Images 2014 2015

EDITOR Brittany Menjivar '17

CONTRIBUTORS Lilly McQueen '15 Madeline Gresh '15 Amanda Costopoulos '15 Logan Smet '15 Brittany Menjivar '17 Haley Waites '15 Kelsey Ferrick '15 Lilliana Hatoum '15 Laura Williamson '15 Leah Barteldes '15 Kara Thompson '15 Julia Thompson '15 Nicole Feldman '15 Kaylyn Policastri '17 Alejandra Villalobos '15 Katherine Stonestreet '15 Alexis Garcia '17 Maeve Ballantine '17 Rosalee Britton '17 Caroline Long '15 Danielle Moni Zo'obo '15 Grace Goulding '15 Carly Lazas '15 Bailey Allmon '15 Sarah Harb '15 Maureen Dailey '16 Maeve Lunden '17 Tiffany Wognaih '15 Harper Kaufman '15 Ellie Goodwin '15

Cover art: Staircase by Tiffany Wognaih '15

Haggai the Steampunk Girl Kara Thompson '15

Nice to See You Again Lilly McQueen ‘15 After a painting by Yoshitomo Nara we are the invisible people too young to understand too young to be quiet we are small we see the cracks in the sidewalk we hear the whispers in the bedroom at night we whisper back and hear a slam from the door we warn you about the cracks but you fall anyway blaming us for not talking loud enough we stand on ladders to reach you you push them over and call us lazy when we stand tall and see the whites of your eyes what will you do?

Yoshitomo Nara

Carrie Flying Madeline Gresh ’15

Not a single person in that classroom thought she was anywhere close to reality.

The girl lived with her head in the clouds, and she never seemed to come back down. A third grade classroom is filled with a variety of personalities and there are always some oddities. Chester Barkley demanded to be called "Rocket Man," most likely because his father had worked at NASA. Abigail Adreze didn't speak, and she followed her friend Maura around like a silent shadow. Maura in contrast was prone to random exclamations. They had just come back from lunch and were working on multiplication when she suddenly announced, "Billy's nose looks like a squash!"

Their teacher, Ms. Rockley, turned and smiled at the girl, "Maura, what did we say about appropriate sharing times? And please apologize to Billy; he has a very nice nose."

Maura frowned, flipped her ponytail and gave a drawn out "sorry" in Billy's general direction. "Alright, now where was I? Oh yes, when we have two times two-" The class gradually brought their attention back to the board except for one little girl in the back of the room. She was slouched down in her chair and was tracing patterns across her arms with a bright purple permanent marker. Billy, the one whose nose allegedly had some sort of resemblance to squash, was watching her apprehensively. He couldn't take his eyes off the marker as it swirled back and forth, making what appeared to be meaningless figures. He squirmed in his chair and threw a quick glance to the front of the room before turning back to the girl.

His face started contorting into visible signs of discomfort as she raised her leg up and drew a sun smiley brightly across her knee. Finally he shot up from his chair, hand thrown straight up in the air, "MS. ROCKLEY!" The teacher gave a short jump and turned around, "Billy, please lower your voice!

What's wrong?"

He swung his hand down to point directly at the girl. Meanwhile she had moved to the opposite knee, which got a crescent moon, eyes closed with a night cap on its head.

Ms. Rockley seemed to deflate as she sighed, "Carrie dear, what are you doing to your knees?" The girl gave no response. "Carrie?"

Slowly she raised her eyes from her work, the same strange blue eyes she always had. Not entirely expressionless, yet rather clouded, there was an obvious amount of confusion in them. She always seemed surprised to find herself wherever she was. It was as if she had just woken up from a dream and hadn't quite adjusted to being in a bed instead of soaring through the sky. "Yes?" she asked and blinked once.

Ms. Rockley walked to the back of the room and held her hand out, "Give me the marker, Carrie. You shouldn't draw on your skin, it's not good for you." Carrie regarded the open palm for a moment as the rest of the class held their breath, twisting around the backs of their chairs to see what she would do. She gave another slow blink before carefully placing the marker in the outstretched hand.

Ms. Rockley looked relieved and turned abruptly around, walking to the front of the room. The other children whipped back around to follow her as she announced, "Time for recess. Everybody has to wear a jacket. It's getting cold out and I don't want you getting sick." They didn't wait for her to finish, racing to the back of the class to grab their jackets off the hooks and barreling out the door. Carrie waited for everyone else to leave before she stood up and went to get her jacket. It was gray with black stripes; her Dad got it for her and she didn't like it at all. As she tugged her arms through and walked to the door a voice stopped her. "Carrie, can I talk to you for a minute? You can go right outside once we're done." Her teacher smiled, and even to Carrie up in the clouds, it looked strained.

--Billy stood beneath the basketball hoop with his friends. His eyes were glued to the classroom door. Maura's eyes were glued to him, and Abigail's eyes were on her noisy friend. Maura sighed dramatically. Her ponytail was flipped again.

Abigail had noticed that she did that when she was upset. "She's stuck in their with the teacher again. It's because she's so weird, you know? I heard her family's weird too. Weirdo from a weirdo family." She smiled sourly, seemingly pleased with her assessment.

Abigail continued watching her friend, and then drew her gaze over to Billy beneath the basketball. "He looks like he's waiting for her," she mumbled.

The ponytail swung up in the air. "Don't be stupid."

Abigail watched as it fell back against her back, "Why'd you say that about his nose?"

Maura bit her lip and looked at her silver shoes. "I don't know, I just say stuff sometimes. And you know how earlier we were learning about the pilgrims with the squash and stuff…" she trailed off.

