2017 Harbinger

NEFELIBATA 2016-2017 | Vol. 41

Harbinger

Nefelibata noun

ne.fe.le.ba.ta

one who dwells in his or her imagination, “cloud walker”

Cover Art

In Her Imagination Olivia Klein

Denotes a faculty-chosen winner of the Harbinger 20162017 Visual, Poetry, and Prose Contests.

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

Copyright © 2017 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.

Cumulonimbus Prose

Caitlin Moran 8-11

Freeze Frame

Prose Contest Honorable Mention

The Anatomy of a Human Heart Woman Art Alley Exposed Self-Portrait Push Pins Ice Crystals Arm

Coral Wang

6

Caitlin Moran 7 Olivia Klein 8 Oliva Klein 9 Alexis Smith 10 Ryan Calhoun 11 Danny Donahoe 12-13 Theresa Fernandez 15

Poetry

Dominic Hensel

Dawn

Poetry Contest Honorable Mention

6

The Hardened Heart Ignis Dollhouse The Secret Place Untitled Starving Artists Crystalline Decay Isolationists

Poetry Contest

Liam Luzano Celia DeKeyser Jackie Bruce Peter Ruehl Dominic Hensel Tim Halaburt Caitlin Moran Carolyne Im

6 7 7 12 12 12 13 14

Examination of Conscience

Poetry Contest

Annie Murphy

15

Second Place

Honorable Mention

Prose

Megan Brinkman 22-23

Transcending the Trash

Madison Sasman 26-27

Prose Contest Second Place Prose Contest Third Place

Visuals

Jailbird Wavicle On the Horizon

Visuals Contest

Honorable Mention

Fernweh Turn Back Time Fake Flowers Emotions Skyscape Hidden Beneath the Blue Eyes

Poetry

Mary’s War

Poetry Contest First Place

The Women A Potential to Shatter Are You There?

Who Am I? Let It Go In Search of Hope Lost in it All Broken Together

Poetry Contest

Honorable Mention

What I Wish

Joanna Badillo Kasey Nedham Anna Osowski

18 19 20

Joanna Badillo Allison Bryant Theresa Fernandez Jillian Gomez Stephanie Waldschmidt Allison Bryant

21 22 23 24 25 26

Alex Pann

18

Samantha Jacubek Annie Murphy Amanda Walzer Kelly Rodriguez Emily Stahoviak Hannah Bruskin Emily Stahoviak RobertLee Mason

18 19 20 20 21 21 23 24

Scott Acker

25

Prose

Rebel vs Chihuahua The day I had everything A Journey Through a Jungle Writing About Writing The Girl on the

(Wrong) Train

Prose Contest

Cover

In Her Imagination Visual Contest First Place

Section Page Paintings Cumulonimbus Fog Cirrus Cumulus

First Place

30 31

Coral Wang 32-33 Rierson Johnson Grace May

33 34

Nostalgia Girl on Swing Reflect

Visual Contest

Isabelle Beauchamp Trey Resetich Coral Wang

Honorable Mention

Honorable Mention

Purple Sunrise Close Your Eyes Skeptical G.I. Chicago Night

Visual Contest Chroma Gold Lake Swimming with Fishes

Visual Contest

30 31 32

Riley Moran 32-33 35 Megan Brinkman Joanna Badillo 35 Kerrick Podgorski 36 Katrina Garzonetti Tim Paczynski Stephanie Storczer

37 38 39

Third Place

Poetry

Daydream Blue Inner Ear Chilling the peach-pit impressionist

Poetry Contest First Place

Prose

The Whisphers of

Williams Bay, WI Twenty-Five Thousand Caffeine Rules My Life

Prose Contest

Honorable Mention

Honorable Mention

Connecting with Strangers

Prose Contest

Visuals

Visuals

Annie Hart Megan Brinkman

Angelina Duong 38-39

Performance of a Lifetime

Additional Work

Cumulus

Cirrus

Love Doesn’t Age

Visuals

Fog

The Stars Goodbye Wishing Beyond the Sky

Emily Stahoviak Samantha Jacubek Tim Halaburt Celia DeKeyser

31 35 35 36

Grace Laughlin Kaitlin Wietecha Olivia Ruby

37 37 37

Raindrops

Visual Contest Second Place

Accents and Affinities Warm Paris, France Gentle Woman Untitled The First Breath With My Wings Turquoise Blind Self-Portrait His Princess Silly Face

Poetry

Californian Sunday Mornings Painted Sky Fall in Full Flare A Study in Happiness

(Words of Support

for My Friends) Eyes Continuous

Hannah Bruskin

42

Theresa Thiel Rierson Johnson

44 49

Jack Teehan

50

Danny Donahoe

42

Camila Pereira 43 Megan Brinkman 43 Isabelle Beauchamp 44-45 Nora McKinnon 45 Carolina Moctezuma 46 Charlotte Roberts 47 Kelli Smith 47 Iris Michael 48 Annabelle Schofield 49 Katrina Sebright 50 Angel Pacheco 51

Alex Pann Olivia Ruby Kelly Gustafson Kate O’Hara Annie Murphy

43 45 46 47 48

Adeline Stavros Olivia Ruby

51 51

Olivia Klein

RobertLee Mason RobertLee Mason RobertLee Mason RobertLee Mason

table of contents

Cumulonimbus

It’s 2:00 A.M. and the dark is oppressive. I hate nightmares to the degree that I’m cautious of just sleeping.

Every night when I go to bed, I don’t know whether I’ll be plunged into some hellish, twisted subconscious world where physical and emotional pain is splashed haphazardly across me. It’s like a dunk tank—every night another arbitrary, uncaring, unfeeling arm throws a baseball at the proverbial target, while I sit above the cold, dark water, anxiously waiting for someone to make the shot.

Tonight’s been worse than most nights.

People talk about what the worst way to die is: drowning, burning, suffocating, but I know the truth—no one wants to die alone. No one wants to die alone, worthless, insignificant. There’s always a moment right after I wake up from a nightmare when I still believe what just occurred. It feels real, not like it’s in my head. That lasted a long time. I was lying, shaking, crying, all rational thought canceled by the horrible pain in my gut.

I’ve got to stop this.

It’s just a dream.

The Anatomy of a Human Heart

Ignis

Coral Wang

Celia DeKeyser

Drawing

Dawn

Dominic Hensel Night wonders about his fatal end Anticipating his radiant opponent once again Dawn lurks, leering close at hand Preparing her vile plan

The Hardened Heart

Liam Luzano

Her taken heart Pleading for touch Opening a hole Surrounded by pictures running Away from the ghost that haunts her Screaming for someone to hold

The eastern sky is coruscating Awaiting the king of the sky Golden and potent is he Returning to be dignified Whistling in the dark, Moon warily waits Knowing what is at stake A streak of light glimmers across the horizon Shedding sparks, veiling its grin Rays charge the stars Light sieges the dark Moon heads west, for he’s had enough Planning his claim back to power at dusk

A fire-eater by day, she talons-up to poke holes in the dawn, Some sparking vermilion remains of previous endeavors Flurry past glazed glass eyes, still red from the kiln, Hotiron whips of choler, her Unintentional Icarus tendencies intending towards flight.

She spurns expectation, burns forests, burns cities, And her solar flare articulation might singe you.

Hot nectar weeps from her jaw, The piquant smoldering blood of the sunrise Illuminating kerosene-slick feathers, A flint skeleton encased in steel, saturated in complete Incendiary fervor and climbing The remains of the dripping morning, blazing wings Taking constellations with them on the downstroke Because she’s got arsonist attitudes and an anger to match, Ready to take what’s hers, to reclaim all diurnal dominion, and This is her birthright.

Swallow the sun, firebird, and Swallow your hubris.

Woman

Caitlin Moran

Charcoal Drawing Harbinger

6

Dollhouse Jackie Bruce

the scale has become my most frequent lover it’s the only place i could ever call home with numbers that will forever ruin dreams i await the arrival of my handlebar collarbone and xylophone rib cage to form a suit of armor around my remains but for now i’ll sit here braiding my veins and collecting the vertebrate in my backbone i’ll fold myself until i am small enough to fit in the dollhouse that i built the first time i stepped on a scale and was disgusted by the number my clothing swallowed me whole as soon as i lost control and from there, i don’t quite remember but i was the epicenter of an earthquake of goodbyes and soon my temple of lies came crumbling down because i can only love myself with the lights off and that’s why i crushed the light bulb in my head and my heart is hanging in the closet my brain stuffed under the mattress my kidneys in a drawer and my hair on the shelf for its too late to redeem myself and my dreams were killed when the dollhouse stopped being for dolls

Art Alley Olivia Klein Photograph

Freeze Frame Caitlin Moran

Her entire body freezes, and what was momentarily warm, soft, inviting, is now cold, rigid, hostile: her expectant eyes, her pursed lips. All stand inflexible, all is at a standstill in the stagnant mall corridor.

