Noam Baharav: Heroes

Noam Baharav

World Lit. Honors

Ms. Oliver

4.23.14

Heroes  

One shot. Two shots. Three shots, four. It goes down, but it’s all a bore. I don’t know why we choose to do it but we do. We keep it all in, me and you. Concealer on the freckles, she says they make her look too young; her eyelids raccoons, she says without the shadows it’s no fun. She paints her face, I keep mine plain, It’s a mask, because we’re perfect, we can’t feel pain. They say we’re young and stupid, but we know we’re invincible. It’s too hard to be responsible, it’s too hard to be just. It’s too much to accept the flaws, so we’ll turn them into lust. Another swig, a puff of smoke, we both know it’s all a joke. She grabs my hand, she pulls me to the floor, my body swaying to the beat, my mind floating out the door. He grabs my waist. Who? I don’t know. Pulls me close but it seems so silly, it’s just a way to waste some time. She’ll go to church tomorrow, it’ll all be forgiven. I’ll go home and sit and sulk. Of my worries, I’ll hardly be ridden.

Back then things were easier, maybe I was naive. I guess it’s because I was younger, I was harder to deceive. In overalls with curls flowing free, I’d pass by those smelly smoldering cylindrical lung-destroyers. I’d hold my breath. You can’t get ME! I know you lead to death. I’d run away, HAH! I beat you! Defeated smoking dragons, lying crumpled on the street like pale and shriveled snakes; yeah I’m kind of a hero. Now I kind of like the smell, it reminds me of home, or maybe of the comfort of the unknown.

That guy that’s slithering behind me, all I feel is cold. He’s getting a bit too bold.

“We should go somewhere else!” I yell to her, but It’s hard to hear, especially when her face is on someone else’s, the beat thumping in our ears. The bass hits my chest, it shakes my heart. I know it’s time to leave, I don’t know how to start. I pivot back, the snake’s still there. He thinks he’s cute, running his hands through his hair. Smiling at me, venom dripping from perfect fangs, he’s entitled, thinks I owe him. I don’t really care. The windows melt to bars, keeping us all in, the people like walls, touching skin to skin. I try to leave this prison that I chose to be in, “It’s not my fault! I’m a victim!”  

I look around in hopeless bewilderment. She turns her face towards me looking all content, the shadows smeared and smudged. Painted lips pucker, blowing a kiss at me.  My frantic message failed to send. I wait for her to notice, I wait for her to see. The distress I’m in doesn’t register, it’s all about me, me, me.  I need some air, I need a drink, I need to escape; outside? Or to the nearest sink? The music still thumps, my heart still beats, they’re not synced anymore though, me and this beast. I don’t fit in, I don’t belong, I’m too young to be wasting my life away, I need someone to lean on.

A head bobs up, clearing the drunken mass, the facade doesn’t keep him in, and he manages to pass. Green eyes meet my brown, finally, a grin. I’m pulled forward, magnetized to a place where I might fit in. Friends’ hands meet, and I’m pulled from the cocky serpent. I didn’t think I needed someone to defeat the reptiles for me.

My body smashes against his, a perfectly sized hug like it always is. He spins me around and we twirl off beat. Salsa dancing, and the club makes way. They can’t keep us in, it doesn’t matter what they say. Some mental faculties have returned; control. Not stolen or borrowed but earned. Lost in green, rimmed in feathery black, forgetting what’s past, I’ll blunder my way to find who I’ll be, grow from who I’ve been. But I can’t reverse, I can’t turn time. I’ll find a way through the crowd next time.

I remember last month, or was it last week? I keep on trying, but Freckles and I have peaked.

“You want to hang out?” I plead, I hope. I try to sound calm. My voice may have broke.

“No; cant today.” Liar. Freckles singed from cheeks on fire. Dyed blonde hair and shifting eyes, revealing some fakeness inside.

“Hey, I have a problem,” she says one day, “I can’t get my life together, my mum’s telling me I’m not okay.” Pleading desperation, help me keep my fears away. Stars in her eyes, glinting with hope in those murky blue skies.

