BARE | 2015-2016

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A R T / / L I T E R AT U R E

MAGAZINE

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COVER ART By Andreea Costinescu

BARE STAFF Caroline Chidester Andreea Costinescu Josh Joseph Katie Kang Dalia Khamis Tory Loux Melia Martin Charlotte Orr Rose Paulson Tahera Siddiqi Emily Song Sifei Yang Katie Zhao

ADVISORS Dameion Wagner Corrie Kentner

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SPONSORS Colin’s Coffee UA PTO Laura Brennan Marilyn Paulsen Meridith Niekamp Rikki Santer

Thank you to all of the Artists who submitted to BARE 2016


DEAR READERS, Bare is a window into the minds, hearts, and souls of Upper Arlington high schoolers, allowing us to express ourselves and have our voices heard. Each year we are floored with the talent, dedication, and bravery in the submissions we receive. It is a privilege to be responsible for publishing some of the most creative, breathtaking art and writing of Upper Arlington High School. This endeavor could not be possible without the support of our community. We would like to thank our donors for their generous contributions as well as any students or teachers who have bought candy bars over the past year. We would also like to thank Colin Gawel of Colin’s Coffee for opening his shop for our open mic night last fall. We are indebted to our two advisors, Mr. Wagner and Ms. Kentner. They have guided us through the publication process and provided the encouragement and support to help us succeed. We couldn’t do it without them. We hope you enjoy reading our 2016 copy of Bare Literary Arts Magazine as much as we enjoyed creating it. We have learned not only about art, writing, and the publication process but also how to collaborate, work hard, organize ourselves toward a common goal. It is a joy to be able to work with such a passionate, dedicated group of individuals. Finally, we would like to encourage all future UAHS students to participate in Bare, either by submitting or joining our staff. Sincerely, Katie Kang and Rose Paulson Editors in Chief

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Transience By Anabelle Pan Painting

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Seaside

By Lily Wilhite The house was small cramped and damp, but filled with familiarity. The walls played back the comforting soundtracks of previous years. We go up to the top of the stairs. We go out through the double doors listening to the laughing breeze, watching the waving trees. The town was colorful, swarmed with newcomers and warm, but still had its old peace. Soon being swept up in the enveloping buzz and watching eyes rushed across the street. Our running feet carrying us into the sand.

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Freedom By Julia Pei Painting

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Origins

By Savannah Stearmer I am from pianos, The notes strong and soothing. I grew in frozen winters and scorching summers. The mountain desert was my home. I am from the Cowboy State, With winter ‘till July. Where juice is made from vegetables, Leftovers from last night. I am from the Prairie State, The corn goes on forever. Memories of three brothers’ mischief And the stories told at night. I am from the Mormons, They crossed the Great Plains. The will of hundreds strengthens me And helps me through the worst. I am powerful. I live on in my ancestor’s footsteps I have a story. It shapes me to this day.

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Disconnected By Sarah Martin Photography 8


Wolfboy

By Anisah Awad Wolfboy, do not gnaw at the hand that feeds you naked and afraid, you have no distinction between good and bad right and wrong love and fear. Wolfboy, do not be scared when I try to hold you, I only want to understand you and the jagged past that led you here and why you snarl at the sun and take comfort in the still night. Wolfboy, do not rip my throat open, you don’t know your own strength or perhaps you do. Perhaps you are more devious than ever thought before. do not leave me here to die but do not waste my remains if you do do not spit out my bones create fire with my fat and bone create life from the death of the nurture I gave you.

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Shadows By Caroline Chidester Photography

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Icarus

By Adam Venrick I was a shadow, Dim light Of something which was, And now, Is no more. Any beauty I had, (And I used to be like a peacock,) Has been plucked, like my feathers, So that I am naked and Alone Not as before:

And for me, it was hard to remember And even harder to forget The life that I’d had. Gone. Forever more. Delusions so quickly fade, Like shadows, In light, I fell from heights So blinding, into trash; It took me so long

When I was handsome And proud And danced in the fake Glowing light I was adored. I never felt the need to leave, When my home was essentially A heaven, But angels, even smart ones fall, I was out the door.