Abigail nodded, "Okay. Look, she came out."

---

Billy had given up watching the door and started playing but when he saw the gray coat with those black stripes appear around the corner of the school he came to a stop. Unfortunately, it was poor timing for him and the ball slammed into his back. He fell over and managed to catch himself on the asphalt. It didn't hurt that much, and his hands were only a little scratched, but the other kids quickly crowded around him.

"You okay?"

"Should we get Ms. Rockley?"

"Is he bleeding?"

"Do you wanna go to the nurse?"

He brushed his hands off on his pants gingerly and slowly stood up. "I'm fine, I'm fine." When it became clear the injury was not severe enough to warrant an ambulance, the crowd drifted off. It was then that Billy quickly became aware of two pairs of eyes fixed on him that had not joined the crowd. The first were Maura's, and she looked pretty upset. He turned away from her, she always bugged him. His nose wasn't even that big… The second pair of eyes were Carrie's. That's where he stopped, and then he found himself walking up to her.

"I'm okay really." She hadn't asked, but she nodded carefully while maintaining eye contact. Then she reached into her pocket and handed him a Hello Kitty band aid. His eyes widened and he blushed, but he figured it'd be mean not to take it, plus one of the cuts on his hands was still bleeding. She waited until he had put it on to turn away. "Wait!" She paused but didn't turn back. "Hey are…are you okay?" She gave a nearly imperceptible nod and kept walking. He didn't really know why he'd asked. Except her eyes when he had caught her looking at him… there was something different about them. They had been sort of, off, in a different way than they usually were. Her eyes never looked exactly normal, but they were right for her. When he had met her gaze this time he knew there was something wrong. But he didn't know if it was because she really was worried about him falling, or what she had talked about with the teacher.

--Carrie knew that Ms. Rockley was a nice lady. She smiled a lot and she never yelled at Carrie. But she didn't like her. Not one bit. Whenever they had those "talks" the way she looked at Carrie was the same way her classmates did. It was all "you're different" and "something’s wrong with you" but with Ms. Rockley it was also "let me help you." She didn't know why that bothered her so much.

Even if she wanted help sometimes, she wasn't stupid. The help she needed wasn't the kind that Ms. Rockley could give. So when her face said "let me help you" all Carrie saw was "I'm a liar" and Carrie hated liars most. Her teacher lied with her offer to help, her classmates lied when they treated her nice in front of the teacher, her parents lied when they said everything was fine. Carrie didn't

mind being worried about. But what she really wanted was someone who would only worry. Because that was enough. Someone who might want to help, but when they looked at her they wouldn't pretend like they could. Someone simple.

Just as she thought the word, Ms. Rockley wrote it on the board. Except it was a little different, this word was "simpleton." She wrote next to it, "one who is silly, or easily tricked; fool." Then she walked back to her desk and sat down, "We're having a vocabulary quiz on Wednesday so make sure to copy down all the words on the board into your notebook."

Maura was also looking at the last word as she smiled to herself and said, "Billy's a simpleton, that means he's stupid."

Some of the kids laughed and Rocket Man Chester said, "That's mean Maura."

Ms. Rockley frowned. "None of you are simpletons, you are all very smart.

Maura, that is the second time today you've said something unkind about Billy.

You're going to have to come sit with me for the rest of the class."

Maura sunk her head down and slowly dragged her chair up to Ms. Rowley's desk.

Carrie turned to look at Billy. She wasn't very good at noticing things around her, but he was obviously upset; his ears were bright red. She found herself smiling at him, when he noticed he seemed a little confused but tentatively smiled back. Now she felt her own ears going pink, and turned back to her workbook. That was weird, she didn't usually look at other people. They were always staring at her and she didn't like it. But she'd found herself looking back at Billy twice already, and both times he hadn't looked at her like the others did.

She remembered, even when he had told on her earlier, she wasn't mad at him.

She thought about what Maura had just said, "Billy's a simpleton," someone simple; "Hey are...are you okay?"

Carrie knew that Ms. Rockley was a nice lady. She smiled a lot and she never yelled at Carrie. But she didn't like her. Not one bit. Whenever they had those "talks" the way she looked at Carrie was the same way her classmates did. It was all "you're different" and "something’s wrong with you" but with Ms. Rockley it was also "let me help you." She didn't know why that bothered her so much.

Even if she wanted help sometimes, she wasn't stupid. The help she needed wasn't the kind that Ms. Rockley could give. So when her face said "let me help you" all Carrie saw was "I'm a liar" and Carrie hated liars most. Her teacher lied with her offer to help, her classmates lied when they treated her nice in front of the teacher, her parents lied when they said everything was fine. Carrie didn't mind being worried about. But what she really wanted was someone who would only worry. Because that was enough. Someone who might want to help, but when they looked at her they wouldn't pretend like they could. Someone simple.

Just as she thought the word, Ms. Rockley wrote it on the board. Except it was a little different, this word was "simpleton." She wrote next to it, "one who is

silly, or easily tricked; fool." Then she walked back to her desk and sat down, "We're having a vocabulary quiz on Wednesday so make sure to copy down all the words on the board into your notebook."

Maura was also looking at the last word as she smiled to herself and said, "Billy's a simpleton, that means he's stupid."

Some of the kids laughed and Rocket Man Chester said, "That's mean Maura."

Ms. Rockley frowned. "None of you are simpletons, you are all very smart.

Maura, that is the second time today you've said something unkind about Billy.

