No Parenthesis - Spring 2024

No Parenthesis Staff 2024

Editor-in-Chief

Staff Editors

Cover Art

Club Advisor

Ben Harte

Grace Barnett

Tèa Pagnotti

Lucie Sechler

Leah Morabito

Lee Neblett

Mrs. Bresnick

“Takingflight gonewandering haveyouseen asolobird

winging overmeadowgreen haveyouheard songofspring’s beginninginblossom’s dew-wetwhisper tendermelody...”

~ excerpt from “On a Lark’s Wing” by Harryette Mullen

No Parenthesis Editor

Lucie Sechler

Kate Gerwig

Terris Jones

Elizabeth Lowney

Terris Jones

Lucy Park

Divya Siddi

Leah Morabito

Lee Neblett

Robin Nicholson

Kate Gerwig

Olivia Gorton

Charles Goodman

Grace Barnett

Lee Neblett

Lee Neblett

Robin Nicholson

Table of Contents

Letter From the Editor.

Evolution of Expression

After John Everett Millais’ Ophelia

Cover Design - No Country for Old Men

Driving

My mother’s son

A Bittersweet Cup of Summer

4

5

6

7

8

9

13 untitled

Friend or Foe

After Henri Matisse’s Harmony in Red.

14

pgs 15-16

.pg 17 Trawls

Prologue: An Artifact

.pg 18

.pgs 19-22 Splinter

.pg 23 untitled pg 24 untitled

“The End?”

.pg 25

.pg 26

Dear reader,

The No Parenthesis staff is proud to present to you the Spring 2024 edition of its magazine! This issue is the second from this school year, and it represents the completion of an ambitious undertaking from the magazine’s staff in breaking from the annual publications of the magazine’s past. Each piece featured reflects the unique vision and talent of Westwood High students, inviting you to explore the profundity of their artistic expression across poetry, prose, artwork, and more. As you journey through these pages, may you find inspiration, wonder, and a renewed appreciation for the beauty of human creativity--one not bound by any artistic constraints, one not bound by a single parenthesis.

Sincerely,

Ben Harte Editor-in-Chief

Evolution of Expression

by Lucie Sechler

A child is in her bed with a pair of scissors.

They flash like fish in the lamplight, blunt blades cutting jagged lines in colored paper, paper printed with words she cannot read. She slices shapes without names, filling her bed with scraps, confetti for a party of one-- not all alone-- dolls, still pink and soft, watch and keep her safe from wayward snipping.

A child sits at her desk. She swings a pencil

high and low in an arc, sketches circle after circle, outlining eyes and smiles, letting arms trail off into smoke. She sweeps gray across the page, pressing hard for pupils and pulling back for hair like a waterfall, graphite lines pooling and spilling from her fingers, slicing shapes without names.

She sits in a cafe. She drove there herself.

Her face is washed in light, hands flitting like hummingbirds over the keys. Words appear, appear, retreat, start over, strike chords in the evening and fall out of tune by morning. Slashing through paper as with scissors, filling them as if with pencil, always seeking-- somehow to better know herself.

After John Everett Millais' Ophelia by Kate Gerwig

Cover Design - No Country for Old Men

Terris Jones

Driving

by Elizabeth Lowney

Gas Gas Gas

Going 35… Going good

95 on the math test

gas gas gas

BREAK

Pedestrian jaywalking

75 on the AP World quiz… heart thumping

Breathe. Keep going.

gas… brake… gas

Tap the brake

79 on a chem test look in the rearview

Look back at blonde little me wearing a pink sparkly bow at recess

Look back but not for too long…

BREAK

Red light

Term ends

Two B’s

Keep the tires of the other car in your view

Look towards the next term

Leave some room for escape

Think about dropping a class

Green light

New term

Gas Gas Gas

90 on a spanish test

Going into an intersection

BRAKE

4 tests in one day

Maneuver around the accident

Watch cars getting towed, look back at blonde little me playing with dolls

BREAK

Check your blind spots

Another 75 on an AP world test

Other cars merge into the street. Phone, social media, sports, school, makeup

Don't look back now, tap the gas, easy now

GO

My mother’s son by

Terris Jones

My mom brought back Kinder Happy Hippos from a European layover when she was coming off deployment from Iraq.

