2016 Harbinger

Meraki

Harbinger 2015-2016

Vol. XL

Meraki

noun | me.ra.ki | μεράκι

the soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that you put into your work.

Cover Art:

President - Dr. Bradley Bonham Principal - Mark Ostap Advisor - Marcia Meyer Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelein, IL 60060

Copyright © 2016 by Harbinger, a publication of Carmel Catholic High School. After publication, all rights are returned to each work’s creator. The views expressed do not represent the views of Carmel Catholic High School or the Harbinger staff.

Harbinger

Denotes a faculty-chosen winner of the Harbinger 2015-2016 Visual, Poetry, and Prose Contests.

|

Teresa Fernandez Colored Pencil Visual Contest: 1st Place

1

Pictrix

Prose

Next Stop: Otherworld City of Dreams More Than a Smile

Ethan Seidenberg 10-11 Natalie Lindquist 13 John McKernan 15

Photography

Heart Joy Ride Emma Sheer Little Things Emma Sheer My Sun and I Ethen Seidenberg March Onward Grace Harrigan Anatomy of Fifty Degrees Celia DeKeyser

Prose

Thirteen Imperfect Untouchables Abyss A Writer anda Young Professional The Astronaut’s Fool (The Fool’s Astronaut)

Photography Road Closed Eclipse Burnt Waters

19 25 28 29 29

Faucets Anonymous 35 Running from Nothing Maggie Wittmann 36 Obligation Amanda Modelski 36 Two Words Grace May 37 Writer’s Block Kelly Rodriguez 41 Lost Words Emily Edicola 41 Blizzard of White Noise Annie Murphy 44 I heard a Phone buzz—when Ricky Rivera 44 I died Questioning Stars Grace Harrigan 45

Lorien Rae Melnick 33 Sammy Dickman 38-39 Colleen Drangines 42-43

Alex Pann Amanda Im Maddie Gomez Annie Murphy

20-21 24 22-23 26-27

Caitlin Moran 30-31

Samantha Pokorny 19 Kaeleigh Foecking 21 Coral Wang 22

Caged Bird Perceptions

Joanna Badillo 34-35 Monica Prindiville 43

Soul Poetry

Through the Vines Ghosttown The Sleeping Volcano In Rolls the Storm Life is Good Off the Beaten Path

Artwork

Woman Sketch Kinetic Ink

54 55 57 58

Grace Harrigan 47 Bernard Zitzewitz 53 Kelly Rodriguez 54

Katrina Garzonetti Isabelle Beauchamp Samantha Pokorny Natalie Rutz Cydney Natzke Samantha Walhers

47 48-49 52-53 55 56 58-59

Brenna Geier 51 Teresa Fernandez 57

Additional Work Cover

Pictrix

Little Brother Morgan Brewster 33 Knock on Wood Samantha Lococo 36 On Top of the World Teresa Hull 37 Before the Storm Maeve O’Malley 38-39 Tracy’s Arm Claire Feld 40-41 Only Can Observe the City Abbey Kloss 47

Artwork

Prose

Photography

Poetry

Photography

Poetry

Abigail Hunt Alex Pann With all the Colors of the Wind Claire Feld Hidden Strength Kelly Rodriguez

Rebecca The Lost City Tomorrow

Mind

Another World Maeve O’Malley 5 When the Fog Settles Samantha Pokorny 6-7 Through the London Eye Samantha Pokorny 9 Streets of Italy Katrina Garzonetti 12 Aking Bayan (My Town) Gabrielle Panlaqui 13 Prose Mountain Stairs Katrina Garzonetti 14 Mind’s Eye A Bird’s Eye View Samantha Pokorny 16-17 Bon Voyage

Jenga Pieces

Coffee The Optimist

In The Midst of Autumn Ethan Seidenberg Walking Into the World Annie Murphy Man. Alex Pann Hush Celia DeKeyser Tunnel Debra Dunham

49 50 50 51 54

Widgets

Teresa Fernandez

Amanda Im Awards Caitlin Moran Body Caitlin Moran, Allison Cuba Heart Kaeleign Foecking Mind Kaeleigh Foecking Soul

Harbinger

Table of Contents

|

The Twinkling of the Stars Antonio Armagio 5 The Wanderers Annie Murphy 6 Fog Alex Pann 7 12:01 am Emma Sheer 8 Catch and Release Grace Harrigan 8 The Biohazard Child Celia DeKeyser 12 Forward Patrick Hutchins 14

24 25 28 29 27 30

|

Harbinger

Poetry

Not My Home Cydney Natske Red Flame, Red Converse Isabelle Beauchamp Infinite Reflections Cydney Natzke Gifts of the Secret Garden Reagan McGinn Continued Jimmy Dooley Rainbow Ripples Isabelle Beauchamp

3

2

Body

The Twinkling of the Stars Every moment—a single fiber in the tapestry of space Every star—a pulsing, beating, living heart of warmth and grace Every planet—a foundation, a pot for the thing to grow and live, the thing we call Life Gravity and Love—intertwined in the tapestry, beating through every star and heart, rocking and Tearing at every foundation.

Then—the constant, dimming and shining, light and dark, tearing and building up The twinkle of every birth and death Before passing into the void.

5 | Harbinger

meraki|BODY

Antonio Armagio

Body

The screen flickers red and white across your face as a chill darts down your spine.

Your stomach twists with anticipation; your skin grows cold to the touch. A scream fills the air and you jump, thinking that it is your own. Clammy hands hug the blankets closer, waiting for the inevitable.

The world around you flashes from the erratic strobe lights; your head feels light, almost dizzy, but your heart is thumping out of your chest. Your throat scratches in protest; you scream all the louder, ears ringing. The bass of the music courses through your whole body, igniting your blood into flames of wild excitement.

A bubble of laughter travels up your throat, threatening to burst. Your face flushes, lips press thin, trying to hold it in. It is futile. With a gasp, your lips break free, a smile blooming over your face; your cheeks strain, the air filled with infectious laughter.

Another World

Maeve O’Malley Photography Visual Contest: Honorable Mention

Fog Driving down a road in black Time is in the speakers The lights in grey never end The motions blend to one Perfect air is in my face Dampened hair is flung across The clouds, they sag like tired bags And as I draw my burnt lung in The mist of rain meets my eyes I trap the smell of soft wet mud And all the knots bleed out

My energy is lost in colors But my thoughts dance with coal Nothing matters but the pound My pulse succumbs to strings of noise Everything has joined the line Except the words inside my head The night is breaking into two Foggy rhythms begin to melt away Smiles crack in fleshy wrinkles And I am absorbing quiet joy.

Alex Pann

Body

Harbinger

|

6

The Wanderers On the gray swirled tempest of the night Wanton whispering spirits take their flight.

Their lofty moans shake the structures Of the stoutest brick houses on the street.

Children listen for their scurrying feet As their papas scrub behind their filthy ears And mothers remember the times they Yes, they! Sung in chorus with the wild spirits So long ago, so young and free of any care Letting the gusty spirits blow back their hair.

The vagrant whispers brought smoke and fires To alight her thoughts to strange beauty.

Alas, she let out that fire for aches and tires.

The wanton spirits still beckon at her door Though she has learned to forget.

The spirits, oh, how I have seen them dance Their heavy footed gavotte, clothed in city gray Mourning the world’s sorrows when they, by chance Link hands and twirl their grieving partner.

I have seen them set towns ablaze, But soon are snuffed and sulk in the corner.

The ash people turn their collars and avoid the gaze Of the spirits when they try to ignite again.

Thus is the life of the wanton whisperers; Bemoaning those who do not know to wail, And watering cold ash with their dirty tears, Knowing in their gusty souls they will fail, Knowing they won’t see a single blade of hope But how much we need them to go on!

Or who would the children listen to?

Annie Murphy Poetry Contest: 1st Place

When the Fog Settles

Samantha Pokorny Photography

12:01 am Time: such a fickle concept.

It’s 11:59pm.

You lay on your bed, eyes blankly staring at the glow in the dark stars plastered on your ceiling.

You think about the day: all the conversations you had... all the jokes you made... all the places you went... all the songs you heard...

Facing Page:

It’s 11:59pm: in 1 minute... in 60 seconds... in 60 thousand milliseconds... all those things will be gone.

They’ll all vanish into a yesterday.

Through the London Eye

Body

Harbinger

|

8

Samantha Pokorny Photography Visual Contest: Honorable Mention

You close your eyes.

12:00am.

The day: so new you haven’t even taken your first breath of it yet.

But when you do, you take it all in: all the conversations you’ll have... all the jokes you’ll make... all the places you’ll go... all the songs you’ll hear...

They’ll all form into a today.

Every minute, no, every second, is so absolutely fleeting.

And before you know it...

You close your eyes.

12:01am

Emma Scheer

Catch and Release Just take a moment.

Breathe.

Become entwined with the process, The oxygen flowing in, The diaphragm relaxing, Lungs at rest.

But then something catches.

In your throat.

No breath.

Pressure mounting stress and all the while seething and turmoil.

A bright light seems condoling.

Perhaps to sink would not be a failure, but a success...

And then a scratch, a cough.

Out pops a built­-up bubble, In comes a new sip.

A new thought.

The paradigm shifts.

So take a moment.

Grace Harrigan

S T O P :

| Harbinger

with the din of gunfire and the screams of the dying.

Arthur quickly ran in order to find some semblance of order and civilization, and he soon saw the silhouette of Boston soon come into view through the fog.

Arthur finally entered Boston and attempted to find The Gates which the Triad member mentioned. Arthur navigated through side streets and alleyways, and soon found the clandestine establishment behind a luxurious theatre. Yet as he approached the door of the speakeasy, it seemed to have a vague familiarity about it. He knocked on the door, only to have a single slot in it open. Arthur then inserted the paper card and said,“Fear the Reaper.”

The door slowly opened, and Arthur picked up his paper card from a slot near the unmanned door before he entered the bustling and jazz music-­filled atmosphere of The Gates. Immediately, he noticed that the patrons, many of whom gave him some strange looks, appeared to have bizarre features such as pointed ears, tails, horns, and a myriad of other characteristics. At least, that was what Arthur was seeing, and he doubted he could get drunk that quickly off the atmosphere. He took a seat at the bar and set his head down out of pure confusion and fatigue.

Arthur suddenly felt someone grab him from behind for the second time today. This time, he was being dragged by a bartender rather than a strange gang member of the Triad.

The bartender quickly dragged Arthur to a storeroom, and it was then that Arthur realized it was Ulysses.

“What you are doing here? How did you even get here?”

Ulysses asked.

“Ulysses, I always come here. What are you talking

Ethan Seidenberg

Body

Body

“

Give the card at the door. The password’s ‘Fear the Reaper’.

about? What’s with grabbing me anyway?” Arthur said.

“Arthur, this is not the normal speakeasy that you know...”

“Well what speakeasy is normal? I mean, they’re all illegal!”

“That is not the point. Arthur, I need to know how you got here. Do not miss any details.”

“What? Why?” “Just tell me everything.”

Arthur then recounted the events that recently transpired to Ulysses.

“You not only took a job when I explicitly refused to give you one, advised against it, then advised that you get a real job; but you took a job, got involved in the affairs of the Triad, took the Ley Line, and now you find yourself here?”

“Look, I was desperate-” “Your desperation was foolish and almost got you killed.

Just go home.”

Ulysses then seemed to draw a circle in the air, and a strange portal was instantly conjured.

“What’s that?! Ulysses, I’m not drunk so just tell me what’s going on!”

“Arthur, just go home...”

“No way! I won’t leave ‘till I got some answers!”

“Your foolishness is only intensifying at the moment.”

“Just what the hell is going on?!”

Ulysses gave Arthur a stern look before he closed the portal. “Arthur...This is not your world...This is Otherworld, a world different yet parallel to your own.

Here creatures from what you humans deem legends, myths, and tales are real; magic is real. It may look as if we are in Boston, but this is a different counterpart of it.

