BARE | 2016-2017

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B A R E literar y art s magazine

2017


Cover Artwork Peerapad Charernkitpan Cover Design Sarah Martin Magazine layout Andreea Costinescu and Caroline Chidester


DEAR READERS, After months of toil sorting through over 250 submissions we received from students of all grade levels, the newest issue of BARE is finally here! It was an outstanding year for submissions, and we highly enjoyed the small look into your minds and souls that you allowed us through your writing and artwork. We would like to thank the brave authors and artists who submitted; without you and your awe-inspiring talents, we wouldn’t be able to carry on making a magazine that’s full of all of the things that we love. Thank you, again. We also owe a massive thank you to our advisors, Mr. Wagner and Ms. Kentner. They have been wonderful guides to us throughout the process of creating BARE, and without them we quite literally wouldn’t have the ability to share all the fantastic work featured in this issue. A special thank you should also be given to Colin Gawel for allowing us to host our open mic night at Colin’s Coffee. We hope that you enjoy perusing the 2016 - 2017 edition of BARE literary arts magazine as much as we enjoyed meticulously creating it. All members of the staff are proud of this issue, but the seniors especially are happy to graduate knowing that we and the Upper Arlington high school community created something so individually beautiful, and that we will be passing down a bright and flaming torch to next year’s staff. We would like to encourage everyone with a passion for the arts to get involved in BARE next year, whether that be by joining the magazine staff or submitting your work.

Sincerely, Tory Loux and Andreea Costinescu Editors-in-Chief Note: When viewing BARE online, make sure to enter fullscreen in order to see the best version of the magazine possible.


ROMANTIC BODIES IN NYC Magnus Saeboe

It’s a simple night I think it’s night Because the people are a little tired And they all have that romantic body in their mind Slightly drowsy from the image of the cozy Huddled frame that is the New York underground Those with sense have been sifted out gently By the stopping and starting of a subway train working into the night


Definitely Flower Peerapad Charernkitpan


Cacti Eye Daniel Ibba

It’s the clouds that r o u n d over the flannel bland. The dream of Her, Could clean the mount, An Age of a garden sage Leader of our black, maniac world But, she’s the window without glass To a lighter land. The iron that alters good water, She mutates it to wood. Our flag that aids the noble us Doesn’t look to us as it should. A Peculiar Pencil Of that mutated iron. She sketches a new nation From the iron fist. The government turned to fire Because of His undue desire. But She has The C ​ acti Eye Libel to the blind, but light to the wise. Caley Mulligan >



Heat

Anonymous And, torch ablaze, everything goes quicker save the praised girls with flame resistant lashes and nails. Whistling and tracking my ashes.


Riptide Sarah Martin


FUGUE Tory Loux

Mapped matter dotted through heart strings, tripping out a symphony busy with color. A girl was frozen like red and then: Thawed blue like dew on morning grass, maroon from Pennsylvania mountains, reaching with rosined fingertips. I am not angry anymore. This red remains.

Andreea Costinescu >



Saturn’s Rings Emma Longo

I wore my mother’s wedding Ring on my finger And I always wondered why And how Such a beautiful thing could contain Millions of fantasies and why And how Something so small Could contain so many universes inside of it. For it was one of Saturn’s rings that I was resting on. But you fell off And soon enough I fell off, too.


The last sapling Peerapad Charernkitpan



Acts Ellie Auch


Alden Trotter


Reasons why i believe in reincarnation Victoria Wu Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because of the kids playing cat’s cradle on the roof. Strings are forever connected despite the constant change in shape. Knots, ties and intersections that are destined to meet are beyond my ken. Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because a stranger complimented my ribbon. Blue like your acceptance of the world, pink like your love for the unbloomed blossoms. Teal like your curiosity for life, red as icy hands picked the withering gardenias beneath the tree. Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because the dog jumped into the river. Secret life of the undersea hidden under the surface will discover the new without sound. Through the tears of others, you swim as the air they need from suffocating under harsh tides. Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because you picked up a leaf from the road. I too, have fallen but were picked up from desperation, separation, isolation. Today looked like yesterday but tomorrow will not look like today. Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because the petals fell at a constant rate. Five centimeters per second, slowly I walk through the flooded fog. Though you stand there quietly waiting to be found, I still strayed away from you trail. Reason why I believe in reincarnation is because I still haven’t met you yet, and you no longer remain.