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Hindsight

By Becina Ganther My sister Niva and I are sorting through a pile of Yellow Pages in the backseat of Ciw-Ciw, our deep cerulean car, as Mom drives us through hills draped in golden farms and winding streams. I have no idea where we are, but it’s peaceful. And hot. We stop in front of a rusty grey mailbox poking out of the gravel. Mom checks the list of addresses on the passenger seat and calls out “Two!” My chubby hands snatch open the white bag while Niva shoves the two phone books inside. I push open the car door and drop the bag onto the grass. “Only 53 more to go!” On the way home from our day trip, we splurge on Iacono’s Pizza and buy a huge one, much bigger than our usual one-topping meal from Domino’s. Mom says we deserve it after our hard work. What work? We hear the familiar jingle against the doorknob. Mom’s home. She shuffles in, exhausted from ten hours at the night shift and three flights of stairs. Our eyes widen at the treasure she’s brought us: a cardboard box with its sides mostly intact. We watch eagerly as her rusted scissors creak and groan with each slice against the cardboard. We grab the finished products out of her hands the moment they’ve been whittled into perfect squares—Mom always wanted things to be just right. She watches from the doorway as we race down the apartment stairs and reappears at the window moments later. “Why didn’t Mommy come? She always comes.” Niva shrugs as she settles onto her cardboard square already laid out on the snow. With a quick kick, she’s off. She lands in a giggling heap of white fluff and purple fabric at the bottom of the stumpy hill. Mommy’s fine. Don’t worry.The icy world tumbles around me as I zoom down the short incline, and Mom doesn’t cross my mind again until hours later when she brings us hot chocolate. “Please welcome Santa’s Acting Troupe!” We smile at our audience of one happy Mom, sitting in a lopsided chair in our living room. I’m wearing a Santa hat and matching pajamas

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we bought on clearance two years ago. The pants don’t reach my ankles. Behind us is a snowman-patterned blanket used as a curtain for costume changes. The thirty minute showstopper is a culmination of weeks of preparation, as I wrote and directed the play. Meanwhile, Niva designed the costumes and sets, and also brought every character except for Santa to life. If you looked closely, you’d see our tiny one-foot Christmas tree perched on a plastic red table with just a meager pile of presents underneath, but we’re laughing too hard to notice. Mom was never one to follow the rules. While most people take their kids to movies on Fridays or Saturdays, we stick to our Monday night tradition. Before going in, Mom stuffs our coat pockets and her purse with hamburgers and drinks, all bought with our stash of coupons we keep in the car. She holds my hand as we sail past the concession stand, and in my head I’m laughing at all those silly people waiting in line for overpriced food. We’re too clever for them. I cling to Mom’s arm at the register. “Three tickets, please.” She slides 6 quarters to the cashier. Years later, I learn that tickets are normally $2, but on Monday they’re 50¢. I pack sand into the empty knockoff Cool Whip container and carefully deposit the interiors onto our growing structure. We’re at the Beach, building the biggest castle ever. At least, that’s the plan. I shriek as a dark brown wave crawls up the shore, threatening to drag our looming skyscraper into the water. Niva is sitting to the side, looking off at the horizon of the ocean, which is a pretty small ocean considering we can see the next shore less than a mile away. Also, we live in Ohio, but what do little kids know of geography? Mom is sprawled out on her towel, which is starting to fray at the edges. She won’t join us in the water because it’s too cold. Dad told us once that when he met her in grad school, Mom didn’t know what cold meant. I guess someone taught her now.

