Signature 2019 by The Lovett School

Signature 2019

a note from the editors

The Signature is unique in that it is completely student-run; everything from the works submitted to the editing of the magazine itself is done by students. Thus, The Signature is positioned to capture the state of student’s minds, which they pour out through their art. This year’s edition, just like any other year’s edition, shows that teenagers are our future; this is so cliché that it almost goes without saying. However, we noticed that this year’s submissions were a little different from previous years. In addition to the future, the art that Lovett students produced shows that we’ve got the past, the present, alternate dimensions, and most of all, the environment on our collective conscience. This issue begins with pieces that focus on different interpretations of the past. Touching on religion, gender, and the line between fact and fiction, this section illustrates that the complex world of today came from a multi-faceted, sometimes unclear yesterday. The pieces then shift focus to the present. This section highlights personal relationships between friends and family and within ourselves. The darker sides of human nature are put in the spotlight. Next, this issue takes on the future. These pieces show a sleek world in which social issues that plague us today have been addressed in one way or another. Afterwards, we take a journey into alternate reality, where imagination and emotion run wild. These pieces leave the mundane behind in order to explore beyond the bounds of the known world. Finally, we come to a section that encompasses all of the above: the biosphere. The world that we’ve inherited, that we currently inhabit, and that we will leave to our children has reached a criticial moment. Climate change threatens the way of life of every being on the planet, and students have taken notice. Through their art, they show the effects of climate change on our world, causing us to ponder what kind of future we want to create and what solutions we have yet to try. Our past, present, and all possibilities for the future are shaped by climate change. These artists have taken a stand; will you stand with them? The Signature would not have been possible without the help and guidance of Ms. Walter and Mr. May-Beaver. We would also like to thank all the artists who submitted their work as well as all the fine arts teachers who encourage students to express themselves. Lastly, we thank you, the reader, for taking an interest in Lovett’s fine arts. Without further ado, we present 2019’s The Signature. Enjoy!

– The Editors: Kendall Greene, Sarah Packman, Jenny Chen, and Stewart Hammond

highlighted artist Zelle Westfall

Zelle Westfall (Lovett Class of 2019) is an artistic leader not only at Lovett but within the Atlanta arts community. As Zelle has tapped into her creativity and original style, young artists across the city are now able to recognize her bright and thoughtful images from their Instagram explore pages or photo shoots she has done with their friends. Now, she is recognized internationally as Sony’s Youth Photographer of the Year with one of her photographs on display in London. The photo is the cover of this year’s publication. Zelle has built her own in-home studio where she photographs all people she finds interesting and beautiful. Shot through a lens of youthful wizardry, the beauty that she highlights is eccentric and playful. Zelle is an inspiration to students learning how to tap into their potential and the work that they are passionate about. Her contributions to Lovett fine arts will be deeply missed, but we are excited for the content she’ll produce in the future!

the past.

2 CATHERINE SHERLING

LILY PURICELLI

AAYUSH DIXIT

PALMER KING

CAROLINE ANDROS

HALEY ZOELLICK

MEGAN KAHRS 12

The Iron

By Sarah Followill It wouldn’t stop glaring at her from the corner. The demon sat there, its long tail wrapped around itself, steam still escaping its mouth. The iron’s teardrop-shaped face matched elements of her own so often nowadays that looking at it was almost like looking into a mirror. It was making her claustrophobic, sitting there with all new appliances closing in on her like a chrome-finished python. Shiny new refrigerator, shiny new washing machine, shiny new iron, shiny new husband. That damned husband- err, damned iron of hers. Well, the two were rather alike, anyhow, both constantly expelling angry steam and causing her harm if she wasn’t careful. So she was careful. This new marriage was like looking out a window at a stunning view, then being shoved through said window and walking on the broken glass. He seemed lovely at first, but now any misstep would result in injury. She was trapped. By this marriage and the shiny new appliances that came with it, waiting expectantly for her to fulfill her role as their wielder. The twenties were a time of excitement. Flappers danced, jazz blared, and parties blazed on through all hours of the night. But she did not partake in any of it. She was stuck in that too-bigfor-two-people apartment that, despite its size, seemed to close in around her as if she was in a prison. Imagine that. A prisoner in her own home. It didn’t feel like home. The apartment was her cell, the ironing cord bound her wrists, and the wedding ring strangling her finger was her jailor. There seemed to be no escaping the diamond that sparkled menacingly from her finger like the broken KATIE MAIER glass beneath her feet. On the days she was granted furlough, she would visit the homes of her friends: other wives in spacious apartments with shiny new machines that threatened to swallow her whole if she drew too near. But when her friends spoke about their lives, none of the women seemed to share her hatred for the domestic prison they all inhabited. They loved their husbands, and happily cooked and cleaned each day, just as society told them they should. Why was she the only one that was shoved through the shattering window while they were all still enjoying the view? But as soon as she left to return to her cell, the other women would grin and call “farewell” as they closed the door. Then, turning around slowly towards loneliness, their fake smiles falling, their eyes would dart to the refrigerator, the washer, the iron, feeling the appliances’ dark, mechanical presence suffocate them. There was no escaping the watchful stare of that iron in the corner, or the ring on each woman’s finger that suddenly felt tight enough to slice through bone. There was no escape, so each woman served her sentence as she served countless meals, with a feigned smile plastered across her face as the ring grew tighter, and the iron threatened her from the corner. 14

