Volume VI
Vox Populi
Editorial Staff Editors-in-Chief Julia Hyde Casey McDowell
Design Editors Julia Hyde Casey McDowell
Advisor Jared Bridges
Copy Editors Brooke Branch Claudia Dominguez Ashley Donohoe Genevieve Fox Julia Hyde Caroline Petty-Kane
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A Jolly Good Yellow, Photography, Martin Michael
Vox Populi
Voice of the People
Vox Populi is in its sixth year of publication, and it has been a truly unique year. The school year was cut unexpectedly short with the outbreak of COVID-19, and the publication of this edition of the magazine was placed in jeopardy. Communication was more difficult, and the Editorial staff lost our facilities and access to our school computers and programs. However, we stayed the course, and continued to be dedicated to our mission. Vox Populi translates to “the Voice of the People� in Latin, and year after year the magazine strives to be a forum where student artists, authors, and poets can express themselves and their experiences. Battlefield High School is a diverse environment with a plethora of
stories to be discovered through both literary and artistic mediums, and we did not wish for these stories to go unrecognized this year. The magazine is entirely studentrun, and all pieces of literature and poetry are submitted by our own Creative Writing students. We collaborate with art students, Art Honor Society, and other student contributors to produce and collect art to feature in our magazine. The art and photography featured in the magazine strengthens and increases the impact of the literature present, as well as vice-versa. Having one without the other would feel unnatural and dishonest. Thus, we are immensely grateful to all contributors to this year’s edition. From the poets, authors, and
editors to the artists, photographers, and designers, together we have created a publication that defies distance. Life is becoming increasingly complicated, especially in the current political and social climate. However, it is now more important than ever that we let the Voice of the People be heard. In times of confusion, grief, and isolation, we are drawn to the arts for light, inspiration, and solace. The arts are a language we all speak, so the conversation must continue. Thank you for joining us, and for listening to the Voice of the People. Cover art: Selfie, Digital, Vanya Mohammed
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Table of
Contents
Ink-Stained Hands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julia Hyde
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Love’s Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Martin Michael
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No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service . . . . . . . . CJ McDowell
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Adrift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Safyque xRichardson
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Breaking Waves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kayla Noto
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Dahlia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brooke Branch
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Bees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gale Posey
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Berlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Genevieve Fox
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Intoxicated Nightmare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sydney Ridenour
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Jack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Matt Bolvari
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The Land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elisia Lewis
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Fly Free, Photography, CJ McDowell
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Crystal Huynh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Willow
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Alejandro Molina . . . . . . . . . . . The ‘Weg’ to Your ‘Man’
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Grace Hermanson . . . . . . What She Sees and What I See
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Rebecca Bunner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dissecting Perfection
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Cameron Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Wish
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Sophia Tiller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . De Aestu
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Ashley Donohoe . . . . . . . Heaven is a Concert, But Hell is the Opener
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Lindsey Burdick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Not Alone
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Claire Marche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Be the Change
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Claudia Dominguez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Just Peachy
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KJ McDermott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colored Skies
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Clara Kardash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1144
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Colin Stuart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Familiar is New
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Caroline Petty-Kane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Little Less Lonely
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Ink-Stained Hands By Julia Hyde
The sheets tickled her bare cheek as she rolled to lay on her back. The rustle of her movement was the only sound in the silent bedroom. It was a room so quiet that it hovered in the corner of the house, as if suspended in a pool of honey. At night. A pool of honey threaded with charcoal. The house may have been quiet, but her mind was less so. A gentle torrent of thoughts wound their way through her weary mind, as softly as a torrent ever could. The roar of the river of thoughts tired her. She’d had a long day, one filled with the weight of the world and the uncertain future, and all she longed
was blocked, similar to the feeling of penting up thousands of tears. Despite this, her eyes were dry. And full of confusion. How else would sleep’s gentle caress embrace her? While she debated curling her fingers around the pill and crushing it, her closet door opened. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and started before realizing it was her own. With her throat still tight, she drew the blanket aside and let her toes brush the smooth wood of the floor. The musty silence in her room absorbed the sound of her gentle tread to the closet. She did not dare to even breathe, lest she risk disturbing whatever was inside.
but she was wrong. The creature was that dark. While the window glowed from the soft light of the room, the being from the closet had blurred edges from where reality smudged like watercolor. The figure slid into the room, very nearly establishing itself as a new center of gravity. It was such that everything in the room seemed to be drawn toward its presence, herself included, and so she was naturally very suspicious. “What are you?” She croaked, still heavy with fatigue. The mass of shadow did not answer. Still hesitant, she drew closer. “Can you hear me?”
“ When she drew her hands away, they were stained. Stained as if she had written a thousand stories using a quill and ink. ”
for was the certainty of sleep. So, she reached for her water and a Tylenol PM. She pushed the pill past her chapped lips and grasped the cup, almost slipping out of her hands from the condensation. Sip, sip. Yet her throat closed up. It
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As she gripped the brassy handle, she tightened her other hand into a fist in defense. She threw the door open… ...And the room grew black as pitch. She didn’t know anything could be darker than her room at night,
The creature tilted its head ever so slightly. “You can understand me?” she whispered. It bowed its head deeply, as if to say, I understand you more than anything. She took another step closer. “May I touch you?”
She blinked, confused. “But… I haven’t done any work.” The creature nodded. The best work is still yet to come. Then, it turned and began gliding out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Silence was still pressing down on her, as the creature had never made a sound during their interaction, so she took care to maintain it as she padded out of her room and followed the creature. She eventually found the shadow
“ Hands that show the proof of
work and life are better than the ones that tell no stories at all.
”
sandstorm, like tilled earth. The creature was not solid, that fact soon became obvious, but the feeling it gave her definitely was. Instead of isolating or rejecting her, as she expected, she was embraced and welcomed. Like a roaring hearth, the creature pledged itself, devoted itself to her comfort and protection. And she knew all this from a touch. When she drew her hands away, they were stained. Stained as if she had written a thousand stories using a quill and ink. “Why?” she asked, “Why did you scar me like this?” The creature shook its head, as if to say, That is not a scar. That is a badge of honor. “But I don’t know if it will ever go away. My hands could be like this forever,” she whispered. It made a sweeping gesture and lingered over her hands with what she assumed were its own. Do not worry, it seemed to say. Hands that show the proof of work and life are better than the ones that tell no stories at all.
in her kitchen. The kitchen was a modest little thing, as its main use was to simply hold food she found elsewhere. The creature took one look, was apparently unimpressed, and continued moving, this time in the direction of her home office. She continued to quietly follow while also taking the time to wonder how it knew the layout of her house. First an unearthly shadow-being appears in her closet, next it assumes to know everything about her, including her house. Once they reached the office, the creature stopped, as if it was waiting for something. She looked at it expectantly, and also somewhat impatiently, as it was growing later and later by the second and her fatigue threatened to overcome her. “Yes?” She broadly gestured, sweeping around the small room. “There’s not much here, but it’s where I work. I like my job. It pays well. I’d like to think I’m doing good work.” She looked at the creature for a few seconds more. When it still did not react, she continued.