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After the sun sets, Mom announces that it’s time to go home. We gather up all our old containers and lids we used as buckets and shovels before piling into our beloved Ciw-Ciw. Some families go to Hilton Head; others go to Barcelona. But the highlight of our summer is a day at a creek thirty minutes away. “Mommy, are we poor?” I’m sitting on her lap as she looks through the stack of bills, glancing at her credit cards scattered on the table. She turns me around so I’m facing her, and I see something different in her eyes, an expression I only see when she tucks us in at night before leaving for work. She’s silent for a moment before exhaling deeply. I don’t understand. “Cina, we’re rich in spirit.” She laughs and hugs me tight. I understand now.

Spider Web By Ben Hobson Photography 14


She

By Magnus Saeboe My grandfather stands before us in a church dressed with flowers of white He speaks, with heavy timbre, of She The word soaks the air Makes everyone gasp for the oxygen made scarce by She The word doesn’t leave the church walls or the annals of my stuffed head My grandfather’s hand feels the white box and he says She A strong blossom of light shares the room The brilliance touched my cheek and bent over to whisper in my ear The same words struck from my grandfather’s Throat, from the hill with a six-foot Hole, from the eyes of my family She is dead

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Rehabilitation By Mia Smith Digital Art 16


Grim Reaper By Cassidy Ford

I lurk in the shadows, I’m the one you sense as you walk home at night, But you can never see me. I may be invisible, But that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. I’m always waiting, Watching, Just out of sight until the right moment. I’m the Grim Reaper, The one you never wish to see, But I’m always here, Waiting for you to make the wrong choice, Place your foot in the wrong place, And there I appear. I’m especially close in the dark. When your soul cries out for help, I’m there, I can take it all away With one snap of my fingers. I can end your pain, But are you ready for that? I’m the one most dread to see, Except for the few Who await me. You draw me closer with every cut of your blade, Every tear that is shed, Every meal that’s skipped, Every smile that’s faked. Every step you take closer to me, I take one closer to you. Until the day I can take you away, I am Death, And I’m not your friend, I’m the one you dread to see, Except for the few, I will see you soon.

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Deadly Buisness By Maisy Mcclellan Charcoal Drawing

13 Ways of Looking at a Grave By Chloe Amsterdam I. I have secrets beneath my feet. I keep bodies in my belly. II. Mama always told me to stand tall, So I do. I always do. 18

III. It’s so hot the water feels Refreshing. Not from the sky but from Her eyes. IV. Chink, chink, clang. I got my first tattoo today: R-I-P .


V. I think he noticed me. Finally. He’s brought a bouquet of Baby’s breath. VI. My wrinkles sell my soul to the world While my name is all but forgotten, Faded away. VII. She told me not to worry, Not to see a psychologist, But I can’t rid myself of this hollow feeling In my gut. VIII. Thump, thump. Their footsteps draw closer, faster. I stick my neck out, trying to see who they could be. I’m blinded. Flash: White light. IX. Size doesn’t matter, At least that’s what I tell myself Watching beneath everyone’s chin. X. I’ve always wanted a baby, waited for years, trying, hoping, and now I’m having twins. I made space for them already.

XI. My parents make me bear this cross Bold on my chest. Listen to the bell chime, But I know this isn’t home. It’s damp and daunting. I want to move but I can’t seem to find my feet. XII. A century has passed me by. I should be in the record books. My granddaughter brings her child to sit in my lap. She doesn’t recognize me. XIII. Nothing beats a family reunion.