The Ley Line that you took to get here is a train line that bridges the veil between your world and this one. The Triad is seldom seen in your world because they are three different supernatural gangs part of this world. This world is not your own, and that is why you must go home.”

Arthur was utterly aghast. “I can’t believe this. It can’t get much worse, right? Considering my day so far...”

Ulysses then briefly opened the storeroom door for Arthur causing his face to instantly pale at the sight of some clientele with features such as multiple horns or tails, before Ulysses closed it. If Arthur thought he could not get more crazy, then he was wrong, for he quickly began spouting the words of a madman.

“I can’t believe this! What, is going. on?!! I’m going insane!”

Knowing the cure for Arthur’s insanity. Ulysses gave him a bottle of whiskey.

“What...What’s this meant to do?”

“Arthur...Just for once...Get drunk.”

“What? Why?” “Because with you intoxicated, at least you will seem mildly normal at the moment.”

Harbinger

Help Wanted: Errand boy/girl needed. $1,000 award For more information, go to Middlemonde Station.

Arthur quickly entered the train car and watched the conflict through the window, but the mysterious assailant quickly shot and killed the gang member. It then turned its attention to Arthur and fired some shots at him, but Arthur ducked behind the steel chassis of the train as the bullet fragmented the window. Suddenly, the train’s speed began to steadily increase to an incredible rate as it quickly departed the station. A sense of dizziness overcame Arthur, and his world became disoriented, before he slowly succumbed to unconsciousness.

Arthur slowly awoke and saw the walls of this new station were made of polished white and dark blue tiles with gold­trimmed accents while the floor of the station was smooth concrete. Yet this station was also strangely desolate.

Arthur soon found a few sets of stairs before finally emerging to the surface. However, instead of the outskirts of Boston, he saw a foggy battleground ravaged by violence. Ruins of former buildings surrounded him, and the odor of blood, decay, and gunpowder was intermingled

|

Arthur then left the speakeasy and was about to make his way to his apartment before he stumbled upon what appeared to be a discarded piece of paper.

“A thousand?! This much?! That would set me up for the good life!” He put the paper into his trouser pocket and began to make his way to the closest train station.

After weaving his way through the crowds, Arthur embarked on a train and looked for the elusive “Middlemonde Station.” Despite the many stops that the train had visited, Arthur found no sign of the elusive station and was rather convinced that it wasn’t real. That was, until the speaker onboard the train said, “Terminal stop: Middlemonde Station.”

As “Middlemonde Station” came into view, it was evident that much of it was a crumbling mess, and no signs were present. Arthur wondered if he had been tricked as he disembarked and was about to return to the train. Yet when he turned around, he saw no sign of it whatsoever.

“Great... Well, I’m an idiot! I mean, who would give $1000 to an errand boy? There’s an exit somewhere though.”

Throughout the station were drab grey walls were cracked and crumbling, and many lights were dim or even dark. Barely any other sounds could be heard, save for Arthur’s own breathing and footsteps.

“Hello?” Arthur called out, but it was futile.

Soon, Arthur stumbled upon another platform with a silver train car that was immaculate in comparison to the rest of the station. As he approached the doors of the train car, he felt a harsh tug on the back of his collar and was forced against the doors. “‘Ey! Who are you?” a disheveled figure said. He was clothed in drab attire, and his skin almost had a sickly look to it. Strangely, his ears seemed to be rather pointy.

Arthur stuttered, “I­—I’m...”

“Come on, It ain’t hard! Answer, or I’ll blow ya brains out!” the figure said as he drew a revolver from his coat pocket.

“Wait!” Quickly, Arthur noticed that the strange individual’s coat bore the symbol of a Triad gang and pulled out the discarded note he found, “I was just looking for this!”

The gang member took the note and kept his revolver pointed at Arthur as he looked over it before showing a smile of sharpened teeth, “So ya found my offer? That’s great!” The gang member then retrieved an envelope, a paper card, and a bundle of $500 from his pocket and gave it to Arthur.

“So, what’s with the letter?” Arthur asked “That’s your little errand, Errand Boy. Ya take the Ley Line and get this to the boss of the Mythos, and ya get the other half of the money,” the figure said.

“The Ley Line? I’ve never heard of that route before.”

“Great! I don’t care. Anyway, the boss of the Mythos should be at a juice joint called The Gates. Give the card at the door. The password’s ‘Fear the Reaper’.”

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard from the nearby stairs, and the gang member turned to see an assailant clothed entirely in black with scarlet skin and dark eyes. “Get in the train!” the gang member said as he fired a few shots at the assailant.

11

10

“Y

ou don’t got nothing for me?” he asked incredulously.

“I already told you, Arthur, the jobs I procured were far too dangerous. You would have to officially affiliate yourself with one of the Triad, and I know you don’t like to be tied down,” the bartender said.

“Really?! Oh, come on! I’ll be a messenger or an errand boy for god’s sake!” Arthur said. “Ulysses, I’m desperate here! Can’t you, you know?”

“Can I?” “Work your magic or somethin’? I can get a job that way!”

Arthur pleaded.

“Do you mean for me to call in a favor? I cannot just use them for you. I would prefer to save them for far more important things,” Ulysses replied as he cleaned a glass.

“Well, you’re a buzzkill.”

“Actually, I’m a bartender. Being a buzzkill is just what I am...amongst other things...”

“You really can’t do anything?”

“No, I cannot. Truly, I do not understand why you cannot actually attempt to get a permanent occupation? Or a legal one for that matter.”

“Look, there’s no jobs on the market! Not any good ones anyway.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, you have all of Boston to choose from. Sooner or later you will have to get an actual job. You cannot sustain yourself on errands for three of the most powerful gangs in the underworld.”

“Hey, it’s worked so far.”

“Well, I doubt it will work for much longer.”

“Look, can I just get one more job? I swear, it’ll be the last one. Then I’ll go look for a job. I’m serious,” Arthur pleaded.

“No,” Ulysses said flatly, “if you want a job, then perhaps you should try to find one.”

“Fine.” Arthur grumbled. “Can I at least get a glass of whiskey?”

“Do you even have the money for it?”

“Do I look like it?”

Ulysses raised an eyebrow in response, “You are rather lucky you are an associate of mine.”

“Aww...is that your way of calling me a friend?”

“Not at all,” Ulysses said before he retrieved a bottle of whiskey and poured some for Arthur.

“Well, thanks for the whiskey, Ulysses.”

“You’re welcome.”

O T H E R W O R L D

“

N E X T

Aking Bayan (My Town) Gabrielle Panlaqui Photography

12

Streets of Italy

Harbinger

|

Katrina Garzonetti Photography

Body

The Biohazard Child i saw you disincline to undermine, holding hands at the streetlight and wishing the stars alive in their constellation paradigms— only just realizing that you’re knock-­kneed and lonely and that becoming less afraid of dying is a bad thing. a personality of casualties, something feline and a little sweeter and you are pretty in a way that scares me because eating broken alarm clocks for breakfast and performing biopsies on passers-­by won’t help you survive. stop gulping bloodstreams from people who call you at three AM to tell you you left your intestines on the street or your lungs at the train station. there are pieces of you all over. but you just walk home sipping diet soda voices and spitting gnats from your teeth.

Celia DeKeyser

City of Dreams

G

etting off the plane in a city where I feel as though I was made for sends chills up my spine. I bask in the feeling of acceptance and how the dark cloud of confusion over my head breaks, becoming a clear sunny day. I can taste the perfect sunny weather, reminding me of chocolate since it warms my heart. As I walk the beach, I taste the salty water in the air as the cool breeze blows against my hair. Inspired by all those around me, touching their sense of confidence and style allows me to feel at home. I begin to navigate my way through the city, feeling all the colors and scenery, slowly becoming my own unique self. I learn how to become an independent person and discover myself along the way. This city brings out the best of me, smelling like victory at last since this is exactly where I am supposed to be. This is the city of my dreams, a place touched by many souls, a place called San Diego.

Natalie Lindquist

Katrina Garzonetti Photography

“Hi there kiddo. Name’s Tom,” he said, cheering me with a smile.

He launched into a long, legally required spiel about emergency procedures, liability, crew members, and hand signals, almost none of which I grasped in my deteriorating condition. As we reached the top floor, he paused.

“Alright bud. Now what was my name?” he asked with another grin.

Though it elicited waves of pain and nausea, I could not help but laugh in spite of the discomfort. To this day I cannot remember his real name, or even picture his face, but he and his actions remain one of the most positive and distinct memories from my experience.

They rolled my gurney out under the blanket of blue sky, and I felt the breeze creep gently through the thin hospital sheets. The long blades of the helicopter began to rotate, and I thought back to where I had been a few hours before, lying in the dirt watching my mutilated wheel slowly spin to a stop. While my wheel had been reaching its final resting place, these blades were spinning up to

S M I L E

“

Body

me. I remember little of the goodbyes to the pilot who flew me, little of the meticulous questioning, cleaning, and prepping for surgery, and far less of the man whose hands held the scalpel that saved me and gave me the scar I have today.

The days after the surgery were the most dreadful; attached to IV’s, catheters, and vital monitors, and crippled by the operation, I lay motionless in a hospital bed, eating and drinking nothing. I longingly dreamed of holding the bright red box of a Wendy’s Baconator and feeling the gently rising steam of a Dunkin Donuts cup of coffee, but the closest I came to this, and my only comfort, was when my parents were allowed to moisten my dry, cracking lips with a small sour tasting swab.

This was rock bottom for me.

Though I was on the path to recovery, it did not feel like it. A few days after surgery, a nurse came into the room to change the depleted IV bags that were hanging from the stands beside my bed.

“You look like the kind of boy who would have a dog,” she said playfully as she continued working. “Do you have a This was rock dog?” she asked.

“My dog’s dead,” I responded. bottom for me.

She sadly had no way of knowing that take me to my saving grace. my dog had recently passed away. The “Have you ever ridden in a helicopter nurse’s panic was evident as she hurriedly before?” one of the other crew members tried to rebound the conversation. She asked me. returned the next day with a blanket and “Never...but I’ve always wanted to,” a stuffed animal as an apologetic gift. The I replied groggily. I never thought that blanket was a deep green and speckled my first ride in a helicopter, something with gray fighter jets, which I found, I had always dreamed of, would be in a along with any other large invention, situation like this. fascinating. The blanket provided more As the helicopter lifted off the than mere warmth; it made me feel like a helipad, the jarring motion only made normal kid again. Soon I was able to sit me more miserable; nonetheless, the up in bed and eat basic food. The nurse crew propped me up and helped me told me that as soon as I was able to “use eagerly look out the window as we sped the facilities,” they would release me. In past the congested highways and streets an attempt to downplay the possibility below. My parents, who were to meet that something could have gone wrong the helicopter at the hospital, were one with my surgery, there were countless of the thousands of matchbox sized jokes over the next few days about this cars clogging the maze of roads. The taboo subject, and before long, my worry warm crackling sound of the radio filled was gone. my headphones as another of the crew When I finally struggled out of bed members spoke into his microphone. and took my first steps, the nurse helped “Heya, I spotted your parents!” he me as I tripped and stumbled down the shouted over the noise of the rotors. endless white corridors of the hospital Amid the sea of cars, I should have wing. On my final day in the hospital, known there was no way he could have her gentle smile shined brighter than spotted them, but as we neared the the harsh florescent lights that lined the hospital, I found myself straining to ceiling as she walked me through the catch a reassuring glimpse of my parents sprawling halls once more, this time far below. toward my beaming parents in the lobby.

By the time we landed, I was drifting in and out of consciousness, no longer John McKernan aware of the frantic activity around

Harbinger

Patrick Hutchins

he misshapen spokes of the wheel spun slowly in my peripheral vision as I struggled to open my eyes. I had just been riding; the cool wind whistling brightly in my ears, multicolored trees rushing past like a mid­day light show. But suddenly I found myself lying in the dirt, watching the spokes of this twisted carousel make one final revolution before coming to a halt.