You're going to have to come sit with me for the rest of the class."

Maura sunk her head down and slowly dragged her chair up to Ms. Rowley's desk.

Carrie turned to look at Billy. She wasn't very good at noticing things around her, but he was obviously upset; his ears were bright red. She found herself smiling at him, when he noticed he seemed a little confused but tentatively smiled back. Now she felt her own ears going pink, and turned back to her workbook. That was weird, she didn't usually look at other people. They were always staring at her and she didn't like it. But she'd found herself looking back at Billy twice already, and both times he hadn't looked at her like the others did.

She remembered, even when he had told on her earlier, she wasn't mad at him.

She thought about what Maura had just said, "Billy's a simpleton," someone simple; "Hey are...are you okay?"

--The bell rang to signal the end of the day and after listening to announcements the kids left the classroom. One was left behind, as usual. The girl with the deep blue eyes. Always an ocean wide, or the length of the sky. Earlier they had been a sad rainy blue. But when Billy Richards walked out of class that day, he still had a bright pink Hello Kitty band aid on his hand. And now she was safe in cloudless blue sky. She grabbed her bag and ran up to the front of the classroom and snatched her marker off the desk before racing into the hallway.

She swept past Ms. Rockley who stepped to the side of the hall where she'd been standing. "Carrie what were you doing in the- Carrie! Come back here!" But the girl was gone. And no one could bring her back down. Not the poorly masked sympathy in her teacher’s eyes as she asked about her "home life.” Not the other children's eager eyes, waiting for her to mess up, wanting a show. Not her diary filled with words whispered in hate and born from a lack of understanding. She was not a weirdo or a freak or a loser. She was just Carrie, and Carrie was flying.

Netflix Nights Logan Smet '15

Men Walking Amanda Costopoulos '15

We all begin to settle down.

Wait for Mom She is in the kitchen Where is the remote?

Check under the couch cushions.

Found it! It's dead.

Get new batteries— What to watch?

Let's watch 17 Again.

No. Not that one. I've seen it.

No one asked you.

Turn on the subtitles. No, they're distracting.

Quiet! I can't hear.

Pause that.

Please rewind that again.

Is everyone done talking?

We come, we go— Three hours of not watching a movie.

Dad stays asleep on the couch.

t.v.

Brittany Menjivar ‘17 "don't go away" it beats your bedroom boredom when you can't sleep and decide to play the part of vulnerable voyager traveling from star to star. through staticky scenes, it hacks into your dreams, scattering vile viruses across your muddy mindscape like glitter (it sparkles, but sticks to your skin, even in the shower). as long as its glow can float through the fourth wall, its ghosts threaten to destroy your halcyon heaven and thrust themselves into your mirrors. insomnia is imminent when adverts, actresses, laugh tracks, and broadcasts sing your lonely lullaby. "and we're back�

Aboriginal Dream Time Haley Waites '15

Geema’s Nightmare Kelsey Ferrick ‘15 Geema, will you check under my bed?

No monsters she would say for she knows for a fact, Underneath her bed is not the nightmare, she felt safe, found an escape.

Scream. Slap. Shattered glass.

She’d wake from a sleep, under the bed she’d go clutching Teddy, silent and alone.

She’d feel around under the frame: Dust. Old shoes. Darkness. Nothing.

Cries of pain would seep into her room, leaving her stranded and forgotten.

More liquids poured, for the night had just begun.

This is when Geema made her vow never to taste the drink that only destroyed.

No monsters, she would tell me, for she knew for a fact, underneath her bed were just memories, for the real monster waited outside.

Flashbacks Lilliana Hatoum ’15 I. “Truth or dare?”

It was Anna’s favorite game, and frankly I was tired of playing along. She talked too much and after six years of friendship, I didn’t feel bad ignoring her. It was no way to treat a friend, but Anna knew I wasn’t like her other friends, and I was definitely nothing like her. That’s why I enjoyed her company. It helped me attain a certain level of normalcy, though I envied her all at the same time for it. Tonight, the stars proved way more interesting.

“Dani?”

“Jesus, Anna, can’t you just chill for a second?”

She walked over and claimed a spot on the cold dirt beside me after surveying the area for bugs, or anything else that posed a threat to her overly priced jeans. I always drag Anna here. She’s never understood it like I do because she’s never felt things like I do. There’s something about the park at night; how the breeze blankets your skin, the bitter smell of grass, those rhythmic beats of the chirping crickets. I come here to detach.

Escape. Unwind. Smoke a cig. Sort it all out. Stay sane… somewhat. But tonight was different. Tonight the thoughts were louder, darker, stronger. Tonight I couldn’t suppress the flashbacks. They throbbed through my insides like thunder.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

I wasn’t.

“Alright. It’s getting pretty late, I’m gonna head home. Maybe

I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She learned not to pry.

“See you.”

My usual routine wouldn’t cut it. I needed to do something more, something real. But first…I needed a drink.

II. Too much?

Not enough.

Where was Anna?

I didn’t know.

Where was I? I didn’t care.

Another gulp.

At least I pretended not to.

A little more.

The streetlights began to melt on the dark town like paint. As the distorted shadows played games with my subconscious, the line between reality and fantasy faded quickly. I fumbled around in my pockets for the familiar feel of the icy metal.

Unsure of my direction or intentions, I surrendered to the memories. This was the first time I had allowed them to take control. I remained powerless as the feelings surged throughout my veins, shattering every ounce of sanity that met their path. It was the most terrified I had ever been, and also the most free.

