ISSUE 5: SPRING 2016

THE FOURTH FLOOR

ART AND LITERATURE FROM THE SCIENCE LEADERSHIP ACADEMY

Chief Literary Editor: Anna Sugrue

Chief Art Editor: Leo Levy
Head of Fundraising: Ella Burrows, Emily Stephens
Deputy Editors: Josh Berg, Tobi Hann, Zack Hersh
Assitant Editors: Zoe Andersson, Sarah Berg, Mitchell
Berven-Stotz, Aaron Block, Xavier Caroll, Gabriel Leeds,
Bella Mezzaroba, Sean Morris, Desmond ODonovan, Javier
Peraza, August Polite, Anastasia Petropoulos, Sofia Powers,
Michaela Prell, Jack Sugrue, Rosalie Swana
Layout Team: Kate Kopf, Mark Kriegh, Lyle Seitz
Fundraising Team: Eli Block, Elani Gonzalez-Ortiz
Editorial Illustrator: Nat Hilton
Staff Advisor: Larissa Pahomov
Submit your work to the Fourth Floor at
the4thfloor@scienceleadership.org
On the cover:
Romantic Painting of New Hills by August Polite
On opposite page:
Pixel Sorting by Mark Kriegh

Romantic Painting of Daisy & Brother

by August Polite

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Literature
1 Dead by
Jared Trusty
2 Stella by
Ben Simon
5 Benji by
Anastasia Petropoulos
10 Poetic Vomit by
Zack Hersh
12 First Kiss by
Noah Caruso
15 Flames by
Gabrielle Cromley
15 Flashpoint by
Alex Kahn
23 Camelot by
Darius Purnell
28 Six Word Stories by
Stephanie Dyson
29 Technicolor Yawn by
Anna Sugrue

Art
1 Frog Comic by
August Polite
3 Covered by
Olivia Mussleman
6 Limited Edition Whatsit
by Ethan Larabee
9 Hand by
Tito Mazzucchi
14 Boat by
Bella Mezzaroba
23 Moon Palace by
Lyle Seitz
27 South by
Rosalie Swana
27 Turbine by
Kate Kopf

Copyright 2016, by the authors. All rights reserved

DEAD
BY JARED TRUSTY
I fell off the cliff, dead
I got on a plane, dead
I rode my bike, now dead
Tripped on a rock, now dead
Had a girl, now she dead
Bang bang bang, dead dead dead

Frog Comic
by August Polite

STELLA
BY BEN SIMON

He stood on the hill, silently overlooking the vast
valley that spread across the landscape. Normally, he would
travel the long distance in the evening to see the this
beautiful sight; the sun would set and he would sit there for
hours, enjoying the wonderful summer days.

Today was no different. The man left the house,
telling his wife that he would be back soon. He was just
going to get some fresh air with Stella.

He left when the sun was high in the sky. They rode
for hours, taking their time in their travels towards the
desired location. It was just him and Stella, his best friend.
They did everything together. He told her everything. He let
her know how he was feeling, what he did that day, what his
plans were for later.

Stella could often feel his emotions without him
even saying anything. She could feel the tension in his legs
when things werent going so good at home, and she could
feel his calm presence when he was at ease. They knew each
other better than anyone else. So when they traveled to the
hill today, he stopped Stella from moving any further. He
caressed her soft brown fur for the next hour and his eyes
stayed pinned to the evening sky. She knew something was
up.

She turned her head up and gazed into the sky. His
eyes were fixed and it took a few seconds until he saw

Covered
by Olivia Musselman

Stella. Her eyes were large and dark. Her peered into them
and was suddenly lost in the abyss. When Stellas head didnt
turn away he sighed and began to speak.

