Alpharetta High School Alpharetta, Ga
The publication is a forum for students to openly express themselves. All art, literature, and photographs were submitted by students of Alpharetta High School and selected by a committee of the creative arts magazine students before being accepted. The pieces accepted into the magazine represent the diverse views and opinons of the creators themselves. These works do not in any way, shape, or form represent the opinions of Alpharetta High School administration, staff, or county.
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We would like to thank everyone who contributed to and supported the Alpharetta Manifest creative arts magazine.
raider black Clair Greenaway Lanqing Wang & Xiaonan Zheng Larry & Eileen Williams
Jessica Brummel Claire Owens Catherine Williams
raider silver McGinnis Woods Margaret Wischerth-Koop
Rebecca Perkins James Koop
raider patron of the arts Lucy Williams Bala & Janani Balakumar Ryan & Leah Owens
Daniel & Brenda King Shannon Kersey The Edge
acknowledgments Catherine Mills Courtney Koop Courtney Stuart Dhakshi Balakumar Emily Williams Lexie Bryant
Mallory Rosten Savannah Jackson Susan Lee Suraj Masand Rishann Jackson Alexander Fels Levy
Alt manifest issue ii volume v
Editor’s Letter Alt is a break from the harsh reality of Ctrl. Instead of being forced to face our confinements, we allowed ourselves to imagine beyond. ‘Alt’ derives from alternate. Alternate worlds and alternate realities, both good and bad. We are forever considering alternate versions of the lives we live, alternate paths other than the paths we do take. In this issue, our creators imagine different outcomes of a decision, describe their own alternate fantasies they live in, and theorize about the ways the world could be a better or worse place. Because we all have our own version of Alt, our own safe worlds and fears, conflict arose about how the magazine should look. It’s difficult to pinpoint one vision that represents such a diverse and complex group of people. Ideas flew back and forth, but we finally agreed. The jewel tones that we chose fit this concept because their depth and richness represent the fantasies and dreams of our contributors. The gradient in the background of each page further extends this concept of depth and beyond. We decided to emphasize the margins in order to bring attention to the things that are often pushed to the side, to push beyond not only that are the lines and boundaries we draw for ourselves, but also the ones that are drawn for us by others. The pomegranate motif that you’ll find in many poetry and art pieces served as the inspiration for the folio and acts as a motif throughout the magazine represents rebirth and renewal. Through our fantasies, we are reborn as whoever we want to be. Our alternate realities allow us to be remade. The artists in this magazine expressed this idea of rebirth and fantasy through surreal digital art, vibrant paintings, and inspired poetry and prose. Catherine Mills’ digital art captures the strange nature of dreams while Zoe Genet’s pomegranate painting touches on the ethereal aspects of dreaming. There are two spreads that are dedicated to the artwork of our street team in this issue, as they have been extremely supportive of our endeavors this year. Their answers to what a better world would be were innocent and beautiful, the most optimistic we’ve read. Our second installment is one of fantasy, the solution to Ctrl’s bitter reality. Alt is about looking forward, visualizing goals and considering the alternatives. The next step is making it happen.
-Mallory Rosten and Jessica Brummel
jessica brummel
mallor y r osten e
editor-in-chief
wendy zheng
content edit
or
ditor-in-
chief
r a m u k hi bala r
dhaksrketing edito
catherine william
ma
marketing
s
susan lee
layout editor
cour tney koop content
cour tney managin
stuar t
zoe genet
g editor
content
catherine mil layout
ls
lexie b
r yant
conten
t
n o s k c a j h a claire owens savann marketing
marketing
manifest staff 2015-2016
emily williams
layout
contents
table of street team car a simple curve a kaleidoscope persephone i ich mich so schlau fuhl cool moon a poet image 1 gros michel as we arrived doll face smile, the world is watching chocolate chip oroatmeal raisin cooooool on these days eyes no lies i lost my keys ew who are you the shrew when the book is opened snax stops all saints dawg
01 05 06 07 08 09 15 16 17 18 19 21 22
street team zoe genet dhakshi balakumar courtney stuart mallory rosten derek hopper susan lee courtney koop catherine sun denethor zoompla naughts french students susan lee savannah jackson
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savannah jackson
25 26 27 28 29 31 32 33 35
catherine mills emma svitil catherine mills stanislas lemuell catherine mills catherine williams victoria yang catherine mills stanislas lemuell
contents
table of yoyoyo surrealism assignment who i am today from the rot life grows persephone ii the age of dissonance agh trees water bottle 4 acetone sweater weather photo 3 skillet there’s a monster in myhouse c001 two immortals conehead i could tell you why my e[nding]scape landscape seraph
36 37 38 39 40 41 45 46 47 48 49 51 52
catherine mills deemah alamoudi lexie bryant jessica brummel mallory rosten mallory rosten catherine mills stanislas lemuell catherine sun lexie bryant susan lee sam morton denethor zoompla naughts
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ryan gallagher
54 55 56 57 58 58 59
catherine mills hagar baruch devin phillips geneva oke courtney stuart zoe genet susan lee
a collaboration from our
street team
2
What do you want to see in the world? What do you want to change in the world? “Change the world of colors like red, white, and blue of the American flag.” -alexander “I want to see more people being happy.” -sharaya “I want to go to Paris.” -lauren “I don’t want to see any change; the world is perfect the way it is now.” - evan
What things in your life make you want to work towards a better tomorrow? “My parents taught me being nice is important.” -kenny “To make new friends.” -evan
What does a better world look like to you? “Big.” -deborah “More nice, kind, and helpful people.” -jamie
a collaboration from our
street team
How do you see the world, unfiltered?
