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Editorial Committee Eliana Abdel-Khaleq Reuben Barbarash Cora Burch Olivia de Castro Grant Culling Karina Guaderrama Caitlin Kim Arden Moawad Christopher Ng Zoha Pattinaik Asher Prady Ella Rosenson Antonio Tourgeman
Faculty Advisors Ms. O’Driscoll Mr. McElwee
Front Cover Olivia de Castro Karina Guaderrama Caitlin Kim
Back Cover Caitlin Kim
Spotify Eliana Abdel-Khaleq
2
Table of Contents I spilled water on my notebook ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Asher Prady the snail who crawls so stubbornly ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Asher Prady Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Asher Prady One Sentence One World ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Jack Kern Nature’s Beauty ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Ryan Lassner Temporary Permanence ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Antonio Tourgeman the darkness light ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Caitlin Kim Blue Lenses ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Maya Delgado I went walking cross icy roads ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Asher Prady Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Antonio Tourgeman Orb Weaver ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Cora Burch Why I Write ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Cora Burch Flight ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Grant Culling Warm ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Cora Burch Heart ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Cora Burch A firm grip on my skin ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Zoha Pattanaik Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Antonio Tourgeman Self-repentance ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Eliana Abdel-Khaleq Our False Adam ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Eliana Abdel-Khaleq Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧEliana Abdel–Khaleq Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Ella Rosenson Little Girl ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Zoha Pattanaik She is with me no more ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Zoha Pattanaik i write ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Caitlin Kim Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Avery Park Aureliano, Filius Aurelianis Buendiae ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Caitlin Kim “The Doc is in the House” ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Anonymous Untitled ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Avery Park Extended Metaphor ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ Ella Rosenson Spotify List ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧEditorial
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I spilled water on my notebook I spilled water on my notebook and smudged the cover quote I stole from a museum exhibit when I traveled too far up north and half the lines written within are smuggled from the radio poems held at gunpoint their pearls a strewn upon the floor
By Asher Prady
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the snail who crawls so stubbornly the snail who crawls so stubbornly ‘against the blow of gentle breeze or the man of punishment with calloused hands made from stone or eager blades of corner grass who try to grow from careful sheers have done more today than I who sits with lecture ears
By Asher Prady
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By Asher Prady
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One Sentence One World The news report is part of1 the worst-case climate change scenarios2, here we stand3, how dead we are4, from the age of dinosaurs5, so beautiful and strong6, to7 the side of the road8, for greater ambition and accelerating action9, how dead we are10, this used to be11 fields and trees, now it’s only12 real estate13, how dead we are14, the ambitious action they must take next15, yet those efforts still aren’t enough to avoid calamity16, how dead we are17, fossil fuels like oil, coal and natural gas18, goes19 toward human nature’s home20, how dead we are21, there are mountains and rivers22, now it’s turned into a23 discount store24, how dead we are25, flowers26 sacrificed for27 highways and cars28, how dead we are,29 I dream of30 paradise31, rather 32than a stupendous tomb33, how dead we are34, continuing to drive on the asphalt highways35, proclaiming to the36 Earth37, how dead we are38…39
By Jack Kern
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Climate Report Card Climate Report Card 3 (Nothing But) Flowers 4 Not a sunny tone 5 (Nothing But) Flowers 6 (Nothing But) Flowers 7 Jack Kern The One Who Prevails 8 (Nothing But) Flowers 9 Climate Report Card 10 Not a sunny tone 11 (Nothing But) Flowers 12 (Nothing But) Flowers 13 (Nothing But) Flowers 14 Not a sunny tone 15 Climate Report Card 16 Climate Report Card 17 Not a sunny tone 18 Climate Report Card 19 Jack Kern, The One Who Prevails 20 Not a sunny tone 21 Not a sunny tone 22 (Nothing But) Flowers 23 (Nothing But) Flowers 24 (Nothing But) Flowers 25 Not a sunny tone 26 (Nothing But) Flowers 27 (Nothing But) Flowers 28 (Nothing But) Flowers 29 Not a sunny tone 30 (Nothing But) Flowers 31 (Nothing But) Flowers 32 Karina Guaderrama (Assisted Assistance) 33 Not a sunny tone 34 Not a sunny tone 35 Jack Kern, The One Who Prevails 36 Not a sunny tone 37 Climate Report Card 38 Not a sunny tone 39 Jack Kern, The One Who Prevails 2