IRENE CHANG

MARGARET EVANS

PENNY KING

11 KATIE MAIER

DREW BAYNE

18 MINA DEREBAIL

EMORY HOWELL

ZELLE WESTFALL

Imperfectly Perfect By Alex Spitale

“Smallville High is just like any other school,” Jennifer explained as she led me through the lunchroom. “We have the preps, the jocks, the nerds, the weird kids, and…” she motioned towards a kid sitting by himself in a back corner of the room. “…him.” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, struggling to keep up with my friend. It was my first day at a new school, but luckily my neighbor Jennifer had agreed to show me around. Everything had initially seemed pretty straightforward. All my classes weren’t hard to find, and all my teachers were nice. Then Jennifer pointed him out. “What, is there something wrong with him?” I asked, a question I already knew the answer to. Though I couldn’t quite put it in words, something about him just felt off. “Of course there’s something wrong with him,” she snickered. “You can tell, can’t you? Look at him really hard. Notice anything… off?” I squinted at the boy in question. He was reading a book, his blue eyes scanning the pages in a way that seemed deliberately slow. His face was chiseled and attractive, his pose and expression like something straight out of a painting. His black hair had the illusion of being curly but was neatly swept back. One curled lock hung down over his forehead, the only stray piece in sight. “No,” I answered finally. “Nothing is off. He’s… perfect.” Jennifer nodded. “Bingo.” She continued to talk as she lead me over to her table. “Not a single wrinkle in his clothing. Not a single freckle or pimple or blemish or scar! It’s creepy!” I ran a hand through my disheveled red hair, a stark contrast to his dark and eerily neat hair. I began to wonder how it would feel to run my hand through his when Jennifer startled me from my thoughts. “He doesn’t fit in anywhere! The popular kids don’t want him, he’s more attractive than any of them. The jocks are terrified of him because the quarterback swears he saw him clock a one-minute mile and pick up a car with only one hand. The nerds even think he’s some sort of alien, probably because he gets perfect scores on everything. Even the weird kids want nothing to do with him. Everyone hates him! It’s unnatural, to look like that, to be like that!” Jennifer caught my gaze wandering over to him once more. She smirked. “Curious, huh? Go talk to him. You’ll learn.” After Jennifer had told me his name, I nervously walked over to him. Up close, his unnatural pristineness was even more obvious. He looked up from his book as I approached, his crystal blue eyes locking with mine as if he could see straight through me. I suddenly felt ashamed of my messy red hair, my swamp-green eyes, and my less-than-appealing physique. With all of my imperfections swirling around in my head, I outstretched my hand for him to shake. “Clark Kent, right? I’m Lois. Lois Lane.”

CHLOÃ&#x2030; DINKLE 22

Why I Liked Janet By Katie Maier

Mom was crying so hysterically that I figured I’d best do her the favor of greeting the folks at our door. Man, folks had been streaming in by the masses that week. Only this time, it turned out the girl on the steps wasn’t holding any flowers or card or anything. Her hands were empty, and she just stood there, looking absolutely miserable. “I heard about your dad,” spoke Janet, softly. “I thought I’d stop by...I’m awfully sorry...it’s alright if you don’t wanna talk to anyone right now...just thought maybe you would.” “Of course, Jan,” I assured her, “you come right in.”So we sat down together on the sofa, and she looked at me, saying she was sorry again. “Really, it’s…” I insisted, “these things‘ll just happen to people.” “Not to me,” she sighed, “and I deserve it as much as anybody else.” She studied at me for a long while, so I tried to study the miserable thing in return. Jan was far from beautiful in the first place, but she was ugly when she cried. And, as I learned that day, hideous when she sobbed. I hated her for a moment, as she wailed about a man she hardly knew. Hell, she hardly knew me. I stared at her for another moment. Suddenly, I loved her. You’ve gotta be quite a woman to cry for somebody else. Time ‘ll take away most guys from girls like Janet, once they decide there’s gotta be something better out there than the pleasant sort of girls. Those guys are idiots. As for myself, time took thirty years away from me before I stumbled across a lady in a bar. No, it wasn’t Janet. I’d have killed my old man myself just to stumble across a girl like Janet in a bar. No, it was Tracy, another girl I knew back in high school. Frankly, I wouldn’t have even recognized her if she hadn’t sought me out first. She looked far too old to be any girl my age. Still, I let her yap a while, about what happened to all those incredible kids I used to tolerate. What life they spent their job wasting, how many times they married, how many times they divorced. All those wonderful things I couldn’t care less about. I might have listened, but I’m not too sure of it. Finally, I plain asked the woman, “You know what ever happened to that girl Janet?” “Janet?” she repeated somberly. “Oh, you haven’t heard? She passed away a couple years back.” I never did bother saying goodbye to Tracy. I only stood up coolly, watching her eyes follow me as I left a tip on the counter. Then I beat the hell out of that place and made a mad dash for my car. Except I wasn’t fast enough. For a moment, the world could see me half-blind, and Janet wasn’t there to save me.