The hero within me comes to the rescue, I’ll brandish my sword! I’ll help you defeat those demons, maybe friendship will be my reward.

“You’re a good person, that we all know. I admire how much you try in sports; it doesn't matter that your grades are low.” I know she believes me, what else am I there for? A soul-mate maybe? A pal? A spare? No, none of those, but don’t despair, for some reason I’m still here to settle the board, the score.

The night’s not done with his fun, but the sky’s orange with light. I turn to find the raccoon eyes, too bad they’re hidden from sight. She’s gone and left. I’m here struggling with all my might.

Spinning in circles, beat in my mind, I need to find a way out. I’ll have to save myself though, stop looking for someone else to relieve my doubt. A friend can’t save me, their white horses are already employed. I’ll have to be my own knight in shining armor, my problems I can’t avoid. A little drunk, a little high, a little stupid, but I’ll shake it off, this funk, even heroes need a night off.

But not tonight.

Cole Cummins 

World Literature Honors 

April Oliver 2 

4/20/14 

Angel’s Landing 

The sharp precipice rose out of the ground like some sort of waking angel, struggling to release 

itself from the shackles imposed upon it. It loomed one thousand five hundred feet out of the lush 

canyon floor, and although it could not compare to the sheer white walls that enveloped this peak at the 

entire valley and halted the sun’s bright gaze, it was still a sight to behold. Sheer nerve and adrenaline 

were the only reasons to make the three mile climb to the top, along with a view of the gorge. 

Although John and I had already gone so far, climbing up switchback after switchback that 

were so painstakingly carved into the walls of canyon, the final ascent of the ridge was just before us. 

Doubt started to gnaw away at my mind, and a small knot began to form in my stomach as I saw the 

thousand foot drop on each side of the ridge. Trip and you get to enjoy a fall straight down to the 

canyon below.  

“Cole, look, it is just right there. The peak can’t be more than a mile” 

John’s words egging me on, forcing me to combat the knot that was continuously growing in 

size at the thought of the climbing the ridge. I convinced my mind that everything would be fine, and tried 

to forget the fact that this bluff had claimed seven lives in the past six years.  

“Cole, we have to go, the sun is going to set soon.” 

The incessant nagging was becoming little more than a quiet buzz in my mind as compared to the 

broiling anxiety that welled up through my stomach and into my limbs.  

Don’t slip. Don’t fall. Don’t look down. 

We started forward along the ridge, with nothing more than a rusty chain bolted into the ground 

to keep us from tumbling over the edge, only a few feet away from death. 

Don’t slip. Don’t fall. Don’t look down. 

It became my motto, drowning out every other conscious thought in my mind, as I forced myself 

to focus on every rock, every pebble in front of me that would cause me to break that motto. As we 

continued forward, the path grew more and more narrow, causing the panic blooming in my chest to 

increase, numbing my body and thoughts. I forced myself to clamber along the ground as the incline of 

the ridge became too steep, finding sanctuary having solid ground inches from my nose.  

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, dragging on every moment of panic as though it was an 

eternity. We were walking parallel to the abyss on both sides now, each edge only a few feet away, and 

the landscape flickered before me as dread threatened to engulf every fiber of my being.  

John seemed to have no problem climbing over each of the rocks that was in out path, and was 

not bothered by the fact that we were only a few feet from death. 

As we neared a portion of the ridge where the pathway could not have been more than three 

feet wide, I looked up and saw that there had to be another half mile to the summit, and the panic 

engulfing my body finally won out over my mind, forcing me to stop. 

“Cole, what are you doing! The peak is just right there!” 

“I…...I can’t make it. This is just insane.” 

“Fine….. just stay here and wait for me to get back.” 

I finally had a chance to sit down and try to calm reself down, pushing back the tidal wave of 

anxiety that was still rushing through my limbs. Each breath in and out slightly loosened the knot that had 

grown inside my stomach.  

