The Impressionist
Masterman's Home for Creative Literary Work
Bones
By Briyana Taylor
I laid my bones where they laid the others.
In a place where the coldest winds,
made trees shudder.
As I went walking further still,
I saw a house up on a hill.
Beaten down and crumbled,
Still it growled with a hunger.
Within it felt alone,
with vacant walls that still said welcome home.
Funny how a rainbow,
Placed itself up in the sky.
In the midst of mother earth mourning,
Over the river she just cried.
Fragile
By Anonymous
the faint light flickers
in the tomb of my heart
and my soul shatters
What's It Like In Philly Today?
By Greg Sevrukov
It’s January, Philly is cold.
An occasional wave of warmth flies by.
The cold comes back.
What’s it like in Philly today?
Hoodie weather in January.
Back to the puffer, it’s cold again.
February will be even colder,
What’s it like in Philly today?
The frost bites at your fingers
Your cheeks get red and dry
Bundled in the warmth of your coat,
What’s it like in Philly today?
The last month of winter is here,
The end of the coldness is coming near,
Soon all the chirping birds I’ll hear,
Oh how the weather in Philly is queer.
What’s it like in Philly today?
You held me like a piece to your puzzle and tried to fit me in
But I stuck out of the picture and my creation became a sin
As you were testing the rough waters I arrived like a hurricane
And it might be no one’s fault yet I look for someone to blame
I was 3, I was 5, I was 7, I was 8
What could I have done to deserve this hate
You tried to chase the pleasure and closed up the door
Now you come back trying to fit the key in and demand for more
I woke up once when we were still us
With my little heart devoted to trust
And I ran down the hallway crying from that dream
But when I opened your door it was a strange scene
When I looked at you, peacefully asleep
I didn’t truly feel like your child or yours to keep
There was no comfort tucked away
And there was no ground built to stay
​
Maybe we never were our labeled roles
And maybe it was your life I accidentally stole
But how could I have chosen you to lead my life
I tried following you in the darkness thinking you were my light
We share half a name but all the same pain
I wasn’t her daughter but she was my mother just the same
So the heart you claim I never had did exist, it was there
It was beating till it lost more than a twelve-year-old could bear
Maybe this is me selfishly pointing fingers
But why couldn’t you want me before all the alarms and ringers
My jagged edges don’t fit into this messy picture
And I no longer believe that blood runs thicker
I can see you trying to scramble back again
And try to make me feel like you’re just a friend
But I don’t want someone to just tell me jokes
I wanted my father there when I awoke
Piece to Your Puzzle
By Isabella Smith-Santos
Help Healed Me
By Malik Corbin
Your past casted by pains embrace,
Open wounds in this open space
unraveling the bandage of closure; the start of something sacred
Throughout the rough droughts and smooth sands,
A solace. A tranquil trail,
A musical note of renewal, without disparity.
No one said this journey would be easy nor smooth,
Let the turbulence of your experience be a teaching moment of fleeting, transiting
from what is best for you.
These Scars may shape, create, a map of past mistakes
let your strength guide you, a sight so vast,
saving hearts, a love so precious,
Healing's dance endures, steadfast.
As I watch this withered black rose rise into the fluorescent ghost while smiling again,
I let a glass tear fall from my face to show my pure joy of this journey.
for you and me.
So let us mend, and let us mend,
In an endless cycle, circles, as this repetitive path unbends.
For in each healing thought is a place of emends
A journey toward wholeness, without end.
This is only the beginning.
Author's Note: Healing can be a slow journey which can make you want to differ from that path. stick through it, it gets better.
Mirrored
By Moss
Everyone says I am just like my father.
It is only when you actually know us that I believe you
After all, how would a stranger know anything other than looks alone?
I will give the typical awkward laugh, but they don’t know.
They don’t know about the shoulder rides home from daycare,
The chubby toddler hands reaching down to blind their father,
The child’s shout of “buttery”
They wouldn’t understand the game born of a toddler;
A toddler that feels as if they're on top of the world;
A toddler that feels invincible.
They don’t know about the annoyed look of a mother as a teen and a father team up to annoy her.
The exaggerated faces that force smiles onto the mother's face,
The pure joy found at the dinner table even when four becomes three.
They don’t know about the exhilaration of a twelve-year-old,
clad in long pants, and long sleeves, clinging to their father,
And with the wind rushing past trying to grasp at their limbs,
Comes a love for motorcycles ignited,
They don't know the excitement of that twelve-year-old when they get a birthday present a week early.