Stell, look at the sky, he said, helping Stella
understand what he was saying by turning her head upward.
In between the dark clouds, light beamed down on the
landscape below the horse and the man. But this wasnt a
normal light from the sun. This was a supernatural light, the
kind that people had read about in books or heard in ancient
folktales. Instead of running the other way for his home, the
man stood there and took in the wonderful sight. He took in
the beauty and waited for what would happen next. His mind
started to wander and wonder what was approaching him
and Stella. There had been recent rumors of UFO sightings,
but aliens were unlikely to exist. By this point in 2098, the
world would have known that extraterrestrial creatures were
real. Maybe it could be God coming to seize the man and
send him to his afterlife.
He didnt have to wait much longer. A gigantic spacecraft
emerged from the dull and hapless cloud. The man stood
there, gazing at the magnificent object. He began to smile.
He couldnt wait to go home and tell his wife about the
beautiful spacecraft he had seen. The thoughts stopped
instantly as walls began to emerge from the abandoned
ground that the man and Stella often spent hours gazing
over. This did not sit well with Stella, who began to neigh and
jump up and down.
Shush, honey, shush, the man said, petting his horse. But
Stella did not stop. The man noticed that the object was still

hovering over the ground, seemingly waiting for something

to happen. It was quiet noise. The man thought that the craft
would be louder than it actually was, but it was stealth in the
air.

It was then that he noticed he was not supposed to be
there. The UFO had been hovering for at least ten
minutes. The people inside, whoever they were, were
probably discussing what to do with the man who had seen
way too much, because in a matter of seconds guns appeared
from the bottom of the object. They turned to face the man
and Stella. Without the mans permission, Stella turned to
sprint away, but it was too late. The fire pierced into the horse
and not much later, the man was shot as well.

Limited Edition Whatsit

by Ethan Larabee

BENJI
BY ANASTASIA PETROPOULOS

Benji buries his face in the pillow clutching Bo, a
scraggly teddy bear, to his chest.

I want you to stay in here, in your room, and think
about your actions until I decide that it is appropriate for
you to come out again! his Mom says in a stern voice before
slamming the door.
NO! Benji howls into his pillows. He hears her pause
outside the door before she begins making her way down the
stairs. Benji just doesnt understand what he had done. The
drawing on his parents bedroom room wall was supposed
to be a present. He thought Mommy would especially like
it; she always praised the drawings he did on the chalkboard
wall in the kitchen. Contrary was her reaction, yelling about
Sharpie and the fact that it was permanent. Benji squeezes
his eyes shut, and curls up, pulling Bo closer to him; the
silence of the room rings in his ears.

When Benji next opens his eyes, dusk had fallen. A
sliver of light pours in from the gap of his open door and falls
across his bed. Rubbing his eyes, Benji props himself up with
an elbow. A pain stabs him in the stomach as he
remembers missing his routine afternoon snack because of
being put on timeout. As Benji pulls his feet out from under
the covers, his ankle brushes a chill and a shiver goes down
his spine. Pulling his legs to his chest, clutching Bo, Benjis
eyes trail to the folds of his blue comforter at the end of his

bed. The comforter shifts, a heap growing underneath.

Trembling, Benji watches the mass maneuver to the edge of
the comforter, then stop. After a few moments of silence he
feels an iciness clutching at his toes. With a shriek he recoils.
Protruding from the blue comforter is a spindly arm, so pale
that its complexion seems to camouflage with Benjis
starch-white sheets. Slim, clawed fingers reach for his toe.
Before the hand can get a good hold, Benji pulls his foot
away. Theres a shrill screech as the comforter abruptly rises,
exposing the body which the arm is attached to. Piercing
blue eyes underlined by dark rings peer out through a mane
of black hair which hides a thin, gaunt face. Locks of greasy
tangles conceal the rest of the body trailing off into the
darkness under the comforter. Benji hides his face in Bos
matted fur, searching for comfort in the scent of his bear.
Fabric softener fills his nose from the most recent time Bo
had been washed, but it is not reassuring. His heart leaps as
the image of the face flashes in his mind. Feeling the fingers
once more grope his ankle he reels back toward the head
of his bed. The creature hisses in frustration and lunges for
Benji. Benji bounces from his mattress to the floor where he
squirms into the tight space under his bed. Petrified,
Benji listens with his eyes shut tight. A raspy pant comes
from above, quickening. Then there is silence. This is a bad
dream, Benji reasons, Look at us sillyheads being scared, Bo.
Remember what happens when we are scared? Mommy
makes everything okay.

Mommy? Benji whispers into the silence.

Yeeessss, The pale arm darts out of the darkness,

searching. Benji pushes himself back out of the arms reach.