“HELLOOOOO!” I was greeted with an echo, yet something sounded unfamiliar about the voice that bounced back at me. One thing I was sure of. I was absolutely alone.

Three more sips.

III. My heavy feet managed to carry me four blocks until they reached an abandoned house.

Danger, No Trespassing.

Or what?

Consequences were the last thing on my mind. In fact, consequences didn’t exist in my mind. I tangled my fingers through the cold metal fence after throwing the half-empty glass bottle over, and with one giant leap, Thunk, managed to hit the ground on the other side. Part of me just wanted to stay there and watch the sky, but the stronger part need to destroy. To create. I grabbed the bottle by the neck, forced myself back on my feet, and lunged it at the decaying wood.

Smash.

A thousand tiny pieces. I walked over to the front steps after what seemed like an hour and just stared. Glittering reflections danced on their sharp edges.

More. I needed more.

I reached for the lighter in my pocket, took it out, and snapped its top. Sparks jumped into a delicate flame. I can’t tell you why I did what I did next. I’m not even sure I was the one doing it.

Clink.

The puddle sizzled as I watched the flames multiply. They crept through the windows and crawled up the walls.

Crash.

The heat jumped on my skin. Smoke stung in my eyes. But I couldn’t move. I was mesmerized…paralyzed.

Wee-ooo-wee-ooo-wee-ooo-wee-ooo!

IV. The brilliant orange flames disintegrated into smooth grey walls. I no longer felt damp blades of grass beating against my toes. Instead, unfriendly tiles chilled beneath my feet. The wooden steps transformed into metal bed posts. The melting street lights, now a harsh white bulb.

They told me about the fire. They told me I was bleeding. They told me Anna wasn't real.

Brother Laura Williamson '15

A few lines for the redhaired singer Leah Barteldes ‘15 “One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, redhaired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in song.” F. Scott Fitzgerald She drinks like she’s sliding into a martini glass shaped like a swimming pool.

They say the past cannot be repeated, yet the crowd finds her every time, a canary in a menagerie for the broken, the bacchanal.

The piano weeps the notes on her face, her eyes, a green light clouded by a fog of tears. Her dress is yellow like money, like mansions.

Yellow like decay, like a deathcar.

There are golden girls, endlessly desirable, but she is merely a girl in gold, tarnishing and tarnished.

Maeve Lunden '17

Woman Sitting in the Bookstore, 2 PM Kara Thompson ‘15 I look through the plate-glass window, inside the boisterous Politics and Prose.

In her hands, she holds a book: The Wind Up Bird Chronicles.

She bends her head so she can concentrate, her hair covering her face, shielding her from the crowd.

As she flips each page, she moves her hand slowly as if to help her understand each word.

There are experts who say no one reads anymoreas if it’s a pastime that’s disappearing.

Yet this woman hangs on to lost tradition.

She ignores the traffic outside, ignores the chattering people buying books, clerks giving away the endings.

Hours pass. She is still here, immersed in Murakami’s world. Now she puts on a jacket to keep away the autumn chill.

Epimetheus Julia Thompson ‘15 She asks at least a hundred questions an hour. None I have the answer to.

Some days, it feels a chore to marry your brother’s creation.

Pandora is lovely enough, nimble around the living room, but keeps a close eye on the urn at the top of the shelf, shimmering blue and moss, a conjunction of land and sea.

It’s beautiful, she breathes, It’ll break, I fib. You wouldn’t want that to happen to a wedding gift.

The urn gathers dust; Still, I listen to what I’m told, though it drives me mad, mortal-proofing that one insignificant corner.

Each day, Pandora prods me to rebel I greet her question with silence.

Pandora complains, sulks, scoffs. If it’s a gift, it should be used!

I wave her off.

She lies awake at night, thinks about what could be inside. I know she hates me for telling her to ignore something obvious, as good of a chance a child would have of not smashing a vase.

Maybe Pandora was right. What’s the harm of looking?

That morning was eerily silent, our closest void of her belongings.

The sacred urn’s shards litter the floor, the house strewn with the cries of demons.

The Nearby Grave Nicole Feldman '15 I had brought tulips, her favorite.

I finished my sad goodbye, and I glanced to my left, saw another grave – this one neglected, abandoned, forgotten.

Why does no one come to see him?

Where are his relatives?

Was he ever married?

Did he enjoy the fruit of children, or grandchildren?

Eighty-six years – a long time to be alone.

I wonder how he spent those years.

Business? Pleasure?

Was he a book nerd? A sport fanatic?

Matthew G. Turner, such a formal name.

Maybe they called him Matt.

But where are “they”?

No flowers lie before him.

Linocut Nicole Feldman '15

The winter sun brightened as I walked to my car, thinking that next time I’d bring two bouquets.

Weeping Kaylyn Policastri ’17 Your somber face casts shadows like the leaves of the Weeping Willow when the sun hits just so.

I see you slump against the bed on the floor, curving your body to match that of the gloomy tree.

The breeze blows your hair ever so softly, causing it to gently rustle and mimic the foliage of the weeping tree outside.

The pain is too much for you to handle as you howl quietly, unable to hold in your screams.

As the sun goes down behind the tree, all glimpses of hope and happiness are gone.

I turn towards you and notice that your sun, too, has gone down.

You and the Weeping Willow are now one, all joy and sunlight gone from your trunk and branches, never to return.

A gentle sigh escapes your lips, causing the hair around your face to calmly blow away. Try as you may to contain it, a small tear escapes and rolls down your melancholy face just as the first raindrop falls from the sky and onto the bark of the Willow.