They have their own gloves now, the last of their gear to be received,
The excitement of the ride never fading, even as the years pass.
They don't know about the three-year-old on a little wooden push bike,
They don't know how that three-year-old grew to a five-year-old,
riding a hand-me-down mountain bike their brother outgrew,
How that five-year-old became a nine-year-old,
Shredding the tires of their sticker-covered bike,
Trying to get the biggest skids on the ride to school.
How that nine-year-old turned into a twelve-year-old,
riding with their older brother to the casino parking lot after dinner.
No one’s gambling in a pandemic, after all,
They don’t know of the child that was eight,
Waking up early and padding down a flight of stairs,
Following the consistent metallic shhsh-shhsh-shhh sound
How that child would climb up onto the second trainer,
legs much too short to reach the pedals, and perch atop the seat.
Happy to sit and talk with the sweaty, hot, tired man on the other trainer.
Just a father, riding for hours before the sun rises;
And his pajama-clad child, with hair still tangled from sleeping on it wet
They don’t know about the peace that existed in that moment.
They know nothing about a boy in the ’80s finding spots to go and hide,
A boy who felt hopeless and just wanted to get away.
Nor do they know of the child now, who locks themself in the bathroom to hide,
A child who feels hopeless, and just wants to feel okay.
They don’t know how that boy saw the child,
and decided that he wouldn’t let the child give up
How the boy took the child on drives to distract from bad thoughts,
How he would entertain them with stories, and places, and fun.
They don’t know that the boy saw the child and decided to be the help he never had,
The help he so desperately needed, but never got.
They know nothing about the six-year-old clutching to a back, tired legs dangling,
Cheek pressed against a broad warm back, sunlight dancing along half-closed eyes,
The calming vibrations of laughter, the peace found on hikes through cool forests.
What do they know of the fourteen-year-old climbing to the woods,
pushing through the waist-high corn, watching for snakes?
Turning at the top, they can see forever.
They are invincible
I am like my father.
I am like my father in so many ways.
And yet, when a stranger says it, it feels insincere.
How can they say that I’m just like my father
when all that they know is what they see?
And so I do not believe them.
they don’t know any of the things that make that statement true.
16 is a Free Number
By Moss
3 is the age I first learned how to ride a bike.
And while I wish I could say more, I don’t have many memories of being 3.
What I do remember, is the bike I first learned on.
In my experience, most parents get their kid training wheels.
My dad did not.
He explained to me when I was older,
that training wheels don’t teach the kid how to balance,
It makes them reliant on the extra wheels,
And thus, more likely to never learn to ride a regular bike.
So, my first bike did not have training wheels.
It also didn’t have pedals.
My first bike was a wooden push bike,
handed down from my brother,
Meant to teach us how to balance,
But also leaving us with the option to put our feet down and steady ourselves.
My favorite thing was riding down hills as fast as I could,
Actually it still is.
I was 3 when I first learned how to ride a bike.
5 is the age I learned what it means to go to public school in America.
When a kindergarten teacher- on the first day of school- dangles a kid over the railing of the stairs because they were trying to see down the center.
Never mind that we were barely tall enough to see over the railing let alone fall.
Going into the bathroom is when I learned my first curse words,
Carved into the stalls, and scribbled on mirrors,
Pussy.
Bitch.
Fuck.
Told by the older kids that I should read them aloud.
Not old enough to understand why they laughed,
But old enough to understand not to say the words around teachers.
I was 5 when I learned what it means to go to public school in America
7 is the age I learned what a gifted kid was.
A gifted kid is a kid who gets taken to a room,
and told to do different problems,
The explanation given: that it is a test to see how smart you are.
An IQ test.
A gifted kid is a kid who is sent to join the math class of the year above them,
Because they already know the material for their grade,
but they still need to do the homework for their grade- you can’t have them falling behind can you?
A gifted kid is a kid who gets put in a separate room
from the rest of the class during the PSSAs,
Because they’re the only kid who seems to care about doing well.
A gifted kid is a kid who was never taught how to study- Why would they be?
Everything comes easily.
A gifted kid is a kid from whom perfection is expected.
Not from parents, no.
no they would be satisfied with A’s & B’s.
They are satisfied with A’s & B’s.
A gifted kid is a kid who expects perfection from themselves.
That little plus mark next to the A becomes a requirement,
Without it, you aren’t good enough,
you could have done better.