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African Elephant By Anna Schildmeyer Watercolor 20


Elephant By Caroline Warner Painting 21


Old School

By Lillie Ambrose Letting my backpack slide off my shoulders, I start towards the piano. I sift through stack upon stack of sheet music. There it is. A song that will revitalize me after a long day in school. I pick up my Johann Sebastian Bach techniques book handed down to me by my greatgrandmother Julia Parker. Its pages are yellow with nearly 100 years of use, showing faint pencil marks in the margins made by my greatgrandmother herself. I leaf through them carefully and stop on page 96, “Invention VIII.” I straighten my posture and lay my fingers gently on the keys, letting both the music and memory of my great-grandmother surge through me. * * * I was in third grade, living on a street where all the kids wanted to ride bikes and play flashlight tag after school, but not me. On the bus ride home from school, all I could think about was sitting at my piano. I would tap my fingers on the seat in front of me, humming the notes as my fingers made contact. I had perfected the last few measures of a piece and couldn’t wait to share my improvements with my greatgrandmother. Acknowledging that I was the first pianist in my family after three generations, she used to tell me, “You’re the musician I have been waiting for.” I was determined to include her in every step of my musical journey. I would call her every Thursday afternoon--propping up the bulky wireless house phone against the piano-- to share with her the pieces I had worked on that week. She was my greatest supporter and my harshest critic.“Slow down there, honey,” she’d say, “I can hear your fumbles in the fingering.”Soon her hearing deteriorated, forcing our phone call concerts to become a bi-monthly weekend excursion to her retirement home. I still remember the last time that I saw her. I entered the retirement home, armed with an old backpack, two grease-stained bags from Frisch’s Big Boy, and my red handbag which hung around my neck. I continued my laborious trek through the wide

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hallway towards her room. It was decorated with a plaque inscribed with my great-grandmother’s name, surrounded by flowers in vernal bloom. Weeks separated my visits, but her room remained unchanged; like my great-grandmother who -- at the ripe age of ninety eight -- hadn’t seemed to age past eighty-five. She hadn’t heard me come in, even though I was a mere foot from her armchair. Since my great-grandmother’s hearing hovered just above deaf, any sort of verbal communication was nearly impossible, so I had come equipped with a secret weapon. Confusion washed over her face as I moved the mountain of biographies from her table and pulled out my computer, laying it in front of her. After plugging in my headphones and placing them gently on her head, I pulled up a playlist entitled “Old School,” composed of a music selection from the 30s and 40s and pressed play. As she sat there, sporting my Skullcandy headphones and tapping her toe to Frank Sinatra’s, “You Make Me Feel So Young,” I saw part of me in her, or rather part of her in me. She requested songs from a time that she had supposedly forgotten long ago. I sat cross-legged in front of her floral arm chair as she hummed every note, from Glenn Miller’s “In The Mood” to George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue.” Since our phone calls had turned to visits, my great-grandmother had not heard music in eight years. Using my computer and headphones, I was able to reciprocate all the support she had given me which fueled my musical passion, from her hand-me-down piano books to her encouraging words of confidence. I was able to give her back music, even if it was just for that last time.

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Two Sides By Ailsa Heckscher Photograph

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Caroline Alice By Audrey Molnar

She was spectacularly average. Caroline Alice, in fact, could not be more average. Her hair was of the sand on a stormy beach, and her eyes the rain cloud above. Her talents were not of extreme originality either. However, she was not worried about these things. Miss Caroline Alice was worried about something else, her brain. She didn’t think it was normal, to have thoughts like hers. She often pictured her acquaintances dangling from trees. She often saw her loved ones as threatening. The days would slowly change her, until eventually, she convinced herself it was normal to wish these things upon people. The wide eyed moon would wake her every night, and Caroline Alice would claim it told her to do things. Things that she thought were normal. The walls were soon stained crimson and the dusty glass window was no more. Caroline Alice is normal, she would say to herself, as she lay at the bottom of the harsh wooden staircase. On the floor one could find nests of her sandy hair, as if they were waiting for a bluejay to return to them. Caroline Alice used to have cloudy blue eyes, but the clouds were now covered by night. The moon still woke her, again and again. Its last wish for Miss Caroline Alice was for her to take a walk to the sand. The sand that resembled her once soft hair, which now carpeted the floor. She walked and walked, until she met the moon where the salt met the sand. She wanted to be closer, she wanted to touch the moon. So she climbed the jagged rocks, not caring that her wounded feet were staining the cold gray stone a deep red. The top was still not close enough. The moon promised to catch her, so she jumped, and for but a second one could imagine her flying. Until the moon laughed at the fool, the fool he had created. And into the sea sunk Miss Caroline Alice.