ELLIE FRIEDMAN

I’m With You By Megan McGean

Jonah’s footsteps echoed in hollow bursts as he ascended the stairs. When he reached the apartment rooftop, he pushed open the door. Tendrils of freezing, midnight air wrapped around him, and he clutched the folded blanket closer to his chest. Leaning against the parapet of the roof was Bates, his chin in the air and his eyes trained on the sky. The poor guy wasn’t even wearing a shirt. Just boxers and untied boots: the uniform of a man rushing away from his own nightmares. “Bates,” Jonah called. Bates didn’t turn around. After contemplating it for a few seconds, Jonah finally padded over and nudged the blanket toward him. “Thought you might be cold,” Jonah explained. Only then did Bates glance over, and when he did, the light from the single streetlamp below cut his face to pieces. Bates shifted again, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and flashing Jonah a smile. The million-dollar dimples were there, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, man,” Bates mumbled. He let his head fall back like it was too heavy for him to hold up. “The stars—you can’t see them back in Seattle.” Jonah followed Bates’ gaze toward the sky, where lit crystals were strewn across the inky landscape of the cosmos. Jonah didn’t say, You can’t see them in Vietnam under all those goddamn trees, either. Instead, he said, “The only perk of living in Iowa.” “Nah—you have corn here! Fresh corn is like heaven, Jo. I get nauseous just thinking about canned rations. I could eat fresh corn and lobster every day for the rest of my life.” Suddenly, a breeze surged across the rooftop, and Jonah shivered. Noticing, Bates lifted the edge of the blanket, and Jonah shuffled over so they could share. Their friendship had been built on sharing, halfway across the world in the midst of a war neither of them had wanted anything to do with. Jonah had made it home okay, but a week before the Paris Peace Accords were signed, stray shrapnel had ripped up Bates’ chest. When Bates was finally released from the hospital, he found Jonah in the phonebook, booked the first flight to Davenport, and showed up on Jonah’s doorstep. “Didn’t wanted to go back to Seattle, Bates had said. Jonah didn’t press further. Now, even without the threat of death, they leaned against each other, both being held up by the other. After a few seconds, Bates’ shoulders began to shake. “They won’t stop,” he whispered. “The nightmares won’t stop. But it’s okay out here, Jo. No jungle. No heat. Just the sky and the stars.” Jonah wrapped an arm around his friend. “I know. But the sky will be here tomorrow. You need to rest.” Bates glanced upward one more time before nodding and letting Jonah lead him to the door. “You’ll be here tomorrow, too,” murmured Bates. Jonah wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question. He decided it didn’t matter. “I’ll be here tomorrow, too.”

SOPHIA YAN

ZELLE WESTFALL

RANKIN MORI

STEWART KEY

the present.

HENRY SHARP

MINA DEREBAIL 30

SARAH FOLLOWILL

Footprints

By Sarah Packman

It had started snowing on Sunday night and had iced over by sunrise on Monday. He would have made more of an effort if it hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been so miserable outside. Not that it was any less miserable inside. Regret hung in the air, making it stale. Yells stained the walls. The smell of something rotten burned his nostrils and squeezed his lungs. Wrapped in a blanket, he stared through the window, motionless. A set of small footprints in the snow led down to the driveway and disappeared where tire tracks began. He stared at the footprints. So dainty, so delicate. They were not his footprints, and yet, they were his footprints. He still believed they were his. He hated them because he thought that meant loving them. He wished the ice would melt. The footprints had been formed in the early hours of Monday, before the sun had come back to reassure everyone that it would all be okay. They were not formed quickly. They were formed slowly and deliberately, each step a statement. He had not watched them be formed; it had happened while he was deep in the clutches of a death-like sleep. If he had been awake, he would not have let the tire tracks form at all. He would have convinced the footprints to turn around and lead back inside, where it was warm and things made sense. When he saw them in the morning, he did not understand. He walked onto the porch, barefoot and in his boxers, his skin immune to the cold. He did not leave the porch, preferring to examine them from afar, as in the space between him and them was the possibility that all this was a dream. He stood there for almost an hour until the threat of frostbite forced him back through the doorway. He was crushed. Up until that point, he had made sense of the world quite easily. The natural order of things in his life had been destroyed by those footprints. He was empty; he was angry. He made several phone calls, but no one could tell him where the tire tracks led. He threw the receiver against the wall. He threw open all the drawers, finding everything as it had been the day before. The mark on the wall left by the receiver did not seem out of place amid all the other marks. Both pillows had clear indentations where they had rested their heads each night. Everything appeared normal; and yet, the footprints were still outside. He knew that he would find her eventually. He would make her see that she should be grateful for all he had given her. He would make her see that he was not the same person sober as he was drunk, but that both versions of himself loved her. If she refused to understand, he would make her understand. Afterwards, he would wrap her in warm blankets and apologize and shower her with roses and kisses. He only had to wait for the ice to melt.

He feared that the ice would never melt.

