I can see her typing, Her words written across the page, Her struggle. It’s seen in the way her fingers run through her hair, The way her lip trembles, The way her flannel crinkles uncomfortably, The way her foot taps nervously, The way she pushes up her sleeves, The way she keeps distracting herself, The way she continues deleting, Because she thinks she’s wrong. She can’t be right, right? Her denial, Her stress, Her eyes, They say it all, All the words she can’t write, Because she’s wrong, Because she can’t possibly be right. Her knuckles crack, Her hair falls in her face, Her teeth bite down on her lip, Water falls from her eyes, Down her face, On her hands, Because she can’t be right, right?
Katherine Mackay ‘20
Untitled
They always asked me, “Can’t you see?” “You’re wasting your time doing that,” As they just boringly sat, While I playfully hung upside down, And my head was below my gown, With my hair dangling and brushing against the floor As I swayed my hair side to side more and more. I answered their questions and said, “It started with something that just came into my head.” If I flip upside down, Maybe what I see will be flipped around. The sky will be the ground, And the ground will be the sky. Low will be high, And high will be low. Slow will be fast, And fast will be slow. I think of this and it reminds me, That I can be anything I want to be. There is more than just one side to this universe. Some sides might see better, And some sides might seem worse, But I’m gonna look at all of the rest, Just to see what might happen next.
Audrey Chung ‘22
Does it Matter?
Does it matter Which so-called friends turn on me and leave me in the cold? Does it matter Which words I’m called and which insults are hurled? Does it matter Which harsh voice cuts me deep with its dagger-like words? Does it matter which voices speak to me Or does it matter that I turn the other way? Does it matter Who laughs when I work up the courage to open my mouth? Does it matter Which stories I tell that go unheard? Does it matter How many people walk away from my outstretched hand? Does it matter which people brush me away Or does it matter that I believe in myself? Does it matter Which street scrapes my knees raw as I tumble to the cold concrete? Does it matter Which icy hands grip my shoulders and shove me to the floor? Does it matter Which voices laugh and sneer as I hug the unforgiving ground? Does it matter how hard I fall Or does it matter that I stand back up?
Paola Hoffman ‘22
Katherine Mackay ‘20
Named By You
Little girl, so innocent and all ears, shows me what it means to never fear Your smile of hope and love for the air make everything seem fair The bows in your hair are clipped tight in the right places I see that your earrings sparkle and your tennis shoes have no laces Shadows are your best friend because they are a followed image of you You wait for the perfect placement of the sun to shine on all that’s new Before you take your toys out to play, remember that this only exists for today, When the doors close and the blinds shade, you will see people as cascades The temptation of sound will be kept in sync, while you cry out for the Lord to speak A mother’s wound and a father’s abuse may soon shed and nothing to cover view Don’t cave in to labeled love or hold onto the mysterious dove You can no longer protect what’s not enough, because death falls from above You might be young and have much fun, but when the fireflies hides and the clouds cover the sun, where will you run?
Skylar Graham ‘20
omniScience
omniScience is an unachievable dream it’s the fog stretching out just far enough away to pass and just close enough to breathe. WE feel like we know it all WE feel as if we can’t go any further we feel that our way is The onlY wAy, but it’s noT. So we blindfold our eyes and march forward with supersaturated conviction in our tear ducts. we feel around ardently until we grasp the RighT ideA. we set out into the vastness of space with a <thicKclouDoFtinYwateRdropletSsuspendeDiNthEatmospherEaToRneaRt H’ssurfacEthaTobscurSanDrestrictSvisibilitY< encasing our windowshield. WE think the universe is too VaST too BIg too UneXplorable with too much RadIATioN and nOT enOUgH OxYgen. omniScience feels like it’s an unachievable dream. like it’s the fog stretching
just far enough away to pass and just close enough to breathe. but THEY are the sun, and WE can be the sun too. WE can shine so warmly on condensed air on an orbiting windshield That it diSApPEaRs.
Vivian Shay â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20â&#x20AC;Š
The Night’s Dreams
The place you go in sleep is a place of lavender and cool breezes and silver pools In which you dip your fingers While warm rain gently falls from the heavens. A place where the scent of jasmine lingers in the air Where you can always hear the nightingales sing And their songs are like your grandmother’s lullaby. A place where the moon grins serenely While she watches the light dance below A place where the trees sway along with your gentle breathing Where you can feel the night sky send chills up your back yet feel as if the chills are a mother’s caressing. For we are all human— born from the stars And united by the night’s dreams.
Zoe Bush ‘22