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Covalent Bonds By Tory Loux

Do you understand the way the bond works? I understand the way mothers clutch their babies’ hands like they have felt the fragility of a single moment, held it in the creases of their palms, watched it slip between their fingers like water. I understand that this bond is strong,

Negative Energy By Kate Jennings Drawing 26


held by the constant clashing of forces smaller than comprehension allows, ropes of positive charge and negative charge binding to share the weight of everything in existence. I understand when roses die, the contrast of grace and love and dirt. It’s not a comfortable bond. I understand that when my mother clutches me and tells me, I’m sorry for all that I cannot control. and there is tension in the dark walls around us, where a bond has formed through our separate tears made out of power and love and vengeance. There is tension there. There is tension in my own hands. Betraying me as they shake, as I cannot stop them. It’s there in the way that teenagers see, when my mother’s hand sits weighing on my shoulder. 27


There when it lifts, separates to nothing but space and I am thrown off balance and my teeth are touching the earth. It’s there in how my heart feels like it could break my ribs with every beat, melt and slip through them like sands of time and love and fear. There is a constant pull from each end. There is a reborn tension in the moment when blood wells from my bitten lips still stinging with things I have said and things I should have said and swelling to the tide of myself in the mirror, clutched in time’s nails in a moment where every movement shatters, my reflection the illusion of connection and love and control. 28


Fire Lane By Emma Griffith Photography

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Untitled By Grant Jones Photograph 30


A Creature of Faith By Mia Smith Digital Art 31


Roses By Ailsa Heckscher Photography

Suburban Decay By Rose Paulson

My school gave us these new computers, silver, sleek laptops with smooth black keys and a clear plastic cover. The white letters glow and click underneath my fingertips. They gave us this technology for personalized learning in 32


digital age, but I do not feel more connected to anything. On this district-owned computer, paid for by taxpayers (like us) with mowed lawns and white Christmas lights, I cannot write about the inside-about the ashtrays, the bookshelves with no backs, the broken stained glass leaning against the gray wall of the garage. I cannot write about the empty dining table, the microwavable hot dogs, the jar of banana peppers that expired in 2002. On every surface of this house there is a layer of dust, the sediment of its inhabitants, broken, immobile. On this district-owned computer, I cannot write about the blood and the sweat and the dust. On some nights when I return home to a silent house at one am, I turn on BBC World Service and listen to bombings in Syria just to silence the ringing in my ears. I was once advised that when no one is looking I should only mop the white squares on our checkerboard floor. I cannot write that I only shower when my body starts to itch. I cannot write that my heart beats in four-letter words, that my DNA has always held the code to self-destruction. I cannot write about the spit wiped from my lips, or the way it lingers on the back of my hand.

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Dog Sled Pano By Charlie Mitchell Photography

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Air By Anonymous Photography

Lake By Anonymous Photography

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Cosmic Contosion By Mia Smith Digital Art 36


Timeless

By Jesse Zhu A white feather Reminiscent of idyllic, halcyon memories Commemorating, bereaving life Loss causes anguish Yet sorrow transforms into sanguinity Promising blissful futures What will happen? Do I still mourn so? Why? For what? Time is interminable But remembrance couples with evanescence Partners in crime The pure plumage Tumbling beside my own existence Incessant until forgotten

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Self Park By Caroline Chidester Photography

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Free at Last By Sarah Martin Photography

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Learning to Swim By Chloe Amsterdam