IRENE CHANG

Why

By Arden Gipson

27 LINDY BENTON

I watch from a distance Too shy to speak out My head fills with failure My heart fills with doubt I know I seem bold, and fearless and strong But that’s just a façade Like the music of a song The melody’s loved But the lyrics aren’t heard Just one more hidden message from this sad little bird I want to spread my wings To soar through the sky But even I know it’s impossible So why should I try I focus on my dreams So far away from me Dancing with the clouds Living in the stars I fear I’ll never reach them At least not where they are I try to push off the ground To rise and take my chance But my wings are firmly bound No way to change my stance As I look all around me At the mess that I have made I see the puppet that I’ve become The actress on the stage My lines were all written out The scenes already blocked Nothing was my own Not even my own thought But when I look in the mirror And take off the mask I see the girl that was hidden With only one question to ask “Why?”

SOPHIE COURTS

28 DREW SCHIPPER

Brother

ANNE ALSTON BRADY

By Harrison Rodriguez There’s no judgment for breaking your heart in this cruel world. “No, Kevin! Don’t!” I screamed as an eight-year-old Kevin put our cat Charlie to sleep forever. It wasn’t the first time this happened. Whenever we got a new pet, Kevin always played too rough. Soon we just stopped getting pets. After Dad read that studies show “childhood cruelty towards animals is a warning sign of later violent behavior,” Kevin began to see a therapist weekly. He thought Kevin was fixed.

“I was just so mad--I didn’t know what to do!” Kevin yelled through the phone. My brother Kevin’s girlfriend cheated on him. He called and told me he saw her leaving Houston’s after kissing her personal trainer. More importantly, his ex-girlfriend has been missing for a month now. No one knows where she went, and now Kevin’s past resurfaced with a furious vengeance. Every finger in town was pointed at him. People thought they knew what he was capable of. “Kevin, did you do it?” I asked over the phone. There was a pause on the other line. “No! God, of course not! But trust me, I really wanted to.” Kevin replied. The sound of his voice told me finally that he’d lost everything. The only thing I could do now was be his brother. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Kevin. Just fine.” “Promise?” “Promise.” A few days later the police came to Kevin’s house. After turning it upside down looking for evidence, they finally let him go with no charges. Four months later, Kevin seemed to be happier; he even found a new girlfriend. Some people still think he had something to do with Sheila’s disappearance, but that’s the thing: if people make up their mind once, nothing can ever convince them. Kevin has always been the innocent one, and unlike other people, I actually believe him. I know he isn’t involved with Sheila’s disappearance, but given the chance today, I’d say he would do something. But what kind of brother am I if I let that happen? She cheated on Kevin and broke his heart, so I’ve made sure she would never break anyone’s heart again. Kevin is, unfortunately, too weak, and given the chance, he’d quickly end her—lickety-split. But I’m not him.

“I’m happy for Kevin,” I tell Sheila, tied to a chair in my basement. “Aren’t you?” She nods adamantly, breathing heavily through her nostrils as if she were agreeing with me so I could get on with it and do what Kevin would have done. But I’m not Kevin. I stare at the gag in her mouth, covered with dried saliva. It needs to be replaced soon. “What in the world…? God, give it to me!” said eight-year-old Kevin, who took our cat from my hands. “I’ll put it out of its misery. Please, stop doing this.” “Are you going to tell?” I asked. “No, but animals don’t deserve to be tortured bloody like this. I’ll take the blame, but promise to stop doing this. “Promise.” BELLA CHOPRA

CAKI STATON

SADIE BURGE

LILY PURICELLI

PARKER COY

MEGAN KAHRS

elizabeth kelly

ELIZABETH KELLY

33 KATIE MAIER

Short Story By Sophie Jones

When people ask how Marissa and I met, we just say, “Our parents were old friends.” No one ever asks further. My mom met Marissa’s parents at a church group for recovering meth addicts. Mom had been on and off for two years, having started as soon as my brother Jason hit high school. Dad’s work shift was at night, and Jason was too irresponsible to watch me, so she had to take me along to the meetings. Hiring a sitter would’ve been a waste of money. The group had a little corner for kids with blocks and puzzles. Marissa was always there, pushing a paper clip through cardboard puzzle pieces and slowly breaking them apart. I asked her once why she did that, cause it always ruined the pictures. She told me that she had done the puzzle three times before, and wanted to change the picture. It became a routine for us, and pretty soon we were giggling over inside jokes and running gleefully into the somber church room to greet each other. Those meetings became more for me than Mom, and I always took Dad’s side when he asked her to keep going. My mom hated talking about the meetings, and discouraged my friendship with Marissa. I guess she thought that people were bad parents if they were at the meeting. Go figure. Despite the withdrawal at times and the nerves of the meetings, Mom was doing well. Until she wasn’t. I don’t know exactly when it was, but I remember my fourth grade teacher ushering me out into the hall and explaining that my dad was going to pick me up early. She wouldn’t answer why. Dad was distracted and Jason was somber for once. He was always a bit quieter after that day, a bit more prone to staying at home when Dad was out. Mom’s death...shocked me. I hadn’t seen it coming, and I remember bawling on the couch in confusion. I went back to school after a few days, and none of my classmates knew what had happened. I didn’t tell them. Marissa knew, and she tried really hard to cheer me up. Sometimes it was funny, other times it felt like she was afraid I was going to implode and leave her alone, and other times it was just... tiring. Marissa was always there for me. Her parents split up not long after my mom passed, and the custody battle was brutal. She was silent through most of it, as if she was slowly soaking in reality and afraid of screaming if she tried to put it into words. We started going to the same school in sixth grade, and we became inseparable. Marissa was great with numbers and could rattle off date after date in history. I threw myself into reading Shakespeare and trying to keep my head down in gym. We had only a few classes with each other over the years, but I always looked forwards to them. I only had a few other kind-of friends, so I CHIARA KREMER normally felt alone in my classes. 40