My mother’s daughter gobbled them down. Thought they were the best thing she’d ever tasted. My mother’s son still remembers them, got one in his easter basket It was just as good as the first time.

My mother’s daughter was quick to anger. My mother’s son less so.

My mother’s daughter hated piano lessons. My mother’s son can...appreciate...the value they had.

They both like graphic tees. They’re both a bit shy before you get to know them. They both don’t like zucchini very much.

My father’s son says, “sorry, Dad, for not including you, it just feels more poetic this way ” Insert something here about maternal connection and femininity

My mother’s daughter was big into fantasy My mother’s son reads Ginsberg, Whitman, Kerouac, back of the car, sleeps with his head against the window, hood up, headphones in.

My mother’s daughter got carsick.

My mother's son wants to apologize. For being so angry. For not talking sooner. For that one time he broke the needle on your sewing machine and lied about it

I don't think I miss my mother’s daughter, but I feel a bit sad for her For not realizing. For letting her go.

My mother’s son had sought absolution, forgiveness for rejecting that girl, but My mother’s son is no longer sorry he came out on top.

by Lucy Park

A Bittersweet Cup of Summer

Selected Photography (above and right)

by Divya Siddi

A Fly

by Leah Morabito

Your average fly lives About a month

Sometimes

As little as a couple weeks

So the fly grows up Quickly, knowing It has little time To live

Life is a constant hurry

Flies cannot question Why they do The things they do

There is not enough time To question their orders

There are many flies, so that If one disappears It is hardly Noticed

Perhaps there is Comfort

In knowing that A fly cannot stray From its path

But then there is no freedom

To push the borders

We once called home

untitled by Lee Neblett

Friend or Foe

by Robin Nicholson

I have always loved to stop and smell the flowers. they are overlooked by us bipedal animals— we who crush the daisies under our feet without even looking back. Us animals, who pluck sweet flowers from their safe garden home, to give to our loved ones: trading one beauty’s death for another beauty’s smiles. Sometimes I wonder if the animals in the wild stop to smell the flowers, too. maybe if the birds bring offerings to their dear? or if the deer bring daisies to their Bambi?

My mom taught me that there are pretty flowers: pink, and yellow, and orange, and there are ugly flowers: blue, and green, and red.

But I love to stop and smell all of the flowers I see, regardless of whether they’re “pretty” or “ugly.”

In my eyes, all flowers are beautiful. When I was little, my mom told me, “Robbie, stop to smell those flowers. they are ugly flowers, ones that reek of malice and bad intentions.” Now— those flowers, those were the pretty yellow flowers that lined our SoCal driveway. They seemed to always attract the bees, and those were the ones I had always picked for her.

When I got a little older, my mom told me, “Robin, don’t ever stop to pick those flowers. They are smelly flowers, they’ll only lead you to a garden overgrown with weeds and ferns” I listened.

And eventually I grew curious about what could possibly be so bad about those flowers Those enticing, aromatic, pretty (ugly) flowers. I made a buddy who led me to a beautiful blue garden. I plucked some poppies from the grass, to exchange those beauties’ death, for my own smiles.

I´d put them on my windowsill. Smell them every morning when I woke, and every night before bed.

Eventually I carried those flowers everywhere with me in my pocket, to remember that I still have something. Something happy

Her shrill screams and blinding rages made those ugly, smelly flowers feel like paradise.

Brilliant blue poppies, forest green bud, and red radishes: Those flowers became my friends. Always made me feel calm in a storm that would never seem to end. My mother never made me feel as happy as any of those flowers,

I could never make her happy with the flowers I had picked for her. She grows her own orchids, and throws away the daisies I handpick.

So I have learnt to hate all flowers, whether blue or pink or orange or yellow.

—Until Valentine’s Day, when I got sixteen red roses and a bouquet of foam peonies left on my doorstep, with a note from my loved one: “you deserve all the flowers in the world, white ones are forever flowers, so you always have beautiful things to look at.”