A gifted kid is a kid who is elevated above their peers,
Put on a pedestal, used as an example of good work,
Is “a pleasure to have in class”
A gifted kid is a kid who is “mature for their age”
And “so grown-up”
A gifted kid is a kid.
I was 7 when I learned what a gifted kid was.
I learned what it means to go to public school in America when I was 5.
I learned what it means to go to public school in America when I was 5,
but it wasn’t till 8 that I learned what going to public school in America does to kids.
Sitting in the 3rd grade,
a child that would barely reach my ribcage if they were here right now,
throwing a chair at the teacher,
using all the strength in their 100-pound frame.
I think it hit another student in the head,
but I can’t say for sure.
And I wish I could say that it’s because my memory is fuzzy,
and not that a chair being thrown across a classroom was a recurring event.
I was 8 when I learned what going to public school in America does to kids.
10 is the age I learned what it meant to be born a girl in America.
While my brother spent 10 playing bare-chested,
shooting down soda cans with a BB gun,
I spent 10 being taught.
“Don’t go places alone.”
“Don’t go anywhere after dark”
“Clutch your keys between your fingers,
NO,
not like that, that’ll hurt you just as much as it would hurt them.
Hold them like this.”
And I wish I could say those are the only things I was taught- as bad as it is those are taught- but they aren’t.
“Never wear a skirt without something underneath it”
“Never seem distracted while you're walking alone,
It makes you look like an easy target”
Being shown how to break someone’s rib,
Walked through the steps, and told to never be afraid to fight back.
Being placed on my back on my grandparent’s bed,
taught how to fight someone twice my size off while stuck in that position
Told to aim for the head,
kick as hard as you can,
Don’t you dare go down without a fight.
I was 10 when I learned what it meant to be born a girl in America.
​
​
13 is the age I learned what mental health was.
See, it wasn’t something that was covered in the 7th grade,
so in the 8th grade, when I first carved lines in my arm and watched them bleed; I was scared.
I wasn’t scared of what I had done.
No, I was scared because I liked it.
I was scared because it was hauntingly wonderful,
A destructive routine slipping off of the cold metal,
seeping into my veins, gripping claws into the sore skin,
burrowing in, and making itself known in the off-color scars littering my skin
Screaming in desperation as they begin to fade,
not wanting to be forgotten,
scared that others will not notice.
scared that others will notice?
It cares not, whispering and pleading in the night,
don’t let me be forgotten,
Let me in again,
It made you feel better remember?
Mocking and begging and prideful and desperate
Once again slipping inside,
Off of sharp cold metal,
Slithering out of fingernails to weave among the bloody streams
welcomed back like an old friend by the seeping wounds,
Surrounding and crossing the one scar that does not match
It’s as if it’s mocking with its paleness,
A constant reminder of when a knife slipping was truly an accident.
I was 13 when I learned what mental health is.
14 is the age I learned what it means to be trans in America.
When I learned to despise the first day of school,
With all of the teachers who call confidently from the role sheet.
The role sheet that has
Missing Letters and
Extra letters that do not belong,
And the remaining ones are all scrambled around.
14 is when I learned that a substitute teacher isn’t something to be excited about
it’s something to dread
The apology at the beginning of attendance isn’t for me.
I was 14 when learned what it means to be trans in America.
15 is the age I learned that suicide, was lovely.
​
Now, you may have noticed that I skipped a few years throughout this,
So allow me to remedy that.
1 is the age I learned how to walk;
2 is the age I learned how to speak.
4 is the age I learned how to read.
4 is the age I learned how to read,
as long as I immersed myself in my books
I could pretend I was anywhere but where I was.
I was 4 when I first turned to escapism.
6 is the age I learned that school is incredibly boring,
when you already know the curriculum.
An hour until lunch is 60 minutes
That’s three thousand six hundred seconds,
That’s so long…
I was 6 when I started getting in trouble for reading in class.
9 is the age I realized that not every school was more about survival than learning- I had just gone to a really shitty school before.
I was 9 when I had to re-learn everything I thought I knew about public school in America.
11 is the age I learned what D&D was,
falling in love with a way to be someone else,
someone stronger than who I really am,
someone more interesting than myself.
I was 11 when I fell in love with a game of escapism
12 is the age I learned what a pandemic was.
It’s something that took three years of my life from me,
Something that I started high school with,
Something hanging like a dark cloud waiting to strike.
It’s something that ruined friendships,
and something that built up new ones
I was 12 when I learned what a pandemic is
16 is the age I’m not quite sure what I’ll learn yet.