Birch Tree Forest Emma Millar '15

A Funny Thing Called Hope Leah Barteldes ’15 Grey rain wakes me up. The quiet plip, plops quickly become more forceful, threatening to soak the garbage bag that contains every physical thing I own in this world. I have to make the quick decision to sacrifice my own temporary dryness by coming out from under my hastily made trash can fort and laying myself on top of the bags so that I can maybe guarantee myself some warmth at night for at least a month. It is only a slight gain as water still leaks into the all too permeable plastic bag. If this seems like a lose-lose situation, it is, because when you’re homeless, no decisions have entirely good outcomes.

Before I landed in my current living situation (or lack thereof), I used to enjoy the rain. It meant that my father would make his classic gumbo, the one his family had been serving since the antebellum days of yore. It would take him hours slaving away in the kitchen to make sure all the meat had been cooked just right, but he always insisted that neither my mama nor I help him. I would sit in our tiny family room with feelings of awe and love towards him blending together like the spices he was mixing.

And my mama would watch him from the window seat, wondering how a poor colombiana had managed to win the affection of one of the most eligible men in New Orleans. The best part was when we all sat together and ate; it gave me a feeling of warmth that lasted long after the delicious stew was finished.

Days like those couldn’t last forever; even rain stops and you’re left to face the harsh sun drying everything up afterwards.

About three years ago, on one of the hottest days the city had seen, men in carefully pressed suits that didn’t wilt in the humidity came to our door. They kept asking mama for papers, papers, papers, and when mama couldn’t give them what they wanted, they took her away. Father took me a few times to see

her in the detention center they kept her while more men in suits waited to send her back to Colombia. Each time he took me, he would say less and less. Each time mama saw me, she would say the same thing: “Esperanza, remember what your name means. Have hope. Ten paciencia y fe. I will see you again, mi hija.”

It got hard to live with hope after she was officially deported. My relationship with my father quickly broke down, as he saw me as a sign of shame that could ruin his political career in the city. I suppose “illegitimate child of the illegally immigrated mistress” is the kind of soundbite that dissuades voters in a heartbeat. For my part, I never tried to alleviate things with him either; he had just stood there with the same stone-cold face whenever mama begged him to use his money, his influence. One day I came home from school to find that he was not home, that he had returned to the North Shore, to his affluent relatives, the Kennedys of Louisiana. They had so much money that he could escape the unfortunate luck that even Jack had.

Child Services had been paid a hefty sum so that all my forms would be forged with the guarantee that I would be placed in foster homes. But the combination of my mother’s stubbornness and my father’s temper, fiery as Bayou hot sauce, meant I could stay nowhere long before I was sat down in parlor-rooms with Child Services and the foster parents, who behind strained smiles would say that there was a family out there for me, just not this one. Eventually I got so sick of being the broken branch hastily placed on random family trees that I gave up and ran off on my own.

Now I’m here, sprawled out over the concrete, on top of piles of clothes and other stuff I don’t even really care about just so that some part of me maybe could be warm for once.

Because somehow I have to deal with this day, I open the bag, pull out a thin raincoat and a piece of cardboard to cover

my head, and walk out of the alley I sleep in and towards the main street. I wave a brusque ‘good morning’ to Sam, a bum who always wears the same Saints jersey and who has been living in this part of town since The Storm. I make my daily visits: Angelette, a little old lady who always gives me some of the po’ boy she somehow gets everyday; Juan, a twenty-five year old whose drug habits scare me but who always shows me pictures of his late wife; Joe, the Vietnam vet who is the patriarch of our community and who every homeless person respects since no one else will; and Kat and Matt, fraternal twins barely older than me who took the bus from their small bayou town in hopes that the city would fulfill their limitless fantasies. My routine has at this point become less depressing than it was at first and even tends towards just being mediocre, like most routines.

I pass our corridor of poverty to head to my typical begging spot, where I sit every day, living up to my name and my mama’s last advice in hoping that travelers and denizens alike will take pity on such a miserable soul and give me more than coins or maybe a coupon. As you can tell, I’m pretty cynical about the whole thing. But I’m also a hypocrite because I know that when I had more, when as a little girl I would walk to the zoo with my father, I would walk a little faster than anyone who was dirty enough to blend into the street. Maybe that’s another reason why I liked the rain: it blurs people’s faces, making it easier to not notice their pain.

Something is different in me today. I just can’t handle the thought of sitting for hours on end, expecting everything but getting very little. There has to be another way out. I hate to have to think like this, but honestly, something crazy like robbing a corner store seems reasonable. I think if I just take a bag of chips, what’s the best case/worst case scenario? Best case- I get away, worst case- I get arrested and sent to juvenile corrections? Either way, I get a free meal. And when you’re homeless, win-win situations don’t come often. This is something more than I could hope for in this grey rain.

Niño Migrante Alejandra Villalobos ‘15 Some of us will be guided through the treacherous maze of open land by money-hungry coyotes, some of us will try to make it on our own.

Some of us will die of starvation, murder, dehydration.

Some of us will be left behind by the guides we trusted with our lives.

Me? I will live to see the praised, the glorified: los estados unidos.

A land I wished to be magical, but it will crush my dreams with hardships, hate, with embarrassment.

Harris Teeter Employee Alexis Garcia ‘15 The man in the green apron sweeps the floor, whistling a tune I can't identify.

His hair is a fragile, ghostly white and the wrinkles on his face are prominent.

He uses his index finger to adjust his glasses which have slid down the bridge of his nose, past his dark, heavy eyes.