“Strong people; united.” -deborah “I see all the colors of the world.” -evan “Bus rides, shopping at the Home Depot and the market.” -dylan
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car zoe genet
a simple curve dhakshi balakumar
A simple curve, Elegant in its simplicity. Not complex like some circuitous calculus equation. Maybe... ...consistent with a vibrant heartbeat. Purposed momentum. Just like fingerprints. Unique, non-replicable. A symbol of joy, A source of exterior strength, A semblance of veiled fear. The stories behind the curves’ manifestations, Expressed and unexpressed. Patience and the tale will unlock Sharing is key. No place to hide that irascible evidence. A true, tell-all, the smirk is a mutated curve. The special sparkle, defined authentically. Naturally and beautifully is pure. An innate demeanor. Contagious, Dependable, Unlimited: The foyer to the heart. A universal sign, a uniting connection needs no translation. Acceptance, compassion, and affection. A curve of loveliness: Smile.
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a kaleidoscope courtney stuart
7
A kaleidoscope of colors wash over me I’m too blind to see Fragments of my mind whirl around on the inside I don’t understand.
persephone i
mallory rosten. 8
“Hello.” “Hello yourself. What’s all this, then?” “A meta-dialogue. We’re two characters in a dialogue, aware we are in a dialogue, and discussing the dialogue itself.” “Really! Do we know about the author of this dialog?” “It’s ‘dialogue’, and yes, we know all about him.” “Well, he sounds like a good sort. This whole ‘dialogue’ business seems awfully clever.” “That’s what he thinks, anyway.” “Oho! Do I detect a note of disagreement?” “Well, the whole two-characters-talking-who-know-they’re-characters thing has been done to death.” “It has?” “By now it’s not really clever, it’s a prosaic cliché.”
derek hopper
“It is?”
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“In fact, I think the same idea has already been printed in this very magazine, and this is only a secondary school publication.” “No! This author fellow isn’t as clever as he thinks himself, then, eh?” “That’s certainly one of our jobs.” “Why, he – what was that?” “One reoccurring trope in these dialogues is the characters mocking the author’s shortcomings.”
“What? Why on Earth (or wherever we are) would he write that?” “It’s supposed to show that he’s clever, but not arrogant. He is Aware He Is Still A Mortal.” “Hmm. What are our other jobs, as self-aware literary characters?” “Now you’re getting it. I actually have a checklist of all the clichés we’re to go through.” “Do share!” “Item 1: to Raise Philosophical Questions. Item 2: to Blur The Lines.” “Which lines?” “All of them, I think.” “Sounds complicated. Do go on.” “Item 2: to Question The Medium.” “Hang on. What does that mean?” “I believe that Questioning The Medium is what we were doing with that confrontation about ‘dialog’ and ‘dialogue’.” “Ah. Sound rather similar, don’t they?” “That’s the point. Are we speaking aloud and somehow distinguishing between the two alternate spellings, or are we communicating through print? Or ideas merely translated to words by the author?” “Oh, that’s easy. We’re talking normally.” “No, it’s not a question you’re supposed to answer, the reader is! They should be Moved To Contemplation.”
