Masthead
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Riatta Fields & Kanik Wilton-Green
FEATURES EDITOR
Jack Yioutas
NEWS EDITOR
Amrith Chandra
FICTION & POETRY EDITOR
Kanik Wilton-Green
COLUMNISTS
Jack Yioutas
Gabe Valentin
Joe Miller
ARTS EDITOR
Katelyn Calderon
LAYOUT EDITOR
Riatta Fields
FACULTY ADVISOR
Graeme Mullen
EDITOR’S NOTE
Riatta Fields
Welcome back, Aussies! As we wrap up this edition, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on all that’s happened. It’s been an incredible journey, filled with creativity and memorable moments. This issue is bittersweet for me, as it’s also my final one as Editor-in-Chief. A big shoutout to all our contributors—you’ve made this magazine what it is. We’ll also be saying goodbye to Mr. Mullen, our faculty advisor. His dedication has truly kept the Aussie rolling. Thank you, Mr. Mullen, for everything you’ve done. You will be missed!
This issue is packed with amazing artwork that snagged a National Scholastic award, showcasing the talent of our young artists. Each piece has its own unique vibe, adding a nice touch to this edition. It’s great to see the creativity and hard work of our contributors recognized in this way.
As we head into summer, I hope you all take some time to relax, recharge, and enjoy every moment. Whether you’re traveling, graduating, hanging out with friends, or just kicking back at home, make it a summer to remember!
I struck, I had on Timbs and a black mask. Remember that. . .? I know you don’t remember jack! That night, yo I was hittin’ like a spiked bat!” Ghostface compares himself to a weapon (a spiked bat) to further drive his confrontational tone. He is also alluding to his upbringing, in a time when he may have had to deal with improvised weapons before he was stable and hip-hop entered the rap scene.
The final verse is delivered by Masta Killa, and this is the most complex and well mapped out part of the song. The most admirable thing about the final verse is the lyrics and how the end of every rhyme is also the start of the next. In his rhymes, he insinuates that he is figuratively (or maybe even literally) killing his opponents. “We have an APB on an MC Killa! Looks like the work of a Masta.” He is bold to put his own rap name in the same sentence where he mentions a murder. He is using this platform to spread the word of how tough he is, even going so far as to say that the cops are out for him, and yet he is still in the studio making bangers. Finally, we reach my favorite set of rhymes in the whole song. The original driving force behind this review, Masta Killa goes in for the kill, using strong imagery: “The flow changes like a chameleon, plays like a friend and stabs you like a dagger. This technique attacks the immune system, disguised like a lie, paralzin’ the victim. You scream, as it enters your bloodstream, Erupts your brain from the pain these thoughts contain. Movin’. . . with the speed of a centipede, and injure any. . . contender!” These lyrics beautifully portray how his flow is versatile and changing like a chameleon’s skin, and how it presents itself to be a simple rap song, but is really a planned attack. Then, all of a sudden, he ambushes the listener, catching them off guard with his immense style. Finally, the ending line is incredibly powerful. After showing all of the strengths that he has, Masta Killa challenges any contender to step up and try to one-up him.
The end of the song brings you back to where the listener started this hip-hop journey, overlaying the audio samples from the beginning as the beat runs down. This represents the listener coming full circle. The stories told verse by verse, built and told by the Wu-Tang Clan, have been presented, shared, and wrapped up in a neat little bow.
All in all, the Wu-Tang Clan is one of the most important rap groups to ever grace the scene, as hip hop was still stepping into its own and steadily growing. The Wu-Tang made their debut, and “Da Mystery of Chessboxin”
was born. Through immersive, catchy melodies and the creative lyrical genius of the Wu-Tang Clan and the musical stylings of the RZA, the hip-hop scene was forever altered. This song scores a perfect 10/10 in my mind, and deserves more recognition. The Wu-Tang truly are “Nuthin to mess with.”
“Beetle beMuse” by Zadok Bendandi
National Scholastic Regional Gold Key Award / National Silver Medal
“Beetle beMuse” is an asymmetrical avant-garde garment crafted from 1,000 ethically sourced jewel beetle elytra. Its holographic lustrous form and iridescent colors flow and reflect light in a way no artificial material could, giving the piece an otherworldly, lifelike feel.
In your empty space, we will always love you, Diesel.