Proof, Mixed Media, CJ McDowell
The creature broadened its shoulders. I belong to you. When she brushed her fingers against the inky shadows of its body, she expected it to be cold, icy, even. After all, the stories describe death as cold and heaven as fiery as the wrath of God. Shadows are what are normally imagined after life ends. Yet, when she touched this creature, her fingers were warmed. Warmed like the first sweat of spring, like the exhale of a
“I have no idea where you came from or why you’re here, but it honestly confounds me. When I touched you, I…” She trailed off. “It was nothing I had ever experienced. I could feel possibility and hope radiating off of you. But…” The creature turned. It seemed to say, But what? What about my shadows? The fact that the hope just seems too good to be true? The fact that there is pessimism in indulgence and taking risks? She sighed. “Exactly. I don’t know how to help you, but…” She buried her head in her hands. “I never asked for these hands, these ink-stained hands. All I ever wanted was to sleep.” She fell to her knees, knelt, and stared at the floor as tears trickled out of her eyes at long last. Her throat was tight, just as it was before. “I just want to sleep.” The creature approached silently and lowered itself to her level. And sleep you will. Just as you will help others stain their hands with ink instead of blood. She looked up, her eyes and face puffy with exhaustion. “Now?” The creature bowed its head. Now. It brushed its warm touch across her forehead, and she felt all the muscles in her body relax. A deep calm bloomed inside of her. With one last exhale of breath, she slipped away into sleep just as her body slipped away into shadow.
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Love’s Variables By Martin Michael Two plus two is four I wish it was this easy to find the one you adore I’ve been searching the coordinate plane Can’t seem to find the answers in my brain Why is it so hard to find the vertex Yet so easy for someone to become my ex Last week I learned about imaginary numbers All I could think about were my imaginary lovers My teacher tells me to solve the function All that occurs is an increased amount of emotional dysfunction As I evaluate the exponents I long for a single, intimate moment My pick-up lines are used more than the quadratic formula But they all end with a problematic orchestra of emotion Many times, I have reached high levels of devotion I get so caught up trying to find the right angle My heart goes one way and my mind the other, my thoughts entangle Occasionally I will have to find a sequence or pattern But my mind trails off until it reaches Saturn Three is the number of rings it has One is the number of rings I will never have 3.14159 I wish all the love in my heart was benign My love acts as a tumor It won’t go away so I cover it up With copious amounts of humor They say 42 is the meaning of life But my loneliness only causes me strife While my emotions start to speed up I realize I will always be a runner-up It seems as though everyone’s devotion Is enough to fill a dixie-cup Finally I think, maybe I should just give up Or go out and buy a new pup
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There I will find satisfaction I thought No! Love’s satisfaction can never be bought It takes time, and I must prove myself lovable No matter how many obstacles, nor how many variables
No Shirt,
No Shoes,
No Service
There’s a strange epidemic By CJ McDowell Of lost clothing items And it’s a mystery to how it could happen. It might make some sense, Be of less consequence And don’t leave your tunics laying around. If people lost just a cap or pen. If you’re sensible However, it’s not true, To follow this principle It’s always a shoe There will be no need to be nervous. Left on the side of the road. Hang onto your clothes, Was fuel so low For as the saying goes: That they had to let go No shirt, no shoes, no service. Of a piece of their burdensome load? What are the chances? What circumstances Could lead to this phenomenon? Were sneakers hanging out The window without Being tied, and whoosh, they were gone? Not just a shoe, But other things, too, Are found where they should not be. Someone could get hurt If they tripped on that shirt Left on the staircase, you see. It’s really not funny, It’s a waste of good money, A shame to see shirts in
Lost, Photography, CJ McDowell
lost-and-found, So try to keep Your boots on your feet
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Adrift By Safyque xRichardson I am adrift in the calm waters of the Pacific The sea is black The sky is starless The moon is new No islands stand on the horizon No fish fly from the surface I thought myself onto the ship I thought myself out to sea My thought tended the sails and let loose the anchor I ruminated into the abyss Made myself a lone ship in search of you I read the stars when they were there Judged the wind when it blew But it caught my sails at a mischievous angle And brought me to my punishment Lost at sea, my compass spins on its axis Direction mocks me I see a flash in the sky I think it the north star But it is a fallen one
Could I still find it now? I’ve done it Traveled long enough to reach the beginning of time The world feels endless North I stare into infinity, South I stare into boundless space I could make my own world out of these primordial waters Forget what I came here for Who I was chasing after Was I chasing after someone? Did I have to when I had my sweet, world right here? I forgot the anchor, the sail, the ship I forgot myself
Has the North star fallen? Have the lands bent to the sea? Has the core that centers all things lost its strength? Or have I, in my desperate search, made them invisible to me, My focus growing cross-eyed and confused, Able to make out nothing in trying to find that one thing That one thing I was ready to make my everything once I found it
Wave, Oil Pastel, CJ McDowell
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Breaking Waves By Kayla Noto The breaking waves Remind her of how her heart feels. It reminds her of how she felt When he left even though he claimed he was head over heels. She looks at the blue sky And it reminds her of the shirt she was wearing The moment he left Without even a “goodbye.” She looks at the fragile sands And it reminds her of how Her heart was In his hands. She remembers how he left Without even saying a word. She came home And all of his stuff was packed and gone.
The day before They went out for dinner. Things were okay and great They even split dessert. Now, she’s sitting here in front of these breaking waves Trying to figure out what caused all of this. Was it something she said? Or was it something she did? She sat there asking herself “Will he ever come back?” Or is this going to be A permanent thing? Just like the breaking waves Is this going to be how they end? Or will he come back And make everything okay.