A low “Damnit” passes through Horace’s lips, and it is the only stirring in the stiff mall air. The insignificant flow of his tiny voice doesn’t reach the statues that line the hallway, standing at an indefinite attention. A mother leans forward to reign in her young, rowdy son from sprinting towards the overstuffed candy stand. A custodian locks his thumb to a water fountain’s button, the stream of water hitting the back of his pink throat only to splash back into the bowl of the fountain.

A bird hangs suspended in mid-flap between the bars of the ceiling.

With remorse and longing, Horace turns back to Abertha’s waiting, pursed lips, and he grimaces at them because now he must wait to lock them in that enchanting first

embrace. Maybe—if Horace wishes hard enough—time will resume promptly, and he can finally kiss her. So he repositions himself in the direct line of Abertha’s lips as he readies his own. With closed eyes, he stands like a fish-lipped idiot in the now-frozen mall.

Realizing his stupidity, Horace recoils from his girlfriend and curses his lack of control. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Horace wishes that he could join the other statues in their fixed positions to escape the oddity that afflicts him.

Hopefully, this frame of Horace’s life will only freeze for a few more minutes, resuming quickly, as have countless frames before it.

Hopefully, he won’t have to endure another week-long bout of confusing solitude. Hopefully, he will never again be forced to stomach the stifling enormity of the possibility that he is the only conscious person in his town, in his state, in his country, in his continent, in his planet, in his univer—

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A sharp crack shatters the stagnant silence of the mall. The reverberating sound attacks Horace’s now fearful ears.

Nothing should be moving; everything should be paused. Yet another crack slices through Horace’s palpably tense atmosphere. Another crack. Another crack. Another crack.

After four quick cracks in rapid succession, Horace recognizes the anomaly as one of the backdrops of his childhood—a hockey puck missing a net, slamming against the glass of the ice rink that resides on the southern end of the mall.

In his entire sixteen years of existence (Truth be told, Horace is probably slightly older than seventeen, as the frozen snippets of time have likely accumulated to several months or even a year of unofficial time. It’s not like he’s is keeping track anyway—just semantics, right?), this has never happened before. An unknown lies before him; in the frozen moments of his life, he has been abandoned,

a constant loneliness hanging over his slumped, agonized shoulders, yet now, the alarming presence of an intruder hikes his shoulders up to an alert position, ready to defend himself against the unknown.

A thought occurs—maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he can seek an explanation. He can investigate, not get too close, but eavesdrop on a solution.

The mere thought of an explanation—as well as the wildly impossible desire for a cure—drives him toward the noise. Horace’s feet hungrily take longer steps at the prospect of never having to see his mother’s painted toes stiffly hover above the kitchen floor as she washed dinner’s dishes at the sink ever again. His inhales shrink to quick and sharp intakes of oxygen as he realizes that, should he find a solution at the source of the noise, he will never again stare at his father’s permanently expanded lungs as he takes another drag of his cigarette while he decompresses in his leather armchair to the local evening news.

But the door to the ice rink lies sequestered in a familiar arcade. As Horace reaches the arcade’s entrance, reality catches up and tackles his fantasies, ramming them into the garish, neon carpet of the game room floor. More misfired shots crack against the beaten glass; more cracks creep into his resolve, cementing his anxious feet to the threshold of the arcade. The audacity that drove him here and the tenacity that holds his feet from crossing the floor toward that cold door war with each other.

Audacity wins. Horace steps forward.

Never athletic, Horace recalls hours upon hours of youthful bliss in this arcade. Horace knows every video game’s dusty screen, every joystick’s errant scratches, yet the once comfortable arcade feels unsettled as he stalks through it: Nostalgic visions of skirting around their turf with his gaggle of childhood friends now slowly

evaporate as he creeps like a suspicious interloper. Meanwhile, the true criminal sluggishly continues to miss shots in the ice rink.

As he grasps the door handle to the rink, he pauses, waiting for something to stop him. Nothing. He gingerly opens the door and enters.

With cautious step upon cautious step, Horace crouches below the boards that encircle the rink.

screaming obscenities before time paused. Horace weaves his bony body through wayward limbs, using the boys’ jungle of legs as cover to catch a better glimpse of the intruder.

He sneaks inch by inch to the edge of the ice where he plants his spindly hands to stay balanced. Ever so cautiously, he peeks his crooked nose out beyond the legs to fully embrace the cold air, spying the back of a

exposed Olivia Klein

Colored Pencil Drawing

The missed shots ring the loudest now, the sound filling Horace’s ears, echoing and bouncing around the lonely space of the motionless rink.

He spies a group of teenage boys, all clad in hockey gear, crowding around the hole to the ice left by the open gate. They froze in a scramble to see who could skate on the ice first, with airborne fists and loose mouths that were probably Cumulonimbus

9

figure who skates in circles around the goal at the other end of the rink.

A girl?

A girl.

Clad in the same hockey gear as the boys, except for a blonde braid hanging down the length of the jersey, she turns and notices Horace.

“Hey!” she shouts across the rink, her sharply demanding tone piercing right through the silence

and into Horace’s lump-filled throat.

Horace tenses and stops breathing, wishing for the second time today that he could join the other motionless bodies in their still semi-slumber. Immobile, he waits for this girl to skate toward him. She throws her helmet in the general direction of the benches to get a proper look at him and he at her. She squats down low so she can camp right next to Horace’s face.

“Got yourself in a bit of a hot mess there, yeah? I’ll knock ‘em over

for how or where they fell… without any regard for Horace’s safety, for that matter.

“I don’t think—” She continues pushing the boys to the ground, and at this point, Horace can’t tell if she’s ignoring him or just taking too much pleasure in body slamming her own teammates.

“I’m pretty sure that I’m the one who stopped the time!” Horace manages to shout out.

That catches the girl’s attention.

She stops shoving her teammates.

SelF Portrait Alexis Smith

Charcoal Drawing for you so you can just stand up. It’s not like their crazy asses will notice a difference when I start the time again.”

When she starts the time again?

“Sorry but—” She starts knocking the boys flat onto the ground, without any regard

“I’m pretty sure that I’m the one who stopped the time,” Horace repeats in a more quiet, calm voice. The girl squints at him in disbelief.

“No…” she draws out the “o” sound. “I’m pretty sure that I stopped the time when I decided to take some extra minutes to work on my

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10

shot before practice.” She continues squinting, shrinking Horace down into insignificance. “So—wait a minute, how are you still up and about?”

“I don’t know!” Horace snipped.

The girl’s accusatory tone irritated him. “All I know is that time just stops sometimes, and I just have to wait around for it to start back up again. I can’t control it! I’ve never been able to!”

“Interesting.” The girl strides and skates away, and all joviality from knocking her teammates to the ground vanishes from the girl’s eyes when she turns back to glare directly into Horace’s pale irises. “So, you’re immune, then. I’ve never had that happen before. Oh well. It can’t be that serious of a problem, can it?”

“So... I’m not a freak,” Horace sighs in relief.

Horace’s quiet comment distracts her from her troubled reverie.

“Hm? What was that?” the girl asks, whirling in on him, the cutting edges of her skates driving into the ice, spinning her towards the open gate to face Horace again.

“Huh? Oh, I didn’t say anything.

I think I’m gonna go home now.”

Horace turns to retreat, but the girl skates to him, stepping off the ice without breaking her stride, the extra inches of her skate blades push her already impressive height further above the meek crown of Horace’s head.

“What was that?” the girl repeats. Horace must tilt his head back to meet her eyes now, even though the looming weight of her stare almost forces Horace’s weak eyes to twitch away from the loaded burden.

“Um… I said that I must not be a freak.” The girl squints harder, if that was at all possible, her slitted eyes pressuring Horace to continue.

“You know. Because I’m not the one stopping the time… ” Horace trails off toward the end of his explanation;

his voice shrinks and shrinks until he is sure it will just crawl right back down his quivering throat where the girl couldn’t understand their backhanded insult.