Since then, I’ve thrown out my blue poppies, all of my red radishes, And I kept away from the bud that I thought was my friend. Put my foam peonies on my windowsill. Smell them every night before bed, and every morning when I wake.

I wish I could keep them in my pocket, too, but instead, I keep a picture in my wallet of my loved one, and a pressed pedal off their forever flowers.

I need no beauty’s death for my own smiles.

After Henri Matisse's Harmony in Red by Kate Gerwig

Trawls

Olivia Gorton

Prologue: An Artifact

by Charles Goodman

“Piracy, the work of the devil.”

Arthur Rahn’s thoughts pattered about in his head as he clasped his hands, reminiscing on his last time in the Balanian court. The darkened tavern was mostly empty in the midafternoon, apart from the few shadowy regulars lining the countertop. He had taken his usual table in the far corner It was covered in dents and scratches with a few rusted nails sticking out – like most of the other tables in the old tavern – only it allowed him to keep his back to the wooden wall and his hand on the flint-lock pistol tucked in his dark green jacket, perhaps the most important thing of all.

The bartender, a darkly clad man, eyed him nervously as he passed drinks to the patrons at the countertops. Arthur had known the man long enough to know how he was feeling at that moment; could practically feel the nervousness radiating from him. As the man turned, the tattoo of the ‘X’ on his exposed shoulder flashed by.

It was a cold morning, and Arthur was far away from home – in the farthest reaches of Balan. He’d been gone for almost a week now in preparation for this little meeting and had risked life and limb to get to the old tavern, separate from his soldiers and guards.

Arthur sighed as he heard sound from outside.

Laughter, and cursing.

Make this quick, Arthur thought, feeling the pouch of gold against his chest. Everything had been counted beforehand so that the exchange would be quick.

He sighed once more, as the doors to the tavern swung open, and the two men, clad in fur coats and heavy boots entered. The first of the men was tall, with long dark hair, and he walked ahead of the other He had a sharp, aquiline face, with a sword strapped to his hip, and a set of dark, gray eyes. Just like his fathers, Arthur thought, if the man had given in to every form of degeneracy a man can. The man approached the bar, where a drink was already waiting. He grabbed it in one hand, downing it.

“Think fast!” he said, quickly acting. A knife flashed through the air as the bartender ducked away It thudded as it struck the wall. The people went silent “Next time, don’t water it down so much.”

He sighed, and the people looked tensely at him. “Oh, come on! Everybody relax!”

The man that followed along after him was tall and burly, with a tangled beard that stretched to his stomach. Older than the first.

The first man sighed, and Arthur shifted in his seat, a hand going to his chin. He approached.

“Arthur Rahn,” the younger man said, a small grin coming to his face. “Every time I see you, I smile, you know that?”

Arthur leaned back in his chair “And why’s that, Warhound?”

“Because I know something.” He glanced over at the burly one. “You know what that is, Gregory?”

“We drink well tonight, sir?” said Gregory, laughing.

“We drink like kings. ” Axel smiled. “The finest liquor this country has to offer.”

Arthur leaned forward. “First, you must provide me with what we have agreed upon. ”

“Why of course, Prince,” the man said.

“And, I would prefer if your… friend…wasn't involved in this discussion.”

Axel glanced over at Gregory. “You don’t like Gregory?” He grinned.

“This is a deal between you and I.”

Axel chuckled. “Go hang with the men, Gregory This’ll be quick.”

The burly man smiled, and he left.

“Take a seat, Axel.”

Arthur put out his foot, pushing out the chair across from him. The man shook his head, and he sat down.

“How’s your… work been going,” Arthur said, quietly.

Axel leaned in, shrugging. “Quite well, actually We’ve sunk three Imperial ships in the last month, and raided twice the number of towns.”

Arthur nodded. “Your reputation has grown. ”

“Has it?” Axel asked. “That’s good.”

“They’ve started to call you the Scourge of Balan.”

“The Scourge?” Axel leaned back. “I like that ”

“I thought you would. You’re rapidly becoming the most reviled, most hated pirate in all of Balan.”