SOPHIA CARRANO

35 I was the first person she told about wanting to dye her hair on her own, and the first person she threw the bottle at when it turned out light green instead of blue. I was the first person she showed her pierced ear to, and the last person to roll my eyes when she got an elaborate green snake piece for it. I was the first person she called when her dad’s house caught on fire. Not the police, who I immediately told my dad to call. No one was hurt except for Marissa’s fish, Sir Kort. She never told me why she named him that. She was the first person I ever broke the law with. We took a joyride in her mom’s old car just a month before I got my learner’s permit, because she wanted to “have the thrill just once

before it becomes legal.” When I tried to explain that getting my permit wouldn’t make it legal, she just rolled her eyes and hit the gas, forcing me to clutch the door handle. She was the first person I rushed to after the last day of eighth grade gym, where the kid who was new last year, Jason, had been talking to me and then suddenly kissed me. It was quick and gave me an adrenaline rush, and we had both walked off in opposite directions right after. Marissa squealed with me and grabbed two other girls from our grade, filling them in on this new gossip. I was the first person she came to when her mom relapsed on alcohol and accidentally locked her out of the house. She was forced to borrow her neighbor’s phone and call her dad, and now the two of them were screaming about custody again. “They care,” she said softly, looking dejected, “but they just don’t know what to do or how to handle themselves.” Marissa and I sometime surprised people with our “wisdom.” Adults would muse on something moral or philosophical, and everyone would look at us to respond. Only a few people actually knew about our parents, and most of it was dismissed as rumors. Until tenth grade, at least, when a laughing jerk asked if it was true our parents were crackheads who cheated on their partners with the other pair. I held Marissa back, wanting to bash his teeth in myself but also knowing it wasn’t worth it. The teacher gave him a stern lecture and three days detention, but that didn’t stop the rumor mill, or the heated stare Marissa gave the guy for the next two years. We were such a pair that I shouldn’t have been surprised by the dating rumors. They always made me uncomfortable, but I ignored them. Marissa had a boyfriend every once in a while, and that helped dampen the rumors. I had a few other people I was friendly with by senior year, and so did she, but we were closer to each other than friends. We were the family that we needed. Talking about college was hard. I wanted to go further north, away from Vancouver, but Marissa wanted to go all the way to Europe. I tried to convince her not to, maybe to just go down to the States, but she was determined to leave the entire continent behind. I contemplated going nearby, but none of the schools she was looking at offered a minor in a language I liked or had an English program that was strong enough. I went about two months before approaching Marissa about it, the deadline for our applications nearing. She asked me how important language was to minor in. I asked her how important it was to have another flag over her head. We...really argued. We had disagreements in the past, sure, but they were from small differences in opinion. Never had we...so strongly wanted things that were opposing each other. I couldn’t find a place away from home, and she couldn’t find one near it. I said she was running too far. She said I was clinging to the idea that running was inefficient, and that confrontation didn’t lead anywhere. Look what it got me; one parent left and no real home.

She looked...just as shocked by her words as I imagined I did. I asked her if restarting meant leaving me behind, and she didn’t answer at first. We stood there for a moment, refusing to move towards or away from each other, and I asked her again. “If you’re going to keep me trapped here, then maybe! Maybe, alright?”I left. School the next day was...so bizarre. Marissa either didn’t talk to me, or moved seats. I could tell people noticed. I packed up quickly at the end of the day, refusing to look in her direction. I was burning. As much as I wanted to stay with her, stay with the person more of a sibling to me than my actual brother, if she didn’t want that...then what was I doing? At least it had hurt her to say that. I took Jason’s keys after his girlfriend came over and left again. The cemetery was like...an old bully that you hoped grew up. It hurt at the time, and sure the sting faded, but it still hurt. I hadn’t been here since the funeral, took every opportunity not to pass it or look at it. My mom had been the one to tell me that if you didn’t hold your breath while passing the gates, the spirits would come after you. I did that soooo many times as a kid. I didn’t anymore, simply because it was childish. The grave was near the back, in dad’s family lot. His tombstone would go right next to hers, on the right, even if he got remarried. I knelt down, wishing I had brought my thicker pants for this snow, and reflected. I never prayed, really, not truly. There wasn’t anyone out there listening, no ethereal being. I guess I was just praying to the universe. Marissa appeared just after eleven. I was shivering like mad, most of my pants and boots soaked through with snow. I really don’t know how she found me, as Jason and my dad made no secret their dislike of her. Perhaps they set that aside, knowing she was the only one who could reason with me.