I wake up sweating. My floor mat is damp with perspiration. My family won’t allow a fan in any of our rooms. Mother says if we fall asleep with a fan on when we’re alone in a room, it’ll blow our breath away until we suffocate and die. Mother says a lot of things like that, lots of warnings. “If you wear socks to bed, you’ll be dumb.”“If you go outside with wet hair, you’ll get sick.”South Korea has been moving slowly, recovering since the Japanese left. I can still see the marks of their presence here—strange characters on the walls in the city. Auntie is calling. Time to pluck the chickens. Sliding the back door open, careful not to wake the rest of my family all cramped in this room, each on his own mat, I glance out at my “skyline.” Homes. Small homes surrounded by fences. Clothes hung out on lines, animals in cages. This is my Korea. There isn’t a lot of color here: lots of browns and grays. Earthy, almost. The yards, dirt, sky, all run together as if consumed under one big blanket of camouflage. I help Auntie with the chicken. She makes me wash the feet over and over, dipping them in and out of the bucket. I use that bucket for my baths. I don’t like to share. She tells me the feet are a special treat, that when I am older I can suck on the tasty toes. For now, they are for father. Once that is over, I go inside. I can smell Mother cooking breakfast. Rice. Egg. There is not much because she has to prepare our lunches, too: Kimbap, rolled egg, vegetables. She has to stack them neatly in all of our boxes. Mine is pink. I carry it with both hands all the way to school. My friends and I all have helmet hair, but not from wearing helmets. Our coarse, black hair just looks like helmets framing our faces. Straight bangs, then round like a melon until it’s cut off by the chin. We walk to school together, our helmets protecting us from the wind.

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We are taught a lot about history. My parents won’t help me learn, or rather they can’t bring themselves to help me. I know they must not like thinking of when they had to learn Japanese, disregarding the culture they had come to understand. Class is quiet. How much can you say in fourth year? We do our maths at our desks. We don’t have any chairs like these at home. We have no chairs at all. After that, Teacher writes the homework on the chalkboard, the only thing on the walls of our classroom. No need for posters to distract us. Then we return home. I hate using the toilet at my house. It’s haunted. I know it. I saw a hand come out of the hole once. An older girl at school told me that the government puts bodies there if they are bad. I won’t use it at night. I’d rather wet the mat than go in the wooden shack hidden in the black, black background. Those hands stole my money once. I had it in my overalls. It fell but I couldn’t grab it; they’d pull me down there with them. So I cried. Anyway, dinner is chicken, the chicken that shared my bath. I would take one tonight, but Mother doesn’t have time to heat the water on the stove. Usually we don’t have meat. We sit at our stumpy table, legs crisscrossed on the ground, so we can scoot in as close as possible. At school they say the war, the occupation, is over. We are recovering. But I know the fighting still continues. Why else would Auntie want to take Myunghui and Sohui to America? The new skyscrapers are only spotted with employees. In the city there aren’t many colors either. Lots of ads, though. The lines and circles of words plaster the sides of buildings. In the streets of the city, boys pull wagons. In them are brown, flat bags stuffed full of rice. In some areas, there are so many people that they almost create a sea. I could probably ride that sea, if only I knew how to swim.

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Stretch By Emma Griffith Photography

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Untitled By Grant Jones Photography

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Feathers By Annika Peterson Photography 44


The Books

By Alden Trotter I slowly walk through the aisles. I love this, the choosing of books. So many of them, each infused with the soul of their creator, filled to the brim with tales of wonder. I could lose myself in these shelves for hours, Tuning out the world around me And diving deep into the worlds contained within the pages. The characters come to life around me, laughing, talking, smiling. I go on adventures with them, to deep canyons, tall mountains, and everywhere in between. But ultimately I leave them, sometimes never to return. Sometimes, after the years have gone by, I think of them And wonder if they still wait for me.