“By the time I’m done, I’ll be the most hated in all history.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Arthur said.

“You know I’m not a careful man, Prince.”

“You should be. They’re already calling for your head. Make a slip-up, and they’ll have it. You know, they just hung your predecessor... Red-Head.”

Axel grinned. “I told that old bastard not to attack Balan bay He didn’t listen. Besides, makes things easier for me. Less competition.”

“You’ll be the prime target,” Arthur sighed. “You better be careful - I don’t know if I’d be able to save you from the scaffold.”8

Axel rubbed his neck. “I’m not too worried.” He chuckled. “They’ll have trouble hanging me anyway. I have a strong neck, you know.” He smirked.

“Anyway,” Arthur sighed. “Business.”

“’The wheel that makes the world go round,’” Axel quoted.

“You have the artifact?” Arthur asked.

Axel hesitated, before reaching into his pocket, removing a brown pouch. He handled it carefully, laying it out on the table. Arthur felt himself tense, as Axel opened the pouch, enough to show him the piece. Arthur’s breath caught at how perfect the condition was –how it could have been preserved for so long, and yet have remained so intact. It was yet another piece of the puzzle now found. With the others… well, they might be able to find…

He shook his head.

“You had no trouble in procuring it?” he asked.

“I’m a master negotiator, Prince.”

Arthur grunted. “You were told not to harm anyone. ”

Axel smiled. “Don’t worry. Nobody got killed. We had a little trouble getting to the old woman, but… with a couple drinks, she gave it right to us. ”

Arthur felt a pang of guilt, but he silenced it quickly. Acquiring the artifacts meant a level of forcefulness needed to be taken. He sighed. Oh, the things the boy's father would say…

“Now,” said Axel, “the most important part.”

Arthur removed the coins and handed them over to Axel. The man took them, opening the pouch. “Beautiful,” he said. “You and I need to do business together more, old man. ”

Arthur grumbled, leaning forward. “I’ll make you another offer,” Arthur said. “A million for the… eye ”

“We’ve gone over this before, Arthur. I’ll never sell it to you. ”

“It belongs in the hands of people who can use it for good,” Arthur said, “It’s what your father would have wanted.”

“It belongs in my hands. Where it’s always been. To give it away would be to betray my history... and my wallet.”

“You’d be so rich you’d never have to raid again. Wouldn’t that be better than getting hung by the Balanian crown?”

“I’d get richer with each job I do for you. ”

“I’d make it two million.”

Axel shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, then rose. “But I wish you the best, Arthur.”

“Your crew could serve a higher purpose, Axel. You don’t have to be the Scourge.”

Axel chuckled. “I’m having far too much fun as it is, Arthur. Until next time.”

Arthur leaned back, holding the artifact closely in his hands. The pirate nodded and started for the door As he left, there was more cursing, and laughing, and Arthur breathed deeply. He had yet another piece of the great puzzle in his hands.

With each successive piece he attained, he would assemble the image more and more completely There would be the truth at the end, and nothing but it

It would be then that a new age would rise.

Splinter

by Grace Barnett

You don’t understand it, do you? The way I hold on just a moment, holding fast, short, and true?

You stumble, you miss, you curse my name, then you tread on me again, all the same.

You wear me down, ’til I’m naught but a scratch. You force me away, while I cling to the latch.

But isn’t that love, hopeless and strong? Burying hatchets as the day grows long?

untitled Lee Neblett

untitled Lee Neblett

“The End?”

by Robin Nicholson

He asked, from the backseat of dad’s BMW. We learnt the secrets of the cosmos Lessons from Niel deGrasse Tyson, Compacted into five sentence summaries.

We learnt about black holes, Lessons I pushed for about the difference between red and blue Giant Compacted neutron stars, greater than a thousand suns He asked the most profound questions.

Lessons I had always wanted to hear Compacted moments would never be enough He asked who put us on the record We learnt his dad was a spy.

Compacted details, perhaps fuzzy or unknown He asked when we would get there. We learnt it would probably be never Lessons I’ll never get to hear.