“Oh. Oops. I sort of spoiled that one, then. Still, I can understand the confusion. Pronouncing all those capitals sounds difficult.”
ich mich so schlau fühl (i feel clever)
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“It does put some strain on the voicebox.” “Go back, then. What about Item 2: to Blur The Lines? That is hard to pronounce.” “I think that can best be demonstrated with an example. Allow me to give a reading.” “Well, you have the voice for it. Go ahead.” “Ahem. Wrote the One to the Other: “It does tend to cramp the hand.” Wrote the Other to the One: “Go back, then. What about Item 2: to Blur The Lines? That is hard to write.” Wrote the One to the Other: “I think that can best be demonstrated with an example. Allow me to give a writing.” Wrote the Other to the One: “Well, you have the penmanship for it. Go ahead.” Wrote the One to the Other: “*scribbling*.” “That was confusing.” “Oh, I don’t know. We’re back, anyway.” “Yes, you would say that, but where are we?” “Where we belong. Did you say that?” “Say what? That blurry line? I don’t think so. Must have been an accident.” “These dialogs are always full of coincidences.” “Dialogues.” “What?” “You said it wrong. I’ll stop there.” Wrote the Other to the One: “That was confusing.” Wrote the One to the Other: “Where we belong. Did you draw that?” Wrote the Other to the One:
“Yes, you would write that, but what? That blurry line? I don’t think so. Where are we?” Wrote the One to the Other: “These dialogues are always full of
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coincidences.” Wrote the Other to the One: “Dialogs. We’re in America. You spelled it wrong.” I’ll stop there.” “That was confusing.” “Oh, I don’t know. We’re back, anyway.” “Yes, you would say that, but where are we?” “Where we belong. Did you say that?” “Say what? That blurry line? I don’t think so. Must have been an accident.” “These dialogs are always full of coincidences.” “Dialogues.” “What?” “You said it wrong.” “I’m sure I was right.” “No, you were on the left for that one.” “Bah! Now my head hurts.” “I’m starting to enjoy this. What about Item 1: to Raise Philosophical Questions?” “We’re supposed to make them think. For example, our world is fictional.” “Made up by this author fellow, right. But his world isn’t.”
“Ah, but what if it is? What if the whole world of the author and reader is just another book?”
“Must be a boring book. Who would want to read all those mundane bits in the middle?” “That’s not the point. The question is what if ?” “Okay. So what if ?”
ich mich so schlau fühl 12
“Well...” “I guess it would have to be written by a pretty terrible author. Would he be called a meta-author, do you think? He’s writing a book about a man writing a dialogue.” “No, you’re not getting it.” “What this meta-author needs is a hobby.” “Oh, I give up. You obviously don’t understand the deep significance behind these Questions.” “It just doesn’t seem to make much difference. What’s our author got to go wondering about meta-authors for? Isn’t one author enough for him? Look at me: I’m a voice in a dialogue, but you don’t hear me complaining about it.” “Obviously you’re not cut out for philosophizing.” “Well anyway, is there anything else on the list?” “Item 4: to Display Wit And Humor.” “Oh, that’s easy. Why did the chicken cross the road?” “No, not like that. We are supposed to be foils for the author’s keen intellect and gleaming style.” “Come again?” “We crack jokes and he gets the credit for them. It’s good for his ego, poor thing.” “Well, can never have too much ego, that’s what my aunt always says. Or maybe you can never have too much pie. I forget.” “Is that pie?”
“Want some?” “If it’s not too much trouble.” “No no, only it’s cut into three pieces.”
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“I don’t mind – can never have too much pie, after all.” “Alright, one for you and two for me.” “Hey!” “Well look at that, some of the pie crumbled off. There’s a little bit still left in the pan.” “How much is left, would you say?” “Oh, some fourteen hundredths and odd of a pie.” “That’s incredibly precise.” “I’ve always had a knack for geometry. You know, I’m not sure we actually did anything on the list.” “Well, not for want of trying. And there was that blurry line in midair a while back.” “I’m not sure that’s what they meant.” “Never mind. At least we have this pie.” “Yes, pie certainly puts a positive spin on the whole quantum particle.” “What quantum particle?” “The quantum particle of life, my friend.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Obviously you’re not cut out for philosophy.” “Say, what kind of pie are we eating, anyway?”
ich mich so schlau fühl 14
15
cool moon susan lee
a poet courtney koop
I love love But I only know of heartache And so that’s what I write about.
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image 1
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catherine sun
gros michel denethor zoompla naughts
Although your worth is at most minimal, assuming what I gave would e’er be lost, take notice as times are most critical, as I fear, we shan’t pay the utmost cost. Upon my heart thou hold a rightful claim-not one can measure your utility. For this, they abuse thee and take their aim, the worst foe be fate, such agility. I’d to you ev’ry wish myself devote, in hopes you won’t, once again, go extinct, Your hangman doth arrive with my outvote. May your arriving death please be succinct. Expired is your time of dominance; near is the Cavendish Apocalypse.