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Nature’s Beauty It runs through the lush veins of the Amazon From the summit of Mt. Everest to the sunken Death Valley This love, this power, it runs through everything Through the world’s towering palms and sea trenches One could never describe it One may only feel it deep in their soul It pulsates through our skin and our bones We crave for it’s endless presence But nature's beauty may not last long The purest seed of them all Corrupted by the frightening fist Of man’s ever growing industry Some may neglect nature’s true value To promote their potent and despicable lies Neglecting that our climate is rapidly changing When it is so clearly vastly degrading
By Ryan Lassner
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Temporary Permanence I’ve always been scared to write in pen. Because, to me, that feeling of permanence is terrifying. Even though paper is temporary––and eventually, in the wide and ever expanding scope of time, so is what I am writing––it truly matters where that paper came from and where my ideas were set to brew and simmer in my provisional mind. I’d like to hope that it’s widely known that paper is from trees, but that really is the extent of the general knowledge. In actuality, it's a strenuous process, the tree undergoes their limbs being chopped and skinned. If we were to assume trees had feelings, no matter how far-fetched it sounds, they too would scream and shout as they were pummeled into pages, thin as paper…disposable. As an empath, I can share that it would be an unbearable pain, splintering even. And so the question is posed, how am I supposed to empty my idea-cramped brain without considering the various moral and philosophical implications that would arise should I write on paper? While I haven’t pledged an oath of “never again shall I commit the sinful act of using paper,” I’ll settle for writing in pencil. The comfort of writing in pencil is temporary, but the ease in which I can simply erase is almost intoxicating. My concepts easily traverse the parchment as I translate them from the catacombs of my brain to tangible and human ideas, all in lead shaped perfectly to the point we desire. In a fury and a hurry to jot things down, whether it be notes, sketches, words upon words; erasing is a reminder. In a colloquial sense, it is a reminder to take my whirling thoughts one at a time. In an exhale, my mistake could be wiped off the page: like a rushing river or with a spring gust, it’s gone. I have been taught that without an eraser, not even the sincerest apologies can make those mistakes disappear, and so I have learnt to rely on the impermanence of pencil. Just as the lumberer does not apologize to the live oaks for chopping them down (for it is his job), I cannot apologize for the words that indent my paper. They have a symbiotic relationship, one of erasure and reincarnation into a new form. Mistakes are to be made and to be forgotten, that’s what I’ve learned. Graduating from the sometimes elementary usage of pencil has been a difficult journey. One of many cliché ups and downs, but a journey nonetheless. I’ve left behind smudges lining the side of my hand and the pink eraser twigs that sprawl out upon wide ruled paper. The authenticity that is facilitated through the usage of pen is something like no other. Smooth strokes of ballpoint string my letters together, mimicking cursive with every swoop and swirl. My words unbridledly and unabashedly fill the lines ––overflowing down the margins––taunting me as they attempt to leap off the edges of my pages. Fortunately, the ink solidifies within the pores of the bleached bark and the phrases assume their meaning with reluctant enthusiasm. The thoughts flow out of my mind down the thin black stripes of permanence. It feels like nothing a pencil could provide. I suppose one could label this euphoric sensation and catharsis a sort of temporary permanence. Physically, by changing the writing utensil, I’ve overcome the necessity to erase. Regardless of whether or not they’re printed along fine-lined sheets, my thoughts no longer show cowardice to permanence. It wasn’t pen or pencil, it was them. My thoughts that craved to find a place upon that line; that crawled out of my fathomless cerebral caverns hurriedly; that needed to discover, that definition of permanence.
By Antonio Tourgeman 9
the darkness light which is the hour of night? which is the hour of morning? the little man in the sky greets the stars for the thousandth time the little man on the moon meanders through craters when is too late known as far too early? fireflies flicker flames crackling the crow screeches at the morning that dares to dew the sun not risen the moon not fallen yet the sun’s gleam is the darkness light the day asks what is morning and what is night?