Diesel Poem
by Caye Paier
Meandering without a care, You were a calm little fellow. Greeting students. Making them feel more mellow. You were always here. A large pillar that AESA stood on. A photogenic little fellow. Wandering about. High on life.
Whenever I passed you, I always said hello. You enjoyed the occasional pet, And disliked the vet. Your presence made every day Feel special. You will be greatly missed. And our school will not recover.
Remembering Diesel: The Heart of AESA
by Gabe Valentin
Refined, Distinguished, but also playful. Eyes wide and vigilant. Ever watchful.
A bundle of furry, fluffy curiosity. He was meaningful. When his fur coat was long, it swayed in the breeze, like a birdsong. There’s a hole in AESA’s heart now that he’s gone.
HONEY, I’M HOME
Kanik Wilton-Green
Ahouse stood on a hill, forgotten. Below it lay a sleepy town full of children anxious to escape and adults wishing they could. The house watched over it, ivy slowly creeping over its walls. It had been there for decades, untouched. The town had been content to abandon it, to forget what had happened within its walls. But the house remembered.
The walkway to the front door was cracked and uneven aside from two handprints that had been preserved in the wet cement when it had been poured. An inscription below the prints was too faded to read except for the words “together forever.”
The house remembered that day. The walkway had been the final part of its construction. It had been a warm, sunny day, and as the construction team poured the cement, a pair of bright-eyed lovers pressed their hands into the gray sludge. They carved their initials and a declaration of their love before the handprints. She wore a flowery sundress and a blinding smile, a bright diamond glinting on her left finger as she clung to his arm. They walked away from the house, leaving it with one final night of peace.
The next day, the lovers returned. She wore a lacy white gown, and her veil was tossed back to show her face. She beamed at him, her hand smoothing the lapels of his crisp black suit. The pair walked up the steps to their new home. In the doorway, they paused. She stood on her toes and kissed him. He picked her up as they stepped inside, and she let out a loud, joyous laugh that echoed through the house as he carried her to the bedroom.
The house was barren at first. It held the barest of fixtures– a king-size bed with an oak headboard, a moth-eaten ochre couch, a round table that had scratched the fresh varnish of the floors as the movers had brought it in– the
The house was quiet without him. She rarely left, only to run errands, and spent her days cleaning and redecorating as she waited for his return. She was often so engrossed in her chores that she forgot to eat, only remembering when she finally tore herself away hours later. She didn’t hum as she prepared herself food. She was unfocused, somewhere far away from the house in her mind, and in her absent-mindedness, often sliced her skin open while cooking. Once, she rested her hand on the stove, not noticing that it was on. She only realized what had happened when the smell of burning filled the kitchen. The silence without him made the house feel desolate.
He noticed the growing number of bandages on her hands as he returned. She brushed off his concern and promised to be more careful, though the number of new injuries she had increased every time he returned. She would squeeze his arm, and he would tease her about her clinginess, and the house was full of life again.
But as time passed, her laughter grew shrill. He winced as the sound pierced his ears, but she didn’t notice. She hung off his arm, unwilling to part from him for a moment longer than she had to. She only left his side to bathe and to cook, and he would often find her bleeding into the food she prepared, her expression dreamy and dazed, not having noticed a gash she had gotten while slicing vegetables. She would snap back to herself when he rushed to her side. She seemed unbothered by her injuries, beaming at him so widely that her skin stretched taut across her face. Dried blood stained the kitchen floor.
Her eyes were starry when they danced. She barely noticed her surroundings as she spun in his arms. She tripped over the heavy coffee table, gravity tearing her from his grasp. He reached for her as her head slammed into the rug spread out across the hardwood floor. The hollow thud that sounded from the impact made his stomach twist. Her eyes were closed, and as he kneeled next to her, the record playing their song felt like a cruel joke. He held his shaking hands over her, afraid to touch her. When her eyes fluttered open, he pulled her into his arms, eyes glassy as he buried his face in her hair. She laughed off his concern, but the sound was jarring. She stood up, glaring at the coffee table with so much hatred that he flinched back, afraid.
Many nights he would wake to find her staring at the bouquet above their bed. The faint moonlight that bled in from the edges of the curtains cast strange shadows across her face, twisting her features into something gro-
stream of putrid acid and undigested food. When his stomach was empty, he pushed himself to his feet. He almost slid on the vomit that coated the stairs, but he carefully steadied himself and took shaky steps up to the door.