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As We Ar
&
How this exchange enriched us... As we arrived in this great country
Many wonderful people welcomed us with so much love Endless and unforgettable memories are forged
Rich Raiders now we are, never forget about your French friends In this incredible experience, we all grew as better persons Compliments for your hospitality
America, we want to thank you for every thing you gave us
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rrived
&
Our idea of what peace is... Protection of humanity Exchange to resolve conflicts Ability to forgive Choice of a better world Enlightment in our hearts that can reach human souls
In October of 2015, 21 students from Lycée Saint-Jean Hulst attended Alpharetta High School for 10 days as part of an exchange program. Together, they wrote this piece reflecting their experience in the United States. Inès Apade Olivier Aubert Juliette Belher Nicolas Bonnet Céline Capron Hugues Champault Charlotte Chaplain Julia Cholozynski Aliénor Dupont Adrien Kahn Etienne Aymeric Euvard Caroline Faujour Quentin Galle Maylis Genuyt Fabian Lefievre Charles Lego Benjamin Michel Marine Montazel Paul Moreau Leticia Sores Lara Thorn
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doll face susan lee
smile, the world is watching ~ savannah jackson
You are a Barbie Girl, and this is their plastic world, So fix your hair and stand up straight And plaster a smile on your face. Sing false hope, say it's all ok For now Because you'll soon have your day To show the world what you're all about To make them hear you even if you never shout They will flock to you within the millions Wishing to hear your every opinion. They shut us down because our ideas aren't real Say we talk too much and always feel, But I believe in myself and I believe in you Because if we come together we can make this world true. But for now my darling, it's not your time. Or is it? That's for you to decide
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chocolate chip o
savannah
My entire life I have been on a ledge. Close enough to the excitement, but far enough from the danger. And every day, I peer into the abyss that is my future and I fantasize about jumping. Leaping into the unknown and giving myself a chance. But I’ve been focused on a series of planned out events for some time now. Go to school. Make A’s( not B’s, and God forbid C’s, heaven help me if it’s an F). Go to college. Become a doctor. Make lots of money and never have a care in the world. But it’s in the last days that I’ve been thinking. Yes, thinking. About the ‘what ifs’. What if I didn’t go to college? And as my heart stops in my chest and I’m overcome with fear of not following the plan or not being able to see the path, I can’t help but wonder, what if I didn’t follow the plan? Is it okay? To deviate? To stray from the line?
or oatmeal raisin
h jackson
What if I made a choice and didn’t allow myself to be talked out of it? What if I didn’t allow myself to be beleaguered by people who have my best interest at heart, but don’t know a thing about my desires? Would I still be okay, if I chose to jump off the ledge and either break my legs or hit the ground running? Could I really do it? Can I make a choice and break away? Is it possible--for me? To choose something different than what was laid out for me all this time, after all these years? Which penalty is greater? The disappointment in their eyes? Or the regret in my life? Chocolate Chip or Oatmeal Raisin. It means make a choice. And be happy with it.
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cooooool catherine mills
on these days emma svitil
Today I've slipped so far So far into my own thoughts So far into the blackness at the back of my mind That the only tomorrow I can see Is one that didn't involve yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the day before. Sometimes I get like this. On these days I'm bleak. I'm blue. I'm nothing. On these days I comfort in my regret because I can feel nothing else. On these days The only bright future is The one where I didn't forgetThe one where I didn't sayThe one where you didn'tThe one where we could'veThe one whereThe oneThe oneTheBut none of those were my yesterdays. On these days I live with the fact that my future isn't as bright As it maybe could have been. So this is where I have to decide. Do I wallow, Wallow in my pity, My misery, My regret, Or do I change. Do I continue. Do I press on, Despite the hurt, The pain, The self-loathing. Do I stop? No. I won't give the world the satisfaction.