The slender, milky-white fingers begin to distort and
elongate. Benji rears back but finds himself pushed into a
corner. Icy fingers curl around his neck, flexing into a firm
grip. Releasing Bo, Benjis hands shoot to his neck, but finds
himself clawing at his own skin. The fingers tighten, their
long nails piercing his skin. Flesh tears, blood spurting from
his neck. Benji gropes blindly in the dark, searching for Bo,
but only sensing the damp warmth of blood. Cold fingers
continue to to constrict him, searing the open wounds.

Help he rasps, but no sound escapes.
Shhhhhhhhhhhh
Benji jolts awake. Dusk is falling. He curls over onto his side,
drawing Bo, who is safely in his clutches, to his chest. A sliver
of light pours in from the gap of his open door falling across
a whiteboard mounted on the wall. A drawing of his family
is scribbled onto the whiteboards surface, labeled: Daddy,
Mommy, Bo, and Bad Lady.

POETIC VOMIT
BY ZACK HERSH
Ive never been much of a poet
Being a bard is too hard and I know it
You got me! Im caught
A prophet Im not
When I try to be wise words get tied in a knot
Everything I say seems to always lack thought
You see, poetry and I never got along
My poetic lines have just always felt wrong
Theres no such thing as wrong writing! you say?
Well just read my verses and Im sure that youll sway
10

Theres no deeper meaning

A reader could possibly be gleaning
And my rhymes are all forced
(absolutely the worst)
Poetry and I should be permanently divorced
And my staying away strictly enforced
My poems belong in the garbage can
Im simply not a poet, Im not that type of man
I much prefer to stick with the facts
Than to wade too deep into the abstract
Nothing I write could ever distract
From the poetic qualities that Ive clearly lacked
So why then write this? you might ask of me
I dont even have a good answer, you see
I guess I just wanted to see if I could
Drag you down low into my neighborhood
Of terrible rhymes
And wastes of everyones time
So thank you for reading
Now I am leaving
I hope you enjoyed this horrid force-feeding
Actually, I dont care either way.

11

FIRST KISS
BY NOAH CARUSO

Id be lying if I said I recall my first time doing most
things. Nothing has ever been so memorable that I can tell an
entertaining story about iteven my first kiss was
uneventful. Nonetheless, I was really proud of myself, so I
remember it vividly.

The heater in our car always took a long time to start
working, the kind of long where you had already gotten to
your destination by the time it got warm. We were bundled
up in our sweatshirts and blankets in the back seat knowing
the drive ahead of us to my Jiu-Jitsu fight would be a long
one. My girlfriend at the time, who was two years older than
me (because I was what you would call a gangster) was
sitting next to me, her head on my shoulder, mine against the
window. Her hair, deep red much like that of red velvet cake,
smelled like cherry blossoms as it drooped down my chest
and into my lap. This feeling was unfamiliar to me, almost
as unfamiliar as when she grabbed my hand and held it for a
majority of the ride. Id like to think my palms werent
sweating profusely, but knowing me at age eleven, they
probably were.

We didnt talk much. I was nervous for my upcoming
fight, thoughnot to bragI rarely lose. I looked out of the
window a lot. The gray skies and passing cars comforted me.
I was drifting in and out of my head, daydreaming and then
not, over and over again. I felt something weird on my cheek,

something I had never felt before, something I was unable to

identify as real or just the fabrication of another daydream.
What I had eventually come to realize after countless debates
in my head, was that I had just gotten my first kiss on the
cheek. My cheeks got warm and I smiled, embarrassed. I
looked at her and out of impulse, kissed her. Thinking back
to it, it was probably pretty awkward for my parents in the
front seat, if they even noticed.

I wasnt sure what to feel. I remember feeling a rush of
things; adrenaline pumped through my body at the thought
of what I just did, relief that it had finally happened, and
excitement that I had finally kissed a girl after eleven years of
life, and, to quote Katy Perry, I liked it.

Hannah and I were together for three years, from

Hand
by Tito Mazzucchi

13

eleven to fourteen years old, before she moved away and I

moved on. I miss her sometimes; she was my best friend and,
because of being my first girlfriend and my first kiss, a big
part of my life. I wish our first kiss was something
spectacular and fairytale worthy that I could tell you about.
But it was nothing flashy. We couldve at least waited until I
won my fight and made it a victory kiss or something. Sadly,
this is all Ive got. A cozy story of two kids, one eleven and
one thirteen, huddled in the back of a freezing car.