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Dahlia By Brooke Branch
One day in the sweet August sunbeams As I basked in the shade of oak The sun kissed the tips of my toes And the grass cushioned my behind, I came across red dahlias An endless field of tranquility The stem- a straight shot into the sky The flower- a merry pom-pom Hair- an ever burning flame Swaying teasingly in the wind Crystal clear droplets in her eyes The sight was something to behold Something that comforts me In my everyday agony When the nights are too cold to bear I think back to that field of peace Her stem reaching up for heaven And the heat of sweet August The grass kissed by the sunbeams A song sung by only us two
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Wild Violet, Photography, Martin Michael
Bees By Gale Posey
Bees, such graceful, odd little things Covered in soft fluff and plump With tiny wings that shouldn’t let them fly They are rather adorable though Even with their sharp sting If you try and hurt them Nothing bad could come from anything related to them Right? WRONG! WASPS! Horrible little things that cause nothing but chaos and ruin your picnics! The flying jerks serve no purpose, other than eating insects and such They even rob and eat their cousins And don’t get me started when it starts to turn to fall! Their aggressive level goes beyond the stars Attacking anything in sight, including humans that would have left them be My safety has been threatened, being chased by the wee devils So, heed my words and remember: Wasps are the WORST! Run away! Scream, don’t stop! If they are in your house, burn it down! And don’t get me started on hornets! I’m serious, I’m no-...ONE IS IN HERE NO! EVERYBODY RUN AWAY!
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of the dance floor, she took quick, purposeful strides over to him. “Hello, sir,” she smiled, her natural Polish heavily accenting the German words. “Have you just come from Berlin?” “Actually,” he grinned back, “I’ve been stationed here for almost a month now. And I think I’m quite done being stationary. How about
she allow her face to drop, rolling her eyes impatiently. A wide smile like poisoned honey was placed securely back on her face by the time they jumped into the fast-paced dance, his attention back on her. She looked around the room discreetly, keeping her wandering eyes subtle enough that Gustav wouldn’t comment. “Have you heard this song before?” “I don’t believe I have, sweetheart. Why? Is it your favorite?” he asked, sounding mildly interested. “As a matter of fact it is!” she laughed. “I enjoy all the partner switching.” “The wha-” he started, but Nadia had already twirled into the arms of another German soldier, who looked more than happy to catch her. “A soldier!” she gasped, eyelashes fluttering. “How exciting! Have you just come from Berlin?” He chuckled condescendingly, “It’s a military celebration, sugar. The place is filled with soldiers.” She giggled sheepishly. “And no, I was sent through Berlin, but I’m actually from a small town called -” He was interrupted by the musical crescendo signifying the next partner switch, which Nadia immediately seized,
we move to the dance floor?” He extended a hand to her. She placed her hand in his, letting out a charmed, “Of course.” Only once he turned his head away to lead her onto the dance floor did
leaving her partner blinking rapidly in surprise. The marble floor was a dustbowl of young Polish women, all whirlwinds of movement. The partner switches rose in frequency
Berlin By Genevieve Fox
The many chandeliers glittered a dazzling gold above the heads of graceful dancers. The room shone brighter than midday, and was warmer too, with crackling fireplaces on either side. The full moon outside went unnoticed, even with its light filtering through the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up almost a whole wall of the ballroom. The moonlight was appreciated elsewhere, dim lights otherwise barely illuminating the chattering groups milling through Książ Castle’s rooms. One such miller lingered with her group only as long as she had to; when she caught the eye of a handsome young man in uniform toeing the edge
“Have you just come from Berlin? ”
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and intensity, the locals chuckling smugly at the confusion of the young German soldiers attempting the dance. “How many more of these switches are there?” Nadia’s newest partner asked, sounding exhausted as she twirled into place beside him. She chuckled, looking sympathetic. “Just a few more.” She turned to face him, and her eyes widened briefly before she smiled knowingly. “Let me guess - you’ve only just come from Berlin?” An amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his voice was casual as he replied, “Yes. The view was lovely, but the train was late.” “Oh, how annoying,” she said, her brown eyes fixed on his blue. A man tried to cut in for another partner switch, but Nadia determinedly steered herself and her partner away from him, and put an innocent look on her face. Ignoring the man too, her partner continued their conversation with a quiet, “Oh, I didn’t mind too much. As long as the trip was worth it?” “I’m certain it will be,” she paused before continuing, “How about we grab a drink?” They extracted themselves from the throng of pink-faced dancers, arm-in-arm, dodging people performing the last switch. Once both Nadia and the blond man accompanying her had a drink in their hands, they glided through the doorway. Once in a secluded hallway, they leaned against the wall to continue their conversation. “This private enough?” Nadia asked, arms crossed, smile lingering on her face. Her previously teasing tone, however, had given way to an impatient one. She resisted the urge to tap her foot on the floor. The man’s voice also contradicted the soft look on his face. ‘Klaus’
said, annoyed, “We must continue to follow the standard procedure, and standard procedure dictates we wait -” “And I say I’m done with waiting!” she hissed back. “I’ve been sitting on this file for too long, it needs to be passed on.” “You don’t have the authority to make those kinds of demands,” he said angrily, voice slipping back into its natural British accent for just a moment. “Careful!” she said in a singsong voice, glancing around surreptitiously. “Believe me, though, this file is worth the trouble.” The two put their arms around each other. To an outsider, it would look like a couple’s embrace, but in reality, Nadia was slipping a file into Klaus’s jacket. They pulled back slightly, but Nadia kept her arms around him, pressing her forehead against his. Klaus’s ears pinked in surprise. “They’re going to start tearing this place down, you know,” she said quietly. “Bring down some walls… ‘renovate’ it.” Her words were tinged with bitterness. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He knew it wasn’t really just the destruction of the castle she cared about. He knew she had had a family that had been taken away with all the other Jewish people in her neighborhood. He knew about the guilt and duty she felt after her escape that pushed her into the war effort. She used to tell him these things, before Nadia cleared her throat, drawing back from him and bringing his mind forcibly to the present. “Well, the party’s not over yet. And there’s still one more thing you need to see before you go.” Just then, a man turned the corner, a red haired woman with him. “Oh!” he said, startled. “We can, uh, go somewhere else.”
“Please, we were just leaving,” Klaus assured him with a gracious smile. He allowed Nadia to lead him out of the secluded hallway, away from the rooms designated for the party. Nadia popped open an unassuming door with a key she pulled out of the carefully arranged bun in her hair. Inside the dark room was a staircase. Ignoring Klaus’s panicked whispers for her to stop, Nadia hiked up the skirt of her dress and began to hurry down. “Can’t you just wait for one second -” Klaus abruptly cut himself off when he stumbled to a stop in the tunnel they found themselves in. “Is that...what I think it is?” “Hey! Who’s down here?” A man’s rough voice boomed out of the dimly lit passage, his form just a silhouette. Nadia shoved Klaus with surprising strength back toward the staircase. “He can’t see you from there. Get the file out of here!” she said harshly. Klaus reached out to grab her, opening his mouth in protest, but she ducked out of his reach, toward the voice, undoubtedly to hold him off. He cursed under his breath, knowing the information was too important to compromise. Reluctantly, he ran back up the stairs. Meanwhile, Nadia had reached the burly man. “Excuse me,” she said innocently, looking around. “I think I saw my boyfriend run down here earlier. Have you seen him?” The man did not look convinced. He rolled his shoulders, bringing her attention to the weapon on his shoulder. “Not just anybody can wander down. Want to try again?” Picking up a rusty metal pipe she had spotted on the ground, Nadia smiled. “Gladly.”