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eyes no lies
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catherine mills
i lost my keys stanislas lemuell
~ the cerebral cortex is canyoned by sulci and gyri, and in the valleys of her mind she hides denial. she lives in dusky limbo, tamely shuffling with a sheep’s mundanity. though her feet ache, she sits at her loom, forever weaving and never daring to imply that she wishes to stop. outside, the brook babbles into infinity. meanwhile, the farce of the clever, sneaking, very sly jester raises eyebrows and forces laughs, and afterwards they crush tempura under spoon after spoon. out in the field cows chewed cud while her story reached a rather anti climactic ending. today the calm persists, smothering us like pillows. in the distance the fauna and flora just watched. ~
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“ew who are you”
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“catherine mills”
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the shrew catherine williams Dark poison intertwines with her veins While she smiles sickly at her prey After quite the dance She conquered again And no one questioned Her capability For she was more advanced Than the other lions on the rock She flirted with evil on a daily basis She’s too sweet to be corrupt And as she smirked down at the mouse Between her extended claws She struck For darkness had taken over
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when the book is opened
victoria yang
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snax stops catherine mills
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all saints dawg stanislas lemuell 35
January, not April is the cruellest month because Good years always end and, Endings are never good. Right now I stand on The cusp of a beginning, Hanging patiently off the Edge of an end. Someone once said to me, “All things come to those who wait.� I agreed, Not knowing that Time waits for none.
yoyoyo catherine mills
surrealism assignment deemah alamoudi
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“and who I am today is worse than other times”
And I don’t know Who I even am anymore I am not my real self Am I even alive? Today I ripped my hair out Is that okay? It won’t make things Worse, only better Than they were before Other people don’t understand Times are hard for my head. “we all have our masks that we wear” -Tyler Joseph We are a wanting species, All of us together Have craved the feelings of Our own self-worth, but Masks seem to cover it up That which was once there, We cannot see anymore Wear a mask no more. “i know we’ve made it this far, kid” -Tyler Joseph
who i am today
-Tyler Joseph
I can’t imagine nor Know exactly what We’ve been doing to ourselves Made by our own hands It consumes our being This cannot go on, run Far, far away like a Kid now lost to himself.
lexie bryantt
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from the rot life grows jessica brummel
Four seeds for freedom As red juice dribbles down her throat And Death Stares into her eyes She feels alive. Up there are Fake flowers cut and sold: Bouquets of Lies While down here wild thorns Wild vines thrive. In the deep underground Down in the soil where shades of gray Define the light above She finds a hand to hold And a throne to sit on And a place where things Are exactly what they are. Eight months of sunlight Where gods bicker and the live are sickening; she dreams of cool air Of his sly smile and her new power. The Goddess of Spring blooms And the God of the Dead lives Deep in a fantastical world in the underground.
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persephone ii mallory rosten
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mallory rosten There is a kind of poetry that surrounds the rich. They glow with a halo because they are more glamorous than ordinary people. Yet, like ordinary people, they can be deeply, deeply flawed. And no contemporary text captured this flawed glamour more completely, more honestly, than Gossip Girl, the teenage dream. “The rich were dull and they drank too much, or they played too much backgammon. They were dull and they were repetitious. He remembered poor Scott Fitzgerald and his romantic awe of them and how he had started a story once that began, ‘The very rich are different from you and me.’ And how someone had said to Scott, Yes, they have more money. But that was not humorous to Scott. He thought they were a special glamorous race and when he found they weren’t it wrecked him as much as any other thing that wrecked him.” - Ernest Hemingway The summer before freshman year, I binge-watched Gossip Girl. I was thrown into a world of scandal and luxury, supermodel it girls and lonely wannabees. It was a fantasy world, a glittering paradise that beckoned teenagers who thought they were as cool as the Non Judging Breakfast Club but were, in reality, nobodies whom Blair Waldorf would have turned her nose up at. And I was one of them. I thought that I was special, of course. I thought that I was just smart enough and slick enough to join their cashmere gang. They were my friends. I understood them. I understood that Blair was only mean because she had a well of insecurities, that Serena was lost and just as lonely as