Boat
by Bella Mezzaroba

14

FLAMES
BY GABRIELLE CROMLEY
The flames swallowed my dreams
And buried my hopes in a grave
The smoke suffocated my soul
And turned my heart a dark blue
The fire melted my spirit
And I feel the stinging burn everyday
It disfigured my body
And made me a monster to the world
My mind is now ashes
Like the place I used to call home

15

FLASHPOINT
BY ALEX KHAN
The show begins with his name in lights:

The human flamethrower tonight!

The lights are fake; a sign nailed to the side of a big
top circus tent.

He was a fake.

We share a name, the two of us. Destruction, and
thats in the nicest terms; were not that different, he and I.
Although, I am his voice, and he my purpose. A fire breather
is nothing without his flame, and a flame is nothing without
his fuel. On the days I never showed, he didnt perform. I
witnessed things on those days, bruised eyes and blood
boiled over the heat I gave to a mans voice; I vowed to always
show for a performance.

The human flamethrower, as they called him in show,
was named Augustine by his fellow performers. It derived
from the month of August, the time of year known to having
the highest number of wildfires on record.

He became a member of the circus at the age of
seventeen; another lostboy run away from home.

Things were the same for the sword swallower named
Cain. He was thin, shy, and lacked the luster of the other
performers. It was when we first performed with Cain did we
hear the term fake.
The night was calm, and brisker than the afternoon sun would

have liked. Augustine and Cain were side-by-side again, my

colors danced through the tent like ritual. A distraction; a
child running through the tent looking for her family, she
screams.

Augustine turns towards the scream, and I get caught
on the ropes holding the ceiling in place. Suddenly the
screams are amplified; the tent is in flames.

Augustine is stunned with fear; he watches the
charred fabric Im clung to fall from the sky. He watches as I
land on Cain, and suddenly I remember what it was like the
first time someone threw water on me. Pain, but the kind
of pain that sticks to your bones, and clouds your lungs. Ill
never forget the way Cains scream sounded, or the way
Augustine ran to him like it was his life in danger. I learned
what Augustines skin felt like when he began trying to put
me out, and I think this was what accidental betrayal felt like.

I dont think I like the way power feels anymore. It
feels like broken bones, and burned skin. I think it might
even feel the way death does to a lonely person.

The authorities would show hours later, and Cain,
along with other injured people, would be sent off to the
hospital to get patched up. The policemen would ask
questions about what happened, and theyd learn the circus
featured a firebreather that night. Theyd become suspicious,
and wonder if he was the one that caused the fire.

The Ringleader would come forward, and defend his
freaks the only way he knew how:

Gentlemen, my freaks are innocent! We are a family

here, and I very much doubt Sir Augustine would be the one
to kill his own family!

The Ringleader would shoo the police away, and
begin his trek back to the big top remains, pushing past
Augustine with a phrase;

I warned you about disappointing me.

The thought of killing someone would never leave
Augustines mind. Itd settle, like a fog, in the back of his
head, until hed learn that Cain had died in the hospital and
wouldnt be coming back. Augustine would never get to say
goodbye to him, and then hed reconsider what the
Ringleader had said. Hed decide then that, yes, he would be
the one to kill his family, because as far as he was concerned,

hed killed Cain. He was careless, and too comfortable

holding me in his hands. He was a failure, and he wasnt
afraid of failing the Ringleader anymore.
A week later, its raining. No one comes to the show anymore,
and I never get to light up the big top tent with Augustine
again. A part of me believes hes happy about it, and that
maybe hes grown to hate me for what I can do to people who
get too close. Theres a thought in there somewhere where he
questions if being that close to me is a suicide mission, and I
might just agree with him now.

On that rainy day, the Ringleader would gather his
remaining freaks, and tell them they were moving to start
over.

We must stick together, okay? We are a family. He
speaks to the crowd at the center of the room, as if unaware
Augustine had entered the room. He knew, I think.
A few of them laugh, reminding him;

Its over, no ones going to come no matter where we
are. To which he replies, allowing me to bleed through his
veins again:

Well, where are you going to go then? You think
people will accept you? Youre freaks. No one wants you. This
is all youve got. You cant go anywhere, or do anything,
without me.