After the fear finally subsided, I looked up at my surroundings, realizing the beauty of what I 

was seeing. The sun was just setting below the white-washed peaks, bathing the landscape in a 

orange-yellow glow. Nature had made a natural painting, and the moment seem to freeze in time, as 

every detail gained a sharper edge and stood out in relief. I sat there for some time, just letting time pass 

by as I imbibed this new world that appeared before me. Twenty minutes, ten minutes, there was no 

way of keeping track of the time aside from the gradual progress of the sun over the mountain peaks. 

The sun began to relinquish its hold over nature, and the orange glow that had covered the canyon 

previously was now replaced with nothing more than darkness.  

It seemed to be hours before John returned, although it couldn’t have been more than twenty 

minutes. Relief coursed through me and gave me a new strength. I held that one moment, that orange 

yellow glow that illuminated the landscape above all else, and the panic to get there now seem more 

than worthwhile. 

Pressure at the Plate

Keith Bohrer

Ms. Oliver

World Literature Honors

20 April 2014

Pressure at the Plate

My Jaw hit the floor. The glimmer illuminating from the barrel blinded me in one eye. I

couldn’t believe it. The only thing between the two of us was a single panel of glass.

I turned to my best friend Patrick, “It’s a thing of beauty man, pure perfection.”

The Anderson Techzilla, the best baseball bat that money could buy. Anybody who was

anybody had their hands on this bat, giving them an entrance into an exclusive club.

Patrick took a step back, his freckled nose cringed, “Too bad it will take three-hundred

smack-a-roos to buy it.”

I took a deep breath. I realized the harsh reality, how was a ten year-old boy supposed to

come up with that sort of cash? I knew one thing is for sure; my parents wouldn’t buy it. I can

hear them coming up with some snarky remark, “A bat is a bat, all you do is hit the ball, why

spend so much money?” They didn’t understand.

Patrick and I, planted in front of the store window, combed through every idea in our

head on how we could each get out very own Techzilla. Failing to think of anything, we turned

away unable to handle watching something that we knew we couldn’t have.

Trying to lighten the mood, I proposed, “Hey Pat, maybe we will find one laying on the

street.”

Bohrer 2

A corky smile came to his face, “I think that might be a little optimistic, all I know is that

even if you have the bat, I will still be able to strike you out!”

Patrick always had the idea in his head that he was better than me. Must have been all

the soda he drinks finally getting to his head, or he was just trying to mess with me. Either way,

it just made we want to beat him more than I did before.

But that was all in the past.

We are in the major league now. It is Opening Day of our rookie seasons. The crowd

roars, louder than a thousand lions. Perspiration dripped off my brow. My Manager has

assigned me the essential role of hitting first.

The umpire rips off the mask that reeks of pine tar and sweat of an old man. The crowd

waits with baited breath as the umpire shouts “Play Ball!” A sonic boom of exuberant fan takes

over the stadium. I could not help but think about the path I took to get to this point. Endless

amounts of sweat shed, countless practices, a pyscho work-ethic, and an optimistic attitude has

gifted me with the opportunity of my life. I could not afford to blow it. The fan’s cries were so

overwhelming that I couldn’t hear my manager call me over.

“Listen up kid, go out there and just try to make a splash, got it?”

“It’s what I do Coach.” I said with a wink.

I jogged up the stairs receiving a classic pat on the butt from my manager. The fans

began to salivate with the idea of me hitting for the first time. All I could hear was white noise.

I had my brand new Techzilla in my hand, paid with by my first ever professional paycheck.

Trying to calm down, I gave the handle a fatal squeeze in an attempt to release some adrenaline.

Bohrer 3

I dug my heel in to the plush dirt at the back of the batter’s box. I gave the umpire a

customary wink and started my lucky ritual of plate tapping with my bat. Tap! Things begin to

move in slow motion. Tap! The dirt explodes of the ground as if it was being bombarded in a

warzone. Tap! I have my infamous game face on. I grabbed ahold of the plastic tip of my

helmet to adjust it. Taking my first look at the pitcher I started to hone in.

I thought to myself, “Calm down Keith, this is your dream. There are just 100,000

people eagerly awaiting your first at bat.” I stopped there. I was just psyching myself out.