As my friends carried my limp frame to the running car, down the same path I had just flown, the trees did not seem to shine so bright nor the wind whistle such a jubilant tune. The beauty of my surroundings was still present; I, however, was blinded by the feeling of my own impending end.

It seemed only seconds later that the arrival at the hospital was announced by an abrupt stop of the car. I recall little pain, but perhaps my mind protects me from reliving such feelings. I do, however, remember noticing that my abdomen felt like a miniature swimming pool gently sloshing with the forces of inertia.

This feeling was accurate, for when the doctors began pulling me and prodding me and testing me with machines, they determined that my stomach, ruptured by the force of the accident, had spilled its contents into my body cavity.

The calmness that I had maintained up to that point had been pure shock. I was in denial that anything had happened. But the addition of this gruesome diagnosis woke me, and somehow, I remained calm.

I was comforted by the hustle and bustle of the doctors and nurses taking care of me, by the calm tone of the paramedic riding in the ambulance with me, and by the familiar smile and voice of my mother sitting beside me. Even nurses accompanied by the sharp smell of alcohol and the prick of needles assured me that I was being taken care of.

“He’s going to need emergency surgery,” the doctor addressed my parents as he walked back into the room.

“We need to move him as our facilities aren’t equipped for an operation like this.

They’ve got a helicopter ready to fly him to Lutheran General. We just need your approval.”

There was no question; my parents approved. Even without the doctor’s reassurance, at that point, they may have approved launching me in a rocket if it meant the pain they saw in my eyes would be relieved.

As the doctors wheeled me down the whitewashed halls through the stainless steel doors of the elevator and up to the roof, the pilot of the helicopter briefed me.

A

|

Forward. I move my legs, one aching muscle at a time.

Forward. Towards a destination I not yet know, but one that I feel I will find.

Forward. Hope lends its spring to my step and propels me onward towards whatever faint desires my mind creates.

Forward. I stumble, yet catch myself on the cold husk of a dream once aimed for.

Forward. Raising myself to my feet once more, the corpse of what once was dissipates into dust, leaving only memories behind.

Forward. I begin to move again, this time experience aiding my step, giving me a path in my head of where to follow.

Forward. I know not where my path leads, only that I must trudge onward, my feet dragging me forward, without regard for what is Behind. Darkness envelopes me, I collapse under the weight of the memories and pains I tried to escape, tried to forget, tried to erase, by going Forward.

T

T H A N

15

Forward

M O R E

“

Mountain Stairs

A Bird's Eye View

Samantha Pokorny Photography Visual Contest: 2nd Place

Ro a d C lo se d

Samantha Pokorny Photography

meraki | HEART

Road Closed

Samantha Pokorny

J o y Ride I told you that I was sorry.

I told you I’d never do it again.

Their giggles meld into one. Tears cloud their eyes; they clutch their stomachs, happy, whole, complete.

Years roll by. Passing glances in the hallways. Forced smiles.

Friends… acquaintances…and now, strangers.

A new best friend fills the void. Coy glances become sparse conversation. It truly begins as she walks down the aisle.

It’s a girl: cherub cheeks and chubby fingers.

Three, four, five years pass. Her mom screams encouragements from the stands of the tee-ball field.

Seasons change, passions bloom. Pomp and circumstance rings in the parents’ ears as their baby accepts adulthood.

I still live with the regret of it: The pangs of agony every now and then.

Not that I did it or even that I enjoyed it.

But that you were the bystander, I didn’t leave untouched.

I didn’t mean for it to happen.

I never planned for any of it to happen.

I told you that I was sorry.

I told you I’d never do it again.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

You weren’t even supposed to know.

But I made you an accomplice, Serving a life sentence you’ll never outgrow.

I never wanted to take your heart for ransom, But you left it in the backseat of my car.

And when I drove away, I didn’t look back...

I didn’t even know I had it, until I was too far.

I told you that I was sorry.

I told you I’d never do it again.

Emma Scheer

T

H

2:00 p.m., June 6th, 1942 Emden, Germany World War II This is the story of how my life changed in 13 minutes. Listen if you want, I don’t care. I’m not telling it for sympathy.

| Harbinger

E

the joy of having front row seats to hear it. People would fill the streets for whatever was going on—a parade, a book burning—whatever. They would chant and applaud and watch their master like a brainwashed dog.

Sometimes I don’t think they even knew what they were screaming for, but as soon as a man in uniform walked by, they turned into slobbering, wide-eyed animals. It was pathetic, but I remember thinking in this minute about the strange lack of parading.

Our small street had been vacant, and it was unsettling.

2:03 p.m.

Minute Ten.

Minute Nine.

2:02 p.m.

Minute Eleven.

See, our shop was in the middle of town right in the center of all the action. The parades and raids took place on our little street, so whenever Hitler had something to say we got

Walking up to our front door, Father told me to go inside without him because he had to get something from the yard. That was the last time I saw him.

N

2:05 p.m.

Minute Eight.

Inside, my mother was slaving over our tiny kitchen, breaking her back to fix a mediocre dinner, and Klaus and Otto were off doing what young kidtwins do.

I was walking to my room when my mom shouted, “Andreas! Can you go look for some bread in the basement?

I can’t find the loaf that was up here!”

“Yes, mother,” I said, turning around, and headed to the basement.

You see, we weren’t poor—we did have food and clothes. But we weren’t satisfied and rich either. We were somewhere in the middle.

2:07 p.m.

Minute Six.

I made my way down the warm steps to our lower level. It was so dense and sticky that the walls were sweating and even the spiders that dwelled there were panting. If I can remember correctly, we had a shelf where we kept extra food. Yeah, that was it.

There were no lights, so everything was black and soggy.

I felt around for the bread.

2:08 p.m.

Minute Five.

louder and louder until it was so close I could practically see it. It came to us as a flash of light, a clap of extreme heat, and the loudest, most piercing noise you could ever imagine. It was a bomb.

sucked in and swallowed by the earth.

I could feel the sun beating on my raw skin.

I could hear the screams.

I could see the people running.

It was at that moment that I realized there was no town anymore, and from 2:10 p.m. now on everything I knew would just become a memory. Emden would be Minute Three. nothing but a ghost of what it used The force I felt next is indescribable. to be. I began to pant heavier now It was so great that I was lifted off 2:12 p.m. and saw more bursts of the evil, hot my feet by a gust of scorching wind reds. The reds weren’t mine this time. and thrust to the walls. I remember a Minute One. They were my family’s. The last thing sharp pain ringing through my whole I ignored it and tried to walk to the I remember was looking up to the sky body, and I was vibrating. I could feel stairs. again, which ten minutes ago was the my heartbeat everywhere inside and I fell. most kind and smiling sky I had ever blood was trickling out of my ears. I So I crawled. seen, but now, that sky looked sinister, lay for a couple seconds after the blow shielded by the thick blanket of smoke not knowing I was actually still alive. If 2:13 p.m. and ash as it mocked us. My final that’s how much I felt in the basement, The Last Minute When thought before going unconscience I can only imagine what went on Everything was the Same. was one of anger. For it was our own upstairs...

After what felt like an eternity of hoisting myself up a cliff, I grabbed on deceiving, blue-eyed, German sky that 2:11 p.m. to what was left of the wall and tugged delivered us our misery. myself to my feet. I stood there, Minute Two. wobbling, light headed, and red.

As I lay disoriented and torn apart, I remember all the red that was I came to. I’m not sure how, but I propped myself up. Around me, there flashing in and out.

Alex Pann I looked around only to find not a were flames and falling chunks of house but a couple of remaining walls.

Prose Contest: 1st Place the what-used-to-be ceiling, and as I reluctantly pulled my eyes to my body The rest that used to be there was

On that day, in that very second, I was agitated. I had just arrived home from a hard day of selling nothing at work, and I wanted to sequester to my room, take off my suffocating clothes, and sprawl out on my bed. I was bothered that my mother had asked me to go get a loaf of bread, but if she hadn’t I would be dead and so for that I must thank her.

Or at least whoever misplaced the first loaf that was upstairs.

Who would have ever thought that a simple act of irresponsibility would end up being one that preserves a life?

2:09 p.m.

Minute Four.

This minute is when it started, where all the pain I felt the rest of my life originates from. I was still looking around for some bread in the clumsiest way possible, banging into things and knocking jars of food over but then I heard something. It was a whistling. It started so faintly and so quietly that it was unassuming. It got

I was relieved to see I had all my limbs.

However, I didn’t have time to sit there and figure out how I lived. Confused, I lifted the shelf off of me, and that’s when I saw it all. Yes, I still had my arms and legs, but without knowing it, a shard of a glass jar was in my side, and I was losing blood. Fast. A pool of it was around me, and my clothes were soaked in a deep red.

Heart

As my father and I were walking back home, I happened to look at the sky. I don’t know why, but I glanced up. The blue was pure, purer than any German eyes you could find. The clouds were like strokes of a paint brush; they were milky and whisped. It was all so natural and pretty until you looked straight ahead. The buildings that lined the streets were brown and gray and sad. It looked like even they were taking the toll of war.

2:01 p.m.

“Hey, Andreas,” my father said, Minute Twelve. ripping me away from my trance.

“Auschwitz! Your option to alternative “Yes?” living, it’s not just a camp—it’s a “I was thinking about the shop. way of life,” a thick German accent Those tools can’t sell themselves in broadcasted from the small, round there and when I’m dead and gone speakers. My father snarled. He always your mother and I think you should did after hearing those ads. We all take over,” he said. knew that they weren’t a way of life.

“Oh, Dad... I don’t know. Why not Those camps were hell at its finest, but Klaus or Otto? I’m sure they’d fit the those were words no smart German job just fine.” wanted to waste their breath on. It “Yes, I’m sure they’d do fine, but you wasn’t worth it. are the oldest. It’s what is expected,” “Boy, you’re lucky you have those my father stated, not looking for an blue eyes. They’ll save your life.” arguement. He was that type of man.

Father always felt the need to say Without wanting to upset him, I that every once in a while. silently shuffled on.

I never knew what to say back, so I We turned the corner and arrived kept my dumb mouth shut for my own home. good.

Little did he know, blue eyes would 2:04 p.m. be the death of him.

E

Harbinger

Heart

T

|

I recall the air being sticky. It was a young June, but it was abnormally hot, and war had swallowed our country whole. The world around me was in pieces and not neat pieces. Pieces that had been chewed up and spit back out again, left to sit marinating in the repulsive filth that its inhabitants had created. I was 19. I was one of those unfortunate inhabitants. At approximately that time, 2 p.m., my father and I were in my family’s shop finishing up our afternoon shift of getting no business. The radio was on, nagging about some new anarchy that had broken out. This was typical, though. I mean, the only stable thing left for us was the dark promise of chaos.

R

21

20

Minute Thirteen.

I

E c li pse

Kaeleigh Foecking Photogram

“

S

swimsuit, Katie snatched my hand before I could help my dad unload the candy colored floaties, swollen with all the air that my sisters and I could muster with our petite lungs. Pulling my arm from its socket,

It was infinite­­—the moment after we launched our small bodies off the dock but before we curled up our toes shivering at the cooling waves that hit us.

Katie pulled me to the shoreline as I whipped off my Hawaiian print cover­up and spongy flip­flops that squished up and down as my feet pressed into them.

We raced to the dock, Katie, Megan, Rachel, Bethany, and I. We were like a small army of well­ trained soldiers—equipping ourselves with Styrofoam noodles and arm floaties that pinched our skin shades of lavender.

“You first,” Megan insisted, pushing me closer to the edge of the silvery dock. Even this had reflected the golden sun into a hallucination, gleaming into my eyes.

“Don’t push me in!” Rachel squealed at Bethany, bracing her skinny frame against the older girl, fearing that she would topple into the abyss.

“Let’s go together!” I said smiling. We knew what that meant as we gripped each others’ sweaty hands and readjusted our flotation devices.