He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, dreading what awaited him inside. He apprehensively turned it, peering inside as it creaked open. Relief flooded through him as he examined the house, but the feeling was quickly replaced by a cold fear. She was nowhere to be seen. He crept through the house, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. It was no longer welcoming and warm. The house was his prison, and his jailor was nowhere to be seen.
He sank down, his back pressed against the bedroom door. He hadn’t seen her, but the terror he felt only grew as he pulled himself to his feet and inched towards the bed. Glass shards were scattered across the bed, and in the faint moonlight, a trail of dark, rusty circles was visible across the sheets. Exhaustion overtook him, and he sank into the mattress, the sharp fragments pricking his back.
When he woke, he found himself in his best suit. It was stiff and dusty, untouched since his wedding day, and as he rose, he winced, the glass fragments on the floor slicing into his bare feet. He cautiously emerged from the room and saw her standing in the parlor, illuminated by the moonlight. She looked sickly in the silver glow of the moon. Her skin drooped from her body, and her dress hung stiffly from her shoulders. Slivers of glass littered her gown, and they glinted as she turned to face him. A line of dark red droplets stained the front of her dress. Beneath the folds of her veil, he could make out a grotesque smile. She clutched the bouquet of white roses, dried blood staining the frail leaves crimson. She held out her hand for him, and as if drawn to her, he stepped closer.
She grabbed his hand, caressing it with her thumb. Her fingers were bony and cold, and as she slid her hand to his wrist, bits of glass that were embedded in her fingers sliced open his skin. She raised his shaking hand to her veil and guided him as he lifted it.
His stomach churned as she beamed at him. Her cheeks were hollow, and excess skin sagged from her ashen face. Her lips were dry and cracked, and blood oozed from splits, the skin having ruptured from her wide smile. She nauseated him, but he couldn’t look away, as if in a trance. She leaned closer, her sour breath hot against his face. He was frozen as she pressed her lips to
OUTFIT OF THE ISSUE
Joe
Miller
Love is in the air this season! Today was a great day for finding great outfits. I didn’t expect so many people to dress up for Valentine’s Day (Looking at YOU, seniors), but I am very happy people did. Everyone looks so awesome, and I love the matching colors! The middle schoolers, however, REALLY outdid themselves. Not only did they wear pink, but they also incorporated bows, layering, and Valentine’s symbols. In my humble opinion, bows can escalate an outfit from basic to beautiful! This is one of the rare scenarios where less is more AND more is more. That brings me to something new I discovered in my fashion research — the sandwich method. I see a few people using it in this photo. The sandwich method is where you wear one color on top, i.e., hats, necklaces, jackets, or shirts; another color in the middle, i.e., shirts, belts, or shorts; and the same color from the top worn on the bottom, i.e., pants, longer skirts, or shoes. It definitely elevates your outfit, as you can see on Sadie, Annika, and Kendall. Overall, great work staying stylish, Aussies!
“In the Depths of Memory” by Camila Carrasco
National
Scholastic Silver Key Award
This photo shows a Cuban elder in deep thought.
“Through the Glass of Time”
National Scholastic Silver Key Award
This photo shows a happy conversation during the holidays in the reflection of the window.
by Camila Carrasco
“Timeless
National Scholastic Gold Key Award / National Silver Medal
An older Cuban woman looking up with joy in her eyes.
Joy” by Camila Carrasco
THE SILENT PROMISE
NATIONAL SCHOLASTIC GOLD KEY AWARD
Dylan MacDonald
Just decent and unworthy
It’s not on me to impose on your journey. If I were to tell you, you would nod and pretend, But understandably, you’d go on uncaring about my pitiful loose end. Nobody cares.
Shut up
Nobody wants to catch my bitter tears in a cup. Keep the falsely forged smile. Let them go on with their life for a while. Nobody cares.
I’m an invisible fly on the wall
Just another character to them all. A sidekick or less
Somebody who nobody needs to assess. Nobody cares.
A couple of A’s, never mind. It is unimportant if I am kind. Another breakthrough, what does it matter? The next person just won, and it’s my job to flatter. Nobody cares.
I just need to push it down Where my scalding pain and success can’t be found. If I tell, I come off as vain, Their ensuing thoughts of me would be marred by bane. Nobody cares.