They seem to settle, like that burdening fog, and the
Ringleader resumes his speech about the movement of the
circus.

They pack up and leave that same night.

Augustine ends up cornered by the Ringleader, and the other

carnies. In that moment, theyre angry with him. The
Ringleader speaks over him, and I hate knowing hes sucked
me back into his voice for this talk.
We dont need you messing things up for us again,
Augustine. And we dont need you telling people anything,
either. Sorry, about this.

A large part of me believes that apology was a lie, and
that maybe the Ringleader never really cared about
Augustine, or any of the others. I wouldnt be able to tell,
though, considering I was only ever there to fuel his anger,
and nothing else.
A gunshot has never sounded so much like a fake apology
than it did then, and I wonder if the fact Augustines lighter
cracked when he fell is supposed to symbolise the part of me
in his life dying. It would be more symbolic, I think, to say I
got to kill him that night. So lets go with that, okay?

You could say that it felt like Id slipped between his
skin and bones when he began to cough blood, and crumble
under his familys gaze, but I think that might be a bit clich.

And maybe telling you that the new firebreather felt
weird to me, like his mouth was a coffin and I was buried
alive in Augustines clothes, is also a bit clich.

I think this story may have been clich from the start,
when I tried to gain respect in the form of amusement.

This was always about respect.

20

Moon Palace by Lyle Seitz

CAMELOT
BY DARIUS PURNELL

We march towards the castle. Me and my young lad,
James, push an armor built from the base of my old armor
from when I was at the round table. We are going to war.
The townsfolk have been tortured by evil for far too long.
Everyone is aware that we will most likely lose and be killed.
However, we must try for the sake of the Kingdom. The king
was once seen as a legend, truly pure. We gave him the power
that corrupted him. The castle can now be seen over the hill.
Thousands of Dark Knights on speeds. Thousands on the

ground holding blasters and blades. Fifty Dark Knights with

turrets as high as the towers of the castle, at the front fortress
of the tower are Dark Knights with long range weapons. At
the wings of the army of guards are giant ogres. The front
knight steps forward.
Stand down and your lives will be spared, he says.
Yes, and live in a dungeon for the rest of our lives, as if living
in this kingdom of was once the great Camelot isnt prison
enough. I look at James, we both nod our heads. I step in
front of my armor and open my arms. I step back and the
suit forms around me. I can hear my soldiers preparing
themselves. This is everything we trained for team. You
know your instructions, who to attack and how.
We can win this war without you doing James begs again.
I know what lies in that castle. I have to. When it happens, I
want you to run as fast as you can. Get to safety, this
kingdom with need for your rebirth. I respond. Now,
charge! I fly high as my warriors run towards war. With
frantic fire, I blind two ogres. They start swinging at three
other ogres before falling themselves. They fall on Dark
Knights but there are still more that stand. I hover over the
battle below me. I watch James fight. I taught him well, and
it seems the elixir we took to enhance our sixth sense is helping. He has taken down five Dark Knights on speeds and is
now battling the front knight.
I feel a giant fist hit me and I go flying backwards. I
quickly regain direction and fly far away. I hear the front
knight telling James Im a coward. I turn around and go full
speed towards the last ogre wearing a strong helmet. My

power supply decreases. I charge an electric pulse that forms

a ball of energy around me. I fly through the ogres chest,
bringing his heart with me. I throw it to the ground as I lose
all power. The electric charge swarms around me as I fall in a
pencil dive, crashing into the heart, and landing inside it. The
heart explodes around me. The bloody suit opens and I run
into the castle. James runs beside me. We nod and separate. I
run to the armory. I put on small repulsors and a chest plate
and grab a pistol. Then I make my way to the tower.
I walk through the door. I look at the round table. He is
standing in darkness at the window. He stares out as he
speaks.
I remember when we first formed the Knights of the great
round table, Lance. You still have a chance to throw this
rebellion and return as my right hand, he says as he looks at
his right stump.
Ah, the irony, Arthur. Im here to take the rest of you. I walk
forward to him. But an evil me, glowing with dark energy,
stands in my way.
Oh, where are my manners? He turns around. Lance,
meet Lance.
My evil duplicate fires dark energy me sending back. I keep
walking. He fires again, I dodge it. He fires again as I flip over
the spheres of energy and land in front of him. I have never
been shot in the head before, and if my duplicate didnt fall to
the ground then I could have asked when I shot him with my
pistol. Arthur turns around and to face me. His white long
hair follows him. He stares at me with his one yellow glowing
eye. He has a red scar across his left eye going down to his