Noticing me, he looks up and smiles.

Winter Flag Katherine Stonestreet '15

I begin to wonder how he ended up here, cleaning up customers' trash at the age most men would aspire to be golfing or enjoying a drink on the beach.

But who am I to judge?

I give a weak grin in return, bustling to the front of the store.

On my way home, I pay more attention to the elderly homeless man standing on the median strip, holding a cardboard sign.

Blueberries Julia Thompson ’15 "You really need to get over this. It's not gonna hurt you."

The little girl fidgeted while her ispolin friend made circles of leaves blow into miniature tornados.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Really?" She pushed her glasses back on her freckled face.

"Who's the adult here? Aren't you supposed to be a role model to me?"

"I'm not supposed to have to do anything."

"I have something for you. It's a surprise."

"I can't be surprised. I'm 300 years old."

"Just look in the box."

He doubled back. "What kind of sick surprise is this?"

The blueberry stayed in its velvet box, which fell to the floor.

"You got me over my fear of public speaking, and now it's time for me to return the favor. At least hold it in the palm of your hand."

He did so reluctantly. "People actually eat these?"

"Yes. In muffins, and cookies and oatmeal-" "What is wrong with you humans?"

"You haven't even tried one and you think they're disgusting?"

"Look what they did to my species!"

"It wasn't them, it was their vines and stalks. If you want to go in the mortal world unnoticed, it would help to have a few niceties under your belt." She looked around at the fall forest. " I mean, the woods are nice, and I love nature more than people. But I think you should see the human world too.

It could be fun." As an aside, she added, "There's ice cream

there."

"So now you're trying to bribe me? Fine, I'll at least give it a chance. But can I make my case of why I shouldn't try?"

"You already did. The blueberry vines caused your race to become entangled whenever they walked near them, and some of them died. Still, it's been hundreds of years.

If you have nothing else to fear but that, wouldn't life be better if you didn't have that to worry about?" ~~~ "They have cheese curls on sale! Yeah. For 5.99, even though that's still $6.00 rounded. Now say hello to the fruit section. Just take a glance. See? No ensnarements.

You're doing fine."

"What is that?"

"It's just an ad for raisins."

"Now that is disturbing. They're so.... Pruny." He shuddered. "How should I pay? Exact change or extra?"

"Extra, so you have some money for yourself." ~~~~~~~ "So what do you think?"

"I'm only eating the bread part of the muffin."

"I'm not asking you to love them, but please tolerate them."

"So what exactly is this event that you wanted to go to?"

"The Annual Blueberry Festival."

Acuta the Swordsmaster: A Character Sketch Kara Thompson ’15 She was a hero, but she rarely acted so. Acuta was “as charming as en eel dripping in moldy garlic sauce”, as her Elders whispered about her, late at night. Her face made her stand apart from the rest. She was brave and serious, but people often pitied her for no reason at all. Her only job was to be the knight-in-chief for the king, and protector of the whole kingdom. Acuta scowled and rolled her eyes at the bridesmaids lined up for the proxy wedding. There was no way the earl would want the real bride, Acuta herself, due to how, "She's so frightfully thin! And she never smiles, or socializes or does anything interesting! Is she ill, or just dullwitted?" But, they didn't know how hard she worked to actually protect the kingdom around here. Ever since the First Whiteout, a black hole that swallowed up at least a thousand people, the village was barred off from the rest of the world. The villages outside our own, the elders conspired, must have been the cause of it. But, no one really knew. Still, the village took extreme measures to keep themselves safe.

She wanted to laugh in the faces of those girls... they were all at least thirteen and they looked as alike as fish in a marketplace. They probably never even held a sword in their entire lives, fixed a vessel on a wheel, killed a wight, or even had any idea of the supernatural. She worked so much harder than all of rgen; they'd never understand that. They were so narrow minded and clueless and looked as if they had spent their entire lives bathing in rancid meat.

Acuta was the only one who actually looked healthy, with her dark skin and dark eyes. But, it was rather awkward, though, when she was in the marketplace with her mother while ten-year olds scampered about around her in giant grape-bunches. Why were the children so blasé nowadays?

Whatever happened to acting like you're ten when you're ten? Even the knights her age were simpering to her.

Sure, in the great, grand processions that they had for the king, they would act all nice and proud of her. But anytime after that, they treated her as if she didn't exist.

She was quietly and happily ignored every time they met outside for a picnic. Great, she thought. You'd think some knights would want to help her or speak to her or at least acknowledge that she was alive.

Taripex Month was upon the kingdom. The worst month of her life. The kingdom would acknowledge all of the soldiers, mothers, and children who had died and gone for eternal rest. It upset her, though. It reminded her that, her mother, well, that she was dead, how she borne Acuta during the Whiteout, and that thought made Acuta’s head go down into her chest. All because of her.

It was her fault, she knew. Or, at least that's what the doctors said. Her mother was carried away into the black hole right after Acuta was born. The nurses rescued Acuta, but her mother was gone forever. Where was she? Acuta pondered about her mother’s death often. It kept her up at night sometimes. Still, she had to get her

mind off of it. “There’s so much to do while you’re living”, she thought.

At Taripex Month, the kingdom would eat until they burst and drink until they vomited, and yes, of course, smile, which she couldn't do and was reminded often by her swordsmaster.

They painted pictures of all the people present there, and Acuta was the one who didn't look like the rest. She knew that her differences made her unique, part of who she was.