Watercolor Lily Nelson

A timid dot of color planted like a seed in the earth is dropped near the canvas edge, slowly expanding the brush coaxing the loose stream along with horizontal strokes buzzes between the palate and paper–– the pollinator of the piece below. with deft movements the colors bloom across the page like a field of wildflowers moving and swaying with the pull of the brush silk-smooth yet unrestricted, free to create whatever the mind desires.


Bees

Mary Lee Fenner


The Mailbox Audrey Molnar

It’s so strange to think about the mailbox. All of the letters I read, but never really received. Their absence weighs heavy in my palms. I am afraid to touch the ink. I marvel what the letters would look like, how would they smell? Surely, not familiar. No matter the amount of letters I send out, and address in the ink that I am afraid to touch. There is no parchment in return. The mailbox remains vacant, metal collecting dust. What would a letter say though, if I did find one for me? Maybe, it would acknowledge a time where I laughed, a time that existed only in my head. A time that could be mentioned in a letter, that I would never get.


Books and teacup Katie Zhao


Stories Tory Loux

At the beach they find pottery fragments, glazed things like single letters, washed up. I become the potter, holding many strange shapes close this roughing of colors brings with it the loudness of many hands, all singing of joy and of aching together. I don’t have stories I just have sounds, stuck in me like atoms and you know atoms are a constant thing always moving with no regard. A body; a battle of moments; a shifting of atoms against one another like broken pots or memories. These things long lost in the vivid knowledge of wanting to be heard.


From Above Caroline Chidester


Mjolnir Dante Landolfi

Boulders tilt precariously granite sparks to a fuse, igniting a landslide Young firs bridge, and cling, jostled about, children in a bustle Ancient hardwoods brace, weathering the kamikaze sediment easily spiteful to stone The heaviest stones thunder, avalanching, weak crushed beneath Thor’s hammer relentless Dust streams down it’s face, the long beard of the mountain Teardrops of rock from gneiss eyes fall Stone visage unblinking


Cat’s Cradle Andreea Costinescu


Chopping Wood Alia Bortz

for all who have a disability Doing this for hours, days, weeks, months. Tired, But determined Sweating endless work; one after the next And so on. Try again until it’s gone.


Trees in California Sarah Martin



Arrhythmia Emily de Jong

You were in my dream again last night. You slid into bed with tattered slippers on, smelling of mint, and as you slipped under the covers, you bore your way into my chest. Right above my heart you rested with eyes lightly shut, body aligned with vein and artery listening contently as my heart beat a steady hum. With delicate feet you began to spring gently, dancing in a way that only you could, gruesome grand jetés welcoming an angry flutter to my heart. I indulge you for a moment. I dare not clutch my chest in agony, for the tickling in my chest feels almost vital. I wonder who I was before you. You cry as I awaken, for you must cease your rumpus; soiree cut short, you retire with the grace of a thousand paper fans. And when I greet you in the morning wearing the tattered cloak of a bad night’s sleep, you say “Hello” with your groggy eyes, and somehow carve your way back into my chest.

< Caley Mulligan


Memories of Life Morgan Leff

The words fall. They fall down long staircases, And grand arches And dusty grey corners and broken cloudy windows and tattered velvet curtains and-

Empty space Space not full of light, moonlight or anything in between Bearing no resemblance to The place full of life, In its many forms, That only the past remembers The stairs remember the little, hurried footsteps of children In such a hurry to arrive At a destination invisible to them. The Arches, who once shined with gold, The long dresses and pretense Blue Roses and pale Apocynum. The dusty grey corners once a rendezvous For reckless, radical lovers The windows once clear, For the eyes of desire to search Through crystal water droplets For the object of their hunger. And the velvet curtains, the witness To the end of it all The failure of love, The failure of life, Stained and scarred Those red velvet curtains with The permeating stench of death.