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Humphrey, and that all Chuck Bass wanted was someone to be proud of him. It was actually a dark show. Their world was just as empty as they were, and in the end they all became exactly like their parents, trapped in the same cycle of wealth and misery that had doomed Gatsby. The upper east side of Gossip Girl was basically an alternate universe. The teenagers drank scotch and vacationed in Europe as if they were adults. They were all rich. Even when Nate had to sleep on the floor of his abandoned penthouse because of his father’s white collar crimes, he still wore Armani and partied hard. Even Jenny and Dan, who claimed to be the misunderstood scholarship kids, lived in a gentrified Brooklyn loft despite the fact that their mother was an unemployed painter and their father a rock has-been who owned a crumbling art gallery. In their universe, being poor means wearing flannel instead of designer clothes and eating waffles for breakfast instead of caviar. It’s a nice world to live in. Gossip Girl is Shakespearean in nature. One does not have to look hard to see that it is a direct descendent of Much Ado about Nothing. The four main characters are identical to the Non Judging Breakfast Club: Blair is Beatrice, Chuck is Benedick, Nate is Claudio, and Serena is Hero. Their relationships are the same as well. Blair and Chuck banter and fight before realizing they belong together and Serena and Nate are the golden couple. Gossip is the force that drives the plot, bringing the characters together and forcing them apart. They hurt each other but in the end, all is forgiven, because they are the
insiders, and they have no one else to turn to. In most of Shakespeare’s plays, actions come with heavy consequences, chiefly among them death. But Much Ado is unique in that despite their plotting and eavesdropping and gossiping, the characters remain unscathed and achieve what they wanted all along but were too afraid to reach for. This is the basic premise of Gossip Girl. The characters all want love, but they are either too proud or too scared to admit it, so they scheme and lie and and gossip and hurt each other over and over again. They are thrown into high stakes situations only to emerge with barely a scratch. In the first season, they throw an illicit pool party late at night at their high school’s swimming pool, in which a kid almost dies, but no one is punished because one of their rich parents donates to the school. They do the things regular teenagers can’t do. They ignore everything teenagers are ever told in health class, and they remain beautiful. They smash into each other and other people, ruining lives if they must, so they may cling to their thrones. They’re the careless rich of Fitzgerald’s dreams. And it does seem that they really are a glamorous race. After all, they’re beautiful and powerful and always clothed in couture. Yet they are deeply faulted. They have insecurities and father issues and hero complexes. They are selfish and arrogant and cruel. The main message the characters convey, with their cool looks over champagne glasses, is don’t even try to be like us. No matter how hardened Humphrey’s heart became or how much he sacrificed everything he stood for, he never became one of them. Like Gatsby, he was forever cursed to stand on the inside, to be used and cast
away at the whim of his obsessions. Unlike Gatsby, Humphrey did not have hope. He did not look towards a bright and beautiful light. He knew what Gatsby did not, that the glittering world he aspired to had a black heart. It did not take him long to realize that Serena, the blonde goddess of his obsession, who he thought was some kind of angel, was shallow and broken. At first, this discovery shattered him, as if he had discovered G-d was not real. But then he decided that he did not care. She was simply an empty vessel for his desires and aspirations, much like the show itself is an empty vessel for its audience’s desires and aspirations. His disillusioned heart allowed him to become everything the Upper East Side needed him to be: shallow and cold. In the first season he declared that he didn’t want to write if it meant hurting his friends. By the end of the show, he had written a novel and multiple exposes exploiting his so called friends for fame and fortune. Humphrey is a version of Nick Carraway who has sold his soul. Instead of being crushed by his disillusionment, he emerges, hollow as everyone else, having discarded his values and ready to join the vampires. Yet he is still excluded, because, ultimately, he is not one of them. Humphrey’s obsession with Serena mirrors our obsession with the show, just as Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy mirrors Fitzgerald’s obsession with the rich. These four entities conform to whatever their admirer wishes them to be. But eventually the weight of our expectations are too much, and the objects of our obsessions buckle. Serena’s issue was that she never realized herself independent of
the age of dissonance
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Humphrey’s idea of her, and so she was always just a paper doll made of poetry, not a girl of flesh and bone. This is why she so easily forgave Dan for being gossip girl, she didn’t know who she was without him and his version of her. Who she was, the It girl, the angel, was just a character in his stories. He conceived her, from the moment he blogged about her in the white dress. It’s strange then, that I, and so many teenagers, should identify so strongly with the show. It has none of the familiarity of of Freaks and Geeks nor the realism of My So Called Life. Even The O.C., another show about privileged rich kids, had heart and left its audience with the feeling that they weren’t alone. It’s not that Gossip Girl is alienating, it wants to include you in its clique. It beckons you, winks as if letting you in on the best kept secret in Manhattan. Yet despite its best efforts, it still feels like the audience is the outsider, watching the rich kids through a glass window. But such is high school. High school isn’t inclusive nor full of heart. Although the cliques aren’t neatly packaged with definitive labels, they exist, and they’re harsh. There is always that lingering impression of feeling like you don’t belong, of feeling like there are always people cooler than you, doing cool things without you, that you’re on the outside. And this is as true for the kid playing video games every Saturday night as it is for the neo-raver who’s perpetually partying. Gossip Girl takes these core issues and amplifies them.