It was infinite­­—the moment after we launched our small bodies off the dock but before we curled up our toes shivering at the cooling waves that hit us. I wasn’t yet immersed in the shocking cold of the lake, and I could still feel my skin absorbing the consistent warmth that would never leave me, the warmth that had turned my sister’s skin a fierce shade of pink. Our hands were locked together, refusing to let go to even when the water would try to separate us, fishing inbetween the gaps in our tiny hands and pushing us up when we wanted to go down, down, down. And we were suspended in the air, halfway between the land and water. It was a chasm, the gap between courage and fear. And we conquered that abyss together, always holding hands and giggling the infinite summers away.

The abyss grew. The hands that held mine disappeared. The glittering mirages faded. The ringing of laughter became silent. The years went on.

Maddie Gomez Prose Contest: Honorable Mention

Heart

slathering all over her. Throughout the tedious and bothersome drive, the trees waved at us as we buzzed past, almost mocking how we were trapped in the car, confined in an seemingly endless eternity while they were free to spend their years freely thriving in the sun. The fairgrounds, and the long road with the golden fields, and that delicate, ornate church that we so loved to gaze at, was glimmering with a golden haze that captivated our little, young eyes. We used to see the world as a wondrous infinity of adventure and fairy tales. Years have passed, and I no longer see the waving trees or the mirage of a thousand colors that dazzled us.

Finally. Finally. Finally, we arrived. Cranking the steering wheel hard right, my mother pulled our hunk of a van between the two tall pillars of sediment and cobblestone that hid the treasures behind it. It never failed to amaze me, the way the sun would strike the surface of the water like a rainbow of brilliant shades that blinded me if I gazed for too long. I’m lucky that at least that hasn’t changed. Houses stood erect at the shoreline: yellow, blue, brown, white. Some held secrets that were kept locked away for thirtysome years; meanwhile, others, with their shiny new windows and wrap­around porches, housed new tales that were yet to be written. The old houses are now demolished, destroying the vintage fairy tales that thrived there, and the new ones no longer have the children that used to run around its grassy backyards.

Trees hundreds of years old were draped around the neighborhood, leaning closer and closer to the ground as if they were trying to protect us from the sky. It felt nice to be guarded, to feel secure and carefree.

Worries ceased to exist then.

It wasn’t difficult to see the horde of Irish people at the beach. Umbrellas dotted the sand and a rainbow of towels were scattered about haphazardly, ready at a moment’s notice to envelop a child and wipe away the lake’s tears. My cousins saw our car first and ran across the beach squealing and erupting with laughter.

Their warm giggles filled my tiny chest with an irreplaceable tenderness. Wearing a ruffled and striped

S

Harbinger

Coral Wang Photography

An hour later, my family was stuffed into the car— me holding the warm pineapple cake, and Marie in the backseat complaining that she didn’t need the sticky, foul­-smelling sunscreen my mother had insisted on

Y

|

B urn t Wa t ers

catch me off-guard and cause me to end up in a heap on the floor; I’ve always been a child of grace and poise.

This has not changed since I’ve grown older. Greeting my mom with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, I began to shovel the Frosted Flakes down my throat, not taking the time to realize that I had chosen a fork instead of a spoon. The anticipation was simply too much for me to bear.

Dashing back up the flight of stairs, I flew into my little sister, Marie, who, not surprisingly, slept in her bathing suit the night before. Her round, chubby face was pink from last week at Our Lake, when we had splashed all day in the sun without a care in the world, much to the dismay of my mother­­and my sister’s tomato red skin. Mom was always like that, worried about her daughters and afraid the world would singe our skin. Tossing a swimsuit at my face, Marie ushered me into my room screeching, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” as she danced into my older sister’s room to jump on her bed and awaken her.

B

23

unlight peeked through my creamy curtains, fluttering inbetween the folds and telling me the day was about to begin. I shot out of my bed like a cannon, exploding through the mounds of blankets and pillows I buried myself under the night before. Racing to the bathroom, I yanked the door open to reveal baby pink walls and light that filtered in through the glass, hitting the porcelain tile in streaks like paint across a canvas. Cold water rushed across my blushed cheeks, tickling the blood vessels underneath my skin and cooling my face after a night buried under numerous snuggly blankets. This was how summer days started: infused with excitement; every day of my childhood was another adventure waiting to happen. Looking back, I can’t remember where I mustered that vivacity from; nevertheless, I haven’t felt that way in years.

“Girls! Time to get up! We’re leaving by eleven!” my mother sing­songed from the kitchen where I smelled the pineapple cake caramelizing in the oven. I raced down the shiny oak stairs, careful not to let my slippery socks

A

“

S

A byss

Not M y H o me

Im p erf e c t Unt o uc h a bl es

W

hen I met you, we were young foolish kids who thought the world laid at our feet. We were the picture of naïve untouchables, broken only by your father’s harsh words and my mother’s expectations. You were a distraction, a way to slap my parents in the face while proving that I wasn’t like them, wasn’t better than anyone and everyone just because of a fatter paycheck—and then you were more. You pulled me up to the roof, and though my ears were freezing, we lay side by side, pressing shoulders for warmth. You pointed to stars, and I tried to follow, admiring the bright ones and craning to find the patterns that came so easily to you. You told me about your father and instead of offering unbearable platitudes, I traced the scar on your temple from the time you fell out of that tree (or from when you sister pushed you, as you like to say). Our fingers linked, and I felt the bump on your third finger from hours upon hours of burning the midnight oil as you regaled me with dreams of screenwriting. You gave me a ring of flowers and I laughed, chest warm yet breaking for the already­wilting petals of a fleeting forever promise.

Harbinger Heart

Amanda Im

Isabelle Beauchamp Photography

|

Bitter wind whitened our lips and nipped our noses red. We strung lights and h ​ ung mistletoe, weary smiles thrown across our third­-rate hole of an apartment while we reached for some sense of normalcy. I eyed our towering pile of bills while you pulled out a ring, small gold bands pulled into a thin wildflower. You looked at me and smiled, saying you were replacing the flower ring from a lifetime ago, but our pile of crippled happiness drowned my ‘yes’, and I cried while you panicked. I ran outside, and it was raining, of course it was raining, but you followed anyway. I wanted to tell you ‘we could make it,’ but our lives weren’t prewritten on a roll of film, and my worries couldn’t be stuffed in a dusty shoe box on the top shelf. Still, I couldn’t look past the scar on your temple or the memory of pressed shoulders and freezing ears, and I nodded to the familiar caress of your warm lips.

R e d F la m e , Re d C o n v ers e

25

The leaves crunched in the autumn wind and suddenly we were scared twenty-­somethings, too old to go to school but too young to know what the hell we were doing. You took my hand again, but the callouses on your palms no longer offered comfort; rather, they reminded me of our faded invincibility and your father, constantly calling you for money, work, anything you could spare (and more). The aches in my chest almost became unbearable. Loud voices led to slamming doors, and I couldn’t go after you because I couldn’t see past the red blur of regretful words. You came back, you always come back, and I cursed you for staying with me and storing your screenwriting­-aspirations in a dusty box on the top shelf, yet I prayed you would never leave.

The bags collected under our eyes, no less dark than our college days but so much heavier. The laugh lines around your mouth grew faint, only distinguished by office­-cubicle­-grimaces.

Cydney Natzke Photography

L it t le T h i n gs “Why are you so happy?” he asks, as if it’s a bad thing.

Why shouldn’t I be? I think to myself.

The sun rose today in a kaleidoscope of orange.

I added just the right amount of creamer into my coffee.

Netflix has the next season of my favorite show.

A Kairos song came on the radio.

I got a letter in the mail.

My friend randomly texted me how much she loves me.

My brother called me to ask how my day was.

My favorite movie came on the TV. A teacher stayed after school just to talk to me about life.

After the sun set so beautifully, the moon lit the sidewalk.

The stars had the same twinkle that I see in your eyes.

The lake was so calm its reflection was a perfect mirror.

The long limbs of the willow trees dipped into the water.

The warm breeze tickled my ears.

And my pillow was just cold enough for me to fall asleep.

“It’s the little things,” I reply. “It always is.”

Emma Sheer

A

Heart

Harbinger

|

26

A

Writer

and

a

couple sat knee to knee on the Metra, taking last train to Union Station. The man, an over-polished young professional dressed cautiously casual for his down time, stared out the window, his head resting on the shaking wall of the train car. The woman, pretty in a safe, unintimidating way, read a novel but would glance up frequently to study the face of her partner.

“I like when we get to see your parents,” she stretched her arm languidly and rested a pale hand on his jacket “Your mom’s cute and your dad’s a catch.”

“I’m glad you like them.” He closed his eyes and crossed his arms, forcing her to let go of his arm.

She crossed her hands and forced them into her lap, rolling her eyes.

“Schiller Park Station” a recorded voice announced into the nearly empty car.

“Not much longer now. What is it, like three stations to go?”

“Four.”

“Four still isn’t bad.”

She turned away from her partner and eyed a sleeping woman—the only other person in the car, two rows up and across from her, using a large satchel as a pillow, resting on the window of the train car. She watched the sleeping woman as she turned and drew her coat closer around herself. Funny, the woman thought, I feel warm in here.

Maybe I’ve caught the flu. Jenny’s daughter has the flu, maybe Jenny gave it me. That’d throw an awful wrench into my schedule. But I suppose I wouldn’t have to go to work then. I could do some writing. Then again, I’d miss girl’s night.

“Brett, Honey?”

“Yes?” “Do you think that if I quit my job, that if I really committed, like I really did, I could be a writer?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said, still turned away from her.

She soured and rolled her eyes, animating her whole face grotesquely.

“I know I’ve got talent. Of course you wouldn’t know because you change the subject every single time I try to show you something I’ve written.”

“That’s not true,” he turned to look at her. “I read that poem you wrote, the one about the birds in the park. I liked that.”

“I hate that one. So juvenile. Besides, I wrote that in college. Everything I wrote in college is silly, and I’m ashamed of them. I laugh at them.”

“I thought it was good, anyways.” He turned around again and watched the urban landscape fly by.

“Belmont Avenue and Franklin Park Station” came the voice as the train slowed.

She noticed the sleeping woman was slowly waking up.

She rubbed her eyes with one hand and was rifling through her satchel, pulling out receipts and trash. The woman smiled slightly to herself as she pulled a phone and earbuds out from her purse.

Young

Professional

The woman looked back at her boyfriend, who was picking at his nails, tearing away at the cuticle of his right pinkie. She sighed inwardly. He wouldn’t listen if she told him to stop. She started composing a poem in her mind, three transcendent lines about accepting the bad habits of those you love.

“I think of some beautiful words sometimes, you know.”

“Do you?” His voice was flat and accepting.

She scowled at the back of his head and tossed her hair.

“I do. I really do.”

He turned only his head to look at her. “What kind of beautiful words? Give me an example.”

“Well, you can’t just put me on the spot like that. What a terrible thing to do to an artist, put them on the spot.”

The recorded voice filled the silence. “River Grove Station.”

The sleeping woman rubbed her eyes once again, slung her satchel over her shoulder and left the train into the dark station. The woman on the train watched her leave and walk away as the train journeyed on methodically.

The man straightened suddenly, thinking of something.

“Did my mom say anything to you when she followed you into the bathroom? She looked like she had some scheme cooked up.”

“Oh, nothing,” she teased.

“C’mon, what’d she say?”

“Oh, she just wanted to know when you’re gonna put a ring around me. How cute, really. How old fashioned and sweet.”

“I guess so.”

“Honestly! I’m a modern woman. I’m not in any kind of hurry to get married. She just wants grandkids before she dies.” She tittered to herself like a grade school teacher’s bell.

“Isn’t that a little mean?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. I adore your mother.”

“I’m not in any rush to get married and have kids either, I’ve got no time for that. I need to establish myself at work before that. Just don’t say stuff about my mom dying, for God’s sake. She is my mom.”

“Didn’t I just say I didn’t mean it that way?” she huffed and rolled her eyes. This time, though, she leaned in towards her boyfriend so he could see her entire face twist with arrogance.