“Interesting. Take a look around you, pal. Is any other person in this ice rink moving? Or in this mall, for that matter? Has any other person, during all the other instances where I’ve stopped time, moved?” Shaking

Horace back onto the ice, leaving him behind with only his thoughts and the increasingly unfamiliar, frozen boys on the hockey team. Before this girl skates away from Horace, out of his life, possibly forever, he cries: “Wait!”

But he freezes, unsure of what to say next. The girl spins on the edge of her skates one last time to squint at Horace. The beginnings of crow’s

darling, blessedly ignorant Abertha.

Strolling through the mall with his lean hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, Horace looks around at the frozen faces of shoppers and store clerks, feeling less like a visitor in a wax museum and more like a boy anxiously waiting for family to return home after a long work day.

All anxiety, fear, and loneliness fades to the background of Horace’s mind

"The Beginnings of crows feet peek past the folds

of her eyelids, nodding to a life of laughter and joy beyond Horace and the frozen Hellscapes she induces. his head, Horace hopes to soothe the girl’s impending tirade, but she steamrolls his feeble attempt at peace, continuing to say, “You are unlike any person on the planet, as far as we know. You and I might not be exactly the same, but the natures of our… our ‘abilities’ are kindred spirits, all right? You do not get to clear yourself of blame just because you can’t do what I can. Because what you can do is equally unheard of.”

She punctuates her conclusion with an irate exhale of sharp breath and finalizes the abrupt end of this discussion by stomping away from

feet peek past the folds of her eyelids, nodding to a life of laughter and joy beyond Horace and the frozen hellscapes she induces.

“Will you start the time again soon?” Horace asks, begging for an answer to the conundrum of his lack of control.

“Yeah, sure. Give me like five more minutes to practice, and I’ll start it back up.” Not waiting for Horace’s good-bye, the girl skates away to the other end of the ice, lining up her pucks to resume practice. Horace doesn’t try to interrupt her again as he turns to leave the rink and venture back to his

Push Pins

Ryan Calhoun Photogram

"

to the off-kilter beat of wayward pucks against time-worn glass.

And as the final puck beats against the glass, Horace reaches Abertha and lines his lips up with hers once again, entwining his thin arms around her ample waist. People begin to move again, and Abertha’s eyes drift closed in naive bliss, lips pursed and searching for Horace’s, but Horace’s eyes remain open to witness the privilege he’s been given, to witness the emergence of another frame in time.

The Secret Place Peter Ruehl

The boy learned of a secret place: A prisoner looking out a window and creatures bellowing in the dark

Untitled Dominic Hensel

Perhaps god blinds you with beautiful poison And haunts your broken universe

STARVING ARTISTS Tim Halaburt

Though we devour pleasure I must starve Perhaps then I can celebrate art

Crystalline Decay Caitlin Moran

Ice Crystals

Danny Donahoe Photograph

cold marble bone soaks over a turgid drink hands squirm, hunger, clutch for melon champagne almost less ripe once his universe of self seeps through porcelain muscle stiff liquid questions his steel wear but men like him decay with dawn’s dew

Examination of Conscience

Isolationists

Annie Murphy

Carolyne Im

Isolationism i∙so∙la∙tion∙ism noun // A policy of remaining apart from the affairs or interests of other groups // we say we’re all isolationists at heart, even though the words taste bitter rolling off our tongues quicker than a whip pushing past cracked lips and bloodied teeth

and the goddamn media only covers what will make them money and not what people need to know

and before we even know what we’ve said, we’re interfering, our voices disappearing in the rabble of all the rest for it seems we’re all too obsessed with having our opinions heard

you see, darling, the problem with society is the only pricks of light we see are the beady eyes of loudmouth, money grasping politicians or the wavering flame of matches we burn just to singe our fingertips

you see, darling, the problem is we’re all so terrified of being

the problem, darling, is we manifest ourselves through

ordinary.

I am a self-involved glutton.

I revel in my own thoughts and musings.

I indulge my pretensions Like dark chocolate, deep and bitter on my lips.

My inclination for comfort is coddled By my own insistence for softness In every corner and crease of my life.

I harbor angry thoughts.

They lurk behind demure expressions, At the ready to lash and marr.

I take great delight in the wreckage Of the hopes of my rivals.

I want to have a hand in the downfall Of those who have wronged me.

I am pompous.

I feign nodding graciousness As a front for my fantastic ego.

Every instance is an excuse to sound smart, I let them know to whom I read and listen, In a casual, colloquial way, I let them know how much I know.

And yet I have the most damnable gall When I think I need not confess at all.

fake laughter and

existential.

Armor

Theresa Fernandez

hidden emotions and

forgotten.

Scratchboard Drawing

chipped words and

that we decide it’s better to go down in history as the villain rather than be the faceless nameless mindless spectator that’s forgotten the moment you take your eyes off them. so we try to skip boulders on water to make a big enough splash to see the impact we’ve made in the ripples reverberating through the waves but all we seem to do instead is sink, trapped by the weights we’ve tied ourselves because we’re trying to remain afloat in a world where republicans have the stage

Harbinger

all we want is to be remembered. but no one can see past the white noise that infiltrates our brains from all the irate voices that are crowding us into little cardboard boxes and no one can hear anything except the vibrant colors that are thrust at your face screaming on the off chance they might grab your eyes you see, darling—we are not isolationists at all: the world is so goddamn desperate to hold your attention for just a millisecond hello, darling, welcome to the human race where we’re all isolationists at heart narcissists

14

Cumulonimbus

15

Fog

It’s 4:00 a.m. and the air is thick.

Early morning fog lays heavy on my chest, aggravating my already uneasy mind, and my body shivers with the cool morning air. I attempt to rub sleep from my tired eyes, pleading and cursing at my anxious mind. Fear has come for a visit. He sits and lectures me not to step foot outside; he shows me masses of people with evil eyes. The clock ticks once more—another minute of life passes by, paying me no heed as I try to savor it for a few more moments. Time is precious; time is a curse. The sun crawls above the horizon, and I watch its light filter through the thick fog outside my window. Pure gold splays patterns across the floor. How long have I been staring out my window? How long have I been in the dark?

Mary’s War

Wavicle

Kasey Nedham

Alex Pann

Photogram

I’m at war with myself and my wires are fried My eyes, hands, and feet are weakened and tired Nothing makes sense or feels good anymore, It’s all gone to hell and there’s salt on the floor I’m no longer dazed, just confused to no end Oh I cannot return from this path I’ll descend Speaking to the sky, in deep thought I share But the stars won’t listen and the moon doesn’t care My organs are fighting and my lungs can’t inhale But I don’t mind because the air just tastes stale This internal conflict holds bad blood and cold feet, I’m filled with outrage and some negativity So I whisper softly to the universe tonight, And ask for peace if I convert, which I might, If I’m lucky the wind will cry out the answer And Mary will end this sad constant banter But until the gust comes along I’ll stay prisoner of war, Trapped in my head playing against my own score

A Potential to Shatter Annie Murphy

The Women

Samantha Jacubek Trust thy beautiful broken women She will never say

Jailbird

Joanna Badillo Mixed Media

Breathe small breaths in the slight, silent room, Crowded with hundreds of delicate figurines, Stacked near your knee, teetering by your elbow.

If you break them, the mess will be obscene.

Breathe few breaths in the stifling room.

Do not rub your sweaty palms on your clothes.

Stretching out could shatter the glass models, Slaughter the porcelains, dent the gold.

Stop breathing! You will ruin it all!

If you move now, the figurines will break.

You will cut yourself on glass or pottery.

And worse, there will be a mess because of your mistake.

Don’t listen to your dull, delirious self.

You cannot be free, I tell you, you can’t!

The blood is not worth it, the mess not allowed, Your mind is a fool, the fragileness with not grant Even a curl of your finger.

So be content; sit still and sweat forever, With what’s outside your ever present terror.

Are You There?

Who Am I?

Fernweh

Kelly Rodriguez

Amanda Walzer

Joanna Badillo Mixed Media

Who am I? I am in the circle of many, though they do not speak You’re quiet, letting inferiority seal your lips.

Forever absent in the moment, absorbed in the abyss; You’re bound to the background like the moon during the I pity their simplicity. day.

The complete lack of substance and personality; You’re the one who is forgotten.

I fear for the fate of humanity, how very hopeless it seems.

The superficial shallowness is suffocating.

The lack of relationships is of epic proportion.

Emotions are diminished to symbols on a keyboard.

Many refer to it as advancements; I prefer demise.