I hope I learn to drive,
I love the freedom of it.
16 is an age I haven't yet reached,
An age that is undefined, and free.
And, I hope I can un-learn some of my previous years,
But hopes are not always properly translated into reality.
Even if they were,
The world is crumbling around me,
Life sweeping me up in riptide after riptide,
Each time I think I have escaped,
manage to take a breath,
I am pulled under again,
Spun and battered,
Until I’m on the verge of giving up.
And then I am able to surface,
And take a breath.
Only to be pulled back down,
As if life itself was toying with me.
16 is an age that I’m not sure I’ll reach.
​
After: I have in fact, made it to 16. It kind of sucks.
Route 40 Rambling
By Alca Traz
Final drops of day drain from the sky
The first chords sound in my ears
From the cords
I blink myself away from existence
Resign into observance
Red light
Pills in his pocket
Shopping bag on her arm
And I am small
See everything and nothing
No longer myself
I become each passenger
And no one
Meditative disassociation
Peacefully conformist
The bus lurches
I float
7:36
Eastbound
HOPE, Hope, Hope
By Anonymous
All I can do is HOPE.
HOPE that things will get better,
and that many emotions are unnecessary,
Hope that I will find my purpose,
and that I wouldn’t be so stuck on the past,
hope that I can move on,
and be free.
will hope come for me?
​
Author’s Note: I got inspired to write about hope after an assignment I had in English class. There is no real meaning or intentions. I just wrote how I feel after the work.
space
By Casie-Elle Saint-Pierre
i look up to the heavens
for your guidance
bright blue, frantic
flickering lights
to glow up the room
he’s a keeper i said
and yet i couldn’t keep him
the prototypical behavior
of a being is to
work and create
and that being said
i worked to find your voice
amidst creaking metals
and what was created
a rose garden for the ages
when i’d thought i could
kiss you.
i was put to death for it
i didn’t think someone
as truthfully flawed as you
could become “perfect”
and it’s true
i fell down an abyss
and it was all for you
to be honest
you were a real jerk.
jerked tears like waves
as i dragged my husk
of a soul all through
a quizzical frontal lobe
as i quizzed myself
from 1-10
how much could i forgive you
because i could never blame
your majesty, king of the rusted
i know you still love, i have
to forgive you for being human
and yet it pains me
mathematically, it’s true, yes
i won’t find the function
of your love within me
at least not yet
because if i take you to space
and keep my own
like shooting stars
a glance will be cast
as you bore into my heart
for me to fall in love
all over again
space
By Casie-Elle Saint-Pierre
i look up to the heavens
for your guidance
bright blue, frantic
flickering lights
to glow up the room
he’s a keeper i said
and yet i couldn’t keep him
the prototypical behavior
of a being is to
work and create
and that being said
i worked to find your voice
amidst creaking metals
and what was created
a rose garden for the ages
when i’d thought i could
kiss you.
i was put to death for it
i didn’t think someone
as truthfully flawed as you
could become “perfect”
and it’s true
i fell down an abyss
and it was all for you
to be honest
you were a real jerk.
jerked tears like waves
as i dragged my husk
of a soul all through
a quizzical frontal lobe
as i quizzed myself
from 1-10
how much could i forgive you
because i could never blame
your majesty, king of the rusted
i know you still love, i have
to forgive you for being human
and yet it pains me
mathematically, it’s true, yes
i won’t find the function
of your love within me
at least not yet
because if i take you to space
and keep my own
like shooting stars
a glance will be cast
as you bore into my heart
for me to fall in love
all over again
invader
By Casie-Elle Saint-Pierre
a dove came by
my lighthouse
he flew through wars,
rainfall, and fires
a letter from you
he’d glide and flew
and it was to be
my highlight
a pink light
when the dove
came by, which i aptly
named after your
elegance
but it’s a strange thing
you see,
when the dove,
the natural cove
comes over
my lights begin to flicker
the lighthouse shook
with anticipation
the bricks melting beet red
just by pure thought
and its stars flash
and burn out, a
supernova, and i
wrote of this to you
in which you laughed
but i couldn’t grasp it
just what that dove did
to alter the lights
in the house
“it was an invader” i cried
out, in many a
sickly cough of cluster
headaches
and after months
of complaining, the repetition
and frustration of the
lumination, you wrote back
and it’s quite funny
looking back, because you
tried everything in your
scratched handwriting to
fly the hint across
and for that, i apologize
deeply, you were right
all along
“it was love” you said
as the realization hit
like the plague
and though my lights
still call for help
i answer those calls
as i indulge in the love
brought to me
by your dove
ACTing Up
By Kaddy Ren
Un aide serveur
By Mr. Tannen
Nuestras Misconcepciones: Misconceptions on Mexicans
By Izel Perez
The Single Stories in My Life
By Rudranon Shahid