“No need to get too angry,” he mumbled.

“How like you,” she criticized, “to barely acknowledge me all week and then start a fight with me after a perfectly fine evening with your parents.”

“I didn’t start this!”

“Didn’t you?” she sneered.

“I—­I—­” “West Avenue Station.”

“I didn’t start this, Elliott!”

She huffed and flung herself back into the seat, crossing her arms. Her face twisted and folded in on itself. As she bit her lip to keep it from quivering, her face grew splotchy

red spots. The first tear broke free and ran down her face.

Her hand flew up to stop the tear, but it was too late. Another followed, then another until she was doubled over with her hands wiping aggressively.

“Elliott,” he sighed, as he reached out to rub her back, “C’mon, Elliott.”

She jerked away from his hand.

“C’mon! Why don’t you talk to me if you’re so upset?” he challenged.

“You are impossible!”

“Am I? Really?” He sardonically gestured towards her weepy, hunched figure.

“You are!” she cried, straightening, “You really know how to hurt me sometimes, you know.”

“Union Station.”

The train stopped. The woman, with a determined and set jaw, stood and steamed towards the exit of the train car. Her partner, shaking his head to no one, rubbed his eyes. After a slight hesitation, she turned back at the door and grimaced at

him.

“Well?” Her voice shook with unsteady breath, trying to calm herself. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.”

He joined her, his head hung, forbearing, and they stepped out into the dark, cavernous station together.

“I think I’ve got the flu,” she blurted out.

“The flu? How’d you get that? Does someone in the office have it?”

“Jenny’s kid, Mikey, he got it at his lousy day care. I swear to God, when we have kids, I’m staying out of work until it’s old enough for kindergarten so it doesn’t have to go to one of those horrible places. So many of them are neglectful, you know, abusive sometimes; I’ve seen it on the news, and they’re practically petri dishes for filth on top of all that.”

He nodded in agreement as they finally emerged onto the street, hand-in-hand.

Annie Murphy

C o n t in u e d

Jimmy Dooley Photography

In fi nit e R e f lec t io ns

M arc h O n w ard

Cydney Natzke Photography

A pure white flower stands against the breeze, Its figure nobly raises petals high; No leaf unpolished; fragrance neatly creased, Against the beckoning of sultry sky.

Erect it stands, a talisman of hope, And though alone, it will not step aside.

No shame it feels although it seems to grope, At times for remnants of unblemished pride.

But then a whisper, whisper in the dark, Intensifies with ever­gathering gloom When suddenly foul words ignite a spark, Sealing heartbroke warrior in concrete tomb.

Defeated will our waxen warrior be?

Uprooted from the good of freedom’s fight?

A tender crescent ‘neath we still can see, But even it is cringing from the light.

29

And yet, remember that as long as one, Remains still thankful for the flower’s strife, Then hope will sit upon her spangled throne, Forever holding liberty and life.

| Harbinger

Grace Harrigan Poetry Contest: Honorable Mention

Heart

An a t o my o f F i f t y D egre e s

My S un and I My Sun and I reside in heavens high and dance within the sky.

Our dance can have many variations. We like to waltz in the autumn and winter yet we do the quickstep in spring and summer.

Yet our relationship is over such a long distance, and my heart cannot help but yearn with sadness.

Sometimes, we come together in a tender embrace, an eclipse.

We always savor this moment together...It feels as if it is simply us and nothing else.

Yet we both know we have duties to attend to.

I revolve around the earth, and the earth needs something to orbit, you know.

So we part reluctantly, knowing that the fate of the planet Earth depends upon us two.

As we separate once more, I say, “I love you.”

And my Sun says, “I love you too.”

Ethan Seidenberg

you’re trying to kiss the gap between being radiant and being screwed up, and we are spared from cold­-porridge-­mornings and soggy newspapers in which the sky has amassed every word you’ve ever said that hasn’t been heard. who knew this is what it would be to be alive? brisk sunrises accented by tea and mozart and visible voices, and i love you.

Celia DeKeyser Poetry Contest: Honorable Mention

Gi f t s o f t he S e cre t G arden Reagan McGinn Photography

Isabelle Beauchamp Photography

Heart

Harbinger

|

The rigorous path would have frayed her more—if not for the Fool.

Astronaut flipped through the aged, wilted menus they were handed every Saturday evening. The Fool ran his hands through the pages, glancing at the names of dishes until he found one he wanted to try. The Astronaut turned the delicate pages with the tip of her finger, pouring over the ingredients of each dish, taking great

“

“

care to find the most promising meal.

When the waiter came to take orders, the Fool rounded up their menus with a clumsy flourish as the Astronaut announced that she would like grilled quail that evening.

“That’s not your usual dish,” the Fool commented once the waiter returned to the kitchen. He whisked his straw out of his soda glass and stuck it in his mouth to chew; the wet plastic squeaked as it rubbed between

his teeth.

“I am trying to ‘live on the edge’ with you,” the Astronaut said. The Fool lowered his gaze to the scratched wooden table with a bashful smile, and he glanced sideways at the couple seated at the table next to them.

To the Fool’s surprise, the man and woman looked identical. Both

more like a grimace, but the waiter returned a tired smile then turned on his heels to walk away.

The Astronaut watched their waiter merge back into the hustling highway of the restaurant from her secluded corner. It was fascinating to watch him navigate the fluid rows of people sitting and standing and other waiters taking and giving orders. He traveled around the whole restaurant while the Astronaut ate her grilled quail, and he didn’t slip up once.

The waiter’s rush reminded the Astronaut of her own life. She flew through the orbit of her work life and home life, most of the time at speeds faster than necessary. The rigorous path would have frayed her more––if not for the Fool. He shepherded her down from her orbit when she flew too high or too fast. The Fool’s voice drew the Astronaut out of her reverie.

“Let’s go out tonight.” An interesting proposition. Interesting, because the Astronaut’s initial rebuttal began with “We are already out.”

However, she chose to indulge in the Fool’s antics, and she allowed him to carry on with whatever half­baked plan he had in mind.

“All right,” the Astronaut replied while thoughtfully chewing her quail.

She followed the Fool’s swift hands as he demolished the rest of his oysters.

He ate with a ferocious speed, as if the oysters had begun to offend him, and he cast his plate to the end of the table as soon as he finished. The Astronaut finished and rearranged her utensils on her plate, and she added the Fool’s dirty, forgotten napkins to

seat. Mellow tunes crooned from the static­filled station, and she turned the volume low so it barely graced the car with its sound. She turned the car to the front of the restaurant, where the Fool stood with his hands shoved in his coat pockets. He shifted from foot to foot, performing a barely noticeable dance for the Astronaut. She leaned over the passenger seat and swung the door out for the Fool to catch.

“Headed my way?” she asked. It was her turn to have a mischievous glint in her eye.

“I will head any way, as long as you’re the one driving,” the Fool snorted.

“Boy, you are the most amiable hitchhiker I’ve ever met,” the Astronaut laughed back. So the Fool joined his Astronaut once again. He climbed into her rocket and prepared to navigate the next revolution of their lives. He and the Astronaut will glide through the next unsettled slice of their course, all the way surviving on nothing but good food and each other’s company. Eventually, their circuitous path will return them to familiar territory, and the days will slowly stretch with routine and stability. For now, though, days whirl by, never the same as the last. And the Fool was happy to follow his Astronaut, who jumped headstrong into the unknown tomorrow, grasping his hand to help him jump, too.

Caitlin Moran

Heart

with a closed mouth as the Fool bumped into the restaurant door with a soft oomph.

The two inspected the scuff marks that the Fool’s coat left on the glass of the door. The Fool snorted, barely concealing the hearty laugh that bubbled from his throat as he opened the door for the Astronaut. She gave him a tight- lipped smile that widened as she entered the restaurant.

Once seated, the Fool and the

with empty eyes, avoiding the tiniest glimpse of the other’s face. Even while ignoring each other, they were identical.

“Why are you staring at those people?” the Astronaut asked.

“People are fascinating,” the Fool answered, still entranced by the monotony of the couple’s behavior.

“People are hardly fascinating,” the Astronaut scoffed, and the Fool quirked an eyebrow at her, the mischievous glint back in his eye.

“Except you, of course. I find you endlessly fascinating, my dear.”

In a form of silent thanks, the Fool cupped the Astronaut’s hands in his own. Chapped lips brushed skilled fingers as the Fool kissed her hands.

The Astronaut blushed, her mouth gave a tiny curl upwards, and she looked away. “Oh stop it, you,” she whispered.

The Fool returned the Astronaut’s hands to her and flashed a boyish grin.

Their waiter maneuvered through the other tables in the restaurant with a loaded platter balanced on his forearm, determinedly making his way towards their table. He cast quick, piercing squints at the people in his way, bustling past them after rushed (insincere) apologies. The Fool chuckled to himself; the waiter looked like the Astronaut did when the Fool took her to the mall.

“Can I fetch anything else for you tonight?” the waiter asked once he had set down the meal for the evening. Of course not, the Astronaut thought.

The waiter’s face flushed with sweat.

He had run around the restaurant

Harbinger

T

hey strode towards the restaurant doors together with the Fool in front. The Astronaut trailed behind her Fool, avoiding the rough divots in the concrete with calculated steps that took her high heels into consideration.

Every few steps, the Astronaut’s heel rolled on a loose pebble, and she faltered, losing balance for only a moment until she caught and righted herself. The Fool looked over his shoulder when he heard the Astronaut stumble, and he gave her a once-­over that began on the tips of her toes and ended in the depths of her eyes.

“Please watch where you are going,” the Astronaut said to the Fool. He continued to bumble across the parking lot while looking behind him, feet slipping into gritty potholes and arms flailing out to balance himself.

“I’m just lookin’ out for you,” the Fool replied. A glint of mischievous endearment sparkled in his eye.

“And I, you.” The Astronaut smiled

‘People are hardly fascinating,’ the Astronaut scoffed, and the Fool quirked an eyebrow at her...‘Except you, of course. I find you endlessly fascinating, my dear.’

|

The Astronaut's Fool (The Fool's Astronaut)

the pile of dishes.

“I’ll go and bring the car around,” the Astronaut offered as the Fool waved the waiter over to the table.

The Fool nodded, a curt little thing, and addressed the waiter for the check.

The Astronaut clicked on the radio once she settled into the driver’s

31

30

“

enough times that evening, and they wouldn’t make his job any more taxing. Not that the Fool could speak anyway, for his mouth was already crammed with chicken fried oysters.

“No, thank you. This looks delightful,” the Astronaut told the waiter while putting on her best sympathetic smile. It probably looked

“

Rai nb ow R i pple s

clutched a strong drink in one hand and a cell phone in the other, tapping away at their screens, paying no attention to their significant. They curled in on themselves—clinging to his drink then his phone, clinging to her drink then her phone. When they looked up from their devices, they would stare downward at the floor

Mind’s Eye

C

hanging the world, that’s my job.

Before you call me a cliche, understand that I mean this literally. No wishy­-washy stuff about being a hero and then never getting anything done. No. I mean it literally. As literally as possible, anyway.

Here is how I do my work. You may watch, if you like.

meraki | MIND She sits alone on a park bench, concerned with nothing and no one but the thoughts flitting through her mind. He observes her, wondering what she is thinking about, itching to open her mind, a vault concealing countless treasures within.

He can practically see it, can visualize it happening right this very second; he opens the door, steps through, and passes her thoughts, emotions, knowledge, and opinions, each shimmering with a unique and multifaceted perspective. They are imprinted on the coins and golden bars that spill out from each crevice of the door.

The door is snapped shut, jarring him from his musings. She looks up. They lock eyes.

He suddenly realizes that the door must be kept closed, lest the maelstrom of the repressed subconscious be unleashed.

First, I walk into a room. Observe. Let’s give it four walls and one door. One ceiling, one floor, for the sake of simplicity. Dull, sand­-colored wallpaper and white tile with black specks painted on to help dirt blend in.