EMORY HOWELL

She crouched next to me, and held out flowers. Purple and red. Our favorites. There were laden with snow, and her clothes were in the same state. I don’t know how long she had been walking or watching me for. I never asked. I laid them out on the grave, shaking them off. I turned and met her eyes for the first time in a whole day. She was...afraid. I could always tell. And I was angry enough to warrant it, small and wiry as I was. Before yesterday, I could’ve said I would’ve never laid hands on her, but I was dying to now. It was...paralyzing, for a moment.

MEG McCARTNEY I pulled a flower from the center, a dark purple one. I handed it to her, unclenching my fists. Neither of us were a fan of going back on words, admitting mistakes, but she did. Head bowed, uncomfortable, hands cradling the flower. Some might misconstrue this...devotion to each other as romantic, but it just wasn’t so. We were such a huge part of each other’s lives, someone the other always wanted to be with and talk with. We swapped thoughts on boys, even about Marissa’s dabbling with a girl or two, but I never felt jealous. Never wanted to kiss her, or anything like such. Watching her lament like a scolded sibling on how she lashed out and listening to my own voice reaffirm the need for her support, our combined need to lean on each other, helped me settle that feeling. After her apologies, she helped me stand and I watched all the snow that had accumulated in my lap fall over her shoes. I was so much warmer now that I had stood, but Marissa’s face was red from more than emotion. I still protested when we got to her car, as she technically couldn’t drive with a passenger, but the seat warmers were too good a bargaining chip. I shook off snow in her car, realizing I had left Jason’s back at the graveyard only after we got on the highway. Marissa said it was too late, and wouldn’t let me turn back. I was too tired to argue, and let my frustration dissipate. My dad was furious when we first got back, but I just waved him off. It was too much. It was all just too much. Marissa stood awkwardly in the driveway for a moment. I could tell she didn’t know what to do. Neither of us fit in at the other’s house, and with my dad steaming and Jason demanding to know where his car was...I don’t blame her for staying back. I mumbled enough reassurances for Jason to storm off with his phone, backup keys clutched in his hand. My dad took pity at that point and headed back inside, leaving the door open. Marissa sat down on the steps next to me, and we were silent. I felt...so out of it. So dazed. College was always just...out there. Never too close to worry about, never too far to forget. And now Marissa and I might be separated. Sure, we had phones and breaks, but...would we stay as close? Would she still be my sister after joining a sorority and finding dozens more? My thoughts were piling up, one after the other, and so I slipped back into an old habit; I leaned on her arm, and she shifted to rest her head on top of mine. We stayed there until the snow stopped.

GRACE SUTHERLIN 44

40 HEYWARD BOST

The Road Ahead By Frances Wargo

I’m driving in the dark And my headlights won’t work. I can’t see anything And my car begins to swerve. My path is uncertain. I pull my car over and open a map. A city called Future is near I get back in my car and start driving slow. Not long after, lights appear on the horizon. As I enter the town, I see that everything is in a language I don’t understand. There’s a sign on the side of the road that reads: “Learn it all as you go.” LIZZY FLEETWOOD

I see a diner called Friends and decide to go in. As I sit at a booth and look at the menu, There are the dependable meals that are always there But there are also new ones that might be A new dependable meal. With my stomach full and sky gone dark, I decide to look for a place for the night. A hotel called Family is where I decide to stay And when asked about the name, “We’re the ones you can always depend on And we’ll always feel like home” Is what they say. In the morning when I wake, I can see the road clearly And I am no longer afraid of what comes next.

41 HENRY SHARP

SADIE BURGE

The Fire Above Kai Naima Jean Lacefield

The blackness de la noche surrounds our eyes While the biting cold surprises our senses. The heat of the afternoon fades away As the fire above diminishes. From high up on the gray brick wall I see the sand and umbrellas ahead. El partido apasionante plays on behind us. As I am deprived of the yellow, orange, red. “I’m going up closer to get a picture” I hear the girl from North Carolina call. The others stay glued al partido de fútbol As the flaming ball of light continues to fall. I tried to capture the short-lived marvel From high up on the gray brick panel But en el agua tranquilo just beyond the bay The layered reflection slowly crept away. 48

I will always remember their shouts, so close; Another goal has been scored behind me. Los espectadores in the bar don’t know what they’ve missed; The sun’s final flee. The last reflection in the sea. Oh, what could be? I guess we’ll see… Tomorrow

the future.