The Basalt High School Trail Elizabeth Adams

A trailhead overgrown with Alpine Forget-Me-Nots and Wallflowers, marked only by the cattle gate with no fence to give it purpose. King’s Crowns and Fairy Trumpets have woven themselves into the rails, preluding a path of evergreens up the steep slope of an Elk Mountain. Lover’s initials, written in ash gray against the Aspen bark, fill the space between occasional cairns of red rock. Marking miles and switchbacks. A cracked tree stump with silver coins melted into its jagged edges glints against the rusted metal fence, where the ground has begun to fall away. Caution is demanded by the inscribed memorial plaque, next to the weathered bench at the top of the hanging crystal blue-green lake. Stay up there for a while, overlooking the edge of Brown’s Canyon, and the Lark Bunting Sparrows will sing for you.

Death Valley Katie Zhao


Doodle Wall Erin Lynch


Fear of spiders Mary Lee Fenner


Smooth Waves Peerapad Charernkitpan


How to be happy Magnus Saeboe

It’s reading poetry to her And her getting silent And peaceful Reading until the last line Comes in shallow waves That leave us gently in the wake Taking our thoughts with it Sending them deep into the ocean So lobsters can nibble on adorations


WEDDING PICTURE Courtney Kaparos

Currant brick sharply contrasted my mother’s off white gown. Her curly hair bounced off her shoulders, unlike the strict lines cutting the stone in pieces. One strand deliberately placed in front of her shoulder. Silver embellishment shined bright in front of the dull background. Her shining smile looks stunning against her light brown glowing skin. Holding her hand on the right was a sun kissed toddler fixated on his right thumb. His quiet eyes peered down to the dissipating jewels on my mother’s wedding gown. On her left was a pale child, about five or so. His confident stance mimicked my father’s. His smile as bright as a star. Crippling my father’s black suit with one hand and squeezing my mother’s gentle hand with the other. My father, his head almost not making the photo, stands tall and proud. His pitch black hair was identical to my mothers -- other than it was pin straight. His thick eyebrows lay calm and confident. The black suit he stands in is smooth and slick, opposite of the rough concrete behind. His expression shows that they have all the time in the world to be right there in that very moment. The vibrant polaroid explodes with sunshine. March 23rd inscribed against the white boarder. A moment forever cherished in history.


Alden Trotter



Ribbon Lily Liu

The water was a ribbon, Flowing - untying, unraveling, into the forests surrounding. Green trees, fresh dew, juicy berries, rough moss against tree bark‌ The air was crisp, a clean scent wavering in the air. Diane Fossey walked through the leaves of the Amazon, Stopping the ribbon in its tracks. The water flowed alone. Ratchet vines hung, swaying in the wind Slicing through the air. Preaching to the choir, The crooked moss of good Invaded the dying tree as it was cut, And Fossey scrambled inside the moss She saw her. Was she dying? The ribbon looked morbid. The living were dead and Fossey was no more, no more fossils De bonne grice, The trees gathered as one. And slowly, the ribbon returned to water once more. The ribbon was water.

< Andreea Costinescu



Wrapped Caroline Chidester

Approachable and Cool Bridget Noel Reed

I do not look sweet Honesty isn’t redeeming with so much anger I’m horrible to hold I’m still good, I’m still good I’m still good Seven others exposed Sinew Sinner Sewer And you would pass me


Three Wishes Emma Merchant

One. A long time ago She waited for the storm to pass. Crouched in the attic of the dollhouse she lit a candle, A message in the dark. Two. It was her birthday She was too impatient for the cake to cool. Her tongue burned with the weight of tears she cried on her own, but came back to blow out the candles. A message in the smoke. Three. At night she dreams of fire. Flames dance in the dark and eat up the walls She watches as the attic crumbles and her secrets blow away. She wakes up. A message in the ash. Three - again A month in advance She buys matches and waits for a storm waits for something besides thunder, waits for lightning. She wants to be able to light the matches by just holding them in the air. Stuffed in the pocket of her jeans the box lives there, unused, for a summer A message in the dark. Three again and again and again and in the day she feels the worn corners of the box. Watching for clouds she lives in a constant momenttrapped in fight or flight She chooses neither. A message in the silence. Three. Sometimes she prays in the old baseball dugout. She is not sure what she is praying for, but with each verse she lights a match. A message in the smoke.