Ballroom, Acrylic, CJ McDowell
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Intoxicated Nightmare By Sydney Ridenour Wake up, I tell myself Sadly this isn’t a dream You’re passed out on the recliner Glass flasks scattered Luster in the eyes lost Alive still, just barely there It took all of you Left you a hollow shell I’m sorry I wasn’t better You’re sorry you love it more I didn’t know it was happening Until it was too late.
Blue Zoo, Photography, Martin Michael
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Jack
By Matt Bolvari All screams and no smiles makes Jack a sad boy. At least, that’s what we think, but why do we care? We don’t. He’s just a lunatic, he needs to be put in line, That lady’s trying to help him, I think she’s wasting her time. We set them up to fall, and laugh at them when they do What’s the difference between me and you? Everything, every little thing is different, But is it? Making change is important! “Let’s all help the lunatics,” they say! A couple months will pass and everyone will forget. What do you suggest? Do you even know? Do you even care? We fear them, we forget them, we don’t care. All these thoughts leave my mind sore; Cut their medication in half, or maybe give them more.
The solution is there, but no one even tries to be fair. The truth is, I don’t even care. Do what you want, it won’t affect me anyway. Dead or alive, it has me feeling relatively the same way. Sure it’s sad, but I didn’t even know him, Nor did I want to There’s a disconnect between him and society. What makes him tick makes another man happy It’s sick, but a tragedy, Real, but a crime, you see. It’s time for me, It’s time for you to re-do What you’ve always done, Try, but it won’t be fun To be nice for once.
Don’t treat them like your property, They aren’t your little wind up toy. Internal screams and some smiles make Jack a content boy.
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The Land By Elisia Lewis The Land was old and wise She had watched the cycle of birth and death occur billions of times She had seen species flourish then die It was all natural in the presence of time But she had never witnessed a species conquer like they did When they evolved, she was proud They used their hands to build, creating tools for their survival They gained knowledge and had complex thoughts They realized that they could use The Land to advance When they cultivated her, she was joyous They grew crops from her and sold her fruits at their markets They took what she could provide and nurtured her in return They made her the center of their culture When they divided her by borders, she was confused They had their differences and could not get along They waged wars that left blood spilling into her soil They formed their own countries with their own cultures
Rooted in Our Groups, Photography, Martin Michael
When they cut the trees, she was frightened They tore into their bark with terrible screaming machines They felled the ancient wood to build their grand homes They took more than they gave, and they weakened her
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When they killed the animals, she was appalled They no longer killed for food, but for convenience They saw her beautiful creatures as a nuisance They stole away their homes and left them to the harsh elements When the greedy men came, she was angry They promised money for her to make their homes They gave her no choice in the matter and cut away her freedom They made her a product to be bought and sold She could not see the beauty in them anymore Rage flowed through her like the rivers that once existed She could not find her forest friends, for there were no more forests She lay bare, naked, but for millions of homes cluttering her loveliness They poured hot black goo upon her for their moving steel contraptions They blew up her mountains and left the toxic remains to seep into her waters They polluted her air, suffocating her and their own children They turned her into a monster and blamed her for their own problems
But she had no strength to fight the invasion They had ripped away her will to do so She longed to visit the places where the soil was fertile and the air clean But each time she tried to escape their wicked ways, she was trapped by another’s greed She laid back down against the hardened concrete The Land was old and wise, And resignation washed over her She had watched the cycle of birth and death occur billions of times, And her time had come.
Willow By Crystal Huynh
Do you see, standing by the river, the willow tree, whose muddy leaves quiver? He who slouches, bound by perpetual life, burdened by internal, roaring strife.
After time she would go, trudging home through the meadows. Sorrow drowning her soul, she would never feel whole.
On one dying autumn day, there was a maiden who was led astray. Her teardrops rivaled the river and her sobs racked her with shivers.
Under the moon the willow may finally rest, by the roaring river, he stands depressed. He misses his youthful green days, when he thrived under the sun’s beaming rays.
She felt listless and betrayed, for her prince was a renegade. He had fooled her for years; it was only now becoming clear.
Once more she appears, leaving behind her peers. In her was no hope; her fingers tightly held a rope.
Every dawn she lay under the willow, closing her eyes beneath the moon’s glow, ignorant of the tree’s wailing, “Get off, get off! I’ll do anything!”
Do you see, standing by the river, the gallow tree, where a dead maiden shivers? He who slouches, bound by eternal death, burdened by a thousandfold of last breaths.
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The ‘Weg’ to Your ‘Man’ By Alejandro Molina Working at a regional food market like Wegmans is always a good time. It really is the best food market on the East Coast, filled with the best employees, the best work ethic, and the best customers. “Hey, how are ya?” I said to the next woman in line at my register as I followed our customer service acronym ‘A-L-O-T’, which stands for Acknowledge, Listen, Offer, Thank. “Yeah, hi…” said the customer. “Did you find everything you
to a long black pole that led to the register light with the number 15 on it and flipped it up. The blinking register light would notify any nearby supervisors to come and give me assistance with the customer. I continued scanning her groceries as we waited for someone to show up for a little while because there were lights blinking down the whole line of registers. Sharon, one of the supervisors on the Front End, finally came to the rescue.
“‘No, I didn’t, actually,’ she said
were looking for today?” I asked politely. “No, I didn’t, actually,” she said as she gave me the sassiest attitude. “I couldn’t seem to find your eggnog anywhere.” I had no idea what to say to this customer. She already seemed to be a little put off, and I didn’t want to say anything that would set her off even more. “Oh… I’m so sorry about that.” I fidgeted with her graham crackers and marshmallows, just trying to figure out what I could do in this situation. “Let me see if I can get someone to find that eggnog for you.” I reached for a tiny metal light switch attached
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“
as she gave me the sassiest attitude. ‘I couldn’t seem to find your eggnog anywhere.’
“Hey, sweetie, what’s going on?” Sharon is seriously one of the sweetest people at our store, I thought to myself “Miss Sharon, this nice lady here had a question about- eggnog, was it?” The customer and I had waited for someone to come for what felt like… a really long time, and I had already finished scanning her groceries. “Yeah, hi, I’m just shocked that your eggnog was nowhere to be found!” The woman still seemed a little agitated. “Oh, right, right, so Wegmans is looking at creating a new recipe that’ll-” Sharon was cut off.