Unfortunately, it seemed to define her as a person, like some kind of puppet, or novice, or abnormality. She hated all the attention. It wasn’t a big deal to her; it was part of who she was. She was the only eighteen-year-old in the village who knew how to kill wights, trolls, and other malevolent creatures that could cause harm in the Barred Kingdom.

Sometimes, she even schemed on ways to escape. She could leave at dawn on a train or pretend to be sick and run off. But then Master Fade would come and grab her by the mail-collar and tell her how her presence was needed and et cetera, and how she deserved to be honored for her survival of the Whiteout. All the people in the land weren't smart enough to know that she had feelings, hopes, dreams, like them; they just made up pretty, pink, fluffy words to try to hide the fact. But, all that embellishment served for nothing. Science wasn't invented yet, and social acceptance wasn't either. It was ridiculous because it was already the thirty-fifth century, and no one even cared about people like her.

It made her feel alone, so alone, and angry at these homogenous people who ogled at dark-skinned Africans and Morrocan people who immigrated to the Barred Kingdom.

Acuta

figured it was the king’s fault; he rarely educated his people about the outside world, the world beyond the high walls and uniformed guards who had protected the city ever since the First Whiteout. “They would never learn,” she told herself.

“They'd stay small minded and ignorant for their entire lives because they were scared”. Too bad for them. They didn't deserve a good, strong girl like her.

She knew she didn't belong there, though. Her father was a swordsman, and she had no interest in being a nobility like a princess or a queen. Even though she felt so angry at the world from taking her mother from her, she realized that the gods probably didn't put her there by accident. She had a purpose, but what was it, anyway?

Maybe to fight, to scream, to take away all the impurities in the world. Acuta didn't know yet. She'd just have to get through Taripex Month and pray for the best....

White Gown Maeve Ballantine ’17 Hypocrisy is a funny thing.

You say your gown is white because you're perfect, pure, and scrupulous.

If only they knew the truth.

If your gown isn't perfectly white, what color is it?

Would it only have a few splatters of red or brown or is it a different color altogether?

What color is my gown?

I don't know, that's not for me to decide.

Tea Time Haley Waites '15

Dagger of the Mind Rosalee Britton ’17 When your eyes are red And emptiness is all you know With the darkness fed I will be your scarecrow ~"Bleeding Out", Imagine Dragons I grasp the hilt, hand in blade "Do I dare approach the golden room?"

Hand in blade, blade in hand I darken the radiance that he emits, oh holy King And I doom the owls to silence and horses to themselves Do I really wish to have him dead?

She says to, she makes me, how gullible we all are But all who surround me urge my soul over the edge.

Lucifer is a parallel of himself, dear King When your eyes are red.

Let the dutiful bloodshed commence, dear King As my kinsman, surely you will forgive me, Though the angels hide their faces and dim their lanterns.

Flee, dear Fleance, friend Banquo, and noble Macduff, For I know not where my hands will lead me But surely the blood of many shall flow Let the stars hide their lights, those that wish for purity.

Oh, dear Lady, protect your lonely egg!

The peril I will be led to will leave wounds low, And emptiness is all you know.

The task is done; am I done as well?

Crimson gloves adorn my hands: evil and mocking.

But then, my time has been sold to the fellow in the last row, And I am his 'til the very day I perish.

I may proceed... No, I must!

Though sins do sink me down to blackened day like lead, I cannot believe that I can fall any further than I already have.

Long live the King! Long live me, I suppose.

But now, power will surely go to my head With the darkness fed.

Now dear King of the past, slumber well While I am tormented by a conscience recently forgotten.

Oh, friend Banquo, what have my hands led me to?

You stole away from your corpse to take my place At the table, though no one sees you but I. For those twenty gashes upon your head, you would put me on death-row, But your gory apparition can only torment my mind.

Dear King, how lucky you are to sleep while this country dies So while you rest eternally and the danger continues to grow, I will be your scarecrow.

Anastasia Caroline Long ‘15 DNA testing proves the reality of her dreadful fate, yet through humanity's immortal hope, Anastasia lives forever.

What about this girl does the world want to believe in?

July 17, 1918; It was a month ago that she turned seventeen.

Awoken in the dark of the night, the Romanovs were told to dress.

Submissive to the forces of the Cheka, or rather the revolution, They stand together no longer a family, but a casualty of history.

Ballet Russe Haley Waites '15

Was it Tsar Nicholas II whose chest bled like the red of enemy uniforms?

Or was it the man who first taught his daughter how the world works?

Was it Tsarina Alexandra whose eyes lost color begging for salvation?

Or was it the woman who gave birth to the darling child she called "Ana"?

Was it Grand Duchess Maria who was dragged into the dirt; lifeless?

Or was it a sister who made faces and told stories of better days?

The world wants to believe in this girl because she is just that.

Imagine, the future of this 17 year old Anastasia running for her life Through the gunpowder smoke, thick like heavy winter snow.

Je suis Nigeria Danielle Moni Zo’obo ‘15 Two thousand. Died in Nigeria. January 3rd.

But the world didn't blink.

No one batted an eye.

The lives of 2,000. Innocent women and children.

Reduced to a line at the bottom of the TV screen.

Meanwhile, in Paris,12 people die, the world explodes into chaos, and commemorations.

JE SUIS CHARLIE. The motto on everyone’s lips.

The names of the 12. Remembered. Honored. Cherished.

Countries unite for them. Take up arms for them.

And the thousands in Nigeria? The bodies left on the street?

The 12-year old boy who watched his father get slaughtered will not see his mother again?

Who will honor them? Who will link arms to remember them?

Quick. look at the bottom of the TV screen.