“Time!” the umpire’s voice reverberated around the stadium.

Luckily for my psyche, it was just the opposing manager going to talk to his

pitcher. It appears as if their pitcher has been injured! The opposing manager pointed to their

bullpen.

I began to think again “It won’t be. There is no way this going to happen. I know he is a

reliever, but there is no way their manager will call his number on this big of a stage!”

Sure enough my suspicions were confirmed when the bullpen door flew open and out

jogged Patrick. My stomach turned, Patrick has been getting the best of me since we were kids

and now he is here to ruin my big day. Memories of past failures against him began to flood my

already troubled head.

Arriving at the mound, Patrick noticed the shiny Techzilla in my shaking hand. Just like

old times he whipped out the same corky smile he had as a kid and laughed, “I see you finally

got it, I guess I’ll just have to keep the promise I made when I was a kid.”

“Play Ball!” the umpired yelled for a seemingly tenth time.

Bohrer 4

I stepped back into the box restarting the rituals I had done previously. I peered right at

him begging a starring contest that had the intensity to stop the earth from spinning. Patrick set

up, reading the forthcoming pitch. In some sense I was glad he came in, it made me focus on

him and rather than what the fans were thinking. The sound of his ten year-old voice rang in my

head, “All I know is that even if you have the bat, I will still be able to strike you out!” I grit my

teeth together; an internal fire was lit inside me. The pitch was fired in like it was discharged

from a shotgun. The voice began to get louder. The closer the ball got the louder it was. I

initiated the swing that could either set the crowd alight or give me unavoidable embarrassment.

The ball and bat were about to collide. At this point, the voice is my head reached a full scream,

louder and louder and louder…

“Smash!” the bat echoed

Everything went mute. Every mouth in the building went silent as the watched the white

pearl start to fly. The sound of people standing up from their seats with excitement struck my

ears. Gracefully and effortlessly, the pearl fell out of sight. It was over the wall! Sound came

back to me, hitting like a 4 by 4. Patrick hung his head in disbelief.

“Home Run!” the umpire said with disbelief in his winkled face.

Filled with arrogance, I flipped my bat in the air, just to rub it in. My home run trot

began, I pointed out to the adoring fans, which turned from foes to friends. I arrived at home

plate after the best 360 foot jog of my life and emphatically stomped on the plate. As the cheers

continued, I turned to Patrick and threatened,

“Strike me out now.”

The Truth Comes Out

Rachel Matthews

Mrs. Oliver

World Literature Honors

25 April 2014

The Truth Comes Out

            “Hello,” I said as I answered my phone abruptly at the school dance.

Brooke was on the other line and she screamed into the phone right when she heard my voice, “Lindsay! Can you hear me? I need your help immediately.”

            “Brooke what’s wrong?”

 A million different things were rushing through my head, and I could feel my face getting hot. What could Brooke possibly need my help with; she just left the dance an hour ago.

            After a very long pause Brooke mumbled into the phone, “Becca is passed out at Ryan’s house, and I need you to come right away! We don’t know what to do, and we are freaking out. Help!”

            “Okay I’m coming right now. Don’t leave. Get her some water and bread. I will be there in 5 minutes,” I gasped into the phone as I ran to find Becca’s older brother, Jake, at the dance.

            As I looked through the huge sweaty group of people, I started to panic. How was I going to find Jake in this giant mess of people? I peered through the crowd as I pushed people out of the way, looking for a tall, brown haired kid wearing khakis and a polo.

            I spotted Jake a few feet away dancing with his friends and I was relieved.

Well as relieved as someone can be after finding out their friend is passed out at some sketchy kids house.

            “Jake! We need to leave right now your sister is passed out at this kids house and she needs help,” I mumbled, nervous for his response.

            “Are you kidding me,” He responded angrily

            “I wish I was kidding, but I am serious we need to go.”