“Well, of course one would assume that, as it is the holiday season, your Wegmans eggnog would be in by now!” The customer was really starting to get heated. “I understand, ma’am. Wegmans received comments and suggestions from many of our customers to be able to improve our eggnog for next year. So, the company decided to take some time to improve on our family recipe so that-” Sharon also turned out to be one of the most patient people I know. “Well, I already found your eggnog quite satisfying before, so I don’t know why you decided to discontinue it this year.” Sharon just told the woman like it is. “Well, miss, if you’d like to take that up with corporate, then you are more than welcome to because there’s really nothing that we can do down here at the store level, and we deeply apologize for the inconvenience.” And with that, the receipt tape rolled out and the woman took her business elsewhere (of course, she would soon realize that Wegmans’ customer service is incomparable). Sharon always talked to me about how a lot of the customers at our store are just those average consumers, but there are some customers who are just so snobby and stuck up that they feel they’re entitled to anything and everything and that sometimes it’s just better to not pay too much attention to them. “Oh, don’t take that too seriously, dear. Any other customer would’ve taken our excuse, that woman was just having a lousy day. I’m just going to go ahead and turn your light off
jammed traffic flow of carts filled to the brim with common grocery items as well as classic Christmas dinner delights. Five minutes of my lunch break were gone, wasted by wandering all over the store looking for the Wegmans, while also being stopped by other wandering customers asking for our eggnog (they were not rude like the last lady, and I was as nice as can be). I looped back around to the hot food bar where, at last, there they were! Danny Wegman and his two daughters were over by the bakery, speaking to the bakery manager about the new Churro Donuts. I acted as if I wasn’t looking, though. Instead of watching them, I circled the hot food bar acting like I was looking for
hand reaching out to greet him. “Well, hi there,” Danny greeted me with a hand shake also, “And you are?” “I’m Jacob, sir,” I said looking down and pointing at my name tag, “A pleasure to meet you.” “What department do you work in, son?” Danny asked. “I’m working on the Front Endon the registers, sir.” I stuttered a little bit. “Ah, yes, you all up there have it the hardest this time of year,” He spoke the truth. The holiday season is always the hardest, dealing with stressed and rushed customers and crazy amounts of groceries. “I actually witnessed you dealing with one lady when I was getting a little overview of the store.” Of course he saw me with that customer, and he was probably about to tell me how horribly I handled the situation. “And I really want to applaud you for how you handled her. See, everyone is always a little stressed and all over the place during the holidays, and the way you and Sharon kept your cool was really quite impressive.” “Oh wow, well, I don’t know what to say.” I was speechless, at a loss for words. “No need. I just really want to thank you for all the good work you
“ I acted as if I wasn’t looking, though. Instead
of watching them, I circled the hot food bar acting like I was looking for something to eat.
ecstatically. “No way!” I’d never met the family before, and I had always wanted to at least be in their presence. “I have to go meet these people!” I speed walked through the registers and produce department, dodging the
something to eat. I managed to gain courage to go up and at least ask to shake the hand of Danny Wegman. I did a little hair flip, wiped my sweaty hands, and tried to look presentable. “Mr. Danny Wegman, how are you?” I approached Danny with my
“
because it’s time for your lunch.” I gathered my phone and keys from the drawer below the register, and my jacket and bottled water from a bin behind me below a counter. I went over to a tiny machine attached to the wall next to a table filled with mini snacks and bottled water for the employees to punch out for lunch. I punched out and walked down the row of 27 registers to make my way to the Café area to pick up some lunch. While making my way over there, I ran into my mother, who was a veteran of 12 years working at this Wegmans. “Hey hey, did you hear?” asked my mom. “Hear about what?” I was intrigued. “The Wegmans are here visiting for the holidays!” She said
do… Jacob!” I was so flattered. My interaction with Danny was so memorable and one that would stay with me for Christmases to come. Grocery Tree, Watercolor, CJ McDowell
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What She Sees and
What I See By Grace Hermanson
She looks into a mirror, And all she can see is the bad. She’s too tall, too curvy, Her nose too big for her face, Her eyes too far apart, Her lips are too big and there are far too many freckles. When I look at her, I see Her height could make a basketball player, Her curves could make a model, How much she can see through her perfect eyes, How her lips turn into the most wonderful smile, And how her freckles make her seem so sweet.
She looks into a mirror, To find what she can change; If she could have one wish, It would be to change her eyes. When I look at her, I see Her fiery spirit with a wicked bite, Clearly shining through those bright blue gleaming stars, The one that can be buried with a smile, But risen with a single shout. She looks into a mirror, To find her many flaws. She wants to change her spirit, The one that always pick a fight, If only it would disappear. When I look at her I see, The many she could inspire, If only she got a chance, To ignite that light that never seems to fade. She looks into a mirror, In hopes of seeing something right, But all she can see is wrong. She wishes she could change Everything about herself. When I look at her I see The perfection that radiates from her pores, To me she is perfect at everything she does, And if I could have one wish, It would be to let her see what I see.
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Her Reflection, Photography, Lissie Darko
Dissecting Perfection By Rebecca Bunner
Street lights emit bright streaks As I prance past the cold avenue As my heart skips tiny beats As crackling fires lose heat These streets that lead to jeweled fields It’s not a pleasant sight The silhouette that stands meek Behind the sheer and thin sheet I am not an expression of beauty I am not a girl’s rose collection I am defenseless, but strong I am dull, but a song I am a lost ember I am a stringed line of shattered glass I am a flourished spring bud
Who is this dreadful being? Who craves love Yet hides in fear of self pride and raging wars Who finds a fight in a time of peace Who stands on hill tops Watching the stars jump through Hoops like dog shows Who loses her passion As she does the elegant Rubies Who has power and knowledge But who stands in front of the mirror With a hate for what she sees in it Who am I now?