Who am I? You’re disinterested, never showing interest in anything.

You’re mediocre at best; a blurry face in a crowd.

You’re not worth getting to know.

Who am I? To you, I am what others say.

To you, I am only what you see.

But what I am is a great person you’ll never choose to know.

In Search of Hope Hannah Bruskin

Let It Go

Emily Stahoviak If society knew how I really feel, They would push me away, Mocking my spirit So here I am again, Wings pulled back, unable to speak

Arm

Fernandez OnTeresathe Horizon

When tragedy meets innocence, We find God to blame.

When the strong become overpowered by weakness, The thought of faith seems insane.

When hope is lost and doubt becomes regular, When inspiration turns into a myth, Our own self become the competitor.

While lost in despair, In search of a care, Optimism will shine through, Gaining faith to pursue.

The troubles resemble a fight, Battled into delight, Strength and determination, Overpower into a time of creation.

Anna Osowski Photograph

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20

Fog

21

Turn Back Time Allison Bryant

Love Doesn’t Age Megan Brinkman

Colored Pencil Drawing

Rain streamed like tears down the windows of my dad’s car, and inside, the heat blew a jet stream of artificial air at my father and I. Both driver and passenger wiggled against the seat belt, silently preferring its snakelike grasp to the arctic chill of the rain. Our tires crunched over the crumbling driveway of my grandparents’ driveway, a small noise that resounded like an orchestra in our car. My grandparents’ house was a patchwork quilt of repairs.

Stitched together by my grandpa’s roll of shiny, silver duct tape, it struggled to conceal the problems that went on inside. Any stray passerby or dog walker could see the quilt, but it took really looking to notice how it was falling apart.

My legs moved on autopilot, past the doorbell, which was now merely a suggestion, and into the living room of my grandparent’s house. The room had always been the same: apple wallpaper wrapped around the room like a ribbon, and pictures framed expertly steered around our names like bumps in the walls. Even as we grew up and away from our the road, avoiding specific information, information grandparents, my grandma kept the photos, mostly from the past sixteen years of my life. I wasn’t talking posed school pictures, but ones she cherished. Any to my grandpa today. The whole scenario felt like the first day of school, and my heart rate played double dutch as I searched for something recognizable, something—anything—to make me feel less like a stranger. And it got worse as the afternoon wore on. other decoration would be sorely out of place; even

“What’s he doing?” my grandpa demanded my grandma was perched in the same faded green of me as my dad maneuvered around the room chair each and every year, only now disappearing changing a lightbulb. into the pillows. My grandpa, however, was missing.

“Where’s my wife?”

He loomed in the doorway, tall and broad and tan,

“Why are you in my house?” his skin the same color as the dark recliner he always

“What’s he doing?” welcomed us from. From across the room his pastel

What’s He doing? I thought. Sixteen years shirt and khaki shorts matched perfectly with every of bear hugs, sixteen years of beach trips, and other visit; however, as I strode across the carpet for a sixteen years of sleepovers perished as they became hug, small details jumped out at me. His bushy white suddenly one-sided. I was a boat trapped in a glass eyebrows pushed together, accentuating the sharp bottle; life moved around me yet was so out of my wrinkles in his normally smooth forehead, and his control. What’s He doing? Yet again the question eyes, once familiar, lacked the sparkle I knew from berated my thoughts as my grandpa persisted. Why all of my childhood memories. He wasn’t saying his wouldn’t he just sit back in his chair and be Grandpa? usual lines either: an interjection on schoolwork, His face, his hands, his worried smile were the same was I staying out of trouble, a story here or there. as they had been before that day. His voice shook and Nothing. his mind wavered but they were the same. How could

No. This wasn’t my grandpa, and his distinct he not recognize me? How could I not recognize him? silence towards me and my dad confirmed it. He

”W h a t ’ s

He doing?”

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When his pacing stopped, he sat down across from me, in yet again a new spot in the room, exhaling as his knees cracked and his gaze met mine. The red apple wallpaper still lined the wall, and the pictures still hung neatly behind me; still, it all seemed so artificial. My grandma was in her chair, I was in mine, but my grandpa wasn’t in his. Next to me, my grandpa began to relay a memory he did have, and I sat straight, pulled upwards by an invisible string of caution. He began his story again, as he would do four more times that evening like a song on repeat. With each beginning, I breathed and nodded, both at him and the new seating arrangement. No matter who my grandpa was, the story he weaved made something in my heart smile.

Fake Flowers Theresa Fernandez

Colored Pencil Drawing

Lost in It All Emily Stahoviak

Am I lost in the world or just lost in myself?

I wish I knew myself, But I am confused frequently Happiness overpowers me around others, But alone, I am sad Joy only comes around people But alone, Sadness suppresses me Positive thoughts evaporate, As if they were never there at all Alone, I am useless and lost in my mind

Fog

23

Skyscape

Stephanie Waldschmidt

Watercolor Painting

Emotions Jillian Gomez

Mixed Media

Broken Together Robert Lee Mason

My darling, we are all a bit insane.

Inevitable Calm before the Storm; Inescapable Combustion She’s held together by a daisy chain.

A fear in his mind he cannot restrain; Everyday Thoughts; Engendered Exhaustion My darling, we are all a bit insane.

From the thoughts of Death she tries to abstain, Undertaking Delay; Ultimate Destruction.

She’s held together by a daisy chain.

We may try to help each other in vain, But we’re met with painful repercussion.

My darling, we are all a bit insane.

We’re held together by a daisy chain.

Eyes of strangers pierce through his brain, Nothing’s Safe: Questioned Reality; He’s held together by a daisy chain.

Every night begins with the same refrain, Restful Night; They Wrestle With Obstruction My darling, we are all a bit insane.

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What I Wish Scott Acker

I wish for bright blue skies ahead, A glittering future awaiting me; A golden opportunity at every other turn Just waiting for me to see.

But maybe a wish isn’t all I have, or my only hope for a life well lived.

It’s time to take life by the reigns And break out of these chains.

I wish I could relax, And do as I please; True friends by my side, Without a hint of unease.

I’ll paint the sky if I have to, And dig up that gold whatever it takes.

Find that peace for myself, While still accepting my mistakes.

I wish for a life that I’m proud to live, Where joy and laughter abound.

A life without sadness fear or pain, But I suppose I’m stuck with this sound.

This life is mine and mine alone, Even if I’m not where I wanted to be.

A wish might give me that goal, But it’s not like I’ll get it for free.

Transcending the Trash Madison Sasman

Immediately after I stepped off the bus and joined the other volunteers, the acrid scents of dog poop and steaming garbage greeted my nostrils.

Wrinkling my nose, I watched as a stocky woman walked up to our volunteer coordinator, Sylvia. The woman began to spew rapid-fire Spanish, gesturing down the road.

“She’s going to show you around the neighborhood,” Sylvia translated. “So you can see how the refugees live.”

We nodded and turned to follow the woman who was already halfway down the street. She walked with the assurance of someone who had traced the path a hundred times before; however, for us gringos it wasn’t so easy. The unpaved road dropped at a sharp angle, winding down to the river that was home to the poorest residents of the poorest

Hidden Beneath the Blue Eyes Allison Bryant Watercolor Painting

town in Costa Rica. As we neared the houses, I saw the curious faces of children peeking out from tin doors. Some stared, some pointed, but most greeted us with a chorus of hellos. Outside most rust-ravaged shacks lay a dog or two, but they didn’t take much notice of the wide-eyed volunteers. These dogs were too busy scratching their flea-ridden bodies or scrounging for food in the trash mountains that accumulated on each block. One white puppy looked especially pitiful, his fur so yellowed that it seemed as though a dust cloud had settled on him years ago and not bothered to follow the wind since. Careful to step around the poor creature, I continued making my way down to the river that was the diseased heart of the neighborhood. Muddy and near-stagnant, it seemed to be more of a curse than a blessing; mosquitoes teemed just above the surface, and the shore was blanketed in jagged rocks.

Struggling to take it all in, I closed my eyes and tried to ground myself in this new reality.

Blocking out the intense images allowed my ears to become more attuned to the environment, and I noticed a sound that I hadn’t before. A decidedly Hispanic blaring of trumpets, strumming of acoustic guitars, and beating of drums blended to form a sunny bachata song. Someone was playing the tune on their radio. At first, it seemed out of place. I wondered how people who couldn’t afford the water to wash their dogs could blast a song so aggressively optimistic; it was like bringing a mariachi band to a funeral. But I couldn’t keep from smiling. The song had an infectious rhythm that permeated the air and cast a glow on the surrounding streets.