But why do I feel as if inside me, something’s broken? Is this a nightmare from which I can be woken? Laugh, laugh. Hide the smoldering pain, Hopefully, soon, this feeling will wane. Nobody cares.
Stuff it all deeper, Hide my success and failure behind a censoring bleeper. As I keep burying and burying, My pockets overflow, divulging the emotion I am carrying. Nobody cares.
I sprint, leap, and chase myself into a comforting seclusion. Tumbling tears ruin my carefully crafted illusion. Sing louder with a ring ding ding, A veil of joy masks the sting Because still, nobody cares.
But. . .
But somebody does care.
Nobody is the one who cares. He always checks up on my affairs. My ride or die To whom I don’t have to lie. Nobody cares.
But now I think my sanity has gone black For I am talking to Nobody, and Nobody is talking back. I don’t know up from down I’m an over-stuffed bear with sewn lips that can’t frown. Nobody cares.
Now, I can converse and share my thoughts, For Nobody, my friend, can see through the confident facade I wrought. He compliments my tie with a knowing glance, We smile as we sway in a mutual dance. Nobody cares.
Perched in a tree, we chat and sip on rich tea. Despite having a new friend, I feel alone in the depths of the turbulent dark sea. I lean forward to bestow him a friendly hug, But from my gut, all I feel is a persistent tug. Nobody cares.
POETRY
BRO-ETRY
Ezra Neighman & Justin Faust
Arm Day
Arm day my love
So few yet so plentiful
Biceps, triceps, shoulders
Pull, push, and raise
Increasing weight
20, 30 ,40
So many tools and extensions just for me
I pick the weights from the rack
I’m going to finish my set
There’s no going back
I’m my mind, now I know
There is only joy from here
To pump iron
Revokes all fear.
Calves
Calves, O calves
So small yet so strong
Avoiding all proteins
Science based lifters are wrong
Hypertrophy, shmypertrophy
Size based off of genes
My fate is sealed Small calves for me.
Leg
Day
Leg day, leg day
Two days prior, Two days post, I’ll ponder in dire
For five days, at most. My legs on fire, Extensions will burn, As hearts churn.
My smile, it turns, A musk frown returns
O, the sinister day
One to three times a year,
If leg day were talking, I wouldn’t give an ear
O, as I extend my quads, I feel depressed I long for the press, For the bosom of my chest.
During my squat set, I long for the rest I train until failure, but still several left.
O the dread,
Leg day is near, get out of my head!
My hamstrings and calves, My glutes and quads
As I lose my ability to walk It gets to my head
I cannot stop thinking I’d rather be dead.
ADVICE FROM THE SENIORS
Riatta Fields
As the new school year gets underway, our seniors have some practical advice to share from their experiences. They’ve faced the challenges and learned a lot along the way, and now they’re passing on what they’ve discovered. Take a look at their tips and make the most of your year!
“Jesus loves you more than you will ever know. You are loved, you are chosen, you are wanted, and you are made in his perfect and wonderful image. Don’t forget that.” - Darby Chalfant
“If you’re in a prison cafeteria, don’t get the mashed potatoes. The other inmates will look at it and think it’s ice cream, and they’ll kill you for it.” - Hollister Williams
“Use high school as a time of self-discovery and, most importantly, HAVE FUN. Make friends with people and hang out outside of school. Go to the mall, concerts, and overall, make good memories.” - Joe Miller
“Education is important, but big biceps are importanter.” - Justin Faust
“When you’re racing someone, make sure you’re off the sidewalk. Oh, and start some clubs!” - Bob Miller
“Don’t procrastinate assignments in Mrs. Bone’s class, or you will get severely behind (like me).” - Jillian Friedman
“Skip class as often as I skip leg day– never.” - Riatta Fields
“Your souls belong to procrastination, and your body to insomnia.” - Slaten Fields
“Take pride in how far you’ve come, and have faith in how far you can go.” - Presley Fieldsted
“Don’t be afraid to share what you’re into—being yourself is how you find friends who like you, not a version of you. You don’t have to change to fit in.” - Amrith Chandra
“Head in the Clouds” by Leigh Henson
National Scholastic Honorable Mention
This is a piece that represents the thoughts that we all have and how we can’t always interpret the thoughts we have.
“Vaulted
National Scholastic Honorable Mention
This photo shows the rotunda of the Texas Capitol.
Elegance” by Camila Carrasco