I am the faint, luminous glow That danced atop lakes of rust I am a girl of woe, torn at the seams I ask for no form of pity I’m no jester who bows at a king’s cries I was once a treasure A map of unsolved, inked page marks What have I stooped to? This isn’t what I wished for A life of cracked sidewalks And paths with no clear end I would pray to start over To restore the person of poise I have now lost in the noise
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I Wish By Cameron Johnson
I wish to live in my own little world that can glow Let my mind wander wherever it wants to go I wish to have my own soundtrack that plays So I can walk through every door with a beat for the rest of my days I wish that I could’ve kept each and every shoe All the marks and dirt had all the stories to view I wish for a mask to cover my face So I had an identity to make or erase I wish life didn’t go by so fast I wish I didn’t only remember the sad parts of my past I wish my friends and I weren’t made of glass Because it’s so easy for us to crash I wish that there was a way to look into tomorrow Where I didn’t spoil the fun, but foresaw and avoided the sorrow I wish I wasn’t stuck walking in a straight line The people are glass and this face is still mine Nothing ever glows, and there’s no song With brand new shoes and no sight of the wrong Where I can only remember the sad things that still cling Where the trees are cut down and the birds don’t sing I may sound ungrateful, but look around Everything’s quiet, but nothing is sound Everything’s silent, except for your mind Which is chalk-full of wishes, you will find.
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De Aestu By Sophia Tiller
In a million lifetimes With thousands of faces Hundreds of emotions Ten true loves, true passions With all the wisdom of the universe at my fingertips I could never understand How people could simply Sit on the shore, Look to the ocean, And find nothing within them other than “That’s pretty.” For how could one possibly Not dash into the waves Not ecstatically gasp for breath as they fight the tides Not live to watch themselves drown and rise again Not listen to their hearts command them to surge upward and scream to the sky Not feel moved to look over the vast blue Which bears life and brings death Which pushes us toward and away from the light Which holds every living thing in its massive arms And not stare off at the horizon Feeling that for one, golden moment They’ve conquered the world.
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Heaven is a Concert, But Hell is the Opener By Ashley Donohoe Death came naturally to me. Following the ebb and flow of time, the dimwitted body encompassing my soul faced total depletion, with all life seeping out of it. About time. I look around me. I’m alone, staring at an empty stage. It frowns at me, its eyes hollow. The room itself seems to share the stage’s general depressive attitude. Barren. Unfulfilled. I start to grow annoyed. Am I seriously left in the afterlife wallowing with an unused stage and a destitute moshpit? As if listening to my metaphorical thoughts (Can someone without a brain truly be thinking… or listening?), a fluorescent light flicks on behind the stage. It illuminates a set complete with drums, a keyboard, and a centered microphone that was previously hidden under that shadowy blanket of despair. I see the stage stand up a little straighter after being stripped of the old weight it was forced to burden, as if the sad blanket was woven with steel rather than wool. In gold lettering, “God and the Angelic Remainders” twinkles on the screen behind the stage. I feel my breath catch in my throat. “I’ve made it,” I whisper, knuckles grasping onto the railing separating me from the
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stage. From heaven. It makes sense; I’ve always loved music. People begin filling the venue, presumably to keep me company as I bask in my paradise. One by one they file behind me, creating a mounting pressure on my back. I just smile. In a moment, this conglomerate of limbs will transform into a pillow supporting me in my eternal peace. I’ll just have to be patient.
One repulsive to look at for extended periods of time. In shoddy penmanship, “Devilish Dance” is displayed on the screen. The red LED’s revealed another part of the set: a DJ booth. This ought to be a riot. Two men walk out onto the stage, and one of them is clearly the lead. His intimidating physique. A plastered smile. Lightning behind his eyes. Of course he gravitates towards the microphone. “Hello, afterlife! How are we doing tonight?” he roars, his mouth clearly too close to the mic. Even with the crowd chanting behind me, I’m acutely aware of his hot breath
“ ‘Hello, afterlife! How are we doing tonight?’ he roars, his mouth clearly too close to the mic. ” As I continue to cope with the random jabs into my shoulder blade, the lights dim. Unable to contain my unencumbered excitement, I turn to the woman next to me. “Don’t be surprised if I faint when I see God.” “Well, you got a while to go, baby,” she mocks, the stench of cigarettes oozing from her speech. “We still gotta get through this opener.” Turning back to the stage, I see the previously radiating band logo has been snatched away, only to be replaced by a new design.
Joywave, Photography, Ashley Donohoe
sending static through all of the speakers. “If you don’t know me, I’m your boy Satan, infamous for condemning all of humanity to eternal suffering by manipulating a woman to eat one of my sweet, sweet apples. What can I say, though? She was practically begging for it by the time I got there! Everyone knows God wasn’t giving her anything nice.” I’m appalled to hear the room
share a bout of healthy laughter. “Now, you guys may be wondering who’s here with me! Kicked out of God and the Angelic Remainders, we can truly say he’s a devil on that play button, it’s Semyaza!” The boy gives a sheepish grin, decaying wings twitching as he showcases them to the crowd. “Well, what’s worse than an act that spends too long talking?” Satan jokes, staring straight into my eyes. As soon as the words are flung at me, I become aware of just how unbelievably long this introduction has been. Not to mention the act this nonsense is holding up! Although I show no visible signs of complete antagonistic hatred towards Satan, the man seems to present a whisper of a smile to me. A smile that is sketched in pencil, but not inked and colored in. “Get ready folks, you’re gonna be here for quite a while.” Semyaza, waiting for the cue, puts on a pair of Beats headphones, and presses play on a MacBook. Cheering. Dubstep. Beat drop. More cheering. Time begins to disintegrate around me. Nothing feels tangible. The blisters on my heels seem to dissolve into a general sense of pain infiltrating the air. The heat of hundreds of bodies is added to the mix. The faint smell of nicotine and Four Lokos adds to the undefinable aroma. It has the exact same weight as pure misery. I look down for a watch. There isn’t one.
Another beat drop. I turn sideways to the stage, looking for anyone or anything to capture my attention. Something distracting. Instead, I see a mass of unanimous mediocrity. Just a sea of blandness pouring themselves into the eternal satisfaction of forgetting their existence. Or, since we’re dead, nonexistence. Even if that means listening to Satan attempt to make music. Then, someone captures my eye. Someone who looks equally dissatisfied with the absolutely horrible performance the rest of the crowd is eating up. He’s wearing a worn, green bomber jacket. I like bomber jackets. I try to shuffle through the audience, attempting to voice a polite, “Excuse me,” as I struggle past. I look down at the floor to see where I can place my next step. I look up at the jacket. I take a step. I look at the floor. I look at the jacket. I step. Floor. Jacket. Step. Floor. Jacket. Step. I look at the stage. It doesn’t even seem like I’ve moved. Exasperated, I let out a huff. I look back at the boy with the jacket, who’s still staring at the stage discontentedly. I’m not sure how I can see
the apathy in his eyes without ever looking at them, but the way his gaze seems to lazily flutter around the stage is familiar. It’s like mine. Or, I think it is. I hope it is. Rejuvenated, I try pushing through again. “Excuse me!” I yell. The beat gets louder. “Excuse me!” I yell, again. The beat gets louder. “Excuse me!” I couldn’t even hear myself that time. God, it’s like I’m in Hell. A sense of dread washes over me. It moves into my stomach, settling further and further. I turn back to the stage, aware that I seem to be in the exact same spot as all those minutes before I had attempted moving. With tears in my eyes, I look back to the boy. He has brown eyes. They’re calling to me. Like they’re feeding off of my despair. Like they want to be close to it. I rip my glance away, this time making eye contact with Satan. “Why?” I manage to say, tears still clawing down my cheeks. “Welcome to Hell, baby.” He smiles.