chin where his white beard begins. His black armor glows
red. I flip in the air dodging dark energy fired at me.
The queen walks out of the shadows, wearing a black piece
that covers her body. She has a thin red cape tied to her wrist.
Her eyes glow a dark purple. I dodge her attack. I then feel a
force of energy throwing me against the wall. Arthur and his
queen stand in front of me.
Lana. Who else would poorly puppet that evil duplicate of
me. I feel a force of energy start to choke me. I gasp for air.
Dear, Arthur says. Let him speak his last words before I
gut him. I feel the energy around my neck go away. I hear
James in my ear piece.
Everything is all set, James says as I nod towards a bottle at
my belt.
Do you mind? The bottle levitates to my mouth, I take a
gulp.
The great, Sir Lancelot. A fucking drunk. Never passes up a
chance for a drink, He mocks me. I spit the drink in Lanas
face.
She wipes her face. Arthur draws his sword. Lana touches her
head and falls to the floor. Her energy releases me, I land on
a knee. How the hell
A special toxin that cures her from her dark magic for a brief
moment. I stand. Arthur, you were once the greatest, the
purest. Now, youre truly evil. He backs up. I pull a detonator
out of my belt. Long live King Arthur! He charges at me. I
pull the switch.
Boom.
24

South
by Rosalie Swana

Turbine
by Kate Kopf

25

SIX WORD STORIES

BY STEPHANIE DYSON
Raspberry-tinted hands, or so he said.

Ben: Whats going on, Mrs. Robinso-

He couldnt explain forgiveness until her.

He should change their answering machine.

My dads were both alter boys.

Pastor hated taking communion, police said.

Rehab nurse: Youve gotta help yourself.

Quick glance. Short investigation. Graduation revoked.

Quiet, forceful, always youthful. Pharrell.

Closets probably safest when daddys drunk.

Spill in liquor aisle. Shes back.
Shortest horror story ever: sold out

26

TECHNICOLOR YAWN
BY ANNA SUGRUE

I felt scared. I was lonely. I was on the brink catastrophe

so I picked up my pencil and stories poured into every letter and

pinpoints became people and I was alive, adrenaline pumping,
sweat like the oasis in a desert and my mind became a woman,
taking off her shoes and getting into the shower with her clothes
on, with no feeling but the chill of cold water and the relief wicked witch melting - and that mischievous grin from breaking
a rule when no one can see you. Fingernails became stepping
stones on a journey to a pen tip, a tip that makes houses from
broken branches and makes dreams like mist that twinkles in the
light and becomes alive when you arent looking. A tip that loops
holes through reality, paints shadows of my mothers voice that
once echoed like a ping-pong ball from eardrum to
eardrum. Thump thump. I create dragons that breathe mountains
and mountains that birth dragons from their roots. Wind that

tickles nose hairs and brushes against the tender spot near my
navel and it makes me laugh, a laugh like bubbles that burst and
become stars and the stars become galaxies that sizzle like a soda
can opened too fast. My hand twisted, joints crackled and the
sparks of wisdom fell and burned holes in fiction, holes drilled
to the bone, through anatomy mazes and to the heart where that
spark becomes a fire and it burns. Licks at my insides until I cant
take the pain and I pick up a pencil and let go. The spark finds its
way back through the maze and through my fingertips, across the
stepping stones of my fingernails and ignites. And I write.
When I finish, when lines trail off into the sunset and the pitcher
is empty, I swallow the remains of the last ice chip and as I sigh,
I feel a kick. A kick in my stomach, and I know that somewhere
somehow, a new poem was conceived, and it grows in the uterus
of my subconscious and so I wait. I take her hand and place

it on the swell of my womb and say that, that my friend, is

freedom.
Thank you.

Thank you for five enlightening issues

- Leo Levy