Ready to continue discovering the neighborhood, I opened my eyes to see the sturdy woman walking back up the hill we had just clambered down. Our river tour had come to an end.

Hurrying to catch up, I reached the top just as she turned down another side street. My calves burned and beads of sweat began to form on my forehead, but the trek was worth it. Turning the corner, I was met with a small building painted in a shade of sky-blue. Pictures of butterflies, rainbows, and stick figures holding hands covered every inch of the front wall, presumably painted by past volunteers.

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The woman motioned for us to enter, and Sylvia did the same, saying, “It’s where the niños come for the day.”

Sure enough, I was greeted by a sea of children overjoyed to see us. One, a tiny girl named Gloria, ran up to me and grabbed me by the hand.

Her brown eyes twinkled, and her dimpled cheeks broke into a wide grin. Happy that I had found a friend, I smiled back. Gloria led me to a ramshackle playset stationed in the backyard, then told me to wait and left in search of a ball.

While I waited, I observed the sorry nature of the yard that these kids played in every day. Weeds had overrun much of it, and the ever-present dog

outside the sky-blue sanctuary and half-listened to Sylvia explain the schedule for the remainder of the day. Distracted by a group of refugees who were patronizing a local ice-cream vendor, I watched them chat with the man. His skin was wrinkled and chestnut brown, a byproduct of pushing an ice-cream cart under the Costa Rican sun every day. My eyes traveled from his rough, blistered hands to his face, which I expected to be etched with tell-tale frown lines. Instead, I saw a kind smile, and as he handed his customers their Fudgesicles, they smiled back.

The neighbors talked for a minute longer before the man continued weaving his cart through a labyrinth of trash heaps; then, they retired to the front steps of

”I was struck by the harsh contrast between their unbridled joy and the stark surroundings.”

poop speckled the lawn. The wood beams that supported the playset were splintered and peeling, and the once-red slide had faded to an unappetizing brown. But that didn’t seem to bother anyone other than me. Most of the children were engaged in a lively game of tag. Their laughter echoed throughout the yard, and—again—I was struck by the harsh contrast between their unbridled joy and the stark surroundings. A tap on the shoulder reminded me that my new friend had returned, and a lively game of fútbol commenced. Before long, the beads of sweat on my forehead had transformed into rivulets that trickled down my back and pasted my shirt to my skin. We played until the sun coaxed our shadows to giant-like proportions, when Sylvia called for the volunteers to gather in front of the building.

After promising Gloria that I would return the next day for a rematch, I met the others

Fog

a shack to enjoy their treat.

There was a feeling of contentment in the air, overpowering the stench of garbage and fecal matter, and I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed it before.

The laughter of the children playing in the yard no longer seemed so ludicrous. Suddenly, the bus that would carry us to our next destination pulled up beside me and interrupted my train of thought. The exhaust fumes only added to the unpleasant scent that was stitched into the fabric of the town, but by that point, I was fairly indifferent to the olfactory assault. It seemed as though I was finally adopting the refugees’ mentality. As we pulled out of the neighborhood, I rested my head on the bus window and resolved to take a well-deserved nap. Just before succumbing to sleep, I could have sworn I heard the lilting rhythm of bachata drifting on the wind.

27

Cirrus

It’s 6:00 A.M. and birdsong floats among the leaves above my head. With every new thought, with every unheard voice finally speaking up inside, glittering sun droplets sprinkle the earth. With each drop, a rose bud arises. Every unspoken word, every thought suddenly melts into swirling colors, violet and soft pink. They slowly grow, and the flowers of my imagination bring me to the forest of my mind.

I close my eyes, basking in my own power and my own mind. Gradually drifting up, I glide through a sea of color and sound of emotions and hope. Around me, the forest of my mind blooms. The soft sounds of voices once forgotten steadily lift me until I rise to the sun.

Full of light, full of warmth, I open my eyes as the brisk air hits my face and I feel myself lower to the earth. My muscles relax as every worry and fear dance away from my consciousness.

Prepared and tranquil, I make my way home.

Rebel vs Chihuahua Annie Hart

The day I had everything

My rebellious spirit met its match about ten stormed out of the garage and charged towards years ago. Its challenger: a three pound chihuahua. me. The beast took me by complete surprise. No

The dauntless outdoor adventures of my owner claimed the tiny monster, and it ran at me youth were bound to a short radius. unleashed. My feet continually slipped off the pedals

“Stay on our block, no turning corners, and in a scramble to turn around. Shins raw and heart no crossing the street.” pumping, I whipped Mom’s words were final. around the curve, the

I obeyed, but tiny monster chasing time wore my obedience me back up the hill, as my curiosity grew yipping and hopping. uncontrollable. The itch I rode faster than I had sat in my chest. I didn’t previously thought have to go far, I just had possible. Fortunately, to break the rule. I just the beast’s stamina did had to turn the corner. not hold, and like a Ride around seasoned predator that the corner, turn around realized the futility of in a neighboring the chase, chose not to driveway, then back expend the energy. home. I thought my That was the day I plan flawless and furtive. realized the world Although it was a simple is bigger than I had act of rebellion, my thought, that there was stomach turned with far more of the “other anticipation of seeing side” than I imagined. the “other side.” Trusty I realized there would Schwinn in hand, I most definitely be more embarked from the chihuahuas waiting to garage, on a mission to chase me around every break the rules. corner, and that this

I rode down fact should prevent any the hill to the end of future rule breaking, the block, but instead but the tiny monster of stopping to turn had the opposite effect. around, broke habit and There are chihuahuas turned the corner. The around every corner, Isabelle Beauchamp street perpendicular waiting to chase you Photograph to mine was uncharted back home, but I had territory- undiscovered already escaped one, lands promising new discoveries. I glided through the and was ready to take on others. “other side,” dazed and wide-eyed, taking in the sights.

Following my own calculated plan, I pulled into a driveway to turn around, oblivious to the dangers that lurked.

Just then, a chihuahua, pint-sized and grey,

Nostalgia

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Megan Brinkman

Do you remember the day we saw the future?

We raced up the hill behind your house, propelled by our own shrieks and giggles. You told your mom we were running away, and I thought you were fearless.

She watched from the window in the kitchen as we stopped on the hill, our own little Everest. We lay on that hill, hidden from danger by two inches of grass, and you said you wanted to see the world. I told you that I wanted to be a writer because I liked the sound of words. I pointed out animals in the clouds, and

you made them go to battle in the sky, carving a story into the blue ceiling above us. It didn’t matter who won, but we were the king and queen. Do you remember what it felt like? That day we had the whole world at our feet, and we commanded the heavens to go to war. Our lives were as simple as what we wanted them to be. We told our own story, the runaway children, rulers of the hill and all that lay beyond.

Daydream

Emily Stahoviak Take in much, But let me dream Because if hope is drawn away, I have nothing to live for If night is gone, Is it really a dream?

Stand off while I weep, For I cannot grasp you, Can I not save one From all that we see?

Girl on Swing Trey Resetich Photograph

Cirrus

31

A Journey Through a Jungle Coral Wang

I was about five years old when I went on my first adventure through a jungle in the middle of a raging storm. The unwavering downpour of rain pounded down on the car and rivers of grimy water ran down the windows. I sat in the backseat of the car and stared out in wonder at the fantastical dance of water and shrubbery. At the beginning of our foray into the stormy rainforest, thick, ropy vines were swaying to and fro and hitting the sides of our car with a solid thump, thump, thump.

I was worried that our windshield wipers would be torn off by the flailing plants and sheer force of the wind, but the excitement and rush of adventure pushed that feeling away.

While we continued to pass through the jungle, the wind tore off multicolored flora from the trees above and scattered them across our windshield, forming a rainbow hued quilt. I wrinkled my nose as a sharp smell coming from the flowers permeated the air; however, after a few seconds, I found that the scent was quite pleasant, though quite strong. I happily pointed out to my mom that there was a pretty array of smelly flowers scattered on the windshield, and she nodded boredly as we continued forward. I frowned at her lack of enthusiasm then continued to peer out the window.

As the force of the squall increased, furry animals running for shelter whipped by our car and some even ran into the side view mirrors. I squealed in delight even though I could barely make out their dark shapes whizzing by. I was still fascinated that our car was not sustaining any damage, despite all of the objects that had battered it from different directions.

After a while, I could sense, with much disappointment, that our journey was about to end.