Alivia Mourot


Shawdow Mimi Cai

She sits, vodsska tea in hand, staring at the wall. The clock Tick Tick Ticks upon the table top chronicling fact of time.

The flicker of hope, seems a positive Crime as she blankly knits a sweater or a hat. The laptop Hums Lags Halts reminding her the flailing leg within the cradle. The clock Strikes Strikes Strikes nine. The crimson Rhododendron Nods, forebodingly, as chills crawl up her back. <Creak> Black beads Sparkle Glitters Sinisterly as the abstruse, Frankensteinesque, Shadow staggers as an ungraceful acrobat. She cries for a Truce. The primitive Shadow advances

<Silence>

in a

Kilter


Mage Interpreatation Adam Hall


Asleep in a Mountain Patrick Moser

A beautiful ruby lies buried. Buried far inside a mountain. Light will never shine upon it, And the world will never see its sheen. The people will never find it, And see its mismatched peaks. Though they dig inside the mountain, Building bridges, roads, and more, They never will find the rock, Inside the mountain of yore. They desecrate its only home, And yet the rock is glad. For the closer the people dig, The less the rock is sad. It wishes only to be found, So the world may see it shine. But it sleeps inside the mountain, Upon a bed of lime. It sleeps on a pillow, Made of stone and lead. And it rests inside the mountain, With ice upon its head. But at last the ruby has been freed, For a landslide broke through its cage. Yet he no longer feels the people, For they are gone from this age. So the quartz is left to stay and wait, But finally its job is done. For there the ruby dazzles, Underneath a great bright sun.


Erik

Caroline Chidester


Bottom of the Bowl Leon Brodsky

Our world once belonged to the boulders, this planet’s greatest era. Death and war were obsolete, instead, lay a mere broth, one of simplicity and emptiness, a concept now but a mere fantasy. Then came the trees, which complemented the broth splendidly. Together, they towered the landscape, and an aroma of might and beauty graced our planet. This richness formed a platform for elegance, and up sprung all kinds of creatures, filling our dish to the brim with diverse ingredients and flavors. While overpowering at times, our bowl that we call Earth always found a way to maintain a balance. At least it was so until we, the giant spoon arrived; finely crafted and well equipped, we began to plunder from the bowl of riches. Thousands of ingredients were diminished, and many even vanished completely. Our broth became thin and watered down, as the spoon only took without ever giving back It isn’t fair to say the spoon has wasted the soup completely. After all, we have used the chowder to form our own soup of sorts, forming anything from freeways to bridges with the boulders that once ruled the world. The same can’t always be said about the ingredients, often extracted for the fun of it, many have died out in vain: Or have been used to craft things like rugs or pillows, luxuries that were not needed, but desired nonetheless.

And now here we stand, our broth seemingly hollow compared to the one that the spoon first dipped into. The day where we empty our bowl completely is approaching fast, and when that day comes, justice will be d and our century long kamikaze will be complete. For instead of respecting the trees, or the rocks, or the animals, we have relentlessly dipped into the bowl. Yet little did we know that all bowls have a bottom, and once hit, the mighty rocks-or at least what’s left of them-will regain their rightful title as king.


dealt,

Computive Sarah Martin


Madeleine McKenna


Luminous Flowers Mary Lee Fenner


Sleep Paralysis Lily Nelson Paralyzed; skeleton shatters, stuck under the weight of a limestone shell as I fossilize into drowning-half-wake delirium. There are voices, things whispering like ocean tide in untamable sound and the echoing rush of a clock eroding my bones in infinite stillness: waiting. Imagination somersaults forward like beach-thrown shells; tumble-washed hallucinations tipping out into the night air, and a pressure on my chest, plunging down through the springs of a mattress, down beneath blue-ocean sand grains, Trapped in thought, Until body emerges from petrified stone.