By Caitlin Kim
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Blue Lenses Blue Lenses by Daphne Du Maurier is a short story that left a lasting impression on me weeks after reading it. In the story, Marda West has undergone surgery that will hopefully let her see again. However, instead of human faces, she sees the people in her life represented as animals, with a blue haze around everything else. The three panels are complemented with a slumped piece of clear blue glass. This means that the glass is in the shape of a bowl to represent the lenses through which Marda is seeing the world. I wanted this to give the audience an immersive experience and let it encourage further inquiry into this story. The first panel depicts Nurse Ansel as a snake, with many green shades, accompanied by an abstract stethoscope to demonstrate her status as a nurse. The second panel depicts Jim, Marda's husband, as a vulture. In nature, vultures are a symbol of death and bad luck, which connects to his actions by engaging in an affair with Nurse Ansel. Lastly, I wanted to recreate the scene where Marda sees herself in the mirror for the first time as a doe, emphasizing two things in this panel; The fact that she is looking in a mirror, and her shocked eyes. The intended effect of the piece overall is to observe and analyze the imagery and symbolism in the book when it comes to the double meaning of animals, which reveals an underlying truth about the characters we meet in this story.
By Maya Delgado
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I went walking cross icy roads I went walking cross icy roads followed surely by the moon, sailing cross the deep blue sky if only I could leap to her to stow among the stars pulling tide to get to you oh how I wish I could if I could whisper secrets to the chirping of the birds and they could fly past miles to sing sweetly in your ear oh how I wish I could to come home all day weary and climb into my bed and have you follow with me oh how I wish I could
By Asher Prady
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By Antonio Tourgeman
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Orb Weaver I’m settled at the intersection of three trails like highways, the hill held by still white branches, the gold globe laughing as the land lost light. Within shouting distance I aspire that I might understand him better. I saw his eyes once, they were hazel, ridges of the valley in reflection. He, sitting on a fell tree, does not watch the honeycomb star fall or perceive the growing dark. He has a narrow view, one way in under brush and bramble, one way out. In shade I study myself, suspended in spun silk between three roads of soil, cedar, saplings, and a sprig of something sweet. I am nameless, unafraid to grow. I know nothing dies here, not really. Even in my bones.
By Cora Burch
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Why I Write I stole from Orwell and Didion and Williams and I tell you, when I tell you that I write, I mean I am not best suited for your lecture halls and tests, or to analyze each sentence from the books on my shelf, dust collectors, allergens, and I am hardly intellectual and swear that what I know aside from this is void, nothing, trivial: that I wear emptiness, a silver circlet round my head, and know myself as made for truly nothing, but regardless, when I tell you that I write, I mean I print every letter like my last.
By Cora Burch
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FLIGHT By Grant Culling
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Warm The clouds are warm with rain and out here I too feel warm beneath the breath of autumn breeze and blue and bees and birdsong I cannot say when I’ll return but not before the warmth is burned into my skin.
By Cora Burch
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Heart Trust if I could cover up I would and escape the constant question to it. I could cease to hide the things that hurt and show off every shining sea inside. I cannot cover up, or find another place to fit my heart–– instead you’ll see me reach up to your cheek and brush your freckles with my fingertips–– there on my sleeve it swings, a heavy charm to bruise my wrist beet red. It will be gentle just so long as I am calm or until you make me warm, when my careful soul is sold to set free feelings in the shape of storms, to make my whole world bleed, or let you breathe.