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Not Alone By Lindsey Burdick
Slowly walking up the hill, To where the tree stood still. I go to this place to be alone, I didn’t know I wasn’t the only one. For when I reached the top, There was another set of footprints. In the freshly laid snow stood another like me. Your hair blew in the slight breeze And your cheeks turned red as you breathed. You stood there like a statue, never daring to move. I took a step forward and looked for a reaction. You stared at my feet before repeating my action. One step each, back and forth, Until only the tree stood between us. We didn’t say anything as we sat against the tree To look at the ground and feel the snow below. As I ran my hand through the snow, I looked at your face to see what it would show. You watched the snow fall with a small smile. Your eyelashes were sprinkled with snow And your eyes gleamed in the shining light. “I came here to be alone today But I guess Christmas is full of surprises.” Your eyes focused on me as you spoke. Your voice was soft and smooth And your gaze never wavered.
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“I guess we’re both the same. I came here to escape but I guess That I had a different fate” We both just looked at each other, Both enjoying the company of the other. Before we parted that winter day, We carved our names in the tree with a saying, “If you feel like you should run, run to this place. Here you’ll find you will never be alone. Because on this day, this tree was blessed. Here the gift of being found, by another like you, Was made.” And the next day when I returned, I smiled as I saw the billowing hair and shining eyes Of the owner of the other set of footprints, In the freshly laid snow below.
Winter Morning, Watercolor, CJ McDowell
Be the Change By Claire Marche
You have a power that no one dares to speak of The name is one that no single person can fathom Fear not, as long as you avoid his steely eyes In the light of day, one will not find him His absence makes sense if you know his kind Do not question a thing, it’s only a waste of time If you inquire too much, he will see you Keep your head down Patience is your only virtue Time will secure the fate of the future Existence requires belief He will be there, but he will not be seen Trust your instincts, they live for a reason Whether or not you are accused of treason Orders are never followed by all Ashes to ashes Dust to dust Honor is honor Be the one to make a change It’s all in your hands Speak now or forever hold your peace He is coming and he will not stop You’ve got to be prepared Do what you must
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Just Peachy By Claudia Dominguez
If you ask me how I am, I’ll say, “just peachy” With a soft smile, No fear in my eyes. Sitting up and straight, With my head held high, Peach glows on my skin And shows you I’m fine. What’s on the inside? A solid, hardened Peach pit of grief,
Filled with the joy Of others Instead of My own joy. The scary truth Is that the ones who Do not think of Themselves end up the most Bruised and not Just peachy.
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Colored Skies By KJ McDermott
Something comes into shape but it’s only a cloud, It’s highlighted with an angel’s white wing. Gone is the darkness and its shroud. The world awakes while the sky turns on; It appears to be the end of dawn. Everything is silent, then boom! There’s light: It’s small, it’s green, it’s incredibly quick, Then it changes to a brand new sight. The bird’s chirps echo through the skies, And water glimmers with the start of sunrise. Now it’s bright, the light is blinding, The water’s shimmering and the flowers bloom, The streets are crowded and tales are unwinding. It’s slightly crazed, and it’s safe to say, It’s plain and clear that it’s now day. The clouds turn yellow and the sky is gold shaded. Beaches and high places start to grow crowded, Then the click! when photographers are bated. With praise, all these photos are going to be showered Thanks to something called the Golden Hour.
The sky becomes an array of purple and yellow and blue, People leave their work and return to their homes, And finish the things they still need to do. They send out their son to see the girl he has met, And then they are ready for the time of sunset. Everything is sprayed with a dark blue paint, And the last of the light is fading, It’s harder to see now because everything is faint. The world is a lady, and she is brusque, Exactly like the change of dusk. Street lamps are lit and neon lights glow As people start crowding the clubs, Stars can’t be seen but don’t fret - the moon is still very low. It’s in the shape of a crescent and shines a bright white, Signifying the start of the night. It’s just as black as an unlucky cat now, You can’t see your hand in front of your face, But you can still move somehow. At three am there might be a fright, But that’s just what comes when it is midnight.
Baby’s Breath, Photography, CJ McDowell
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1144
By Clara Kardash
Bright brick walls, Square wooden chairs, And a linoleum tile floor A whole lot of computers, And a little too much white board space A big back wall with some sort of display Whether it be non-denominational holiday decor, Memes, or a yearbook race The booming voice of a passionate teacher Often laughter, but sometimes tears The ding of a microwave, or the fragrance of tea The sharp smell of ink and paper Student’s work from over the years Donated, and therefore inconsistently themed, Furniture spread about the room A smart board displaying a joyful toddler of around two And every so often a quote, to do list, or the news A tall and bearded, yet bald, man Who one can only assume that toddler belongs to This is what room 1144 looks like To those who don’t know it But for the students of 1144, The scene is painted a bit differently Students of a few months, students of a few years, tudents who are no longer students but were for a bit Every student of the journalism/creative writing room Knows it much better Whether or whether not willfully
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Books and More Books, Photography, CJ McDowell
Bricks individualized by colleges That past students have moved on to, Now leave nothing but their mark A sea of unassigned - yet still assigned - computers A white board that needs more space for personalized notes An ugly, yet nostalgic poster about how to build a story arc Walls that carry memories of inside jokes and strange quotes Smells of butter from the microwave, Tea from the keurig, Teacher’s coffee cold brew And the sounds of our beautiful, bald man His words of wisdom, frustration, and sarcasm Shout out to you, B-Dog, there’s no one to thank but you For the curation of new ideas, Relating to our peers, And the never ending advice and enthusiasm Some students may remember When the kid pictured on the smart board Was instead just a dog named Woodrow Often as high schooler’s, our time Feels like it’s not moving fast enough But it’s my senior year, it feels like it’s been a week, And there’s already snow! I think sometimes we all forget, That without 1144, life would be pretty rough
The Familiar is New By Colin Stuart
Dive inside fiction, The home of myth and magic, Where evil beasts called dragons fly. Some genius set the standard, And everything is the same. Elves: pristine, graceful snobs, Dwarves: alcoholic, and orcs, Emotionless, bloodthirsty savages. Nothing is new. Take your nose out of the book, Raise it to the screen. Here people tell stories, With plot and character design, Craft their view of the world, And open the story to our eyes. Look at the most profitable, Either remakes or chapters, Of a story written before. With Marvel and DC, What haven’t the comics explored? What Disney story ends in gloom? Japanese animation, A style bathed in stereotypes And remade, Eastern stories. Why is nothing new? The numerous games of code That populate the internet. The number of genres available: RPGs, and horror games, Survival and shooter games, From first to third, Battle arenas and platformers. But, the greatest difference is assets, Mechanics are the same. Feed and hydrate yourself, Get to the next place, Kill or be killed. One game grabs fame, And watch as copies are born, And watch as the same tale is told, Over and over and over again. Why is originality so hard to find? Creativity flowers, yet originality does not. Why is nothing new?