HENRY SHARP

MINA DEREBAIL

SOPHIA CARRANO

Short Story By Sophie Jones

They always hide. I understand it, really; running far would be almost pointless. It would make my job just as difficult, but in a different way. Hiding means tension, checking around. Hiding means they might fight if caught. Hiding means afraid to die, and that means problems. It was an old two-story shack, no attic or basement. Common squatting area. I waited until the sun was about to rise before going in. I kicked the door open, shattering the lower half of the frame. The door itself took out a chair and a few bits of paper. I waited for the dust to settle, and listened. No movement noise. They hadn’t been scared into running or changing spots. Little doubt or second-guessing. My perimeter was set up, coils of wire with no real exit. A lot of people forgot about that, which is why they chose to hide. They didn’t realize that we wouldn’t just pack up and leave after a few hours. People nowadays were so disconnected, that the blaring warnings and orders to stay put seemed unreal. They thought of it like a game or a glitch, not a signal sent by actual, physical people who were coming to them. The signal had been sent out yesterday, but to the man’s house. He ran, and we watched. He hadn’t left the abandoned house in six hours, so they sent me. I walked through what had been a living room, finding the stairs blocked off by beams. It was climbable, however, and the disturbed dust told me my target was likely upstairs. I dug my fingers into the first beam and pulled. It took a hard yank, but soon shot out of the pile. The others collapsed around it, and one sideswiped my shoulder. I brushed it off and headed up the stairs. The walls were rotting away, likely due to the elements let in from the broken roof. Water was still leaking in from yesterday’s rain. There were three rooms on this floor, one impossible to get into thanks to the collapsed floor. I shouldered my way into the first, looking around. A bathroom, with crumbling tile and a dilapidated tub. Rats were the only occupants here. The other room was a bedroom. The floorboards right by the door were broken, and recently too. A closer look found a bit of blood on the rim of the hole. He likely stepped through it, pulled his leg back out, and… I pushed open the door, kicking when it got stuck. Dust flew up from the bed and the broken wardrobe, and the door slammed against the wall. The handle stuck in the wood. A glance revealed he wasn’t under the bed, and there were no ledges outside of the windows. I checked once behind the door, unholstering my gun. Not there. There was only the closet on my left. The room was completely silent. There was no creaking after I stopped moving, no birds outside. “Mr. Haverson? Please come out now.” Silence. It normally took a few tries. I took another step into the room, closing the door behind me. I was a good seven, maybe eight feet from the closet. I knew he could see me, was weighing his options. I sighed. “Sir, I’ve found you.” A beat of silence-I wasn’t sure if he’d take the bait-and then the closet door burst open. It 56

slammed against the wall as the man charged out, registering me with wide eyes. He was stocky, a bit short, and stumbling directly towards me. As soon as I raised the gun, he backpedaled. “Crap-” He flattened himself against the wall, one arm smacking the window. A quick lookover found a knife in his left pocket, the handle only an inch from his hands. His clothes, work pants and a torn button-up, had dried mud on them. “Mr. Haverson, please do not offer any resistance.” “Who-why did they send you? I’m not-I haven’t-” “I am unit two-four-one from the Punitive Action Commission, section four. There’s an order for your arrest. They sent me to collect you. Please know that I have been authorized to use lethal force if necessary. I would like to avoid it.” The camera in my shoulder made a clicking noise, and I felt it hum slightly. The pictures were being processed, no doubt. “No way in hell!” He whipped the knife out, clutching it like it would stop a bullet. Like it would stop me. “Sir, please don’t-” “Shut up! I’ll-I’ll take you with me! You shouldn’t be able to kill me, they said-you’re just bluffing! You can’t kill me!” He held up the knife, shaking. He was starting to get his footing, which I couldn’t let happen. “Unfortunately, destroying me is pointless. They sent me because I’m the most disposable. My components are quite cheap. Surrendering would ensure that you are not hurt, and while that is a favorable outcome, my priority is your containment,” I explained, and he growled. “Stupid machines! I know your type, you think you’re above humans! Well, you aren’t getting me!” “Please don’t make me shoot you,” I said, surprised at how genuine it was. Normally, they were charging me or running at this point, so it wasn’t like I really had a choice. But this man wasn’t begging like he was terrified, or trying to talk his way out of his charges. “Let me go!” “I cannot. If you do not surrender your weapon and comply, I will be forced to subdue you. Please comply.” He slashed downwards with the knife in frustration, and I shot the window behind him. The shatter startled him, and he swallowed. He was still too wound up, too tense. His eyes were still angry, and I knew that he was weighing the fight or flight, and neither would end well. He was too far gone to submit. “Please don’t. You-” He didn’t listen. With a scream, he charged me, knife extended. I shot. SOPHIA CARRANO

SOPHIA CARRANO 58

ZELLE WESTFALL

STEWART HAMMOND

alternate reality.

KATIE MAIER

The Lonely Hours Amusement Park By Sarah Packman

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, I’ll be your guide Through the Lonely Hours Amusement Park We’re so glad that you’ve arrived on time Right around when your friends go home and the night starts winding down, And all that’s left is you and your thoughts, We start winding up, so don’t worry You’ve got miles to go before you sleep safe and sound Here at the Lonely Hours, our guests all start the same way Take a ride on our rollercoaster, which seems amusing from far away You get strapped in to a single cart, no other riders in sight And instead of climbing up a hill, You plunge straight downwards to cleanse yourself of the highs of the night Then you hurtle through the air, and lose sight of up and down You become convinced that no one else exists And you scream so much that eventually you can’t make a sound Now that it’s clear that the Lonely Hours have got you good, I’ll walk you over to the Mirror Maze Where you’re surrounded by yourself By your body and your face And you won’t be able to help but notice All the little things you’d change if plastic surgery were free And by the time you’ve found you’re way out, You’ll realize, “I don’t like all that much about me.”