By Cora Burch
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A firm grip on my skin gentle and calloused fingers dance upon my every curve as if tracing blessed constellations interlaced with divinity i feel beautiful here he breathes as i exhale hands entangled and hearts in tune bury me in this grace evermore allow me to find solace in the comfort of his arms i am home with anything worth living for you must sort out the weeds though not with ease always worth it in the end i dream of you in oil paintings sometimes your ethereal ashen eyes dotted with time we touch souls, after years, after months i set my heart to rest you are my best friend i mourn with stained gratitude lustful modernism holds no space between us looking within the utopian reflection only to find his arm draped around my hip unmoved in truth wrinkles adorned upon both beings a beautiful picture the art of eternity doesn’t poison me with fear as it used to not when i lie to rest and see you beside me cover me with lavender lilies and stroke my hair lay your head on my chest, we have dreams to share
By Zoha Pattanaik
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By Antonio Tourgeman
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Self-repentance I still see her photographs, same as her cold figure kneeling by my bedside She wishes to be purified Distorted pictures, mangled with fingerprints Recall my crime, Overbearing, I have to look away, headache, heart, and soul throbbing from a memory’s pleading eyes I’ll recall the unseen beauty instead, Of rain-swollen cheeks, her tainted sneers A silvery sickness, carmine, and aluminum kisses, promised her lurid ecstasy Rust to taint and threaten, sing us both a dissonant lullaby of genial fabrications Our secret's sharp cantaloupe flushed edges flicker and yet reflect only me, torment and embrace us both I imagine that these false reflections would purge the sin, I reminisce and remember how they did Whisper to her flickering lies, remind her of serpent dances we once shared These are privileges only those of the twin tapestries of plaited arteries share Quivering warmth to converge with our mother's soil, reborn from her rain-swollen belly The novelty always begins to fade away and I forget, Her porcelain shell has been defaced, it marks our thousandth day of suffering I imagine I’ll have to apologize once I see her again I imagine, I pray she’d forgive me In turn, I look over I entwine our fingers as we try for one more day I call this ‘expiation’
By Eliana Abdel-Khaleq
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Our False Adam Peaceful putrid benevolence Falls to the ills that mankind seems to revere Until a diluted heart such, flimsy and forlorn at the seams Can only ache and flail at the realization Pure, doe-eyed, scintillating beneath the sun the Toils of a proffering god and shunned divinity Granted to our unforgiving world That which I know too well still Has well been basted within the sickness of the land The lands probity is stolen from her And even my creator, duplicitous, claimed to cherish Eve’s gifts Feigns fatality and too joins hands with our mother’s villains And perverts me and her both Her kisses upon my skin, leaving an iron taste upon mother earth’s lips Does not aid the stinging dejection reflected in the very existence of my pious being As I can only weep at her feet, forsaken a babe such as I It is my only duty, to return to her bosom
By Eliana Abdel-Khaleq
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By Eliana Abdel-Khaleq
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By Ella Rosenson
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Little Girl I loathe the slight girl within shattered glass Dusks spent scrubbing forgotten soil off skin Nights spent praying to European pasts Drape me in pearl satin, rid me of silt
By Zoha Pattanaik
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She is with me no more i lie here reader struggling to remind myself of your ever-changing alibi blood lips, rosy lips, or maybe a rich chocolate yes! chocolate eyes swirled with a touch of saturated sea moss no sapphire, no quartz! or maybe aqua blue rare, maybe true, how cute, aqua blue with a slightly rounded nose that ties the rest into place with dainty white lace pink floral adornment not perfect but correct you remind me of a friend, reader to whom i owe an apology chronologically she is fortunately with me no more but I’m sure you’re different even slightly, just suspicion even then, i stare into this unstable reflection the cracked shards of glass a central break where my body lies blood ties, bathroom floor, she is with me no more.
By Zoha Pattanaik
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i write i write to connect i write to feel to understand the five-year-old girl who understood nothing i write to grab onto the flower that bloomed between a rock and a hard place born in the hellfire of the volcano i write to hear my own thoughts drowned by the screaming speeding scything blitzkrieg crowding out my own ideas i write to think to compute the process words flowing out a mile a minute tracing out patterns so familiar racing across a thousand pictures screaming to the heavens as if the words had already been written
By Caitlin Kim
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By Avery Park
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Aureliano, Filius Aurelianis Buendiae What am I to you but one of seventeen? Am I someone you can throw away? Spend your life hunting down the man who rose and fell but failed both because of and in spite of himself? Who am I but one of seventeen sons flocking in from near and far just to meet his old man? My countenance refuses to stand out in a lineup Look the same Work the same Want the same Die the same Marked the same Seventeen crosses for seventeen sons Who am I to stand out? Am I nothing But a father’s son? Who will weep when I die? Who will screech out to the birds of my passing As they pass judgemental glares Unto the passed man they pass? Sporadic