Dreams, Photography, CJ McDowell
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A Little Less Lonely By Caroline Petty-Kane
She stared at the cobblestone street below her feet as she strolled down Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The grey stone reflected the early evening sunlight, as well as the few stores that started turning their lights on for the night. Thankfully, the famous road wasn’t too crowded due to the frigid, early February weather. There was even snow in the forecast for later in the week. Unfortunately, Sharon didn’t know that because she couldn’t understand any of the news. She was very American, and this caused a couple issues during her
sorts of decadent treats; Mille-filles, madeleines, tartes, brioche, and they all smelled amazing. Still, her heart was set on a croissant and a latte. She was about to go to the counter to order, but she hesitated. She racked her brain as she desperately tried to remember how to order in French. Suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Avons-vous besoin d’aide?” A man about her age said incredibly fast. “What? I- uh, je ne parler... uh... French,” she responded in terrible,
“‘Oh,’ he said with a smile, ‘because “
I wanted to. You know, you are very pretty. Your name?
solo trip. She struggled with trains, restaurants, hotels, and anything else someone can imagine. Since she was such an obvious tourist, it was easy for anyone to scam her. That’s probably why her son didn’t want her to go to France alone at 76. Her children were grown and had their own children who were starting to be grown. She spent too much time alone in her home, so Sharon left. That’s how she ended up underdressed in Paris, still alone, but somehow less lonely. Sharon continued to meander down the streets until she saw a coffee shop. Naturally, drinking coffee and eating a real croissant were on her bucket list. She popped into the small, mostly empty shop and walked over to the case of pastries. It was full of all
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nonsensical, semi-French. “Ah, you are American, yes?” he had a thick accent and a white mustache. “You speak English! I am American, yes. Is there any way you can help me?” She tried to speak slowly because it was obvious he barely understood her. “Uh.. yes,” was all he managed to say. “Well, I can’t order in French, and I would really like a croissant and some coffee. If you order I’ll pay for both of us.” “Ah, okay, yes.” He then went right up to the counter and spoke to the lady working. For some reason, he took out his wallet and gave her 15 euros. “Why did you do that? I was supposed to pay,” huffed Sharon
indignantly. “Quoi? Ah, non, what did you say?” “Why did you pay?” she said very slowly. “Oh,” he said with a smile, “because I wanted to. You know, you are very pretty. Your name?” Sharon blushed a brighter red than the French flag itself. No one had called her pretty since her husband died two years ago. “I’m Sharon, you?” “Alain. Would you like to..uh...” he searched for the words, but came up blank. “I would love to sit with you, Alain.” she tried to say his name with the same accent he did but failed miserably. The pair sat in the corner with their coffee and pastries and began to chat. It wasn’t exactly easy because the overlap of words they both understood was so slim. Still, they managed to find stuff to talk about for nearly two hours. She talked about her kids, and he understood some of it. He didn’t have any kids, but he did have a small dog named Gabi. Eventually, the rain slowed down and the sun had just about set. They’re shoulders sagged with exhaustion and the pair knew it was time to get going. “Well, Alain, it was very nice talking to you.” “Yes, you too. How long are you here?” “Another week or so.” “Oh, not long at all, ma cherie.” She blushed brightly again at his flirting. “Sadly it’s a short trip, un petit voyage,” she giggled at her own attempt to be cute. “The worst kind.” He smiled before continuing, “Well, hopefully we will bump into another again.” “If you’re lucky.” She gave him a wink and walked out into the bitter cold. Her trip continued to be cold,
but it was also nice. Nothing quite as exciting happened at the Notre Dame or Le Louvre. She wandered around without any real plan. Traveling without her entire family was certainly easier, but she kept catching herself turning around to say something and finding no one there. On her last full day in Paris, she knew she had to see the Eiffel Tower. She knew it would be prettier at night when it was all lit up, so all there was to do was wait. Around five o’clock , the sun began its descent, and Sharon took that as a sign to start getting ready. For her own enjoyment, she got all dolled up. She put curlers in her hair, blush on her cheeks, and even new perfume on her wrists. When she finished getting ready, she headed out. The Tower was a few streets over, which felt like too far of a walk in a cold, dark city. The front desk called her a cab, and she was on her way. They arrived quickly, and Sharon was in awe. The giant thing was gorgeous at night with every inch of it sparkling. She paid the driver and got out excitedly. Getting to the first platform was easy. It wasn’t too high up, and neither was the second one. The top is what scared her. She was in line waiting to get on the elevator, and just when it was her turn she stepped out of line. “Madame! Uhh... Sharon!” someone shouted at her. “Hello?” She looked for a familiar face but couldn’t find one in the crowd. “Sharon.” In the most unexpected twist of events, it was Alain. “Oh my, Alain, what are you doing here?” “It is beautiful, no? I love to see sometimes. Would you like to go see the city from the best view?” His accent was as strong as she remembered, but he seemed more handsome at night. She was terrified
of the height, but she was also 76 years old. What did it matter? “Sure.” He grabbed her hand, and the pair walked towards the elevator.
Before they got on, he leaned in towards her ear and whispered, “You look gorgeous tonight.”
Untitled, Mixed Media, Keisha Burgonio
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Colophon All art and writing published in this year’s magazine was provided by the Battlefield High School’s creative writing program and other contributing artists. Due to the interuption to the school year as a result of COVID-19, Vox Populi 2020 is the first in Battlefield history to be distributed completely digitally. Prepress tasks were completed entirely by the Vox Populi staff, using Adobe InDesign 2020 and Adobe Photoshop 2020. Body text, by lines, and pulled quotes are set in Garamond. Headlines are set in Modern No. 20, Vladimir Script, and Leelawadee UI Semilight.
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Voice of the People
2020