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Cedar Point By Aly Bond Photography 46


Rags By Anabelle Pan Drawing 47


Vanishing Species By Diana Bollinger Painting

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Roadways of Water By Riley Moran Painting

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The 50s By Annika Peterson Photography 50


ERUDITION

By Meghan Razzini Your face is like a window that opens to an ivory room, the panes shrouded in curtains of blood-red velvet. If I am brave enough, I can see inside, see a gold spinning wheel that never stops turning. Instead of thread, it spins electric wires that sprawl along the walls in an intricate maze. Every time the wheel turns, a current crackles and crawls its way around the labyrinth. There are days when I witness pure genius. There are days when the curtains close, shutting out all thought. But the spinning wheel never stops turning. The flame, though dimmed, still flickers with life. This is what I see in your hazel eyes.

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Untitled By Grant Jones Photography

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Fog By Caroline Chidester Photography

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CONTRAST

By Andreea Costinescu Drawing 54


WHAT I COULDN’T SAY IN DUTCH By Adam Venrick

Amsterdam, where I saw you on the street With that desperate look in your eye. There was the smell of suffering on you, And it made me wonder why. And you came up to me with Tattered gloves and chapped hands. And you asked me something in your language That I just couldn’t understand. Your wild hand gestures, frantic and scared, The dirt and sweat on you, and the stink of your hair, And the tattered layers of coats you wore, Because it was so cold for summer. Your eyes were pleading, Like an animal caught in a trap, And I’ll say it made me nervous, And that’s why I drew back. And I wish I understood you, Because I really cared, Were you all alone on that street? Was I the only one there? I tried in French and English, Mais vous n’avez pas compris And you walked away then, And that was all of you I saw. And I would’ve liked to help you Because I know how it’s been To be in familiar places, But on the outside looking in. 55


Phoenix

By Melissa Herzog Digital Art

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The 70s

By Annika Peterson Photography

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Manhattan By Mo Kleinhenz Digital Art

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Monday

By McDaniel Hartranft Sliding into the corner booth Table teetering as if in between two truths Margaret staring at her shoes Hiding away that heart bruise Plate full of french fries Women afraid to show their eyes Larry staring at the daily news Whistling along to show tunes Sky dark as death itself Dust on a bookshelf A baby born today I guess it’s just another Monday In this place full of people in disguise Welcome to the town where morals have died

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Distortion By Melia Martin Drawing 60


The Red Brick

By Magnus Saeboe Dad watches a red brick high on the chapel arch He looks at it and mouths breathless prayers Dad stares at God, this red brick I do not know god but The sign on the altar says This place is sacred Sacred to dad and his worries and his bent over neck

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Neutrals

By Annika Peterson Photography

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Thirsty

By Carson Ozcomert Photography

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Lined By Ailsa Heckscher Photography

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Material Girl

By Diana Bollinger

Beauty is only skin deep. Complex hair, jewelry, clothes. The things that make women beautiful. Small boobs? Forget about it. You can wear too much make up, or you don’t wear enough. Society is teaching itself that only looks matter. Not if you can make someone laugh or are a good person, that doesn’t matter. Clear skin, curvy, nice clothes,

that is what is important. We don’t focus on bettering who we are, just what WE are. Not the impact we could have on the world. We have become like gift boxes, at first our outsides bare, holding something inside. We cover the box in wrapping paper, we put bows on it. As we decorate the outside we forget about the gift inside. S​ omething beautiful is forgotten for an unattainable idea. 65


Rose By Katie Zhao Drawing

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Blue Skies By Aly Bond Photography

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Ohio State Fair By Kelly Chain Photography 68


Night in Day

By Zoe Mackenbach I was lost once upon a time Locked up in a cage The door was wide open But there was no light for days When I’m alone I like to sing my song But nobody’s there to listen My words have been thrown Out to the light I’m in the dark Hopefully my words will reach you Before you depart The leaves I’m sure are there Rustle to you and I But I can no longer hear them As you wave goodbye

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Untitled By Nina Shamansky Drawing

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Yoshimi By Erin Lynch Digital Art 71


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