Jake and I sprinted to the parking lot and were on our way to Ryan’s house as soon as possible. I called Brooke back to tell her we were almost there.  I was worried; I didn’t know what we were going to do once we got to the house. I was so confused, because Becca told me she was leaving the dance to go home, and drinking is definitely not something she would do. Becca is a perfect student and the nicest person in the world, so when Brooke called me I was extremely shocked. Once we arrived at the house, I prayed several times, and then hopped out of the car, mentally prepared for the worst.

            Brooke was waiting outside of the house and greeted us with a panic in her voice. We walked inside to find Becca, laying face down on the ground with vomit all over her clothing.

            I looked over to Jake and stated, “We need to take her home and call your dad because we can’t do much to help her, and she might need to go to the hospital.”

Jake looked at me like I was a crazy person and said, “Are you kidding? We cannot take her home like this. She is going to be in so much trouble.”

            After hearing this I was extremely frustrated because getting in trouble was the least of anyone’s problems right now. Becca was in danger, and she needed much better help than any of us could give her.

             “I’m calling your dad and telling him what happened. Sorry if you get in trouble,” I said as I started dialing.

            I knew Ryan, Brooke, and Jake were going to be mad at me for calling, but not taking Becca home and lying was going to land them in a much worse situation.

            My hands were shaking violently as I dialed. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. I started to regret calling, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I needed to tell him the truth, for everyone’s sake.

            He answered the phone quickly, “Hello, Lindsay?”

“Hi Mr. Rhodes, I’m calling to tell you that I’m with Becca and Jake right now at Ryan’s house. We have a major problem,” I explained the entire story and was relieved to find out he wasn’t that mad, but more concerned. He was on his way to get Becca and take her to the hospital.

            Once Beccas dad showed up, he realized how bad Beccas condition really was and was extremely relieved that I had called him. He rushed her to the hospital immediately to get her stomach pumped.

            Later, that night I got a call from Becca’s dad, thanking me for calling him when I did. He explained that the doctors said that if she hadn’t come to the hospital when she did, there would have been a very high chance of her dying due to many different possible situations.

            I was extremely proud of my actions and thankful that I told the truth because it ended up saving my best friends life. My decision also helped everyone involved in the long run. Lying to stay out of trouble is one of the worst things someone can do, because telling the truth is a very powerful thing that can end up saving a life. 

Divergence

James Naumovski

Oliver 2

World Lit H

25 April 2014

Divergence

            He waited, huddled on the couch and under the blanket, even though he knew the result would once again be the same. But he hoped, maybe it wouldn’t be today. The heavy feet in unison with the creak of the stairs, and the slight pause. The scrabbling of the key in the lock, and the curses muted by the door. The boy had become used to it, yet still he hoped. No, he wouldn’t be home for another while. He looked around the room, his eyes glazing over the familiar mantelpiece – the wide TV, the dusty pictures, some overturned, left there out of laziness or hope, and the nicked shelf. The carpeted floor was likewise in poor condition – the once thick material now shabby, covered in dark stains. The coffee table was cluttered with papers, most likely with no use.

He was hungry, so he walked across the room to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator to a familiar sight. The beers dominated the top shelf, and more were loaded on the door. However, there was no real food. He opened the cabinets, found a box of cereal, and ate some dry. His stomach still growled when he returned to the couch.

The creak of the stairs and the heavy steps shattered the silence. How much time had passed since he had gone to look for food? Then came the scrabbling on the lock, the muffled curses. The door creaked open, and a man lurched in, unable to keep a steady pace. “Hi Dad” the boy said, innocent as ever, but once again the smell hit him. Even though it was a regular occurence, the boy could never become used to it. The acrid smell moved with the man, emanating from his body. He still hadn’t said anything to the boy, not even gone as far as to look at him.

The man dragged himself to the couch, and plopped down on the end. “Get me a drink,” he slurred, but the boy knew what he was supposed to do. The boy walked solemnly to the kitchen, retrieved a beer, and returned to the couch. The man took it without a word, and searched on the coffee table for the TV remote. His hand reached out and grabbed, and his index finger mashed down on the button. The TV flickered to life, illuminating the entirety of the room. The man flicked through the various news channels, not stopping long enough to pick anything. He stopped on a commercial, swore, and stabbed at the remote, but it ceased to respond. He threw tried throwing it on the coffee table, missed, and it landed on the floor.