The rain started to die down and great streams of water turned into gentle rivulets; the water washed away any remaining debris on the car. Miniscule

bugs that sought refuge in the nooks and crannies of our windshield wipers were chased away by the sunlight as the car burst out into the open air. The light was blinding compared to the darkness of the jungle. While we sped away from the jungle, I turned and gazed out through the rearview window. The storm continued as I watched another car approach the edge of the rainforest and burst into the sunlight, just like we did.

“What an adventure,” I thought to myself, “that was so exciting, I wouldn’t mind doing that again!”

Years later, I sat in the front seat of the car,

overhead nozzles sprayed the car with a dull rainbow colored foam, obscuring our vision. I still cannot fathom how the five-year old me pretended that those dirty patches of color were pretty, scented flowers. I realized then that my mom probably felt the same way all those years ago. More foam ran down the windows, covering them in a fluffy blanket, as its strong chemical smell wafted into the car. The smell wasn’t that unpleasant and there was nothing floral about it; I likened the scent to the satisfyingly synthetic new car smell.

The car continued on and the growl and whir of the brushes started up, rapidly spinning and whipping away. A cylindrical shaped brush spun like a centrifuge and with loud thunks, hitting the side view mirrors. I remembered how I was worried that the car would be damaged by the flailing shrubbery.

Of course, I knew by now that the brushes were too soft to cause any damage to the car. On the contrary,

I actually felt some satisfaction in hearing the thunk, thunk, thunk of the brushes. It meant that the dirt and salt clinging onto the car after a long winter were being dislodged and swept away.

Nearing the end of the car wash tunnel, the car was sprayed with water, washing away any remaining foam. Oversized dryers blew great gusts of air, causing miniscule droplets of water to scuttle away like bugs as we emerged into the sunlight. A car wash attendant came up to the car and offered to hand dry the car; however, my mom politely declined. We sped away from the wash in our squeaky clean car as the customer behind us emerged from the dark tunnel, sparkling in the sunlight. My eyes wandered down toward the screen of my smartphone while distant memories of a jungle were whisked away by the first breezes of yet another spring.

Purple Sunsirse Riley Moran

Watercolor Painting

Reflect

Coral Wang Photograph

gazing down at the screen on my phone. It was spring; the last of the snow had melted away a couple days ago. Our car eased forward and clear rivers of water ran over the windows. The back of the car was sprayed with some extra water when we entered the shadowy car wash tunnel. I smiled as I remembered my first time going through a car wash. As a five-year old with an overactive imagination, I had likened the car wash to a raging jungle.

While my mom put the car into neutral, I tucked away my phone in anticipation of the familiar swish, thump, swish, thump, that marked the first stage of the wash. Long, thick strips of heavy cloth swayed back and forth like vines, dislodging large bits of dirt and wiping away mud. The first stage of the wash began to bring back memories of stormy and dark jungles.

As the car glided further into the wash,

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Writing About Writing Rierson Johnson

I find that my writing style, even in English class, is very nonconformist. I speak in the first person, and sometimes even in the third person about myself. I am often sarcastic or self-deprecating, because if just one person exhales through their nose slightly harder than usual, I will have made a difference in the world. I am unsure how my writing style developed, but I do have a theory: in middle school we had to write research papers or literary analyses constantly, so I needed a way to not die of boredom while composing, and I decided to make myself laugh while writing. I first tried it in fifth grade, where it was poorly put together and not well received, but as I grew older, and therefore more cynical, my comedic stylings could advance to where they are today. These official-looking people Cirrus

who wear powdered wigs and robes (I can only assume) make up all these rules about what you can and cannot do in a paper; so far I have broken four major no-nos. Oops, make that five because no-nos is apparently a “nondescript word.” This paper is my challenge to the entirety of accepted literary doctrine.

I do not accept that I can’t be sarcastic. I do not accept that I cannot address you, the reader, directly.

And lastly, I do not accept that I cannot use comic sans. What now say you all-knowing arbiters of the written word? Is my ostensible informality yet apparent, or is it paramount to utilize dense lexis in furtherance of thine own mental acumen? In conclusion (yeah, I can say that too), the only way we can cast away the shackles of this oppressive erudite regime is if we stand together! Together we stand for freedom of expressing our thoughts in whatever manner we so choose! Scholarly forums can no longer exclude those of us who think like scholars, but write like madmen! This is our revolution! Join me!

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The Girl on the (Wrong) Train Grace May

The first day of my internship downtown was over. I’d gotten through what I thought was going to be the scariest part of the day: sitting in a room full of people I didn’t know in a part of Chicago I wasn’t familiar with, talking about finance, something I knew practically nothing about. But I surprised myself; I managed to make a friend and become a whiz at tracking stocks. Getting on the train home was supposed to be the easy part.

As I strutted down West Madison, neither the oozing gum I had just stepped in nor the stench of the garbage-scented city air was going to bring me down. As I burst through the doors of the Ogilvie Transportation Center, I exuded so much confidence that I could trick anyone into thinking I had an office on the 40th floor of a highrise. It was just past 2pm

suburbia through my window. Bungalows and tudors flew by along with the occasional small town strip mall. I glanced over at the teleprompter showing the next stop. It read, in digitized red letters, “The next stop will be Berkeley.” I did a double take; Berkeley was not on the orange line. Half an hour into my ride, I realized I was on the wrong train.

I immediately stuffed my belongings into my tote bag, then clumsily bulldozed down the creaky metal stairs. The train screeched into the Berkeley station and I pushed my way onto the platform. I looked at what was around me, trying to get a better sense of where I was, but there was nothing but an old water tower and an abandoned industrial lot in sight. This was unfamiliar territory. I panicked. How did I mess up what was supposed to be the simplest

“I panicked. How did I mess up what was supposed to be the simplest part of my day?” and my train was set to depart in about half an hour.

I had a long ride ahead of me and some time to kill, so I grabbed a quick bite to eat and a copy of the newest National Geographic. Then, I started to look for my train in the general terminal.

I knew I was supposed to get on the orange line, the Milwaukee District North route heading to Lake Bluff. The billboard with the schedules and terminal numbers broadcasted that I’d need to get on the train at station 11. It was currently boarding, so I hopped on a little early to find a good seat. I settled into one on the top floor, popped my headphones in, and turned my magazine to an article about the Virunga National Park in central Africa. About ten minutes later, I paused my music and closed my magazine to hear the conductor announce our departure from the station, then promptly went back to reading about gorillas.

A little while later, I got bored with the magazine and decided to check out the scenery of

part of my day?

I pulled out my phone and opened it to train times from Berkeley back to Ogilvie. I had forty-five minutes to kill until the next train would arrive, so I sat down on a bench, took a deep breath, and looked up. There, past the rickety, old water tower, was the city of Chicago, framed by a bright, cyan sky. The juxtaposition of the tiny water tower and the mammoth skyline was too much to pass up, so I pulled up the camera on my phone.

The picture I took that day hangs on the wall across from my bed. It’s the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep. Everytime I spot the contrast of the old, rusty water tower against the gleaming Chicago skyscrapers, I’m reminded that sometimes, the wrong turn can end up being better than the right one.

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Close your eyes Megan Brinkman Photograph

Blue

Sam Jacubek

The blue day shimmers.

Blossoming beauty soaring, A shine in the light

Inner Ear Chilling Tim Halaburt

Vibes, nodding heads, flow Our minds filled with Vertigo Relax, be mellow

Skeptical G.I. Joanna Badillo Pencil Drawing

Cirrus

35

The Stars

Grace Laughlin Looking up at the stars, I see what has existed For longer than I have lived

the peach-pit impressionist Celia DeKeyser

i. we’ll inhale the dull roar of a suburban lawnmower on a sunday morning, white farmer’s market tents and a basket of fresh saturn peaches that, when tied up with a yellow satin ribbon, could fool you into thinking you needed it.

Millions of years Billions of years All shining down on me The past The present And the future All right above me

Goodbye

Kaitlin Wietecha

ii. i can hear it ringing again, the windchime restlessness that always draws me back to the hows and whys of your tongue, the way your bones settle like an old house.

Chicago Night Kerrick Podgorski Acrylic Painting

I may live about Way up in the sky By familiar clouds And a sun blazing bright Way up in this world Is where I reside Alone with my solitude Whispering goodbye

iii. if only seurat and signac themselves could take notes on your cottonwood laughter, willow-tree eyes, the pointillistic painter’s pride. iv. our still life got caught in constant motion, the urn in your chest cavity filled with carnations and bluebells kept alive by the ebb and flow of your voice, the rise and fall of water under our bridges. v. are we the farmer’s fools? after all, we did buy the peaches.