It’s always changing, though. As I venture farther in, I notice a draft that suggests a window. Searching the walls, I find the glass. It’s wrinkled with a netted screen, holes pock­-marking through. As I continue my exploration, I find a second door. Wooden. Rather dull, still.

I put my shoulders back and decide to change this room. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know, and I have to take my job one step (or one room) at a time.

To begin, I flex my face muscles and smile at the floor. The ugly tile ripples and melts into a warm, living floor that smiles back at me.

Carpeted, plush and soft, with a deep blue and green design that breezes like the ocean. A few dark spots here and there to mix it up.

I move on to the walls. I consider castle walls but decide that stone bricks hung with tapestries are overrated. So instead I smile and transform them into glass, lit up and burning with the late afternoon sun. Through the flood of light, you can see rolling hills and pastel sky.

Four walls aren’t enough to reflect the sunlight into a kaleidoscope, so I smile harder and they burst into six, eight, ten walls. Lights race everywhere through the open space, creating a myriad of colors. Satisfied, I tilt my chin to the ceiling.

I dislike cells and chains and ceilings, so my smile dissipates the plaster above. Finally, the birds are free to swoop in between the glass walls, and the blue, blue sky becomes one with the rainbow. I lift my smile to the heavens and that is the last thing I change. I change the sky into eternity. Unity. Infinity.

I spin around once, twice, slowly, to make sure my smile touches everything and makes it permanent. No more of this “always changing” nonsense. I may leave this room, to change other rooms and other worlds, but I will leave a piece of myself here. My smile. My work.

I have changed the world, literally. As literally as possible, anyway.

After all, I am blind.

Lorien Rae Melnick Prose Contest: Honorable Mention

Little Brother

Morgan Brewster Double Exposure Photography Visual Contest: 3rd Place

Faucets this room has a peculiar cartography­­— bright cavern of unholy things stumbling and twisting like a migraine and you feel like you should apologize just for living here. you’re only welcome with lights off, shades open pulse on, eyes closed— a foreigner to concrete stability, you’re what’s in-­the-­closet-­and­-under-­the-­bed and you’re scared of this house’s legitimate inhabitants. every day you wake up with that sickness in the back of your throat, because you get a feeling like the space you occupy was meant for someone better suited to this house’s needs. you give a sideways glance at neon­-sign walls because maybe the walls know you maybe the walls will hide you from this house.

REALIZE: you are sorry for living here. it scares you to death, living here.

Anonymous

Caged Bird Joanna Badillo Digital Painting

Knock on Wood

On Top of the World

Samantha Lococo Photography

Teresa Hull Photography

37 | Harbinger

It silently strides along the walls around the edges of the mind— Hope is a mere shadow— a fractured promise, for faith is blind.

The silhouettes surround me, At last, revealing their source.

Time clenches the seconds in a fist, no longer running its course.

I close my eyes to surrender, but know an end is near I have since not forgotten there is nothing to truly fear.

Maggie Wittmann

Obligation

Two Words

within the quiet heart coins will fall upon the floor and marble teeth in silver sinks are replaced by sugar cubes ambition breeds like rabbits among weights upon the shoulders. friends fall to fog. light fades in deep water.

I learn, have learned, and will learn that envy holds a loaded gun and wears the face of God

Two words: eating disorder

Amanda Modelski

Mind

Running from Nothing

They are heavy They are dark They are real

They take a piece of me; a piece of my past But because of them, I have found new pieces of myself Courage Resilience Perseverance

They leave me shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks They are watching, waiting to strike again They are always lurking in the corner They are a constant, uphill battle They leave me broken

I will always carry those two words with me They’ll sit there and taunt me at times, feeding off of my doubts and insecurities But when it comes time to battle them once again, I will remember two new words

But stop. Wait.

I am still here I am strong I am alive

Two words: I won

Grace May

Before the Storm

“

“

Something was wrong.

Why is it taking so long to reach them?

Thus I set out on the jetski, humming the Baywatch theme, spray leaping from the water and cooling my skin. But something was off, something was wrong. Why is it taking so long to reach to them, I wondered. However, I had no time to ruminate over this as, without warning, the seat fell out from underneath me. Rumbling engine noise filled the air during a second of weightlessness as the jetski launched

| Harbinger Mind

n

V

o

itself off the crest of a 6 foot, white-topped wave. I fell back to Earth with a hollow, resounding thud, the jetski reverberating like a struck bass drum. I hadn’t experienced these ferocious waves before, not in the calm bay shielded by protruding peninsulas on both sides. Then I looked up, and my stomach dropped into a pit of dread; the sailboat was still far away. We were not only out of our league and in over our heads, but out of the bay, past the peninsulas.

This was not “close to shore” as I had thought—I could see the far side of the next bay over, a giant’s dark green finger stretching into the lake, lurking, shrouded in an ominous mist. Later, I found out that the line holding up the sail had been caught. The sail filled with the stronger, true Lake Michigan wind and had been pulling my dad and brother out as my dad fumbled for a pocketknife—a pocketknife that wasn’t there but should’ve been, an error that could have resulted in disaster.

My arrival was not well-received by my brother and dad; they only screamed at me to turn back. The whistling of the wind and the pounding of the waves drowned out their actual words, but I understood the connotation and flew back to shore as fast as I safely could. The vicious wind tore Hail Marys and Our Fathers from my lips, ripping them apart and scattering them into the air. Frantic, I reached shore, the water-worn sand and air adorned with birds’ chirping a haven from the dark water and roaring winds. My mother and I decided to at least attempt to rescue my brother; thus, we rushed back to the jetski, only to find that it was minutes from being out of gas. A jetski with an empty gas tank is a minor nuisance on its own, but add in a stranded sailboat and it is a severe oversight. This is especially worsened, as we found, when the extra tank’s whereabouts are unknown—my mother and I had not bothered to learn the refill’s location. The slamming and creaking of doors echoed as we searched, aware that with

y

a

g

e

each second we wasted Lake Michigan was sucking that sailboat closer into its unforgiving, waterlogged domain.

Finally, we discovered the extra gas tank, which was hiding in the corner of a closet, unaware of its saving importance.

But as we lugged the sloshing red container down to the beach, the rusty yet sweet scent of gasoline following us, the sight of a man in uniform stopped us in our tracks. The sheriff motioned us over and explained that my dad had called 911. He affirmed that my dad and brother would be safe, that an amphibian boat was on its way to tow them in to shore. My mom sighed with relief and tutted as she realized the implications of that phone call. My dad did have his phone with him—the sole effective precaution we had taken, while the binoculars and the pocketknife and the jetski had failed. Earlier that day, my mom and dad had argued over taking a phone on the sailboat; my dad eventually gave in to my mom’s insisting that he take a phone, just in case. Just to be safe.

The next day’s weather was about the same as the last’s.

We were in the middle of a streak of perfect weather: crystalline blue skies and an amber cheerful sun and a light breeze that stole away the sun’s excessive heat, leaving the temperature hovering in the 70s. That same weather was the same perfect sailing weather and thus provoked the same response. My dad stepped the mast, same as the day before, but this time also stowed safety and preventative equipment—collapsible oars, waterproof phone cases, distress flags, pocketknives—onto the boat, just to be safe.

Yet, just like the last day, he reached out to me.

“Wanna go sailing?”

Sammy Dickman Prose Contest: 3rd Place

Mind

As part of our inadequate but well-intentioned attempt at safety precautions, a pair of binoculars sat within arm’s reach of me and my mom. Yet those binoculars turned out to be useless as we strained to resolve the fuzzy, dusty image of the sailboat, which had stopped several minutes after departure. We shrugged it off; they had only remained stationary for a minute or so and were close to shore. After all, what could go wrong, we thought. But soon that minute turned into two minutes. And those two into three. And those three into four. The time grew with an inkling of anxiety. The minutes compounded until 10 minutes passed; still, there they were. But at least they had not moved, for the sailboat appeared to still be close to shore. I decided to head out to them on the jetski and bring along two oars; my brother and dad were trapped on a sailboat that lacked a method of movement not powered by wind—in hindsight, a foolish idea that we had made a grave mistake in not rectifying. All I had to do, though, was bring the oars and then my mom and I could laugh at them as they limped back to safety.

o

Harbinger

love for adventure is encoded like a gene in my family, and thus, combined with a steadfast stubbornness, my family accepts any challenge.

That’s why, when our neighbors offered us a sailboat for free, we just couldn’t say no. That’s why, for a whole summer, a sailboat sat in our garage, accumulating dust under the ownership of a family who had no sailing experience whatsoever. After time, feelings of guilt and ambition propelled us to put the sailboat in the water. Our maiden voyage was a success, and same with the next, our triumphs offering us no hint that perhaps we were in over our heads. So the next day, the next voyage, we had no premonition, no warning, of the mess we were digging ourselves into.

That day itself indeed brought no harbinger of distress.

Warm sun beams, unobscured by lazy clouds, pattered across the beach, heating the sand to a painful-to-bare-feet temperature. The faint moon drew a slow orbit overhead, looking out of place in daytime but doing its millennia-old job of pulling and pushing the rolling waves; meanwhile, a light wind tousled the leaves of the trees attempting to touch the bright blue sky. A thin, synthetic trunk suddenly shot up; its paleness jumping out against the greenery. My father was stepping up the mast of our new sailboat; today was to be its third voyage. He offered a ticket to ride: “You wanna come sailing?”

I looked up from my reclined chair, shading my eyes from the sun. “I’m good,” I said.

After all, my family had discussed this—albeit in brief, allocating it much less attention than we should have. Two people in the sailboat, two people on the beach, one to call 911 and the other to operate the jetski. Just to be safe, even though my mom and dad had been experiencing Lake Michigan for years; they could even trace their meeting and marriage to its shores. But still, just to be safe.

B

|

A

Bon Voyage

39

38

Maeve O’Malley Photography

Writer’s Block

41

Staring down.

Pen in hand.

Your mind has become a barren wasteland With the exception of a lonely tumbleweed carrying vague ideas.

You take a few deep breaths breathing in inspiration.

Nothing.

You turn music on hoping the rhythm will awaken the ideas in your mind.

The song starts off soft.

Ideas humming faintly to the beat.

The jagged thoughts of a piece of metal come pouring onto your paper.

Gaps and spaces all throughout your work, Yet the message is still carried out Like the disappearing echo in a tunnel.

Ideas so strong, yet the ink cannot form the image.

You search your mental dictionary for those few words That will string together your passions, But the words still elude you.

You continue producing the chopped up blocks of ideas.

Each one slowly becoming more beautiful than the last.

| Harbinger

Kelly Rodriguez

Mind

Lost Words I wish to write beautiful words Sentences, pages, novels But it’s all I can do to even try to connect the incoherent thoughts Sporadically invading my brain without my permission Making me lose my thought, my knowledge, my story The words that once flowed like water as they spilled from my mind onto the page Have drained out and left me with nothing Not a sentence, not a page, not a novel The paper sits before me As naked as it was 20 minutes ago But there is nothing left to say I have lost the words and I am not sure if I will ever find them again

Tracy’s Arm

Claire Feld Double Exposure Photography

Emily Edicola

42 | Harbinger Mind

stood as tall as she could. But on rough days she would slouch. This day, she was slouching. I asked her how her day was, and she said fine.

She showed no other indication that today had been anything but good. I think my mother is the definition of the saying “smiling

class ended, I had join the collection They seemed to be Jenga pieces.

through the pain.”

The two of us decided to go to Panera for dinner. Mac and cheese is my comfort food. Soup is hers.

I drove because she was tired of driving, though she would never have said anything if I hadn’t offered. After we ate, we picked up some bagels for tomorrow’s breakfast and made our way home.

As we pulled up to a stop light, I noticed a homeless man on the corner. A hat hid everything about his features other than a curly, brown beard flecked with grey. His height was average, but his body was rail thin. He stood holding a sign which I couldn’t read; I didn’t need to. I stared straight at the red light, but the man’s image was burning my peripheral vision. I couldn’t look at him, but I couldn’t look away. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help him.