The boy shook off the ragged blanket, and retrieved the controller. “Why did I bother to wait,” he thought. Once again, it was the same – cold, unnerving silence between the two. He decided to break it. “Dad, I’m worried about school.”

The man told him not to be, it doesn’t matter, any excuse to stifle the conversation.

The boy was unsure. He questioned, “But won’t school, I guess, help me later in life?”

“I said, it doesn’t matter,” with a specific finality of the conversation. The man went back to his beer, and to ignoring the boy.

“I’m still confused though. Won’t I need it later in life? Can you help me? How can I learn better?” The questions flowed from the boy.

The man yelled at the boy for not shutting up, questioning why he even allowed the boy to talk, and once again, went back to ignoring the boy.

The boy looked down with a mix of sadness and annoyance. “Why was I yelled at? I just have questions.” He thought of crying, but he did not cry anymore, at least in front of Dad. Dad didn’t like crying. “Why me?” But he didn’t know why. He only felt lost, inside his own home, with his only family. He no longer knew why he wanted to know about school, and he should have seen his dad’s answer coming. It was always the same on similar matters. Except in the morning. The mornings were worse.

His dad wouldn’t wake up sometimes. He would just leave the boy to fend for himself, take the bus to school. On the mornings he would wake up, there was usually only silence. He would just completely ignore the boy. Sometimes, there were stares. Vicious frowns etched on his face. Sometimes he would yell about seemingly nothing in particular. Other times he would just push the boy out of the way.

“Dad, did you get more food? I looked in the fridge, but there wasn’t anything.”

He responded with a curt no. Go to bed.

The boy did as commanded, but couldn’t help but question. “Does Dad really know what’s best? How come he can just tell me to?” He crossed the tight living room to the even smaller bathroom, and brushed his teeth with the frayed brush. “Is this really where I feel safe? Comfortable?” He stared into the mirror, but just a boy, shrunken and gray, stared back. He glided to his room, and climbed under his thin blankets. Once again, defeated, overwhelmed.

The boy buried his face in the pillow to muffle his sobs.

*   *   *   *   *

Reflection

This flash fiction was very interesting for me to write, as there were very few restrictions for it. Although my story is not autobiographical, I chose to write it because I felt that I am capable of writing on such a topic, and that it truly emphasized many of the values that were depicted in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Specifically, while writing my story, I aimed to include aspects of identity and power, but during the writing process and peer feedback, I saw the possibility for obedience and hope.

Identity was very interesting, and the excerpts on how the work camp becomes each gang member’s new home were particularly important to me. But, I portrayed my characters differently. In the work camp, the members become accustom to their home, and thus submit to the harsh life. However, the boy in my story constantly questions his home, and how it shapes his identity. Further, he does not accept it as a home, which leads to the conclusion of the story. My interest in identity does not stop there. For my story, I did not include names to show the loss of identity. The boy is just there – not comfortable with his alcoholic father, and clearly is not in a hospitable environment.

This is intertwined with the boy’s obedience. Again, I differ from Solzhenitsyn’s view: instead of each character becoming more submissive to his oppressor as he become used to his life, the boy does not. He reflects upon life, which is constantly contingent on his feelings. Ultimately, he is split between his father-son bond, and his helpless demeanor caused by his father’s neglect. However, the boy is overall more hopeful compared to the characters in the book, as they accept their fate, versus the boy, who contemplates a better life, or his father changing his habits. Lastly, the father represents the abuse of power. He is able to control the boy, yet he constantly commands the child, silencing him at every turn.

I named the short story “Divergence” because of the conflicting ideals that create the majority of internal tension. Constantly, the boy is split between his own values and ideals, such as obedience and identity. However, this exists also on an interpersonal level between the boy and the father on ideals such as obedience. The dad expects the boy to obey his every command, yet the boy continually questions his father’s authority.

Overall, “Divergence” represents many of the values in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, but some aspects are portrayed differently.