Quick. Before it's gone.

Lost Music in Vienna Grace Goulding '15

My little boy is drawing again.

I see him sketching enthusiastically on the page, I hear him smiling as his hand glides smoothly across the torn scrap, the stubby pencil destined to be in his grasp.

This pencil, his instrument, helping him depict the special music inside his heart.

Even in these harsh conditions my boy finds beauty in his art.

His father and five siblings ruthlessly removed from his life, I can hardly support him alone.

Little does he know that I will be gone soon as well.

He begs - Please Mama, I want to be an artist!

I see the fire in his eyes. I will miss this fire.

He is drowning in a deep pool of resentment towards the world, clinging to me as his last liferaft.

His bit of art.

But soon he will be living off of an orphan's allowance, his pockets empty, his stomach empty as his lonely heart.

Art fully nourishes his soul, yet it cannot provide the food to nourish his body.

This world, his life, breaks his dream.

When I am gone too, my boy will be left with nothing but the will to live, the will to rise up.

What will become of my poor Adolf now?

Bourj el-Barajneh, 4 AM Lilliana Hatoum '15 The morning prayer echoes through the city.

Bouncing off the buildings, dissipating on the air.

A coolness suspends in the few moments before the sun wakes up and night crawls back to bed.

I sit with my father on the dusty balcony, listening to the overwhelming silence and the patter of a cat's paws on the marble ground.

His voice cracks through the atmosphere speaking of so many things: science, religion, fruit, life.

Another soul floats along the streets, pushing his cart as the fragile breeze carries the smell of fresh pita. The day takes its first breath.

In the Bedroom After a poem by Debora Greger Carly Lazas '15 The world looks dark, gray from his point of view.

He cannot see color or feel relief from the fresh air, the smell of spring outside, and from the window, the world seems to reject him.

A light breeze could carry away his possibilities because he is that fragile, and the world is not gentle with him, with his voice, or his heart.

Deprived of the company of others, he waits for her return, to set him free, either from her everlasting hold over him, or from his life of solitude, longing for something more than this bed in this dark room, with this dog, that watches him, seemingly waiting for him to be alive.

Master Bedroom Andrew Wyeth

Sarah Harb '15 Boy and Girl

This is a story about a boy and a girl.

She loves him unconditionally.

He looks at her with profound love in his eyes.

She writes him letters.

He writes her lullabies.

She touches his face.

He kisses her softly.

She shuts her eyes.

He holds her tightly.

Their hearts ache for each other when a violent storm rips from the sky.

It doesn't stop raining.

It's beginning to flood.

A crimson droplet of pure love slips away and the letters and the lullabies float into a distance leaving nothing but velvet ripples in their place.

Memories turn to ash.

Smoke fills the air.

Her heart cries tears of blood longing for his face his lullabies.

Then a rainbow appears and it's beautiful for a while.

Reunited once again.

Happy as can be.

Until a drought hits and leaves them quenched.

They search for water but only find sand.

They must stick together to survive.

Everything is uncertain.

Everything is unclear.

They hope for the best. and cling to the memories.

This is a story about a boy and a girl.

This is a story about you and me.

Bailey Allmon '15 Eternal Life

In memory of Dominik L. Pettey  In Homer, the underworld is vague, a shadowy place, inhibited by shadows.

Nothing there is real.

Nothing? What do you mean nothing?

You aren't a shadow. You are an illumination, a beam of radiant light.

The light from your smile, the incandescence of your eyes are a light from the heavens.

Not the darkness from below.

You don't inhibit, you define existence. Â You are never forgotten, living on in the creases of my memory, the field of my vision, The buzzing rhythm in my ears.

A fragrance that still lingers.

Harper Kaufman '15 glass slipper

Ellie Goodwin '15 Blue Hat

the sound of midnight echoed through every hall of an unfamiliar luxury as she began to run, fearing the sting the torment of the facade of one night revealing itself— she knew she could no longer pretend, even magic has its limits so she ran, heart pounding hair falling out of a delicate bun as a frantic panic, a recognition of falsehood came over her— she left a slipper, made of glass as fragile and breakable as her own persona, he called for her but she dared not turn to face what could be— as none of us can pretend forever and midnight comes for us all.

A night filled with brisk winds, dark skies illuminated only by streetlights. An empty road lies ahead.

A man in a flimsy coat, ragged gloves shivers only once, gazes down at the boy in a blue hat, his eyes wide like the ocean, waiting restlessly for approval to cross.

A green light shines on the faces of the father, his son, clutching the hand of one another.

The single moment of warmth, of comfort almost immediately diminishes as the smaller hand lets go.

The blue hat falls to the ground, the young boy races away the second he has permission— A father stands idle, very cold as he watches his son go ahead. He cannot and will not catch him.

Acknowledgments

Images would like to thank...

-Ms. Mackinnon for helping to bring this issue to life. Her guidance and dedication are much appreciated.

-The teachers in the English department for introducing their students to fantastic poetry and prose and helping them improve as writers.

-Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Huey-Burns for fostering a love for the written word at Holy Cross.

-Mrs. Cotter for being so helpful and amiable.

-Ms. DeZinno for her technological assistance with this issue.

-Mrs. Carrocio and Mrs. Schlabs for their eagerness to help with the artistic component of this issue.

-Mrs. Ballantine and the fantastic Tartan Writers' Club for their support.

-The talented students who contributed to this issue.

Without them, this publication would not exist.

-YOU for reading these stories and poems. We hope they inspired you or made you see something in a new way.

Maureen Dailey '16