Wishing beyond the sky Olivia Ruby

Chroma

Katrina Garzonetti Photograph Harbinger

36

The beautiful chaos of a wish.

My skin reaches the clouds.

My voice brushes the world.

And the beaming, Never ever, Takes me farther than the sky.

Gold Lake

Tim Paczynski

Photograph

Performance of a Lifetime Angelina Duong

The waves performed a seemingly endless ballad as they folded over one another in the presence of the shy, rising sun. They twisted, twirled, and danced as if the angels were watching.

The clouds gently kissed the surface of the water, partaking in this intricate performance and causing trillions of diamonds to appear and shimmer across its surface. The bow of the boat, determined to start its own performance, interjected the waves’ dance as it plowed through the water. My father shuffled around the boat behind me, preparing the instruments that were to perform an unforgettable

the next morning as we rode far into Lake Michigan; our boat soon turned into a speck on the horizon from the eyes of a person on land. After we set up the poles, the next step of the fishing process is to wait as the lines trailed behind the groan of the engine.

I blankly stared at the waves and the fog, waiting for the day to be over. Three hours later and my impatience was a hair strand away from breaking.

“Why won’t the fish come? What’s wrong with them?

Why won’t they eat the darn bait?” I moaned.

“Just be quiet for one minute, please,” my father replied with a hint of annoyance.

piece, possibly better than the one before it. Blinded by my grumbles of discontent, I was unprepared for what was to come my way.

I never liked fishing. If anyone told me to go, it would be similar to telling an elephant to walk across a tightrope; in fact, it was almost impossible. “We leave at five in the morning. You better be ready ‘cuz that’s when the fish come out,” my father demanded the night before our trip.

I begrudgingly slipped on my hooded sweater

The chill of the foggy morning gave way to the damaging rays of the blazing sun. By then I was suffocating in my own sweat and humidity of the weather, wanting nothing else but to go home to an air-conditioned environment. My skin burned to the point where I could feel it in my bones, and apparently, I forgot the sunscreen; hence, my face was as red as a cherry. As I suffered under the heat and torture of such monstrosity, my father sat near me with a piece of beef jerky hanging from his

mouth, laughing.

Then, a miracle happened. My father’s smile was quickly wiped away by the seizure of the fishing pole. It began to shake violently and almost jumped out of its holder as my father’s quick reflexes calmed the demon inside of it. The adrenaline raced through my veins as my focus shifted to the fish, whose mouth foolishly enclosed on the baited hook. We took turns reeling in our dinner until our arms felt like separating from their sockets.

Five hundred feet of fishing line, four hundred, two hundred. I looked over to the man next to me whose heavy breathing matched mine and I smiled. Our symphony could only be heard by the two of us; no other human being would be able to witness our masterpiece. At last, after seven hours, our symphony played. The rhythmic percussion of my father reeling in our catch boomed loudly in my ears. As he stopped at certain times to rest, the groan of the engine played its magnificent tuba solo and the

“Our symphony could only be heard by the two of us; no other human being would be able to witness our masterpiece.”

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Swimming with Fishes Stephanie Storczer

Digital Drawing

hairs on the back of my neck rose. The flitter of the flute came and went as the fish’s tail would randomly splash above the water. Our laughter majestically trumpeted through the air, its horn so loud it could be heard from ashore.

Suddenly, everything stopped. Our heavy breaths slowly died away and returned to their steady rates. The percussion ceased to beat, the tuba shied away from its solo, the flute was no more, and the trumpets stopped their horns. Our symphony fell apart. The fish somehow wriggled itself off of the hook and swam back into the dark depths of its hellish cave. All that work. For nothing.

“It’s ok, Angie. Let’s set the poles back up and we’ll try again,” my father encouraged me in attempt to raise my defeated spirit. Part of me despised the idea of starting the long process over again, but at the same time, our symphony was waiting to be revived.

“Sure,” I said, “hand me the bait.”

It’s 8:00 A.M. and the sky is blue.

Even after the clarity of my stroll, I need to clean myself, rid myself of the vestiges of the night’s turmoiI. So I head to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and pause to choose a song while the water heats up. A title catches my eye, and I smile to myself, nodding my head to the bouncing piano notes of Marvin Gaye. The rise of steam peeking from behind the curtain hints that the shower is ready, and it embraces me as I step in.

Warmth cascades down my once weary body, heat seeping into my pores and trickling down to my curled toes as lazy drops of the shower’s stream drip to the bottom of the waiting tub. Scents of lavender and honey drift from a smooth, lathered bar of soap, and the aroma coaxes anxiety and fear out of my skin, out of my heart, out of my soul.

Deep-rooted solace replaces errantly toxic emotions, and between the drops of water raining from my cleansing shower head, I find contentment.

Cumulus

The Whispers of Williams Bay, W I Hannah Bruskin

As I open my basement door and walk out onto the back porch of my lake house, I am automatically accompanied with the fresh, soothing air and a magnificent view of Geneva Lake. The welcoming scenery feels as if you are in another world, as all your problems disperse. Walking down the steps to our pier, I notice a peculiar absence of noise. The day-tourists are returning to their normal lives, and my neighbors are tying up their boats as they go home for work, leaving me sitting on the edge of my pier, listening to the sound of the waves crashing into the side, along with a gentle breeze crispening the warm and inviting summer air.

It’s not hard to get caught up in the moment and forget to take the time to admire the beauty of your surroundings in nature. Sometimes I am accompanied by a book or a combo of The Beatles and Pet Shop Boys, or I simply sit in silence and become mesmerized by the waves, while they are

being complemented by the sound of trees behind me. In this moment, all the weight is lifted off my shoulders, while I find myself relaxed in a time of peace. As I take a step out of reality and reacquaint myself with nature, while watching the sunset straight out in front of my pier, I begin to lose track of time due to the comfort of my surroundings.

The sun has officially set, just as the day is coming to an end. The air becomes cooler as the waves cease and slowly undulate. While the stars begin to appear in the distance, I walk back up to my house and say goodbye to another summer day on the lake. The real world begins to approach as the days seem to be becoming shorter. I turn back one last time at the breathtaking view full of beauty that life has to offer, and finally step back into reality, away from my idea of utopia.

Accents and Affinities Camila Pereira

Photograph

Warm

Megan Brinkman Photograph

Californian Alex Pann

Raindrops Danny Donahoe Photograph

Sunbeams so levitating, Salty cliffs so aviating Drawing her to be your people, This change of pace not so deceitful She wonders where the voice begins Granola, sun-life, wispy grins Honey, honey look at she Like a magnet toward the sea She hears your call and sees your smile Oh, she’ll be back to love you while You hold her place to go so wild But until that day she fights denial Cumulus

Wooded signs on rocky hills, Couldn’t sign with risky bills Catching up in smokey scenes Your moments never fail to seize Constant action leads her belief That in this land of hope and peace She’ll find her bliss of evergreen She knows all that you have to offer And maybe she’ll just take it all for On this edge of the planet She won’t take her life for granted Plant the loveseed in her hand This simple life has no demand.

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Gentle Woman

Twenty Five Thousand

Nora Mckinnon Photograph

Sunday Mornings Olivia Ruby

Theresa Thiel

As the stadium lights began to dim, twentyfive thousand people filled the seats surrounding me. My focus darted restlessly from my group to the faces across the stadium to the darkening stage and back. The overwhelming blur of the thousands gathered there set my heartbeat aflutter.

Thump, thump, thump went the synchronized pounding of my hammering head, churning stomach, and galloping heart. Over this incessant internal beating, a faint echo of a few simple chords resonated through the assembly. As I tried to quiet myself and listen, a strange sense of familiarity emerged from the foreign experience; I listened to that song many times at my church back home. One of the musicians straightened up to a microphone. As the first notes danced gracefully from his mouth, my unease began to fade. The background sounds naturally produced by such a large group softened. A wave of intense calm flooded the stadium; suddenly, I was drowning in it.

The music played on, growing louder and stronger as the songs intensified. With eyes rapidly scanning the stadium once again, I could not focus on the stage. Unlike before, this perspective was one of awe, not anxiety. My eyes feasted on the diversity of personal responses to the songs. Ginny outstretched her hands, as if trying to physically hold onto as much of the moment as possible.