What You Didn’t Know About Electric Cars
By Paul Sobol
Athlete
By Izzy Trieu
Smile when you win, also smile when you lose, but don’t smile too much, just shake the person’s hand and realize that that person is better than you because they beat you, therefore you weren’t good enough, even though you tried your best, but sometimes your best isn’t good enough to win, but sometimes your body gives out on you when you train too much but when you ween off from training because it’s bleeding you dry you are sloppy and disoriented, every body has a physical limit but no one really believes that anyway, so you shouldn’t either, either you’re weak or you’re strong, everything is fine all the time, GAME FACE ON because you’re ready all the time, mental health is too taboo to talk about even though everyone in your sport knows damn well that it’s hard and it’s hard to smile even when you lose, it’s hard to be at your peak physical performance all the time, it’s hard when your brain is telling your body to do something and your body isn’t strong enough to do it, like go faster, like hit the ball harder, like you can do better than that, but the truth is whenever you hit a high there’s always a lower place you can sink to, like getting an injury early season, everyone on the team constantly judging you, when you have a bad day it’s the end of the world because you’ve worked too damn hard to look like an absolute fool today, practice, then go to the gym, then eat a specialized diet, then practice again, because your life should revolve around your sport or you’re not doing it right, but don’t let this show, it needs to seem effortless, you were born with this talent, make it look like you didn’t spend any time at all on doing that one thing, because the only thing people see anyway is whether you succeed or whether you fail, and if you fail you’re a failure, and maybe you should quit, and all the sweat and tears were just salty water that meant absolutely nothing, and you were supposed to make it something, but you blew it, again, and that’s the way it goes.
Solitude
By Ryan Zou
The scientist stared at the ceiling of his temporary abode. His memory now hazy and his vision fading, he struggled to contemplate the chance and fate that led him here. A pre-recorded speech played in the background, from the unmoving mouth of a mannequin. He began to scrub at the lenses of his bifocals, all three pairs. As the audio tape elapsed, the artificial audience below wept from their rigid plastic eyes. As the sobbing diminished, the speaker hobbled off stage into the audience, sitting in the back row as a new speaker ascended the short stairs.
In comparison to the dispiriting tone of the first speech, this second mannequin did not hesitate to crack any prewritten jokes that sprang to its mind. There were chuckles, giggles, laughs, and roars from the audience. These plastic representations of humans were rather easy to entertain. The scientist adjusted the brooch on his coat as he held back tears of sorrow and joy. It was a curious coat, a blend between a blazer and a lab coat, tailored to his disdain for the inefficiency of movement integral to a suit jacket.
As an applied physicist and a robotics engineer, he could not bear the thought of having his movement restricted by his clothing. The mannequins lumbered around in a jarringly awkward manner, somehow doing so with minimal energy waste and at superhuman speed. The quality of the prerecorded audio — rather, the lack thereof — proved a stark contrast to the locomotion of the robots, sounding scratchy and occasionally cutting off. Sound was a form of energy that the scientist had dismissed throughout his entire career, but in this moment he partially regretted this negligence.
As the mannequins rambled in the background, the scientist tapped at the wall and thought about the humble beginnings of this mansion of sorts. Decades ago, this structure was a derelict warehouse, and while searching for shelter in the ravaged heartland of the city, the scientist had stumbled across its wide-open side entrance after spending days in the streets.
It was astounding how the frail scientist and his androids had managed to transform a deserted warehouse into somewhat of a mansion in fifteen years. This motley of mannequins had salvaged literal tons of resources, owing success to the scientist’s nearly psychotic desire for optimized routes. The building was complete with a small bedroom, a bathroom, kitchen, solar panels, and a large hall that was an amalgamation of a living room, theater, and laboratory.
The hall was where the scientist spent the majority of the past thirty-five years, having planned elaborate salvaging routes, constructed intricate contraptions, and recorded experiment data on or near the stage. This was akin to the stage in the lecture hall of his university, which watched the quick-witted, soft-spoken freshman become a tenured professor across twenty years.
As he pulled a lever and laid down, a mechanism sealed his casket and began his burial.
Through the fading sounds of fireworks, he contemplated what led him there.