I could feel my face twisting in discomfort and distress. And I didn’t know what to do.

My mom’s voice broke me out of my trance. “Do you want to give him a bagel?” I nodded, relieved she had said that. I quickly rolled down the window and offered the man the entire bag of bagels. He walked toward us, and with every step my heart broke more. The man had a limp, could barely even walk; one foot dragged behind the other. And as he reached out for

A

P

I

the food, I noticed his arm, on the same side as his damaged foot, was disabled too. He barely managed to lift it high enough for the bagels and definitely couldn’t straighten it. I’m sure he said thank you, but I didn’t hear it. My senses seemed to stop working, and I was frozen.

Snapping out of my daze, I pressed the gas pedal and left the corner.

A waft of bagels snuck through my window just before it finished closing. I hope to God those bagels tasted as good as they smelled. I hope they made that man smile.

I couldn’t even say what happened the rest of the day. It faded out when compared to all the worries piling up in my head.

I couldn’t say if I had homework.

Couldn’t say if my dad called.

Couldn’t say what we talked about if he did. The next thing I remember is going to bed.

I lay in my bed and looked up

Perceptions Monica Prindiville Acrylic Painting

E

C

E

S

the same blank ceiling as always.

I thought about my day, about everything that had happened since this morning. I’d acquired so many Jenga pieces by now, and they almost piled over. And I did the only thing I knew to help: I prayed.

Prayed for a man on a stretcher and a woman in a demolished car and a boy whose eyes weren’t open.

I prayed for a mom in surgery and a daughter so exhausted from fear. I prayed for a boy denied his education and for those whose brains functioned differently than mine. I prayed for a woman who was slouching today. And I prayed for a man who doesn’t have a place to sleep or eat and who can barely walk five feet to grab some bagels.

Colleen Drangines Prose Contest: Honorable Mention

Mind

simple procedure. Only gonna last a couple of hours.” She talked as if the ordeal was hardly worth mentioning, but a slight tone in her voice gave her away. The way she said “a couple of hours” was as if that itself was too long. The

my usual table and began eating my pretzels. Not particularly in the mood for talking, I opened up Twitter on my phone and began scrolling, coming across an article titled “Why Isn’t This Middle School Letting A Boy With Down Syndrome Attend His First Day Of Classes?” The pretzels suddenly became heavy lead inside my mouth. All flavor was lost. As I read the story, my stomach twisted into knots. Here I was, sitting in the school that I get to attend every day, having never been denied access to my education. This seventh grader was being threatened with arrest if he attempted what was part of my daily routine. And with that thought, my perspective changed a little. I had been having trouble seeing, and Twitter just gave me a contact lense.

The rest of school passed me by like a daze. By the time the bell rang for the end of the day, I was certainly ready to go home. My eyes had started hurting from the crying, though not as bad as I would have guessed earlier that morning.

I even played music as I drove home,instead of the empty silence I had chosen this morning. Walking into my kitchen as I came home, I first noticed my mom. Not just her standing there, but the way she stood. At 5’4” she almost always

G

Harbinger

was still occupied my brain. It amazes me sometimes how much brain energy I spend complaining to myself and contemplating a situation when I’m upset. No wonder I’m constantly tired.

Up ahead I saw the red and

“

By the time that another worry forming in my brain. piling up like

N

|

I don’t care what science says; some mintues are longer than others.

exhaustion might get her first. I can’t think of a sadder way to go.

By the time that class ended, I had another worry join the collection forming in my brain.

They seemed to be piling up like Jenga pieces. Carting around the load on my mind, where I sat at

E

43

“

blue lights of an emergency vehicle. Traffic began to slow as I approached the scene, and with it so did time. There had been an accident. Glass scattered the floor like it was confetti—a party hosted by the Grim Reaper. One man lay on a stretcher. A woman sat in the passenger seat of one crumpled car. A teenage boy sat in driver seat of another. Neither had their eyes open. Neither moved. My ears heard nothing but dead silence, which was eerie in its own way.

Realistically, I was at the accident and passed it in about a minute. But I don’t care what science says; some minutes are longer than others.

As I got to school, the accident faded into the back of my mind, keeping my worries about my dad company. I dashed into homeroom, just a moment away from being late. I went to classes. It was a normal Wednesday.

First period was uneventful. In second period, I sat next to my friend Lucy as always. When it was time for us to do practice problems, we talked instead. As always.

“Have you heard anything about your mom?” I asked her. Lucy’s mom had been in the ER recently complaining of headaches. Lucy looked down at her paper. She didn’t look sad, or upset, or hurt, the way I’d expect a person to look in her situation. Tired. I thought to myself. Lucy looks exhausted.

“They found a mass in her brain. A tumor. But she’s having surgery tomorrow, and it’s a very

“

I

rritation flared up in me as the sound of my alarm reached my now­-awake ears. The noise reminded me of background music in a cheesy video game, something I find particularly annoying; sometimes anger was the only feeling strong enough to get me out of bed. As I tried to open them, my eyes stuck together just slightly more than normal as a little reminder of all the crying I’d done last night. With that reminder came the memory. The special tone in my dad’s voice reserved for “serious topics.” The panic welling up in my chest urging me to run. The words of what I had done wrong, what made me not good enough. All these things were familiar to me.

Throughout the years the details may have changed, but these three were constant. The sound. The fear. The blame.

Lying in bed, I looked up at my blank ceiling. My thoughts whirled in my head so I could focus on nothing else. Then, I did the only thing I knew to help: I prayed.

Prayed for the situation with my dad to improve, or at least not get worse, and prayed for me to not hurt too much that day. Goose bumps spread along my arms, my body’s way of telling me I was about to cry. I forced it all down and put two feet on my carpet.

Time to start the day.

About an hour later, I was pulling my car out of the driveway and on my way to school. Thoughts of my dad and how sucky that situation

J

“

Jenga Pieces

Questioning Stars

Mind

Harbinger

|

44

I heard a Phone buzz—when I died Blizzard of White Noise

I heard a Phone buzz when I died; The brightness in my room Was like the brightness in the game When my enemies met their doom

The TV buzzes on forever in my house, Sometimes with watchers, Sometimes to douse The possibility of making our own words To fill up any silence.

When the eyes beside had wrung them dry And retweets were coming sure For that last post when @theking, would # feeling secure

Someone stuffed my head with Wall insulation, jammed it in Through my ears until I went stiff.

I see the pink stuff behind my eyes If I stare long enough.

I decide to take a rambling drive To search for any reason To break up the brick of noise and thrive But I can’t hear anything new Over the blare of my radio.

For years, we have tried to find the answer to the Earth. Questions moving men, men moving rocks, rocks moving mountains.

And yet... what if the answer is not what is here--what must be here--but what is absent?

Perhaps the answer is sheathed in soft, amorphous enigma rather than cold, hard, glaring truth.

Thus, we must reach unto the stars, into the heights, looking, searching, praying for the series of impossibilities that might lead to our flickering glimpse of understanding.

In the stars we may reach comprehension where we have failed at credibility.

Grace Harrigan

I willed my fingers, typed away, What portion of me I Could leave behind—and then There interposed a text.

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the wifi failed and then I could not see to send

Ricky Rivera

Poetry Contest: 3rd Place

I come home from my wander And to avoid looking my family in the eye I pretend I had something to ponder But we all know I tried and failed to escape The blinding blizzard of white noise.

I fall into a half­-conscious sleep Because the boredom is never ending And my family will still keep The TV on in our house So we can’t hear our own thoughts.

Annie Murphy

Only Can Observe the City Abbey Kloss Photography

O

Rebecca

ne would think that an orchid amidst roses might, although vibrant stand at morning, quickly pale ‘neath Athens’ moonlight.

After all, does not a rose have deeper roots, and its innermost petals guarded by thrusts of thorns? A rose can shutter its windows, bar its gates, seduce itself from that nightmare fancy: to mourn.

And while the rose is clothed in shackled pleasantries, the orchid forgets her earthly frailty, runs with abandonment into the sky. It’s true, this course of action tumbles down essence, leaving the orchid bare, exposed to pollen whispers.

Yet, somehow, even ringed by her shambled petals, the orchid archs determinedly, alive. In the aftermath of the tempest, it is the rose who must bend to the orchid, crying, “Hail to the Lady of Life.”

The golden watch sits abandoned by its owner, next to a garbage bag of give-aways and solemn memories. A small girl sniffs, dabbing at her tears and holds the golden watch close to her chest, making a silent vow to never part with it.

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK….

Generations change. The golden watch is passed from hand to hand until it is bruised, battered, dented in on itself. But still the gold shines, still the hands move.

Still the clock ticks.

Through the Vines Katrina Garzonetti Photography

Soul

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK…

Harbinger

The gold watch sits in the young man’s pocket; there’s a spring in his step, a merry tune to his whistle because he knows what an absolute steal this is—a brandspanking-new watch for ten dollars less than what his friend Neil paid last week!

And look at the luster, the shine on that thing! Incredible. Simply incredible.

|

meraki|SOUL

47

Grace Harrigan Prose Contest: 2nd Place

Ghosttown

Isabelle Beauchamp Photography

In The Midst of Autumn

In the midst of autumn, trees cry their tears of leaves ever so sorrowfully as they mourn the passings of spring and summer forlornly.

In the midst of autumn, the grass goes to sleep, dreaming of a verdant awakening.

In the midst of autumn, both trees and people cry until their eyes are dry.

In the midst of autumn, lightweight leaves are lost to the breeze while early signs of frost manifest as plants threaten to freeze.

In the midst of autumn, there is always a telling that soon, winter is coming...

Ethan Seidenberg

Walking Into the World A young woman walks into the world, Accompanied by her swells and a bluster of nonsense.

Her face painted on, her hair in a curl.

Desperate that her blood red integrity doesn’t Bleed through her name brand perfume, Lest they discover the child inside.

Alex Pann

| Harbinger

Woman Sketch Brenna Geier Pencil Drawing Visual Contest: Honorable Mention

Hush I spend too much time wrestling with my proclivity for cynicism and worrying about the irregularities in my collarbone like i think there’s something wrong with me like maybe i have the plague because i feel this unfolding me, swallowing pieces of my skin until i look like what the cat dragged in and now i’m coughing up confetti every time i try to take a breath downing gallons of dopamine and piecing myself back together with scotch tape and some sewing thread and gravity is the only thing keeping my feet on the ground and my heart on my sleeve

but i’ve got a list of all the things i could never be for you that reaches up to my throat, performing an involuntary tracheostomy but at least i can breathe again like pulmonary mercenaries like i must have the plague because you keep telling me i’m sick and i don’t know what i’ve got i am not the pieces of you that are in my lungs

Celia DeKeyser

Poetry Contest: 2nd Place

Soul

Soul

Poetry Contest: Honorable Mention

Homeless man, where are you from?

Soulless man, how do you fare?

Ice in your eyes, do you know despair?

Oh homeless man, I don’t understand Why can’t I hear you, hopeless man?

Behind the sign, on walk of side You sit your days, no mind inside.

Beg and plead for life tonight, But homeless man, that street will bite.

On foreign lands, on Mars and moons, You’re shooting up to seek refuge.

Yet, heartless man, don’t you see?

Those escapes are just a fallacy.

Your life consists of death and rot Homeless man, this is all you’ve got.

So don’t try to blow your lot, Accept what you are, not what you’re not.

Loveless man, you are my shadow.

I’m you, you’re me, and boy, we’re shallow.

Instead of finding life this time, Realize we’re blind and hope to die.

Homeless man, just use your brain We’re much too selfish to try and save, ‘Cause you’re not a real person, anyway.

Harbinger

Annie Murphy

Man. |

The old ones struggle out of the world No less content than when they came.

Their lives behind them, a scroll unfurled.

The rush and paranoia of youth has dragged their skin And they wait for the end of their wilting days Hoping someone will recognize the child inside.