Mark rested at his knees, his strong and silent face

“For once, this intense diversity did not exclude me. ”

gazing off to the stage. Bria’s voice carried cleanly through the air, blending with the twenty-five thousand other harmonies. Time seemed to stop as I looked with detail upon my surroundings.

Not only were my close friends assuming different forms of worship, it seemed as if each person in the whole assembly had their own variation of this intimate experience. For once, this intense diversity did not exclude me. I finally felt that I belonged.

After what could have been minutes or hours (for I could not distinguish in my trance-like state), the music ceased. The smell of incense began

As the world wakes up, The birds chatter, The sun blazes on the horizon, And my eyelids peel themselves open.

The thought of coffee tears me from my sheets And I gravitate to the kitchen.

The warm rich smoothness awakens my soul.

to drift through my nose, and I forced myself to look down to the stage again. Billowing clouds of the perfumed fragrance covered the floor. I squinted, trying to see through the opaque white gases. After the painfully slow passing of a few seconds, my vision cleared up. A hush of silence fell over the stadium. Twenty-five thousand pairs of eyes were fixated on one tiny object, a fraction of the size of the stadium: the monstrance.

This adorned gold vessel, less than a foot in diameter, glistened brighter than the breaking dawn. Squinting some more, I tried to identify the item in its center. I sensed the gazes of the eyes from the rows behind me peering down as well.

When I finally identified the object, refreshing tears streamed down my face. I knew what the assembly looked at, for it was no different than something I had seen almost every Sunday since my birth over fifteen years before. It was a piece of white, round bread: the Eucharistic host. But in this moment, surrounded by thousands of others, this Eucharist differed from all the others of my past. Its shape filled the monstrance completely, it emitted a radiance that rivaled a mid-August sun’s pulsating beams. Its warm glow traveled hundreds of feet to my seat near the top of the stadium, rushing through my veins and those of my peers. Then there was silence. Immense, beautiful silence. The silence of twenty-five thousand people, all focused on one common object. No more headache, butterflies, beating heart. No more wandering eyes or uneasy squirming in my seat. No, all that remained were my tears of gratitude and the silence of the twenty-five thousand.

Harbinger

44

The world is still, Almost too still, And time seems frozen around me.

The world is quiet The world is still The world is peaceful No one is awake Just me Waiting for someone or something to break the peace of this Sunday morning.

The stairs creak, And the stillness is broken.

With the busy week around the corner I breath in my last sense of freedom.

Paris, France

Isabelle Beauchamp Photograph

Untitled

Carolina Moctezuma

Watercolor Painting

The First Breath

Charlotte Roberts

Photograph

Fall in Full Flare Kate O’Hara

Fall, oh fall, the most lovely season of them all The summer days have seen their final breath; the comforting warmth is near its death.

The gentle wind cries a soft hush, as the leaves outside turn golden with an artist’s brush.

The outside breeze becomes crisp and cold, but the fire inside is bright and bold.

Painted Sky

Kelly Gustafson

Day turns to night with a fabulous glow, The changing colors create a beautiful light show.

With loved ones around and a cup of chai in hand, nature’s mastery appears nothing short of grand.

Calmed by the sweet scent of cinnamon, I am reminded to take a moment, relax, and do the minimum.

I look outside and capture a glare, enjoying the beauty and simplicity of fall in full flare.

Pink reflections on the water so bright, Darkness emerges as day gives off light.

Some nights the sun sets without a display, Still peaceful as it marks the end of each day.

As seasons change, so does the view Of the evening sky with a magnificent hue.

With My Wings

Day in and day out, sunrise and sunset It will go on for ever, that’s a sure bet.

Harbinger

46

A gift of red, orange, purple, and blue, It’s God’s painted canvas for me and for you.

Kelli Smith Photograph Cumulus

47

Turquoise Iris Michael

Watercolor Painting

A Study in Happiness (Words of Support for My Friends) I beg you do not search for happiness.

Do not chase after whiffs of feelings Like hounds after food, noses lifted, Twitching like your heart, conflicted.

Is happiness out of reach?

Is it something life cannot teach?

Annie Murphy

You can, as you are strong.

These are not the paltry words Of an idle friend but the truth Learned from my own youth And the times I have been alive.

My friend, you construct a vision of happiness Like a man dreams up a perfect wife.

She will never exist, not in the vastness Of the universe and experience and strife And neither will your hopes for happiness.

There are moments, I assure you, Of reckless, passionate jubilee But this last like a single summer sunset, Then back to the echoing fretts Of your ever so human mind.

A strange man once read simple words That I alone could understand To the lolling and swaying masses And happiness became my answer To life’s unending command.

Perhaps it will be the same for you one day.

I ask you again not to search for happiness As a fleeting feeling you want to find forever.

But live fully in heroic dissent To the basest discomforts of your mind.

Your mind, collecting your feelings, Struggles to let you be happy.

But you, like all complex beings Can fight the parts of yourself That drag you through the darkness.

Harbinger

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Caffeine Rules My Life Rierson Johnson

My alarm blares. I look, and it’s 5:30, so I should start getting ready. Wait! I have a better idea. Let’s hit snooze so that I don’t wake up until 6:35. Future me will be proud of my decision making.

My alarm blares yet again. It’s 6:45 and I have fifteen minutes to shower, brush my teeth, and so on, in order to leave by 7:00 and have time to sit through traffic, nodding off while doing so.

My alarm blares a third time. Except this time it’s a car horn because I’ve just fallen asleep on my way to school. The driver behind me seems impatient, even though it’s clear nobody will be going anywhere anytime soon.

Still fading between consciousness and safety, I reach into my pocket. I pull out a piece of Military Energy Gum. One hundred milligrams of caffeine just may help me. It takes about fifteen minutes to kick in, but when it does, I know. As I feel the energy in my bloodstream, I am now only tired emotionally, so I’ll fit right in once I get to school.

My alarm blares, this the fourth time, but now it’s the end of first period which means time for biology! I really only have two options, take a nap and hope nobody notices, or do another 100 mg of caffeine. Sure, the package recommends that you wait four hours between pieces, but who has that kind of time? I’m sure it’s just the lawyers who put the warning on there anyhow, right? Besides, I googled it, and it would take over one hundred of those pieces to actually kill me, so what’s the worst that could happen?

Blind Self-Portrait Annabelle Schofield

Acrylic Painting

Acknowledgements

Without the creative and dedicated efforts of many faculty members and students throughout the school, Nefelibata would not have been possible.

We received hundreds of submissions from talented students, the lionhearted writers and artists whose creative risks built the bedrock of this magazine. Thank you for your revelations of joy, lamentations of sorrow, and demonstrations of love that offer such profound, imaginative energy not only to Harbinger, but to the Carmel community as a whole.

Thank you also to the Art and English Departments for cultivating expressive, inspired minds and hearts in students; specifically, thank you to Ms. Mata and Ms. Murczek, for without your efforts, this year’s collection of visual submissions would not have been so wonderfully diverse. Other faculty members, including Mrs. Smith, Ms. Raemont, Mr. Franklin, and Ms. O’Donnell, offered insight into the layout of the magazine and the layout staff is grateful for all of your revisionary contributions. And we would like to extend a final thank you to the Harbinger moderator, Ms. Meyer, our resident art thief who lead us through the trials and tribulations of creating a magazine by stealing art straight from the walls of the Fine Arts Wing and guiding us through both submission and layout meetings.

With all this gratitude and much more, we hope you enjoy this year’s edition of Harbinger.

Editors Editors-in-Chief Caitlin Moran Kaeleigh Foecking

Submissions Editor Caitlin Moran

Layout Editors

Alvin Santer Carolyne Im Megan Brinkman Natalie Rutz Reagan McGinn Isabelle Beauchamp

Copy Editor

Celia DeKeyser

Sincerely, The Harbinger Staff

Editor’s Note: All submissions were considered anonymously.

The 2016-2017 issue of Harbinger was typeset. The layouts were produced on Adobe InDesign CC with the assistance from Adobe PhotoShop CC using the iMac 13,1. Harbinger was printed on 80# Endurance Gloss Text Book, using Adobe Athelas Regular, Clemente Light, Remnant Regular, Blank Eye Regular, Lemon Tuesday Regular, Advertising Script Bold, and Amazon Palafita 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 52 pages. The magazine is bound with perfect binding. Harbinger Volume 41 is a limited edition of only 1500 copies.

Nefelibata noun

ne.fe.le.ba.ta

one who dwells in his or her imagination, “cloud walker