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In the end, Gastby worked, because at its core was hope. A persistent undercurrent of hope that makes the boats beat on, no matter how faintly it glows. This hope that had been so present in the first two seasons had died out around the time Dan’s hair morphed into a poodle. In the final episode, Serena and Dan wore looks of resignation, not elation, as they committed their lives to one another. Lily waited barely ten minutes after her husband’s death before she returned to her ex-husband who had once given her fake cancer. Rufus, once the moral center, had become a kept man with Lisa Loeb glasses. Blair and Chuck were the only ones who seemed truly happy, but the tortured path they had to take to reach their happiness had damaged them until they had no one else to turn to. The hope that Nate had expressed in the first episode when he told Chuck he didn’t want to become his parents had become a cruel, laughing joke by the sixth season as Nate repeated his father’s exact crimes of fraud and embezzlement. The main theme of seasons 3-5 was maturity. The show pushed its characters to grow up and move on from their gossiping, petty high school selves. Many of them made real progress. But by the end of the 5th season all their progress crumbled and the 6th season saw them doing the same things with the same people that they had in the 1st season, only with worse hair and more world weary sighing. They never grew up. They had always been children, cemented in a warped Neverland.
But fourteen year old me didn’t see any of this. Even the sixteen year old me who watched the finale on a Thursday night didn’t see it. All I saw was the garden of earthly delights. As I languished in mediocrity that summer, I simultaneously attended decadent parties and lounged on the steps of the Met. I existed in an alternate universe. To be honest, I don’t remember anything I did that summer besides watch Gossip Girl. For all I know, I could’ve really been drinking poolside mimosas at the Hamptons with Serena and Blair. I still revisit that paradise when I need an escape, when I’m particularly stressed or overwhelmed. Gossip Girl encased adolescence in a shimmering castle. It’s a gingerbread house, built to lure in the teenagers who crave more more more. The world of Gossip Girl may be artificial, but it’s beautiful. Watching Gossip Girl was not a good introduction to high school. The ivy covered (literally, the school was basically a four year prep course on how to get into the Ivy league), school with mahogany lockers and where wearing tights as pants was akin to murder could have been Wonderland compared to Alpharetta High School. If I carried even the slightest hope that high school would be similar to Gossip Girl, it was instantly obliterated. Compared to the Upper East Side, the real world is, at best, annoying, and, at worst, depressing. High school could not possibly have lived up to the colossal expectations I had accumulated the summer before. And yet, it still shimmers.
During its run, Vulture of New York Magazine recapped the show with vigor. They recapped the recaps. They recapped the recaps of the recaps. They created a fervent online community that thrived on the actions of four teenagers. This forum existed in the same time and space as the show, gossiping online about teenagers who were gossiping online. They anointed it The Greatest Show of Our Time. Why? Why was everyone so obsessed? Why am I, still to this day, so obsessed? We watch shows like 90210 and Gossip Girl not because they are aspirational fantasies (although they very much are), but because we loved to see how flawed these perfect beings actually are. We love to learn that maybe it’s not so great to be rich after all, that maybe mediocrity is a simple happiness we are privileged to have. Yet there is a less cynical reason that Carl Jung would approve. Strip back the gold and the jewels, and Gossip Girl is human. It tells human stories. It’s plots echo stories featured in literary canon such as Tess of the D’Ubervilles, Macbeth, Much Ado about Nothing, The Great Gatsby, The Crucible, and Wuthering Heights. There is the dark and twisted romance, the shaming of the scorned woman, the ruthless ambition, the lonely prince, the fallen golden girl. The familiar stories and archetypes that we know so well are dressed up in shimmering clothes, but at their core they are the same. Am I overestimating our capacity for wisdom? Am I giving my generation too much credit? Perhaps we only watched Gossip Girl for the shoes.
the age of dissonance 44
catherine mills
agh trees
45
stanislas lemuell
water bottle the place where my heart used to be is warm but empty, the cave walls slimey with tears shed to fill the void. my dry eyes saw the sparsely grassed area that they stuck full of wickets for a game of croquet. at noon it was finally time for tea, but the ladies they fear that the tub that they filled with ice is too small. at sunset the local cricket gave a final chirp and leapt into the teapot, and the ladies whispered “evil an omen for evil� and nobody caught the reference. tongueless and speechless, unable to plan she succumbs to hysteria and clings to his arm. sublime! say the common folk. the hoi polloi is unable to understand her diction, so at sea she loosens her belt, and the saltwater waves wash away the desperation of her plea, and she finally becomes a constellation.