51

50

A young man walks into the world, Clutching desperately at his masculinity, With his emotions pushed distant and hurled Worlds away, displaying his ego on his breast With covetous mania keeping him alert eternally, Lest they discover the child inside.

2015

The Sleeping Volcano Samantha Pokorny Photography

The Sleeping Valcone.jpg

The Lost City

C

reaking wagons only added to the city’s daily din. The street vendors shouted as theater­goers lined up to see the day’s scheduled shows. Children ran through the narrow streets with wooden swords in hand as they reenacted the deeds of their beloved heroes. The clamor filled the air with life as the heart of the city beat with its typical spirit.

But the earth deep below bellowed in molten agony; Nature’s fiery temper had been oppressed for too long. Her fury perforated the fertile soil that man had blissfully cultivated for centuries. Her searing screams would not be ignored this time.

53

A cloud of smoldering dust had conquered the clear sky. Ash rained down on the bustling city. The citizens scrambled for the docks, leaving behind their ornately decorated homes which would become troves of cultural treasure. The clamor still hung over the streets. This clamor, however, was made of the dreadful cries of people from all classes of society, united by primal terror.

|

The cycle of life continued over the olive­-laden soil of the fertile country. All that remained of classical civilization was ravaged ruin that left its former glory in the imagination of secluded scholars.

Yet when the plow struck the eager, volcanic soil, Nature lifted the life of civilization back to its surface. A window opened wide into the soul of a people whose lives had faded into legend, and the city could breathe once again.

Bernard Zitzewitz

Soul

When the sun showed again, the city was but a carpet of black soil. Magnificent frescoes and mosaics, treasures of civilization lost, hid from the transforming reach of feudal power. What Nature had reclaimed was now ripe for the plow.

Harbinger

The cloud continued to engulf the city, and many people were stranded in mortifying futility as the earth rose around them.

Some lifted their hearts in prayer towards the somber sky, asking why the once docile land was swallowing them whole. Others shared one final, eternal embrace that froze their love in the grains of time. Few even managed to sleep through the chaos, unaware that the comforts of civilization had slipped out from underneath them. All were devoured by Nature, their final actions trapped for the ages.

Coffee The Optimist

Six o‘clock A.M., my alarm sounds, I roll out of bed and onto the ground.

Tunnel

Soul

Harbinger

|

54

Misty shadows, foggy facade; Simple, sparse, fading lights Cast a sickly glow, within This endless tunnel: My life. I walk along blindly, Not knowing what I see, with Every slight movement Taunting my heart.

The tunnel’s end seems never.

There’s no way out but one; well, I could turn back To face 16 years of gloom.

But what if up ahead, The Heavenly Light appears, And I’d have never known it, ‘Cause I’d withdrawn from future hope.

So I walk blindly along these tunnels of life; awaiting Everlasting light. My cloudy vision fools me, amongst the subdued light.

Falling rocks echo around me; I hear a hopeful tune.

Surely God will soon bring me home: For nothing is good in my dark tunnel.

Then, up ahead I see it; An angelic, golden girl, Who had broken, the condescending tunnel walls.

With open arms, she welcomes me; Guides me to a brighter path, Where other people laugh and sing: I’ll no longer be alone.

Things don’t seem so bleak now; Though I often fall from the path.

I not only await eternal light But enjoy the journey of life

Debra Dunham

I pull myself up to a standing position, and somehow I make it into the kitchen.

An optimist sits In a room full of shelves The window is cracked As he thinks to himself

“This is how zombies must feel,” I think, “I need a nice cup of my favorite drink.”

A vinyl faintly spins And dust floats adrift Books line the walls And his rocking chair shifts

I grab the small cup filled with ground coffee beans And place it and some water into the machine.

I watch as it spurts out that delicious liquid And deny to myself the fact I’​m​addicted.

It leans way back Way into his past And he reminisces While his mind races fast

The entire room fills with the delicious aroma, as I drink from my mug and wake up from my coma.

With her mother dead And his father not near He has grown But not with any fear

I’​ll drink it all up,​and never look back, whether it’​s​chocolate, caramel, vanilla, or black.

Those brown little beans ground inside a cup, oh, they never fail to cheer me right up.

He remembers the pain And thinks of his hardship The chair rocks on And his heart starts to skip

Abigail Hunt

Everything he’s been through Rushes to his head But he tries to stop it there And think of what’s ahead

Tomorrow

As he still sits On that cold rainy noon His rocking chair quiets And silence reaches the room

There comes a time in everyone’s life where one fears the future, but fearing the inevitable is like trying to stop the sun from rising each morning. We all have bad days, and some days are worse. Some days we wake up, and our beds become our only sanctuary that can guard us from the horrors of the day. And the idea of a tomorrow makes us fear today. We spend our days running from our mistakes, trying to slow down time.

But the fact is, we can’t. Face your problems with an open hand and shake off the faults. We can’t spend our lives afraid to cross off today on the calendar in fear that tomorrow will come because let me tell you something, tomorrow isn’t vengeful—tomorrow is forgiving.

Kelly Rodriguez

He stops from his thoughts And calms down his mind The sad memories fade, They almost got him this time Though he’ll never let them win, Even though he could, But, see, an optimist is trained to only see the good.

In Rolls the Storm Natalie Rutz Photography

Alex Pann

With all the Colors of the Wind I believe the world lives in many colors, Every person is made up of many colors, And these colors affect our lives.

I live in blues, greens, black and grey.

They all have characteristics which make up who I am.

Blue can be mysterious and pretty, but it dampens me.

Gray makes me appreciate all the neutrals in life while making me appear safe and dull.

Green is the one spark in my life.

It’s the tiny excitement I believe is real because I haven’t felt anything better yet.

And lastly, black.

Harbinger Soul

I want to change, I really do.

I want to share other colors and I want to feel and see what everyone else sees.

|

All these colors make me jealous because not everyone has the same colors.

I’m jealous of the exuberant reds, brightening yellows, and compassionate fuchsias.

I’m jealous of the people who can make purple and orange.

I’m jealous that people have these colors while I don’t.

57

I believe we all have a little black in us, whether we accept it or not.

It's that rope that pulls us away from the light, That part that only craves the night.

It's always there, but whether we follow it or not, makes all the difference.

So until I use up all the black and gray, I will never learn to paint with pink and breathe in orange.

I won’t ever cry purple or laugh yellow.

I will just have to live with seeing green and feeling blue.

Claire Feld

Life is Good Cydney Natzke Photography

Kinetic Ink

Teresa Fernandez Ink Drawing

Off the Beaten Path Samantha Walhers Photography

Hidden Strength Afraid Never Strong And I will always be Weak.

He peers into the mirror and sees what he will always be, Strong.

I look into the mirror and realize what I am.

Nothing more than the shell of a man.

But still he is Everything anyone could ever want.

Falling softly.

Cannot catch the hopes and dreams that are crumbling.

He catches a football, and he Can stand tall.

And now I Hide.

I will not Stand out.

Afraid to stand out and make a difference.

I will never be Extraordinary.

Ordinary Not Different I am me But that’s wrong.

Everyone must be the same.

They will hate me if I am different.

I must never think that I can be myself.

(Read backwards)

Kelly Rodriguez

From the Editors

Harbinger

|

60

“That is part of the beauty of all literature.

You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”

“I like the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

- John Green

That is precisely the beauty of this year’s issue of Harbinger. Meraki represents the life that the students of Carmel Catholic breathe into the hallways and classrooms. It is the embodiment—specifically the heart, mind, body, and soul--of our school. Let this issue of Harbinger teach you that we are all one student body, we all laugh, we all cry, we all experience regret and adventure, and we all long for one, united sense of understanding and belonging. That is truly the beauty of all literature, and that is the beauty that I hope is reflected in the 2015-2016 issue of Harbinger, Meraki.

This publication was made with the hard work and dedication of so many, starting with all of you, the brave souls who submitted their creations knowing that their peers and teachers might see them. You all have breathed life into this magazine, and the Harbinger Team is eternally grateful. I sincerely hope you enjoy this year’s issue of Harbinger and that it means as much to you as it does to me.

Sincerely,

The experience of the written word is undoubtedly unique in that, for fear of sounding cliché, it allows readers to transform unfamiliar experiences into familiar ones and to gain often invaluable perspectives. But it’s more than all this, and it’s more than just scratches on a sheet of paper.

The pieces in this year’s Harbinger magazine are sometimes filled with indignation, sometimes bursting with love and memory and sentiment. They are sometimes odes to loneliness, sometimes echoes of the laughter and stories they weave together. Above all, though, these pieces are emotions, inseparable from their creator. So comes Meraki.

Thank you to everyone who contributed to this magazine, specifically our layout editors, Kaeleigh, Caitlin, Amanda, and Allison. Your hours and hours of incredible work and dedication are what have made this magazine as beautiful as it is. Thank you also to the faculty judges for putting in the time and effort to read and evaluate several pieces. A special shout-out to Ms. Burke and Ms. O’Donnell for their expertise and guidance. You ladies are awesome.

I hope you enjoy this year’s issue. It’s everything I’ve described and so much more.

Sincerely,

Natasha Gupta Co Editor-in-Chief

Editors

Meera Ramakrishnan Co Editor-in-Chief

Submissions/Layout Caitlin Moran Layout/Publicity Amanda Im • Kaeleigh Foecking Layout Allison Cuba Copy Celia DeKeyser • Ethan Seidenberg Publicity Robert Lee Mason • Michael Edicola

Editor’s Note: All submissions were considered anonymously.

The 2015-2016 issue of Harbinger was typeset. The layouts were produced on Adobe InDesign 8.0 with the assistance from Adobe PhotoShop 13.0 x64 using the iMac13,1. Harbinger was printed on 80# Endurance Gloss Text Book, using Adobe Garamond Regular, Helvetica Neue Light, Black Jack Regular, Don’t Mix Yer Drinks Regular, Sunbreath Regular, SF Orson Casual Medium Oblique, and James Fajardo Regular for titles, captions, credits, and body text. The cover was printed on 100# Endurance Gloss Cover Stock with Gloss Aqueadous Coating. The actual magazine contains 60 pages. The magazine is bound with perfect binding. Harbinger Volume 40 is a limited edition of only 1550 copies.

A, B

Index

Anonymous 35 Armagio, Antonio 5 Badillo, Joanna 34-35 Beauchamp, Isabelle 25, 30, 48-49 Brewster, Morgan 33

D, E

DeKeyser, Celia Dickman, Sammy Dooley, Jimmy Drangines, Colleen Dunham, Debra Edicola, Emily

F, G

Feld, Claire Fernandez, Teresa Foecking, Kaeleigh Garzonetti, Katrina Geier, Brenna Gomez, Maddie

H, I, K

Harrigan, Grace Hull, Teresa Hunt, Abigail Hutchins, Patrick Im, Amanda Kloss, Abbey

L, M

Lindquist, Natalie Lococo, Samantha May, Grace McGinn, Reagan McKernan, John Melnick, Lorien Rae Modelski, Amanda Moran, Caitlin Murphy, Annie

12, 29, 51 38-39 27 42-43 54 41

40-41, 57 57 21 12, 14, 47 51 22-23

8, 29, 45, 47 37 33, 54 14 24 47

13 36 37 29 15 33 36 30-31 6, 26-27, 44, 50

N, O, P, R

Natzke, Cydney O’Malley, Maeve Panlaqui, Gabrielle Pann, Alex Pokorny, Samantha Prindiville, Monica Rivera, Ricky Rodriguez, Kelly Rutz, Natalie

S, W, Z

Seidenberg, Ethan Sheer, Emma Walhers, Samantha Wang, Coral Wittmann, Maggie Zitzewitz, Bernard

21, 24, 28, 56 5, 38-39 13 7, 20-21, 50, 55 6-7, 9, 16-17, 19, 52-53 43 44 41, 58, 54 55

10-11, 28, 49 8, 19, 25 58-59 22 36 53

Meraki

noun | me.ra.ki | μεράκι

the soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that you put into your work.