No Lonely Hours experience would be complete Without a ride down the lazy river Where your raft is an oversized clock That ticks once every thousand heartbeats And because there’s nothing else to do You watch the clock, and it watches you And you become certain that the Lonely Hours Have somehow stopped time, and maybe space, too Unfortunately, we close in the morning Once the world collectively admits it’s awake And then, we turn you loose And you’ll pretend you were never here Even though, and I shouldn’t be telling you this, Everyone visits now and then But if you admitted that you came to our Park Then your carefully constructed façade of self-confidence Would crumble, disintegrate, fall apart We know you’ve hated your experience here But we never said you’d be amused The darker side of your mind, which is me, your guide, Has had a grand time, which is nothing new We know that you don’t want to But we also know that you can’t help it, so you will And so, to all my lovely, lonely friends, Good morning, and come again!

MINA DEREBAIL

PRICE DOHERTY

PALMER KING

STEWART HAMMOND

ZELLE WESTFALL

STEWART HAMMOND

KENDALL GREENE

SOPHIA YAN

SOPHIA CARRANO

BELLA CHOPRA

AAYUSH DIXIT

HENRY SHARP

STEWART HAMMOND

SADIE BURGE

IRENE CHANG

PALMER KING

IRENE CHANG

GABBY ELVE

CHLOE BEAVER

LILLIAN WHITTLE

KATIE MAIER

MACKENZIE BODEN

STEWART KEY

STEWART HAMMOND

REAGAN MARSHALL

PALMER KING

STEWART HAMMOND

Brown Coffee and Pink Planes By Sarah Packman

We fill our lives to the brim Until, like a cup overflowing with coffee, We drip down the sides, Our stress staining the Styrofoam brown We fill our lives because we’re afraid of the bottom of the cup Because few of us know or can remember what it looks like But the bottom of the cup is where the magic happens The mundane, magical bottom of the cup Where you lie on back and stare at the dome of the sky From the bottom of the cup, the sky is pink And clouds trail by lazily Like camels strolling through a desert That was put in the washing machine with a red sock on accident, Staining the sand a cotton-candy color That makes you grateful for that mistake Planes float along beside the cloud camels And you know in your heart that planes are supposed to be grey or white But from this vantage point, lying on your back in the bottom of the cup, The planes are so small, and the sky is so vast, That the sky bleeds into the planes, and they may as well be pink, too And though the pink planes are much too far away to make out the passengers in the windows You wave to them, and you know that they waved back Your cup can’t be empty all the time And you can be content even when it’s filled But don’t fear the absence of brown coffee Because that’s when you can see the pink planes

the biosphere.

CHARLIE HICKS

91 MEG McCARTNEY

MEG McCARTNEY

93 TARA JOSHI / CHARLIE HICKS

MEG McCARTNEY / TARA JOSHI

CORINNE FLINT

GRACIE WOMACK

100

how can we be of service to the earth that serves us? how can we creatively imagine an inclusive sustainable future? how do we implement this sustainable vision? how does our treatment of the planet reflect our treatment of each other? what role do you play?

REEVES TAYLOR

index A Andros, Caroline.........4 B

Bayne, Drew.........12 Beaver, Chloe..........81 Benton, Lindy.........27 Boden, Mackenzie.........82 Bost, Heyward.........40 Brady, Anne Alston.........29 Burge, Sadie.........31, 42, 78

Carrano, Sophia.........35, 48, 49, 51, 52, 70, 71 Chang, Irene.........9, 26, 78, 79, 80 Chopra, Bella.........30, 73, 74 Courts, Sophie.........27 Coy, Parker.........32

D Derebail, Mina.........12, 24, 27, 63 Dinkle, ChloĂŠ.........16 Dixit, Aayush........3, 74 Doherty, Price.........62

E Elve, Gabby..........81

Evans, Margaret........9

F Fleetwood.........40

Flint, Corinne.........95 Followill, Sarah........8, 25 Friedman, Ellie.........18

G Gipson, Arden.........27

Greene, Kendall.........69, 95

H Hammond, Stewart.........56, 67, 65, 67, 77, 84, 85 Hicks, Charlie.........89, 90, 93 Howell, Emily.......13, 36

Jones, Sophie.......34, 50 Joshi, Tara.........93, 94

102

K Kahrs, Megan.........6, 7, 32

Kelly, Elizabeth.........32 Key, Stewart.........21, 83 King, Palmer.........4, 62, 78, 84 King, Penny.........10 Kremer, Chiara.........34

Lacefield, Kai Naima Jean......42

Maier, Katie........8, 11, 17, 33, 60, 82 Marshall, Reagan.........84 McCartney, Meg.........37, 91, 92, 94 McGean, Megan.........19 Mori, Rankin.........21

P Packman, Sarah.........25, 62, 86 Puricelli, Lily.........3, 31

R Rodriguez, Harrison.........29 SSchipper, Drew.........28

Sharp, Henry.........41, 46, 75 Sharp, William.........24 Sherling, Catherine.........2 Spitale, Alex.........15 Staton, Caki.........31 Sutherlin, Grace.........38, 39

Taylor, Reeves.........96

Wargo, Francis.........40 Westfall, .........Cover, 14, 20, 54, 55, 66 Whittle, Lillian..........81 Womack, Gracie.........95

Y Yan, Sophia.........20, 70 Z Zoellick, Haley.........5

104

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do.â&#x20AC;? Steve Jobs