Erratic
Heretic And hazmatic I never stop running only to fool my foolish mind as if they won’t find me as if the clock doesn’t tick tick tick towards my death My blood boils and suddenly my eyes twitch Who was planning to tell me that I am a deer Each meeting filled with viciously voracious lions? I only stop when they get me
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Hide when they fret me Grow where they let me I only cry out for my mama when I’m not in visibility Barred out and stitched shut my third eye My intuitions and premonitions and emotional partitions Died They suffocated on the cross He drew No choice no say Unapologetically permanently epoxied on me Branded by the mark of God Only to be left unsaved I am not a believer but instead one forced to believe He told me of the gates but refused to give me the keys Just told me that they are locked Where is Gabriel to tell me of my future persecution? I am hiding from a feeling, a suspicion, a foreboding execution What did I do but be born? Born into a world, baptized with a name, confirmed into a cathedral Cemented upon the sturdy sacredness Of sand I wish not to be my father I bear the weight of a Buendia Yet still barred from the covet Shackled to time’s turning wheel But only an Amador What is in a name But seventeen “golden boys”? Etched on the cross on which they died, I will die Aureliano, Filius Aurelianis Buendiae
By Caitlin Kim
(based on 100 Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez)
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“The Doc is in the House" By Anonymous
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By Avery Park 33
Extended Metaphor I lounge and sink into the leather couch. Sometimes, I feel like it’s engulfing me. The apathy and craving to move, but just one more minute in this spot. The couch is eighteen, old. Like the dogs hopped on it too many times and people came to it for comfort but stole its feathering. It feels ancient, like a whittled brick, I don’t know how people continue to seek it out to find a place to rest. It’s been in one spot my whole life and is a whisper of its former self. The couch is just stuck sunk and sinking. Its feet of redwood could be one with the stained marble floors, and no one would know. Things would be so much better if it could move, yet it stays stagnant. I continue sitting; another hour. For the furniture, it’s just another lazy Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I mean, the couch is doing what it’s supposed to, right? It’s on the job, but gets nothing done. Life passes by, people come through temporarily, but everything tends to stay in place- the same. I need to pack today. That’s why I turn on the TV. The wobbly legs of the couch shake with the bass of Phineas and Ferb. The legs are essentially useless when an object is this immobile. I play with feathers I pulled from the Chanukah cat pillow. Feathers are soft, comforting, but when I break one I grab ten more. Pillows and cushions are filled with the stuff, they can handle a little loss. The thing is, though, I don’t keep the feathers. The dogs might chase them, or they end up on the carpet, but never back in the cushions. People rarely notice the difference, though. Friends and family and partners and strangers I barely know can take some, and it's gradual and incremental enough that there’s no large harm. I’m around eighteen episodes deep into Phineas and Ferb. I’ve watched it ten times, and my suitcase still beckons me. I like it here, though. It’s easier to watch shows than have the ones you make be judged. After some time of staying in one spot, you forget you ever wanted to be somewhere else. That is, until you’ve been stuck here long enough that the crappy room to the right would be like a trip to Hawai’i. With my body glued to the furniture and wanting to move, I wonder where would a couch fit in a dining room? It’s not meant to be there, that’s why it’s stayed. The couch is meant to be here. It’s six P.M. at this point. I don’t know when I originally sat on the couch today. In actuality, I’ve probably been here for days. I know I need to get stuff done, but… I can’t. The pillow deflates. The cold, hard, edge of the couch sinks into my side. I think about moving, yet I don’t. My parents had discussed taking the couch with me to college. It feels wrong, though. Pieces of furniture are supposed to stay where they are, not travel state lines. The absurdity of a couch going to college is almost funny. It’d be hectic and stressful to move and totally out of place. I’ve heard, though, that some students bring their couches to school, even if weird or out of place, they make it work. But, eighteen years feels so ancient and decrepit, why does the couch have to move to new places and see new things? I don’t know. The season finale plays and the TV goes dark. Another day, wasted in the same spot. I stare at the black-inked screen. I pull some more feathers, playing with them. I don’t know if it was from stress or just plain fidgeting, but I keep pulling and playing. Suddenly, I snap upright, and leave. The couch stays in its place. I pack and fold and stuff my suitcase. I have to decide whether to bring my childhood sketchbooks, pride flags, assortment of anime figurines and tchotchkes. It’s like packing up my life and deciding what memories get to accompany me. I zip up my suitcase before I can keep thinking. With a crumpled sticky note I scribble ‘Mail Me’. I lay the note on the couch for my parents. I guess they were right, maybe a couch can go to college.
By Ella Rosenson
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