Grandma on the red chair Peerapad Charernkitpan


On the Topic of Dreams: Anonymous

I miss the voyages into illusion, the journeys of imagination so tacit. Creations of narrative contortion, behind the comfort of one’s blanket. I miss the worlds of intrigue, characters who, mid-conflict, change. Palaces of high prestige, ravenous coyotes who wander the range. Submarine alarms screech to submerge, and warplanes roar from above. Commodities, rationed, in order to conserve, loss in the world, I love. I no longer dream, for they are subject to intrusion. Collectively our world is just a wound, a mere contusion.


Caley Mulligan


Senses and Promises William He

Elements change, the promises they make Are worth little more Than the nature we See and claim we own. Water is passing, the promises it makes Are never collected As the river runs and its Touch is replaced anew. Fire is flickering, the promises it makes Can never be More than ashes and the acrid Scent it leaves behind. Air is fleeting, the promises it makes Are never understood Over wild gales and gusts that Sound with meaningless chatter. Earth is decaying, the promises it makes Cannot be found Except buried six feet by the Touch of callous hands. There is nothing that can promise Eternity for you and me So let go and enjoy your Senses while they still promise.


It’s on fire Peerapad Charernkitpan


Hot Air Anonymous

neverending levitation in nothingness being controlled by someone else, showing their power off to the throng of people watching me soar over them uncontrollable motion upward away from safety, the ability to run suspended and a terrible feeling that someone is following me odd things below on the ground, tantalizing but so far away from my balloonish ascent someone has to be making me soar i’m not doing this, i’m just trying to get away just leave me alone laying in bed in isolated peacefulness


Cross-Stitching Caroline Chidester


The Story of the Peak Ryan Fisher

The rays break over the cusp of the scarred peaks Paintbrush flowers dropped in the openings of the tattered rock Moisture builds on their multiple pedals like small oceans they reflect the sun’s rays 12,000 feet You can see for miles patches of farmland and forest fields of plaid The moon now breaks the peak Each rock glistens in the waning moon light Each different Each like words large rocks pages The Peak, a story The mountain, a book.


Yellowstone Katie Zhao


Wilted

Andreea Costinescu


Vaccine By Daniel Ibba

A red pillow of stone swayed, through landslides lean seem hollow from drifts and damp for vaccine, red. For they read a Revolution led by Blinds who see the Blood of the Divines as vaccine. Static in the river drowning, Drowning river into bleeding rocks Seeming faultless by the poor, like how one attacks at a flank for soup once blank, for Pine needles wash like water, dancing down into bleeding palms to the opined to the will, to warm bodies trapped in a still, long hair-clumped by vaccine, in the thin air that holds the scent, still drifting between the pines-victory or larceny. Free soup in a great pot was melted from diverse from forgot... From full bodies from a trick selfish seeming for no lip, no taste, Isolationist. Bleeding rivers seem tame, And a real red stone swayed, diverse from the original tone– for the soup here was never shared. When colors are mixed only one is spared... white.


Co lu m b u s Sarah Martin


Stone Soup By Nathan Hellstedt

Silky smooth, jagged like teeth -- in its many forms The stone, a bridge between peoples Red with blood yet the protector of our past To be read as landslides of history; a spill of knowledge flooding into the present Such is the cave of a forebear, a castle Its stones a harmonica playing songs of the past For us to hear, to enjoy Or the stone, connecting the unconnected on the freeway of today connecting mountains and deserts and forests and oceans For it is a unifier, a kamikaze against division Flattening the world Until It is smooth as stone And No mountain can divide past and present No desert an impasse Amongst peoples



BARE STAFF Co-Editors Andreea Costinescu and Tor y Loux LITERARY EDITOR Tor y Loux ARTS EDITOR Sarah Martin Design EDITOR Caroline Chidester Other Members Dalia Khamis Bridget Noel Reed Emily de Jong Madison Rose Alia Bortz Katie Zhao


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