46
4 CATHERINE SUN
47
ACETONE bodily poisons fill my veins as morphine pumps to my brain tries to tell it nothing feels pain, but it lies as I scream in vain tubes of plastic coil in alone my chest and ribs and collarbone I feel the pressure it makes me groan my blood’s on fire is this acetone? walking is the worst activity my least favorite way of productivity they say it helps I doubt in my naivety, but it truly does cure my sensitivity still though, I hate all of this want to rid of such an abyss down in my soul it makes me miss my before-hand, peaceful bliss when finally I can leave this place a true smile will form upon my face my heart will boom deep and loud like a bass and I will thank God for this Amazing Grace.
48
sweater weather. susan lee atomos means uncuttable
diamonds are like people only another gem can cut beneath their surface we wait around enduring the full moon for another dawn to break the horizon ready to walk into the sunrise nice manners left behind ground into the gravel, left for the wolves at midnight we run in packs sweetwater creeks where we brush our teeth entreating the morning for mercy as the sun rises again and thunder rolls the skies ending the night time revelries again
49
50
photo 3 sam morton 51
skillet denethor zoompla naughts call for me heavy breathing fills the line earfuls of static breaks your thoughts eggs burnt in the frying pan sluice the remnants erase the past wastebasket is full honey drips from the spool inch the broom zoom
52
there’s a monster in my house There’s a monster in my house How absurd one might think We ridded it last christmas with the selling of a ring It lingered not under beds, nor in closets but rather in plain sight for everyone to see. It walked, talked, and conversed freely It even had its own place to sleep And now it lives lonely without company It claims it’s a victim, which is such heresy. I now live free of any dark damper I walk in the sunshine triumphantly But lo and behold, at my new safe haven. With bells and whistles and a staircase of glass Something is waiting and it won’t stop glaring And I saw the gold rings that it would be sharing So I drop my suitcase in utter despair There’s no way to flee but I can’t seem to care There’s a monster in my house
ryan gallagher 53
catherine mills
c001 54
two immortals hagar baruch Two immortals twirling around One wants to go up The other go down But no matter their differences Or what they oppose They’ll keep spinning together And never let go One is the sun The other the moon One is happiness The other is gloom But they will keep turning And turning around While one wants to go up The other go down
55
devin phillips
conehead
56
i could tell you why geneva oke I could tell you why I don’t wanna melt or become part of your sea I don’t want to be wrapped because that’s suffocating Don’t wanna get close ‘cause I’m a chameleon I’m scared to be more because you’ll let me in
57
courtney stuart
my e[nding]scape Wind blows through my hair The soft strands brushing against my bare shoulders The night is new yet old All the secrets wrapped in its cold fingers I let out a breath and look back The earth smells refreshing An old足-found-足new freedom Like a pair of friends reunited The eye is on me now I begin to run faster than I ever have before Sprinting, my arms move up and down and I look back--足足darkness
Photo: Zoe Genet
58
seraph. susan lee
59
60
INDEX
Alamoudi, Deemah........................................................................................... 37 Balakumar, Dhakshi............................................................................................ 6 Baruch, Hagar.................................................................................................... 55 Brummel, Jessica............................................................................................... 39 Bryant, Lexie............................................................................................... 38, 48 French Students......................................................................................... 19, 20 Gallagher, Ryan................................................................................................. 53 Genet, Zoe.............................................................................................. 5, 57, 58 Hopper, Derek.....................................................................9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 Jackson, Savannah................................................................................ 22, 23, 24 Koop, Courtney................................................................................................ 16 Lee, Susan.................................................................... 15, 16, 21, 49, 50, 59, 60 Lemuell, Stanislas................................................................................. 28, 35, 46 Mills, Catherine.............................................. 25, 27, 29, 30, 33, 34, 36, 45, 54 Morton, Sam.................................................................................................51, 52 Naughts, Denethor Zoompla...................................................................18, 52 Oke, Geneva..................................................................................................... 57 Phillips, Devin.................................................................................................... 56 Rosten, Mallory.................................................................... 7, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44 Street Team...............................................................................................1, 2, 3, 4 Stuart, Courtney.......................................................................................... 7, 58 Sun, Catherine............................................................................................ 17, 47 Svitil, Emma....................................................................................................... 26 Williams, Catherine......................................................................................... 31 Yang,Victoria..................................................................................................... 32
COLOPHON All art, literature, and photographs were submitted by students of Alpharetta High School and selected by a committee of creative arts magazine staff and editors. Typeface used in the publication: Bell MT, Letter Gothic Std Bold Title Font: Letter Gothic Std Bold Pages and layout created using Adobe Indesign CS4 and Adobe Photoshop CS4 Cover Art by Mallory Rosten and Zoe Genet Cover Layout and Design by Mallory Rosten, Jessica Brummel, and Susan Lee Title Page Art and Folio Design by Zoe Genet
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